Birthday Tribute

Today is my Granny's birthday. Even though she is no longer alive, I always send a "Happy Birthday" greeting heavenward on February 18th.

When I mentioned the date this morning as I awoke in bed, even Mike perked up and said, "Oh it is? Are we going to celebrate it?" He knows Granny is/was one of my favorite people in the whole world. As evidenced by a handful of recent experiences too sacred to share, I believe Granny is one of my biggest cheerleaders as I plow through life.

I'm still debating whether or not I'll actually make her trademark chocolate cake with walnuts on top to celebrate the day, but I do know as we sit around the dinner table tonight I will share with my family some of my favorite memories of her. It'll go something like this...

I love that Granny always had time for us grandchildren. Whenever I wanted to sleep over at her house, she rarely hesitated, I spent many, many Friday nights sleeping over with her. Our evenings often included cheese and crackers, and sometimes ice cream and wafers. Before bed, I'd wait patiently in the kitchen watching her kettle come to a boil, while she seemed to take forever getting ready for bed in the bathroom. She would then come out, pour her hot water into a mug to take upstairs to bed. We'd share her small double bed, and she would lay there doing a crossword puzzle (I NEVER inherited that love from her), and I would read a book.

Saturday mornings always found her up and early already downstairs with the mornings paper. After breakfast of usually toast and jam, I would accompany on her Saturday morning shops for a neighbor. And there were one or two occasions I spent a Saturday with her while she volunteered at one of her favorite charity shops.

Tonight as I celebrate Granny's birthday, I'll tell my children that Granny didn't shower us with a lot of things, unless it was Christmas or birthdays, but she showered us with love and attention. When Granny was around she rarely turned us down to either do a puzzle or play a game. I'll tell them the stories they have heard over and over about games of Consequence and Scrabble.

(Christmas morning 1983, Granny, me and my new bike)

I'll tell my children about Granny's back garden, her greenhouse, and her old shed that I can still smell in my mind. I'll tell them that I never liked the apples she bought, about the bag full of rolls of tape she had in her cabinet, and I'll impersonate the way she answered the telephone. I'll tell them about the umbrellas that filled the hooks by her front door, her little spin washer, the clothes line in the back garden that I always asked to hang clothes on, the always full biscuit tin, and the spoons we always mixed our orange squash with. I'll tell them about the way Granny always waved goodbye to us from her front porch, and the sweets she carried in her purse for the drive home from church. I'll them about her tendency to be nosy, and at times, a little bit ditzy.

I'll tell them about my last stay with Granny in 1996 and talking to her about Mike. I'll tell them how thrilled I was that she came to Utah for my wedding 7 months later, and how sad I am I didn't spend more time with her then. I'll tell them about our trip to England in October 2000 to introduce Megan to Granny. Only to have Megan only able to visit with Granny in her home for a couple of hours one Sunday evening--long enough for Megan to break a glass bottle of ketchup on her kitchen floor. I'll tell them how I felt when I said goodbye to her at the end of that trip, knowing it was the last time I'd see her in this life.

(Granny--Violet Eliza, me and Megan Eliza, October 2000)

One of my favorite possessions is my Granny's journal/diary. As an avid journal writer myself, I am drawn to her recordings of the everyday. Granny's journal is much more of a diary describing the days events and much less of deep thoughts and feelings. Yet, there are a handful of days, that though her words are brief, her sentiments are felt. I often think about my Granny on March 29, 1988 waving goodbye to my family, her only child and grandchildren as we drove away to the airport, leaving for a new life in the United States. She doesn't say much about it in her diary that day except, "Chris and Peter and children flew from Gatwick at 3pm for America. Spent the evening at Betty's (her best friend) as I miss them so."

Maybe I won't make chocolate cake with walnuts, and I probably can't find a bouquet of daffodils to set on my kitchen table (one of her favorite flowers), but I will spend plenty of time today remembering one of my favorite people and sharing some of my most personal memories.

(Granny in 1996 next to grave of her mother and husband.)

"What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others."

~Pericles

“

Going Hungry

Megan went on a science field trip the other day. The 9th graders were to leave the school about 9am and due to return about 2pm, when they would then eat lunch. Megan was worried she would get hungry. Duh! Yes, she likely would, so I suggested she take a snack to eat on the bus.

An hour or so after leaving home, I received this picture text from Megan:

Not only had she grabbed a couple of snacks from home, she made a visit to the school office to procure a couple of safety pins.

Despite the text coming through in the middle of the chaos of getting 3 other children out the door for school, I laughed out loud when I saw it. I responded simply, "You are your mother's daughter."

In the chaos of the morning I forgot to forward the text to my BFF. She too would have laughed out loud. You see, she and I made sure we never went hungry while in high school/college.

