A Great Christmas Story

I do not have a great Christmas story to tell. Every year when the newspaper asks for stories, I want to write one, but I'd have to make a tear-jerker up. I didn't grow up in the Depression, just hoping to get one orange. My mother never spent weeks knitting me an ugly sweater that taught me the true meaning of Christmas.

There was the year I decided there really must be a Santa Claus because I got a talking doll, and I knew things were tough that year because my youngest sister had just been born and my oldest sister was about to get married.

But that's the whole story.

There was also a time when I had a dream on Christmas Eve that my present came out of the fireplace rather than down the chimney--and it was just a woman's high-heeled shoe.

But the next morning, everything was as magically sparkly as always, and a new doll in a buggy awaited me in the living room as usual.

The only true Christmas story I could really tell would be one of consistency. Despite my parents' various economic struggles, every Christmas was pretty much the same. There was always a new doll and a game--or something equivalent. The stockings were always filled with candy and nuts, with an orange in the toe.

Maybe the fact that one Christmas was pretty much like the others IS the great story. In my childhood, Christmas magic could be counted on, year after year.

It is easy for me to see springtime as symbolic of the Resurrection as the flowers grow, the earth thaws, and trees come back to life. I appreciate the natural reminder that there's always another chance for a new start.

But, until I heard the great talk given at church yesterday by one of my neighbors, I didn't realize as well as I do now how snow on a green tree points directly to Jesus and his mission. The whiteness of snow--quite possibly the whitest thing I have ever seen, mercifully covering the leaves we missed raking, the weeds we never got around to pulling. Under snow, our yard looks as good as everyone else's. It's the great winter equalizer.

Snow covers everything indiscriminately, making everything look pure and beautiful. Snow and rain wash the earth, shape and form it--just like the atonement and repentance purify and shape lives. Trees especially look beautiful under snow--both evergreen trees and others. Looking at trees, I think about eternal life, wood, the cross. Snow and trees. If anything around here speaks of sameness in winter, it's snow.

I joke that I'll give each winter 100 days, and then it had better be gone. This is how I cope. That midwinter can be a reminder of the Savior too has somehow escaped me before. But in the bleak moments of life, Christ is what is solid. Christ is what purifies. Christ's sacrifice makes waiting out trials worth it. All can seem dead, but there is beauty even in the stillness. In the seemingly empty winter world, there is still the stuff of purification, of life.

Christina Rossetti's poem, "In the Bleak Midwinter," which is actually a Christmas carol, says, ". . .water like a stone; snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, in the bleak midwinter long ago."

Sameness. Christmas. Life, death. Over and over. New chances to do it again, to do it better. Christmas miracles. No story here, just reflection.

There is something about sameness, even the sameness of winter days, that you can trust. Being able to trust in Christmas and all it means--what greater story can there be?

Be Sure to Lock Up, Princess

I remember having homework in seventh grade. Maybe occasionally in fifth--when we were making maps. But certainly not before that. Yet, my oldest child had so much homework in kindergarten that I could hardly get it done.

I was a single parent then, and, by the time we got home from the day care center after work, we had exactly one hour until the younger child's bedtime. One hour in which to fix dinner, eat, bathe two kids, and put one of them to bed (with lullabies). The older child--not much older, needed to go to bed a half hour later, so the constant flow of homework--the kind he couldn't do by himself--was a problem. Finally, in frustration, I wrote a note to his teacher, explaining that I had already done seventeen years of schoolwork by then and really didn't need any more.

Things have only gotten worse. Not only does my current kindergartener have homework, I had to join a website so I can download it!

My second-grader's teacher explained it to me at parent-teacher conference. It's not her fault: the parents demand it. This is amazing to me. According to this, parents in my neighborhood do not want to spend any time with their children. Their focus is on Ivy League colleges or something. By puberty.

This teacher actually sent home a letter to parents before Thanksgiving break stating that there would be no "extra" homework for the three days off and suggesting politely that a nice family activity could be found.

I look at it this way. An elementary-school-aged child already spends 6.5 hours a day in school. That's almost as long as a full-time job. And they're children!

I have fond memories of how I spent my time after school: playing dolls with Kathryn in her spacious, only-girl-in-the-family bedroom. Bonding with my siblings over Gilligan's Island and The Brady Bunch amidst chair-saving and other power plays. Playing jacks on the cement front porch until the edge of my right hand was black.

All four of my elementary-school-aged children have homework, but my fifth-grader's load is ridiculous. Frequently, I have to stop myself from asking her to set the table, because she is slaving feverishly over homework and is miles from done. If I ask her to practice piano, she gives me a pained look. Reflected in her eyes is her teacher, a woman who gives assignments requiring public library books the night before they are due, requires AP format, and deflects any discussion by blaming the child.

We walk around avoiding this family member, not daring to include her in our conversations. There is no such thing as play for her. Not on a school night. Meals and baths are rushed to the point they are almost unrecognizable.

Increasingly, I find my life revolving around her homework load. Some nights, I cannot even get my own things done.

Recently, although she was crazy-busy from the time she got home and barely ate dinner, my fifth-grader had to stay up an hour-and-a-half past her bedtime in order to get her homework done. One hour-and-a-half past her bedtime is one hour-and-a-quarter past my bedtime. I'm a state employee in Utah.

A fifth-grader is too young to be the last one in the family to go to bed.

I put in twenty-one years of school myself. By the time my baby graduates, I guess I'll have completed, let's see, 112th grade.

My daughter doesn't complain about her homework load. She likes her teacher. I asked her why she had so much to do--maybe she hadn't done much at school? She showed me a list a page long of her assignments for that day. She had done a third of them at school. When had they been assigned? Half of them were daily assignments, she said. Several had been assigned that day.

So this was the point at which I sat down to type my second can-we-get-the-homework-under-control letter to a teacher. I flattered her at first--what an excellent teacher she must be with so much to share, how highly she must value a good education. But can we wait past fifth grade for the college-level stress?

A healthy life requires balance. For children, an all-schoolwork week is not balanced. I say thirty hours a week of school is enough. I trustingly send my children off to their teachers for more than half of their waking hours, and I hardly ever interfere with the teachers' time. Selfishly, I would like some of my children's time at home to be my time.

And some of the time should be their time.

Deadly Chess Game

One stupid move can kill you.

We don't like to believe that, but it's true.

I've known since I turned up as a little kid in a large family that I don't think like everyone else. Shy and observant by nature, I spent a lot of time, even then, watching people and drawing conclusions. Even the Myers-Briggs personality testing says I'm an INFJ, which is rare.

The I and the J are the most significant. What they mean, in an nutshell, is that I am introverted rather than extroverted and that I form judgments easily--that is, I tend to think everyone should play by the rules. (I'm really working on making the judging a positive rather than a negative thing.) As far as being introverted, I am no longer so shy that I cannot function in society, so, well, I like it. I don't need as much external stimulation. I make my own amusement. Heck, if I had twelve months of solitude, I could finally get the six books in my head out.

I rarely turn on a TV or a radio. I just don't think about it. I do read newspapers and whatever else amuses me, and I spend a lot of time with the information in my head. I love people and have a long list of those I love to spend time with, but I am also content with my own company.

I realize many people need more stuff going on to keep them from being bored, and I'm cool with that. But, in defense of introverts, I am glad that I don't need the Jazz to win in order to be happy. I am less likely to become depressed over an outside event over which I have no control. A nice way to put this that my extroverted husband came up with is to think of myself as an emotional mammal, as opposed to an emotional lizard: I create my own warmth and don't need to be out sunning myself on the rock.

So, while I'm thinking my thoughts that not everyone else thinks, I find myself wondering about thrill-seeking people who end up dead. Perfectly nice, promising, talented people making stupid moves that cost them--and others--dearly. Not that I don't make stupid moves, too. I do on a daily basis, but they are usually closer to home and less likely to be lethal.

It seems like there are constant news stories of people going out to Mount Hood and getting stuck in the snow, for example. It's great that there are rescue teams, but I always think about the misery of the rescuers, too, as they go out to the same dangerous or cold location and risk their own lives. Rescue missions are expensive. Some involve over 100 rescuers and thousands of man hours. At an estimate of $20 an hour, that would cost more than I paid for my first house. But thrill-seeking humans don't seem to think about that. They hike or crawl or drive or ski out to a place of no return, and it takes a lot of others to follow them and bring them back.

There are news stories about these individuals at least once a week, yet I've never heard anyone speak up and say, "Hey! What are we doing?" So I'm sticking my neck out and saying it. Am I the only one who thinks doing dangerous things or getting stuck out in the wilderness is nuts?

By kindergarten, we're told not to go farther than we can find their way back, not to accept rides or candy from strangers, to stay put when lost, to wear a helmet, to stuck to our buddy and not wander off alone. By the time we're adults, we have heard all the rules like not swimming during a lightening storm, not hiking alone, not using electricity in the water, not driving drunk, being prepared before we set out. We've all heard of people who have died in accidents.

Yet, something in us seems to resist these warnings. We don't think they apply to us, in this situation. Or something. But why wouldn't they? When they said, "Never do. . ." they meant, well, never. Maybe as we grow up, we gain too much confidence in our abilities, or in our good luck. I think it's great to stretch ourselves to find our limits, but then we need to accept our limits when we find them. I had a yes-you-are-too-mortal wake-up call this fall, so I know.

Maybe some high schools didn't require enough reading of Jack London stories in high school. There's a reason humans went from living in caves to building houses. There's a reason we learned to grow and store food rather than chancing it all winter, that we have constantly improved our technology to make things easier for us. The civilizations we have created protect us from the elements and other dangers. Houses are safer than cliffs.

