Metaphorically Speaking

This is an OLD post that I never posted. You can guess why. But, today I want to post it. 

 I visited the Pioneer Woman today, where I saw this sign.

"Scrape shit from your boots before entering."

I like it. It reminds me of my hometown and working at VIP. Furthermore, I wish people in my life would follow its counsel. This afternoon little dirty boys tracked mud through the house across the just-barely-swept floor and into the just-cleaned bathroom.  The pristine bar of soap is now brown and the counters are smudged. I swept again.

Metaphorically, too, I'd like this gritty bit of wisdom to hold water. But, I think maybe it doesn't. I definitely want admittance even with all my metaphorical shit. Maybe the true love sign would say, "Come on in, you'll get cleaned up eventually."


....
I'm not sure if this is my blogging rebirth. But, here's an update: In November, Luke turned 7. He's lost several teeth. Currently he's completely missing the top middle two and one on the bottom. On his 3rd or 4th tooth, he wanted money for his tooth, but he also wanted to keep the tooth. I made him write a letter to the tooth fairy. He wrote: To the Tooth Fairy. Hi I am Luke. "PLEES LEEF MY TOOCH. P.S. I DOTE BELEEF IN YOU."

The week before Christmas I told the boys that I hadn't done any shopping for their Christmas presents. Petey, age 3, said, "Tanta bings my peasants." Luke said, "There's no such thing as Santa." Pete replied, "Ya-huh. I taw him in da pawade."


One of the things Brandon gave me for Christmas was a bouquet of flowers. The card said, "I think 2012 is going to be a great year for us." I cried when I read it. I knew he was talking about his job search. 

Happy New Year. 


And Pete is finally, finally, finally potty trained. 
2012 will be a great year indeed.

I think I have a problem with authority.

It's been more than a month since I posted.

A couple of weeks ago, Brandon said, "You haven't posted anything for a while." Then he said, "I think it's time."

Huh?
Brandon might be joined to me at the hip for forever whether he likes it or not, but he only reads this when I tell him to. And I don't know why I tell him to. All I ever get is an understated, "I liked it."
So why does he have an opinion about how often I post, I'd like to know.

Anyway, two more weeks have passed and...nothin'. The muse is on vacation.
She doesn't like being bossed around.

 Today I got my Annual First of Spring Sunburn. It hurts when I scratch my forehead and I look a little bit lobster-y. I do this every year. Lovely day. Go to park. Stand in the sun and chat with a friend. Have lunch, push swing, collect sandy sneakers. Go home. A few hours later, roughly brush hair our of my face and damn it. Again.

My husband who never, ever swears said, "I dunno. That's a pretty common word." That's what I call permission. Oh, and now he's talking about Jay Golden Kimball. We compare ourselves to General Authorities in this house and...oh he's still talking, "Our Stake Presidency was talking about sex in the chapel."
Well, not sex in the chapel.

Have I successfully recused myself from any church callings yet?

I'm sitting here with waning courage, and Brandon says, "Go ahead Baby, share it with the world."

In the Spirit of Thanksgiving

Brandon's bike got stolen--again. Yes, yes, I know he should lock it up or put it in the garage. But he forgot. He probably forgot because when he got home around seven last night, he came in, immediately had dinner with us, did some dishes, then went to work applying for a few new jobs.

He was up this morning at six, and by seven, he was ready to go. It's really dark when he gets up in the morning.

I have been thinking about being thankful even when things don't go the way I hope. For example, Brandon has an interview coming up!!! For a few days, in my mind, he already had the job. And I felt thankful. But, I'm going to try to remember to be thankful even if it doesn't pan out.

I know Heavenly Father has a plan for us. In the past, the plan has consistently not followed what I think should happen. But we have felt the Lord's hand over us and seen Him make a way when there was no way. And I'm going to try to remember that, even while a teensy part of me trembles at the thought that He's only just begun to work on us.

Worth five minutes of your time, even if you've already seen it. (Click twice to see it better.)

Two love letters

I do not keep a regular journal. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I am very embarrassed by my teenage self when every entry, every entry! was about a boy. Not always the same boy, but you get the picture. Oh the angst, then and the angst now, remembering. Then there's the undeniable fact that sometimes I'm crazy. So when I'm crazy and I just have to let the dam bust, I write by hand on random loose-leaf paper. And I write quickly and sometimes I cross out paragraphs with large x's. And the handwriting is not neat. The letters are small and kind of spiky. And the lines scratch my unhappiness or anger across the paper. Then I fold those papers into quarters and stuff them in my dresser drawers. And I feel a lot better. But I don't want them bound into a journal! Hello, posterity, your great great granny sends you her love and...tempests. (yyeck-I don't want to be called Granny.) So, I begin journals when I am well and happy and spiritually on. But I'm only human and I don't always stay that way. And it's just too real.

But I do this instead: I blog, irregularly. And I write love letters and save them on my computer. (Sometimes a tad bit of the crazy seeps in, just in case you're worried that I'll only pass that down in my genes and parenting practices.)
Mostly, they are intensely personal and I feel like a traitor publishing them, so they stay private. But here are two I wrote tonight:

October 22, 2010 (wee hours of the morning.)


