Am I the luckiest person alive... or what??

I thought I would share a snip-it of what I get to enjoy during my days at home. It is very hard to catch him doing this, although he does it all day long, because everytime he even senses a camera on him he goes somewhere else. This was a very sneaky process. I had to pretend I was just looking at the camera and occassionaly look away as if I weren't interested.

Lake Powell and St. George getaway...

Just sharing some pics...

Adam's Canyon.

This hike is beautiful. I had to share some pictures of it. We went with my sister, Traci, and her cute family.



My adorable niece, Cassidy, decided she wanted to experience the force of a 25 ft. waterfall. She went and stood under it and said that she hadn't ever felt anything that powerful coming down on her. Did I mention it was ice cold?

90 Degrees and Rising

I finally found a second to post. I can't believe how crazy summer gets. Here I was thinking that with Riley and Connor home that Randon would have someone to play with and not be expecting me to entertain him every moment of the day. When did I become so naive??? I am in the middle of a few projects that take up most of my time. I guess I could consider my children one of those projects.

So in the midst of me being busy, it seems that I have totally missed spring. The last thing I recall is that it was snowing outside my house like a month ago. Now, the heat is insane. I can't complain though. I love the change in seasons. I am definately the type of person that needs the change. Change is good, right? We all need it. We should all be trying to change in our own lives, blooming and growing. Becoming more "adult" and responsible.

Sometimes however, watching my boys be boys, I miss those days back before I changed. Back before I had the responsibilities I do now, back before I "grew up". I especially miss the days back before my body finally realized it changed, when it didn't hurt for a week trying something fun. Oh to be a kid again, and have toys like the slip-n-slide made especially for you. Toys that don't have the words, "Not intended for Adults" written right on the packaging.

Doesn't this look fun?

Juggling Act

I read this in a book and loved it so much I wanted to share it...

"Imagine life is a game in which you are juggling five balls. The balls are called work, family, health, friends, and integrity. And you're keeping all of them in the air. But one day you finally come to understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back. The other four balls—family, health friends, integrity— are made of glass. If you drop one of these, it will be irrevocably scuffed, nicked, perhaps even shattered. And once you truly understand the lesson of the five balls, you will have the beginnings of balance in your life.”

Sometimes it is so hard to juggle everything that life throws at you. I want to express to my Chet how proud I am of how he does it. He has a lot of responsibilities at work, so many people depend on him which flows down to so many families depend on him. I have the opportunity to work with him two days out of the week. I get to watch his juggling act and I am in awe. When he walks through our door at night, he is home. I am sure there are moments when all of the weight of work tries to follow him home, possibly even bouncing down the road after him not wanting him to leave. But for the most part that ball stays outside our door. I just want him to know how much I appreciate that. I also want him to know that it doesn't go unrecognized. And even though others may look at it as a flaw or a weakness, I believe it is incredibly strong and tells so much about the kind of person he is. Thank you Chet. I love you so much.

Take me out to the ballgame...

I am a sucker for a guy in a uniform. I always have been. These days the boys are getting a bit smaller and a lot younger, but it still holds true. There is something about watching them together as a team, cheering each other on and working together to become better that impresses me. And did I mention those uniforms.

The past few years I watched Weston play baseball. I would look forward to his games and couldn't wait for the time of year to go to St. George or Vegas to watch him in a tournament. A couple of times I went by myself with my parents, and other times I took my family. Two weeks after my brain surgery, Weston had a tournament in St. George. This would be his last because he was a senior. I couldn't stand it. I made Chet take me down even though I probably shouldn't have. What was I to do, I loved it and couldn't think of missing it. When he left last year on a mission, I felt a loss. I would miss having him around, but I would miss watching him play just as much. After the last game of his senior year, I watched as a team of teenage boys said goodbye to their team and the game with tears in their eyes. I felt that I understood their pain.

It seems that this love has followed me throughout my life. It even showed up on our honeymoon in New York where Randy got us tickets to two Yankee games at the original Yankee Stadium where none other than Babe Ruth played. And yet again, a year and a half ago for our anniversary, Chet and I flew out to Boston; where else would we end up but at Fenway Park watching the RedSox take on our beloved Yankees. Knowing how rabid the Yankee fans were at our trip to Yankee Stadium, I was a bit nervous to be making an appearance at their rival's field accompanied by my husband sporting his blue Yankee ball cap. Trying to remain composed during the Yankee's victory, it was funny to watch as little by little camoflauged Yankee fans made their way out of the woodwork, with a little cheer here and there. Come to find out, the two men and one lady sitting next to us all decked out in Boston gear, were actually Yankee fans. They were friends with Boston's pitcher and out of respect for him had worn his colors. One of the men started to squirm as we talked to him about it, stating that he thought his skin was burning with a Red Sox shirt on.
A couple of years ago Riley had played baseball. He pitched and did well, but all it took was him hitting a kid with the ball and making him cry that appeared might end his baseball career. We have decided not to pick what our boys will be involved in, we figure it is easier for them to choose for themselves. It made me a little sad when Riley chose not to play last year. But I didn't push it. I was so happy this year when Riley and Connor informed us that they both would like to play baseball. In fact, at Riley's last game he pitched. He walked his first batter, and then went on to strike out the next three in a row. So it seems I will be filling my evenings with the crack of the bat and root, root, rooting for the home-team. Top it off with peanuts and crackerjacks, and I am in heaven!!

The Scorpion Queen

As many of you may know, I have a fear. The symptoms associated with this fear include nausea, cold sweats, goose bumps the size of Kilimanjaro, rapid heart beat and dancing around on my tiptoes squealing many different languages; the origins of such languages are yet to be determined. Yes, I am talking about creepy crawly things yet again.

Believe me when I say, I do not enjoy talking about them. I would prefer they just leave me to my business and in return, I leave them to theirs. But for some annoying reason, unknown to me, it appears they enjoy sneaking up on me during the most unexpected times; therefore bringing on the above-mentioned symptoms of which I know no cure.

Now, I am a fairly decent person. I try to keep to myself in most cases. And even though I may not approve of things others choose to do, or they just simply creep me out, I will still remain open-minded and accepting. However, once the lines have been crossed and my space has been invaded, there are no guarantees.

This morning was a typical school day morning. We awoke, got Riley and Connor ready for school and out the door. I paraded around the house, starting on my list of to-do’s for the day when it happened. I was putting sheets into a large plastic zip-up bag and out of nowhere I was attacked by an enormous eight-legged alien.

It had many eyes, pinching claws and a poisonous hook on the end of his tail. It crawled out of the sheets next to my hand and down into the bag. With the stealth of a ninja, I lay the flap down on the bag and captured him inside with one quick zip. I immediately got Chet on the phone for guidance. “Capture him in a jar! You will be your son’s hero!” He stated, with no regards to his defenseless wife it seemed. Not knowing what else to do, I agreed to take a crack at it. Placing Chet on speaker phone and giving him a play by play of the battle, I grabbed my yellow rubber gloves and advanced on the unearthly creature.

Grabbing the first article out of the bag I quickly lay it on the ground, carefully unfolding it so as not to anger the beast. After thouroughly inspecting it I determined the first blanket was clear. I took a deep breathe and moved on to the second, a pale yellow fitted sheet, pretty and inviting on most days. I tossed it to the floor and knew deep down that at any moment I would be facing open combat. Before unfolding the sheet I peered into the bag to see if I could see it. It was there, perched on the next sheet waiting for me. I squealed and dove, barely escaping the piercing swipes as his tail whipped around searching for any part of my body to make contact with. Grabbing for my weapon, a .66 caliber mason jar, I swiftly swiveled around in a face-off with my enemy. We locked eyes, daring the other to break the hold. Slowly moving the jar closer and closer, careful not to make any sudden movements, I placed the jar over him and used the other hand to shake him free from his post. I placed the lid on the jar and set it on the counter.

