Me, My MIL, and Alex Trebek

Living with another woman, especially when that woman is your mother-in-law, can be stressful.  It doesn't matter how well you get along or how easy-going either of you are - you are different, and that makes for occasional tension.  

There are different ways to cook, different ways to clean.  You might have vastly different schedules or house rules.  And sometimes you'll want to go for a 10 mile walk in order to cool down, or you might scream obscenities into your pillow on a day when the walls feel particularly close.

But sometimes, yes, sometimes, you remember that you really do like the person you're living with, and that it's not all bad.

My MIL and I have fallen into a routine of watching Jeopardy while we eat dinner.  One night when there was nothing on, we just settled for the geriatric game show.  We figured since it was Teen Week we might have a shot at knowing some of the answers.

Well, on that first night it didn't matter that the questions were "dumbed down" for the younger crowd - we still knew almost none of the correct responses.  But we came back again and again because for some reason we enjoyed sitting together and having our stupidity handed to us to enjoy with our dinner.

So now, every night when we settle in with my cooking, (which is not my MIL's usual fare nor preference), we sit in silence until the answer to one of the questions is "SPAM" or "Catwoman" or something equally inane, and then we shout out our responses as fast as we can and gloat in our superior intellect.  We smile across the room at each other and crack open another soda.

And then each of us spends the evening attempting to give the other her space.

But if I watch for those moments of connection, all the differences seem to shrink a bit, and we both survive another day.

Re-Vamping: Brotherly Love

I'm going to be on a bit of a blogging hiatus for a few days, so I decided to do a little re-vamping of some old posts and plaster them up here for your discovery.  They are all older ones that most of you are unlikey to have read.  


Enjoy, and I'll see you all soon!

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Brothers are a wondrous thing. Quarrels between them never last, wounds of both the physical and emotional kind heal with lightening speed, and there is always someone who will laugh rather than scowl when you fart.

For brothers, tattling seems to come with unspoken guidelines. It's perfectly acceptable to tell on your brother when he does something to harm or annoy you, but to rat on your bro for jumping on his bed after "lights out" will bring you no satisfaction, but rather shame and dishonor. 

Unfortunately, boys are rough, and most of the tattling in our home comes from a wrestling match getting out of hand. One child will cross the line between playful jabs and malicious wallops, and then everything is fair game, including intentional knees to the groin or running to mom and crying foul.

I once got tired of hearing the complaints of who smacked who first and whether someone hit on purpose or too hard, so I removed myself from the equation with the regrettable words, "I don't want to hear it. You two deal with it yourselves." Cameron and Ethan were six and four at the time and "dealing with it themselves" was wholly beyond their capabilities, and I would surely pay for suggesting it. 

Five minutes later, I heard a ruckus from upstairs followed by crying, then a shrill scream, and then more crying. My reward for excellent parenting had arrived sooner than I'd anticipated. I called the boys back downstairs.

"What is going on?" I demanded in my most exasperated mother voice.

Cameron whined, "Ethan hit me in the face with a baseball bat!"

There was only a plastic bat upstairs so, in spite of the blood slowly running from his nose, I wasn't overly alarmed. "And so what did you do to him?" I asked.

"I threw a hanger at him."

I looked at Ethan's face, and sure enough, there was a small scratch on the surface of a bruise that was already forming under his left eye.

Tattling then became the mom-endorsed form of retaliation.

Blunt honesty is also a trademark of brotherhood. A boy can tell his brother anything and know that he cannot be demoted to the status of a mere friend or acquaintance. Brothers they will remain. I have noticed that in our house, the boys tend to listen to each other's words of advice more than they will mine or Andrew's. They have an ability to reason with one another that we, their parents, will always be left to envy.

It was a few years ago that I was in my bathroom getting ready to go shopping with my mom and I heard the following exchange between Cameron and Ethan, who were bickering loudly over something completely ridiculous, I'm sure:

Ethan: Just relax, Dude! (He was three at the time.)

Cameron: What?!?!?

Ethan: It means, Don't be grumpy.

