The calm before the storm

I seems that the last few months have been full of worries.  From what I've observed, worries are like dirty clothes.  If not taken care of they pile up.  But almost all of my current worries seem quite out of my control.

And it's no secret I have control issues.

So I have tried a few different things to help me handle these worries.  The first was journaling.  My poor journal, pink and Asian, had been withering underneath my bed for almost three years holding only a couple entries documenting my married life.  Oi.  In high school I was an avid journalist who regurgitated my ridiculous teenage thoughts and upsets onto the pages of some unfortunate paper.  After Paul and I started dating I just got out of the habit

A month ago, as I felt tension building around me, I retreated to staring at pictures of furniture and wallowing in ingratitude.  When I realized the harm it was causing my spirit I dusted off my journal where I began writing down the blessings that surrounded me.  The power of prayer, the opportunity I have to be with my daughter every day, a hard working man who loves me, no shinsplints after a long walk, clean water to drink, a dishwasher, beautiful music, my imperfect body. . . but as thankful as my days ended, they often began with feelings of fear and worry.

And because I didn't properly cleanse myself of job-after-graduation worries, my-father's-health worries, my-mother's-health worries, my-mother-in-law's-health worries, family-job-situation worries, calling worries, Andrea worries, and Paul worries piled up, filled their figurative laundry baskets, and overflowed onto the floor.

Stinky, piling-up worry.

Yesterday I laid down for a nap, because I had exhausted myself crying, but before I shut my eyes I was enveloped by the darkness that I was nurturing in my soul.  Then I remembered a scripture.  "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." (2 Timothy 1:7)

If I had power and a sound mind as I'd been promised, than I had the ability to push away this worry.  I closed my eyes and repeated the scripture to myself until I fell asleep.

Today I feel peace.  Real peace.  Nothing has changed.  People I love are still sick.  Future jobs and stability are still just dreamed about.  But I feel calmer, relaxed, and happy.  I want to keep these feelings for a long time, so I'm ignoring that worried little voice asking if this is just the calm before the storm.

Sick

Tuesday was Enrichment Night.  I was part of the program playing a former Relief Society president from the 1920's.  I spent the morning doing laundry and then, child in tow, schlepped my entourage of bags to my parents house to have Tessa give me a stylish bun.  Andrea was particularly cranky and after a hour and a half of Yo Gabba Gabba (it was the only thing I suggested that didn't make her wail) I put her down for a nap early.  She slept for a long time and then awoke screaming.  I ran to retrieve her and could not console her.  I took her down to snuggle and watch more Yo Gabba Gabba. (it worked before, so why not?)  I could tell she was feverish and weak, so while she wouldn't sit on my lap, I sat behind her and let her lean against my hand.  But even large foam characters couldn't not comfort her this time, and her head turned to look at me as her body shook and another bloodcurdling scream erupted from her tiny body.

I picked her up and carried her upstairs as she sobbed and choked and sputtered.  I gave her bear, binky, hugs, kisses.  Nothing consoled her, and as her cries left a nervous air in the house I wondered how she still had the strength to keep crying.  I pulled her body against me, her face pressed against the skin just under my collar bone, and she finally gave in and relaxed, shivering with feverish chills.  The moment she laid her head on my chest I felt a wave of her emotional trauma hit me like a bucket of ice water.  Pain.  Sadness.  Fear.  Before I understood what exactly had transpired I was also in tears.

I called my neighbor and told her I wouldn't be making it to Enrichment Night after all.  With my 1920's hair, I took my sick toddler home.  I stopped in the bathroom to relieve my aching bladder, and Andrea collapsed on the linoleum in a sobbing heap.  It was probably the most helpless I've ever felt in my life thus far, watching her and not being able to hold her for that moment.  After a solid hand washing, I gathered her in my arms and poured her a bottle of milk.  Once the bottle was devoured all was quite, and she drifted off into a deep sleep.  I held her tightly and said a prayer for her.

I don't love that she's sick, but I love that I got to hold her while she slept.  I love that she allowed me to be her comfort.  I love her.  More than I can describe, so I won't even try.

