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! 

2013: out with a bang, in with the new!

We are gearing up for a fun-filled family party. Everyone got to pick out one treat for tonight, but when we went to the store to pick up said choices, we ended up with much, much more. If you don't have any plans for tonight--stop on by. There will be plenty!!

Joe chose barbecued sausage, I chose fruit and veggies, Logan chose shrimp, Madison meat/cheese/crackers, Grant chose desserts, and Ammon chose pizza. We also came home with cheese balls, chips and dip, nacho makings, and at the last minute Grant asked to make pigs in a blanket. We are going to get fat with a bang!

We made muddy buddies and some cake pops that look nothing like the picture on the box. Grant said something to the effect of, "It's fun getting ready for the New Year." What he meant was, "It's fun spending time doing things together as a family."

We have silly string and those popper things and light sticks and loud confetti. I might ask myself what I was thinking at 12:01 a.m.

All of this brought me back to our first New Year's Eve as a married couple.

We had just returned from a semester in China, and we drove from Pennsylvania to Rexburg, Idaho, where we enlisted the help of his boss and our Chinese teacher to move a few boxes, a table, bed, and sofa (that's all we owned) into our third story apartment.

We were wiped out, so we put the mattress on the living room floor and set the alarm to wake up at 11:50 p.m.

I woke up at 2 or 3 a.m. and realized we had completely missed our first New Year celebration together. I cried about how unmemorable it was, never dreaming that every year we would tell this story and have a good laugh.

I should probably go take a nap. Right now.

Happy New Year! May we all be healthy and strong, happy, and better tomorrow than we were today!

another year comes to an end

This is just an old-fashioned, boring, journal-like post for posterity. Sorry. :)

This year has been... interesting. A good, year, but hard (although I know it could've been much, much harder). It started out with a few months of physical unwell-ness (for me), with the flu, strep, and then 8 weeks of trying to recover from a second degree muscle strain in my back/right shoulder--and let's face it, when mom's down, everyone suffers. For years, I have felt that I have done ok at keeping my anxiety under control, but it has been a bigger struggle this year, and at times, almost debilitating. Because of that, it's also been a year of learning about my limitations, acknowledging that it's ok to be imperfect, and in general, a year of getting back to the basics. Like--we didn't get a family picture this year--the first year we have missed ever. I didn't send out cards, or even do a blog card! Maybe I will get around to all of that when the kids are back in school and the Christmas decorations are all packed up. Oh well.

So Christmas came again, and we tried to keep everything basic and simple. Early in our marriage, we decided that Christmas Eve we would eat Mexican food and do a nativity play that my family did with my grandparents when I was younger (grandma sent me the scripts and the nativity scene that she made--I feel so special to have it!). We invited friends over for dinner and to act out the nativity and for some singing.

Madison's picture of Jesus

Logan's

Grant's

This might seem silly, but I feel embarrassed if there are a lot of presents under the tree! I felt like we balanced the presents aspect of Christmas pretty well with thoughtful, meaningful gifts, and everyone was happy with what they gave and received.

I got Joe a gift certificate for a 2 hour shooting class by his office and some books on emergency wilderness survival.

He got me a gift certificate to go to a murder mystery dinner--something I've been wanting to do for years! (I also got several books from my to-read list.) We were also gifted a new wheat grinder--which I am SO excited about because my old one blows out ground wheat and is difficult to clean). 

Logan got an ipod alarm clock/speaker dock and electric circuits.

Madison got money to save for an ipod touch, but her favorite present was probably the Frozen soundtrack, and we have all been enjoying it with her; in fact, I am listening to it as I write!

Grant got 12 inch Star Wars characters, and he's been playing with them non-stop.

Ammon got a Super Man sleeping bag and a car race ramp.

We also got the kids some shared gifts: a WWII book for kids, family games, Gilligan's Island season 2 (they love Gilligan), and some poles for building forts--something I might regret in the near future, but so far it has been fun to see their forts and to hear the kids playing happily together.

The kids drew names for people in the family, and they all did a terrific job with their $10 gift limit.

Madison got Joe a huge container of Nestle chocolate powder mix and a Duck Dynasty cup. That was probably the winner of the day, and the one all of the kids were most excited to see someone open. In case you didn't know, Joe is especially fond of chocolate milk.