I was victorious! And yes, I know that some of you may wonder why I would risk my life like that in attempting something so dangerous. All I can say is, a person does crazy things for those she loves.

Chet may question the events that I describe in this event—he heard them but was not physically there. But I declare to anyone that doubts—the evidence is in the jar and ultimately it is my story, I’m sticking to it. If you want to write your version, be my guest.

By Example...

I was sitting upstairs last night by myself, doing a little writing when Riley came upstairs and asked what I was doing. I told him and he took off for the kitchen without any hesitation and said, "I want to write too." He grabbed a notebook from the basket and came and snuggled right up next to me on the couch. Shortly after, Connor came wandering up. "What are you guys doing?" He asked. We told him and he said, "I want to write." We found him a notebook and he joined us in the living room in the lamp light, three self-proclaimed writers putting down on paper anything we felt at that time.

I am so happy that they have a desire to do this. It gives me more motivation to continue writing if it gives them a little inspiration to do the same. Their stories are so matter-of-fact, and i find something so refreshing about viewing life through their eyes.

I told them I would post them, so the following two stories are from them. Enjoy.

St. George

By Connor Ruger

I love my family caus they care for me. And my dad wrestles with my brothers and me that is a lot of fun. and my big brother plays checkers with me. That is grate fun to me. And my littel broter is always funny and when he fitse (fights) with me it is a lot of fun and my mom loves me. i really love my family.

The Narrows was a lot of fun caus me and my brothers hav this kind of power to climb or something. I saw my uncle and my dad got stuk in a skinny thing and when my dad let go of the wall he wood hang on the wall. And my uncle laughed like crasy!!!!

The Narrows

By Riley Ruger


We were in Saint George and we went to the narrows. My Dad and my uncle got stuck in between two rocks. It was really funny. And when they got out my dad called me spider-man because I could not stop climbing rocks. Then we had to leave, but I did not want to. On the way back my dad got me some new roller blades and I was so happy. then in the morning we went fishing. I did not catch any fish. It stunk, but oh well.

The End

"Big Man's Bum Crack"

(Not intended to offend or not intended for those who may offend easily)

Warmth, golf, hiking, fishing, boating, escaping, nature, family, talking, The Bear Paw—these are some of the reasons we were headed to a little place about 5 hours South of us. It wasn’t by choice, but by a declining real estate market leaving us with a home we can’t sell there that St. George has become our second home.

As we dropped down into the valley at 2 a.m. Friday morning, I watched the temperature gauge on the rearview mirror climb and a smile spread through my pasty winter-white body that had longed for the sun’s rays to beat down on it the last four snow filled months. We caravanned closely behind Jill and Spence, two people whom I adore spending time with. Our mission this weekend was to clean out the furnished model home we had purchased and leased back to the builder two years prior, all the while fitting in as much fun as possible in three short days.

I laid awake in bed the next morning, the sun calling to me. I tiptoed out of our bedroom hoping to let Chet sleep a while longer. As I rounded the corner heading down the hallway I was happy to hear the whispering chitter chatter of Riley and Connor out on the back deck. I walked out and breathed in deeply the clean morning air. I sat down between my two oldest boys and we took in the view. We had a great one, perched up above the Virgin River at the mouth of Zion’s National Park.

After a few minutes of discussing going for a little hike, majority ruled and we laced up our shoes and took off. I immediately fell in love with this moment; no TV, no video games, no phone, no ear buds in their ears drowning me out and drifting them away. We walked and talked and got to know each other just a bit better. We decided that would be how we would start every morning down there, walking and talking. I find myself anxious for the next one.

We spent most of Friday hiking around, enjoying the sunshine and ending up at a place the kids affectionately call “big man’s bum crack.” It is an extremely narrow crevice up through sheer rock walls. If you can fit through it, not only do you have a wonderful sense of accomplishment, but it is great for your self esteem.

One of my favorite things in the world is laughing; not just any laugh, but the kind that comes from deep within, thrusting its way out in an embarrassingly loud and infectious howl. Watching Chet and Spence attempt this climb had this very affect.

I am not sure what was going through Spence’s mind, driving his body through the slit we had just witnessed three little boys and Lou Lou slip through with ease, but it appeared he would not be giving up. Maybe it had something to do with the encouraging words he was receiving high above from strangers who had shimmied their little frames up through and now took the time to stop and observe; or maybe it had become a personal goal of his to overcome his claustrophobia. Whatever the case, his determination was hilarious to watch. He made it through one tight spot to a little opening but due to the fact that he could not breathe in because it made his chest too large between the two crushing rocks, the remaining 60 ft was impossible.

Chet had the same intentions until he got stuck in midair while taking in a breath. The rocks took a firm grip around his chest as if he were a small baby holding him up to take a better look, his arms and legs flailing around. I had images of us having to call the fire department to get him out. We left feeling a little discouraged at not fitting through the rocks, but it was nothing a little ice cream couldn’t mend.

The rest of the weekend was filled with hiking, playing games, fishing and even more laughing. We drove back on Sunday to a snow storm welcoming us home.

Warmth, golf, hiking, fishing, boating, escaping, nature, family, talking, the Bear Paw—these are some of the reasons we will be going back soon and often with family and friends, making memories and getting to know each other a bit better—and maybe even one day, fitting through “big man’s bum crack."

(Sorry they are sideways.)

"Guess what I have in my hands?"

"Guess what I have in my hands?” I asked Riley over the phone. I was on my way home from work and had called to let him and Connor know I would arrive shortly and to pass on directions to make sure their homework was done and they were ready when I got home.

I am not positive how to describe the sound that came through my cell phone at that moment; a high-pitched shriek mixed with what one might consider a sinister sounding cackle and then possibly what appeared to be hyperventilating. I knew Riley would be excited at the announcement of our family attending the 2008 autograph signing party for the Utah Jazz. Last month after going on a tour of the Energy Solutions Arena with his scout group he proclaimed to me later that night, he would “never wash his hands again” upon touching the very shoes sported by no other than Carlos Boozer. (I am pleased to report that his intentions have not been fulfilled)

I gathered up my three youngsters and drove around the corner to pick up the last member of the “fantastic four”. Danny is Riley’s age and may not live in our house, but based on numerous comments from my sons, together with my own intense observations, has unanimously been voted in as one of “the boys” in both their eyes and mine.

The five of us arrived 45 minutes early intending on beating the forewarned madhouse, and was a little let down that the line had already extended far enough it was in the “bending” stages around the block. We found the end of the line and I stood our ground as the little foursome found it too difficult to contain their excitement and exploded, dashing around the crowded open space playing tag and occasionally reporting back to me in line with updates of “the line isn’t moving yet” and questioning “when is dad going to get here?”

Chet was going to meet us there. He was coming from work and had stopped at Fanzz to get a Jazz jersey for each of our kids and him a ball to get autographed. Spencer would join us also and I held our positions waiting for their reinforcements and listened to the chatter around me advertising the no-shows for that night including Carlos Boozer, Mehmot Okur and Kyle Korver.

