Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
outdated Christmas card...
...but for a good reason!
Baby arrived early, making our just-sent-out Christmas cards now out of date! But, we're so glad he is here, safe and sound (and tiny tiny).
More info and photos to come...watch your e-mail box!
Baby arrived early, making our just-sent-out Christmas cards now out of date! But, we're so glad he is here, safe and sound (and tiny tiny).
More info and photos to come...watch your e-mail box!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Gifts for the King
Chad: What were the gifts the wise men brought to the baby Jesus?
K: Ummm. Gold!
Chad: Yup! What else?
K: Jewels? and.... CANDY!
and on another occasion....
D: I know what the wise men gave to baby Jesus.
Me: What was that?
D: Gold, and Frankenstein
Me: you mean frankincense?
D: Oh, yeah, frankincense. And murmur.
K: Ummm. Gold!
Chad: Yup! What else?
K: Jewels? and.... CANDY!
and on another occasion....
D: I know what the wise men gave to baby Jesus.
Me: What was that?
D: Gold, and Frankenstein
Me: you mean frankincense?
D: Oh, yeah, frankincense. And murmur.
Friday, December 12, 2008
It's embarassing...
...when your 5-year-old starts belting out
"Roooooxanne. You don't have to put on a red light"
at the TOP of his lungs.
thanks for teaching him that one, Daddy (and Sting)
"Roooooxanne. You don't have to put on a red light"
at the TOP of his lungs.
thanks for teaching him that one, Daddy (and Sting)
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Looking Up
As we sat in church, Dallin noticed one of the deacons passing the sacrament. He turned to me and said, “Hey, look! Ben is passing the sacrament today.” I told him that Ben recently turned 12, and had received the priesthood, so now he could pass the sacrament. Dallin asks me frequently how long it will be before he turns 12 and can be a Deacon. I know he looks up to these boys and their responsibilities. But, until now, he’s never known any of them personally. Frankly, I was surprised he knew Ben. I asked him how and Dal replied, “He told me his name when he came to help us move in.”
Four months ago a [heaven sent] troop of Elders and Young Men showed up to haul our stuff out of the moving truck. I’d managed to catch one or two names. But, somewhere in the shuffle, a thoughtful almost-turning-12 young man introduced himself to a small, shy 5-year-old. He made an impression. He was remembered. And now, each week as we sit in Sacrament Meeting, that influence continues to grow, as Ben worthily uses his priesthood and my someday-priesthood-holder looks up at him with awe.
Four months ago a [heaven sent] troop of Elders and Young Men showed up to haul our stuff out of the moving truck. I’d managed to catch one or two names. But, somewhere in the shuffle, a thoughtful almost-turning-12 young man introduced himself to a small, shy 5-year-old. He made an impression. He was remembered. And now, each week as we sit in Sacrament Meeting, that influence continues to grow, as Ben worthily uses his priesthood and my someday-priesthood-holder looks up at him with awe.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Stage Magic
As a girl, we had season tickets to Promised Valley Playhouse. I guess it was Mom’s way of having some ‘girl time’ and giving us a little culture, too. My sis and I would get all dressed up in our fancy theater-going outfits: velour knickers and matching vests (it was the 80s…’nuf said). We would pile in the tuna boat station wagon with our Aunt and two cousins for the (seemingly) long trip to Salt Lake City.
The busy-ness and bustle of the “big” city was just the beginning of the excitement! As we walked up the steps to our balcony seats, I admired the beautiful, ornate design of the theater, the heavy draped curtains over the stage and the huge, sparkling chandelier. We always stopped in the 2nd floor lobby area to admire the display cases holding costumes from past performances. My favorite was the red dress and wig from “Annie,” and I always hoped they would put that show on again.
Over the few years we had our season tickets, we saw many plays and musicals. Some, I didn’t quite understand (like “Heaven Can Wait”), and others became life-long favorites (“Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”). But all the performances and experiences in that theater shaped my life-long love of the stage.
The best part of the night, except for maybe the intermission snack we sometimes got to buy, was the program. I loved the slick, colorful programs. I got to have my own copy. I would devour the bios of the actors in the minutes before the curtain went up. At the end of the play, the actors would greet the audience in the lobby. If we remembered to bring a pen, we could usually get them to sign our programs. I saved that stack of programs for many years.
Last night I had the chance to introduce my own children to the fun of the theater. BYU’s Ballet Theater was in our town and dancing at a local high school. We all got dressed up in our best clothes and headed into town. The theater was just a high school auditorium, not the grand and ornate playhouse of my childhood memories. But, when the curtain came up and the music began, my two little ones were transfixed by the performance. They both watched with surprising awe and attention at the dancers' spinning and jumping on the stage.
After the performance, Kate spotted a swan-clad ballerina who had come out into the auditorium. She immediately wanted to talk with her. The question she asked: “Can I visit your house?” She was certain this beautifully dressed dancer must live in a fairy castle.
Ahhh…the magic of the stage…
The busy-ness and bustle of the “big” city was just the beginning of the excitement! As we walked up the steps to our balcony seats, I admired the beautiful, ornate design of the theater, the heavy draped curtains over the stage and the huge, sparkling chandelier. We always stopped in the 2nd floor lobby area to admire the display cases holding costumes from past performances. My favorite was the red dress and wig from “Annie,” and I always hoped they would put that show on again.
Over the few years we had our season tickets, we saw many plays and musicals. Some, I didn’t quite understand (like “Heaven Can Wait”), and others became life-long favorites (“Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”). But all the performances and experiences in that theater shaped my life-long love of the stage.
The best part of the night, except for maybe the intermission snack we sometimes got to buy, was the program. I loved the slick, colorful programs. I got to have my own copy. I would devour the bios of the actors in the minutes before the curtain went up. At the end of the play, the actors would greet the audience in the lobby. If we remembered to bring a pen, we could usually get them to sign our programs. I saved that stack of programs for many years.
Last night I had the chance to introduce my own children to the fun of the theater. BYU’s Ballet Theater was in our town and dancing at a local high school. We all got dressed up in our best clothes and headed into town. The theater was just a high school auditorium, not the grand and ornate playhouse of my childhood memories. But, when the curtain came up and the music began, my two little ones were transfixed by the performance. They both watched with surprising awe and attention at the dancers' spinning and jumping on the stage.
After the performance, Kate spotted a swan-clad ballerina who had come out into the auditorium. She immediately wanted to talk with her. The question she asked: “Can I visit your house?” She was certain this beautifully dressed dancer must live in a fairy castle.
Ahhh…the magic of the stage…
Thursday, November 20, 2008
It’s still two weeks until her 4th birthday. Isn’t she still a little too young to be saying things like this? Aren’t I still too young to be hearing them from my own kid?
“When I grow up and I’m a mom, I’m going to let my kids watch one HUNDRED shows a day…
(she’s only allowed two)
… because when I watch 100 shows I’m soooo happy.”
At least she knows she’s not in charge yet. I hope.
“When I grow up and I’m a mom, I’m going to let my kids watch one HUNDRED shows a day…
(she’s only allowed two)
… because when I watch 100 shows I’m soooo happy.”
At least she knows she’s not in charge yet. I hope.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Enough
A recent post written by my friend has got me thinking. She tells of how, in her exuberant youth, there was so much she knew that now, with a few more years and experiences, she often wonders about. I’ve been thinking about what I know. And, the old adage, “the more you learn, the less you know” has come back into my mind time and time again. Like everyone (at least, I hope most people are like this), life seemed a lot more black and white in my youth. I knew so much more, simply because I knew less of what there is to know. Every time I read a book or take a class, my mind is open to the vast amounts of knowledge there is out there, and I’m aware of how little of it I actually possess. For instance, I was a much better mother before I became a mother. At least, theoretically. I hope that, in reality, the time spent in the trenches, doing the day-to-day and learning bit by bit has made me more competent. But, it has also made me more aware of all I lack and where my shortfalls are.
I think my testimony is the same way. In theory, it would seem that my belief was bigger and stronger when I was younger, but that is really because it was simpler. As a stalwart, seminary-council-member youth I knew the truth of many principles, but there were so many more that had yet to try my faith. And, as time has passed and growth and change has happened, it may seem that I know less and have to "just believe" more. But, I think in reality, I just know how much more complicated life is and the many more ways in which decisions and consequences change my perspective.
In General Conference, Elder Neil Andersen gave a talk about knowing enough. He said, "Faith is not only a feeling; it is a decision." I know I don’t know everything. But, I know enough to choose faith. I know enough to want to make good choices; to want to be a kind neighbor and a true friend; to want to teach my children about their Savior; to trust in God when things in my life seem out of my control; to pray often; to lean on the scriptures and the words of the prophet. I know enough.
And, sometimes, that small bit is all it takes to keep moving forward.
