Story Lady Blog

My husband done kicked me out of the house.

I don’t like leaving -really.  There’s a million and two things I need to get done, and aside from that I’ve got a week’s worth of preschooling to make up and I’ve got to get ready for the CUTE hair flowers we’re going to be making for mutual and I’ve got to make up for a missing a week’s worth of playing piano at the high school and OH my poor piano students who have had to miss so much on account of my sick kids and then I’d like to get a few meals in the freezer for later and the kitchen counter need  CPR and then there’s the mending and the sewing and the laundry.

And I can’t forget to give Lucifer his bath.

But away I went.  Alone.  I’m not going to lie, I’ve had a total of THREE mini panic attacks about being alone.  I feel downright vulnerable, but I also feel like it’s a good thing to have gotten away from that.  When I was in college, I was PRO at being alone.  I walked myself to my car.  I ate alone.  I was able to spend twenty solid minutes alone in the bathroom.

But now?  Heh.

I depend on my husband and children so much.  They are my shields, my excuses, my reason-for-not-growing.

Okay, that last one is The Truest One of All.  Only I didn’t know it.

The things is: I never had TIME to know it.  Really.  As I’ve taken a giant step back, I discovered something grisly.  It’s my soul.

Have you seen it lately?  It’s shriveled and curled up inside of me, begging for attention.  I haven’t listened to it because frankly, I didn’t have time for it’s needy attitude. I was too busy nourishing the souls of my children and the Sunday School kids I sub for and the Young Women I adore to no end.  It’s as if I’ve been passing the turkey around the table, making sure everyone got a BIG helping at the expense of myself.  Seems dignified, doesn’t it?  Well it’s not.  Because we’re not talking about turkey.  We’re talking about my soul.  The WORST part about it (as if having a malnourished soul isn’t sobering enough) is that I’ve been physically feeding my body all sorts of junk to make up for the hungry-like-the-wolf signals my SOUL was sending out.  I somehow found myself feeding my body and starving my soul.  The more I ate, the more my spiritual insides withered.

I realize that now.

I also realize that though I hate it, I NEED to be alone at least once a week to reconnect my body with my soul and make sure they’re in harmony and not duking it out.  Anyway, that’s what they do when they want attention.  Juvenile, I know.  But I can’t point fingers.  They learned it all from me, after all.

After coming to the GREAT and GLORIOUS and HARROWING knowledge that I’ve been starving myself, I opened up my scriptures, not knowing where I’d end up.  I turned to the index of the Book of Mormon and the word “Feast” stood out to me.  I thought it was a little strange since I was trying to do the opposite BUT I found 2 Nephi 9:51 to be spot on.  “Feast upon that which perisheth not… Let your soul delight in fatness.”  Fatness?  Feast?  HEY!  I can totally get on board with this!  That is WHAT I DO!  After scribbling a few lines in my journal, I got up off the floor I’d been sitting and pondering on.  It looks like this.  I’ll be danged if these floors aren’t everything a girl could ever want out of life.

I walked out of the door and went for a very short walk during which I took in some local culture. Then I quickly went back to my truck because the cold was literally BITING my nose off (though it could do with a minor trim. Not gonna lie). I got in it and drove to a book store.
Then I bought a book.
I never NEVER buy books. Because I never read books. Because I don’t have time!
After buying a book -a very insightful one, at that -I walked across the street to indulge my inner-hippie at a small organic cafe.
I plunked myself down in a corner table and ate squash/potato soup.
And I read.
And read.
I didn’t bother looking at the time because I knew it was just FLYING BY. I did bother to take the picture for my friend, Tia. It turns out I was the only person who ate organic today. Why? “That crap is for rich people who hate themselves.”
Anyway, I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t enjoy the empty cafe 100%.
Because I did.

Halfway through my lunch, I realized with a shocking amount of surprise that I was eating slowly. I’ve never eaten slowly! My husband has tried so nicely to get me to slow DOWN when I eat, and I never have! It’s been ingrained in me, as the younger sister of three strapping boys, to eat or starve.
Obviously, I chose to eat, and I’ve got the shoulders to prove it.

