The BFF'S

     I often have conversations with Julie about current and past friendships. Being Julie's friend is an all or nothing kind of deal. There is no half-way. She knows the meaning of friendship better than anyone I've ever known and she gives one-hundred percent of herself to her friendships. I had a hard time with this at the beginning of our relationship. It seemed so foreign to me and I would often tell her how "new" this concept was because I'd never had it before. (I'm shaking my head here and sighing at myself.)

     Last month I received an email from Heather Nielson Wimmer. My first ever best friend. Heather and I lived next door to each other in Boulder City, Nevada for about five years. We met at the tender age of three and like most young children, only had to say "let's be friends" and it was a done deal. Included in Heather's email was a Polaroid of the two of us. Two adorable little girls. I can remember sitting on the floor in Heather's bedroom while she "played" with my hair. We would take turns brushing and braiding, enjoying the tingling and trance inducing feel of small fingers in long locks. I remember playing house, swinging on Heather's swing set, playing with our Madame Alexander dolls (outside in the dirt), and including siblings and neighbor kids in Mother May I? and Red Light Green Light. Over the years my family moved several times and so did Heather's. But here we are, thirty-seven years after our first meeting, and I can still call her my friend.
     When I was eight-years-old we moved to Amarillo, Texas. It took a while for me to fit in and find friends and I spent quite a bit of time lonely and feeling sorry for myself. But in fourth grade I met Judy Cohen and all that changed. I went from being a shy, quiet, well-behaved girl to a loud, obnoxious, happy, trouble-maker. It wasn't that Judy was a bad influence. She wasn't. Together we just brought out the goofiness that was lying dormant inside. Judy's dad was a doctor and she only had one sister, therefore, she had a lot of privileges that I didn't. In other words, she was a rich little Jewish girl. She introduced me to cable television, Atari, and mustard-roast beef sandwiches. I learned how to dance the hora and play with a dreidel. Sadly, our friendship only lasted one year because her family moved. And I was on my own once again.
     Enter Jennifer Gilbert and sixth grade. Jennifer already had a bff and when we became friends, it didn't go over so well with Deirdre. There was a lot of drama, but that didn't stop us from maintaining our friendship. We read every Nancy Drew book in our school library, we played with my dollhouse, went to Saturday matinees, and talked about boys. I went to Jennifer's Methodist church and she came to my little brother's baptism. We passed notes during classes at school and served detention together after getting caught. And like all my other friendships, this one too ended with a move. Jennifer went to Tulsa, Oklahoma and I went to Orem, Utah. We stayed in touch until eighth grade, and then drifted our separate ways.
     But in eighth grade I met a girl in my Utah Studies class. She had long blonde hair and it was tied up in pony tails on either side of her head. She looked like she had massive dog ears. Priscilla Udall and I bonded at the library while working on a history project. After that we were inseparable. We did our homework together, we had sleepovers and read and discussed historical romance novels. We went to Lake Powell together and skinny-dipped with all Cilla's female relatives at what her family called "the bathing rock." It was a grand time and I saw my first white whale and even tried it myself. Cilla and I caused our chemistry teacher in high school to take a sabbatical. We goofed off so much in his class I think he gave us C's just to get rid of us. As we got older we double dated and confided major secrets to each other. Cilla was my maid of honor at my wedding and we spent the night together before my big day. I got married and she went off to college, but I was there at her wedding too. We helped paint each other's first homes and hung out with our spouses, and visited each other in the hospital when babies were born. About thirteen years ago, Cilla and her husband moved to North Carolina and we lost touch with each other. But thanks to facebook, we connected last year. Cilla was in Utah visiting her family and we got together for lunch. It felt as if no time had passed. She was still the same girl with doggie ears that I'd met years ago in a junior high history class.
     All this came back to me as I looked at a Polaroid of two small girls in Boulder City, Nevada. And to think I thought I'd never had a best friend like Julie. All my life I've been blessed with bff's. As an adult in my pre-Julie days, I'd gotten caught up in being a wife and mother, which is okay, don't get me wrong. But bff's make life so much richer and more bearable. Thanks, Heather for helping me remember, and thanks Julie for being the ultimate BFF.

    

Reflections

     I am the parent of a high school graduate. And if you must know, that statement makes me feel...a little bit old. I was sitting in the front yard, watching the sun set this evening, absorbing the peace and thinking about my life. I looked around my yard, my eyes pausing on the young oak tree we planted last year. I imagined it bigger, with long branches and leaves that offer shade to the entire front of the house. And I imagined little people--children--playing Barbies and trucks in the dirt at its base. These little people would dig holes in the dirt, perhaps filling these pools with water from the hose, they might draw with chalk on the driveway, or ride big wheels on the sidewalk. They would sit beside me and ask me questions; Why is the sky blue? What makes a cloud? Why do birds eat worms? I'd snuggle them close, answering each eager question with patience and love. We might lie on our backs on top of the grass and find shapes in the clouds. Dragons, fish, a dog, maybe even an annoying sibling. On bad weather days we might stay indoors and bake cookies, or bread. We could read stories, crochet, finger paint...
     And these little people would call me Grandma. And it would be the sweetest sound I'd ever heard.
     As my graduate ushers in a new phase of life, so do I. I'm growing up. I think, for the first time in my life, I'm okay with that. I'm looking forward to new experiences. I'm reaching the point where I can see the end of that tremendous task known as child-rearing. It's almost time to watch my children raise their own. Before I know it, I'll be sitting in an audience watching my last child receive a diploma. And I'll wonder where the time went. But I won't regret that it's gone.
     I guess this is the way it's supposed to be. This day is just the beginning of many bittersweet days to come. There is a quiet peace surrounding my mind, and a pleasant ache in my heart. I'm not euphoric, nor am I depressed. I am content.

The Sloth

     I have issues. Motivational ones. Well, there are others, but I'm choosing to focus on one at a time. This motivational issue plagues me almost daily, and has since about December. Once in a while I pull out of it and get many wonderful things accomplished. Like mopping, scrubbing toilets, vacuuming, organizing, etc... But mostly, I sit in the chair in my bedroom and stare out the window observing the weather, like an arthritic old woman in an assisted living facility. I play farmtown and fishville on facebook, check my email, check the online weather, and read blogs. Sometimes I read books, but it can't be anything too meaty. My brain is only able to absorb fluff. I find myself daydreaming about my next potential girl's outing or a date night with Scott. I often nod off and jerk awake multiple times before deciding to lay down for a quick snooze that ends several hours later.
     Goodness, this sounds terrible, doesn't it? I'm making myself out to be a complete sloth. I should change my name to Sid and develop a slurpy lisp.
     In fairness to myself, I think I will now list the things I do in between chair sittings. There are a.m. and p.m. carpools to junior high and elementary, breakfast for children, laundry and dishes, toys to pick-up, and Christeal to entertain. If I don't entertain Christeal well enough then I scrub marker and lipstick off the walls, re-fold laundry, re-make my bed, re-roll toilet paper, and sweep up cracker crumbs. I also transport Christeal to and from visits with her parents every Tuesday and Thursday. That takes an hour and ten minutes out of my day right there. This week I have the added joy of supervising these four-hour visits. There are dinners to prepare and more dishes to wash and homework to oversee and school projects to command. Baths and showers, bedtime rituals, and medications to administer to three children add a little more spice. Every so often I retrieve a runaway, break up fights, mop up spills or pee, and wipe butts that are in and out of diapers. Let's not forget the menu planning, grocery shopping, and pharmacy runs. Dentists, doctors, phone calls, caseworkers... I could go on and on and on...
     I guess it's okay to be a bit unmotivated. I just needed to see the reasons why listed in front of me. And here comes one of those reasons.
    Christeal is naked for the fourth time today. She thinks it's great fun to take off her diapers. This morning I sent Zack downstairs to get her out of bed. He came back upstairs, arms empty and laughing, "I'm not gettin' that. I walked in her room and saw her naked butt in the air. I don't want to hold a naked baby."
     So today, in addition to everything else, I washed Christeal's bedding because she peed on everything. I'd better go put a cover on her waterworks before she springs another leak. And then I'll pursue that motivational issue some more... right into my chair.
    

It Starts

     Well here it goes. I'm attempting another blog in addition to The Fourth Gift. While my Ian blog satisfies my need to complain and praise my seven-year-old, it doesn't do much for just me. As a wife, woman, sister, and friend, and mother to four other children, I have a lot of expressing to do. I'm not a great journal writer, but I love to write personal essays. Some of you have read my first book, My Midlife Crisis... at 33?. I'm in the beginning stages of self-publishing this amazing work of talent and inspiration (this is where we all snort), and it is my plan to make it available for sale here on this blog.
     I've toyed a lot with the idea of this second blog. Part of me thinks I should compile all my thoughts into another book and part of me feels that it's easier and less pressure to just express myself right here. But you know what?
     I can do both.
     Two years ago I started writing another collection of essays detailing my many humorous health issues. It's begging completion. I'm hoping that by publicly stating this fact, it will serve as a motivator and get my lazy butt off facebook and on to more productive things.
     Writing is my passion and a huge part of my world. It keeps me sane, grounded, clear-headed, and happy. Blogging is so good for me. It's like an electronic journal and I don't have to worry about losing it, having the kids scribble in it or rip out pages, and the writer's cramp is minimal. I feel that writing in my blogs helps to free brain space so that I have more mental power to write novels and humorous essays.
     With all that said, I am now committed. To the blogs and the books. It's time to make it all happen and accomplish goals I set seven years ago. But first I need to get Ian out of the shower, put Christeal in the tub, clean up dinner, rotate some laundry and fold some more, and try to attempt a quick pick up before the kid's bedtime in an hour. After that... who knows? The possibilities are mine to mold.