The Tornado Ringleader, or My Daughter, Aubs

Every day carries in its breeze a whisper of curiosity and not a hint of monotony.  Even when Winter begs on its gray, hazy, frost-laden knees for hours piled on hours of boredom and isolating gloom, my days come on the wings of something wild and completely chaotic.  I'll give you a hint about the something… it's small and female.

I'm in the bathroom (that time when all hell always breaks lose) and I hear little voices outside the door.  I gather from the few whispered words I can decipher that they are talking about the kitchen floor.  Why would a couple of three-year-olds be discussing the kitchen floor?  Or the more appropriate question: what did they do to the kitchen floor in thirty seconds?!  I finish my business in a hurry and fling open the door without even pause to button my pants or wash my hands.  There I find a naked bummed girl and her friend, Adam, whom I am babysitting, standing over a puddle spanning the area in front of the fridge.  They are analyzing the phenomenon of the puddle's movement.  It is rapidly migrating westward following the slope of the kitchen floor toward the cabinet on the west wall.  I take care of the puddle with much haste, because heaven forbid it reach the cabinets and continue its motion into the cracks and crevices between the wall and cabinet.  I find where her sopping pants have been discarded and re-clothe her knobby knees in dry ones.

We march forward into the day.  We paint our way through a tall stack of paper, I bribe them to eat all of their lunch with the promise of a cookie reward, they race around the kitchen island yelling something about Sonic (the hedgehog), we watch some Curious George.  After the show, I have them get out the bin of matchbox cars so I can spend some time in the kitchen.  I'm preparing a dish for the Rotary Club holiday dinner tonight.  

It doesn't take many minutes of peeling the skins from the sweet potatoes before I notice that a hush has descended over the living room where it used to be full of obnoxious car noises, just one minute ago.  I'm good at dropping everything to quell whatever emergency bids me, because that is my reality and Auburn's reality.  I leave those partially peeled sweet potatoes scattered over the kitchen counter and leap across the mess of cars to the other side of the living room where I find two backs turned to me.  They're hovered over our ottoman, speaking quietly, the ring-leader giving instructions to her tamed lion.

"And we making the bed."

I hear this, "Making the bed" and it inexplicably alarms me, sends electricity down my spine and out my limbs, so I brace myself and bend over the two heads to see beyond their furiously working arms.  

"No!!!"  I explode.  They drop what they are doing and step back, exposing the extent of the damage.

"Why did you do this?" I demand.  I am so upset and she reads it.  

"We were making our beds," she sheepishly explains, inching backwards away from me.  They still hold the open markers and I pluck them from their hands then point my index finger sharply at the upholstered ottoman where most of their handiwork is boldly in display.  Black and yellow lines and swirls mar the peach colored flowers.  I'm pretty sure it's worse than the time last year when she drew with red lipstick on the couch. 

"Do we draw on furniture?  ...Ever??"

"No."

"Where do we draw?"

"On paper."

"Then why did you draw on the furniture?!?"  I notice a few more marks up on the seat of the ottoman's matching armchair. 

"We were making our beds."  She restates this as if it should be completely obvious.  Of course it is.  I feel anger bubbling under my skin.  I'm mad at her and the lemming who followed, I'm mad at the Relief Society sisters who gave these special markers to my kids at the Christmas Party last weekend, I'm mad that anyone makes markers for kids that are not water based, I'm mad that the stain remover is fragranced with a perfume so strong that it always send me reeling deep into a migraine.  I'm just plain mad.  It takes me the better part of a hour of scrubbing and spraying more and more and even more stain remover before the black lines have begun to fade to brown.  The yellow lines though, they are refusing to budge.  So now I'm looking at blobby lines on my furniture: brown and yellow.  What do those two colors together make you think of? 

While I am ferociously scrubbing, they are in her room.  I think they are playing with cars again, because I hear the obnoxious sounds of motors and brakes, but really I don't care what they are playing with so long as they are confined to her room only.  There isn't much that can go wrong in there, except for when Auburn gets her hands on the fish food and overfeeds Gerret's fighter fish named Lightening.  She has done that a number of times, but the fish seems to endure it well (so far).

At last, I deem the stain removing "good enough for these folks" and go to check on the dizzying tornado that is my daughter.  She and her side kick are in her room holding something long and stringy between their fingers.  It looks like hair.  In fact, on closer inspection I find that it is hair and thankfully not human.  The poor doll only had well-kempt hair when she was still in her packaging; as soon as we liberated her, her hair became an unmanageable nest of blondness.   It doesn't look better or worse with Auburn's lopsided trim and I'm worn down from the recent scrubbing, so I sing "Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be" in my head and barely utter a word to my tornado as I pluck the scissors from her hand and leave them gazing after me.

We occupy ourselves for the last hour of Adam's stay with us.  I keep a careful eye on those two.  We will be done with disasters for today, I have decided.  I am happy to return Adam to his mom with all of his fingers, hair, and clothes in one piece. That leaves just Auburn and me with a pile of potatoes that need attention.

This is how I keep her busy while I make a casserole: I give her a small handful of flour on the other counter and she uses cookie cutters to emboss hearts, stars, and circles into the powder.  She loves it when I let her do this so we continue along merrily absorbed in our own cuisine.  Until I go to switch the laundry.  I hate to say I stupidly leave her there, but I'm a glutton for mayhem.  I switch out the laundry and she really gets to work with that flour.  

Mountains of flour.  Big, huge, tumbling piles of flour where one little mound used to stand.  Three distinct mountains-- on the counter, on the chair she's standing on, and on the floor beneath her.  And the runoff is everywhere else.  Her front is completely white, as is the face of the cabinet and a wide circle around her on the floor.  

This calls for a nice, long movie.  Frozen.  Her current favorite.  

Not many minutes have gone by, the flour is cleaned up, and I hear giggling from the living room.  I hold my breath and follow the sound of mirth.  I find Gerret on the couch next to Auburn.

