new things

I'm kind of embarrassed to admit this, but I used to be just a little obsessed with Friends. One of my favorite episodes was the one with the New Year's Resolutions, and Ross decides that his resolution is to do something new every day. (What is your favorite episode?)

Anyway, my new thing for today is to blog on the ipad. It turns out it's not that hard, I just had to find the cord for the keyboard that I never use.

The reason I decided to do this new and very exciting thing is that my cracked phone got a little bit wet, and whenever that happens it doesn't work, which means that I can't take pictures, and I wanted to include a picture today. And as it turns out, that was really, really, easy! 

My mom and I share the same May 11 birthday, which happens to be on Mother's Day this year, and apparently my birthday/Mother's Day weekend has officially started! Yesterday I received these delicious cheesecakes in the mail, along with six chocolate covered strawberries (that have already been eaten). A 400 calorie serving is 3/4 of one of these little cakes, and I decided to sample one during Ammon's nap time today. Yum!

The other thing I am celebrating today is that I made it to the post office again!! That's twice in the first half of the year, which is a pretty large feat for me. Of course, the packages I sent won't arrive in time for Mother's Day (and for Mom's birthday), but they said they should get to both places on Monday, and that's close! We still have Saint Patricks Day birthday cards that the kids made but were never sent......

I'm sure I will have something more thoughtful to write later, but I have been thinking about the mothers in my life. My wonderful grandmother, who taught my mom what a mom should be like, and then my mom taught me that same love. My other grandma who raised a pretty amazing father, and of course my own mother, who is always there for me even when she's thousands of miles away. Sometimes, when my kids get up in the middle of the night, or when they are driving me crazy, I think about her patience with us, and I know I can be a little better. I am grateful for teachers and leaders and aunts who helped to shape me, and as a mother, I am even more grateful for all of the good influence that these women have on my children. They need to feel that love and support, especially as they are getting older and will have to deal with the insecurities of teenager-hood, and as they face the world. 

I am, of course, also grateful for the opportunity to be a mother. It is a holy calling, and it is slowly chiseling me and pushing me towards the person I hope to be someday. I am more generous and selfless than I was before; I have more understanding and empathy. I am working on putting life (and my smart phone) aside, and putting my children first. Ammon will sometimes say, "pay attention to me," and I know that my kids don't really care what I look like or how educated I am, they just want my love and attention. They don't need my lectures and disapproval, they need my words of affirmation and approval. And perhaps more than anything, I need to listen. 

how we spent our rainy day

Ammon has been wanting a big boy bed (instead of the crib turned toddler bed), and today has been a dark, rainy day, so we decided to just do it. For the first time in over 10 years--there is not a crib set up in our home. Crazy! Sad!

He's not really in a bed, though, because when we move (more on that in a minute) we plan on Logan having his own room with a double bed, and Grant and Ammon will get the bunk beds. So for the next 5 months, Ammon will be sleeping on a cot. He doesn't care, in fact, he's thrilled. He's already unmade and made his bed a dozen times, and he rushed through lunch so that he could sleep on it during nap time.

As it turns out, the cot is longer than his crib, which means we needed to do some rearranging. Logan and Grant are going to be surprised, and perhaps sad, when they get home today because:

I took out their cubed shelving and everything that was on it. There are beds and dressers. That's it!

While I was at it, I decided to start packing. So far I've got 6 boxes packed for the new house, and just as many large garbage bags ready to go to the thrift store.

I'm ready to move!!

This is what our house will look like.

We finally got to choose the colors and materials, and it wasn't that hard to decide.... except for the brick. I hope it looks good when it all goes up! The only thing not on here is the paint color, which will be a light tan/gray that I've only seen on the lady's tiny phone screen. The red block represents our red door--yay for a little color pop. And now I'm looking at the picture and wondering if the tile we chose is too dark. 

OK, I'm actually having a hard time imagining it all, but I'm sure it will be wonderful and beautiful and.... OURS! 

Fragments

More stuff that I've been writing. I think I mentioned that my last assignment was kind of, well, random. They are not perfect essays (nor meant to be), but rather an exploration of mind, connections, and details. It ended up being sort of fun!

The first fragment I wrote was inspired by anagrams made from my name, and I had to tie them all together to write something that would explore some aspect of who I am.

The second was to choose a color a toddler would recognize, and then to use that color to explore a memory, and to see where I went from there.

And the last fragment that I am sharing (lucky you) is based off of a personal memory that I could "prove" with a photograph without first looking at the photograph. Then I was supposed to rewrite what I saw in the photograph without checking what I had already written. The third part of this response was to explore the difference between the two "memories." I might come back later and post the picture (thanks Mom for finding it for me), but I don't want it to influence the image that my words portray--if you make it all the way through, that is!

 Anagrams

(jog, fence, rent, green, not, note, cry, mercy, censor, meet, fret)

We walked to the park to meet some friends, other mothers with children. I was watching two little girls, plus my own little boy, and all three took turns riding in the stroller. The two girls started running, and I jogged behind them, trying not to fret about what I might look like to strangers—skinny jeans are not exactly exercise apparel. My short walkers then insisted on strolling down the stone fence, and I stood close by, just in case. As we passed by homes with square “For Rent” signs pinned into their yards, I noticed the green landscaping, the roof pitch, the color of brick, and I silently pondered over our future home, the one we are building, taking note of what I liked and didn’t like.

