Pharmacy Patron of the Month

I just got back from the pharmacy. I was there yesterday as well, and during yesterday’s visit I referred to myself as their patron of the month. Well, as I walked in today, they remembered and asked, “How is our patron of the month?”

I just laughed. The folks there know me by name – without looking at the computer, written prescription or my check. In fact, on Monday when I went in to pick up the re-fills I’d called in earlier, the attendant had recognized my car and had them ready for me. I go there so much they even know my car. How embarrassing.

Those of you who read this blog already know I’m nuts, but you’re not the only ones. The pharmacy employees are on to me too. For years they’ve filled my prescriptions and been privy to almost as much information as my primary care physician. I think they may know more about me than my bishop does.

Anyway, today I felt especially chatty. I was talking with the pharmacist and bemoaning the fact that my husband never gets sick and hates to take pills even for a headache. I’ve finally gotten to the point that I’ve told him, “if you haven’t taken something for your headache, you can’t complain about it.” I went on to vent about my current pharmaceutical dependency just not seeming fair.

The pharmacist said, “Well, you sure seem perky today. Are you sure you really need these pills?” (They were anti-depressants.) I assured him that unfortunately my depression is chemically based, otherwise I’d happily give up the pills. He also got the shortened version of my “if you need medication, take it” talk. I briefly explained my pet peeve of people with depression trying to do anything about it except taking medication. “You know why I take medication?” I asked him. “For my family. I’m a whole lot easier to live with when I’m on medication.” Just for
kicks I finished up with, “And besides, if I have to take medication, everyone should have to.”

The pharmacist laughed, took a phone call and another employee finished helping me with my purchase. As I was walking out I thanked them. As an afterthought I added, “And my family thanks you.”

Really, when you think about it, being able to take the medicines I do is a blessing. If I’d have lived 100 years ago with my current health challenges, not only would I likely develop diabetes, but I’d be spending my best years as a thin-haired, ornery, uptight, overweight, nagging housewife. I may not have even been able to have children. Poor Hubby. And poor me.

As it is, my family only has to put up the with nagging and occasional monthly emotional outbursts. Do they realize how lucky they are?

Finding Contentment With Help from the Scriptures

Our Relief Society lesson last Sunday was on scripture study. While reading the lesson I realized that my personal scripture study has been lacking. One sister in my ward suggested that for more meaningful scripture study it’s often helpful to pick a topic and look up the scriptures relating to it. Seeing as how I’m constantly struggling with contentment, I chose it as my topic. Here are a few references and how I’ve learned from them.

1 Timothy 6:6-8 “But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we carry nothing out. And having food and raiment let us be therewith content.”

In other words, don’t focus on material things. Be grateful for what you have. Having food and clothing is enough to be content with. In the food category, I enjoy Dannon Light ‘n Fit yogurt, crisp gala apples, crunchy carrot sticks with fat free ranch dip. And about raiment. Just this morning I realized that I get to wear my favorite clothes every day – jeans and tennis shoes.

When I find myself making mental lists of what it would be nice to have (new furniture, high- speed internet, a dog crate), I’ve found it helpful to repeat a simplified version of verse seven to myself – “you can’t take it with you.”


Jeremiah 29:7 “And seek the peace of the city whither I have caused you to be carried away captives, and pray unto the Lord for it: for in the peace thereof shall ye have peace.”

A little background information first: Jeremiah is a prophet to the Israelites during their captivity in Babylon. In prior verses he was instructing them to build houses, plant gardens, and marry and raise families. So what verse seven is saying is . . . make the best of a challenging situation. And because the world we live in is often referred to as Babylon, we can follow Jeremiah’s advice too. I liked how he said, “pray unto the Lord for [peace].” I learned that contentment and peace are worth praying for.

At the end of verse six, Jeremiah gives an explanation of why it’s important for the Israelites to make the most of their challenging circumstances . . . “that ye may be increased there, and not diminished.” Can’t we say that about ourselves too? When we go about our lives in peace -- building houses, planting gardens, raising families – aren’t we increasing? But doing the same things in a spirit of discontent – keeping up with the Joneses or Jones-itis, as I like to call it –
causes us to feel diminished. And if we go into debt to feed our discontent, we can literally become diminished -- spiritually and financially bankrupt.


Alma 29:3,6 “... for I ought to be content with the things which the Lord hath allotted unto me.... Why should I desire more than to perform the work to which I have been called?”

Like Alma who wanted to cry repentance with angelic zeal, I too have some grandiose desires. Mine run along the lines of . . . write books to captivate and energize young readers. . . speak at EFY retreats and inspire youth to greatness . . . publish a book for women that helps them feel better about themselves. Those are the things that I dream of doing, but yard work, laundry, and running errands seem to eat all my time. Reading verse six, where it says, “Why should I desire more than to perform the work to which I have been called?” made me wonder if I’ve been called to do house work.

I decided to find out. First, I sat down with my patriarchal blessing and a sheet of paper. I read through my blessing and wrote down anything that it gave me instruction to do. Next I read through a journal where I write down spiritual impressions. I looked for instances where I felt like I’d received answer to prayer on what direction to take in my life. Finally, I compiled the two lists into one.

I won’t share the entire list of what I’m called to do, but here are some highlights:

bear children and be a content at-home mom

write about my experience with depression

serve my family

be a partner to my husband

be happy and cheerful

develop and enlarge my talents for my benefit, the benefit of my family, and the benefit of others.

As I read the entry “serve my family” I felt something. I think it was the Spirit trying to tell me that the things I do to serve my family, the things that seem to eat up all my time, are actually important. For just a moment, it’s as if I saw my daily tasks as the Lord sees them – necessary jobs that accompany raising his children.

Seeing things as the Lord sees them as helped me feel better about my life. I've begun to realize that the things I do as a mother to serve my family are part of my life’s calling, and instead of discounting them, thinking that they don’t count in the grand scheme of things, I need to recognize them for what they are and be content to perform the work – yes, even house work – that I’ve been called to do.

Patience Report #4 -- I Lost it

Ugh! Grrr! And *&#$*!! I lost it today. Just a few minutes ago, actually. Remind me why I wanted to try to be patient. Because apparently I’ve forgotten.

I suppose it started with the puppy. Lately when she’s been inside she hasn’t been behaving. I say, “Off!” (meaning keep off people, or off furniture) and “No bite!” but it doesn’t seem to phase her. She’s not allowed downstairs on her own, but at least three times a day she dashes down the stairs to make mischief exploring or peeing. It’s the peeing that really bothers me. I guess she thinks it’s far enough removed from where she usually spends her time that it qualifies as a good potty place. Wrong!

I think I could have kept control if I just had a puppy to deal with today, but I also have a boy home from school because it’s the end of the quarter. Something like that. And he’s been Mister Attitude this morning. I warned him that if he didn’t start talking to me with respect he’d have to find another place to stay today, that I’m not going to put up with his lip. My warning produced marginal results.

Prior to losing it, I went to retrieve the dog from the basement and noticed she’d made a puddle in my son’s room. Great. I clipped her leash to my belt loop and trudged back upstairs to get a towel and pet cleaner/deoderizer. Just as I started to clean up her puddle on the carpet, the phone rang. I asked Mr. Attitude to answer it. He didn’t. Meanwhile the puppy thinks that biting at the rag I’m using to clean up the puddle is a great game. As I head to answer the phone, the puppy nips at me. Trying to get the puppy from jumping on me, I answer the phone and cradle it between my cheek and shoulder. “Hello?” I say. “My friend just barely has time to get a complete sentence out before I accidentally cut her off trying to deal with my rambunctious puppy. And that’s when I lost it.

All the books I’ve been reading about puppy training say not to hit or yell at your puppy. I haven’t hit her, but she definitely got yelled at. She also got a scruff shake. She continued to bite at me and pick up a watch from the carpet that I’d told her to drop. I guess you could say that I gave her a loud lesson on the “No,” “Leave it,” and “Drop it” commands.

Since my meltdown Annie has been perfect. A little leery of me, but 100% obedient. At present she’s asleep on her mat by my chair, and I’m feeling guilty about my outburst. I’ve reminded my son again and again that Annie is a puppy, that her nipping and jumping are part of puppy play and that with patience and consistency she’ll learn to not bite and jump. He’s had a hard time being consistent when he interacts with Annie, and sometimes when I’ve been patiently re-shaping her behaviors he’ll say, “Just beat her.” Or if she whines a little when I’ve held her muzzle closed while calmly telling her “No bite,” he’ll say, “How do I get her to make that noise for me?”

So what do I do? I lose it with the dog in front of the very person who has his own issues of patience with the puppy. (How’s that for modeling appropriate behavior as the adult in the situation?)

Based on Annie’s response to my outburst, I’m guessing that my training has been a bit too light. A bit too cheery. A bit too fun and not enough firmness. My plan is to apologize to my son for losing it with the dog in front of him. Just now he’s gone with some neighborhood boys to pass out bags for the Scouting for Food Drive tomorrow. When he gets back I’ll explain to him what mistakes I’ve been making in Annie’s training and hopefully help him see that I’m committed to firm, calm, and consistent puppy training.

And parenting too. Ever since I’ve begun to pay attention to whether or not I’m being patient, my parenting has improved. For the most part I’ve done a better job of expressing my frustrations with the kids early on – before their behaviors have gotten under my skin and begin to drive me nuts.

I think part of my problem is that I expect too much from my kids. For example, I’ve been expecting Loula Belle to be able to take a shower when she needs to without my having to remind her. But yesterday when I was at my friend’s house, she said that her daughter that’s a year older than Loula Belle still needs near-constant reminding. “Every time I tell my daughter to take shower, she thinks she just took one the night before. It doesn’t matter if she hasn’t taken one in three days. I guess to her it feels like she just took one last night.”

I needed to hear that. Part of my problem is I get tired of nagging. I tell myself that I shouldn’t have to. That my kids should know by now what they need to be doing without being constantly reminded. But I guess that’s not a realistic expectation. Looks like I’ll have to take a page out of my mom’s book and make peace with nagging. She prefers to call it “spaced repetition.”

