Thoughts on Perfection

I made a new friend recently, and at the risk of sounding pathetic, I'm announcing so here on the blog. I always feel grateful to be frequently surrounded by lots of fun acquaintances, but friends have always been a bit hard for me to come by.

I'm pretty certain its my own fault.  At the risk of publicly embarrassing my sisters, I'll start with their accidental defenses against friendship.  Lisa has a bubble.  Basically an impenetrable physical line that had Kirk looking forward to her wedding day because she had promised him he'd be allowed to give her a hug when she got married.  Michelle needs no physical line; she keeps a careful distance using her natural expression of indifference.  Many people are unwilling to find out that she's actually really funny and very friendly - if you dare to come close enough.

My wall of choice is a carefully crafted facade.  People come close, but I have a really hard time letting them see anything beyond the smiles and sunshine.  To be fair, a lot of my life really is smiles and sunshine.  The happy, smiley Andrea is no fake.  But nobody can smile all the time; I certainly don't.  I just do my best to do the vast majority of my frowning in the privacy of my own home.

I once had a discussion with a friend about the expression "the other side" of someone's personality.  He claimed it was impossible for people to have "sides" to their personality.  He described the personality more as ever-present traits that come and go in their intensity.  According to him, it would be impossible to see a "new" side of someone, because that trait had been there all along.

But I disagree.  I think of the personality as a polyhedron.  While looking directly at one face of a simple six-sided dice, you can truly only see that face; the other five remain obscured.  But I don't think the personality is so precise as that.  Picture instead a thirty-sided dice.  While seeing "30" most directly, it is still possible to observe 17, 19-21, 24-29.  Not only that, but you can almost make out 18, 22 and 23.  You know they are there, even if they are not in plain sight.

But what of 1 through 16?  A change in perspective one way or the another and you'll surely reveal several more readily accessibly numbers.   But I would argue that certain personality traits are diametrically opposed.  While prominently presenting "30," it becomes entirely impossible to see "1."

This theory becomes even more complex when considering the sheer number of traits one could wish to show or hide.  Consider, instead, a zocchihedron (found it on Wikipedia, people - this is not just a word I know).  Look at all the faces/traits you can see simultaneously.  Look at that huge band of almost plain traits along the center band.  Consider the long row ready to be exposed with the slightest disruption of balance.

And then consider a dice with movable faces.  What if 30 didn't have to oppose 1.  What if 1 could stay hidden at all times regardless of the other numbers displayed.

Well, that is my facade.  I don't speak when I feel at risk of sounding stupid (notice that I never join discussions about politics?).  I tell my share of self-depreciating stories, but only when I know the offenses are easily forgivable and likely to get a laugh.   I don't often share my failures unless I know I can quickly follow up with a success.

I think friendship happens when you stop controlling the roll.  When you hand someone the whole dice and let the numbers fall where they may.  Or maybe when you put away the dice altogether and operate on more of the continuum theory.

At a recent party, a neighbor I have long respected asked how we had never before discussed that we'd been at Utah State together.  I found myself explaining that my time at Utah State just really isn't the number I choose to lead with.

If you've seen me cry, I've handed you the dice.

If you can list a major mistake I've made in my life, I've handed you the dice.

If you have heard me yell, seen me scared, or heard an impromptu testimony, I've handed you the dice.

If you have heard me complain about Kirk, I've handed you the dice.

I was just blog hopping and ended up at a site called Controlling My Chaos.  In a blog post, the author described a particularly perfectly put together mother as Malibu Barbie.  She cited specific evidence including her appearance at an early morning school event.  I was thrilled to see the actual "Malibu Barbie" mom had add to the comments section:

