A Gold Medal In Humility

You know what makes for a good leader? (Newt Gingrich, take note).

Humility.

I've been thinking about this a lot for about the past week because of this guy:

You see I went to a meeting on Saturday that he spoke at. I've actually heard him speak a number of times and even talked to him in person once or twice. In fact, I've got his autograph on a little piece of paper that says it's a-okay for me to go into an LDS temple.*

Because, he's not just an Olympic gold medalist, he's also a counselor in my stake's presidency (which is like if a bishop of a diocese had a helper). I've never seen him do his gold-medal winning pommel horse routine-- at least not since 1984 (though I hear he still does it on occassion)--but the thing I really like about him is his self-deprecating humor.

For example, he once told a friend of mine that he had to speak at a middle school career day and he had no idea what he was going to tell those kids. In his words (which are very paraphrased, since I wasn't there), "What am I supposed to tell them? Practice the pommel horse so you can ride that train for the rest of your life?"

The other thing I like about him is that, when I wear heels, I tower over him. Which I can't brag about very often because I'm 5'3". On a good day. Which means...

Peter Vidmar is ... short. I'm comfortable saying that because it's not something he's trying to hide. In fact, he jokes about it a lot. And it always makes me laugh. Like at this meeting on Saturday. He showed a soccer picture of one of his sons when he was four years old and then said, "When you're a four year old Vidmar, that soccer ball is huge!"

And then he told the story behind this picture that he has kept on his desk for twenty-two years. As he was driving his son to get his very first AYSO soccer picture taken, President Vidmar (that's what we call him in our stake) looked over and saw his son had wiped his chocolatey fingers on his white uniform. So he said to him, "What are you doing? Your mom got that uniform all clean and ready for you and now you've smeared chocolate all over it right before your picture!" And some more stuff like that.

And you know what his son did?

The exact same thing that my kids have done--and maybe your kids too--when I've gotten mad at them for some little thing that doesn't really matter in the big scheme of things.

He cried.

So President Vidmar apologized, his little boy got his picture taken and when they got it back the little smudge of chocolate was barely visible. And the story could end there and the incident forgotten. But it doesn't and it isn't.

I've heard that Peter Vidmar keeps his gold medals hanging on a wall where other people can see them because he's often asked about them. But he keeps this picture of his now grown son in the chocolate-smudged uniform on his desk to remind him every day about what's really important in life.

After told the congregation that story and shared a few other insightful things,  he showed us this video: Parenting: Touching the Hearts of Our Youth. I don't care who you are, what religion you practice or don't, or if you're a parent or not, this video is for you. But I'm warning you. I'm not a cryer and I got a little choked up.

So did a lot of people, including President Vidmar and the other members of the stake presidency-- who are pretty successful men in their own right. And, I've gotta tell you, I love seeing grown men who aren't afraid to cry in public. Not crocodile tears, but the genuine kind. Especially the men who are very successful professionally, because humility doesn't always get you very far in the world. But when it comes to success in things that really count...

That takes some humility.

* This is called a temple recommend and it's not really up to President V. whether I can go or not. He just very nicely asks me questions about whether I'm following the standards we believe God has given us to live by. It's up to me to decide if I can answer those questions honestly or not.

Conversations at Breakfast: Maid in China

So it's a good thing I had this post already planned out because I took a toddler to breakfast this morning for the first time in four years. And then I remembered how there's a lot less conversing and a lot more wiping of little fingers and mouths during breakfast with a toddler (FYI, Cinnamon Sugar Bagel Poppers, not a good choice for a two year old). Also, there is a lot more crying and yelling of things like, "mine!" The Yentas (oh, they were there) were not amused.

Now, onto a conversation from a few months ago. The one right after Thanksgiving where Paula said, "so I met my new Chinese sister-in-law while we were at my mom's."

