Sad, Sick Baby

Sam helps hold a baby who wants to be help during our busy morning

I kept him home from well meaning but touchy people at church for six weeks.

I have hand sanitizer in my purse, in the diaper bag and next to the mobile diaper changing station.

I have dutifully barked at whichever boy has the most current drippy nose to "Get your face away from him!"

He's immunized. I breastfeed. I haven't taken him to the gym day care once. It feels like I'm fighting an unwinnable war because, in spite of all my effort, my baby is sick.

I know babies get sick. I remember being a laid back germ moderate who understood that kids get sick and then get better. Just like the rest of us. Then, Henry scared us by succumbing to a winter newborn's worst nightmare: RSV and Strep Pneumo, and was in the PICU for two weeks before it was safe for him to breath on his own once more. When I realized I was to have another winter baby, some of my earliest concerns were the dreaded seasonal viruses. As a student of microbiology I understand our severe disadvantage in the battle against germs. We are horribly outnumbered.

The stuffy nose started in earnest on Thursday. It's almost surprising it's taken him this long to get sick considering the non-stop rotation of colds that have infected his older brothers since before Christmas. Even I have managed to stay healthy, though I did have a cough and 24 hour fever that came and went last weekend. Yesterday, the coughing joined the lambs legs dripping from his nostrils. Today, he is sleepy and lethargic. I am monitoring every diaper change to make sure he's not dehydrated and timing how long he nurses because Henry's symptoms came on so fast and before I knew it, I had waited too long to get him help. His first illness fell on a weekend too. Doesn't it always seem that kids get sick on weekends?

I slept with him in the chair off and on during the night, trying to keep him elevated to help him breath. He also had a turn sleeping in his swing and car seat so that I could get a few hours of non-vertical shut-eye. I know it's a good thing he's so sleepy because our bodies do their best recovering and germ fighting while resting but it makes me scared too. How I wish I had a crystal ball to know if this will turn out to be a normal, run-of-the-mill cold or if my mom heart is going to be challenged another time.

I'll keep you posted.

Back In The Saddle

Literally.

I’ve been hitting the gym again with my sister-in-law, Stephanie. She and her family is here for the entire month of March as Jay’s brother, Clark, is doing an internship with a local podiatrist. When she expressed an interest in being workout buddies or watching each other’s kids so we could both work out this month, it was just the spark I needed. Since she’s been here this week, I have been back at the gym for an hour class four times. And I’ve got the my-whole-body-hurts shuffle going on to prove it.

Monday, we started with Body Sculpting. There were many, many lunges involved and my quads are just barely recovering. Did you know toilets are as low to the ground as they are? I swear, they always seemed a reasonable height before but that was when my muscle fibers weren’t desperately trying to rebuild. Now, I know why handrails are advisable to the weaker or poorly balanced members of society.

Tuesday, we went to two separate classes and took turns having the three boys (Daniel, Ethan and Caden). I went to Brazil Butt lift. It was more of a “it’s at a convenient time” choice than a wise one. Lunge burpees with a jump in between? I’m not certain I was quite ready for that class but love the teacher and the music so it wasn’t a total disaster. I have no idea if the pain I experienced the rest of the week was from day 1 or day 2. It just hurt.

I skipped Wednesday. Stephanie went to Zumba but the YW I had assigned to be in charge of that night’s activity bailed on me via text message and I had to spent some time coming up with an activity for our 40 combined youth. I went with 3-D kickball and it was kind of a nightmare. Sure, some kids had fun but those are the kids that manage to have fun no matter what you do. I lost the less confident, the less athletic and the less outgoing. Is there a magical activity that doesn’t lose these kids????

That meant I was ready to go Thursday. Jay had the day off so Stephanie and I both managed to go to Kickboxing. The teacher who does the Brazil Butt class also does Kickboxing and I think she’s my favorite teacher. She’s hard and uses good music and uses the beat of the music. I don’t know why all teachers don’t but a lot don’t. It’s just background noise for them, I think. I enjoy the beat and it helps me keep going when I’m tired. I kept up pretty well with the class until we had to do six sets of 15 pushups and 30 crunches at the end. My shoulders, chest, wrists and abs are NOT ready for 90 pushups. It was not pretty.

And today, we went to spin. On a bike. With a saddle. Get it? Probably didn’t need to spell it out for you quick-minded ones but I thought it was clever. I remember lots of seat pain when I first started spin but, ready for another cliche, it was just like riding a bike! I’m cracking myself up! Seriously, I was expecting it to be a lot more painful than it was. I loved it. I love spin. So many calories burned. So sweaty. I miss the teachers who use the music better but, oh well. It was still a good workout. But, am I the only one that likes to spin my legs to the rhythm of the song? I just think it helps. This teacher just had one long workout track playing where all the songs were the same beats per minute.


I know it’s only been a week but I’m so happy to be working out again. It was wonderful to show up at this place where I invested so much of myself in the early months of last year and to be so warmly welcomed back. I know that wouldn’t have happened had I simply showed up at the local rec center or one of the other more anonymous gyms in town. I love that my sister-in-law is willing to do these tough classes with me and love that our sweet mother-in-law and husbands are on board to help us with the kids when they can. It’s going to be a great month (workout wise. It’s still March. I haven’t forgotten).

Hello, You.

March is my nemesis month.

I was complaining (gasp! I know. So rare) to Henry about how much I hate the sound, feel, look of wind and he looked straight at me and said, “In like a lion and out like a lamb.” As if that makes it better.

O.K. I’m impressed with his memory about a complicated adage about the weather patterns in March. I’m quite certain I only recently figured out what that old saying meant. But still, March is yucky.

February uses up all of my later winter cold weather tolerance. I know it’s still weeks and weeks and weeks away but I’m ready for the snow to be gone....now. And I’m ready for some flowers....now. Sadly, they don’t even pop up until April, sometimes, May.

So, to help me cope with what I consider the longest month of the year (and, technically, it is. So, I’m right technically and emotionally) I am going to post every single day. Because nothing moves a month along quite as swiftly as when it is filled with daily deadlines. I'm calling it the real March Madness and you can expect great things. And mediocre things. And some pretty awful things.

Let the madness begin!

Book Review #3 - The Midwife's Confession

I don't even know how to write this without spoilers so consider this your big spoiler alert.

Ugh.

My apologies to Diane Chamberlain, who I'm sure is a nice woman with lots of ideas and talent, but The Midwife's Confession gives fiction a bad name.  I feel rather strongly that fiction has a lot more to offer than escapism or entertainment.  I feel its medium is especially suited to teach - namely empathy and understanding for the multitude of life experiences we'll most likely never have as individuals.  Additionally, I have learned from Tolstoy and Stagner and Steinbeck and Stockett and many others that no matter our color or religion or age or gender, we are all a lot more similar than it seems.  So are our relationships with others.  Toss in some history, geography, or any area of expertise (governing, medicine, cooking, sports, kite flying), a few conflicts for flavor, steady it with good writing and better editing, and, voila, you've got yourself some quality fiction.

