Two years wasn't long enough

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned.

It's been two years since my last blog-session. So much has happened, I don't know where to start. So I won't. I'll continue.

How ironic is it that in my last two posts I was lamenting over the fact that in two short years Trey would be leaving on a mission. I believe I even shed a tear or two just thinking about it.

Well...my two years is up. He's leaving. Soon. Too soon. In 7 days to be exact.

Oddly enough, I'm not crying. I even brought a tissue with me. I think I'm all cried out. I have cried nearly every day since he received his call, just thinking about the day he would leave me. I'm all dried up.

I came home from work today to find the spare bedroom filled with bags of clothes and toys he has outgrown. His closet is the cleanest I have seen it since we last painted. Just kidding, we didn't paint the closet, it was too messy. I can't remember the last time it was so clean. You would think I would be ecstatic to see him finally dejunk years of accumulated stuff; but it made me cry.

I cried for the little boy he once was; for the toys he no longer plays with, the stuffed animals that will no longer be hugged. He's too young to be all grown up and leaving his mommy to go half-way around the world.

It was just a few short years ago that i was blogging about how my sweet little boy would follow me to the bathroom and talk between the door. Not a moment of peace or reprieve when there were tales to be told. I cherished those days, knowing the day would come when he would be a sullen teenager and stop talking to me. That day never came. He still follows me to the bathroom, although he stops talking long enough to let me believe he has gone, then he scares the rest of the crap out of me when I walk out and he jumps out of his hiding spot.

As a Mother, I have felt the range of every emotion possible, but I didn't know I could feel them all at once. I am conflicted.

My heart is breaking with sadness and bursting with joy.
I am excited and nervous.
I am at peace, and I'm afraid.
I can't bare to let him go. I can't bare to see him not go.
I can't wait for him to go. I can't wait for him to come home.
I can't wait to see the man he'll become. I want my little boy back.
I want to hold him in my arms and never let him go. I want him to spread his wings and fly.

So much turmoil. Can you see my predicament? The day I have been looking forward to/dreading all his life has finally arrived and I can't decide whether to be happy about it or sad. So i'll be both. I love you Trey with all my broken and mending heart. These last 18 years have gone by much too fast, let's hope the next two go by just as quickly.

Excuse me now while I go get another tissue. It seems I have a spare tank of tears.

I love you Trey. Till we meet again.
.

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to...

It's my birthday today. Yipee. Another year older. Another wrinkle on my face, another roll around my middle, another gray hair or two (hundred).


Growing old isn't all it's cracked up to be. All that stuff about being mature and wise must happen when you're old enough to retire, and have the time to sit on a porch swing and reflect back on your life and philosophize and be all wise and knowing, cuz it ain't happened to me yet.


Maybe it's because I don't feel my age. The calendar says I'm 48 today, mentally I'm stuck in my early twenties. If you ask my husband as he catches me dancing on the kitchen floor to Michael Buble, he would say I'm stuck at 16, and just learning to drive. Recent conversation between Tary and Trey at the high school driving range:


Tary: Be careful as you back up, those cones could be children.
Trey: Mom should be here, she needs this more than me.
Tary: I agree. Don't drive like your mom.


In my defense, I was trying so hard not to hit Tary's truck, I didn't see the side of the garage. Nor did I hear the crunching sound of metal. Again, in my defense, I had Michael's CD cranked up and he was singing 'You're my Everything' and I was thinking of my sweet handsome husband and was further distracted. So really, if anyone is to blame, it would be Tary for having such a big truck and a handsome face that I think about as I'm listening to Michael.


It's strange to see my kids as grown ups. I know that's what they do, but I stopped aging mentally, and now we're the same age, mentally. Weird.
In my early twenties, I remember getting down on the floor and playing the Memory game with Chelsea and Kayla. Now at 48, I get down on the floor and play the Memory game with Paisley and McKenna. Only now I have no memory, I get beat by a 3-year old, and I can hardly get back up when the game is over.


In my early years, I used to love going to Lagoon for my birthday! I remember Melinda Passey and I trying to break the Guiness World Record for the most consecutive times going on the white roller coaster. Although we had no idea what the record was, we were sure we broke it after the 28th time. Now I can't think about the white roller coaster without having my bones creak. It has become a torture chamber, devised to rattle and break my bones, give me whiplash, and shake my brain to mush. Now I know why my mom was content to take my little girls on the kiddie rides while I rode the big rides. As much as I would love to try and break my old record, my old body just can't take it anymore.


I remember when I was much younger, if I wanted to lose weight, all I had to do was skip a meal. By morning I would be two pounds lighter and have a flat stomach again. Now I have to exercise an hour a day just to maintain my weight. Trying to lose a pound or two has required going off sugar (it's been 3 weeks now!) hiring a personal trainer to kick my butt, and eating healthy stuff like non-fat, plain Greek yogurt that taste's like I'm eating sour cream. Why that's supposed to be good for you and sour cream is bad, I haven't figured out yet, but I've been told if I add enough berries to it, it will taste just as good as ice-cream. yeah right.


Getting older does have it's advantages; I'll be ready to retire in 15 more years. I'll quality for senior discounts at the movies in 12 more years, and will be the proud card carrier for AARP in 2 more years. I'll be an empty nester two years from now too as Trey will be leaving on a mission.


I can't stand to think about it. Every time I do, well, you know what happens. Hey, it's my party and I'll cry if I want to.

Feelings...whoa whoa whoa feelings.

I need a plumber.


Not for my sink or toilet, but for my personal water pipes.


I'm afraid in heaven I may have been a little over-zealous and stood in the line twice when the angels were giving out emotions.


"Emotions! I want some of those! Enthusiasm...that sounds fun! Sense of humor? A must have if I'm going to be a mom! Happy tears...sad tears...I can't decide. Why don't I just get one of each!"


I'm sure it happened just like that too. Why else would I cry when I feel every sort of emotion under the sun.


Grateful: Driving down the street with my beautiful boy in the seat next to me on the way to his baseball game. So grateful that the weather is warm enough to roll down the windows and let the scent of honeysuckle and peonies take over my senses. Grateful to have a son who is such a good kid, who still loves to talk to me about his day, and feeling so blessed that I temporary lose sight of the car ahead of me because tears are welling up in my eyes. Crying and driving can be a dangerous thing. Stop feeling so blessed and focus!


Proud: Listening to our national anthem being sung at the REal Soccer game last night while holding my hand against my heart as the national guard stands at attention with our flag blowing in the breeze. Feeling grateful that I'm not the one singing it, because I can barely choke out the words. I am so proud to be an American, and so grateful for the men and women who sacrifice so much to protect our freedoms.This is why I hold my hand over my heart, to keep it from jumping out of my chest.