I am always sad to read these stories. I think not only of the person who suffered the tragedy, but the people he or she left behind to suffer in their absence. Except for people who were minding their own business in their homes when a tornado, flood, or out-of-control vehicle came and crashed into their world, the tragedies usually seem to have been preventable. If people would follow the rules.

A decision to ignore a rule usually turns out to be one insignificant moment in time, but should we count on that? It can also leave a young woman a widow on Thanksgiving Day, a toddler with no father for the rest of her life. Is a thrill worth that risk? What am I missing?

The use of the word "tragedy" in these situations reminds me of my college days when I studied classical literature. A tragedy, as opposed to a comedy, was a story in which the hero had a "tragic flaw." Something--pride, greed, ambition--in the personality or mind of the person led him to his inevitable, horrible end. The plays and stories were intended to show that following a tragic flaw, instead of the rules of society that keep people safe and in line, would destroy you.

Going out to challenge the wilderness just doesn't appeal to me. I have no doubt it would win. But what I really don't like is when people ignore obvious rules and then blame God for the outcome. I do believe that sometimes He will step in to help us. But not every time. He gave us our free agency, but He also gave us our brains. I believe, in my humble opinion as a nobody, that if we create a huge problem while making bad decisions, the consequences of that are on our own heads. I cannot imagine a world where God would step in every single time we are about to be foolish and stop us. How would we ever mature past the age of fourteen months?

Some people are fatalists. They believe that, no matter what they do, they won't die if it isn't their "time to die." And that when it is their time, they could be sitting in the chair with a safety belt and a helmet on watching TV and it would still happen. I would love to find out--so if you're walking in old tennis shoes along the edge of a really narrow, high cliff, and you decide to close your eyes as you walk, it's God's fault when you slip? What if you somehow did survive a stupid decision? Would God have to come up with something else in order to kill you at that time?

So He allows us to be stupid if we want to. But I think if I showed up on His doorstep after riding a motorcycle without a helmet, for example, He would ask me what I'm doing there. I think He would show me the tears of my grieving children and I would have to weigh that burden against the reason I chose to be stupid. I don't think Death by Stupid Decision equals one's "time to go." I think it is more accurately describes an untimely death, a waste, a tragedy, even, perhaps, a sin.

I think God would ask me why I exchanged my life for a thrill, why I didn't play it safe enough to stick around so He could use me to do some good in the world. That puts a whole new meaning into hiding one's talent in the earth.

We are involved in a real live chess game. Our choices do impact our fate. The dark queen almost certainly will take your queen if you put it in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The True Thanksgiving Dinner

I am aware that many people are called upon to enjoy two Thanksgiving dinners. Some must find time to spend with two divorced parents. Some accommodate the traditions of two sets of grandparents. Others attend the tables of her mother and then his mother.

We aren't divorced and don't have grandparents nearby, but we deal with two Thanksgiving dinners in our own home. My children are growing up in a mixed Thanksgiving-tradition household. This could probably only happen in a family where both parents consider themselves cooks. Otherwise, one spouse would be forced to defer to the other. I suspect that is what usually happens.

Of course, when it comes to Thanksgiving dinner, nothing could possibly beat my mother's cooking: Parker house rolls dripping with real butter, lemon meringue pie. My mother could have made double the fortune of Marie Callender if she'd wanted to. It's been several years since I tasted her actual cooking, but I--among others--try to replicate it.

My husband has his own ideas, and, fairly enough, claims the title of head family cook.

At first, we tried to discuss which type of gravy or stuffing we would have that year, hoping we could trade off menu items every other year like some people trade off going to the in-laws. But that didn't work. What Paul makes is fine, but it's just not what I think of as real Thanksgiving food. And vice versa to him.

So, we serve two types of gravy, two types of stuffing, and at least four pies. He insists on pumpkin and pecan; I insist on lemon meringue and chocolate. I'd want the pumpkin, too, of course--Mom always baked two pumpkin and two lemon pies. But, somewhere along the line, my older, married sister started bringing a heavenly chocolate pie, and now that is as unthinkable to do without as anything else. Pecan pie I could live without.

By the time we children got up on Thanksgiving morning, my mother had made the pie crusts and was breaking bread for her savory buttery, sagey, oniony, and celery-y stuffing, which was so good I could (and did) (and do) eat it raw. We were allowed to help with the bread-breaking part of the meal, a favorite childhood memory.

Incredibly, Paul turns up his nose at it and prefers his family's "less moist," crumbly cornbread stuffing.

But he is magnanimous about sharing the menu. Last year, he stuffed his stuffing into the turkey's breast cavity and offered me the use of that flap of skin by the neck for mine. And he had saved the drippings from a turkey we'd had in early November for me to make my gravy out of so that he could use the real turkey's for his.

My mother made a milk gravy so rich and creamy you could hardly stop asking for the mashed potatoes to be passed again, no matter how many buttons you had already undone on your pants.

Paul cooks the turkey guts--you know, the neck, kidneys, giblets (whatever those are), tongue, beak, and eyes--and sneaks them into his gravy. I forbade him to stink up the house cooking them when I was pregnant, but, otherwise, I can't stop him. He sees this as richer gravy, although I told him the reason they keep those things separate in a little garbage bag--so you can throw them away.

He proudly serves his gravy, and I proudly serve mine. "Try a little of this one, son," we each urge. We both hope in our heart-of-hearts that our children will grow up to make the right choice about Thanksgiving food. I know with all my heart that my food is true, but he apparently has a burning testimony about his.

As far as the children, they're just confused. I feel bad for them, having to discern between two vastly different traditions. Time will tell, and, hopefully, good taste will prevail.

Honesty Is next to Cleanliness?

So, usually when you are walking on the treadmill and someone is walking next to you, you don't look over at them at all, right? At least not at the same time as they are peeking at you to see if your workout clothes are too goofy or whatever. It's kind of weird, really, that we don't talk. But we all like our privacy. Just because we happen to be exercising in tandem with a stranger doesn't mean we have to make friends. But, today, I was stuck for an hour-and-a-half next to someone who did chat at me.

That didn't bug me half as much as what she said.

It's now come to my attention that, just as people have different cleanliness comfort levels, people have different honesty comfort levels.

You know, when it's recommended that people "shower regularly," everyone nods in their own head, whether they shower and wash their hair every day, or think they are only in need after they sweat, or are on a once-a-week schedule. Pretty much everyone thinks they shower regularly--even the one across the table from you whose hair is making you feel a little sick.

Working with people from other countries has helped me realize that many people apparently think Americans are wasteful to wear a whole new outfit every day.

And perhaps we are.

But, it's our comfort level.

So, this girl on the treadmill next to me starts to tell me how she plans to cheat her company before she quits her job. Because, of course, her flight benefits expire "the minute" she quits, so she needs to take a flight to see her folks during the leave of absence she has just arranged and before she quits. Then, before her leave of absence ends, she'll mention that she's giving notice.

"Is that honest?" I asked her.

"I think so," she said. "Because I'm not for one hundred percent sure that I'm going to quit." Then, she proceeds to tell me that she is going to definitely quit before they pay for new training for her, which is scheduled for right after her leave of absence, because "the training is very expensive" and she would not feel comfortable with them spending that money on her when she's planning to quit. "I'm not that kind of person." Yes, I realize the airplane is going to fly to New York with or without her, anyway, but, to me, that is not the point.

I thought about getting off the treadmill before I'd planned, but the treadmill is the only piece of equipment my doctors are allowing me to use right now, and I really wanted to put more time in. I thought about going to another treadmill, but they are all in a line, and she would "for one hundred percent sure" see me do it, so I thought that might be a little too obvious.

I didn't want to be mean to this girl; I just didn't want to hear all about her plans. Especially when she gushed about how nice and caring her supervisor that she's about to take advantage of is.

I once dated a guy who felt guilty if he used some of the ink in a pen from work for a personal matter. People steal pens from work left and right without even realizing it, but he couldn't even "borrow" enough ink to sign his name. Yet, I discovered that he was deceptive in our relationship. When I met his family, they all sat and stared and stared at me. It was like they were all thinking, "I wonder if she knows about. . . ?" Some woman? Some crime? His orientation? I'd still like to know what that was about. I guess my feelings and well-being were less important than a blob of ink.

I guess honesty can be as relative as cleanliness. Even I, who would never tell a lie to anyone else, tell myself numerous lies about the treats I want to eat.

And back to cleanliness--I know that people who look normal walking down the street vary widely from those who have to wash their clothing every night lest something happen to them and the neighbors discover a dirty item of clothing in their house to hoarders who have sixteen pets they don't clean up after. There are people who live in a mess but can't touch a wastebasket lid. People who think nothing of licking their fingers as they pass out their birthday cake.

We all have different cleanliness comfort levels--that's a given. To some extent, it's what we were raised with in our families, but, to perhaps a greater extent, we choose it. It hadn't occurred to me before that it's the same with the junk we sort and file, whitewash, keep or discard, or wear every day in our minds.

Running Late

I have the idea that I can get to work in nine minutes. I think I got this idea because it happened. Once. One morning, probably a few years back, every single light was green, there was no traffic, the planets were aligned, and I arrived at work in a miraculous nine minutes.

The problem is that, at that moment, my brain reset my expectation for how long it takes to get to work. Click! Nine minutes. Never mind that the other 2047 times, it has taken me twelve minutes, or at least eleven.

When I am cooking my two eggs and gathering up, I don't see a problem when the clock says it's ten minutes until I am expected at work--because I think I can make it in nine. It's like the "Best Times" feature on Minesweeper. If you once played a game in nine seconds, it retains that. It doesn't average your scores.

