Shredded Jeans

Growing up, my brothers and I wore jeans a lot.  We wore them until they were "high waters" or until the waist was so tight you couldn't sit down in them anymore.  Then you passed them on down to the next kid (who was obviously delighted to get another batch of hand-me-downs, of course!).  That didn't actually happen very often, because we always wore out the knees first.  I don't know why we think of denim as being so tough when the knees rip through so fast!  I say that as a mother of boys.  I do remember my mother getting Tough Skins jeans at J.C. Penney - or was it Sears? - because they had a double layer of fabric at the knees.  To her, it was worth it.

When my first little boys were getting bigger, Shop Ko had a return program that if the kids wore out any clothing before they outgrew it, the store would replace the item.  I would drive several cities away to get Shop Ko jeans for my little dudes, even though they were noticeably thinner than the other brands.  I went back to get those holey jeans replaced over and over and over... until I got sick of it and quit shopping there.  Boys are HARD on jean-knees!

When our knees blew out, the jeans were candidates for cut-offs.  Mom would cut the jeans off at the knee-hole.  Hopefully the holes in both knees lined up.  If we were lucky, she would hem the cut ends, or we would just roll them up.  Those were our summer shorts.  But we did not wear them with holes in the knees.  Not at all.

As I'm getting to be an old-lady-person, I'm surprised at the jeans on the racks at the store that are pre-thrashed.  First the jeans were pre-washed, then pre-worn-in, and now you can pay good money to have them pre-worn-completely-out?  I have a hard time with the idea.

David had a pair of jeans with holes in the knees.  They were hand-me-downs from Chris or Ben, so they came by the knee-holes honestly.  Usually I take such jeans and add them to my enormous pile of old pants that I fully intend to make denim quilts out of.  One day.  Don't ask how large that pile is (it currently lives in multiple big boxes), or when "one day" is.  But David liked the jeans and kept wearing them.  He even took a razor blade to them and ever-so-carefully WHILE wearing the pants scraped a few new holes in the legs.  This does not compute.

The holes got larger after every washing, and I think after every wearing and every time someone looked at the jeans.  Thankfully, there came a day recently when there was more hole than jean and they were declared legally dead.  Even more fortunately, there wasn't enough fabric left to worry about imaginary denim quilts.

Farewell, holey jeans!  Let's go to the store and get you a pair of new pants.  I'll pick them out.

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.

Slowing Way Down

So the other day (which means a vague sometime in the past but not necessarily recently.  We're liberal with our definitions here) I wrote about getting an inspiration in the temple that I needed to slow m life down.  I tried!  I thought seriously about it and everything.

But the reality of life for me is that I am the Mama of a large family.  Six kids at home rely on me for food, clothing, love, and attention.  I am the homemaker in charge of a house and land.  It's not huge, but there are always things that need cleaning up, fixing up, taking out, and tuning up.  I am the primary caregiver to a wonderful man and his Parkinson's Disease and he's not improving.  This disease is slowly stealing him and his abilities away from us.  And not lastly (but bestly!) I am the wife of a good man.  I'm so lucky to be the one to love him.

None of this will let up.  In  spite of the fact that we cleaned the front room yesterday, it needs to be cleaned again.  The laundry does not stay folded and put away.  Kids need to go to school again.  Track practice got out late and the boys need a ride home.  He needs a new pair of shoes.  She needs her hair brushed.  They need dinner (seriously guys?  We just ate yesterday!  Can't we call that good?).

And in the middle of all this thinking about slowing down and realizing that life was just not going to make this easy for me, I got a phone call from the doctor's office.  "So sorry, sweetie (she always calls me that and I love her for it).  The blood test results came back and you have Epstein Barr.  You need to get your back on the couch and stay there until this flare settles down."  Wait, what?  What is it, exactly?  Didn't I have mono already when I was twelve?  It comes back?  How bad is that?  How long will it take?  "Probably a month until you start feeling a bit better, but the fatigue can hang on for a while."

