Friday, May 30, 2008

Because I'm Holly Homemaker, That's Why.

I have to preface this by saying that I am the opposite of Martha Stewart in every possible way (well, except that we are both female). I DON'T sew. I have already told you that I can't cook. I wrote a whole blog on my relationship with mopping. You get the idea.

So that is why it is an occasion worth celebrating when I can actually get the needle threaded on the sewing machine, let alone push the little pedal and produce something.

I had this very 80's (90's? could I really be off by a whole decade?) floral print dress. You know the kind--almost ankle-length, no waist, sash that ties in the back. I've been thinking I needed to get rid of it for years, hesitating to wear it because I know that it's hopelessly outdated, but still unable to trash it because I LOVE the colors and the print. So the other day I finally figured out how to save it: I cut it in half.

The top part I just hemmed, and oila (wah-lah? Did I really take all those college French classes and I can't spell wah-lah?), we have us a tunic top:


Then I took the bottom half and sewed in some casing for elastic and now I have me a two-piece dress:


OK, it's very possible (and the tragedy is that I wouldn't know) that it is still hopelessly nerdy and outdated. But it feels a little better to me and at least it's not ankle-length any more. Yes! I am Darlene Martha Stewart Young without the criminal record! (Although we all know that Martha Stewart would have just bought her clothes in Europe.)

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Yardwork

I was working in my garden and rather than pondering what I was supposed to be pondering (how to resurrect my novel), I came up with the following thoughts about yardwork:

1. It’s not that I hate it that much. I actually enjoy it, once I get started, especially if it’s dusk or the sprinklers have been on and the weeds slide easily out of the ground. It’s the things AROUND it that I hate. For example:

a. The clean-up. The dirty clothes. The clay stuck to the bottom of my shoes, which are probably my good shoes since I didn’t bother to change to gardening shoes. The dirt under my fingernails.

b. That I have no idea what I’m doing and am always just guessing.

c. The sneaky feeling that there has GOT to be an easier way to do whatever I’m doing, some secret that everyone else knows (how to keep weeds down, for example) and that I’ll never find out.

d. The feeling torn because the kids are in the house undoing whatever housework I accomplished yesterday and I’m outside enjoying the quiet. OR having to play slave-driver and listen to the whining if I make them work out there with me. (And, of course, most of them pull only the tops of the weeds and leave the roots so it’s fruitless anyway.) This is why it’s empty-nesters who are most likely to say they like gardening.

e. Biggest thing I hate about gardening: THE MONEY IT REQUIRES!!!!!! I hate, hate, hate to spend money on my yard. Somehow I got the wrong impression at one time in my life that a vegetable garden is a way of being thrifty. Oh, no, no, no. That would imply that my kids actually eat what I grow, and that I can’t get everything tons cheaper by shopping case-lot sales. If there’s something that truly is cheaper and better from my garden (tomatoes and squash is about it), I’ll grow it happily. But the rest—no way. And it’s even worse when we get into the yard itself. I can’t stand how expensive everything is (weed spray, mulch, plants, grass fertilizer, etc.). I got brave and asked the nice German couple in our ward whose yard always looks fantastic how much they spend per year on their yard and garden. His answer: “Oh, about $600.” !!!!!!! That, my friends, is why my yard looks lousy.

2. The pioneers had the right idea with their corn-husking bees and barn-raising parties. I propose a new cultural tradition: yardwork parties. What if a few families gathered on a Saturday morning in one person’s yard (oh, say, MINE) and worked for two hours on it. The time would fly by because we would all be together, having a grand old gossip. Then the host would give them all root-beer floats, and the group would re-convene at the next family’s house the next weekend. Why not? As I sat there pulling weeds today, I thought about how much I love to go to Café Rio with my friends and shoot the breeze for two hours. We could still get our chat in if we were pulling weeds instead of stuffing our faces, right? (Well, disregarding the children-fighting-throwing-rocks-whining-that-they’re-hungry-and-when-will-we-be-done factor.) I think it could work. In fact, being the selfless person that I am, I’d even volunteer to host the first one!

Sunday, May 25, 2008

I think I terrified her . . .