What does not make quality fiction is unbelievable, unlikely and ridiculous drama.  Again, those kinds of stories may be entertaining to some but it feels like such a waste of pages and ink to me.  What can possibly be the purpose of reading about three women who meet at college and become BFFs and all live in the same town and all still hang out regularly together (unlikely) until one of them unexpectedly commits suicide?  Is it likely that those who have been adopted relate to becoming a midwife because they happened to be given to the midwife who delivered them (unbelievable)?  Or that they identify with the woman who secretly discovers the names of her birth parents while moving her adoptive mother's furniture because she kept her daughter's birth file in an old swivel chair (unlikely)?   Maybe we can gleem a bit of that universal human condition by reading about about happens when you accidentally drop your newborn baby niece that was just born to your sister who thinks you're really just her old RA from college turned friend  because you were high on prescription drugs that you secretly take due to a back injury from a car accident that happened on the night you slept with your best friend's fiance who you will always love even though he then marries your best friend so you become engaged to his partner but use your old lover as your  attorney to arranges the paperwork for the five surrogate children you deliver to help you atone for the fact that you switched baby girls at the hospital, stealing a baby from a woman in a coma who now has another daughter who needs a bone marrow transplant but now this secret niece of yours who was raised by your secret sister of yours discovers that she is the stolen baby and maybe can save her real sister's life by donating her genetically similar bone marrow?

No?

Like I said - unbelievable, unlikely, ridiculous.  Criminal.  Stupid.

I Live With Boys

For years, in check out lines at grocery stores, at church, movies, parks, football games, any place really where for safety, sanity or tradition, my family is in close proximity to each other, some humans feel the need to comment on the gender of my kids.  “All boys?” they usually ask,  I suppose to make sure one of them isn’t a girl with a really bad haircut.  I proudly respond that I am the mother of sons and their followup comment is usually about how I have it easier than if I had girls (really?) or whatever their own personal boy to girl child ratio is.  I actually think it is a compliment to our human condition that we notice and empathize with fellow families this way.  I’ve even found myself doing it, though I rarely say anything.  Still, when I see a woman walking around with three boys (there are kind of a lot of three boys families around) and now four, I smile and think, “That’s what we look like!”

I’ve never really thought much about what having “all boys” meant, other than my house didn’t contain any barbies or a bathroom drawer filled with colorful hair accessories.  However, last week we had our first ever family vacation with our new 5:1 guy to girl ratio and I admit there was more than one moment when I was acutely aware that one of these things is not like the others.

Now, believe me, I am a champion of girls and of the old-fashioned tune, “Anything you can do, I can do better,”  but I’ve noticed there is something inside boys that drive them to try things and challenge themselves physically in ways that I don’t remember feeling as a girl and certainly not as an out-of-shape-middle-aged woman.   Throughout the three days we vacationed in Taos, I spent each morning skiing with my boys.  Up until this year,  they’ve always been beginners.  It was me convincing the older two that they should try a run that I wanted to ski down and me giving them pointers about form and me waiting for them at the bottom of the hill.  One season of ski lessons has changed all that.  Henry joined us each morning and I am blessedly still above his ability level (picture him charging down the mountain at a breakneck speed while in a full snowplow.  Be still my very fast beating heart.)  but after we dropped him off at our ski in/ski out condo, Seth, Sam and I would hit the slopes for an hour or two.

We kept things pretty short and sweet on the first day because I was still nervous about leaving Daniel but I was more confident about being gone longer on day two.  Our very first run together that day was this black diamond called Walkyires Bowl.  The boys had skied it with their dad the day before and they wanted to show off, I think.

It was hard and steep but I managed.  Steepness isn’t my biggest ski weakness and we all made it down without incident, though I’m fairly sure their little quadricep muscles weren’t burning as badly as mine were.  Walkyries led straight to another black diamond called “Moe’s” which featured plenty of my skiing nemesis: moguls.  I was so frustrated by the end of that run not only because of the moguls, which I hate, but because Seth and Sam were waiting for me!  At the bottom!  Telling me I was doing just fine.   I told them no more moguls.

So, they led me to the terrain park.  I have a very healthy fear of gravity and don’t jump on skis.  Ever.  And I don’t do any of those rails or grinders or tires or....any of it either!  Instead of them waiting for me this time, it was me waiting on them as they wanted to take every jump they could possibly find.  Luckily, they are still beginners at jumping and stuck to simply getting speed and air.  No spins or flips attempted.  But, I have a suspicion that sentence needs a “yet” to be accurate.

After lunch, it was Dad’s turn with the boys and they’d come back in boasting about the double black run he took them on or how they hiked up to the ridge (because it’s above and beyond what the chairlift can take them to) in order to ski down what is known as “the steeps.”   All things I’d say have said, “no thanks,” to Jay had he asked me to try.  

Maybe it was the physicality of their skiing but I spent the rest of the week noticing how often I am not always a part of their boy club.  They don’t mean to be exclusive.  In fact, I think they would love it if I inserted myself into their antics more often.  But, I’m about as into sports as I care to be and, oddly enough, I don’t feel compelled to chase, be chased, wrestle, build or video game daily.  I know Jay doesn’t either, but he’s much better about it than I am.  And I don’t just mean that he’s better at trying or spending time with them.  He actually knows how to wrestle.  If I’m ever willing, it’s just boys jumping on me and me grabbing and pulling on them.  When Jay’s involved, headlocks and spins and other fancy-should-be-done-in-singlet moves are used.  They and I end up impressed.  Likewise with video games.  It’s as if there is something on the Y chromosome that allows for a quicker understanding about what buttons “a,b,c” or “x,y,z” do.

So, during our vacation, I noticed that the TV was always tuned to a sports program.  And I noticed that they eat and drink a lot.  And I couldn’t help but notice that they are very, very loud.  And sometimes stinky.

Never was it more apparent than on our drive home.  We stopped at a famous old steel bridge that crosses the Rio Grand gorge in New Mexico.  The bridge has been in several movies and the internet had other stories about ghosts that haunt it and its role in far too many suicides.  As we stood altogether in a small, jutted out, viewing area, Jay started snorting and sucking until he spit out a loogie over the bridge’s rail.  The boys watched in awe as it descended the over 650 feet down to river, marveling at how long it took.

They are boys.

They had to try.

Suddenly, they were all spitting and timing their spits and racing their spits and spitting from the other side of the bridge to see if the results were different.

I didn’t spit.

I can’t.

I’ve never been able to.

It just drools down my chin.