Touched: Standing in front of my class at work and asking them what motivates them. One young lady said her younger brothers motivate her. Her mom passed away, leaving her to fill some pretty big shoes. They motivate her to be a good example, to influence them the way her mother would if she were here. As she was talking about her new roll as surrogate mother and big sister, I was so touched by the thought of this young girl's mother, watching from heaven, or perhaps by her side, gently guiding her and thanking her for being there for them and doing what she no longer could. Tears welled up and I could hardly speak, other than to thank her, because I was a mom myself, and know how much that means to her mom. Crying while you're training is not very professional. The bad news (in case crying in front of the class isn't bad enough) I was being video-tapped for evaluation. More tears will be forthcoming I'm sure.


Happy:  Grocery shopping on a Friday night doesn't make me happy. To think that's the best way to spend my Friday night is actually pretty sad. But what does make me happy is that no one else is shopping Friday night's at Macey's, so I pretty much have the store all to myself. Which comes in handy when you get a text at 9 pm in the cereal aisle from your brother, telling you that prayers have been answered, and he (John) and his wife (Shara) are expecting a baby! Wishing I was in the Kleenex aisle, I'm scavenging through my purse for a tissue, when a second message comes across...TWINS! Now I'm making gurgling noises because I'm trying to hold back the sobs, and again feeling so grateful no one is there to see the spectacle I'm making of myself. I couldn't leave the safety of the cereal till my face returned to a normal color; needless to say, I ended up with 8 boxes, all of them LIFE. (just kidding, but that would have been very appropriate)


Sad: Sitting in church today, listening to a return missionary describe his experience on the day that he left for his mission. Leaving for the MTC in brazil, his parents got to take him to the airport to say their good-byes. As he was hugging his Mom for the last time in 2 years, he couldn't control his emotions and started to cry. As his Mom was preparing to pull away, he said he couldn't, because he was still crying and didn't want his Mom to see, so he kept her in what must have been the longest bear hug she ever received. So of course, here I am, sitting next to Trey, and thinking about how I only have two more years to prepare for that day to come. Tears are spilling down my cheeks, (kinda like how they are now) and I'm already wondering how will I be able to bear it, when just thinking about it turns me into a puddle.


Feeling so grateful that Trey is a worthy young man, proud to be his mother, touched by his willingness to go and serve, happy that he's making the right choices, and sad that life will never be the same once he goes. Can you see my predicament? I've got 5 strikes against me in the emotions department. I don't stand a chance. Maybe I should buy stock in Kleenex and laugh my way to the bank.


Did I mention I cry when I laugh too?

Counting the Laughs

I was afraid this was going to happen. Start blogging again, then after two weeks, can't think of anything else to say. I must admit, since my girls don't live here anymore, half of my material walked out the door with them. They were always making me laugh. Not that Trey and Tary don't make me laugh, cuz they do, but at the moment I am drawing a blank as to the last time they made me laugh.


In my pursuit for funny, I've decided to count the number of times I laugh every day instead of calories. Not that I ever counted calories, but I should. I've decided laughs are easier to count, are more fun and good for you too. Laugher reduces stress and it's a great exercise for the abdominals.   Did you know that an average 5 year old laughs over 400 times a day? By the time we reach adulthood, that number shrivels down to just 14 times a day.


That number seems a little high to me, unless you're a mother of 5 children, all under the age of 7. I think it was a requirement in the pre-existence to have a good sense of humor in order to qualify for large families. I figure any woman with more than 5 children would have to laugh a lot, or cry a lot, in order to keep her sanity. Unless she wasn't sane to begin with, which explains why she had 5 children under the age of 7 in the first place. My mom had 7 children, and she was always laughing, it was my dad who was always crying, but that's another subject for another post.


So I did have a good laugh the other day. It was quite unexpected as most good laughs are. The sad part of the story, is that I was in a room full of people, and I was the only one laughing. Embarrassing, I know. And it was while I was exercising, not the most appropriate place to start laughing, in a room full of middle-age, middle weight women doing dance moves to Beyonce'.


It happened during Jazzercise. I was in the home stretch of the workout and we were working our arms with the resistance bands. Now my arms have always been the weakest part of my body, just ask my gymnastics teacher. I never could master the back-handspring because my arms always gave out on me and I would end up on my head. Anyway, standing on the bands with both arms extended above my head, we were doing bicep presses, keeping the triceps at the side of the head, and lowering the forearm to the side of your ear, then pushing it back up past the head. I was really kicking it through the first set of reps, but by the second go-around, as I stretched the bands above my head, my arms rebelled. They started to move to the beat of the song, the problem was, we weren't dancing, we were weight lifting (no weights, just bands. But it still kicks your...muscles) Raised above my head, they started shaking like a leaf, those little muscles that I had been working so hard to get decided they didn't want to get bigger and shook off any resistance I was trying to give them.
My arms refused to cooperate. I was trying to stretch my spastic arms into the proper upright position, but my elbows had to get in on the action as well and insisted on bending to the beat.


Being so close to my head, I could feel them jiggle as I struggled in my attempt. It was like having a twitch in your eye, or a leg spasm, they just kept shaking as if they were doing the mambo.
I wasn't sure what to do...is it safe to push the limits even when you're arms are about to shake out of their sockets? I persisted, but between my funky chicken arms dancing and the thought of what the ladies behind me were witnessing, I couldn't help myself and started to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
My instructor threw me a strange look and I'm sure I made her second guess her technique because she quickly changed to a new move. I lucked out, since laughing and lifting don't go hand in hand. The music was blaring, so my belly laughs were not heard and therefore not reciprocated by the others. I was the lone laugher.


But hey, at least my abs got a great workout!

To my children...Thank you!

I find it ironic as I was reading thru my past posts and came across my come-back post a year ago (I had good intentions) and saw how I described returning to the blog world much like doing a cartwheel after years of tumbling inactivity. It's ironic because just yesterday I was outside with Paisley, my 3 year old grand-daughter, and was trying to teach her how to do a cartwheel. "It's easy" I said, "just watch Grandma". Arms up, leg outstretched, toes pointed, and go...and go...go...c'mon, just do it! What are you afraid of? Honestly, I was afraid my weak arms would buckle, I would land on my head, or at the very least that my legs wouldn't be perfectly straight and upright. Eventually I worked up the nerve and did not one, but two cartwheels. I don't know how pretty they were, but I was thrilled to come out of it without grass stains on my face.


That's how I'm feeling about returning to the blogging world. As you may have noticed, I actually blogged last week, but I didn't tell anyone, for fear that it would set expectations that I wouldn't be able to live up to. What will I blog about every week? What if I run out of thoughts? What if I announce a comeback, then don't blog for another year, (oh wait, already did that one). What if I fall on my face?


Like my cartwheel, I'm just going to plunge in and hope I don't look too foolish in the end. So today, being Mothers day, I thought I would share some thoughts on motherhood.


