The Bike Rack

I grew up on a bike.  I loved flying down the street, my timid feet planted firmly on the brake, so I wasn't really flying but going as darn fast as I dared.  My brother gave me a hard time about how slowly my "fast as I dared" was, but I won't go there today.

When my first boys were 2,4, and 6, Jay and I decided to spend Grandma Jeanne's Christmas money on little bikes for them.  Alec's bike was little.  Ben's bike was tiny, and the bicycle for Chris was downright tiny.  We had a large RV garage, so they pedaled their little hearts out, round and round the garage.  They arranged stacked boxes to make racetracks and spent hours in there.  Seeing their fun, of course Jay and I had to purchase bicycles for ourselves.  From then on, we rode bikes to school.  Alec and Ben parked their bikes carefully in the big bike rack, and Chris and I would head back home, stopping at the post office on the way.  It was an itty-bitty small town and we pedaled all over it.

A few months later, we moved to the Seattle area.  We found many bike trails snaking alongside the river and through town.  We packed up our dinner, loaded it into the bike trailer with Baby David, and rode off into the sunset.  What fun we had!

Not long after Eddie was born, a neighbor gave us their bike rack.  Huge and made of solid steel, it held all our bike upright and tangle free.  This is where the bicycles belong.  Not falling over each other, not on top of the sprinklers, not stashed into the bushes, not languishing on the front lawn.  What a wonderful organizational tool!

And do the children actually use it?  Ha.

Track and Field

Our lives are running along faster than I want them to.  Maybe I should tie on some good shoes and try to keep up?

My three big boys were in track this year. Sidenote: I amuse myself with how the family grows and how I refer to my kids. For years, the oldest the boys were "the big boys" and David and Eddie were "the little boys."  Then the newest little ones were "small fry."  Then we had "the missionaries" and David joined Chris in the "big kids" group while Eddie and Angel were the "elementary kids" in 6th grade and kindergarten, respectively. This past year, Eddie went up to the junior high and we again had "big boys" in high school and junior high,  while the "small fry" were all in elementary school. Next year, I guess Eddie and David will be our "big boys," and the older the will be our "college boys. "  Life keeps moving along, doesn't it?   'Scuse me for a moment whilst I dab at my eyes and sing "Sunrise,  Sunset."

Ahem.  Back to track. Chris is partial to the hurdles. David did the 100, 200, and 400 meter races, as well as the 400 relay and shot put. That boy had always had tons of energy!  I remember watching him run up the street, his little chubby legs blurring to keep up with his older brothers. Eddie tried out the long jump and high jump for his first year.

It's fun to watch them run,  but it's hard to sit through hours and hours of a track meet, trying to entertain my small fry while waiting for the few minutes or even seconds of the event I wanted to see.  I go to a few meets, but not all of them. I didn't get any pictures of Eddie or Chris, but these photos came from David running in our regional finals. I love his intense concentration.  This boy has focus!

But no, I won't be running.  I don't have it in me to do physical things that energetic or require endurance.  Jay did.  He liked to go running every now and then, or do something to just push his body to its absolute limits.  It felt great to him.  For me, if I'm running, you'd best come see what's wrong, because there must be a bear or something chasing me.

Lessons From the Organ - Slow Down!

Before I started playing the organ at the temple, I met with the organ coordinator to make sure I could play -  I'm passable.  She took me to the temple when no one was there so I could practice a bit and get used to the organ there.  As I played, she beat the tempo with her hand.  Down, down....down...........doooown.  I was playing too fast.  I slowed down some, and then more.  But her hand wasn't down yet.  Down..................down......................................down.....................................down

Oh, that was hard!  I've always had a thing about music with a slow tempo.  I chafe at singing hymns at church that should be bright and perky but instead drag into a boring cesspool of dead tones.  Yes, I feel that strongly about it.  I don't know why church organists often feel that the correct tempo - for everything - is "moderate funeral dirge."  I work hard to learn the weekly hymns thoroughly enough that I can play them up to speed, or maybe even a little bit faster.  "Onward Christian Soldiers" should make you feel like marching, not lull you into taking a nap!  

I've been guilty of being harsh and judgmental.  I remember singing way-too-slow hymns at church and looking at my watch to figure out just how slow they were going.  Jay, always the kind one, would smile and shake his head at me and tuck my arm in his or hold my hand - covering my watch.

And now, I'm the one playing oh-so-slowly.  It's rough.  I just like to tear through a hymn and get to the end.  I like to have people sit up and take notice and sing out.  I like to play cheerfully or strongly.

Isn't this picture gorgeous?  It was taken by the uncle of Alec's girlfriend and you really ought to look at his other temple shots.  They are breathtaking and show just how I feel when I go to the temple.