When I realized I had been eating slowly, I grabbed my cell phone in a panic. I must have been there for hours. JUST HOW LONG HAD I BEEN SITTING THERE?! I checked.
Twenty friggin’ minutes.
Twenty!
That’s it!

Usually when I go out to eat with my husband, it seems we only get twenty minutes together but when we check the time we realize it’s been closer to 2 hours. I have to say: today took forever.

Last time I got away for a weekend, I took my husband and it seemed like just when we got there we had to turn around and go home.
This time? Wow. I feel like I’ve been here for a month of Sundays.
I haven’t bothered to “pamper” my body at all. No pedicures, no hair cuts, no massages, NOT even a heaping handful of cookies.
But my soul is slowly being babied back to health.

Balance is a crucial thing to keep and an easy thing to lose.
Remind me of that next Saturday when I come with eleventy billion excuses to stay home and NOT venture out into nature for some feasting and fatness.
Just typing that is SO satisfying.

Before I go: if I were chair, I’d look just like this green one. Really, I would.
Know how I know? It’s gloriously chipped all over.
Mazel tov.

Deep…

DEEP…

inside of me.

Two days ago, my daughter was ultra sweet.  She spent the days showering me with (what she deemed as) compliments and kisses. (I just have to say: one of her compliments was, “Mom, yesterday you smelled like poop and I thought you were ugly at church, but… you weren’t!” *BIG HUG*)

While her brother took a very late nap, she was my pal.  She snuggled with me, talked with me, and finally decided to cook with me.  I had to laugh as she climbed onto the kitchen counter.  She was wearing a black and shimmery orange tutu with an orange shirt, glittery red shoes (“SLIPPERS!” she corrects me every time), and an apron.  Naturally.  She asked me for help.

“How do I do my slippers like just Dorothy?” she asked.  So I showed her how to click her heels together.  Then I grabbed the camera and took this video.  Sorry it’s sideways.  Turn your head, won’t you?

“There’s no place like home,” she says.

Weh-ell. She fooled me. You want to know what she did the next day?! DO YOU?! We’re talking massive amounts of mayhem, here. We’re talking I had flashbacks of her wrecking-ball-like abilities exhibited in her terrible twos. We’re talking I had to sit down at the end of the day and do a major brain reboot!
Just what is it I’m doing, exactly? I asked myself.
It looks like nothing at all. I answered myself.
It looks like your children are undoing your life’s work. I reasoned.
It looks like your children ARE your life’s work. I replied.
Just what is it I’m doing, exactly? I asked myself again, coming full circle. My thoughts literally RAN in CIRCLES around me.

Because when I finally got the energy to do the dishes, I turned the water on AND TURNED MY BACK while the children dumped out three drawers of toys on the carpet, WHICH by the by was already covered in bits ad scraps of the gingerbread house they’d demolished the day before that I can’t seem to ever clean up all of. Not only did they dump out the toys, my daughter ran into her bathroom, turned the sink on and started filling all of her kitchen toys with water. And then she put them on her dress up bin.
On the carpet.
When I turned to find a miniature flood in my living room, I sent them both to their room so I could cool down. I cleaned that mess up only to walk into their room where they were supposed to be resting and watching a movie to find…
And entire jar filled with buttons (both large ad very tiny) dumped out on the carpet. The carpet, remember, is still harboring bits and pieces of gingerbread and candy and frosting. And now buttons.

By the time the dishes were done, so was I.

Days like that are the ones I want to remember so that when my daughter calls me to complain about her disorderly children, I’ll have a deep sense of validation to go along with my sympathy.
I’ll click my heels together and say, as she did in days gone by, “There’s no place like home.”

“Hand Puppets” was misleading. It’s actually “Hand Puppet.” As in… one. I made one. I need to make quite a few more, but I’ve had to change my course. When I started out, I planned on making hand puppets that somewhat resembled Disney Princesses. I decided to start with Jasmine. This is what I came up with.
Please keep in mind that I’m terrible at stuff like this. I don’t know WHY I think I’m capable of attempting crap like this. As I hot glued the second gogglie eye on, I looked at the puppet and laughed.
She looked a little less like Jasmine and a little more like Potiphar’s wife.

So I picked her up and tried to force her to be Jasmine.

