On Human Kindness

I like to think of myself as a kind person. One of my absolute favorite quotes is by Henry James, “Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.” In my dream world of hearts and rainbows (and chocolate), kindness would be the most esteemed achievement in life. Unfortunately, this week has witnessed a series of events that have challenged my views as well as my perception about my own personal kindness towards others.

Last Friday, Henry’s piano teacher, who also happens to teach music out at his school, pulled me aside after his lesson and asked if Henry’s teacher or the school counselor had gotten in touch with me concerning Henry. Completely baffled, I replied that they hadn’t and she proceeded to tell me that for the past several weeks, none of the girls in his class were willing to pair up with Henry when they practiced an Irish Jig that they are performing at the school’s St. Patrick’s Day party in a few weeks. She said she always downplayed it and just used him as her partner but she found it curious. I made a note to contact his teacher on Monday.

After conferencing with both his teacher and the school counselor, I learned that Henry has essentially been the class “cheese touch” since January (if you don’t know what a cheese touch is it’s from Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Basically, it means he is the person nobody wants to partner with, play with or sit next to at school). His teacher was obviously concerned about how this social isolation (which she says the kids are really good hiding when teachers are around) was affecting Henry...if he was acting out at home or not wanting to come to school and I could honestly say that it didn’t seem to be affecting him at all. He had confided in me a couple of weeks earlier that he had gotten in trouble with his teacher because he kept touching some girls’ hands and asking them to the valentine’s day dance (what dance???) after being dared by some of his classmates who said they wouldn’t be his friend if he didn’t do it. It’s quite a bit more complicated than I feel like sharing right now but, in short, Henry’s lack of social self awareness is both partly responsible for him being targeted and also the protective bubble that keeps him oblivious to the ridicule. I’ve always admired Henry’s unique personality but also worried if and when his charm and quirk would be labeled weird instead.  Turns out...third grade.  It made me so sad.

Then, the very next day, I got a call from Seth’s spanish teacher. Like all teachers, I feel like they try to lessen the blow by saying how much potential they see in your child but after buttering me up with assurances that he doesn’t think my son is a delinquent, he went on to say that he felt Seth was really underperforming in class and possibly bullying another student. I listened, acknowledged the likelihood of him not using class time wisely, but my heart hurt at the thought of him making someone feel stupid or small in class. It was extra surprising because the other boy mentioned by the teacher is a friend of Seth’s from cross country. I know my son well enough to know that he is not intentionally mean. Well, that’s not entirely true. He can be really mean to his brothers....but, he is mostly a huge tease and if he’s really comfortable with someone and thinks someone can handle it, he can say obnoxious things to them thinking he’s being funny. I’ve seen him do it with his cousins, coaches, church leaders, friends - and 90% of them actually think he’s funny.  I can’t tell you how many adult leaders have come up to me saying how much they love harassing Seth because he “can take it and dishes it right back at me!” And he can take it. He loves it. It’s like teasing is his love language or something. I told his teacher I’d be sure to have a talk with him about it.

It felt so weird to be simultaneously straddling both ends of the kindness spectrum. How was it that my boys were not recognizing the importance of kindness? After this Friday’s experience, I worry I may not be setting the best example.

The deacons and teachers had a fun, overnight trip planned for Friday night at one of the leader’s cabin. In the winter, the remote road gets snowed in and so the only way to access it is by snowmobile. All boys were told to meet at the church at 4:00 with their snow clothes on and all of their other belongings contained within a backpack. Because they were riding in and would need to use their hands to hold onto something, sleeping bags, pillows, snacks all had to fit inside a backpack. Jay and I made sure Seth and Sam were ready to go so I could take them straight to the church after I picked them up after school.  Jay even threw in an extra sleeping bag in the off chance that one of his deacons, who is on the autism spectrum, showed up. I couldn’t imagine that this boy would come. When he was in primary, he was always a challenge because he never wanted to be there and part of his personality is to loudly complain about what is making him uncomfortable. So...we and what we were doing in primary was often “stupid and boring.” It was hard to keep him in a seat because all he wanted to do was leave and wander. Mostly, he just wanted to play on his tablet. It was extremely difficult to get him to participate so we tolerated and accommodated him. His mom is a single mother who has her own mental health issues so it has never been something anyone could really take to the family for help. Tangent over, when I got to the parking lot, this boy’s mother was quickly driving away and her son was sitting on the sidewalk, with a stuffed pillowcase as his only luggage, ranting about how his, “big, fat, stupid mother” had left him and he wasn’t ever going to move and he wasn’t going anywhere until his mom came back to pick him up.

