Grown and Flown

 Many times as a mom I've spent time documenting, memorizing and counting the firsts: first smile, first step, first day of school. But sometimes you don't know the lasts until they are passed: the last climb-in-your-lap snuggle, the last time saying amp-elope instead of antelope, the last time asking for help zipping a coat.

On Sunday, with a small "holiday weekend" congregation, Dallin was asked to sit at the sacrament table, which hasn't happened in a while. The current Priests Quorum has it covered and Dal has been busy leading the music as the chorister, so I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard him bless the sacrament, but as he knelt to pray over the bread I knew that this was a last...likely the last time he'd bless the sacrament in our home ward. I wanted to memorize his voice, his inflection, the feeling of gratitude that my boy is worthy to perform this ordinance on behalf of our ward. I remembered the first time he blessed it; I felt nervous for him, hoping he'd get it right, hoping he was ready, hoping we'd reviewed with him all the things he needed to know.

He's grown in height and maturity since then. He's become so responsible, so capable, so grown! And tomorrow he's flying from the nest, away from home to experience his first apartment, his first time in college, his first foray into adulthood. I'm feeling those same feelings: Will he get it right? Is he ready? Did we review with him all the things he needs to know?

This morning I woke up with an ache to hike, and I wanted Dallin to come with me. Luckily, he's easy to convince so we headed to Pulpit Rock after we dropped Annie off at school. We followed worn trails, winding our way toward the steep climb up the rock formation that overlooks our city: Dallin's home since kindergarten. He doesn't seem nervous to leave or worried about college. The anxiety is left for me to hold, as it always has been at each of his first steps onto new paths. His new paths have always been mine, too. His growing was my growing; his new phase ushered in a new chapter for me, too. Sometimes, I didn't feel ready. 

When he was four years old and out playing the front yard of our new home in North Ogden, he met the neighbor kids and raced in to say, "Mom, they all are playing with squirt guns. Can I get mine out?" And then "Mom, they are all having popsicles. Can I have one?" And lastly, "Mom, they are going to play on the playset next door. Can I go?" It was hard letting him out of the yard on his own that first time. I feel the same with this new phase of parenting an adult. Except I can't spy on him through the kitchen window to make sure he's doing okay.  I'm wondering if I'll get it right? Am I ready? Do I get a review of the things I need to know? Luckily for me, Dallin has always been a most patient first child, forgiving of my shortcomings and full of grace for all my foibles. I'm sure we'll navigate this new chapter together, like we always have, but separate, too, which will be new. 

Sending all my love, and a bit of my heart, to Idaho tomorrow with my baby boy. Love you, Dal!

Daffodils and Hope

Monday was a gloriously warm spring day and my front yard was bursting with yellow as my daffodils turned their pretty horn-shaped petals to the sun. It was almost impossible to believe the forecast for the rest of the week: clouds, wind, and snow.  As Wednesday approached, meteorological rumors about another bomb cyclone started circulating.  Really? Witnessing the intense blizzard a month ago had been incredible, but would it really happen again? As more people said those words I started to worry for my beautiful daffies, blooming in the same place as the 4 foot drifts of snow settled after the last storm.  Daffodils are pretty snow hardy, but I knew they couldn’t withstand the weight of that much snow.

I gathered all the buckets and planter pots I could find in the garage and as the sleet started to fall on Wednesday morning, I covered as many of the daffodils as I could. I put heavy rocks on top to hold the buckets in place and kept watch out the window as the storm blew in.  We did see lots of wind.  It was definitely cold.  Snow fell on and off. But thankfully, the bomb cyclone of April didn’t hit us the way it did in March.  I was pleasantly surprised as I lifted the buckets off on Thursday morning to see my daffodils safe and sound and still erect. Their neighbors, who I couldn’t cover, were laying their still-sunny-colored heads on the ground in defeat, but the ever powerful sun popped out and warmed the earth and by the end of the day, even most of the storm-weary flowers had made a partial recovery.

It has continued to snow on and off all week, with less intensity.  Each day as I check on my flowers I’m amazed at the way they continue to weather the storms and perk up for the sun.  They aren’t perfect-looking like they were last week, but they continue to be a symbol of hope in the sun, like my own hope in the Son.

