Expressionating with Good Mommy

    Now that Ian is in fourth grade, he's very concerned with doing his homework and making sure I sign his planner (insert Hallelujah Chorus). I will admit that I'm not the best mom when it comes to homework. When Tawni was little I hyper focused on it and made sure that every bit was done and done perfectly. This is probably the cause of her anxiety disorder today. When Beka came along I began to relax. With the arrival of Zackary the relaxation increased and we basically just focused on reading. When Ian joined the family my need for relaxation is what took over and any semblance of routine was eradicated and replaced with pajama pants, chocolate, and Prozac.

    Luckily for Ian, he has inspiring teachers who are unwilling to let me off the hook. If my little boy does not get his planner signed, he has to move his clip down—which is humiliating and devastating for him—and his teacher writes notes to me on his planner reminding me of my parental responsibilities—which is humiliating and devastating for me. So we've been doing homework. But just because Ian worries about getting it done does not mean that he does it happily. Au contraire! When I'm trying to be a good mommy, I give him a small treat—like an M&M—for each problem he finishes. I break up the homework so that we read, he plays for 15 minutes, we do math, he plays for 15 more minutes, and we finish with spelling. Being the good mommy doesn't last very long. I'm tired from my own homework, I'm tired from making Zack and Beka do their homework. I'm tired of the daily struggle while Ian does his homework. Soon the simple reward systems turn into bribery. And Ian can sense the shift. And he takes full advantage of it.

    "If I do my homework can I have a toy?"

    "If you do your homework nicely, without whining, for three days, you can have a toy."

    "Two days?"

    "Fine."

    And he grins because he knows he's won that battle and the next time I'll give in faster. And after playing that game for a week or two, I'm done. Good mommy is in Hawaii, snorkeling with Yellow Tangs. Mediocre mommy is eating chocolate and drinking Dr. Pepper while hiding in the closet. So the only thing Ian is left with is bad mommy. Bad mommy is very tired. She doesn't shower, or wear clean socks. She doesn't make dinner. She yells at everyone and doesn't wash their clothes. She hides in her bedroom and types indecent blog entries that she can't post. But she does sign Ian's planner. Because even a bad mommy doesn't want her boy to get in trouble and move his clip down. Eventually good mommy returns from her vacation and the cycle starts all over again.

    Today was a good mommy day. Ian and I did some small negotiating after school while I assessed his mood and determined what he could and could not handle. I gave him the choice of reading first or math first. He chose reading. He picked a book and we went into my room, plopped on our tummies on my bed, and proceeded to read together. In this particular book, there were bank robbers and police officers. Ian wanted to read the parts of the bank robbers and I played the role of police officers. I noticed right away that Ian was using expression in his reading. The bank robbers were sarcastic and harsh, yelling at each other and evilly laughing as they escaped the cops. I watched Ian's face as he read, eyes squinting, mouth stumbling a bit around the words while trying to catch up with his brain. After a few pages he stopped reading and turned to look at me.

    "Can you tell that I'm using expres—that I'm ex—that I'm exrpessionating?" he finally managed.

    "I sure can. It's wonderful!" I praised.

    "I've been working on it with Ms. Webber," he said proudly.

    We finished our story and as agreed upon earlier, Ian went off to play with friends. We can finish the rest of his homework tonight. Because good mommy is here and she can handle it. I'm guessing that around the first of February she'll be in the Bahamas.

    
 

Family Unity in the Kitchen: What I Expected and What Actually Happened

    I received a KitchenAid Mixer for Christmas this year. Excited to try it out, I decided it would be nice to whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I also remembered the gingerbread cookie dough in the extra fridge downstairs. I'd made it with the intent of spreading some holiday cheer to family and friends, but that was a week ago and my charitable feelings had since shrunken to only include the individuals within wooden spoon hitting distance. I brought the soon-to-expire dough up from the basement and set it on the counter to soften while I worked on the chocolate chip cookies. The sounds of the mixer quickly roused the sitting-dead from their television and video game stupors. As the masses swarmed into the kitchen I felt my bosom swell with motherly love and affection. I knew some family bonding was about to take place.

    My Expectation: Everyone taking a turn with the new mixer, patiently.

    What Actually Happened: As they got closer and I saw the demonic gleam in their eyes that only cookie dough can produce, I realized I didn't want them anywhere near my new mixer because in touching it, they would violate its purity with unclean hands and contaminate its machinery to the point of malfunction. So I created a protective bubble around my precious appliance and warned the mob to Back Off!

    My Expectation: I would be generous and allow one spoonful of dough to grace the tongues of my offspring and their sire.

    What Actually Happened: My children pressed around me until there was no room for me to move and I stood bent in half over my mixer. They then attempted to grab handfuls of dough—pushing, shoving, clawing—it was like zombies on a human.

    My Expectation: Surely my husband would behave better than his offspring.

    What Actually Happened: Shielding me from the horde, my husband pushed himself in front of me and spread his arms…subtlety reaching behind me into the mixing bowl. After that it was a free-for-all. I ended up with a scant 23 cookies.

    Attempting to salvage the bonding experience, I turned to the gingerbread dough. My kids knew better than to eat it because it wasn't fresh. I sprinkled the countertop with flour and began to roll out the dough. All was going well. I lovingly invited Ian to cut out some gingerbread babies with my miniature cookie cutter.

    My Expectation: My youngest and I would laugh together and create something cute and memorable.

    What Actually Happened: All of the gingerbread babies ended up headless and my son laughed evilly with each decapitation.

    My Expectation: My sweet Rebeka would take over and engage Ian in the proper way to cut out cookies.

    What Actually Happened: She took over. Like a drill sergeant. She yelled when Ian plopped his cookie cutter in the middle of the dough instead of utilizing the space around the edges first. She yelled when he guillotined. She yelled when he shook too much flour onto the counter. She yelled when he did everything right. She yelled… a lot.

    My Expectation: The gingerbread cookies would taste good.

    What Actually Happened: They were dry and thick with minimal sweetness. I found some post-holiday charity and took most of the cookies to my friend, Julie. Her kids will eat anything.

 

Hell on Earth: Who Knew it Would Be in My Car?

     I took my kids and my sister, Lori, up Little Cottonwood Canyon on Sunday. Fall is my favorite time of year and with the mountains decorated in hues of gold, pink, and copper, I knew that a mountain outing was just what my stressed soul needed. Upon arriving at Tanner's Flat, we were joined by my sisters-in-law and their families. We came prepared with hot dogs, marshmallows, salad, firewood, hatchet, camp chairs, skewers...and as for my children? ATTITUDE.
     Let's start with Ian. He had a rotten day at church and left the building in tears because his teacher was "mean" to him. I tried to help him understand that when he does what his teacher says, she is nice. When he doesn't keep his hands to himself, then there are consequences. He replied with, "But I didn't want to do what she said!" Hence the problem. This unfortunate church experience set the tone for the rest of the day and Ian never recovered.
     Next is Beka. Normally happy and full of sunshine, she wasn't at her best. To be fair, she did have a bit of a cold and a headache. However, she kept harping on Ian about a pair of sunglasses that he broke several months ago. She wouldn't let it go. And because she wouldn't let it go, Ian couldn't either. The bickering lasted clear into my beautiful autumn mountains.
     Tawni. She was tired. She hardly slept the night before and had to be up early for work. She maintained civility and had a good time on our outing, until she decided it was time to leave. I just love it when my kids tell me what to do and when to do it.
     Zack wasn't too bad. He was pleasant, but couldn't help teasing Ian and Beka, especially when doing so resulted in a glorious outpouring of emotional rage that is fodder to a teenage boy.
     And finally Lori. She was the picture of gloom and doom and couldn't stop worrying about the mounds of homework she had. She even brought it all with her, including a laptop so that she could write a report.
     In spite of my cheerful family members, I was determined to have a good time. And I did. And surprisingly, so did they. Except for Ian. His hard day just kept getting harder. He came decked out in navy seal finery; knife, grenades, walkie-talkie. Sadly, none of his cousins wanted to play kill-or-be-killed with him. Being girls that are several years older than he is probably had something to do with that. But Ian's Aunt Jeni took pity on him and they went for a walk, where he tripped and fell end over end. Recovering by the fire, he accidentally got elbowed in the eye by Zack. He fell down another two times before the evening was over and scraped his leg on a branch. Then his hot dog fell in the fire. His response to all this, "I'm having bad luck!"
     When it was time to leave, Tawni decided to ride home with her Aunt Kim. I think she'd had enough of us. The rest of my brood piled in the car and we drove a little farther up the canyon to better appreciate the gorgeous foliage. Beka wasn't happy with this detour and voiced her displeasure with a supreme air.
     "I have homework."
     "Me, too," I said.
     During the drive Ian started whimpering and complaining about his horrible day. I was sympathetic at first, but after listening to the same sob story, I started getting irritated.
     "Okay, Ian. I get it. Let's move on now."
     "I want Dad."
     "I know."
     During this exchange I'd turned down the radio so that I could hear him from the backseat.
     "Turn up the muusiiiiic!" he whined.
     "Ugh! Fine!" My patience was getting thinner.
     "You're mean! Why is everybody mean to me?"
     "Stop complaining and whining and we will be nice. Nobody likes a whiner."
     The complaining never stopped. It just got louder. About this time I noticed something dark in the road. Lori saw it, too. "Stop! Raccoon!"
     "I know. I see it."
     But it wasn't just one raccoon. There were two. However, one was lying on its back, legs spasming in the air because it had just been run over. The other was walking back and forth in the road, agitated and confused because suddenly its world had changed.
     Several things happened simultaneously.
     Lori cried out, "Don't look!" So of course everybody looks.
     I slowed the car to a crawl.
     Beka yelled in my ear, "Mom! There are cars behind you!"
     "Beka, don't tell me how to drive!"
     "I'm not! There are cars that need to get by!"
     "I have to slow down! There are raccoons!"
     Ian was whimpering harder, "That's so sad!"
     And Zack was trying to be the voice of reason and fix it all.
     When we got home Beka's boyfriend was there. Apparently she'd been texting so that his arrival at our house coincided with us getting home. She took solace in his arms because, obviously, she was traumatized by her evil family.
     The first thing Ian did was call his daddy.
     As for me? I couldn't help thinking that I should have traded places with Tawni and gone home with Kim.