In the temple, the whole mood is different.  Everything is hushed and peace reigns.  A loud, sprightly hymn would be out of place.  I love the serenity that fills my heart and smooths out all my rough spots, and I wouldn't want to spoil that tranquility for anyone else.  My job there is to add to the beautiful spirit, not draw attention to myself or encourage action.  I'm so grateful I get to go to the temple.  I love it.  I love the feeling there, and I love playing the organ.

But it is so hard to play slowly!  As I struggled to keep the tempo sedate, I wondered why it was so hard for me to slow down.  As I thought and thought and pondered and wondered, I finally learned what I needed to know today.

I need to slow down.

Yes, I CAN go fast.  Yes, it is fun to sing out.  Yes, it is invigorating to play briskly.  But right now, I need peace.  My life has enough and I'm not always coping very well.  So slow down, girl.  Breathe a little between verses.  Smell the fresh nearly-spring breeze.  Hold on to those notes.  Hug your children longer.  Notice the beauty.  Feel the sunshine on your hair.  Pause.  Slow.  Walk.  Rest.  Enjoy.

And live.

For more information about LDS temple - why we build them and what we do in them, as well as some lovely pictures inside - read this article.

Happy Birthday!

Happy birthday to my family!  This crazy, wonderful train ride officially started 23 years ago, with these two babies:

I look a lot different now.  My dad took this picture the day before Jay went into brain surgery.  Jay was joking that it would be his obituary shot, but it wasn't.  We were in my folks' backyard, in front of their apple tree.  Those little green apples remind me of my boys, so young then, but growing up quickly.

To celebrate our family birthday, we had spaghetti on china, with sparkling grape juice poured ever so carefully into crystal goblets.  It's a tradition to eat something regular on fancy dishes, because our family is a bunch of regular, common, everyday and nothing impressive things, made special by our enduring family ties.

Happy birthday to us, and many more.

Just Like Riding a Bike

I've been feeling like I needed to start writing again.  It's been a while, and I feel so rusty - like I've forgotten how.  Folks say it's like riding a bike...

I haven't ridden a bike for a while, either.  I used to bike often.  We would take our little family on a biking outing - me and Jay and three little boys on three little bikes.  Then we bought a bike trailer for the baby and Jay pulled it behind his bike.  He would go in the front and I would take the rear, making sure we didn't lose anyone.  At the time, we lived in a very small town, so the roads were safe.  When we moved to the Seattle area, the biking continued because there were so many beautiful bicyle trails.  Our favorite went along the banks of the Sammammish River and had frequent parks.  Jay would come home from dinner, announce that he wanted to go biking, and start rounding up the kids.  I'd take whatever I was making for dinner, attempt to fashion it into something we could take on a picnic (casserole portions wrapped in a tortilla sound good?), and off we'd go.

I like to bike with my kids.  I rode with them to school every morning, all the way through my pregnancy with Angel.  I loved the ability to get somewhere faster than my lumbering belly usually let me.  We got some pretty funny looks, my bike, my belly, and me.

Since then however, the cover on my bike seat rotted off.  My tires went flat.  I wasn't strong enough to haul three little kidlets in the trailer.  We didn't ride any more.

A couple of months ago, I thought I'd ride anyway.  It had been a while, but hey, it's just like riding a bike, right?  Running late to school helped me make my decision.  Angel was alread zipping up the street on her pink bicycle and the twins hopped on their little red bikes, and I didn't want to run alongside them again, so I pulled out David's bicycle.  The seat was good - the tires were pumped.  I threw my leg over the center bar and we were off.  The children were delighted that Mom - Mom of all people! - was riding a bike with them.  They don't know that I used to ride lots.  To them, it was novel and fun.  And we made it to school on time.

I rode home again, enjoying the... wind in my hair!  Say that like it was a shampoo commercial.

When I got home, I rode the bike up the neighbor's driveway close to the gate going into our backyard.  I swung my foot over the seat - and missed.  The front tire caught the edge of the grass, my foot caught on the seat, and bike and I went down in a most ungraceful slow-motion disaster.

I untangled my foot, rubbed my scraped palms together, and realized that if I tried to stand I would immediately be back on the ground.  So I sat there on the neighbor's driveway and gave thanks.  I was thankful that I didn't appear to be seriously hurt.  I was grateful that my knee was numb enough that it didn't hurt yet.  I was grateful that no one watched me fall.  I was grateful that my own front door was less than 50 painfully hobbling steps away.  I was grateful that I didn't wreck my son's bike because I'd never hear the end of that one!

After a few painful minutes, I slowly got up, put the bike in out bike rack, limped to the house and crawled back in bed.  I spent a week shuffling around the house and a month not doing anything which required kneeling.  I still have a tender lump at the base of my knee, but I'm all functional.

