Fly

I pulled into my driveway a recent sunny morning and saw on my lawn a couple of birds in search of their breakfast. One, I quickly noticed, had a strange rhythm to its hop. Looking closer I could see one leg severely twisted, its foot facing an unnatural direction. The little bird couldn't support much weight on the leg, but it wobbled undeterred and energetic in its quest for food. Before long it found what it was searching for and, in a burst of surprising power, lifted toward the sky.

I watched until the bird disappeared and sat pondering the inevitable metaphors found in this quiet scene. The most resonant for me right now relates to one of the jobs I've had this past school year. After I agreed to do recess duty, the secretary told me they had a need for someone to work as a part time aide for a handicapped third grade boy. He already had a full time aide, but because of certain policy changes, she could only work a set number of hours and another person was needed to cover the remaining hours of the school day.

The job description essentially requires me to be his hands. His condition is some big long word that starts with an a which affected his development in utero. He has very little muscle in his arms and legs. Much like the little bird's foot, his hands are misshapen, the fingers basically unusable. So while he is in a mainstream classroom - Spanish immersion at that - he needs a wheelchair to get around and can't hold a pencil in his hands.

But enough of what he can't do. Here's what has been a marvelous, surprising, uplifting revelation to me. He was telling me something one day and mentioned just as naturally as could be how he was "differently-abled" and then carried on with the rest of his story. Of course, I'd heard the term used before, but now I was witnessing on a fairly intimate level the truth of the phrase. Undoubtedly there are some things he will never do as well or as easily as his peers. But he can do many things and remarkably well. He uses his mouth for most things we use our hands -- writing, turning pages, even folding paper. I dare anyone to challenge him to a spit wad contest. He uses his arm to drive and steer his wheelchair, which he can maneuver forward and backward with impressive accuracy. He participates in soccer and dodge ball and tag games without hesitation. He's enthusiastic about physical therapy. He had a surgery a few months ago to remove some hardware from his legs placed there during an unsuccessful operation last summer. He came back to school excited about the new braces he would wear that would help support his knees enough that he can stand with minimal support and even walk, aided, around the school. He is not ashamed of his differences and has rallied many other children around him. They cheer his successes and are true friends.

I had a moment during one of his physical therapy sessions watching while the therapist held his body so he could stand straight and tall. Usually, because of the lack of muscle to support his frame, he leans far forward and has little balance. But as he stood there that day, I envisioned him whole and strong. I thought of how his mother and father must see him, not just as a condition requiring 24 hour assistance, but as a child of God with unlimited potential. It's easy to quickly see the defects and disabilities, just as I could easily spot the broken foot on the little bird. But with a change of perspective, an expanded vision, I began to witness the power with which and the heights to which he can and will fly.

Still love to read

As per tradition, here's my list of books read during the year. A nice, varied selection in my opinion. The one that had the greatest impact on me was Merrill's Marauders. My grandpa -- Paka -- served as a Marauder captain in World War II. He wasn't one to talk much about his experiences, but he started to dictate his memoirs many years ago at my dad's request. Unfortunately, he put the project on hold as my grandma's Parkinson's disease progressed and she required more care. When Paka suddenly passed from an aneurysm, the rest of his story remained untold.

I'm not sure how it all came about, but my dad learned about Gavin Mortimer's research and shared what he had collected of Paka's memoirs. Mortimer included some of Paka's memories and quotes in the book, which made the reading very personal. Even though Paka's contribution to the bulk of the book was minimal, I knew his actual contribution to the war effort and participation in the struggles and horrors in this part of the Pacific theater were absolute. I didn't need to see his name in every battle scene or hear his direct reaction to events to realize he was there -- that he watched his friends die, that he suffered from heat and bugs and hunger and fatigue, that he wondered whether or not he would make it out alive. I already had a great deal of respect for my grandpa, but this book expanded and deepened those feelings.

• My Family for the War by Anne C. Voorhoeve
• The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight by Jennifer E. Smith
• Wonder by R.J. Palacio
• Kisses from Katie by Katie Davis
• Cress by Marissa Meyer
• The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien
• The Shadow Throne by Jennifer A. Nielsen
• The Pigeon Pie Mystery by Julia Stuart
• The Maze Runner by James Dashner
• The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin
• Looking for Alaska by John Green
• The Red Umbrella by Christina Gonzalez
• Scarlet by Marissa Meyer
• Merrill's Marauders by Gavin Mortimer
• Cinder by Marissa Meyer
• The Runaway King by Jennifer A. Nielsen
• Mr. Churchill's Secretary by Susan Elia MacNeal
• The False Prince by Jennifer A. Nielsen
• Heaven is for Real by Todd Burpo
• Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
• The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas
• Mary Poppins by P.L. Travers
• Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine
• The Man Who Loved Books Too Much by Allison Hoover Bartlett
• A Letter of Mary by Laurie R. King
• Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl
• Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson
• The Fault In Our Stars by John Green
• Climbing the Mango Trees by Madhur Jaffrey
• A Daughter of Zion by Bodie Thoene
• The Magic of Ordinary Days by Ann Howard Creel
• Garment of Shadows by Laurie R. King

Story in a jar

I have recently caught the family history bug and have tried to use a little portion of my spare time looking for names to expand my family tree. As I do this, I realize the neglect given my own personal history. For Mother's Day this year, Morgan came home from school with a "Story In a Jar," accompanied by the following poem.