I think my testimony is the same way. In theory, it would seem that my belief was bigger and stronger when I was younger, but that is really because it was simpler. As a stalwart, seminary-council-member youth I knew the truth of many principles, but there were so many more that had yet to try my faith. And, as time has passed and growth and change has happened, it may seem that I know less and have to "just believe" more. But, I think in reality, I just know how much more complicated life is and the many more ways in which decisions and consequences change my perspective.
In General Conference, Elder Neil Andersen gave a talk about knowing enough. He said, "Faith is not only a feeling; it is a decision." I know I don’t know everything. But, I know enough to choose faith. I know enough to want to make good choices; to want to be a kind neighbor and a true friend; to want to teach my children about their Savior; to trust in God when things in my life seem out of my control; to pray often; to lean on the scriptures and the words of the prophet. I know enough.
And, sometimes, that small bit is all it takes to keep moving forward.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Bonus
I think one of my all time favorite things is a 'bonus' summer day. Like today. Earlier this week it was freezing; my kids had pulled out their snow clothes (and discovered the sleeves and legs were too short. Bummer! We've got to buy new ones this year). Today, they are in short sleeves, standing on the corner manning a lemonade stand with the neighbors. Okay, so it looks, from my vantage point at the window, that they are mostly just drinking all the Kool-Aid themselves. But, who's to stop them from enjoying this beautiful, blue-skied bonus day of summer. Ahhh!
Thursday, October 9, 2008
I Heart DVR
I've never before been spoiled with Tivo (although I've often coveted the magic recording power of others). That is, until football season started this year. Chad insisted that we NEEDED to have access to "the Mountain" and I was happy to oblige, since satellite would also mean we could get BYU TV and watch Conference at home in our jammies, just like livin' in Utah! And, along with the package came a lovely little black digital recording box.
I love my DVR. Chad cruise through an eternally l-o-n-g football game in an hour. I can record "The Office" to help ease the pain of folding that mountain of laundry I always have on Thursday night. The kids' shows are at beck and call.
But, I was the most grateful for my DVR today. We had recorded a special about President Monson that BYU TV was showing between conference sessions. I turned it on today while I was working on a sewing project. What a man! I've always known President Monson is a worthy, honorable man. This documentary was additional fuel on my testimony fire. President Monson is such an example of listening to the Spirit and heeding His voice, no matter what.
I loved the final words he spoke on the program: "I always want the Lord to know that if He needs an errand run, Tom Monson will run that errand for him."
I want to be that kind of errand runner, too.
I love my DVR. Chad cruise through an eternally l-o-n-g football game in an hour. I can record "The Office" to help ease the pain of folding that mountain of laundry I always have on Thursday night. The kids' shows are at beck and call.
But, I was the most grateful for my DVR today. We had recorded a special about President Monson that BYU TV was showing between conference sessions. I turned it on today while I was working on a sewing project. What a man! I've always known President Monson is a worthy, honorable man. This documentary was additional fuel on my testimony fire. President Monson is such an example of listening to the Spirit and heeding His voice, no matter what.
I loved the final words he spoke on the program: "I always want the Lord to know that if He needs an errand run, Tom Monson will run that errand for him."
I want to be that kind of errand runner, too.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
A Monkey's Uncle
Last night Uncle Dave came for dinner. He was in town on business and we had the pleasure of hosting him for a couple of hours. I’ve loved uncle Dave ever since he married my aunt Lori when I was 5 or so. He’s a fun uncle who used to give ‘hot kisses’ on my back until I was sure my shirt would catch fire. He’s M’unkey Dave and ‘the wrestling guy.’ He is a tech-gadget guru; the first in the family to have a camcorder, and ever since, dubbed the official family videographer. He’s boat captain, involved dad, devoted husband, never-without-his-phone-and-laptop Dave.
The thing is, I never realized all the stuff I didn’t know about my uncle Dave until we had him, one-on-one, at our dinner table. I never knew how much family history he has in Colorado. I had never heard the story of his suffocating car ride to Utah because of his two sisters’ and their new perfume. I have vague memories of him doing Indian tribal dancing at family parties, but had never gotten the full scoop on that high-school hobby, until yesterday. I loved listening the updates of his kids' lives, as only a dad can give them.
My dad’s family, of which Dave is a part (by marriage), is close. We’ve always had lots of family functions, trips to Bear Lake, and loads of relatives at blessings and baptisms. I love it. But, being the large LDS clan that we are, we tend to come in herds. And, we are LOUD. And, I guess I didn’t realize all the info I’ve missed out on because of the craziness of the large group. It makes me want to have all my aunts, uncles and cousins over for dinner, one at a time.
So, when can you come?
The thing is, I never realized all the stuff I didn’t know about my uncle Dave until we had him, one-on-one, at our dinner table. I never knew how much family history he has in Colorado. I had never heard the story of his suffocating car ride to Utah because of his two sisters’ and their new perfume. I have vague memories of him doing Indian tribal dancing at family parties, but had never gotten the full scoop on that high-school hobby, until yesterday. I loved listening the updates of his kids' lives, as only a dad can give them.
My dad’s family, of which Dave is a part (by marriage), is close. We’ve always had lots of family functions, trips to Bear Lake, and loads of relatives at blessings and baptisms. I love it. But, being the large LDS clan that we are, we tend to come in herds. And, we are LOUD. And, I guess I didn’t realize all the info I’ve missed out on because of the craziness of the large group. It makes me want to have all my aunts, uncles and cousins over for dinner, one at a time.
So, when can you come?
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
My Helper
After our canning day yesterday, I still had lots of peaches, so I decided to slice some up for freezing. My little helper joined me in the kitchen. She LOVES the kitchen and always wants a job. Today, I was proud to pass along the ancient, women-held trick for peeling peaches. I scalded the fruit and put it in the cold-water-filled sink. Her job was to schlep the skins off.She giggled as the skin stretched under the grip of her little fingers, then broke and slid into her hand. "I'm a slimy grill!" she exclaimed as the slippery, fleshy fruit fell into the sink. "This is a fun job!"
After a while, she turned to me and said, "I love this job, Mom. When I grow up, I'm going to be a mommy and you can be the grandma, and we can do this every day!"
Well, at least every peach season. I'll be there, baby girl!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Accomplishment
My wonderful Mother-in-law and her newlywed husband stopped in for a quick overnight stay. They came bearing gifts: a box full of freshly picked Utah peaches and a big bowl of raspberries. We went to work canning 15 quarts of peaches and making a batch of raspberry jam. As she was pulling the last of the jars out of the pot, Gigi remarked, "There's just something about canning that makes you feel like you've accomplished something." Amen.Thanks so much for adding to our storehouse.
Friday, September 19, 2008
When I Grow Up... part 2
One of my garbage-truck-loving boy's chores is to empty the bathroom garbage can and replace the liner. And, he is so good at his task.
Yesterday I reminded him to do his chores, but a few minutes later, heard a big "Oh, no!" float in from the stairway.
"Uh, Mom? I couldn't quite get the bag tied two times."
Tying the liner in a knot is a developing skill.
"I got it tied one time and threw it down the steps. It spilled."
I realize, tossing garbage down the stairs is probably not the BEST way to get it down there, but you gotta make chores somewhat fun, right?
"No problem," I said. "Just go pick it up."
With a full-sized grumble (and a stomp, stomp, stomp) my boy left the room saying, "I don't want to be a garbage man anymore. I'll just drive a dump truck!"
We're moving up...
Yesterday I reminded him to do his chores, but a few minutes later, heard a big "Oh, no!" float in from the stairway.
"Uh, Mom? I couldn't quite get the bag tied two times."
Tying the liner in a knot is a developing skill.
"I got it tied one time and threw it down the steps. It spilled."
I realize, tossing garbage down the stairs is probably not the BEST way to get it down there, but you gotta make chores somewhat fun, right?
"No problem," I said. "Just go pick it up."
With a full-sized grumble (and a stomp, stomp, stomp) my boy left the room saying, "I don't want to be a garbage man anymore. I'll just drive a dump truck!"
We're moving up...
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Cravings
I'd love to be able to blame my constant need for ice cream on the pregnancy. But, I pretty much crave ice cream ANY time. Except maybe in the dead of winter, if I'm shoveling snow and my nose is cold. But otherwise...I'm always good for a scoop. Lately, my craving has been worse. Maybe it's because Black Raspberry Chocolate Chunk has been on sale at the grocery store, and it is practically a crime to pass that up. What can I say? Our freezer has been well-stocked lately, and my dips into the carton are frequent. But, if you can't indulge while gestating, when can you???
Anyway, I was ECSTATIC to discover this little gem in my inbox today: World's Largest Ice Cream Social. Cold Stone Creamery is raising money for the Make-A-Wish Foundation this month, and treating customers to free ice cream on September 25th. So, if you don't have the convenient excuse of a 'bun in the oven' to satisfy YOUR ice cream cravings, this might be just the thing. I mean, it is for a good cause, right?
Mmmmmm....
