My Kingdom, My Bus

A driver in her tiny fiefdom. 

I was subbing on a bus route yesterday (there's no preschool on Wednesdays), and in the late morning I was taking high schoolers from the technical school back to their high school. I welcome all the kids as they climb on (I have to count them, after all), but I don't try to make conversation with them. High schoolers are very self-absorbed. They don't usually make eye contact or acknowledge that I'm right in front of them. I am merely a fixture. Their ears are most often stuffed with earbuds.

On the drive, one of the girls in the front seat asked me if it's hard to drive a bus. I responded that it is very different than driving a car, but once you get used to making turns and compensating for 40 feet of bus behind you, you get used to it. I said it only took a few weeks for me to get trained. Then I waved my hand at the buttons panel and said, "You even learn what all of these are for!"

A moment after I stopped talking, I heard her seat mate say quietly, "You didn't ask for her life story!"

Roll eyes.

This is why I drive preschoolers. Preschoolers are happy to give me a high-five or knuckles when they get on the bus, and they love it when you're excited to see them. Give them a little kindness and attention and they're your best friend. They have not yet learned sarcasm.

On the first run of the day today--just before the sun rose--I was picking up junior high kids from a nearby town where the streets are all kittywampus. It's a very confusing area to drive in.

It was dark, and I couldn't tell where my first stop was as I crept along, trying to see house numbers on unlit porches. Turns out I missed the first stop, because the dad of the kids at that stop stomped up to the bus door a few stops further down, after chasing me in his car, and was quite upset with me for not seeing him flashing his headlights at me to stop. I sincerely apologized and told him I was completely unfamiliar with the route, and he calmed down when he recognized that I wasn't the normal driver. What I didn't say is that I have a 50-foot blind spot directly behind my school bus, so no matter how much you flash your lights, I'm not going to see you; and if I do, I might just assume you're a serial killer and speed up to keep the kids safe (not really. I would probably never notice unless I was trying to change lanes).

A trick I've learned when I'm subbing on a junior high run: when it's dark in the morning, turn on the roof light in the very back of the bus. Most of the kids that age think a substitute driver is an excuse to get crazy, and they love sitting in the back of the bus. With the light on, they know I can see them in my mirror, and they tend to behave a lot better. I learned that the hard way, so I've been passing that nugget of wisdom along to all the new drivers I encounter.

Bus drivers, as a group, are a fairly cantankerous lot. We tend to be quite independent-minded, and driving a bus is ideal because you're not being micromanaged by some supervisor looking over your shoulder. Your bus is your little fiefdom. That independent spirit also means that some bus drivers always feel they know better than the administrators and will argue with every new procedure or request. Seriously, it's like herding cats. Individually, we're pretty friendly people, and most of us drive buses as a side-hustle. Many bus drivers are actually small business owners and entrepreneurs who just need a little guaranteed extra cash. As a group, though, I'm not sure how anyone puts up with us. I like most of the drivers on a one-on-one basis, but having a crowd of us at a party would be a disaster.

I named my bus "Wildfire" in honor of Rex O'Herlihan's horse in the classic spoof western "Rustlers' Rhapsody." On, Wildfire, on!

Sideways

My daughter sent me these pictures of my grandson.

I can't stop looking at these pictures. I just want to hold that little guy and kiss him all over his tiny face and head. And if I run into anyone I know, I whip out my phone and make them look at the pictures, too.

Sian told me she put Tyler into the bassinet we bought for him. It vibrates when you push a button, and he really likes it, which is why he looks so happy.

Oh my gosh. Could you not just eat him up? He's a little over six pounds now, so he's doubled his birth weight. Way to go, kid!

In other news, I've been called as the ward Relief Society president. That is not something I ever, ever wanted to be, but I knew it was a distinct possibility about two months ago. When the former Relief Society president's husband was called as our new bishop, I knew she would have to be released and a new president called, and because I was the first counselor, I started going through the stages of grief. First was definitely denial. "Nope, nope, nope. Not doing it, Lord." I also did some bargaining. There was anger in there, too. Finally, I accepted it: "Fine, Lord, if that's what you want. But You know I am who I am, and if You still want me, You'll have to fill in for my flaws and faults," and that's when the call was extended.

Sadly, one of my first duties is helping with the funeral of one of our beloved congregation members, who just died after a relatively short battle with colon cancer. Her oldest daughter never married, and she has lived with her mother and taken care of her for years and years. But as soon as her mom died, all the relatives came out of the woodwork making demands and telling the daughter how she was doing everything wrong. They feel entitled to come into her house and take whatever they want, whether or not it's the daughter's or her mother's.

