The Coda.

That's serious musician talk for a fancy and special ending.

Kiki and I decided to drive through Wendy's for lunch yesterday.

Imagine my surprise when our food was delivered by the heinous conductor.

"Look!" he said. "It's the accompanist!" which only lent credibility to my theory that he has never bothered to learn my name.

I called Bruce on the way home. I know I am a horrible person for admitting this, but I was secretly pleased that this man is working in a land of grease. I'm a small person because this information made me feel better for some strange and terrible reason.

My smug feelings didn't last long. Kiki's Hamburger Kid's Meal came up missing the HAMBURGER. She was angry and cried and was not consolable.

Guess I wasn't the only one who felt a little better yesterday.

Touche, conductor.

This means war.

Please Protect My Fragile Ego

I made the not good decision to accompany a men's barbershop group. I've nothing against the group (although barbershop is not one of my favorites), it's just that I really should have given a little more thought to other commitments I have in my life before agreeing to take on one more thing. But, what's done is done, at this point.

I accompany a lot, some might say too much. Now with the additional 2 songs I just agreed too, I have 15 holiday pieces to learn between now and mid-December. Some are easy, some are going to take a little work, and one is the "Hallelujah Chorus" which is causing me to have loose stools. So, the barbershop piece slipped to the bottom of my priority list because I have had bigger fish to fry.

I went to my first rehearsal last week, and although I had run through the piece a few times, I had only played the last page once or twice but I wasn't too worried about it because it was, as I said, our first rehearsal. I'll sum up and say that the conductor wasn't too pleased with me and didn't bother hiding it. It kind of left a bad taste in my mouth but I tried to push that aside and did spend a little bit more time on the piece this week, so while certainly not completely polished, I thought that the progress was quite acceptable, especially considering that the performance isn't for a month.

I don't know why I tried to convince myself that the second rehearsal would be any better. The conductor actually stopped a 30 person choir to point out (in front of everyone) that he thought I was playing a SINGLE NOTE wrong with my left hand. He felt I was adding an extra one. I tried to lighten the mood by saying, "I'm having a enough of a time with the notes that are actually written on the page that I can almost certainly say that I'm not adding in extras." It was not well received. He also feels I can't keep the beat, and anyone who knows me will know that THAT is a ridiculous accusation. I just don't know his beat, becase he gets so into the awesomeness of men singing 4 part harmony that he stops conducting altogether and just sings along. He made a big point of running through the last two pages multiple times "for the sake of our accompanist." The whole thing had me so frazzled I couldn't have played the song right if my life had depended on it.

Well, I never. I don't know what to do with this guy. I'm trying to see things from his perspective, because he doesn't know me and (most importantly) doesn't know that I ALWAYS have my songs ready. But on the flip side, I am not helped by public criticism. I get that music is subjective and I'm happy to take feedback along the lines of "The tempo is a little faster than that," or "We are going to take a breath here so give us time for that," but to have someone stop a choir to point out that the accompanist hit a wrong note is ridiculous and I find it very humiliating.

Maybe the conductor fancies himself to be a "Serious Musician." If that's the case, then I'd like to point out that "Serious Musicians" probably wouldn't be caught dead singing a song with the lyrics, "Rock! Mary rock! Rock the cradle in glory!"

I'm just saying.

What I also should say is that the only reason I didn't up and walk out last night was that the 30 men actually singing in the choir have been unfailingly polite and appreciative. I'm going to need to suck it up and reframe before next's weeks rehearsal. And retrain my left hand and also put a conductor-approved metronome in my head.

Stomach Irritation. Bowel Elimination. Sleep Deprivation.

There's a reason that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture. It is terrible, truly terrible, at least for me.

I am a sleep Nazi. Ideally I require at least 7 to 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep. Eight hours spread throughout the night doesn't "count" for me. I need dreams, REM, and sleep so deep that restoration happens. I get up extremely early; I go to bed moderately early. Those who know me best don't dare call after 9:00 p.m., but also know that a 7:00 a.m. phone call will not only be answered, but in all likelihood I will have already worked out, showered, and eaten breakfast. I used Babywise on both my children because I wanted them to sleep all night: not so they would feel rested, not so they might gain a few IQ points, not because it's developmentally appropriate, but because I love a good night's sleep.

