The Tea PartyPlace

Love 'Em and Leave 'Em

2012-01-17T12:53:00.000-08:00

I am in the middle of a love affair. It's true. And it's breaking my heart because I know it can't last. I guess we just got the timing wrong...

See, the thing is, I really love my house. I do. I fell even more deeply, head over heels in love during the holidays when I saw just how much it could do. It can wrap its arms around a lot of people and give them all a place to rest. It can invite a crowd around a dinner table. It can encourage people to lay back, put their feet up, and take a nap. It can let the adults talk downstairs while the kids get as squirrely as they want everywhere else. It's a good house, and I love it.

Maybe I love it even more because I know we are leaving. In about 5-6 months we will be driving away from Mesa onto new adventures. My Mr. Wicke has a new job that looks to take us to Southern California (placement to be determined around May) and I am a little broken hearted. This was supposed to be our forever house. The one where we stay and put down roots. That was the plan...

That just isn't how it's going down. And I know it's a good job. It's a good opportunity. And I love California. But I can't help being a little sad for us. Because I'm in love, and not just with the house, but with the people that come and go through its doors. The people who have made this house our home.

The Would-Be Christmas Card

2011-12-24T07:20:00.000-08:00

Something had to give this year. I decided that back in October when, on top of an already crazy holiday season, I was asked to plan and direct our church's Stake Christmas program. Yeah, I said October. Not a lot of time to start a program from scratch, and I mean scratch. They wanted something brand new and "QUALITY." That was the word I heard over and over again. Quality. In two months. Okay...

So something had to give...and it wasn't going to be my sanity. Although that was sometimes questionable between choosing music, writing a script, rehearsing a 60-something voice choir, designing a slide show, lighting, costuming, advertising...oh, and you know...Thanksgiving and Christmas--that stuff. So, after considering some of the items that had to be done, Christmas cards didn't make the cut. After 17 years of consecutive card sending, 2011 feels a little naked, undone, unfinished, if you will.

And then, look what Mr. Wicke went a did. He designed the cutest card we've probably ever had. (Guess what's on his list of to-do's next year?) Except he just did it two days ago. And just for his facebook page, I guess, so you won't be getting it in the mail, but if I post it here can you just pretend you did?

And if I push hard enough, I may even get him to write a Christmas letter.

Who Invited the Grinch?

2011-12-22T08:37:00.000-08:00

For two years running now, singing in a community choir has given me my favorite holiday memory. Last year it was caroling and having the recipient close their garage door in our face (which takes a pretty long time and is really awkward. I LOVED it!) This year, it was during a really weird concert out in Sun City West. It's a long way across the valley to get there, all of us fighting traffic the entire way. When we finally arrive and take the stage, the piano is out of tune, the room has no ring to it, and the audience is nearly comatose. Tough performance, but we smile, sing great and soldier on. Then we get to the sing-a-long song (because every holiday concert needs a sing a long song!) Our conductor turns to the audience and enthusiastically says, "Okay! Now it's your turn!" and one old guy near the middle loudly grunts, "Oh, Lord!" so very loudly that it cracks me up. I can barely sing the next song for laughing.

You gotta' love the holiday spirit...

Trying to Answer: Why Does God Allow Bad Things to Happen (part 3 of a 3 part series continued)

2011-12-12T15:08:00.000-08:00

When it comes to dealing with pain, I'm a novice really. I'm just trying to figure it out, so I turn to the pros. People who have been there and done that, who have not only survived adversity but thrived. They have much to teach us.

The first important thing I've learned is that we must recognize that there is always a choice. Viktor Frankl, a survivor of on of our world's most horrid injustices, a Nazi concentration camp, said, "A human being is not one thing among others; things determine each other, but man is ultimately self-determining. What he becomes - within the limits of endowment and environment- he has made out of himself. In the concentration camps, for example, in this living laboratory and on this testing ground, we watched and witnessed some of our comrades behave like swine while others behaved like saints. Man has both potentialities within himself; which one is actualized depends on decisions but not on conditions...We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms -- to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

Here he teaches that a great stumbling block in the path of every human being is to blame the results of our lives on their circumstances. In doing so we fictitiously relieve ourselves of responsibility--which can never really be--but simultaneously, we also remove our free will, making ourselves victims of those circumstances which we blame. It is a powerless position, and we, who chose agency in the very beginning, don't like the way it feels. It is miserable.

I turn to an anonymous teacher, one who chose not to be identified in an article entitled "The Journey to Healing" in the September 1997 issue of Ensign magazine. She said this: "I am a survivor of childhood physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. I no longer view myself as a victim. The change has come from inside of me--my attitude. I do not need to destroy myself with anger and hate. I don't need to entertain thoughts of revenge. My Savior knows what happened. He will be just. I will leave it in His hands. I will not be judged for what happened to me, but I will be judged by how I let it affect my life. I am responsible for my actions and what I do with my knowledge. I am not to blame for what happened to me as a child. I cannot change the past. But I can change the future. I have chosen to heal myself and pass on to my children what I have learned. The ripples in my pond will spread though future generations."

She has taken back her power through the powerful tool of forgiveness, a much misunderstood topic. Forgiveness isn't so much for the offender as it is for the offended. Forgiveness means giving up the anger, frustration, resentment, blame, and guilt of what is past so that it no longer can affect the present negatively. It means we trust in a God who can and will make things right, that justice will be done, and that we can have peace now. There are things we must all forgive, and the sooner we can do it, the more happy, peaceful, and productive our lives will be.

There also seems to be a connection in her story to finding meaning in the suffering one has undergone. To hearken back to the wisdom of Viktor Frankl, he has said, "“In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice...If there is meaning in life at all, then there must be meaning in suffering.” The anonymous woman, though I'm sure she would trade her past circumstances, may not trade the wisdom, insight, empathy, and self-worth she has gained because of them. Could one exist without the other? Could she have gained those same characteristics any other way? I don't know, but what I do know is that God is capable of taking the ugliest, most painful situations of our lives and using them as our best teachers. This particular woman has given her suffering meaning by becoming an agent for change and a teacher for future generations. She provides a living example of another one of Frankl's resounding truths: "To give light one must endure burning."

Next, in one of the great ironies of life, we must use our agency to submit our will to the Fathers. No where is there a better example of this than in the life of our Savior. A every turn he communicated, "Not my will, but thine." As Robert D. Hales says, "By His perfect life, He taught us that when we choose to do the will of our Heavenly Father, our agency is preserved, our opportunities increase, and we progress." Our agency, the first gift of our Father to us, is truly the only thing that is uniquely ours to give because it is this agency that allows us to choose God or not. He has given it to us knowing that we can wield it to turn away from Him, but if we will lay it on the alter and like Jesus say, "Thy will be done," we are trusting in a creator who dreams bigger dreams for us than we do for ourselves. We rely on the Master who knows more than we know, even about ourselves.

In painful circumstances, we must remember that we are always valuable, that God always loves us and believes in us, and that He will provide every needful thing. In the LDS religion we are taught, "Verily I say, men should be anxiously engaged in a good cause, and do many things of their won free will, and bring to pass much righteousness. FOR THE POWER IS IN THEM, wherein they are agents unto themselves. And inasmuch as men do good they shall in nowise lose their reward" (Doctrine and Covenants 58:27-28). What is that power He is talking about? It must be, at least in great part, the power to choose--to choose Him, to choose His Son, to choose happiness, to choose the right, to choose a better way of living.

Life has a way, sometimes through adversity, of questioning us. That, I think, was always God's intent. In response to life's questioning we get to choose, and what we choose to do determines who we will become; that is our final answer.

In Mosiah 8:18 we read, "Thus God has provided a means that man, through faith, might work mighty miracles; therefore he becometh a great benefit to his fellow beings." I still believe in a God that can work miracles, and I might be a little closer to understanding the real miracle of living. I've come to a place that can dash my heart to pieces, it's true; but through my faith in our Savior's atonement it can be repaired, and while it is being sewn up again I gain patience, and wisdom, and generosity, and empathy, and understanding, and kindness, and forgiveness, a benefit not only to me but those in my circle of influence...Isn't that the miracle? And if the miracle I seek is for him to keep my heart whole in the first place won't I miss what He is really trying to do for me? Won't I miss the miracle altogether?

So I'm grateful for my life--all of it! The mess, the hurt, the worry, the sorrow, as well as all the good stuff that goes along with it. I'm grateful for the miracle that is living and for a wise Father who allows me to experience all of it and who has lovingly provided His Son to make sure I can find my way back home. I certainly don't seek adversity, but I am beginning to understand its needful place in answering this vital question: "Who will I be even when things go wrong?"

Trying to Answer: Why Does God Allow Bad Things to Happen (part 3 of a 3 part series)

2011-12-08T08:12:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to answer these questions for no one but myself, but if you are interested in reading my first two essays, you can find them here and here.

In the middle of our infertility issues, I remember wondering which of all the terrible things I had ever done had caused this to happen, for surely this was some kind of punishment. After all, I believe in a God of miracles. I know that He and His Son can cure any affliction. Clearly, I was unworthy of such a blessing. Or maybe I was just so stubborn that God had to teach me the hard way. Or maybe I just didn't have the kind of faith necessary to call forth such a miracle. Whatever it was, whether in my past or present, obviously the problem was due to some deficiency in me, and God was just going to have to punish it out of me. That was the conversation in my head on the bad days, even though I knew better.

I don't, in fact, believe in a wrathful, angry, vengeful God, but when things go wrong, it's only human nature to find a reason for it, and sometimes when there is no good explanation, the one we grasp at is that our suffering must be a sign of God's displeasure. Suddenly, God no longer resembles a loving father, but looks more like Zeus, grabbing that lightening bolt of his in rage and pointing it right at my back. And so it was that in my late 20's I began to question the nature of God, His plan, His purposes, and my place within all of it. Who was He, really? And who was I to Him? Once so sure of the answers--at least when the questions were much more simple--I was now floundering in deeper waters.

Then one day, as I turned to John, I read, "And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from his birth. And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him" (John 9:1-3). Never before had this particular passage spoken to personally to me. It looked like I was asking an age old question, and there was peace in Christ's answer...but there were more questions, too. Like, what exactly are the works of God? And how, exactly, were they going to be made manifest in our infertility? I still didn't have the whole answers for those.

As I have come to believe, the true answer, I think, begins in the lesson of the third of the host of heaven who in their premortal existence followed Satan and his plan for forced salvation. Elder Robert D. Hales taught that, "Those who followed Satan lost the opportunity to receive a mortal body, live on Earth, and progress. Because of the way they used their agency, they lost their agency." What I find fascinating in that teaching is the connection between progress and agency. Because they do not have the opportunity to experience mortal life, in all it's imperfection, they can not progress. There is a direct correlation there, and it hints, I believe, at what the works of God actually entail.

His goal does not seem to be to provide a perfect life for each of us, but rather to give us life so that we might become perfected. He doesn't seem to be so interested in clearing our path but far moreso in clarifying our hearts. Like a good parent, He knows that what is best for us isn't that we are always just happy. If that were the case He would give us everything we want the very minute we want it. He would protect us from natural consequences. He would shield us from pain. Every real life parent knows how well that would turn out, right? Though we want our children to be happy, we know that focusing primarily on giving them only happiness will actually end in misery. God knows that real happiness--progression, salvation, and eternal life--come with certain costs. Costs that seem necessary in some larger way. In making those payments we have to opportunity to reap gread dividends, but He also knows that it is how we manage those payments that will make all the difference.

Our use of agency in responding to pain determines the outcome. Pain does not have to embitter us. Pain does not have to ruin us. I absolutely know that there is a way to encounter pain so that it can be our best teacher.

(to be continued...because although I have deep thoughts, I have a life that gets in the way of writing them down.)

Whoops!

2011-12-05T09:06:00.000-08:00

My mom missed her flight.

It was a bad moment in my kitchen when, at 12:15 pm she realized that her plane left at 12:25 pm instead of 2:50 pm. I may have heard her curse. Maybe that happened. You'll never hear me confirm it. (Not in front of her, anyway.)

I felt really terrible. I should have double checked, but Mom doesn't like to feel like she is being "taken care of." I wouldn't either. Not after almost 80 years of living. So I try to give her her space. Still, I should have double checked because then it would have kept her from saying, "Well, that's it. I'm done flying. I just can't do it." Four days later I may be close to talking her down from that ledge. Maybe. I can't be sure. I may never see her again.

I credit her overreaction to the two hours we waited in line to REBUY a ticket. That's right. No refunds. No credit. Just forfeit the ticket and start again. It was ugly. And it may have been the wheelchair she had to sit in because her back started killing her after 40 minutes. That hurt her pride. Aging stinks.

But, on the bright side, she was able to spend a few days with her sister and sister-in-law in Sun City. That perked her up a bit. And today I plan to let her beat me in cards. Later I will pray for snow. Lots and lots of snow for Wyoming.

If all goes well, I may see her back down here in January.

(image found here.)

Stick a Fork in Me

2011-11-28T09:18:00.000-08:00

(My brother's going to LOVE this photo!)

We had a great Thanksgiving. Let me announce that right at the get-go. I LOVED it. But may I also confess that I am exhausted? Just absolutely tuckered out.

Here's how it went down:
Week before Thanksgiving: Paint 2 rooms. Move furniture, toys and about 200 books up and down the stairs.

Sunday: Mom arrives.

Monday: Shop for an enormous amount of food.

Tuesday: Continue shopping for food. This time braving Costco. It's nuts, but I bump into 2 strangers who exhibit so much kindness that they reignite my hope in mankind.

Wednesday: Clean, clean, clean, clean. Strip 6 beds and make up 10.

Wednesday night: Two of my brothers arrive with their families. That's 12 house guests, but whose counting? Start baking pies at 9:30 pm. Finish at 1:00 am.

Thursday: Put out a self-serve breakfast of bagels and cereal while preparing Thanksgiving for 22 people. It's eaten in half and hour. But it's really good. Enjoy an afternoon of watching football, playing games, and eating turkey sandwiches.

Friday: Waffles, fruit, and vanilla syrup for a late breakfast. Thomas' family joins us, and we enjoy a game of touch football out at the park. Later that night, I sing in a concert while everyone else eats leftovers. After everyone goes to bed, Mr. Wicke and I try to restore some order in the house in preparation for tomorrow.

Saturday: Up early for Griffin's baptism. My brother Ken and his family head back to St. George. The rest of us rush home and prepare a lunch for 30 people. We serve cold cuts, salad, chips, hot spinach artichoke dip, sparkling apple cider, and lemon and chocolate cakes. Our families hang out and play games. That evening I make an easy sausage & broccoli pasta while my brother, Curt, whips up a baked brie as well as another pecan pie. We visit late into the night.

Sunday: Curt and his family prepare to go. We send them off with an egg and ham scramble, toast, and Orange Julius. They drive away, and I put a roast in the crock pot and baked potatoes in the oven in preparation for dinner with Thomas' family. We attend church. My friend tells me I look really tired. She's right. After church I hurriedly prepare popovers and steamed broccoli. After dinner everyone else cleans up while I begin two lemon meringue pies. I don't quite finish before I have to leave for Stake choir practice. I give Mr. Wicke instructions on how to finish. I come home to two delicious pies and a card game of Phase 10. When that breaks up, Thomas' brother stays and visits. We hit the hay at 12:30 am.

Monday morning: I wake up late. Miraculously, we get the kiddos off to school on time and I survey the damage. As my father once said, "I don't know whether we should clean it up or burn it down." All I know is that I'm ready for a nap.

Bloched

2011-11-23T08:25:00.000-08:00

Last spring I had the chance to visit the Carl Bloch exhibit in Provo, Utah. It was, in a word, magnificent. So inspiring and beautiful. I have an artist's heart, but I have not been blessed with an artist's eye or hands, and so I must content myself with looking at the masterpieces of others. Ohhh, and what a master Bloch is. I was touched most deeply by his sympathy for the human condition. I think that quality is what gave him his ability to depict the Savior so powerfully. That, and this little quote that explains so much of his process:

"God helps me--that's what I think--and then I am calm." --Carl Bloch

I wrote it down on a little scrap of paper and have been carrying it with me ever since. Like Bloch I believe there is a higher power that can help me. And I know when He is present I am calm, even amidst the storm. I think He can help me today. And every day.

I am not an artist. But I am a creator. We all are. Creating and crafting moments that, at the end of our lives, can be our masterpiece. So inspiring. So beautiful. And God helps us--that's what I think, too.

Run, Run as Fast as You Can

2011-11-21T22:38:00.000-08:00

I'm running uphill faster than I know how. Anyone else? Yes, it is that time of year again...when the world falls in love and moms lose their minds. (I don't think that last bit made the final cut of the song, but it should have if it was going for truth.)

Today I made it through getting the kids ready, making the beds, one piano lesson, making lunches, a quick morning pick up, Albertsons, park playgroup, Costco, 2 voice lessons, homework, bathroom cleaning, one bleeding cut on a child's head (no stitches necessary, thank goodness), dinner, children's reading (during which I kinda' sorta' fell asleep...don't tell), family home evening, book before bedtime, one load of laundry, and remaking the bed before I fall into it. And I didn't get to half the items on my to-do list; one of which was
to compose my "Thankful List" this year. Please, Lord, give me time to be thankful.

Here's a short version. This year I am thankful for:
1. a healthy body that works.
2. healthy and happy kids.
3. a solid, supportive, fantastic husband.
4. a mother who still walks the earth to love me like nobody else.
5. vision.
6. a big family that I know I can count on.
7. QT
8. great reads.
9. laughter.
10. hope.
11. dear, wonderful, thoughtful friends.
12. a lovely home.
13. faith.
14. randomly kind strangers.
15. a toddler who is totally entertaining.
16. a son who is inventive, creative, and curious.
17. a daughter who is one of my favorite people to be with.
18. date nights.
19. a Savior who can work miracles.
20. the memory of a wise father.
21. beauty all around me.
22. dessert.

You know there's more. But it's bedtime. I got a lotta' runnin' to do tomorrow. I'm also thankful there are tomorrows.

Things are a Little Off Kilter...

2011-11-17T08:19:00.000-08:00

This is not my house, but it feels like my house.

1. My daughter was home yesterday after waking us up at 5:30 am with these words: "I just threw up."

2. My son is home today. I have a sneaking suspicion that he is not really that sick...but I can't prove it.

3. I am in the middle of a giant painting project. Again. I know. Don't say anything.

4. There are two things that make Mr. Wicke grumpy: cleaning the garage and painting projects. I can't explain it, but they do.

5. My mom is flying in on Sunday. The house--which currently resembles a nuclear waste dump (see #3) must be back in order by then.

6. My daughter had to wait for the dryer to finish this morning so that she had something to wear to school. (Again, see #3.)

7. I am feeling my age. My lower back is killing me, and I am sore. (Stupid #3.)

8. Having the kids home from school is not helping me accomplish #3.

9. Quite frankly I'd rather do anything than #3.

10. Wish me luck.

P.S. A giant thank you to a wonderful friend who read on Facebook that my daughter was sick and showed up at our door with homemade chicken noodle soup and hot rolls. She is Wonder Woman and deserves an award.

Definition of Nothingness

2011-11-16T09:09:00.000-08:00

Renoir, A Self Portrait

Currently, I am reading a biography of Renoir written my his son Jean. This little bit struck me as wise this morning:

In discussing his father's personal tastes and asthetics he said, "A visitor once remarked to him: 'What I like about this brand of brandy is that the quality is always the same. There's never any unpleasant surprise.'

'What a good definition of nothingness,' answered Renoir." (Renoir, My Father, pg. 381.)

I guess the same could be said about life itself, could it not?

Sorry, It's Personal

2011-11-15T08:41:00.000-08:00

Mr. Steinbeck

John Steinbeck once said something about writing that I wish I remembered word for word. I don't. I wrote it down--or actually, I told Logan to write it down because I was driving across 4 states at the time. She did, painstakingly I might add, but that 3 ring notebook has long since disappeared probably somewhere 2 states away. The memory of it, though, has not. He said something about how he didn't write to tell other people what to think but, rather, that he wrote to understand what he thought himself.

When I heard that it was like lightening.

And so, these last few posts, haven't been for anyone but me, really. I'm just busy speaking out loud so that I know what I'm thinking. Because in putting words together, lining them up and ordering them, they suddenly clarify and make some sense of what feels nonsensical sometimes.

That's all.

Trying to Answer: Why Does God Allow Bad Things to Happen? (part 2 of a 3 part series)

2011-11-14T09:39:00.000-08:00

I am not a real time blogger. If I were, I would blog even when I am sick, which I have been. The kind of sick that makes me forget to put homework in my kids' backpacks, or makes me let them watch far too much TV instead of insisting that they read, or makes me take a nap in the middle of the afternoon...that kind of sick. It's been going around here in Mesa. Hope you don't get it while reading this. I shouldn't be contagious anymore...

Nobody likes pain. Most of us do what we can to avoid it because...well...it's painful. And who wants that? The fact that some actions result in painful circumstances is not lost on me. I really like the commandments for the very reason that total freedom is not totally free. God's commandments are statements of fact about natural consequences of certain behaviors. The "Thou Shalt Nots" are shalt nots because those things will hurt us. Every time. He doesn't want that for us either, and because He is a loving parent, he gives us plenty of guidance about dangerous actions.

Those of us accustomed to faith get used to the idea that living with some restrictions actually makes us more free. But I propose that some of us get a little too used to it, and we become somewhat confused in this area, assuming that by doing what is right we can--or should--be able to avoid all pain. Then, when we are blindsided by difficulty, we find ourselves saying things like, "But I did what I was supposed to do. Where are the blessings? This wasn't supposed to happen to me." This is a misconception that will lead us further away from God and from His healing power.

