The Pheasant Hunt

The only hunt Mike really likes to participate in anymore is the pheasant hunt. It has happy memories for him, and he likes tramping around early in the morning on his dad's land in the late Fall weather. I don't think he even cares if he gets a pheasant.

It has happy memories for me as well because I still recall driving up there on a cool Fall morning when we were engaged to meet him after the pheasant hunt. Our wedding was just a little way off. He had left me his cool truck to drive up -- which was exciting for me because it made me happy that he wanted me to use his things -- that he was excited for his things to become mine and mine his, etc. I met up with him near his grandma Emma's, and we went for lunch at her house. We had homemade bread and stew that his aunt Sarah had made and his little cousin's 4H chili.

Here is a picture of Mike that same year with his dad and brothers as well as two cousins. They were up working on a fence on his dad's land. (My Mike is the third one in from the right).

And here is Mike after the pheasant hunt the following year looking rugged and handsome.

Anyway, he is up pheasant hunting this very morning. Last night he said to me, "Don't worry, honey. I'll bring home a Thanksgiving feast!"

I told him that would be great if he could manage to shoot a giant turkey for us.

At which point he informed me that it wasn't turkey hunting season so he'd be carted right off to jail, but I think that if you see a huge turkey strutting by this close to Thanksgiving you are pretty much obliged to shoot it for your dinner. Aren't you? Only I wouldn't want it to be some strange wild type of turkey. Oh no. I'd want it to look just how we all think turkeys should look -- which is something like this:And even though no turkey has ever ever looked like that. I know that you all feel, as I do, that they should.

Daisy's Hair

I have to say that I think my little Daisy girl has the most gorgeous hair color in all of the world. Seriously. Don't you think women would pay big bucks to get it to come out exactly this color at a salon? Especially when the sun is shining off of it. So lovely.

Dog Carts

If you wonder why this lovely face, it is because of my husband. Actually, I think this is a picture Goldie took, but it is the very face I'm sure I was making when my husband mentioned how a dog backpack is one thing, but even better would be a dog cart.

And no, I wouldn't need to worry about our kids falling out of the dog cart (because that was ONE of my issues with a dog cart). It wouldn't be for them to ride in. It would be to cart their wares – the wares they would be selling – that would be pulled by their dog and his cart (that last sentence was a chiasm for you literary geniuses).

He's a big dog, so I guess he would need to pull big things like watermelons or giant Hubbards maybe.

Mike saw a little cart as well. Perfect, he thought, for a dog pulled spice cart. I think I was making that same face as above while I envisioned our kids going around the neighborhood shouting, “Spices! Spices for sale! Get your Cumin! Get your Cloves! Spices for sale!”

Of course, anyone can see that Thor is just too much of a dog for spices. It just isn't a good match. Maybe Mike's sister's dog Nacho could get away with pulling a spice cart. He seems small and . . . spicy? Hmm. Maybe too spicy. (Nacho? Are you in there?? Thor! Did you eat Nacho? Bad dog! Open your mouth!!)Anyway, it's a good thing I love my husband so ridiculously because one of these days I will be found curled in a small ball – shivering – eyes glazed but twitching occasionally. I won't be able to respond to any questions. I won't really say anything at all. Only, occasionally, I might mutter something like, “spice cart,” or “pack goats,” or “beehives,” or “chickens,” or “apple press,” maybe even, “sheep herding.” And that will be the end of the Nancy we all once knew and loved.

Ah well, at least Mike will be able to love me all the more. He can put a little shirt on me that says, “My Little Nut Case,” or, he can wear one that says, “I'm with Crazy,” and take me along to his dog cart conventions.

If only I'd seen the warning signs when we were dating. They tell you to talk about finances, religion, kids, etc., but they always forget to mention the ever so important, “inclination towards homesteading.”

Oh, who am I trying to kid. Even if I had known, I still would have married him with out batting an I (wait, I might have batted an “I” – I'm not sure . . . I meant to say without batting an EYE), and he knows it. Darn him.

Good Mom, Reading, and a Dog Backpack

Maybe I am not quite the dream mom I made myself out to be when I wrote of making Goldie practice her reading daily:Goldie: Mom! Mom? Mom? What is this word?
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Me: Hmm?

Goldie: See -- this word. I don't know what it says.

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Me: Mm-hmm.

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Goldie: Mom!! Look! This word! What does it say?

Me: Oh! Wha? Yah, 'follow' that says 'follow.'

But sometimes I am not so much a dream mom as I am a dreaming mom . . . as in sleepy sleepy sleeping mom.

Speaking of reading though, here are some Daisy reading pics I thought were cute. She looks like she is so puzzled by the mystery of this "A to Z Mysteries" book.

And, nothing to do with reading is this:Things like this are how Mike tries to convince me that life would be impossible without a dog. He may cause us all kinds of inconvenience and trouble. He may jump on our kids -- scaring them senseless. He may leave unpleasant messes about the yard, but who else could carry our snacks and water bottles on a small hike? WHO? I ask you. Who else possibly could? Where would we be with no dog?