It was there that I made the comment, “Wow.  I am surrounded by boys.” and Jay replied, “Be glad they haven’t thought of trying to pee over the edge yet.”  Apparently, had we spent any more time there, that would have been the natural progression of things.

I do love my boys.  I love having boys.   I’ll allow the occasional whoopie cushion at the dinner table because there is nothing better than hearing Henry’s whole gut laugh when he hears that farting sound.  I love hearing them laugh.  I love having to remind them to brush their teeth because I’m pretty sure they haven’t in at least two days.  I love buying them new pants every season because they are either high waters or full of holes.  I love finding another pair of sneakers because the bottom of theirs are smooth and slick from all of their play.  I love their need to have a thumb war or a back scratch or a ghost hand in the middle of sacrament meeting.  I love their ties and their NCAA brackets and their third huge glass of milk.

I’m not one of them but I’m glad I get the chance to live with all of my incredible boys.


I only thought to take pictures on the very last day.  It was too hard to get any of us all on the mountain because I didn’t have anything warm for Daniel and didn’t want to expose him so I took a few of us in the rented condo on the last day to prove we went on vacation:)

Seth and Sam in their room they shared with Henry (each book took a turn sleeping on the floor at night).  They look all quiet and calm but I’m pretty sure I had already forced them to settle down as to not annoy our downstairs neighbors anymore than I’m sure we already had.

Our room was exactly the same on the other side of the living ro}M only the twin beds were pushed together to make a King size bed.

View from the full kitchen of the living area.

Jay relaxing with a sleeping Daniel.

Later that same day, Jay relaxing with a sleeping Daniel:)

Only ski picture taken - me on the chairlift with Seth and Sam.

All five of my boys on the infamous bridge.  Before the spitting.

Me, myself and I.  The girl.  Not spitting.

Daniel - Week 10

You’re out of the single week digits!  While I’ll still age you in weeks for awhile yet when others ask your age, I’m starting to think of you in terms of months.  You are nearly two and a half months old.  Your newborn 0-3 months outfits are getting snug.  I’ve stopped putting you in gowns at night because they don’t cover your feet anymore.  You made the switch three nights ago from sleeping in your carseat at night to sleeping on your tummy in your portacrib.  I know they say no tummy sleeping but you do not sleep well on your back and you’re so strong.  I’ve watched you lift up that neck and turn your head from side to side.  You’re fine.

I love you in your little jeans and sweater outfit today.  I can hear your grandmother (my mom) saying, “Babies should look like babies and not little boys.” but I can’t help it sometimes.  I think babies as dapper little boys are adorable too!  But, we still mostly stick to the footed and cozy sleepers.

It’s odd but it’s a little hard for me to remember you’re still just a newborn.  I’m ready to let you “cry it out” and while you can fuss yourself to sleep at times, I have to remind myself that you’re too wee to really do that yet.  For sleeping so well in your carseat at night, you sure hate it during the daytime.  I can’t stop for longer than two minutes before you start to squall.  It makes our long afternoons running your brothers to their activities particularly tortuous.  Now, I’d rather take you out of your carseat and just hold you on my lap if we’re not going to be moving much.  The carseat definitely stays in the car when we go to church or a restaurant.

You’re very strong and prefer to have someone hold you in the sitting up position.  Of course, ideally we’d just stand up all day long and hold you but if we must sit, then we best not try to have you recline in our arms.  You already like to put your weight on your legs and I have a feeling you’re going to love your Bumbo chair I bought.  You definitely remind me the most of Henry in temperament, Seth in looks and Sam in body type.  How funny to have such a combination of your brothers in you.

Book Review #2 - Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand

I’ve heard good things about this book from several trusted sources and yet it took it being chosen as a book club selection for me to finally get around to reading it.  All of my sources were correct.  It is delightful.

Helen Simonson manages to do what plenty of authors have tried to accomplish, most unsuccessfully, I might add: capture the romantic and comedic flair of Jane Austen in a modern day novel.  I have no idea if this was an intention of hers.  While not an obvious adaptation of any of Austen’s popular novels, the themes of class,  obligation to family, unsuitability and prejudice all surround Major Earnest Pettigrew, a sensible and established older gentleman in a small English village, and Mrs. Jasmina Ali, a Pakistani widow who owns the small village market, while their late-in-life romance blossoms.

The story begins as Major Pettigrew answers his front door to Mrs. Ali on an errand and she finds the usually distinguished major in his deceased wife’s housecoat.  Embarrassed, he explains the confusion and despondency on the recent passing of his brother.  Her immediate kindness in making him tea and discussing his favorite author, Kipling, spark a new and surprising friendship.  It is heartening to read that even in a later age, passion can still be discovered.

Similar to Austen’s style, the rest of Simonson’s secondary characters are all developed through the major’s opinion and perspective, limiting most to be seen as a rather ridiculous and unlikable bunch.   Of course, as certain characters become better known to Major Pettigrew or his sympathies change through experience, they develop more depth and nuance, sometimes in an unexpected way.

While the plot takes a back seat to Major Pettigrew’s character development, there are balls, walks in the park, gossip, ultimatums, landed gentry, hunts and a rather dramatic romantic ending to enjoy.  It may be predictable but it manages to avoid being at all fluffy thanks to the major’s conservative humor and his behaving in a gentlemanlike manner.   Recommended!

My Tiny Little Minor Unimportant Manifesto

I’ve been a bad blog commenter lately.  I like to read but, like many people these days, mostly do it on my phone and I’m not very adept at thumb typing.  So, I don’t comment.  Usually.  Today, I clicked on a few blogs off my sidebar that moved me to comment and almost all of them had word verification as the second step.

Oh my goodness, do I ever wish those would go away.

For one thing, they are hard to read.  I feel like I am taking a quiz at the end of my comment.  I sit there, squinting at the computer monitor wondering if that is a sideways “g" or freaking looking “j” and rather than feeling like I’m sending the love, I feel like I’m flashing my friend badge, verifying that I’m part of whatever club you have.  Am I the only one that gets my words rejected sometimes?  When it is rejected,  most of the time, it’s not from typing too fast.  I just can’t figure out what in the heck that word is. It’s crooked and fuzzy and probably how people who take hallucinogens see things.

And now, they want two words!  Two!  As if one asinine word wasn’t enough.

For real,  it shouldn’t be that hard.  I get that they are testing for humans at the keyboard and not the all-seeing HAL, but I feel like I need to use the force to type it in correctly, because trying to read it using my english language brain doesn’t always work.  Are there rampant spam comments going around?  I wonder because I’ve been blogging for awhile and I’ve never gotten one.  I’d probably be singing a different tune if I were or ever had been bombarded by unwanted comments, but not only has it never happened to me, I’ve never heard of it happening to anyone.  I’m sure by simply typing that sentence, I’m due for some doozies, but why do so many people choose this option? To keep away the illiterate?  Do you want to stifle comments?  Do you hate people?

