Growing up, Sara was the neat one. She liked to have all her things in their places, which made me scared to touch anything in her room. In comparison, I never really considered myself as neat or organized.
But I think in some respects, I always have been made after the same mold as Sara. As I think back on my childhood, I was pretty meticulous about putting my things away in their places too. My American Girl doll (Molly) had her special suitcase that I kept neatly under the bed. I always put books back on the shelf from exactly where I got them (and prided myself on knowing where every book in the house was). I have always hung my clothes in the closet facing the same way, organized by color or shirt type etc. I have never been one to leave my clothes strewn about the bedroom (shudder).
I think I have always been an organizer without realizing it.
And now, I accept the label wholeheartedly. I devise plans in the middle of the night for how I want to better organize and utilize our limited space. I truly find pleasure in rearranging, refitting, and cleaning out cupboards, closets, and living spaces. I find it wholly satisfying to fit everything into place just right.
Or maybe I'm just OCD?
Regardless, I tell you, since becoming a full-time stay at home-er, my mind is constantly reeling with plans to organize and reorganize. Jeremy will sometimes ask me in the morning, "What are you going to do today?" and a typical response is, "reorganize the vacuum closet."
A few weeks ago we needed to make some serious changes in our bedroom. On either side of our bed were desks that Raymond gloried in climbing onto from our bed. After writing in permanent marker all over the comforter (pen obtained from Jeremy's desk), I knew the set-up had to change. I think it took me two or three days to get it right. I would sit in the rocking chair and work out plans in my head of where to put what.
It's almost like doing a puzzle. How I can I put things to make them easily accessible when they are needed (and out of Raymond's reach)? And then, when circumstances (ahem, Raymond's ability to reach) change, I actually enjoy going back to it, rethinking it.
I love having things streamlined, ordered, smooth, neat. And quite honestly, I love the process as much as the product.
(Don't get me wrong though, there is still plenty of room for improvement in this apartment; plenty of "clutter spots" that haven't been figured out yet!)
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Who would have thought?
My mom, while undoubtedly good at it, is a utilitarian cook. As in, she cooked because she had to. Six kids and all. I really don't remember her complaining much about it. I think it was fulfilling for her (maybe?). She makes some killer lasagna roll ups. And I will always love her chocolate chip cookie recipe best.
But it most definitely wasn't her thing. (Sewing, on the other hand, most definitely was. Is.)
So while I spent my entire growing up helping her make dinner (browning the hamburger was always my favorite job), I never gave much thought to cooking. It never really caught my interest or attention. I had to look at the directions on the box the first time I made macaroni and cheese as an adult, I was that oblivious to the art of cooking.
In college I never had time to cook (hello way too many credit hours and time consuming part-time job. With only my two legs to get me around town).
Single and working (the Blanding year) I had no motivation to cook (oh the sweet nothings I could write about microwaved low fat kettle corn. I bought boxes at a time).
It wasn't until I was married that the need to cook really arose. And to put it frankly, I was more than nervous about the whole proposition. I entered the kitchen with trepidation, uncertainty, and full out intimidation.
But almost three years later, guess what? I actually, whole-heartedly like to cook.
I'll say it again. I like to cook. (!!)
Now don't get me wrong. There are definitely days when I look at Jeremy and say: you are in charge of finding some sort of nourishment for yourself. Days when boxed mac and cheese is about all I can muster up.And days when I am overjoyed to learn that Jeremy has a work meeting at some local restaurant and I am off the hook when it comes to dinner.
But in between those days, I honestly and truly get pleasure out of fixing dinner. Shocking, I know! It is calming (even when one or more of my children are screaming. Ok, not always). But there is some sort of calm creativity involved in the creation of food. It is satisfying to make something wholly from scratch. To adapt and fanegle a recipe to meet our budget, our healthy living goals, our taste preferences. I even, surprisingly, enjoy kneading bread dough by hand (something I've take up since my kitchenaide sputtered and died).
I am so used to the idea of cooking being a chore, that I sometimes have to remind myself that it's ok to enjoy it. And by and large, enjoy it I do!
Who would have thought?
But it most definitely wasn't her thing. (Sewing, on the other hand, most definitely was. Is.)
So while I spent my entire growing up helping her make dinner (browning the hamburger was always my favorite job), I never gave much thought to cooking. It never really caught my interest or attention. I had to look at the directions on the box the first time I made macaroni and cheese as an adult, I was that oblivious to the art of cooking.
In college I never had time to cook (hello way too many credit hours and time consuming part-time job. With only my two legs to get me around town).
Single and working (the Blanding year) I had no motivation to cook (oh the sweet nothings I could write about microwaved low fat kettle corn. I bought boxes at a time).
It wasn't until I was married that the need to cook really arose. And to put it frankly, I was more than nervous about the whole proposition. I entered the kitchen with trepidation, uncertainty, and full out intimidation.