6:00 finally hit and we all stood in line anticipating the opening of the floodgates. As if to drive the idea of “we own you” home, they opened the doors precisely not on time but about 15 minutes later, which ultimately gave us the time to discuss our plan of attack. Spencer would split off with Riley and Danny and take up positions in line for Riley’s choice, Andre Kiralenko. Dad would take Rando and make camp in the all popular line for Deron Williams; and C-Monster would come with me to “find someone else”.

As I took hold of Connor’s hand upon being herded through the front doors, I watched as others darted off in different directions with an urgency I apparently was missing. I looked down at Connor and asked, “Where do you want to go first?” He looked just as confused as I did so we just started walking.

We got in the first line we came to that seemed fairly short. We obtained Matt Harpring’s autograph in no time and moved on the next shortish line. After getting Paul Milsap’s and Coach Sloan’s we were casually making our way along the roundabout of the arena when we happened by the Jazz girls. Not one person was in line to see them and my motherly side kicked in and felt a bit bad for them for some strange reason. I stopped Connor and asked, “Do you want to go get the Jazz girl’s autograph?” Confident my inquiry would be met with the usual crinkled-up nose as if the very mention of the word “girls” brought an unfavorable stench with it, I was pleasantly surprised to see him shrug his little shoulders and say a simple, “OK.”

All four girls made such a fuss over the little boy that stopped at their table early on considering who the alternatives were. They expressed their gratitude for us stopping and we continued on our adventure. We joined the rest of our group at that point and carried onward getting signatures from Deron Williams, Andre Kiralenko, Ronnie Brewer, Ronnie Price, Ty Corbin, CJ Miles and Jaron Collins. Connor had shown the others his autographs on the back of his jersey from the Jazz girls and they all decided they wanted the same.

The excitement of the evening overshadowed the lack of dinner for most of the night and then it hit all four of them almost simultaneously. Exhausted, we made our way over to the super-healthy Crown Burger and I delighted in listening to the boys discuss the “girly-smell” left on their jersey’s from the Jazz dancers in an attempt to display their disgust. I am not sure they were entirely convincing.

As I listened to them jabber on the way home that night about the events of the evening, I was so content to see the joy created in that one simple night out and was filled with so much satisfaction. A smile formed across my face thinking about the cargo I was hauling and I thought once again to myself, “Guess what I have in my hands?" "And the Jazz party tickets weren't all that bad either.” Wow! Am I ever blessed.

The Many Faces of Rando

I know that it seems like all I have been posting lately is pictures. I had someone comment to me this week on how discriptive Randon is with all of his facial expressions.

Chet and I often comment on the facial expressions of our littlest monkey. There is usually no doubt as to how he is feeling, because it is written all over his face. I remember back thinking the same thing about Riley when he was so young. The problem is, over the years I remember that he was so expressive, I just can’t recollect the exact look. That makes me so sad. I am sorry Riley for not doing this with you.

I have tried to capture a few of the emotions Randon’s face declares in a single day. There is no way I can capture them all, but hopefully these few will spark a few desperately sought-after memories down the road.

I Need (Want) a Vacation

I was going through my pictures this morning and these I just love. Some of the people that I care about most in this whole world were gathered together for a fun vacation in 2007. Thought I would show them off.

Morning Sit-ups

I think this is so fun to watch. (Probably because, as you can see, I am not participating.) Riley is the sit-up king. Connor was a bit discouraged this morning not being able to do it with them due to his recent surgery. But rest assured, he is amazing as well. Randon, well he is just the icing on the cake.



25 seconds later...

A favorite quote...

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." -Robert Frost

My Newly Acquired Artwork

From the artist - formerly known as Randon...

When Rando gave me these pictures, he had some explanations behind them. I have included these explanations under each picture for clarification. As with any artist, he sincerely hopes that the essence of his pictures is fully conveyed therefore upholding the integrity of his work. My understanding, as well as yours, is very, very important to him. Rando fishing with Dad

Notice:

-The cute little fishies

-Dad is wearing his hat

-Dad is fishing and Rando is watching

-Rando is happy

Rando getting braces

(Anticipation I guess. He drew this as he watched his older brother Riley getting braces.)

Notice:

-The chair can move up and down

-Rando is scared

Rando and Mom walking home from Mexico

Notice:

-We are both happy

I love the toes and fingers he has added to his more recent pieces. He practices everyday.

Picture it if you can ~ But I will never forget

A picture is worth a thousand words. We have heard it a thousand times. A picture is "worth" a thousand words yet we rarely record those worthwhile words that accompany the picture. As time goes by, I am realizing my memories fade just as easily with the aid of a picture as they do without; thus, I am left with a box full of cute pictures or the mental snapshot my mind took with no complete recollection of the event they are documenting.

There are those handfuls of memories, however, that give the impression they will be around forever. So important and treasured by me, embedded deep in my mind with such clarity, they could have happened yesterday—branded forever in my consciousness such that I can never forget.

For Instance…

I will never forget the pure and tender faith of a child. It was the summer of 2007, Grandma’s cat just had baby kittens, five weeks old, and we were “considering” the idea of bringing one home as the new Ruger family pet. This was a pretty big miracle in itself, the fact that I was even toying with the notion of owning a cat—me being the self-proclaimed “anti-cat” person I was. It didn’t take long that evening for my boys to pick one out of the litter—one with the mark of a wishbone pronounced on his back—one that was the “cutest and smartest” and become immediately attached to it. The next day proved not as exciting as we helplessly watched, one by one, the little kitties started shivering, heaving and soon thereafter, dying. Distemper forced its way through in a crashing wave showing no mercy to the once lively balls of fur. We pulled little wishbone aside, trying to keep him away from the others, while I pulled Riley aside trying to prepare him for what seemed inevitable. “Riley,” I said, “you need to recognize that we have watched every other kitty get sick and die and you should prepare yourself for the same with your sweet Wish.” I had watched Riley that day as he held and cared for one of God’s creatures, not yet big enough to care for itself. I watched as he disappeared into a bedroom throughout the day, privately praying for something I felt might ultimately leave him completely devastated. I had also watched that evening as his little Wish started shivering; I read online the mortality rate of kittens under eight weeks of age with distemper was 100%. My heart broke for him.

I will never forget his response to my motherly concern. He scanned my face with his big brown eyes, confusion written all over his. “I’m sorry mom.” He replied with the confidence of a warrior. “But I have asked Heavenly Father to not let Wishbone die, and he won’t. I know it.” Needless to say we have wishbone to this day, healthy, strong and a constant reminder to me of my stripling’s unwavering faith.

I will never forget my Connor loves me. I was having a bad day. I have them from time to time. I can’t say what this particular bad day was about, it was months ago and ultimately, like most, didn’t matter. Nevertheless, there I was on the phone in tears with Chet, too wrapped up in myself to recognize the little ears in the room with me, too wrapped up in myself to notice them until they were there, right in front of me. Connor’s eyes were fixed on me and filled with a smile. “What are you smiling at?” I asked jokingly, a little uncomfortable with his expression.

I will never forget his answer. “I just love you.” He expressed—so out of place, so odd, so puzzling and yet so perfect. It didn’t come at a time where he wanted something from me, or thought he was in trouble. It was out of the blue and genuine and completely convincing. They were the exact words I needed to hear and he was the perfect messenger.

