To The Contributor

I have not known what to call you until a few days ago. "Biological father" hasn't ever worked for me, mostly because I have already used that title for the man who raised me, and I have no reason to take it from him. I keep telling myself not to take it personally that you were willing to pay to have me killed. I understand that not all see abortion that way, and I have tried to be compassionate about why that seemed like a good option for you. But my compassion wasn't enough to bring the peace I have been wishing for. I ended up referring to you as the sperm donor, or by just using your name. 

By the way, I did a DNA test to confirm what we all guessed was true. My dad wondered about it when he noticed I looked more like you than I do him. It seems my mom always thought she knew. And from something my dad said you once remarked to him, maybe you believed it also: you are the contributor; the one who gave half of the DNA needed to create a human child who turned out to be me.

Since I learned about you more than twenty years ago, I think I have known (without admitting it until recently) that I need to forgive you. For my own sake, not for yours, because I'm guessing your life went on just as it would have if I had been killed or never existed in the first place. Sometimes I wonder if I need to forgive you for the things about me that I don't understand, or for the things that are wrong with me. Yet I believe self-awareness and responsibility are stronger than DNA, so is that really necessary?

When I get in dark places I wonder if it was inevitable that I find myself there, for I think you have often been in dark places. As far as I know, you only fathered one other child, a son who died a year or two ago by suicide. I was hoping to meet him someday, to see if we had anything in common, and I have often wondered if he could use a big sister like me; it's something I am good at. I don't know anything about the impact his death had on you. I just know it has brought a strange sadness to me that is hard to describe. I don't know how to grieve for someone I know nothing about. 

It's time for me to forgive you, for so many reasons. I need to forgive you because how could you have known that that time would make a baby? And how could you have known that offering to pay for an abortion would offend me? I have a father, one I would not trade for anyone, so your choice should not bother me. And just as I did not choose my DNA, you did not choose yours. You did not choose to be the child of an alcoholic father any more than I did. There is no good in dwelling on things I cannot control. 

The most important reason I need to forgive you is because of the love of our Savior. Jesus Christ made an offering for both of us, to heal us from all hurt if we are willing to let Him do it. I trust Him, His care, His perspective, and His power. I no longer want to let my heart live like His offering was not enough for me. It is enough for the entire human race, why did I think my part was bigger than that? 

I do forgive you. I am sorry that I held unkind feelings about you for so long. And I am sorry for lacking the faith it took to trust my Heavenly Parents for all the things that really matter. I am comforted in knowing that They are quick to forgive, because Their love for Their children is infinite, yet complete.

 I do wish good things for you. I hope you find that same peace I have been searching for.

Love Always, 

A Daughter

Ruelene

I don't remember exactly when Ruelene came into my life, but I know it was in my early teen years. I became friends with a sweet girl named Anna and even though I don't remember the first time I went to her house, I remember feeling loved when I was there.

Anna's family was tall. Anna and her sister had their mother's dark eyes and thick dark brown hair. Whenever I was in their home, I could feel the love in the air like a warmth that radiates from a crackling fire in the fireplace. Sure, there was teasing: Anna had five brothers after all, but I never felt contention, even when I was there all weekend. Ruelene used to make the most amazing taco salad in the biggest bowl I had ever seen in my life!

There was a program at school that focused on helping kids whose parents had not gone to college. I joined this group and Ruelene happened to be the counselor over it. She had an office at the high school and I used to stop in to see her. Whether I was visiting her because I was sad or happy, she always had a warm hug for me. Her voice was soothing and gentle. She shed tears with me over my sorrows and she laughed when I was excited about something. I still remember the sound of her laugh twenty years later.

She was diagnosed with leukemia not long before I graduated from a two-year college. The last time I saw her, she still sat tall and smiled happily as she told me about the hope she had. She was going to have a bone marrow transplant and believed it would save her life. Sadly, she only lived another two years but she never gave up her trust in God. She was only 54. Her daughters both got married and became mothers without their own mother to join in their joy on this earth.

Yet we know she rejoiced in Heaven, and it only seems fitting that she would give one of those warm hugs to each grandchild before their spirits were sent to her children's homes.

I will never forget the impact Ruelene had on my young and troubled growing heart. She will always stand tall among the great women in my life.

We are eternal. I can't wait to embrace Ruelene once again. I will thank her for what she taught me and we will stand side by side and survey the ripple effect her kindness had on the world.

If a Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words

One late summer day, we took our four children into the mountains to gather firewood. We hadn't gathered firewood as a family in many years, so I planned to take the camera and take a few pictures. But because I planned to take it, I forgot it.

This reminds me of the first time I went to the zoo. I was an adult and I had never been to the zoo. My husband took me there before we had kids and I was so excited. But I forgot the camera. I still remember the "click" sound my husband made with his pretend camera as we walked around the park...