Okay--it is time for "Malibu Barbie" (and I use that term loosely) to set the record straight. First, the only way I could be called Barbie (I have never even owned a Barbie in my life until now)is to reverse the dimensions. Not nearly as attractive that way. And I have never been a blonde! I have a few lighter streaks now in an unsuccessful attempt to cover the gray. As for the early morning flags. I didn't shower when I got up and I was too tired to take my makeup off from the night before. My 50% off JC Penney "ensemble" was covering my dirty tshirt that I wore to bed. (Isn't my husband lucky?) In our school you "get" to be PTO pres. because you weren't smart enough to get out of it. (I guess that is kind of "Barbieish.) Cleaning is my hobby--but who doesn't need a little instant gratification? Ask my kids. They would like me to come up with a better way of channeling my psychotic hyperactivity. And just for the record. I don't scrapbook, blog, fix daily nutritious meals for my family, create recipes and crafts for the whole blogging community,keep my finances and the PTO's finances in perfectly graphed order, make more money through Box Tops than ever in the history of Box Tops,take my kids to the library...WOw! I think I need to make a Barbie for you, Chaos Lady--Jill. Instead--due to my hyperdrive, I fall into window wells, slip on the ice and dump pans full of hot vegetable soup all over me and my white coat, back into my brother's parked vehicle, back into the mail car...oh the truth hurts sooooo! So now you all know the real truth. 

This is not to say that I think the visible half of my zocchihedron resembles perfection.  Rather, I share this only to illustrate that the visible half only tells half of the story.  If I want to continue to make friends, I may need to be a little more willing to share the other half.

And sadly, as much as I would like to consider writing "vulnerable" posts a means to this end, blogging still allows me to carefully spin the dice.

Here's to taking a few more risks and maybe making a few more friends along the way.

Lost Easter Reflections

I'm not sure how this ended up unpublished in my drafts folder, but since I still found it interesting, I figured it was worth posting - even late.

I read a pretty great re-post awhile ago about the reasons why Facebook and other social media can be pretty destructive for women.  According to the article, whether we are the crafty, homemade mom or the above-and-beyond fancy trimmings mom, or the quality time with the kids mom (or any mom between), we tend to feel insecure when we wee the brightly colored evidence of the other moms, laid out Instagram style.  And if we're lucky enough to escape self-doubt, we probably aren't managing to escape passing judgement on the moms who do it differently than we do.

I think the "big deal" days are probably worse for us as mothers.  Day after Easter for example.  I have definitely compared my family to the ones with matching outfits, to the ones who skipped Easter eggs in favor of a Christ-centered day, to the ones with full-on Easter loot.  I'm even comparing this year's holiday with favorites from my own past. 

For all the inspiration on Pinterest, for all the joy brought seeing pictures of friends and family, for all the ease of communicating with the masses, social media really is a danger zone.  And it's because we choose what others get to see.  Even when we post our failures, we get to tie them up with pretty little hindsight bows. 

The danger of the social internet is in the collective experience.  We end up feeling like part of a big, homogeneous mass, when what we should really feel like is a unique component of a whole.  We're all a big salad.  I can be bacon bits, and you can be croutons, and it can still all exist happily together.
My own Easter included plenty of ups and a few downs (picture a pre-Sacrament meeting breakdown in the clerk's office complete with solitary tears and an abandoned bottle of green nail polish).  Overall, it was awesome.  Everything a bacon-bit Easter should be.  I hope yours was just as unique and just as memorable!  And I hope nobody is worried about perfect.

Not the Boy Who...

Adam's always been a bit self conscious.  Not self loathing in any way, which is totally different.  But self conscious simply as in aware of self.  He knows who he is and feels no particular pressure to be someone else.  In fact, he's not a big fan of any sort of pressure that would suggest otherwise.

I like this about him.  As of right now, Adam is not particularly likely to succumb to peer pressure, because Adam only does what Adam is comfortable with.

This self awareness has developed into a new set of words that Adam uses frequently:

"Mom, I'm not the boy who..."

I heard it first when I contemplated purple shirts for the Empress Youth Theatre program I run.  Curious how the younger boys would feel about the color, I asked Adam his opinion.  "Mom, I'm just not the boy who wears purple."

I loved so much about the statement.  In one sentence he acknowledged:

A) Some boys wear purple
B) It is fine for boys to wear purple
C) But I am not that boy

I've heard it a lot since.  For example, he's also not the kid who wears plaid shorts (though I discovered a loophole: apparently grey and white is conservative enough for his tastes).

