Topher competed in the school spelling bee today with 14 other contestants. I sat in the audience by myself sweating and muttering under my breath in the agony only a mother whose child is under pressure can understand. Jay stood, as cool as a cucumber, in the back with the video camera and Lacey Grace and Ronan sat on the floor near the front where they could see better. Sitting in the seat next to me was Tom Bennett, father of Shannon, who was also competing. He, like Jay, sat placidly looking on. It was all I could do not to grab his arm and squeeze like crazy when Topher stood to spell.
This is not the first time I have experienced distress of this nature. Two years ago Toph had to do a solo tap dance at his year-end dance recital. This was not because he was a fabulous dancer or even because he was the only boy. It was because not another soul had signed up for his class that year and, as the children dance by class, he was a solo act. When he came out onto the stage to perform I began to writhe in my seat. At a crucial part of the number he forgot a few steps and looked puzzled. I began to pummel Jay in the thigh with my fist. After a 4 beat eternity, Topher came back in and flawlessly finished. I was exhausted. Jay was bruised. Topher was exhilarated.
Topher came in 3rd place this year. I am proud of him. And tonight I will sleep like a baby, worn out from the strain of sitting very, very still, full of maternal tension and having no one beside me to pummel or squeeze.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
Mom
You knew this was coming, didn't you? My mother left for home on Wednesday and I miss her very much. There is something so wonderful about being cared for by your mother after you've grown up. It's a little like going back home and finally knowing what it means, what it has always meant, to be there.
My childhood home was a small farmhouse in Paul, Idaho. We had a long lane lined with purple Irises and fields full of sheep. Sometimes, when my mother needed a little time to herself she would drive to the top of that lane, turn off the car, and read a book. Then she would drive back down and fix dinner, sew on Scout patches, wash clothes (including cloth diapers, ugh!), check homework, sweep floors, rock babies, you get the picture. One of the coolest compliments ever paid my mom by an acquaintance was, "Arva, you're the only person I know who can sit down in the middle of a mess and cut out paper dolls." And she could. I love that about my mom.
In our farmhouse we had a boy's bedroom and a girl's bedroom which were side by side and shared a hallway. My mom sat on the floor in the hall outside our bedrooms each night and read to us. This was my favorite time. The dinner dishes were left until later, the children were bedded down, and my mother sat in the hall and read and read and read. I loved this peaceful way of ending the day and felt my mother's love through these stories. (In case you're wondering, my favorites were fairy tales which my mother read often. I loved Thick-Headed Jack, Snow White and Rose Red, The Brave Little Tailor, and The Twelve Dancing Princesses among others.) Incidentally, several years ago my siblings and I and our children had gathered at my parent's house for a weekend. My mother began reading a story out loud to some of the grandchildren and I watched all of my siblings drift into the room and take a seat. Even as grown-ups, we still love to hear my mother read.
When I was eight years old I began piano lessons. We didn't own a piano at the time so my mother drove me to my great-grandparent's house about one mile up the road to practice. Everything about those early years of piano was difficult. My mother, who loves to sing and played flute in the high school band, knew a little and could help. She stood behind me during those excruciating practices clapping and counting out the rhythm. I hated it. When struggling through these sessions we yelled back and forth at each other in whispers. All the frustration and passion were there, only the volume was missing. She wouldn't let me quit. She occasionally remarked, "Someday you'll thank me for this," to which I would sniff and reply tartly. I'll simply say that, discounting those early years, music has been one of the great loves of my life. It blesses me, my family, and I believe, many others regularly. I'm so glad she made me stick it out.
I tried out for cheerleader when I was in the 8th grade. I practiced for weeks and had every expectation of making it. But I had huge glasses and frizzy hair, I didn't know how to do back handsprings,and I looked terrible in those little skirts cheerleaders have to wear. My mother agonized. Should she discourage me? Should she save me from the pain of certain failure? The tryouts came. Teresa Helms flip-flopped all over the gym, Lacey Ann Warren had perfect hair and no glasses and Heidi Harding looked very sweet doing a cheer about 10 little Warriors in her tiny skirt. I was devastated. I held the tears in until I got home and then I cried and cried. So did my mother. But after a few days I felt better and when it was time to choose class officers I decided to try again. After all, what was the worst thing that could happen? Oh, yeah, failure. But hey, I'd already tasted that and the bitterness was fleeting. Learning not to be afraid of failure was a much richer gift to me than safety from temporary pain (or, for that matter, a year on the Freshman cheerleading squad). I am so grateful my mother had the courage to let me find that out.
