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The LDS Garment Change: Paralyzed by my despair and reminded of all of those cap sleeves

by BethOctober 18, 2024March 29, 2025Health / Religion / Travel

I was raised in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I learned through a post written by the Salt Lake Tribune’s Peggy Fletcher Stack that the women’s garment will now be sleeveless. This change makes me mad. (Yes. I know the rules have changed before. Before 1923, garments had full-sleeved legs and arms.) My assumption is that I will be criticized for complaining or for not having a testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ:

“Shame on you for bringing up the coercive control you felt yesterday. Don’t you know that everything is better now. This is God’s loving way of adapting the rules for his children. [Your thoughts] are thoughts seeded by The Adversary [used] to stir people up to feeling slighted and then justified in hating the church.”

Sure. [insert my shoulder shrugs here]

Even if an evil force is influencing my thoughts (I don’t believe one is), I have real feelings that actually need to be addressed. Others, like Lindsay Hansen Park, have beautifully addressed these LDS garment changes more concisely than me. Nevertheless, I believe all voices matter. That is why I am offering my perspective here.

I am struggling to see beyond these triggers and my innate reflex to behave and not embarrass my mom. From what I have read online, I am not alone. I have been sitting in my chair for hours, paralyzed with grief. What do I do with all the shaming and shunning now that the rules change? Will people be able to openly drink coffee tomorrow (and without sneaking their minivan through a Starbucks drive through)? I am perplexed and confused.

The trauma resides tucked away in the cheap polyester fabrics and sweaty crotch of my Mormon underwear. When I stepped away from Mormonism I left my bedroom drawer filled with my newly washed LDS garments. For years my garments remained untouched. I was superstitious and haunted by thoughts of bad things happening. As I waked by my dresser drawer I was consumed with visions of crashing airplanes. Instead of there being a perfectly preserved garment-covered-torso-display-of-my-worthiness, there would be nothing left—all because I chose not to wear my Mormon underwear!

I believed I would be punished if I threw them away or gave them away. Eventually I needed the space and determined it was time to empty the drawer. I heard there was a special way to dispose of them and I did not want to get it wrong. Something about cutting out all the symbols and putting the symbol part of the fabric in a different trash can. Ultimately, I left the drawer alone – (until we moved). I did not want to break my Mom’s heart. Emptying that drawer would signify that I was one step further away from who she thought I would be. It was one step further away from her dream of a family reunited in the Celestial Kingdom. I couldn’t do that to her. I would find a way to wear those garments again, even if it killed me.

A few years earlier we were at the National Mall in Washington DC. I was five months pregnant. My husband and I met up with some friends; we were waiting to watch the Fourth of July fireworks. It was like a billion degrees outside and maybe five-hundred percent humidity. I was wearing a garment-covering outfit: a dress that went down to my knees and sleeves down to my elbows. I wished I was wearing a dress more appropriate for the summer heat, like a sleeveless dress.

Soaked in my own sweat, my hair out-of-the-shower wet, perspiration dripping down my face, I was resolved to air out my garment-soaked boob area. I pulled up on my bra, which was resting on the outside of my garments. Then I unsnapped my bra, leaving it draped across my chest. My crotch began to itch. I tried to re-snap my bra because maybe I should be more obedient. Next I discreetly tried to adjust my bunched up Mormon underwear, which was firmly trapped up my nether regions. I feared contracting a UTI which would only make my already complicated pregnancy worse. In this sea of thousands, I whispered to my husband, “It is dark. Do you think anyone will notice if I take my clothes off?” As the words left my mouth, I was wracked with feelings of shame. I had covenanted to my Heavenly Father to wear these garments as a show of commitment to live a good and honorable life. The words of my sister ring through my head as she exlcaims and points at me from across the room,

“OH MY GOSH! YOU ARE NOT WEARING YOUR GARMENTS!” (She has since left the LDS Church.)

The shame I felt in the moment she called me out is a shame I carried with me FOR YEARS and it was the shame I felt while sitting on the National Mall. My clothes stayed on. So did my bra. So did my Mormon underwear.

I knew someone would notice. I preemptively felt their side eyes. Women check. We always compare each other. We check garment lines and skirt lengths. I recall an experience my mom had as a new convert to the Church. She wore a sleeveless dress to Relief Society (the women’s organization meeting). The Mormon missionaries had neglected to tell my parents about the temple garment (and the requisite de facto dress standard it requires) before baptizing them. Consequently, instead of learning about this special commitment you make to God by wearing His underwear ahead of time, my mom learned through social shaming. Instead of having grace for her, the church women let her know that what she was wearing was not “what we wear here.” The trauma is deep rooted. Until this week, that trauma manifested through checking sleeve length.

And really, it’s not just garment lines Mormons check. Maybe that is why I am upset. I don’t mind that the rules change. What I mind is the coercive control and shaming based on arbitrary rules and systems I experienced. What am I supposed to do with that? When I needed help on my mission, I called home. My mom did not want me breaking the rules, and I was breaking the rules. My mom asked my brother to talk to my mission President to tell me not to call home. He did. My mission president spoke with me. I was disciplined and admonished that I needed to have more faith. Now the Mormon missionaries are allowed to video chat with their family each week. Why was I wicked then for doing what’s righteous now? Where do I set the humiliation and othering I experienced from my family and my faith?

Tell me I need to be happy about God’s love and letting the Mormons drink caffeine on BYU campus and now having sleeveless garments. Regardless, if the Atonement and Jesus and rules that change to help members of a certain dispensation are all real, there is also a flip side. These shifts don’t repair damage the old rules caused. To be a member in good standing, for starters, I need to be baptized, worthy, a full tithe payer and work to attend the temple, which includes wearing the temple garment. I wonder if The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints would consider their own accountability by following their own teachings and a spirit of Christian forgiveness. (I am not holding my breath.) If they do, I would suggest that these sleeveless garments and their makers apologize to those of us who bore the weight of this arbitrary rule and its accompanying coercive control. I would hope they could work to heal and repair the damage they caused no matter the shifting rules or changing hemlines, that they could tell a young me and all the people like me that we are worthy and we are good. Calling home on a mission during a health crisis was not Satan’s influence, nor was abstaining from wearing garments during a hot DC summer while pregnant. (Yes. After the fourth of July fireworks I took some lifesaving measures to not overheat and to save my baby. Some days I chose not to wear my garments).

Why a memoir: an exposition, including journal writing

by BethSeptember 30, 2024September 30, 2024Family / Health / My Three Cents / Religion / Where Do I belong?

