The Sound and the Fury

Thanks, everybody, for the encouragement.  I truly appreciate it.  My brother Trajan suggested that my last post was either about major burnout or "a cry for attention."  Ha ha.  I told him it was both.  :)  But I didn't mean to sound like I was reprimanding anyone for not commenting.  I don't comment either; I just assume you know I'm there a lot of the time.  Oh, the hypocrisy!  My friend Jacy suggested the little boxes at the end of the post where you can click "like, funny, or I get it."  I like that idea!

I do think we live in a world that is way too focused on instant gratification.  I am the worst, too!  I routinely stop the microwave with 2 or 3 seconds left to go because it seems like it's taking FOREVER!  Something is wrong with that.  I check email at red lights, I read a book in the school pickup line, and I didn't know this morning that Ari was going on a field trip to a baseball game, because I'm always thinking about something else when she's talking.  I know, it's sad. But fifth grade girls tend to ramble!

When I was a high school girl, I had a spot behind my parents' house where I would go to write in my journal.  Down into the gully, across a barbed-wire fence, up a steep hill, along a dirt road and up into the low branches of a sturdy tree.  There I would sit and think, and write.  Even that simple act takes a form of discipline that seems lost, at least for me.  I never go anywhere without my phone.  If I do, I miss a call from the violin shop or a text from my kids at school, or I miss an email that I should respond to right away.  Or I see something worth taking a picture of and wish I had my phone.  So I'm not saying all this technology is bad.  On the contrary, I love it.  I love how much more I'm able to do, and with such ease!  I can find out anything within seconds, just by asking my phone.  I can stay in touch much better with people I love, and life is just plain more fun.

Collectively, though, we are lacking the quiet during which the divine can really speak to us, and I, for one, sometimes tell myself it doesn't matter.  I know God is there and I pray, but I don't listen.  I can't hear.  Life is so fast-paced and so instantaneous, we can get caught up in how many people "like our status" and before we know it, we find ourselves wondering if anyone is really out there.

I didn't know that this was the direction my blog post would take when I sat down to write a wry little explanation of yesterday's post.  But here I am, and I would like you to know that I know God is out there.  He never "likes our status," he never comments on our blog, he doesn't do hashtags, there is no @ in front of His name, but when we turn off the noise and turn to Him, he is there, loving us like He always did, no matter what, and always.

Lonely Here

Have you ever been to a mall that was past its prime?  Trolley Square...the outlets in Barstow...and now the Gateway in downtown Salt Lake.  Piped-in music, employees from various stores scurrying about, and...emptiness.  It's depressing!  I noticed it last week when I took the littles to the Discovery Museum.  Ptolemy wanted to go into the Build-a-Bear Workshop, which was completely empty, save for the dozens of forlorn, unstuffed bears and a single, desperate employee. A far cry from the throngs we encountered back in the day, when we celebrated birthdays and special events with a new bear friend.

That empty feeling is how I'm starting to feel about this blog.  There is never anyone here.  I mean, I can see that you're still here, but you're so quiet!  I'm thinking blogging just isn't "where it's at" anymore.  I still love to write every day, and I love how it builds a family history and fleshes out, over time, a personality for each of my children and Scott.  Mostly I love the writing.  But I'm lonely!  I suppose I love the interaction, too, that happens when someone can relate to something I've posted, or when it turns out to be funny or poignant.  Without that community, I lose the desire that compels me to sit down and write something, and then the blog gets boring and then everyone leaves and goes to City Creek or wherever the new action is.

In short, I've lost my energy here.  I hope I can keep documenting our family's life here, but if I stop, if I abandon the Build-a-Bear like everyone else, you can find me on Instagram.

Reevaluating

Ever since I got back last week, my equilibrium has been off.  I've been disgruntled and restless.  Not sad or grumpy, but restless.  After several days of analyzing why, I figured it out, and it's not pretty:  The trip I took with my girlfriends is literally the LEAST amount of responsibility I have had since at least 1997, when Golda was born.  No, I take that back.  There were two days in Hong Kong when Scott and I were on our way to get Xanthe that were pretty carefree.  But this time, I wasn't in charge of one. single. thing.  All the travel was planned.  All I had to do was follow the leader, laughing boisterously as I went.  Even the beach towels were handed to us whenever we wanted them. 

