For my Four

So Random

2012-01-31T13:56:00.000-08:00

Yes, I copied that title from the Disney Channel. I don't care. I like it.
If we make it to tomorrow (Feb. 1st) we will have officially survived January. Why is that important? Because, for me at least, January is a monotonous, tedious, downright boring month. And I always celebrate when it is over.

Tomorrow also marks 8 weeks since I submitted Indigo, my totally fabulous YA paranormal manuscript, to my dream publisher. According to their submission guidelines, 8 weeks is their typical turnaround on manuscripts. According to my past experience with them, 8 weeks is the longest I've waited for a rejection. This could be good. Or it could simply mean they are backlogged and taking extra time in the review process. Only time will tell.

I know I've totally failed my resolution to blog weekly. Blame it on that fact that I'm a glutton for punishment. I'm trying with all my creative strength to finish Shadow Waters, the next book in The Sprightling Diaries series. Originally, I was supposed to push through it by the end of November. When that failed, I set January as a target. Nope, didn't happen. So, the end of February it is. It will get done. It. Will. Get. Done.

On top of that, I decided to sign up for a Personal Trainer course. Why? I've always wanted to be a fitness instructor. And, why not? I have a dream of starting a fitness blog. (Actually, I've already started the blog but haven't done anything with it yet.) Stay tuned for that one.

Books on my bedside table this month:
Moon Over Manifest by Clare Vanderpool
The Year the Swallows Came Early by Kathryn Fitzmaurice
ACT Personal Trainer Certification (No one really cares who wrote that book. I just need to get it read.)

So, now go find a book and get your read on, get out and get some sun on your skin--even if it does mean freezing your hiney off, and remember to join me on Facebook and at SprightlingDiaries.com (as if you need another reminder).

Blackbirds and Resolutions

2012-01-11T09:10:00.000-08:00

Blackbirds land in the

arms of winter-bare trees like

thoughts in open minds.

What are you thinking about today?

I'm thinking that I already failed on one of my New Year's resolutions--and I don't particularly care.

I resolved that every day I would list one thing I must do, on thing I should, and one thing I want to do, and then do them. I have been faithful in making my list every morning. The problem comes when, by noon, what seemed important at dawn gets pushed aside.

And yesterday nothing was more important than getting my son transferred out of a classroom headed by a bully whose agenda it is to brazenly assault the fledgling testimonies of the seventh-grade minds put in his care when they are only beginning to explore the border-less fields of Faith.

Yeah, protecting my child's impressionable mind put my plans to update the bank book on hold for an afternoon. And today I'm wrestling with the unfinished items on yesterday's list.

Flexibility is key in parenting--and resolutions, I suppose. Who knew?

And the Winner is . . .

2012-01-02T10:50:00.000-08:00

Mary Rubow--a signed copy of In the Twilight.
Heidi L. Murphy and Melissa Pearl--abalone shell necklaces similar to those in the book.
Cindy Hogan, Diana (Lady of Narnia), and Elizabeth Mueller--glow-in-the-dark wristbands.

All winners were randomly selected on Random.org. I will email each winner to get mailing addresses. Thanks to all for participating! And remember, you can always get a copy at Amazon.com.

Now that the Debutante Ball is finished, I am looking forward to some "regular" blogging. I used to be really good at blogging. And by that I mean that I used to do it regularly, as in at least weekly. Then, sometime around two years ago, I kind of drifted away from blogging. With the start of a new year I'd like to renew my blogging passion. I miss the connections I made while spilling my guts in cyberspace.
So, for the year 2012, I am issuing myself a challenge: to blog weekly for an entire year. I will be using my daughter's little box of writing prompts to spur my imagination and hopefully my writing genius.

Other resolutions for the year include reading and writing one hour every day (hard to believe I don't do this already, but I can be kind of a slacker at times); drinking less soda and more water; praying more; and accomplishing three things a day: one thing I must do, one thing I should do, and one thing I want to do. Wish me luck. I hope this year I stick to my resolutions.

How about you? What are your resolutions this year?

Psst, I've Got a Giveaway

2011-12-21T04:00:00.000-08:00

There is a village cradled in the northern woods, a town like any other--only this town has a secret centuries old. What if it was your job to keep that secret safe?

Fourteen-year-old Avril Holly lives in a world full of secrets: Not only is she half faery, sprouting wings at twilight, but suddenly she also has the ability to read minds. When she is attacked while walking home alone in her otherwise peaceful community, she learns that she must use her mind-reading powers to protect her people from the curious and sometimes dangerous human beings around them.

When she discovers that Vestyn, her best friend’s brother, helped save her from the attacker, what started out as childhood friendship takes on new depth, growing into a budding romance. Though she worries their telepathic connection will ruin their blossoming relationship, Avril must learn to work with Vestyn to keep their community safe and their faery heritage a secret.

In the Twilight, the first book in The Sprightling Diaries series, will have fans of fantasy and paranormal fiction of all ages wishing for wings and asking,

“What if . . .?”

I'm thrilled to see my little book published and my sprightlings getting their wings. I began dreaming up and consequently writing In the Twilight during the summer of 2008 while sitting in my backyard with two of my nieces and three of my four children. We began talking about books and I proposed that we write a book of our own, asking, "What if your entire town had a secret and it was your job to keep that secret safe?" We ended up with a middle-grade to 'tween fantasy novel, the first in a series.

Fast forward a few years and many tears later, I was offered a contract to publish my book in the summer of 2011. After doing a happy dance around the kitchen, I got to work preparing the manuscript for the publisher and settled in writing a sequel tentatively titled Shadow Waters.

Of course we all dream of our books one day becoming a movie. And if that is not our dream, we at least conjure up images of the characters we create, usually based on real-life people. Well, if my book were to be made into a movie in the near future, preferably before these kids need walkers and take their great-grandchildren to the premier, the role of Avril Holly would be played by:

Abigail Breslin.

In the role of Vestyn Winter, I would cast:

Sterling Knight.

(No celebrity endorsement implied.)

(Oh, and, yes, I got these pics off of Google Images.)

Now for the fun part: the giveaway.

Be sure to like The Sprightling Diaries Facebook page,
visit SprightlingDiaries.com,
and then leave a comment here so I know who you are and what you stand for. Kidding. I only want to know who you are and if you followed the rules of the game.

(If you would like to read more about my everyday life, you are welcome to follow this blog. But I warn you, it's a lot about my kids, family, my inner thoughts, etc. read: boring.)

On January 2nd, I will choose, at random, six winners.

What are you playing for?

One winner will receive a signed copy of In the Twilight
Two winners will receive abalone shell necklaces similar to those described in the book
Three winners will jump up and down for glow-in-the-dark Sprightling Diaries wristbands.

Are you excited? Well, you should be. I am.

Want more but can't wait to win a signed copy? Be sure to click on over to Amazon.com and buy a copy of your own.

A Signing

2011-12-15T09:03:00.000-08:00

So, I am pleased to announce that In the Twilight is finally available. Right now the easiest way to snag a copy is definitely Amazon. However, you can also visit any Eborn Books store along the Wasatch Front and pick up a copy. If you want a signed copy then drop by the Valley Fair Mall in West Valley City, Utah this Friday, December 16th (oh, that's tomorrow. Yikes!) where I will be doing a signing between 5 and 7 pm. I'd love to see you there!

Also, todays debut author was added to the tour a bit late. But she's definitely worth it, so click on over and visit Claudia Lefeve http://www.claudialefeve.com and enter for a chance to win a copy of her book, Parallel.

A Feast of Debut Authors

2011-12-12T12:59:00.000-08:00

I am excited to announce the Debutante Ball--a feast of debut authors. Beginning today and continuing throughout the holidays until December 30th, we will spotlight our books and share some cinematic fun as well!

Join up and comment for giveaways--you know, books and cool swag. Most of our contests will end Saturday, the 31st!

What do we want of you? Just your comment luvin' and cool invites to as many friends as you can gather for our every appearance--each shout out you do is just that much more of a chance to WIN BIG! Just let us know as you do them so we know to throw that in the voting box.

Here's the list of awesome debut authors that will lure you with lots of cool stuff to win!
Remember, most of all, have fun! (BTW, I will be debuting my book on the 21st!)

12 Elizabeth Mueller elizabethmueller.blogspot.com

13 Regan Guerra reganguerra.blogspot.com

14 Melissa Pearl melissapearl.blogspot.com

16 Joseph Beekman josephsstoriesandtales.blogspot.com/

17 Pendragon Innmen PendragonWrites.com

19 Alex J. Cavanaugh alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com

20 Gillian Schafer gillianjoy-livingtowrite.blogspot.com

21 FiaunaLund formyfour.blogspot.com

22 Anastasia V. Pergakis labotomyofawriter.com/

23 H. Linn Murphy murph4slaw.blogspot.com

26 Tanya Contois speedyreader-allthingsbooks.blogspot.com

27 Patti Larsen pattilarsen.blogspot.com

28 Red Tash RedTash.com

29 Annetta Ribken wordwebbing.com

30 Cindy Hogan watched-thebook.blogspot.com

*Disclaimer: I have not read the materials promoted or presented on these blogs. The views expressed and materials presented are not a representation of my own views or opinions. Enter (or click, as it were) at your own risk.

Meandering Toward a Blog Tour . . .

2011-12-12T12:27:00.000-08:00

Meandering
Ever so slightly
Descending,
I struggle and strive
Only to
Come up
Regrettably short,
Ever forgettable--mediocre.

What does this acrostic have to do with anything? Nothing, really. It just popped into my head last night as I fought for sleep. I had to type it out to get any peace. You know how it is.

Now for something not so mediocre--

elizabethmueller.blogspot.com/

Check out my new friend Elizabeth Mueller's blog for the debut blog tour. Leave a comment for a chance to win swag--you know, books and prizes. Today she's featuring her book Darkspell, a YA paranormal. It looks good. I'm going to go comment so I can win an autographed copy (I hope).

Then be sure to return for my debut on the 21st. I look forward to seeing and hearing from you all then!

2011-12-08T09:07:00.000-08:00

Getting ready for the holidays this year meant putting together a photo arrangement of this beautiful man.

It was considerably more difficult than I had expected; I hadn't planned on tears as I sifted through the library of photos of my brother.

I always think of family during the holidays, but this year, naturally, I am feeling a heightened sense of gratitude for all the people in my life.

Three years ago, just before Thanksgiving, I nearly lost my sister to a stroke. Benjy and I hurried to the hospital to meet the helicopter that had transported our sister from Logan to Salt Lake. Her husband would have to make the long drive from their home, so it was my brother and I who met with the doctors and social worker.

It was a scary time as we waited to hear our sister's prognosis. And even after we learned her life had been spared, it was an even longer wait to find out how much of our sister we would have left. Benjy and I spent a lot of time together talking, hoping, thinking, praying, and of course laughing, at Mindy's bedside. We didn't know if she would ever walk, let alone speak again. She got pneumonia; her lung collapsed; she had to relearn how to swallow, walk, write, and talk again. And we waited for any sign that Mindy would still be Mindy after she recovered.

Today, Mindy is doing fine--almost better than ever! She runs races, teaches reading, and is enrolled at Utah State University. And I am grateful for that trial for a number of reasons. This year, as we celebrated what Mindy calls her "strokiversary," I took a moment to celebrate the time that tragedy, as difficult as it was, allowed me to spend with my brother. Who would have known that not three years later I would be planning my brother's funeral, picking out his casket, and arranging his burial plot? I don't think anyone is prepared for that task in their thirties--or maybe at any age, for that matter. There was a moment during the funeral planning when I literally cried out asking my Heavenly Father for a tender mercy. Now I know I got one. Today I think of that time in the hospital with my brother and sister as Heaven sent.

And as I think back on his life, I find this post by my dear friend Susan Anderson so fitting and so appropriate.

Benjy, I miss you. Nothing is the same this year without you.

Speaking of Embarrassing Moments . . . The Interview

2011-11-07T12:04:00.000-08:00

I have to say before anyone listens to this that I usually really hate the sound of my own voice. I cringe when I listen to the answering machine message and usually refuse to speak when my husband records home videos. That said, I had an interview last month with author Nick Galieti who works with my publisher. The idea behind the interview is to "get to know me as an author" and spread the word about In the Twilight and The Sprightling Diaries. The interview was recorded and is being played on one of the publisher's Websites here.

Have a listen, but don't laugh too hard when you hear be describe my book as "whimsical" (the word popped out before I could edit myself).

Little Box of Writing Prompts

2011-11-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

First of all, let me start with a sincere thank you to all those who chimed in yesterday. It was nice to hear (read) that others fall into a blogging funk from time to time.

I liked what Emmy said about using writing prompts when all else fails. And it just so happens that this morning while cleaning the kitchen (read: shuffling clutter from one counter to the other) I came across an Altoids tin that felt surprisingly light, as in empty. When I opened it, a question popped out. Well, it was a card with a question on it. I thought: Writing prompt.

About a month ago my daughter brought home a stack of conversation starter cards from a church activity and placed them all neatly in an empty Altoids tin. Like many, many other things, it ended up shoved under a pile of school papers and junk mail. Until this morning when I opened and read the prompt: Tell your most embarrassing moment.

Now, I'm going to be really frank with y'all right now. I do not really want to write about my most embarrassing moment. My truly, honestly most embarrassing moment(s) will likely remain secret remembered (hopefully) only by Yours Truly. I think of my most embarrassing moments as synonymous with my most humiliating moments. However, I will share silly, funny moments when asked.

Once in high school I did a really embarrassing (read: stupid) thing I hope no one remembers. Why would drag myself back through that trauma by sharing a moment like that. On the other hand, once in high school I ran up to a guy I thought I knew, pulled his shorts up his rear end and yelled "Wedgy fever!" at the top of my lungs only to learn when the guy turned around that I didn't know him from Adam (and he was very, very cute). Ugh. That was more funny than embarrassing, but because I get a laugh from the story that's the one I usually share when asked to tell my most embarrassing moment. But my truly most embarrassing moment will go with me to the grave.

What about you? Would you really share your honestly, truly most embarrassing moment?

Stuck in the Rut?

2011-11-01T13:51:00.000-07:00

So I just spent thirty minutes writing a blog post no one will ever read. Not that this is unusual; it happens all the time. This time, however, the blog post actually meant something to me.

A lot of big stuff has gone down in my little world lately. Huge stuff that seems like it would make great blog fodder. The problem is I just can't write about it. Any of it. I keep trying; I type the words and get ready to hit PUBLISH POST. Somehow though, my finger wavers, as does my heart, my mind, and my judgement. And the post ends up deleted.

I could just make a list for all of you. I could title it The List of All the Really Big Stuff Rocking My World Right Now. But . . . I can't do it.

Am I in a funk? A rut? Or, have I come to my senses enough to stop sharing my every passing whim and thought with a cyber world of strangers?

I'm sure I'm not the only person who has gone through this before. So let me ask you this: How do you kick a blogging funk? How can I shake off the heavy and get back to the light and fluffy blog writing everybody knows and loves? How do I make my comeback?

Oh, and please, please (does that sound like begging?) visit my website and Facebook page for updates on The Sprightling Diaries. In the Twilight is coming soon . . .

Fliers

2011-09-24T11:26:00.000-07:00

I went to bed with a headache. The result was a vivid and strange dream. I dreamt I was invited to a party at a two-story art gallery in an old city. It was night; the street was damp and the air cool. Warm yellow light streamed out of the windows at the front of the gallery, exposing the roomful of partygoers like fish in a bowl. The entrance was grand; two stories open all the way up. And as I stepped through the wide double doors I was met with a flurry of activity.

There, in the entrance was a flying contraption, the type used in the theater to lift people and propel them over the stage. Men and women dressed in tuxedos and party dresses waited in line for their turn flying.