But let's backtrack even further for some background info. You see, Paula has this brother who is like a luxury car without a muffler. He's a nice guy who spews out a lot of crap. In other words, he lacks a filter. (At least according to Paula. I've never actually met the guy). For example, one time he was being wheeled into surgery and he got into a fight with his doctor. And if there's one guy you don't want to offend, it's the one holding the knife who's about to cut you open.

Anyway, Bob* decided after being divorced for a while that he needed a new wife. And since he likes Asian women, he decided to go right to the source. More specifically, China. Because, if there's one thing China's got, it's Asian women. Lots of them. Like a quarter billion or something.

But when I say he went right to the source, I don't actually mean he went to China. More like, he went to the Internet where he met her via e-mail. Which is, in itself, pretty interesting considering the fact he didn't speak Chinese and his new wife, Candy (not her real name, just the American one she chose for herself), didn't speak English.  I mean write. Write Chinese. Or speak it.

But what is the inability to communicate in the face of true love? Not much, if you are Bob and Candy. for after a whirlwind romance via email and a meet and greet in China, they decided to marry. Unfortunately, the one thing America won't import from China, is their women. So the newlyweds had to part until Candy and her son, Peter (not his real name either), could get visas.

Fast forward many months later to Candy's first American Thanksgiving where she meets her new husband's family. And they meet her.

Here are some cultural differences Paula noticed right off the bat. Now, maybe these aren't things that all people from rural China do, but since Candy is our only exposure to that part of the world, we're going to assume they do. Kind of like people in other countries assume all Americans wear cowboy boots and say things like, "nucular" (can't imagine where they got that idea).

Anywho...

Cultural Difference #1: the Chinese think their phones are pets. So they put ears on them. This is something I can actually get on board with. Phones aren't any cheaper than pets, but I bet they don't get scared by fireworks. And, if they get eaten by wolves, who cares? You can just buy a new one.

Cultural Difference #2: Chinese mothers think it's okay for their ten year old boys to wear girly kitty socks and hoodies with ears. Which makes me think there must be a shortage of actual pets in China if they are trying to make everything look like an animal.

Cultural Difference #3 became obvious while Paula rubbed her Dad's shoulders. Her brother, seeing this, wanted in so he said, "Wife!" then pointed to his sister and then to his own shoulders. And Candy's response? She giggled and pranced over to give him a back rub.

And then when Bob saw his sister drinking some juice he said, "Wife! Juice!" Candy's response? ...I think you already know.

But in my favorite example of CD #3, Paula and her mom were having a conversation with Candy. (Actually more with Candy's phone since it was magic and she could say something in Chinese into it and the phone would say it back to her in English and vice versa those Asians have all the best technology). Candy said to Paula, "so, you nurse? Husband want me to be nurse."

And Paula, in recounting this story to us, paid me the highest compliment by saying, "and then my mom said something that Brittany would say."

What was it that Paula's mom said? Well, she straightened up, got fiery look in her eye and said, "In America, women do what they want!"

And it's true. I would totally say that.

But what Candy said--with a smile-- was, "I think I do what husband want."

And what Bob yelled from the other room as he overheard this conversation was, "Stop Americanizing her! I can't get this here!"

We had a good breakfast laugh over that story, though Paula does pray her brother doesn't call Candy Wife! in public. People might take that the wrong way. But she's pretty sure he does because of that whole no-filter thing he's got going on. We also kind of wonder if Candy isn't sitting in her comfortable American home right now, playing with her pet/cell phone while her son's at school and her husband's at work, thinking she's got a pretty good gig going on. She does what makes her husband happy for a few hours a day when he's home from work and then has the rest of her life to do what makes her happy. And everybody is happy. It's sort of a win-win.



I'll tell you one thing though, I'm won't be answering to the call of Wife! anytime soon.

(And also, today Monica expressed her feelings about GATE being dumb and said I should put that on the blog because she wanted to hear if people agreed. Your thoughts? Let me clarify, she meant the program, not the kids in it. Obviously, they are not dumb).

* Bob is not his real American name, but I can't remember what it is. I don't think he has a Chinese name.