Interestingly, he's willing to be a different kid based on the group.  For example, he had the opportunity to hang out with the EYT teenagers on the 4th of July, and he saw many of the boys getting their nails painted purple and green.  He decided that in that particular company, he was okay being the boy who gets his nails painted by cute teenage girls.  But he asked me for the darkest purple I had and clearly set the expectation that he would not approve of anything with sparkles.

But only a few hours later as we prepared to go to a neighborhood party, he approached me, distressed.  "Mom, do you have any nail polish remover?"  He explained that he really didn't want to go to the party with nail polish on.  I took a moment to talk to him about the long-term effects of the choices we make.  If he wasn't comfortable painting his nails, he shouldn't have done it in the first place.  I was considering making him wear the polish to the party as an opportunity to feel the effects of his decision when he rationally explained, "Mom, I forgot about the party when I made that choice.  I knew the people in EYT would understand, but I don't think my friends at the party tonight will get it."

I'm not sure if that's something I am as proud of, though I know I do it.  I make different choices with certain groups of friends than I would feel comfortable making with others (or with my family).  But I suppose as long as they are choices of comfort - not choices of ethics or choices of right and wrong - there is no harm in being something a bit different depending on the group.

Still, one of my favorite things about Adam is that - for now at least - he's got it figured out.  As long as he can confidently say to me, "Mom, I'm not the boy who..." I think he's going to do just fine.

I am not a Robot

I promise, I really am not a robot.

But for those of you who have these on your blogs, I might as well be.

You have no idea how many comments I have typed only to fail miserably at proving I'm not a robot.  Today, I failed so miserably I actually followed up on my desire to try the aural version instead.  I clicked the little speaker symbol, and I listened.  Really carefully.

I'm telling you - these were not letters or numbers I was hearing!  I had been instructed to type each character I heard, but I just sat at my computer, confused and annoyed that despite my protestations otherwise, I might actually be a robot.

Here's my real question, though:

I've been blogging for six years now (holy cow!) and I have zero security set up here.  I don't comment moderate.  I don't ask for robot verification.  And not once have I received the comments of an actual robot.

Even if I did, I'm pretty sure I'd just feel flattered.  I'd be thrilled to add "robots" to my list of readers.

So if you've actually gotten robot comments, I'd love to hear them!  I am curious what robots are saying on the mom blogs these days!

And for those of you who insist on making me prove my humanity each time I want to comment - don't stop for me.  I really do admire those who take internet safety more seriously than I do, and though I jest, I really do understand why.  Just understand that there's often stuff I want to say.  But apparently...

... I may be a robot.

Splish Splash

Lest it be lost forever, only memorialized in Instagram-land, I have to start out with a "Casdorph" picture.  If "Casdorph" was a verb, I think it would mean something like:

To use whatever resources are readily available in manners not originally intended to overcome a current obstacle.

As my mom pointed out, however, there are two variations on the word.  In Arizona, it means to temporarily use the resources in a manner not intended until a more permanent solution can be arranged.  In Utah, the non-standard usage becomes permanent.

In this case, Great Grandpa Casdorph was particularly worried about my little redhead getting burnt to a crisp.  I knew that the special sunscreen we buy for his sensitive skin is practically invincible, but G.Gpa was still worried.  They have a nifty three-cornered shade that covers the midsection of the pool, but a still-tentative Dylan was spending 95% of his time in the well-lit shallow end.  So Grandpa set to work, attempting to Casdorph the situation.  He rotated one of the three corners so the shade landed squarely on Dylan's pasty white shoulders, but there was no where to anchor the rope.  Undeterred, he rolled over his recycling can.  I expressed my concern that it would just roll into the water, and he responded with the omnipotent smirk that seems to be a part of male Casdorph DNA.  Then he added his green garbage can with the wheels turned in a perpendicular direction.  Even though it seemed to hold securely, he overturned the wheelbarrow in front of the large cans for good measure.  And I just had to get a picture.

Sadly, all that work went pretty much to waste, however, as Dylan got braver each day and ventured further and further from the shaded steps.  Between his truly effective sunscreen and his increased mobility, there was no need for Grandpa to reprise the adjustment or to make it more permanent.

