Guns N' Mothers

This Mother's Day found me content and very blessed. I couldn't help contrasting from a year before:

• Baby coming out of NICU
• Whooping cough in my kids schools
• Me hiding from the world and Whooping Cough (in Idaho)
• Plus a deep underlying stress about paying an intensive care bill without insurance. 

This year I have 4 healthy beautiful kids, no hospitals, not even hospital bills! The Mister of the House made me a---what 6? egg omelet with cheese and ham. There were flowers, cards, earrings, back rubs, and texts and messages from family and friends in general celebrating Mothers! There was also intermittent gun shots coming from the backyard throughout the day.

  Come children! Let's practice your songs you will sing during church today... (I'm now the Primary Music Lady...aahh!)
 {Background: Crank. Crank. POP!}



Oh Rainbow Girl. You are such a gooood back-rubber. Thank you!
{Backbround: Crank. Crank. POP!}


  You see, I'm not the only mom feeling relief this spring.  Remember this gal?

This breed of duck lives in our backyard because of their amazing ability to eat mosquito larvae and bugs.  With a temporary pond in the summer, they have proven vital to our little farm. They are also a duck with one of the longest gestation periods.  Try about 60 days instead of 30.

That means since February, through cold and snow, then warming spells, rain, St. Patty's Day, Spring Break, Church, School, Soccer, and Birthdays...this duck has been quietly sitting in the corner of the coop sitting on her nest.

Many a dinner conversation has wagered whether or not she started too early.  We have wondered if her once-a-day runs for water and food during February proved fatal when it was bitterly cold outside.  Months later, when those dinner conversations turned to The Mister of the House stating: I think tomorrow I might just grab an egg and crack it open and see if there's even a chick growing in there.

Well, the day after he said that, we had the first baby chick come out and play.  By the next morning, there were two!  They were fluffy, adorable, and would jump up on Mama's back.  She even ventured outside the coop, and took her ducklings through the chicken yard.

As a mother, I couldn't help have a sense of relief and accomplishment for our Mama Muscovy Duck!  We doubted you but you knew.  You did it!  You gave up a lot of sunshine, meals, swims, and preening, but it was worth it.

She proved to be the ultimate symbol of Mother's Day.

But her nest wasn't fully hatched.  So her outdoor escort was short-lived as she rushed back to sit on the eggs still left.  We went about our business, and then:

The Mister was doing chores and saw a Magpie pecking the baby duckling and flinging it in the air!

Peck! Peck! Fling!

So that was met with our pellet gun and a:
{Crank. Crank.  POP!}

And wouldn't you know those damn magpies won.

So I thought of my Mother's Day last year, the stress and worry, and this year feeling blessed and holy.  And my heart yearned for Mothers dealing with loss this year: be it an empty nest, a cancer scare (Wendy? Prayers for you!), or a teenage punk not giving away free kisses anymore.

Thankfully, for now, I have none of these worries.  But the Olsen's are thinking of all the mothers that do (Wendy? Prayers for you!) and are crankin' our pellet guns in your honor.

** The biggest irony of our Muscovy Duck Saga is that with my new music calling in church, I came across this song that came through the children's magazine back in 1979.  It's called "Don't Kill the Birds" and I laughed and thought about how these are different times.   Or are they?

So in honor of what makes me a mother, here's a quick update on the mutts:

Last year Chloe read "Jenny of the Tetons".  It's a historical fiction about an old trapper in the 1800's named Beaver Dick who married an Indian Woman and they had six kids.  Rexburg folks these ringing a bell: Beaver Dick Park, Jenny Lake, Leigh Lake?  Ends up there old homestead is just along the Snake River outside good ole' Rexburg.  Of course Grandpa knew how we could find it, and so we did!

This picture is a bit cliche right?  Chloe was fooling around with the camera and this is what I found when she was done.  She's hoping to "practice photography" this summer.

Leif is showing tell-tale signs of being a boy.  Ninjago Lego's, Spiderman, and Star Wars.  I found this little gem on my phone recently and thought it was adorable.

 Don't hit your brother!

Soccer!  He's doing so good and The Mister is having fun living vicariously through his son.

Isaac never stops talking.  Even while I was brushing his teeth, he was yak yak yakking away.  And yet, he will shrivel up and die before getting up and talking in front of an audience.

And Gideon can swallow a......fly? cat? dog? horse?  That's quite the gape going on old lady.

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Two Little Boys

With the anxiety of A) getting this pregnancy over; and B) seeing this gestating kid and whether or not your DNA lapped The Mister's in the gene pool, means that you can get sidetracked from the actual moment of things. The state of your family unit.

Right now, I have two little boys that are just over 2 years apart (a pregnancy milestone for me, but pretty standard for most Mormon Mommies). They share bunk beds, they play, wrestle, and are Jedis and Spidermen together. Older brother sounds out words and little brother copies and exclaims that he can read too!