 

This evening her fever broke.  She had a bath, smiled, and is soundly asleep.

Spring woes

Don't these look yummy?

Well, they weren't.  It's the second time I've made veggie spring rolls and although the filling of tonight's attempt was slightly more tasty that the first, the result was equally grotesque.

While I was working at a local health food store, a certain vendor came each week to stock the fridge with beautiful, raw spring rolls.  Customers would rave about their deliciousness and request them when the shelf was bare.  They tempted me too, and had the price not required a pound of flesh I might have bought them.  Two and a half years ago, on a hot summer day when the cravings for fresh and light seem the most prevalent, I decided I could make my own for far less money.  I purchased a lovely assortment of vegetables and a package of rice paper.

After batch number one was complete, it was obvious to me that a) I'd done something horribly wrong, or b) the spring roll enthusiasts were lying to me, because surrounding my tasty filling was a translucent gummy wrap.  Paul and I tried to eat them, but once the filling was properly chewed and swallowed, a large slimy mixture remained smacking between our molars.  I put away my rice paper until I could properly identify my error.

Tonight, years after the first tragedy, I decided to try again.  I concocted a new filling and, hoping to change the texture of the rice paper, decided to shorten the time which it soaked in water.  I had filled and folded a few rolls when Paul came into the room with sheer disappointment on his face.

"You know," he said.  "I've never cared for raw spring rolls."  I didn't respond because, well, I honestly didn't know what to say.  I had yet to taste one that I found pleasurable myself.  Yet, there I was, preparing them for my family.

When they were complete I picked one up and took a bite.  I chewed. . . and chewed, switching the position of the masticating food from right to left in my mouth.  Soon the rice paper broke away from the sprouts and cabbage and began prematurely slipping down my throat.  I'm completely mortified to say it triggered my gag reflex, and after suffering through two rolls, I exiled the third to the garbage.

Paul ate five and didn't speak a word of complaint.  But I knew he hated them.  After dinner he tried to crack a joke, and I broke down in a fit of complaining and woe-is-me's, disappointed that I'd served something so completely unappetizing.  He just smiled and told me I could experiment with spring rolls as often as I wanted, provided I make them precisely as I made them tonight.  Well, since they were gross, I'm going to say I'm never making them again, which is probably the outcome he was hoping for.

Now I owe him garlic bread sticks.  That's all he wanted for dinner anyway.

A dream is not always a wish

I've been recently rifling through some old pictures on my computer, and I stumbled upon my trip to the Jay Leno show.  That had to have been one of the most crazy, exciting, and embarrassing things I've ever done.  Upon reliving that event, I drifted off to sleep to the sound of Paul's homework and had the following dream:

Being a couple of years since the Jay Leno experience, I assumed/hoped no one in the entertainment industry remembered the event.  However,  a producer from Saturday Night Live calls up my mother-in-law and tells her he saw us on Jay Leno and though we were so hilarious that he'd love to do a skit about us on his show.  Most importantly, he'd like us to star in the skit about ourselves.  She talks it over with the family, and we agree to go.  Because we are all masochists.  Apparently.

The dream cuts to our arrival in California.  We immediately head to a studio to begin rehearsals.  We're given scripts and matching blue shirts.  However, when rehearsals get underway, the SNL producers begin to realize that our little stunt on Jay Leno was not in jest, but that we were serious about the performance.  Embarrassed for us and themselves they decide to not do the skit.  It would be too mean.  Because they'd already flown us out, they decided to give us tickets to watch the show.

I've not seen much Saturday Night Live in reality so my subconscious compensated.  The women of the family, so afraid of seeing something inappropriate, sat backwards in their chairs.  The SNL producers were mortified.  This awkward family was in the front row, and the audience was staring at them more than the show.  One producer came out and discretely invited us backstage for a chat.  Once backstage, they offered us another chance to participate in a skit.  The final skit actually, where we'd play an audience to a balloon artist.  They told us there was no script but that we should just play along with the scene.

