I miss you. . .

Have I said that recently?  I miss you.  I miss blogging.  I miss writing creatively.  I miss not having to cite sources.  Especially when the thought is my own, but my teacher doesn't believe me and requires me to find a more educated person with the same idea just so I can cite some more.  I miss making up new rules for punctuating because it gets a point across more effectively.  Every. Time. I miss writing in first person because, let's be honest, I'm vain and like to talk about myself. Way. Too. Much.  I MISS CONTRACTIONS!  Not that kind, weirdo.  The kind that comes from two words who love each other very much becoming one and then making an entirely new word that still resembles the parent words but just looks a little different-- you know what?  Never mind.

In case you couldn't tell, I'm back in school. I've been researching for the past year and a half what kind of degree to pursue and where to pursue it.  With my husband's crazy schedule and our lack of funds for a babysitter, I've settled into online schooling so I can work at home and make my own schedule.  I'm switching back to English as my major which means I have turned into the people that used to annoy me most in high school.  You know, the I'm-going-to-study-English-because-I'm-working-on-a-sci-fi-novel kid who is always asking you to read his uncomfortably awkward poetry. My book is more like a young adult fairy tale, and I rarely write poetry, which makes me TOTALLY different.

Anyway, I have about two years left before I can kiss pet lick frame a college diploma.  Afterwards I'll still have a year long masters program before I can take my emo poetry back to high school where I'll be teaching.  Hopefully.  That's the plan.  It was always the plan.  Since grade school, it has been my plan, but between tight fiances and two babies I got really lost and unsure of myself.  I changed majors, schools, and even thought about giving up altogether on my educational pursuits. However, that decision never sat well with me.  So, here I am, mothering all day and writing late into the night. I see the end goal.  I even taste it.  But that doesn't make me miss you any less.

Perfect cold remedy tea (with essential oils)

When you're sick you'd do just about anything for a little relief, wouldn't you?  I know the feeling.  It's been especially hard since I've been married because I've spent a total of four out of the last five years either pregnant or nursing and extra cautious about what kind of foods or medicines I could ingest. When Paul and I would happen upon an illness at the same time, I would angrily sip water while he downed Nyquil to find instant relief.  During this drug-free period like to affectionately call the dark ages, I turned to some more alternative methods of healing that wouldn't make me worry about the child using me for nutrition.  Recently, I've been experimenting with essential oils as a way to not only help myself, but my kids who are also too small for conventional cold/flu medicine.

A couple weeks ago, my husband woke up for the second day in a row with a head-full of snot and fire in his throat.  He looked so terribly pale that I thought I'd better fetch him a little something for his symptoms.  So I concocted up a remedy I've used before.  Lemon and honey tea, but with my own secret ingredient. Essential oils.  I whipped up a large, steamy batch, poured him a cup, and left it beside his bed.  Five minutes later, Paul meandered down the stairs, staring at his empty mug with a look of bewilderment.  "What was in that?"  He asked.  "That gave me instant relief!"  He was referring to his throat.  I smiled and handed him a glass jar with the remaining concoction and told him to sip it throughout the day.  Then, with a dramatic air kiss, he was gone, off to save the world, one commission audit at a time.

When Paul returned home that night, I was filling the house with the stinky scent of baked fish, but unperturbed by the smell, Paul walked through the door with a smile on his face.  I looked at him suspiciously and asked how he was feeling.  Aside from some residual deepening of his voice, all of his other symptoms had cleared up.  I was as surprised as he was.  Since when did a cold go away after two days?  I feel lucky if it's gone within a week!  Paul handed me the empty glass bottle as he mumbled breathlessly, "Amazing stuff."

Last night my little 20-month-old, Sam, coughed his way to morning and cried himself to lunch time. Sick babies are the worst. I considered making him some of this tea several times but was unsure if he'd like the flavor.  Oils are strong, and it tastes a bit spicy.  After an especially long session of crying in my arms, I decided I had nothing to lose.  If he didn't like it, Paul and I could drink it as a preventative measure.  So, as Sam sat at my feet and cried, I shook up a batch and poured just a tiny amount into a cup.  Inserting a straw, I bent down and offered it to the teary toddler.  He sipped cautiously and looked up at me with wide eyes. "Spicy?"  He asked.  I smiled at him and nodded.

"Spicy," I reaffirmed, "but yummy, huh?"