All this thinking about daffodils has taken my mind back to an Easter season 16 years ago when I felt much like a daffodil crushed under the weight of a springtime storm.  My first foray into motherhood had landed me in the NICU with a baby whose outlook was grim, at best, and who was fighting each day to survive to the next. It was a heartbreaking time. A time of anxiety and going-through-the-motions living.  I remember that I often didn’t feel much, which I think was my heart’s coping mechanism to avoid being irreversibly broken. I spent my days keeping vigil at the beside of my boy inside the maze of Kosair Children’s Hospital and often didn’t leave until it was dark out.  

One day, however, I was heading home in the daylight. As we turned the bend on the freeway, a most amazing sight was suddenly filling up my view: a wall of blooming and bright yellow daffodils.  Someone had planted the entire median between the north and south bound lanes with thousands of daffodils. It took my breath away and in the same moment the Spirit spoke to my very broken heart.  The message was this: Spring will always come! Rebirth, renewal, hope, the glorious messages of Spring, are also the eternal messages of Easter.  Because of the ever and all powerful Son, I have hope.  My baby has hope. Those daffodils gave me hope that whether in this life or the next, someday my baby’s broken body and my own broken heart would be healed.  

I’m so grateful for a loving Heavenly Father who planned Spring with its telestial reminders of the most important Spring of all: the year the Savior came to save us all from mortality and raise us up to eternity. As the sun brings us hope that the earth will awaken once again, the SON gives me hope that I, too, can be reborn and return to live with Him again.

Easter Hope

The last time Easter fell on April 20th was 2003. That date is stuck in my brain because it was the year Dallin was born.  His birth, on March 23, 2003, was difficult, and as Easter approached, he was still struggling every day.  We were waiting for the benchmarks of enough caloric intake, lower bilirubin levels and blood counts that could sustain his body without further transfusion.

I looked at the calendar, at Easter day, April 20th, and in my heart I hoped that my baby would be home by then.  It kind of became my little secret wish. I didn't dare say it out loud, but in my prayers I pleaded, "Home for Easter. Home for Easter."

Although he was getting stronger, Dallin did not make it home by Easter.  He drank from a bottle for the first time that day. We were elated! It was improvement, but not enough.

I've thought about that hope many times since, and although he didn't come home that day, the hope of Easter, hope in the Savior, is ultimately what brought me peace.  Hope in His life and His resurrection; hope in His gospel and His priesthood; hope in covenants made in the temple; hope that no matter the outcome for my baby in this life, he would be mine throughout eternity because of the One who came to save.

By the following Easter, my miracle boy was not only home, but healing: growing, learning, crawling around to find plastic eggs and putting the basket on his head. My busy, darling one-year-old was such a gift to me. He is still a gift. His scary beginning will always be monumental; a time that taught me much about hope in the the Lord and, forever after, shaped my faith.

For that, I am grateful.

Halloween

I think I got the worst Halloween costume pictures of all time this year. Bummer.

But, here is how it went down, in case you were wondering....

Dal was a bat with wings courtesy of a (now dead) umbrella. They looked good, but he found that having such a big wingspan was prohibitive when reaching into candy bowls at the neighbors' houses. He still managed a sugary haul, so I guess it is all good. Oh, and he was a little disgruntled that the wings didn't actually provide flight.

Kate's {simple} request to be a mermaid proved a bit challenging to this mom who refused to create flesh colored anything and doesn't believe in shells for shirts.  Plus, my sewing skills are pretty minimal.  Luckily, she was thrilled with this funny tulle and sparkle fin and even agreed to wear long sleeves.

Have a 2-year-old at Halloween is so fun!  Love this little kitty!

Having a picky 3-year-old is NOT so much fun at Halloween.  Davis had a cute scrubs set, courtesy of Gram, and I cut down one of Chad's old lab coats (he is holding it in his hand), but he refused to wear ANY of it.  Except the stethoscope (his adoration of which provided the inspiration for the costume in the first place). Ah, well, maybe next year.

blooming

Around these here parts, I'm traditionally the planner, the calendar-keeper, the long-term thinker.

Except when I'm not.