I will never forget how scary a wild turkey appears when it is running full speed towards you. Thanksgiving morning 1996, Dad, Chet, Weston and I got up bright and early to get a run in down the Snake River in Dad’s drift boat. It was a beautiful November Morning, peaceful and still. Leaves had completely fallen off the tree’s, leaving the naked branches reaching out for anything they might get their limbs on. The fish did not appear to be celebrating the day as we Americans do—with a feast, at least not the feast we were providing. Near the end of our tranquil drift, Dad caught site of a few large wild turkeys on shore. “How fitting,” I thought, as I watched them from afar. The boys in the boat had a different perception. “What better way to end an unprofitable morning fishing than by capturing a wild turkey for dinner” was their consensus.

I will never forget watching three of the most important men in my life, running through the trees, dodging branches and scaling logs, chasing the full grown birds. Maybe it was because I am a girl and not exactly privy to the brainwork behind their male tactics, but it seemed to me that all they were doing was simply chasing wild turkeys. So I followed suit, leaping from one spot to the next. The furthest thing from my mind was that the boys believed I should grab hold of one, until the opportunity to do so, in their eyes, presented itself. I stood their motionless, watching as the giant bird rushed towards me at an uncomfortable speed. “Grab it! Grab it!” was being yelled at me from multiple locations, but I froze, unable to move, lucky to breathe. “Were they insane?” “Had they forgotten I was unarmed?” To this day they won’t let me live it down—how I let their Thanksgiving prize slip through my fingers.

I will never forget the realization of knowing I was 100% completely head over heals in love. It was the night after our wedding, August 18, 1996. There had been moments throughout our dating, leading up to our nuptials, that resembled being in love. But it was in our little white Ford Ranger, tattooed with “just married” and hearts, on our way to a friend’s cabin where our honeymoon would begin, that the affirmation was undeniable. It was a clear night, the moon and stars lit up the night sky, interrupted briefly yet steadily by the thick shadowy trees lining the bending mountain road.

I will never forget that moment as my head lay on my new hubby’s lap while he drove. He gently brushed his fingers through my hair and sang to me in Marshallese Elvis’ “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.” I laid there, looking at the flickering sky, absorbing the sweetest harmony I had ever heard, and I knew. At that moment, I knew.

I will never forget the time my testimony was made sure. The time I was swaddled in my Heavenly Father’s forgiving arms and comforted in his embrace; the moment I put my fists down and forgot my guarded self just long enough for Him to ease in and for me to allow myself to become a child of God; the moment I realized the worth of my soul is great in the sight of God; the moment I learned my Savior not only suffered the pains of our sins, but suffered our pains and heartaches as well. He knows us, He understands us and He feels compassion for us.

I will never again forget the significance of His love. In the words of Nephi, “He hath filled me with His love, even unto the consuming of my flesh.” I am a child of God.

And in the end…

I will never forget that a picture is worth a thousand words, and so are my memories. So I will give them the thousand words because they are deserving of that and so much more. To me they are priceless.

Embrace the Fear

Conclusion

Scary, isn’t it? Now maybe one can understand somewhat the dilemma I face. I am a woman living in fear, confined within the walls of an entire world filled with potential, excitement and adventure. I have been entrusted with three small, extremely adorable individuals in this world, to guide, shape, feed, hold, nurture, lead, feed, encourage, support, cherish, cheer-on, protect, enjoy, teach, and of course feed; and all at the same time, love unconditionally. But in reality it has been the other way around. They are my example. They teach me more in a single day than I would ever hope to teach them in a lifetime. They are my biggest fans and are there to cheer me on and encourage me every step of the way. And when I mess-up or just feel down, they are there, not to dwell on my mistakes but to love me. They are there to wrap their perfect arms around me and assure me that I am “the best mom in the world.” How can I ever live up to them? That is my biggest fear. I am a small spec caught in the vacuum created behind the speeding train that is my three brilliant boys; I am so lucky to be along for the ride.

In the end, I believe it is ok to be a little afraid, in the words of my loving husband, "embrace the fear." Life isn’t easy. Anyone claiming it is, I guarantee, is missing out on a big part of the adventure.

Chapter 3 - And Rando Makes Three

Why is it, people say bad things always happen in threes? Is there something wrong with the number three that it was given such a dreaded expectation?

Summer of 2003 found me swollen and pregnant yet again. No matter how many times I swore I would never again face the third trimester during the hottest time of the year; it didn’t matter. Here it was again, my third inescapably hot summer, in the third trimester of my third pregnancy with my third baby boy. Strike three—I was out! Oh how I had wanted a girl. But it appeared, even after going back for our third ultrasound just to make sure they hadn’t been mistaken in their gender determination or that I wouldn’t be that unexplainable phenomena whose baby mysteriously switched sexes mid pregnancy, I was destined to have three boys.

It was September, exactly one month from Connor turning three and two months from Riley turning six. The delivery was scheduled and penciled in on the calendar, like a lunch appointment or a trip to the barber. We made arrangements for Riley and Connor, cleaned the house, did the laundry and went grocery shopping. I had a bag packed and rode calmly to the hospital. How was this possible—no waddling around the block 20 times at an unimaginable pace attempting to induce labor? No sleepless nights, propped up on the couch because if I laid down I suffocated myself with the extra 80 pounds Riley had so generously gathered up for me on his journey to full term and not a second sooner? No water breaking three weeks early, like with Connor, leaving me unprepared and uncomfortable walking into the hospital with a towel embarrassingly wrapped around me like a big diaper, visible to all I walked by? Arrangements, planning, scheduling—who knew it could be like this?

He eased into our lives almost apologetically, as if to say “pardon me, excuse me for the interruption.” His seven pound five ounce frame was child’s play in comparison to his predecessors, of whom he looked a perfect combination of. Had he sensed my disappointment, felt the tears form within me reacting to the announcement of yet another boy and no girl for me? Had I offended this beautiful baby into submission? I swore then that I would make it up to him, for how could I have possibly wanted anything different?

Two years ago, on a family trip to Mexico, we learned that our youngest son loved the water just as much as his two older brothers. However, this being the first real time we had taken him to a swimming pool, he was only 2, we weren’t real sure how he would do. To our surprise, our little amphibian decided he preferred to be underwater far more than above. After quickly dodging the full time guardians assigned to him at the time, he would jump off the edge to the depths below. It was hilarious to see him underwater; eyes wide open with a huge grin plastered across his face, completely content. He knew eventually two hands would appear from above; ready to pull him up to the surface. But he wasn’t ever ready for them. As the hands grabbed hold of the slippery bobber’s waist and started to bring him up, his head instantly plunged down as deep as he could get it. That would always be the last body part to surface, his head, fighting to stay under every step of the way. Numerous vacationers were amazed and by the end of the week they knew his name and came down to the pool with video camera in hand to capture the two-year old fish.

There isn’t much my pint-sized grand finale can’t get me to do, and I am sure he knows this even with my attempts to conceal it. He has so many facial expressions. I keep thinking that I have witnessed them all, until he uses a new one on me. He is a delight to observe. He approached me the other day, with a look of having something weighing heavily on his mind. “I want a different name,” he began. “A different name,” I asked. “Why?” He proceeded to explain how he was tired of people telling him he was cute and somehow blamed it on his name. He felt as though at the ripe old age of four, he had definitely outgrown cute and was ready to move on to cool. He firmly believed that if he had a cool name, people in turn would stop calling him cute and would undoubtedly see him for his true, cool self. This made perfect sense. Therefore, as of a short time ago, Randon became Rando and way totally cool!