Here's evidence of some father-son weakness. Dad played soccer as a kid. He takes older brother to buy soccer clothes because he is finally old enough to play on a city team. Dad decides to purchase two of everything (including shoes!) so these two little boys can practice together in the backyard. Little brother can't even sign up for another two years, but daddio is making sure Team Olsen is covered for now.

When yet another little brother shows up ANY DAY NOW! *hint* there will still be matching uniforms to giggle into, kicks back and forth, and the sharing of deep slumbering breaths from the other bunk.

But how about when older brother is 16 and middle brother is a crummy 14? Will 14 be buddies with new baby brother (who would be 11)? And will older brother feel the transition and get his feelings hurt (because he is my cautious and sensitive kid)? Will the bunks end up being for the two youngest boys down the road to solidify the new union? Or will baby brother always share a room with oldest sweetest sister?

When I hold this new baby can I finally admit that The Buddha Baby is growing up? Will he despise the loss of his cherished title, or will the satisfaction of being on Team Olsen suffice him instead (since baby just sits there and sleeps)?



This is the evolution of childhood, of families, and of motherhood (as you manage new sibling alliances and/or try to restore lost ones). This is the evolution that is felt in the bones, not viewed through a microscope.

Does this mean I think this kid will come into our home and be a hell-raiser and disrupt the family unity we have? Well, of course not!

But change is in the air.

The trees are starting to turn colors.

And my autumn is so beautiful right now.

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nightgown

This past Christmas, my mother-in-law gave me a full-length, embroidered on the edges, flowing nightgown.


To be honest, I had NEVER worn a nightgown. I'm more of a workout pants and t-shirt kindof girl when it comes to bedtime. But I noticed the tag had a Dillard's sticker, and felt the soft brushed cotton, and took it home to wear to bed.

Enter Mrs. Olsen in nightgown. Rainbow Girl stops and stares. She says, "That's pretty" and the next day asks if I'll buy her a nightgown. The Mister of the House comments how cute it is. I wonder if they are serious.

The thing is, when I was a newlywed, I heard a tale (supposedly true) of a Hawaiian woman that ran on the beach every day for exercise. Once she became pregnant, she continued her daily jog. She jogged every week of her pregnancy, and even ran 3 miles the day she gave birth.

She was woman! Nothing would hold her back! She stayed in charge of her body and worked through the discomforts of pregnancy to provide good health to her new addition!

This was the woman I was determined to be. Tough. Resilient. In shape. Fitting into her skinny jeans 4 weeks postpartum. This is the woman who would have thought nightgowns were for grannies and not tough young mothers who jog the day before and the day after giving birth.



But then when I became pregnant, I felt like I was being overtaken by Alien Body-snatchers. Why does my favorite food make me ill? What's with the leg cramps? Why am I so freaking tired?

There's a beautiful (and necessary) loss of control when you incubate another human life. Because no matter how hard I try (and let's be honest, I have NOT tried as hard as the "Hawaii Lady") I can never seem to not get pregnant in my arms, butt, and sides.

This reality has been disheartening at times, and has later served as ammunition for victim-hood that only chocolate cake could understand.

But now, I am older and wiser. Offspring #4 is coming to earth soon, and while I am determined to skip church the next couple of weeks if I haven't gone into labor, there's a letting go that I am trying to embrace...A letting go without a grudge.

In my crunchy hippy birthing center, I am happy to announce that there exists the pregnant women apparently friends with the Hawaii Women. They usually have blogs and have gorgeous black and white photos of their bare tummies, sans stretch marks, showing thoughtful and/or exuberant images of their blossoming motherhood. I snuck this photo at my last appointment, check it:



La La La! Three, maybe even one pregnancy ago, this picture would have ticked me off just a bit. Now? It's just slightly annoying. Yay!



I am woman. Hear me roar!

I am 35 and love my nightgown!

My arse is a rectangle starting in my middle back, but I grow 'em gorgeous and strong. So it's okay.

And even though I'm going to skip church the next two weeks if I haven't gone into labor, God loves me and I think He's awesome. I recognize my blossoming as a blessing from Him.

Signed,
Thirty-five is the new 50 and it feels good...

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The Blessing Way

Back in December, before I became an inflatable raft, The Olsen Gals had a little beebee party for the expecting Olsen Mommies. We ate great food, had a contest to see who could suck the water out of a bottle the fastest, and pretended to be fortune tellers stringing crystals above Mandy's belly to find out if she's having a boy or girl.


It was at this party that my creative sister-in-law talked about a cool birthing tradition from the Navajo Indians. It's called "The Blessing Way".