In this jar you will find,

Story starters of all kind.

Every night when you tuck me in,

Pick a slip and let the story begin.

Tell me about your life as a kid,

I want to know all that you did.

I hope you know that I love you.

You make me happy with all you do.

I've gone through a couple of the story starters with Morgan, but honestly I tell a better story when writing than when talking. So I thought in my efforts to improve recording my personal history I would work on some of the "Story In a Jar" here. It won't necessarily be the most entertaining or funny, but I feel it's something I should do. Here we go...

Q: "Were you ever given any special awards for your studies or school activities?"

A: Funny that this is the first slip I pulled, because I am such a nerd. If you haven't heard me mention that before, then you probably weren't listening.

I'm not sure this qualifies as an award, but it was something I was always proud of. In seventh grade, my English teacher submitted a story I wrote to the Reflections contest [at least I think that's what it was called back then -- now I'm not totally sure]. My story was selected for publication, and I was invited to attend a special program where each person published received a certificate and a copy of the book. I remember after they called my name and gave me a certificate, I was walking off the stage and a woman told me that mine was her favorite story. That was a big deal to me then and gave me confidence that writing was one of my talents.

My senior year I received a couple of honors that also meant a lot to me. I worked hard in school. Jeremy likes to tell the kids how smart I am, but I always feel I need to qualify that with the fact that I worked at it. Some things came easily, but other things didn't. I studied, I read, I stayed on top of my homework, I asked questions when I didn't understand. So I felt like my work payed off at the end of my senior year when I was named English Studies Student of the Year and Social Studies Student of the Year. I also respected the teachers of those classes a great deal, and I deeply appreciated their recognition. Somehow I also got the Attendance Award, which still baffles me.

When I headed off to college, I was able to start at BYU with a half scholarship. There were times I thought for sure I wouldn't be able to keep it, but after my sophomore year they upgraded it to a full scholarship. Not only was this an honor, but since Jeremy and I got married that summer, it most likely saved our poor college finances from totally biting the dust. In the end, I managed to graduate cum laude.

To: Earth

Last Sunday we were singing hymns during our Christmas program at church. We were working on the second verse of Once In Royal David's City. I wasn't thinking particularly deeply about the words until Aiden tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the first line. "Mom," he whispered. "It says 'To earth from heaven'. Like a gift!"

To: Earth
From: Heaven

What a perfect observation, and how I wish I might have been the one to notice it! Because Christ was heaven's gift to the earth on that night so many years ago, the gift that still gives today and will give eternally. This is the message of Christmas and the reason we have cause to rejoice.

And with that, here's how Caleb's advanced percussion class showed their Christmas spirit. If you can't find Caleb based on height, your second clue is tent.

Merry Christmas!

Perspective

If you come here to read goofy observations or tales of silly doings, I'm sorry to tell this won't be one of those posts. But it's one I feel pressed to write. Not because I have anything new to add to the dialogue. Just simply because I need to work through the pervading melancholy I have felt over the past several days.

I got onto the computer to check my email at about 9:40 Friday morning, which is much earlier than I usually do. The Yahoo homepage headline fairly screamed at me. At the time, the information was still incomplete, but horrific nonetheless: 18 children [soon numbered at 20] plus 6 adults gunned down at an elementary school in Connecticut.

The news hit me hard. I felt sick. I felt sad. I was dazed. I couldn't concentrate. I worried. Of course my thoughts went to my own children. Had I hugged each of them before they left for school? Had I told them I love them? Had I spoken gently or sent them off in a rush of hasty words? Were they safe? I knew I still had to take Morgan to kindergarten. How could I watch her walk through those doors without the absolute knowledge it would be a haven?

I don't normally cater to fear. I don't usually stay down for long. But these events affected me deeply. I got Morgan ready for school and hugged and kissed her till she squirmed out of my arms. "Mom, I have to go to school. I have to learn!" Afterwards I sat down for lunch, bowed my head to bless it and pray for the grieving families and neighbors in Newtown, and sobbed.