Back On Track

     It's been so long since I've written anything and it feels a little uncomfortable to start again. But I've procrastinated far too long and I'm afraid that many Ianisms are forgotten because of my laziness. Sitting in church today and listening to the talks that were given about family and family home evenings reminded me of many humorous moments over the years and inspired me to not only write them down, but to also be more diligent in teaching my children about the gospel.
     According to my kids, we never have family home evening. That is their perspective and it's wrong. For twenty years I have made valiant efforts to hold family home evening. Some efforts have been more successful than others. We do well as a family for several weeks, and then I poop out. After listening to general conference, I get inspired again and we make another effort. My point is that I never quit trying. While we may not hold it religiously each week, the desire is there and sometimes that desire translates into success. When I'm doing really well, we have family prayer too. Which brings to mind one of my many efforts about nine years ago, an effort that solidified my suspicion that God does indeed have a sense of humor.
     Scott was at the fire station so it was just me and my heathens. I'd made a commitment to myself to hold family prayer and just because the dad wasn't home didn't mean we could forget about it. This was our first effort in--well--a really long time. I gathered my children around me and we formed a circle on the floor, kneeling reverently. I asked someone to say it, I think it was Tawni, and we bowed our heads. That's when we all saw that someone else had decided to join our prayer. A large--quarter size--wolf spider was sitting in the middle of our circle. The pandemonium that ensued would have made a rock concert look like sunday school. There was screaming and jumping and running and pushing and furniture climbing. When the dust settled not one person remained on the floor. We all perched precarioulsy on the sofa or coffee table.
     "Did anyone squish it?" I asked.
     There was a lot of head shaking.
     I sighed, "Well it's not there anymore."
     We all inched a little further up on our perches.
     And that's how we had our first family prayer in over a year.
     I've often thought about that experience, trying to figure out which Heavenly Being sent the spider into our midst. My imaginings sound something like this:

     "Hey, Peter. The Bringhurst's are going to have family prayer."
     "No way. John? Get over and look at this."
     "Wow. Hey, you know what would be funny?"
     "Do it, James."

     Or maybe...

     "Sweetheart, look! The Bringhurst family is going to pray together. Get ready. I want you to answer this one right away. It's been so long."
     "Well look at that! HeeHee! Watch this, honey."
     "Don't you dare!"
     "Too late!"

     Tonight I decided to make another valiant effort. Not only were we going to have family prayer, but we would read scriptures too. The scripture reading went better than expected. The only problem was when I read the word "hell" and Ian clamped his hand over his mouth and said, "Mom! Don't swear!" I had to stop and explain that in the scriptures it was talking about a place and was okay and that it was different from when I get angry and yell at him. After our reading we knelt down to pray and Ian asked if he could say it. I told him he could but he had to make sure to be very reverent because he was talking to Heavenly Father. This is the prayer he said:

     "Heavenly Father, Thank you for these wonderful evil children. Bless Dad. Name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

    
    

     I have neglected this blog for too long. For some reason, I thought that I would have plenty of time for recreational writing while attending school. The fact is, I've done plenty of writing, it's just all been for a grade. One of the essays I wrote for my English class was originally my second entry on this blog. I pulled it off of the blog for my assignment and re-wrote it. That essay is being publish in SLCC's literary magazine this fall. Many of you have asked to read it, so I thought I would post it here. Enjoy.

The Humping, Biting, Pooping Wonders

     I love Black Jack. No, not the game, but my dog. My wonderful, dorky, pubic-haired, Schnoodle. Sunday was his last day with us. About ten-o’clock that night he went to his new home. I’d like to say I handled it well, crying just enough to look beautiful in my sorrow, but I’m a terrible liar. For two hours prior to his departure, I cradled him in my arms while sobbing into his curls. He licked the salty tears and snot off my face, enjoying the treat, not understanding what was about to take place. That made me bawl even harder. He’s so innocent. I don’t care if he bites the kids when he’s excited. So what if he likes to demonstrate his dominance by hugging your leg. He’s a good dog! By the time his new owner arrived, I was a blubbering, red-faced, swollen, snotty mess. I could not pull myself together. It didn’t matter that Black Jack’s new owner was my best friend, who just lived down the street. All I knew was that my feet were going to freeze at night without my fur blanket to keep them warm.

     Black Jack’s leaving was a long time in coming. I knew back in May that he would have to go. On Mother’s Day, my sweet boy, Ian, was hospitalized for a massive asthma attack. Following this trauma, I took Ian to see his asthma doctor.

     “Do you still have the dog?” Dr. Gourley asked.

     “Yes,” I admitted sheepishly. “But this one is hypoallergenic and Ian seems to be fine…”

     Dr. Gourley was shaking his head. “He’s not fine. There is no such thing as a hypoallergenic dog to an asthmatic.”

     I love dogs. I grew up with them and cannot remember a time when my youthful feet weren’t tripping over metal food dishes on the floor. My first pooch was Penny the Toy Poodle, and then came Kachoock, our Siberian Husky with different colored eyes, and finally Mindy, the stray Collie my mother rescued on a stormy afternoon.

     Having grown up with dogs, it was only fitting that I would want them to be part of my own family. When my oldest daughter was about two, she developed a mild discomfort for all things canine. My husband and I decided the best way to combat this unnaturalness was to welcome a tiny ball of fluff into our home. Tank joined our family and for the next thirteen years, he worshipped my husband and pretty much hated everyone else. At least he cured my daughter of her fear. And while he tolerated four children, I would never recommend a Pomeranian as a good family dog. In spite of his propensity to bite and his inappropriateness with stuffed animals, I loved him and cared for him when age claimed his hearing and bladder control. Three months after his passing, my husband, Scott, surprised me with an American Bulldog.

     Once in a while, an animal comes along who is different from all other animals. There is something special and unique that draws you to this creature. My bow-legged, barrel-chested, Tinkerbell, was such an animal. She had a magnetic soul. Weighing in at fifty pounds, she was the largest puppy I’d ever owned.

