frazzled & frumpy

This is Causey Reservoir.   It's one of my favorite places in the world.  It sits below the scout camp where Jacob works.   We've been going up twice every weekend to get him and then take him back.  Lots of gas and time, but worth it when my big 18 year-old throws his arms  around me in a bear hug. I think he appreciates home more.  Being away will do that.  This is the collage I made of my characters to inspire me and keep me on track. Today, I finished my editing. Mostly. I got serious butterflies when I reached those words- The End. Now, I need to read the whole thing out loud.  I wonder how long it'll take? 205 pages. Any guesses? Let's make it interesting. Whoever guesses closest (in minutes, not seconds)-  I'll send you the first 4 chapters to read.  Or, I'll send cookies.  (Real ones.) Your choice. You have until Tuesday to submit your guess. Happy Weekend!!

Some days I know I'm a bad mom. Others, the jury is out.  Unless the jury is made up of my younger children.  They're the ones in the midst of being sent to their rooms for misbehaving, or being grounded for being at a house that is not 'approved', oh, and for being on the roof of said house. (This was the 5 year-old. We won't go into the panic I experienced when I drove up and found him on the roof. I'm sure you can imagine it for yourself.)  The older kids have come to a place where they tend to appreciate me. That's because the big-bad-world is staring them in the face. Which brings me to why I'm feeling like one bad mamma. I've been hearing/reading about moms who 'just love their kids so much they never want them to move away from home'.  They say things like, "Please don't ever leave me, stay in my house forever and ever."  I look at them and think, 'What, are you crazy?' Perhaps it's because their kids

I tried to write something.  I got nothing.  Maybe the heat is frying my brain. Here's a couple pictures of what we did today. Kids. No worries. No responsibility. Life is just one big splash pad.

There's been a buzz going around the internet this last week.  A little misquito flitting from blog to blog to facebook to news site.  It all started with this blog post by Josh Weed , where he admits to being Mormon, married and gay.  I loved the posts written by Tara and Mike and loved being part of their discussions. (They are brilliant, thoughtful and married to each other. Talk about a power couple.)  This has caused a lot of thought on my part.  I started a couple different posts, and couldn't quite decide what I wanted to say about this.  And, then I decided to write about what I know for sure.   The young women in our church have a theme.  This is repeated every Sunday as they gather for class.  I'm way too old to have had this theme when I was a teen, but because I worked with the young women for almost three years, I memorized it.  I can still recite it. The beginning line says, We are daughters of our Father in Heaven, who loves us and we love him. 

Last Friday, we had a birthday.  I was going to post then, but got a little busy.  I've been very moved by cjane's birth stories.  She's a very lyrical writer and makes even the most mundane event seem lovely.  I especially liked her most recent birth , the one where she has the baby at home with her husband doing the delivering. (What?!?  I know.)  So, I thought I'd write this very heart-felt and moving birth story for Max.  See, I didn't write down all of my kids' stories.  This is a bad thing when you have so many.  Their tales have melted into little puddles of memory which run into each other until I can't remember which fact belongs to which story. I hope they forgive me.  Max is an exception.  I remember his birth very clearly.  But, as I wrote his story I realized something. I'm not cjane.   It was boring. And incredibly long. And boring.  So, I wrote it as me, instead. Does this stomach make me look fat? Once upon a time there was a v

It's not a bad day... when you take your kids to the park. It's a bad day when those kids won't play because they are afraid that a rogue honeybee is going to hunt them down and sting them to death. To death.  And you can't sit quietly in the shade and work on your book because you MUST push them on the swing, because if they push themselves that evil bee will sting them mid-swing. Bees are afraid of moms, you know. Mostly moms who wear shorts without shaving their legs and who don't have any makeup on. It's not a bad day... when your half of your kids leave for the week. It's a bad day when those kids announce that they need a water bottle or sunscreen or tampons and they need them before they leave at 6am.  And you wake up at 4:30 knowing you have to go to the store in an hour and you can't get back to sleep. And when you do get back to sleep, the 5 year-old who snuck in at three shoves his knees in your back for the hundredth time- and th

This was written for Sandra's Writing Workshop .  You can comment on it 'thoughtfully' and constructively, but if you're mean, I reserve the right to kick your comment to the curb! I don't write in first person. Ever. It makes me very uncomfortable.  Which is why I put this off till today- the last day to post.  But, I decided to do it to try to hone my craft. (Wow, aren't you impressed with my fancy words? hehe) This is a bit of a teaser to my book. It's a scene that is not fully described in the book, but which I had developed as back story.  I wrote it in first person only for this workshop. I don't love it. But, here it is anyway. Be kind. Haven and Violet The forest is dark tonight, and silent.  I can’t get a single tree to say hello to me.  I wish I’d brought Terra, or Bliss.  But, I know I have to get it.  There’s no way I can do this without it. The entrance to the cave is almost hidden, so I think about the light in my hand and

Here it is again, my list of the terms people found me with. This is either clever, or just a really lazy way to get a post written.  I think it's funny that people would click on my little blog after searching these. (I'm not including any that include the word 'duggar' because I'm getting tired of those.) 'ice blocks' I prefer crushed, actually, the little tiny kind. 'a cast again'  Technically, he only has a brace.  Please, no more casts. Not during the summer anyway. 'wear my coat indoors'   Uh-uh. I don't even wear one outdoors. (Which drives the Handy Many crazy!) 'foot fetish mens'  Not my man. He cringes if you get anywhere near his feet. And he only touches mine if I shove them at him in request for a massage. 'me to you birthday'  Um, happy day to you?  Come get your present. 'foot fetish text'  I mostly text the Handy Man, and, like I said, feet don't do anything for him. 'pion

Friday found me in a large auditorium.  Purple seats with no leg room or padding.  The Handy Man was at my side, my daughters and parents down the row. This is the day we'd waited for.  This was the moment that spurred on our flurry of make-up days and long nights of study. And, yet, it seemed sad, to have it all end.  How could the time have gone so quickly?  I watched as Jacob made  his way into the hall and found his seat in a sea of silver caps and gowns. He didn't look around, there was no triumphant fist-pump as he entered. Suddenly, I saw my child in a different light.  No longer was he the loud and boisterous boy whose laughter carries through the floors and walls of our home.  He wasn't the confident Scout, who leads songs and skits without abandon.  Here, he was 'school-Jacob', shy and unsure.  In a crowd of over 500, he has a  handful of friends.  The images he's painted for me- lonely school lunchtimes and sitting alone- came crashing in.

What happens when you take a week off the internet? For me, lots of housecleaning. And a strange feeling of longing every time I got on my computer. Also, people start playing tag. I've been tagged twice by two of my favorite blogs- Larissa at Papa is a Preacher , who is lucky that she lives far away from me, because I'd be so tempted to kidnap her and call her my own. And Sleepy Joe at The Life and Writings of Sleepy Joe , who is a great writer and who gives me a thrill just thinking that someone from England would read my blog. I'm supposed to tell you eleven things about myself (for both tags that would be 22! whew!). Now, I know you're thinking, 'Gosh, I wish Jewels would tell us more about herself. She's such a closed book. A mystery. A mystery wrapped in an enigma.'  I'm not sure I could come up with that many, even remotely interesting, things about me. So, instead, I'll just answer their questions.  That'll probably tell  you more tha