Logan drew my name and bought me a book by an author he knew I liked about a some men who tried to rob Lincoln's grave. I'm excited to read it!

Grant got Ammon, and he got him two big balls, a play sword, and gummy worms. The older kids got a big laugh when I told Ammon to smile so I could take a picture of his balls. When did my kids get that vocabulary?!

Joe bought Madison some perfume and hair things, and now we can tell whenever Madison has walked through a room. 

I got Grant a child Anakin Skywalker, another play sword, and some army men.

Ammon got Logan a game called Pictureka and a book about gross facts. 

The other memorable item was Grant's gift to Joe. He came home from school with a folder full of this semester's artwork, and after we finished looking through it, he asked me if he could wrap it for Dad. What a thoughtful gift! 

We ate a wonderful Christmas lunch and then set out for Joe's parents in Salado, TX with the leftovers. Except we left the uneaten pies sitting on the stovetop!! We ate dinner and then exchanged gifts with them. The kids were amazed that Lola knew exactly what they wanted! (A Percy Jackson book and movie for Logan, doll clothes for Madison, Spidermen web shooters for Grant, and a talking Woody for Ammon.) 

Christmas morning!

Joe will be embarrassed about this picture, but I love it

On Thursday we went on a fabulous hike just a few miles away from my in-law's home. It is the second time we have been there, and I hope we get to spend a few hours exploring the area every time we go to visit. It is really the BEST place I have found to hike here in Texas. 

They loved climbing up the "mountain"

The suspension bridge was a winner

Here's the part where I talk about my plans and goals for next year. It's been on my mind a lot!  I sat down to make a personal goal list; here's the sneak peek: sleep!, scripture study, and exercise (especially strengthening my upper body/back). I know. Nothing amazing or out of the ordinary. Going to bed earlier will be the hardest goal ever, but if I can do it--I know that it will be easier to be the person I want to be and to achieve the things I want to do every day and throughout the year. 

So--that's it! We are ready for another year, and hope that you are, too! 

Procrastination

I haven't submitted anything for my class for almost a month!! My next assignment is 10 pages on my parents--and I just haven't been able to figure out how to tell my story about them. I would start, and then start again, and then I just stopped. I mean--how do you start? Where do you start? How can I possibly get down in words the wonderfullness of my parents? The feelings of waking up, toasty under the covers in a cold room, to the smells of bacon cooking and pancakes and maple syrup? Who knew that you can relate bacon smells to parental love?  Everything I wrote seemed bland and listed and boring compared to that! (Ironically, I talked about this very subject with my dad a few weeks ago, and he said that scientific studies do show that bacon smells actually are a very good way to wake people up!)

 Ammon wanted to eat lunch at 10:30 this morning, and then he went down for his nap early, so I am finding myself with extra time. I decided to stop procrastinating and started another rough draft. So that's what you are getting today. My parents are amazing. This is not. But it's a start; a work in progress, and not finished. If you want to smell the bacon and feel the warmth of a farm home in the winter--you might just have to go there and visit. They love visitors, and they would invite you in, and then you'll know why I've been procrastinating.

This is the first picture I found with them. 

Connie and Doug, Mom and Dad

The first words she said to him were, “Ya big flirt,” as she walked by the tall, thin man with the bike leaning against a dorm window, talking to the girls inside. They would end up in the same Family Home Evening group at BYU. Later, he would define them both as “social retards.” Their relationship grew as most relationships do; they became friends, then confidants, and finally, deeper feelings emerged and commitments were made.

Connie Goss was smart, athletic, and as the third of nine children (seven living)—she was in control of her destiny. She graduated with an associate’s degree from Ricks College, and then went to BYU to graduate with a Bachelor’s in Elementary Education, with a minor in Bilingual Education. She got through school with a full tuition at both schools, and worked as a part-time, early-morning janitor.

Doug Foster was a science-loving runner. He ran track at Cobleskill College, and counted on his running prowess to get him into a 4-year university; however, he over-trained for the big meet, and because of an injury, was unable to place high enough to catch a scout’s eye. His coach reassured him: he was friends with the track coach at BYU, and could get Doug onto the BYU track team. He warned him, “Watch out for those Mormons, though; they’ll try to convert you.” Doug signed the honor code, shaved off his facial hair, cut his curly shoulder-length locks (he says he looked like Napoleon Dynamite—and he kind of did), and promised to stop drinking alcohol and coffee. He says the only thing that was really hard to give up was the coffee.