So I’m going to start thinking of nagging as spaced repetition. Instead of having unrealistic expectations of my kids, I’ll remind myself that they’re still growing up. Like my puppy, they’re just exhibiting common behavior for their age. And like puppy training, my kids need firm, calm, and consistent training too.
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How do you cool off when you’re about to lose it? I know I can’t be the only mom to blow her top. Please share your tips on how to maintaining composure during stressful flare-ups.

In Search of Contentment

I don’t know about you, but I have a problem feeling content. And I’m beginning to think that it’s part of our American culture. We hear again and again about the American dream. Own a home. Start a new and successful company. Climb the corporate ladder. Be at the top of your class. Focus on productivity. Be all that you can be.

I’ve lived my entire life striving for perfection -- reaching for the American dream. I was the valedictorian of my high school class, one of the top three English graduates in 1994 when I graduated from college. Because I’ve chosen a career as a family manager, I often wonder if I’m doing enough, being enough. I tell myself that I should have a successful writing career in addition to my job as an at home mom. And I often berate myself about my homemaking skills. Because all my children are in school, I should have spotless mirrors, vacuum lines across the
carpet, clean windows, and perfectly prepared and balanced dinners every night. Sigh.

In my quest for a happier life, I’m getting professional counseling. My therapist has pointed out that I’ll feel happier if I can appreciate what I have. Keeping a gratitude journal is one way to acknowledge the haves instead of the have-nots. Another thing I’m trying to do is to acknowledge my pampered lifestyle.

Take this morning, for instance. I’m not sure why, but I was in the mood to listen to opera as I got ready for the day. “The Worlds Greatest Arias” played as I showered and put on makeup. I began thinking about Mozart and the royals who could afford to have him perform for them. That’s when I realized that, hey, Mozart plays for me any time I want him to. Sure, it may be a CD recording, but digital technology is probably as good or better than what some listeners heard at a live performance hundreds of years ago.

I’m a big fan of books and movies like, Emma, Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Wurthering Heights . . . you get the idea. I’ve imagined what it must be like to have nothing to occupy my time except making social calls, sketching, riding horses, preparing menus for the staff to prepare, attending balls. I’ve even gone so far as to put myself as the heroine in the setting of my favorite books and movies. Coming back to the realities of my own hum-drum life always seems anti-climatic.

When moments like this morning happen, however, I’m amazed to realize that my life is as pampered as the lives of my favorite heroines – maybe even more so. For example, I enjoy central heating. I also have a large jacuzzi tub with lumbar jets. When I get the whim to soak in the bath, I don’t have to summon servants to heat water and fill my tub. I simply turn a knob. Two water heaters in my basement are my servants. Very efficient servants, I might add.

This fall my dad took me and my brothers hunting at a local pheasant farm. We trudged through the frost-covered fields as his dog locked onto the scent of a pheasant hiding in the underbrush. Up flew a large rooster. We raised our guns and locked onto the bird. Boom! Boom! It fell to the ground. And for some reason my mind flashed to a scene from Pride and Prejudice (the six-hour version) of Mr. Darcy hunting as his servants pounded the undergrowth with sticks to flush
up game fowl.

I remember thinking, “I’m more spoiled than Mr. Darcy.” I hadn’t even paid for the privilege of shooting the day’s game, my dad treated us. I even used one of his guns. And we’d arrived for the hunt in style -- a club cab 4x4 pick-up truck with power windows, heating, and satellite radio. As the other hunters spread out along the ditch bank, I began to contemplate the ways in which my upbringing was perhaps more privileged than Elizabeth Bennett’s.

For starters, I got to go hunting with the men. I bet Elizabeth didn’t. Our family had horses and 10 acres of land – probably less acreage than the Bennetts, but still a large estate by today’s standards. We may not have had carriages, but we owned both a car and a truck. And although I never spent the summer in London, I did travel to Centerville most summers to spend a week of fun and sun with my cousins. We also took trips to National Parks, hiked into the Wind River wilderness, and played at Disneyland. They didn’t even have amusement parks in Elizabeth Bennett’s day. What does that say about the time in which we live?

My counselor advised me to adopt the following motto:

Use it up,
Wear it out,
Make do
Or do without.

I can’t say that I follow it perfectly yet, but I’m beginning to see its benefits. When I’m not trying to remind myself what I want to buy next (furniture, a new computer, a new bed spread), I’m more at peace. Using what I have instead of acquiring more frees up a lot of time. Time to spend reading instead of shopping. Time to spend with friends instead of poring over glossy mail order catalogs. Time to spend laughing at comics with my kids instead of trolling the aisles of Wal-Mart listening to them whine for treats.

Contentment remains elusive. I’m not there yet, but I can see it on the horizon.

How to be in Two Places at Once (chicken e-mail)

Dear Pearl,

I’m sorry to get your hopes up with that subject line, but there really is no possible way to be in two places at once. You’ll just have to chose between tonight’s multitudinous options. You can:

1. Take Landon to Dr. Seuss night at the elementary school.

2. Play in the church basketball game for hens. (By the way, you got your feathers ruffled a bit last time. Maybe this would be a good one to skip tonight.)

3. Attend the informative and important talk for parents sponsored by the PTA (poultry teacher association) and health department -- “Sex has a price tag.” I’ll understand if you can’t make it to this evening that I’ve spent months and months organizing and fretting over, but if there really were a contraption to make it possible to be in two places at once, the talk is a don’t-miss kind of thing. I mean, your little brood faces all sorts of things in the intimacy department that we were sheltered from. Those little chicks will be hens and roosters before you know it.

Oh, speaking of the talk, thanks for letting me know that the word is getting out. After I heard that the presiding rooster of a regional church meeting announced it over the pulpit I crowed for joy! We might actually have more than 30 parents there tonight! Whew!

(Note: Bug wondered if the religious rooster mentioned the actual title of the talk– “Sex has a price tag.” He asked, “Do you think he said the ‘S’ word?” Beans was shocked, “You mean he said the word that starts with “sh” in a church meeting?! We assured her that the word she was thinking of surely was NOT said in church. Wish I knew about the word from the title. I can just imagine how that would go over. Giggle.)

In other news, there is no other news. I am finally getting things cleaned up around the coop now that I’m getting adjusted to having a puppy here at the farm. She’s a handful! If she goes wee-wee in the coop one more time I think I’ll spit. (By the way, that’s the first time I’ve ever pecked out “wee-wee” on the computer. It made me giggle. There, I did it again.)

Good luck with tonight’s busy schedule. Too bad your husband has interviews scheduled at the church. It really must be challenging to be the bishop’s wife. Pearl, you’re a saint!

Scratch with you later, Queenie

Patience Report #3: The Battle of the Bulge

Now that I’m getting a handle on being patient with my family members, my body decided to throw me a curve. Or love handles, as the case may be.

Just over a year ago I joined Weight Watchers and began losing weight. (See my entry from Oct. 11, 2006 which chronicles my weight over my lifetime.) At first the pounds came off with regularity, but I’ve been stuck since I wrote that entry in October. In an effort to stay motivated I graphed my weight loss and put it on the fridge. But after a four month plateau period, watching the line go up and down, up and down, up and up, down again -- the graph became a reminder of my lack of success. I began to doubt that I’d ever reach my weight loss goal.

My attitude with weight loss has been anything but patient. I want to lose weight, and I want it to happen NOW! But my body has other plans. My outlook keeps fluctuating between determination and resignation. If not for attending the Weight Watcher meetings and hearing about other members’ struggles and successes, I’d probably have thrown in the towel.

This week’s meeting addressed the need for positive thinking, and not falling victim to perfectionist thinking. My own perfectionist thoughts run something like this:

I’ve blown it today, I might as well enjoy a week off from dieting. It’s my fault that the pounds aren’t coming off. I must not be exercising enough. If I’ve overeaten at breakfast, I might as well take the rest of the day off. If I can’t be perfect, I might as well give up.

How’s that for patience?

One quote that our leader had written on the board really hit home. And seeing how Winston Churchill and I have both fought the Battle of the Bulge, I can relate.

"Don’t let perfectionist thinking hold you back from what you want most. The maxim, ‘Nothing avails but perfection,’ may be spelled ‘paralysis’." – Winston Churchill

So now I’m trying to recognize when I’m being too demanding of myself, and I’m trying to anticipate my tendencies toward negative self-talk.

A few weeks ago I went shopping for a pair of jeans. I’d been putting off the purchase until I’d lost enough weight to wear the next pant size down from my current pair. Imagine my surprise when I found that I could wear a size 12. A size 12!! I haven’t been able to zip up a size twelve since I started having children over thirteen years ago.

A man at one of our Weight Watchers meetings said that when he’s feeling discouraged he goes into his closet and tries on the pair of pants he wore when he first joined Weight Watchers. Hearing him, I felt a little sad that I hadn’t kept some of my original "fat" pants. As I lost weight, I gave all my too-big clothes away as extra incentive to keep the pounds off.

Just yesterday I realized that there was one pair of "fat" pants that I hadn’t given away. They’d gotten a hole in them so I’d tossed them into my scrap denim pile. This morning I pulled them out, took them to my Weight Watchers meeting and had the class celebrate my new pant size with me.

So the scale still says I weigh 168 lbs. So what! I’ve come to know that all the exercise and weight training I’ve been doing in my aerobics classes have changed my body composition. Muscle weighs more than fat, and my size 12 jeans prove it!

"I Love You More . . ."

Note: This essay is included in the newest book from Chicken Soup for the Soul – "Chicken Soup for the Mother and Daughter’s Soul" that will be in bookstores in March of 2007. I’m excited and really feel grateful that my daughter gave me a glimpse of perfect love back in the fall of 2000. – Christie
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Meet my daughter, Loula Belle. Four years old and a fount of knowledge. The other day she was reciting a list of all the facts and tidbits she has memorized. One plus one is two. If you mix yellow paint with blue you get green. Penguins can’t fly. . . . On and on she went.

Finally, she finished. "Mom," she said, looking very smug, "I know everything."
I let on as if I believed her, but chuckled to myself thinking of all the this and thats that a four-year-old child couldn’t possible know. Comparing her four years to my almost three decades of life experiences, I felt sure I knew what she knew and then some.

Within a week, I’d learn I was wrong.

It all began as we were standing in front of the bathroom mirror, me fixing Amanda’s fine, blonde hair. I was putting in the final elastic of a spunky pair of pony tails and finished with, "I love you, Lou."