The fatigue.  Oh, I remember that part.  I was too sick to go to sixth grade for weeks.  My mom would take me to the doctor's office for more tests and I'd still be panting when we got there from the exertion of walking out my front door to the car.  Sometimes I had to crawl down the hallway to the bathroom because I was too exhausted to walk.  I lived on the old hide-a-bed couch in the living room where Mom could keep an eye on me.  Then they got new blue couches and they moved me and my old brown plaid one under the peninsula counter in the kitchen.  I was always so tired and never even wanted to move.

And I get to do that again?  Oh goody.

So now I live on the couch again.  Sometimes in the front room, and sometimes on the squishy green couches in the back room.  And sometimes I hide in my bedroom while Trent makes dinner and David hosts his own birthday party with his friends.  Lots of times I get up and do things, which I thnk is ok - in tiny amounts.  Because if I do any more than a microscopic amount, I pay for it afterwards.

It's hard to slow down.  I appreciate my family more than ever.  Trent is a dear to take care of half of everything I can't do.  David and Eddie have each made dinner this week (er, helped, but they are getting better).  Angel unloads the dishwasher.  The twins cleaned the bathroom, and it is actually cleaner now than when they started!  Even Chris was kind and was willing to help out (when he's not at school or work or track - which is not very much).  I'm blessed with wonderful people around me.

So we'll see what lessons I get to learn from this adventure!  Patience, I'm sure.  And gratitude.  And being able to see the things in slo-mo that I miss on fast-forward.  Stay tuned... I'm not going anywhere!

And thanks, Lord, for giving me a heads-up there at the organ.  I appreciate that.

Spring Weeding

I spent some time out in the sunshine today, weeding and thinking about our current political climate.  The two went really well together., actually.  Whenever I thought about a politician, I ripped out a weed.  Very cathartic and energizing, somehow at the same time.

There is a small strawberry patch along the back of the house.  I don't think I've ever seen it really flourish.  My mother did not like to weed, and I don't think she liked anyone else to weed, either, so she just wanted to put the whole yard in grass and forget about it.  I remember her making us weed lots when we were kids - I guess it wasn't worth the effort for her!

My brother and his sweet wife tried to tame the yard when they lived here, but it's a really hard spot to grow anything well.  Most of the strip is only about six inches wide, right against the south side of the house, so everything there just bakes.  Except the grass, the dandelions, and the bindweed. 

Right now the soil is soft and smells nice, so the weeds come out easily.  Or somewhat easier.  If I fill up a bucket with weeds every day, I should make it to the end of the patch soon, right?  I'm halfway there, so I'll get done about the time the weeds start to grow at the beginning of the row again.  (sigh)

The honest truth is that we can never give up on making life better.  And that's not a bad thing.  I am glad for the excuse to sit in the sunshine today.

Where Do You Put Your Feet?

I play the organ every week at church.  I'm proficient, but not splendiferous at it.  My mother, who had a 40-year tenure as the ward organist, taught me that the two most important parts of accompanying hymns were to begin the song together, and end when they end.  So I do, and anyting more than that is icing.

Now that's not to say that I am a terrible organist who is limping along.  On the contrary, I have played for many years myself and am quite comfortable with most of the hymns in the book.  Most, but not all.  So I practice.

I know what the hymns are at the beginning of the week, more or less.  The idea is that I practice them a bit every day and then I'm ready when Sunday rolls around.  Reality lives in a different world from my ideas, unfortunately.  I think about my songs at the beginning of the week, and then forget in the busyness of daily life.  About Thursday I start feeling panicky and by Friday I actually haul out the hymnbook.  I practice a lot on Friday, intend to practice more on Saturday, and brush the hymns up on Sunday morning.  And some weeks I actually do better than that!