Walking into the bathroom at the medical clinic (I was with my five-year-old for his pre-kindergarten checkup), I saw a hospital tech pushing a woman in a wheelchair who has obviously just had surgery on her nose. That particular arrangement of gauze looked so familiar to me and I immediately had a flood of memories of my sinus surgery. Ignoring basic etiquette about not commenting on a fellow-sufferer’s possible reasons for seeking medical attention and in flagrant violation of her privacy, I turned to her companion and, pointing to my nose, asked, “Sinus surgery?” But right then someone flushed a toilet and I don't think the companion heard me right. She just nodded and smiled.

“Oh, man,” I said. “I had the same surgery last year.” Then I stopped. I had been going to say, "and the recovery was miserable, and I get just as many or more sinus infections since then.” Duh--not helpful, Darlene. So I just clucked my tongue and looked understanding and left.

Then I noticed on the sign in the foyer of the building that the only surgical services offered at that clinic are cosmetic. As in, she didn’t just have sinus surgery, she had a nose job.

And I had just pointed to my very flawed, very far from perfect nose and said, “I had the same thing done.”

So now I have to live with myself knowing I probably caused nightmares for some innocent, soon-to-be-beautiful woman somewhere.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Butt is a naughty word

So, Mark got me laughing—and thinking—with this quote from his daughter, age 7: "It was awesome, I tell you! There was a water creature that breathes out of its butt!” (Who knows what water creature she saw.)

I was thinking about how it would be a different quote at our house because my kids are not allowed to say butt.

And then I wondered, why aren’t they?

Because butt was a bad word at my house when I was growing up. Also bum. We said, very politely, “bottom.” Which is what my boys say. At least, around me. I’m beginning to think they probably don’t say that very effeminate but polite word around their dude-buddies. Even, maybe, I’m hoping they don’t.

But do I really want them saying BUTT????

Why not? Possibly, it is a perfectly well-accepted term in the real world. Possibly the only reason I think it’s crude is that I was taught so in my home of origin. How can I tell? Someone help me, here! Have I done my boys a disfavor? Certainly there are lines. We all know the word everyone uses for this body part on TV, and of course THAT is not acceptable. And I will be the first person to protest against the practice of teaching your kids silly words for their private parts. No, we have been very careful to call EVERYTHING by its correct name. Except, well, BUTTOCKS. (Is THAT the correct name? What is it, anatomy specialists?)

I’ve always been determined that my boys will be polite, behave like gentlemen. For example, I can’t stand seeing guys spit on the ground, and so my boys have been forbidden do that (where I can see, anyway!). Although I won’t be able to stop them from doing it when I’m not around, I am conscientiously creating a feeling of unease about it—they may turn out rude, but at least they’ll know they’re rude. But I begin to wonder whether I am doing them a disservice, curbing their masculinity or something because I have given them certain words and refused them certain others.

I’m having butt-paranoia!

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Mommy Moment: "In the Leafy Treetops"

Last week the two youngest (5 and 7) got into daddy’s closet and put on “suits.” When told that they looked like missionaries, the 7-year-old took it upon himself to prepare a “discussion.” He showed me his paper later. With no resources or help, he had written this:

1. Read a scripture.
2. What do you think this scripture means?
3. Did you feel the Holy Ghost?
4. What does the Holy Ghost feel like?
5. Do you believe in Jesus Christ?

I am NOT KIDDING. He wrote all that without looking in any resources. I guess he was remembering the last time we had the sisters teach a discussion here (about six months ago).

SO, not wanting to waste a precious resource, I “scheduled the elders” to come teach a discussion for Family Home Evening the other night. When it was time, he went upstairs and got on his suit and his father’s badge. (His brother, who refused to change out of shorts and a t-shirt, became the “member missionary” with whom he was doing splits.) And then he proceeded to teach us his discussion, using his paper as a guide.

For the scripture, he opened his Book of Mormon to a page that was highlighted and read it. (Just happened to be “I was led by the spirit, not knowing beforehand . . . “) Then he asked us each of his questions.