A Long Post on my Recent Thoughts

I have been thinking about this little earthly life of ours so much lately. I can't seem to shake these thoughts. Not that I am trying to shake them. I think they have been good for me. I just mean that naturally my own little mind shuffles off whatever thoughts are there in favor of some other newer thoughts, but my mind has been here, with these thoughts, daily for some time.

A neighbor behind our cul-de-sac died of cancer about two weeks ago. I didn't really know her. I'd met her once at a neighborhood party. She was wearing a cute flowy skirt and a floppy sunhat. She had brought her four somewhat wild kids because she said she wanted to tire them out so they'd go to bed better for her that night (her husband was out of town). I didn't learn her name, only that she had a girl starting Kindergarten like Goldie and then three younger than that (one set of twins). I saw her at Wal-Mart another time. She didn't see me, but I noticed and related to her because we both had our shopping cart full of kids. Then, apparently, she found out she had some insanely spread cancer and was gone with in a month or so.

For some reason that had such a huge impact on me. I kept thinking of her little kids and how their mom was gone -- how they were sad, miserable, and she was gone -- she couldn't comfort them. I remember reading something President Kimball said about his mother's death. He had been five at the time. He described the utter misery and loneliness he felt and he said how even eighty years later he couldn't think back on that day with out crying. And now I am crying again because while I don't fear death for me, the thought of not being there to comfort my kids is one of the most painful thoughts I can imagine.

Beyond thinking of her husband and kids, I kept thinking of what it must have been like driving to the hospital (where she spent the last two weeks of her life). I pictured our neighborhood and driving along the side of our mountains towards the hospital -- the drive I've made mostly when I was about to give birth. I kept wondering what she was thinking as she made that last trip to the hospital. Was she thinking that it was the last time seeing her front door? The last time seeing her street?

I remember my last few nights in Jerusalem (after having lived there for nearly four months) trying to take everything in -- trying to somehow capture the view from our bedroom balcony, the streets on the way to The Old City, the chapel in the Jerusalem Center. I just wanted to somehow breath it in -- somehow make it a permanent and complete part of my memory. I couldn't, but I desperately wanted too. How I tried to cling to every minuscule image as we drove away from the city to the airport. I had the same feelings when I left WA. I remember running to the block behind ours to get my kids (my neighbor had been watching them while I packed the last things in the car). As we walked back, I felt overwhelmed by the thought that I wouldn't be walking around that corner and past that park again -- that even if I could clearly remember it, it wouldn't be mine -- part of my momentary existence anymore. And then I kept thinking of my neighbor -- I kept thinking of knowing I would be leaving this life and of how I would be trying to take everything in. I kept thinking how it would be the same thing - I'd try, but I'd know I was leaving it -- that it wouldn't be part of my daily life anymore.

I know, I know. It would be a total fallacy of thought to assume that this earth life is as good as it gets. And, I know, even, that somehow, things will be made up to us -- that the things we leave behind down here, the losses we seem to have, will be made up; but as I thought about these things, I kept feeling like the poor little boy in The Littlest Angel -- with his crooked little halo. All he wanted was one thing -- he just wanted the little box he kept hidden -- the one with things like a butterfly's wing and other small tiny treasures from his life down here.

As I decorated for Halloween with my kids the following day, I couldn't couldn't get rid of the thought that my neighbor wouldn't get to put up Halloween decorations with her kids this year -- or ever again. She wouldn't see the leaves on our mountains change to full fall colors. She wouldn't be taking her kids trick-or-treating, or picking her little girl up from Kindergarten like I pick Goldie up everyday. Who will pick her little girl up from Kindergarten? Who will sit with her after school and remind her to do at least two pages of her homework packet so it will be ready to turn in on Friday? She won't get to make sure her kids have all had their baths and have matching clothes on and their hair done.

I really do have faith in our Father's eternal plans. I know that my neighbor can see the end from the beginning now and knows that all our tears will be dried and no blessing will be lost. I believe it with all of my heart. I have even thought, in the past, about what would happen if I died. The thought has been painful, but I have even thought things like, "What if I knew that would happen before I came here? What if Mike did remarry and as much as the thought is painful now, what if I truly would owe this girl for loving my children -- and if she did truly love them, and comforted them -- I would thank her forever. What if it was all part of the plan? What if I knew her and loved her and worried about leaving, but had felt peace because she had agreed she would help take over with them? And now, with my little earthly perspective I kick against the idea." I am sure that when the life of my neighbor's husband and kids come to an end, it won't have seemed so awfully long with out their mother and they will all understand why.

At the same time, my thoughts kept going back to loving this world -- loving this life. I keep wondering, "How does that get made up? How does not getting to raise your own children get made up to you?" I just feel like ever since, I have been saying to myself -- partly to Heavenly Father, "I know that really this isn't our home -- that the place we left is where we were most 'at home' and happy. I know that when I get there, I might even think, 'Why did I want to stay on earth? This is so much better!' but I do want to stay. I want to stay so badly! Is that wrong of me? It can't be all wrong -- our Father did give us a beautiful world -- maybe not as beautiful as where we came from, but every time I look out my window and see our mountains, the red-leafed trees in my backyard, the sunset -- I think how this is beautiful. This is a gift, and we can love it and want to keep it for as long as possible can't we?"

