Darais Days

In grad school, I learned the word, “meta.” After one year of listening to professors and students frequently weave this word into formal and informal conversation, I am still not quite sure if I understand exactly what the word means. But if pressed to give a definition, I’d say that “meta” means to think about thinking. You consider how your personal paradigm affects your approach to a subject, and then you break down your biases and analyze your thought processes along the way.

Abe is the first person I met outside of school that used the word “meta” in normal conversation. After getting to know him better, I realized that the reason he needs this word is because his very favorite hobby–and I am not making this up–is thinking. Whenever I watch him absent-mindedly stare off into space while masticating a meal I spent hours preparing, I remind myself that he is part Greek and can’t be blamed just because he likes to think about thinking.

I, on the other hand, am perfectly content to live without almost any meta in my life. The other day I found myself thinking too much as I wrote in my journal, and so I closed it and concentrated very hard on my bedroom quilt. My grandmother worked for 10 years on my quilt, and it is one of my heart-happy treasures. Looking at the gorgeous quilt solved my problems better than thinking ever could, and I went on to have a very happy day.

But sometimes–on rare occasions–I notice a theme in my thoughts. Some inarticulate question tugs at the back of my mind, forcing me to revisit a troublesome subject. My first instinct is to push it away, but the thought persists, and I find myself working through a series of questions, little by little. A little here while standing in line at the store, a little there while setting the table for dinner. Lately those troublesome questions have centered around blogging, and I woke this morning to discover the question pressed more than ever, and now I suspect–dare I admit it?–that I need to go meta on blogging.

I understand the risks! If you weren’t bored to tears by the first few paragraphs, it’s quite likely that by now you have decided that there are better uses for your time and have redirected to another more exciting web page. In that case, please enjoy your leisurely, meta-free time on the internet. I would do exactly the same if I were you. But at this moment, I am not you–I am me, and the me that I am wants to walk down this potentially almost certainly boring train of thought. Therefore, from this point forward I assume I am writing for myself, and I’m giving myself permission to be completely honest and introspective as I try to work out what blogging means to me.

Or what I hope it doesn’t mean. The troubling question that keeps nagging at me centers on whether blogging is an exercise in narcissism or not. After all, I am projecting on screen, in words and pictures, an image about my life, my thoughts, my experiences. And, often as not, I hit the little icon at the end of the blog which publishes the post to facebook, thereby guaranteeing a spike of viewer visits to the blog. So there seem to be two pieces to blogging: the create-and-project-me part, and then the publishing part. What part of this me-centric process is justifiable–or, for that matter, even time-worthy?

At this point, my thoughts wander to other people’s blogs. I love reading other people’s blogs!  Many are gorgeous works of art, filled with beautiful photos depicting children, food, and loving homes. I feel inspired and reassured to know there are so many good people in the world who love their families and who take the time to document their lives in such an artistic way. Sadly, I know my blog is not like theirs. I have absolutely zero photographic talent, and so I need to find meaning for my little blog outside of the realm of aesthetic gratification.

I read other blogs by hobbyists who document amazing crafts and who teach others how to do the same. I love these blogs, too, and although I have dabbled in the creation of crafty blog entries, I know that this is not my specialty either. Up until this point in my life, crafts have played a pretty minor role in my life, and to all of the sudden create a full-blown craft blog would be out of place–not to mention impossible.

I also read funny blogs. While some of the entries here may be a little funny, more often than not, my entries are just day to day observations on my life, and that’s not always particularly entertaining.

There are also political blogs, but by no stretch of the imagination is this one of those.

So what’s left? And if there even is anything left, why write it?

Here’s one potential answer I found this morning as I read the introduction to Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s book, Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History. Although her original intent when coining this phrase was to “help recover the lives of otherwise obscure women,” the phrase is now trumpeted on bumper stickers and t-shirts as a celebration of socially deviant behavior. This is especially ironic, considering Ulrich is a practicing Mormon who started her career (now culminated in a professorship at Harvard) making the lives of seemingly “well-behaved” women into documented history.

But I digress. What interested me most about her introduction was Ulrich’s explanation that the very act of documenting one’s life is a choice. As she wrote her Pulitzer prize winning book about an 18th century midwife, Ulrich explains that this midwife was by no means “a mover and a shaker,” but she did choose to keep a journal–and therefore chose to be a visible, documented presence in the world. That’s what made her different, and that’s what made her history.

A couple months ago I stopped hunting for a job. Abe and I decided together that our lives are richest when I am at home, cooking, cleaning, and creating, to the best of my ability, a kind of haven-home from the outside world. My whole life, all I have ever really wanted is to do exactly what I do these days. I love all aspects of homemaking and can even find purpose and joy in cleaning the toilet. (It sounds gross and unbelievable, but it’s so true.)

