In Case You're Feeling Ungrateful

I have honestly never understood how it is that people can dislike America so much. And by "people" I mean "Americans", because while much of the world may be in a toddler-like snit over the latest American faux paus, who the heck cares what the rest of the world thinks? They can take their (im)moral superiority and find somewhere shady to put it.

But Americans, who enjoy freedom in almost every imaginable respect, have more and greater opportunities than anyone anywhere else in the world, and who live lives of luxury (even in the poverty sector - we don't really know what "poor" is) find a whole lot to whine about. I've always thought it would be a good idea to ship these ungrateful brats off to the Middle East for awhile, and see how they like life in a tent in the Arabian desert, where women have no rights and basic sanitation is wanting.

In case you've ever found yourself complaining about life in the good old USA, read these two articles I came upon in my morning perusal of the news. Both made me profoundly grateful to live in this country, and should make any rational person rethink any complaints they might have about the haves and have-nots of American life.

This article is about an eight-year old Saudi girl who was married off to pay her father's debts. A court has refused to annul the marriage, as long as the husband does not have sex with the child until after she reaches puberty. Oh, that's nice. I feel better now. I'm sure the loving husband will abide by his agreement, considering he bought an almost-baby for a bride.

Or how about this one? Women protesting a marriage law passed last month in Kabul, Afghanistan were pelted with stones by counter-protesters. Among other things, the law states when and for what reasons a woman may leave her house alone, and allows a man to demand sex from his wife every four days unless she is ill or would be harmed by intercourse. I'm all for more sex in marriage, but good heavens! Laws delineating how often the husband's demands must be satisfied, whether the wife likes it or not? Scary!

Oh, I'm so grateful to live in this country! What a wonderful life we have here! We don't even know the meaning of suffering or oppression.

God Bless America!

Goofing Off?

I received an email from my mom this afternoon stating that she had been "goofing off" for a few hours by transcribing a 300-year old sonata (that had been hand copied from microfilm) to computer.

I had to read her email again, because I just couldn't see how painstakingly transferring handwritten music to the computer qualified in any way, shape or form as "goofing off".

My husband was the first to point out this glaring discrepancy, and eventually I decided that my siblings and I must all be adopted because none of us have inherited this hideous compulsion to work all the time, let alone the ability to find it as appealing as sitting with our feet up in front of the television and catching bon bons in our mouths.

My mom says "to each her own". But honestly, I inherited plenty of genetic maladies from my parents (like flat feet, bad eyesight, and the fact that I am destined to die of cancer before I hit old age), so I am a little bitter that this worker-bee trait did not get passed on to me.

Goofing off should include things like playing video games, surfing the net, or watching movies. But transcribing sonatas? You've lost me. I mean, I am the girl who recently stood atop a Wii Fit balance board with a piece of chocolate cake on a plate, eating as I caused marbles to drop into the proper holes. (Admittedly, it is not my usual practice, but I had been challenged by my big-talking brother while we were eating dessert, and had to soundly beat the pants off him. Putting down the cake wasn't even a consideration).

So you better believe that if I can eat cake while exercising, I know how to goof off too.

Sorry, Mom, this just doesn't qualify.

The Results are In...

My poll has officially been closed (for a few days now, but I'm a little slow). 23 out of 32 people prefer my opinion pieces, and only 5 prefer updates on my family. This means that the majority of you care more about my opinions than you do about me in general. Interesting. (I sense a couch and a notepad in my future...) Two people like my news-related posts best, and two meanies think I am a psycho and should shut up. For rude. Get off my blog, then, if it irks you so. Or at least tell me why you dislike it so I can learn how best to irritate you.

Thanks for participating!

Mommy, What Does @#*$!&% Mean?

When I was little, the girl next door taught me a few choice words to enhance my vocabulary. I had no idea what they meant or how to piece them together in a sentence, but nevertheless, I decided to try out my new found knowledge on my mom. That didn't go over so well. I'm sure it must have been a rather shocking experience for her to have her four-year old come home armed with the vocabulary of a sailor. After she had gathered her wits about her, she quickly gave me an important lesson on words that I should not be saying.