Jay was working and there was no way he was going to be available by 4, so he had already planned on driving up on his own later and either walking in (the guy’s in shape. He could do it) or, hopefully, having someone come and pick him up on a snowmobile. Because he is the deacon’s quorum advisor and the leader who has handled this young man on Sundays (he doesn’t come to activities on Wednesday night), none of the other leaders had any experience with his social tantrums. Once they saw me, they asked me what to do. Irritation at the entire situation pulsed through me. I am not a mental health or behavior expert. Jay isn’t either. I didn’t know what to do and I didn’t want to have to know what to do. I told several of the leaders that it was unfair and possibly harmful to have this young man go on this trip. I used the comparison of someone dropping off their handicapped son, who needs a wheelchair, without his wheelchair. He had no snow clothes other than his coat. He was mad but I might have felt just as mad. I was mad at his mother for just leaving him there (and not picking up her phone now when we tried to reach her). The other counselor in the YM presidency said they would do the best they could and if the situation turned impossible, someone would leave the activity and drive him home. That didn’t really help calm my unkind feelings. If anything, it just inflamed them more. I asked Seth and Sam that since their dad wasn’t there yet, could they be this poor, frustrating young man’s emotional ambassadors and help encourage him, or even just quietly ignore him while he ranted? They sort of glared at me but I watched Seth go and sit next to him on the curb and when they led him to get into one of the trucks, I watched Sam go and sit with him. When I got back into my car to leave, I called Jay to complain. He sighed and hoped for the best.

The rest of the story is both heartwarming and embarrassing. I was certain that this boy would be miserable and, in turn, make the entire activity miserable. I was wrong. By the time Jay got up there, ever other adult leader approached him independently and told him that Seth and Sam had saved the trip. By the time the group got to the cabin, this boy had calmed down, was laughing, and saying it was so much fun. He never snowmobiled and didn’t participate in any of the conversations or games but Jay said they eventually talked him into turning down the volume of his tablet and he helped the other boys make breakfast the next morning. Sure enough, when I picked up the boys the next morning and took this young man to his mother (who was at McDonald’s using the wifi and unable/unwilling to drive to the church to pick him up), he was happy. Not easy or socially adept or any less rigid in his conversation, but not angry and he kept saying, “I had fun.” I felt shame. Because I had been very unkind in both thought and deed.

I know I am not an unkind person. Perhaps, what I have realized is that all of us, to some extent, have unkind moments. The kids we don’t like have them. Our own kids have them. I think the goal is to try harder to show kindness to all.  I tthought of the words in a primary song, “Love one another as Jesus loves you. TRY to show kindness in all that you do. Be gentle and loving in deed and in thought for these are the things Jesus taught.” I think I am most kind when I feel secure in that love that Jesus has for me - when  I feel His spirit with me. I think of the sacrament prayer and the promise that it will be with me if I keep His commandments and always remember him. I need to do better at doing both. I didn’t realize how distant and distracted I’ve been lately and how infrequently I choose to “remember Him." It’s such a cycle. I think what I realized yesterday is that if I help my children feel Christ’s love, they will also be more likely to love others and themselves in the same accepting way Christ loves us. It’s easy to be kind to some people. It’s not as easy to be kind to others. I want to be better at being kinder to all.

Daily Gratitude - Day 15

Thank goodness for vaccines and healthy children. What an incredible time to live, when diseases that have ravaged populations for millennia can be prevented with sniff and a shot at a Saturday visit to a clinic, with free lollipops to boot!

Unfazed by shots. And definitely determined to handle it better than his older brother. 

Daily Gratitude - Day 9

I can’t decide which is worse. Being in the rinky dinky ward choir or leading the rinky dinky ward choir. Without a doubt, I enjoy singing more than I enjoy conducting. However, I also enjoy having a say in the musical programming (what songs are being sung when) so it’s nice to have control over the choir music. None of it is very fun when five people show up for choir.

Because of our low, low numbers, I have curtailed ward choir to a seasonal thing. I’ve learned that most people don’t enjoy being at church for an extra half-hour to hour, even if they enjoy singing. Besides that, ever since I have been the primary music leader, I’m rarely in the mood to cheer lead another music session. So, ward choir will learn something for Easter, usually something for the summer, like Pioneer Day or Fourth of July and then, of course, music for the beloved holiday season. It’s not asking for a lot of extra time. Still, there are usually only about five people that come - three of them frequently relatives of mine. It’s disheartening.