I'm so thankful for bodies that heal.  And hopefully, getting back into writing will be better than "just like riding a bike."

Happy Birthday, Jay!

It was Jay's birthday recently, and he would have been 48, old man.  I really enjoyed having a husband who was a few years older than me.  He would hit all the age milestones first, and I've have a while to get used to the idea of being that much older.  By the time I hit that particular birthday, the age was old hat.

We celebrated by making his favorite treat (except maybe homemade ice cream): easy no-bake cheesecake.  It whips up quickly and is ready before you know it.  Wait - I'll be real.  We did know it, and usually ate the soupy cake with spoons before it had time to set up because it looked so good.

Jay's Cheesecake

First, the crust.  Traditionally, we make a quicky crust out of crushed graham crackers, but I finally found a from-scratch recipe that I could simplify and I liked it so much I think I'll always be making our cheesecakes this way, because when we have graham crackers we eat them.  The crust is pretty thick, but I like it that way.

Then you make the filling out of cream cheese and sweetened condensed milk.  The only trick here is to beat it until there aren't any lumps left.  Next to waiting for it to chill, this is my hardest part.  I guess I just don't have much cooking patience.  Usually I just get to the good enough! part and we all like it anyway.  This recipe came from Jeanne, my first mother-in-law and it's a family favorite.  

CRUST

2 sticks soft butter

1/2 cup sugar - could be half white and half brown sugar or whatever you have

1/4 cup honey

2 1/2 cups whole wheat flour

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon or several good shakes.

Mix all together until it is good and creamy.  Pat on the bottom and up the sides of a 9 x 13 casserole dish.  Bake at 325 for about 20 minutes.  Easy!

FILLING 

2 8 ounce packages cream cheese

2 15 ounce cans condensed milk

2/3 cup lemon juice (real juice is best but I never have it on hand)

2 teaspoons vanilla

Blend it all up together.  Pour into cooled crust and refrigerate until firm.  Decorate with fruit (we did blueberries and pineapple this time) or a can of fruit pie filling.  Raspberry pie filling is especially delicious.

It didn't last very long.  Good food evaporates around here and leaves only smiles on everybody's faces.  I'm happy when they are happy.

I Kinda Hate Weddings

Oh, what a terrible thing to say!  Aren't we supposed to love weddings and get all happy and teary-eyed at them?  Maybe.  I don't know whether we can really assign "supposed to" and "should" to our feelings.

Before I get too far, let me explain that I love marriage.  I love the idea of a good woman finding a good man and making pledges and promises to love and support each other no matter what.  I love the idea of two people turning into husband and wife and starting their own family.  I really, tryuly believe that is the best way to find happiness and growth on this earth.

It's just the wedding itself that is hard for me.

I went to a wedding recently.  I went by myself, which is a rare opportunity.  I got to sit by myself, have my own thoughts, and enjoy the quiet.  I took the train and listened to the excited chatter of the group at the back of my train car.  They were missionaries headed to the airport and excited about their next adventures.  I smiled over them and loved seeing them, as any mother of a missionary does.  I said a silent prayer in my heart for them and missionaries across the world - young people away from home, trying to do what is right.  In a few years, they will be done with missions and looking to find their own mate they can commit to and love.

I took a bus from the train and walked a few blocks to get to the wedding.  It was beautiful and full of love.  I couldn't help but think of my own wedding when I was as young as they were - 23 years ago.  I was thinner and simpler then.  My only worries were getting through college and loving on the handsome man who had asked me to be his forever.  I miss that young Jay. I should have been expecting an emotional crash, this sweet young couple were married in the same temple we were all those years ago.  I didn't realize it until I got inside the temple and felt the quiet, but I hadn't been back in this particular temple since Jay passed away.  Then I crashed.

 I hate crying in front of other people, I really do.  Besides, this was a wedding - a happy time!  Who wants people to be sad-crying big sobs of heartache at a wedding?  That would be bad.  I didn't want to mar their happy day, and I managed to hold it in until after the ceremony was over.  But it was hard, and uncomfortable to sit there alone.  Everyone is happy and celebrating togetherness, and I sit there by myself.  It's hard sometimes.

 After the well-wishes, I found the nearest bathroom and gave permission to the tears.  I've learned not to fight the sad when it comes.  It's too hard and too raw and too real.  My poor heart is wounded more by the sharp edges being stuffed back in than in the release of the emotions.  Crying in bathrooms is good because there is plenty of tissue, and cold water to splash on your face when you are done.

