The Wife Knows

The wife knows things that others don't know. Marriage is often one of those things that looks "green" from far away, but when you're the one standing on the field, you get the dirt between that green grass in your toes.

For example, on my anniversary this week, my husband swirled into my office with a red rose in a vase and a very nice card, kissed me quickly, accepted my impromptu proposal (it was all I could think of to say), and left again.

Four women in the cubicals surrounding mine rushed over and asked me to have my husband talk to their husbands, to teach them a thing or two.

I love my husband. He's great.

But here's the truth. What other women see is the rose and the card and the kiss and the whirlwind surprise.

What amuses me is that at the time they were seeing all that great stuff, I was looking at the clock, which was telling me that my husband only had seven minutes in which to get our baby delivered to day care and make it to work. He was going to be late again.

I remember when I was divorced, there was a time when I made two wonderful new friends, who seemed to be wonderfully happy in wonderful marriages. One of them had two little girls (I had none) with perfect bows on the sides of their heads. I'm pretty sure her house had a white picket fence and everything.

I had been looking for a happy marriage, little girls with bows on their heads, and that whole picket fence thing for several years.

A year later, I was getting married, and both of them were getting divorced. (One of them told me that her husband had declared when she'd started to stand up for herself, "We can't BOTH be selfish!") You just never know what goes on inside a marriage unless you're in it.

So, I'll happily take my rose-and-card-and-kiss whirlwind and just smile to myself when other women gush that they think my husband is perfect.

They don't know he's late, but they also didn't get the hug when I came in the front door sobbing last month. They don't get to share knowing smiles and laugh with him over the cute things our kids say. They didn't hear the things he whispered to me last weekend. He accepts me as I am and honors the best parts of me. I don't think it gets better than that.

Ani l'dodi v'dodi li.

Fish Stick Spaghetti, Anyone?

So, I told my husband that our youngest child had refused to come to dinner because, "Daddy doesn't cook the food I like anymore."

He asked for suggestions. This child professes his favorite food to be fish sticks, but, of course, Paul doesn't make those. I suggested pasta.

Paul's solution? The next day, we had pasta with salmon and asparagus sauce.

My solution to Paul's solution? I told the baby that it was "Spaghetti with Fish Stick Sauce."

He was happy. Sometimes I wonder if Paul remembers for whom it is that he cooks. To be fair, the salmon had been in the freezer since my mother-in-law's last visit, months ago, and needed to be used up.

One time, this same baby said from his high chair, "I hate my dinner." I had looked over at his meal--baked fish with grapefruit on it and marinated asparagus, and had to agree that no three-year-old wouldn't.

But, this time, he actually finished his spaghetti with fish stick sauce before I had encouraged him to. Even once. And, he asked for seconds. He didn't actually EAT the seconds, but he asked for it.

Most of my other children did not fare as well. The two oldest made forts of salmon chunks along the edges of their plates.

"You'd pay a lot of money to eat this in a restaurant," I told them. Which is true. Paul could cook for the best restaurants if he weren't busy cooking for me.

They looked at me like, "No, YOU'D pay a fortune. And we still wouldn't eat it."

I also told them that it was wild salmon, caught by some family member or other in Alaska.

I don't think they really cared. Contemplating his pile of salmon and heap of salmonless pasta and sauce, the boy actually shed tears.

Another child dawdled throughout his meal, and, between bathroom breaks, downed the minimum daily requirement of food to stay alive. As usual.

My middle child--the slimmest and smallest for her age out of all of them, devoured her dinner and ATE her seconds.

I ate my portion to set a good example. For fishy pasta, it was delicious.

I am not a vegetarian, but I prefer my meat to be very neat and tidy and not attached to anything that reminds me it used to be an animal. Please, no feathers, scales, or eyes.

A home-cooked meal is the equivalent of a handmade gift, and I know the proper response to Paul's cooking is always gratitude. For high-maintenance wives like me, though, knowing and feeling are not always the same thing.