We have recollections of snacks pinned to our gowns during high school graduation.
We have memories of warm brownies smuggled into the Salt Lake Tabernacle for a fireside. (Our dates were quite embarrassed when the brownies emerged from our pockets and heads started to turn, wondering how and why the smell of fresh brownies was suddenly permeating the air.)

We took a loaf of French bread into a concert.

Ben and Jerry's ice cream was often a must-have at the movie theatre.

And a loaf of left-over bread from Spaghetti Factory was consumed while studying at the Marriott Library at the University of Utah.

Far be it from me to question Megan's need to have food pinned to the inside of her coat for a field trip during 9th grade.

Although, I'm quite certain had I known for the rest of the day she was carrying around an empty plastic sandwich bag filled only with the sugar remains from the Sour Patch candies pinned to the inside of her coat, I may have asked her to remove it. It looked mildly suspicious when I picked her up from school that afternoon.

Love Megan
Love Me
Love food.

Wish Lists

When catalogs come in the mail, I throw them away without looking at them. My reason, is to throw them away before my children see them. I have the mindset "out of sight out of mind." I prefer my children not know what they are missing rather than look through a catalog and tell me every birthday theme they want next, what American Girl doll accessory they'd like, and what party supplies we just have to have for the next party.

I surprised myself while going through the mail the other day and upon seeing the Toys-R-Us Toy Extravaganza, handed it to Joshua to look through.

Joshua, sitting at the kitchen counter, excitedly placed the toy magazine on top of the new Friend Magazine that had previously thrilled him.

I watched him with baited breath, assuming choruses of "I want... I want... I want..." were going to start. Joshua never said anything once about wanting anything. Instead, all I heard were things like, "That's cool." or "Oh! Look at that!" Occasionally I heard a grunt sounding laugh at something that humored him.

Instead of moving from my mail sorting chore to dinner prep chores, I found myself standing in front of Joshua, staring at his enthusiastic, un-desiring response to the Toys-R-Us Christmas mailing. I saw only dollar signs as Joshua leafed through the pages, but I was quite certain Joshua only saw in his little mind hours of enjoyment and play as he imagined ownership of particular items.

The reason I felt so certain of Joshua's imaginations, was because as I stood there watching him, I was taken back to the days of thumbing through catalogs myself. Specifically, the Argos Catalogue. I remember finding all sorts of items I dreamed of owning. I pictured myself rolling down the streets on roller boots and sitting at my bedroom desk in front of a three-fold mirror.

(I never received roller boots, because apparently my dad was convinced they would make me break my ankle, but that three-fold mirror was one of the highlights of my Christmas morning as a 12 year old. And all credit for it must surely go to my mother... She probably would have bought the roller boots too, if my dad hadn't been so vocal about them first.)

Despite still having issues, never receiving roller boots, I realized as I stood watching Joshua peruse the toy catalog the other day, it never hurt me to look through a catalog filled with more items than I could possibly ever receive or own. It likely won't hurt my children either.

Perhaps I will no longer stand by my garbage can while sorting the mail. Perhaps I will no longer be in such a hurry to dispose of various catalogs before my children lay eyes on them. If that Toys-R-Us catalog had ended up in the garbage can immediately the other evening, I would have missed out on observing, a joyous moment of pure childhood glee coming from Joshua.

Hooray for childlike wonder.

Can't Help But Smile

I spent a lot of Saturday mornings as a child at a bookstore with my dad. Specifically, WH Smith. As much as I loved the stationary that filled the downstairs, I loved the shelves of books that filled the second floor more. Probably due in part to the fact I probably left the store with a new book each time. My parents said no to plenty of things, but asking to buy a new book pretty much always got a yes.

Except the time my parents said no to the Seven Days with Topsy and Tim special pack of books. Oh I remember leaving the store disappointed, and though I don't remember the season, I'm assuming the reason I was told no was because Christmas was just around the corner. I don't have a lot of things from my childhood, but I'll tell you, one of the things I treasure most is my Seven Days with Topsy and Tim pack, that Santa placed on a baby doll changing table under the tree one Christmas morning. I absolutely love those books, and so do my children. I think my children love them for a lot of reasons, but especially because I CAN'T read them without an English accent.

I digress. Enough of Topsy and Tim.

Back to bookstores with my dad as a child.

Loved them. Besides WH Smith, I remember frequenting Sutton Library with him, and then often going to a bookstore just down the way from there. And sometimes, we'd even venture clear up to the top of the High Street (and beyond) to a little bookshop next to the Sutton Post Office. I have no recollection of what sections my dad would peruse, while I found myself lost in my own perusal of books.