Chad and I seem to be a good balance that way.  I think long term about stuff like family vacations, schools for the kids, record-keeping and decorating the house.  He thinks long term about stuff like money and career and...landscaping.  He has become the 'master' of the plants, spending all his free time learning about shrubs and perennials, measuring spots in our yard for the future size of the trees, learning which trees will hold up well in our windy, sandy terrain.  Several times I've wanted to just "buy the trees, already" (Like my friend, Jenny, said, "Who needs a landscape plan? Does it say 'whatever is on sale at Lowe's' on it, because that is what's going in!").

But, as spring has sprung, Chad and I have both had such fun watching the baby plants we have selected and planted and watered (and crossed our fingers that they would live) take root and grow and BLOOM!  Everything in our yard is still very infantile.  Both of us trot around the yard during the day, adding a little water here, wondering if we should move something where it will get more sun, adjusting sprinklers (well, actually, that is just Chad, but he does it A LOT. And his lawn is lovely, thankyouverymuch).  It is amazing how excited we get over a new bud on the rose bush or a little blossom on the strawberry plant.  Kind of like how we get excited over the little things in our kids' lives, too, I guess.  What a wonderful time of year to watch the world GROW!

Speaking of our REAL babies...here's how they have been blooming:

Lea is blossoming into a two-year-old a bit early, frequently using her new favorite phrases, "Go away" and "I don't like it."  Hmmm.  Fortunately, she is also a little bit of sunshine as she makes us laugh EVERYday with her world observations (Yook, Mom!), endearing requests ("Yet's rock"---as in, rock in the rocking chair and snuggle), and her self confidence ("I did it!  High five!").  Oh, how we adore this little one!

Having a blast on her first zoo trip (since she wasn't an infant)

Davis is (finally) growing into a big boy and figuring out potty training.  It has been a loooong road with this one (and we still have a long way to go), but he is making progress, which is cause for much celebration from the Mommy.

This is as good as it gets when asking him to look at the camera.

Kate has turned gardener, too.  She helped plant the vegetable garden, planted dozens of GIGANTIC sunflower seeds, and is the watering guru.  We will see (hope with us, will you) if anything comes up.

Kate even made her own plant markers to remember what is planted where!

Dallin is emerging as a social butterfly this summer.  His usual homebody ways have blossomed as he has discovered the freedom his bike (and several near-by friends) affords.  He is usually outside, all day, having many adventures.  He is also the most likely to finish all his chores by breakfast, speedy guy, which is wonderful for me (and awful for Kate, who always gets reminded that "Dallin already finished...hurry up")

Dal at his 3rd grade recorder concert (with the bonus of having cousins in town to come!)

It has been a good first week of summer break!

ornament memories IV

Dallin's 2nd grade teacher used to play music when they were doing their work, and one song that was on her disc was "'Tis a Gift to be Simple."  Dallin clung to this tune and sings it often.  He proclaimed it his favorite song and when we heard the Tabernacle Choir singing it one Sunday morning on TV, Dal was ecstatic.  "They are singing it just for me!" he declared.  (At least one member of the choir definitely WAS singing it for Dal...it is nice to have a Grammy in there, just for those occasions).

I think it is appropriate that my sort of simple boy loves this simple song about enjoying life's simplest gifts.  He isn't the top student or the best player on his sports teams or the fastest runner or, really, the best at anything that is measurable in that way.  But, his simple ways are definitely a gift.  He simply enjoys each day for what it is.  He has a hard time pinpointing favorite foods or books or activities or friends, because he loves whatever he is doing, and who he is doing it with, at the moment it is happening.  His best times are while doing simple things: making paper airplanes with Kate, chasing Davis around the house, reading a book to Lea.

Dal's life is a gift.  He has a wonderful, simple way of loving his siblings, obeying, waking us all up for scripture study in the morning, laughing a big, hearty laugh at something funny on TV;  He is simply a good kid, trying to do what his Father would have him do.

Chad and I picked up this ornament on our 5th anniversary.  We spent the day in a historic town called Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill.  We enjoyed the simplicity of the beautiful summer day, watched as our cute one-year-old Dallin reached through the fences to pet the horses and sheep, learned more about the simple life of the Shakers, and felt the blessings of the past 5 years.

