Breaking Dawn with the Red Cross, or the Twilight of My Blood Donor Experiences

The day before Christmas Eve I found myself, for the first time ever, strapped down to pseudo-military style cot, with a needle stuck in my arm, watching my blood flow down a little tube into a freakily-largish bag.

I've never donated blood before, for a few simple reasons:

• Most of the time I do required blood draws at the doctor's office (or "blood drops," as Grace and Mia call them), I pass out. And that's embarrassing.
  
• I'm a complete wimp.
  
• I'm paranoid about catching some weird disease that won't be discovered and identified for another 20 years, and it will come out 20 years hence that said disease was spread through blood drives.
  
• Blood is just icky.
  

But every time our stake hosts a blood drive, I feel guilty. Especially this time, since we were told that not enough people sign up at Christmas time, blah, blah, blah. In a moment of insanity I signed up. And forgot. No worries, though--there are people assigned to call and remind you, and track you down, and haul you forcefully down to the stake center, tie you to aforementioned cot and plunge the needle in.

My sole thought through the whole experience was how to avoid passing out in front of people I know and go to church with every Sunday, especially the children people, of whom there were several because apparently watching Mommy or Daddy donate blood is a sweet holiday bonding experience.

There were several close calls but I managed to stay mostly conscious. I was doing okay right up till the end.

When my huge ol blood bag was almost full, I happened to glance over at the neat rows of filled blood bags stacked on the table. For some unaccountable reason specific and graphic sections of Stephenie Meyer's "Breaking Dawn" flooded my mind. You know the ones--the first time Bella tastes blood, the gory birthing scene, the medically-sanitized blood provided for Baby Bloodsucker... all those pages soaked and saturated in blood splashing.

I bolted upright, gagging and choking. My assigned bloodletter came running over excitedly. "See! I told you--getting a good cough helps with the lightheadedness,"" he exulted. I couldn't respond--I was too busy trying to keep the vomit down and thinking that I just could NOT puke in front of my Primary kids.

And mentally cursing. Only mentally, because if puking in front of my Primary kids would be bad, swearing would be worse. But believe you me, I was thinking all kinds of bad words about Stephenie Meyer and those bloody, bleeping books.

They Said What?

Mia: I need to go potty! I need to go potty! I really, really need to go potty!

Grace: You can do it, Mia. I know you can. Good for you, Mia.

Mia: Shut it, Gracie. I don't need any more cheers for my poop. MOM!!! Gracie's cheering for me pooping!

[Note to other parents--what exactly is the appropriate parental response to that one?]

Christmas Revelations

Last week the kids did their own gift shopping, followed by marathon sessions of gift wrapping. (THANK YOU Adri, Erynn, and Emily!). They were strictly warned about peeking under the wrapping, opening presents early, and especially about keeping gift contents secret.

The following comments were overheard 2.8 seconds after gift wrapping was completed.

Mercie: "Grace, here is a present for you. You will love it. It's a soap, like a Hannah Montana soap."

Mia: [holding out a flat, book shaped package] "Mommy, Mommy! Look! I have a present for you! It starts with a "B", like a B for book. And that's what it is! A book!"

Grace: "Can Eric open his fire truck now?"

Ahh...Christmas: the season of surprises.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,
I like Lightning McQueen. I want a fire truck. I like Daddy. And Mommy. And Mercie. And Grace and Mia. I want a stocking from Santa.
Love,
Eric

Dear Santa,
I love to get a game for Grandpa. I love to get toys and tap shoes. I love to help Mom. I want presents! I want 3 kitty cats. I'd love to get a pen.
Love,
Mercie

Dear Santa,
Please give me a Feliz Navidad dress and I want roller skates and I want Cinderella tap shoes. I got a lot of stuff. Happy Christmas.
Love,
Mia

Dear Santa,
Please give me a present with a Feliz Navidad in it--a big skirt. Please give me an ice skating thing.
From,
Grace and Santa [Mommy lost the battle explaining to Gracie that the letter was TO Santa; she insisted it had to be FROM Santa as well]
PS: and Cinderella tap shoes. That's all.

