And just like that, they are back to school!

We had a pretty good summer.  Actually, all things considered, we had a great summer.

A few of the things we did:
go on a vacation
go to california
go on a hike
walk around silver lake
attend a rodeo
take swimming lessons
take tennis lessons
swim at great grandpa's
play in soccer tournaments
light fireworks
go to a REAL soccer game
movies in the theater
grandma camp
hang out with uncle willie
go to the zoo
watch a total eclipse
lunch at waffle love

See, not such a bad list.

The boys school is starting on a traditional schedule this year which meant we got 7 uninterrupted weeks of summer vacation.  The first four were great, the last three we struggled now and again.  I have however made a mental note that next year, we've got to have something to get us up and going every week (lessons, activities, etc.) because some of the dog days of August drug on pretty long.

But, the boys got along so well with each other.  I was just really happy.  There is such nostalgia in my mind for summer vacations - I really hope that when my kids are older, they cherish their summers like I did mine.

That being said, today was the first day of school.  Elliott started 5th grade, Wyatt 3rd grade and Quinn his third and final year of preschool.  It's nice to be sitting in a totally quiet house, but I already miss my 3 amigos.  Maybe that's a movie they are old enough to watch?  Ha!

The boys have each grown up so much, both literally taller and more mature since the beginning of the last school year.  It's hard for me to watch Elliott grow up, because he's the first and that kid and I just click these days.  I always hope that he is my buddy and my friend and my helper.  Wyatt?  I will worry about Wyatt until the day I die, and then worry in heaven some more.  But, like his dad says, Wyatt is a smooth kid, he's lucky and charismatic and makes good decisions.  Even if he has a life threatening allergy to peanuts.  And Quinn, he turns FIVE next week.  He has informed me that he is no longer my "little squish" and that he will commence growing up.

Where is Peter Pan, Never land and the lost boys when I need them in real life?  I need to freeze time a little bit.  Things are so fast-paced for us these days.  So many places to go and things to do, no wonder we all sleep so well at night.  Ross and I have talked at length about how, right now, we are in a sweet spot with our family and oh, is it sweet.  We have our disagreements and occasional tantrums (parents included), but life is good and we are happy.

I love these boys so much. I wish they'd slow down a bit, but they won't and I'd better just learn to keep up.

An update on Grandpa

My grandpa has seen better days.  Today, he is an outpatient at the Riverton Hospital, getting a blood transfusion.  The last two weeks he has been residing at the Legacy Village Rehabilitation Center because of a hospital stay, and a feeding tube (he never passes the swallow tests).  The two weeks (or maybe just 10 days) before that, he was in the hospital.  He had a bad infection, stemming from a UTI because of a catheter and had two heart attacks and got a pace maker.

Phew.

The months prior to the last several weeks haven't been so great either.

But, there he is, plugging along, unwilling to give in or give up.  He keeps fighting, to stay with us for another day.

I'm not the best grand-daughter - it's really hard for me to visit.  It's hard for me to see people sick and weak - I want my memories of them to always be strong and healthy.  Knowing that my grandpa isn't doing well is also hard because when he decides it's finally time to leave us (hopefully not too soon), then that's it for me in the grandparent department.  I realize that I'm pretty lucky that at 39 years old, I've still got a grandparent alive to learn from and love.  But, it's touchy for me none the less.

Since January, I've been writing my grandpa letters.  I have written a letter every single week, not missing one.  He is my pen pal, only, a pen pal that doesn't write back.  It's a little one sided I suppose, but I sort of like it that way.  I know he likes to read, and I it's a good way for me to talk to him, because I've struggled with that my whole life, too.

My grandpa is stoic.  He is strong and brave.  He is faithful and courageous.  During my life, he has shared opinions, wisdom and stories of his life with me...mostly through my grandma but on a good day, he can tell some tales.

On Monday, we were driving home from swimming lessons and I had the following conversation with Quinn.  It's a little morbid, but he's four and a half and like all almost 5 year olds, he only speaks the truth.

Q: Mom, is Great Grandpa at home or still in the place?
M:  He is still in the place, but he is doing okay.  Should we go and visit him?
Q:  Yes, we should visit him.
M:  Should we draw him some pictures to decorate his room at the place?
Q:  Yes, I want to make him a card.  How do you spell, "I'm glad you're not dead!"

(Elliott and Wyatt laughing hysterically)
M:  Well, maybe we should say, "I'm glad you are still alive, instead?"
Q:  No, mom.  I'm glad he is not dead.

Well, Quinner.  So am I.

So.  Am. I.

The end of 2016

It's the last day of the current year.

I wrote a letter to send out with my Christmas cards this year, but never finished editing it, and never got copies made.  I did send out Christmas cards though and and Ross' Great Aunt Pat made sure to send a note in her holiday card telling me she missed the letter.  She also called me "Amy".

It's all good in the hood. 

So, being as it's the end of the year and I never sent the letter, it will serve as the final blog post of 2016, along with my accompanying end of year slide show.

The boys and I discussed it the other day and decided that our song of the year was "Hand clap" by Fitz and the Tantrums.

Happy New Year!

Merry Christmas 2016

As I sit down at my computer and try to figure out the best way to sum up the past year, I sort of draw a blank.  It feels like the last year has been a whirlwind of activities, vacations, carpools, practises and games for all the kids sports.  But, of course, I’ll give it a try, and I’ve got my instagram feed to remind me of all the highlights.