"Look at Auby!  Frozen put her to sleep!"

Sure enough, she is slouched into the fold of the couch, her shirt bunched around her ribcage, exposing her proud belly.  Out cold.

She is the picture of how I'm feeling after a day spent in her company.

An Ignoble Account

It was kind of a sport to pick on our three-year-old sister when my brother and I were in high school.  I am ashamed to admit this now, but it's the truth.  Three-year-olds are just plain funny, expressing independence, obstinance, and emerging language all wrapped in a short human with an elf-like aesthetic.  My three year old sister, in particular was discerning beyond her years and expressed quite loudly her efforts to fit into a family whose other members were a lot older and bigger.  She also had expressive eyebrows and a theatrical little mouth.  And my brother and I could engender quite the reaction when we goaded her into madness.  It was hilarious and cute.  Yes, and mean, but I don't think we acknowledged the malice at the time. 

That isn't to say that we weren't also gentle, caring, and kind to her in the other half of our shared interactions.  Perhaps a reason for her adept perceptions and remarkable abilities was all the attention and patient leading she received not only from parents and grand-parents, but two teenaged siblings as well.  I spent a lot of time with her, especially as the occasion of my flying the nest precipitately approached.  We went to plays, painted pictures, took hikes, dug in the garden, I brought her books and stickers and treats.  Really, I adored her.  Ironically, you only ever feel at ease enough to pick on those for whom you really care about.

It was a warm summer morning, a month or two before I left for college.  I was eating breakfast at the dining room table with both of my sisters and my boyfriend.  The baby was seated in a high chair, my mom was working in the kitchen, and I was engaged in the ruffling of a three-year-old's feathers.  Her feathers became so ruffled that she molted and that's when the lecture came.  From my boyfriend.   

He said something about how pathetic my actions were just then and "You are eighteen!!  She is three!!"  He let me know in no uncertain terms how absolutely inappropriate it was for me to take advantage of her trust.  

I never picked on her again.  I was thoroughly shamed.

We are Painting

We are painting, my girl and I. Her color choices are eclectic and imaginative, mine predictable. She wanders every once in a while from her child-sized Dora table, to our dining room table and gingerly swipes her brush down the leg along the wood's grain leaving in its wake the latest color. This is done so very quietly, her eyes shifting secretively sideways to meet my gaze.
"Paint paper not furniture," I direct. She looks at me long and hard. I'm not sure what she feels. Embarrassment at being caught? Annoyance at being stopped? Determination to disobey? But she breaks her stern gaze and sheepishly returns to her wildly colorful piece at the Dora table.

We continue this routine for twenty, thirty minutes. Her concentration at keeping a steady hand and choosing chromatically pleasing tones is intense until that criminal shiftiness returns in her expression. The muscles around her soft eyes tighten, the gentleness of her young face becomes angular and rigid. Quietly, she raises and glides to
the dining table, dripping paintbrush in hand. She is an obstinate one, that daughter of mine. Obstinate and sometimes devious. We repeat the routine. I reprimand her action and she goes back to her paper. Dab. Dab. Swipe.

"I will be a boy." Her voice is calm and even. She continues dabbing her brush, first in the water, then in a color or two, then on the paper. Dab. Dab. Swipe. Swipe. Her lines are short and thick, sometimes so short they appear to be the thumbprints of a giant.

I don't know where her mild declaration of impending maleness came from, so I mumble "good luck with that." She probably doesn't hear me, but then maybe she does because she repeats the announcement.

"I will be a boy."

She is only three. Her experience so far has been pretty similar to that of her brothers. That's why I say I don't know where the idea of being a boy came from. Someday I imagine she will realize that she is stuck in her female body and maybe she will at times wish otherwise. Someday she will confront the realities of femalenes and my heart hurts for her to make some of those realizations.

The painting continues. She moves from her free form line painting to a page from her coloring book. It's a scene of a fox standing in the foreground waving to the passengers of a train passing behind him. The picture has already been attacked by Auby with a stack of crayons. She picks up where the crayons left off. Her paintbrush has been collecting new colors without the relief of a water bath, so the fox she is painting is turning a murky grayish brown color.

"Mama," she says. "You will be a boy, too."

Homebirth Tale

This is what our home was like right after Auburn's birth.  It was a wonderful welcoming party right in our living room. 

During my first pregnancy, I worked in the Provo LDS Temple for eight hours every Saturday afternoon. I started the service when my midsection was flat and unshapely, but over the following number of months it started to expand. It filled out my white dress and then began to stretch the thick jersey cotton beyond full capacity.

As every pregnant woman in the history of humans can testify: bulging-middled, backward-leaning, frequent-peeing womenfolk garner comments and questions from friends, family, and strangers alike. Lots of remarks and queries. Some folks are benignly curious, some kind and congratulatory, some enthusiastic and encouraging, some downright rude and derogatory, and on and on. Ladies are eager to commiserate. Gentlemen are eager to just be part of the conversation (or so I think, but I'm not a man, so I can't pinpoint for certain their motivation).

I always wished there wasn't a conversation to be had around my middle to begin with. Talk about awkward. Especially awkward are those who can't help but to touch the protrusion as if it isn't part of my body and incredibly encroaching. A time or two, I've encountered people who have actually expressed a desire to kiss my bulging middle. And that's just weird.

One warm Saturday evening, having just completed my shift working in the temple, I waited in the serenely elegant foyer for my husband to emerge from the men's dressing room. An older patron stood nearby between two upholstered chairs. He seemed to be waiting for someone, as well. As was becoming the standard, a conversation involving my apparently pregnant belly ensued. And though miffed to begin with, I quickly became engaged in what amounted to a meaningful exchange.

This conversation in the temple foyer quickly moved from my pregnant belly across the Rockies and the Dust Bowl to Kansas where the man's daughter-in-law shared in my condition. I congratulated him on his up and coming grandchild. He asked if I had considered home birth. It had never crossed my mind. He then told me more about his family in Kansas. It would be their sixth baby. The previous five were all born at home and after the first two, his son had provided the only assistance at delivery. I congratulated the man a second time for having a doctor-son.