Dear Santa,
I would like a nap.
Love,
Mommy

Grace, Glamour, and Growing Pains

Like so many other pint-size princesses, Gracie had a thing for twirly skirts, anything lacy/satin/shiny/sparkly/rhinestoned/bejeweled/ ruffly/flouncy, or glamorous.

Every morning before school Grace would rummage through closets, drawers, or laundry hampers to find the most “beautiful” outfits possible—generally hand-me-down dance costumes covered in lace and sequins, combined with Sunday dress shoes, and the random white t-shirt or fleece pullover thrown in for warmth, modesty, or some fashion plan that only made sense to Grace. And every morning, as she headed out to meet her day, Princess Grace was gorgeous.

Recently Grace hit a rough patch in her kindergarten world. Friends who used to be her friends weren’t. Skills that formerly came easily were a struggle. The class that used to be fun wasn’t. Dressing up in the morning didn’t seem to matter.

She cried before school; she cried after school. Sometimes she cried at school. As a mama I held her and worried and soothed and prayed, and sometimes when she didn’t see me, I cried, too.

We pulled through it, because rough patches have a way of smoothing out, given time and hard-earned wisdom (even the kindergarten variety), and tender mercies in answer to prayers.

It took a few days for me to realize that something had changed.

Every morning before school Grace bypasses the shiny, twirly skirts and rhinestone studded tops in favor of jeans and sweaters. The coat she’s been intentionally ‘forgetting’ all year long (because none of the princesses in the movies ever wear coats) is a sudden must-have because her friend Joselyn has the same coat and they like to match every day. Instead of the colorful mismatch of prints, solids, florals, stripes, in every shade of the rainbow that used to comprise Grace’s daily outfits, now she carefully plans out matching shirt, socks, and shoes that all work well with her basic blue jeans. She’s put away the Sunday dress shoes in favor of the tennis shoes that are like all the other girls in her class. Instead of perusing fairy tale books to show me the most amazing princess dresses, Grace brings me ads for Hannah Montana merchandise, with awe in her voice as she describes how very cool Hannah Montana is, and she wishes she could be just like Hannah Montana.

This morning I thought she was back in form: she pulled a pink plaid twirly skirt over her jeans, topped by a Hawaiian print dress and pink flip-flops (yes, it was snowing this morning). Eyeing herself in the mirror, she cracked up. "Oh my gosh, this looks disgusting," she announced. " I thought it would--I just had to check."

I brought her to the bus stop where she bounced away, grinning, looking just like all the other kids, in her skinny little jeans, shiny athletic shoes, puffy coat, and pink backpack. I love that she’s happy, that she’s confident, that she’s brave and loving and smart and sensitive and full of faith and constantly teaching me how to be good. I’m proud of how she’s growing; happy for the little glimpses I see of the stunning young woman she is becoming.

But already I miss Princess Grace. Something tells me that years and years from now, when my little Grace is a big, grown up lady who has princesses of her own, I’ll still be missing my little girl who twirled out the door in a cloud of chiffon and sequins, dancing her way to the bus stop in her best Sunday shoes with velvet straps and diamond buckles.

The Difference Between Boys and Girls

Dinner at our house last night:

Mercie is bumping her sippy cup against Eric's sippy cup in a way that can only be described as "flirtatious."

In a high, falsetto voice she said, "Hi, my name is Princess Serafina. What's yours?"

Eric looked at her like she just lost her marbles. "Nothing," is his well-thought out response.

Mercie persists. "What is your name, prince?"

"Nothing," Eric growled.

Mercie tried one more time. "I said, my name is Princess Serafina. What is your name?"

"Sippy cup," says a resigned Eric.

"Oh no," says Mercie, in this same falsetto voice. "Your name is Prince James Eric Potato Head Sippy Cup."

This speaks volumes about gender relationships through the years. Poor Eric.

Thinking Ahead

Grace: Oooh! Look at the Christmas lights! Mommy, do we have christmas lights?
Mom: Yep.
Grace: Can we put them outside like that house?
Mom: Sure.
Grace: Like up high, like that house?
Mom: Hmm....we'll see.

Mia: You'd have to climb up on the roof.
Mom: That might be scary.
Grace: You might fall.
Mia: Then you'd be hurt bad. Or you'd be deaded.

