Saturday #52--Best Gift of All

What an amazing, crazy, fun-filled week it's been. My blog has been neglected in favor of baking, cooking, cleaning, wrapping, unwrapping, playing, worshiping, hiking, zoo-ing, driving, snuggling, cabin-ing, eating, biking, reading, bathing, watching, and enjoying every second with my family. My home has been bursting every day with the laughter and noise that accompany such celebrations. I've been so grateful for every second I've had with all of them.

Best moment of the entire vacation?

All of us crowded into my bedroom for 42 minutes as we Skyped this guy in Peru:

He was so happy, so exuberant, and still so funny. They were the fastest minutes ever.

So, here it is. 52 weeks of my completed "love myself" project. It morphed as the year progressed, and I don't know if I met my goal of loving myself any more this year than I have before, but at least my face was more present here at the Sanatorium.

Stay tuned for next year's goal.

Saturday #51

The first of the grandbabies is here. Counting the days till we're all together for the holidays.

Saturday #49--Attention Grabber

Or alternately titled, "When your legwear blends perfectly with your furniture."

I fell in love with these stockings the moment I saw them. I wore them while shopping the next day. Two strangers commented on how happy they looked. One stranger was a 70+ man who stopped me to say, "I LOVE your stockings. They make me smile."

That's what I was going for, because they make me smile as well.

And no, they are not tights. They are over-the-knee long stockings, like Pippi, I suppose. They stayed put all day long, and I'm hoping we actually get some cold weather this week so I can wear jackets and boots and stockings because I'm cold, not only because they make me smile. Here's hoping.

Christmas is coming!

Saturday #48--Over the Desert and Through the Scrub

Only two of my parents' descendants couldn't make it to Thanksgiving this year--Ben, who is serving a mission in Peru; and McKenna, who is serving a mission in Tempe, AZ.

In case you were wondering, here's how we really are:

It was the best Thanksgiving ever. Thanks, everyone. My family ROCKS!

Saturday #47--Jerome Jubilee

Day late on this post.

We spent our first Thanksgiving in forever with my family in Idaho. It was a great trip--and Brad threw together a quick video recap of the festivities. Enjoy!

Saturday #46--Wedded Bliss

Saturday #45--It's Finally Fall

Fall has been a long time coming this year.

My boots have been waiting.

I've missed you, guys!

Saturday #44 on a Sunday--A Piece of Me

My Saturday got away from me yesterday--kids' chores, big school project, and a few football games as added distractions (Go, Devils!).

I didn't keep very many treasures from my school days. I wasn't very sentimental, and I didn't think those random pieces of construction paper would ever matter to me much as an adult.

There was one exception. Fourth grade Idaho history notebook. I've saved the entire notebook, intact, since I graduated from Mrs. Swenson's class at Morningside Elementary. I remember finding the small scrap of oddly shaped vinyl somewhere equally as odd, and thinking it looked like Indian pottery, I glued it to the cover. I remember coloring the cradleboard and baby and thinking I had the most beautiful baby name--"Springtime." Most vividly, I remember the assignment we had to color the mountain bluebird. I had a great idea. I would cut tiny feathers from a magazine (the only one we had at our house at the time was TV Guide and I searched every page for shades of blue), and ombre the color from tail to head. It would be beautiful.

I started out so small. But I was nine years old, and an art project that took hours was not my thing. The feathers got bigger and bigger, the colors less carefully chosen.

I remember being disgusted with myself when I placed the eyeball--too sick of the whole thing to fix it.

That bluebird is dozens of scraps of my nine-year-old self. And now, I love it. I love the memories it awakens--doing a Basque dance with a few of my friends for the class talent show, recess, wearing my first store-purchased dress for class pictures that year (Mom had always made mine, and my Aunt Garna bought me one that year--a floral print with a burgundy vest that I was very proud of.).

I hadn't thought of my Idaho history notebook in years, to be honest. On Thursday night, Micah was working on some homework, and he told me that he had chosen the state of Idaho for his state report. He pulled out a packet of papers and began asking me questions.

Suddenly, I remembered my Idaho history notebook, and that it contained all of the answers.

I sent him up to his room to wait while I dug through my single box of childhood memories--a big clear tub jumbled with ID cards, snapshots, newspaper clippings, my Merrie Miss banner, and brittle prom corsages. At the bottom was my notebook. Triumphant, I walked into the boys' bedroom bearing the answers to all questions Idaho.

