Two weeks ago my first grader brought home a note saying his class would be dismissed two hours early the following Monday and Tuesday. Crap, I thought. I have enough trouble remembering things on our usual schedule. Throw in a monkey wrench like this, and there’s no telling what might happen.

My son must’ve sensed this, because he reminded me repeatedly about the schedule change all weekend long, as well as Monday morning. Don’t forget! he said.

No problem, I said. I’ll be there. Count on it. And ta-dah! On Monday afternoon at 1:25 I pulled up in the school driveway, triumphant. Big grins from my son.

On Tuesday afternoon at 2:05 the telephone rang.

Now, I’m sure you can figure out the rest of the story, but I’ll tell you anyway: My son waited on the street corner in front of the school for 40 minutes, craning his neck so he could look farther down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of our 1994 BMW. (That’s Big Mormon Wagon to you.) Eventually one of the Kindergarten teachers caught sight of him and brought him to the office, where one of the prim-faced secretaries looked up the phone number for the poor kid’s negligent mother. And when I pulled up in the school driveway there were no big grins. Instead, my son’s face twisted with relief and held-back tears.

I waited for an hour, he managed to choke out. I will never, ever forget the look in his eyes.  

Of course I cried, and made sure he knew it wasn’t really an hour, and apologized profusely, and let him play games on my computer for an hour once we got home. It still hurts to think about, which is good, because pain is an effective teacher, and I never want to leave my kid on the corner again. (Although I confess, I probably will.) But it also makes a great Mother’s Day story, does it not?

So let’s have it, ladies. What’s your latest or greatest screw-up? You know what I mean–the one that’ll make us laugh and/or groan in sisterly sympathy. Not the one that’ll spark a lawsuit. (Those, you can email me privately.) 

(Joking. I’m joking.)

I need to do it every day more faithfully.

I also need to do about 479,000 other things every day.

The Lord is kind of yelling at me right now in exhortation.

How do you do it?

How do you make it meaningful?

How do you invite the Spirit into your home?

I said these words, which wouldn’t have been such a big deal, except that I was saying them to my mother.  She had already been scolded twice by the Costco sample ladies for trying to grab their food straight out of the microwave.  “But I don’t want to wait for them to cut up the food.  I’m in a hurry,”  she whined.  Even though we both knew we weren’t in a hurry at all.

My mother is a brilliant, opinionated, artistic, spiritual woman.  She also has severe ADHD.  When I think of ADHD I picture a third-grader who can’t sit still in class, not a grey-haired tornado of a lady.  She is a very enthusiastic starter of projects.  Not much of a finisher, though.  Each day when I came home from school, the litter of her latest phase was everywhere: Sawdust and tools from building new kitchen cupboards from scratch;  little bits of wax and silver covering every countertop during the jewelry-making phase;  sheets of cork and leather when she decided she would be making her own shoes from now on.  Don’t even get me started on the five-foot-tall hot tub or the giant flower-shaped lamps she welded.  Mom would enjoy an invigorating day of creativity, then spend the afternoon napping, leaving her three children to clean up all of the messes.

For a long time I resented her selfish pursuits, her messiness and her complete lack of normalcy.  (”Mom, if you’re going to pick me up for an orthodontist appointment can you please not come to school covered in wood shavings?” or “why can’t you just crochet or watch soaps like all the other moms?”)   I used to sit in class fantasizing, not about cute boys, but about a quiet, sweet mother.  She would be beautiful and stylishly dressed at all times (no bizarre homemade shoes, to be sure).  She would be reserved and a good listener, not a noisy, brash know-it-all.  Most of all, she would be still.  Not always starting something.  Not always distracted.

As I got older it helped to understand what adult ADHD means: The disorganization, the difficulty finishing tasks, the inability to follow directions, the impetuousness.  Mostly I just try to think of her as a responsible eight-year-old.  I don’t tend to be as judgmental or harsh that way.  I can enjoy her zany exuberance a little better when I picture her as an enthusiastic child, not just a weird old lady.

This time of year, as Mother’s Day rolls around, I think about her and what it’s meant to have her as a mother.  The roles seem to have changed and somehow I have become the mature, responsible one; the matriarch of the family.  I’m now in my 30’s but the woman can still embarrass me in no time flat.  Since I have become a mother, though, I have come to appreciate and cherish her ADHD as a gift to my children.  She is the “fun grandma”.  The one who doesn’t get tired of taking walks or giving piggybacks.  The one who has an endless repertoire of fairy tales and Bible stories (spooky/funny/silly voices included). The one who will spend hours helping her grandchildren cut out and decorate homemade gingerbread.  And when I walk into the kitchen and see flour and cinnamon and cookie cutters scattered on every single surface, I take a breath–a big breath–and notice only the smiles on everyone’s faces.