     Caring for a dog means that you are willing to make certain sacrifices. You understand that poop will be tracked into the house on the bottom of a sneaker, you learn that library books shouldn’t—but do make good chew toys, and you decide that the short white hairs in your food really aren’t that big of a deal. You make these sacrifices because the rewards of having someone in your life, who loves you unconditionally, are worth it. For me, dogs are the best medication, the best therapy, the best cure-all for whatever ails you. They fill a need in me that I can’t get from anyone or anything else. With a dog in my life, my soul feels complete.

     After two months with Tinkerbell, I knew it wasn’t going to work. Ian’s allergies intensified around her so much, that with one lick of her tongue, he’d break out in hives. After giving her away, I came home and climbed into my bed. I didn’t leave it for three days. And when I did, I refused to wear anything but black. I wasn’t in a good place. Along with my appearance, my thoughts and mood were dark. I admit that during that time I had some very un-motherly feelings toward my son. It wasn’t rational and it wasn’t fair, but part of me thought, If it weren’t for you, I could have a dog. I’m ashamed that those thoughts and feelings once had a place in my mind and heart. Ian couldn’t help his allergies and asthma. He was born with those ailments. What I failed to realize at the time, was that he was losing something special too. Like me, Ian loves dogs and is happier when he’s around them.

     But as with dogs, raising children requires certain sacrifices. We know that sleeping through the night is a rare treat, and the ruins at Mesa Verde will wait, but a kidney infection will not. We understand that a dinosaur diorama is a family project, and we know that teenagers—when unsupervised—will break a brand new La-Z-boy. Our children’s needs always come before our own. Even if we don’t want them too.

     Black Jack was my last attempt to have a dog. Being a Schnoodle, he was considered a hypoallergenic breed. I lived in denial for two years, but eventually came to realize that it was Ian or the dog. The canine season of my life had come to a close and it was time to put my child’s needs before my own. The night Black Jack left I knew I needed to stop looking at my losses and start counting my blessings. I have many of them and the best ones are my children: Tawni, Rebeka, Zackary, and Ian. No pet is better than them. So with eyes that tear up occasionally—but remain clear—I am choosing to look for the good, and I’m finding it. Although my feet are cold.

Pyromaniac

     We did a firepit last night in the backyard for family night. It's often nice to break free from having a gospel oriented lesson and just enjoy being outside and being together. We all have camping fever and eagerly await a time when the mountains are no longer covered in snow. I'm not sure that will happen any time soon. I think this might be the year when several new glaciers start to grow. In any case, sitting around the fire, roasting hot dogs and making s'mores was a nice alternative to camping. The smoke stung our eyes and made breathing difficult and Ian had to have an asthma treatment when all was said and done, but we had a grand time.
     I always have a bit of anxiety when Ian is around fire. It can be campfires, fireworks, sparklers, a BBQ... He is such an exuberant boy and he never seems to look where he's going when running, walking, riding a bike, or swinging around a flaming marshmallow.
     From the moment I brought the firepit into the backyard, Ian started to hyper focus. He was extremely helpful at first because he was so excited. He helped set up chairs, gather wood from the woodpile, set up a table for the food, and then ask me for matches. Like I'd give an eight-year-old matches! Psh!
     I gave him the matches--but only because I knew Scott was waiting for them. Ian proudly carried the little box outside to his dad, and together they lit the fire. Once a fire is lit, Ian seems to think that you need to put all the wood on at once. The bigger the better, right? If there's fire, he is constantly throwing sticks on it and and our firepit night was no different. Every tiny twig had to be on the fire. Expect for his fire stick. He saved one piece of wood specifically for stirring the fire. And he spent a good portion of the evening doing just that. He'd stir, then lift up his stick to see if it was burning. If it was burning he'd run to the dirt and jab his stick into the ground. Then he'd come back to the fire and do it again. Sometimes, if his stick was just smoking, he'd wave it around in the air making smoke signals, nearly igniting his siblings.
     As for the food? Ian had to put every hot dog wiener on a stick. It simply was not in his power to let us do that for ourselves. Which drove me crazy. I can't stand to have little kid germs on my food. And he'd roast marshmallows for the sheer pleasure of watching them burn. He didn't eat them. He just caught them on fire and tried to make s'mores, using the cancerous marshmallow, that he'd then serve to the rest of us.
     Now, Ian is a great multi-tasker. He accomplished all of these things I've written about simultaneously. He was zipping back and forth so fast that he reminded me of Forrest Gump's ping pong ball. He'd ping from the food to the firepit and then ricochet back to the food and then ping to his smoldering stick in the dirt. Ping! Ping-Ping! Ping-Ping-Ping! And when he got tired of pinging he decided we should all play Duck-Duck-Goose. Except he changed the words. He started with Beka. "Toilet water," on to Zack, "Toilet water," my turn, "Toilet water," I now knew what was coming, "Toilet water," he hit Tawni on the head, "POOP!" We played several versions of that game including butthead/butthole and chocolate/poop. Interesting how it's all potty humor.
     Around eight o'clock Scott decided we should wrap up our evening and he let Ian put out the fire. Ian held the hose with both hands and assumed his best fireman stance. Then Scott turned on the water. Ian held his finger over the nozzle so that the water would come out in a powerful stream and he bravely and single-handedly saved us all from a hellish inferno.
     Then he had to be rescued by his mother and his asthma inhaler.

Just the Way You Are

     I haven't written anything in over a month. I've thought about it several times, but the thoughts never quite became actions. Ever since CoCo left, I've been a bit unmotivated. I've read an insane amount of literature, slept in most mornings, showered once in a while, and played Farkle on Facebook. Productivity definitely took a back seat. I think after such an intense three months my poor brain and body wanted a break. The month of April did that for me. Now I'm good to go.
     At the end of February, I met with Ian's teachers at school for his annual IEP. Last fall I pushed and pushed for them to do more testing on Ian. I felt that he was falling behind and getting lost in the shuffle of other students. They did the testing and during his IEP we discussed the results. The whole meeting lasted for an hour-and-a-half. Believe me, that's long for an IEP. The results of the testing confirmed my suspicions and fears. The older Ian gets, the wider the developmental gap becomes between him and his peers. He does progress, but it happens so slowly that he just falls further and further behind the norm. His IQ was quite low and his cognitive function was at 1% of the average. The testing determined that Ian's disabilities are something that he will never outgrow. As his mother, I already knew this. But the school didn't. As a result of the testing, Ian now receives one-on-one instruction in the resource room for reading, language,spelling and math. He is in the regular classroom to receive his assignments and participate in centers, but all the other time is spent in resource. And he hates it.
     He hates feeling singled out. He hates having to actually put forth some effort and do his work. He hates not being with his friends. He hates "being stupid."
     Ian is at an age now where he recognizes that he is different in some ways from the other kids. He asks a lot of questions about his birth mother and the drugs she took during her pregnancy. He wants to know, "Why did she do drugs? Didn't she know that was bad for my body?" I'm very truthfull with him and try to explain things in terms that he can understand. I let him know that his birth mother loved him--and she did. I knew her and worked with her before adopting Ian. The decision to give Ian up was difficult for her, but she did it because she loved him and felt that God wanted him to be with us. I've let Ian know that. But someday he's going to understand more fully the extent of the damage the drugs caused to his body and brain. And it's going to hurt him. It will hurt his heart to know that his birth mother wouldn't stop doing drugs in order to protect him. I just pray that as time goes by, I'll know what to say and how to say it so that the hurt might be minimal. I pray that he will feel so loved by all of us, that it might make up for the things he's had to suffer. I never want him to question whether or not he belongs to this family. He does. Without any doubt. We prayed for him to come to us. I knew that Heavenly Father wanted us to adopt a boy, and we waited for him. When the time came, there wasn't a doubt that he was meant to be part of our family.
     I often have to remind myself of those things when he's being especially difficult. Which he has been for the last month. I think the changes at school have affected him, not to mention a slothful mom. He struggles with change and it's shown in his behavior. He's had a lot of meltdowns and tantrums. He's also been very demanding and impatient. More so than usual. Scott and I have had to come up with a little reward system for him. Scott gets paid once a month so Ian knows, if he does his homework and reading, he gets to pick out a toy or videogame each payday. This has helped. He's much more cooperative with reading, even reminding me that we need to do it. He knows that if he misses a night, he misses a toy.
     I hope this next month is better for him. I hope I can help him learn to love and accept himself for who he is. He's an amazing boy and I'm blessed to be his mother.    

