My Children's Talents

Asher loves nursing. Like we used to say about Talmage and puzzles, it's his gift. If there were an Olympic nursing event, Asher would take at least the bronze, only falling behind the competitors from South America who suckle well into their fourth and fifth years.

(Do you ever have a vision of your son grown up to a fourteen year old and he has a crush on a girl who has a crush on him who then googles his name and comes up with "Asher loves nursing?" Hmm. That's not really my intended audience. Note to self: apologize to Asher circa 2023.)

I enjoy feeding my child, too. I love when he becomes all lips and gums and little fists and fingers that run gently through my hair. I love kissing his milky mouth as he sighs himself to sleep, tummy full and content. I love his yummy thighs, nibbling his rolls left from fatty milk. I love that my baby, whose personality is so far just like his active brother, calms and snuggles and nuzzles while he nurses.

The only real problem is that I'd like for him to love reading, too. I know, I know. My child is nine and a half months old. It's a little early to be worried. But early on in mothering I decided not worry about classes and learning centers and the like, but focus on reading to my child everyday. And with Talmage, I accomplished that with reading before bed. Asher, on the other hand, will get through "Ants await" and "Bumblebees blow balloons" of Miss Spider's ABCs but by the time I read "Caterpillars circle" Asher has wiggled himself prostrate in my arms, facing my tummy and when I'm trying to say "Dragonfly decorations" he's whining "nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh!" I haven't hit "Earthworms entertain" for quite some time.

I'd like to take this opportunity to brag about Talmage. We are currently reading Harry Potter with him. Why yes, he is only four. I'd like to tell you that he grasps the intricate plot lines and is growing with the characters. I'd like to tell you that he ponders the themes of life, death, and resurrection and Voldemort's "flight from death." I'd like to credit this all to the fact that I've read to him every day of his life. But I'd be lying. His love of Harry Potter is due to the fact that while my goal was to instill a love of reading, his father's goal was to instill a love of calculators. Besides his Nikon, movie editing, and moon data, there are few things Tyler loves more than tickling his Texas Instruments. And Talmage current favorite game is to push the + sign on the calculator, watching the numbers count from one to one thousand. Truth is, Talmage loves Harry Potter because HE LIKES WHEN WE TURN THE PAGE TO THE NEXT NUMBER. I feel like I should personally apologize to Dumbledore.

Maybe when I wean Asher we could get him attached to comfort foods. Yeah, that's it. He'll be a champion pie eater. And he'll be GREAT at it.

The Quarantine Book Edition

A Town Like Alice: This book is beautiful. It should be on your list of books to read in your lifetime. I did have a hard time getting lost in the book at the beginning--I was too aware of the 1950s writing style--but by the second half I had moved to Australia and was building up the outback with my handsome Australian cowboy. I've read quite a few strong female characters recently, but Jean Paget went down on my list as my favorite, and like Joe and Noel, I was a little in love with her, too.





Still entertaining. Still delightful. And the creepiest bad guy I've come across as of late. Except for the hitman in Angels and Demons, the movie I watched over the weekend. He was creepy, too.



So, my cute friend Hana gave me a stack of books for the Swine Flu Quarantine. (Yes, it was significant enough that it became a proper noun and required capital letters. Soon it will need to be italicized, too.) Hana is a fan of YA fantasy and science fiction and is a doll about sharing them. This was the first I picked up off the stack, because I read the Goose Girl years ago and was excited to pick up the story. The only problem was that I kind of forgot the story, at least the involvement of Enna, so it took me a good while to jump into the story. All it did was fuel my current frustration with YA series. But after I got over that, I loved Enna. And I lied above. This bad guy was the creepiest bad guy as of late.



Richard Selzer is Dad's favorite author, so I decided to pick up Mortal Lessons: Notes on the Art of Surgery. I was irritated with him at first, because his thesis seemed to be that surgeons think they're god, but they're not. Poetic surgeons are. This narrow definition can only be filled, as Selzer noted, by Selzer himself. I think, too, in his essay on the surgeon as artist, my own opinions about art being about meaning and interaction rather than art being transcendent and above the masses got all mixed up in his meaning.

After I got through the first three essays, he started talking about the body in an incredible way, and I decided that Selzer is the ultimate modern humanist. His celebration of man and man's potential was riveting and funny. And then I loved him.