So as my children and I sat on a long, smooth log for a lunch break of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I noticed we were sitting tallest to shortest and wished I had my camera. I thought about how I wanted to remember that day, the way all of the children (ages three to ten) helped to carry firewood to the truck. And how cute my three-year-old boy looked bouncing on a young tree that had been bent to the ground by a fallen tree. I wanted to remember how excited we all were to see wild turkeys for the first time, and recall the simple joy of seeing a deer or a butterfly.

And then the thought came to me that I could write about it. I asked myself, "If a picture is worth a thousand words, does that mean a thousand words is worth a picture?" 

I want to remember how my husband and I agreed that baby cows are so cute and how strange that is since grown-up cows are not cute at all. I want to remember how my five-year-old son tried to convince his siblings that if we didn't lean away from the side of the vehicle closest to the drop-off over the side of the mountain road, then we would surely tumble over the edge. I want to remember how good it felt when  my husband and I worked as partners, without words, to remove the dead trees while the sound of the chain saw rang in our ears. The air was fresh except for those few whiffs of skunk, the day was cool enough to be able to work in our long sleeves without wilting, and the happy chatter of our kids was worth the hour-long drive to the gathering spot. As we bounced around in the truck on the rock-covered road, we started learning the words to "Away in a Manger" even though it is only August.

I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming gratitude for the chance to have a family and to share this world with such amazing little people. It was a good day. One for the photo albums!

Lest I Forget

The other day I looked across the kitchen at my one-year-old and tried to take a mental picture.  I don't want to forget that moment, the way his cherubic head only stood a few inches above the table top, even though he was strapped into a booster chair.  His eyes were only half open because it was nap time and he had blackberry smoothie all over his face.

Motherhood has been a little overwhelming lately.  Probably because of all of the poop.  I know when I started this blog I said that I was not going to talk about poop, so I apologize if I caught you off guard.  Some days I just have to say to myself, "It will be okay.  This kid will be able to wipe without your help someday, and someday that kid will stop having accidents, and this baby will not be in diapers forever..."

Other days I'd give anything to freeze time, like the first time my first baby called from her crib, "MoOooommeeeee!  I wakin' up."  I heard it loud and clear over the baby monitor, even from my coma (the kind resulting from sleep deprivation).

Or the time my second baby, hardly a hair on her head, purposely made funny faces that had her paternal great-grandmother laughing so hard there were tears rolling down her face.  That baby gave quite a few people the joyful medicine only a good deep-gutted laugh can give.

Then there was the way my third baby used to always smile with his eyes closed and his hands reaching out front in a grabbing motion, like he was trying to tickle me from a distance.  I couldn't plant enough kisses on  his round chipmunk-like cheeks.  The dimple in the left side is like the chocolate syrup, toffee bits, and the cherry on top.

So I savor the sweet moments and endure the poopy ones, reminding myself daily how these bits of Heaven are my greatest treasures.

Some moments are perfect, and even though they are tiny in the eternal timeline, they are still big enough to hold all my love...






It turns out as I was writing this, my baby found a jar of jam on the table and began eating it in true Winnie-the-Pooh-with-a-honey-pot fashion.  I couldn't decide if I should grab a rag or the camera.  Then thinking of how much my mom would love a picture of my son loving on her jam, the camera won the debate.  The only problem is, it wouldn't wake up and take a picture, even with new batteries.  So I tried to use the still shot on my video camera, but they always turn out blurry.

See?

And then I realized this sums up my post perfectly.  Motherhood is sticky, sweet, broken, beautiful, and MESSY.

And I really do love it.

Some Things Never Change

I recently read my school journal from the third grade.  Some of it made me smile and some of it made me teary.  It was remarkable the amount of truths there were about me, even all the way from 1986:

"I like it when it's cold...I like to wash my hands when I get in.  It feels good."
"I like to play all the time."
"I love you, Journal."

This was supposed to be a thanksgiving turkey on a table.  Fact (still true today):  I cannot draw.

This sentence was my favorite:  "I do talk a lot.  I should learn to keep my FAT MOUTH SHUT."

And that seems like a good place to stop.



 P.S.  I love you, Blog!

Association

At Christmas time this last year, I ran in to my high school creative writing teacher at the grocery store in my home town.  She looked exactly the same as she did when I was in her class, which is hard to believe was about sixteen years ago.  I must have looked different to her with an extra fifty pounds on my body and a couple of young wrinkles.  With our carts parked across the aisle from each other, we had a nice chat.  I told her about my four children and she told be about hers.  It was good to see her again.

Then yesterday when I was supposed to be getting started on my taxes, I began reading some old school journals from the filing cabinet instead.  The first one was from third grade and the last one was from her class, my senior year of high school.

I wish I could remember if I thanked her when I saw her at the store.  Did I thank her for all she taught me about writing?  Did I thank her for helping me to find ways to write about my troubles (something that was good therapy for me)?  Did I thank her for providing assignments that fed my creativity?  What about the many hours she must have spent reading my journals and stories before she wrote her own supportive comments?

I can only imagine the boys and girls she has been able to help over the years.  Perhaps because I could never thank her enough I did not thank her at all?

I'm not sure what I said.  I hope I said thank you.

And I hope I told her how beautiful she is.