I just keep thinking about every moment with my kids and how I get to be here -- living that moment with them. I keep thinking how I don't want to go anywhere. How, if possible, I really really want to stay here. I really want to be allowed to see my kids reach adulthood. I want to see them in happy marriages with sound and strong testimonies of the things I know will bring them joy. I want to be with Mike. I want to keep experiencing our struggles together. I want to keep feeling his arms around me. I want to keep having my head in the crook of his arm at night right where I can hear his living heart beating and beating. I even want to keep taking care of my home. I want to be the one to eventually get everything organized in it. I want to be around to get all my photos in a photo album. I want to read more books. I want to see my kids with their own babies. I want to keep going out running. I want to keep seeing Fall leaves. I am excited for the next phase of our existence. I am so excited to remember all of our existence before this and to see what is next for us, but I love this now. I want this for a long while yet.

Do you remember the story of Hezekiah in the Bible? He was a good and decent king, but the time had come for him to die. He was sick and the Lord sent the prophet Isaiah to tell him it was time for him to die -- to tell him to put his house in order, etc. But Hezekiah plead with the Lord that he could stay, and the Lord said, "OK." He really did. He said, alright, if you want to be here longer -- in this rough and messy earth life, I'll allow it. And he extended his life 15 years.

I know this life is the main testing/trial part of our existence. I also know that in the eternal scheme this life will seem like a tiny puny dot. We have been around for who knows how many millenia and we will continue learning and growing and doing. Still, small as this little dot of time is, it will be such a significant dot. It is the time we have been preparing for. A small moment in eternity that will decide so much. It makes me think that we will think on it often -- that we will want to remember things like our front door and the trees in our backyard and the view from our kitchen windows -- even if they weren't perfect. Even if our yard was constantly in need of weeding:). It makes me feel like I want to be allowed to experience as much of it as I can. Especially as much as I can with Mike and my kids. I know they will be with me eternally, but I want so much to be here for their now. I want to make sure their nails are trimmed and their homework is done. I want to watch them open their Christmas presents and talk to them in their beds at night when they are scared and can't sleep. The other day Daisy finally figured out how to ride her bike. Mike had been helping her and she called me out to watch once she'd gotten it. It was evening and cool and just like you picture fall. I was cheering and clapping for her (and wondering if it was too loud and disturbing the neighbors, but wanting to make sure she could hear). As she braved a turn in the cul-de-sac, it struck me again that right through that street was a family where the mom wouldn't get to stand on the sidewalk cheering for her daughter on a bike. Maybe she will see. Maybe she will be watching, but I just want to be able to keep being right here -- right next to them -- experiencing all of this.

Stories by Goldie

Last week I decided to start having Goldie read 15 minutes a day to me. In WA, where Abe and Daisy went to kindergarten, their only homework was a weekly reading chart. They were supposed to read 15 mins. a day, then practice writing by filling out who they read to, what they read, and for how long.

Anyway, it seemed like being forced to follow through on having them read that young got them to be proficient readers quite quickly.
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The homework packets Goldie gets here focus more on letter writing, etc., but I really liked having Abe and Daisy do the reading, so I decided to have Goldie do it too (though it was much easier to do when it had to be turned in to their teacher).

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Yesterday I was just being silly and made these two THRILLING (and nail biting and edge of your seat) stories to add to her reading.

In turn, she composed her own stories about Bob and Ben.As you can see, she could use a little work on spacing between words, and I was very nervous when she excitedly told me to read her stories (for fear I would read them all wrong), but we made our way through them. To spare you the same difficulty, I will translate.

Bob's Bottle

Bob lost his bottle.

Bob looks for his (here she was sure she had written bottle)

Bob finds his bottle.

Oh how she thought she was funny for writing about a bottle, but just wait til you get to the punch line on her next story -- a clear parody of my previous bus story.

Ben's Bus (with a missing "s" and an unexplained "G" in the middle)

Ben goes on the bus.

The bus goes too fast.

Ben says, "Stop."

The bus says, "No."

Oh how her eyes lit up and how she clapped and laughed at her sillyness when I read her final line.

And, may I just say, that each time I have taught another of my children to read I have been freshly annoyed and frustrated with the English language. Seriously, are there no rules? Well, there are rules. We teach them all the rules and then don't follow a one of them. I took some German long ago, and I quickly discovered that even if you didn't understand the language, once you knew a few sounds, you could read it passably because things were spelled how they were said. But we have so so many words that just don't fit our own rules.

Learn the short "a" and then you get the word "tall."

Learn that an "e" at the end makes the previous vowel long and then you get, "come."

Learn that the first vowel is said when two are together and then you get all the names that end in "ie" like Goldie.