This year we took a great trip to Seattle in June to watch Argentina (Leo Messi specifically) play Bolivia in the Copa America soccer tournament.  We hit all the Seattle sites, drove up to Anacortes to go on a whale watching excursion and ate great food!  We went to Disneyland with Annie’s extended family in October to celebrate her parents 40th wedding anniversary and the safe return of Willie (Annie’s brother) from a LDS mission in Lithuania.  Ross’ parents also returned from a mission in South Africa and spent the Thanksgiving holiday in our home.  We took a couple road trips to and through Las Vegas just so we could eat hamburgers and french fries at Shake Shack.  And, the biggest project of the year, we finished our basement over the summer.  It was a long 9 weeks, but we are so happy to have the project completed and no, we didn’t do it ourselves.  

Ross started a new job in April of this year with a company called Solera.  He is just as busy, doing just as many projects as before, all of them technical and finance related, but luckily is working  closer to home.  He coaches Elliott and Wyatt in basketball, Quinn in soccer, and is a great dugout manager for any of the boys baseball games we are attending.  This fall, Ross was released after 5 years as scoutmaster as his church calling and was given a new calling as executive secretary to the bishop, keeping him very busy on Sunday’s in meetings.  Oh, and lest we forget, he spends what little free time he has (about five minutes) playing fantasy football and obsessively checking the ESPN and WOOT apps on his phone.

Annie is continuing to be a stay-at-home-mom with the boys and staying busy being their tutor, coach, short order cook, nurse, classroom volunteer and everything else that comes along with keeping three growing boys from starving every day.  Some days, she drives back and forth from the elementary school 6 or 8 times.   She continues to make and sell tote bags and lots of other stuff at local boutiques and seems to always have one too many projects going on to keep her sane.  This spring, Annie switched over to an insulin pump for her Type 1 diabetes and it’s made all the difference in the world.  Like Ross, Annie  also got a new church calling in the fall switching from a three years tenure teaching primary to a position as the secretary to the young women’s organization working with 12-18 year old girls.

Elliott will be turning 10 in January and is in the 4th grade, in his 4th year of Spanish dual immersion.  He is nearly fluent in Spanish speaking and is above grade level in reading and writing en Espanol.  He’s growing like a weed, and by next year at this time, may be taller than Ross’ mom.  He is turning into a really great kid and a  pretty responsible one, too.  He’s pretty goofy, but takes his school work, mine craft, ipod, fit bit and Pokemon very seriously.   He plays competitive soccer in the Spring and the Fall and basketball in the Winter; regularly helps cook dinner; has become an obsessive reader; plays the trombone in the school band; and mows the lawn.

Wyatt is 7.5 years old and will be turning 8 in May.  He is looking forward to getting baptized in the Spring.  Wyatt plays soccer, basketball and baseball.  He is a really good baseball player.  He is fast and smart and has a great time.  At the end of this past season, he was chosen to be the “all-star” representing his team   Wyatt is in the 2nd grade and also in the Spanish dual immersion program.  He is a very talented artist patiently coloring complicated designs and paint by numbers; he loves to listen to music and identify all the instruments being played; he sings and dances, plays nice with his brothers, and is a perfect, straight A student.  In fact, his Spanish teacher, Senora Gonzales told us at the most recent parent teacher conference that she LOVES him.

Quinn is 4 years old and the crazy sparkle of our family.  He loves Pokemon and dinosaurs and his favorite movie is Jurassic World.  He sings and dances and talks all day long.  He loves to draw and color and practice writing his letters and numbers.  Quinn goes to preschool three days a week, just finished his first season of soccer, where, surprisingly, he was exceptionally aggressive and scored a dozen or so goals.  Quinn makes us laugh all day long, is pretty sarcastic for a 4 year old, and would live out on the trampoline, no matter the weather, if we’d let him.  Or at Target.  The kids loves to go to Target.  I can’t complain about that one.

December blur

I thought November went by fast, but December seems to be in hot pursuit of the world record for time flying by.  We blink, and a week goes by.  We sleep a night, and it's a new month.  That's really what it feels like sometimes, like time is just flying by.

December so far has been full of band concerts and assemblies, preschool Christmas programs, parties, cub scouts, basketball practices and games, Utah ball games.  If we are lucky, there has been one night a week this month where we haven't had something going on, and that's the night ALL the homework gets done for the week.



This month is always hard for me.  I miss my grandmothers terribly.    Even though my Grandma P. has been gone for eight years, and my Grandma Huber for almost 6, it really feels like it was just yesterday that they were supervising breakfasts and feasts and presents and parties.  It seems that in these years since their bodies left us behind that though their spirits are still with us, the hole just feels too big sometimes.  Their magic is missing.  We move on, we celebrate their lives, we talk about them daily, but it feels especially during this month, that the gap between us and them is too large.

On Monday I got a text from a neighbor who grew up in Magna with my family.  Sherry (Belliston) Larson.  She lives in my neighborhood now,  but her mom, Judy Belliston, and my grandma were, I'm pretty sure, forces to be reckoned with back in the day.  Sherry sent me a picture of my grandma from an old Cyprus High School yearbook.  I'm sure it was a PTA meeting, but there was my grandma, smiling at me on Monday morning when I got up.

It's funny how these kind of things make me feel.  I felt that it was a much needed blessing...dare I say my Grandma willed such a thing to happen from her seat up in heaven.  She knew that I needed to to know that she was watching and looking out for me.  But, it is such a bittersweet thing, to be reminded so lovingly of someone you miss so terribly.  I wrote on an instagram post earlier in the week that this week before Christmas is hard for me - it's the week I'd be wrapping her presents, running her errands, and laughing with her at the kitchen table.  Man, I miss those times, but am so lucky that I have them locked away in my memory.  Her, sitting at the table with her yellow notebook of lists, throwing presents into piles, losing gifts in the office, arguing with Haley and me about whether or not she gave that exact same thing to that son-in-law the year before.  We'd have lunch, drink diet cokes, and wrap presents until we just couldn't stand it anymore.

