My Goodness

How good do I really want to be?


Have you ever asked yourself that? Where is the line between discipleship and
insufferable-ship? When do you say enough is enough, I don't want to get any better and I'm beginning to get weirded out with all the effort?


I've known people who have crossed that line. They have gone over to the side in which their righteousness intimidates and alienates the people around them. The side in which religion has become almost an obsessive compulsive dissorder. I worry a little bit about that.


Has anyone ever found that wonder spot? The place in which religion comes from an easy joy in the heart rather than a guilty pit in the stomach? I think I have but the minute I realize that's where I am lost. I think I know people who live in that spot, but do they know that's where they live? If I told them would they no longer live there? Should I keep it a surprize?


Sometimes I look at the stars and wonder whatever this is all about. Whether I should be much gentler or much, much harder on myself. I wonder where my heart stands. I wonder if I know enough about God's nature to know where to stand. I wonder if he's mad at me. I wonder if He really really does love me. I worry that He's doing both too much. I wonder if I'll ever puzzle it out.

"Wiggle, don't jiggle."

I heard that when I was sixteen after leaning over to tack a poster to the top of a chalk board.

"You're getting a little fat"

That one was by a boy who simultaneously pinched the skin underneath my chin when I was fifteen.

"You have a stomach butt"

I heard that one after I showed my sisters my after-three-babies tummy.

"When is the baby due?"

Six months after I had Abe, in the temple. I heard Satan cannot have power in the walls of the temple, so I suppose that urge to kill was just me.

And the hits just keep on comin'.

But, I've got to say, stomach butt hurts the worst. I wonder how many plastic surgeons have sisters to thank. I know mine will.

Why is it that I can't remember what the funny thing was that I was laughing about the other day but I can remember distinctly how I felt in seventh grade when I stood up to give a definition on a vocabulary word and five boys started rubbing their desks (to demonstrate what I was as flat as)?

I wonder if someday, when our recollection is perfect, it will also have perfect perspective. That would be a nice feature. I am officially submitting that right now, someone take a note. Because there are whole years of my life I remember with less clarity than the time that I heard a bunch of girls whispering that I was too fat for my jeans. We were in a Wet Seal, and the curtains on the dressing room were purple, and the jeans were Calvin Kleins that I got on clearence, and those girls were supposed to be my friends.

See?

This is not original territory, I know. But it's the least original territory that is usally the most keenly felt, that's why there is still good money in country music.


And I have a way to combat all this negativity. My Dad taught me when I was fifteen. He said;


"They're just intimidated by you, honey"


Yeah. That's right. I was now armed with the ultimate comeback to say in my head, to myself, when alone, usually with cookies. They are all clearly just intimidated.


The more you say that to yourself, the more sense it makes; yeah, that's the ticket, he just had to pinch my chin fat because otherwise he would have been too intimidated to approach me. It all makes sense now. People have to accuse me of jiggling rather than wiggling (which, by the way, is preposterous, since everyone knows that whenever possible I prefer to wiggle and jiggle, you know, you really have to do your best to please both parties, that's just good statesmanship.) because they are intimidated by my presence. My sisters are just intimidated by my stomach butt...wait...

As time has gone on I've ran into a few holes in this logic. For example, has anyone noticed alot of people on reality television say that same thing, kind of a lot? People on reality television that no one is really intimidated by at all, unless as a possible public health hazard? I think that maybe some dads confused pity and intimidation when talking to their kids. Not my Dad, though. He knows. He knows that difference, in words.

Right?

Sit down around the fire kids and I'll tell you a tale of the day I met one of the greatest artists in pop history.

Abe was skipping slightly ahead of Dee and I as we walked through Gateway, he was three and adorable. As he skipped he ran into a man dressed in head to toe black with several necklaces hanging from around his neck, one of them was a large crucifix. The man kind of skipped around Abe and laughed good naturedly as Dee and I smiled good naturedly in return. We passed the man and walked about ten more feet before we turned to each other we said simultaneously;

"Was that Bono???"

We walked a little further, trying to be cool, and when that didn't work we turned back around to try to find him again. We were obviously looking for him when a manager approached us and told us that if we stayed where we were he would bring Bono out to see us for autographs and pictures. This was the one time I have ever regretted not having a cell phone.

I turned to Dee and realize that my 16 year old sister, the one whose existence had been reminding me that I was old, uncool and pregnant, had gone Japanese school girl crazy.

I have never felt so hip to a scene in my life as when I got to say "Be cool, Dee."

With three words I had become an expert and was now giving instruction.

