Happy Human Rights Day!

In order to appreciate what I am about to say you have to understand that I am descended from solid Scandinavian stock. My maiden name is Scandinavian, my physical features are Scandinavian, I served a mission in Scandinavia, I lived there as a child…do you get it? (By the way, at the risk of being condescending and insulting, we all know that Scandinavia isn’t an actual country but a reference to a particular geographic area, right? Just checking. I had a boyfriend when I left on my mission that wrote me 6 weeks into my mission to say he was a little confused as to which country I was really going to Scandinavia or Denmark? And if I was going to Scandinavia then he was really confused because he couldn’t find that on a map! Is that too telling about some of the people I’ve dated?) Anyway, despite what you would think would be a deeply ingrained heritage, I grew up wanting to be black. Seriously. I use to wonder if there was a black girl somewhere who really wanted to be white and if some tragic mistake had been made in our mortal assignments. I love the color of brown skin, want to be able to braid my hair in a million braids and not look comically stupid (sometime I’ll blog about the year I tried to braid my hair for girl’s camp), have a deep passion for all music R&B or gospel, sometimes want to shout "Amen" during people’s testimonies on fast Sunday, and love studying black history. So given this background, I felt it was really important to get out of the house and give my children a real "multicultural experience" on Martin Luther King Day. Given the location I live in, finding an appropriate outlet for this need to express was not easy. I opted for the candlelight march on BYU campus and enlisted the aid of my sister since I may be slow but not entirely stupid to think that I could pull this off alone with 3 children.
We arrived at our destination with a double stroller carrying 2 rowdy boys, a Snuggli with my 7 week old newborn, a pink, fluffy diaper bag (I may be a mom but I don’t have to carry plastic Winnie-the-Pooh diaper bags…no offense to anyone who does) and a somewhat dampened enthusiasm since it was cold and we had just carried a double stroller up a lot of stairs. There was a large crowd gathering at the bell tower…the most un-multicultural looking group of people I have ever laid eyes on. Each of us were handed a used candle with a BYU catering services plastic cup around the middle and terror struck my heart when I realized they were actually lighting these candles in this tightly packed group of hair-sprayed, coifed co-eds. My sons pleaded to have their candles lit (they are 3 and 2 years old) and Carrie and struggled to join the march back down the million stairs without setting anyone or anything on fire. My favorite moment was when the group started the march and began singing LDS church hymns. I couldn’t join in. First I felt too stupid and then I couldn’t stop laughing. I just kept hoping that either Martin Luther King, Jr. could appreciate the good if not slightly misdirected intention in all this or that he had chosen to attend another memorial service that night. I laughed the whole way to the Wilkinson Center where we attended a meeting that was really quite good although the Black Student Choir that sang actually had more white students in it than black. I’m not sure what my 3 darling, rambunctious children took away from the whole experience but I was grateful we were there. I realized it wasn’t about having "multicultural" experiences as much as it is having really "human" experiences. I hope my children will spend their lives seeking out people and experiences that challenge them, enrich them, and uplift them. I hope they are never afraid to carry lighted candles in a march or laugh at all the silly moments life hands us. I hope celebrating Martin Luther King Day will always be important to them and that they will remember the crazy although well-intended experiences their mom tried to give them.
Anyone know a good place to celebrate President’s Day??

The White Trash Theory

I have long believed in a theory that throughout my life has been repeatedly shown to be true. We are all what I affectionately call "white trash". The vast majority of the population would adamantly, even vehemently deny this claim but as I stated earlier, while giving lip service to how far from the truth that term is in describing themselves, they are secretly living the life they pretend to look down on. My theory goes on to explain how this can be…all of us are white trash but some of us are just better at hiding it than others. Some of us choose to repress this side of ourselves while others have learned to embrace it and I am convinced live much simpler, happier lives. I was contemplating this theory as I was driving my white mini-van to Wal-Mart the other day. You see, just moments earlier I had been caught in my pajamas by my sister-in-law who showed up at my door to see if I needed help with anything. I told her how desperate I was for a quick trip to the grocery store and she told me she would gladly watch the kids while I went. A mother with a 3 year old, 2 year old, and 7 week old does not have to be asked twice when offered a trip to Wal-Mart alone but I did face a dilemma. I was standing in my pajamas, unwashed, not groomed, and smelly but my 2 year old was sound asleep in my bedroom. If I went in to remedy all these hygiene problems, I would most likely wake him up and make him hysterical and inconsolable that I was leaving him. If I went in my pajamas with all the previously mentioned situations hovering about me, well, then, I would…and there it stopped. I put on a different pair of pants that I sometimes refer to as "lounge pants" (pajama bottoms being worn as clothing), grabbed the first pair of shoes I saw (a pair of clogs that my 2 year old has slowly been unraveling the wool covering off for the last 2 months) and a stale, half eaten candy cane. In hindsight, I’m 50% certain I was wearing a bra and 100% certain that the faint odor in the car was not the horse farm but I. And there I was. No shame, no regrets, just 60 minutes of freedom at Wal-Mart. Several years ago it might have taken a more significant effort to excite me the way I felt excited driving to Wal-Mart, but now I am a girl of simple pleasures. And speaking of simple pleasures…
Who hasn’t secretly longed for a comfy, old couch that they could plop on their front porch and spend long summer nights lounging on? Or how many of us have wished we could abandon the bras and tighty-whitey underwear for tank tops and Daisy Duke shorts on those hot summer days? In all seriousness, do we really fail to see the benefits of Astroturf outside? And how many times have I thought that a plastic pink flamingo really would look cute nestled in the front flowerbed? You may deny it, but wouldn’t life just be easier if we could skip the pretenses and devote all that brainpower to figuring something else out? I’m certain that if spent even half the brain time and power that we devote to contemplating how others are going to perceive us and our image, we would have some of these really big, sticky world problems figured out. So go ahead, pull out that couch, grab a cold can of something and go lay on the porch. You’d be surprised at how much of yourself you’ll find there.