I thought about my neighborhood school. I have friends who work there. Just in my little circle of 50ish homes, I can think of at least 5 people who are employed by the school. Many more can be found volunteering at the school on any given day. Widen the perimeter and I know a great percentage of the people who work, volunteer, and send their children to our school. I interact with many of the children there as well. I go to church with them. I have been their scout leader. I teach them piano lessons. My kids play with them. I've volunteered in their classrooms. When I walk through the halls, they say hi and give me high-fives. If something like Shady Hook was to happen here, it is impossible that I would not be directly impacted in a personal, horrible way.

I thought about how many of my close friends have chosen to be teachers. In my book club alone, for example, there are 7 current or former teachers. They are dedicated to their profession and love their students, and I have no doubt that if faced with a life-threatening crisis, they would place themselves between their students and any danger. If something like Shady Hook was to happen at any of their schools, it is again frighteningly likely that I would be impacted in a horrible way.

I thought about the shooting only a few days before in the Portland mall. It was a mall I shopped at once or twice as a teenager, and the shoppers there could have been people I know. I recalled learning about the Thurston High School shooting in Springfield, Oregon in 1998. I had been on vacation in Argentina, and when we got on the airplane to return home, I saw the newspaper headline. I had friends who went to that high school. I attended sporting events and plays there. The victims could have been people I know. These types of events are no longer things that happen only to other people far away. They happen anywhere and to people who could be my friends and neighbors.

I thought about a recent news headline about a terrorist setting off a car bomb near a school in Syria, killing several children and others. I felt there was little reaction to this event, though it was in the news, as if it was just standard procedure for a place like that. Where is the uproar and horror that should be attached to any circumstance where innocent people are threatened and killed? Just because it happened in a distant land and in a politically unstable part of the world, the lives are just as precious and worthy of protection and peace.

As I put my kids to bed that night, I thought of the unthinkable vacancy left in the lives of those whose children's beds will be forever empty. Suddenly having a mess to clean or behavior to correct or homework to do or groceries to buy or carpools to run didn't seem like such a chore. How can I complain about family work and responsibility when the flip side only equals emptiness? Jeremy and I also went to do some Christmas shopping that night. It felt strange to do something so ordinary and festive when other families across the nation are looking now at gifts that won't be opened on Christmas morning.

In the aftermath, our questions naturally sway toward things like: Why??? How could something so devastating happen? What must we do to prevent something similar from happening in the future? Is it a problem of gun control/lack of mental health resources/family breakdown/a culture of violence/religious decline/all of the above? These questions must be addressed, and quickly. Equally immediate for me are concerns like: How do I ensure my kids are prepared for potential crises? How do I talk to them about bad, scary things without unnecessarily frightening them? Will I make sure to learn whatever lessons from this I need to learn?

The effects of a nightmare like Shady Hook are bound to be lasting and overwhelming, even for those of us far removed from the point of the tragedy. Today I volunteered in Morgan's kindergarten class for their Christmas party. I was sitting on the floor with a small group of 5- and 6-year-olds playing a fun little game and watching the kids stuff their mouths with Skittles. Out of the blue my mind went to Shady Hook. A lump of fear struck my chest. I started mapping out escape routes and planning what I would do if our lives were in danger. Fortunately, the fear only lasted a moment. We carried on with our game. I laughed with the kids. Nothing bad happened.

For me, this is the key. Fear can't be the dominating emotion. I cannot be disabled by it. Bad things do happen, it is true. There are people in the world whose lifelong purpose seems to revolve around hurting others. Yet I want to choose to focus on a different kind. I want to seek out the angels who inevitably emerge from the dust and darkness. They are everywhere. They are the teachers who sacrificed their own lives to protect the children in harm's way. They are the first responders who got the children to safety. They are the neighbor who harbored several children and distracted them with games and stuffed animals until their parents could claim them. They are in the sincere words of our President offering comfort. They are the long-distance strangers who organize gifts and sentiments to be sent from afar. It reminds me that light always dispels darkness. Wherever light exists, darkness cannot triumph.

In the hours following the horrifying incident at Shady Hook Elementary, one thought revolved through my mind as if on a broken record. From the New Testament, Christ told his apostles in John 14:27, "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." I know for some, this is not the answer they seek. But with those words ringing in my mind, my soul recognizes its truth, and as we reel and fall and hurt and grieve and stare terror in the face, we absolutely have a choice in how we will respond. I choose to look for the angels and seek His peace.

This song's been stuck in my head ever since

Our family bought into the rage of the Seven Peaks Pass of All Passes last year, which ended up providing some unanticipated perks. One of those perks was "free" tickets to watch Fiddler on the Roof at the Scera Shell Theater this summer. The tickets available were on the same day as Jeremy and my 16th (16th!!!) anniversary. At first I thought, C'mon! I don't want to take my kids on my anniversary date. But then I got over myself and decided it would be a worthwhile family outing.