"He isn't a doctor."
He was an electrician.

I stood corrected and somewhat dismayed. What business had an electrician in the catching of babies? The man explained that the son and his wife felt comfortable in their independence. He assured me that birth is a natural process and not something to fear.

This was the first time anyone had ever demystified birth for me. I was intrigued by home-birth and honestly flabbergasted by the idea of a doctor-less birth. I am grateful for this man, a stranger, having the courage to speak up with his unusual story. I didn't know it then, but it would help to shape my own.

Fast-forward five years. I was pregnant for the third time. My prenatal care provider was not working out because of a change in hospital policy. If I used her at delivery, I would have to travel more than an hour to the second hospital she had a contract with. Other OBs and CNMs in the area had contracts with the hospital in Ithaca, which was not a hospital I felt comfortable in.

A friend who I had grown up with, posted a picture of her newborn on Facebook with the caption "born at home this morning". The image of the man with the free-birthing daughter-in-law immediately flashed through my mind.

"Have you ever considered home birth?" He asked me a second time.
"Now I am," I told him.

With that, I contacted my old friend to find out how you accomplish an assisted home birth. Where does one find midwives of the homebirthing variety? And how exorbitant are their fees? Will insurance cover it? That's what I asked her.

Months later, Auburn was born in a nest of towels on my bathroom floor. Every delivery has been somewhat of a rebirth for me, but that one in our home, surrounded by comfort and familiarity and love, changed my perspective of myself and of life. I felt more confidence in my abilities and my body than ever before. And birth became a natural and beautiful occurrence. It was an experience I have reflected on many, many times.

I made sure to yell it from the figurative roof tops after Auburn was, "Born at home this morning!" That's what was captioned under her newborn photo on Facebook. "Born at home," written simply on her birth announcement. "Born at home," I told strangers and friends alike. I proclaimed it, not because I felt overly proud or because I particularly like to talk about myself. I proclaimed it because I wanted to give back. I was gifted my experience because two people were willing to share an unusual story and in so doing let me see new possibilities. I never would have pursued a home birth if it weren't for their candor and vulnerability. They taught me about home birth, an experience that has profoundly affected me, but they also taught me an important lesson about opening up to people.

It is brave to share your story. Other people will be brave when they hear it.

To Mark Three Years of Joy

There are not words to adequately celebrate this girl. I am grateful every moment for her presence in my life.

I named her Auburn Ruth after my grandmother, Ruth Mary Copp and my great-grandmother, Ruth Jane Wellin, both of whom I loved and admired as a child and have ever since.

Often though, I call her Auburn Joy, because really, she is pure and splendid joy.

She is my best little friend, my favorite girl, and my daily dose of laughter. Sometimes she responds by calling me "Mama Joy" and I think: truly, I am a joyful mama. How could I not be? This girl, she has a rich heritage of kind, wise, witty, and courageous women and that heritage of goodness shines through her entire being. She has such exuberance for life and zest for learning. Music speaks to her and she often speaks through music (quite literally-- she sings her words). She loves colors and whimsy, wind and flowers, jumping and dancing, numbers and logic, puzzles and jokes. She loves friends and brothers and animals. She waits for the evening return of her dad (they share a special relationship). She is perceptive, thoughtful, fun-loving, gentle, and bold.

Every day is a novelty with Auburn. She will probably explore, destroy, rebuild, tell new jokes, be tender, create a masterpiece from words or materials, and (hopefully) take a nap. I never can guess what to expect, only that there will be joy.

Ten Years and Better than Ever

There's a lovely cliche about marrying your best friend.  I'm sure when people repeat the old beautiful trope, they really feel the truth of it deep in their hearts.  My full disclosure is this: ten years ago, I didn't marry my best friend.  Actually, I married a boy who was pretty close to a stranger.  I knew just enough to feel pretty confident that it would work out.   I listened to a voice inside that said it'd be a good thing to tie my life to his and so I jumped.  And I hoped with all my heart that we'd grow into the big empty space we were jumping into.

Honestly, it was a rough start.  The actual day we got married was packed full.  I felt nervous, so tired, and sad to exclude my family from what should have been a joyful ceremony.  The memories of that day are vague and pervaded with melancholy.  Even the pictures of that bride, show the old me flashing her smiling facade, a veneer of cheerfulness.  Those eyes look lost.

The next year, I kept wondering where I left myself.  It wasn't all sadness and gloom, in fact we made many fun and happy memories but when the quiet settled or I found myself alone and examining, all the poking and prodding could not make the girl I knew emerge.  I thought I lost myself.  Or that maybe I never had myself to begin with.  I was only twenty, after all.

It took me awhile to realize that I simply wasn't done developing, nor would I ever be and that had nothing to do with when I did or didn't get married.  In fact, it became a beautiful opportunity to experience the growth and changes in myself and in my world bound to someone who would experience those things with me.  We embarked on this journey as near strangers and have grown so close my heart almost bursts when I think of him.  We've filled that empty space with these beautiful things:

trust
joy
gentleness
laughter
kindness
thankfulness
patience

And what I hoped would happen, did.  He became my very best friend.

Genesis of the Ring

I'm rough on the things made for wearing, like jeans and shirts, sweaters and skirts, which all end up discolored and threadbare more quickly than one would expect, but violence is doubly doled to those things which are worn on my hands and feet.

I use my hands all the time and clumsily at that.  I use them with children and toys, wires and electric boxes, wood, hammers, drills, plants, thorns, and in dirt-- especially in dirt.  Likewise, my feet, they travel far and wide, they climb, run, trod, kick, and plod in dirt-- especially in dirt.

The consequence is that shoes get holes, sole cracks, unraveled threads, uneven rubber, and after hours, weeks, and months of biting the dust, they all eventually bite the dust.  My hands don't handle adornment well-- watches, bracelets, fingernail polish, and rings.  I bypass all such ornamentation.  With one exception.

