Third of Ten

It’s crazy how people come into your life. Some breeze in and out barely leaving a trace, while others imprint on your heart forever.

The first Sunday I walked into Relief Society, I saw a young mom with the happiest brown-eyed baby boy on her lap. Little did I know, that mom at that moment was looking around the room and thought, "I need a friend. I'm going to make the new mom my friend." That snap decision changed the course of both our lives.

I've never had a friend like Karen. Ten children between the two of us. TEN. We raised our children together. Change that--we raised each other's children together. We disciplined and potty trained and schooled and Soccer Mom-ed and piano lessoned together. 

I helped her through years of chronic migraines--I cleaned her bathroom and drove her kids and brought her meals. She helped me through months of grief--she listened and cried and listened some more. She reads my thoughts and I complete her sentences.

I'd give her my right arm if she asked me. Instead, I gave her my back yard for the wedding dinner and reception of her youngest child--our third wedding together.

Logan got married on Saturday.

Lo. Ogie. Chuckles.

Twenty-one years we’ve lived in Arizona. Twenty-one years I’ve loved this boy.

I watched Karen from across the room as her baby boy got married. I watched the tears of joy form in her eyes and roll down her cheeks. I watched a new daughter join her family. And as I waited my turn to embrace the newlyweds, I watched her hug family and friends who shared that moment. 

I wasn't prepared for the emotion that flooded through me as I hugged her that day. Words can't describe a bond like ours. She whispered in my ear, "I couldn't have done it without you." 

I can't imagine how I would have done it without her.

My Happy Place

Mother's Day creates almost as much guilt as it does good feeling. Most Mother's Days I find myself bouncing between these extremes, but this year was different.

All I felt was gratitude.

Gratitude for my own imperfect mother who strives to be better every day. My mom is my opposite in most ways. She is kind and quiet. She loves to sit back and watch the miracles of life. And she devotes herself to serving those she loves whenever possible. I am so grateful that I was raised a woman of her strength and character.

Most of all, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the seven blessings who made me a mom. A quick text and voicemail from Heidi in Idaho. Tucker hugs in church. Flowers from Lily. A heartfelt card from Micah. A sweetly regifted teddy bear from Hyrum. A school-made necklace to treasure from Eve.

And . . .

 . . . through the miracle of technology, a Skype session with Ben.

He is so happy. He's working hard and learning about himself and God.

Probably the best moment of the call was when he started spurting Spanish and Tucker stood over my shoulder and translated for me. It brought me to tears--these two boys of mine who are now men, sharing experiences and language and finally, after 20 years of being brothers, are friends.

I am so far from the perfect mom. I know it and they know it. When you first glimpse that screaming new baby, you don't fully understand how your world will change--what you will learn and how you will grow. Now, 25 years into motherhood, I know they have been the best years of my life, with so many more to come, surrounded by this family of ours.

So . . . We Took a Quick Trip to California

Most of you gave up on the American Idol wagon. I realize that. Most of our family gave up as well. But there were two holdouts at our house--Lily and me. We spent a few hours each week seated on the couch together, commenting and evaluating and enjoying. Both of us were sad when it was announced last year that 2016 would be the final season, and we've been watching every episode this season tinged with a little unhappiness.

A few weeks ago, I had a brilliant idea of what to give Lily for her sixteenth birthday. The series finales of the show are being filmed April 6th and 7th--the week of her birthday. What could be a more perfect birthday gift than watching the finale in person? I looked into tickets, but the CHEAPEST ones are $2000. Apiece. Yeah. That dream got shot down immediately. I told her what I'd wanted to do and how it was impossible, and that was that.

But I did sign up on a website for a ticket lottery to the regular season episodes. Last Tuesday, in the middle of her voice lesson (ironically enough), I received an email that we had been selected in the lottery. I knew the trip would have to be a quick one, since I was working Monday and Wednesday (still weird to type), but I though we could work it out. Without hesitating, I walked in on her lesson and shared the good news. From that point, it was just a matter of getting plane tickets and finding a place to stay.

We landed at LAX right around rush hour Monday night, got a cab, and drove to our AirBnB apartment. Less than a block from the apartment we saw CBS studios--I couldn't have picked a hotel closer than we were. It was perfect. A cute little one-bedroom apartment with everything we needed. Lily was exhausted at this point and wanted to chill before heading out for dinner, so she flipped on AppleTV and we watched an episode of Fixer Upper before my growling stomach started speaking too loudly. After a little prodding, I got her off the couch and out the door.