Finally, we reached the park and reunited with our friends. The children found a picnic table and ate their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while the women snuck slices out of a coconut chess pie. I stood the entire time, half in the shade, half in the sun, reaping the benefit of both springtime sensations. I feel happier today, which is a tender mercy, and I did not cry. Of course, they must have censored their words; instead, we discussed safe topics like Elizabeth Bennet and Mormon missionaries. I wouldn’t have minded the chance to explore the ache of disappointment, perhaps even welcomed it, but they did not bring up the topic of babies, pregnancy, or miscarriage, and I did not either.

The children started drifting away, so we gathered our belongings and made promises to meet again soon. It was just Ammon and I walking back, and our return was significantly swifter than our walk to the park. I did not turn my head to look at homes this time, but marched forward, intent on reaching my destination, stronger and more determined than I was before.

Green

I once asked Grandma Evie what her favorite color was, and she said green. She even painted their piano green! (I’ve only seen pictures of it.) She grew up on the same 120+ acres I did, and she explained that green reminded her of summer on the farm, which is kind of funny, because she has also told me on numerous occasions how happy she was when she left the farm and got to experience life in the city. I, too, did not love living on the farm—it was, in a way, embarrassing to me. That drafty old farmhouse, the tiny bedrooms, the stinky sheep bleating across the street. I couldn’t wait to leave home.

The ironic, and perhaps sad, thing is that I spent the first 12 or so years away from home celebrating the sidewalks, the tiny yards, and next-door neighbors. Then my kids got a little bit older and we went to visit the farm one summer. I saw them picking up chickens and feeding the sheep. I took them on hikes in the woods, showed them the spring and let them drink out of the Mason jar that has thirty years of lip imprints on its rim. I started to feel kind of…homesick.

We returned to our citified home in the suburbs of Dallas, a rental, and I started searching. You might be surprised, or not, to know that there aren’t very many colonial homes around here, and if you want a colonial with some acreage, well, you can forget about it. Not in our price range, anyway. So we decided to build a two-story brick home on one of the largest lots around--.25 acres, almost an hour away from my husband’s work, depending on traffic. And that is where I will raise my children, and hope that I can teach them to love nature, hard work, and humility.

Cleaning Up

They told me that morning that I couldn’t come out of my room until it was clean, so I decided to clean it. All of it. Still wearing my nightgown from the night before, I dumped out every drawer, threw every book from the bookcase, determined to surprise them with the thoroughness of my work. I spent hours, it seems, cleaning and organizing that room, until finally, I fell asleep on top of the greater mess I had created. My body rested haphazardly on top of clothes and stuffed animals. When I awoke, it was beginning to get dark, and I began to cry. I cried over the opportunities I had missed that day, and the daunting task at hand.

_____________

I am four or five years old, and I am sprawled out on the floor, twisted in what looks like an odd and uncomfortable position. My arms are resting in opposite directions, my neck twisted back and to the side. I am wearing a large blue and white striped t-shirt, perhaps one that was passed down from my mother to be used as a nightgown. My brown hair is a curly, tangled mess. You cannot see the color of the carpet because it is absolutely covered in chaos. There is a purple jacket (oh how I loved that jacket; it was long and puffy, and I thought it made me look like a princess!), a blue backpack with red straps, a blue blanket and a tied quilt, and at least five stuffed animals, with something underneath them, but I can’t tell what. It is that bad! There are a few unidentifiable objects, and then two large cardboard boxes, one reads “PEARS,” the other “ORANGES; ” perhaps I was supposed to put the toys in them. 

____________

I have often wondered whether I remember this day because I remembered it, or because of a picture. By itself, the event is forgetful. A stranger looking at it would see a messy girl sleeping on the floor of a messy room. On its own, there is no background story. I have had to clean my room hundreds, perhaps thousands of times over the last 33 years. But on this one occasion, my mother decided to take a picture, and then she reminded me of this story year after year. I do remember the determination I had to clean the entire room, and that I believed that in order to do so, I should do it all at the same time. Actually, now that I think about it, my brother Ben must have been in there with me, because I remember his dismay when I decided to empty everything out. He complained that it would take longer my way than his. Today, when I look at this picture, I see, but do not remember, the stuffed animals around me, or the blue t-shirt I wore. I am grateful for this proof of innocent childhood and a messy room; I am grateful for the memory it provides. It foreshadows a lot about my personality as an adult: if I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it all, and do it right.

how i spent my naptime

I know, totally lame. I'm turning the family blog into the things I write. I'm half way done with this class. We have a love-hate relationship. For example: I just had to write an essay made from anagrams made from my name. WHAT? But actually, I like how it turned out. This isn't it (in case you were wondering). I have no title, yet, for this one, but I think you should be able to figure out what it's about.

PS, Joe says you can't boldly tiptoe, but isn't that what happens in the summer? Summer is bold, and loud, and bright, and then all of a sudden it's August and you don't know where the summer went. It's going to happen in just a few months--you'll see! That is sneaky; that is tip-toeing. What do you think? 