The Educated Mind

I have been contemplating the idea of an "educated" individual and what definition one would use to define someone as such. Is it a certain amount of schooling? Is it a certain number of life experiences? Does it involve passing basic college algebra the first time? I have spent a significant amount of time in the field of "educating"…first as an elementary schoolteacher, then as a graduate student of educational leadership and administration, and most recently as a storyteller at 2 public libraries. But this week a seemingly small moment with my 3 year old son proved what I have always really suspected…I really don’t get much at all.

My sister has a bathroom with an impossible light switch. It seems all backwards to me. I don’t have any problem turning on the right light switches in my own bathrooms but the minute I step foot into her downstairs powder room, I’m flipping on the fan instead of the light switch, cursing, trying to turn that one off while fumbling for the light switch, and then spending the next few moments sitting there trying to calm down and understand whether this ongoing saga is my problem or my sister’s problem. Yesterday I escorted my son into the bathroom where he reached up very calmly and flipped the right switch on the first time. I have to admit being a little stunned by his confidence in this matter but figured it was a matter of coincidence. A couple hours later I escorted the same son back to the same bathroom and stood aside to see what would happen. Once again, he entered the bathroom, stood on his tiptoes and calmly flipped the right switch on the first time. He didn’t struggle for a moment. There was no cursing, no near accident, and no extra time sitting in the bathroom trying to understand the complexities of life. Matter of fact, after the third bathroom trip he announced the room was a little "stinky" and reached up to turn on the fan.

I have 2 college degrees, a resume filled with work experience, and a number life experiences under my belt and I can’t figure out the light switches in my sister’s downstairs bathroom. Jake has 2 months of preschool, 3 years of life experience, and no resume and he has mastered this small piece of life without a moment’s thought. So tell me…who is really educated? I suspect it ain’t me.

Here I Am.

Here I am...a little hesitant about this whole experience but willing to fling some portion of myself out there and see what raw thing comes back at me. When my sister mentioned "blogspot" today, I thought she was talking about a disease somebody had. Was a blogspot a mole? A freckle? A secret diseased spot that oozed but was never talked about? It sounds like I am trying to be philosophical and really I'm just being very literal. My 2 year old has random pustules on his leg right now that the doctor says are benign little viral things but I have to admit they are a strange source of living wonder to me...hence, the blogspot being a skin related condition...I'm rambling.

Today my boys and I had a hot dog and tater tots from Sonic for lunch. I ate my tater tots and developed such a startling "on the spot" addiction for more that I was a little stunned. My 3 year old willing shared some of his and then I have to admit driving around just a little bit extra because I knew it would put my 2 year old to sleep so I could have his (he and I come very directly from the same gene pool that says you don't share something that is salted and deep fried). I still didn't feel quite satisfied but I had run out of options and exceeded my monthly caloric and fat intake. I've had them on my mind all day. Did I mention I'm 37 weeks pregnant? Which I'm certain brings up the issue with more than one well-meaning blog reader as to what a sane person is doing with a 3 year old, 2 year old, and newborn!? What can I say? I'm addicted to procreating. It's a hobby. And sanity doesn't run in my family.

How do you know when to stop yourself on these things? I could go on forever except that 2 out of the 4 family members in this house are in hysterics, one is definitely carrying around something fatal in his diaper, and the ideal bedtime passed us by at least 45 minutes ago.

So let the raw flinging into the void begin...