For Good

My buddy laughs a laugh I won't forget. Some people just have these beautiful laughs. Some people don't silent laugh as their shoulders convulse and/or snort through their noses like crazed donkeys as I do. Some people laugh and it warms your whole body through. My grandma was one of them. My buddy is another. I will miss every moment of not hearing that laugh--or being with the person behind it--when I am gone. She wrote a thing. Because, among other things like her laugh and her love for Jesus, she is an incredibly talented writer who, apparently, likes to torment people by making them cry. I love her. She asked if she could hijack my blog. She didn't ask me not to write a foreword. Big mistake. The following post is written by one of my dearest friends. Thank you, Abi Ririe, for sharing not only these words but also life, ministry, and theatre with me. I'll drive through a blizzard for Wicked tickets, but I'll drive through anything life throws at me if it means spending time with you.

I’d never seen a musical. 

Ok, that’s not true. 

I’d seen Grease on TV perhaps a hundred times. (The old one, you know, the good one.) It is one of those random shows that my husband likes. It’s weird;  typically he watches MLB, NFL, and Clash of the Titans (the new one, you know, the good one). But every now and then you realize he finds Groundhog Day hysterical, Maverick amusing, and Grease worth watching anytime it’s on TV… which is a lot. 

But I’d never seen a live musical. 

My buddy is a theater junkie. I would use the word “connoisseur”, but that fails to relay the threat level desperate she attains when theater deprived. (Dallas, Oregon if you do not have a proper theater in town, you might want to get on that.) 

So it was not appropriate that our friendship continue with me sans musical. 

In a driving blizzard that had kept the Salt Lake Valley hunkered in their holes, the cast of Wicked was prepping for their show. My buddy knew this because she’d gone two nights before with her son. She’d met them. They were tight. She knew things like Fiyero is “super tall”. And things about crown shenanigans going on with Jackie Burns and Kara Lindsay. 

I was very impressed. Stalking is a talent. 

Whilst snuggled in pjs against the cold outside, this text appeared: “I have a question for you, if you see this right away, and if you feel like being kinda crazy.” 

It just seems to happen whether I’m feeling it or not. 

So thirty minutes later she was driving through the snow to the Wicked lottery, and I was gussying up for the theatre. I mean we’re both good, godly, Christian women. We had prayed about this. Surely God would rig the drawing and let us win. (Insanity and legalism like long walks on the beach hand in hand.) After many prayers asking if she should turn around, after waiting out in the bitter cold, after someone named Laura Burnham (which is just cruel) won, I was starting to de-glindafy. Ah well. It was a nice thought. 

And then this text: “We didn’t win.” Obviously. “But I bought us tickets anyway.” 

After getting lost trying to find my house, getting stuck in the snow in a stranger’s driveway while turning around, and being dug out by my husband, we were off to Wicked. Well, Café Rio, and then Wicked. 

“I didn’t hate it.” I didn’t want to betray too much sentiment, while still seeming sufficiently grateful for her buying me tickets. I needed to process. I did process. All night. Instead of sleeping. And by morning I had a problem. I was in love with Wicked. My buddy had created a monster, Madame Morrible had zapped it with lightning, and Fiyero was dancing it off through life. 

How many times did we wait out in the snow for the chance at lottery tickets? Lots. We even considered the Sunday matinee shows, which would put us leaving church at 10:45 am. She’s a pastor’s wife. But I’m a proper heathen, so I could have gone. 

Okay, and all you super righteous folks, WE.DIDN’T. … we just talked about it. And some small part of us maybe wished we could. 

As we left empty-handed and broken-hearted, lottery after lottery, there may have been some small part of me that was pleased. Another day, another lottery, another hour hanging out with my buddy. 

She’s wonderful, you see. She would never tell you; because she’s so solidly a 1 that anything less than perfection is disappointment. But she is remarkable. 

She adopted a baby boy, which turned into legal, financial, emotional, and spiritual nightmare dragging on over a year. And then she turned around and adopted a girl. Except God had other plans, and she never got to hold Kate’s breathing body. And then she adopted Kate’s baby brother. Because she loved these children she had never met so desperately. Because she believes it is the right thing to do. Because God reveals and she responds, and she doesn’t petrify in fear because of the past. Because she is stronger than most of us. 

She’s wonderful because I know she is confused, frightened, imperfect, but still always faithful. 

She desperately needs everyone to like her. It’s the title of her soon-to-be autobiography, “I Need You to Like Me.” And while that is impossible, she is deeply loved. Thoroughly respected. Completely admired by all who know her. (Ok, maybe not by the meter-woman, who she mistook for a man, when we accidentally parked illegally trying to win Wicked tickets. I don’t think there’s much hope for that one.) 