Summer boldly tiptoes into August, and suddenly there is a sense of urgency to prepare for autumn. More trips to the pool, late nights around the campfire, a plethora of family activities (memories must be made!), and a rush to purchase school supplies that are going, going, gone. There are new clothes, the latest in fall fashion, carefully folded and daily admired, sitting on the top shelf of the closet, ready to be worn by children who are eager to reunite with their friends. I, too, watch the calendar, impatiently awaiting the return to a schedule, dreading the 5:30 a.m. alarm, dismayed—and at the same time pleased—that my children insist on getting taller, more independent. They are growing up.

Finally, school starts, and just like that, the days become a little cooler, and the darkness arrives a little earlier. I pull my jeans and sweaters out of storage while humming a thankful tune that boots are back in style, and I am transported to my childhood.

I grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania, where the transition into fall corresponds with the yellowing of the hay fields and the hum of tractors as they finalize their harvests. The hills brighten the horizon with a plethora of leaves the color of fire: red, yellow, and orange. The Amish buggies go clip-clopping by, more briskly than they did in summer; there is work to be done before the first frost arrives.  The air crispens with the aroma of something burnt, decaying leaves, and the whisper that winter is waiting.

In contrast, the old farmhouse is warm, and there is the smell of a gas heater, turned on for the first time in months, mixed with the smell of work: last-minute food preservation of tomatoes, corn, jams, and my very favorite: applesauce.

There are football games to watch, cross-country meets to run. And then, there are holidays! Holidays with their sugary treats and themed decorations. Halloween, with its opportunity to become someone, or something, else for an evening. Thanksgiving arrives much too quickly as we prepare for family who will travel across the country to share food, blessings, and gratitude. There will be leaf-crunching walks in the woods, four wheeler rides, and perhaps most exciting of all: the guns will come out, and clay pigeons will be shot. Finally, there is the promise of magic, when the season will change from vibrant woodsy colors to a white background of snow, naked maple trees, and evergreens in the distance.

unexpecting

Joe took a pre-midnight Walmart run on Saturday, March 15 to buy the test. You're supposed to wait until the morning, when you are the most dehydrated, to take it, but I couldn't wait. I peed on the cottony strip that night, maybe two minutes after he walked through the door, and then I tried to keep a straight face as I handed him the plastic stick.

Right away we started speculating. Boy or girl? We got serious about buying a house, even signing a contract to build a few weeks later. My breasts got a little fuller, my waist a little thicker. I was waiting to feel more nauseous, more sensitive to smell. I looked forward to the smooth skin, the thicker hair, that each pregnancy had gifted me. Most of all, I counted down the weeks, eagerly anticipating the day I would first feel my child moving inside of my being. I looked forward to having our families visit us for the holidays--the baby was due the week before Thanksgiving, and surely, they would come.

I googled fun ways to declare my pregnancy on facebook, all of them cliche and worn out; I planned a Mother's Day card announcement for our families. We have always waited to spread the news of a new baby. I told myself "just in case," but really, I savor the secret, and then enjoy surprising everyone when I'm already 12 or 13 weeks along.

9 weeks and 1 day (but who's counting?), I noticed blood when I relieved myself that morning. I visited the bathroom frequently after that, hoping, praying, that it was nothing. I felt some cramping, but that was not abnormal for me--I attributed it to my swelling uterus. Finally, I called the doctor; they asked me to come in.

She checked the bleeding, and then did a vaginal ultrasound. It didn't last very long, maybe 30 seconds, and I knew right away that something was wrong. "This doesn't look normal," she said. She tried to be optimistic, but I knew what was coming. There was an egg sac but no fetus. I let them poke my arm with needles, knowing what the blood tests would confirm. I was losing the baby--or more correctly, I was losing the egg sac.

My HCG levels were high, over 12,000--proof that I was pregnant. My progesterone, though, was only 4.6--proof that all evidence of a pregnancy was flowing out of my body.

A lot of people have miscarriages. It's not uncommon. They usually describe it as a heavy period. No one tells you that it's painful. That you will have hours and waves of contracting to expel that little bit of bloody tissue out of your body. That you will feel it traveling out of you as you spend those hours in the bathroom crying, waiting. They told me to expect bleeding for the next 4-6 weeks. I will go back to the doctor, at least once, for another naked examination, and to be poked by more needles, to be told that I am back to "normal." No one tells you, though now it seems so obvious, that after the physical pain subsides, there is still emotional pain. The disappointment. The hormones!

Tuesday was the hardest day. The most painful, the most emotional. Every day has been a little bit better, but every day, there has been something to bring tears without notice. On Thursday, it was a too-long wait at the tire shop. On Friday, a call from the cardiologist, the words falling out of my mouth and into the phone, "I miscarried this week."

If I'm honest, this pregnancy always felt different. I was always afraid that something was wrong. If I'm honest, I can understand that this was part of Heavenly Father's plan for me. If I'm honest, I can see His wisdom, and I know that everything will work out just right. Sometimes, though, honesty still hurts.

Today a friend ran up to us at the park, eagerly announcing, "I'm pregnant." Everyone was congratulating her, but I had to separate myself while I silently grieved. I'm happy for her, I truly am. But what I so loudly remembered right then was that I am not pregnant anymore, and that I never got to share and celebrate my own exciting news.