For like twenty years, on and off, I have been working on my memoir. Really. Stops and starts. That is what it has been. I test the waters. When I do write about a family member, or suggest to family that I might be writing my story, I am often met with pushback and threats. I shut up. Like I am trapped in a sinking car, I want to breathe so I stop writing. As I surface, I realize that my words want to come out. Honestly, I wish my family understood that this is my story, yet I don’t expect them to. I don’t want to share their secrets or make my story them about them. Instead, I offer them grace. I take deep breaths. I go to therapy. I write privately. When I do freak out or worry about being sued, (yes, I have been threatened), I think of the words of writer Anne Lamott:

We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must (open the door)…You can’t do this without discovering your own true voice, and you can’t find your true voice and peer behind the door and report honestly and clearly to us if your parents (or siblings) are reading over your shoulder. They are probably the ones who told you not to open that door in the first place. You can tell if they’re there because a small voice will say, ‘Oh, whoops, don’t say that, that’s a secret,’ or ‘That’s a bad word,’ [Instead]…Write as if your parents (and siblings) are dead.

I have lived another entire lifetime since I first had a story I wanted to tell. I married. We had two beautiful sons. My heartaches like infertility, suffocating loss, and serious health crises have (hopefully) filled me with compassion and the ability to confidently and lovingly share my truth. I have taken that time to learn how to set boundaries and break cycles. I am a work in progress. I know my past lurks in the shadows, and like cocaine in the 1980’s, it begs me to repeat its dysregulated patterns.

In 2020, out of things to sanitize and masks to buy, I started getting serious about my life story. We (like the world) were stuck at home. In our case, our eldest son was ripped from his dreamy Sydney, Australia Study Abroad. His girlfriend, who was studying away in Paris, was also forced to leave. She moved in. A month later, our youngest graduated from high school in an eleven minute drive-through ceremony at a local park, including a picture with his principal and returning his cap and gown correctly on the hanger on the rack situated on the park lawn.

We were (still) trapped at home. As the parent, (whatever that means), I tried not to make things worse. Our house was really clean, especially our kitchen counters, which I repeatedly washed out of sheer boredom and maybe germs. Our pandemic-addition was nearly complete, which included expanding our master bedroom and the one below. Out of counter spray and maybe a little loneliness, one morning I began digging through our storage. I happened upon my old journals. I picked one up and began to read from February 11: “Today is Dad’s fiftieth birthday. Two weeks ago he told Mom he doesn’t know if there is a God.” I read on and was hooked. A few pages later—April of that year—I wrote, “Well, Mom and Dad are really getting a divorce.”

That night I told my husband about hours I spent reading. Enthusiastically he urged: “These are primary source materials. Use them in your memoir!” It had never occurred to me that I could use the assistance of my childhood journals to tell my own stories. I said right out loud: “Dude, you are a genius!” I decided to see how I could infuse my journals into my story.

Of course. See, it was my mom who taught me about journals. After spending the day reading and reflecting, I wondered if Mom used her journals to record the bad feelings and fear of God, the obvious echoes of her own trauma. Nevertheless, in the corner of our dusty storage room it was clear that Mom’s own trauma and journal-keeping were ingredients in what I would call my epic narrative; a crucial ingredient like flour or eggs.

As I read, in a flash of big “I am being followed down a dark alley” feelings, memories of my past flooded in. I felt the dread of Mom’s constant, “I have a bad feeling. Did you pray?” I continued reading as my ominous feelings were validated: “Mom” literally had a “bad feeling.” I thought about my mom. I wondered if her need to feel safe and in control were constant, and were easily reflected in her daily rituals and routines, like writing in her journal, reading her scriptures each night and kneeling in prayer.

I recalled seeing her, scriptures open, reading and highlighting.

She would explain, “The Mormon prophet and leader of our church proclaimed that for us to receive Heavenly Father’s blessings we need to read the scriptures for at least thirty minutes a day.”

Once she finished her thirty minutes, she meticulously brushed her teeth, made her way into her room, knelt at her bedside and said her prayers. “The prophet has also asked us to pray for thirty minutes each night. I can’t let him down.” I often found her asleep, still kneeling at her bedside.

The part of her routine I was most intrigued with was her commitment to journaling. Journaling wasn’t just a novelty, quirk or affectation. It was my mother’s adherence to a specific admonition from our church leaders. Before her scriptures and prayers, Mom, dressed in a flannel nightgown, found her way to a quiet corner, which usually was our upstairs yellow and brown-colored, plaid couch. Holding a ballpoint pen in her left hand, (I am also left handed), I watched as she began writing words in a large notebook:

“Mommy, why are you writing in that book?” I asked.

“I don’t always remember everything. I want to keep a record of our life. Our prophet has asked us to keep a journal. I want to follow the teachings of our Heavenly Father.”

I felt Mom’s urgency to follow God’s commandments. Consequently, when I was seven years old I asked Mom for my own journal.

“Oh Bethy, Heavenly Father will be so proud of you.”

Then one day she handed me a journal. I hoped God would take note. Writing came naturally. So did processing the world around me.

In what some might call “exhausting detail,” I logged my daily life. When I did not log my life, I felt like I was letting God down.

Picture a piece of lined notebook paper. There are two to four words per line with twice as much space in between each word. The page is positioned in a 1.5” mustard yellow spiral ring binder, next to a cardstock cover of a bible coloring book called, “The Life of Daniel,” (You know, Daniel, the guy in the Bible saved by God as he sat in the Lion’s den.)

My first journal entry:

“This is the story of my life. When I was four I moved in a new house. It was fun but sometimes I was sad…”

Out of some obligation to God, or probably because I really enjoyed it, I never stopped journaling. I wrote what I saw or wanted to know, which led me here to sharing my story. As I did research for this memoir, I followed through and reviewed thousands of pages from my hand-written diaries, from that very first journal entry to the laptop I write in today. Through the years, my life’s experiences have been edited, mellowed and recontextualized into the memories that live in my head. As I read my writing, my own primary sources, including pages that I may not have read since the moment I wrote them, I have come to learn that my actual memories are much softer than the words I found hidden on those pages. Not only had I forgotten many painful, horrible events, the experiences I did remember have been worn smooth, illuminated with compassionate light.

As I read my childhood journals with a grown up understanding, I am amazed at all the buried, dark family secrets and revelations that have emerged. Truths were waiting in plain sight, if not always in plain language. I wrote around the brokenness. I left out the specific details, like how loud I screamed or how many times I cried myself to sleep or woke myself up in a cold sweat.

In my case, my writing became less about fulfilling an obligation and more about me. What I observed, which I am still trying to reckon with, is that I wrote about my traumas so casually that it was as if expressing them were as normal as blowing your nose—as mundane as watching television with an old remote control. I wonder if me of yesterday hoped that me of today would be able to decode those empty, clearly identifiable spaces shaped exactly like each specific trauma. I am here to say, “I think so.”