So for me, it was a friend who dragged my innocent mouth through the mud. But maybe if I had lived in Britain, she could have saved herself the trouble.

Students in a 7th Year class were recently told to shout obscenities during a lesson on swearing. The teacher apparently wrote expletives like the F-word on the board and explained their meanings. Lovely. Just when you hope your child isn't learning these things from his peers, his teacher steps in and does the dirty work.

Officials at the school say it was part of sex and relationships program to "dispel the myths of swear words". Huh? Do they mean like whether bad words exist or not, or whether they are actually bad? Or, whether or not, if you say a swear word in the forest and no one is around to hear you, it's still a bad word?

Parents of the children are rightfully outraged at the lesson, but frankly, I'm a little surprised by that. I mean, would these same parents be outraged at their child's teacher demonstrating condom-use on a banana or teaching graphic lessons on sexuality?

Why schools feel it necessary to tackle subjects like these is beyond me. How much better would it be if they stuck to math and science and history lessons instead of teaching a room full of kids how to offend their grandmothers.

I don't even want to know what's next in the curriculum.

Happy Birthday, David!

Every year on April 8th at 12 a.m., I call David at work to wish him a Happy Birthday. What is he always doing at work on this day at this ungodly hour, you ask? Well, that is the sad lot of a tax accountant whose birthday happens to fall in the no-man's-land that leads up to April 15th.

This year his day will be made all the more special by the fact that I am 2,000 miles away, enjoying a relaxing vacation with my family, while he is diligently slaving at work. Poor guy. He really is a prince among men.

So in honor of his stunning bravery and stamina in slaying dragons for me, you must now endure this corny list of things I love about him (in no particular order, of course, because who wants to spend time obsessing over which things are slightly more lovable than others?):

1. I love that he is such a kind, thoughtful husband.
2. I love that he is willing to go to work every day to support our family, and makes sure all of our needs are met.
3. I love that he is such a great daddy and delights in spending time with his little boy.
4. I love that he finds ways to surprise me.
5. I love that he sometimes makes phone calls for me because he knows how much I despise making them myself.
6. I love that he helps me around the house, even when he has been busy at work all day and deserves nothing more than to put up his feet and relax.
7. I love that he takes such pleasure in little things like walks and popcorn.
8. I love the way he looks in a suit.
9. I love that he doesn't complain, even when I leave my stuff out on the bathroom counter for the 97,456th time.
10. I love that he has such a strong testimony of the Savior and is by my side at church every week.
11. I love the thoughtful little things he does, like letting me sleep while he showers.
12. I love that he is a faithful, worthy priesthood holder.
13. I love the way he beams when he sees his son stacking toys in the proper boxes or in a neat pile ("That's my boy!" he'll say.)
14. I love that I can truly say I have absolutely no complaints about him.
15. I love that he is so concerned about others and is always volunteering to serve.
16. I love that he keeps our family on track with scripture reading.
17. I love that he never speaks unkindly about me to anyone.
18. I love the way his face crinkles when he grins.
19. I love that I can always depend on him and never have to worry about where he is or what he is up to.
20. I love that he is supportive of my interests and encourages me to better myself.
21. I love that he will give me a back rub every time I ask for one.
22. I love that he eats what I make for dinner without complaint and always says "thank you".
23. I love that he is like a kid on Christmas whenever he gets excited about something.
24. I love that he is organized and plans ahead.
25. I love that he puts such care and effort into his friendships.
26. I love that he is way more concerned about me than he is about himself.
27. I love that he somehow manages to keep from rolling his eyes while reading my blog.
28. I love that he makes me laugh.
29. I love that he makes marriage fun and rewarding.
30. I love that he gets more and more likable every day.
31. I love that making this list was so easy because he is such a great person.

Happy Birthday, David! I love you!

It Doesn't Matter (Or Does It?)