I wear this one ring.  My boy, he gave it to me one warm Spring evening while we were sitting high in a tree top.  With it, he asked me to stay forever, formalizing our month long unofficial engagement.

We had a tradition of climbing that tree, boughs stretching their arms wide over the same playground where we first held hands.  The irony of committing to marriage next to a playground didn't occur to me until years later.  I was not even twenty.  By American standards we were destined for a tumultuous year, at best, before filing for our inevitable divorce.  But young as we were, we weren't playing.  In all seriousness, we were planning to stay together for as long as heaven would permit.

Though I wasn't entirely surprised when he pulled a small box from his pocket, I didn't have any expectations of or familiarity with the ring the box would produce.  He had gone shopping for it with his aunt, using as vague direction the only two hints I had offered: no stones are to protrude from the band and sapphires are nice.  The ring, it was perfect for me.  It is one of my most favorite possessions.  It is simple and beautiful.  It's not big and not flamboyant.  That unique little ring has become a symbol to me of being known and accepted.

I'm rough on the things made for wearing, even and most especially the ones I love.  For the second time in its existence, this special little ring is currently sporting a small hole where there used to be a blue stone.  I think when it is fixed, I'll put it on a chain around my neck.

In Which My Story was Fundamentally Altered

That night on the twisty slide was the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end. The turmoil was engulfing, but it presented itself less often in the form of confusion or anxiety and more in the form of loss. I could see my old dreams sloughing off. I imagined my fingers stretching open and letting go. I conjured the same image over and over, an effort to coax my heart to act in the same manner. I had to let go and ease into an unknown future, one I had not planned out or spent years hoping for, one I could not see in my mind's eye. It was so painful.

The first weekend in April, we took the train to the city for General Conference. We held hands as if we always had- as we walked the sidewalks, sat through meetings, and rode through the dark back to home. We stood alone in my kitchen before he left for the night and when he said goodbye, he kissed my forehead and pulled me in close. I relaxed into him. He was so comfortable and being there was so purely joyful, but when he left, I went to my room and sat on the floor next to my bed as wave after wave of loss washed over me in heaving sobs.

My concept of time after that night is skewed. All I know is this: it was the first week of April, our relationship was still fairly tenuous, I was still hiding my long-distance boyfriend from Patrick as well as Patrick from my long-distance boyfriend, he was still introducing me as his "friend", and I still thought on some days that maybe, just maybe this pseudo-relationship we had would dissolve and I would get back to my original plans for life. By the last week of April, three weeks later, we were talking about marriage. What happened between the first and last week of the month is, quite frankly, a miracle.

I finally worked up the courage to be completely honest and when I was, he so humbly and graciously offered me time and space to sort things out that I knew in that moment that I already had everything figured out. I wanted to be with him. I would give up everything necessary to stay. And so we continued to spend every spare moment together and in one of those moments sometime in mid-April, we were talking about aging and I joked that someday I would have to help him up the stairs to bed and the joke turned suddenly serious.
"You want to marry me, huh?"
"Yes."
And that was pretty much that.

Back to the Story

At first it seemed he was inventing reasons to show up at my apartment: to administer a survey for one of his classes, to prove that my life was empty without Calvin and Hobbes, to drop things off or pick them up. Sometimes he would come to ask me on another date and then we would go out to: hike Y mountain, watch a movie, attend concerts on campus, visit his mission friends. Sometimes he would see me reading in the grass outside my apartment building on his way home from campus and stop to talk.

Eventually though, the excuses had run out and we were unabashedly spending every spare moment together. My grades suffered and I barely noticed. The more time I had with him, the more I thought I wanted.

I realized subconsciously that I was falling in love, but I still wasn't saying it out loud, because though that feeling was lovely and exciting, in reality, this time of falling was incredibly tumultuous. It foiled all of my plans, it changed what I thought I was becoming, it undid the deepest friendship I had ever experienced. I would fully enjoy my time with Patrick and then go home to cry. What I thought would be the most happy time of my life was stained by bitter loss and anxiety. I was constantly worried that I was messing everything up. I felt somewhat like I was losing myself. I suffered this privately. It's hard for me to recount, because I want to color our story brilliantly. It ended brilliantly, but if I am honest in the retelling, I have to paint this part with dark tones. This time was so full of contradictions and inward turmoil. The confusion overwhelmed me in the quiet moments.

Though our days were filled with each other, we did not have a name for our relationship or really any expectations. After the fiasco on our second date, he never again tried to hold my hand or anything further. I remember one time a roommate and her boyfriend invited us to watch a movie with them in my apartment. They were closely cuddled on one couch, holding hands, rubbing backs and the like. Patrick and I were uncomfortably situated on the other couch with a clear bumper of air separating us from even accidental contact. I remember recognizing the stark awkwardness and inwardly chuckling at it. I also accepted date invitations from other guys to prove my apathy (to myself really). If it weren't for the unmistakable feeling floating between us, anyone, including myself, could have believed that we were in a strictly platonic arrangement.

This lasted for about a month. We saw each other almost every day and would spend hours talking and laughing and playing. It was a comfortable friendship and if that's all it ever was everything would have been fine, but it wasn't. Finally one evening, the last week of March, we were laughing and talking at the playground of a nearby elementary school. It was dark, the playground lit dimly orange by a street lamp in the parking lot. We climbed over the equipment, playing some sort of game and somehow both landed in a heap at the bottom of the twisty slide. We kept talking and laughing, staying right there in our tangled heap. When it was time to leave, I realized we were holding hands. It was so lovely that I went home and cried.

Resolution

There were books under the seat I sat in at church on Sunday, but I failed to notice.  It was somebody's meager attempt to save the seat, but I failed to notice.