I know they learn quickly, but the first while of really having my kids read it seems I am constantly saying, "I know this looks like you should say it that way, but it is just spelled kind of funny, you actually say . . ." And the sad thing is, the way they first write things often does make more sense (like Goldie writing "says" -- SEZ).

Well, enough of that nonsense. Weren't those cute Goldie stories though!

Mystery of the Measuring Cups

Here are two smart things I have done lately. Just little things. Little smart things.

One: While washing the dishes I noticed that the water was getting too hot. I also had the disposal going. So, I reached over and turned the disposal off. A few minutes later, when my hands were nearly at scalded level, I realized that turning the disposal off had, apparently, not been the answer to getting the water cooler.

Two: I got a new list of girls to visit teach the other day. I looked at the list and thought, "Hey! I share a birthday with one of these sisters!" Then I looked closer and realized -- "No, that is my name that birth date is next too. I share a birthday with myself. Fascinating."

And, here is something that has nothing at all to do with my own mental state. It is a MYSTERY (I wanted to write those letters all wiggly and mysterious, but all I could do was capitalize them). I am writing this mystery because I wonder if it only happens in my home (and in my mom's home because I baked plenty there and encountered the same issue). Somehow, 1/4th cup measuring cups always disappear and EXTRA 1/3rd cups replace them. Really. I have only ever purchased one set of measuring cups so far in our marriage. ONE set. Yet somehow I have THREE 1/3rd cup measuring cups. THREE! And the thing is, I never want a third cup. I don't know why, but I am only ever needing the hard to find 1/4th cup. Does this happen anywhere else? The only good thing about it is that when a recipe calls for a 1/3rd cup I always feel like, "Ahhh, that should be nooo problem little recipe!"

Perhaps some of you are actually missing your 1/3rd cups. My mom would always talk about the mysterious black hole around our house -- the hole that just swallowed things like one shoe out of a pair or a camera or keys. But, the hole didn't only take away, it gave. Just as one thing would go missing, another thing would appear -- a thing that belonged, seemingly, to no one.

And occasionally, when the hole was in a teasing mood, it would return something long long after it was needed. Years later you might say, "So THERE is that missing pair of glasses! How did they end up here in plain site years after they went missing and I bought new ones?"

Maybe these black holes are connected and my 1/4th cups are showing up in someone else's kitchen while other folks' 1/3rd cups keep zipping over to my kitchen?

Who knows. Like I said -- it is a mystery.

Strollers and an Orange Mystery

My son does not like strollers.

Did you hear me? He doesn't like STROLLERS!

He doesn't like sitting in strollers; he doesn't like walking in strollers; he doesn't like RUNNING in strollers; and, as far as I know, he doesn't like LOOKING at strollers.

Babies like strollers. They like outside. They like to be OUTSIDE in STROLLERS! It's their favorite thing.

I keep telling Jesse this.

He doesn't understand.

In other news:

I was reading my book last night and wondering why it was covered in orange stuff.

Orange stuff on the inside cover. Orange stuff on the edges of the pages. Orange smears here and there on pages.

Well, I wasn't wondering like, "How on earth could orange stuff get on my book . . . my NEW book?!" That would be a ridiculous thing for a mother of five children under nine to wonder.

I was wondering more like, "What is this orange stuff? Cheetos? Or . . . gritty markers . . . maybe? Or . . . ? And when did this happen? It was clean when I was last reading."

Then I had a flash back.

It was just like in a movie where someone is trying to solve the mystery of their mysterious past (you know, when they can't remember their past and then they remember it in tiny tidbits here and there that eventually help them to solve the mystery of their . . . present? I guess).

I saw Penny sitting on the couch the previous night with a book.

Then it flashed to me saying, "Mike, look how cute. Penny is just sitting there reading my book -- even though it has no pictures! She seems totally interested in it!" (Interested in getting it orange, you are thinking).

Then, like in the movies, where the flashbacks don't all occur in the right order, I flashed back to earlier in the evening -- we were eating spaghetti for dinner.

Then I flashed to getting her out of her highchair . . . and removing her bib . . . and WHAT!!?? My flash was disrupted the minute I remembered. Like in slow motion I saw: setting -- her -- down -- with -- out -- washing -- her -- hands. NOOOO!!!

And then of course, it all made perfect sense. The mystery was solved, and I knew that there was no chance that hands that orange could have only gotten to my book, and I wondered where to start looking for more orange stains.

The end

Do you like how I broke things into so so many little paragraphs today? It was for effect -- special effect . . . or maybe affect. I can't remember.

The real end.

Confession

I have always felt a little gypped about missing out on Confession. Do you capitalize Confession? It feels like it should be capitalized. Anyway, it isn't so much the thought of having my sins absolved so tidily. It is more the poetic mournfulness elicited by the image of going into the little dark confessional and speaking penitently through the screen to some mysterious, wise, and unseen individual about such wrongs as yelling at your sister or sneaking a look at your Christmas presents before they were wrapped.

