A Teaspoon of Ether and Golden Coins

by H. Linn Murphy

My son recently brought home a particularly egregious set of grades. This is a son who comes home and tosses me a quick yes to my question of whether he's finished his homework. He "does it all at school." I would question that, but his school is really going downhill and doesn't send homework. So like a dolt, I believe him.

Then he plops himself down in front of the computer and begins to kill stuff. Normally I wouldn't whine about someone coming home and unwinding for a few minutes from a long slog through academia, but the session never ends. I form an expedition into the wilds of his room in search of dirty towels and clothes and eating utensils. When I mention that I think I've spotted grazing raptors and his country must be razed he gives me THE LOOK.

"Mom, I'm right in the middle of a fight. I could die!" he exclaims, his face blanched white in earnestness. I can't elaborate on how little I care if his funky-looking character takes a dirt nap. I can't even fathom how that is so important to him. The disconnect floors me.

Then I remember back to when I coded for an on-line multi-user dimension game a few years back. It started out as something I could do with my husband and ended up being a completely solitary venture. Back then I had a 55 level Elflord who could kick some serious tail. I was extremely buff and able to defend Lothlorien against all comers at the click of a button. Yeah, I seriously rocked. I'd spent countless hours getting that way.

But I looked up one day and saw the sun coming up. And then my little girls came in to me rubbing their sleep-sandy eyes. I hadn't even been to bed. I'd been locked onto the screen trying to kill Cthulhu and nearly getting "killed" myself. My little girl came to my knee and asked, "What are we having for breakfast?"

Then I really looked at them. I realized I'd "mudded" clear through their whole babyhoods. I could barely remember their first steps. But I had about 23 quests under my belt and could thrash almost any monster the M.U.D. had to offer. Woo. That was the end.

I realized then that I'd spent the golden coin of C's babyhood for a wisp of nothing--less than nothing because they deleted my 55 level Elflord two weeks after I stopped playing every day. All of that playing time and angst and "prestige" went careening down the Whirlpool of Ending. And for what?

I told my son this morning about the things I'd done in my life. I'd lived in Europe when I was young. I'd gone back there at 16 with the German club folk dance team. I'd done a tiny bit barrel racing. I'd competed in dance and danced on toe in ballet. I'd sung, danced, and acted in school plays. I'd swum and climbed and rappelled and hiked. I'd gone to Alaska to work in the fish camps. I'd caved and painted and toured with choirs and fought in heavy armor. This was where I spent the golden coin of my youth.

Still I have regrets that I didn't do more with my coin. Why didn't I continue with the violin until I could stand to hear myself play? Why did I let a move to OR with my parents explode my dream to be a ballet dancer? Why didn't I fight harder to go to school in Austria like I'd planned? Why didn't I push to finish getting my Young Women's Medallion? Why didn't I go on a two-year mission? There are a thousand regrets.

My husband ran in three marathons and countless 10Ks. He played the string bass in school and in plays. He served a successful two year mission in Argentina. He was in tour choir with me. He fought in heavy armor and caved and hiked and camped and took scouts on outings. He has worked hard for our family.

He has regrets. He wishes he'd finished the last bits of his Eagle. He wishes that he'd gone to the Olympics in running. He wishes he'd finished more college.

We have a trove of stories and memories and experiences to draw from. We learned to trouble-shoot and solve problems. We learned to use our imaginations. We learned a thousand different life lessons.

But my son? He has nothing like that under his belt besides a play. I feel so sad when I think of the load of regrets he'll have when he's old and used up and too crumpled with arthritis to move much. He spent his golden coin for a teaspoon of ether. I tell him, "Run. Play a sport. Act in drama productions. Play an instrument. Get the last three merit badges and do your Eagle project. Join a club or three. Pick and pursue a college. Pursue scholarships. Decide what you want to do in life and then make firm goals to get there. And for heaven's sake do your schoolwork! Don't let your life equal a teaspoon of fog." 

He slopes away into his cave to lick his wounds and wonder why his mom is so mean. And I'm left wondering how I could have let it get so far.