Sometimes I think our culture has it all wrong. I've often thought that on birthdays, children should shower their mothers with gifts for giving birth to them; after all, we're the ones who spent hours in painful labor to bring them into the world. Why do the kids get the presents and the cake? Why does everyone send out well wishes and sing songs to them, yet not one word of acknowledgement goes to the mother. You never hear, "Happy Birthday! Way to go! I hear you spent 15 hours in labor with Johnnie and no epidural! A 9-pounder too, great job! Here, you deserve some cake."


On Mothers Day, I think it would be appropriate to give gifts to our children for making us mothers; after all, if it weren't for them, no one would call us Mom. As mothers, we should wake up early and make breakfast for our children, oh wait, we do that every day.


We should shower them with love and attention and tell them how wonderful they are! Oh wait, we do that every day too.


Well, we should dip our hands into paint, press them on construction paper, and write a poem:




"These tired hands have worked for you,
doing those things that all mothers do.
We cook, we clean, we sometimes sew
we fake through homework we ought to know.


These hands have wiped away the tears
and in the night have quieted fears.


They've held you close when very small,
and held your hand so you wouldn't fall.
And through the years those hands let go
so you can learn and you can grow.


And so my child, on this Mother's Day,
my hands have much they would like to say.


"Thank you for the sticky walls,
mud on the carpet, the crayon down the hall.
Thank you for dumping your clothes on the floor,
as you tried on ten outfits and emptied your drawer.


Without you child, these hands would be bored.
No wiping snot noses or spilt milk from the floor.
No costumes to make every Halloween
or productions to put on for the nativity scene.


Without you child, these hands would never know
the wringing from worry, the pain of letting go.
These hands have held you from the very start,
and whether near or far, you'll always be in my heart.


Thank you Chelsea, for making me a Mother. Thank you Kayla, for showing me that I can love the second as much as the first. Thank you Trey, for proving that not all little boys are terrors, and for letting me keep you little for as long as I can. Thank you all for exceeding my expectations of Motherhood. I have cherished and loved (almost) every minute. You make me proud to be your mother and I love you all dearly.
Happy Thanks-for-making-me-a-Mother Day.
(Sorry Mom, your tribute post will have to wait till your birthday!)

Laughter is the Best Medicine

Tary went to Vegas last weekend for a softball tournament, and all he brought me back was this lousy cold. Nice guy. I would have rather had the t-shirt. He did make dinner tonight so I could rest on the couch with my book, so when I called him a nice guy, I wasn't being sarcastic or anything; he really is a nice guy and feels just awful about giving me his cold.

I feel like I have been sick a lot this year. Every time I've been around someone who is sick, I end up with their same ailment. So as I've been pondering today about how I could make someone else feel better, I've thought a lot about laughter and how perhaps a smile a day could keep the doctor away. Is that why I've been so sick this year? I haven't had enough laughter in my life? Blogging used to force me to find the funny. Not that I haven't laughed in 2 years, but I've been busy. Doing what, I couldn't tell you, but whatever it was it has kept me busy. Too busy to laugh, and now I'm sick again.

Sounding like a man with a husky voice does have it's advantages though. Yesterday, when the RS president called and told me a sister in the ward whom I supposedly visit every month has cancer, my already choked up voice and strained vocal chords didn't give me away as the tears streamed silently down my face. Knowing I would have lost it when I saw her today in church, I was able to use my sickness as an excuse to stay home and not get anyone else sick, especially her.

I've been thinking about her all day, wondering what could I do to help her. If I were Patch Adams, I would heal her through laughter. You've probably seen or at least heard of Patch Adams, but he wasn't the first to discover laughter's healing powers.

Norman Cousins was the editor of Saturday Review for over 30 years, and was the author of a
number of books including ‘Anatomy of an illness.’ But what he is most remembered for is being the man who laughed himself to wellness.


He was diagnosed with Anklyosing Spondylitis, a collagen illness that attacks the connective tissues of the body.


While hospitalized, he began to research the effects of stress on the body and found that it could destroy one’s immune system. He read about the theory that negative emotions are harmful to the body, so he thought that if negative emotions were detrimental to health, then positive emotions should improve health.


He checked himself out of the hospital and into a hotel suite. He hired a nurse who read humorous stories and played Marx Brothers movies for him non-stop. The treatment proved to be so effective that in very little time Cousins was off all painkillers and sleeping pills. He found that 10 minutes of laughter could lead to one hour that was pain-free.


Laughter releases endorphins that are more powerful than morphine. These endorphins can lead to a sense of well-being and optimism. In 1989, it was finally acknowledged in the Journal of the American Medical Association that laughter therapy could help improve the quality of life for patients with chronic illness and that laughter has an immediate symptom relieving effect.


I don't think the Marx Brothers would do it for me, but I few funny youtube videos of giggling babies will give me an endorphin fix for a week.
Isn't it incredible that Heavenly Father created these bodies for us that can help us heal ourselves if we allow it to! He doesn't want us to be sad, or stressed, or miserable, even when life can be sad, stressful and miserable. He wants us to find joy in the journey and look for the positive in any situation.

So here it is...the funny fact of being sick:


The other night I had a coughing fit that semi-woke me up. As I was trying to doze back to sleep, a buzzing sound tickled my hear. I kept swatting at it in my semi-conscious mind, thinking it was a fly buzzing around my ear. It would go away, then return seconds later. I remember thinking it was strange to have flies in the house already and didn't recall seeing any, but I folded my pillow around my head to cover both ears then turned on my side and fell asleep.


Last night I was struggling again with my cough and was having a hard time falling asleep. Suddenly, my pesky little fly friend was back, buzzing in my ear. Only this time, I was fully awake enough to realize it wasn't a fly at all, it was my husband! My poor wheezing, squeaking husband! It sounded as though he had swallowed a squeak toy, and every time he took a breath, a slow little whiny squeak  would leak out of his airpipe.
Visions of Wheezy from Toy Story popped into my mind, and it made me laugh to think of my husband as the grown-up version of Wheezy, the toy afraid of being thrown away because his squeaker was broken and he squeaked every time he talked, with a lisp I might add. Not that my husband spoke with a lisp, but his squeaking took on a melodical harmonious eeeehhh-aaahhh sound that made me wonder if he had swallowed not one, but two squeak toys.


Poor Tary, here he was just trying to get enough air into lungs, and I was trying unsuccessfully to suppress my giggles. Of course, trying to hold them in just made me laugh more, which caused me to cough more, which resulted in both of us not being able to sleep. Sadly, he didn't find any humor in the situation and didn't agree that a new nickname was in order. Too bad.






Good night my loyal readers. Good night my dear friend. Good night my little Squeaker.