However, I have nothing against a good escapist read now and again. And Jessica Draper’s “Hunting Gideon” is just that. Draper details the near-futuristic story of Sue Anne Jones, a single Mormon and an FBI non-special agent, a cyber-stalker for the “good” guys who defend against the terrorists that inhabit the hyped-up version of the Internet, called the V-Net. She, along with her quirky and darkly humorous partner Loren, wittily deconstruct the game-like V-Net and at the same time sometimes begrudgingly defend its creator, Paul Stanton. The plot centers around Sue and Loren’s attempt to stop a brilliant cyber-terrorist named Gideon and his Robin Hood attacks against big business. Gideon’s messages to the media and specifically to Sue frame the attacks in religious terms forcing Sue to defend not just his victims, but religious life as well.

I usually dislike action-driven novels, preferring the pretentious and plodding psychological depth of a character-driven piece. However, when the writing is good, action can be as addicting to me as a haunted and nuanced chick-lit heroine. My favorite part of the book was the dialogue between Sue and Loren. Here’s an example of Loren and Sue’s response to being assigned to Gideon’s case:

‘Perfect match,’ Loren drawled. “You’ve heard ’set a thief to catch a thief,’ right?…Well, this is set a religious fanatic to catch a religious fanatic.’

I made a show of looking around for something to throw at him. ‘Sounds more like you’re the one they want. Set a nutty social reformer to catch a nutty social reformer.’

But the dialogue isn’t the only strength of the novel, Draper creates an alternate reality within the V-Net that is interestingly believable. In fact, It made me rethink my dislike of video games, made me want to be able to visualize the 1s and 0s that make up the underworld of computer programming and it was a unique literary tool that Draper executed competently.

There are twists and turns in the novel, but no deus ex machina a la Dan Brown. There are traditional power struggles and not-so traditional ones. There is the undercurrent of a risky love-story with the meat of the novel that doesn’t need it. One weakness of the novel is the more than obvious descriptions within the first few pages (’And I, Sue Anne Jones of the FBI’s National Infrastructure Protection Center–the NIPC…’).

And although “Hunting Gideon’ is no ‘Angle of Repose’, and it’s probably no ‘Ender’s Game’ either, if you like science fiction and enjoy encouraging LDS artists, it’s well-worth your time. Personally, I’m excitedly awaiting Jessica’s next novel. (And if you want to check ou her earlier series, you can buy it here).

My mom was a working mom. She worked every day, made dinner every night, did housework and yard work on Saturdays, and usually had a “big” church calling for Sundays. She did all of this with pretty much no help from her husband or kids (I’m sorry to say.) I never thought about it, wondered “how she did it,” or found it the least bit interesting.

Now that I’m 35 and staying home full time with my four kids, I find myself reading every housekeeping-homemaking-childraising book I can find. I’m obsessed with routines and schedules and systems. I wonder how often other people go shopping, when their kids take naps, and if they shower every day. No one REALLY exercises, right? And planning menus—isn’t that a myth?

When I first got married Christian and I were still in school. We didn’t have our first baby for four years. There just wasn’t much homemaking to do. After we had our first baby I focused on finishing my Masters Thesis. Homemaking felt like a guilty diversion. After our second baby I focused on returning to teach part-time at BYU. And once I was teaching again I was busy preparing lectures and grading so “homemaking” still felt like something you did only if you had extra time.

Now that I’m home with this last baby it’s the first time I’ve been totally home-centric. It’s weird. I go back and forth between being really into sweeping and doing the dishes immediately and just letting it all go. After all, I know from past experience you really can get away with a lot. . . like not pre-treating stains, not cleaning up your kids’ rooms in between the messes they make, and just throwing away the grocery store specials.

My nosiness fuels my interest in other people’s homemaking. It fascinates me. I was at a planning meeting for church and this woman said that we should get the food we needed on Wednesday because that’s when the new specials come out at all the grocery stores. I was speechless. People live like that? It blew me away. Knowing about grocery store specials seems like something only your friend’s mom does.

I have a friend who walks on her treadmill every day. Again, mind blowing. I never know when I will exercise—there are way too many variables! Another friend of mine once unabashedly mentioned her daily nap. As in, “That’s usually when I take my nap.” I nap too but I never admit it. Bully for her! A couple of weeks ago we went out to dinner with some friends who suggested Zupas. Mmm’k. That’s fine. I can do soup. Or salad. What surprised me was that she said she had been saving all day to splurge on the soup (calorie-wise, I guess?) Am I just a fat hog? Is it me? Fascinating.

Are your kids pinning their socks together before you wash them? Because that would really rock my world.

Ours was a friendship that, over the years, dissolved into what could be termed as a mere acquaintanceship. I left the neighborhood we both lived in and vowed to return to see Julie as often as I could. She was going to become a real estate agent. Regrettably, I don’t know if she ever got her license.

Through the grapevine, I heard she moved into an apartment across town. I didn’t think of her again until I opened the local newspaper; the story said her young son had been injured in an accident and, after several months, had lost his battle to live.

A little voice told me I should go see Julie, give my condolences, and try to be of support. It wasn’t just the kind of fleeting worry that makes you wonder if you should return home to check and see if the stove is still on — and you do and its not. It was the kind of voice that shouted, “Go home. The house is going to burn down!” But time was short, my life busy.

I ignored the prompting.

The following Wednesday, the paper came again. That same little voice, as if in a reprimand, told me to turn to the obituaries. There she was — Julie — her life over, my chance at keeping my promise to remain her friend snuffed out. I trembled with remorse.

