Author Archives: rebecca

Still Seven Months Old

Two Years

I meant to post this yesterday, but didn’t get the chance. It’s written as if it still were May 20. Since it’s still May 20 in the USA, I guess I can still count it.

Two years ago, my 100-day engagement drew to a close. May 20, 2006 was such a perfect day for me: I had a pleasant breakfast with friends and family, a lovely wedding, and a perfect reception. It was the perfect beginning to our perfect marriage.

Don’t get me wrong: we’re not perfect. And life has its regular ups and downs. But I very happy now, two years later. I am looking forward to the next 48 years! I’ve decided we’re going to live to celebrate 50 years together. My husband tells me that it isn’t very long and I’m going to be very surprised when we actually are celebrating 50 years. We’ll see.

We celebrated by getting our temple recommends renewed. How wonderful that we can be worthy to enter that glorious building!

I am so grateful for my husband, who already believes I’m the woman I some day hope to be.

Seven Months Old

Sunday Scribblings #111 Soar/Sore

9 Replies

I lift him above my head: his mouth opens wide in a baby-grin and he laughs loudly, soaring above me, arms outstretched. I smile too, my heart memorizing the sound, the sight, and the feeling of chubby childhood joy.

***

I turn away: in my mind I still see the tears on his pumpkin-covered face and in my ears I still hear his constant scream of baby indignation. I sigh and grab a towel to wipe away the blood on my finger, wishing someone would kiss my sore better.

This is motherhood: a daily dichotomy.

[Fiction] Friday: Retold Fairy Tale

9 Replies

How the Dog Got his Bark

(With apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

Long ago, when the world first began, dogs were quiet animals. They did what they were told, particularly when it came to fetching things, and lived a quiet life, usually.

One particular dog, named Terry, liked to jump on people to get their attention. He lived with a man named Joe. Joe did not like to be jumped on. Every time Terry jumped up to get Joe’s attention, Joe hit him with a stick.

This was not very nice. Terry did not like to be hit with a stick. But he still wanted to get Joe’s attention sometimes.

One night, Joe was asleep and Terry was resting at the foot of Joe’s bed. He wasn’t quiet tired yet, so he just rested. Then he heard something approaching. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it wasn’t good. He stood up on his four legs. Joe kept sleeping. Then Terry realized that it was a big bear. The animal was coming toward Joe in his bed. Terry realized that Joe was not going to wake up before the bear attacked him.

Terry knew he would be hit by the stick if he jumped on Joe. But he wanted to protect Joe. He jumped up on Joe. Joe, as was his instinct, grabbed the stick, which was under his pillow. But Joe missed Terry. Terry, in his excitement, swallowed the stick. Joe was still kind of asleep. Terry didnâ’t like the feeling of the stick in his throat so he tried to cough it out. It wouldn’t budge. But instead of silence, a sound came out:

“Rroof! Rroof!”

Joe jumped up. The combination of the noise from Terry and Joe’s movement caused the bear to flee. And both Terry and Joe were safe.

From then on, whenever Terry wanted to get Joe’s attention, he would simply”Rroof”, and Joe would respond. Joe liked that much better.

And that is how the dog got his bark.

[Note: Technically, I don’t think I quite followed the prompt, as it was supposed to be a “modern” take on a fairy tale. Instead, I did my own take on Kipling’s “Just So Stories” idea. It’s the first thing that came to mind.]

When Did You Know You Were a Writer?

6 Replies

I scrawled in five-year-old writing on the cover (The Three Little Pigs) and on the last page (THE END). For the other pages, my mother was my scribe. She wrote my words on ruler-straight lines underneath my crayon illustrations. Then, I took a stapler and bound my first book together. My first experiment with the written word — my written word — was thus published for all to see. Although I simply retold a story, for the first time I had expressed my own creativity through the written word.

Then, in first grade, my teacher gave me lined pages. I wrote my stories carefully on the lines. These stories were no longer simple retellings, but my own creations. The class published them at the elementary school publishing center: plastic comb bindings.