Paula, the Kings and I

Tomorrow marks the 3rd anniversary of the death of Michael Jackson. I liked Mike, the younger version. I have a couple of his albums, danced to Thriller in my high-school-dance-class days, and thought he was cute and extremely talented. As he got older, he just got weird. But still, when I learned of his early death, I mourned for the passing of the Michael of my youth.

It's funny how you'll never forget where or what you were doing when certain events took place. For example, I'm sure everyone remembers where they were the day the twin towers came tumbling down. If I were 10 years older, I'm sure I would remember what I was doing when Pres. Kennedy was shot. I even remember where I was when I heard the news that Elizabeth Smart had been found.

I remember where and what I was doing when I learned of the sad news that the King of Pop, and the King of Rock had both died. And both times I was at Paula's house.

My cousin Paula and I are only 2 days apart. When I was younger, I took pride in the fact that I was the older one, a fact I don't brag about anymore. We spent many a summers sharing a week at each other's homes growing up. I remember I loved going to her house, she had a purple room all to herself. I had to share my purple and pink room with my sister. She lived in the valley where the streets were flat and perfect for bicycle riding, made even more fun because she had a bicycle built for two! I lived on a hill where riding a bike was more exercise than it was fun. She had a Circle-K convenience store within walking distance where we could load up on penny candy. I had a 7-11 located at the bottom of several very long hills. Paula had a cat. I had a dog. Everything that I loved about going to Paula's house, she probably loved the opposite about coming to stay at mine.

It was in August of 1977 during the end of one such stay that I learned that Elvis Presley had died. My Mom came to pick me up, and as I was loading my stuff in the back of the car she told me they found Elvis dead on his bathroom floor that day. I was sad. I liked Elvis, the younger version. I had a couple of his albums, had danced to the tunes of Jail House rock in my younger entertain-my-sisters-by-making-up-dances-with-them days, loved the old Elvis movies, and thought he was extremely handsome and talented. As he got older, he just got fat and weird. But still, I mourned for the passing of the Elvis of his youth.

Fast forward, June 25, 2009. Paula and I got together to celebrate our birthdays. Trey and I met at her house to enjoy lunch; our boys played together while we got caught up on our lives. Chelsea called on my cell to tell me Farrah Fawcett had died, another icon from my Charlies Angels feathered haired days. I knew about Farrah, the news was on the radio on my way over to Paula's. But then she dropped the bomb-shell..."Did you hear about Michael Jackson? He died." 

Sadly, I couldn't tell you where I was or what I was doing when I heard about the passing of Pres. Hinkley, or any of the prophets for that matter. Not sure what that says about my character or where my priorities lie. Maybe the events with Elvis and Michael stick out in my mind not because of who they were, but because of who I was with. Paula has always been such a dear cousin and sweet friend. I love her and wish we could find time to spend more of it together.

Happy Birthday Paula! Let's do lunch...if we dare.

the Proposal

I love keeping secrets, I'm pretty good at it too. So when Curtis texted Tary last tuesday and asked if he could meet with him, I didn't tell a soul. Not even Chelsea.

Curtis came by Tary's work on Wednesday, and after waiting for 20 minutes, which probably seemed like an eternity in a non-air-conditioned building stocked with car parts and stocky men, they finally met up.

Tary didn't give him a hard time like he said he was, for which I am grateful; I'm sure Curtis was nervous enough without having to decipher sarcasm from seriousness. He let Tary in on his plans to pop the big question on friday; and since the only secrets we have between us are how much I actually spend at Kohls, and he at Cabellas, he included me in. I didn't tell a soul. Not even Chelsea. I lied; I did tell my co-workers...only because Tary called me at work after Curtis left and they overheard my shouts of joy. After my outburst, I felt an explanation was necessary. 

Friday finally came. I knew Kayla and Curtis had plans to spend the day together, so I eagerly awaited the phone call. It came...about 9:30 am. Kayla was so excited! She had great news to tell me! "Guess what?" she said,
"Curtis bought the ring you always wanted, proposed on bended knee and now your engaged!"
Is what I could have said, but I didn't want to steal her thunder, so I excitedly replied "What?"
"I scored 100% on a mystery shopper and received $100! I also got a 87 out of 92 on my test, and got a raise at work! This is the best day!"
"Oh, you think it's good now? Just you wait Kayla"...of course I didn't say that either.

I thought she would be calling me back later that morning; nothing. The afternoon came...and went; nothing. By evening I was beginning to wonder if Curtis had chickened out. Finally, just after 9 pm, Kayla called. My fears were confirmed, Kayla and Curtis were breaking up. Apparently he was a two-timer. Yea right, I wasn't buying it; afterall, I was in on the secret. And then she started crying. What the crap?! Was she being serious? Had he really turned out to be a jerk and had us all fooled into thinking he was Mr. Wonderful?

Now I don't know if she really was crying, or if she was fake crying, but my nomination for best actress in "My Momma's a Sucker for Tears" goes to Kayla. Just as I was about to have a good cry with her, she told me the good news, they were engaged!

Here's how it went down:

There is an overpass near Curtis's house for pedestrians. Earlier that day, someone had stuck the red plastic cups in the chainlink fence and spelled out "I (heart) K". I don't know if his proposal budget didn't cover the cost of more than one bag of cups and he ran out and couldn't spell out her whole name, but Kayla saw it and said, "Ah, I love K. Is that me?" "Of course", he replied. "That's so sweet!" and it was.

They went out to dinner and came back, again driving under the overpass, when Curtis noticed a few of the cups had fallen out. "Let's take a walk to the overpass and fix your sign". While walking towards the walkway, Curtis turned and facing Kayla, so she couldn't see what was in front of her, he showered her with kisses her all the way to the top. Then he stepped aside so Kayla could see the colorful display of chalk art along the concrete; "Festival of Color, REAL soccer, Dance, Happiness Kayla and Curtis, love..." memories of their good times together, and at the very end of the journey were the words, "Kayla, will you marry me?"

Then in true gentleman fashion, he got down on one knee, popped open a ring box, and properly asked her. She bawled like a baby, threw her arms around his neck so hard she knocked him down where he smacked the back of his head so hard on the concrete, it gave him a concusion. As he was passed out, she brought him back with 'true love's kiss'.

I don't know if that really happened, but i thought a little payback was necessary. That's right little Ms. actress...don't mess with the screenwriter.

The funniest part of the story...Curtis didn't put up those cups that spelled out I (heart) K. But when Kayla thought it was aimed at her, he used it to his advantage and had a great excuse to get her up to the overpass. Well played out.

Nicely done Curtis!
 Welcome to the family!

I'm baaack...

I'm back, but I don't know for how long. I've been busy, and I'm only going to get busier.