Cameron: (telling Ethan off for being bossy, which lasted long enough for me to remove 8 curlers from my hair...and was finally interrupted by Ethan shouting...)

Ethan: Don't be an ASS!

Cameron immediately stopped being an ass. Problem solved. Ethan's vocabulary, however, has been undergoing constant therapy ever since.

Ethan was able to enjoy four years of being the youngest of just two children before he became a big brother himself.  When Drew came along Ethan was immediately smitten and became the best older brother in the history of siblings.  That lasted about a year, and then Drew learned to walk.  Overnight Drew became the biggest pain in the butt that Ethan had ever encountered. 


That feeling is one that largely remains present in our home today.

I have never understood it, but Ethan's favored form of entertainment is to put on a movie, grab an action figure that somehow goes along with that movie, and then skip, hop, and run back and forth from one corner of the living room to another acting out the scenes in the movie and making one kind of bizarre sound effect after another; an ability which seems to be coded in the male DNA.

About two months ago, and much to Ethan's horror, Drew began to mimic Ethan. He would find an action figure of his own and follow the odd room-crossing procession right on Ethan's heels. Ethan has been very distressed by this new development in Drew's interests, and told me one day that I needed to make Drew stop following him.

"Why do you care if he follows you?", I asked. "What's the big deal?"

"He's making me feel like an idiot!" came Ethan's frantic reply.

I just laughed and told Ethan that Drew follows him and copies him because he loves him and wants to be like him. Ethan was neither flattered nor gracious about my explanation, but now stops his scene reenacting whenever Drew joins ranks. Too bad, really, because Ethan did look a bit like an idiot when he did it, and I really enjoyed watching him.

I think that I am not alone in looking forward to the day when Trent becomes a viable playmate for Drew and the older boys can occasionally be left in peace. In a house filled to the brim with active, boisterous male-type children, I fancy myself an expert in the field of brotherly love, but I know that they have more tricks up their sleeves, and I will continually be taught by them. Like it, or not.

(Originally published October, 2009.)

A Role Model

My lil' bro, Joel, is just a great big kid. Big as in, 6' 7" or something like that.

And 110 pounds.

He could poke your eyeballs out with his elbows for sure.

It's that big kid factor that makes him such a wicked awesome uncle. My boys adore him. They absorb everything from his vocabulary to his facial expressions.

I love that Joel loves my kids so much, and that they have such a great pal in him, but honestly, there was a time not too far back when I thought I might have to schedule supervised visits because I was worried about what kind of stuff he might teach my kids next.

Like how to build a flame thrower.

So far, though, there have been no flame throwers. Only a mace, a battle axe, and some kind of sword with horns; all made out of foam and PVC pipe. They all beat the crap out of each other with them.

I just know that one day soon I'm going to find all of them at the park, dressed in medieval garb, having pretend battles with their Dungeons and Dragons buddies while their slutty wenches cheer them on from the sidelines. I will deal with that by pretending I don't know any of them.

The upside to all of this is that my kids can take a hit like a man. (Parenting tip: If you have a pansy for a son, just make a foam weapon and hit him with it until he stops crying.)

Joel has other areas of expertise, too, though. For example, my seven and nine year olds went to a water park with him recently and came home saying things like, "Bow-chick-a-bow-wow", and "Foxy Lay-day!", while curving their hands around in the shape of an hour-glass. They do not say this about ugly girls, so Joel must have taught them how to spot the hotties.

You can be sure I thanked him for that.

So imagine my elation when Joel taught my boys something that didn't involve violence or pre-pubescent lust! He taught them how to ride his new long board.

The kicker is that he made them wear a helmet!

So maybe there's nothing to worry about, after all.

Things I Learned During Our Independance Day Celebrations

1. I learned that using a porta-potty at 9:30 AM isn't so bad, but using that same porta-potty at 6:00 PM is vile.

2. It doesn't matter if you go early to the parade to set out your blankets in a good spot, everyone is just going to stand in the street and block both your view and the progression of the marching band. Also, no one listens to motorcycle cops telling them to back up, because there is salt water taffy being thrown from the floats and there are four thousand adults trying to make sure that their kid gets more than all the other kids - who cares about the people who are actually trying to watch the parade?