As I entered, two young women were preparing to fly. The first girl wore her hair in pale yellow ringlets piled on top of her head. She wore heavy makeup, rouged cheeks and bright red lips. Her long, apparently fake eyelashes batted as she glanced coquettishly around the crowd as a young man dressed in a tux with tales and satin vest helped her into her harness. She daintily held up the skirts of her pale pink, tea-length dress, and giggled when the lacy petticoats became visible to all.

The other young lady, a shy girl with long auburn hair held back by a rose-colored ribbon, held the skirt of her antique lace dress down as she slipped into the harness and blushed as the men prepared to hoist her into the air. She looked around the crowd nervously, but men and women with gloved hands and applauded politely as she was lifted up above their heads.

At that same time, a whoop let out in the crowd as the first girl flew high into the air above the crowd. She smiled garishly and called out, “Look at me! Look how high I can fly!” as the men pulling on the wires lifted her near the ceiling. She waved her hands and pointed her toys and ordered the men with the wires to lift her even higher. “I want to touch the stars!” she exclaimed dramatically.

The second girl, on the other hand, blushed as the men held her in the air and covered her mouth when she giggled. When it was apparent the men were beginning to exhaust their strength, she politely asked to be let down and they slowly lowered her back down to the floor. Women rushed to her side, patting her on the shoulders and remarking how lovely she looked when she flew. “Like an angel,” one said. “ “Like a dove.”

But their attention was quickly drawn up toward the ceiling as the first girl shouted down to the men with the wires, “Higher! Lift me higher!” But the men with the wires were tired; they needed a break from holding her up. So more men from the crowd slipped our of their dress coats and rolled up the sleeves of their impeccable white dress shirts and took hold of the rope.

The crowd continued to grow. Some were watching the scene. Others were patiently waiting for their turn. At one point, as the men continued to fatigue, the wire became slack and the first girl slipped, dropping a few feet before the men caught hold of the wire again. “You fools! You could have killed me!” she shouted ungraciously. “Now, lift me higher!”

Not once did the first girl glance down with concern or consideration for the men who held her up, allowing her to fly as high as she pleased to her heart’s content. Not once did she glance down to see if others waited in line for their turn, their chance to feel the exhilaration of flight. Her only concern was for herself.

Now, what does this all mean? I’m sure we can all draw a few conclusions, maybe a moral or two. But, I don’t know, really. It was just a dream.

Now, be sure to click on over to The Sprightling Diaries blog and "like" the new Facebook page. Continue to watch for updates as the release date nears! (Can you tell I'm a little excited? No? Well, I am and you should be too!)

Four Musketeers

2011-09-02T09:35:00.000-07:00

Four siblings have never been better friends.

We were the Four Musketeers.

In front of one of our childhood homes in 2004.

I have been truly blessed to know my brothers and my sister in such a special way.

I love you all!

Benjy, you will be dearly missed.

Life Lessons

2011-08-31T13:55:00.000-07:00

Things I've learned in the last two weeks:

Your best days can quickly become your worst nightmare.
Sometimes strength is overrated and tears are the order of the day.
Sometimes tears make matters worse.
Children are amazingly resilient.
Children need and deserve a mother and a father.
In times of test, the family is best.
We need prayers even when we've passed through this life.
Honesty, complete and total, is the best policy.
Secrets grow darker when they are buried and hidden.
Never, NEVER fail to let your loved ones know exactly how you feel.
God's love and atonement are infinite and never-ending.

My brother's passing has left a wake of grief, tears, and a horde of terribly mixed emotions. But it has also brought to light so much love. Unbelievable strength and love. He was a man of great testimony and faith, and that is what I will miss. That is what I will take from his life. I miss him terribly; he was a part of my daily life and was truly one of my best friends.

Through it all this one refrain from the hymn "Be Still, My Soul" has run through my mind, even waking me from my much-needed sleep at times:
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be Still, my soul:
When change and tears are past,
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

Shelf Life

2011-07-05T14:54:00.000-07:00

My shoes were already on and I was walking purposefully to the front door when I encountered my crying six-year-old daughter, her bottom lip quivering, tears spilling down her cheeks, into her mouth and down her chin. I paused. "What is making you cry right now?" I asked her knowing she wouldn't be able to give me a complete answer. But with the way she was crying I knew I had to do something to calm her down. "What's wrong?" I asked again when she looked up at me with her huge blue eyes, the color amplified and deepened with the tears. "Do you want Mom to hold you?"
"Yes."
With that, I knew my run would have to wait.

I scooped her up in my arms and walked into the front room, plopping down on the couch, to allow her to cry herself to satisfaction. I fingered her thick hair as her head rested on my chest, the weight of her body providing a calming weight to my own anxiety. It was going to be a busy day; I had to get going with my run or skip it all together in order keep everything else on schedule. But when I felt her little arms reach up around my neck and her body curl up against mine, all of that melted away. I closed my eyes, allowing my cheek to rest on the top of her little head, and reminded myself that this was one of those moments I would want back . . . again and again.

You see, my children are growing up--too quickly, in my opinion. It has now been six years (on the twelfth) since I had a baby. While I no longer feel the drive, that gnawing push maybe only women know, to have another baby, I do wish, nearly every day, to go back in time and rock my babies again. There are key moments from their early childhood I would give anything (almost) to go back and relive. But . . . I can't. No one can. All productivity would stop as people all over the world took time out to relive their favorite moments if this were a remote possibility.

The truth is, life, especially childhood, has a very short shelf life. If we don't pause to embrace key moments, to fully enjoy them and commit them to memory, we will end our days with regret. I did get to my run that morning, but only after my daughter heaved out her last tear, inhaled deeply, pushed off of my chest and said, "I love you." I don't regret that other things had to wait that day. But I do know that had I not taken the time to savor that moment and to commit it to memory, anything else I did that day would have been a waste.

It's Back . . .

2011-05-17T11:11:00.000-07:00

The Sprightling Diaries blog is back! I hope you're all as excited as I am. I was recently contacted by a publisher interested in the project. I guess you can say it renewed my passion for Avril, Vestyn, Kestly and all the other wonderful "people" in Trestleton. Check it out at TheSprightlingDiaries.blogspot.com.

A Passion for Brownies

2011-03-15T12:52:00.000-07:00

Those who know me know that I have a passion for four things: faith, family, fiction, and fitness. Along with that, I would add that I have a passion for sweets--crisp cookies, and rich brownies specifically. But being a fitness enthusiast, the cookies and brownies have to have some nutritionally redeeming qualities. Today I am obsessed with this brownie recipe inspired by Jillian Michaels' The Master Your Metabolism Cookbook, and tweaked for ultimate goodness by yours truly:

Fudge Brownies

1/2 to 2/3 cup honey (I don't really care for the taste of honey, so I use only the half cup)
1/3 cup cocoa powder (unsweetened)
1/2 cup white whole-wheat flour
1/4 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/4 cup lite coconut milk
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 cup dark chocolate or semisweet chips (optional)
1/2 cup chopped walnuts (optional)

Combine and mix well. Pour into a greased 8X8 pan and bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes.

Enjoy rich, chocolaty, guilt-free brownies!

When I Grow Up . . .

2011-02-01T09:39:00.000-08:00

Something I heard this morning on the Today Show really hit me like punch in the gut. In a discussion Anne Curry had about "mommy guilt," one of her guests, Liz Zack, editor of Pregnancy & Parenting at iVillage.com, said that working mothers should feel good about what they are doing because they are the embodiment of "career ambition," "drive," and "work ethic," and that "working mommies are the proof" that a child can grow up to be anything they want to be.

I try to stay out of the at-home-mom, at-work-mom debate, but I really had to speak up to this. Did I miss something here? Do stay-at-home moms lack drive? Do we who stay home not provide evidence of a work ethic? What was Liz Zack, thinking when she said those things? Is she insinuating that a mother who stays home is a hypocrite when she expresses to her children they can grow up to be anything they want to be? Is she saying that somehow a stay-at-home mom is letting herself and her children down?

Further more, I feel the need to express that when I was young I wanted to become a stay-at-home mom when I grew up. Since when is it not acceptable for our daughters to answer "I want to be a mommy" when they are asked what they want to be when they grow up? Motherhood is a noble and necessary "profession." If not for mothers, who throughout history have been largely "at home," we would have no opportunities at all. Most of the women I know who are at home are active in activities in the schools, in the church, and in the community. Most women I know who are stay-at-home moms are busy teaching their children to be involved, to help at home, and to be responsible citizens.

The choice to stay at home or to enter the workforce is not always an easy one--I get that. I acknowledge that mothers who work--especially to provide necessities for their families--have to work especially hard. But do not let guilt over your choice let you delude yourself into thinking that your choice in some way makes you better then anyone else who may have had a different choice to make. We all have to work hard. A good mom, a mom who is a good example to her children, is a mom who is happy with the choices she makes and rises to meet the challenges life throws her way.

Finding the Tipping Point

2011-01-05T13:53:00.000-08:00

So, I've had a wonderful winter break from school. Ah, it's been delightful. We had an idyllic holiday with our family (Santa brought the kids a dog for Christmas). I've actually had time to do some inner reflection and I've come to a conclusion about myself, had an epiphany of sorts: I have trouble with finding balance. So it has been all of my life; I either push myself too hard, or not at all. The problem with this is that it leads to burnout or failure and the end result of all my work is usually mediocrity.

Early on, my lack of balance manifested itself, so my mom would say, in my lack of desire to be born. According to my mother's recollections, I was an astounding four weeks late! In August! And even then, I wouldn't push myself to breath. But boy, when it came to growth and development, I went over the top, learning to roll over in the hospital bassinet.

Later on, in school, I was all gung-ho, earning straight A's and being placed in the gifted and talented program (I know, hard to believe now). I pushed myself so hard striving to be the top student in my class. When I failed to achieve that goal, realizing that while I was a good student, I was no scholar, I stopped pushing at all. The end result was a mish-mash of college credits and no degree.

I can see this pattern throughout my life. With running, it's go big or go home. I run at the top of my pace and burnout fast. With blogging, I write every day or go months without so much as looking at my keyboard. What happens (and is currently happening as I type this) is I begin to doubt myself. I lose confidence in my abilities and I give up.

Recent events have brought to my attention that life is not a race. Finding a good pace, that comfortable yet challenging spot just before the tipping point, is vital to progression. In life, the all-or-nothing approach seldom works--at least not long-term. Yet, failure to accept challenges and push through tough times yields no reward.

I'm saying this more for myself than for anyone else: So what if I don't finish my BA until I'm 40-ish? So what if I don't publish a book in this decade--or this century, for that matter? So what if I never win a race, or finish a marathon, or receive the honors and accolades of this life? If I did resolutions (which I don't), this year I would resolve to slow down in some places while picking up the pace in others. As long as I keep trying, stand up to the challenges of this life, and find a balance between striving to meet my goals and taking care of my responsibilities, then I can claim success.

Happy 2011! May the new year fulfill all of your expectations--and then some.

The Nightmare

2010-11-04T09:06:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a nightmare. Keelie was swept away by the violent, screaming wind when I allowed her go outside to play in a tornado. I woke up gasping for breath, my heart in my throat, a jagged and painful hole in my stomach. I stifled my sobbing as I prayed, face down in my pillow for the nightmare to end and for the horrible feelings of guilt and regret to go away.

This often happens when I speak to others--typically young mothers--about the risks of vaccines. No, I don't preach to either party--the pro or anti vaccine campaign. I try to stay as far as I can from that debate. However, there are times when I am confronted, asked my opinion. It is then that the old wounds open up, the floor drops from under my feet and I find myself crying, choking on tears as I drive away from the "special" school my daughter attends as they try to "undo" what autism has done to her. To think about what could have been, maybe even what should have been, is useless; it only causes pain.

You see, I get approached a lot by other mothers seeking my advice on how to avoid the nightmare that is autism. Throughout time there have been several theories about the disorder, why and how it surfaces in one child but not another. Some of these theories include the ridiculous and archaic idea that autism was caused by cold and aloof, unloving mothers. I've heard the theory that autism is caused by allowing young children to watch television (which is absolutely absurd as my daughter has never watched television; she can't connect to an animated box on the wall). The most recent, and definitely most plausible theory is that autism is caused by vaccinations in infancy and early childhood. Maybe. Maybe not. I'm not here to prove or disprove that notion. I'm only here to say that to dwell on that idea after the fact, once autism has reared its ugly head in a family, is to prevent a family from moving forward.

I love my children with all my heart and would never knowingly do anything to hurt, let alone permanently disable, one of them. Which is precisely why I took them to the pediatrician and allowed microscopic organisms to be injected into their tiny bodies. For three of my children, this safely prevented them from getting pertussis when four of their unvaccinated friends were quarantined for three months, coughing day and night to the point of vomiting. For one of my children, it may or may not have stolen her ability to reason and communicate with the world. The truth is, I will never know for sure.

No, I will never know for sure if something I did or did not do caused my daughter's life-long disability. What I do know for sure is that the more time I spend trying to place blame, the more time I spend in pain. On the outside, I may seem confident, sure of my family and Heavenly Father's plan for us, quoting scriptures that boost my testimony and buoy me up when the strangling nightmares return. But when you scratch my cool and confident surface, if you hit just the right spot, I will bleed my regrets, my sorrows, my grief.

If you are a parent looking for answers to the vaccine question, I recommend that you do your research, ask doctors, and pray, pray, pray.

If you are a parent caring for a disabled child, I say keep your chin up and understand that Heavenly Father has a plan for you.

“And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from his birth. And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him”(John 9: 1-3).

"Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness"(Isaiah 41: 10).

The Best of What MTV Has to Offer

2010-09-16T09:16:00.000-07:00

The best thing MTV (and pop culture in general) can offer is an education to those who ordinarily may not seek out information about things that seem uncomfortable or unpopular. That's why I'm so excited about this new show on MTV--this episode specifically. Take the time to check it out; you'll be glad you did.

World Of Jenks | Ep. 2 | Can't Make Me Be

On Doing Laundry

2010-09-06T08:43:00.000-07:00

I was just doing some homework (yes, I labor away at homework on Labor Day) for my literature class when I came across the poem "Love Calls Us to the Things of This World" by Richard Wilbur and I just have to ask, what woman wouldn't love a poem that expresses this thought: "Oh, let there be nothing on the earth but laundry . . . ." Seriously?

I've been the recipient of some interesting spam comments lately and I haven't the time to investigate just what to do about it. So I've turned the comments off for now. That's the easy the answer.

I look forward to posting a pictorial of our summer--as soon as I get the time to sort through all the pictures on my husband's computer. Ah, someday. . . .

For now, enjoy the last rays of summer's glorious light. I will, as soon as my homework is finished.

This Is Joy, This I Believe

2010-07-22T10:48:00.000-07:00

I was recently made aware a fabulous website called ThisIBelieve.org where people from all walks of life are encouraged to share essays stating their personal, deeply held beliefs. As part of the final for my English composition class, we were required to write an essay for ThisIBeleive.org. I was thrilled to have the opportunity as it allowed me to reflect on some lessons I've learned in my thrity-five years of life. What I came up with is possibly one of the most important beliefs (aside from my personal religious beliefs) that I will hopefully pass on to my children.

This Is Joy

The house is quiet as the morning light gently pours through the southern windows in liquid shades of blue and gold. I open the sliding door and inhale. It is a summer morning before anyone is awake and I am alone. To see the sunrise, reminding me of all that is possible, to feel the cool, clean air tenderly touch my cheek, to feel alive while the town still sleeps, this is my joy.

I believe in finding joy within. In a world fraught with struggle and sorrow, hardships are plentiful, but joy remains abundant. Joy is not a human right; it is not a gift to be given. I believe that joy comes from gratitude and is the ability to cultivate feelings of peace, happiness, and even pleasure in one’s own life.