This became my writing practice: I watched. I observed. I processed it. I could not stop taking it all in. I loved taking it all in. I analyzed and deconstructed everyone and everything as a means to understand the world around me. I talked about what I saw: “Mom, did you see the man on the street? He was wearing a brown shirt and green striped pants. He wasn’t wearing shoes. I wonder if he is cold.” Mom was a great listener. After I exhausted my voice, and probably my mom’s ears, I wrote everything down.

My journaling is vivid. I am curious. I am interested. I love human behavior. I love how people interact. I absolutely love human connection. As such, I receive the world through the lens of relationships. Asking my mom and dad about sex at the dinner table as a nine-year-old completely made sense and had no bearing on the fact that my two older brothers and three older sisters were sitting around that table with me. I would also argue that there is a human need to construct and reconstruct which gives voice to our story, authority and ultimately healing to our lives. Ultimately, with all my observations and questions answered and then recorded in my journal, my journals have become the reliable narrator in my story.

I am grateful for Mom’s desire to journal all those years ago and my desire to follow suit. Without those decades of record keeping, I don’t think that I would have a good understanding of the events that shaped me and set me on my course, and I would not be able to understand my own mind, my personality, or my family dynamic as well today.

By the way, I certainly do not claim to be the world’s best writer, observer, human, wife, mother, sister, daughter or friend. I am a storyteller. We are human. I am human. I believe that we are here to heal, to forgive and to learn. This is my hope.

More to come…

My Words. My Story.

by BethMarch 16, 2017March 24, 2017My Three Cents / People I know / Religion / Where Do I belong?

Preface. I wrote this post last night. I told Dave that I would not post it online, and would keep it with all my other working-out-my-religion posts. Please know I never want to offend. That is why I try to leave my beliefs offline. Also know that I am posting because this post is not about beliefs or doctrine. It is about community. Earlier today my friend, Amy in Texas, reminded me that maybe we can have a productive conversation about building community when she posted this Salt Lake Tribune article. It was written two years ago. I think the author Paul Malan says it way better than I do:

“Each time a non-traditional Mormon lets her neighbor see her unique beliefs, she makes it easier for everyone in the congregation to be true to themselves. One respectful voice at a time, the silent minority will begin to understand that they aren’t alone in their doubts and beliefs. Power will shift away from the monoculture and toward the productive edges — to the ecotones where opportunity and challenges await, where ideas and opinions and personalities can blend together to create something like an ideological wetland: hard to define, hard to cling to, and infinitely more valuable to the world than anything Mormonism has been able to offer so far.”

My Words: I have been told that if I (a.) did not live in Utah, ground zero of Mormonism and (b.) had never been a Mormon that things would be different. I tend to agree. And in truth, this post is not about doctrinal discrepancies or our political differences. It is about community and my quest to find it here. And I know a big part of our community is measured (on both sides) then based on LDS church attendance and activity. Out of the gate, let me complicate that measurement. See, if I did not feel such a bizarre expectation when you see me at church, I would probably go. And in the interest of full transparency, yes, I would not attend full-time, but I would definitely go when I was feeling nostalgic, or wanted to connect with a very big part of who I am. Hold up. And to my non-Mormon, or former Mormon friends, you may ask,

“Beth, why are you bringing this up? This is not healthy. Draw a line. Make a boundary. Let it go and move on.”

To which I would respond, “You may be right, but why do you care? This is my story and my experience. And I seem to recall that you were able to have your experience too.”

And to everyone on all sides: Obviously you may think I am crazy for feeling the way I do. Instead of crazy, I would suggest I am grey. Meaning I sit on fences, and fence-sitters are hard to measure or box in. I suffer way too much empathy (for all the sides). Mostly and for real, I love, respect and care deeply about my mom. I know how completely sad it makes her that I do not go. I take her seriously and reconciling her sorrow is hard. That is my uncomfortable truth.

Dave & I at the Natural History Museum, Salt Lake City, Utah

I want all people to feel safe being their authentic selves. That is why I chose to be transparent. And the truth is, because I was raised LDS, and because I live in Utah, Mormonism is and will always be an inescapable part of my reality. I have very fond memories of the LDS community I was raised in. I met my best friend, Marianne, at church, and I met Dave at BYU. It was not all bad. Eventually after fighting every single Sunday, Dave asked that we do something he wanted to do, which was to stop attending church. I love him. I support him. I heard him and we stopped. At the time I wrote my local bishop a letter and asked him to include our family in activities. Then the Mormon bishop and I met in person. We had a friendly conversation and I never heard from him or really that ward again. On a summer evening in a previous ward another Mormon bishop saw Dave and me out on a walk. He hesitated. Then he stopped and approached. His words:

“I was told not to talk to your family. I was told that you did not want any contact.”

“I am glad you said something now.” I kindly responded as I held my ice tea by my side.

We assured him that he had been misinformed. I pushed further and reassured him that whether we went to church, sat in the halls at church (which we did a lot at that time), or did not go at all, we would would always be nice and open. I said,

“You are our neighbors. I do not think it needs to be so black and white. I hope we can all be friends.” To his credit, he and his wife have remained our friends.

Having a friendly conversation with these bishops are not isolated incidents. If I had a dollar for every Mormon church leader I have reached out to, I could buy a really nice outfit. It is awkward. Because I hope things can be different, every time we move into a new place, I (preemptively) reach out.

“No, we are not drug dealers or pedophiles. And sure, I only have 2 kids, but that was infertility not choice.”

They reach back in an an excessive flurry, usually offering to take our kids to church if we don’t want to take them ourselves.

“Beth, it takes a village. The whole neighborhood is raising my kids.” One man texted me.

I responded, “Hey, if my sons want to go to church, I am happy to take them.” I am certain his intentions were good. I am also certain he does not understand the divisive implications of what he is suggesting: Church is good, Inactive parents are bad (not worthy) = Mormon Ward Members (neighbors) will save Kyle and Eli.

Sure, I wish I could say that my very assertive and sincere, we-can-still-be-friends public relations approach works. It sort of works. Like for a minute. Then when people do not see us at church, or because church responsibilities demand so much attention, we are forgotten, excluded, or awkwardly included. I left my anger and resentment behind years ago. Each time I sincerely thank them and ask them to include me in neighborhood texts, activities, or service. I usually do not hear back. Remember, I know the culture. They are busy. They are insulated and eventually, they drop off. So when we do see them, they usually overly share, look down or pretend they do not see us. It does not matter how many times I reassure them we are more like them then we are not. It does not matter how much I promise not to talk about doctrine, nor does it matter how many times I say nice things about their beliefs. We are never part of the community.