Certainly, obedience to the commandments saves us from the consequences of our own poor choices, but if we believe for one minute that obedience will keep us from all pain, we are bound to be frustrated and our faith will be weakened. As we have already discussed, we live in an imperfect world where we confront disease, disasters, and death. Those are givens, and they will touch us all in one way or another. But we must also come to terms with the fact that we share this earth with other millions of our Father’s children who have as much right to their agency as we do, and sometimes, sadly, their misuse of it will effect us. The outcomes of these poor decisions run the gamut from disappointing to horribly unspeakable, but always it is unjust. It is unfair. However, let us remember that we did not fight to come to a world that was fair.

In our premortal existence Lucifer stepped forward with a plan where not even one soul would be lost. Indeed, it was a plan of rebellion, not only against the Father but against the principle of agency. Marion Hanks taught that: “Lucifer had no love in his heart, no real concept of freedom or respect for it. He had no confidence in the principle or in us. He argued for forced salvation, for imposed survival, for an agencyless round trip to the earth and back again. None would be lost, he insisted. But he seemed not to understand that none would be any wiser, either, or any stronger or more compassionate or humble or grateful or more creative, under his plan.”

Then Christ stepped forward and exercised his agency to support our Father’s plan and offer himself up as a savior for us. To cover our shortcomings, our pains, our disappointments with his blood.

And we chose. A third of our brothers and sisters followed Satan, and we—here on this earth—had enough faith in Jesus Christ to choose a life that was sometimes unfair. We believed he could cover us. Even when circumstances are unfair. Even when we do everything right and we experience pain anyway. Even when it is not our fault.

Pain, adversity, uncertainty, difficulty--we will experience them all here in mortality. There is no escape route. No easy way. As Dr. Carlfred Brokerick said, “The Gospel of Jesus Christ is not insurance against pain. It is a resource in the event of pain.” We will not be saved from pain because of our faith, but because of our faith we can know what to do with it when it comes. Our faith--even in our darkest moments--can lead us to Him in whom we can trust, who is The One who can heal us.

Photo Essay: A Sick Day for Momma

2011-11-10T09:19:00.000-08:00

No sick days. No vacations. No coffee breaks, lunch hours, or paycheck...And I wouldn't trade it.

Trying to Answer: Why Does God Allow Bad Things to Happen? (part 1 of a 3 part series)

2011-10-24T10:49:00.000-07:00

Let me first say: On the scale from 1-10 of "The Most Horrible Things that Could Happen" I live at a one. Really. I haven't known a lot of horror, lucky me. I've had a few bummers to deal with. All of us do. And sometimes circumstances lead us to wonder, "Why does God Allow Bad Things to Happen?" If he truly is God--all-powerful, all-knowing, omniscient Alpha and Omega--then why? Why allow the innocent to suffer? Or evil to go unpunished? Why the needless destruction and misery? Why, dear God, is life so unfair?

It's not a new question. I'm not the first and will certainly not not be the last to wonder what exactly is going on up there in the heavens. ("Hello, up there...Anybody home?") It's a fundamental question of anyone of faith. My own religious faith is so much a part of my guiding voice that I can not examine these questions without referring to it.

As a part of my faith, I believe that we lived with God before ever coming to earth, and I believe the answer begins there in this premortal existence. There we were first given and exercised our agency--the ability to act according to the moral agency which God gives us and to be accountable for those choices.

We lived with a loving Father, whose goal was and is to see us progress in light, understanding, and knowledge, so that we could become like Him and live with Him forever. To do this we needed experience. And Father set forth a plan where we would come to earth, receive a body, choose to act between good and evil, and progress. Our agency was central to that plan.

The Book of Mormon 2 Nephi chapter 2 is an outstanding lesson on the gift of agency, and I'll borrow from it liberally to explain. If we had not been given the ability to choose "we would have remained in a state of innocence, having no joy, for we would know no misery. Doing no good, for we would know no sin." And so God--knowing we would hurt, loved us enough to want us to grow and allowed us to act for ourselves, which would be impossible except that we be enticed by the one or the other. Therefore, it needs be that there is an opposition in all things. Righteousness could not be brought to pass, neither wickedness, neither holiness nor misery, neither good nor bad. And so it needs be that all of these things--both the light and the dark--should be part of this existence. Without this opposition there would be no choice, and without choice no agency, and without agency no progress. And then the whole point of our existence here would be frustrated; we and the earth would be been created for a thing of naught; wherefore there would have been no purpose in the end of its creation. It would have destroyed the wisdom of God and his eternal purposes as well as His power, and mercy, and justice.

This world was put in place to be the best learning lab for each of us. Yes, it is imperfect, and unjust, and unfair, but in all of that it is the perfect place for us to learn discernment, to practice choice, and to determine our responses to circumstances not of our choosing. I am not convinced that God "sends" any hardship into our lives, but I know that he created a place where they would certainly be encountered.

This opportunity we have been given to face opposition may be the most meaningful expression of God's belief in us. Marion D. Hanks said that "He loves us and believes in us and has done and will do anything He can to help us, but He will not impose on our agency. God so loved that He would not shield us from the perils of freedom, from the right and responsibility to choose. So deep is His love and so precious that principle the He, who was conscious of the consequences required that we choose...freedom is precarious, difficult, but we had learned that the alternatives to love and freedom of choice cannot provide the climate for growth and creative capacity that can eventually lead us to a a stewardship like our Father's."

Why does God allow bad things to happen? Because he loves us. He knew we would hurt. That sometimes we would fail. That we would lose those we loved. He could keep us safe, but he loves us enough to let us go, to let us live, to let us learn, to let us grow.

(to be continuted...)

Retreating

2011-10-21T10:38:00.000-07:00

Blogging for 4 years has revealed some things to me about myself. The first being my consistency for inconsistency...but I already knew that, so that's not really a revelation. But what I didn't know about myself is that when life punches me in the gut--or even jabs with its left a little--I retreat somewhere inside myself. Not forever, but for a little while.

When the earth suddenly shifts, I am not ready to talk about it. Not really to anyone. Not in depth. I just need to think. To find that sure place inside me while the initial shock sorts out and the remaining dust settles around me. That's where I've been for a little while. Someplace quiet, waiting for things to settle.

We are in the midst of job changes again. AGAIN. (Argh) Poor Mr. Wicke is the hardest working man I know, but these last few years have been a struggle. (What? Not just us?) This time, due to government cutbacks (which we support, by the way) the research project of which he has been apart for Homeland Security--which was supposed to be a 6-year $4 million dollar grant--disappeared with government cutting educational research by 81%. For us that means that about half of our income disappeared with it. We have about 6 months to figure this out.

Did you feel the earth shift? Shhhh...I need to think.

I've even gotten a little quiet with God. Probably not a great thing, but like I told Him in prayer, I don't know how to pray about this any more. I'm tired...and the words get all jumbled up with frustration. I'm figuring it out in that quiet place inside me. When I get clear, I will be ready to speak. Maybe that is what all this quiet is about...just listening. Hearing in the stillness.

Or maybe it's pride...
and anger...

Maybe it's all of it all at the same time. That's what I mean about settling. I'm waiting to see what remains when all those emotions fall away and I can hear my guiding voice again. It's still there. Somewhere inside myself.

Help Wanted

2011-09-13T08:49:00.000-07:00

I have been asked to present a short class in October about fun and unique ways to do or participate in family history (aka genealogy/family lineage.) I hope they are serious about fun and unusual ways, because I don't know a thing about serious genealogy. I do, however, have a love for family stories, family recipes, old family pictures, and capturing today's moments for tomorrow. That'll be my focus. I think. I haven't figured it all out. That's where you come in:

Do you have any ideas that you would like to share? Or opinions? I'd love to hear them.

The Entrepreneurial Spirit/How to Raise a Capitalist

2011-09-06T09:39:00.000-07:00

Yes. She came up with the catch phrase "The Best in the West." She knows a little something about advertising.

Well. I was right. The lemonade stand left me exhausted. For those of you with Facebook friends from Arizona, you know it is still a million degrees here. At least. I find any excuse to avoid leaving the house, so Friday afternoon's many, many, many, trips outdoors (I knew it was coming) was slight torture. By the end I was a sweaty, dehydrated mess. I was so exhausted that my idea of making dinner was pulling leftovers out of the fridge and serving them on paper plates. (Lucky Mr. Wicke.)

But this little girl? Happy. Gorgeously happy.

She was so cute pulling out the table, setting up the umbrella, getting her supply wagon all ready to go. She took it really seriously. No kidding around.

And, can you believe she made $21.00??? What? Selling glasses of lemonade and cookies for 25 cents each?

I'd post more, but I've got to get outside and get a lemonade stand set up. Forget the kids. I need some bookshelves for my bedroom!

MOTY, Here I Come!

2011-09-02T03:00:00.000-07:00

So...I don't know if anyone's noticed, but I have been posting like a real blogger lately. Real regular and everything. I haven't done 11 posts in one month in at least a year and a half. If I could chart that phenomenon in concert with my baby's age, I think we might see some connection. That's just a theory. I can't prove it because I don't know how to use Excel...or whatever program would make a chart like that. I just learned how to use Picasa. I am on a need to no basis with technology.

But that's not what I meant to be posting about. What I started to say is that I have been posting like a real blogger. I even included pictures. Any day now I am going to get my own TV show like The Pioneer Woman, I'm pretty sure of it.

But not today. Nope. 'Cause today I am busy trying to win mother of year. (Would somebody please nominate me already?) Here's what I'm busy doing instead of blogging like a real big time blogger. (Thank you to the 5 people who read my blog, by the way.) I am making lemonade and chocolate chip cookies this morning because Logan insists on running a lemonade stand the minute she gets off the bus. She passed out fliers and everything, and I have to have the table "ready to go!" Her goal is to make enough money to buy the yoga dog calendar from the school fundraiser catalogue. A mother of the year doesn't mess with dreams like that, so I am going to have those cookies baked, gosh darn it!

Then I have to get the baby down for his nap at 1:00 pm sharp (I am sure this will run smoothly, of course) so he will sleep while Mr. Wicke works from home so that I can go to school and volunteer in Logan's classroom. I ran into her teacher while making copies at the school for the PTSO Smoothie Fundraiser today (seriously, where is that nomination?) and she mentioned how she needs files organized and a bulletin board done...and well, I happen to be really gifted at bulletin boards. (Ahem, I think that is a qualification category for MOTY--that's Mother of the Year to lay people.) But seriously, I can really rock a bulletin board. I don't know if that's an actual major at college, but if it were...Master's program, here I come!

Anyway, after that, I'm going to rush right home, and make sure everything is ready to go so that I can spend the next hour making a thousand trips between the house and the front yard while being bossed around by the lemonade stand coordinator. Then I'll spend the hour after that cleaning up, after which I will make dinner and clean that up, too. And if I don't get nominated by then, well, then I guess I have no other choice but to go back to being a big time blogger (hi mom!) because this mothering gig is wearing me out.

And that is why I am not writing a real post today or including pictures. Ah nuts! There went my TV show!

Pants

2011-09-01T09:10:00.000-07:00

This morning Griffin's pants were too short. And when I say pants, I mean ALL of his pants. What started with "Hey Griff, I have some bad news..."

"What?"

"Your pants are too short. You're going to have to change them. I know. I know. But it's your own fault. You grew last night. Stop doing that."

...turned into a minor fashion show in his bedroom.

"Nope. Those are too short, too."

"What about these?"

"Yeah. Those should work. I think I just bought those...What?! They are too short, too? What size are they? They are size eight. They should fit. Are you pulling them up to your armpits? No? Alright. That's it. You are in big trouble, mister! How dare you grow out of all your pants?!"

At this point, his sister joined us. "Am I in trouble, too?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact you are both in very big trouble because neither of you will listen to me. How many times do I have to say it? STOP GROWING!" They love this monologue. They think it is soooo funny, and what good am I if I can't be funny once in a while.

"We can't help it!" they argue.

"Oh, really! Well then I'll just have to take matters into my own hands, won't I? Maybe I'll make you walk around with something super heavy on your heads. That'll do it. Ooh yeah, and then I'll chain some cannon balls to your ears. So what if you're a hunchback? I gotta' do what I gotta' do if you're not going to listen already..." I could do this bit all day.

Except that I have to go buy my guy some pants...

You know what they say about a joke. That there is a germ a truth at the heart of it? Well, there is that teeny tiny (not so tiny) part of me that really does wish they would stop growing--just for a minute--and let me catch my breath already. Does it really have to go this quickly? Most of the time I feel like their childhood is water running through my fingers, when I just want to catch it, hold onto it, and admire it for a minute.

Last spring, when I attended Women's Conference, singer/songwriter Hillary Weeks shared a little phrase during her performance that has tumbled around in my brain since then. She said that over the breakfast table one morning, the thought occurred to her that we are privileged to know our children as children.

And she's right. I am privileged to know these little people. They will be adults before I know it. They will spend the majority of their lives in big bodies with big problems and big worries. But for now, I get to witness their joy and, perhaps, their spirits in their purest forms, before the awkwardness of teenage years, before the struggle of adulthood. I get to witness hope undefiled. I get to witness faith without cynicism. I get to witness love without conditions. I get to witness their childhood.

I only wish it lasted a bit longer.

Bookclub 101

2011-08-31T10:02:00.000-07:00

Last night was bookclub at my house. I love gathering with smart women and discussing literature. Good food--like Black Forest ham and brie croissants, strawberry spinach salad, and lemon cake--never hurts either. But critiquing plot pacing, character development, voice and learning something about history in the process is enlightening to my mind. It gets those neurons firing again, and I love that feeling.

It almost reminds me of my college days, well...except for the two year old who, in the middle, yelled from the top of the stairs, "I have my shirt! My clothes!" and indeed he did. Many of his clothes in his arms, waving his shirt like a title of liberty.

A few minutes later, disgruntled by my lack of enthusiasm, he was in the middle of the room, "My shirt! I got my shirt!"

"Yes. I see. Go show your daddy!"

He disappeared only momentarily. Next he wanted to show us a giant dog bed that he dragged in from the family room. After that he came in and dropped an armload of his favorite toys in the middle of the floor. "Look!" he crowed.

"Uh, Thomas?" was my reply.

Like I said, almost like my college days. Almost.

Mourning

2011-08-30T04:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we lost a beloved aunt. It was not altogether unexpected. She has been ill for some time, and her body was tired, but that does not make it easier for those of us who will miss her. My heart has been heavy for her children and her husband who face that gaping hole in their lives and hearts. I feel some of that myself.

It isn't that I doubt that there is life after death. That piece of faith has always been anchored deeply in my soul. Other things I may question, but not an eternal existence. I will see my aunt again, along with my dear father, grandmothers, grandfathers and my sweet nephew whom we lost all too soon. What I find myself mourning today is this changing of the guard that we are experiencing. This loss of our sages, the mother hens of our youth, the pillars of our family, the storytellers, the teachers. They are going and leaving us on our own for a while.

And as they drift out of our sight, over the edge of the unknown, my life feels emptier without them. But I wholly acknowledge--as I recollect my youth, my time in their homes, their laughter, their boundless love and affection--that the emptiness I feel now only comes from a richness of which they played a great part.

I will miss you, Aunt Kathleen, but I am better for being loved by you, and that is what I will remember until I see you again.

Love Tour 2011: The Climb

2011-08-29T11:35:00.000-07:00

To the southwest, between Cowley and Byron there are what are known as The Sandhills. Only now, as an adult, do I wish I had asked Kurt Talbot--a local geologist at one point--what formed them or why they are there. To my adult eye, they seem quite a mystery, so unusual is their composition, but as a child I simply accepted their existence as our playground of sorts.

My family spent a lot of time driving through and playing in The Sandhills. Grandma Doty lived in Byron, and more often than not we made our way to her house through the dusty dirt roads of The Sandhills, sitting on the tailgate of a truck. Those were the days when children were still allowed wicked, partly dangerous fun. Our favorite tailgate game went like this: Before leaving home, each of us would choose a toy--favorites, as I remember, were army men or tanks--and tie them to one end of a long string. Once we hit The Sandhills we'd throw them out, and holding onto the other end of the string, drag them as far as they could make it. The one whose toy lasted the longest was declared the winner. Only once was there a near accident when Ken conducted an amature scientific experiment.  Apparently he'd lost his toy early on and had too much time to think. In his young mind he began postulating that if he jumped off the truck backwards, running mid-air, he could, quite possibly, continue running once his feet hit the ground. He always was sort of a strange kid. Anyway, he soon found his theory dashed as he jumped, hit the ground, rolled, skidded, and landed in a dusty heap, the rest of us gaping in horror and surprise. The next thing I remember was him sitting on grandma's kitchen table, while mom bathed, cleaned, and bandaged his multiple scrapes.

That is the only time any of us got really hurt in The Sandhills. The rest of my memories there are happy.  We had a lot of Easter Egg hunts in The Sandhills. Their curious, sandstone formations made for fantastic hiding spots. We hiked Castle Rock more times than I can count, inching our way through the crevice though there is an easier climb on the backside. Somehow, to me, the view from the top is made sweeter by experiencing the claustrophobia of the crevice. On a few of those trips, I carved my name in the rock at the top, along with everyone else in the area. It serves as a veritable yearbook up there.  "Steve & Rhonda Forever. Curt '85. Travis 1991." Hundreds of names and memories for the perusing.

But the memory at Castle Rock that makes me giggle the most is the Memorial Day sometime in the early 80's when Ken, for whatever reason, brought along the giant, orange, plastic trumpet that resided many years in our basement. I don't know where we got it.  Probably from some sporting event is my guess, but that thing really could blow, especially when played by someone who was a fine trombonist. Anyway, once we got to the top, we could see there were still visitors at the Byron Cemetery looking like mere ants to us hundreds of feet away. No matter. Ken stood on the top of that mountain and blew a few long, loud blasts, like some sort of angel announcing the Second Coming of Christ. We watched as heads turned, looking for the source of such an announcement. Surely it was not a reverent thing to do, but we thought we were very funny. Our mother was not as amused.

Many afternoons were also spent at Slide Rock. It was a popular keggar site, as witnessed by the burnt out ashes and myriad of broken glass bottles nearby, but for our family it was a kind of homemade amusement park. "And why is this fun?  That's right! Because it's free!" Using pieces of cardboard as a sled, we took turns riding the well worn rut in the rock. After a few turns, the sand started to break loose a bit and the path could get speedy. One had to remember to wear old clothes to Slide Rock, as at least one person would always go home with a torn out behind.

As a teenager I played kick the can at Court House Rock. I wish I could describe these places. They seem to me other worldly, like something out of Luke's home planet in Star Wars. It was a marvelous place to play Kick the Can. This huge rocky structure surrounded by ridges, and divots, and indentions perfect for hiding, voices echoing back and forth off the walls. Wonderful fun.

The Sandhills were also the site of the oldest joke in our family. The ascent to The Sandhills from Cowley begins as you turn off the Cannery Road. The pavement ends and the climb begins. It levels out, momentarily as you cross the canal, but the final climb is steep, hugging the north side of the hill until the top where a severe right turn leads you to the flat mesa across the top. Right there, there is a rock formation that, as far as I know, has no name. It is large and rectangular. To me it looks like a giant loaf of bread. (But I love bread, so maybe that's just my belly talking.) Anyway, the reason this is important is because going the other direction, down into Cowley, and because of that severe turn, the road can look like it runs right into that giant rock formation. And my dad loved, LOVED, taking newbies home that way, convincing them the whole time that he had lost his way in the dark. "Boy. I am not sure this is the right road. Lee? What do you think?" He'd really play it up. "The thing is, there is one road out here that leads to a dead end. We sure don't want to be on that road.  If you're not careful, you can run right off the side of this thing...No. We're fine."  Then he would kick up the speed just as we were approaching the turn, and it was some one's job to yell, "Dad! Look out!" and scream just as the rocks came into sight. Dad would "swerve to miss them" but actually make the turn down that steep decline. For a brief moment, it did seem like we were roadless, and the poor guy in the back thought it was all over. Obviously we are sick people, but we never got tired of that joke. The more fear we could inflict, the harder we laughed. We were all the newbie at one point. In our family you had to learn how to take a joke.

The Sandhills are full of memories for me. Wonderful, happy memories that define much of my childhood. I think it is that way for all my family, nieces and nephews included. Can there be childhood without The Sandhills? I hope I never know, so we took our children there again on this trip. This time to Castle Rock. Even the baby made it up the monster. It's not an easy climb, and when you get to the top there are no safety rails. As a parents we see this hike a bit differently now, to which my brother Curt's constant worry can attest. It is full of risks. That is true. "Be smart, and be safe," I repeated to the children. But I remember this climb as a child. Just like Logan I, too, was worried about the crevice. Were we going to make it? And if so, how were we then going to get down? And just like her I climbed anyway. She faced down her fear. She felt the comraderie of her family. She made it to the top and carved her name in the rock to prove it. She was proud of herself. They all were. Just like I was as a kid, in this place I love: The Sandhills.

Not all of us, but some: Curt and his girls, Me, Thomas and our kids.

Love Tour 2011: The Adventure

2011-08-26T10:58:00.000-07:00

The Hikers: Joe, Lauren, Devin, Griffin, Logan, Lincoln, Kaysie, Jamie, Max, Jacob, Hudson, and Cari.

There is a little place up in the Pryor Mountains above Cowley called The Ice Caves. As a child, I heard my brothers tell of "going to the ice caves" with their friends, but in all the years I lived there, I had never been. Last year, the day before leaving, I said as much to my brother Joe.

"What!?" he sputtered, as if I had just told him I had never breathed. "Okay. Next year when you come back, we're going to the Ice Caves."

I don't always believe my brother, Joe. It's not that he lies, it's just that he is the eternal optimist and doesn't always foresee the realities that can get in the way. "Okay...you promised. I'm going to hold you to it," I warned.