But I really REALLY just wasn’t feeling it. I was a little depressed that I had just created a rather less-than-admirable Bible character for my daughter. I guess I COULD teach her a few new stories with puppets.
“Mommy, what does ‘lie with me’ mean?”
Nothing baby. Go play with your Barbies…

In the end, I decided to simply rename her but keep with the whole Bible theme.

Queen Esther. THAT’S someone we can all get on board with, right? Who should I make next? The King? Her Uncle? The man who is hung by his own gallows? How would one make gallows for a toddler’s puppet theater? Pipe cleaners and yarn?
Anyway, as soon as I’m done with Esther’s story, I’ll probably start on Ruth and Naomi. I COULD go with Moses or Jonah, but the idea of making any sort of animal hand puppet is daunting.
I’ve tossed around the idea of making a few Book of Mormon hand puppets, but they’re a little harsh. For example: is it in good taste to make a puppet sword out of pipe cleaners for Nephi to smite Laban’s head off?
What about Ammon and the arms?
Just how WOULD that work in a puppet theater?

Maybe I ought to stick to less-than-worthy princess puppets.
Maybe I ought to bag the idea entirely…

I’m a quote nut. I love them. When I was about 10, I discovered a beautiful red quote book on my mother’s shelves. I read it every chance I got. I even snagged a quote from it to cross stitch, “A light heart lives long.” I loved alliteration before I even knew what it was. The word gods smiled kindly on me one day, and my mother gave the book to me. I keep it always at the ready. I rely on it. I’ve given it a spot in the lately added Reading Corner of our bedroom. The Reading Corner, it must be noted, is sacred. It is my pacification for my lack of a library. The Reading Corner is wonderful. The only thing its missing is a chair. Rather important, I know… and just as soon as I have the cash-o-la, there WILL be a chair. And when I fully assemble The Reading Corner, readers will come. Mainly me, but STILL.

As I adjust back to my pre-holiday schedule, I’m struggling to find my pace again. My life is too full, and after May I’ll be making some radical schedule changes. Until then, I’ve got to keep muddling through. Until then, my quote book won’t be far away.

There’s one quote I keep always at the forefront of my mind. It’s by Benjamin Franklin, who I truly believe would have been my dearest friend had I lived in his time.
“Either write something worth reading, or do something worth writing.” That’s what he said. Why did he say it? Because he knew I would need to hear it, for though we can’t be bosom friends in real life, he certainly can’t shy away from being my guardian mentor. Oh, he can try… but his words are immortal. I will find them. I will use them. I will write something worth reading.

In fact, when I’m not writing something worth reading, I’m usually doing something I end up writing about. I write about everything -hence, this blog.
And now I will admit something to you. Last night, I nearly bid adieu to you and you and you. My domain was about to expire, and I seriously considered letting it. I didn’t WANT to, mind you, but I brought it up to my husband in the form of “Perhaps I ought to be focusing my writing elsewhere. Perhaps I ought to be with my children. HEY perhaps we ought to get rid of the internet and make our own soap and live off the land! I’ll make bonnets for myself and the children! Let’s buy wool! Let’s make you wool pants! LET’S MAKE OUR OWN WOOL!”
At this point, he jerked me back down to earth, handed me my debit card and begged me to renew my domain name. So I had a passing fancy. So I want to rewind time and live in a land without technology. So what?

I thought about Benjamin Franklin as I woke up this morning. I long for a greater measure of simplicity. I long for many more days exactly like I had over the holiday. I long for The Reading Corner. I long for a bonnet.
Well, there’s always the reading corner, anyway. And there’s always Benjamin Franklin. Do you think he’d mind showing up a little bit more? I mean, he doesn’t have to actually come around. He could just send a few green papers with his picture in the middle of them. I’d be happy with that -and what guardian would do less? I ask you.
In the meantime, I’m logging off. I’m going to make hand puppets that hopefully resemble Disney Princesses as a birthday gift for my soon-to-be FOUR year old.
I’ll be back tomorrow telling you all about it. It may not be worth reading, but it will certainly be worth writing if for no other reason than to serve as a reminder to never attempt it again. I’ll see you the other side of a few felt catastrophes.