Luckily, I have come up with my own way of experiencing Confession! I will simply begin confessing on my blog. Since we can't see each other it is kind of like being on opposite sides of a screen. The mood is a little lacking since there are no stained glass windows or the dim light of candles, but it will have to do.

Here we go. First Confession (Oh my goodness . . . sorry . . . I know you were on the edge of your seats, but when I typed "First Confession," I recalled one of my favorite short stories of the same title! Here is a link if you want a fun little read -- later, of course, after you've finished MY fun read and are left wanting more: First Confession by Frank O'Connor).

Alright, really now. My first confession (it lost the capitalized oomph when I took so long to actually get to it):

Beyond my tendency to throw away papers and receipts that later prove to be absolutely indispensable, I wash things . . . lots of things . . . things that are not supposed to be washed -- cell phones, gum, crayons, the other crucial papers that I haven't already thrown away, wallets, toys, etc. The other day I pulled Mike's headphones out of the wash and thought, "Huh, well that is a new one." I discovered later, however, that it wasn't a "new one" at all when Mike, with a tone of far too little surprise (more a tone of mild interest and resignation), said, "You washed them again?" At least that means they must have survived the first time! And, I gave a whole new meaning to the term, "money laundering" when I managed to wash a large wad of cash Mike had just pulled from the bank.

There, confession complete. I would have preferred if I'd been able to bow my head in shame and shed a tear or two, but that would have made typing difficult.

Lest this seem too aimed at one particular religious practice, I will also add that I feel equally gypped by never getting to participate in the Relief Society "Good News Minute" (since I haven't been in Relief Society for years). I will be stealing my niece Ashley's idea of putting good news minutes on her blog -- just as soon as I think of a "good" good news minute. You know, something that will be equally uplifting and edifying to all -- just as every other thing I ever put on my blog is.

Jesse

Hey little Misterkins. Why aren't you featured in more blog posts? You should be. All you are is cute and good.

You like to mostly mind your own business -- crawling about from here to there.

All you ever want is to climb the stairs. Even today, when you managed to crawl under the chairs I had blocking the stairs, and then climbed happily, until you decided to sit back and enjoy the view (which caused you to fall), you still would only sob in my arms for a few minutes before struggling out of my grasp and whimpering your way back to the stairs to show them you still loved them best.

When you were first born, your little ears were very thin and nearly pointed at the tips, so we were sure a mischievous elf had put you in the place of our real baby. Your ears have begun to curl over like human ears do, and your size doesn't suggest much elf blood, but every now and then you are still my little Elfykins.

Often you are just Jess-jess and to Abe you are Smess-smess.

Whatever you are, it is cute and good and chubby and perfect. I love you my almost ten month old little boy.

For Lack of a Topic

Since there doesn't seem to be any one thought floating about in my head waiting to be posted (rather, many thought snippets), I have decided to upload all of the recent photos from my camera to my computer and type whatever I feel like about them. Besides, a picture is worth a thousand words . . . so . . . here are several thousand words via photo.

1. First off, who needs real friends? Seeing your kids own little unprompted creations is the best thing. It always makes me smile and shake my head at the same time.

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2. Lately I keep looking at Abe and thinking how old he is getting. There is a certain age when kids are no longer just "little kids"-- when they reach a point that people are not quite as sure how to go about entertaining them, conversing with them, etc. because they don't know if they should be doing kid stuff with them or treating them more grown up. I think it is a little trickier for babysitters and aunts and uncles when kids aren't simply, "little" anymore. As I watch Abe going about his life these days -- asking me for permission to do things, helping me with things, etc. I feel so happy that I don't wonder those things about him -- that I know who he is and what he likes and what he's all about at this stage. I love that boy.

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3. Oh, well, and this is important. I have always thought long sweaters were flattering, and last Fall I kept wishing I had a good open fronted sweater to put on when the weather didn't quite call for a coat, but for some reason, I have never had a nice long sweater . . . and then, the other day, I bought TWO. Goldie took this picture of me trying on the first one. I look a bit as if I am feigning enthusiasm, but in my heart of hearts (what on earth does that mean -- I know Anatomy and there is nooo mini heart in your heart) . . . but, back to what I was saying, in my heart of hearts I was nothing but purely and completely enthusiastic about my sweaters (plus, they were on a great sale).
4. I walked in my room the other day to this:

I'm normally a flip flop kind of girl. Winters are rough for me because as much as I love the idea of shoes, I just don't seem to like to put them on. But, it was a Sunday so fancy shoes were the order of the day, and something about this little sight -- my obviously female shoes (much more obvious than flip flops) next to my husbands struck me and made me feel so happy that I have the man I love so well -- that, just like those shoes left lying there, our lives are so intermingled. It made me think of other little signs of his presence left about the house -- a cereal bowl on the counter, a razor on the edge of the sink. How empty and lonely my life would be if those things were ever to cease being left about (Mike, this is not to say that you should avoid cleaning up in the future -- signs that you have been cleaning are even more endearing).