I hope my children never act like that when I and their dad have passed away. I will haunt them if they do. I'll whisper to them as a ghostly specter, "I brought you into this world and I will take. you. out of it." I think it will have more impact if I am already dead and can be spooky.

Last but not at all least, Parent's magazine showed up unexpectedly in my mailbox yesterday. Thank you, Magazine Fairy, for the truly delightful surprise. I'm going to pass it on to Sian and Nathan when I go down to see them next week.

My Very Own Homecoming Queen

I'm the Queen Mother.

Yes, I have another queen in the family. This time it's the high school Homecoming Queen of 2018-2019. My very own Elannah.

She's my lovely girl, and look how perfectly she's doing the "pageant T" with her feet! 

She wanted to do a pageant, and this one is a little less intense than most. There were still essays and interviews and evening gowns and all the normal pageant-y things, but her reign would require a week's worth of her time and not a year (unlike her sister). Sadly, there was no scholarship money, but what the heck! Not every girl can say she was the Homecoming Queen of her high school. I certainly can't.

We had a lot of fun shopping for the dress. Having gone through a pageant with Sophia, I am now much more savvy about what type of dress the judges are looking for, and for these small pageants they like something simple but elegant--something that flatters your coloring and figure but nothing so fru-fru or slinky that it detracts from the actual girl inside it. Elannah didn't think she'd like the high-low skirt on this one, but I insisted she try it on for the excellent quality of the material, cut, and color. She ended up loving it immediately. Plus, with no skirt to trip her up, it was very easy to walk in her heels; she just had to perfect the train swish as she turned.

Her dad choked when I told him how much we'd paid to rent it. He's recovered now, but it was a bit touch-and-go for a while.

The Homecoming Queen and her big sister, the queen of our city. They're royalty, sisters, and best friends.

Elannah is done with pageants now. She's tried it out and doesn't see a future in it for her (I'm not complaining: pageants are stressful, time-consuming, and expensive!), and she's certainly not interested in trying to follow in her sister's footsteps for the city pageant. But it was a fun experience, and she got to sing the national anthem for the Powder Puff football game during Homecoming Week.

The one terrible thing in all of this is that I thought I was recording her interview, evening gown competition, and talent, but I forgot to hit the "video" button on my phone and merely took a couple of very bad photographs instead. I'm still kicking myself. Elannah did a musical theater number with singing and tap dancing for her talent, and she did it so well.

I did manage to catch the very end of the pageant.



You can hear Gabrielle mention at the end how stressed she was because we truly weren't sure if it would be Elannah or another girl who won the crown.

I'm loving that Elannah and I are the only two girls in the house now. She loves getting lots of attention from her mom, and she paid me a lovely tribute during the pageant. She's a good kid, and I'm really proud of how hard she's working to develop her character. She's decided to serve a full-time mission in a couple years, and she just got her Patriarchal Blessing last Sunday, which was a wonderful thing.

One last note: I feel bad about this (sort of), but one of Elannah's attendants was also one of Sophia's attendants. The same girl got beat out by two sisters. That's got to rankle just a bit.  

Let Me Tell You All My Woes, Deary

Read this, don't read this. I'm just warning you now that I'm going to go all grandma on you and talk about my health issues. Best to click away now.

Too late. Should have clicked away already.

So, my weight loss journey so far: over 40 pounds and stalled. I'm not gaining, but I'm really struggling to be motivated in a way that will propel me to start serious losing again. Why? I thought you'd never ask!

Issue the First: I don't know if it's the rapid weight loss, my age, or what I'm eating, but my cycle has become all kinds of messed up. IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT GIRL THINGS, LOOK AWAY NOW! For instance, I was...menstruating?...all through the month of August. Things were weird. I'll just leave it at that and not give you gory details. It could be that it's one of the signs of pre-menopause; it could be that all the soy protein I've been eating has messed with my hormones (soy isolate is a goitrogen, which can dampen thyroid hormones); or it could be just the rapid weight loss, because things have been a little weird since I started dropping weight. They just weren't that weird until August.

I went to the doctor, and she suggested a CAT scan or an ultrasound, but our insurance had just renewed for the year, which meant our deductibles were all fresh and greedy for a new year of medical costs, and all I could see was dollar signs adding up and a distinct "cha-ching" sound echoing through my head. I told her I'd rather wait a couple more months and see how things go, but in the meantime, I requested a full blood workup to see where things are. I should get the results soon.