But I can say that the more I sink into these domestic patterns, the less my life feels like it counts outside the walls of my home. Maybe that feeling is or isn’t true, but the feeling is there either way. I often think back to the guest lecturers who spoke to us in grad school about educational reform and the importance of using education as a means of social activism, and I shudder to think what some of them might say about my present choices.

Nevertheless, this life is my choice, and furthermore, I seem to be choosing to document that through this medium. Not to make history–but, I suppose, to be visible. That motive doesn’t seem noble or altruistic, but it feels pretty basic. Everyone wants their life to count, right? I know enough to understand the blogging in itself does not make my life matter, but when I can write about my experiences–humdrum as those often are–I feel a little more complete.

So I guess I have more thinking to do on this subject, because I don’t feel like I’ve come to any conclusive answers about the purpose of blogging. I still feel ambivalent towards my blog, but I know I’m going to keep writing–regardless of whether people read or not. But for now I think I will take a break and stare at my grandmother’s quilt. It really is so pretty.

Remember all those cards from last time? Well, I decided to use them as an opportunity to send out pictures of our guests from our wedding and open house, but to my dismay, the pictures were a lot bigger than the cards. So I looked online to see how to make envelopes. Here is the best link I found: http://stamping.thefuntimesguide.com/2009/03/make_envelopes.php

I remember that when I went on splits with the sister missionaries in Rome, one of the sisters showed me how she made beautiful envelopes out of magazine paper. She did this to show love to the people she missed at home, and I was touched by those simple envelopes and what they represented. When I realized I need to make my own envelopes for anyone whose card includes a photo, I decided to use my Italy calendar as a paper source. How fitting! I had 11 months of beautiful photos that seemed to beg to be made into envelopes.

So I learned how to turn this:

into this!

By the end, I had an assortment of beautiful envelopes, like this one I am sending to my dear mother:

And to my brother:

And to various other loved ones:

Do you want to try? It’s so easy! I loved doing this, and because I want you to have the same experience, I am going to try to explain the process.

First, place your card in the part of the calendar that you want to show on the front of your finished envelope:

Fold the calendar over the card in two directions:

 
If one flap folds over too far, you can make a third fold to decrease the size of the flap:

Now fold the other two sides of the calendar over the card:

You should have creases that look like the picture below.  The picture shows you your next step, too, which is to cut away the corner creases of the envelope.

After the corners are cut, fold the bottom flap over the card, and then fold and tape the sides over the bottom:

Tape the top flap down:

And voila! You have a beautiful envelope to send to someone special. I found out that I gained a whopping TWELVE pounds between my last doctor’s visit and today’s, so I have decided to turn the energy originally intended for Christmas cookies to envelope making instead. They aren’t as yummy, but I think they convey the same message. What do you think?

One of the reasons I started a blog was to train myself to take more pictures. For years I have lived by the philosophy of “the moment is more important than the photo,” and as a result I have precious little photographic documentation of the last decade of my life. This will not do, and I am determined to change my ways before Lydia arrives.

Therefore, I was bummed yesterday evening when I realized that I had missed an entire day’s worth of fun photo opportunities. My sweet friend Amelia came down to Hyde Park and spent the day with me, and before we met up I packed my camera, resolving once again to be a better picture-taker. But alas, I had so much fun that I forgot to take a single picture until we were on our way back to the train station. The following are two pictures I took at a stoplight.

 

 

Lately I’ve had a bad sweet tooth. As in, I wake up craving cookie dough for breakfast, and then by lunch I’m ready for a milkshake. And since dessert after dinner is non-negotiable, I’m pretty much perpetually tripped out on sugar. My poor baby. Lydia literally does somersaults after each round of sugar therapy, and I’m beginning to worry that she’ll emerge a sugar addict, like her mom. But I can’t stop!

So I had this great idea. Find a recipe so sickeningly sweet that my body says, “That was soooo gross!! I give up!! No more, no more sugar, please! Just spinach and quinoa from here on out, and I’m good.”

Brilliant, right? Enter dream bars. I found this gem of a recipe in Joy of Cooking–and it even beat out the Martha Stewart cookie section entitled, “For Hedonists.”

