PDA #5: Heavy lifting

Jeff helps my ideas come to life. I'm the plotter, he's my plodder. (Get it? I think it, he works it.)

This is no more obvious than this time of year, when winter finally gives way to my favorite pastime: gardening. I love, love, love to plant seeds and see them grow. For me there is nothing more enjoyable.

I don't think gardening holds the same allure for Jeff as it does for me, yet over the years he has pulled bushes, installed sprinklers, built garden boxes, created a seed-starting light rack, tilled the soil, and hauled wheelbarrow load after wheelbarrow load of compost so that I have worthwhile places to plant. He continues to stretch canvases for me to paint.

This is not to say that Jeff doesn't come up with his own ideas, because he does, and they're good. Yet I realize, more and more, that many of my ideas would never get off the ground without Jeff's heavy lifting.

Balance

Inspired the by the destructive quality of yesterday's beautiful heavy snow, I was going to write a thoughtful little discourse about balance. Something about how I know that when I am rested and pay heed to my health; when my soul is nourished and my priorities aligned, I can handle whatever is thrown at me. That, like a careful backpacker who meticulously distributes his load, I can carry more than I thought able.

Whatever.

I can't really pull it out of my head today.

So instead I'll just share these photos with you while they're still timely. (That is, I HOPE this may be the last of the snow!) The irony is that when I drove home from errands and saw this split tree, I really didn't have time to drive back with my camera. Too much awaited me at home: the driveway to finish shoveling, bank problems to probe, food prep, the usual laundry list.

I worked for a while, but the scene called me back. Samuel and I tromped. Backstage birds filled the air with song. The sun sparkled. Those 15 minutes basking in God's beauty filled me with enough cheer to tackle the looming mundane tasks without complaint.

Besides, Samuel, who got snow in his boots, did enough of that already.

Balance. I'm getting there.

PDA #4: Just keepin' it real

Jeff popped in the kitchen one night this week after coming home from work, and saw me making dinner. "Oh, I'm not very hungry," he said.

He genuinely thought that would release me from the burden of making the meal. So cute.

Too bad the kids didn't get the memo.

####

On a serious note Jeff encouraged me to go through with our planned temple outing even though I felt so tired. We also went to dinner (on a different night!). What? Two rare breaks in one week? Unheard of. I'm sure I did most of the talking, but he listened. Thank you, Jeff.

Letter to my future daughter-in-law

Dear new daughter,

There's something you should know about Kyle: he likes to know what his next meal will be.

He once sent me a text message from seminary so he could plot his after-school snack.

When Kyle was 5 we moved to a new ward, one that did a Fathers and Sons camp-out. Jeff was excited for Kyle to go. He pitched the idea to him, trying to build enthusiasm as he talked of sleeping bags and tents, crickets and stars. What little boy wouldn't be thrilled?

Kyle thought this over carefully. "Well," he wanted to know before committing, "what are they having for breakfast?"

I'm afraid this personality trait is still deeply ingrained. When we're invited to Grandma's, Kyle wants to know what she plans to feed us -- even if the invitation is a week out. Potlucks? The uncertainty messes with his head.

I tried to help him go with the flow, pointing out that I ALWAYS feed him.
Something.
Eventually.

Just because I may not know the details right away doesn't mean it won't happen!

In my more organized moments I found that weekly menus help Kyle as much as they do me. When Kyle was 15 I pledged to keep working really hard to help him cook on his own -- despite the mess. (Oh, my poor kitchen!) Yet, I decided then that I'd gladly put up with marred stovetops, ruined pots and broken dishes if it helped make things easier for you someday. The man must be fed.

It's the quickest way to his heart, you know.

Love,
Mom

P.S. We're having roast chicken and mashed potatoes Sunday. Tell Kyle. Hope you can come.

Beethoven doesn't have braces!

"Beethoven doesn't have braces!"

That's what James said this morning as Elise dressed as Ludwig von Beethoven for a school presentation. Elise was undeterred; she giggled at her reflection and said, "I look just like him! Except I'm smaller and my hair is a different color." {More giggles.} How she knew this hair fact I don't know, it's not like Beethoven's legacy includes color photographs.

Elise has been working all month on her Beethoven biography. I was glad to see her so giddy about going to school today and giving her speech. That spark, that precious happiness, that giggle -- all have been overshadowed lately by her moodiness. Jeff and I both told Elise last week we couldn't deal with her whining ANYMORE. This shift was welcome.

I don't know why Elise chose Beethoven. Maybe the idea was subliminal, borne of the master's sheet music covering our piano stand for weeks, his melodies drifting through the stereo nonstop as I supplemented my practicing. Rifling through an instruction book I'd left out, Elise discovered a version of "Für Elise" and decided she wanted to do that for our piano recital. I mean, come on! A song with your own name! Who wouldn't want to? Only problem, the recital was one week away. I wasn't sure she could do it, given that it was levels above her other pieces, but she did play it -- memorized, and with feeling.

"Didn't you play this song the day I was born?" she asked me. It's true. After passing my due date (sigh) I was scheduled to be induced. The other children were at Grandma's, the house was in order ... the hospital didn't have room for me until the afternoon. I frittered away the time at the piano. The name Elise was one of two we'd picked in preparation for meeting our daughter.

It fit.

(Lest you think we were trying to cram in some last-minute in-utero culture, we surely negated that by watching "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" while I labored.)

I'm thrilled Elise is becoming a Beethoven fan. I'm a huge one. I marvel the way his music makes my heart feel in turns vulnerable and ebullient. That Beethoven could still compose after becoming deaf amazes me all the more. I think of him, oblivious to the audience's applause until someone turned him around to see. That makes me sad.

During his lifetime Beethoven was constantly compared to Mozart, whose quick, prolific output he could not match. Elise pointed out in her speech that some of Beethoven's works took years and years to compose, but "with a lot of hard work he finally did it. His students also learned to work hard from his example."

And that, she concluded, is a contribution as great as his music.

The brooding, the intensity, THE HAIR!

P.S. In telling me some of her Beethoven facts prior to her speech, Elise pronounced the word sonata "SAUNA-TAY." {Giggle.}