We carefully turned the faded pages and I shared with my boys memories of fourth grade. Coloring the state horse to look like (as I titled the page) "My horse Lady." Fringing every inch of the state flag with schoolhouse scissors. Showing them my beautiful mountain bluebird--Micah exclaimed, "That's really cool, Mom!" He didn't even notice the unevenly cut feathers or missing scraps of paper. I smiled to myself.

Carefully turning the creaky pages, he found the facts page and began copying down the answers--star garnet, Gem State, syringa, Esto Perpetua--written in my best fourth grade penmanship. "This book is a gold mine, Mom! Thanks!"

It was a magical, circle-of-life moment. So much more personal than a Google search, my fourth-grade self was teaching my fifth-grade son all about the state that I love. Never did it enter my mind when I saved those beloved pages that my children would learn from them as well.

And I can still rattle off all 44 counties in alphabetical order, just like Mrs. Swenson taught me.

Ada, Adams, Bannock . . . 

Saturday #43--Obligatory Costume Post, With a Surprise Ending

I know you've already met Alice.

She wasn't that into trick-or-treating. After three houses, she was ready to call it quits. Dad forced her around the block, then she was happy to stay home, sit on the front porch, and hand out candy to the kids.

Can you guess who this handsome elf warrior is? No. He's NOT Peter Pan. See his attached shadow?

Hyrum knew from the second we started discussing costumes that he wanted to be Link from the video game "Zelda." His shield may not have been the same and he may not have had the flowing blond locks, but the rest of the costume was perfect.

He initially balked at wearing long johns under the tunic until he saw how they looked exactly like Link's, and then he was hooked.

Micah was the hardest to costume this year. He wanted to be someone that meant something to him, but he's been Harry Potter before, and he didn't think he could really dress up like Percy Jackson. After much talking and Internet surfing, we decided on this. Know who he is?

He is the Titan Atlas, balancing the world on his back (with the aid of a few strips of velcro).

I loved this costume. I loved Micah's originality in thinking, and he loved seeing who actually knew he was Atlas. He was surprised how few people actually knew. (Frankly, so was I. I made the mistake of calling him a Greek God. Duh, Mom. He's a Titan. Oops--did I ever feel stupid.)

All three of my monkeys, ready to take on the neighborhood.

The boys have lots of friend that live right around us, and their posse roamed and knocked and gathered candy for a few hours. Around 8 pm, they wandered home, bartered for their favorites, then hit the pillows without a sound.  That is the measure of a good Halloween night in my book.

No pictures of Lily, but she and her friends decided they needed to host a big party for all of their friends. Eight pizzas, liters of soda, 6 bags of chips, three dozen doughnuts, a cooler full of ice and a scary movie (Sixth Sense). Over 20 kids crashed at our house, and she deemed it a success. Personally, I couldn't stay in the room while the movie was playing, but Dad was around to make sure they all behaved.

And since this is Saturday, my post wouldn't be complete without a photo of me, right? Well, I surprised everyone in my family with a rented costume of my own this year. Can you guess who I was?

When I stood next to Alice, it was a little easier to guess that I was the Queen of Hearts from Wonderland. I was brave and wore the costume to help in kindergarten (because if you can't wear a cool costume to kindergarten, where can you wear it?), and I wish I had a picture of the kids' faces when I walked in. There were heroes and princesses and one pink bunny, and they all couldn't believe I was dressed up like a queen! They asked me who I was, and before I could answer, one little boy (who will now and forevermore remain my favorite) said, "I know! You're the queen of beauty!" Ah, the innocence of kindergarten.

The costume was really quite cool. I've always had a thing for noisy, shiny taffeta, and this skirt was both noisy and shiny. I'd never worn a corset before in my life, and one of my funniest memories from this Halloween will be me kneeling on the floor in my bedroom, directing Hyrum how to lace the back of the corset. It was hilarious. And it was hard to breathe--never really believed it, but it's true. Eve was quite concerned when I told her I couldn't breathe, and she kindly asked me about it repeatedly, making sure I was ok. Hello. Beauty pinches sometimes, especially if you're the queen.

This isn't the best picture, but doesn't the dress look amazing? It was fun, more fun than I thought it would be.

Plus, Alice thought it was great that we went together.

I don't think she understands what the Queen of Hearts was like in Wonderland . . . Don't tell her.

Saturday #42--Resting the Dogs

It was hard work having a birthday party.

So hard that Mom forgot to make dinner.

So hard that Dad offered to get pizza and take the birthday girl with him.