My dad had two rules I had to adhere to each time a book was purchased.

1. I had to read the first page to him. I guess to check it was on my level? One of my most clear book purchase memories is crouched down on the second floor of WH Smith with Black Beauty open to the first page, reading it while my dad stood over me. I wanted that book so badly. "Everyone" was reading it, and I didn't want to miss out. After reading the first page flawlessly, my dad approved the purchase of the book. Once home, I never got past the first page. Remember, I'm not an animal lover, nor a fantasy book lover.

2. The second rule is a no-brainer. You never take a book from the front of the stack. EVERYONE picks up that book to browse through. For years now, I've volunteered at our PTA sponsored school bookstore. It seems no one else, had a dad with the same "Pick the book from behind" rule as me. Makes me sigh every time to see someone purchase a book that 329 other people have already looked through.

Oh man, am I long-winded.

My point here is really just to tell you how excited I really am to be part of the Power of Moms book that was originally published last year, but the cover has been beautifully re-done and been picked up by a national publisher.

The newly designed book is now on sale. Even on Barnes & Noble website! I know it isn't WH Smith, but it's a close second. You can see it HERE. There is a chance that it may be sold in some Barnes and Noble bookstores. I can't help but smile to think about that. I will absolutely make my dad take me there and buy one, if and when it is. I'm hoping he won't ask me to read the first page, but you can bet neither of us will reach for the one in front.

Barnes and Noble aside, one of the locations it is for sale in, is a quaint, darling bookstore in Salt Lake City, Kings English Bookshop. I will be participating in a little book signing on October 24th at the store, and will also be participating in a book launch evening next Wednesday evening in downtown Salt Lake.

A second Power of Moms book will be released next spring, and I am honored to be a part of that book too. It is beautiful as well. I love everything about the cover.

That's a lot of rambling for one post, but I love books. I have recorded in my journal from 1993, "a secret wish" which was, to see my name in print in a bookstore.

Twenty years later, that secret wish makes me smile.

Top of My Bucket List

As a child attending school in England, school uniforms were required, and the color, functionality and style of the shoes we wore mattered. I think because of the fact there was little variance in the clothes we wore, our shoes seemed to stand out all the more. (You can't get too creative with grey skirts, white shirts, ties and grey or green sweaters. The boys wore the same but obviously wore trousers instead of skirts.)

At least for me that was the case. I noticed everyone else's shoes. I have many memories as a child noticing and loving shoes. One of them are my memories of walking down Sutton High Street (most often with my dad) and seeing all the different shoe shops there. There were lots of them and I loved walking by the outside displays that bragged rows and rows of shoes suitable for most standard school uniform rules.

Except, apparently, most of the shoes those shelves held were "cheap" and "low-quality" and the fabulous shoes with diamonds on the front, or a bow on the side, or slightly wedged heels were deemed inappropriate and impractical for school.

By my parents.

My parents insisted on the best quality. They shelled out the bigger bucks (pounds) once or twice a year for high quality shoes that would last the test of time. In all practicalities, it is a very wise thing to do: do buy higher quality shoes once or twice a year, versus lower quality shoes that would need replacing every few weeks. But as a child?

It was miserable. Those Clarks Shoes lasted fooorrreeevvvveeeerrrrr. I swear, unless I outgrew them (my parents were pros at feeling the tops of toes and declaring there to be "loads of room still"), I was stuck with the same old pair of shoes for almost the entire school year. Not even a pair of scissors taken to the buckle could destroy the durability of those shoes.

I mean, not that I would know whether or not you could cut off the strap of a buckle to look like the leather strap tore, and thus attempt to hasten the need for new shoes.

It didn't even matter that the shoes got scuffed up. Because almost faithfully every weekend my dad polished my brother's and my shoes ready for the school week. Nothing wore through the leather of those Clarks leather shoes. Nothing.

Well I mean, I wouldn't know whether or not dragging my feet with the top of the shoes along the pavement on purpose would cause damaging scuffs or not.

(Almost 25 years later, I have a love/hate relationship with the smell of shoe polish. Love the smell when I think about the fond memories of lovingly polished shoes each Monday morning, but hate the smell when I think about the SAME lovingly polished shoes every Monday morning for an entire school year.)

Incidentally, the shoe polishing must have begun after my 1st grade class photo (which I can not find) when I was seated on the front row with very clearly, unpolished (I'm sure Clarks) shoes.

This photo is a landmark for me. I have the best shoes on the row! Way to go mother! Perhaps the one and only time in a school photo I didn't have sensible shoes on.

(Nursery School Summer 1978, I'm on the front row, 3rd from the left in those brown sandals (cutest shoes on  the row) and darling blue sundress (which I still have.) My brother Matthew is seated to the right in the striped shirt.)