We were walking down the street toward a grocery store when I looked in the window of this little restaurant.

And you guessed who was in there, didn't you?

LaPorsha and her baby, along with a friend, were just getting ready to leave the restaurant. I stopped Lily. "Did you see who's in there??" She took a few steps back and squealed! "Mom, what do we do?" "It's up to you. We can go in there if you're brave enough." And with that, Lily pulled open the door.

The restaurant was empty except for LaPorsha's group and two men sitting at a bar table. The hostess approached us and asked if wanted to be seated. Hesitating for the first time, Lily looked over her head and said, "Ummm. No. I just . . . We just want to talk to her." LaPorsha walked over to us and was so kind and gracious. She talked with Lily for a minute and let us talk to her baby girl. It was incredible. I hope celebrity allows her to stay the kind of person she is now. I was impressed. For the rest of the evening, Lily and I giggled about our good fortune, sending the picture to any people we thought might appreciate it (and a few who didn't, to be honest). That encounter set the mood for the big day--Tuesday.

Lily trying her first macaron--not that impressed

We knew our tickets weren't a guarantee that we would get into the theatre, so we decided we would leave the apartment around 8 am, hoping that would be enough time to secure seats. We left a bit later than we hoped (8:15 or so), but we were stocked with snacks and the iPad to keep us happy until the 1 pm call time.

We walked to the studio and saw people in line being ushered through the gates. In a panic, we scurried over there, only to realize that Lily had left her ID at the apartment. When we reached the head of the line, Lily said, "I'm only 15. Is it ok that I don't have ID?" The employee, in a surly voice retorted, "Are you kidding me? You can't come in without ID, and you have to be 18." I knew that wasn't right, because the ticket clearly stipulated audience members had to be 12 or older, so I handed her my ticket to clarify. Another surly statement: "This is the Price is Right line. Idol is on the other side of the building." And with that, she quickly looked through us to the six women behind us, dressed in rainbow suspenders, shamrock shirts, and green tulle tutus. If I had thought for a moment, I would have realized we must be in the wrong line just by the outfits around us, but I was so rushed trying to make it into the studio, I didn't notice.

A quick walk around the block got us in the right place and around our people--the vestiges of American Idol fans from around the country. When we got there, only five people were ahead of us in line. The first three had flown from Pennsylvania when they got tickets and were not going to risk missing the taping for anything--they started the line at 4:30 am. The next two girls had arrived around 5:30, and the line had stayed that way for three hours. We were pumped! Numbers 6 and 7 in line! We were shoo-ins, right?

Can you see Lily looking for something to eat in the blue bag?

Standing in line for hours with strangers immediately makes you friends, right? Have you ever had that happen--you start sharing where you're from and who you're there to see, and instant friends.

 These two girls were there to see JLo--American Idol itself didn't matter much to them. And the PA people were there to see Keith Urban--they are members of the 100+ club--a group that has seen him in concert more than 100 times.

Lily and I don't have true favorites in the field of contestants (Lily likes Mackensie the best, but still likes a few of the others, as do I), but these two girls in the plaid were the presidents of the Avalon fan club. Fun to meet people from all over the country.

April, the JLo fan, had attended a taping before, and she started sharing her experience with Lily--how to get into the pit, the odds of us getting in, etc. It was good to hear from someone who knew all the ins and outs--except the studio has changed how things work a little bit.

In the end, it worked out ok. People with VIP and priority tickets were let into the studio before we were, and that worried us all a little. But once we got past the front gate, we knew we had made it!

We were greeted by another employee who quickly sized up each person--cute young ones got wristbands, and geezers like me were given tickets and assigned seats. At this point in the process, they separated those who were going to watch from the floor from the rest of us, took our cell phones, and seated us in rows of bleachers to wait.

It was 1:15 pm.

Taping was scheduled to begin at 3, and they let us all into the studio about fifteen minutes before then. I found my seat (next to a pillar on the first row of the balcony) and looked across the floor. Lily was guided to a section directly across from me, where I could watch her experience without dampering it with my presence. It was perfect for both of us.

3:00 came and went, and the audience warm-up guy kept postponing and stalling. He took some video of the kids on the floor and posted them to his Instagram account (chuckdukas--you can see some great video of Lily having a blast in one of them). This was the worst part of the whole experience--waiting in the studio for it to start. Lily struck up a conversation with the cutest of the 12 boys on the floor (SOOOO many teenage girls), and they talked for the rest of the afternoon.

