"But What Will I Suck On?"

Yesterday, I attended the funeral of the mother of some friends. In sympathy with them, I was naturally reminded of attending the funeral of my own mother one January (perhaps partly due to the heavy snowfall). As I contemplated the thoughts and feelings of the deceased's family--including multitudinous grandchildren, as they dealt with something very hard, it brought back memories.

One specific memory is of having to talk to my then three-year-old daughter about giving up her pacifier. It was just time. Way past time. She had given up every other baby item and learned to go potty. The binkie was her last infant hold-out. Not only did she have a little brother, but a little sister was on the way. Having to track the binkies for three children did not seem prudent.

I talked to her about the reasons she should give it up: that she really didn't need it anymore--she was a big girl; that it could possibly misshape her teeth or mouth; that it was likely one reason she kept getting sick. She is an intelligent, compliant, and feeling girl. She listened quietly.

I told her that I knew it was a hard thing that I was asking her to do, but that I knew she could do it. This part of the conversation took the longest. I pointed out that her older brothers and we, her parents, did not use binkies, and she could learn to do without one, too. I reassured her that she would soon forget all about it, that she could adjust to no longer having it.

Then, for lack of a better example, I stated that I missed my mother, who had recently died, but that I had to adjust to doing without her. Lame, I know. But somehow, it seemed parallel at the time.

I again reassured her that she would be fine--that if she could get through one night without her binkie, she would not need it anymore.

I encouraged her to try.

Strangely, though, I do think it was the example I gave of my mother's death that really gave her the resolve. I saw it happen in her eyes: if I could do without my Mama, maybe she should try to do without her binkie.

She agreed to try to go to sleep without her beloved red, yellow, and blue binkie.

I kissed her and thanked her and reassured her all over again.

As I was closing the door to her bedroom, her sweet little voice filled the mostly-dark room. "But what will I suck on?"

Her father and I smiled and suppressed giggles. Truthfully, I had to tell her, "Nothing. You will learn to not have anything to suck on. You can do it--you're not a baby anymore. You will get used to it, I promise."

Then, as her bedroom door clicked shut, my heart broke all over again.

Was I asking too much of her, this beautiful little girl normally full of sunshine, but who had also just lost her grandmother? Was it mean of me to use my own grief to guilt her into taking this step?

I find these moments in motherhood most poignant and most difficult. Part of me wants to protect my child from the trials that help them grow up. And part of me--a smaller part of me, perhaps--knows that they need the growth.

And so then I second-guess myself for a long time to come, and as my children grow into new stages and leave younger stages behind, I feel both relief and sorrow. At the same time I ache to keep them small, I know that, to be healthy, they must learn to fly. A little part of me looks forward to the freedom that this will give me.

Yet, I miss the small girl with the large question, even as I enjoy the older version of her who is so helpful.

Which reminds me how every moment is priceless and unique. And fleeting. And, no matter how many ways technology gives us to record them, they fly away, never to return.

Like my small daughter, who did get through that first night and did not ever need her binkie again, we have to adjust and get used to the new reality that replaces them--that new reality that both breaks and molds us at the same time.

Mystery Pants

This morning, I pulled a pair of workout pants out of my freshly-laundered stack of workout clothes and put them on.

They didn't seem familiar. At all.

I have two similar pairs, which I purchased together a few months ago. One is plain black and the other is plain black with little zippers in the bottom sides of the legs. I looked through the stack and located the plain black ones. So I wasn't wearing them. The ones I had on did not have zippers. I checked. Three times.

So where did these come from? My mind raced.

I'm fanatical about my laundry. I start it religiously every Thursday evening as soon as I get home. I have all my kids' clothes (and mine) in rotation, and, as soon as anything stops working--gets too small or ruined--it goes out of rotation. I know very well what clothing all members of my family have right now. I knew my older daughter did not have pants like this, because I've watched her supply of pants dwindle down as she's grown this year to only jeans plus one pair of nice black slacks.

And those were hanging on my shower door to dry. These were not nice black slacks. More like leggings.

My younger daughter is eight years old and skinny as a rail. Some of her clothes are still size 6X.

I have not brought any old clothes like this from the past into my rotation.

I have not gone shopping for workout clothes recently.

