My dad is the best. He shows up around here now and then (I mean, I tell you stuff about him, but also he reads — you know), because I have a lot of stories that make better sense if you know the dad. Anyway, he’s good. And I’ll tell you why. Or at least some of the why. Now. Ready? Okay.

My dad is funny. Snort funny. (Okay, well, he snorts. Usually in response to something ridiculous or ironic. My kids call this the Inappropriate Laugh, because it is possible that Husband and I each have a different laugh that comes out when possibly no laugh should.) He isn’t the kind who tells jokes, but the kind who finds them. In print, like The Far Side, which brought him decades of laughs (because you can go back and read them over and over, right?) and in various books of various intellectual levels. He loves Harry Potter, especially the wordplay and the names. He probably laughs at the Iliad and Sophocles. He gets stuff that only True Nerds get. And it makes him happy. Which makes me happy, too.

My dad is musical. He taught himself to play the guitar one summer while he was watering lawns for a summer job (that may be totally untrue, but that’s the story I remember, and hey, this is my blog). He sat under a tree and picked out gentle hippie music which may or may not have hidden drug references, but which also made, in the future, excellent bedtime songs and campfire music. He’s sung with cool choirs, including the one time when he sang with some Cincinnati chorus AND CAROL CHANNING. I know. I love me some Carol Channing. Oh, so much. He used to take us to see plays and he’d sit on the edge of his chair, soaking up the goodness.

My dad has a freakish memory. Mostly for people, but also for obscure literary references. I honestly think the guy remembers every person he’s ever met. He knew all my friends in High School, and still remembers them and asks after them. He cared about them. That’s where the memory comes from, I’ve decided. He meets someone and gets Invested. So he remembers. Cool, right?

My dad loves good food. He’s a great cook and baker and maker-upper and eater. We do have a good time together. Surprised? I thought not.

My dad is a linguist. Besides speaking carefully (which he does) he also knows loads of languages. Even some dead ones. And what’s cooler than speaking dead languages? I know. Nothing is.

My dad is a caretaker. He always took good care of us. And he took good care of my mom. And after she passed away, he’s taken very good care of my Mimi and her parents and pretty much everyone else who will let him. He’s a nurturing man — and I’m pretty sure that most of the world’s problems would diminish down to specks if we nurtured the characteristics that make a nurturing man. He’s a gatherer. He loves to have people around. He loves to organize dinners, lunches, breakfasts… any excuse to bring people together, especially if it involves food. (Where did I get that, again?)

My dad is a worshipper. He loves his Heavenly Father and Jesus. He loves going to church. He loves studying the scriptures. He loves serving and working and helping and living the gospel.

My dad is a reader. He loves books. He has a broad range of tastes which has broadened to include YA romantic comedy, since I started writing it.

My dad is a grower. He loves plants. Mostly ones you can eat, but also ones that look pretty or smell good. He loves the dirt. And compost. Lots of compost. (He also showers. Good thing.)

My dad is an awesome grandpa. He gives each of his 40+ grandkids so much personal attention that I’m pretty sure they all think they’re his favorite. He lives 4+ hours away from the nearest ones right now, but he’s still involved, knowing sports schedules and concert plans and plays and tests. He tutors his grandkids in French, he sings with them, he gets so excited when they tell him what they’ve been reading. He works with them. He listens to them. He cooks with them and eats with them. He’s been known to cry with them when the tears are called for, and he cheers and cheers for them.

And my dad cheers for me. It’s a pretty great thing to have someone who can find all the best things to say, at all the most needed moments. He thinks I’m great. And I think he’s great.

Happy birthday, Dad. I’m so glad there’s you.

—

Sunday morning, my parents met with their bishop  and he said, “This comes as a surprise to me, but I’m authorized to extend you a call to serve in the Nauvoo Temple Mission. You leave in April.” (It came as a surprise to me, too.)

If you didn’t understand any of that, I will be happy to explain. A bishop is a pastor. People of our faith (LDS, Mormons, Really Nice People) sometimes serve missions. You’ve likely seen the 19 and 20-year-old variety biking or walking around your town. There’s a white-haired contingent, too, and my parents are going to join them. In Nauoo, which is in Illinois, exactly 4.25 hours from everything.  Except the Mississippi River, which in floody seasons, actually covers part of the town. Once upon a 1840s time, there was a Mormon temple in Nauvoo, but when the Mormons got kicked out, the temple was destroyed. Which is terrible. Tragic, really. But the temple was rebuilt, and is a beautiful house of worship once again. (This photo, above, Husband took, and I just hold my face up to the computer screen and breathe easier with all those trees.)

The town is great – full of gorgeous restored brick houses with chimneys (did you know I love a brick house with chimneys?). And there are lots of fun things to do there, to play and to learn about historic Mormon-ness. Like in all these photos I took (except the really good ones, which, natch, Husband took) of my kids playing there many years ago (5 years ago, if I remember correctly):

Here’s Kid 1, back in the day.

And Kid 2, with the glasses of cute-itude.

And Kid 3 on the totally authentic Pioneer stilts.

I know, right? Give me that time machine and let me live in that day, forever. Kid 4 on the cutest sheep anywhere.

And not only that, but this place has the best trees in the known world. Like this one:

Breathe with me.

And my parents are going to go there. To live, and work, and get bit by many, many bugs. (That last part? That’s a bonus. Not really what they signed up for, but they’re going to get it anyway. I know this. I’ve been there. Many times.)

So, yea for them. This is huge fun for my family, and we’re completely excited for Grandpa Brent and Grandma Mimi to have this grand adventure.