Boils down to this:
* Circle of women find a bead for the expecting mommy.
* With the bead, they include a "blessing" for the mother and child.
* All of the beads are strung together in a beautiful necklace.
* When it's GO TIME, screaming women in labor somehow texts, facebooks, or sends primitive indian vibes to her ladies that she needs their energy/prayers/love.
* Circle of women respond to labor vibes by lighting a candle, and keeping it lit during labor and delivery.
* Beautiful happy baby arrives and has loving and caring women already invested in his future.
* Mrs. Olsen is kicking herself in the pants because she forgot to send this request to all the women on the other side of the family (i.e. her side), as well as to her close friends.



But here is the finished product, waiting to go in my birthing bag, and asking for continued energy/prayers/blessing/love because that will have to be my epidural and I desperately hope it will work!

Thanks beautiful Olsen Family. Love the necklace!

Signed,
38 weeks + 2 days prego and wishing I had this kid yesterday...

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Anderson Talent: Part I

There's something to be said about using your childhood years, even into college, to developing your talents. There's no other time to be quite so focused, and even a little selfish. My ma and pa paid for me to take lessons in piano, clogging, gymnastics, and skiing. Later when I played athletics, they paid for volleyball and basketball camps, which weren't cheap. They also watched every single boring game I ever played in (I think my high scoring game in basketball was 6 points. Woo!)



The lessons and hard work during those years helped me play the piano for congregations throughout The South during my missionary service. The tinkering of a few guitar cords from my buddy Kristi helped me woo The Mister of the House with a simple song. The dad as a wise coach, plus the cost of volleyball camps helped me to play with a State Championship Winning Volleyball Team in High School.

So I remember having the very clear thought when I became a wife and mother, that it was now the time to be the beneficiary of those lessons and that season of "developing talents", and that my progression had ceased. Yet I was to be grateful at the same time. Why would I spend $50 a month on guitar lessons when I could use that money for diapers?

I had a good season of talent building, but the transition to mother would mean all resources would now be poured into my offspring.

This was my take on it for many years. But then my little sissy, a mother of three kids and the wife of an overworked medical student, composed a hymn!

She sent it to me to look at and play through. I was blown away! How dare she progress in the piano department when I had become a martyr to my own kids development!

Yet this hymn was the first of many songs she has composed. I love that she is disciplined enough to sit down and do this. I love the creativity she channels, and I love the message of her music.

Recently, her oh-so-proud mother entered her hymn into a showcase event at BYU-Idaho. Though little sis was thousands of miles away, an auditorium of people sang along to the hymn she composed. It's based on Helaman's Stripling Warriors, and is called "Warrior Families".



Anyone wanting a copy of this music, make a comment here and I'll see if the sis can oblige.

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puberty

A couple weeks ago my one and only female child walked up to me while I was doing dishes and commented that she had a little bump in her shirt. Just one side, right on her chest. She thought it was funny. My eyes turned to googly-pies and I remembered the horror of coming onto puberty unawares. Jumping on the trampoline one minute, finding a surprise in my pants and quietly telling my mom...only to be lovingly thrown in the tub while a giant maxi pad gets taped inside a fresh pair of panties and the talk of how this will happen to me every month for the rest of my life.

Trampolines and popsicles one minute. Walking around with a crinkly diaper butt the next. So scratch that. Trampoline one minute, crying in the corner the next so no one will have to hear you walk across the room.



Please dad, I hope you aren't reading this. Mom? Don't take this personal. You told me what was up even if it was a day late. I get it that we come from different generations and that there's a good chance no amount of pep-talking would have kept me from crying in the corner...but this is real stuff ya know? It was exciting, weird, and traumatic (for me). So when Rainbow Girl came up to me unawares, all I could think of was my own naive dive into puberty and how it sucked. How would you respond?

Mrs. Olsen: Rainbow Girl! You are getting little boobies! You know what this means? This means you are starting to go through puberty!

Rainbow Girl: [places hands on her face and looks at me with a shocked and slightly happy look on her face]

Mrs. Olsen: First little bumps, then it will swell and pop! (hands flowering over chest). Then you get hair here, and here (more air flowers). You will start to stink under your arms and roll your eyes at me. Please don't roll your eyes at me okay? Your legs will get hairy too and you'll probably want to shave them. Unless you got the hairless Olsen gene. That would be lucky...

Rainbow Girl: (tentatively) Is puberty when....you know....bleed?

Mrs. Olsen: Oh yes. That too! Yes you will bleed. These are all of the changes that you will have to go through to become a woman! (pause) I can't believe you're getting little boobies. You probably won't need a bra for a year or so, but we might need to wear a tanktop under your shirt to smooth things out.

You get the idea. We have talked about all of this before, but I felt compelled to expound a crash course right there in the kitchen. Then Rainbow Girl went to her room to finish her homework and I immediately texted The Mister of the House:

ME: Rainbow Girl's getting boobies.
HIM: What?! How old were you? Isn't this a little early?
ME: She won't need a bra for a while. Maybe not so early.