Okay, I going to post now before I get to the final two books. I'll come back and finish updating later.



This is where I post about Shiver.

The BCS and NCLB: The Secret Power of Unanimous Hatred

How many things do you come across in this world that are unanimously despised? I believe I have found two: The Bowl Championship Series (BCS) in college football and No Child Left Behind (NCLB) in the school system. I am going to make the bold statement right here and now that I SECRETLY like both of these things. Now, I have to emphasize that this is a secret because I believe the guise of hatred is what I like the most about them.

Let's begin with the BCS. As many of you may know, I am a die-hard University of Utah football fan (Please, no comments about the game this week). The Utes have gone undefeated twice in the last five years and been denied participation in the National Title game both times. Why? The BCS didn't rank them highly enough to make it in. Unfair!

Now my hatred (feel free to join me): We were the best team in the country both times, and we weren't even allowed to play in the title game. We beat every single team we played. In 2008, we even beat four top 25 teams and two top 10 team. We were the only undefeated team in the entire country. We beat Alabama by more than the National Champions beat them. Clearly the Utes should have been the National Champions.

I actually like the BCS because I get to hang my hat on that rant. It doesn't change what is, but it let's me point out what should have been. My hatred is a guise because of the secret I don't like to let out: I don't think for one minute the Utes were the best team in the country. Nearly half the teams they played that year were within a touchdown of beating them. Who do I think was the best team in the country in 2008? Florida--the National Champions.

The BCS is a system that does its best to gather as much data as possible and rank all the football teams according to what is. I don't believe either of the undefeated U of U teams could have made it through a playoff--the most popular suggested alternative. Truth be told, I think the BCS got it right, and I love complaining that they got it wrong.

Now for No Child Left Behind. Let's start right off with the hatred: All of our kids have to be tested in language arts and math to see if our school has made what legislators consider Adequate Yearly Progress? And, if we don't meet the standard for three years in a row, we are going to lose funding? Furthermore, the goal keeps advancing until we are supposed to have a 100 percent by the year 2014? We have to get all the kids in our entire school to pass the test? The CRT doesn't test any of the important things like character or the student's love of learning or the arts. This legislation will pass and then those who drafted it are going to feel mighty foolish for their ignorance.

I actually like NCLB because I get to let that rant be the bad guy. Those in education scoff at the crazy legislation that is audacious enough to think every child can learn or that every school can improve. The nerve. I get to visit each of my teachers, analyze the current reality of their students, let them know what kind of progress the law expects of them, and then listen to them huff and puff about how unreasonable and unfair such expectations are. I smile, nod my head, and say, "You may be right, but we have to do it." Hah, we have to actually focus on the students' learning instead of the teachers' teaching.

So, for being unanimously hated, the BCS and NCLB sure seem to fulfill the measure of their creation.

. . . And I love hating them!

Star Wars

Cone of Shame

Swine Flu Was Cuter Before I Got It

And here's my advice to those in the feverish haze of H1N1: Now is not the time to read Shannon Hale's Enna Burning. Stick to something cooler. Like The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. WHERE THEY ARE CONSTANTLY COLD.

Best Wishes From the Swine Flu House

According to my highly technical calculations, more people will get H1N1 this year than will celebrate Christmas. And since December 25 has several catch phrases (like "Happy Holidays," "Merry Christmas," or the slightly less popular extended version--"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas") I thought quarantined swine flu houses deserved some significant greeting so they could spread around the feverish cheer. My pediatrician sounded catchy when she said, after taking Talmage's temperature and checking his throat and breathing, "Welcome to November 2009." But that might seem a little dated for swine flu folk come December, so that's out. "Season's Greetings" would work well if it weren't already taken, the season being swine flu season. I like "Warm Wishes," as a little warmth might remind us of a warmer, happier time when swine flu was only a panic and not a reality, but warm just reminds me of the word moist, and I'd argue that moist is the most offensive of all the non-offensive words. Think of it. MOIST.

Yuck.

So I'm back to "Best," my personal favorite greeting and how I sign off of professional and semi-professional emails. This salutation drives Tyler crazy because it's an adjective. "Best what?" he asks. "Just best. Best everything. I wish you all the best of everything there is."

Best wishes from the Swine Flu House.