The other night, I lifted up the crock pot lid and twenty-four pork ribs were staring at me with a ton of meat sliding down them toward the inch of melted fat in the bottom. I realize that many people would go hog-wild over this and down them in no time, but ribs aren't really my thing. I was tempted just to carefully replace the lid and slide the whole thing into the refrigerator.

However, I got out some heavy-duty weapons and armor, and went at the beast in the pot with all the courage I could muster, placing little bits of meat on each of the plates around the table. My pickiest eater apparently told his dad it was the "best meal" he'd ever had, so I have much to learn.

I remember on my first birthday with Paul in my life, he spent the day cooking paella, his most gourmet dish ever. It simmered and bubbled in his biggest pan all day. I really was touched and excited.

Until he lifted the lid.

Paul's ideas of fine cooking include cooking dishes the right way--the way a famous and snooty food critic would expect them to be prepared in order to give five stars, or an A plus plus plus plus or whatever famous and snooty food critics give.

My ideas of good food are more along the lines of it being--along with the above-mentioned unrecognizable as animal parts--just plain good. I want to taste the meat, the cheese, the grains, and not just the spices covering them up.

My paella was covered--COVERED!--with tiny animals with legs and antennae and all possible and imaginable body parts still on every single of the dozens of creatures RIGHT THERE ON THE FOOD!

I was so shocked that anyone would want food covered in tiny animals like that (level one), that Paul would know where to acquire such a menagerie (level two), would spend actual money on them (level three), and that he would think it appropriate to place it on my food (level four), let alone my birthday dinner (level five) that I know I did a horrible job of hiding my surprise and dismay. I probably said twenty-four inappropriate things and made him feel terrible. The learning curve for me to appreciate what he had done for me was so steep it was like a wall in front of my face, and I couldn't clear it. As I recall, he removed the animals and served me my rice, and I ate it.

I'm lucky he went ahead and married me.

And I'm doubly lucky that he will still cook for me.

Ready for Valentine's?

There were no crowds at the gym this January. I even got up an hour early so that I could be sure to park and find a machine to work out on. Considering that I already basically live on Eastern time, that was pretty early. I smugly did my workout, just sure that by the time I left, crowds of people in their new Christmas sweats would be swarming all around me, desperate for exercise.

I was wrong.

Which was good, because I could stop getting up at 3:30, but also bad, because where were the exercisers? As annoying as a crowded gym is, it is gratifying to see people--at least for three weeks of the year--seeing the need for exercise.

Well, to my surprise, it hit this week. Yesterday and today, I had to park so far away from the gym that I didn't really need the gym quite so much by the time I arrived at it on foot.

Really? That many people thought, "I'd better get a good workout in before my hot Valentines' date!"? Like, two workouts is going to solve your problem? Amusing.

I knew that Valentine's Day was not going to be a big deal for us because my husband has to work and we don't have any money.

We made homemade valentines with the children. Our baby decided to decorate all of his with stamps. He confided to me that he had used a stamp saying, "Kiss!" on Daddy's valentine. "He'll have to kiss me when I give him his valentine!" he exulted. Daddy overheard and snickered silently to himself. Later, the baby told me, showing me the back of the heart, "Daddy will have to kiss me AND hug me! Look!" I updated Paul so he wouldn't blow his cue.

The finished valentines went into a basket on the counter. I didn't give it much more thought.

Which was bad. Huge faux pas time, honest.

Last night, I was working fiercely on writing something that seemed urgent at the time when my husband came home. I shared with him what I was doing and, good sport that he is, he listened and advised. I remember he brought up Valentine's Day twice. Once, to say he thought he would slide the kids' valentines under their bedroom doors. "Good idea," I responded. Twice, to ask about the valentines I had made. "Sure, put mine with them, too."

It wasn't until I got to the gym this morning that I realized that I basically told my husband--without meaning to--to go find his own valentine out of the stack while I was too busy to look at him.

Following that grim realization, I found my valentine from him in my gym bag when I went to shower.

Yes, he can be very cute.

