WNW: Utahns and "Mountain"

Today we have another edition of Word Nerd Wednesday inspired by where I live: Utah.

That, and the idea of judging people based on their accents. But we'll get to that part in a minute.

Many people love poking fun at the Utah accent, as if it's somehow inferior and unique to their own speech. I did a post some time ago about how, in words with a long A followed by an L, the A is often changed into a short E, so sale sounds like sell, and whale sounds like well.

I had a lot of readers telling me that this was a only Utah thing. (Actually, it's not. It happens in a lot of places. But I digress.)

As I've mentioned here before, everyone has an accent (yes, you, too). Standard English pronunciation doesn't exist in nature. Actors often work at developing what we think is "correct" American English. And they work hard at it.

Another interesting tidbit is that national news stations, for some reason I don't know, have a lot of big-name anchors who hail from the Midwest, so many Americans hear that accent and view it as the standard. This is why people from Ohio and thereabouts often swear that they have no accent! (But oh, they do. They do!)

I recently found this report on a study done at Brigham Young University, not surprisingly, addressing a common pronunciation seen here in Utah: the mysterious dropping of the T in words like mountain and the city name Layton.

It's become such a joke that I regularly see newscasters going overboard in pronouncing the T. "As you can see, the inversion has made it hard to see the . . . moun-Tains."

They almost pause before the T and then accentuate it so the word comes out totally unnatural sounding. But I'm sure they do that because hoity-toity viewers have written in, saying that come on, please don't fall for the  lower-class Utah accent! Speak correctly! Use the T!

But the study found that most Americans drop the T.

I know; you're thinking that Utahns say mountain differently than you do! Maybe. The key is that Utahns drop the T in a different way than the the rest of the country.

Here comes the mini lesson. I promise it'll be brief and easy.

When we speak, air vibrates our vocal chords. When the air is cut off, the sounds stops. Simple, yes? Sometimes as we speak, we purposely block the air for a split second.

For example, think of casual conversation when you use a sound to say no: "Nu-uh."

Say it aloud. Do you hear how your voice stops between the vowel sounds? It's more like Nu. Uh. When we stop the air (and hence, the sound) during speech, it's called a glottal stop.

When Utahns drop the T in mountain, there's a glottal stop in place of the T, followed by the air (and sound) continuing through the mouth.

What do other Americans do? They drop the very same T. Here's the difference: After the glottal stop that cuts the very same T, they release the air through their noses, creating a softer sound than releasing it through the mouth.

So contrary to the belief of some people, the ones who love snickering over the Utah accent, the majority of Americans don't actually use the full T sound in words like mountain. It's not just Utahns who drop that T.

Instead, Utahns release the same glottal stop through their mouths instead of their noses.

Listen to the difference yourself:
Through the mouth (Utahn)
Through the nose (other areas)

Please note that neither way of saying mountain is more or less correct, and that both drop the T, just in different ways.

It's amazing to me how such a small thing can stir up such scorn and debate, especially when every single area of the country has these kinds of quirks.

My purpose for bringing up issues like this is in the hope that we'll be more understanding and less critical of one another, less judgmental over something as simple as the way another person uses a single word.

I personally know a woman who has an accent in English because it is her second language, although she knows it better than most native speakers. When she first came to the States, some people on first meeting her thought she had to be dumb because she had a strong accent.

The reality: She had an advanced education that included something like half a dozen languages. By the time she was eighteen, her education was the equivalent of an associates degree.

In later years, as her accent softened (and, I believe, as the country softened in its attitudes), people started to see her intelligence, and some people assumed she must have a Ph.D. or two in her pocket. They were finally listening to her words, not her accent.

It's safe to say that the idea of judging someone based solely on their speech hits close to home, because that woman is my mother. And I can guarantee that no matter what her accent is like, she's smarter than many of us!

(Love you, Mom!)

Sherri Needs New Lungs

Next month marks 23 years since a landmark day in my family, a time that forever changed me.

My baby nephew received a liver transplant within days of his first birthday. In 1989, infant liver transplants were new. Something like two hospitals in the nation were doing them, and only a few hundred infant liver transplants had even been attempted. Omaha had one of those hospitals. A good number of infants didn't make it.

Michael almost didn't. I remember phone calls across the country to plan a funeral. Tears. My brother and his wife practically living at the hospital. Reports that Michael's bed looked like it was covered in plastic spaghetti because of all the tubes. It was one of the first times in my life I dropped to my knees and sobbed with a desperate prayer. He pulled through.

Then, at nineteen, having defied every odd, Michael was called to serve an LDS mission, and this spring, he graduates from Brigham Young University with a bachelor's degree and a teaching certificate. (He'll be an awesome teacher, by the way.)

Organ donation hit close to home again several years after Michael's transplant, when my cousin's son needed a new heart. He got the heart. It didn't last as long as Michael's liver has, but it did give him a few more years before he passed away shortly before his high school graduation.

When my son turned fifteen and got his driver's permit, he almost didn't check the box that would make him an organ donor. It was only then that I realized he didn't know all of his cousin's story. I cleared my throat to ward off emotion then simply said, "Check the box. I'll explain when we get home. You are going to be an organ donor."

Sherri

That same son was only weeks old when I met Sherri. We'd moved into her neighborhood, and I immediately liked her. She coughed a lot, but I was assured she wasn't contagious with anything (which put me at ease when my newborn son was near).

Later, my husband and I taught a Primary class filled with energetic 9-year-olds, including Josh, Sherri's son.

I learned that Sherri was born with Cystic Fibrosis, a disease I'd never heard of. She taught me about it. I learned how CF sufferers eventually die because their lungs get clogged and damaged with mucus. It's the mucus that made her cough. I found out that when she was born, the life expectancy of babies with CF had been about age 14. She wasn't supposed to have lived as long as she already had, let alone give birth and be around to see her son turn 9.