"And, I love you," she replied.

"Oh, yeah," I taunted, "well I love you more."

Her eyes lit up as she recognized the cue for the start of another "I love you more" match. "Nuh-uh," she laughed, "I love you the most."

"I love you bigger than a volcano!" I countered – a favorite family phrase in these battles of love.

"But mom, I love you from here to China." A country she’s learning about thanks to our new neighbors up the street.

We volleyed back and forth a few favorite lines. I love you more than peanut butter. . . . Well, I love you more than television. . . . I even love you more than bubble gum.

It was my turn again, and I made the move that usually brings victory. "Too bad chickadee. I love you bigger than the universe!" On this day, however, Loula Belle was not going to give up. I could see she was thinking.

"Mom," she said in a quiet voice, "I love you more than myself."

I stopped. Dumbfounded. Overwhelmed by her sincerity.

Here I thought that I knew more than she did. I thought I knew at least everything that she knew. But I didn’t know this.

My four-year-old daughter knows more about love than her twenty-eight-year-old mom. And somehow she loves me more than herself.

Queenie's Ski Report

Don’t look now, but I went skiing yesterday. And like Thursday, it was a rush! I was visiting with Marge Seeholtzer, one of the owners of Beaver Mountain, the resort where I have my season pass. I was explaining how I’d returned to skiing after a 14 year absence. "I’m like a lost sheep that’s come back to the fold," I told her. Of course that’s not true. I’m a chicken.

But skiing again feels wonderful! On both Thursday and yesterday as I was shooshing over the freshly fallen snow, I couldn’t help but let out a loud series of whoops. "Whoooo-eeeee! Yeee-haaa!" I felt like breaking into song, but no suitable songs came to mind. I informed my friends that I was skiing with that I’m a gusher. Whatever I’m feeling is going to gush right out my mouth. "Wheeee!"

At one point on Thursday as the wind was sending snow off the pines and the sun was filtering through the aspens, I felt as if I were in a Velamints commercials – the one where a woman puts a mint in her mouth against the backdrop of a gorgeous winter landscape. Everywhere I looked it was beautiful! And on some runs I was enveloped in the fresh smell of pine trees. The experience was beyond wonderful!

Part of the fun yesterday was getting to spend time skiing with my daughter, Loula Belle. Four fifth grade classes from her school came up to ski, and after they were done with ski instruction, I skied a few runs with Lou and her friends. I was pleased to find that she’s becoming a fine skier. I was also able to report to Rusty, the safety rooster, that she seemed to know her limits and didn’t shoot straight down the runs like one of her friends did. Whew!

Yesterday I skied the last runs of the day with a neighbor, Julie. She too was returning to skiing after a long absence. She used to ski a lot before she was married and had kids, but the realities of caring for a young family put skiing beyond her financial reach. Boy could I relate. But like so many stages in life, it came to pass.

I love that phrase, "it came to pass." It’s a frequent phrase in the Book of Mormon, and every time I read it I like to remind myself that it applies to my life. Nothing comes to stay. Everything comes to pass.

Whenever I’m struggling with something, I remind myself that it too will come to pass. Same thing applies to the good things in life. They come to pass too. So I might as well enjoy them now, savor each joy, live in the moment because they’re precious and fleeting.

Life, like a day skiing, has highs. Beauty. Even bliss. But it also has valleys and lows. I’d say that I’ve done a pretty good job learning from the lows in my life. I’m betting there are similar lessons to be learned from life’s highs. Because I spend so much time and energy scheduling, planning and crossing things off my to-do list, sometimes I forget to live in the present.

I’m going to let skiing remind me to work on that – to live in the present.

Mother Hen Hits the Slopes . . .

Just for a minute I want you to picture a mother hen on skis. She’s a bit nervous, feels a little out of her element surrounded by snow covered slopes and ski lifts. And she’s only been skiing once in the last fourteen years. The skis look huge compared to her feathered frame, but she’s smiling.

That’s me! I’m going up skiing with some friends today. We’ll leave here in about 20 minutes and spend about 45 minutes driving up the canyon to the ski resort. And while I’m looking forward to bonding with friends, I’m feeling a bit chicken about hitting the slopes. I’m guessing it’s because I tore a knee ligament skiing in high school, and it wasn’t all that hard to do. It was just one of the four times I’ve had knee surgery on my left knee. Which reminds me . . . I almost forgot to pack my knee brace. I’d better go get it.

In light of my nerves, I’m going to spend the day focusing on the things I love about skiing – the mountains, the beauty of the canyon in winter, the sound of wind through pine trees, and spending time with friends. I’d be lying if I didn’t also admit that skiing in and of itself is also a rush. There’s something energizing about making turns over snow and feeling it slide beneath your skis. I’m hoping that my recent activity at the gym has prepared my muscles for the rigor they’ll face today. I’ll let you know.

As we say in our family: "See you. Love you. Bye!"

We're All a Bunch of Chickens!

Don’t look now, but Belly Acre Farm is going fowl. As in chickens.

As a writing tool to help me with my upcoming children’s book, I’ll occasionally be converting all the members of my family into chickens. Okay, not real chickens, but I’ll refer to us as chickens in this blog. Some of my friends and neighbors will be barnyard animals as well. (Let me know if you have any personal preferences as to your breed and name. Maybe you’d make a fine bovine. Or how about an old goat?)

For starters, let me introduce our family members.

Our leading male is Rusty the rooster. (a.k.a. Safety Rooster) He’s often away from the coop working hard to help other animals stay safe and follow all the rules. He’s hard-working, dedicated, and quite serious. He does, however, have a killer racquetball serve.

Then there’s me. I’m Mother Hen. You can call me Queenie. (I love bees and have always wanted to be a queen bee. This is my big chance.) I spend most days on the farm tidying up the pig sties and preparing chicken scratch for dinner. Sometimes I get peckish, but most days I’d describe my mood as sunny side up. I dream of becoming a successful writer. Maybe even have a story printed up in Better Coops and Pig Sties. You never know.

Next is Bug. He’s a rooster in training and just started into the teen years. He eats, sleeps and breathes basketball. He even made a custom set of glasses with cardboard blinders across the bottom of the frame to block the view of his wings while he’s dribbling the ball. His uncle in med. school told him that chickens grow while they sleep. He dreams of being 6 foot 2 inches, so he tries to hit the hay early. Bug is focused and motivated, but is often discouraged and bossy. He’s a work in progress, but we’re sure he’ll achieve greatness.

Loula Belle is a young chick of 10 years old. We call her Lou for short. Yesterday I went with her to a maturation clinic for fifth grade girls. Can she really be growing up and trading in her downy yellow fluff for training feathers? I guess that would explain her recent mood swings. But I’m not too worried. She’s an easy-going social butterfly. School and sports come easy for her. I like watching her strut her stuff.

Last of all we have Beans. Dear little Beans. She’s all of eight years old and as sweet as strawberry pie. You’ll never meet a kinder, more giving chick than Beans. She enjoys drawing and writing, and loves playing with our farm cat, Oreo. But watch out! Just when you least expect it, Beans can really let ‘er rip. P-U! (Her cute little giggle usually precedes the smell. Almost makes the toot worth it.)

That’s us. Be sure to tune in regularly to see what we’re up to. You can never tell when things will get interesting.

Suffering From Brain Cramps . . .

Life moves at break-neck speed, and some days it’s hard to keep up. Whether multi-tasking in the kitchen, playing chauffeur for half a dozen after-school activities or simply trying to get a little work done around the house, brain cramps can strike at any time.

What is a brain cramp? How can you tell if you’re suffering from them? Simple. You do dumb things without even trying. Here are some recent examples from my own life:

Running a batch of laundry with detergent, fabric softener, the works – but no clothes.

Forgetting oldest daughter’s 7 A.M. piano lesson. Remembering at 4 P.M. that afternoon.

Every calendar in the house lists the semi-monthly district PTA meeting, but not looking at any calendars until after lunch. Missing the meeting.

Calling to talk with a friend and then forgetting who you called by the time someone answers. Having to say, "This is Christie. Who have I called?"

Baking chocolate chip cookies and forgetting to set the oven timer. Hoping your husband and kids like extra crispy cookies. (Note: This is a good thing when you’re trying not to eat too many yourself.)

Walking into the storage room but forgetting why it was you wanted to be there in the first place.

Going grocery shopping with a list. Forgetting an item on the list. Getting home before realizing it. Having to go back because you need it tonight. (Note: I’ve been to Wal-Mart three times in one day. Anyone top that?)

For Valentines: The Gift of Time

A few years ago around this time of the month, I learned a little about serendipity. Serendipity, by definition, is the act of discovering something wonderful quite by accident. Some might call it luck.

Valentine’s was approaching and I was in a quandary over what to get my kids. With the post-holiday trip to the dentist fresh in my memory, sweets were definitely out. And financial realities ruled out almost everything else. Fortunately, I remembered having some leftover red card stock. What could be better than handmade Valentines?

Using a pattern, I traced a large red heart on each sheet of 8 ½ x 11 inch paper. Not wanting to waste the scraps remaining, I made a small pattern and cut out two additional hearts per sheet of paper. But what to do with them?

Not until just before handing them to the kids did I come up with an idea. Magic hearts -- that’s what I’d call them.

Presenting them to my children, I explained, "These smaller hearts are magic. Sure, they may look like ordinary paper, but they’re not. Each one has special powers that affect only me. Say, for instance, that you want me to play a game, but I’m doing the dishes. All you have to do is give me the magic heart and say, ‘Mom, I’d like you to play a game with me.’And just like magic, I have to do it."

My daughter’s jaw dropped and my son’s eyes got big. Something that could get Mom to drop everything and play with us? Yes, the hearts really must be magic.

We discussed that since they each got only two hearts, it would be important not to waste them. Using one to get Mom to do something they could do themselves – that would be wasteful. But turning one in to get Mom to read their favorite book instead of putting on her make-up – very wise indeed.

At the last minute I added another clause. "Once you use a magic heart," I told them, "if I find you doing something extra nice – like picking up your toys without being asked – I can give you your magic heart back to use again." They giggled with excitement.

A week or so later, my son wanted me to play Legos with him. I gave him my typical response, "Not right now, I’m cleaning up the breakfast mess." But instead of protesting, he said nothing. Just walked away.