When my mother heard Jay give his homecoming talk after returning from service in Argentina as a missionary she leaned over and said to my father, "Now there is a boy I could feel good about my daughter marrying!" Need I say more about her impeccable taste and good judgment?
When London was born (stillborn) my mother came and stayed. We buried her in Boise and then moved home for the summer to be near family and heal. We had many quiet conversations. I sometimes refer to my mom as my plain-speaking Jethro. She has a way of seeing past all the fluff and getting to the heart of the matter and helping me to get there, too. I don't remember what I said one day but I remember her response very clearly. She said, "Lauralee, you're finding out that you need the Savior just like the rest of us." And I knew she was right. All my life spiritual things had come so easily for me and now, suddenly I was facing death and oh, so much heartache. My mother's comment led me to visualize the Savior tenderly reaching out toward his lost lamb, and suddenly realizing that the lamb he was drawing toward him was me.
There are so many other things flooding into my mind as I write this. But it is late, I am tired and my children are gathered in the upstairs room waiting for their bedtime stories. Tommorrow I'll wash clothing, sweep floors, sew on Scout patches, change diapers, check homework, and hope to creep away by myself for a short read where no one will interrupt me. And if my children are really lucky, I'll make time to sit down in the middle of a mess and cut out paper dolls.
I love you very much, mom!
My childhood home was a small farmhouse in Paul, Idaho. We had a long lane lined with purple Irises and fields full of sheep. Sometimes, when my mother needed a little time to herself she would drive to the top of that lane, turn off the car, and read a book. Then she would drive back down and fix dinner, sew on Scout patches, wash clothes (including cloth diapers, ugh!), check homework, sweep floors, rock babies, you get the picture. One of the coolest compliments ever paid my mom by an acquaintance was, "Arva, you're the only person I know who can sit down in the middle of a mess and cut out paper dolls." And she could. I love that about my mom.
In our farmhouse we had a boy's bedroom and a girl's bedroom which were side by side and shared a hallway. My mom sat on the floor in the hall outside our bedrooms each night and read to us. This was my favorite time. The dinner dishes were left until later, the children were bedded down, and my mother sat in the hall and read and read and read. I loved this peaceful way of ending the day and felt my mother's love through these stories. (In case you're wondering, my favorites were fairy tales which my mother read often. I loved Thick-Headed Jack, Snow White and Rose Red, The Brave Little Tailor, and The Twelve Dancing Princesses among others.) Incidentally, several years ago my siblings and I and our children had gathered at my parent's house for a weekend. My mother began reading a story out loud to some of the grandchildren and I watched all of my siblings drift into the room and take a seat. Even as grown-ups, we still love to hear my mother read.
When I was eight years old I began piano lessons. We didn't own a piano at the time so my mother drove me to my great-grandparent's house about one mile up the road to practice. Everything about those early years of piano was difficult. My mother, who loves to sing and played flute in the high school band, knew a little and could help. She stood behind me during those excruciating practices clapping and counting out the rhythm. I hated it. When struggling through these sessions we yelled back and forth at each other in whispers. All the frustration and passion were there, only the volume was missing. She wouldn't let me quit. She occasionally remarked, "Someday you'll thank me for this," to which I would sniff and reply tartly. I'll simply say that, discounting those early years, music has been one of the great loves of my life. It blesses me, my family, and I believe, many others regularly. I'm so glad she made me stick it out.
I tried out for cheerleader when I was in the 8th grade. I practiced for weeks and had every expectation of making it. But I had huge glasses and frizzy hair, I didn't know how to do back handsprings,and I looked terrible in those little skirts cheerleaders have to wear. My mother agonized. Should she discourage me? Should she save me from the pain of certain failure? The tryouts came. Teresa Helms flip-flopped all over the gym, Lacey Ann Warren had perfect hair and no glasses and Heidi Harding looked very sweet doing a cheer about 10 little Warriors in her tiny skirt. I was devastated. I held the tears in until I got home and then I cried and cried. So did my mother. But after a few days I felt better and when it was time to choose class officers I decided to try again. After all, what was the worst thing that could happen? Oh, yeah, failure. But hey, I'd already tasted that and the bitterness was fleeting. Learning not to be afraid of failure was a much richer gift to me than safety from temporary pain (or, for that matter, a year on the Freshman cheerleading squad). I am so grateful my mother had the courage to let me find that out.
When my mother heard Jay give his homecoming talk after returning from service in Argentina as a missionary she leaned over and said to my father, "Now there is a boy I could feel good about my daughter marrying!" Need I say more about her impeccable taste and good judgment?