Finally, just after 4 pm, the stage manager announced that Ryan Seacrest was on his way out. The show began.

It was incredible to watch my daughter have the time of her life. She was stationed in a spot where she could shake each contestant's hand as they exited the stage, and she did. She can say she shook hands with the next American Idol (since she got all 14 of them!), Ryan Seacrest, and Keith Urban. She talked with Harry Connick, and I just watched. Something strange happens to you when you become a mom--watching your children live life experiences is just as rewarding as experiencing them for yourself. And that's exactly how I felt that day.

Before we knew it, the taping was over, we were reunited outside to collect our cell phones and exchange stories from the past few hours. I was starving and Lily was tired of standing for the past few hours, even though the adrenaline was still pretty high. We walked to Chipotle, ate burritos, and talked and talked about what we'd just seen. Before long, we were back at the apartment, changed into comfy clothes, eating ice cream, and watching House.

It was glorious.

Our flight left LAX Wednesday morning at 6:50 am, and being unfamiliar with the notorious southern California traffic, we left the apartment at 4:20, counting on an Uber driver being close by. Close driver, paired with nary a person in sight, got us to the airport almost two hours before our flight left. Lily used her "sleeping in the airport" skills she'd perfected last summer in India and promptly fell asleep until we left.

By 10 am, Lily was back at school and I was on my way to work.

All told, we spent around nine hours at the studio that day--with only a little over an hour in the actual taping. And we were in California about 36 hours. But it was wonderful. It was fantastic. And it is a memory we will share the rest of our lives.

**If you want to look for Lily as you watch the episode, you can't ever really see her face (only her back), but look for the dress she's wearing in these pictures and her long dark hair. She is standing next to the stairs coming down from the stage, three or four people back. She reaches out to greet each contestant as they pass. And if you really want to search hard for me, I'm standing next to a pole and am one blurry pixel in the distance in a couple shots. 

Writing It All Down

I spent an afternoon at the park. Without kids. At lunchtime. On a school day.

It was weird.

I watched the moms shepherd their kids from the playground to their unpacked lunches, and I watched the moms pack up the lunches and shepherd their kids to the waiting minivan for naptime.

I sat there with my iPad, notebook, pens, and Taco Bell, pondering on life and wondering where my time to have lunch at the park with preschoolers went. My mind spun along another tangent--the disappearance of my toddlers and faithful camera to document everything "for the blog."

My brain never rests these days.

I revisit the past--allowing equal time to both mistakes and triumphs. I dissect the present--trying to separate reality from invention. I envision the future--best and worse case scenarios tag-teaming across my mind's stage.

Never have I written so many notes to myself. Lists in my day planner. Cross references in my scriptures. Snippets in three other notebooks carefully divided, color coded, and maintained to track specific thoughts, plans of action, and failed attempts.

Why do I do this--write so much down? I don't know some days. I don't think it does any good. It doesn't solve world hunger or conjure miraculous parenting solutions or even help me sleep better. It's some strange compulsion.

And then, days like today remind me why I write it all down. It's not for my kids or for cyberspace or for my posterity. It's for me. For me to remember.

I spent an hour searching old posts for this entry--one of the dark points on my life's personal roller coaster. Rereading about that moment in my life brought perspective to today's low point. It's been over three years since that time in my life, and guess what? Things got better from there. They always do.

And they will again.

So, even though I have nothing profound to say today, even though I haven't discovered some great wrinkle in space, even though I have yet to decide who will receive my vote for president, even though I have no answers to the questions plaguing my days--I still am here at the keyboard, writing it all down--

--hoping that what I write today will help me again in the future. And if it doesn't, then cyberspace will file it away along with other seemingly meaningless bits of information.

I'm ok with that.

I'll know where to find it.

Rambling Around

My mind is bouncing today, maybe in part because much of my day yesterday was taking care of this sick little girl. Things are just off around here. What is it?

When did my baby grow up? When did she get too old to watch Daniel Tiger or Sesame Street? She asked me to change the TV from PBS to "Girl Meets World" or "Phineas and Ferb" or even watch a movie instead of the little kid shows.

I've never been out of the PBS stage . . . It's unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

She snuggled her feverish blond head into my chest as we watched Frozen on my iPad--at least she hasn't outgrown Disney princesses yet. I'll hold onto what I can.

Remember last year when I cursed the month of February for its annoying combination of perfect weather and overwhelming allergens? Well, I stayed on the drops for most of the year, and they are doing very little for me. Yesterday was the worst day yet, and I still struggle to breathe without sneezing. I think my body's fight against the pollen is bringing my mood down with it.