She has challenged me, rejoiced with me, prayed with me, forgiven me, taught me, parallel-parked with me, worn crowns with me, and mourned with me. Like right now. She mourns with me now. And so does the heart of our God. He who sees the miracle coming, He who knows that great goodness awaits, but who still cries with His beloved. She shows me what the heart of God must be like. Full of life. Full of laughter. Full of wisdom. Full of goodness. 

It was the last performance for Kara Lindsay and Jackie Burns, my buddy’s new favorites (she’s seen Wicked before… a lot… she has a problem). One more lottery. 10 names called. You have to fill out the lottery card completely, or it’s put aside and another name is announced. 5 names called. Another card drawn. Not completely filled out. 6. 8. 9. Another card drawn. Not completely filled out. Another. Not completely filled out. And again. And another two after that. And then she pulled out the sixteenth name. The card had been folded in quarters then opened back up. The top edge was dog-eared. It looked strangely familiar. 

And then I heard my name. I later questioned if it was even my name, or if I had lapsed into a dream state. Most of my dreams have sharks. There were none. I must be awake. The nice lady holding my disheveled card looked at my driver’s license, the nice lady holding the door ushered me to the counter. The nice lady behind the counter… (I’m tempted to make some comment on gender and theatre, but I’ll save that for a professional… Buddy! I need you to comment.) Anyway, the nice lady behind the counter took my money, and slid over two Wicked tickets. For row B. That’s like, row A gets drenched with sweat when Fiyero flicks his head to the side, and Row B gets to see the vein on Kara Lindsay’s neck pop when she sings. 

It was a gift. Undeserved. Unexpected. Overwhelmingly appreciated. 

A gift for my buddy. A gift for me. A silly thing to share. And to recognize that our story is not unfamiliar. And that our Father’s heart is not indifferent to ours. 

As she embarks on a new journey, a new opportunity to defy gravity, she is unlimited. And now, remaining here, it is up to me. For both of us. “Because I knew you, I have been changed for good.” 

… 

… 

And also. Let’s just be honest. I totally made her popular. 

Digging Up Roots

In 2007, we packed up our lives and moved to the Salt Lake City area. We had no idea what we were doing. All I knew was that I was leaving everything I'd ever known and forging a life in a city where I knew nothing and no one. I started updating this blog almost every day because, in doing that, I could update my world--the world I had left behind--on everything that was going on in our lives. Blogging isn't really a thing anymore, not in this world of influencers and YouTubers and podcasters. No one reads blogs anymore. But I find myself thinking about those early days of living here...

A friend of mine recently told me that she knew I never really liked it here.

She was a God-given gift to me when we first moved. She moved a couple hours north about a year and a half later. I can only imagine that it is our distance that created the perception that I don't like this place. To be sure, there have been challenging things. There have been cultural anomalies that, even in 11 years, I haven't quite been able to grow accustomed to. There are things I don't like about Utah.

But from anywhere, I can look east or west and see the most beautiful mountains. Snow covered peaks that jut straight into the heavens and declare His majesty. Mountains that boast of caves and streams, trees and winding roads that have taken me to adventure.

There have been hot summers at the pool. There have been fireworks and barbecues and white Christmases and the same view out my bedroom window for over a decade. There has been a job that I loved and ice cream and sports--so many softball games and baseball games and soccer games and track meets.

Here, heartbreak grew us. The Joygiver turned sorrow to blessing.

But more than all that, more than the salads from Cafe Rio and the dollar theater that has since closed, more than the school that we love and the yard that my babies turned to big boys in, more than all that, there are people. I came here friendless.

We are leaving. After 11 and a half years, we are picking up this family and unwinding it from the people we love more than anything. It feels so right. The doors He has opened cannot be closed and we must walk through them. But my broken heart hurts.

I don't typically cry in public. I put on a stone face and disconnect from the emotion of it all. I don't know if that's because of my English roots or my perfectionist personality or if I'm just an unfeeling robot. But behind a closed door, in the privacy of my own home, I am undone. I cannot even allow myself to connect with the thought that I am leaving these beautiful souls. My God, my God, in my own strength, I cannot do this.

I cannot leave my best friend. I have tried to think back. I wish I could remember the very first time I saw her but I can't. I had no idea, you see. I didn't know that the mom waiting for her toddler would become the friend that I don't know how to live without. I didn't know the memories we would make, the trips we would take, the stories we would share. I didn't know, when I left California, that there was this person just waiting to be my best friend. How did I live so many years not knowing she existed?

I cannot leave my partner and friend in ministry. When she moved several years ago, I told my mother that I didn't know how to do ministry without her. The Lord, in His infinite wisdom, mercifully brought her back to me and I am eternally grateful for the extra time He allowed us. But the statement holds. I do not know how to do ministry without her. I have a vague idea that it can be done but I simply do not know how. I am afraid that I cannot live without her laugh in my life.