Tuesdays Are For Breakfasts

My bi-weekly blog posts have sort of fallen to the wayside lately. Mostly because I'm trying to edit my book (and by edit, I mean basically re-write the whole thing so I'm not embarrassed to send it out for some real editing), but also because things keep coming up. Things I could probably give up so I could focus more on writing, except I don't want to.

Like my weekly breakfast group. There's four of us who've been meeting for breakfast once a week for years now. In fact, when we started our babies looked like this:

and we would take them to story time at the library after our cinnamon rolls.

Now they get story time at school (or not. Who knows?)  and we get to eat and have conversations that don't include the words, "please stop rolling around on the floor."

Except when we are ROFLing. Which sometimes happens.

There are a few others who come when they can, but the four of us work our schedules around breakfast, not the other way around.

And you know what? We're not the only group of ladies who do this. Lately when we've met for bagels at our new regular breakfast location, we've had to fight the Tuesday Yentas for a table. I mean, we do it very politely even though the Yentas all look to be about 80 years old and we could probably kick their ...

But those old ladies have a little bit of an attitude. Like, because they're old and wear matching lime green polo's that say Tuesday Yentas on them, somehow their breakfast group is more legit than ours. So I suggested we come up with our own name and get our own t-shirts. Maybe in hot pink to really show them up.

We tried to think of a name that would evoke who we are in much the same way the Yentas have. Something that said, "hey we're Mormon sisters who like to eat bagels and other breakfast foods together," but in fewer words. But really, how can a people who haven't even come up with a good title for that monthly mid-week Relief Society meeting compete with Yiddish?

So I suggested the name Breakfast Bitchers. Because, really, that's what our breakfasts are all about. Not every time, of course. Sometimes we have some pretty spiritual discussions like this one or funny conversations about whether to name a baby Kegel.

But most of our chats revolve around getting all our frustrations out and being able to say to each other, "you're child/spouse/pet does that too?" Or even, "oh no s/he/it didn't!" and feeling like 1) we're not alone and/or 2) there's someone who's having a worse day than me.

Without fail, though, I always feel full after breakfast. And not just with carbs.

The other girls vetoed my t-shirt idea, so I' won't be sharing pictures of us wearing them. But, I've been thinking for a while now that my readers ought to get filled up on Tuesdays too. Even if it's just with a good laugh.

So, starting next week I'll be writing a new segment called Conversations at Breakfast. I can't guarantee it will happen every week, but when there's something good to share, I'll be sharing it.

Like the story of how Paula got a new sister-in-law. From China.

That's one you're not gonna want to miss, so stay tuned.

Of Christmas, Kidney Stones, Wilford Brimley, Vampires, and Adverbs

Can we talk Christmas for a minute? I know it's over and everything, but I have a little Christmas story I've been dying to tell you. Not the uplifting kind, mind you. More the, if-you're-easily-offended-you-should-look-away kind. Also, if you have a special fondness for adverbs and authors who use a lot of them--not naming any names (yet)-- then you should probably skip this post all together.

My story starts on Christmas Eve with my family's traditional gag gift exchange. This year the prize for Best Gag Gift Ever went to my brother who handmade his gift for my father. Whom, you should know, sometimes suffers from kidney stones and had passed some just days before our Christmas Eve celebration. With this in mind my brother, who is a manufacturing engineer (whatever that it is) and therefore good at making things, created a kidney stone catcher for my dad. A hands-free one. And then cleverly named it Dr. Cox's Hands Free Kidney Stone Catcher.

Dr. Cox's kit not only included a strainer attached to some adjustable rope shoulder straps to hold it in place, but also a "bitin'" stick. I have a picture of my dad demonstrating how the contraption works (though not the actual stone passing necessitating the device), but he threatened to disown me when I mentioned it would be going on my blog. And then I got a new phone, but the picture stayed on my old one. Otherwise, I probably would have risked being kicked out of my family-- it was that good.