Talmage came down H1N1 on Thursday, after we babysat roughly 23 of the neighborhood children on Wednesday. Asher came down with it on Friday at precisely 9:04 am, just in time for our doctor's appointment at 10:30 am, so Asher was diagnosed and had Tamiflu by 2:00. And I tell you what, Tamiflu is the nectar of the Gods. Kurt Cobain is to heroin, as Lu is to her ball, as Edward is to Bella, as Sean is to Grandma's Cookies. I love the Tamiflu. Asher's almost 100%.

Talmage is more like 24%. Tamiflu is only recommended for kids 2 years old and under so Tal's just riding it out. We had an emotional day. A day in which I colored on the wrong part of his drawing, and in which I broke his finger by bumping him when I sat down on the couch, and in which he was too tired to roll over and get Asher's truck. And a day in which Lu barked too loudly, and in which Talmage was very, very cold, and in which we couldn't find the Monster's video games.

Let's review. Tamiflu is good. And best wishes from the Swine Flu House.

Bounce

The Best Halloween Ever

Cat's Away Party

Every Tuesday night Laura teaches her class, and it's just the boys at home.

Lehi's Dream

Busted Out the Christmas Music Today

It's not early. IT'S FESTIVE.

And I Didn't Even Mention the Soap Operas

While I'm not going to claim that motherhood is out and out glamorous (too many rancid smells accompany it for that), motherhood isn't nearly as depressing as daytime TV would have you believe.

I set a goal this past New Years not to descend into the depths of television, and I'll have you know, The Office not withstanding, I've kept that goal. But recently I've been trying to organize my life so that my cupboards look something like sister-in-law Barbara's (or Sarah's; I'm sure they're similar), and so I've had the TV on while categorizing craft supplies. And here is a list of shows geared toward YOU, Miss Stay-at-home Mom. You are the target audience for the following messages:

1. In as little as 7 months of massage school, you could be working in the massage industry making an excellent income and doing something you can be proud of!

2. Screaming Deals at Macey's Grocery Store.

3. Body parts that age you: earlobes, cankles, hands.

4. Depression hurts, but you don't have to.

5. Kathie Lee's homemade word: groud.

6. Research has shown their is a link between tension, stress, and belly fat.

7. Women who beat their men.

But I'll tell you one media event aimed at housewives that I fall for EVERY SINGLE TIME. The makeover. You take a random woman off the street, stick her in some spanks and give her some highlights and I'm glued to the TV. "YES," I want to cry out. "That eyelash curler really does wake up her whole face!" And I'm a believer. Only instead of faith in the loaves and the fishes, I trust in the miracle that a good bra really does do wonders for a woman's frame.

Which brings me to my point. I would like a head-to-toe makeover. I'm trying to figure out how to get myself one. But the thing is, I haven't lost 100 lbs, I haven't been stuck in the same look since the 70s, I don't cling to blue eyeshadow, and my jeans don't have pleats in them. I'm not good makeover material. So as I see it, the only thing I can do is get good and frumpy, wearing pjs to the grocery store whenever I can swing it. This shouldn't be too hard since I do this 50% of the time anyway. But maybe I can stop showering every day and skip the deodorant. Just on the off chance Oprah's at Smith's ready to ambush.

I think it's totally worth it.

Weight Lifting

Asher Means Happiness

Books, books, more books.

Do I admit I read this book? Yep.



This book is wonderful and I'll tell you why. It made me feel smart.

That was Marissa's reaction too. It also made me feel like I wished I rented foreign Asian films and read Proust on the sly. Besides in teaching (and I guess my general views on art) I've never needed to access all the theory I learned in grad school since grad school. Until now. I felt very learned. And that's learned pronounced learn-ed.

That said, you don't need to have read any previous theory to appreciate this story. It was written by someone who teaches philosophy, but she mainstreams it in a beautiful tale about people and classes and how our lives intersect.

This is my favorite quote from the younger narrator, a girl who learns much from her association with the older narrator, which I find lovely (I also have a renewed desire to use the word "lovely"):

If you want to understand my family, all you have to do is look at the cats. Our two cats are fat windbags who eat designer kibble and have no interesting interaction with human beings. The only purpose of cats is that they constitute mobile decorative objects, a concept which I find intellectually interesting, but unfortunately our cats have such drooping bellies that this does not apply to them. My mother, who has read all of Balzac and quotes Flaubert at every dinner, is living proof every day of how education is a raving fraud. All you need to do is watch her with the cats. She's vaguely aware of their decorative potential, and yet she insists on talking to them as if they were people, which she would never do with a lamp or an Etruscan statue.