Lovely sleep hasn't been in the cards for me the last few days. Kiki woke me in the wee hours of Sunday morning with first, sobbing, then those horrible words, "I think I might throw up." On the sliding scale of ways I like to be woken up, with "Delicate sunlight awakes me naturally after 10 hours of happy dreams in a perfectly temperate room" at the top, and "House Fire" at the bottom, the barf-alarm is indeed above "House Fire" but still below "Air Raid." I only hope that in the event of an actual air raid or house fire that I can react with the lightning speed and clarity of thought that I can muster when racing to get my kid to the toilet before they puke in their beds or on me. The remainder of the morning was a haze of half-sleep and 20 yard dashes to the bathroom, right up until my church meetings started and Bruce took over.

(Sidebar: Every night I ask the girls what the "Rose" and "Thorn" were for the day, essentially the best and worst part of their day. Kiki said, "My thorn was when I frowed up. My rose was when I stopped frowing up.")

Sunday night was not much better: Bruce had an early flight for work Monday morning. He likes to sleep in a cold (not cool) room, and his idea of a temperature compromise is to not run the ceiling fan when he leaves the back door open and it is 40 degrees out. I was trying to sacrifice so that HE could have a good night's sleep before his early flight, but I don't know that he slept any better and I froze my can off all night.

Then last night, Kate woke me saying, "I think I have diarrhea because when I pee the water is brown." So today has been a repeat of Sunday only it's the other end of the other kid.

A word of warning: Perhaps you shouldn't call after SEVEN o'clock tonight.

Grown-Up Girl

Kate has seemed so grown-up to me lately. She has been loving first grade and has been making lots of friends. She started piano lessons. (No. Not with me. Mothers shouldn't teach their own kids piano. My dear friend Steph has taken Kate as her ONLY piano student.) Kate is in dance and gymnastics and really tries and listens to her teachers. And, most of the time, she is a good big sister. Sometimes, Kiki gets sick of being bossed around and things erupt.

I went to the first Parent/Teacher Conference of the year, and Mrs. Hatch had lots of positive things to say about her, but the thing that made me the happiest was that she remarked that Kate was always so respectful and that she always uses "Please" and "Thank-you." It's probably because my mother was an educator, but rude kids horrify me, especially in an educational setting, so I was very happy to hear that Kate is so polite.

Kate is having many opinions about her clothes and her hair. We are working on matching- she definitely has her own ideas about what looks good together. She wants to grow her hair out long now, and she loves fancy headbands. She just lost her 8th tooth and I'm certain that braces are in the future for her.

We finally got her new bed, so the girls are officially in their own rooms now (They were sharing for the longest time...but...when you have 2 kids and a 6 bedroom house, making your kids share a room seems a little ridiculous.). Grandpa Jack took us to pick up the new bed and set it up, and Kate wrote him a note that said, "Dear Grandpa, Thanks for my new bed. I love it. You are the best grandpa. Love, Kate."

What interests me though, is that even though there is a part of her that wants to be grown-up, there is another part of her that still clings. I volunteered in her class on Friday, and when I left, she completely came apart and wound up coming home with me. The girls are in Pocatello with my mom this weekend, and they day they left Kate alternated between "I'm so excited to leave!" and "Mom! Where are you?" She stresses if I am even ONE minute late to pick her up from school.

I hope she always needs me just a little bit.

Hedging My Bets

Before I had children I imagined that I would be the kind of mom who had infinite patience, vast spiritual experiences to draw upon, and timely wisdom ready to dispense at a moment's notice. I really thought I would be like Ma Ingalls only mixed with 21st century awesomeness. My future children and I would take leisurely strolls in the neighborhood and chat about the environment, or we would create meaningful art projects together, and at every turn we would express heartfelt emotions.