Four years ago I embarked on a journey that I felt threatened to suck all joy from my life. My daughter’s autism diagnosis darkened every sunrise and left me feeling heavy and gray. The disability, the labels, all the bad things that could happen in the future pressed heavily like stones on my mind; I simply could not find a way to think of anything else. I was miserable. I anguished night and day about how I could have caused my daughter’s disability and what I could do to change it.

Then I read something that changed my perspective. Victor Frankl, the Holocaust survivor said in this brilliant quote: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude to any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s way.”

The idea that I had a choice in how I felt or how I reacted to things beyond my control was not unfamiliar; I had heard it all my life. But I had finally reached a point where I felt I had lost control. The notion that joy was something that could be given or taken was doing me no good. So I turned inward, searching myself for sources of comfort, peace and happiness, instead of looking outside where things can seem so bleak, and happiness can be so far from reach. I found within myself the ability to feel content and to follow my bliss. I took control and began looking for joy in the small things like a good book, a cold can of Diet Coke, or a quiet moment alone with my husband.

And then there was the sunrise. One morning it called to me with a golden voice, drawing me from my bed to join it outside. In the stillness of the morning I felt a whispered moment of joy. I was captivated into a breathless silence as tears of gratitude flooded my eyes. I was grateful for the silence, the shadows, the mist floating over the grass. I was grateful for the sunrise and the ability to see it. I discovered joy, pure, uncomplicated, and wholly my own. This I believe.

To read more inspiring essays, or to contribute your own, go to ThisIBelieve.org. I encourage you to do it. It might just open your eyes, and inspire your heart.

Essays and Updates

2010-07-18T19:56:00.000-07:00

I've had the greatest time over the last month or so revamping a few of my blog posts based on the essay assignments I've had for class. I have to say I have absolutely loved this past term simply because I've had the opportunity to write so much! Sadly, I must say, this left me with NO time for social media. Sad, so sad.

Our last assignment in my English class was to write a persuasive essay. (Those of you who remember college probably remember these assignments well.) Well, I seized the chance to re-write my "Apologies Are Not Enough" blog post. You know, the one about that world. Though I know I have regaled you all enough about the use of that word, I am now posting my revamped, reworked, and totally revised essay "Apologies Are Not Enough" done persuasive essay style.

Apologies Are Not Enough

I address this essay to Rahm Emanuel, Rush Limbaugh, and to the countless writers and entertainers who choose to use that world in that way. I address this essay to all those who choose to use the word retard in all its various forms in any way other than its original intention: to define a people who are beautiful and human and also defenseless. Your apologies are not enough.

I ask that you erase this word from the vernacular. I challenge the world to eradicate the abuse of this term in expressing frustration, irritation, or feelings of shame. The use of the word retarded in anything but a clinical way is hurtful, demeaning, and should no longer be tolerated. I challenge you to learn, to get to know these people and their families, to spend time caring for them, helping them. And when you come to love them, you will no longer use that word in that way.

Contrary to what many believe, mental retardation, like diabetes or cancer, is a diagnosis, not a slur. According to the website for the Department of Health and Human Services and the Center for Disease Control, it is estimated that in America alone as much as 17 percent of children under the age of 18 suffer from mental retardation or developmental disabilities including autism, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, fetal alcohol syndrome, and brain injuries. These statistics are slightly higher than those of diabetes in the general public. And just like diabetes, the numbers are rising. The use of the word retard or retarded insults and offends millions of Americans with disabilities and the people who love and care for them.

The word retard does not mean stupid, ugly, or annoying. It does not describe a group of people who choose to live lifestyles deserving of derision. We are not talking about comedians and jokers who offend. We are talking about people, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, who, through no fault of their own, were born with or acquired certain physical and mental challenges.

In a country where we claim to practice tolerance and respect for religions, races, and lifestyles, why are we still allowing this group of people, this voiceless minority, to be disparaged in this way? The use of this kind of language would not be tolerated if it referred to any other minority group. But unlike most minority groups, a person with a developmental disability cannot stand up in his or her own defense. We must do it for them, and I have decided to take a stand. Apologies will not suffice anymore.

I will admit that I have used that word before. Who of us has not, in a moment of frustration, resorted to the use of coarse language? Many people believe that because the word retard is sometimes a synonym for slow, that it should not be considered offensive. That is true if using the verb form of the word. However, in Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary the noun retard is defined as such: “a holding back or slowing down . . . a retarded person; also: a person held to resemble a retarded person in behavior—often taken to be offensive.”

Many also believe that this type of language should not be considered offensive if it is not directed at a person with a disability, explaining that they would never use that word to intentionally offend a disabled person. I was once one of those people, before I experienced personally how it feels when the word is used as a slur. My personal experiences have softened me and I will no longer tolerate the use of the word retard or retarded even as a joke. With so many American families caring for loved ones with developmental disabilities, no one is laughing. I ask you to step into their shoes, hear that word through their ears for just one day, and then I will accept your apology.

I will accept your apology when you have found yourself seated across the desk of a neurologist, therapist, pediatrician or educator and been told that your child is developmentally delayed, cognitively impaired, or mentally retarded.

I will accept your apology when you have changed an adult diaper, spoon fed a fifteen-year-old, or spent $40,000 of your own money on this therapy or that teaching technique just to hear your child say his or her own name.

I will accept your apology when you have seen the looks on the faces of your children, the sudden wetness in their eyes, the blush on their cheeks, when they hear someone using that word, knowing that it refers—even if unintentionally—to their sister who they adore.

I will accept your apology when you have looked into the eyes of the purest of souls and caught a glimpse of yourself, however small or fleeting, and realized that they are not here to learn but instead are here to teach. And I guarantee that you will never use that word in that way again.

Essay #2

2010-06-11T21:16:00.000-07:00

The Sculptor

With a mighty strike of the mallet the stone fell away, revealing what I feared lay beneath. Like the creation of stone sculpture, the diagnosis of my daughter’s autism didn’t happen in the course of a day. Instead it was a slow chipping away of what I thought was my daughter until the disability was finally revealed.

My head was heavy with anxiety and I pulled the car to a stop in a busy parking lot. Cars moved in and out, patrons passed in a blur, but I sat slumped with my forehead pressed against the steering wheel, crying. The autumn sun, high in the midday sky, shown through the windshield and a prickly sweat broke out across my neck and forehead. I felt choked by the collar of my red, cable-knit sweater. In the back seat my fifteen-month-old daughter sat quietly in her car seat, sucking her thumb. She was always quiet. I had thought that was just the way she was, but now I knew that it was just the way autism was.

She had been born perfect, five pounds and twelve ounces, a pink and crying little miracle. We had celebrated her arrival into our family, our fourth child, our second daughter. She had been loved from the start, her young siblings clamoring to see her and hold her tiny hands. She had grown quickly and had become a firmly rooted member of our family.

Eye contact had been the first thing to go. That had been the first part of the stone to chip away. I remembered her smiling; I had pictures of her early on, gazing into the camera lens with a toothless grin and wide, blue eyes. But then it was gone, subtly. She just would not look me in the eye. She would not look anyone in the eye. Instead, she would turn her eyes to the side. I could get in her face all I wanted, she still would not look at me.

I justified and rationalized her behavior. She’s just nervous, I would say, she always looks away when she is scared. But she did not talk and at fifteen months, she barely crawled. I could only rationalize so much. Then came the seizures. They had actually been a blessing. When her little body began to rock and stiffen, her breathing slow and labored, I had been forced to acknowledge that there was something terribly wrong.

The pediatrician had referred us to a neurologist, revered in his field, who had diagnosed her seizures and handed me a card. “Look into Early Intervention services,” he had said. I had brought my daughter to this specialist for a cure, a way to heal my daughter’s seizures. I had assumed he would tell me that after a few months of anti-seizure medication she would be okay. But that is not what had happened, and as I took the card from his hand another piece of the stone had chipped away. I began to fear what was hidden beneath the surface. My daughter was changing, being shaped by the skilled and crafty hands of her disability, an affliction we would later be told was autism.

I had reluctantly called the number on the card and arranged an appointment with the therapists at Davis County Early Intervention. I had been ignorant; I had no idea what Early Intervention was. They had sent me a long questionnaire about my daughter’s cognitive and physical development to fill out and bring to the appointment.

Question: Does your child walk?

Answer: No.

Question: Does your child talk, or attempt to talk by approximating words?

Answer: Uh, no.

Question: Does your child recognize parents or show fear with strangers?

Answer: Uh oh. No.

Chip. Chip. Another piece of the stone had fallen away.

Still when I had arrived at the office for my appointment with Early Intervention, I had been fully prepared to hear their glowing adorations of my beautiful daughter. I had felt confident that they would only tell me that with a little help, she would soon begin reaching all the appropriate milestones. But that is not what had happened, and another piece of the stone had chipped away.

The office had been set up exactly like a preschool with shelves full of colorful books around the room, musical instruments in one corner, a doll house in another, the alphabet clearly visible, and miniature-sized tables and chairs placed in an orderly fashion in the center of the room. After reading the questionnaire I had filled out, and doing some discrete assessments of my daughter, a nurse, a speech and language pathologist, an occupational therapist, and a developmental therapist had all gathered around me. I had been seated in a rocking chair while they had been seated on a blue, circular story-time type rug on the floor. The speech and language pathologist had read from her report. “Your daughter has moderate to severe developmental delays in all areas.” The words had been cold and heavy like rocks as she had spoken them, yet they had traveled like lightning across the distance between us, landing with thunderous noise and sinking right to my heart.

I had swallowed hard and choked out the only question I could ask: “Will she catch up?”

They didn’t need to speak; the looks on their collective faces had said it all. Yet the nurse had chosen to offer hope. “We see miracles all the time.” She had smiled at me, a smile full of pity for the tears that had begun to fill my eyes.

I had been numb on the ride home, trying to push all thoughts of what I had just been through out of my mind, until about a mile from my house. It was then that I felt the full blow of the sculptor’s mallet and the final piece of stone fell away. My daughter as I had known her was gone. In her place was this new creation, what autism had made her. Moderately to severely delayed in all areas. The pain of that realization was too much to bear and I eased my car off the highway, pulling into the bustling parking lot of Smith’s grocery store. As cars passed and patrons walked by with their carts full of nothing, I hung my head low and cried—really cried. I felt the pain coming from somewhere deep within in my chest as I coughed and wailed for the loss of the daughter I thought I had. All the while she sat behind me, quietly waiting for me to realize she wasn’t gone, she was still there.

I slowly lifted my head, turning to look at my baby in the back seat. I smiled and waited for her to respond. She did not; autism would not let her. I sighed and wiped my wet face with the sleeve of my sweater. In silence I drove home.

In time I would realize that while my daughter had changed, it was my turn to pick up the sculptor’s chisel and mallet and begin chipping away. I could not heal her, but I could change what autism had done to her. The tools would become mine. And eventually, like the great sculptures of art history, my daughter’s true beauty would be revealed.

Essay #1

2010-05-27T10:43:00.000-07:00

My instructor told me never to title an essay "Essay #__," but, no one is grading me here, right?

Our first assignment for the term is to write an essay about rejection in our own lives and how it affected us. Well, let me tell you, I have plenty of experiences to draw from. Yes, rejection is a subject I am very familiar with.

Here's a sneak peek (the rough draft) of my first essay:

Everybody faces rejection at some point in life, usually multiple times. Whether it’s trying out for the high school basketball team, or auditioning for the school musical, we all must learn to face and handle rejection. For most, rejection results in self-doubt and a bruised ego. For me, rejection helped me throw aside the dog-eared map I was trying to follow, and find my own path in life.

I always thought I handled rejection well, accepting it, expecting it, to some degree. My entire high school experience was a four-year exercise in rejection; after being rejected by countless dates, a few clubs, and nearly every athletic team I dreamed of joining, I began to think rejection was my middle name. But when it came time to apply to nursing school, I thought I had it in the bag. I did not expect to be met with yet another rejection. I had worked hard in preparation, attending meetings, asking for advice on the application. I spent a year in college taking the prerequisite courses and receiving straight A’s. I found a job at the local hospital working as a technician under the guidance of the director of nursing who then wrote a glowing letter of recommendation, letting the school of nursing know that I was a great asset to their nursing team. It was with great pride and anticipation that I sent off my application to nursing school. My head filled with grandiose ideas of how I would excel at nursing; how I would rise to the task every time my skills were called upon. My family, coworkers and friends all patted me on the back, proud of my noble ambitions, applauding my aptitude and drive. And then came the day of reckoning: the day I opened the mailbox and found an envelope from the school of nursing. It was not the thick manila envelope I was expecting, just your standard #10 with the college of nursing logo in the upper left-hand corner. When I opened it, my heart dropped. Little did I know just how that letter, that one rejection would refocus and redirect my life.

In the beginning, just after the initial rejection, I cried, I ranted, I may have even used a few swear words, quickly shredding the letter and tossing the scraps out with the trash. I dreaded telling my parents, my boss and all the nurses I worked with that I had been rejected. I knew they would tell me not to give up, to try again. Surely there had been a mistake; I was, after all, the ideal nursing student. Then I recommitted, calling the director of the program to ask for another application. I even found another nursing school to apply to and eagerly began the application process there too. I studied hard and worked harder. I didn’t want to be defeated on the first try. Nursing school was my goal, and in my mind, nothing would stop me from reaching it.

As the time to resubmit the application drew near, a nagging voice began calling to me, taunting me and telling me I’d been rejected for a reason. I began to doubt myself. I questioned my abilities, my test scores, even the loyalty of the nurses I worked with. And in the end, rejection won. I put away those applications unfinished, burying them in an old footlocker, fearing I would only be rejected again. After all, I hadn’t been good enough the first time, what would be different the second time? Maybe nursing school wasn’t for me. I struggled with feelings of incompetence and even jealousy as I watched others graduate, and move forward with a career. That had been my goal. That was what I was supposed to have done; the path I had tried to follow and failed.

It took years for me to get over the rejection from nursing school. I moved on though, getting married and starting a family. Then, late one night when I couldn’t sleep, I had an idea. The next day I began working on an all-together different dream. I began to write. Within four months I’d completed my first manuscript. My husband, who was proud of my efforts, helped me proofread it and send it off to be bound. I found a new passion, a new goal. Now as I find myself entering school once again, with a new and totally different major, I reflect often on that rejection. I even opened the old footlocker, digging out the incomplete nursing school applications I’d hidden there, smiling to myself with some level of acceptance. Rejection has shaped me, shifting my focus just enough to allow me to explore the possibilities. I try not to spend too much time thinking about what could have been. Instead I’m moving forward in a new direction, with new goals, a new purpose. Who knows where rejection will take me in the future. For now, I’m glad it has brought me this far.

Gotta Go Git Me Some Learnin'

2010-05-17T13:37:00.000-07:00

Here's something I never thought I hear myself say (or see myself write, as it were): I'm going back to school.

A few months ago my brother (yes, Jay, this is a nod to you) said, "You know, all college classes are writing classes." And then I watched my sister (yes, Mindy, this is a nod to you) as she set a goal and went back to school herself following a stroke that really made her analyze her life. I too had to sit back and think, really evaluate every excuse I had for not returning to school to pursue that english degree I had always wanted but felt was too impractical, unlike nursing or public health. Then when my husband told me he'd love for me to go back to school and study english and writing I finally felt that kick in the pants I'd been waiting for.

Classes start soon, beginning with World Mythology and Folklore and some basic english classes. As excited as I am, I am also sad to say that I will not have much time for blogging anymore. Oh, I'll still be around, checking in from time to time. I won't be upset if you all forget about me as this may take a while (and by a while, I mean years and years). But I'll be back, new and improved and better than ever. So, pardon me while I go git me some learnin'.