His first week at BYU, someone from Doug’s dorm offered to help him find a Lutheran church to attend, but since he had never been active in the Lutheran church, Doug declined the offer and instead decided to accompany his roommates to their LDS services that first Sunday. During the second week of school, the Sunday School President called to ask him to give a 3-minute talk. Doug said yes! He had taken one week of the mandatory Book of Mormon religion class, and they had covered the first few chapters of 1 Nephi; Doug gave a short talk on the relationship between Nephi and Lehi, and the importance of listening to your parents. He was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints a few months later, in March of 1978. I have always wondered what Dad’s Cobleskill track coach thought of that!

One of my favorite stories is Mom and Dad’s engagement. They chaperoned a youth church dance, and afterwards went to get something to eat. They were sitting in a booth when Doug said, “So what are we going to do?” Connie said, “Do what?” He said, “You know, how are we going to make it?” She thought, “Did I just get engaged?” Luckily, 33 years of marriage has improved their communication skills!

They were poor and in love. He melted down his class ring and made it into two matching wedding bands and a thin engagement ring with a pearl. They are beautiful, formed from loving sacrifice, and there aren’t any other rings in the world like them.

They were married on April 22, 1980 in Mesa, AZ temple, and I was born less than 13 months later, on Mom’s 22^nd birthday—after nine very sick months for Mom. Ben surprised them 15 months after that, and Dennis, Rene, and Brent were to follow over the next twelve years, until finally, our family of seven was complete in 1993.

I did not grow up in a traditional LDS home. Dad was doing janitorial work in the early morning, teaching school all day as a biology teacher, and then coaching track in the evening—and still, his paycheck was barely covering their small trailer mortgage and other small living expenses. At one point, they did not have enough money to fix the car, and Dad snow-shoed the two miles to work during the freezing Idaho winter months. They decided that the best thing for the family would be for Mom to enter the workforce, and for as long as I can remember, Mom worked either part or full-time teaching.

 Mornings worked like this: Mom helped get kids dressed and got the girls’ hair done, Dad made breakfast and packed lunches. After school, chores and household duties were split pretty evenly (and as kids got older, we contributed). Dad did a lot of the cooking and cleaning. We like to tease Mom about not knowing how to use a vacuum cleaner that had been purchased many months previously. My future husband had a lot to live up to my Dad’s example!

Mom has always been the rock—the listener, the patient, the one that wouldn’t get mad. And I would try! On my 18^th birthday I told her I was going to go buy a pack of cigarettes, just because I could show my I.D. She said, “Well, if that’s how you want to spend your money—go for it.” I didn’t. I did show my I.D. at a jewelry store for a second ear piercing that I knew she wasn’t thrilled with, and when I showed her my new holes she just smiled.

Ironically, my favorite memory is the one time I remember Mom losing her temper. She wishes I would forget it—or at least never bring it up again. She and I had been disagreeing about something—the topic, I actually did manage to forget! We must have started our conversation in the kitchen and moved into the living room, because she was holding a recipe box filled with 3x5 cards. Her volume increased slightly, and I looked at her and said something to further rankle her—and she threw the recipe box down, scattering cards all over the living room floor. I looked at her with surprise, and looked back a me, silent for a few seconds, and then she started laughing, “Well, that was a dumb thing to do. Help me pick them up, please?” I think I started laughing, too, and we picked up the cards together, our argument forgotten. I love this moment because it showed me that she was human—but then she was quick to laugh it off and make things better. Classic Mom.

Not only do I share Dad’s physical features, but I also have more of his personality than Mom’s calm. We are pessimistic (I like to say realistic), easily stressed, and we don’t like to sit still. Dad recently said he has mellowed out over the years, and he has. He was the one with the quick-temper, and I knew not to make him upset. He is also very humble. Once, in Phoenix, he asked me to lift the garage door so that he could carry a box in. In those days (or at least those days for us), you had to manually lift the garage door. I was probably seven, and was unable to lift it high enough to clear my dad’s 6’3” frame. He walked right into the garage door—and because he walks briskly and with purpose, it was probably not a soft bonk to the head. He was unhappy with me, and I went away crying and confused—after all, I had tried to be obedient. That evening, I returned from a baptism and found on my dresser a vase full of flowers and a card with a nice apology on it. This experience, and many throughout my life, taught me that even when we make mistakes, we can admit to them, apologize, and then set out to do better.