And it was cool. Dang cute and very cool. But I’m still coming to the coolest part. After he asked, “What does the Holy Ghost feel like” and we had discussed it, I asked them all, “Can you think of some times when you have felt it?” Oldest (barely 12) mentioned times when he had received priesthood blessings, his baptism, passing the sacrament, etc. Then he paused and said shyly, “This morning I woke up at 5:30 a.m. because the window was open and the birds were singing. I felt the Holy Ghost then, while I was listening to the birds.”

And my heart did this: !!!!! because I also love to hear the birds in the morning, and it really does feel like the Holy Ghost. Each night since then he has insisted on having his windows open so that he can awaken to the Holy Ghost.

Hallelujah!

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

The writer chics




This is my gang of writer chics. I have to say that I am very, very proud of them. And although I don’t measure up to their great accomplishments, I still hold my head high when we are together because I brought them together, and they are very good for each other.

Don’t believe me that I don’t measure up? Listen to their resumes:

Kathy Soper (far right) is the editor-in-chief of a little magazine called Segullah, which I think is revolutionizing Mormon periodicals and literary communities. The whole Segullah concept is amazing and catching on like hotcakes. If you haven’t checked out their site and you are an LDS female, you are MISSING out, babe. Trot on over there and see what I’m talking about (segullah.org). But we’re not done with Kathy’s accomplishments yet. She has edited two books, one that has been published (Gifts, a collection of essays about having a child with Down Syndrome) and one that is under contract with Deseret Book (The Mother in Me, a collection of writings by Segullah authors). And she is also in the process of finishing her own memoir that has already sold to a publisher (The Year My Son and I Were Born). Besides all this, she is the mother of SEVEN and a fantastic, loving and wise friend. I can't begin to tell you the ways knowing her has changed my life.

Sharlee Mullins Glen (next to me on the other side)writes for children and has published (forgive me—I’m not sure of the number) at least three picture books (Keeping Up With Roo, One in a Billion, Just What Mama Needs) and one YA book (Circle Dance). She has taught in the honors program at BYU and is the mother of five. In fact, she is one of the most amazing mothers and homemakers I have ever known in addition to remaining cute, young, hilarious and happy through it all. She has also been published in Segullah and Irreantum and probably some other places I don’t know about.

Angela Hallstrom just changed the face of Mormon literature by publishing Bound on Earth, a novel in stories that is insightful, fascinating and the most true-to-life about the faithful LDS women’s experience that I have ever read. She is also one of the editors-in-chief of Irreantum magazine. She has an MFA and teaches writing through SLCC. Besides all that, she was a cheerleader in high school and continues to be a personal cheerleader to myself and many other would-be writers. She’s also a fantastic conversationalist and hilarious.

Do I not have the coolest chics ever in my gang? I am seriously, seriously out of my depth with these guys but I'm selfishly continuing on in the group because of everything I learn from them.

These pictures were taken at our first annual publication celebration outing. We were celebrating Kathy’s memoir contract and Sharlee’s and Angela’s book releases. And we know how to do a celebration in style. First we went to Sharlee’s book-signing party at Barnes & Noble and hobnobbed with lots of cool children’s book writers. I had a good talk with Rick Walton, who is one of the most charitable artists I know (besides being one of the very few who actually makes a living at writing for children).

Then, as no women’s outing would be complete without a stop at Café Rio,



we had a great early dinner and solved the problems of the universe over our salads and chips (Sharlee is taking the picture). Then we hit a chic flick (Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day—a cute show but the men in our lives would have hated it), and finally dessert that was heavy on chocolate. Lots and lots of talk, lots of good food—-what could be better? (And what a great way to prepare for Mother’s Day!) I love these women and continue to learn from them every time we’re together. I consider them one of the greatest blessings in my life.

Only problem is that our outing has spoiled me. I want to do it again. Every week.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Happy Mother's Day!

Some miscellaneous thoughts for your Mother’s Day:

1. Isn’t it cool that Mother’s Day is in spring? It makes me very happy to come out of the church into sunshine and blooming flowers. Spring is the best time for Mother’s Day because it is a holiday about renewal—renewing my own resolve to do better, renewing my own forgiveness of myself and my weaknesses, renewing my faith in the atonement, renewing my gratitude to my own mother, renewing my belief in the power of women.