Realizing that this is nuts has led me to wonder if I do this in other areas--and to think about other people's expectations, too. For example, someone I live with always seems to think he has more time than he has. And that things take less time to do than they do.

I'm apparently the same to some extent.

I may have gotten this tendency from my mother. She never started Christmas shopping until December 22, at the earliest. And she had eight kids and a zillion grandkids. She always pulled off Christmas somehow, but usually with zero sleep the night before. And I have childhood memories of fighting with my brothers and sisters and doing forbidden somersaults over the back of the couch that had been pulled away from the window for the expected Christmas tree (never purchased before December 22 either) while she and Dad shopped from dawn to midnight.

She never did taxes until April 15.

When it was time for me to leave to go to my wedding, she was still sewing the buttonholes onto my wedding dress. I remember waiting nervously in my slip for a prom dress, wondering which would arrive first--it or my date. And I ran to my first day of fifth grade late and pinned into my new green star dress.

I don't know why she did things this way. It seems not to have occurred to her that she didn't have to. In more important ways, she was a very on-the-ball mom. The best.

For myself, I can't stand that kind of stress. I consciously and deliberately changed some of this in my own life. When I was a single mom struggling to pay a $306 mortgage and a $500 day care payment (not to mention food and utilities) out of two $404 checks a month, I felt more secure making sure--before December 22--that my kids would get Christmas. One Columbus Day (back when state employees still got all their holidays), it dawned on me that while I was off and my kids were in school, I could just take myself to the store and secure Christmas then and there. Yes, in October. Why not?

A tradition was born. I get the main shopping done before I would have to fight the crowds and the weather. My anxiety thermometer stays at a comfortable level, too. As December creeps along, I have none of that research-paper-due type of stress mounting up on the back of my neck. I know that, whatever happens, my kids will have Christmas. In other ways, I haven't wised up yet.

I think the procrastination problem could be genetic. I have a child who likes to run things in a very last-minute fashion. He's charming enough to pull it off. He once got a teacher to postpone a deadline for him seven times. He likes to surprise me with last-minute requests--like, do we have any purple pants he could use for a costume? I told him I thought his six-year-old sister had some. (Does he seriously think I keep things like that handy, just in case?)

I'm sure something in my past asked for this. But I'm working on it. I have learned to consider the time church starts as 12:15, not 12:30. I have been learning to exercise, do laundry, and--with less success--clean my house on a schedule instead of on an as-needed (translation: last-minute) basis. Maybe I can knock down my mind-sets one at a time, even the one about how long it takes to get to work.

The Miracle Pill

Imagine if there were a miracle pill that would make you feel and look better in a completely healthy way--would you take it? Or a completely safe over-the-counter pill that would reduce stress, promote better sleep, boost your mood, and improve your self-esteem? Sound too good to be true? I am sure lots of us would go for a safe, inexpensive pill that would help us lose weight. How about one that could prevent diabetes, heart disease, osteoporosis, breast cancer, colon cancer, high blood pressure, plaque in the arteries, and premature death?

Would you take a safe pill that would improve your performance at work and in recreation? One that improved your endurance and stamina? One that could increase your mental focus? Build your confidence and effectiveness? How about one that improved your digestion, or your sex life? Build your lean muscle mass, provide more muscle definition, strengthen your bones, and make you more agile? Sometimes we do want pills that can lessen joint pain or back pain, or reduce depression or anxiety, or improve our metabolism. I see them sold all the time.

Would you take a pill that could reduce menstrual cramps, burn extra calories, and improve your complexion all at the same time? How about a pill that increased your appetite for healthy foods? What if there were a pill that could do all of these things, cost practically nothing, and was available to almost everyone without a prescription?

But wait! There's more! What if it also improved your posture, lowered your resting heart rate, enhanced oxygen and calcium transport throughout the body--and helped alleviate varicose veins? What if there were a drug you could take that actually increased your self-discipline, your sense of achievement, your ability to control your life in ways that could just keep growing? Imagine the online sales of such a drug, or the stampedes at the drug store.

If there were any one thing that could do all of these things, everyone would take it, wouldn't they? Such a drug would sell even if it cost a lot of money.

Now, don't get mad, but there is such a thing that can give every single one of these benefits. No, it's not as easy as popping a pill, but it's not out of the reach of most people, either. The cost is on a sliding fee scale--it can cost a lot if you want, but it can also be practically free.

The thing, of course, is exercise. Just regular exercise. It can start with a daily walk to the corner and back. With walking up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. The only trick is to be consistent--do what you can really do, but do it several times a week. Then slowly add to it. Walk just one minute longer each day or week, or jog just one tenth of a mile per minute faster for five minutes than you did yesterday.

With its potential benefits, and the potential costs of not doing it, why not? If you would take a pill that could do even some of these things, why not take a walk or a run?

The Prime Writing Op--An Obituary

I have a confession to make. I read obituaries. Every day. At a minimum, I scan the names to see if someone I know is there. But if one catches my eye--if it's the obituary of a young person, or the person's name is funny, for example, I read through it. If I have time, I read through several.

I can tell you that I have seen a lot of strange things. So strange, sometimes, that I wonder if some people know what an obituary is.

Obituary proofreader or consultant would be a dream job for me. I would love to help people avoid making fools of themselves at such a difficult time. I figure the loss of a loved one is when they need people crying with them, not laughing at them.

I know it's not nice to make fun of people who are grieving, and someday, I'll repent, but some of the things I see are quite amusing. Some are interesting cultural trends (that should, or, more likely, should not, survive). Like the years when every time the second spouse in a marriage died, the words "Together Forever" appeared below the picture. Or the words "Gone Fishin'," "Gone Huntin'," or "Gone Shoppin'."

Unfortunately, in Utah, obituaries are not edited. They are not proofread. There is no such person whose job it is to gently guide those who many not be in their right minds back to a level of decorum that would take the focus off of them and put it back where it belongs. Not everyone is a good writer, nor do they have to be. We all have different strengths.

Maybe there should be some rules. Maybe the best writer in the family should get the job, and then show it to someone else for an objective opinion. Of course, if the obituary writer is the best they have, sharing it with the family will only provoke changes for the worse. Often, the only objective observer is the person from the mortuary who forwards it to the newspaper. And he's not really objective--he's getting paid. Nor, necessarily, a good writer, either. I have noticed that the mortuary people do not usually interfere. The most they might do is to ask, "Are you sure this is how you want it?" Which, of course, is not helpful. That question will not prompt anyone to suddenly remember a grammar lesson nor the correct spelling of the word "lose." It will not shift a grieving person's mind into the gear that tells them that publishing a picture of an already-dead baby no one would recognize anyway may not be in the best taste. (We know because you wrote that she was stillborn. Yet, here is a picture.)

The only possible answer to that question is a firm, "Yes." And so entertaining obituaries continue to be published.

I see obituaries that never mention that the person died. They will say that the person was born, usually. As if that were the point. Some just expound on the alleged virtues of the person or how much they will be missed, or quote rhyming verses, and never ever get to the point.

Because an obituary is a notice of death. It comes from the Latin obire, to die. The purpose is simply to inform those who knew him or her of his/her passing. It's also nice, I think, to briefly review the person's life, list some accomplishments, and mention the names of those people to whom the person belonged. There's nothing wrong with mentioning facts.

Sometimes, all the obituary says is that a seemingly wonderful person was born who has all these amazing qualities, and, the next thing you know, it's talking about the whereabouts of a funeral, without mentioning a death. Quite shocking.

Around here, it costs more to publish a photo with the obituary. Photos can be very helpful when scanning an obituary page. You might recognize someone you know better from a picture than you would from their name. Or it might give you a clue whether the deceased is the Jane Brown you know. Unless, of course, the deceased is 85 and her senior prom picture is used. Sometimes, presumably in order to catch all the people who knew the deceased throughout her life, both younger and older pictures are used. I have seen as many as four in one obituary. This costs more, so it might be wise to ask oneself if it is worth it. Sometimes, the change is not that dramatic. Sometimes, it's so dramatic that it adds to the entertainment value. I have seen only a toddler picture used for a middle-aged man. Guess who wrote that obituary, right? I often see live people pictured in the obituary--the surviving spouse, or even a grandchild. There is such a thing as having a picture cropped so that only the deceased shows. I would think it would be unnerving to turn to that page and see oneself, or a child in the family. Believe me, it's unnerving enough to see your loved one--who is dead--there.

One time, an obituary featured a picture of a man holding up a chicken. There are sometimes pictures of people with their dogs. These remind me of stories of ancient civilizations where the person's pets, possessions, slaves, and even family members were buried with them.

One time, instead of a photograph, an obituary featured a drawing of a man talking on the telephone. I had to wonder, Was that the best they could come up with? I shake my head when the picture shows someone in sunglasses. What's the point if we can't see their face?

Sometimes I think people just don't know what they are saying. I have seen sentences like this: "Marva Lois Green was the oldest of fourteen children born to Alva Ira and Johanna Green on March 14, 1910." Wow! How come I've never heard of these people before? Or this one: "After his mission, he attended the University of Utah, where he met and married his eternal sweetheart on June 1, 1955." I guess it's okay to meet and marry someone on the same day if they're your eternal sweetheart. Otherwise, it might be too risky.

Or they don't know what "survivors" are. (Blood relatives who are still alive when you die.) This leaves people survived by dogs, friends, nurses, in-laws, and, occasionally, an already-dead relative. "She is survived by her children, Laura, Mike, and Pete (deceased)." Creative writing at its best.