The Baby Hungry Years

Years ago, a sweet little white-haired woman was admiring my baby in the hallway at church.  She said, "Oh, I've never gotten over having to stop having babies.  I loved that time."

Her words have haunted me.  She must have been almost eighty.  Forty years is a long time to be baby hungry.

Let me just interrupt myself here to say I wish there was a better term: I do think babies are delicious, but I would never actually eat one.

Anyway, I have already lived seven years of my life STARVING for a baby.  Those times were hard.  And though I think those years turned out to be good for me, I don't necessarily want to live them over again.

Because I lack the ability to see the future, I can't say for certain if this is our last baby, but I'm pretty sure he is.  I have treasured each of my children, but knowing this baby may be my last, I try to pause as often as I can to hold on to these little baby moments that go by so quickly.

These paused moments are like photographs in my heart and I love them.

I know an empty-nester who doesn't even enjoy looking at pictures or old movies of her children when they were little because it makes her sad.  It makes her long for those times again.

That haunts me too.

Everyday, there is a lecture going on in my head.  It sounds something like this:  "Love the phase you're in.  Enjoy this time so you don't regret wasting it.  And when this time is over, it will be okay because then you won't have to endure _________ anymore."  (Insert whatever is hard about the current phase.)

Tell me if you know, is it possible to talk myself out of being sad when this time is over?

If Only There Was a Delete Button for My Mouth

I have always wished to be more prudent with my words, mostly because I am not very smart and often what I say completely gives that away.

Once in awhile, I wish I had kept my mouth shut because I realize my words were hurtful to someone.  I regret those times most of all.

I like to think that I am a thoughtful and caring person, but if I was, why would I say this to my grandfather with terminal cancer:  "Wow, it's so hot in here.  Aren't you dying?"  He just looked at me.  Then, not knowing what I could say to fix my mistake, I chuckled nervously and left the room.

Can you believe that?  I chuckled.  Why do I do that?  I called Dr. Laura once and she didn't even want to listen to me because my nervous laugh kept punctuating my words.  I must have sounded so stupid on the radio!

Oh well.  At least I wasn't on TV.

One time I talked to a neighbor on the phone.  This is how the conversation went:

Me:  "Hello.  I'm sorry I didn't come visiting teaching last month.  I stopped by with some cookies but you weren't home so I put them in your garage.  If you didn't find them, they must be stale by now so you'll have to give them to your dogs."

Her:  "We don't have any dogs."

Me:  "You don't?"  (Thinking to myself, "I was sure they had dogs...")

Her:  "Actually, we ate them."

Me:  "You ate your DOGS?!?!!

There was a moment of silence while it came to me: she meant they ate the cookies, not the dogs.  Then I started to laugh uncontrollably while she sat quietly on the other end.  She didn't find it funny at all.

Just this weekend as we finished our meal at a restaurant with some visiting family the waitress started talking to me.  I assumed she was going to ask me if the meal ticket was together or separate, so I answered her before I realized what she actually did ask.  So this was how it sounded:

Waitress:  "I need the ages of your children for the check."

Me:  "You'll have to ask him about that (indicating my husband)."

You know, because I'm the kind of mom who has no idea how old her children are.

My baby is good at putting his foot in his mouth too, but it's so much cuter when he does it.

My Comfort Blanket

I don't know if quillows were a big thing everywhere or just in my home town, but my foster mom made one for me back when I lived there (what seems like a million years ago).  Although it is now faded and worn (often how I feel--not that I feel old yet, but just that I sometimes miss the vibrancy and energy I had when I was a teenager), I use it every night when we couch-potato (I'll bet you didn't know that could be a verb) because it is the only blanket that keeps my feet warm.  In my opinion, every blanket should have a pocket for your feet.

Also, every night I sleep on a special pillow my mom gave me for my birthday.  I was with her when she bought it, but she still took it home and wrapped it in pretty paper before she gave it to me, which I thought was a little silly but still very sweet.  I love the pillow.  It feels like a hug.

I love how she accepted me as her own even though I was ungrateful and angry so much of the time.  I love the way she has patiently waited as I repeatedly put time with her on the back burner while I spend time with my own family members.  Even though I wish she wouldn't fret, I think it is nice that she still frets over me.

And I love that even though she is hundreds of miles away and it has been more than a dozen years since I left her nest, I still feel like she tucks me in and hugs me every night before I go to sleep.

My Dear Lil' Sister,

There are little clues in every room of my house that remind me of how much you must love me.

The front room is the place where Baby spends most of his time, swaddled in the soft yellow afghan you crocheted for him.

Every morning in the kitchen I spread sweet honey from the jar you boiled for me after it sat crystallized in the cupboard for way too long.

When Halloween was over, I hated to take down the happy paper bats that fluttered over the dining room table all those weeks...I probably would have never gotten around to hanging them.

The DVD player still sits unconnected in the back room, but I love that you tried. I still haven't tried.

My favorite movie (the one you watched with me in the family room the night before I gave birth) still sits on top of the entertainment center. I should put it away now.