Bono patted my belly. We asked him what on Earth he was doing in a Salt Lake City? He joked that he was looking into Mormonism. Some people may feel differently but I love Mormon jokes, and while it wasn't really a joke joke I appreciated that his banter was witty and topical. Hahahaha, oh Bono we said.

Then he surprised me. I guess he wanted to take the ball and run with it.

"Yeah, I guess I want to worship goats, or something."

Hehe..he....ehh. yeah, that's not great. You can keep that autograph.

This is the white, Catholic Irishman who wrote the most moving tribute ever made to the life of Martin Luther King Jr. This is the man who does wonderful work for AIDS, for Africa, for peace in the world. This is a man who sang a revolution of peace for Ireland. He is a great artist and a great man.

So I could not believe that I heard someone like that throw out such an ignorant statement as a joke. Clearly the point was to illustrate that he knew nothing of Mormonism, but also that the little he did know was that we are crazy. Obviously he was also not aware of how prevalent Mormons are in freakin' Salt Lake City, or I would imagine he would have leaned a bit more on the respectful side.

I was a little disillusioned by that little interchange, but lately I've been thinking about all the less than great stuff that comes out of my mouth without thinking.

So do I still think Bono is a genius and a great man? Absolutely.

I've decided that the whole experience just further illustrated to me that we all have our prejudices. We all have people, or religions, or scenarios that we think we can peg without looking too closely, and we can't. You can be freakin' Bono and still have moments where you are maybe a little bit insensitive. And somehow that make me feel a little bit better. It makes me feel like we are all just trying, and we can try to be sensitive to others who are different from us and we can also try to be understanding when someone falls a little short of expectation.

So I guess I'm still with Bono, just one more in the name of love.

My Medical History

Dear Doctors Sharp and Young,

Can I just say thank you?

Like everyone else I've been hearing a lot about health care lately, death panels, socialism vs. private options and all that jazz. And it's brought me back to a time ten years ago, when you helped me.

I was nineteen, I was broke, and I was a mother. I was also on Medicaid. You could have looked at me walk into your office and jumped to all sorts of tidy conclusions, that I was unmarried (I was married), that this child was unplanned (she was planned), that we were irresponsible for getting pregnant with no thought to our financial situation (that part was probably true), and perhaps you would have felt entitled to pass judgement, since your practice would be footing much of the cost for my care. I was a kid, a pregnant kid, and my health and my child's health was now your job.

But you never did pass judgement, you were never condescending. You, who had worked hard through medical school and residencies, who had earned with hard work your right to feel superior, treated an uneducated nineteen year old as your partner in providing a healthy environment for a new child. I can't tell you how much that continues to be appreciated.

Perhaps you had to take on a certain number of Medicaid cases. Perhaps if you had been given the choice you would have only treated patients based on their ability to pay. You were, I found out later, two of the best doctors in the state. People would certainly pay. I got world class medical care, which makes you wonderful doctors.

But as importantly, I was able to walk into your offices without feeling shamefaced, with hat in hand, which I think makes you wonderful people.

My husband and I are poster children I suppose, for the Medicaid program, he was a college student when we had our oldest child. After student loans and tuition and books medical bills would have financially buried us. We needed temporary help. I can't comment on other situations in which dependence is a way of life, but I can tell you I was grateful that we could have gotten help when we needed it, and that help was given with such an attitude of caring, and pleasantness, and service.

I have to go walk my kids to school now, and I'll stay and volunteer in the classroom and I'll make copies and cut and staple and quiz children on spelling and I'll try to help because I've been helped.

And I'll do it with a smile on my face and a caring disposition because that's how I've seen it done by the best doctors.

So thank you.

I Love the Whole World

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5BxymuiAxQ

Someone to Watch Over Me

I barely make it day to day.

I look like a real girl, but if you look around the facade you'll see my husband, children, friends, church members, and family are holding up the cardboard cutout that is me. I'm forgetful, I don't remember how to jump a car, I have to be reminded by bank tellers how to deposit checks, I used a car wash for the first time by myself the other day, a very nice Russian fellow with hair peaking out of his wife-beater had to explain it to me. It turns out that it's kind of fun...soapy.

Any friend of mine should be sainted, because I am a crappy friend. I'll love you, I'll think good thoughts about you and not judge you, I'll hug you or want to hug you a lot, and I'm pretty fun. If you like not having to be a fool because someone else has already filled that position, I'm your gal. I'm also usually up for anything. I'm a pretty good time, but I will almost positively not remember your birthday, or bake you cookies. If you need help call me, and I'll show up, but if you need to schedule me a month in advance, you better remind me the day before or I won't be there. I don't bring handi wipes anywhere. I pack fried chicken and no napkins, jello with no spoons, and, if you're down, we can slurp jello out of our fingers and wipe chicken grease in the grass and laugh at our green greasy faces.