After I told my mom about my symptoms, she remembered that my grandmother (who is still alive, by the way, and is 93), had similar symptoms when she was just a couple years older than I am now. She was diagnosed with uterine fibroid tumors on the outside of her uterus, and back then, the way they dealt with that was by giving her a hysterectomy. I looked up fibroid tumors and found that they rarely feel the need to give a woman a hysterectomy for them anymore. There are other, less severe, methods of dealing with them, including just leaving things be if you aren't in serious pain or aren't losing too much blood. If I have fibroid tumors, I'll probably just leave it be. As the doctor pointed out, it isn't recommended for middle-aged women to take birth control to stop menstruation because of the increased risk of blood clots. Not that I have ever enjoyed taking birth control pills the two times I've tried it. Ugh. I mean, your body thinks it's pregnant, and when I'm pregnant, I get constantly nauseated and emotional. Why would I do that voluntarily without the reward of an adorable baby at the end of it?

Issue the Second: the fatigue. Oh, the fatigue! Like a soaking wet piece of burlap draped over me, weighing me down, making my feet feel like lead, and forcing me to think thoughts through a damp haze. There is no time of the day when I don't feel like I've been up for 48 hours straight--even after a full night's sleep! By 8pm, I'm fighting the urge to lie down on the floor and cry and kick my heels like a tired and cranky toddler. I may not kick my heels, but I do slump over and do a dry cry, with no tears, before I force myself to get through the evening's activities. My lovely son, Joseph, has made dinner the last two nights simply because he saw how tired I was and helpfully volunteered. (He may end up being the only one of my children who moves out of the house knowing how to cook. Goodness knows my girls were never interested in learning!)

I went to a meeting a week ago, and after the invocation, I heard myself sincerely adding, "And please, please let someone at home make dinner for everyone and not wait for me to get home and do it."

Spoiler: they waited. Sigh.

I was hoping weight loss would fix the fatigue. I really, really was. I still think it's diet that is the underlying cause of this chronic fatigue, so I've been researching and researching all the standard and non-standard ways of eating that are out there because what I'm eating now is not making me feel energetic in any way. But then I remember that I was beginning to feel the wet burlap settle on me back when I was at my most active and at my healthiest weight back in college, so I don't think it's fat stores that have caused it. My diet did change when I moved out, so maybe that was it. Or maybe I'm just doomed. Either way, I'm tired of trying to eat healthfully just because it takes so much thought and physical preparation. Plus, there's the palate fatigue to deal with. I admit that I ate a package of ramen noodles after I got home from work today. Chicken flavor. With some of the broth. And I really enjoyed that way too much despite knowing they're pretty much poison. I won't slide back into my unhealthy eating habits, however, because I have no desire to add back all the weight I've lost. It makes me sick just thinking about getting that fat again.

Thanks for letting me vent, if anyone has even made it all the way to this sentence. (I told you to click away, remember? I'm looking out for you.) But venting here prevents me from telling random passers-by my woes or going on and on about it to Husband. He knows my worries. He just doesn't need to hear about it all the time.

I'll let you know if I find anything that works. Maybe my experience will help someone else.

A New Era

Yesterday, I made Elannah laugh so hard she cried when I admitted that one time I answered the phone and some random sales guy asked me if I was [my mother's name] and I said yes without thinking and then the conversation went on for about 30 seconds before I remembered that I am not my mother and had to interrupt the caller to correct myself and there was this long pause while we both pondered why it took me that long to figure it out.

And I was an adult when that happened. Married, with children.

Elannah had to wipe tears away. She said, "You literally turned into your mother!" I warned her it would happen to her, too, someday. Maybe not in that exact same way.

For some reason, I remembered that curious little incident because she was telling me about these two girls she has become good friends with this year and how the three of them have great texting banter.  "Banter" was the word she deliberately used to describe their conversations. Don't ask now what the exact connection was between female bantering and that tale of my complete loss of self-identity because I don't remember. I'm a little sleep deprived.

But my sleep deprivation also comes with a lovely little story of its own: my delightful, intelligent, tiny, amazing, preemie grandson finally got to come home from the hospital. I invited myself over to Sian's and Nathan's house this last weekend for two reasons: to let Sian get some sleep and to reassure her that she is a good mother.

Mission one: Sian and Nathan are too paranoid to let Tyler sleep while not being watched over. The nurses and doctors put the fear of God into them about newborns suffocating, so they now refuse to swaddle him or prop him up with a tightly rolled blanket against his back while he's sleeping--both things I used to do with my own newborns. Therefore, they take shifts in the night. Since I was there, we divided the night into three 3-hour shifts, and I volunteered for the middle one, 2-5am.