But this is the deal: We only have so much coinage. There are no Youth Coin Give-backs except in the movies. We need to make certain that the things we spend that golden coin of our youth on, are worth it.
s young. I'd gone back there at 16 with the German club folk dance team. I'd done a tiny bit barrel racing. I'd competed in dance and danced on toe in ballet. I'd sung, danced, and acted in school plays. I'd swum and climbed and rappelled and hiked. I'd gone to Alaska to work in the fish camps. I'd caved and painted and toured with choirs and fought in heavy armor. This was where I spent the golden coin of my youth.

A teaspoon of ether never satisfies.

Who's Under Your Bus?

by Michelle Wilson

Writing is like driving a bus. (You ready for this one?)

You've got this great and powerful vehicle that can carry anyone you want to anyplace you want.

With fiction, you can take your reader to, not only new places on earth, but to other worlds. You can open them up to the mysteries of an unknown universe and time, or unlock the secrets of the heart of the woman who lives next door.

As a writer, you are the driver. You decide where you will go and who you want to take.


You also decide who is under your bus.

My mom bought me a t-shirt that says, "Be nice to me, or you might end up in my novel." I've talked to a few writers who have found great satisfaction in killing off an ex-boyfriend in their books. In the novel I just finished, I based one of the (annoying) antagonists on the ex-wife of one of my beta readers. He quite enjoys critiquing my book. Lol.

In fiction it's not too bad to throw people under our literary bus. Sometimes it's fun. And most times it is harmless.

But, non-fiction is different.

You might think you're not a non-fiction writer, but if you've ever written in a journal, a blog post, a Facebook status, a Twitter tweet, a letter to a friend, a talk in church, you have written non-fiction.

 As I wrote my women's inspirational non-fiction book, "Does This Insecurity Make Me Look Fat?" (which is available for preorder now here through Deseret Book, with a release date this December 30th. Excited and unapologetic plug here!) I was careful at not only where I was 'driving my bus,' but over whom I didn't want to drive it over: my kids.

 As moms we tend to commiserate one with another. As moms who write, we do it in print. As moms who write who also network via blogs and Facebook and Twitter, etc, we do it in print in front of everyone.

In my book I shared some stories of the struggles I've had as a woman and a mom, and much of it has been done with humor. But, I've tried to be very cognizant of how much I share and in what flavor I share some of the trials I've experienced via my children. I don't want my children to read anything I've written with embarrassment or regret.

It's important to remember that as we share our lessons and experiences, we do it in such a way that we don't throw our kids under the bus, meaning (quite bluntly) we don't share personal things about our children that will embarrass them, demean them, or hurt them for our own benefit.

Whether it's in a book or on Facebook, we must understand and remember that our children are not little extensions of our lives, but their own persons who have the right to drive their own buses.

I have seen mothers complain, accuse, demean, even demonize, their own children for the sake of venting or sharing. True, most times these moms don't have ill-intent. We love our children dearly--even though they sometimes drive us crazy.  But, they are still people. They have the right to create their own reputations, their own public identity--their own bus, without their mothers telling the world that little johnny is irresponsible, or little molly lies a lot.

I have not always been completely innocent of this.

Just a few months ago I posted a Facebook status about my teenage son that was a harmless (in my eyes) crack about how the house had been so quiet while he was gone at scout camp (with a few other details). My FB friends got a kick out of it. But what I hadn't taken into consideration was that my son was also my FB friend, and he didn't find it amusing. In fact, he was a little hurt that I would broadcast an insult for fun.

I realized I had thrown him under my bus, and I repented.

Yes, parenting is hard--really hard. But, so is being a kid and growing up in this world. Our kids should know that we are their sanctuaries--we are the safe harbor for all their faults and weaknesses. They should feel that we protect them from harm, not run over them with our bus because we are seeking support, validation, or we need to vent, or we just think it's funny.

Of course we can share, generally speaking, our thoughts and feelings- but we should always take into careful consideration how it will make them feel.

 Even our little ones. Someday they will grow up to understand the things that we've said, and written, about them. How will it make them feel about themselves? How will it make them feel about us? How will it make them feel about how we feel about them? (Ask yourself that one ten times fast!)



Writing is a powerful force, a force that brings our thoughts and dreams (good and bad) into reality. We can go anywhere and do anything. We can lift up or tear down. We can spread the love or encourage criticism and hurt. We drive very powerful buses with the words we put out there.

We love our children, and wouldn't purposefully hurt them. Let's be sure we don't do it by accident, either.

Write on and drive carefully!