As for this photo? Yeah well, not only had my mother obviously jumped on the sensible shoe band wagon by then, I was also recovering from an awful haircut courtesy of my brother, Matthew.

(Nursery School Autumn 1978, I'm on the front row, third from the left in that awful mustard colored shirt, wearing sensible shoes and awful hair.)

Last year I sat with a group of women, and as an opening, ice-breaker type question we were asked to share something on our bucket list.

I was one of the first to be asked and I replied, "To own a pair of shoes for every day of the year." I felt mildly self-conscious of my worldliness, after everyone that followed answered with more worthy things like, "Find a cure for cancer, create world peace, and put an end to homelessness."

I blame the fact one of my most focused goals in life (a pair of shoes for every day of the year) is worldly, selfish and frivolous entirely upon my parents and the company, Clarks Shoes. Of which, I will never again own a pair of their shoes.

Because if you can't tell already, I go for quantity (of shoes), not quality.
I've been there, done that, and don't like it.

All In a Day's Work

I went to bed very late on Tuesday night, and had to wake up early Wednesday morning to take Luke and his goat, Lily somewhere. It wasn't exactly the way I wanted to start out my morning, but I'm a mom and sometimes I don't get my first choice of activities.

Fortunately, my rushed and busy morning slowed down somewhat when my BFF and her boys decided to come and do nothing for the day. Well, our boys were busy fishing, riding bikes on bike jumps, playing outside, and devouring a whole bag of candy left over from a birthday party, but Melanie and I chose to sit outside in the sun and catch up on our lives since summer began.

Much to mine and Melanie's delight, Megan opted to stay inside and bake something delicious. Of course Megan can't ever quite stay focused on one task without about 315 interruptions. Wednesday was no different.

As bad luck would have it, Melanie and I switched our chairs to the driveway rather than the back patio to keep a more watchful eye on the little boys. As such, Megan walked through the garage about 297 times to either inform us of her baking progress, ask our opinion on the baking process, or to tell us such things as the sky being blue. (Actually, to Megan's credit, there were far fewer interruptions than typically.)

I'm not sure the exact course of events that ended in a trip to the ER a few minutes later, but Megan came out to tell/ask us who knows what and the next thing she is laying down on the dirty garage floor writhing in pain. Now, I have to tell you that I've never been a mother to jump up immediately to attend to an injured child. Especially my girls. They have a tendency to, well let's put it this way, they could probably both be very successful in drama and theater.

Except after a couple of seconds I could tell she was probably really hurt and instantly thought it was probably another sprained toe (she's done that more than once!). Except out of her mouth blurted, "Mom, help me. I have a nail in my foot."

Whhhaattt???
My natural-mother-bear-save-my-child-reaction obviously doesn't cover nails in feet as I turned immediately to Melanie and said, "Go look at it."

Of course I was inches behind Melanie and within seconds couldn't help but look myself. It was sort of a big, fat nail and we looked at each other in kind of a shocked and dazed "What do we do?" kind of way. Weren't we just sitting on the driveway gossiping about nothing, while waiting for a delicious cookie-dough-brownie-topped-filled with oreo dessert?

The long and short of it, was we knew we shouldn't pull the nail out ourselves, and after a call to the pediatrician, I headed to the local emergency room. Megan was near hysterics the whole time, crying out how scared she was of stitches, needles and any sort of medical procedure. Oh, she was crying because of pain too.

A few antibiotics, some antiseptic ointments and some bandages were about the only treatments needed. (Thank goodness her immunizations are current and I didn't have to put up with the added drama of a tetanus shot!)

**Warning-don't look if you're squirmish. It's sorta disgusting. (The dirty foot and the inserted nail.)**

Don't you just love that her apron never got taken off?! The doctors and nurses wished we had brought some of the baked treats with us, but at this point we were just hoping someone at home had removed them from the oven on time.

We could blame a nail left on the floor in the garage to any number of the seven people that reside in our house. We've narrowed it down a little bit though. Mike cleans up after himself and doesn't leave his materials out. I'm too busy driving goats places or children to emergency rooms to use nails for a project. Megan prefers baking and sewing to hammering and nailing. Ellie would much rather be playing school or painting finger-nails to using any kind of tools. Joshua, well yeah he could be guilty. Luke, well yeah, he could be too. Drew-yep-even the 3 year old may be guilty, as he spent the first part of the week carrying around a small tool bag filled with all sorts of things that may or may not have resembled the nail in Megan's foot.