I will always be a widow.  Yes, I've remarried and chosen to share my life again.  But those first memories of being a newlywed - a young wife - will always be a big part of me.  We fit together, we learned together, we grew up together.  My life was shaped by his as we figured out how to live harmoniously together.  That doesn't go away.  Neither does the pain of his loss.  He was only 38 - far too young to go.  I never would have imagined being left a widow at 33.  Far too young.

But I survived.  And I fought my way through the waves of grief that, over time, don't crash over me quite so viciously, or hold me under quite so cruelly.  I've learned to pick myself up and keep going.  I've learned that if you cry with your head bent over your lap then the tears fall straight down into your tissue instead of running down your face first.  I've learned when not to wear mascara.  I've learned to sob silently.  And I've learned how to cherish Jay's memory without making my heart sting.  I've learned how to let my heart grow by accepting new things of love and beauty.  I've learned to accept that this part of me will always be there.

I'm better for having gone through all that.  The fight made me stronger.  I'm softer because of the pain.  The grief gave me compassion.  The heartache taught me to rely on the Lord, and He has always been a rush of peace for my aching.

Family Reunion Shirts, Part II

And here is the result of our family reunion shirt-making that we started back here. 

These are the grandchildren in this family, minus Alec and Ben of course, and one other  granddaughter who just graduated from college.  They are all numbered in age order, and it's fun to see them all lined up like this!

This is the family of Jay, my first husband.  There were five children in his family, and he was the second.

I like how the colors show when Jays' siblings started their families.  The older sister's family is the bright green.  I'm sorry that they were not fond of their color, but we will give them a different one if we ever do this again.  She was married first, and had two children before Jay and I were married.  Alec and Ben are numbers five and six, and other missing grandchild is number three, so there that bright green chunk at the beginning is a little misleading.  My kids pull the #5, 6, 8, 12, 14, 18, 21, and 22 spots.  Our family has the aqua shirts, and the next brother's family is in the darker green shirts.  Child #4 brought a husband and a daughter in the family at the same time, and you'll just have to imagine that cute girl in baby blue at the #3 spot.  The baby of the family is sporting dark blue, and you can see his cute little redheads at the end of the line.

What a bunch of wonderful people we have!  Thanks, Jeanne and Dallas, for the love and support you've given all of us over the years.  Look what you started!

Family Reunion Shirts

We have a family reunion coming up for Jay's side of the family.  It's a little bit unexpected, but since the first grandchild is getting married, everyone is coming in town.  We don't get together very often, so as long as we are all in the same state, we might as well get together.  We'd love to party more,  but we are spread out across thousands of miles and several states.  That makes it hard.  In fact, I figured we will be logging over 27,000 combined miles during this trip!

 I'm the local-est one, because I'm only 40 miles away from the bride's home.  That means I'm the de facto party planner and event coordinator.  It's been a bit of a challenge to put all the details together on such short notice, but we've done it.  I'm so grateful that I have such a fun husband to work with - he's made things so much easier for me.

 

I just finished the reunion t shirts today.  We didn't have time to get them professionally printed, so we made up an easy iron-on instead.  Each family has a different color, and each grandchild sports their own number.  It was fun to do the legwork to order all 23 grandkids and see which ones are older.  We don't think of grandkid pecking order very often since we don't see each other much, but the shirts turned out well!

 (edit)  Here are all the kids (minus three who were out of state) in their shirts.  So fun!

Snuggled Up Together

I am the oldest daughter of an oldest daughter, so my mother always told me that when I found a suitable suitor, I could have Grandmother's 1/3 carat diamond to use in my ring.  When I was in college, my beau and I went ring-shopping a few times, browsing and joking about the "great diamond-buying conspiracy" so many of our peers went into debt for.  One day, just before final exams, I found the the ring that sang for me.  It had simple and graceful swoops and was smooth enough that it wouldn't catch when I put my hand in my pocket.  I loved it.

We had a hard time catching the attention of a clerk in the store, who didn't believe that we wanted to buy instead of just look.  Then he didn't believe we wanted it now instead of Jay coming back later to surprise me with it.  He didn't believe we didn't want it sized (it fit perfectly), or that we didn't want a diamond to replace the customary CZ in the setting (Grandma's diamond was going there), or that we could pay cash for it instead of preferring a payment plan.  I've never had so much trouble getting someone to take my money!

After it was purchased and we showed it to my parents, my mother guiltily admitted she had lost Grandma's diamond ring.  We still left the CZ in my ring, and it sparkled just as bright for me - a reminder of our poor college student days.

I wore my rings every day and loved them.  Jay wore his ring every day, and it made me happy to see his ring shine while he held my hand.  When he died, 7 years after being diagnosed with cancer and 13 years after we were married, my ring got uncomfortable.