I cannot leave the one who really saw me. The one who accepted me for who I am and didn't put any expectations on what it meant to be the pastor's wife. She embraced my authenticity early and allowed me to be a regular mom and a regular wife and a regular person who watched hilarious sitcoms and quoted them often and unashamedly.

I cannot leave my sister-wife*. The one who loves my children as much as I do. I cannot take my youngest child from her because she prayed for him as fervently as I did. I cannot take myself away from her because I doubt very seriously that I will ever encounter a kinder soul and I do not want to live without her.

And all the other best good friends I have. All the other people who have loved on me so well. All the people who have stepped in as sisters and brothers and mentors. All the ones who have taught me and seen me. All the other ones--I could fill a book with tales of their care and support. The influence of so many is far reaching, even into the depths of my soul. I sit here and I weep at the thought of trying to dig up these roots.

To those who may have thought differently, how I have loved Utah. I have loved her so very, very deeply. I know that I will love others. I know that there are friends waiting to be made and that God will be glorified both here and there. But please, in these moments, know that my heart is broken into a million pieces.

*Not actually a sister-wife. To clarify. Because this IS Utah.

To Will, on Your Third Birthday

Hey Kid,

You're 3. I just went back and read through the "Hey Kid" series because, while it isn't exactly a story I could forget, life gets moving and it becomes increasingly more difficult to remember to reflect on the incredible way God brought you to us. I suppose that this blog is a bit like the stones of remembrance piled up by Joshua. When you ask me in times to come what these "stones" mean, I will let you know that my journey to you is like the drying up of the waters of the Jordan. I will tell you that our being together is as though we crossed that river on dry ground. I will remember and I will tell all the people of the earth that the hand of the LORD is mighty. (From Joshua 4:21-24)

You are incredible. A series of contradictions running around in the most coordinated of toddler bodies. You are sweet and spicy, kind and ever so naughty, rarely calm but somehow calming, tender but tough. You are part of Newton's first law existing in human form. A body in motion will remain in motion...

Pretty much.

And a body that is scared at night will climb into its mother's arms and wrap limb around limb like entwined octopuses. A body that used to sleep perfectly through the night will suddenly have terrors and all bets are off and the parents are tired. A body that doesn't want to will basically refuse to potty train even though that same body is absolutely capable of doing it and even though the aforementioned parents want to be done buying diapers and also would like to stop scraping poop out of tiny underwear. A body in motion will remind its parents that being a toddler is sometimes rough but it is also, perhaps, the most hysterical, adorable time in a person's whole life.

You were so excited about your birthday this year. Whenever anyone asked you what you wanted, you only ever replied, "A cake party and a gift card." Naturally, we had to buy a giant Costco cake because it was really a go big or go home kind of request. You wanted a baseball cake--because you're obsessed--and you joined in with the chorus of friends singing yourself Happy Birthday. We invited our Community Life Group and a few others to celebrate with you and you were positively darling. Your eyes were lit up like chocolate sparkles. One of your friends walked in with a balloon and you so nicely told her, "I love your balloon!" before being made aware that it was for you. Your first gift card came to the party and you were so happy to receive it. What a funny little guy you are.

What you lack in potty training ability, you make up for in your command of the entire English language. I know everyone else will catch up and the fact that you talked early and impressively will not be such a big deal. But for now, you know ALL THE WORDS. (Or, at least, a whole lot of them.) I basically think you're brilliant but I may be entirely biased.

You are the most coordinated just three-year-old that I have ever, ever seen. You can smack a ball off a tee and, if accurately pitched, you can hit one in midair. You can balance on your bike and zoom around the backyard on your brand new birthday scooter. (Thanks, Grandma and Grandpa!) Your climbing skills astound and you can catch a football from across the room. So, I mean, really, what can't you do? TELL US WHEN YOU HAVE TO GO POOP AND THEN DO IT ON THE POTTY, THAT'S WHAT!

(I hope you are reading this as, I don't know, a fully functional adult who is toilet trained. I really hope that because if you're twenty and I still have to reward you with an M&M for using the potty instead of a Pull-Up we've got a lot of big issues.)

One day, not long ago, I was upset about a thing. I was upset and then I drove our van right over a bird who didn't get out of the way. By the time I realized he wasn't going to move, it was too late. The tire thudded right over that unsuspecting fowl and I burst into tears. From the backseat, your little voice came, soothing and gentle, "Mommy, don't cry. It was an accident. It's OK. Mommy, I will take good care of you." Then you softly sang Jesus Loves Me. When you completed the song, you whispered, "It's OK. I'm right here." My darling boy, you have listened. You have heard me as I rub your back and tell you that I am here.

I love you so much. You make me laugh every single day. You are a joy gift from the real Joy Giver. I lose myself in your gorgeous eyes and endless curls (except right now you've got a summer shorter cut but they'll grow back). I am so proud of you and so very blessed to be able to call myself your mom.

