Will someone please explain to me why any civilian would want or need an AK-47?

I mean, really. What are you going to do with it? Mow down the dozens of thugs trying to steal your car CD player? (Or, if you’re Mormon, your years’ supply of hard white winter wheat?)

Firearms are big among Mormons, and not just the huntin’ types. I’ve never owned one, and I don’t think I ever will, but I don’t begrudge others their weaponry. Under certain conditions, that is. If you want a shotgun to kill yerself an elk, great–just make sure you eat the stinking beast. If you need a handgun in your home to feel safe, fine–robberies do happen. Although if you have kids, by the time you get your piece and your ammo from their separate locked-up locations your plasma is gonna be gone. And if the robber perceives a threat, you’re gonna be gone too.

But an assault rifle? Please.

Gun Sales in Utah

October 2007: 9,841

October 2008: 11,117

November 2007: 11,912

November 2008: 20,908

These aren’t all assault rifle sales, of course. But clearly they’re flying off the shelves, into the hands of citizens who have no good use for them other than re-enacting scenes from Die Hard in their backyards.

Two members of the board of directors of the Gun Violence Prevention Center of Utah are on record accusing gun dealers of fueling the scare. (Duh.) Some guy from the Utah Shooting Sports Council says the fear isn’t due to hype, but to the fact that there are senators in office who would like to ban all handguns. (As if.)

But the weirdest part of the article isn’t the sales numbers, or the crazy fears spurring them. It’s the names of these two director dudes:

Gary Sackett and Steve Gunn.

(cross posted at Times & Seasons)

Hilarious? Disgusting? Greasy?

“It” is this: Once you have three children, you can have more and not really even notice.

Read more about “it” at Blog Segullah.

“In this culture, breasts are viewed as sexual,” Paul said. “We use breasts to sell everything from beer to motorcycles, then a toddler is in mom’s arms nursing for what they’re supposed to be used for and everybody freaks out.”

I agree one hundred percent. Nobody should bat an eye at a nursing toddler. But a nursing Kindergartner?

Enter Paul’s 6-year-old son, Tiernan. When he’s tired or upset he requests “nummies” from mom. “We’ve had conversations about what it tastes like and he says it’s very sweet,” saith Paul. Like vanilla ice cream.

She says it’s “perfectly normal.” I say that’s debatable at best. Worldwide, average weaning age is reportedly 4 years old. I understand that children in developing nations are breastfed long past infancy for nutritional purposes, a practice I heartily applaud. But psychologically, there’s a big difference between a 4-year-old and a six-year-old. A kid who’s old enough to attend Kindergarten is old enough to learn and use self-comforting measures.

So why should I care? I don’t, not much. I mildly resent people who try to stretch the boundaries of “perfectly normal” in an area (ahem) that’s already so controversial. Let’s reserve the breastfeeding media hype for moms like Heather Farley, who dared to show (gasp!) a scrap of nipple on her Facebook profile photo.

But mostly, I just wanted to take this opportunity to write a post featuring the term “nummies.” Now I can die happy.

(Cross-posted at Times and Seasons)

I used to think that one of the downsides to being in a stable marriage is knowing you’ll never fall in love again. I mean, really, passionately in love. When your every cell is supercharged with life, and the whole earth feels renewed with promise.

Truth be told, I didn’t even experience that kind of heady power before I got married. At least, not to the extent that I knew was possible, in fabled theory. Happy as I was after the big “yes,” part of me felt that I had missed out on the stuff of legends. Period.

Thankfully, I was wrong.

Which is more wonderful — discovering such love after nearly thirteen years of marriage, at the very moment when the relationship hits a pinnacle of crisis?

Or conceiving, in the midst of it all, a child, who will live forever as a token of that discovery?

Or realizing, nearly a year later, that the rush of the river, although seemingly tamed by exhaustion and life-grind, flows just as surely still?

Or grasping the stunning truth that grace, and mutual desire, will bring untold length and depth to the water, worlds without end?

Ah, church dances. The blaring tacky music, the duded-up kids shaking their stuff under the basketball hoops, the chaperones with pained expressions caused by the former and the latter. As I dropped off my daughter and headed home, I cranked up my stereo and reminisced.

First church dance: Stake New Year’s Eve bash, 1981. My mother, newly baptized and recruited to head the activities committee, was in charge. I got to attend as child slave helper. I filled the two enormous balloon bags to be suspended from the cultural hall ceiling. I provided low-soda alerts to the refreshment people. I stood wide-eyed in the Primary chapel (set aside as the teenage dance area) as the DJs turned up Kool and the Gang to eleven. Was this allowed?

Thus was I initiated into the incongruity of church dance protocol: unholy sound in a holy place. Scandalous. I liked it.

That same incongruity brought no end of delight as I got old enough to attend church dances without a ruse. The adult leaders were well-meaning but clueless: They allowed my brother and his friends to provide playlists for the DJs. Bring on The Scorpions.