This year, he was as good as his word. We made it to The Ice Caves, and, as it happens in our family, it became something of an event:

"Ice Caves. Tonight. 4 o'clock. You comin'?"

"I don't know..."

"C'mon!"

"Okay. Sure. We'll go."

This conversation occurred when anyone walked into Mom's kitchen, and the "we'll" turned into 18 people and a picnic supper.

Now, I did say Joe was the eternal optimist. "We'll leave around 4:00 and be back by 8:00," he assured us.

Uh huh. Due to a road closure, terrible roads, Devin's (my nephew) failure to gas up, and Randy's (my other brother) old man driving, we got home at 11:00. In that amount of time, we could have driven the entire length of the state.

Halfway there, Devin says, "I don't know if I'm going to have enough gas to get back."

"What? Why didn't you fill up?"

"I didn't know we were going to have to go through Bridger. This is taking forever."

"Well, you better stop, leave the car here, and we'll ride with someone else so you can make it back."

We loaded our group in with Cari and Jacob, leaving Devin's vehicle in the middle of nowhere until we could return. In total we crowded 9 people into the suburban. Devin and I shared a seat. It was cozy to say the least, and maybe there was a tiny bit of complaining.

"Why is Randy driving so slow???" I whined as we watched him carefully maneuver around yet another giant pothole. We were, literally, inching our way up the mountain.

"Can't you get around him?" voiced another.

"I think I could actually walk faster. I'm not kidding."

"You know Karen's got be having a fit. They love their car."

"You know she's going to have to wash it and vacuum it out tonight."

"Well she's waving. That's a good sign."

"How much longer?" a child cried from the back.

"Maybe forever," an adult answered.

"Are you sure this is the right way?"

"I don't know." The roads are not only primitive to say the least but also completely unmarked. It is just a seemingly random spattering of dirt roads that cross each other once every several miles.

"It doesn't seem right. It seems like we should have caught up with the others by now."

"I don't know. I'm just following Randy."

"Yes. We know. He's taking forever."

"I am losing it back here."

Finally we arrived and unpacked the food. The scenery was gorgeous, and for some reason fried chicken always tastes better in the mountains.

Top Left: The whole gang. Top Right: Devin, my seat buddy. Bottom Left: Lincoln chowing down. Bottom Right: Karen and Randy.

After our bellies were full, we recovered our humor and were ready to set out on the short hike to the cave. Now, dear reader, I have questioned how--or even if--I should share this part of the story. However, I feel the deep need to explain Griffin's lack of pants in some of these photos. All I shall say on the topic is this: He started the trip with pants. But, just as we were preparing to hike, there was a not so small accident in the outhouse. Okay? And after spending some time in there with him and suffering what I can only explain as a giggling fit of hysteria, I determined that we should simply dispose of them. So no pants. Or socks for that matter. Thank heavens for the extra length on his borrowed jacket. That is all I will say about that.

The hike to the caves was an easy jaunt on a dirt path, but it provided views that gave, and I shall quote Anne Shirley here, "scope for the imagination," which was just what I needed after the outhouse. Wildflowers danced on every side, and pine trees stretched as far as the eye could see. When Griffin and I finally caught up with the others, they had already descended to the cave. Logan could hardly contain her excitement. "Mom! Mom! Come look at this!" she called.

It was a curiosity of nature. The temperature dropped 30 degrees once you stepped inside. The floor was covered in ice, and frozen stalactites dripped from the ceiling. My brother pointed out the hole in the floor near the back that connects to the lower room of the cave. They have covered it over with a grate, but word has it you can get a key in the town of Bridger if you want to explore it. I don't know if that's true, but I wouldn't put it past 'em. Wyoming's funny like that.

All too soon it was time to head back home. The sun was setting and we had a long drive ahead of us, which, according to Logan, was the only negative of the whole adventure.

Up from the cave.

But I have to say I didn't mind it at all. I loved every minute of it. Thanks to my big brother, I finally saw The Ice Caves, and it was an adventure to remember.

Love Tour 2011: The Activities

2011-08-25T02:00:00.000-07:00

On one of our first days in Cowley, we experience what arguably was the highlight of the trip: An Evening at the Gams' Longhorn Ranch. My longtime friend, Shelly, drove down from Billings, MT and met us at her parents' house to take the kids horseback riding, BB gun shooting, and haystack climbing. Her dear mother, Sylvia, cooked up some yummies, and we finished the evening with an outdoor barbecue in their lovely backyard. As I sat back in the soft glow of the sunset eating my s'more and looking out over Johnnie's alfalfa field, newly cut, viewing the sandhills in the distance meeting that crystalline blue sky, I concluded that it was just about a near perfect day. And my children concluded that they wanted to move there and live in the country. I can't say that I blame them. It is a lovely way to live. The older I get, the more I am drawn to wide, open spaces.

Maybe someday... But, back at the ranch (quite literally): Although Logan desperately wanted to ride the sorrel, they thought the white horse, Rocky, would be a better fit for her, and it wasn't long before she fell head over heels in love with that horse. She came home to Arizona talking about her boyfriend Rocky. And every time we would drive by the farm, she would wave and call out, "Hello, Rocky!" Now she is talking about taking horseback riding lessons. I have to admit, she kind of took to it like a duck to water.

I don't know if there could by anything better for a 10 year old girl than a horse. And just look at my boy.

Does he not look like he was born in the wrong century? Shelly loaned him her BB gun for the rest of our vacation, and he had a ball! And though it would surprise some people, he was unusually responsible with it. Not one accident or cracked window at Grandma's house. Turns out, he's a pretty good shot.

It was a full day of fun! Catch Shelly in some of these photos. She really made it an adventure for them. What a trooper!

And though they would probably hate me for it, here are our hosts:

John and Sylvia, we can't thank you enough for opening your home to us. It was a delight and my kids will remember it always. Many thanks to you!

Love Tour 2011: The Friends

2011-08-24T00:12:00.000-07:00

Maybe I've talked about these guys before. These are just some of my favorite people--my peeps, as they say--from my college days. The ones that make the whole world a little brighter. After our stay at my sister's, we spent a couple of days with my friend Jen and some of our nearby friends who joined us. I was only supposed to stay overnight, but Jen can talk me into pretty much anything. This time it was remaining an extra day. Admittedly, it wasn't a very difficult job for her, and my mom was gracious enough not to hold the delay against me. After all, she loves these people, too. In fact, they might be as much her peeps as they are mine. The thing about having these kinds of friends, friends that have known me thaaaat long, is that they help me remember my soul, the person that I really am as well as the person I dream of becoming. And in addition to all that, they make me laugh. Really hard. Our children got along famously, and our two days went by all too quickly. The only trouble with these friends is that I don't see them often enough.

And for more entertainment, Jen and I took the kids to Casa Bonita's. If you've ever been to Denver, please tell me you've been to Casa Bonita's. I hadn't been there since I was a kid, and it was like stepping back into a dream. It is exactly the same! Sure the food is nothing to rave about, but, c'mon! Divers tableside? And the caverns! Don't get me started. The kids loved it as much as I did so many years ago. We explored and really got our money's worth, I'll tell ya. (And don't mind Griffin's sneer in the photos. That's his thing right now. You know that thing. It's the thing a kid does suddenly and inexplicably which has the potential to drive a parent nuts, but she pretends she doesn't see it in hopes that it will just disappear like another passing phase... Yeah. That thing.)

Love Tour 2011: The Sister

2011-08-22T12:40:00.000-07:00

Jason (Cindi's son), Cindi, and me

My sister is 20 years older than me. That means she was out of the house and married before I was born. That means we didn't grow up together. We didn't share clothes, secrets, fights, or bathrooms. It's not your average sisterly relationship, I suppose. Throughout my life people have asked if it feels more like having a second mom. I guess that would be a logical conclusion, but my answer is always no. Even though my nephew, her son, is pretty much my age, she is my sister. The only sister I'll ever know, and she has always been great to me.

I give her all the credit for forging a sisterly relationship when she didn't have to. By some magic, she always made me feel like an equal. She talked to me like my thoughts mattered. She gave me great advice about all the things older sisters know: hair, makeup, fashion, posture, weight, boys, dating, and friends, but she didn't try to raise me. She was patient and withheld her judgement, even in my super awkward years. She let me raid her closet when I came to visit, and still does. (She has a great closet, by the way.)

I loved visiting my sister. In my opinion, she was the coolest grownup I knew. She was so pretty and smart and independent, and perhaps one of the funniest people on the planet. She was fashionable and talented, and she lived in the city and listened to loud music in the car. She was really, really cool, and I watched everything she did with interest. She let me spend a few weeks with her and her family every summer. (Which, looking back on it as an adult, was no small thing considering how full her hands already were.) She didn't have to do that, but she did so that we could know one another. And even though I was nearly the same age as her children, she somehow met me where I was and treated me like a sister. That was some trick of magic that I still don't understand. I can just tell you that she did it and still does.

Can you believe that she will call me and say, "I need your advice on something." That's the kind of thing I'm talking about. I don't really think she needs my advice, but I'm totally flattered that she would say that she did. She's done a million little things like that for me, and she's done a lot of big things, too.

There was the time when she paid to have my car fixed when I was in college. That was big. And then she let me have my wedding reception at her house when she was hurrying to finish up a remodel. That was huge. And then she traveled hundreds of miles just to see me in a play. I'll never forget that. But the times that mean the most to me, were those when I was really hurting, really needing help, and I knew I could run to her. When, during my second year of college, I was feeling undo pressure from a guy to get engaged and I wasn't sure how to handle it, her house was my escape for a few days. Years later, when I was struggling in my young marriage, I limped to her home to lick my wounds. In both cases, she just opened her door, let me stay as long as I needed, listened, withheld any judgement, didn't tell me what I should do, just talked with me and assured me that I was going to be okay. Her uncanny ability to unconditionally love and accept me gave me the courage to find my own way.

And, I mean, I don't know. I don't have a lot of experience with your usual sister relationships, but I think that's what sisters are supposed to do. At least that's the way it is with mine, and I'm so glad. So very, very glad.

This year summer we played a few days at her house, cousins included:

Thanks again, Sis, for everything.

Love Tour 2011: The People

2011-08-18T09:21:00.000-07:00

For these guys? I'd go anywhere. They are that great in my book.

Siblings with Mom. From left: Joe, Randy, Me, Mom, Cindi, Ray, Ken, Curt.

(This isn't the best photo we took. Don't worry. There's one where we're all actually looking at the camara. I'm just waiting for a copy from my brother...hint, hint...)

Mom and her girls.

Love Tour 2011: The Sights, part II

2011-08-17T16:20:00.000-07:00

photo credit: travelpod.com

Wind River Canyon, Wyoming

I'll never forget bringing an LA friend of mine home to Cowley and showing her some of the local sites. We hiked to waterfalls, saw Devil's Canyon, climbed Castle Rock, watched the wild Mustangs, and standing in the middle of nowhere, clutching her Kate Spade bag, she gushed, "I can't believe this place! You're close to everything!" And we are, I suppose. Just a different kind of everything. We're close to the earth, and sometimes, as it stretches wide over us, we're close to the sky. Now that I've been away a few years, it's an everything I can't get enough of. I want to drink in each rise, field, cloud, and blade of grass. I have missed Wyoming.

Missed it so much that I watch carefully as the scenery changes outside my windshield passing first through the rolling cattle pastures of the southeast corner of the state. Grey clouds threatening another rainstorm only intensify the green fields where cows and baby calves stand peacefully munching. At some unidentifiable point on our passage northward, the surrounding terrain becomes a bit more rugged. The rolling quality of land no longer rolls so much as slopes and points. The ground angles toward the enormous sky like a mad wave, and rocky masses protrude from the ground. The grass becomes tinged with a bit of yellow and the sagebrush becomes denser, as though the artist of the scene became a bit carried away with dotting those silver green bushes across the canvas. Then just to add some more color, he drew in some wild alfalfa springing randomly along the road side, their purple and yellow blossoms nodding in the wind. It is a land perfectly created for the antelope and deer, which we randomly passed.

Then, soon enough, we are careening through the Wind River Canyon, the river writhing and sparkling beside us. I have always loved this canyon, its winding path between sky high, rocky walls, and maybe it is the closest I have come to understanding those serenity mazes which are supposed to lead one to his/her center. As we wind our way through its twists, turn, and three tunnels, I travel backward in my mind to the many, many times I have been this way before; on school buses, on family vacations, on my way to college, the trips tick off in my memory...always away, but always home again. Centered. Still. At peace.

After the canyon, the farmlands of the Basin take center stage. Alfalfa, wheat, bean, corn and sugarbeat fields turn the arid desert green. Only the irrigation ditches stand as reminders of the hard fought battle these farmers wage. Today the landscape is gorgeous. I am not a farmer's daughter, so there is much I do not know, but to this unpracticed eye, the crop looks to be a good one: healthy, tall, and thick, even at the edges. I wish them a blessing, these fields, the backbone of this area's economy and the produce of our nation. Sometimes, on days like today, when the sun is shining low in the horizon and that golden light slants sideways kissing the leaves and stalks of the field, I romanticise about moving to a farm, maybe buying a cow and some chickens. It is easy to think that life would be so much simpler, so much more centered, so much more peaceful, but then I remember my dying garden back home. It doesn't look anything like these fields, and I have to take my hat off to the keepers of them. They rise at farmers' hours--that's "so early it's practically night" for people like me; they strain and sweat; they gamble against rain, wind, frost, and heat, not to mention pests; they get by most of the time, and then they do it all again next year. Farmers don't get enough credit in my estimation. Tonight, as I pray over the corn on the cob, the green salad, and the string beans (not to mention the sugar) I think I'll thank God for the farmers.

The fields stretching into the distance on either side of the highway are only interrupted once, and this interruption--the ugliest stretch of our entire drive--signals the nearing end of our trip. Turning onto highway 310 and heading toward Lovell from Greybull, there is little visual interest and a lot of dirt. Even by some evil trick of landscape the mountains seem to disappear. On every rise I find myself scanning the distance to see if I can catch of glimpse of my hometown. At last she is in view, and I joyously call out, "See the water tower, guys? Okay...see the big white tower with the steam coming out? That's Lovell's sugarbeat factory. Now look just beyond it. See the white watertower? That's Cowley! Just about a half hour now." And just like that we are back in the land of farmers' fields and mountains. The Big Horns and Pryor Mountain stand sentinels as we ramble downhill into the valley.

My little hometown has undergone a facelift these last two years. The new high school is the first sight to greet us, brashly claiming its territory among the empty fields that surround it. I'm used to the town kind of sneaking up on me, but this big ol' building practically jumps on us as we curve into town. I like it; it's just going to take some getting used to. That and some trees, I think. Once I get passed it, I can't help but notice that the new subdivision continues to grow. Some beautiful homes have popped up on the edge of town. It's good to see. And then, just when things are looking as I remembered, I nearly miss the curve gaping at the big, brick house going up on Tucker's hill. That's a showstopper, I'll tell you. I make the curve, despite my rubbernecking, but it isn't two seconds and I am ogling the new Cowley downtown. It's wide sidewalks and newly planted trees; the stone and log breezeway in front of all the businesses. It's really gorgeous! So gorgeous that I nearly forget to turn into my mother's driveway; I am so accustomed to driving to the end of the block to u-turn around the median, which is no longer there, that I am not quite sure what to do for a moment. Old habits die hard, and changes are never easy to make.

I sit there, in my mother's driveway for a moment feeling a little foreign in this once so familiar place. The kid's scramble out, and I slowly slide from behind the wheel. Changes are good I remind myself. Certainly good for this place that I love, but it does make me feel out of place...That is until a familiar face drives by and throws me a wave. Some things--perhaps the most important things here--never change after all. I have come home.

photo credit: Gary Little via myfamily.com

Cowley, Wyoming Mainstreet, Today

Love Tour 2011: The Sights

2011-08-09T10:07:00.000-07:00

Crossing six states to and from my beloved Wyoming was a visual delight. Perhaps it is because I started the journey taking an unaccustomed route, seeing land that I have not passed in many years, but my eyes began to see, to wander across the hills and horizons, to wonder at the variety of beauty with which we have been blessed.

We began with the mountainous foothills of Arizona. The fields of saguaro standing at attention against rocky crags jutting towards the sky, and though I've always said that I hate the desert, this can not be completely true. I certainly don't hate this part of the desert. There's something wild about it. Something untamed that calls to me. And the color. The green of the scrub brush and cactus against the dark browns, and oranges and reds of the sand and rock throwing themselves up at that brilliantly wide blue sky. It makes me wish I were an artist capable of capturing that savage beauty. Alas, I will simply have to remember it.

Then we traveled on into the mountains of northern Arizona. They are a wonderfully kept secret. When most people think of Arizona, they consider only the desert valleys soaked with sun, but we have some amazing mountains, cool and lush with pine and prairie. When we escape there from the summer heat, we love watching the temperature gauge drop 20 degrees. The day we left it was 118 degrees, so it was more like 30, and I wanted to kiss every pine tree I saw.

The rest of the drive to Santa Fe was fairly unremarkable except for the sunset. What the desert often lacks in visual stimulation for me during the day, it certainly makes up for when the sun hits the horizon. Suddenly the sky is painted with slashes of orange, fiery pinks, and dusty purples as far as one can see. God doesn't skimp on desert sunsets.

What I will always remember about Santa Fe are the charming, old, squatty, adobe buildings of historic downtown. Turned into mostly an artists' colony, we traveled through, around, and in and out of it to get to the children's museum. It is a bit of maze down there, especially when you are pointing and saying to your children, "Wow, look at that!" every two seconds. Both Logan and I were very taken with it, and she decided that she wouldn't mind living there for a while. I confess I daydreamed a little bit about perusing the shops, restaurants, and museums at leisure. Their history seemed to speak from those old buildings. I'd like to spend some time getting to know the voice of that place better.

As the desert began to fade through southern Colorado, I began to contemplate my deep love of mountains. Once, while in college, I spent four weeks traveling through parts of Nebraska, Kansas, Illinois, and Wisconsin. For the first few days in that country I felt unsettled. Certainly there was some beautiful scenery. Even the never ending wheat fields held some interest for me as they danced and rolled under the breeze, but still there was an underlying discomfort. I couldn't put my finger on it, until I realized it was the horizon. The land just dropped off out there. For the first time in my life, there were no mountains in the distance. No mountains between me and the end of the earth. It felt foreign and strange, and lonely. I've spent all of my life in the intermountain west, and the fingers of the Rockies have a great hold on me. In Colorado, they start to get serious.

These are real mountains. Not hills or mounds of earth that pass for mountains back East. I mean heavy duty, massive, imposing, put-you-in-your-place kind of mountains. You can't look at these giants and not realize your own puniness, and yet, to me, they've always felt like a kind protector. Like a mother standing guard over her children. On this day, she let us play through her grassy foothills, so green this year thanks to an abundant snowfall and the spring rain that continued to visit almost every afternoon while we were there. We spent four days nestled near her base, and I felt myself unwind in the sunshine and warm scent of pines. I breathed deeply, kicked off my shoes and wiggled my toes in the grass, only now and then interrupted by bickering children. They were too busy wading and catching water snakes to make too much trouble.

Soon, however, we were off to Wyoming, traveling parallel with the Rockies, never out of her sight. Almost immediately after crossing the state line, I feel it. It's like slipping on my favorite pair of jeans. This giant square marked out in imaginary lines on the planet, this quiet, unassuming, gorgeous piece of property, this is my homeland. She isn't the kind of state that lays out her treasures for just anybody. If you're only interested in passing through on I-80, you're never going to know her. She knows who she is without needing that kind of momentary adoration. She just gives those voyeurs the dross. Now, those who spend a little time with her, who are willing to search out her hidden places? She'll make you fall in love.

to be continued...

Love Tour 2011

2011-08-05T11:47:00.000-07:00

That's what I've decided to call our almost four week trip this year because it was full of just about everything I love. People, places, things...love, love, love. I saw old and dear friends, the kind of friends (as one described it) that you want at your deathbed. The kind of friends that make you feel right with the world.

And then we saw family. ALL of my siblings, in fact, which is no small thing. I think the last time we were all together at the very same time was about 18 years ago. At long last my mother will have a picture with all of her children. See? Dreams do come true!

Then finally Mr. Wicke joined us, and our little nuclear family was complete to make the trip home. Love that guy! We ate giant ice creams, saw ice caves, rode in big trucks, played at a water park, saw the Harry Potter movie, rode horses, hiked, swam, biked, and played.

And believe it or not, I was not ready to come home. That's how much I loved our vacation this year: Love Tour 2011. Details coming.

Home to Nest

2011-07-19T08:37:00.000-07:00

I am home. Sleeping in my old bed. Looking out at my old street. Visiting with my old neighbors. Home.

Smiling, I sent my kids away on their bikes this morning with a dollar each to get an ice cream at The Cowley Mercantile. "Go ahead and explore if you want, I called. Just be careful on this main street." And as I walked back into the house, I hoped they would be gone a long time. Not because I didn't want to see them, but because I wanted them to experience a kind of freedom that they do not know. A kind of freedom that gives birth to an independent spirit.

By experiencing life on my own terms, I came to know myself. I want that for my children. And so I come home and push my children out of the nest, in a place where I know it's safe for them to land.

Letters Home for Mr. Wicke's Birthday

2011-07-13T02:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Wicke,

I missed your birthday. We weren't there. No cards. No gifts. I am glad that your brother filled in and brought you a cake, lighted some candles, and sang to you.

In honor of your birthday, I am keeping your children alive and (mostly) happy. But they miss you, my darling. And I miss you, too. Most of all, I am sure. These summer trips without you serve only to remind me of how much I need you on a daily basis.