I've been crying off and on all week.  I guess I could blame it on not feeling well.  I do have a sort throat and a stuffy nose.  But instead, I'll blame it on memories of Christmases past, and even though it's a hard time of year, the joys of Christmas present and future.

shock and awe

I have a wonderful family and amazing parents.  These 11 individuals are my world.  I value their time and their love, our dedication to each other.  As a 38 year old, I still want my parents to be proud of me and value their opinion.  I love my sister (and her family) and my brother fiercely and would do anything for them.  My husband and children mean more than the world to me and I will protect them forever, as best as I can, from all the nasty in the world.

I was raised to be thoughtful and kind.  To treat others with respect no matter who they are, what they look like, or how dumb I might really think they could be.  To work hard to get what I want.  To be on time.  To treat others as I'd like to be treated.  I'm doing my best to teach my children these same things.  We have conversations about race and gender.  Every single day when they get out of the car to go to school I tell them, "Be kind to everyone!" and hope that they heed my advice.

The outcome of the 2016 presidential election, and my current morning after are hitting me harder than I thought.  I've found myself fighting back tears and my stomach hurts.  How silly, right?  My country, my state, members of my religion elected a bully to be president.   Chose someone who has said out loud, so many hateful and horrible things about so many different people...said things I fight every day to keep my children from feeling and thinking.

I voted for Hillary Clinton.  Not because of her history or her controversies, or even so much her politics.  And not as a protest to Trump.  I voted for her, because she was a HER.  Because I felt so empowered as a woman in a country run by men that, the mere possibility that a woman could be in charge - could be the commander in chief gave me goosebumps.  She was no more corrupt than anyone else, no more scandalous.  But I truly felt that I could believe that a woman, a mother, a grandmother, could bring something to this office, this country, that we had never had before.  I was so hopeful that my sons could see a woman in power, for all the girls of America to see that yes, the really could do it.  A girl could finally win!

The femminist in me doesn't believe in giving up, that there will be another chance, maybe even in my lifetime, for a woman to reach the highest office in the land.  The realist in me however, is questioning so many things this morning, that I don't even know where to start.

This was an historical election, and I am historically bummed.

#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.  

February blahs

We are at the end of our first week off-track.  The boys sort of get screwed out of vacation time with year round school, but no more so than their November and February breaks.  For both, the weather is rotten, the air not safe for breathing, and we're pretty much trapped indoors with our screens.  Add to that, regularly scheduled stress induced freak out sessions by the mom, and it makes for a challenging break.

Lately, my brain is crammed with too many things to think about and that could be the reasons that I've had a migraine for 11 days.

I worry about my friends.  My best friend since 7th grade had surgery this week to remove breast cancer.  I'm so worried about her.  My aunt has cancer with a cloudy prognosis.  I worry about her, too.  I have a million and one things wrong with me that no doctor can figure out.  I worry about that daily, as well.  It's difficult going to doctors with legitimate complaints and having said doctors look at you like you escaped from the loony bin.  I exercise and eat right and cannot lose weight.  My diabetes control hasn't been the best lately.  Then there are the swollen legs and the acute pain in my left foot.  Ug!  And the headaches!  Screw those completely.

I worry about my children.  What they watch, what they do, what they don't eat, how they interact with each other and their friends.  I worry that they have to spend too much time with me, but then I worry that I get in their way and just need to let them be.  I worry that I'm not doing it right, that I buy them too much crap (giving them too high of expectations), and that we are too easy on them.  But then again, they do need to help with jobs around the house, or how else with they ever learn anything.

I worry about my husband.  His job stresses him out, in turn stressing me out.  Between work, and church commitments, and spending time with his kids, and all the things that I do every week, we never see each other, or talk to each other.  There isn't a baby sitter to ditch the boys with every week for a "date" and so it's just us, trying to squeak out time with each other as we fall asleep every night, or trying to have a conversation in the front of the car with the eaves droppers in the back.  Ug!  Being married is hard work.

I worry about my small little business.  How do I grow it just a bit bigger? How do I take better advantage of ETSY?  How do I find more shows to sell my items?  How to I manage my time and my money and the mess I make in the house without a dedicated "Annie's junk room".

And then, the future?  Cars, vacations, basements, messes, family time....there is just too much to even try to list.  Well, actually, I have a list but my list is, I learned this week, very different than my husband's list.

Go figure.

All of this is enough to drive any one crazy.  And I have a pretty good life with really good kids and a husband who tries hard.  It's just exhausting, isn't it?  Trying to keep everyone a float with out drowning.  Keeping everyone happy, without losing yourself.

Or maybe, it's just February.

February might be the worst.

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.

Something Unexpected

On Wednesday afternoon, in a parked car with a sleeping three year old, waiting for my big boys to come bounding out of school, I got a text from a neighbor.

"Did you hear about Kerry?"

I replied, "No.  What?"

My neighbor and I quickly exchanged texts, her telling me that one of our great neighbors, the organist in our church, and one of the happiest and most amazingly talented women I've ever known, had died.  She had been hiking, alone, her 60th hike of the summer, and though no details were known, she fell off a landing about 300 feet.  She had been missing all night, and her body was recovered around Noon in a deep and treacherous ravine.

I was in shock.  This was not only a woman whom I admired, but we had moved into the neighborhood at the same time.  In fact, she and her family had plans to buy our house, but we bought it first, and they purchased another home in the neighborhood.  I was her visiting teacher for a year and a half, and just on Sunday, she led the music for the primary children.