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Four Hours
...is how long I just spent shopping online for a baby car seat/ stroller combo. I haven't looked at these for 6 years, but I sold my old set long ago and am in the market again. Maybe it is because the last time around we were only looking at the clearance table at Babies-R-Us and were limited to the money gifted to us by loving family and friends, but there seems to be so many more options now. And, who knew that baby seats now come in Big and Tall?? Whew!
I love Amazon because they always have lots of customer reviews. However, in reading reviews for baby items, it seems like lots of first-time moms love to put their opinions out there about baby gear they have yet to try...because they are still only 5 months pregnant! And, the bulk of their review consists of how cute or stylish the item is. Sheesh! I can see the picture, Mama. I want to know if you can lift the thing. With your kid inside. In the rain. While also buckling up your preschooler's car seat. And unloading the groceries.
Any suggestions???
I love Amazon because they always have lots of customer reviews. However, in reading reviews for baby items, it seems like lots of first-time moms love to put their opinions out there about baby gear they have yet to try...because they are still only 5 months pregnant! And, the bulk of their review consists of how cute or stylish the item is. Sheesh! I can see the picture, Mama. I want to know if you can lift the thing. With your kid inside. In the rain. While also buckling up your preschooler's car seat. And unloading the groceries.
Any suggestions???
Friday, September 12, 2008
Friday is Cookie Day!
My sister recently reminded me that our mom used to bake cookies with us after school on Fridays. We invited neighbors, we got a good sugar high, and Mom usually ended up with a plate of treats to deliver to her visiting teachees.
The tradition continues! We have had fun with our Friday Cookie Days so far. Sometimes we have friends with us. Sometimes it is just our family. Today we did sugar cookies. I found this recipe a few years ago and it has become my favorite sugar cookie recipe because the cookies stay so soft! (I think it is the honey) Yum!
Soft Sugar Cookies
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter or margarine, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup honey
1 egg
1 tsp. vanilla
3 cups flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
BEAT butter, sugar, honey, egg and vanilla in large bowl with electric mixer on medium speed until well blended. Add flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt; mix well. Cover. Refrigerate at least 2 hours. (This step can be skipped in a pinch. Also, when you take them out of the fridge, let them warm up for a few minutes to make rolling easier)
PLACE dough on lightly floured surface; roll out to 1/4-inch thickness. Cut into desired shapes with floured cookie cutters.
BAKE at 350°F for 6 to 8 minutes or until cookies are lightly browned.
P.S. If you live at 6,000 feet, like me, you might want to add up to 1/4 cup extra flour, too!
The tradition continues! We have had fun with our Friday Cookie Days so far. Sometimes we have friends with us. Sometimes it is just our family. Today we did sugar cookies. I found this recipe a few years ago and it has become my favorite sugar cookie recipe because the cookies stay so soft! (I think it is the honey) Yum!
Soft Sugar Cookies
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter or margarine, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup honey
1 egg
1 tsp. vanilla
3 cups flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
BEAT butter, sugar, honey, egg and vanilla in large bowl with electric mixer on medium speed until well blended. Add flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt; mix well. Cover. Refrigerate at least 2 hours. (This step can be skipped in a pinch. Also, when you take them out of the fridge, let them warm up for a few minutes to make rolling easier)
PLACE dough on lightly floured surface; roll out to 1/4-inch thickness. Cut into desired shapes with floured cookie cutters.
BAKE at 350°F for 6 to 8 minutes or until cookies are lightly browned.
P.S. If you live at 6,000 feet, like me, you might want to add up to 1/4 cup extra flour, too!
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
When I Grow Up...
Ever since my baby boy could peek out the window, he has been in awe of the garbage man. In our Kentucky condo, he had a picture-window view of the dumpster corrals. The minute he heard the garbage trucks (usually when they were still streets away), he’d watch outside for the man in the bright green shirt to get out if the truck, open the door to the corral, roll the dumpster out, get in his truck to dump it, then put it back. When Daddy came home, our little would-be garbage man loved to ride horsie-style on Dad's back, going around the house emptying imaginary dumpsters and pushing them in and out of invisible corrals.
He never really grew out of the garbage fetish (much to his mother’s chagrin). He still thinks it is fun to watch the garbage truck roll through the neighborhood, lifting and dumping and crushing the mucky trash. He has a garbage truck toy that he often plays with, but even more often I’ll find him playing with boxes or baskets, turning them into garbage trucks while toys, clothes or other household items become his garbage.
From his window seat on our flight this past weekend, Dal had a perfect view of the baggage handlers loading the suitcases into the belly of the plane. A new career aspiration was born! I can appreciate the transition: the concept is similar to that of a ‘sanitation engineer’, what with all the driving, loading and unloading. Luggage, however, is slightly less stinky.
When we returned home I emptied out the suitcases, and my 5-year-old would-be luggage handler spent the rest of the day filling them up, pushing them around the house and loading them onto the ‘plane.’ He even threw in a stint as the flight attendant, for good measure, “to make sure everyone has their snack and their drink.”
Maybe one day he’ll aspire to be a dentist like Daddy, but for now, it is all about loading…. garbage and luggage.
He never really grew out of the garbage fetish (much to his mother’s chagrin). He still thinks it is fun to watch the garbage truck roll through the neighborhood, lifting and dumping and crushing the mucky trash. He has a garbage truck toy that he often plays with, but even more often I’ll find him playing with boxes or baskets, turning them into garbage trucks while toys, clothes or other household items become his garbage.
From his window seat on our flight this past weekend, Dal had a perfect view of the baggage handlers loading the suitcases into the belly of the plane. A new career aspiration was born! I can appreciate the transition: the concept is similar to that of a ‘sanitation engineer’, what with all the driving, loading and unloading. Luggage, however, is slightly less stinky.
When we returned home I emptied out the suitcases, and my 5-year-old would-be luggage handler spent the rest of the day filling them up, pushing them around the house and loading them onto the ‘plane.’ He even threw in a stint as the flight attendant, for good measure, “to make sure everyone has their snack and their drink.”
Maybe one day he’ll aspire to be a dentist like Daddy, but for now, it is all about loading…. garbage and luggage.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Stepping Out.
I've been putting it off; squeezing into too-tight clothes. But, today, I bit the bullet and pulled on maternity clothes. That's one way to definitely LOOK pregnant. But, I have to say, I'm enjoying the chance to breathe again. And, my new maternity jeans ARE pretty cute. Plus, I have a new short-sleeved maternity top I've got to wear a couple of times before the weather turns cold. Around here, that is looking like tomorrow.
It's been a while, and although I'm thrilled beyond description to be 'in the family way,' I'd forgotten what a klutz I become when I'm pregnantly-off-balance. And, we're only half way through! Hang in there, little buddy. It's going to be a bumpy ride....
It's been a while, and although I'm thrilled beyond description to be 'in the family way,' I'd forgotten what a klutz I become when I'm pregnantly-off-balance. And, we're only half way through! Hang in there, little buddy. It's going to be a bumpy ride....
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Changing Views...
Growing up along the majestic Wasatch Range, I found it hard to believe that there really was another side of the mountain. They were so big, so daunting. How could anyone climb that far? That high? Of course, I knew the stories of how my own ancestors came to be on the West side of these mountains. And, I figured there still must be a way to cross. But, in my small, contented world, I didn’t really think about what was on the other side.
As I grew older, my wanderlust led me on many airline flights over the mountains. The first time I looked down, from 30,000 feet, at the tops of the mountains I was amazed that the ‘top’ wasn’t just a peak, but the range was wide. The tops of the mountains went on and on; the snowy caps and rocky valleys were vast. I was grateful I wasn’t pulling a cart.
Like the bear who went over the mountain, I’m now on the other side, seeing what there is to see. It isn’t the first time I’ve lived away from my mountain home, and, once again, my view has changed. The mountains are on the West now; the morning sun comes up over the plains. The peaks are still majestic and my spot at the base of the mountain still secure, but now, I don’t wonder what is on the other side. I know. And I remember. And, some days, I long for that other place.
But, mostly, I’m glad to know that although the view from my window may change, the people under my roof are still mine. The distance from one side to the next may be far, but it isn’t insurmountable. And with a phone, it doesn’t seem so distant. The beauties that are found in one place are matched by new scenery in another.
I love living in ‘the tops of the mountains.’ Both sides.
As I grew older, my wanderlust led me on many airline flights over the mountains. The first time I looked down, from 30,000 feet, at the tops of the mountains I was amazed that the ‘top’ wasn’t just a peak, but the range was wide. The tops of the mountains went on and on; the snowy caps and rocky valleys were vast. I was grateful I wasn’t pulling a cart.
Like the bear who went over the mountain, I’m now on the other side, seeing what there is to see. It isn’t the first time I’ve lived away from my mountain home, and, once again, my view has changed. The mountains are on the West now; the morning sun comes up over the plains. The peaks are still majestic and my spot at the base of the mountain still secure, but now, I don’t wonder what is on the other side. I know. And I remember. And, some days, I long for that other place.