And so, if you are sure of nothing else, know this: That your 41 years on this earth really do matter. That our lives would be empty without you. That you are the best father and husband we could ask for. Know that, and then when we see you again we will celebrate in person.

xoxo,
Your Wifey

p.s. Griffin is not nearly as good a bedfellow as you. I have been kicked, smacked, rolled on, and bounced around. AND he won't let me put my cold feet on him. I miss you, even in my (interrupted) sleep.

A Little Over Halfway

2011-07-11T21:55:00.000-07:00

Nine hours to Santa Fe. Only the last 1 and 1/2 were unbearable.

The next morning, an adventure at the Santa Fe Children's Museum. One of the best children's museums we've ever been to. Wished we could have stayed there all day. Instead, we drove an hour to see the Bandalier National Monument cliff dwellings, only to find out upon arrival that they were closed. This despite calling twice and checking their website to make sure they were open due to the fire in the surrounding area.

My conversation with the poor park ranger at the entrance:

Me: I am so mad! We have called all morning and the message said you were open.
Him: Sorry about that. Yeah, there is (blah, blah, blah...something about the largest land fire...)
Me: I'm not mad about the fire. I get the fire. I'm mad that your outgoing message and your website says you're open and we drove 2 hours out of our way!
Him: Yeah. Sorry about that.
Me: Someone really needs to change that message.
Him: Well, due to the fire we haven't been able to reach all of our phones.
Me: (dumbfounded silence. ALL the phones? It's the main line! And does a fire inhibit the internet as well? What is he talking about?!)
Him: Did you see any signs in town?
Me: No...we did not. (As in, "If we had do you think we would be all the way up here talking to you right now?!)
Him: Hmm...yeah...we are going to get some flashing signs to put in Santa Fe, but...
Me: (Blank stare.)
Him: Are you going on to Los Alamos?
Me: How much farther is it?
Him: 20 minutes.
Me: Do they have cliff dwellings there?
Him: No, but they have--
Me: Then no.

Good times. Me just making memories for my kids. Memories that include two additional hours to the 6 we already had before us. Boo...

But the last 4 days have been spent with my wonderful sister and her family. Their home is so gorgeous that my children think they are at a resort. A resort filled with cousins and an aunt that spoils them rotten. They never want to leave. But leave we must. Tomorrow.

Time to get packing.

Great Depression Cooking - Italian Ice

2011-07-07T03:00:00.000-07:00

Clara has a whole series of posts on Great Depression Cooking on Youtube, and I am a fan. She is a delight and wise to boot.

My favorite part is her discussion of airconditioning and our "squawking" today. I think she might be right.

Enjoy a little Italian Ice on a hot day, while we're somewhere in Southern Colorado.

On the Road Again

2011-07-06T03:00:00.000-07:00

photo credit: Dumb.com

We are packed up and hitting the road this morning on our looooong trip to see Grandma in Wyoming. This time we are making our way through Colorado where we will stop and see my sister, nephews, niece, and great nieces and nephews. (Yes. I am a great aunt.) So tonight we will stay in Sante Fe, maybe seem some cliff dwellings along the way, and take in the local sights (if we can leave early enough in the morning.)

The next day we will make our way to Colorado where we will stay for a few days before driving the 10 remaining hours to Mom's house. There we will stay for two weeks until Mr. Wicke joins us; then we will drive home through Utah, visiting some friends on our way home.

Almost 4 weeks of...I'm not sure you can call that vacation...but we're going to try. I've got the movies loaded up, books on tape, treats, and Dramamine, which should make 24 hours in the car alone with three kids do-able.

Send us positive thoughts.

Calling a Photographer

2011-07-05T09:06:00.000-07:00

We celebrated the 4th of July in style. You'll have to trust me on that. We don't have pictures. Nope. Not one. I need a photographer.

Instead of taking pictures, we served up a pancake breakfast complete with ham, fruit, OJ and, of course, vanilla syrup. Delicious.

And then, after pulling the kids out of the pool (cause' I'm bossy like that) we had a little 4th of July program. The youngest four took it very seriously and presented full-on reports aided by tri-fold presentation boards. Oh, yeah. Good stuff. The older children gave it a whole lot of thought and visited Wikipedia, but my favorite was Cameron who pulled his notes out of his wet swim trunks. Despite some missing pieces, he was still able to read most of it. Even some of the adults participated, and Chris finished the program with a rousing rendition of Patrick Henry's "Give me Liberty or Give Me Death" speech. It was enough to make us say, "Huzzah!"

Then swimming for some and a game of All-American Trivial Pursuit for others, which only ended in a tie because we had to get the BBQ going. I think we had just about everything for lunch: burgers, brats, hotdogs, potato salad, macaroni salad, ribs, baked beans, cole slaw, chips, salsa, cookies, cupcakes, and soda. Some people may serve a classier buffet, but nobody serves more variety or sheer amount. More games, swimming, and badminton in the afternoon, and we finished the night by walking to our neighbors for a few fireworks.

It was a good day. A happy day. That's what I'll remember, even without the photos.

Craving

2011-06-28T09:29:00.000-07:00

When I want something sweet this summer, I have been craving Stupid Popcorn. I didn't give it its name, but it's totally appropriate. It's stupid because it is so good you absolutely can not stop eating it and eventually it will make you say, "Get this stupid popcorn away from me!"

Stupid Popcorn

4 bags popcorn, popped, lightly salted, unbuttered

2 cubes butter

1 1/3 C sugar

1/2 C light Karo syrup

In a saucepan, melt the butter. Add sugar and Karo syrup. Bring to boil and cook to softball stage. While hot, pour over popcorn and stir to coat.

Notes: Don't overcook the candy. If you do it will be too hard. You want it soft and chewy. I usually half this recipe.

Sacrifices Unnamed

2011-06-27T09:41:00.000-07:00

photo credit: 21centurywaves.com

In honor of the upcoming Independence Holiday, I am reading Founding Mothers by Cokie Roberts. While the speeches and sacrifices of many men have been celebrated throughout history, and rightly so, I have been deeply touched by the quiet, overlooked, and deeply personal sacrifices of many women.

Here are a few examples from Founding Mothers:

The boycotts of English goods is well documented, what is not always understood is the day to day trials such boycotts caused, most of which fell to the ladies as they were responsible for the shopping and running of the household. One example is the boycott of British cloth. "American women were forced to manufacture their own, another chore added to the already onerous domestic duties of the day...In the Essex Gazette of Salem, Massachusetts, a letter of May 23, 1769 told of the Daughters of Liberty of Newport, Rhode Island, 'serving their country' by spinning from six o'clock in the morning until six o'clock in the evening (39)."

Perhaps it is because I can not imagine adding spinning to my already too long list of chores, but their sacrifice of time and energy truly spoke to me. As did this:

"...the morning after the Battle of Lexington, about a hundred American soldiers halted in front of the house of Colonel Pond. Though only Mrs. Pond and a couple of servants were there, they proceeded to feed all those soldiers, with the help of some neighbors who volunteered their cows for milking (43)."

What an overwhelming job that may have seemed, and yet she did it, singularly and without complaint while depleting her own pantry. Those kinds of personal sacrifices, done alone, nobly performed in the quiet recesses of one's heart and received without pomp and pageantry--the true equivalent to the widow's mite--are sacrifices that speak of greatness.

And what of Mrs. Draper who responded to Washington's call for lead or pewter? "Mrs. Draper was rich in a large stock of pewter, which she valued as the ornament of her house....Her husband before joining the army had purchased a mould for casting bullets, to supply himself and son with the article of warfare. Mrs. Draper was not satisfied with merely giving the material required, when she could possibly do more; and her platters, pans and dishes were soon in process of transformation into balls (44)."

This desire to do more and give all was the power behind the revolution. The cause of liberty was played out on the world's stage, but it began and was supported by the burning in individual hearts.

When it came time to publish the Declaration of Independence, members of Congress were hiding out in Baltimore, each with a price on his head. There they "turned to a woman for the perilous job of printing the document, with their names attached, for the first time. The publisher of the Maryland Journal, Mary Katherine Goddard, bravely printed her own name at the bottom of the Declaration, becoming herself a signer of sorts, firmly associating herself with the dangerous cause of the new nation (45)."

Mary Katherine Goddard, Mrs. Draper, Mrs. Pond--names relatively unknown, and yet names symbolically signed through their sacrifices for a cause in which they believed. They make me want to be better. They make me ask, what can I do for this country I love? How will I respond when called upon to stretch and give for something larger than myself?

How will I sign my name?

We'll Take the Hit

2011-06-22T03:00:00.000-07:00

Softball season has come to an end, and guess who showed? You got it! DiMaggio, you were heaven sent! Second to last game of the season, the deciding game to send us to the Tournament of Champions championship, Logan's first at bat, already 2 outs on the board...

"Why is she so early in the batting order?" I hiss to Thomas.

"I don't think she is."

"Then how is she up already?" I absolutely can not take the pressure, because here's what flashes in my mind: Her face after the game when she made the last out. She was barely holding it together when I met her behind the dugout. "Hey," I soothed. "You did great!"

"But..." she whispered, nearly choking on it, "I made the last out. It's all my fault."

I can't take that again. Can not. "Dear Lord, pleeeease, just one tiny--"

"Strike!"

"--teeny, tiny, hit."

"Ball!"

"--or walk. I'd totally take a walk."

"Strike!"

"--Oh, c'mon! You can do it, Logan. Just take the good ones!"

"Ball!"

My heart is pounding. "Please, please--

"Strike!"

Nuts. I turn to Thomas and wheeze, "This girl is gonna' break my heart." We couldn't have asked any more of her. She was the tryingest player on the team. Always giving it her best effort; always enthusiastic; just happy to be playing the game. I can't help but want to see that kind of effort pay off for anybody, but especially when it's my heart walking out there outside of my body. I see her shoulders slump as she walks back to the dugout. "Hey! Hold your head up. You did great, Logan!" There is little else I can do. That is the hardest part of all.

Then, guess what? Her next at bat? Two outs already on the board. "Again?" I whine. "How does this always happen?" Mr. Wicke merely shrugs and shakes his head. I think his heart is beating just as wildly as mine. We're one strike and one ball in when it happens.

Crack! The sound propels me to my feet. A solid hit toward third. The runner advances to second and Logan is safe at first. "She did it!" I yell to no one in particular. "She did it! Way to go, Logan!" The next batter hits her home, and she crosses the plate with a smile from ear to ear! Mine and hers, a matching set.

I meet her at the dugout. "Way to go, babe! You did awesome! I'm so proud of you," I discreetly whisper to her as she takes a seat.

"Thank, Mom," she beams at me through the wire fencing. There will be no close-to-tears tonight.

Except for me. I have to take a little walk before finding my seat again to take a couple of deep breaths, swallow down that lump in my throat, and talk to God for just a second. Maybe He'll pass along my regards to DiMaggio.

p.s. She got one more hit that game and another in the championship game. A great finish to her season!

How I've Written Myself into a Corner

2011-06-21T00:00:00.000-07:00

This blog is somewhat troublesome. It's a love hate thing. I love it because it's made me practice writing. And writing for public consumption, which has been inspiring and terrifying. And I think I've gotten better over these last four years. That's also a love thing. But now I feel pressure to write something good. And a lot of time I don't have time to write anything good. I'm too busy with stitches and pukey camp trips--both topics that deserve well written posts that may never happen--to actually do the thinking and the coercing and the writing that good writing requires. And so I write nothing. For long periods of time.

And I don't know how to bridge the gap.

So tell me, dear Readers--if you are still there--what is better for this blog. Daily posts that are somewhat mediocre and sometimes meaningless, or infrequent posts that really say something. 'Cause I don't know the answer.

P.S. This blog has also revealed to me my tendency toward beginning sentences with conjunctions, which is not really acceptable, except that is how I actually talk in life. I think. You can weigh in on that one, too, if you want. Acceptable or annoying?

Two Ugly Words

2011-06-07T12:26:00.000-07:00

Potty training. Those two words absolutely strike fear into my soul. I hate potty training. Yes. I used the word hate, and I meant it. So what am I doing potty training my 24 month old? All I can say is:

He started it.

He did. He wants to sit on the potty...well, sometimes. And then he can make pee...most of the time. And then I went to Costco yesterday and stared at that $40 box of 200 diapers, and I thought, "I can't buy 200 diapers. I don't think it makes sense." And so I didn't. I bought the $30 box of 70 Pull-Ups. And just so you know I don't know if that makes sense either.

Potty training, in addition to its obvious horrors, is the land of limbo. Will it work? When do I start? Is he ready? And how many diapers do I need to buy? What am I doing?

That's the question I ask myself most, and there is no easy answer. Most of the time I'm just figuring it out as I go. Except with potty training there is clean up duty. I hate that.

True (Red White &) Blue

2011-05-31T00:24:00.000-07:00

Mr. Wicke and I are both big 4th of July Fans. Big. We love the holiday, and it isn't because we love the BBQ's and the fireworks (although they are nice); it's because we really love the USA. We think it is the grandest experiment in human government to ever live on the face of the earth. We believe it deserves celebration.

I'm totally with John Adams who said: "The second day of July 1776 (the actual day congress took the vote for independence) will be the most memorable epocha in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the Day of Deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forward forever more."

It really should be a big deal. And around here we're already getting prepared. Last year we began a new tradition of watching this

before July 4th. (You can get a copy at Amazon.) Even my children, six and eight at the time, were fascinated through all 4 disks. (In fact, we liked it so much that we gave it to some other families at Christmas.) When I suggested we break it out again this year, they were totally excited and Logan, especially, doesn't want to quit watching. Yesterday she initiated a long discussion about Benedict Arnold and his moral dilemma. How much did I love that?

This year we're taking it up a notch. We are all doing a little research on an important person to the revolution and we'll each do a presentation on July 4th. Kind of nerdy, I know, but that's the way we roll around here. Logan's working on Benedict Arnold; Griffin took John Paul Jones; Mr. Wicke is on Edmond Burke; and I'm leaning toward Abigail Adams. Don't worry. We have some friends joining us so we'll get to Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin, too.

The thing is, my heart resonates with Abagail Adams who said, "Posterity who are to reap the blessings will scarcely be able to conceive of the hardships and sufferings of their ancestors." There is no doubt she is right. No matter how much I know, I cannot feel the heart's cost of all they gave. However, in our house I am determined that we will at least recognize their great sacrifices, their service, and their heroism and live with a deeper sense of gratitude for all they did.

So bring on the red, white and blue, I say!

Sometimes, Angels Walk on Asphalt (part 2)

2011-05-26T00:58:00.000-07:00

..."What?! Are you serious?!" I said out loud to no one in particular. "They are out of cream?! Are you kidding?!" This could not be happening.

"My husband just went to check," a kindly, older woman responded.

She must have seemed sympathetic because I found myself continuing. "I can't go to another store today. Not with my kids." I wasn't really talking to her. Not really. I think I was really talking to Jesus, as in, "Dear Lord, I am having a really hard time being the mom you want me to be. And, as a side note? Your birthday is really wearing me out..."

"Looks like you're headed for a melt down," she said as she took in my screaming baby.

"Huh? Oh, we're already there. (Sigh.) Well, thanks." I couldn't wait for her husband's return. Besides I had no faith that he would come back with any good news. What? They were stockpiling cream in the back? Highly doubtful.

"Good luck," she called as I walked back to my kids.

"Alright, guys. Let's get out of here. Stay with me." They sensed my short fuse and obeyed as I moved as fast as I could while trying to distract and quiet a baby who was past naptime.

The checkout line wasn't much better. What I needed was another couple of arms. The baby was still fussing, the others, while trying to help, mostly managed to trip over one another and end up in my way more than anything else. Just then my bishop from church walked by.

"Wow! Just in time. I'm in need of some service!" I was only half kidding.

"Oh, really? How can I help?"

Although I thought the answer was obvious, I said, "I'll let you have my baby today." I was still only half kidding, but he declined the offer by saying he had five of his own or some such nonsense.

Left on my own, I was gearing up for the trip out to the car and trying to figure how I was going to rearrange the entire afternoon schedule to nap the baby ASAP and somehow still get the cream to make the dessert that needed overnight refrigeration. Not to mention the thousand other details of Christmas which I refused to think of just then. Sometimes being a mother is akin to planning the details of a Navy Seals mission with the happy addition of doing it while someone continually screams in your ear.

I could feel my blood pressure rising and the beginnings of a headache coming on, and that's when I saw the stupid firewood. The stupid firewood that I needed to buy for the stupid firepit I had bought for Thomas for this stupid holiday. It had been on the list for days. The list that was still in need of completion. But I just couldn't go back in there. Bone weary, it was all I could do to get the baby to the car. I was desperate.

I turned to my children. "Do you guys think you could buy that wood right there? Take it into the register and pay for it?" They looked at each other unsure. "C'mon. You can do it! Here. Here's some money," I said adjusting the baby on my hip with one arm and digging through my purse with the other while using one foot to keep the cart from rolling away. "It'll be fine...Where is my wallet? Okay, here! Just stay together." They began to walk away. "And watch for cars!" I called after them.

I worried and watched for them while buckling the baby in the car and distracting him with snacks for a moment while I loaded the grocery sacks in the trunk. Relieved, I finally spotted them tugging the bundle of wood between them. "Good job, you guys!" I called across the parking lot. Right behind them I noticed the sympathetic woman from the dairy case. I silently hoped she wasn't judging.

Instead, as they drew nearer she called, "Did you get your cream?"

I couldn't believe it. "No! Did they really have some?" I questioned as I moved to the children and relieved them of their burden.

"They did. In the back."

"Well, wouldn't you know it. Just my luck today," I complained, finishing with the bags and closing the trunk.

"Here. You can have mine," she offered holding a large bottle of whipping cream up high a couple of cars over.

"Oh, that is so nice of you! But no, that's okay," I gushed as I pushed the empty cart to the corral.

When I turned around she was coming toward me, cream still in hand. "No, really. Here take it," she offered again.

My arms shot out reflexively, my hands waving her off. "No, no. That's yours! I can't take your whipping cream! What will you do then?" I asked as she neared me.

"I can get some more. I don't have any kids with me. All of mine are grown now," the kindness in her eyes disarmed me now that I really saw her.

"But I--"

"Take it. It's yours," she insisted and thrust it into my hands. "Merry Christmas," she said, really meaning it.

I found myself hugging the cream to my chest. A lump had suddenly sprung into my throat, and I had to swallow hard to get my thanks past it. She just smiled, and I stood there, overwhelmed, watching her walk back to her car. Unexpected human kindness is a beautiful thing, and on this day, for me, nearly miraculous.

My kids even felt it. When I got into the car we all sat there for a minute until Logan said simply, "That was really nice."

"Yes, it really was," I wholeheartedly agreed, blinking back a couple of tears. "That was a very Christlike thing to do." I started the ignition and slowly backed up.

"She doesn't even know us," Griffin joined in.

"Nope, and we'll never be able to repay her...I guess the only thing we can do is to help somebody else like she helped us."

And as we pulled away, I remembered that I really liked Christmas after all.

Sometimes, Angels Walk on Asphalt

2011-05-24T22:38:00.000-07:00

"I hate Christmas." It wasn't necessarily true, but the words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them. Maybe it was the surrounding chaos or maybe it was something akin to understanding in the eyes of the other mother trying to contain a baby that inspired the confession in the middle of aisle 8 at Fry's Grocery Store.

She gave a tired laugh.  "I know. And I have to go to Costco after this."

"Ugh. I just came from there. It's a madhouse."  Our conversation was cut short when my toddler threw a fit again, this time as my nine year old attempted to keep him from overturning a number of canned goods from their shelf.

It was the day before Christmas Eve, and the store reminded me of fighting traffic on the 405 in Southern California.  The same miserable traffic that I do not miss, and yet there I was bumping cart to cart in a very similar version. If I hadn't needed a large bottle of whipping cream I would have taken one look at the parking lot and forgotten shopping altogether, but I was in charge of dessert for Christmas Eve dinner, and that required whipping cream. Lots of whipping cream, as only the very best kind of desserts do. Having only too late realized that Costco doesn't sell whipping cream, there I was with one fraying temperament in store number two with three kids in tow. It was enough to make me hate Christmas, and as evidenced all around me, I wasn't the only one.

Everyone in the store seemed slightly short tempered as we impatiently maneuvered around one another through the too-tight aisles, our plans too often at odds with one another. "Excuse me. Sorry. Can I just get around you. I'll just be a second. Sorry. Didn't see you there..." The bare minimum etiquette didn't quite make it to the eyes of most shoppers. There, one could see the stress, the impatience, and the frustration. More of which I would have noticed had I not been chasing my 20 month old who refused to sit in the fancy toy car/shopping cart that he had insisted upon only moments before, the monstrosity which I was now left maneuvering in this mess while trying to contain him at the same time.

"Logan! I need your help!" I begged as the baby darted around the giant soda display. "You go that way!" As I rounded the other side, I heard screaming. Familiar screaming.

"Mom. He won't come!" my daughter whined.

"Okay, I got him," I responded while rounding the corner and picking him up. Putting him in the cart and buckling him in I said, "Now you have to sit!" He didn't like it. The screaming escalated. At this point I thought it was possible that the entire city was in this store, and they were all watching me. It really was a shining moment.

"Okay, guys, stay close!" I commanded the other two. I had had enough. It was cream time. Anything else would have to wait. Upon nearing the dairy section, I found it so crammed that I had to abandon the cart momentarily. "Watch the baby, and don't move!" I ordered.

I weaved my way to the refrigerated door. "What?! Are you serious?!" I said out loud to no one in particular. "They are out of cream?! Are you kidding?!" This could not be happening.

(to be continued...)