Yes, I have been on vacations, and fun ones.  Everyone knows I have a great time on vacation, love to plan travel, love to travel, and love to come home.  I love being with Scott and my children, but even at the beach, we do laundry and feed kids and all that.  I mean, that's not a big deal, compared to all the fun we have together, but it's different than being completely free of any responsibility whatsoever, right?  In Puerto Rico, I had a towel handed to me every time I stepped foot on the sand.  I didn't even have to hang it up to dry!  The only thing I had to do was remember my room number, which, sadly, I was pretty bad at, my brain being in a state of hibernation.  So coming home from a trip has never been so brutal, the joy of seeing Scott and the kids notwithstanding.  I think it's the lack of responsibility I had during those few days, contrasted with, you know, having seven kids, teaching and selling violins, not to mention church, kids' school and a myriad of interpersonal relationships to maintain.  In other words, life.

Don't get me wrong.  My life is far from monotonous and I am grateful each day that my life is pretty much just how I want it.   Except that when I got back from paradise, I compared my life to vacation and life just came up short.  I can't tell which parts of my lack of motivation are related to the end of the school year and which parts are legitimate.  We all get burned out this time of year.  Of course floating in the ocean is going to sound like more fun that trying to scrounge up a coonskin cap and leather boots for Mountain Man Day, or trying to talk your nine-year-old son out of singing "Neon River" for his talent show.

I guess my problem is, I have to reconnect with the part of me that loves the responsibility of running a streamlined, successful household.  And I'd better hurry and find that desire, because with school ending, things will be anything but streamlined, and I will have the unenviable job of overseeing chores and practicing (but only through June!  Yay!). 

I have thrived with all these kids up to this point by getting better and better at saying no, cutting things out that aren't central to my goals.  I feel another cut coming on.  There's nothing like being completely cut off from your responsibilities to make you reevaluate what is important and what is fluff.  Fluff, you're outta here, starting with all the stuffed animals that don't have names, all the assignments that aren't for a grade and all the activities that don't pass the "useful" test.  Aah, I feel freedom looming already!  Can someone hand me a beach towel please?  Hello?  Anyone?

Tizzy the Mountain Goat

This is what I was doing during Freestone's violin lesson this morning.  Ari was in charge at home and I was texting her.  Normally I don't do anything but pay close attention during lessons, because I know as a teacher how annoying it is when parents are checked out.  But Tziporah is really working on her climbing skills and it worries me when I'm not there!  Even when she was a tiny girl, she would scramble up my chest to get a bird's-eye view from my shoulder, not content with just being in my arms.  Now she's familiar with the table and, apparently, the countertop.  Never before have we had a kid who is so adventurous.  The other kids never thought of leveraging their little bodies from chair to barstool to countertop.  Why does she do it?  Does she wonder what's up there?  Is it just a fun form of exercise?  Is she missing a fear gene?


Crazy!  She's so crazy, my friend Maria sent me a video of her son up on the table.  He is so cute!  I love that she thought of me when her son was on the table.  Thanks, Maria!  I hope your little guy doesn't go for the counter!

P. S. Today we have an AP test, a Mountain Man Rendezvous, a talent show and end-of-level tests.  It must be May!  Tizzy probably just feels left out of all the excitement.

Imaginary Shoes

These are Ptolemy's imaginary shoes.  We got them Sunday when we arrived at church with a barefoot boy.  (I know! Procuring shoes on Sunday!)  After the drinking fountain incident, I took Ptolemy home.  When we got back to the church, he was barefoot.  Because I am lazy and moderately innovative, and because it was Mothers Day, a day where I am not supposed to have shoe problems, I sighed and said, "I guess you'll just have to wear you imaginary shoes."

The thing I love about three-year-olds is that they have such big imaginations, things just aren't limited by what we call reality.  Ptolemy immediately said, "Yeah!  And they have red flames and blue flames and green flames!"  He loved his new shoes already.  I was in a bit of a feisty mood that day, so I added, "If anyone asks you where your shoes are, say, 'I'm wearing them and they have red, blue and green flames on them, but only the smart people can see them.'"

Today when we arrived at our impromptu destination (Day Two of the Discovery Museum #Iwon'trestuntiligetmymoneysworthoutoftheannualpass), both Tolly and Tizzy were barefoot.  Oops.  I had to again pull out the flame shoes, as well as new imaginary shoes for Tizzy with pink and orange sparkles.  Perfect for the museum, no?  And the good thing about imaginary shoes is that they don't pinch, you never grow out of them and they don't wear out.  I might have to get some for myself!