(This was our view of the parade. And below is my 6'2" sister and 6'5" father who could not see anything, even when they stood on each others shoulders.)


3. I have the capability to yell at perfect strangers.

4. In spite of ten thousand morons choking the life out of the parade, it was still kind of cool to see my kids having fun waving to people while they rode in the parade with the V-Dub Club of Northern Utah. (None of the VW's broke down in the street. I was surprised.)







5. Taking my one-year-old to a restaurant when he has been in the hot sun all morning and missed his nap time by two hours is a bad idea.

6. Having my grandpa come to our house for a holiday meal and fireworks feels a bit like winning. Cause there are commonly six different families fighting for his patronage. Take that, Extended Family!


(He doesn't usually wear those.)

7. Pulled pork sandwiches topped with coleslaw, plus corn on the cob, watermelon, fruit pizza, and apple pie trumps any burger you could grill.





8. My brother is pretty much the coolest uncle ever. He makes my kids weapons and lets them beat him up.





9. I have pasty-white, unshapely legs.



10. I can be the nice mom and buy the kids glow sticks, and I'm cool for about ten minutes. Then my dad buys light-up swords, and I become the cheapskate. That's ok though - grandpas are supposed to be the favorite.





11. Trent really likes fireworks.

Pranks In The Office

The last job I had before I became a full-time butt wiper and floor mopper was at a telecommunication company. The job itself was actually quite boring, but there were two perks. The first was my business cards which listed my title as "Sales Engineer". Pretty sweet, huh? It sounds all important, but really all I did was design flow charts for 800 numbers. I was one of the annoying people who made it impossible for you to talk to a live person.

You're welcome.

The other perk was working with my uncle. He is just nine years older than me and has always been like an older brother to me.

We got to carpool to work most of the time - him and I. I think that must be where it all started. One evening on the way home from work I got distracted while I was driving and came within about twenty feet of plowing my little Ford Aspire into a cement barrier and killing us both. After my uncle, David, finished crapping his pants, we laughed pretty hard. And that started the prank war.

Several mornings after I nearly killed David, he decided to pay me back. It was early in the morning and he was driving us to work this time. (Wonder why?...) I broke the first rule of carpool etiquette by dozing off, and David decided this was the perfect opportunity to give me a taste of my own medicine. He slammed his foot on the brakes and screamed as loud as he could.

It took me only a nano second to wake up, acknowledge that I was going to die, scream, wet myself, hear David laughing, realize it was a joke, and slug him in the shoulder.

Retaliation - when we got to work, I waited for David to leave his desk and then I took a Hostess powdered doughnut and crumbled it into a million pieces in his pencil drawer. He had to borrow a shop-vac from the custodian and remove all his pens, paper clips, post-its and extra staples before he could vacuum up the mess.

He got my back by putting lotion on the earpiece of my phone while I was busy at the vending machines. As soon as I got back to my desk he called me and I stuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, but only made it halfway through my greeting before I realized I had a mystery ooze running down my ear canal.

Shudder...

This kind of thing went on for months. And then one day, David quit that stinking job and we had to have a going away party for him.

It wasn't so much a party, really, as it was just chocolate milk and eclairs before we all pretended to get serious about doing our work. David laughed it up all that day, rubbing it in that the rest of us schmucks had to keep reporting to our sadistic boss and dealing with heathen clients.

The following Monday came and I arrived at work all alone and sad that I would be there without anyone sane to keep me company. The second I sat down at my desk my boss came to peer over my cubicle wall and inquire as to whether I could smell anything funny.

I took a deep whiff, and boy, could I! It was the stench of death and rot.

We hunted for the source of the smell all morning long. It began to take over the entire tenth floor, and as the day wore on the smell became completely unbearable. Maintenance came in to check the vents for dead mice, all the trash cans were emptied, the refrigerator in the break room was meticulously inspected - we could not find the source of the smell anywhere.

Just as the building manager was looking up the number for a local carpet cleaner, it hit me.