There we sat on our blankets on a lovely August evening enjoying a very polished performance when the song Sunrise, Sunset started playing. I looked back at Jeremy and we smiled. This song is significant because my mom sang it at our wedding luncheon. It hadn't even crossed my mind when we decided to see the musical, but here we were, 16 years later (16!!!), surrounded by our kids, wondering the same questions Tevye and Golde were asking in the song:

When did she get to be a beauty?
When did he grow to be so tall?
Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?

It was tender. I cannot lie.

Mazal tov!

Once in a Lifetime

This year marked the coolest birthdate ever for one 8-year-old I know.

11-11-11.

We tried to instill in Aiden the singularity of this once-in-a-lifetime event. Maybe he got it, but there were more important things for him to attend to . . .

. . . such as fostering his latest obsession with all things BYU, hosting an insane "late night" movie birthday party with a houseful of highly energetic boys, and preparing for his baptism.

I'm convinced as Aiden gets older that he is destined for a charmed life. He's one of those kids you're privately a tiny bit jealous of. He's good looking and athletic, makes friends easily, gets a good joke, and has got a smart brain in his head. And he's nice! He's also a little bit mischievous and can be a stinker, but he somehow makes you laugh when you're trying to get mad.

Aiden's baptism was a quiet and special affair. Aiden is rather reserved about being in the spotlight, but he said he felt happy. Since that day, he asks questions and makes comments that show he is trying to understand gospel principles and ordinances. I'm proud of his growth and effort. And we got a half-way decent family picture out of the day.

Happy birthday (an itty bit late), my favorite 8-year-old!

True Love

We took our family to tithing settlement on Sunday and were engaged in some small talk with the bishop. He asked each of the kids what is his or her favorite thing to do. Then he asked Marissa what is my favorite thing to do. She thought briefly and said, "Smooch my dad." Well, after passing through various stages of embarrassment -- a) turn several shades of red; b) giggle uncontrollably; c) karate chop the progression of any further conversation; d) flee at the soonest possible moment -- I came to a conclusion.

I am in possession of a rare treasure.

While the setting was vastly inappropriate for such a declaration, I feel so, so, SO grateful that our children see and recognize love in our home. I'm glad they know that Jeremy and I love each other. I count my blessings to have married a funny and charming and respectful and forgiving and loving man who shows our kids how a woman should be treated. The fact that I like to smooch him is just an added bonus.

Digestive System Fail

This is one of those [more than sufficiently long] ramblings that is more for my memory's sake than anything else. But for those curious and non-squeamish types, feel free to read on.

I can't pinpoint a date when I started having pain in my stomach, so sometime in the last four years I began having mild to major pain in the upper center part of my tummy. Usually it just annoyed me, but every now and then I would feel so sick that I could hardly get out of bed. I'd feel nauseated and get weak and lightheaded and sweaty. I couldn't seem to find a remedy, either. Of course, I'm not much of a seeker of medical attention, so I waited until my annual physical last fall to ask my doctor what might be wrong with me. He ordered an ultrasound to look at things and sent me on my way. The ultrasound revealed that -voila!- everything was normal.

Talking to the doctor again, he suggested I get a HIDA scan done. I scheduled it, but after consulting with my health insurance people and finding out how much those fandangled tests cost, I decided to forgo. No stomachache deserves that much attention and financial gratification was my opinion, especially at the end of the year when we hadn't paid hardly a cent toward our deductible. So I persevered.

The new year brought what seemed to be a worsening of my symptoms, so I revisited the idea of further testing. Then when we had some changes to our health insurance which would raise our deductible considerably, we decided it would be best to go for it before the changes became effective. My doctor worked his magic to rush the orders before the deadline, which was about 2 weeks away.

The HIDA scan came next. The procedure for this test consisted of getting an IV through which some radioactive dye was sent that lit up the gallbladder while I lay under a big x-ray machine for a couple of hours. This was about as bad as it sounds. The IV and dye didn't bother me [although I'm not generally a big fan of sending radioactive products coursing through my body], but lying still on a hard, narrow table for that long about did me in. I brought along my current book club read [which I think was The Brother's Karamozov -- oi! I needed something much more diverting], but holding my arms above my head and avoiding all the contraptions was not so fun. After the gallbladder was sufficiently visible the technician added some hormone to the IV that made the gallbladder contract so they could view if it was properly dispensing it's juice. Upon observation, the conclusion came back... Normal!

Next came the CT scan. Of all the procedures, this was my least favorite. It was quick, which I appreciated, but whatever junk they stuck in my veins I felt certain was going to kill me. The technician warned me I'd experience some sensations such as feeling very warm and like I was going to wet my pants. Nice, huh? So they started the IV and told me to follow the instructions the machine would issue. "Breathe in ... Hold your breath ... Breathe out." It started out all right, but as the contrast spread through my body, I got horribly hot. I began feeling a little bit panicky. I have no idea what a heart attack feels like, but that's what I imagined as my whole center heated up and felt compressed. And I truly thought I would wet my pants. So weird, and utterly unpleasant. Fortunately, it was over in a timely manner and my pants stayed dry. I left the hospital and decided to run a few errands before heading home.