She's fought the odds, worked on keeping herself (and her lungs) as healthy as possible. That means regular hospitalizations, home treatments, medications, and so much more.

Sherri and I were good friends. We went to League of Utah Writers meetings together. We joined the same critique group. She moved. She kept fighting.

Josh is now in his twenties. He's a returned missionary and a college graduate. His mother wasn't supposed to live long enough to see any of that. She did.

But Sherri has now reached the point that her lungs are giving out. On her doctors' advice, she's on a transplant list

In short: Sherri needs new lungs. It's an extraordinarily difficult (and expensive!) decision.

Her family has a site devoted to Sherri's story, where people can donate what they can to help.

If you can donate even a few dollars, please do. Visit Lungs for Sherri, to learn more about CF, about Sherri, and to donate what you can.

So . . . Close. Help, Please.

So I entered a photo taken several years ago of my husband and one of our daughters into a contest for pictures of fathers. Winner gets a cool camera.

The finalists are voted on by the public. I'm close, but I need help to bump our picture up and win.

You can vote once a day through Sunday, so go back tomorrow, too!

To vote, write "I vote for Dad and Daughter" in the comments under the photo.

HERE'S THE LINK!

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Random Thoughts on Disneyland

I've been absent from my blog of late. I meant to schedule some posts for while I was gone, but obviously that didn't happen. I can say that in the interim, my writer brain was all a-flurry, and I couldn't help but think of funny Facebook status updates or tweets, stuff I wouldn't be posting during the trip.

This was my kids' second time to Disneyland. The last was four and a half years ago, long enough for them to have forgotten a lot and for the youngest to grow so tall that there was only one ride she couldn't go on. (To her dismay; she really wanted to ride Screamer. She's maybe an inch too short and might have slipped through with her shoes on, but Mom is paranoid and wouldn't let her try.)

Much like I did after spending weeks doing Costco book signings, I couldn't help but observe Disneyland and find several amusing things about our time there. A sampling:

I Can't Turn off My "What If" Button

In one shop, the kids made Disney-themed stamped pennies, where the coin is stretched out and pressed with an image. Glass encases the machine so you can watch it happen. As the cylinder rolled across one penny, I couldn't help but picture what would happen if a finger got caught in there and the cracking, oozing damage that would ensue.

I made the mistake of mentioning it to the kids. "Ew, Mom! Stop it with the writer imagining stuff already!"

Sticker Shock Is Relative

When I first passed a churros stand and later a cotton candy stand, I about choked at the $3.50 price tag. And we won't even discuss actual meals, whether in the park or out of it. If I wasn't careful, I could blink and spend a week's worth of groceries on a basic meal for our family of six. But by the third day in the park, spending forty bucks on a few ice cream cones (and on a brand found in our local grocery store) no longer fazed us.

Families that Laugh Together Have the Most Fun

Sure, we had our moments of groaning, eye rolling, and siblings vying for their own space ("She stepped on my toes!"), but for the most part, we had fun. Somehow we hit the Grizzly water rapids ride in California Adventure at just the right time two days in a row, riding it a total of five times. We laughed harder as a family during that one ride than any other.

Mom's a Child at Heart (And Sometimes Has Good Ideas)

I haven't been to Disneyland nearly as often as some people, but in the few times I had been there, I'd never attended the parade. This trip, I insisted we go to one. The announcement elicited eye rolling from the older kid crowd. I persisted. We got a decent spot and waited.

And it was awesome.

My youngest was tickled over and over again when princesses and other characters waved at her (or at least looked like they did). Ariel in particular did notice her, stroked her own red hair, then pointed at my daughter's matching red hair, smiled and waved. Made my girl's day.

When it was over, all four kids agreed that the parade was totally worth seeing.

Souvenir Choices Improve with Age

Last time we went, I cringed when the kids chose lame souvenirs like an electronic toy that mimicked a cell phone and had a calculator, a photo album (never used), and a squeezy plastic thing that oozed worms from a brain. This time, each child wanted to take home something meaningful, and in every case, that ended up being something they'd actually use that would last and they'd have fun memories from.

Dorothy Was Right

As fun as the trip was, when it was time to go home, we were ready. I drove the leg that went through Death Valley and eventually to St. George. Entering the gorgeous landscape of southern Utah sent a sweet surge through me. Home.

Part of the feeling could have been the fact that Death Valley is so dang ugly, but I have to say, southern Utah is gorgeous. (Oh, and I got to see the St. George Temple, which always brings me warm fuzzies for obvious reasons.)

SO MUCH happened on the trip; I could write post after post about it, including all the inside jokes that developed, but I'll end with this, my favorite "what the crap?" moment:

The Masochistic Woman

By day three, my hips, knees, and feet were killing me. (Note to self: call the chiropractor ASAP.) As we boarded the Jungle Cruise, I noticed a woman behind us that didn't seem to fit in. She wore a flowing, plum-colored dress. That alone seemed odd. Who wears flowing gowns in an amusement park?

Worse, the dress was held up by nothing more than a strap around her neck. Hm. Few rides are conducive to dresses, let alone fancy ones like this. And the California sun isn't particularly forgiving on backs and shoulders that are totally exposed to UV rays, which they were thanks to both the dress and her fancy up-do hair.

Huh. I thought. Odd.

Then the kicker: She wore four-inch heels.

My feet were protesting the seemingly endless miles I'd traversed (and the hours I'd waited in lines) in my comfy shoes. Why in the name of Dr. Scholl's was she wearing torture devices on her feet at Disneyland?

It wasn't until I noticed who she was with and how she behaved that the likely reality dawned on me. She and her daughter were with a man and his daughter. Both girls were about the same age. They looked so different from one another, it was clear whose child was whose. Based on body language, the couple didn't know one another that well. She flirted and cooed and at times looked unsure of what to say or do. And both had bare ring fingers.