A very talented musician in the other ward and I have become good friends and two years ago, I helped her put together a musical fireside for Christmas. She did most of the work but I had our choir perform a few numbers, I sang a solo and I accompanied a string ensemble on the piano. I can’t quite remember why we didn’t do it last year but we decided to do it again this year but have it even more combined. We’re going to combine our two rinky dinky choirs into one small but stable choir and add other numbers to enjoy the wonders of Christmas music. Our first practice was right after church today.

There were only seven people there. I know we’ll get more trickling in for our next three rehearsals but it’s still so frustrating as a director because you can’t really ever do much more than teach parts when you have new people showing up each week. The great thing about this exercise in gratitude had me searching for the good, however. And I found it listening to Henry’s wonderful, off-key, enthusiastic young voice.

There used to be an unspoken (well...it was probably spoken. I’m sure Jay did some vocal encouraging) rule that my family was in the choir. They were there anyway and I wanted other families to know that choir certainly wasn’t limited to only the adults so for the past few years, all of my boys have sung with us. Henry often didn’t as quick speech and quick singing are so hard for him but as he’s gotten older, and he’s become a solid reader, he’s become the most eager to sing, by far. In fact, Seth and Sam have reached an age (Sam earlier than Seth because younger brothers are so heavily influenced by their older brothers) where no amount of persuasion really can get them to sing with me anymore and I would never force it. So...Henry and Jay were it from our family today. Henry  (and any child) really should stick with singing the melody but he sits with his father and, truly, whatever he sings is usually in an endearing and loudish monotone so he learns the men’s part. As I went over the part a few times for Jay and one other young man from the other ward, I looked over the top of the piano at Henry, sitting on a chair where his feet couldn’t touch the floor, glasses sliding down his nose, hands struggling to hold the music open and singing of Christ’s birth, my heart nearly burst from love and pride.

Henry is who he is. He has no real guile. He is charming and friendly and innocent and unique. There really is no one quite like him. For years, I haven’t quite known how to handle this curious person sent to our family. He is not always easy to handle but I know I can learn a lot from him. When I watched him enjoy each “Gloria In Excelsis Deo” and my brain connected the dots between teaching everyone the notes and Henry reminding me about the spirit and joy of the phrase, even with only seven singers, I felt grateful.

Sometimes....

Henry is a funny boy. Charming, unique, creative, friendly and cute but he is also often a difficult and unreasonable boy.  Eight years of blogging about his antics back me up on this.

In a lot of ways, he is so much easier and more mature than he used to be. More and more, I am able to reason with him out of a frustrating moment or, better yet, prepare and practice with him before he has to go through a potential emotional minefield so that his reactions and behavior are more palatable for public consumption.

Unfortunately, there are times when I have to send Henry into situations where I am pretty sure he is going to struggle.  Those times usually occur about every 6 months when Henry is due to see his dentist.

To preface and explain some of his behavior, Henry was born with an oral/motor delay.  He had a newborn tongue-tie and still deals with poor tongue muscle action, which contributes to his speech disability. To top it all off, he has the most sensitive gag reflex I’ve ever seen. He can’t handle having anything in his mouth, which is why he is such a poor brusher, which is why he has so many cavities, which is why he has to go to the dentist so often.  Oh, and I’m pretty sure he’s addicted to sugar.  I mean...If you give a mouse a cookie!

When we first moved here, we picked a dentist from the plethora of LDS dentists in our area. After one attempted cleaning, this dentist said Henry was a tricky patient and would be better served at a place that specializes in pediatric dentistry so we tried one of those strip mall places.  I know...but we were just out of residency and saving for a house and paying for all of our dental care out of pocket and I thought it would be good enough. I was super unhappy with the place (they put all of those silver caps on his teeth without asking me if I’d rather have them in tooth color) so we found the one and only and thus expensive board certified pediatric dentist in this small town.  Even with all of their kid friendly gadgets, colorful rooms, prize boxes and movies playing on their ceilings, Henry’s issues continued. I’m not privy to their private conversations but I’m pretty sure Henry ranks near the top of their difficult patients list.  They probably have special meetings to prepare for his visits...perhaps draw straws to see who’s going to wrestle with him and clean up his vomit this time. He’s that bad.