So I went about doing dishes and making dinner, and thinking of how quick my little girl is growing up and how she was just a baby. She never knew I told her dad, but when he came home from work he popped his head in her room and said hi.

Then the cutest thing happened. She turned to him and said: "Dad, did you hear? I'm starting to go through puberty."

He said that yes he heard. She commented how scary it would be to go through puberty and...."you know...bleed."

And The Mister of the House sat down and said, "Yes, lots of changes happen when you go through puberty, but you have to go through them to become an adult. And you know what? Being an adult is my favorite thing so far. If I wasn't an adult I wouldn't have my own little family, with you as my daughter. I love ya. It's a good thing that will happen."

Rainbow Girl didn't say a thing and just went and sat on his lap and he held her like the little girl she still was, and in some ways, always will be (at least to me and her dad).



And when I heard about it after the fact my heart melted, and I thought that's how every puberty talk should be. Okay okay so I was a flibbertigibbet and had diarrhea of the mouth but it turned out just fine because I have back-up. I was glad that Rainbow Girl wasn't afraid to talk about boobies and bleeding with her own dad, and that he could give her a vision of why it all mattered in the end.



And what a beautiful woman she will become! Just look at her!


NOTE TO PARENTS: Apparently crash courses in the kitchen can be soaked in by little brothers as well. Which is why the next day, while carpooling friends in the mini-van, Vanilla Wafer turned to Rainbow Girl's friend and stated: "Guess what? Rainbow Girl's getting boobies!" and then proceeded to giggle.

So we're into crash course number #2 about how we don't really say the word boobies and how we have private parts and don't talk or laugh about them. That's what you get for being a flibbertigibbet.

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elevens

I think it's somewhat inevitable, what with the merging of your life to another through marriage, the puffing of pregnancy, the retreat from the single life into one of quiet service to your kids...well it's inevitable not to take those kids your investing lessons and dinners into and not live through them a little bit. They are a piece of you after all.

As for my childhood...apart from being sweet, innocent, happy, and fulfilling...there was the cold hard fact that my mother was (in her younger days) Miss Utah State with a 27 inch waist and that I hit high school in a post-grunge-band world with oversized flannels, hiking boots, and stringy hair.

When my oldest sister got first runner-up in the high school pageant, I was amazed to see the investment of time and emotions my mother put into it. After high school, what with the closet full of dresses and an amazing piano number memorized, my mother quietly signed up my sister for a wannabee big-time but far from prime-time pageant called Miss Idaho National Teenager.

Desperate Idaho farmgirls high on MTV choreographed their own numbers and were returning year after year, moving up the ranks into the top ten, top five, then runner-up. Of course, the rookie newcomer from Rexburg Idaho blew them away. Monica won the coveted crown, and took our family to Florida for the National Teenager Pageant (where as you would expect, "Texas" was totally hot and a complete bee-otch).

Here's the beauty today with her tennis buddies (that I fuzzed online). I mean really, look at those legs! Does she still got it or what?!

I can't say, even with my adolescent understanding that my mother would never wear hiking boots, that my younger self didn't make an effort to please my mother in this the most basic of her daughterly joys: a pageant.



*Please please please tell me you don't recognize me in this photo.

I, of course, did not get a crown or even a bouquet of flowers. I enjoyed getting to know the girls, but the lessons on poise and how to pretend to walk with a nickel squeezed in your cheeks (yes- those cheeks) as well as the constant chattering, commenting, and note-taking of nearly 30 girls which pushed our weekly prep meeting nigh over 3 hours, was enough for me to say inside my high school self: Man, I hope I never have to do this again!

And I never did! And my mother still loved me. But as a testament to a daughter's love and desire to make her mother proud...I will always have the Madison High School Jr. Miss Pageant which parents and students suffered a good 4 hours of their life for back in 1992.

Which brings me to this: that old movie Cocoon has some old guy complaining that his elevens were up and he would die soon. "Elevens" are the protruding bones in the back of your neck. Just after hearing this, I saw Audrey Hepburn in a movie, when I determined that elevens are a good thing. It means that you have a beautiful thin neck fragile enough to have elevens.

The truth is, no matter how hard I try to straighten my posture, there is an excess of mass on my upper back. I lovingly refer to it as my grizzly bear hump. And so the cold hard fact is that my elevens are swallowed up by my grizzly bear hump and I never want to have short hair, but I think it's cute.



And so begins my vicarious living through what could well be my only daughter. I talked that kid into the haircut that is against my own obscure fashion rules, and we chopped that girls hair!



What's next for Rainbow Girl? Volleyball, guitar lessons, gospel scholarship, studying abroad, and becoming a gourmet cook. All the things I miss or have fallen short in...she's in for whether she wants it or not!