It Doesn't Get More Exciting Than This...Not Around Here, Anyway

2011-05-24T11:39:00.000-07:00

Well, DiMaggio didn't show. Apparently there were too many things to attend to in heaven and he couldn't be spared. Logan walked twice and struck out once, but she went down swinging. What more could we ask?

Besides, we've got too much other exciting stuff going on to worry about that today. Lincoln went poop in the potty and Logan is getting braces. That's what we get excited about around here. In fact, you've never seen a girl more excited about joining the braceface club, nor a mom more excited about a bodily function.

We're feeling so good, in fact, that we'll give DiMaggio one more chance. Tonight. At the ballfield. 6:15 pm. Championship game. C'mon, DiMaggio. Be there.

Calling an Angel

2011-05-19T19:50:00.000-07:00

Dear God,

Would it be such a bad thing to ask that Logan get an actual hit this season? It's not that I'm ungrateful. I'm thankful for every walk or wild pitch that has hit her in the foot, but just one hit...that's what she really wants.

I know you've got a lot of baseball player/angels up there. Maybe you could just send one of them to lay a gentle hand on her bat and guide it just the teensiest bit? What is The Babe or DiMaggio up to these days? I know there are bigger problems out there, so if they're busy, I'd even settle for a no name baseball player. Anyone that can hit off an 11 year old girl would be fine.

Anyway, if you can do without one of them for five minutes, we'll be at the ballfield this Friday at 7:30.

Hope to see you there.
Laurel

All I Wanted Was a Family Picture on Mother's Day

2011-05-17T09:24:00.000-07:00

It should have been easy. Just set up the tripod and use the camera's self timer to take a quick picture after church, right? How hard is that? Well, between Mr. Wicke's tie, Griffin's silliness and sibling bickering, it frayed my nerves. Who would have thought our two year old would be the most cooperative?

Here's the final product:

Here's the rest...

Acts of Chivalry

2011-05-16T08:50:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday I went to "Moms and Muffins" in my son's first grade class. It was adorable. He welcomed me with all the chivalry his 7 year old spirit could muster.

"Thank you for coming," he said as he led me to his desk and pulled out my chair. He lovingly placed the paper lei that he had made himself around my neck. Then he showed me his many gifts. The laminated poem with a handwritten note on the back: I love you, Mom. Love Griffin, it said. The hand written and illustrated book he had made described all the things that make me special. (Did you know that I can do a backflip off the diving board and the thing I do best is diving and swimming with dolphins. I didn't either. Not until I read his book. I am much more amazing than I thought.) Then he asked me what I would like to drink, "Lemonade or water?" and he asked me what I would like to eat, "Blueberry or chocolate muffin?" and then he waited on me, and when, because he had to wait until his group's number was called and didn't have anything to eat or drink yet, I asked him if he wanted some of mine, he hesitated only a moment before refusing. "No. That's for you," he gallantly replied. Like I said, it was an amazingly chivalrous day, and I loved every minute of it.

I even wore my paper lei all that day. But, you can't keep everything, which is what I said to myself when I threw the paper lei in the garbage yesterday as I cleaned up the kitchen. I had lovingly stored away the book and the laminated poem, but the paper lei was just too unwieldy. Besides, he would never even know...

...until he returned home from school and found it laying in the garbage can. "Mom? What was this doing in the garbage?" he accused as he walked into the living room, the paper lei swinging from his index finger.

And then I did what every good mother would do. I lied. "What? That was in the garbage can? How did that get there? Maybe the baby put it in there. Boy! I sure am glad you found it!"

And he was amazingly chivalrous as he laid it gently in my hands. "Me, too," he said. "Me, too." As for the fact that I blamed a two year old? Well, I've been thinking about that, and I've decided he can take it. It's chivalry in training.

Teaching Kids is Often Exhausting, but Never Boring

2011-05-11T14:17:00.000-07:00

I love communal worship. To gather together in His name is an inspired principle for many reasons; one that I've already written about in fact. But, like on Sunday, it can also be hysterical. As I was teaching the primary children a song about our prophet Joseph Smith for this year's program, I wanted to make one thing very clear.

"Do we worship Joseph Smith?" I asked. It is a common misconception about our religion.

"No!" they chorused.

"That's right." I continued. "We absolutely do not worship Joseph Smith. We simply believe he was a prophet on earth, just like Moses, or Noah, or Abraham. People who say that, do not really know what we believe. Who do we worship?"

A little five year old raised her hand pleadingly. Looking into her big, excited eyes made me smile. "Yes?" I asked. Jesus is the first answer to every question in primary. It doesn't matter what you ask, the kids will always answer Jesus. Who was Jesus' mother? Jesus. Who came and talked to us last week? Jesus. So I was totally unprepared for...

"Satan!"

...Her parents were so very proud, as you can imagine.

Radio Silence

2011-05-06T14:39:00.000-07:00

Can we pretend I've been blogging every week for the last 4 months? Because the explanation of my radio silence might be slightly depressing. And who wants to read that? Or write it for that matter? Not me so much.

The truth is I think I have had a little more than writer's block. I think I have had thinker's block, because I haven't been thinking much. Really. My mind has been blank. Like a low hum of static all the time. For me, that is not a good feeling. Sort of numb. Paralyzed. Blocked. Stuck. No one would know it from the outside. Life moves on, and I keep walking through it, but inside...I'm stuck on low static.

I warned you. Slightly depressing. And I wouldn't bother to write it except...I don't think I'm alone. We all get stuck sometimes.

Mine feels familiar. I've been in this place before, like five years ago to be exact. I'll just say it: Two year olds are hard for me. (Whew! I'm glad I got that off my chest.) I am developing a theory that all moms have at least one stage of development that tries their souls. For me it is Year Two. And it has nothing to do with that attitude that they develop. Even when I am told to "shop ut!" (stop it) thirty times a day. Even when I get hit or kicked in the face/arm/neck/chest/stomach/leg many times a day. I can deal with the attitude. What I have a hard time dealing with is the solitude.

Year Two is a lonely time for me.

First of all, two year olds don't really talk. They jabber, and I talk. A lot. Ad naseum: "Let's go bye bye. Get in the car. Buckle up.   Look! What is that? That's a horsey! What does a horsey say? Neeeiiiigh...Wow! There's a big truck.  Oh, see the birdies? Oh, no...we don't do that. What do you say? Say thank you. Thank you, mama. Let's clean up. Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere...clean up, clean up, everybody do you share. Good job! What a good helper you are! Thank you..." All day long. But a two year doesn't talk. And then my brain leaks out of my ears.

Second of all, you can't really take a two year old anywhere. Well, you can, but I don't advise it. Because they're horrible. All they want to do is run and touch everything, which means you have to be watching them all. of. the time. So you can forget doing whatever it was you needed to do. That, or you can plan on it taking three times longer than the time you actually have. I've discovered it's easier to go nowhere. But that means I'm home a lot--alone--with no one talking--with my brain leaking out of my ears.

Lastly, there is the double edged sword called naptime. I love naptime.  It's during naptime that I try to stuff my brain back in my head, but naptime also means that I'm stuck at home...alone...still. And despite the time it allows for brain stuffing, the walls kind of close in on me sometimes.

See, some people/moms can deal with isolation better than me, but for me loneliness is heavy. It does strange things to my mind and heart. The silence can be so deafening that it sometimes muffles the song of my spirit. In the silence of Year Two I can find myself wondering if my life has much purpose, despite my own belief in the sanctity of motherhood. I can talk a hot stream of what motherhood means in the long term, but in the short term of wiping noses and bottoms my existence doesn't feel important, and sometimes the heat of my own ambition burns the roots of my faith a bit. In Year Two, I live in a paradox of what I know versus how I feel. In Year Two I feel alone and small, unimportant and unnecessary. But I know that is not true. I know it even when I don't feel it.

Ultimately, Year Two is a bitter pill that I swallow willingly. Because Year Two also brings a little boy with it. A little boy who is fascinated with "gig cucks" (big trucks) and choo-choos. A little boy who loves hugs and kisses. A little boy whose laughter is infectious.  A little boy who is learning to pray. And I love him, even more deeply than in Year One.

And so I take a deep breath and swallow it all, trusting that this season of radio silence will be but a moment.

On Kissing

2011-02-14T08:16:00.000-08:00

I know.

I know.

I promised a story about my Christmas angel today. It is still unwritten. Or rather only written in my heart because instead I am busy putting Valentine scrapbook packets together for the 3rd grade party. And this weekend we have been busy rehearsing The 10 Virgins which I am acting in; oh, and Mr. Wicke and I had a hot date on Friday night, so I had to get my nails and toes done--in red, of course--'cause you have to look good for your Mr.

So, despite my best efforts, I haven't had time to sit down and write.

But...

in the little time I do have, I will just say, on this Valentine's Day, that I want to be kissed like this:

Photo: Alfred Eisenstaedt /Time; Life Pictures/Getty Images/Time

I think every girl, at least once in her life, wants to be kissed like this. No wonder this kissing couple is famous. He seems absolutely overcome and she a bit taken by surprised. Look at that hand on her waist, that arm wrapped around her back. Wowsy. The testosterone makes me a little dizzy even from this distance. That's some good kissing.

Are you listening, Mr. Wicke?

When you get home, we can give it a try in our driveway.

Happy Valentine's Day!

I Am Not Dead

2011-02-11T08:51:00.000-08:00

The rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated. Actually, I've been doing the opposite of dying. I've been living, and so busily, too. Here's what I've been up to.

1) My mom came to stay for three weeks. 'Nuff said.
2) I drove to Utah for a wedding. Super fast trip.
3) I brought home the flu/cold as a souvenir. I don't suggest it.
4) My brother and sister in law came for a visit from Alaska. As it turns out this family loves to party. Family get-togethers many nights in a row makes Laurel a very tired girl.
5) Somehow I got on a Senior's Match email list. No. I am not interested in dating anyone over 55.

That last one didn't take up a lot of my time in the last month and a half, but it is disturbing so I thought I would mention it.

And on Monday I'm finally going to post a story about my Christmas Angel. Do you mind reading about Christmas in February?

Temporary Solution

2010-12-20T09:32:00.000-08:00

Does anyone else have trouble with sibling bickering? Please tell me it's not just me. Please! Here at The Tea Party Place we have two children who love nothing more right now than a good game of "Uh huh, nuh uh, yes sir, no sir." It's not so much fun for me.

I've tried various tactics to get it to stop; they haven't worked to a great degree.

But today...I may have landed on a solution. Well, at least for a week.

Having been out of school for officially 1 hour and 47 minutes this morning, they were already testing my patience. "Alright! New rule. Ready? Here it is: If I hear any bickering--any at all--you get one warning. If it continues, you will each have to go downstairs and pick one present from under the tree to give back to me? Got it?"

"No! Please, Mom. Don't make that rule!" And that was my first clue I was onto something good.

"Why are you already crying? You haven't lost a present yet," I queried.

"Please, Mom..."

"Wait a second. Who's in charge of whether or not you'll lose presents? Not me! You decide whether or not you'll fight and bicker. So just don't do it and everything will be fine."

They walked away only slightly encouraged.

A few moments later I heard the beginnings of "Uh huh, nuh uh, yes sir, no sir" bubbling from the next room. "That's a warning!" I cautioned. And then?...

Quiet.
Blessed, peaceful, quiet.
Even as I write this, quiet.
I've never liked quiet so very much.

How long do you think it will last?

Entertainment Field Trip

2010-12-18T08:59:00.000-08:00

This choir knows how to put on a show! Check it out.

Caroling, Caroling, Now We Go

2010-12-16T08:02:00.000-08:00

This is not how it went.

One of my new favorite holiday memories was created on Saturday night. The choir I recently rejoined was having their annual Christmas party, and as per tradition a little caroling was involved. Singers singing? Weird, right?

Now this wasn't your average group of carolers. These are some serious musicians, and I don't mean to brag, but I will say that if my doorbell rang, this would be a group I would wish was there to provide a little mini concert on my front porch.

Some people don't agree with me.

Like the teenager who made the mistake of answering the door. Apparently, and much to his chagrin, no one else was home. When we launched into "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," I could actually feel his discomfort. He couldn't even meet our eyes. I felt a little sorry for him through the first verse. (Yes, we sang two. As any singer will tell you the whole story is never in the first verse, discomfort be damned!) But then as we headed into the second verse, and his whole body sighed, I began to notice his rolling eyes often lighting on what looked to be the reflection of a video game in the background. Suddenly, his impatient toe tapping began to make sense. What is caroling in the name of Jesus when compared to God of War III? I mean, really? I nearly couldn't finish the song for my fit of giggles.

Then, just a few houses later, we saw the homeowners in the garage, so we varied our routine of doorbell ringing and began singing upon arrival. We only made it through "Joy to the world, the Lord is Come. Let Earth re--" before the grinding closure of the door put a sudden stop to our musical offering. Can you imagine the oddity of that situation? 20 singing people standing in your driveway and a slowly lowering metal door between? I only wish I had had the nerve to rush forward and sing all the way to the ground. Instead I threw my head back and belly laughed. Someone else said, "I think it's time to go home." Imagining the homeowners hearing it all, I could only continue to chortle.

Caroling may have become a lost tradition, I'm afraid. But it's still the most fun I've had in a long time...though, perhaps for all the wrong reasons.

You're Invited: A Holiday Cyberspace Mingle

2010-12-13T08:24:00.000-08:00

I wanted to throw a Christmas party and invite you all. A little holiday mingle, if you will.

Here how it's gonna' work. Leave a comment about yourself here. Include things like who you are, how we might know each other, something you are passionate about--whatever you want--and your blog link if you so desire. Then click on someone else's link, check them out, and leave a comment saying you were there and wishing them a Merry Christmas. Maybe we'll make some new friends and spread the Christmas cheer.

If you were at my home I'd make you wassail and something delectable to eat, but since we are across computer screens I will just send a (((hug))), thank you for adding a bit more happiness to my life, and wish you a very Merry Christmas!

Christmas Serindipity

2010-12-10T08:10:00.000-08:00

What is it called when two random components intersect to make circumstances better? Serindipity? Well, whatever it is called, that is what I am enjoying this Christmas. Let me explain.

A number of weeks ago, we watched our friends' exotic bird, Dexter, while they vacationed over fall break. Dexter pecked me on the face within the first hour. Hard. After that I refused to go near him. The bird only loved Mr. Wicke (who can blame him really?) and spent most of the time when he was at home happily perched on his shoulder. I called him Long John Silver.

The bird did, however, finally surrender to Griffin's overzealous care. Kind of like Lenny from Mice and Men, Griffin can express his love for animals in a none-too-gentle manner, but as the bloody peck mark on my cheek proved, the bird was not defenseless. At the beginning of the week when Griffin complained, "Ow! The bird pecked me!" I would say, "Well, put it in it's cage and leave him alone then! Stop messing with him!" But Griffin could not be convinced in anyway to ignore such a fascination. All week long, almost every hour of every day, Griffin manhandled the bird. By the end of the week, Griffin had loved him into submission. Dexter would render himself to Griffin's hands, quite sure, I think, that any disquietude would merely prolong the torture.

But his rendering did not apply to the rest of the family, especially to our toddler, who, like me in the beginning, was a bit fascinated with his beautifully colored feathers. One bite to the finger took care of that, and for the rest of the week, Lincoln distanced himself from the bird.

Now, fast forward to Christmas. (Trust me, this is going to come together.) I was sure that our tree would be demolished this year. Sparkly glass balls and a 21 month old have no business being in the same room. And as the rest of us decorated our fruit, berry, and bird themed tree after we put him to bed, I couldn't help but wonder how I was going to keep Lincoln out of it in the morning.

When he awoke and we brought him downstairs, he certainly was fascinated with the wonderful beauty of the thing, but after 4 days, he continues to maintain his distance. Staying at least a foot away, he merely squeals with delight, "Birdy! Birdy! Tweet, tweet, tweet!" He has yet to lay a finger on it.

Thanks to Dexter, the birds are standing guard this Christmas. I only hope it takes him longer than three weeks to realize they are not really alive.

She is a Reader

2010-12-09T12:42:00.000-08:00

Would you mind too awfully much if I bragged just a little. Not about me. No. But about my daughter? Because I'm super proud today.

This morning as I was making her bed (and yes, I still make her bed because it's a twin pushed up against the wall and it is really hard to make with her shorter arms) ANYWAY, as I was making her bed, I glanced at the bedside table and it hit me. You know what was stacked there? Books. Generally books that we read together. Generally books that I guide her toward, but not anymore. She has built a stack of books on her own that will take us some time to get through. And not just any books. Here are the titles: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Hamlet, Anne of Green Gables, and Gulliver's Travels. I had to sit down.

And as I did so, I thought of her backpack this morning, loaded with three more books: The Moffats, Marley--A Dog Like No Other, and Percy Jackson and the Lightening Thief. She is in the middle of all three of them, despite my protestations that she finish The Moffats before starting the Lightening Thief (which she persuaded me to buy two nights ago.) "But Mom," she argued. "That's our newest book club book!" Yes, she and her best friend have a book club.

She is a reader, I silently gushed as I picked up Gulliver's Travels and fondled the worn hardback cover. How she came to choose that book I do not know. I didn't put it in her hands. I have never read Gulliver's Travels, but I have a fondness for good books and old bookstores, and sometimes I buy them because I'm like a greedy child who grabs more cookies than she can eat just because someone else will get them if she doesn't. A classic book must have a home. I have meant to read Gulliver's Travels, and it has been sitting on my shelf for some time, waiting.

There it was that Logan found it on her own one day and added it to her stack of books she wants to read. A stack of more books than she has time for.

That is a good problem to have.

On Becoming More Acquainted with Apple Juice

2010-12-07T08:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, as I wrote that little blurb to post, I thought my baby Lincoln was quietly playing in the other room. And he was...just with a 2 quart bottle of apple juice unbeknownst to me. Do you know how sticky apple juice is? I do. It's really, really sticky. So sticky, in fact, that you will have to mop at least three times and then once more just for good measure.

And of course you'll have to wash and wipe the counter at least that many times as well.

And then, when it drips into your drawers, you will have to remove all of the utensils, give them a good going over, wash the trays and mats, and thoroughly wash and wipe out the drawers.

And when it drains into your cupboards and pools in the center, you will have to pull all of the small cooking appliances out and give them a good washing, sop up all the excess and give the cupboards a good wipe down as well.

And then, you will have to do a load of laundry to wash the myriad of towels you have used to clean up the incredible mess that a 21 month old can make without making a sound.

That's a lot of sticky fun.

Sounds of the Season

2010-12-06T09:38:00.000-08:00

I say it every year: "Christmas is eating my lunch!" Every. stinkin'. year. And here we are again. You won't believe it (but you really might) but my tree is now up but not decorated. We haven't started adventing yet. Remember those Christmas cards? Not out yet. Nope. The shopping is somewhere in the middle of completion.

Here's what I've been doing instead.

See that person in the middle with her arms up? That's me leading our primary children in song. They sang three numbers for our church's Christmas party, and they were fantastic!

And I got to sing with these guys for their holiday concert because I rejoined this choir which means I get to sing really great music with really great people, and despite not having my tree decorated and my shopping not done and my cards still sitting on my counter, I have really felt the Christmas spirit. There is nothing like singing "Hallelujah! Hallelujah! For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth. Hallelujah! And He shall reign forever and ever! King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Forever, and ever, and ever. Hallelujah!" to joy in the Season of His birth, and watching children sing with their sweet innocence, "On this night a King is born in a cattle shed," to really feel what it means.

And last night, while we were singing Silent Night with the lush sound of a full symphony orchestra accompanying us, I looked out into the audience to see a man quietly weeping, tears just running down his face. Immediately, I was reminded what it meant, personally, that our Savior did come on a silent night, most holy night. And then my heart rose up in a simple prayer, "Thank you, Jesus. Thank you."

And now...for your listening pleasure....

Ready to Order?

2010-12-01T08:32:00.000-08:00

I woke up today with the realization that it is December 1st. I'm not ready. I say that every year, despite the fact that every year I really try to get ready. This year, as you may recall, I even ordered my Christmas cards early. But they are not done yet. This year, I even started shopping earlier. It doesn't mean I'm any closer to being finished. In fact, I have not yet even decided if we are going to give Logan and Griffin the cornsnake and tortoise, upon which decision the pattern of Christmas shopping depends.

However, I am glad I started earlier this year because if I hadn't I'd really be in the weeds. Just to make myself crazy, I took on two enormous projects: Writing and editing a family cookbook for the holidays and repainting my kitchen and family room. Finally I got rid of that gold paint that has been really bugging me. I spent Friday and Saturday after Thanksgiving painting my guts out while Mr. Wicke entertained the kiddos. I'm not sure about the timing of the whole effort, but I did it, and I love the new color.

Now if I could only get my house back in order and feel ready for Dec. 1st.

Gratitude List 2010

2010-11-26T08:43:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving may be fast becoming one of my favorite holidays. I love the tradition and simplicity of it: the idea of setting aside a day to recall your blessings. So here's a partial list this year, in no particular order.

I am grateful for:
1. healthy kiddos, and thus, by correlation, their fingerprints on walls and tables, extra messes, and laundry as well.
2. an unselfish and thoughtful spouse.
3. a dog who is super loyal and patient, even though I don't have enough time for her, and I constantly call her a him.
4. a mother who loves me to the moon and back again.
5. a curious nature.
6. good books.
7. great teachers for my kiddos.
8. baby talk (from real live babies, never ever from adults).
9. 40 years on this amazing planet.
10. girl friends who support me and inspire me.
11. our nation.
12. our founding fathers.
13. my ancestors and their many sacrifices.
14. truth, faith, and everything in between.
15. my Savior.
16. a comfortable bed.
17. saturday morning breakfasts.
18. Sesame Street.
19. the moments when my children aren't bickering.
20. the ease and comfort of living in the 21st century.
21. siblings who make me laugh.
22. good neighbors.
23. blog writers who inspire me.
24. friends I've never met (that may be YOU).
25. technology, even though it makes me feel super old.
26. sunshine.
27. the Bible and the Book of Mormon.
28. laughter.
29. more time to practice being better.
30. freedom.
31. education.
32. compassion.
33. heavenly guidance.
34. do-overs.
35. hugs and kisses from my kiddos.
36. hugs and kisses from my Mr.
37. old friends who are still in my life and continue to make it better.
38. home.