We’ve been through it all there.  Sedation, nitrous oxide, no treatment at all because he kept throwing up the sedation medicine, and even a few successful treatments that lulled us all into thinking he might be maturing out of this oral hygiene nightmare. His varied experiences have turned me into one of those jittery lab rats who either gets shocked or rewarded with food when they press a button.  Not knowing what to expect - the horrible or the tame - I feel anxious each time an appointment approaches.  Henry, on the other house, has no apprehension.  Each time, he is sure that he is going to do great.  It’s bizarre.

This last time was no different.  It’s a little misleading when I say, “last time” because it makes it seem as if it was only one appointment when it was actually three.  The first was his regularly scheduled check-up with cleaning and x-rays which, as usual, showed two new small cavities in his permanent molars.  The second appointment was the attempt to fill those cavities but ended prematurely because he would not let them put cotton in his mouth to dry the area for the filling. I do not know exactly why they need to have the treated area free from wetness and saliva but they assure me they do and it’s become Henry’s stumbling block.  They can even drill his tooth without issue but as soon as they put something in his mouth to keep it open or dry, the struggle begins.  They gave up, put in a temporary filling and told me he’d have to come back and either be sedated or restrained.  We’ve gone the sedation route in the past and it’s not pretty (he won’t swallow the nasty tasting medicine) so I chose the papoose.

I told him what to expect and he was honestly fine with the idea.  He even agreed that it would probably help him stay calm if he knew he couldn’t push their arms away.  When they brought him back to the treatment area, I chose to stay in the waiting room. Honestly, it’s just better now if I can’t see him struggle.  It’s too....everything.

After 45 minutes, his hygienist/assistant came out to give me an update.  She said he did great with the drilling but things took a drastic turn for the worse when they started the filling again. He was aggressively  fighting them now and it was pretty bad. Lots of thrashing his head and crying and screaming and gagging.  They wanted to know if I wanted them to stop or go ahead and do the second filling.  Without hesitating, I said, “Please, just finish.  Get it over with.”  I had absolutely NO desire to come back for a fourth time.

About 20 minutes after that, Henry, his hygienist, and the dentist came out to the waiting room.  The hygienist looked exhausted. Henry’s entire face was red and sweaty and his eyes were bloodshot. The dentist looked amused.  With a suspicious smile on her face, she said Henry had said the funniest thing when they were all done.

Apparently, Henry continued to gag and even threw up onto the hygienists’ shoes. He cried and screamed but they got their work done as fast as they could and when they were done, they sat him up, took off the papoose and said, “Henry! Henry! You are done!  You did it! We are all done!” He stopped crying, sort of looked around angrily, sniffed, wiped his face with the back of his hand and said, “Well...sometimes you just gotta do what you don’t want to do.” Like some cowboy in a western. Like some sensei in a karate fight.  Like some kid who did not just scream and gag and barf through his entire dentist appointment.

I laughed so hard I got tears in my eyes.  The dentist was equally amused and said Henry was a “special” boy.  Then, she told me that next time, he would have to be sedated. The dangers of aspirating will keep him from being part of the difficult patient papoose club or the difficult patient nitrous oxide club.  In spite of everything he heard us talking about, he seemed so proud of himself, red face and all. I am proud of him too for doing the best he is able to do, even though that best effort is so different from what I wish for.  Until the next time....(which I am totally dreading).

The Big Eight for Big H

One of the stumbling blocks for keeping active on my blog lately is that I feel like all I have time for is capturing event after event after event. When you have a busy family, there is usually something going on for somebody that the mom/wife/family historian in me wants to archive and commemorate.  Even though I haven’t been blogging, I still feel the desire to make these moments permanent. But, inevitably over the past 8 months since going private, I’d miss something…a summer excursion or sport camp which turned into missing something else and suddenly, I was behind and if I had time to blog, I felt like I had to go back and catch up with those other important events first. But, all those unwritten blog posts left little room for the other type of blogging I love which is organizing my thoughts…about anything…into something. Combine those competing psychological issues with my odd apathy towards private blogging and you’ve got a nearly dead blog. I’m not sure how not writing anything is satisfying the guilt or fixing the indifference but that’s the trick of living in my head.