When London was born (stillborn) my mother came and stayed. We buried her in Boise and then moved home for the summer to be near family and heal. We had many quiet conversations. I sometimes refer to my mom as my plain-speaking Jethro. She has a way of seeing past all the fluff and getting to the heart of the matter and helping me to get there, too. I don't remember what I said one day but I remember her response very clearly. She said, "Lauralee, you're finding out that you need the Savior just like the rest of us." And I knew she was right. All my life spiritual things had come so easily for me and now, suddenly I was facing death and oh, so much heartache. My mother's comment led me to visualize the Savior tenderly reaching out toward his lost lamb, and suddenly realizing that the lamb he was drawing toward him was me.
There are so many other things flooding into my mind as I write this. But it is late, I am tired and my children are gathered in the upstairs room waiting for their bedtime stories. Tommorrow I'll wash clothing, sweep floors, sew on Scout patches, change diapers, check homework, and hope to creep away by myself for a short read where no one will interrupt me. And if my children are really lucky, I'll make time to sit down in the middle of a mess and cut out paper dolls.
I love you very much, mom!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Dad
I said goodbye to my father this morning as he flew out of New Hampshire and back to Idaho. In April he and my mother will leave on their mission to be directors of welfare in Russia and Eastern Europe. (Mom is staying on one extra week to help me here.) Knowing that I won't see him for two years makes me teary and reflective.
My dad has always been my friend - even through my teenage years. In my opinion his greatest characteristic is his ability to listen non-judgmentally and love.
Some of my favorite memories of time spent with my dad revolve around the Minidoka County Fair. My brothers and I were each given a lamb and a pig to take to the fair in the summer. We were supposed to care for our animals and train them so they could be shown and later sold at the fair. I didn't do a great job of either the caring or the training so about one week before the fair I would get very serious about trying to get my now-grown lamb to walk around mildly on a lead. I confess, I despised working with my pig and spent even less time in the pigpen than with my lamb. Arriving at the fair with our camper which was stocked with food for meals and snacks we carefully washed (this was a soapy, soggy lot of fun) and groomed (dad did much of this while I "helped") our animals. With our 4-H club we had decorated their pens and now we were free to enjoy the fair until it was time to show our animals.
I showed my lamb and pig in two categories, quality (was the animal built properly and had it been cared for and fed to enhance it's physical traits?) and fitting & showing (had I trained the animal to respond to my cues and did I know how to best present the animal to the judge?). A purple Grand Champion ribbon was up for grabs in both categories.
I took a pig to the fair for 4 years. Each year I felt like something catastrophic happened during the showing of my pig. (Based on my effort I don't know what I expected.)
YEAR 1: My pig had a propensity for fighting with other pigs. (Supposedly if you spray hairspray on the pig's snout and they can't smell each other they don't fight. Also an extra person is stationed in the ring at all times and if a fight breaks out between porkers he separates them with a large, square board carried for that very purpose.) It is with regret that I inform you that my pig was very combative that year. So much so that one man was assigned just to cover me and my pig every time we were in the ring while another handled all the rest.
YEAR 2: My pig was clearly exhausted from all the excitement and as the judge was studying him he simply laid down in the ring. No amount of coaxing, pleading, or desperate praying seemed to appeal to his sense of decency and he laid there most of the round. When it was time to go back to his pen he rose and sauntered out.
YEAR 3: This pig apparently became nervous while being scrutinized by the judge and pee-peed down the leg of my white pants (customarily worn for showing animals in my 4-H days lest you think I was idiotic for wearing white)!
YEAR 4: This crafty swine managed to get by me (not hard) and also between the barrel and the wall of the judge's booth (next to impossible!) and up into the judge's stand where all the helpers were watching, keeping records for the judge, and handing out ribbons. Some of these good folks climbed up on their chairs. (After all, they had seen Pee-Pee pig from year 3.) Others managed to shoo him back out into the ring where I stood, mortified and defeated.
I never showed another pig and I take shameless delight in a good pork chop.
But back to memories of dad and I. As much as I loathed showing pigs, I loved showing sheep. My lamb and I got blue ribbons in both Fitting & Showing and Quality and it was lots of fun. My most memorable year was the year I was 14. I won my class in Quality and was in the ring again waiting for the judge to pick the grand champion out of all the lambs who had won in their individual weight divisions. I was excited and nervous, with layered permed hair and tinted glasses with an apple decal. (My sisters recently told me that of all the girls they've seen, puberty hit me the hardest. Sadly, they were right.) When the judge motioned for me to take my animal to the front of the line and handed me the purple ribbon I looked at my dad who always stood off to one side quietly watching. When our eyes met, I started to cry. I'm crying again as I write this just remembering that moment shared with my dad. (I forbid any of you to mention anything about puberty or, much worse, menopause in your comments.)
