That Kind of Mom

" Losing one's mother would be like losing the sun" --Life of Pi

"My tummy feels funny, Mom. I'm hungry,"
I declared to a too-busy mother from the comfort of the front passenger seat. Ian was still too little to sit here, in the regal, glorified throne of antiquity from which this majestic six-year old could command armies, direct trade routes, and roll the window ALL the way down.

However, the view from the heavens contrasted a little too sharply with the usual expanse of blue-ish polyester that usually met my eyes, and all the reveling over my kingdom made me feel… besieged. Mom could empathize, as she had two minutes to get two kids to two lessons and felt a little too frantic to listen to me.

She made time to grab Cheetos at Wal-Mart. When combined with the Spaghettios we had hurriedly eaten for lunch, the chester-cheetah-emblazoned treats were a history-making carte de jour. Such treasures were unheard of in a realm where sugared cereal was outlawed and decrees like “if it didn’t come from the garden, it better be toilet paper” dealt almighty justice. The “if it rhymes with no, then guess what? NO” edict absolutely banned such treats from our menu, but today mom was just too busy. Now this, I thought whilst sucking orange fingers atop my blue-polyester perch, is paradise.


The Cheetos were scarcely chomped, however, when the bourgeoisie of my stomach decided to revolt. “I don’t feel very good” escaped my lips right before the amber remains of my dear spaggecheetos. I stared at the mess dripping from the front dash and—typical of ruling elite—started bawling. “How am I going to clean this up?” the sore-tummied child wailed—for I knew that if you did nothing else in life, you cleaned up your own mess.

“That’s what Moms are for, sweetheart”.


A dozen years later, I’m all grown up. Now I sit in the driver’s seat, I find my own food, I clean up my own messes. I’m responsible for myself! I’m going to college, I can’t have MOM coddling and babying and feeding me from 2000 miles away!
And yet, at the end of senior year I found myself bawling on my bathroom floor with a doozy of a tummy ache. This is what you want, right Dia? Independence, I think to myself just a little tiny bit sarcastically. Woot.

Right on cue, Mommy’s knock and a tray of thermometers and love came to my bathroom door.

“This is what Moms are for.”

This story isn’t finished, because I still need her. Whether she’s around or not, her lesson will always stick with me. Mom’s are for loving even if you’re messy or smelly or ugly or alone. They’re for giving all they have, all the life they have to give and then watching it walk away, telling them that they can make it on their own now, thanks. They love all the same, that’s what moms are for.

So please don’t make fun when I tell you my plans after college. Sure, I’ve always wanted to be a princess and a firefighter and a surgeon and an architect. But when I’m finished pretending, I want to do the hardest thing of all.

I want to be that kind of mom.

Hometown

“And where did you say you’re from, again?” Ugh, the dreaded question. As I learned in a high school psychology course, stereotypes actually facilitate faster learning because they provide a basic structure upon which new thoughts and ideas can be constructed— but I don’t care.

I just don’t want to hear it again. “Um… Oklahoma,” I say quietly. Hopefully. Pleadingly, but it’s no use; the consequence of such a sentence is undeniable, unstoppable, unending.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Klahoma, where the wheat… comes… wind? …um. Do you know that song?! I love that song! And you’re from Okla—”

Seriously. I just want to put my hands on both sides of their head and scream, “Actually, I had to sing that song exactly two-hundred-and-fifty-nine times in the third grade by law. By LAW!" or I would say, "As a matter of fact, I know all the words and verses—even the ones you thought were part of American the Beautiful—so well that they occasionally enter into my dreams!" or I would retort, "ACTUALLY, do you even know WHERE Oklahoma IS?!” but instead I just smile kindly, laugh gently and ask, “Did you think of that all by yourself?”

Tulsa is a large city in the northeastern corner of Oklahoma. It’s quirky, beautiful, and so much more than an over sung Rogers n’ Hammerstein tune or even a Don Williams crooner. My hometown is unique—it breathes, it grows and it hangs behind my eyelids, always waiting for a visit.

My family’s original roots are in Salt Lake City. I was only eight when we were violently replanted to the foreign land of Oklahoma, and I have never felt more out of place. Nothing in our arid, mountainous homeland could compare with the sheer volume of green that overpowered us as we stepped out of the packed pickup truck at our new home on a sultry August day. It was the amount of green—the grass was chartreuse, the trees verdant, the ferns and vines and elephant ears (the what?!) vividly emerald and jade and olive.