I don’t remember Mom and Dad fighting. Ever. It still amazes me, even though I know that they must have had their disagreements; they either worked them out quietly or waited for privacy. I asked Dad about it a few years ago, and he said that early in their marriage he decided that in most cases, it was just easier to do what Mom wanted then to spend the time and emotional energy arguing about it. This concept, while true, is not very easy to actually put into practice! 

Grant's letter to Sister Bradley

Grant's primary teacher at church passed away yesterday. She started out as his Sunbeam teacher, and she moved up with his class to CTR 4--so she has been teaching him for a while. We found out at the ward Christmas party, but decided not to tell him until later; however, our Bishop shared the news and encouraged us to pray for her family and to help them, and Grant ran back to ask us what he meant. I explained, and his face got all twisted as he started to cry, and the rest of the evening he was crying off and on. Some of the statements he made included, "No one told me she was going to die; I didn't get to say goodbye."

Last night, after we got home, we sat down to talk to him, and he told us all about why she was a good teacher. He brought us a little clay manger, baby Jesus, and Mary that he had made with her, and said, "Jesus is broken. Now how is she going to help me fix him?" We decided that today we would sit down and write a letter to Sister Bradley, to tell her thank you for being a good primary teacher, and to record some of his memories so that he would have them always.

Here is what we wrote. We changed from "you" to "she" pretty fast, because it was hard for Grant to understand why we would write to her if she would never be able to read it. Also, these are his words (like--he really wanted to make sure I wrote the date down).

Saturday December 14, 2013

Dear Sister Bradley,

I am sad that you died yesterday, Friday, December 13, 2013. Sister Bradley was my Sunbeam and CTR 4 teacher. You were very nice because you brought us food that we liked. She taught me how to play Angry Birds with a bean bag and pictures. If we  didn't know how to draw the pictures, she would help us. She taught us how to be good. Last year we had a Christmas party at her house. I made a baby Jesus and a Mary. She helped us on the clay, and when we were done and washed our hands, she let us play with her doggies. She would always say we were good. If you were good in class, she'd tell your parents you were good. If you were bad, she would tell your parents that you were good.

For my birthday, she gave me a letter "G" with red paint to paint it. She gave me a card that said, "I love (heart) you, Grant." She always gave me pictures of my friends.

She was just really, really nice. She really did love me. I loved her, too, because she was a nice teacher.

She would tell us that the way to have a lot of money was to not buy things, and to save my money.

I love Sisdr Bradley!

I will miss you,

Love,
GRANT

Rainy Cold Days Make Me

Happy. Rainy, cold, miserable days make me happy and motivated and energized.

I know, it's backwards. Maybe if it were weeks upon weeks of cloudy, gray, freezing cold days I might feel depressed, but right now I'm loving it.

The kids are out of school for the week, and I'm loving that, too. Today I slept in (well, until 6:30, but it felt amazing). We made sopapillas for breakfast and Madison and Logan took turns shaking the fried dough in powdered sugar. We spent the rest of the day playing outside, then inside, then outside. We spent over two hours putting a 300 piece puzzle together (Madison and Grant gave up after about 30 minutes). I canned 9 pints of chicken and Madison and I canned 14 quarts of potatoes. We made butternut squash soup for dinner. And we washed lots and lots of dishes. What a perfect way to spend the day!

Yesterday, Sunday, I taught Sharing Time in our primary at church, and we learned about taking care of the gifts we are given. I brought in a few gifts I found around the house--and one of them was a teapot that my Chinese "boyfriend" gave me. I have given or thrown away every other thing that was given to me by a boy other than Joe except for this teapot! Probably because there's not really a lot of sentimental value, so I feel that it's ok. And I like the teapot. The kids thought there was a genie living inside!

Well, there is a great story behind it.

As you know, I lived in Wuxi, China during the winter/spring of 2000 (before I met Joe). We lived about an hour's train ride from a city called Suzhou. We loved going to Suzhou because there was a lot of good shopping, it was beautiful and clean, and there was a Pizza Hut there!

