I am Moleless

Is that even a word? Would it make more sense if I typed it "mole-less"? Does it really matter when you're writing about such things? Which brings me to why I am writing about such things: I seem to be experiencing as of late, the apparent removal of any and all such things that protrude from my body (thankfully, that disqualifies my boobs). It seems that during my tonsillectomy, the cute little mole on the back of my neck was damaged to the point of danglement. (Again, not a word, but an effective made-up word nonetheless.) I was saddened by said mole's trauma, but equally heartened by its heroic attempts at re-attatchment. For two weeks, it tried in vain to regain its composure and rightful place on the back of my neck. To no avail. When at a follow-up appointment I learned that my little mole must go, I promptly asked if I could have another zipped off too. I know, it sounds heartless, but speaking as a mole-free woman, I can honestly say that I miss my moles whilst being thankful that they are no longer with/on me. And so my tiny, benign friends, I salute you:

back-of-the-neck mole + necklaces = cancer

For you, back-of-my-neck mole, I recall the day when I was all but eight years old, and my mother warned me that you and necklaces should not mix. I shall miss your soft, bumpy self, but I shall wear great strings of heavy pearls about my neck knowing that you are in a happier place and no longer posing an unsubstantiated cancer risk.

wearing birkenstocks everyday for 18 months + tropical sun = cancer

(Photo taken with socks on with Courtney in mind. You're welcome.)

And for you pinky-toe-on-my-right-foot mole, I will remember you for appearing upon my "beautiful upon the mount," recently returned-missionary feet. A souvenir from the tropical sun that set in you in place to grow rapidly and rub on my shoes occasionally. May you bask in the tropical sun beyond.

I am Homesick

Where can I get my hands on a pair of these?

There's no place like home.

I am on Drugs

...Which is why this post doesn't really have to make sense. After putting it off for two years, I recently had my tonsils removed. It's true what they say about having it done when you're an adult: slow death.

Some are under the mistaken impression that a tonsillectomy means two solid weeks of comfort food. Not so. Ice cream creates phlegm. Blended soup looks like dished up diarrhea. One can only take so much Jell-O. And popsicles just aren't that great if you're not ten. My only true source of comfort has come in the form of a gigantic white bottle of liquid pain medication.

Having never taken pain killers before and (more importantly) having grown up loud and proud in the Nancy Reagan era, I've always "just said no" to drugs. This time however, Nancy and I have parted ways. This time, I have stepped over into the sweet abyss that is Roxicet one half hour before trying to force something as simple as water down the tube of open flesh that used to be my throat.

♥

Now all of you red-ribbon wearers, do not despair. There will come a day (give me a week or so) where I will be able to swallow mashed potatoes without shrieking. When that day comes, I will happ'ly put down my 500 ml bottle of syrupy, red liquid morphine- and walk away forever.

Until that day, you can find us here:

Just say yes.

I'm with Her

January 1979

When you grow up in the same house and you're with your siblings everyday, it's easy to take for granted that you know them. You have experiences and family in common, and though you're not the same, you're close. Inevitably when that whole process of "growing up" occurs, and time and space intervene, the closeness stays, but the "everyday" element doesn't. Which is why when Courtney told me she was coming to visit, I couldn't wait.

One of my favorite things about having siblings is getting to know them in different stages of life. It always amazes me that inside of each family member are streaks of individuality that run the scope of talent, thought, and creativity. For me, being far away from family can be hard, so a visit from my sister felt like Christmas come two months early.

On arrival day, I was smiling before I even saw her and even (or especially?) in her jet-lagged state, she was hilarious. She has a gift for taking the weight out of situations that don't merit it, and giving weight to situations that do. She made me feel home and happy and almost fourteen again. We laughed and I cried and we talked about life. She helped me feel like me and find a few pieces that I had misplaced. We watched our kiddos and saw ourselves in them. And when I got a chance to peek into her everyday, I stood in awe. Not just for her perfect Reds, or because of the food she cooks, or the sacrifices that she's made- but because of who she is.

(Still hanging on to her.)

It was so fun, to see my sister.

I am an Elementary School

So I'm teaching the kids at home this year.

Some call it "homeschooling." That still sounds a little too crazy-Christian to me, so for now I'm sticking with something more like "doing school at home" or "domicile teaching." Now if you are like most, as you are reading this you are thinking, "Hmm. I wonder why." Me too. Not that I don't enjoy domicile teaching. I do. I just don't have a simple answer to that question. Why or how do any parents in unique circumstances make such decisions? Does it suffice to say that after much study, thought and prayer (I know, but still not to the "crazy" level), we just knew that it was right? Would it be equally crazy to say that there is a part of me that feels like I've been being prepared for the this stage of life for years? And what about loving it?- Because even after only a couple of weeks, we do.

The Mascotts' curriculum for the 2010-2011 school year:

(M-F) Saxon Math

(M-F) Reading

(M-F) Writing

(M-F) Grammar

(M-F) Spelling

(M, W, F) History: the Ancients

(T, Th) Science: the human body, plants and animals

(M, W, F + Rosetta Stone) Latin/Spanish

(T, Th + Rosetta Stone) Latin/German

Music: piano, guitar, recorder

Art: art history, drawing and sewing

Home Ec: lunch time and snack recipes, plus taking turns as sous chef

And there you have it.