I took notice when, at the end of the meeting, Patrick pointed to them at my feet and claimed them as his own.  It was a perfectly benign start to breaking the ice formed on Friday night.  We joked about the chances of my overlooking his reserved chair.  Serendipity.  Fate has a funny way of arranging accidental encounters.  He invited me to do something with him later that evening, I accepted and all awkwardness was mostly forgot.

Before I went with him that night, my roommate gave me the first of what would become a regular pep-talk.  It was an insistent encouragement to tell the truth about who my "missionary friend" actually was.  She was right, of course.  The request Friday to hold my hand, was a pretty good indication that Patrick wasn't in it for friendship alone.  If I was going to continue to spend time with him, I needed to tell him why I was so uncomfortable holding hands.  

I had every intention to be honest, too.  Especially after her well-crafted persuasion.  On my way down the street to his apartment, or when I waited in mine for his arrival, I would rehearse in my mind the conversation.  It always seemed so easy, the words were quite simple, but I came to realize that it was broaching the subject that proved difficult.  The opportunity to say, "I have a boyfriend"  or "we planned to get married" just never presented itself and frankly, the more time I spent with Patrick, the less I hoped for the opportunity.

I feared that telling him would be the same as ending the relationship and even though we didn't have a name for what was going on between us, I really liked it.  We started spending as many moments together as we could muster and graciously, he never asked to hold my hand again.

Debacle

I told my mom that I thought I should stay as far away from Patrick as I could, but when he showed up early in the week to say that Peter Pan, the film was playing Friday night and asked if I would like to come with him to see it, I welcomed the idea.  What would one more night, hurt?  It was nice to have a new friend after all and maybe that's all he thought of me anyway.

Friday evening, there was an activity in a large lecture hall of the business school for all of the students in our church congregation.  We planned to go to the movie from there, but when I met Patrick after the activity in a lobby, he regretfully told me that Peter Pan had been prematurely removed from the theater's showing list.  I remember thinking that I should just leave it at that.  "Thanks for the invitation," I pretended to say.  "It would have been fun. See you around."  I would have merrily returned home and gotten back to the regularly scheduled programming.

My mouth, however, couldn't muster a goodbye.  Instead, it exclaimed another grand scheme just like the mountaineering suggestion the week before.  "Let's go to Utah Lake."

I had never been there and neither had he.  Neither of us knew how to get there or what we would find when we arrived.  It was already past dark, the first week of March.  We weren't dressed for gallivanting around a lakeshore in late winter and we didn't have flashlights, but he was once again willing.

We drove in the westward direction, knowing that if we traveled that way for long enough, we would end up at the lake.  We did eventually and found a public park on the shore.  A man-made peninsula jutted out about a quater of a mile into the water.  Large boulders acted as a retaining wall on both sides holding back the earth, on top of which ran a paved path.  Our way was lit dimly by the moon and we felt oddly warm as we hopped from boulder to boulder, talking and laughing as we went.  We sat at the end of the peninsula for two or more hours.  It was quiet out there, removed from the city, the air fresh, the lapping of waves on the rocks peaceful.  Ducks paddled through the frigid water while we continued talking.  I don't remember the content of our discourse, only the feelings of ease and trust.

And then cold.  It came suddenly and completely with the shift in wind or a lull in conversation.  Everything immediately seemed less comfortable and we determined to head back down the length of the peninsula, this time opting for the path up above.  We walked briskly, intent on getting out of the cold.  I could see his car in the near distance when he next spoke.

"Would it surprise you to know that I've wanted to hold your hand for most of the night?"

This is where the lovely background music abruptly ends and pervasive silence fills every nook and cranny imaginable.

"I guess not," I muttered while thinking Thank goodness for these mittens.  The silence got into the car and followed us back to Provo.  It wasn't until we were driving through the city center that one of us spoke again.

He asked, "Would it make you uncomfortable if I held your hand?"  ---You know, just in case things weren't awkward enough already.

I answered simply, "Yes."  And then wondered if I should offer an explanation or let the awkwardness reign in silence.  I chose silence.  What would be my explanation anyway?  I like you, but not that much?  Um, actually my "friend" in Ukraine is really my boyfriend?  I don't like holding hands?  I'm nervous and not ready for this? I felt honesty ran a high risk of scaring him away. On the other hand, I was certain I had just accomplished ending our short lived relationship, so why make it worse? Thus, silence seemed the best option.

He apologized for asking and I apologized for being weird.

More silence.

Needless to say, we were both feeling the hot sting of humiliation and welcomed the relief of parting ways that night.  I spent Saturday dreading the prospect of seeing him in church the next day or anywhere ever again, in fact.

Snow Melts

The Y is the mountain immediately east of Provo, called such because of the huge Y embossed on the mountainside overlooking the city.   A switchbacked trail leads from a parking lot to the top of the insignia and is hiked by students and residents year-round.  That is what I meant by "hike the Y" as I offered aloud the first thought to pop into my head.  Nevermind that it was dark, late, and snowing hard, I was intent on spending more time with this new and wonderful friend so any wild idea was adequate.  By some miracle, he didn't even flinch before agreeing and after stopping for warmer clothes, we were headed up the steep roads to the base of the trail.

Fortunately for our safety and contrary to our lack of judgement, the car decided pretty soon up those unplowed slopes that we should turn around, but I was undeterred.  The snow would not be the end of this date, it would become the continuation of it.  We would go to Rock Canyon Park, a recreation area in a bowl shaped arena, surrounded on all sides by perfect sledding hills.  We knocked on a few doors in our neighborhood to find someone with sleds (something that could only be comfortably done in a college town so close to midnight) and then spent the next hour or so sliding down hills and roughhousing in the snow at the base of the looming mountains. I remember the park being surprisingly busy for the time of night and I remember laughing and thinking it was the best date of my life.  And then being shocked by the realization.  By the time he took me home, I was soaked and feeling suddenly awkward about how much I had enjoyed myself.