In the laundry room, the pink bottle of baby detergent you brought pours out fresh-smelling blessings every day.

The guest bedroom where you slept seems so empty now.

Every night Baby slumbers in my room in the cradle you helped me put together, the one our father made for me when I was still in the womb myself.

When I see the material you ironed (I'm so sorry you got burned!) hanging under my daughter's bed, I will always remember how determined you were to help me finish my long overdue unfinished projects.

In the boys' room, there's a pumpkin bucket that is empty because Baby did not gather candy when he went trick-or-treating (but next year he will). How did you know my children needed trick-or-treating buckets? You are perfect for me, Lil' Sister.

Whenever I see the fingernail polish in the bathroom I will remember how you carefully painted each of my fingers and toes and gently rubbed my swollen, tired feet. And the hair conditioner you gifted smells like mint, but also like care if care had a smell.

I am daily reminded of how grateful I am for you when I see the hair on each child's head, lovingly trimmed and softly strengthened by your talented hands.

As you battled your own first trimester fatigue (and sickness that lasts much longer than morning), you helped me prepare for the end of my last trimester, most likely the last one I will ever have.

You made the end special, which made a special beginning for all of us.

Thank you.

Love,
The Biggest Sister

The Clumsy Curse

Yesterday I read a post that reminded me so much of myself in younger days. It seems I have learned from experience enough to function now, but for a lot of years I was so clumsy it was almost dangerous.

For example, it wasn't uncommon for someone meeting me for the first time to hear first from me something like, "Ow, I just fell into that bush and now I'm bleeding. And look at my nylons!" Remember that coat rack thing I hit my head on repeatedly for eight years? And then there was that date that ended (before it began) with me in the ditch, muddy water dripping from my hair, dress ripped and shriveled wherever it was wet. Lucky for my date, I went home instead of to the dance.

No one was surprised when I burned my eyelids after opening the radiator cap on my overheated car. When I graduated from high school, my family sat on the edges of their seats as I walked, willing me to make it without tripping in front of the stadium-filled audience. Two years later, they did it again when I received my associate of science from the local college.

There is a reason I avoided jobs like waitressing (I probably should have also avoided that job that involved a meat slicer).

My early years as a wife were treacherous. It seemed like I cut myself while preparing food at least once a week. I locked myself out of our apartment or car so many times, it began to feel like a habit. My husband got to the point where he would just shake his head because he knew there was nothing he could do about me.

Like a gangly teenager struggles as he gets used to his changing body, I eventually matured into the semi-normal person I am today. I rarely have run-ins with knives or the iron anymore, and though I locked myself (and the four children that were with me) out of our vehicle just last week at the library, I can't even recall the last time that happened because it was so long ago.

I hope this lasts because I've heard that growing old is really hard. I'd like to do it gracefully if I can.

Found a Peanut

He told me he wasn't feeling well when he got home from work. I gave him a hug. After dinner he went to orchestra practice. We watched a movie when he got home. As we climbed into bed that night, he said his stomach was hurting again. I told him I was sorry and rolled over to go to sleep.

Not long later, he was complaining again. He said it was hurting more on his right side now, but it felt better when he laid on that side. "Appendix?" we groggily asked each other. I said, "Well tell me if you think it is and I'll take you to the emergency room."

He moaned through the night and I tried to stay awake so he wouldn't think I didn't believe him (I did) or that I didn't care (I did). Sometime around 4:30 am, he decided we should go. He took a shower while I bundled up our sleeping children and began carrying them to our vehicle. I had thrown on a denim gingham jumper dress because I couldn't find any clean pants in my rush, but because it was cold, I wore my white thermal pants under it and my red college sweatshirt over it. It was too cold for dressy shoes, so I wore white athletic socks with my blue-gray fake converse shoes. I figured I wouldn't be seen by very many and I could change in a few hours. The cold air woke the children as I took them outside, but I knew it was nothing a good nap couldn't cure later on. I could have called a friend, but I hated to wake anyone up so early.

I bought a vending machine breakfast for the children to eat while we waited in the ER waiting room. I wished I could sit with my husband, but the sign said only one visitor, and we were four. Thankfully, one of my husband's coworkers saw us there and offered to sit with my little sleepy heads while I went in to reassure my husband.

When I returned to the waiting room, our smart friend had turned the television to cartoons. Mickey Mouse kept the children happy while we waited for the diagnosis. When the doctor came into the room, I could read the answer on his face. I was relieved when he told me that it had not burst. Surgery would be soon. I asked him if I could bring the children in to see their dad before I found somewhere for them to go. He agreed.

We walked into the small exam room. My husband smiled weakly, his face pale. One by one, the children kissed him. I loaded the babies (yes, I still call them that) into the double stroller and told my husband I'd be back soon.

Though fairly calm, I was in a rush. First, I needed to get my oldest daughter to school. I pulled her hair into a ponytail as we stood outside in the cold. I talked to the neighbor who usually takes her to the bus stop, but her daughter was ill, so I took my daughter to the bus stop myself. This was easy to do because the babies were already in their carseats, and our truck was running with the heater blowing nice warm air.