I ran a relay with a bunch of gals earlier this summer, I forgot my shoes. A couple of girls drove me to the mall.

The thing is I often don't need saving, it's just that I just don't mind being saved. If I have to, I'll run barefoot like the Ethiopians. Who needs shoes when you have spontaneity!

It's also sometimes embarrassing, I'm a child. In fact my children are often more productive and thoughtful than I am. They remind me that I forgot my keys, or their homework, and then shake their heads and say Mom is crazy. Somehow it doesn't sound like an insult the way they say it, and I can't believe the generosity of the world for little people who can say I'm crazy as if it's a virtue. That there are so many people in the world who make me feel proud of myself for who and what I am.

I gotta go, it's rain storming and Maggie and I need to go for a run and a stomp.

But thanks for providing shoes, good friends of the world.

Eeeewww, I Mean, I Love You.

My niece just got married, I really like the young man and have every confidence that they will have a very happy life together. They both have that humble, bashful sweetness that is so mysterious and enchanting to me. On practically the eve of their wedding I gave my niece possibly the most critical advice I can bestow on any married couple.

Fart in front of each other, before the wedding if possible, if not, as soon as you can after. It is golden advice.

Dave and I were going swimming together one sun sparkled day of our courtship and I noticed that he had a zit on his back. Some normal people might be able to look away and find something else to focus on, but I have never claimed to be normal. Do you remember the "Moley moley moley" scene in Austin Powers? Try standing in my eye line while sporting a giant whitehead and you will probably get a reenactment. It's not that I think your gross for having a whitehead, it's that I'm gross because I really want to pop it, or I want you to pop it, but for the love, someone please pop it!

Anyways.

Dave had a zit. I said "Ooh, you have a little zit, hold still and I'll get it". He stood still, maybe slightly mortified, I don't know, muttering something about it being a "sun blister" (awe, cute!) and I popped it. You know how you never want to clean your own house, but when you're cleaning someone else's it's oddly satisfying? Well I LOVE cleaning my own house! and this was even better! Thus began a satisfying relationship for me and a painful one for Dave. Little did he realize that this was only the tip of my really gross iceberg.

A few days later, he tackled me around the waist and threw me on the couch, landing on my stomach. Yup, that's right. I frogged (as I was forced to call it until I was twelve). Laugh with me not at me. But after that moment it was on. No more of the single person stomach aches for us, there was finger pulling, questions posed of whether or not one of us was trying to smuggle a duck in our pants, Dave would sometimes hold my hand so he could pull me behind him and laugh maniacally. We were in our own disgusting little heaven reserved only for us. I knew I had found my soul mate.

Things got worse, or better, after our marriage. There has been tandem bathroom usage since our honeymoon, that is until one of us has to tap out. A favorite McKay family motto is the Family that Picks Together, Sticks Together. (I need to cross stitch that on a pillow for our front room, or perhaps work it into a coat of arms at some point.)

Call us what you will, but there are advantages, most of them revolve around the fact that grosser days are in our future, and yours, whether any of us like it or not. Chances are that you will at one point be the adult diaper changer or changee and hiding normal bodily function from your spouse is just setting yourself up for further mortification on that dreaded day, whereas for us Dave will just turn lovingly to me and say "Pull my finger", and I'll guffaw and say "oh, you" as I pull out a fresh Depends.

But you don't even need to think that far ahead, some of the mothers out there can back me up, but if I had spent the honeymoon years of my marriage scared to let my husband in on my secret that sometimes I need to poop like every other mammal on the planet we never could have gotten through the experience of water breaking, baby crowning, placenta delivery, and, for some, actual pooping that is the labor experience.

It might have been my parents divorcing the same year I was married, but I planned things this way. I remember thinking very clearly that I didn't want Dave to have any surprises, I wanted him to know what he was getting so that if he didn't want me he couldn't claim later it was because he didn't realize what I was like. He knew exactly what I was like.

I was nasty, and I continue to deliver.

So for those of you out there embarking on the adventure of a new relationship I say to you; set the bar low (brow), those grumblies in your tumm-blies you're feeling don't have to last forever. A relationship in which you don't feel judged after eating some bad tacos frees up a lot of room to play. And for that matter, golden advice doesn't only have to be reserved for dating. I was going on about this to a friend when she said "you know what, my best friend and I were just acquaintances before we got sick at the same time in a Safeway after eating at Mongolian Grill, now we're like sisters."