Grace: Huh. If Mommy was dead us kids would have a LOT of work to do.
Mia: Grace, I could lift you up to put the clothes in the dishwasher.
Grace: We'd have to make all the dinners, always.
Mia: I can use knives.
Grace: I can open mayo.
Mia: Blech. I hate mayo. Only you like mayo.
Grace: You can have PB & J.

Grace: We'd have to walk to the bus stop all by ourselves.
Mia: Or you could just walk to Timmy's house and go with his family.
Grace: I'd be scared to walk all by myself.
Mia: I'd go with you.

Grace: We'd have to change Eric's diapers. Don't worry, Mia--I'll change him. Except the poopy diapers. You can change the poopy ones.
Mia: Eeewww! I don't want to change the poopy diapers!
Grace: You'd have to. Mommy would be dead; you'd have to change Eric.
Mia: FINE.

Mom: You know, you could do more work right now. You don't have to wait until I'm dead. You could help do more work at our home and maybe then we'd have more time to do fun things, like go to the park or play games, if you helped me do things like laundry.

Loooooooooooooooooooooong, eternally loooooooooooooong pause:

Grace: Nah.

National Adoption Month

It's no secret that my family was formed through adoption--when both parents are white and the children are all African-American, biracial, Chinese, or some combination, it's pretty obvious and often garners unwanted attention. We're used to it by now. Okay, not really, but I'm getting better at not kicking strangers in the grocery store. From time to time someone makes a sympathetic comment about how sad it is that I don't have any of "my own."

I have a range of replies to this, most of which are very civil and polite and involve no eye-rolling, and a very few of which pop out of my mouth at certain times of the month when Witch-Wendy surfaces. Lest you think I overreact, I ask how YOU would feel if total strangers regularly came up to and questioned the validity and realness of your family relationships, right in front of your impressionable small children. I thought so.

In honor of National Adoption Month, which, coincidentally, is the month that two of my four had their adoptions legally finalized, I'm going to turn the tables. I've always felt a little sorry for all those poor people whose lives aren't touched by adoption. So, in no particular order, here is my list of reasons that I LOVE adoption and wouldn't in a million years trade the way my little family was created:

1.) I can brag all I want about my kids and it's not an ego thing--those aren't my genes that created those brilliant, talented, loving, gorgeous little people.

2.) Knowing firsthand, in the most personal, down-to-the-bone kind of way, that love is thicker than blood, blind to color/race/ability or any of the other divisions society puts on it.

3.) If someone gets tired of hearing me blather on about my kids, or tires of seeing yet more pictures of said kids, there's always someone else! Birthfamilies exponentially increase the number of people who love my kids, trulymadlydeeply love them. Can a child ever have too much love?

4.) An excuse to immerse myself in new worlds. I've discovered that I love African-American literature and Chinese peasant art, and have a thing for black history. Who knew?

5.) Validation of my ability to parent! Yes, the endless round of social workers, attorneys, and judges is beyond annoying (although we had the very BEST attorney in the world through the whole journey, duly noted). But unlike most parents, I've got at least ten different homestudies that pronounce me a fit parent--heck, most of them say all kinds of nice things about my mothering. And four times a judge has concurred, signing documents that make my relationship with my kiddos legally binding and real. On bad days I've been known to go through some of those documents and read them aloud as a reminder that once upon a time, at least one person thought I was up to the task.

6.) One word: cornrows.

7.) Having each precious one sealed in the temple. It doesn't get any better.

8.) Connections. My children's birthfamilies have become part of my family. I am so blessed to have them in my life. Through the adoption and infertility groups I've been a part of, I've found some of my dearest friends, friendships that transcend our common experiences in adoption and carry over to the rest of life. And because adoption is such a visible, public thing for our family, I frequently get sweet experiences of proud grandparents showing pictures of their adopted grandbabies, or whispered conversations--punctuated by tears and lots of hugs--with relative strangers who placed a baby for adoption months or years ago and felt the rightness of that choice confirmed when they saw our family together.