Soccer 2010

2010-11-22T10:22:00.000-08:00

It's over. (Sigh of relief.) It's not that I don't like soccer...well, maybe I don't like soccer. But as long as my kids like soccer I'll be out there. Even if I alledgedly say something like, "Hey, Griff! I did not come out here to watch you stand around." Maybe I might have said that...once.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

2010-11-18T15:58:00.000-08:00

I remember quite clearly the day I lost my vanity. It was perhaps a year or so ago. We were out to eat, and at the end of the meal I excused myself to use the restroom. Upon returning to the table, I had a fleeting thought about the condition of my lipstick. And then it hit me: I'd just been face to face with a giant mirror, and I hadn't even taken a peek at my reflection. Not even a glance to check my lipstick or adjust my hair while washing my hands, my face a mere twelve inches away from the glass.

How often does that happen?

I am no Narcissus, gazing forever at my own reflection, but I have logged countless hours makeuping, grooming, picking, plucking,washing, and viewing this face. I used to worry about this face, disliking my nose and always trying to cover up that pesky skin. And the hair. Oh, the hair. Give me one teenage girl that hasn't thrown a brush across the room in utter frustration.

And then, last year at the restaurant I didn't even give this face a second thought. I don't know what else I was busy doing or thinking, but it wasn't about this face. Not any more.

Don't get me wrong, I still make up and wash and comb and groom and fight wrinkles. I'm a big believer in putting my best face forward, but I like this new season of life where I fix it and forget it. This season of life where other things are more important than the physical me.

And I wonder how I got here. Is it the children that have given me a new perspective? Having children has certainly forced a little more selfishness out of me, that's for sure, but they've also taught me how much richer my life can be when living for something beyond myself. My children are ever present, either physically or mentally. They have usurped all the empty, nonsensical space in my life, and some of the already filled space as well, to be honest. It is exhausting sometimes, but there is something freeing in it, too. As much as I may give up of myself in this mothering gig, I've also given up some pretty petty concerns. I see life beyond myself. That's a gift.

Perhaps, too, it is my age. After 40 years, I've made peace with this face and the rest of me as well. Maybe there is something to this aging thing. Maybe it just takes this long to settle into one's skin.

But whatever it is, that night, at the restaurant? I smiled. Because I know one thing for sure, and that is that this face--this body--is not the essence of me. It is simply the shell I walk around in. The real me is much bigger and deeper than I can comprehend and vanity has no place in it. In fact, the temptation to judge ourselves based on our outward appearance robs us. It keeps us from knowing who we really are, for we are so much more than we see.

My relationship with the mirror is a funny balance as are so many things in life. Sometimes I celebrate the looking--in the acceptance of this face and this body; in the desire to care for it rather than the wish to change it; in feeling gratitude for it rather than pining for something very different. In that way I celebrate the looking. And I think that is possible because of the not looking, and so I celebrate that, too.

I don't, actually, think it is possible for vanity, or ego, or pride, or selfishness to fall away in one night. I think it is a process that has been a long time at work, and I'm sure I'm not done yet. But I got a glimpse of how far I have come in not glimpsing myself at all.

So Cool

2010-11-15T20:19:00.000-08:00

This girl, right here,

is really, really cool.

At first I thought her name, which I saw on a mutual friend's blog, was cool.
So I checked her blog out.
And then, it turned out that I liked not only her name, but her brain, too.

I really, really like her brain. 'Cause the things she says make me go, "Yeah. That's right!" and they make me laugh, and cry, and nod my head, and feel inspired.

And I pretty much want to read everything she writes. She's that good.
And she wrote a book.

Yes, she did!

And it's really, really cool.
Check it out here.

And someday, we're gonna' do lunch. How's that for cool?

Holiday Progress

2010-11-12T13:22:00.000-08:00

So you know when I'm freaking out about how much there is to do for the upcoming holidays, the only thing that can be done is to get started and check some of those items off the list. That's what I've been doing. Let me give you one example to illustrate how well it is going.

I ordered my holiday cards from Costco this year. Homemade was not going to happen. Something's got to give. AND our picture does not look holiday-ish at all--I don't care. Got it done. So I order them to pick up the next day. Of course there is no school, but being the unrealistic-optimist that I am, I think I'll kill two birds with one stone and grab a quick Costco lunch and pick up the cards. Bwahahahahahaha.

Nothing happens quickly with kids. Nothing. Especially when they bring a friend. And especially when the snowbirds are out in abundance giving you very dirty looks about said kids who have the audacity to dance around, and get excited, and don't look where they're going. Basically acting like kids. I guess kids annoy a lot of old people. Whatever.

So we finally get the lunch, go to get the pictures when Griffin informs me he has to "go." Number two. Fantastic. Did I say we were going to get this done quickly?

After the bathroom we finally we get through checkout. The line out the door is forever long. Baby is now melting down in the cart. I'm just trying to keep track of the other three, when I look down and see that baby has spilled soda all over the Christmas cards.

Yup.

That's how it's going.

I managed to salvage them, but if you get a card with a little soda stain on the envelope, you'll know the rest of the story.

Holiday Hyperventilation

2010-11-08T07:45:00.000-08:00

I woke up at 6:15 am on November 1st in a panic. My eyes flew open before the alarm and my heart was already racing. I don't know what kind of dreaming was going on, but I was half-way through making my holiday to do list.

The panic has not yet subsided.

There is so much to do at this time of year. Not only do we have Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, but three birthdays, and--Hey!--let's throw in Veteran's Day! Why not! We need one more holiday packed in there. Between that, Thanksgiving, and professional learning days, my kids don't have a full week of school the entire month. That's messing with my schedule.

If I think of everything that needs to be accomplished, I start hyperventilating, so I try to limit that to just once a day, just to get the plan in motion. The rest of the time I am just focusing on the task at hand.

This week? Finishing Christmas Cards and Mom's exciting but enormous Christmas project.

We can do it. Right?

The Bargain's in the Eye of the Beholder

2010-11-02T10:24:00.000-07:00

I thought it was a joke when I saw the giant produce box of over-ripe bananas sitting on my counter. I really did. But I should have known better.

"Only a dollar!" Mr. Wicke brags. There is nothing my man loves more than a good bargain. A close second is food. Now you put those two together, and we are talking about a heady kind of euphoria.

He shops a grocery store as most women browse the mall, picking up whatever catches his eye. There are things I never, ever buy and yet we are always stocked (or overstocked) with cold cereal, ice cream, jello, cake mixes, canned frosting, cottage cheese, cool whip, and Kool-Aid. Some of these items don't even register in my consciousness, but one look at my pantry would convince you otherwise.

Stopping by the grocery on a whim or to pick up a real steal, Mr. Wicke will return home from work with bags of goodies; then the real fun begins. We get to play the game, "Guess How Much This Cost?" It goes something like this:

"Guess how much this cost?"

"Uhhhh, $25.00."

"No!" he crows, joy radiating from every cell in his body.

"Uhhh...$18.00."

"Lower!" he nearly sings.

"I give up."

"$3.00! And guess how much I saved?!"

"I don't know."

"Four hundred and eighty-three dollars and ninety two cents!"

Something like that, anyway. And then the real fun begins because I get to play, "What the Heck Can I Make With This Stuff Anyway?" Inside the bags will be rice, motor oil, nutmeg, Jell-o, and Kool-Aid, of course. So then I have to go to the store and spend the $400 he saved so we can actually eat. But it makes him happy, so...whatever.

But the bananas?

"A dollar?" I repeat far less enthusiasm. "What am I supposed to do with an entire box of rotting bananas?"

"Banana bread?" he gapes as though the answer was so obvious.

"Two loaves of banana bread takes 3 bananas. There are like 15 bunches in there!"

And did I mention that this is the Friday before Halloween? As if I have time to makes loaves of banana bread! I've got a school party to run, costumes to pull together, candy to buy, cupcakes to make, a side-dish to make, decorations to gather, pumpkins to carve and now banana bread? Loaves and loaves and loaves of banana bread? Who needs this kind of pressure?!

Oh, and I know. You can freeze bananas...but only if your freezer isn't full of FIVE GALLONS OF ICE CREAM! There was not even enough room for the NINE LOAVES of frozen bread dough that he ALSO brought home because IT WAS SUCH A GREAT DEAL. I had to cook those up on Saturday and take them to the church Trunk-or-Treat just to get rid of them.

I am drowning in good deals around here. Good deals and loads of bananas. And those great deals are costing me my sanity. I'd take time for the breakdown I deserve, but I've got banana bread to make...and banana muffins, and banana chocolate cookies...and banana....well, you get the idea.

Advice to a New Mother

2010-10-29T10:24:00.000-07:00

This is a copy of a letter I recently wrote to my niece who is expecting twins. This last week she has been in the hospital trying to keep those babies in her tummy as long as possible and giving them the best chance at starting this life well. I am thinking of her, praying for her, and sending positive vibrations in her direction.

Dear Erica,

You are on my mind a lot these days, what with your new adventure beginning shortly. I have only been mothering for nine years now, so I certainly don’t know everything, but I can tell you this: There is not another job on the planet that is neither more meaningful nor more sacred. Yes, it is demanding. Mothering has caused me to stretch in every direction, and that kind of growth is always accompanied by growing pains. But, building a human being from the ground up? What is more important or more exciting than that?!

That feeling, though, of being wholly responsible for another was at first somewhat overwhelming. Maybe you’ll feel the same way. I didn’t feel prepared. I knew I didn’t know enough, knew I didn’t have all the answers, knew I wasn’t smart enough, or wise enough, or brave enough, or tender enough to give these little people everything they would need. And that’s all probably true.

BUT…here is something else I have learned: Something incredibly holy happens when they place those babies in your arms. I believe, with all of a mother’s heart, that at that moment, you are anointed and set apart for that sacred calling that is specifically yours to mother that child. What does that mean? That means that there is no one, on earth, that will be able to mother that child better than you, for only you will have the insight of Heaven regarding that child.

Of course this all depends on a mother’s willingness. But I promise that as you pray, as you seek Divine guidance, God will give you inspiration. He will tell you what these babies need. He will give you more ability to do what they need than you have on your own. And here’s the miracle: Christ’s atonement will cover your natural failings. God knows we won’t be perfect, and that’s okay. He already has that covered. He just expects that we will do our best. That we will love them unconditionally. He can make up the rest.

I know I sound super religious, but I can not talk about mothering outside of a spiritual context. It is the most sacred thing I have ever done. It, above all else, has driven me to my knees, and I have found that God honors mother’s prayers. I believe there are angels sent to help us. He loved these children first. He wants the best for them. He will help us in all that we do.

Okay, now for some hands-on advice. See? Your mother made a huge mistake in asking me to write advice. You know I’ve never had an opinion I didn’t like! ;0) But these are some things that have really helped me.

1. Look to mothers whom you admire. Borrow their best ideas.

2. Protect sleep—both yours and the babies’. Do everything you can to make sure all of you are well rested. Sometimes, especially in the beginning, this seems like an impossibility, but nap when you can, and do what you can to get them on a schedule. Sleep time saves sanity!

3. The best advice I got when I was a brand new mother was this: “Do everything you can to build a good relationship between your children and their father.” I have found great success in this bit of wisdom. You will be with your child far more often than Justin. It’s just the way it is. Teach them to love their Daddy. Not only is it important for their development, but it gives you a much needed break. Some of my favorite phrases are: “Daddy is such a good man. He works so hard for us.” “Yea!!!! Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!” “We love our Dada!” I also always try to teach them to say Dada first, which makes Thomas feel great, but…shhh…don’t tell: I like it when they ask Daddy for help first! :0)

4. Speaking of Daddy, remember to keep your marriage strong. Sometimes it’s really tempting to give EVERYTHING to the kids, but the best thing you can give your kids is a good marriage. It makes them feel safe; it gives them a terrific role model; and remember, at some point the children will leave. You want to still like each other by then!

5. Try to enjoy it. With my first two, I was always in a rush to move to the next stage. “I can’t wait until they can do some things on their own. I can’t wait ‘til they’re out of diapers! I can’t wait until they can just tell me what they want!” Always looking ahead. And then all of a sudden that time of life was done. They weren’t babies anymore, and I was surprised—looking back on it—how fast that time had gone. Now I wish I could go back and see their baby faces just for a minute. That I could sit and rock them to sleep. That Logan’s eyes would light up instead of rolling when I say something! What I have learned is that childhood is so fleeting that it is a shame to wish any of it away. That’s hard to remember when you’re in the thick of it, but I promise you will agree with me in a few years.

6. Don’t lose your sense of humor. Believe me you’ll need it.

7. Remember: Motherhood is not an occupation for the proud. Those kids will embarrass the heck out of you. You will deal with more bodily fluid than you ever thought possible. You will feel like a circus anytime you are in public. Strangers will roll their eyes at you, sometimes they will even be so bold as to give you their opinion! No one, unrelated to you, will want to sit by you on an airplane. Hold your head up. This too shall pass, and like I said, probably all too quickly.

I love you, Erica, and I wish only the best for you. You are beginning a grand adventure. It won’t be easy; it will have more twists and turns than you can imagine. But it will be the making of you. Mothering is funny that way. God, in his great design, gives us children to teach us about ourselves. I wish for you only happy days, but on the hard ones, I hope you can remember just how lucky you are to be a mother.

Hugs, kisses, and best wishes,
Laurel

That's Why God Created Uncles

2010-10-28T15:36:00.000-07:00

On Why I Don't Blog as Often

2010-10-21T12:13:00.000-07:00

Need I say more?

Goin' In (the finale)

2010-10-20T12:24:00.000-07:00

The next morning I wake the kids, feed them breakfast, and tell Griffin to get his shoes on.

"I don't need any shoes. I'm not going to school," he argues.

This little red flag induces me to warn, "Right, but you're going to need your shoes 'cause you're going to work like you've never worked before." In my mind, I know this day is going to have to hurt or I could be digging myself a huge hole. "While you're at school, I have all kinds of work to do. If you're not going to do your job, then you will have to help me do mine."

Let the slave driving begin.

From 8:30 am until noon we do all my jobs and them some without stopping. He washes the car mats, makes beds, helps with the laundry, cleans toilets, dusts, washes counters, washes windows, weeds, waters flowers and trees, vacuums, and mows the lawn. And because he is only six, I work right alongside him. Now most days I work hard, but this day? This day makes me tired. But Griffin? He works like a maniac and doesn't complain once.

And that's when I get a little insight into my boy. I think if it were the 1800's and we were homesteading somewhere in the Midwest, this kid would rock. He belongs outdoors, sweaty and busy. But this is 2010, and now we only sweat in our off times.

At noon we break for lunch, and then it's on to schoolwork. Because it is a half day at school, the teacher doesn't have a lot to send home, but not to be deterred in my evil plan of torture, I cull through the workbooks I have in the closet and pull out worksheets that supplement what they are working on in class. I don't tell them they weren't part of his teacher's packet. To be even that more torturous, I insist he practice his penmanship which is atrocious. Overall, I find that he is a good sport. Unlike my oldest, this one actually listens to me, and I realize that--if I had to--I could probably homeschool him. And then I wonder if maybe that isn't what's best for him right now...except that he needs people like everyone else needs air...oh, why is parenting so complex? Why is it that we must search so hard for the answers?

In the end, I still don't know what the right answer is for my boy, so I ask his opinion. At some point during these two days at home I asked him again what he meant when he said that he didn't feel "ready." And I said that if, in fact, he didn't feel ready for first grade there were three options I could think of and that I would be okay with any of them (and that really was the truth.) "Son, if you don't feel ready, the first option would be to do kindergarten again. There wouldn't be anything wrong with that, and then you could review all of the stuff you need to know and feel more ready next year." Griffin didn't like that idea. "Okay...the second option is that I could teach you at home." Admittedly I held my breath on this one, but if that's what it came to, I could do it. Gratefully he shook his head on that one as well. "Alright then, the third option is that you go back to school and do what it is that you need to do to be successful in first grade, which means obeying the rules." He thought it over and agreed that he wanted to go back to school.

Once that decision was made, however, he also thought he should be able to go to soccer practice later that evening, and I was tempted. Sorely tempted. Because the real truth is, I don't enjoy taking things away from my kiddos. In fact, I would rather give them everything, including soccer practice. Ultimately, though, what I really want to give them is character, and that is something worth fighting for.

I am beginning to realize that there is no easy solution, no overnight success kit in raising kids. No. The answers come through a process. I wish I could report that Griffin went back to school the next day and was a brand new child, but that wouldn't be the truth. The truth is, he has had good days and bad, but he is trying. He is learning, growing, attempting, and sometimes failing, but more often succeeding, too.

The process of change is written slowly, in bursts and spurts two steps forward and one step back, I think. And it's not just the goin' in that counts, it's the quiet resolve to see it through. It's the willingness to patiently stick with it, even on the step back days. It's not getting discouraged, or at least not remaining there. It's celebrating the small victories. It's not just goin' in...it's stayin' in until the very end.

Have you Seen This?

2010-10-07T09:07:00.000-07:00

Push play. You won't regret it.

Goin' In (part 4)

2010-10-05T23:18:00.000-07:00

I put him to work as soon as we got home. The only trouble is that it was also the first day that Rachel, my teenage "mommy's helper" reported for work. She is pretty and has long hair, so of course Griffin is smitten with her. And in 6.75 year old boy speak that means a lot of annoying and teasing. In 39 year old mom speak it sounds like this:

"Griffin, get busy...If you don't get moving, son, you are really going to get it...Griffin, what are you supposed to be doing?...Leave her alone and finish up...I have another job for you...I told you to stay out of here..."

Poor Rachel, I think. She probably wonders, I am sure, just what she had gotten herself into. So I say, "I'm not usually such an ogre mom. He just had a really bad day at school, and he's in quite a bit of trouble."

"Yeah, when I told him he'd better listen to you or he was going to get in trouble, he said it was okay; he couldn't get in any more trouble," she said, not knowing that single phrase entered my ear and shattered my brain.

Oh, really?

Every teacher knows that there are some children who must be compelled to humility, ala Annie Sullivan wrestling a willful Helen Keller all over the dining room until she would consent to eat using silverware. Mae Carden, a teacher and education innovator summed it up by saying, "Sometimes it is necessary to make a student cry." Looks as though Griffin and I, two willful souls, were preparing to wrestle, and someone was going to come away crying. I'm not saying it will be him, but I can assure you it won't be me.

Later, when it is just he and I in the kitchen, I say, "Rachel said you told her you didn't think you could get in any more trouble. Is that right?"

He simply shrugs.

"Griff, you need to know that I love you, but there are only two things I am required to do. I have to keep you alive and teach you about God; the rest is extra. Soccer? Extra. Wrestling camp? Extra. TV, computer time, sleepovers, play dates? Extra, extra, extra, extra. You don't think you can get more in trouble? If you want to keep going, you might just end up with a mattress on the floor, one blanket and two pairs of clothes, 'cause everything else is extra. You getting me here? 'Cause I love you, but if you want to keep misbehaving, you will see just how much trouble you can get in."

I know...I know. Griffin is not yet 7, but I also know that Griffin will one day be 14. And while I know that there are many worse things than minor misbehavior at school, those are exactly why this fight is particularly important. As my mother said, fighting the good fight right now is like drawing a fire line around them for their own good.

But it's enough work to make me sweat!

(to be continued...for the last time...)

Goin' In (part 3)

2010-09-30T10:50:00.000-07:00

"Hi again," I say to the woman at the front desk. "I'm checking him out for the day."

"Ohhh," she responds empathetically. "Is he feeling sick?"

"No." I feel sheepish having to explain my crazy plan. I try to see if I can get through it quickly. I'd like to avoid a lot of questions. "He has had some behavior issues, so he's going to be home with me for the next couple of days."

Her eyes fly wide open. "Oh! Would you like to speak to someone? The Vice-Principal, perhaps?"

"No...no...we're fine..."

"Well, I'm sure he would like to know what is going on. I'd be happy to get him." This is said with such crazy energy that it seems she is trying to preempt an angry, raging parent.

"Griffin, could you go over and sit over there for a minute," I direct. When he is out of earshot I say, "Look, I'm not unhappy at all. Mrs. Quayle is doing an amazing job with him. I'm just trying to teach him a lesson about the behavior I expect at school."

With this her eyes narrow a bit and she looks at me quizzically. "Are you sure you don't want to speak to anyone? I'm sure the Vice-Principal would like to know what is going on."

And I wonder if she means with me or with Griffin? I'm leaning more toward me. She still hasn't handed me the check out sheet yet. "Well, I don't feel like I need to talk to him, but, I mean, it would be fine, I guess."

"Um, he's out of the office right now...but--"

"Oh, that's fine. Like I said--"

"But I could get the school psychologist. She would be happy to talk to you--"

"O...kay...sure, that's fine." It's obvious I'm not getting out of this school without discussing this to someone.

She walks me over to Mrs. Manzatti's* office where I fill her in on Griffin's past behavior and my crack-pot scheme.

We are sitting at her child-size table over which she leans and asks, "Griffin? What's going on? Do you not like your classroom? Are you having problems with Mrs. Quayle?" Mrs. Manzatti spoke in a high voice only reserved for talking with problem children.