Not that we're pointing fingers or anything. But we have had more than one discussion on not leaving out nails, and other potentially dangerous objects. We ought to discuss the importance of shoes too. Although the ER doctor said if you do step on a nail, doing it barefoot is much better than doing it with shoes on. (Too much added bacteria and germs.) So maybe we won't have the barefoot discussion after all.


Late Wednesday night I talked to my mother-in-law about my day beginning with transporting goats, interspersed with a nail in the foot ER visit. (At this point in the evening, I was not yet aware that it would end with an 11:07pm visit into my three year old's room to tell him to quit shining a flashlight in his brothers' faces.)

Referring to goats and nails in feet, I lamented to my mother-in-law, "This was not in my job description." Her experienced reply said, "It was. It is just in the fine print that nobody reads."

Warning to all you younger mothers with fewer and younger children--there is a fine print.
READ IT.

Saturday Clothing, A Non-Holiday and Leftover Cake

Two Saturday's ago the temperatures were mild. At that point on the calendar, I think it was declared the "warmest" day so far. It was by no means WARM, but very pleasant. Yet the hoards of people at Walmart wearing shorts and tank tops made me crazy. It was not short and tank top weather-and I became irritated at myself for allowing myself to be bugged by the fashions of those around me.

This last Saturday, St. Patrick's Day, I found myself at Walmart again. It wasn't shorts and tank tops that were making me absolutely crazy, it was the the green everywhere I looked. Everyone (but me!) was wearing green! Guess I should consider myself lucky nobody pinched me, because as a result of everyone else's green clothing, I was in less than a pleasant mood.

 I'm not sure what I can deduce from either of these scenarios--either the fact I think St. Patrick's Day is a silly holiday or the fact I really should avoid Walmart on Saturday afternoons.

Even though leprechauns don't come to our house, we don't wake up to any pots of gold, and Lucky Charms (the sugar cereal) are par for the course around here, my mother does a "Green Dinner" every March 17th. After the year she colored the fettucine alfredo green, that few of us could stomach (even Mike turned his nose up at it) she switched the menu to hamburgers with green buns (thank you local bakery) and a pretty fancy rainbow colored jello.

My BFF Melanie, greeted me at the "Green Dinner" as though I'd committed a personal attack on her for showing up wearing absolutely nothing green. It turned into a brief, yet heated discussion about St. Patrick's Day. She argued for it, I argued against it. (Growing up in England my best friend growing up was Irish, and all I ever remember is a St. Patrick's Day greeting card or two sitting on their television set.) Our argument ended about as quick as it began and we both shut up and turned to the business of eating.

Had Ellie been listening in on my and Melanie's discussion she would clearly have sided with Melanie. After all, it was Ellie that said to me on Friday night when I reminded her I was working at the temple the next morning, "On St. Patrick's Day? You are going to the temple on St. Patrick's Day." I reminded her it wasn't a "real" holiday. I wish I had a camera to have recorded the disgusted look on her face when I told her I would be arriving home sometime during Saturday Cleaning Hour. What?? "You mean we have to do chores on St. Patrick's Day?" "Yes Ellie, St. Patrick's Day is a regular day," I reminded her.

Adding to my St. Patrick's Day disdain, Megan made this beauty of a cake for the "Green Dinner". She MADE the cake 100% by herself. Unfortunately I can't say she put that same effort into the clean-up.

Sunday evening I went down into the kitchen to this:

Yes, that would be three forks, a spoon, a sharp steak knife, and a chair surrounding the left-over cake.  I was horrified to admit I lived with a bunch of ill-mannered pigs, until I remembered it was me who left the first fork there after a quick after-church snack, and obviously set the tone for the others to follow suit.

Actually now all this is said and done, I'm not sure what I am more disgusted about. The fact we each piggishly picked at the cake all Sunday afternoon or the fact I just did a whole blog post about a "holiday" I can't stand.

Nose Storage

Oh boy! I had really hoped to get on the ball with this "Photo Memory Project", but it just hasn't been happening. Doesn't help that I spent all day laying on my bed yesterday with some kind of cold/cough/sinus infection. And for me, who rarely ever gets sick, this sickness is kicking my butt. I dread playing catch-up after a couple of days of near-nothing, but such is life.

But yesterday while Joshua watched "Little Mermaid" for about the 43rd time in the past three days, (My younger kids RARELY make it all the way through movies, but Little Mermaid somehow has Joshua smitten.) I couldn't help but remember my now 26 year old brother who loved "Little Mermaid" when it first came out 20+ years ago. Which memory was then of course followed with those familiar anxieties I get of "Oh my word will I remember this?"

And with that-I'm pulling out a photo and doing a photo memory like I committed to.