My heart was broken.  The news was just starting to pour in, the neighborhood just starting to mobilize, and my heart was broken for her and her family.  She was only 43.  She has a son on a mission and two adoring daughters, not to mention a devout husband whom I know loved her more than anything.

The sadness I felt caught me a little off guard and I was full of questions.  Why her?  Why now?  What happened?  Was she in pain and scared?  How can I help?  What can I do?

Muddled and distracted, I made it through the rest of my day and evening, waiting for the opportunity to talk to Ross about it before we went to sleep that night.  Then, I lost it a little.  Kerry wasn't that much older than me, just a few years.  She was such an experienced and prepared hiker - we had had many talks about all the hiking adventures she'd been on over the years.  I just sobbed with pain in my heart for her and her family.

In fact, I said to Ross that I believe, before we are born, that we agree to trials and tribulations.  Now, I doubt we pull them out of a hat, but I really feel that in our communication with God, we say, "Yes.  I will take on diabetes.  I will fight cancer.  I will lose a loved one. I will die."  I wonder if, when Kerry got to heaven, she said, "What a minute!  Seriously!  I said I'd do this?  What about my family!"

But then again, maybe she didn't.  Maybe she knew.  The news reports say that, as she was ascending her final climb, the investigators believe that she lost her footing, hit her head and tumbled down to where her body was discovered.  The rescue crew also told her family, it was reported, that she had a look of calm and peace on her face.  She did die doing something that was her everything.  I know that she hiked several times a week, when the weather and seasons allowed, and she passed away on the final hike of a summer of hiking.  It was her 60th hike, and her hardest.  She accomplished the goal she had set, and that goal took her life.

There is a sad sense of peace that comes from such a thing.

Through such sadness though, there is always hope.  As sad as I've been, this week, I know where she is.  I know she's okay.  I know that she was greeted with open arms by loved ones and that they comforted her.  I know that she did, on earth, what she was meant to do and even though it's tragic, it was her plan.  I know that her family, though they are going to have to wait, will see her and be with her again.

I haven't been a part (and let's face it, I'm not really a part of anything, just a person who had a significant enough connection to a woman that my feelings are justified) of such a tragedy before.  It's given me the opportunity to reflect this week on my life, my children, my husband.  I'm a lucky girl, living a lucky life.  There is so  much out there to be grateful for, to appreciate, to live for.  We don't know when our time is coming, but I sure hope that I use my time, however long it may be, wisely and in the right ways, serving the right people.

I also hope, that when my time has come, that I maybe, ever so slightly, touched the life of someone, even briefly, as my friend Kerry touched mine.

200 days

In just over a week, Elder Petersen will have been serving as an LDS missionary amongst the people of Lithuania for 18 months.  Just last week, he crossed the 200 day mark.  It's taken a long time to get to the downward slope of Willie's mission, but it really feels now that he is so close to coming home.

We are already in the middle of August.

Then it will be Christmas day and we will be able to Skype with him.

Then it will be February and it will be time to head to the airport and embarrass ourselves and him with our airport antics.  Actually, maybe we will play it cool.  He will probably come home at a crazy time, hopefully when the airport isn't too crowded so that when my mom SCREAMS as her only son descends the escalator towards her, security won't think there is some sort of terrorist attack taking place.  But, I bet it Salt Lake, those sort of motherly screams are heard at the airport by luggage claim quite a bit.

We spend a lot of time talking about when Willie will come home.  When he left 18 months ago, time was just at a stand still.  It moved on of course, but so slowly.  We knew he was healthy and safe and doing what was important for him, but man alive we missed him.  His contagious laughter, his plopping on the couch, his occasional brooding, even his farting.  Well, maybe not that.  His presence just left a hole.  A giant albino hole.

That hole gets filled on Monday mornings.  Monday mornings are the best.  For about three minutes.  Those three minutes it takes me to read his letter before I get in the shower, and the next three minutes to look at the pictures he's uploaded into dropbox make getting up on Monday mornings worth it every single week.  I haven't missed writing my BiG Iggy brother one week his entire mission and he hasn't missed writing us.  He's been late a couple of times, leaving my mom and sister and I in a three way texting frenzy, but those letters are life blood when such an important person is gone from you.  His goofy personality shines through in those letters and its usually enough to get you through to the next Monday.  I find myself looking at those pictures several times throughout the week and during sacrament meeting on Sunday's, Elliott and I look through them.  It's not the same as him being next to us, petting our shoulders with his giant paws, but it does alright just the same.

We talk about what life will be like when he gets home.  Will he be weird?  How long will it take for him to just lay on the couch and watch "Regular Show" and "Sponge Bob" all day long?  Will he like music?  Will he be funny?  Will he be too serious?  Will he get mad at us for not being "SPiritual" enough?

I've thought about sending him a "Missionary Detox" kit to use on the airplane on the ride home.  Mostly, it would just consist of an ipod shuffle full of all the awesome music he's missed in the last two years.  Elliott, Wyatt  and I have been compiling a list of the music we think he needs to hear, to help him get back to normal.  It's a pretty good list, too.  My boys have good taste in music.  I mentioned it to Willie in a letter and his only response was, "DON"T VIOLATE ANY MISSION RULES!"

Yep, 6 more months.

Yippee!

no time to make time

we don't have a song.  We've entered our 13th year of marriage and we don't have a song.  It's really been bothering me lately, which I realize is dumb because it doesn't really matter.  One Sunday night, driving home from my parents after dinner I brought it up in conversation...the fact that we don't have a song.  Ross of course doesn't think it matters at all, but I told him that it does.  I also told him that I was pretty sure my parents had a song.

He said that he would guess that they didn't.

I called my mom.

She and my dad have a song.

I'm probably not supposed to say what it is (cough - stairway to heaven - cough) but they have a song.