Still, in spite of missing so many other important events (Daniel’s second birthday, Our Anniversary, Christmas, New Years) I don’t want to forget about Henry’s 8th birthday and baptism. Every birthday is special and important but it’s not every day a kid like Henry turns 8.  It was kind of a big deal:)

Pure Henry

For the past several years, a good friend of his at school has a birthday right before Christmas break.  His mom is always so good about planning a fun party and it always gets Henry into a let’s-talk-about-my-birthday-a-month-ahead mode.  With all of those other events sandwiched between the parentheses above and the month, my brain is never as eager to go where Henry would like to take it.

I did start mentally preparing, however.  Even back in November, on a trip to Utah to see the SYTYCD tour (another event not blogged about), I purchased most of what I planned to give him for this coming of age year.  A set of engraved scriptures. A suit. A fancy pen to highlight said scriptures.  Oh, the joy of shopping for baptism gifts in Utah! Jay had purchased him a fun gift and, as far as the gift giving side of Henry’s birthday went, I felt prepared and at peace.

I offer “yes” days to all of my boys, and Henry is still easy to please. He wanted a muffin for breakfast and pizza for lunch and didn’t care what kind of treat I brought to his class.  When I showed up with cookies and CapriSuns, he was thrilled with both the treat and the attention. I love watching him smile.

I really don’t like transition lenses but my kids do because they have automatic sunglasses.  I can’t tell you how many pictures have been affected because you can’t make those things hurry up and go clear!

He loved passing everything out. Basically, Henry loves to party. 

When he came home, he only had a few hours to wait before his grandpa and grandma took him to a birthday dinner at the DQ. His birthday fell on a Wednesday and Jay and Seth needed to be at Young Mens so we invited Jay’s parents to the DQ for dinner and then went back to our house to open gifts.  We waited to have cake until they both came home.

Not a great picture of anyone but…hey…we were here. Thanks mom and pops!

Henry is a boy who loves gifts.  I can’t decide if him having a birthday so close to Christmas is a good or a bad thing. All of his excitement over gifts happens within such a short time. He ruins the things he gets so quickly, I think it would probably be better if he received gifts over a more spread out time table but as it is, he has 2 weeks of pure joy.  Lots of new things to ooh and ash over and he absolutely loves everything.  Seriously.  I could give him a Happy Meal toy and he would be thrilled.  I’m not sure why I bother with some of the more expensive things except that he is just so fun to watch open things.  His joy is what drives me.

Henry tore through his birthday presents in less than 5 minutes.  It’s a bit embarrassing to watch with guests.  He eventually gets back to each gift, and eventually played with everything enthusiastically, but once he sees what it is, it quickly gets tossed for the next wrapped gift. 

A golden dragon from China.  My parents have given every grandson one for their eighth birthday.  It’s a good thing they planned ahead because Henry remembered and was counting on it. 

Fun puzzle from Grandma J.

Scriptures in a BYU case

Uno Blast from Aunt Jen and family. It’s been a great family game.

Jay got Henry the classic Spirograph kit. Everyone likes it! (We are not artists so it makes us feel good at art)

I splurged and got the expensive card that plays music.  I wish I had a video of Henry’s dancing to it.

Sigh.  The Michael Kors suit I picked up at Burlington Coat Factory was too small.  It’s such a sharp looking suit.  All of my boys are built so differently and Henry is definitely more solid at 8 than his older brothers.

His favorite gift was this Easy Bake Oven from Aunt Sarah. It’s a new fancy design and all I can say is that there is nothing easy about baking in this oven. It had both Sarah and I stumped and we made quite a mess trying to get the cake in and out.  Henry was still thrilled to have made something. He’s on his way to becoming a chef!

Another Chinese gift.  The crazy birthday candle.  Totally illegal in the states and totally fun.

It gets bigger and more dangerous and then opens up, playing the “Happy Birthday” song.

It showed 9 lit candles when it opened up. Perfect!

I have loved keeping the birthday contained to the day the past few years but I knew I wouldn’t work this year. Not with family in town and not with my determination to have a party for him that was as easy for me as possible.  After last year’s debacle at the pottery place, I took the advice of a friend and reserved a time at the local children’s museum.  The only dates available, however, are on Saturdays and Sundays so, instead of a birth”day”, Henry had more of a birth”week”. So be it.  Every few years, it’s not going to kill me.  His party was fantastic. We set up a few decorations while Henry and his friends played in the museum and then a “scientist” taught them about dry ice and they made dry ice rockets.  Throw in some cupcakes, gifts and more play in the museum and it was the easiest 8 year old winter birthday party ever.