I am also human. So when we do get invited to a church activities, my memories of how Mormons feel about outsiders kicks in. I let my anxiety and preconceived judgements get the best of me and I act a little shy. Truth be told, I also persevere and force myself to engage:

“Hi neighbor. I am Beth. Our kids go to school with each other. Both of my boys are on the cross country team.”

The conversation always falls flat when they realize who I am and then they stare blankly. That is when I sense they are simply fulfilling an awkward responsibility to engage with the “inactive” lady. Check. I think you know the difference between a sincere and insincere response. Just in case you don’t I will give you an example: It is like when your mom forces you to talk to the dorky kid, that kid you would never invite to your party or a ski weekend. It feels just like that. Weird, not normal.

I also get it. I am sensitive to their position. And of course, I have many Mormon friends who accept me no matter what. Unfortunately, here in Utah, there is no separation of church and state so their better-ness and exclusivity bleeds into the culture. Mormon moms make the best PTA presidents and organize the best running groups. Again. I get it. To them, I am an unknown. Consequently, I am not safe. I am an outsider. They are human and maybe saying hi to a stranger is really hard. I imagine they could be gun-shy, because when they do reach out, they are are met with confrontation and frustration. My whole point is I do not need to be a stranger. I literally know and understand your culture. We literally live next to each other. Our kids go to school with each other. I can help you with your PTA stuff. I am probably more like you than I am like my non-Mormon friends. Don’t you see that? That is why I keep trying to connect. I realize that I may not fit the mold of someone who does not go to church. I am grey. In truth, who really fits into that mold? I know many of my close LDS friends do not. I think there are more grays. And #protip, grays usually exist on the fringes. And I would actually argue that the fringes are getting even bigger. If it helps, do you realize one of the reasons people exist on the fringe is their desire to bridge differences? The grays, or people on the fringes, will always be the first line of people willing to consider other perspectives.

But because I am (peculiarly) determined in my belief that all bridges can be crossed, I keep trying. I am honest and I want to give people the benefit of the doubt. I ignore the truth adjustments, weird excuses, or blatant deflections. Nevertheless, being excluded or labeled, “outsider” sucks. It is no longer about religion, but about tribe and belonging. I think I need help or advice or understanding or to finally find some consistent healing. Does it really need to be black and white? Do I really need to pretend my Mormon neighbor is not there when she is standing right in front of me? I keep writing, talking, and yes, even praying and meditating, in hopes of figuring out and resolving my weird relationship with Mormonism and the Utah Mormon community. Sometimes I think I have figured it out. In those moments, I feel relief. Something happens and another layer peels away. Then I am reminded about the incongruities between the inclusive Mormon teachings and reality.

Rest assured. At times, I too, think I am crazy, brainwashed, or super weird for trying to resolve these disconnects between myself and my faith. I was raised in Minnetonka, Minnesota, where the LDS members clung tightly together in a place where Mormonism was considered a curiosity, and Mormons were definitely held at arm’s length. After feeling the culture exclusion, I swore I would never exclude or do anything to make someone feel less than. And as fate would have it, I now live in opposite land: Salt Lake City, Utah, a place where the predominant culture is Mormonism. And now in this bizarre twist of fate, because Dave, the boys and I do not go to church, we are the peculiarity. We are definitely held at arm’s length, especially in our Mormon neighborhood. The disconnect kind of drives me crazy.

My question: Why can’t people be normal (or in fairness, how normal like I see normal)? Why is it hard to embrace people on the fringes? Don’t they remember the persecution and rejection their religion suffered? And really, why do they act so weird around me and my family once they realize we do not go to church? It makes no sense. Wherever we live, the ward boundary dynamic is always the same. They are fine with us until they realize we are not exactly like them. And when a friend finally connects that we are different, they reflexively close the door (usually along with their friendship). It is so strange.

Marianne and I, Red Iguana 2, Salt Lake City, Utah

Instead of the norm, I want things to be different. In some ways they are (actually). I want Kyle & Eli’s friends to consistently treat them equally, even though they do not attend Mormon seminary or attend Young Men’s activities. I want the neighbor ladies to include me in neighborhood text chats and group walks, even though I do not go to church. I want the dudes to include Dave on the fun stuff not just the awkward neighborhood football fellowshipping activity. I want the dads to know that even though we do not go to church, and that my sons are not the LDS sons you want your daughters to date, my boys will always be respectful. I promise. Please know that we are strict. We talk to our boys about consent and we even follow Mormon cultural norms about dating and courtship.

Selfishly, I want to shake them and say,

“Come on. It is us, Beth, Dave, Kyle and Eli. We are respectful and we will not bite.We do not care that you go to church. Why do you care that we don’t?”

Am I asking too much? I do not expect perfection. How could I? We are not perfect. And really, I can be such a dork. We know and understand you are super busy with all of your church commitments, obligations, and are most likely unaware of your commitment-based isolation (monoculture). Nevertheless it is clear you that unless we do it your way we will never fit in. We will remain the pariahs, which sucks, by the way, because remember, we are nice. This could be an opportunity to heal or to bridge? And when you do connect, or when you do allow your children around Kyle and Eli, I do not understand why you get a pass and why we always feel like we have to present you with a personal worthiness resume, which includes, but is not limited to, a mention of our prominent LDS friends, our service experience, our Mormon history (yes, Dave & I went to BYU and all 4 years of seminary), and then why do we further need to assure you that we do not have amnesia regarding the Mormon church, its doctrine or values? And then there is this, why do we need to remain in compliance with Mormon dietary restrictions, especially when you are addicted to Diet Coke, secretly buying frappuccinos in the Starbuck’s drive-through line, binge eating desserts, hyper gossiping, Netflix binging, or drinking mass quantities of Red Bull? Finally, I want to shout (so it penetrates):

“None of this makes sense!”

Representing my people wearing my color: gray

In the end, I know the idea that we can all get along is my hope and really a fantasy. I know you have been taught a certain way and ultimately, I know I do not fit into any of those safe and acceptable boxes. Let me assure you again. I do not expect anyone to see the world like we do. I also know that our neighborhood is deeply rutted in cultural norms, traditions and expectations. From our perspective, you guys can seem a little cult-y and exclusive. We are willing to look beyond. We know we are the outsiders. Nevertheless, we are your neighbors. I walk the same sidewalks. Our kids go to the same schools. And sure, we may not be doing things the same as you anymore, but we are probably much more similar than you think. Bottom line is this: You are a huge part of who we have always been.

Please Love Me, The Syndrome

by BethMarch 4, 2016November 21, 2021Family / Health / mommy blogs / Religion

Dave and I at my sister, Brenda's wedding, October, 1999. — Dave and I at my sister, Brenda’s wedding, October, 1999. (I was 8 months pregnant.)

Note: I am not a psychiatrist, nor do I play one on tv. Keep in mind that my dad is a psychologist. Enjoy.