One evening, as we were leaving Suzhou and returning to Wuxi, my friends and I were sitting on train talking. I pointed out that there was a taller, good-looking Chinese man sitting kitty-corner from us. We were laughing and talking about how one didn't see tall, handsome (we probably said "hot") guys in China that often. The cute guy and his friend were laughing and having a good time, too.

I was feeling pretty brave, apparently, so I went over to the good-looking guy and using made-up sign language said, "Will you (point to him) take a picture (pantomime a camera clicking) of us (point to our group)."

He said, "Sure."

Holy what? My cheeks probably got pretty red as I realized, "Wait, do you speak English?"

"Yeah. I study it at the university."

Crap! He understood all my brazen talk about how hot he was! That's why they were laughing!

Well, what was there to do but to introduce myself, give him the school's address, and get a picture taken to prove that I had a Chinese boyfriend named David (no clue what his real name is)?

(Sorry, I simply do not know how to turn the picture. It's not my best picture, and I think I have another one somewhere, but I don't know where. I still say he looks cute and....very young.)

So he started coming over to the school to visit me once in a while (the security guards were not impressed that I gave a stranger my address) and the day before I returned to the U.S. he brought me a teapot. 

I have a few letters from him, and we exchanged emails for about a year. The last email I sent to him I explained that I was getting married and he wrote back chastising me for getting married so young.

Now it's just a fun story to tell, partly because it's so unlike anything I have ever done before, and partly because I can say that I had a Chinese boyfriend. 

We Are Truly Grateful

The kids have been singing this around the house and I finally asked their music teacher for the words because I love it so much. Here's a picture of her copy. Too bad you can't hear the kids' lovely voices as they sing it.

I'm feeling really grateful today. Grateful for the rain and the cold, Thanksgiving-appropriate weather. Grateful that I got all of my visiting teaching done this month! Grateful for good parents, good kids, good husband. Grateful for Duck Dynesty. Seriously, so good.

It all started when I walked into the boys' room and felt really ungrateful that the three of them were squished in there and ungrateful for the resulting clutter. Then I walked into the playroom and saw the 6 loads of laundry I had been folding spread out all over the floor. And on top of that (well, really in front of the clothes), Grant decided to build a fort and had pulled out tables and chairs and tunnels and blankets and teepee poles. It was truly a disaster zone!

My first thought was, "I can't wait until we buy a bigger house. I hope it happens soon! And I hope that somehow we can find what we really want!"

Then I checked that thought with, "Stop complaining, woman! Look at all of this glorious evidence of a glorious life! So many clothes that you can spread them out all over the floor! A washer and dryer that allows you to do it all in one day (if you really wanted to, anyway). Three boys who get to spend a lot of time together because they share a room! That fort--remember how excited Grant was about his creation? Sure, a bigger house would be nice, but this is what you have right now and it is awesome!" 

I knelt on the floor by my bed and thanked my Heavenly Father for all that He has blessed us with, and said that whatever was store for my family would be perfect.

And then Ammon climbed up on my bed, got close to my ear, and started yelling, "Mom! Wake UP! Time to play!"

Seriously, Truly, Grateful.

sometimes you just have to laugh

Joe is entering into his busiest work months as his clients are trying to close everything up by the new year, and he ended up going into his office this morning. We decided to fit all of our family time after he got home, at four. (Boo to work on Saturdays, by the way.)

Before I continue, let me explain--Ammon did not get a nap today.

So Joe got home at four and we left immediately to go to the church and set up the primary room for church tomorrow. Then we went to Texas Roadhouse for dinner.

We never--seriously, very rarely--go out to eat. Especially not with everyone. It's a money/time/health issue, and I always feel like the food is nasty. But we decided a few days ago that it would be a fun family experience, so we went.

We get to the restaurant, and I look over and see my long-haired, mismatched, sweaty kids (it was 80 degrees today and they played hard outside) and I thought to myself, "boy do we look rough." Luckily, the lighting was low and they sat us in a corner, so I told myself that we were less conspicuous. Then they passed out five coloring books with three crayons each and two roll bowls, and within seconds, the table was looking pretty rough, too.