At the end of the fair each 4-Her could choose one animal to sell if they desired. I always sold my pig and used some of the money to purchase my school clothes. This year I sold my lamb knowing that the Grand Champion sheep always brought between four and five hundred dollars. When I came out with my lamb and the auctioneer began the bidding I watched my dad's face trying to get an idea of how things were going. He was completely unreadable and I couldn't understand a thing being said. But the bidding went on for a long time. When the auctioneer finally banged his gavel and yelled "Sold!" a cheer erupted from the stands. Dad came forward as I left the ring and now he was smiling. Really smiling. I sold my lamb that year for a whopping $1011 dollars. What a great memory with my dad.
You may have fallen asleep by now but I want to record one other memory from two years ago that was so meaningful to me. Our family had flown home to Idaho for the summer to visit and now it was time to return to New Hampshire. My dad had to leave early in the morning for an engagement so he came into the room where I was sleeping to say goodbye. I sat up groggily in bed and he hugged me and kissed me. Then he looked at my face and hugged and kissed me again. I found I couldn't go back to sleep after he left. I just laid there amazed that after all the years of successes and failures, of foolish mistakes and happy memories my dad STILL loved me very, very much. I was still his girl. What an incredible feeling it is to be loved so unconditionally.
In my family growing up we had a silly tradition of standing in the doorway and waving goodbye with a handkerchief (or if one of those couldn't be found, a dishcloth) in hand. I don't know when this started (perhaps with my sister, Renee) but it made all of us laugh and seemed to ease the pain of goodbye. In our little family here in New Hampshire we have carried on the tradition when friends and family have left after visits. Today as Jay drove away with my dad toward the airport the children and I stood at the door waving white kleenexes and I was struck suddenly thinking about another time when I stood waving a white handkerchief and rejoicing over the dedication of the Nauvoo temple. (For anyone reading who is a member of another faith I'll explain. At the completion of an LDS temple a special dedicatory celebration is held culminating in the joyful waving of white handkerchiefs.) On the day of the Nauvoo dedication I had a very personal and sacred witness of the eternal nature of families and I felt the interest of generations gone by in me, my life, and my family. I felt that same assurance again this morning as I watched my dad go down the driveway and out of sight. I was reminded that he is my dad forever, not just for today, and that gives me courage to let him go for now.
I love you very much, dad!
My dad has always been my friend - even through my teenage years. In my opinion his greatest characteristic is his ability to listen non-judgmentally and love.
Some of my favorite memories of time spent with my dad revolve around the Minidoka County Fair. My brothers and I were each given a lamb and a pig to take to the fair in the summer. We were supposed to care for our animals and train them so they could be shown and later sold at the fair. I didn't do a great job of either the caring or the training so about one week before the fair I would get very serious about trying to get my now-grown lamb to walk around mildly on a lead. I confess, I despised working with my pig and spent even less time in the pigpen than with my lamb. Arriving at the fair with our camper which was stocked with food for meals and snacks we carefully washed (this was a soapy, soggy lot of fun) and groomed (dad did much of this while I "helped") our animals. With our 4-H club we had decorated their pens and now we were free to enjoy the fair until it was time to show our animals.
I showed my lamb and pig in two categories, quality (was the animal built properly and had it been cared for and fed to enhance it's physical traits?) and fitting & showing (had I trained the animal to respond to my cues and did I know how to best present the animal to the judge?). A purple Grand Champion ribbon was up for grabs in both categories.
I took a pig to the fair for 4 years. Each year I felt like something catastrophic happened during the showing of my pig. (Based on my effort I don't know what I expected.)
YEAR 1: My pig had a propensity for fighting with other pigs. (Supposedly if you spray hairspray on the pig's snout and they can't smell each other they don't fight. Also an extra person is stationed in the ring at all times and if a fight breaks out between porkers he separates them with a large, square board carried for that very purpose.) It is with regret that I inform you that my pig was very combative that year. So much so that one man was assigned just to cover me and my pig every time we were in the ring while another handled all the rest.
YEAR 2: My pig was clearly exhausted from all the excitement and as the judge was studying him he simply laid down in the ring. No amount of coaxing, pleading, or desperate praying seemed to appeal to his sense of decency and he laid there most of the round. When it was time to go back to his pen he rose and sauntered out.