I had no idea.

The next day, I texted my sister to ask her if she and her husband have a song.  She said no.  I asked her if she knew that my parents had a song.  She said yes, that it is (cough - stairway to heaven - cough).

I had no idea.

My husband is at scout camp.  He is supposed to be relieved and come home today.  Well, sometime late tonight is probably more like it.  We haven't had a real conversation with each other for days and days and days.  We haven't been on a "date" since, I think January.  We haven't even managed to tell each other good night because either one of us is already asleep or we're just too tired.

I read a blog post today, of a writer who I like, and she said that she and her husband are always doing things to "keep the romance alive" and one night after their kids were asleep they jumped into their hot tub in a rain storm with a big umbrella and that they just hung out listening to the rain and talking to each other and it was "so romantic".  I thought that sounded super strange, but I liked the idea of the talking part.

Keeping our lives afloat these days feels extra challenging and that there just isn't any time to spend together.  Do other people sometimes feel like their spouse is their roomate, or is that just me?  It's hard to figure out how to keep things interesting and engaging and not just be annoying, and a nag.

Maybe, we just really need to sit down and figure out our song.  That might be the solution to everything.

In a nutshell....

Last week was busy.  The busy was compounded by the fact that Ross and I have been sick.  Him for 11 days and me for 17, but whose counting.  Oh wait, I am!  We seem to have some sort of allergy driven cold/flu/bronchitis type thing.  Life is really hard with three kids when both parents are sick.  And exhausted.  But, we managed to pull another week out of our Mary Poppins carpet bag in spite of it all.




Wyatt had the week off of school for "kindergarten testing".  That's a rant of a post on it's own, but I'll just avoid it for now.  I had big plans to keep him busy, but being a sick parent with a lazy couch potato has it's advantages.  Staying home and watching tv is one of them.

Haley and the kids came over to jump on the trampoline, watch bugs and eat lunch.

We waited for the floor guy to come and fix a bad spot on the floor.  He never showed.  We waited for the oven repair man to come back for the 4th time to finally figure out why our oven doesn't work.  The igniter burned a hole through the base.  We could have blown ourselves up.  Good times.

I made two pioneer trek skirts and a trek apron for a neighbor's daughter.  I made three fanny packs and a purse for my sister.  I let my house become a total disaster.  I still haven't put my living and dining rooms back together because the baseboards need to be caulked and painted.

The boys had four baseball games: Elliott on Tuesday and Thursday and Wyatt on Wednesday and Friday.  Both boys played well.  Both boys went 2-0.  Both boys finished their regular season with error free games.  Both boys teams are in the playoffs starting this week.

We attended cousin Luke's baptism.  While at the church, Jack and Quinn were wearing the same outfits and Quinn saw a picture of Jesus holding a lamb on his lap.  He turned to us and said, "Look at Jesus holding that cute puppy."  It was pretty funny.



Ross finally got around to taking Wyatt shopping for his birthday present, a new bike, a month late.  He's got to learn to ride it without training wheels, and after a few attempts on Saturday afternoon, he may be 12 before he can figure it out.



We ended Saturday with our first trip to the splash pad.  My boys seem, at times, incapable of just "playing" and they spent all their splash pad time lying on the concrete instead of actually playing in the water.  Oh well.  And Quinn fell asleep.  7:00 pm naps are where it's at...only if the kid wakes up long enough to get his pajamas on and go back to bed.  Those are pretty sweet nights.



Here's to another LONG week of baseball and school and hopefully not being too sick anymore.  I'm getting tired of blowing bright pink brain matter out of my nose, while feeling like a small elephant is sitting on my chest.

The Redwoods, Day Four: Avenue of the Giants

On our last full day of vacation, it was time to leave the magical and mystical world of giant trees and head back to the reality of drought stricken California via a seven hour drive.  And, of course, the reality of heading home.  We decided however, to head home with one more scenic drive, a pretty touristy drive called the "Avenue of the Giants".  It is a 31 mile scenic route that travels through some very small towns (think, population: 31), and some very big trees, along highway 101.  Not only was it an absolutely beautiful drive, but it saved us from some of the more treacherous and curvy stretches of the highway that made us (okay, me) a little sick on the way north.



The Avenue of the Giants was pretty crowded, much different than the farther north forests we'd been in days before.  After a lot of research, I'd decided that our best bet was to just make one stop, inside the Roosevelt forest in Founders Grove.  Here, we'd find some walking trails and we'd also be able to see the Dyersville Giant, the tree that had been the tallest documented tree in the redwood forest (well over 300 feet tall) until it fell down decades ago.





This stop did not disappoint as it had the Founders Tree, which was 325 feet tall and just amazing to look at and had a dozen or so giants that had fallen.  Their root structures were absolutely amazing and so large.  We learned on our first day that redwoods have very shallow and wide root structures and that if the ground around them is trampled too frequently that it will destroy the roots and the trees will die.  So, when a tree actually does crash, all it's roots become exposed and just hang out.  It's really a pretty cool thing to see and I was pretty excited that we were able to stop and see them.







Once we finished walking and seeing and stretching, it was time to get some lunch and get back to San Jose with as few stops as possible.

We did our best.

The boys were definitely running out of steam, but we'd had a great vacation and were ready to head home.

We managed to avoid all the traffic that we hit on our way to Eureka and with a stop at an outlet mall got back to our hotel with only moderately numb butts.  After finding some dinner, getting the boys showered and bathed, it was time for bed.  Our sleeping arrangements were a little odd for the night; Wyatt was alone on the fold out sofa; I was with Elliott and Ross was with Quinn, but it worked out well and I think that Ross and I, sleeping on tiny beds with tiny bodies probably slept a little better than we had the rest of the trip. Minus Elliott kicking me in the face and Quinn falling out of bed head first anyway.