I've missed blogging. I feel a little rusty. Feels kinda like doing a cartwheel after a 30 year absence. You still remember how, it just feels a little uneasy stretching out your arms and letting gravity plummet you headfirst to the ground, hoping you still have enough arm muscles to hold the additional weight you've put on since you were 14. If this post seems a little disjointed, like i've been dropped on my head, I'll leave it to your imagination as to why.

So, you may be wondering what has brought me out of the depths of bloggers retirement? Happy news! Kayla and Curtis are engaged! I was so excited to tell everyone in church on sunday, but Facebook and Tary beat me to it.  But since I love a good love story, I'm going to tell it to you.

Last fall, Kayla made the decision to move out of her apartment in Ogden and move into her Grandparents home in Bountiful. (Good thing my parents went along with her plans). She was turning 21 in January and would be at the ripe old age when unmarried women in the church face the difficult decision, "Should I go on a mission?"  She had always talked about it, and thought moving in with the grandparents would help her save for the big event. Saving money on rent but spending it all on gas to drive to work and school seemed silly, so she transfered branches from Ogden to Centerville.

It was at her new branch that she met a girl who seemed insistent on playing match maker. Mystery date #1 didn't take, so when she tried her matchmaking skills again, Kayla was a little hesitant. This time, however, Kayla was able to see what he looked like before she agreed. Curtis just so happens to also work for America First, at a different location, so she looked Curtis up on the company phone list to view his picture. He is very photogenic, say no more. Curtis also had the ability to look up Kayla's picture, (this says alot about his character) and decided to contact her anyway. jk. They got to know a little about each other through instant messaging, (another method to avoid speaking in person) and agreed to meet in a group setting.

Kayla asked her high-school friend to double date that night. Red flag. Kayla and Nicole together = silliness. Again, Curtis gets kudos for seeing past the awkward first date with sidekick Nicole, and gave her another chance.

I'm not sure which date number they came down to west jordan and stopped briefly at our house, but it must have been early in their dating scene because it was another double date. I was alone at the time, Tary and Trey were out, and I was covered in fuzz from sewing McKenna's minky blanket. They didn't stay long, and we only made the obligatory small talk, "Hi, nice to meet you. What are you guys doing tonight..." that sort of thing. But I do remember asking Tary that night if it was wrong to pray for Curtis to fall in love with our daughter.

Prayers are answered.

They did fall in love, fast and hard. I think they were pretty much inseperable from that time on. (Pretty sure Kayla is rolling her eyes right now and saying, 'Oh Mother'. Keep in mind this is my blog and my interpetation of the events. Feel free to rebuttle in the comment section). I reminded her Tary and I dated for three years, but he living in Tooele, and I in Bountiful, we only saw each other once a week. Cell phones, texting, or e-mails didn't exsist. We communicated through old fashioned long-distance phone calls and love letters through the mail. Whereas, if they weren't with each other, they were connected at the thumbs (aka texting). Therefore, it was okay to fall in love with someone they've only been dating for a few months.

I knew they were meant for each other, even before she admitted it. Curtis was the first guy that when I mentioned marriage she didn't freak out. Instead, a little smile would cross her face; that's when I knew. She was a goner.

I think i'll stop the story here...that gives me a reason to come back tomorrow and blog some more. Stay tuned for the proposal...

Tender Mercies

(yes, my eyes and nose are red from crying. yes, that's a zit on my chin)

I don't believe in coincidences. I use to call them 'little miracles' before Elder Bednar coined the phrase. He calls them 'Tender Mercies', I would have to agree with his description.

It was a tender mercy that Chelsea delivered our sweet little Mckenna on my day off. Actually, it wasn't my normally scheduled day off, I requested it off weeks ago so I could help set up and prepare food for our stake's Laurel/Priest Etiquette dinner that night. I took Paisley so Joe and Chelsea could have a relaxing day at the beautiful St. Marks birthing suite; complete with a hot tub and room service.

Paisley was a big help, handing me the napkins and the cups as we set the tables. She was a good girl when we went to Sams Club to buy bread and vegetables (another tender mercy). As we were putting our purchases in the trunk of the car, a firetruck pulled in the parking lot not far from where we were. When we walked the mile to put the cart in the stall, (possible slight exaggeration) the firemen were getting out and Paisley waved to them. (It was so cute). The firemen, in much better shape and not carrying a toddler on their hip, ran the mile distance to our car (feels like a mile with a toddler and loaded purse) and asked if my cute little daughter would like a stuffed animal. Another tender mercy! (The stuffed animal, not the part where he thought I looked young enough to be her mother. I made that part up.)

I like to look for tender mercies everyday. It makes me feel like someone up there loves me and is aware of me. Sometimes we don't realize the tender mercies when they happen; it might take days or weeks before we're able to recognize them for what they are. For example:

Two weeks ago, on a friday, I came down with a sore throat. Not uncommon, there's been a bug going around. The problem was, I had to train on Monday and Tuesday all day, and a half day on Wednesday. It's pretty hard to stand and talk all day when you have a sore throat. I did pray hard that I would be well enough to train, as my back-up trainer is not able to stand and train as well. The weekend was miserable, but by Monday I was back to work and my sore throat gone. Prayers were answered. Here's the tender mercy... I wasn't really all better, it was just a slight reprieve to get me through my training. By Thursday, the day after my trainings, my sore throat came back. By Friday I was coughing. Monday was so bad I took a sick day. I coughed all week, but by the next Monday, my coughing had pretty much ceased, and I was able to train again. A tender mercy. Another one:

Several weeks ago I got off work early, unusually early. I decided to take advantage of the afternoon by stopping by Tai-Pan to see if they had anything inexpensive we could buy to decorate with for our Stake Etiquette Dinner. As I was sitting at the stop light on 90th south, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone doing the freak out dance. I normally don't stare at people if they happen to sing or dance in their cars, because I know how uncomfortable it makes them feel when people turn and stare; I'd rather not say how I know that, just trust me. But for some reason, the flailing arms was just too much to ignore, so I turned my head...and there was Kayla!

My Kayla girl, who lives in Bountiful, works in Centerville, and was just an hour previously, instant messaging me that she needed to talk to me and asking me when my lunch was so she could call me. I knew I would be getting off work at 2, so I told her to call me then. It wasn't until I got in my car and I tried to call her that I realized my phone was dead, and now there she was...two lanes over, waving at me! We rolled down our windows and shouted to each other. She was on her way to take a friend out to lunch for her birthday, and would stop at the house afterwards. We shouted our 'I love you's', then we both drove off with big smiles on our faces thinking what are the odds of that happening. Both at the right place, and at the right time. What a coincidence. Wait a minute...I don't believe in coincidences.

That must have been a tender mercy. And then I had to go and ruin the moment.

My motherly concerns kicked in. My mind started reeling with all the possibilities. "Why did I need that tender mercy? Was she going to get into a car accident? Was that the last time I going to see my daughter...or tell her I loved her...my phone was dead, the Lord knew that, was that the only way I could have said good-bye?"