He sipped some more.  "Spicy." He repeated after every sip until the glass was empty.  He grabbed his straw sippy cup and begged for more.  I filled the bottle 3/4 full and diluted the solution with a little extra water, just to take off a bit of the spicy edge.  He took it over to the table where he drank in silence until there was a mere dribble left.  He asked for more, so I gave him another refill.  Now full, he only took occasional sips.  I offered to put it in the fridge, and he pushed me away shouting a string of no's.  Perked up by the instant relief he felt in his throat and with sippy in hand, he toddled off to wreak havoc on the world once more.

Now, you're probably wondering what is in this witchcraft.  Calm yourself; I'm going to tell you.

Four ingredients: Water, lemon juice, raw honey, and Dragon's Breath.  Dragon's Breath?!  Yup, it really is witchcraft.  I call it my "RemeTea" because I'm oh-so-witty like that.  I even made a label so Paul's coworkers could admire my handy work.  Vain much?

To make RemeTea I begin with an empty, clean, glass, quart jar or bottle.  I add 1/2 cup of lemon juice and 1/2 cup of honey to the bottom of the jar.  Tip:  If you spray your measuring cup with a little non-stick cooking spray before measuring the honey, it slides right out, leaving very little behind.  You're welcome.

Next, I add ten drops of Dragon's Breath.  I find the best place to obtain Dragon's Breath is deep in the Mount Timpanogos caves where the bearded dragon, Farock, resides.  He doesn't like humans.  He'll eat you the moment he gets a whiff of any smell connected to your stinky hide.  Thankfully, he lost his eyesight in an unfortunate accident involving a billy goat and an unusually heavy rainstorm, so if you mask your smell he won't attack.  I usually saturate myself in a mixture of guano and fish guts. This enables me to get close enough to his sleeping frame and collect the condensation from his breath which I boil down and concentrate-- you know what?  They actually sell it at Good Earth Natural Foods and Real Foods.  So if you want to save yourself a little trouble you can pick it up there.

In all honesty, if you are into DoTerra, this is similar to OnGuard.  You could just add ten drops of OnGuard and call it a day.  BUT. (Don't come after me, DoTerra people.  I have a family who needs me!)  I actually prefer the Dragon's Breath formula.  It contains similar ingredients like clove, cinnamon, and eucalyptus, but is also has oregano oil, which I have found really speeds up the recovery time for pretty much everything, and peppermint which helps with congestion and headaches (among other things).  I've been using OnGuard for a couple years now but never really found it that effective for someone who was already ill, but the Dragon's Breath, while not as sweet smelling, has given us some pretty fantastic results at keeping my kids from getting sick, shortening the duration of illness, and mellowing the symptoms.  (And it's a third of the price.  I mean really.  The last bottle I got was on sale for twelve bucks.  Take that, multi-level marketing monster!)  If you want to know more about the company that makes Dragon's Breath, you can go here. (No, this post is not sponsored.)

Anyway, after adding the honey, lemon, and oils to the bottle, I nuke three cups of water in the microwave.  I don't want it too hot because I don't want burnt hands as I'm shaking it up, so I get the tap as hot as it can be and then microwave for two minutes.  It's the perfect temperature for dissolving the honey and soothing a throat, but not so hot that it feels like molten lava.

Then, I pour the hot water into the bottle till it is half full and shake it, shake it, shake it like a Polaroid picture.  When the honey is completely dissolved, I top it off with the rest the water and give it another little shake.  That's it.  Easy peezy lemon squeezy.  We are loving this at our house; I hope you love it at yours!

Kayla's RemeTea

Ingredients

• 3 cups hot water
• 1/2 cup lemon juice
• 1/2 cup raw honey
• 5-10 drops Dragon's Breath or OnGaurd essential oils

Instructions
In a quart glass jar, shake or stir lemon juice, honey, essential oils, and half of the hot water.  When honey is completely dissolved, add the rest of the water and give the solution another gentle shake. Pour into your favorite sassy mug and enjoy. Can be stored in the fridge and reheated a mug-full at a time.

**To make a single portion, add two tablespoons of lemon juice, two tablespoons of honey, 1-2 drops of the essential oils to one mug of hot water.  Stir and enjoy.

Sam-tested, Kayla-approved!

Tricked

This week I was the victim of a pintrickster.  It happens, you know.  Sometimes when given a promise I want so badly to be true I just ignore all the signs.  Although my pride demands I keep this experience to myself, I feel called upon to expose lies whenever I see them.  So, without further ado, here is what happened.