Kidding.  Everyone loves comments.  Don’t they?  I assume that bloggers by the very nature of having a blog are looking for some kind of validation.  I mean, of course we do it for the record.  I, of course, blog for the record!  But, comments are nice.  Why make it harder to leave them?

So, here is my manifesto:  Down with the word verification!  Don’t let the robots win!

O.K.  Manifesto over.  I’ll still try to leave you a comment.  If I can.

Daniel - 9 Weeks

Hands are more relaxed and open.  Definitely trying for the thumb but getting whole fist instead.  Consistently smiling at me and your brothers and dad.  Happy coos.  Still fussy during evening hours but becoming a good night sleeper, usually giving me at least a five or six hour block of sleep.  Aunt Maureen visited this week and she got you to take a different kind of bottle - the Gerber Essentials.  It looks like a doll bottle to me but I suppose I can’t care because you take it!   You might nibble off and on for an hour or so but you take it!  You left on your very first road trip on your 9 week birthday - to Taos, New Mexico.

Pride & Prejudice

Pride:  Henry is reading!  It is incredible to me because I’ve had so little to do with it.  Both Seth and Sam learned before Kindergarten with a book called How To Teach Your Child To Read in 100 Easy Lessons (highly recommended for any parent with a struggling reader in grades K-2) and I was so worried that Henry would fall behind or struggle because I didn’t do it with him over the summer or fall (bad parenting, I know!).  Thankfully, he has thrived in spite of his negligent mother and can read Go, Dog! Go! among others.  He has an incredible memory and easily memorizes his school readers that have words he can’t sound out yet.  Today, at his school Valentine’s Party (they had it a few days late), he easily matched the conversation heart’s phrases to the match on his “Luv Ya” bingo sheet.   He also likes to read the scriptures with us each night and gets every “the” “for” “and” and even “Lord” etc.  He can read “And it came to pass” but struggles with “fruit of his loins” that was repeatedly used in 2 Nephi chapter 3 a few nights ago.  I figure he can learn about that phrase later.



Prejudice:  I have never bought any kind of Playtex baby product before today.  Between its name (hello.  You make feminine hygiene products.  I don’t think of your company as sweet and cuddly) and my own bias against latex nipples, I have always steered clear of its bottles and pacifiers.  After reading many comments from moms who have babies that refuse to imbibe from bottles, I learned that these hideous, yellow latex nipples are supposedly easier for them to drink from.  I still shudder when I look at them.  Blech.

Pride:  Sam is such a great sport.  He has been eating gluten-free for the past year and his 2nd grade teacher always gave him a few gluten free cookies whenever anyone brought in a birthday treat he couldn’t have.  I thought it was really sweet of him to go out of his way to purchase and store them so that Sam was included in the festivity.  His teacher this year hasn’t brought cookies but each time there is a birthday party, she gives him a rubber duck.  He loves these ducks.  He has named each one with his go-to list of favorite names (Mike, Bobby Jr., Steve and Johnny).

Prejudice:  I think I’m in the minority here but I am against men wearing tight v-neck t-shirts.  I also think jeans with heavily embroidered back pockets, if they must be worn at all, should be restricted to female fashion design.  I understand that some men embrace the term metrosexual, with its smedium sizing, soft hands and super controlled coifs, but I suppose I like men to look like men.  Not sloppy or slobbish.  Clean.  Well groomed.  Occasionally rugged.  My sister disagrees with me.  She says bring on the bare strip of triangular chest.  I say, “Wear a t-shirt underneath that t-shirt!”

Pride:  Daniel slept through the night last night!  10 pm until 6 this morning.  It’s a whole new ball game when momma gets some sleep!  What a sweet baby.

Prejudice:  If I am behind an annoying driver in my town, 8 times out of 10 (not a percentage scientifically deduced but you get my point), they are driving a Subaru.  Now, I love Subaru.  It was Jay’s and, by default of joint property via marriage, my first car.  They are dependable.  They are sturdy.  They are great!  In my liberal-leaning-environmentally-conscious-what’s-good-for-me-must-be-good-for-everyone-thinking town, they are very popular.  I reason that it’s because people want and need an all-wheel drive vehicle, because of our terrain and weather, but can’t live with the guilt of driving a gas guzzling SUV.  In spite of my love of Subaru, I almost always notice that those who annoy me on the road drive them.  Even their latest commercials seem to embrace this kumbaya label.  What do they do to annoy me, you ask?  Drive 5 - 10 mph under the speed limit.  Leisurely use the left turn arrow signal, leaving other cars to wait for the next turn.  Stop for pedestrians or bicyclists to cross the road at places other than crosswalks.  Darn those Subaru drivers!

Pride:  Seth came home pretty upset yesterday that his History Day project wasn’t selected to go onto regionals.   I should restate.  I knew that he was upset.  It took me awhile to get it out of him but I felt bad that something he had worked so hard on (he and a friend made a website about the Dutch Underground Resistance during World War II) didn’t get the recognition he had hoped for.  Today, he came home elated because there had been a mistake in announcing the results and their project had been left out of the award ceremony.  He was beaming.  I am proud of him for working hard on it and proud that his effort was validated by the judges.

Prejudice:  We get a notable influx of Texans and Oklahomans visitors to our local ski resort during the winter months.  They are easy to spot, not only because they ski in packs and yell loudly to each other with their distinctive drawl, but also because many do not own proper ski attire.  If they are comfortable skiing in jeans, so be it.  I am from Montana and that look was very popular in the late 80s/early 90s.  What I don’t love is the unzipped ski coat.  Wear it or don’t wear it, but unzipped, it just flaps around when they ski with any sort of speed.  And it looks silly.  When I picked up the boys from their ski lessons the other day, I was near the chairlift and overheard a conversation between two men speaking with those undeniable southern accents.  One said, “My instructor said I was killing it today.  I think I’m ready to take my game to the next level.”  The other said, “Bring it.”  Both had unzipped jackets.

Pride:  I jogged up my driveway today.  Hey...it’s a start!

Prejudice:  Just because I brought my baby into the class Valentine’s Day Party and you have also had a baby in your lifetime does not mean that we should be discussing your husband’s vasectomy after your failed tubal ligation.  Somethings are better left unsaid.  Especially when we don’t know each other.

I Love Google

I have been reading other mothers’ answers about how they got their breastfed babies to take a bottle.  Some make me laugh, like the mom who said her baby daughter finally took a bottle after 10 weeks of trying when she left the baby with her husband for four hours and “as long as she was swaddled tightly, lightly bounced and able to stare at the window/light with the vacuum running.”  Some made me squirm, like the dad who wore his wife’s bathrobe and held the bottle in his armpit to simulate nursing.