Eureka.

I'm betting it was a date, and she was trying to impress the guy by looking hot. I'm curious: Did he buy into it? Or did he realize that she's a few Mickey ears short by wearing a get-up she could have attended a wedding in?

People-watching is research. It's a writer's excuse to spy, wonder, and, at times, walk away totally bewildered. It's fun to think of motivations and personalities and wonder why someone does what they're doing.

So I had to think: What if the location of the date was a surprise? Maybe the guy just told her a time, and she got gussied up, only to find out they were heading to the Magic Kingdom. Then the guy was the idiot for not telling her how to dress. So many options.

I was on the verge of blisters and tears with my good shoes. So her poor, poor feet! I'm wishing I could find her and ask if she was hobbling an hour later.

And, more importantly, whose brilliant idea it was to wear such a ridiculous get-up when it was bound to make her one of the most miserable people in the happiest place on earth.

I'm a writer . . . I'm sure I can use that somewhere.

Getting Kids Psyched About Books

Today I'm making good on my promise (from, ahem, more than two months ago) to talk about some of the things I've done to help my kids love reading. So here goes:

I got lucky with my first child. When he started reading aloud billboards as we drove along the freeway, I had no idea that doing such things at age three wasn't normal. I'd like to take credit for his insane reading skillz (and I can take credit for the things I did to expose him to reading and words and books), but truly, he just came wired ready to soak it up.

He didn't learn much in kindergarten, as he was already reading at a fourth-grade level. Comprehension, inference, and some other accompanying reading skills weren't quite that high, but he could decode like a pro.

While I was pregnant with him, I was finishing my English degree, and I spent literally hours reading aloud as I paced our apartment so I could finish the assignments and not fall asleep from pregnancy fatigue. He literally heard volumes of classic literature in utero. I can't help but wonder if that helped form some brain connections or something.

(The other kids heard plenty of books read aloud in utero, but those were Dr. Seuss and other kids books. Link? We'll never know.)

Some things we did to expose him (and his siblings) to reading early:

• Read aloud. A lot. He got several books read to him before every nap, before bed, and at lots of other times.
• Point out easy words and have him learn them. I started with the classic sight words, although I didn't know that's what they were called. (A similar list is HERE.) As a toddler, he knew to expect Mom to point to about one word per page for him to read, whether a simple the, you, or car, or something a bit more complicated.
• Let them help with shopping. Kids love finding "apples" on the list and crossing it out.They enjoy searching for words on labels. Even little kids can learn to identify the signs for the bakery and deli and eventually figure out what the sounds in the letters mean. (The store is another great spot for practicing numbers and easy math.)
• Cook together and point out ingredients, labels, and instructions.

I had a couple of challenges getting him to actually read. One was that most books on his age level were too easy for him. The first books he really took to, thanks to their humor, were the Captain Underpants books. I know some parents cringe at those (potty humor, intentional misspellings, etc.), but to me, hey, he was reading. Those books hooked him. He read them all so much they fell apart. I got a few comb-bound, but eventually, we had to buy a new set.

Which led to my second challenge with him: He didn't like trying new books. Around 4th or 5th grade, he had two series he loved . . . and read them over and over. And read nothing else. Boys are particularly hard to find books for at that age; it seems like there are far more girl titles for the in-between reading ages than for boys.

Finding new books that sparked his interest took time and effort (including asking just about every mom of boys I could find what their kids liked and spending hours trolling the Internet for ideas), but it was worth it; eventually we broke through the block, and he discovered a bunch of other writers and books.

Child #2 learned to read well, and pretty early, if not as fast as her brother. She was always ahead of her grade on decoding, comprehension, and fluency.

But she hated reading.

Which about killed me. Getting the required 15 or 20 minutes of reading per day for school was pure torture (for both us), especially as she got older. By fourth grade, I could get her to read a stack of picture books, but she refused to try a novel, even an easy chapter book.

I was terrified that she'd never enjoy reading. Aside from the joy that reading can be, I was afraid she'd lose out on the skills literacy provides.

Two things finally solved the problem:

• We used audio books along with the hard-copy book. So she read the text as she listened to the book. I got this idea from my teacher-writer friend (and critique group member) Lu Ann Staheli. This technique helped take away some of the intimidation factor. After reading a few books this way, she was no longer afraid of chapter books.
• I noticed that she complained of headaches in her forehead after reading. I remembered that when my dad was young, reading always felt like work because of eye issues. When reading is physically painful, of course you don't enjoy it. A trip to the eye doctor with her confirmed it: while she had 20/20 vision for distance, she had significant astigmatism, which made her eye muscles work extra hard to keep the text in focus. That led to headaches from eye-muscle fatigue, right on her forehead, where her pain was centered. She got reading glasses, and a few days later, I found her curled up on her bed with a novel. I walked away with tears in my eyes.

Child #3 is a perfectionist. When she first started reading, if she couldn't sound out a word the first time around, she fell apart. "I'll never get it! Waaah!" Tears and meltdown.

No amount of explaining that everyone makes mistakes made any difference. We had to back up, go to easier levels that she'd already mastered, and let her have lots of success with those easier books. Then, when she felt ready, we worked up to harder ones.

She didn't like doing that, because she's also an over achiever, and she wanted to be on the higher levels, faster. She eventually managed to jump ahead, but I think it was because of the confidence she developed early on.

When she struggled with the transition to chapter books, I spent time reading aloud with her. I read one page, and she read the next. This helped her get through harder books with support at her side (and reading only half the text). But it also helped me hear what words and concepts she struggled with, so I could help her over some of those hurdles.

This year, her sixth-grade teacher required the students to read 35 books each, in a variety of genres. My daughter's goal is to double that number. With about 6 weeks left in the school year, she's going to make it pretty easily. (And these aren't small books; most are quite thick, in the 300-page range.)