So I reversed my position on purchasing a cookie to decorate from the employee's association at work, and bought one for Paul in order to make up for my lack of romantic thought last night. He can find it when he gets home. Kissing and hugging will be optional.

Enjoy!

Over the holidays, I think I pretty much proved my theory that I cannot gain weight if I only eat one small sugary treat a day. . .and that I will if I eat more. But, honestly, I got through the holidays without really any weight gain. Yay! There was some fluctuation, but on January 2, I actually weighed less than I had on Halloween.

I think that finally, after years of effort and frustration, trying what I thought was my best, I have figured out the solution for myself. It involves, yes, eating healthy and daily exercise, but that's to be expected.

I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought that if I could just lose the weight I'd gained from having five babies in middle age, I could then eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and in whatever amount I wanted. I think I was erroneously looking to exercise to void bad eating.

Acceptance of the concept that I actually have to adopt new habits and rules came slowly.

But, one day, in the midst of the holiday season, I heard two people say something about being on a diet, and I realized: I'm not on a diet--I just keep my rules. It was the most freeing thought I think I'd ever had. Because I can eat whatever I want--just not too much of it if it is not good for me.

I mean, if we really like a new shampoo, we don't get right back in the shower and use it again, right? Or go for another walk right after an invigorating walk? Why is it so hard to enjoy a small something and then quit there? Why does a two-cookie snack become a six-cookie snack? Maybe we don't take the time to savor our treat as much as we should--we just wolf it down. Or maybe a bowl full of four scoops of ice cream has become a "normal" serving to us.

Right now, I am fifteen pounds over what I want to be. Fifteen doesn't sound too bad, but imagine trying to hide fifteen packages of butter under your clothes and have them not show! It's no wonder some of my clothes don't fit. Fifteen pounds of butter equals 60 squares.

I overheard someone asking a friend what she could reward herself with if she lost fifteen pounds. Her suggestions were all naughty food, and it got me thinking. Maybe we jump to food as a reward when we could really think of something else we would enjoy just as much. I bet I could think of sixty things I could let myself enjoy as much as food, if I let myself:

A gorgeous sky.

A tall glass of cold water.

A hug from a child.

Chatting with a friend.

A hot shower when I'm cold.

Flowers.

A reunion.

Trying something another way and finding it works.

Seeing my mother's face on a child.

Being on time.

A nap.

A walk.

The feel of cool water when I'm hot.

A good haircut.

An intriguing novel.

Watching a play.

Watching someone you love achieve something they want.

A vivid color.

Writing on a clean sheet of paper.

Making someone laugh.

An organized drawer.

Learning something new.

Counted cross-stitch.

Getting things done early.

Receiving mail that isn't a bill.

A good cry.

A favorite movie.

A long, hot bath.

A holiday.

Snuggling with a loved one.

Learning about an ancestor.

Looking at houses.

Playing a game.

Working a Sudoku.

Spring.

Reading with a child.

Art.

A clean house.

Fresh laundry.

A massage.

Pine trees.

All the bills paid.

A new item of clothing.

Classical music.

A good story.

Going to bed before dusk and watching the room glow at the point of sunset.

A valentine.

A day off work.

Rain.

Exchanging knowing smiles.

A message.

Clockwork.

An anniversary.

Passing off a song.

Using nice dishes.

Soft fabric or blanket.

Pastel colors in an Easter basket.

Time.

Love.

Understanding someone or something.

What's on your list?

May I Hang up Your Coat?

I seem to have a manic decorator in my midst. And I mean "midst" quite literally, as this creative energy is bursting from a middle child, starting with her bedroom in the center of the house.

It started with her posting ALL of the pictures from one calendar side by side on her bedroom wall. The calendar featured whimsical fairies in various poses and costumes, so seemed really quite typical for a little girl's tastes, and I let it slide without comment. A few months later, more pictures--original artwork this time--appeared on her walls. Again, it was her room, so no big deal.

Lately, however, her walls have become more crowded. I frowned when I saw her backpack and her jacket nailed up by her bedroom door, as though she lived in a log cabin, and those have come down.