Within a minute he returned, holding a magic heart. "Mom," he said, "I’m using a magic heart. Now you have to play Legos with me." Although I still didn’t want to, I couldn’t say no. And after helping him build a space ship, I began to wonder if maybe playing Legos might be more important than wiping counters and loading the dishwasher after all.

I impulsively gave my children magic hearts for Valentine’s Day, never guessing at the outcome. Not only did the hearts’ magic give my kids a sense of power and control, but they also showed a task-oriented mother that work could wait. Time, on the other hand, is precious and fleeting.

Chocolates, cards and candy hearts are nice, but magic hearts taught me that nothing says, "I love you" like the gift of time.

Patience Report #2

My husband and I have a theory on children’s Sunday behavior. The worse their behavior is at home on Sunday morning, the better it will be during church services. The opposite is also true. If you have a calm, subdued and relaxed Sunday morning, be prepared for a trying service at church.

This past Sunday not only were the kids cranky, but I was too. I’m sad to report that I blew up at Loula Belle Sunday morning over the fact that I’d reminded her to put away her ski pants three times the evening before, and Sunday morning she wanted to know where they were so she could play in the new-fallen snow. I’d seen them stuffed in the closet with the other snow stuff, and now I knew that someone else had put them there for her. Grrrr.

I gave her a rather loud lecture, and despite thoughts reminding me that I was supposed to be practicing patience, I gave it to her with both barrels. And when Bug wouldn’t stop complaining about the heavy snow shovel he was using, I let him have it too.

As I sat down in the chapel on Sunday and prepared to take the sacrament, I wondered if I should even take it. I had, after all, thought about being patient but decided against it. In the end, I did partake of the sacrament, but only because I felt awful about the morning’s blow up. My soul wanted to be patient, it just wasn’t perfect at it yet.

As the deacons administered the bread and water, I began to think about sacraments past. How many times have I taken the sacrament unrepentant of my patience problem? I’ve known for a long time that I need to improve my patience, but until now I haven’t DONE anything other than just feel sorry. Sorrow with no change or commitment to work on it. Truly Christ’s atonement was made for people like me.

After the sacrament I thought back to the talk I’d given at Beans’s baptism. (I’m adding it to this blog under "Baptism and Clean Socks.") I thought about just how miraculous it is for us to take the sacrament and re-new our baptism covenants and be as clean as a brand new pair of white socks. Even though I haven’t mastered patience and blew up on Sunday, after I took the sacrament with a broken heart and contrite spirit, my soul was as clean as the day that I was baptized! Imperfections and all.

Baptism and New Socks

Note: This is a talk which I gave on January 6th at the baptism of my eight-year-old daugher. My instructions were to prepare a talk for the baptismal candidates, all age eight. The others in attendance would just be listening in.

(Holding up a pair of new white socks.)

I want each of you to pretend that your parents gave you a brand new pair of white socks. They are clean, white, and comfortable. You were so excited to have a new pair of socks, that you wore them outside without any shoes. You ran across the lawn that had just been mown. Some grass and grass stains got on your socks. You jumped in a couple puddles left from last night’s rain storm. Now your socks were wet and squishy. And then, while you- were coming in through the garage, you stepped in some oil, and it got on your socks.

Would your mom and dad want you go wear those socks into the house? No, of course not. Your mom would probably have you take them off so she could wash them.

When you are baptized today, you’ll be as clean as a brand-new pair of socks (show socks again). But here on earth we’re learning how to follow Heavenly Father’s commandments, and it can be hard. When we disobey or do something wrong, we become like a dirty pair of socks. And Heavenly Father said that only clean souls can enter his kingdom. But we’re all going to make mistakes, we’re all going to get dirt on our souls.

That’s why baptism is so great . . . You’ll be clean today, but by repenting and taking the sacrament each Sunday, your soul can be spotless white again. I didn’t really understand that until I was eleven. But by repenting and taking the sacrament each Sunday, we can be as clean as we were on our baptism day.

The one who made it possible, whose soul did not get at all dirty was Jesus Christ. He made it possible for us to repent, become clean from our sins and to one day return and live with our Heavenly Father.

I have felt the Holy Ghost testify to me that these things are true. Christ did come to earth. He lived a sinless life and through His atonement we can become clean too!

PatienceReport #1

I’ve begun working on my personal patience plan and even shared my goal of developing patience with the rest of the family at Family Home Evening on Monday. (I figured I needed a little accountability.)

Well, this morning I had a learning opportunity. I was tidying up the kitchen and putting away a small plastic container when I noticed that someone had apparently unloaded the dishwasher and tossed all the plastic containers and lids willy nilly onto the shelf of the turntable where they are supposed to be neatly sorted and stacked. Grrrr!

Beans informed me that it was Loula Belle – which was the same conclusion I had drawn, as she was the last one to unload the dishwasher. Double Grrrr!

"Loula Belle!" I yelled, "you tossed the plastic things in here and didn’t put them where they’re supposed to go! Get over here and . . ."

That’s when I stopped, realizing that I was yelling and not practicing patience.

"Oops," I said in an instantly calmer tone. "I’m supposed to be practicing patience, aren’t I?"

The girls nodded and smiled.

"Let me re-phrase that. Loula, I can see that you didn’t put the containers away like you should have. And even though I’m talking to you in a calm and friendly voice, I’m still upset. Please do a better job next time."

The amazing thing is, once I caught myself and spoke more calmly, the whole tone of our morning completely changed. The girls almost giggled when I corrected myself in front of them, and the rest of the morning as I continued to urge them to get ready for school in an ultra-sweet voice, it was as if we were all participants of an inside joke.

I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but practicing patience was actually FUN. And, I might add, effective.

Son Applies Science to Home Life

The final coats of paint are done. The plumbing all works. The carpet will come tomorrow, and then our basement will be days away from being done! Whooeee!

Hubby and I were talking about how nice it will be to have more space for things – kids included. They’ll each have their own rooms downstairs. I asked him if he thought that they’ll get along any better once they’re moved into the basement.

Bug heard me and piped up, "I’m sure we’ll get along better, because when molecules have more space to move around in there is less friction."

How is that for applied science? I was so impressed with Bug’s analogy that I wrote to his science teacher to inform her that her lessons were sinking in.

So here’s hoping that our kids are like molecules, and when the basement is being lived in we’ll have less friction between them. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

Kids tell me how I'm doing as a parent

As I drive home from aerobics each morning, I listen to the radio. Each day I get to hear the Family Minute -- 60 seconds of advice for making a stronger family. (They have a web site too: familyminute.net, but I've never been there.) Anyway, yesterday they encouraged parents to ask their children for feedback on how they're doing as a parent. So I did.

Each of my children told me something I was going well and something I could work on. Here are the results:

Bug said he enjoys talking and laughing with me. He feels like he can talk with me about anything. But . . . he would like to have a "real" supper every night.

Loula Belle felt like I'm going very well as a mom, But . . . said I could work on not getting mad and upset.

Beans loves it when I come to wake her up in the morning and read a book to her in bed. But . . . she felt like Lou Belle did and thinks I can be less irritable.

I have an idea on how to improve my patience. Our church has General Conference twice a year, and in October Elder Robert C. Oaks gave a talk entitled, "The Power of Patience." He encouraged listeners to create a personal patience plan. I'm hoping to follow his counsel and work on becoming a patient person.

I will admit, however, that part of me doesn't want to change. (Keeping with the status quo is the easiest way to go.) But when I look at my children doing homework on the table or reading a book on the couch, I'll have to ask myself, "Are they really the most precious things in my life? Don't they deserve to have a kinder, gentler mother?" I'm hoping that I can soon answer, "Yes they do!"

Does Jesus Play Basketball?

Every now and then parents get a peek at what their teenager is thinking. For us, it happened on Sunday. We were sitting around the breakfast table reading the paper. The radio played Sounds for Sunday in the background. Bug, our thirteen-year-old son, had been reading the sports section of the newspaper.

"Hey Dad," he said. "Is this Big T singing?"

"Yeah," said Hubby. "It’s Thurl Bailey."

"Hey, I could have him for a role model."

I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of my son as an inspirational singer. Basketball player, maybe. But a singer? "Besides," I told him, "you’ll never be black."

"I could be like Michael Jackson except go the other way. I’d go from white to black," he said.

That’s when my husband piped in, "Yeah, Bug is always asking me, ‘Do you think I have slow twitch or fast twitch muscles?’"

I’m laughing, but the guys are still talking basketball physiology. Bug asks, "Hey, if I visualize myself being tall, do you think I could grow to be 6 feet 2 inches?" Then he wants to know, "Who would want to be white?"

After a few moments of contemplation Bug asks, "Do you think Jesus plays basketball?"

Clearly, the combination of Sounds for Sunday and the Sunday sports section has taken our conversation in a bizarre direction.

"I bet Jesus could school those street ball players that played at Sky View," said Bug.

"You really think He knows how to play basketball?" asks my husband.

"Well if He didn’t, He could pick it up in about two minutes."

This last bit of cogitation leads to new train of thought.

"So," Bug asks, "what would happen if you have a bunch of perfect people get together to play basketball? Would the score be over 200, or would the score be super low?"

While Hubby and Bug debate the possible outcome of a game of resurrection basketball, I begin to reflect on just what our strange conversation might mean.

First of all, it’s clear that Bug loves basketball, and he’s been thinking about what kind of person would make a good role model. I’m impressed with his choice of Thurl Bailey. But is he serious about wanting to be black, or did he say that just to see our reaction?

Is Bug a little obsessed with being tall? Should I be trying harder to help him be satisfied with himself? I guess we’re lucky that he feels comfortable telling us about his basketball dreams, but isn’t it a little sacrilegious to mention Jesus playing basketball? Or should we take it as a sign that he’s applying religion to his personal life? I suppose that to a thirteen-year-old boy, playing basketball must be part of perfection.

One this is certain, having a teenager has introduced me to things I’d never thought before!