But, mostly, I’m glad to know that although the view from my window may change, the people under my roof are still mine. The distance from one side to the next may be far, but it isn’t insurmountable. And with a phone, it doesn’t seem so distant. The beauties that are found in one place are matched by new scenery in another.
I love living in ‘the tops of the mountains.’ Both sides.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Snacking
While doing a Sunday morning hair-do for my three-year-old:
K: Mom, can we have a snack at church today?
Me: I think we'll have our snack before we leave for church.
K: But, what about the SNACKERMENT?
K: Mom, can we have a snack at church today?
Me: I think we'll have our snack before we leave for church.
K: But, what about the SNACKERMENT?
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Having and Keeping
I’ve entered a new stage of motherhood; I recently heard my very first, “Can I keep it for a pet, Mom?” Lucky for me, the pet of choice for my boy is pill bugs. I grew up calling them potato bugs, and when we lived in Kentucky, the locals referred to them as roly-poly bugs, but upon consulting the all-knowing internet for care instructions, we discovered that these little things are really called pill bugs. And they aren’t really bugs at all, but part of the crustacean family. Isn't that exotic?
I’ve been impressed with the care D. has taken with his ‘pets.’ Granted, they are pretty low-maintenance (a plus for the pill bug pet), but he dutifully checks on them everyday, adds leaves and water to the jar and takes them out to play. One night, we returned home late from Grandma’s house. D. was asleep in the car, and I carried him up to bed. But, before he’d let me tuck him in, he woke up enough to peek in on his bugs.
So, we’ve got a jar full of an ever-growing pill bug family. Each day the kids find one or two new ones to join the crew. Currently, I am told, we are housing Flower, Flipper, Eagle and X. A few were lost (escaped) when taken out on the back patio to play. Regardless, my little ones are enjoying this season of care-giving, and I’m holding my breath, hoping it is MANY more years before they come begging for a dog.
I’ve been impressed with the care D. has taken with his ‘pets.’ Granted, they are pretty low-maintenance (a plus for the pill bug pet), but he dutifully checks on them everyday, adds leaves and water to the jar and takes them out to play. One night, we returned home late from Grandma’s house. D. was asleep in the car, and I carried him up to bed. But, before he’d let me tuck him in, he woke up enough to peek in on his bugs.
So, we’ve got a jar full of an ever-growing pill bug family. Each day the kids find one or two new ones to join the crew. Currently, I am told, we are housing Flower, Flipper, Eagle and X. A few were lost (escaped) when taken out on the back patio to play. Regardless, my little ones are enjoying this season of care-giving, and I’m holding my breath, hoping it is MANY more years before they come begging for a dog.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Recipe for Roast Beef Turkey
a conversation in our toy room today:
K: What should I make you for dinner, Hon?
D: Umm... How about Roast Beef Turkey?
K: Okay. How do I make it?
D: First you put in sugar, lemon juice, fried chicken, and then, um, a cup of milk. That's it!
K: Okay! It's almost ready.
Sounds tasty...wanna come over for dinner?
K: What should I make you for dinner, Hon?
D: Umm... How about Roast Beef Turkey?
K: Okay. How do I make it?
D: First you put in sugar, lemon juice, fried chicken, and then, um, a cup of milk. That's it!
K: Okay! It's almost ready.
Sounds tasty...wanna come over for dinner?
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Smelling Summer
I love to sneak out to the vegetable garden in the early morning. Even when there are golfers on the course that backs up to my home, I just tip toe through the wet grass trying not to let them notice that I'm still in my pajamas. My garden is small, but it is the most I've ever grown. I love the taste of peas popped fresh from the pod. For breakfast. My zucchini is nearly ready to pick. Maybe tomorrow. Tomatoes are growing, but still green. The pumpkin plants are spreading their beautiful, broad leaves. Wiggly watermelon vines swarm across the soil.
When I've put away the peas and climbed into the shower, I bring my hands to my face and they still smell of tomatoes. The scent of summer. ahhhh!
When I've put away the peas and climbed into the shower, I bring my hands to my face and they still smell of tomatoes. The scent of summer. ahhhh!
Monday, June 30, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Happy Birthday to Me!
It's my party....and I'm excited to shout my good news:
We are beyond thrilled about this long-prayed-for baby, due in January 2009. It is fun that our kids are old enough to understand the concept of a new baby and are anxiously looking forward to their new sibling 'after Christmas.'
Some local reaction:
K: "I think it is a baby grill and we should name her Pretty Pony!"
D: "We won't know if it is a boy baby or a girl baby until it comes out. How does it come out, Mom?"
....the OTHER side of having older siblings. Any good suggestions for dealing with awkward questions from a 5-year-old? I'd love a good book on this subject! :)
I'm pregnant!
We are beyond thrilled about this long-prayed-for baby, due in January 2009. It is fun that our kids are old enough to understand the concept of a new baby and are anxiously looking forward to their new sibling 'after Christmas.'
Some local reaction:
K: "I think it is a baby grill and we should name her Pretty Pony!"
D: "We won't know if it is a boy baby or a girl baby until it comes out. How does it come out, Mom?"
....the OTHER side of having older siblings. Any good suggestions for dealing with awkward questions from a 5-year-old? I'd love a good book on this subject! :)
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Mountain High
My mom is a hiker. On sunny summer days of my childhood, she would often lead us on adventures up the canyon. She would point out the Columbine and the Bluebells along the trail. She would encourage and (sometimes) drag the stragglers up the hill, promising a rest or a snack in just a few minutes. And, of course, there was the reward of reaching the top; getting to see the view or play in the waterfall or stand triumphant on the highest boulder.
Many memories were made on the trails of Southern Utah as our family set out with our cousins, the Browns, and the two families would adventure through the HooDoos of Bryce Canyon, the mysteries of Kolob Canyon or, on one particularly courageous outing, through Zion’s Narrows. I don’t know if I always had the best hiker attitude. Sometimes it was hard to keep going. It seemed that we’d never reach the top. But, Mom had her ways of keeping things moving.
She sang:
Can you walk a little faster? said the tortoise to the hare.
There’s a porpoise right behind me and he’s stepping on my tail.
She offered treats: I think she had an endless supply of Starburst or Jolly Ranchers in her pocket.
And, she’d call ahead to the front hikers with her Brighton Camp days yell:
Hi-lo inny-minnie eye-kye-kye ooom chow chow eeee-whoa-whoa
And, whoever was up ahead would yell back:
Inica-minica-inica saw, ta-boom, ta-la, ta-yooohooo
You always knew they weren’t too far away.
And, Mom was always right about one thing: getting to the top really is worth it.
So, when Chad suggested a hike to fill up our wide-open day, I was excited about the idea of introducing my kids to one of their Grammy’s favorite activities. I told them about the trail songs we used to sing as I helped them pull on long pants. We talked about what kind of wild flowers we might see as I slathered on sunscreen. And, I mentioned how if we got tired, my mom always had Starburst in her pocket to keep us moving; maybe I’ll throw in a few treats, too.
We climbed in the car and headed for the hills. The kids were excited about the idea of climbing a mountain. We drove through the beautiful yellow and purple flower-covered hills to the trailhead. Chad had a pack filled with water and snacks. I brought along ‘nature crowns’ for the kids to collect leaves and flowers along the way. We donned jackets, took one last bathroom break, and headed up the trail.
Our big 5-year-old boy was fearless and energetic, wanting to be in the lead and pave the way. He and Chad found walking sticks---they looked so official. Little Sister was a little more reserved in her excitement, cautious of the mud, and worried about the bugs. But, she, too, hiked with a smile most of the way. Chad pointed out horse hoof prints on the trail, warned of stinging nettle in the fields, and encouraged the kids with thoughts of reaching the summit and being able to see into the valley. Sis and I looked for butterflies (the only bug acceptable to this entomophobe), counted our steps, and, of course, sang our own trail songs. Oh…. and she asked for a treat every few hundred feet.
We finally made our way to our “top.” It wasn’t the tip of Lewis Peak, where the trail eventually led. I’m not even sure how far we hiked. But, we did get to a summit where we could look into the valley. My little hikers felt such a sense of accomplishment as they relished the view. I was proud of them, of their ability to keep going even when the trail seemed too long or too steep. I loved watching their discovery of tree log benches, beetles and new flowers along the way and smiled at their desire to point out their finds to Mom and Dad. And, I was glad to pass along my memories of days spent walking amid the Indian Paintbrush and Sunflowers with my mom. What a wonderful, beautiful world!
Many memories were made on the trails of Southern Utah as our family set out with our cousins, the Browns, and the two families would adventure through the HooDoos of Bryce Canyon, the mysteries of Kolob Canyon or, on one particularly courageous outing, through Zion’s Narrows. I don’t know if I always had the best hiker attitude. Sometimes it was hard to keep going. It seemed that we’d never reach the top. But, Mom had her ways of keeping things moving.
She sang:
Can you walk a little faster? said the tortoise to the hare.
