Turning Tomorrow into Yesterday

My Dear McKenzie,

2012-02-16T20:01:00.001-05:00

I say it every year, and every year I mean it: I think this phase that you're going through is my favorite. Early on it was simple to understand why I loved each phase: the fire and excitement of reaching new milestones was continually being stoked and, because you're my oldest, each new milestone you reached was also a new milestone for me. A simple smile... your first giggle... crawling... walking... talking... joking... reading... thinking... how fun it's all been! Things have changed quite a bit over the past couple of years, though. 'Milestones' have become less of a topic and 'phases' seem to be taking their place. A happy phase here... a challenging phase there... a sweet phase... a helpful phase... an independent phase. My challenge has been to figure out when a new phase is beginning and to then work around it.

As we work these phases out together, I've felt the powers of my guidance over you slowly softening... your ears are starting to distinguish opinions from facts, and you recognize that a 'no' answer from me might be changeable if you present the right argument. (Carson is actually a master at this and I think you're learning from him.) I love this. I love to hear you develop your own compromises. I forget that I love it sometimes... I can get frustrated when you keep coming back with the seemingly same request... but I'm trying to remember to be patient.

I love that you're starting to recognize your talents now and are starting to settle into many of them. You love to read... at the breakfast table, as you're doing your chores, after you've been tucked into bed, as you're walking home from the bus... I'm surprised you haven't tried reading in the shower. (Please don't try reading in the shower.) When you're helpful, you're so helpful, and when you're loving, you're so loving. You are frequently trying to foster the love between your brothers and yourself. You rally your brothers around you and try to make cleaning the playroom fun for them. You remember your chores every morning without a prompt and hardly ever cut corners (even when your nose is buried in your book.) You are fun to talk to and discuss things with. You're fun to joke with, you're fun to be with. Yes, this part of your life is a favorite of mine. I enjoy, so much, watching you discover who you are.

Mood swings have made an appearance, however, and it's been interesting to watch you battle them... slamming doors, stomping feet, tearful outbursts, teasing behaviors and hurtful words have recently increased the color in our home and have given us something interesting to work with, but it's absolutely priceless when I watch you try to work it out in yourself. I've been told by the pediatritian that the hormones start at around age 8. We're seeing them...

One morning you woke up crabby. You went along the morning with a scowl on your face and couldn't help but menacingly tease anyone that happened to cross your path. There were lots of tears from all three of you, and we could trace the tears, almost exclusively, back to you. You were eventually sent to your room with the task to read for a while until you felt like you were happy enough to join the rest of the family. You came out a half an hour later and it was unclear from your facial expression whether or not your mood had changed, but we welcomed you back into the family life with happy smiles and open arms. Soon, you were helping me unload the dishwasher, and then skipped downstairs to help the boys clean the playroom. I heard laughter and happiness while you were down there and once it was clean you skipped back up the stairs and said, "What else can I do to help, Mom?" Before I could check myself, my shocked response came flying out of my mouth.
"Really?"
You smiled. "Yeah. I guess I've turned back into my helpful side."
"How did you do it?"
"I don't know. But I'm gonna try to do it again next time I'm on my angry side."
See? I love this. I get it... I so get it.

Your birthday this year will probably dance around in my memory forever. You were so beautiful. You stood proud and tall in your beautiful white dress... but I think the greatest beauty came shining through your eyes. Such happy eyes.

You were thrilled with your gifts this year,

and that made me happy. The scriptures have been used nightly, and we've had such fun with the recipe box filled with recipes you can make yourself:

I see lots of cooking in our future.

I love you, Kenz! Thanks for making my life so completely wonderful.

Love,
Mom

Three Words Wednesday

2012-02-15T10:37:00.006-05:00

A Father's Patience

Mama Drama

2012-02-11T16:19:00.003-05:00

I was pushing the shopping cart along the cereal aisle of Kroger this afternoon - which, if I'm being honest, is really rarely a good experience. For one thing, I have this unspoken rule that I can't buy a box of cereal for more than $2.00 (...does this mean the rule is spoken now?) so, since I don't buy the cheap sugar cereals anymore, I either come out of the aisle empty handed, or overflowing with 34 boxes stacked up to my chin. For another thing, the opposite side of the aisle is stocked with romance novels, self-help books, and showy magazines displaying the faces (and other body parts) of airbrushed models posing behind bold words that promise your life can be happier with the one secret contained behind that very cover. By the time I reach the end of the aisle I feel like I've been bombarded by singing jeers from the cereal side (You Can't Afford Us, Neener, Neener, Neener!) and laser messages coming from the other side (Your Life Isn't Good Enough, We Have All The Secrets!). Plus... it's a crowded aisle.

And it's the homeless cart hangout.

Today was a little bit different, though. The setting was the same, of course. Crowded. It was a Leave Empty Handed day, so I turned around and started making my way to the back of the store and got stuck behind an elderly gentleman trying to decide which type of bran to buy. As I was quietly waiting, I noticed a self-help book sitting on top of the abandoned shopping cart I had stopped next to. The title intrigued me, Mama Drama, so I picked it up and read the long sub-title. Making Peace with the One Woman Who Can Push Your Buttons, Make You Cry, and Drive You Crazy. I thumbed through the pages for a few seconds. Words like 'conflict', 'guilt trip', 'resentment', and 'hopelessness' jumped from every page. And when the old man pushed on, I threw the book back into the cart with a smile on my face.

Well. I don't have that problem, I thought. If I wrote a book titled Mama Drama it would be all about how I don't get to see my Mama enough.

My parents came out for McKenzie's baptism and, though it had only been a few months, it had been far too long since I'd seen them. We all need a little confidence boost sometimes, right?, and they always fill that role to overflowing when they're around. I've just recently realized that this is not something to be taken for granted, and I appreciate how good they are at making me feel good about myself and the work I've done so far in raising my family. They think my kids are wonderful, they think my husband is the perfect catch, they love us all dearly, and I appreciate how good they are at showing that to me. Yes, they are my parents, so they might be biased, but it's enough for me.

And the kids? Well... the kids can't get enough of them. Poppy was battling bone spurs in his shoulder, patiently waiting for surgery, and still found the strength to play a few games of dodge ball,

play with Carson on the swing,

and watch a Duke basketball game with the kids.

Watching basketball (or football) is a true treat for my kids. Especially when they know they'll be able to stay up a little past bedtime to finish the first half. I think Miles is just in for the popcorn.

Nana spent her time playing along with Miles and his Bunny,

and helping me finish up the apron I was making for McKenzie's birthday. The heart pocket? Her stroke of genius to hold measuring spoons.

She was also an invaluable player in getting all the food ready for McKenzie's baptism... but that will be saved for the post all about McKenzie's birthday.

But before I write that post (and to end this one), you must hear two funny stories (actually, both of them could be classified as 'a bit sad' too... but let's go with funny):

Growing up, my dad was not really known for his silent sleeping. On the contrary, my siblings and I would catch ourselves giggling at the snores of his sleep if he happened to doze off any time before us. So when the rumblings started floating from the guest bedroom during a quick late-morning nap last week, I thought Miles would enjoy laughing at them with Nana and me. We all quieted down to silence and Miles's eyes started widening.
"What is that?" Nana asked him. Miles shot a wide-eyed glance in Nana's direction just as another snore broke loose. Nana followed his lead and opened her eyes wide as well. "Is it a bear?" she asked. "I think there might be a bear in the house." Miles barely moved as his little brain tried to figure out how to process the information. He then decided that this was a real force to be reckoned with.
"Eff-a-nunt," he whispered.
"You think it's an elephant?" I asked.
He slowly nodded his head and started instructing us all to get our feet off the floor and, at his insistence, we scrambled to rearrange our positions. We sat for a moment in silence, feet propped underneath us, listening to the snores, watching Miles and waiting for his lead. "Eff-a-nunt," he repeated. His little hands went up to his ears as he whimpered, 'I sared'.
"You're scared?" I repeated.

After his nod, I broke the game and picked him up to peek in on Poppy and see that there was nothing to be afraid of. We spied on him for a second and then went into Miles's room to read a book. He was not completely trusting and made sure the door was completely closed before we sat down in the rocking chair and read, The Bear Feels Scared.

This little guy seems to have a few real fears (well, if you classify elephants as real fears) and has mentioned that he feels scared multiple times in his life. The other day I walked into his room when I heard his after-nap calls and found him huddled in the corner of his crib whimpering. Upon further investigation, he said he felt 'sared' and pointed over to the curtains. I still don't know exactly what was going on, but we may be in for some real monster fighting with this one...

Second story:

McKenzie came tromping off the bus on Friday afternoon and informed us that she had a small problem.

She had slipped this giant bolt on her ring finger while she was packing up to come home and was having trouble getting it off. Brian worked on it for the better part of two hours. Pulling. Twisting. Soap and water. Crisco. Dental floss tied around the biggest part of her finger to compress the skin. Thankfully the bolt had plenty of room to slide around underneath her knuckle (so we weren't worried about circulation), but that poor knuckle ended up swelling and was very sore before he decided the next best thing to do was to let it sit for a while to let the swelling go down. I gave her a little Ibuprofen, Nana gave her her very own can of Root Beer and, per her request, we left her alone downstairs to read books until dinner time. You can imagine how distraught she was... "My very last day of being a seven year old, and I have to have this bolt on my finger," she said fighting tears.

A half an hour later, just before eating, Kenz and I knelt down and quietly said a prayer. We asked Heavenly Father to help us know what to do about the bolt, and we asked him to help McKenzie be happy in the meantime while we figured it out. He answered the second part of that prayer immediately and her spirits improved. Around the dinner table we all talked about the options we had. InstaCare? A small hacksaw? We finally settled on lots of Crisco and trying to slide some small, flat, plastic toothpicks underneath the bolt to hopefully provide a sort of track for the bolt to use, and maybe some compression for the swollen part of her finger. Fail. Next idea was to cut a straw lengthwise and try to wrap that around her finger and stick it under the bolt. Fail.

Up till this point I had left the pulling and coaxing up to the men, but decided that I should take a turn. I gently twisted and pulled and then pulled and twisted a little harder. For some reason, I looked up at my dad and mouthed the words, 'I'm going to pull.' He nodded and hugged McKenzie a little closer. Brian started rubbing her back and I began to put much, much more pressure on that poor knuckle. She started screaming, and I wanted to stop...but I strangely didn't feel able to. I twisted around and around and pulled with as much force as I felt was safe without ripping her finger out of the socket. I started noticing some progression after about 10 seconds (which is a long time...think about it) and it fueled me to keep going. "It's almost there, Kenz!" I shouted. 10 more seconds and I felt the last of the swollen skin slide under the bolt that was now resting in the palm of my clutched hand. I wrapped McKenzie up in a huge hug and praised her for getting through it.

"Linds! Linds!" Brian said. "Good job, Linds!" His relief was so intense it lasted the rest of the day (he even continued making comments into the following day) . He turned his attention to McKenzie and said, "It's off, Kenz! I thought we were going to have to baptize you tomorrow with a bolt on your finger!" She chuckled a little through her tears and said, "Me too."

I had some thanks to say in my prayers that night. It's not really in my nature to 'just pull', especially if I know it's causing my own kid pain. But I got the idea and the strength from somewhere... Phew.

Well, anyway, hooray for wonderful parents. And hooray for no real Mama Drama. We're so glad you guys came to celebrate McKenzie's special day!

We love you!

(PS - speaking of drama - sorry to all of you Google Readers out there! I posted this one with the date wrong, so I tried to re-post it and accidentally posted the draft to the beginning of McKenzie's birthday post instead! Anyway, then I finally got it right on the third try... sorry! And, you can consider yourself lucky that you got a sneak peak of McKenzie's birthday post.)

Being Baptized

2012-02-08T21:30:00.002-05:00

(I do realize that, in an ideal world, this invitation would have gone up on the blog before the actual baptism... but I abandoned the idea of an ideal world long ago. I felt happy to just get a handful printed out and delivered to a few neighbors and teachers!)

I have two very short memories from my own baptism day... in one of them I am sitting on the front bench in the chapel, dressed in my clean, white jumpsuit, trying to keep still next to several other kids dressed the same... ... ... And in the next memory, I'm standing in the girls' bathroom with my mom. My hair has been towel-dried, my wet jumpsuit replaced with my beautiful baptism dress. My mom knelt down just in front of me and locked my eyes in hers. "I'm so proud of you," she said. She held up a necklace... a golden heart swung from a tiny gold chain. The words I Am a Child of God wrapped around my very own birthstone and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

I was so excited when it was time for my little sister to be baptized. In my all-knowing 10 year old wisdom, I repeatedly told her how special it was. It's so fun was my catch phrase. I sat as close to the font as I could while my dad immersed her in the water, and as she came up I whispered, "Well?! Wasn't that fun?!" She looked at me and wrinkled her dripping eyebrows. "That was boring," she whispered back.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Two years later I went to the temple with my Young Women's group for the first time to perform baptisms for the dead. As I walked down into the warm water, I felt my jumpsuit stick to my legs and remembered that that had happened at my own baptism. As I was immersed into the waters of baptism for the second time in my life, I couldn't help but think, I wish I could do this for myself again. I felt I could do a better job at keeping the commandments now that I was four years older and I wanted a fresh slate to try again. In my all-knowing 12 year old wisdom, I felt sure that 12-years was a much better age of accountability than was 8.

. . . . . . . . . . .

It's been 17 years since I went to the temple that first time ... and I have my own 8 year old. Now, through my mothering eyes and in my far-from-all-knowing 29 year old wisdom, I see how perfect that 8-year old mark is... at least for McKenzie. She has been taught since birth about the reality of God. Up to now, she has believed all we say because she hasn't yet been introduced to real doubt. If I say God is real, then He is. If I believe in Santa, so does she. When I say it's going to rain today, she prepares for rain.

But things are changing. I notice her pausing to think about the things I say. Analyzing them in her own mind to see if they make sense in her growing understanding of reality. One day during the Christmas season this year she asked,

"Mom, will I always believe in God?"

I could only answer, "Well, I hope so, but only you can answer that for yourself. I do."

How wise to catch her at this time of changing. Young enough to still have an overwhelmingly strong desire to please her parents (of course she will want to be baptized), yet old enough in her own reality to feel like she's fully in charge of a large decision in her life.

. . . . . . . . . . .

I wrapped the towel around McKenzie's shivering body as she came out of the font. I kissed her wet head and told her how much I loved her. Together we worked to get her into her beautiful baptism dress and as she was shivering into it, I asked her how she felt. She could only reply, "I'm frrr....eee...zzz...ing!" I was curious to know if she felt any warm feelings from the Holy Ghost but I didn't press the issue any further. It was clear that the only word she was thinking was 'freezing'. Later that night I asked her how she felt as she received the gift of the Holy Ghost. Her answer, "I was really itchy the whole time and kept thinking hurry up prayer! I need to scratch!"

I don't know what she'll remember from this day. Boring? Maybe. Freezing? Probably. Itchy? Possible. Nothing? Perhaps. She is only 8, after all. 21 years later, I don't recall what I thought as I stepped down into the warm water with my dad. I don't remember how I felt as I was immersed in the water. I don't have any memories of being confirmed and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost... if I felt the Spirit warmly testifying of truth at any point, I certainly didn't recognize it. But, those details don't matter. The details that matter are that the baptism was performed, and that the Holy Ghost was given. I'm sure the Lord wasn't planning on many intensely spiritual experiences to accompany those sweet, pure 8-year-olds. From the ages of 8-18 I could probably count on one hand the number of times I consciously felt the Spirit... but in the last 10 years he has truly become my constant companion. Leading, prompting, comforting, enlightening... how excited I am for McKenzie to grow and develop in this way. But lets focus on recognizing him, first.

. . . . . . . . . . .

My sweet McKenzie, you have such a strong desire to do what is right. You think hard and seriously when we ask you questions about the gospel, and your heart is tender in all the right places. I worry sometimes about what curve balls the world will throw at you and fully realize that your 8-year-old baptism surely doesn't signify your conversion... not at all. But I can't think of a better way to start this new, independent and exploratory phase of your life. Your baptism opened up that first locked gate on the path back to your Heavenly Father, placed your feet squarely in the middle of that path, and gave you a gentle nudge to Start. Walking. The Holy Ghost was given to you to help you along your way... and oh, McKenzie, he will help you if you ask. Conversion will come later, if you desire (and I hope you desire), but now you're old enough to support your own weight and put one foot in front of the other. Thankfully the beginning of the path is still heavily protected for you. Dad and I are committed to serve as bumpers for as long as we can while you learn to recognize the promptings of the Spirit. And, eventually, I hope you'll want to keep going on your own.

We love you, Kenz. And we're proud of you. We're proud of your sweetness, of your helpfulness, and of your desire to do what is good and right. May you always keep that as we start this new journey together...

Love,
Mom

Perfectly Imperfect

2012-01-21T23:00:00.003-05:00

I've made it a general rule not to lean too closely to the mirror. It's a good rule, really, because there is something rather scary that happens as the distance between my noses starts shortening... something that has the effect of turning my content, oblivious expression into one that might be better described as 'horror', 'disgust', 'disbelief'. It might have something to do with the thick layer of peach-fuzz that is threatening to turn into a manly beard and mustache, or maybe it's those dark veins that run so prominently along either side of the bridge of my nose. It could be the blemishes and freckles, or the wayward hairs that try valiantly to give me a uni-brow, or the unsymmetrical smile that looks vaguely like I've had a minor stroke... but whatever the reason, my slightly fuzzy vision makes me much happier with the girl standing a few feet away from the mirror.

But I had a date last Friday night, you see.

A date with a tall, handsome, funny guy that I happen to be falling madly in love with. A grown-up date at a real restaurant where they served steamed asparagus and gently smashed potatoes - there wasn't a chicken nugget, finger, tender, or crisp in sight - and the anticipation of the date turned me a bit giddy. I curled my hair, folks. And... I got uncomfortably close to the mirror.

I wanted to look ... nice. Date nice. Close-up nice. So I leaned in close and tried not to be disappointed when I saw, first hand, what every-day living for almost 30 years has done to me. I trimmed and plucked, scraped away dead skin and covered up discolored skin; using eyeliner, I tried to create an illusion that would turn my round eyes into a more appealing almond shape; I pulled out the lipstick and experimented a bit on how to use it in conjunction with the lip liner and lip gloss that had almost never been opened. And then I reached for the eyelash curler.

Eyelashes are always the last thing I do when I'm getting ready. My mom passed to me a set of long, thick, low maintenance eyelashes... but leaning into the mirror as I set my lashes in the curler, I noticed with a rather disappointing feeling that I could count each and every eyelash coming out of the (apparently) balding tip of my eyelid. Great, I thought. Now my eyelashes have made it to the list of reasons I don't get close to the mirror.

My mind flashed back 15 years and I was climbing up into the passenger seat of our red Dodge Durango. I put the shopping bags from our mall trip at my feet and clicked my seatbelt into place. My mom shifted the SUV into reverse and smiled after she stole a quick glance at me from across the car. My eyebrows furrowed into a questioning glare. "What?" I asked.
"Nothing," she responded.
"Mom, you can't do that. What? What did you just smile at?"
Still smiling but saying nothing, she slowly started backing out of her parking space. And then, as if thinking better of her silence, she took a deep breath, "I was just thinking that I hope you enjoy those while you have them." I swept my eyes around my area to see what she could be talking about and came up with nothing probable. "Enjoy what?" I asked.
"Your eyelashes. They might not always look like that, you know." I remembered the compliment the cashier at Claires had given that day for my eyelashes and wondered if Mom had been thinking about it ever since.
"Really? Why?"
"I don't know... sometimes when you get older they start falling out. Mine used to be just like yours."

I was confused and let the conversation turn stale as my mind tried to make sense of the new information it had received. It's true that I hadn't realized that my eyelashes might, one day, become thinner... but the thing I was most confused about was why I had detected a little longing through that last sentence. Did my mom care about what her eyelashes looked like? That made no sense to my teenage brain. She was my mom. My best friend, my therapist. Loving, accepting and generous towards all of my friends... even the ones that maybe weren't so deserving of it... and smiled lovingly each time one of them called her Mom. She had her finger on my emotional pulse at all times and wouldn't hesitate to excuse me from class, or start up a conversation, or let me shut myself in my room if she felt it was best for me. She often made nachos or banana chocolate milkshakes in the evenings just to make us happy. She was selfless - so selfless - and fun and spunky and happy. Completely understanding of my mistakes and tirelessly cheering me on and encouraging me in my talents... To me, all of these things made her the very definition of beautiful.

Why would she care about her eyelashes?

Of course now, feeling the disappointment of holding the eyelash curler to my own balding eyelashes, I understand. I understand that seeing inside your own heart is so much harder than seeing your reflection in the mirror. And, when you focus on the reflection in the mirror, I understand that the voice of the world - shouting it's messages of beauty - is deafeningly loud and can so easily drown out the still, gentle voice reminding you of your own, unique beauty. And, like a two-edged sword, when you are able to focus on your heart, I understand that seeing the good in yourself - the deep down, soul emitting good - is painfully hard to see when the flaws and mistakes keep getting in the way.

I put down my eyelash curler and smiled at my reflection. My hair is neither blonde nor brown, my face is not symmetrical, my teeth are not perfectly straight, my skin is not blemish-free and my neck has wrinkles. But harnessing that unconditional love I have for my mom, that love that somehow separates the things that matter from the things that don't, I worked on turning it toward myself. I tried to remember that there is so much more to me than my eyelashes. Or my waistline. Or my grandma-hands. Or my fill-in-the-blank.

Instead of feeling down on myself, I tried to find strength in those that love me. Who don't care about trivial imperfections and who love me for the good of who I am. Those friends who have stuck with me through tough times and who offer sincere and kind words to build me up. Those sweet kids that call me mom and cuddle up next to me even when I haven't showered in three days. Those in-laws who feel comfortable in my home and make me feel comfortable in theirs. Those parents who listen to my irrational frustrations and sprinkle advice and wisdom to taste. And, most of all, to that tall, handsome, funny guy that I happen to be falling madly in love with. I have no doubt that we could have happily gone on our date with my hair in it's signature ponytail and all my make-up still sitting in my make-up bag. That man unquestionably loves me for my heart.

I don't plan to change my rule... I will still get ready a few feet away from the mirror... but whenever I start to get down on myself I will remember to find strength in those who think:

"You are amazing. Why do you care about your eyelashes?"

Wordless Wednesday

2012-01-18T14:27:00.000-05:00

Wordless Wednesday

2012-01-11T19:08:00.002-05:00

Handsome

2012-01-08T09:47:00.001-05:00

Oh Miles. Thank you for trying so hard to do your own hair this afternoon. Twice. I'm not sure why I didn't put the gel up after the first offense - so I guess I have only myself to blame for this one.

You know, I must say this was 100 times better than the Vaseline your sister put in her hair when she was about your age:

(PS - This picture was taken after the first washing...)

January Schmanuary

2012-01-05T22:38:00.004-05:00

I looked at my calendar yesterday. It said it was January 4th... I'm confused.

Generally, I'm excited for the new year to start. I'm prepared with my resolutions list, sharp pencils, a crisp new 5-Star notebook to help me keep track of my life, and filled to the brim with a fresh energy to do exactly what I've resolved to do. The last day or two of December I feel like a racehorse locked behind his gate - chomping at the bit - eager for the door to swing open so I can test my legs on those new resolutions and see how far I can carry them.

So how, I wonder, did we jump halfway into the first week in January without me so much as turning a brain cell to this new year? Weird.

I guess, my heart is still a bit stuck on Christmas. Yes, I know it's been 11 days, but... have you ever bought a new kind of shampoo, one with a different smell than usual, and then at random moments during the day - maybe when the wind blows, or when you turn your head quickly - catch a whiff of it that makes you smile? That's kind of like what's happening with me and Christmas this year. It felt different than usual, and at random moments during the days I keep catching whiffs of it that make me smile... It feels good, and I kind of like it lingering.