It was well past one in the morning and my roommate was waiting for me with a broad smile and questioning eyes.  My awkward feeling melted to embarrassment and then shame.  I stumbled through an unclear explanation.  When she left the room, I silently retraced the past seven hours, puzzling over the boy and what it was about him that made me so comfortable.  I had let down every wall and all for what?  One night that should probably never happen again.  That is exactly what I told my mom the next day over the phone when she asked about my weekend.  It was such a good time, that I didn't want it to happen again.  I'm sure she was smiling on the other end of the line.

Salt and Pepper. Pepper and Salt

The first thing I noticed when Patrick picked me up in his 90s Cavalier was that he wasn't dressed up and he apparently hadn't doused himself in any strong fragrance.  In my experience, this was atypical.  Usually guys would show up, flashing brightly colored feathers like a peacock and distributing a pungent scent like a tomcat, but Patrick didn't seem to be out to impress me.  He wore a modest sweater  and comfortable dark green cargo pants.  I was impressed and also grateful that I couldn't smell him.

It had just begun snowing as we drove west on my street out to University Avenue.

"What's your favorite movie?"  His effort to break the ice.  He prefaced his query with a short explanation about his being a film major and thus having curiosity about other people's thoughts on the matter.  Little did he know that I was probably the least interested in film of anyone he knew.  For the sake of the remaining date, I thought of making something up, but ended up honestly killing the conversation.  Instead of turning around and taking me home, he was accepting.  I was relieved, though still self-conscious.  Luckily, we arrived at our destination, Color Me Mine, just as the movie discussion fizzled out.

"You pick something to paint," He requested as we stood in the doorway of the establishment staring at shelved walls full to the brim of every ceramic creation imaginable, all white and waiting for someone to embellish it.  I looked at statues, knick-knacks, platters, bowls, plates, teacups, and at last settled on a pair of salt and pepper shakers for two reasons: we could each paint one and they were among the least costly items available.  It didn't occur to me that this would present a problem.  When fired and shiny, the finished shakers would either have to be separated or only one of us would be able to keep them.  In the end, you'll see that we never had to address this conundrum and maybe you'll decide it was a fateful decision, choosing the pair of salt and pepper shakers tacitly pleading not to be parted.

As we painted, other patrons would come and paint much larger and more intricate pieces, finish, leave, and quickly be replaced by another who would accomplish the same routine while we kept toiling on our small and rudimentary compositions.  It took us a while to realize, so engrossed were we in a corner of the store with our tiny shakers and steady dialogue, but when we noticed how very slowly we labored compared to those around us, we laughed and joked about it.  Really, though, we were most busy becoming acquainted and for the first time on a date I felt comfortable in the acquaintance.   Something about him put me at ease and I threw down the barriers that usually loomed over my first dates.  We were there for three hours.

It was close to 10 and still snowing when we sat down to eat on the other end of town.  As we meandered through the meal, a restaurant employee overturned chairs and prepared for closing.  I think we decided to leave when we realized we were the only remaining customers.  The parking lot was lost to a thick white blanket.  It must have snowed a few inches while we were eating and it was still falling in large flat feathers.  There weren't many cars on the road and the sounds of the city were being absorbed into the white that sparkled against the street lamps.  I was likewise absorbed.  Provo never seemed so magical.

"That's all I had planned," He interrupted my reverie.  "Unless there's anything else you want to do, I'll take you home."  He was already driving carefully in that direction.

He probably wasn't serious.  Maybe he was just being polite.  Maybe I should have considered the position of this poor boy.  It was already 11pm after an already lengthy date.  Maybe he didn't feel the way I did.  But all I could think at his announcement was that the date was going to end abruptly if I didn't do something about it and this caused a little panic.

"We could hike the Y."

Did that just come blurting out of my mouth?  I slunk down a little in my seat and appraised his profile to detect a reaction to my outlandish outburst.

Derivatives of Dating

I was ten and he was eleven when I first met my missionary friend.  At first, he was my younger brother's friend and would come to my house sometimes for the card game, Magic and swims in the pond.  My brother was always good at including me and graciously sharing, so his friends would naturally become mine sometimes as well.  Over the tumultuous years of early teenage-hood, the friendship I shared with this boy evolved beyond the link it had to my brother.  High school was largely a solitary, silent experience for me; I felt like a misfit and I was shy.  Our friendship was one reprieve I found beyond the cinderblock walls (he didn't attend my school).  I was not a misfit with this friend.  I felt known and accepted.  I was comfortable to lean towards what I hoped to become.

Halfway through my seventeenth year, we were joking and laughing one day when he got suddenly serious and told me he wanted me to be his girlfriend.  I was disappointed, the air sucked right out of me, the disagreeable title looming large.  I asked for time to think and came back after days or weeks (I can't remember which) of deep thought to explain: I was afraid of a title stealing our friendship, a precious lifeline to my lonely high-school soul.  I didn't really care much for having a boyfriend, I just wanted a best friend.  So we made a deal that he would be my best friend before he considered himself my boyfriend and all was well.

When he was nineteen and I was eighteen, he left for two years to Ukraine and I moved across the country to become a freshman at BYU.

This is a short explanation for why dates were so deplorable to me.  What two-hour excursion with a near stranger could ever compare to time spent with the closest friend I had ever had?  How could I be interested in investing my nerves in the preparation, poise, and shaky-voiced presentation it took to feign regard on a stiff first date when I had become accustomed to going as I was with my friend?  I was shy and felt awkward pretending to enjoy going out with strangers.  I had no interest in anybody who ever asked me out.  My word association would have looked like this:

                                                 Dating= panic attack, nervous, heart palpitations,
                                                 high blood pressure, sweaty palms, adrenaline,
                                                 facade, uncomfortable, unnecessary, torture,
                                                 excruciating, waste of time

Friday, February 27, I endured a rigidly friendly date with a guy from my Russian class.  He was kind and I was grateful for the dinner, but it was everything I had come to expect from a date: a nice guy who didn't interest me, uncomfortably forced conversation, good (free) food, and an ulcer causing nervousness.  The evening made me dread having to perform the same pleasing pretense the next night with Patrick.