YEAR 3: This pig apparently became nervous while being scrutinized by the judge and pee-peed down the leg of my white pants (customarily worn for showing animals in my 4-H days lest you think I was idiotic for wearing white)!
YEAR 4: This crafty swine managed to get by me (not hard) and also between the barrel and the wall of the judge's booth (next to impossible!) and up into the judge's stand where all the helpers were watching, keeping records for the judge, and handing out ribbons. Some of these good folks climbed up on their chairs. (After all, they had seen Pee-Pee pig from year 3.) Others managed to shoo him back out into the ring where I stood, mortified and defeated.
I never showed another pig and I take shameless delight in a good pork chop.
But back to memories of dad and I. As much as I loathed showing pigs, I loved showing sheep. My lamb and I got blue ribbons in both Fitting & Showing and Quality and it was lots of fun. My most memorable year was the year I was 14. I won my class in Quality and was in the ring again waiting for the judge to pick the grand champion out of all the lambs who had won in their individual weight divisions. I was excited and nervous, with layered permed hair and tinted glasses with an apple decal. (My sisters recently told me that of all the girls they've seen, puberty hit me the hardest. Sadly, they were right.) When the judge motioned for me to take my animal to the front of the line and handed me the purple ribbon I looked at my dad who always stood off to one side quietly watching. When our eyes met, I started to cry. I'm crying again as I write this just remembering that moment shared with my dad. (I forbid any of you to mention anything about puberty or, much worse, menopause in your comments.)
At the end of the fair each 4-Her could choose one animal to sell if they desired. I always sold my pig and used some of the money to purchase my school clothes. This year I sold my lamb knowing that the Grand Champion sheep always brought between four and five hundred dollars. When I came out with my lamb and the auctioneer began the bidding I watched my dad's face trying to get an idea of how things were going. He was completely unreadable and I couldn't understand a thing being said. But the bidding went on for a long time. When the auctioneer finally banged his gavel and yelled "Sold!" a cheer erupted from the stands. Dad came forward as I left the ring and now he was smiling. Really smiling. I sold my lamb that year for a whopping $1011 dollars. What a great memory with my dad.
You may have fallen asleep by now but I want to record one other memory from two years ago that was so meaningful to me. Our family had flown home to Idaho for the summer to visit and now it was time to return to New Hampshire. My dad had to leave early in the morning for an engagement so he came into the room where I was sleeping to say goodbye. I sat up groggily in bed and he hugged me and kissed me. Then he looked at my face and hugged and kissed me again. I found I couldn't go back to sleep after he left. I just laid there amazed that after all the years of successes and failures, of foolish mistakes and happy memories my dad STILL loved me very, very much. I was still his girl. What an incredible feeling it is to be loved so unconditionally.
In my family growing up we had a silly tradition of standing in the doorway and waving goodbye with a handkerchief (or if one of those couldn't be found, a dishcloth) in hand. I don't know when this started (perhaps with my sister, Renee) but it made all of us laugh and seemed to ease the pain of goodbye. In our little family here in New Hampshire we have carried on the tradition when friends and family have left after visits. Today as Jay drove away with my dad toward the airport the children and I stood at the door waving white kleenexes and I was struck suddenly thinking about another time when I stood waving a white handkerchief and rejoicing over the dedication of the Nauvoo temple. (For anyone reading who is a member of another faith I'll explain. At the completion of an LDS temple a special dedicatory celebration is held culminating in the joyful waving of white handkerchiefs.) On the day of the Nauvoo dedication I had a very personal and sacred witness of the eternal nature of families and I felt the interest of generations gone by in me, my life, and my family. I felt that same assurance again this morning as I watched my dad go down the driveway and out of sight. I was reminded that he is my dad forever, not just for today, and that gives me courage to let him go for now.
I love you very much, dad!
Friday, January 23, 2009
On turning 40 #2 (Jay)
Turning 40 means I've had 18 years (16 of them married) to learn about this fascinating man I married. They have been great years filled with much laughter and a few tears. The following are some memorable moments from our life together:
Making a snowman at midnight after returning from I don't remember where. Magical.
Being bad household managers together. When we were newlyweds we both worked and neither one of us liked cleaning very much. We knew exactly how many days we could go without washing glasses. One night when we had waited until the last possible minute to do dishes we washed almost everything we owned and stacked it carefully and precariously on and around the drainer. In the middle of the night the pile came crashing down and frightened us badly.
