"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.