Becoming

2010-05-10T12:49:00.001-07:00

I walked past the refrigerator at my mother-in-law's house on Sunday, Mother's Day. She had a piece of paper held to the door by two whimsical magnets. On the paper was this quote by Dallin H. Oaks: ". . . The Final Judgment is not just an evaluation of a sum total of good and evil acts--what we have done. It is an acknowledgment of the final effect of our acts and thoughts--what we have become."

I swallowed a lump in my throat, startled by the reaction I felt in my gut and in my heart. You see, I still blame myself (like most mothers I know) . . . for everything, especially my daughter's disability. Sure, I tell myself, as others do, that it's not my fault--no one's fault, really. But every time some one wonders out loud or begs the question why is she like this? Why doesn't her brain work properly? What happened to her to damage her so? I always end up searching inward for some culpability. I drank too much Diet Coke while I was pregnant. I took over-the-counter vitamins and supplements instead of the prescription pre-natal vitamins. I flew for 13 hours on an airplane early, early on. I mowed the lawn the day before her birth. I sprayed herbicide on the lawn. I died my hair. I lived too close to the freeway and all its noxious fumes. I took terbutaline to stop some minor contractions during the last trimester. . . The list goes on.

Some of these things I could have changed, other's not so much. A few I'd been warned about, but most seemed harmless. But every day I have to wonder. . .

And then I read the quote. And then I looked at my beautiful daughter. She has changed me, calmed and refined me, and for that I am glad. She is, as all children are, pure heavenly magic (yes, even during those late nights when she doesn't want to sleep), with soft, rosy cheeks and unconditional love. She's the one who helps me see what I can become, where I've been, and how far I still have to go. I've messed up--we all have--and I will continue to acknowledge my mistakes. I will keep trying to do better and live up to my potential and the beautiful calling I've been given in this life--to be a mother. I will take this chance and become something better, something divine and worthy. I have to; it's imperative.

I'm a Little Teapot

2010-05-04T08:20:00.001-07:00

Short and stout . . .
When I get all steamed up,
I will shout . . .

I'm so steamed up right now and in desperate need of a healthy way to let it go.

Exercise doesn't do it for me. In fact, sometimes that makes it worse. (Endorphins and hormones, you know.)
Yoga doesn't do it for me. I get interrupted so many times that the bubbling frustration volcano in my gut begs to erupt.
Writing sometimes just stirs it all up over and over again.
Talking about it only makes others feel bad, anxious, worried, and so on.

So, tell me, what do you do to blow off steam?

Oh, and by that way, thank you all so much for your wonderful words of consolation and encouragement. My brother is doing better, though he still has a long way to go to recovery. It was a scary weekend full of ups and downs. It just goes to show that even healthy, young people can fall victim to pneumonia. So stay active, eat right, sleep well and see a doctor regularly.

In a Crisis

2010-05-01T11:19:00.001-07:00

Don't think I'm heartless if I smile and dance and sing while my brother fights the war of his life, sedated and on a ventilater in a Salt Lake hospital room. Don't think I'm cold as ice if I throw a Derby party and watch the ponies race while my family gathers in prayer, pleading for the strength to manage this crisis. I do it for the kids; wouldn't want them to worry, to see how my heart is breaking for their father and uncle.

Just a year and a half ago I got a call from my niece saying something like "My mom's on the floor and the ambulance came." At that time, Benjy and I ran to the hospital to be with our sister and her little family after she suffered a terrible stroke. I didn't cry then, either. I packed a bag of books and treats for my niece and tried to act thrilled to be visiting the hospital waiting room.

Thursday, when the phone rang, it was my other niece saying something like "My dad's on the floor and the ambulance came." I hurried to Benjy's house--passing the ambulance on the way--to be with my nieces again. And now, even though I want to cry, I hold back the tears, the worried expressions, repressing the questions I want to ask so my dear nieces (my own children, too) won't be worried. Instead I'll bake them cookies, play video games with them, and watch movies until my mind is numb and they are once again acting like healthy, happy children: carefree.

Now Mindy is on the way so we can go be with our brother, cheering him on in his sedated battle with a crippling pneumonia. I'll continue to choke back my fears and worries that my brother may not pull through this. I'll let it all out when the crisis has passed.

2010-04-12T14:05:00.000-07:00

I promise I haven't gone anywhere; I'm still here. It's just that with so much of my creative energy being funneled into my current Work(s) In Progress, I am finding it hard to blog much.

Last week I spent spring break with my children enjoying time with MIndy and Aubeny (my sister and niece). We ate brownies (licking the batter was awesome) and played hours upon hours of Just Dance for the Wii. My arms have never been so sore (from the dancing, not the brownies). But when they went home on Saturday night, I was left with a filthy house to clean and a sick four-year-old to care for. Oh well, it's a small price to pay for all the fun we had.

I received rejections from two literary agents on Friday. Despite my best efforts not to let it bother me, it did. My children were the first to jump right in and offer their sweet words of encouragement, insisting that they LOVED my book and want me to keep trying. I will--for them.

Three more days until Aaron is liberated from his prison (office). I can't wait to have a husband again. We're planning a small warm-weather vacation--hope Mother Nature plans on cooperating.

Right now my cling-on mini me (sick daughter) is begging for yogurt, placing the container right on top of the keyboard as I type. So, guess I'll have to blog to you later. : )

New Beginning

2010-04-01T08:20:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wanted a new beginning? Have you ever tried to erase the pencil marks on a page so many times you've torn gaping holes through the paper?

So tired of trying to rewrite certain chapters of my life in an effort to make them read the way I want them too, I feel I need a fresh start--an new beginning. The blanket of clean white snow that was spread on my lawn last night brought to mind how refreshing it would be to start again with a blank page, no holes, no eraser marks. So I regretfully inform you that in my effort to reinvent myself and my life I will need to delete my blog and my Facebook page, as well. Hopefully I will return happy with the direction I've taken, clean and renewed, with upbeat and uplifting stories to lift and edify those who choose to read. That is how I want my life to read, pure and full of joy.

So until then . . .

April Fools!!!

An Acrostic

2010-03-22T14:46:00.000-07:00

Gotham Writers' Workshop and Writing.com are sponsoring this writing contest in honor of the movie debut of Alice in Wonderland. They challenged participants to come up with an acrostic inspired by the word "wonder." I thought I'd give it a try. I didn't know what an acrostic was before finding out about this contest and was fascinated with what I read. It's kinda like a poetic puzzle. So, even though all entries must not be previously published, I'm still going to "publish" my acrostic here. (I don't think "publishing" on blogger counts anyway.)

So here it is. I hope you enjoy and are inspired to write an acrostic of your own.

Possibility

Searching and uncertain, you ask if I can fly,

Eyes unable to see the possibility.

Everything is not always as it seems.

My life may be enchanted.

Yours, too, if you open your mind to wonder.

With arms outstretched I step toward the ledge.

I am trembling with anticipation,

Never questioning my ability to soar.

Give me your hand, I say to you.

Step forward and we will ascend with birds--or angels.

Little Nuggets From the Mouths of My Children (I'm So Proud.)

2010-03-17T12:45:00.000-07:00

"Is the reason Keelie can't talk because she's a doofus?"--Aiden (spoken like a true big brother)

"Women have the super power of taking their time."--Paige (already learning the art of womanhood)

"Goodbye you great big giant horses--and I don't mean that in the fat way."--Aiden to two mares on the side of the road (is it time to begin sensitivity training?)

What's On My Mind

2010-03-02T08:30:00.000-08:00

It's officially March which means myriad things: We're that much closer to spring with its weather ups and downs. So far it's been more up than down and oh-so deliciously warm. I can begin looking forward to the end of tax season and getting my husband back. My kids can play outside again. Unfortunately it also means my husband will be super busy and basically away from home the entire month. And when the kids play outside all the dirt somehow comes inside. Oh well, I guess we take the good with the bad.

***

My sweet, wonderful and super supportive husband just gave me the green light to spend lots of dollars to have my newly revised manuscript of In the Twilight professionally edited. We both understand that we most likely will never recoup the money spent, but he agreed that sometimes it's okay to spend "hobby money" in the name of personal enrichment. And, let's face it, while I may be able to tell a story I ain't much good at the grammar thing; I need all the help I can get.

***

My Paige has been home sick the last two days. Poor thing, she HATES to stay home from school. I tried helping her take it easy by providing a relaxing, quiet environment. Of course that means I had to take it easy and relax with her. If I had been bustling around the house all day, running the vacuum and whatnot, that would have agitated the poor sick child, right? Well that's what I told myself while I watched this movie. What? You haven't seen this movie? You HAVE to see it. It's my new all-time favorite. This movie is a feast for the senses. Anyone who enjoys a period piece will want to wallow in the beauty of Bright Star. Seriously, check it out.

***

What am I listening to right now? Let me tell you.

"Edge of Desire" John Mayer

"I've Just Seen a Face" Jim Sturgess from Across the Universe soundtrack

"Stop and Stare" One Republic

"Behind the Wheel" Depeche Mode

Have a great day!

2010-02-27T08:15:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday, Aiden!!!

Today is a good, good day!

The Angel In My Hand

2010-02-20T11:37:00.000-08:00

I sat in wait with outstretched hand,

Its empty plain to fill.

Came an angel, then two more

And danced as angels will.

I gently lowered them to the earth

And set them to their task.

Then raised my hand once again,

One more time to ask.

Upon my open palm I found

An angel in repose,

With feathered wings so small and white

I chose to hold her close.

She was too fragile and so weak.

Her frailty found me weeping.

I dared not lower her to earth.

I held her in safekeeping.

“Why don’t you dance?” I dared to ask.

“Or use your wings to fly?”

She shook her head at the question

And looked me in the eye.

“I’ve no use for wings and flying,

No need to dance and turn.

My task is so unlike the others’.

I am not here to learn.”

“I am here to do the teaching,

To show the world the light.

This tired world, for all its reaching,

Has sadly lost its sight.”

“So hold me high and let me show

What I’m here to be.

And if you’re patient, kind and loving,

You will learn from me.”

Off My Soapbox

2010-02-09T09:30:00.000-08:00

I'm coming off my soapbox--way off my soapbox--to talk about running.

My sister is a runner. She started running in high school when she joined the cross country team with a bunch of her friends. She's lithe and lean and claims that once she gets started, running just comes naturally. She's built for running.

I am not a runner. I'm short and stocky, and though I run frequently, it never comes naturally. I'm built for . . . I don't know, working in the coal mines or something.

Nevertheless, everyday but Sunday I gather up the strength to take to the road--the treadmill on a bad day--to pound out the requisite miles for whatever I'm training for. It never seems to fail that I'm passed by someone like my sister, long and lean with legs like a giselle, bounding down the road effortlessly. I imagine that when they put on their running shoes their feet cry with joy saying, "Yippee. Take us to the road and don't stop until the sun goes down." When I slip into my running shoes my feet groan, "Ugh, not this again," requiring frequent pep talks along the way just to get me home again. My legs feel like lead, heavy, thick and immovable. But, bless my heart, I keep going, pressing on. For some reason I keep thinking that someday I'll wake, having shed my coal-miner's physique, to find the lean and limber body of a runner, ready to hit the road running.

My naturally athletic sister-in-law invited me to run this big race with her and group of her equally athletic friends. Now, I'm not athletic, but I have been running almost daily for about seventeen years. And because I've been running almost daily for so long, my sister-in-law's fit friends decided I should be their team's pro runner. Uh, say what? That means I should gear up to run about eighteen miles. Gulp.

I'm scared out of my mind. I'm thinking I only have four months to morph into an ultra-fit uber runner. Yeah right. And I'm praying for a miracle though everyone assures me that the race is so much fun and there's nothing to worry about.

So, if you see me on the side of the road, trucking along more like a shetland pony and less like a race horse, do me a favor, would ya? Honk and wave. Give me some love. Because, you know, I could use all the help I can get.

Why Apologies Are Not Enough

2010-02-04T08:20:00.000-08:00

To Rahm Emanuel, Rush Limbaugh, and all others who choose to use that word in that way:

Your apologies are not enough. It saddens and disappoints me that people in your positions and with your level of education have not elevated your sensitivity or vocabulary above that of the fifth grade. I challenge you to learn.

I will accept your apology when you have sat across the desk of a neurologist, therapist, pediatrician or educator and been told that your child is developmentally delayed, cognitively impaired, or mentally retarded.

I will accept your apology when you've seen the look on the faces of your children, the sudden wetness in their eyes, the blush on their cheeks, when they hear someone using that word, knowing that it refers (even if unintentionally) to their sister whom they love and adore.

I will accept your apology when you've spent sleepless nights cataloging every moment of your life trying to find out where you went so wrong to have irreparably damaged your own child and praying for the strength to move on.

I will accept your apology when you've looked into the eyes of the purest of souls and caught a glimpse of yourself, however small or fleeting, and realized that they are not here to learn but instead are here to teach.

I will accept your apology when you come to my home and meet my exceptionally beautiful daughter who may never go to college or have a child of her own, but who will undoubtedly capture your heart. And I guarantee you that you will never use that word in that way again.

Sincerely,

Fiauna Lund

Oops, She Did Again

2010-01-26T11:36:00.000-08:00

Because she inherited her mother's grace and natural athleticism (that's a joke, people . . . seriously), Sunday night Keelie managed to skillfully trip over thin air, landing on her shoulder, breaking her collarbone . . . again.

That's right, again.

Here she is with Aiden just over a year ago after a fall down the stairs caused the first break:

And here she is Sunday night after returning from the urgent care center with her arm swaddled and suspended in a sling:

You can tell by the smile on her face that she's learned to enjoy all the adoration and attention of her older siblings who dote on her, bestowing upon her hugs, kisses and any other comfort they're able to provide. See all the plush toys around her?

All I can say is that she'd better not make this her annual winter tradition!

Brownies You HAVE to try!

2010-01-19T11:52:00.000-08:00

I love food. No, really. I love to eat--a lot. What I don't love is fighting with my jeans, trying to coerce them to glide up my thighs and over my bodacious booty. That's why during my college years my best friend and I tried to find the best way to make low-fat treats. Now, about one hundred years and at least as many recipes later, I've found a few that work for my family. Here is a brownie recipe I recently whipped up. I'm urging to you to try it. Why? Because it's that good, that's why.

Pumpkin Brownies by Me

1 cup 100% pure canned pumpkin (not pumpkin pie filling)

1/2 cup brown sugar

1 tsp stevia powder (can be found at health food stores or at more and more local grocers)

1 tsp vanilla

1 tsp salt

1 tsp baking powder

1 T olive oil

2 eggs

2 cups chocolate chips (divided)

1 cup whole wheat flour

Preheat oven to 350 and grease a 9x11 pan. Mix together pumpkin, sugar, stevia, vanilla, olive oil, salt and baking powder. In a microwave-safe bowl melt one cup of chocolate chips until smooth. Add to mixture until combined. Add eggs and mix until well combined. Add flour and the rest of the chocolate chips and mix. Spread into pan and bake for 30 minutes.

Be prepared for a cake-style brownie with a rich texture. And the pumpkin adds a huge nutritional punch.

Notes:

For those who don't know, stevia is a natural sweetener that's way sweeter than sugar but has no calories. It only takes a little to add a sweet flavor, so don't go overboard by adding more than 1 teaspoon. If you're not into cutting back on sugar (that's fine with me, I don't judge) then just add 1/2 cup white sugar--but, and this is a big but, I haven't tried that before so I don't know what that will do to the recipe.

Now, go make some brownies and enjoy guilt free.

Resolution

2010-01-06T11:53:00.000-08:00

Aaron had taken Brighton, Paige, and Aiden to their cousins' house to do some sledding with the ATV.

I stayed home with Keelie. We decided she is still too young to be dragged behind a four-wheeler.