But almost three years later, guess what? I actually, whole-heartedly like to cook.
I'll say it again. I like to cook. (!!)
Now don't get me wrong. There are definitely days when I look at Jeremy and say: you are in charge of finding some sort of nourishment for yourself. Days when boxed mac and cheese is about all I can muster up.And days when I am overjoyed to learn that Jeremy has a work meeting at some local restaurant and I am off the hook when it comes to dinner.
But in between those days, I honestly and truly get pleasure out of fixing dinner. Shocking, I know! It is calming (even when one or more of my children are screaming. Ok, not always). But there is some sort of calm creativity involved in the creation of food. It is satisfying to make something wholly from scratch. To adapt and fanegle a recipe to meet our budget, our healthy living goals, our taste preferences. I even, surprisingly, enjoy kneading bread dough by hand (something I've take up since my kitchenaide sputtered and died).
I am so used to the idea of cooking being a chore, that I sometimes have to remind myself that it's ok to enjoy it. And by and large, enjoy it I do!
Who would have thought?
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Ode to sleep
Ginny showed all the signs of being a great sleeper as a newborn. Sure she still woke up quite a bit at night, but she was a newborn. She took long naps. She slept any and everywhere. Very early on she seems to be able to put herself back to sleep with little fuss.
I was a happy mom.
But something happened between now and then. Once upon a time didn't I even write in a blog post that she would sleep from about 7pm to 2am every night?
Where did those nights go, I ask you?
Because somehow this little lady has become the lightest sleeper ever. Ever.
I'm talking, open the door, she wakes up. (Which is a problem considering she's in my bedroom still. With nowhere else to go.)
Most nights this week she's gotten up roughly every two hours (or sooner) from the time she goes to bed to the time she gets up for the day. For a few nights I made her cry it out every other waking, but the crying! The screaming! The duration! I couldn't handle it after a few nights and resumed the unearthly amounts of waking up. Jeremy has been sleeping in a sleeping bag on the living room floor (with ear plugs no less), it's gotten so bad.
And day sleep, if it's possible, is worse. She takes 20 minute naps lately. Not that that counts as a nap. I jump for joy if she sleeps longer than a half hour. (Without being attached to me, of course. Because probably she would sleep all day long if I let her nurse and sleep. If I didn't have a toddler, that is.)
Anyhow, she really is a very happy baby considering how little she sleeps. (And I think I am actually a very happy mama considering how little I sleep). She laughs and coos and has the most adoring eyes. She delights in sitting up and rolling over. Her cheeks are as soft and chubby as ever.
But, sleep, (oh sleep!) I miss you so. I look forward to your company again someday. Please don't make it too far away.
And YES I have read Happy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth all the way through twice. I let her cry it out for at least five days... and to no avail. I can only handle so much crying when my nerves are raw from so little sleep.
Oh and please do NOT ask me (not matter how well intentioned) if she is getting enough to eat. Nothing stresses this breatfeeding mama out more.
I was a happy mom.
But something happened between now and then. Once upon a time didn't I even write in a blog post that she would sleep from about 7pm to 2am every night?
Where did those nights go, I ask you?
Because somehow this little lady has become the lightest sleeper ever. Ever.
I'm talking, open the door, she wakes up. (Which is a problem considering she's in my bedroom still. With nowhere else to go.)
Most nights this week she's gotten up roughly every two hours (or sooner) from the time she goes to bed to the time she gets up for the day. For a few nights I made her cry it out every other waking, but the crying! The screaming! The duration! I couldn't handle it after a few nights and resumed the unearthly amounts of waking up. Jeremy has been sleeping in a sleeping bag on the living room floor (with ear plugs no less), it's gotten so bad.
And day sleep, if it's possible, is worse. She takes 20 minute naps lately. Not that that counts as a nap. I jump for joy if she sleeps longer than a half hour. (Without being attached to me, of course. Because probably she would sleep all day long if I let her nurse and sleep. If I didn't have a toddler, that is.)
Anyhow, she really is a very happy baby considering how little she sleeps. (And I think I am actually a very happy mama considering how little I sleep). She laughs and coos and has the most adoring eyes. She delights in sitting up and rolling over. Her cheeks are as soft and chubby as ever.
But, sleep, (oh sleep!) I miss you so. I look forward to your company again someday. Please don't make it too far away.
And YES I have read Happy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth all the way through twice. I let her cry it out for at least five days... and to no avail. I can only handle so much crying when my nerves are raw from so little sleep.
Oh and please do NOT ask me (not matter how well intentioned) if she is getting enough to eat. Nothing stresses this breatfeeding mama out more.
Monday, April 4, 2011
On reading
This afternoon a friend from a few doors down showed up on my doorstep wanting to borrow a book. She'd never been to my house to know that I have a few bookshelves. We'd never even talked books before. She just had a hunch that this might be a good place to start.