Child #4 falls somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. She's been surrounded by reading all her life, so it was a natural thing to pick up and strive for. I admit that as the youngest, she got read to least of all the siblings (she got maybe one book at nap time instead of four like her brother), but she got something else: instead of only picture books for bedtime, she heard a lot of novels, since I began reading to everyone at night, and her siblings were past the picture-book stage.

So while I'd still read her picture books, at a pretty young age, she was also listening to much longer, more complex books. She didn't always follow the stories or understand them (and often spent that time on the floor next to us, doodling with paper and crayons), but I really think it's helped in her comprehension, vocabulary, prediction skills, and more.

In fact, I have friends who crack up at her vocabulary because it's so advanced for her age. I think her ability to think, speak, and process at a high level is a direct result of being the youngest and being surrounded by bigger words at a younger age.

Other things we've done:

Participate in library story times for toddlers and preschoolers.

Participate in library summer reading programs.

Have family reading parties.

Nearly always buy something from book orders and the school book fairs. The only rule is that it must be a BOOK, not a toy or game. (This rule is getting harder to keep as book orders veer away from books more and more. Drives me batty.)

The kids are guaranteed to get at least 3 books as gifts during the year: at Christmas, birthdays, and in their Easter baskets. One year, when #3 was a toddler, on seeing her Easter basket, she cried out, "Oh, cool! A book!" Not, "Oh, cool! Candy!" I cheered inside. They save their gift books and treasure them.

They see Mom reading and know that Dad listens to lots of books.

We often talk about books: what we like; what we don't like. Ideas. Recommendations. Predictions. And so much more.

Sometimes we read the same books (like last summer, with the Hunger Games series), which allows for great discussion.

I let them borrow my Kindle. I make this into a very big deal, so they know it's a treat.

Every child is different, and every child will have his or her own challenges (and I'm not touching the category of learning disabilities).

Bottom line:

• Never, ever give up.
• Find out what the underlying reason might be for not liking books.
• Search out the right book (because boredom might be the problem).
• Make reading FUN and something to look forward to.
• Make books and reading valuable, something kids can own.

Cut to the Chase

Our house has a pretty miserable excuse for a tooth fairy.

Like one of the last times #4, thrilled over her latest lost tooth, put it under her pillow. I fully meant to engage the tooth fairy on her job before I went to bed. I really did. But I was tired. And I forgot.

In the morning, #4 came to me with a sad little furrow on her brow. "The tooth fairy didn't come."

#3, who is older and wiser and knows a bit about the ways of the world, helped distract #4 while I ran around the house for change and sneaked it into her room.

Turns out the tooth fairy just pushed the money into an awkward corner deep under her pillow so she didn't see it.

Phew.

Or something.

Yesterday, #3 lost one of her last teeth. An hour or so later, I walked into my office to find a 5X7 piece of red cardstock on my desk and a note from her on it:

Can I have a buck?

Plus a smiley face . . . and her tooth.

Smart gal. Might as well cut to the chase, get your cash, and not risk Mom forgetting to whip the tooth fairy into action.

Or something.

WNW: Spelling Protesters. Really.

I'll be the first to admit that English is a conglomeration of funky ways to spell things. That's largely because so many languages have contributed to English. We have "rules" . . . and then a thousand exceptions to each one. It's almost a surprise that any of us ever learn to read.

Let's take a quick look at a language where spelling is a piece of cake: In Finnish, spelling is the ONE easy thing. The language has an insane number of cases, all of which I had to learn at one point in grammar class.

Bragging rights: I outscored my friend Marjo on one such test, and she was annoyed because I wasn't even a Finn . . . but I'd studied. Don't ask me to do it now. Totally couldn't.

But spelling? Piece of cake. It's nice that there's something not mind-numbingly difficult about Finnish.

See, everything is phonetic. If you learn what sound each letter makes, you can read anything in Finnish. (Caveat: a few letters make difficult sounds. Point still stands.)

Hence, my little sister, who was eight when we arrived in Finland, could read aloud in class flawlessly . . . without a clue as to what any of it meant.

English, however . . . yeah, well, there's a reason spelling bees exist in the States.

And it turns out that some people don't like English having odd rules. More, they don't get that language is a living thing and that you cannot force change onto it.

(That should totally be a Word Nerd post of its own. Taking mental notes . . . although I kind of talked about it in this post.)

As a result of our funky English non-rules, we have spelling bee protesters. Seriously.

This Yahoo! article describes how protesters came to a national spelling bee in D. C. (some even dressed in BLACK AND YELLOW. Bees, get it? Haha.) to protest that English should change its spelling.

Their posters sported the following:

Enuf is enuf. Enough is too much.

Cute.

They claim that "heifer" (as in the cow) should be written as "hefer."

When I saw that, my brain went back to my childhood days of watching The Electric Company (totally dating myself) where I learned that double consonants make the vowel short, while single consonants make the vowel long.

To show the concept, they had this great skit with SUPPER MAN, who needed a P taken off his name so he could be a true super hero, a SUPER MAN. They showed the same rule applying with dinner/diner and other word pairs, adding and subtracting consonants.

(Obviously, the rule has stuck with me more than three decades later, so the show did something right. Yay for educational television! Kids, go watch more TV!)

Based on that simple idea, if we're changing the cow's name and trying to use standard, easy-to-remember rules, shouldn't the spelling protesters have suggested HEFFER?

Because yo, protesters, how do you propose we get long vowels? What if we wanted hiefer to be pronounced as HEE-fer? How would you spell that?

Then you get the Spelling Society of London, founded in 1908. I'm with them on promoting literacy and getting word out about the crazy rules, but a quick look at their site didn't clarify whether they're trying to change things. (If so, good luck, folks. 100 years hasn't done much for ya.)

Now, just for laughs (but also something that will just encourage spelling protesters, alas), something that shows just how crazy English can be.