The runner-up prizes go to my sister-in-law and me. And since I can't post the picture I want of my dad, I'll post one of her:

That's my dog she's holding, after Lola was found and sheared. And you know what else my SIL holds? A PhD from Cornell University. Which makes her a doctor. A doctor of plants and their pathology, but still a doctor. And, as far as I know, she is the only doctor, ever, in the whole history of the Nelson family line. Drunks we've got; doctors, not so much.

So for her gag gift I gave her a picture of this man:

Who she once referred to, in all seriousness, as Elder Wilford H. Brimley. That Dr. Smarty-pants (as my SIL is affectionately known) thought Wilford Brimley was a general authority is funny enough on it's own. But the fact she assigned him a middle initial makes her mistake pretty darn hilarious. Because, as we all know (if we're Mormon. If not, this is sort of a had-to-be-there joke. Sorry), you can't be in the upper echelons of church leadership without an initial as part of your name.

Her gift to me, though, was just as clever. Here it is:

How is one of the greatest books of all time a gag gift, you ask? Well, I asked the same thing.

Until I opened it and read this:
"About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was part of him--and I didn't know how potent that part might be--that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him."

Angela had doctored up--very convincingly, I might add-- a copy of Twilight to look like  Pride and Prejudice. Thereby making me gag! Brilliant, I tells ya. Brilliant!

But actually, my doctored up P&P has come in pretty handy. You see, despite swearing off any and all things having to do with vampires or werewolves (though I'm leaving my options open for anything with mummies), I've been toying with a story idea that would require some knowledge of the Twilight series. Which means I'd need to read it. I'd thought about downloading it to my Kindle, but hated to pay for it. And now I don't have to. I can not only read it in public without embarrassment, but also look like I am a smarty-pants too.

So I have been (reading it, that is. I don't know about the looking like a smary-pants part). And do you know what I have discovered?

Adverbs. Lots and lots of adverbs.

And do you know what the first rule in writing is?

Show don't tell. Which is another way of saying, "if it ends in -ly, get rid of it."

Now go back and read that paragraph from Twilight. Did you notice how many words end in -ly? Three. Out of forty-four words. Which works out to about one in every fifteen words. And I'd say that's pretty consistent with the entire book, judging by what I've read so far.

I'm not saying this means Ms. Meyers is not a good writer (I'll keep those reasons to myself), I'm just saying she likes her some adverbs. And you know who else does?

J.K. Rowling. Whose books I actually really like (all this talk of adverbs has pushed me to over-adverb myself).

And you know what else Stephanie Meyers and J.K. Rowling have in common besides their love for adverbs?

Large bank accounts. Filled with money. I'd guess about a million dollars for every adverb used in their each of their books.

And that's a lotta adverbs.

How Many Villages Do I Need?

I don't mean to keep going on and on about my dog (really, one post about a dog on a blog with the word "cats" in the title should be enough, right?) but she is much on my mind lately. Mostly because it's a little lonely being the only one in the house barking anymore, but also because she is coming home today.

And so, this post is an ode to the dog who is afraid of almost everything. Everything except death.

She's eluded it a number of times here at home when something has frightened her enough to make her run away and she's been lost over night. And sure, we've got coyotes and hawks and other hungry predators wandering around these parts. Not to mention the cars. Lots and lots of cars.

But does this dog

look like she could survive in this?

(No, my parents don't live in Antarctica.
But, seriously, it's cold in No. Utah!)

or fight off this?



Because one of those has been spotted behind my mom and dad's house where, presumably, Lola ran to escape the fireworks. Apparently that is a lot less frightening to a small dog than loud noises followed by pretty colors in the sky.

I mean, sure Lola's got those frightening alien eyes. But that's only in this picture. And, as is also evidenced in the picture, she wears scarves.

You know what's not intimidating to predators?

Scarves.

She wasn't wearing one at the time of her sojourn in the wilderness, but I think predators know instinctively when they've come across accessory wearing prey. I imagine had Lola met the Big Bad Wolf (I'm assuming she didn't since she's still alive) and been wearing her scarf, the conversation would have gone something like this:

B.B. Wolf (eyeing Lola menacingly): I like your scarf.