We order. And then we wait. It probably wasn't any longer than usual, but Grant was sitting by Logan and they kept poking each other and squealing, and Ammon was crying, "I want juice!" (remember, he's tired). We give him his water cup and straw and pretty soon I simultaneously hear and feel ice water crashing to the floor. He had poked a hole through the styrofoam. So he's soaking wet and crying and I'm trying to soak it up with a napkin (thank goodness they are cloth and more absorbent), and we have to lay the cup sideways on a plate to keep the rest of the water contained. The waiter came and all I could do was laugh while I handed him the holey cup.

Joe starts loudly telling the boys to stop being so loud, and Madison starts asking me knock-knock jokes. I look around to see who can hear the crazy clan.

We rush through dinner as fast as possible and almost run to the car. Whew! Now I remember why we  don't go out to eat; and I promise myself that we can try again in a few years. Not at Texas Roadhouse, though. Gag.

We head over to Sam's club, where we just got a membership (thanks Groupon). We stand in a short line that takes a long time, only to find out that we printed the wrong thing. They send us over to a computer and printer, where we print off the right thing, and stand in a short-long line again. Joe suggests I start shopping. Fiveish minutes later he calls and says, "they want you to take a picture. Get over here asap." I'm on the other side of the store! So I rush back with all the kids, who are doing annoying kids-at-the-store things, and I get an ugly squish face picture taken.

I tell Joe that I need a few minutes by myself and leave him with the cart and four kids while I speed walk around Sam's Club. Finally, I call and say, "meet me at the cheese." Right then I see them walking towards me, Madison trailing behind, frowning. Joe explains, "Madison just set off an alarm. She was trying to steal an iPad." She explains, "I wasn't trying to steal it! I just picked it up!" The rest of the evening we joke around about her stealing habits and she pouts and says, "It's not funny."

Right before we get home at 7:00, we give the kids the schedule: Madison is to hop in the shower while the boys get their hair cut, Ammon first.

Ammon does the crazy cry when we get out of the van because he doesn't get to help carry the item of his choice in (bulk cheese, which he could barely pick up). And then, because he's closing his eyes crying, he face plants right as he walks into the living room (at least it's carpeted), and I think the crazy cry might never end.

I feel like I'm missing something funny. Maybe you didn't think it was funny. But all night I was thinking I better just laugh, because if I don't, I might cry.

change

My parents are hard workers—which is good, because there was a lot of work to be done after moving into the old house. If my memory is right, that first fall they hired a company to put white vinyl siding on the house and to replace all of the windows with the highest-tech, best energy-efficient windows available. Not long after that, the living room was painted white, right over the old wallpaper, with a blue trim around the door and window frames. We hosted Thanksgiving with my dad’s side of the family that first year—which must have been difficult with the old kitchen, but it was great fun for me. My mom agreed to let me wear an old maroon lace dress that she had made for me (or bought at a thrift store and refitted for me). I thought I looked very pilgrim-esque in that dress, which was convenient because my uncles and aunts brought us pilgrim and Indian hats and weapons.

The following summer my parents sent the four of us up to Seneca Falls, NY to spend time with our paternal grandparents while they installed a modern kitchen, complete with hard oak cabinets and cupboards, light-blue counters, a stainless steel double sink, and a dishwasher. Hooray! Somewhere along the way the walls were papered with a vegetable print pattern and the linoleum was ripped up, only to reveal a beautiful hardwood! We spent a Christmas vacation in Phoenix, Arizona and came home to a newly sanded and refinished floor.

            

The next big project was the two kids’ bedrooms upstairs. It is truly a sign of love to me that my parents decided that our rooms took top priority! The walls throughout the house were made of lath and plaster, laced with horsehair. They were not flat, but bumpy and uneven. They decided the best course of action would be to lay wallboard on top, shrinking the already tiny rooms by a few inches. These were exciting times! I don’t remember where I slept, or how long it took, but with both parents working full-time jobs, a larger family, and a house and lots of land to take care of—the remodeling was a huge time-commitment and probably took months to complete, even with the majority of the work taking place during summer break. My room was completed first. The estimated finish goal was near Christmas. Mom and Dad sat us down one evening and explained how our Christmas gifts were going to work: we were going to get to choose how to decorate our rooms, and we could determine the amount we had to spend by how clean we kept our rooms. Every day we made our beds=$1. Every day our rooms were clean=$1. Because there were two kids in each room, there was a possibility of $3/day. We started around September, so the maximum was probably about $120. It seemed like an enormous amount of money.