Sometimes, obituaries are painfully honest. "He spent his last months as he wished. He slept all the time and ate as much as he wanted." Or, pure fantasy: "Everyone who ever met her loved her deeply." Some people use writing the obituary as revenge: "He married Carol Lewis, the mother of his children, later divorced. He then married his eternal soul mate, best friend, and loving companion, who was the joy of his heart, Sylvia Mermaid, with whom he shared the most blissful years of his life."

Even when there is relief for a loved one who suffered much, it is probably not best to "joyously announce" her departure, as if the obituary were a wedding invitation.

Sometimes, people use obituaries to preach sermons or promote their brand of faith. I love the ones where the obit writer guesses (but states as fact) what the person is doing in the afterworld or who exactly met him at the gate.

Sad are the ones where a child was brutally murdered, but the parents say he "flew away one day into God's arms." Worse, to me, the ones where a child died of neglect--as told in other stories in the newspaper--but the obituary states that "God decided to call him home." I suppose obituaries can hide, as well as reveal, a multitude of sins. Sometimes, you can just tell who wrote the thing.

Sometimes obituaries are used as thank you notes to medical staff. At several dollars per line, it would be more cost effective (not to mention more correct) to mail those notes out. Sometimes, obituaries are used to beg for money.

Some of the things I see are not only laughable, but downright embarrassing. One grieving family published that their son died right after the LDS General Conference ended. I had watched conference, and it wasn't that bad. Another obituary writer boasted that her loved one had "single-handedly" made wearing a particular item of clothing popular. Um, yeah.

Another time, the person's name was listed along with the title of "President." I scanned the obituary quickly, a sinking feeling in my stomach, wondering what this guy had been president of. As I did so, I was thinking that, even if my father were the current President of the United States, and died, I would not list the title with his name in the obituary. My worst fears were realized when I discovered that the closest this guy had ever come to being any kind of president was once, well, okay, twice, when he had been a member in a stake presidency--just a counselor, not even the stake president--more than forty years ago. But that's okay. He was "the most spiritual person ever" and, as the obituary pointed out in numerous incidents, apparently influential in the lives of the prophets and general authorities he had bumped into in his life.

Soon afterward, a delightful obituary ran for a successful self-made elderly businessman, written from the point of view and supposed memory banks of his mother. Never mind that she had died decades before him.

You would think writing an obituary would be a job no one would want to undertake--because of what it means has happened in their family. But some people seem to relish it as a creative writing opportunity--perhaps their only chance to get their words published. Or a way to color the situation the way they want it seen. Or to have the last word on the deceased. Some people ought to be haunted for it, though. One family didn't seem able to agree, and two different obituaries ran in the papers for the same person--with differing lists of survivors. Maybe this is why some people go ahead and write out their own. Which is fine except for the creepy "I passed away on November 29. . ." part.

But, as I said, not everyone is a good writer. If we were, it would take all the fun out of reading them.

What a Wedding Is

People seem to have forgotten what a wedding IS. I've been hearing stories of people getting married during their child's funeral, holding guests hostage as they stage a political lecture, weighing the bridesmaids, and marrying while planning to get annulled after they split up the gifts. For heaven's sake, a wedding is not the time to show ignorance or victimize your friends, but to show you are an adult and get your friends to sincerely wish you well.

Therefore, out of the goodness of my heart, I offer this public service message in attempt to get the world of weddings back to normal again.

A wedding is an event in which you marry someone. You do it in public so that your community can witness your vow to be married to that person.

That's really all it is! I swear!

So, think of a simple and charming way to do that, and you will save yourself and everyone you love and even just like a lot of grief. By charming, I mean understated, affordable, respectable, elegant, and refined. I do not mean cutesy, tacky, bold, outrageous, or offensive.

There are many small ways to make your wedding unique without trying to top everyone else you ever heard of or saw on TV, and without spending more money than you'll have in your lifetime--even if you're not planning on the money you spend being technically yours.

As getting married is one of the most visible and important bridges from childhood to adulthood, it's a good time to show your witnesses that you are an adult.

Looking at the questions posed to advice columnists and things I've heard about popular TV shows, it seems a lot of people plan to stage a display of their brattiest behavior ever as part of their wedding. The most outrageous plan to do this with other people's money.

Plan a wedding you can afford. Within your budget and savings, that is, not the limit of anyone's or everyone's credit card. Traditionally, the bride's parents pay for the wedding reception. That's still fine if they want to, or if the bride has not already established her own home and/or her own career. It's okay for the groom's family to help if they want to. But it is not okay to arm-wrestle either family into huge debt.

If the bride and groom are a little older, have their own means, have been married before, or want something the parents cannot afford, they should (as adults) foot the bill. (Within their budget and savings is best.)

Any questions?

"What about getting the guests to contribute?"

Ah, the guests. I'm glad you asked that.

No. Guests are not compelled to give gifts or money, and paying for the wedding means they are no longer "guests." Traditionally, guests give a present to help a young couple set up their own household. You know, people at that stage where it never occurs to them to buy their own Scotch tape or safety pins because their mom always has them. When you get married, you need your own stuff. Wedding presents are good for that, but they should be given voluntarily, which means the bride and groom are supposed to not count on them. Gifts are not admission to the wedding. Ideally, they are given from the heart, and the bride and groom should be delighted and surprised to be the recipients of generosity, however modest.

If the bride and groom have already set up their households--and particularly if they have already set up a household TOGETHER--gift-giving gets a little trickier. They should register for and expect less, not more. They should be thinking how lucky they are to need less, not how to get their friends to upgrade all their stuff.

"You mean you can't have a money tree or register for the stuff you want?"

Money trees fall in to the tacky, bold, outrageous, and offensive category. It's okay to register, but let's keep it down, huh? Register for your fine china and/or a few nice affordable household items to match your decor, but don't pretend that you wouldn't sleep in less than $300 sheets in your little one-bedroom apartment. Let people buy you one spoon if they want to, for example. And please limit the registry to things that are a little bit special. I have seen the following items on wedding registry lists: a swimsuit for the bride, socks for the groom, video games, packaged food, and even laundry bleach. Are they serious? Do they really want laundry bleach for a wedding present? Are they going to think fondly of Aunt Gladys as they pour it into the toilet, or what? It should be something that will last. Buy your own groceries, and let Aunt Gladys pick out a nice clock or toaster to be remembered fondly by. And the registry should only be mentioned to wedding guests who ask for that information. Since you're technically not supposed to even expect a gift, you don't want to be blatantly telling people what to give you, what to pay for it, and where to get it. The registry is to be helpful, not proscriptive.

I have seen registries that have very expensive items on them (come on, how many people are really going to spend $300 on your wedding besides maybe your parents?) and very silly, cheap things on them, but not very many reasonably-priced nice things. People don't want to give you hangers as a wedding present.

"Without a money tree, how can you have a decent honeymoon?"

You should take the honeymoon the groom or the couple or the groom's parents (when offered) can afford. The most important thing is being alone together. Where is almost beside the point.

The good news is, some people will give you money. But it's not nice to ask for it nor to count on it to fund your trip. There are honeymoon registries now, which I guess is okay, if people want to contribute that way, but I have to wonder if it really is tasteful not to take a trip you can already afford. Are brides and grooms already so tired of each other these days that just being together isn't what matters most?

Another question that comes up a lot is who, in a complicated family, should give the bride away. I understand that this can get tricky. I personally think that wedding ceremonies that don't require that are charming, but, to answer the question, it depends. Traditionally, the father does this. It is also okay to have a stepfather, grandfather, mother, or both parents do it. But think about what it means. This tradition started back in the Dark Ages when daughters never married by choice but were bartered like the property they were. The wedding was not their own idea, but a business deal between the groom and their father. I believe the father was actually dragging them to the altar and literally handing them over to another man. Modern women could ask themselves if this is a tradition they want to uphold.

The unseemly origin of giving the bride away also gave rise--I believe--to the tradition of the veil over the face. The veil was not lifted until the vows were finished. THEN, in some cases, the groom got his first look at the bride he'd just married. Maybe the veil also served to hide her tears. Or her identity. Some sister switcheroos were apparently performed way back when.

Despite this history, some people seem to still consider this tradition charming. So, if it makes sense to you, have at it. At any rate, it would probably not make sense for someone to whom you never "belonged" to give you away. The worse case I ever heard of was one where the bride's little boy "gave her away."

If the bride has already "given herself away," especially many times over, the tradition makes even less sense and will come off as absolutely ridiculous to those who are thinking about it. She might as well just "give herself away" again by not pretending someone else is.

When I was young, some weddings were tacky, but the worst problems were an invitation seemingly issued from beyond the grave or printed on green paper so that the happy couple's faces were green. Now, they seem to be outrageously out-of-hand, as in the following examples.

The reception before the ceremony--in which case, there is no "new couple" for the community to receive, and no reason to celebrate. If you want to hold an engagement party, that's fine, but you might want to do it sooner than the night before the wedding. Guests don't like feeling hoodwinked showing up with a gift when you didn't actually get married yet. What if something happens and you don't? This falls into the tacky, bold, outrageous, and offensive category.

Gifts for the guests: one of the worst new trends is giving every guest a goody bag (possibly in lieu of thank you notes?). One can only guess that this was the bright idea of some wedding planner who noticed that some misguided, overindulgent parents thought that every child at a birthday party needed to receive, as well as give, a gift, and then capitalized on it. Sort of makes the whole gift-giving thing meaningless, huh? And, at one to three dollars a bag, this is really an expensive unnecessary expense to tack on to an already expensive day. Not a must-have.