There’s a porpoise right behind me and he’s stepping on my tail.
She offered treats: I think she had an endless supply of Starburst or Jolly Ranchers in her pocket.
And, she’d call ahead to the front hikers with her Brighton Camp days yell:
Hi-lo inny-minnie eye-kye-kye ooom chow chow eeee-whoa-whoa
And, whoever was up ahead would yell back:
Inica-minica-inica saw, ta-boom, ta-la, ta-yooohooo
You always knew they weren’t too far away.
And, Mom was always right about one thing: getting to the top really is worth it.
So, when Chad suggested a hike to fill up our wide-open day, I was excited about the idea of introducing my kids to one of their Grammy’s favorite activities. I told them about the trail songs we used to sing as I helped them pull on long pants. We talked about what kind of wild flowers we might see as I slathered on sunscreen. And, I mentioned how if we got tired, my mom always had Starburst in her pocket to keep us moving; maybe I’ll throw in a few treats, too.
We climbed in the car and headed for the hills. The kids were excited about the idea of climbing a mountain. We drove through the beautiful yellow and purple flower-covered hills to the trailhead. Chad had a pack filled with water and snacks. I brought along ‘nature crowns’ for the kids to collect leaves and flowers along the way. We donned jackets, took one last bathroom break, and headed up the trail.
Our big 5-year-old boy was fearless and energetic, wanting to be in the lead and pave the way. He and Chad found walking sticks---they looked so official. Little Sister was a little more reserved in her excitement, cautious of the mud, and worried about the bugs. But, she, too, hiked with a smile most of the way. Chad pointed out horse hoof prints on the trail, warned of stinging nettle in the fields, and encouraged the kids with thoughts of reaching the summit and being able to see into the valley. Sis and I looked for butterflies (the only bug acceptable to this entomophobe), counted our steps, and, of course, sang our own trail songs. Oh…. and she asked for a treat every few hundred feet.
We finally made our way to our “top.” It wasn’t the tip of Lewis Peak, where the trail eventually led. I’m not even sure how far we hiked. But, we did get to a summit where we could look into the valley. My little hikers felt such a sense of accomplishment as they relished the view. I was proud of them, of their ability to keep going even when the trail seemed too long or too steep. I loved watching their discovery of tree log benches, beetles and new flowers along the way and smiled at their desire to point out their finds to Mom and Dad. And, I was glad to pass along my memories of days spent walking amid the Indian Paintbrush and Sunflowers with my mom. What a wonderful, beautiful world!
Thursday, May 29, 2008
On the Fringe
Make new friends, but keep the old.
One is silver, the other is gold.
I was thinking about friendships the other day: how they last or disappear; how some are deep and intertwined, while others are only surface-y; how they fall into categories and groups. And, I’ve come to the conclusion that, particularly with my ‘old’ friends, I’m kind of a fringe girl. You know, the one on the edge of the crowd who is pals with the gang, but not really a PART of it; whose memories are wide-spread over many groups, but not deeply rooted with one particular set of people.
I live in Utah, which, for Mormons, is where many pilgrimage frequently. When someone comes 'home', a get-together is often organized so the out-of-towner can see all their old friends. I’ve been invited to several of these little gatherings lately, with several different ‘groups,’ and as conversations unfold and stories are shared, I realize that the bulk of the people there are good friends. I mean, really GOOD friends. They continue to see each other several times a year. They have many, many overlapping memories. I have a few. I send Christmas cards. But, I don’t feel like I’m really ‘in’ with the crowd.
My husband is a fringe-er, too. He was friendly with nearly every crowd in high school, but close friends with a very few…and no one group in particular. Together, we enjoy the chance to visit with people from the past, and listen in on the escapades of yesteryear, wondering how, exactly, we got invited to this reunion of friends when we are merely acquaintances with most of them. I think it’s the Christmas cards. And, the fact that we live in Mormon Mecca. And, hopefully, it is because even though we are fringers, we are friends, too.
Because it is fun to be connected to people from my long-ago, even if I’m only connected by a thread….and a photo card of my kids in their mailbox each December.
One is silver, the other is gold.
I was thinking about friendships the other day: how they last or disappear; how some are deep and intertwined, while others are only surface-y; how they fall into categories and groups. And, I’ve come to the conclusion that, particularly with my ‘old’ friends, I’m kind of a fringe girl. You know, the one on the edge of the crowd who is pals with the gang, but not really a PART of it; whose memories are wide-spread over many groups, but not deeply rooted with one particular set of people.
I live in Utah, which, for Mormons, is where many pilgrimage frequently. When someone comes 'home', a get-together is often organized so the out-of-towner can see all their old friends. I’ve been invited to several of these little gatherings lately, with several different ‘groups,’ and as conversations unfold and stories are shared, I realize that the bulk of the people there are good friends. I mean, really GOOD friends. They continue to see each other several times a year. They have many, many overlapping memories. I have a few. I send Christmas cards. But, I don’t feel like I’m really ‘in’ with the crowd.
My husband is a fringe-er, too. He was friendly with nearly every crowd in high school, but close friends with a very few…and no one group in particular. Together, we enjoy the chance to visit with people from the past, and listen in on the escapades of yesteryear, wondering how, exactly, we got invited to this reunion of friends when we are merely acquaintances with most of them. I think it’s the Christmas cards. And, the fact that we live in Mormon Mecca. And, hopefully, it is because even though we are fringers, we are friends, too.
Because it is fun to be connected to people from my long-ago, even if I’m only connected by a thread….and a photo card of my kids in their mailbox each December.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Sound it Out
Overheard at my house:
My 3-year-old, singing: IIIIII am building a booooox. A box, a box, I'm building a box! B-O-G-S, a box.
My 3-year-old, singing: IIIIII am building a booooox. A box, a box, I'm building a box! B-O-G-S, a box.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Hard Up.
We rode the train. THE train. Commuter rail has arrived. As part of the hype you could ride for free, so we took the kiddies to experience metropolitan splendor. The crowds were large. The smells were smelly. It was almost like we were really in New York or DC, except when we looked out the windows, we were passing cattle and backyards with trampolines. And, there were trillions of kids on board instead of hordes of suit-wearing, Blackberry-talking executives. After our ‘trip’, we went to get sandwiches at Gandolfo’s. As I sat there gazing at the poster of the Chrysler Building and eating my Long Island Chicken Salad, I almost---ALMOST----felt like we were on a vacation. Yeah. Really. Can someone [Chad] please buy this girl a ticket and send me somewhere? I really need some travel therapy. Soon.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Overheard...
...on the walk (yes! it's nice enough to WALK!) to church:
I love to look at the sunshine, and the sunshine loves to look at me!
---my happy-for-the-springtime girl
I love to look at the sunshine, and the sunshine loves to look at me!
---my happy-for-the-springtime girl
Monday, March 31, 2008
winter?
Aughhh!!! It snowed last night. Really, I'm so so so sick of winter. Springtime, where are you????
If it can't be Spring outside, at least we can have a little sunshine inside, right? This is my favorite salad to bring to Springtime pot luck dinners.
Lemon Shrimp Pasta Salad
3 cups (8 oz) Farfalle (bow-tie pasta), uncooked
3/4 lb fresh asparagus spears, cut into 2-inch lengths
1 cup zesty Italian dressing
1 tsp dried oregano leaves (or 1 TBSP fresh oregano, chopped)
1 tsp grated lemon peel zest
3/4 lb cooked shrimp
1 cup halved cherry tomatoes
1 pkg (8oz) Colby & Monterey Jack Cheese Crumbles (or 8 oz finely diced cheese)
Cook pasta as directed on package, adding asparagus to the cooking water for the last 2 minutes of the pasta cooking time; drain. Rinse with cold water; drain well.
Mix dressing, oregano, and lemon peel in large bowl. Add pasta mixture to dressing mixture and stir to coat. Add shrimp, tomatoes and cheese and mix lightly. Serve immediately or cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.
12-15 side dish servings
If it can't be Spring outside, at least we can have a little sunshine inside, right? This is my favorite salad to bring to Springtime pot luck dinners.
Lemon Shrimp Pasta Salad3 cups (8 oz) Farfalle (bow-tie pasta), uncooked
3/4 lb fresh asparagus spears, cut into 2-inch lengths
1 cup zesty Italian dressing
1 tsp dried oregano leaves (or 1 TBSP fresh oregano, chopped)
1 tsp grated lemon peel zest
3/4 lb cooked shrimp
1 cup halved cherry tomatoes
1 pkg (8oz) Colby & Monterey Jack Cheese Crumbles (or 8 oz finely diced cheese)
Cook pasta as directed on package, adding asparagus to the cooking water for the last 2 minutes of the pasta cooking time; drain. Rinse with cold water; drain well.
Mix dressing, oregano, and lemon peel in large bowl. Add pasta mixture to dressing mixture and stir to coat. Add shrimp, tomatoes and cheese and mix lightly. Serve immediately or cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.