That Saturday was drawn out long and slow.  After a morning with books and papers, I spent the afternoon shopping with a roommate to assuage my nerves and then waited the remaining minutes before Patrick's arrival in the front part of our apartment with another roommate who was doing schoolwork on the couch.  He hadn't told me what to expect, so I ate a slice of bread to hopefully hold me over if dinner wasn't in his plans.  The last I had heard from him was Thursday evening when he called and asked if I had any fears or allergies.  When I told him I was afraid of needles, he said, "I guess we won't get tattooed then," but he didn't give me any details about what we would do.  I was curious, but much, much more apprehensive.

Eyes, Lunacy, and a Storm

Many weeks followed our second encounter.  We would be in the same company frequently; we both attended the same weekly activities, the same church congregation, a Mardi-Gras party, and some other neighborhood social gatherings.  In close proximity, we acted warmly towards each other.  In the very least, our body language was warm, though not much was ever said.  I don't remember exchanging anything more than a periodic stark greeting, "hi" and "how's it going?", however I do remember meeting his eyes from time to time.

It could have been my imagination, I thought, but then I would again notice a quick flit from those eyes in my direction and I'd have to wonder: was he looking at me?  I seemed to catch his glance more frequently as we progressed through that month.  Then again, maybe it was my imagination.

We found ourselves in the last week of February.  Monday the 23rd, we had our usual activity group.  We were making a short film and the set that night was my kitchen and the parking lot behind my building. The group was large and we were packed into my apartment.  After the filming was finished they all filed out the front door and I remember thinking I must have been crazy.  It seemed like every time I checked to see where his eyes were, I would meet them in the checking.  I determined that I needed to just stop checking.  It was possible that he thought I was looking at him, would periodically check and it was just a coincidence that we would meet in the middle.  I couldn't allow him to think I was furtively glimpsing, even if I suspected the same of him.

After classes on Tuesday, I went shopping with one of my roommates.  The trip took longer than I expected and encroached on an appointment I had with a friend to go for a run.  By the time I returned, the sky had started to spit water.  I thought we should leave quickly before heavy rain picked up.  She was waiting for me in my apartment.  I found her at the desk in my room using the computer there to show Patrick pictures of her family.  Patrick?!  In my room?!  Now I was surely a lunatic, most definitely hallucinating!  He looked up at me and opened his mouth, a stream of words flowing out, an explanation of his coming, an invitation to go out with him on Saturday.  The words hung there for a moment while I struggled to recognize them as reality and then muttered a "sure".  He left.  My friend stayed long enough to watch with me out the sliding glass door in my living room as a cold February rainstorm blew in.

A Cereal Party

Not quite a month after our first encounter, there was a Monday evening cereal party sponsored by the activity group Patrick and I were a part of. The instruction was to bring your own box of cereal and the group would provide the milk. I didn't care much for cold cereal, didn't own a box of it, and didn't have time or desire to go out and buy one specifically for this event, so I thought better of attending.  On the other hand, my roommate didn't want to show up alone and promised to share some of her cereal, so I agreed to accompany her and we headed into the dark January night.

The house on the corner was lit brightly and teeming as usual with people, most of whom were milling around the kitchen, bowls in one hand, milk-dripping spoons in the other.

I sat at the kitchen table against the wall, hidden slightly behind my roommate. I listened to her converse with people, quietly nodding or awkwardly waving when someone noticed me in my seat behind her.

Eventually, I was listening to her speak with Patrick about a friend they shared in common. I sat silently, pretending to be absorbed in the bowl of cereal infront of me. I hadn't spoken a word to Patrick nor him to me since our first uncomfortable exchange weeks earlier. I shrunk down, hoping he wouldn't bother me about choir again, but then their conversation morphed into an account of an adventure he had in France.

My ears perked up. I had an interest in France. My family hosted French exchange students in my youth, I had taken a few years of French classes, I really liked French toast, and I had visited France in high school. I don't remember what it was, but something blurted out of my mouth. It was small, but expressed my interest. He looked at me and reciprocated the acknowledgment.

And that was it. In my letter to my dear missionary friend that night, I mentioned listening to a guy tell a story about his time in France. That was the only thought I gave to Patrick the Boy, but it was a significant improvement over our first encounter.

In the Lackluster Beginning

Continued from Christmas Bells

With three other girls, I lived in Norma's. It was the name of a small apartment complex on 7th North just a block and a half downhill from BYU's campus. Norma's was situated under the shadow of a very large building called Spyglass where wealthy kids spent their parents' money skiing at Sundance and driving far nicer cars than my woody mini-van, which we all parked together in our shared garage. Norma's and Spyglass shared the block with houses, little two or three bedroom houses, all inhabited by students and post-student types who had yet failed to move on from student life. Across 7th, further from campus, the road was similarly lined with houses and an occasional complex all rented to kids like me and my roommates. 

The motion of pedestrians was a constant ebb and flow, up and down the hill, back and forth on 8th North, 7th North, 6th North and the roads that connected them, to class, to work, and home again. And it was exciting. The scurrying, laughing, meeting of friends, the quick paced climbing, the palpable relief at the end of a day or a test or a distasteful class, the romances around the duck pond; these things made my heart light and my eyes dance, all of it felt fresh and alive.

 Sections of Provo were organized into Stakes and a few blocks from each stake made up a ward. The ward met together for church every Sunday and for social activities on other days. Norma's was in a ward with a handful of nearby apartment buildings, much larger than her own, as well as three blocks of student leased houses. The ward was the lifeblood of our sociality.  Patrick had been in my ward since August, but I had not yet noticed.

The first time I met him, he already knew who I was, at least he knew my name and recognized my face. I had previously overlooked him as deliberately as I ignored most every young man in existence. So the familiarity between us was one sided, as was the amity.