Destination weddings: pretending that your wedding, your love, or maybe your own self is too special to waste on your local church or reception center is a headache and budget-breaker for everyone you know. If you really want to go to Tahiti, choose it for your honeymoon (if you can afford it--see above), and let great-grandma worry about getting uptown, not halfway across the world. Advice columns are full of people asking this question: "With attending the wedding costing me hundreds of dollars, do I really have to give a gift, too?" This is not the direction you want people going in.

Wedding colors: these days, it seems like two or three colors are picked at random, like Cabbage Patch Doll names--Dolores Josie or McKensie Nelly--that should have nothing to do with each other.

Risque wedding dresses. Please. Save it for him. Later. Don't make your guests feel like they married you, too.

Having the big traditional white no-holding-back wedding when the circumstances do not call for it. If it's not your first wedding, taste requires doing something small that doesn't scream "give me presents again." If people gave you wedding presents once upon a time, that's all it's nice to expect. Someone who already had a nice first wedding should not expect bridal showers or wear a white dress. The same goes for people who got married quietly a year ago, or already have children between them. If you chose to get married another way, that was your choice and your wedding. Instead of expecting the same people to come to big-and-fancy wedding after wedding, it would be charming to host a big 10th or 25th anniversary party in the future.

I see that things that would have been way out there a few years ago now seem necessary, and brides will die of shame not to have them, so it's no wonder the price of weddings has skyrocketed. Like having both showers AND bachelorette parties. Apparently, people COUNT on this stuff and come unglued if it's not perfect/better than everyone else's. Come on. Consider the current economy, if nothing else.

I once read in an etiquette book that there is something charming about being secretly better than how you present yourself. You know, instead of bragging and exaggerating your assets at the outset, being a little more educated, more generous, more wealthy, or more gracious than you at first let on. Modesty is the opposite of being a braggart. If you really want a charming wedding, spend a little less than you have, show a little less skin than you possess, and leave people (and yourselves) with a few of their own resources when your wedding is over. Make those you care about happy that they shared your day with you, and give them nothing to talk about except their hopes for your happiness.

Coming soon--what an obituary is.

Answering a Child's Prayer

I am the mother of seven--though, at the moment, one of them wishes I weren't.

Because each child has come to me with her or his own mind and soul, it has been my opportunity to learn (and laugh) much. My children are some of the best people I know.

One of the ways I have learned from my children is by listening to their prayers.

My older daughter is humble, sweet, helpful, and forgiving. She got none of those traits from me. I learned a lesson about gratitude from her when she was barely three years old. We had just bought our house and gained much needed square footage, but--as in all exchanges--lost some things. One thing we lost in moving was a clothes chute. So, we bought our daughter a clothes hamper for her room. Thanking Heavenly Father for her new hamper became part of her bedtime prayer. For a year.

Another daughter, while learning to pray, got her phrasing backward. Instead of asking Heavenly Father for what she needed or wanted, she thanked Him as if it had already happened. ("Thank thee we can be safe tonight. Thank thee that Grandma will get better.") I took it as a lesson on faith. Our favorite was, right after one brother went on a mission and another brother moved out, her turning our usual plea that they would be safe and provided for into, "Thank thee they can live without us."

Currently, we have a youngster in that learning-to-pray stage who provides us with great amusement as well as simple, sweet lessons. Almost always, something funny is thrown in. "Help me to get a brownie," "Help me stay out of the street," or "Help us not to go to jail." One time he prayed, for no discernable reason, that one sister (by name) would think that one brother (by name) was "a guy."

One night, weary from my four-tens work schedule and eager to get a crowd of children, quickly followed by myself, tucked into bed, I hesitated when he asked for toast. Whenever I give one of my children a snack, four others come up to me, one by one, asking for the same thing. I could spend all my time playing waitress. Because of this, I've almost implemented a no-snack policy. Bedtime snacks are especially discouraged. Put simply, it's crowd control.

So, I said, "You're hungry because you didn't eat much of your dinner. You need to eat your dinner when it's dinner time. Now, it's bedtime. Say your prayers."

He turned around at the edge of his bed and prayed, "Heavenly Father, please help me get toast."

Zing! I should have seen that one coming.

But I could feel God smiling right alongside me. So, I put aside my fatigue to answer my child's prayer, which is, after all, a large part of the role I was called to play in his life.

Which led me to reflect on the interconnectedness among my children and me and God and our efforts to live gospel teachings. On the reflections of each other and of God that we can see in each other. The standing in as agents of God for each other. The teaching of one another, the humbling of each other, the loving and serving of each other that are the point of earth life. The fact that I am as infantile and unpolished to God as my child is to me. And just as cherished.

My child's prayer for toast reminded me that sometimes our kids could use some help when they are up against our authority. It can't be easy to have a large person controlling everything and making all your decisions. Children are at our total mercy. We buckle them into the car and take them they have no idea where. We put them in clothes they didn't choose, decide what and when they eat and how warm or cold the house is, whom they see. We allow them to have injections when they cannot possibly understand why.

Of course we have to do these things. But when we say no, are we balancing our child's needs with our own? Or just thinking of our own?

Maybe if I could remember that a plea to God could be a perfectly natural response to my authority, I could more often use it generously and fairly--and avoid the you're-not-my-mom wish.

Big Birthday Time

Yesterday was my husband's fiftieth birthday. (I am much younger, of course.)

I have watched enough TV to know that I was supposed to do something about it. Something big. But what? I already knew from prior conversations that he didn't want a party. And we're just coming out of some lean times, so a trip back to our honeymoon hotel or something else really grand just wasn't going to be possible.

A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned to him while we were out running errands that I had a problem--someone very close to me was about to have a big birthday, and I was coming up short on ideas. He smiled and drove to one of those fancy-shmancy kitchen stores to show me some gadgets that--unbelievable as it is--he didn't already have. Most of the things he showed me cost about twelve bucks. Not very romantic.

Due to money and time limits, Paul and I have developed a standard birthday party for those in our family: the birthday honoree has the dinner, cake, and ice cream of their choice, followed by the receipt of some modest presents.

So, that was really all I had to go on. Until the next day. A man and his son played a cello/violin duet at church. Paul mouthed to me over the heads of four of our kids, "I'm so jealous." I shrugged back. He had mentioned several times over the years that he wished he could play the cello. Back when it had been time for him to sign up for a musical instrument, his family had owned a flute, so that was what he'd gotten stuck with. He'd told me he'd thought it was feminine, and that he'd even been teased.

So I wondered. What would it take to get Paul into a cello?

I looked into it the next day. A local retail store quoted me $1500 for new, $1200 for used. It was immediately clear that this was no violin! Our little bit of savings are already tagged for Christmas, and eventually a furnace replacement, a van replacement, etc., etc., etc. I really couldn't blow it all like that.

I searched online and found a cello at a much better price, though still quite a bit of money compared with our usual birthday presents. I wondered if I should really do it. Did he really want it? Would he really practice it? Would he stick with it? Then I realized: he's not a child. If he would enjoy it, that was all that mattered. He didn't have to become Yo-Yo Ma.

And there was a catch: if I was going to do it, i had to do it THAT DAY. This company had a "4-7 business days" delivery schedule and was in another state.

The more I thought about it, the more my mind settled on the likelihood that he really would like it and really did want it. This could be my big, romantic solution. Paul is hard to buy for, almost impossible to surprise correctly. If he wants something, he just goes and gets it. If he didn't think about something before you did, he doesn't want it. But Paul is also the man who cooks my dinner most nights, who tends my babies while I work, who made sure I quickly reobtained both the newspaper subscription and gym membership I'd given up in the darkest of times. Et cetera. He's at the point in life where he has to think about letting go of some of his dreams forever. If there was any way I could make one small dream of his come true, I should.

But there were problems to solve, too. How to pay for it, for one. I had access to enough money which I could try to replace before Christmas. I had to use a credit card for a same-day purchase, and I didn't want to use Paul's. I called my adult son and asked if we could use his, and I would write him a check. I offered to let him go in on it, too, for just as much as he would normally spend. He ended up putting in a whole lot more. I was pretty sure Paul would be okay getting just this one thing.

Where to hide it, and how to get it up to the living room? I would find a place downstairs that he wasn't likely to go to, then have my oldest son bring it up between dinner and dessert and set it up. He often left the table while waiting for dessert--his leaving wouldn't even be noticeable.

Delivery was another problem. On a typical day, Paul is at home with the children while I work. It would not be cool for a cello to just show up. I called my sister-in-law to see if it could be delivered there. She agreed, and we talked through some of the details. She works some days, but on the days in the 4-7-day window, it seemed she would be home.

Not normally an online shopper, I was a little worried about trusting this company I had never heard of with such a large percent of our savings. Exchanging them for a cello was not a tenth of the problem that losing them altogether would be. Their website looked pretty nice, but a voice in my head told me that a bogus company could have a nice website, too. I searched for clues. A coworker came over to my desk and said, "Click on the customer service policy." I did. It simply showed a picture of a young woman wearing a headset. No words, no phone numbers, nothing about a guarantee or path of recourse. We looked at each other and laughed. She suggested I forget it.

Emotionally, I was already too into this dream to just give up, though. I wanted that moment when Paul would walk into the living room after dinner and see the cello sitting there with a big bow on it. I checked the online Yellow Pages and learned that the company appeared to have been in business for decades. I found a picture of the building that was apparently at its street address. Another friend pointed out that using a credit card is a safety net of its own kind.

Seriously, I drove home from work that evening in tears. Partly in terror of the risk I was about to take, but mostly because I sensed how happy this gift would make my husband.

So, I plunged. Then tried not to sweat it. And kept planning. I decided not to tell any of my other kids. I didn't want any threat to that moment of surprise.