Starting to build the rockets out of paper wrapped around a film canister.

Almost everyone needed adult help. This woman in the black coat brought her other son with her.  I think it is so strange that for two years in a row, I have had extra, uninvited siblings at Henry’s party.  Is there a new etiquette rule about bring siblings to parties?

Love the glasses within the goggles.

Even Daniel wanted to build a rocket.

Watching one blast off.

Henry gets ready for his rocket.

Success!

It’s not nearly as cute as the tables my sister-in-law, Tara, lays out for her parties (she is a party table master) but I think it’s kind of cute.  They provided the plates and napkins which had no theme (Zooanimals and Avengers?)

I think it’s funny how everyone mobs the birthday gift opening.  

Again, this part of the party took no time.

There was only about 10 minutes left to go and enjoy the museum before parents came to pick up. 

Maureen explored a bit on her own:)

So did Sarah

I’m nervous that Jay will want to build one of these.  He thought it was very cool.

Energy generators

Daniel loved hammering

Sarah and Jay competing for more power for their bottle rockets.

Henry wanted to compete against his friend, Owen, too but preferred Sarah to do the pumping:)

Seth and his long legs managed to get all four lightbulbs lit.

The original plan was to have his birthday party in the morning, then drive him up to his ski lessons from 1-4 and then have his baptism that same night at 7. We knew it was a lot of activity for any kid but we were especially concerned given Henry’s unpredictable moods.  The Sunday prior, he had an interview scheduled with the bishop and the entire day, all he could say was how he didn’t want to have a birthday and didn’t want to be baptized.  I felt…concerned.  Henry and his motives are still mostly an enigma to me and I couldn’t figure out how his enthusiasm for his birthday, starting the month before, if you will remember, had fizzled.  When he didn’t even want his primary gift or to be sung to, I felt a bit desperate.  We had to wait for about an hour after church got out and it happened to be fast Sunday and he happened to be fasting (it doesn’t always happen) so, eventually, I figured out that he was both hungry and very nervous to meet with the bishop. When he came out from the bishop’s office with a smile on his face, I knew everything would be all right.  But, we still decided to opt out of ski lessons that day.  Just to be sure that Henry could be in the best mood possible for his baptism.

My parents are the most supportive people I have ever known in regard to attending important church ordinances.  Baptisms, missionary farewells or homecomings, weddings, funerals…if a loved one is going to take a step towards their eternal progression, Carl and Karen are going to be there with a “Go you!” Because Henry’s birthday happens so soon after Christmas, they came for the holiday and stayed for Henry’s baptism.  It was lovely to have them and I love that Henry will be able to look back at pictures and this blog post (major guilt occurring now about not writing other ones) and feel the support that his family offers.

A picture I’ll cherish.  Even Seth’s bare feet. 

His baptism was wonderful.  My sisters spent all day helping me prepare food and music and my mom saved my bacon by hemming old church pants of Sam’s after I learned that the suit I bought him would not fit. I was so happy with the turnout of friends, ward members and family and I know that Henry felt the love too.  Aunt Patty gave a great talk about prophets and their baptisms that Henry loved, Aunt Maureen sang a beautiful arrangement of “I Feel My Savior’s Love” and Aunt Sarah gave a fun talk about how the Holy Ghost is like a traffic light. Seth led the music and it was perfect to have his grandmas give prayers and his grandpas act as witnesses.

I was planning on moving the table so that we could be next to the picture of Christ but it didn’t happen.  But I did manage to put the lamp on the floor for a really awkward picture prop! But these boys in white jumpsuits (such an awkward design!) look fabulous and Henry is ready!

We are so proud of Henry!

On the drive home from the church, Henry must have told me three times that he could feel the Holy Ghost. He is still learning about how the gift impacts his life (he is mostly convinced that the Holy Ghost will help prevent him from tripping over rocks after a fall earlier in the week pre-confirmation) but I love that he feels its presence and isn’t afraid to acknowledge it.  He also tells me frequently that he will try to be better now that he is accountable for his choices.  Gush.

I love Henry. I am learning so much about who I am and how Heavenly Father’s plan works from being his mother.

A right on Hereford, and a left on Boylston:A Letter About Boston

Written by Jay and posted with permission

April 16, 2013.
A letter to my boys:
So that someday you will understand…

A right on Hereford, and a left on Boylston…

On Monday, April 15, 2013, I changed why I run.