12-15 side dish servings
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Five Years Ago.
Five years ago. It’s been all over the news this week: 5 years since the start of the Iraq War. The memories of the beginning of that war are bright in my mind. I watched the news coverage from a hospital bed in the maternity ward of Norton Suburban Hospital in Louisville, KY. Although, my thoughts were not focused on the news. I thought of him…my baby boy. I was in labor 5 weeks early. He wasn’t supposed to come yet.
It was Sunday, and I had a million things I was supposed to be doing at church. The day before had been particularly productive, as if my body were anticipating the draining 10 weeks ahead. I’d had an Enrichment Committee meeting, prepared all the display materials for our Super Saturday sign-ups, cleaned the entire house. I felt tired, but satisfied as I climbed into bed and, as always, rubbed a little “good night” on my bulging boy-filled belly.
I slept a little fitfully, but that was normal for this stage of pregnancy; I couldn’t get comfortable. But, then, at about 4 am, a sudden and urgent feeling woke me up. I immediately went to the bathroom, since my ever-more-crowded bladder usually woke me up several times a night. But, this time it was different. Water continued to trickle. I couldn’t make it stop. I feared my water had broken, but I didn’t want to be that crazy, over-reacting, first-time pregnant mother. So, I got cleaned up and went back to the bed. And, to my surprise, Chad was STILL asleep. Every night for my entire pregnancy, when I’d woken and come back to bed he had rolled over and said, “You okay?” Tonight, he decided to sleep. I figured I had no choice but to wake him.
We nervously got in the car, telling ourselves it was all probably just a false alarm. Boy, would we be tired in Church after this little foray into the rainy spring-time night! But, when I told the registration clerk that I thought my water broke, she just smiled and put me in a wheelchair. Again, to my surprise, the triage nurse didn’t tell me I could go home. She prepped me for delivery!
Once we were settled into the delivery room, Chad flipped on the TV. News coverage of the barely-born war filled the room. My nervousness for our country bled into my apprehension about this baby coming early. The butterflies wouldn’t stop their constant fluttering in my heart. And, the look on the nurse’s face did nothing to calm my fears. I tried to focus on the rain: the constant, pounding, streaming rain. It doesn’t fall like that in desert Utah. This kind of flowing-in-sheets rain is one thing I find fascinating about our new home in Kentucky. I’m grateful to be inside, covered; grateful for the beeping of the machines and the buzzing of the lights. This baby was being born into a world of technology. I’m so glad I’m not a pioneer.
The labor wasn’t progressing, so the doctor on call ordered Pitocin to help move things along. Up to this point Chad had been watching the contractions on the screen, telling me when they happened. After the Pitocin, though, I was painfully aware of each squeezing contraction. They suggested I be given Stadol to help take the edge off. I should have known to refuse: I’m very sensitive to drugs. As soon as I got the Stadol, I couldn’t stay awake. So, I was intermittently in a deep sleep, then, with a burst, wide awake in the agony of the contraction. Just as quickly, I’d fall back into my nightmarish dreams.
I was dreaming a memory of when, as a young adult, I went hiking with some of my ward friends, all of us home for the summer. We planned an early morning hike to Adam’s Canyon falls, just above our homes. We’d all hiked it a million times, but it had been a while. I was all game for the adventure, even though I was fresh home from a sleepless week as an EFY counselor. The hardest and steepest part of the climb is right at the beginning. When we reached the top, we stopped to take a water break, and I realized I didn’t have much water---my frozen water bottle hadn’t melted yet. The next thing I remember is being woken by my friends. I’d fainted on the mountain. I felt like I just wanted to climb back in bed and sleep. The Stadol gave me the same feeling: please leave me alone and let me sleep!
The next wicked contraction brought the realization that I was fighting with the nurse, trying to push off an oxygen mask while she tried to keep it on my face. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I wanted to go home. I wanted this baby to stay inside me. He wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready. I was in my own personal war---a war against my body and the fear the labor was putting in my heart.
Then, escalation: running, yelling, worried looks, talk of too much blood. Chad was ordered out, then ordered in, and suddenly he was at my side in operating room garb. I was strapped to a table. “Is everything okay?” I asked. Or maybe I just wondered it inside my head. No one answered, anyway. The Stadol was still making me woozy. A sheet was hung at my shoulders, but above it was a large, flat light. The angle was such that I could see a vague reflection of what was going on. I saw the tops of surgical caps and the movement of gloved hands. I saw a black abyss. Is that a hole in ME? Then, a small, white body. A baby. I heard one quick, but very real cry and sensed the tension of the dozen or so medical personnel in the room. I turned to Chad and asked him what was going on. And, for the first time in my life I saw fear in his eyes.
Where is my baby?
I gazed again at the reflection in the light. Now I was sure that the big black hole was my open body. I felt the pressure of organs being shoved back into place. I watched the doctor as he moved quickly, adrenaline still jolting through his veins. They moved us into the recovery room and I saw a woman across the way holding her baby.
Where is my baby? Why am I so cold?
I asked for more blankets. And more. Soon I was laden with so many that the weight of it all lulled my shaking, shock-filled body to sleep as I heard Chad making a phone call in the background. “He’s here,” he said, “but we’re not sure how he’s doing.”
In the moment just before awaking I felt a little kick in my abdomen. I reached my hand down to my stomach as I had so many mornings over the past months; reaching to feel the kicks of my unborn baby. But, soon the realization of my situation woke me completely. I was in a hospital. My baby was NOT safe inside me. I didn’t know where he was. I wished, with a kind of hope I’ve never had before, that it was still yesterday; that I could turn back the clock and change the outcome of this horrible experience. When I asked about the baby, no one would tell me how he was doing, only that I could go see him as soon as I could feel my legs enough to get into the wheelchair. I sat up and started patting my legs, up and down. Willing the drugs to wear off. Willing my muscles to move. I needed to see my baby. Why couldn’t I get my body to move?
Finally, I was wheeled down the hall. It seemed like a long way to the NICU. Once inside, everyone looked at me with a compassionate smile; knowing who I was by the baby they’d been caring for. Knowing my heart would soon break at the sight of my cord-and-monitor-covered son. But, it didn’t. I saw him and was in awe.
He is my boy.
My fear was actually, for the moment, gone. He was my boy. Mine. And in that instant, I realized that I was a mother.
Our journey, of course, had just begun. Ten more weeks would pass before I could bring my baby home. Ten weeks of hope and prayer, of miracles and set backs, of joy and of tears. When we loaded our boy in the car to bring him home, I thought we were done. But, as all mothers come to realize, the ending of one stage is merely the beginning of the next.
And, today, as I see my miracle boy turn five, FIVE!, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for his life. For our lives together. Although the anniversary of a war is grim, the anniversary of this personal battle and the glorious, heaven-sent outcome is intensely joyous. I’m grateful that we are safe and at peace in our own little haven.
It was Sunday, and I had a million things I was supposed to be doing at church. The day before had been particularly productive, as if my body were anticipating the draining 10 weeks ahead. I’d had an Enrichment Committee meeting, prepared all the display materials for our Super Saturday sign-ups, cleaned the entire house. I felt tired, but satisfied as I climbed into bed and, as always, rubbed a little “good night” on my bulging boy-filled belly.
I slept a little fitfully, but that was normal for this stage of pregnancy; I couldn’t get comfortable. But, then, at about 4 am, a sudden and urgent feeling woke me up. I immediately went to the bathroom, since my ever-more-crowded bladder usually woke me up several times a night. But, this time it was different. Water continued to trickle. I couldn’t make it stop. I feared my water had broken, but I didn’t want to be that crazy, over-reacting, first-time pregnant mother. So, I got cleaned up and went back to the bed. And, to my surprise, Chad was STILL asleep. Every night for my entire pregnancy, when I’d woken and come back to bed he had rolled over and said, “You okay?” Tonight, he decided to sleep. I figured I had no choice but to wake him.
We nervously got in the car, telling ourselves it was all probably just a false alarm. Boy, would we be tired in Church after this little foray into the rainy spring-time night! But, when I told the registration clerk that I thought my water broke, she just smiled and put me in a wheelchair. Again, to my surprise, the triage nurse didn’t tell me I could go home. She prepped me for delivery!
Once we were settled into the delivery room, Chad flipped on the TV. News coverage of the barely-born war filled the room. My nervousness for our country bled into my apprehension about this baby coming early. The butterflies wouldn’t stop their constant fluttering in my heart. And, the look on the nurse’s face did nothing to calm my fears. I tried to focus on the rain: the constant, pounding, streaming rain. It doesn’t fall like that in desert Utah. This kind of flowing-in-sheets rain is one thing I find fascinating about our new home in Kentucky. I’m grateful to be inside, covered; grateful for the beeping of the machines and the buzzing of the lights. This baby was being born into a world of technology. I’m so glad I’m not a pioneer.