Do my heart good.
I'm sure my eyes lit up with anticipation of sending her home with something good to read.
The past four months or so I have been a reading manic. Since my sewing machine is in the shop (my mom has loaned me an old machine of hers... but it isn't the same), and my alone time is minimal at best, I've found that there's nothing better than a good book these days.
I nurse and read while Raymond explores (and tears apart) the house. Or he reads a book of his own on the couch (seriously darling). We all lay on our bellies on the floor with a book (or toy) at hand. When the babelins are finally sleeping at night, I curl up on the couch and read and read and read.
And so pass the days.
I have always been an avid re-reader. I honestly don't remember what happened in a book just weeks after finishing it. (Contrasting with my dad who will remember minute details years after reading a book).
Most of the books I've read most recently are just ones I've picked up off my own shelves and decided to read again. To Kill a Mockingbird (heavens, how many times have I read that book?). The Emily of New Moon series (borrowed from Sara). The Chronicles of Narnia.
The funny thing is, I am often surprised by things I simply don't remember from a previous reading. Things are familiar and comfortable, but fresh. I love that about a well-loved and oft-read book. They are like old friends whom I haven't seen in a while. Somehow the conversation always is new, but the feeling the same.
Do my heart good.
I'm sure my eyes lit up with anticipation of sending her home with something good to read.
The past four months or so I have been a reading manic. Since my sewing machine is in the shop (my mom has loaned me an old machine of hers... but it isn't the same), and my alone time is minimal at best, I've found that there's nothing better than a good book these days.
I nurse and read while Raymond explores (and tears apart) the house. Or he reads a book of his own on the couch (seriously darling). We all lay on our bellies on the floor with a book (or toy) at hand. When the babelins are finally sleeping at night, I curl up on the couch and read and read and read.
And so pass the days.
I have always been an avid re-reader. I honestly don't remember what happened in a book just weeks after finishing it. (Contrasting with my dad who will remember minute details years after reading a book).
Most of the books I've read most recently are just ones I've picked up off my own shelves and decided to read again. To Kill a Mockingbird (heavens, how many times have I read that book?). The Emily of New Moon series (borrowed from Sara). The Chronicles of Narnia.
The funny thing is, I am often surprised by things I simply don't remember from a previous reading. Things are familiar and comfortable, but fresh. I love that about a well-loved and oft-read book. They are like old friends whom I haven't seen in a while. Somehow the conversation always is new, but the feeling the same.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
And the verdict is...
I tell you it's been a long school year of law school applications and decisions with a lot of waiting in between. It's been quite the process. Anyhow, it seemed that things just started falling in and out of place this week.
We had our choices narrowed down to Ohio State, The U, and BYU (even though we still haven't heard back from them). Then on Monday we found out that there was no way we could get an increase in student loans at Ohio without lying and saying we were sending our kids or day care. Pretty much it just took Ohio off the list. It was actually sad and surprising to me, as I really thought we would "go away" for school. Not to be, however.
Monday and Tuesday began the serious debate whether to wait it out for BYU or accept the scholarship offer we'd been given at the U. We have until Friday to accept the scholarship (it's actually not much money, but something). Accepting means we make a binding decision to attend their school. We could reject the scholarship and still leave ourselves open to going there, but we would not likely be able to get the money back, or be considered for more money. By accepting the scholarship, we make ourselves available for the second round of scholarship offers and hopefully will get more. But because it's binding, we have to withdraw from every other school we have an open application at (which still included BYU, Ohio, WASHU, Alabama, and Georgia).
Seriously, this has been a stressful few days. After much (MUCH) debate, prayer, study, and deliberation, we have decided to accept the scholarship and go to the University of Utah. Whabam.
This means we have withdrawn our application at BYU and will never know if they would have let us in (I have my doubts). The good news is: we are staying in Utah! And we will be attending a good school (ranked 42nd--equal, actually, with BYU). It has a lot of good clinics and programs, produces a fair amount of clerkships, has good job placement (particularly in Utah, but also outside of Utah). It is in a place neither of us have lived, so will still be somewhat of an adventure, but close enough that we'll still get to see lots of family and friends. And I must say I am thrilled at the prospect of getting to go the Salt Lake Temple regularly.
You know, from the start I told Jeremy we would end up going to a law school that we least expected. That's the way these things usually work, isn't it?
At least for me, that is how I feel like the final decision turned out. While the University of Utah has always been on our list, I never actually thought we would end up there.Being a true blue BYU fan myself, and loving little Provo, I was sure that if we stayed in Utah, it would not be at Utah.
But now that the decision is made, I'm actually really excited about it. And extremely relieved that the decision is finally (FINALLY) made. Hooray!
We had our choices narrowed down to Ohio State, The U, and BYU (even though we still haven't heard back from them). Then on Monday we found out that there was no way we could get an increase in student loans at Ohio without lying and saying we were sending our kids or day care. Pretty much it just took Ohio off the list. It was actually sad and surprising to me, as I really thought we would "go away" for school. Not to be, however.