5. Maybe that had something to do with why this sight made me pause and smile on the following day. It made me want to go around my house taking pictures of all of the things that would give someone a clue as to who we are and what we do. I kept looking at things all day as if I were a stranger peering in this home with the task of deducing all I could about its occupants.
6. The kids and I are very excited for tomorrow. It is Oct. 1st AND they have no school. The reason that is special is that I told them we would decorate for Halloween on Oct. 1st -- so how lucky that it ended up being a vacation day (plus the weather has obliged us by switching from 90 degrees two days ago, to a forecasted 52 degrees for tomorrow -- just to help us feel that the Fall and Winter holiday season is for real). Anyway, we snuck out one early decoration -- this candy bowl:

For some reason it reminded Goldie very much of the little lidded sample containers at Target and other stores, and she insisted on eating her allotted number of candy corns one at a time so she could keep coming back and pretending to get a store sample. She thought it was so much more enjoyable eating her treats when they seemed sample-ish.

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It reminded me of tearing bread into little pieces with my sisters when we were little in the hopes that it would somehow taste as delicious as the sacrament bread. I suppose that was a bit sacrilegious; be that as it may, it never did taste as good. Looking back now, it occurs to me that our wheat bread could never mimic the taste of that delectable and seldom-seen-in-our-home white bread that the deacons passed about -- no matter how small we tore the pieces.

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7. Lastly, I don't know how smart Penny thinks I am -- apparently not very. She is insanely full of mischief lately (drawing on walls and the like), and about ten times a day she looks at something, thinks twice about it, and then, rather than opting to not commit the infraction, she says, "Mom, Could you go away?" Sometimes it is so painfully obvious what she has planned. Like tonight when I warned her to quit turning on our bathtub water (as she recently flooded one bathroom with buckets of water on the floor). She turned the faucet off, looked at it longingly and then, "Mom, could you go away?" That girl.
Well, that is that. The end of my photo essay. If the pictures really did paint a thousand words, then I probably shouldn't have gone ahead and typed a thousand extra with each picture, but such is my nature. Good night.

Marathon Day

Well, Saturday was my marathon. The title of this post was supposed to be something like, "I am going to Boston!" or "I am the coolest runner ever, and I am going to Boston." In fact, I have to admit that I was feeling confident enough . . . maybe just cocky enough to be about 99% certain that was what the title of this post would be. My past two marathon times were qualifying times and I had no reason to doubt this one would be the same. This poor marathon didn't even get its fair shakes because I wasn't actually training for it and running it for its own self, it was all to qualify for Boston. And then . . . I didn't.

Before I give the run down (no pun intended) on this race, I should add that out of the four marathons I have ran, this was by far the most miserable and so this should not represent what a marathon is to those of you who may be considering doing one some day. I felt much better on my first three and had much better times on my last two. Whether it was the training troubles I had with my ankle, or the cold and slight stomach upset I'd had all week, whether it was the fact that I ran the first half much faster than I should have, or just a case of elements combining less than perfectly for a little old fashioned bad luck I can't be sure, but it was rough. It was miserable.

Clearly I didn't just up and run 26.2 miles with no preparation. For the last four months, I have run very consistently during the week and slowly increased mileage and endurance with long weekend runs, but there are a few reasons why the marathon itself still ends up being so tough. First, you always run faster on the actual race -- I don't know if it is just adrenaline or what, but what would be a fast training pace feels painfully slow during the race. Second, very few marathoners actually run 26 miles in training. The standard longest training run is around 20 miles. That might sound contrary to reason -- surely you'd want to have your endurance up to the full 26, right? Well, yes, but the problem is that as you reach those 20 mile type of distances you begin walking a fairly thin line -- increased endurance on the one hand, injury and inability to recuperate enough to keep increasing your running ability on the other hand. So, a 20 miler about three to four weeks before marathon day is usually the peek of your training -- you then taper off til the actual race so that hopefully your body will be recovered from those training runs in time to give it one last miserable push.

Anyway on to the marathon . . .Here I am at 4:00 am on race day. Incidentally, anything in the four o'clock hour still seems like night to me. 5:00 am is insanely early, but at least it's morning! I got to bed at about 10:30, was woken at midnight by a slew of high-schoolers loudly painting some homecoming stuff on the road outside our house. Woken again at 3:00 by Goldie (I don't recall why). Nerves wouldn't let me fall back to sleep and I was up at 4:00 so I could get ready and drive the 50 mins. to where I would wait in the dark in a long line with thousands of other marathoners to board one of the TONS of buses that would take us up the canyon to where our run would start at 7:00 am. (The lack of sleep wasn't that big of a deal though -- I don't think anyone plans on a great night of sleep the night before a marathon).

Oh here I am at 4:00 am showing off my temporary marathon logo tattoo and trying to look a little more pumped for what lies ahead (but mostly just succeeding in looking a little creepy).Our bus driver was the peppiest lady imaginable -- particularly for that insanely early hour. Maybe it was her personality . . . or maybe she was just happy that she would be driving (rather than running) from where she would be leaving us.