Just Rewards

     It seems like a goodly portion of my blog posts have to do with family home evening. And today's is no exception. I'm not sure why it happens, nor do I believe that my child and family are unique in this regard, but for some reason, religious instruction brings out the worst in us. After a less than successful family night, I often wonder about the nature of Heaven and how in the world God keeps order. I think the only reason God was able to hold meetings in Heaven with His children was because we didn't have bodies yet and couldn't make rude noises with them. But even the Great I Am couldn't stop the bickering. We know the greatest fight in history took place during a great counsel, with the final result being that a third of His children stormed out with hurt feelings, vowing revenge on the rest of us.
     Monday evening's family night wasn't a total disaster. It was actually what I would call a moderate success. Tawni and her boyfriend, Woody, planned and delivered the lesson. Woody talked to us about the importance of families. We read a few scriptures and tried to ignore Ian who was crawling on the floor behind the couch. When Woody was done, Tawni introduced the activity. She wanted us to all say something nice about each person in the room. She had Beka start. Beka named everyone, complimenting us until our egos were uplifted. I was next. Then Zack and so on and so forth... Ian was last. When it was his turn he shouted loud enough for heaven to hear, "Tawni is more awesome than Zack! Beka is more awesome than Zack! And Mom is fat!"
     There went the love we were all feeling. Zack was traumatized and I was embarrassed to have my son so bluntly state the truth. And of course he had to continue because now he had an audience. A responsive audience. Some were laughing, others were shouting, and I dare you to try and get control after something like that.
     But the wicked have their just rewards. After Ian had gone to bed that night, the rest of us relaxed in front of a movie--me with a bowl of ice cream to soothe my wounded feelings. All of a sudden the lights flickered and a gut-wrenching scream of terror followed. We all ran for Ian's room. He sat trembling on his bed, tears streaming down his face, holding his blackened hand. The smell hit us first--electricity--and then we saw it. A paperclip in the outlet. My boy had just been zapped.

The Amazing Day

     Today was a great day for Ian. It started bright and early this morning over breakfast, at 7:45.
     "Hey, Mom? You need to come to the school at 8:30."
     "Your program starts at 10:30, Ian."
     "I know. But I'm getting the award at 8:30."
     "Is this the Chart Your Course award?"
     "Yes."
     This presented me with a few challenges. The teacher always sends a note home on Monday letting parents know that their student has been selected to be the recipient of this monthly award. Ian never brought home a note so this was the first I'd heard about it. Luckily I'd already showered, but my hair was dripping and I needed to help my sister get ready for a doctor appointment. Somehow, I made it in time.
    The awards ceremony took place in the school library. Principal Jameson read Ian's name and then gave a description of his merits. "Ian is becoming a faster reader! The more he practices and tries his hardest, the smarter he grows." They shook hands and Ian was given his certificate and special pin. After all the kids received their awards, it was picture time. The principal said, "Hold your award below your chin and say KIWI!" Narurally, Ian had to hold his award over his face so that only his eyes were showing. I tried to hug my boy when it was all over, but he ran faster than I could grab him, hollering over his shoulder, "See ya!"
     At 10:30 I was back at the school for the "Everyone Smile's in the Same Language" program. I was a bit worried about Ian's participation in the program. Last year's wasn't so great. But to my surprise he did all right. He sang the chorus on a few songs, did hand motions and body waving when appropriate, and even performed a separate song with a small group of children. When the program was over, he stood up and did "peace out" to everyone.
     It's customary, on program days, for parents to check their kids out early and take them home. I thought it would be a nice time for Ian and I to have lunch together. On the way home he asked, "Is Dad home yet?"
     "No, honey. It's just you and me for several hours."
     "Several hours?"
     "Yes."
     "I want to go back to school."
     Even though it was a pretty severe dig to my ego, I still laughed out loud.
     Every ten minutes, for the next three hours, Ian would ask, "What time is it?"
     He was counting down until 2:00. Because that's when his dad would be home. And two weeks ago, Dad promised Ian a trip to Game Stop for a new game. Today was payday and therefore, Game Day.
Too pass the time, we played LIFE. I landed on a spot that said, "Sue another player." When Ian heard this he replied, rather vehemently, "Don't take my kids. But you can have my wife!"
     I love my boy.
     Scott arrived home at 2:00 on the dot, as promised. I've never seen Ian grab shoes and a jacket so fast. He was like a mini-tornado, tearing around the family room and out the door. They were only gone for twenty minutes. But to Ian, that is equivalent to a million dollars.
     A major award, a succesful program, home early, lunch at McDonalds (even if it was with Mom), time with Dad, and a new game--all equal a very happy boy. 
    

My Well of Happiness

     For those of you that don't know, one of my sisters suffered a stroke at the beginning of January. The past few weeks have been very difficult and emotional. For the full details, you are welcome to read my other blog. There is a link on the right hand side of the page towards the top.
     In times of trial, I tend to appreciate small things. Things that might go unnoticed at normal times. Things like... warm socks fresh from the dryer, indoor plumbing, my crock pot, a smile from a stranger, and the feel of a little warm hand in mine. 
     My children are a well of joy to me. When I feel depleted, I just have to dip in my bucket and draw forth a bit of their happiness. Here are a few things that quench my thirst.



     Ian's infectious laugh

Zackary's imagination

Tawni & Beka laughing together as only sister's can

My daughters' blonde moments

Reading a bedtime story to Ian

Hearing Zack serenade an invisible audience in the shower

Beka's hugs

Smiles

Tawni's testimony

Zack's compassion

Ian tolerating a hug from me

Watching Beka play games with Ian

Watching TV with my girls

Playing Battleship with Zack

Playing Chess with Tawni

Watching Ian do the dishes-

Watching Zack help Ian with the dishes-

Watching the water fight as Zack and Ian do dishes together-

Watching my children mop the floor

The smiles on my older kids faces as they watch Ian playing

Bedtime hugs and kisses

Listening to dreams and comforting heartaches

     As I've watched my kids over the past several weeks, I've come to appreciate them more and more. Today, something about Ian just made me feel warm inside. His sweet face, his smile and laugh, his innocence... I'm not sure what it was really. But today I felt, and still feel, so blessed to be his mom. When I see my kids playing, laughing, and working together, I am filled with joy and every trial becomes bearable, because I have them by my side. 

Did He Come?

     It's been awhile since my last blog. There is a reason for that and we can all thank facebook for it. Gotta love the viruses. My laptop is in the care of my brother-in-law. I'm hoping he'll be able to fix it. If not, I'd better get used to snagging the family PC late at night when it's available.
     This month has flown by, for me at least. For Ian? It couldn't possibly move slower. Especially tonight. The final night. The night his biggest dreams come true. He's been working so hard to be good all month. His perseverance impressed me and I've gotta hand it to him: He's done an amazing job. He received a letter in the mail today from Santa. Scott read him the letter. He began, "Ian, I'm sorry to say you are on the naughty list."
     You should have seen that kids' face fall. Instant despair. All that effort and it wasn't good enough. His head dropped to his chest and he heaved a big sigh. Scott realized his mistake and hugged Ian, saying, "I'm joking. That's not what it says." To Ian's relief, Scott read the letter the right way and Ian learned that he was, in fact, on the Nice List. In spite of the good news, today has been a difficult one for my boy.
     We went to my in-laws house for dinner and a party this evening. Instead of being able to participate in the festivities, Ian was emotional and worried that he was going to miss something important if he wasn't at home. He claimed, at six-thirty, that he was tired and ready for bed. Apparently that wasn't true because it is now almost midnight and he is still awake. Poor Santa is getting tired and needs all little ones to be asleep so he can fill stockings.
     I tried to put Ian to bed at nine-thirty. I listened to his sweet prayer. He said, "Heavenly Father, I hope you have a good birthday tomorrow." I was so proud in that moment. Even though he was consumed with Santa desire, he realized the true meaning of Christmas. After his prayer I sang him songs and rubbed his back to help him relax. But Christeal is spending the night and she shares a room with Ian when she is here. And she, was NOT ready to relax. She kept trying to climb into Ian's bed and steal his covers. She would dump toys out in the middle of the floor and start to play. She would screech and laugh and try to get him riled up. It worked. Any sleepiness he felt during lullaby time quickly disappeared. So I moved Ian downstairs with the girls and Zack.
     My kids have a Christmas Eve tradition. They like to gather in the game room and sleep there together. That way they wake up together the next morning. But Ian still couldn't settle down. So when Christeal finally fell asleep I brought Ian back upstairs. I'm hoping he'll fall into a nice deep slumber soon and sleep until nine or so tomorrow.
     I can dream, right?
     While Ian was downstairs tonight, I was in my room wrapping Santa gifts. I heard him come upstairs and then go back down. When I came out of my room, I saw that he had moved the fireplace screen so that Santa could come down the chimney with ease and not hurt himself. There was also a plate of cookies and milk on the table.
     I love his excitement. I remember being a kid and waiting on that long, endless night. I nearly died when my Uncle Laurie called and told us that Santa was stuck in his chimney and wouldn't be able to make it. Another year he announced that his boys had captured Santa and wouldn't let him go. Adults can be so cruel.
     Well, my boy is finally asleep and that means I need to go to bed too. Santa can only come after everyone is dreaming of sugarplums. And when Ian asks me in the morning, 'Did Santa come?' I want to be able to say, 'Yes.'
     Merry Christmas!
    