So hard that the birthday girl fell asleep on the way home (about a mile).

So hard that the birthday girl had to stay home from Micah's soccer game.

So hard that the birthday girl couldn't stop crying from exhaustion.

So hard that Mom made the birthday girl go to bed early.

So hard that Mom's feet got swollen and tender from all of the walking.

But so worth every second.

My baby is five.

Saturday #41

Saturday #40--Gone, Boy

I'm sure you all think my silence in cyberspace has been the result of me dissolving in a salty puddle of my own tears. While I am missing Ben terribly and while I have shed many tears, my lack of posting has not been because of Ben's departure. I spent 8-12 hours each of the last three days writing the final project for my latest master's class. This may sound ridiculous, but my arms and hands were so tired from typing when I went to bed last night that I couldn't find a way to position myself in bed that rested them enough. After twenty minutes of savasana position (yoga final relaxation pose, also known by Brad's favorite name of corpse pose), my arms finally relaxed enough so that I could go to sleep. It was weird, but true.

Because I've spent so much time at the keyboard this week, and because I've written pages and pages of curriculum and analysis (the summary alone was sixteen pages and almost 5000 words), I haven't had the mental energy to process what I want to write about Ben leaving for his mission. I hope to be mentally (and physically--typing this is making my hands ache) recovered enough to write what is in my heart about sending a child on a mission. Until then . . .

Saturday #39--Shot

I made Eve a promise--no more shots until she was as old as Micah. I had to retract that promise.

The doctor's office had mistakenly given one of her boosters too early, and the school informed me that she would need one more shot. It was a tough sell.

After reading this blog post, I tried to remember the last time I'd had a TaP booster, and I couldn't remember.

We got shot together.

She cried for a while. My arm ached for a day--small prices to pay. I just couldn't live with myself if one of my children contracted a disease that could be prevented through vaccinations. And I certainly couldn't live with myself if my child spread one of those diseases on to someone else.

Please please please. Vaccines save lives. Vaccines protect our teachers, our health care professionals, and our children.

Refine--25 Years and Four Pieces

My word/resolution for 2014 is refine. For a little backstory on it, click here.

I haven't made time to fluff my nest in a long time. Family demands and my school's demands have overtaken many of the smaller joys in my life--setting a beautiful table, rearranging my furniture and tchotchkes, organizing a small corner of my world.

Dinner after Ben's farewell talk had to be different. I pulled out a big vase, cut a few branches off our tree, and arranged some miscellaneous stuff into a centerpiece.

Crash.

Twenty-five years ago, Brad convinced me to use much of the money and store credit from our wedding to buy all of the serving pieces and twelve complete place settings of our china. Noritake Spectrum. Wrapped in tissue and packed between sheets of corrugated cardboard, all 88 pieces traveled with us from Utah to law school in Chicago then home permanently in Arizona. They hid in their protective boxes under beds and high on storage shelves until Lily was a baby and I finally had a cabinet where I could permanently unwrap them and use them. I've been paralyzed with fear every time we use them that someone will drop one precious piece and break it.

The someone who broke the first precious piece of my fine Noritake Spectrum china was me.

Where were the tears and the hysterics? Where was the heartbreaking sob--"Now the set is worthless! One piece is missing!"

Much to my surprise, these feelings never came. Much to my surprise, it was okay. I don't think we see the progress we make over months and years and decades because we are too entangled in the minutiae of moments and minutes and days.

I was okay.

I've been struggling each time I look in the mirror or try to find something to wear or get on the yoga mat or treadmill. My face is not what it used to be. My body isn't the same shape as it's always been, and I can't run as fast or stretch as far as I've been always been able to before. I beat myself up constantly that I'm not good enough or not thin enough or not _____________ enough.

It wasn't until I tried to reassemble the damaged plate and changed my perspective to a view from above that I could truly see. The pieces of that broken saucer brought me something I never imagined. Those pieces showed me how far I've come and how much I've grown and mellowed over the years.

They brought me a glimpse of peace.

If I can be okay with this catastrophe that's played out dozens of times in my mind over 25 years, then why can I not be okay with myself? If broken china doesn't really matter, then why can't I take the time to get above the commotion, above the snarled demands of the daily grind, above the failures that tend to overshadow everything else--to see myself as Heaven alone sees me?

Broken, imperfect, struggling.

And it's okay.

No tears. No hysterics. Just see what's broken and fix it if I can. If I can't, then accept it.

It's all okay.

Saturday #38--Baby Steps

I couldn't resist. The pull was too strong.