Monday and Tuesday began the serious debate whether to wait it out for BYU or accept the scholarship offer we'd been given at the U. We have until Friday to accept the scholarship (it's actually not much money, but something). Accepting means we make a binding decision to attend their school. We could reject the scholarship and still leave ourselves open to going there, but we would not likely be able to get the money back, or be considered for more money. By accepting the scholarship, we make ourselves available for the second round of scholarship offers and hopefully will get more. But because it's binding, we have to withdraw from every other school we have an open application at (which still included BYU, Ohio, WASHU, Alabama, and Georgia).
Seriously, this has been a stressful few days. After much (MUCH) debate, prayer, study, and deliberation, we have decided to accept the scholarship and go to the University of Utah. Whabam.
This means we have withdrawn our application at BYU and will never know if they would have let us in (I have my doubts). The good news is: we are staying in Utah! And we will be attending a good school (ranked 42nd--equal, actually, with BYU). It has a lot of good clinics and programs, produces a fair amount of clerkships, has good job placement (particularly in Utah, but also outside of Utah). It is in a place neither of us have lived, so will still be somewhat of an adventure, but close enough that we'll still get to see lots of family and friends. And I must say I am thrilled at the prospect of getting to go the Salt Lake Temple regularly.
You know, from the start I told Jeremy we would end up going to a law school that we least expected. That's the way these things usually work, isn't it?
At least for me, that is how I feel like the final decision turned out. While the University of Utah has always been on our list, I never actually thought we would end up there.Being a true blue BYU fan myself, and loving little Provo, I was sure that if we stayed in Utah, it would not be at Utah.
But now that the decision is made, I'm actually really excited about it. And extremely relieved that the decision is finally (FINALLY) made. Hooray!
Monday, March 28, 2011
On things that matter most.
I've come to a couple of realizations in the last week or so:
(And I've been giving my babies exuberant amounts of kisses. Nothing better than a squishy little cheek to make life worth living!)
- If I don't like something, I should change it (if I can). A few times in the last week I found myself getting edgy about the chaos in the house. So what did I do? I closed my book (ahem) or stopped whatever else I was doing, and started singing the clean-up song! Hello. It was like a revelation. Pathetic, I know. But honestly, sometimes I just let things get under my skin (rock, rock, rock, while thinking about how all the mess bugs me) instead of being proactive and pulling out the vaccuum. No use putting off for later what I can clean right now if I need to!
- I live for sunshine. Those cloudy overcast days give me the most horrible temptation to drag my feet about life. Therefore (I've redetermined) I cannot live in places that are forever overcast (like the upper northwest). I glory in the sun shinning through my windows!
- Exercise is essential to my soul. Really and truly. I have been racking my brains out for the last four months trying to figure out how to get more aerobic exercise. In the winter. With two small children. Without a double stroller. (Anyone want to donate a double stroller to the cause? Just kidding. Kind of). My current solution? Disco music and everything I can remember from the aerobics class I took in college. So far so good!
- Life for me is plain no good if I'm not getting good scripture study in every single day. I'm more grouchy. I'm more irritable. I'm more down on myself. I was in a really super great scripture reading routine before Ginny was born. It's been a scheduling challenge to get it back to where it needs to be. I'm getting there.
- And (not a new revelation to be sure) I really hate life decisions. We had really really hoped and planned on knowing where we were going to go to law school by the end of March. It's still looking fuzzy and the deadlines for deposits creep steadily closer! The dart-board method is looking pretty attractive. I almost don't even care anymore. Almost.
Monday, March 21, 2011
speaking of redheads
Right as I was about to start typing I was temporarily distracted by the fact that my feet are purple. Does this happen to you? I have extremely poor circulation.
Speaking of blood flow, did you know redheads are bleeders? Neither did I until Valley View Medical Center staff told me so every single time I had to have any sort of blood work done in the last two and half years.Funny thing is, at least in my case, it's true.
Redheads also (supposedly) bruise easily. Also true in my case.
Speaking of redheads, I think general we get a pretty bad wrap. You know, the whole personality-matches-the-hair bit. (I guess blondes have it worse, though. I shouldn't complain.)
Just last week I had a whole conversation with the checker at Wal-Mart about Raymond being a redhead. You know, feisty and fiery. We made small talk about his temper.
And as I walked away, I thought about how I don't agree with what I just off handedly said about my son. That he has a personality to match his hair.
Because while he can throw a pretty good tantrum when he wants to, I don't know a toddler who can't. Redhead or otherwise. I don't really think it has much to do with his hair.
But speaking of Raymond, I must say that boy really does get cuter every day. Today he got a hair in his mouth (ahem, one of my very own red hairs) and came running to me with his tongue hanging out and said (as best he could in that position), "gross!" I laughed.
