A Resolution and Some Fun

If you know me very well, you may know my feelings about living in Utah. I like it. Really. I know that sounded like a setup for a wisecrack, but I really have grown to love living here. I moved out here from sunny (foggy, muggy) central California after high school to attend BYU, got married along the way (somewhere between Baker and Barstow) and have been here ever since. Fifteen years ago, my friends.

Before I moved here I was of course, like any self-respecting "non-Utah Mormon" completely and superciliously prejudiced towards Utahns. Believing and passing along Mormon lore and gossip like it was the latest Ensign edition. Next to canon. And being from California certainly didn't help things. Californians, along with New Englanders, are born with a sense of superiority, which just further intensifies the longer you live there. Not that there's anything wrong with that. If there is anyone I haven't so far insulted, hang on, I'm getting there.

Over the past 15 years, I have come to terms with my Utah issues and love being here. I think there are benefits and challenges to living anywhere and we just try to take advantage of the benefits. Our kids' school alone is one reason we would never want to leave. There is nothing to compare to it anywhere in the world and we are so grateful we get to experience it. But that's fuel for another post. There is one thing about Utah that really irritates me. Maybe not irritates as much as makes me a little sad. I was talking to a friend the other day about how she likes going out of state when she's pregnant because they--strangers-- make such a big fuss over her. People offer completely unneeded assistance, hold doors, make special accomodations, etc. How absolutely lovely. Now you all know how I feel about pregnancy. I LOVE it. On me and on others. And here in Utah, you are 92 % of the time within 10 yards of at least 34 pregnant women. And there is a 85 % chance that you yourself are also in the baby way. Which tends to dilute its uniqueness. As well as the assistance and recognition you receive from others. Not necessarily because you need it, but because you deserve respect for carrying out such a special task that means everything to our human race. AND because you are beautiful. Beautiful people should always get special treatment. I think it was Darwin who said that.

And it isn't just the pregnancy thing. I love visiting my parents in California because without a doubt, as soon as I cross the border out of Utah, people will start commenting on me and my family. "Oh, they are so beautiful, are they all yours?" (no one asks that in Utah, see) And when I answer yes.... "FOUR children! How amazing/brilliant/lucky/young you are! And you look so great! How do you manage that, you must be so busy." And I bashfully admit that I don't work, but that I am a full-time mom and I get back... "Good for you. That is the best thing you can be doing!" I mean for real! Strangers are really nice to moms and pregnant women outside of Utah. Supportive, helpful, complimentary, supernice. And my question is, why are we not the same way here? The answer is of course so obvious, because we are just too darn busy with our own mess of kids or grandkids to notice someone else's. But this is a sad sad excuse.

So here is my latest resolution. I am going to take notice of other people with children. I am going to say nice things and be helpful and make them feel great because they deserve to feel like they are doing something really amazing and important, even if most people around them are doing the exact same thing.

Now I know I have just added potential further ammunition to the anti-Utah arsenals some of you may be stockpiling. So be it. We totally deserve it on this one. Just be gentle, is all I ask.

And just for fun, here is my top 5 list of Utah Tall Tales - things that you persist in believing about us:

1. Utahns are 2 years behind in fashion and 9 in hairstyles. I would deny this if I could, but just for the record, whenever I go anywhere out of state, I get complimented on my Utah hair. It seems women of all geographies hunger for a little more volume. Bouffants Without Borders. I think it could do very well. I don't think it is as much as being behind, as willfully setting our foot down. We've found what works for us and we are sticking with it. Would that you could be so bold.

2. We are the land of multi-level marketing. There will be no denial, only a massive effort to pull you down with us. We may start the ideas, but you all go to the parties, too. I know this to be true. My mom's mailbox is always overflowing with invites.

3. We have obnoxious accents. So do you. See, it all depends on your point of view. Oh and by the by, I spent the first eight years of my life here listening for people to call it "American Fawrk" and was bitterly disappointed. Although I did once ask a person who grew up in Lehi which southern state she was from.

4. If you move to Utah, you have 2 years to get a) a full-size SUV and b) a boob job. Uh...well...I...mm...ah... I'm pretty sure this is completely true.

5. Utah Mormons are totally different from non-Utah Mormons. And so deserve your scorn. In my humble experience, the makeup in my wards are generally half and half. Half Utah native/ half not. And adherence to the above "Tall Tales" is no indicator of someone's pedigree. So there.

Halloween Fun

Gotta get these up quick for my mom, before Halloween is too far past.

Here's Darth! Could be any little boy behind the storebought (Ebay bought) mask

But the eyes give it away.

Halle is thrilled to be wearing makeup, but manages to remain in character.

Little Pocahontas

Here it is... the big homemade skefuffle. She is a white HORSE, not a pony, for those who may have asked

And very happy to be

Practicing for senior portraits...

I thought Tommy would be nuts about his costume. He loves trains, loves to sing about the "engine driver pulling the lttle throttle", but he kept trying to trade this cap out for his BYU baseball hat. You can imagine how Darron felt about that. So it took awhile to get a smile.

But I finally fell upon the age old ruse "What are you going to get tonight?"

"Candyyyyyy!"

"Are you going to eat lots of candy?"

"YES!!!!!"


Getting set

Let's go!

Much love from us to you!

Make It Work, People

I do it every year. No, that's not right, I do it every other year, because even I am not that stupid that often. Intermittent stupidity, that's what I have.

I don't know if it's in my genetic makeup. I'd like to blame it on genes, but I may have used up that excuse on too many other things, like my continual desire to change my haircolor or my inexplicable aversion to team sports. This one may just be me.