After my completely ordinary morning yesterday, I grabbed my green smoothie, my camera, and  my audio book (Zusak's The Book Thief--as beautiful as his language is to read, it's even better when the words pierce your imagination effortlessly), and I headed north on the Beeline Highway.

North past saguaro, sandstone, juniper, and scrub oak. North to the small grove of Ponderosa pine where a sliver of my heart is finding residence.

 Piles of lumber and buckets of nails.

 Bundles of trusses and boxes of screws.

 Plywood and support beams.

 All impatiently waiting like me.

 Foundation is poured. Stem walls have been reinforced and allowed to cure.

The plans have been reviewed, edited, and tweaked here and revised there.

I watched as the contractor and framer carefully palpated the concrete like a nurse looking for a juicy vein before pounding a hole in the floor for the kitchen drain--my kitchen drain.

 Workers' traces linger--gloves, tire tracks, an open tool box.

 And these two arches, currently framing mountain views . . .

 . . . and standing sentinel over the construction site . . .

. . . will one day frame two rows of windows in the great room of the cabin.

Our cabin. Our dream.

The temperature, although more comfortable than the valley I had left behind, still hadn't reached the bite of fall, and the trees were still firmly attached to their greenery. 

Still, I took a few moments and sat.

I sat on the five still-curing front steps that lead up to the still mottled front porch and listened to the laughter of the trees as they were tickled by the almost autumn-like breeze. I could hear the years of laughter that will fill the air and see my children and grandchildren as they sit on my lap on these steps for years to come.

Then, reluctantly, I turned the Suburban around, found my place in my book, and headed back to Mesa.

South past scrub oak, juniper, sandstone, and back to the saguaro. South to responsibility and life and those that I love. 

One day. One day soon, these two lives will combine into one.

Soon. Patience. Baby steps. Baby steps.

Saturday #37--Fight the New Drug

Hyrum can't read cursive yet.

 He asked me what my shirt said.

Don't fill your head with lies.

"Mom, that is a FANTASTIC idea."

While I didn't explain the complete meaning behind this statement, even a seven year old understands the difference between truth and lies, reality and fiction.

This is a cause I believe in. Pornography is fiction--lies regarding sex and intimacy that distort expectations and cultivate body loathing.

If you haven't heard about Fight the New Drug, I encourage you to visit their website, like their Facebook page, follow them on Instagram (#pornkillslove) and help spread their message.

Pornography is not a private indulgence. Pornography hurts couples, breaks up marriages, creates self-doubt, and can destroy families. 

Pornography is subtle, easily accessible, and misunderstood. Our children see it on television, on computers, and on cell phones--whether they are looking for it or not. Society has accepted it as harmless and natural, but society is wrong. Terribly, horribly, completely wrong. It is an addiction that weakens bonds between partners. 

Join with me. Join the fight against pornography. We can make a difference, and our voices can be heard.

Fight the New Drug.

Saturday #36--I'm Not Janet Leigh

I have never been so happy to watch the shower door steam up with the promise of clean hair and shaved legs.

Saturday #35--High Above the Treetops

Anybody guess where I took this picture?

Spent a few days hanging with my boy Ben. In less than five weeks, he will be leaving for his mission.

Gotta squeeze in the quality time when I can get it.

Saturday #34--Day 4 With Dad and Getting Back Home Again

I thought I had this whole end-of-the-trip thing figured out. We would arrive at the rental car return before 7 am, hop the shuttle to the airport, check our bags, grab some breakfast, and still have an hour to wait for our flight to SLC.

Note to anyone reading this: BWI airport on a summer Sunday morning is not a peaceful place.

We had to watch two shuttle buses leave the rental station, packed completely full with travelers, before there was room for us. This should have been my first clue that we were in for trouble.

I've never seen an airport congested like that. So many families with so many suitcases and so many different places to go so early in the morning. It was insane. Even the curbside check-in desks had lines dozens of people long.

We took a gamble (and since we hadn't checked in for our flight before because I was distracted talking to the police--you can read about that situation here) and waited in the Southwest full-service line. Forty-five minutes later we had our C-30 and C-31 boarding passes as we rushed to the next line--security. That line was so unending and unmoving that one couple begged their way to the front after waiting over an hour, showing their tickets and saying, "Our flight leaves in six minutes, can we please go in front of you?" Over and over, people let them through, feeling their pain and hoping that it wouldn't make us miss our flight due to our kindness.