Here's where the fun began. I arrived home to a very disturbed husband. I think his first sentence to me was, "I'm getting you a cell phone!" [Yep, I'm one of the 13 people in the US who does not yet have a cell phone.] Apparently, immediately after I left the hospital, the radiologist called to say that I needed to either go to the emergency room or to my OB/GYN right away. The scan showed that my IUD had ruptured the wall of my uterus and needed to be removed promptly. Jeremy took the liberty of scheduling an appointment with my doctor, so we went to investigate the matter. Now it turns out I had just been to see the midwife at this same office to determine the cause of some other pain I'd been having. She had ordered an ultrasound which showed some ovarian cysts. Nothing too worrisome. So the doctor took another look at the ultrasound and declared the IUD to be in exactly the right place. He called the radiologist, who stuck to his determination that there was a serious problem. My doctor seemed unconvinced, since I didn't have signs of infection, but he also couldn't argue with what the radiologist said he saw. So he removed the IUD prepared to send me into surgery if it was indeed ruptured through the uterus. But, as seems to be a theme here, everything appeared normal. He sent me home with some antibiotics, just in case, but still sure that everything was just fine.

Test #4: Endoscopy. Actually, it had a much longer and more impressive sounding name, but I'd have to go find the paperwork to write it all down. For this one I would be sedated and the surgeon would stick a camera down my throat to take a look at my insides. I was a little nervous about being knocked out. But it ended up being the best part. I remember them hooking me up to the IV. They put something in my mouth so I couldn't bite down. It also made it so I couldn't talk. My arm started to hurt where the IV was placed, so I thought I would take the thing out of my mouth and ask if that was normal, but I couldn't do it and then I was asleep. When I woke up I was so disappointed. I'd been having the best, most restful nap ever. I wanted so badly to stay put. The surgeon came in and showed me some pictures of my small intestines and began explaining that the little teensy lesions I saw were either caused from celiac disease or from ibuprofen use. Of course, my brain was a little foggy still and I couldn't get over the fact that I had pictures of my gut. Cool! He ordered a blood test and said they'd taken a biopsy to rule out celiac disease. Jeremy walked me to the lab for the blood test, and then we left to go curtain shopping. The doctors had instructed me not to make any major decisions for 24 hours after the sedation, but I'm happy to say I still like the drapery I picked out in my altered state.

I spent an anxious few days thinking of all the things I would miss if the celiac diagnosis was confirmed. And, naturally, I ate as many of them as I could. I thank my lucky stars that the tests came back normal. Which meant I was having a disastrous reaction to ibuprofen. I've steered clear since then and am pleased to report I have mostly felt much better. I still get minor stomachaches from time to time. But I haven't had any severe problems for a few months. Still, I think the best part of the whole thing was getting a picture of my tummy from the inside. It's so fascinating. If this sort of thing bothers you, you can't say I didn't warn you. Look away!

Goals Met & Made

Goal met: Today I ran 3 miles for the first time. This might not seem like a big deal to some, but for me [total non-runner], I was feeling pretty swell.

Goal made: Someday I will take a vacation after which I will feel better than I felt before I left. Not sure when or how this will come to pass, but it must. MUST!

Milestones

Party time at our house! Morgan turned 4. We had a fun family celebration, followed by a "Pinkalicious" friend party. She asked for a princess cake, so I had my first foray into the Barbie-doll-cake-in-a-bowl tradition and experienced varying degrees of success. The party was received enthusiastically. When I went shopping for all the pink accoutrements, it looked like a Pepto bottle exploded on the checkout counter. I made pink tutus for all the girls; we decorated pink wands and ate pink cupcakes; the girls got their fingernails painted - pink, of course; we had a pink Jello jiggler race and made pink bead necklaces. Good times all around. I felt like it was a hit when one of the girls told her mom, "This was the best day of my whole life!"

I achieved a goal of mine recently. It only took four years. I finished writing the story of Morgan's first month of life. It really shouldn't have taken so long, but I started and stopped many times. It was a hard story for me to visit. I wanted to record it all, but the memories were emotionally intense. Much of the experience has become a blur, and I hope I captured the most important details. In particular, it was a spiritually defining time, and those are the things I feel are the most important to remember.

