the end is in sight!

Over the past six months, I have been sneaking little moments, usually while the kids are sleeping, to complete this personal history class. It has been wonderful, perhaps the best class I have ever taken, as I have been able to recall my history and put it all down in words. Who will read it? Well, you have read parts of rough drafts. Someday I hope that my kids will read it; they've already read some, and they've heard Joe and I reminiscing about the past, and they always want more. More details, more stories. I've also filled up a journal with my thoughts and feelings. I love to flip through the pages and see the different sizes of my font, some days more legible than others, probably depending on my mood that day.

I have ONE assignment left. Yippee! Then my final, which is actually just all of my edited papers all bound together, for a total of over 50 pages that I will submit. I have more written that I will add later, and the goal, of course, is to continue to add more on my own.

My last assignment is to write a final chapter, or a conclusion, to my life so far. It has been an interesting thought process, because I know there is so much more ahead (hopefully!). Just for fun, I am going to add a rough draft here. Lucky you?

I get hooked on something, and I know I start pushing my agenda on others. Like, move to Texas, y'all!  But really, this has been such a rewarding experience, and I really would encourage anyone to take the class (if you need motivation, that's the way to go) or to just start writing down your personal history. Send me a message if you are interested in finding out more about it--do it soon while I'm still in the hype, because the excitement will probably wear off when I step away from it.

I still need a working title, so if you have any ideas, let me know. :)

These days we’ve gotten into somewhat of a comfortable routine. I get ready for the day at 5:30 a.m. when Joe leaves to teach early morning seminary, and the next 90 minutes are a blur of preparing the kids for eight hours away from home. Then I start a day, a week, a lifetime, full of household chores (never to be completed), playtime with Ammon, grocery shopping, playgroups, a slew of errands, volunteering at school, service, and if there's time, maybe a power nap. The kids return at 3:00, where I greet them at the door, and the busyness peaks: snacks, homework, piano, scouts, district choir, tae kwon do, soccer, making and eating dinner. If they are lucky, the kids will get some time to play in the backyard with neighborhood friends. We rush everyone to bed, ready for the evening to be over, and if I’m lucky I will get a few quiet moments with my husband, and then tomorrow is another day.

It is easy to feel dull from the mundane repetitiveness of life, and at the same time I can feel completely overwhelmed by the never-ending work that needs to be done, often without recognition or appreciation. Helen Keller explains it best when she said, “I long to accomplish a great and noble task, but it is my chief duty to accomplish small tasks as if they were great and noble.” Some have accused me of having no ambition because I do not want to commit to taking on the world; instead, I want to commit to taking on today and really living and enjoying each moment.

My biggest fear is wasting time and looking back with longing or regret. I don’t have time for regret, only time to learn and to do better. I want my skin to memorize the feel of Ammon in my arms while he still enjoys snuggling with me. I want to remember the sound of his footsteps following me around the house, his little voice, “Mom, I want to help you,” said 100 times a day. I want to capture the moments with Grant reading to me, each day his reading skills improving without either of us realizing it. I want to remember his enthusiasm as he surprises me by making his brothers’ beds, later informing me that he didn’t do it to be nice, but for “parent points.” I want to memorize every note that I get from Madison—always an entertaining read, most often about why she’s mad at me and why I should be sorry, although sometimes they are notes of appreciation, and maybe even an occasional apology. I want to celebrate the patience I have gained over the years to be able to successfully feign interest as Logan tells me about his latest Pokémon trade. I feel satisfaction when I see them accomplish hard things, or when a teacher approaches me with praise for my child. 

Always, though, there is the goal to keep being me. I find joy as I play the piano, read literature that engages my mind, and as I push my body on the treadmill. Although a social introvert, I am happier when I make time to get together with friends, sometimes over lunch, definitely at book club, even a play date at the park will do. Thank goodness for a thoughtful husband who knows that sometimes this mama needs a break. Joe has taken over the date planning, and I love those nights that I get to dress up and feel desirable, more than just the cleaner of toilets and the referee of siblings.

I look forward to becoming a homeowner. It is time, and I want badly to scratch this itch that is deep in my being. I’m so ready, and yearning, to settle down and grow some roots, and to have a place to make mine. But always, I’m trying to push the desire down and enjoy what I have today. 

The kids will get older and more capable, their personalities will bloom, and their independence will be thrilling and frightening, all at the same time. More than anything, I pray that I will be good enough. That despite my faults, they will become competent and caring adults, a source of good in the world and in their communities, that they will become parents who raise another generation of moral citizens.

All of this and more, I feel, but I choose to focus on this day, this moment, to play with my family, to memorize their faces, and to love them unconditionally. It is enough.

             

the ugly truck

My mother and I disagree as to when the truck was purchased; however, my memory conveniently connects events with what was going on around the time in question, so I am confident that I am right, and that the truck was purchased during the winter of my junior year of high school—December 1997. I had my driver's license, and Ben would soon have his, and though our parents insisted that there were no designated teen cars, they were actively seeking a family pickup truck that the teenagers would end up driving. We were visiting family in Phoenix, Arizona that Christmas, and Mom and Dad found a newspaper advertisement listed for a truck that was listed significantly below Kelly Blue Book value—somewhere in the price range of $1,500—meaning that they could pay for it in cash, and a deal that seemed too good to be true.

            

They brought the truck back to Grandma and Grandpa’s house and we all saw exactly why they got it so cheap. That truck had been stolen and recovered—after it had been painted over in a salmon latex house paint. It was ugly, but the owner promised a sleek black paint job underneath. The plan was to use a high-powered water sprayer to get that paint off. It took a lot more time and muscle than anyone bargained for, only to find out that underneath the latex paint someone had first tried to spray paint the truck red.

           

So imagine it: a small pickup truck with red spray paint lines and flecks of salmon randomly splattered over the black metal. It was horrific, and all of a sudden—I did not think the teenagers needed their own vehicle. I did not want to drive that truck, let alone to be seen with it in the high school parking lot. Ben, on the other hand, was happy to have something to drive.

            

The truck ended up being a money pit; it was always in need of repairs, and eventually the pedometer stopped working and the oil started leaking. When Ben and I drove across the country to Ricks College during the summer of 2000, he would purchase and refill the oil each time we stopped for gas. He happily parked the truck at his apartment, and I was happy to call him if I needed a ride; that way, none of my roommates had to know about the truck unless I let them in on the secret.

            

Unfortunately for me (and the truck), Ben made plans to finish his education at Edinboro University, but didn’t tell anyone until he had already returned home right before school started in the fall . . . meaning that the truck and I were stuck with each other. At this point, I was slightly more confident and my roommates had learned to love the ugly truck (or they at least enjoyed having access to a vehicle). My roommate and friend, Kathleen, and I spent a few summer weeks at her grandmother’s house, and had made a little bit money by collecting and selling worms. We decided to spend it all at the Idaho Falls mall, so we hopped into the ugly truck and set off, neither of us knowing exactly where we were going. About halfway there, the truck stopped. It just quit! We didn’t know what to do, and there were no cell phones back then—at least no cell phones for us. I honestly don’t know what we did, but somehow we gained access to a phone (did we walk to a house?) and called her grandma to come pick us up, and we left the ugly truck sitting on the side of the road.

I called my parents and let them deal with the truck 1,500 miles across the country. As it turns out, without Ben to care for the truck, I had destroyed the engine because it had run out of oil (remember that oil leak?). Mom and dad got a few dollars for that pitiful thing when it was dropped off at a salvage yard, and we continue to laugh about the ugliest truck that ever existed. Good riddance!