Though she wouldn't be sledding, Keelie insisted on getting dressed up in her snow clothes to play outside in the winter weather.

I obliged, pulling on her snow pants and cramming her feet into her boots.

I stayed inside, watching her from behind the kitchen door, enjoying the warm indoor air. Winter play is for other people, hardy people who enjoy the cold and ice.

I watched Keelie making tracks in the freshly fallen snow, moving aimlessly from one place to another. Then she stopped, cocking her head to one side, looking down at the snow.

I was worried at first, gripping the handle on the door, ready to run outside and scoop her up, as this once was a sign of seizure activity.

But then as her mouth turned upward into a smile I realized she was just fine.

She was just feeling.

Feeling the cold air rushing into her nose.

Feeling the icy snow around her ankles.

Feeling winter.

Enjoying the gift of feeling.

And it really is a gift. We learn through feeling. We live through feeling.

And then I decided I need to feel too.

I donned my winter coat and pulled on my winter boots and stepped out into the winter air to feel the feeling of being alive.

We chased each other all over the back yard, scooping up snow until our fingers froze. Then we slipped back inside to feel warm again.

This year my resolution is to feel more. And enjoy it.

Oh, and to drink more water and eat healthier, too.

What do you resolve to do this year?

2009-12-26T20:22:00.000-08:00

What was my favorite part of Christmas this year?

My kids. Everything about them.

The way they were extra nice and helpful, fully aware that Santa was watching them.

The way their eyes lit up and their jaws dropped open when they realized they'd received everything they asked for.

But what I liked most of all was the way they all watched with excitement and anticipation as their little sister Keelie opened her gifts, in awe at the first Christmas that she was actually aware.

For the first time in her four years Keelie got it this year. She laughed at Santa, gaped at the tall Christmas tree, and thrilled as she opened her gifts. She even learned the words (or at least part of them) to Jingle Bells and sang into a microphone at school.

And Brighton, Paige, and Aiden were just as tickled as Mom and Dad were.

Yes, there really is a Santa Claus and he brought me everything I wanted too.

2009-12-23T19:11:00.000-08:00

All is calm. All is bright . . .

Merry Christmas

I Don't Share This With Just Anyone . . .

2009-12-10T10:55:00.000-08:00

But I will share it with you. Here is the infamous cookie recipe by Fiauna:

1/2 c low-fat margarine (like Blue Bonnet Light)

1/2 c unsweetened applesauce

3/4 c granulated sugar

1 c packed brown sugar

1 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. salt

1 c oatmeal (optional)

2 c whole wheat flour

2 c chocolate chips

Combine first 6 ingredients and mix well. Add oats and one cup flour and mix. Add chocolate chips and mix. Add final cup of flour and mix. Bake at 375 for about 12 minutes.

Notes:

The dough will be thinner than traditional cookie dough. Do not add more flour as it will change the texture of the cookies.

You can replace the sugar with Splenda but it changes the texture of the cookie, making the cookies more cake-like.

So there you have it, my favorite, time-tested, kids-will-eat-them-all-up cookie recipe. I hope you enjoy!

It's All About Me (How's This for Narcissism)

2009-12-08T14:05:00.000-08:00

I've tried my hand at a few things in my relatively short life. And while I might feel I haven't met with much success, I know I've learned a lot about who I am. I'm not good at everything I try, but at least I try, and that has made all the difference.

Take for instance my hair. If you know me, and know me well, you know that I don't like to get my hair done, something that has led me to become very inventive and skilled with the scissors. I've permed, colored and cut my own hair on numerous occasions. In fact, throughout my twenties and early thirties I only visited a hair dresser three times. No, honestly. Three times was it. That ended last year when I took a good look at my hair, spent twenty bucks for a trim and learned that doing hair isn't something I'm good at.

I went to college to study nursing. While on that journey I tried my hand at phlebotomy (drawing blood). After about my 200th blood draw, my cold sweat and quivering stomach taught me that maybe being around blood and guts isn't something I'm good at either. It's just a shame it took me more than two years and 200 vials of blood to learn that lesson.

So what am I good at? Well good is such a subjective word, but then again, I don't know what other word to use so we'll just go with it.

I'm good at making low-fat cookies. Low-fat cookies that taste good. No really, they do. Years of experimenting with recipes have paid off and now my family can snack on guilt-free chocolate chip cookies.

I'm good at being a stay-at-home mom. True, I could be better at ironing and making dinner, but life isn't all about pressed shirts and pot roast. I'm good at staying home with my kids, cleaning the house and being content with my life. I don't want "more" or dream of something more "exciting." Sure, I dream of being a writer, but that's just a dream, not reality and I know the difference.

I have a good intuition and I'm good at following it. I've learned over the years not to question that gut instinct.

Anyone who has been late (argh!) to dinner at my house will argue that this is not true, but I'm good at being flexible and patient. Parenting my children--especially Keelie-- has honed this skill in me. Though I'm passionate and vocal, I'm pretty easy going. At least I think so.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that one of the hardest lessons to learn in life is to love yourself. Over the years I've learned to (or at least I'm beginning to learn to) like myself for who I am. And while tomorrow I might cringe when I re-read this post, I have to say that I like myself pretty much the way I am, though I completely understand that there's always room for improvement. I know what I can and cannot do. I can't be something I'm not--I won't be something I'm not. What you see is what you get because I'm a heart-on-my-sleeve kind of girl.

How about you? Do you like you?

Pencils Down. Time's Up.

2009-12-01T14:19:00.001-08:00

November's over. I didn't reach my goal--not even by half. That's okay, this is a marathon, not a sprint. I made some good progress, and I'm happy with where the story is going. So, yay! That's done.

Brighton got his glasses (I know I promised pictures, but you'll just have to take my word for it when I say they look great.) and noticed the difference right away. He looked at me and said, "Mom, you look different. You have lines on your face, and little red dots, too." Yep. That's nice. Thanks for noticing.

After going three consecutive weeks without a full night of sleep (The time change always really messes up Keelie's sleep schedule. She woke up every morning at 3:00, climbed out of bed and began tormenting her siblings.), I caught the Mother Of All Colds. Now I have a chapped, red nose and watery, blood-shot eyes to go along with my lines and red dots. The good news is that after purchasing our fourth (and hopefully final) crib tent, Keelie is once again sleeping through the night. And now that I can get some rest, hopefully Brighton will begin noticing how truly lovely (and young looking) his mother really is.

Okay, now I'm going to confess this once, and only once, and then I don't want to hear about it anymore. During the past month I wasted my time (time I should have spent writing) watching this: , and reading this:. Ummm . . . Uhhh . . . I'm at a loss for words right now. I can't seem to find the right way express my disappointment. But, then again, what was I expecting?

How about you? What have you been up to?

Shhhh. I'm Thinking . . .

2009-11-13T15:44:00.000-08:00

If things are quiet around here it's not because I don't love you. I'm challenging myself with this. The goal? To get my current Work In Progress up to 50,000 words before the end of the month. This is a big deal for me. There are just too many distraction in my daily life. Add to that the fact that I'm a really slow writer. I write. And think. And write. And think. When what I need is to awaken the storm of creativity that is building in my mind, unleash the torrent of words, flood the page with the story. Think less. Write more.

Think less? Hmmm. We'll see how this goes.

Smile and say E!

2009-11-02T19:24:00.000-08:00

I had the pleasure of taking the boys to the doctor last week to check on their growth (both good) and development (also both good). Height and weight both on the charts. Vaccinations all up to date.

In fact there were no problems; every test came out okay. Oh, except for one little test called the vision screening.

When Brighton stepped up to the line to read the eye chart the only line he could read was the first one. The big letter E.

After verifying that up close he did indeed know and could read the other letters on the chart, the doctor informed me that, according to their vision screening, Brighton's vision is 20/200 in both eyes.

That means that what most people can see at a distance of 200 feet, Brighton can only see at a distance of 20 feet.

In fact, two nights later, while trick-or-treating around the neighborhood, I spied one of our kooky neighbors with a horse in his house. Yes, a horse in his house. Okay, it was a Shetland pony, but an equine just the same.

When I pointed across the street and said, "Look Brighton. That guy has a horse in his house." Brighton chuckled and replied, "Mom, I can't see it."

That was the first and only time he has ever complained about his vision.

I had no idea.

He didn't either, stating simply that he thought everyone saw everything the same way he did: blurry.

Later he tried on his dad's glasses and marveled at his surroundings as everything came into focus, exclaiming, "I can see. It's all so clear."

So, off to the ophthalmologist we go to get Brighton hooked up with some stylin' spectacles. (No, the glasses in the photo are not Brigton's real glasses. I'll post the real photo's later.)

An Open Letter to My Computer

2009-10-22T14:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Mac (I can't believe after a year I still haven't given you a real name.),

You may have noticed a little distance in our relationship lately. It's not you; It's me. We've been together for one year now. We've seen some really good times. You've helped me reach goals and learn so many new things. We've laughed. We've cried. We've been inseparable. And I feel that I can honestly say that you are one of my best friends (Sad, isn't it?).

But lately, something's changed; things have been different. Maybe it's all the pressure I'm under to produce good fiction in my writing class. Or maybe it's those nasty critiques I both given and received. I just feel like I need some space to, you know, breathe. I just need a some time to work through some things, get organized.

It's not healthy for our relationship to grow this codependent. Maybe we just love each other too much. I feel that a little time apart will do us some good. It's not like I'm breaking up with you. We'll just be taking a break for a while.

And we'll still see each other around. We still have our weekly writing classes, and I'd still like to blog from time to time. Oh, and don't forget email and Facebook; we'll definitely have to keep up on that. We just won't have to do it every day.

So, smile. Keep your chin up and know that I still love you. And I'm sure in the end, when I'm feeling a bit more myself, we'll get right back together.

Love,

Fiauna

Missing Teeth and Milestones

2009-10-12T11:59:00.000-07:00

It's a rare day when I struggle to find the words to express my feelings, but that's exactly where I'm at.

Last week Keelie lost her first tooth. Now, I understand that since she got her first tooth early, at three months of age, it stands to reason that she would lose her first tooth early as well, as in age four years old. But I was still taken by surprise when that little tooth began to wiggle its way out, preparing the way for the adult tooth behind it. Yes, you read that right. Adult tooth.

When my other children lost their first teeth it was an exciting time marked by a visit from the tooth fairy. The tooth fairy did not visit Keelie because . . . Well, I'll just go ahead and say it: She just doesn't get it--yet.

I understand that no matter who you are, or what your children are like, these kinds of milestones are always bitter-sweet. Milestones like losing teeth mark the steady march our children make along the path to adulthood, each step taking them further from infancy, through childhood, up the steep hill of adolescence, and finally out into the real world. But, while physically Keelie's body is making the journey forward, her mind is not. And milestones like these always bring that reality back to me. Her developmental milestones will likely never match her physical growth.

Don't get me wrong, she's made some big strides in her short life, meeting developmental milestones I struggled to believe she'd ever reach. In fact, she's talking so much now I'm going to have to delete the list of her growing vocabulary from the sidebar of the blog--it's just too big now. I'm thrilled by this because there was a time when I wondered if I'd ever get to hear the sound of her voice, let alone have a real conversation with her.

But I have to say that it's extremely difficult, and even painful, for me to imagine her some years in the future when her body has completed the journey from infancy to adulthood, her hair no longer falling in baby ringlets, her cheeks no longer rosy and full, but her mind is suspended somewhere along the path. Really, it breaks my heart.

I console myself with the kisses she so freely offers, the little songs she sings at the dinner table or around the house, and the oh-so-cute toothless smile she openly shares with me and the rest of the world.

You Tell Me . . .

2009-10-05T13:11:00.000-07:00

Should I buy the fake, Halloween cobwebs that my kids want me to buy, or do I use the REAL cobwebs already strung up around my house?

In other words, do I buy Halloween decorations for my home this year, or do I simply let my scary lack of housekeeping skills do the decorating for me?

What do you think?

Zone Defense

2009-09-23T09:22:00.000-07:00

At one point or another, during our college years, my husband and I both worked at Wal-Mart. Many relationships were formed and lessons learned while walking the overstocked aisles of the superstore, under the glare of the fluorescent lights.

Every night, near closing time, a voice would come over the loudspeaker calling out to the employees, "Attention Wal-Mart associates. It is now time to begin zone defense." At this time, the employees would wander their designated areas, checking the shelves and displays, making sure all was where it should be and in proper form.

Sometimes this was a bigger task than other times. During the shopping hours the costumers could wreak havoc on the store, picking up, moving, and misplacing items throughout the store. It all had to be put back in the proper place, and arranged for good presentation. No matter how late it was, or how tired they were, the employees couldn't leave until the work was done.

It is no different in life. The world has a way of creeping in and moving things around, picking up our priorities and misplacing them. We each must call for a zone defense--often. We have to ask ourselves if the way we are living is in line with what we believe. Are our goals reflective of who we truly are and what we want to become? Sometimes what we think we want can keep us from being truly happy.

I've begun to take some time to do some zone defense in my own life. What I've found is that I have been allowing the world to misplace a few of my priorities, distracting me from the work I'm really here to do. As I am beginning to put my priorities back in the right place, I'm finding greater peace and clarity in my life. And I'm finding out that my life doesn't have to be complicated; I'm running this show and can therefore choose most of what I allow into my world.

It's humbling work, this zone defense, and I hope I can get everything in the proper place before the doors on this life are locked and the lights turned out. How about you? Have you done some zone defense lately?

Wordless Wednesday

2009-09-16T09:42:00.000-07:00

In stillness there is peace.

I will be still. I will find peace.

The Parable of the Lawn Mowers

2009-09-11T06:12:00.000-07:00

We have two lawn mowers. One is new. It’s a Honda we picked up at The Home Depot just before moving into our new house. It’s nice with a wide deck, and it’s self-propelled. The other lawn mower is old. I think it’s a Toro or something. We picked it up at a yard sale for twenty bucks several years ago. Sure, it runs great, has never let us down. But it’s a push mower, propelled only by your own blood, sweat, and tears.

Our lawn is just over 1/3rd of an acre, big by not enormous. My husband and I split the lawn mowing responsibilities; he mows the front lawn while I mow the back. Because the back lawn is situated on a slope, and because I am of the fairer sex, I get to use the nice mower, the Honda, while hubby slugs away with the Toro.

Once, a few weeks ago, I decided to let my husband off the hook and trade him mowers. I felt bad that he always had to use the old mower, and wanted to give him a chance to use the new one. So I took the Toro into the back yard and let him feel the power and ease the Honda offered. I eased the mower out onto the lawn, thinking to myself, this isn’t so bad. Actually, at first, I thought it was a little easier than using the Honda because sometimes the Honda with it’s self-propelled motor, can get away from me, like it has a mind if its own. The little Toro did only what I asked.

And then I began to mow the upward side of the sloping back yard. Yikes. I pushed, I grunted, I sweat until my eyes burned. My shirt was drenched, my makeup melted, my back almost too tired to continue.

Forty-minutes into my ordeal, my husband came to find me in the backyard. He had finished the front yard in record time. “Honey, why don’t you let me finish?” he asked with sincerity.

“No . . . I can . . . do this . . .” I wheezed.

“Well then, at least finish up with the Honda.” He took the Toro back to the garage and brought me the Honda with its self-propelled magic instead.

I felt defeated. I felt like I had somehow given up. Somewhere deep inside of me I wanted to prove to my husband that I was tough enough to push that old mower up the slope of the lawn. But as I finished up, I had to admit that I had needed the help all along.

What lesson did I learn from the lawn mowers? I learned that there are times when we have reached the limit of our capabilities and we must ask for help, or at the very least accept the help we’re offered. It’s not cheating. It’s not giving up. We are human. We are fallible. And there are times that, without help, we will fail.