Or it could be all of the sick people around here. Lily made it to school half-day yesterday, but Eve is still home today, and now Brad is coughing and aching and fevering. We had to cancel our trip to Idaho this weekend to see baby Thomas get blessed. That was a hard decision, but I can't bear the thought that we could get Heidi's kids sick. This cough is a bad one, and it could hospitalize a baby, so we're keeping our contagion to ourselves, thank you.

And something else swimming around in my head today: Parenting is hard. It's hard to know when to step back and when to intervene. When to let the hammer of justice fall and when a merciful hand is necessary. When to be the parent with advice and consequences or the parent with the shoulder perfect for muffling brokenhearted sobs.

For instance--school projects. I don't do my kids' projects for them. When they are on display at school, their projects look like they did them. Sometimes they feel bad that their projects don't look as finished as some of their friends', but I hope it's teaching my kids to work for themselves. What do you think?

And I hate it when they procrastinate till the last minute. Does that teach them to do a half-baked job just so it's done? Or does it teach them that they are capable of their own work and taking care of themselves? I never know what to do and what is the right choice. What do you think?

What about negative self-talk? "I have no friends." or "I hate myself." or "So-and-so is so perfect." I never know how to respond in these situations. I know I often say the wrong thing. Is that going to affect their self-concept for the rest of their lives? How do I help them work to conquer their weaknesses without giving them a skewed view of their flaws?

One thing I will never know is this: How do parents of "perfect kids" do that? How do these kids get great grades, excel athletically, play every musical instrument, feed the homeless, win student body elections every year, and still manage to sleep nine hours a night?

I don't want perfect kids. Really, I don't. I love my quirky, crazy, loud, imperfect, sometimes lazy but always clever kids. They are the center of my world, and I wouldn't want it any other way. But some days I wish that my kids weren't so hard. Some days I wish for carefully folded sock drawers and clutter-free backpacks. Some days I wish for no fighting over whose fault it is that the floor is sticky and no disagreement over whose job it is to clean the area in front of the bathroom--is it the bathroom person's job or the hall person's job? (Yes. This happens regularly around here.)

And then I get a hug around the middle or overhear a funny conversation or find random junk glued together as "sculpture," and I head to bed with a grateful prayer in my heart.

Thank you for my life. My life full of sickness and heartache and trouble and commotion. My life full of crazy and haphazard and funny and LOUD. My life full of the people I love who make my life . . . mine.

But sometimes . . .

I told Brad yesterday that all I really want is a few days in a row of "regular life." No one sick. No one fighting. No major crisis brewing that drains me emotionally and physically. It's been a really long time since I've had a few days in a row of regular.

I don't want "normal." Just regular.

Maybe sometime soon.

Flu and Flowers

I was going to write something profound and deep about football and life lessons and Peyton Manning and Cam Newton, but I just don't have it in me.

Life. It's exhausting me right now. I've had at least one kid home from school every day recently, and today I have both of my girls home. Flu stuff, cold stuff--and Eve had nightmares all night last night. When she woke up this morning, she said, "Mommy, I just don't feel right today." I'm hoping she will sleep in a little bit this morning and then wake up "feeling right" again.

One positive around here? Look at these beautiful roses.

 Brad cut these off his bushes. Yes, people. Those are homegrown long-stem roses.

 There are a few vases of them around the house today--

 --because yesterday he trimmed his bushes down to this.

I know it's necessary to trim them down to nubs and branches, but it always makes me sad to lose the beautiful blooms in the process. In just a few days, their leaves will reappear, and I know I will enjoy gorgeous roses for the rest of the year.

A little like our lives, right? We have to be cut down to the very barest of existence sometimes, so that God can help us bloom?

I'm ready for my leaves to green up again. It's been too long since I've had roses of my own.

The Fog Has Lifted

It didn't go according to plan, that's for sure.

My clothes were laid out and ready for an early departure. And I was two hours behind schedule with kids home before noon today.

My Camelbak was full. And it leaked all over my backpack and leggings.

My gloves, ear band, and sweatshirt were in the car. And it was 35 degrees and I was wet.

When I got out of the Suburban at Usery Pass, I was almost defeated. I mean, why even climb that mountain today? Excuses flooded my mind.

Instead of heading home, I headed up, Adele's 25 and Phantom of the Opera blasting in my ears.

Hardly anyone was on the trail. The air was pleasantly crisp, and once I started walking, I forgot the wet spot on my leg and my time crunch. I sang to myself and let my thoughts wander. I was ready to conquer that mountain.