Others have included spoon feeding, cup feeding, 8-10 different kinds of bottles/nipples, feeding them in a completely different position than nursing.   I feel so relieved!  I have never had this problem before and felt so exasperated and unsure what else to try.  Now, not only do I have lots of ideas but also the reassurance that I’m not alone and that lots of babies go through this early rebellion.  At least I don’t have to go back to work and worry about leaving a baby at a daycare who won’t take a bottle. My main panic was that I wouldn’t be able to go see “Wicked” in April because I couldn’t leave him.

What did moms do before Google???

What I Actually Do

Disclaimer:  Written this afternoon after a poor night’s sleep and another unsuccessful attempt at bottle feeding.  I’m a bit punchy and crabby right now.






There are these memes going around right now, mostly on Facebook, called “What I Actually Do.”   Apparently, they are pervasive and getting annoying to some but I’ve only seen two:  The Stay At Home Mom and the Mormons, and they seem quite funny to me.

Well...they did yesterday.  This morning, as I began preparing the lesson I’m supposed to teach to these girls on Sunday, the “funny” reality at the end didn’t seem so funny.  Only real.  And annoying.

The introduction of lesson 7 begins with this:

Job survey


Ask each young woman to imagine that she has just been offered a job. As you read the following description of that job, have the young women raise their hands whenever a characteristic about the job appeals to them.


Job Description


You will accomplish something worthwhile that can affect the happiness of those around you.


You will help choose the working conditions and establish a pleasant atmosphere for others.


You will help control expenditures.


You will decide what work will be done, when it will be done, and how it will be done.


You will enjoy being around everyone in the entire organization and will have the opportunity to bless their lives and help them accomplish great things.

Can you guess what dreamy job this is?  It’s homemaking!  I almost gagged.

After an hour, an hour people, of trying to coax Daniel into drinking a bottle of perfectly good breast milk that I pumped for him this morning because my children have always taken a bottle because I NEED them to be able to take a bottle for my sanity, I finally gave up.  I’ve been doing this everyday for five and a half weeks and why doesn’t he get it?  I’m too tired to try anymore today.  He screamed off and on last night from about 4 pm last night until 10:30 for who knows what reason (I ate pizza?  Chocolate?  Reflux?  Tired?  Constipated?  Or just...colic?) and then he slept fitfully with me in the living room chair until 1 am.  Then, I transferred him to his bed a.k.a carseat, where he slept until 4, then fed him again and tried for one more hour of sleep while he was in his swing but woke up at 5 when Jay left to feed the steers, then again at 6, when Sam and Henry came downstairs, then for good at 6:30 when I realized if I slept any later, they would miss the bus.

I lost my temper at Seth this morning who over filled his bowl of Tootie Frooties so that they spilled onto the floor...again.  And then he left the milk out on the counter....again.  And then Daniel woke up needing to be changed and fed.  Again.

I made lunches.

I started a load of laundry.  Then another one.  Then another.

I cleaned up the breakfast dishes and started the dishwasher.  Then, a few hours later, I got the kitchen dirty again making crockpot lasagna for tonight.

I unloaded the morning dishes and filled the dishwasher back up with spatulas, bowls and ladles.  I wiped off the counters...again.  I wished I had postponed vacuuming the floors because cheese and broken off lasagna noodles speckled the area around the stove but, so help me, they are going to stay there because I am not getting that hose out again.

I showered.

It’s not like this everyday but...yeah...it kind of is.  Thankfully, most of the time, I manage to have a better attitude about it.  And THAT’s what I want to teach these Young Women.  That the glorification doesn’t come from running a comfortable home or the noble nature of mothering, but in choosing to do it, even when it is awful (and it is more often for some of us than others).  Because our families need us to do it and our families are worth doing it for (I know that’s a bad sentence.  There’s a lot of them today.  Deal.)

I hate the Young Women’s manual.  I know I shouldn’t say that and hate is probably too extreme a word, but it’s how I feel right now.  I hate its prettification of the role of an LDS woman.  It feels false.  Our job is hard and sometimes ugly.  It feels like Groundhog’s Day a lot of the time.  There are lots of days I don’t do it very well and days when I feel unappreciated and not very patient or loving about it.  I am not a feminist.  I’m not.  I don’t feel the need to prove to any man or woman that I have worth or that what I do is valuable in today's society.  I know it is and that is enough for me.  But, darn it all, I feel like a veritable Goria Steinem when reading some of these lessons.

I know I should be teaching the “What The Church Thinks I Do” lesson on Homemaking, but, today, I want to teach the “What I Actually Do” lesson.  Hopefully, come Sunday, I’ll be inspired to teach whatever the Lord means for me to teach.

It’s probably the blasted lesson from the manual.  This is why I should have a music calling.

Here’s the mormon one.  We DO set up and take down a lot of chairs:)

What Goes Up Must Come Down

As soon as I entered the grocery side doors of Walmart, I saw her.  She didn’t see me, though, and I had this bizarre debate with myself if I should push my cart towards her and say, “hi,”  or just walk straight ahead without acknowledging her at all.


“If you don’t say anything, she won’t see you and you won’t feel bad about not being at her gym since May.”

“Besides, she might not even remember you.  You are just one of hundreds of people she has worked with.”

“Of course she’ll remember you.  You look exactly like you did every single morning for four straight months.  No make up.  Hair in a pony tail.  Stretchy pants.  It’s like no time has passed at all!”

Except for my baby in his carseat.  And the nine months I have fallen out of her lycra pants and Bosu ball filled world.

I made my move and called out.

“Kim!”

She looked at me and immediately came over for a hug.  We both expressed the sentiments of thinking about each other lately and she fawned all over Daniel.  She remembered the last time I had met with her, when I was so tired and nauseated and depressed that I sat down in the middle of our workout  and cried and she told me everything would be o.k.  That she would help me stay healthy and fit during my pregnancy so that everything we had done together wouldn’t be undone.  She looked at me with concern and asked how I was.

“I’m great.  Really.  He’s a great baby and I’m really happy.  Truly.  I can’t wait to start working out with you again.  Do you have any availability for me right now?”

She said she had a few spots open and to text her and she was so excited to see me and know that I and the baby are healthy and happy and then we parted.

As I weaved my way through the throngs of Saturday shoppers, I felt embarrassed.  For how I looked (hello mom stereotype).  For gaining so much weight back.  For quitting.  It almost felt like running into an old boyfriend and I wished I had at least worn jeans and eyeliner so she wouldn't think I had completely given up.

I’m not sure why, exactly, because everything I said to her was true.  I love having Daniel.  I am so happy he’s here.  I do want to start working with her again.