"No," Griffin mumbles, his eyes downcast. "I like Mrs. Quayle."

"Well, it sounds like you are having a hard time, buddy. What's going on?"

In the silence that follows, I wonder if you had to develop a voice like that to become a school psychologist.

Finally Griffin speaks and begins to cry. "I just don't think I'm ready."

"Ohhh..." Mrs. Manzetti says nodding her head understandingly. Then turning to me, she says in her authoritative adult voice, "He may be feeling overwhelmed." Then, switching back to her child psychologist voice, she says to Griffin, "You know, Griffin, you are going to learn all kinds of things in first grade. You're going to learn how to read, your going to learn math...you'll learn all of that. It's okay if you don't know it right now." Then back to normal voice and to me, she says, "First grade is very different than kindergarten. There are a lot more expectations academically, a lot more seat work...And Mrs. Quayle--she is a very good teacher--but she does expect a lot of the students."

Now it was my turn to nod understandingly. I'm not sure we're all on the same page here, Griffin included. "The thing is," I say, "he's doing all of those things already. He can already read and he is trying to solve his sister's math problems, so...I'm not sure what he means when he says he not ready."

Then I say in my mommy voice--which isn't all that much different than my adult authoritative voice...well, maybe their exactly the same-- "Griffin. I don't know what you mean when you say you are not ready, son. You are doing really well with your school work. What don't you feel ready for?"

"I don't feel ready to follow the rules," he blurts, wiping his eyes.

Mrs. Manzetti is back to nodding understandingly; I, however, don't feel as if we've discovered any new territory. That much was clear to me three weeks ago, but feeling ready or not, what are the options here? The rules aren't going to change; I know that much, which is what I'm waiting for her to tell him when she says to me, "I just don't want him to get the idea that he can misbehave and then he gets to go home."

And I wonder how many stupid parents this woman has to deal with. "Oh, no. This isn't a 'get to go home' situation," I clarify. "No. This is a 'have to go home' situation. He is not going to have any fun at home." And this part is mostly for Griffin's benefit. "No. If he's going home, then he is going to not only do all of his schoolwork and then some, he is going to have to do all the work that needs to be done during the day as well. If he doesn't want to do his job here, then he can work at home. This is not going to be pleasant, and then we will see how good school looks."

"Oh. Oh, I see." I'm not sure Mrs. Manzetti is on board the crazy train, but she seems more interested in watching it pull out of the station.

(to be continued...seriously, how long is this story anyway?)

Goin' In (part 2)

2010-09-26T21:58:00.000-07:00

author's note: Still here. Still without a computer. Hopefully I'll be back, fully on-line, early in the week. Don't give up on me.

"Hi." I greet the woman at the front desk hesitantly. "I'm Griffin's mom." She gives no sign of recognition at his name; I take that as a good sign. "His teacher called, and apparently he has had some behavior issues today?" Still nothing. Phew. "I called back but couldn't get through, so I thought I had better come down."

"Who's his teacher?"

"Mrs. Quayle."

"Okay..." she says, searching her schedule list. "She is at lunch. Would you like me to call her?"

Poor Mrs. Quayle can't even get a lunch break. "Yes. I suppose I had better visit with her."

When I see her coming down the hall, I rise, sheepishly shrugging my shoulders and rolling my eyes. She laughs, and this puts me at ease a little. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your lunch!"

"Oh, that's no problem. He's had a tough morning." Rightly said, it should have been, I have had a tough morning because of him, but Mrs. Quayle is too nice to speak the actual truth. "Does Griffin know a boy named Eli Jones?" (Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

"Ummm..." I am racking my brain for that name.

"Because that is the little boy he bit at recess. At first he said he didn't bite him, although three other boys said he did. When I asked him why three other boys would say that he bit Eli, Griffin said, 'I don't know, but I didn't.' Finally, though, he gave the reason that he had gone over to Eli's house and Eli had pushed him off a shelf and he had gotten hurt."

What? I don't even know a...wait a second..."Last Christmas I went over to Eli's mother's house so my mom could buy a necklace that she had made...We were there for like 15 minutes, but I think Griffin did get hurt while they were playing...Nine months ago? I can't believe Griffin would hold a grudge for nine months, but that is the only time he has been to Eli's house..."

"Well, whatever the circumstances, Griffin felt that gave him reason to bite him. The other issue was that during carpet time..."

She continues to tell me about another instance of Griffin neither listening or obeying. That is old hat around here, but the biting? That one blows my mind. I am at a loss, which is what I tell her. "Mrs. Quayle, I really don't know what to do with this kid right now." Even as I say it I'm pretty sure that is not an impressive thing to say, but my mind is whirling, trying to come up with some sort of meaningful punishment. Something that will make a difference. But what is it? What?

"I just think he needs to realize that coming to school is a privilege," I continue. "...Maybe I need to take him out of school for a couple of days...make him want to come back...maybe..."My mind is still spinning, but there might be something here...possibly. "I don't know. I just think he needs something that's going to rock his world a little bit." I'm hoping here that she will chime in with an opinion; clearly I am a mother grasping at straws. She doesn't.

So I continue, "What do you think?"

"Well..." she hesitates, and I think maybe I'm crazy. "In my position I can't tell you to take your child out of school--"

"--No, of course not." It's official. I'm crazy.

"--but if you think it will help, it may be worth a try. Why not?"

And that's where I fell in love with Mrs. Quayle a little bit. Right there. Because I don't know what will help. I really don't, but I'm willing to try anything. And something in my mother's heart tells me this kid needs a wake up call, something big, something bold, and maybe a little crazy, and if she can get behind crazy, then she's on my team.

"Do you want to get him now? They are just coming in from recess."

"Sure. Yeah." I try to sound more confident than I feel.  "If you could send home his work from the rest of today and for tomorrow, I will see that he gets it done. I just want to make sure I'm not making things harder for you..." And then I realize Griffin will be out of her class for a day and a half. I laugh, "Actually things will probably be a little easier, huh?"

She laughs with me, but doesn't totally disagree. I respect that.

When Griffin sees me standing next to his teacher as he comes in from recess, his face lights up.  He smiles and waves excitedly. Inside I shake my head at his complete oblivion. Outside I narrow my eyes and beckon him with my pointer finger. His smile quickly fades and he walks over reluctantly.

"I am not happy about being here right now," I seethe quietly. "Do you know why I am here?"

"Because I got in trouble."

"That's right. And now you have to come home with me. Let's go get your things."

While the rest of the class finishes their bathroom break, Mrs. Quayle accompanies us to her room. While she gathers his papers, I lecture. "Now, you look at Mrs. Quayle. She is your teacher. She is not your babysitter, or your mother. She is your teacher, and she should not have to spend all of her time dealing with your misbehaviour when she has 25 other students in the room to look after. You need to say you are sorry for not listening and obeying."

"Sorry," he mumbles humbly.

Griffin," I continue, "school is a privilege. There are lots of kids that do not get to go to school. You should feel very lucky to be here, but if you can not behave, then you can not be here. Now, Mrs. Quayle loves you, and she wants you to be able to come back, but if I can not trust you to behave correctly when you are out of my sight, then I will not allow you to come back to school. You will just have to stay at home and do all your work with me where I can keep my eyes on you. We are going to see how it goes the next couple of days, and you are going to have to prove to me that you want to come back. Do you understand?"

He nodded yes.

"Here are your papers from today, and the rest of the work we will be doing this afternoon," Mrs. Quayle says, and then in a move that is akin to jumping up behind me and spurring the crazy horse on, she takes his little face in her hands, looks in his eyes, and with the severest gravity says, "I hope you can come back, Griffin."

Me? More in love with Mrs. Quayle than ever!  She's on board and, though we don't know exactly where we're going, we're riding this train all the way to the station--or at least the the front office, 'cause that's where I run into a little trouble.

(to be continued...)

What's Up

2010-09-17T19:07:00.000-07:00

So, my computer crashed. And it's pretty hard to write part two when my computer won't even turn on! Argh! But hubby has his laptop home this weekend, so I will write. And post.

I miss my computer...but boy is my house sparkly! :0)

Tidbits

2010-09-06T11:43:00.000-07:00

Just a few things:

1. Nothing gives Griffin more pleasure right now than popping his own microwave popcorn. He's got the big bags down just right. However, popping an individual size popcorn bag for three minutes will leave my house smelling like burned popcorn for two days--at least that is how long it has been despite my candle-burning-bowls-of-vinegar-on-the-counter-attempts. Pee-u.

2. I much preferred the faint odor of maple syrup that hung around for two days after baby Lincoln covered himself and much of the kitchen in it. Messy, yes, but much better for the nose.

3. This morning I discovered the load of laundry I forgot to take out of the washer on Saturday. It is being re-washed as we speak, which means I am now officially behind in laundry.

4. I will not be able to finish my "to be continued" story today because we are taking the kids to the Diamondbacks game. I love baseball in person. On the TV? Not so much.

5. Happy Labor Day. Here's to all the laborers out there!

Goin' In (part 1)

2010-09-03T09:24:00.000-07:00

"Hello. Mrs. Wicke? This is Mrs. Quayle, Griffin's teacher? I just wanted to call to let you know that I had to take away both of his hand sanitizers because they were quite distracting to him..."

It is only the second day of school, and already I'm getting a call from his first grade teacher. I'd focus more on the embarrassment of that situation if I could think anything other than, "Hand sanitizers? Both? What?"

"I tried to tell him that he was only to use them when he sneezed, or blew his nose, or...but he kept playing with it under his desk, so I took the one away, and then the next time I looked he had another..."

I still can't get past "hand sanitizers." I'm not a hand sanitizer kind of mom, as my friends will tell you. They are the germaphobes; I'm the mom who considers dirt a form of inoculation. Besides, trying to keep Griffin clean is like trying to hold back the tide. And now I have a teacher who can only surmise that I am the most germ-conscious mother in the room, for not only do I send one hand sanitizer but a back up--just in case!

"Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in case Griffin came home and said that I..."

"Mrs. Quayle, I'm so sorry. I don't know where he got those in the first place. I certainly didn't pack them for him. And secondly, please feel free to take anything of his away from him at any time and keep it as long as you want." In my estimation, Griffin's teacher needs free range...obviously.

The next time we talk, she informs me that Griffin is not finishing his work because he isn't staying on task, and I tell her that she is preaching to the choir; well, not in those words exactly. "You know, Mrs. Quayle, we are dealing with these same issues at home. He's not a bad kid, he just seems to be in a bad pocket right now."

"Oh, no," she quickly agrees, winning my heart. "He's not mean or malicious about anything. He just seems impulsive and highly social."

Impulsive and highly social. It's a good description of my boy. "Well, I appreciate that you can see the goodness in him, and I just want you know that you have our total support here at home. We are working really hard on this end, too, and we're willing to do whatever you need."

I initiate the third conversation with a request that she do a daily behavior report for Griffin. As a firm believer in bribery, I have a plan: With good behavior at school he could earn points toward getting a lizard. Crazy pets in exchange for compliance? Any day of the week. Especially when she further reports that she has a small collection of toys that he has smuggled into school. I tell you, if it's not one thing it's another with this kid.

But the fourth conversation--oh, the fourth conversation!--is the worst. I come home at noon to discover a message on my machine. "Hi, Mrs. Wicke; this is Mrs. Quayle again. We've had a couple of issues with Griffin today. Uh, he bit a child at recess. He denied it, but three other children said that he did. I did look at the other child, and there were bite marks. It didn't seem like a really hard bite, but it did draw blood. Then when we were doing calendar time, I noticed he was playing with a pencil and when I asked him to please put it away he--" Beeeeeep.

The machine cuts her off, and I stand there in stunned silence. Biting? He has never bitten another kid in his life. Even his sister, and, out of anyone, he should have bitten her a couple of times. This is a whole new low. And what was the rest of the story? What horror could he inflict with a pencil? Take the whole classroom hostage? And what was I supposed to do? Go get him? Are they holding the little vampire in the office? What?

I try to call the school back only to get a busy signal. I wait. I call again. Still busy. Never one to exhibit much patience, I determine that I'm going to have to just go down there. I call a friend who generously comes over to sit with baby while I head out the door. As I drive the short distance to the school, I realize that I don't know what to expect, nor do I know what I'm going to do.

All I know is that I have to do something. I might be "the" mom of "that" child right now, but I am THE MOM. I stand between him and the cliff he seems determined to throw himself off of. But what's my next move?

That I don't know. So I phone a friend: I pray asking that I will know what to say or do to get through to this child. Then I take a deep breath and suit up.

'Cause I'm going in.

(to be continued...)

p.s. While I finished writing this this morning my baby covered himself and the kitchen table in maple syrup.

Here We Go Again

2010-09-01T10:04:00.000-07:00

School here in Mesa started August 11th. On August 13th I got a call from Griffin's teacher. For those of you who are math challenged like me, I'll interpret: GRIFFIN'S TEACHER HAD TO CALL ME ON THE SECOND DAY OF SCHOOL! Oh, boy. I'm that mother again?

It appears so. The last three weeks have been a bumpy ride, so strap in, because if I get the chance today I'm gonna' tell you all about it.

Failing and Grace

2010-08-30T00:50:00.000-07:00

"I feel like I'm failing most of the time." My throat began to swell with the hard reality of that phrase. The worst thing about parenting is the attention it calls to my own weaknesses. Most of the time I feel like I'm being allowed to do surgery without having finished med school.

"Oh, sweetheart. You are a wonderful mother," my own mother's soothing voice came through the receiver.

"Oh, but I'm not," I cried. At least I am not the mother I want to be. "I'm impatient, and short-tempered, and--I mean, I know these things about myself." Or, better said, I am learning these things about myself, and I wish I weren't. Parenting causes me to stretch in every direction, and even after all that stretching, I wish I felt like I was "there." Instead I feel like I so often miss the mark, and all that is in sight is that raging gap between where I am and where I wish to be.

Even when I try to do the right thing. The good thing. Like this trip to San Diego with Griffin. I know he has been struggling. WE have been struggling, this battle of wills it seems: He doesn't want to do, but there are some things he must do...And so I made a goal that this trip was going to be all about Griffin. We were going to do the things he wanted, on his schedule. We were going to remember that we really do like each other, underneath it all. I don't want him to feel picked on all the time, and I don't want to feel frustrated all the time, either.

"And?" mom questioned.

"And most of it has been good. Really good. But last night...ugh, it just breaks my heart."

The night before we had been on our way home to Mesa. We had spent four terrific days in San Diego, just the two of us, and we had had a wonderful time together. I said yes a lot. Yes to a $20.00 bike surrey ride. Yes to staying up late. Yes to the bubble gun at Sea World. Yes to two hours petting the stingrays. Yes to playing in the park until it got dark even though I was hungry. Yes to walking two blocks to use the gumball machine. Yes to eating crepes outside. Yes to sitting in the Shamu soak zone. Yes to splurging for the Sea World Skytower ride. Yes to staying at the beach "just a little longer." Yes to games of "touched you last." Yes to falling asleep watching TV. Yes to buying Scooby Doo 2 to watch on the way home--A lot of yesses.

And I said "I love you" a lot. And he said it back. And we snuggled, and held hands, and played on the beach, and laughed, and talked. And that was good.

Then on the way home we made an unexpected detour. Having found out that my brother was getting remarried on short notice the next day, I decided we should make the trip and be there; the only downside was that is meant driving until 3 am. And I was already tired of driving. So was Griffin, but he was a good sport and watched Scooby Doo-2 ten more times over the next many hours. Despite my useless pleadings that he use the earphones, that meant that I got to listen to Scooby Doo-2 ten more times as well. Good times. Good times.

By 11 pm that night, I was feeling the burn. Even if we stopped in Vegas, it was at least two more hours of driving. Shaggy and Velma were fraying my nerves. We needed gas, and as we filled up Griffin asked if he could drink his very large, red Gatorade, which I had said "yes" to against my better judgement.

"Okay..." I said, unscrewing the lid and handing it to him, "but don't spill, okay?"

Moments later, as I was cleaning the windshield and trying to convince myself that two more hours of driving was not so very bad, I saw his eyes go wide, and I knew. And when I didn't see him stoop to retrieve it, I knew that, too: The bottle was sitting bottom side up, gurgling its vast contents onto the floor.

I ran to the passenger side and pulled open the door. "Griffin! What are you doing?! At least pick it up, son!" The mess was everywhere, and what ticked in my brain was the extra 25 minutes this was going to add to our trip in clean up time. My aggravation bubbled over. "C'mon! Are you kidding me? Great. Just great! Argh...Move out of the way, son! I can not believe..." He sat there silently as I dabbed, and sopped, and scrubbed, complaining both over and under my breath. Twenty five minutes later, the job was, indeed, done, and I had regained my cool enough to see my son.

Really see him.

And I knew. I knew his little heart was hurt.

I took a deep breath. "Honey, I'm sorry I lost my temper. I should not have yelled. You are more important than this car. I don't want you to think otherwise." And then I took his face in my hands. "I want you to know something. You are a great kid. You hear me? You are...a great kid." And that's when his eyes welled up with tears.

I am ashamed of myself, because I had given him reason to doubt it. There it is again--that raging gap between where I am and where I wish to be. I only hope that my failure is not so large that it swallows my children whole.

I am imperfect. That is one thing that parenting is teaching me very clearly, but this I vow. I will keep stretching; I will keep trying; I will keep loving despite my imperfections, because they are great kids, and though I sometimes feel that they deserve better than me, I have to believe in God's wisdom. That He was not wrong in letting us improve one another at the same time. That there is a built in buffer that offsets the natural failings that come with parenting. Some days I fail. But some days I succeed. I hope those days hold more weight.

All I can do is try and pray for grace--both from God and my children, those who see me in all my weakness--and that they will love me anyway, and know, wholeheartedly, that I love them.

Instead

2010-08-20T15:39:00.000-07:00

I think I promised I'd get back to regular posting. And then this last week went and made me a liar. Darn week.

I actually started writing something on Monday. Something that I don't know how to write. Something still unsettling to me. Something both sacred and sad. Something about which I'm unsure if all mothers will relate to or something that will just make me look like a failure, which is frankly how I felt--make that, still feel. Something that I will finish writing once I can wrap my mind around it and find the end.

Sometimes when I can't make sense of something, I have to stop looking at it for a while. Instead I need to gain control over something, like organizing the playroom, which I did. Something that requires presence of mind and body. Something that makes sense out of chaos. And then I need to do something physical, like take an adult ballet class, which I did. Something demanding that beats out that pent up emotion. And then I need to do something comforting, and since I can't crawl up onto my mom's lap anymore, I call her, which I did. And like always, she drenched me in love until I was dripping with it. And finally I need advice, so I go to lunch with dear friends, which I did. And I lay out my burden and pick their brains.

And then I think.

And hopefully
I will write.

Jen, Jen, Jen...

2010-08-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

I just want to say that I had this idea before Bill O'Reilly. I did. When I was reading "The People" (which I like to call it because I think it's sorta' funny) and I read Jennifer Aniston's comments about how lucky we are that we don't have to wait to find a man to settle down with before we had kids, well...something screeched in my brain. I don't know about all this "destructive to society" stuff. I'll leave that to the social commentators. I'm just a mom. And all I know, as a mom, is that she doesn't really know what the hell she's talking about.

Before promoting the glories of single momhood, she might want to talk to some real moms. I bet they have a lot to say about the subject.

Here's one example, a letter I wrote to Mr. Wicke this last Valentine's Day:

Dear Valentine,

Do you know what was really romantic? When this harried mom was at the health clinic with our two very sick kiddos, one in tears after waiting for two hours, a baby melting down with a goose egg to boot, and when I really had reached my limit and was grasping the fraying last end of my rope, I called you, and you came. You came quickly. And you took the children, with a smile even. And after I had finally gotten the prescriptions filled and come home, you were feeding them soup, and the baby was asleep, and you weren't even perturbed that Griffin had thrown up in the car all over himself.

THAT was really romantic.

You know why? Because it made me think again that I can't imagine raising these little ones with anyone but you.

Forever,

Your Mrs.

In a million years, I would never want to do this alone. I thank God every day that I have a partner in this deep and heavy work. 24/7, 365. A sperm donor just doesn't keep those hours.

Yesterday by the Clock

2010-08-12T11:54:00.000-07:00

At 8:22 I waved to my kids as the bus pulled away on the first day of school.

At 8:37 I said goodbye to Megan and her kids, the last of our summer visitors.

At 9:00 welcomed the first guests for our "The Bus Just Pulled Out Breakfast for Moms."

At 10:54 the last of my girlfriends left after graciously tidying up my kitchen.

At 11:05 I put the baby down for his nap.

At 11:09 I enrolled and funded my children's school lunch accounts.

At 11:30 I lay down in my unmade bed. I listened to the quiet of the house and tried to sleep.

At 12:20 I gave up and did all the stuff my brain was telling me I was supposed to do: laundry and lots and lots of cleaning.

At 3:15 I picked up Griffin for gymnastics. He reported his first day was "Awesome!"

At 4:02 I returned home just in time to greet Logan off the bus. Despite not getting to share her bag of 10 things yet, she had a great day.

At 4:15 we walked over to our friends to see how their first day went where Griffin's little buddy broke the bad news that yes, even though Griffin didn't get a yellow card, he did get his name removed from the Respectful Rattlers list--whatever that means, but hey! We'll take what we can get. No yellow card? Success!

At 4:46 pm we left to pick Griffin up from gymnastics. He was sweaty and gross and totally happy.

At 5:06 we stopped at QT for first day celebratory drinks: Diet Coke, Strawberry Fanta, and Strawberry Banana slush.

At 5: 20 we returned home and went through backpacks and finished up new school year paperwork. (That in itself should be a deterrent to having any more children.)

At 5:32 Daddy came home and all celebrated!