100 Things Christie

I read a 100 list by a Christie from Florida, and it inspired me. So here are 100 things from a Utah Christie:

1. I love Swedish fish -- could probably down a large box from Sam's Club without blinking.

2. I used to weigh over 200 lbs. (I'm now 36+ lbs. lighter.)

3. I enjoy connecting with people.

4. I can REALLY belch. (I can get to the letter "M" in the alphabet all in one huge burp.)

5. I find many things funny and laugh out loud often. Maybe too often.

6. I am a detail person.

7. I love getting praise.

8. I never sleep on my stomach.

9. I love taking walks in the great outdoors and like to live and breathe deeply.

10. I'm returning to skiing after a 13 year hiatus.

11. I like corny camp songs.

12. I love the mountains, I love the golden hills, I love the fountains, I love the daffodils. . . .

13. I'm a RED person. Love to wear it and have a red personality.

14. I can be obnoxious.

15. I want everyone to have what I have.

16. If you ask me a sincere question, I'll tell you the truth every time.

17. If you ask me a goofy question, who knows what I'll say.

18. I was an exchange student to Japan in high school.

19. I took Japanese language classes in college but didn't get far. I can, however, ask for chocolate in Japanese.

20. I know more Spanish than Japanese.

21. I am a deeply religious person.

22. I believe in Christ.

23. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
(a.k.a. Mormon or LDS)

24. I have many friends of other faiths.

25. I want to serve an LDS mission with my husband when we retire. (Does a mom ever get to retire?)

26. I've burned my tongue on a curling iron. I was checking to see if it was hot. It was.

27. I've eaten rattlesnake meat. (My dad heard that old West cowboys ate it, so we tried it too. Tasted like chicken.)

28. I have my bachelor's degree in English and a minor in business information systems.

29. I had my first child in college. I had 10 credits that quarter, 22 credits the next, and finished my last quarter with student teaching. Whew!

30. I graduated magna cum laude with a 3.92 GPA.

31. I had a 4.0 in high school and was valedictorian.

32. I went on to become an at-home mom.

33. I have three children: Bug (13), Loula Belle, or Lou (10), and Beans (8)

34. My husband can't burp on demand, but I still love him.

35. We were married in December of 1992 in the Logan LDS Temple. It snowed the night before, and although it was freezing for our outdoor photos, I never felt cold. Guess it was a newlywed high.

36. Our church teaches abstinence before marriage and complete fidelity afterward. If abstinence before marriage were practicied in today's world, miracles would happen.

37. I have P.C.O.S. -- a condition that often includes infertility.

38. I consider each one of my children to be a miracle child.

39. I've had four knee surgeries -- all on my left knee.

40. Hubby is worried that I'm going to start skiing again. (Only one of my knee surgeries was a result of skiing -- the first surgery.)

41. I've skiied Sun Valley, Idaho.

42. I have a season pass to our local ski resort -- Beaver Mountain.

43. Linda Burt makes me laugh.

44. I love people who make me laugh.

45. My kids are good at making me laugh.

46. I'm a lot like my mother -- that's a good thing.

47. My dad took me horse riding as a child and taught me the names of the trees, birds, plants and wildlife. I got my love of the mountains from him.

48. I had an ideal childhood.

49. We grew up in Hyrum, Utah. The house I remember most was on 10 acres of land. We had horses, a dog and a HUGE garden.

50. I have an older sister and two younger brothers.

51. My dad built all the houses that we lived in (except for when we lived with grandparents while he was building our next house.)

52. I designed the house that my own family lives in.

53. Seeing your ideas take shape in concrete, wood and brick is very rewarding -- I love my house!

54. We live on 1 1/2 acres and have a cat named Oreo.

55. I love animals. We used to have a dog, Zeke. But he started growling and nipping at my son's friends, so we gave him away.

56. I can't wait until we get another dog!

57. When my kids were little and got hot and sweaty playing outside, I thought their heads/hair smelled like warm puppy.

58. Our family always had a dog while I was growing up, and whenever one of our dogs died, I'd cry. I also cried when I had to give Zeke away.

59. Oreo is the first cat I've ever had. He's playful and people-friendly. I love him too.

60. We had nine chickens a couple years ago.

61. When two chicken developed medical issues, I was the one who chopped off their heads.

62. I don't enjoy harvesting chickens. My kids don't enjoy eating home-grown chickens.

63. I have a children's book idea that involves chickens. (No head-chopping, I promise.)

64. If we ever have chickens again, their coop will be called The Chick Inn.

65. I enjoy gardening and yardwork -- mowing the lawn and weeding.

66. Every year we enter produce or canning items in our county fair.

67. So far I've received blue ribbons.

68. Canning is much more fun with a good canning buddy. (Thanks Linda.)

69. I keep a canning/cooking/garden journal.

70. I keep MANY journals: a personal one, an on-line one (this one), a book journal fo all the books I've read, a spiritual experiences journal, a food journal (courtesy of weight watchers), and I've just started a relationship journal where I can record the things I learn that help me in my marriage and with my family and friends.

71. I enjoy making greeting cards from OLD yearbooks that I purchase at second-hand stores.

72. I decorated my kitchen in a bee theme.

73. A bee is a hard worker. That's my goal too.

74. I've created fancy bookmarkers that I call "Book Jewelry." They make great gifts. (I love giving.)

75. I create Hot Plaids from old flannel or plaid cotton shirts and pants. Denim too.

76. I feel alive when I create something I can make, label and share.

77. I don't enjoy watching sports on TV. (My husband and son do.)

78. I do like watching American Idol!

79. I'm not much of a singer, but I do sing in our church choir. I sing alto, but can sing tenor.

80. My musical tastes are eclectic. From classical to rock -- country to opera. Some current favorites: A-ha, Sting, Il Divo, The 5 Browns (classical piano), Queen's Greatest Hits, Bryan Adams.

81. My parents made be take piano lessons until I could sight-read all the songs in the hymnal.

82. I'm making my kids take piano lessons.

83. I also played the flute from 5th grade through 8th grade.

84. I love cocktail shrimp. Yum!

85. Submarine sandwiches are my favorite fast food.

86. It's been hard losing weight, but I'm determined to reach my goal weight and keep off the pounds. (A few pounds may have found me over the holidays.)

87. I have a nice nose. Big feet, but a nice nose.

88. After I lost 35 pounds, my cholesterol went up. Go figure.

89. My body was issues. (I'll save you from an organ recital.)

90. I've always been a good money manager.

91. I married a fiscally conservative man.

92. For the first 13 years of marriage I tried to be like him, but I'm realizing that I need the freedom to buy things with a little spontenaity.

93. We believe it's best to live debt-free -- with the exception of a home payment.

94. I've self-published a small booklet for newlyweds called, "Budget is not a four-letter word: But debt is."

95. From 1997 until 2000 I wrote a weekly column "From the Trenches" which I self-syndicated to newspapers in Utah, Idaho, Oregon, California and Florida. Some of my past columns are now being published in an ultra-orthodox Jewish magazine for women.

96. My columns also appeared in Chicken Soup for the Parent's Soul and Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrates Mothers. One will also run in Chicken Soup for the Mother and Daughter Souls to be released in 2007.

97. I've submitted a column proposal to my local newspaper and hope to be a columnist once again.

98. I dream of having a collection of past columns published, or a children's book published, or anything publishable published.

99. I can REALLY whistle. (As in "Bridge over the River Quai")

100. This summer I hope to work with my family and sell produce/crafts under our Belly Acre Farm label at our local farmer's market.

Reasons to Travel

I'm writing today from St. George, Utah. It's about 400 miles South of where I live. We're staying with my mother-in-law and her husband for New Year's.

As we were driving here (a six hour trip), we listened to the first couple chapters of Patrick McMannus's audio book, A Fine and Pleasant Misery. As McMannus described his reasons for camping (to get home and brag about what a miserable time he'd had), I wondered about my own desire to travel. I have grandiose dreams of visiting Japan, Portugal, England, Denmark, maybe even India, but Hubby reminds me that I'm often grumpy when we travel. And I acknowledge that I get uptight when we're packing and uptight when I have to unpack upon getting home. I also get travel headaches and don't sleep well. So why do I want to travel?

For starters, I love to try to experience life from someone else's perspective. That's why I was an exchange student in high school. And my mother and I arrived on Japan as my destination in part because it was safe (that was her criteria), and also because it was so different from my rural U.S. upbringing.

I also think that until you've been outside of your comfort zone, your own familiar environs, you can't really appreciate what you've got. When I return from even a short trip, I'm grateful for my own bed, my own shower, my own quirky kitchen. Once you've been outside your own world, you realize that there really is no place like home.

I guess that's why I enjoy traveling with my children. They're so quick to point out the differences between our new locale and home. Beans, for instance, loves the rocks here in St. George. She loves the reds and tans -- the desertness of the place. Bug likes the plant life that grows here -- the cacti and palms. Loula Belle seems to soak it all in. Plus, she knows that Grandma always has plenty of treats and sweets!

I enjoy listening to my kids' observations. One said, "If all my friends were here and I could go to my same school, I'd like to live here." Another said, "I like our mountains at home. I'm not sure that I'd like living with all the hills here." They're putting themselves into this environment. I can't help but wonder what they'd think of a totally different country. Would they think differently about their freedoms and conveniences? Would they value their home just a bit more?

Guess we won't know until we venture out.

Stupid Stunt of the Week -- Daughters Cut My Hair

A week ago I pulled the stupid stunt of the week. I let my daughters cut my hair.

There is an explanation. See, I told myself that until I reached my next five pounds of weight loss, I couldn’t have my hair cut. And my weight loss has hit a plateau and remained there for the past three weeks. Plus, my hair was really starting to bug me. It was getting much too long for my taste and looked limp and straggly.

Last Monday morning I came up with a solution – I’ll just trim my own hair. Just take an inch off the back. But wait, I thought, cutting the back of your own hair is the hardest kind of hair cutting to do. I know, I’ll have Loula Belle trim it.

When I shared my plan with Loula, she lit up. Wow, I could see her thinking, my mom is actually going to let me cut her hair. Cool. As I gathered our hair cutting supplies, (I cut my husband’s hair, my son’s and occasionally trim the girls’s hair too) I started to get excited. "Hey," I said, "next time I play the ‘bean game’ I’ll be able to say, ‘I let my 10-year-old daughter cut my hair. I bet no one else could say that about themselves.’" That should’ve been a clue that what I was attempting was foolhardy.