9.) I've learned things I didn't know about myself. I can survive things I didn't think I could survive. I can love a baby and say goodbye to that baby and know that I'll do it again even though it will hurt again, because even if it's only for a day or a month or a year, it's still worth it to love that baby. I've learned that I can wait. I've learned that I can give up control--yes, even a control-freak like me. I've learned to let go of my plan and let God accomplish His purposes.

10.) I've learned things I didn't know about God. His plan is always better. Newsflash to me. Several times now I've watched mothers say heartbreaking goodbyes to a child they carried, birthed, and loved, goodbyes made possible only because that love was strong enough to do the impossible. I understand the Atonement a little better than I did before. I've sat with women who placed a child for adoption thirty or forty years ago, who remember every detail as if it were yesterday, who tell me that a day has not gone by that they haven't thought of that baby. I understand in a deeper way Isaiah 49:15-16 and just how much God loves us. And I should correct no. 9 above. I can't survive anything on my own. With God, I can come through anything. He's been with me through every loss, every goodbye, every magical and brand new welcome, every moment of connection. I know that He keeps His word, that "I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up" (Doctrine & Covenants 84:88).

Happy National Adoption Month,
from a very happy adoptive Momma.

My Royal Momminess

It is a well established fact that I am raising three genuine princesses. Sometimes four, depending on the day--Eric hasn't quite been won over to the "prince" concept and sometimes insists that he is also a princess. Whatever. Some battles aren't worth fighting. Besides, those pictures of him in full ballerina getup will be priceless blackmail in his teens. Or not. Knowing him, he'll use it against me by threatening to leave the house in pink princess dress at age 14, and he'd have no qualms about doing it.

But I digress.

Being princesses is not an abstract concept to my girls. It is a definite reality of their lives. This was brought home last week at the dentist's office. Mia had lots of questions about how things worked, and Dr. J finally suggested that maybe she could be a dentist when she grew up. I was chagrined when she looked at him like he'd just suggested she could become a slimy green alien when she grew up. "NO WAY," was her emphatic response. "I am NOT going to be a dentist when I grow up." Silly mommy, trying to show that my child did in fact have nice little dreams for the future, had to ask, "What ARE you going to be, Mia?" Poor, longsuffering Mia gave Mommy the 'you-are-dumber-than-a-rock-but-you-are-my-mommy-so-I-will-humor-you' look and informed us that she will be a princess when she grows up because, duh, she already IS a princess.

But I digress again.

This is the real point of my post: Mia finally figured out that if she's a princess--and she absolutely, truly is--than that must make me...yep, you got it. Okay, she did have a little help figuring this out. Not that I'd have any motive for wanting my kids to believe I'm an Absolute and Supreme Ruler.

For the past three days I haven't been Mommy. I've been Queen. My word is law because we all know that nobody disobeys a Queen. Instead of loud and impatient screams for Mom I've heard sweet little petitions:
"Queen, queen, could I please have more milk, your majesty?"
"Excuse me, my Queen--would you scratch my back?"
"Queen! Queen! I need to go potty NOW" (Even queens run for that particular call).

It's a bit scary how naturally being worshipped, adored, and unfailingly obeyed comes to me.

I could so get used to this.

Reneging Once Again on My Vow to Leave Politics Out of My Blog

In the past 24 hours I’ve seen many posts and comments online with the common thread, “I’m terrified for our country” because of one or another outcomes of yesterday’s election.

I’m bewildered. I feel many things about our country, about this latest election. Fear isn’t one of them.

Last night when I stepped into the classroom I was greeted with a chorus of voices asking if we could get out early. Several students were hoping to get to the polls before they closed; the rest wanted to watch election results. During the short forty minutes we held class laptops and cell phones were open and every few minutes someone would call out the latest updates from the polls.

I teach at a university that had the second-highest voter registration in the country. Only Berkeley beat us out. Far from being manipulated by a liberal media—an accusation I’ve heard leveled at this new generation of voters—these “voting virgins” are engaged, sophisticated, and thoughtful citizens. They think carefully about the issues facing our country. They listen to their parents. They look to history and ahead to the future. They are deeply concerned with the long-range ramifications of political process, for their children, our nation, and our world.