The labor wasn’t progressing, so the doctor on call ordered Pitocin to help move things along. Up to this point Chad had been watching the contractions on the screen, telling me when they happened. After the Pitocin, though, I was painfully aware of each squeezing contraction. They suggested I be given Stadol to help take the edge off. I should have known to refuse: I’m very sensitive to drugs. As soon as I got the Stadol, I couldn’t stay awake. So, I was intermittently in a deep sleep, then, with a burst, wide awake in the agony of the contraction. Just as quickly, I’d fall back into my nightmarish dreams.
I was dreaming a memory of when, as a young adult, I went hiking with some of my ward friends, all of us home for the summer. We planned an early morning hike to Adam’s Canyon falls, just above our homes. We’d all hiked it a million times, but it had been a while. I was all game for the adventure, even though I was fresh home from a sleepless week as an EFY counselor. The hardest and steepest part of the climb is right at the beginning. When we reached the top, we stopped to take a water break, and I realized I didn’t have much water---my frozen water bottle hadn’t melted yet. The next thing I remember is being woken by my friends. I’d fainted on the mountain. I felt like I just wanted to climb back in bed and sleep. The Stadol gave me the same feeling: please leave me alone and let me sleep!
The next wicked contraction brought the realization that I was fighting with the nurse, trying to push off an oxygen mask while she tried to keep it on my face. I didn’t want to be here anymore. I wanted to go home. I wanted this baby to stay inside me. He wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready. I was in my own personal war---a war against my body and the fear the labor was putting in my heart.
Then, escalation: running, yelling, worried looks, talk of too much blood. Chad was ordered out, then ordered in, and suddenly he was at my side in operating room garb. I was strapped to a table. “Is everything okay?” I asked. Or maybe I just wondered it inside my head. No one answered, anyway. The Stadol was still making me woozy. A sheet was hung at my shoulders, but above it was a large, flat light. The angle was such that I could see a vague reflection of what was going on. I saw the tops of surgical caps and the movement of gloved hands. I saw a black abyss. Is that a hole in ME? Then, a small, white body. A baby. I heard one quick, but very real cry and sensed the tension of the dozen or so medical personnel in the room. I turned to Chad and asked him what was going on. And, for the first time in my life I saw fear in his eyes.
Where is my baby?
I gazed again at the reflection in the light. Now I was sure that the big black hole was my open body. I felt the pressure of organs being shoved back into place. I watched the doctor as he moved quickly, adrenaline still jolting through his veins. They moved us into the recovery room and I saw a woman across the way holding her baby.
Where is my baby? Why am I so cold?
I asked for more blankets. And more. Soon I was laden with so many that the weight of it all lulled my shaking, shock-filled body to sleep as I heard Chad making a phone call in the background. “He’s here,” he said, “but we’re not sure how he’s doing.”
In the moment just before awaking I felt a little kick in my abdomen. I reached my hand down to my stomach as I had so many mornings over the past months; reaching to feel the kicks of my unborn baby. But, soon the realization of my situation woke me completely. I was in a hospital. My baby was NOT safe inside me. I didn’t know where he was. I wished, with a kind of hope I’ve never had before, that it was still yesterday; that I could turn back the clock and change the outcome of this horrible experience. When I asked about the baby, no one would tell me how he was doing, only that I could go see him as soon as I could feel my legs enough to get into the wheelchair. I sat up and started patting my legs, up and down. Willing the drugs to wear off. Willing my muscles to move. I needed to see my baby. Why couldn’t I get my body to move?
Finally, I was wheeled down the hall. It seemed like a long way to the NICU. Once inside, everyone looked at me with a compassionate smile; knowing who I was by the baby they’d been caring for. Knowing my heart would soon break at the sight of my cord-and-monitor-covered son. But, it didn’t. I saw him and was in awe.
He is my boy.
My fear was actually, for the moment, gone. He was my boy. Mine. And in that instant, I realized that I was a mother.
Our journey, of course, had just begun. Ten more weeks would pass before I could bring my baby home. Ten weeks of hope and prayer, of miracles and set backs, of joy and of tears. When we loaded our boy in the car to bring him home, I thought we were done. But, as all mothers come to realize, the ending of one stage is merely the beginning of the next.
And, today, as I see my miracle boy turn five, FIVE!, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for his life. For our lives together. Although the anniversary of a war is grim, the anniversary of this personal battle and the glorious, heaven-sent outcome is intensely joyous. I’m grateful that we are safe and at peace in our own little haven.
Happy Birthday, my boy!
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
Three-year-olds tell it like it is
We were on a speed-run through Wal-Mart on a Saturday. I know. Death trap.
I was zipping down the large center aisle with both kids in the cart, when suddenly Kate yells (and yes, folks, this girl’s got LUNGS), “Hey, Mom! Look! His pants are falling off!”
Just inside the aisle we were passing was a teenage-ish guy reaching up to the top shelf to retrieve something, and, as he did, his pants were COMPLETELY around his knees. However, it wasn’t a crazy mishap…he just had on those super-baggy-so-I-strut-funny-and-hold-em-up-with-one-hand kind of pants. And, when reaching to the top of a standard Wal-Mart shelf requires using two hands, this sort of totally impractical attire simply falls to your ankles.
Upon hearing Kate's comment, the stranger kind of looked at us and grinned. I, however, could not muster up the usual parent-as-proxy apology for my noisy, albeit astutely observant, child. How can I apologize for her when she’s simply telling the truth? So, I just said, "Yes, Kate, they are," and quickly walked away while both kids started giggling.
He deserves it anyway. Sheesh! Pull up your pants, buddy. We don’t want to see your Under-Roos!
I was zipping down the large center aisle with both kids in the cart, when suddenly Kate yells (and yes, folks, this girl’s got LUNGS), “Hey, Mom! Look! His pants are falling off!”
Just inside the aisle we were passing was a teenage-ish guy reaching up to the top shelf to retrieve something, and, as he did, his pants were COMPLETELY around his knees. However, it wasn’t a crazy mishap…he just had on those super-baggy-so-I-strut-funny-and-hold-em-up-with-one-hand kind of pants. And, when reaching to the top of a standard Wal-Mart shelf requires using two hands, this sort of totally impractical attire simply falls to your ankles.
Upon hearing Kate's comment, the stranger kind of looked at us and grinned. I, however, could not muster up the usual parent-as-proxy apology for my noisy, albeit astutely observant, child. How can I apologize for her when she’s simply telling the truth? So, I just said, "Yes, Kate, they are," and quickly walked away while both kids started giggling.
He deserves it anyway. Sheesh! Pull up your pants, buddy. We don’t want to see your Under-Roos!
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Chocolate Break
I haven't been in a writing mood lately, but I HAVE been in an eating mood. Go figure. So, I thought I'd post this little recipe in case anyone else has the munchies. These really are the best, and when they are in my house, I can't stop eating them. So, consider yourself warned!
Best Ever Chocolate Chip Cookies
1/2 c. butter
1/2 c. Neufchatel cheese (4 oz)
1 c. brown sugar
1 c. white sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
2 eggs
2 c. ground oatmeal (measure about 4 cups into your blender then grind it to 2 cups)
2 c. flour (can substitute up to half with whole wheat flour, if you believe cookies can be 'healthy')
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
12 oz chocolate chips
1/2 large (5 oz) Hershey bar, frozen
Preheat oven to 375˚. Cream butter and sugars. Add eggs and vanilla. Combine oatmeal, flour, salt, soda and powder and mix into creamed mixture. Grind the frozen Hershey bar in the blender until it is a fine consistency. Add chocolate chips and grated Hershey bar into mixture, stirring by hand. Roll into golf ball size balls (or use a medium-sized cookie scoop) and place on ungreased cookie sheet. Gently press on each ball to slightly flatten. Bake at 375˚ for 10-12 minutes.
Best Ever Chocolate Chip Cookies
1/2 c. butter
1/2 c. Neufchatel cheese (4 oz)
1 c. brown sugar
1 c. white sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
2 eggs
2 c. ground oatmeal (measure about 4 cups into your blender then grind it to 2 cups)
2 c. flour (can substitute up to half with whole wheat flour, if you believe cookies can be 'healthy')
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
12 oz chocolate chips
1/2 large (5 oz) Hershey bar, frozen
Preheat oven to 375˚. Cream butter and sugars. Add eggs and vanilla. Combine oatmeal, flour, salt, soda and powder and mix into creamed mixture. Grind the frozen Hershey bar in the blender until it is a fine consistency. Add chocolate chips and grated Hershey bar into mixture, stirring by hand. Roll into golf ball size balls (or use a medium-sized cookie scoop) and place on ungreased cookie sheet. Gently press on each ball to slightly flatten. Bake at 375˚ for 10-12 minutes.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Basil Blooms?
I've never pretended to be a green thumb. In gardening, I am very much a novice. So, it surprised me when, the other day, my nearly 1-year-old windowsill basil plant sprouted these little white blossoms. Is this a bad sign? Is it about to die? Who knows, but these mini flowers remind me of Spring, so they can stay!