Our life now seems so much LESS simple than it did back then, but the gifts really are found in the simple, special every day moments.  And I'm glad I've got my Dallin (and his favorite song) to remind me of the gift simplicity is.

funny things...

...I've noticed lately:

*My baby LOVES babies!  She loves to rock and give her dolls a bottle.  Today she tried to take her doll for a 'walk' in the stroller.  Problem is, she doesn't know how to walk herself.  How can a girl who is still such a baby herself love to play mommy?
* Bitty boy is talking more and has started to SING his little heart out.  I guess I shouldn't say 'start' since he has been singing for a long time, but now I can tell which song he is performing.  Not so much because I can understand the words, but this boy has great rhythm and pitch!
*Sissy is getting so long and lanky.  She has always loved to dangle from a ledge we have in our house, but now her feet reach the floor!  When did she get so big?
* Mr. D is so darling with his face full of grown-up teeth.  Maybe he won't have as awkward an awkward stage as his mother had to suffer!
*I'm not very good at taking pictures of all these great little moments.  But, I did take some one-year-old shots of this cutie.  Enjoy!

pinned

I ceremoniously painted the symbolic colors and shapes on a squirmy, excited-but-sort-of-embarrassed boy.  He 'pinned' me with the Bobcat.  This whole world of cub scouts is still quite a mystery, but we've hurdled our first-ever rank advancement.  Together.

I sure love to be the mom of this one!

One white day...

...I sat in awe at the young man my boy has become.  As grandpa said, "He's always had one foot in heaven."  It's true.

Oh how I love this boy of mine!

truce?

Me and Scouts....we've never had the best of relationships.  Scouts has always seemed to be the taker: taking lots of my husband's time and not a few $$.  And, don't get me started about the experience of rechartering!

But, last week I took my soon-to-be-Cub to the scout shop to get geared up.  I've never seen a boy more excited about an over-sized shirt, some patches and a book with a cartoon Wolf on the cover.  He was in 8-year-old heaven.  And, when I said he could get the hat, too...well, he flew over the moon!

It was then I remembered what my friend, a super-mom (of 5 BOYS) and cub scout leader, Colleen,  has said at least a hundred times: boys love cub scouts!  Boys of a certain age really do get off on doing all those Scoutish things they get to do at den meetings and day camps and clinics.

So, maybe, if this Akela fellow and this {over priced} big blue shirt create some fun memories for me and my boy, Scouts and I can call a little 'truce' on our differences?

I still don't want to be in charge of rechartering.  Ever.

the team

Once upon 5th grade someone decided it would be fun if Adri signed up for basketball. I recently asked my parents if they remember whose idea this could have been? Did I really come to them, begging to try this sport? Was it a wacky idea one of THEM came up with? Did I have a friend who insisted we sign up together? No one could remember. But, somehow---someway I ended up on a basketball team.

My gear-loving Dad took me to his Herman's (his favorite sporting goods store despite the creepy back-stairs entrance) to get some appropriate shoes. For me, the shoes were the highlight of the whole deal: white with turquoise accents and "Reebok" stitched across the side. They were nice shoes. Dad thought so, too. Which is why he insisted that I NOT put them on until I was inside the gym. Now, I'm not discounting his wisdom; I'm sure most NBA players do not wear their court shoes outside, either. However, for me, a fifth-grader who was the most un-pro-like player, it was just plain embarrassing to have to walk into basketball practice, shoebox under my arm, and sit on the sideline changing my shoes "Mr. Rogers style" before practice. But, Dad insisted; I obeyed (wasn't I such an angel child!)

I'm not sure if our team had a name, but our shirts were yellow. For some unknown reason (again, the parents can't explain it, either), I decided that the best shorts to wear with the yellow team shirt were orange. I looked more dorky than the Sunshine Generation kids. I know, because I once overheard a bystander making a comment about my orange shorts and I'm pretty sure it wasn't a compliment.