Always, No Matter What,
Mommy

Interview With 3 Year Old Will

I always ask my boys these questions on their birthday. We decided to give it a go with Will who turned 3 today.

1. What is your favorite T.V. Show? Paw Patrol.

2. What did you have for breakfast? Pancakes and sausage.
3. What do you want to name your future son? Jack (Phew. A nice, normal name.)
4. Favorite Food? McDonald's. Marshmallows. (It's pizza but okay. He can sound like he has junk food junkies for parents.)
5. What food do you dislike? Potatoes. (He likes potatoes just fine but whatever.)
6. What is your favorite color? Green.
7. Favorite lunch? Peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
8. What is your favorite thing to do? Play toys.
9. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would it be? I would be lost. Okay, but where would you like to go on a trip? San Diego.
10. Favorite sport? Football is my favorite sport. Are you sure? What about baseball? (Because he is obsessed with baseball.) Oh, I love baseball.
11. What do you want to name your future daughter? Peanut butter is a good girl's name. (Is it though?)
12. Are you a morning person or a night person? I love the night. (Then why are you always up early?)
13. Pets? Sloth and fox. (These are his stuffed animals but he just turned 3 today so we'll go with it.)
14. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us? I love jumping up and down.
15. What do you want to be when you grow up? Matt. Okay, but for a job? A trash man.
16. What is your favorite candy? Mints are my favorite candy.
17. Where is the farthest place you've ever been from home? I went to Oregon.
18. What is your favorite book? Room on the Broom.
19. What are you most proud of? My birthday! I am PROUD.
20. What is your favorite movie? The one with popcorn. Okay, can you tell me a name? Elsa. Frozen? Yes. Frozen.
21. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The egg. You think? How come? I love eggs.

And, for fun, I asked him the same questions that James Lipton asks at the end of Inside the Actor's Studio.

1. What is your favorite word? Smash.
2. What is your least favorite word? Gross.
3. What turns you on? (I rephrased with, "What do you like?") Popcorn.
4. What turns you off? (I rephrased with, "What don't you like?") I don't love playing with ghosts. (Um. Good.)
5. What sound or noise do you love? Music.
6. What sound or noise do you hate? A ghost.

7. What is your favorite curse word? Stupid.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Fireman.
9. What profession would you not like to do? A toilet cleaner.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? (I omitted the "If Heaven exists" part)? Um. No way! (We break into hysterical laughter) When you meet Jesus, what might he say to you? Smoosh the peanut butter. Seems we have some theology and Bible lessons to go over.

Put Something in the World

I was wondering why I felt like crawling into bed for the afternoon when my to-do list is roughly 17 miles long. Perhaps it was the sporadic downpours, the spontaneous claps of clamoring thunder, the curly topped toddler quietly watching a show next to me because his nap was less than stellar. Maybe I'm starting to get sick? I thought. And I suppose it could be so--that place between well and sick, that time you look back on and say, "Oh, yeah. That's when I started to feel this coming on."

I'm pretty sure it isn't that.

I'm pretty sure I'm suffering from PTSD (Post Theatrical Sadness Disorder). This is directly caused by the extremely high high that I feel before, during, and just after a theatrical experience--even one that I am not particularly impressed with. There's only one way to go from that mountaintop and it's straight down.

Inevitably, I start to feel like, "What have I done with these 37 years? What have I done with my $80,000 degree? Where do I go from here?"

And it isn't that I instantly feel the need to be on Broadway. I don't. I'm under no real delusion that the talent level needed for that lies within me. I don't even instantly feel the need to be part of the theatre at all. It's just that I instantly remember that I am made to create.

Words. Characters. Something. I'm made to put something in the world that hasn't been there before. For a minute or two, the head-in-the-clouds artist in me sighs a sigh of contentment that today will be the day I start my book which would be something like The Greatest Story Never Told and would probably shock just about everyone. Or today will be the day I memorize a monologue and audition for something again--finally. Or today will be the day I write a Bible study or burst with some great magnitude of creativity.

But then I look at the house that needs cleaning, the toddler who needs chasing at least 12 hours of every day, the classes that need teaching, the dinners that need making, the life that needs living. Suddenly, I feel it in the nerves that somehow seem to vibrate as they realize, There will be no time to create today.

I fell in love early with art--with both the written and performed word. I was little when the magic of a play first bit me. It bit hard. I couldn't shake it loose and I didn't want to. Performance art held one heel and literature, the other. College both nurtured this love and broke it.