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Blood and Water

Last week our two goats had their kids. During the month prior, The Mister of the House purchased a goat care book, watched disturbing YouTube videos, and checked on the expectant mothers several times a day. When some experienced farmer friends indicated that the goats could go any day now, The Mister of the House officially shifted into hyperdrive. He turned to me after they left and stated: I don't even have my birthing kit ready yet!

As for me, I generally snored like a lion while The Mister wrested the sheets worrying about the having to turn a baby goat for delivery. When it comes to his paternal-like worry patterns in comparison with my seeming indifference, I'd like to chalk it up to the fact that I have birthed three kids of my own, that I trust the female species to get the job down, and my inner sense of keeping it cool. Yet, I have to admit that my husband is a Man of Action who gets the job done. So I thanked him by nodding off mid-sentence and sleeping like a baby, all the while smiling sweet lover's dream of worried husbands scrambling to assemble a birthing kit.

As for my own part in the bringing of new life to the farm, I was excited! I have sweat, bled, and cried while bringing my kids into the world, and have never been afforded the birds-eye view of the process. To say I was curious is putting it lightly. And to calm The Mister's fears, and because I have smaller hands, I agreed to turn the baby goat if the delivery went amiss.

So last Wednesday I got birth on my hands. Okay just a second, how cool is that sentence: Last Wednesday I got birth on my hands.

Alright alright...I wasn't up to my elbows in the ooey-gooey. As my female senses detected (that's what it was right?) the baby goats arrived without any complication with no mid-birthing canal transitions. But apparently the curse of Eve and the consequential increase of sorrow while bringing life into the world attends all female counterparts, not just the human ones. So as it happened, the mama goat scrambled and jolted with her pains and practically birthed her kid into the wall. So after the crowning, and an exclamation of joy! I pulled the baby onto a towel so we could gargle the guck from his nose and throat.

It was truly precious to see. Mama licked her baby clean, licked my hands clean, then ate her afterbirth.

These things happen in nature people.

And I am left to ponder: Should I really be getting this attached to farm animals? Why does *most* life begin awash in blood and water?



And again and again, this scripture kept tumbling through my brain:

For by the water ye keep the commandment; by the Spirit ye are justified, and by the blood ye are sanctified;

Blood and water keeps working again and again: to bring life, to renew life, to atone.



Ready for some pictures folks?

I know I know! I honestly look like a new mother. Kindof cheesy, but here I am with one of Matilda's twins.



And here's the REAL farmer bob with the goats. To say that this man is finding his purpose in life here on the farm, is to say that everyone loves ice cream. Tis true. Tis true.


Poor little Rainbow Girl is the #1 help on the farm. After watching her second goat birth, she stated: I don't want to be a girl. But with her female-ness comes the innate love and nurturing that is a gift to all daughters of Eve, be they mothers or not.



Behold the seed of Agamemnon!



My poop boots are cooler than your poop boots.



The end.

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Word to Your Mutha

When I see this picture, I am 9 years old. In the laundry room are all the plastic bins with clean folded clothes. I check them every few days, and take them to my room. When I say goodbye to my favorite shirt in the hamper, it quickly reappears in my bin. I wear it the next day and start the cycle over. I wonder why my little sister Niki has the name "Nicole" written on her bin.

When I see this picture it is summer on Apache Avenue. I am barefoot and golden-haired. My bedroom is in the basement. Every morning when I come upstairs I drop my head and plant it on the 2nd stair from the top, and then somersault up to the main floor to start my day. Eventually I need to plant my head on the 3rd stair from the top. During my afternoon head-plants, I finish my sequence only to discover chocolate chip cookies baking in the kitchen.

When she pulls out the cookies, they are dark golden brown. Once Mrs. Archibald next door brought us some cookies that were not dark, they were soft and chewy. I wonder why my mom bakes hers so long. Later in the day, we eat the overcooked (but not burned!) cookies with a glass of milk. We dip them and let them soak, until they break perfectly into our mouths.

Eventually I realize that you can't dunk Mrs. Archibald's cookies, so it's okay.

When I see this picture I am crossing off the job of "windexing and pledging the living room". I rub my rag all across the oversized record player made of wood. It's like a coffin for a kid. On the top is an aloe vera plant that is plump. I squeeze it, then bend it towards itself.

It breaks off! I'm afraid to tell my mom, because she waters it every week. When I get the nerve to tell her, she asks for the broken leaf so she can rub it on my skinned knee. She hugs me and tells me it's okay.

When I see this picture, I am looking confused at a workout video my mom is doing on our green shag carpet. At one point, she is sitting on the floor scuttling her back-side towards the TV. I wonder if she knows that scuttling on your bum looks dumb, but say nothing. Later I find out that she usually doesn't do the workout video because she is out walking every morning while I'm still asleep.