David!

I called him at his new office and said, "What did you do? You wouldn't believe the smell here!"

Half an hour later, when David had quit laughing, he managed to tell me to look behind a co-worker's computer monitor.

Sure enough, behind a woman's monitor, tucked almost invisibly in the corner of her cubicle, there was a plastic cup of solidified chocolate milk from the going away party.

Have you ever smelled four-day-old milk that's been warming near a humming piece of electronic equipment? It's really quite unpleasant.

But David's little good-bye token warmed my heart because it told me that he would miss me and that he wished me luck in surviving life with all the whack-jobs he had left me alone with.

He also taught me that the best pranks are the ones that present themselves to us like a momentary gift of pure genius. They are simple. They are smelly. And you commit these acts when you won't be around to take the blame.

Inspired by:

Dear Whoever May Be Reading,

Wow, have things been crazy lately. I'm trying to re-vamp myself and prepare for summer, (providing the snow ever decides to stop), and I've let these little updates slide. Well, enough of that.

Last night I asked Cameron if he wanted me or his dad to go on the field trip with him to the zoo today. I reminded him that I am the cool one who compulsively buys things like candy and souvenirs.

But there's just something about a boy's bond with his father. So today, Andrew went with Cameron to the zoo and the planetarium. I was really glad that Cameron chose Andrew because Andrew never gets to do that kind of stuff with the boys. And really, the only reason I gave Cameron a choice is because I like to put my kids in awkward situations of having to chose their favorite parent and then guilt the hell out of them for it later on.

But if he had chosen me, that would have meant one entire day of not wiping bottoms or noses, and I would have been more than ok with that, too.


Cameron at the zoo with his group. I gave Andrew a ten so he could be the cool dad and get the kids some candy from the gift shop. We like to take every opportunity we can to buy friends for our kids.

Today, Ethan got his first library card. I announced that I was going to the library tonight and he volunteered to come along. (Cameron couldn't come because he was being punished for favoring his father.)

Ethan felt so grown up holding that gray piece of plastic. We spent a half hour perusing the books and when he found out the he could check out a movie he nearly burst with pride. When finally we got in line to check out our selections, Ethan turned to me and said, "Don't worry, Mom, I'll pay for these with my card."

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing at him.

And when we got home, I had to take a picture of him pretending to read this book that is 135 pages long, has no pictures, and is far too advanced for him. He's been an avid pretend reader for two solid years. He really does sit there staring at a page for about two minutes before he turns to the next page and pretends to read that one, too. About three days after this process begins he announces that he's finished with his book and would like to start on the next one in the series. He's nuts, but I'll keep him.


Drew has finally mastered the potty. I can happily announce that I have not thrown away a pair of poopy underwear in at least three days. He hasn't had an accident of any sort in quite a long while, and he attributes his success to his tri-cornered hat. It's good luck. He also finds it helpful to bring a snack - thus the empty baggie previously containing potato chips.

We don't really take snacks into the bathroom or wear costumes when we go, I just thought this one incident of both happening was pretty comical. I can't even walk into the bathroom if I'm still chewing something - I have to stand in the hallway and swallow before I go in. So don't go calling the sanitation police or anything.


And our caboose - Trent. This picture depicts the reason I hate giving him a bath.

Because it isn't just him that gets a bath - I end up soaked, too. There have been times when he has gone four or five days without a bath because I couldn't bear to clean up the mess. I hope he grows out of the splashing obsession, because the other parts of bath time are kinda cute:


Just not cute ENOUGH.

So until next time folks, me hopes you are well. I'm going to fold laundry now.

Customizing Our Own Life

I grew up eating Popeye Eggs. Andrew had the same fare as a kid, but called it Badged Eggs. Either way, it's a fried egg in the center of a buttered piece of bread. So when we make them here at our house with our own family, I never know what to call them. Today, while standing at the frying pan in deep contemplation over the issue, I told Cameron that we needed to give them a new name. One that comes from our family. I asked him what he thought.

Cameron considered for a moment and said, "How about Breggers?"

