The Drive

We woke up to snow this morning.  Anne cried.  But we spent spring break in South Carolina with Justin and Swiss, and we still carry the warmth of it in our hearts.  Except when I remember certain phrases I overheard there like, "Swiss, could you adopt us?" and "Swiss, you're way more awesome than our mom."

The kids and I drove down without Jake.  Yes, I am awesome in my own right, regardless of what my kids think. It wasn't that bad.  Except for the hotel we stayed at on the way down.  An old ornery shriveled man was working the check-in desk.  With a wig pulled back in a bun and a rocking chair, he could have been Mother.  If he'd been dead.  Which he wasn't quite.  He was re-keying a room card for a soft-spoken man giving me the creeps.  (Why didn't I just go to a different hotel?  I was tired, that's why.) "What's your room number?" Mother barked.  "208," replied Norman Bates quietly.  "What's that?" Mother barked again.  "208," repeated Norman, not raising his voice a decibel.  Eventually Mother managed to read his lips and re-key his card, while announcing to me and Norman that my room would be 211.  Gulp.  I hurried out to the car to drive to a spot as close to our room as possible.  Meanwhile Norman was standing on the sidewalk staring at me.  I stared back.  Didn't phase him a bit.  I wouldn't hurt a fly, I could practically hear him say.

I rushed the kids and our stuff into the hotel room, yanked the curtains closed and locked the door.  "Why can't we have the curtains open?" they asked.  "Because I said so!  Get your pajamas on!"

It wasn't the best night's sleep I've ever had, needless to say.  In the morning Anne wanted to know, "Why are you so grouchy still?  You said you'd try to be nicer today."  That was before I had to worry about dying in the shower in a pool of chocolate syrup.  We got packed up and went to get our free breakfast.  That's when I started to relax.  It was light outside and there were other people eating breakfast, people who didn't creep me out.  I felt so much better that when I saw Norman Bates eating in a corner and giggling to himself I felt sorry for him.  Poor guy.  We made it to our final destination that evening, but the kids just got off the bus so I'll have to blog about that later.  REEE, REEE, REEE! (That's the sound of the knife in Psycho, folks.)

cuteness

Hot Yoga

My friend C strong-armed me into trying Intentional Yoga in Kalamazoo.  They do hot yoga.  That's yoga in 100 degrees.  Yesterday was my first time.

They keep the room dark which is nice.  Nobody wants to see sweat pouring off the nose of his/her neighbor.  Nobody wants her neighbors to see sweat pouring off her own nose.  Also, I have yet to find garment-friendly yoga clothes.  I mean, my g's are covered by my clothes initially, but one down dog, and they're poking out.  Since it was dark, though, I didn't worry about it.  It's not like anyone would have stared at me anyway.  We were all staring at the instructor and the tall girl who knew what she was doing so we could figure out what we were supposed to do.

(Note to self: label your right hand and foot with R and your left hand and foot with L before the next class.  Also, ask your kindergarten teacher why she let you go on to 1st grade without knowing left from right.)

I've only ever done yoga with the TV before yesterday, so I'm not sure if this is typical, but there was no talking (except from the instructor) going on.  I guess everyone was meditating or concentrating or something.  I really wanted to ask, "Is this pose supposed to make my arm go numb?  Because I can't feel my fingers anymore" and "Could you wait just a second while I figure out which is my right hand and which is my right toe?"  But I didn't.  Talking and questions were clearly forbidden.

The practice was tough.  And sweaty.  I've never sweated so profusely in my life.  But when it was over, I couldn't believe how good I felt.  Resentment toward C for talking me into hot yoga was totally gone.  I didn't even know what resentment was anymore because all I felt was love and goodwill toward all of God's children.  When I got home I called my sister and told her about it.  "So it makes you delusional," was her response.

Pretty soon, though, the euphoria was gone, I was exhausted and shaky, and promptly downed half the chocolate chip cookies I'd made for the kids. I had a stomach ache coupled with ravenous hunger for the rest of the day, didn't stop eating until 10 pm, slept like the dead that night, and woke up sore but strangely eager to do hot yoga again.  I'm planning to go to the 5:45 AM session on Monday.  Care to join me?

Homemade Deodorant Winner

Here it is--a deodorant recipe that lasts 12+ hours (on a good, less-stress-than-some day):

Baking soda
Corn starch or arrowroot powder
Coconut oil
Lavender essential oil
Patchouli essential oil (I ordered this one for my anti-wrinkle face lotion I'm experimenting with.  I decided to toss it in the deod because some people say it has antimicrobial properties and adds depth to whatever fragrance you mix it with.  It has a very strong smell, so I only added a few drops.  The deod smells like lavender, which isn't as good as, say, Dove Cool Essentials, but it's growing on me.)

It's very melty.  As soon as it touches my armpit it's dripping all over.  But, I've decided it's worth it.  It doesn't stain as long as I don't put on too much.  And at my Grandad's funeral I was reminded why I'd started experimenting with homemade stuff to begin with: I wore commercial antiperspirant in Colorado not wanting to risk B.O. at such an important occasion; in the shower, when I was washing my armpits, there was that antiperspirant film that's almost impossible to wash off.  I hate it.  So, sorry everyone.  I would rather risk offending you with my body odor than feel un-slippery armpits when I'm in the shower. 