The bitch is hungry
She needs to tell
So give her inches
And feed her well

And when New Year’s Eve rolled around again, the Primary Chapel rocked with Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Two Tribes.” Not, I might add, the Nephites and the Lamanites.

And we are living in a world
Where sex and horror are the new gods

Truth be told, the thrill of hearing such dreck at church was the main draw of the dances. I had little to no interest in the people there–these were the same kids I tried and failed to relate to twice a week every week, and adding music did nothing to help things along. The only fun part was rolling around on the floor en masse towards the end of “Rock Lobster” (DOWN! DOWN!) and wondering what ear-curling song the DJ might play next.

“Whip It,” anyone?

[Cross-posted at Times & Seasons.]

Current status: shoulder-length, medium brown with some leftover red. The red is the most current in a long line of hair experiments, stretching back to eighth grade, when I got my first (and last) perm. Oh yes, there’s a rich tradition to be recounted here. Ninth grade marked my first hipster haircut, consisting of very short back and sides and long, curly bangs. This was 1985, after all. Then came the little lines shaved in the sides (way before football players started doing it, might I add). Then the coloring began: black, burgundy, various shades of red, all topped (literally) by the white-blond crew cut my senior year. I loved every installment of the hair drama. I got to reinvent myself whenever I felt like it (often). I got to be all different shades of hot.

By the time I met the King in 1990, the crew cut had grown out to become a blond-streaked bob. He liked it, and so did I. But things went downhill after that. I grew it long for the wedding, then chopped it off soon afterward to prepare for a summer digging up Fremont artifacts in the Nevada desert, then grew it long again just in time for kids to yank it. One afternoon when my second baby was napping, I cut a shock of terrible bangs and ended up wrestling with them for the next few years. I’d lost my groove in the all-consuming depths of motherhood.

By the time Sam was born, I’d had it with my hair. In fact, I’d had it with my entire miserable beauty routine. I didn’t look good, and I didn’t care. Six births in ten years=a lifetime of labor (literally, it seemed). I felt like I was at least fifty. And I’d vowed to never become one of those middle-aged women who try (and fail) to look thirty, so I figured it was time to move gracefully into that unisex holding pattern many women “of age” seem to enjoy: short no-fuss hair, minimal make-up, stretch pants and comfy sneakers.

Then I took another look in the mirror. It was true–I looked like hell–but I suddenly realized that was because I’d been sleeping in 2-to-3 hour bursts over the past decade. I was only thirty-two, for Pete’s sake. My adult life was just beginning. I had many a year left to be hot and comfy rather than simply comfy. Or even dignified.

That afternoon I went out and bought a DIY hair highlighting kit.

So what’s my point? Hair matters. The cut, condition, and color certainly don’t symbolize who you are, but they do partially symbolize who you think you are: old, young, frumpy, hip, classy, trashy. And while the jury’s still out on who I think I am, I’m confident the time has not yet come for the wrinkled-pixie look.

So:

1. Dark brown below-chin bob with burgundy streaks? (Think Julia Stiles in The Bourne Ultimatum).

2. Auburn shoulder-length bob, blown straight? (A refreshed version of the current look.)

3. Collarbone-length layered cut, medium brown with red and gold streaks, styled wavy?

I’m leaning toward the last one. The only problem is I need to lose thirty more pounds to pull it off. But I’ll be losing the weight regardless. I’m still not ready for stretch pants either.

January: After a hundred hours of preparation, literary agent launches memoir proposal (including first quarter of the manuscript) into the shark-infested waters of the national trade. Queen immediately takes up permanent residence in front of her inbox, awaiting the any-minute-now email which will catapult her into sickening fame and fortune.

February: Pile of rejection emails hits inbox. Depths-of-winter depression hits Queen and elementary-age daughter. Gloom aside, Queen’s professional confidence remains intact. She writes the second quarter of the manuscript whilst planning the home remodel and globetrotting trips the advance will surely grant. 

March:  More rejection emails. Only three publishers remain on the list: a sure bet and two medium-sure bets. On a particularly gloomy-snowy day, the sure bet folds like a spooked poker player. A few days later, as the snow continues to fall, the medium-sure bets follow suit. Ignoring King’s pleas for reason, Queen spends hours rereading the emails, sure there has to be some mistake.

April: No mistake. Queen has half-written book and no publisher. She puts away laptop and heads to Home Depot, figuring it’s time to get on with the remodel but lacking funds to do anything but paint. Covering  Thomas’s walls with lime-green satin-finish enamel, Queen explains to agent that she’s clearly not a writer after all. Makes plans to take up underwater basket-weaving instead.

May: One of the medium-bet publishers changes its mind. Queen laughs hysterically. They want the finished manuscript within a month. Queen laughs hysterically. Agent negotiates an end-of-summer deadline. Still laughing hysterically, Queen puts away the paint and pull out the laptop. (Painting tally: three rooms, one hallway, and one treacherous stairwell, plus ceilings.)