I was practicing the other day when David came into the room.  He watched me play the songs for a few minutes, and then asked how I could practice the pedals when I was playing on a piano, not an organ.  I showed him where I put my feet as I practice, and how I pretend that the pedals are there.

I've been thinking a lot about that ever since.  How can I practice when I'm not really practicing?

First of all, I know the organ.  We had an organ at home when I was a child, and I really learned to play as a teenager.  I know that the D below middle C is directly in front of me as I sit at the organ.  I know that the F is just to the right of my right foot as I sit naturally, and that I have to stretch to the left about a foot to reach low G.

My feet feel the pedals as I play.  Officially, an organist wears special shoes while playing the organ, with a specific low heel and soft leather soles so as to feel the pedals beneath your feet.  Organ shoes are pricey, and I could never justify the expense, so I haven't ever bought any.  I remember my mother buying tap shoes and unscrewing the noisy taps for her organ shoes, but I just play barefoot. The pedals are arranged in white and clusters of black keys, just like the keyboard, and  I can feel where the pedals are, and where the black (or darker) pedals are in relation to the white pedals (which are usually light wood toned).  Low B is on the left side of the break between the the sets of black pedals, and F is on the right side of the next break.

Mostly, however, I practice the crud out of my hands before adding the pedals.  Mistakes are crud, right?  I want to practice the hand parts well enough that I don't even need to think about where they are going.  I need the brain space to pay attention to what my feet should be doing.

As I have been thinking about playing pedals, some other things have also come to mind.  I have some potentially stressful situations coming up that I've been worrying about. How can I prepare for those?  The same way.

I need to know me.  I've lived in me a long time, and I know where my boundaries are.  I know what comes easily, and what kinds of things I have to stretch the accomplish.  I need to respect myself and my strengths and not be afraid to shine.

There is strength in being sensitive.  I am able to feel out a situation, listening as I go, to play the right parts and correct it when it gets disharmonious.  I need to trust my gut feel.

Mostly, I need to make sure that the other parts of my life are in harmony.  Do the things well that I know how to do well.  Keep a schedule.  Get enough sleep.  Eat nourishing food.  Read my scriptures and do the things that fill my heart with happiness and goodness.  Then I will have the space to think and respond to new things as they come up.

Thanks, David, for asking the questions that helped me to answer my own wonderings. Love this family and the things I can learn from them!

And maybe I should even go to the church occasionally and really practice on an organ.  For real.

Going on a Field Trip

I'm going on a junior high field trip. I'm not sure what got intro me, or what happened to my sanity. When Eddie came home with the permission slip for me to sign, there was a check box for "I would like to go as a chaperone."  What the heck. I've gone on field trip with my other boys, but never with Eddie, so I marked it.  And then I forgot all about it. 

Two days ago, I got a phone call from a desperate junior high teacher, acknowledging that it was short notice, but was there any way I could come and help out?  Sure!   I can hang out with a few kids for a few hours. Surely I'm capable of at least that much.

I made arrangements for my kindergartners, and planned to go. I packed my sack lunch (an apple and a handful of raisins and almonds), put on my best walking shoes (which isn't saying much), and got myself to the room at the junior high where the parents were meeting.   To my surprise, the room was packed. I didn't realize that there were six hundred and fifty seventh graders, all going on the same field trip...  with several other schools...  with THOUSANDS and thousands of kids.   I have fifteen to twenty in my group and we'll ALL be in a huge convention center and I have to keep track of them... for hours. I had no idea.

What have I gotten myself into?

We walked through the crowded hallways to the auditorium where the teachers tried to holler instructions over the din. In the crush to get out and load the buses, I was grateful for my height that allowed me to look over the heads of most of the kids.  I had to stop and look hard at the mob when I remembered that I have not grown a millimeter since eighth grade.  Today's view of head tops is the same scene I saw when I was in junior high.  No wonder I always felt awkward!

After inching forward in the bedlam, we finally got to the cheerfully yellow school buses, rumbling in long yellow lines. We jostled aboard like a herd of cattle.  What a fun and energetic adventure!