Our flight was scheduled for departure at 9 am, boarding at 8:40, and we didn't even make it into the terminal until 8:45. In an unfamiliar airport and with only 15 minutes till takeoff, I was a little stressed that we'd miss our flight and I wouldn't make my flight to Phoenix, especially after I saw the couple who had begged their way to the front of the line walking dejectedly through the airport on their way back to the ticket desk. Dad was convinced that we had time to grab breakfast and his Pepsi before we boarded, and I may have been impatient with him. (Two hours later and somewhere over Nebraska, I was glad I'd gotten breakfast before we'd left.) Laden with sodas, breakfast sandwiches, carry-on bags, one purse and one fanny pack, we made it to our gate just as passengers B 30-60 was called to board the plane.

Whew. We'd made it with no time to spare. Dad, on the other hand, said, "Great. I even have time to go to the bathroom." I think my nearly hysterical response to that idea changed his mind rather quickly, and we were two of the last four people on the plane. I'd had enough of this "last people on the plane" stuff when I'd waited for him in Salt Lake, and I'd thought I'd planned well enough to avoid it on the return trip, but at that point, I was just glad we were on the plane, headed home, even if we had to spend the last four hours of our trip sitting rows apart.

The only non-stop flight from Baltimore didn't fit well with flights from SLC to Phoenix, so I thought I'd do some creative booking (call me travel agent Denton) and ask Tucker to pick me up at the airport and take me to the Provo airport for a flight to Mesa a few hours later. Not only would I get home faster, but I'd get to see my kids and their teeny woman that I love to squeeze so much.

A special bonus:Great-Grandpa Tucker would get to meet Annie.

Naughty little thing--she blew her diaper out while we were getting our luggage, but Grandpa loves nothing more than babies in just a diaper or onesie.

There wasn't a ton of time between my flights, and I didn't have the time to thank Dad properly before we had to leave--a tight hug, a goodbye kiss, and a "Drive safe. Love you." before I hopped in the car with Tucker and his family.

This was supposed to be a quicker way home to AZ.

It wasn't.

We boarded the plane on time. I found my seat in the exit row by the window, pulled out my phone, texted Brad that I was on time and on my way home, and the plane headed for the runway. And stopped.

Then the announcement came.

The loudspeaker crackled, and the captain began speaking. "Blah, blah, blah . . . panel light problem  . . . blah, blah, blah . . . try something. Stand by."

We waited on the plane.

Then it came again.

"Blah, blah, blah . . . It's Sunday . . . blah, blah, blah  . . . mechanic will be here in an hour . . . blah, blah, blah . . . deplane and wait."

Ugh.

Since the Provo airport is the tiniest airport outside of Irkustk, TSA had left as soon as we'd all boarded the plane, and all 97 of us were caged in the waiting area (a room about 30x40) until the plane could be fixed. And who knows how long that will be.

Our flight had been scheduled for 2:30, arriving in Mesa at 2:45 (I love gaining an hour on my way home), and most people had planned to eat when they landed, but this delay and hungry people was not a good mix, especially when combined with the tiniest airport outside of Irkutsk--which has no food options. TSA produced one employee who could scan food into the waiting room, but no one could leave, for any reason. I was one of the lucky ones. I texted Tucker, and he brought me a lunch of PB and J, an apple, blueberries and a bell pepper. Others called Domino's for delivery, and strangers became friends over cheap pizza and airline-provided Coke products.

The loudspeaker came to life again.

"Blah, blah, blah  . . . still not fixed . . . blah, blah, blah . . . captain is in the plane and won't answer the phone  . . . blah, blah, blah . . . "

Four hours past our scheduled departure time, we saw the baggage being unloaded before the final announcement confirmed our fears.

Cancelled until tomorrow morning.

Before anyone else was online, I pulled up Southwest on my iPad, found a flight out of SLC the next morning, called Brad and asked him to use his points to GET ME HOME, then called Tucker and asked if he could entertain an overnight guest.

As far as cancellations and aborted plans go, being forced to spend the night with T and his family, eating spaghetti and talking past midnight, it was a great option. Not like I was stuck in Milwaukee for the night, not knowing anyone in town.

When Karli dropped me off back at the Salt Lake airport the next morning, 22 hours after I thought I'd left it, I was so happy to finally be headed home.

Baltimore, DC, Gettysburg. Stolen property and good people.

Late traveling companions, long lines, airport delays and cancelled flights.

It was an unforgettable trip, one that Dad and I will rehash and swim in the memories for years to come.