Daughter on bus. Check.

My husband had given me some instructions to get his classroom ready for the substitute. I drove to his school and did that, checking with the office for a sub list, but it was still before 7:30 and no one was there yet.

I drove home so I could make some phone calls (it is times like these I wish I had a cell phone). I needed to call my husband's parents and let them know what was going on. I needed to find a substitute for my husband and someone to watch my kids. I only had to make two calls to fill each position and then I was off. My goal at this point was to make it back to the hospital before they took my husband in for surgery.

Even after having to run back to the school to replace a book in his classroom, I still made it to the hospital in time to spend an hour with my husband before they wheeled his bed down the hallway. I held his hand and talked to him. His hands were so cold. His hands are only cold when he is very nervous.

"Don't worry," I said. "They've been doing appendectomies for a very long time, I'm sure they have the procedure perfected." But it was the anesthesia he was afraid of. Thankfully, the anesthesiologist was convincingly positive (plus he promised to give my husband something for nerves the moment they arrived in the OR).

I made some phone calls to find an afternoon babysitter for the children. I ate lunch in the cafeteria. I read a very interesting article in a magazine about a woman who had face blindness. The doctor came to the waiting room to tell me my husband was doing fine.

After we were resettled in our room, I told my husband I had to leave to pick up kids from school and transfer all of the children to a different house. I told him to get some sleep and I'd be back soon. Of course, at this point, I remembered how silly I looked. The fact that I had not showered the day before and had no make-up on didn't make me feel any more confident in my appearance, but I didn't have time to do anything about it before pick up time. Of course, that day just had to be the last day of "eat lunch with your family" week, so there were dozens of people in the hallway to see me in all my gorgeousness.

When I saw him again, he was in a lot of pain. More morphine, more lortab, still more pain. Even though they told us we could go home, we decided to stay the night. I didn't want to take him home and not be able to help him. So I found yet another place for the children to go, this time to stay the night. And although Friday is a good night for a sleepover, I was extremely grateful for willing friends who not only took good care of my children, but asked nothing in return. So it was with everyone who babysat for me that day. And another friend made us dinner. I love people!

The rest of our stay was pretty repetitive. When he slept, I slept. When he couldn't sleep, I read to him from an Orson Scott Card book we've been reading together. When he needed to go to the bathroom, I unhooked him from his three tethers and followed him with the IV tree.

He felt much better by morning. He thanked me several times for taking care of him, but I was just relieved that he's still here to take care of me!

Lily Dee

I was almost six months pregnant when my sister called to tell me she was also expecting. We talked about how fun future family gatherings would be with the little cousins playing together. I could also picture sisterly phone conversations as we passed through the motherhood phases together.

My sister's doctor recommended bed rest when her baby was nearly full term. Because her husband was serving in Iraq, I packed up my baby girl and went to stay with her as much as possible.

It was nice to just be together. I became addicted to HGTV. And when TLC had a "Clean Sweep" marathon, I was suddenly a couch potato.

I took a picture of my sister standing in the pink nursery with a rocking chair and a crib all made up behind her.

On one of her appointment days, I went home. I wish I could go back in time and change that day. I wish I would have been there with her when the doctor told her that her baby was going to die.

The next week was like a foggy dream. I longed for the right words, and the intuition to hug her at the right moment. Instead, in trying to help, I felt completely helpless.

I took her phone and talked to people so she wouldn't have to. I tried to give her space so she could cherish the time she had left with her daughter.

I was not there when Lily was born. I did not want to intrude on that private moment between my sister and her husband, who was able to come home for a couple months. I was on the way there when my dad called me. He said, "Lily didn't make it." It was Valentine's Day. I thought of the first time my baby looked at me. I cried bitterly, knowing my sister would not have that experience now.

My sister gave birth without the aid of pain medication. At birth, the baby never took a breath, but she was warm, small, and beautiful. I arrived not long after. When I walked into the hospital room, I put my baby, asleep in her carseat, in the corner. Then I went to admire the delicate features of my lost little niece. My sister asked where my daughter was. She asked to see her. My sister's love for my daughter never diminished, not even in her deepest anguish.

The funeral was a few days later. After the tiny pink coffin had been lowered into the ground, I watched as my sister bent low to the ground, almost reaching. My dad knelt on one side of her and held her hand while my mom held her arm on her other side. It was the first time in years our parents had been anywhere near each other. They came together for my sister. That moment was so painful, but somehow it was also beautiful.

I don't know many things, but I know that we are eternal, and I know God loves us.

I think it is fitting that Lily's Day will always be the day the world celebrates love.

Santa Has Magic

It was Christmas Eve and my one-year-old was the grumpiest I had ever seen him. He didn't want to eat or drink anything (except candy or cookies, but then he went right back to grumpy). He didn't want any toys. He didn't want to be held. He didn't want to be put down.

