Category Archives: Happenings

“Lime Cordial, Delicious!”

When my sister and I were young, we watched Mary Poppins almost every day. One favorite part was when Jane, Michael, and Mary were taking their medicine after being caught in the rain.

“Lime cordial, delicious!” says Jane.

“Strawberry, Mmmmmm!” says Michael.

My sister and I would take a spoon, pour water or something in it and pretend it was magicked into delicious lime or strawberry cordial.

This last week, I bought cordial.

Cordial = Kool-Aid.

It was so disgusting. It was so disappointing.

Going Somewhere

Every recess, my best friend and I ran to The Tree at the back of the playground. We circled it three times and entered our world. Sometimes we escaped a spider’s web. Other times we traveled a tight rope in a circus. We went somewhere together, as long as we walked around that tree.

In the summer, we met in the middle of our street with our bicycles: her bike was red and mine was blue. As soon as we got on them, though, we were no longer school girls but “cops and robbers” or “Gold Medal winners.” As long as we stayed on our bicycles, we went somewhere.

When my friend wasn’t available, my brother and I opened our basement door and walked down. When we reached the third step, we entered Ijona (“ee-john-a”), a world beyond the solar system where my brother was King (I think) and “table” meant “chair.” Sometimes, by the third step, waves would splash our toes. Other times, we searched for the exit in a three-story castle, facing all sorts of challenges on our way. We went somewhere, as long as we reached the third step.

Somehow, though, my worlds — our worlds — disappeared. I learned to drive. I went to college. I got married. I moved 16,000 miles (literally — I moved from Chicago to Australia).

I was going places in life.

And yet, as an adult, I no longer go anywhere. Three steps into the basement only take me three steps down.

I didn’t realize I was missing it.

Last week, my eight-month-old found his reflection in a three-inch metal fixture on his bathtub. One moment he was splashing by himself: the next minute another bald baby was laughing with him.

He was fascinated by the baby. I watched as he leaned forward and tried to push his yellow sailboat through to that other world: the other baby tried to share his yellow sailboat at the same time, and they were unable to share. No matter: my son was happy to giggle together.

Now, every time I put him in the bathtub, I think about his reflection-friend. Will he remember? Will he seek out that magical world that is just waiting to delight him? He’s just now entering a world of infinite creativity.

My days of going places may be past, but now I get to experience a world of creativity through my child. I’m so excited to watch him go places I can now only imagine.

To my son, my daily delight

(True response to June Write-Away Contest “Going Places” at Scribbit.)

Discipline to Never Quit

I was the only girl dressed as a knight.

You can blame it on the fact that I had two older brothers. They’d also participated in the sixth grade medieval banquet: my mother had already made a knight’s costume. Of course that’s what I wore.

The costume was made of felt: two bright orange and two bright red squares. On the orange squares were red lions. On my head I wore a red felt helmet. I had an aluminum foil-covered cardboard sword and shield. Never mind that if someone actually attacked me the felt wouldn’t protect me at all.

I didn’t care that I was a knight until I saw that I was the only girl dressed as one: every other girl in sixth grade showed up to the medieval banquet as a princess.

The medieval banquet was the end of our lengthy unit on chivalry and medieval times, the culmination of six weeks of learning. Fifteen years later, I can only recall two things about the medieval unit:

1. The banquet at which I was the only girl with a cardboard sword

2. The motto I created for my carefully designed family coat of arms

I don’t recall to what purpose we designed a coat of arms. I suppose illustrating a coat of arms has something to do with medieval times. I remember that mine had four small illustrations and a motto. I don’t remember what I drew; all I remember is the motto.

Never Quit.

I had asked my mother to help me with my coat of arms. She was the one that encouraged me to write “Never Quit” at the top of it as the motto.

“Isn’t that what we do in our family?” she asked me. “We hang in there?”

I nodded and wrote it down. Now, in retrospect, I realize that “never quit” is a perfect motto for me. Having insane discipline to persevere has been my life curse and blessing.

Some of the Curses

  • When I got a term paper assignment on the first day of a term, I began research. This means I spent four months agonizing about it, instead of two weeks or two days like everyone else.
  • When I had two weeks to read every page of Moby-Dick, I did it, not even skipping the whale blubber passages. I didn’t lie on the test, either, when I checked the box that said “Yes, I read the entire book.”
  • When I had a chance to go to the Philippines for a weekend with my husband for free, I declined because I had told my church group I’d be there to help the children prepare their musical presentation. I couldn’t let them down.

Some of the Blessings

  • When I was on the summer swim team, I swam a very slow butterfly. In the 50 meter race at one Saturday meet, I was definitely the last one to finish in my heat. But I did it correctly. When the five other girls in the heat were disqualified for incorrect strokes, I ended up with the first place ribbon.
  • When I don’t like my cooking, I try again. Sometimes it tastes better, sometimes not. But I can tell that I’m improving. My husband says I’m the best cook he knows (although he may be biased).
  • When I faced horrible depression in college, I got up each morning and went on with my day, smiling as best I could. I took one step in front of the other to get where I needed to be. Ultimately, I made it through. One day I found I got up without having to tell myself to get up.
  • When I thought I would die from pain and discomfort during labor, I didn’t give up and instead I gave birth to my son.