The heading for this treacly item from Joy boasts that many copies of its cookbook have been sold on the strength of this one recipe alone.  It calls for toasted sweetened coconut, toasted nuts, lots of sugar, and a cloying lemon glaze.  I improvised and added two cups of chocolate chips for good measure. The result? Sweeeeeeeeet. After merely sampling the glaze alone, I retired moaning to the couch while Lydia did a series of flips inside my belly. When the actual pan of bars came out of the oven, I dumped the entire bowl of glaze on and escaped to another room while the sugar set. Then, once everything was cool, I sampled a bar:

It is now 20 minutes later, and Lydia is still kicking vigorously. She is only this active when I’ve OD’d on sugar. I’m still trying to figure out what that means…

Also, since we’re on the subject, Merry Christmas!! We celebrated Thanksgiving a week early, so I’ve started listening to Christmas music and putting up decorations. Mrs. Claus is happily camped out on my couch:

 

 

It’s one of those days. The weekend is over, Abe is at work, the sky is cloudy, and I feel melancholy. I can’t whine because I have nothing to whine about (other than the fact that I must look fat enough to deliver since today a random stranger  asked me if I was due soon and then looked shocked when I replied that the baby is actually due in March), so I’ve decided to cheer myself up by going around the house finding things that make me happy.

I know all the studies say that material goods don’t bring lasting pleasure and that, given a choice, you should spend your money on experiences that create memories instead of stuff. That philosophy appeals to me on many levels, and for the most part I am thrilled to throw away junk and focus energy on what matters (like the cake that I plan on baking when I’m done with this blog), but I am learning that there are certain objects that are valuable to me because they are attached to people and memories that I cherish.

For example, on our coffee table there is now a table runner made of fabric from the south of France. One summer my family visited my dear Auntie Sandy in Antibes, France, and I remember going to a fabric store while we were there. Sunlight streamed through the windows of the store, lighting up hundreds of breathtaking fabrics decorated with olives, flowers, and foliage. It felt like Christmas to me, and we had so much fun picking out beautiful material to take home to the States, where my grandma would turn these swaths of colorful fabric into tablecloths that we used regularly for the rest of my childhood.


There is also this part of my living room. The table is draped over with a cactus silk covering my brother sent to me while he was in Morocco, and the picture of the ship on the wall above was painted by my Uncle Steve. I love decorating with art created by family.

Here is a piece by Abe’s Aunt Andrea. In it you can see the faces of Abraham Lincoln and Abe’s grandfather, Alexander Darais. Abe’s family has always loved Abraham Lincoln (hence Abe’s name), and I have probably spent way too much time studying this painting and thinking about that connection.

Abe’s grandfather was a professor of art at BYU, and one of my favorite books in the house is a collection of his paintings and poems. It is delightful! I think Abe’s grandfather was way ahead of his time; decades before Michael Pollan and other contemporaries spotlighted the corruption of corporate agriculture, Alexander wrote poems contemplating the benefits of whole grains and painted pieces like this one, entitled, “Three Billion Served.” The photo of the picture is a little fuzzy, but if you look hard, you can make out the ghostly outlines of cows facing an open McDonald’s Big Mac carton.

Here’s the baby’s room in its current state. Obviously, it still undergoing the guest-to-baby room transformation, but I look in here at the soft colors and sunlight, and my heart feels happy.

Finally, this is a picture of the view from the toilet. I know, I know, but hey–I’m pregnant, and I spend a lot of time in the bathroom! While I’m in there, I like having interesting things to look at; otherwise, I’ll just sit there feeling sorry for myself and my over-burdened bladder. The vase was a staple accessory in my home growing up, and my mom recently gave it to me. The painting was an early lithograph of my Uncle Steve’s.

There! I think I feel better. Now off to bake a cake and listen to some Christmas music (we had an early Thanksgiving, so it’s allowed–I promise!).

This is Abe hard at work painting Lydia’s windowsills. The smile you see is forced. Because he is a textbook perfectionist, the task took him no less than nine hours. (There were a grand total of two windowsills in the room.) At hour number eight, he summoned me in the room for my opinion. To me, the windows looked great! I was anxious for him to be done so I could indulge in some of my lazier hobbies; I felt really guilty blog-stalking in bed while my husband spent his day off working hard on the baby’s room. (To my small credit, I could not help with the paint job because the paint fumes in our paint have been known to cause birth defects.) But when I expressed my enthusiasm for his good work, he interrupted me. “Oh, look!” he exclaimed, distraught. “Do you see that spot?”

“What spot?” I asked, trying hard to see what he was pointing at.

“That spot,” Abe said, pointing more specifically. I still didn’t see it.