As with all trips, they end in a pretty anti climactic manner.  We got up in the morning.  Found some breakfast, packed our bags returned the rental car and made it to the airport.  Our flight was on time.  Quinn had a complete and total melt down that was so extreme we thought they were going to kick us off the plane because he didn't want to wear his seat belt.  Then, he fell asleep for the entire flight.

The flight was uneventful.  Which is always a good thing.

It was so strange, in the last few minutes before we arrived home, to realize that the day before, we'd been among literal giants, and now we were at an intersection with a Walmart and a Costco.  But, I guess that's the beauty of a vacation.  It lets you experience those amazing and cool things with your family that you wouldn't otherwise be able to experience.

This trip ended up being part of my birthday present.  It was the best birthday present.  I'm so grateful to Ross for planning and cooperating and being so willing to go along with my schemes.  The trip was really an absolute dream.  I couldn't have asked for anything better.



Except for maybe a glimpse of a real bigfoot.  But, that maybe would have been a bit too much.

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.

why is it such a challenge?

I'm in a rut.  I'm sure most of you know the kind of rut I'm talking about.  The kind where, no matter what clothes you put on in the morning, even though it's your regular "uniform", you feel like you look like Captain Stupid.  The rut where even though you are wearing make-up, there is no covering up those dark circles under your eyes.  That rut where, even though you look at yourself every day and observe, where all your regular clothes fit just like they always have, the number on the scale keeps changing...in the wrong direction.  Sometimes jumping three pounds overnight.  How do I gain three pounds overnight?!

And then, even though he insists it's a compliment, your husband calls you curvy.

I'm sure it was, in his head, a compliment.

But.

It doesn't work that way.

Here's the part I cannot reconcile, and it's driving me completely mad.  I know that I am good at a lot of things.  I have talents, that are put to use regularly.  The entire dual immersion second grade things I'm the coolest PE mom in the world.  I can sew up a storm every day.  I never let the laundry pile up.  I am smart, educated, kind, thoughtful, considerate, funny, musically challenged and like most people, I just really wish that I was a good dancer.  I take really good care of my kids and am so proud that they are smart and kind and funny and special good kids.  I think that I am a good wife.  I know I'm a terrible housekeeper, but I'm okay with that and I am a really good cook to compensate for the messy bathrooms.

But.

Why can't I seem to make any of that matter?  Why instead, do I get in these ruts where, I feel like my self-worth and identity should be determined by my weight, how my clothes fit, whether my hair looks perfectly symmetrical and how much I exercise every day. Which, by the way, is almost never (but we don't need to talk about that).  Why do I become consumed with self-doubt, hesitation and reservation about all the things that I'm good at to the point that I don't think I'm good at them anymore...all because I weigh as much as an offensive linebacker.

Is it hard for you to get dressed for church on Sunday?  Sunday's are my most stressful and uptight days of the week.  I go through outfit after outfit trying to get ready for church.  My bedroom looks like a dressing room threw up.  Never, do I make it to church on the first outfit I try, it's usually the third or fourth outfit that I settle with and head out the door in a huff.

Why do I do that?

It really makes no sense, at all.  Does it?

The answer was in front of me the whole time...

A few weeks ago, I documented, just a little, the ongoing health saga that is my life.  Stomach problems, coughing problems, ultrasounds, HIDA scan and no possible solutions.

Well, I guess it's good when you finally start to figure your problems out.  I guess it's bad when your problems are caused by your health professionals and giving those professionals a little too much trust.

Flash back to three weeks ago - my blood pressure medication was up for a refill and, I refilled it.  I did however, go get it a day late, and missed a day of taking my pill.  I'm on a relatively low dose, had a low stress day, so I just went with it.  I regularly take all my pills in the mornings, and about 2 hours after I would have taken my bp pill, I realized I hadn't coughed all morning.  By the end of the day, when on a "normal" day I'd have coughed myself into gagging and dry heaving at least three times I hadn't coughed once.

Well, I smartened up (ha!) and when I went to pick up my refill the next day I talked to the pharmacist and asked if this pill could make me cough.  He said yes, that it could make me cough and cause a whole slew of other problems, and he wrote some instructions/recommendations on my receipt for me to talk to my doctor with.

Here is an important detail.  I had been on a medication called Linsopril in 2013.  It made me cough like a smoker with lung cancer.  I was on it for three months and in the fall of 2014 switched to a medication called Losartan.  It is significant to note that I assumed I was taking Losartan, and that it had started to make me cough, too.

Back to the story.  I quit taking my blood pressure medication.  I had an appointment with the doctor that prescribes said medication in two weeks and I figured that I could last two weeks without it.

Those two weeks started to take their toll and by Monday of this week, the day of my appointment, I wasn't doing so hot.  Persistent 5 day, moderate migraine headache, and major swelling in my hands and feet - about 5 lbs worth of water retention.  My head hurt, my hands couldn't turn my car key or do zippers on little kid jackets, and my feet were tingling.

I went to my appointment where, completely out of character, they kept me waiting 40 minutes; but that's a story for a different day.

By the time I was called back, I had 15 minutes for my appointment if I wanted to get Elliott from school on time.  We flew through my A1C, reading my meter, evaluating my insulin sliding scale.  My blood pressure came in at 157/98 so I figured that was as good a time as any to quickly bring up the problem with my medication and mentioned that I hadn't taken it for two weeks.  I was reprimanded, of course, but then my doctor told me that Losartan shouldn't be making me cough.  We talked back and forth about potential problems and I mentioned that I've only been taking 20 mg, and that's why I felt okay not taking the pill for two weeks.  She told me that Losartan only comes in 25 and 50 mg and that I was on 50.