I’m becoming less rigid when it comes to discipline in some things. For example, I have no problem putting off cleaning the house! Also, after one class of graduate school, I quit, wholly and completely. I wasn’t going to like it, so I decided I wouldn’t continue it for $2,000 a class. I’ve determined the same thing attitude with books: if I don’t like it, I won’t finish it. It is so refreshing to quit something insignificant every now and then.

Ultimately, though, I’m glad I’m disciplined; I’m glad I hold myself to the standard “never quit” (albeit with some caveats). Even the curses listed above have blessings attached to them: I didn’t procrastinate some things, I could answer honestly and not sacrifice my integrity, I could be trusted to follow through on what I said I’d do.

While it was my sixth grade teachers that encouraged me to declare a motto, it was my mother that instilled it in me.

I look at my mother now, persevering to the end of one of her life goals: a PhD, earned one class at a time, one year at a time, first while being a full-time mom and then while being a full-time teacher. I am so proud of my mother, PhD. She practices what she taught me: Never quit.

That is why “never quit” has stayed with me all these years: my mother. I remember a felt knight’s costume, carefully made by my mother.

To my mother.

(True but loose response to Write Anything Bright Stuff #482: Discipline.)

What I Will Miss, Part 2

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet

I have always loved my given name. It is so beautiful, so complete. I dislike the fact that I never went by it.

I don’t like my nickname.

I tried to go by my given name when I was a teenager. I told the temporary staffing office my given name and I succeeded for three weeks as a receptionist before I forgot and answered the phone with my nickname. In despair, I gave up. I decided I could never remember to refer to myself by my name — the nickname was so ingrained in me.

When we moved to Australia last year, I told my husband, again, that I’ve always wanted to go by my given name. He told me, again, that I should go by it then. Why not? With him as my support system, I have. For the past year, I have been “Rebecca” to everyone I meet. And I love it.

  • Rebecca is an adult.
  • Rebecca is a wife.
  • Rebecca is a mother.
  • Rebecca is an active, participating member of a ward.
  • Rebecca cooks dinner for her family.
  • Rebecca feels competent with her everyday responsibilities.

Whenever someone calls me “Becky,” I think of pigtails. I imagine my buck teeth. I feel insecure again.

  • Becky is a little girl.
  • Becky reads The Babysitters Club.
  • Becky is afraid of the stove and cries at the thought of cooking.
  • Becky sits by herself, secretly wondering why no one is her friend.

Now, whenever I do something dumb, I hear myself say in my head, “That was dumb, Becky.” Every other time, I refer to myself, in my thoughts, as Rebecca. I love being Rebecca. I finally feel like me.

At some point in the coming month (still no departure date), I’ll leave all the people who know me as Rebecca. I’m returning to a place where everyone calls me Becky. I am very sad to leave my identity here in Australia. I’ll never feel like myself again, completely.

I know, I can continue clarifying my name for everyone I re-meet for the rest of my life. But some people have already made it clear to me that they don’t intend to even try to remember that I’m Rebecca now.

Sigh. I love my name. Why can’t anyone else remember what it actually is?

Note: If someone you know signs their name in a particular way or calls themselves by a particular name, why wouldn’t you refer to them that way? I just don’t get it.

ETA: To all reading this post, please understand that I don’t mean to offend anyone! My purpose in writing this post was to show that there is something I’ll miss when I return to the USA from Australia, going by Rebecca, and that when I return to the USA, I will be fighting to be Rebecca instead of Rebecca-by-default. I sorry if that offends you; offense was not intended.

Photos from the Past: Train Ride to Melbourne

I’m finding photos I haven’t posted. I’m sure most of you don’t care, but as I’m keeping this as a photo-journal of Paul’s life, I’m going to be posting some of them up here!

Back in June, the family took a train ride downtown to Melbourne. Here he is, a bit sleepy in his pram on the train.

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When Will I Stop Worrying that My Son Will Die?

A few months ago, when Paul started to sleep through the night, I’d wake up in the morning terrified that I’d find him dead in his crib from SIDS.

At his eight-month checkup, I was told to stop feeding him pureed food: mix chunky/mashed foods so he learns how to chew. Now I feed him his meal, terrified that he’s going to choke on his food and die, right before my eyes.

He’s becoming mobile now, and I’m realizing that the next step will be terror that in the two minutes I turn around, he’ll put his finger in an outlet and die from electrocution (even with outlet covers…). Or fall down the stairs and die. Or grab at something that I didn’t mean to leave out and choke on it and die. Or cut himself on something sharp I thought I’d put away and bleed to death. Or…

I could go on. All these terrors keep recurring in my mind.

Someone responded back in December that these fears aren’t from the spirit and I shouldn’t worry. But really, they are all very possible. And if he dies because of something I did or didn’t do, I could not live with myself.

When will I stop worrying that my son will die? Or will I always worry?