GETTING BACK UP

It's probably some special little law of thermodynamics or something that events happen or items appear in groups--pairs at least--like cataracts of traffic on an otherwise empty highway.  Yesterday, there was such mash-up. My son had had a rough day.  He's still in recovery mode after a nasty spat of colds at home (I'm still trying to get over mine), and more simply, earlier he'd woken up on that proverbial, and despicable, wrong side of the bed.  We all know what that's like.  And who could blame him when he objected to going to school, where, as if in confirmation of his dread, he got hurt and came home later that afternoon with a band-aid on his arm?  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I take Jacob to his karate class right after he gets off the bus.  Generally, he really enjoys it, but yesterday, just after getting dressed, while pushing shut the folding doors of his closet, he got his finger pinched between the panels and cut himself again--a nasty little slice, this time on his finger.  More, he's just recently graduated--been promoted--into the Juniors Class (up from Little Ninjas, where he was, by far, the  top dog), in which he competes with kids 6-12 years old.  He's tall for six, but he is still just six!  Most of the class is a lot bigger.  The curriculum is a lot harder.  Some of the kids are really good.  Really good.  Jacob is naturally competitive.  (Well, mostly he just really likes to win and hates to lose.  I guess this and "competitive" are not exactly the same thing.)

Anyway, he and another recent Little Ninja grad teamed up for some sparring.  Together they won five bucks-a-piece "karate kash" for performing best in the class.  Great, right?  Usually when Jacob wins even just a buck he comes running over to me (hastily bowing "respectively" at the edge of the mat) and proudly waves the bill in my face. I then get to use it as a bookmark until we get back home where I put it with the rest of his small cache in the kitchen cabinet.  Well, yesterday, he didn't bring me the kash.  And it makes sense, other kids don't go running around in this class, dashing over to mommy or daddy for this, that, or whatever; the discipline for the juniors is several notches up from LN, and you gotta be tough.  As nails.

Soon after the successful sparring, which, as I said, he didn't personally celebrate, was a game of "Sensei Says."  This is the second time Jacob's played the game with his new class.  The first time, he went out in the first round, and he was fine with it.  He was still a little awed and intimidated.  Yesterday, still essentially brand new and totally green, he beat out more than half the kids in the class, lasting several dozen commands (no mean feat), and when he got out he sat, slowly, almost delicately, and for about thirty seconds was strong.  Then he broke.  The day had been too much (and I didn't even know about all of it yet!), and right there, in the middle of super cool karate class for big kids, Jacob started, silently but quakingly, to sob.  I stood anxiously, and one of the assistant teachers brought him to me.  (The teachers are truly wonderful in this school.)

It took about ten minutes for him to calm down.  I held him on my lap and tried to talk to him, but he wasn't in the mood.  Of course, this was a classic, great "father" moment.  I couldn't "let" him not go back out on the floor to finish class.  I had to teach him that, you know, when you fall you've got to get back up!  Well, wonderfully, with prodding from me and another fantastic teacher, he did, and I was really proud.

In the car on the ride home he was very quiet.  I asked him what was bothering him.  I thought I knew what it was, but I wanted him to talk it out.  I don't want him to be like his old man who buries everything where it--whatever "it" is--can fester and rot and try, tempt, and even destroy my emotional immune system.  But he remained quiet.  I was torn, of course.  I wanted to respect his privacy, too, but, again, he's only six!  I want too to know what's really going on in there, at least just to make sure that something, well, bad isn't going on.  Finally, just before pulling into our driveway, he said, and with heat, "Some kids at school made fun of my picture today!"  Jacob, and rightfully so, prides himself on his ability to draw superheroes.  Today was Spiderman, but apparently these kids thought his drawing looked stupid because the oval of the hero's head was sideways, instead of "up-side up," the way it should be and the way Jacob meant to do it, but didn't.  He hadn't said anything about this when he came home from school--just the cut on his arm.  I watched him in the rear view mirror and could see again the sobs working his larynx and into his shoulders.  Amazingly, once home and inside, cookie in hand and "Clifford" on the tube, he on the love seat, his sister on the couch, he was as happy as could be, and the rest of the evening was peaceful.

For him.

I'd just gotten my rejection letter from BYU's J. Reuben Clark Law School, my first and most-hoped for.  Most, if not all, of you know this, of course.  And it's kind of a big deal!  We'd really like to stay in Utah, rather than uproot this little family for the sixth time in three years.  Of course, The University of Utah is still undecided about me, and, really, whatever happens will happen.  But that rejection....  It smarts, and not just because now I'm not going to BYU.  I've been accepted to other schools, after all--good schools (not as good, but you know...) --I've gotten my five bucks karate kash, but Jacob's right.  Sometimes it's really hard to go back out on the mats and finish class.