After about a week I took it off and examined it, only to find that the once-circular ring had been compressed into a smaller oval shape as I had maneuvered him and his wheelchair around the narrow hallways in our home .  It squashed my finger and I couldn't wear it anymore.  I took it to be cleaned and they offered to reshape the ring, but I liked it squashed.  It  reminded me that I had been a good wife all the way through to the end.

I cleaned the ring and shined up the brilliant little CZ.  Now it lives in its original green velvet box, snuggled up next to Jay's ring.  That's where they should be - together.

Run, Run, As Fast As You Can

This boy is on the track team this year.  And last year, although I didn't post any pictures of that.  In fact, our family has contributed to the track team for several years now: Ben participated all through junior high and high school, as has Chris.  They are all fast runners.  

They get their speed and strength from their father, who likewise loved to run.  He never was on a running team, but he enjoyed it.  In fact, when he felt a cold coming on, he would buy a case of oranges, eat as many as he could handle (which was a lot), and run until he couldn't run any more.  He was convinced that the combination of the two explained why he never fell very ill, and his mild symptoms didn't last more than a day or two.

Me, I wear the shirt that says, "If I'm running, you should be too because something is chasing me."  I don't enjoy running.  At all.  If you do, kudos to you.  I'll sit and watch you and cheer.

Ben and Chris are mid-distance runners and excel in the hurdles.  David, on the other hand, is a sprinter.  At the last track meet. he took second in the 100 meter dash.  I remember being impressed with his speed even when he was a little bitty boy.  I could never keep up with him when he decided to dash away.  He has an impressive strength, ans I'm glad he has this outlet.

And impressively enough, these little ones actually enjoyed the tack meet this time.  It was fun to watch and cheer together.  

Happy Birthday to Us

We have an odd tradition in our family, and it involves pizza and china.  But we like it, and no one complains, so I think we'll keep it.

Many moons ago (286, to be exact!), I went to the temple and married a nice man.  It was the most beautiful wintery day - cold and clear, the sunshine glinting off the clean snow like a thousand diamonds.  We wanted to remember that day and celebrate it forever.

But the next year, the end of our college classes got in the way, so we didn't celebrate it much.  The next year, there were Christmas parties that night, so we didn't celebrate it again.  By the third year, with a toddler and a bun in the oven, we realized that getting away to celebrate our anniversary during Christmas would be difficult.  So we decided to change it to a family birthday party.  It is the date that our family started, after all.  We started a new tradition of having pizza on our fanciest dishes, eating by candlelight, and topping it off with birthday cake.  That was a tradition we could handle during the hustle of a holiday season.

When Jay died, the tradition was all the more special to us.  But when Trent and I married, it became a bit awkward.  How do you celebrate your anniversary to your first spouse while you are married to your second?  Fortunately, Trent is very easy-going and does not mind celebrating our family birthday party with us.  It is when our family started, and we love our family.  So break out the pizza!

This year, due to our active 4-year-olds, we decided to forgo the candles.  Safer that way.  But we did make the old-fashioned punch that I remember having at family parties growing up.  It's the really difficult kind, with rainbow sherbet and orange soda dumped in.  I think we used some raspberry creme soda in there, too.  I can handle this meal.  

We put olives on our fingers, dabbed the corners of our mouths with fancy embossed napkins, and held our pinky fingers out so daintily as we guzzled punch.  And we didn't even break any china.  Yeah, I think we'll do it again next year.

Being Gentlemanly

All my life I have heard about how to be a gentleman.  My mother was constantly instructing my four brothers (and me) to not put our elbows on the table.  Say please and thank you.  Don't belch.  We were often admonished to "mind your manners!"  Although we were (and still aren't) perfect, I think we eventually learned how to behave ourselves, and I don't think we caused too much embarrassment to our sweet mother.  I hope not, anyway.

During those same formative years, I remember her often teaching my brothers how to behave around girls and women.  They were instructed to open the car for my mother.  They learned to open doors and let the women go through (although I don't remember being on the receiving end of these practices).  I do remember her admonishing them to "be gentelmen."

I just got a lovely book from my dear sister-in-law (thanks so much!), and I read it that very day.  Twice.  It was set more or less in England's Regency period, similar to Pride and Prejudice.  Oh, I enjoyed the book!  For some reason, I have always been drawn to the gentle refinement of that era.  Maybe I'm just a sucker for Jane Austen's writing.  No, that's not true.  I have suffered through a few of her books that I thought were abominably dry and unnecessarily long.  And there are a lot of things I don't like and find unfair or restrictive about that period.  But I love reading about it, living it vicariously.  I would even like to live there for a short while.  I would.

I think the thing I like the most is the emphasis on being a gentleman.  All those good manners that my mother worked so hard to instill in my brothers are there, and bigger than life.  Similarly, I am constantly trying to teach my boys to be nice and mannerly and kind.  Please don't belch at the table.  You can use nicer language than that.  No, we do not comment on the passing of gas.  It's a constant battle of refinement against our more coarser nature.