When I voted yesterday it was a quick and painless process. I didn’t have to travel long distances to exercise that privilege. I wasn’t afraid of violent reprisals against me or my family. There weren’t any soldiers with machine guns standing guard. What an incredible country!

We’re living in economic uncertainty and troubled times. Given our national lack of financial responsibility it’s quite likely to get worse before it gets better. We’ll survive. We’re living with increasingly polarized tensions over civil rights and religious liberties issues, and there don’t seem to be any easy answers. We’ll survive. We’re engaged in a global war on terrorism that is pointing out previously unimagined vulnerabilities in our national security. We’ll survive. In fact, we’ll thrive.

This isn’t a starry-eyed Pollyanna complex. Like most citizens, there are social and political issues facing our nation that concern and worry me. Yet I see so many more reasons to rejoice.

Who would have thought that less than a century after women won the right to vote, we’d be in the middle of an election year with an unprecedented number of strong female candidates, for nearly every office, including the vice-presidential ticket? It’s a far cry from the days when medical textbooks taught the ‘scientific fact’ that women’s brains were incapable of intellectual thought because they were smaller. And just forty years after desegregation, who could have imagined that we’d elect our first black president? I tucked my babies into bed last night with the realization that the world Martin Luther King dreamed was so much more a reality than I ever expected to see in my lifetime.

That’s what it’s all about, I believe. We live in a nation that constantly seeks to become better, to learn from the past, to learn from mistakes, to improve upon what we have. It might take a long time, it might be painful, but we never quit trying. We’ve survived Republican leadership; we’ve survived Democratic leadership. We’ve survived hostage crises, economic depressions, energy shortages, world wars, and 9/11. Heck, we’ve survived O.J.’s glove, Monica Lewinsky’s dress, and Paris Hilton’s videos—we’re not about to fall apart because of one election.

Our future is incredibly bright. I look at my students, my children, and I know we are in good hands. More importantly, I look to Him who notes the sparrow’s fall, and I know we are in good Hands. How can I feel anything other than hopeful?

Top Four Reasons My Life is SOOO Good

Costume Craze

We actually made it out the door on time this morning--a minor miracle, considering that I was shepherding two butterfly princesses, one kitty princess, and a junior missionary out the door. Yes, Eric is a missionary for Halloween. That's what happens when you have three older sisters who run your life for you.

I did not dress up for Halloween. I am a Grown Up. I am a Professional Woman. I have Very Important Things to do all day long, and I can't do them if I'm wearing a tiara or a pointed hat or glitter makeup. That, and I spent so much time on the kids' costumes that I ran out of time to scrounge anything up for myself.

No need to worry, though. I dressed myself in what I thought was a nice, conservative work outfit. When I walked out of the closet Grace's eyes lit up. "Oh, Mommy! You found a costume, too!" I looked down at my very dull black skirt and black shirt. "Uh, what am I dressed up as?" "A weird lady!"

I thought you'd enjoy the picture of me crying my guts out.

The Booby Post (yes, Betsy, the title is for you)

Today Mia tripped and fell. Reaching out, she caught herself on a part of my anatomy that, um, is not designed for such things.

I sat up and hollered, "Ouch! Mia, watch it! Don't grab the boobies!"

Mia apparently had never heard the term. Not wanting her to latch on to it and start using it indiscriminately, like in church for example, or with her teacher at daycare, I explained that it's a pretty silly word some people use for breasts, but in our family we don't say it. Yes, I am a complete hypocrite.

Mia looked down at her own chest thoughtfully. "I think I will call my breasts the 'Cinderellas.'"

Something for Sunday

I was going through pictures on my computer and found this. It's the daughter of a friend, in the Mesa Easter Pageant a couple of years ago. When I picture Christ this is exactly how I see Him. 3 Nephi 17:21.

Tummy Trouble

Over this past week--

Mia: "Mommy, your tummy is SOOO big, it is like a trampoline for jumping on."

Mia: "Mommy, you must have been eating a LOT of sugar because your tummy is VERY big."

Mia: "Are you SURE you don't have a baby in there?" [oh, if you could only understand all of the reasons I'm so certain that's not a possibility...].