When I see this picture, I am browsing the mall trying to find as many cute outfits for school as possible on my school budget of $100. I am scouring the clearance racks, and biting my nails over a sweater that would cost twenty bucks. I buy a coral colored t-shirt at Copper Rivet, and follow my older sister to K-Mart to get identically colored socks to match the shirt. My mom keeps a notebook in her purse where she keeps track of all of our purchases.

I'm crossing my fingers that I can borrow my sister's clothes.

When I see this picture I am thankful. My mother delighted in me, even though she was a pageant girl and I was a tomboy. She baked me cookies, kissed my boo-boo's, washed my clothes, and asked me what boys I tango-ed with after every victory dance. Once, after years of me sleeping on the trampoline, she joined me. She was stiff the next day.

When I see this picture I hope to be as patient and happy as my mother. I hope to pray with my kids, laugh instead of scold, and to stay up late waiting for my kids to get home from their first date.

Thanks mom! Happy Mother's Day!

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What Is This Thing That Men Call Death?

One year ago this April, we celebrated the 90th birthday of my last living grandparent: Geneal Call Cooper. Although her birthday was in January, she had a hip replacement in that month, my folks were in Hawaii, so we pushed her party until spring-time. The family encouraged her to get the hip replacement because she was still so healthy and young. Just look at her, and you will see: This mama does not look 90!

As part of her celebration, my cousin and I filmed her kids and grandkids sharing memories of Grandma & Grandpa Cooper. We also interviewed Grandma about her life, and it was such a blessing to understand Grandma on a new level:

-as a young girl that lost her mother at age six

-as a dutiful farmgirl who left home and went to business school so she could have a different life

-as the slightly disappointed wife who ended up back on the farm (at my Grandpa's behest)

-as the bread-maker

-story-teller

-gift-giver (she sent ever grandchild and great-grandchild a birthday card with as many dollars as their years in age...up to 20)

-and mother hen to her five kids, her grandkids, and great-grandkids.

Over and over again family & friends attested: I never heard her say a bad word about anyone!

It was just this past February I mailed her some Valentine's Cards from my kids. She wrote back a thank-you that has been on my fridge. It is dated February 25th of this year. In the letter she is expressing concern over a family member recently diagnosed with cancer. Who would have thought on March 22nd, she would be diagnosed with a rare form of leukimia with the opinion that she had 3-4 months to live. Later in the week she was given 1-2 months to live. In reality, she passed away just 12 days after receiving the diagnosis.

My heart aches that I didn't get to see my Grandma one last time! With a woman of such grace and virtue, I wanted to ask her one thing: Will you be my guardian angel when you get to the other side?

And yet! I can't help rejoice in the fact that she gets to see her mother again, gets to reunite with my Grandpa, and has left a legacy of love for this one granddaughter to try to live up to the rest of her life.

What is this thing that men call death,

this quiet passing in the night?

Tis not the end but genesis,

Of better worlds and greater light.

-words by Gordon B. Hinckley

full poem with accompanying music found here.

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Double-ty Elevens: Lest I forget

I'm not sure what's going on at Mrs. Olsen's house. I mean, I feel like I have a lot to say, but have proceeded on a mystic impetus to shut up. Or maybe turn off. Since I'm averaging one post a month right now (does anybody miss me?) my mystic impetus has temporarily aligned with the mass reminiscing, crossroads of life, wetting-your-pants impossibility of that fateful day: September 11, 2001. Those double elevens hit me today (the 22nd) and said: tick-tock, almost out of time, don't forget. Never forget.

So I figured I would remember. Mostly for the sake of my kids I think. Because first of all, 2001 was a big deal to me. I gave birth to my very first child, and my only daughter, in my home state of Idaho, on the bathroom floor. On purpose. It was a year of drought, thirsty crops, and one of those freak Idaho storms that dumped snow on the ground on June 13th. The next day the snow was gone, and I learned for the last time (because before then I had forgotten, as I'm sure you have and still are) that Flag Day is a real holiday on June 14th and I'll be darned if that holiday isn't overshadowed by that big, badass 4th of July. And I'll be darned if those bouquets congratulating Mr. and Mrs. Olsen on a healthy daughter didn't have little flags in them because Rainbow Girl was born on that day. Flag day.

And then, because newborn babies sleep soooo much and leave plenty of free time for reading textbooks, analyzing essay themes, and writing 20 page papers (new motherhood myth #1) I figured I had one last chance to finish that bachelors degree that got sidetracked with The Mister's employment. So for one crazy semester, The Mister lived in Idaho with her folks while he worked. Mrs. Olsen lived in Utah with his folks (and a brand spankin' new grandkid) and went to school. Plus she was fat. And really really tired.