Going to Jackson Hole, Wyoming on our honeymoon and every anniversary for many years afterward. Some years when we were in school we were so poor we gave blood plasma to save up the money we needed for a few days away together. I love the Tetons because they remind me of Jay and happy times.
Disagreeing about a purchase we'd made - a throw. Jay thought it should go on the floor, you know, a throw rug. I thought it belonged on the back of the couch - a throw blanket. We finally compromised and put in on the couch for one week, the floor the next and so forth and so on...
Losing our first daughter and finding out that there was steel in both of us, that Heavenly Father always keeps His promises, and that we could count on each other and so many other people who loved us to get through difficult times.
Living in the Governor's Mansion, loving the Leavitt family and their children and attending hundreds of events (working capacity, of course but still fun)while there. My favorite? The three annual Christmas parties for families. Very informal and fun. Yummy food, too.
Eating roast beef in our bathroom - Jay and his brother Cash, that is, while I laid on the couch in the family room pregnant and thoroughly nauseated by the smell. Why didn't I go into the bedroom and allow them to eat at the table like civilized men? Because I was in my 20's as opposed to my 40's and also because Jay was incredibly kind.
Wondering why people thought marriage was so hard. What was the matter with them and their marriages?
Having our first son, Topher, and doting on every smile, every move, every breath. Doing that all over again when Ronan, Lacey Grace, and Lincoln were born. Our children have brought us great joy and growth.
Wondering why we ever thought marriage was so easy. (Notice that we started wondering this immediately AFTER we had children.)
Taking walks together.
Reading good books together. The first book we read together was a Louis L'Amour called Bendigo Shafter. Jay read it out loud to me. Then it was my turn to choose a book and we read it out loud together. (I can't remember what I chose but I do know that Jay may be one of the only men alive to have read the book Jane Eyre). We finished those early books quickly. Now we have 4 children and we've been reading the same book, Truck;A Love Story, for about 8 months. Every time Jay starts reading I fall asleep and not because it's boring. (He would want me to qualify that.)
Talking. This has been tricky, I'll be honest. I may say to Jay, "What do you think we should do about this problem with our child?" Silence and waiting for 3 seconds. "Well?" I ask. "I'm thinking," he replies. I wait longer. I wait a very long time. "Do you remember the question?" I ask. "Yes," he says, "I'm still thinking." You get the picture.
Learning Christlike attributes like patience, forgiveness, and love by practicing and practicing and practicing with each other.
Moving together to new places - I'm sorry to tell you that four of these moves have occurred on Jay's actual birthday (August 30) and the packing for the moves on our anniversary (August 29). We've never been great planners. The flip side of that is that neither one of us gets mad about things not being perfect on these days. We just roll with the punches and hope that next year will be more fun.
This is just a tiny sampling of life with a very complex and wonderful man. What will we find out about each other this year?
Making a snowman at midnight after returning from I don't remember where. Magical.
Being bad household managers together. When we were newlyweds we both worked and neither one of us liked cleaning very much. We knew exactly how many days we could go without washing glasses. One night when we had waited until the last possible minute to do dishes we washed almost everything we owned and stacked it carefully and precariously on and around the drainer. In the middle of the night the pile came crashing down and frightened us badly.
Going to Jackson Hole, Wyoming on our honeymoon and every anniversary for many years afterward. Some years when we were in school we were so poor we gave blood plasma to save up the money we needed for a few days away together. I love the Tetons because they remind me of Jay and happy times.
Disagreeing about a purchase we'd made - a throw. Jay thought it should go on the floor, you know, a throw rug. I thought it belonged on the back of the couch - a throw blanket. We finally compromised and put in on the couch for one week, the floor the next and so forth and so on...
Losing our first daughter and finding out that there was steel in both of us, that Heavenly Father always keeps His promises, and that we could count on each other and so many other people who loved us to get through difficult times.
Living in the Governor's Mansion, loving the Leavitt family and their children and attending hundreds of events (working capacity, of course but still fun)while there. My favorite? The three annual Christmas parties for families. Very informal and fun. Yummy food, too.
Eating roast beef in our bathroom - Jay and his brother Cash, that is, while I laid on the couch in the family room pregnant and thoroughly nauseated by the smell. Why didn't I go into the bedroom and allow them to eat at the table like civilized men? Because I was in my 20's as opposed to my 40's and also because Jay was incredibly kind.
Wondering why people thought marriage was so hard. What was the matter with them and their marriages?
Having our first son, Topher, and doting on every smile, every move, every breath. Doing that all over again when Ronan, Lacey Grace, and Lincoln were born. Our children have brought us great joy and growth.