It was early, so I was confused. "I like it! How did you come up with that?"

"Because it's part bread and part egg," he put very simply.

Breggers it is!

Incidentally, Andrew caught me taking this picture and I felt a little embarrassed. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?", I asked.

"Oh, you're absolutely out of your mind. That's what I love most about you," was his reply.

We are perfect for each other, I tell you.

IT STARTED WITH CHAIRS

Yesterday I bought 4 chairs at D.I. for $8 each. They are made entirely of wood. I was thrilled because it meant no more chili or yogurt squished into wicker seats. I can just wipe them down, and we're good.

Little did I know that the joy would extend beyond clean seats.

Four additional kitchen chairs meant enough seating for the entire family to pop the leaf in the table and sit together to have dinner.

Which led to a peaceful dialogue and time together.

Which prompted enlisting of help with the dishes.

Which led to a clean kitchen that will allow for a fresh start in the morning.

And because the kitchen was whipped into shape in no time, I had a few minutes to read a bedtime story to Trent while the older boys played air hockey with Dad.

Which meant half an hour without the TV on.

Which led to contentment.

Which led to me not freak out over chaos and filth and time shortages.

Which led to a happy family.

Love those $8 chairs.

Dealing with the What-Ifs

On my list of things to do this week is to get some paperwork from our life insurance company and make some changes. We have no beneficiary listed in the event that Andrew and I both die at the same time. The wise thing to do would be to follow that up with getting a will done.

And that leads me into the following question:

How do you decide who your children's guardian should be if you and your spouse pass away?

Andrew and I asked my parents to take our kids if need be, and they agreed, (which leads one to question their mental stability), but that can only be the plan for so long. At some point they will reach an age where it becomes unfair and/or unrealistic to burden them with young children to care for. We need a contingency plan.

Neither Andrew or I can make a decision as to who we would want to care for our kids if we die and my parents are unable to step in. All we can agree on is who we don't want them to end up with.

There are so many things to consider when making this decision. It's a plan we hope never comes into play, but such an important one to make. A million questions come to mind, as do a million concerns and desires.

I feel like I want them to be raised by someone like me. Only better.

I would want them to go to someone who would be compassionate to a fault after losing their world, their security, their parents, everything they have known.

I would want them to go to people who would treat them like they treat their own children so that my kids don't grow up feeling like second-class citizens.

Money wouldn't be an issue, because we have adequate life insurance to take care of their needs and not burden the new parents, but that responsibility needs to sit in the hands of people who will manage the money fairly, wisely, and in a way that there will still be some left when Trent is in high school.

The kids would need to go to someone who will involve both sides of our family in the kid's lives.

They would need to go to a home where they will be taught the gospel of Jesus Christ by people who live it.

They would need to go to people who are not already overwhelmed with life.

And then there's the politics of it. Do you tell everyone which people have accepted that task, should it arise, or should it remain confidential until it has to be outed?

Do you tell your kids who those people will be so that they would be prepared, or is that too much doom and gloom to put on a kid's mind?

Actually, I think that I already told Cameron and Ethan that they would go to live with Nana and Papa if Daddy and I died. If I recall correctly, they wanted to know if they would have their own rooms.

And finally, how do you decide between two or more possible choices? I try to picture my kids living with choice A or choice B, etc...but I can't imagine it in any scenario. It's a hard thing to do. I don't want to picture them with anyone else, and my brain can't seem to break down that protective barrier and really see it.

Eeny-meeny-miney-mo cannot be employed here.

So my question to you is; if this is a decision you have already made, how did you decide? What things did you consider? What clinched the decision? Were there problems that you didn't consider or didn't see coming until you had already made the decision? How do you do this?

A New Beginning

My grandmother, Helen McClurg, passed away in April of 2007. She was a tiny woman who's strength far exceeded her stature. She could be both spunky or meek, gentle or feisty. Whatever was called for, that was Grandma. Always the picture of dignity and class.