But, I also know that she knows that I didn’t stay healthy and fit during my pregnancy.  I know that she knows that it’s not going to be easy to undo all the months of eating whatever I felt like and the muscle atrophy from so much sitting.  I wish I had done things differently.  I know I always feel like this after my pregnancies when the hormones and chemicals that make me crazy and sad go away but, man, I was in a weight-loss zone working with Kim and I’m overwhelmed just thinking about what I need to do in order to recreate that personal environment once more.   I have to overhaul my life again.  I need to carve out exercise time and make it a daily priority but, this time, protect my winter-born infant from gym day-care germs and fit workouts sometime between the approximately five hours a day I spend nursing, burping, holding and rocking him.  I also need to stop eating crap and embrace the twice daily meal of salad with oil and vinegar dressing that doesn’t appeal to me nearly as much as the Carne Asada burrito at Zia.

My mother counsels me to just start doing something....anything.  Walking.  Crunches in my living room. And I know!  I know, I know, I know.  The problem is this:  I’ve always known.  It’s that leap between knowing and doing that always holds me back.

I’ve made that leap before and I know I can do it again.  I’m not interested in having the kind of body that people post alongside motivational quotes on Pinterest.  I have zero aspiration for a gym model muscly body with an obvious boob job.  My goals are much less showy: fitting into a plane seat with no stranger thigh touching, buying off the rack, having the confidence to try things without worrying if I’m too heavy for them (zip lining?).  I never plan on wearing a bikini or short shorts and a tank top.  Healthy and strong, right?

Unfortunately for me, getting healthy and strong isn’t automatic.  It’s a daily decision that doesn’t come naturally to me.  So, it’s going to be hard - even harder than last time because of the things I’ve already mentioned.  I read through all of my old biggest loser posts and felt so motivated but I also felt frustrated reading about what I attributed to my past success, because many of those things are impossible right now (early morning workouts, being in a controlled program, going to several classes back to back).  Still,  I also know it’s not going to happen sitting here eating valentine candy.

Maybe it’s going to be just personal training with Kim once a week.  Maybe I’ll get in a few classes here and there when Jay or my mother-in-law can watch Daniel.   Whatever I can do, I should do.

Leaping.....now.

Daniel - 8 Weeks

My BIG boy!

13 kb 14 oz (95%)

23.5 inch (78 %)

40.2 cm head circumference (62%)

At your check-up with your pediatrician, Dr. Huffman.  You got immunizations today in 3 nasty shots.  But, you were a champ and only cried for about 20 seconds.  

The smiles are much more frequent this week!  And you’re starting to track objects, like these figures on your gym.

Your brothers will do anything for some of your smiles and coos.  They are all frequently told to “back off.”  

Three Boys, Two Cows

Upon the success of Seth’s first steer sale, Jay asked Sam if he was interested in raising a steer for the next fair.  Sam shrugged and was very non-committal for months.  When the time approached this fall to choose a calf from Grandpa’s or his dad’s herd, Sam still didn’t seem very enthused about the idea.  Neither of us pushed him towards doing it, we just thought if he wanted to, he was old enough.


Going over to decide which little cow had the most potential must have been more fun than he imagined because he came home enthused and has been diligent about working with his steer ever since.  Likewise, Seth, who has a year’s worth of experience to help him, is so much more confident around his animal than last year.  Both boys regularly go over with their dad to feed, lead and curry comb their steers.

Jay is, by far, the most excited about all of this.  Following last year’s fair of feeling like a country bumpkin to all the latest steer showing methods, he’s done a whole lot of research and raising steers with his boys is currently his favorite hobby.  Whenever he puts on his Carhartt clothes and gets to spend an hour or so watching his boys be cowboys, he comes home with as much enthusiasm as if he’d just won the lottery.  Two weeks ago, he went to Utah to take an Artificial Insemination class so that NEXT year, he can hopefully produce some even higher quality show steers.  I’m telling you, a fair beast has been unleashed.

Occasionally, I get cynical about all of the effort.  It is a lot of brouhaha for an animal, after all.  The steers need to be fed twice a day, twelve hours apart.  This means Jay wakes up at 5 am most days so that he can feed them again at 5 pm.   They need to be gentle so the more you stroke and lead and maneuver them, the more successful you’ll be at the fair.  When Jay came back from Utah and told me in detail about all he had learned, he noticed the worry on my face.

“This is golf, Jay.  It has hooves and a hide, but it’s just a hobby, right?”

While he assured me that he wasn’t going to quit his job and become a full time cowboy or traveling inseminator, he did remind me that it’s more than a hobby.  There are lots of things that a man can choose as a hobby and plenty of things a man can do with his sons.  But, there are few things that bridge generations, instill responsibility, forge brotherly bonds, earn money for missions, and develop confidence all at the same time.  Jay defended the time and effort by explaining how this ties him to his boys.  It ties brothers to each other.  It ties them and him to their grandfather.  It’s work.  It’s dirty.  It can be hard. There are no days off (although they still get days off.  Jay continues to shoulder the bulk of the responsibility).  They are learning about genetics and the economy.  Math skills are put to test as they measure and weigh out grain and estimate rates of weight gain.  Come fair time, things like paying attention to detail, showing grace under pressure and showmanship  are all developed.  Lastly, the cycle of life and recognition of the important role of animals are understood.

They could be playing golf.  Don’t get me wrong, I think golf is a noble hobby with lots of life lessons it the game, albeit an expensive and time consuming way to learn them.  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that a part of me wishes it WAS golf that Jay was into because family trips can be taken without wondering who will watch the golf balls and games can be postponed or rescheduled if the weather is bad.

In spite of its unrelenting and demanding, nature, I’m happy that Seth and Sam and Jay get to raise steers together.  I’ve no doubt that Henry will join them in a few years and Daniel after that.  I’m so glad they have a passionate dad who shares his passions with them.  Maybe I’ll join in the fun.  Just don’t expect to see me wearing Wranglers or Carhartts any time soon.

FYI:  These are not current pictures of the steers.  They are already much, much bigger.  I took these pictures in early December.

 Sam leads his steer, Noche, around the corral. 

Seth’s steer, Tebow, waits to be weighed.

Jay leading a steer onto the scale.  

Back out for another round of leading.  They are already incredibly docile and gentle steers.  I think the boys are going to have a great experience at fair this summer.

I love this picture of Seth.

It gets dirty

Practicing tying them up

A man who loves to work and play with his boys.  Henry still just likes to play.

Do You Know The Code?

A few weeks ago, while driving along a curvy stretch of highway back to my home, a car heading in the other direction flashed its lights at me several times.  It being nighttime, my first instinct was to make sure I didn’t have my brights on.  Negative.  I felt annoyed at the driver for falsely accusing me of a breach of night driving etiquette.

I continued driving and about a mile later, a herd of deer stood off to one side of the road, neither crossing nor committing to move.  I “ah-hah”ed and granted an apology and thank-you to the flasher in my mind, because his ambiguous signal did cause my alertness to go up.