It turned out that there weren't assigned groups.  I just took a random bunch of kids and forged ahead.  My group of twenty got smaller and smaller until it was just Eddie and two girls.  Then I turned around and even they were gone.  I can't tell you how tempting it was to just grab a chair and put my feet up.  But I didn't.

I found my boy again, totally unconcerned that I had been hunting for him.  We found the other kids and made it back on the bus with the same amount we started with.  Amazing.

And we all had a good time.  I'll put my feet up for the rest of the day.

Mother Promptings

My mother told me a story about her mother.  The family was in the living room, doing whatever the normal things were to do.  Grandma Amy was doing sitting in her chair, probably busy with some handiwork.  She embroidered and crocheted beautifully.  The three girls were there in the room, but I think the older three boys were gone.  The oldest son was in Vietnam, where he flew helicopters on rescue missions.  

Without warning, Grandma Amy jumped out of her chair, spilling everything to the floor, and ran upstairs.  My mother said she remembered looking around and seeing the surprise on her sisters' faces.  Grandma Amy just did not jump and run like that.

After quite some time, she returned to the room, her face pale and grim.  She explained that she didn't know why, but she felt compelled to pray for her boy in Vietnam.  She knew he was in some kind of bad trouble and needed to plead with the Lord to help him.

Later, she found out that he was indeed in peril at that exact moment, but had a narrow escape.  I wish I knew more details of the story, but I love the idea that Grandma Amy could importune the heavens for blessings on her children.  

While I was playing the organ at the temple today, I had a vivid flashback of a time with my oldest son.  I had gone out to Virginia to see him graduate from some of his military training.  It was our last day there, and his commanding officer had given him three hours of leave.  When it was time for him to go, however, the acting sergeant reduced it to only one hour.  Alec was furious, and disappointed.  His anger and frustration and discouragement boiled over into tears - tears he didn't want anyone to see, of course.  My mother heart broke for him, but there was nothing we could do. 

We spent the hour together and I savored the moments.  I watched him walk back to his barracks, smart and trim in his dress blues.  More tears fell, but this time they were mine and I didn't care who saw them.  I was so proud of him, and so glad that he wanted to spend time with me.

I don't know that Alec shed more tears today, or that there was something frustrating or angry or discouraging in his life at that moment.  But I still prayed for him, and I hoped he would be strong and happy.

I never knew what a mother heart would feel like.  I never understood how strongly a mother could love her children, and how physically that angst and yearning and care could express itself.

Now I get it.  And I am grateful for the legacy of strong mothers who taught me love.  What a blessing I get to be a part of!

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.

In Search of a Good Marker

I love to write.  I have love to write - composing words - most of my life.  I'm not that great at it, but it doesn't matter.  I'm probably like that one kid at the dance who is blissfully unaware of how truly bad he is at dancing, but just closes his eyes and flails about to his version of the music and loves every moment.  

I'm trying to get back into writing, but I'm out of the habit so I just don't think about it most days.  Need to find ways to make it a new habit.

 

Even more happy for me than writing, though, is WRITING, making shapes with a pen.  I love to make a message beautiful.  Being the daughter of a printer, I was into fonts before fonts were a thing, and I begged my dad to give me his old font books.  I would pore over them for hours, like a Christmas catalog, highlighting my favorite ones.  Then I would spend all my junior high spare moments in writing the name of my latest crush.  Not with my name, mind you.  Just his name, over and over in every typeface imaginable.  

 

I haven't written much in the past few years, partly because I've been raising humans, and partly because the current fascination with fonts means that my handwritten scripts, once unique, are now just a messy, secondhand version of an easily accessible online font.  If it's not as good, I might as well do it more formally on a computer.

