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.