Dear Luke and Pete,

Tonight I made 2 fresh raspberry pies. I am very proud of myself. I put them in the freezer and we will bake them later. Raspberries were on sale for 50 cents a half-pint and that is a tremendous deal. Your father and I picked through them and tossed the moldy ones—they went bad quickly! That was frustrating. But, oh well. I told your Dad that if he didn’t help me do that, then he couldn’t have any raspberry pie (like the story of The Little Red Hen) because I did NOT want to do it by myself and he did NOT want to help. I won. He helped. Then he took out the garbage. Bless that man. I gave him packages I thought would be extra moldy so I wouldn’t have to deal with them. My selfish plan didn’t always work though; I got some really gross ones. Anyway, this is supposed to be a note about how I’m going to bake wonderful and delicious raspberry pies. Maybe we should call them Moldy Raspberry Pies because you guys always seem to think that gross-ness is hilarious.

Love, Mommy

Dear Brandon,

Tonight I slipped you the packages of raspberries I didn’t want to pick through. Thank you for helping me. I think you’ll like the pie.

Love you always,

Carrie

The Land Desolation-I know exactly where that is.

On our way home from visiting family, we stopped at the rest area on I-70, just before the turn off to get to Moab. This area is desolate. We were in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, through a series of unfortunate events and thanks to Pete's curiosity and handiness, we managed to lock ourselves out of the car. In the middle of nowhere. With no cell phones in our pockets. With no shoes on our child's feet. In the middle of nowhere.

Pete locked us out of the car in the middle of nowhere with the car still running and none of us--not even Petey--was inside.

Earlier, Brandon and I had had this conversation:

Brandon: "Gas here in Lehi is the cheapest I've seen in in Utah."
Carrie: "Stop and get some."
Brandon: "No, I always stop in Moab."
Carrie: "You should stop and get some."
Brandon: "No, I've worked it all out. I always stop at the same places on our trip."
Carrie: "What if something bad happens?"
Brandon: "Nothing's going to happen."
Carrie: "You don't know that. A semi could overturn and we could be waiting for hours. It happened to the Kimballs." (It didn't exactly happen to the Kimballs--their catastrophe was a blizzard.)
Brandon: "We're not going to run out of gas."
Carrie, voice rising: "You don't know everything!"
Brandon: "We're not going to run out of gas. Trust me."
Carrie, voice rising more with a tinge of hysteria: "Why can't you just stop and get gas for me?!"
Brandon: "Oh! You want me to get gas? I'd be happy to."

Back to the middle of nowhere:
A couple from Germany was stopping at the same rest area. They let us use their cell phone. I called 911. "911, where's your emergency?" "Um, normally I wouldn't consider this an emergency, but we're in the middle of nowhere..."

Eighty-five dollars for the locksmith, and 3 hours later, we stopped to fill up at our usual stop.

The above line could also be read like this: I'm such a blessing to him and I didn't hesitate to tell him so.

P.S. That couple from Germany also invited us to stay in their RV for the 2 hours spent waiting for help to arrive. They gave us cokes and cookies. And in thick accents said, "It is no trouble." They lied. I'm glad they lied.

"I'm a workhorse, Baby."

That's what he told me while shovelling sod when everyone else was taking a break (including myself.) We were dating, maybe engaged. I don't remember. But I do remember sitting on the grass looking up at him framed by the blue sky with the Bountiful Temple in the background.

And it's true: That boy's never gonna let us starve.

My husband. He helped Luke clean his room. He let Luke help him do the dishes. He cleaned all the countertops and even the stove. (That right there is cause for a big, slobbery french kiss.) (Ew, gross, Carrie!) (Sorry, too much information.) Then he cleared away the dumping place (the "high countertop." It's higher than the other countertops.) He put the slipcover back on the junked-loveseat. He straightened the family room. He cleaned our room. He fixed the broken chair. He fixed the broken bed. He took the boys outside to play. He set the table. He cleaned up the baby. He gathered us together for family prayer. He put the baby to bed. He did dinner dishes. He would have vacuumed, but I had 6 piles of laundry on the floor, equalling 9+ loads of laundry.

I did laundry. I ran a couple of errands. I didn't finish either job completely. He's going to the grocery store for me tonight and I'm still working on the laundry.

He just came in to see what I was up to. He said, "I was going to take the garbage out before I go."

I miss Brandon.

He's not here to tell me to come to bed. He's not in bed putting up with the lamp shining like the noon-day sun while I read to "unwind." He's not lying on his side with his back to me so I can't wrap my arm (yep, just the one--the other's always under my pillow so that I don't resent him for being the comfortable one) as I was saying...arm around him and then, in his sleep, he's not there to take my hand like he does. every night. except tonight. Because he's not here and I miss him. Very much.

Virginia is for lovers.

Luke didn't get the memo.

By the way, I didn't make it up.

B's mosaic

1. first name

2. favorite food-Chinese

3. high school-Davis High. He must remember these mornings: dark, cold, snowy, and wishing you were still in bed.

4. favorite color-purple

5. celebrity crush-Marlon Brando. Okay, so he doesn't actually have a crush on Marlon Brando, but I just couldn't bring myself to post a picture of Marissa Tomei.

6. favorite drink-coke. Read what that wall says! "Delicious & Refreshing; Coca Cola relieves fatigue."

7. dream vacation-Lake Powell (Aerosmith: "DREAM ON, DREAM ON!)

8. favorite dessert-cafeteria style peanut butter bars

9. When you grow up, you want to be...-a professor

10. What do you love most in this life? The Lord.

11. One word to describe you: persistent.

12. Free Space: MOUNTAINS. He loves them; he craves them.