 

As a family, we have been studying a scripture every week or so.  I like to type out the scripture of the week and post it on the wall so we can read it and learn it.  Unfortunately, our printer is not playing nicely with the computer.  In fact, they are not on speaking terms at all.  So I had to pull out a marker and scribble a sign. It's been more fun than I thought it would be.  It's feeling good to get back into creating.  

Now I need to find a good marker that will work every time, not just some of the time.  And don't let the marker talk to the printer or neither of them will work.

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."

Organs

The pipe kind of organs, not the slimy guts kind of organ.  I know it's getting close to Halloween and all, but I'm not ready for that yet.

My mother played the organ.  Beautifully.  I think it was like breathing to her.  She and a friend used to do a little touring to different church congregations on Sundays and play piano and organ duets.  In high school!  

She was the organist in Sunday meetings for as long as I can remember.  In fact, for a while Dad was the clerk and Mom was the organist.  The organist sits at the organ on one site of the stand at the front of the chapel, while the clerk's desk is on the opposite side of the stand.  We took turns getting to sit beside Dad while he counted attendance in the meeting and took notes in his fine neat handwriting totally befitting a printer.  But for those of us not sitting by Dad... we sat in the back row of choir seats halfway between the clerk's desk and the organ.  I can only imagine that we wiggly kids were very entertaining to the congregation.  I'll try not to think about that.

Our organ was something like this - two manuals plus a full pedalboard.  And we had toys on the floor, so yes, this looks very familiar to me. 

We even had an organ at home.  Mom traded in the old, dark upright piano she had as a child for a newer piano and an organ.  They sat opposite each other for many years at home.  I loved to play on the organ (as opposed to actually playing and making music, mind you), making sounds with all the different stops.  And there was a percussion box - the best part!

When I was in high school my mother signed me and my brother up for group organ lessons.  We went once or twice before becoming intimidated by all the old ladies there.  After a few weeks of missing class, the instructor, a kind but austere man I knew in our neighborhood, called us up and arranged for us to have our own group lessons.  Drat.  Now we were stuck and had to go to class - and practice!  ..grumble, grumble, practicing...

I didn't know that our organ teacher, a man of quiet dignity, was a professor of organ studies at the university!  It was years later I learned had studied organ in Europe, won international awards for his performances, recorded CDs, and played on many continents.  I was lucky to have such a teacher.

I, along with the probably three other teenagers in the United States who played organ (it is a bit of a dying art), applied for organ scholarships.  The award money was not much, but it kept me in lessons at college (with another very gifted and accomplished organ teacher), and gave the opportunity to play on this amazing instrument:

It was pretty darn awesome.  When my roommate, a music major, unexpectedly lost her hearing, she would go into the hall and sit with me on the organ bench.  I'd play something wonderfully loud, like Phantom of the Opera, and she'd sigh happily, feeling the music of the organ when she was unable to hear it.  I loved, but did not very often dare, to crank it up loud and open all the stops.  That only happened on late weekend nights when everyone else was out - or just not in the music building.  My favorite stop was the wind chimes that went on in a steady silvery shimmer when their stop was pulled.  

At that point, I decided that there were two other organs, among the best west of the Mississippi, that I'd like to play one day.  And I wanted to play the organ in the temple.  What lofty ambitions we have in our youth.

As the years passed, I often played the organ for Sunday services at church.  I played the organ with toddlers on the bench and a 6-day-old baby in a sling.  I taught other pianists the nuances of organ technique.  I even arranged piano and organ duets.  But I never did take care of those three bucket list items.  

Until recently.  I'm tickled to have a regular shift in the temple now, where I play beautiful hymns to soothe the soul.  It's not loud, and it's not technically amazing, but it is pretty awesome.  I've never felt such peace between my heart and my fingers.  And I'm grateful for that sweet spirit that fills me, and even wafts home with me.

The temple is a wonderful place, and I feel it a great privilege to be able to serve a little bit there.

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.