There were two main things that added to the greatness of the year. One was that we added new traditions that helped us focus solely (is that really how you spell solely? I had to Google it after spellcheck fixed it because I didn't believe it! Are you technically supposed to put two 'l' sounds in it? Oh, wait... I get it. Sole, meaning one, and then 'ly' making it an adverb. Wow... never thought of that one before. Sorry - random tangent) on Christ. My new favorite book is A Christ-Centered Christmas by Emily Freeman. You should read it. And buy it. We took several traditions right from her words, and modified another several to fit our own family. I'm already filled with ideas on how to make next year even better.

The other thing that made Christmastime so wonderful were these people:

The more time I spend with Brian's parents, Con and Jean, the more in love I fall with them. After a rather homesick Thanksgiving, they brought a bit of home to us and cheered the dreariness right out of my heart. They came into our home and merged into our lives for 8 days... they expected nothing, loved everything, played 537 games of Phase Ten and Uno, built Lego towers, chatted, helped with dishes, tossed compliments, and made the kids feel like 'Grandma and Grandpa live for nothing more than to play with you.'

Grandpa took Carson fishing...

He also read Happy Feet Two to Miles over and over and over again. I thought the first movie was T.E.R.R.I.B.L.E. I can't imagine the patience he must have had to read the second book that many times... But... you can see that Miles is enjoying it.

And he proudly wore his dollar store tie all day on Christmas. After the kids had gone to bed that night, his wife said, "You know, you can take that off now." Not many Grandpas can pull off a singing tie...but Con did it well. Too bad we opened it after church.

Grandma taught Miles how to twirl a swirly ribbon, but then sat and laughed at him while he tried it out himself... poor Miles might have low-ribbon-twirling-self-esteem from now on.

She also was one of the most active audience members for the kids' puppet show. After asking several questions that remained unanswered she said with a laugh, "Oh, I guess you're not really supposed to be asking questions in the middle of the performance, are you." I don't know why you were confused, Jean - - - The Three Little Pigs being performed by a frog, a bear, a tiger and a duck - - - what's confusing about that?

One of my favorite memories is of Jean laying on the floor with the kids, all lights off but for the Christmas tree, to tell a new Christmas story every night. Originally I think it was meant to be just for the kids, but the peaceful atmosphere and her energetic story-telling drew every member into the room with her.

I was also super impressed with their crafty-skills. They helped make candy-cane cookies,

(This may have been one of Miles's favorite activities...)

and helped make 21 graham cracker houses which then led to supervising 17 kids (and the missionaries) while they decorated them. Before the crowd arrived, Con said, "after we get through this, we'll all deserve two cans of Cherry Pepsi. I will have three." We all laughed, but he unsurprisingly handled the chaos true to the calm, laid-back personality that defines him. I was quite impressed with Jean, however. She's one to be found raking leaves in the wind, so to speak, to keep on top of the mess - and knowing this might very well kill her, I gave her permission to sneak away to her room to read a book if the chaos and mess got to be too much. :) But she stayed till the bitter end and, dare I say, maybe even had as much fun as the rest of us.

We sang Christmas carols and drank hot chocolate,

and thoroughly enjoyed watching the kids open their presents on Christmas morning. McKenzie had one recycled emotion for each present: Awe. In the first picture, Is this really what I think it is? I cannot believe I got a calculator. And the second, Is this really what I think it is? I cannot believe these are real Break-Your-Own-Geodes. Looks like Santa scored with the $.99 calculator, and Nana scored with a box of rocks.

Carson was funny too. After he opened the wooden car in the first picture he said, "Hey! I think Santa's elves weally made dis!" And the second picture just seems to be Carson. That present doesn't stand a chance against your opening skills, Dude.

But, if Carson had to choose one gift he loved the most, he would probably choose his pack of orange gum. He devoured the whole pack in one day. At one point in the day he had so many pieces in his mouth he had to remove the wad before he could say anything.

At the end of the vacation, Jean summed it all up nicely. "Whenever I smell orange gum, I will forever remember Carson and the Christmas of 2011."

Dear Carson,

2011-12-28T22:01:00.007-05:00

"Arrrrrrrrr. Arrrrrrrrrr. Rrrrrrrrr." I watch my wooden spoon as it slowly stirs the bubbling Alfredo sauce and lose myself in the quiet sounds of your playing. Though the sounds drift from another room, my minds eye easily fills in the visual to accompany them and I see you, quietly practicing your 'r' sounds as you slide around on your knees building your train track. An emergency flares up in your game and you start to warn the other trains, "Oh no! Watch out! Dangeuh! Dangeuh! Dange...rrrrrr. Dangerrrr!" The sound of crashing trains takes over for a moment, and then all is silent. I stop listening and start paying closer attention to dinner; time to boil the noodles, warm up the green beans and set the table.

"Mom, listen!" you call, seconds later. "Cahrrrr-sn, Cahrrrrrr-sn. Am I doing it?!"
"You are!" I answer. "Great job, buddy!" The forced excitement in my voice fools you... inside, my heart is breaking a little.

I know it has to happen. Soft 'r' sounds aren't nearly so endearing on a 16 year old as they are on a 3 year old. But I happen to still find them heart-melting coming from you. *Sigh* No one told me how much it could hurt to watch your kid grow up perfectly...

----------------------------

You and I stood together in front of our church congregation on a Sunday morning two weeks ago. I listened to the hum of the congregation and silently nodded to our accompanist to begin playing. As the beautiful arrangement of Silent Night began, I grabbed your little hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze... out of the corner of my eye, I saw your face wrinkle in a smile and would later hear that that smile made a sweet impression to many of those watching.

I've been impressed with the sweetness in your singing voice since before you could talk - long before you could string words together, you would hum simple melodies with such clarity that it was easy to recognize the song in your head. Mostly it was 'Hot Cross Buns' (which McKenzie was learning to play on the piano... it was stuck in all of our heads!), but occasionally you would mix it up with a rendition of 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' or 'I am a Child of God'. As your vocabulary grew, words started sprinkling throughout your melodies... now, rhythm has started to beat itself from your hands... snippets of made-up melodies play under your fingers from the keys of our piano... and it has become ever more clear that you have a talent - a gift - in music.

When I was asked to sing a few weeks ago, I gladly accepted, and knew I wanted you to sing with me. But when I approached you with the idea, you were sure you did not want to do it. "Nah," you said, shaking your head. "I don't weally want to."
"Please, buddy? I was thinking we could sing your very favorite song, Silent Night."
"Nah."
"Is there another song you'd like to sing? Anything you want..."
"Nah."
It was clear I was getting no closer, so I dropped it for the night. The next day, I decided to come at it from a different angle.
"What do you want?"

The bribing angle.

"What would you want me to get for you if you sing with me."
Your eyes narrowed, chin dropped, and I could see the wheels turning in your head. You had me begging, and knew you could get away with some pretty high demands. Finally you put out your decision; your voice was sneaky and serious, "Three packs of gum."
I smiled, "Done," I said.

Through the next week we practiced, singing it through once or twice a day between games of tag and house. We practiced through Skype to Grandma. And then again for Nana and Poppy. I watched through the computer monitor as you made Nana cry with your piercingly clear high notes... then she asked if you'd sing it again so she could record it on her phone. I needed just as much practicing as you did... singing my own verse after you had sung yours was almost impossible through the lump you kept bringing to my throat. And then, after we discovered that you could hold your melody line just fine if I jumped to sing alto alongside you, I couldn't stop laughing in amazement every time we'd diverge into different parts.

The big morning came and you looked so sharp in your navy blue, pinstripe suit. You and I wandered off just before the meeting started and found an empty room. Sneaking inside and closing the door behind us, I let you in on my little secret: before every performance, I always find a quiet place to sink to my knees and thank Heavenly Father for my singing voice. I asked if you wanted to pray with me that morning, and together we thanked our God. We asked him to please help us remember our notes and our words and to, most importantly, let his Spirit pour out through our voices and touch those who heard us.

As the final notes of the introduction finished playing, I looked out over the congregation again and watched... you squeezed my hand in response to my own squeeze, and drew in your breath. "Si - lent Night," you sang. The rumbling hum of the congregation quieted into silence as every ear and face quickly turned to you. "Ho - ly Night," perfect. Your high notes were simple, effortless and beautiful... Through it all, you nervously twisted my ring around and around my finger, but it didn't show in your sweet voice, and by the end of your verse I saw many hands in the congregation wiping tears from their eyes. A nervous twitch pricked inside me as I realized I needed to sing next and a silent prayer shot from my heart 'please don't let me kill this feeling Carson has created.' A warm feeling filled me to my toes and took the nerves away as I drew in my own breath. You stood still next to me as I sang my verse - a small miracle for your wiggly muscles - and when you came back in to join me on the third verse, you hit every note of the melody while I sang the alto in your ear.

It was, in a word, perfect. You touched people to their inner core - and I received compliment after compliment in your behalf. I'm sitting here, almost three weeks later, fighting back the tears just remembering it. I. Am so. Proud of you.

We have tried time and time again to replicate it in our living room in front of the camera, but it's never been quite the same. And now we've reached a point where you just refuse to sing it again. But I have little snippets of greatness recorded - and some full recordings where you're a bit distracted, but I suppose that's all as it should be. We were truly helped by the Spirit that Sunday morning; I guess it's fitting that we're not able to perform it quite as well on our own. Perhaps that's why I feel to try and memorialize it in words...

I can't help but feel overwhelmed with thankfulness that we were able to do it this year... because I have a feeling that if we'd done it next year, the tender memory I have of your little voice forming those words might not be quite so precious. I hope to always be able to hear that sweet phrase in my mind the way you sang it from the pulpit...

"Awll is calm... Awll is bwight."

Extinction

2011-12-15T10:20:00.001-05:00

Found this picture here.

I remember the first cell phone my dad brought home. It was literally the size of a brick but somehow managed to look quite chic in it's black case hanging off of his braided belt. When it rang, he would unclip it and gently raise the antenna before speaking. This antenna-pulling is a faint memory of mine... so faint that it prompted a text to my dad to make sure, "Didn't you have to pull an antenna up on your first cell phone? Am I remembering that right?" His response, "Yes. The first two or three of them." Now my cell phone is small enough it consistently disappears inside my purse, causing slight chaos and frustration when I can hear it ringing, but can't seem to grab on to it... and many times, in my search, my finger brushes the touch-screen just right, answering the phone before I even know exactly where it is...

-------------------

Miles and I were scrolling through the pictures on my blog today, pausing at each one for him to exclaim "Teh-nee! Cahsn! Mie-yuls!" Going through pictures is one of his favorite activities, and I can generally get a lot of work done in the ways of sifting through, deleting, and renaming pictures while Miles sits on my lap for the slide-show. It doesn't bother him if I go back through the same pictures 47 times while trying to decide which ones will end up in the recycle bin. (PS - does anyone else find it odd that the garbage area on a computer is labeled a 'recycle bin'? Really? How, exactly, is my computer going to re-use my thousands of picture files?) Today I didn't have much time to sit in front of the computer, however, so after scrolling down my blog page once, I plopped him down on the swivel chair and showed him how to use the mouse to scroll through the pictures himself. I busied myself by picking up the endless scraps of paper littered throughout the office from one of McKenzie's unfinished craft ideas (which seem to be silently taking over our lives...). Moments later, I looked at him and was shocked, for the millionth time in my life, at how much things have changed since I was a kid... it really hasn't been that long, you know. But, there my baby was, propped up on his knees, face inches away from the computer screen, scrolling away through digital pictures with his pudgy 2-year-old hand.

-------------

"Mrs. Alder, do you know how to use the Nook?" I was sitting at the back table of McKenzie's second grade classroom grading papers last Tuesday. I looked up at Ms. M. who was busy with a crowd of kids around her to see her eyes waiting for my response. Her classroom has 5 color Nooks - Barnes and Noble's popular version of a Kindle - and the children seem to enjoy reading from them. I glanced over at the Nook table and noticed there was a bit of commotion; it seemed a few of the children were confused and the assistant, Mrs. R., had just straightened up and shrugged her shoulders in helplessness. "Well, I haven't actually ever seen one before, but I think I can figure it out," I responded. Taking the first color Nook in my hand, I gently ran my finger along the screen to help the first child select a book to read. "Oh my," said Mrs. R. over my shoulder, "you just touch the screen, huh?"

"Yeah, pretty crazy, isn't it?" I said back.
"My, oh, my." She walked away shaking her head in disbelief.

I know where she's coming from. It seems a little futuristic to me, too. But many of those kids held the Nooks with no fear, navigating them with ease. One little girl even made reference to her own Nook at home, and taught me how to get back to the library page. You won't ever see a child of today shake his head in disbelief at a touch screen.

------------------

The days of cell phone antennas were limited from the beginning... Could the days of the computer mouse be approaching the same fate? To me, seeing my 2-year-old's hand guiding it around the mouse pad seemed a sign of how far things had come... But for him, maybe someday he'll look back on a faint memory and ask,

"Wait, didn't we used to use a mouse to guide ourselves around the screen? Am I remembering that right?"

Dear Miles,

2011-12-13T19:51:00.001-05:00

We walked into Costco today together - just you and me. It seems a simple thing, really... and yet, the sound of your stomping feet and the feel of your little hand wrapped inside my own caused a tightening in my throat. Your soul is strong. Independent. And, to you, holding my hand is a sign of weakness and inferiority to which you are often unwilling to submit. We have a getting-into-the-store routine when we go shopping. A routine that has become more habitual than anything else. You begin to struggle to free yourself from the top buckle in your car seat the moment the engine switches off. You've gotten faster at it over the months... and I admit to feeling a bit uncomfortable that you're able to do it at all. By the time I open your side door, you've almost done it, and I slowly unlatch the bottom as you finish. "I jump?" you ask. You don't really mean it as a question - more as a reminder that I am not to help you out of the car. As your shoes hit the pavement you hear a familiar phrase from me as I extend my hand, "You hold my hand, or I hold you."
"No hand," you say. You turn your shoulder to me and wait for my standard response.
"Then I will hold you." I move to pick you up, but you stomp your foot in frustration.
"I walk!"
"Then hold my hand."
"No hand."
Surprisingly, it usually ends smoothly. You turn your back to me, yes, but by the time you are propped on my hip, you have already surrendered to your fate and resume your normal conversation topics: "Daddy at wuhk?" (Yes, Daddy is at work) 'Cahsn at tool?' (Yes, Carson is at school) 'Teh-nee bus?' (No, Kenzie got off the bus and now she is at school, too) 'Oh. Teh-nee at tool?' (Yes, Kenzie's at school) 'Oh.' You know the routine. You know how it will end. But that doesn't stop you from trying to walk in on your own. Every. Single. Time.

But today when I stretched my hand out to you, you took it. You took it without thought, as if this had been the routine all along. We turned our feet toward the store and began the walk across the large parking lot. Your fingers curled around the outside edge of my hand and a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. When did this little hand get so big? I thought as I squeezed it tighter. I wonder when I stopped holding out one finger for you to grasp...

And now, as I type this, you come in to see me... skin cool and damp from your evening bath; hair smelling of coconut in soft, wet curls; so proud of your Buzz Lightyear pajamas; and asking me to 'lizzen' to your song. An adorable combination of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and I Am a Child of God...

"Twinkle,
little star.
How I wonder what
Him someday."

So, I leave this post relatively unfinished - lacking in pictures and editing - because my heart is being called for by your sweet plea.

I will 'lizzen' to you - for as many days and years as you'll let me... and forever after that.

Scrambled Thoughts

2011-12-05T22:42:00.001-05:00

Well, I can't help but notice that there seems to be quite a correlation between the increased amount of time Brian spends at home and the decreased frequency of my blogging. While I do enjoy spending so many free moments with him, I do not enjoy watching so many weeks go by leaving nothing more for you to read than my boring old travel logs. We're going to have to work on a solution for this! But, in the meantime, here are a few scrambled thoughts for to give you a picture of what has been going on in my head lately:

1. Winter Laundry is Back

Poo on winter laundry! (Actually, let's not use that phrase...) Hooray to me for finding such a tall and handsome man to marry but, frankly, his jeans take up a third of the washing machine. Add a few sweaters and the coat that my child spilled hot chocolate on and I've got a full load, my friend. A frustrating concept if you live with a septic tank and have to carefully monitor the amount of water that exits your house in a day to prevent unpleasant odors swirling around your backyard... Blankets, coats, sweaters, jeans and long-sleeved t-shirts... it's a bit challenging to get it all done when you can only do 1-2 loads of laundry per day. And, I've got to keep all those little toes warm - ten wiggly feet that need new socks every day - so that by the end of the week there is a daunting pile of 70 lone socks that need to be matched. The countdown begins now for laundry baskets filled with shorts and t-shirts again. :)

2. Black Friday is for Crazies

And, call me crazy, I joined the masses this year. My favorite purchase: this lovely pre-lit Christmas tree. How did I not know the wondrous blessing of a Christmas tree that has been strung with Christmas lights for you? My life has changed for good... This year as we plugged the Christmas tree in, I couldn't help but feel like something was missing - and then I realized... yes ... it was the HOURS of untangling Christmas lights and winding them around those itchy branches while convincing my children (for all those hours) that 'I'm almost done and that, soon, we can start decorating the tree with all of those lovely ornaments tantalizing you...' Never again, folks. Never again. We are a plug-and-done family now.

3. Christ Centered Christmas

Last Christmas I came away feeling a bit empty. We had partied hard and counted down the days with the best of the crowd. We sang our hearts out in carols and thought long about gifts. We started some new, loved traditions and laughed and played and kept the 'jolly' alive... but we kind of missed bringing Christ into the center of our celebrations. And, after the celebrations were over, my heart didn't feel swollen with love and gratitude for my Savior. I decided I didn't much like that, and vowed that this year would be different. And so it is! We have taken a page (or a hundred pages) out of the book 'A Christ Centered Christmas' and it has, so far, transformed our way of celebrating. Through the month, we are slowly assembling the nativity scene... taking a full night (or sometimes a group of nights) to talk about each of the figures that played a part in that miraculous night. Each figure in the nativity has its own tradition that accompanies it and we have found the first two traditions, surrounding Mary and then Joseph, very meaningful and have high hopes for the rest of our month. Tomorrow we talk about the wisemen - and in honor of their search for Christ, we will attend a Christmas concert with the children and search for His name in the words of the songs, and search for His spirit in our hearts as we let the music fill us. And, at the end of the night, we will place the wisemen in our little homemade nativity set.

4. Feeling the Homesick Bug

Boo to feeling homesick. I've celebrated Thanksgiving happily in North Carolina for many years... but Thanksgiving morning this year found my heart feeling the miles of mountains and plains that separate me from my family. One phone call to my mom's cell and a few tears later, I felt better. But is there any way we could keep the integrity of this beautiful state and nudge it a bit west?

5. We are officially a four-gallons-of-milk-per-week family

I went out grocery shopping by myself this evening. I rarely do this... like, rarely, rarely ... I find the stores much too crowded in the evenings after work hours are over. But, today it couldn't be helped, so I left my angel kiddos home with Brian and ventured out by myself to pick up the weekly groceries. As I was loading my four gallons of milk onto the checkout counter (along with my 6 boxes of cream cheese, 1/2 gallon of cream, 6 heads of lettuce, 2 bunches of bananas, 5lbs of cheese...) I attracted the attention of, not one, but two friendly strangers who were brave enough to comment that 'I must have a large family!'

Well, I suppose I do. And sometime this week, I'll catch you up on those three little beauties that drink so much milk and take up so much of my life. :) Here's a little sneak peek:

McKenzie
"Mom, I have a great idea. I put these on to protect my eyes just in case the ball hits my face."

Carson
"Mom - watch my eyes. Am I doing it?"

Miles
What did I expect after I told Miles he could lick the bowl?

Falling in Love with the Mountains - Part 4

2011-11-18T11:09:00.000-05:00

A few last, random things:

BILTMORE

Asheville is probably most famous for it's historic Biltmore House - - - the largest privately owned residence in the United States. And we spent a fair bit of time there...
Next to biking, the kids' favorite part was probably the petting farm... though one baby goat, Nibbles, was particularly fond of eating McKenzie's ponytails, or Miles's hat, or my camera bag, or Carson's shirt... (yeah, we were on a first-name basis with the animals...)

Miles felt right at home here - while I was busy snapping pictures, he helped himself to some of the goat feed... into his mouth and everything.

Bert, the horse was a favorite, too.

And, more live entertainment that, once again, captivated Miles.
I, personally don't understand why anyone would want to live in a house as big as the Biltmore - - - seems like an awful amount to keep track of, even if you did hire out the cleaning and landscaping. Plus, it would be quite easy to never actually see your family. No, I think I'm happy living in my little house...

THE SPLASH PAD

When I first found the splash pad downtown, I thought for sure we would spend a healthy amount of time there... but we actually only went twice. I'm used to roasting during the summers, but Asheville wasn't all that hot - and even during the dead of summer, on most days it didn't sound refreshing at all to get soaking wet.

Though the kids sure enjoyed it on the days that we went.

TRAVELING

Over and over and over, these kids made that long drive. And I rarely heard any complaints from those sweet little faces. They sat, quietly coloring and listening to Junie B. Jones, or the Magic Tree House CD's coming in through the radio speakers, hour after hour after hour. One time they even let me listen to NPR the whole way. We spent around 70 hours in the car just driving back and forth - and I'm sure an additional just-as-many driving around for our daily errands/activities in both cities. Miles slept like a pro during his nap times, and the kids were kind and respectful to each other for the most part.

We usually made two pit-stops on the way home and came to know those rest areas quite well. I tried to make them fun by having some fun snack to eat as we got on our pajamas. The power of Cheetos is scary.

It's funny, looking through all of these pictures. There's an almost dreamlike quality to some of them that leaves me thinking, 'did we really just do that?' Such a stark contrast to feeling like it might never end while I was in the middle of it. And, you know, it feels good to accomplish something hard. . . I didn't handle every day with poise and grace, and I didn't handle every tired emotion and frustrating comment from my kids with love and compassion. But, I can say that I did my best, and that's an unusual thing for me to say. Generally I have a hard time figuring out just what 'my best' is (there's always something more you could have done, right?), but for whatever reason, I feel like I handled our separation the best I could - - - and now I trust that the atoning sacrifice of my Savior will make up the difference.

Maybe that was one of the biggest lessons I learned... that I can be satisfied with something less than perfect in myself. And that I should rely on the Savior to make up the deficiencies. And now that the lesson has been learned, here comes the hard part - applying the lesson to the rest of my life. Now I start taking this experience and stringing it through all the other 'imperfect' moments in my life. This could be a long process, indeed.

But, I guess it feels good to have my feet pointed in the right direction...

Sayonara, Asheville!

Falling in Love with the Mountains - Part 3

2011-11-17T14:20:00.000-05:00

Let's talk for a minute about how ... strange ... weird ... unusual ... crazy ... fun ... awesome ... the downtown is in this mountain city. Where else can you go to find someone dressed entirely in grocery bags; a guy juggling machetes while balancing on a precarious slab of wood wearing nothing but blue paint, torn jeans and high heels; purple busses; a man dressed as a nun and riding a bike you wonder how he ever got onto; jugglers, painters and musicians on all the corners; old and young, businessman and hippie playing chess together; words from the Bible being shouted near the busiest corner; firetrucks screaming through the narrow streets at some point every hour (I had to wonder if there were really that many fires, or if the firefighters just got bored and wanted to make a loud lap around the city for entertainment...), and local, local, local posters in every window and on every bumper. (Can you match the descriptions with the pictures in the collage above?

