One Year Ago Today

It is always so crazy to look back on what was happening a year ago. A year ago I was in the hospital just about to push Jesse into this world -- not yet knowing his name would be Jesse; not yet even knowing he was a boy at all.

I'd woken up at 4:00am that morning -- just for a minute -- just long enough to stare at the red digital numbers on our bedside clock that told me another morning would soon be dawning with NO baby. I was officially on day four of being overdue.

Every night for the past two weeks I'd gone to bed thinking, "maybe tonight . . ." and every morning I'd woken up disappointed, thinking, "I'm still here." But that disappointment had begun to turn into MAJOR frustration as the mornings past my due date kept dawning.

That morning was a particularly frustrating one because I had actually gone to bed feeling some irregular but pretty uncomfortable contractions -- contractions I was hopeful might lead to the real deal, but after sleeping peacefully til 4:00am, I realized that they must have been simply another round of false labor. I made a small sad little moan to myself -- a pity moan, then drifted back to sleep.

Fifteen minutes later I was up again in a state of excited disbelief. There were no contractions, but was that my imagination, or were the sheets all around me wet? I had never, in four pregnancies, had my water break at the onset of labor. That's how it always starts in the movies, and that's how I wanted to have it start. This had to be it. I giddily hopped up and ran to the bathroom -- only to fill a toilet with blood.

My mind was unable to make sense of this. I knew what blood meant early on. I'd experienced it twice, and both times it meant a miscarriage. But blood now? Four days past due? Babies don't "miscarry" at that point. They are babies. Do they die? Does blood mean they die? Would you bleed? But I shouldn't be bleeding -- my water had broken . . . right? I went back to the bed to look at the sheets. Somehow convinced this was all a mistake and I would see clear amniotic fluid, but no. Bright red blood.

Clearly I should have been flying to the hospital, but I really think my mind was in a strange shockish sort of state. I gently woke Mike and confusedly said how I didn't know what to do. "I'm not in labor," I said, "but I'm bleeding everywhere. I don't know what that means."

Luckily "bleeding everywhere" got someone to action. Mike flew out of bed and had me out the door and rushing to the hospital with in about two minutes. Very nice that we happened to be living at my parents still so we could just wake my mom and tell her we were leaving. Still slightly in shock I began apologizing -- embarrassed -- about the blood all over my sheets I was leaving behind. She, of course, simply pushed me out the door with promises of serious prayers.

I still remember that cold dark car ride. I called my CNM, Guy. He tried to reassure me that some women bleed as they dilate, etc. But I never had before and I knew this was more bleeding than could be so simply explained. Mike and I didn't talk much on the car ride. He asked me once if I'd felt any kicking. I told him I didn't know. Then began anxiously focusing on feeling some movement -- any movement -- and not feeling it.

Mike drove me right to the ER door and sent me in as he went to park. I still, oddly, felt unsure of what I was doing there and began mumbling to the security guard on duty how I didn't know if I should be here or not, how I wasn't in labor but was bleeding. He looked a little uncomfortable as he had someone come put me in a wheelchair and wheel me up to the maternity floor.

During the elevator ride I had a pretty serious contraction or two, but I was so bewildered, I honestly didn't recognize them for what they were.

It was only when I got to the nurses station on the maternity floor and explained for the fifth time how I was past due, not in labor but bleeding that things became less surreal and I finally began to cry.

The nurses were very calm and very nice as they took me in to "take a look" at what was going on. As I changed into the dressing gown I had another contraction or two. I climbed onto the table as Mike arrived. I was very tense, but with out any big to do she found the little heartbeat -- as if she'd never doubted she would. She also commented, "Well, if you weren't in labor, you certainly seem to be now!" as the contraction monitor she'd hooked to me registered a contraction. She didn't have to tell me. I knew now. They were slow, long, and very real contractions. I was only dilated to a four (only one centimeter more than I'd been at my previous appt.) so I knew all that blood probably wasn't from one centimeter of dilation, and the triage nurse didn't speculate -- though she did keep trying to reposition me each time my baby's heart would dip down low.

Not having started contractions until I was in the hospital was actually quite nice because it was only a matter of minutes before I was able to have my epidural. Probably the least amount of pain I'd ever had to have with a labor.

My nurse in labor was very good as well. She guessed that maybe part of my placenta had pulled away and caused the bleeding, but assured me that as long as we could keep the heartbeat doing well there was no reason to worry and that if there was any doubt I'd just get in immediately for a c-section. And, she was very discreet about the fact that she kept having to change padding and wipe up more blood. Knowing my little baby was going to be OK was such a relief. I was able to finally relax and get excited about what was about to happen.