I sat down with the cutting cape on, and Lou Belle began cutting. One snip. Two snips. That’s when Beans, my seven-year-old said, "Oooh. Those don’t match." Caught up in the moment, I just laughed and thought it funny. A few more snips, and Beans couldn’t stop giggling. I figured now would probably be a good time to look at myself in the hand-mirror.

Whoa! My hair was definitely shorter, but more than the inch I’d told Loula Belle to trim off the back. The hair on my right side was cut short to just below my earlobe. Yikes! I figured that since cutting my hair had brought Lou such joy, I ought to let Beans have a few whacks too.

Very cautiously, Beans took a couple tentative snips. Her method was much more conservative than Lou’s had been. After another snip or two, I asked her if I should just go "fix it" myself in my bathroom. She thought that sounded like a good idea.

So, there I am in my bathroom looking in the mirror. My hair is cut at all sorts of lengths at the bottom. There are even a few stray hairs that escaped the scissors entirely. Seeing that the shortest length was to just below my earlobe, I knew I was in for some serious "fixing."

Whack, whack here. . . snip, snip there . . . here a whack, there a snip . . . everywhere a snip, snip and I was done. (In my teenage years I was famous in my family for cutting my own hair short, and the old skills seemed to come back fairly easily.) I can’t say that the finish product looks great, but at least it looks passable. Think 1920s era bob. That’s pretty much what I’ve got now.

And in keeping with my weight loss goals, I’m going to give myself three weeks of dieting before I have it professionally trimmed. Or (you’ve guessed it) I’m actually giving it three weeks of growing out before I have to face my hair stylist and tell her that I actually let my ten-year-old daughter cut my hair. Ugh!

Mood Lifter -- A Chuckle at My Expense

In relating this Monday’s visit by the fire dept. I failed to mention that it made my day. Literally.

Previously on Monday my washing machine had broken – right in the middle of a load of laundry. When I called the repair shop, their guy couldn’t come out until Wednesday. Meanwhile I only do laundry once a week – on Mondays. And it had to get done. We were all almost out of clean underwear and socks. And I was left to siphon all the dirty soapy water out of the machine. Yuck! (I ended up doing a load of laundry at my neighbor’s house, my friend’s house, and my mother’s house. So it got done, but not without a whole lot of run-around.)

Plus on top of having a broken washing machine, Monday was also a weigh in day at Weight Watchers. Knowing that my weight loss had stalled, I was grumpy all morning – even before weighing in and finding that, yes, I’d gained. Grrr.

Mondays are also when I play catch-up on all the housekeeping that has fallen behind. And it was a perfect example of me playing the Grumpy Cleaning Lady. I was snippy, cross, even short with my kids. Double grrr!

But when the first police cruiser pulled into our driveway, and I realized that we were going to have the whole fire department arrive at our house, my bad mood evaporated. I couldn’t stop grinning.

Later that evening my husband was talking with Bug, my son. He said, "I’m sure glad that Mom’s not in a bad mood anymore. That fire fiasco really helped."

"But what if it had made her madder?" asked Bug.

"Nah," said Hubby. "Your mother always cheers up whenever she gets attention."
Too true.

Be it blunders on the organ at church or having our hot dog roast mistaken for a house fire, I always enjoy having a good chuckle at my own expense!

Local Fire Dept. Comes to Our Hot Dog Roast

It’s not every day that the local fire department comes to your hot dog roast, but it happened to us tonight.

I called our city this morning to get a burn permit for the pile of garden refuse we planned to burn. After Hubby got home we hauled the cornstalks we’d been using as porch decorations out back and added them to the large pile of garden litter. Then while Hubby and Bug went to a band meeting at the school, the girls and I started the fire. (We waited until after work so that we could roast some hot dogs for dinner.)

Whooee! You should have seen the smoke. It billowed above the fire and drifted over the house. The fire had been burning for about half an hour when I heard sirens wailing. They seemed to be heading toward the highway to our west. I wondered if there had been an accident or if there were some sort of fire. I surveyed the horizon but couldn’t see any smoke except for what was coming from our fire.

Hubby and Bug returned from the band meeting, and by that time our fire was mostly embers and some smoke. Hubby came back to see how things were burning and rearranged a couple logs that we intended to roast the hot dogs over. The sirens were still wailing, but were still fairly close by. Hubby and I looked toward the intersection near our house and saw a local police cruiser with its lights on stop and turn back around the way it had come. "That’s funny," said Hubby, "for a minute there, I thought he was going to turn our way."

Well, in just a couple more minutes, the police cruiser was back again, and he did turn down our road. He drove past our driveway, turned around, and pulled up by our garage. I had Loula Belle run in and fetch Hubby to come out to talk with the officer.

Apparently someone had seen our smoke and called 9-1-1. I guess the smoke had drifted clear down to the highway and looked as if it was coming from a computer business along main street. That’s why the sirens headed that direction but then headed back. There was no fire on main street. The only fire was in our backyard!

Fortunately, we did have our burn permit number and weren’t in any serious trouble. At one point we had two large fire trucks, two smaller fire trucks, and two police vehicles in front of our house. I also saw another large engine and two smaller emergency vehicles head back toward the fire station without coming our way. All told, I’d guess that there were probably ten or so vehicles out looking for our fire.

As a side note, our bishop had been out in his pasture working with his horse when he saw smoke and flashing lights down our direction. He hopped in his pick up and came down to see what was going on. I guess Lou Belle and Bug talked with him and assured him that we were just have our family home evening activity – roasting hot dogs.

One thing is for sure -- tonight’s family home evening sure was exciting!

Extreme Makeover Home Edition Comes to my Community

We have a Sunday night routine that revolves around the television. Some Mormons try not to watch T.V. on Sunday, but we’re fans of America’s Funniest Home Videos. So every Sunday night at 6:00 P.M. we plop down in front of the television for some good laughs watching our fellow Americans make fools of themselves. (We also discuss how we could make fools of ourselves and appear on T.V. too.)

Anyway, last night after AFV, we happened to keep the T.V. on for Extreme Make-over Home Edition. I’m not sure why, but last night’s episode really touched me. I came away amazed at the amount of good that the television show does. They’d built a home for a family with a special needs son. My eyes teared up a number of times as I contemplated how the mother’s life would change for the better because of the generosity of those involved with the show. I even caught my husband looking a little teary-eyed.

Then this morning as I went to read the paper, there on the front page is a story telling how Extreme Make-over Home Edition is building a home for a family here in my community. Wow! I told my girls about it, and we discussed possibly getting involved with volunteering. I also went to my husband’s office at work and talked with him about contributing time and money to the project here.

What a perfect opportunity to involve our kids in something bigger than themselves. I’m looking forward to driving past the completed house and re-living how we felt serving and giving to the Pauni family. I’m hoping that it will help my kids learn that giving feels great!

What I've Weighed

There are many numbers it is unwise to share with others. Numbers that others could use to steal your identity and make your life miserable. These include your social security number, your birthdate, your address, even your credit card number. These are often referred to as personal identification numbers.

Today I’d like to share some of my own personal identification numbers. These numbers won’t allow anyone to steal my identity. They may even cause a few people to be grateful they can’t swap identities with me. No one else has the same numbers that I have, and yet sharing them won’t make my life miserable. Uncomfortable, maybe. But not miserable.

So here goes. This is a list of what I’ve weighed.

Birth: 6 lbs. 7 oz. Probably the last time someone calculated my weight in ounces.

5th grade: 85 lbs. Not sure why this number stuck in my mind, but there you have it.

7th grade: 120 lbs. Our gym teacher took our weight and height. I was 5' 5". Still am.

9th grade: 118 lbs. This was after my first knee surgery. Not a healthy look.

10th grade: 128 lbs. Looking back, I should have been happy at this weight. Instead I remember standing in front of the bedroom mirror and wishing my thighs didn’t touch when standing with my feet together. Gag!

11th grade: 148 lbs. Went to Japan for two months before school started and gained 20 lbs.

12th grade: 130 lbs. Lost the weight I’d gained in Japan.

College: 140 to 148 lbs. My weight fluctuated, but I exercised a lot and felt healthy.

Wedding Day: 148 lbs. Why does every woman remember what she weighed on her wedding day? (20 yrs. old)

1st child: 194 lbs. at pre-delivery. (21 yrs. old)

2 weeks later: 168 lbs. I remember being hopeful that the remaining pounds would melt away.

22 yrs. old 178 lbs. Can’t seem to lose weight. It keeps finding me.

2nd child: 204 lbs. pre-delivery. An all-time record, but I only gained 24 lbs. with her pregnancy.

25 yrs. old: 182 lbs. Exercise and diet won’t budge the weight.

3rd child: 172 lbs. Actually weigh less than before I became pregnant. Wow!

27 - 30 yrs. 180 to 185 lbs. My weight stabilizes. Won’t come off, but at least I’m not gaining.

Jan. 2003: 204 lbs. I spoke too soon. Gained twenty pounds in just over a month. This is what I weighed before delivering my second child, and I’m NOT pregnant! Body does crazy things – goes through peri-menopause at 31 yrs. old. Weight stays despite persistent efforts.

Highest: 208 lbs. Can’t say exactly when I weighed this, but I did. And it lasted for a couple months.

Feb. 2006: 204 lbs. Joined Weight Watchers. I guess I finally decided that spending money on weight loss efforts wouldn’t be a waste – that I was worth it.

Oct. 2006: 168 lbs.

I’ve lost 35 lbs. since joining Weight Watchers. I give most of the credit to the program, but also feel that I’ve finally got a handle on my health problems. My doctor and I realized that my endocrine system had multiple failures. Medication has helped tremendously.

So there you have it. A history of my weight. Not pretty. Not exciting (at least not until this year). I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention that depression also affects my weight. When I’m low, I crave carbohydrates. Looking back I can see that prior to realizing I had depression, I was self-medicating with food as a way to try to feel better.

Even though I’ve slimmed down, I’m careful not to look at pictures of myself from years back in a critical or condemning way. I am the same person now that I was then. I’ve learned a few life lesson, but I’m not "better" per se. Just different. And frankly, different feels good!

Isaiah 40: 28-31

You know it’s going to be a tough day when you wake up nauseous and your head is throbbing. (And, no, I’m not pregnant.) That’s how my day began. I dropped my daughter off at her 7 A.M. piano lesson and began my weekly walk through that neighborhood. I thought the nausea would stop with exercise. It didn’t.