Lola (answering a bit nervously): Thanks. I got it at the groomers.

B.B. Wolf: Hmm. You know where I get my scarves?

Lola (feeling a little more at ease): No. Where?

B.B. Wolf: From little dogs who get groomed.

Lola (not so at ease anymore, she slowly starts inching away): Oh.

B.B. Wolf: Know where I get my dinner?

Lola shakes head no.

B.B. Wolf: Same place.

I've tried to imagine other conversations Lola could have had with some kinder, more herbivore than carnivore, sort of forest animals who may have helped her find the way home. But she's not so good with her own species, so I can't imagine she's any better with other animal groups. I'm guessing she spent most of her time running and hiding rather than chatting up any squirrels or magpies.

And, in fact, she didn't make her way home. Instead a neighbor of my parents found her and, knowing there were three sad, dogless, little girls in California, determined to rescue her. So he called her name. Which, naturally, made her run. (She has a healthy respect for stranger danger, that one).  His next step was to hop on a bicycle and chase her. And chase her.

And chase her (she may be little, but she's fast).

When that didn't work, he got in his truck and continued to chase her. Up a mountain (which is easier to do in a truck than on a bicycle). Until he finally got close enough to throw a piece of canvas over her and capture her. He topped off her new canvas ensemble with his own hat (more to keep her from biting him than as an accessory) and Lola was rescued!

The best part is, this neighbor went to all that work to save a semi-loved pet for someone he doesn't even know. I may have met him before, but I can't remember. I imagine he looks something like this, though:

Or maybe even this:

Then, not to be outshone by one neighbor's neighborliness, some other neighbors came over to help nurse Lola, who looked like this:

this is her matted, cockleburr fur

so tramatized, she's lost the eerie shine to her eyes

They were also kind enough to help bathe her and give her a much needed haircut. With sheep shears. (Work with what you've got, right?) I don't have a picture of these neighbors either, but they look a little like this:

And you may remember them from here.

The final piece in Lola's Incredible Journey is Melinda, who looked like this the last time I saw her (and went by Mindy):

Which is a LOT better than what I looked like twenty years ago, but you get the point. It's been a while. Yet she has volunteered to bring my dumb dog back to me all the way from Utah to California. I can only assume she's undertaken such a task for one of the following reasons:

A. She remembers me being much nicer than I actually was, lo those many years ago.

B. She likes to roadtrip with dogs and doesn't have one (nor has she met mine).

C. She really wants to get out of Utah.

I'm pretty sure it's that last one.

And so the lesson learned this week from Lola the Dog (affectionately known as Dummy) is this:

It takes a villages both far and near for me to not only raise my kids, but also my dog.

Puttin' Things In Perspective

Have you seen that billboard? The one that says, "Pets are children too. Don't abandon them." It's right there outside of Las Vegas as you head south on the I-15.

It always makes me laugh because, really? Pets are children? Um, no. I mean, sure there are some similarities, especially when it comes to their manners. But, I don't feed my dog at the table and I don't leave my six year locked in a kennel for hours at a time while I'm out running errands. My kids also figured out that whole don't-pee-on-the-carpet thing, whereas the dog, eh, not so much.

This past Sunday, though, I dreaded seeing it. Guilt ate away any attempt at derisive laughter I could muster when we passed it eight hours into our twelve hour drive home from Utah to California.

By that time it had been nearly twenty-four hours since we'd seen Lola.

Aka: the stupid dog.

For on the eve of the New Year--and also of our departure--she had run away into the wilderness surrounding my parents' home. A wilderness full of coyotes, at least one wolf, and other various and assundry wildlife, but still an area she thought would be safer than the front yard where we were letting off fireworks.

We looked for her for an hour after we noticed her absence, searching with flashlights in the freezing cold, calling her name until we were too frozen to stay out any longer. The next morning we expanded our search area and put off our departure time by three hours, but without any luck. So we put three crying girls in the car and drove away, sans dog.