I am a perfectionist. I always have been. Even from the time I was a tiny child, I wanted to be perfect. And if I couldn't be perfect, why would I do it at all? I could work hard enough to be at the top--or at least very close to the top in whatever I set my mind to. Because of this perfectionist trait, my parents rarely had to get on my case. I was already on it enough for the three of us. I don't need a lot of constructive criticism because I've likely already thought of it all. And I will take zero feedback to mean that you believe I'm failing in all the ways I've already thought up.

So, in college, I was told over and over again by writing professors that I showed great promise. But all it took was one professor, in an unrelated field, saying one thing and I suddenly didn't believe that I could write. I'm also convinced that this person didn't think I could act, either. He did think I could produce and direct and manage and, now, I wish he'd at least focused on that. Because, yes, that probably could have gone somewhere. Instead, I left college thankful that I'd found the love of my life and could stop pretending that I was any good at writing or acting. I could get married and teach.

You see, I'm very good at choosing one opinion that matters to me and betting the whole farm on what that one person thinks. I look back now, nearly two decades later, and I know, beyond the shadow of any doubt, that I chose the wrong person's opinion. That's the thing about it though. I can know, even now, that I'm choosing the wrong person's opinion and still find myself unable to shake the words and actions of that one person. Why? Because I am a perfectionist and I want EVERYONE to think I'm nearly perfect.

The psychosis runs deep.

So what of the need to create? There is so much failure in human creation. And failure requires time. Time to improve. Time to try again. Time to rewrite. Time for a class to teach success. Time.

I don't know where to find that time.

I know, intellectually, that pursuing perfection is futile. I've dedicated entire conference talks to this very thing. I know that my God doesn't expect perfection from me and I know He made me to create. I know His is the SINGLE and ONLY opinion that matters.

So you might ask the question, Why ever see a single other play in your life if it makes you have a raging case of PTSD? The answer to that is, the high of witnessing creative art is worth the impending low of wondering if I'll ever contribute anything of creative substance. I'd rather be on the sidelines than not in the stadium at all--even if the sidelines force me to think about my own psychosis and why I can't make time for failure.

And, I THINK, the sadness just might be my God saying, "How many times do you have to feel this way before you remember that I made you to make something and that I don't care if you fail 20,000 times in pursuit of creation?"

And, in that highest high of watching creation unfold before me, I'm forced to believe that maybe one day I'll have something to show for all the days that followed.

Paris

I said to my mom and then, also, to a good friend, that I was going to run away--all by myself--to Paris, France. I don't know why I said Paris because that's never been a bucket list stop for me. Maybe I said Paris because people could spend a year trying to find me in Paris when, really, I was in New York all along just watching a crap ton of plays, eating cheesecake from Junior's, and cupcakes from Magnolia. So what I'm saying is that if I go missing, DON'T LOOK FOR ME IN ANY THEATRES OR BAKERIES IN NYC.

When Garrett was a toddler and he got head lice, I wanted to quit being a mom for a minute or two. Just long enough for my replacement to clean up his scalp and do all the laundry. But since then I haven't wanted to duck out on my responsibilities.

But right now. World, the flu has been swirling around the toilets of this house for a straight week and I am over it. It isn't just the stomach flu though. It's not just the fact that someone in this house has been throwing up or thinking they're going to throw up or having excessive poop for seven entire days. That's disgusting and I kind of want to just burn the house to the ground and start over again. But I'm also just really, really exhausted from lives falling apart around me.

The really great thing about the fact that no one ever reads my blog anymore (which probably has a lot to do with the fact that no one ever writes anything on this blog anymore) is that all the lives in turmoil around me are not lives who frequent this particular writing space, ever. So when I say that a marriage is in shambles (not mine) or that a mother is dying (not mine) or that a husband is a wreck and his wife is in distress over it (not mine, not me), no one is going to look at that say, "Oh, man, she wrote about me on her blog that no one reads."

I am so incredibly blessed to be able to speak into people's lives.

And maybe that is the takeaway. I thought about writing that I am tired of crises and that if one more friend tells me one more awful thing that I cannot fix but will want to, I will just hop on the nearest plane and fly to "Paris" so that I can escape the doom and destruction and difficulty. Because I can pray and that is of utmost importance but, also, I am a pretty positive and upbeat person who just wants to stick my hands in things and put pressure on that bleeding organ until someone can stitch it closed. And when I can't fix it, sometimes, the terrible and evil side of me just wants to yell, "Stop hurting!" When I know just as well as anyone that we don't just stop hurting and a lot of times we have to walk over those hot coals and those shards of glass barefoot. We have to put in the work and we need people to walk beside us while we do it. We don't need people to run away to "Paris" never to be seen again.

I am so incredibly blessed to be able to speak into people's lives. That is what God just told me while I prepared to dump my own frustration and pain and WHY onto a blog I haven't updated in almost a month. He has put me right here, right now, to be a safe space for people to ask for prayer. A safe place for people to cry. A safe place for people to share their hearts.