This story has a happy ending...we both lived to tell the tale of 'Close encounters on 90th south'. She is fine. I am fine. Maybe it really was a coincidence. Or maybe someone up there has a sense of humor; maybe they were having a bad day and wanted to see Kayla do the freak out dance. Maybe they just wanted to make me smile. Who knows. All I know is that I will never stop looking for tender mercies. They are everywhere. And I am going to stop over-analying them, I'll just accept them for what they are.

Oh, as for my shopping trip to Tai-Pan...I found for the table centerpieces, red flameless candles for only .99 cents!

No denying it...that was a tender mercy!

Only a month late

Dear Kayla,

I'm publicly apologizing because I didn't write you a birthday post. I am very sorry. I am a month late, please forgive me and enjoy this wonderful post about you.

You are 21 years old now, wow has the time flown. In 21 years, you have shown me how much I love being a mother, especially to a sweet girl like you. Are you such a beautiful woman and you are not a baby anymore. You have shown everyone you're capability of your talents and skills. Just in this past year you have grown tremendously. A list of 21 wonderful thing about my awesome daughter.

21. You have a beautiful smile

20. You are always smiling

19. You love giving pedicures

18. Paisley adores you

17. You always have to be busy or you go insane

16. You make delicious cupcakes

15. You'll play with Trey still even though you are an adult

14. You like to go against the crowd and be your own person

13. You have progressed so much in work that you've become a supervisor!

12. You were never a bad teenager

11. We have never gotten in a fight

10. You have the biggest bluest eyes around

9. You love trying new things

8. You hate beans

7. I love your random visits home

6. You can always make me laugh

5. Your hair is always beautiful

4. You have been my easiest child

3. You are independent

2. You are my favorite child

1. And the one thing I love about you most, is the fact that you will catch up my blogging for me and write your own birthday post so I don't have you. I love you my Kayla girl!

Mall woes

Dear Daughters,
I bought you both a Christmas present the other night at the mall. Weird huh, I never go to the mall. I hate the mall; the fact that you have to drive around the parking lot for 5 minutes trying to find a spot up close, and end up parking a mile away anyway (slight exaggeration). It's always crowded and full of crazy people with spikey purple hair and tattoo covered bodies. They scare me. The others intimidate me; the rich folk who go to the mall in 3" high heeled boots and size 2 designer jeans with perfect hair and makeup.

Why did I stray from my 2 minute drive to Kohls with my reserved parking spot up front? Why did I leave behind my 20% off coupon and $10 Kohls cash? Why did I trade the comfort zone of the other housemoms who shop in their comfy shoes and drabby coats, whose hair, like mine, show signs of gray and their Christmas sweaters show signs of dinner? I blame it on your Dad. He asked if I wanted to go the mall with him, and since I never turn down an invitation to go shopping, even if it's at the mall, I said yes.
Why did Dad want to go to the mall? The man who hates crowds even more than I do? Let's just say, he's obsessed with finding the perfect christmas present for his mom, and because he's a good son, and I want Trey to model his father's example some day of someone who likes to make his mother happy, I dragged (drug?) Trey along.

We never did find the gift Dad was looking for, but as we were leaving, and almost to the door...they got me! You know who, the annoying Mall Kiosk salespeople. I had flashbacks of Jamaica, trying to get back to the bus at Dunn River Falls. The only trail back was right through the middle of the locals selling their wares. We hurried along, made no eye contact, but didn't quite escape before one guy got ahold of us, and before we knew what had happened, a tiki with our names carved into it was being shoved in our hands and an extraction of money from the other.

I guess I let down my guard, being so close to the door and all, I let my eyes stray for a split second on a young man holding something. And then to make matters worse, I answered him when he asked me a question! That was all the encouragement he needed. Before I knew what was happening, he was showing me his product and all the wonderful benefits and good things that would happen if I were to use it. It sounded great, felt great, looked great, how have I been living all these years without this wonderful product in my life...sold! Then he told me the price...not sold. Of course, that was the shocker sticker price, it's Christmas time, and because he was in such a good holiday mood, he would reduce the price for me, making it a 'extra good bargain'. Still too much for my budget.

I looked around for Tary, hoping for a little support. He would have put the guy in his place with an absolute NO. He's good at that kind of thing. He has no problem with that word, as I'm sure your aware of; which is why you always came to me when you wanted permission for something. Pushover must be written on my forehead or something, cuz others can spot that same weakness in me as well. Looking around for a little help and a little common sense, Tary was no where to be found. Sensing my hesitancy, the guy quickly followed up with the question, "Do you have a daughter?" "Yes", I replied meekly, hoping he wasn't going to ask for my first born as payment. "If you buy the first one, I'll let you have a second one for half off."

Now in my head I'm adding up the totals and dividing it by two, still a little too much. The guy was a professional, he knew how to wear me down. He leaned in a little closer and said almost in a whisper..."don't tell anyone, but this is what I'll do for you. If you buy these two, I'll throw in another one for free." Free! Now that's a word I can relate too! But before I could wipe my stupid smile off my face, he asked "would you like to pay for that with cash or credit". Crap, now what do I do? Again, I look around, this time to make sure Tary wasn't watching. "Don't worry Mom, Dad's getting his hearing checked." Trey is by my side. How long has he been there? How much did he hear? I looked down the aisle, sure enough, he's at the ClearSound hearing aide kiosk. I hope he does a better job of telling the salesgirl NO, otherwise our bank account will be in trouble. "That will be credit."

Before I could let my conscience kick in, I had the three items in my bag, one for Chelsea, one for Kayla, and one for Me! Only a slight twinge of shoppers remorse had begun to set in as I realized what a wimp I am for not being able to say NO. It wasn't a planned purchase, it wasn't even a need, it was a want. And up until 5 minutes ago it wasn't even something I knew I wanted. But I smiled as he handed me the receipt, saving the internal "I can't believe I just did that" conversation for later.

As he handed me the bag he asked me yet another question..."Do you like pearls?" "Um, yeah sure. I think they're pretty?" Not sure where this conversation was going...was he going to offer me a strand of pearls for free because I was so nice and purchased his product? Doubtful. I wasn't going to let him suck me in further, so I told him straight up, "It's just a luxury I can't afford." After a strange look he said, "Well, my friend here would like to show you what he has to offer."

Before I knew what was happening...again...there stood another gentlemen, trying to escort me to the kiosk close by. Good grief, enough is enough. I know I'm a pushover, but I'm no fool. While I quickly brushed him off with a "sorry, but I've really got to go. My husband is waiting for me, and I've just spent enough", I looked at his display and thought it was a little strange that I didn't see a single strand of pearls. Just a display of beauty products.