A few months ago a friend sent me a small, hard-bound book with empty pages and a purple butterfly on its square cover. Today I decided that I would use it to keep a record of the blessings in my life.

Today, and yesterday, and surely tomorrow, I received and will continue to receive calls, messages, and texts from the few people that I have told, asking me how I'm doing. My family has received meals and anonymous goodies at our front door. For friends, I am thankful.

Tonight, my children requested a sibling sleepover. They covered the boys' room in blankets and pillows, and as I sit here and write, I can hear them talking, movement on the floor above me. They don't think I know about the flashlights they are hiding. For four thoughtful, beautiful children, I give thanks.

My husband called to tell me that he left his out-of-town work engagement early, and would be home several hours earlier than I anticipated. For his thoughtfulness, his love, and his dedication to our family: I am thankful.

As I sit here, I can hear the crickets calling outside. I hear the hum of the computer, the silence of my thoughts. As I turn my head and observe the rooms around me, I see proof of my family, evidence of the life we have created. This little wrinkle in my plan--it will become part of us, part of me, and I will be thankful.

The only picture I have with my tiny 9 week bump. 

No one would have noticed, probably, but me, on this Easter Sunday. 

Alteration

I have been reading/studying Eduardo Galeano's Book of Embraces. It's not my favorite, but the writing style is interesting, and I'm excited to practice it for my next assignment. Galeano says that he is "always devouring other people, their voices, their secrets, their stories, their colors. (He's) stealing their words." I feel like I need to go people watch, now. 

A Sample

His hair is getting long; it is time for a trim. It is easier to see the gray coming through when it is long like this, and as I look at it, I realize that we are reaching the halfway mark. I always knew that his hair would gray early, just as his father’s did. I used to tease him that he would look like a handsome Richard Gere, and I wasn’t wrong—their hair is quite similar. Then I look into the mirror. There is a dryness, lines around my eyes. I move my fingers, and notice loose skin enveloping my bones. We are aging together, and our children are aging with us. That is another story altogether.

She cannot find the bathroom in the middle of the night, and when Mom hears her shuffling, she leads her to the door, and waits. The minutes pass, and Mom asks if everything is ok. Grandma does not know how to flush the toilet. Later, I find Grandma crying. Of the few things that she can remember, she remembers independence, and she grieves its loss. My mother helps Grandma get dressed, and then gently braids the hair of the woman who raised her.

There is giggling coming from the bathroom. A rushing up and down the stairs. One boy, the middle child, enters the room, and displays his hair: brown spikes, obviously hair-sprayed into place. There is a smile, and an explanation that sister is playing stylist. A few minute later, the youngest gallops by. His hair is smothered down until it reaches his forehead, where it flips up like an ocean's wave. Finally, the oldest walks into sight, arms held out, ready to announce, his hair parted and smoothed completely to the side. 

Remembering Ben

Friday, August 13, 2004 The phone started ringing at 6:30 a.m. It had been ringing for a while, but I hadn’t heard it because the bedroom door was shut and Joe had been in the shower. He woke me gently, “Jenny, your mom is on the phone.” I faked a cheery “I’m awake!” voice and said, “Hey Mom! What’s up?” “Ben was in a car accident last night.” “Oh. Well, he’s ok, right?” “No. I’m sorry, Jenny. Ben died.”

Time stands still in that moment, as I try to comprehend what I have just heard. They, whoever they are, are still trying to piece together what happened, but they think he ran a stop sign and was hit on the driver’s side by a van. They spent much too much time trying to open his door, and when they finally got him out, they called for life flight, but then told them to turn around just a few minutes later. It was too late.

When Joe answered the phone, Mom said, “Joe, I have some hard news, and you will need to help Jenny and be there for her.” She told him, and then asked if he wanted to tell me, or if he wanted her to give me the hard news. He knew that I would want to talk to my mom. 

Later they would piece together Ben’s last evening as they talked to each other and to Ben’s friends. He had watched I.Q. with Rene and made her macaroni and cheese for lunch. She is happy with her last memories with him. Mom and Brent got to talk to him at the fair’s sheep barn earlier that evening. Dad had been able to see and talk to Ben at the house while Dad got ready for his stake meetings. Ben visited Devon Lauger, and then said he needed to go home and shower. He was going to go see his girlfriend, Kate. Funny thing—he had made several conflicting commitments with different people for Saturday. He hated to tell people “no.”

Friday, August 13, 2004. Mom and Dad, Rene, Brent, and two friends had been camping in the trailer at the Warren County Fair, and had received a phone call at 3:30 a.m. “Am I speaking to the Foster’s? Do you have any sons? What are their names? Your son, Benjamin, was in an accident, and we need you to come to the hospital right away.” Mom and Dad quickly dressed, woke Rene, and told her they were leaving. It was 45 minutes of silent thinking, silent prayer, and occasional audible speculation. 

Mom and Dad were taken to a small room near the Emergency Room, where they were told that Ben had died in a car accident. They were led to a table, where he was covered by a sheet, but he still wore a wooden beaded necklace. They walked around the hospital for a few minutes, hugging and crying, and then, instead of having time to grieve, they had to start planning. Who to call first? Young kids to take care of, a funeral to arrange.