A couple of weeks ago, she helped her baby brother clean his room. I was thrilled, touched, relieved--all the positive feelings a mother can have in such an event as that. Until bedtime, when I went in and saw dozens of stickers plastered all over his closet doors.

It seems to be getting worse. The other night, I noticed her brown hair ribbon push-pinned into the wall among dozens of other things and asked her about it. Like, really, a hair ribbon!? She tucked her chin down in her shy way and said that she and her brother had been playing, and that had been his leash.

That there is no room for anything else has not slowed her down. Tacked up among what can really be called pictures are the following: a dream catcher, documents, a list of phone numbers, butterfly stickers, a paper doll, cutouts from magazines, a table of measures, an ad for Utah tourism, a CD, a cootie catcher, Primary handouts, a pedigree chart, photographs, bookmarks, and a plastic key chain with the six "Be's."

I'm not sure where she got her supply of push-pins, but she even has a broken lamp tacked up by string next to her bed so she can read at night, and--get this!--her scriptures.

Hilarious!

The hair ribbon in the wall led to a discussion about the growing vertical hoarding, and I made a rule: nothing else goes up without permission. She's a girl who quietly goes about doing the things that come into her mind. Most of her ideas are good--she's very thoughtful and helpful. But I've talked to her many times over the years of her life about not cutting and/or drawing on things that are not meant to be cut and/or drawn on.

Despite all this, last night, I found myself staring at flowers and stars drawn in orange and green magic marker on her light switch. I just pointed to it.

She blushed and got her shy look. We looked at each other.

"I'll wash it off," she said, barely audibly.

Earlier, she had asked if she could hang her science fair certificate. The certificate is not for winning, just for participating. I looked up from my perch on the kitchen floor where I sort the laundry into piles each Friday evening. "Yes," I said, "but take something else down."

I thought we finally understood each other. I really did.

Then, this morning, there was a squabble. I let my husband handle it because I was on my way to drive a teenager to two events (you know how it is) and get to a meeting of my own that was to start at the same time. (I was soon to arrive at the meeting giggling at this chapter of my hilarious life.) He put both this child and a different brother on time-out chairs. When I made a mad dash back in to get my wedding rings, I found out why.

My daughter and her brother had been fighting over whether or not she could hang up some things in his room.

In Matters of Evil, the Need to be Bilingual

What's more important--the desires of a person who has declared war on his family, or the cognitive development and safety of a child?

We seem to get this wrong every time.

Think carefully. A child holds the future in his mind. The healthier his experiences, the more wholesome the future world will be. A person who chooses to treat his children's lifeblood and caretaker with hostility has already dug a gulch under his children's feet that promises to cave in their world. Why, in the name of everything and anything, should he have any right--or opportunity--to pursue his sick agenda?

We can pretty much know that everything such a person does or says is designed to further his evil purposes. He whines about supervised visits not being private enough? Should we follow the flowchart to a) let him conduct them at his house then, or b) realize it's too bad he caused this consequence?

Josh Powell simply could not have carried out his plot to murder his children if the visit had taken place in public. Not that one, anyway. Why make it easy for him?

In order to prove to the world that he was not a murderer, he took the lives of his innocent sons. In order to prove that he should have custody of them, he blew them up. If anyone was still believing him, they shouldn't be able to now.

Although, people who insist on being blind to the truth have the capacity to invent numerous ways to continue being stupid. There is probably someone somewhere who will say that he just felt so bad at not regaining custody that he couldn't help himself.

But the rest of us need to get better at reading the subtext. Otherwise, evil keeps winning. Violence continues. Tiny children not protected from its poison grow up to perpetrate it to the next generation. If they live that long. We need to do a lot better at handling this in our society. Thousands--even millions--of children are in a similar situation. Fortunately, most such situations do not end quite so spectacularly. Many, in fact, are never resolved, but the emotional, spiritual, and mental devastation that go along with exposure to a disturbed parent wreak havoc in children, and the poison of abuse continues to spread.