It was a bit lonely what with the dark and not knowing or recognizing any of the other 2000 some odd runners. My first two marathons I had sisters to giggle with while we waited to start, and even my marathon up in OR had a few girls that I knew from training a bit together. Here, I only recognized an old microbiology professor from college, and I should have told him I was one of his students and made a little small talk, but I was feeling too nervous for small talk.

At 6:45 am they told us to toss our numbered bags (with water bottles, sweatshirts, etc.) on the bus. So we left the bonfires (it was cold) and began lining up at the starting line. The gun went off for the wheelchair racers -- which meant five minutes to go for us. I kept my eyes on the steady stream of people frantically running down the hill from the port-a-potties and I wondered if they'd get to the start by the time the gun went off or if the race would wait for all of them before it started or if they didn't really care if they started the minute the gun went off anyway since their final time maybe didn't matter so much to them as the fact that they ran 26 miles.

I don't recall if they got there or not. The sun was coming up now, and I was looking around at the canyon and mountains and listening to the talk of runners. Then our gun went off. A cheer went up from all of us and we were on our way . . . sort of . . . when you are in the middle of 2000 people, it takes a bit to actually get going. It probably took me 30 seconds to even get across the starting line, and we were still pretty closely packed even at mile seven . . . which set me to wondering how on earth things would ever thin out enough to get into a smooth gait with the 20,000 runners at Boston (which I was still sure I would be going to at that point).

I felt great for the first miles. I was running about an eight minute pace and it felt just right. In the past, I have forced myself to go much slower than that for the first nine or ten miles -- just to make sure I'd have enough energy to see me through. I'd usually be chomping at the bit to really take off though and by mile ten I would. This time, since I was so set on a certain time, I felt nervous to do my first miles so slow -- thinking how much faster those middle miles would have to be to make up the difference -- so I started at about the pace I wanted my race to be. Which might have been fine, but then I did a dumb thing, I still took off at mile ten. I felt so good, and I just felt like I could go faster . . . and I could . . . for about six more miles. I got a bad side ache by mile 15 and by mile 16 was starting to think, "OK, I'm hurting . . . just keep this up to mile 20 . . . and then . . . well, I don't know what then . . . but maybe then you can just will yourself through the last six?"

At about mile 17 when the "just focus on getting to mile 20" was starting to seem much too difficult, I started hearing my name shouted. My eyes were a little blurry and I couldn't tell who was cheering for me, but as I got closer I saw this (notice how I used the paint program to scribble out my uber top secret last name from blog land):My sister Megan, my niece Ashley (the one who has tended for me during the past FOUR months of training runs), and my niece Karin were there. It was a total surprise and made me so happy. Things are a little emotional during the race -- there is some tie between our spirits and doing something that so forces them to conquer our bodies that is well . . . like I said, emotional. So, having them there to support me even though they must have woken very early to get up there made me start to cry . . . only for a minute though because I couldn't afford to start gasping for air!

That gave me an extra boost, but by mile 18 the side ache was still going nowhere and my body was really really hitting a wall like it never ever has before. I truly was starting to want to just quit, but I didn't want to disappoint them and I knew Mike and the kids would be waiting at the finish, so I kept going.By mile 21 I was pretty well over Boston and only wanting desperately to even finish. Every fiber of my being was screaming "QUIT!!" Seriously, it was like it was shouting in my head. I can't go back and pinpoint exactly what was wrong. My breathing was OK. My ankle was stiff and sore, but it wasn't just one single or even several pains or aches that you could name. I think I had just totally exhausted my bodies reserves and it felt like it was saying, "Alright, will yourself on if you want, but I'm no longer giving to this effort. I'm done."

I'd taken a Gu (carbo/energy gel things) earlier and I should have taken one again, but I didn't feel like my stomach could handle it, so I just kept up with water and Gatorade. I'd run through the other water stops, but at mile 23 I stopped to walk through. This was a mistake of course. The minute I stopped, the full weight of my muscle aches and ankle aches crashed on me. And I found myself pretty much unable to start again. I kept walking for about a half block wondering how long it would take me to finish if I walked the entire last three miles. Funny. At the start, miles fly by and three miles seems like nothing. At this point I couldn't even really fathom what it would take to make my body move through three more miles. But, some little spark made my awkward legs start moving again. And, for the next few minutes I felt -- OK. It didn't last long, but really, for a half mile maybe I felt like I could keep going. I truly felt and was sure that a little wind of prayers was blowing all around me. I kept thinking about that and wondering -- is it just that my family has been praying for me, or is someone really praying hard for me at this moment? I wasn't sure, but I was just happy that I could physically feel the buoyancy prayers were giving me. Once again, there is something spiritual about doing something so physical.