Yesterday, a friend in my life said, "I don't know what overcame me but I just saw you and I thought I've got to go and see Lori!" She did. And I saw her crying and I just wrapped my arms around her. I've never hugged her before. Ever. But I just knew that was the thing to do. Because I have Jesus and He loves me. And if I can wrap that love around another person who is hurting, I will.

But there are moments...

Moments when I think, I just need a few days in "Paris" to get away from the diarrhea and the vomit and broken hearts.

Pray for your Pastor's Wife. And pray for me. I need prayer for my own self--so that I can pour the love of Jesus into others.

Interview With 10 Year Old Matt

1. What is your favorite T.V. Show? Grizzy and the Lemmings

2. What did you have for breakfast? Cereal and yogurt.
3. What do you want to name your future son? Marek (I mean, I guess I can think of worse names. It's a Slavic name that means warlike one.)
4. Favorite Food? Cheeseburgers. But I do like everything.
5. What food do you dislike? Cooked broccoli.
6. What is your favorite color? Red.
7. Favorite lunch? Peanut butter and jelly.
8. What is your favorite thing to do? Reading or watching TV.
9. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would it be? Ireland.
10. Favorite sport? Football.
11. What do you want to name your future daughter? Leia. (Simply because he likes Star Wars. Every woman wants to be named after Princess Leia, I'm sure. Insert eyeroll.)
12. Are you a morning person or a night person? I'm a totally night person.
13. Pets? Tessie. Ollie. Hamilton.
14. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us? I have a new cousin named Sophie. She's my biological aunt's baby. (Awww. Cute.)
15. What do you want to be when you grow up? An actor.
16. What is your favorite candy? Lollipop.
17. Where is the farthest place you've ever been from home? Israel.
18. What is your favorite book? Star Wars books.
19. What are you most proud of? That I have a good family.
20. What is your favorite movie? Star Wars. The Force Awakens.
21. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The chicken.

And, for fun, I asked him the same questions that James Lipton asks at the end of Inside the Actor's Studio.

1. What is your favorite word? Word. (Er. Ok.)
2. What is your least favorite word? onomatopoeia (I asked him if he was serious and he said yes because it's hard to say)
3. What turns you on? (I rephrased with, "What do you like?") Going outside.
4. What turns you off? (I rephrased with, "What don't you like?") Bullies.
5. What sound or noise do you love? Tap dancing noises.
6. What sound or noise do you hate? Styrofoam 

7. What is your favorite curse word? Stupid.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? A director.
9. What profession would you not like to do? Be in the military.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? (I omitted the "If Heaven exists" part)? Your sister wants to see you. (Good thing this was the last question. I'm basically a puddle of goop now.)

Ten Years Old

Dear Matthew,

I hope you see this as a "Mom's been really busy with teaching and studying and chasing Will and I'm glad it was late instead of not at all" and not a, "Wow, guess she can't even remember when my birthday is" letter. I DO know when your birthday is. I bought cupcakes for school and we had a party and you had presents and everything. Remember? It happened. Six entire days ago BUT IT ALL HAPPENED.

Happy Birthday! You are, somehow, ten years old now. I guess an entire decade has gone by but I hardly comprehend how.

This past year was a pretty big one for you. You saw your birth parents and all your siblings this year. You hadn't seen your mom since you were just over a year old and you hadn't seen your dad since right after you turned two. I'm sure I've put it in writing somewhere before but I'll leave it here for you also. Our goal has always been to try to discern what is best for you right now AND what is best for you once you're an adult who very well may want to have all your parents and all your siblings in your life on a consistent basis. So we hope and pray that we're doing right by you now and we also hope that translates into healthy adult relationships with all of us. And so, of course we flew to Texas to attend your sister's graduation last June. And of course we welcomed your dad when he came to visit in November. It was a big year with big feelings and I hope you know how very much we all love you, how much we all loved you from the minute you came into our lives, and how much we will all love you forever.

You are so uniquely you. You're smart and hilarious and stunningly handsome. You just pulled straight A's except for a pesky little B in keyboarding. You got straight E's too. Well done, you. You love science and are so looking forward to 5th grade because you'll get to do a science experiment! (To anyone else who might read this, my son is a crazy person who hasn't yet realized that the science fair is the bane of all existence. BUT HOORAY FOR ENCOURAGING EXCITEMENT IN STEM MINDED KIDS!) Hey, Matt...you're STEM brained. I don't know what to do with that. We might need to hire a Standby Mom that we bring in to perform the role of Science and Math Mom.

"In tonight's performance, STEM Mom will be playing the part of Actual Mom."

Speaking of standbys, I DO know what to do with your love of acting and theatre and that is to FOSTER THE HECK OUT OF THAT PASSION. No, you can't have the agent you've been asking for since forever ago but you CAN come with me to see Wicked and I will for sure take you to the stage door to get pictures and autographs and I will direct you in church Christmas plays and I'll keep putting money in that NYC Trip Fund we started. I'm not sure about the Hamilton tickets you requested but time will tell.