I am stealing that phrase from Dr. Gabor Maté. After posting about being “all in” yesterday, my friend nailed it and suggested I watch his Youtube Video titled, “When The Body Says No: Mind/Body Unity and the Stress-Disease Connection.” Seeing as how I have the attention span of a fly, in bits and pieces I have been watching Dr Maté’s talk since then. The concept of the Please-Love-Me syndrome is sticking with me most. The Please Love Me Syndrome is apparently an adaptive result of say some sort of stressor, like a rage-ful dad (his words). Consequently, because we want to please our (rageful) parent and because we crave their love, we learn to adapt, inevitably hiding our authentic selves. To a child this literally translate to the following coping mechanism:

“I will do whatever it takes for you to love me, or better, I will suppress who I am so you will love me and attach.”

My adult translation: “At all costs, I will take your shit.”

Pushing his please-love-me theory further, Dr. Maté suggests that when we repress our authentic self, we also stress our physical selves out, which he asserts leads to disease. Again my translation is the following: So to gain your asshole — that is to say, rage-ful — dad’s acceptance (love) we learn to suppress who we are, and then we get sick. Eventually all that adaptive, stress-based self-suppression makes us sick. Weird I had a lot of stomach aches as a child. I have indigestion just thinking about my past. And now I have Celiac disease. Does correlation equal causation? Hmmmm. Obviously the correlation here is that we suppress ourselves because we fear making our mean dad mad (fear rejection). Eventually our adaptive please-love-me behavior becomes so reflexive that it transfers to our other relationships and literally becomes who we are. I am living proof.

Minneapolis, MN: My sister, Brenda's, wedding, October, 1999 — Minneapolis, MN: My sister, Brenda’s, wedding, October, 1999

Consequently, as I search for meaning and search for Beth, Dr. Maté’s words resonate. The need to please has literally informed everything. For instance, I have a knack for being attracted to smart, creative, funny, dynamic, super intense, unpredictable, and oh, very cruel, self-obsessed humans (all characteristics I would use to describe my dad). Often I am lucky and I find friends (and spouses) who share most of the traits (minus the douchebag ones). At times I have wondered if my please-love-me behavior has morphed into some sort of crazy addiction. Meaning, I get a buzz off of your approval as much as your disapproval. In fact your disapproval only makes me try harder. Further, when I do attract a rageful beast, my please-love-me behavior becomes all-consuming, often spinning out of control. I never get it. Rageful beasts are never satisfied and simply feed off of rejecting all the please-love-me fools caught in their net.

Pushing the mean dad analogy further, I found it interesting that Dr. Maté used a rageful dad as an example. I kind of get it. Do we all have mean dads? No. In fact, Dave is the opposite of mean. He is kind, invested, esteem-promoting and knows his boys. Sadly, in contrast to Dave, my dad was anything but esteem-promoting. What I remember about my dad, which is not much, is that he always seemed disappointed, more specifically, disappointed in me. When it was my weekend to go to his house (yes, my parents were divorced), I never saw my dad. My brother had my dad’s attention, and I was pawned off to my stepmother, his second wife, and yes, they are divorced now too. When I was not with my stepmom, I spent my time far away in the basement where I was asked to remain. Ergo, (because I have been dying to use this transitional word), in my dad’s basement, I slept, watched television and entertained myself. I always loved when my brother came downstairs. Eventually I stopped going to my dad’s. It would make sense (at least to me) that my brother would continue his weekend visits. He did. My brother also tells me that things were not much better for him. I do not disagree.

My awesome sister, Brenda, and I at her wedding, October, 1999, Minneapolis, MN. (Yes. I am super duper pregnant in this photo. My sister is gorgeous!)

My relationship with my dad came down to the following conversation he had with my mom. I think it was a gift. My dad firmly stated that he only wanted my three children, and that I was unwanted. Yes, I heard him say these words. Remember land lines? Well, I was on one phone while my mom was on the other. My guess is my dad had no clue I was listening. I was. My mom had no idea he would say what he did. I know her heart dropped when she heard him say,

“I don’t want Beth.”

I know she wanted to grab the phone away from my ear. I was in another part of the house. Instead, I continued to quietly listen.

Here it is. I am the youngest child. I could never figure out my dad’s beef with me. In truth, I know his beef was with my mom. With her not present, I became the puppy he could kick. I always felt his rejection. I still feel his rejection. It is cruel and it is abrupt. The only way I could survive him (the beast) is if I let go and shut the door. I did. Ok. Sure, it took me several years to get the clue that my dad did not want me. Again I think it was a phone call. He called my therapist at the time a “shrink,” and since my dad was, ironically, in the mental health profession himself, his choice of that particular condescending term was deliberate. And as Eli most humorously conveys,

“Hey mom, condescending means ‘to talk down to.’”

My dad talked down to me and I was done. I did what I do to most beasts. I scream. I short-circuit. I swear and then I hang up, lock myself in my room, or go for a very long walk. And if we are really being truthful and I am, please know that I will always, always hope for the beast’s approval, LOVE, forgiveness, acceptance, and (for what I don’t know, but I still want it). For now, I have learned to live without it.

My dad is now seventy-five. My last memory of seeing him in the flesh was nearly seventeen years ago and after the phone call when I hung up on him. He flew to Minnesota (so did I) for my sister Brenda’s wedding. I was approximately eight months pregnant with Kyle, and at the point where I should not be flying. I flew anyway.

After the ceremony, my dad walked over to me. He and I said very few words to each other, yet I felt joyous, as if we were long lost friends. As he spoke, he placed his hand on my large, pregnant belly. I stood there and his hand remained, firmly on my stomach. I was consumed with his hand placement and wondered,

“Will he like who I have turned out to be?”

In that moment, I adapted.

Duality is interesting. In a flash I also saw how his behavior as my parent had informed all of my decisions as an adult. I knew I did not want to be him, but I really wanted him to like and accept me. I found his hand repellant, wanted it off of my belly and away from my unborn son, yet I felt elated while I basked in his approving touch. Because I did not feel comfortable asking him to take it off, his hand remained. Standing there I felt forced to think about us. I thought about him as a father. I was not him. I am not him. In those seconds it was clear. I knew I wanted to be different. I wanted to be a part of my child’s life. I also felt proud and peaceful. I take my marriage seriously. I did not marry because it was the next step in a religious expectation. Instead I married someone I liked, loved and felt really good about marrying (I love Dave). I resolved to have kids when I wanted to have them. I resolved to not blame my kids, but to take responsibility as the parent. I resolved to be patient and remember that I am the teacher. I resolved to take responsibility and I resolved to apologize when I screw up. And when I had Kyle and Eli, I resolved never ever to reject them. I never will. Those boys are my heart and soul. Each day with them serves as a reminder of what my dad has missed – his choice, not mine.