On that day, terrorists detonated homemade bombs on the sidewalks of Boylston Street as runners finished the Boston Marathon. The bombs were planted near the finish line, and were designed to inflict the most damage on innocent spectators and contestants.

The second of two bombs exploded directly across the street from where your mom, Seth and Sam stood three years ago, cheering me on to my first Boston finish.

I have had a love affair with the Boston marathon for nearly my whole life. I read about the heroics of Alberto Salazar winning when I was only 8 years old. Every year, I read with increasing interest and stronger desires to join the throng on the hallowed streets from Hopkinton to Boston.

I first tried to qualify in 1998, but fell short. I tried again in 1999, but was even slower. I gave up marathon running, deciding that a Boston run was not in my future, and focused instead on starting my family and completing medical school and residency.

After 14 years of training, three boys, some disheartening personal experiences and two frustrating illnesses, I started running seriously again. I ran to restore some dignity in my personal life.

Sam, your shock at learning that I had run a marathon before was a big motivation. I wanted you to SEE me run a marathon. And remember it.
That soon changed. I wanted you to see me run BOSTON, and remember it. I trained longer and faster and harder. I know it took away time from you. But I was stricken with a Boston fever.

I was thrilled, and relieved, in the fall of 2009, when I qualified for Boston by several minutes. Finally, a major life goal achieved!!! Charles River, here I come. Boylston Street, here I come.

Running my first Boston marathon in 2010 was almost an out of body experience. I tried to soak the whole experience in. Scenes play back in my mind like a trailer for a personal movie. Riding the bus to Hopkinton, and waiting for the gun to fire at the starting line across from the little white church. The biker gang in front of the bar (there is nothing better than being cheered on by heavily bearded and tattooed men and women (yes, bearded women) in leather chaps)! To the shrieking tunnel of college girls in front of Wellesley College with their signs screaming “Kiss Me” (okay, I did sneak a peck on the cheek of one girl – because I thought I might not ever get another chance, and I’d regret it if I didn’t. She wasn’t anywhere near as good looking as your mom, though!). To the right hand turn at the Lower Newton Falls Fire Station, and starting up the first of not one, but three separate Heartbreak Hills that ascend Newton. Cresting as I ran by Boston College, being heavily cheered by heavily drunk college guys (these guys are way to drunk for 11 AM). Descending into Brookline, and finally seeing that CITGO sign in the distance. Seeing it, but never quite reaching it. Seeing it and knowing that it is at mile 24. When is that sign going to get here? Who put up that stupid sign, anyway? Is that really the right sign? And then finally passing the sign, crossing under the highway, and then the most blessed two turns in all of distance running:

A RIGHT ON HEREFORD, AND A LEFT ON BOYLSTON

Turns so sacred that they actually sell t-shirts with those words printed on the back. Turns where the sound of the crowd actually seems to lift you off of your feet and push you from behind towards the finish line. Cheering, clapping, bells ringing. It is like the whole world is there to watch you finish.

And unlike almost every other sporting event, there are no boos. No catcalls. No references to new glasses for the referees. No wishing that the other guy will fall or fail. No jeering. No negativity. Strangers running with strangers clasp hands because you did it. Stronger finishers encourage the injured. Signs everywhere explode with messages of inspiration. Go mom. Go dad. Go son. Go Bill or Jane or Frederico.

It is just your cramping calves, twitching hamstrings, and tens of thousands of Bostonians, Americans and foreigners propelling you to finish. How anyone can run down Boylston Street with dry eyes is a mystery to me.

Tears were already flowing when I saw you with your mom in front of Lord and Taylor’s. Yes, that Lord and Taylor’s. The one across the street from the second bomb. Seeing you, hugging you and giving you a high five made every one of those previous 26 miles worth it. Reuniting with you after the finish line, with that heavy metal around my neck, made me proud to be your dad. And I think you were a little bit proud of me. I hoped that you would always remember that day. And that your dad finished Boston. And that Boylston Street is a special place. A place to be revered and treasured. A place unlike any other in the world.

I went back to Boston in 2011, but without my personal fan club to cheer me one. Because I was alone, I noticed even more than before, how much the people of Boston and surrounding areas supported the marathon runners. The number of spectators is amazing. The cheering is continuous and incessant for 26.2 miles. The signs, extra water bottles, messages written on the road in chalk; everything about the race screams loudly how much Boston loves their marathon. And how much the marathoners love Boston. I think it was that crowd that pushed me onward. Onward to break 3 hours for the first time. Another goal I thought I might never achieve.