One of our favorite things to do was to go downtown on Friday night and dance in/watch the drum circle.
Bring your own drum and play your heart out! Or dance to the beat - or just sit and enjoy watching others. Highly, highly entertaining.

As for the people there, the blonde lady in this next picture seemed to sum it all up nicely. Take a look... take a closer look...

Bare feet, homemade skirt, braless, armpit hair, and a smile on her face that gives the viewer the impression that she is free from all cares (and maybe a little stoned...).

After dancing till the kids were tired, we left the drum circle to stroll through downtown. The kids could not get enough of the musical street performers. They could have watched all night.

One night we even stumbled on some sort of Christian revival complete with colorful flags and some sort of long, wooden horn.

The audience was mostly captivated... many were raising their arms to the sky and swaying from side to side... some were singing along to the songs... one lady even ended up prostrate on the ground in front of the 'flag-man'. Each time one song would end, Miles would start panicking and saying, "Moe sahn? (more song?), Moe sahn?!" And, to everyone's pleasure, they sang more and more and more and more songs...

You know, I really, really love Christian music. There were some beautiful lyrics in some of the songs that they sang and I found myself touched a few times.

However, the 'showiness' of their flags and dancers, while interesting to watch, seemed to detract from the spirit that was trying to be felt there. It made me grateful that the church I belong to puts much more emphasis on 'teaching' rather than 'entertaining' - and I realized that the Spirit itself is much more powerful in motivating me to think of Christ than a whole flashy show meant to do that very thing...

Though the Christian show captivated Miles, Carson found his attention being sucked in another direction. I think he has found a new life goal...
This guy just rode around the city one night popping wheelies, standing on his seat, hopping down stairs, twisting his handlebars around in the air... don't try it, Carson. At least, not without a helmet...

Brian was mostly mesmerized by this lady:
I think he gave her close to $5 in coins over a 20 minute period. She posed as a statue, and quite remarkably stayed as still as one, until someone would drop a coin or two in a basket in front of her. At this point, she would play a little drum solo and turn to blink a 'thank you' to whomever dropped the coins. We happened to be resting on some benches when she came to set herself up, so we had front row seats of her performance for quite a while.

It was amusing to watch passers-by timidly approach her, telling themselves that she must be a real person, and jump in alarm as her drum beat loudly in their faces as their coins hit her bucket. She has Brian to thank for many of those coins and dollar bills, put into her bucket by our kids...

Downtown was certainly an odd mix: very clean and family friendly, but full of enough crazies that you grabbed those tiny hands of your babies and never let them out of your sight.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-11-09T09:50:00.004-05:00

Falling in Love with the Mountains - Part 2

2011-11-06T13:58:00.009-05:00

In my last post I alluded to the fact that Brian's apartment in the mountains was a little ... dumpy. But, oh boy, you seriously would have been surprised. It looks pretty nice on the outside, doesn't it? I was sure encouraged as we drove by. But, allow me to take you on a little tour...

You first notice that there are several, seemingly abandoned, full-sized semitrailers gracing your view in every direction.

For the most part, their sides have been stripped and they are slowly and silently rusting away. Odd, you think. You drive up to the back of your building and are thrilled to see that there is one in the grass just to the side of your steps. It looks to have been there for a while, as the grass underneath it is completely dead and brown. Super fun, though, you find you have neighbors living underneath some of them.

Your youngest child actually finds that the word 'beaver' is one of the five words he knows how to say and asks for them by name each time you pass one of the trailers.

Holding your suitcases, you make your way up the cracked, concrete stairs (being careful to not step on the edge of the bottom stair for fear that it may crumble underneath you) and prop the unusually heavy door open with a heavy, 5 gallon bucket located conveniently inside.

The smell is the first thing you notice about the dark hallway in front of you... an unpleasant mixture of dog, cat and old, rotting wood. Tufts of animal hair swirl into the air as you roll past them to find your apartment door, and you suddenly feel a desire to step back outside into the fresh, April air. You glance at the unclaimed pile of old mail sitting on an abandoned computer desk across the small hallway as you unlock your door, and then realize that you're standing on an old, ratty doormat decorated with prancing reindeer surrounded by faded, checkered squares of red and green. You wonder why they chose to put a Christmas doormat at the foot of your door when, clearly, there was no intention of ever switching it out.

As you step across the threshold of your door, you peer questioningly at the poster of Audrey Hepburn staring back and you, and sadly discover that the cat smell that was wafting into the hallway is, indeed, originating from your own living space. Before unpacking your suitcases, you grab the broom and start in the second bedroom. Big enough to hold a set of bunkbeds, a small round table, and then leave just enough room for a sleeping bag on the floor, this room only takes a minute to sweep, but you realize that this must have been the cat's headquarters... you come away with a dustpan full of hair and kitty litter and wonder what, exactly, the cleaning crew that came in before you did during those hours they were supposed to be taking care of such things. You next travel the step-and-a-half across the hallway and enter into the master bedroom. This room has even less floor space - the queen bed in the middle of the room and the dresser at the foot of it leave enough space to run a sweep of the broom along three sides of the bed, but you diligently get down on all fours and make a couple of sweeps underneath the bed for good measure. Your dustpan is only half full this time. After another step-and-a-half, you begin to sweep the main living space. Most of it is covered by an area rug and you realize you'll have to pull the vacuum out as well. You sweep the little space underneath the bamboo dinner table with the glass top, knowing that your children are going to lodge food in all of those tiny cracks and wondering how many children (or adults) before you have done that same thing.

You open the door to the bathroom and slowly shut it again. You'll come back to the bathroom.

The kitchen is the size of a hallway. Long enough to hold a refrigerator (with a missing handle), a stove, and a few drawers on one side, and on the other side, a top-to-bottom washer and dryer (that smells of mold and didn't dry your clothes), a few cupboards, a dishwasher and a sink. You will soon find out that when you open the dishwasher, the door spans the entire width of the hallway and blocks your only path to the sink. And when you pull the bottom rack out, the dishwasher tips forward out of the counter - giving you somewhat of a scare before you realize that it catches itself at the back before crashing to the floor. At least it works, however... you will also learn that the residents in the apartment kiddie-corner to you can only use their dishwasher as a giant drying rack. As you sweep the kitchen, you notice that the window by the sink has a giant post-it note saying DO NOT OPEN, and you wonder what would happen if you ignored it.

You vacuum the rug, the couch cushions, the couch itself and then do it again to make sure... and then, just because, you vacuum the tufts of hair out of the main hallway as well. One of your neighbors comes in as you're doing so and doesn't know what to make of it. You hope the vacuum is working properly...

Eventually there's nothing left to do but the bathroom. You've put it off long enough. You try not to gag as you run your Clorox wipe along the toilet, picking up hair and sticky, yellow smears along the way. The floor underneath the toilet hasn't been cleaned in so long that the film looks a little hairy as you cut through it on your hands and knees. The tiny counter and sink are sprinkled with foreign hair and soap smears, the tub shower looks to be growing mold in all the right places, and you hold a nasty conversation in your head with the head of the cleaning department as you scrub. You eventually end the conversation by being glad it's not you signing their pay checks. Once all the 'disgusting' is gone you notice, how did you not notice before?, a giant, flaking hole in the wall next to the tub. A foot in diameter of flaking drywall and paint (that you will later learn is full of lead), dusting the ground underneath. Out of the bathroom you carry your final dustpan load, move your belongings into their places, and make peace with the situation. After all, home is where your heart is, right?

Besides, if you're feeling like you need to get out of your cramped/dumpy living circumstances, all you have to do is walk outside. Remember that huge grassy field in the first picture? Heavenly for having foot races, games of tag, and - of course - wheelbarrow races.

It's also alight with countless fireflies every summer night.

Or, you can just take a stroll down the blue ridge parkway and stop to wave to the cars passing underneath the tunnel.

It's true, your house might not be awesome, but...

...you have an incredible backyard.

Falling in Love with the Mountains - Part 1

2011-11-02T15:04:00.015-04:00

I'm pretty sure a psychiatrist would have diagnosed me with bipolar disorder had he gotten to know me during the time Brian was away. At times, he would have heard me saying that I felt like I was trudging along through cold, rocky, liquid cement that was slowly hardening... like I was expending the same amount of energy (or more) day after day, but making less and less progress... he would have even heard me entertaining the possibility of actually getting stuck and having to spend the rest of my life trapped in the middle of that sea of concrete. His notes might have said something like, withdrawn, overwhelmed, weepy, exhausted, unable to cope.

At other times, he would have heard me gushing about how free I felt. Imagine visiting a beautiful mountain city, weekend after weekend, that you were quickly falling in love with - and then moving there for 5 full weeks during the summer while your children were out of school. You don't own a home there - so there is no stress on you when the bathroom wall in your apartment sheds giant flakes onto the floor, or when the dishwasher falls out of the counter. You don't have to worry about why there is a large post-it note on the kitchen window warning you not to open it, and you don't have to think about how to replace the missing handle on the refrigerator. In fact, your dire living arrangements force you to spend most... almost all... of your time outside. Every morning after kissing your husband off to work and cleaning the apartment (which takes all of 15 minutes because it's only about 500 sq. feet), you pack a lunch, tie on three little pairs of hiking shoes along with your own, and are free to explore thousands of beautiful hiking trails... many of which are right in your own back yard. Or maybe you pump up the kids' bike tires and hitch up the bike trailer to yours. Or maybe you want to take your lunch to the Biltmore - the largest privately owned home in the United States - and ride along their trails, or go to their petting farm, or take the kids through their house to see the swimming pool, or the bowling alley again. Every Sunday you're free to soak up the ambiance of all three hours of church and then take family nature walks after, or read The Chronicles of Narnia to your kids, or put 5 puzzles together as a family, because you have no church related responsibilities. I think, during these sessions, my psychiatrist's notes would have said something more along the lines of happy, carefree, optimistic, friendly, energetic.

I suppose Charles Dickens said it best: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

But, for better or worse, the times are past me now. And, thankfully, the little bit of time that has passed has already erased much of the worst from my memory, and I am left with all the pictures to remind me of the best.

Hiking

Who knew little legs could walk so much? We covered miles (and miles and miles) of trails on foot and these three almost never tired out. Fueled by their intense desire to find the perfect rock, (McKenzie is quite sure she is going to find a diamond one of these days and is frequently running back to compare her newest find to the ring on my finger) they moved along pretty happily.

For the 5 weeks we lived there, my weekday schedule looked something like this...

7:30 Get Ready/Eat Breakfast/Tidy Apartment
12:00 Eat Lunch...somewhere fun
3:00 Be home to welcome Brian from work
5:30 Eat Dinner...a simple one because we have limited cooking ingredients
8-10ish Tuck exhausted, happy kids into bed/enjoy handsome hubby

... leaving gigantic blocks of time unstructured and open. And did you catch that Brian was home by 3:00 most afternoons? Heaven!

We typically had three big outings a day... the kids and I would take one big hike/bike in the morning that would take us all the way through lunch, then when Brian got home from work he would take the big kids out swimming or to the museum while Miles took a nap, and then after dinner we'd head out as a family for another fun hike or a stroll around downtown. The freedom was overwhelming (in a good way). Free to play, free from schedules, free to explore. I wore a ponytail, no makeup, my camera and a smile almost everywhere we went. Stumble across some rushing water? Sure! Stop and slide for a while!

See a rock you want to jump off 68 times? Do it! We have nowhere to be!

Getting hungry? Alright! Let's pull out a snack and start making our way back home... we'll do it again tomorrow.

Photo taken by Doug Larson

Those 5 weeks were a little slice of heaven. And those feelings of freedom and happiness came back each weekend the kids and I would return.

See, but then...

Then the time came, over and over and over again, for me to back out of our parking spot on Sunday afternoon with three crying children in the back - barely hanging onto my own emotions as well (sometimes not holding them at all) - and wave good bye to Daddy and the freedom for another week. Each drive, I would vow to bring a little of the freedom back with me... to not let stress get to me and to just carry that free heart right on into my normal life. But the closer and closer we got to home, the heavier and heavier my heart became.

I can't figure out how to do it... some people are really good about ignoring the stressors in their lives and keeping a carefree attitude. But I haven't been able to figure that one out yet. Is it possible to keep a 'vacation heart' while still taking care of regular life?

Anyway, that was a bit of a tangent - back to the great stuff. :)

Biking

I think biking may have been my personal favorite. We were a little bit limited because I only own a road bike, and most of the trails were for mountain bikes (and I obviously didn't want to go down any real roads with these two crazies!).

But the Biltmore had a beautiful paved biking trail that ran right along the river. Easy, calm, lovely ride. At the end, the trail turned into dirt and rocks alongside a fun lake, and I would always park my bike here, divvy out the snacks and walk alongside my kids so they could get a little adventure biking in before turning around.

Those bike rides always felt serene. The drone of the wind rushing past my ears, the beautiful scenery, the faint tinkling of giggles I'd catch from the kids in front of me... And as long as we kept moving, the ease was delightful. But if ever we stopped - oh boy - like, say at the (almost) top of a hill... once it took me 4 (four!) tries to get moving again to cross the street that was intersecting our path. I'm pretty sure the people in the cars that stopped for us even applauded as I finally made it across the road hauling my heavy load up that hill.

That wasn't embarrassing...

Wordless Wednesday

2011-11-02T09:08:00.000-04:00

Forty-Nine Squares

2011-10-27T18:45:00.002-04:00

There was a nostalgic but happy feeling that came to me as I crossed off 49 squares in my calendar today. My pencil made little slash mark after little slash mark though days I had been looking forward to for months... days that turned out to be so full of fun and emotion that they could never actually be represented by those tiny squares. Days of happy craziness as McKenzie filled the house during her school break (seriously, how does one child add so much chaos!?); squares of tiring preparation preceding seven squares marked with the capitol letters B E A C H T R I P ! ! !; squares filled with visits from family and then five more blocked off for O R L A N D O ! ! !; then, sprinkled throughout, there was a cookout and a carnival, a brunch and a bookclub, kindergarten activities and a healthy handful of playdates for the whole family. And though it's not there, each square could justifiably have a watermark that reads, 'Brian is home!'

I feel the whirlwind of the last 49 days dying down into a gentle breeze, and I'm a bit sad to see them go. I recognize the scarcity of times like these, times where we're swept off of our feet in a wonderful sort of chaos as opposed to the much more frequent overwhelming sort, and I have been quietly tucking these days into a chamber of my heart marked 'treasures'.

I suppose it's time to plant my feet back on solid ground again... we can't live ignoring the world and our calendars forever. But we're all home this time. Together. Finally enjoying again the peace that comes from living under one roof. Yesterday morning, McKenzie climbed the stairs of her bus after a week long vacation in Orlando. Her sweet bus driver called through the open door, "Welcome back! We missed you!" When I mentioned where we had been, she shook her head in a jealous fashion. "Oh, Ah KNOW you had fun down there!" she said. "Now the only bad thing about goin' on vacation is that you have to come back!" I smiled and waved to the bus as it went around the corner. Yes, I thought, you're right... but I think I'm ready to be back to normal for a change. The bus slowly drove out of sight and I started walking back to my house with a happy feeling filling my heart. With Kenzie on her way to school, Brian working back in town, Miles propped on my hip, and Carson holding my hand, I felt complete and whole again.

I find it interesting that the fierce winds that kept me down and rubbed my face in the dirt while Brian was away seem to be the same winds that recently carried me up and allowed me to soar. It looks as though Heavenly Father really did hear my prayers. Help me rise above this, Lord; please lift me and strengthen me. He just chose, in his infinite wisdom, to answer them along a different time table than I would have chosen for myself. If I'd have known that He would answer my prayers after Brian returned, I would have said He'd be too late...

But, you know, I think these soaring days were worth it.

I have scores of pictures to sort through and plenty of random thoughts that go along with them. And, don't worry, you'll get a smattering of them shortly. Because, you know, I know you've missed me and that your happiness hinges on that sort of thing.

The Happiest, Happiest Day!

2011-09-04T16:34:00.001-04:00

PS - don't be offended - 'hoe-jew' is not an offensive term used to describe our religious neighbors...it's just what Miles says when he wants to be held. (hold you!)

Messes: to clean, to stop, or to ignore?

2011-09-03T00:16:00.008-04:00

I smashed a mosquito on my bathroom wall three days ago while I was brushing my teeth.

Tonight while I was flossing I realized how ridiculous it was that it was still there. It's not hidden... smeared right next to the window pane - right about eye level - right close to the hand towel. I've probably seen it there 10 times, and yet...

I pondered on it for a while, both hands working away in my mouth. Really, it would only take one little piece of toilet paper, I thought, the toilet paper that is less that two steps away from me at this very moment. I chastised myself for being so nasty and made a conscious vow that I would try to be better at cleaning things up as they occur - starting with that mosquito. I chalked it up to being so frazzled at the end of this long husbandless 5 months I've had. But then again... this sort of thing seems to happen a lot. If I'm being honest with myself, I don't think it actually has anything to do with Brian being gone. This opened up a whole new pathway for my brain to explore as I finished cleaning under my permanent retainer.

A good friend of mine once said to me, "I think there are two different kinds of clean people in the world. Those who spend a lot of energy making sure messes don't happen, and those who spend a lot of energy cleaning up the messes after they happen. I think you're the latter." It's true that I don't spend much energy making sure messes don't happen; how many millions of times have I seen one being created and thought, that's what my washing machine is for, or looks like I'll have to get the mop out after this. But... DO I actually clean it up after it happens?

I've spent all of my adult life thinking that I was a pretty clean person, I certainly devote a lot of time to picking up after everyone and my house is in good order most of the time. But a mini lightbulb just started to glow deep inside my brain tonight, and I think - I think that maybe I'm not. Truthfully, that mosquito doesn't really bother me. And the cheerios that have dried hard to the tile underneath the island? They don't bother me either. They'll come up when I mop the floor, and that's on the schedule for tomorrow. I pick up the clutter because it gets in the way of walking; I wipe the crumbs from the counter because they get in the way of using the kitchen; and I make the beds every morning because then they feel cleaner when I crawl into them at night. But if it doesn't interfer with my daily life, then I don't seem to care about it. This could be life-changing, folks.

I should have probably let this mull around in my head for a while before letting it all hang out here - it's possible the morning light will shine a different light on the subject. I just thought it was funny that as I snuggled into bed tonight, teeth sparkling clean, lights out and covers up under my chin...

I realized that the mosquito is still there.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-08-31T18:10:00.002-04:00

The Art of a Brush

2011-08-27T17:31:00.005-04:00

It was time.

Actually, let's be honest, it was past time... by about 3 years. The last time I got my hair cut, I was standing in my own living room, head upside down, instructing my very nervous husband exactly when and where to snip. I was trying a little trick I learned on YouTube the previous day and, let's just be brief by saying, it ended badly. I tried to convince myself that mullets were coming back in - and that girls could sport them. But who was I kidding! Over the course of the next three days, we hacked away at it a little here and there until I felt a little more willing to show my face in public. Enter in the pony-tails and that's about where we've been for the last two years.

I guess Brian got a little tired of me complaining about my hair (or perhaps he got tired of looking at it) because a couple of weeks ago he excitedly mentioned that he had set up an appointment for me at a nice salon in the mountains. I was leaving the next day, kid free, to spend a few days with him. Relaxing in his apartment, touring the awesome city he lives in, reading during the days while he was working, and now... getting my hair done. I actually don't like getting my hair done. I'm not very good at small talk, plus I feel nervous about providing an adequate 'happy' reaction when the final look is presented. But, as Brian knew, I'd be happy once it was over.

I walked into the salon with my long hair in a thin pony-tail, dangling down in it's usual pattern and said hello to my stylist, Brett. Permanent smile, twinkly blue eyes, and a thick, stylish, sandy brown mohawk bleached blond at the tips. Yep, I thought to myself, he fits the part of a stylist. Warm and friendly, Brett put me at ease quickly - not unlike how I imagine I would feel around an older brother if I had one. He sat next to me and we talked for a while about what I was looking for - I showed him pictures and he gave me some suggestions...

"Alright!" he said, "I've got the look for you! Do you know how to use a brush?"
Odd question, I thought. Who doesn't know how to use a hairbrush? But his tone was serious, as if it wouldn't be weird at all for me to say no. My ego boosted. "Yep," I said. I use one every day! Why, I used one this very morning to put my hair up in this ponytail.

Soon my nostrils filled with the scent of hair color as the foils and highlights were painted, strip by strip, into my drab hair. An hour later, I looked like a frizzy martian as I sank into the cushions of a bay window to read my book, watch the people walk by, and wait for the highlights to do their damage. A wash, a rinse, and then clumps of hair - my hair - hit the ground with finality. I watched every move in the mirror in front of my chair, and I was happy with what I was seeing. The blow-dryer whizzed into action and a large, round brush came out of the drawer next to Brett's arm.

"Now we just blow it out with the brush!" he said. He set to work pinning up portions of hair to dry others. Some he curled under, some he curled over, some he didn't curl at all. I found myself studying his moves, questions filling my brain. I started to ask them, but then I remembered... Do you know how to use a brush, he had said.

Oh dear.

It was too late now. Besides, what would I say to him? So, do you remember that time you asked me if I knew how to use a brush? Well, you see, I thought you meant a regular hairbrush - of which I know all the rules - start at the top and move to the bottom, you know... I felt like an idiot. Of course he didn't mean a regular hairbrush! Who doesn't know how to use a regular old hairbrush?! But this... this thing he was using looked much more complicated.

I watched and searched for answers to my own questions in his work. How hard can it be, right? My hair looked awesome for two days - but then it was time to wash it. And dry it. Dry it. With that thing. I tried, I really did, but I only have two arms, and I'm pretty sure you need a third in there somewhere to help out. Plus, that round brush seems to have a mind of it's own on whether or not it will actually hold the hair I intend it to, and sometimes it decides to curl only the top half of the lock and leave it sticking out like a bad case of bed-head. Other times it curls it violently, leaving me with poofy anchor-woman hair.

Well, I've done it four times now, all by myself (thank you), with varying degrees of success. All I ask is that, if you see me walking around town with a funny looking curl in the middle of my head, just don't say anything.

It's not my fault... it's that blasted brush. (That's what we who are in-the-know call a round brush these days.)

I could be wrong, but...

2011-08-27T14:56:00.005-04:00

...this seems to be a bit more deliberate than simple toothpaste splatters on the mirror...

Birthday Eyes

2011-08-24T23:48:00.010-04:00

It's all in his eyes. Big. Beautiful. And sometimes the only clue I have into his little heart. He tries to mask his feelings - but those pesky eyes, they never lie. Not to me. When he's happy they sparkle, even when he hides his smile. When he's sad they droop, even when he holds his tears. When he's sick they're flat, even when he's bouncing. They squint when he's confused, open bright when he's excited, dart when he knows he's in trouble. When they catch the light just right they pierce my heart and my face melts into that puppy dog gaze as a reaction to the paradoxical pain that comes from beauty and love. He might just kill me with those eyes.

He seems sure that he turned five last week, but does he look five to you? Because I'm pretty sure someone snuck a couple of years in there while I wasn't looking. We had to be a bit creative with his birthday pictures because he seems to think that shards of glass will shoot out of my camera lens if he glances at it. I decided not to torture him on his big day, so I left my camera home. His birthday was complete with food, friends, fun ... and some of the brightest eyes I've seen on him for a while. Thank you to his best friend, Parker, an awesome sticker, and the museum of life and science for entertaining my child and making him feel like I'm the best mom ever. I'm also the best mom ever because I let Chick-Fil-A's play place take the lunch hour away from us (read: no mess for me to clean up), then I let them trade in their happy meal toys for ice cream (read: no cluttery toy collection to worry about), and we brought free balloons home (okay, this was pretty awesome of me because I hate balloons. Really), where I let them play away the afternoon in front of Mario (read: where I put my feet up and took a nap). I'm getting the hang of this mothering gig.

He felt like a king when the friends came over and he pulled out his new Star Wars encyclopedia. He can't even read, yet he pours over this book every night before going to sleep. The boys in the house were magnetized to it. These four specifically sat here for over half an hour turning the pages, gasping, cheering, and booing at all the pictures.

Then we pulled out the cake... I really outdid myself on this cake *squirm*. Ice cream, frozen in three cheesecake pans, plopped on top of each other, with star wars characters plunked on top. You know what? It tasted awesome. And the kids kept asking for more.

I learned a little something - the amount of time and preparation you put into your child's birthday really is no indication of how much you love them. And, it's not really an indication of how much fun they're going to have, either. Carson's birthday happened to fall in a season where I could give very little of myself into making it special for him. There was no formal party, no special outing... there wasn't even Daddy except for a few minutes through the computer screen. But it was full of his favorite day-to-day things, packed to the brim with hugs and kisses, and at the end of the night when I asked him if he'd had a good day, he looked up at me with those eyes - so big... so beautiful - and I saw my very favorite look flash through them. That look that comes one tiny second before he says my four favorite words,

"I love you, Mom."

Waiting on Tomorrow

2011-08-17T20:24:00.007-04:00

Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow is a new day and tonight's sleep will reboot my system. But that blasted tomorrow keeps becoming today and, for some reason, today hasn't been going very well lately. My batteries are empty, and my recharging stations seem to have lost power. Brian's residency program has stolen him away from me - literally - and placed him in a city three and a half hours from our home. He's been gone for 4 and a half months now (you read it right) coming home every-other weekend when he's not on call. And on the other weekends, I pack the kids up and make the long drive out to spend some time in his tiny (tiny) apartment. We miss him. We miss him a lot.

It's our anniversary today. It's hard not to cry when I think about it, though. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude and longing for the little things that are hard to appreciate until you miss them...
* his 6'4" frame that can change the light bulbs without dragging stools all over the house
* his smile that is always on his face as he walks in the door
* his happy disposition that lightens the mood in our home
* his playfulness that pulls the kids to him
* his muscles that could easily unscrew the bolts under the sink when it's clogged with mud
* his nightly snacky-appetite that drives him to pop popcorn for us, or heat up some chips with cheese melted over, or dish up bowls of ice cream
* his consistency in mowing the lawn before it starts sprouting
* his willingness to fix the master toilet when it sprays water up to the ceiling every time I flush, or the kids' toilet when it won't stop running
* his help in decorating the house and wrapping presents for our child's birthday
* his remembering to wheel the garbage out to the corner every week
* his attention to my emotions and insistence that I take a little break when I need it
* his efficiency in whipping the house into order when dishes, clothes and toys threaten to eat our children
* his love of a house full of sleeping children, two spoons in a carton full of our favorite ice cream, and our feet propped up in front of our current favorite show
* his calm reminder that life is to be enjoyed

I'm not quite the same without him. I'm still trying to figure out how I can feel so busy and so lonely at the same time... We only have two and a half weeks left until he comes home for good, but I have to be honest in saying I'm a little concerned about the state he'll find our home and family in at that time - hopefully today is no indication of how things are going to be then: this is night four of Miles sleeping in just his diaper because he has no clean pajamas, my kitchen floor hasn't been mopped in so long I'm afraid there might be mold growing in the food spills, the toilet in the hall is currently running - it's probably an easy fix, but I just have no energy to stand up and lift the lid to see what the problem is. The phone has been ringing off the hook, and I have cried to four different people through the receiver. Four people! I've had four extra kids in my home for the past three days - so you can imagine the state of the playroom. Two kids decided to wash some 'rocks' in our bathroom sink, which really meant filling up buckets full of mud and dumping them down the drain until no more water could travel down and the whole thing had to be unscrewed to get the mud out - which left a bucket full of muddy water that was later stepped on and spilled across the entire bathroom floor, leaving a 1/4 inch of muck in the bath mats, across the floor and in the closet. The end of today found me on my hands and knees, sopping up the mucky water with quiet tears dripping from the tip of my nose.

And then I felt my children. My sweet, sweet, wonderful children wrapped their arms around me and McKenzie and Carson cried silently with me for a minute. I hugged them tightly and told them just how much I love them and thanked them for being so caring. I assured them that my tears were not a result of anything they had done - just that I missed Daddy and it had been a hard day. Minutes later I went to get another towel and passed McKenzie talking to Miles on the couch, "Mommy is having a hard night, Miles," she explained. "We need to be nice to Mommy. Can you be nice to Mommy, Miles?"

Tonight showed me that, though my family life is anything but stable right now, we are pulling through it. My children love me - and I love them desperately. When Brian found out about the day's frustrations he lent a listening, caring ear - and when I mentioned, at 6:15pm, that I hadn't even thought about dinner yet, he sat in his apartment 200 miles away and ordered a pizza to be delivered to my home.

Thank you, Brian, for finding ways to take care of me. My life is so much better with you in it, and I miss you. Today was a bit rough, but tomorrow, tomorrow is a new day and tonight's sleep will reboot my system. And if nothing else, it will bring me one day closer to having you home with me again. Happy anniversary, dear. I love you.

And now, at 11:30pm, on to figure out that running toilet, wheel the garbage out to the corner, sweep the crumbs from the kitchen and the dry dirt and pebbles from the bathroom, throw the sopping towels in the washer, start the dishwasher...

Wordless Wednesday

2011-08-10T09:34:00.003-04:00

Wordless Wednesday

2011-08-03T13:49:00.001-04:00

Dear McKenzie,

2011-07-28T18:24:00.003-04:00

I hear it all the time... one of the most important things for me to do as your mother is to be a good example for you. Sometimes that's the only motivating force behind me stumbling to the living room in the quiet darkness of morning to bow my head into my scriptures for a few moments before everyone wakes. Sometimes thinking of you is the only thing that can bring me to my knees at the end of a long, hard day when all I really want is to climb into the warm sheets. In the hours between, I try to hold my tongue before I lash out in anger, hoping you'll learn to do the same; I try to be patient and speak with kindness, hoping you'll treat your brothers the same; I try to be happy as I go about my housework, so you may feel happy while helping; I try to tell you about the good and bad things that have happened in my day, and hope that you will tell me about yours. We both know I fail sometimes, maybe even more often than not, but striving to be a good example for you is always at the back of my mind.

----------------

Your new second grade teacher sent home a little blue lunch bag with the instructions to fill it with 5 things that told something about you.

"A rock, definitely," you said - you are very into collecting rocks.
"How about a piece of candy?" I suggested.
"And maybe a picture of Carson and Miles," you added.
"How about a picture of Jesus?"
"Oh, yeah!" you exclaimed. Wow!? You were actually more (much more) excited about the picture of Jesus than you were about the piece of candy. You thumbed through your magazines to find the perfect one, cut it out, folded it up and tucked it into the blue bag. Curious, I picked the picture back out of the bag, unfolded it and said, "So, what are you going to say when you hold this up to your class?"
"Hmmmm," you thought. "I know! I'll say: This is a picture of Jesus. He is important to me because I know he loves me. Or, maybe I should say us because then everyone will know that he loves them, too."

Perfect, Kenz - not only because the words were beautiful, but because it came from your own heart.

Your class is filled with Christians, but you are the only Mormon, so I was nervous for you as I put you on the bus the next morning. I think my nervousness stemmed from my own insecurities about sharing religion with others... you weren't worried at all. After school, I asked how it went and you said that people had all reacted with "Oh!'s and Hey!'s" when you pulled out the picture of Christ. You said that, of all of your things, that picture was the favorite of the class.

I'm proud of you, Kenz. It wasn't a big deal for you, but to me it would have been challenging. Thank you for your example - you have reminded me that Christ is the 'favorite' among most of the religions in this area, and that people are teaching their children of Him. You have given me an example of standing for what you believe in, and sharing those beliefs - excitedly - with others.

I'm so lucky to have you...

Love,
Mom

Wordless Wednesday

2011-07-27T06:32:00.002-04:00

Getting Baby Hungry

2011-07-22T14:45:00.001-04:00

Not me. No, no, no... not me.

My daughter.

We went down to Atlanta to visit the Aldriches and to see their new baby, Ellie. McKenzie fell hard in love with that sweet little baby, and as we backed out of their driveway for the last time, tears rolled down McKenzie's cheeks because 'I just don't want to leave Baby Eleanor.' There were hundreds of beautiful moments as I watched my daughter hold, rock, sing and bounce to the strings in her own heart...

And I never got a real picture of it.

I pulled my camera out only once during our visit to take some pictures of Ellie after her baby blessing - - - McKenzie was reluctant to let me take the baby, so I solicited her help in calming Ellie while I rearranged furniture, and I took a few shots of her only to test the light. What was I thinking?! The result is a couple of not-so-great pictures of a beautiful memory.

McKenzie told Katie that she hopes she'll get a baby sister soon. How about we compromise, Kenz... no new baby, but you can come look at these pictures any time you want. :)

I agree, Kenz. She's pretty cute, and I didn't want to leave her either. But remind me sometime to tell you about the round the clock feedings that come along with newborns...

It must be the hair...

2011-07-21T11:52:00.000-04:00

Don't let these pictures fool you... he's a Hitter.

He's pretty sure it's your fault if he becomes angry at something, and will not hesitate to take a swipe at your face... usually his swipe is accompanied by furrowed eyebrows (and this boy can furrow) and a blunt and angry 'no'. If you choose to ignore the swipe, he will change torture tactics into an attempt to force his long, unkempt nails into the skin of your arm. Unfortunately for him, the pain induced is minimal...despite the fact that his whole body shakes because he's using all of his strength.

And he's stubborn, too. He spent 45 minutes in the time-out chair this morning simply because he refused to say 'sorry' to McKenzie for hitting her. It wasn't until we opened the door to walk to the bus that he started mumbling his apology in fear of being left alone in the house as we all walked to the end of the driveway.

Oh, but he's sweet, too. This face above is one of my favorites of Miles'. He puts on a tough act, but he can't hide that smile behind those lips for long. :)

He's playful, fun, and determined to conquer the world. He'll tackle any new task put in his way as long as it doesn't involve some sort of fruit or vegetable.

You are one loved little boy, Miles!

He seemed to enjoy his ice cream cake for his birthday:

Apparently the fork in his right hand was not performing well enough.

I think we may be in for it... I could see Miles' two's being terrible. :)

Happy 2nd Birthday, Miles!

Wordless Wednesday

2011-07-20T06:35:00.000-04:00

A Bit of Young Love

2011-07-07T16:00:00.003-04:00

McKenzie

McKenzie: I have a boyfriend, Mom.
Me: You do?
McKenzie: Yep.
Me: Who is it?
McKenzie: Jack. We're in love.
Me: Oh really? What does that mean?
McKenzie: It means I chase him around the playground every day at recess.

***

Jack to his mother around Valentine's Day

Jack: Mom, do you know what a cupid is?
Jack's mom: Yes, I do. Why?
Jack: Well, a cupid is a little guy that flies around with arrows, and if he hits you with one then you fall in love.
Jack's mom: Yep.
Jack (in all seriousness): And, mom, a cupid hit me, because I am in love with McKenzie.

***

I snapped the picture above of McKenzie and Jack on her last day of 1st grade. They were sheepish around each other and quickly separated after I snapped it - which made me smile. Minutes later, I took another picture of McKenzie with her teacher and afterwords noticed that McKenzie had a funny look on her face. She seemed to be holding back tears, and I compassionately knew that last-day-of-school-sorrows had hit her. I put my arm around her, rubbed her arm, and asked how she was feeling.
"Good," she replied.
"It's funny how one day can be both happy and sad, isn't it?" I said.
"Yeah," she agreed.
"Are you feeling happy or sad right now?" I asked.
She bowed her head a little and, to my surprise, a big embarrassed grin crept across her face. "Happy." A little giggle escaped, and a flash of color tinted her cheeks. She leaned her head against my side and continued, "It's just that ever since you took my picture with Jack, I can't stop smiling."

---------------------

Carson

They're flocking, folks. Something about Carson's bright blue eyes, silky hair and mild temperament is causing the girls to swarm like gnats. Cute gnats, though. :) On Carson's last day of preschool, he was sitting alone at this table for no longer than 4 seconds before these three beauties scrambled around for a bit of attention. Unlike McKenzie, Carson is not committed to just one girl.....

He has been quite smitten with Elise for a while. She is a joy to have around and makes Carson feel like king of the world by laughing heartily at his 4-year-old jokes and saying, "You're so funny, Carson!". She seriously does this, even after she's heard the same joke 873 times. After a few kisses from her, however, he was quite uncomfortable and we had to establish a rule: you may not kiss Carson unless you ask him first and he says yes. I feel this is a clever plan because it gives Carson control, but I know him well enough to know that he will always say no (may that stay true for a long time...), and it has worked flawlessly. :) In the halls of church, Elise and her little sister have been known to call out to Carson as he walks by them, "Hey Cutie-pie!" "Cutie-pie, Carson!" And poor Carson looks like he wants to melt into a puddle of embarrassment on the floor... It's pretty much the cutest thing I have ever seen.

And then there's Emily. Awesome Emily. Emily has it in her mind that if she wants it, it's as good as hers... and that goes for her choice of man as well. After a heartbreaking denial from another boy, she set her sights on Carson. She proposed to him one morning, and apparently Carson accepted. This sent Emily into a flurry of action, drawing pictures of the two of them together, coloring their names together with hearts all around (though they can only each write their own name, so she wrote her name at the top of a page and had Carson write his name at the bottom of the page. I was instructed by Emily to draw 'a heart in the middle with an arrow going through it.') That night, as Emily's father entered the house from work, Emily greeted him with a loud, "Daddy! It has been the best day ever! Do you want to know why?!"
"Yes, Emily."
"Because I asked Carson to marry me... AND HE SAID YES!"

This love triangle has caused a bit of drama, but the two girls have worked it out together. I wasn't watching, but eye-witnesses have relayed information that there was a little scuffle between the two girls, a few 'No, he said he'd marry me!'s, and in the end Emily decided she would marry him first, and then when she died, Elise could have him. Elise had no choice but to accept.

Madison, however, does not know about these other two girls (sadly I don't have a picture of her yet). She was playing over at our house one morning, and around lunchtime looked up as Carson entered into the kitchen. "Oh, Carson!" she exclaimed, "You are so handsome!" Carson hung his head and muttered a shy "Thank you." She went on to say they should be boyfriend and girlfriend and someday they should get married. I watched as Carson uncomfortably nodded consents.

Perhaps Carson and I should have a little talk... :)

-------------------------

Miles

I think I'm going to keep Miles locked up for a while!

He is in love with his 'buh-neeeeeee' and carries him around pretty much everywhere. Bunny comes into stores and travels to friends' houses; tags along on hikes and rides along in the bike trailer; sits with us in church, cuddles during naps and bedtime and watches at a safe distance during mealtimes. When Bunny can't come on one of our adventures, he sits in Miles' carseat and welcomes him back to the car when we return.

Miles, you just keep holding on to that Bunny - - - and don't be too quick to follow in the path of your siblings!

Wordless Wednesday

2011-07-06T15:45:00.003-04:00

Finding Me - Part 4 of 4

2011-06-17T06:00:00.016-04:00

August 2006 - June 2011
The Rest of the Story

I’ve found that the healing of an emotional wound is not so different than the healing of a physical one. As a teenager, I stepped into a hole and scraped a three-inch-long by half-inch-wide section of skin off the middle of my shinbone. The doctors were only able to stitch up the worst of it – a ¼ inch section at the top of the wound. The rest, they said, did not have enough skin left around it to stitch back together and would have to heal on its own. You can imagine the care that was needed as we nursed this open wound. Deep enough to see the bone, wide enough to stick your finger into, the risk of infection was great if we did not treat it properly. Likewise, my emotional wound needed gentle care at first, and I cleaned it out often by talking through my feelings with friends and family. As I scraped the edges of my wound the raw pain was severe but, once the bandages were carefully replaced, it felt a little better than it had before; a little cleaner.

But, of course, neither wound can heal back to what it was before, because scar tissue is not skin. If you run your finger up along my physical scar, you can feel how papery thin it is, and if you push gently you can feel the divot where my bone was chipped. The scar is tender, and it takes a surprisingly soft blow to break through. Similarly, I have been surprised at my tears after a seemingly soft bump to the scar in my emotions.

Another commonality is that initially, I was embarrassed by the scar on my leg but, over the years I have grown comfortable with it, and have even grown to love it. The feelings about my emotional scar seem to be following the same path; I am getting more comfortable with it, I appreciate it, accept it, and am even beginning to love the person it has made me into.

The difference is that it has always been very easy to see the borders of my physical scar, whereas my emotional scar is obviously much more abstract. I see now that there really are no borders to it at all. It's effect has permeated into all of me... Perhaps that's why it's taken so long to find myself again.

-----------------------------

I find personalities to be a bit like jigsaw puzzles. I spend a lot of time staring at pieces from mine that seem to make no sense on their own, and I get a lot of satisfaction out of placing those pieces and seeing the bigger picture they are a part of. There are times when I feel I’ve just placed the very last piece, and as I step back to look at the complete picture, I feel good and calm and comfortable. I feel I know exactly who I am and feel confident in my skin. But, after a seemingly brief time of stability, something always happens to throw my puzzle up into the air and I watch as it crumbles back to the table in front of me in hundreds of pieces. It’s during this crumbling phase that I think the Lord throws in a handful of new pieces. New pieces that make it impossible to fit the puzzle back together the way it was before, but pieces that will make my completed puzzle look a little more like my Savior’s in the end.

I felt like a mountain of puzzle pieces was dumped into my lap when I lost Jess; so many that it took almost five years to piece back together the main images that make me me. Some of my personality traits are the same as they’ve always been: pensive, stubborn, analytical, quick to observe. Some of my personality traits are similar to what they were previously, only enriched with added colors and more pieces: faith in God, love for others, empathy, seeing the world with an eternal perspective.

But, some of my personality traits have changed completely. I spent the first five years waiting to ‘snap out of’ these traits. I’ve spent the last year learning to accept them. None of these changed traits are more noticeable than my hypersensitive (to me) ability to feel. As a college student, I sat in my little Honda Civic holding a graded test that I had not done very well on. Tears streamed down my face in response to the frustration I felt inside. I threw the test onto the passenger seat, wiped my tears and put the car in gear. As I drove out of the parking lot I wondered what I would ever cry about once school was over. There wasn’t much, other than a poor grade, that could make me cry.

This is not true anymore.

Little moments touch my heart deeply. Songs, commercials, quotes, and tender phrases often leave me with tearful eyes. Gratitude runs so deep it feels painful at times. Hurtful comments cut me like a knife. Frustrating days, overwhelming thoughts, sad stories; joyful reunions, sweet moments with my children, love for my husband. Through it all, I cry. This has brought a challenge with it, for I never really learned how to bridle my tears. Before Jess, if I felt like crying I would with no hesitation, and it has been difficult for me to learn how to stop the tears when I feel them coming. I realize now that I may always have to control my emotions and that I need to learn how to deal with this new part of me…this sensitive, vulnerable side.

Another change has been the subtle, but noticeable, shift into more of a realist and less of an optimist. Sometimes it’s hard for me to focus on the good in a given situation, where that was rarely the case previously.

I am also now much more reserved and thoughtful before I speak. This has been one of the most frustrating things to adjust to. I had enjoyed the ease of jumping into conversations and the comfort I felt when sharing my own opinions and thoughts. But now I find the opposite is true in that it is often hard for me to work my way into a conversation, and even when I’m involved in it, I often still don’t say much.

My puzzle is still so small and insignificant when I compare it to my Savior. But, even though I can’t quite see it yet, I think these pieces are all working together to get me a little closer to being like Him. And so I’ll take them. I’ll take the hard ones and the confusing ones; I’ll try to fit them in and I’ll exercise my faith in this hope that I am becoming more like Him.

--------------------

Every day my feet have taken me a little further up on this mountain of healing. And, as I've climbed, an occasional lesson will make itself clear. These lessons are very meaningful to me, and seem to have a depth to them that convinces me that I would not have learned them without traveling through a difficult trial:

*It takes a long time to heal. And, sadly, you can’t really speed it up. People told me this in the very beginning, but my mistake was in not understanding their interpretation of what a long time is. One month, maybe two? By three months I felt there was something wrong with me and in a tearful conversation with my mom over the phone I said, “But it’s been three months, Mom! Why am I still crying all the time?” Her reply began with a gentle laugh, “Oh, Linds. Three months is not a long time.” I disagreed. Ninety days of sadness? I felt that qualified as ‘a long time’. Today my perspective is different.

*People are almost always acting through a good heart. It’s hard to know what to say to someone who is grieving. People want to help. They want to say something that will provide some healing or peace to the troubled heart. But, unfortunately, there is no magical thing to say because nothing you can say will take the pain away. This can make the situation awkward at times, and a well meaning comment can come off sounding hurtful. For example, after I explained to one sweet woman that Jess had died because he had a genetic disorder called Trisomy 9, she tried to cheer me up by telling me I should be grateful things ended the way they did because I might have had to raise a handicapped child. I was astronomically offended at this for a few days. I would have traded my situation in a heartbeat to hold that little boy again – handicapped or not. And, I still would. But there came a point in time where I saw the situation through her eyes and, though I still disagreed, I knew that she had shared her comment out of love for me. I have learned to take each comment or gesture, even if it hurt initially, with a generous grain of salt and try to remember, first and foremost, that the person sharing the comment cares about me. I don’t recall a single experience where a comment has been said about Jess with the intent to offend. In fact, a wrong word or gesture given from a good heart meant so much more to me than someone who offered no words or gestures at all.

*When someone you love is going through a difficult time, pray for guidance. I have been grateful for many phone calls, visits, and e-mails from friends who have a loved one going through a similar situation, and their question to me is always the same: what can I do to help? My first and most important piece of advice is to pray for guidance. A grieving heart is a tricky thing to navigate and, in my own grieving, I had no idea what I needed. Sincere friends would ask me to let them know if there was anything they could do to help, but I never knew what to ask. I would spend a week ignoring my phone, and would then suddenly feel a surge of courage (or divine strength) one day as the third ring sang through the house. Twice, those answered phone calls turned out to be exactly what I needed. Thank heavens for the people who felt inspired to call at that moment. Sometimes a grieving heart needs your listening ear. Sometimes it needs to be left alone for a time. Sometimes it needs a kind note or e-mail. Sometimes it needs a milkshake. The surest way to help is by asking our Heavenly Father - He is, after all, the only one who sees clearly through the chaos.

*When someone you love is going through a difficult time, just do something. This is my second piece of advice. It generally doesn’t matter what is done; only that it is done. One of the most meaningful memories I have is of a chocolate cake a friend had made for her own family. Halfway through it they started thinking of us, wrapped up the leftovers, drove to our house, handed the half-eaten cake to Brian with a quick, ‘we’re thinking of you’ and drove away. That cake meant the world to me. I felt loved, cared about, thought of, and it was so comfortable to accept because it had caused the givers almost no extra trouble. I've learned that people often feel that they want to do something big to show how much they care, but no gesture is too small... in fact, they may appreciate the two line e-mail that doesn't need a response, or the small candy bar left anonymously in the mailbox that doesn't need a thank you, or the message on their machine saying you're thinking of them, or the gallon of milk from your fridge that has an expiration date approaching too soon. Chances are that knowing you are thinking about them will mean much more to them than whatever is done. Our family doesn’t even really like chocolate cake.

*Trust in the power of priesthood blessings. I often think back to that first blessing I received in the beginning of this journey. It has brought me so much peace because it has kept me focused on the big picture. Just as the blessing promised, I have been strengthened, I now know of God’s deep and personal love for me, and I have learned many invaluable lessons. In the blessing I was also told that this was planned from the beginning…this is a little harder to interpret because I’m not sure what the definition of ‘the beginning’ is, but the genetic counselors are sure that it was at least planned from the moment of conception. Perhaps it was planned long before.

*You can’t predict how you will feel in a given situation. And, what’s more is that you can’t choose how you’ll feel, either. You can only wait to see how you feel, and then choose how you will react to that feeling. I would have never predicted the healing process would be so long and complicated for me after delivering a stillborn baby. In fact, when I was about three months pregnant with McKenzie, I stood looking out of my living room window and wondered what the big deal with miscarriages was. I felt that if I lost the baby I was carrying that day, I wouldn’t be too devastated. After all, I thought, I’ve never even met this baby. I’m young; I’d just try again. This moment has played itself over and over again in my mind through the years. And though my experience with Jess was different than a miscarriage, I have to admit that I probably would have felt the same way had the hypothetical situation of a stillborn baby been presented. I have sometimes been embarrassed by my feelings and have wasted a lot of time trying to logically convince myself that it’s silly to let this affect me so deeply and for so long.

I’m getting better at accepting this idea that I can’t change the way I feel. It’s given me a new level of empathy, and helped me understand that it is not up to me to decide what circumstances should elicit sorrow from another. Sorrow is sorrow, and regardless of what stimulates the emotion, the feeling is the same. I still don’t have all the answers to why this has been such a life-changing experience for me. But it has. I can’t deny the beautiful, unique love glistening in my heart just for Jess, and no matter how many times I pretend that losing him was no big deal, it was. There is something about the bond between my soul and his that makes it so.

-------------------------------

The tricky thing with writing this story is that it gives the illusion of completeness. As if once it’s written it can no longer be modified or added to. However, this is not the end of my story. There are more things to work through, harder things to learn.

But,

I have found myself now. I have finally stopped waiting to return back to normal and accepted the fact that I am normal. I have learned a dozen lessons that have changed me, I have acknowledged the baggage that has come along with them as necessary parts of the trade, and I have accepted the idea that all these things together might make me a better person in the long run.

I think back to that lost girl of April 2006 who, nearly one year after Jess was born, wrote:

Do you think that an experience like one such as Jess has to change your entire life? I mean – like change your personality? I feel like I can’t get back to “the old me.” But maybe the old me doesn’t exist anymore.

I finally have an answer for her. Yes, it will. It will change your life, right down to your personality. But you know what? It'll be alright, because little by little you will piece yourself back together. The journey will be long, but you'll make it.

In the end you’ll find yourself again.

Finding Me - Part 3 of 4

2011-06-16T06:30:00.012-04:00

June-December
Early Healing (continued)

My journal reminds me that I spent much of the first six months wondering why it was taking so long to heal. I was embarrassed that I was still in so much pain and surprised that I couldn't put it behind me. I see now that healing quickly was never part of God's plan for me, and I'm thankful for that today. These early months were colored with both pain and faith, and the result of their mixture was humility. It was in this humility that I learned many invaluable lessons that have since woven themselves into the foundation of my being:

*Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are not only real, but they love me, personally. There is a specific feeling that comes along with knowing you’re special. Think, for a moment, of the glow in a child’s face on her fifth birthday. She feels special even in the middle of a busy subway because, even if no one else around her knows it’s her birthday, she knows.

I felt that same excitement for a few days after the Spirit touched my heart and let me taste a bit of the love that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ have for me. They do know who I am! And they care about what I’m going through. And that love they feel for me? Nephi was right when he said the knowledge of that love “is the most desirable above all things.” (1 Nephi 11:22) I found myself wanting to tell the world that God loves me. Because, guess what? He does. And if He loves me so much then I believe it when I hear that He loves all his children.

*The sealing powers of the temple are real. Three months after I delivered Jess, Brian and I went to the temple to watch as a dear family was sealed together. It was so quiet, so peaceful, so clean. As the temple sealer was performing the ordinance, I noticed that Brian had tears in his eyes. He squeezed my leg and I felt an almost tangible bond between us…the same bond that will pull us into eternity together. I felt indebted to God for those personal sealing bonds, and when the temple workers brought in the children to be sealed to their newly sealed parents, my heart nearly burst in gratitude. It’s one thing to believe you are sealed to your children when they are right before your eyes; it’s an entirely different thing to believe when they are no longer with you. I laced my fingers through Brian’s as I listened to the Spirit warmly testifying of truth, and let the tears drip in my lap.

*My heart is capable of much more love than I originally thought. I was surprised to find that loving two children really does feel different than loving one. When we first found out I was pregnant with Jess I wondered, as many do, how I could possibly fit more love into my heart; McKenzie was already taking up the whole of it. I see now that it’s not a matter of sharing the limited space…it’s simply that the space itself grows.

I also found it interesting that the love I felt for those already in my life - my husband, my daughter, my parents – grew, too. It was deepened and strengthened to a point previously untouched. It does make me wonder about the limits of love… is there a limit? What must Heavenly Father, who has such a deep love for all of us, feel?

*I believe in my church. They say that every life has a purpose. Looking back on everything that has happened, I think Jess’s purpose was to solidify my conversion into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

*Not every child is normal and healthy. Of course I knew this before…but knowing it is quite a bit different than seeing it. I looked at McKenzie through new eyes and my appreciation for her normalness was overwhelming. I learned that a relationship can be greatly enriched by adding appreciation to love.

*Sometimes it’s important to filter your thoughts before you speak. And sometimes it’s necessary to guard a portion of yourself. This was a hard one for me to learn. In fact, I’m still learning it in many ways. Years ago my mother said to me, “You are an open book, Linds,” and in that she was right. In years past I had nothing to hide… no secrets to keep… no dark corners to conceal. I never thought much of filtering my thoughts; generally if it came into my head it wasn’t long before it came out of my mouth. I lived in a world in which my strengths and weaknesses were out in the open for others to see and judge as they would.

But it doesn’t work like this anymore. Not since Jess was born. I have learned that I can get stuck in awkward situations by sharing all of my thoughts. A lighthearted discussion about the woes of childbirth can unintentionally turn somber and heavy with one unguarded sentence.

For example, a few months after I had delivered Jess a group of friends and I were sitting at the park when the subject of childbirth came up. One of my friends had delivered her baby naturally and was talking about the pains of the contractions. Because I ended up delivering Jess without an epidural I added, “Oh, man! I know what you mean, those contractions are terrible!”
“I didn’t realize you delivered McKenzie naturally!” she said excitedly.
“No. I.... Uh….” Stuck. There was nothing to do at that point other than explain the situation – and it brought the mood down to an unrecoverable low.

After several similar instances I finally realized that Jess’s pregnancy and delivery were to be guarded. No matter how seemingly light my comment may seem to me, it still has strong potential to ruin a conversation. I started locking all experiences with him away behind safe walls in my heart and try to only let them out at appropriate times. I began to notice how often women actually talk about pregnancy, labor, and delivery, and my new filters took me out of many conversations. Out of conversations where people compared the differences between being pregnant with boys and girls, out of conversations about delivering at Our Hospital, out of conversations about being induced and, as illustrated in the example above, out of conversations that involved epidural absences or complications of any sort. It was strange to feel that, all of the sudden, I had a secret. And it added to my loneliness.

----------------------

It's true that some of these lessons could have, and probably would have, been learned through easier ways. But I think back to the blessing I received at the beginning in which I was told, 'There are lessons you will learn through this that you will not learn any other way.' Because of this, I know that the experience with Jess was necessary to me... whether because of these lessons, or because of the lessons I learned later in the healing process. I have to trust this, and it brings me peace.

---------------------------

December 2005 – August 2006
Detour

Things changed drastically at the beginning of December. My journal reads:

“Well, I’m pregnant again
I guess I don’t really know how to punctuate that sentence. It’s what we wanted, so why not an exclamation point? Because I’m really scared. More scared than I thought I would be.”

The week we discovered my pregnancy, insomnia set in and I spent many nights carrying my pillow around the house, subconsciously trying to get away from my consciousness. For someone who unfailingly falls asleep within three minutes of touching her head to her pillow, this was quite significant. Each time I closed my eyes, my mind would ignite with memories of Jess. I would see his sweet face and spend time reliving the hospital visits, doctor appointments, and conversations. The memories replayed hundreds and thousands of times, night after night, until my days were tainted through soggy tears and my greatest desire was to get away from my own mind. Even when I slept, my dreams were vivid and frantic as I rushed through hospital halls with a sick son or unintentionally caused the death of one. I was never concerned about the well-being of my new, developing baby, for the genetic counselors we consulted with about Jess assured us that the genetic mishap with him was a "lightning strike" and the chances of the same thing happening again were almost nothing. But my heart bled and my mind ached with Jess’s memory. Guilt started seeping in, too. Was I somehow forgetting him now that I was continuing my family? Was I trying to replace him?

Morning sickness, afternoon sickness and evening sickness washed over me and I wept at the base of the toilet day after day. I stopped getting myself or McKenzie dressed in the mornings. I stopped answering my phone. I tried to walk the halls of church with my eyes down to discourage unwanted conversations. I was so preoccupied with trying to live through the next hour and then the next hour that I stopped reading my scriptures and eventually my prayers stopped, too. Brian seemed to be completely healed, and my jealousy was consuming. His work at the hospital intensified and he was working 80 or more hours a week. During those times I was alone with McKenzie (who could not hold anything more complicated than a two-year-old level conversation) and my thoughts. At some point in this, somewhere, I fell. It’s clear to me now, though I didn’t recognize it at the time, that I had sailed down into that deep, dark crater of depression. It’s interesting to me that, prior to slipping, I was so consciously aware of my closeness to it; but once I entered it, my mind became so fogged up with unhappiness that I could not separate myself from it to see the larger picture.

Things got worse as the pregnancy went on. My insomnia did not improve, and my pregnancy sickness lasted for five months. By the time the sickness subsided, my back was giving out on me, leaving me paralyzed with pain in a heap on my floor, sometimes for hours, and my sciatic nerve kept shooting pain down my leg. Through this all, Brian was not home much, and my loneliness was almost unbearable. My parents were asked to serve as mission presidents in Thailand, and even though they were already across the country, the thought of them living on the other side of the world left me feeling even more abandoned, and my heart broke further when I realized that they would leave six short weeks before my baby was due. I kept most of my feelings to myself and they festered inside me like an infected wound. Days passed slowly. Nights seemed frozen. Brian and I were not getting along, and I found myself often yelling at my two-year-old. It was a very dark time for our family. One that I care not to delve into further.

Somehow, little by little, the baby grew; I got bigger and bigger and more and more uncomfortable. Yet, almost imperceptibly, towards the end of the pregnancy things started to improve in small ways. I wasn’t quite as sick. I had a little more energy. And, ever so slightly, I was a little happier.

---------------------------------

Hot, tired, and eight months pregnant, I sat in sacrament meeting on the first Sunday in August. On the first Sunday of each month, after ward business is attended to and the sacrament is taken, the pulpit is open to anyone in the congregation who wants to get up and share their testimony. And, as the bishop turned the time over to the congregation that August Sunday, I felt my heart quicken. Uh-oh, I thought. Ever since I was a teenager, I have recognized a very specific set of feelings in my body when the Spirit starts prompting me to get up and share my testimony, and it always starts with a quickened heart. I ignored the feeling. My spirituality had been quite stagnant over the past eight months and my testimony felt indolent and dull. I was certainly in no spiritual state to share it.

Instead of going away, the feeling got stronger. Now my heart was not only beating quickly, but it was pounding in my ears as well. I hadn’t been reading my scriptures or saying my prayers for months! I had absolutely nothing to say. No, I said defiantly to Heavenly Father. I have nothing to say. I sat back in my bench and crossed my arms as a sort of signal of my feelings. I could not do it. After some time my palms started sweating and my heart felt as if it were burning. Not the same feeling as the comforting warmth I had felt previously, but a painful sting like when your hand gets a little too close to a candle’s flame. Still, I tried to ignore it while the minutes ticked on. When I felt about to explode, I bowed my head, closed my eyes and changed my stubbornness into pleading, I really don’t want to. I have nothing to say. The feeling persisted and it became clear that my own feelings were not going to change Heavenly Father’s. What? I asked, frustrated. What do you want me to say? The answer came almost as words being written in my mind.

Haven’t you been happier this past month?

My mind was led back to a conversation I had had with my mother just before she left for Thailand a month before. “The Lord has promised blessings to our family because we’ve been willing to serve,” she said.

Tears pricked my eyes; it was undeniably true…I had been a bit happier. But it was because of my parents’ missionary work? I had not, and probably never would have, drawn that conclusion on my own. It seems like a bit of a stretch, and left to my own interpretation of my feelings I would probably have just said that time had finally started to heal my heart. And that the timing of it happening alongside my parent’s departure was a coincidence (though a puzzling one – I missed them terribly, I was very emotional about them not being able to see the baby, and I was suffering through my last month of pregnancy during a miserable North Carolina summer). But, as it happened, I cannot say it was a coincidence – even a puzzling one, because I don’t believe that it was.

I don’t remember what I said as I bore my testimony that day. I’m sure it was short and cryptic and based on my tiny, brand new testimony of the blessings that come from service to the Lord. It was not well thought out, it was not exciting, I’m sure it was not very meaningful to an outside ear, but it was meaningful to me. Meaningful enough to be counted as one of the key experiences that has strengthened my testimony as a whole. God blesses us and our families when we are willing to serve, yes, but the greater lesson I learned that day was one on personal revelation. The Lord can speak with me; directly with me.

--------------------------------

Nine days later I sat working on a baby quilt that was lying across my 38-week pregnant belly. I had turned the lamp on beside me, and McKenzie and Brian were wrestling on the floor at my feet. McKenzie’s bursts of giggles sent Brian and I bouncing with laughter ourselves. And as I laughed the thought came, Go. Be with your family. I put aside the quilt and sank to the floor with my husband and daughter. I was filled with so much peace that night and I thought to myself, I’m ready. The baby wasn’t due for 13 more days, but I started suspecting that he was ready, too. No physical changes had taken place and all I had to go off of was a ‘feeling’ so I kept my suspicions to myself. Brian looked at me with an eyebrow raised when he saw me lugging the crib sheets and all the tiny new onesies to the washing machine at 10:00pm that night. It was very uncharacteristic of me, and all I could say was, “What if the baby comes tonight? He has nothing to wear and no clean sheets to sleep on.”

So it didn’t surprise me when, 13 hours after the wash was complete, the doctor laid that tiny, squirming bundle on my belly.

I was surprised at how immediately the pain disappeared. The last contraction felt as if it was going to rip me apart and seemed to last forever, but the moment Carson was born, even before he took his first breath, the pain vanished. More surprising still was the emotional pain that vanished with it. As unlikely as it seems, my depression disappeared in that moment. As they put that healthy baby on my belly, I felt a physical weight of darkness lift from my shoulders as a million tiny strands of love shot from my heart and wrapped themselves tightly around his. I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing as I held his face up to mine. My Carson. All it takes is one ray of light to extinguish darkness, and Carson was just that. I was happy that day – that moment. Happier than I had been in over a year and half, and the happiness stuck. I drank it in and for a while could notice little else. A real laugh! A happy thought! A genuine smile! They nourished my parched soul like water as I danced through the days.

After the initial phase of euphoria, however, I turned around to realize that there was still much, much healing to be done.

Finding Me - Wordless Wednesday

2011-06-15T06:30:00.006-04:00

Finding Me - Part 2 of 4

2011-06-14T10:00:00.008-04:00

Journal excerpt (in italics) from June 11, 2005
Saturday

Well, after a long night and morning, I delivered our little Jess Samuel this morning at 9:43 AM. The appointment yesterday confirmed my suspicions that his heart had stopped beating, so they told me to come to the hospital at 8:00 that night to start the induction.

It was strange. I’ve felt so prepared for everything that has come up so far…even when Jess died, I felt prepared for it. We’ve thought extensively about how the funeral will go, we’ve arranged flights to and from Utah, we bought the plot of land, McKenzie is taken care of…I’ve just felt really prepared for everything. But somehow, I overlooked the labor portion of all of this.

As I was sitting in the waiting room last night, waiting to be called, a nurse would come in every so often to update a waiting family on the status of the woman in labor. “Congratulations!” they’d say, “You have a baby sister!” “You have a grandson!” “Mom’s doing great.” “The baby weighs 9 pounds!” With each exclamation, I felt my heart rip over and over. I stared at my small belly and cried. And cried. And cried... I cried for the fact that no one was here, waiting in excitement to hear ‘congratulations’ for us; I cried as I thought about those healthy babies; and I cried, because for the first time, I remembered what labor was like. I remembered the smells, and the IV, and the epidural, and the painful contractions, and the pushing, and the bleeding, and the painful contractions, and the stretching, and the painful contractions… With McKenzie, all of those negative things were swallowed up with the fact that I was getting a beautiful daughter out of all of it. There was so much excitement with McKenzie…so much excitement that I didn’t mind the pain of the IV and I didn’t feel the pain of the epidural, and I didn’t mind the smells, or the pushing or the bleeding or the stretching…even the painful contractions were bearable.

But this one was different.

This one didn’t have that excitement with it. I had nothing to look forward to - - - nothing to smile about, or joke about, or laugh about.

I can’t count the number of times I said, “I don’t want to do this, Brian.” I was scared…more scared of pain than I ever have been in the past. My threshold for pain was incredibly low, because I didn’t want to be here, doing this, in the first place.

There I sat, in that emotionally charged waiting room for two hours. When the nurse finally called my name, a cloud of confusion crossed her face as Brian and I stood up. She knew her patient was here to be induced, but I obviously wasn’t nine months pregnant. In addition, I had no amniotic fluid so I was very small even for being six months along. She led us back into the delivery room, shut the door behind us and said, “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard anything. Can you tell me why you’re here?”

I felt a moment of free-falling before I stumbled to answer her question. “Yeah. Uh. Our baby, um, they can’t find a heartbeat, so, uh...” Is this not in my chart? I wanted to ask. I had been in and out of that hospital so many times I had to believe that something was written about it. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said.

This wasn’t the first time I had been in an awkward situation because an important piece of my health information had slipped through the cracks. I suppose that’s the price you pay when you go to a teaching hospital – too much information passed through too many people. Something is bound to get lost.

She took good care of me through the night; mostly stayed out of the room. I slept a little, cried a lot, and prayed for my labor to go quickly. The nurse had said she had seen inductions last for three days when a woman’s body was so far away from being ready to deliver. I declined the epidural for the first eleven hours because I felt that being paralyzed for up to three days would have made the situation even more despairing. In addition, I was hoping that being only six months along would somehow translate into a milder labor. But this was not the case, and the contractions intensified. Eventually, my forehead broke into a sweat, followed by the rest of my body, and the contractions swallowed me whole. I no longer cared how long I would be hooked up to the epidural and when I asked for it, the nurse came in and predicted the baby would be delivered within the hour. It was too late then, and pain consumed me. Pain because I was in the last stages of labor, pain because I couldn't take my baby home, pain because I'd never hear his cry, pain because I didn't want to be there.

------------------

Forty five minutes later all was quiet. I sat on the hospital bed with my husband standing by my side and my newborn son lying still in my arms. The lights remained low. There was no excitement. No commotion. No laughter. The nurse looked over my shoulder, "Awwwww. What will you name him?" she asked. "Jess," I replied. "Jess Samuel."

The next two hours were some of the most precious hours of my life. Brian and I held Jess…and we got pictures of him. Such perfect little hands and feet. We made a little blanket together yesterday while McKenzie was sleeping – so we wrapped him in that and held him. One of the sweetest images I have in my mental archives is of Brian, holding his tiny son, with tears in his eyes. I wish I were a painter so that I could capture that image on canvas – it was so beautiful.
Jess weighs 14 oz. and is 13 inches long. Tall and skinny, just like his dad.

The next day, after the discharge papers had been signed, a hospital escort brought a wheelchair into my room. I knew that wheeling patients out to the curb was hospital policy, but I still pled for him to let me walk out on my own. I wanted to act as if I was not a patient, as if I had just been visiting a friend, so my empty arms wouldn’t be so painful. But policy was policy, I was told, and I sat.

“What did you name your baby?” he asked as he pushed the wheelchair down the hall. I panicked for a second as I realized we were headed towards the nursery. Does he think we need to stop to get my baby? I didn’t know what to say and felt my eyes fill with fresh tears at the thought of having to explain myself again. But a second later he turned down the hall to my right and I saw the elevators ahead. “Uh, Jess,” I said. “It means ‘gift from God.’”

The air seemed so cold as my wheelchair moved through the halls. It stung my eyes and made me shiver. At first I tried to hold my head high and not think too hard about how empty I felt, but I could offer no one a smile, I couldn't even look another person in the eye. I admitted defeat within the first minute and hung my head; my shoulders caved in and I cried. That journey from the hospital room to our car was one of the truly painful experiences of my life. I was broken, I was alone, and there was nothing left for me to do but to go home with empty arms.

---------------------------

June 14, 2005
Tuesday

He didn’t do it. He didn’t create a kidney for my baby, and He didn’t fix his heart like I had hoped He would. But, just as I had written in my journal before we knew the outcome, I believed there must be a reason… and because of that, one emotion I was saved from feeling was anger.

I wasn’t saved from sorrow, though. And, thanks to my friend in the hospital, I let it come. I let it drip from my heart. I let it seep from my eyes. I let it mix with my soul. I let it fill me entirely. The night my milk came in I wrapped myself tightly in ACE bandages to help soothe the pain, curled up into Brian’s arms, and told him how much I hurt – physically and emotionally – until my words could no longer compete with the tears. He stroked my hair and kissed my head as I let the sobs shake my body for half an hour.

I reached a new level of love for Brian that night. That he could see me in such a broken state and, feeling broken himself, still comfort me taught me a little about what unconditional love is about.

---------------------------

June 16, 2005
Thursday

The funeral home encouraged us to take our time to think about what we wanted Jess’ headstone to look like. There is no rush, they said. Take a year if you need it. Such soothing words to hear when there were so many other important decisions to be made. Stressful decisions. Neither Brian nor I knew anything about the logistics of handling a death, but we stumbled through the process and learned as we went. We chose a beautiful cemetery in Utah and bought a plot of land, picked out a tiny baby blue casket, and selected a few little items to place inside with our baby. We learned that airlines often offer a bereavement discount which, disappointingly, ended up not being much of a discount at all. So the last minute plane tickets were bought and added to it was an additional fee for Jess. Feeling broken hearted, poor, and grateful for the help we were receiving, we put together a program for the graveside service, decided on a very small guest list and wrote down a few thoughts we wanted to share.

Through it, somehow, the world kept turning – Medical School still held classes that Brian had to attend, my car still ran low on gas, the grocery stores were still open and we still needed milk. As we struggled through the decisions, I found myself wanting to stop the world from turning just long enough for me to catch my breath.

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June 18, 2005
Saturday

I saw his eyes moisten and watched his hard swallow when I asked him for a father’s blessing. We had been heading for the door on our way to the cemetery when my heart sprang into my throat and my stomach felt like it shattered into a hundred shards of glass. Nerves, maybe. I wanted to collapse to the ground and sit for a minute, or an hour, or my lifetime. I felt physically and emotionally incapable of getting through the next two hours on my own and ached to hear some reassuring words from my Heavenly Father. “Of course,” my dad whispered.

“Yeah, me too,” Brian said as he turned to his own father. “Dad?”

Looking back at it today, I feel fortunate. How incredibly fortunate it is for me to have the power of God so close in my life. To have a father, and a husband, who live their lives close to God and who can, at a moment’s notice, harness a portion of His power through the priesthood. Sure enough, Heavenly Father spoke through my father directly to me and reminded me of His love. And in that love I found the strength to move.

I don’t remember much about the actual service. I have a few memories, mostly jogged by pictures, but it feels like a distant dream. I know I spoke, but I don’t remember anything I said. I know Brian spoke, but only recall a small portion when he tenderly revealed that Jess had come alive to him over the past few weeks. I know which songs we sang and who said the prayers. I know McKenzie looked so beautiful and healthy as she placed a white rose on her brother’s casket. But my memories go no deeper. I don’t know how I felt. I don’t know what I thought. I don’t even remember exactly who was there. I’ve thought about this throughout the years and can’t help but feel a little concern. Who bought all the flowers, and did I thank them? Who set up the pictures, and did they know how long I stared at them? Who fed us? Who hugged us? Who offered a kind word?

Most of my memories are so real that, not only can I still remember them, I can still feel them lingering on my heart. But, something in me shut down for that afternoon. Or, was it morning? Maybe I didn’t feel. Maybe I didn’t think. Maybe the Lord carried me through it and let me sleep on his shoulder.

---------------------------

June-December
Early Healing

Eventually the sympathy cards stopped coming. One day we ate the last serving from the meals that were brought in. In time even the people closest to me uttered their last words of sympathy and turned their heads back towards their own busy lives. Logically I understood, yet I felt it unjust that time would work his healing powers on all those around me and leave me to struggle still. I felt alone and found myself teetering on the brink of depression for half a year. I knew it even then. I felt my precarious position and those closest to me heard me say that I felt as if I were standing on the upturned palm of my Savior above a deep, dark crater of depression. Each time I would walk close to the edge of His hand, He would whisper words of encouragement and love which would gently guide me back to the middle.

I worked through those early days of healing in deep companionship with the Lord. My prayers had never been more consistent or heartfelt, and my testimony never stronger. The days were long and hard and the nights almost unbearable, but I knew God loved me, and that knowledge was the glue that held me together.

My emotions were volatile, and I spent much of these six months working through them in my journal as I waited to be healed.

June 15, 2005 Wednesday - *There are times where I honestly just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get over this. *His sweet little face keeps flashing through my mind – and I physically ache to hold him again. *I can’t stop thinking about last weekend…the weekend I knew he was dying…

June 18, 2005 Saturday - *This whole experience has been so different for me. I’ve been surprised at how difficult it has been for me to think about this - - - and especially to analyze and understand my feelings. *I feel wiser…I feel older…

June 28, 2005 Tuesday - *I think, looking at all the pain and sorrow…all the joy and happiness I have felt through this all, that if I had it all to do over again, I would. Through my pain, I was humbled…and in that humility I prayed harder than I ever had in my life…and in that prayer, I felt the Love of the Savior and my Heavenly Father. I felt comforted…and I felt unique and special to the Lord.

July 18, 2005 Monday - *It’s so strange how my emotions change on a day to day basis. Most days I’m fine… but then something random will happen and send me spiraling into waves of tears. Pregnant women, for example – I hate seeing pregnant women. *I don’t want people to feel like they HAVE to say something. It just feels awkward and uncomfortable. *I should be having a baby - not a period.

August 4, 2005 Thursday - *And another hard day is coming to an end. *I keep having these strange dreams about him where he’s about 3-years-old…hair the same color as Brian’s, big blue eyes, fair skin, and totally 100% normal little boy. The dreams are sort of being seen from a home-video view, and Jess will run up to the camera and pull a cute little face with his mouth open and his eyes crossed…then he’ll run away laughing and flailing his arms at his sides - - - just like a normal little boy. The next thing I know, I’m frantically searching for him because he’s turned up missing. I can’t find him anywhere and adrenaline soars through my body. Then I wake up and feel just as frantic – I can’t believe I fell asleep when I didn’t know where my son was… But when I finally regain a little more consciousness, I realize what is going on, and relax a little. But I still feel the adrenaline surging. *Why can’t I get over this? It’s been 2 months now - - and I’m still a basket-case sometimes. I guess I expected to be ‘healed by time’ by now. *I wish time wouldn’t take so much time. I keep waiting for the explanation - - why did it happen this way? Where’s the pay off that makes it all better? *I SEE the good, I just can’t FOCUS on it.

September 24, 2005 Saturday - *I went to a baby shower last Thursday. That was a bad idea. *The Lord loves me. But that still doesn’t change the fact that I want my baby. *I can’t believe it’s been 3 ½ months – I guess I didn’t expect it to take so long to heal.

October 30, 2005 Sunday - *An interesting thing happened last week. I finally, consciously thought that I felt things were back to normal again for a moment. I was driving in my car and things felt good.

November 1, 2005 Tuesday - *It’s happened more than once where I’ve been walking out the door with McKenzie and I’ll turn around to get the baby.

December 5, 2005 Monday - *If I had to sum it all up in one sentence, my lesson this year is that GOD LOVES ME.

These were tender months. Months of tears and pain, yes, but also months of gratitude, happiness and love. Months I am glad to have been through but I could never welcome back.

Finding Me - Part 1 of 4

2011-06-13T14:45:00.003-04:00

Finding Me

Do you think that an experience
like one such as Jess
has to change your entire life?
I mean - like change your personality?
I feel like I can't get back to "the old me."
But maybe the old me doesn't exist
anymore.

-Journal excerpt from
April 13, 2006

June 18, 2005
Saturday

It really was a beautiful day, as far as weather goes. The grass was thick and green, the sky clear and breathtakingly blue. The warm sun made my skin tingle until the soft breeze brushed it away. I suppose that's how most June days are in the valleys of Utah.

Brian and I went up to the cemetery a little before the rest of our families to meet the hearse. We drove up and I saw folding chairs covered in a soft, green, velvet fabric facing the tiny plot of land we had purchased days before…a green mat lay over a small hole dug from the earth…a few beautiful flower arrangements lent a sweet fragrance to the air. It felt a little like a dream; a terrible, twisted nightmare in a confusingly beautiful setting.

I folded my arms gently across my aching chest. My tender breasts, swollen with milk that would never be expressed, covered my broken heart. This is for us, I thought.

My heart had felt sorrow before. Just as an unstretched balloon feels tension at the lips of a child. I wonder if that balloon knows of its potential, if only a stronger pair of lungs stood behind it. And, once the balloon expands past that threshold for the first time, does it fear it’s going to burst with each new breath? Does it realize, too, that once it’s been stretched to capacity it can never entirely go back to the way it was before?

It’s been six years since that day. Six years of remolding my personality to fit around that single experience. I knew at the time that something was changing inside of me…it was the permanence of that change that took me by surprise.

--------------------------------

May 20, 2005
Friday

The relationship I have with God has always been a strong one. Of course, it ebbs and flows along with most other things in my life, but I’ve never questioned His existence, or His desire to direct me in my life. Perhaps that’s why I wanted a priesthood blessing so desperately the night we first learned that all was not well with the baby. It was much too early to understand the severity of the situation, but I still knew that there was peace to be found through the keys of the priesthood.

“The Lord’s will will be done, and I bless you with strength as you come to learn to accept what that will is…

…He wants you to know of His deep and personal love for you…

…This was planned from the beginning…

…There are lessons you will learn through this that you will not learn any other way.”

That night I wrote in my journal that the blessing had been ‘unnervingly comforting’. It was a feeling quite different than what I had been looking for, for I was looking for a reassurance that all would be well. Yet the blessing still brought undeniable peace; if not in that moment, most assuredly in the weeks and years to come. I began to recognize the Savior as my ally. And as my baby’s health deteriorated and my trial slowly isolated me from the understanding of everyone around me, He became my Everything.

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May 25, 2005
Wednesday

My feet were tucked underneath the heavy blankets at the foot of my hospital bed. It was warm in the room, yet they still felt cold and clammy. My fingers traced the small bulge in my abdomen; I couldn’t help but fixate on the movement that was going on in there. He seems so strong, I thought to myself. The reality of the situation weighed heavily on my shoulders. The previous week I had been laughing with a friend at how small I was for being six months along. That was before I found out my small size was because there was no amniotic fluid. I didn’t know, I silently explained again. I didn’t know you were sick.

A knock at the door barely broke my trance. I knew the nurse couldn’t hear me very well from the noisy hallway unless I yelled, and I didn’t feel like yelling, so I stayed silent and figured she’d come in anyway. Just as I suspected, the door cracked open; but instead of a nurse, a familiar face peeked in. “Lindsay?”

A little surprised, I said, “Hey,” and sat up more in the bed, “Come in.” It was a friend from church. She sat down in the chair across from my bed and asked how I was doing. After chatting for a bit, she told me that she had lost a baby, full-term, many years earlier. She told me her story, some of the feelings she had been through, and gave me some experienced advice. At the time, I still had strong hopes that my baby would survive…and months later, I wished I had listened a little more closely that day. Even so, I did remember one piece of advice, and it turned out to be the best piece of advice I received: allow yourself to grieve.

That night I sat alone in the dark room and stared at the same spot on the wall for over an hour. I thought about the baby, about my husband and daughter, about my mom and dad, about my Savior. The thoughts tumbled and tumbled around in my head until they all jammed together and froze my mind into an aching numbness. I didn’t know how I felt. I didn’t know what I thought. It had been a terrible day full of tests, more tests, ultrasounds, and more unsettling answers. I could hear the noises of a hospital that never sleeps just outside my door, but I felt strangely isolated. Alone. Hollow. And utterly discouraged. My baby was sick. His left kidney was missing, and his right one wasn’t functioning properly. His heart had a hole in the wall separating the left and right ventricles, causing it to work harder than it should. His skeletal muscles were small, his heart muscle big, and his lungs underdeveloped.

Somewhere, I found the strength to turn over and pull my knees up underneath me. I clasped my hands together and closed my eyes. But words wouldn’t come. How do you ask for something when you don’t know what you need? I don’t know how long I knelt there, silently willing my mind to pray, but after a time I succumbed to my lack of words, opened my heart, and whispered one pleading word to the heavens: help.

The answer was immediate, unmistakable, and beautiful. It felt as if the Savior had entered into my soul to cradle my broken heart with his own hands. I cried as hard as a child that night as I felt the love of my Father encompass me so completely. When there were no tears left, I lay back down on the bed and hummed primary songs to my baby. Just before sleeping, I opened my journal and wrote:

“Realistically, things aren’t looking too good for the baby. But there is still hope… As far as Brian and I go, we’re doing alright. Yes, there have been many tears from both Brian and me – but I still laugh more than I cry. The only time I truly cry is when I’m by myself pleading with the Lord and I’ve done a lot of that lately. I know that this was planned from the very beginning. I know that I’m being taken care of and that this little baby is in the Lord’s hands right now. My faith has doubled, and then tripled, and then quadrupled over the course of these five days. I KNOW this baby will live if it doesn’t interfere with the Lord’s eternal plan. No matter how serious the problems are, I know the Lord can create a kidney, or fix a heart, or both.

If he doesn’t do it, then there’s a reason.”

--------------------------------

June 3, 2005
Friday

“Best case scenario,” the doctor explained a couple weeks later, “is that we get you to 33 weeks and then deliver the baby. His lungs aren’t maturing very fast without the fluid, so it could take even longer than that before he could survive outside the womb. If the delivery goes well, we’ll try to keep him alive using modern medicine until we can find a kidney transplant for him.” He looked into my eyes and lowered his voice a little. “Do I think that will happen?” he asked, “No. I think that over the course of the next one to three weeks, you’ll start to feel his movements weaken until you’ll come in for your weekly ultrasound and we won’t be able to find a heartbeat. I’ve learned in my profession never to say never…but, I’m really not sure there’s even a small percentage of a chance…” His words trailed off, but his meaning was clear. I felt the gentle pressure of Brian’s hand squeeze my own.

The doctor passed a box of tissues into my hand when he saw my eyes fill. “Okay,” I whispered. “Thank you for you honesty.”

It’s what I had wanted for two weeks. Honesty. It was obvious that the doctors had been talking to one another about us…we just didn’t know what they were saying. It hurt somewhat to have my mind fill in all the blanks and imagine the doctors staring at the ultrasounds with discouraged faces, shaking their heads in hopelessness.

The doctor stood up to leave the room and I raised my eyes to the resident who had been silently observing in the corner. Her face was contorted in concern, her eyes rimmed in red. She moved to follow the doctor out of the room and as she passed by me, she placed her hand on my knee. “I’m so sorry,” she said. Her eyes held tears. Weeks later, it was in remembering her raw emotions that I found the permission I strangely needed to begin grieving.

--------------------------------

Just when does a spirit enter a body?

It had never bothered me before – this unanswerable question – for the only place I heard it discussed was when abortion was being debated. Since abortion doesn’t feel good to me at any phase, I chose not to stew over the question whose answer didn’t seem to matter.

But now it bothered me. It consumed me, actually. In my mind, the question chased itself in circles during the quietest hours of the night. Throughout my life, my religion taught me of a loving God who would make all things right in the end. It also whispered comforting words about the connection that can be felt among spirits, offering reason to the ache and loneliness I felt when I imagined life without my unborn son. But my background in biology and embryology reminded me that sometimes two cells that are designed to become a human body simply don’t divide correctly and, instead, become a mass of confused, jumbled up cells. Was this the case with my baby? And, if so, would the Lord still grant him a spirit? It became the central topic of my endless prayers.

I did not want to name a spiritless body.

I did not want to bury a body that would not rise in the resurrection.

So…?

--------------------------------

June 5, 2005
Sunday

I cried all the way through sacrament meeting that first Sunday in June. The baby hadn’t moved all day and, now that he was moving again, my heart pleaded for his kicks to come harder. But they remained soft. So soft. Too soft. My mothering instincts pulled inside me, wishing me to rock him, to stroke his tiny head, to sing to him. Help him! they screamed. Help him get through this. Instead, I could only stroke the skin of my own arms, rock my own body, and pray to God that my little boy wouldn’t feel alone.

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June 7, 2005
Tuesday

My heart smiled every time I heard her laugh. McKenzie chased a giant balloon around the room, her little 16-month-old legs barely keeping up with its flight. Every time she touched it, the balloon went soaring back into the air and a new rush of giggles escaped. She was my sunshine. She awoke me at the same time each morning, needing food, attention and love. She needed me to be myself, and so I was. Even so, she knew there was heaviness in the air, and somehow she felt she could lighten it. She pulled silly faces; kissed my cheeks; sang her favorite songs; and even tripped on purpose once, just to make me laugh. I felt mostly normal when she was awake, and because of it, I declined most offers from friends to take her for the afternoon.

The balloon bounced off of my head and I pulled a funny face for her. My smile was real in response to her delighted laughter, but there was no ignoring the painful undercurrent of worry that had occupied me since I felt the baby move last. It had been almost 24 hours.

As McKenzie ran, chasing the balloon, an unexpected, strange and beautiful feeling started in my belly. In just a few seconds, the feeling had spread to my heart, filled the rest of my body, and spilled out across the room. I turned my head and almost expected to see another child with me, for the feeling gave me an unmistakable assurance that I was the mother of two children. Though I saw nothing with my eyes, something in me felt him. The feeling was not fleeting. It lasted for five full minutes and by the end my heart had been stretched to make room for the love that poured in for my new child. I had been given an incredible gift. It was the answer to my prayer, and we named the baby Jess Samuel, meaning ‘a gift from God.’

I never did feel him move again. I like to believe that beautiful feeling was the moment he passed on, and Heavenly Father allowed his spirit to linger for a few minutes to speak with mine before he left.

Just hours later, the phone rang and an apologetic doctor gave the final diagnosis. Jess had a disorder called Trisomy 9. He had three copies of the ninth chromosome in his cells, opposed to the normal two. “I’m so sorry,” the doctor said in a quiet voice, “I hate delivering bad news… I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I responded.
“This disorder…it’s not compatible with life.”
As I processed his words, a faint sense of relief and calmness messed with my otherwise distressed soul. The strong branch of hope I had been holding on to for three weeks had been slowly whittled away until it was not much thicker around than a strand of hair…and no stronger either. As I released that tiny, remaining strand of hope, I felt my weary heart relax.
“It’s okay.” And I was surprised to find that I meant it.

Finding Me - Prologue

2011-06-12T18:35:00.004-04:00

So, here we are.

Yesterday marked six years since Brian and I sat in a hospital room and held our precious, stillborn son. The lights remained low. There was no excitement or commotion. Just us, a nurse to check my vitals, and our new baby boy lying still in my arms. The nurse looked over my shoulder, "Awwwww. What will you name him?" she asked. "Jess," I replied. "Jess Samuel."

Every year I have dealt with this date in a different way. The first year I hid all calendars at the beginning of June and refused to let myself know the exact day; one year I wrote a song about my emotions; one year I tried to keep myself busy all day just to fall apart and sob all night.

This year I wrote. I wrote about him, but mostly I wrote about me. I pondered the lessons I've learned, and I explained in my best words, the landscape that my own path of healing has been through. It's been mostly uphill for the last six years, and at some points it has been cold, steep and rocky as I've tried to rediscover who I am. But I recently reached a sort of plateau, and I felt it important to recount my journey thus far.

I feel I've finished writing... though there seems to always be more I could do... and feel stirred to share it. So this coming week, in memory of him and to honor his influence in my life, I will. The length of it necessitates breaking it into segments, and I will post them here over the next few days.

Writing my story has been healing. I made it through the day yesterday with only a single tear and a couple dozen smiles. Today it's raining, and I miss him a bit more as I watch the raindrops splash in the puddles outside my window. But I feel peace.

I don't know how long I'll be able to enjoy this plateau before it's time to move on, but my weary muscles are enjoying the rest, and my tired eyes are drinking in the view. It is here that I've written my story. Here above the haze and looking down over where I've been. I'm sure there will come a time where I'm no longer comfortable here, and my curiosity about what lies over the next mountain will compel me forward.

But until then, I'll sit.

Wordless Wednesday...

2011-06-03T21:16:00.006-04:00

...on a Friday because I've had no internet all week. Curse Time Warner Cable!

Nashville - Part 2

2011-05-26T19:40:00.003-04:00

Let's talk for a few minutes about my love for Groupon. The building above is probably about the most beautiful hotel I have ever stepped into. In fact, I pause for a minute to think that 'hotel' might not be the right word. Yet, I don't seem to recall a more high-class word, so we'll go with that. It's the kind of place that has men dressed in tuxes to greet you at the front door. Once inside, it makes a person like me feel like I have the word impostor tattooed across my forehead. And, even though I was wearing my best, I felt as if I might as well have had my dress tucked into my underwear and toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my Wal-Mart shoe. I even threw a glance behind me to make sure I wasn't leaving any muddy footprints, even though I had only been walking on dry pavement.

Obviously not our normal scene. Yet, Groupon made it possible for us to dine in their fine restaurant one night by giving us a great deal. Even with the great deal, the bill was still in the 'only on extra-special occasions' category. We gave our name to the hostess and she checked our reservation. After finding our names she gave me a cold look that made me a bit self conscious of that impostor tattoo, but led us to a beautiful table at the edge of the dark, cozy room. As she pulled my chair out for me she asked me what I would like to drink.
"Water, please," I replied. I then started frantically trying to remember my manners as she started gently pushing my chair in behind me - - - do you help slide the heavy chair underneath you? do you wait until the chair is in the proper place before sitting down? Well, I tried not to 'plop' anyway... When I turned my attention back to her, I realized that she had expanded upon my 'water, please,' request and was asking what kind of water I wanted.

"....water, or sparkling water?" she asked.
"Um," I stalled as I tried to rewind my memory and play back her question, but all I could hear was mumble...water, mumblemumbleaboutdifferentkindsofbottledwater, or sparkling water? So I finally just tried to look thoughtful and dignified and said, "I'll just have, uh, regular water."

Regular? Regular was the best word I could come up with?!

She gave me that cold look again and walked away without a sound. Moments later the waitress came to our table with a silver pitcher and asked, "Is house water alright for you?" House. That would have been better. I nodded and she filled my glass. She cocked her hip a little when she was finished and asked, "So, do you guys have a Groupon?"

Is it that obvious? Really? Or are you just asking everyone? "Well, yes," I said a bit defeated. She asked for the coupon and I felt a rush of embarrassment flood to my cheeks. You see, I hadn't been actually planning on handing it to her so soon, so it wasn't very 'ready' yet. I pulled out the full sheet of paper and sadly confirmed my suspicion that it was folded in quarters and looking quite a bit like it had just been mindlessly shoved into a purse with the diapers, wipes, cracker crumbs, and bits of stale pretzels. I tried to unfold it, smooth out the edges and wipe away the cracker crumbs discretely as it made it's way through the air into her hand. Brian and I watched carefully that night as other couples were seated around us, and it became was quite clear that they were not, indeed, asking everyone if they had a Groupon.

I'm not sure I have ever laughed so much and so full of heart over dinner as I did that night with Brian (quietly laughing, of course...to appear dignified). There is something fun, adventurous and comical about pretending to fulfill a role that you know you're falling short of.

The next day we visited the Hermitage of President Andrew Jackson. It was there that we found out that Nashville is in a different time zone. This made us laugh quite hard because we had decided the night before, after seeing multiple clocks that were an hour behind, that Nashville had had a hard time with daylight savings. We made a mental note to change the clocks back in our hotel room and realized with another laugh that we had shown up to our reservation the night before an hour early. Maybe that's what the cold look was for...

Anyway, back to Andrew Jackson. I'm not much of a history buff, and found myself struggling a bit with the self-guided tour. The man in my headphones sounded much too much like my old high-school history teacher and I felt the drowsiness coming full speed after only two (of many) blurbs. Thankfully, the audio had a kids version of each blurb (spoken in the voice of the Jackson's parrot, Poll) and it didn't take long for me to swallow my pride and listen to that instead. It was much more entertaining, and I started enjoying it quite a bit. I even learned a little something, too.

Nashville. Who knew it would become one of my favorite parts of the country? And I'm pretty sure the kids would let us go back as long as we promised to bring them more cowboy hats and pop guns.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-05-25T09:32:00.001-04:00

Nashville - Part 1

2011-05-19T06:41:00.001-04:00

"You know," I said as I stepped off the curb to cross the street in downtown Nashville, "this life is just too short to do everything I want to." I saw Brian try to hide his smile, but I already knew what he was thinking. Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay. But you want to do everything.

And, maybe there's some truth to that. But, I'll tell you what, if I could choose two paths in this life, I think my second choice might just be to live in Nashville and try my hand as a songwriter.

It was sort of a close-your-eyes-and-pick-a-city plan that landed us in Nashville in the first place, but once we were there I was so entirely musically inspired that I'm sure I was close to exploding. Live music in all the cafe's, guitar cases hanging from the shoulders of shaggy haired boys, people on the corners playing music on strange looking instruments... passion for music was palpable, and I ate it up with a spoon.

For dinner one night we drove to a little club and restaurant that Brian had found called the Bluebird Cafe. It had great reviews and boasted live, original country and acoustic music every evening. But when we arrived we saw that it was not much more than a dimly lit hole in the wall located on a dark stretch of road with 5 or 6 questionable looking men standing around the entrance. Brian pulled the car into the dark parking lot and slowly made his way to an empty spot. "Uhhhhh...." I said, "I'm not quite sure about this, Bri." He acknowledged my discomfort and assured me that he would be fine finding someplace else to eat - but I liked the idea of a live band inside and wanted to get the full Nashville experience, so after a few minutes of dancing around a decision Brian suggested we walk up to the door and peek in to "see if it's the kind of place we could feel comfortable in." By this time, the men had disappeared, so it didn't seem quite so ominous, and I agreed.

Best decision ever! Turns out that it was 'open-mic night' and we squeezed ourselves into that small club to hear a handful of budding songwriters play their hearts out on that tiny stage. Some were terrible, others were pretty good, and all of them received warm applause and encouragement from us, the audience. All around the small room were painted masks with fingers up to their lips, and large plaques with the letters, "shhhhhhhhhhh" printed in them. Quiet, dark, small (there couldn't have been room to fit more than 30 people comfortably) the ambiance was perfect. We eventually ended up sitting at a table and ordered ourselves some chicken strips. At 10:00 a jazz band came and I found myself choked with tears a couple of times at the thrill of the evening. Our table was only a couple of feet behind the keyboard player, and I watched his hands move so fast up and down those keys that I literally could not see them. And there we sat until 11:30 pm - basking in the music. Unbelievable, inspiring and quite memorable. On the way out the door, I found myself buying a $20 T-shirt (TWENTY dollar T-shirt!) and if you know my spending habits, you know this is quite remarkable indeed. And, you know what, I never even had any buyers remorse about it. It's become one of my favorites.

Right. Not the best picture, but one that kind of shows the T-shirt. And for $20, don't you think it at least deserves a picture on my blog? (FYI - I was in the middle of building a tree swing for the kids and Kenz was shooting all sorts of awesome candid shots.)

Stay tuned for one more post about Nashville - and this time it won't be all about music, I promise. :)

Wordless Wednesday - a growing trend

2011-05-18T06:33:00.001-04:00

The bandwagon is coming and I am jumping on, people! The idea is to post a photo every Wednesday with no words. Supposedly, the photo itself will say so much that it doesn't need a description... but we'll have to see how well that works out for me. No words? This could be tricky. Apparently, after you post, you can even link up to the official Wordless Wednesday blog.

Well, here's your first Wordless Wednesday post from me. Starting right after... now:

Because you care...

2011-05-16T06:30:00.002-04:00

Playing around with different exposures on my camera - kind of fun, right?!
But, it has nothing to do with the rest of my post... so you can stop thinking about it now...

Yesterday I opened a banana using only my thumbnail to puncture the skin. This is a momentous occasion, folks!

Historically my thumbnails were strong and could be used to do a number of awesome things. Like untie small, tight knots, or scrape hard, dried food from off the counters, or clean out dirt from underneath any of my other fingernails, or, say, open a banana. But something went tragically wrong the month after Carson was born... my thumbnails became weak and brittle. But the interesting phenomenon is that it was only my thumbnails that were affected. Both of them. The rest of my nails were as strong as ever, but all the sudden I couldn't grow my thumbnails the tiniest bit before they would split painfully into my nail bed. Or flake off in layers until the nail was so thin it could be bent like paper. I figured it was probably postpartum hormones that were to blame, so I wrapped my thumbs in band-aids and waited for the strength to return. But, much to my dismay, the strength didn't return, even after I tried nail-strengthening nail polish. Carson turned one, and eventually four, and my thumb nails were still just as weak as the month he was born. I eventually learned to protect them - often I find my thumbs tucked securely behind my pointer finger to decrease the chance of snagging and tearing.

And then a miracle happened. Last Friday, while my thumbs were tucked protectively behind my pointer finger as I reached into our laundry basket to grab dirty clothes (which is where most of the painful snagging usually occurs), I noticed that my thumb nails were not bending under the pressure of my finger. I quickly pulled them out of the laundry basket to look at them, and after almost 5 years, I can see some white tips at the end of my thumb nails! And they feel so strong! Both of them!

What happened?! My diet is the same, my hormones feel the same, I haven't been protecting my thumbnails any more than usual... any ideas?

I may be rejoicing prematurely, but this seems to be the end of the snagging, bleeding, flaking mess my thumbnails have put me through for the past 5 years. And, well, wouldn't you be happy if you were me?

A Few Random Things

2011-05-10T14:41:00.014-04:00

Thing #1:

Rubber band idea given by my mom this morning after I used this baby, AGAIN, as an eye makeup remover.

Seriously. Once? I'll give myself an allowance for. TWICE? What's wrong with me?! It gets even better: notice that the liquid inside is BLUE this time...it doesn't even look like my eye-makeup remover! And, it was buried underneath all of my nail polish underneath the bathroom sink, whereas my eye makeup remover was easily accessible in the top drawer with my makeup. I'm not sure where the disconnect is happening here - my brain just knows, 'I gotta get it off' and the default is, apparently, nail polish remover. At least I figured it out after only two swipes this time...

Thing #2

I can't find Carson's preschool calendar they sent home for May, and I knew his 'leader day' was coming up sometime soon. On his leader day he is in charge of bringing the snack for the class and I didn't want him to miss out because I had misplaced his calendar. So, I sent a snack to school today with a note explaining the situation and asked the teachers to keep the snack until his leader day and to please send home another calendar. When I went to pick Carson up, his teacher helped him into the van and said to me, "I am so impressed with your preparedness in sending the snack this morning, and for remembering that we were doing a backwards day! Backwards day is actually not until tomorrow, so he can do it again...and there is a new calendar in his bag." I tried not to look confused as I thanked her and gave her a smile. I took a better look at Carson and realized that his shirt was on backwards. A big, bright, bold picture covered his back, and his front was blank with the tag sticking out under his chin.

See, the thing is, I hadn't remembered anything about backwards day, and I'm pretty sure I would have noticed if Carson had left the house with that shirt on backwards...but...maybe not, I guess...hm.

Thing #3 and #4 and #5 and #27894021

What are these things? They are everywhere. Like, really, really everywhere. They crack out of their exoskeletons and leave them lying around on everything - not appreciated by me. I'll bet I swept up at least a hundred this morning on my porch (which is quite, quite small). And, oh, are they ugly!

I went outside this afternoon to try to get a picture of just how invasive they have become, but after snapping this ONE picture looking up at one of the trees (where you can see hundreds of their little exoskeletons), one fell directly on my head and left me screaming and swatting and running for my life. So, this is all I have folks...squint hard and you can see that all those little black dots are grossness -

I wasn't quite as scared taking their pictures when they weren't hanging over my head, but you can be sure I didn't stick around for long -

Someone please tell me they're almost gone...

Candy Grumbles

2011-05-03T06:30:00.006-04:00

Ridiculous, I thought as I pushed my cart through the isles of WalMart. Sugar, sugar, sugar and more sugar. Chocolate bunnies, ring pops, gum, jelly beans...I do not see the symbolism between candy and Easter. And yet, I emptied my wallet of $40 so my children could wake up on Easter morning and delight in the fact that Christ was resurr...I mean, that the Easter Bunny came. I'm happy that the Easter Bunny brought some things like chips and flip-flops and pennies to balance out the sugar.... but I have got to figure out a way to involve Christ more centrally in his own holiday because, as it is, I am a very grouchy Easter celebrator.

I try to keep my Easter grouchies away from the kids. In fact, I think I even scored a few good-mommy points because there were almost no rules about how much candy they could consume in one setting. Eat it, I think. Eat it all. 'Cause once it's gone, well, then it's gone.

And, awesome news for me, their candy was gone by Sunday night. All of it.

Easter aside, I'm not sure where my grumbles about candy come from. There's just something about seeing one of my kids with a face full of it that makes my stomach churn and my teeth hurt. I have never really relished in candy myself...even as a kid, after the chocolate was gone from my Halloween candy, the rest of it was likely to survive all the way to the next Halloween. Do you know what a basketful of candy smells like after a year? Just generally gross.

Now, let's not pretend that I don't love sugar! I am happy to make a batch of chocolate-chip cookies almost any time - and we usually have one or two big new desserts to try every week - and there is pretty much always a gallon or two of ice cream in our freezer. But, it's the gum, and the hard candies, and the chewy candies, and the cheap chocolate balls that get to me.

You know what I think the grouchiness might come from? Candy-drool. The sticky, colorful trails of goo in your carpet that lead to a child covered in it. Then they reach out to you, and nothing says love like sticky, drippy child fingers coming your way. Bleh.

Or, maybe it's the strings of gum connecting a child's teeth with his outstretched hand.

Or, maybe it's the chocolate melted into the blankets.

Or, maybe it's because my kids always turn into hyper-emotional zombies with tummy-aches when they eat it.

See, then they look at me with these big, happy grins and I feel a pang of regret that I don't offer them candy more often.

I do wonder: If I had more candy readily available for them throughout the year, would their candy cravings subside? Do most people have candy in their homes to snack on? What would happen if I just had a bowl of candy out on the counter for them to pick through? Initially, I would have to refill the bowl a zillion times, but - eventually - would they treat the bowl of candy like I treated my Halloween candy as a kid? I wonder...

I tried not to laugh...

2011-05-01T14:03:00.000-04:00

One late night in college, I lay on my bed staring up into the darkness and talked with my best friend and roommate about things we wanted to remember when we were mothers. She told me of a time when she was young (hope you don't mind me sharing, Becky!) when she found a small bump on her arm. Embarrassed by it, and not sure what it was, she showed it to her mother - who wasn't sure what it was either. Later, her mother's visiting teachers came to the house and Becky was called over to have them examine the small bump.

Becky laughed as she recalled the story and said, "I was mortified that I had to show that bump to them!" I laughed, too, because of the silliness of the situation, but we decided that - when we were mothers - we would always try to make whatever was a big deal to our children, a big deal to us.

I failed the other day when McKenzie started crying frantically from downstairs, "Mom! Come help me - I'm stuck!" I rushed down there to see this:

but instead of being understanding and helping her out, I ran to get my camera. She was quite embarrassed and I think, someday, she may lie in her dorm room and tell her roommate of a time when her mother posted pictures of her embarrassing situation on the internet.

And maybe she, too, will decide that - when she is a mother - she will try to make whatever is a big deal to her children, a big deal to her.

But, then she'll become a mother and...........

Talkin' about Spring

2011-04-27T14:17:00.023-04:00

Picture taken by McKenzie - pretty good, huh?!

Well, the sweat rings don't lie...spring is turning into summer, folks. The temperatures are getting just high enough to remind us of just how uncomfortable these hot, humid summers of North Carolina are. (A note to my family, I'm totally joking...the summers aren't so bad - you should move out here...) (A note to the rest of you, I'm totally not joking - the summers are terrible.)

Here's a bit of what we've been up to this spring:

"Green" Smoothies

What?! Spinach in a smoothie?! And not just a little bit either, but a whole handful for your glass. When I first heard about it, the thought was enough to stimulate my gag reflex. But after a good friend guaranteed that you could not, in fact, taste the spinach AT ALL, I decided to give it a try. As I watched the gloppy green mixture splat around in the blender, I'll admit that my hopes were not high - but after adding the colorful berries, it started to look like something I might actually enjoy. I'll let the picture above sum up the results. :)

Swimming Lessons

McKenzie and her friend, Carolyn

This year, I decided it was time to have my children learn the ways of the water. Perhaps overdue, since we spend so much of our summers in the pools. (A note to my family - wouldn't you love to live in a place where you could swim for so many months out of the year? So refreshing!) (A note to the rest of you - sometimes the pools are so warm they feel more like bathtubs. Not refreshing.)

Carson spent most of his time glancing over to the bleachers to see if he could catch my eye. Once caught, you could count on a thumbs-up from him. This was his most improved area - - - he got awesome at keeping afloat with one hand out of the water.

McKenzie picked it up fast and is now able to get herself across the entire pool with no floaties.

No drowning for us!

Seussical Mussical

McKenzie's 1st grade musical... and this picture cracks me up. One boy sneezing, one boy picking his nose, a girl in back admiring her fingernails, and a boy looks to be waving right at my camera (funny because I was standing at the very back of the auditorium using my zoom lens). The show was cute, the kids were cuter. :)

While we're here, meet Jack. He's the kid that belongs to that pair of eyes down in the bottom left corner of the picture. Cute, cute kid...and McKenzie's new boyfriend. They are, apparently, in love. Definition of 'in love' from McKenzie: I chase him around the playground every day.

Basketball

Brian got a basketball hoop for his birthday this year. The directions said that assembly would take a couple of hours, so Carson and I decided to set it up while Brian was at work so that when he got home he could spend his evening actually playing with it rather than setting it up. McKenzie hopped off the school bus just in time to hang the net.

Now, for a girl, I'd say I'm slightly above averagely savvy when it comes to assembling and building stuff, but there were a couple of times that I worried about death as the top-heavy monster of metal and plastic threatened to crush us. And I feel it is appropriate to brag here, just a little. :) We persevered for hours - and Carson and I felt victorious when, dripping with sweat, we finally shot our first baskets.

Halfway through the assembly, Carson said, "Mom, dis is taking way too long. I didn't know it would be dis long when I said I would help you." He was a trooper - and there would have been no assembled hoop without him!

We have had a great time with this hoop - you can find us out there almost every day at some point. Miles has had a great time with his little hoop, too. :)

You know what the best thing about these kids is? How well they get along with each other. McKenzie and Carson play together so well, and when they turn their attention to Miles, he feels like the star of the universe. Just look at these faces in response to Miles making a basket! You are loved, little boy!

It's always a sad goodbye when we wave off the best weeks of spring. But you can be sure we'll keep enjoying it before the temperatures force us to stay in the house or in the water! (A note to my family - I love living in a place where I don't have to do my hair for the entire summer!) (A note to everyone else - I do not love having wet hair for an entire season. At least I can choose whether it's wet with pool water or sweat...)

Let's not do that again...

2011-04-17T08:11:00.009-04:00

"Brian?" I whispered into the quiet darkness. We had already said goodnight and the stillness from his side suggested that his mind had already started to drift into sleep. But my mind was not quite settled.
"Hmmm?" His tone was gentle.
"I'm glad you didn't die today."
"Me too," he said after a slight pause. "I'm home, safe and sound. And we had good burgers tonight."
A small laugh escaped through the lump in my throat and I closed my eyes to fight off the stinging tears. It worked pretty well...only one of them escaped and landed on my pillow.

Tornadoes swept through Raleigh yesterday. There are three confirmed deaths so far (just in Raleigh), and many damaged houses and buildings...including the leveling of a Lowes home improvement store just outside the city.

Brian and Carson were 5 meager miles away, stopped in the minivan watching a 2 foot deep river rush down the road they intended to cross. Several compact cars had tried to cross and were sitting in the middle of the river, stuck. "Linds! I've never seen anything like this!" Brian said over the phone, "This is crazy!" Carson called a few minutes later. "Mom, dere was dis guy, and he was stuck in his car, and a big twuck came up, and the man got out of his twuck with a rope, and den the man in his car got out of his car and he was only wearing his socks! Den the twuck pulled and pulled and got all the cars out of the water!"

Clearly they were having a good time.

Meanwhile, I was sitting home watching the news and listening to the announcers say, "You need to seek shelter!" "Do not go into downtown Raleigh right now! If you are listening to us on the radio and are headed for downtown Raleigh, pull off the side of the road immediately! Do not go into downtown Raleigh! We are seeing very dangerous signs that a deadly tornado is forming!" "We cannot stress enough how dangerous we feel this situation is!" The predicted path had the storm passing through downtown Raleigh and then continuing northeast. Brian and Carson were in northwest Raleigh - out of the predicted path by a few miles. This calmed Brian's fears and gave him encouragement that he could finish his errands. But it didn't calm my fears - - - they were still much too close to it for my comfort and I kept asking him to turn around and come home. Thankfully, the storm followed the predicted path, causing the casualties 5 miles east of my life.

I'm trying not to entertain the what-ifs. But my heart went through an emotional roller-coaster yesterday and I realized, once again, how much I love and how tightly I am bound to that man.

And, my Carson, oh!

- I think I'll stop thinking about it now...

Worn and Torn

2011-04-01T20:15:00.001-04:00

I sent my 4-year-old son to preschool like this on Wednesday. In the pouring rain. I felt a twinge of guilt as I watched him dance around (but mostly through) the puddles on his way to the car-pool van. The poor boy was trying to walk on only the outside of his foot to keep his big toe from getting drenched. I'm pretty sure he wasn't successful.

Three hours later I sat in the carpool line waiting for him to come bouncing out the door with the rest of his class. My windshield wipers worked constantly to keep my vision clear and I saw a little boy walk out of the building, hand in hand with his mother. He skipped and jumped through the puddles and I watched the water splash up and around his bright green rubber rain boots. His mother pulled him along, most likely anxious for the shelter of her car, but the rain didn't bother the boy a bit...he was already sheltered in a bright green rain coat with the hood cinched up around his face.

And I couldn't help but think, Oh dear. Perhaps my son should have rain boots with a matching rain coat. But of course, I was just feeling guilty that I had sent my son to school with holes in his shoes. And his pants. He's just so dang hard on his clothes! Out of the six pairs of pants I bought for him this season, five of them have holes in both knees.

He and I went on a date last night to get a new pair of shoes and a milkshake, but he'll have to live with the torn up pants for the rest of the season. Is this a boy thing? I'm guessing Miles won't have many hand-me-downs from here on out...

Superhero in Training

2011-03-15T13:54:00.006-04:00

Miles has had a rough week.

Tuesday he sent us to the ER after slipping in the bathtub and splitting his eyebrow open, and after much deliberation we decided to DermaBond it together (think superglue) instead of stitch it up. I will not tell you how difficult it has been to not scratch off all that flaking glue... I should have gotten a picture of it soon after it happened - It's amazing how much it's healed in just a week.

Thursday he slipped in the locker room after the kids' swimming practice and split the other side of his head on the corner of a bench. After clearing all the blood I determined that, while deep and messy, it was small in length and hiding under all his red curls - - - not hospital worthy.

Saturday he face-planted on the concrete resulting in a scratched up, pouring, double bloody nose, and a huge, fat lip.

Sunday he tumbled off a picnic bench and landed on his head, gaining another battle wound almost parallel to his scar.

And today I found a small pine-cone piece in the center of a red, swollen, tender patch of skin on the heel of his foot.

I called my dad on the way to the hospital last week and he summed it up nicely, "I kind of think this may be the first of many scars in that boy's life."

Yes, Miles is fearless and determined to master any physical task in which he feels he is lacking.

Well, cut it out, boy. I'm tired of seeing your blood.

Smiler

2011-03-14T15:19:00.009-04:00

It's a unique story, I think...

My grandparents met as young missionaries, both serving in Canada, in 1937. After their missions had been completed (my grandpa's a year before my grandma's), they spent only two weeks together before my grandmother wrote in her journal, "Went to assembly with Arvid and then to his place for lunch. Love him, and he loves me. I'll be Mrs. Seth Arvid Dodge someday."

She nicknamed him 'Smiler' in the mission field when her first landlady had said he was the best smiler of all the missionaries. . . and the nickname stuck with him through the end of his life.

His funeral was both beautiful and inspiring for me. Full of hope, rest and peace. Everyone who attended wore a 'smiler' pin, made by my cousin Heather, to honor his life, his perspective on life, and to help us remember that this was a happy time for him.

I have a lot of pictures of people that most of you don't know, and I won't post them here...but I'll break that rule with the picture above. The two older people above are my grandpa's brother and sister - delightful people who are easy to talk to and who remind me a lot of my grandpa. Look at her smile. :)

Five of grandpa's six sons (the other one had been there earlier in the evening). It was so touching for me to see just how much respect flows in this family. Over the course of one weekend, I gained a greater knowledge for where I came from as our focus was turned to my dad's family. My grandpa, with his eternal companion, raised a wonderful family.

No wonder my dad is such a great guy...

Problems of the Penny Pinching Kind

2011-03-10T08:54:00.004-05:00

"Mom - deese flowers smell bad! "
I glanced into the bathroom at Carson who was standing at the sink with his hands frothy in soap bubbles and his nose wrinkled in disgust.
"Yeah," I admitted, "that soap doesn't smell very good, does it."
"I'm glad dere are no flowers awound our house dat smell like dat."

----------------

"You know what this soap smells like?" Brian said as he was washing his hands one night. "Bonfire."

--------------

"Carson!" McKenzie exclaimed. She and I were sitting at the dining room table, entrenched in the middle of a 750 piece puzzle. Carson had just returned from the bathroom and was picking up a small puzzle piece directly under her nose. "Your hands smell like garbage!"
"Oh dear," I said. "You know, I'm thinking we should just throw that soap away. What do you guys think?"
"YES!" came the stereo reply.
"Once," McKenzie added, "I washed my hands with it and then I smelled them and thought that I had gotten some garbage on them, so I washed them again. But it wasn't garbage! It was the soap!"

-------------------

Lesson learned: Do not buy soap at the dollar store.

Thoughts of Peace

2011-02-23T20:17:00.001-05:00

If I had to choose one room in my house that I love the most, it would be my living room. It's a strange choice, really, because it's the only room in the house that we could functionally live without. Maybe that's what makes it my favorite. I sit in there every morning, sinking into the rocking chair cushion with my favorite blanket wrapped softly around me. I read my scriptures by lamplight and watch through the big windows as the sun slowly changes the colors of the world outside. I sit in there every evening, surrounded by the people I love most. We read scriptures together as a family before kneeling down to close the childrens' day with prayer. It's a quiet room. And when I'm in it, I feel peaceful. Sometimes we wrestle with the kids in there, sometimes we play a game of Memory or Old Maid, sometimes we huddle under blankets and tell stories. But, most always, when we are in that room, we have gone there deliberately to do something. It's very rarely a thoroughfare and, because of that, it stays quite clean and in order. I think I could sit there for hours. Hugged by warm browns and reds on the walls, pampered by thick carpet at my feet, I somehow feel that if the world was crumbling down around me, I could be safe and at peace if I watched from that room.

I taught my children about the Plan of Salvation in that room last Monday night. I brought in the white board and, after confirming that every single dry-erase marker left to the children had been aired out in the open, grabbed a new one from my secret stash. Using pictures and circles we talked about life - where we came from, why we are here and where we are going. Knowing that his time on earth is drawing to a close, we talked about my grandpa and what would happen to his body and spirit after he died.

One of my favorite parts of the night came when we were talking about the Celestial Kingdom, the greatest kingdom, the goal at the end of the tunnel of life that helps me make my decisions today.
"And this one," I said pointing to the top circle in a group of three, "is the Celestial Kingdom." I wrote the words CELESTIAL KINGDOM in the circle and continued, "This is the place you'll go if you make great choices through your life. If you obey Heavenly Father's commandments and try your very hardest to do what He wants you to do. Do you know what the greatest thing about the Celestial Kingdom is to me?" I asked.
Carson's eyes got wide and his smile almost jumped off his face, "You can have as much gum as you want for free?!?!" I laughed a little and said, "Well... maybe. But, this is what I like most about it..." I started drawing little stick figures inside the circle and McKenzie followed my train of thought. "We get to be with our families?" she asked.
"Yep." I glanced at Carson and he didn't even try to hide his unimpressed look. "Don't you think that's cool, Carson? That we get to be together as a family if we go here?"
He shrugged his shoulders with one corner of his mouth up in a sneer and one eye squinted, "Ehh...," giving the slightest shake of his head.
"You'd rather have all the free gum, wouldn't you," I said with a smile. At that, his look remained the same, but the direction of his head changed into a slight nod.

When the kids bounced off with their Daddy to be tucked into bed, I sat on the couch in that peaceful room and pondered Heavenly Father's plan. My heart felt so warm and I realized the corners of my mouth were turned up in a small smile. I recognized the feeling as the Holy Ghost, testifying of truth. And my own testimony swelled. It's true, I thought. I mean, I knew it was true....but, it's true.

Tuesday morning, my dad called to tell me that Grandpa had passed away.

With my dad's soft voice sounding in my ear, I subconsciously made my way into the living room and sat down on the couch. A mix of sad and happy stirred in my heart but by the time we had finished talking about details of funeral schedules and plane tickets, I remembered my Grandma and how much Grandpa has missed her over the past two and a half years, and almost every ounce of sadness left for a moment. This year, come October, they'll be able to celebrate their 71st wedding anniversary together.

This week is not the most convenient time for me to leave my home, but with the help of six wonderful women, a supportive husband, and a sacrificing co-resident, I feel like the support beams are just strong enough for me to pull out for a few days. (Wonderful friends even agreed to be 'on call' with Brian this weekend - so if he has to go into the hospital at 3 in the morning, one of them will come over to sleep with the kids.)

And for this I am grateful. I feel so blessed that I can go celebrate with my family the life of this wonderful man. I feel blessed that I have been taught the plan of salvation, and that my heart is filled with happiness and hope because of it. I don't remember what heaven is like... but if it's anything like my living room, my grandma and grandpa must be happy, indeed.

Valentines for Two

2011-02-17T09:21:00.003-05:00

I forgot, a little, what it's like to have a complete, uninterrupted conversation with my husband. We must have had them all the time before our children came...and we must have had more of them before the children developed radars expert enough to recognize even the slightest shred of an adult conversation. Now, once the adult conversation is detected, they lock on and fire all missiles with intent to kill. Our conversations are shot dead before they even start.

So when my friend offered to take the kids for the evening on Valentines Day, I didn't think too long before I accepted. It didn't matter that Brian wouldn't be getting home until after 7:00 - - - in fact, it was perfect. I dropped the kids off at 5 and had two solid hours to transform the house and make a delicious dinner for two.

I forgot, a little, what it's like to make a dinner without fielding children at the same time. No noise, no fighting, no little ones latched onto my legs so tightly I have to be creative in getting around the kitchen, no supervising each little hand pouring ingredients into the pot. Instead, I turned on some classical music and poured all of my creative juices and energy into one meal.

And guess what? I didn't forget to add the melted butter, or take the bread out on time, or sautee the shrimp and onions together. I didn't forget to crush the raspberries into the bottom of the goblets, and I didn't even forget to pick some of Brian's favorite leaves from the yard to garnish our chocolate mousse. I even remembered to add a salad fork and dessert spoon to our table setting. Maybe my brain is as sharp as it used to be - it's just maxed out most of the time.

And, when Brian got home, we even had a few complete conversations over dinner. No interruptions. And I was reminded, again, just how wonderful he is. I'm not sure how I got so lucky. Really.

Happy Valentines Day!

Wanting Warning of Warnings

2011-02-11T16:32:00.000-05:00

It didn't even sputter.

The only clue as to why my car had suddenly stopped moving forward was located inside my dashboard: a small, orange light in the shape of a gas pump shining firmly over the gas needle that was plunked down on E.

I don't know what I was expecting, really, aside from making it to the gas station. I have a friend who runs out of gas so commonly that it's the first question her children ask if they stop unexpectedly on the side of the road. But even so, I didn't really ever think that running completely out of gas was something that could really ever happen to me. And, if it did happen, the car would give plenty of warning in the form of choking, sputtering and general discomfort to warn me to pull off onto the next side road.

But my car offered no such convenience. Coasting comfortably along at 45mph, it took all of 10 seconds to come to a standstill. Enough time to get into the right lane, yes...enough time (or power) to pull into the next driveway, nope. And so I put my emergency flashers on and sat in the right lane of Guess Road, watching in my rearview mirror for a few seconds to gauge my safety and come up with a plan. Thankfully, I had stopped at the top of a small rise and people seemed to have no problem seeing my van. I watched as car after car after truck after van pulled into the left lane to pass my sorry load. I knew I couldn't push the van into the nearest driveway by myself, but I didn't feel good about leaving it in such a precarious position as I walked to the gas station. So I said a short prayer and when the traffic had a slight lull, I unbuckled myself and my baby, stood on the side of the road, and tried to look helpless so someone would stop to help me.

A moment later, a man pulled into the driveway I had been eying and started walking towards me.
"Do you need some help?"
"Yeah. I ran out of gas here... do you think you could help me push the van into that driveway so it's out of the way?"
"Sure - this is actually my family's house," he said pointing to the house whose lawn I was standing on. "Let me go get my brother."

Coincidence or answer to prayer... I'll let you decide for yourself. But I sure felt blessed as he walked up to his front porch. Seconds later, a police officer pulled behind me with his lights on and I was grateful for the added visibility. The man came out with his brother and, together with the police officer, they pushed my van into their driveway.

The brothers had a gas can in their shed which happened to be holding a couple gallons of gas which, with insistence and no hesitation, they poured into my tank. My van soaked the gas up greedily and soon hummed back to life. With words of thanks and promises of good karma coming their way, I drove off and didn't stop until I was snuggled safely under the awning at Costco with a gas pump to my left.

So today, when my gas light appeared on the way to Carson's preschool, I was quick to remember that that was indeed the final warning . . . and I made sure to stop at Costco on my way home.

Because, it turns out, my van can - and will - run out of gas if I push it too hard.

Beauty Brothers

2011-02-01T14:32:00.006-05:00

What a funny relationship these two have with each other! Carson feels a tangible, unquenchable love for his little brother that is sometimes overwhelming to that 4-year-old heart. It's in those overwhelming moments that the hugs come in. Oh, the hugs! The squeeze-you-so-tight-until-you-scream, knock-you-over type hugs that are a bit too much for the baby. It's the best way Carson knows how to express himself. Miles generally doesn't appreciate Carson's expressions of love, however.

I laugh at the picture above every time I see it. This picture is their relationship. If there was a thought bubble over each of their heads, you would see Carson thinking "I love this little guy. I could sit here and hug him forever." And you would see Miles thinking, "Alright. So far this is okay. But my guard is up, and I'm prepared to scream if this hug gets out of hand."

That picture was taken during the summer and, five months later, I'm starting to see a shift in their relationship. Carson is the same...same love, same intensity...but Miles is getting bigger and starting to hold his own a little better. Today I actually found them playing together and sneaked a few pictures to mark the momentous occasion.

Who knows...maybe someday they'll end up opening their own beauty shop together.

You would think....

2011-01-26T07:00:00.001-05:00

...that having an ophthalmologist in the house, we would have caught this sooner.

20/100, folks. Twenty over ONE HUNDRED!

All Pretty Colored Liquids are not Created Equal

2011-01-24T13:31:00.004-05:00

I was not really happy to be awake in the first place. It was early...and I had been up late the night before. The mirror unabashedly told me about the smeared mascara around my eyes from the previous day, but this came as no surprise to me. I have a bad habit of never washing my face at night. I knew I could restore my face to it's base zero with a cotton ball soaked with my favorite eye-makeup remover, and a soft washrag dabbed with my favorite face wash.

The cotton ball went from light and fluffy to damp and dense as the liquid found it's place in the fibers. I closed my right eye and swiped the cotton across my lid.
Woah. This smells strong today, I thought. I clenched my lid shut tighter as it started to sting a little. I swiped a second time and a third before the stinging turned into a burning and I moved to my left eye to give the right one a break. As the lid of the left eye began to burn I stopped.
Wait a minute, I thought, I know this smell...

Nail polish remover.

NAIL. POLISH. REMOVER!

"What am I....?!?!" I exclaimed out loud. I dropped the cotton ball, turned on the sink water and began rinsing my eyes out. I tried to remember exactly what the bottle said regarding getting ACETONE in your eyes - something about 15 minutes, maybe? Warm water? Cold water? Thankfully I had my very own eye doctor snuggled in the bed behind my shoulder.

"Bri!" I said between the handfuls of water, "What do you do *flush* if you get something bad in your eye *flush* Warm water or cold water *flush*?"
"What did you do, Linds!?" he asked.
"Just answer my question!"
"It doesn't matter...just rinse! What did you do?"
"I'm acting like an idiot...that's what I did!" He came into the bathroom and picked up the open bottle of nail polish remover.
"Lindsay! Did you put this in your eyes?!" I felt like saying, Yes, Bri. I opened my eye and poured it directly in, but I swallowed the sarcasm and stayed silent instead. He started reading the ingredients on the back of the bottle and kept saying, "Oh, this could be bad. This could really be bad, Linds. This is acetone. Keep rinsing. Just keep rinsing." Unfortunately, the panic had done a number on my temper threshold and I snapped, "I know it could be bad, Brian...and I am rinsing!"

Eventually, my temper and the burning started to fade and it wasn't long before I was standing in front of the mirror, dripping and laughing at myself.

Moral of the story: Don't be an idiot.

Snowy Lessons

2011-01-11T14:30:00.009-05:00

My hands would love to be curled around a mug full of steamy hot chocolate right now...I'm just feeling too lazy to get up and fix one for myself. That, and I can't seem to stop staring out my window at the playful way the leaves are sticking up through the thin layer of slushy snow. I've grown quite fond of the way North Carolina handles snow. It comes, it's given full respect and attention for a day or two, and it leaves.

--------------------

I started out 2010 with one goal: be nice to myself. As a perfectionist, I am quite good at making my own life difficult...and I set out last year to put some of that perfectionism behind me and cut myself some slack. I kept it up until about...February. I felt hollow just being overly optimistic about what I was accomplishing and ignoring the things that weren't being attended to. So, I decided to add a little depth to my quest and changed my goal: start seeking an honest view of myself. I hoped that, with this new goal, I'd be able to both cut myself slack and work to better myself. As a result, I spent much of 2010 analyzing me.

----------------------

The snow has done it's job to put a halt to everyday life today. Instead of waking at 7:00, we woke at 8:00. Instead of rushing though the morning routine, we played in the snow in our pajamas before breakfast. Instead of sending the kids to school, I sent them downstairs to pick their favorite board game. Instead of vacuuming, we played the Wii. Instead of budgeting, I'm blogging...

-----------------------

My revised goal brought with it many hard questions. What am I good at? What makes me happy? Which of my weaknesses would be most beneficial to work on? Analyzing my strengths proved quite challenging for me, and I soon found myself more comfortable (though unhappier) taking a good hard look at my weaknesses. It was emotionally difficult to stare them in the face and view my dark sides with clarity. But, like monsters in a closet, the hardest part was turning towards them and approaching the door. Once I shined the light on them and began to study them, I realized that they weren't monsters at all...just piles of garbage that need to be sifted through and sorted out. And, who knows, there might be some useful stuff in there...

And I found that analyzing my strengths became more comfortable when I started using the term blessings instead. I found a bunch of good tools in there that will come in handy when I start hacking away at those weakness piles.

------------------------------

The snow is already starting to disappear. The roads are clear, but wet. The school just called to announce that they will resume their classes tomorrow on a 2-hour delay. Thursday will be back to normal, and by Monday there will most likely be no signs of the break in routine.

---------------------

This year, as I start to work on those piles of garbage, I'm going to embrace the first goal of last year: be nice to myself.

Because snow will fall on my plans sometimes and break up the routines. And, while lazy snow days every day would be disastrous on a number of levels, it's quite fun every once in a while. So I think I would do well to remember the North Carolina snow mentality when it comes to a goal-thwarting circumstance: It comes, it's given full respect and attention for a day or two, and it leaves.

And, in a few days, there will most likely be no signs of the break in routine.

Still, Still, Still

2010-12-24T23:18:00.003-05:00

Ahhhh. I feel like I'm reacquainting myself with an old friend tonight. I hear the ticking of the clock on the wall to my right, gently telling me I should get some sleep, yet I remain curled up on the couch. I've dimmed down the computer screen monitor as far as it will go to make my eyes more comfortable. It's been a while since I've had the house to myself. It's so quiet. It's so still. It's so peaceful.

I remember, a few years ago, how uneasy I felt when Brian would work through nights at the hospital. It was a bit scary to be left alone to talk sense into myself when the house would creak and the squirrels would dance on the dark rooftop. I acclimatized, however, and began to enjoy the quiet nights. I often found myself sitting...just like this. Silently sifting through cluttered thoughts, filing them away into organized mind folders - many times the content of which would end up on this blog - and reflecting on the beautiful, and not so beautiful, aspects of my life.

Over the past three months, Brian's call schedule has lightened considerably. He is home practically every night, and it has been a wonderful adjustment to have to make. Because he's spent relatively few hours at home over the past many years, we have become quite good at spending time together. When he is home, he is by my side...doing dishes, making dinner, watching a movie, playing a game, sleeping. And, while this has been the center of my happiness, it has become fatal to my quiet nights alone.

He went to bed early tonight - a sure sign he must be fighting some bug - and I found myself sitting here. Surrounded by Christmas lights, smelling the hint of cinnamon in the air, reflecting on Christ, and feeling grateful enough for Him that I didn't stop the tear that rolled down my cheek.

What a perfect night to be quiet. On this silent night...this holy night. I silently celebrate my Savior.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Goodbye Autumn

2010-11-30T15:05:00.006-05:00

Well, they did it. You'd think that after seeing the leaves change on the trees 28 years in a row, I could get through a fall season without being moved to tears by the beauty of it. But they get me, every year. This year it happened as I was driving down the road on my way to church a couple of weeks ago. I think the term 'breathtaking' must have been coined by someone driving down that North Carolina road during autumn. It was overwhelmingly beautiful, and I found myself wiping a tear as I pulled into the church parking lot. After church, I couldn't help from pulling the camera out in the beautiful autumn light and pointing it at my handsome baby.

The rain and wind are taking their toll on the straggling leaves. The vibrant beauty is gone. Only whispets of color remain. It's cold and it's drizzling.

Winter is coming.

Lessons in my Cupboards

2010-11-18T06:30:00.004-05:00

Six and a half years ago, I stood in front of our open kitchen cupboards and began unloading the precarious pile of clean, mismatched bowls and plates into open cardboard boxes. The remaining 10 pieces of breakable dishware were carefully wrapped so they would make it safely across the country and the rest of the plastic hodge-podge was piled around them. The green clearance bowls from Target (that had been microwaved so much they almost looked white), the two gigantic purple cups, the free little cups that came with a child's meal from Red Robin, the tiny blue juice cup... My life was simple, though I didn't know it at the time; I was happy and optimistic about the future; I had a bright, handsome husband and a new baby girl. I was excited that the new apartment we would be moving into had a dishwasher. (Our nice drinking glasses were on the verge of extinction because Brian's large hand was too much for the thin glass walls as he pushed the soapy rag to the bottom.) The thought of not having to wash sinks full of dirty, mismatched dishes by hand was liberating.

-----

A few nights ago, the phone rang at 10:10. A worried friend on the other end told me that her husband was four hours late and wasn't answering his cell phone. She was frightened that something had happened to him as he was riding his bike home through the shady part of town and asked if I could come sit at her apartment with the sleeping baby so she could go out looking for him. I arrived 25 minutes later, gave her a hug, and sent her out the door. I turned around to survey the apartment and actually smiled when I saw the sink full to the brim with dirty dishes. Dirty, mismatched dishes. It wasn't long before I plunged my hands into warm, soapy water and my mind filled with the memories of who I was six and a half years ago.

----

The kitchen cupboards in my new apartment looked much like the cupboards in my old apartment. And the dishwasher was everything I had hoped for! I unloaded the cardboard boxes into the open kitchen cupboards and smiled as I placed the last mug with the other mugs, glasses, and plastic cups. Someday, I thought, maybe I'd like to get matching dishes.

Brian and I have been through much during these years in North Carolina. So much, in fact, that the number six and a half seems small and unrepresentative. Three pregnancies, friendships flourishing, our personalities and relationship solidifying, two newborns and the loss and burial of a third, the purchase and renovating of a house, friends leaving, changes in Brian's schedule from month to month, year to year... and all the while, learning more about ourselves and each other as we grow closer and closer to becoming one. I hardly remember the girl I was when I walked into our apartment that first Friday night in North Carolina.

-----

My friend called as I was drying the last of the dishes. She had found her husband, asleep in the library, surrounded by textbooks. We laughed in relief and she promised to be home in a few minutes. I stacked the last plastic bowl on top of the others and smiled at the precarious pile. And, as I slid the last glass onto the shelf with the other cups, mugs and glasses, I paused and thought fondly on the time in my life when my cupboards looked the same.

When I got home, I opened my own cupboard. Over the six and a half years, my stacks of dishes have been refined. The lonely cups have been replaced, and the microwaved plastic thrown away. Now, everything has a defined place. Now, everything fits. The children section of the cupboard is tidy, colorful and fun. The grown-up section is classic, white and glass.
I paused and thought fondly on this time in my life.

Of course, I'm not saying that a kitchen cupboard and it's contents are representative of one's progression. (In fact, I sometimes envy you whose personalities are unruffled by a bit of disorder, and have even tried to become one of you. But, alas, I must be honest and admit that I thrive much better when my world is stacked in nice rows and columns.) But, for me, the transition of my cupboards strangely parallels the transition of myself. I am growing. I am being refined.

It's just sometimes hard to see when it's only one plastic cup at a time...

Knights save Princesses from Dragons...

2010-11-15T07:25:00.010-05:00

I know, I know...sorry! I've been cornered by three of you so far about Halloween pictures, and you'll be happy to know that I chose today to post them. :)

I actually have a great reason why these photos are a bit belated. One of my best friends, Melissa, is an excellent photographer (in addition to being kind, generous and thoughtful)...so when she heard that a dear family in our ward was trying to raise money for a heart transplant for the father, she jumped in and volunteered to spend an evening doing mini photo shoots for anyone interested and donated 100% of the proceeds to the family in need. I signed up for one of the sessions 2.6 seconds after I read about it and took my kids to a gorgeous field the evening after Halloween to get some 'real' pictures of them in their Halloween glory. Yesterday, Melissa handed me a CD full of the most amazing pictures.

(I did crop this one because I thought the boys faces were just so precious...I hope you don't mind, Melissa!)

(Oh! I LOVE this one! Totally Carson. Totally.)

(I can't say I have a favorite - - - but this one might be it...)

(As we were watching the slideshow of these pictures as a family, McKenzie saw this one and said, "Oh! That's it!" She thinks she looks absolutely beautiful in this picture. I agree, and hope with everything I have that she can keep a little of that image confidence as she gets older.)

So you see, I had no motivation to post my own Halloween pictures of the kids when I knew these were coming. :) Anyway - if any of you are looking for a photographer in the area, I would highly recommend her! She's spunky, fun, and (obviously) very talented. She took a wandering 16 month old, a distractable 4 year old, and a I-can't-give-you-a-real-smile-because-I'm-concentrating-so-hard-on-this-fake-one 6 year old and turned out these beautiful pictures. :) Check her out!

These silly kids came up with this theme all on their own. I thought it was brilliant in light of their personalities and after a couple of borrowed costumes and a sheer curtain turned into a flowing cape, this Halloween was the easiest one yet! And DEFINITELY the most fun, as my parents were in town for it. Here we are, carving pumpkins:

(Carson, putting the 'puzzle' back together...)

We all went trick-or-treating on Saturday night, and then had a candy party on Sunday while we waited for the other trick-or-treaters to come to the door.

We laughed all night long...especially when I opened my tootsie-roll to find this....

Until next year! Happy Halloween. :)

Lessons, Learning, and Camping

2010-11-03T14:33:00.015-04:00

Put me in a tent in the middle of the forest, surrounded by hiking trails and bright stars, and I will always expect to have a good time. There's something about the outdoors that has always tugged on my soul, and I've listened to it with varying levels of attentiveness over the years. Dating back to my childhood days of making mud-pies and catching grasshoppers with my best friend, Tony, I have almost always preferred to be outside. Sitting inside to play Barbies with my sister, Michelle = pure torture. I always imagined my future family to be quite outdoorsy.

Well, here I am - in the middle of my future family - and we're not even close to what I imagined in this regard. Sometimes I mourn this imaginary family... this hiking, biking, camping, running, swimming family I thought I would be a part of. This past July, as I was giving poor Brian an (another) earful about how I would love it if he would take us camping more often, and suggest family hikes on Saturday mornings, and get himself a bike so we could hitch up the baby trailer, and teach McKenzie to ride on two wheels, I started to listen to myself talk...and it was ugly. I realized that it was completely and totally unfair of me to expect him to fulfill my dream of being an active, outdoorsy family.

So, I took it into my own hands. If I wanted to be outdoorsy, then I needed to make it happen. The kids and I started hiking down to the river a couple times a week. I went to Target and bought a bike pump for my tires, assembled and vacuumed out the bike trailer (which had accumulated quite a few spiders and bug carcasses in it's long hibernation in our storage shed), and we went on bike rides together almost every afternoon. We took walks in the late afternoon as we waited for our dinner to finish cooking, and for Daddy to get home from work. I learned to ignore the sweat rings forming beneath my arms and to embrace the sweaty sock smell once we returned to the house. Being outside so much was beautifully refreshing!

Already on an outdoors high, I was thrilled to learn that the mountains were the same distance from our house as from the Aldriches new house in Atlanta. It was the perfect excuse to plan a camping trip out there to meet our favorite people! I'd never planned a camping trip before, so it didn't go off without a hitch...but it was lovely, and we've decided to make it an annual tradition. (And, that's where all of these pictures are coming from...)

I've learned a few things over the course of these few months...
*McKenzie has amazing willpower, even in the face of peer pressure. If she does not want to get entirely wet in the freezing cold lake, then she won't. Case closed. She was the only child who didn't even attempt to get wet much above her knees.

LOVE the kids faces in this one! Most of them had just come out of the water on a
dunking dare...and that water was so, so freezing!

*Carson, though uncomfortable, will succumb to the crowds...at least partially.

*You should never, EVER, ask me to eat another brussel sprout.

*I should not practice on a walking toddler with my camera on the full manual setting. I'm not that quick...

*And most importantly, I cannot, and should not, expect others to fulfill my dreams. I'm not exactly sure why I had the notion that the man of the house should be in charge of family outdoor outings...maybe because that's how it worked in the environment I grew up in...but I have been much happier since I've let him off the hook and taken charge of my own desires. Plus, I've seen that when I'm not focused on the things I want him to do, it's much easier for me to see all the helpful, wonderful things he already is doing. He's terrific at making sure the dishes don't pile up, and he happily puts the kids to bed every night...

Here's to many more fun, outdoor activities!

Phantom Feelings

2010-11-01T13:55:00.004-04:00

I read somewhere that you can hold your breath longer if you make yourself hyperventilate right before taking in the last breath. So even though I may have looked strange standing on the curb breathing in and out as fast as possible, I did have a purpose. The baby inside of me was changing my body and my emotions in many uncomfortable, unfamiliar ways - and the one way I grew to hate the most was the nausea. I found it cruel that pregnancy heightened my sense of smell to a nauseous level, and the last thing I wanted to do was vomit on campus. But there was that building. That one big, beautiful business building with the mystery smell that churned my stomach every time I got close...and my choir class was inside it.

So, I hyperventilated. And just as I drew in my last breath I made my way quickly across the street, into the foyer, down the stairs, across the atrium and through the double doors into my choir class where the clean air in my lungs gushed out, and my breathing pattern resumed to normal with the smelly air. The smell wasn't quite strong enough - once I was deep into the classroom - to make me vomit anymore, but I could count on being miserably nauseated those 5 hours every week. The thing I didn't count on, however, was being nauseated by that building every time I got close for the rest of my BYU education. Even after my sweet baby girl was born and growing, I still couldn't get near that smell without wrinkling up my nose in response to a stomach churn. I suspect it would still be the same today.

This is weird to me.

The other day I was finishing up my scrapbook for 2008 (which is why I've been missing in action on the blogger front). I was just finishing up December - in which I was almost done with my first trimester with Miles - and by the time I was done scrapbooking, I felt terrible! I had come across a few pictures that reminded me of just how awful pregnancy is.

Christmas eve, while the rest of my family had a princess tea party, I put my head down on the table and pretended to be involved.

And, we have a total of 7 pictures of Christmas Day. This is one of them. Let me tell you that it is NOT in my personality to be comfortable sleeping in the middle of the day - ever - and especially surrounded by such a mess!

Blech. I'm starting to feel ill again - how weird! It's got to be mental by this point, so how come I can't control it? Is this normal? Do any of you feel the same way sometimes? Maybe next time I start feeling baby-hungry, I should just look at these pictures again...the sick feeling is strong enough to make me think logically about the whole situation!

Anyway - even though my scrapbook ended on a terrible note, it's done and on it's way to my house as I type this. So my blogging should return to normal now. . . . because you care, right?