It was also the amount of VOLUME. The entire landscape buzzed with the sounds of a thousand wings, a million mouths, a billion busy legs crawling over luscious leaves. The green canopy filtered the squabbling and chirping sounds of huge, fluffy squirrels. Even the huge, waving ferns and brilliant redolent flowers seemed to be rejoicing noisily in the chaotic din. The whole scene was punctuated by the dependable pulse of the cicada (whatever that was).

The next thing that hit us, I’m sure, was the heat. The term “wave” received new meaning as we drowned in the high tide of humidity. We gulped for breath, the saturated air trying to enter our desiccated lungs like a sumo wrestler trying to get through the turnstile for Splash Mountain.

Our bodies somehow did not protest the change; rather, skin exulted in the wonderfully wet and unbearably boiling climate and began to relax, unwind and decompose, back to its natural state. The skin’s natural state is a large pool of sweat.

Though the first impression on these delicate desert blooms was drippy, my family surmounted the challenge. Instead of wilting, we flourished. We put down new roots and feelers and shoots; we learned all we could in order to survive, even enjoy, our new surroundings. We observed the behavioral patterns of the fox in our front yard and learned how to sneak up on the red hawk in the big hackberry.

Life filled our pool on steamy summer nights, and we learned how to pinpoint a tiny peeping frog in the dark by the sound of his pipes. We also learned to never reach into the pool skimmer without checking it first (snakes like chlorine), and shaking out shoes and boots (use your imagination). We learned how to distinguish a deadly brown recluse from a harmless wolf spider (the recluse is the one that lives in your BED) and the basic guidelines for approaching a stranded turtle (if it’s smaller than you and doesn’t bite the scout, your younger brother, you’re golden. Go ahead and throw it in the trunk). Curiosity and courage overcame the family’s original worries and we soon dove right in and tried things that make other families shudder: raising a scorpion, ducks, a couple red-eared sliders, two or three blue-tailed skinks and four beautiful tarantulas.

On one heavy twilight when even the stars were enveloped in the sticky, smothering blanket of heat, another alien aspect of Oklahoma came pouring into our lives. Oh, that first rainstorm! Warm drops of jubilant life released the landscape from its agonizing heat, bathed the blistering driveways and houses and baptized the horizon anew. We were sent out in our swimsuits, appreciative Martians ogling and splashing in the everyday miracle that the natives didn't seem to notice.

In the winter, rain came in a frozen and much less gentle form. Even before the television’s pronouncement of “school’s out,” the gunshot sounds of collapsing trees in the yard announced the ice storm and rendered sleep impossible. Similar to our familiar snowfall, ice fell in a sheet. It covered the lawn and streets and cars and maybe even the cat if you left her out last night, but a closer look revealed that this too was a completely new experience. Every tree limb, every leaf, every delicate tendril of life was encapsulated, caught in time, captured inside a perfect layer of shimmering ice.

The most infamous and ominous feature of Tulsa crept in occasionally on Tuesday afternoons and Sunday nights—odd and anxious spring days when the rain had a dangerous roar and the clouds looked a little funny. The family huddled inside around a tiny television as the merciless hail started tormenting the roof. Natives told us you didn’t really have to worry until the sky turned green and since that occurrence was surely too foreign to even comprehend, our fears were assuaged. But we were wrong—I can tell you. It does turn green.

Tornadoes haunted my nightmares for weeks that first winter. Too many classmates had shared the stories of destruction, and someone (why???) somewhere had let me watch Twister. My fears were realized that first spring night when the rain began. The rest of the family geared up halfheartedly—shoes in the bathroom, mirror off the wall, emergency radio and flashlight charged and wound: the bare essentials. I moved stuffed animals, studied emergency plans and searched for the outside pets with feverish intensity that resulted from absolute fear. When the hail finally stopped that night and an eerie silence began echoing over the lawn, up the driveway and into the house—the truly dangerous sign of a twister—I’m sure I was beyond anxiety. My mother noticed my anguish as we all piled into the bathroom “just in case,” and she pulled the kids close and grinned.

“No matter what happens to the house or car or our things,” she told us, “We’ll be just fine. We’re together. Now let’s count how many times Dad asks if he can go outside and get some pictures.”

By the next spring, we had shed our frightened outsider tendencies and the bathroom sanctuary. When the weather report sounded doomsday this time, we all rushed outside with the real natives to watch. Now, hail in April is a miracle, not an indicator of destruction, and tornadoes are an adventure.

Outside on the front porch, sweltering and freezing air intermitently rush around us as we revel in the beauty and power of God’s hand at work in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Flourless Friendship!