Did I pick them up at the gym somehow?

The idea of picking up someone else's workout clothes at the gym seemed remote. I mean, there are a lot of other pants around, but people are wearing them! That I could accidentally pick up some pants someone was not wearing seemed really odd. The only opportunity for that seems like it would be when I gather up my own clothes and stuff them into my gym bag after my shower.

But whenever I enter the shower, I always look at the floor where I lay my stuff, because, more likely than not, there will be a big hair clump or something I'll want to avoid. (I wish my gym would hire a different janitor.) That I wouldn't notice a pair of black pants sitting there on the floor seemed really remote. Like, impossible.

Could someone at the gym have accidentally stuffed them in my bag while I was drying my hair?

I asked my husband if he knew anything. He said he did not. "You bought them and forgot," he offered. As I am not suffering from Alzheimer's, I rejected that option completely. I asked my daughter, and she denied borrowing anything like the pants I had on. She said she could not imagine how I had obtained them, either.

The pants seemed a little tight but not too bad. I just really did not think I had ever worn them before. And I just could not figure out how they got into my laundry at home.

It is April Fool's Day, but, still!

I located my husband alone in the library. "You had another woman in the house," I said to him, "and she left her leggings here in her hurry to leave."

He laughed out loud. Loudly! And long.

That was somewhat reassuring, but, still, the pants remained a mystery.

I went back to folding clothes until it was time for me to leave for the gym.

Then, I went into the bathroom to check the pants label. "Green Soda," it said, which heightened the suspense. I pulled the other tag straight so I could read it. "Size 7/8."

They were my baby girl's pants!

I took them off and carefully folded them and put them in her pile, hoping she wouldn't notice how stretched out they were.

I guess the good news is that I could fit into her pants, even for a minute.

And may all April Fool's jokes played on me be played by myself!

It's Not Me, It's Everyone Else

I spent most of yesterday in the emergency room. I was not sure I belonged there. As it turned out, I didn't. It seemed that other people had the same angst.

Within the ER, the rooms were all full. I was told I would "start" out in the hall. (Seven hours later, I was still in the hall.) I was okay with that as long as they didn't make me strip and put on the gown lying there on the stretcher.

I busied myself with my newspaper and Sudoku puzzles.

From time to time, a woman came out of a room next to me and slid a curtain between me and her door out of the way to stare at me, then snapped it back in place. She was somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five, pretty, and sad. Hospital personnel could be heard telling her to go back into her room. Apparently, she wanted the hall. I would have gladly traded her. But then they might have stopped referring to me as "the dissection" and put me in the psych ward.

One time when she was wandering and someone told her to go back to her room, she asked, "So, am I just supposed to f-ing sit there and f-ing worry?"

"Yes."

After a while, the woman started lobbying on her excursions out to use the phone. "I should get to make at least one phone call," she asserted. "It's inhumane what you're doing to me."

"This is the ER," she was told.

When that didn't work, she tried, "I really have to find out what happened to my son."

"I have to ask your nurse," one guy told her, three times. The last time, he added, "If he says it's okay, then I'm all for it. I'm looking for your nurse right now."

"Do I have one?"

"Yes. His name's Russell." He walked off again.

Another man walked down the hall past her door. "Are you Russell?" she asked.

"No, I'm not."

After a few not-Russells came by, she got to make her phone call.

Unfortunately, the phone was right behind my head.

First, she called her mother. I wasn't trying to listen, but she was standing right over me. "I hate my sister," she announced, first off. "Do you know what she DID to me?" Then, "Fine, don't *#$@! believe me." A torrent of thirty more of these bad words followed, then she was on to the next call.

"Hi, Christina, I want to thank you for what you did to me," she said in a soft voice. Then, slightly more insistently, "I want to thank you for what you *#$@! did to me. I *#$@! appreciate it! You're out of my *#$@! life. Don't *#$@! call me again. *#$@! ever!"

I had to wonder what it would be like to receive that phone call.

Third call: "Jordan? When I get *#$@! home, you'd better be *#$@! out of my house! You *#$@! went too *#$@! far this time."

(Not one word about any son.)

Having triumphantly rid herself of everyone closest to her, she not only went into her room, but slammed her door. That showed all of them and us, too, I guess.