I won't recap the whole story here. Many of the details are too personal and near to my heart. [Not only that, but I filled about 10 pages. Nobody wants to read all that.] But for anyone who doesn't know the basic story, Morgan was born with a malrotation of her small intestines. She was admitted to the hospital at 10 days old, spent a week with doctors trying to fix her in all the wrong ways, then had surgery at 17 days old which put her on the road to healing and health. So many worse things could have happened, and I count my blessings that the end result was positive.

Four years later, I still look at Morgan’s scar almost every day. It doesn’t look so big and ugly now. A little part of me hurts when I see it. But mostly my heart soars. I like to kiss the three little white scars from the picc line on her arm. They’ll always be there, especially noticeable in the summer when she gets a tan. They remind me of the life I could have lost. But she is here. And she has already become more than I could have imagined. She is strong, determined, creative, expressive, affectionate, opinionated. When I would sit in the pumping station at the hospital, the nurses suggested I visualize my baby and think of something relaxing. I would try to picture Morgan as a toddler. I would imagine holding her hand and walking with her. It was hard to envision that future, especially when we didn’t know what was wrong. But now when I hold her hand and kiss those little scars, my heart is full of love and hope and gratitude. Morgan knows her scars mean the doctors fixed her. Someday I’ll tell her the whole story. My hope for her as she grows is that when she sees her scars, she won’t see flaws. I hope she’ll see them and know she got to live. That she was an answer to prayers and faith. That she was, and becomes more so every day, a beautiful gift.

Sibling Revelry

I love my kids for lots of reasons. They're pretty great. Here's one big reason: they treat each other well. They are friends. Sure, they tease and irritate one another on a regular basis, but for the most part they care for and about each other.

Caleb spent last week at scout camp. It was his first time away for more than a night. I knew it would feel strange to have him gone and that his absence would leave a little hole. He is, after all, nearly the same size as me and eats about twice as much as the rest of us. What I wasn't prepared for was how his being gone would affect his siblings. Marissa in particular was a lost cause. The first couple of days were the worst for her. When she explained her rocky spirits to me, that she just missed her brother, I told her it was normal for her to feel sad since he'd been her friend since the day she was born. She tearfully told me how bored she was without him and how he takes care of her. I suggested she could write him a letter since Jeremy would head up to camp later in the week. This she did, and it was one of the sweetest things. It's one I'll hold on to for a while. [It'll make excellent evidence when they think they hate each other that they don't really.]

Caleb survived camp in one piece and came home to hugs and squeals of joy. I think the kids were a little bashful about the emotion they felt to see each other again. And now they're back to the teasing and the irritating ... and the caring that makes me love them even more.

The Marvelous She

Dear Mom,

The longer I am a mom, the more I sit in wonder at the things you did and the kind of mother you are. If I were to catalog a few of the ways you amaze me, it would look a little something like this:

I marvel . . .

. . . that your fingernails were always shaped and cuticles tended.
. . . that your eyebrows were always plucked.
. . . that I don't remember you ever leaving the house with your wet hair in a sloppy bun.
. . . that you ground flour and made whole wheat bread weekly for years.
. . . that you canned peaches and pears and cherries and pear butter ALL BY YOURSELF.
. . . that Dad always had his dress shirts ironed.
. . . that you clipped coupons.
. . . that your photo albums were consistently updated and labeled.
. . . that the house looked clean.
. . . that the car looked clean.
. . . that the clothes looked clean.
. . . that you agreed to have cats, a bunny, a dog, and even a rat.
. . . that you always had a supply of birthday wrapping paper.
. . . that, speaking of birthdays, you decorated the house and made a special cake every year.
. . . that you read books to us.
. . . that you made sure we had vegetables with both our lunch and dinner.
. . . that you helped with school projects before the Internet was invented.
. . . that you recognized our talents and encouraged us to develop them.
. . . that you taxied for and sat through soccer, basketball, softball, baseball, dance, swimming, piano, plays, band, and whatever other extracurricular activities were going on.
. . . that we never ran out of toothpaste or shampoo or deodorant or contact lens solution or band-aids.
. . . that you sewed wearable clothes.
. . . that you found ways to spend time with each of your kids individually.
. . . that you let me stay up and watch Magnum P.I.
. . . that you tied ribbons on birthday and Christmas presents.
. . . that our sheets were washed weekly, without fail.
. . . that you had wise suggestions on how to deal with childhood conundrums.
. . . that you kept up on traditions and made holidays fun.
. . . that you stayed on top of the budget, filed everything, and payed bills and taxes.
. . . that you got us to church on time and were often even early to take care of your callings.
. . . that you managed to feed us with fast food and cold cereal being a rare treat.
. . . that you managed to feed us without a microwave for most of my childhood.
. . . that you parented without a TV for many years, and never with the benefit of Disney channel.
. . . that you sent out birthday cards to everyone and made sure they arrived on time.
. . . that you listened to us without looking like your mind was somewhere else.
. . . that you allowed us to have sleepovers.
. . . that you shopped and provided for us without the perks of Costco or Walmart.
. . . that you succeeded in producing four functional, happy, productive adults.