Craig and Alex:

two boys in our ward who enjoy long-boarding, slack-lining, ultimate tumbling, soccer, frisbee, lip syncing (not really), snow-boarding...


and cooking gluten-free peanut butter cookies!!!



These two WONDERFUL friends brought over a couple plates (one burned, one perfect) with smiles and stories. Apparently they checked all the ingredients online--even the soap they used to sanitize dishes and hands (or at least, they thought about the soap), left the cookies in the oven for a while wondering why they weren't cooking (it wasn't on), and then forgot one pan was in the oven and left the apartment for too long (those turned out a little crispy).

I still can't believe that these friends were kind enough to think of me and work so hard to make something so delicious and GLUTEN FREE!

Coffee Cake

This recipe is from an informative, really neat cookbook for beginning GF cooks-- "You Won't Believe It's Gluten-Free!" by Roben Ryberg.






Beat together:
1/4 cup oil
1/3 cup sugar (I put in more because the description was a "not too sweet coffee cake" and who wants a not too sweet coffee cake?! Hello!)

Add:
2 eggs

Add other dough ingredients:
1/2 cup plain yogurt
1 1/4 cup cornstarch
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 1/4 teaspoon guar gum (or xanthum gum)

Pour it into a greased 9 inch square baking pan.

Sprinkle on the topping:
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 cup brown sugar
3 tablespoons butter
more white sugar

Bake for about 30 minutes at 350*

Ryberg tells me to wait until it cools to room temperature. HAAA! I set a timer for 10 minutes after I pulled it out of the oven... and made it to 8 minutes 50 seconds.

I beleeve...

This I Beleeve…. I Mean, Believe

I believe in imperfection. I believe in bad hair days, missed appointments, botched opportunities and forgotten deadlines. Without fail (or rather, with fail) every effort I make will, in some way, be ruined, lacking, flawed and defective. My best will never be good enough, and my abilities have limits that will cause eventual heartache and disappointment.

And you know what? It’s OK.

As a precocious child attending private school, I was the “model everything”. I wore the biggest bow and an immaculate uniform, and my penmanship was the envy of the world. Of course the teachers adored me: “Watch how Diondra finishes her homework so quietly,” “Look how Diondra colors inside the lines!” Until one day…

One day, Teacher was absent. The bored substitute passed out a mindless worksheet and pandemonium (literally) rained. Kids ran up and down the room, over chairs and tables, and performed Crayola “firework displays.” I cowered at my desk, wanting only to follow instructions and flawlessly (as usual) complete the dot-to-dot. However, Thomas Annoying-Boy had snatched my entire pencil box to augment the colorful stationary explosions above our heads, and I was tool-less! Alarm bells crashed in my head. I could not finish the assignment, I could not please the teacher—I could not be perfect.

The panic welled up like a bubble in my chest and my pulse quickened. When the anxiety became unendurable, I ran to the front of the classroom to exercise my only option--the one tried-and-true, surefire way to get out of a classroom ASAP.

“Mrs. Teacher!” I all but screamed in my terror, “I am going to THROW UP.”

Of course, the immediately-attentive substitute whisked me from the chaotic classroom to the sanctuary of the nurse’s office and shortly thereafter, home. There, Mom put me to bed—not for an upset stomach, but for mental anguish revealed by tearstained cheeks and swollen eyes.

I could control the mechanics of my world with clockwork precision, but when an unforeseen cog fell into the works and pandemonium ensued, adaption was out of the question. An obsession with perfection damages my confidence in myself to adapt and improvise, halts problem-solving and reasoning, and, perhaps most frighteningly, cripples creativity.

No more. At 17, I stared into my mirror at an older, but no wiser tear-streaked, exhausted face framed by frazzled blond tendrils. I couldn’t be perfect any longer. Too many things demanded my time and energy. Seminary, grades, church, scholarships, family, friends, clubs, activities, applications—I couldn’t control it all, so I resolved, then and there, to stop thinking I had to.

I chose honesty over image. I chose sanity over self-abuse. I chose humility, and I chose to accept the sacrifice of the One whose perfection is enough for me.

My imperfections truly are the most defining and vital part of my character. I can cope with bad hair days, manage missed appointments and forget forgotten deadlines. I refuse to be controlled by my surroundings—I will be happy, perfect or not. I believe in imperfection because in it, we can all be made strong.

PIZZA?!

Get on my mom's blog, My Gluten-free Reality, for an actual pizza dough recipe.

I'm just here to revel in my success.

OMELETTE NIGHT!!!