At 5:40 the children took a dip in the pool. (It is HOT and muggy here!)

At 6:10 dinner was served. Over dinner we talked about and assigned morning chores. After much haggling it was still determined that chores would be a requirement.

At 6:33 the kids continued swimming.

At 6: 52 the baby got a bath to distract him from Daddy leaving for mutual.

At 6:58 Daddy snuck out.

At 7:10 the baby got out of the bath and Logan and Griffin showered and bathed. I am not entirely sure that Griffin used soap, but by the time of my discovery, he was already out and dressed. Does rinsing count?

At 7:20 I put the baby to bed.

At 7:41 I blow dried and straightened Logan's hair for the morning.

At 7: 47 I insisted that Griffin quit screaming and running with the dog and go get a book to read out loud to us in the bathroom. He chose Green Eggs and Ham. Logan was astounded that I could correct him without looking at the book. I know my Suess.

At 8:00 I told the kids to brush teeth and say prayers..repeating that phrase at least three times.

At 8:07 I rounded the corner just in time to kneel with Griffin who told me he was going to say his prayers to himself, but then changed his mind and said them out loud anyway. My favorite phrase? "...and please bless that we will know what to do...and when to do it...and how to do it." The boy has his bases covered.

At 8:08 We read one chapter of Vin Fiz.

At 8:17 We read one chapter of Nancy Drew #12.

At 8:28 Daddy came home and joined us. I breathed a sigh of relief.

At 8:34 Daddy and I gave hugs and kisses and turned out the lights.

First Day of School finished!

Favorite Quote of the Day:
When we were walking into Meet the Teacher Night the evening before the first day of school, Logan said, mumbling to herself: "Okay. Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Chest out. Deep breath." I nearly couldn't contain myself.

Forgetting Regrets

2010-08-10T00:40:00.000-07:00

Something my kids said the other day was funny. So funny that I thought, "I have to write that down on the blog." But I didn't. Because while they were being funny, they were also being a handful, and I was busy wiping them or wiping something they spilled. Or picking something off of them or picking something they dropped. Or cleaning them or cleaning up after them. You get the picture.

And now I can't remember what they said. As often as I try to scour that spot in my brain, scratching again and again at the place where that moment once sat, I can not recall it. I can only remember that I found it incredibly funny. And that makes me sad, that empty spot in my brain. (And, by the way, nothing looks any cleaner around here than it did before. That makes me sad, too, but in a different way.)

Oooh, I hope in heaven I get a DVD of all the highlights, along with a remote control so I can rewind and watch as many times as I want. Over and over until I'm filled. Until all those empty spots of great moments that I meant to remember, or forgot to take notice of in the first place, are fully recollected, fully appreciated, fully present.

Until then, I'll just keep blogging.

Favorite quote of the day:

Griffin (in the back seat tying his new school shoes--his first pair of tie-on's ever.) Ugh! I can't do it. I only got half of the bunny ear in the--hmph! (Now with a bit of a whine in his voice.) I only have two arms, and I need three 'cause I have to make two bunny ears and then I can't get the...rest...done!

Me: I've felt like that a lot of times myself.

p.s. School starts on Wednesday. I'll be back to regular posting on Thursday. That is if anyone is still there. "Hello? Is this thing on?"

Discoveries in San Diego

2010-07-26T13:20:00.000-07:00

at Coronado

some things I learned/relearned about this kid:

he is a great traveler

he is curious

he will watch the same movie 13 times in a row

asking him not to spill is like asking the wind not to blow

he wants to know just about everything

he wants to tell anyone what he knows

he may be a little nervous at first, but once he gets the hang of it he's pretty fearless

he has no concept of time

he has no concept of money

he'll get grouchy before he realizes he's hungry

he loves crepes

he has a big heart

he loves me

and I really, really love him.

Feeding the bat rays at Sea World. We spent two hours with them. Not kidding.

More bat rays.

We're still there and still loving it!

Watching the polar bears.

In front of the USS Midway.

He loved the self-guided tour of the aircraft carrier.

More careful listening.

He was fascinated with the airplanes. Grandpa Wicke (Col. USAF Ret.) may have a pilot on his hands!

12 at Noon

2010-07-14T12:23:00.000-07:00

How does anyone write anything in the summer? I can't seem to anyway. Life is far too hectic, so here are 12 facts:

1. My Mr. turned 40 last weekend. He is a rather shy guy, so we had a very tiny party that was big fun.

2. We returned to the cabin of spring break. This time I drugged the kids with dramamine--even the baby. Judge if you will, but read about our last trip first. Maybe then you'll understand. P.S. This time it was a heavenly quiet trip. (cue angels singing)

3. Logan left for Alaska on Sunday to visit her aunt, uncle and cousins there. She is doing fine. I, however, miss her terribly.

4. Tomorrow Griffin and I leave for a quick trip to San Diego. We plan to go to Sea World, and then do whatever he wants.

5. Baby naps are really interferring with our schedules around here. Baby messes and baby tantrums are also holding things up. 18-24 months is not an easy age for me. But I do love the baby snuggles and baby kisses. Oh, and the baby babbling. I have great fondness for baby babbling.

6. Because baby doesn't travel that well, I can not take the kids to Wyoming this summer. It makes me sad.

7. It is supposed to be 117 degrees here on Thursday. Can you believe that? I'm so glad I won't be here.

8. Last night my neighbor handed me a bucketful of green apples over the back fence. They reminded me of my childhood and my grandma's apple tree. I am now determined to plant my own.

9. We didn't put a garden in this summer. (See #5) I miss fresh tomatoes badly.

10. I need to tell you about canning meat. It sounds nuts, but it has been a lifesaver this summer when it comes to making dinner on the spur of the moment.

11. I am reading Innocent Traitor, a historical novel about Lady Jane Grey, and I am reminded that I am so glad I wasn't born to English aristocracy during that time period. Or English peasantry in that time period either, of course.

12. All this talk of Mel Gibson makes me remember that one summer while touring through Iowa we went to a Mel Gibson movie, and when we came out there were all these policemen everywhere, lights blaring. I thought maybe it was some publicity stunt or something. Turns out that while we were in watching the movie, the theater had been robbed and all the staff had been locked in a closet. Weird...but not as weird as these ranting messages.

A Listening Exercise

2010-06-28T15:39:00.000-07:00

I heard him before my eyes opened, the heavy patter of feet down the hall. "Maybe if I lie really still and keep my eyes closed he'll let me 'sleep' a few minutes longer," I thought. Experience tells me that if Griffin sees my eyes open in the morning, he considers me fair game, and so I lay, eyes closed and ears pricked. I listened for clues of other awakening life. There were no sounds from the baby's room, and from the absence of bickering I concluded that Logan, too, had yet to stir. I peeked out from one eye: Griffin was no where in sight. Possibly he had already gone downstairs to munch on bread and entertain himself in the playroom. Again I listened intently. No sounds of distress. I rolled over to catch just a few more minutes. He was soon to get bored I was sure.

Two minutes later I heard the sounds of the TV clicking on. What was still a mystery, however, was what program he was watching. The only sound I could make out was the deep voice of a grown woman. The animal planet, perchance? That was the only thing I could come up with. No...something didn't seem to fit. After listening a few moment more there was definitely a lack of interest-pricking background music. What was he watching?

Unable to be sure, I slowly I made my way down the stairs rubbing sleep out of my eyes. As I turned the corner I rubbed my eyes again, this time out of sheer consternation. It wasn't Nickelodian, or the Disney Channel, or Animal Planet. No. It was a yoga class on BYU TV.

"What are you watching?" I queried.

"Stretching," he replied his head dropped between his knees, his fingers touching his toes.

"...and hold...breathing in and out..."the voice from the TV calmly suggested.

I shook my head, giggled, and joined him for a downward dog.

This One's for the Moms

2010-06-24T11:17:00.000-07:00

Most days I feel like I'm waging a losing battle.

1. Teaching/getting/cajoling/forcing the kids to stop bickering...lost battle.

2. Convincing/forcing Griffin to stop arguing with me...lost battle.

3. Keeping a clean house...lost battle.

4. Keeping my cool...lost battle.

I say this out loud because I think most moms feel this way. Even when we are doing a pretty good job. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think, "That could have gone better," or "I could have handled that better." And I think we need to say that out loud so that we don't feel like we are all alone. So that we know that struggling is just part of the gig.

And just because we lose some/a lot of the battles doesn't mean we'll lose the war. I really believe that if kids know they are loved, deeply, deeply loved, just about eveything else is forgivable.

And I love my kids.

And I know you do, too.

Funnies

2010-06-21T08:57:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, as we were shopping for Father's Day:

Logan: ugh...we're not going in there! (Seeing Bed, Bath, and Beyond.)

Me: No. I've got to go into the next store and see if I can find some shoes for Daddy.

Logan: Shoes?

Me: Yeah. He said he needed some new shoes.

Logan: Can we get some with taps on them?

Yesterday, while watching a History Channel program on the Revolutionary War:

Griffin: C'mon! We just gotta' win!...Mom, do we? Do we win?

Hey Diddle Diddle, That Cat can Still Fiddle: Friendship Then and Now

2010-06-17T23:01:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, the stars aligned in the heavens and the dish ran away with the spoon, and on that night, a group of young people were brought together by the cat and the fiddle to sing and dance and generally make merry for the entertainment of others. I call us young people because we were just that. No longer children, and still not quite adults either. That magical period when we still believed that everything is possible.

I can not explain what happened. Magic is funny like that.

But did you know that a group of people can fall madly, deeply in love with each other? I didn't. Yet we did. All of us, all at once. Maybe it was the music--that language of spirit--that drew us close. That was part of it. But I lean more toward magic.

Magic, by definition, is inexplicable, and I do not understand how our hearts instantly knew one another. Some people call it soul mates. Some, kindred spirits. At the time I didn't know better than to call it anything but normal. See, that is the problem with youth. Sometimes we get so accustomed to magic that we don't recognize it when we experience it. But magic it was.

And in that place of pixie dust and delight, we played. Oh, how we played. It was enough to make the little dog laughed to see such sport. We played on stage and off. On the bus and across 12 states. For two years they were my best playmates. We shared the same inner light--the same joy in living--and when we were together that light was magnified. We glowed all the brighter and the world did, too.

But moving on is simply a part of life, and so I did. On to the next adventure, I fully expected the magic to come again, foolishly thinking that those kinds of relationships would happen repeatedly.

Then I grew up and found that they do not. Impermance is the creator of magic. Things that are rare and evervescent are, because of their fleeting quality, special. Unique. And, oh yes, magical.

I wish I had known that then, on that trip over the moon.

Then...

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, the stars aligned again. They must have because five of those same women, now fully adult and becoming aware that not all things are possible--at least not all at once--were able to arrange childcare, vacation days, carpools, and travel plans to spend a weekend in Breckenridge, CO together. And happily, the magic returned. Some people call it soul mates. Some, kindred spirits. Now I just call it blessed.

We are, as one girl commented, like the butt of a bad joke: a Catholic, a Protestant, a Methodist, and a Mormon. All from various backgrounds and histories, but all still sharing a common light. And over that weekend that light was magnified again. We glowed all the brighter and the world did, too, at least our little world inside a rented condo.

We felt no need to go out, for everything we needed was right there--the need to be really known. The need to be understood. The need to be loved.

When I was a girl my father used to say, "Laurel, in the end, you'll find that your real, true friends will fit onto one hand," stretching his fingers wide. I used to think that was sort of depressing, but I understand now so well what he meant. To be really known and understood, to be really known and still loved--maybe even loved all the more--is an exceptional experience. Magic.

We friends spoke without limits for three days straight. We only slept out of necessity. Women who have known each other for 19 years, who know almost everything there is to know about each other, who, in all practicality, helped shape one another...well, those women have a lot to say. We compared notes on child rearing and aging bodies. We talked about men and sex and faith and cooking and music. We told stories. We confessed secrets and dreams, hopes and fears. We solved at least three of the world's problems. We laughed. We cried. But mostly we laughed.

We laughed about who we were, about who we are, and about who we are becoming. The most magical thing about these friendships is that they are not trapped in the past but are living relationships, still growing and maturing. Enduring, I hope, forever because our hearts still know each other.

We've all grown up now, and we may not hear that fiddling cat so often as we once did. Sometimes it may be easy to believe that magic is gone. It's hard to hear its tune under the roar of responsibility, but when he plays, my oh my how he plays, and it's good to be reminded that the dish can still run away with the spoon.

Then: 1991-1993 Now: 2010*

*Thanks Jen for letting me lift the photos.

What are the Odds?

2010-06-16T23:35:00.000-07:00

Scorpions are sort of a fact of life here in the desert. I guess. No one really told me that before moving here. We get them sometimes. Like 8 inside the house during the six years we've lived here. That's some for me. I don't like it. It creeps me out completely, but what are you gonna' do? Move out? Umm...if I'm totally honest, sometimes I think about it. But then my logic comes back.

Either that or I talk to my brother who tells me to suck it up.

But what are the odds that tonight, when I have a number of women over for a movie night, we have to see two of them! Seriously??

When I opened the front door to welcome my first two guests, their first words were, "Uh, you have a scorpion in your driveway."

Now doesn't that just say "Welcome to my lovely home?" Super great first impression. I was so proud, but...C'mon. It's outside. Nature's a drag. What can I say? So I killed it and didn't think much about it.

But then, when I reached in the back of the cupboard for the big, plastic, popcorn bowl that I don't use very often, and found a scorpion inside it?...um...Yikes!!! Now maybe some people could handle that kind of situation quietly and subtlely, but I'm not one of those people. I called a code red to Mr. Wicke--loudly and repeatedly--which he did NOT answer! Something about changing clothes up in our closet or some such nonsense. Anyway, one of my brave friends fought the battle with me. She's a native Arizonian. Turns out Windex kills scorpions. Who knew?

Anywhoo, everyone was a little jumpy after that despite my assurances that we really hardly ever see those nasty things in the house. Really we don't, but I'm not sure they believed me. I wouldn't. I mean those are some crappy odds.

Why doesn't that surprise me?

The Trouble with Summer

2010-06-08T10:36:00.000-07:00

The messes they can make!

The trouble with summer is that you have double the work and half the time. I actually broke a sweat mothering yesterday; I'm not kidding. Up, down, in, out, over, under, in the car, out of the car, back in the car, dishes, mopping, dishes, vacuuming, project, swimming, laundry, laundry, refereeing, laundry, dishes again, project, project, reading, crashing.

That's how it went. I'm actually a little stiff and sore today.

P.S. If I can ever find the time, I'll tell you about my worst parenting day ever.

Oh, What do you do in the Summertime?

2010-06-03T16:03:00.000-07:00

How do I know it is summer? We have already had a family BBQ and swim party. We have already taken a family cartrip. We started swim team. My daughter is already begging for a sleepover with her best friend in the whole wide world. ("Pleeeeeeease?") We are all a tiny bit sunburned. I'm wearing my swimsuit. I'm sweaty. And tomorrow is the beginning of summer movies.

Those are the signs of summer around here, and it's only been a week. Whew!

And somewhere, amid all that chaos, we already created a favorite memory for me. On Friday, when the kids ran out of things to do and began bickering, I called them into the dining room. "Come here, kiddos and bring the book!" I insisted. Logan dutifully grabbed Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh, and I convinced a mopey Griffin to participate with the promise of something special.

I handed him all the blankets out of the ottoman, and then he and I hung them over and around the dining room table. Then the three of us, armed with snacks, pillows, and a good book, climbed into our little "rat's nest" underneath and read an hour away--with no bickering. Imaginations only allowed.

And imaginations at work is the best summer sign of all!

Celebration

2010-05-26T11:20:00.000-07:00

Last night, when Mr. Wicke got home from work, we took our little family out for a end-of-the-school-year celebration. Logan had reached her personal goal of breaking 700% for her assigned reading goal and Griffin...well, Griffin had improved his classroom deportment from near-criminal to at least acceptable. We'll take what we can get.

I had to laugh when a friend told me that her son got a yellow card (gasp!) the other day, an unheard of incident in their household. So unheard of, actually, that when--as she was tucking him into bed--she asked if he had gotten a green card that day and he shook his head, she automatically responded with a delighted, "Did you get a purple card?" See, that made me laugh right out loud. Really hard. Of course she'd ask that. He has actually received a few of those commendations. I, on the other hand, didn't even know purple cards existed!

But, I have to hand it to my Griffin. He's come a long way this year. No more sticks. No more special timer. Only a couple of (well-deserved) yellow cards in the last couple of months. And that is to say nothing of his academic performance which has always been excellent. We are very proud of him. I give him a purple card in my heart; how about that?

And Logan, as her teacher announced yesterday at their class awards program, received the "Voracious Reader" award; according to the computer's count, she has read 944,000 words in her outside reading this year! Her teacher told me we should be very proud as that was an outstanding accomplishment, and we are.

So pleased, in fact, that we celebrated with bean and cheese burritoes, quesedillas, and churros at Rubios. Then it was off to the mall where they each picked a Webkinz. If ever I let Logan choose a reward, she suggests a Webkinz, and Griffin follows along in her footsteps. Logan chose the Portuguese Water Dog (us and the Obama's) and Griffin got the Golden Retriever. I'm not sure how many Webkinz Logan needs before she reaches the saturation point, but so far we have not met it. She is "collecting" them, as she told us very matter-of-factly.

And while she is busy collecting stuffed animals, I am collecting a heartful of memories. Yesterday, when I bumped into a couple of women from church, they both commented how they would love to go back to when their kids were little again. How those were the sweetest, golden years. I thought of that while I watched Griffin's end of year slide show that he brought home yesterday, and I got a little teary-eyed. All those happy moments come and gone.

Already my children are changing. Learning. Growing. Exactly as they should be. Yet I know it is just a blink and a breath before the children in front of my eyes are gone. In just a couple of years, she won't love Webkinz anymore. And Griffin, while still having a mischievous twinkle in his eye, will no longer poke his teacher's bottom (I HOPE!) or come home covered in mud. I cannot stop it, but I can celebrate it. We can celebrate the milestones, the happy moments, the changes, and the growth.

There is never too much celebration. Never too much of telling them how proud we are to be their parents. Never, never too much love.

It's the End of the World as We Know It

2010-05-24T11:22:00.000-07:00

Mr. Wicke walked out the door this morning. Yup. He did. And he won't be coming back until 5:30 pm or somewhere around there. After six years of working from home, he has joined the company of regular working people everywhere and is chained to an office away from home for the majority of the day.

His children don't like it, and already I am lonely.

The fact is that our children can not comprehend a father who isn't just around the corner behind the closed door of his office. Last year, when he was away on a business trip, Logan complained so badly that she missed her daddy that finally I said, "You know, most people's daddies are gone every day!"

"What?!" she sputtered, as if her mind couldn't comprehend the notion. I knew then that if he ever were to go back to a traditional working situation, we would be in for a rough adjustment.

For the last couple of weeks as this decision was on the horizon and Mr. Wicke and I were discussing the possiblities in bits and pieces here and there, Logan put two and two together and piped in with her own opinion. "But, but, I don't want you to take the other job, Daddy, because you will be far away!" And while Tempe is within a very reasonable commute, this morning, with the house so very still, he does feel far away, and I feel quite alone.

In truth, it has been a blessing having him home so much of the time, although in the beginning I wasn't sure it would be so. A husband working from home and a stay-at-home mom equals a lot of together time. If I didn't make the beds or clean up the breakfast dishes until three pm, I couldn't hide it from him. Not that he would ever say anything, but at first I felt like it was kind of on-the-job supervision all the time. It wasn't long, however, before we fell into an easy rhythm. He did his thing; I did mine; and we crossed paths all day long. I'm going to miss that.

I'm going to miss his back up, his chiming in with a "Listen to your mother!" when things got a little hairy with the kiddos. I'm going to miss being able to put the baby down for his nap and running out to volunteer at the school. I'm going to miss being able to call him to come quickly to witness a childhood milestone. I'm going to miss lunches together, random conversations throughout the day, quick kisses, little jokes. I'm going to miss his voice, his presence...I'm going to miss him.

As he left the house this morning, I kissed him and said, "You're going to have to learn to talk now." He looked at me quizzically, and I continued. "With you at home, I knew what you were doing, what questions to ask. Now you're actually going to have to tell me about your day." It's true. Our lives, these last six years, have been intertwined in a way that is extraordinary for the average couple.

Not extraordinary in terms of accomplishments, perhaps, but certainly in that quiet space of respect for one another; for, in that time, we got to see just how hard the other works, and how one hand makes way for the other, working in tandem. I think it gave us a deeper appreciation for the contribution we each make to this little thing we call our life.

And I think we've come to a conclusion in these last six years, together. I think we are starting to see that it isn't where we go between 8:00and 5:00 pm that really matters. What really matters happens before and after, in the walls of our little home, in the hearts of our children and each other. That's our work that really counts.

But, even so, when Mr. Wicke comes home after a long day today, I still can't wait to hear all about it. 'Cause I miss him. Did I mention that already?

Yesterday

2010-05-20T23:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday
I awoke suddenly to find my daughter standing next to my bed holding Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. We only had 3 chapters left, and she couldn't wait.

Yesterday
I let her go to school late so we could finish.

Yesterday
I had lunch with a friend.

Yesterday
I ran errands and picked up supplies to make magnetic paper dolls and a recorder music book.

Yesterday
I forgot it was gymnastics day and was 10 minutes late in picking up the kiddos. Luckily I got to them before the bus left the school, but just barely.

Yesterday
Griffin told me he got another yellow card. Then he told me he was just kidding. I told him that wasn't funny.

Yesterday
My baby had trouble sleeping during the night.

Yesterday
I rocked my baby while the crickets chirped and a cool night breeze blew through the window.

Today
I plan to go to bed early.