Ruth

For those who read my blog because they know and love Ruth (and to know her is to love her) you'll mourn to hear that she's flat in bed with a ruptured disk.

It's a poetic sort of injury. Ruth has been carrying the burdens of grief and a busy family and a private tragedy for several months. We've talked of our mutual desire to have time to read, go to the temple, take long walks... yet in just the last week (when her back was really hurting but yet to go completely out) she hosted two sets of visiting relatives, a going-away party for a neighbor, a soccer party for 5 year olds.

My dad is in California playing Mr. Mom and Ruth is grateful for Percoset and good books.

This photo is a bit outdated. I'll fly out next week to take a new one.

in defense of teenagers

Costco, Spring 1997

Stefan hangs from the side of the cart and Ben runs down the cereal aisle ahead of us. Wailing erupts from baby Hans as his pacifier becomes dislodged and falls to the ground. I'm not much of a germaphobe but the floor is sticky and unswept. Wearily, I rub the pacifier on my jeans, pull Hans out of his infant seat and call Ben back to the cart.

Bouncing little Hans on my hip I stoop to grab a supersize box of Cheerios. It's light but unwieldy, so it takes me three tries to balance the box in one hand and place it in my overflowing cart.

"Three boys?" a passing woman asks.

"Yes." I reply.

"if you think it's hard now. Just wait until they are all teenagers!" she predicted ruefully.

I wanted to kick her in the shins.

******************

Every young mother hears that warning countless times. Goodness, I still hear it when I'm out with just Gabe and Mary.

Yes, life with teenagers means packed schedules and hormones, stupid arguments and problems with friends and girls and school. I lie awake with worries that I couldn't have imagined when my babies were young. But I'm not nursing, I'm not changing diapers and most people in my house make it to the toilet before they throw up these days.

Now, my trips to Costco go something like this. Mary and Gabe stay home-- Ben is my built-in babysitter. Hungry for samples, the three middle boys come along for the ride. Stefan grabs a cart and we saunter toward the produce section; Hans and Xander making wisecracks along the way. I point to the things we need and the boys load the cart with 6 gallons of milk, apples, cottage cheese, several boxes of cereal, double packs of Nutella. They run to each sample and advise me on future purchases. At the checkout stand they unload the cart as I fumble through my purse. I walk lazily behind the boys as the push the cart to the car, break open a pack of granola bars, laugh and eat as they load the groceries into the back.

And today, sweet Hans turns 13-- an official teenager. I'm scanning the parking lot for one of the prophetesses of doom to cry, "Look! They're teenagers and they're fantastic!"

Happy birthday darling, cheerful, brilliant, funny Hans. Don't believe the naysayers.

Cousins

I never had any doubts about marrying Erik, not a moment of anxiety or cold feet. Rather, I left the temple with the thought, "I can't believe I got away with it. He actually married me!"

But I didn't know, couldn't have known, how lucky I was to become part of his extended family. Erik's cousins, aunts, uncles are the most interesting, fiercely independent people. Every time I sit down with one of his cousins I think, "This is a person I would have chosen as a friend." And it makes me love Erik just a little more.

So I couldn't resist taking photos of Erik's cousin Suzanne, her husband Dan and their miracle baby, Abigail. Suzanne is quiet, thoughtful, intelligent and

quite

obviously

beautiful.

And a few in the orchard...

cruelty to vegetables

Sure, Xander appears to love his pumpkin, but that's really a maniacal laugh you're seeing.

We're very kind to our pumpkins in the spring: carefully building soft dirt mounds for the seeds, watering them with care, paying visits to the garden and talking to them gently-- "Please grow. Grow big and round and fat."

You know what happens next. We pick 'em and gut 'em and carve silly faces on the good-natured gourds. But at our house that's never quite enough. When it comes to pumpkins, total destruction is the goal.

The potato cannons are the first line of attack. I've written about potato cannons before haven't I? The boys made them out of PVC pipe and a barbecue igniter. They are powered by spray deodorant which gives them the added benefit of smelling really nice.


The preferred ammo is crab apples with newspaper wadding (yeah, it's a mess, but they're happy).

Xander is the slave who replaces the pumpkin after each hit. Notice his very fashionable footwear: one snowboot, one moccasin.

It gets pretty intense.

And then, when dark falls, they haul all the remaining pumpkins to our roof...

and toss them into the driveway.

Aren't these the cutest spectators ever?

Lucy was terrified!


Elle has a bit of a crush on Ben and had to tell him, "Good throw Ben! Good throw!"

Our neighbors contributed moldy jack-o-lanterns and they threw and threw until pumpkin guts were strewn all the way across the street.

The boys swept up the mess and I plucked a few seeds from the pile.

Poor little seeds-- they have no idea what's in store for them next year...

Season of Thanksgiving

I think I have a Jewish heart.

Jews, like no other people, know how to mark the stages of life. From Brit Milah to Bar Mitzvah to breaking the wedding glass to Aninut-- every event is given structure and meaning. Every time I read the Old Testament I lament that we don't celebrate Yom Kippur, Purim, Sukkot, Rash HaShanah... I love their symbols and the rhythm of Jewish life. I love their devotion to scripture.

Earlier I wrote how we 'sat shiva'(the first week of mourning) almost instinctively by gathering in my mother's home, talking, crying and letting the neighbors bring food. The next stage, shloshim--a 30 day progression back into society, is also somewhat innate.

It wasn't until this week that I read about the Jewish year of mourning.

Only one relationship requires the year of mourning and the rituals that accompany it. Do you care to guess?

I guessed wrong.

Not for the loss of a spouse or a child, Yud Bet Chodesh is required only for the death of a parent.