I anticipated the formal family Christmas Eve dinner and visit from Santa Claus with trepidation. How could any of us enjoy it with this loud-squawking child in the room? Shortly before dinner, he began rubbing his eyes. Even though it was way too late for a nap, I put him down for one anyway.

I enjoyed a lovely meal while he slept: prime rib, ham, Dixie Salad (our name for a fruit salad made mostly of pomegranates and apples), rolls, salmon salad, carrots, yams, creamed peas, fried rutabaga (the only thing on the table I don't like), mashed potatoes, gravy, and stuffing. My favorite things were the rolls, prime rib, mashed potatoes, and peas.

I had hoped the nap would cheer my baby, but he was still out of sorts when I gathered him from the portable crib. At this point I had given up on getting a picture of him sitting on Santa's lap. He was already at the age when my other children were afraid of Santa. Add that to the monster mood he was in, and you get a big NO WAY.

I was prepared to take him downstairs if it got out of hand. I didn't want him to ruin it for everyone else, especially the part where Santa testifies of the true reason for Christmas: the love of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Santa bounced into the room with bells on, and a bag almost as big as he was. My son watched from across the room as the big man plopped into the soft chair. The first gift Santa pulled from the bag had my son's name on it.

If my jaw could have hit the floor, it would have, because my baby ran across the room and climbed onto Santa's lap in pure excitement. In absolute trust of this stranger, he looked at the gift, then at the giver, and gave a nod that seemed to say "thank you."

How he even knew he was supposed to sit on Santa's lap and receive a gift is beyond me. He was still a newborn the last time he saw Santa, and he didn't see anyone else do it before him.

He ran to me from Santa's lap and was his normal, happy self the rest of the evening.

I could not have believed it if I had not seen it myself.

I believe in Santa. On Christmas Eve, 2010, I saw his magic with my own eyes!

When in Finland

A decade ago, I found myself on an airplane for the first time in my life. Funny, that the first time would take me somewhere so far away from home. We flew from Las Vegas to Detroit, then to Amsterdam, then to Helsinki, then to Rovaniemi. It took a day and a night to get there and about three weeks to get over the jet lag.

Luckily, we still had two weeks left after that.

Rovaniemi was beautiful. I had never seen a place with so much water and so many trees. There were five times as many mosquitoes that summer as the summer before it. Lucky us! My husband must have been the most tasty because he returned home with more polka dots than anyone.

We spent most of our time with family. When it was time to go, with flowing tears, we embraced loved ones we knew we may never see again. I grew to love them in such a short time.

I went with an aunt to an activity for Relief Society (my church's organization for women). It was a sauna social at a summer cottage next to a lake in the Arctic Circle. When she first invited me, I declined. Running around naked with a bunch of women I hardly know is something I just could not picture myself doing. Even in junior high and high school I took my showers after gym class with my towel on. Somehow she convinced me I should give it a try.

To this day, I'm glad I did. It took a lot of self control to not hide myself with my upper limbs, but as I saw how easy it was for everyone else, it became easier for me. Not easy, but easier. Most of all, I loved the feeling of the wood burning sauna, the fresh forest air on my heated body as I tiptoed down the dock, and the invigoration I felt after I jumped into the chilly dark water. I don't know how the Finns bear to get into that water in the winter, because in midsummer, it numbed my skin in seconds. The cycle continued as the penetrating heat warmed my cold skin again, in preparation for another dip in the Arctic waters. Like a kid at a waterslide, I kept going back for more.

I have never slept so well as I did that night. I can't help wondering if I will ever experience sauna like that again.

I'm glad I did it when I had the chance.

Love Without End

When I was about eleven, I started going to church with my neighbors. They had a boy my age. One Sunday morning, I arrived early. The family was gathered in the front room, just getting ready to pray together before leaving. They invited me to join them. I have never forgotten the warmth I felt as I listened to the words spoken to God, as loved ones bowed their heads together in reverent humility. After that, I tried to arrive early whenever I could, just so I could be there for those family prayers.

The hymns became very influential in my life. I taught myself to read music by practicing the notes from a borrowed hymnbook. Each Sunday, after sitting on a bench with the congregation, the first thing I always did was look up the hymns for that meeting. Every day after school, I would spend sometimes an hour or more at the piano, playing and singing the words to those sacred songs.

"I Need Thee Every Hour," "Sweet Hour of Prayer," "How Great Thou Art," "Master, the Tempest is Raging,"and "Where Can I Turn for Peace?" were among my first favorites.

It is hard to believe that so many years have passed since I decided to be a church-goer. As I sing each week, surrounded by the family I helped create, I find I am always touched by a phrase or a sentence from one of the hymns. I try to carry that message with me into the week.

They are like messages from God just to me.

And like an answer to a prayer, yesterday, these were the words that stood out to me: "Forgive, that God may us forgive, that love may still increase."

And so I will try, because I know God knows what is best for me.

Address?

My daughter brought home a paper from kindergarten that encouraged me to help my child learn her name, phone number and address. As I read it, my mind jumped back to junior high and that day that something bad happened to me because I didn't know my address.