The only problem was that they have the one bed in their one-bedroom apartment, and Tyler sleeps out in the living room on a little makeshift bed on the couch because he currently refuses to sleep in his crib (the mattress is cold, and they're too worried about suffocation to put a sheet on it). Since Nathan had the first shift, I didn't have a problem sleeping with my daughter on their king-size bed for a few hours. But when Sian came in at 5am to take her shift, I told her to go back to bed. Not only did I want her to get more sleep, but I felt it might be kind of awkward to sleep in the same bed with my son-in-law. Love the guy, but that crosses some kind of line, amiright? So Sian got a full night of sleep and Nathan slept in the next morning and also got some good sleep. Parents of newborns really need that. Bonus: no awkwardness ensued.

Mission two: I have nothing but respect for the caring and knowledgable nurses and doctors who take such good care of preemies in the NICU. The unexpected consequence of having a baby in the NICU for nearly two months, however, is that a new mother constantly gets corrected or instructed on how to take care of her baby, and it's easy to start doubting your own mothering abilities and instincts. This is the case with Sian, and now that she doesn't have nurses and monitors telling her every little thing about Tyler, she feels overwhelmed and inadequate. So I spent a lot of time encouraging her and praising her as she very expertly fed him, burped him, changed his diaper, and reacted to all his little needs. I did not give her advice or tell her that she should do things the way I did them. She's doing a fine job, and I think she just needed to be validated, which I am perfectly happy to do. If there are two people in the world who will be good parents, it's my daughter and son-in-law.

While I was down at my oldest daughter's place, my third daughter was at my house. She's recently moved down to Utah Valley to get a job before attending college, but she still has duties as the reigning queen of our city, so on Saturday she needed to head back there to fulfill some of those duties. Also to see her boyfriend and give him presents for his birthday. But I'm sure her major reason was to fulfill her duties and see her dad, brothers, and sister. I'm sure.

What's great about Sophia's new living arrangement is that Gabrielle also moved in to the same house. It's a good house in a good neighborhood with good roommates. Gabrielle had lived with her previous roomies for three years now, but it was time for a change, and I was very grateful that she hopped on the chance to snag the empty room that was still available in Sophia's new place. She also got Sophia a job where she's working, which is at Geomni. It's a good full-time job with excellent pay, so now Sophia (who was living off her savings until she got a job) can afford long-term to pay rent, buy food, save for school, and enjoy a social life and entertainment. I couldn't be happier about this turn of events. It's kind of my dream to have my girls living with each other and looking out for each other, and I love that both of them also live close to Sian and Nathan and their new nephew.

Sophia's move has been really hard on Elannah, though. Sophia and Elannah are best friends, and it was difficult for Elannah after Sophia graduated from high school. Elannah also broke up with her boyfriend (I'm not sad about that, and it was her choice. He's a great kid, but they're young and I want Elannah to date more people), so she felt like she didn't have any close friends to be with at school this year. This is why I'm happy that she's found a couple of girls with whom she gets along so well and who share her dry sense of humor. She and her ex are back to being good friends (she can't imagine dating him again, however), and she's got some good male friends, but there's nothing like having a couple really good female friends who have your back.

Elannah also has a strong sense of duty as an older sister because Joseph started high school this year as a freshman, and she wants him to be comfortable. Joseph, as you know, was in the district's homebound program throughout junior high, and I was ready to sign him up for it again for high school when he announced that he wanted to register for classes and go to school for 9th grade. So I jumped on that, and he's thrived with all his new classes. You have no idea how much of a relief that is for Husband and me that he's taking such big steps to overcome his anxiety.

Yesterday evening, even as I got hit hard by the delayed effects of the sleep deprivation of the weekend (this is why you have babies when you're young!), I felt a great sense of satisfaction and joy as I sat with my sons and daughter and husband and had dinner and laughed and talked together. Life is good.

Renewed Motivation

I hate photos of myself. Sure, when I was a young, fit thing I didn't mind the photos so much; but as a middle-aged woman who is fighting the weight battle, photos of myself make me feel ill. These are no exception.

However, I needed some renewed motivation. I've lost nearly 40 pounds since the middle of March, 2018, and I'm thrilled with that. I honestly can't believe I've managed to lose this much! I have my health coach to thank, because without her dedication and selfless interest in my success, I would never have started losing weight in the first place. Instead, I would still be lamenting my fatness but failing to do anything about it.