And now, as another cold night approached without any sign of Lola, there was the billboard staring down at me with its accusatory words. I had abandoned my "child" to the wolves, coyotes, and owls after only a three hour search. What kind of pet parent was I?

And what about all those times I had called her dummy? or stupid? Instead of appreciating her loyalty, I had complained about her always being underfoot. Instead of relishing the fact I had something who would never outgrow cuddling, I pushed her off of my lap.

You know what's even worse?

 I joked about her running away or being eaten. I said those things out loud, forgetting everything I had learned from reading half of The Secret about sending things out into the Universe. If you send out a thought to the Universe, It just might comply. And It doesn't always get black humor, so you best be careful what you throw out there.

And those Pets Are Children people must be doing all right, because there were two more of those billboards that I had never seen before, pointing their doggy paws at me. I tried to console myself that at least I had been feeding her left-over turkey and ham for the past few days. Mostly because we were out of dog food and I was too lazy to drive into town for more. But also because she liked it.

Then it occurred to me that my plying her with meaty treats made her an even tastier morsel for whatever animal had got her.

Perhaps I sound a little callous about my dog's demise, but I really did feel very sad and guilty about not finding her. And for not being more responsible and thinking to lock her up before the fireworks, knowing how skittish she is and all.

But then I remembered something...

 Four years ago on a similar New Year's Day, my friend Jenny, while on vacation in Utah, had to say an unexpected good-bye to her four year old boy after he was involved in a fatal sledding accident. She started the New Year in 2008 by putting a little casket with Russell's body in it on an airplane and flying home; her life completely changed.

Kind of puts the loss of a dog in perspective, doesn't it?

When I remembered it was the anniversary of Russell's death I started thinking about a lot of other things. Like how I would feel if it were one of my children I had lost instead of the dog. Would I be regretting I hadn't appreciated them more? stopped to hold them when they needed it? looked for the positive side of their "faults"?

I thought about that a lot. I thought about it through the next day as we still didn't have any word about our dog and I became even more certain she hadn't survived two nights out in the wild. And I thought about how much my perspective had changed when I found out Russell died. Suddenly the little things I got angry with my kids over didn't seem nearly as important as appreciating the time I had with them. The fact that no one is immune to loss hit hard and I resolved to remember that and treat my loved ones accordingly.

But then I did something Jenny can never do.

I forgot.

I forgot that things can change in an instant and without warning. I forgot that we can't determine how long we'll have a child. Or a spouse. Or a parent. Or any loved one.

I forgot that life is fragile.

So my New Year's resolution this year is this: To put things into perspective.

I will hold the things close that matter and let go of the things that don't.

And you know what happened after I made that resolution?

I got a call from my parents that my dog had been found. (Stupid dog).

But her rescue and the kindness of my parents' neighbors is a story for another blogpost.

Happy New Year!

For My 11 Year Old

Eleven years ago today, after two miscarriages, one ectopic pregnancy, many rounds of Clomid, four years of "trying", nine months of puking and unbelievable weight gain, four days of induced labor, and one C-section, Girl 1 finally "decided" (after much cajoling) to be born.

And that's sort of how things have been since Day One. Or even pre-Day One. She sorta does things on her own time and in her own way. But I'm always trying to get her to do stuff on my time frame and in my way. No doubt she was sent her to teach me how to be patient and to let go of control.

You'd think I would have learned it be now. But nope. After eleven years (fifteen if you count all the pre-birth stuff) I'm still ramming my head up against a wall, trying to get through, instead of just looking for the door in.

And maybe it's because I have so much to learn from her that my love for her is so deep, but sometimes so hard to show.

So today, this blog is for my eldest. so everyone will know just how much I love her. And because she is 11, easily embarrassed, and a follower of this blog, I will only post one picture of her doing the thing she loves very best:

Happy Birthday Emma C.!