Damn, I'm Good!

     I need to get this entry just right, so I will be conversing with Scott as I type. He witnessed the event downstairs with Ian, after turning on the Transformers DVD, then he hurried upstairs to relay it to me. It's a keeper!
     To begin, what little boy isn't a fan of Transformers? My younger brother worshiped them when he was a kid and today, their appeal is still going strong. My great-nephew can name every single Autobot and Decepticon, in order of importance, and probably alphabetically if asked. He's six--I think. (Sorry Mer if I got his age wrong!)
     Ian is a huge fan of the car/robot metamorphosis as well. He loves to pretend that his toy blocks are transformers. He can build Autobots and Decepticons of all shapes and sizes. He lines them all up on the fireplace and then proceeds to have epic battles complete with spit-spattering sound effects. It's the one thing that will occupy his overactive imagination for more than ten minutes. He will play for hours, and often asks me to not clean them up when it's time for bed. He likes to continue the next day where he left off the night before.
     Just recently Ian acquired a real Optimus and Starscream from McDonald's. I've never seen a child so euphoric over a happy meal toy. Naturally, with his new toys, he wanted to watch the movie so that he could play along with it. Which leads us to the funny story.
    Scott put in the DVD and Ian began watching. It came to the part where Iron Hide did something cool and said, "Damn, I'm good!"
     Ian stood tall and straight just like the Autobot and repeated, "Damn, I'm good!"
     He paused, and with a puzzled look on his face, turned to Scott and said, "I think I just said a bad word. But it's only a sometimes bad word. 'Cause there's good dams. Like Beaver dams, Hoover Dam... Right, Dad?"
     "Right, buddy."
     I love stories people tell about kids and naughty words. I'll never forget when Tawni was eight and out of the blue asked me if f*** was a bad word. I tried very hard to keep a straight face and explain in a kind way that yes, it was the queen mother of dirty words. We haven't had to address that one with Ian yet, and until we do, I'm more than happy to stick with a few damns.

The Daytona Kid

     There's a funny and oh-so-Ian experience that took place at the beginning of summer. Every now and then I recall it, but am always engaged in something else and by the time I reach the computer, it's forgotten. Don't ask me how. It should be an unforgettable experience.
     It all began on a beautiful warm summer afternoon. It was the kind of day that makes you feel like you are committing a crime if you don't spend it outside. And after the rainstorms of the previous day, Scott and Ian were ready to break out of their suburban prison and catch some rays. Outside, Ian helped Scott fill a bucket with soapy water. Then Scott pulled the mustang out of the garage to wash it. The plan was to scrub off all the muddy rain drops and polish it until the surface sparkled more than Edward Cullen. But being a man, Scott needed me to see just how dirty it was first. He came in the house and found me in the living room.
     "Look at the car. Can you see that?"
     I looked out the window at the car and did a double take. Could that really be what he wanted me to see? I did not think so. "Your car is rolling down the driveway!"
     "What?"
     We bolted for the door and sure enough, the mustang was rolling backwards down the driveway, gaining momentum on the slope, with a smiling Ian at the wheel.
     I've never seen Scott move so fast. Somehow he caught up to the car, yanked open the door and shoved Ian into the passenger seat, and managed to pull the emergency brake while his feet were dragging on the pavement. He did it all in one superhero move. The car came to a stop smack in the middle of our cul-de-sac.
     We expected Ian to be frightened. Surely after a near death experience he'd need comfort. Surely he was worried he'd be in trouble for almost wrecking Dad's sports car. Surely he needed his mom.
     None of the above.
     He was euphoric, trembling from the adrenalin and testosterone pumping through his veins. "I drove Dad's car! Did you see me? That was so cool!"
     Scott also had adrenalin pumping through his veins. Three hours and a headache later, he was still shaking.

It's Better To Have Loved And Lost...

     I've avoided this post for a long time, but I don't think I can do it anymore. To do so is almost an insult to happy memories and treasured blessings. Christeal deserves better than that.
     Last Thursday I was babysitting for Julie. It's been about three weeks since she's been to my house. She came inside and let out a little gasp when she saw my family room. "Oh!" She pointed to the wall where a purple toy chest used to be. "It looks so empty now without Christeal's things. How sad!"
     I thought I was doing okay with this loss. But Julie's acknowledgment of it brought it right to the surface. I immediately started to cry. And couldn't stop. I sobbed the whole time she was gone. I sobbed as I did my dishes and made her children lunch. Jessi was playing on the kitchen floor and out of the blue she looked up and asked me, "Is Christeal taking a nap?" I had to explain to her that Christeal wasn't here anymore and that made me cry harder.
     I miss that little girl. I miss her smiles and her hugs. I miss her saucy attitude and temper tantrums. I miss her asking to watch Nemo and Toy Story eight times a day. I miss seeing her chubby soft body in the tub and snuggling her on my lap in a fluffy warm towel, my lips pressed to her wet hair. I miss reading to her about how hands are not for hitting and watching her rock her baby dolls and wrap them in blankets. I miss listening to her prayers...
     "Bless Joowie, bless Skyboo, bless Colby, bless Joey, bless Abby, bless Joowie, bless Skyboo, bless Joowie, bless Nemo, bless Nemo, and Nemo..."
     I miss Beka bringing her to me first thing in the morning, little face swollen from sleep, clutching her blankie and Jessie doll, naked because she always undressed herself during the night. I miss her kisses and her funny faces, I miss getting after her for washing her hands in the toilet and for coloring all over my walls.
     But I'm not the only one who misses her. Each of my kids has shed quiet tears during the night and needed reassurance during the day. Her presence is felt everywhere. Sunday morning Scott and Ian were looking at videos that Ian made on Scott's computer with the web cam. I was folding laundry when I heard her little voice. At some time Ian made a video of Christeal and he and Scott smiled and laughed as they watched her. I had to go in the bathroom and cry.
     A week after she left Ian was doing chores, washing walls to earn some extra money. I noticed he was scrubbing some marker left by his little sister. He said, "Mom, I really miss Christeal."
     I decided to make a phone call. I called Christeal's mom and asked her if we could have a visit. Arrangements were made for Christeal to spend the night with us. I went to their new apartment to pick her up. When the door opened Christeal was standing there. Her eyes got so big and sparkly. She threw her arms around my legs and cried, "MOMMY!" She took me by the hand and said, "Come see my room." She then proceeded to take me on a tour of her new home. She was so proud of having her own room with a toddler bed and a closet full of toys. During the tour she would spontaneously stop and lift up her arms to me. I'd pick her up and she would snuggle into my neck and pat my back and say, "Mommy."
     I knew she missed me, but it was also clear that she was happy in her new home with her real mom and dad. We have a good and open relationship with Christeal's parents. They are very good about keeping in contact and Christeal's mom even asked me if I would be willing to be a daycare provider for Christeal. I know that my family's role in her life is not over. I don't know what is in store. I just know that right now, things are different. She no longer lives in our home. She just visits once in a while. And her absence is a big hole, physically and spiritually. But not for one second do I regret being her foster mom. It was the right thing to do and my family received tremendous blessings because of it, the biggest blessing being Christeal herself. I knew going into the relationship that there was a good chance this little girl would not stay forever. And I was okay with that. My family was okay with that. And even though it hurts, we are still okay with that. She was with us during a critical time in her life. A time when her parents needed help and she needed a safe place to stay while they received that help. And almost one year later, she's been able to return to her family. A family that worked hard and did everything that was required of them. In Christeal's case, it wasn't just a child that was saved. It was a whole family. So even though I cry and hurt, I know I've done exactly as my Heavenly Father wanted me to do. Because not only is Christeal His child, so are her parents, and He loves them the same. 
     A few days ago I got an email from my resource family coordinator (foster care boss) asking me if I was ready for another placement. I had to tell her not yet, but maybe in the future... a little boy?