Things have been hard around here lately. My shoulders are tired from carrying so many worries. Questions with no visible answers swirl constantly in my mind, questions like:

What can I control? and What can I not control?

Is it possible to mourn the loss of something that wasn't really mine to begin with?

How can I let go?

Why is life so hard sometimes?

How can I be happy when things are going so wrong?

The higher I got on the mountain, the less my mind dwelt on these burdensome, unanswerable questions, and the more I began to see the desert that I love. The saguaro and barrel cacti. The spiny ocotillo sporting a "wet winter" coat of leaves. The granite and sandstone. And the blue, blue Arizona sky. There is nowhere on earth with a sky like ours. My worries stayed on the valley floor as my mind felt clear and free for the first time in weeks.

My shuffled playlist of favorites stopped as it searched for the next song. Single notes played on an acoustic guitar--what was this? Tangled? That's not hiking music. I never would have chosen it.

I climbed up on a rock and listened to the words. I have been so trapped inside my mind and heart with no relief in sight for so long, but sitting there above my world, I began at last to see the light.

"and it's like the fog has lifted." I felt my heavy burdens physically lift from me, and for the first time in weeks . . . I felt peace. "It's like the sky is new." Everything was suddenly ok. Suddenly in clearer perspective. "The world has somehow has shifted."

"Everything was different" in that moment.  I don't know how long I sat on that rock, and I don't know how many times I listened to that song. Over and over again until my mind finally found some rest and my heart began to heal.

I knew there was no time to reach the cave now--to see the unusally green moss covering the rocks above me. But for the first time in my entire life--reaching the end and finding the answers weren't what mattered most. What mattered was the journey--where I was at that exact moment in time was enough. Taking time to sit and appreciate the joy, along with all the heartache and struggle, was enough. It was enough. That shift in my driving, achievement-centered, solution-anchored thinking was monumental, and words are inadequate to describe that moment on that rock that day.

As the last notes of the song finished for the seventh or twelfth or twenty-second time, I climbed down from the rock, waved to the passing hikers, and headed down the trail without a second glance back at where I thought I was headed when I began my ascent. No new solutions. No real answers. But I had found joy in the journey.

And it was more than enough.

It was everything.

The Next Wave

When will it end?

Wave after wave crashes down on me.

Sickness after sickness after sickness. Vomit. Fever. Hives. Coughs stifled only with nebulizer treatments.

Doctor after doctor after doctor. Greg in West Jordan. Brad in Phoenix. Sally in Salt Lake. Lily in Gilbert and Mesa.

Crisis after crisis after crisis. Lost jobs. Horrible grades. Dashed dreams. Difficult discussions. Impossible decisions. 

And now this.

Christmas presents stolen out of our garage. I stashed them in their unmarked boxes on the counter when they arrived two weeks ago, but when I went to wrap them this morning . . . the counter was empty, along with the spot where Brad's chop saw used to be. My boys' entire Christmas--gone.

This was it--the wave that took me out at the knees. 

I'm not a great swimmer. Never have been. I grew up in southern Idaho where access to water was limited to the stinky lake in the canyon or an occasional invite to the YMCA. I almost drowned once in a wave pool at a water park. I don't love water.

I stayed strong as long as I could, but that last wave did it.

I lost my footing on the rocks and down I went, blubbering and struggling for air.

Kids will be home from school in five minutes, full of peppermint and chocolate and Christmas crafts to hang on my kid tree. 

Three deep breaths. Wash my face to erase the salty streaks. A quick search on Amazon to see if something can replace what has been stolen.

Back to standing on the rock.

That's what moms do.

What Raising Readers Looks Like

I love books--picture books, early readers, science fiction, fantasy, historical fiction and history, chick books, text books, comic books.

I love books.

My boys love books. My big boys and my little boys. This is what Micah's and Hyrum's nightstand looks like on a daily basis.

Let's examine that mess a little closer.

I counted at least twenty books in those stacks. Harry Potter. Percy Jackson. Calvin and Hobbes. Cub scout Wolf book. Book of Mormon. Books for the "Battle of the Books" competition. Dr. Seuss anthology. All precariously balanced.

Over and over, the boys read bits and chapters they love without rereading the entire book, reacquainting themselves with beloved friends and their capers. Their closet looks just like this--stacks and stacks of well-worn books hidden between clothes and peeking out of the shoe bins.

Unmade beds aren't my favorite, but books in disarray are messes I can support.