It happened again yesterday.  Although it was only afternoon, as I drove along this same stretch of highway, only this time heading into town, a car repeatedly flashed its brights at me.  I slowed down, looking for those foes of speeding cars but never spotting any.  There was, however, a parked highway patrol car lying in wait.

The flashes must have been for the cop, right?  Is it customary to warn fellow drivers about upcoming threats with light morse code?  Am I being selfish by never tipping off my co-travelers about animals or potential tickets?  Do you know this code?

Book Review #1 - Unbroken

For some reason (pride, previous disappointment, too many spoilers), I struggle to read books that have already been read and adored by the masses.  When Unbroken was released, I was well aware it was the current book du jour but all the buzz was positive and so I bought it with as much anticipation as others, figuring I’d beat most to the punch and before my curious apathy towards popular books could set in.

As more and more read, finished and gushed about this book, the further and further down my “to-read” list it went.  If the current novel I was reading hadn’t been so horribly boring, Unbroken might never have been read.  Thankfully, for my own enlightenment and spirit, the dust was shucked off and one more fan of Louis Zamperini’s story of enduring the unendurable was made.

This book can be easily compartmentalized into four separate sections: the pre-war character development of Louis Zamperini, his struggle to survive on a life raft in the Pacific Ocean, the atrocities and depravities he witnessed and suffered as a prisoner of war and post war life.  Even though I felt each of these four segments of the book had its own start, middle and end, Hillenbrand does a fantastic job of creating a whole story, never failing to tie the narratives together or jolting the reader out of Zamperini’s point of view.  This feat alone is astounding when considering the vast amount of data Hillenbrand includes.  She meticulously details his family life and childhood starting with his Italian heritage and rebellious youth in Torrance, California, the statistics and races of the 1936 Summer Olympics, all kinds of facts and figures from the US military, Japanese war history, the post war religious revival and interviews with a war criminal known as “the bird.”   It’s a lot of information!  Nevertheless, she weaves each well-researched nugget effortlessly into an incredible story about a man’s indomitable spirit and ability to survive unimaginable horrors, both physically and emotionally.

At times, I didn’t love it.  Early on, I felt strongly that I was listening to the memoir of an old man recalling past events of his life with those infamous “I walked to school uphill in snow both ways!” kind of glasses.  Louis’s childhood scraps seemed a little too extreme, from jumping out of a two story building and walking down the street at the age of two, to beating up every kid in the neighborhood.  Frankly, I didn’t like young Louis very much.  His delinquent behavior wasn’t at all endearing to me.  I understood early on that Hillenbrand was including this information to support his later ability to survive but it seemed forced....planned even.

Even when the author wrote about Zamperini, Phil and Mac's 47 days spent on a life raft, I thought, “How is there this much detail?  These men were starving, delirious and sun stroked!” and yet it never feels foggy or hallucinatory.  The days seem definite instead of blending into each other.   Daily moods and chronicles of events are almost perfectly recalled.  I don’t know how this part of his story was researched but when I read it, I was a bit skeptical because it’s all so incredible.  Sharks leaping out of the water at him!  Albatrosses caught with bare hands!  Japanese zeros shooting from the sky at them!

And then I thought, “Give it a rest, Lucy!  This man spent 47 days on a life raft in the Pacific Ocean and survived to tell the tale!  He can remember whatever the heck he wants to remember.”

I’m not saying that I don’t believe him.  I do.  What I realized later is that combined with his fame earned from his Olympic glory and being erroneously labeled killed in action, he had more opportunities than most to have his experience recounted and recorded.  He also proves throughout his later life to be exactly the kind of man to punch an attacking shark in the face.  He’s really something.

Like most other readers, the degradation he suffered as a POW was hard to read.  At my core, I believe in the goodness of people.  War seems to make people forget who they are and some of the guards at his prison camp don’t seem human at all.  I traveled to Thailand a few years ago and spent some time seeing what has become known as the Death Railway, including some museums that contained pictures of the POWs forced to build it.  Because of this, I could visualize the bony bodies, filth and cruelty described by Hillenbrand and lived by Zamperini.  It should be unimaginable.  I thought Hillenbrand did an incredible job to not only write about the conditions and events but to also draw conclusions about what happens to men who are treated  as less than human.  She writes, “Dignity is as essential to human life as water, food and oxygen.  The stubborn retention of it even in the face of extreme physical hardship can hold a man’s soul in his body long past the point at which the body should have surrendered it.  The loss of it can carry a man off as surely as thirst, hunger, exposure, and asphyxiation, and with greater cruelty....degradation could be as lethal as a bullet.”

It felt unexpected when Zamperini, who had thus far seemed almost Indiana Jones-esque in his ability to survive anything, faltered from this very degradation once the war was over.  To me, the psychological injuries and Zamperini’s very honest battle with his war demons, were the crux of this book.  More heroic than any of the many brave and remarkable accomplishments of his existence was how he dealt with his PTSD.  Because, contrary to the title of the book, he WAS broken.  And then he was not.

I must also mention Hillenbrand’s own incredible story.  As lots of reviewers mention, she became a success with the publication of her Seabiscuit memoir. I thought it fascinating that she first discovered Zamperini and became curious about who this man was while looking through old newspapers for articles about Seabiscuit.  Because those articles were invariably in the sports section, she noticed stories about an up and coming runner named Louis Zamperini.   She called him and an amazing friendship was born.

Hillenbrand and Zamperini have never met.  Hillenbrand suffers from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and thus rarely leaves her home in New York.  She has to strategically plan her days to have the reserves of energy to research, interview and write.  Even with the popularity and demand of both her books, she has been unable to go on book tours to promote them.  Lovingly, Zamperini offered to go in her stead.

I think there is a level of understanding between the two of them that makes this book what it is.  Without a doubt, Zamperini’s story is remarkable and awe inspiring.  But, quietly and without any sharks or bombs, so is Hillenbrands.  She understands struggle.  She gets the power of mental fortitude.  She lives her daily life as a prisoner inside a diseased body.  I think she was able to tap into Louis’s struggle and write about it with his perspective because she is a survivor.  She chooses to be unbroken.

It’s all quite incredible.  Read this book (if you haven’t already, obviously:)).

Daniel - 7 Weeks

At seven weeks, you confound me.  The last four days, I’ve been obsessed with you pooping because you seem so uncomfortable when you’re awake.  Two nights ago, you slept through the night.  From 10 pm until 7 am, you slept swaddled in your fleece “swaddle-me” blanket and tucked securely in your carseat.  Last night, you were up off and on most of the night with stomach pain and we hung out together on the blue chair all night.  Today, I had to call the pediatrician to see what to do.  I feel I should be more knowledgeable...more sure of myself with my fourth son.  It’s maddening.  But, man, do I feel sorry for you.  Being a baby sure isn’t easy.