June: Advance arrives. Where’s her majesty? Writing at her desk, except when she’s buying new couches, copyediting her motherhood anthology, fending off Thomas’s determined advances, or taking her elementary-age child to the therapist to treat recently diagnosed major depressive illness. Where’s his majesty? Installing 1500 sq. feet of hardwood flooring.

July: Where’s her majesty now? 8:00 a.m: writing in a back booth at McDonald’s, the only public place with an available electric outlet open at this hour. 10:00 a.m.: writing at the library.  Noon ’til dusk: writing at home, since teenage son/babysitter has finally gone loco from toddler demands. King brandishes nail gun after hours.

August: Manuscript submitted. Babysitter buys cell phone with his earnings. Queen collapses in an oceanfront rental on the Oregon coast, where charcoal-gray clouds pelt serious rain for three days straight.

September: Queen paints two more rooms in preparation for flooring install, withdraws severely depressed child from public school, launches motherhood anthology, reads 125 submissions for Down syndrome anthology, and revises memoir manuscript.

October: Queen revises manuscript again, much to family’s and editor’s chagrin.

November: Queen’s doctor explains that her bursts of euphoric productivity, intense sexuality, and impulsive behavior have a medical term: mania. Queen discontinues antidepressant meds and experiments with anti-psychotics. Decides she liked the psychotropic drugs from her adolescent days much better. Unfortunately, current religious committments prohibit their use.

December: Queen spearheads a month which includes one last memoir revision, chaotic holiday festivities, eighty un-edited Down syndrome essays in her inbox, a dozen doctors’ appointments (psychiatrist, psychologist, pediatrician, dentist, orthodontist, ENT), and two surgeries. Neither are a much-needed lobotomy for Queen.   

But here I am, back from the netherworld. Glad you stuck around during the long wait. The 2005-2007 archives remain under royal lock and key, but a few old posts just might pop up again, and I’ve many a new tale to tell. And my brilliant blog designer Rebecca is on deck to give a much-needed makeover.

2009 is looking good already.

Blink your eyes, and it’s gone—that’s what I keep telling Mom. It’s been three years (THREE!) since I swallowed my dignified sensibilities and posed in a preemie-size reindeer suit for your holiday pleasure. Those of you who failed to provide adequate compensation stand in peril of karmic bankruptcy. But because I possess a generous nature, I’m here to offer you a second chance:

After a torrid year-long affair with her laptop, Mom finally finished her memoir about the singular pleasures of life with yours truly. Titled The Year My Son and I Were Born, it’ll be released in March by the Globe Pequot Press. Those of you in need of redemption can earn it by pre-ordering a couple dozen copies from Amazon. If you hurry and pull up the page before the database is updated, you’ll be able to see the pink travesty GPP tried to pass off as a cover before Mom bared her talons. (Hell hath no fury.) If you need extra credit, give a good credit card caress to Mom’s latest book-child, an anthology by and for Mormon moms (and others in simpatico) titled The Mother in Me.

The year was a mixed bag for Dad, who was understandably thrilled that Mom finally produced a book that she’s accepting payment for. But all that cash flow from the memoir advance only spelled months of hard labor for the man of the house. First came 1500 sq. feet of hardwood flooring to install. Then came a series of back-breaking boxes from Ikea. A marble-topped dining table finally did him in. Unfit to resume his night job as an exotic dancer, he’s now selling his plasma to support his OTC painkiller addiction.

Speaking of pain, Christine (9) played this year’s surgery card when she offered up her tonsils and adenoids to the god of inflamed lymphatic tissue. She also skillfully played the middle-child guilt card, which scored her a beagle puppy for Christmas. In a similarly slick move, Elizabeth (15) quit her year-long janitorial job once she accumulated enough $ to keep her cell phone ringing for a good long while. She passed the baton to Ben (14), whose recent birthday qualifies him for after-school toilet scrubbing. We’ll see how long he lasts.

In other news, this year the household suffered several losses in the pet rodent department, including some rated R for graphic violence. In a shocking display of gender disparity, the Soper lads took the various spectacles of dismemberment in stride; the lasses did not. Andrew (11) found a breathy audience for his machismo when he started sixth grade. Matt (7) puts his to good use by threatening to choose Arctic Circle as his post-baptism family celebration venue, while Sam (5) throws his testosterone around the Kindergarten playground. And me? Last month, I bravely boarded a bus bound for special-needs preschool—one long mile away from home. Mom got wicked road rash from clinging to the bumper.

And on that note, we come to the end of this year’s festive missive. Mom finally scraped together enough chutzpah to slash her mailing list in half—she’s claiming environmental concern, but we all know she’s just cheap. Those of you reading via email can celebrate over making the cut. Those of you holding a sorry scrap of dead tree had better pony up your email addys. Or better yet, a receipt for twenty copies of my book.

Thomas Reed Soper