Nothing was making sense so I pulled the note from the pharmacist out of my wallet.  I looked at his notes.  Then I looked at the flip side at the actual prescription information.  I had been taking Linsopril - not Losartan.

What the holly hannah hello nurse is going on?

We talked some more, I was furious and immediately put all my blame on the pharmacy for filling a very old prescription.  But, bigger than that, all the puzzle pieces came together.  I didn't know how long I'd been taking the wrong pill, but I was certain that THIS PILL was the culprit for everything that had been wrong with me in the last 6 months.

I left my appointment.  Furious.

I called Ross.  He was furious.

Waiting in line for Elliott at school I started looking up side effects of Linsopril.  The list was hefty and, in the last 6 months, minus erectile dysfunction, I'd had nearly every single side effect of that stupid pill from the most common to the very rare.  And, with more research, I discovered that people who had been taking this pill had the same sorts of stomach problems as me - resulting in gallbladder removals, intestinal surgeries, and misdiagnoses of Chrohn's disease.

I was so mad!

Here's where it gets more interesting.  Ross went to the pharmacy for me on Monday night to talk to them and get a medication history for me.  What he found floored me.  When my medications were all refilled in July 2014, my doctor's office - well, a substitute nurse at my doctor's office, somehow sent the wrong medication to the pharmacy and I'd been taking Linsopril (not Losartan) since July and I never looked closely enough at the label (the pills were the same shape and colors, depending on the generics used), to even question that it was the right (or the wrong) medication.

So, not only was I taking a pill that was making me horribly ill, I wasn't taking enough bp medication to even help me feel better.


Ggggrrrrrrrr!

So, the right medication was filled and I've been on it for a few days, with some pretty intense headaches as I adjust.  No one cares that I've had literal pain and suffering for months and months.  I have no recourse, not that I'd really be looking for any.

But...

BUt....

BUT...

I guess I've learned a valuable lesson.

Read the labels and question everything.

The Spirit of Service

Every year, the youth of our neighborhood, do some sort of service project, in two events.  They hold a neighborhood bonfire where people bring donations for some charity and then they do a Christmas program at a local Alzheimer facility.  This year, Ross was in charge of the combined "service" activity and he followed that old mantra, "Go big or go home!"

Go big he (we) did.  Ross did some research and found the Family Support Center of Midvale.  This organization provides a lot of services to people around the valley, mostly transitional housing, day care and counseling for families down on their luck or women and children leaving abusive situations.  After talking to Kellie, on of the awesome people who help run the facility, it was decided that they would be our charity for the year.

Ross agreed to provide Christmas gifts for 7 families, as well as use the traditional neighborhood bonfire to collect donations for general center operations.  Then, he pretty much handed the project over to me.  I organized all the people (I think it was 28), and we made ornaments with gifts listed, three ornaments per person.  I also put together gift bags for each of the moms, added items like socks and underwear (I was taught well by my grandma) to each child's list, and then we placed all the ornaments on two trees in the lobby of our church.

Then, we just waited for the gifts, as well as donations of boxes, wrapping paper, and so much more to arrive at our house.  By last Saturday, my front living room and dining room looked like the salvation army of new gifts.  Each person had a minimum of 6 items, and most people in our neighborhood bought more than was on each tag.  I figured that we had around 150 presents donated, even some big items like bedding, long boards, and play station games.

As items started to roll in, I felt Santa's pressure to make my list and check it twice.  The more organized I could be, the better things would turn out.



Last Saturday four women in my neighborhood came over to help me check, double check, and box all the presents in preparation for the youth wrapping them on Tuesday night.  It took us a little over 2 hours to go through all 7 families and in the end, I was only missing three items: underwear, a Lego set, and a stroller.  The generosity was amazing and I was so proud to be able to help with such a project.

Last night was our wrapping night and it was amazing.  Kellie, from the center came to help out and we had about 50 kids and adults show up to wrap all the presents and stuff almost 30 stockings with wonderful prizes for any kids who will be entering the center on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.





I grew up in a family where service has always been a priority.  I've watched my grandparents and parents serve so many others, that even though it's challenging at times, it really is second nature to me.  And, my obsessive need to plan and organize fits right in to a project like this.  It just made my heart so happy to be part of such a project and I hope, that next year, we can do the same thing all over again.

This is what Christmas (well, really all the year) is about and it was just an awesome thing.

Survival Mode

There are a lot of things I'm good at in this world.  People tell me that I'm crafty.  I try to be a good listener.  I'm organized and an over-planner.  My kids are always clean and kind and polite and I try to take the best care of them that I can.

But there is one thing, no matter the circumstances, that I am good at.  Single motherhood.  In fact, I completely suck at it and it overwhelms me to the point that instead of the kids having a melt down, I have one.  Or twenty.  And they are loud and insane.

Ross started a new J-O-B this week.  With a week of training and meet-and-greets in New Jersey and Atlanta.  This new job is really a blessing and a wonderful opportunity for him to showcase how good he is at what he does.  I'm really happy and excited for him.  It will be great to see where this job takes him and what additional doors open up for him.

But.  BUT - he's been gone since Sunday afternoon and I'm toast.  The boys are done with me.  We're running out of Cheetos.  It's getting serious.  We've had lots of activities and help from my parents to get everything done this week that we've needed to do and thank heavens! the boys are back in school this week and extra tired and worn out at night.