He seriously says the funniest things (or maybe they are just funny because of the way they come out of his little boy mouth.) He kept trying to say strawberry tonight.Endearing in every way.
Speaking of strawberries, I'm pining for summer and walking weather and short sleeves. Last night the wind got up to 50 mph around these parts. I'm serious.
And for a last unrelated note, I have decided that I love to dress "Baby Birginia" in pale pink more than any other color. Even red! It suits her so well. I was sure I wasn't going to be a only-dress-my-baby-girl-in-pink kind of mom. But I purposefully do laundry to recycle my favorite pink outfits faster. Maybe it's because she isn't a redhead. (And the stereotypes continue.)
And there you have it.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Hey Pops!
Recently I was going back through my blog archives (much like I do with my old journals) and realized that in 2008 I wrote a birthday post for everyone in my family except my dad. (See Tasha, Paige, Blake, Mom, Chad, and Sara). When I started, with Tasha, I didn't intend to do one for everyone. But then people started requesting and expecting them and honestly it wasn't until last week that I realized one was left out. Good thing I wasn't too late for his birthday this year.
When I think of my dad during my childhood, I remember a tall lanky fellow with a mop of dark hair. We three girls used to run and hide when we could hear him coming home from work, and then would burst out with a "surprise!" I used to love to go downtown with my mom to visit him at his office on the upper floors of the Nation Bank of Long Beach.
When we moved into the Meinhardt house, I have distinct memories of sitting on my parents bed and watching him iron his shirt for work. I remember him teaching me the correct way to iron a dress shirt (start with the collar...) It was about that time that Blake (the first boy of the family) was toddling around. I loved watching my dad and Blake hit baseballs off of tiny tees and throw wuffle balls back and forth.
Almost all of my early memories of Dad come back to baseball. I remember cool nights at the softball fields watching him play. Friday night Angel games on TV. Visiting the fields at BYU where my dad used to play in college. Watching him coach Blake and Chad's little league teams. Sitting in the family section in the outfield at Angel Stadium. As a teenager I used to go with him when he would give high counselman talks on the third Sunday each month--and I doubt there were more than a handful of those talks that didn't have something to do with baseball. Even as a missionary, every letter I got from Dad had an baseball analogy for missionary work.
Going with my dad on church assignments was a hallmark of my childhood. He always hometaught widows and elderly in our ward. My dad liked to take avacados picked off his parent's overflowing tree in Long Beach and one or more of his daughters. I remember countless Sunday afternoons visiting the Rugrafs, Sister Freeze, and others. He liked to bring us along so we could sing for them. I sang Nephi's Courage so many times growing up that I declared in my teenage years that I hated that song. (And of course now it's a favorite filled with fond memories that I sing often with Raymond.)
But even as I got older and my dad had to wheel and deal to get me to accompany him, I always treasured those afternoon visits. And I loved the people as much as my dad did. I don't remember him ever really sharing a lesson, but always he shared his time, his love, and his friendship. He like to visit. He liked to bring something to lighten their lives. He liked to talk and listen to their stories. Years later my dad conducted and spoke at Sister Rugraf funeral. He had visited her long after moving out of that ward and was to her always a treasured friend.
During my senior year of high school when my dad became Bishop, the bag of avacados he brought home from Grandma and Grandpa's house became heavier and his monthly rounds extended to more and more people. He loves people. And in his own casual, down-to-earth fashion, he connects with all people. My dad is a true example to me of unconditional love. He doesn't judge or begrudge. He connects best with those a little worse for wear.
And I think it's because he's so unpretentious. He's comfortable in his own skin without an ounce of vanity or pride. He's most comfortable in a pair of shorts and flip flops. And he's not afraid to laugh and joke or tell it like he sees it. He's not afraid to ask questions or play devil's advocate either. In fact I remember more FHE than one in which my dad would strike up a heated discussion rather than a peaceful lesson and before long Mom was calling it quits and pulling out the ice cream to simmer things down.
Speaking of ice cream, it's possibly his favorite food. There's always a half gallon or two (or five) in the freezer at home.
Dad has always declared himself to be a "bum at heart." Indeed, the most endearing image I have of him is laying on his bed with a book propped up on his chest, a game on the TV, and himself fast asleep. But despite his declarations of laziness, he has always been a hard worker. All my growing up years he would go into work extra early (six or so--unless it was one of the days he went to play basketball in the church gym at six), work for for 8-10 hours without a lunch break, and come home by three or four so he could go to all our different tennis matches, soccer games, or baseball games. He didn't like to miss any of them.
Recently my dad has taken a much more demanding job with a long commute. He spends long days working even though I know he would rather be at home relaxing. Since moving out of the house, he has always taken advantage of his commutes to call us kids and his mom. I love those random and unexpected phone calls from Dad. We ramble about the latest books we've read, what's going on in the news, and how my kids are doing.