           

Despite our good intentions, we did not receive the $3 everyday, but I think we did pretty well—over the 4 months Rene and I earned around $100. My parents paid for the paint and carpet, and we spent the rest of the money buying a bookshelf, a small wardrobe, a lamp, and a black mailbox—the kind that is hung on the front of the house. Yeah, I’m not sure why I wanted a mailbox, but it is a testament to me of my parents’ agreeable nature to let us spend money on what we wanted, even if the things made no sense. It was a good lesson on earning and saving money, and an eye-opener as to how much things cost.

The house is somewhere around 1400 sq feet, with a dirt-floor basement (which I try to avoid at all costs because it is stinky and full of cobwebs). My great-great grandparents, John and Mary Faust, purchased the house in 1887 as a two-room house, which included what is now the kitchen and living room. In 1900 they added two rooms downstairs and two small rooms and a small landing upstairs. My grandmother, Evelyn, was born in that house in the 1930’s, and I have always loved to hear about her life growing up on the farm. The story goes that there was no bathroom—only an outhouse—until my dad (Douglas) was born in 1957. At that time, Grandma Evie told her parents, Ernest and Geneveive, that she would not bring the grandkids to visit until a bathroom was added to the house. Shortly after, a tiny bathroom was built, as well as a pantry and mudroom, which now also includes the laundry room. The outhouse has only recently been demolished, and when I was younger, I took great pleasure in showing my friends the 3-seater behind the house. That bathroom remains the only bathroom in the house.

            

Since leaving home in 1999, the bathroom has been completely remodeled, the backroom refinished, an upstairs wall removed and a game room finished, and my parents finally got their own bedroom looking nice. The work seems never-ending: the living room has been repainted several times, the ceilings in the kitchen and living room replaced, and last summer they again updated the kitchen and had the silver metal roof replaced by a beautiful red metal one. The upstairs of the detached garage was converted into a small apartment for family and guests to stay, a falling-down building across the street removed, and the painting of the porch a continuous effort.

           

The picture my sister took for me today. Love that new red roof and my dad's ham radio antenna. My bedroom was the second story window on the left.  This is home! And now you know why I want a colonial house with a front porch and a little bit of space out here in the city. 

Perhaps the hardest part of living out in the country—the middle of nowhere—is the lack of readily available friends and the limited things to do. I did a lot of reading and hiking. There was a tree behind the house that I declared mine, and I would pack a survival bag full of food, paper, pencils, and books and spend entire summer days reading and dreaming in that tree. I may have shed a tear or two when I was in college and my brother, Ben, called to tell me that he and Dad had cut the now-dead tree down.

           

Somewhere along the way my dad, a biology teacher, was given the opportunity buy some Hampshire ewes from a farmer who was retiring. Another piece of his dream was coming true, and we officially had a sheep farm. Sometimes I would change up my routine and bring a blanket to spread out in a sheep pasture while I read Nancy Drew books and snacked on Little Debbies. Along with sheep, we had chickens and rabbits. That we ate. The animals were smelly and dirty (to me), and the idea that we were eating meat from across the street was devastating (to me). To make matters worse, my dad would go hunting and would occasionally come home with venison or some mystery meat like squirrel. My parents like to brag that we all ate whatever was put in front of us, but they have forgotten how much I complained and cried about the meat on my plate. I was getting older—probably around twelve or thirteen—and I was embarrassed that we were living on a farm. The shame was to increase over the years as I began to notice that the little house I lived in was a little cluttered and, well, old.

Going to the Farm House

It seems that I'm pretty good at starting something and then not finishing before moving on to something else. This is one of the something else's in my life right now! A rough draft of a piece of my personal history: our move to the farm house and the place that probably had the biggest impact on making me who I am today.

Here's....not a very great side view of the house. I am sure I have more and better pictures, but it's 10:00 p.m. and I don't want to spend another minute on the computer. I love it. And the snow. But boy am I glad I don't have to deal with that anymore!! (knock on wood!) 