I returned home with Lou Belle and did the usual things. Eat breakfast. Brush teeth. Shower. Nag girls to put their brushes, elastics, hair stuff away. Make bed. Put on makeup. Take meds and vitamin. Kiss girls as they leave for school.

Today, however, I varied a little from the routine. I got to substitute for a reading aide at the local elementary school. Although my stomach was still churning, I knew it wasn’t contagious, so I toughed it out. Two hours later I felt a bit better, but was still green around the gills. After running a banking errand, I returned home for lunch.

Nothing sounded good. I decided to have some toast and begin reading this week’s Sunday school assignment: Isaiah chapters 40 through 49. I was struck by the tenderness with which Isaiah described the Savior in verse 11: "He shall feed this flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young." I could imagine the Savior feeding hungry souls; gently leading lost sheep to living water.

But in light of my physical struggles lately, it was verses 28 through 31 that really moved me.

"Hast thou not known? Hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary?

"There is no searching of his understanding. He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.

"Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall:

"But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."

As I read these verses, I thought of Christ as my teammate, my partner. He is someone who fainteth not. He doesn’t get weary – doesn’t get tired of supporting me. Who could be a better partner?

Plus, His wisdom and knowledge is so vast, it’s unsearchable. (I related it to google. When I enter a query and get 389,744 results, it floors me -- amazes me. But just imagine the results I’d get searching the Lord’s database! Endless answers. And they’d all be results that were meaningful.)

Finally, as I read about they who wait upon the Lord getting renewed strength, it happened. I felt better. My nausea was gone. Gone enough for me to eat an apple and a sandwich. And it lasted long enough for me to get some house work done too. (Vacuum lines never looked so nice.)

And while my reprieve from having the "icks" was temporary, I’m left with hope. Hope that the Lord will give me the strength to accomplish the needful things in my life. Hope that I can stay close to the Lord and enjoy the benefits of being a partner with him.

Maybe I won’t always feel physically well, but I’m hopeful He’ll grant me the spiritual strength to hang in there.

A Bee in My Bonnet!

As I sit writing today, I’m coming off an adrenaline high. Two weeks ago I had similar feelings after taking on a German Shepherd. But Today I’m taking on my newspaper.

This morning at the breakfast table I was enjoying the comic strips as usual. To the right our paper often runs entertainment features. Today’s fare was beyond belief. "‘Shortbus’ among films that straddle line between porn, art," the headline reads. They had chosen to run an AP review of a number of films that straddle the line between pornography and art.

Just the first two paragraphs contained enough sexual content to make me blush. I just hope that my kids didn’t read it. In fact, I was pretty astounded that the editors decided to run such content right next to the comic strips – a section that children love to read.

So I placed a call to the paper. Charles McCullom, the managing editor, listened as I explained that our family loves reading the newspaper. We eat our breakfast and read the paper every morning. My kids (a 12-year-old son, and 10- and 7-year-old daughters) argue over who will get the comic section first. I expressed my disappointment at the content they ran right next to the comic strips.

Mr. McCullom was unapologetic. He acknowledged that the woman who chooses what content goes in that section had to edit the titles of the reviewed films due to their graphic nature. And yet he thought the article contained relevant information for his readers.

I acknowledged his right to publish what might appeal to his readership, I just asked him to consider where it was located. I pointed out that their Friday insert with art, theatrical productions, wine reviews, movie reviews and other entertainment options might have been a better fit. (My kids never even give that section a second glance.) He told me, "I cannot guarantee that you won’t ever be offended by what you read in our paper." That was as close as he came to offering consolation.

So I decided to console myself. If Mr. McCullom thought that as a single newspaper subscriber I had no pull, he was wrong. I dug my newspaper out of the recycle bin and jotted down the names and numbers of the businesses who ran ads in the paper today. I’ve spent the last hour calling the local businesses, telling them that I noticed their ad in the paper today and wanted to draw their attention to the content that was printed in today’s edition next to the comic strips.

The advertisers’ responses have been gratifying. Jeff Price, the manager of Lee’s Marketplace said he’d give them an earful. "Do you want me to have them call and apologize to you?" he asked. "No," I said, "I’d just like them to realize that they do have some responsibility to the community and their readers."

Bryce at U & I Furniture ran a large, colored double-page insert in today’s paper. He wondered what the paper had printed that had me so upset. I told him that I wasn’t comfortable reading it out loud to him. And I'm not. It really is that bad. He said that I’d piqued his curiosity and that he’d be sure to read today’s paper. I appreciated his candor and assured him that I was looking forward to buying new furniture from his store. Rich at Utah Carzz, Gene at Needham’s Jewelers, and Jeff at The Book Table also took my concerns seriously.

I’m hoping that my little tantrum makes a difference. I’m hoping that by having the newspaper’s advertisers talk to them, their editors will listen. I don’t want to cancel my subscription to our newspaper, but I do want to keep my children from being exposed to age-inappropriate material.

A New Appreciation for Working Mothers

Note: I wrote this on September 12, 2006 but was unable to post it then due to computer problems.

For a week and a half I found out what it’s like to work full time outside the home. And I must say that I have a whole new appreciation for working mothers. But the best part is my family has a whole new appreciation for me!

A couple weeks ago my friend Linda and I started working at our local university’s bookstore during the first week and a half of the new semester. They call it Rush. I call it insanity!

For the first three days I was on my feet from 8 A.M. until 5 P.M. except for a half hour lunch break. And in the first day I helped over 2,000 customers. By the end of the day I was bushed, beat, exhausted.

After the second day I was ready to call it quits, but I’d made a commitment. I decided to stick it out. Meanwhile, my girls were getting themselves off to school, and everyone in our family arrived home before I did. (Mind you, this has advantages. I figured that with my husband getting home first, that meant he was in charge of dinner. It worked about 50% of the time.)

After my second day of full time employment, we were sitting as a family around the dinner table. Bug, my 12-year-old, was complaining about my not being home for homework questions after school. Loula Belle, age 10, and Beans, age 7, both piped up that getting out the door on their own pretty much stunk. Curious as to how much they were really missing me, I asked, "But what if I got a job like this one? We could go to Disneyland again."

"No!" they all shouted in unison.

Wow. They like me more than Disneyland. I never would have guessed.

Now that Rush is over, I’ve been home full time for a week. Yes, I miss greeting and talking with customers. (It’s a little lonely to have an empty house to myself all day.) I miss having supervisors praise and compliment my work. (Alas, once I started resuming my usual jobs, my kids went back to not noticing what’s getting done.) I suppose I even miss getting a paycheck, but not enough to go back.

I am grateful, however, that I had a brief employment opportunity. I learned that my family really does appreciate what I do as a stay-at-home mom. I learned that working eight hours a day and then coming home to the ususal list of home jobs zapped all my energy. Sometimes I’d come home from work and just collapse on the couch for a snooze. Who knew working full time was so exhausting?

I also learned that I’m blessed. Blessed to have the freedom and flexibility to stay home. Blessed to have a husband who works his tail end off to provide for our family. Blessed, spoiled, and utterly thankful to have learned that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the employment equation.

Poop Washes Off

In the past week I’ve been down. I’ve felt achy, tired and anxious. I’ve chalked it up to either hormone ups and downs or having to deal with giving away our dog.

Feeling a bit down isn’t something totally new for me. You see, I have depression. I take medication for it and meet with mental health care professionals, but apparently taking those steps doesn’t guarantee that I’ll be symptom free everyday from now until eternity. Sigh.

Last night as my husband and I were talking before falling asleep, I thanked him for being my rock. His devotion is solid, steady, always there – kind of like bedrock.

I, on the other hand, am a bird. I enjoy the rush of air in my feathers as I soar to heights of self-discovery and dream of new vistas. Some days I spend my time pecking at bits on the ground – wrapped up in the drudgery of housework and being the mom. I also love to chirp – gab and giggle, flutter and fly.

After thanking my husband for being my rock yesterday, I said, “ Honey. I’m a bird, and I’m sorry that sometimes I poop on you.” Being the kind man he is, he chuckled and forgave me.

I’ve been thinking about it, and I imagine we all poop on others from time to time. I’ll admit that my kids sometimes do it to me. But poop washes off. Bird droppings wash off cars. Manure comes out of soiled overalls. And the excrement we fling on one another can be washed away too.

When someone forgives me for opening my mouth before engaging my brain, I’m grateful. And the next time I’m the recipient of someone’s filth, I’m a bit more understanding. The person who cuts me off in traffic doesn’t raise my blood pressure. My child who takes their day’s worth of frustrations out on me is allowed to decompress before I talk calmly with them.

Yes, poop washes off. Thank goodness.

Would You Take On a German Shepherd to Defend Your Dog?

Today while I was walking my dog Zeke, we were confronted by an aggressive German Shepherd. We were walking on the side of the road and approaching a house when a dog inside started to bark at the front door. Then the dog put its paws up on the front door, and the door wasn’t latched. Here came a big, barking German Shepherd. Yikes!

Zeke and I stopped and waited (only seconds) while the barking dog ran at us. The dogs started to sniff each other. An older woman in a house dress came out of the house and yelled, "Lady, get back here." She addressed her dog, but she stopped at the sidewalk and didn’t come any closer to try to retrieve it.

I noticed that Lady’s hackles were standing on end and wondered how much longer the sniffing would last until she bit my dog. Not long. She backed up a bit and growled and lunged. That’s when my mother bear instinct took over.

I yelled a guttural, "No!" And pulled Zeke behind me. "Back off Dog, or I’ll beat the crap out of you," I yelled.

Lady backed up to the sidewalk but continued barking- at us. She growled and moved toward us again, but I fended her off by swinging the end of the leash at her like I was going to hit her. I may have yelled too, but I’m not sure. I just know that I was not going to let her bite my dog.

Finally the owner grabbed Lady – mostly because Lady had moved onto the sidewalk – and Zeke and I continued walking down the street.

As we walked away, I found my heart racing. Guess it was from the adrenaline. After a few yards I finally realized what I’d done – I’d taken on a German Shepherd in defense of my dog. Whoa! What was I thinking?

When I got home (with no more confrontations), I told my husband about my escapade. "And to think I did that to defend our dog. Just imagine what I’d do to defend one of our kids!"