There are definite things that will always remind me of Grandma. There was a drawer in her kitchen which was always stocked with cookies, and it was lovingly placed at a child's height so that we were able to see the entire glory of it's contents. Grasshopper cookies, Pecan Sandies and some kind of cookie that was covered in powdered sugar, which I don't remember the name of were the staple contents of that drawer. There were probably a lot of reasons that Grandma didn't bake homemade cookies. Perhaps she was too busy baking her pies, or perhaps she stocked the store bought kind because she didn't want to be caught without cookies anytime her grandchildren stopped by. More likely, she never had time for cookies because she and Grandpa were always on the road, traveling from Oregon to Jackson Hole to California to Arches and back again.

Grandma would often burst into a sprightly dance and sometimes sing as well. She would suddenly throw her arms above her head, lightly hop upon her toes, twirl in a circle, and then crumble into her delicate giggles, delighted, as we all were, at her own silliness. Grandma knew how to have fun. She even sometimes did things just because other people didn't believe she would.



Grandma knew the name of every plant and flower that ever grew on this earth. She and Grandpa where there when I hiked through Arches National Park as a young child and learned that I was "as natural a climber as a mountain goat". She was there with us to search for Christmas trees and to share our Thanksgiving turkey. She flattered me by asking my opinion on which shoes or jewelry went best with her outfit. She always sent birthday cards with sparkly glitter on them.



It was all of these memories that occupied my mind as I watched her laying in her bed at the rest home, preparing to return to her Heavenly Father. She had been in the home for years, and her suffering for so long seemed cruel at times. Why couldn't she just go home? Maybe she needed to endure. Maybe her grandchildren needed to learn about true Christlike love as we watched our grandfather care for her and dote on her for all that time.

On the April day when we all knew that her journey was about to conclude, I think that none of us were ready for her to go. We wanted her to be free from the confines of her mortal body, free from the suffering of age and the wear of life. And yet, it was hard. We loved her and would miss her, and we have.

On that day, my husband and children and I were able to arrive to be with her before most of the rest of the family. Grandpa was beside himself with the thought of being without his Sweetheart, but he showed only dignity and gratitude and love. He had planned to go before her, had never wanted to be where he was. He asked my good husband to give Grandma a priesthood blessing, which humbled Andrew. Grandpa McClurg is the only Grandfather that Andrew has ever known, and his adoration for that man is precious to me. Andrew complied with Grandpa's request, and as he and another man prepared to anoint sweet Grandma, a kind nurse took my 2 small boys out into the hallway and closed the door so that we could be free to focus on our loved one. Andrew began the blessing and told Grandma how blessed her posterity was for having had her in their lives. Told her that she was leaving a legacy to be proud of, that she was loved, and that she should feel confident that all would be well whenever she was ready to leave. As Andrew spoke these words of love and comfort, the nurse in the hallway began to lead my boys in a tender song that they were familiar with. She didn't know that we could hear them through the door, and with the voices of watchful angels, my boys sang:

I am a child of God, and He has sent me here,
Has given me and Earthly home, with parents kind and dear.
Lead me, Guide me, Walk beside me, help me find the way,
Teach me all that I must do to live with Him someday.

Tears flowed freely down my cheeks, and I was simply thankful to be there to feel how much love was in that room with the woman that I had loved and respected all my life.

Grandpa has been lonely since then. He has many visitors, but children and grandchildren are poor substitutes for a life companion. As my Grandma Kay once told me, "It's nice to be the most important person in someone's life."

My grandfather has found that companionship again with a woman he will be marrying in five weeks. Joyce. My 88 year old grandfather is getting married. I am still trying to wrap my mind around it, but once the idea settles in, it will be great! I would wish for nothing more than happiness for my grandfather, and because he's found it, I will rejoice with him on November 6th. I know he's struggling with feelings of betrayal and I'm sure that's a normal thing. I know that my grandmother loves him enough to want him to be happy, and would give her blessing if she could.

It will be a new chapter for Grandpa in a book that he probably thought had no more plot twists. As long as he gets a happy ending, that is all that matters.