He took his hand away and we have not spoken since.

Dave and baby Kyle, Salt Lake City, Utah early 2000.

Kyle and I at my friend, Melanie’s wedding, Atlanta, Georgia, May, 2000

As I wind this post down I keep thinking,

“If only all my problems, including my please-love-me affliction, were because of my bad relationship with my father. If only…”

Unfortunately life is not that simple. I get that. So for me being “all in” also means facing all of me. Here is how I picture myself. I am mummy wrapped in layers (years-worth) of gauze. Now I think my life’s journey is about ripping off that gauze. Honestly, I am a little overwhelmed. I am wrapped in so much gauze that I look like a big, fluffy mummy. I am certain (because I already have) that as I peel away that I will find scars, pain, scabs, blood and unhealed wounds. Most days I would much rather remain a fluffy, protected, gauze-y creature (fence-bound). I also know that my desperate please-love-me behavior wants to remain hidden. Yet when I muster the courage, I must admit that gauze removing rocks. It is always those times when I start to unwrap when I am reminded of the love and support and strength that envelops my world!

Eli and I, Banff National Park, Canada, July 2004

The boys and I, Banff National Park, Canada, July 2004

And all exposed I feel grateful. I am grateful I get to be Kyle and Eli’s mom. And I am grateful I have a partner who does not freak out if I tell you we had a fight. I am also grateful Dave supports my quest, or maybe he simply prefers human Beths to gauze-wrapped mummies.

PS. The best part of being a wife and a mom is that I get to be a part of Dave, Kyle and Eli’s amazing journey. I would not trade this gift for anything.

Oxygen Masks, Mormon Crafty Blogs and the Apocalypse

by BethAugust 2, 2013August 29, 2022Family / Health / My Three Cents / Religion22 Comments

A small, yet wordy, preface: I have a lot to say. I always have a lot to say, and usually Dave or a few phenomenal friends get that earful. With Dave working far, far away, and because I believe one friend needs to attend to her dog (hi, Opie) and the other, for instance, well, I’ve already spoken with her at least seventeen times just today, I think I need to dust off my old blog, and find another way to let these words escape. Oh yes, I used to blog.

These days, I try to keep silent. I stop my thinking, and simply freeze the overly-analyzed thoughts, only letting them escape when letting them free is better than keeping them in, like now. I have such an icy mouthful accumulating. It is like I am stuck in that space right after, say, one shoves a giant spoonful of Mint Oreo Cookie ice cream in one’s mouth, and currently that yummy, very cold spoonful is stuck, frozen right in that spot, the spot the ice cream moves to as one begins to swallow; uncomfortable at best. As my throat throbs, my mind is confusing my frozen brain chaos for an epic ice cream headache. Words need to get out! My eyes water while I reflexively place my warm tongue to the roof of my mouth. Seriously, if I am not careful, as my frozen words begin to thaw, some poor, unsuspecting Whole Foods employee, or worse, a terrified mom (because she will be terrified once she hears what I have to say) well, that unsuspecting soul will get an earful of my now warming words. I can’t hold the frozen forever. I cannot cover the enormous mouthful or the enormity of this issue in one post either. Scratching the surface, kind of like nails on a chalkboard, is what I promise.

The Story: Remember what the airlines say, “Put your mask on first, and then help.” I think that sometimes we are so mired in our own stuff that we forget the, “And then help,” part (myself included).

It could have been anywhere. I could have been with any group of women, yet a Mormon Church Relief Society Meeting is where it happened to be. In case you do not know, Relief Society is the women’s auxiliary arm of the Mormon Church. On Sundays, Relief Society fills one of the three church hours. I debated whether I should include where I was, because I did not want to distract from the story, yet including it will, in my opinion, paint a clearer picture. So yes, I found my way to a Mormon Church Meeting, (long story, don’t read into it either way, by the way, don’t judge, ok, judge, but do not assume).

As I sat in this Mormon Church Relief Society Meeting, my head was pounding, and not from ice cream. I did not want to be there, but there is where I was. For a quick escape, I sat close to the door, next to my sweet, and very talkative neighbor. I listened as the women teaching the lesson shared her message. She asked for comments, and in the one place I thought I was free from the Internet, there it was. After a woman shared her dislike and disgust of Facebook, 500 gazillion members and counting, “I may be the only person in the world under 80 years old who does not have a Facebook Account blah, blah, blah…” Another woman sheepishly raised her hand, “I just joined Facebook and I have connected with family I never knew…” Like erupting popcorn, all over the room the hands flew. Church is a place where no one really knows me, and thank God, no one there knew I used to blog. Pop. Pop. Pop. The hands popping high, and I thinking, “How can I be at church and people be having this discussion?” yet there I was. And the there was the hand, and like my first spoonful of ice cream, once the hand went down, her words began to churn, “I am a young mother. I love my children. I am crafty. I would like to make money for my family. I am also busy raising my children. There are all of those CRAFTY MORMON WOMEN BLOGS. There are the Mormon Women Blogs that tell you how to make your house just like theirs and there are the Mormon Women Blogs that talk about their happy, happy family. [insert frustrated pause here] I cannot be them. I want to. I can’t. Their kids are perfect. Their lives are perfect. They make money from showing the rest of us their perfect worlds. I am too busy wiping noses and changing diapers.” I could feel the I-am-less-than bleeding out of her.

And as I listened, I literally threw up in my mouth while my heart sank. It wasn’t the place, and maybe this isn’t the place, but COME ON PEOPLE, something needs to be said. As my story moves, I will tell you WHY. At that moment, while I sat in church, I did know better. I was simply afraid to speak. I should have opened my mouth, yet I remained silent. Shame on me!

The young woman continued, “If only I could be like them. If only I could be them.” I wanted to scream, but I didn’t want to look foolish, or better, more foolish than I was already feeling. I wanted to stand up in this room, a room of mostly strangers and shout, “YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH JUST THE WAY YOU ARE!” I know. In my head, I see myself as so Free-to-Be-You-And-Me. Hey, Rosie Greer (most of you are too young. Google it), well, Rosie Greer had a point when he sang those sweet words, “It’s all right to cry,” and all the other things you do by simply being you.