Wondering why we ever thought marriage was so easy. (Notice that we started wondering this immediately AFTER we had children.)
Taking walks together.
Reading good books together. The first book we read together was a Louis L'Amour called Bendigo Shafter. Jay read it out loud to me. Then it was my turn to choose a book and we read it out loud together. (I can't remember what I chose but I do know that Jay may be one of the only men alive to have read the book Jane Eyre). We finished those early books quickly. Now we have 4 children and we've been reading the same book, Truck;A Love Story, for about 8 months. Every time Jay starts reading I fall asleep and not because it's boring. (He would want me to qualify that.)
Talking. This has been tricky, I'll be honest. I may say to Jay, "What do you think we should do about this problem with our child?" Silence and waiting for 3 seconds. "Well?" I ask. "I'm thinking," he replies. I wait longer. I wait a very long time. "Do you remember the question?" I ask. "Yes," he says, "I'm still thinking." You get the picture.
Learning Christlike attributes like patience, forgiveness, and love by practicing and practicing and practicing with each other.
Moving together to new places - I'm sorry to tell you that four of these moves have occurred on Jay's actual birthday (August 30) and the packing for the moves on our anniversary (August 29). We've never been great planners. The flip side of that is that neither one of us gets mad about things not being perfect on these days. We just roll with the punches and hope that next year will be more fun.
This is just a tiny sampling of life with a very complex and wonderful man. What will we find out about each other this year?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
On turning 40
I may be in the minority, but there are some things I love about growing older. While I'm a little dismayed by the changes in my metabolism and skin, I figure those things are trade-offs for much better gifts. Over the next little while I want to consider some of the things I've traded my youth for and remember to be glad.
The thing I love most about getting older is the rich association I share with so many great people. When I was 18 I had a handful of friends and family members who enriched my life. When I turned 40 last week I realized I am blessed with a great multiplying of that number. I have a husband I nearly always adore, children of my own, brothers and sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews, a mom-in-law whose friendship I cherish, and hundreds of dear, dear friends met along the path of life in the various circumstances and places I have found myself. These people are in addition to my parents, siblings, grandparents, and the childhood friends of my late teens and early twenties. How could I ever exchange these people and the rich memories of their love and friendship for my youth? I love the memories made on my mission in the Dominican Republic walking down dusty streets and teaching by lantern-light people who were my spiritual equals and in many cases, my superiors. I loved my courtship and subsequent marriage to Jay and fondly remember our years in the student wards. The gang of friends we made and loved there helped support us through the loss of our first daughter and after all these years I still value and sometimes crave their companionship. All the family members who have come into the Burton family and the Hill family since and during our marriage have brought their own share of joy, comradery, and love. I think of them one by one as I write this and feel so grateful. The neighbors and ward members in Boise, Salt Lake City, and New Hampshire have contributed so much to the richness of my life. I almost hate lumping everyone together in such broad categories because I think of all these people in a most individual way and remember the personal ways they have touched and improved my life. Truly, how could I ever long to be 19 again? Things are ever so much more beautiful now.
The thing I love most about getting older is the rich association I share with so many great people. When I was 18 I had a handful of friends and family members who enriched my life. When I turned 40 last week I realized I am blessed with a great multiplying of that number. I have a husband I nearly always adore, children of my own, brothers and sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews, a mom-in-law whose friendship I cherish, and hundreds of dear, dear friends met along the path of life in the various circumstances and places I have found myself. These people are in addition to my parents, siblings, grandparents, and the childhood friends of my late teens and early twenties. How could I ever exchange these people and the rich memories of their love and friendship for my youth? I love the memories made on my mission in the Dominican Republic walking down dusty streets and teaching by lantern-light people who were my spiritual equals and in many cases, my superiors. I loved my courtship and subsequent marriage to Jay and fondly remember our years in the student wards. The gang of friends we made and loved there helped support us through the loss of our first daughter and after all these years I still value and sometimes crave their companionship. All the family members who have come into the Burton family and the Hill family since and during our marriage have brought their own share of joy, comradery, and love. I think of them one by one as I write this and feel so grateful. The neighbors and ward members in Boise, Salt Lake City, and New Hampshire have contributed so much to the richness of my life. I almost hate lumping everyone together in such broad categories because I think of all these people in a most individual way and remember the personal ways they have touched and improved my life. Truly, how could I ever long to be 19 again? Things are ever so much more beautiful now.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Interjections!
