Forgotten Child

I really meant to post last night, it was on my to-do list. Sleep won. Sorry this is late this morning.

The other Sunday I had to arrive early to rehearse for a musical number. I was the third hand in the accompaniment. The men were required to attend another meeting in another building. The other accompanist has four children between the ages of 5 months and 6 years. She was helping me in Primary that day since the regular chorister wasn’t able to make it. After we finished practicing for the musical number and church was about to start, I took the two older children to Primary while she ran the 18 month-old child to nursery.

The first half went well but during the second hour the chorister grabbed my arm.

“I left my baby in the Relief Society room.”

Relief society is the class for the women. As my friend tore out of the Primary room I thought to myself, “Leaving a child in a room full of women isn’t nearly as bad as it could be.” Sure enough her son was sleeping peacefully. They figured my friend was feeling overwhelmed and needed someone to watch her son since her husband was at another meeting.

I can’t even begin to imagine the fear of leaving a child somewhere. My husband and I don’t have children at this time. I hope that if (or maybe I should say when) I accidentally leave a child it is in as safe a place as a room full of woman who know exactly where I am and are just trying to help.

8 Sept 2010

Nightmares

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had vivid dreams. Most of the ones I still remember from childhood are the nightmares. Not surprising really because they are the ones that were more emotional. Sadly, they were normally the ones that were the most coherent as well. Here are just a few examples of the nightmares I’ve had over the years.

Age 4(ish)

My little brother was born the year I turned four. I really don’t remember anything because I was so young. But something’s always stayed with me and I’m pretty sure it came from around that time.

The nightmare was a little red riding hood story. Instead of the wolf trying to eat the little girl, it was trying to eat my baby brother. I made it through the story without him being eaten but as the dream continued the wolf would pop out of the most unexpected places (like a loaf of bread at a grocery store) and eat my brother. It kept happening, over and over.

Age 6-7(ish)

I had a dream that was like a video game. The game consisted of different levels I had to complete. If I died, I had to start back at the beginning. The levels consisted of things like a rock slide, or water to explore. One had a witch that when she looked at me, I died. It never failed that there was always a woman in the room before me that I could hear screaming. I got so good that I could more often than not, rescue the woman. The final level was a Jester who had a mask and a knife. He would put the mask on, disappear, and then stab me in the back. I would then start back at the beginning and have to do it all over again.

Age 12-14(ish)

When I was older, I had the Jester dream again. I was able to get through all of the levels. I even killed the Jester, although I don’t remember how. Once I killed the Jester, I was the one with the mask and the knife. I would see someone come in, put the mask on, appear behind them and then kill them. I had no control over my body and was forced to kill people over and over.

Last Week

I dreamed I was going to a writing conference and we would get to have the first chapter of our story looked over by a “professional” group. I was the last person to be critiqued. Before I handed out the copies of my story one person said: “This is either going to be the best thing we’ve seen or the absolute worst.” I handed out my copies with trepidation and started to read my story. The first paragraph made no sense whatsoever and it went downhill from there. When I woke up the next morning, my heart was beating so fast and I had to remind myself that it was only a dream. Amazing how nightmares change over time.

15 Sept 2010

English Major

It amazes me how each Tuesday comes around and I’m frantic to find an interesting story of my life to post on Wednesday. For me writing fiction is much easier than trying to write interesting biographies that people other than my family want to read. Not that there are many people besides my family that currently reads this. I’m okay with that.

With my husband just starting a new semester in school it reminds me of when I went to college. When I started right out of high school I was so sure I was going to be an elementary teacher. I had everything figured out. The second week into the second semester I realized I would go crazy if I was an elementary teacher. Not that I don’t love children and enjoy spending time with them I just knew I couldn’t do it. What was I going to do if not be an elementary teacher?

Side note: Part of the dissuasion from the major was I took AP Calculus in high school and passed the test for a whopping 8 math credits. For an elementary education degree I was required to take a math class specifically for the major. I think they were supposed to teach us how to teach math. Not this teacher, we just learned basic math all over again. I had no problem; I finished the 100 question final in 15 minutes and got a 98% out of the class. I don’t complain about only having 98% because I spent most of the time playing the computer at my desk. There were a few people who actually struggled with that class. I couldn’t believe it, we weren’t even covering algebra or geometry. Drove me bonkers.

So I decided to major in communications because I really liked my speech class. Another couple of weeks went by and I changed it again. I finally settled on English with an emphasis in technical writing. I’m a shallow person and prefer reading genre fiction for plot over anything else. I do like symbolism and all that but I hate analyzing every paragraph of every page and trying to figure out what the author, who lived two hundred years earlier, is trying to tell us now. Don’t get me wrong I love classics such as the Brontë sisters, Charles Dickens, Victor Hugo, and Jane Austen.

So here I am, a technical writer who hates grammar but is slowly getting better through practice. I’m not good at the mechanics of writing but I wouldn’t call myself bad anymore. This is what a college degree gave me and I love it.

22 Sept 2010

Garbage Dumping and Other Useful Skills

My husband is currently part of the blue-collar workforce. One of his new responsibilities is acting as backup garbage truck driver, or sanitation worker, however you want to look at it. While I have always been very grateful I can drag the garbage and recycling cans to the curb one day a week, I’ve never really thought about what it entails. This last week I had the opportunity to ride in the cab while my husband did a quick run. It consisted of picking up a compactor and taking it to the dump. The first thing I noticed, besides the cool looking bulldog hood ornament, was the fact that I could see over the top of all the jacked-up vehicles on the road. I could actually see the horses in the trailers and I felt the need to cringe every time we approached a light. Interestingly enough, my husband never thought about the fact that he could see over almost every other vehicle on the road. I was happy to stay in the cab while he loaded the compactor, unloaded it, drove around to the other side, picked it up again, dumped it, unloaded it, drove back around, picked it up, and finally deposited it back where it needed to go. (Yes. That is really how it went. Because of how the cables hook up and the location of the dumping door it is a lot more extensive than I ever thought it would be.)

I sit at a computer for hours every day and create words. I don’t think I have the talent to be a sanitation worker. I’m terrible at driving big trucks and backing, I don’t think they’d ever let me get a commercial driver’s license which is required. I’m very grateful for the people who can actually work with their hands and machines. Trust me; if we ever have some kind of disaster I will be useless. Thank goodness for a mechanically inclined husband. We might be able to trade his skills and possibly my copyedited materials (as fire starter) for clean water and warm blankets. I do have plenty of copyedited material and rejection letters I’d be willing to burn. It wouldn’t break my heart at all.

29 Sept 2010

Sewing

I took sewing lessons for four years when I was young. I'm no seamstress. I've made several sets of curtains, a couple of cloaks, a handful skirts, and a many other projects never to see the light of day. I'm really good at sewing things that don't have to be worn. I'm not patient enough to actually try and fit everything perfectly. Clothes never hang or drape or fit the way they are suppose to. My blankets and pillows and patches work out well enough.

I completed two sewing projects this last month that make me really happy. My husband needs a costume for something we're going to in October. I was able to make a really neat shirt from compiling two shirts together. It actually looks like it is suppose to but then again I bought two ready made shirts and made sure they fit him and basically just switched the sleeves and added a hood. Really not that difficult but I did it.

The other project I complete was lengthening a pair of jeans. I bought a pair for six bucks that were a little too short. I cut off about seven inches of pant leg from another pair that are worn out and sewed them to the bottom. Since the fabric color doesn't match I cuffed the extra length and sewed it in place. My trousers are now long enough and you can't even tell that the bottom is part of the original pair. My four years of weekly sewing lessons have paid off.

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