For the marriage

After Diana went to bed, we got in the car. We got there early and sat in the waiting room. When we met him, we all sat on couches and talked. He wanted to know why we were there at this time of our lives. We explained that we weren't getting any less busy and just decided to do it. I guess that answer didn't satisfy him. He pulled out some written surveys. What are the top five reasons you are here? Social anxiety? Marriage problems? Self confidence? What kind of music do you listen to? Ryan had to know to be able to help us, but the questions seemed strangely uncomfortable. We just wanted to have fun. Isn't that why everyone signs up for dance classes?

They wouldn't tell us their prices on the internet or the phone. And they wouldn't tell us in person until after the lesson, so we knew it would be expensive and we knew this lesson was a sales pitch. But, it was fun anyway. First, he convinced us that we could dance by having us walk forward, backward, left and right - while holding his hand. By the time it was over, Emily and I could do the a waltz box step (albeit stiff) and the six steps for a simple under the arm spin. Emily was accused of excellent rhythm and I was treated fragile - he probably assumed that I was dragged there. It was fun and we finished filling out a lesson report card.

We'll do it again, but we probably won't drop out of school and tap into our 401K. We're just not that dedicated.

Family Portraits in San Diego

Last weekend, we drove to San Diego to celebrate the end of Warren's winter semester class. IT WAS AWESOME.

California is pretty cool. I could see myself living there on the following conditions:

1. Everyone would have to stop working out and gain some body fat. It seemed like every person we saw could enter the Boston marathon next week. Intimidating.

2. The government needs to step in and pay for food and housing so I can afford to go to Sea World.

and, 3. Someone has to ease traffic by inventing the Star Trek transporter machine.

What do you think, give it fifty years? Maybe we'll retire to Sunny California.

At some point during our trip, all three of us tried to take a self-portrait-style family picture. I took the first one at Mission Beach, Diana took the second on the Lord Hornblower cruise ship, and Warren took the third at the San Diego temple. Even though Warren's turned out the best, it looks like Diana has some real artistic sense--a photographer in the making. If you'd like to commission her for your own vacation family portraits, I believe she has very reasonable rates. Unfortunately, she doesn't travel well, so plan accordingly.

Growing up

Growing up, I adopted stuffed animals and dolls from anywhere and everywhere and gave them names and birthdays. My Cabbage Patch doll was the matriarch of these hodgepodge adoptees. She had yellow yarn hair, blue eyes, and a hard plastic head with permanent dimples. She occupied the place of honor on my pillow and supervised every stuffed animal parade and tea party.

One traumatic nine-year-old evening I wandered into my bedroom to find two of my Barbies lying mutilated on the floor, covered with blue ink mustaches and tattoos. I followed laughter to my parents' room across the hall, but froze in horror at the door. My brothers--Dave certainly, but there may have been others--my brothers had shaved my precious Cabbage Patch doll and drawn a face on the back of her bald head, leaving a fringe of yellow yarn hanging on her new chin as a grotesque beard. Cruelty! Murder! And they were laughing about it. I sobbed; I screamed; I grabbed the doll. Part of me remembers swinging her mutilated plastic head and trying to crush Dave's skull. I have bad aim. No one cared.

Mom had one answer for all of these atrocities: "Don’t worry, your brothers won’t be so mean to you when they grow up." Right. I wanted the lot of them hung up by their thumbs screaming, and she wanted me to wait ten years before I could play with my stuffed animals in peace.

But she was right. They grew up. Me too. By then I wasn't playing with my dolls; instead I was embracing teenage awkwardness. I remember proudly toting my whole locker in a ridiculous stack and spending fifteen minutes per class ostentatiously searching for each handout that I needed. I was pathetically starved for attention. I like to think that there were some who mercifully said, “It’s OK. She’ll grow up," instead of, "What a loser." It took a while, but I did grow up.

Last week, I went to the dentist. The hygienist looked at my file and said, “Are you on any medications? I see last time you were here, you were doing chemotherapy.”

I answered, “Oh, no, I’m done with that.I did radiation in January, and now just regular check-ups.”

“Wow,” she said. “You really grow from something like that.” She said it so casually that I wanted to laugh, as if cancer was a patch that I could sew on to my Boy Scout sash, maybe right next to "having a baby" or "death of a loved one." Cancer was useless; it didn't even give me radioactive superpowers. Or maybe I’m just block-headed and couldn't even learn something when it’s injected into my right arm. Maybe I should try again?

One of these days I’m going to learn how to be a mother. I’m going to stop obsessively checking Facebook, anxiously engage in a good cause, and do many good things of my own free will. One of these days I’ll grow up. Thank goodness Warren's the merciful type. Until then, I guess I’ll just keep trying.

Dancing Girl

Diana discovered the art of dance last week. Here is a clip:

I should be a Mathematician, by Emily

I love being a parent. All day I get joy from ridiculously small things. It's just basic math. Where n equals anything:

my child + n = ridiculous amount of joy

For instance:

Figure 1: A table. Boring.








Figure 2: Theorem Applied
Diana + a Table = ridiculous amount of joy














Here are some more examples:

Diana + Fence = ridiculous amount of joy














Diana + Sandbox = ridiculous amount of joy












Diana + Glasses = ridiculous amount of joy








Of course, the theorem fails because Diana + the grocery store = a very cranky mother, and Diana + the Medicine Cabinet = frantic calls to Poison Control. And for some reason not everyone finds bliss in Diana picking the flowers out of their landscaping. I suspect that there are a few people in this world who wish that children didn't exist at all. If those people ever start giving out free chocolate bars, I'm going to be suspicious.

Why Mormons Build Temples

Baby Pictures