They called Bishop Freestone. Then they asked the stake Patriarch, Brother Miller, who lived two miles from their home, to go to the fair to pick up their children and to figure out what to do with the friends who had stayed with them. Many other countless calls were sent and received that day, including mine.

Friday is a blur. Without thinking it through, I walked over to our neighbor’s apartment and told them I had to cancel our dinner plans because my brother had just died. They didn’t know what to say. Dennis, who was at BYU-Idaho, got a ride down to Provo and stayed with us. Joe and I asked him to watch Logan on Saturday so that we could go to the temple. We were asked to be the witness couple, but I started crying hysterically and explained that I couldn’t. The lady sitting next to me asked if I was ok; I told her what happened, and she asked, “Why are you here?”

Dennis, Logan, and I flew to Buffalo, NY on Monday. It was Joe’s first day of law school, and besides, we didn’t have the money to fly both of us. Brother McDunn picked us up from the airport. It was a quiet day with silent thoughts and tears. When we arrived at the farm, there were so many cars at the house that people had started parking in the fields. There were people painting the porch, tractors tearing down and moving an old, falling down granary across the road. There were people inside cleaning the house and collecting clothes that needed to be ironed. 

I later found out that Mom and Dad had surprised the ward by showing up on Sunday to their early morning meetings. Everyone stood up to greet them, and then asked what they could do. Mom shrugged her shoulders, but Dad said, “Connie is worried about everyone coming to the house from out of town. We need help getting ready for visitors.” My parents, who had always been the ones to help others, finally needed help themselves, and the service they received was staggering.

I couldn’t sleep, and I hadn’t been able to sleep since receiving the news on Friday. I was exhausted physically and emotionally, but still, my mind would not stop racing as it replayed memories and tried to comprehend what I knew was true but didn’t seem possible. On top of that, 10-month old Logan was waking up every few hours, and because we were staying in the house, I was worried about him waking everyone. That night, no matter what I tried, he wouldn’t stop crying. I was crying myself, and Dad came upstairs and told me to let him take Logan so that I could sleep. It felt like an order, so I handed Logan over and tried to rest. I still couldn’t sleep because I felt badly about keeping my dad awake, and after a while, realized that it was very quiet. I tiptoed down the stairs to see if he had gotten Logan to sleep but couldn’t find them. I noticed that the light was on at the apartment over the garage, so I put my shoes on and walked across the yard. When I cracked open the door, I saw Dad on the floor playing with Logan. He noticed me, and mouthed, “Go to bed. Sleep.” It was, perhaps, one of the greatest parenting moments I have ever experienced.

Again, the next days all blur together. There were a lot of people in and out of the house, a lot of hugging and crying, and a lot of work to be done. Dad’s birthday was on the 17^th, and he and mom celebrated by driving to the airport to pick up family who were flying in for the funeral. There were no presents. People brought food, until food had filled up the fridge and the freezer. Eating was a mechanical action; no one felt hungry.

The viewing was on Thursday. And there was Ben, in a casket, wearing a dark suit and looking nothing like he did in real life. His skin was pale, covered in pasty makeup, and his longer blond hair was parted and combed to the side—not the crazy, sticking up hair I had been used to seeing. I speculated on the purple bruises on his hands. Were they from gripping the steering wheel? Caused by the impact of a van going 55 miles an hour into his side? Did he know what was happening, did he feel terror as he realized that he would be hit? Did he feel pain? Numb. That is the best way to describe how I felt. More and more people walking by and hugging me, until I didn’t want to have to smile at anyone anymore. I started to feel like I was going crazy; people would hug me and give and me their condolences and I would giggle, realizing that my response was inappropriate, but unable to stop. Someone took Logan into another room so that I wouldn’t have to chase him around.

The funeral was on Friday. The family got to see his body one more time, say goodbye one more time. Dad took off Ben’s jewelry, the wooden necklace, which he gave to me, and the bracelet, which he gave to Rene. Then they closed the casket and we all filed into the chapel.

The chapel and the overflow room were filled with Ben’s family and his friends, many of whom we had never met before. They told us stories about how they had met him, and the small acts of service he had performed; stories that made us feel happy and sad all at the same time, because maybe we hadn’t realized just how good of a person he really was.     

      

Bishop Freestone spoke, and told the story about Ben agreeing to remove the granary in exchange for his prom tux rental. He said, “Ben, we are happy to report to you that your debt is paid.” President Martin started a fantastic talk about flying out of the airport on a rainy, cloudy day, and discovering the sun after getting through the clouds. He went on to explain to the non-members that going on a mission, in the LDS culture, was similar to a parent’s hope and dream that children would attend college. He then reprimanded the members in the audience who were speculating about Ben not going on a mission, and what that would mean for him now that he was dead, and for judging him in their hearts. He explained that only our Heavenly Father could judge. My mom said that it was a comforting talk, for her, but our non-LDS family members and Ben’s friends were upset because all they heard was that Ben wasn’t good enough to go to heaven.