Omelette night, Omelette night, Ain't no night like Omelette night.

Last night, five friends rushed me to the hospital (or "Medical Center," as the less iron-stomached of the crew called it)-- not for a surgery or because we crazy college kids had dared one of us to jump off something stupid, and not because we (read: I) wanted to see (read: snatch) some newborn babies,

but because we were hungry. Rumor on campus was that once a month, a fantabulous chef comes to the Medical Center buffet to showcase his egg-cracking skills.

Why I didn't take my camera, I'll never know--you'll have to take my word for it. We were there an hour and a half before the event opened, and it was a good thing too, 'cause the line was ridiculous! The entire town of Provo shows up--accompanied by a slice of humor and good will, because the chef is almost more well known for his sharp tongue and wit than for his cuisine.

About half an hour before they let us in, he poked his gigantic, imposing bald head out the door and hollered, "If any of you are trying to get an omelette for someone who isn't here, you can just FORGET IT! I'd be here all night making two for each person, so just SHOVE OFF!"

All this for an omelette? I don't know, you guys...

My anxiety rose as I suddely remembered the fact that celiacs know well: Eggs are not always a safe bet. IHOP puts pancake batter in their omelettes for that gigantic fluffiness, and judging by the door-jarring response, I couldn't exactly expect this guy to be warm and cuddly about working with my disease.

I may have mentioned my misgivings because next thing I knew, I was being passed body to body and jerked to the front of the line, for a face to face with the chef-from-heck! Yikes! Turns out a friend-of-a-friend (and the chef-from-heck's niece, wouldn'tcha know) is the sweetest person ever and got me a one-on-one with the boss. I found him to be quite civil when discussing his art, and learned that the eggs were fine, but chicken, sausage, hashbrowns and guacamole were all designated as "out."

Plenty of ingredients remained, however, to result in a more than satisfactory omelette. Green peppers, tomatoes, ham, red peppers, olives, onions, mushrooms--even cashews and strawberries?!--and of course, enough cheese to stop up an elephant.

I discovered that this was not just any omelette--It was absolutely the largest omelette I've ever set my beady, greedy eyes upon.
It was, actually, larger than me.
For only $3.75, that's a delicious meal and rare deal that no starving college student should pass up.

Or not look forward to.

For an entire month.

Omelette night, omelette night...




PICTURES!

Apparently I was way more excited than Brian was about my omelette-- but, I'm sure, this was just because he had not yet tasted of the sweet, sweet omelette goodness. Don't worry, he was completely converted by the end of the night.


Aaaaaand a closeup of the omelette (cuz that's what we REALLY care about, and who is this BOY?! --love, Mom):


Yes, those are strawberries--I did tell you that you can put anything in them.
Mmmmm!
.

Finish Strong

Virtus Tentamine Gaudet:

Strength Rejoices in the Challenge

It's ten o'clock, and I have just a little while to finish one of my papers that is due tomorrow before I drop into my bed from sheer exhaustion. My schedule for the week is beyond crazy--it's ridiculous. I'm running into social and health problems, and family issues.
BUT.

Strength rejoices in the challenge, and I say, "Bring it on."

I'm ready to finish this semester running... or, if not running, crawling at a very fast pace.

.

Mission... Possible

Nightfall, and the tiny, snow locked, sleepy town was silent except for here, inside the rustic vacation home to which I had trekked in order to fulfill a mission.

My mission.

Laundry. This collegiate gal’s attire needed some serious Snuggles action, so I sojourned through the mountains in search of a washer and dryer. Luckily, my cousin had come to keep me company on my quest and his mission, if he chose to accept it (or not) was to keep the fires in the house stocked with wood. After a few hours, my mission was almost complete, and both machines were rumbling and tumbling in the basement while we chilled in the living room. Unfortunately that wasn’t the only rumbling going on, as Derick’s and my stomachs were beginning to drown out the movie—not that we really wanted to see A Little Princess anyway.

Derick is ten days younger than me (and oh, how he hates it) and he, with two other of our younger cousins and I are an unstoppable, inescapably awesome team. We play together, we work together, and we form risky mission plans and daring acts of secret espionage together. When we were about twelve, we began planning for the Ultimate Mission: post-high school. We had provisions for college, dorms, budgets, rules, and missions (but not marriage. Introducing someone NEW to our foursome? Impossible). Together, we could best any obstacle, grapple with any hindrance!