Remember those old Schoolhouse Rock cartoons that came on each Saturday morning like Conjunction Junction, I'm Just a Bill, Unpack Your Adjectives,and so many more? Jay and I have enjoyed watching those again with our kids. Now that I'm a grown-up they seem so profoundly clever.
This week I'm thinking of one called Interjections! during which at one point a cartoon guy shouts, "Hey! That's not fair! Givin' a guy a shot down there!" right as the Doctor gives him a poke on his posterior. Last week I underwent surgery and spent a few days in the hospital and am still recovering. I planned during the recovery to organize my journals and recipe files and read several books. I had no idea that recovery time is actually needed for well, recovery. Five days after surgery I finally finished the last 60 pages of the book I had planned to finish that first night in the hospital. I haven't even glanced at my journals. My doctor was professionally vague about the recovery saying that I would be a little green on the first day but that I would be very bored by the rest of my hospital stay. I took him at his word but now I know better and I join that little cartoon guy interjecting, "Hey! That's not fair!" Encouraging me to set such unrealistic goals. I have another interjection for my doctor. "Hmph!"
This week I'm thinking of one called Interjections! during which at one point a cartoon guy shouts, "Hey! That's not fair! Givin' a guy a shot down there!" right as the Doctor gives him a poke on his posterior. Last week I underwent surgery and spent a few days in the hospital and am still recovering. I planned during the recovery to organize my journals and recipe files and read several books. I had no idea that recovery time is actually needed for well, recovery. Five days after surgery I finally finished the last 60 pages of the book I had planned to finish that first night in the hospital. I haven't even glanced at my journals. My doctor was professionally vague about the recovery saying that I would be a little green on the first day but that I would be very bored by the rest of my hospital stay. I took him at his word but now I know better and I join that little cartoon guy interjecting, "Hey! That's not fair!" Encouraging me to set such unrealistic goals. I have another interjection for my doctor. "Hmph!"
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Now I know
When Topher (now 11) was 5 or 6 his older cousin Shaina began taking violin lessons. She graciously agreed to play for our family on Christmas Eve. As she played Topher leaned over and whispered, "Mom, why did Uncle Brent and Aunt JeNeale buy Shaina such a squeaky violin?"
Fast forward 5 or 6 years and now we find Topher, already a promising young pianist playing tenor sax with the elementary school band. I am astonished at how quickly he is learning to play this instrument and in addition, the sheer volume of the practice sessions has cleared our home of common household pests! Sometimes when he is practicing he makes extraordinary high-pitched sounds in the middle of a well-known melody such as, say, Good King Wenceslas. These jarring nuances send him and our whole family into fits of irresponsible, irrepressible, irreproachable laughter.
On Friday night we attended the Rindge Memorial School concert. Ronan and the other 3rd graders sang some wonderful Christmas songs (I know it's January, I'll explain in a future post) and Topher and his band played. The band consists of 2 alto saxaphones and Topher's tenor sax, 2 drummers, 1 trombone, 1 trumpet, and 700 flutes. When the band began to play I had an epiphany. Do you ever wonder about the origin of certain words, words like waft, seizure, or for that matter, epiphany? Who makes these words up? Who says them the first time and then who uses them over and over until they finally achieve dictionary status? In that 10 minutes of elementary musicality I pictured another parent much like myself sitting at her child's first band concert. Now I know how the word cacophony was born.
P.S. Can anyone tell me why all those parents bought their children such squeaky instruments?
Fast forward 5 or 6 years and now we find Topher, already a promising young pianist playing tenor sax with the elementary school band. I am astonished at how quickly he is learning to play this instrument and in addition, the sheer volume of the practice sessions has cleared our home of common household pests! Sometimes when he is practicing he makes extraordinary high-pitched sounds in the middle of a well-known melody such as, say, Good King Wenceslas. These jarring nuances send him and our whole family into fits of irresponsible, irrepressible, irreproachable laughter.
On Friday night we attended the Rindge Memorial School concert. Ronan and the other 3rd graders sang some wonderful Christmas songs (I know it's January, I'll explain in a future post) and Topher and his band played. The band consists of 2 alto saxaphones and Topher's tenor sax, 2 drummers, 1 trombone, 1 trumpet, and 700 flutes. When the band began to play I had an epiphany. Do you ever wonder about the origin of certain words, words like waft, seizure, or for that matter, epiphany? Who makes these words up? Who says them the first time and then who uses them over and over until they finally achieve dictionary status? In that 10 minutes of elementary musicality I pictured another parent much like myself sitting at her child's first band concert. Now I know how the word cacophony was born.
P.S. Can anyone tell me why all those parents bought their children such squeaky instruments?
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