You know how people say "It doesn't matter how a baby gets here; a healthy baby is all that matters."? This is something I've been mulling over ever since my son's everything-I-didn't-want delivery left me with some very real feelings of inadequacy and personal failure. I know they say it doesn't matter how a baby makes his entrance into the world, but is that really completely true? What if a child's birth leaves a mother not only physically scarred, but emotionally damaged as well? Is the healthy child, then, really all that matters? What about the needs of the mother?

This is not to minimize the miraculous gift of a healthy baby, or the necessary medical interventions that save the lives of thousands of babies (and mothers) every year. And this does not excuse irrational women who are so determined to have their babies their way (without regard to competent medical advice) that they truly do put their infants and themselves in mortal danger. But I do believe that sometimes there is too much focus on the baby and the doctor's personal preferences, and not enough focus on the woman who is actually doing the delivering (and that's another thing - I'm sorry, but doctors do not "deliver" babies, moms deliver babies. Doctors are just there to sign for the package).

I've been thinking about this again as a friend of mine just raced spectacularly across the pregnancy finish-line with a three-hour, drug-free delivery, and one of my sisters-in-law is fervently hoping that her body will cooperate and decide to go into labor on its own so she will not be stuck with another c-section.

Suddenly I'm remembering my son's delivery, during which I had absolutely no control over anything. My doctor gave me timelines on which my uterus was supposed to cooperatively dilate. And then she put tubes, hoses, and monitors over every square inch of my body and in every available orifice and wouldn't even allow me to get up to walk around or use the restroom. It was like a gun had been fired to start the race, but I, as the star runner, was commanded to hold still and see if I could make it to the finish-line in a set time without moving a muscle. It was ridiculous.

I ended up with a c-section that I didn't want because my body would simply not conform to the mandatory babies-have-this-long-to-come-out guidelines. I was so numbed up from my epidural that I was partially paralyzed, and couldn't even move my arm to touch my son after he was born. I couldn't sit up in the recovery room to hold him because the resulting pain in my shoulders was so great. I didn't feel him come out of my body, I didn't get to see him come out, and if he hadn't been yanked out of my uterus, I would have felt completely unnecessary to the entire process.

I have struggled with my emotions about this ever since. I tell myself over and over that the "how" of the delivery was trivial compared to having a healthy little boy who arrived safely. I tell myself I should not care how he got here. But the fact remains that I do care, and I care a great deal. And these are not emotions that I feel should be ignored by any doctor, regardless of how professional her opinion may be.

There are two indispensable people to the process of birth, and the needs of both should be taken into account. So I have to say that, no, having a healthy baby really isn't all that matters.

A healthy mother is important, too.

Are You A Fan?

Facebook is a strange place. Not only is it full of people who say they are too busy to get anything done except regularly update their status, it is full of die-hard fans. Of everything. And anything. And all that's in between.

For example, you can become a fan of cuddling, or dipping fries in a Frosty, or of Sesame Street or apples or even smoking. Some of these fan pages, like the one for cuddling, confuse me. I mean, I would say I'm a fan of cuddling with my husband or son, but not so much with the person whose armpit is in my face on the subway or the dog that won't stop licking my foot. It seems like there should be a clarification as to whom or what is being cuddled before I would classify myself as being a fan of such activity.

Some people are fans of nothing but cringe-inducing TMI, like those who have declared themselves fond of French Kissing or the missionary position (not to be confused with those who are fans of missionaries in general). Yuck! No one wants to know that much about you. Honestly. Especially not the nice little old lady down the street who signed up for Facebook at the urging of her grandchildren and will be shocked out of her Georgia-bred skin at the mere mention of such indelicacies.

And then there are important figures whose fan base I can understand, but that seem a little irreverent to me, like "Jesus Christ - become a fan!" Well, obviously I am grateful for my savior, but it seems a bit crass to minimize that level of respect and reverence to "I {heart} God". Of course I feel the same way about much of modern Christianity - too much lovey dovey and not enough reverence or awe.

Certainly there are things I like, but if I am going to announce my deep and abiding love for something it had better be good. Like Wegmans, for example. Or Ann Taylor Loft. Or those adorable miniature binder clips that are so cute they give kittens a run for their money.

I guess we all have our oddities.