Here's the underlying problem. I am 100 percent, utterly confident in my ability to do anything. Anything, you name it. Figure out instructions, power tools, math problems. Fix a toilet, a roof, grammatical errors. Build a shed. Sail a boat. Cut hair. Assemble a swingset. Grow a garden. As long as it does not involve making phone calls, I can do it. At least, that's what my inner voice tells me. And that inner voice calls to me each year come September..... Heather (she calls in her siren voice).....you should sew your children's Halloween costumes....that's right, sew them...it's not that hard, you can do it...imagine how cool they will be....those storebought ones are so ugly and cheap....you'll have so much fun and the kids will really appreciate it....they'll think you're the best mom ever...the best mom ever...the best mom ever...

And every other year I am smart enough to smack myself in the head so that my inner voice will shut up.

But then another year goes by and the frustration and overwhelm and lost hours of sleep fade into the lore of ancient fuzzy memories that seem so sweet in retrospect and then Boom! I'm pregnant again. Whoops! Same nostalgia, different outcome. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, Boom! I'm crouched over my sewing machine with my hands gnarled and stiffened from gripping the seam ripper, my eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed and staring in hopeless frustration at piles and piles of little used up bits of fabric and thread and trim as the clock ticking on the wall grows louder and louder and my temper grows shorter and shorter and my children get hungrier and hungrier and I swear to myself one more time that I will never. Again.

See the problem is, although I have complete confidence in my abilities, I don't actually (air quotes) "know how" to sew. Or any of those things listed up there, actually. My mom tried to do her duty in passing on her sewing knowledge. I actually "made" two "dresses" during my preteen years. A little blue and white sailor number, the inspiration for which has completely abandoned me. Pollyanna, perhaps? An old Gene Kelly movie? I don't recall sailor dresses being popular in the late eighties, but who knows. The other was a floral cotton sleeveless drop-waist tea-length dress with (wait for it) doilies sewn to the pockets. Mom, remember that one? We ate lunch at that Nut House place in Oakhurst (possibly...is that a town?) that was an old house/restaurant/shop that was all shabby before it was chic and they had this dress on display and I loved it and you thought that it was your big opportunity. To teach me something of value. And then I kicked and screamed and pouted and frumped and tried with all my adolescent might to make you rue the day you tried to teach me to sew. Did it work? Did you rue that day, Mom? I think there was a steady stream of rue flowing through our house for a good number of years. Ah, memories.

So I can sew a straight (ish) line. Wind a bobbin. Thread a needle. Whatever. But just where did I get the idea that I could go all Project Runway and whip up the elaborate costumes envisioned in my head? No pattern (who needs it?!) no skills (how hard could it be? I went to college, I can figure it out) nothin' but the sense I was born with to see me through. And lots and lots of candy. Although I've sworn off, or at least down, for the time being, so that's a real handicap. And sad.

It always starts out so good. A month before Halloween. I'm drawing patterns and doing muslin mock-ups and basting and draping and it's all so Fashion Institute of Technology I could just wrap myself in my smug little fantasy and quit my day job. Then I hit trouble. Followed shortly by The Wall. A small problem, involving seam removal, new cutouts, and two broken needles, snowballs rapidly into a meltdown of my entire concept and a shaking of my self-confidence and a flood of memories of "the last time". It is not pretty, dear readers, not pretty at all. Remember the ghost outfit that made my sweet 5 year old look like a klan member? The princess dress that required my 3 year old to lose 2 pounds before I could do up the back? The cowboy chaps that had to be stapled on to keep from falling off? What am I doing? What was I thinking? (Insert smallish mental breakdown)

So we close the curtain on our little vignette and allow our heroine to regain her inner strength and resolve. But it just doesn't happen. She postpones. And procrastinates. And mulls. Rues even. But doesn't sew much. There's a whole month until Halloween, what's the rush? Well here leads to there and all of a sudden it is two days until Halloween and she realizes that her daughter's preschool program is slated for the day before Halloween, which actually gives her only one day and she has to start sewing at this very second or her innocent and unsuspecting daughter will be going as her big brother. If big brother has any clean shirts, that is.

A big frenzy ensues, as you may imagine, a big messy frenzy, with fur and feathers and yarn and glue and spangles flying. And from it emerges a costume. A so-so, serviceable costume that if I'm lucky, looks ok from 10 feet back, and if I'm real lucky, stays on while they stand still for pictures, and if I'm really really lucky.... actually, I've never experienced really really, so I can't imagine what it might entail. Flying or invisibility, maybe? Gee! But I've also never sent them down the catwalk--I mean out the door-- naked, or with last year's costume on, although I have come very very close. And they always seem to be happy. But they're kids and its Halloween, so I can't take the credit there. Somehow there always seems to be a Halloween miracle, things get wearable in the nick of time, and I think it is that lack of showtime disaster that keeps me thinking I can do it again. What else could it be? Is that what it will take to teach me a lesson I will never forget?

You know what it is? I think you might. And I hesitate to say it because my inner voice will have a total field day with it. Unless it came from her...? But here goes: I like it. I do. I like it. I like the creation and the drama and the setbacks and the problem solving and the hundred little triumphs and the thrill of seeing something that I made slide off the shoulder and up the rear of the little girl walking in front of me. That's hard to beat, right? And then that little girl turns around and says "I look so beautiful Mom, don't I!" and I feel like the best mom ever.

Just like she said I would. I hate it when my inner voice is right.