Saying Goodbye

My parents are moving to Portugal on Monday, and it's time to say goodbye. I've been in denial for months, pretending for all my worth that they weren't really going away, but calling them and hearing an impersonal voice state the number is no longer working and emptying the house of food has a way of shattering even the most well crafted denials.

The thing with goodbyes is they hurt. It's almost like a practice death, a foreshadowing of a much more lasting separation. A reminder that you squandered precious time and there won't be anymore laughter-filled visits with Mom, or dusty days with Dad spend building a basement and memories. There won't be any more birthday parties for grandkids, or noisy family get-togethers, no more tender moments where they lend me strength with an embrace. At least not for a while.

Goodbyes remind you of what you had and didn't cherish as much as you should. Things like being able to drive to their house if I had a bad day and sit at the kitchen table and just be mommy's little girl again, even if it's only for an hour or so. That's a little hard to do with an ocean between you.

Now, my mind tells me I'm being melodramatic, but my heart cries louder, drowning out the reason. I'm just a little kid again, standing on the steps of school as her mommy drives away on the first day of kindergarten. I know she'll come back, and I'll learn things and have fun while she's gone, but for right now, this moment, I don't care about the pretty colors and friends waiting for me inside the classroom. I just want my mommy to come back and take me home. I want to hear her bustling about and asking me if I cleaned my room. I even want to clean it just for her so I can see that happy smile one more time. I want to climb on my daddy's lap and snuggle into his strength. I want to whisper, "I love you." from five-year-old lips and know there is a life time of years before they leave.

I don't want to say goodbye. Ever.

But I must. And I will stand strong and wear out my Skype connection and long distance card with overuse. It may be hard to hug over emails, but I'll use every bit of power behind my words to convey my love. And I will smile as I wave goodbye to take a portion of the sting away from their hearts. And mine.

And I will be that kindergartner and build myself the biggest countdown chain from construction paper, and Christmas won't have anything on the day Mom and Dad come back. And instead of goodbye, I'll practice saying, "Welcome home."

Just Wiggle Something

One of my goals this year is to slim down a few pounds, but I've run into some problems. One, food and I are close. Really close. Two, I detest being cold, so walking outside in January and February is out of the question. Three, I have a low threshold for boredom, and staring at the wall while trudging on the treadmill for an hour is the definition of boredom. Really it is, I looked it up.

In an effort to still meet my goal and not die of either freezing to a sidewalk or falling asleep while tied to a treadmill, I found Zumba. Boring it is not.



During my first Zumba experience, I tripped over myself, I laughed, and I sweated. A lot. I also earned some sore muscles and a swollen knee, but Zumba is addicting--kind of like chocolate but less fattening. Bonus!

Anywho, I went back for another session and tripped, sweated, and laughed some more. Then I found a Zumba workout on demand with my cable provider. If you can hear cheering, that's me.

It is not my family, though. Why? I asked them to Zumba with me. They declined. I begged them. They stonewalled me. I bribed them with promises of not having to do dishes for several weeks. They looked at me like I was a crazy lady, but did we Zumba? Why yes, we did.

But not without some objections once we turned the TV on and they stared at the Zumba professionals. I heard things like, "I can't move like that!" and "You are crazy!"

I laughed and told them it didn't matter as long as they wiggled something. The thing with Zumba is that you don't start out knowing all the moves, you learn as you go. It takes practice and lots of wiggling. And sweating. And laughing.

How is this related to writing? Easy, if you want to write, you have to wiggle something. You can't look at the professionals and decide you don't move like that, you just need to jump in and feel the music. Then you need to practice and sweat. And you need to keep coming back to it every day. And you need to laugh. A lot. Learn to grin at your mistakes and follow the professionals' leads. In time you'll be the pro.

So, are you wiggling something today?

Family Fun and Autopsies

One more week for the contest. Click here for details. Come on people, you know you want to.

And on to the post.

I've messed up my husband. (I know this must come as a shock to you all. I am so terribly normal after all.) How you ask? I ruined his ability to sit through a movie or a television show and just watch it.

As a writer I can't watch a show without analyzing the plot, studying the characters, and scrutinizing the details. You know, picking it apart to see how it works. Think of it as a movie autopsy. But without the death part--it's cleaner that way, and I don't get blood on my furniture.

Hubby has put up with this for years now, and he held out a long time. He'd say things like, "Can't you just watch it?" And I'd answer with something cheeky. (Again you all must be shocked.)

Last night Kid A, Hubby, and I watched an old SG1 episode. As the show progressed, Kid A and Hubby started dissecting the episode. It was great! They each made comments about the script, the characters and their developing arcs, inconsistencies they noticed, and motivations behind the actions of each character. It was like a show within a show, and I loved every minute of it.