As we were walking away, Trey asked, "Mom, did that guy ask you if you liked pearls or curls?" Curls?! Is that what he asked? That would explain the curling irons. Well now I felt foolish.

Maybe I should get my hearing checked.

On second thought, better not. I don't think I could afford it.

Ouch...

I almost chopped my thumb in half today!

Ok, not really. But it felt like I did.

I'm not really sure how it happened. One minute I was closing my car door, the next minute I was prying my thumb out of it. Ouch! I won't repeat the word I really used at the time, over and over again. Pretty sure I have some repenting to do, but by golly, it hurt!

If it didn't happen the minute I got to work, I probably would have cried. I wanted to, I'm sure it would have made me feel better, but I didn't. I didn't produce a single tear.

Weird. I didn't know I could control my tears. I didn't know I had the power to NOT cry. Why am I just learning this about myself. It sure would have come in handy on Saturday when at the last second, I was asked to lead the music at the funeral of my neighbor. "Are you kidding me? Do you know me at all? Cuz you wouldn't be asking me if you did." But since I've never turned down an assignment from the member of the bishopric, and since Christmas is just around the corner and i'm trying especially hard to be a good girl, I said ok. Afterall, how emotional will I be. He was old, he was sick, it was really a blessing that he passed, how sad could it really be?

Who am I kidding...I can cry at the funeral of a goldfish. If I lived in the days of old, I could have been a professional mourner. I would have been a millionaire.

15 minutes later I was standing at the stand, trying to hold it in as two young military soldiers carried in the casket of my neighbor, followed by his grieving widow and tear stained family. I shed a tear or two before I looked away and went to my happy place. I recovered in time for the opening song, which surprisingly I got through without making my distorted 'trying to hold it in face'. Of course I was smart enough to look at the back wall, not making eye contact with anyone who was crying. One down, one to go.

An hour and a shriveled up kleenex later, I was back at the stand. My confidence that I could get through another song was pretty strong. Afterall, I survived a musical number and four talks without losing it, what could one more song possibly do? Although I was extremely nervous about the song selection, I figured if I just pretend I'm leading the music in church, i'll be fine...i can do this.

And I was. I got through 3 versus of "I know my Redeemer Lives". Feeling confident, I let my guard down. I let my cocky "I'm doing just fine" attitude get the best of me, and committed the number one no-no. I glanced away from the back wall, for just a brief moment, and let my eyes rest upon a member of the congregation, Sis. Duncan, who was sobbing. Before I knew it, my eyes were filling up with tears, my chin quivering, my face distorting. I was a gonner.

I couldn't sing, so I tried to just mouth the words. My contorting face wouldn't let me form the words, so I just stood there, waving my arm. I couldn't bare the humiliation, so I put my head down and let the tears drop onto the music book before me. Where's my snot rag when I needed it. Dang, left it by my chair. It felt like the song would never end.

I'm not really sure what happened. Oh, I was doing so well too. I don't know why it got the best of me at the last minute. I guess at the end I couldn't suppress my true nature.

So, I guess what I'm asking myself is, how is it that I cry when I don't want to cry, and don't cry when I do? How come I don't cry when I'm in mortal pain, but watching a silly movie about a dying dog throws me in the depths of despair? How come I can give birth to a kidney stone without tears, yet when I see someone else cry, I tear up as if on cue? Is the pain of others greater than my own? Unless someone is in pain because they biffed it on their high heels, or skateboard, or anything else that causes them to fall like a fool; then I can't help but busting up laughing, which is soooo not appropriate. In cases like these, their pain adds to my humor relief; yet when I see someone in extreme joy, I tend to get choked up. Weird, I know.

My sister once told me, we (as in pretty much everyone in our family) have the gift of weeping. We mourn with those that mourn. Gee, so glad I got that gift.

So, for those of you who also share the same gift, feel free to cry for me. After all this typing, my thumb is really throbbing, and I can't seem to shed a tear.

go figure.

Whose your grandma

Vanessa from V & Co. turned 36 years old today! I only know that because she posted it on her blog, not because we're such good friends that I know when her birthday is and have been invited to celebrate the day with her. But one can always wish. Anywho, she was lamenting the fact that she's over the 30-something hump and getting old.

I know how she feels. I'm teetering on the 40-something hump and although most days I don't feel old, my looks don't reflect the way I feel. That's depressing. It's hard coming out of denial. I suppose it's like coming out of a coma. One day you wake up and say..."how did I get here?"

I woke this morning
My back was sore,
I rolled out of bed
It was quite the chore.

Then to the bathroom
To do my thing,
Stripped off my clothes,
Gave them a fling.

Stepped on the scale
To check my weight;
Afraid to look down
The truth I can’t take.

I weigh as much now
As I did back when
I was nine months pregnant
With Chelsea Breann.

The sad thing is,
I look it too;
My belly pokes out
Like I’m 5 months due.

I step in the shower
To wash my hair,
Leave a clump in the drain,
More than should be there.

Then to the mirror
I cautiously peek;
I see the wrinkles
Start to creep.

They start at the corners
Of my baggy eyes
And stretch down my face
That I start to despise.

I see a few hairs
That look out of place;
They’re not on my head,
They’re on my face.

I would be proud
Of the moustache I’ve got,
If I were sixteen
And my name was Scott.

The fuzz on my chin
Turns thick as it grows;
At least it matches
All the hair in my nose.

Oh don’t you worry
I’m not sasquatch yet,
My eyebrows are thinning
The older I get.

And the hair on my head

that I keep there with spray;
what doesn’t fall out
simply turns to gray.

And just when I think
I’m looking too old,
A pimple appears
For all to behold.

I turn to my closet
To get myself dressed,
Nothing fits anymore,
I’m further depressed.

My wardrobe has changed
From short sleeves and skirts
To mid calf capris
And long flowing shirts.

I use them to hide
My flabby body;
And if I fail to wave back,
I’m not being snotty.

Just trying to keep
The arm fat from flapping;
But what do you do
‘bout rubbing thighs chapping?

I sit down for breakfast,
To a big bowl of bran;
Make sure I’m still living,
Give the obit’s a quick scan.

My eyes turn fuzzy
As I start to read.
I wear bifocals now,
Had to finally concede.

Then I go to work
In my yellow sports car.
It’s the cure for my crisis,
But not working so far.

I get a few glances
From curious guys,
Through my tinted windows
I see hopeful eyes.

They must think a hottie
Would drive such a thing,
As they hope to invoke
A flirtatious fling.

I can see their faces
As they slowly inch
To get a close look,
Then suddenly flinch.

I make it to work
My humility intact;
I’m the oldest one there,
It’s a depressing fact.

I’m technology challenged,
Just ask my kids;
“Do what in Excel?”
Oh, heaven forbid.

i-pads and blackberries,
i-phones and kindle;
i-pod and apps,
my confidence dwindles.