We can't go on just believing what people say. We have to listen to what they do. We have to see, for example, that a dead woman in a canal is a murder. But that's another story.

Those of us who have taken a crash course and become fluent in abuser-speak never believed a word Josh Powell said.

What he said: he was a good father who would never harm his children--or anyone--and should have custody. The truth is in the news.

What he said: he had nothing to do with his wife's disappearance--she happened to run off (without her purse and keys) with some other man at the same moment he took his sons on a midnight camping trip to the middle of nowhere in subzero temperatures. The truth: Mommy was in the trunk, and he had two big fans aimed at a wet spot on the living room carpet.

What he said: Susan, his wife, was a promiscuous flirt. The truth: he and his father were both out of control sexually and viewed women and children as possessions, not people.

What he said: he would publish her journals in order to prove her character. The truth: in so saying, he proved his character and his crime. He would have no right to publish her journals if she were still alive. He, alone, knew for certain that she wasn't.

And Sunday was not just a bad day for poor Josh. It takes time to amass ten gallons of gasoline and lay out a foolproof plan. He gave away their toys several days ahead of time. Then there are all the goodbye emails (complete with attempts at beyond-the-grave-control). This was completely premeditated. (Why he requested privacy.)

If Theodore Hesburgh was right that "The best thing a man can do for his children is to love their mother," the converse holds true that turning abuse on their mother is among the worst things he can do to his children.

But evil never wins in the end. Josh didn't take the children with him. In order to keep his wife's parents from raising his children, he transferred custody permanently to his wife, where, in the words of their grandfather, they are finally "safe" from him. I trust heaven has enough good in it to heal them from the horror of their last moments.

And that he is still burning.

Have Yourself a Sturdy Little Christmas

The cards. The baking. The decorating. The shopping. The gifts. The clothing. The caroling. The calories. The nativity play. The parties. The tree. The family get-togethers. The office get-together. The church services. The neighbor cookie plates.

How many things are on your list?

For many people, Christmas spells S-T-R-E-S-S!

If we don't do it all--and do it perfectly--will we ruin Christmas? For us or for others--which one bothers us more?

Over the years, I've learned to do some things to reduce my Christmas stress. Aspects of poverty and illness have forced me to. Most of these things could boil down to simplifying and doing things ahead.

I've forgiven myself--well, sort of--for not sending Christmas cards for several years running, and counting. Maybe next year.

While listening to the Church-wide devotional Sunday, one word caught my attention. President Uchtdorf said that Christmas is sturdier than we think. Sturdy. I like it!

Christmas has, after all, endured all these years. If I don't have the time, health, or means to do some part of Christmas, it won't go away. Other people are keeping up the traditions I've temporarily dropped. They'll still be there when I'm ready to pick them up again.

My thoughts lit happily on that word, sturdy, and then they went even deeper. What is Christmas, anyway? Is it the cards? The songs? The parties? The tree? All of those things are simply ways to celebrate what Christmas is. Christmas is a celebration of the most--maybe only--completely perfect gift ever given: the gift of a Savior to redeem the people in a darkened world. A gift so miraculous that no one but God could ever pull it off. A gift so perfect that no one needs to--nor can--improve upon it. No one can add to or detract from it one bit. No one can stop it from being given. It was given. Perfectly. Whole and complete. For everyone who ever lived or ever will live on the earth.

So, the things we do at Christmas time are all options for celebrating that gift. Some are perfect and miraculous in themselves. Some are generous. Some are merely well-intentioned. But they are all meant to help us remember God's gift to us and find joy in our knowledge of that. All of our Christmas gifts, songs, parties, and offerings put together can't make up Christmas. They only reflect it. Imperfectly. And that's okay, because that's the best we can do.

The best we can do to celebrate Christmas at a given time is perfectly okay. No stress necessary.

Maybe, just maybe, it's actually. . .arrogant of us to think we can ruin Christmas.

Let's do what gives us joy without giving us stress, and then sit back and enjoy it.