Besides my 'look' there was my skill. Mmm hmmm. I'm not a really sporty kind of girl. Never have been. I won't even mention my 2 seasons of softball. But, my obvious inabilities were easily made up for by our star player: Mr. T. Really, her name was Erin, but she insisted that we call her "Mr. T." She was a red-headed, freckled, stocky little thing with a mushroom cut hair-do and mad skillz. She could dribble and steal; she'd break away and shoot a lay up before anyone even started running to that side of the court. She was the forward and the backward and everyone in between. I'm sure she was completely annoyed with the rest of the sissies on our team. Other teams in our all-girl league would see her moves (and her hair) and comment that it wasn't fair that the yellow team had a boy player. Erin was awesome!

I only played basketball for one season. It was my gift to the team when I silently bowed out the next year. Soon after, my family moved and I transferred to a different school. I'm not certain, but I would guess that Erin continued to play basketball and was the star player of her high school team. Many years later, I ran into Erin at an amusement park. She was operating the rollercoaster, and when I jumped off I saw her in the little booth working the controls. She yelled my name through the glass and waved. "Mr. T!" I screamed back, excited to see her after all this time. She had turned into a very pretty girl, her red hair long and naturally wavy and her freckles faded and cute across her button nose. I only saw her for that minute, but it made me smile to remember that we were once part of the same team.
Dal started basketball this week. Unfortunately, he seems to have inherited my natural balling abilities. He didn't touch the ball much, but, this boy is definitely a good teammate. He cheered louder than anyone else whenever the ball made it through the hoop. And, maybe just being on the team is what it's all about.

that smile

Dallin has a great smile. Despite his 'green teeth' as a baby, his grin has always brought another to my own face. He's quick to smile and can do a BIG cheesy one on command, for the camera, but there is one smile, one level of smile-dom, that just glistens; tells me that this moment, this event, this feeling is the pinnacle for him. I love that smile. It melts my heart; turns it upside down and smiles away any frowniness that was dwelling inside.

Dal had that smile today.

Our friends invited us to a playground that happens to be next to a skate park. We packed scooters and bikes in the van, and in spite of my overly pregnant status, ventured into the sunshine for a much-needed outing. Dallin was instantly taken by the ramps and hills and quarter pipes of the park. He zipped and zoomed for two hours, with barely a water break and no appetite for lunch. As we loaded everything and everyone back into the van, his smile said it all. That smile; so big and so full of joy. His head was sweaty (thank you, helmet) and his heart filled with the freedom of the ride. He said, "Mom, I LOVE this park!"

Oh, how I love to see that happiness in my boy!

the last and the first

The last day of 1st grade....

....is also the first day with a hole in his smile!

the Southland

And there's somethin' 'bout the Southland in the Springtime

Where the waters flow with confidence and reason
Tho I miss her when I'm gone,
It won't ever be too long
'Til I'm home again to spend my favorite season.
When God made me born a Yankee, He was teasin'.
There's no place like home and nothin' more pleasin'
Than the Southland in the Springtime.

I've always loved the gentle strains of this song, but until you spend a Springtime in the South, I don't think you can fully appreciate that 'something' about it. The air is heavy with the fragrance of blossoms. Everything blooms. Everything. Breathtaking is too simple a word for the splendor of it all.

On a rainy night, during my first Springtime in the South, I entered the hospital, heavy and laboring with Baby. Amid the turbulence of that blustery night, my boy was born. Broken. A few days later, his life hovering and fragile, I was released and sent home. With heavy heart, I watched as the world passed by outside the car window, same as always, while mine seemed to have come to a halting stop. And then, as we rounded a bend in the freeway, the most spectacular sight was before me: an entire hill, the median against the cement of the interstate, covered from top to bottom in blooming daffodils. I gasped. I'd never seen such beauty. The glory of God's green earth had, in that moment, reminded me that after each winter comes the welcome, glorious Spring!

Each year after this, as Springtime approaches, I look with anxiety for the signs: buds beginning to show, leaves unfolding on the trees, flowers sending out their shoots. One blossom, above all others, says "Kentucky" to me: the dogwood. I have never again lived in a place where dogwoods were common, and oh, how I miss them when April rolls around. Four years ago today (plus 10 days...I'm a little slow with the post) I was enjoying the glory of toddlerhood and Springtime and memories of miracles, all among the dogwoods.

The symbolism of Springtime will always have an extra special place in my heart, for my 'home' in Kentucky and for my own Springtime miracle boy. Of this I am sure: when life places the bleakness of Winter on your doorstep, God will always, always send the Spring.