Pioneer Fail

I was working on this fluff today, and it took a long time.  Ben used to say that, in a whining way, when he was about 10.  "But it will take a loooooong tiiiiiime!"  It did.  Isn't it beautiful fluffy stuff?  It is the inside stuff of an old pillow, and we were stretching it out and pulling it into smaller pieces so it was soft again and we could use it for other things.

While we were working with the fibers - Angel and the twins were more than happy to help me - I started thinking of carding wool.  Isn't that kind of a similar idea?  You take dirty old sheep coats, wash them, and then comb the fibers out so they are soft and you can do other things with them.  

I grew up in a house with a 6-acre field out back.  It wasn't our field, but we loved it like it was.  The back neighbors kept flocks of sheep up in the mountains, and they would bring down the sheep that needed more attention and put them in The Field.  We grew up watching sheep with a limp, and sheep that were very gaunt, and sheep that just looked sick.  As far as we were concerned, they all got better and went back to the flock (I would imagine that wasn't always the case.).  In the early spring, they would bring the expectant ewes to The Field.  Every morning we would wake up and run to see if there were any new lambs.  How funny they were when they tried to run!  As they got bigger and the weather grew warmer, they would be sheared.  Poor little nekkid lambies!  

I remember walking along the back fence and picking little tufts of wool out of the barbed wire.  I had every intention to collect a whole basket full, clean it and card it and make my own clothes, just like Little House on the Prairie.

I was mildly obsessed with Little House on the Prairie, but I don't remember them actually carding wool.  Did they?  I think it might have come up in Farmer Boy, the book about Almanzo's youth.  I used to dream that I was transported back in time somehow and got to grow up in a white apron and sunbonnet.

As I watched my fingers bumble through the clean pillow fluff, I realize that I would not make a very good pioneer.  I can cook, yes - with groceries that come in boxes and meat that comes on styrofoam trays.  I can sew - with a machine.  I can crochet - slowly, with a large hook.   I can gather eggs, but so could any four-year-old pioneer girl.  I can not build a fire nor butcher a chicken nor knit socks nor write with a quill pen nor make a poultice for a sick child.

I think I'm glad I live now in the days of band-aids and ready-made clothing and refrigerators.  How lucky I am!  But I still want a cute bonnet.

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.

I Was a Bad Mom - Or Was I?

A whole bunch of years ago, I was the mother of a willful boy.  Come to think of it, I still am.  We just do better at working together than we used to.

One day, this boy - maybe 11 or 12 - was upset.  I don't remember now what it was about, and I don't know if I even knew the reason then.  But he threw a temper tantrum and ended up running out of the house and climbing up our cherry tree.  The tree was large and the branches were sturdy.  The boys had rigged up platforms and shelters and swings and even a zipline or two from its canopy.  Many hours were spent under those shady leaves, and now my boy was up there and wouldn't come down.

I tried everything I could think of.  I wheedled and cajoled, talked and reasoned, demanded and threatened.  When nothing worked and I lost my patience, I stormed next door to my parents' house.  My youngest brother was still at home and had been especially close to my older boys.  It was his aid I enlisted as I threw up my hands in desperation.  "Whatever you need to do!  Just get him down!"  I went back to my house to give some love and attention to the other four boys who had been frightened by their brother's outburst.

I don't know now how long it took before the boy came down, or if he was happy about it.  I have a strong suspicion that he wasn't.  But I probably felt relieved that this particular trial was over, and I might have even felt like I won the conflict in the end.

As I look back, I wonder why I couldn't have just left him in the tree.  Did I really need to assert my superiority by insisting that he come back into the house?  I'm not sure that's what I was doing, but whatever my motive, I don't think it was right.  If I had a do-over on this particular situation, I would have allowed this determined boy of mine all the time he needed to sit in the tree, settle his heart with the aid of nature's balm, and sort out his feelings.  And when he finally came back in, I would have greeted him with kind words and love.