Here is a proposed spelling of the word FISH (naturally, courtesy Dr. Oaks and his awesome teachingness):

GHOTI

How could that be, you ask?

Take these words:

ENOUGH

WOMEN

EMOTION

GH in ENOUGH creates the F sound.

The O in WOMEN is often pronounced like a short I. (Really, no one really says women with a short O. Say it aloud. No O, right? It's closer to a short I, although some dialects could argue an "oo" as in BOOK sound.)

And finally, we get SH from the TI in EMOTION.

Put them together, and those spelling protesters could argue that, based on the "rules," GHOTI is a reasonable way of spelling FISH.

Spelling has always been my weakest area of language, but I'm not about to bend to black-and-yellow costumed protesters.

English is also a beautiful language with a rich history. And like I said before, it's alive. Hence, by extrapolation, it's, oh, not dead. Therefore, you can't prescribe this or that to suddenly change it.

Whine all you want, but speakers will still speak and write the language like they have for years. Changes will happen, but they take time, and you can't insist on what they'll be.

English will continue evolve on its own, just as it has for centuries.

I just hope that texting language doesn't win out in the end. 'Cause that would be gr8.

Today: A List

1) Five Whitney nominees to go. Three are THICK. I'm hoping to finish one of the thinner ones today. We shall see if I succeed . . .

2) I'm being loud and opinionated again over on the AML Blog.

3) Tonight my parents are coming over for FHE. Yay!

4) I'll be leaving in a few for lunch with Luisa, my favorite New Yorker and my first close bloggy friend. There will be much enjoyment of food and plenty of great conversation, I'm sure.

5) My chocolate cookbook has a title, but I can't reveal it yet. I've already mentioned this elsewhere (Twitter, FB), but for those who haven't heard, it'll be officially out in October. Frankly, I was a bit relieved they decided against May. Having TWO books released within two months of each other would have had me in a panic.

6) In theory, I should get a bunch done on a PEG edit today. Not sure if that's going to happen. Maybe if I stay up late.

7) I bought a new garbage can for the kitchen. This may not seem notable unless you know that our previous one was purchased right after the wedding . . . which was nearly 16 years ago. The poor thing lived a good, long life, but it's time to retire the poor (disgusting) thing. My kids were THRILLED to see it, which I found odd. Forget toys; I should buy new household products more often just to see their reactions. Maybe Santa will bring Windex for Christmas next year.

Time, Would You Knock It Off?

A few months ago, my son passed up his Grandma Lyon in height. Naturally, being as he's a teenage boy and getting taller than others is one of his missions in life, he was thrilled.

"I wonder if I'm taller than Grandma Luthy," he said.

"You're not," I assured him.

At the time, she was out of the country, remember, so he couldn't check.

"How can you know for sure?" he asked.

It didn't take much to burst his balloon. "Because I'm shorter than my mom, and you're still shorter than I am."

"Oh. Dang."

And that was that. In late July. Just over THREE months ago.

If you recall, my parents are home now. (YIPPPPEEEEEE!) We had a fantastic reunion on Friday, and my kids are drinking them in any chance they get, even though Grandma and Grandpa haven't had a chance to hardly unpack and are surely still jet lagged.

We saw them briefly yesterday, and the kids were throwing stuff out like, "In two months, I'm in the school play, so you have to come to that," and, "I have a band thing on Tuesday I want you to come to. I play the flute now. Did you know that?" and," Our piano recital is coming up soon."

Amidst the barrage, I assured my parents I'd let them know about each event well in advance. Let's just say the kidlets are excited to have a chance for their grandparents to be involved in their lives again.

Then my son stood next to Grandma. They were so close in height, we had to flatten their hair to see who is taller. It was Grandma, but only by about a quarter of an inch.

Which means he's got to be taller than I am now. He did this IN THREE MONTHS. My baby boy! AAAACK!

I'm having more of these mommy moments of freaking out that time is moving at the speed of light. On Halloween, my son dressed up in the same costume he'd worn to school, but he wasn't trick-or-treating, because he's too old for that now. So he was on candy duty. Next year, he'll probably have a Halloween party with his high school friends in the basement.

(Can someone explain how this happened? Is there a rip in the space-time continuum or something? Because that's the only thing that makes sense. I swear he was just in kindergarten.)

He recently informed me that in just over a year, he'll be able to get his learner's permit. I think that information stripped about 5 years off the end of my life.

Next child down was old enough to go trick-or-treating with a group of her girl buddies. So I took out just my youngest two. They're plenty big now, so I didn't need to pull a wagon to save their tiny little legs the effort of walking blocks and blocks like I used to when they were toddlers. Far from it; my youngest literally ran from house to house, urging us to go faster.

I thought back to when I had all four of them with me each Halloween, wearing their little costumes (which I'd often made). How small they'd been. How cute. How fast the years have gone. How many years of this I have left . . . with two of them, and then one. It made me sad.

Then I got another time warp kicker this morning. I recently bought a pair of sneakers that were on clearance at Payless for something like $7, but I was buying a pair of Sunday shoes for another kid, and the store had their Buy One, Get One 1/2 Off sale, so I got the sneakers for $3.50. They're actually 1/2 a size too small for me, but if I keep the laces loose, they work (and I got them for the price of a hamburger!).

Today, my twelve-year-old daughter came to me before school and asked if she could borrow them.

They fit her. What the what?!

My son is taller than I am and will be driving soon.

My daughter can fit into my shoes. Or at least into my smallish ones. Soon, she'll be raiding my closet.

Next thing I know, they'll both be dating.

And graduating from high school. And going on missions and starting college and getting married and . . .

STOP!!! I can't take it!

Yesterday I snuggled my littlest in my lap for awhile. She's a bit big for that, but I needed it. She snuggled right back and didn't want to leave. It's nice to know she needed it too.

I may be Mom, but for a little while, I'm still Mommy, too. That's not a title I'm willing to relinquish quite yet.