I like to keep my most embarrassing moments to myself because I really hope that if I pretend they didn't happen I will be able to forget that they did. However, this thing happened in junior high and I haven't forgotten yet, so I might as well share it. Just for laughs.

It was midterm. My first class was gym. We sat in rows on the gym floor, two big gym classes sharing the same gym at the same period. We were instructed to fill out the top of the grade sheet. Name. Address. Phone number. Now, let me just tell you that I was never good with addresses. That being said, I still can't believe that by seventh or eighth grade I didn't know what my address was. It wasn't like I had just moved or anything: I'd lived on the same land since I was two years old!

The gym teacher agreed to let me look up my address in the phone book by the office. As I reentered the gym, I slipped in something right inside the door. I was stunned. I had fallen so quickly. Confused, I looked at the slimy liquid dripping from my hands.

It was puke.

I don't really remember what happened after that except that my friend who had let me borrow her gym socks yelled at me in the locker room. I can't remember, but I even think she cried (she cried about a lot of things). I kind of wanted to cry myself. I had just slipped and fallen in someone's vomit in front of more than a hundred kids.

Anyway, after remembering that event in my past, with new motivation I set a goal to teach my five-year-old her address. I know it probably won't shield her from embarrassing moments of her own, but you never know.

Roadkill Review

We almost hit an elk on our wedding night. I screamed and wide-eyed, I asked my husband "What is that?" I knew it wasn't a deer: the thing was MASSIVE. I spent the next two years paralyzed with fear every time we drove anywhere on our deer-infested highways. I just knew that if the icy roads didn't kill us, one of those road signs/elk/mail boxes/deer/tumbleweeds/antelope would get us for sure. I cried "Deer!" too many deerless times and after awhile, my husband quit braking to my warnings.

We have been surrounded by roads with deer warning signs our whole married life, but we have never hit a deer. Well, except that time we were on a tour bus that hit a deer, but that is kind of like a minivan hitting a jackrabbit, so it is probably not worth mentioning. Twice we saw other people hit deer on the road. Once after a visit to our house, three relatives in a pick-up truck hit a deer. The truck was knocked backwards down a steep hill, but thankfully our relatives were not harmed.

We have driven through herds of elk or deer (often on icy roads). There were a few times I thought a collision with one or more of them was eminent, but my dependable driver always got us through safely. I began to relax. I gained the ability to wait until I was sure I was seeing an animal before I called out a warning to my husband.

I just have to insert here a sentence about my sister. She was driving down a country road one night when several rabbits, later referred to as the suicide bunnies, jumped in front of her car, one right after the other.

One black midsummer night, we drove down an unfamiliar road, with our first baby and two cousins in the back seat. My husband slowed to watch out for deer. Almost as if it had been beamed there in an instant, the biggest, blackest cow I have ever seen stood in the middle of our lane. With the help of his lightening-speed reflexes, my husband hit the brakes, but it was obvious that we would not be able to stop in time. Naturally, I screamed with the teenage girls, although I still don't remember hearing the screams. I also put my hands up in a feeble attempt to block myself from the elephant-sized cow in our path.

It happened so fast. (Isn't that what they always say?) The next thing I knew, all I could see was white.

"Am I dead?" I asked myself silently. "What do I do now?"

Then I realized there was an air bag in my face. I moved it away and asked my husband if he was okay but he didn't answer me. It was so dark. I called his name in a panic. Then he said with an urgency I don't think I have heard since, "GET OUT OF THE CAR!" We could smell smoke. I clawed myself out of the passenger side of the car so I could get my baby out of the seat right behind me.

By the time I was out of my door, my husband was already pulling my daughter's carseat out of the back. He had opened his door, climbed out, sprinted around the back of the car, opened my daughter's door, and pulled her carseat out with the speed of Superman, I do not exaggerate.

My husband's parents came upon our stopped car. My father-in-law said he saw us bailing out of the car and wondered if we were all sick, which makes me laugh now when I think about it.

We took inventory of ourselves: my husband's arm was scratched from the windshield glass, I had a bloody nose (I later realized that when I put my hand up, the air bag caused me to punch myself in the nose) and a bruised arm, but other than that we were all just a little shaken up. And the cow...I can still remember exactly how it sounded bellowing somewhere in the dark...

Someone came by who knew the owners of the cows, so we called to tell them what had happened. We hoped they would come and tend to the most likely dying cow. The five of us rode home with family, friends, and strangers. The man who returned me to my in-laws' house accidentally locked himself out of his truck and had to wait an hour for his sister to bring him another set of keys. Then he still had another hour drive to get home. My husband waited at the ER until two in the morning, only to be told that if there was glass in his arm, it would work its way out on its own. That information cost $250. The car, which we loved so much it was like a pet to us, was completely totaled and we only carried liability insurance on it.

Midsummer night seemed unlucky that year, if you are one to look on the dark side. (Don't do it...don't go to the dark side!) But since I am not, let me tell you I believe we were watched over and protected. We were already slowing down when we saw the cow. Those girls in our backseat did not have seat belts on (if I had known, I would have told them to buckle up!), but they were not harmed at all. The car was not on fire, we were only smelling the air bag propellant. It turned out that a family member was able to fix the car eventually and use it for his family, and we were able to get the same kind of car for us.