I'm convinced the older my kids get the more things I'll add to this list. It just never ceases to amaze me all the things you did, and do, so well. I aspire to achieve even a few of the things here. That would be the best way I could say thank you and show you how much I love you. Happy Mother's Day!

Love, Me

Are We Really There?

The last month or so has provided me with several moments to reflect and pause in wonder that my life has progressed to its current point. It started with my little Caleb turning 12. Actually, he has never been little. Nine pounds at birth, and growing like a weed ever since -- he had his 12-year-old checkup yesterday and measured 5 feet 5 inches [97th percentile] and 112 pounds [75th percentile]. Yikes! Somehow, when I see him every day, his transformation from this . . .

. . . to this . . .

. . . seems like not such a big deal. But, really, when did it become possible for me to be the mother of a 12-year-old? Such a strange feeling. However, if I must be there already, I feel so privileged to be the mother of this 12-year-old. Caleb is a treasure. He is kind, conscientious, and tries to live with integrity. He has some fears, but he is working hard to be more responsible, to set goals and reach them, and to improve his talents. He has a strong moral compass and faith in God. One of the significant milestones of this birthday was that Caleb received the Aaronic Priesthood. Caleb is one who feels things deeply and has for some time recognized how the Holy Ghost communicates with him, and Jeremy ordaining him to the Priesthood was a tender moment for all of us.

Caleb had a friend party, which I should probably document, especially because I forgot to pull out the camera. Shame on me. The boys came over and ate dinner. We decided to do sloppy joes since pizza is way overdone at parties. Then Jeremy took them to the bowling alley. They played a game of bowling and still had a ton of time to "kill," so they played some laser tag. I'm not sure who had more fun, the boys or Jeremy. Afterward, they came back to our house, had root beer floats, and played the Wii for awhile until they were ready to end.

One more note. . . You might not be able to tell from the picture, but Caleb requested a Wii remote cake this year. I tried to convince him that he's old enough now to just get a regular cake, but he wanted one last hurrah. [We'll see if it's really the last. I'm kind of a sucker.] It didn't turn out fantastic, but you could tell what it was meant to be.

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I had another awe - some reflection when I realized I have celebrated Jeremy's birthday with him for 15 years now. Yep, we have now been together for THAT long. This is us way back then posing in front of the BY Academy [since restored and repurposed as the Provo City Library].

I thought back to how we celebrated his birthday 15 years ago and remembered we went to The Roof restaurant at the top of the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. He requested this as his gift from his parents. I wish I could remember what I gave him. Probably not much of anything, since I was a poor student. After dinner, we wandered around Temple Square and had a conversation that brought us a little closer to making the decision to get married. We actually got engaged just about a month later. And look where we are now. I count my blessings every day that I have Jeremy as a companion and friend. He is my best gift.

St. Patty's Party Pooper

I was just wondering since when had St. Patrick's Day evolved from a day you just tried to find a clean, green article of clothing to a day full of magic and featuring mischievous imaginary men? Perhaps I should be more prepared [and enthusiastic] after my high school years as a fighting Irish. But I'm pretty sure all I gained there, in addition to a little luck from kissing the Blarney Stone, was how to draw a passable shamrock.

Perusing Facebook posts has given me a bit of an inferiority complex. It all started when I saw a friend's post saying she had finished making Lucky Charm treats. The day progressed with reports of bigger and more elaborate celebrations. Leprechaun traps, gift-bearing little green men, green meals, a "dinner at the end of the rainbow," various pranks. [I have to admit I was impressed by one friend who said the leprechauns stacked up all the dining room chairs in the hall, toilet papered, and put the vacuum on the table and a chair in the sink. That's dedication.] It doesn't help that apparently our next door neighbor's house is the most magical on the block. As a result, Aiden in particular expects letters from his own personal leprechaun, tricks of all sorts in the house, and footprints from leprechauns dancing in the garden at midnight. I just can't keep up with these Joneses.

I did manage to cast a spell upon the milk at breakfast [put a couple of drops of food coloring in the bottom of the bowl and cover with cereal -- when you pour the milk and mix it up, voila! it's green] and put green sprinkles on the toast. But then I forgot to wear green and made a very un-green dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. Nary a Lucky Charms treat nor rainbow cupcake in sight. Aiden asked why we weren't having green food. My response: "Eat your spinach salad, son!" Who needs all those simple carbs, anyway?