    

The Howling

     During the month of October Ian's second grade class has been learning about moon cycles. Every night Ian goes outside and checks on the moon. Is it a new moon? Quarter moon? Gibbous or full? Moon studies seem to prompt other studies as well. We've had many wolf discussions this month, and I think it's safe to say that Ian is a bit obsessed.
     Last Thursday my niece got married and had a wedding reception in Memory Grove. It was a beautiful fall night, with clear skies and moderate temperatures. Doors in the reception hall were opened to the outside, and my rowdy son, along with his rowdy cousins, took advantage of the large patio beyond the doors. They ran in and out of the building, chasing each other, using giant pixie sticks from the candy bar as swords. Fueled by sugar and excitement, their imaginations carried them to far off places, where giant beasts stalked forests and humans weren't so... human.
     I was checking out the buffet table the first time I heard it. It started low and soft, rising in pitch, an untamed crescendo of beauty and loneliness, carried away on the breezes of the night. My hand paused over a brownie... I knew the sound, or rather, I knew what made the sound. I decided to ignore it, thinking that the more attention I drew to it, the more it would happen. I moved on to the strawberries. And heard it again. This time the head's of other people turned toward the dark song of the night. I knew I needed to intervene. I set my plate on a table and headed out to the patio. I found the lone wolf leaning on the railing, staring up at the moon.
     "Ian, you can't howl here. It's too loud. You need to wait till we get home."
     "But I'm a werewolf. I have to howl at the moon."
     "This is a wedding. We do not howl at weddings."
     After an explanation of etiquette, he agreed to stop howling. But knowing my son, I knew it wouldn't last. Throughout the evening the wolf returned and lifted his nose to the moon. The perfect sound coming from his throat echoed off the canyon outside and reverberated around the reception hall. I continued to remind him that this was not the time or the place. He would nod his head in understanding, and we would have about five minutes of howl-free time.
     When it was time for the bride and groom to cut the cake, the wolf returned, darting around the legs of the elderly, skidding to a stop six feet from the cake-smeared happy couple. He lifted his nose, and let loose the most impressive howl of the evening. This one came straight from the diaphram and would have made an opera singer proud. I grabbed my young pup and slapped a hand over his mouth. Dragging him outside I hissed, "You can't do that! I told you to stop!"
     "But--I'm--changing."
     Convulsions racked his body as he was gripped in some sort of imagination-induced seizure. I grabbed his shoulders and looked him right in the eyes.
     "Ian, you are NOT a werewolf."
     His eyes rolled back in his head. "Yes--I--a--am."
     I threw my hands in the air and stomped back inside, motioning to Scott that it was his turn. He got up and went outside to join Ian. A few minutes later father and son walked happily back indoors. Ian went to play and Scott sat in the seat next to me.
     "What did you do?" I asked.
     "I just pointed out that it wasn't a full moon. Werewolves only change when the moon is full. We're good."
     And we were. For the rest of the night.
     As for tonight? I picked Ian up from a birthday party at seven o'clock. He climbed in the car and rolled down his window. His face drifted up to look at the moon. The full moon. He turned to look at me.
     "Hey, Mom? Can I howl?"
    

I Can't Wait Until I'm Eight

     Many of you are aware of my trepidation and uncertainty regarding Ian's baptism. I was concerned because I know that he's not accountable for a lot of what he does. I was concerned because I know he's deathly afraid to put his head under the water. I was worried that he wouldn't act appropriately and people wouldn't understand. I didn't need to worry.
     After talking with Scott and my father-in-law regarding the accountability issue, I decided to talk to my bishop also. All three of them said the same thing. They said that Ian needed the blessings of having the Holy Ghost with him all the time. My bishop also pointed out that God is the only one who can determine a person's accountability and He will do so in a completely fair manner. He said it was our responsibility to make sure that ordinances are performed so that a person can benefit from the blessings. The way he said it helped me to calm down and understand that this was a good thing for my son.
     At the last minute, I decided to go ahead and have Ian baptized on the stake baptism day, which was September 11th. The day before that was his birthday.
     His birthday was one of the best he's ever had. He woke up bright and early at 6:15, ready to open his presents. Surrounded by his groggy family, he ripped paper and tore into his bounty as only an eight-year-old can. I thought for sure he'd refuse to go to school, wanting to stay home and play with his new toys, but I was wrong. He wanted to go to school. He was excited for me to bring treats for his class so that they could celebrate with him. Thank goodness I remembered. I didn't think I'd make it to his class in time though, becasue I forgot my wallet at the store, but luckily Harmons takes checks and didn't ask for I.D.
     In the afternoon we took Ian to Chuck E Cheese with Joe. Having one friend instead of a bunch of hyper boys was perfect for him. Everyone played arcade games, including Tawni and Beka, who gave their winnings to Ian so that when all the tokens were gone, he had almost 500 tickets to turn in. He was so happy and so appreciative. He and Joe played together until evening and when it was time for bed, Ian fell asleep in my spot, snuggled next to his dad. I didn't have the heart to move him so I left him there and slept in his bed instead.
     The first words out of Ian's mouth the following morning were, "I'm getting baptized today!"
His joy and excitement were palpable. He was hyper and stimulated from the get-go. But he never misbehaved. He was good as gold and his happiness was contagious.
     We went to the church early so that we could take pictures. Somehow Ian managed to smuggle a giant pink Slinky and tiny toy monkey into the building. The Slinky made a grand entrance, bouncing off the ceilings of the hall and foyer with joyful abandon. The monkey behaved better; it knew that screeching was not allowed in church. But when the Slinky tried to bounce and fly into the chapel, it was apprehended and jailed inside Tawni's purse.
     The baptism program took place in the chapel. Three other children were being baptized the same day and they, along with their dad's, took a seat on the front row. Ian was not capable of sitting. He crawled across the bench, wiggled, squirmed, sprawled across his dad's lap and then stood up. He walked to the wall next to the podium, and grabbed the ledge with his hands. Lifting his feet off the floor, he proceeded to hang and crawl along the edge using his hands. He has amazing upper body strength because his feet never once touched the floor. I was horrified and entertained at the same time. What I couldn't understand is why Scott wasn't stopping him. And then I saw it. My mother-in-law was taking pictures, causing Ian to do it even more because he had an audience. My children were crying they were laughing so hard. I just shook my head. What did I expect?
     Once the program started the kids had to go up to the stand and receive their Book's of Mormon. As the speaker introduced them Ian pointed and hollered, "Mom! There's Julie!" He started waving frantically at his friends and me until I acknowledged his efforts. After that he decided he was bored and bent in half over the ledge, arms dangling towards the floor, while the other three kids stood reverently beside him.
     Our primary chorister, Mary Beth Sheppard, called on Ian to help her with some songs. She gave him a card to hold. When he lifted it up high, everyone needed to hum. When he put it down, we had to sing using words. Ian was very excited to be helping and climbed on the bench to stand up so that everyone could see him better. He held the sign high over his head and we all hummed. He put it down and we used words. He got that gleaming sparkle in his eyes and... hum, sing, hum, sing, hum, sing, hum, sing... in rapid succession. The smile on his face said it all. He was having the time of his life and so were we.
     When it was time for Ian to be baptized, we all journeyed to the primary room where Ian's Grandpa and Uncle Peter acted as witnesses. Scott led Ian down into the water and my boy clung to his Dad with a death grip. He was so scared to go under the water. But he did it, although I seriously doubt he'd have done it for anyone other than his dad.
     Back in the chapel, all those who turned out for this event wrote messages to Ian, notes for him to save and help him remember this day. While we were writing he came galloping back into the chapel, hair dripping and sticking up, and resumed his wiggliness on the bench.
     During his confirmation, I wish I'd kept my eyes open to watch him but I didn't. I was informed by others that he kept looking up at the many different hands on his head, and scanning the room around him. I doubt that he heard one word of the blessing, but by this point, I knew it didn't matter. Ian hearing and understanding wasn't the important thing taking place. When it was over, everyone expected hugs from my boy. Ian doesn't do hugs, not without a lot of prompting and bribery. He tried to escape but Scott is quick and let him know that people needed handshakes or hugs. He hugged his dad and his grandpa, the rest either got a high-five or a hard-pumping handshake.
     This entire baptism process didn't take more than 45 minutes. During that time, I worried a little about Ian's behavior, but after a while I knew it just didn't matter. There was a feeling that overshadowed all worries, all hyperactivity, all wiggles. The feeling was joy. Ian was filled with it, his family and friends felt it, and I know the Savior felt it. His love and happiness bore testimony to the rightness of what was taking place. As I observed my son, I knew that everything he did that day was smiled upon. No one judged or disapproved. They just loved this special child of God.