I only hoped she wouldn't make any more phone calls. I started asking every male who passed by if he were Russell so I could place that request. Just kidding.

It was clear to me and the hospital staff--and her family and boyfriend--that this woman was not in her right mind, either from something she took or just because. But I think she thought she was doing fine.

It made me reflect on how little we can see ourselves as others see us. God made us so that we cannot see our own faces without outside assistance. We can see our hands and most other body parts, but we cannot see our own faces. I remember being quite struck by this fact as a small child. Then, relying on mirrors, I forgot about how weird I thought that was. Maybe it's to help keep us humble. Maybe it's so we'll have to learn to rely on others to help us get an accurate picture of ourselves.

I'm sure her family and friends were trying to help this woman. I hope when she comes down (or up), she will be able to see that, and get a glimpse of her true self.

I hope I can, too.

Suicide by Gym-Goer

At my gym, there is a mallard duck that sits in the parking lot. He doesn't move when a car drives toward him. He just sits there. You get closer, closer, closer. He doesn't even look at you. And, of course, all the cars carefully edging closer to him WITHOUT hitting him have taught him he's in no danger. I can't tell what about the parking lot is attractive to him. It's. . .a parking lot. There's a pond right across the street. But, no. Yesterday, I didn't see him as I pulled into the lot in the dark, until I got out of the car. He had taken up residence in the parking slot next to me. With a little less luck, I would have had duck a la king on my tires. He didn't care. He's either too dumb to realize that a car can hurt him, or he doesn't care. The day before, he'd parked his heiny behind my car, so I'd backed up v-e-r-y slowly until I was sure I could go no further without flattening him--which was not very far, then went forward through the other parking slots (good thing no one was parked there). I'd like to teach him a lesson, but, unfortunately, that's a lesson a duck can only learn once. And, while I'm not an animal lover, I don't want to hurt any. I can only hope he never parks himself RIGHT behind my tire. I now understand the term "dumb duck." Also "dead duck." What is it about the parking lot, I wonder? Is he excited by the cars? Is he hoping to meet the right car sometime and hop into it and take off? Maybe he hates the cars and is waiting for an opportunity to leave a bomb on them. Is concrete nicer to sit on than grass? Maybe he was hatched in a parking lot and a car imprinted on his brain as his mother. Maybe he's trying to find her. Is he trying to be a hot-shot? Maybe he wants to work out? Last year, he usually had a girlfriend or two with him, but I can see they've given up on him now. So my guess is he's either psychotic or depressed. Maybe he was at the bottom of the pecking order at the pond and has nothing to lose. Maybe he really hopes someone will end it all for him. Unless his luck holds out, it could happen any time. I just hope I'm not the one who has to do it.

LOL Haters

Last week or so ago, there was an article in the newspaper about LOL haters, thus introducing me to a segment of the population of whom I had never before been aware.

I mean, I know different people have from time to time a word or a phrase that just doesn't sit well with them. There used to be a guy who regularly addressed his opinion that we should not say we're "grateful" in prayers because we should just directly thank the person to whom we are grateful, since we're already talking to Him. He had a point, actually.

Twenty years or so ago, my husband says he used the then-popular term "No doubt!" so much that his school-teacher sister put the kabosh on it. I am taking his word on this as I have not heard it much from him. No doubt!

So, I was not surprised to read that there are people who hate "LOL," but I was surprised to read about the venom with which some hate it. And, more so, the seriousness with which people take it.

"I make it a point to never type 'LOL' unless I am actually laughing out loud," one person was quoted as saying. Really? Does s/he never say, "Sure" in response to someone unless they know what they said was true for absolute fact? Do they never say "Okay" to acknowledge they heard someone unless they absolutely agree with what was said? It's hard to understand such angst about a tiny little one-syllable blip.

I would not call myself a "LOL lover," but, as a term, it has its place.

It can mean anything from a slight smile to "Yes, I heard you," "That was funny," "I see your point," "I like that," to "Hilarious!" It's a quick way to acknowledge, approve of, respond, reply. It's useful. And, like it or hate it, as other terminology before it, it seems to be here to stay.

Time's Up!

Last time I was asked to serve in the church in a new calling I wasn't especially thrilled to have, the sacrament song that day was, "Thy Will Be Done."