I know that night was unlucky for the cow, though. Rest in peace, Holy Cow. So sorry!

My Second Job

After a few years of scrubbing toilets on the weekends, I decided I needed a job where I could get some more hours. Fast food seemed to be the most popular choice among my peers, but I had heard horror stories about greasy burger joints and pizza shops. There was a Blimpie sandwich shop on the outside edge of my neighbor city (there weren't any fast food places in my hometown), so I decided to apply there.

I enjoyed this job because it gave me a chance to serve people face to face (unlike my maid [I mean "room attendant"] job where I was only cleaning up after people after they had checked out or gone out). And I got to wear a red shirt and visor! Looking back though, I think my favorite thing about that job was my employee discount because MY OH MY I am still in love with the grilled chicken sandwich with honey mustard and the BLT with lots of mayonnaise (sadly, it is a long lost love, because I don't live anywhere near a Blimpie now [which is probably for the best because I have since realized how many calories and fat grams live in just one tablespoon of mayo]).

My foster grandparents used to come in often. It still makes me feel so loved because they drove past a Blimpie to eat at my Blimpie (or maybe it was just a Subway...or a Subway and Blimpie...either way, they drove a long way to eat there, something they hadn't done before I worked there, and something they didn't do anymore when I stopped working there). Grandpa would usher his cheerful but senile wife (Alzheimer's) to a table, and I would serve them waitress style. They are both gone now. Thinking of this time in my life makes me miss them.

I'll never forget the day my oldest friend came in... (That isn't really the right word...longest friend? No. He's actually kind of short. The only person on this planet who has been my friend since Kindergarten? Yes. Him.) Anyway, my long-time friend and my...what would I call him? My childhood sweetheart? Okay, so TWO GOOD FRIENDS (this story keeps getting snagged!) came in to ask me what I thought of a guy I had just gone out with for the first time. My long-time friend told me this guy liked me but didn't think I liked him back, so he was unsure if he was going to ask me out again (my friend knew this because they were coworkers). This is all starting to sound a little too middle school, and since I had just graduated from high school I'm going to end this paragraph.

It turned out that my long-time friend convinced my now-husband that he should ask me out again. The morning he came in to Blimpie to see me, the first time after our first date, I almost dropped a whole tray of bread loaves on the floor. The morning light streamed in through the large glass windows and he stood there looking handsome in a black cowboy hat. And the fact that he stood there at my counter was proof that he liked me which caused my heart to leap! Oh Sappy Young Love, I kind of miss you.

Those are my favorite Blimpie memories. My least favorite memory involves an unfortunate run-in my finger had with the gargantuan meat slicer...CRINGE...I've said too much. But since I've already said too much, I just have to say that was the freshest meat ever! Ugh. I'm still trying to forget about that, so I might delete this paragraph later.

This post did not end up being what I had planned.

On Becoming a Sister

I was a three-year-old only child when I went to sleep that pre-autumn night. In the early morning, I woke up to the sound of a newborn baby crying. All of a sudden, I was a big sister. Walking into the bedroom at the end of the single-wide trailer and seeing my mom and dad with a tiny new person is my earliest memory. I have pictures of me holding her when she was a baby, and she looked like a little porcelain doll.

When I was five, I remember my dad calling me from the hospital (we were staying with my mom's oldest sister) to tell me I had another sister. He said she looked like a little Indian. I remember more about her babyhood because I was a little older. She was snuggly. She still is.

The three of us had all kinds of childhood fun. My favorite memories are of the forts we made, some out of paths laid into tall weeds, some under the shade of the tamarisk (we called them tamarack) trees, and I remember one that we dug into the ground that had a swimming pool for a roof (or something--I can't really remember what the roof was made of). We carved steps into the hard-packed red dirt that led down into it.

When I was thirteen, we were blessed with another sister. The three of us stood in the doorway of the delivery room when she arrived. I loved her with my whole heart from the moment I first saw her. Tears rolled down my masked face as I listened to her very first cries. After that, we spent a lot of time together. I played a little mommy and she played the cute baby (and she was really good at it!).

It breaks my heart when I think of my youngest sister and how one by one, we all left her behind. I don't know if that is where her amazing independence grows from, but I wish I could have savored her childhood a few years more. I still think of her as my baby sister, even though she is now an adult teenager.

When my mom was almost twenty, she had me. When I was almost twenty, she had my brother. I got married and moved away just after he turned one, so I missed out on most of his life. When I was in elementary school, I remember being fascinated with my friends who had older siblings that they didn't know very well. My sisters and I spent so much time together, I couldn't imagine not knowing a sibling. I later learned what it felt like to be that older sibling: I hope my brother knows I love him even though we didn't ever get to spend much time together.

Being a sister has been one of my favorite roles in life. I know there have been many times I was not what I should have been for each of them, but I always loved them.

And I always will.