What they didn't tell us was the balloon artist was planning on making a lot of wiener jokes.  Being pure heart and of mind, no one in our family realized what he was doing.  He began to make his first balloon "animal"  and I asked him if he was making a worm.  The camera zooms in on me, and in my nervous state I start rattling off every fact I know about worms. "Over a million earthworms can live under an acre of land.  When cut in half an earth worm can grow back it's segments.  The longest earthworm ever found was 22 feet long."

The balloon artist stares at me blankly for a while before creating another balloon figure.  This time my sister-in-law asks if it's a sword and proceeds to lecture on sword making.  Feeling like he's lost complete control of his skit, the balloon artist drops his balloons and walks off stage.

Since the show is LIVE the cameras continue to roll.  Confused and mortified, we sat nervously for a moment hoping they'd send someone back out to finish the skit.  But when the silence grew to be too much, my mother-in-law began singing, "Love at Home."  One by one we joined her and then some audience members who were familiar with the song joined in as well.  The cameras kept rolling.  We finished all of the verses and the audience applauded.  I guess it was so awkward they found it funny after all.

I woke up completely embarrassed and entirely amused.  I never cease to be amazed at some of the things the subconscious can concoct.

Not to pin

This is was kinda how I was feeling yesterday:

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Andrea and the computer don't mix.  If I get on at all during her waking hours she's immediately at my side tapping my leg indicating she wants on my lap.  She doesn't just sit and watch either.  She wants to type like mommy.  I know I've sent out some interesting Primary e-mails because I was in such a hurry to finish so the child crying at my feet could have some attention.

When I put my sweet child to bed, I am finally able to decompress and spend some time online staring at the IKEA website or lovely blogs with brightly colored furniture.  After an hour of this I am ready for bed and start encouraging Paul to join me.  He resists going to bed at nine.  Weird.  So we compromise and I nap while he finishes tax homework or gets three stars in Angry Birds.

At least, I try to nap, but when I close my eyes I see yellow dressers and purple couches and turquoise chairs and orange mirrors and black cribs and red picture frames and an angry bird being hurled at all of them.  It's not relaxing.  Giving up on the nap I sit up in bed, grab a Reader's Digest, and stew about how ugly I find the mismatched furniture in my bedroom.  Then I wonder if I'll ever be able to buy a proper bed frame.

Last night as Paul joined me in bed we knelt across from each other in preparation for prayers.  He asked me to pray (as he does five out of the seven nights a week) but instead of praying I blurted out, "I don't think I can ever join Pinterest!"  He probably doesn't even know what that is as I have yet to see a man with an account.  But he didn't inquire what it was rather why I was opposed.  I told him about my dreams and the images burned in my retinas.

He said it sounded like coveting.

"No!" I defended.  "I'm not coveting.  I'm just struggling to feel gratitude for what I have when I see all of the things I don't."  As soon as the words came out of my mouth I realized it DID, in fact, sound a lot like coveting.  What a coincidence. . .

Neal A. Maxwell said:

Myopic selfishness magnifies a mess of pottage and makes thirty pieces of silver look like a treasure trove. In our intense acquisitiveness, we forget Him who once said, “What is property unto me?”

I think it's time for a break from the IKEA website and beautiful DIY blogs, and I should start that gratitude journal I've been talking about for years.

P.S. This is just too cute.  She no longer wants us to cut her food up, but she gets a little too eager to eat it whole.

Dear Paul,

You were so quiet. So quiet it bothered me. You’d stare at me with your half-amused grin and say nothing whilst I took offense at what appeared to be mockery. Soon, you noticed other boys teasing me, vying for my attention. You were jealous, protective, and completely strategic. Armed with chivalry, you would return my stolen gloves, find my missing name tag, unlock and rescue me from the freezer, and, most importantly, protect the pole I’d named Richard. And I let you, because it made you feel better about the situation somehow. But after a few months I started to like you too. I tried to tease you and you wouldn’t tease back.

Annoying.