2. I spend too much time on Mother’s Day thinking of my own mothering, and not enough time thinking about my own mother, and about motherhood in general. The guy who taught our Relief Society lesson today (interesting strategy, no? Can’t say I agree with it because any time you have a guy teaching women on Mother’s Day you’re going to get a lot of the Angel Mother stories and various apologetics which I hate—but this guy did a valiant job and actually made me think some) made the not-so-original comparison of priesthood and motherhood which always makes me wriggle a little but which I don’t 100% disagree with. But he did say it in a way I hadn’t heard before: he compared the office of high priest WITHIN the priesthood to the office of Mother WITHIN motherhood. Some of us hold the office of mother now, or at various times in our earth life, he said, but that is not the same as motherhood in general.

And so it follows to ask what exactly is motherhood if it is not the state (or office) of being a mother?

I’m not sure I agree with this very nice man’s answers to that question but I think it’s worth pondering.

The thing is that it’s hard to isolate what it is that women have access to, by virtue of having ovaries, that men don’t. But that thinking is flawed because it has as its premise something that may not be necessarily true: that only women can exercise this power of motherhood. When we assume that, we start looking for whatever it is that women have that men can’t have, and that gets us in trouble. None of us feels comfortable claiming that nurturing is solely the province of women (or gentleness, or parenthood, or any of the other virtues people extol on Mother’s Day). But I wonder if it’s really necessary to identify and celebrate certain virtues as belonging more to women than to men in order to understand and celebrate motherhood itself. Going back to the comparison with the priesthood, I have always felt that in some ways I share the priesthood with my husband, that the two of us together form a priesthood unit, and that there is a lot we have yet to really understand about how the priesthood is administered through certain individuals for the benefit of others. Could it be possible that motherhood is the same? Could there be ways that motherhood is shared among parents, among all who accept the responsibility to nurture those around him or her?

Worth thinking about . . .

3. Missionary work and motherhood really are the same thing. There are all sorts of offices in this life, but they are all the same thing: nurture those around you and yourself. Be in the business of saving souls.

4. I tend to think too much about motherhood as it relates to ME and not enough about the other women in my life (particularly my own mother) on Mother’s Day. I think that’s a sin I need to repent of. And so I have tried to spend some time thinking of my own mother today, and wondering what sorts of things she would want me to be thinking about her.

First, since I don’t know my mom very well now, and didn’t know her all that well, as an adult, before she died, I’ve thought a lot about what kind of person she was. If I moved into a ward that she was in, would we be friends? (And, it follows to ask, were we friends before we came here? Will we be friends in the next life?) And I’m absolutely convinced that the answer to that one is yes, yes, yes. She was down-to-earth, earnest in her faith, happiest when serving but also able to spend time just having fun and enjoying herself. Yes, I think we would be pals, and we would hang out together, go to chic flicks together, enjoy book group together. She would be one of my gang for sure.

Second, since I know what it’s like to be a mother and what a mother’s deepest fears are, I can imagine what sort of compliments would mean the most to her. And I have no hesitation in paying them, so here goes:

Mom, I consider your work with me to have been 100% successful. Although (as is the case in all families) I am aware of weaknesses that you had as a person and a mother, I think that you were successful in spite of them, and I have forgiven you for them. You taught me joy—joy of service, of worship, of reading, of food, of springtime, of music, of nurturing others. I can’t think of any better definition of a good mother. You also convinced me that I was valuable. And you gave me the habits of faith that have sustained me when you couldn’t be with me. I know you’ve been near me at times, and don’t doubt that you watch over me and my children.

I’m curious about the relationships that other grown women have with their living mothers. Do you talk to your mother on Mother’s Day? Is it awkward? (I bet it is. “Hi, Mom. Tradition dictates that I tell you I love you and am grateful to you today, so I am.” All the phoniness of visiting teaching, I imagine.) I’d like to hear about your relationships with your mothers.

And as a Mother’s Day present to you, here are a few of my poems about motherhood. (It seems I have quite a few. Maybe I SHOULD assemble a Mother’s Day chapbook sometime.)

Since You Were Born
by Darlene Young

Since you were born I’ve never been alone,
never will be, standing now at zero on a line
that stretches out forever to the right.
Always at the edges of my sight
you pull at me, your dance a haunting grace.
Nevermore I’ll live in just one place:
my restless senses stretch like tentacles into
other rooms and lives to protect you.