But it is just a little too embarrassing that we have nearly made it to noon and my list is still so very un-crossed-off. Ug. But I have been busy. Here is what I accomplished already today:

*The weightlifting *The Kid-hair-doing *The breakfast making and cleaning *The carpooling *The bread making (and tasting – very nice, thank you) *The report grading *The Monday Blog Visiting *The panicking (which was not on the list, but I put it down because I accomplished it, and feel like getting credit).

But here’s the one part of my list I will share: The treat making part. I have been (mostly) off sugar lately, and that is by choice, and a good thing. But see, the Kids and Husband? They’re not. Off sugar, I mean. So in the spirit of Christmas and cellulite, I’m making treats for after-school snacks in December (as opposed to other months, when Kids can eat a piece of toast, or a slice of yummy cheese, or some fruit, or gnaw on a chunk of cardboard when they get home).

Today? Peanut butter balls.

Here’s what we do:

1/2 cup softened butter
1 cup peanut butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 cups powdered sugar

Beat butter and peanut butter (I know – can you even stand it?) and vanilla until they’re light and fluffy. Mix in  powdered sugar. Then form into little balls and coat with chocolate. I think we all know that darker=better where chocolate is concerned, but I’m all about inexpensive. So I melt semi-sweet chocolate chips and dip in that.

If that’s the only other thing that gets done from my list today, I’ll count it as a winner.

Sometimes, when I was a kid, people would ask me, what does your dad do? and I would answer with my seven-year-old studiousness, he’s a strategic planner. I worked hard to remember that, and I used it as often as I could (because even then, I loved me some big words). But between then and now, I’ve had a lot of occasions to answer that question… differently. Because my dad has been a lot of things.

A lot.

But when people ask me now? I tell them he’s a teacher. And a gardener. And that seems to fit. He loves to teach. He fills his heart up with his university students. He cares about their success in his classes and also in the important-er parts of their lives. He loves to teach. And he loves his garden. He tells vegetable stories like I used to tell toddler stories. (Wow! Look how big they’re getting! Can you believe the precociousness of my cauliflower?) He thrills that he can leave boxes of excess produce in the church kitchen, and that it will all be taken and eaten.

A teacher, and a gardener. Sound like Anyone Else you know? Like the One my dad seeks to emulate in his daily life, always putting God’s will first, always seeking to serve others, always willing to submit to the Lord’s plan. My father, walking in the footsteps of his Savior, the master teacher. A teacher, and a gardener.

But that’s okay. It IS. Because submitting by the calendar is a great idea, but only if your work is ready. Which mine is not. If I were a baker, my work would still be dough. Were I a tailor, there would be no hems, and my dress full of pins. A filmmaker? Lots of footage, but far, far from locked picture.

Sorry. I know. It’s been a long time.

And there was stress here this weekend. And also strep. Not me, though. I’m still in voice for OPENING WEEK of JOSEPH. I know. I was really concerned last week, seeing as we had not actually learned all the songs and dances. (Not so worried about the songs. I know the songs. Dancing? Not my forte. Really. Stop laughing, brothers who read my blog. See? They know.) But we’re costumed (basically) and ready around here, so bring on opening night. (That’s Thursday. If I suddenly drop off the face of the blogosphere, you’ll know why.)

Does anyone else wonder why the word “strep” comes up misspelled, but “blogosphere” is fine? Yeah. Me, too.

On the literary front (stop laughing, brothers. I mean it.) MRRO is getting fun reviews and lots of blog-time. There’s another week to enter to win a copy over at Bloggin’ ‘Bout Books, so go get signed up. Or don’t. But it’s only fair if I tell you all about it.

Also, it was my little brother’s birthday yesterday, and I forgot to call. Is he still my little brother if he turned 34? Yup. And do you want to hear a cute thing from my kidhood? Here it is: His birthday, like I just told you, was March 14th. And my half-birthday was (and is) March 15th. And seeing as at the point in my kidhood we are discussing, there were only 3 kids in our family (as opposed to the 10 that we had a little later), there was always half a birthday cake left over for my half-birthday. And my Mom always made just enough of a big deal about it that I was pretty sure that I was special. I know, right? She was pretty awesome.

So happy half birthday to me. Now I must go and practice that one part I always mess up. Yes. THAT one.

Bye!

* Bathrooms don’t actually clean themselves. However, the amount of time you spend in your house in inversely proportional to the number of times someone says, “Hey, what’s that smell?”

* 2500 words in a day is a lot to write. But dialog makes those words come faster.

* Sick little boys who would rather be coughing in Kindergarten than watching “Newsies” in my bed = Massive Cuteness.

* It would be cool to have Personal Assistants/ Vice-Beccas / Counselors for every aspect of my life.

* The community theater production of “Annie, Get Your Gun” premiers tonight. I have to put some curlers in my hair.

* Husband is emailing occasional photos of handsome Islander men from his work trip to Hawaii. The photos are not directed to me. But I still manage to find them. Because I routinely read the Kids’ email.

* I haven’t had a professional haircut in more than 19 months. This should probably be remedied.

* Contrary to popular opinion, I am not addicted to edamame. I could quit any time I wanted to.

* My dad’s birthday (64) is later this month. I have no good ideas for gifts, and only partly because he’s not a “things” kind of guy.

* NaNoWriMo is not conducive to exercise. Or maybe it’s just the valid excuse I’ve been looking for.

*Okay, time to tackle those bathrooms. And those 2500 words. (And go read some blogs – later. Maybe.)