A few weeks ago on Pinterest I stumbled upon a "tip" promising tear-free onion chopping.  I think I'm pretty sensitive to the sulfuric acid that wafts up during slicing and dicing and often turn into a blubbery mess by slice number three. The tears can be so thick it impairs my vision by either complete fogginess or a burning sensation so sharp I can't even crack my lids open. When wielding a large, sharp knife, being able to see is kind of important, so I often have to step away, wash my face, and go back in for round two.  Annoyed by my body's exaggerated response to one of my favorite vegetables, I readily clicked on the link, and was pleased by the suggestion.  Burn a candle.  That's right, just burn a candle.  The theory is the heat will burn up the sulfuric acid byproduct of death before it reaches your eyes.  No tears and you get to play with fire, how could this go wrong?

Tonight I stood at the counter, knife in one hand and matches it the other.  My station was already set up, cutting board front and center, and garbage sack for scraps to my right.  To my left was a pumpkin pie flavored candle leftover from the holidays just waiting to be lit.  I sat down the knife and struck a match, basking in the warming, homey smell of burnt wood.  I lightly touched it to each of the three wicks and blew it out, watching the smoke dance happily like a fortunate omen.  I waited a minute until the smell of pie filled the air.  Then I began to chop.

Slice number one, no tears.  I am Superwoman, I thought.  Slice number two,  still no tears.  This is actually working!  Slice number three, the most dreaded of all slices, I could feel a little burning at the outer corner of my eyes.  Now I was in trouble, and I knew it.

By slice number five the water works kicked in, and it wasn't just a few delicate drops.  It felt like searing lava flowing from my eyeballs. I tried to blink through the pain because tears or not, the onion needs chopped, but it just kept getting worse until great gooey glops of mascara muck began to descend like rain on the white devil flesh.

The flames of the candle waved and leered at me, sending more holiday scent toward my nose which embraced it without hesitation, leaving me with nothing by the taste of onion flavored pumpkin pie in the back of my throat.  With wounded pride and blind eyes, I sat down my knife and walked away.

I was tricked.  I admit it.  Please learn from my mistakes.

Annie

". . . 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70!" Annie is counting beside me.  She's discovered that she can count to seventy on her own and with a gentle reminder she pushes on to ninety.  Her honey hair drapes across her forehead, cut straight, and covers her daddy's triangular eyebrows.  Her blue eyes are so sparkly and full of life, glistening divinity and innocence. Tiny fingers graze my arm, inspecting the hairs with that intense curiosity I noticed fresh from womb.  She embodies perfect imperfection.  When I hold her I feel warm, nurturing, and feminine.  Sometimes I snuggle her in her bed and she touches my cheek and plays with my hair. The room is silent and the air calm, as if time slows. Its magical and sacred.  She holds a piece of my soul.  Annie sees me with such intense understanding because she is me and I am her and the combination of the two of us in one.

Last night I listened the pounding of my heart and wondered why she cries in her sleep, why she sounds so tortured in a moment of what should be peace?  I think about her perfect little soul in this horrible world. She asks me about bad guys, and I don't know what to say other than reassure her that she is safe.  But it's one of those lies we must tell as parents, one of those burdens we carry until our children are old enough to share it.  I cannot keep her safe always.  She will fall off her bike, she will get water up her nose, and she will be hurt by others making poor choices. The best I can do is promise her that I will do my best, and pray the atonement makes up for the rest.

Merry Christmas!

Commission

Sometimes it's so hard to write. Why do you think that is? One moment I can hear angels singing sonnets and syntax and the next there is silence. I type, I write, and I brainstorm, but you can't force genius. It makes me wonder if Picasso painted his Guernica because he was trying to stay in the painting habit. I seriously doubt it. Then again, some of the most famous works of art were commissioned work like the Sistine Chapel ceiling, which proves it can be done. When I consider that I just have to wonder what is wrong with me. Why can't I be that way? You see, I have a serious problem.

I CANNOT WRITE MY CHRISTMAS CARD/LETTER.

I have tried and rejected three drafts already. The latest attempt featured a poem about Santa using our toilet. I wish I was kidding.