Sports. I don't know, man. You keep trying new things, looking for your niche. This fall you tried taekwondo and you were doing really well. You loved it at first and then that kind of fizzled. You played a quick season of basketball and really seemed to enjoy it. Now you're signed back up for baseball. Here's to hoping you find something you really, truly love some day.

You continue to be a man of a few close friends. You're still quiet and reserved until you really get to know someone and then you turn into a total goofball. You love your alone time but you love being cozied up to the family for a movie night. You are complex in ways I am not and simple in ways I am not. You are introspective and brilliant. You adore Garrett--when you're not busy trying to fist fight him--and you're great with Will, who you love so deeply but who you also struggle to tolerate in all his two-ness.

I really can't believe you came shrieking into our lives an entire ten years ago. The only one to scream and scream and scream and refuse to be consoled and yet, the quietest one of the trio now. I had no idea what kind of adventure you were about to take us on. But I'm so thankful you landed here, in my arms. I cannot imagine life without you. Happy double digits dude.

Love,
Mom

That Girl

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately.

It has everything to do with the fact that I saw Wicked three times on its current Salt Lake City run. (The first step is admitting you have a problem.) (Also, to defend myself, the first time was a gift to Matthew. The second time was a deeply discounted gift for a friend. The third time was her lottery winning gift back to me. So it isn't quite as bad as it sounds. Obsessive, yes. But less expensive.) These three times are in addition to the several times I'd already seen it in previous years.

If you've been reading this blog for a hot minute or two, you know that I looooove Idina Menzel. This deep affection began long before she originated the role of Elphaba. It began in my college dorm room in 1999 when I obtained the Rent cast album and declared my undying love for her right then and there. And so, of course, I was thrilled when she won the Tony for her portrayal of Elphaba, beating out, among others, her costar Kristen Chenoweth. 

Elphaba/Galinda. Glinda/Elphaba. (You see what I did there?) The roles are equally iconic. Until yesterday afternoon I believed that the Tony winning role--all else being equal--is Elphaba. And I suppose that I sort of still do. It's her story, really. She's the one who belts The Wizard and I, Defying Gravity, and No Good Deed all alone on stage. The role was written to earn the Tony.

Maybe it's the phenomenal performance by Kara Lindsay that got me. Maybe it's that I saw the show from the second row and that gave me a perspective on Glinda's character arc not afforded to anyone sitting beyond the first ten rows or so. But my goodness does Glinda ever grow. She is crazy and caffeinated and hysterical and snobby and awful but she is also incredibly tender and strong and beautifully tragic and tragically beautiful. She doesn't really get even one show stopping song. Popular is as close as she gets and, though arguably the funniest scene in the entire show, she still shares the spotlight with Elphaba. In fact, the only song Glinda sings alone on stage is the reprise of I'm Not That Girl. 

And so Elphaba wins the Tony (and I'm not complaining because Idina slays). But she wins it for her vocal solos and the fact that it's called Wicked instead of Good. I have long loved Elphie. So much so that I named my cat after her before finding out that our cat was actually a boy kitty and changing his name right quick to Oliver. But I finally realized that Glinda is, maybe, (I struggle to even put it in words) the more challenging role. GASP.

Or Kara brought a depth to it I've never seen before. It's one or the other. (That's not to say that Jackie Burns--who I have also long loved--didn't absolutely bring down the house. She's amazing. Incredible. A joy to watch and listen to. Stunning and phenomenal.)

During the past three weeks, I have become one sidedly acquainted with Ms. Lindsay.  She seems like such a true delight. I'm 99% certain that we would be fast friends. I am not so certain that Idina would want to be my pal but I honestly believe that, if I ran in Broadway circles or Kara was a teacher at my school, we'd be instant buddies. In an interview, she said that she leaves her dressing room door open so that anyone who wants to can come in. She also said she believes that the relationships forged offstage inform the performances onstage. I love both of those statements so much--from a teaching perspective, from a ministry perspective, from a life perspective.

Yesterday, I was telling my husband that I really see so much of Elphaba and Glinda in my own personality. Maybe everyone does. Perhaps that's the point. Or, perhaps, it's somewhat unique to me and that's why I have loved this musical so much for the past 15 years. Somehow along the way though, I've lost a lot of that Glinda spunk. I miss her. I told him that I wanted to pull out that buried part of my personality--to live naturally caffeinated, to not be quite so reserved or rigid. I suppose it's the teacher and mother in me. If I had to choose between Glinda and Elphaba to raise my children or teach my classes, I'd pick Elphaba every time. Flying broomstick notwithstanding.