I feel this way often in motherhood. I find myself thinking, If I were a good mother I could _______ (fill in the blank). But it's just not so. A good mother would be aware of the needs of her family, understand her limitations, and ask for help to make up the difference.

We may be strong, but there are times when even the strength of the strongest is simply not enough. And we need to know that it’s always okay to ask for help.

And, in the end, to make a long story short, let's just say that I will not be using the Toro to mow the backyard again.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-09-09T07:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you've just gotta growl.

One of Those Days

2009-09-08T13:46:00.001-07:00

Have you ever had one of those days? No. Not one of those days. I'm talking about one of those rare good days when you just hit your groove? Do you know what I'm talking about? Have you ever woken up with energy, ready for the day? Ever accomplished every, single, nitpicking item on you to-do list? Well, I almost did.

After what seemed to be a more than rocky start (Keelie's personal rooster crowed at 3 o'clock this morning. That's just way too early) my day fell into a groove. I got the kids off to school; finished the grocery shopping, even stocked up on toilet paper; got in a butt-kicking 45 minute workout with trainer to the stars, Jillian Michaels; read the lecture for my fiction writing class; did my visiting teaching; and now I'm off to finish folding the laundry. And hey, look, I even found time to blog.

Yep, it looks like it's been one of those days.

I hope you all had one of those days, too. And if you didn't, well, there's always tomorrow, right?

We Have a Problem

2009-09-02T15:57:00.000-07:00

Last Friday this video was shown at an assembly at my children's school. Now, I don't usually express my political opinions; I vote, that's how I share my beliefs. And when I heard the uproar over this video, I didn't rush headlong into a political debate like some parents did. Instead I talked to my kids, asked them about it. And then, based on what they told me, I checked it out for myself.

The premise of this video is pledging to serve, which is why it was shown to the kids at school. The school's theme for the year is service. I get that. That's cool. Oh, but there's more to the story--so much more. And now we have a problem.

First of all, the use of celebrities was Oooover the top in this video--celebrities my children don't even know because they are celebrities that act, sing, appear in more grown-up genres of music, film, etc. I have a problem with this. I don't want my six-year-old to look up to a tattooed burnout who pledges allegiance to funk. (Yes, he really said that. It's in the video; you can check it out.)

Secondly--and this is a biggie--I do not, and I don't want my children to, pledge allegiance to Barack Obama. Yes, he is the president of the United States of America. I support that and respect that. But I pledge allegiance to a nation, not a man.

And last of all, I do not pledge to be a servant to Barack Obama. Last time I checked, the president of the United States was a servant of the people, not the other way around.

The airing of the video to my children did prompt some good discussions. We talked about the 12th Article of Faith which states: "We believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates, in obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law." And how honoring the president and respecting that position is not the same as being a servant to any man.

I think the thing that upsets me about this video is the fact that these celebrities, who do have the right of free speech, said these lines so flippantly, as if they didn't think about what they were saying. To pledge to be a servant to anyone. Come on, people. Think before you speak.

The First Cut is the Deepest

2009-08-31T07:00:00.000-07:00

You know that expression. The first cut is the deepest. And probably the most painful, too. For some reason, today the tears won't stop. This morning I dropped Keelie off for her first day in the ASSERT preschool program. And while I know she is in the absolute best hands, being cared for by a group of highly trained professionals, it doesn't stop the panic in me.

I imagine her sitting at lunch without me. Someone else will open her lunch bag and prepare her sandwich. Someone else will put the straw in her juice box. Someone else will change her diaper after lunch (unfortunately the potty training this summer didn't go as well as I would have hoped). Someone else will soothe the tears of her frustration, reward her good behavior, reprimand her inappropriate outbursts.

While this is a trial that all parents must face, for the parent of a child with a disability, the pain is ten fold. How I want to protect her, shield her from the world. She is my flightless bird and I wish only to keep her safely nestled in the hollow of my hand. But I know I cannot keep her caged within the safe confines of my heart and home. I must release her little by little. But this one, this first cut, it's the deepest.

Where the Boys Become Men . . .

2009-08-28T07:00:00.000-07:00

And the men become boys.

This is what I love.

I love to watch the man in my life

teach the boys in my life

the lessons of life

as they play out on the grass.

What starts out as a game between father and sons soon gains steam

as the neighborhood boys gather for some friendly competition.

Eventually, the entire yard becomes the turf where fathers scrimmage against sons while little sisters cheer from the driveway.

Yes, this is what I love.

The Evolution of Me

2009-08-26T09:49:00.001-07:00

Time has seen and continues to see the evolution of me. And as we celebrate the passing of another year of my life, I will provide for your viewing pleasure a short photo documentary to illustrate how some things just get better with age.

I was born the youngest of four children. Cute, chubby, and obviously totally adorable, I was loved by all.

As I commenced into school it became apparent that not only was I terribly beautiful, I was also brilliant, the star pupil, at the top of every class.

I was also very righteous as you can see from my baptism picture. I always chose the right and stood for what I believe.

When the days of adolescence set in, I was always a trendsetter, one step ahead of the fashions.

I was Jonas before Jonas was cool. Well, actually, I was Jonas before Jonas was even born. See the resemblance? Where do you think they got their rockin' style?

As I matured, continually making all the right choices, I married well and raised four productive, talented, and equally gorgeous children.

So as you can see, with each new year, at every stage of my evolution, I just keep getting better and better.

(Please take all of this with a grain of salt.)

Happy Birthday to Me!

(tomorrow)

My Fickle, Fickle Feelings

2009-08-24T10:38:00.001-07:00

So it's finally here, that day I've been counting down to. This morning, when I came out of my bedroom to make breakfast I found three of my children already up and dressed for school. That's how excited they were. The smile on my face let them know that I was excited, too.

Later the nerves would set in as we pulled up in front of the school. Paige promptly told me that she had dinosaurs in her stomach. Aiden clung to my side like glue. But Brighton, well he was okay.

They lined up with their teachers, nervously waving shy hellos to their friends and secret goodbyes to me. Aiden cried, and cried. And at first I wanted to dump him into the first grade cold turkey--wave goodbye and walk away. But I couldn't. I waited with him, kissing his cheek and offering him treats if he made it through the day, knowing full well he would.

Then it was time for the flag ceremony and the singing of the school song. Every year I dread the singing of the school song. Every year it makes me cry and I knew this year would be no different.

Majestic birds so full of pride ascend o'er Eagle Bay

With fearless trust we'll swiftly glide, we know we'll find our way.

Within our nest we will do our best and learn to take to flight

On freedom's wing we will soar and sing of the eagle's strength and might.

We'll fly with eagle's wings, we'll soar across the sky

With the glory that it brings we'll keep on flying high.

So when the rain started falling and the principle announced that they'd skip singing the school song and hurry into class I was relieved; I really didn't want to cry.

But then, as I drove away, my children safely tucked into their new classrooms, I realized this would be the last year I'd get to hear them sing that song; next year we're on to a new school. And then I was sad. Sad I didn't get to cry over the singing of the song. And suddenly sad my kids were gone. In school all day. Without me.

I miss them already.

I know, I know. I've been bragging about this day practically all summer. I've been counting down the minutes. But I'm entitled to my fickle feelings--happy, ecstatic, and overjoyed one minute, lonely and sad the next.

And now a new countdown begins. Two more hours until they're home. Nine months until school's out.

I Smell a Merger

2009-08-20T11:57:00.001-07:00

Have you ever wanted to kill your blog? No? Never? Well I have. So after months of consideration, I've decided it's time not to kill my blog, but to consolidate it. I've decided to combine my two blogs into one delightful and insightful blog. It's a merger.

We all know sometimes mergers don't work out, and sometimes combining things can be disastrous, (think green jello with carrots and mayonnaise. Yuck!) but I have a feeling this will be a good thing.

As most of you know, keeping a blog current is a lot of work. Keeping two blogs current is . . . well, it's even more work. For all the work it's been, posting my work on The Sprightling Diaries blog has not provided the payoff I had hoped for nine months ago when I set it up. And while I love the look of the blog, and I enjoy sharing my passion for writing, I just don't have it in me to keep two blogs going right now.

This in no way means I've given up my writing dream. On the contrary. With the kids going back to school, I'm going to be taking some writing classes, honing my skills, and hopefully more fully developing my talent. And since I write so much on this blog anyway, I'll just post my writing updates here instead. Check out the side bar for information on my latest work in progress. And if I have any big news to share (like a contract or something--hey, a girl can dream) I'll post it here.

So, you see, I'm not killing my blog, after all. It's merely a merger. And we all know how good a merger can be, right? Think BLT sandwiches, or cookies 'n cream ice cream, or s'mores, or Cherry Coke, or . . .

Grace

2009-08-18T19:20:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling so inspired today after reading this and this. The strength and courage needed to endure such a severe trial hold a beauty all their own. It's grace--that's what it is. Pure grace.

She Also Does Windows

2009-08-14T21:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, a child who loves carrots and mopping. What more could a mother ask for?

Oh, and did I mention that she also does windows?

(Yet another quality photo brought to you by Yours Truly.)

Now, go click on over to The Sprightling Diaries where I'm posting chapters from the next book. Go ahead, give it a go.

And to all of you who received this twice in your reader, my deepest apologies. I had to edit it; the original post looked horrid.

Books by my Bedside

2009-08-12T08:04:00.000-07:00

Since the age of fifteen, there has been one constant in my life: a bedside table loaded with books. And though the books have come and gone, the bedside table has remained the same. In fact, it still bears the hole I burnt through the top veneer when I left a tea light burning on it when I was sixteen.

So what, you ask, is on my bedside table right now? Well, here's your answer:

A framed picture of my hubby and me taken while we were still only dating,

A glass for water,

A remote control,

A lamp,

and a candle.

Here are the books that currently sit upon my bedside table:

The Wednesday Letters by Jason F. Wright,

Blue Moon by Alyson Noel,

Northanger Abby by Jane Austen,

Awaken Your Spiritual Power (The Fairy Godmother Isn't Coming!) by (my personal fave) Susan Noyes Anderson,

Coraline by Neil Gaiman,

And, of course, the quad of scriptures that I got when I was seventeen (these have been a constant companion on my bedside table since that time), and a journal.

And for those of you who may be asking what's on my husband bedside table, here's a sampling of what you'll find over there:

A lamp,

An iHome,

A journal (he never writes in),

and the book he's currently reading, Between a Rock and a Hard Place by Aron Ralston, (You remember him. He's the guy that cut off his right arm when he got stuck while hiking in Moab.)

So, pray tell, what's on your bedside table?

P.S. This is how you say 'nacho' in German: Tortilla Chips in Schmelzkäse und Chilli-Pfeffer gedippt (Literally translated it's: tortilla chips dipped in melted cheese and chili peppers.) Those funny Germans, alway so literal.

Say What?

2009-08-10T12:02:00.001-07:00

A few things I've heard in the past couple of days.

"Oh, no! Black Justice just fell into the sink."

"And that's how you say 'nacho' in German."

"Why are you crooked?" "Because I'm not straight."

Um . . . I'm pretty sure that last one didn't come out right.

On Childhood

2009-08-05T15:32:00.001-07:00

After dinner and bedtime, when the house settles into the quiet rhythm of the evening, Aaron likes to sit down and read my day's blog post and all the comments that come with it. Well when he read my last post he asked, "Do you think this would hurt the kids' feelings if they read it?"

I suppose it might, but I think my kids understand where I'm coming from.

From this question sprang a conversation on childhood.

When you stop to think about it, childhood--at least the parts you remember--really only occupies thirteen or fourteen years of life. And even then, you really only have until age fourteen or fifteen before the innocence of childhood is taken over by the angst of the teenage years.

So why then do we cling so ardently to those few years of life when our earliest memories are made when we have so many decades of memories to follow? Why when we are continually moving forward through adulthood do we still clutch the chubby fist of our long past childhood, yanking it on behind us on, urging it to keep pace with our grown selves?

We dwell on our childhood. We brood over our childhood. Some of us continually wish to return to childhood. The summers you spent as a child were the best summers ever. The games you played as a child were the best games ever. The traditions you began as a child are the ones that last. The memories made in childhood are the clearest, sharpest, purest memories of all. The dreams we dream in childhood are the ones that shape our lives.

It makes me wonder--and cringe just a little--if the person we were as a child is who we really are. Children are pure and meek--sometimes mild--before they become affected and disillusioned by the world. I see it in my own children even if I can't recognize it in myself. I see it in the sparkle in their eyes, and the pure, unconditional love they offer to everyone and everything. I recognize it in their curious imaginations. And isn't that what we all love about childhood, and children in general? Maybe we cling to our childhood as a way of returning to that perfect, unaffected us we used to be. To dwell for just one more moment in the pure love and undiluted enthusiasm and zest for life and learning.

So make no mistake, when I speak with delight of my children returning to school, it is only so I can relish in the joy of their return home. (That and a few hours of peace and quiet.)

The Countdown Begins

2009-08-04T09:20:00.000-07:00

It's August. It's hot. My kids have just gotten into the swing of summer. All of it means one thing: the countdown to the start of school has begun.

I'm a mix of emotions. On the one hand, I love having my kids home with me. On the other hand, I love not having the kids home with me. Ya dig??

Yesterday, while the kids were happily engaged in play with their cousins, I got a call from Keelie's preschool teacher to schedule a day of testing. Testing? Time for tests already? Does that mean I have to study? And that reminded me of the dreaded task of homework. Ugh. But then I remembered shopping sans children. Yay! And then I remembered wet, muddy shoes filled with playground sand. Ugh. But then I thought about jogging without the burden of pushing a stroller. Yay! Back and forth, and back and forth I go. I feel bi-polar.

21 days until the start of the new school year. Happy? Sad? Which is it?

Improvement

2009-07-29T21:13:00.000-07:00

M.I.A.. Mutual Improvement Association.

I remember reading those words while sitting in a Sunday school class as a fifteen-year-old with a self-esteem about the size of a pea. I was probably grounded at the time, with a fresh batch of acne on my chin, a run in my nylons, and fifteen extra pounds to lose. I focused on the word Improvement and felt . . . What? Defeated? Overwhelmed? It's hard for me to choose the right word. In short, I just didn't feel good enough. I remember wondering to myself: When will my best be good enough? When will I be good enough just the way I am? Why am I always needing improvement?

At the time, it felt to me as if everywhere I looked, someone was doing better than I was. If I got straight A's on my report card, someone else got straight A's in all A.P. classes. If I got a new outfit, someone else got a new name-brand outfit. And in every area of my life, there was room for improvement. Though I had near perfect grades in science and German, my math grades needed improvement. In swimming, while my pull was somewhat strong, my kick needed improvement. At work, even though I showed up for work on time, my attitude needed--you guessed it--improvement.

I wondered if it would ever end. Well, now I know that the short answer is no. But I feel the need to qualify that answer.

At the immature and inexperienced age of fifteen, all I wanted was love, acceptance, and admiration. To me, at that time, suggesting that I needed improvement was to deny me love, acceptance, and admiration. If I wasn't good enough just the way I was--bad attitude, sagging math grades, and all--well then, I wasn't good enough, period.

Now with the wisdom of years I've come to realize that it isn't that cut and dry. I know plenty of people who love me the way I am. They know my flaws, have seen me mess up plenty of times, and offer me acceptance just the same. But I now understand the importance of loving and accepting myself. And in order to love and accept myself, I need to be the best I can be. To be the best I can be, I need constant improvement. And this process never ends.

It's not as bad as it sounds; when I'm working to do better or learn a new skill, I'm happier, more energized, and plainly said, nicer to be around. It's a win--win situation. The key is not to compare myself, my work, my best with that of those around me. Let's face it: someone is always smarter, thinner, and more successful--and with nicer shoes, too. What's important is seeing improvement. Improvement means progress. Progress means happiness. And when I'm happy I can love, accept, and yes, even admire myself--acne covered chin, running nylons, and all.