Spring.

I've been given my first "I-Love-You-Mom" dandelion bouquet of the season.

It's officially Spring!

repetition

Yes, I said repetition. And a lot of it.

Back when I was young and easily bugged by my kid brother, he used to love the way his voice sounded saying the same phrase. Over. And over. And over again. In his case, he chanted, "Bicentennial, centennial." Over. And over. And over again. It was insanely annoying. Especially in the car. (Come on, back me up here, Kam!). I thought Preston was probably the ONLY child in the world obsessed as such, and it was my unlucky fate to have to take road trips with the kid.

Not so.

My boy; my sweet, nearly perfect (until he went to first grade), oldest child is also a repeater. Luckily, he hasn't yet chosen a 'special phrase' that he uses each time. But, anything that comes out of his mouth is subject for repeating. Just to make sure it still sounds as cool the second time. And the third. And the 15th.

"Five-oh-one. Five-oh-one. Five-oh-one. Five-oh-two. Five-oh-two. Five-oh-two. Five-oh-two."

Etc.

That is simply ONE example of ONE time (out of many today, unfortunately) that I had to remind Dallin that repeating things over and over again is annoying to those around you.

It is only the first day of Christmas break. Help!

P.S. I have to say, by way of redemption, Dallin IS my most festive child, so it is fun to have him around. When he's not busy repeating everything, he SINGS Christmas carols all around the house. It is darling and reminds me of the magic of Christmas.

P.P.S. For my CS friends...if you haven't already, you need to check out the light display on Windjammer that, as Kate says, "dances to the music." Drive by with your kids. They'll love it!

Thanks---from Dallin

Dear Grammy and Papa,

Thank you for coming to Colorado to see me play soccer. That was really special that you would come just for me. It was a really good surprise. I love you!

love,
Dallin

First Baby. First Grade. First Day. Today.

brotherhood

I knew he’d be a great big brother from the moment I looked my very clingy 20-month-old in the eyes and said, “Mommy has to go to the hospital now so your baby sister can be born. Be a big boy and stay here with Grammy. You can come see me soon, okay?” Instead of tears and a death-grip around my neck, as was expected, he toddled over to Grandma’s waiting lap, waved good-bye, and somehow his young self knew he was stepping into, stepping UP to, a new role: Big Brother.

He has always been watchful of Sister; always aware of her needs and ready with a binky or a toy or a fun game to make her smile. When he was almost 3 (or maybe newly 3; I forget), I was loading the kids into the car after a trip to the library. As Dallin climbed into his carseat he noticed a wayward fruit snack, fallen from the bag he’d eaten earlier on our drive. This coveted treat was a surprise and the look in his eyes told me of his glee at this fortunate discovery. Instead of instantly popping it into his mouth he started twisting and pulling it with his little fingers. He was breaking it in half so Kate could have some, too.

Today was the last day of Kindergarten. As he packed his bag for school he carefully counted up his ‘blue tickets’: earned for good behavior and, today, to be used to ‘buy’ treats and toys from his teacher. When he came home bearing two new hair clips for Kate, I wasn’t surprised. His teacher told me he had carefully picked out something for her before he chose the treats and prizes for himself.

Dallin is the kind of big brother I always wanted; he’s the kind of older sibling I should have been (sorry K, P and J). He got this generous and loving gene from his dad, and I’m trying, every day, to be more like my boy.

answered prayer

Soccer season has started. It is our first foray into the world of organized sports. Yesterday, I sat watching across a busy practice field; watching my boy practice with his first team, first sport, first time. They were standing in a circle, each boy with a ball in front of him. The coach had them put their toe on the top of the ball and stand with the other foot on the ground. Then, jumping, they would switch feet, back and forth, quicker and quicker. I'm sure this exercise has a name, but I certainly don't know it. What I do know is that as I sat there, with tears filling up my eyes and blurring my vision, I was grateful for answered prayers; for the life and capabilities of a boy who wasn't supposed to be 'normal' or 'able' or even here. His little body, running and kicking and laughing, is my miracle. And, I'm grateful for the chance to witness the hand of the Lord every day.