I wanted to throw back my head and say, "Mwahahahahaha! My evil plan is working! I have demented you. You have crossed over to the dark side. Mwahahahaha ha!"

But I didn't. I just grinned to myself and added my own observations. Who said watching TV isn't a good way to get closer as a family? All you need is a little bit of conversation and an autopsy or two. Now go forth and do. :)

Say What?

My contest is still on. Don't forget to drop a comment and facebook, twitter, or blog about it for extra points.

Now on to today's post.

Saturday we took the whole fam to our church's Christmas party. Think lots of smiling people, lights, and kids bursting with excitement as they waited for Santa to make an appearance. When he appeared, the fat man in red disappeared behind a wall of children and the waiting began. Picture this



but in color, and with more children all hyped on candy, pizza, and good old fashioned yearning. Oh, and it's in the church. Filled with church people. Lots of church people.

Now place me, my kids, and hubby smack dab in the middle of it. And this is what I heard:

Awesome neighbor, who always asks about my books and knows I've been trying to off the bad guy, yelling over crowd noise to my hubby: Hey, did your wife kill that guy yet?

This is what I saw on the faces of about 100 church going neighbors:



Hubby, who didn't see the above reaction: Actually, she killed him today.

Every head swiveled to stare at Hubby. And this happened again:



Awesome neighbor, who also didn't notice the staring throng: Really? Did she blow him up?

Hubby: No. She stabbed him.

Now picture awesome neighbor giving me fist bump and asking if I used an exploding sword.

It was super funny to watch everyone's reaction. It was also super fun to finally kill the guy off. He had it coming for a long time.

How was your weekend? Did you have any say what moments?

Inspiration, Brushing Your Teeth, and Spit

I sat down at the computer to blog this morning, and this is what I thought: Ummmm.

I'm ashamed to say that it continued for quite some time. I typed three different blog posts and deleted them all. Why? Because they were lame. Very Lame. Lame with a capital L. You are most welcome for erasing them and sparing you the pain.

My three failed posts got me thinking about inspiration. I needed some. So, I called my sister and asked her to give me a writing prompt. She paused, and all I could hear was a swish-brush-mumble kind of sound.

Again, for the second time, I said, "Ummmm?"

She said, "Brushing your teeth."

I silently said, "Say what?"

She rinsed and expectorated. And I had it. The answer to inspiration.

Spittle.

Yup, you heard me.

I thanked her and hung up the phone. I didn't blog about that. Yet. I went and brushed my teeth, cleaned my tub, took a hot bath, and thought about spit and writing. A funny thing happened. All the ummmm left me, and my mind opened up. Ideas started flowing for my novel. I even had an ah ha moment. Pretty cool stuff.

Why? Because I stepped away for a short time and let my mind relax and ponder spittle while my body cleaned the tub. Sometimes we need to let the creative process simmer, or in this case lather, before we set it down in hard words. Every story needs to be created in the mind before it goes in print. I'll remember this the next time I have an ummmm moment, but for now, I'm off to put my new thoughts into my novel.

So, I owe my sis a thank you for getting me to think about spit. I now have a clean tub, clean teeth, and clean ideas for my novel. Oh,and a blog post dedicated to spit.

What gives you inspiration?

Memories of Sword Fighting and Cornfields

My whole family, including all the brothers and sisters, spouses (Except Joycelyn, who came by iPhone because she had to work. We missed you.), and all the nieces and nephews, gathered at my parents' house last night to open their mission call

For you non-Utah peeps, a mission is where a young man or woman, or retired couple, volunteer to spend eighteen months to two years teaching religion somewhere in the world for the Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints. They don't know where they'll be sent, so opening the call is a big thing. It could be Russia or Idaho, France or Brazil, or almost anywhere in the world. My parents are heading to Portugal! So exciting! (Even if I'll miss them terribly.)

Anywho, while we were there, the nephews and some of the nieces discovered cornstalk sword fighting. What is that, you say? It's where this



becomes this



And yes, you can wear a kilt. Just saying.

I sat and watched all these little kids with their cornstalk swords and remembered the days when I was the one with my own sword, fighting to the imaginary death with my four brothers and two sisters. We came in every night with welts and bruises from our battles, but it was fun. So very fun.

The next day we'd rush home from school and cut a new weapon. We'd disperse through the fields to check our secret bases hidden in the apple trees or irrigation ditches, then the wars began. We reenacted every light saber duel in Star Wars, and every sword fight in all the pirate books and fantasy novels I'd ever read. Then we invented our own personas, and we put Captain Jack to shame.

Can you hear the laughter and the thunk thunk of cornstalk swords raised in battle? Do you smell the sun on heat-dried grass or taste the apples plucked right from the trees. I can. And I miss it all. All the grass stains and scraped knuckles from over-zealous duels, perching in the trees, gorging on fruit while waiting for the enemy to show themselves. No wonder I write fantasy. Maybe it takes me back to the days when I lived it all with a cornstalk sword, six siblings, and my imagination.