I think this is my favorite book I've read of late.



Father-in-law and I enjoy discussing books. I asked him his nonfiction to fiction ratio. He told me he was about 50/50. I thought about it and realize that to every 50 fiction I read, I read roughly 1.3 nonfiction books, with .5 of that being a book of scientific/historical/economic analysis and the rest of the category being made up by essays.

I present to you my one nonfiction of the year.

The Tipping Point was highly entertaining. I've found myself thinking about the examples that illustrate his principles a lot, especially the "broken windows" theory, where NYC cleaned up violent crime on the subways by cleaning and repairing the cars, and how Blue's Clues improved on Sesame Street by taking out the humor aimed to adults (I originally wrote adult humor, but that doesn't seem quite right) and instead inserted pregnant toddler pauses while the narrator waits for the audience to respond.

But I don't really have anything interesting to add to his theories which have become common jargon, so here was my other impression. As I read Malcolm Gladwell's theories I pictured a gentle old man who kindly picks apart society and societal theories in an English accent. I turned the last page of the book to find this guy staring at me:



I was frustrated enough that I wanted to read the whole book again so that I could hear the theories from the afro man. I'll be better prepared when I read Outliers sometime next year.

Also, Sean is my maven. Unless we're talking high-performance jackets. Then it's Scott.





I'm going to post about these books together because they were essentially two sections of the same book. Which is my thought on the books. Teen literature has changed since I was a teen. Namely, there is literature for teens now. When I was a teen I read essentially the same thing I read now. Which is just about anything.

But now there's celebrity authors with audiences who go crazy at books signings, and series that play with your emotions because, no matter how fast you can read, you have to wait months to find out the end of the story. I'm sure this is all Harry Potter backlash. Which I think is a wonderful thing. So many more people seem to love to read who didn't before, even if it means I have to go to midnight release parties, just to find out how the story ends.

My other thought? See, I told you. Reality TV shows are evil.

Maybe you'll get a better review of the book when the last book in the series comes out. Now you have a small taste of the frustration I feel for being stuck in the middle of three teen fiction series.



This book made me feel that I was the target audience for this poster:



And then I decided that it was time to read another Pulitzer.



You know, with a name like Jane Smiley, you'd think she'd write a happier book.

As I read the whole book, I just kept thinking "Man, this story is just tragic. Death, destruction, the whole nine yards. A veritable tragedy." And then when I was done, I looked up the movie that was based on this book and saw references to King Lear. And then I felt dumb. It's not just tragic, it's a rewriting of the ultimate tragedy.

Then my summation of the book was more positive, because I could escape from the emotion of the book and could recognize how incredible it was.

Also, I was amazed at how well Smiley portrays the events from Ginny's mindset, an unpredictable and not quite trustworthy point of view, but one that makes you feel the precariousness of the situation and the after effects of abuse.



If you think Dave Barry is funny here, you should read this book. Entertaining, delightful, deliciously evil, and oh so hilarious.

And quick to read. This would be a good one to read as a family.



Well, I'm not actually done with this book, but I figured it might as well make this entry as the the next one.

I'm reading this book because I want to be as cool as Sue. My neighbor is a very impressive person. She'd be the first person to say she isn't. She really is though.

I heard about Sue Maidenname all the time when I started running with the Howe family because Sue is a world-class runner. She ran track for BYU and Gail was always say, "Sue Maidenname says this and Sue Maidenname says that," and I set a goal to become a runner like Sue Maidenname. A few years after that, Sue moved into our ward and I met her in the mothers' nursing room. She introduced herself as Sue Marriedname and told me that she heard I had run a marathon. "I don't know how you can run that far," Sue told me with graceful self effacing. "I think that's amazing." I nearly put my arm around her as I condescended "Oh Sue, sure you could. If you just run every day, I'm sure you could make it."

It was in her talk an hour later that she introduced herself as Sue Marriedname, formerly Sue Maidenname when I realized what I had done, I had essentially told Michael Jordan that as long as he put his mind to it, I'm sure he'd get better at his free throws.

Anyway, Sue is also very intelligent, the kind of girl who quietly makes the comment that cuts to the seminal issue of the story after listening to me blather on about nothing for two hours.