So enough already. A visiting professor from Germany taught me all things Saul Bellow on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I had a beautiful newborn who I was determined would know the scriptures, love the outdoors, and be funny. He had world perspective and a twinkle in his eye.

So maybe that's the reason I was one of only 2 students that showed up on campus to attend class that crazy morning of September 11th. The first guy was likely nursing a hangover and didn't have a clue that his and my world was changing. But me? I was almost ashamed to get on my bike, leave home, and head for class considering I had already heard that the first tower was hit (emergency? accident? hostile act?) and had been glued to the TV watching and wondering when the second tower was hit(check. check. check. All of the above.). I mean why would I try to go to class? National Emergency! Get a freaking clue! Heck, family emergency! My sister-in-law lived in New York and the family was frantically trying to get through to her on the phone. Okay, see ya. I'm gonna see if they're holding class.

I cringe.

But 8 years later I understand.

I needed world perspective. I did not understand what the hell was going on! What in the crap world did I just bring my kid into?! So I left home and shamefully clung to the edge of the campus building, not even daring to go inside. I nursed an innermost desire that my German Professor, a guy who started innocent and beautiful (as all children start their mortal journey) and grew up in a post-Holocaust world skipping around war-torn rubble in the country despised by the rest of the planet, that this teacher would maybe arrange our desks in a circle? Then maybe he would humbly, and with an outpouring of love born of experience and age, would dissect this horrific, mysterious story unraveling before my eyes? Please?

Uuumm, teacher? I just saw a burning building on TV, and people so freaked out above the burn line they were jumping to the ground, and even with all my years of training watching All-American action movies that was different. It was real. And it took my breath away. Hollywood should not be so light-hearted, ya know? And why were little kids in Pakistan on the news cheering when they heard about the attacks?

At that time, I had expected one day to go to Paris, mis-pronounce fancy cheeses and be cursed by the arrogant French for not knowing their language and signed off as being a st[ewe]pid Ame*guttural choke*can! I had not expected to travel the planet and be cursed as an infidel, my blood spilled because of my heritage.

September 11th, 2001 was my first real dose of foreign policy and a shrinking planet. It was like drinking a tall 16 ounce glass of vinegar. And it was more than just remorse over pretended travels. There was so much pain. So much fear. So much hate born of suffering.

I still don't understand.

Neither did my teacher, I guess. Cause he didn't sit me in a circle and talk about being a German kid after the Holocaust and how ugly things happen while beauty (and babies) still exist and flower. He shuffled to campus, saw there were only 2 idiots from his class calloused enough to leave the absolute terror unfolding on the news, and with a furrowed brow waved his hand back and forth and mumbled 'No Class Today'.

Of course. Of course.

I hurried back home with just enough time to witness, to my horror, the collapsing of the towers, the Pentagon crash, and Flight 93 spiraling headlong into a Pennsylvania field. I held my baby girl, called my husband, worried for my new sister through marriage, and waited and wondered. As for my sister-in-law, Mandy? She had a long walk home that day (no subway, no cabs, total craziness), and thankfully, was unharmed. Tasted a little dust, saw her city become a war zone, worried about friends, and like me, was changed forever that day.

For me? I retreated alone downstairs, picked up a spare guitar, and started strumming and praying. This song is not amazing, but it is a true reaction born of September 11th, or "Nine-Eleven". I was certain of a melodic line in the second verse with the words big jet plane...but it never found a place in this song. It is a record for my family. It is unfinished.

*This is where the song will be updated tomorrow*

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inner sanctum

After the long arduous journey through the awkward adolescent phase, spending college weekends taking love notes after watching Sliding Doors or Return to Me, all the while wrenching through immature (yet educational) break-ups, trying your hand at the love, in love with the romance more than love, finding your true self over time, and then finally, finally, you meet The Mister of the House and everything clicks. No more dating games. No more innocuous romantic comedies. You settle down and watch this other half and eventually come to this: I want to see what you're like as a daddy {eyebrow flirt}.

And then one day you inflate with a blossoming baby and after lots of pain, pain which takes you through the valley of the shadow of death, you're officially on the other side: You're a Mom.

Me : Last Week : Visiting the folks : Hometown : Doin' the church rounds :

First! A Confession: Remember this mug? He's 17 months, just one month shy of being officially eligible for the church nursery. He's still on the teat.


So whether I have a headache, have a hungry baby, or have gas I have a ticket to take a breather in the inner sanctum of the church. The one room with cushy recliners. The room with the hidden door after the last stall in the bathroom. The ever-ready for the multipliers of the earth: The Mother's Lounge.