And as Dylan got braver each day, he eventually worked up the guts to jump in without me catching him.  Once that happened, our vacation truly began:

Did I Mention...?

Now that I have a smart phone loaded with all the necessary conveniences like Instagram, I find that I frequently say too little about too much and not nearly enough about anything.  And then, since I've said a little, I never get around to saying much more.  And I certainly can't remember if I actually said anything at all.  Plus, if it never makes it to the blog, then in my world, it kind of never happened, because I won't be able to click back in a year or three and see it there in all its immortalized glory.

So, things that were probably blog-worthy that didn't get their full 3-5 page essay:

• Dylan is potty trained.  This is huge!  Cliff notes version: I started the work, Kirk finished it, and he even stays dry at night.  I now find myself lost and confused in the face of sticky messes because - for the first time in 102 months, I don't carry wipes.
• My nine day vacation to Arizona was amazing.  I really will try to the whole essay-and-pictures version eventually, but in the meantime, I thought I should at least state that its greatness equaled the heat.
• I took a scaredy-cat to Arizona with me and returned with a full-on fish.  Well, a fish with an external flotation device.  Dylan is finally comfortable putting his head under the water and has even managed to turn his belly flop into a respectable jump into the pool.
• I am now fully healed from my start-of-summer injuries which included strained feet from the last day of school followed by scooter crash followed by GPS/rollerskating debacle.  I have put away all aspirations of being coordinated enough to handle self-propelled devices with wheels and have instead returned to Zumba.
• It is apparently possible to squirt a bit of Readi-Whip onto the back of your hand and then, using the opposing hand to quickly stop the motion, launch said bit of whipped cream high enough into the air to then catch it in your mouth.  Possible.  But it is much more likely that it will land on your eye.  Or in your hair.  Or on the side of my house, dripping down like bird poop.  
• Kirk is currently working in Ogden.  That is old news.  So old, in fact, that his stint there is halfway done.  But mentionable, nonetheless.
• Adam played his first season of competitive baseball, and everyone learned a lot.  Adam learned how to catch and throw much better, and how to get walked to first nearly every at bat despite his parents repeated pleas to swing -- at least once... per season!  We learned how important a good coach is - by not having one.
• I got to go to Tuacahn for the first time, courtesy of UTBA.  If you didn't read my reviews, you should.  It seems to be the only writing I manage to consistently do these days.  The best part of the trip, by far, was getting to hang out with both my mom and Arlee, which is going to be an awesome combination for this year's Dickens Festival production team.
• I learned that the capri-length sweats at Rue 21 do not fit me.  I can barely cram my healthy backside into a small, resulting in far too much attention called to what I'll admit is my favorite feature.  But when I put on a medium, the cuff that is supposed to stop just below the knee hangs literally all the way to my ankles.  So disappointing, since I had wanted to get a matching pair with Arlee.
• I miss my niece and nephew terribly.  Michelle took Princess Ty off to Idaho for the past month, and John lives in Georgia fairly permanently (his parents insist that he not vacation in Utah for the summer).  It turns out babies are way more fun when their poop isn't your responsibility.
• I've pretty much sworn off the blow dryer for the summer, and my hair is loving it.  I also learned a new curling iron technique that has my hair feeling healthier than it ever has.  Probably not blog-worthy to others, but something I've been excited about lately.
• Dylan is talking a LOT more than he used to, and he's developed the most adorable speech patterns.  Right now, he's speaking in long, beautiful, complete sentences to which he adds a barely perceptible "ng" sound between most words.  Hard to spell out, but imagine phrases like "Put mine-ng-jammies on?" "I'm not pulling yours-ng-hairs!"  

Sigh.  

Must. Blog. More.

Playing a Steinway at the Musical Instrument Museum in Phoenix

Soundbites

I attended church last week in my grandparent's ward in Mesa, Arizona, and I rediscovered the phenomenon that happens when the present adults outnumber the present children: I actually get to hear a bit of Sacrament Meeting.  I also found that when I am seated next to my mom in Sunday School and Relief Society instead of by my husband, sister, or friends, I talk less and listen more.  The results of listening to a solid three hours of doctrine-inspired talks and lessons was three brief, catchy comments or sayings - soundbites - to take back into my daily life.