"Pweasie, hands? Pweasie, gwoves?"

2009-07-27T12:07:00.000-07:00

The high-five coat makes a come back.

Three Days By the Bay . . . With No Internet Access

2009-07-23T13:16:00.000-07:00

My husband had a tax planning seminar to attend. I was just the tag-along, spending my days lounging in a hotel room, reading, reading, writing, and reading. Ahhh--the good life.

When we arrived in San Francisco we were shocked by the cool weather (58 degrees--in July? Really?), stunned by the beauty of the city, and annoyed at the hotels lack of decent internet access.

We shopped in Chinatown, had dinner on Fisherman's Wharf (twice), drove over the Golden Gate Bridge, saw Coit Tower, cruised past the posh stores of Union Square, took a walk in Golden Gate Park, gawked at all of the Victorian architecture, took pictures of the Dutch Windmill, and navigated our way down Lombard Street.

But, sorry, no pictures. I forgot my camera's memory card. So if your husband has business in San Francisco, I suggest you tag along. But remember your memory card and make sure you have internet access.

Where the Journey Began

2009-07-17T06:59:00.000-07:00

Warning: Long post ahead, but a must read.

I am frequently asked when and how I knew Keelie had autism. I feel that to truly explain I need to really elaborate because, well, the truth is, the signs were there for quite some time before I clued in. So I'll start before the journey began.

After Aiden was born, Aaron and I both wanted a break before having another child. That break didn't last long though before we both felt the prompting to try again for another baby. I say prompting because that's exactly what it was. It was a whispering to my soul, an urgency felt by both Aaron and myself.

We had a feeling it would take a while to conceive, so in the interim, we planned a vacation to Japan. Alone. With no children. Two weeks after returning home, I found out I was pregnant. Keelie was on her way. Early on we agreed that we would only consider having another child if this pregnancy went well. That question was answered 31 weeks into the pregnancy when, after having some back pain, the doctor informed me that I was in preterm labor and needed to go on bed rest. Bed rest. For three weeks. With three young children at home to care for. Yeah, right!

It was at this time that the doctor also prescribed some medication (terbutaline) to stop the contractions I was having and I received two large shots of steroids into my buttocks to help Keelie's lungs mature rapidly if labor didn't stop. Fortunately the labor did stop and I only had to take the medication a few times to stop contractions. Harmless, right? Well, maybe not.

At about 35 weeks of pregnancy, during a routine office visit, the doctor placed the Doppler on my stomach to measure Keelie's heart rate. 200 + beats per minute. Too fast. For a full minute the doctor listened to Keelie's heart just waiting for it to slow down. It didn't. "Did you take your terbutaline this morning?" he asked with a look of concern on his face. I responded with a proud No, so happy that I hadn't needed it. "Well, your baby's heart rate is a little too fast. Usually it'll slow down after a minute or two. We'll just go on with the exam and check the heart rate when we're finished."

Now I was worried. What was wrong now? What was happening to my baby?

After the exam was finished, the doctor placed the Doppler on my belly again. The heart rate had dropped to about 180 beats per minute. Still fast, but acceptable. He let me go home, but the look on his face remained concerned. I tried to shoo the worries out of my mind.

Keelie was born two-and-a-half weeks later, healthy as far as we could tell. Her heart rate did soar to 200+ bpm during labor, but no one seemed concerned at the time.

Once home, Keelie soon adopted the nickname Angel Baby. She was so good, so peaceful. She slept well; she ate well. She was a happy and content little angel. But one thing did bother Aaron: Whenever we took Keelie for car rides, she would sit in her car seat for hours on end without an utterance of complaint. "That's just not normal," he insisted. But I just thought it was one of the Lord's tender mercies, a child that actually liked to be fastened into a car seat.

At around nine months of age, Keelie began what we affectionately called "Crazy eye". She would roll her eyes to the side as if to look out of just the farthest corner of her field of vision. She began doing it so much that total strangers would ask what she was doing. "Oh, she's giving you the crazy eye," we'd respond. Other's knew what this meant, that this was a sign of autism, but they didn't say anything--to us, that is.

At ten month's of age, Keelie began having these little jerking movements. I first noticed it while she was sitting up in her high chair. I figured that she was still young and learning motor control. I didn't let the jerking concern me at all. But at the age of one, Keelie only just began to crawl. When all of the other kids were walking, standing and cruising, Keelie was only beginning to rock on her hands and knees and slowly propel herself forward. Add to that the fact that all three of my older children were beginning to use words at the age of one. Keelie hadn't even began babbling. Still, I wasn't phased. "She'll learn at her own rate," I told myself and any one who questioned.

About this time, Aaron picked up Three Weeks With My Brother by Nicholas Sparks. He devoured the book and quickly handed it off to me saying, "You've go to read this." I did. In the book, the author discusses his son's diagnosis of a form of autism. He describes in heart-wrenching detail his son's behaviors, getting the diagnosis, and what the family did to help their son. "I don't ever want to go through that," I said to Aaron after reading about their trial. Just a few short months later, I was eating my words.

The next month, while sitting in church with Keelie on my lap, I felt her suddenly jerk forward. Her whole body tensed with the motion. Then she did it again, and again. Four times in one hour, I felt her little body tense up and jerk forward. What I had thought was a result of poor motor control was definitely something more. "I think she's having seizures," I confessed to my husband before making an appointment with the doctor. Over the next few weeks while we waited for our appointment, these jerking episodes grew worse and worse. Suddenly the jerking was so bad that Keelie couldn't even hold a bottle in her hand without launching it across the room as her body lurched forward.

When the appointment with the doctor actually came, I was calm as I explained to him what was happening. He began to type away on his computer before I could even finish my explanation and what I read over his shoulder sent my world reeling. As I read over his shoulder the only words that seemed legible to me were the words Seizures and Mental Retardation. No, I told myself, not my child. Denial set in instantly.

He handed me a card and told me to contact Davis County Early Intervention. I shrugged, took the card, and dutifully called the office when I got home. They quickly set up an appointment and sent me a large questionnaire to fill out about my daughter's behaviors, habits and abilities. I filled it out, but being that I was in denial, I don't know how honestly I answered the questions. Does your child make eye contact with you? (Recalling "crazy eye" and quickly banishing the thought from my mind.) Well, sure she does. Does she like to be held? Oh, yes. Does she play with toys? ... Um ... Well now that's a hard one. Does your child know who her parents are and show stranger anxiety? I couldn't answer. Wouldn't answer. My own daughter didn't even know who I was, and that I could not accept.

As I drove to the early intervention office for our appointment, I had settled in my mind that they would tell me that she was mildly delayed and to come back in three months for further evaluation. Well, that's not what happened. After they tested Keelie, watching her, offering her toys and recording her reactions, they sat down on the floor around the rocking chair where I was seated. "Your daughter in moderately to severely delayed on every level," they told me without batting an eye. "She qualifies for our services and we'll begin therapy immediately."

I asked if she would catch up, dreaming that after a few months, maybe a year, of therapy, she'd be right on track with the other kids her age. They just looked at each other and answered, "Well, we've seen some amazing things."

What? No.

As I drove home, the grief washed over me like storm-tossed waves. I had the radio on and as Natalie Merchant sang "Trouble Me, " I had to pull over. I cried, my head against the steering wheel while I listened to the words, Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden when my back is sturdy and strong. Trouble me. And then I prayed.

Later, we asked Aaron's dad to give Keelie a priesthood blessing. During the prayer I listened for those words, those promises of healing. I waited for him to utter the words that meant she would be healed of this. They never came. Instead, I heard, "She will touch the lives of all those she comes in contact with." And I knew. The journey had begun. We were taking the first steps. Or had we taken the first steps a year ago with out realizing it?

It would take over a year and thousands of dollars to get the autism diagnosis, and still, that diagnosis is in question. But none of that matters now. We are on this journey, and loving it. And that is all that matters.

What Could Possibly Be Worse?

2009-07-14T07:14:00.000-07:00

I've been prompted lately to write about my most embarrassing moment from childhood. Well, there certainly are plenty to share. Take, for instance, my entire sixth grade year when I dressed like a total nerd and listened to The Monkees. Totally embarrassing to remember.

Oh, and then there was the time my sophomore year of high school that I passed out during swimming and had to be carried from the girls' locker room by a group of football players while wearing only my swimming suit. If I hadn't felt so sick, I would have died from the shame.

There are many stories like that, oh so many. But the story that takes the cake was the time I totally made of fool of myself during a high school dance.

Imagine a warm summer night lit only by the shimmering stars overhead; a large group of teenagers from three different high schools in a crowded parking lot; and the loud, thumping music provided by a DJ. Imagine dancing, laughing, talking and flirting going on all around you. Now put yourself in my shoes.

It was the beginning of my junior year. I had just turned sixteen and the dating possibilities seemed endless. My older sister provided proximity to so many older guys to choose from. That night at the dance I spied one, at least I thought I did. His name was Jim. I spotted him from across the parking lot where he danced with a group of unfamiliar girls. I figured they were meaningless drones from another school. I wanted to, had to get his attention. How better to do that than to give the guy a wedgie, right? Of course. So, naturally, I crossed the parking lot, walked up behind him, and placing my hands firmly on his shorts, gave his pants a great big Yank, yelling, "Wedgie fever!"

Imagine my mortification when a total stranger turned around to face me. A totally cute total stranger. A totally cute, total stranger who rightfully thought I was out of my mind.

"You're not Jim," I said, dumbly. "No, I'm not," he answered, his drone of girls looking on in contempt. I turned tail and ran back to my side of the parking lot faster than one could yell Wedgie Fever.

The moral of the story is: Never, ever try to get attention by assaulting someone's nether regions with an attack on their underwear. Not, I repeat, NOT a good idea.

Post edit: I forgot to give credit where credit is due. You can thank Emmy for this post. Click on over to her site to read more embarrassing stories.

2009-07-12T08:16:00.000-07:00

Today we celebrate the four wonderful years of your life;

we remember every brave step you've taken;

we ponder every profound lesson you've taught us.

Today we celebrate YOU.

Happy Birthday, Keelie!

Hooky Day

2009-07-09T08:29:00.000-07:00

On a hot summer day a few years ago a tradi

tion emerged in our family called "Hooky Day".

Aaron took the day off work, and with nothin

g else planned, we played hooky all day long.

We've done it every year since.

Welcome to Hooky Day 2009.

After breakfast, we headed east toward the mountains.

A hike near Snow Basin Ski Resort seemed an appr

opriate activity for Hooky Day.

Keelie totally fell for this log.

In Huntsville, we found lunch at this cute restaurant.

Post Edit: When playing hooky in a small town, never underestimate the strange things you may see. I almost forgot to show you some of the Huntsville natives we met.

This woman was out standing in her field with her cattle (all of them were fake, including the woman herself).

Back home, a dunk in the water and some rest poolside was a great way to wrap up the day.

Ever played hooky before? Not since high school? Well, try it again; you won't regret it.

July 7th 1995

2009-07-07T06:00:00.000-07:00

I liked him for his smile and the scar on his cheek that he fibbed and told me he got in a knife fight.

I liked him for his big blue eyes and thick hair.

I liked him for the way we could talk and talk for hours.

I loved him for how he made me feel confident and beautiful.

I loved him for the way he made me smile.

I loved him because he listened to my story, my crazy ranting and tears, and loved me anyway.

I married him for how he spoke with about his family.

I married him for the peace he brought to my heart.

I married him for the way he spoke with reverence about the gospel and the importance of a temple marriage.

I love him still for the way he tenderly loves our children.

I love him still for the way he regards us as two parts of a whole.

I love him still because, after 14 years, being married to him is the best part of every day.

Happy anniversary, Aaron.

On the Road Again

2009-07-06T15:04:00.000-07:00

It's been five years since I ran my last race.

Though I've continued to run nearly everyday,

life has just been too busy for racing.

Until I found the inspiration to hit the road again.

Seven months ago my sister Mindy had a stroke.

Nearly fatal, the stroke wiped out the blood supply to the entire left side of her brain.

She lay in the Neuro ICU at U of U Medical Center

unable to speak, walk, write.

Then a nasty pneumonia infection collapsed her lung.

She's a fighter, though.

And just look at her now.

That's us on the 4th of July getting ready to run the Lewiston Patriot Border Run in Lewiston, Utah.

Way to go, Mindy. Way to go!

It Takes the Cake

2009-06-29T10:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when life gives you too much cake, you've just got to make "cupcakes".

Can life really give you too much cake? Yes! After the anniversary party, we had too much cake. While I was busy folding the eleventeenth load of laundry, Keelie was busy turning the leftover cake into cupcakes. (I promise I didn't set this up; Keelie did this all on her own.)

Sometimes my little Cupcake (Keelie) leaves little (or big) messes behind.

And then I need Mama's Little Helper. (Yes, Rachel. I bought it.)

Anyone who really knows me also knows that I'm obsessed with my dirty floor. I'll try anything to keep it clean. And then I found this little fella, the LiNX Cordless by Hoover. No cord to hold me back. No wimpy rechargeable battery to slow me down. This baby really sucks! I mean REALLY. The 18 volt lithium ion battery recharges in only one hour. Now that's innovation.

The LiNX takes the cake, and crumbs, and dust, and dirt, and hair, and just about anything else you can throw under it.

This puppy gets my stamp of approval!

P.S. Check out Mormonwoman.org to read my essay "No One to Blame." Already read it on my blog? Then stop by Mormonwoman.org anyway to read more from women just like me.

Back To Business As Usual

2009-06-29T06:44:00.000-07:00

And the winner is ...

I'm Just Me!

Email me your address and I'll send your lovely necklace.

And now we're back to business as usual.

The anniversary party was great. I think my in-laws enjoyed it.

My dad is still in the hospital, but closer to being on the mend.

The lime sherbet drink was a hit. Thanks for all of the recipes.

Deep breaths, whispered prayers, and lots of Diet Coke and I might just survive this summer after all.

Deep Breaths

2009-06-24T10:09:00.000-07:00

I just paused for a moment to make a blue-raspberry slushy for my son and decided to slow down and make this totally random, crazy post. I need this moment to take a few deep breaths.

First of all, my dad (stepdad, really, but to me he's just Dad) is in the ICU in some hospital in Erie, PA and I can't be there with him! It's driving me crazy. He has pneumonia and something is wrong with his heart that they haven't yet diagnosed. My poor mom is running back and forth between the hospital in Pennsylvania and their home in New York--I don't know if she's squeezing in her shifts at work, too, or not. I really feel like I should be there. But I can't.

Second of all, this Saturday is my in-laws 50th wedding anniversary. 50 years! 50!!! Amazing. They totally deserve a rockin' party to celebrate. And that's just what my husband has in mind. He volunteered to throw a golden anniversary party for them. So all week I am busy with the preparations. Cooking, cleaning, tying fancy bows with pink and gold tulle. The problem is I'm not crafty. Not in the least bit. So this should be interesting ...

Third of all, does anyone know how to make that frappe drink that is always served at weddings. You know the stuff: Sprite, lime sherbet, some other stuff. Anyone have that recipe? I need it.

Fourth of all, I must confess, I put the laundry soap in the dishwasher on purpose. I was out of dishwasher detergent and thought it would work with laundry soap. Yes, I'm that ditzy sometimes.

So how about your week? Just as crazy as mine? I'm sure it is; it's just part of being a grownup.

P.S. You can still enter my giveaway. Comment on the giveaway post, if you haven't already.

101 Posts and a Giveaway

2009-06-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I kinda skipped my 100th post. But, not to worry, I am going ahead with the giveaway. Aren't you all excited?

So, in honor of my 100th (or 101st) blog post, I'm giving away this lovely sterling silver sand dollar necklace on a 16" chain.