The little heart occasionally dipped low, but it seemed we could fix it by repositioning me. Guy guessed that the contractions were maybe pressing on the cord a little since my baby was still up so high. Ha! And fat chance of me ever really having my water break. My sister once informed me that we have steel amniotic sacs, and I am starting to believe it. Even with my natural labor with Goldie my water didn't break until I was pushing her out, and with this one, I was fully dilated with no water breaking.

Guy had me stay at a ten for about an hour before breaking my water and having me push. I always test positive for Strep B, but am never at the hospital long enough for the full four hours to pass after a penicillin dose to ensure my baby won't catch it traveling down the birth canal. Guy was determined to make me wait out my four hours this round. It made me laugh to know I was sitting there fully dilated and not pushing. With no epidural that would have been impossible. How well I recall crying, "I NEED TO PUSH SOMETHING!" when I was at that point with Goldie. Guy hadn't been there and I could sense a vague panic among the nurses, but I couldn't wait. And yet, here I was, patiently waiting. Ahhhhh epidurals . . . how I love you.

At 9:00 am it was time to push and find out who this baby was. Guy didn't tell me. He simply held my baby right up for me to exclaim, "Oh! It's a boy!" and then begin to laugh and cry as if a boy was of course the only thing it ever could have been.

And that is how my little Jesse Frank made his way into the world -- one year ago today.

And here he is today. Very much a "boy" indeed. It is so funny to me to see how he already seems to feel that he should attack Abe (leaving his sister's out of it) when Abe is trying to sit and do something. His favorite favorite thing in the world is to try and break all our doors and cupboards. He opens them and then begins slamming them repeatedly the way they don't go -- trying to pop their hinges right off. He seriously begins laughing to himself every time he gets a chance to do it. His other favorite thing is to find an open bathroom door. He can unroll an entire toilet paper roll in seconds. All around, he is pure trouble. There is no toy in the world that can hold his attention. He ONLY likes mischief. I know all of my kids have gone through the stage of emptying drawers and cupboards, but I think he might be the most proficient at it. There is not any waking moment that he isn't doing something he shouldn't be. I just don't think it occurred to my other kids to wreak quite as much havoc. The other day we were at my sister-in-laws. She has a kid's dream playroom with every kind of fun toy, slides, etc. Jesse did not get distracted from the task at hand (of causing mischief) for even one second. No toy weakened his resolve or sullied his hands. He simply spent his time finding cups of water and plates of food to overturn -- no matter that we tried to make sure there were none he could get -- he found them and only allowed himself to be fooled by an empty cup for a short while.

We love our little kid who mostly only cries when you hold a cupboard shut so he can't open it or when he sees a bathtub filling with water and him not in it. I love that Penny calls him, "Jessy boy." What a funny and cute little boy. Thank goodness he is part of our family!! Happy birthday Jessy Boy!!!

Nancy Tag

I know I am boring you all to death with my lack of posts. Abe gave a valiant try in resurrecting my blog yesterday (well . . . "valiant"? maybe . . . more . . . "feeble"?), either way, despite his attempts to give my blog life, it just lay there (or probably lie there), motionless.

I am here today -- topicless -- simply trying to break my dry spell. I'm trying to squeeze the tiniest bit of blogging rain out of the dry dry clouds floating through my head. Here is why: contrary to what you would think, the longer I don't blog, the less there seems to be to blog about. You'd think a few quiet weeks and I'd be brimming with tales to tell. You know, tales of Thanksgiving and snow, of Christmas decorating and treats. But no. The quieter I am, the quieter I get. My blog is in real danger of drifting into a very long and peaceful sleep. A hibernation even maybe.

And now you are all thinking of how it has only been about two weeks.

Well, what do you know.

What about last year at this time when, despite all the holiday goings on, I was blogging my little heart out? Of course, I had to post all my angryness over never ever going into labor with Jesse, and then, after Jesse finally showed, I had ever so many hours to blog one-handed as I nursed.

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So, I suppose we can't fairly compare this year to last.

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Anywho, I am going to pretend I was "tagged" -- you know, with one of those silly little questionnaires that you fill out? Only I haven't been tagged, so I am just going to tag myself with whatever questions I make up. I know what you are all thinking now, "Oh, the vanity! To think you can make up your own list of tagging questions!" But someone somewhere must. Right? So, why not me? Soon you will be seeing Nancy tag alllll over cyberspace (because of course you are all now "tagged" yourselves simply for reading this).

Anyway, let's see what I've got.Thinking . . . thinking . . . waiting for the flood gates to open . . .OK, I've got one . . . oooh, I'm so excited! Let's see if there is a domino affect and more keep coming!