True to what I said when introducing this project-this photo has absolutely no "photographic value" as far as a good photograph goes. Yet it captures a story that though was nothing more than a fleeting twenty minute period in Luke's life, I can't bear the thought of one day looking at this photo and forgetting what had happened.

(Nana, Luke and Mimi-April 2005)

Luke was 31/2 in this photo. Yes, even though it was the middle of a weekday afternoon playing at Nana and Grandpa's house, he was wearing his pajamas. (That's all he wore-well that or just underwear. Sound familiar?)

Luke went through a phase where he was constantly playing with trucks, trailers, tractors, etc. He favored the smaller ones. For whatever reason,  no matter how much Mike and I tried to tell him no, Luke loved to take the tires off of his little toys. We were forever finding vehicles with missing tires and/or miscellaneous tires lying around the house.

One day though he must have determined in his little 3 year old mind that he didn't want the tire he had just removed from his white John Deere truck to get lost. So he put it where he thought it would be best for safe-keeping.
???
His nose.

See that orange box to the left of my mother's head? That would be the first-aid kid which housed the necessary tweezers to begin the extraction necessary following the insertion of a rubber tire up a nostril.

I'm not sure exactly who retrieved the tire from his nose. In fact, if I remember correctly at the time of extraction none of us even knew exactly what it was we were attempting to extract.

Yet out came a little black tire.

All's well that ends well.
A package of candy must have been the reward for such bravery. Meaning Luke's bravery, not my mother's bravery for performing said surgery, despite her holding the candy in this photo.

I'd like to say he learned his lesson-but he stuck something up his nose one more time a few months later. A magnetic marble. And just as I inserted the tweezers to begin the marble extraction-voila!! I'm not sure who was more surprised, me or Luke at the speed in which it came out. I hadn't even considered that the metal-on-magnet would work so swiftly and instantly.

It's a pretty good rule of thumb to teach children-if you insert something in your nose-please make sure it is magnetic-it removes so much easier than a rubber John Deere truck tire.

Nostalgic Playing

The other day I picked my boys up from playing at my parent's house. Joshua and Drew had a little "Town Mat" spread out with Hot Wheels cars arranged just so on it. Our need to leave seemed too premature to my boys, and so to accommodate a more timely departure I asked permission for us to borrow the mat for a couple of days.

Oh boy has it been a big hit!

It isn't that I'm really a big fan of Hot Wheels cars. And it certainly isn't the fact that I love getting down on my stomach and making "vrmm vrmm" sounds. It's the fact that I remember distinctly playing with this mat (that my mother made!) for hours as a child.

I loved the church that had a roundabout close to it, just as ours did.

 I loved the shops she chose to use that were shops we frequented.

I love the houses that as a child I thought nothing of because that's how houses were where I lived, but made Joshua ask, "Why are all the houses stuck together."

I love the school that is remarkably similar to my Alma Mater, Cheam Park Farm Junior School.

I couldn't help but tear up slightly as I "vrmm-ed" little cars around it with my children the other day. In a weak moment of nostalgia I committed myself to making one for Drew for his 3rd birthday. With landmarks, icons and store-fronts that he will hopefully remember one day as fondly as I do this one.

"Nana's mat" that Drew affectionately named it has been returned to its home in my parent's "sleepover room". I won't be shy about admitting that I'm hoping this sentimental spiel will convince my parents to make any necessary adjustments to their legal will stating that I should be given highest priority in receiving this mat at the appropriate time. It needs to be with someone that will love it, protect it and care for it.

I know I'm the right person. I can see me now having the same conversation about roundabouts and attached houses in 30 years with my grand-kids that I had the other day with my kids.

How's that for stirring up a little family drama?

A Goat Wedding

To make a long story short, Hank had a room-mate move in the other night. Except the room-mate isn't just any old room-mate, it is a pregnant goat.

At least we hope she is pregnant.

It's kind of a long story, I'll make it quick.
Paul (Luke's mentor) was disappointed Luke wasn't able to sell Hank at the County Fair. Not that he doesn't like Hank, or want Hank living over there, (Au contraire!) he was just disappointed that Luke wasn't able to get a return on his investment and experience 'raising a goat to sell.'

Insert into the story an injured goat that Paul's son Clint found in the middle of nowhere a year or so ago, and gave a home.

Paul figured that homeless goat could become the mother of baby goats that Luke could raise and SELL at next year's county fair.

Luke and Mike picked up the goat about 6 weeks ago, and introduced me to her on the way to her "Goat House." (Really, what should I call that type of place?) The poor thing didn't even have a name, so I promptly named her Hazel, and off to* find a boyfriend* she went.

Luke informed me "She will come home after going through three cycles." He knew enough to (somewhat) know what he was talking about, and now he knows even more.