Anyway - this single motherhood stuff is so hard.  Kudos to those of you who do it often, or all the time because your husbands are gone for work - or you don't have one.  The level of exhaustion I feel when I finally get to bed around 11:30 is at least comparable to that of having a newborn at home.  And, my house is still a mess, and all the laundry isn't folded and there are Lego's all over the floor and I forgot to start the dishwasher.   I'm pretty much a giant ball of panicked disorganized goo when I don't have my "help meet" at home with me.  There is no balance - especially for the boys.  Let's face it, I am annoying and bossy and loud.

But, they've had a great week of fast food so hopefully they won't complain too much.  I did fix them dinner on Monday night.  Yeah, me.

We did have some good experiences this week though.
On Tuesday afternoon, we met Grandpa for lunch at his work because Waffle Love was in the parking lot.  Nailed it!  Made Wyatt the happiest, nutella lovin' five year old on the planet and it was warm enough that we ate outside on the patio.  Double brownie points.  And, on Tuesday night, to keep it even steven, Elliott got to pick where we went for dinner.  He chose Hires.

I must have looked pathetic enough walking in by myself with three crazy boys because I noticed immediately that an older woman and her husband were eyeing me.  We sat down, we ordered, and we began the frantic game "let's keep Quinn from screaming, throwing, climbing and breaking until the garlic bread comes" when this woman approached our table.  I thought she was going to yell at me, but she smiled a gentle smile and handed me a gift card.  She said, "I've written my remaining balance on the back.  That should help you pay for dinner for yourself and your cute boys.  Merry Christmas."  It was so great!  No one has ever done that for me before, and there was enough balance on the card that it payed for a good portion of our meal.





This week, it's also been warm enough to play outside without jackets (thank heavens we bought a trampoline....best purchase ever.)  We've had some good meals, some good company, attended Molly and Jack's Christmas program, and Grandpa and Elliott have basketball practice tonight.  As hard as it's been, the boys have mostly slept, mostly been good and happy, and we've mostly gotten along.  I'm a mental mess, but what else is new?  Our dad comes home tonight...not a moment too soon.

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.

When it all falls apart

You know how when you are in the hospital, they ask you to rank your pain? You have a scale of 1-10, 10 being the worst pain you ever could feel in your life I suppose. I've been in those situations and never really ranked my pain higher than a 7 probably. Either the pain of the procedures I've had hasn't been bad (really, it has been though) or I have a pretty high thresh hold for pain. Either way, I've not been higher than a 7 and as soon as I'm home, I quit the hard stuff and recuperate on tylenol and advil.

The last 15 days or so of my life haven't gone so well. They've been around an 8 or 9 on the "pain" scale. Pretty much every single day, something in my world of #firstworldproblems has gone terribly wrong and if you would have talked to me at any given time in those last two weeks, I probably, if I wasn't wallowing in my own "pain" would have sat down and told you all the gory details.  There has been a lot of arguing and raising of voices, dramatic expression of frustration at the actions of other people towards and around me and my family, sadness at the choices of others.  Many things have broken, strange conversations have happened, and bad attitudes, at least on my part, abound.  I've pretty much felt like giving up on just about everything because nothing has been happening as it should.

Yesterday, we skipped out on stake conference because we were going to attend a baby blessing instead and it was the first I've been to church in three weeks time.  It was, honestly, a little strange to be in such a familiar setting, and really refreshing, too.  It was a Fast Sunday and let's face it, Fast Sunday in a different ward has the potential to be full of surprises.  But instead, for the most part, it was really good.  I was happy to be in the meeting and feel the spirit that was there.  I was happy to hear the messages that were shared.  I was happy to be reminded that no one is forcing me to make the choices I make in this life - that they are mine, and I make them happily.

Today is Monday.  Monday is preparation day in Lithuania, which means it is letter day from that big Iggy brother of mine.  Words cannot begin to describe how I look forward to Monday mornings.  Lately, I've taken to keeping my phone by my bedside on Sunday nights because 1) on the off chance that I wake up around the time he sends his e-mails, I think about trying to catch him and 2) the first thing I do when I get out of bed on Monday morning is read his letter.  It lifts me up and inspires me and makes me smile.

This Monday, I got an e-mail from him.  My brother likes to talk about our "chi" - our inner spirit that guides us and keeps us balanced.  My letter to him for the week, basically, detailed how my chi was lost, and my struggle to try and find it.  (Seriously Internet, you have no idea how rough these last two weeks have been.  Going to lunch and me talking the WHOLE time couldn't even begin to cover it!)  I told him of a couple experience though that were helping me feel like I was getting back on track.  He told me that my e-mail was intense to read, but then he shared some things with me that were really important for me to hear from my wise missionary little brother, who, is way too skinny.  It's funny how from so far away, in a different time zone, he knew the right things to say to me.

And then, in typical Willie fashion, he signed off like this:

Be calm. Be happy.

Express your thoughts. Let it all out. 

May all of your wildest dreams come true :)

 

Thanks Napoleon.  For your information, I drink almond milk and yes, it's because I think I'm fat!

Oh, get to the point, right?

What is the point?

I think that the point is - sometimes life really really sucks.  It sucks so hard and so bad that you don't even want to get out of bed.  It just sucks your will right out of you.  But, no matter what, there are things that make it better.  Like your goofball kids doing well in school, and making each other laugh, and having great soccer games.  Or, your baby saying the word "cooties" all the time and calls his brothers, "the boys" and sings the chorus, "say Geronimo" from the song we heard on the radio all day long.  And, a husband who is your opposite so when you are sitting inside the emotional toilet, he is at least on the seat, not all the way in.  Or your mom and your aunts remind you that girl power rules and that learning how to work hard is pretty much the most important thing.

And all of that stuff, if only for the fact that it is barely keeping me sane, is the stuff I need to think about.