Peaches, a Birthday Party and a Whole Lotta Beautiful People

Yesterday we went to Brigham City to buy ourselves a half bushel of their delectable peaches and have lunch at the Peach City Drive Inn. I learned many things. I learned what a half bushel is, what a peck is, and a half peck for that matter. I learned that there are more types of peaches than I ever realized, and that Cameron is a world class taste tester. His favorite was the Red Globe variety, while mine was the Canadian Harmony. I also learned that if I want to get a half bushel of my favorite kind, then it's a good idea to tell Cameron that I got the Red Globes, even though I really got the Canadian Harmony. Now we're both happy. Cameron has eaten so many of them in the last 24 hours that I'm preparing myself now for the onslaught of diarrhea.

Peach City was tasty, too. And always fun to spend time with Mom, Dad and Grandpa. Cameron and Ethan LOVED sitting at the counter to eat their lunch. Drew loved making me crazy, spilling his drink, running from booth to counter over and over and then peeing on me when he had guzzled 3 sippy cups of juice and a half liter of root beer and his diaper finally couldn't take it anymore.







Then it was on to Dad's birthday party, where he had to barbecue for all of us, and man, can he cook a burger. Mom showed off her own talents in the kitchen with her fresh banana cake. Andrew was convinced she had purchased it at a bakery, but that's just how good she is. I thought we all knew that.



In case you were not aware, our family does not sing "Happy Birthday" in the traditional sense. We all just pick a tune and sing to our own notes and rhythms. I'm really not sure how this tradition came to be or when it started, but when I'm at a party with normal people, I now have to really concentrate to get the tune right. I've completely wiped it from my memory.



Sometime during the evening, Kellie pulled a darling face and I captured it on film, (or digital memory, I suppose), and it got me thinking about how few pictures of myself don't make me gag, so I just decided to stop trying to be cute and I would take a horrid picture of everyone to help us overcome our hopeless quest for jealously-inducing beauty. Please refrain from submitting these images to UglyPeople.com. They are here for your viewing pleasure only.

The Disgraceful, Uncut Truth

Almost a year and a half ago I found out I was pregnant with my fourth child. It was the first unplanned pregnancy that Andrew and I had experienced, and it took me several weeks to get used to the idea. Once I had accepted that we would be bringing home another baby in December, my thoughts turned to the gender. This was it, my last chance for a girl. I had known since I was young that I didn't want more than four children, so now or never. I knew that it was pointless to wish or pray for a girl; the deed was done and what would be, would be. But I hoped. I hoped all the while that I would be blessed with a daughter. We all know how the story plays out, so I'll spare you the suspense.

We found out in late July that we were to have another boy. I was laying there on a table in the ultrasound room desperately trying not to cry. I had to turn my mind to other things so that I wouldn't lose my composure in front of the ultrasound tech. In her line of work, she must have seen that situation daily, and I didn't want to be one of the ridiculous women that cries over being blessed with a beautiful, healthy baby just because the gender wasn't what they wanted. I held it together until she left the room and then Andrew looked at me and apologized. I let just a few tears fall, and then I was angry. Angry at him, angry at God, but mostly angry at myself. I knew that, scientifically speaking, it was Andrew's biology determining the sex of our baby, so this boy baby's existence should have been entirely his fault. We shouldn't even have been expecting a baby; we had a one-year-old at home!

I held my emotions in check until we got to the car, and then I sobbed. Self-loathing came from so many places. I hated myself for having let my hopes get so high. I hated myself for being so immature, but I couldn't help how I felt. And I hated that God surely thought me to be unfit to raise a daughter. I cried until Andrew became frustrated with me, and then I cried some more. I wept from my very soul.

Then there was the matter of telling family. Everyone from Utah to Washington knew that we were going in for the ultrasound that day and they were all waiting to hear the news. I didn't want to speak to any of them. Not even my mother. So I sent a text to my sister-in-law in Vancouver, asked her to spread the word, and then turned off my phone. I don't know if I told anyone on my side of the family. I wanted no one's pity. I didn't want to hear anyone say that they were so excited for me to have another boy, or that I was such a good, "boy mom", or that I must be needed to raise good missionaries, or even that they were sorry that I was disappointed. It was all crap. Just a bunch of shallow words and thoughts trying to make me feel better. I didn't want to feel better, I wanted to feel sad. The truth was, I knew that when I held that baby boy in my arms, I would love him more than life itself. I was not upset to be having another son - I was devastated to know that I would never have a daughter.