I love to read (and got some of my boys hooked on it, too!) The Art of Manliness.  That's what I'm talking about here.  Let's just peruse some of their articles, shall we?  How to wear a leather jacket with style.  Bringing back common sense.  How to roll up your shirt sleeves.  Why every man should be strong.  Being a gentleman at the office.  This is not sexist.  It's just how to be the best man you can, and how to be strong and nice at the same time.  I think it's a worthy goal.

I was a bit frustrated this morning, and I was thinking some uncharitable thoughts.  My inner mother jumped out, and I nearly admonished myself to be more gentlemanly.  Hmm...  Now that I think about it, I don't remember being taught how to be ladylike.  Only in keeping my skirt down and not climbing trees in a dress. The picture of womanhood that is being advanced in our society is remarkably... manly.   I am not a man, not am I interested in becoming one.  That is not to say that I am any weaker in character, for that is entirely untrue.  But there is a fine difference between being a woman, and being a lady.  Are we losing the art of being feminine and strong and kind?  What happened to being a ladylike?  I'm wondering.


P.S. I'm not affiliated with The Art of Manliness.  They have no idea who I am, although I'm a huge fan, and raiser of sever gentlemen-to-be.  I even sent off one of my missionaries with a double edged safety razor and shaving soap, just like they recommended.

P.P.S.  Jay always told me that he would never strike a lady.  That's what he daddy taught him.  But with a wicked twinkle in his eye (probably after being hit by a pillow flying out of my grasp), he did admit that if a woman hit him first, then she was definitely not a lady.  Stinker.

Love You, Grandma!

My first mother-in-law came to visit us.  We are so lucky that, even though she lives a few thousand miles away from us, she comes to visit every summer.  She spends a week with each of her children's families, travelling more than seven thousand miles to see all five homes and twenty-three grandchildren.  She is an amazing woman, and the week we have her flies by too fast.

Maybe one day, we will convince her to move closer.  We would love it!

I am so lucky to have such a loving woman for my mother-in-law.  She is incredibly loving and giving.  She raised an amazing man, the mother of my first five boys.  And even after his passing, she still loves us!  I am impressed how quickly she adopted Trent as an honorary son-in-law when I married him.  She sends birthday cards and Christmas gifts for her grandkids - all 8 of them, no matter whether they are her biological grandchildren or not.  If you asked her, they are all hers.  And I agree.  My children are so lucky to have three sets of doting grandparents.

We love you, Grandma.  You are such a gift to our family!

Mission Monday

I taught Relief Society recently about missionary work.  It was a hard lesson to give because... because I am an introvert.

I have a hard time preaching or teaching things I don't practice, so in the weeks before my lesson, I work extra hard to apply and get better at the principles I'm planning to cover in my lesson.  It makes the lesson more authentic, and helps me to grow and be a better person.  I definitely get more out of my lessons than anyone else in the process!

This particular lesson was to cover what Elder M. Russell Ballard said in his General Conference address last fall, titled "Put Your Trust in the Lord."  You can watch the whole thing here.  Or maybe I can even get it to appear here and it will work.  Maybe.

It's a good talk.  But the challenge is that *I* don't talk to people about my church.  I mention it, I live it, sure.  But I don't go doing the missionary thing.  I hardly talk to other people about anything.  Ever.  I'm just an introvert like that.  And after decades of feeling like something was wrong with me because I'm not more outspoken, I'm finally at peace with myself.  I'm just not a social talker person. 

And why would I feel like I want to share my beliefs?  Religion is a highly personal subject, I know.  And it's supposed to be taboo at social gatherings and Thanksgiving dinner.  But I have so many blessings that I believe have come to me and my loved ones as a direct result of living the principles that are taught at church on Sunday.  I love my Lord.  My faith in him in more comforting than anything else I have.  

If I am having a really rotten, nobody-likes-me-I-think-I'll-go-eat-worms day and tell my kids about it, before I know it they are all having bad days too.  If I unload on my poor, patient husband, he dutifully listens as much as he can before falling asleep.  I can go to the cemetery and cry out at the graves of my mother and Jay (they are neighbors there - how convenient!), but I just get more depressed.  I can meditate and mentally search for peace, but through experience I know that this is the best way to make myself mad.  But if I kneel in prayer, my broken heart is always comforted.  Always.  This is the best balm I know of - the best set of rules for living a happy and fulfilled life.  I do believe in God and in Christ.  I believe that they love me.  I believe that living the principles taught by these wise men and women will help me to live the best life I can.  I believe that some Gospel messages every day will help me keep going.  I believe that this is the best set of guidelines for raising children.  I believe.  And it makes me happy.  How would I not want to share the good stuff?