Since I am a simple woman, I'll make this easy: all you have to do to enter the giveaway is leave a comment. I'll select a winner at random and post the result next Monday.

I truly appreciate all of my readers, whether you blurk and leave no comments, or comment multiple times on every post on both of my blogs.

Thanks so much for your support over the past 101 posts!

Autism Every Day

2009-06-18T09:09:00.000-07:00

I'm postponing my 100th post giveaway to bring you an important message from Autism Speaks. My friend Rachel found this video on Youtube and I feel compelled to share it. I didn't expect it to move me the way that it did, but it summed up a day in my life so perfectly that I found myself in tears.

Please watch it, share it, and grow in compassion for the many families dealing with autism.

Epiphanies of Common Sense

2009-06-18T05:30:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, seemingly out of nowhere, I learn a valuable lesson. Sometimes these moments of learning come from an experience. Sometimes they just pop into my head. I call these moments epiphanies of common sense. And I will share a few with you now.

While healthy competition is a good thing, greed and envy are not. Don't get them confused.

If your child wants to clean with you, hand her a rag and spray bottle and let her go to town.

One of the quickest and easiest cures for boredom is a walk.

Most advertisements are no more than carefully worded lies.

And my most recent epiphany: Don't put laundry soap in the dishwasher. Enough said.

2009-06-16T13:12:00.000-07:00

What do a six-pound niece, a gauzy white dress, 11 overnight guests, a purple bee-stung hand, 100 + yards of pink tulle, 20 cans of chicken, wet underpants, thunder at a swimming pool, a sweet nineteen-year-old in pre-term labor, 30 gold picture frames, a laundry room crammed to the brim with stuff, 11 days of rain, 12 or more hours on the computer organizing photographs, a funeral, and a sprinkler on the lawn have in common?

They're all important parts of the last two weeks.

Here's to the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.

P.S. My 100th post is coming up. Be on the lookout for my first giveaway.

I've Got Readers

2009-06-13T08:04:00.000-07:00

Would you check that out.

That's Paige reading one of my many drafts of

In the Twilight.

She retrieved the copy from the bookcase,

curled up on the couch,

and took a trip into the fictional fairy world of Trestleton.

1 ream of paper: $4.99

1 binder: $5.oo

2 black ink cartridges for printing: $32.00

Finding your daughter engrossed in the manuscript you've worked on for two years: Priceless

The Amazing Power of the Childhood Imagination

2009-06-11T06:53:00.000-07:00

When you close your eyes and try to remember your earliest memories, what do you see? Think about your first real memories, the ones that fit together and make more sense than the mere glimpses of moments snatched from early childhood. What do you remember of the time you became aware, really aware of what was happening in the world around you?

My first real memories, the ones that make sense, are memories of the dismantling of my family.

I remember sitting on the living room floor surrounded by folded laundry. I remember my mom rolling socks into a ball, the little footy-type socks with a fuzzy ball just above the heel. She was packing our clothes, preparing for us to leave.

We boarded a Greyhound bus headed for Pennsylvania. I remember nervous excitement at the thought of traveling. With my sister sitting next to me, I spent hours staring out the window of the bus as the country rolled past. When the night fell and the scenery was cloaked in darkness, my sister and I would imagine that the lights in the distance were trains carrying travelers to faraway places. We made up songs about these faraway travelers, and country-style songs about runaway puppies.

We made up stories. We giggled and laughed. At one point, I remember that I wet my pants. I was embarrassed and worried that the pee would roll down the center aisle of the bus. It didn't, but I was embarrassed and worried anyway.

The one thing that strikes me about these memories now that I'm an adult is just how resilient children are in the face of tragedy. What should have been a terribly sad time for my sister and me is remembered with a smile for both of us. My parents were divorcing. I wouldn't see my brothers again for nearly six years. Of course, I didn't realize all of that at the time. But what I did realize was that we were traveling across the country to find a new home in a new state in a part of the country I had never been to before. I was excited. I was glad to be with my sister. And when things were uncertain, maybe even a little scary, my imagination took over, embedding in my mind memories that make me smile when there should be tears.

In the long, long run of this story, things turned out for the best for our family. Both of my parents found love again. I gained a step-father who loved and raised my sister and me as his own. I have developed a wonderful relationship with my father and today he is one of my greatest cheerleaders. Eventually, I was reunited with my brothers. Now we have great relationships; I consider them among my best friends. I would say that I have been very fortunate.

What I take from these early memories is the amazing power and resilience of the childhood imagination. And now, when things get uncertain, maybe even a little scary, I can try to tap into that power to escape, if only for a moment.

2009-06-09T14:36:00.000-07:00

One flight from New York to Salt Lake City. And back.

One flight from California to Salt Lake City. And back.

Literally thousands of miles logged on I-15 from points north and points south of home.

All for one baptism of one very special girl.

Thank you friends and family for supporting Paige at this wonderful time in her young life.

You mean the world to us!

Why You Should Always Apologize for a Smelly Diaper

2009-06-04T06:47:00.000-07:00

Aaron and I had the privilege this week of attending Keelie's IEP (individual education plan) meeting with her preschool teacher and speech therapist. During the meeting we laughed at some of the funny things Keelie did during the year, marveled at the progress she's made (meeting 100% of her speech and language goals), and discussed a whole new set of goals for the next school year.

That's when her preschool teacher, Mrs. Bowe, informed us that Keelie has been invited to attend a very special school program for next year. The Assert program for autism, developed by professor Thomas Higbee, provides educational and behavioral interventions for children with autism. Because the learning model is so intense, requiring one-on-one teaching for six hours of the day, five days a week, very few children are taken into the program. A similar program run through a private school would cost us over $25,000 a year--just for preschool, grade school is much more. Keelie will be attending the Assert program through the public school system. Aaron and I feel very blessed to be given this wonderful opportunity to help Keelie's growth and development.

When asked why Keelie was selected out of all of the kids in the preschool class, Mrs. Bowe listed Keelie's progress and ability to follow routine. She also said, "You were always so nice to us. You apologized if Keelie had a smelly diaper. No one else ever did that!"

The moral of the story: it certainly pays to apologize if your child has a smelly diaper.

Have You Ever Felt This Way?

2009-06-02T13:24:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been feeling totally inadequate. Now, don't worry, I'm not inviting you to my pity party. I'm merely touching on the subject of self-confidence and the lack there of.

I entered a short-story writing contest. Can't say I've ever done that before. I was nervous to do it, but I understand that if I truly want to write, I have to take chances. I entered my short story, "Ten Lunches."I posted it on my blog and received some pretty flattering comments, so I figured it was worth a shot. (I've done a lot of editing to it since originally posting it on my blog, so if you check it out, forgive me.)

You all know that proof reading is my Achilles heel. I know it, too. So naturally I made sure I proof read it before paying for and e-mailing my contest entry. Unfortunately, my proof-reading skills just aren't adequate.

After the e-mail was successfully sent, the entry fee paid, I noticed that in the story I spelled the word toilet wrong--not once, but twice. Yes, I've done it before. For some reason I spell toilet toilette. Ummm. Uhhhh.

Why, why, why do I do this to myself?!? Of course I'm used to this. I'm used to lying awake in bed at night going over in my mind the words I've written during the day-light hours. And, without a doubt, I discover I've made an error.

So after I submitted the misspelled entry, after I paid (and probably wasted) the entry money, I sat down with my husband to watch "So You Thing You Can Dance". We laughed at the poor dancers who had limited or lacking dance skills. And then the thought struck me: Am I like one of those dancers? With my writing, I mean. Am I throwing my work out there when really it's just not good enough? I've mentioned it before: in college, I studied public health, not English.

I panicked. I fretted. I complained. But I did not cry to my husband that night. I confessed that I was embarrassed and felt inadequate. To my surprise, my wonderful and very supportive husband lifted my chin, looked into my eyes and said, "You've got to start somewhere."

And he's right. I cannot gain confidence without first gaining experience. I will stumble, I will fall, and, yes, I will fail from time to time. I'll even be criticized. But if I don't try, there's simply no chance to win or succeed.

How about you? Have you ever felt this way before?

She's The Reason It's Great To Be Eight!

2009-05-31T11:17:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday, Paige!

We love you!

We've Gone Bananas!

2009-05-29T20:31:00.000-07:00

No, really. We've gone bananas!

(No, I did not pose Keelie for this picture. She did this all by herself.)

It's funny how life has a way of crashing in on all of your plans. But that's what's been happening around here lately. Life.

Birthdays

Baptisms

Soccer games

and more ...

Tonight, Mindy and Aubeny joined us to watch Paige in her tumbling class review. A bumped nose on her first tumbling pass threatened to derail her performance, but, like the trooper she is, she persevered.

Check out her trophy and her snazzy leotard!

So, once the yard work, house guests, party plans, and school meetings are finished, I'll post more often.

Until then ... adios, mis amigos!

A Room of Her Own

2009-05-26T12:06:00.001-07:00

I bet you can't tell what this picture is of:

To be completely honest with you, I couldn't either. You see, my daughter Paige snapped this picture with my camera while I wasn't looking. She giggled when I downloaded it to my computer.

"It's my secret spot, Mom," she finally explained.

And if you look you'll see her notebook there in the picture, along with her pen.

In the her essay "A Room of One's Own," Virginia Woolf put forth her message that a woman needs two things in order to have the freedom to create: a fixed income, and a room of her own.

Paige has the fixed income--for now Mom's and Dad's income will suffice. Now she has found a room of her own. She climbs on top of the fridge with her notebook and pen and writes, spinning stories for hours.

She has found a bit of creative freedom. I hope she continues working on her talent, her passion. I guess it is how they say: like mother, like daughter.

She Rocks the Old-school Pants

2009-05-21T20:39:00.000-07:00

We're going full-throttle on the potty training now that preschool is out and before summer school is in. The problem is that to Keelie Pull-ups are just really expensive diapers--she doesn't get that they aren't supposed to be used in place of the potty. So, we're doin' it old-school style with the cloth training pants and plastic cover. But here's the thing, she loves the plastic pants so much that she won't let me cover them with shorts. She calls them her dancing pants (or fancy pants--can't quite tell what she's really saying) and dances around the house in them. It's a good thing she has such cute little legs.

She did really well today (don't worry, I'm not going to bore you with daily updates~snore~) and we even got to celebrate her successful use of the potty with our new potty song, "Pee-pee in the potty, pee-pee in the potty. Yeah!"

One day down ... a whole lot more to go!

Scenes of the Morning

2009-05-19T09:27:00.000-07:00

Today, I am paying tribute to my morning routine with scenes from my morning. Why? you ask. Well, I'll tell you. Because the school year is coming to a close and my morning routine is about to suffer a violent shake up. I particularly enjoy my regular morning routine. It provides the ground work for the rest of the day's schedule. And it goes something like this:

After breakfast, I shoo Aaron off to work.

And I go to work on a sink full of dishes. I don't mind--really.

After barking at the kids to get dressed and make their beds,

I rescue Keelie from the bathroom where she is ALWAYS playing with the water in the sink and brushing her teeth with someone else's toothbrush--always.

As soon as I get a chance, I rush to my room and get dressed and ready. (Sorry, no picture of this.)

Then I return to the kitchen to prepare lunch for Brighton and Paige: A sandwich (usually peanut butter on wheat), an apple and a drink--sometimes cookies or pudding.

Then I must tackle four heads of hair.

After hugs, reminders about homework, and a mad search for missing shoes, Paige and Brighton head to the bus stop.

Once the older kids are safely on the bus, it's time for Keelie to go to preschool. Inevitably, I forget about her morning medications until I'm running out the door.

And then Aiden, Keelie and I embark on the drive to the neighboring town for preschool. I love this drive; I get to take the Legacy Parkway. If you live in the area and want to skip the mess on I-15, Legacy Parkway is way worth the trip.

After placing Keelie safely in the care of the fabulous Mrs. Bowe and the wonderful staff in her Functional Skills classroom, Aiden and I head straight to Super Target for some retail therapy. Oh, Target, how I will miss our morning rendezvous. But I guess it's a fair trade-off for warmer weather, swimming pools and no homework.

How about you? How's your morning routine?

A Mind At Ease

2009-05-18T14:04:00.000-07:00

How I want to write something uplifting, inspiring, thought-provoking today. But, I got nothin'; my mind is at ease.

Instead, the sunshine is calling to me, taunting and tantalizing me with its warmth and light. The grass is green, and I know it's moist because it was watered this morning. My feet want to feel the dewey coolness of the lawn. My skin craves the burning heat of the sun.

The painters are gone (much to my relief), and the house is quiet--for now, anyway. Should I do the laundry, or give in to the calling of this beautiful May afternoon? Sigh ...

The Race is About the Trying, Right?

2009-05-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

Last week we attended the Pinewood Derby with Brighton and his scout friends. (Notice the lack of a scout shirt. Remember this post? Yep. I washed the shirt and the patches fell off, again.)No, Brighton's car didn't win. But he sure did try, placing second in two out of three races. And, after all, the race is about the trying, not the winning.

"Success means doing the best we can with what we have. Success is the doing, not the getting -- in the trying, not the triumph. Success is a personal standard -- reaching for the highest that is in us -- becoming all that we can be. If we do our best, we are a success. Success is the maximum utilization of the ability that you have."

Zig Ziglar (1926 - )

He walked away with his complimentary trophy and a smile on his face.

Idle Minds

2009-05-14T12:06:00.000-07:00

I've been living a lot inside my own head lately. That means I've been thinking a lot of random thoughts, along with contemplating the meaning of my life and the direction it's been taking lately. Don't worry, I'm not getting all deep and philosophical here. I'm just saying that for anyone out there that has been led astray into believing that I have a deep-thinking brain inside my head, let me dispel that misperception with a little glimpse into my mind.

Here are just a few thoughts that ran through my idle mind today:

----

When I was younger and I first heard that song that says, "Shoo fly. Don't bother me," I thought the words were "Shoe fly, don't bother me." In fact--and here's the true confession--up until about two weeks ago, I was still wondering just what a shoe fly was as opposed to a regular fly, and what made it so special that someone wrote a song about it.

----

Recently, on a shopping expedition to Old Navy, I bought myself a cute little polo shirt. White with a little pink and green argyle pattern on the chest. I wore it one time, spilled something on it and put it in my bathroom sink to soak. And that's the last I saw of it. I've searched my house high and low. I've even checked my kids' closets. No luck. I have no idea where that shirt could have gone. Any ideas?

----

If Keelie had developed on the same timeline as my other children, we would have said good-bye to diapers over a year ago. But then I would miss the smell of baby wipes and Luvs diapers. *sigh*

----

This is the view from my kitchen right now:

The painting is coming along great. And no peeky, peeky with the windows covered like this. And that, of course, means I can saunter through the kitchen dressed however I choose. Hmm, what should I wear today?

Necessary Repairs

2009-05-12T14:42:00.000-07:00

As I type this, my three-year-old home is undergoing some costly but necessary repairs. It's painful, but a part of owning a home. It's just that I didn't expect to have to repaint my entire house after only three years.

The problems started four years ago when we selected our builder. Choosing a builder is a big decision, and we jumped into the process maybe a little naive. We believed what we were being told by the sales staff. More over, we wanted to believe what we were being told. Now, four years later, we are beginning to repair the damage caused by that one choice.

And so it goes in life; we are always feeling the consequences of our actions. The choices we make today will affect us long after the moment has passed. The key is to make the necessary repairs resulting from our choices before the damage has spread too far.

And so, for the next two weeks, I will put up with painters peeking into my windows, watching my every move, while I pay the price for choosing a builder who didn't know how to paint a house.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

2009-05-11T06:55:00.000-07:00

There are no words to adequately express how blessed I feel to be the mother of such a beautiful girl.