Speaking of books, Dad is an avid reader. I distinctly remember sitting down next to the bookshelf in my parents room and leafing through my dad's science fiction books on the bottom two shelves as a very young girl. I pulled off Enders Game and the rest was history. Ever since then my dad and I would read books "together" and discuss them. Usually this would mean Dad would read at his slow and steady pace--taking weeks or months on the book in question--and when he finished I would blow through it in a week or less and we'd discuss.
My dad is possibly the most frugal person I know. I think for most of his life, spending money has meant anxiety. He prefers to "shop around" before making even the most minor purchases. This usually means going to five or six stores to make sure he's getting the best price. I remember always buying our tennis shoes out of the clearance bin at Big 5, and he didn't eat lunch for years because he didn't want to spend the money.
But over the years he's softened a bit to my mom's ease with spending money. He knows it's important to my mom that he give her gifts on important holidays like Christmas and Birthdays. While this was the ultimate stress inducer in him for years, he's figured out how much it means to her, and now goes all out. I think I admire his ability to compromise as much as his frugality.
I love watching my dad as a grandpa. He has a way with little ones that I didn't see or notice growing up. His calm nature has a way of attracting them to him. I love watching him take the kids on drives in his refurbished old Porsche. I love hearing him whistle his bird call for them as he sits them comfortably on his lap.
I'm not quite sure I've done my dad enough justice with this post. I can hear his laugh and see his easy banter with a friend or relative in my mind's eye. I have countless memories of him sitting at the end of the dinner table growing up, standing to speak in sacrament meetings across our stake, working in the yard on a Saturday morning, sitting in his lawn chair at baseball games. I'm not sure I've quite put them all into words, but I hope the sentiment has come across.
I love you, Dad. Happy Birthday!
When I think of my dad during my childhood, I remember a tall lanky fellow with a mop of dark hair. We three girls used to run and hide when we could hear him coming home from work, and then would burst out with a "surprise!" I used to love to go downtown with my mom to visit him at his office on the upper floors of the Nation Bank of Long Beach.
When we moved into the Meinhardt house, I have distinct memories of sitting on my parents bed and watching him iron his shirt for work. I remember him teaching me the correct way to iron a dress shirt (start with the collar...) It was about that time that Blake (the first boy of the family) was toddling around. I loved watching my dad and Blake hit baseballs off of tiny tees and throw wuffle balls back and forth.
Almost all of my early memories of Dad come back to baseball. I remember cool nights at the softball fields watching him play. Friday night Angel games on TV. Visiting the fields at BYU where my dad used to play in college. Watching him coach Blake and Chad's little league teams. Sitting in the family section in the outfield at Angel Stadium. As a teenager I used to go with him when he would give high counselman talks on the third Sunday each month--and I doubt there were more than a handful of those talks that didn't have something to do with baseball. Even as a missionary, every letter I got from Dad had an baseball analogy for missionary work.
Going with my dad on church assignments was a hallmark of my childhood. He always hometaught widows and elderly in our ward. My dad liked to take avacados picked off his parent's overflowing tree in Long Beach and one or more of his daughters. I remember countless Sunday afternoons visiting the Rugrafs, Sister Freeze, and others. He liked to bring us along so we could sing for them. I sang Nephi's Courage so many times growing up that I declared in my teenage years that I hated that song. (And of course now it's a favorite filled with fond memories that I sing often with Raymond.)
But even as I got older and my dad had to wheel and deal to get me to accompany him, I always treasured those afternoon visits. And I loved the people as much as my dad did. I don't remember him ever really sharing a lesson, but always he shared his time, his love, and his friendship. He like to visit. He liked to bring something to lighten their lives. He liked to talk and listen to their stories. Years later my dad conducted and spoke at Sister Rugraf funeral. He had visited her long after moving out of that ward and was to her always a treasured friend.
During my senior year of high school when my dad became Bishop, the bag of avacados he brought home from Grandma and Grandpa's house became heavier and his monthly rounds extended to more and more people. He loves people. And in his own casual, down-to-earth fashion, he connects with all people. My dad is a true example to me of unconditional love. He doesn't judge or begrudge. He connects best with those a little worse for wear.
And I think it's because he's so unpretentious. He's comfortable in his own skin without an ounce of vanity or pride. He's most comfortable in a pair of shorts and flip flops. And he's not afraid to laugh and joke or tell it like he sees it. He's not afraid to ask questions or play devil's advocate either. In fact I remember more FHE than one in which my dad would strike up a heated discussion rather than a peaceful lesson and before long Mom was calling it quits and pulling out the ice cream to simmer things down.
Speaking of ice cream, it's possibly his favorite food. There's always a half gallon or two (or five) in the freezer at home.