What's my point? Sue wanted to know what I think about Brian Doyle. So I'm reading him. I'm only mildly tempted to parrot what the New York Times says about his essays.

So far they're pretty good.

So, We've Mostly Solved Talmage's Sleep Problems.* Mostly.

"Mom! MOOOOOMMMMMM!"
"Yes, Talmage?"
"You can come in here? One more time. Just one more time."
"What's up, buddy?"
"You're going to need to turn on the light for this one."
"Kay. What do you need?"
"Um . . ."
"Tal, it's time to go to sleep."
"Just one thing. Uh, when's trick-or-treating?"
"On the thirty first."
"That's a three and a one?"
"Yep."
"What day's today?"
"The sixteenth."
"A one and a six?"
"Yep, good night Talmage."
"Mom! A sixty is a six and a zero."
"Good night."
"A six and a zero, mommy!"
"Yes a six and a zero. Good night."

"MOMMMMMMYYYYYYYY!!!!"
"Good night Talmage."
"Last thing, just last thing."
"What bud?"
"You're going to need to turn on the light for this one."
"Okay, what?"
"A six and a six is sixty-six."
"You've got it. Good night."
"Last thing! Just last thing!"
"What?"
"Ggggggggggghhhhh [gargles water]."
"Good night Talmage."
"Good night, Mommy."
"I love you."
"I love you, Mommy. . . . I SAID I LOVE YOU MOMMY!!!"
"I heard bud. I love you, too."
"Good night. . . . . I SAID GOOD NIGHT, MOMMY!!!"
"I heard. Good night."
"Good night."

*The Mind Numbing Sleep Issues Chronicled Here.

I Stole This Quote From My Friend Shiloh's Blog Just For You

Here is the quote:

“Friends are helpful not only because they will listen to us, but because they will laugh at us; Through them we learn a little objectivity, a little modesty, a little courtesy; We learn the rules of life and become better players of the game.”

Will Durrant

Here is the blog I lifted it from: Rembrandt's Light

And here is the opportunity I give you to laugh at me:

Stuff White People Like: Banksy

Careful, though. You start knocking 20th century art, I'll give you a two hour lecture on why you should appreciate postmodernism accompanied with flailing arms that will knock your glasses off--even if you live three states away and think you're safe from the passionately emphatic arm gestures. You're not. Just ask my students.

We Are Pleased to Announce the Arrival Of

This Time Around

Asher is turning into a human being.

Which means that he was a lump before. Lump sounds so harsh. He was more like luggage. We'd pack up our precious cargo in a big seat that we carried all over as we attempted to live a normal life. In the process of our 8 month travels, I have built up my bisceps so that I resemble Blaze from American Gladiators. The old school version. No scratch that, my arms were like cousin Michelle's. Impressive.

But just my left arm. You know, the one that carries the massive car seat.

Now my luggage has started demanding things out of life, something my Samsonite suitcase has never done, so I'm forced to admit that I'm raising a child. Asher gets upset if you take things away from him, things like my keys, or the toilet plunger, or someone else's cell phone. (Not my cell phone, clearly. See here.) He gets angry if you feed him peas. He gets happy if you feed him sweet potatoes. He looks for the toys he throws off the side of the couch. He starts to anticipate raising his arms if you play So Big with him. His face erupts in a spew of gums and grins and giggles if you even intimate that you might be about to tickle him.

And he recently realized that if he forces himself to wake up every hour or so, mom will come get him at which point he gets to nuzzle and suckle and cuddle. Which is AWESOME.

I've been putting off making him cry it out. I know, he's eight months. It's a bit overdue. But Tal was nine months. And besides, Asher only got up one or maybe two times a night, something I was grateful for when I got up to go running in the morning. (They don't make a sports bra strong enough for the massively engorged.) However, Thursday he got up five times, Friday we hung out from 3:45 to 5:30, and Saturday it was six or seven times.

Last night I called it quits. I slept downstairs in Tal's bed. Which didn't help. I could hear him just fine. But you know what? Though I said a couple of prayers, I wasn't tearing my hair out and mourning in sackcloth and ashes. And though my heart hurt a little bit, I wasn't in a corner in a fetal position with my hands over my ears.

All to say that having a second child is blissful. And so very much easier. I've come a long way, baby.