"Okay," I thought. "I probably had that coming." I mean, if the Savior could step down from being the Creator to take on a humble earth life for a while--a life that would include outright torture by the end of it--I guess I could give up the calling where I feel I'm doing something important in order to play the piano again.

But it smarts. It seems to me that anyone can play the piano in meetings. All the children in the ward have been growing up with piano lessons for decades. Why can't someone younger do it? Someone for whom it would be a challenge? Maybe even exciting?

We usually get attached to our church callings. When I was the chorister, I didn't want to stop to be a Primary teacher. When I was a Primary teacher, I didn't want to stop to do something else.

Sometimes, we wonder if our efforts have been recognized and appreciated. Sometimes, the less faithful among us wonder if the calling was really as inspired as it was supposed to be. A bishop actually said to me once when calling me to head up an organization that he had not prayed about it--I was just the obvious person.

That's really hard to take when you don't know if you can do the job. At least, you want to feel like it's part of some grand design and all the "guarantees" will apply to you. You know what guarantees I'm talking about--that God won't give you more than you can handle, that there is a reason for you to be in that particular position at that particular time so that something wonderful can occur that you and your grandchildren can talk about in testimony meeting for years to come.

At the very least, you hope something good will come of what you are being asked to do. You hope all the work you did in your last calling won't be destroyed by your successor. You hope you can find something meaningful in the next task, even a completely mindless one like banging out "As Sisters in Zion" every single week for the rest of your life.

It's also hard to take when you don't want the job. I mean, if the calling isn't inspired, isn't meant to be, doesn't place you where God wants you--then doesn't that kind of mean that your bishop is just a neighbor asking you to do something? Shouldn't that give you the option to accept or decline as suits you? You say yes because you put your trust in the mechanism that says that you're a cog in the machine that is the body of Christ, and, no matter how lowly your position, it is an honor just to be there, serving in "some lowly place in earth's harvest field," as the hymn says.

You don't want to start hoping you'll get called to some stake calling just to get out of the current one.

So we need to believe that saying yes is right, because of course the people with the idea to fit you there in the structure had some kind of spiritual manifestation.

I've also heard that a lot of people say no, just because they don't want to or don't feel equal to it. That makes me wonder--what are they saying? Do they then feel that the calling must not be inspired? That the bishop is just a neighbor? Or do they just not care whether they foil the "grand design"? Do they not believe the scripture that it's an honor to serve anywhere in the church?

I guess my take on this is that, in the right spirit, we can seek our own confirmation that the calling is appropriate. Maybe we're not being asked to grow ourselves this time around, but to foster the growth of someone else. Maybe we'll grow or be helped or be needed in ways we cannot anticipate.

Maybe there's not any big, grand SUPPOSED TO out there, other than just following through with what we're asked to do. Maybe we can find it in ourselves to follow through and just wait and see what happens next. And then we'll get it.

Having your calling interrupted abruptly also brings to mind these truths: that we are not in charge of everything in our own lives, and that we do not always get to say when enough is enough. I know stories of people who found out quite suddenly that the were simply out of time in their whole life--not just their favorite calling. "Really? It's just over--like that?" can apply to anything from losing a job to your house burning down to your parent/child/spouse/sibling dying to hearing "You're not my mom anymore" to finding yourself on the other side of the veil with no power any longer to change anything left unfinished to our satisfaction.

Are we going to be ready for that?

Parallel Play

Presidents' Day is over, and the gym is no longer packed with pretenders. I have mixed feelings about this. I wish--for their own sake--more people would stick with exercising. At the same time, I am glad to not have to get up at 3:30 in order to get my favorite machine.

The fitness center is the place where grown-ups can engage, like infants and toddlers, in parallel play, where we play next to, not with, each other. We may watch, entertain, and learn from each other, often doing the exact same thing, but, generally, we aren't interacting. For the most part, we're all in our own heads.

Yes, now we're back to the regulars. There's the woman who used to compete with me for the same machine, after exercising nicely across the aisle from me for three months solid. However, she has moved on to a machine down the way a bit. Now we smile and wave at each other. We have this two-year history with each other where we both work out on ellipticals at the ungodly hour of four and do about 70 minutes each, yet we don't know each other's names. She looks great.