I went to dinner last night with my bonus sister, Amber, and we had a lovely talk about our parents. I shared with Amber the complete delusion I shared with you above, and I have to say that the truth on motherhood is this: The vast majority of interactions I have with my children don't even come close to what I imagined them to be. Many are to do with logistics: Put your shoes on; Eat your breakfast; School starts in 10 minutes; It's church day- put on a dress. Many are expressions of love or validation, and the only thing that keeps me from feeling like Ma Ingalls is that the sentiments expressed are almost exclusively not reciprocated. (Oh, I'm sure the feelings are there, but kids aren't very good at validating their moms.) Many are concepts my kids need to know about life but that would never be the subject of the Norman Rockwell painting I fantasized about: Don't pick your nose; 5 squares of toilet paper are adequate for all but the most extreme wiping situations; Chew with your mouth closed. And frankly, there's a small number of interactions that I hope my kids just forget we had. I'm not that infinitely patient person, and I should have known that. And all this leaves just a small number of moments that were the kind I dreamed about.

I wasn't complete delusional- I knew motherhood was going to come with runny noses and whining and stinky bums, but I merely underestimated the frequency with which I would be required to deal with them. I honestly thought that there would be many more quiet moments for me to stroke their hair or tell them about my feelings on life.

What Amber and I talked about was that it is impossible to predict when these moments are going to occur. This is why I am a stay at home mom. Yeah, I'm an awesome housekeeper, cook, and schedule maker, but really I'm just hedging my bets. I'm just praying that when these opportunities to have a REAL impact on my kids come around that I am ready and am somewhere in the proximity. It seems so lame that I admit that I am eagerly waiting for the smallest opportunity to share, but I am. It could be in the car on the way home from school, or at Target, or when I tuck them in tonight, but if 99 interactions based on logistics gets me 1 meaningful exchange, I think it will be worth it.

TOU Pic

Liza has had a picture of us together at a race a few years ago in her kitchen. It's her "skinny picture" and it's very motivating for her. Unfortunately her skinny picture was my fat picture and so I've been begging her to change it. For my birthday she gave me this picture from the Top of Utah Half that we ran together. Now her skinny pic is also MY skinny pic. Whew.

I know that the TOU was a while ago but I'm just getting around to this.

Also, check out my insane leg musculature. Why isn't that happening to my abs? I'd really like to know. Should I ever achieve a washboard stomach I can personally guarantee I'll be putting a bikini picture on this blog so that someday when I am old and wrinkly I can show my kids how hot I was.

We Confer.

Conference weekend always seems to come just in time. After last week's (successful!) Primary Program, I was ready for a weekend free from my usual Sunday worries. Merrilee had Grandma down from Wanship, so we kids got together on Saturday night.

Maybe your family was perfect, but when I was growing up, my thoughts regarding my siblings weren't always charitable. They were more along the lines of: "I am going to kill you!" or "Stay away from my clothes!" or "You people. If I never see you again it will be too soon." It's funny what a little distance and personal growth (mine) will do for relationships, because now I feel that my brothers, sister, and their respective spouses are some of my favorite people in the world.

We started with dinner.

Of course, it descended into a full blown wrestling match faster than you could say, "Sibling Rivalry." Liza started it by bragging about how she was the ward arm wrestling champ (She lives in Idaho. Do you need an additional explanation?).

Porter said, "I beat up Charlie's sister. Not the little one." George had hurt his foot and wore Merrilee's therapeutic sandals around.
Courtnie and Kiki.Whitney, Angie, Me.

Merrilee, Kiki, Liza, Grandma

Liza, Jill, Me

Sorry about the rotation. Caption reads:

"Kiki masters the art of complete camouflage."

Dave, Grandma, Porter, Dan, Eric.

Whitney

Angie and I worked and worked to get Whitney to take her first steps, but Whitney only wanted to walk AWAY from me and TOWARD Angie. I tried not to take it personally. Angie is pretty likable.

Me, Dave, Liza, Dan.

With Grandma

Grandma has Alzheimer's. Someday I am going to try and get my feelings out about that, but I am not quite ready. She is in the earlier stages: She know all of the grandkids, but things like the day of the week are hard for her. Also, she kept asking if Dan and Courtnie (his 13 year old step-daughter) were married. George may be out of her will since he is constantly toying with her telling her that it is Tuesday when it is really Saturday, or that she had been there a week already when she had only come the day before. I only note this because someday, George, you will lose your mind too, and I am going to get you.