1. Have you ever been compared to a movie star?

Well, I know everyone is now thinking how I made up this question just so I could brag, and maybe I did, but it isn't really a movie star so much as a day time TV character. Besides, I am excited because it happened only today and it is the first time I have been compared to a star. See, I was wearing this hand-me-down sweater from my sister Megan, and I was actually thinking how particularly cute I must be looking, and then it happened. Goldie said to me, "Hey Mom! You look just like that guy from Blue's Clues! What's his name?"

Me: "Steve?"

Goldie: "Yah! Steve! You look just like him."And then I looked down at myself in my cute hand-me-down sweater and knew it was true. I looked just like Steve. I looked just like a STAR!!

2. Where do you get all your cute clothes?
Alright, fine, I'm not above admitting that the half of my wardrobe that doesn't come from Target comes from my younger sister Megan's cast offs. It's worked out well for me -- even if it does mean that I am a step down in coolness from her (obviously she passes to me only when she has updated her own wardrobe with something more hip). As far as I know it has only backfired once. (See answer to question 1). P.S. Megan, I think it's time you went through your closets again -- the season of giving and all that.

3. Your son Abe guest posted for you yesterday. Would any of your other children make interesting guest bloggers? (You tagged people can shorten this question to "Would any of your children make interesting guest bloggers?").

Oh yes, if Penny could talk the things she could say. Oh wait, she can talk, and she does say those things. I was just thinking of the old "if these walls could talk, the things they'd say" because it is kind of like that. So, if Penny could type, the things she could blog. I always get a good glimpse into all the "dirt" in nursery because Penny loves to tell me things days later like about who ate whose snacks or who cried when someone took the baby stroller they were using. Who knows what light she might shed on our own family dramas.

4. What were two high lights of your day today?
Well, I'm just going to tell you that I ran 10 miles so fast this morning. When I got home I excitedly went to the computer to plug my distance and time into my little pace calculator. I was going to be so bummed if pushing as hard as I'd tried had only gotten me a medium good pace, but it was a better pace than I run my usual much shorter runs. I was quite happy. Plus, I got home just before it started snowing which was much better than the last time that it started snowing and blowing all crazy at the end of one of my runs. I still had about two miles to go and the wind was blowing snow so gustily into my face that I had to glue my chin practically to my neck and stare straight down to run. I decided it was a good time to try out the cosmic connection that assuredly must exist between Mike and I by thinking (as loudly as my brain could think), "Mike, come get your wife! Mike come save me!" and I sent my message on to him with all my mental strength . . . only to discover that the better connection between Mike and I would have been a cell phone connection (as I had considered taking one with me running but had opted not to).

Anyway, that lovely connection was proven a better option for us again just today -- as high light #2 was hanging out with Abe while my little kids slept and Daisy and Goldie made gingerbread houses at my sister's house, and Mike called me from his cell phone to say some clever and funny things. So . . . I guess we can still be soul mates cosmically connected by our cell phones even if we don't have telepathy or ESP or whatever it is where you can read your loved one's mind no matter the distance.

Oh for crying out loud. This little tag thing has spiralled out of control. There are only FOUR measly questions (and we all know a good tag has no less than 50 questions), and yet it has managed to be one million sentences long.

Maybe tomorrow I'll continue this little game with loads of short answer questions. I'll end tonight with a practice one.

5. Do you think it is pleasant to change crib sheets?

No, I think it is a hideous chore. Even more hideous when bumper pads are in the way. Putting on a crib sheet = no fun.

My mom can't think of anything to blog

This is Abraham NOT Nancy, is that clear? Mom asked me to ''guest type'' for her. She can't think of anything to write. So here I am, but I can't think of anything either so I hired an alien to write for me.
btyuihwjbn uiwhybu urhgu uwg huhugugt uhgwuergyiotggyu uhgrhjgh jfhjtrheuihoiey uihuruu ruoy ruieghyuh iueuhg jhguuuuufjfhghhng fghirhedjdlkjfhughbj lhyiojrtudkhy f jhkhuiouoeyp9poi oiuejrhutihy  uiehkeihjioeepp.
There you are. You are very interested. The end.

Mike Snopes

Now that we have all come to trust and love snopes so well, it is horrifying HORRIFYING to think what will become of us when deceivers begin telling us that something is true because they verified it on snopes . . . when in reality . . . they did not. Soon people will have to look up on snopes whether or not it is true that something was looked up on snopes! Bedlam!

What is most terrifying is that just such deception has already begun . . . and it has begun in my very own home. And, it has begun with the least likely of suspects -- my own HUSBAND! Why is he an unlikely suspect? Because, as those of you who know him well already know, he is an honest honest man. He is also quite a clever fellow though, and apparently, on occasion, his cleverness wins out over strict truthfulness.