I went to the store to get a birthday card and found the perfect one. It was elegant in all black with a number 50 on the front. It said, "You're getting better all the time." Inside, it just said, "Happy Birthday." I brought it home and added, "Here's one dream you can have," and had all the kids sign it below my name.

The next morning, I woke up in a panic. What had I done with the card? Had I left it out in the kitchen where Paul could see it when he came home from work in the night? I searched but couldn't find it for about five minutes. Finally, I discovered it tucked safely away in my top drawer.

A day-and-half later, I tried to track the delivery and couldn't find any information. I called the customer service line (there really was one), and was told that they hadn't sent it yet! Instead, they had been trying to verify my address with the bank. "Now that you've called, we can go ahead and send it, I guess," the woman said.

"I should be more afraid of you than you are of me," I countered. "Why would I give you a bogus address?" I tried to make sure there would still be time to have it delivered. Labor Day wouldn't count. When the day waned with still no email showing it was being shipped, I called again. The man who answered said, cheerfully, "There's a chance it could get there in time." It was still nine calendar days before the birthday. "A chance?" I said. "This is a birthday present, and I have to have it in time. It's the only thing he's getting. I can't very well say, 'Oh, was it your birthday?'" I told him I might as well cancel the order and go shopping if I couldn't have it by at least next Thursday. He offered to check with shipping, then told me it would be arriving THAT Friday--in two days.

I was so relieved and giddy that I didn't even think about my sister-in-law's schedule. When we talked that night, she reminded me she would be working that day. We speculated different potential outcomes. The next morning, I called the company again to see if I could get the delivery address changed. Had I known it would be coming on Friday, I wouldn't have bothered my sister-in-law. That was the one day I was going to be home while Paul was at work. "Yes, sure, you can change the address," someone told me. "But it delays it for a day." No good. I asked more questions. No, they couldn't give me an estimated time. No, they couldn't let me sign for it at my relative's house. No, they couldn't call me if no one answered the door. No, they couldn't leave it hidden there. I couldn't even pick it up if they'd missed her--SHE would have to. But there was a chance she would be home when they came, and they would make attempts on three different days.

I just had to accept my uneasiness. And keep my mouth shut. Normally, I tell my husband pretty much everything on my mind. If I read something disturbing or amusing in "Dear Abby," he gets to hear about it. Something this big, exciting, and stressful fairly oozed from my pores. But I had to hide it all.

I imagined every possible abortion to my plan. The truck could get in an accident or catch on fire. It could take the cello to the wrong city with no time to get it back. The box could be empty, or contain a viola. They could send a cello without the bow. Or the cello could break in transit. And I had darker thoughts, too. What if--God forbid--something happened to my husband in the intervening days and he never knew I did this for him?

There is a reason I'm so nutty. I've been traumatized before. One spring, Paul and I bought my parents beautiful little matching cherry wood tables to keep by their TV chairs. On Mother's Day, I saw Dad's look when Mom received hers--he was jealous. I would be so happy when, on Father's Day, he received his. But, before Father's Day, without any warning, he died of a massive heart attack.

Another time, I looked forward to telling my mother that I was naming my new daughter after her. Two grandsons in the family had already been named after Dad, but Mom's name was a little old-fashioned, and no one had used it. She totally deserved a namesake, and I could hardly wait to see the joy in her face when I told her after the birth. But, a week after I'd found out the baby was a girl, Mom suddenly died, too. I named the girl after her, but I didn't get that moment. And I don't know for sure if she knows I honored her.

Also, I once had a boyfriend who'd raved repeatedly about a certain kind of chocolates made by a certain company in a certain city. I ordered them and presented them to him on a holiday. He was the type who would always test my love. I had hoped that this act would prove it once and for all, but he reacted badly.

So, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night can keep my mind from going anywhere it wants. The days and nights were endless. When I thought about the cello too much, I had to remind myself to keep breathing. Always making sure to log out, I checked my email every ten minutes, I think, watching the cello's progress from city to city. Gosh, were they being careful with it?

Finally, Friday came. Paul went to work in the late morning, and I took our toddler to a music store to pick up some cello music he could practice on. My sister-in-law called me to tell me she was home from work and no yellow slip was in sight. Hope still reigned. Just before five, she contacted me again. "The Eagle has landed," she said, with a laugh.

I turned off the oven I was heating, told my oldest child at home that I would be right back, and drove over there. The box was taller than I had expected--about six feet. It was hard to fit my arms around, but not terribly heavy. We carried it to my van. It just fit on the middle seat. I thanked her profusely--I think--and drove it home, careful to not have an accident of my own that would spoil my plans. Your wife was lying bloody across a cello box, the police would tell Paul. I knew heat would be bad for it, but I left it locked in the van for just a minute while I ran inside to get the children out.

"Everybody's going to play outside until dinner," I announced, quite unlike myself, and shooed them out the back door, ignoring my nine-year-old's attempts at negotiating playing quietly downstairs. Lock the door, I thought. I hesitated. I never lock my children out. But I did, just in case, then rushed back out and got the box out of the van. I sashayed it to the porch and got it in the door, shutting out my fear of dealing with the steps. Already, one of my children was knocking on the back door. I opened it a crack. "What do you want?"

"I need toys," he said. I told him, not very politely, that he would have to wait.

It's good that I was trained in social work, because self-talk came in handy as I nudged the box down the stairs. That actually went better than I would have thought, but by the time I was down them, another child was pounding on the door, saying she had to go to the bathroom.

Geez, I thought. I only need two minutes. Call me evil, but all I could think about was getting that box safely around the house and into the closet under the stairs before anyone saw it. I fast-walked it as best I could through three rooms. The closet under the stairs has a large, long space behind two rows of clothes. I shoved them aside. I hadn't remembered that the closet ceiling slopes down as the stairs do. But, no matter. There was still room for a box right behind the clothing rods. Making sure that the side of the box with the company logo did not face out, I struggled it into the closet over my daughter's dress-up clothes and shoes that had been left on the floor. I quickly arranged the two rows of clothes in front of the box and stepped back. The bottom of the box could still be seen, but, as there were other boxes in the back of the closet, I reasoned this should not be an issue. I shut the door and hurried back.

Two children were pounding frantically on the back door by now. I hurled myself up the stairs and opened it.

I had been sure that once the cello was actually in my house, I would feel much relieved. But now I worried about new things. What if we had a flood in the basement? Or a fire? What if my husband decided to look for something in that closet? Or what if my daughter decided to play dress-ups and asked her dad what the big box in her closet was about? What if a robber broke in and stole it? Yeah, right. I had to laugh at myself over that one. No burglar in his right mind would struggle with that box the way I'd had to. I looked down and noticed my white shirt was marked with dusty straight lines here and there. I quickly stain-sticked and washed it.

My son wanted to see the cello. I forbade him, knowing that, since he is never in that part of the house, his snooping around would get the other children--or worse, Paul--curious. He would lead them right to it.

Really, I was glad the cello had arrived. I realized that I should get into the box to make sure everything was okay while there was still time to make a change, but I didn't have a chance to do it. I am never home alone. And I didn't know how I was going to get through the whole long upcoming weekend side by side with my husband, mouth shut. And there were still nagging fears. What if Paul half-smiled when he saw it and said, "You shouldn't have," and meant it?

Saturday morning--first thing--we were seated at the barber's waiting for haircuts. Paul said, not intending, I am sure, any pun, "I have a wild hare." He looked at me to gauge how receptive I would be to this news, and continued carefully. "If my mom sends me a lot of money, I'm thinking about seeing about getting a cello. I really think I could figure it out." He hurried on, making his pitch.

I didn't hear the rest. What I was thinking was, "You don't need your mom to do this for you; you have me." Also, "I'm so glad you said that, but I really wish you hadn't." There were still five days until his birthday--was he going to believe I'd done it before he said that? And now I knew he thought it possible. I wanted him to think getting a cello was impossible, yet still get it.

"Why are you looking at me that way?" he asked.

"Do you know what they cost?"

"No, I'd have to look into it. Maybe I could do a rent-to-own."

This gave me a whole new set of problems to deal with. I would have to intercept his birthday card and not let him have it until his birthday. It was not at all unlikely that Paul would just go out and do something to get a cello on his own. I didn't want to spend another dime. I hoped his card would come that day, as it was the last day I would be home at mail time. When we got home, I checked. There wasn't a card from his mother, but there were two from his dad. I placed the one for our daughter on the mantle and hid his in my drawer, my heart banging against my ribs like I was committing some kind of major crime. His dad might have sent money, too, and, with the two combined, well, he might have enough to do some damage with.

I continued to go over and over my plan in my mind in order to make it seamless. My boss made the big bow for the cello's neck. I sneaked it home in a grocery bag. It wasn't at all unusual for me to get my daughter's church dress out of the closet for her on Saturday night, so nonchalantly doing so in front of her and Paul drew no attention. That way, no one would probably open that closet door except me.

To let just a bit of emotional steam out before it made me explode, I confessed to Paul, "I'm a little anxious. I have a bad feeling something might happen before your birthday." I didn't tell him why. He's used to my occasional PTSD act and brushed it off. Several times, I wanted to say, "I'm so excited for your birthday." But I didn't want him to wonder why and get his wheels turning. If I made him curious, he would be smart enough to figure it out.

Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. I was counting down hours in the triple digits.

Tuesday night, I went on a hunt for his mother's birthday card and found it on his side of the headboard. He hadn't waited--he'd opened it. I peeked inside. There was some cash but more in a gift card at a store that I was pretty sure would NOT carry cellos. There was no point in hiding it now. I put it back and just continued to hope he wouldn't act on his wild hare.