He did it.  Maybe I just need a cookie and my favorite TV show.

THAT'S MY GIRL

One of the best things (and one of the only, when it really comes down to it) about having a job, not to mention being married with kids, is getting such beautiful (to me they're beautiful) updates from home.  It just wouldn't be as great if I were there--and that's not to say I'd rather be at work; it's just that the contrast here makes things like this that much more, well, precious.

Here is a perfect example:

My wife posted this on her blog earlier today.  *sigh*  I love my family.

Family vs. the Edict of Bud

There's nothing like campfire smoke and one-on-one time with you five-year old boy for granting articulation and/or first-hand evidence to a philosophy, and I'm not talking about Jacob's philosophy, of which there is endless supply, but to this:

I work to live; I don't live to work. 

I've always felt this way, but never thought it would contribute to the decision of whether to stick with or quit my employment.  It wasn't the primary issue, as you should know, but lack of pay, which I've made pretty clear and public.  Over the last three weeks, I really haven't thought too much more about it; I've felt very comfortable in my decision (even if uncomfortable with unemployment).  But last night and this morning, I got a little reinforcing boost.

Our ward had its annual Father and Son Camp Out last night.  Jacob and I haven't attended one of these yet, despite annual opportunities.  I realize now what I've been missing.  We had a blast!  Funnily enough, I don't think we would have gone if we had money and a career and whatever else.  There's something about scraping for absolutely everything that makes you appreciate the little things a lot more.  I mean little things like M&Ms or enough gas in the car to drive to grandma and grandpa's for no more reason than saying hi.  Or the six bucks we anticipated as toll to drive up the canyon to the campground.  (Thankfully, we already had tent and sleeping bags; that would have been a lot more than just what we could find by scraping!)

"We can't afford six dollars;" "Maybe we need to afford it;" "How?" "Let's dig for quarters;" "Do you even want to go?" "I think we need to go;" "Jacob needs to get out of the house;" "I need to get out of the house;" "Do you even want to go?" "Of course.  It will be fun;" "Let's dig for quarters."

We found out shortly thereafter that when going to this particular campground, owned by the LDS church, all we had to do is say so at the ranger's pillbox and they'd let us pass.

We did, they did, and Jacob and I drove up the canyon, windows down, listening to The Great Brain and eating M&Ms (we couldn't afford those either).

About a month ago--a little more perhaps--I got in bit of trouble with the Bud.  (You all remember Bud?)  He thought I wasn't putting enough effort into my work.  (!)  (And when it comes right down to it, I'm pretty sure he's grateful he doesn't have me anymore, as now he doesn't have to pay me!  In fact, several times over the last year he's even complained TO ME about how much he has to pay me ("Oh, but you're worth it, Joe," he'd chase with every time).)  This is part of what he said:

I have put my family second on numerous occasions to make sure that yours is taken care of. You must make this your number one priority. Even if you have to do something uncomfortable over and over again.

Hmm.  I don't remember that in my job description.  And he was trying to guilt me into it!  Am I required to sacrifice my family just because he sacrificed his?  This is an extreme that has led more than once to the end of families, some of whom I know quite personally.  There's no way I'm going to let that happen to me.  If my family is the most important thing, why in the freaking world would I not put them first?

And I'm not talking about the balance of taking care of them via employment and whatever else, like on the airplane how you have to put the oxygen mask on yourself before your kids.  I WANT to work!  But we're talking about extremes.  Here's the other end of the spectrum (on the far right is The Edict of Bud):

(on the left)
Unemployment (and I mean doing absolutely nothing), but having family and going on camp outs and wrestling with kids and making dinner for my wife.

It's Angie who always deals in extremes--black and white.  Period.  Done.  I, on the other hand, am always looking at subtleties and gray areas, where I feel I find 98% of the world.  Well, this must be part of that remaining two percent.

I work to live; I don't live to work, because homeless and together is a lot better than rich and alone.  Last night proved it.  Period.

Family first!

Okay, Turkey, You Fly It

-- in the process of writing a "real" entry --

-- kids watching "Flight of the Navigator" --

-- what a totally crappy, yet totally awesome, old movie --

-- funny how the worst movies sometimes manage to supply the best quotations --

Saying Goodbye

A beautiful account of an annoying cat, by my wife, Angie:

Seven and a half years ago I met a cat.  This was an interesting thing for me.  I was raised in a home where the common saying was, "Run it over!"