Andy Rooney on Women Over Forty

I thought this was funny.  Andy Rooney's thoughts on women over forty:

As I grow in age, I value women who are over forty most of all. Here are just a few reasons why: A woman over forty will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask, “What are you thinking?” She doesn’t care what you think.


If a woman over forty doesn’t want to watch the game, she doesn’t sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And, it’s usually something more interesting.


A woman over forty knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of forty give a hoot what you might think about her or what she’s doing.


Women over forty are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won’t hesitate to shoot you, if they think they can get away with it.


Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it’s like to be unappreciated.


A woman over forty has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn’t trust the guy with other women. Women over forty couldn’t care less if you’re attracted to her friends because she knows her friends won’t betray her.


Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over forty. They always know.


A woman over forty looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women. Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over forty is far sexier than her younger counterpart.


Older women are forthright and honest. They’ll tell you right off if you are a jerk, if you are acting like one! You don’t ever have to wonder where you stand with her.


Yes, we praise women over forty for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it’s not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed hot woman of forty-plus, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some twenty-two-year-old waitress.


Ladies, I apologize.


For all those men who say, “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free,” here’s an update for you. Now 80 percent of women are against marriage, why? Because women realize it’s not worth buying an entire pig, just to get a little sausage.

Fictional Satire for Fun

Oh. My. Gosh.  I have totally been meaning to blog about how awesome my mom is, since, like, it was Mothers Day and everything.  It's just that I got so busy!  Saturday night, I completely spaced it, I was got so caught up in eating all the macadamia nuts I originally bought for my mom in Hawaii.  Have you tried those?  They're so good!  My mom loves them.  I'll totally have to get some for her next time I'm on Maui.

Sunday, I didn't have time because I had to go to my mom's house so she could give me presents for Mothers Day.  Exhausting!  It's so hard being a mom.  It just helps when my mom tells me what a great job I'm doing, and gives me gifts, too.  I for sure should have said something to her about how great she is, too, or at least told her about the macadamia nuts.  I'll have to text her.

Then today, I thought of mentioning it when my mom came over to watch my kids, but then I might have been late for my mani-pedi.  And when I got home, I was about to say thanks to my mom for all the stuff she does for me, but she had the house so clean, I just had to take a picture and Instagram it. (Totally lied and said I cleaned all day. Lol.)  By the time I was done kicking my feet up, drinking a Diet Coke in my nice, quiet house, my mom was gone, and so were my kids.

I seriously might have to remember to thank her when I text her to send the little darlings home, either tonight or definitely tomorrow.  I know she has that bad cold and everything, so I shouldn't let her babysit for too long.  Seriously, if she doesn't get better, who is going to drive my girls to tiny tot cheer when I'm out to dinner with my girlfriends?  I hate colds.  So inconvenient!  I tell my mom to take it easy, but she completely ran herself ragged with the kids while we were in Hawaii.  So in a way, it's her own fault.

You know what?  I think I'll just have my dad give Mom the message when he swings by to bring us the orange juice and kale I ordered.  (Don't want to get that nasty cold!)  Better yet, here, I'll just put it on the blog:

Mom, ur the best.  Thx!!

Phew, glad that's done.  I'm, like, so busy!  Gratitude:  Check!  Lol.  I think the large text is a nice touch.  One more thing off the list before I go meet with my personal trainer.  It's not like I can afford to be all flabby when we're on our cruise next week.  Dang, I hope my mom gets better before we leave.  If she gives my kids her cold, it's going to be, like, so stressful leaving them.   At least I know my mom can deal with it.  I mean, she raised me and I turned out pretty darn amazing.

Scott Dopp!

You wouldn't have known it from my post yesterday, but I actually did have a wonderful Mothers Day.  It's not my favorite holiday, probably because of all of my over-analyzing regarding motherhood.  Am I worth of all this adoration?  Why do I still have to do dishes on Mothers Day?  Is breakfast in bed more about me or the kids?  What about all the women who don't have children, especially those who desperately want them?  Why did I eat all the chocolate-covered pecans I bought for my mom?  I'm a bad daughter.   It's just an intense day.