I barely just learned
How to send a text;
The message, however,
leaves even me perplexed.

Reality sucks.
I’m not young anymore.
I stopped feeling perky
And now I’m just sore.

My hair’s gray, my eyes bad,
I’ve got middle age spread;
I’m sagging and dragging
My tired self to bed.

But then my grandbaby
Comes over to play;
And I’m young again,
Hip-hip-hooray!

And even after we
Play on the floor,
And I can’t get up
Cuz my body’s sore.

I still wouldn’t go back
To the age of my prime,
Cuz I wouldn’t be a grandma
And that would be a crime.

I'm Back

Did you even know I was gone? Yup, I went AWOL (absent with out leaving).

I don't know why i've been away so long. It couldn't have anything to do with Trey's fall ball and sitting on the hard cold bleachers twice a week in August and September. Or the fact that I've been officially made the un-official family photographer and have recently taken pictures for my nieces bridal/engagements/wedding, my daughter Kayla's Folk Dance Team photographer, and taken family pictures of my sisters Susie's family. Not to mention my own brood at our annual Gardner Village Pumpkin patch. It's been fun, but let's just say I have a whole new appreciation for what my cousin Faun does. Literally, hours go into taking an ordinary picture and trying to turn it into a work of art. She does it much better; i'm just a faunwannabe.

Perhaps my absence could be traced to my sewing room, where a certain Christmas Countdown quilt hangs over the chair, waiting to be bound. Sewing takes up valuable blogging time.

You could be wondering why I haven't been blogging about those things; afterall, most bloggers put their pictures, their quilts, their hobbies online for all to see. Some of those people make tutorials and gain followers and fan clubs. They make lots of money with their creative ideas.
It's a shame, really. I have no one to blame but myself...and my daughter (chelsea), not to point fingers or anything.

You see, a couple of months ago, my daughter was over at the house, using my computer. She said she wanted to show me something I might like. So she pulled up a little website, and to my delight...pictures of all things good and lovely, crafty and yummy, holiday galore and creative decor burst onto my screen! It was like I had died and gone to homemaker heaven.

That was the beginning of the end. It seems everytime I had a few minutes to spare and would sit down to blog something, I would say to myself, "I'll just take a quick peek while I'm thinking of something to blog about". Hours later I would find myself waking from my blissful craft induced coma and realize time has slipped away, my blog didn't write itself, and it's now much too late in the evening to stuff my lazy butt into my spandex and walk a mile on the treadmill.

And it's not just my blog that has suffered, my waistline is showing proof that sitting all day in front of a computer at work, and then sitting all evening behind the sewing machine/computer doesn't help. My future size 6 wanna-be has met her achielles heel. It's not chocolate or Dr. Pepper that keeps those skinny jeans untouched in the back of the closet; nor is it the hours of endless facebooking that I've prided myself on not getting attached too. It's not the comfy couch in front of Survivor, So You Think You Can Dance or NCIS.

It's a one-word website.

My future poet/childrens book author/someday i'll be as famous as cjane blogger has become almost extinct! All creative juices that used to flow to my fingertips, now rest on the mouse as they repeatedly click re-pin, re-pin, over and over again. It's addicting I tell you!


That was 2 months ago. I've been AWOL ever since.

I've been lost in holiday wreaths, mummy cookies and pumpkin decor;

Crock pot dinners, t-shirt scarves and tips for chores.

Beautiful pictures of faraway places, perfect kids and adoring love;

Exercise tips, make-up tricks and quotes from above.

Christmas goodies, neighbor gifts and homemade cards;

Twinkly lights, garlands on mantels and snow covered yards.

Romantic hints, hair-do styles and chic outfits;

Painted walls, painted toes and lots of glitz.

Do you want to know the name of my doom? My achielles heel? My productive downfall? In one word:

Pinterest.

It comes from the Greek word PIN; (meaning to immobolize) TE; (meaning me) REST; (meaning a state of inaction).

Perfect word for what it is.

I don't care, it's a wonderful sight.

But if you go there...beware. It will snare you. It will hook you.

(Disclaimer: The author takes no responsibility for children left unattended, families going hungry or dinners burnt; homework being left undone, husbands rejected, housework neglected. Exercise and scripture study out the window.)

Don't say I didn't warn you.

8th grade woes

It's official...it's fall! According to my calendar, as soon as the kids march back to school, the fall season has begun. Don't you love the smell of fall? Freshly sharpened pencils and crayons, never before stained socks and shirts. Binders and paper. Even new backpacks smell good the first day. (Give it a week till the gym clothes need their first washing and they come home shoved in the pack with a weeks worth of papers and candy wrappers.)

Trey started 8th grade today.

Wow. I can remember when I was in 8th grade. I had my first crush with the new kid in our school. He was a rich kid who showered me with gifts, and I'm not talking about 'my sister was cleaning out her junk drawer and doesn't want this fingernail polish anymore, so I thought you might like it' kind of gift. He gave me a tigers-eye ring and a gold herringbone necklace.

Unfortunately our whirlwind 3 month crush ended with the school year, and his lack of attention left me feeling hurt and rejected. My friend helped me compose a 'don't let the door hit you on your way out' type of letter that sounded like a pathetic country song; full of mean and sarcastic remarks. I felt better getting it out of my system and would have been fine leaving it at that, but my friend thought he needed to know how he had done me wrong, so I parted with my ring and necklace to show him how serious I was, and she delivered it to him in person, while I stayed behind and tried to justify what I had just done.

I never talked to him again. The next year we would pass each other in the halls like two ships passing in the night; aware of the others presence, but never speaking. It was awkward. I felt bad. My 13 year old self didn't have the courage or the words to right the wrong.

I never had the desire to go back in time and relive those awkward teenage years, but if given the chance, I would. If for no other reason than to go back and do things differently. I would never have written a hateful letter, I have regretted it ever since and still feel shame over my actions. I would go back and tell my 13 year old self to accept it for what it was; an exciting spring of twitterpation. And most important, I certainly never would have given back the ring and necklace. What was I thinking? Gold is worth a lot of money!

So, what advice do I have for my 8th grader?

Don't get a girlfriend. We are emotional and much too immature to handle boy problems at that age. (Sixteen isn't much better...or 18...or 45)

If a girl says something mean to you one day, and smiles at you the next, that means she's sorry and would really like to be your friend again, she's just to shy to say it.

If a girl breaks your heart, just know her heart is probably breaking too.

And for heavens sake, there is nothing wrong with fingernail polish. Girls that age love it!

Justin & Emilee

My beautiful niece is getting married next weekend. Since my sister knows I love to take pictures, but most likely because I'm related to the most amazing photographer, faundimages, and hopes some of it will rub off on me, she's asked me to be the official photographer. Scary...and fun. Here are a few of my favorites.