Since you were born, I’ve stood upon a cliff,
exposed to gales until I’m stony stiff
with fear, which I disguise as rules or whims
to keep you safe. Humming the hymn
of “all is well” to soothe myself, I stride
ahead. But dizzy with an inward tide,
the wash and pull between “enough” and “should,”
I flinch. Constant atonement, motherhood.

Since you were born there comes sometimes at night
a sense there’s something dark that I must fight
without a sword. At night, upon my chest
you and all your children’s children rest,
a leaden handicap of dread, of grace.
The future is both straightjacket and brace;
for though I gasp, I must admit the cost
of breath is just: untethered, I’d be lost—

because, since you were born, I’ve tasted fruit
I never knew could grow from the thin root
of my cold life. I’ve savored all your grins,
your honeyed sleep, the freshness of your skin—
delicious. This new fruit is more than sweet;
my tongue prickles with terror as I eat.
But even terror lends a tang: it’s joy,
since you were born. My son, it tastes like joy.


Given and Giver
by Darlene Young

Mother-fluids:
tears and milk and sweat.
filling and draining, at once,
I thirst.

Hurtling through the day,
or else meandering
(both perilous, both right)

haunted and hungry,
yet blossoming, widening,
I abound as I yearn.

A whole universe
to some, and still
less than the dust.

Bent forward, I fret,
bent back to regret.
waver and wash to and fro.

Careen, sometimes,
with joy or fear,
but still it is a dance.

Ebb and flow,
enfold and reach,
wait and watch,
weep and sing.


Inheritance
By Darlene Young

I got your jewelry, a couple of scarves and an old dress
I claimed just because it looked like you.

But familiar though the earrings are, the scarf, the dress,
the emerald pin, no matter how I squint into the past
I can't make out your face and now I fear
I never really saw it. Being a mother too,
this worries me.

But also when you died I got your books
and, reading them, I find you after all.
Your voice, your voice, with sweetest clarity,
rings through the words you chose to share with me.

And so in fear of leaving my kids motherless--
and as a feeble recompense for all the times
I sneak into their rooms at night
to beg forgiveness from their twitching eyelids
for the petty strictness of my ways--
the one thing I make sure of all my days
is that they get my voice.

Stories they will build their worlds on, stories
teaching how to yearn, tales that break
their hearts apart then knit them back
a little softer—all the words I got from you.

Your voice in mine will carry on
in their bright dreams after I'm gone.

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

Poetry

I received a very kind personal rejection from Deseret Book this week. I had known before I ever sent the query in that my cause was hopeless. Poetry doesn’t sell. Besides that, Deseret Book doesn’t sell poetry. (Probably for precisely that reason.) I went into DB a few months ago and asked where the “poetry section” was. The answer? They had none, but I might find something over in “Inspirational.” (That’s when I knew it was hopeless, because only bad poetry is considered “inspirational.”) When I headed over there, I found ZERO poetry collections. As in NOT ONE. As in not even sappy “too often for Mormons” poetry, let alone any Carol Lynn Pearson, who I thought was still selling (don’t people still read her?).

It was a sad day.

So it was sheer stupidity that made me send the query anyway. But I thought I had a hook: what about a very small (chapbook) collection of poems about womanhood and motherhood, all dressed up nice in a little booklet and packaged to sell for Mother’s Day right next to the other little Mother’s Day booklets they sell. Yeah, I know people don’t buy poetry but maybe, just maybe I could be the exception. With the right packaging and marketing, you know. What if we had a radio ad (dream on) of someone reading the boob job poem? If you heard that poem, wouldn’t you want to go check out the booklet? (OK, now you know how off-my-rocker I was because of course Deseret Book could never sell anything with the phrase “boob job” in it.) I just thought—hoped—that maybe I could straddle the line between accessible/inspirational (cheesy) and poetic/skillful (esoteric) in such a graceful way that people would actually be fooled into being entertained by poetry, and want to share the experience with others.

So the nice gentleman at DB said, very nicely, that poetry doesn’t sell. Or at least, if it were going to sell (and my poetry was interesting and he enjoyed it—so why not mine?), it would have to be from a grass-roots level. Once I (or someone else) create the demand, DB would be happy to step in and supply it, of course.