It was a dark Monday evening early in the new year. We were gathered in a small living room two doors down from my apartment on 7th North. Most of us were strangers, arranged in this group of perhaps 20 students for weekly activities by our ecclesiastical leader. This was the first meeting.  I, the timid introvert in a noisy room full of unfamiliar peers, was full of anxiety. I wouldn't have been there if it weren't for the encouragement of my New Mexican roommate. She was the usual impetus behind any of my participations in social activities. If she ever didn't attend, you can bet your bottom dollar that I would not have either.

There were more people than seats in the loud and crowded room. After the couch was occupied beyond capacity, chairs were perched around the periphery, and floor space filled up quickly. I had a corner of an oversized bean bag chair.

He walked through the door after I was already comfortable in the corner. He had to pass by me to access the rest of the square living room and recognized me immediately. I wouldn't have noticed his recognition, if not for the fact that he spoke to me. It was a short conversation.

"Hey, do you sing in Russian Choir?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you sing in the church choir then?"

I shrugged my shoulders. What was it to him anyway? And how did he know I sang in Russian choir?

"Ok, so do you speak Russian?"
"A little."
"How come you speak Russian?"
"Because my best friend is a missionary in Ukraine."

That was it. I don't think we even exchanged names or any other personal information. My terse replies gave him the idea that I was cold and uninterested in him, which really wasn't far from the truth. He determined not to go out of his way to talk to me again. Therefore, the following weeks of Monday activities passed with nothing of note between the boy of the story and myself, who by no small miracle would eventually become his lady.

Pooka is Six

I can't even begin to account for the many ways Gerret makes me laugh. He can be both goofy and witty. His face can contort into hilarious forms.

Some examples from the past year:

"How does a bird fly without legs?"
"With a turtle!"

"I have two decisions for you. We can get ice cream or pizza."

"Stop entertaining me!"

Conversation from a Sunday afternoon:
"What did you learn about with Sister hammond?"
"About the headless gods."
"Who?"
"Like Heavenly Father and Jesus and that other one."
"You mean the Godhead?"
"Oh yeah. That's it."

Gerret astounds me with his sharp mind and creative spirit.

He can build something incredibly complex and beautiful, even functional, out of any medium available at the moment. He is a true believer in tape and glue. He regularly creates amazing structures, creatures, and vehicles, all of which he lovingly gifts to his dad.

Also for his dad, he collects rocks, sea glass, colorful bits of plastic, feathers, you name it. He has eyes for treasure. Another man's trash is Gerret's pleasure.

Additionally, he mass produces line drawings for his dad and myself and has taken quite aptly to writing short notes as well.

He loves school, especially his kindergarten teacher who has really helped him to bloom this year. He is a good friend and a calming influence in the classroom.

I am proud of my potty dancing, kind, and tender hearted, cuddly connoisseur of crafty gifts.
He is the best surprise of my life.

Flowing Sap on the Coldest Day of the Year

First thing each winter morning, before my feet hit the cold hardwood, before I peel back the covers, or even grope through my eyesight's fog for glasses, I reach blindly for my phone. I turn it on, poised near the bridge of my nose, and make two finger-taps. Thus opens the TWC weather app and I observe: first the current circumstance outside my window, second the forecast for the next ten hours, and lastly the prediction for the upcoming week. I need to prepare my mind and body for whatever the universe holds beyond my down comforter and plush sheets. I live in New York, where the sun shines 10% of the entire year, summers are mostly lukewarm, winters change from Springlike to below zero in a matter of hours, and I'm fairly certain the majority of locals are vitamin D deficient and scraping by in a gloomy stupor of depression 90% of the year. That's why I need some first-thing-in-the-morning mental preparation for each gray beginning.

This morning, however, (despite the fact that the windchill gave us a reading of -27) it didn't matter, because today is PTB's birthday.

It's fortunate for me that the boy of my dreams was born in January. This January day is my favorite day of the year and therefore the warmest for my heart, which beats rapidly all day in celebration of his existence and my fortune in finding him in this wide world. That boy, he is my best and closest friend. His transcendental presence is like a snug blanket, the kind I never want to shed. It does not matter that the mercury negatively hovers, or that beautiful frost patterns grace the window of my storm door well into and past the afternoon, or that news anchors are crying "vortex!" "vortex!" and we're making frigid history. I hardly give space in my mind for worries about bursting pipes, frost-bitten chicken feet, failed engines, or worse. I might as well dwell in the hemisphere down under. It really makes no differences to how warm I am on a day such as my boy's birthday. Today, his transcendental presence is ever present.


Sent from my iPhone

Christmas Bells and the End of the Ring

Continued from Cold Storage

I traveled home bursting with pride that Christmas, ten years ago. After flying from the Rockies, over the plains and down out of the clouds to the snowy Northeastern countryside, I made sure one of my first accounts of the previous semester was a boastful story about my pretend engagement ring and its precipitous success . My mom didn't think it nearly as awesome as I did. In fact, she seemed rather disappointed.

"Dishonest," she called my clever trick, petitioning me to discontinue the ploy on my return to college.  What followed was a bombardment of encouragement to be sociable, resume dating, stop being surly on those dates, have more fun, don't spend so many Friday nights alone, and quit avoiding guys like the plague.

I got the hint and never gloated again.

On Christmas day, I drove the 20 miles to my missionary friend's parents' house to hear said missionary's voice for the first time in the better half of a year. We talked as old friends, laughing over his crazy stories, his lived experiences in a place so far removed I had a hard time imagining it or him there. I told him about classes, roommates, Russian choir and what it was like to be back home. No mention was made of dates or the perceived need for a fourth-finger-ring. The feeling at the end of our conversation was one of warmth, but also distance. I could not even begin to understand what life was like for my best friend on the other side of the world and I didn't feel free to be honest with him about every aspect of my life at school.  That friendly warmth was nevertheless assuring. We could make it another nine months and then there would never be a reason for distance again.

Reluctantly and with a reminder from my mom, I returned the dishonest ring to my roommate when we reunited in January.