I'm a better mom now than I used to be.  I have more experience and wisdom, and I've learned an awful lot.  When I think back on my "bad mom" moments, I feel bad for my children - and for myself.  We've had some tough times.  Recently I was feeling discouraged for all the parenting mistakes I've made.  There have been a lot of them.  But then I felt a sweet rush of peace and a gentle reminder that I was doing the best I could.  It wasn't necessarily my best in every given moment, but overall I was doing the best I knew how to do.  If I had known better then, I would have done better then.  The warmth in my heart told me that it was all forgiven, and that I did ok in my inexperience.

Today, as I look at those same older boys, I do feel a twinge of guilt for not having parented them better.  I was not the best mom as I was learning - but they weren't the best sons, either!  We've all come a long way and become better.  So maybe I wasn't that bad of a mother.  Maybe I did just what I needed to under the circumstances.  Maybe these boys will turn out fine anyway.  ...oh wait, they are.  They are amazing, so I must have done something right.

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.

Bad Breaks

I looked at the old apple tree a few weeks ago as we moved in, and remembered my gardening grandpa.  He planted the a dozen fruit trees in the backyard as soon as my parents bought the house.  I think I remember hearing that he planted them before they got back from signing the papers - without them!  There aren't as many trees in the backyard any more, but I love having grown up with them.

The sturdy limbs of the apple tree were full of round baby apples, green and hard.  There was an abundance of apples - too many.  I knew they should be thinned, so the branches could take the weight better.  Grandpa would have picked half of them off so we would have fewer, but larger apples when harvest day came.  But we were busy with the moving in and unpacking and the hubbub of the everyday.  We'll get to the tree.  We will.  Just as soon as we...

A few weeks ago, we had a big storm.  Thunder boomed and lightning crashed all around us.  The wind was blowing fiercely and the rain pelted our windows.  It was the kind of night that makes you grateful for shelter, and I loved listening to the wild music.  

In the morning, however, we found that the apple tree had not fared so well.  Four or five branches had broken when the weight of too many apples was exacerbated by the strong winds.  The worst break was a main branch on the front that had snapped along a weak joint.  The branch did not beak off, but split open along an extended fissure.  Not only that branch was lost, but possibly others along the split.  We might have the cut the whole thing off, nearly down to the trunk.

It's a tragic loss that could have been avoided if we had merely thinned the apples when we noticed how thick they were.  It made me a little sick, looking at the poor wounded tree.  I don't speak for the trees like the Lorax, but I feel for them.  In fact, I didn't want to cut off the branch so much that I avoided the task.

Weeks passed, and the end of the branch, once held so proudly, still rested on the grass.  It needs to be cut.  Really.  That sad tree needs some attention.  But after a while, I realized that even in its wounded state, the tree was still nourishing the branch.  The leaves were not withering and drying out.  The baby apples were still growing and ripening.  

It's finally applesauce season, and I've got my first two batches simmering in the kitchen.  The sweet apple aroma wafts about pleasantly, and I'm still thinking of the tree.  I've learned that too many projects will weigh me down.  Fever jobs mean that they get done well, instead of having lots of little half-baked tasks to burden me.  Too much weigh also makes me less flexible, and I snap when the weather is more harsh.  Thin.  Prune.  Prioritize.  Do less, better.

I'm also learning that I, like the tree, am very resilient.  Even when I think I am broken, I am still very capable.  That's an amazing realization.  And I can break and be cut and fall all apart - and still be ok.  I'm still here and still puttering around, after all.  The tree will still be beautiful without the broken branch.  I'm glad we have its stately branches and comfortable shade.  And I'm still useful and lovable, even with my warts and faults.

Thanks for the lessons, old tree.