All that aside, Scott, unencumbered by the thought process, as the guys would say on Car Talk,  went ahead and lavished me with all the perfect gifts.  Maybe the reason he's so good at thinking up the best gifts to give is that his brain isn't filled with charts and graphs of complex emotional issues and all their potential outcomes and repercussions.  He has a lot more clarity.  His brain works like this:  "Circe likes chocolate-covered nuts.  I will buy some."  My brain works like this:  "Scott likes electronics.  But I don't know what to buy.  I could ask someone, but then how would I find a good deal on it?  And what if I give it to Scott and he could have found it cheaper somewhere else?  It might be the wrong brand, and what color?  He likes green, but maybe just for golf courses.  He likes pink, but maybe just for dress shirts.  He likes orange, but maybe just for socks, and only if they have blue and green stripes on them.  I could just give him money, except he already has some.  Clothes?  Where do you buy those?  What size?  Too expensive!  And he has so many.  I'll invite him out to dinner.  But we were going to do that anyway.  I'll give him a card.  Lame!  A book.  No, he has a Kindle..."

In short, Scott is a winner and I'm a loser.  It's really not fair for me to brag about Scott.  It's insensitive to everyone who's not married to him, which should be all of you, unless everything I'm saying turns out to be a big lie.  But hey, I worked hard to trick him into marrying me, so I guess I can brag about him.  And thank him, too.  Scott, thanks for the blog book (!!!), candle, almonds, flowers, soap, phone cover, phone, dinner, and the seven children.  Thanks for turning my flaws into positives, saying I'm thin, hating all the right people, reigning me in, giving me my freedom, laughing at my delusions of grandeur, sending me off on trips with no hesitation, and most importantly, being a father.  A good one.  The best.

Hanging out with you these past few decades has allowed me to become exactly who I always wanted to be, but better.  I really hit the jackpot.  Hey, do you want a trip to Singapore for Fathers Day?  If so, what color?  Oh, never mind.

Motherhood Shmotherhood

Mothers Day, blah blah blah.  Ptolemy just hit a woman at church who was trying to help him with the drinking fountain, so I'm not feelin' it right now.  And this is after I led the Primary children in singing the prelude music, during which all four of my own kids stood there, mute and glum, while Tziporah pretended to take pictures of them with my phone, holding it up from the front row and shouting, "Cheeeee!"


So now I'm home with Ptolemy the felon, where Tziporah has just managed to open the Dirt Devil and is eating the garbage out of it.  So, to everyone who asks me, "How do you do it all?"...Are you freakin' kidding me?

Wind Ensemble and Dance Company

I hate to tell you this, but I'm about to give another shout-out to Golda.  She has been working like a dog who was born in a library, studying for the AP World Civ. test, but in between all the study sessions, she still has to go on with life.

Last week, she tried out for Wind Ensemble, the elite band at Davis High.  The audition piece was stupidly difficult, as in the only reason the piece existed was to be difficult for an audition.  Purposely, it had no melody, accidentals on every note and the most complicated rhythms you could dream up.  Golda's teacher told her, "A lot of people will go into the audition thinking it's 'good enough.'  Not you.  You'll know it so well, it will be perfect."  Well, that didn't turn out to be true, but it was an eye-opener to think that way instead of the "good enough" approach.  Anyway, Golda made it!  She wasn't sure she even wanted to make it (still the love-hate relationship with flute), but when she called to tell me, I knew by her happy, breathless voice that she was excited.

This week it was Dance Company auditions.  Golda has been under so much self-imposed pressure from the AP test, she didn't even want to try out.  It was one of those times Scott and I put our foot down.  We told her she had to.  Mean, huh?  It's just that she tried out last year and didn't make it, and it was crushing.  The whole experience was wrought with frustration.  I just didn't want the defeat to defeat her for good, and I knew she would regret it if she didn't try.  Of course, there's always the chance you'll fail again and be embarrassed and disappointed, but you can't let that fear make the decision for you.

After two days of clinics and late-night practicing at the ballet studio, Golda's shoulders were bruised from a roll in the choreography, and every muscle in her body ached.  When I dropped her off at the audition, I prayed that she would feel good about her effort.  She did.  Even better, she made it!  Sometimes in life, your name is on that list, and sometimes it's not.  When it is, it's a sweet, sweet feeling.  Either way, these things are intense.

Golda went off with her friend to celebrate, and I got a text:  "Thanks for making me try out.  You're the best."  Now I don't need anything for Mothers Day.  Thanks, Golda.  And congratulations!  I know how hard you've worked.  Now, you just have one little old test to pass.  And if you don't?  Who cares!?  Two out of three ain't bad.