I've mentioned before that I love the Lark Rise to Candleford BBC series. I have only seen season one -- which was played (and then replayed) on our local public broadcasting station. I sent an email to several of my Lark Rise loving sister-in-laws the other day telling them that we were doomed to never ever see season two.

Then, to my joy, both my sister-in-law (Marnie) and I got replies to emails we'd sent to our local station telling us that they would be playing season two this January.

Mike saw these emails going back and forth and decided to send a reply out to us of his own devising.

Here it is:

I looked this issue up on snopes.com and unfortunately it is only a myth.  I'm sorry to be the one to break the bad news.  This is what it said:
 
"Snopes is dedicated to finding the truth on the internet and beyond.  Recently we checked into the potential airing of season two of the period piece 'Larkrise to Candleford.'  This rumor has been circulating the internet for several weeks.  We contacted KUED to see if and when the second season would air.  KUED told us that they were about to issue a press release on this same subject.  According to their spokesperson, a young woman, known around the workplace for her distinctive dresses, romantic notions, and afternoon teas, caused thousands of emails to be sent to KUED executives praising the show and calling for more episodes.  The woman allegedly sent the emails from multiple international computer networks making the emails appear to come from thousands of purported Larkrise fans all with distinct IP addresses.  Luckily, KUED's IT department was able to catch on to the scheme before the season aired.  Interestingly enough, the IT department was able to determine that there are in fact only 17 fans of the show, so the upcoming season was quickly cancelled.  According to police, when the woman was captured she faintly sighed and then proceeded to faint."

Only 17 fans?? Oh, honey. How you mock. I do love that this "young woman" he invented was "known around the workplace for her distinctive dresses, romantic notions, and afternoon teas."

My Little Photographer

I was quite surprised when so many of you asked who on earth snapped that picture of me asleep on the couch awhile back. I was surprised because in our house, it is not only not surprising, but expected that roughly one million random photos will end up on your photo card -- photos you never took. Daisy took that particular picture (the one of me sleeping), but it is our Goldie who is a picture taking fanatic. Seriously. Soon we may have to send her to group therapy where she will have to stand and say, "My name is Goldie . . . and I . . . am a camera addict." Every single thing, happening, or time is an occasion for pictures to be taken. The other day I was walking in behind her (after picking her up from school), when I noticed she had left her backpack sitting right on the porch. I was just about to call her to come get it when she bounced back out the door -- camera in hand -- apparently she had left it there on purpose -- seeing a perfect photo op. Silly girl. Here is a SMALL sampling of some of the photos I have found on our camera in the past week or so. You can play a little game if you like -- trying to find things like: our Yahtzee game, Goldie's self photos, Abe running away from Goldie and the camera, etc.

Household Chatter

The other night Mike was telling me that I was a good wife -- that I do so much around here, etc. "Then you even write nice posts about me," he added.

"All those nice posts should be about you," he said, "I'm going to change them all to you. . . . How you had so much fun on the pheasant hunt, how you have such a lovely hair color, how you used to spit up so much and now you are getting better, how you wore so many cute costumes for Halloween."

I haven't actually posted about all those things, but I like that he wasn't necessarily going to go so far as to compose a whole new post about me -- he was just going to give me a little more glory by putting me in place of every person my posts have ever been about.

Also, sometimes when I hear things in my house, it feels kind of like I am waking up from a fuzzy dream. Like on Sunday morning when Abe asked me if he could have some of the chocolate chips in the cupboard. I told him he could, but that they were the kind he didn't like (semi-sweet). Next thing I hear is Mike in the kitchen telling Abe something about how he is going to plant the chocolate chips, and Abe is playing along by asking if they will grow into a chocolate tree, and Mike is telling him that they will grow into pineapples, which are even tastier than chocolate chips. Which is actually kind of funny if you'd been there the night before when Mike was insisting Abe eat the pineapple on his ham and pineapple pizza, and Abe was refusing.

Lastly, two cute things from Penny:

1. Goldie was crying about something the other day and Penny seemed concerned. "Don't worry, Goldie," she soothed, "We can go to Christmas."

2. Today, she said to me, "Mom, could you turn the sun off now? 'Cause I'm burning!" It is nice that she sees me as the all powerful center of the Universe. Sadly, this was probably only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to all the inadequacies she will eventually discover in me. How well I remember once telling my two year old Abe, "I don't know," to a question, only to get his frustrated moan of, "but you and dad know EVERYTHING!" If only they didn't have to discover just how human we parents are.

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.