I tried Elder Ballard's challenge to ask the Lord for a missionary moment, trusting that He will give me something I can handle.  And He did.  I had a beautiful opportunity to comfort a friend with an aching heart - a moment that would not have happened if I had not been actively looking for it.  I'm so glad I was.  Spreading the Gospel cheer is so much more than teaching a set of lessons.  It's about loving people, and helping them be more happy.  That's what Christ did.  

By the way, my Sunday lesson went amazingly well, which I was not expecting when I first started looking at it.

And that is why I want to share my faith.  And that is why I send my boys off on missions.  It's not to brainwash anyone.  It's just to share what makes us most happy, in the hopes that it will help someone else be more happy, too.  It's to share a bit of Christ's love.  You can learn more about it here.

And that is why I'll be having Mission Mondays - to chronicle some of what this mission stuff is all about.

Five Boys

It's been nearly a decade since these boys lost their daddy.  He slipped away peacefully in his sleep after a long, long battle with brain cancer.  They watched him struggle, but they had time to play with him and say their goodbyes.  It was hard.  I was 33, a widow with five young sons to raise.  It was hard.  I haven't written about it yet because it's still hard, but maybe I will someday.

I wish I could send a little message to that younger me.  I wish I could whisper into her ear that these brave little lads would make it through.  We wouldn't be without our share of challenges and difficulties, but we would make it.  I wish she could have seen that one day, they would be like this:  tall, strong, and handsome.  And still making it though.

Wherever you are today, hang on.  You'll make it through.

How to Avoid Extra Calories

Every day, as my boys come home from school, I am greeted by the hearty love-phrase, "What's for after-school snack?"  I am a food dispenser.  My first husband was a mechanical engineer, and as we had more and more boys, he vowed to invent a large refrigerator.  It would have a sensor where you put you hand, and it would recognize who you were and spit out the correct amount of food for that individual.  And that was when they and their appetites were little.  They grow, and eat.  They always want more and more food.  That's what I get for having healthy growing children!  That's also what I get for having nearly four teenaged boys.  Whew.  I love 'em.

This is a painting!  I think I need to have it in my house.

Today, as they began their descent on the kitchen, I could see that they really wanted chocolate chip cookies.  Or maybe I did.  I also knew that I didn't want to eat lots of cookies.  I'm trying to be a little bit nicer to my body, and a pile of chocolate chip cookies is not going to help me be healthy.

The first dozen cookies were snatched off the pan before they were cool enough to handle.  There were a whole bunch of slightly-burned fingers with that batch.  The second batch evaporated nearly as quickly.  I snatched up the third panful as soon as they came out of the oven and hid them on top of the fridge so I had something fun to put in their lunches tomorrow.  The fourth batch only got half-eaten, until I turned my back and they disappeared.  And the fifth dozen were eaten when Georgie stole the bowl from the counter and snuck away to his bedroom where he and Freddie ate the dough raw.  It's best that way, you know.

And now there are two cookies hidden for Trent when he gets home from work, and four baggies filled with cookies for tomorrow's lunches.  The pans have been washed, and all the other evidence destroyed.  Even the crumbs have been licked up.

That is how you have cookies around without feeling obliged to eat them.  Have the children eat them.  No encouraging required.  Saved from the extra calories!

I won't tell you how much dough I snitched, though.

Baby Monitor

I was doing some cleaning (and purging - yay!) today, when I found an old baby monitor.  Actually, I found two.  One was a little monitor we had purchased years ago, and the other was a hand-me-down from even more years ago.  Neither of them looked anywhere near as sleek as these models, but it was the same idea.  Little sender unit goes in the baby's room and the bigger receiver unit goes with the parental units.

A few months after our marriage, Jay and I went to visit his sister.  She was married and had two little ones already.  She threw a mattress down on the floor in her little girl's room for us to sleep on, and graciously got all the bedding we would need.  Just before we turned out the light, she popped her head back in.  Aware that we were still newlyweds, she cautiously mentioned that there was a baby monitor next to the little girl's bed, and that she and her husband would be able to hear... everything that went on through the night.

She left and Jay and I erupted into silent laughter.  We may or may not have made various comedic impersonations and sound effects to amuse them.  It all turned out fine, though - our niece slept through the whole night.

I never used a baby monitor much.  We usually lived in small enough homes that I could hear the baby when he started to holler.  Except for our first baby, or course.  I didn't know that I would hear him.  I didn't know much at all.  We lived in a tiny little two bedroom trailer, but I was terrified that the baby would cry and I wouldn't hear him.  I would wheel Alec's bassinet into the bathroom and park him in there while I tried to sneak in a shower during his nap.  I remember peeking around the shower curtain a few times, sure that he was whimpering while I washed my hair.  He wasn't.  He was fine.  And I slowly learned how to be a mother.