So back to me : In Idaho : Taking out my Nugget of JOY [above] because he was a Chunk o' Grump : Making my way to my fellow lounging mothers and gearing to rock and love back my sweet baby boy:

Shuffle diaper bag. Shuffle baby. My peripherals catch a fellow mommy with a shiny....yes, shiny baby. Gettin' crazy with the baby oil huh? Hmmm. Steal a double- take only to realize fellow mommy is a high school girl. Rocking a doll.

Nervous laugh. Rocking and rocking. After 10 minutes of silence Mrs. Olsen blurts out: Soooooo, whatchya doin'? Are you in High School?

Here's the deal: 15 years ago when I went to the high school, those darn kids in the Parenting Class had to cart around flour babies for a full weekend. Oh, technology. Now they give them real baby dolls that cry intermittently. And will require a quick shove with the magnetic bottle to stop crying. Sometimes. It could just be a throw down on the tummy to snap the back-flap for a single swipe with the magnetic diaper. But mostly just sitting there with a doll that is making no sound for a solid 15 minutes while you rock. And rock. And nervously laugh. And rock.

Can I blame her?

Ugh.

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e t e r n a l

Now that I'm getting a little age on my back, I've been thinking about who I am, how I've changed, and why I could happily be buried in the Colorado River running silty through the Grand Canyon.

You see my point is, that I once hiked through The Grand Canyon and was annoyed to learn that the average visit time was fifteen minutes. And how if I tried to hike right now, I would probably cry and not even have fun. My body testifies of a different life. But my spirit remembers. And smiles.


And how I truly in my heart adore old friends who are sacrificing their taut figures, and degrees, raising little kids who love the Lord. Seeing them do this knowing that once we slept on the trampoline under the stars, dreamed about boys together, or jogged alongside Idaho wheat fields makes motherhood more inspiring to me.


And hearing stories about The Mister's Grandma B (of those yummy caramel marshmallows) and how she grew up in the Depression. Her dirt-poor folks scrounged to get enough sugar to make...lollipops. Just one lollipop for each kid at Little Bernice's birthday party. Excited, she invited her entire class to her birthday party. She proudly displayed the suckers as a rare sweet treat for her guests. Then she waited. And waited. and no one came.

And you know what? She refused to celebrate her birthday for years. Oh, she was giving and loving and serving. But when it came to her birthday, forget it. Get back to her tomorrow. In her 80's, her family finally said enough is enough and threw a surprise party for her.

She was surprised alright. And she cried like a little girl.

Her body testified of service, love, and hours of cooking for her five kids. But her spirit remembered. And what? maybe it was relief. I'm sure it was part love. plus a little sad. maybe.


Power mother and dear friend who was horribly abused by various men in her life, some related. Pulling up the past and looking at it square in the face and empowering herself to rewrite history:

"It was not my fault. I am clean."

A piece of her will always be rising above the pain to love, serve, and protect her family. And as a testament to the wondrous nature of our spirits (as divinely gifted by a loving Heavenly Father) she has powered through the pain to be filled with more compassion, more love.

A piece of me will always feel a sisterhood for female returned missionaries. A piece of me will always wish I was carefree and careless on Apache Avenue. A piece of me will always cheerlead a woman giving birth at home. A piece of me will always be a daughter. Now a wife. A piece of me...someday...will always remember and cherish little chubby arms reaching across my head, tripping me when I turn from the sink, crying when their toy is broken, and peeing their bed.

Okay, not the last one. Just checking if you were still with me.

And so I lay awake at night, and see SIXTY just around the corner. And hope to have some eternal friends who will look back with me, and remember, and smile. Because a piece of me will always pray, and hope, and yearn that my children will rise up knowing their divine heavenly parentage, and that...in spite of me...and maybe even because of me...they will be happy.

the end.

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Week of Love: Love Spammer

Think of me as retired, conspiracy theorist, and a redneck. I am now resident spammer, but this week I'm not filling your inbox with blonde jokes, I'm goin' for love. I signed up to pay it forward from my old high school buddy, volleyball wizard, and supercrafter Danielle. I'll be getting some homemade love from her, so here's how I'm passing it on:

First 3 people to respond to this post will receive something made by me. To you! It will be my choice and made especially for you. Just so we're on the same page, here's the details...

• No guarantees you will feel absolute true love, but possibly happiness, fervor, or chocolate.
• What I create will be just for you.
• It will be done sometime this year.
• You have no clue what it will be... it may be a story. Maybe poetry. Perhaps an article on how to reuse chicken poop in your garden. I may draw or paint something. I may bake something and mail it to you. Who knows? Not you! That's for sure.
• I reserve the right to do something extremely strange.

Requirements? You must re-post this on your blog and offer the same to the first 3 people who do the same on their blog. When you get your lovely homemade goods from Mrs. Olsen, post a picture on your blog so I know my love arrived without a hitch.

The first 3 people to do so and leave a comment telling me they did will win a heartfelt gift from Mrs. Olsen.

Tootles!

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