More Ham

Today I told my six-year-old she was so sweet I could eat her. She leveled me with one of those are-you-kidding-me-because-you-have-no-idea-how-this-world-works-and-I-do kind of stares. Then with a straight face she said, "Eat Kid B instead. He has more ham."

I choked back a laugh and tried to keep my face neutral. It was hard, but I managed it before I asked, "Why does Kid B have more ham than you?"

She graced me with the same are-you-kidding-me stare and said, "Because he's bigger than me."

This got me thinking about having more ham. But not in the Oh-my-gosh-I-just-stepped-on-the-scale-and-I-have-more-ham kind of way. I'm talking the little extra umph some people seem to have. The pizazz kind. It's like Alice in the movie Alice In Wonderland. We're talking muchness with a rabbit kind of ham.



And I want some. In every aspect of my life. Writing, momming, wifeing, even cleaning (crazy talk, I know). I want to attack my life and have it be ham. Loads and loads of ham. We're talking this:



not this:



So, today is the day that I will get more ham. How about you? Do you want more ham?

How To Have A Romantic Anniversary or How To Torture Your True Love--If You're a Girl

Hubby and I celebrated our eighteenth wedding anniversary over the weekend. Not only does this make me sound really old, but what we did makes me sound even older--and just a fraction cracked.

Don't believe me? You might after I'm done writing this. And sorry in advance to my mom and hubby. Maybe.

So, what romantic activity did we engage in for our anniversary? A secluded retreat to a condo without the kids? A leisurely stroll along the fall colored mountain trails? A romantic candle-lit dinner? Um, no. We went bra shopping. Yup. My hubby loves me that much. It went something like this:

Me, showing hubby a newspaper advertisement for said clothing sale: Hey! Look! A sale!

Hubby: Okay?

Me: You want to go?

Hubby, just staring at me like I was a little cracked. (This happens more than you'd think it would. Strange.)

Me: Will you come with me?

Hubby: Do I have to stand in the bra department?

Me: No. You can go to housewares if you want.

Hubby secretly rolling his eyes. (It's secret because his actual physical eyes didn't roll, but I sensed the inner, mental rolling, because I can feel stuff like that.): Sure.

AND after I tortured him in the bra deptartment, Hubby took me to the book store. I left with two new books. Then he took me to dinner where he said this, "I have great respect for you."

And I said, "Respect?"

And he said, "Based on fear. I'm afraid you might bite me and I'll bleed out through my jugular."

See, isn't that romantic? And, yes mom, I am sorry for posting about bra shopping.

And, (just so I can start another sentence with and) I love you my awesome hubby.

Racquetball or Racket ball

My family has been on a short vacation. We've lazed around, indulged in the water, and turned a bright shade of red--even after repeated applications of 50 block sunscreen. Seriously, shouldn't that be like wearing a lead shirt? How can you burn through that? But anyway, we also played racket ball. I know some of you out there are shaking your heads and tisking away at my spelling. It might sound something like this:

"Racket ball? Doesn't she know how to spell? I thought she wanted to be a writer. Good Grief!" Accompanied by much head shaking and eye rolling.

But, I've officially re-named racquetball racket ball. Webster be darned. Why? Because it's loud. And because I think there was a bit of cheating involved in our game. And because I can. Here is a play-by-play of my very first ever game of racket ball.

Hubby: Do you want to play racquetball? (He spells it the old way because he is unenlightened.)

Me: Um. Is that the thing like tennis but in a small, stuffy room?

Hubby: Yes. It's fun.

Me: Define fun.

Hubby: I--

Me cutting him off: Never mind. My dad used to play that. He came home with fist-sized bruises. That doesn't sound fun to me.

Hubby: You won't get bruises.

Me: This involves a ball, right?

Hubby nodding.

Me nodding, too: Right. Bruises. Cramps. Ice packs. Crutches. Need I go on? (Can you guess my past brilliance at sports? Yup. I'm that good.)

Hubby handing me a racquet: It will be fun.

Me staring at racket: What do I do with this?

Hubby: Hit the ball.

Me ducking for cover as blue ball pings and boings around the room: You do realize you married a girl? A non sporty kind of girl?

Hubby smiling: Well, I do hope so. The girl part I mean.

Here's the crazy thing. It was fun. I don't think I even got bruised. Sore, yes, but it was so worth it. Now, this might seem like a small thing--me playing racket ball--but it's not. You see, I stink at sports. All of them. That whole hand-eye coordination thing never happened to me. Ever. But last night, I hit the ball.

More than once. And now I want my own racket ball court. Too bad that won't be happening. Sigh. But a girl can dream can't she?

What new things have you tried lately?