“Ummm…”

It didn’t matter. He was already back at the window painting over imaginary spots. Did I mention I’m married to a perfectionist? Needless to say, the windows look fabulous, and Abe is now completely exhausted. He is currently winding down by playing Plants Vs. Zombies, and the sound effect of zombies saying “braaaaiins, braaaiins” makes for surprisingly soothing ambient noise as I type away.

We went to the temple this morning, and afterward Abe turned to me and told me that he’d gotten a spiritual impression to listen to General Conference while he painted today. His original plan involved watching the Utah vs. TCU game on TV, so when he got the impression to listen to General Conference instead, his heart sank just a little. But he was good and did what he felt was right–and in the end, Utah got destroyed by TCU, so Abe came out way more uplifted than if he had stuck with plan A. Yay for going to the temple and for spiritual guidance — especially when that involves eschewing sports on TV!

When it rains, it pours. Second post today…but I can’t help myself. Abe and his brothers made up a rap using a bunch of GRE words, and his brother just finished the video. His brother did the animation, too, which is great. Also, I didn’t recognize Abe at first. I listened to it without sound and really struggled to figure out which one he was! But then I turned the volume on and could tell right away. Here it is! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvZgMDNF-ok

So we found out on Thursday that we’re having a girl! I shed tears of joy upon hearing the news. All of my American Girl collection finally put into good use again! I knew there was a reason an entire closet of precious storage space is devoted to my dolls. Woo-hoo!

During the ultrasound, the technician kept pointing out all of our baby’s various body parts (the feet were exceptionally cute and exciting), but I was anxious to find out the gender. At one point, I pointed at the baby’s head and asked if that meant it was a girl. The technician got the hint (thank goodness) and switched to an image of our baby’s bottom. When she pointed out the lack of equipment between the legs, I started bawling. I spent the next couple hours envisioning myself playing dress up and dolls with my daughter [insert sigh of contentment here].

I’ve also had my daughter’s name picked out since I was in grade school. Lydia! I am named after my Aunt Lydia, but my parents used her nickname (Lily) instead of her given name. I’ve always loved my almost-name, and I determined at a young age to use it for my own offspring. And, because my mom’s middle name is Anne (and because I am a huge Anne of Green Gable fan), her middle name is Anne. So: Lydia Anne Darais. I can’t wait to meet her, especially since her current living situation is less than ideal–at least for me.

In the meantime, I continue to enjoy our calling as Sunbeams teachers. The little kids give us so much to look forward to! On Friday we hosted a Halloween party for the Sunbeams, and they were adorable.

Two of the boys are twins, and they charged into our apartment decked out as a knight and Darth Vader. The knight, Spencer, announced in a large voice that he was a very brave knight. Abe took him into a room where we had set up a “spider cave” and asked him if he thought he was brave enough to crawl through it. Spencer took one look at the cave and said in a somewhat smaller voice, “I’m not brave like that.”Abe and I have been laughing ever since.

The other sunbeam teachers, Betsy and Micah, came over and saved the day by providing spectacular food and really fun activities (including the apple faces that the kids are proudly holding up in their pictures). Betsy made a to-die-for steak chili and cut out little Halloween shapes out of cheese, and then she garnished it all with perfectly shaped, handmade ghost chips–eye holes and all. Their Fantastic Mr. and Mrs. Fox costumes were also handmade–can you believe Betsy made those tails and ears herself?

Abe and I were cookies and milk for Halloween. The picture is kind of dark, but it does a good job hiding my frizzy hair. (I hadn’t brushed it all day because I was so busy getting ready for the party.)

Speaking of party preparations, I could not have done it without my friend, Jennifer. She had originally agreed to come over to face paint for the kids, but then I ran into her around noon at CVS while I was doing some last minute party shopping. She offered to help me for the rest of the day, and for the next NINE hours she labored intensively, cleaning, decorating, creating handmade pumpkin awards for the kids, and generally ensuring I didn’t lose my mind during party prep. Thank you, Jennifer!

As I pulled into the DMV parking lot, I had a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. I glanced over at the seat next to me to go over my documents once more. Marriage license, check. New social security card, check. Passport, birth certificate, temple marriage certificate, old driver’s license, and every other official document I thought might mitigate the unpredictable turns of Chicago bureaucracy–check, check, check, check, and check. What was missing?

Then it hit me. To get a new driver’s license, I need a new picture! I glanced in the rear view mirror and recoiled in horror. I had not washed my hair in days, and the yolk colored shirt I had worn to bed the night before did nothing for my pregnancy-impaired complexion. I had left the house in my pj pants (a habit I had not indulged in since college days) because earlier that week I had literally busted through my jeans.