"Psychologically and spiritually, our connection to our parents is the essential relationship that defines who we are as people. Therefore, the loss of a parent requires a longer period of adjustment.

This period of time guides us into a deep state of gratitude for all they gave and all they did. As children, we spend most of our lives in "taking mode," and our parents, being parents, are almost constantly in "giving mode." It is hard to say thank you from a taking perspective. In a relationship where it is the most difficult to show gratitude, this period of time helps us focus on recognizing the good that our parents desperately tried to give in the best way that they could.

Parents also represent values and ideals. They are God's representatives to us in this world. They try to impart in their own way essential tools for living. This extended period of mourning recognizes that the loss of such a relationship has deep spiritual ramifications." http://www.aish.com/

Children are required to mourn because of the commandment, "Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee." But anyone can partake in these rituals. The surviving spouse may choose to participate for their own comfort or as a gift to their children.

I love this. It makes me feel my heartache is reasonable, even valuable. And it gives me direction for the months to come.

Each day during this year of mourning is marked with public prayer; each holiday centers on remembrance of the lost parent: a candle burns for 24 hours, specific prayers are offered, a donation to charity in the loved ones name...

And always, in everything, a spirit of thanks.

Like sitting shiva, the sense of gratitude also seems intuitive. I've had countless conversations with my family as we remember mom's raisin bars, the way she ironed my shirt, her sparkling Christmas tree. Her loving intentions, even in times of difficulty, now seem clear and bright.

In her last weeks my mother told me over and over, "If you want to know my testimony read Alma 34." So as we planned her tombstone-- a simple rectangle with roses etched at the upper corners, both my parents' names, the dates-- I searched Alma 34 for one phrase to engrave across the top, one phrase that embodied my mother. It's just a snippet from verse 38:

"Live in thanksgiving daily."

I have a path forward now. One of purpose, a path where tears reflect honor and conversations imbue respect.

A path of gratitude.

p.s. Here I go talking way too much about my kids over on Segullah today.

p.p.s. This talk from Elder Uchtdorf made me happy this week.

shiny

Last night, I ran out of gas on the freeway.

I haven't pulled that particular stunt in Mary's lifetime, but I deserve to stall quite often since I have a penchant for noting the empty gas gauge and then driving around for three more days. Usually I roll into a gas station just as the engine is processing the last fumes and I fill 'er to the rim.

So as the car jolted slowly to a stop, I clicked on the hazard lights and finished my conversation with Emily (should I not be admitting to talking on the phone while I drive? It's a bad, bad, bad idea. Let's hope my dad isn't reading this.) Night had fallen. Mary climbed out of her carseat and into my lap while the vibration from passing cars rattled our windows and doors.

It's been a toilet clogged, computer broken, Erik traveling (um, 7 weeks in a row now), sleep-deprived sort of week and when Mary started to cry I was tempted to join her. Instead, I called Ben and pled for help.

13 minutes later his headlights shone in my rear view mirror, "Just stay in the car, mom. I've got it." No complaints, no teasing--well, maybe a little teasing, "Be sure to go to the gas station, Mom. These two gallons won't last a week."

I drove home and reminisced about a night when he was 4 years old and had been screaming for the majority of the last 4 years. As I drove up and down the dark neighborhood streets I thought, "What if I just left him on a doorstep? Surely one of these nice people could raise him better than I?"

And today we sit in front of the computer as he fills out college applications-- Brigham Young University, Utah State, University of Utah, Harvard (just for fun). Between reading his essays I've pulled out the shoe polish for my dusty boots and he scoffs at my efforts. "Here mom. Just stand still and I'll show you the right way." Two coats of brown polish, rub with a cloth, buff with a soft brush.

Is he trying to make sure I'll miss him next year? Because I will.

Ben disapproves of posed pictures, "You have to capture the moment mom." So I didn't have one if him with the gas can or polishing my boots, but I did find this one from last month where he patched my flat tire. Ben fixes everyone's tires--even neighbor kids-- none of the rest of us even bother.

"You know, Ben," I told him that day, "when you were a little kid I used to patch my own tires."

"You did?" he spun the wheel in his hands, "Well that's just sad."

Halloween-- it takes a village

Truth is, I didn't pull it together.

Yes, I mended the seam in Xander's pants and attended the parade and programs, but the decorations stayed in the box and the donut fryer remained empty.

And it was a wonderful Halloween anyway.

Why? Because I didn't have to do it on my own.

The kids picked and washed and carved the pumpkins.

My stylish and witty neighbor hosted her annual pre-trick-or-treat party.

A pot of soup magically appeared on my doorstep.

We admired the decorations at every house we visited.

One friend fried and served up scones right out of his garage.

Another served nachos.

The house in the gully had a green chocolate fountain.

I chatted with neighbors whom I hadn't seen in months and got updates on everyone's health and happiness. Friends called to each other from across the street; hugs and compliments were freely distributed. When the little ones got thirsty we asked for a cup of water along with their Kit Kat.

Halloween may have it's gruesome, gory, creepy side, but around here it's all about delighting children, opening your home and handing out your very best.

It's exactly what I needed.

Stefan and his friend Leisl have been playing in the orchestra pit for Annie Get Your Gun all week at Skyline and stayed in character as cowboys. Now don't be thinking there's a romance brewing here. Leisl is simply our very, very cute friend.

Yeah, Ben wore that Peter Pan costume last year.

And when he was six. Stefan was Captain Hook.


I posted this photo last year, but I think we need it again.


Playing it cool.

Erik is a dark chocolate marzipan Ritter Sport. Can't you tell?


Mary and I bought these in Salzburg this summer. I was unusually skinny when I bought this and could hardly breathe when I put it on Saturday!

xoxo, m