That is why what happened on April 15, 2013, was such a shock and personal devastation to me. I was crushed for the people of Boston. Crushed for the race that I love. But disturbed that someone or someones wanted to change the most special street in Boston. Someone wanted to take Boylston Street from us.

And Boylston Street is a special street. There have been more cheers on that street than perhaps any other. Personal triumphs, joyful reunions, tearful struggles, people helping strangers, dogged determination, fist-pumping elation, and weary completion are all witnessed on Boylston Street. Everything that is positive about humanity is found there. And none of the negative.

Until last Monday. When two bombs blew the innocence and joy of Boylston Street almost off the map. Almost.

Tragically, those terrible bombs did end the lives of three. Martin Richard, age 8, reminds me in many ways of you boys. Smiling. Wearing an Under Armour hoodie. Cheering on strangers running by, because that is what you do on Boylston Street.

Krystle Campbell, age 29, was there to cheer on friends, like she had done almost every year since she was a little girl.

And Lu Lingzi, a graduate student from China at Boston University studying math and statistics, there with friends just to take in the spectacle that is Boylston Street.

All three had their bright futures tragically dimmed.

As I went to bed Monday night, before I knew all of the details we later discovered, I thought to myself, “I need to go back to Boylston. My kids need to go back to Boylston”.

The next morning, your mom said to me, “I think you should run Boston again next year.”

I checked the website. My last marathon in Denver still meets the Boston qualifying standards by 5 minutes. Registration opens up in September. I have until then to try for a better qualifying time so that I can increase my chances of making it in. I’m going to give it everything I’ve got so that next year I can make…

A RIGHT ON HEREFORD, AND A LEFT ON BOYLSTON

I hope you will be there to cheer me on. On Boylston Street. By the Lord and Taylor’s. And I hope that you soak in the cheers. The American flags that I’m sure will be waving. The Boston t-shirts. The Red Sox jackets. The positive wave of humanity crushing the weak will of terrorism. The triumph of runner, spectator, official as we complete another Boston.

I’ll be thinking of you as I climb Heartbreak Hill(s). But my heart won’t be breaking. I know you’ll be on Boylston Street. Cheering on the elite winners, surrounded by strength. Because I know that we are strong. Our family is strong. Our country is strong. Our faith is strong.

This world might be scary at times. There are people that do things that we don’t understand. There are evil people that try to rob our innocence and steal our victories. There are places to avoid. Places to be scared. Places to wonder if we’ll make it back.
But Boylston Street is not that place. And I will not let terrorists or anyone else turn such a positive place into a place that should be feared or shunned.

And so, now, I run for Boylston Street. Next year, we will return to claim that street back. I’ll run down it. You’ll stand on the sidewalk among strangers and feel confidence, not fear. You’ll hear cheers, not boos. We’ll claim it back for runners. For cheerleaders. For supporters. For friends. For families. For the Johnsons. For Boston. For America. For all that is good in humanity.

A RIGHT ON HEREFORD, AND A LEFT ON BOYLSTON!!!

A Two-Wheel Rider

Poor Henry. He's been wanting to try his bike without training wheels for at least a year but he always seemed to mention it when Jay was gone or at the end of the day. Saturday turned into the perfect day for Henry to finally get his wish. Jay took the training wheels off and it was much scarier than he imagined. It took lots of persuading and energetic cheerleading to get him to try again after that first scary fall but he committed to trying ten times and he did it. He's still not fully independent but I'm used to Henry's way of learning to be just a bit slower than his older brothers. Those training wheels are off now and he'll be riding with confidence in no time.

Dad gets him steady. I know. He should be wearing a helmet. Jay and I both said the same thing but Henry could not find it and...well...if he didn't try it right then then who knows how long it would be until the next time we were all ready and willing to give it a shot.

Dad's got his back.

Then he lets go!

And he's riding!

Until he forgets to pedal and the bike tips over.

Those crashes can hurt.

But we always try again. Big brother Sam shows how fun it can be.

Little brother, Daniel, only wishes he were part of the fun. And that his mom would dress him. Hey...sometimes, it's just whisky tango around here.

Later that afternoon, Sam and Seth got the job of stacking firewood from the trees Jay had chopped down or pruned.

They took turns throwing the logs from the truck while the other stacked.

Having boys is pretty fun.