How fun it is to watch him with his brothers, his posse, “my boys,” as he so proudly calls them. I’m sure that in his eyes he is every bit as big as they are; it is evident in every word and deed. It is also clear that he is following in their footsteps and teaching me more than I feel he learns from me. Numbered in that list, Rando has taught me the true meaning of patience and that I have a ways to go to be good at exercising it. I have learned that indeed I am a push over and a sucker for a cute face and an innocent smile; I have learned that having no fear sure looks like a lot of fun; I have learned that intelligence comes in all shapes and sizes and to never judge a book by it’s cover, no matter how small the book; and ultimately, I have learned that more emotion and more love can be felt in a simple, snuggling hug than words can ever, ever express.

Chapter 2 - The Monster

August 15, 2000. I was a little over seven months pregnant and had driven myself to one of many routine ultrasounds. Ready for an always exciting first-hand glimpse into the mischief our precious bundle was up to, I had geared myself up for a tiny ounce of disappointment knowing beforehand that this one would be just a bit different. With the circumstances of me having a sister born with heart defects, my doctor had arranged this visit to be preformed by a cardiologist, Dr. Luciana Young, to focus on the heart. Other ultrasounds had proven normal, but the doctor wanted to be thorough and I felt comfort in that. Comfort enough that I decided I could travel the 30 miles myself to the appointment so that Chet could stay home with Riley. After 45 minutes of an oddly silent Dr. Young, gliding the smooth jelly-covered probe around on my large gestating belly, I was relieved when the awkwardness was interrupted and she finally spoke. My ease however was short-lived due to the weight her 4 short words carried. “We need to talk.”

I am sure everyone has those moments where life socks you in the stomach and you feel as though for a brief moment you can’t breathe. Time seems to stand still. As I drove the long, busy freeway home that day, Chet never seemed farther away. Cars appeared to speed by, not noticing me as if I were trapped in some other dimension—a hesitant one moving parallel to everyone else allowing me to watch the rest of the world continue on with business as usual, except at a faster pace than I ever remembered.

“L-Transposition of the great arteries is a complex cardiac malformation with ventricular inversion and discordance of both atrioventricular and ventriculoartirial connections.” This is what Dr. Young and the internet told me was wrong with my baby. But all that I heard was that my baby wasn’t “perfect”, and then the worry kicked in.

October came and so did our second gift from God, 3 weeks early. Connor, AKA Conster Monster, or the C-Monster, swooped into our lives in a mad dash, all eight pounds six ounces of him, with a little help from the delivering doctor, a medical student, multiple nurses, a cardiac team awaiting in the wings to whisk him away, my mom, my Chet and apparently an anesthesiologist. At least I paid a bill for that later, but don’t recall his services being as successful during the blessed occasion. Everything about the moment, from the time I started pushing, seemed rushed. Time had picked a perfect occasion to play catch up all at once from two months prior. And then, in a flash it was over and I could finally breathe, everything was going to be ok. He was here, in doctor’s knowledgeable hands and my heart-felt prayers.

“Does he ever shut-up?” Grandma Bonnie had asked of our newest addition. She had been so great to come and help out that first week we were home. It appeared that Connor might have been expecting something different upon arrival into this world. He may have even been a bit disappointed it seemed, for out of his mouth on a consistent basis was not an adorable cooing, heard frequently out of the mouths of babes. It was an irritated sounding grumble. I had supposed I was already a disappointing host to a highly anticipated event for him. That, or more likely he remembered precisely where he had just come from and whom his company had been a short time before and was missing the angels.

From day one, he gave me a run for my money. I don’t believe I have ever in my life seen a baby puke as much as he did. He didn’t know the meaning of “cry himself to sleep”—even after trying everything else we could think of to get him to that peaceful state. He was addicted to a binky, a blankie and a bottle. He didn’t like other people and would cry uncontrollably when around most. And looking back I am convinced that this was my Father in Heaven’s way of helping me forget at times that there was anything different about Connor.

The Monster’s personality has changed a bit over his brief 7 years on earth; although, he still makes it known loud and clear when he is uncomfortable or hungry. He is spirited and funny and an absolute joy to be around. He tries incredibly hard to make us proud and, again, I find myself learning so much from someone nearly a quarter my age and size. I have learned that there is something to be said for taking pride in a job well done; I have learned that size does not determine the things a person can accomplish if you stick your mind to it; I have learned that “it is fun to be funny.” And finally, I have learned that even if people tell you that you aren’t “perfect”, your mom will always believe you are.

Thankfully, to be continued...

Chapter 1 - String Bean

Riley turned 10 in November. My earliest memory of him was during my 8th month of pregnancy. I had awoke from a vivid dream that had included me removing my unborn baby from my protruding belly to hold him just for a brief moment and then restoring my undercooked little tot to the oven for further development. As I attempted to describe our embryonic being to Chet while we lay in bed that morning, I could not get past the huge dark-brown eyes that at the time seemed I had imagined, but yet pierced through me like two small bullets lodging deep in my heart, there to remain until the day they were realized. Those peepers, to this moment, are the ideal centerpiece to his perfectly ball-shaped head—unchanging, even with the more frequent eye-rolls and occasional stare downs they perform. So dark, you have a difficult time identifying where his pupil stops and his iris begins. I think it might actually be possible to drown in them.

After 32 hours of labor, he was born a whopping nine pounds six ounces. I distinctly recall the look on Chet’s face, gazing down at our brand new bouncing baby boy. Expecting a look of pride, I was a bit confused to look up and see no trace of a smile—his eyes unsuccessfully hiding the resemblance of panic. I later learned, Chet’s first impression was that the Doctor had smashed our baby’s head. Due to our little bundle from heaven’s size, it was necessary that he be pulled out with a metal contraption that looked as if it belonged in the kitchen or mechanic's shop—not wrapped around my little one’s head. Thankfully, it was proven that a newborn baby’s head can be smashed beyond all recognition and recover quite nicely. Riley’s head is a testament to that.

From birth he had a natural charm, a way of drawing attention, even at times when it would have been nice for his parents to fly under the radar. One of his first words if not the first words were “big truck”. He loved trucks and he glorified biiiig trucks. Although, even through his constant exploration of new words and sounds at his young age, he had difficulty in pronouncing the “tr”, replacing it with an “f” (or a “ph” as I like to say). And so it rang through the aisles of the neighborhood grocery store and uncomfortably enclosed in the sacred walls of our local church—a belting “biiiig ph---!” It was as if someone had pushed slow motion on life’s remote control, allowing each syllable to reverberate through any empty space surrounding us. The response from those favored to witness such a lewd display was an occasional look of shock, but in most instances a snicker together with an immediate stare in my direction. It was apparent, if my undersized show-off was going down; he was dragging me with him.

I call him my little string bean. It’s conceivable that I worked just as hard bringing him into this world as I do trying to fatten him up these days. For over a year now we have been actively engaged at maintaining anything over 60 lbs. I credit this struggle to a very sporadic appetite combined with the lack of ability to sit in one place for longer than 20 seconds. In my mind, this defies all logic. Does it not take food to generate this kind of energy? He is the human pinball.

I plainly remember as a child that “look” from either of my parents warning me that I had better stop what I was doing or else! Nearly all of the time it worked. I have since come to the depressing conclusion that I don’t have the “look”. I have admittedly tried to use the “look”, but my “look” is broken, it does not work. Cue the eye-rolling and stare downs—now Riley seems to be well on his way to achieving his own “look”. Maybe it skips a generation. I should think about taking lessons from him. He is a smart kid, “an ideal student” his teacher said this year. Smarter than his parents? I sure hope, at least, not yet; although it feels at times like it won’t be long.