The Marking Instinct

     I'm having trouble finding humor in my everyday life. My children, other people, myself--none of us are funny. Most of the time I find the company of others downright irritating and I can't wait to retreat to my safe place; the chair in the corner of my bedroom with a permanent butt print on the cushion. Once there, I can immerse myself in novels or mindless computer games so that I don't have to do any thinking. I can block out the chatter and noise of others as well as the voices in my own head. I fill the emptiness I feel inside with cookies and lactose laced foods. In spite of my intestinal distress, I've gained five pounds.
     I must be depressed.
     But today, a small ray of sunshine broke through, and his name is Ian.
     Ian has been home from school since Wednesday. He always gets sick shortly after school starts in the fall. It began with the pukes on Tuesday night and progressed to a major head cold and cough. He's feeling better today, because he has lots of energy, but he sounds terrible and can't seem to stop wiping his nose on the furniture. He also takes about four showers a day. The hot steamy air helps to clear his sinuses and loosens the chest congestion so that he can hack up a bunch of snot. Lovely, I know.
     I had a bunch of errands to run today, aka lunch with Julie while watching Big Bang Theory. When I got home, my sister, CoCo, who was watching Ian, told me his appetite had returned and he'd had a shower. I went into my bathroom to make sure the shower was turned off all the way. Ian usually doesn't push the tap in far enough and the water drizzles for hours until it's discovered. The tap was off this time but there was a washcloth over the drain. I took my foot and scooted the wash cloth off the drain. And the sight that greeted my eyes should have blinded me forever. Instead, it made me laugh. It's so Ian.
     My drain was stuffed full of poop.
     I proceeded to question my child about his improper plumbing usage. He denied it at first.
     "It wasn't me."
     "You had a shower in my bathroom. I know it was you. Why did you do it?"
     "I don't know."
     "Where are we supposed to poop?"
     "In the toilet."
     "You are forbidden to ever shower in my bathroom. From now on, you will have baths."
     I donned my hazmat suit--rubber gloves, bandana over the face--and armed with a plastic spoon and a paper plate, I proceeded to extricate the excrement. A half-gallon of bleach and twenty gallons of water later, the drain was as clean as it would ever be.
     While I was cleaning out the drain, I wondered, why do boys do what they do? I know mothers everywhere have pee-pee and poopy stories about their sons. Just last week I was at Julies house. She had Legos on a towel next to the kitchen sink and bleach scented the air.
     "What happened?" I asked her.
     She proceeded to relate an experience involving Colby, the Lego bin, and urine.
     The first time I caught Ian peeing in the backyard I said, "We don't pee in the yard!"
     He replied, "Grandpa does."
     I've had foster boys who thought the closet was a commode, and one child never did use the toilet. He liked to stand on the edge of the tub and spray away.
     Ian and Joey both have deposited turds on the Palmer's lawn. They wanted to be dogs.
     Girls don't do these things. What is it about boys?
     I don't think human males are any different than their animal brothers. They all seem to feel an uncontrollable instinct to mark territory.
    

Leaving

     Life has been a bit on the crazy side for the past month. I had both of my sisters visit, which was amazing and I loved every moment. My niece, Emily, stayed with us for three weeks until she could move into her apartment at UVU last Friday. I finally got to take the family camping trip I've been dying to take all summer. We went to Jordanelle and had a great time with the trailer, a tent, and the boat. Zack learned to wakeboard, Scott finally got to wakeboard, and I learned how to drive the boat and pull a wakeboarder. I also got all the kids registered for three different schools, I enrolled myself in an online computer class, and started helping Tawni enroll at SLCC for winter semester.
     Today was a day I've looked forward to and dreaded all summer. Dreaded because I liked having freedom and no schedules, I liked being able to stay up late and sleep in. I looked forward to this day because my house was a disaster and I could finally catch up on the housework and claim my space again. Not to mention have a little peace and quiet. Today was the first day of school.
     I was up at six fixing a french toast breakfast, saying goodbye to Beka as she headed off to early morning seminary and her first day of high school. It was Zack's first day of junior high as well. After dropping Ian off at elementary I breathed a sigh of relief and hurried home to get on my treadmill. I accomplished so much today. Laundry, dishes, counters cleaned off, floors swept and vacuumed, phone calls made, and a celebration lunch with Julie--it's something we always do on the first day of school.
     I kept myself busy all day, convinced that I was happy and okay with everyone growing up. But tonight, it started sinking in.
     It began with Ian. His eighth birthday is coming up, and along with that, his baptism. I've long been convinced that he's only accountable for about 1/5 of the things he does, if that much. So why does he need to be baptized? I don't think he's ready and I'm not sure he ever will be. But Scott and my father-in-law both say it needs to happen. They say that Ian needs to have the blessings that come from having the Holy Ghost all the time. I can understand that. It makes sense to me. But I know it doesn't make sense to Ian. While other children are excited for this momentous occasion, Ian doesn't have a clue nor does he want one. How is he supposed to survive a boring Bishop's interview? Will he even remember who Joseph Smith is? I tried to have a family home evening tonight to help solidify these things. It was a joke. Ian wasn't serious about any of it. He was laughing and joking, Christeal was noisy and a distraction, and I finally threw up my hands in defeat and declared the lesson DONE! A few minutes later, I tried to talk to Ian one-on-one and help him to understand the importance of everything. To my horror, I started to cry. And once I started, I couldn't stop. And guess what? My little boy laughed at me.
     My tears must have unlocked a floodgate of emotions. Soon I wasn't just crying over Ian, I was crying because Zack and Beka were growing up, Tawni was growing up, and with everyone growing up that means that someday they will all leave. And the leaving thoughts turned my mind to Christeal. And then the tears really started. I've managed to keep my emotions buried pretty deep with this one. Not anymore. Tomorrow is the big day. It's the final hearing, and DCFS will petition the court for a trial home placement. Meaning, this sweet little angel who has graced our home for almost ten months, is leaving. And it's killing me.