Thursday afternoon, Luke made me stop by Hazel's "temporary residence" to see if she was available to come home yet. Friday morning he begged me to take him to go and get Hazel. My response?

"Nowhere in my job description did it say I would transport livestock around town. That is Daddy's department. Ask him."

It was like waiting for Christmas morning for Luke! But finally Saturday evening, just as the sun was setting Hazel was introduced to Hank. I don't think it went too well.

Even though I have never been one to believe that animals should be treated like humans, I have found it slightly scandalous that a pregnant goat was moving in with Hank. So Sunday morning, just hours after Hank and Hazel's first night together I walked over to visit them. Luke was screwing down Hank's roof in final preparations for the impending wind storm. Pulling a red ribbon from my pocket, I informed Luke that is was time for Hank and Hazel to be married.

Poor Hazel was scared to death already of her new home, and was certainly showing some nerves as a 10 year old boy used a power tool above her head, and so as a result, Luke decided that trying to attach a red ribbon to her horns for a wedding ceremony wasn't the most nerve-settling thing we could do for her. And bless Luke's heart, he tried his best to brush her horrible snarled fur, but she'll have to get used to that gradually.

After trying our best to get them to stand together, I decided that I could pronounce them "man and wife" just as well with them three feet apart as side-by-side.

And so I now introduce to you, Hank and Hazel, husband and wife.

I don't doubt we are in for all sorts of adventures now with TWO GOATS, one of them likely pregnant!!

(Even though I record plenty of funny things on my blog that my kids say, I don't really think it would be appropriate to declare so publicly what Luke ran home telling me yesterday about Hank and Hazel. But believe me, I absolutely did record it in my personal journal. It's funny. Like laugh out loud funny. Sorry I can't share.)

Sabbath Day Observance--Davis County Style

Instead of three hours of church today, we barely even had one. We had a few announcements, the passing of the Sacrament and then a closing hymn and prayer. The same thing happened at churches throughout the county.

Around here, we are bracing for round two of severe winds that did a lot of damage on Thursday.

At our house, we only had a lawn chair and sprinkler head break in Thursday's storm. The majority of our neighbors did not fare as well. A few miles away my parents, though without power for almost 48 hours and a few fence panels less were lucky too.

Tonight we are expecting round two of the storm. The giant pine tree in my parent's front yard that keeps my dad up worrying during every wind storm was not thought to make it through some more near-hurricane force winds. (Because if it were to come down, there would be nowhere for it to go but on their house!)

So who was the 'lucky' guy recruited to climb the tree?

My dear husband. It is a dang good thing I wasn't there for the highest points of his ascent...

Luke worked every bit as hard as any grown-man there--in fact probably even more than some. He was a trooper. In his words, "This is way better than church."

Note our dear neighbor and friend, Paul in the background, who willingly went up to my parent's house to help too. His trailer and hard-work were a life-saver.

It was humbling to see neighbors and church members from my parent's congregation come and go during the tree cutting process. It was a wonderful sight to see.

The same scene could be seen throughout nearly every neighborhood in the county.
Few members of the LDS church in Davis County attended more than an hour of church today...

 "The greatest sermons aren't preached. They are lived."

Amen.

Then and Now and Now and Then

I've been working on an assignment tonight, and it made me get all sappy and sentimental about the passage of time. And then while looking for a particular photo, I stumbled across this one that I had NO IDEA I still had copies of, let alone on my computer!! I couldn't help but oooh and aaah over these two little babies. I once had only TWO kids?! It seems like a lifetime ago.

But then at the same time, what seems like in a blink of an eye, we have gone to this:

And then while pursing another part of my assignment, I thought about my in-laws. I'm sure to them it probably seems like a blink of an eye that in 30 years, my in-laws went from this:

(engagement picture sometime late 1969/ early1970)

To this:

(December 2010)

30 years! I know it seems like a long time looking forward, but when I consider Mike and I are half way there. It makes me sad and melancholy.

Okay, but honestly sometimes-- it doesn't. Sometimes it makes me a little anxious and overly-excited --thinking about a life with no carpools, fevered kids, poopy diapers, or science fair projects, sounds SPLENDID.

But--then I look at this picture--and realize this was just 9 short years ago.

Project forward another 9 years... two of my kids will be full blown adults. Okay, wait I can't think about it after all.
It makes me cry.

"The days are long, but the years are short."

Still Remembering

(Photo sent from my mother-in-law with the caption, "Don't miss this stunning view across the river where many tall office buildings in Arlington are draped with flags honoring 9/11")

As the anniversary of September 11, 2001 has been approaching, my two oldest children have talked repeatedly of the event. With information gleaned from a grade-school,'Children's Weekly Reader News' Luke has been sharing all sorts of information (and opinions) about that historic day. And just as Megan's jr high principal hoped in a school wide parent email, Megan of course came home and discussed her thoughts and feelings following the 9-11 assembly they had on Friday.