Not That I'm Counting

In the rush of getting Halloween costumes on for school this morning (we've got a cyborg, a cave woman, a half man/half woman, and a cheerleader), the kids forgot to rip off the last link in the paper chain.

There it is above, just waiting to be torn to shreds in celebration, because that final link means one small but significant thing.

This is it. Today is the day.

Mom and Dad (Grandma and Grandpa) are in the air. They land tonight. Five years and two missions are finally over. I get my parents back.

We'll be the ones at the airport with the balloons jumping up and down and screaming like banshees as they come down the escalators.

As fun as that part will be, I'm most looking forward to something else: feeling their arms around me again, holding me tight as I breathe them in.

Welcome home, Mom and Dad. I've sure missed you.

I'm Taking It as a Compliment

Last night after dinner, I ended up sitting around the table chatting with my two older girls. (I love that they're old enough for that!)

Their dad walked in and stopped. "Girl talk, huh?"

"Something like that," I said, enjoying myself.

Actually, we weren't talking girl stuff. (Fortunately! They're a little young for that stuff. I hope "girl talk" is a few years off yet.)

We got into talking about a series of books, and they were asking me something about the topic of the series, so I explained quite a bit about it. Suddenly my 10-year-old grunted.

With a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head she said, "I swear, Mom, you know everything. Or if you don't know something, you go look it up."

I grinned and said, "And you know where I got that from? The part about looking stuff up?"

They both knew and answered in unison. "From Grandma."

"And that was before Google existed."

They mock-gasped at that and began making jokes about my growing up in prehistoric times.

But the reality is that I grew up with a mother who taught me to find out about something if I didn't know it.

If one of us kids asked a question at dinner and she or Dad didn't know the answer, she'd literally hop up from her chair, race downstairs to the encyclopedia (remember those things?) and come back ten minutes later with five cross-referenced volumes.

Then she'd read all the entries aloud as we ate. When she was satisfied that we all knew the answer to the question whoever had posed, she'd close the books with a nod, stack them up, and return to her now-cold dinner.

This was not an unusual event.

At one point, we suggested getting a bookshelf of reference books installed in the kitchen.

Is it any wonder that people regularly assumed my mother had several doctorate degrees?

My daughter may have been rolling her eyes and joking around, but she couldn't have given me a higher compliment than to compare me to my mother.

(Four days. Not that I'm counting.)

Six Bits of Monday Randomness

Random Bit #1

I've been out of town and computer-less since Thursday, spending some much-needed (and enjoyed!) time away with my husband. It. Was. Awesome.

As a result, however, today I opened my Google Reader to find 254 unread posts. Did you get the full impact of that number? Let's spell it out:

TWO HUNDRED FIFTY-FOUR.

Holy schmoly, you people are prolific!

Um . . . I don't think I'll be getting to all those posts. Just a tiny little guess. Don't take it personally or anything. I'm just not Super Woman.

Random Bit #2

Yesterday the lesson I got to teach the Sunday School class for the older teens was about . . . get this . . . the Salt Lake Temple and its foundation. I'm so not kidding. Ya think that's a topic I know a tiny bit about?

The point of the lesson was about the importance of building your spiritual foundation on Christ, and it compared the Salt Lake Temple foundation to that, including the original sandstone foundation that cracked and needed to be replaced with something stronger so it could hold such a large and magnificent building.

I knew so much more about the story than what was in the lesson because of my research, so I basically tossed the manual aside and had a ball. I don't think I've ever enjoyed teaching that class quite so much.

Random Bit #3

The only down side was that one of my students skipped out of Sunday School after sacrament meeting. He was one of the youth speakers and did a phenomenal job, and I wanted to give him some praise.

He was also one of the band members coming home when the bus crashed last week, and he told some of his personal experiences related to that and connected them to his faith. I won't share the stories here, because they're his and rather private, but I had tears rolling down my cheeks. Let's just say he's a remarkable young man.

Stinker for not coming to class so I could tell him so.

Random Bit #4

My kids are getting really good at teasing their mother and enjoying it. Last night at dinner, one of the girls said a real zinger (I don't remember exactly what it was now), and I about busted a gut. It was so on target that I laughed to the point I couldn't breathe.

The whole family was laughing, and when we calmed down, Dad said to her, "You do realize that I could never have said that and gotten away with it."

#3 then goes, "Of course not. You're the husband. But I'm a kid. Kids are cute. We can say all kinds of things and can get away with them."

They're awfully perceptive, those little people. I warned her that it won't last forever. She's 10. In 5 years, such a comment won't be so cute. (But holy cow, it was hysterical yesterday.)

Random Bit #5

As dinner ended, I was informed that I would be playing Monopoly with the younguns, mostly because #4, the baby of the family (now 7), had never played it. I braced myself, knowing just how long that game can run, and told them that it's going to end at 8:00 when it's time to get ready for bed, regardless of whether it's really over. (They tried to hide the clock from me during the game. The fact that I was wearing a watch somehow slipped their notice.)

It was the most bizarre game of Monopoly I've ever played. I went around the board twice, literally landing on every space my youngest had right after she did, and therefore owing her rent on every single turn and never getting to buy my own property. So bizarre. It took three times around the board before I managed to buy the one piece of property I ever bought. I ended up bartering for another, and I got that only because #3 (who'd mocked me so well two hours prior) took pity on me.

Who won? By 8:00, the 7-year-old had the most assets by a landslide. She was so excited about it (and not exactly a good sport, apparently) that she walked downstairs to get ready for bed, chanting, "Burn, burn, burn!"

Aw . . . what a sweetheart.

Random Bit #6

Mom and Dad come home from Helsinki in eleven days. (Squeeeee!)

My kids have this little habit now. Anytime someone mentions how many more days until Grandma and Grandpa come home, it's followed by them all saying in sync, "Not that we're counting," and then lots of giggles.