After the funeral, we drove to the cemetery—the one that is a three-minute walk from my parents’ home. We parked and walked over to the hole in the ground, easy to find because of the large mound of dirt next to it. The coffin was placed inside of a metal box, and the man in charge warned us not to touch the lid, as it was very sticky. Uncle Randy, of course, had to touch it, and after ripping some skin off, confirmed that it was, indeed, quite sticky. It felt good to laugh again.

From there, we drove to the fire hall, just a few minutes away, and ate the obligatory lunch. Grandma Evie convinced my parents to pay to have the luncheon there instead of doing it in the backyard. It was, I imagine, less work, but at the time I think my parents felt like kids again, with a mom bossing them around. I don’t remember staying to clean up, so I suppose it was a wise suggestion.

The night before Ben died, Joe and I walked outside of our apartment to avoid hearing Logan cry himself to sleep. I remember looking up at the stars and wondering at the vast universe, and realizing that there was so much that I didn’t understand. I had wanted to call home that night, but knew that Mom and Dad would be at the fair, and I didn’t have anything to talk about with Ben, so I didn’t call. 

We were only 15 months apart--meaning we were at times best friends, and other times biggest competitors. When we moved to Pennsylvania, our two zebra finches died. We buried them in a McDonald's Happy Meal box and made a parade and banged on some sort of homemade drums as we marched around the house and mourned for those birds. Another time, we got tired of waiting for the chickens to mature enough to lay eggs, so we snuck some eggs out of the fridge early one morning, and then surprised Mom and Dad by “finding” the large white eggs a few hours later. Those were the friendly times; I often find myself regretting that we grew apart as we grew older. 

Joe and I spent the summer in between undergrad and law school in Pennsylvania, and Ben wanted to take baby old Logan with him everywhere . . . to the mall, to his friends' homes, on walks. He bought Logan a few outfits, which I still have and am saving to pass down to the next person in the family with a boy.

When someone dies unexpectedly you go through a stage of denial. They must be wrong. How could something change so suddenly? How could it possibly be true? Gradually, you come to accept it, and accept that your life will never be the same, but instead there is a new normal—a life in which this is what happened and you don't know any different.

You start measuring time, measuring absence first in days, then weeks, and eventually years. Your memories turn into pictures and stories. When strangers, or even friends, ask about family, you have to decide in that moment how much you are going to reveal; always there is the desire to recognize that defining piece of your life, but you often abstain from that impulse, knowing that it will cause a momentary shock, an uncomfortable silence, apologetic words. Sometimes you gain an unexpected bond when you find a friend who knows about grief and loss.

There are people who ask me how we do it, how we can move on even when something so hard happens. Sometimes people say they wouldn’t be able to handle it if "it" happened to them. My response is always the same: yes, you could. You have to. We have to. There’s no other choice. The reality is that life keeps on going, and we still have to keep living, so we do it as gracefully and happily as we can. I take comfort in our religious beliefs, our knowledge that we are sealed together, and that we will see Ben again. I especially love Mosiah 16:7-8.

7. And if Christ had not risen from the dead, or have broken the bands of death that the grave should have no victory, and that death should have no sting, there could have been no resurrection.

8. But there is a resurrection, therefore the grave hath no victory, and the sting of death is swallowed up in Christ.

But I never stop wondering what if . . . what if I had been able to talk to Ben that night? What if he was still alive? Would he have kids? Where would he be living? What would he be doing? Would we be better friends? Ironically, when I allow myself to think about Ben and remember and feel . . . I think about how a lot of the last memories I had of him had to do with death.

I remember just months before, when Misty, the dog, was hit by a car a mile from home, and Rene, running barefoot and sobbing as she hugged the dog on the side of the road, and then Ben driving up in his white truck to pick up the dog and take Rene home. How he asked Joe and me to stop walking on the side of the busy road with Logan in a stroller because he feared that a speeding car would hit us. “I don’t want you to die,” he had said.

I remember him as the protective younger brother, who dared to tell me not to date boys he thought would not respect me, even when some of those boys were his best friends. When I pointed that out, he said, “Yeah, so I know what I’m talking about. They are ok for friends, not ok for boyfriends.”

I remember him cleaning cars and riding on tractors and dancing in the kitchen to country music. I remember crying when it was his turn to drive because the rule was that the driver got to choose the music, and I hated country music.

I remember Ben, taller than I, and thin but sturdy, strong and tan from working hard outside. I remember his spiky blond hair, his pointy elf ears, his high cheekbones and large nose, his perfectly shaped eyebrows. I remember Ben, who loved to have fun and who was always ready to be spontaneous. I remember the last time that I saw him, covers pulled up to his chin in bed, with Logan sitting by his head. We woke him up early that morning to say goodbye on our way out to Utah.

I remember that after the funeral, Dad said, “I found some illegal fireworks in Ben’s stuff. I think he’d like it if we went across the road and set them off.” So we did. We lit those things up and we celebrated Ben’s life.

to try or to attempt

I started my second class, creative non-fiction. Right now it seems that it is really a class about essays, which is fine because I like essays. So far I have learned about the father of essays, Montaigne, and a little about essay theories and theorists.

Did you know that the word "essay" comes from the verb "to essay" which means "to attempt, or try."