Tuesdays with Mommie

A big portion of my time these days is allocated to driving kids around. Piano lessons, voice lessons, football practice, dance lessons, play practice--all of them have places to go, and I'm the only driver available.

Much of the driving is carpooling with other kids to locations near and far. Driving kids to voice and piano lessons, however, are solo adventures. What has surprised me the most is how much I love this time alone with Micah and Lily.

Micah's piano teacher moved her studio from just around the corner to the the other side of town. Yes, I was grumpy. But yes, she's worth every second. We've gotten into a little routine, my boy and me. First, we pop in a Piano Guys CD. Next, we talk about music. We talk about the music playing and the instruments used. We talk about his music and what he's working on that week. Sometime, he completes his last few theory sheets as we talk. Other days, he recounts stories from school with a twinkle in his eye. He loves to play capture the flag, and his diving heroics always make me laugh.

After 45 minutes at his lesson, he hops back in the car. Straight from lessons to scouts and then to football practice these days. I try to remember to bring a quick snack to keep his energy up, but most days I forget and have to run to Target during his lesson.

Some of the best revelations have come during this car ride. He confessed how much he really wants to learn how to play the piano well ("I don't really like to admit this, but . . ."). He explained to me the myth of Atalanta and how he wants to incorporate it into the Greek mythology play he's writing at school. He confessed a crush, then recanted it the next week. I love these golden moments with my boy who is on the brink of puberty. I know he can't stay this way forever, but for now, he's still my little boy, and I cherish him.

Drop Micah off at scouts, check. Then I get twenty precious minutes at home before I get back in the car for my second run of the day--Lily to voice lessons.

This girl has a way of making everything exciting. She can convince me to stop at QT or Domino's or Panda more often than not. She spends much of our fifteen-minute drive dishing about her teachers and her friends and her classes, always punctuated with a well-placed, "SAVAGE!" when something was especially brutal or negative. Sometimes, she talks on the phone the entire drive there, and I find myself laughing at the one side of the conversation that I can hear.

Her voice teacher is my dear friend, and I have spent many 30-minute lessons sitting on her couch, listening to her teach my children to sing. Something I appreciate about Allyson is that she understand teens. She understands that they need to trust her and see her as a friend so they can learn from her. She banters back and forth with them, asks them about school and their lives, and intertwines breathing technique and vocal control with Broadway show tunes and musical theme songs.

The lesson flies, and before long we are back in the car, headed for home. Lily seamlessly picks up where she left off--more talk of friends and school and what homework lies ahead for her that night.

Life from 2:30-6:30 every night is filled with driving kids and prepping dinner and assisting with homework, but I look forward to my Tuesday afternoons as a special treasure in my week. Knowing they won't last forever, I try to soak up every minute I have with these middle kids who are suddenly my big kids.

Denton Day at the IDEA Museum

These past two Thursdays have been extraordinarily busy around here, and I haven't put as much thought into our Denton Days as I wish I could have. In fact, on one Thursday I told the kids as they walked in the door from school that I didn't have anything planned, and they could do whatever they wanted. Their reactions surprised me.

"Really? Whatever we want? On a Thursday? Well, ok, I guess."

With very limited time to venture far, we headed to the i.d.e.a. museum.

The main hall was closed to update the revolving exhibit, and neither Eve nor I had worn socks (new rule to use Artville--and I wasn't quiet about my displeasure on learning that after we arrived at the museum), so we were restricted to the main art room. I thought they would be bored and ready to leave quickly, but I was wrong. Only a few other people were there, so they could spend as much time on projects as they wanted.

Eve was able to see how the soundscape room really works--since only her movements were inside the dome, she controlled the symphony.

Micah spent most of our hour at this computer, making short still movies of the Avengers and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. A few smaller kids huddled around him and gave suggestions for how they wanted the story to develop.

Hyrum is my creator. He loves to make stuff out of garbage, and this exhibit was perfect for him. He was frustrated that the supplies weren't strong enough to support his ideas, but if you look next to his chest, he has the first two towers of Hogwarts started from toilet paper rolls and egg carton cups.

Eve made the striped heart glasses on the face to her right, and I made the candy cane striped glasses she's wearing.

Next time we come to this museum, we will allot more time--and wear socks. But I don't think the kids would have had any more fun even if we had had more time or worn socks.

Lesson for Mom: Denton Day is serious business for them. They want to spend time together--with me--and they don't care if it's grand and exciting. They actually like it.

I've got a good idea for this week . . .