As she talked, she sparked a conversation. I am so glad she did. The other women persisted, and the hands continued to pop. I wanted to assure her, I wanted to assure them. I wanted to say, “It’s a bunch of smoke and mirrors.” I wanted to tell them, “Sure, some of those women totally have it together, or at least mostly together, and are super cool, but behind those Arty Salt-Flats-Family-Photos (a Utah thing), behind those lovely Instagram shots, the “Facebook happy” posts, the “Martha Stewart” look (something she mentioned), the white-stitched-jeans, the dessert bars, and impeccably sewn Etsy dresses, I promise you they all struggle. They doubt. They compete. They take Prozac. They weep silently. They overeat. They starve themselves, they exercise too much, their husbands are depressed, and while they work on their blog, their houses are a mess.” Desperately, I wanted to say, “WOMEN, you are all good! You deserve a space on this planet. You DO NOT have to be perfect!” (Yes, I know I am being dramatic, but it breaks my soul to see and feel so much pain. And damn it, dramatic is what I feel.) And finally, I wanted to tell this woman. Hey, I don’t know you, but you are here. You seem like an awesome mom, and guess what, it just doesn’t matter. Did you know that scientifically getting “likes” on Facebook or Instagram are one of the simplest forms of a Dopamine response? It’s crack for the non-drug user. Facebook “likes” or sponsorships on your Crafty Mormon Blog do not mean that you are better, or more perfect. You are good!

Unfortunately, this is just a sampling of the bigger issue. I really wish they did, but Mormon Women Bloggers and Mormon Women have not cornered the market on competition, the freakish strive for perfection, the need to keep up, or at all costs, and I really mean, at all costs, the need to be number one. I think we all know that.

We seem to be living in a world where so much energy is spent on the outward, on the appearance of looking like we have it together, that our kids are perfect, damn it, and that our marriages are painless; all the while people are disintegrating on the inside. We aren’t taking time to be the smart pig, of The Three Little Pigs, that is, and we are building are very attractive houses with straw, you know what I mean? We are so concerned with keeping up that we are forgetting to build together. We live in a world where it is easier to look away, wait, I mean, pull out our cellphone and videotape the tragedy, then putting our cellphone in our pocket, offering to help, especially when helping is not the popular thing to do, and Epic Fail YouTube video gets us way more friends, right? This issue of striving is so big. I know I am at fault. Like I said and for starters, I tend to keep my mouth shut instead of sticking my words out there. Women we are hard on ourselves and we are hard on each other. Please, it has to change. Why the hell do we stand on top, crushing each other, instead of standing together? Why can’t we be more brave? Why don’t we take sides, or go the road less traveled? Seriously, why?

Didn’t all of those as-I-have-loved-you-love-one-another church lessons, or those after school specials, or that Three Cups of Tea book (wait, he was a fraud), well and nevertheless, didn’t they teach us anything? Leave “Facebook Happy” to some far away land, a land Brandon Mull can create; a world with wizards, thinking zombies, and a world with amazing people, people who can remove a seed from their neck, plant it and be reborn. And if I am making no sense, let me tell you why we need to reach out, be honest, accept ourselves warts and all, throw away the smoke machines, and break the mirrors.

Earlier this week I heard about a woman. This amazing Mormon woman, a woman with a high level of education, had been student body president, an athlete, an active church attender, and also served an LDS Mission, was a friend, a daughter, a sister a wife and a mother, well, earlier this week, this lovely and amazing woman, alone, drove to a park and ended her life.

I did not know her. I knew her brother. I have no idea the unbearable pain and soul-crushing heartache she was in. I cannot judge her. I can only be sad, sad needed to go. Did she feel less than? Was she struggling to keep up? We can make excuses and say she was depressed. Of course she was sad.

She was also our sister, our wife, our mother, our friend, and for some reason it was better for her to leave this world alone then to hang on. I only wish I knew her. Her sudden death has hit me quietly, and has broken my heart. As a sister, daughter, wife, mother and a friend, myself, I think of the spaces those titles fill. She was someone’s daughter. She was someone’s mother, and now she is gone.

As I think of her, I think of the moments when I judge or simply look away. Sure, I know we need to fix ourselves, and that no one can make us happy. We all know that. I would like to think, however, I could be there to hold someone’s hand, especially when their own world seems so dark, and bottom-of-the-ocean like. I hope I could at least hold their hand long enough so they can resurface, and catch their breath. In those dark, scary, and uncomfortable moments, I hope I can remind someone that they are good enough, and completely worth it. I do not know enough about suicide except to say that suicide crosses all socioeconomic ranges, all ages, races and religions. Statistically, there seems to be way too many people who have completely lost hope. According to national statistics, 105 people end their life each day in the United States alone.

Blogs and Facebook be damned, because when the Apocalypse comes (wink wink) the internet will die, including crafty Mormon Women blogs, and with all the surviving cock roaches, and 10 million pounds of unground wheat (remember Mormons have a lot of food storage), I will also take the following, because what we have centered or stuffed inside is what we will always have. I will be grateful. I will be grateful for those moments, especially the moments when I am feeling completely less than. I will be (because I already am) grateful for those breathless, paralyzing moments, when a complete stranger, a Whole Foods cashier, a woman at church, an empathetic park mom, or a dear friend sees me, reaches their hand out, and their heart forward long enough to lift me to safety. Instead of trampling me to get out of the burning plane, or more apt, letting me suffocate, they stop and they help. How cool is that? My guess is that they already had their oxygen mask on, or are very good at holding their breath. Breathe and then lift. And as they wait for me to put my mask on, I am grateful they always stay long enough to hear me breathe. Thank God!

Great Basin National Park from both sides…

by BethDecember 6, 2012May 26, 2015Family / Religion / Travel / Travel With Teens6 Comments

with a little Mormon who-do-you-know

Heading west, we are leaving Great Basin National Park. I see the reflected sunset blend pinks, blues and purples across the mountains. I wish I could capture what I see. These mountains’ die cut shapes are now printed in my mind.