Last January I blogged about being nervous for a boring year, and while the year wasn't boring per say, it was a difficult year for me, so writing a perky piece of tra la la seems a little fake. Yet, recounting the car crashes and emergency room visits throws me into a deep Debby Downer funk that I'm working so hard to positively think my way out of. So I sit at my computer thinking about my beautiful house with no linen closet and wonder how I can make the many adventures we had under this roof interesting to my dear family and friends. I must seek the inspiration Gods for enlightenment.

To do this, I ritualistically remove my pants and drape them on the back of the computer chair. I find inspiration often travels up through my feet, and jeans can sometimes restrict the flow. However, this part of my process leaves me with freezing legs so I must find a blanket to burrow in. Many a neighbor has come to my door to find me in this vulnerable condition, and it never ceases to be mortifying.

Anyway, now perfectly prepped for what I hope is a literary Guernica to distribute as a Christmas letter, I have repeatedly touched the tips of my fingers to the keyboard only to greet the sound of silence like a Simon and Garfunkel nightmare. Come on, Inspiration Gods! I trusted you!

In case you're wondering, this is when I try to force something, anything, that sounds remotely intelligent to transfer onto paper. But forcing myself to write rarely ends successfully. Just last night after an grueling hour of pecking and backspaces I read over that terrible poem about Santa using my bathroom and rubbed my head as I tried to think of a word that rhymed with crapper. Wiped with a wrapper? Kids sat on his lap, er? Couldn't be happier? No matter. At that point I realize it's time to scrap idea number three and step away from the computer until evening when I can again remove my pants and start the process over.

Here I am, sans pants, buried in a blanket, and writing something other than a Christmas card. So, if you have any spare time on your hands, have a moment of silence for the death of my creative abilities. I worry it's gone forever, or at least until after Christmas when it's no longer desperately needed. And if you get bored, feel free to write a card for me. Consider this a commission. Good luck with that.

Why I want to be a teacher

I could hear the excitement in my mother's voice as she told me about a conversation she'd had with the high school band teacher.  "If you go in and play for him, he'll put you in the top band!"  I laughed at the hope in her eyes.  I was never going back to a band room.  Painful memories of junior high mockery flooded my vision with HIS face. So often invisible, he looked past me everyday.  The girl in the second row.  But it was better than when he did see me.  On the occasion that he was forced to acknowledge this chubby student he degraded me, stifling my desire for growth with the disgust behind his icy blue eyes. He weaved my inadequacies into the pads of my instrument and infused the metal keys with a thousand reflections of my ugliness.  No. I would never open the Pandora's box that was my clarinet case lest I unleash a myriad of memories I buried the last day of 9th grade.

Then my mom clarified that I didn't really have a choice.

I can't imagine what thoughts raced through this new teacher's mind as I entered his office. Palms sweaty, clutching the plastic shaft of the old clarinet, and tears welling up in my eyes, I licked the chipped reed and sank my teeth into the mouthpiece. He asked me to play a scale. Dissonant notes swelled in the air as my fingers stumbled over the keys. Do. Re. Me. So, no it's fa. Fa! So. Ti flat. . . ahh! La. La. Ti. Doooooo. He smiled sympathetically and I painfully plunked out another out-of-tune scale.  He handed me a piece to sight read.  It had been over a year since I'd looked at any sheet music and my brain no longer connected my fingers to the little black dots and stripes on the page, not that they ever did very well anyway.  Tears ran down my face and dripped on my t-shirt as I guessed and questioned and squeaked my way through the unrecognizable song.  Some audition. He gave me a hesitant but warm smile and said he'd see me in class.

You've got to be kidding me, I thought.

I barely made it though my first day in Symphonic band.  Warm ups began with the twelve major scales. I only knew seven, so I fumbled and fingered my way through the last five, letting out a gigantic sigh of relief when it was over. The teacher raised his hands again and called out, "Now minors!"  I watched in horror as my classmates played through their twelve minor scales without hesitation. How was I going to play any of the music in this band when I couldn't even play the warm-ups?  Sure enough, he handed out the pep band music which might have well have been Arabian scripture for all I knew. The next class period was chair auditions. I knew I would be last chair.  I knew it more than I knew the sun would rise or that my mom would serve soup on Thursdays, but it stung as the peers I only barely knew watched me take my rightful seat next to the bassoon.

Every day in that class was a painful reminder that my junior high instructor was right about me. I had no potential, no skill, and that last place I deserved to be was a top band.

At least, that's what I thought for a little while.