With your first, I hear it is normal to push a little for perfection. After all, you could never admit that your mother’s curse had worked and you indeed had a little whippersnapper just like yourself. Everyday I think I learn something new from my oldest baby boy. Among those in the long list of lessons he has taught me are; my tastes in fashion are not evolving—I don’t welcome the faux-hawk, I do not care for the hat worn sideways and I hardly have the stomach for the pants cinched-up tight underneath the buttocks; additionally, I have learned that I am not as speedy or nimble as I once was. I have also learned that no matter how hard I may push him to do things the way I want, it's plausible that my way may not be all that amazing and ultimately ends up driving him farther away from me. Finally, throughout this short oral history I have learned that Riley was easy and that it's likely he was just a warm-up for who was waiting for me just around the corner.

Once again, to be continued…

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

Introduction

Fear: A feeling of agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger; a feeling of disquiet or apprehension.

As a little girl there weren’t many things in life that I claimed to be terrified of. I even provided a home for many small creeping things, the very bottom drawer in my tall brown dresser. It was always confusing to me, however, that I could put a water snake and a couple of frogs in one day and the next have none. I would spend the next couple of days searching the hallways and rooms just down from my bedroom in the basement hoping and praying that I would find my liberated little friends before I heard the dreaded war cry from my mom that always started with an accelerating “Tresa!”

I never considered myself prejudice when it came to the small and unfortunate critters that I would take into my care, or lack thereof. If I could catch them I would and then proceed to conceal them away in a pocket or two for the always challenging flight past mom to their new hostel.

Nonetheless, there were those select few that never made it into my keeping if I had any choice in the matter, those of the eight-legged kind. Arachnids, even the name does not carry any good will. I have never appreciated their creepiness I suppose. I don’t know exactly when my anxiety started. I do have a memory of me as a young girl, sitting outside by an old white car of ours. It had been abducted from a grocery store parking lot, recovered in less than mint condition from a remote ditch, and then laid to rest behind our house as in what appeared to be a shrine. My dad loved that car and I’m not sure he was ready to part with it. So there it sat, collecting weeds, dust and a few too many spiders.

I quietly perched on a log positioned near the passenger-side door, head in my hands, observing the tedious lacework being laid out before me by a large, but nonetheless disturbing, cat-face spider. I stared at this small spinner, who seemed oblivious to me and my observations, and noticed the strange markings he carried upon his back. Upon further review, they seemed to have a slight resemblance to a face, one that lay comfortably attached to his back as if cloud-gazing while he worked.

Perhaps it was at this point my apprehension towards the little monsters was born. As insignificant and harmless this little being appeared, there was something more to him. It occurred to me then and there that not only was this creation alive, but he appeared to have some form of an agenda. I wondered, “what if Mr. Spider had a list of chores to get done from Mrs. Spider?” “What if what appeared to me as simple web-spinning was in fact cleaning the kitchen or setting the table?” “What if, I thought I was watching him, but in reality, he was watching me? Was I a part of his agenda?”

I have since, thankfully, outgrown a bit of my illogical thinking from long ago. Despite that fact, I do hold true to the notion that there aren’t many things that terrify me. I do realize that spiders, with their beady little cluster of eyes and their uncanny ability to sneak up on me unexpectedly to this day, are by far and away a lot smaller than I am and therefore my phobia of them may have been a bit exaggerated.

However, it appears that any misgivings I may have had towards them quite possibly have been replaced by that of three, not entirely as creepy, yet still extremely sneaky, little boys in my life. Terrified may be a strong word, but there is a significant amount of fearfulness associated. But the wisdom that I have acquired over the years instructs, “I can’t let them smell it!”

Being raised with four sisters, I believe that I may have underestimated the force of a young energetic boy. Why would a person fear their own adorably-innocent child you may ask? I have wondered this very question myself. To that end, I have paid particular attention to these three half-grown tykes placed in my charge for some revelation to that daunting mystery. Over the course of my short investigation, it has become apparent to me that I have good reason to be afraid, in fact, I should be very afraid.

To be continued…

My New Bedroom Furniture...

A big thanks to my dad!
I think that I will let this one speak for itself.

Life, Through My Eyes

I want to write, I could possibly even say I long to write. In a single day, I have a million and one thoughts that race around in my head like strong, powerful horses stampeding around an endless racetrack. Sometimes these thoughts run through so fast, I wish I had reigns to pull them back and say “Whoa! Where are you going so fast? Please, hang out with me for awhile. Sit and let me enjoy you before you dart off and disappear just like the second, the minute that they happened in.” Gone, in a blink of an eye.

I have recently discovered that if I actually take the time alone with each of these thoughts individually, they are truly worthwhile, interesting even, definitely worthy of the few short moments I am allowing them.

I ran around the house yesterday morning feeling extremely disorganized because I had 10 minutes to get my stuff together and get out the door to the second of six writing classes that I enjoy so much I almost feel guilty. It was Valentines Day and Chet was staying home this morning with Randon, as he did last Thursday morning and will do for four more allowing me such a great gift I barely know how to thank him.

I pulled up to the house of the remarkably kind-hearted Ms. Charmaine, who not only permits us into her home without so much as a knock on the door first, but does it at no charge. The wind tore the snow from its once peaceful bed on the ground and whipped it all around me as if I were in a giant snow globe and someone was shaking it fiercely. I let myself in and made my own way through the hall and down the short flight of stairs filled with fantastic artwork that had been painted, drawn and airbrushed by Charmaine and her sweet family. I borrowed a seat around the table among 8 beautiful women and the class began. I found myself lost in their words as each of the women shared the life stories they had written and was deeply touched.

Emotions are a funny thing. I believe they are what make it possible for a person to sit in a room with others, unknown to them a week ago, and feel a connection so quickly through something so simple as their own written and spoken words. Is life really so interesting? I firmly believe it is.

Through my newly acquired love of writing, I have discovered that everyone’s life is a brilliant novel filled with individual stories containing plenty of drama, their share of adventure, hopefully oodles of comedy and unfortunately a bit of tragedy.

This is why I write. I haven’t’ been doing it for long, but have found that I miss it terribly when I don’t. I don’t plan on sharing every story with everyone; at least Chet has declared “you better not!” But, hopefully through continuing it, one day all of my family and friends will be able to look back on their life through my eyes and know without any doubt how much I love them and enjoy being a part of their life’s novel. I can’t imagine sharing mine with anyone else.

Good Laugh

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OBlgSz8sSM

I was looking on my friend's blog the other day where she had this little video posted. Her blog is private so I wanted to be able to spread it. This is one of the funniest things I have seen. Thanks Amy for the laugh.

A Custom-Built Family Man

I am always in awe of the beautiful creations that are skillfully assembled out of a simple pile of wood; that an ordinary piece of timber can be cut, sanded and molded together with other pieces to form something so sound and magnificent.

As I pulled up to my father’s shop this cold February Saturday afternoon to take a look at a piece of furniture he was making for us to go in our bedroom, I was so grateful I had a father who had such a talent. I was equally as grateful that I was able to benefit from such a talent. My mind was racing ahead to the idea of having this piece in place in my home and how wonderful it was going to be.