At home in the afternoons, my classmate, neighbor, and friend became my co-writer and illustrator. We sat, side-by-side, at a plastic blue Smurf table. Together, we wrote and illustrated stories set in all times and settingsâ€”from orphans in our day to dinosaurs that traveled through space and time. I wrote words. She drew pictures. She wrote words. I drew pictures. We stapled the pages together.

As I moved through school, our Smurf table publishing world came to an end, and the elementary school publishing center was no longer a monthly destination. But my interest in the written word remained at my core. Anytime anything even remotely interesting happened in my family, I produced another issue of the Family Tribune and delivered it to every member of my family and to my grandparents who were far way. I wrote a play and my friends and I acted in it. I wrote stories and half of a novel. Then, come high school and college, I wrote term paper after term paper.

Now I write for myself, I write for my family, and I share my words online. I suppose writing on a webpage is much like stapling my books: it’s not professional, and few will read my words. But the words are mine. As I improve my ability to write, I will better find my voice for expressing my own experiences — whether those experiences focus on travel adventures, nonfiction research, or the creative explorations of my imagination.

Someday, my words will be bound between covers.

Amateur that I am, I know that I am a writer: I have always been a writer.

Quote: Keeping a Journal

Sunday Scribblings #110 Telephone

8 Replies

My unpacked bags were under the kitchen table. It was Saturday morning, and I perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, drinking a glass of water and telling my mother about my amazing week at the religious retreat. Then the telephone rang.

The excitement of my week of teenage socialization hadn’t worn off on the one-hour drive home. I wanted to tell her everything: she could not get off the phone soon enough.

I don’t recall how she told me. I just remember the feeling of euphoria ebbing out of me, like the sands in an hourglass.

Quote: Writing Practices

Procrastination

8 Replies

“Let’s go to lunch next week instead of this week.” I say to my friend. “Or we could go the week after that if it’s better.”
Why don’t we invite our visiting teaching sisters for lunch next month? This month is so busy.”
“Oh, I’ll read that book later,” I tell myself. “I can always renew it.”
“I’ll do a major pantry clean out next month,” I tell myself.
“We’ll go to the temple next Saturday.”
“I’ll take my Sunday School class members treats next week.”
“We can always see New Zealand on the next family vacation. Let’s just take a short trip this time.”
“No, we’ll go see Tasmania next month. Let’s stay home this weekend.”

And then we get a call: We want you to come to a new assignment in three weeks. In New Jersey. Nothing for certain yet, but will you plan for it?

Obviously, three weeks is impossible for an international move. But all of a sudden, the next weeks are limited; the next months are gone.

Last June, we entered Australia on a three-year visa. The project’s paperwork said through “September 2008,” but we hoped for two full years. I figured I’d have a walking and talking little boy. I figured we’d have visited all of Victoria and parts of Tasmania and New Zealand and maybe Sydney and the Gold Coast and maybe Ayers Rock. I figured our savings account would have grown (although those two dreams don’t really follow, a girl can dream!). I figured the housing market wasn’t going to tank and that the dollar would be worth a little more when we transferred our money back. I figured I had more time before I had to move my home across the globe again. I figured I could enjoy being cozy in our new home.

Of course, I am excited to be near family again, within a four-hour flight of both sets of my baby’s grandparents and all of my baby’s aunts and uncles. I’m excited to be able to get more variety in terms of consumer goods. I’m excited that things will cost less (relatively). I’m excited to choose a new car for myself. I’m excited to re-enter summer. I’m excited I might be able to go to my friend’s wedding in August. I’m excited that my family might actually call me when my phone number isn’t international. I’m excited that I don’t have to wonder how long we’ll be here (things have been a question mark for a few months).

But now I realize I have to start all over again: the third home and the third ward and the third search for friends in two years of marriage.

I’m realizing now that I shouldn’t have procrastinated being a friend. I shouldn’t have procrastinated making home cozy for my family. The end can, and does, come at any time.

What are you procrastinating? What “end” do you dread (and/or hope for at the same time)?

Rebecca's Webpage

Thoughts on womanhood and motherhood