I complain too much sometimes about my children talking way too much and non-stop, but the last couple of days, we have had some great conversations about that dreadful day. My children ask if we are going to watch the same online video we watched last year, or the year before, or look at some still photographs, or read a news story together.  We probably will.

One of the articles in Luke's little magazine starts out, "Ask any adult what they were doing on the morning of September 11th, 2001 and they can likely tell you..." Of course my children take that literally (because silence is an anomaly around here), and asked me. Even though I think we share these same stories every year, it is our little family's way of trying our best not to forget.

Megan, though just shy of her 3rd birthday on that fall day almost ten years ago, recalls tidbits of that day with absolute clarity and accuracy. She clearly remembers the 'broken buildings', and I tenderly remind her of her bedtime prayer the evening of September 11, 2001.

 "Please bless the broken buildings and the people that cried and died."

(Megan, September 2001)

Luke, six weeks shy of birth at the time, loves his little 'personal' connection to the day.... And so as the magazine suggests, I can (and will) likely tell you...

On September 11, 2001, I was just waking up, and as was habit back then, I turned on the Today Show to begin my day with Matt Lauer and Katie Couric. Of course immediately, I knew something was terribly wrong, and almost simultaneously, my brother Casey called to tell me the news. I quickly ran into our adjoining home office to tell Mike to come and watch. One of the towers collapsed as I hopped in the shower to make it on time to a doctor's appointment.

I had had a routine ultrasound almost two months previously, but between the combination of Luke's hand close to his mouth, and a prominent upper lip, the doctors were slightly concerned he may have a cleft lip and wanted me to have another ultrasound. I really never thought twice or felt a twinge of worry about Luke's lip, what I did feel a little concern over was whether or not he was still the little boy I wanted. (I wanted a boy so much, I had some kind of weird paranoia that he would turn into a girl.)

I remember laying on the ultrasound table while the technician covered my stomach in goop, discussing the tragic events of the morning. Another clinic worker came in and announced to us that a plane just went down in a Pennsylvania field. Probably in a state of shock and grief at the uncertainty and newness of such enormous tragedy, (not to mention pregnancy hormones) I (embarrassed to admit now) turned to the ultrasound tech and said, "Please just tell me my baby still has all the boy parts."

I still have the ultrasound photo with a little arrow that says, "STILL a boy."

I laugh and smile at this memory now, but as I shared with Megan last night, the news story that showed 'Babies of 9/11' ten years later, I cried. Babies that were born within weeks and months of Luke that don't know their dads.

It's all just plain sad.
Even ten years later.

Mediocrity at It's Finest

You know it is mediocre parenting when you...

• tell your child to pull a pair of shorts out of the dirty clothes basket to wear
• put your child in front of the television with a bowl of candy to afford you just a little time to accomplish a task
• kiss your child goodbye and then with a hand on their back push them towards the bus steps
• repeatedly respond to your toddlers demands to put syrup in every single square of the waffle and as the toddler whines when the syrup evaporates and he thinks it never got in the hole in the first place you pour more
• know your child has shirked a responsibility and you pretend you haven't noticed
• repeatedly ignore the toddler's request for 'holdies' because darn it, it is almost noon and the breakfast dishes are still out
• when one child chases another threatening to throw a toy at them, instead of intervening you simply tell the victimized child to run faster
• place more importance on the recently cleaned carpet than a child's feelings
• have family prayer while driving in the car because as soon as it pulls into the garage you want everyone separated, in their beds and out of your sight
• laugh and take a picture of your toddler wearing size 3-6 month pajamas instead of saving him from his sister's wrath

• tell your child "DO NOT TALK TO US" unless the computer she is doing her homework on catches fire or her cough causes her to quit breathing 
• after shaking off the crumbs, you put the plates the kids use back in the cupboard instead of the dishwasher
• secretly wish you had powers to make your children disappear for just a few hours
• don't find any hospitality in you when the goat and rabbit have joined us for dinner and are being fed from non-animal dishes

• in a moment of frustration you toss a favorite pair of flip-flops in the garbage that belong to a child who owns (and leaves out) far too many pairs of shoes, and you don't feel the least bit guilty about it
• when you're fixing breakfast and you mutter to yourself how much you dislike fixing breakfasts, packing lunches, doing hair, etc. and then come to think of it, you can't help but wonder what part of the day exactly you do like?

Some days are mediocre. Thank heavens they all aren't!