Chet and I walked up to the door through the melting snow and opened it to the sound of Creedence Clearwater playing in the background. I breathed in the smell of freshly ripped lumber mixed with lacquer. Dad appeared from behind a massive structure that at first did not occur to me was the object of our visit there that day. Upon further examination, I was stunned at the sheer size of it. I walked over to get a closer look. I marveled at how different and beautiful the wood looked from its original state. The grain distinctly stood out to me and Dad explained that it marked the hard and soft variations in the wood. I watched as he lightly rubbed his finger across the face of a panel door. “I don’t know if you can feel that?” He questioned. As I followed his actions, I felt the subtle contrast under my fingers.

I find it very fitting that if you look up the word “man” in the dictionary, you find several different meanings. One definition reads, “to strengthen, fortify or brace”. As I observed the features of Dad’s face, topped with thick brown hair and surrounding deep brown eyes, I noticed the character that time has imprinted on him. It was strikingly similar to the grain on the material he has worked with for so many years.

I reflect back to the numerous occasions as a little “tom-boy”, desperate to spend any moment I could with Dad. Looking forward to the short trek down the horse pasture in the summer for him to irrigate and for me to fill my jacket pockets with water snakes, water skippers and, if I were so lucky, an unguarded frog; appreciating the time alone together in our 1980 root beer-colored Ford truck on our way to and from an occasional hunt for pheasants or rock chucks; sitting and waiting in that same truck, munching on kippered snacks and crackers, eager for him to surface over the horizon's snowy peak, our newly chopped Christmas tree following close behind; patiently lurking behind a king-size snow fort with my sisters for a suspecting dad to drive up so we could pummel him with a mound of formerly prepared snowballs; or listening intently to the proper way to gut and scale a freshly-caught trout.

His has been a lifetime filled with strengthening and fortifying his family. Each line in his face representing the hard work realized over the years and a soft and compassionate heart so familiar to those who know him best. I watched as the evidence of bracing life’s blows was pronounced in every step that he took and was filled with an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude for the man who stood before me.

Life has beaten and broken his body but sanded and molded his spirit into something so sound and magnificent. This is a custom-built family man.

Where did my shy Connor go????

The very first parent teacher conference we had with Connor's kindergarten teacher was concerning. His teacher had explained that for the first week of school she thought that maybe she had his name wrong. The reason being that when she called his name, he would stare at her with this blank look. She went on to say that she "even waited for his eyes to start rolling back in his head and wondered if he was ok." I knew my Connor was shy, but I had no idea.

Connor would come home from school that first year and I would ask him how his day went. He would hold up his two boyishly-dirty hands, palms out, and show me the new blisters that he had acquired that day from doing the monkey bars. "I am getting so good at the monkey bars, mom" he would say with a grin. He didn't talk about friends and so I asked him if he had made any new friends at school. Although his answer may have varied a little, it meant the same thing. He was playing by himself but becoming an expert on the monkey bars.

Fast forward a year to the present and my oh my how the pendulum has swung. My once timid little boy has blossomed into a social butterfly, or maybe he would prefer me say "social moth". They are so cautious as not to appear too delicate.

At the start of his first grade year, I thought I could try to avoid a repeat of that first parent teacher conference and I decided to write his new teacher, Mrs. Davis, a lengthy email about how shy he was and my concerns over this. I wanted him to be able to find friends and find himself. I continued to convey how she may have to encourage him to participate and talk to other kids.

As I walked into the school for our first PTC, anticipating what this new year was bringing for my big 1st grader, I was confident that my email at the first of the year had been welcomed. A lifesaver even. That Mrs. Davis had to have been so grateful for the insight into this quiet boy, that it explained so much about him. What a complete shock to me when it didn't go as had played out in my mind.

Connor was no longer "shy" it appeared. Mrs Davis was confused by my email and thought she may have misunderstood it. Was I really sitting in a parent teacher conference for my Connor, discussing when it was appropriate and not appropriate to talk to the person sitting next to him? I walked out of that meeting a little dazed and confused.

I sincerely am not sure how it happened, or even when it happened. Unfortunately, as with so many things in my life it seems, I went to bed with one of them a baby and woke up with him 7 years old and forming his own opinions and sharing them with everyone.

I vaguely recall bits and pieces of forewarnings coming at me over the years like; time will fly so quickly and enjoy them while they are young because they won't be young long.

It appears that I need to pay closer attention to those little bits and pieces people give me here and there before my boys are all grown up and gone and I've missed it all. I have been given a precious gift from a gracious Father in Heaven... front row seats for one of the greatest shows on earth. I think from now on I will try to sit back, pop some popcorn and enjoy the show!

To Chet, From Your Biggest Fans.

Why is there a day set aside for proclaiming our love for our significant other to the world? Is there really a need for such a reminder? "Hey there, it's that time of year again! That time of year that you need to express your love like never before. That time of year that you need to pull out all the stops and make sure your special someone knows that you truly do love them deeper than the ocean and... well, you know the rest. And oh yeah, remember to make sure you go overboard this one day because you know it will have to last for another 364 days."

I have not been able to get this thought out of my head today. It has occupied my mind almost to irritation. I don't want to be guilty of carrying out such an absurd idea. I would hope that my husband knows how much I love him every day. But it dawned on me, I am guilty! Just because I hope he knows, doesn't mean he does. So in an attempt at authenticating the fact that I do recognize and cherish him and the things that he does for me and our beautiful family, I am dedicating my writing today to the the man that steals my heart and wins me over everyday. My Chet.

*************

So where do I begin. I know exactly how I feel about you, but how do I capture it in words. I know that I would never be able to describe accurately the emotion I feel when I am around you. To express how I feel about you as a father and a husband and a friend.

I watch you with our 3 boys, how you interact with them, and it seems pretty apparent to me that they love you and enjoy you so much. But so as not to assume too much, I decided to go to the source. Following are quotes from each of them, taken right from the horse's mouths, when asked how they felt about their dad and what they would like to tell him.

Riley (10)
"Thank you for helping us make that snow cave and playing with us a lot. And I especially want to thank you for letting us go snowboarding with you yesterday. You are so fun. I love you."

Connor (7)
"Thank you for wrestling with us at night and playing football with us. I think you are fun and a good dad. I love you."

Randon (4)
"Thank you skiing with us. And thank you wrestling with us. Thank you taking care of us. I'm thinking in my head. My brain is saying like please can you get me a toy. Thank you giving me so much toys."

You are such a great dad. I couldn't have hand picked a better one. Wait a minute, I did hand pick you. I hand picked you that moment that I saw you up at the pulpit that Sunday afternoon reporting your mission. What can I say, you had me at Amen.

I also pay very close attention to how you interact with me. I am very aware that the majority of things that you do on a daily basis are very selfless. I know that you want me to be happy and that you work for that every single day. What a difficult calling in life, being a father and a husband. So much weight is carried on those broad shoulders. I want you to know that I enduringly believe that you carry that weight honorably. I am proud that you are my husband and am so grateful you are my best friend.

Happy February 5th, Chet!

Too much snow?

Is it possible to have too much snow? We don't think so!

Show me a heaping pile of snow plowed into a smaller scale of Mt. Everest and I will show you three determined boys excited and eager at the prospects of climbing and riding it.

With sled in hand they tredged up the 7 ft. sheer mountain face, formed by over a week of plowing snow storm after snow storm. No man was left behind, as the last of the three brave boys, conquered the elements in their endeaver to find the perfect sleding grounds.