So to make myself feel better after my run-in with Facebook peer pressure, I decided I needed to tally the things I did do yesterday rather than focus on my glaring neglect of this vastly important holiday. I washed three loads of laundry and folded one! I got my kids off to school, welcomed them home, completed homework, made them practice the piano, and got them to bed! I played balloon toss and otherwise [mostly] entertained/fed/clothed a 3-year-old! I made my bed! I prepared a very well-balanced and rather delicious dinner! I baked a batch of wheat bread! I washed lots of dishes! I know there's more but it's too late to think anymore! [I had to exclaim all of these sentences because I feel to celebrate each accomplishment and also because it seems like a very Facebookish thing to do.] So there you have it. Hope you had a happy St. Patrick's Day. And hope it was just as magical as you felt inclined to make it.

"Terrifical"

Some things just get better with age. Ramona Quimby, I am convinced, is one of those things. I read several of the books by Beverly Cleary as a kid. Aside from just being fun to read, I remember thinking it was pretty nifty that the main character had the same name as my mom. That was about it.

Then about a year and a half ago, Marissa and I were looking for something to read together at night. I borrowed a box set of the Ramona books from my mom, and Marissa and I dove in. I thoroughly enjoyed the books in so many ways. Mostly, I marveled at how Beverly Cleary so perfectly captured the imagination, the worries, the antics, and the mindset of an eight-year-old girl. Marissa was about the same age as Ramona at the time, and I felt myself propelled into her world. At one point while reading Ramona and Her Mother, I actually started to cry [much to the puzzlement of Marissa] simply because I felt like Cleary provided me a lens through which I could better understand my daughter. On top of that, I appreciated the descriptions of Oregon, which brought me back to growing up there, wearing rubber boots to school, jumping in mud puddles, and finding worms after a rain storm.

Last night I had the TV to myself and watched the movie Ramona and Beezus, and it felt like a blissful guilty pleasure. I loved the portrayals of Ramona's brilliant imagination, her desire to be good and responsible, the neat and not-so-neat of family relationships. It impressed me how the themes written about in the late 70's and early 80's translated so well to a modern story. I laughed out loud and cried a little bit, too. I should probably mention that Marissa also watched the movie at least a couple of times while we had it. Definitely a treat for younger sisters, older sisters, daughters, mothers, and fathers. [Sorry, brothers. It's nothing personal. Although you might like it, too.] If Ramona Quimby needs a fan club, we could probably start here.

For Me or the Masses

Starting a blog has been a long-term dilemma for me, particularly in deciding for whom I would write. I know people create blogs for lots of different reasons, but I couldn't pinpoint my purpose for blogging. And without a purpose, I struggled to find a voice. Will I write to myself? Will I tell stories for other people's entertainment [supposing anyone else ever reads them]? Do I want to catalogue family events and keep regular updates on family life? Will I wax philosophical? What if I change my mind after I've started? What if people do read it and think it's totally lame? Blech! In spite of my hangups [and there are more than just these], I've felt a need for a while now to find a creative outlet. I like to write, so the time has finally come for me to just do it. My purposes will be many, and my voice may change and adapt. I will write for me ... and maybe the masses, too. Here are some of the reasons I have chosen to blog.

Purpose #1: I rigorously kept journals during my teenage years, but I certainly wouldn't share them with any other soul. Too embarrassing, ridiculous, and filled with emotional upheaval. [And yet I can't make myself throw them away.] My journal writing since high school has extreme holes, neglecting even the most important moments in my life. I fester with severe guilt from this fact. I already can't remember details that I thought for sure at the time I would never forget. I must change this, I know. So much of life for me is redundant and not particularly exciting, but it is still my life. Obviously the paper version of a journal has failed me for quite some time, so I'll try this approach.

Purpose #2: I spend a lot of time composing in my brain. I won't say I compose particularly interesting or creative or enlightening things, but my brain often thinks as though I will eventually write those thoughts down. Maybe I'm weird. Very likely I am. But on the off chance that it's not just weirdness, then maybe I ought to put some of those thoughts down on paper/into digital no-man's-land.

Purpose #3: I often feel inspired by events or by things that people say or do or by something I read. I usually just tuck those things away in my mind. Unfortunately [as noted above], when I try to retrieve these moments of inspiration I simply cannot. I really have a terrible memory. But these are the things that feed my spirit. They are the things that uplift me. I hope that I can use a blog as a reservoir to hold onto more of these moments.

Purpose #4: My kids and husband are pretty darn funny. They keep me laughing, at least. They bring me great joy. And again, referring back to the above mentioned horrible memory, I want to remember the things they say and do that just fill my heart. I think they deserve to see how these things matter to me. Already Caleb saw that I had included his Twelve Days with a Dog in my last post, and I watched his face light up. Marissa said, "Now I need to write something." I want them all to feel how their presence in my life is the very best thing.

So there you have it. I should probably add that I am extremely long-winded, if anyone has actually read this far. That's probably not a great trait to attract mass readership, but maybe that doesn't really matter. Maybe this post is just for me.