At home, I curled up on my bed and tried to become numb. It felt ridiculous to be this upset over something that could have so easily been good news, if only I could let it. Our baby had a beating heart and arms and toes. That should have been enough, but I kept playing in my mind scenes from a future that would never be. Braiding hair, shopping for small, pink shoes, watching a dance recital, helping an excited, teenage girl pick out a prom dress, and then a wedding dress. Watching Andrew dance with a beautiful bride on her wedding day. Being called to help my daughter care for her own first, newborn child. A million crushed possibilities were played out before me. My heart was more than broken; it felt as though it had been torn from my chest and stomped upon. I mourned for all the could-have-beens and the never-woulds.

It was months before I could talk out loud about it without suffering pain. I spent the days after the ultrasound trying to distract myself and avoiding the telephone. A couple of weeks later, I got a package from my older sister, Natalie. I opened it up and found inside, a "Happy-Gram". All kinds of things to enjoy, just for myself. Chocolates, a movie, nail polish, a picture frame with four spaces - one for each of my kids, a few other things... And a letter. The beauty of Natalie's letter was that it came after I had settled a bit and could appreciate that her words were sincere, not hollow reassurances. (I'm not saying that anyone's words to me were insincere, just that I couldn't accept them for what they were in the beginning.) Natalie said:

"Life is funny. Just when you think you've found a comfortable spot to sit and take a rest, a rain cloud comes along and drenches your hopes. I know it seems like your life is a little soggy right now, but I've been doing some thinking about that. I remembered when you guys were trying for little Drew, and that it wasn't an easy road. There were doctor visits and prescriptions, and several months of waiting, and then we got the news that there was a baby on the way. Now there is this new little one on the way. He was definitely a surprise, but he came without all the hardships you had before. Heavenly Father knows you and he knows your children better than you know yourselves. He must have something very special in store for your family to send you another little soul so quickly, and he must have great confidence in you as a mother of these children. My point is, I know you are overwhelmed and maybe a little disappointed, and that's okay. But try not to despair because Heavenly Father has a plan for you. Put your trust in Him. And remember that you have a lot of people who love you very much and will always be there for you and all of your boys!
All my love,
Natalie"

With bitter sweetness washing over me, I was reminded what a wonderful thing a sister is.

The day drew closer when Trent, my fourth son, was to be born. Peace had settled over me, so that by the time Andrew drove us to the hospital in the darkness of that December 7th morning, my scars had healed, and I was anxious to welcome my sweet, perfect child. From the moment that I first held him in my arms and saw his pouty lower lip sticking out, I knew that what Natalie had said was true. My Heavenly Father knew me well enough to send me that particular boy to be the final touch to our incredible family.

I love all my boys more than I can put into words. I may occasionally feel aches of sadness when I see little girls with curly pigtails, or open the mail to find a wedding announcement sent by a bride's proud parents, but I will never consider Trent, or his brothers, a disappointment. Maybe it's true, maybe we do choose our families in the pre-existent world. I know now, that given the chance, I would never choose anyone else to be my children.

Now that I've put everything on the table, let me say that I realize that there are people in the world who are unable to have children. Some children are born, and then taken away all too quickly. Nearly every person in the world, including myself, will experience greater heartache than what I have described here. I wrote this hoping for neither pity or praise. I wrote this because it was honest. It was my real emotion, raw and truthful, even though it may have seemed to be a selfish or inappropriate feeling. I am sure that I am not the only person in this world to feel these same feelings - Longing for something that is not meant to be. I hope that I now have a better appreciation for how unique a person's feelings are. One's past, present, and hopes for the future all make up what they feel and how they interpret life and dreams. We all take different roads in life, endure individual journeys. Maybe from here on out, I will be a person who can sympathize without assumptions, and love with understanding.