What years ago brought us together were the differences and similarities that eventually kept us apart. We were strong minded women with individual goals we were working hard to attain. However, we both yearned for a relationship with our Lord and Savior and happiness and stability for our children. In the beginning, I set out to be an example Julie would be proud to emulate, a supposedly solid friend in whom she could trust. In the end, I was so busy trying to be a good person in the eyes of the world that I forgot the world is comprised of individuals.

Could I have made a difference if I kept my promise to return and see her? Would it have mattered if I paid my respects when her son died? Put my arms around her, giving her all she once looked to me for? My mind tells me I can’t know for certain, yet my heart whispers the truth.

It can be argued that it is not humanly possible to keep track of all the people who come and go in our lives. But the spirit will never fail to guide us to where we are truly needed, if we will but heed the call. Yesterday is over but I have today…today when I will search my heart and all the faces I pass by. I want to remember my other Julie’s. I pray I will never forget them again.

“Now I know what joy is,” I told him. And he said, that’s right, that’s exactly right.

In Darlene’s beautiful poem, in the latest issue of Segullah (out this month) she makes lots of discoveries about motherhood, and the imagery is ripe and gorgeous. She tells of what she has learned, how she has feared and changed. And truly motherhood has changed us all.

How has it changed you?

And when are you going to subscribe to Segullah the journal already?

“I didn’t like my book club’s book last month. I’m sure it was beautiful and masterful, but it was about abuse and sex and a horrible sad life. It didn’t matter that there was redemption. It was too awful to read. I must not be a very literary person, I guess.”

A lengthy conversation ensued, in which an unanswered question was left that I will now pose to you.

Literature is not scaled according to a quantifiable set of standards or qualities. It’s kind of like judging gymnastics at the Olympics. Some things are essential, some things are aesthetic — almost all of it is subjective.

That being said, does all literature need to be high-brow? Clearly not…just ask Danielle Steele’s checkbook. Is there value in such literature, though? If someone didn’t like Don Quixote, does that mean they merely didn’t understand it, or is there legitimate claim toward preferences?

My dear friend felt highly incompetent because she did not share the view of others that the book they read was literary and classic (and by some accounts it would be considered such). Isn’t just reading itself enough of an endeavor to sate the individual? Are we sometimes snobby about our preferences because we view certain literature or certain endeavors as somehow superior in intellect? Is there any real merit to that claim?

Because to be honest, I view an enormous disconnect between the real world and the world as we would like to view it. In the sound-bite world on the news, Harper Lee and Cervantes are all we’re reading. In the real world, Stephanie Meyer and James Patterson are millionaires. In the sound-byte world, we are all outraged that Grand Theft Auto 4 is being released, but in the real world, it is selling millions of copies. Are we all more primal than cerebral, more wishful than practical? Is there room for everyone? Do we really need to sneak our new copies of Dean Koontz under the pile of McCarmac and Dumas as we leave the bookstore?

Art by sisters Cassandra Barney and Emily McPhie.

Poetry by Darlene Young, including the poem “Since You Were Born,” which I cannot read without weeping.

Justine’s essay “Names,” about her connection to her maiden name and her grandma, who was a World War II refugee.

The quirky tale of looking too much like her sister, from Lisa Rumsey Harris (winner of our 2006 Heather Campbell Essay Contest).

How did Eve react to her first time of the month? Powerful poem from Elizabeth Cranford.

Julie Smith, from Times and Seasons, discusses why these women in Jesus’ Genealogy.

There’s also Cream of Wheat, exotic Italian men, sheep shearing, famous Mormon opera singers, deep Southern drawls, and all manner of excellent poetry.

You can order a gift subscription here. And as an enticing sample, here’s a link to that amazing poem by Darlene Young.

Happy Mother’s Day!

New: We are also offering a dollar off per issue for the first five people who subscribe and write “Mother’s Day” in the Paypal notes. That’s a year’s subscription for only $12.

The rice row was completely empty.

Here’s the thing. There is no shortage of rice in the U.S. We produce some 95% of the rice we eat. In fact, we export roughly half of the rice we grow here.

But due to a panic over the very real food shortage faced in other countries and rising prices here, there has been a run on rice in the U.S.

Today’s question is this:

What are your thoughts regarding the current situation with gas, food and the economy? Locally, nationally and/or globally. Do you feel your family is already well prepared? Are you panicked and are you stockpiling? Or are you somewhere in between. Or perhaps your situation is such that you don’t yet have space and/or budget to have a year’s supply. If so, how do you feel about that?

What do you feel you currently doing well to prepare for emergencies?

What do you wish you were doing better?

What are your goals looking forward?

More info regarding the current situation and the church’s new guidelines can be found at the following websites:

news.bbc.co.uk.

usatoday.com

providentliving.org (Did you know the church recently changed their focus in regards to food storage?)

By the way, just as I was leaving the aisle of rice and beans, I noticed a small, one-pound package of generic white rice someone had apparently returned.

I bought it.

You know.

Just in case.

If you have an issue or question you’d like to see discussed on Segullah, please e-mail us at askninewomenATgmailDOTcom