I am Submerged

I am Mesmerized

This was the washing machine in our apartment in Ukraine. It's a good thing we don't have one. I don't know what it is about these things, but the minute I'd see it there in motion, I'd stop. And stare. The round and round. I couldn't tear my eyes away. I may as well have had a dangling watch swinging in front of my eyes, or a tranquilizer dart in my hind quarters because I was hooked...and soothed. I loved it.

I am not a Slavic Beauty

After spending 10 days among the women of Ukraine, I became sure of two things:

1. They won the gene pool lottery and-

2. I am no Ukrainian.

They are beautiful. All of them. And that fact made me sure of two more things:

1. I have no idea why my husband chose me after looking at that caliber of woman for two years and-

2. There's nothing that a little dark lipstick and high heels can't improve.

I am Marker Material

Some men write music

Some men write poetry.

My man writes on the bathroom wall.

I am an Essayist

I entered an essay contest in college, and almost won. The essay I wrote was called "Tapestry." And it was good. I remember sitting at my computer for days and being duly conscious of the words I was writing and the ease with which they came. I wrote of a tapestry and how it is made by weaving threads together; the completed cloth telling the story of all of the individual threads woven into one.

My essay pulled at three of my most bold and colorful threads. Relationship experiences that had shaped who I was. It told of their place in my tapestry, how they came to be woven within it, and how they changed the face of it.

I loved writing the essay and was I pleased when I found out that it was one of five finalists. I knew however, that it could not, and should not, win. While my essay may have been judged as interesting, entertaining or even structurally sound, my essay was not complete.

It could have been that while the three relationships I wrote of were important, they were too bold within my young tapestry and they did not yet have the balance of being braced against newer and equally vibrant threads. And perhaps my essay simply came too soon. Too soon for my young author self to see how the essay was to end.

Looking back now, I see the tapestry from the perspective that comes from years of additional weaving. I can still see those colorful threads, but now their boldness blends much more beautifully and subtly with the other colors in me.

To my young self, I am grateful, for seeing the importance of those threads. I did not have the perspective then to see what I know now, but even though I wasn't yet able to draw all the conclusions, I still entered the contest and wrote about their place. All those years ago, I wasn't able to give my essay a proper conclusion.-

-I wonder if I could now.

I am the Black Sheep...

I am the Object of Affection

Merci,

mon Cherie.

I am just a Girl

Some days I still feel just like this.

I am a Composter

I'm not quite this good yet.

But I'm getting there.

I am a Mother

For my oldest child, this requires compassion, for she feels things deeply and needs a good listener to guide her while she talks to understand herself. For my next child, this requires tenderness, for she is as delicate as a flower and blooms with ease and beauty that would be lost to a harsh environment. For my son, being a mother requires love and strength, because leading out and showing love come naturally to him and a balance of the two is masculinity. For my baby, I am a Siren, for music is her language and without my song to guide her, how would she find her own? And for the possibility of children who live yet in my Spirit and my mind's eye, being a mother requires something of sacrifice and trust and a place such as this, to keep the things that are me, so that I will have more of myself left to give them when they need me.

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right. I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with a passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

I am a Laundress

I am Angel Kissed

Freckle: (noun) any of the small brownish spots on the skin that are caused by deposition of pigment and that increase in number and darken on exposure to sunlight.

Up until second grade I felt gloriously blessed by my "angel kisses." Although (in hindsight), I may have had the sneaking suspicion that my mother was compensating for something when she gave me an extra sweet smile to accompany her explanation of why I had freckles, I accepted it: I was unusually blessed by Heaven. Who wouldn't want to believe that hundreds of angels loved them enough leave their mark?

-Enter Ashley Salls.-

She was one of those girls. Long blond (perfectly parted) hair, blue eyes, frilly clothes and matching bows. I remember well a day when Mrs. Donaldson asked the two of us to run to the office for her. On the way, Ashley Salls stretched out her long, tan arms (with blond arm hairs to boot) and asked me why I had all those FRECKLES all over me. When I opened my mouth to explain to her that I was exceptionally loved in Heaven, I instantly knew that no one would believe that my freckles were angels' marks. Especially not Ashley Salls.

Spangle: (noun) any small bright object or spot; (verb) to decorate or sprinkle with.

Luckily with time (and several failed attempts at staying out in the sun long enough that all of my freckles would grow together into one big, perfectly tan freckle) I realized that the key to my spangled happiness was not more sun exposure, but (you guessed it) accepting myself- freckles and all. Call them what you will, freckles, sun kisses, angel kisses, age spots or benign melanosis, choosing to see myself as "spangled with angel kisses" instead of simply "covered in freckles" has helped me understand that I really am exceptionally loved in Heaven. And thank you, Ashley Salls.