We all know full well that we are counting . . . and have been for several months.

In fact, today for family night, we're making a paper chain. I know they're coming home, but I don't really know it, if that makes sense. They've been gone on missions since right before my second book came out, since my baby was 2 years old. To think that they'll be home, just twenty minutes away . . .

Okay, I better stop, because I'm getting weepy again.

I'm Almost Back!

If all goes well, I'll be turning in my chocolate cookbook today.

The stupid school district up and made today a professional development day, which means the kids are home right when I need them to not be.

Luckily, my sister-in-law's kids were dying to have mine over to play, and since she knew I had a deadline, she thought that heck, let them hang out there for most of the day.

Boo. Yah.

So in a little bit, I'll be driving the munchkins over to her place and then settling my behind into the chair to write. The cooking part is done. (Can you hear the angels singing? It's truly a glorious sound.)

I've written down the recipes as they've succeeded, but I still have a lot of other stuff to work into the book about ingredients and chocolate (lots of stuff about that) and a glossary and a bunch of other fun stuff in between that I hope readers will enjoy reading as they run into.

After turning it in, I'll have to celebrate, but it can't be with chocolate (I had no idea that it's possible to get tired of the stuff. It is! Who knew?! After six months of constant chocolate experimentation and cooking, my entire family is about to gag.)

I think I'll grab a bag of corn chips and salsa (Salt! I need salt!) and curl up with a book. So I'm not quite back to my regular blogging schedule, but I'll return soon. Ish. I promise. I just need to take a deep breath once I turn this puppy in.

(Oh, and I'll probably get the edits on my next novel soon and may have to break briefly for that, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there . . .)

But today I thought I'd leave you with an actual, unedited e-mail exchange between me and my 12-year-old daughter. This is the girl my husband says is a miniature version of me because she's so stubborn. (Thanks, babe. Okay, not that it isn't completely true or anything.)

Just the day before, she'd prepared a lesson for the junior high's writing club on how to get ideas to write stories. Ironically, she then e-mailed me the following. The exchange covered a few days. Her e-mails are in red, mine are in black.

mom i want to write a story but i have no idea's

Give yourself your own lesson about coming up with ideas. :D

i did, but i wouldn't listen

Man, that stubborn self . . .

i know!!!!!!!

Next time either ground yourself or bribe you with chocolate. That might help.

Tride, i am to stubbon, i wonder who she gets it from

My Clock Obsession: This One's For You, Hon

See, I have this problem.

Rather, I don't see it as a problem. The whole thing makes sense to me in my own little crazy wonderland. But five other people in this house have to live with it. The kids just have to suck it up; they're the kids, so they just have to deal with it. But it's a little harder to do that when you're an adult.

Like, oh, a husband.

Here's the thing: My poor man never knows what time it really is.

I don't recall exactly which recent event prompted the comment (I think it had something to do with setting my alarm earlier to reflect a different time for my snooze but not adjusting the actual clock time). It was something crazy and illogical but made perfect sense to me in a bizarro world kind of way when it was late and I was tired.

In a fit of laughter, he called out, "blog post!"

He was spot on; if he had a personal blog (which he doesn't), it would have made great fodder with which to mock me (which I know he wouldn't have).

So, hon, I'm going to mock myself here on your behalf. Because really, such great material can't be passed up, even if it is me making fun of myself.

The problem: I like to set clocks ahead. That doesn't make me too different from a lot of people, but apparently, I've taken it beyond a hobby and turned it into an Olympic sport.

With the exception of my husband's personal ones, nearly every clock in the house is set ahead by a different amount of minutes.

Contrary to what it might seem, it's not a bunch of random craziness. I do have a system. (I can already hear the men laughing. Shush. I do, too, have a system.)

The stove clock is set ahead by two minutes. I do that because when I'm leaving the house, I know that's the time it'll actually be by the time I get my shoes on, grab my purse, get in the car, and pull out of the garage. See? It makes perfect sense.

The clock on the mantel is set ahead by ten minutes. This is more for the kids' sake so they see it and think they're late for school and get moving faster. But it helps me, too. It takes them about ten minutes to finish brushing teeth, getting on shoes and finish zipping up backpacks, and for me to then gather the family for morning prayer and finalize all the little things. So if we're at the final "prep" stage when the mantel clock says it's really time to leave, I know we're right on time.

(Totally logical. Told you. Is, too! Okay, maybe it's a tiny bit weird . . .)

My nightstand clock is eleven (twelve?) minutes ahead. It tells me roughly what time it'll be if I hit the snooze once in the morning, crawl out of bed, and then stumble downstairs to wake up the kids . . . that way they wake up right at seven, but I've been up two minutes before that. (See? I'm such a genius . . . Or a nut case. Whichever.)

Setting my own clock ahead by twelve minutes also helps me know what time it'll be when I actually fall asleep, because pulling up the covers doesn't count as sleep, and I really do need over 8 hours to function. So seeing the clock ahead actually helps me get enough sleep; it encourages me to get into bed earlier.

My extra twelve minutes also help me get ready faster in the morning. If I need to make it on time to an appointment, I should be walking out the door when the clock says I should be there.

(Dang. The longer this goes, the nuttier I sound, even to myself.)

Then there's the minivan clock. It's set four minutes ahead. That's about perfect for letting me know when I'll be arriving at the school to pick the kids up or for other minor trips.

See? It all makes sense. (Shut up. Does too. Fine. I might be slightly off my rocker . . .)

I have two clocks running on exact times. One is above the pantry. It's a giant, decorative clock hanging so high up it takes a 9-foot ladder (and a death-wish) to reach. So half the year it's the right time, and the other half it's off by an entire hour, because I'm not about to risk breaking my neck to change it when daylight savings ends.