All By Myself

I grew up in a medium-sizish house with two parents and two cats and four brothers.  And one bathroom.  Yes, one bathroom for all seven of us (thankfully,the cats used other facilities).  It wasn't usually a problem, except for when we were coming home from one of those long "hey let's go on a drive" outings, and we all had to go.  We would start calling dibs on the bathroom as soon as we entered the neighborhood, but all bets were off when we pulled in the driveway.  As soon as the station wagon slowed down in the driveway, the doors were flung open and children flew out and raced like mad for the bathroom.  We all knew that, dibs aside, whoever was able to slam the bathroom door shut first was the luckiest.  The rest of us would line up in the hallway, hopping or crossing our legs, and wait.  And holler at the one in the bathroom to hurry.  Hurry!

Occasionally we would have other bathroom problems.  I'm fighting the urge to use the words congestion or constipation here.  Sometimes someone would be in the bathroom for a long time.  Sometimes a really long time.  Little kids can only wait so long, you know.  If it went on too long - like more than two or three minutes - I remember pressing my ear up against to door to listen to what was going on in there.  sooner or later, I would hear evidence of my suspicions, which gave me license to tattle.  "Mom!  He's reading in there!"  Reading in the bathroom, whether it was a book or the newspaper (usually the funny pages), was strictly verboten.

When I was in junior high, oh happy day, we got a second toilet installed.  Please note that I do not mention the bathroom, just the toilet.  This is because there was no bathroom, just the toilet.  The toilet was installed where the bathroom would eventually be, and there were two walls around it made up from a bedroom wall and the cement side of the basement.  Part of the third wall was made up of a furnace, a water heater, and a washing machine.  But there was no wall between the toilet and the hallway.  And not enough of a partition to screen the toilet-sitter from anyone coming down the stairs.  This all meant that if one really, really had to go, and one were sure of a quick finish, one might be able to furtively take care of business while keeping an ear out for footfalls on the stairs.  It was risky until the rest of the walls were erected.

Now, I live comfortably in a larger-sizish house with three bathrooms.  It's nice to have more bathrooms.  One is shared by the five - oops now only four - boys living downstairs.  The upstairs bath is shared by the girl and the twins and everyone who is upstairs during the day.  The last bathroom is mine.  I mean, it's the master bath, accessible only by going through my room and then my closet.  It is used by me and the man... and anyone else who discovers that the other bathrooms are full.

The little ones use it quite often, especially now.  The twins learned that they can stand up at the toilet.  Fortunately (seriously!) they have pretty accurate aim.  They have also learned that they can take care of business at the same time.  Wonders!  Again, good aim.  They don't even play games like crossing swords when they are in there.  I'm glad.  But we did have to draw the line recently when Georgie decided to share toilet time with Angel, who was sitting properly as a girl should.  He thought that if he could go tandem with Freddie, then sharing with Angel would also be no problem.  Not so.  She ended up soaked up and down, and madder than a wet hen.  Not that I've ever seen any of our wet hens mad, but that's beside the point.

Now I tell the little people that there are some things we should do alone.  When anyone sits on the toilet, they are now perfectly capable of doing it solo.  I remind the twins on a regular basis that she can "do this all by herself."  And when she tries to poke her head in on one of the twins in the bathroom, she hears, "He can do this all by himself."  I say it often enough I've adopted it for myself.

When Mother Nature comes a-calling and I dash into my bathroom, I can be assured of having seven seconds or less of peace.  Then, for some reason, everyone needs me.  "Mom!"  "Mom!"  "He hit me!"  "I need..."  "I'm bleeding!"  "What's for dinner?"  "Where are you?!?"  Not even the bigger kids are immune from the change in the air that evidently happens when Mother goes into the bathroom.  And due to the through-the-bedroom-and-through-the-closet location of my bathroom, they can't hear me respond to their requests very well.  When the little ones do locate me, they often try to join me in the bathroom.  No, thank you.

So I've taken to issuing a standard response.  "I'm in the bathroom and I can do this all by myself!"  And then they will have to wait... while I scroll through my facebook or read a newspaper article.  Fortunately, the electronic reading material doesn't rustle when I turn pages.

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.

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?