Part 1

We moved from a 4-bedroom, modern house in Phoenix, Arizona, to a not-quite falling-down farmhouse in Wrightsville, Pennsylvania the summer of 1990. My parents, always trying to save a dollar, decided to make a trailer to tow behind their 1982 Ford F-150 pickup. My maternal grandparents, Douglas and Roberta Goss, helped us in the move by pulling a small trailer behind their white Cadillac. My mom said it did not handle the big hills very well. We also had a blue Oldsmobile, a ’78 used cop car, driving in the caravan. I don’t remember how long the drive took or where we stopped, but it seems that a few hours before reaching our destination there was a heavy rainstorm, and my grandmother asked my grandfather to turn up the windshield wipers. They were swishing back pretty fast when all of a sudden . . .they didn’t swish anymore. I listened wide-eyed as he yelled at my grandma, blaming her for their brokenness. We would stop every few minutes so that someone could wipe off of the windshield.

Finally, we reached the old farmhouse surrounded by close to 150 acres of fields and forest, and even a creek (which we hicks pronounce “crick”). I was nine and thought the whole move a glorious adventure. I had been to the farm before, two years earlier, when we visited my great-grandpa Foust, who had been born in that very house in 1901. I loved listening to my Dad’s stories about the farm he loved to visit as a boy, and his dream of coming back someday to raise his family in that house. It was his dream, come true!

As an adult, I realize the house must have been somewhat of a nightmare to move into with a family of six. Forget about the asbestos shingles, the 1920’s floral wallpaper literally hanging off of the walls, the bedrooms barely big enough to fit a set of bunk beds. Even the child-sized weeds surrounding the house could be dealt with in a short amount of time.  The kitchen, though—the place where families spend most of their time at home cooking, cleaning, eating, socializing—it was something straight out of a Depression-era picture. Stained green linoleum covered the floor with curling and torn edges. The sink looked more like a porcelain urinal, and when Ben and I marveled at the absence of a dishwasher, we were told that we had two dishwashers! The gas-lit stove looked like something from a 1950’s Good Housekeeping magazine; I’m told that shortly after we moved it had to be replaced because it was deemed a fire-hazard after some cookies caught on fire (I can only imagine how quickly that 100+ year wooden home would have burned to the ground out in the country with only a volunteer fire-department that would arrive much too late).  The most shocking thing about the kitchen may have been the complete lack of counter space, cupboards, and cabinets. I exaggerate--there was a small cabinet over the ancient stove and a narrow-chimney cupboard near a gas-heater—that was it. Speaking of heaters—there were 3 heaters in the house: the gas heater in the kitchen, one in living room, and a smaller heater in the master bedroom. Again, at the time it seemed completely normal. As an adult and parent, it is terrifying to think not only of the safety hazards that were those gas heaters (and they are the same ones that we now teach our own four kids to stay away from!), but that we moved to an uninsulated, drafty farmhouse, that didn’t produce a lot of heat! The second floor, where I slept, was always freezing in the winter, and to this day, I am unable to sleep in a warm room! 

Okay. If you want to live, you had better....

First of all, apparently Ammon threw up in his bed last night. And apparently, he didn't wake up enough to come and wake me up.

The good side(s) of this:

• I didn't get woken up last night to clean vomit.
• Meaning, I cheated the system and got more sleep than I thought I was getting. Or something like that. It makes sense in my head.
• He hasn't thrown up since then.
• I can let him stay in his jammies and watch movies all day. Nice!
• He's extra cuddly ("Mom, come snuggle me").
• He's mostly been sleeping all day.
• Which means that I a) have a reason to not leave the house, and b) can get a lot done (work or reading or whatever I want!) while he's watching movies and sleeping!

So I pulled out my next assignment to see what I would be writing about: TEN pages on a house I lived in. That's a lot of words about a house. But...I started thinking about it while I ate my lunch (in silence by myself....no, sick kids don't make me happy, but I'm looking at the bright side of things :), and actually--this is going to be a really fun assignment! I texted my sister, who happens to be visiting the parents in PA (just a little jealous here) and asked her to send me some pictures of the old farm house.

Then I pulled up Microsoft Word so that I could start clicking away, and was greeted by this:

   Okay. If you want to live, you had better drop this book. In fact, I dout  that you will.

Ummm.... So I'm definitely dropping the book.

Actually, it sounds like a really fun start to an interesting story. I'm thinking it's authored by Logan, and I look forward to hearing

The rest of the story....

(Remember that phrase? My dad used to listen to it on the radio. What a random memory pop!)