The problem with summer, though, is that my schedule is completely open. Both Husband and I have the summers off because we work for the school district (and I still haven't gotten around to finding another writing job), so with family visiting from the U.K., a short vacation to Southern Utah (because when it's hot, why not go somewhere even hotter?), and all the staying up late and sleeping in late I've been doing, I've been way too tempted with foods I shouldn't be eating. I'm stalled at the moment--losing and gaining the same two pounds for the last several weeks. I thought a comparison photo would be a good way to see the progress I've made while also facing how much weight I still have to lose.

It's working. I do feel motivated to renew my efforts. Plus, I'm not wearing that blue shirt again until I've reached my goal. Spandex/rayon blends are unforgiving.

On the left: at Sian's wedding last August.
On the right: today.

Why Grammar and Punctuation Matter

It's not a scintillating title, unless it's read by someone like me: fascinated with the art and science of written communication.

This is me:

• I spent the majority of my time in grade school finishing my regular work as quickly as possible so I could get to what I really loved doing: reading and writing plays and stories.
• I took the grammar and composition course in high school FOR FUN! 
• I resurrected the literary magazine because I was sure my fellow students were as obsessed as I was with wanting to write beautiful prose. 
• I aced my honors creative writing course in college, and I especially loved it because there were only eight students in the class and I, therefore, got more attention from the instructor. 

For me, powerful written communication must include correct punctuation and grammar. It's the only way to clearly say what you want to say. It's your job as the writer to craft words into sentences that clearly and accurately convey your ideas. Grammar is the method by which you string words together coherently to make sentences and paragraphs. Punctuation gives the readers clues as to your true meaning. Failing to utilize even the most rudimentary grammar and punctuation skills means you expect your reader to somehow glean your meaning through a form of telepathy. It's a risky business; most of the people I know, including myself, are terrible telepaths.

I would never critique anyone's grammar or punctuation in a casual email, text, or social media post. But the sloppiness becomes an issue when the mistakes are repeated over and over and morph into bad habits. When I was on Facebook, I noticed punctuation trends sweeping across the digital landscape. For instance, I watched with horror as people quickly became convinced that apostrophes are to be used to make words plural. Now I see it everywhere in real life, and it makes me shudder every time. And don't get me started on the horrific (but often unintentionally hilarious) misuse of quotation marks. Or the way more and more people slap a comma into a sentence when they feel it's where the reader would take a breath to emphasize the next few words. That's not how commas were raised.

I have a friend who is a successful businessman. He's smart, savvy, and a good guy. One day, he proudly posted an image of his new business cards on a social media account. I immediately noticed a common spelling error and privately messaged him about it, concerned that his reputation for excellence would suffer from such an obvious mistake. He messaged me back and told me that he'd ordered a gazillion cards and didn't want to order new ones. He said the error would be our little secret. I didn't say anything about it after that--it's his business, after all--but I guarantee it won't be our little secret. Someone is going to notice, and they won't be impressed, and he might lose business because of it. I know I regularly quit reading articles by professionals when I realize they couldn't be bothered to re-read their text or get an editor to do it for them. It just tells me the author is sloppy and doesn't pay attention to details. Why should I listen to someone who is supposed to be imparting valuable information but can't be bothered to make sure they're doing it as clearly as possible? If a 500-word article is so poorly written, I would never buy one of their books or subscribe to one of their newsletters. Sloppy professional writing makes me crazy: I can't stop mentally editing, and then I completely miss the point they're trying (poorly) to make.

I think that the joy of cleaning up poor writing and allowing the author to express his/her ideas in the clearest, most coherent way possible is why I love to be an editor. There's a real thrill in helping someone communicate valuable information in the best way possible. I'm a total nerd that way. But I also understand how hard it is to write. How many of my blog drafts sit, languishing in their digital limbo, because I became disgusted with my lack of ability to write the way I want to? Answer: most of them. Even now I'm tempted to erase this entire post. It's like an itch you can't quite ignore.

So why do grammar and punctuation matter? They matter because the written word is one of the most powerful ways through which we communicate with other human beings. These rules aren't arbitrary, even if they change a little over time, and they are tools in making that communication as clear and understandable as possible. They aren't difficult to learn, but I suppose that if fewer and fewer people know them, it won't matter so much if they're used at all. But then we regress in our ability to communicate. That's what makes me sad.

A note: I do want to point out that different people write differently. Husband was reading this over, and he mentioned several places where he would have created two sentences out of one or added slightly different punctuation. He would have been correct in how he changed it, as well. I acknowledge that there are different styles of writing. But you have to know the rules before you can play with them, as any good cook or actor or athlete knows.