Common Core: Where Did it Come from?

Google United Nations Agenda 21.  Do some research.  Let me know if you are convinced the United Nations had nothing to do with Common Core.  I'm afraid it did.  And does.

Now read  George Will's piece on Common Core.  If the Federal Government has no right to dictate what is taught in our public schools, what in the world is the U.N. doing telling us what to teach?

You've got to admire how Common Core is promoted as a wonderful program for teaching kids math, reading, and writing; how great it would be if every state were on the same page so if kids moved out of state, their new school would be teaching the same thing their old school was teaching.  No one mentions that Common Core also includes Social Studies and History.  No one denies it, of course, but good luck finding out exactly what they plan to teach.  I've already described Damon's lessons on Why Americans Are Evil.  If that's Common Core, I don't want anymore.

Now, if you start reading through Agenda 21, it's not so bad. It sounds like all the U.N. wants to do is save the planet.  If you think they've got good ideas on how to do that, that's great.  Write a blog.  Go on Good Morning America.  Start riding your bike to work and to the grocery store, move into a small home, stop using toilet paper, and don't go on exotic vacations.  Then maybe I'll believe you are more interested in saving the planet than ruling the world.  DON'T SNEAK YOUR AGENDA THROUGH THE BACK DOOR OF MY CHILD'S SCHOOL.  It smacks of something Chairman Mao, the Khmer Rouge, or Hitler would have done.  Or did.

Failed Spiritual Moment

Anne likes to have a story while we're driving.  Today on the way to Claire's physical therapy I told my favorite one about the handcart pioneers, the one that ends with,

"I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hill slope and I have said, I can go only that far and there I must give up, for I cannot pull the load through it...I have gone on to that sand and when I reached it, the cart began pushing me. I have looked back many times to see who was pushing my cart, but my eyes saw no one. I knew then that the angels of God were there."

I was so choked up I almost couldn't finish telling it.

Claire's response was, "Spooky!  Haunted handcarts!"

Forgive me, Mormon pioneers.  I have failed you.

The Toughest Man We Ever Knew

I hope my roof doesn't collapse, but I've gotta take a break.  There are at least two feet of snow up there, its raining and making the snow heavier by the minute, and raking it off is such hard work my arms are shaking as I type.

Going to Manassa, CO for my Grandad's funeral was so wonderful.  It was a happier time than my Grandma Barbara's funeral a year and a half ago.  It was painful then to see my Grandad so sad.

Highlights: 

Sharing memories about Grandad at Danette and Perry's.  Uncle Dan told about a time many years ago he was helping Grandad load hay on the back of a man's trailer.  When the hay was loaded the man hopped in his truck and said, "I'll pay you next week."  Grandad planted himself in front of the truck and said, "No, you'll pay me now.  Cash."  The man said, "I don't have any cash.  I'll give you a check."  Grandad said, "No, your checks are no good.  I told you it would be cash."  The man continued to argue but Grandad was firm, and Dan had to unload the hay.  Cousin-in-law Jared said, "Since Grandad was a Marine and I was in the airforce, I was talking with him one time because we had both had similar experiences with bullets flying past our heads.  He told me to find something to be grateful for in every situation.  A while later I was in a situation where a suicide bomber blew himself up and his face landed at my feet.  I heard Grandad's voice telling me to find something to be grateful for and I thought, 'I'm grateful that's not my face.'"

The funeral (how I wish I'd taken notes!): all the grandson's wore one of Grandad's ties.  All the granddaughters wore Grandma's beads.  Scott told this story.  Lex talked about how tough Grandad was and how we hoped some of that toughness rubbed off on Justin, who just joined the navy.  He talked about what a good man Grandad was, how he hoped we'd all live so that someday we could once again hear him say, "For heck's sakes, it's Lex" (or Charlotte or Lynsey or Phillip--you get the picture), and how Grandad had told him to never take any wooden nickels, and thanks to that advice, he never has taken a wooden nickel to this day.  Aunt Deon, Grandad's only sibling (who looks fantastic, btw) talked about growing up with Grandad, going to dances with him, how fun he was to dance with and how she knew he was always watching out for her, how he didn't talk much or sing very well, but the first time he let her ride with him from the cabin into town, they would sing as they rode their horses.  On the high notes he would stand up in his stirrups so he could reach those high notes.

The cemetery: When a Marine did the role call and all the other Marines answered "Here" (or was it "Present" or something else?) and then called for Cletus M. Gilleland three times before someone said he wasn't present because he had been called home, I cried like a baby.

As tough as Grandad was, we'll never forget how tender and good he was, either.  How he always greeted us by name (the right name, I might add.  I call my kids and siblings the wrong names all the time, calling Damon "Justin," for example.  I inherited that problem from my mom.) and gave such warm hugs.  How he cared for Grandma, how devoted he was as her health failed.  How sincerely and beautifully he prayed.

Enough.  The snow is waiting for me, crying gives me a headache, and we've been blessed with having more to celebrate than to mourn.