I wondered if my playful personality was going to mix well with your serious nature or if they’d repel like water and oil. One day, as I priced loaves of frozen bread and you stocked the shelves I asked you why you wouldn’t bicker with me. You looked up at me with those sincere blue eyes and said, “I never want to fight with you.” You were so different.

The next day I hesitantly left for a family reunion in Illinois, terrified you’d move on to another girl while I was gone. Then the text messages started rolling in, reassuring me you were serious about being my friend or more. As exciting as I was to come home and see you, leaving my extended family is always difficult. That first day back I cried. You showed up at my house, put your arm around my shoulder, and channeled those calming powers I suspect you inherited from your mother.

I was addicted. My uptight and theatrical tendencies were medicated by the sound of your soft voice, and I felt so balanced. I returned the favor by loosening you up a bit. I introduced you to IKEA the amusement park (remember IKEA? ;P), and taught you how to build some really goofy snowmen.

We were ridiculous newlyweds. We made cakes and burnt food and ate homemade pizza while watching the Olympics on one of our only two channels. I use to ask you to play two player games with me and you’d always suggested Strip Othello. Thankfully, that never happened, but nice try. There were some pillow fights, but mostly you'd just steal my pillow while I was praying. When you’d come home from a stressful day of school I’d poke you, make a joke, and ask you to wash dishes with me. It seemed like the kitchen sink was a perfect place for you to unwind. When I faced my own tragedies you always said and did the right thing. When I was throwing up and pregnancy sick for eight weeks you went to the store to buy me ramen whenever I asked.

Remember when Andrea was born? Things got pretty hard for a while. I was too depressed to loosen you up and you were too uptight to calm me. I never told you that part of my depression stemmed from the foreign feeling that settled into our marriage. Perhaps it was unhealthy how I’d come to rely on you so. In June, Andrea slept through the night and things started to change, get better, you know? But it wasn’t until December when I stopped nursing that I started to feel like myself again. Weaned from my dependent, I was entirely my own person. You, rejuvenated by Christmas break, were coming around too. A cleansing rain fell upon our relationship, ending the melancholy drought and transforming you and me into US, new and improved.

I’d almost forgotten how we were before our little addition. The atmosphere of our home changed and smiles returned. We started laughing again-- so hard we had to shush each other afraid we’d wake the baby. The shingles poem? Ha ha! It’s been lovely.

Almost four years ago on a warm June night, sitting on the swing in my parents’ backyard, my logical brain told me there would be hard times, but my heart didn’t believe it. I hoped that if and when trails arose, you’d make them worth going through somehow. I was right, my sous chef, I was right.

Eye of Sauron Cake

The amazing thing about in-laws is more birthday parties.  Yesterday, my family threw a little birthday bash for Paul.  He wanted to keep with the Lord of the Rings theme, but for reasons that are still unknown to me, he requested and Eye of Sauron Cake.  Oh boy.  I went all out for this thing.

 Last year, I made a zebra cake (tutorial here).  I thought the results were pretty sweet.

I had the idea to use the same technique but with orange and red batter.  This way, cutting into the cake would reveal a flaming interior.

With three layers, this thing weighed a ton.  Sandwiched between the layers was banana cream pie  buttercream.  I made my typical buttercream (1/2 cup of butter, 1/2 cup of unflavored shortening, 1 tsp. vanilla, pinch of salt, and 3 1/2-4 cups of powdered sugar, 2 tbsp. milk) but substituted one cup of sugar with instant banana pudding mix.

*It was too thick and incredibly hard to spread.  I recommend adding a lot more milk.

I rustically covered the cake with dark chocolate buttercream.

Then I began adding layers of tinted buttercream for the "Eye of Sauron."

I used four different shades to get the effect I wanted.

Twenty-seven candles framed the eye.

Once it was lit on fire (once again feeling like an orc) it really brought out the different shades.

Apparently, the cake of Sauron was so life-like that Paul cowered in fear.

Make a wish!

I got to throw the ring into the fires of Mount Doom cut the cake.

Can you see the flames?

Okay, so the flames inside were a little pink.  Perhaps the next time I make an "Eye of Sauron" cake I will use red velvet.