You have a bit of baby acne.  Nothing severe but Sam thought you were getting freckles.  Your nails are too long but I hate clipping them because each time I try, I seem to snip them too low and draw blood.   Even with those safety clippers.  You like to nurse but hate the bottle.  I have used AVENT bottles with all of your brothers and none of them struggled with it.  You, on the other hand, gum and push out and scream almost every time you are given one...every...single...day.  And it’s breast milk!  Food!  You like food!

I suppose it can’t always be idyllic.  I’ve thought a lot this week about the transition we’ve been going through and how different my life is from this time last year.  Your brothers are so wonderful and help me with you so much.  They are still mostly helping me (getting me water, getting me burp rags, throwing out diapers, etc. etc.) but that, in turn, helps you because your momma isn’t as overwhelmed.  You’ll figure out soon that we’ve all got our parts to play to keep each other happy.  I’m hoping yours is more dazzling smiles and coos for your fans.

I took your 7 week photos in your blessing outfit because I never took any of just you yesterday.  I think you looked precious, innocent and sweet.

Bless The Children

One of my favorite events at church is when babies are blessed.  When it is one of my own, my joy is almost unbearable.  For weeks, I have been waiting to dress Daniel is his soft cream knit sweater and knit pants.  The outfit has been hanging on a lamp in my room on a satin white hanger since before he was born and, yesterday, it was finally filled by its intended subject who has chubby legs and rolls along his arms.  It wasn’t overly snug but it definitely fit well.  He looked like an angel.

He slept for the first part of the meeting.  As Jay took him up to the front of the chapel, the bishopric joined him as well as his father, two of his brothers, Vaughn and Clark, and our home teacher, Brother Blake, to form that symbolic circle of protection and love.  I loved having the hands of so many good men help bless my baby.

Jay has always struggled to contain his emotions when talking about or praying for his children.  He hates public displays of emotion so he was relieved when he made it through the blessing without becoming choked up.  Daniel was blessed with all the things a parent longs for his or her child:  health, faith, love of knowledge and the scriptures, righteousness and obedience and the humility to teach and learn from his family members.  He was also blessed with the desire to serve a mission and marry in the temple.  

There was another family also blessing their baby boy that day so it was a spiritual feast and we hadn’t even had the Sacrament yet. Then....testimony meeting started.

It’s amazing to me that once a month, the most important meeting we have is turned over to....anyone.  Most of the time, all goes well.  The spirit moves people to bear witness to what they know to be true and, while not always eloquent or smooth, their message uplifts the listener. That must be why the tradition continues.

There have also been some interesting and memorably uncomfortable testimonies given in my church going experience - like the time an unstable man talked about his dead sister coming through a wall or when a musician felt moved to share an impromptu piano solo or the many times a woman who had suffered a nervous breakdown came up to talk about how no one was ever nice to her.  Yesterday, someone shared one of those everyone-looks-down-at-the-floor testimonies that elaborated on things he’d been reading about, namely the good and evil vibrations that are within us and surround us.  Very mystic.  It wasn’t bad, actually.  Just weird.  We have a lingo that we’re used to and this person doesn’t use it.  I think he was talking about the spirit but maybe not.  Whatever he meant, he’s learning.

Immediately after he sat down, the Stake President stood and bore a simple testimony about the restoration of the gospel and the Plan of Salvation.  Immediately after him, the missionaries in the ward stood and also witnessed about the simple truths of the gospel.  Christ.  The Book of Mormon.  Repentance and love.  The meeting closed with two young adults and the mother of the other baby bearing their testimonies about the love God has for each of us.  It was a great meeting.

And just like that, Heavenly Father taught me that He never stops blessing His children.  He hasn’t left us without the means to learn and grow.  When we err, or stray or speculate or preach false doctrine, He, like any loving parent, corrects us.  We’ve been told growth in the gospel comes line upon line and we are given milk before meat. Through revelation, He has organized access to His knowledge through scripture, the companionship of the Holy Ghost and the wisdom and experience of our leaders.

It was Daniel in the middle of that circle yesterday but all in the room were blessed by those who shared what they know to be true.

I know I love these people!  I’m grateful to have had Jay’s parents, Vaughn and Patty’s family, Clark and Stephanie’s family, my boys and my sister, Sarah, all there to witness the blessing of Daniel.  In case you were wondering, I was wearing boots with heels and I didn’t want to be this gigantic person in the middle of the picture so I bent my knees a little.  I thought it was a little but I may have overdone it.  Still, I’m glad I’m not taller than Jay:)

Grandpa and Grandma hold a squirmy Daniel.

Proud parents

A (Wo)Man of Many Hats

Last year, at about this same time, I was driving along a main thoroughfare in town and found myself directly behind a good friend.  Recognizing each other’s vehicles, we waved to each other, she through her rear view mirror and me, through the windshield of my van.  Eventually, our destinations broke up our impromptu caravan and we went out own way.

She texted me about an hour later asking me what in the world I had on my head.

I had skied earlier in the day and was wearing what I thought was a super cute cream colored knit poorboy cap.  Something must be done to coverup the never pretty effects of helmet head. I told her so and she responded with an LOL.  She thought I was wearing a chef’s cap and couldn’t figure out why I would be wearing one.

Funny story but I haven't worn that hat much after her comment.  Who wants to look like a chef unless, I suppose, you’re a chef?

I haven’t always had the desire to be a hat wearer.  In fact, I can’t think of any other time in my life when I’ve even owned any hats.   But, there is something about living in a mountain town, where Patagonia and UGG are the major fashion labels, that makes one think that a knit hat is the perfect accessory.   I counted today and I have five hats.  Five hats that I never wear.

I did wear one last week to an outdoor YW/YM mutual activity and after looking at a picture taken of us leaders, had the thought once again, “I do not look attractive in a hat!”  My friend, Lori, was wearing a knitted cap and looked adorable.  I think some people can pull it off and some people can’t and I fall in the latter camp.

Maybe it’s all accessories because I also feel like a total poser if I try wearing a scarf with an outfit.

Apparently, I’m not supposed to go after the “warm” look.  Here are some pictures for proof:

Me with some of the other leaders and one young woman who didn’t clue in when we said we wanted a picture of us leaders.  This is the picture that started this post swirling in my head.

Now....for the rest of them.

I should have taken out my big hoops since they are rarely part of the hat wearing equation.  I bought this red knit cap to go with my red ski coat but....I don’t know.  It’s too tight or monochrome or something.  It makes my head look huge.

Just a really bad ear flap look.  Probably the most warm hat I own so, if that’s the point, then it does its job.  Would a ball on top make it better?

I think this hat is so cute with its stripes but, again, I think it makes my head look huge because it looks so snug.  Maybe I just don’t buy hats big enough. Or maybe I actually have a huge head.  

I actually like this hat.  I think the bill helps but still don’t wear it very often.

The hat that makes me look like I am whipping up an omelet.  I added the whisk to help with the visualization.