A major theme of essaying is that you write to discover truth, and to track the way your mind moves. Montaigne's essays tend to be quite random, and his conclusion often contradicts what he started off writing. To be honest, it is hard for me to spend very much time reading his essays, but they are good--a little at time. Anyway, his essays remind me a lot of the way I blog. I just write stuff down, and hope that for some reason, you, the reader, find something interesting, or something that you can relate to.

So today I'm just going to let my fingers take my mind where it wants to go, and where it wants to go is about a try, an attempt, that we made today. If I were Montaigne, I might title my (very informal) essay

Of Pinewood Derbies

Logan got his block of wood about a month ago. Of course, we did not realize the passage of time until about a week ago, when our Scout Master emailed and asked if we had been able to finish the car, and if not, she was arranging a workshop for the boys.

Logan and Dad went to Mike's Wood Shop and cut the car into a thinner, shorter rectangle shape, about the size of a dollar bill. The next day, Logan mixed two shades of green paint (that we already had) and painted his car green. They returned to Mike's Shop to sand the spurs off of the nails and prepare the wheels. A few days later we counterfeited a $100 bill at home and modge-podged it on the top (that's about the extent of my crafty skills right there). The car looked cool, and Logan thought it was a winner.

Short story made even shorter: it wasn't. He got 6th place out of 7 places.

He was sad.

I didn't know what to do as he avoided eye contact with those around him, and the tears silently slid down his face. I hugged him and told him I knew it was a bummer. But he had fun making it, right. He would feel better about it tomorrow.

Didn't help.

So I told him about my 6 year cross-country running career. I never got first place. Or second. Or third. I pretty much always came in towards the end, maybe even sometimes--the very end.

He asked me why I was talking about it. "Isn't that embarrassing to admit?"

I had to think about it for a minute. I might have been a little embarrassed about it in high school, but I kept on joining the Cross Country team each year, for six years. I am definitely less ashamed about my slower times than I used to be. But honestly, I'm proud that I kept running. I wish like crazy that I could run a minute in 7-8 minutes these days! I wish I could even run a mile without feeling like I was going to die, not to mention 3 miles, or 5 or 8!

Then we talked about the time he and Dad spent making the car. Well, actually Mike did a lot of the making of the car, but Logan and Joe spent a lot of time together in the car driving to Mike's Shop. And the car does look pretty cool.

Then the conversation backfired because instead of making Logan feel better, he said he felt worse about being such a bad sport (actually he said that he made a scene and acted like a baby).

I guess we just have to keep trying, keep attempting. Attempting to make cars, to run a little faster, to help those around us to feel a little better.

The good news is that we don't have to compete in the Pinewood Derby for two more years.

new best friend

About a month ago I visited the cardiologist to try and get some answers about the heart palpitations I had been having. They did another EKG--saw nothing in 10 seconds--and the doctor said that because I was young, at a healthy weight, and my blood tests looked good, that he didn't think it was anything to worry about. In fact, it might be completely normal and as simple as heartburn. He advised me to stop drinking caffeine, carbonation, and alcohol--all things that I don't put into my body. He wouldn't even look at me while he was talking. I wasn't very happy because 1) it isn't normal for me and 2) it's NOT heartburn, and I'm pretty sure it's not garbage going into my body. I'm not very good at being assertive, especially when I'm talking to someone clearly more knowledgeable than I--which is kind of dumb, because I have the ultimate knowledge about my body and when something feels wrong. I tried to explain that I wasn't worried about individual heart flutters, but the fact that my heart would flutter every 5-6 seconds for hours. He decided to have me use a 24 holter monitor to see if they could catch whatever was happening.

Of course, not much happened that 24 hours. Two weeks later they called me with the results: I am having premature ventricular contractions (PVC's). Basically, my heart is adding a beat in, and then skipping to make up for it. The doctor then decided to put me on a 30 day heart monitor so that they could see what an episode looked like.

So--this is what I'm hooked up to for the next 30 days. I have two electrodes on my chest that constantly monitor my heartbeat. I get to attach this awesome (and large) thing to my pants and try to hide the wires by tucking them into my clothes.

Probably the most awesome thing is the high pitched wailing sound that goes off whenever it detects an abnormality in my heart beat. And it screams at me for a looong time. The kids get nervous when it goes off, and ask when it's going to stop making that noise. Then the eCardio people call to ask me how I'm feeling and what I was doing when the alarm went off. I'm really looking forward to it going off during the middle of church, of course.

All joking aside, this test does help me to relax a little. Even though so much of what I've read says that it's probably not a big deal (I've discovered that there are a lot of people out there who are living with messed up heartbeats), it's not something I'm ready to get used to. I'm glad to know that it's not all in my head--they can see that something is going on--and hopefully they will be able to figure out why it has started and how to get things back to normal. And, I guess if I have to live with it for the rest of my life--at least I will know that it isn't going to wear my heart out.

 

Wrinkles and Popular

Madison knows that she can get me to let her stay up later if she starts playing with my hair right around bedtime. Turns out this time together is also a good time to talk--well, more like it's a good time for me to listen--and find out what is going on with her.

Things like boys, and games they play to determine how many kids they are going to have, and who is popular.

Popular.

That word just made me cringe. How, at the age of eight and in the third grade, do children already know who is popular? I'm not going to lie, just thinking about the word, the feelings, the growing up--it  terrifies me.