The other clock that's on time is the little one in the bathroom next to my sink. It's an atomic clock, so I can't set it ahead. I have to live with the insanity of the correct time on that one.

Darn it.

My downfall is the school clocks. The elementary school and the junior high school clocks aren't in sync with each other. One is supposed to have its five-minute bell at 7:55 and the other is theoretically at 8:10. But even adjusting for my clock resetting, one is really at 7:56 and the other is at 8:08.

What the heck?!

I recently ranted and raved about this disparity to my husband. My time-keeping system requires that other clocks work around the proper, exact times. Having the schools not run on the correct time seriously messes with my mojo. One is a minute late and the other is two minutes early?

Sheesh, people! Get your act together!

My husband looked over with a chuckle. With a smile, he said, "Welcome to a small piece of my world."

Ahem.

Lessons from Random Stuff in My Head

Don't Be Judgmental, Because You REALLY Don't Know.

Today, my dear friend Brillig's post about put me into tears. Go read it. You'll be glad you did. (Her blog has had some techno-problems. I hope the link works.)

If Writing a Random Claims to Fame Post, Don't Forget Your Own Family.

Um, duh. Yeah, I'm feeling kinda stupid on this one.

If you live in Utah (or are LDS and shop in Seagull and Deseret Book), you have probably heard of the A Capella group VoiceMale.

Okay, so here's my giant claim to fame: The founder and vocal percussionist, John L. (there are 2 Johns in the group, so they really do use their last initials) is my dear cousin. He put the group together when they were at USU. They practiced in my uncle and aunt's home, and he often arranged (and still does arrange) some of their music.

And he's one of the most generous and sweet guys I've ever known, and that's counting all the years we had growing up together as cousins when he and my brother played Stratego in their basement.

(John's the one in the middle sitting on the couch arm. Can't you totally see the family resemblance? Kidding. Actually, he looks freakishly like my nephew. It's odd how genes jump around.)

So here's why I'm mentioning it right now: VoiceMale has an upcoming benefit concert for the Ulster Project, which has been going since 1974 to help sow the seeds of peace between the Catholic and Protestant sections of Northern Ireland. You can learn more at the Ulster Project site.

The benefit concert will be July 31 at Murray High school, and tickets are available at the Ulster website (see the link above). VoiceMale concerts are always a ball, and they're great for the entire family. And I'm not just saying that because John's my cousin or because the acrobatics he can do with his voice are mind-numbingly amazing.

Other random lessons I have learned recently:

Don't Be Overly Optimistic

I recently lost more than five (much needed) pounds. In Sunday's rush to get everyone ready for church, I grabbed a dress that used to be pretty tight on me and I haven't worn in awhile. But I've lost some weight, right? Surely it would fit now.

In the whopping 1.3 minutes I had to get it on, I discovered that I didn't quite fit into it. The buttons bulged a bit, and they ended in a place so I looked about 5 months pregnant. Ahem. No time to change into something else. I grabbed the requisite "church bag" and ran out the door.

Note to self: Do not even touch that dress until you've lost at least another ten pounds.

Six Isn't Enough, And Seven Might Not Be, Either. Because I Am a Masochist.

If you followed my Facebook whining, you'll know it took me a whopping six batches of chocolate cupcakes experiments to get ones that both tasted good and didn't sink in the middle.

(My kids kept telling me to just use the sunken ones in the cookbook and call them "chocolate ice cream bowls. Yeah . . . sure . . .)

This cookbook journey has been a massive learning curve in the chemistry of baking. (I feel like Dr. Seuss: "Oh, the things you can learn!") Recently I had an epiphany and realized two things that might make the cupcakes really great. So I jotted down two notes to try yet another batch.

Today I did batch #7 . . . but since I'm so tired lately and observant (Haha!) and lame, I noticed and applied only one of the two notes.

The cupcakes actually turned out pretty darn good. But there's that little part of me that wonders if they'd be even better if I tried one more time adding that other note, because ya know, what if it made all the difference and made them that much better . . .

But do I have it in me to make an EIGHTH batch when I'm not even halfway (and should be!) on the book? I mean really?

I need to wear make-up more often.

I've really let this one go this summer, something I've never done before. My daughter recently commented how much better I look with make-up, in her words, "not scary."

Thanks so much, cutie. I think.

In her defense, it's actually a little weird how different I look with and without makeup. Part of the difference is that my eyelashes are very long but totally blond, so without mascara, it's almost as if my face has disappeared. I've shocked people on more than one occasion with the difference. And then I have adult acne and a rather splotchy skin tone, and blue circles under my eyes. The list goes on. It doesn't take much to hide it all, but the result is very different than what we started out with.

Once I had to go to church for the first hour but was sick myself and had to leave after that to get home to a sick child. I deliberately wore very little makeup (but I did put on some mascara), because I knew people would assume simply by looking at me that I was sick (which I really was). If I wore the full face, they'd wonder why I left, and I'd end up having to answer more questions. I'd predicted exactly what happened. I had people telling me to go home because I looked so awful. All because I wasn't wearing the full eye shadow/liner/blush/lipstick combo.

Yet this summer I find myself going to the grocery store in the middle of the day having barely gotten out of my pajamas, taken a shower (If I'm lucky. I often have hair in a greasy pony tail or it's wet from the recent shower) and wearing no make-up to speak of. Not sure what my problem is. Maybe I just don't care anymore.

Regardless, I think I'm giving small children at the stores trauma. I mean, it's bad when your own kids start commenting on it. I hope I'm not embarrassing them, but I must be. Worse, they're at that age when they CAN be embarrassed by their mother.

Sometimes I Need Chocolate I Didn't Make

Like tonight. There are days I'm so sick of my "chocolate laboratory" that I just want some comfort chocolate that my hands had nothing to do with. So it was with great pleasure that I saw my husband walk in the door this evening with my favorite chocolate silk pie. I'm going to have a very large piece right now.

See you on the flip side!