Wednesday. On the phone, Paul told me he "still hadn't looked into it," like he might as soon as we hung up. I wondered what to do. I REALLY didn't want to blow my cover. I still wanted to see his reaction. I wanted to be there. But I was horrified to think that he might sign a contract or something. "Wait and see what else happens," I said, hoping he wouldn't start to think I had done something about it. "Your dad might send some, too," I quickly added.

"He only sent one for. . ." our daughter, he complained.

"You never know what difference a day can make," I offered, lamely.

FINALLY, I had an intelligent thought and told him when I got home from work, "Let's go on the weekend and look into it together." I still had one more day of work--when he would be left to his own devices--before the party.

That night, I knew I had to get into the box to make sure there really was a cello in it. Not a broken one. And a bow. I had to tie the ribbon around its neck. I had to set it somewhere where it wouldn't be seen for twenty-four hours, but would be more accessible and still safe.

I was in the middle of making the birthday cake when I knew the moment had come. Two kids were watching a movie. Another child was in the bathtub. I had set up the daughter with the bedroom closet under the stairs at the computer playing games. Another child was sick, quarantined by her dad to the downstairs. I couldn't get her out of the way completely, but this was my best chance. I couldn't wait until the children were asleep, or I would surely wake the one daughter up. I started hyperventilating. If something were wrong, it would be too late to fix it. I grabbed a couple of cookies for my sick daughter, a knife, and the ribbon in the bag, and went downstairs, taking deep breaths. I handed her the cookies and said, "Why don't you turn that TV up louder so you can hear it?" She looked at me funny, but tried.

Closing all the doors behind me, I went to the closet and opened the door. I pushed the clothing aside and took the knife to the box. Standing inside the narrow closet with clothes and hangers bumping my head and shoulders, I engaged in mortal battle with that six-foot mass of cardboard and finally triumphed. Having gotten past tape, layers of cardboard, and super-duper staples, I looked into the box. A cello was in it, packed tightly against the sides with some kind of foamy packing. I yanked on it until it finally came out. I carried it to the bed and unzipped the case. The cello was beautiful--reddish. I clumsily tied the ribbon on, made sure all parts were there, and shoved it back partway into the case. The box would be too much for my son to deal with quickly when he came down for it, but I couldn't leave it out in the house with the name of the company printed on it.

Carrying the cello like a large baby in my left arm, I struggled to get past the box in the closet doorway without dinging the cello on the woodwork. It was a tight space, and the toy box was in the way. Finally, after a whole second workout, I managed to get the cello back into the closet and leave the box in front of it. I closed the clothing over the box again, picked up all traces of evidence, and went back up to finish the birthday cake.

Strangely, I was more anxious now than ever. Surely, with the cello out of the packaging, there would be a fire, an earthquake, a flood, something! How could I leave it out like that for a whole night and day? How would it be possible for me to go to work tomorrow and leave it in the house with Paul? Gradually, my breathing slowed and sanity returned. Still, though, I worried. Tomorrow night, should I leave it out on someone's bed? I didn't want my son to have to deal with the box. Whose bed or room would be foolproof for non-discovery? Could I really make sure to keep my little girl with me every second while I made dinner so she wouldn't go into her own room? I couldn't figure it out.

The next night, I had to go down again. I picked a moment when no one would miss me--while the dinner was finishing cooking before it needed to be served up. Paul was on the phone with his sister. All the children were upstairs. One last time, I opened that closet door and faced the box. I pulled it out and into the downstairs kitchen we hardly ever use. I shut the door. No one would discover it in the next few minutes. When I went back to the closet, a miracle happened. I realized I didn't need to do anything risky with the cello. I didn't need to make sure to keep my daughter out of her bedroom or leave it on anyone's bed. All I needed to do was place the cello at the front of the closet, right by the door, and close the door.

There was only the one slim package of sheet music to set out as Paul's present. He politely didn't comment or ask where the rest of them were, but I knew he must be wondering. I stopped myself from sending a daughter down to the downstairs fridge for more milk, and went myself. Duh!

Only because it was his birthday, I'd noticed my husband's horoscope in the newspaper that day had said, "Your loved ones have a suggestion about spending your time this evening. Remember, it's for your own good."

I laughingly told him about that, then, as we sat down to his birthday dinner, got more bossy than usual. "It's your birthday," I said, "so if you need anything, don't get up. I'll get it for you." He looked unsure about that. Sure enough, within one minute, he'd decided he needed a different kind of salt than what I had placed on the table. I jumped up. According to our plan, my son got up from the table between dinner and dessert to get the cello and set it up in the living room. Paul thought nothing of that, but he said he was hot. I jumped up to bring the portable fan over and turned it on him. I cleared the table by myself. I realized I had forgotten to think about matches for lighting the candles before confining Paul to a chair, but managed to find them by myself.

After what seemed like a long time, my son came back up with the cello and placed it in the living room while Paul waited for dessert. The daughter on my side of the table could see him and started to react. I grabbed her arm and stopped her. Twice. We sang the birthday song, had cake and ice cream. When Paul was finished, I hurried the baby out of the high chair and asked Paul to come into the living room with me this way, please.

Yes, I got my moment. Yes, my son took a fabulous picture of Paul's face when he first saw the cello. Yes, he was surprised. Yes, he shed tears. Yes, he hugged and kissed me. Yes, he said it was the best birthday present he could ever remember receiving. Yes, he said he couldn't imagine being more pleased. Yes, it was romantic. Yes, he tried it out immediately. Yes, he asked, "How did you do this?" Yes, he listened to my story. The children, who had known nothing up until The Moment, were delighted to hear it, too. Yes!

That Was Their Life

Becoming a parent changed me. As I watched my first child's eyes, intent as a starving baby rabbit, on getting his first meals, I realized with a shudder that if anything happened to me, I'd be leaving him in the care of someone who thought it would be a good idea to give him an enema on his first night at home. I started buckling my seat belt. Every time.

I struggled to shoulder the grave responsibility. I'd always loved babies, so there was much to caring for him that I enjoyed, but the enormity of the situation settled on me like a mountain. And the love I had for him was like nothing else. Just the thought that something could happen to him left me without air in my lungs.

I remember the first time I read in the newspaper--as a mother--about a tragedy. A baby had strangled in his crib. The baby was only a month older than my baby. The crib had been too far from the wall, and the child had crawled out and gotten his head stuck between the crib and the wall. My whole body hurt when I read that. I thought, "Could that happen here?" I went into the nursery and looked at the placement of the crib near the windows. I shoved the crib up hard against the wall so that there was no room between the two, then made sure the drapery cords were out of reach.

After that, every tragic news article gave me pause. I asked myself, "Could that happen to us?" Most of the time, I was glad to realize, it wasn't likely. Much of the time, the parents had been more careless than I was, had done something that I could point a finger at as a cause, or at least a contributing factor. Sometimes, these true stories opened my eyes to the need for new rules and precautionary measures that I hadn't thought of before. Sometimes, though, things happened that I realized could happen to anyone. Even me, with all my rules.

But it seems to hold true that being careful reduces the risk of a tragedy. Accidents are caused, after all, by mistakes or contributing factors. Common sense and good rules to live by can avert not all but many a tragedy.

Reading about toddlers run over by someone in their own driveway, for example, has made me very careful about getting my children into the house. It seems like we lose a child a week this way in our community, so I have lots of rules--children are first before groceries, and I hold their hands and make sure they get into the house. Then I keep them in the house, especially if someone is coming or going. Other people's tragedies have made me careful turning into the driveway. I only let small children play only in the back yard. We hold hands when we cross streets. Two-year-olds and one-year-olds are never outside even for a minute without me there to watch them. Stuff like that.

Yes, I know, it can be a pain to have to haul all of your kids--or a finally-asleep child--into every place you stop, but I never leave a child in the car. I am sometimes tempted, but then my mind fills with all the things that could happen, and I grit my teeth and do what I should. Proper parenting IS work--what else did I expect?

I won't say nothing could happen to me. News stories still haunt me. I have seven children to worry about now, and most all the things that could happen to them still occur to me. I view things like a knife left on a cutting board overhanging the counter top or a plastic bag left on the floor in a new light. I still involuntarily play the "Can it happen here?" game when I read the newspaper. Maybe I'm deluding myself, but it seems that being careful with your kids has got to reduce the chances of something happening to them. I realize this could be taken too far, and the child could be overprotected. It's a fine line. But a wise parent conscientiously walks it.

Of course, the flip side is learning to reverse this process as your children grow up. When my oldest son recently asked me if he should go sky-diving, I developed a new skill--talking while biting my tongue. I said, "You have to weigh the risks and make your own decision about whether they are worth it." He's a full-grown adult--years past majority.

Because of the rules I live by, sometimes the things I read about really never would happen to us in the same way--I would never be driving around with all of my children unbuckled, for instance, or with all of them down to the toddlers in the car at 1:00 a.m. I just know I would never let a fifteen-year-old daughter go alone to a concert halfway across the state with one friend her same age. I would never leave a two-year-old and a one-year-old playing outside together while I napped.

I actually get angry when parents waste a child by not only being careless but actually putting her or him in danger's way. They almost always say in the news story following the tragedy that flying, or bull-riding, or car racing "was their life." No, it was their death. A child under ten is too young to have had "a life."

I don't mean to pass judgment, just to use some. It's a necessary survival tactic, right? We use it to distinguish between things we should and shouldn't do--to make the rules we live by. The only sense I can make of a tragedy is to learn from it. To try to keep it from being repeated. What else can we do?