The Mysterious Poo

     Ian came to me the other day and with a puzzled look on his face said, "Mom, there is poop on the computer chair."
     Okay. My first thought was that he stepped in dog doodoo and it got on the chair. Then I remembered that we no longer have a dog. So I followed him down the hall toward the kitchen and the contaminated chair. On the way, I spied a brown smear on his shin.
     "Ian, you have poop on your leg."
     "I do?" He started twisting around to get a better look.
     I pointed to the front of his leg and asked, "Did you go poop on the toilet?"
     "No."
     "Did you go poop in your pants?"
     "No--I don't think so."
     Let me give you a little Ian Potty History here. When my sweet boy was about four, I began the potty training process. He didn't get it. Julie and I always planned on training Ian and Joe together. Joe graduated from diapers, but Ian didn't. So Julie and I joked and said we'd potty train Ian and Jessi together. Jessi graduated, Ian did not. It wasn't so funny anymore, but I tried looking at it humorously and joked with Julie one more time about training Ian and Colby together. Colby graduated, Ian was still having problems. By this point Ian was in school and he could make it through half-a-day of kindergarton without an accident... but at home? He was peeing and pooping constantly. I wish I could say he was just lazy, but I knew that wasn't it. It came down to brain function. I learned later that lots of kids with early drug exposure have toilet issues. So, I geared myself up, bought tons of underwear for daytime, and pull ups for nighttime. I threw away an average of three pairs of underwear a week. But I wasn't going to put my school-aged child back in diapers. That would be down right humiliating for him. So I dealt with it the best I could and figured that someday, he'd outgrow the problem.
     Here we are, Ian is almost eight, and for the most part, he does pretty good. He doesn't need pull ups at night, and he only has an accident about once a week. Occasionally Ian's body will eliminate liquids or solids before he realizes what is going on. Which brings us back to the smear on the shin and the turd on the computer chair.
     I took my boy into the bathroom and had him sit on the toilet. Sure enough, he needed to do his business, and sure enough, there was evidence that he'd already done some business. Unfortunately, he neglected to put underwear on his body that morning, so the evidence was glued to his hind end and his shorts. I cleaned him up--I wanted to use an S.O.S. pad but settled on baby wipes--and got him some new undies and pants. Then we went into the kitchen.
     And there it was. The turd. Right in the middle of the chair. I stared at it for a moment, tilting my head one way and then the other, wondering, how in the world, did it fall from his butt, out the bottom of his shorts, and land on the chair? It should have landed on the floor. Unless he was standing on the chair?
     "Ian, were you standing on the chair?"
     "No. I was just sitting."
     Hmmm. If he'd been wearing underwear the turd would have been contained, but since he was going commando, the marble could just roll around at will. Maybe it stuck to him and then wiggled down a bit and landed on the chair? No, it still should have landed on the floor. Unless his leg was tucked under him, which would explain the smear on the shin. I don't know, it's a tough case and I'm not sure I'll ever solve it. Here is my best guess.
     The urge to expell signalled his brain to cut loose. One marble exited the anus and after a brief collision with the inside of his shorts, it fell... and this is where gravity failed. I'm assuming Ian was standing up in front of the chair, as he often does, and as the turd left the confines of his shorts and gravity failed, it hovered for a moment and then began to rise. It kept rising until it was floating over the chair... and that's when gravity recovered itself, dropping the brown ball onto the chair, where it was squished and smeared when Ian sat down and tucked a leg under his butt.
     That's my theory, what's yours?
   

My Unsung Hero

     Today seems an appropriate day to make mention of my parenting partner. It's a known fact that I could not raise five kids by myself. Especially five kids with so many needs. The Lord did not bless us with easy children. He blessed us with amazing and unique children, but easy? No way. I hope they won't mind as I share a little of their challenges and gifts.
     Tawni. My oldest. I lovingly refer to her as the experimental child, because as new parents, every decision, for good or bad, was made in almost total ignorance. The fact that she survived our parenting and arrived at adulthood is a miracle. I am very proud of Tawni. She has not had an easy life. She's always been a stubborn and independent soul, struggling to find her place and claim a unique identity. She craves independence but at the same time, wants to be taken care of and will complain loudly if you try to tell her what to do. At the beginning of her sophomore year in high school, Tawni suffered a major emotional breakdown and it took almost a whole year and several hospitalizations before a diagnosis of Bipolar disorder was reached. Being a teenager and having to rely on heavy medications in order to maintain a functioning lifestyle has not been easy for Tawni, or her parents. But she is an amazing young woman and I know there aren't many people that could deal with her challenges and rise above them like she has.
     Rebeka. My second daughter is an absolute joy. She is sunshine personified and when she walks into a room you can feel it brighten. She, like her older sister, is stubborn and independent. Beka has always exuded a strong sense of independence. From the time she was teeny wee. At nine months old she refused to let me feed her and had to do it all herself. Beka had some challenges early on in life. She developed a massive kidney infection when she was only seven weeks old and spent a week in the hospital. At ten months, she developed a strange serum sickness that left burn-like welts all over her body. She was on steroids because all her internal organs were swollen. To this day, we don't know what caused this illness. You wouldn't know it today, but when Beka was three years old, she still wasn't speaking. We enrolled her in an early intervention pre-school program where she received lots of special help and was diagnosed with a communication delay. She received lots of help during school from special education classes and now, as an upcoming sophomore, the only help she needs is with math. She is a very hard worker and her early experiences have given her a love of those with special needs. She is an amazing peer tutor and wants to teach special ed when she grows up.
     Zack. My first boy. For the first four years of his life, he could do no wrong. Everything was cute and sweet and I relished every moment with him. I thought he was my last baby and so I spoiled him with love and affection. Zack was not independent like his sisters. He wanted very much to be taken care of and still does. When I think of him, total sweetness is what pops into my brain. He is kind, loving, compassionate, and has an incredible memory for dates and details--just not with homework. When Zack was six years old, he started exhibiting vocal and muscular tics. My heart sank because I knew what it was. Tourette Syndrome runs rampant in my family gene pool and my precious boy was diagnosed. In addition to the challenges of Tourette's, Zack also suffers from panic attacks due to high anxiety and he also suffers from ADD. That's a lot for one twelve-year-old. He's had to endure teasing and ridicule from kids at school because of his tics and like Tawni, he takes lots of strong medications to keep the symptoms of his problems at bay. But one of Zack's greatest strengths is his love of the gospel. He seems to have been born with it and this love and knowledge help him on daily basis.
     Ian. If you don't know what his issues are, you need to go back to the beginning of my blog and read every entry. Fetal Alcohol Effects, asthma, allergies... there's a lot. But here, I'd like to focus on his strengths. He is a happy kid. Just is. It's infectious and you can't help but be taken in by his laugh and the twinkle in his eyes. He loves people and friends. He loves his family and lately, he comes into my bed in the mornings and wants to snuggle. He is independent and can do many things for himself. He knows how to make chicken nuggets and hot dogs and will often fix his own peanut butter sandwiches. He loves to wash dishes and will hurry to get his chores done for the right incentive. His is compassionate and possesses such a love for life and it's experiences that I'm often amazed he's not in trouble more than he normally is. He loves to talk and asks constant questions about how an engine works and will he be alive when Jesus comes again. He always wants to know about Heaven and where it is and the other day he asked his Dad, "Why did you choose me?"
     Christeal. She is another happy soul and our home is so much richer with her in it. I cannot imagine life without her but I still don't know what the future holds for us in regards to her. She's been with us for almost eight months. There's a hearing on the 29th of this month and we should know something then. She, like Ian, loves to come into my room in the mornings and snuggle. She'll push Ian aside and say, "My Mommy." And then the two of them will fight over me and Scott and it usually ends in tears but that's okay. I still love it. Christeal's vocabulary is huge for a two-year-old and she will often speak in six word sentences. She is very smart and has an incredible memory. She also has some attitude. I told her to do something the other day that she didn't want to do. She put her hands on her hips, stuck her chin out and said, "Fine!" But like all my other kids, she too possesses some unique challenges. She was born with a club foot and has undergone surgeries and wears a brace at night. She also is extremely OCD. It's hard for her to eat because if she gets food on her hands or person, she comes unglued. Everything has a place and must be in its place. Blankets need to be just right, things need to be done in a certain order, and I have no doubt that someday, she will need to be medicated for her disorder.
     Five amazing children. Many challenges and strengths. Like I said at the beginning, I could not raise them without my husband. God gave me a great gift when He gave me Scott. He is a good provider and has never balked at hard work or holding down three jobs at a time. He is a handyman and always keeps our home in good shape. He is the best dad on the planet and takes an active role in raising his kids. Just an example. The church always has suggestions for fathers. They suggest a father take the time to meet with his children regularly, see how they are doing, offer a blessing. Scott's philosophy is this; If you have to schedule a time to meet with your child, then you aren't doing your job. Scott is available to his children all the time. Even at work. Zack was having a panic attack one night at eleven. We called Scott and he talked to Zack until he'd calmed down and could rest. Scott always takes the time to listen when his children want to talk, which is a lot. He helps with scouts, school projects that Mom can't do, he teaches young people how to mow the lawn, drive cars, drive a boat... He does so much and remains upbeat and positive most of the time. Over the years, we've had 40+ foster/shelter children come through our door. Scott has been involved in all of it, treating each child as if he were their actual dad.
     Scott and I have been married for almost twenty years and I could not have chosen a better partner. He is my hero and I know our kids feel the same.