I hope I never have to find out.

Stay-at-home Mom with No Kids At Home

Today is the first day of school for my kids. Bug headed off to 7th grade. Loula Belle walked with Neighbor Girl to their first day of 5th grade, and Beans and I rode bikes to the elementary school where she’ll be in Mrs. ReadHead's second grade class.

It’s always strange when school starts. Here I am a stay-at-home mom, and there are no kids around. What am I going to do with my time?

First of all, I’ve learned that with the kids in school, I don’t magically get more hours in a day. I still have the same amount of time as when they’re home, only they’re not here demanding my attention. So what is demanding my attention?

The kitchen floor. It’s dusty, sticky, ugly. Ditto the bathrooms – only they’re stinky instead of sticky. In fact, it is high time I did some serious deep cleaning. After a summer of my kids and their friends bringing the great outdoors indoors, my house needs a clean sweep.

I’m also planning on starting down the road to getting published. My manuscript, "I’m Not Your Slave – I’m Your Mother" is back from the editor. Now it’s up to me to incorporate the suggested changes and get it off to a prospective agent or publisher. Writing the perfect query letter that leaves ‘em begging to see the manuscript is my new quest. (I’m keeping my fingers crossed for minimal rejection. I hate rejection!)

Speaking of publishing, I just heard from the Chicken Soup for the Soul people. They’re coming out with a . . . Mothers and Daughter’s Soul II book and want to include "I Love You More." Yippee! Hopefully it will bring me a little more exposure and the extra money always comes in handy.

That’s it for today. I’m off to do a little research for the children’s book about chickens that I’m writing. Don’t look now, but Bernice, Velda, Pearl and Marjorie may be coming to a picture book near you soon!

Don't Mind Me, I'm Just the Fill-in Organist . . .

A funny thing happened in church Sunday. And it happened to me. Or, actually, I made it happen. You see, Sister Stoddart is out of town with her family for the next few weeks, and I’ve been asked to play the organ for sacrament meeting.

Now, playing the organ makes me more nervous than giving a talk would. In fact, I’d rather teach a gospel doctrine lesson every Sunday instead of play the organ in sacrament meeting. So you can imagine that I was a little nervous. And there we were singing the closing hymn – #44 "Beautiful Zion, Built Above". I got through with the first verse but didn’t notice the chorus on the next page. So I went back to the beginning for the second verse.

As I played the second verse I wondered why hardly anyone was singing. And, being uncomfortable on the organ, I thought maybe I wasn’t playing quite loudly enough. So I upped the volume just a little bit. No help. And that’s when I realized that I’d skipped the chorus. So I stopped playing, and said, "Sorry Dorothy, I missed the chorus." Dorothy Bills, our chorister, had everyone (me included) start on the 2nd verse again. Fortunately the song ended without any more problems.

It’s funny. I told Hubby that while playing the other hymns I’d make little mistakes and cringe, but after making a colossal blunder, I couldn’t help but smile. If I hadn’t been playing the organ, I’d probably have laughed right out loud. (Lisa said that Rosemarie did. She could hear her from where she was sitting. And when Lisa leaned over to ask Shirley, "What’s wrong?" Shirley replied, "Christie missed the entire chorus."

Giggle. Giggle. Trust me to turn the closing number into a comedy routine

How to get son to stop sleeping on his stomach . . .

I’m trying to help my son Bug stop sleeping on his stomach. I read somewhere that if you sewed pockets on the front of your night shirt and placed tennis balls in them, they’d keep you from sleeping . . . you guessed it . . . on your stomach. So today, I sewed pockets onto his night shirt.

I watched Bug pull the shirt over his head with the tennis balls already in the pockets. As the tennis balls reached chest level I just about died laughing. There was my twelve-year-old boy with tennis ball breasts. Of course he didn’t leave them there long, but it was just long enough to give his mom a good giggle’s worth.

Now we’ll just have to see if those tennis balls help him stop sleeping on his stomach.

Goodbye Grandma Glenna . . .

Saturday, July 8th at 8:20 A.M. my Grandma Glenna took her last breath. Her death was a welcome release from the last few weeks of suffering. She was 97 years old, and until 22 days ago had lived in her home on her own.

By the world's standards Grandma's life didn't amount to much. She dropped out of school after 8th grade due to a hearing problem and being needed on the family farm. She never learned to drive a car. Didn't have a career. She mostly stayed home caring for her children. She had seven. One died as an infant.

But mere facts, as ever, don’t tell the whole story. And as much as I’d like to capture the essence of who Grandma was, I’ll probably fail. Ninety-seven years of a life well-lived is hard to encapsulate in just a few paragraphs.

So instead, I’d like to tell you why I love Grandma. For starters, she’s an optimist. Whenever I’d visit Grandma, she’s invariably laugh in recounting her latest struggles with advancing age. Why even this spring she decided that you’re never too old to be a missionary and she began taking Books of Mormon to the neighbors on her block.

Grandma was an open book. Literally. She allowed my Uncle Mark to type up her journals and have copies made during her lifetime. She wasn’t shy about sharing the stories of her young adulthood, marriage, and early years of motherhood. And they weren’t easy. I was especially touched as she wrote of her experience of losing baby Joan (pronounced Joe-anne). Below are some excerpts from the journal of my grandmother.

--------------------
November 1936
I am going to try keeping a diary. I have a desire to do this – for several reasons: to give vent to my feelings, hoping to improve myself and to leave a record.

My husband Clarence, myself, our two children (Jenay and Marilyn), his parents, and brother Rulon and wife arrived. Where? Lemhi, Idaho – 30 miles from Salmon – Salmon being around 300 miles from Logan. Clarence and his father drove the truck with the belongings of all. Rulon drove his sedan with all the women folk. When we arrived it was late and toward evening. There was no heat, as the stove or kitchen range had not been set up. And for that reason there was no warm meal waiting. We were cold; I worried about the children. Jenay was just 2 years old and Marily was 37 days old. We got through the night somehow. We practically lived in the kitchen–about a 9x12 room–as this was the only room that we could afford to heat

(Moved from Salmon, Idaho to Darby, Montana)

July 21, 1938
Tomorrow baby, Mark, will be 6 months old. How he has grown. He is so sweet and beginning to notice things.

I think we are certainly blessed this year with so many good rains, the neighbors here in Darby, (Montana) are saying it must be because of the Mormons coming here. Here’s hoping we can succeed in well doing.

January 10, 1939
Christmas has come and gone. We had fun playing Santa Claus to the children. Jenay got a doll and dishes and go-cart. Marilyn a doll, cradle and broom. Mark some tinker toys.

February 16, 1939
I feel miserable – bet I am pregnant.

September 10, 1939 – Sunday
Today I stayed home from church for the first time in months. Only five more weeks until the baby comes. I get tired so easily – my back and leg pains me awful some days. My fruit is all up. I can’t have more than 150 quarts. Fruit is so high, apples will have to do. We’ve had very few tomatoes and none to can. My garden froze just before corn and tomatoes came on. I put up 30 quarts of beans and about that many peas.

The men are about through harvesting. I’m about tired of cooking for men.
War has started in Europe.

November 19
The baby turned 3 weeks old yesterday. . . . She is a cute little thing, and favors Jenay. The nurse said she was the cutest baby in the hospital. We will name her Joan.

January 4, 1940
What a lot has happened since I last wrote last – one of the saddest events of my life. Our sweet baby died. Monday, December 11, 1939 I picked her up that morning thinking she was asleep. I tried to wake her before I realized she would wake no more in this life. The shock was awful. I yelled for Clarence who was outside a block or so. All my friends came soon after to console me.

The doctor said the glands of her throat were swollen. We took her to Lemhi that night and went on to Logan the next day. The funeral was in my sister Vera’s house. Many relatives came. She is now resting in the Logan Cemetery.
I’ve missed the baby so much since coming home. It’s hard to content myself. I have such a longing to see her again. I love my family and hope I may live worthy to have my baby in the next life and . . . that I may have more.

Had to give up the farm in Darby, Montana – over a year later

May 4, 1941
There are several things I would like to accomplish in this life besides rearing a good family. And that is to do research work and temple work for my dead ancestors; also for Clarence and I to go on a mission and that I might become a better piano player and singer. Can we do it? Yes, if we are determined.
(End of excerpts)
--------------------

I can’t help but think that today Grandma will be having a happy reunion with her husband and infant daughter. Really, I think that Grandma accomplished every goal that she set. She was a humble and determined woman!

Why Colleen Wants to Get Her Roosters Drunk

This morning marked the first outing of W.H.O.A. -- Woman Having Outdoor Adventures. We hiked the Limber Pine Trail which is just over the summit of Logan Canyon.

Along the trail Colleen and I started exchanging chicken stories. She mentioned that they have four hens and four roosters, but that she was ready to get rid of three of the roosters. But in order to do that, she wanted to get them drunk first.

"Drunk?" I asked.

"Drunk!" she said.

Apparently Colleen has been reading about yard care at JerryBaker.com, and he advocated using beer on your lawn. And dishsoap. The dishsoap I could understand, but beer? On the lawn of a devout LDS family? I just couldn’t picture it.

Colleen helped me out. She continued to explain that she already had the beer at home.

Still a little flabbergasted, I asked, "And where do you keep the beer?"

"Oh, we have some in the garage, and some in a cupboard," she said. "But the really interesting part was shopping for it at the store. I took Preston, my fifteen-year-old son. Once we had the beer in our shopping cart every time we’d pass someone he’d say extra loudly, ‘Now what are we going to use the beer for again?’"

We had to stop hiking, we were all laughing so hard.

"And why was it you’re planning to get the roosters drunk before doing them in?" I wanted to know.

"I want tender chicken, so I figured if I got the roosters drunk first they’d be nice and relaxed. Maybe it will help the meat to be more tender."

Well, I never!

Eating Like Ethiopians . . .

Happy days are here again!

It's the first of the month, and that means I've got a whole month's budget to spend!

We way overspent in May and as a consequence, I thought it would be a good idea to put the brakes on our spending. So our family has been scrimping lately and eating our food storage -- even powdered milk -- as a lesson in money management. Bug has said that we've been eating "like Ethiopians." But as of today, it's over!

Whew!