Dad has always declared himself to be a "bum at heart." Indeed, the most endearing image I have of him is laying on his bed with a book propped up on his chest, a game on the TV, and himself fast asleep. But despite his declarations of laziness, he has always been a hard worker. All my growing up years he would go into work extra early (six or so--unless it was one of the days he went to play basketball in the church gym at six), work for for 8-10 hours without a lunch break, and come home by three or four so he could go to all our different tennis matches, soccer games, or baseball games. He didn't like to miss any of them.
Recently my dad has taken a much more demanding job with a long commute. He spends long days working even though I know he would rather be at home relaxing. Since moving out of the house, he has always taken advantage of his commutes to call us kids and his mom. I love those random and unexpected phone calls from Dad. We ramble about the latest books we've read, what's going on in the news, and how my kids are doing.
Speaking of books, Dad is an avid reader. I distinctly remember sitting down next to the bookshelf in my parents room and leafing through my dad's science fiction books on the bottom two shelves as a very young girl. I pulled off Enders Game and the rest was history. Ever since then my dad and I would read books "together" and discuss them. Usually this would mean Dad would read at his slow and steady pace--taking weeks or months on the book in question--and when he finished I would blow through it in a week or less and we'd discuss.
My dad is possibly the most frugal person I know. I think for most of his life, spending money has meant anxiety. He prefers to "shop around" before making even the most minor purchases. This usually means going to five or six stores to make sure he's getting the best price. I remember always buying our tennis shoes out of the clearance bin at Big 5, and he didn't eat lunch for years because he didn't want to spend the money.
But over the years he's softened a bit to my mom's ease with spending money. He knows it's important to my mom that he give her gifts on important holidays like Christmas and Birthdays. While this was the ultimate stress inducer in him for years, he's figured out how much it means to her, and now goes all out. I think I admire his ability to compromise as much as his frugality.
I love watching my dad as a grandpa. He has a way with little ones that I didn't see or notice growing up. His calm nature has a way of attracting them to him. I love watching him take the kids on drives in his refurbished old Porsche. I love hearing him whistle his bird call for them as he sits them comfortably on his lap.
I'm not quite sure I've done my dad enough justice with this post. I can hear his laugh and see his easy banter with a friend or relative in my mind's eye. I have countless memories of him sitting at the end of the dinner table growing up, standing to speak in sacrament meetings across our stake, working in the yard on a Saturday morning, sitting in his lawn chair at baseball games. I'm not sure I've quite put them all into words, but I hope the sentiment has come across.
I love you, Dad. Happy Birthday!
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Sweet Nothings
So much of each day is filled up with tiny seemingly insignificant moments that testify of the sweetness of motherhood...
Raymond wrapped his arms around my legs, then peered up and me and smiled.
Ginny, tired and hungry and distraught, instinctively nestled in to me and let out an audible sigh of contentment at what I had to offer her.
Raymond laughed hysterically each time I threw the ball up toward the skylight in our kitchen. Dressed in only his diaper, he scampered after it each time it landed, giddy with excitement for me to throw it again.
Snuggled into her baby sling across my chest, Ginny and I danced quietly around the living room.
As I rocked and nursed, Raymond settled himself onto the couch, opened the picture Book of Mormon, and--with finger pointing emphatically at each picture--jabbered aloud the story to me. Interjected into his pretend reading were the clearly identifiable names of Nephi and Alma.
Struggling to hold her head upright, Ginny's eyes swept around the room until she saw Raymond. And then with a look of astonishment at whatever antic he was doing, she intently watched his every move for as long as she could hold her little head up.
With sippy cup of water in one hand and favored blanket in the other, Raymond settled comfortably into my lap so that we could sing and rock before "nigh night."
After Raymond insisted "hold her!" and I propped Ginny up on his lap, she proceeded to stare intently as he pointed to and named all of her body parts (elbow! chin! eye! knee!)
Caught in the act of a "no! no!" Raymond quickly lowered his head and then slowly swept his eyes upward through his incredibly long red eyelashes in a look of feigned innocence. It is a look he knows to be irresistible every time.
While sitting quietly on my lap, Ginny instinctively reached out and wrapped her long slender fingers around one of my own.
Such simple, sweet little events that make me glad to live with these two little people. Glad to be recognized by them. Glad to be the one they turn to for comfort. Glad to be someone they trust and love. Glad to be responsible to nurture and love them.
Raymond wrapped his arms around my legs, then peered up and me and smiled.
Ginny, tired and hungry and distraught, instinctively nestled in to me and let out an audible sigh of contentment at what I had to offer her.
Raymond laughed hysterically each time I threw the ball up toward the skylight in our kitchen. Dressed in only his diaper, he scampered after it each time it landed, giddy with excitement for me to throw it again.
Snuggled into her baby sling across my chest, Ginny and I danced quietly around the living room.