I was aghast. Months before when I realized I would need a new driver’s license to match my new married name, I had eagerly anticipated the opportunity to do a picture re-take. I remember resolving to spare no pains in coiffing myself for the event; I had not prepared for my last picture at all and have had to live with the aesthetically offensive consequences ever since. This was supposed to be my day to shine!

And yet, and yet. I did not want to drive all the way home. After all, it had already taken me months to getting around to the chore. I also driven out of my way to go to my favorite DMV located in the heart of the South Side. It is a gem of a place filled with bureaucrats who speak in perpetually placating tones, free parking spaces, and great people watching opportunities. Because this DMV is located in a crime-ridden and highly segregated area, it also boasts a noticeable dearth of white people. It reminds me, in pleasant ways, of my short-lived teaching career in an equally segregated school not far from the facility.

With a sigh, I heaved myself out of the car and waddled into the DMV, all the while resigned to photographic doom. Soon, however, my frustrated feelings gave way to a sense of peace. There is something about being caught in the ineluctable grasp of government inefficiency (think four counters, two hours of waiting, and ten government officials later) that lulls you into a state of quiet quiescence. As much as you would like to speed up the process, you can’t. It’s you against the Department of Motor Vehicles, and, like it or not, you will sit where they tell you to sit until, hours later, some merciful bureaucrat decides to call your name. I wasn’t the only one who decided to take my wait quietly; in fact, a sense of quiet resignation pervaded the entire facility, which, inefficient though it was, ran relatively calmly.

My only hurried movements occurred while waiting at counter number three (cashier), when I remembered that I carried earrings in my purse just for emergencies such as this. I crammed the earrings in and patted my eyebrows into place with my fingers, and then proceeded to take a seat in yet another waiting room.

It was at that moment that I spotted her. She was tall, perfectly coiffed, and arrayed in shiny black boots and an outfit that showed off her killer figure; if we weren’t both waiting to have our pictures taken, I would have thought she was on her way to preform onstage as one of Beyonce’s back-up singers. When she sat down a couple rows away, I stared. “Man,” I thought to myself, “that is the way to go. She obviously remembered that this process involves a picture, and wow is she prepared!” I looked down wistfully at my shabby appearance and realized that even if I had taken the time, the end product wouldn’t be the same. After all, how do you hide the fact that you look like a hippopotamus?

Then I heard her talking to the woman next to her, and to my delight, she started explaining why she looked so stunning. “My last picture was terrible!” she exclaimed, settling into her seat and shaking her beautiful curls vigorously. “I was pregnant and puffy, and nobody even recognizes me in the picture! I came here just to have my photo redone–I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

I rejoiced. There was hope for me, after all! At one point, this gorgeous woman had also been–in her very own words, “pregnant and puffy,” and she too had suffered the consequences in her driver’s license picture.

I zipped up my red sweater, pulled my hair out of my face, and smiled hopefully into the camera. Someday, post-pregnant me will do this again.

I love fresh air and have been known to keep my windows open in the dead of Chicago winters. Naturally, it did not even occur to me to close the windows this early in the game–even though the night temperatures have been doing precarious dips into the 40’s and 30’s. I have also  scrupulously turned off as many of our radiators as I can so that this quirk doesn’t turn into our condo into an energy sink.

The other morning, Abe tentatively asked me when I intended to close the windows. I responded vaguely that I’d be open to discussion sometime around February. “What about November?” he asked pleadingly. “We’ll see,” I responded. Truthfully, my strategy was to keep saying “we’ll see” all winter long and then appear open to compromise when the nice Spring air wafts invitingly into our home. (I learned the “we’ll see” trick from my mom, who almost always substitutes “no” with that more diplomatic sounding phrase.)

Last night when Abe got home from his late night inspections, he was shivering. I assumed it was because he just stepped in from the cold, but as I was puttering in the kitchen, I turned around and saw that he had donned his ski hat!

After I did my share of laughing, my heart softened, and I closed our bedroom windows. The kitchen and living room are still open to the wonderfully brisk air, though, but I figure as long as I keep feeding Abe warm food, maybe he won’t notice.

 

After I closed the windows, I asked for help opening a jar of saurkraut that I purchased at Hyde Park Produce yesterday. I have not had much luck with their jars; the last time I bought some jarred Borscht (Abe’s favorite food–no joke), neither of us could open it and we relegated it to food storage. Same story with the saurkraut. “Man,” Abe exclaimed, as he put down the unopenable jar, “if we ever need our food storage, people will discover our bodies next to these two jars. They’ll think we’re dead AND incompetent!”

Abe sent me the same shot in an email before we were dating, and he titled it, “wish you were here.” That was a great clue!