We are literally yards away from the little town of Baker, NV, population, 385. Of course Dave and the boys are once again listening to Brandon Mull’s “The Beyonders.” It is never lost on me, because my boys tell me so, that Brandon Mull is a friend of Uncle Denny’s. I think it is hilarious how the Mormon Church and consequently living in the state of Utah, we end up playing our very own game of Six Degrees of Separation. In the Mormon Church, especially here in Utah, however, you are never separated by more than one degree. Because of this Utah-and-Utah-Mormon-phenomenon, it is no shock that I am also friends with one of Senator Harry Reid’s sons, or that the now famous author of Book of Mormon Girl, and outspoken Mormon Scholar, Joanna Brooks, is a good friend of mine; so is her lovely sister, MB. If you knew how closely connected the Utah-based Mormon culture is or is it was, you would understand that it is commonplace that I am (no joke) one degree away from the Mormon Mommy Blogger who was horrifically burned in a plane crash, and found the strength to rise above, Nie Nie, although we have never met. Everyone I know has or is somehow related to her or at least that is what they tell me. I promise you that a good friend of mine, a friend who also dated my brother, is very good friends with the Twilight Lady. So when my friend Robin introduced me to the lovely and talented Carrie way back when, within a millisecond I knew I had hit paydirt. Then and literally my eleven-year-old-girl heart skipped two beats as I learned Carrie’s Dad is like the most FAMOUS MORMON EVER! If you were both LDS and alive in the late 1970’s through mid 1980’s you knew the uber popular Mormon Musical, and now parodied, Saturday’s Warrior, a musical in short based on the Plan of Salvation through song. And if you know Saturday’s Warrior, you also know that Mr. Lex De Azevedo is the musical’s great producer and co-writer. Ok and yes, it is very cool that Lex De Azevedo was also the musical director for the Sonny and Cher show, The Jackson Five and The Osmonds, but as a young Latter Day Saint living in the heartland, Saturday’s Warrior was EVERYTHING! No. Seriously! EVERYTHING! Ok. Don’t mock, but listening to the soundtrack on my little tape recorder and belting, “Line upon Line. Precept upon precept. That is how he lifts us. That is how [insert dramatic pause here] he teaches his children…” I was transported. I was full of hope. I was one of those stars in the sky. And back in say, 1982, every congregation put on their own production of Saturday’s Warrior. I make no excuse for the fact that I wanted to rip perfect little Tana Call’s vocal chords out when she got the part of Julie, female lead. Saturday’s Warrior, like it or not, was the soundtrack of my Mormon youth. So the fact that my friend Carrie is also related for you older folks, the King Sisters (her Grandma), and to you Indy-Rock-Hippies, Arcade Fire (her cousins) really makes Carrie the Holy Grail of what-Famous-Mormon-do-you-know. Thankfully Carrie is as normal as any person who grew up LDS can be [wink wink]. Might I add, for eleven-year-old me, knowing Carrie would have honestly been better than seeing those Golden Plates for myself, taking photos and stashing a plate or too in my safety deposit box. And yes, I have told her so.

On and on the silly connections go. Oh wait, and speaking loosely of the Osmonds, because they really are the Kevin Bacon of this Mormon game, my favorite secret connection of all time is that my very good friend Eric’s sister is married to Jimmy Osmond — so awesome! (Sorry for outing you Eric.)

I promise you if they were or have ever been a Mormon and you were or ever have been a Mormon, you would know them or be just as connected to them too. Alan introduced me to (love him or hate him) Orrin Hatch and Orrin claimed to even know my website. I, to this day, am sure he was prepped. And yes, everyone I know knows Mitt Romney or went to BYU with his sons. Years ago I saw him at church. He was playing with one of his grandchildren in the back. He stood right next to me while I chased Kyle around the gym. And in fairness I have seen Donny Osmond twice, once at church in Minnesota, the Wayzata Chapel, to be exact, and once at the Orem Costco, where he held the back gate open for us so we could sneak in.

I digress. Wow. I really digress.

As the boys listen to The Beyonders, I am wearing my headphones to block out the story’s narration. My iPod is on full volume, I do not like the song playing, and fast forward to Radiohead’s, “Creep,” the acoustic version. Is there a better road trip song? If only I could scream the words out loud? “I am a creep…what the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here…you’re so very special. I wish I was special. Whoa, whoa. She’s running out. She run. run. Runnnnnnnuuuunnn.”

Dave and I are trying to decide if we should stay for the night. We’re pulling over. I have no idea what the little grocery store/bar/restaurant/ice-cream-shop is called. Great Basin National Park, home of the Bristlecone Pine (the world’s oldest tree), is the least visited national park for a few simple reasons. It is on the western middle-of-the-desert-middle-of-nowhere border between Utah and Nevada. Great Basin is hard to get to, is not on any major highways or byways, and is not at all close to anything else. Years ago since learning she was there (yes, Great Basin is a she), I have always felt a kinship to this stunning and forgotten place. We drove through Great Basin in our camper van many years ago. Eli was a baby and the night we camped was stark, cold and I was convinced that the only other camper chose to camp right next to us because he was a serial killer. If I closed my eyes, even for the split-est of seconds, he would most certainly get us. I asked Dave to lock everything up and sleep on the bottom section that night. My guess all these years later and maybe because the boys are old enough to protect me, is he simply did not want to feel so alone. Because the Bristlecone-Pine area was closed for the winter when we were here before, Dave has always wanted to come back.

Stopped on the side of the road, we were in Baker, NV, which is a “blink once” and you’ll miss it little town. We drove to the other side of the street, parked, walked up the stairs, into the restaurant and agreed that the boys could have ice cream shakes. Our tall waiter, with blue jeans he wore just a few inches above his waist and the only waiter, by the way, directed us to take a menu and a seat. Here we sat in this eccentrically delightful restaurant colored in bright reds, yellows, and filled to the brim with art, framed, crazy sculptures hanging above us, displayed in the bathroom, and all with affixed price tags.

The restaurant is the size of a Starbucks bathroom and oddly enough they were using various Starbucks flavored syrups for the Italian Sodas. We looked over the menu while Eli looked around. “Hey Mom, our waiter looks just like Bill Nye the Science Guy,” Eli said and we all agreed.

There was no caramel for the shakes, and then our waiter kindly suggested,
“I like it when he mixes flavors.” “Do you think we can mix ours’?” the boys both asked him. “I’m sure you can,” he said in the mellow warn-out voice of an outgrown hippie, who may or may not have moved to tiny and remote Baker, NV to follow his dreams.

Dave decided on an enormous ice cream with homemade cookie sandwich.
Me, well, I had some green tea. I was cold.

Our day began in Tonopah, NV. Have you ever been in sweet travel slumber only to be assaulted by the unfamiliar repetitive beeps of an obnoxious hotel alarm clock? Happened to us. I swear it was 5:30 a.m. Dave, who was wearing his watch, assures me it was 6:00 a.m. I was the closest to those piercing beeps. Unable to ignore them I started swatting at the nightstand. Imagine my arm completely outstretched hitting fervently into the darkness. That’s what I did. Later on the kids even said while pointing at that mean hotel clock, “Mom, what did you do to that alarm clock?” Thankfully the sleep-induced damage was nothing and I was able to set the clock upright and snap the iPod dock thingy back in. Yay!

Exactly nine minutes later I heard it again. Beep. Beep. Beep. “Damn it! I only hit snooze.” Swatting at it again I could not make that ugly and unfamiliar sound stop. Pleading, I asked, “Dave, please. I cannot see. Please read the buttons and make it stop!” I may have handed him the alarm clock. I honestly do not know. Dave fixed it and we fell asleep that is until I heard the familiar sounds of my own alarm. I allowed myself two snoozes. And after yesterday’s falling-down-the-rabbit-hole day, I wanted us up and out the door.

We stopped at Giggles, yes, of course the gas station. Gas was down to $4.19 a gallon. We filled up, and were on our way.

Tagged : Famous Mormons / Great Basin National Park