"A face without freckles is like a sky without stars." -Natasha Bedingfield

I am a Roadside Scavenger

Is there a more delicate way of saying it? I suppose so. Dumpster diver? Treasure hunter? Maybe. More accurate though? Nay. When you drive up your lane on "large refuse" (direct translation) day, catch a glimpse of lime green goodness, turn your car around and politely ask your German neighbor if he is the owner of the bright green beauty there on the side of the road- only one term fits. You are a roadside scavenger. And when he nods and smiles and asks you if you want it (and cheers erupt from the backseat), you are proud to be.

Introducing our brand new (free) conquest -complete with ottoman-

the Lima Bean.

One man's trash is another girl's treasure.

I am a Believer of Faust philosophy

“Women today are encouraged to have it all – all simultaneously, money, travel, marriage, motherhood and a separate career in the world...But, my dear granddaughters, you cannot do everything well at the same time. You cannot be a 100 percent wife, a 100 percent mother, a 100 percent church worker, a 100 percent career person, and a 100 percent public-service person at the same time. How can all of these roles be coordinated?

Doing things sequentially—filling roles one at a time at different times—gives a woman the opportunity to do each thing well in its time and to fill a variety of roles in her life...She may fit more than one career into the various seasons of life. She need not try to sing all of the verses of her song at the same time."

-James E. Faust (emphasis added)

"In my opinion, the teaching, rearing, and training of children requires more intelligence, intuitive understanding, humility, strength, wisdom, spirituality, perseverance, and hard work than any other challenge we might have in life."

— James E. Faust, stories from my life

I am Forever in Blue Jeans

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

*photo used courtesy of nieniedialouges, thanks Nie!

I am "Like"able

A good friend (and fellow Coloradoan) once pegged it as my Colorado accent. Maybe...and perhaps for that reason, I should be remiss to let it go, but I'm not. I'm like, totally not.

At it's extreme, it's obnoxiously second nature and purely annoying. When telling a story, I come into my own and it flows out of me- a demon I can't control: My "like" habit.

The worst is when I hear my one of my children repeat it; I can't help but cringe. Cute at first. But like a fourteen-year-old with a lisp, it's gotta go.

Janice always was my favorite. Now I know why.

I am a Restorer of Fine Things

I am a chair rehabilitator and I have the triceps to prove it. Along the same lines as a certain house plagued with gold frosted mirrors and a handsome set of lockers, when I saw these two old ladies, I immediately saw their chair beauty within. It only took a few sessions with me and my sandpaper and here they are:

One has been crowned the new "hot seat" at our dinner table (where a certain lucky young man or lady gets to sit and be "it" for the night), and the other is living as I like to say, just sitting around and looking good.

I am a Bag Lady

I have never been friends with "the purse." Give me a bag any day, but please, not a purse. Bags are useful and sturdy. Solid, and slung over a shoulder. Bags are Style. I could find use for a thousand bags, but not a purse. Never a purse. Why? Are purses and bags so different? Just ask Mary Poppins. No, I've never even owned a purse- except maybe during middle school. But everybody's been to middle school, so who can judge?

Yes, bags are for me. They call to me and I hearken. Backpacks, diapers bags, bags slung cross-wise over my shoulder. Can I hold it without it holding me? That's the measure of a bag's creation. Give me a good, rich bag any day. Just don't call it a purse.

His, hers, and the one in between- a birthday present from a friend- made from a sweater.

I am a DECADEnt wife

We're still having fun, and-

You are my north

Olympic skating spins

Umbrellas

Rainbows and calamari

Electric I love yous

Saturday football

Timpanogos Temple

In timacy

Love notes

Late night laughs

Tommy Boy

Hot air balloons

Email

Outside dances

New places

Everything in between

If I would've known that being married to you for this long was going to be this much fun, I would've done it years ago. Happy tenth anniversary my love.

I

love

you!

I am a Sister

One of my sisters made me a pillow that says, "I loved you too much to be your friend, so God let me be your sister." She was younger then. Now she is daring and bold. In many ways, she has gone where no sister has gone before. She is our version of being a girl and a woman all at once. She has always been.

One sister once told me that she loved me more than oxygen. I don't know if she knew at the time how much that meant to me, but I know she does now. Someone once asked how to tell us apart. At the time we rolled our eyes and laughed; little did we know that he was the knowing one. She is smart and wary. She has a keen eye and a quick wit and her still waters are some of the deepest I know.

One warrior sister is both fragile and strong. She once quipped that if straight teeth, pale skin and an ample bosom were all a girl needed to be beautiful in the Austen age, then she had been born in the wrong century. It's not hard to see why my kids preface her name with "hilarious." She taught me everything of the preciousness of life, when she nearly lost her own giving birth to another. Everything about her is beautiful.

One is tall and lithe. Concerted enough to jump into a sea of sisters and swim along. She is right brained and left brained and everything in between. She put on her dancing shoes and kept them on.

Another sister is tenacious and tried. She knows what it means to put someone else first; she has done it all her life. She dreams and then she does. She is everything giving and good. And she never (no not ever), gives up.