Her husband is there, too. He reminds me of an Italian boyfriend I once had, only he's shorter. I got the idea one day that he's secretly abusive to her, but I hope that's not true. I don't know if I thought that because he comes up to get kisses from her all the time, or if it's because I caught him looking at me a couple of times, or if it's because when he comes up to her machine, she is done. Anyway, it's none of my business, at this point.

There's the guy who wears the same outfit every day, day in and day out, week in and week out. I just hope he's not really sweating in it.

There's the girl who looks like an old photograph negative--long, bleached white hair against dark skin who is always checking herself out in the mirrors in the dressing room, looking in them over her shoulder down to her calves, while telling her boyfriend via cell phone, "I've gotten so big, babe."

There's the squarish-shaped man with the extremely tight calves who sticks to the bar and desperately tries to engage anyone who gets near him in conversation.

There's the skeleton girl. It's bad enough to see an anorexic pounding it out on a treadmill--I always want to say, "Go have a shake or something"--but now that I'm seeing her in the locker room, I can barely look at her. Her skin is stretched so tightly across her ribs that it is ridged, making her look like she has even more ribs.

There's the tall black man who is very nice but always coughs as he works out.

There's the girl who brings her whole bathroom from home with her--plush burgundy bath sheets, a bathrobe, her makeup case, several brushes, a hair dryer, a hair styler, flip flops, and heaven only knows what else. I bring the bare minimum, and my gym bag is heavy enough. When she uses my shower, I end up stepping in after she leaves to turn off the water she has left running.

There's the guy who swings his head back and forth and sways to the music he's listening to. It looks like he's doing a dance instead of working out.

There are the two women in their late fifties who chat incessantly--on the bikes and in the locker room--about vacations, healthy cereals, what's going on in their neighborhood, whatever. I don't know if they really get much exercise, but it's nice to get caught up on Desperate Housewives without ever having to watch the show.

There's the man who is at least 99 and wears the kind of very short shorts popular in the 1980's, who always sets the treadmill too high for himself and hangs on to the machine for dear life, while his feet slip right off the sides of the treadmill! I am just sure he is going to fall off sometime and I'll have to break up my routine to rescue him. This sounds cruel, but I am always as mentally busy as physically busy, tracking my time and percentage done, and estimating the time of my finish. I write this data down in my notebook daily and don't want to lose it. Plus, I make it a point to never do anything dangerous so that someone else will be called upon to save me.

There's the very fit Barbie's kid sister who is unfailingly there, using various cardio machines and weights. Just like Kelly, she has a long ponytail right on the top of her head. I've never asked her if it grows when pulled.

There's the guy whose hair is as wild as mine--only shorter, who reminds me of a grizzly bear.

There's the woman who NEVER wears a shirt. (Yes, wearing a shirt is a rule posted on the wall.) She's very tall and fit, so she doesn't look bad in her sports bra, but she gets very sweaty as she works out and is usually right next to me. She reminds me of a foaming horse, actually.

There's the slight, older woman who walks every day. Fast. She is amazing. I don't like to be next to her, though, because she is full of surprises and distracts me. Suddenly, her foot is up on the arm of the machine, or she's walking backward. Or singing.

There's the tall, good-looking man who always comes up and says hello to me, then disappears into thin air.

There's the woman who had a baby a while ago, who, as hard as she works out, never seems to lose the love handles on her back, like me. She works out hard, too!

There's the man who can hardly walk, clearly due to some physical ailment, but it always there, every day, on the bike and slowly doing what weights he can.

And then there's me. I'm the middle-aged lady who looks like she just rolled out of bed without combing her hair. (I did.) I do, however, brush my teeth before I head to the gym. I know how unpleasant it is to be stuck next to someone whose oral bacteria are still dancing with garlic molecules from last night's dinner. I'm the one who has a favorite machine and a favorite shower, and will hang my coat on my machine to save it while I go to the locker room. However, if someone's already on it or in my shower, I'm nice about it. And I do clorox-wipe my machine before and after I use it. In other words, I want to do what I want to do, but I try not to offend or bother anyone else while getting it.

By the time I finish my workout, the gym is full. But I am streaming sweat and not paying attention to anyone. And I'm certainly hoping they're not paying attention to me.