Interesting how finding a few old things bring back so many thoughts.  The funny thing was that I found both of the parent models, but neither of the baby sender parts.  Does that mean that I'm still trying to listen, but the kids aren't wanting to talk to me anymore?

Happy Valentines Day

At about seven o'clock last night, Eddie innocently asked me if he could make an aircraft carrier out of old boxes.  Sure dear.  I'm happy with any excuse to get rid of the boxes that inexplicably reproduce in our sunroom.  "Can I spray paint it gray?"  Sure, sure.  I got out the gray spray paint and a big box lid for him to spray into.  I told him, if it was all the same to him, that I'd rather him wait until another day to do messy projects until I could help him, as I was slammed with several other demands at that particular moment.

"But I have to have my valentine's box tomorrow, Mom."

Say wha....??

Fortunately, I had anticipated this a little bit, and I had already purchased a generic box of Star Wars valentines.  I just didn't think he would wait until the evening before to make his box!  And an aircraft carrier?

He pulled it off.  He and David worked together for a long while and built a pretty good cardboard shape and got it painted.  After I helped him attach some little bags of treats to his valentines this morning, I helped him paint lines and a few rough details on the gray-ish deck of the aircraft carrier/valentine box.  I suggested that we make arrows pointing down the runways - and to the valentine drop slot.  But when I changed the shape of the the last arrow, he got upset.  "Mom!  Why are you painting a heart on my aircraft carrier?"  My bad.  I thought it was an valentine's box!"  He's all boy, that one.

I did manage to get my own valentines done for my minions.  I wanted to use Twinkies, but they were nowhere to be found.  I substituted strawberry rolls (strawberries are Valentines-ish, right?), and drew on the packages with a marker.  Love markers.

Angel let me put her hair in a heart ponytail.

 

And I made up some big old hunks of chocolate for my big boys.  Just 'cuz even big boys need to know.

I'm making up a special Valentine's dinner for my man.  It'll start with with pork chops and pineapple and his favorite spinach salad, and end with a parfait of chocolate and brownies and strawberries.  I hope he'll come home and enjoy it!

I have a bunch of carnations I've been giving out to sweet ladies in our ward.  Our Valentine carnation tradition is 22 years old this year!  The boys can each have one to give away this evening, and then the rest of them are mine to enjoy in a vase on the counter.  But first I need to take one red carnation up to the cemetery.  

Happy Valentine's Day!

Dirty Diapers

I do a little bit of laundry every day.  If I didn't, our home would soon be overrun the growing mounds of dirty clothes like some very scary domestic horror show.  Maybe we ought to save ourselves a bunch of work (and money!) and start a little family nudist colony.  I digress.  It's still winter around here and much too cold to run around naked.

Today I opened the door of the washing machine and pulled out a load of diapers.  As I transferred the clean, fresh-smelling cloth diapers into the dryer, a new thought struck me.  This way my last load of cloth diapers.

I started my diapering business 20 years ago next month, and have been in nearly constant demand ever since.  I still remember those first few loads, loading the diaper pail and Jay's mesh laundry bag and the baby into our '67 Cougar to drive to the laundromat.  Good old college memories.  I have had no dearth of customers, except for one short period when we took a short break and retooled for the serving of female clientelle.  No, I've had great job security.  The chores have been constant - being on-call 24/7 - but not usually very particularly demanding.  The was always the occasional messy work emergency, but even that left plenty of spare time between jobs.

There was a time, a couple of years ago, when I had customers lined up three deep, but that has petered down to just working the night shift.  Everyone is happy and dry during the day, but Georgie has had some nighttime challenges.  When I got him dressed this morning and took off his night diaper, I realized that he had been basically dry for the past week.  Nighttime potty training is not a big deal around these parts, so I don't stress it much.  I praised him and gave him a treat - a single jelly bean, and he was thrilled.  Our trusty diaper pail was full, so I hauled it into the laundry room to wash that load of diapers.

Georgie will wear training pants with plastic pants to bed tonight.  I'm not ready to do away with his plastic pants yet - they do catch a little bit of an accident, and they make a distinctive crinkling sound that lets me know my little ones are sneaking around out of bed.

And now the diapers are clean and dry, white and fluffy.  What will I do with them, I wonder.  Use them for dust rags like my mother did with our old, tattered cloth diapers?  Cleaning the car cloths?  They make great stain-appliers when I am refinishing furniture, but I have an awful lot of them.  Anyone interested in a big, twin-sized batch of plain-Jane, old-fashioned cloth diapers?