I asked her what made people popular. She explained that popular people are athletic, smart, dress nicely, and have a lot of friends.

She also told me that they know when girls like boys when girls start caring about what they wear everyday.

Then she said that you can know if a girl is popular by the way she walks. Apparently, popular girls shake their bottoms when they walk.

I'm not kidding. Just writing it all down is making me feel sick to my stomach.

All of those popular qualities are great; there's nothing wrong with being athletic or being smart or having nice clothes. Hey--I wish I could shake my bum, that's for sure. I just hate that those things have to define us--define children.

I asked Madison what kind of a person she thought she was, and she quickly replied, "I'm a tomboy." She explained that she would rather wear t-shirts than dresses or skirts, she doesn't want to get her ears pierced, and she thought that she was too young to have crushes on boys. Put all of that together, and she's a tomboy.

It was a good conversation. Very eye-opening. And scary.

Madison also checked the lines on the wrist of my closed fist to see how many boys and girls I was going to have. Four--can you believe it? And as I watched her count, I noticed that my hands are getting wrinkled, the skin loose and lined, and I realized that I'm getting older. Somehow I made it through that growing up mess, and I'm not going to lie: it was hard. But I made it, I found myself somewhere along the way, and I figured out who I am.

I know she can make it through, too, but I don't know what I'm doing. It's scary, this mommy thing! I don't want to run out and buy expensive clothing or pressure her to be in every activity (that would make me crazy, actually), but I don't want her to think that she is less than anyone. I don't want her to be snobby, but I don't want her to feel left out, either. So I teach her the best that I can and listen to what she is willing to tell me, and I pray that somehow I will know how to help her, and that she will be confident and strong, because having nice clothes and "popular" friends are not the same thing as owning confidence. Confidence. If only I had the answer--I would share it with you for free.

oh what a night

Happy Valentine's Day.

I'm exhausted.

Here's why:

I have been having some irregular heart palpitations. Don't worry (I'm doing enough of that on my own), I went to the doctor this week to get an EKG and some blood work done. I am healthy. However, it's causing me some major anxiety, so I'm going to a cardiologist next week to see if they figure out what's going on and how to make it stop. 

Last night the palpitations started around 7:00 p.m., and when I started timing, they were occurring every 4-5 seconds. They aren't painful, really, they just aren't normal, and when it's your heart that isn't normal, it's a little disconcerting. I tried showering, walking, and finally I just sat down to watch t.v. to take my mind off of my wildly beating heart. I started feeling like I could maybe fall asleep despite the weirdness around 11:30, and happily, I think I fell asleep rather quickly.

Then, at 2:00 a.m. Ammon started sobbing about wanting his balloon that was downstairs. We told him he could get it in the morning and to go back to bed. He said "o.k."

At 2:30 he got up to poop.

The heart palpitations were still going strong at this point, and I couldn't go back to sleep. I didn't want to wake Joe up, so I went downstairs to get a drink of water and read for a while.

At 3:00 Ammon came downstairs looking for his balloon. I gave it to him and told him to go back to bed. 

At 3:30 Madison came down stairs. I told her to go back to bed.

Around 4:00 a.m. I noticed that the palpitations were getting further apart, and I was feeling sleepy again, so I decided try sleeping on the sofa. 

At 4:30 Logan came downstairs. I told him to go back to bed. 

At 5:45 I heard someone moving around. I thought it was Joe leaving for seminary, but it was Logan making his lunch in the kitchen. I asked him to make sure Joe was up. He wasn't. I told the kids to wake him up and finish their lunches while I slept on the sofa. 

Needless to say, I did not get up in time to make the kids the yummy Valentine's breakfast I had planned.

And I'm completely wiped out. A little emotional, too. 

At least my heart is beating normally right now.

I feel a little guilty about missing the kids' school parties afternoon, but I just can't do it right now. We can still make it a fun day when they get home. Right? 

ice cream for lunch

A few weeks ago we made Valentines for our extended family members. Since Valentine's Day is on Friday, I decided I should hurry and send them today.

I went to the post office.

This is huge, people! Last year I went to the post office once--a week before Christmas. I'm feeling pretty good about making it to the post office already in 2014. So let me say it again:

I went to the post office.

Unlike the Christmas expedition, we only had to wait for one person. Ammon was looking pretty cute with his batman cape over his puffy winter jacket, so the man in front of us gave him a $5.00 bill and said, "Batman, you should take your mom out for ice cream."

I asked Ammon what he wanted to do when we got in the car, and of course he said, "Let's go get ice cream!" I explained that it was pretty cold to eat ice cream and he said, "Weeelll, I have my warm jacket on."

We decided to get a 1/2 gallon of ice cream to share with the other kids, who were at home. Ammon chose Death by Chocolate (no kidding, that's the one he pointed to, but I'm not complaining!). He even paid for it himself with his $5.00 bill.

As soon as he got home he ran up the stairs to tell the others what he got, and they ran down the stairs to confirm his story.

And that is why we ate ice cream for lunch.

shoe's on the wrong feet

oh yeah, they ate a grilled cheese sandwich with jam first. 

super hero cape on the ground

p.p.s. Don't try swirling in peanut butter with your death by chocolate.