I told him I was tired of being a toad. (I'm not comparing Elphaba to a toad in any way except skin color.)

But Glinda has more fun. She may lose the guy but does she ever HAVE MORE FUN. And better costumes. I want a big blue ballgown. And a crown. Or, at the very least, I want to find that part of my personality that would wear a ballgown and a crown. I want to dig up that girl who doesn't worry quite so much, the one who knows what she wants and goes for it, the one who doesn't win a Tony but maybe plays the more challenging part. The soprano. (Just kidding. I am unapologetically an alto. Or a tenor, probably.)

Glinda takes care of serious business in the end. She is a strong, good leader, but she still comes and goes by bubble. She seems to be the very best parts of herself and Elphaba. She doesn't win the Tony. But, by the end of the show, I don't think she cares.

Excuse Me, Sir!

Shall I regale you with the story of tonight? My friend, Abi and I were downtown. We parked in a spot that said 2 hour parking and we walked off. Fast forward about a half hour. We returned just in time to see a meter man walking away from my van--which was sporting a shiny white ticket under the wiper blade. We were so confused. Both of us are college educated women and we've both been reading for several decades. We approached the vehicle and stared at the parking sign. It said two hour parking. It did state, toward the bottom, that Saturdays were free but that was it. Not being a frequent visitor of downtown Salt Lake, I, apparently, do not know how these things work.

I've seen many a movie where the ingenue gets pulled over but talks her way out of the ticket. Since there was truly no ill intent and I was honestly confused, I decided to try my hand at getting out of the ticket. I chased the meter man down the road. "Excuse me, sir! Sir! Excuse me. Excuse me, sir, I have a question."

I was ready. I was ready to turn on any charm I might have. I was ready to explain my utter confusion and, thus, my innocence. I was ready to put the ole theatre degree to work if need be. "Sir!" The meter man turned toward me, clearly annoyed.

It was at that moment, after howling the word SIR several times, that I realized my big mistake. It was most assuredly a meter MAID (or a female parking enforcement officer if we're being PC). And she was not happy that I'd just called her a dude multiple times. She stared at me.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I only saw your hat!" And any hopes I had of getting out of that ticket were scattered on the cold sidewalk. No amount of charm would get me out of this one. I still sort of feebly tried but to zero avail.

And listen, I know she was ticked because I'd questioned her femininity but she was wearing her standard uniform plus a gray beanie. She had NO hair whatsoever poking out in any direction. Sure, women have short hair. That's cool. But maybe a pink hat or a purple one? Something that would otherwise identify her as woman so that the poor unsuspecting ingenue of the story didn't accidentally and completely insult her.

So the moral of this story is Salt Lake City needs to be infinitely clearer with its parking signs and, also, that one should correctly identify the gender of the parking enforcement officer BEFORE screaming sir.

As a result of my failure to sweet talk my way out of it tonight, I am now raising money to help pay for my parking ticket. If you found any humor in this post, please send me a quarter via Paypal or Venmo.

JUST KIDDING, of course. About the Paypal/Venmo thing. Everything else is, sadly, quite true.

Yeti Jammies

It was a Thursday morning in Walmart. The youngest boy and I had just gathered several items, checked them out ourselves, and were heading out of the self-check area when we noticed a small boy wearing what we call Yeti Jammies. Will owns said pair of pajamas with snow monsters on them.

Will: He has my yeti jammies.

Me: Yes. He does have your jammies.

Will: He give them back?

Me: Oh, Honey, no. He has the same jammies. Those aren't yours. Yours are at home.

Will: He went into the laundry and took them?

Me: No. Those are his. Yours are still at home.

Will: He came into my house and took my yetis? 

None of this was said with any malice. He truly just assumed the baby, who looked like he was just shy of a year old, broke into our house to lift one blanket sleeper. He never raised his voice but instead kept talking in a normal, albeit slightly concerned, tone.

Me: He has his own. Those are not yours.

Will: Can I get them back from him ever?

Me: Will. I promise that your jammies are safe at home. I will show you when we get there.

At this point, I told the mom of the other boy that my son couldn't understand why her little boy was wearing his pajamas. She smiled and laughed and then pushed her cart, her kid, and his yeti jammies off in another direction.

Will: Wait! He still has my yetis on!

Me: Ok. Baby. I promise to show you your jammies as soon as we get home.

The entire way to the car, he calmly explained to me that the little boy still had his jammies and he had obviously stolen them from our home and he would like them back at some point. There was no reasoning with him. When I got home, the first thing I did was run up to his room. I opened his pajama drawer and...

THE YETI JAMMIES WERE NOT THERE.

I panicked briefly before remembering that they were in the dryer. I ran down and pulled them out.

Me: Will, look! Here are your yeti jammies.

Will: Oh! He already bringed them back! He is a nice boy.

Sigh.