I know what some of you readers are thinking, but that's just the way it was.  My grandma is deathly afraid of cats and that fear and dislike were passed down to her eight children who in turn passed it to their children.  Cats were just not a part of my life--EVER.  On my mission we would often find ourselves at "cat ladies'" homes.  They would live in tiny apartments with 20 cats that would crawl all over me, while I would try and teach the Plan of Salvation.  Their claws would tear my brand new nylons, and I would paste on a happy face and then freak out after we were far away.

A few years later I met this guy named Joe.  I fell head over heels for him.  One Sunday we went to visit his grandma, Nelda, at her assisted-living home in Provo.  I was forewarned that she had a cute little cat name Figaro.  I took a deep breath and inwardly gave myself a pep talk that, yes, this guy was worth it.  He was and still is.  :)  We had a nice visit with Nelda.  She gave us ice cream bars, and I was really enjoying mine, until this crazy white fur ball came leaping across the room and ate mine!  The nerve!  Thanks for nothing, Figaro!  I'm serious, that cat was crazy!  Little did I know what was about to happen....

This guy Joe asked me to marry him, and I said YES!  We planned a beautiful reception and got prepared to be husband and wife.  Great times....  

One day I came to visit, and much to my surprise, and I admit, dismay, Figaro was there.  There was a cat living in my future home.  What!?!  *  NO!  *  Yes.  *  Really?  *  Uh huh.  *  Wow!  *  Okaaayy. 

The biggest shock of all was that after getting married and moving in, I came to really like that crazy cat.  And let me tell you, he was crazy!  He was so feisty.  We would spend hours sitting on our bed running our fingers under a blanket while Figaro would attack them.  It was the funniest thing I'd ever seen!  Really.  Figaro talked a lot, too:  Meow.  Meow.  Meow.  Meow.  Meow!  Meow!  Meow!  Meow!  MEOW!  MEOW!  MEOW!  MEOW!  All the time!

I loved sharing stories about Fig with my first graders.  They asked about him everyday.  It became part of our morning routine.

One day we got brave and let Fig outside.  He'd never been outside before.  He was so scared.  I was, too.  I didn't want my cat to get hurt.  Days passed, and Fig would beg to go outside.  More days passed, and we would have to go search for Fig to get him to come in for the night.  Figaro learned to hide in the ditch.  He didn't want to come in.  He loved adventure.  One day we got home from work to find that Fig had been hurt by the neighbor's mean cat.  "Run it over!"  (What???  Did you think I'd changed completely?  Um, NO.)  Nobody hurts MY cat and gets away with it!

We frantically called the wonderful veterinarian of the family for some professional and fatherly advice.  Figaro got better, and our world once again became calm.  That is until we discovered I was pregnant.

All my old fears returned.  The cat might hurt our baby, I thought.  I decided, for us, that the cat had to go.  We ended up heading to Michigan and my sister, Dianna, inherited a cat.  She was beyond excited. 

One night in Michigan, we called home and learned that Figaro had gotten lost.  I found myself on my knees pleading with the Lord to help that silly four-legged monster find his way home.  He did.

Years passed.  Figaro became a permanent fixture in the Olsen home.  He was always around to great us with his loud meows whenever we came for a visit.  I would often find him and tell him my problems, fears, and frustrations.  I knew he always agreed that I was right because he would purr in contentment every time we chatted.  

Now fast forward seven years to the present....  My parents and sister moved two months ago.  They aren't allowed to have any pets where they currently live.  There was no getting around it.  So Fig's been living with us.  It's been like old times.  Except now we have a cat of our own and the two of them HATE each other.  Fun, fun, fun!  And I had forgotten just how much Fig talks.  It's annoyingly great!  One problem.  We can only have one pet here.  Fig had to go.  What to do?

My dad posted an ad on KSL.com.  Weeks later he called and said he needed to come get Fig.  I didn't think much of it.  I figured Dad was just coming to take him to his place and "pretend" the cat wasn't there.  This was last Sunday. 

Figaro and I had a nice little chat.  I hugged him.  Told him I loved him.  He said he loved me, too, and that he would be mine forever, no matter what.  He's getting old, but he returned to his feisty ways, and we played the blanket game for a while.  I gave him a hug and a kiss.  He kissed me back.  I went into the bathroom for a while.  When I came out, I learned my dad had come over.  A man had responded to the ad.  He wanted to adopt Figaro for his girlfriend, whose cat had died the night before. 

In the few minutes I was in the bathroom, the man had come and taken my Fig. 

My heart broke.

Someday, in the next life, I know that Figaro will get to choose who his family will be.  At least I think so.  I hope he chooses mine.  I miss that annoying guy.  More than I ever thought I would.  

Dear Fig, I hope you're okay and that you understand why we had to say goodbye.  You're the best friend a cat-hating girl could ever have.  I love you, Figgy.