My new band director recommended a clarinet teacher he knew from college who was wonderfully patient and could help me catch up.  In her living room, I had to relearn the most basic of techniques. Reed care, embouchure, fingerings, and scales; I was discovering my instrument for the first time and realizing just how little I'd been taught as I'd sat under the nose of that junior high teacher for three years, unworthy of his tutelage and wisdom.

At the end of the first semester, we re-auditioned for chairs and I moved up a seat.  It was a small accomplishment but enough to motivate a little extra effort on my part.  I practiced just a little longer every day.  I tried to sight-read songs, memorize those dang minor scales, and work on intonation so I wasn't always so sharp. When the school year ended I felt sad at the coming summer.  I would miss all the musical friends I'd made and the encouraging nods from my conductor.

Over the summer I practiced.  This may seem like a trivial fact, but it was monumental to me.  My mother wasn't forcing me.  My teachers were grading me on it. I just wanted to be better. When my senior year began we had chair auditions, and I was not the last or second to last chair.  I was fourth.  Out of eight. I was average at last!  I celebrated with my clarinet teacher.  My mother cheered when she heard the news.  I wrote about it in my journal. Yet, there was still that little part of me that wondered if it was some sort of fluke.  The clarinetist in the chair just below me had been second chair the year before.  Surely, I didn't play better than her.  She must not have thought so either, because a couple of weeks into the semester she challenged my chair.

I went home and cried.  How could this girl take this accomplishment away from me when I'd worked so unbelievably hard to get it?  I cried to my clarinet teacher.  I bawled at my mom.  When my dad walked through the door I collapsed in despair. My father tenderly, yet firmly scolded me for my behavior.  In my shock, I stopped crying and stared at him in disbelief.  He told me if I sat around whining I would lose my chair.  I remember the creases around his hazel eyes as he said, "Get to work."

That week I spent every waking moment glued to my clarinet.  I followed me to dinner, sang out during the commercial breaks during my favorite show, and accompanied me to the bathroom. Good acoustic, you know.  And on the day of the challenge, I stood in the office of my band teacher shaking, with memorized music in hand.  He smiled at me and asked me if I was ready.  I could see in his slightly mischievous grin that he not only was confident in my quaking hands, but he was rooting for me.  I breathed out slowly and raised my instrument to my lips and listened to my song soar over my head as if it came from another clarinet in the room.  Fast and high, it fluttered about until the final note settled in my chest.  My teacher's eyes were ablaze with excitement.  He handed me the sight-reading piece selected by my opponent, and I played through it slowly and carefully.  He opened the door of his office and invited me back into the classroom.  I sat down and avoided eye-contact with everyone as I awaited the verdict.

I heard the teacher step onto his squeaky platform.  "Both of these ladies are talented musicians, but-" Here it comes, I thought.  The end of my two week run of average.  I said a silent goodbye to my seat and looked up.  "But I've decided to leave the chairs as they are." I started to tear up, the fifth chair avoided my gaze, and that inspired teacher nodded to me as if to confirm his choice.  I sat up a little taller and practiced a little harder.

Christmas break rolled around.  Every day I sat in front of the piano and played Christmas songs on the old clarinet.  I could feel the pain of junior high being stripped away as a new-found confidence set in.  The feel of the cool metal keys sent shivers up my spine and a joyful flutter in my heart.  The new semester began after the holidays and chair auditions came knocking.  I felt nervous, but also calm.  Music was no longer about accomplishment.  It was about the joy of creation and the beauty that teamwork that a little elbow grease could produce.  Even still, I was shocked when the results of the auditions were posted and I had landed myself in SECOND chair.

During that semester, my teacher gave me so many opportunities to grow.  From being handpicked to play in the concerto orchestra, to a solo at graduation, I basked the rays of reassuring sunlight that poured over me from this teacher that never gave up, from my clarinet tutor who wouldn't allow me to be held back by excuses, and from my mommy who, obligated by uterine law, and probably prompted from some divine source, believed in me even when I sounded hopelessly horrible. (No really, it was bad for a while.)  All of that unwavering faith washed away the doubt and self-loathing placed there by that junior high monstrosity and helped me see who I could have been all along. Myself.  And me was good enough.

This is why I've always wanted to be a teacher.  This is why I wanted to be a mother.  If I could show my children and impressionable teenagers how special and incredible they are, then maybe, just maybe, I could pay forward the life-changing lessons I learned with a clarinet.