Yeah. Well.

Um, how does someone go about creating a grass-roots-level demand for poetry?

Yeah, yeah. Self-publish a chapbook, pass it around to everyone and their grandma’s dog, build a following, etc. I guess that could be done. I’m beginning to waiver in my belief that I’m the one to do it, though.

But here’s my question for you: have you ever bought a collection of poetry? I know you haven’t so let me ask you another: when was the last time you read poetry on purpose? How did you get it? Did you seek out more? What poetry have you read (over your lifetime) that you enjoyed? Can you imagine ever buying poetry? If so, what kind would it be and where would you find it?

Thursday, May 01, 2008

M is for May and Memes

Here's an alphabet for you:

A- Artist you like?

I don’t know what kind of artist this is asking about. Visually, I love the artwork on our latest issue of Segullah (you can see the cover here). I also love Brian Kershisnik. My favorite painting of all time is hanging in my livingroom and it’s by Paul Cornoyer. You can see it here.

Musical artists? I love Courtney’s serenade that you can watch here.

B- Best Friend? Roger F. Young, the kindest person I have ever met.

C- Cake or pie? Sharlee’s triple chocolate cake, of course. But I also miss the peanut-butter pie I used to get at El Cheepo’s in Park City which, sniff, is no longer with us. If anyone has figured out how to make a killer chocolate-peanut butter pie, please send the recipe ASAP.

D- Day of choice? Sunday. Always.

E- Essential Item? Nap. Also, lately, herbal tea.

F- Favorite Color? A deep purply-blue, sort of the color of the little purple flowers that are coming up in my front yard right now (don’t know what they are). Also the color of dusk on a summer evening.

G- Good Read? Too many. I’ll take a stab, though: Room With a View, My Name is Asher Lev, Pride and Prejudice, Angle of Repose, The Great Divorce, Death Comes for the Archbishop and, of course, Bound on Earth.

H- Hometown? Brigham City, Utah. Even though we moved away when I was four, I think it got into my blood, because I find myself every spring with this deep-down urge to go on road trips to small towns with big trees, wide ditches and no curbs.

I- Indulgence? Going to bed early and getting backrubs from best friend.

J- January or July? September.

K- Kids? No more, thanks.

L- Life isn't complete without? Rain, the smell of sage, movies with popcorn, yoga, the story couch piled with boys and me.

M- Marriage reception blunder? I loudly and enthusiastically greeted someone (my high school choir teacher) by the wrong name.

N- Number of brothers and sisters? 1 brother, 2 sisters, 2 step-sisters.

O- Oranges or Apples? Apples, the sweeter the better, and always at room temperature. (I’ll put them in the microwave if they’re too cold from the fridge!)

P- Phobia and fears? Having another “attack.” Also, I’m not really afraid of heights (I’ve been bungee jumping and parasailing, for crying out loud), but I always get this little panic at the top of the ferris wheel.

Q- Quote? “Be still and know that I am God.” “And God remembered Rachel.”

R- Reason to smile? Peter’s belly-button.

S- Season of choice? Fall. (I was going to write, “empty nest season,” but I felt guilty. Of course I’m supposed to “love the season you’re in,” according to the prophets and the old ladies. And I really do, especially now that the kids are a little older. It’s really a great time and I’ll miss it when it’s past. Unlike the days with little, little children, which I still don’t miss despite what all the old ladies said.)

T- Therapy for a bad day? Going to Café Rio with Angela.

U- Unknown fact about me? I don’t think anything is unknown about me. I keep no secrets. But here’s a story of mortification. I was matched up with the guy of my dreams at a sort of fix-up activity, thought I made a good impression, and then heard back from the (expletive here) rude young men in my ward that my “date” had told everyone afterwards how disgusted he had been the whole time by the food in my braces. Talk about adolescent scarring!

V- Vegetable? Asparagus.

W- Worst habit? Saying, “Just a minute” to my kids.

X-Rays you've had? Oh, dear, don’t ask.

Y- Your favorite food? Dark chocolate-covered almonds.

Z- Zodiac sign? Gemini