#1 - "It takes a lot of money to raise good boys."

The second sacrament speaker was raised in a small rural community in Utah.  He explained, "There were six of us boys, and each of us had a sister."  He paused for maximum effect before continuing, "That made seven."  He told a story about accidentally backing a large piece of farm equipment straight into an electric pole, shutting down the electricity of the surrounding four towns.

When the electric company came to repair it, the men commented to his father, "It must take a lot of money to raise a crop out here when you've got boys like that."

His father explained, "You've got it all backwards.  I'm not raising crops, I'm raising boys.  And it takes this much land to do it!  It takes a lot of money to raise good boys."

The speaker went on to express gratitude for the endless investments his father had put into him.  Scouting, sports, the farm... and I knew I'd just received an answer to a question I had been pondering.

I think I've mentioned before that I'm a prayer in the heart kind of girl.  I'm not so great at taking my questions directly to the Lord.  Rather, I mull them about, research them, and try to put myself in places to receive inspiration when necessary.  And the financial decision of whether to spend the money to have Adam play tackle football this fall didn't necessarily seem like the type of thing with which to directly bug the Lord.  But I've been mulling and considering and discussing, and apparently by placing myself in a position to actually listen on Sunday, I had the opportunity to consider another angle.

"It takes a lot of money to raise good boys."

So my decision is made: I will not make decisions on what the boys get to do in their lives based on money.  If our family discusses on opportunity and deems it important and worthy, I will figure out a way to make the money work.  I will invest what I need to invest to raise good boys.

#2 - "The instructions may change, but the principles and the promises stay the same."

I have a natural sort of trust in my own testimony that helps me not sweat the small stuff.  I'm not one to ponder how it's all going to work out in the next life or to try to make sense of every piece of the gospel.  It's true.  I know that.  So I accept even the parts I don't 100% understand.  But if something was to get under my skin, it would be the "changes" that happen in the gospel.

Changes to the ways ordinances are completed in the temple.  Changes in who can receive the priesthood.  Even things likes changes in the missionary age (though the original age certainly wasn't in the scriptures anywhere or anything).  If I was to take the time to stop, think, question, it would bother me that a gospel supposedly the same yesterday, today, and forever would experience changes.

But thanks to a skilled Sunday School teacher who brought new light to the Word of Wisdom, I get it now.  Verses 5 through 17 in the 89th section of the Doctrine and Covenants outline the instructions as revealed to Joseph Smith in 1833.  However, the principle is obedience, and the promises include health, wisdom, strength, and protection.  The principle will not change.  The promises will not change.  However, the instructions may be altered to match the challenges of the day.

#3 - "Do you want the consequences of what you want?"

I'm pretty sure this statement would confuse my kids right now.  But I want to tuck it into my back pocket for when they are teenagers.  I want to write it on my palm for easy reference when I face difficult decisions in my own life.  Pretty much all of life's temptations boil down to wanting something that we probably don't want to accept the consequences of.

There's little stuff.  I want the brownie.  But do I want the consequences of the brownie?

I want to stay up late and hang out with my friends.  But do I want the consequences of lost sleep?

I want the new Xbox when it comes out.  But do I want the financial strain of a large purchase?

Sometimes, the answer is "No," but we still choose what we want anyway.  I want the brownie.  I don't want the consequences, but I am willing to accept them as trade off for chocolatey goodness.  And in those little things, that's probably just fine.

But when it comes to the bigger things, I think it is a great, protective line of reasoning.

I'd be exposing myself to much here to list the temporal things I find myself wanting that would come laden with spiritual consequences I'd be unwilling to accept.  But it's an important shift in perspective.  One I will try to make a permanent part of my reasoning.  Do I want the consequences?  If not, I had better not choose the action.

And I think it works in the reverse as well.  Do I want the "consequences" of the temple?  Of obedience?  Of paying tithing?  Well, if I want the consequences, I had better figure out how to want the action.

Three hours of half-decent attention, and I gained three nuggets of understanding.  Perhaps I can recommit to attending my own meetings with focused attention and allow the Lord to bless me with additional understanding.

We'll see... :)