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
This weekend...
we painted the wall behind our bed. It was just the pick-me-up I needed at this bleak, mid-winter, can't-wait-for-spring time of year.
Ahhhhhh!
Ahhhhhh!
Monday, February 11, 2008
Buying Hope?
Yup…it’s in that shopping bag from the sporting goods store, right over there. That one: with the newly purchased running shoes. Did you see the box? Or, more importantly, did you see the calf muscles on that runner on the box? And, what about that yoga mat? Did you see the tag on that? Look at her beautifully toned stomach and the calm and collected expression on her face. And, the swim goggles. You should have seen the store display by the goggles!
Yup, $100 of hope is right there in that bag!
Yup, $100 of hope is right there in that bag!
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Normal
“Hi, Ade! How’s your day?” Mom queries as I pick up the phone.
My day? Normal. I’ve vacuumed, made peanut butter sandwiches, shoveled snow; I’ve helped the kids tie yarn ‘leashes’ onto stuffed dogs so they could take them for a walk; I’ve checked my bank account balance, folded laundry, dusted the furniture; the bathroom cleaning bucket is still waiting for me, that task yet to do.
And, I called my friend; my friend who has, since July, been sitting near the hospital bed of her not-quite-two-year-old son; praying and hoping for a miracle; watching her baby battle against the cancer that consumes his small frame. Her life has been flipped on end and her days are far from my kind of normal. For her, ‘normal’ means tests, surgeries, therapy, set backs, steps forward, small miracles and devastating news. She’s learned to speak a new language filled with medical terms and lab result vocabulary. Her family has experienced their day-to-day at home, thousands of miles away, while she bunks with extended relatives and sets up camp each morning in the oncology unit.
The news today isn’t good. The doctors have declared that there is no more they can do. They are trying to stabilize her son enough so that they can fly home and wait. Wait for a miracle, wait for the end…wait for normal to somehow resurface.
I’m sure she’d give anything to cook dinner and go sledding, mediate toy battles and wash windows.
Tears are flowing as I slowly push my vacuum, grateful that my day is so normal.
My day? Normal. I’ve vacuumed, made peanut butter sandwiches, shoveled snow; I’ve helped the kids tie yarn ‘leashes’ onto stuffed dogs so they could take them for a walk; I’ve checked my bank account balance, folded laundry, dusted the furniture; the bathroom cleaning bucket is still waiting for me, that task yet to do.
And, I called my friend; my friend who has, since July, been sitting near the hospital bed of her not-quite-two-year-old son; praying and hoping for a miracle; watching her baby battle against the cancer that consumes his small frame. Her life has been flipped on end and her days are far from my kind of normal. For her, ‘normal’ means tests, surgeries, therapy, set backs, steps forward, small miracles and devastating news. She’s learned to speak a new language filled with medical terms and lab result vocabulary. Her family has experienced their day-to-day at home, thousands of miles away, while she bunks with extended relatives and sets up camp each morning in the oncology unit.
The news today isn’t good. The doctors have declared that there is no more they can do. They are trying to stabilize her son enough so that they can fly home and wait. Wait for a miracle, wait for the end…wait for normal to somehow resurface.
I’m sure she’d give anything to cook dinner and go sledding, mediate toy battles and wash windows.
Tears are flowing as I slowly push my vacuum, grateful that my day is so normal.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Snow Cave
What lucky kids ... Daddy helped them build this great snow cave today. I guess that's looking at the bright side of all this snow, eh?
Sunday, February 3, 2008
{Happy} Groundhogs Day
Punxsutawney Phil popped his little rodent head out of his hole and saw his shadow yesterday, predicting 6 more weeks of winter. Since we got about 4 inches of snow overnight and it is still coming down hard, I'll have to (unfortunately) agree. Drat!
Nothing like a little chocolate therapy to sweeten up the sour news.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
My thoughts, exactly...
I've been at a loss for words in expressing my feelings at the passing of the Prophet. But, Dalene said exactly what I've been wishing I could say. If you haven't read her post at Segullah, it is definitely worth a look.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Late Night Lessons
She was in bed, and supposedly sleeping, but from down the steps I heard,
“Mom, what is this?”
“What is what, Sis?”
“This. Come see.”
She was pointing to the bones on either side of her ankle.
“I don’t know, sweetie. We’ll ask Dad in the morning, okay?”
I went back downstairs but soon heard little feet on the steps.
“Daddy? Daddy? What is this called?” Again, she pointed to her ankles.
Chad ably replied, “Those bones are your medial and lateral malleolus, honey,” and he pulled her up on his lap while working on the computer. Now she started pointing at him.
“What is this?”
“My clavicle.”
“What is this?”
“My mandible”
“What’s this?”
“It’s time for bed.”
Daddy carried her back to bed, tucked her in “like a taco,” and headed for his own covers. A while later I went upstairs, too, and to my surprise, found Miss Question cuddled in my bed, next to a sleepy-eyed Daddy, still asking body part questions.
“What’s this?”
“Zygoma”
“And this?”
“Thyroid Cartilage”
“What’s this one, Daddy?”
I interrupted the anatomy lesson to say, “Wow, honey. You really like to learn about the body. Are you going to be a doctor when you grow up?”
Then, she gave me “the look” --- so typical of my girl; a look of disgust, disbelief and sheer growl! And, she said, exasperated, “No, Mom! I’m. Going. To. Be. An. ASTRONAUT!
Oh. Sorry.
“Mom, what is this?”
“What is what, Sis?”
“This. Come see.”
She was pointing to the bones on either side of her ankle.
“I don’t know, sweetie. We’ll ask Dad in the morning, okay?”
I went back downstairs but soon heard little feet on the steps.
“Daddy? Daddy? What is this called?” Again, she pointed to her ankles.
Chad ably replied, “Those bones are your medial and lateral malleolus, honey,” and he pulled her up on his lap while working on the computer. Now she started pointing at him.
“What is this?”
“My clavicle.”
“What is this?”
“My mandible”
“What’s this?”
“It’s time for bed.”
Daddy carried her back to bed, tucked her in “like a taco,” and headed for his own covers. A while later I went upstairs, too, and to my surprise, found Miss Question cuddled in my bed, next to a sleepy-eyed Daddy, still asking body part questions.
“What’s this?”
“Zygoma”
“And this?”
“Thyroid Cartilage”
“What’s this one, Daddy?”
I interrupted the anatomy lesson to say, “Wow, honey. You really like to learn about the body. Are you going to be a doctor when you grow up?”
Then, she gave me “the look” --- so typical of my girl; a look of disgust, disbelief and sheer growl! And, she said, exasperated, “No, Mom! I’m. Going. To. Be. An. ASTRONAUT!
Oh. Sorry.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Thank You to My FABULOUS Neighbors!
This is the snow that God sent:swirling and whirling
falling and flying
down to the ground at my house.
falling and flying
down to the ground at my house.
This is the driveway, long and wide, that caught the snow floating out of the sky; swirling and whirling
falling and flying
down to the ground at my house.
This is the drift, 6 feet deep, made by the snow plow that pushed the heap;
falling and flying
down to the ground at my house.
This is the drift, 6 feet deep, made by the snow plow that pushed the heap;blocking the driveway, long and wide
that caught the snow floating out of the sky;
swirling and whirling
falling and flying
down to the ground at my house.
that caught the snow floating out of the sky;
swirling and whirling
falling and flying
down to the ground at my house.
This is the shovel, lowly and small, put to the task of clearing it all:the monstrous drift, 6 feet deep,
made by the snow plow that pushed the heap
blocking the driveway, long and wide
that caught the snow floating out of the sky;
swirling and whirling
falling and flying
down to the ground at my house.
I am the mommy, cold and wet, plowing and digging, but not done yet;
wielding the shovel, lowly and small, put to the task of clearing it all.
Oh, look at that drift, 6 feet deep, made by the snow plow pushing the heap.
It’s blocking the driveway, long and wide
that caught the snow floating out of the sky;
swirling and whirling
falling and flying
down to the ground at my house.
wielding the shovel, lowly and small, put to the task of clearing it all.
Oh, look at that drift, 6 feet deep, made by the snow plow pushing the heap.
It’s blocking the driveway, long and wide
that caught the snow floating out of the sky;
swirling and whirling
falling and flying
down to the ground at my house.
BUT, I have GREAT neighbors, good and true, bringing shovels and blowers to my rescue.
We worked, we three, and together made light
of the craziest, snowiest storm in sight,
as we wielded our shovels, lowly and small
clearing and pushing, but smiling through all.
Many hands do light work make.
Thanks for your help…you take the cake!
Thanks so much, Rachael and Amy!
We worked, we three, and together made light
of the craziest, snowiest storm in sight,
as we wielded our shovels, lowly and small
clearing and pushing, but smiling through all.
Many hands do light work make.
Thanks for your help…you take the cake!
Thanks so much, Rachael and Amy!
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
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