Later, it brought tears to my eyes to find out that at that very time, Ashley was panicking as they waited at mile 24 -- I wasn't there yet and she knew I should be to get the time I wanted. She and Megan and Karin got in the car and said a special prayer for me. Ashley also texted pretty much my whole family to tell them to pray. Also, unbeknownst to me again, I had another surprise group of cheerleaders waiting not far off and likely praying and willing me on as well. My sister-in-law Kimberly and her family also came quite a long distance at an early hour to support me. When I saw them I started to cry a little again. They were waiting at about mile 24 as well with Mike and the kids. It was so cool to me to so literally feel an awareness of the prayers and thoughts aimed at me. Really, I did, and it makes me cry again to think of it.So, honestly, I think it was Mike and my kids and Kimberly and her family and Megan and Ashley and Karin (as well as others' prayers) that allowed me to finish. It didn't take me to Boston. And that was OK. Every step of those last miles was nearly impossible. If I'd had it in me to give one more ounce of effort, I would have felt regret about not having given that effort and made the time I needed, but I crossed that finish line with literally nothing left. Cute little kids were along the last stretches holding out their hands for high fives, and I felt obligated to oblige little ones being so cute and encouraging, but even stretching out my arm to them was a massive effort. At mile 26 -- with only .2 measly miles to go -- when I should have been feeling like, "the end is in sight! You can do it!" I still really truly wanted to quit. That is how zapped I was. So I maybe could have run a smarter race and done better, but I definitely could not have given one ounce more to the effort than I did.

My final time was 3 hours and 44 minutes. Four minutes off what I needed to qualify for Boston. It isn't a bad time really. My overall pace still works out to be about 8 minutes and 33 seconds. Even at mile 20, with all the misery I was already feeling, I could have run super slow miles (for me) and made the time . . . I just couldn't run super SUPER slow miles (which, apparently I did). Judging from how slow those last six miles were and the fact that my average pace was still in the eight minute range . . . I must have run those miles between ten and eighteen very fast . . . very too fast. Oops?

Anyway, it is OK. It has felt great to push myself so hard for the last couple of months. It has meant so much to me to have my training runs made so easy by my sweet sweet Ashley -- to just be able to get out and do them with out having to juggle everything. And I have so much appreciated Mike who has had to get up with our little ones every Saturday for weeks and weeks because I was gone at the crack of dawn to get my long runs in before the Summer sun got too hot. It was great to see loved ones rooting for me (even though I would have preferred they had seen a more triumphant finish) and to see Ashley crying not because she was sad I didn't make it to Boston, but because she was so worried I was going to be too sad.

Some of the women of my family have had a little ongoing email discussion lately about the gift we have in a body. I don't know that all of you reading this share my same faith, but we believe that when Satan chose to rebel against our Father in Heaven, he was cast out -- he lost the chance to move forward in our eternal progression. He lost not only the chance to come here and be tested, but to gain a body. Somehow we needed these bodies to be able to fully continue progressing. They aren't perfect here, and won't be until they are resurrected, but my wise sister Amy reminded us of how lucky we are to have these bodies -- even with their aches and pains -- to feel the things they can feel, to push them and occasionally conquer their weaknesses. Satan, and those who followed him will never get to experience the things that we get to experience with these physical bodies, and at the moment I feel amazed at the range of experiences I've been able to have with this body in the last year or so -- from creating a little living baby, filling it kick inside me, nursing and snuggling him; to pushing my body from the three miles it could barely do after his birth to a point of being able to go out and run 26.2 long and exhausting miles through some of the prettiest scenery around.

So, it hurt, and the not doing as well/feeling as well as I have before was a disappointment, but really, amazing to even have had the experience. Saturday scared me enough that for most of the day I was sadly thinking how I would never dare to try that again, how I was too terrified of having another experience so hard . . . but our pain memory is a little short because already I am thinking how before too long I will need to prove to those darn marathons who's boss.

Now for a few last marathon pics:

My shoes honestly did get several compliments shouted at them during the race.How is it I look so smiley in these? That is not going to convince anyone I was dead at the end. Trust me, I was. All I could do was lie there on the wet soggy ground.

Oh, yes, and Megan's little Reed screaming his tiny little head off for me.

Television

Last week I banned my kids from the TV, Wii, and computer for the week. Not because I'm such a good anti media mom so much as because they were making me crazy begging to watch TV, etc. the minute they got home from school, and, in a moment of frustration I announced something like, "That's it! No TV EVER again! . . . or at least for all of next week . . . except for on Monday . . . since it's a holiday . . . and maybe Friday night . . . but NO other time . . . except for Saturday morning."

Anyway, to be fair, Mike told them we would ban ourselves as well. I didn't think this was really fair (to be fair they should have probably banned me from checking email or reading books) because the TV we watch is hardly TV at all, and going with out it, for me, is like going with out a tax audit -- but I didn't tell the kids that (because, of course, they don't even know what a tax audit is).

In case you don't believe me, I will now type for you the very words that I just heard come from our TV (I am sitting here on the couch with my Mike. He is watching TV and I am typing). Anyway, here it is:

"The giant pumpkin has many enemies."

Now it will reach its dramatic conclusion where it will be discovered that the biggest pumpkin actually weighs 100 pounds less than the second biggest pumpkin. There will be much gasping -- looks of shock, disbelief and disappointment from some; and for others, looks of joyous surprise, hugs and cheers.