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. 

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