As I rocked and nursed, Raymond settled himself onto the couch, opened the picture Book of Mormon, and--with finger pointing emphatically at each picture--jabbered aloud the story to me. Interjected into his pretend reading were the clearly identifiable names of Nephi and Alma.
Struggling to hold her head upright, Ginny's eyes swept around the room until she saw Raymond. And then with a look of astonishment at whatever antic he was doing, she intently watched his every move for as long as she could hold her little head up.
With sippy cup of water in one hand and favored blanket in the other, Raymond settled comfortably into my lap so that we could sing and rock before "nigh night."
After Raymond insisted "hold her!" and I propped Ginny up on his lap, she proceeded to stare intently as he pointed to and named all of her body parts (elbow! chin! eye! knee!)
Caught in the act of a "no! no!" Raymond quickly lowered his head and then slowly swept his eyes upward through his incredibly long red eyelashes in a look of feigned innocence. It is a look he knows to be irresistible every time.
While sitting quietly on my lap, Ginny instinctively reached out and wrapped her long slender fingers around one of my own.
Such simple, sweet little events that make me glad to live with these two little people. Glad to be recognized by them. Glad to be the one they turn to for comfort. Glad to be someone they trust and love. Glad to be responsible to nurture and love them.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
to clean or not to clean...
When I moved into my own apartment for the first time, I was surprised to discover how much of a clean freak I am. Every Saturday I would sweep and mop and organize. I loved keeping that apartment spic and span. And with only myself making the messes, it was pretty easy to do.
There is something so calming and peaceful and good about a clean living space.
Getting married added a new dimension to Saturday cleaning. Not that Jeremy is overly messy (although I think his mess-tolerance is much higher than mine), but two people are inevitably messier than one.
I soon discovered an interesting fact about myself: I have a much higher tolerance for my messes than for someone elses. Hmmm.
Enter toddler to the mix. Wow. I can't even clean the first mess before another one is underway. Crayons thrown around the living room. Pots and pans pulled from the cupboard and spread out on the kitchen floor. Toys dumped from their places, and books strewn about the room.
All done in one nursing session.
I don't know how he does it so fast. His latest favorite is to open the fridge (a sad day when that skill was learned) and line the ketchup, mustard, and Worcestershire sauce up on the table or throw everything he can grab into a pile in the baby swing.
Sometimes I want to pull my hair out in frustration. Because messes that big nigh unto give me anxiety.
We're working on the concept of putting away what's out before moving on to the next toy. It hasn't caught on quite yet.
But today, as I was reminding myself to breathe deep and not let it get to me, I thought about how this is life for a while. Once Raymond is old enough to be better at picking up after himself (or at least able to understand that concept), Ginny will have taken his place in mess making. And another after her. And so on. I am only at the beginning of toddler messes, I think. (I'm not sure I want to know what comes after toddler messes.)
Anyhow, it's a struggle for me. To let the cleanliness go. To be ok with cracker crumbs inevitably sprinkled all over the carpet. To not crawl after Raymond all day (everyday) putting away what he just got out and already left behind.But to be quite honest, the constant clean-up duty is exhausting sometimes. But I can't just give it up. I can't live like that. Such a conundrum.
Anyone else been able to strike a better balance with this? Thoughts?
There is something so calming and peaceful and good about a clean living space.
Getting married added a new dimension to Saturday cleaning. Not that Jeremy is overly messy (although I think his mess-tolerance is much higher than mine), but two people are inevitably messier than one.
I soon discovered an interesting fact about myself: I have a much higher tolerance for my messes than for someone elses. Hmmm.
Enter toddler to the mix. Wow. I can't even clean the first mess before another one is underway. Crayons thrown around the living room. Pots and pans pulled from the cupboard and spread out on the kitchen floor. Toys dumped from their places, and books strewn about the room.
All done in one nursing session.
I don't know how he does it so fast. His latest favorite is to open the fridge (a sad day when that skill was learned) and line the ketchup, mustard, and Worcestershire sauce up on the table or throw everything he can grab into a pile in the baby swing.
Sometimes I want to pull my hair out in frustration. Because messes that big nigh unto give me anxiety.
We're working on the concept of putting away what's out before moving on to the next toy. It hasn't caught on quite yet.
But today, as I was reminding myself to breathe deep and not let it get to me, I thought about how this is life for a while. Once Raymond is old enough to be better at picking up after himself (or at least able to understand that concept), Ginny will have taken his place in mess making. And another after her. And so on. I am only at the beginning of toddler messes, I think. (I'm not sure I want to know what comes after toddler messes.)
Anyhow, it's a struggle for me. To let the cleanliness go. To be ok with cracker crumbs inevitably sprinkled all over the carpet. To not crawl after Raymond all day (everyday) putting away what he just got out and already left behind.But to be quite honest, the constant clean-up duty is exhausting sometimes. But I can't just give it up. I can't live like that. Such a conundrum.
Anyone else been able to strike a better balance with this? Thoughts?
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