Control of Journey, if not Destination?

Not long ago, I taught myself to drive. Yes, I've been driving automatics for a couple of decades. THIS was a stick shift.

I know, I know--I should have learned this years ago, when I was young. But, well, I didn't. And I know I'm not alone. My family didn't have a stick shift at that time, and my high school class didn't cover it. I figured it was a non-issue. If I had made it past my dad and first husband without having to learn to drive a stick shift, why would I ever have to? I'm old enough to make my own decisions, buy my own cars, etc. And I would never BUY a stick shift. Case closed.

That's what I thought, until I was expecting my last baby. He wasn't going to fit in my husband's car along with the children we already had. My husband is the one who takes the kids to school. So, the obvious solution was to buy a new car--an automatic that I could drive to work. Hubby could take the van.

The only problem with making plans is. . .they don't work out. One day, while in the shower--where I do my best thinking, it dawned on me that we were not going to be able to buy a car that year. Not even a used one. The next thought was the killer. I was going to have to let my husband drive the van, so I was going to have to learn to drive his stick shift. Ouch.

Men, don't read this paragraph. Women: name one of the worst things you've ever been through. I have no doubt every one of you came up with having your dad/husband/big brother/grandpa/driver's ed teacher (pick one) sit next to you telling you how to drive. Well, I was for sure too old for that. I might have to learn to drive a stick, but I wasn't going to be bossed. Getting this past my husband wasn't too hard. Someone had to tend the kids while I practiced.

"We'll put them in the back seat while I teach you," he protested.

"Only three will fit," I reminded him.

I did ask him to keep his cell phone on. Which came in handy the time I called and slobbered into the phone for fifteen minutes that I did NOT want to do this. Just in case he'd missed that. Fortunately, my husband had more faith in my ability to learn this than I did. And more patience.

For the first step, I reviewed in my mind what I already knew about the clutch and gears and asked a few questions. Then, I pretended to be shifting gears as I drove my van. Every time I stopped. What a pain. "Why would anyone go back to using a wringer washing machine?" I asked my husband. "Our technology is beyond this."

"You have more control with a stick shift," he said, wisely. I soon found, to my great irritation, that everyone said that. Control of what? Not my emotions. I'd never lacked control of a car I was driving. In the absence of black ice, that is.

Then, I sat in his car in the driveway and got familiar with the pedals, switches, and gears. That was enough for the first session--I had to do Lamaze breathing to keep from panicking even though I didn't turn the car on. I'd tried, but it didn't work. I'd been out there about ten minutes when I amused my husband by calling on the cell phone to ask him, "How do you turn the car on?" He told me the clutch had to be all the way down. The clutch. Of course. The mysterious clutch.

The next time, I backed out of the driveway and made it all the way to the middle of the street before I had to be rescued. A few days later, I was driving through the church parking lot and the one across the street. I became an expert on first to second. I wasn't going fast enough to deal with third yet.

A sympathetic friend drove me to work for three or four weeks. She had no intention of ever learning to drive a stick shift, either, and could understand. Finally, though, I had to bite the bullet. It occurred to me that stopping and starting for 16 lights on the way to work wasn't that much more than a good practice. It's only 15 minutes of hell, I told myself. That became a good chant to get me through it. Sports experts tell you to pick a mantra.

I killed the engine only five times on that first run to work, and ground the gears once. Pretty good, I thought. I needed a shower and it took my hands a half hour to stop trembling, but I'd done it.

The first month, I had a lot of tricky moments. My main goal was to hit the lights green, so, to time that right, I was often either doing 90 or 5 mph. I stalled on the big hill on the way home from work a few times. People would pass me; some would honk. I knew that they were looking in the window at me, wondering why a woman my age couldn't drive her car. I was old enough to be the mother of some of them. I know, I know, I thought, but I'm just learning. Give me a break.

I also learned an important life lesson. You never know what's going to happen until you get there. You could be heading for a red light sure as anything, and it could change in the nick of time. So there is no point in panicking about what might happen. It also might not.

I still prefer to drive an automatic, but I did what I had to do. I did it! And learning a new life skill in your forties is something to be proud of. It gives you more control.

Comeback Wit Disorder

I have a problem. All my life, I have suffered from not-quick-enough-comeback wit. See? I can't even coin a decent phrase for it off the top of my head.

You know how when someone says something unexpected--especially if it's offensive--you just cannot think of the right comeback? Until you're driving away, or at 2:00 in the morning. Then, when it's too late, I am a genius.

The other day, I went into a gas station to put a few dollars of gas into the tank so I could make it to a doctor's appointment without getting stranded. I knew my husband would fill up the tank at our favorite cheap place later in the day. I would have gotten a few bucks' worth, but the cashier attacked me as she saw me approach. "Is that a personal check?" You would think I had had it personalized with pictures of cooties. "We don't take personal checks," she smirked.

"Then give me two dollars' worth of gas," I said, laying a $20 on the counter.

"You have a nice DAY!" she screamed at me. (Apparently, she has the same disorder.)

I remained silent.

"You have a nice DAY," she said again, slamming the cash register door and throwing my change onto the counter. And again as I turned away, "You have a nice day!"

Long story short, we've got to get a better gas-trip schedule. I found myself in the same position a week later--needing to get a bit of gas in order to make it home from work. I stopped at the corner market next to my office. The cashier said, "You just gave me a check for ten dollars," as though that was the most foolish thing anyone had ever done.

My mind whirled. Yes, he was standing behind the counter at a store that sells gasoline. Yes, he should be representing that store and thereby authorized to take my check and provide gas in return.

"I can't read your mind," he continued.

"Oh," I said. "Sorry. It's for gas."

Enough gas stories. Recently, at the gym, a woman I'd just met told me as I dried my hair that she had gotten "smart" and figured out to wash her hair the night before. Then, in the morning, she could just put on a shower cap and not have to bother washing her hair at the gym before work.

"I get too sweaty," I said.

"I guess I just don't sweat much," she said, glibly. Two slams ought to have been enough to get my brain into gear, but, as usual, the moment passed before I thought of the right thing to say.

So, to the first cashier--"I'm certainly not going to let you ruin it."

To the second cashier--"The check did say, 'Gas' on the 'For' line."

To the girl at the gym, "You would if you burned 900 calories."

There. I feel much better.

Whew. I need better writers.

Cooking Is Love

This time, it started when my husband pulled sausage patties out of the freezer. Okay. Fry up a little sausage, scramble some eggs. That's not too bad. Twelve minutes, right? I went to read the Sunday paper, then took a shower.

An hour later, the remains of two dozen oranges were in the sink. Juice glasses had been located from some archived cupboard, rinsed, and set on the table. Peppers, ham, and onions had been diced and sauteed and were awaiting their next assignment. The sausage patties were keeping up their tans in the oven. No egg had yet been cracked. My husband was busy--focused. He's a great cook, but sometimes I want him for something else.

Nevertheless, it is sick and wrong to be mad at a husband for cooking too much. I know that. I haven't checked with Miss Manners, but it is probably also rude. So, I tried a light touch. "You just want to make sure we have one good meal this week, right?" I asked. I could say this because he was catching a plane, right after church, for a week-long business trip.

I was also poking fun at my own cooking, which never seemed necessary until I found out why he turned up his nose at my white-rice-and-meat-sauce-made-with-canned-soup dinners.

Paul knows every herb and all their family members. He tosses cinnamon into Mexican food and adorns perfectly good casseroles with things with shells and legs. And all one-hundred-percent correctly. When Paul says, "Dinner's ready--I just have to do vegetables," it does NOT mean we will be eating in five minutes. Paul cooks vegetables I never realized weren't weeds. There has to be at least one cruciferous and one deeply-colored at every meal. If we're eating frozen peas or beans, you can be sure they were just an afterthought, added because it seemed something green was still needed.

And no vegetable comes without a sauce, complement, seasoning, or twist. Or combination of the above. No meat is ever just browned with salt and pepper. No pan is left behind. Every meal has several dishes. Every dish has several ingredients. Every ingredient has been through several processes. Kits, cats, sacks, and wives--how long until we eat?

Many meals are served after the children are weeping or sleeping. When one of my birthday dinners was ready, Paul had to come into the bedroom and wake me up for it. He seldom repeats a meal unless I specifically mention I like it. The man hungers for variety. If he cooked chicken using seven steps and ten ingredients, he will be sure to use eight different steps and twelve new ingredients next time. Frequently, I beg him: let's do something simple. He nods, then proceeds with pumpkin soup with chilled, marinated, seasoned pears, anyway. And that's just the appetizer.

I can tell that the food he cooks tastes better than most food. He can chop spinach so small we don't recognize it in the creamy bacon-flavored dish he serves. Frankly, though, I don't fret when the butter didn't brown exactly right. Paul's taste buds, I believe, have their own little taste buds.

To be fair, I benefit. When I wanted to try a diet that forbade most of the things I commonly ate--such as potatoes, corn, carrots, and sugar, Paul found five hundred ways to cook the items left ON the list to cut down on the boredom. I like chocolate? My birthday cake is made with the most expensive, richest chocolate available, and not from any store I ever heard of. I like pepper? Pepper steak with the biggest chunks of pepper and salt I ever saw, like pepper and salt ore. My mom makes the world's best pies? He learns to replicate her crust. Whole grains are better for us? Soon, he is making our own more nutritious pasta.

So I made my little, rather clever comment, and he turned to me. His half-smile meant I wasn't exactly right, and he actually had been aware of my presence in the house the whole time. Then I got it. What he had carried out--and always extends as far as he can--his cooking--is his supreme act of love.