They paused for a brief moment to savor their victory (and a quick photo-op) before climbing aboard their sleek missle that would shoot them down their slippery route. Nevermind that even from their perched view high above, their destination looked, well, a little bare. Oh well, nothing better to stop your decent than a big patch of black paved road.

Well done boys! Enjoy the snow.

"Teenie guy" battle

Randon has always preferrred the little "teenie" action figure guys. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that he is a little on the "teenie" side himself. Maybe he can relate to them a little better. Who knows?

He will usually throughout the day go and gather all of the little guys together and strategically position them around the room in what he defines as nothing short of a "battle". He will arrange guys hiding under blankets, peeking out from under the couch, perched up on the table and even suspended on the strings of the blinds. After the setup, he then he proceeds to carry out this full-length battle in its entirety; complete with loud gun, fighting and dying sound effects.

I find it very interesting that when he illistrates these battles out on paper, the guys are still "teenie". Maybe he truly believes that strength does not come in size but in numbers. I just love his pictures though and I wanted to be able to capture one. He could tell you all about it, down to the guys names I'm sure, if you would like.

4th Grade Science Fair???

Last night I had my first experience with a 4th grade science fair. Were these kids really 4th graders? You have got to be kidding me!

Sometime in December, Riley came home with a handout from school. “Elephants never forget and neither do 4th graders. Remember the science fair. January 30, 2008.” I remember thinking, “This should be fun. Riley loves science projects.” I told him to go get his book of science projects and pick one that he would like to do. As he thumbed through the pages, he found it; growing crystals, every little boys dream, right?

We spent the next month “thinking” about it, and the week before it was due we started. I had Chet stop at the grocery store and pick up the all important, very technical, secret ingredient… laundry booster. It would take a couple of days for the crystals to grow so we grabbed our glass jar, added the ingredients and set it aside for time to work its magic. Within hours, it started to work. “This was going to be so cool.”

Then it came time for the ever important “display piece”. I grabbed a piece of neon orange poster board we had in our closet for just such an occasion and put it down in front of Riley. I had images in my head of fancy fonts and fun borders. Just as I started to discuss our game plan, he looked at me and said, “Can I do it?” I was a little surprised by his question, nevertheless, “Sure,” I said, “what do you need?” He said, “I need a sharpie.” I waited for something more and nothing more came. I then replied, “I could go get you some white paper to use so it will show up better or something.” He said, “No, just a sharpie.” I thought, ok, it IS his project and so sharpie it is. He proceeded to write out his whole project; hypothesis, procedure, results, conclusion, all out on this plain orange poster board. And when it was finished I looked at it and thought, “Good job, Riley.”

As we pulled into the school parking lot on January 30th at 6:25—exactly 25 minutes late, Riley complained—it was packed. We walked into the school gymnasium/lunch room, and I’m not positive, but I think my mouth dropped open just a bit in unbelief. “Was I in the right place? Is this the 6th grade science fair or maybe even the high school science fair?”

I entered the room filled with rows and rows of projects. Astonished I thought to myself, “What was this, display board? They make such a thing?” “And the fonts look at the fonts, the borders and the charts and the graphs. These guys meant business.” As I looked over at Riley I didn’t expect to see the big smile that was on his face. “Mine is over here, Mom,” he said. And as he led me down a colorful row I looked toward the end, and there, towered like a three story building in downtown New York City, was Riley’s neon orange poster board flashing like a neon sign. At that moment an immense feeling of embarrassment washed over my body.

As the fair continued on and I figured I had spent ample time there, I tracked Riley down and said “It’s time to go.” Instantly he got this look of disappointment and said to me “But mom, we have to stay. They are going to announce the winners and I might get an award.” I thought, “An award?” Careful not to dash his hopes, I moped off and sat on the stage and laid low for the awards to be presented. As I waited, a thought went through my mind. “Was he really so unaware?”

And then it hit me. My son had done the whole thing by himself and he was proud of it; it was written all over his face. I watched as he waited with anticipation as they called out the winners.

What a profound lesson he taught me in that moment. It shouldn’t matter what our appearance is in life, what we drive or what we wear. What should really matter is the hard work and effort we put into it. And at the end of the day, even if we are surrounded by people with so much on display, if we have done our best and worked hard, we should be proud!

Visitors at our house...

Look who came to visit us over the weekend!

I am loving winter at our house, we never know who will visit us. This picture was taken from out our upper back deck looking over the balcony and down into the hollow. You can see in the upper picture the raccoon, a deer eating below him and a little blue jay in the upper left of the tree. Three little creatures trying to find food among the steady stream of snow storms that seem to be hitting us. I don't think I have seen snow like this since I was a kid. It is beautiful! What I wouldn't give for a snow-day like we would have when I was a little girl. All snowed in and nowhere to go. Darn those snowplows!

Starting Something New...

I have recently started a new venture. Those moments in life that pass by so quickly, those little things that I want to remember and I want my kids to remember, I've wanted to find a way to record them. To record them in a way that when I read them in the future I will be brought back to that moment. There is a neighbor of mine that I have become friends with that writes little stories about everyday events she wants to remember. She shared one with me and I was instantly hooked. The moment she read it to me, I said, "I want to do that!" I wanted to learn to write my little memories down the way that she had. And so with a little help and a lot of credit to her, I am attempting to do just that. The following is my first short story of something that happened today. I definately have a ways to go to do exactly what I want to be able to, but you have to start somewhere, right? So here goes... my first of hopefully many story moments of my family and my life. It is titled, "Just 2 Minutes".

"Just 2 Minutes"

“Just two minutes mom, please. That is so short, just please mom.” He said as he looked at me with those big droopy eyes with so much pleading in them I couldn’t help myself.

“Ah, OK!” I said with defeat yet again as he pulled out his last weapon that I am utterly defenseless against… those eyes and that sweet determined look all wrapped up in innocence.

How does he do it, that Randon—all 35 lbs of him? That 20 year-old boy crammed packed into that miniature 4 year-old body. Looking so cute in his camo undershirt he has refused to take off for the past two days; his yellow t-shirt looking so stylish over the top. And his gray 4T corduroy pants that I spent 15 minutes trying to convince him weren’t church pants, just to get him to wear them this Tuesday morning.

How does he do it? How does he know exactly how to move his body in that hunched over way that makes him look so helpless when I know darn well he’s not? How does he know how to move his little toddler hands in that perfect way holding up two stubby little fingers making those “two minutes” look so small? How does he know to do that look, scrunching up his eyebrows together making 3 distinct wrinkles across his padded baby-faced forehead? And those eyes, how does he know how to put so much emotion into those two brown, exact eyes, piercing through me with so much intensity? I almost feel like a little girl again, sitting in front of my parents knowing I did something wrong and just waiting for my punishment.

How does he do it? I don’t know, but one thing is for sure, he knows what he is doing and at 4 years old, he is a pro! 2 minutes of XBOX “su-sisty” with my precious boy. How can I resist such an offer? It is my privilege, my blessing to spend 2 minutes, 2 years, an eternity if I am so lucky, with such a special spirit.

As we sit down to play, he reminds me of our mission together, to “beat down” the little alien guys who have a far more cool name than a mom can remember, and to save “Antona”, which all boils down to and simply translates into “saving the world”. How lucky am I? What perfect little moments I get to share with one of my most favorite little people. Him and I in “2 small minutes” saving the world together, side by side. Listening to the excitement in his giggles and the resolution in his orders to me, I decide then and there, there is nowhere else on earth I would rather be.

Thank you, Randon, for this moment and for so many others like it. I love you!