So, Derick and I should have been able to deal with this barrier to our movie night, no problem! Though we hadn’t originally intended to watch all six library-rented movies at once—our unexpected movie marathon felt more like being chased by a crocodile along the Boston route rather than actually planning on running the 26.2 miles— as usual, we were flexible, and had accepted the challenge two movies in (“You wanna just watch all of ‘em tonight?” “Yeah… why not?”). Now, to deal with the one thing threatening the mission: hunger.

“Dia,” Derick intoned. “I believe,” he continued as if making some great declaration, “the food within your household needs to be located and devoured... NOW.”

I paused the movie and we raced to the kitchen for popcorn.

We sat side-by-side on the counter (to save bare feet from frosty linoleum) and, as custom dictated, poked, flicked water at, and hit each other to fill the terribly dull two minutes, thirty seconds before the main event, popcorn wars.
We discussed the merits and fallacies of the warnings of burning, scalding, suffocation, blindness, electrocution, etc., that were plastered in small print all over the popcorn bag, and then moved on to debate the litigious nature of the world. Derick and I are deep thinkers.

DING! Derick hopped down from his perch and punched the “open” button. I sought to prove my side of the debate by placing my hand over the opening of the popcorn bag.

“SEE? It’s NOT burning me—ow!” The smell of singed flesh and the sound of Derick’s mockery joined the more pleasant fumes of perfect popcorn in the air as I sulkily stuck my hand under cool water in the sink. Derick’s next comment, though, more than trumped the silliness of my action. He popped open the bag and inhaled deeply:

“Ah! Oh, baby, we make some good popcorn.”

Silence—an odd occurrence when Derick and I were together. The soft whistling of the winter wind around the old, creaking house, the crackling of the fire in the adjoining room and the rumblings of the washer in the basement only threw the silence in the kitchen into starker contrast. Derick’s eyes shifted from the popcorn sideways, then up to the ceiling, and back.

He tried to remedy the situation gracefully:

“Ummmm…”

And failed.

“Derick,” I queried slowly, “Did you just call me … baby?”

The bag of popcorn hit the ceiling at about the same time we hit the floor. Kernels rained from heaven as we lay on the linoleum, laughing too hard to breathe.

Derick wheezed, “I meant for that to be TWO sentences! TWO! ‘Oh baby, PERIOD.’ Then, as a COMPLETELY separate thought, ‘Dia, we make some good popcorn!’”

I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to reply.

The rest of the weekend proved as eventful as that first night. We narrowly escaped from an ancient, frightening tome which, we’re positive, was possessed by Voldemort (no worries, we burned it AND stabbed it with a basilisk fang). He introduced me to the Slurpee (where had those BEEN all my life?!) and aided me in my epic struggle with about fifty belligerent, evil potatoes which REFUSED to mash nicely for Thanksgiving.
I thought joining our cousins for Thanksgiving would be the sweetest part of the week, but the most singular experience was the next day, on Black Friday as we three girls of the foursome of cousins were given the mission to pick Derick up from his all-night shift at the Gap. We took him to his physical and dental appointments—to obtain signatures for his mission papers.

Part of our united plan for the future has always included the idea that the kid cousins would eventually grow up and serve missions. With Derick’s and my birthdays so close together and girls leaving at 21 instead of 19, we always knew that if I decided to serve a mission, we would just miss each other coming and going—and not see one another for about three and a half years. It was a fact that had always been no big deal.

Today, today, today, I was slowly, gradually but increasingly realizing that I’d been wrong. The memories of the previous weekend and countless, wonderful others filled my mind and burned behind my eyes as unshed tears as I drove our carload of cousins from mission to mission. At the last destination, as he grinned and exited the car with a, “Don’t blow my cover!” I leaned over the center consul into another cousin’s shoulder and…well, I just lay there. I wish I could tell you that the refining tears came and healed, or that I received comfort from heavenly messengers, or that Derick came back for his wallet and made me feel better, but that didn’t happen. I just realized the true mission of that weekend.

Realized that my coconspirator, my confidant, my cousin would be leaving in a few months or less, and that I had been given these last few free days to enjoy with him as a truly tender mercy. Realized that he would be filling a lifelong dream, and that to be anything but excited for him would be selfish. Realized that before we met again, this kind, crazy, hilarious boy would grow into the sweet, caring man I can see glimpses of today, and that I would miss him more than I would ever, could ever admit.

By the time Derick got back in the car, I was back to normal. I had to be.

“What’d they find? Did the tapeworm spawn again? How much longer do you have?”

He punched me in the arm.

-

Ice Beauty

Mom sent these to remind me of what I'm missing. Last year's ice storm in OK.

On the anniversary of the Oklahoma Ice Storm: