#blacklivesmatter

Never wanting too get political in any aspect of my life, I cannot help but feel like the events of this week should be documented.  That, in some way, I can help by writing my thoughts about what is happening to people.

Monday was the 4th of July.  Tuesday, a black man in Louisiana, named Alton Sterling, was killed at point blank range outside of a convenience store in Baton Rough by two police officers.  The shooting was captured on cell phone video. It was horrible to watch, and I'm shocked that I did watch the video.  My heart just ached for this man who so quickly was judged and killed.

Wednesday, another black man, Philando Castile, was also shot and killed while sitting in his car, after being pulled over for a traffic violation.  I read a little bit about him.  He ran  (or just worked in, I cannot remember) the cafeteria's for elementary schools in Minneapolis.  His girlfriend and her daughter were in the car with him, and his girlfriend filmed part of the incident on her cell phone as she watched her loved one die. This video, I couldn't watch.

 

I woke up this morning to the news that multiple police officers, and a few bystanders, were killed and injured in Dallas, Texas by sniper fire, apparent retaliation for the violence earlier in the week, during a peaceful protest march.  There was video of this scene, too.  I watched a little bit, of a sniper killing a police officer, standing just a mere foot or two behind him.  To say it was unsettling, is an understatement.

What is going on?

Every day when I drop my children off at school, I tell them to be good.  To be kind and nice to everyone.  We've had a few discussions, nothing too serious, about race and skin color in the past, but I've never felt the need to really dig deep into it with them.  I instead feel the need to focus on the importance of being good and helpful.   We talk a lot about bullies, and what to do if you see another child being bullied at school.  I think we need to talk more about race.  And their non-white friends.  And how to always be aware of situations involving those friends.  And how to be brave enough to do the right thing, because the right thing is to protect someone who is being treated poorly because of their skin color.

I've been thinking about the fact, and I'm pretty sure that it's a fact, that if my husband were to get pulled over for speeding today, he wouldn't have to worry about his safety.  He could probably joke with the officer and talk his way into a lesser fine.  He's safe, for the most part.  I cannot even imagine what a black man, or other minority male would feel in the same position.  No matter how safe or comfortable you feel where you live, that fear must always be looming on the surface.

I've been thinking about a conversation I had with an angry student, in a classroom full of kids, years ago when I was teaching high school - we were talking about a current event where, the government decided to pay war reparations to the descendants of Japanese Americans who had been interred during WWII.  He got mad and demanded to know why the government didn't pay reparations to the descendants of slaves.  Looking back this week, my argument was so...white!  I defended the US government (gross) saying that there was no way to pay back the families of slaves because they were undocumented, we don't know how many descendants there are, it would have been/would be an impossible undertaking.  I said these things in a classroom where one of my favorite students, Tim, a black kid sat looking at me, probably more interested in the fact that his buddy had managed to get me all fired up, than what I was actually saying.  But, I'm pretty sure I didn't say the right things.

The 1950's and 60's have been my favorite decades of history to study.  I've often thought, and said out loud a few times that I was born in the wrong era.  That if I had been a youth at the time of my parents, I would have been so outraged that I would have protested, been a freedom rider, stood up for those that needed some defending.  I hope that my perception of myself is right.  And that I still have that spark in me because it seems, that historic period of time that I longed to be a part of for a reason I cannot really understand, is staring me in the face.

People matter!  Lives matter!  Black lives matter!  All of the men killed this week have families who love them and are mouring their tragic and violent loss.  I know that my life is good.  That I am relatively safe.  That my children are set up to be successful in life.  I know that the color of my skin gives me something, affords me opportunities, that other people don't have.

I read a quote the other day that said no matter what a person says with regards to the issue of race, someone, somewhere will call her a racist.  Call me whatever you want, but the time is now to figure out how to stand up and participate.  To make a difference.  

The end of the year..

It seems that every single December sneaks up on me.  Here we are, just plugging along, living life, going on adventures, experiencing the seasons and then BLAMO!  It's Christmas!

Christmas completely and utterly stresses me out.  I have panic attacks and cry.  I miss my grandma's and strive to find their presence in all that I do, just to know, that they know, I'm trying.

The actual day of Christmas is a blur.  It is never as stressful as I think it's going to be and I do manage to find joy in watching my children's overwhelming excitement for all things wrapped (and not) in flimsy holiday paper.  We rush and rush and rush and then it all just comes crashing down.

Christmas should be the end of the year.  We should wake up the next day and ring in the new year all at once.  These days between December 25 and January 1 are just a jumble of sugar and chaos and trying to figure out what to do with ourselves every single day.

Today though, is my super cool brother's birthday.  He is 21 today.  Holy cow.  To celebrate, we are all going bowling (the Bing-Bings, the parental units and my family of 5), and eating lots of french fries, which is a pretty good way to celebrate the birthday of the one we love when he isn't here.  Because, if he was here, we'd probably be doing the same thing.

I'm excited for what the new year holds, what it will bring, and the adventures we will take both near and far.  I'm excited for my children to continue to grow and learn and be the great kids that they are.  I'm excited to get out of my 13th year of marriage and move on to the 14th, because the 13th has been a little stressful, to tell you the truth.  I'm excited to take more pictures, have new experiences, and maybe even go on an actual "date" or two with my husband, sans children.  I heard those things exist, but haven't been on one in so long I'm not sure I remember what to do.

All that being said, here is a quick slide show tribute to our 2015, may it rest in peace.  It seems that every year, my boys and I adopt a song.  One that's easy on the ears and can be wildly danced to in the kitchen (or the car, or anywhere else for that matter.)  Walk the Moon's, "Shut Up and Dance" seemed to fit the bill this year - and is probably one of the first songs we will have that Uncle of ours listen to as part of his missionary de-programming in two short months.

Happy New Year.  Bring on 2016.

Happenings...

It's just a few days before Christmas...9, if you don't count today, right?

I was talking to Ross on the phone this afternoon whining a bit.  It seems that all my time, our time, in the last couple weeks has been pulled away from us into different directions.  Church callings, basketball practice and coaching, Christmas concerts, Sub-for-Santa, traveling for work, holiday markets, frantic sewing for shows, frantic sewing of custom orders, shoveling snow and snow blowing all the neighbors driveways and sidewalks...it really feels a little overwhelming.

There are people in this world who need help.  There are members of my family who need prayers.  There are so many NEEDS in this world that it's impossible to think of them all, or to help all those that need it.  I try hard to spend as much time as I can serving others, in big ways and small.  I try to do something everyday that will benefit another person, even if on most days, I don't make it past the other four people in my home.

And guess what.

I'm really tired.

And I have a lot to do in the next nine days.

I hope I can get it all done.

I find January and February, like most people, to be pretty depressing.  It's cold and dreary, the air is bad, lots of people get sick and pass away (our stake president a few weeks ago called winter the "season of dying" and as morbid as that sounds, he's right), as a parent, it takes me a long time to recover from the excitement and let down of the holidays.

But, there are a lot of good things too.

Our neighborhood provided Christmas for 7 families who would otherwise have nothing.  My oldest son performed amazingly well on the trombone in three holiday concerts, and my niece and nephew did well in their program, too.  My boys are great basketball players and very helpful, kind, nice boys which I think that their dad and I take for granted every once in a while.  We are lucky to go on adventures, have the resources to help other people, and spend a lot of time with the people we love.  Last week, the boys were on the trampoline in hoodies and this week, they are bundled up in their warmest gear to play in the snow.

And we get to talk to our Uncle Willie next week.  You just cannot beat that.

Life is a highway, I'm gonna ride it all night long!

The last few weeks have been a blur.  There has been so much going on, that if I didn't have things written down in about 5 different places, then I'd loose my mind.  And, I am completely blown away that, minus one event, I haven't dropped the ball.  Close, but not quite.

Ross' parents have been in Utah preparing to depart on their 18 month mission.  Two boys are playing baseball.  Ross is traveling a bit more than normal for work and I've been deep in a sewing bonanza.  Add to that field trips, our wedding anniversary, preparations for impending birthdays, snow storms and rain storms and wind storms that blow your trampoline into the neighbors yard, oral surgery and all the regular "make our lives function" stuff and  boy oh boy, it's been a pretty wild ride.

Just this past week...
We had 5 baseball games: Monday, Tuesday, two on Thursday and Saturday morning.
Scouts and Mutual
Homework and spelling words and country reports
Set up, participate in, take down my booth at the Beehive Bazaar.  That meant three trips to and from Provo.
Haircuts
A Bridal Shower
Ross traveling for work

In the last three weeks, each week has looked like this with the added bonus of allergies, puking, breathing machines, emotional stress, lack of sleep in general, and sleepless kiddos at night.  The 8:30 bedtime has not been enforced and last week on Wednesday, I got a whopping 4 hours myself.  With all that's going on, I'm shocked that we are all still alive, and no brothers have been harmed at the hands of other brothers.  At least (knock on wood) we've survived these last few crazy weeks without any doctor visits.

I said to Ross on the phone, "I wish there was a pill, or a drink, or a make-up or product that I could take or use that makes me look like I haven't been hit by a bus.  Or, maybe I just need to figure out how to be a princess and have an army of people to make me look better, 10 hours after having a baby than I honestly have in my whole life.

Such injustice.  I kid....I kid....

Regardless of how fast life moves sometimes, I wouldn't trade it.  As exhausting as it is getting my boys to practices and games and late night dinners and homework sessions, the alternative, them just sitting around and picking their noses, isn't something that we do in our family.

I grew up, my boys are growing up, always moving and going and doing.  We are active and engaged and involved.  We work hard, do fun things, make the most of our time with each other and have our priorities in the right places.  I guess, really, that exhausted feeling is a pretty good one to have.

Sewing, sewing, sewing

I really wouldn't have guessed that, two years ago when I bought a sewing machine from Amazon so I could make a tooth fairy monster for my kids, that sewing would have turned into something that I  do nearly every single day.  It is something that I LOVE.  It feeds my brain, uses up all my creativity, and gives me an outlet when I'm stressed out and can find nothing else.

I've tried my hand at making clothing.  Two epic skirt fails and I got over clothing pretty quickly.  Although, I'll admit that I am pretty good at altering clothes, just not making them.

I've made quilts.  About 15 small quilts which all turned out better than I ever could have imagined  I've learned how to sew and make my own binding, which is, let's face it, kind of a pain.

But, what I love?  I love to make bags, pouches, purses, things with zippers and buttons and snaps.  The challenge of following a pattern or even better, designing my own is exciting.  I've messed up along the way, but even since last summer, my sewing has improved and If I could sew all day long every day, I'd probably do it.

And the bags?  Yeah, I sell those and for a "small business" that is only "out there" for family and friends and has a very small following, I'm not doing to shabby.  Still in the red, maybe forever, but it's cool.  I love to do it, and at least right now, can afford to do it.

That being said, I was so excited when I got accepted to the Beehive Bazaar this spring.  The Bazaar is a large scale crafter and handmade wares showplace that happens twice a year in Provo.  It's going on 11 or 12 years in existence and is a pretty big deal.  I've got about 7 weeks to get ready and make enough inventory for three days of the show.  Eek!  It's a lot of pressure but I'm pretty sure I can handle it.

After the show, with a little more "notoriety", I think that I'll head the way of an online shop, or maybe just do the craft show circuit for a while.  Not sure.  Too many possibilities.

Let It Be

Once, as an American History teacher, I shared a current event about how the US government had decided to offer reparations to the surviving families of Japanese Americans who had been interned in camps across the Western United States during World War II.  As an apology, the survivors, which in the most part were grandchildren and great grandchildren, were given $20,000 - $40,000 to compensate for the loss of income and livelihood during that volatile time.

After sharing this current event, one student in particular, a student who I disliked very much, but was also very good friends with the only African American student I had in class, a student whom I loved dearly, asked me a question.  He wanted to know why the government didn't pay reparations to the ancestors of slaves - why their families didn't get $20-40,000 to make up for the loss of livelihood for generations.  At first, I tried to logically explain American history and the questions involved with such a process.  How do you begin to pay back possibly a million or more families?  How do you trace the records of people who were never accounted for?  Where would you even start?

These questions and my attempt at an answer weren't enough for this student, who was quickly becoming my enemy.  He was Hispanic, and had felt prejudice and racism in his short life, and he saw it in the story of the government and history I was trying to paint.  He started to yell at me, raising his voice in anger and frustration at the injustice he felt I was justifying.  In turn, as I sat in my desk at the front of the room, papers in hand, I yelled back.  I raised my voice, but probably surprised him with my response.

I don't remember everything I said that day, but I remember I maybe had never been so adamant and vocal and emotional in my whole life as a teacher.  I do remember that I shouted back.  I shouted quotes from Malcolm X and Martin Luther King about injustice and inequality.  I argued that slaves never stood a chance because of the system that existed and finally, though the details are hazy, I shouted, "Isaac, it's because they were black!" and as I calmed myself down I said, "The government would never do such a thing because it would be impossible and because slaves were black!"

That pivotal moment in my classroom was a life changer.  I remember looking at Tim, my black student, and having him smile his beautiful smile at me.  Maybe he was mocking me because once again I had let Isaac rile me up.  Or maybe he was proud that I'd vocalized and figured out something that he'd known for all of his 16 years.

Either way, this story came to mind today as I was pouring over postings on Instagram about the decision by the Grand Jury in Ferguson, Missouri yesterday.  As the details continue to evolve and unfold,  I don't know what to think.  I don't know what side to be on.  I feel horribly for all the mothers who have ever had to witness something tragic happen to their children, and then feel like no justice was served.  I am sickened that something like this happened because of race, if that's the real motive.  I am nervous that police officers are so quick to fire their weapons and "shoot to kill".  I am disturbed to no end that robbing and looting and committing additional acts of crime feels like a just response, that it feels like the only response.  Why is it when, whether our "team" wins or looses in any capacity of life, as a culture we feel it's okay to take from the innocent and uninvolved.

I've read statistics on crime rates.  I've seen the numbers of how many black men have been murdered in the last few months.  I've once again, read those same Malcolm X and Martin Luther King quotes that I've read so many times before.  But, I've added some Maya Angelou, some Toni Morrison, and some Cornell West into the bunch as well.

It's so sad to me that all of this still exists in the world.  That we don't see people for people and crime for crime.  That it feels like we're going backwards as a nation.  Baton Rouge re-segregates schools, injustice because of race is okay, and there are people of every creed, color, and race oppressed in the nation that is supposed to be the answer to "the dream".

My boys and I, every once in a while, have talks about skin color and how some people look different than others.  We talk about how it doesn't matter, that you are friends with everyone and stick up for everyone.  Every day, as we wait in line to be dropped of for school I tell the boys, "Be good.  Be smart.  Be kind to everyone."

I surely hope they are hearing me.

Also in our house - though it may seem a little unrelated, we talk about the fact that in this life, you are either a Beatle or a Rolling Stone.  I am a Beatle through and through.  And, as I've been thinking about all of this today, a song game to mind, sung and performed in a movie that is so reflective of what is happening today, but identifying with a time decades ago.




These are pivotal times in a volatile world.  It's a little scary.  But I will do my best to stand up for what's right, and make sure my kids do the same.

Making Choices

On Friday night, my brother, in preparation for going on his mission at the end of February, went through the Jordan River Temple to take out his own endowment.  Going through the temple is a really big deal for us Latter Day Saints, and the promises, covenants, and commitments one makes in a temple are heavy, powerful, and vastly significant to the rest of our lives.  You see, the temple and the sacred things that happen in the temple are essential to our salvation and eternal life.  It's the biggest and most essential step in helping us to secure the right, in heaven, to be with our families again.  It was such a great experience for all of us, too.  I was proud of my brother and all the family and friends who were there to support him.

Our experience on Friday night, along with a few other things that happened because of our experience Friday night, have got me thinking a lot the past few days about agency.  About the choices we make and the consequences of those choices on our lives and our families.

When I was a high school teacher and students would come to me panicked about their grades at the end of each term, I wasn't always the nicest or most forgiving.  I kept a poster at my desk that said, "Failure to prepare on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine."  Depending on the kid, how big of an "F" they had, and how tired I was when they came to talk to me really played a big role in how I'd be willing to help and I made sure to always really make a kid sweat before I'd work with them to bring their grade up.  I would always tell those students, "It is much easier to pass my class than to fail.  To pass my class, all you needed to do was show up every day and do what was asked of you.  To fail my class, you had to make a conscious decision every single day to: not attend; not do or turn in assignments; not participate."

Those kids had agency.  They made their choices and were not happy with the consequences.  Though I was never a benevolent teacher, I tried hard to help kids be successful.  But, there were never very many football players in my classes.

In life, as adults, we make choices.  We choose a path and that path introduces us to people and places, experiences and opportunities, success and failure, gratitude and heartache.  Whenever we face a bump in our path, we are lucky enough that we get to use our agency, again, to get us back in the right direction.  For most of us, our path, though not straight or smooth, is full of joy and opportunity.  For others, their path has lots of briars and thorns.  Regardless though, we choose how to move, deal with, and relate to the experiences in our lives.  Some see the glass half full, others half empty.

Here's the thing.  I chose my path.  You choose your path.  I own up to my choices, good or bad, and face the consequences and reap the blessings.  A big part of my path is my faith.  Okay, the biggest part of my path is my faith.  There are a lot of things that make me, me, but when it comes right down to it, the path that I have taken, the choices that I have made, have led me to the life I have.

Agency.

Temples are sacred places.  In the last 9 months, I've had two experiences in a temple that have made me believe and know without a doubt, that the choices I've made are right, and that the path I am on is good for me.  For our wedding anniversary, Ross and I went to the Salt Lake Temple.  I got a little lost when we parted ways for a bit and when I rounded a corner, I saw an elderly temple worker sitting on a chair. This woman, in the briefest of moments, looked exactly like my grandma.  There was no one else around, she looked me directly in the eyes and winked at me, showed me the direction to go.  It took my breath away! She was in the briefest of seconds, the spitting image of my grandmother and, when I turned back to look at her a second time, she looked nothing like the person I had initially seen.  I was covered in goose bumps and a little confused.

On Friday night, I had a similar experience.  I rounded a corner alone in the temple and saw a woman who at that moment looked exactly like my grandma.  She also winked at me.  I kept walking and this time, I didn't look back.  I wanted to keep the image in my head exactly as I had seen it.

Of all the things that I could have chosen to do with my life up until this point in time, I have chosen a path that gives me the opportunity to know without a single doubt, that what I am doing is right.  That I will be with my family forever.  That I have family in heaven looking out for me, protecting me, and guiding me.

Agency is a pretty amazing thing.

at least it happened on a saturday

I ditched church today, but for good reason.

Yesterday morning, around 3:00 am I got up to help Ross with Quinn.  Changed the diaper, sucked the boogers and sent them and a bottle on their way.  I however, didn't feel so hot.  I came downstairs to check my blood sugar, a little high for the middle of the night, and got a drink of chocolate milk, my midnight snack of choice.  I then marched back upstairs and put my giant butt back into bed, only I noticed something wasn't right.  My tummy wasn't happy.

But, I fell asleep to wake at 6:00 am to a jabbering baby and a tired husband in bed with me.  After about 3 minutes I knew I was in trouble and headed downstairs to the bathroom.  I spent the next two hours in the bathroom and when I finally thought I was okay it was time to shower, put some finishing touches on some cupcakes I'd make for my cousin's baby shower and head to my sister's to car pool to Roy.

I should have realized when I got on the scale after the shower and it said I'd lost 9 whole pounds in two hours that I was in for trouble.  Instead, I grabbed a sprite zero and some crackers and headed out the door.  The 45 minute drive was okay until the last 10 minutes or so when things started to get a little sketchy and lets just say I barely made it to my aunts house in time.

Thank heavens she has a bathroom in the basement tucked away from all civility.

After a few minutes (maybe 15?) I thought I was okay (again) and marched upstairs to ask my aunt for a diet coke.  She had ONE.  She told me it was over a month old and they were saving it for an emergency.  I declared I was the emergency, popped the top and found a seat.  After about 3 sips I knew that this time I was in trouble and that this time, the trouble wouldn't have me sitting on the toilet, but kneeling at the porcelain throne instead.

I rushed back to that downstairs bathroom.  Set my drink on the counter.  Hurriedly took off my jacket and got the toilet seat up just in time for the flood gates to open.  And, open they did.  Honestly, it was the most sick I'd been in 4 years - when I got cafe rio food poisoning - and it was bad.  You should have seen my flushed face and smeared make-up once it was all over.  And, as if it was just for me, there was a giant bottle of mouth wash in that bathroom and after I fixed up my face with some tissues, I gargled my puke away and headed back upstairs.

There were no more incidents during the shower and as soon as the last present was opened my sister and her kids and I left.  We stopped for a drink and then she flew me home.  Ross was kept up-to-date on my situation the entire afternoon and was waiting for me....from a distance...when I returned home.  Immediately I ran upstairs, took off my nice clothes, threw on a grubby t-shirt and climbed into bed.  Where I slept for about 2 hours until around 4:30, it all started again.  The most violent and horrendous sickness maybe of my entire life.  I couldn't catch my breath.  I couldn't open my eyes.  I was puking and crying and moaning.  I slammed my head onto the open toilet seats.

It was awful.

I spent the entire day in bed, sleeping most of the afternoon and evening away.  Ross took such good care of the boys while I was on my death bed.  Around 6:00 pm, after 12 hours of being being brutally sick I told him that I though I needed to go to the emergency room.  Before that though - I contacted the resident nurse, and texted my mom, who was on a plane from New Orleans a pathetic and sad text.  After my phone calls, and a lot of dry heaving in the bathroom, I decided that it was best to wait it out at home, but have my dad come to help Ross give me a blessing.

I couldn't sit up in the chair, and don't remember what was said, but I believe in blessings.  I don't ask for them often, if ever...only when I've been having babies...but last night I needed one.  After, my good dad stayed to entertain the big boys while Ross got the baby to sleep.

I remember nothing else from the evening except that at 4:00 am I woke up, brushed my teeth and washed my face.

Today, my body feels like it does the day after a c-section when my babies have been born.  Completely broken.  But, I've eaten, and drinken (I know, not a real word) and just a little bit ago, showered and put on new clothes.

No idea what I got zapped with, or why it picked me.  I'm just happy that I didn't die, and that it happened on a Saturday.

Solicitors

When we first moved into "the Truman Show" almost nine years ago, we were bombarded with solicitors.  Foreign kids selling "their artwork".  People wanting to maintain our grass, our water, our lives.  Spiritual beings bringing us messages of salvation.  Individuals who thought we needed magazines, peepholes in our doors, and windshields replaced on the front drive.  Even though we had a huge no soliciting sign on our front door, there were days, always in the summer, where we'd have three or four of these types in a day.  It got to be exhausting making small talk, listening to the smooth talked message, and then declining the service.  Because of the soliciting, we just quit answering the door and kept the blinds closed a lot.  There is always so much confrontation with solicitors, when they know the "no" is coming and it makes me uncomfortable.  Gives me a stomach ache.  Stresses me out.

In the new house, I can't block us off from the world.  The front door is all windows and glass.  And whats worse?  My children are like little dogs...when they hear a knock or a doorbell ring, they race to the door because it's got to be something awesome waiting for them.  Now, most of the time it's a neighbor or the UPS man, but  a lot of the time it isn't.

Last fall, as I walked out to get the mail, I counted four different solicitors making their way around my street.  I raced into the house, headed upstairs and grabbed a piece of paper.  In all CAPITAL LETTERS I wrote a quick note, "NO SOLICITING.  Thank you!" and taped it to the window right by the door bell.

For the most part, it works.  People either read the sign and leave us alone, we aren't home, or I'm able to yell at the dogs stop the boys before they open the door and let the strangers in for a drink and some cookies.  Please know that this is an issue we work on daily - the whole door thing.  They are getting better and haven't actually opened the door for someone for a long time.  They do though, still rush the door to see who it is and then if they don't know, they run away, thus, requiring me to answer the door and see what someone wants to sell.

Anyway, flash forward to this afternoon.  We had just had a UPS delivery - new shoes for Disneyland - and were watching Star Wars Clone Wars.  The boys were a little pumped up.  Just as I walked into the bathroom to use the facilities the doorbell rang.  I heard the rush of their little, new shoe wearing, light saber wielding feet rush to the door.  I yelled at them from the bathroom "DON"T ANSWER THE DOOR" and finished what I was doing.

I suppose I could have just ignored the fact that the doorbell rang.  I'm not sure which is more rude.  Ignoring the door after my boys have made it obvious that we are home or saying "no thank you" several times, some forcefully to the solicitor.

Today our friendly neighborhood door knocker was Carl.  He was large and in charge and a smooth talker.  He talked a lot about "pay it forward" so much so that I thought that was the organization he was representing.  He started off nice enough, asking me about my life and stuff....the usual.  The he pulled out a giant bill-fold of little packets.  The first one he wanted me to write my name and that he was courteous.  Sure, I could do that but there was a catch.  If I signed, I had to buy magazines.  Now, the magazines were for me and would be sent to the homeless shelter and the Ronald McDonald house.  Um...okay.  I continued to listen and then told him that I wasn't interested in giving him $60 for magazines that I didn't want or need.

The next billfold came out to tell me that for a smaller donation, I could send magazines to charities and not get any for myself.  I declined.

Then the next billfold came out for me to give him a cash donation.  Here's the thing.  My husband and I donate 10 percent of our income to our church and that money is used all over the world to help people in need.  I give money to St. Jude's children's hospital and the disabled American veterans regularly because they send me address labels and cute little notebooks with teddy bears on them.  I donate to food drives whenever I know of one.  I tip generously every where I go.  I do my best to be charitable and generous.

Ross bought magazines from a lady last November because he thought she was nice.  We've never ever received one of those magazines.

I was not going to buy magazines from Carl.  When I told him this, he got a little angry and challenged me, asking if I believed in giving people an opportunity, in "Pay int forward", and why was I making him go back to his hotel room to tell his son he didn't make any money today.

Holy guilt trip batman.

It didn't work.

I didn't buy.

He yelled "God Bless" as he stomped off my porch.

My sign told him not to ring the bell.

If I had any doubt, he is definitely my little brother

 

 Willie was on TV this past Wednesday as part of the Fox 13, Good Day Utah, Cool School of the Week feature with Big Buddha.  He was responsible for the first and the last segment on the morning news and did an excellent job.  He was funny and witty and when Buddha tried to make fun of him, it just didn't work.

He was a rapper, bringing out his alter ego, "Wonder Bread".  He danced as if no one was watching, leading several hundred students in the "Harlem Shake" a several week old dance phenomenon that is sweeping the Internet.

I was proud of him.

The rest of the morning's segments, the ones without him present were at best....totally lame.  It was obvious that the dance and drill teams weren't given much, if any notice that they would be performing on the televizzle.  It was a stretch to have the DECA and Anti-Bullying kids try to share a message in a 20 second spot.  It was, overall, a pretty disappointing showing for the high school.

The boys and I watched the news all morning, until it was time to head for school, to see Uncle Willie.  As I pulled into the driveway, with a sleeping Quinn in his car seat my phone rang.

It was my brother.

He was mad.

We talked about his frustration with the morning's broadcast.  About how he was a bit embarrassed about the lack of preparation.  We discussed the fact that the administration was giving him the run around while he was trying to put his high school's best face forward and how, he got so frustrated that he got in the face of a teeny tiny administrator and let him have it.

I was so proud of him.  At that moment, he was truly my little brother.

You see, us three Petersen kids were raised to be smart and mature and responsible.  When asked to do something we do our best, do it right, and hopefully make our parents proud.  We all had roles in high school, both academic (well, me not so much), athletic and personality wise that made sure everyone knew who we were.

Me?  I didn't know how to keep my mouth shut, the worst incident of which happened in an assembly towards the boys basketball coach, calling him something, he told me later, no one had every called him except his wife.

My sister?  One of my grandma's coined the name, "Poison Pen Petersen" because she was the absolute queen of letters to the editor, exposing all the injustice in our school.

My brother?  Well, he came into his own, calling out a bunch of dumb administrators for their lack of support, school spirit, organization, and desire to inspire kids to be great and always do better.

Later in the morning, I sent my mom a text, asking her why her children struggled and struggle so much with authority in high school.  Her response was, "too mature".  I had a conversation with Ross late on Wednesday night about the age we both were when we became truly disillusioned with authority and realized that most adults really don't care and weren't really looking out for our best interest.  There are so many good teachers (my sister and mom for example), good administrators, good kids out in the world...it's just so immensely frustrating when as a kid you feel like your surrounded by all the ones that don't really care and don't want to put in the effort.

Can I just tell you Internet, that I'm dreading junior high and high school with my boys.  Just dreading it.  But, as my mom and dad were for us, I will be an advocate for my child, a supporter of my sons' schools, and an involved mom, trying to make a difference in the lives of my boys and their friends.  I'm not sure how I'll do it, but I will.

My Grandma Huber always told us, that if you want something done right, you should do it yourself.  And, that if it's worth doing, it's worth doing well.  I guess that really rubbed off on us kids....just one more way that my grandma influenced our lives.  She was never one to keep her mouth shut when her family, kid, or grand kid was on the line and apparently, neither are we.

Stuck in the Middle

It's the middle of high school basketball season.  Region play started last night for the Hunter Wolverines.

Before we talk about that though....

Up to last night, the season, like the two before it, has been rough.  All the family and I sit game after game and watch very talented, smart, and nice boys face an opponent unprepared, under coached, and un-inspired.  Phone calls have been made and e-mails sent to all who might care lamenting the horrible coaching staff - a staff that doesn't know the names of all the kids or how many kids are even on the team.  Coaches who cannot put together a good line-up.  Coaches who don't know how to call a play, make a substitution, or call a time out.

Now, as the type of basketball family we are, we know the game.  We've been watching and playing the game our whole lives and if called to duty in any capacity, could whip together an in bounds play on a seconds notice.  So, to watch these boys lose games they should not lose.  To sit by and have a losing record for the first time in their life as a team (as sophs and juniors they only lost 5 games all season) is so hard.  Granted, we don't sit by.  We yell and scream.  We cheer and chant.  We try to motivate when no one else does.

And, some of us (me!)  yell at assistant coaches and call them morons in parking lots after horrible losses.  But, some of us (me!) feel justified in said yelling because said assistant coach was shoving his face full of free food and had sour cream dripping down both sides of his mouth like some sort of sick, taco eating clown.

But......

I digress!

Last night was the start of region play and...

Our boys won! And they won decidedly.  And, my brother played amazing defense and shut down the opponents star center to the point that every time he touched the ball in the 4th quarter, he just kicked it back out to a guard because there was no way he was getting past the defensive wall that was my brother.

It was a great game.  High scoring and high energy.  I was proud of the boys.  It looks like, in spite of all the dumb-dumb adults they are surround with, they may have pulled it together on their own to be the team they know they can be.

Year in Review

2012 is almost over and it was quite a year for our little family. 

Ross traveled to South America and back.

 

They boys did lots of baseball, swimming lessons and soccer.

 

We added a concrete pad, flower bed curbing, and a fence to the yard and painted a few rooms in the house and gussied up the laundry room.

 

Wyatt moved from diapers to big boy pants, a crib to a bed, and from a binker and blankies to nothing at all.

 

Elliott grew inches, learned a bunch of new words, and almost mastered riding his bike and tying his shoes.

 

We started and finished our 4th season of Shavy Jones shaved ice.

 

Elliott turned 5.  Wyatt turned 3.  Ross and I each got a year older.

 

Elliott started Kindergarten and Wyatt started preschool.

 

We swam a lot at Grandpa Huber's house and spent a lot of time hanging out in the gym and in the bleachers cheering on Uncle Willie.

 

We went to Sea World, Lego Land and Dinosaur Land.

 

We hosted a bunch of parties and ate a lot of really yummy food.

 

We went on A LOT of walks around the neighborhood looking for bugs.

 

The boys rode their scooters until their legs were sore and kicked the soccer ball into the street hundreds of times.

 

Ross and I celebrated our 9th wedding anniversary but 10 years of knowing each other.

My brother grew taller than me and I couldn't be prouder.

 

We grew our family by one first cousin, one second cousin, and one sweet and squishy baby boy.  

 

Yes.  I'd say that this was definitely a memorable year.

We wish you and yours a Happy New Year.

Stuck in a rut....

I'm sure that if I were to flashback to the first months after Wyatt was born, my feelings and thoughts would be the same as they are these days.  I know back then I was completely stricken with intense anxiety and went on Prozac for 6 months.  I know I was overwhelmed trying to figure out two kids and felt completely ignored and under appreciated in all aspects of my life.  I know that I was a little depressed about being super overweight and jiggly.  My skin was sensitive and I had a strange numb spot in my back as a side effect from my spinal for surgery.  I was also completely fried because I had a job, didn't get any maternity leave, and was totally losing my mind.

When Wyatt was three months old I sucked it up and went to a doctor, figured out how to calm down a bit, and just tried to enjoy being a mom.  I never took all the xanex he prescribed for me.  I still have two left, three years later.

Now, I'm in the same position.  I have an almost three month old at home, with two other children.  Overall, adjusting to three has been smoother than my adjustment to two kids.  It's totally overwhelming and requires my maximum organizational and list making skills at all times, but things are working.  They are working better than I ever could have imagined them to work.  I'm on blood pressure medication.  Most of the anxieties I had adjusting to two children are present again with three children, but I think I'm handling it better.  I know I'm still a little depressed about how I look and how I feel but I just don't have time to think about it - I've changed my hair color and chopped all my hair off, that's helped a bit.

This time though, I don't have a job adding unnecessary stress to my life.  Just the second of a series of kind of boring online classes that I'm taking.  I still need to go to a doctor because I'm almost out of blood pressure meds, I've got some serious back aches and even 11 weeks out of having a baby, my ankles and hands are still swollen.

But....

But.....

Life is good.  Once I ignore how uptight I am and how grumpy I am and how completely stressed out and exhausted I feel nearly every second of the day, its easy to realize I'm such a lucky girl.

I have three little boys who love each other.  And two big brothers who show absolutely no sign of getting tired of their baby brother, the massive amounts of my time that he demands, and the smells that come out of his rear end.  They still want to love and hold and talk to him every single day.

I still manage, just barely, to come up with enough crafts and projects to keep the big boys happy. Thank heavens I remembered about painting snow from last year.

I have the sweetest newborn in the entire world who just figured out how to stick out his tongue, nap a little bit, and last night he slept in his crib for the first time. He slept from 9:30 pm to 5:00 am. Awesome baby boy.

I also have a hot chocolate machine, a really smart brother who got accepted to the University of Kansas School of Engineering two days ago, and a super awesome family.

Its hard to be honest about feeling like a wreck.  About feeling like a failure.  Yeah, i still get up, get dressed, comb my hair and put on make-up and tackle my list daily but its a struggle every morning I tell ya.  My grandma always used to say that if you were sad or bummed out to fake being happy and if you faked it long enough, eventually you'd believe it.

It's probably time I take that advice to heart and give it a try.

37.4

I'm really, really lucky that for the most part, being pregnant is "easy" for me.  I don't get morning sickness in the beginning, life trudges along as normal through the middle, and for most of the end, no matter how uncomfortable I get, I still seem to be able to keep up with the demands of my life.

Until now anyway.

One of the reasons Elliott was born 15 days early is because my blood pressure was just too high.  It wasn't heart attack/stroke high, but it was higher than it should have been for someone my age.  And, because my diabetes was totally out of control (but still sort of under control) we had to deal with a sick baby, underdeveloped lungs, and 9.5 days in the NICU.

Flash forward to Wyatt.  My diabetes was better controlled and my blood pressure was low.  Just at the point it started to climb with Elliott, a few weeks before he was born, with Wyatt it actually started to drop.  I was shocked but happy.  It meant that he got to cook a little bit longer and in the end, he was 5 days early, spent a couple of hours being checked out in the NICU and then he was all mine.

Now flash forward again to "little twitchy".  

First, he still doesn't have a name so if you've got a good idea, share it in the comments.  No "double tt" names, please.

Second, about a month ago, my blood pressures started climbing.  Not major climbs mind you, but when your hanging out in the 120/67's and jump to 135/82 that's cause to be concerned.  Luckily, I go for Non-Stress Tests twice a week and though my numbers in the office have been high, the 4 pressures that get taken at each test have been pretty good.

At my 37 week appointment four days ago, my blood pressure was 147/92.  That's high.  "Normal" is 140/80 and my doctor would like be to be 130/80 or lower.  Oops.  All the blood pressures at my NST's have sort of bought me some time, or so I thought, and at that appointment last week we set a date of Thursday, September 6 at 7:30 in the morning for the little twitch to arrive.  One week early, two weeks to go and a light at the end of the tunnel.

Then I went for my 8:30 am NST on Saturday morning.  The worst BP?  157/92.  The best BP?  147/82.  That's not so hot.  It means I'm failing.  And, by failing it means that the baby has to get here sooner than later before I have a heart attack or a stroke.

Yes, I'm being dramatic.

Before I can leave each NST, The nurses call my doctor to give him the report of my test.  When the nurse came in on Saturday she said, "I just got off the phone with Dr. Nielson, and he says when you come in on Tuesday for your next NST, that we'll set up a c-section date and you'll have the baby by the end of next week."

Okay.  Cool?

So, my high blood pressure and I came home on Saturday and went straight to bed.  I stayed in bed almost all of Saturday and almost all of Sunday.  Getting up only to supervise/check-in on one of the many projects I'd assigned my good husband, to go to the bathroom, to eat,  or just to stretch my legs.  In the last 48 hours, counting night time, I think I easily spent 30 of them lying down.  It was good for my ankles, but my BP is still high.

It's okay right at this exact moment, but as I was panicking last night trying to decided if I needed to go to the hospital or not because I didn't feel so hot, I sent my good husband out to get me a blood pressure cuff.  At 11:00 pm.  He is such a good husband.  And what was the result?  It was 157/98.  Ahhhh!

Once I actually knew what the number was though, I calmed down a bit.  I re-read the symptoms of preeclampsia my doctor gave me and decided I was okay - that the best thing to do right then would be to go to bed.

Which I did.  And I woke up exactly 7 times to go to the bathroom.  Blah!

Anyway - today is Monday.  A normal every day kind of day.  Back to routines and school and laundry, if you don't count Wyatt being home and not at school, sitting on the couch watching "bubble guppies" and coughing up a phlegmy lung.  Life doesn't seem to hold still and I'm doing my best to "rest" and stay "calm" whatever that means.

Tomorrow, on Tuesday, I go for my next NST.  I'm hoping it's my last and that they let me leave AND that I leave with a surgery date for sometime on Thursday, Friday or Saturday.

Little twitchy will be two weeks early.  But, hopefully the good control I've had over my bedes this time around will give him good lungs.  If not - we've done the NICU before and will survive.

I need to lie down.

Thank you, ancient China!

Last summer, in the new neighborhood, while Ross was gone to Australia, the Fourth of July actually terrified me.  There were so many fireworks being blasted off on my street and the circle next to me,  that I honestly thought my house might burn down.

The fact that a home in my old neighborhood did burn down because of some delinquent fireworks lighters last summer didn't help calm my nerves.

Anyway, last year I was up until almost 1:30 in the morning pacing, checking on my boys, and praying for the stupid aerials to stop so I could feel calm and go to sleep.  And then?  The fireworks went on for the next three days, but only until about Midnight.

Flash forward a few weeks to the 24th of July Pioneer Day celebration and it wasn't quite as bad.

Now, this year, I'd been warning Ross for weeks to get ready for the barrage of fireworks this July.  I'd been lamenting about how bad they are and how mad it was going to make him.  Well, we missed the fireworks on the 4th because we stayed at my parents house to light a few small ones of our own and by the time we got home, the neighborhood was mostly quiet.

That led me to believe, foolishly, that last night, the 24th would be pretty calm.  With the general ban on fireworks in areas across the state, plenty of big celebrations lighting off the big stuff I figured we were safe.  We got the boys to bed at 9:00, did our end of night routines and as soon as Ross and I climbed into bed around 10:30, the fireworks started.

At one point, I seriously thought that there was gunfire on my street.  I jumped, I started, and I cursed the bombardment for over two hours.  The light shows in my neighborhood and surrounding neighborhoods were still going on, with hooting and hollering, until almost 1:00 am when I finally drifted off to sleep.  For a few hours, my neighborhood actually looked like a war zone from a movie with loud booms, gun shot sounds, and bright flashing lights that felt like artillery bombardments.

What's the point?

I'm a grumpy old woman and I despise fireworks.

It's totally cool to light off a few small things in your driveway to terrify your kids before they go to bed.  I like the "danger" of sparklers and to see the excited fear in the faces of my kids who are nervous they might light their jammies on fire.  I do not think that the same things shot off at Sugar House Park should be lit three houses down from me in someones front yard.  And, in a neighborhood full of small children like mine,  who are on year round school schedules that start back at school today, it's pretty inconsiderate to be lighting of those gun shots booms at Midnight, let alone 1:30 in the morning.

Now, when my boys are obnoxious teenagers I might change my mind.  But when my boys are small, delicate little flowers, I am not a fan.

Fort Knox

 

(My husband shared this with me over the weekend.  I'm still laughing.)

Lately, everything in my life can be blamed on my hormones?

Or not.

I'm trying really hard to get all the things done in a day that I usually get done and still find a few minutes here and there to put swollen and sore ankles and feet up.  This week though, I've started my twice weekly NST's (Non-Stress Tests) (which are anything but non-stress).  This is where I go to the hospital, this time around to the Labor and Delivery department, get set-up in a triage room,  hooked to a billion monitors and then told to "relax" for 20 minutes to an hour while little twitchy does his thing  being tracked on a monitor.  It's actually a nice break, sort of, except for all the stress of doing it twice a week, finding someone to watch my kids, driving to and from the hospital and inevitably, even though I go right before, needing to use the bathroom right as everything gets hooked up and the nurse walks away.

Phew!  I'm tired just thinking about it.

But, I keep reminding myself...baby, baby, baby.......In a few short weeks I get a baby out of all this and that, in the end, keeps me from crying.  On most days, anyway.

But, I digress.  The boys and I had to run an errand this morning.  The place we needed to go, when we pulled up in front at 10:45 didn't open until 11:00 am.  Fifteen minutes to kill.  I had a brilliant idea.

Why don't we go to the library, just around the corner.

Even better?  Why don't I be a good mom and actually get a library card.

It was decided and I had two little boys very excited to venture to the biblioteque.

Me?  Not excited.  Library's literally make me sick to my stomach if I'm there for more than 10 minutes.  No joking.  I enter a library and I have to find a bathroom.  When I was a student at the "U" and had to crank out some massive study sessions at the Marriott Library my routine was always the same.  Enter library; find cubby; sit down, get out all my stuff; open Ritz crackers; sneak open coke; pack up most of my belongings and speed walk to the nearest bathroom, hoping the stuff I left in haste was still there when I returned.

It always was.  Thank you fellow Utah students.

Anyway, the public library.  We walked in confident.  I approached the librarian.  I should have known by the "I hate my job" look she was giving me that this was not going to be easy.  I told her that I needed a library card.  She asked me if I've ever had one before.  I said, "Yes, but not since I was probably 10 years old."  She looked me up by my maiden name and birthday and I was not in the system.  Obviously.  Because, like I said, maybe when I was 10 I had a library card...that was 24 years ago.

Ahhhh.

Next, she handed me a bright pink half sheet of paper and asked me for my drivers license with my current address.  I told her that I moved recently (a year is recently, right?) and that my DL did not have my new address.

She was not amused.

She told me that if my address was not current on my DL then I had to have another document with me to get a library card and referred me to the paper.

Some of the other documents included:
passport or government ID (with current address)
cell phone bill
medical bill
water/gas bill

You get the idea.  She then directed me to a computer to fill out an online application and told me that she could issue me a temporary card.

I did as I was told and then let the boys each select three books.

We went to check out.

She found my recently completed application, gave me a temporary card and then I stood there, thinking that she would help me check out the books.

Bitter librarian just stared at me.

I asked if she would help me.  She said no and pointed to the computer kiosk.  She told me it was easy to use and that I SHOULD be able to do it.  Apparently by this point, "I'm with stupid" was printed across my forehead with an arrow pointing down.

I did it.  Barely.  Apparently with a temporary card, I could only check out 2 books, not 6.  And since I didn't know this, I checked out two of Elliott's books and none of Wyatt's.  Dramarama in the car I tell you.  Drama!

So, here's the thing.  Apparently I am super naive about the library.  I didn't realize that they needed a vial of blood from my first born a lock of hair and a criminal background check with up to date finger prints to check out a book.  It's a library.  I wanted some books!  Just some books!  I figured that I'd go in, they would verify my address, match me up to my husband (I tried to use him as a reference....avid library user he is but alas, it didn't work) and I'd have a card.  Voila!

Like Forrest Gump said:

Stupid is as stupid does.

I may never go back.

And, my stomach still hurts.

Today is my birthday!

Today is my birthday!   I am 34!  Thirty-four years old doesn't seem nearly as old as it did when I was 24.  I love my family.  I love my life.  I love the life experiences I've had so far and can hardly wait for all those that are yet to come.

I'd just really like another nap like I had yesterday.  In my old age, that was pretty awesome.

Birthday lunch with my three favorite boys

Birthday visit to my grandma.  I've been thinking about her a lot lately.  That must mean she's been thinking about me, too.  (I hope!)

Birthday dinner with all of my favorite people.

2:00 in the am

Nearly every single night, I wake up at 2:00 am.  It used to be 4:00 am, but things change.

Usually, it's to go to the bathroom and then head back to bed.  Occasionally, it's for a drink.  Sometimes, it's because I've got low blood sugar and need something to eat.  Every once in a while it's because of a charlie horse in my leg or a twitchy back muscle, or a swift kick to the kidneys.

Regardless, If I'm lucky, the wake-up call lasts about 40 minutes and I'm back to sleep, waiting for 6:30 when I have to get up for real.  If I'm not lucky, it's a rough night, with at least 4 hours awake.  I watch movies on the computer, catch up on TV shows and read blogs.  I pace the house, peek in on my kids, and listen to my husband snore - him upstairs and me down.

These days though, I rarely get frustrated...or at least as frustrated as I used to.  Maybe it's because I'm lucky to be alive and have a quiet house to wander and a safe neighborhood to live in.  Maybe its because I know that in a few months, I'll be up anyway so it isn't a big deal.

Maybe it's just because I'm getting older and insomnia is just something that life throws at me and I'm learning to deal with it.

Either way, I'm going back to bed to try it again.  Wish me luck.  I've only been up 29 minutes.

The Averary

First of all, Tracy Aviary is expensive.  I forgot how expensive it was.  In talking to my sister last night, she reminded me that last year we went only because she had a coupon.  Duh!  I should have taken that into consideration.

Admission was $17 for the three of us.  The itty bitty plush owls I got suckered into buying (named Snowy and Frosting) cost me $14. Thirty-one dollars is a lot of money for the hour of entertainment we got.  But, we did have fun and we did get to meet our dad for lunch (another $17) on the way home so that made the whole morning excursion worth it.

We just probably won't be going back....without a coupon.

It's not like we really like birds, anyway.

But, my boys do enjoy excursions that involve maps and navigation.  It's fun to let them be in charge and figure out where we are at and what we are looking at.  It is also fun to see them get nervous (along with their mom) in a space with free flying birds and get excited to see raptors and birds of prey.  Condors are cool, but red-tail hawks are awesome.  And we saw pelicans being fed big fish and we saw flamingos doing this weird dance where they would wave their heads in unison, squish together in a group and then peck the crap out of each other.  Pretty fascinating actually.

And, for whatever reason, I still remember this crazy story my old fart English teacher in 9th grade made us read, "The Scarlet Ibis".  It was a super cool story and ever since, I've been a bit obsessed with the beauty of that particular bird.  Good thing there was a whole herd at the Aviary....

Which of course, Wyatt cannot pronounce.  "Averary", "Aveararrry", and "Avvvvrary" were his best three attempts during the day.

My Three Sons

Last March, about two months after my grandma had passed away, life was of course moving on and we were all gathered at one of Elliott's indoor soccer games.  As we mingled at the end of the game and everyone started walking out of the gym, my mom pulled me aside, towards the two remaining folding chairs in the gym, and sat me down, knee to knee.

She looked me in the eye and told me that she'd had an inspiration to tell me something important.  She told me, as well as I can remember, that after a conversation with my grandpa a few days before, she'd felt a prompting to tell me that I needed to have a big family.  I was taken a bit off guard because two kids was pretty much all I could handle at the moment.  And, even though Ross and I had at one time discussed that when the Chick was three, we would have "the talk" about adding a third (seriously, I mean we'd just start talking about it.  No action, lots of scenario planning), I was pretty content.

I immediately asked my mom, wanting to keep things fair, if she had a prompting to tell my sister the same inspiration.  She said that this didn't have anything to do with my sister, just me.  My next question was, how many kids constitute a "big" family.  She said she didn't know, but that it was more than two.  She had a strong feeling that my grandma was in heaven lining up spirits to send down to earth and that at least one or more of those spirits were intended for me.

Gosh.  Thanks mom.  No pressure, right?

Well, I proceeded to do what I do best - put the idea out of my head and ignore my mom and her impression.  Another baby was not something I was ready to consider at the time and I wasn't really sure if ever.  Did I want another baby?  Sure.  Who doesn't want a cuddly, squishy ball of goo to love and dote over?  Unlike a lot of people, I absolutely love newborns.  I could hold a baby all day long.  Mobile squirts stress me out but little balls of squish?  They melt my heart.  But last March, a baby was the last thing on my mind.  Instead, it was full of thoughts of moving, my husbands overwhelming job, the upcoming trip to Disneyland and, well, laundry of course.

As with all things like this, I kept my conversation with my mom between me and Ross, and did my best to put it out of my head.  We probably had more preliminary conversations leading up to "the talk" than we would have otherwise, but by the beginning of the summer, the thought was completely out of our heads.

In August, I had a momentary lapse and thought - "Oh no!  I have to have a baby right now!"  There were a few weeks of panicked and calculated discussions but you don't see a baby in my arms right now so obviously, I backed myself off of that ledge.  Instead, I thought that if I were going to have another child, I needed to get healthy.  This was the spark that got me started on my exercise and healthier eating kick - 3-5 days of exercise a week, lots of sweat and sore muscles saw me drop 10 pounds and a bunch of inches really quickly.  I liked seeing results, even if I wasn't really losing any weight, and felt that this was the right track for me.

Both of my grandmother's celebrate birthdays in September, five days apart.  My Grandma Huber's birthday is September 13th.  The days leading up to her birthday saw me as a very emotional and totally depressed and distraught grand-daughter.  I was so sad that she was gone from the earth.  I visited her grave, taking some beautiful flowers from my yard.  I cried myself to sleep at night, just not sure where the overwhelming emotions were coming from.  It made sense to be sad, but it didn't make sense to me to be THIS sad.  Once her birthday passed, the emotions lingered, but were manageable.

September however marked the beginning of the holiday season, a time of year that was terribly important to my grandma because she loved to throw parties and every month in the fall and winter proved the perfect opportunity for all of us to get together to eat and hang out.  I completely avoided Halloween and all the potential emotions surrounding it, but could not get out of Thanksgiving.  This was to be a Thanksgiving were we were present.  It was at my grandpa's house.  Everyone was stressed out because we didn't know how to feel or act or be.  There was just such a hole where my grandma should have been.

I spent the week leading up to Thanksgiving with terrible insomnia.  I was sleeping a solid hour or two a night and the intense emotions of September were back.  I was exhausted and sad and just felt so overwhelmed.  There were long tear filled conversations with my husband at night but I just couldn't shake the sad.  Of course the holiday was great.  We had fun.  The food was good (as good as Thanksgiving food can be).  I brought crafts and projects and all of the grand kids hung out in the basement playing and laughing and beading bracelets and playing drawing games.

But, I just couldn't shake this lingering feeling.  There was a big gaping hole and without the knowledge of how to fill it, or how to make the feelings go away, I was really struggling.

As November creeped into December my nerves got the better of me and the anxiety hit strong.  There were a couple days that I popped 1/2 of an old xanex because I couldn't calm myself down.  As best as I could, I kept all these feelings to myself, but no matter what I did, I couldn't get my grandma out of my head.

Then one morning, a clear morning, I awoke calm.  After months of blocking it, the thoughts of my March conversation with my mom returned to my head and no matter what I tried, I couldn't stop thinking about babies.  Not just babies, but that my mom was right.  My grandma was lining up spirits in heaven and that my indecision, or ignorance, or both, was preventing a person from getting to this earth.  Then, as if an anvil had been dropped onto my head, my emotions of the last few months became clear.  It was my grandma trying to talk to me.  She was flooding my brain and my thoughts, helping me to find my path to the inevitable.

My mom has always told me that when you are thinking about someone who has passed away, that at that moment, they are with you.  They are holding your hand, in your presence.  That their spirit is with you.

Well, if that's true, and I believe it is, then my grandma was spending months of her valuable time in heaven trying to get through my thick skull something that had been so clear.  Once I figured it out I had to work up the courage to tell Ross that our plan to wait until Wyatt was 3 to have the discussion about having another baby was moot.  I had made my decision and it was time to get our act together.  In our ordered, organized lives, that was the most "throw caution to the wind" I had ever been.

The week after Christmas I didn't feel well.  We had been out returning Christmas gifts at some local stores and ended up at Wal-Mart.  While the boys were in the return line and then wandering to get a few items, I headed to the drug store section and bought myself a box of pregnancy tests.  If I remember, Ross wanted me to take one that night.  I didn't.  I did however wake up that morning to use the bathroom, probably around 5 am or so and decided to take one then.

It was positive.

I left it on the bathroom sink for Ross to find when he got up in the morning.

After the initial shock of the whole thing wore off, and I took a couple more tests I did what I've done two other times....I pretended it wasn't happening.  My husband was out of the country and I didn't have time to be sick or worry about the whole thing.

But, after Ross was gone a couple of days, as I was sitting alone at the computer waiting to skype with him, I went to babycenter.com and looked up a due-date calculator.  I entered all the numbers and dates the calculator asked for and when my due date appeared on the screen I burst into tears.

September 13, 2012.

My Grandma Huber's birthday.

This baby boy is a confirmation that blessings are sent straight from heaven - and in my case, as a direct message from my grandma that she loves me.