She's still alive. For now. I can't say the same for my ego, which is smooshed thin and flat, very unlike my tummy, apparently.

A Good Reason to Fly United Airlines More Frequently

The last leg of my flight today was hands-down the coolest, most super fun flight EVER, and this is coming from someone who isn't much of a flying enthusiast.

One word: Paul.

Paul was the flight attendant assigned to this particular flight. Paul was very funny. Paul was stationed at the rear of the plane. I was sitting in the rear of the plane. The very rear of the plane. As in, I didn't even need to really stand up and go to the bathroom; I could just shift in my seat slightly and I'd be there. IN the bathroom, not actually going to the bathroom...is this too much information? For 3+ hours we were relatively stuck back there. It could have been just another monotonous flight. Did I mention Paul was very funny?

Anyway, Paul. You've gotta love someone who begins the opening scripted pre-flight announcements by thrusting the mic at me saying, "Here, she'll finish up for me." Or offers a glass of water and says with a straight face, "We're right next to the lavatory--I can pop in and get you as much more as you'd like." (Did you know the lavatory sinks have signs that tell you not to drink that water? I didn't know that...). Or grins at me and says, "Hey, let's lock this lady in the lavatory!" and then actually does it (Who knew there were external locks on lavatory doors? I'll think twice before using an on-flight bathroom again). When I accidentally signed to him at one point he jumped into the seat next to me and began enthusiastically signing back, which was probably something like two-year olds trying to speak pig latin. On the descent he entertained us with stories of the worst drunken messes he's seen in-flight, which led to stories of his own worst drunken messes, which was almost funnier.

The best part of all: I got to hold an honest-to-goodness, real Academy Award Oscar! The real little gold statuette, which in real life isn't so little, and is so freaking heavy it could seriously take someone out. Permanently.

Long story: someone up in first class had it and our lovely flight attendant brought it back so we could ooh and aah and take pictures and 'touch' fame. Yours truly was too lazy to get my camera out of my carry-on that was safely stowed overhead, so alas--no cool pics of me holding an Oscar, in what is surely the one and only time in my life that I will ever be that close to the Academy Awards.

For you sicko minds out there, Paul is young enough to be my child (granted, if I started REALLY, really early), and there seemed to be a pretty good chance he's gay. I'm not devoting this post to him because he was a hunkaburninglove.

Did I mention Paul was funny? 3+ hours giggling on an airplane: priceless.

The Truth, The Whole Truth, and Nothing But the Truth

Last night I took a much-needed hour to enjoy my favorite time of year (love, love, love that crispy-cool-breezy-snappy-nippy early autumn season!) after the kids went to bed. While I am sorely tempted to lock them in their rooms, lock the front door, and see if anyone notices I'm gone, I did the responsible mommy thing and had a neighbor stay with them.

Apparently Grace had a bloody nose while I was gone. I checked and rechecked the facts, as Grace is my only child who, to date, has never had a bloody nose. Mercie gets them regularly (that happens when you fall asleep picking your nose each night), and Mia is prone to them (that happens when you throw such freaking huge tantrums that you break little blood vessels in your nose), and even Eric has had a couple. But not Grace. Until last night.

This morning I saw the evidence on the blankets. Mystified--but not really expecting an answer--I asked Grace why her nose bled.

Very matter-of-factly she clued me in: "Well, I was picking my nose to get some boogers out and I had my finger in it like this [demonstrates], and Mia just banged my hand very hard and my nose started bleeding."

Mia indignantly corrected her. "I did NOT bang you very hard; I slapped you very hard."

Just so we're clear.

Mia may not always be my most obedient, thoughtful, kind, or well-behaved child, but she is rather insanely honest. Ya gotta kinda like that in a kid. I'd like that in more adults.

A Ramble with Mia

Today we went up to Bridal Veil Falls. I realized this morning that the kids have only seen BVF from their car seats, which hardly does it justice. Plus, our FHE lesson this last week was on the beautiful things Heavenly Father created for us, so it seemed like a good idea to throw a little field trip in there and drive the point further home.

Judging from the splashing, rock collections, mud stomping, and near drownings, it was a huge success.

As we were ambling down the trail back to the car, Mia shared her observations:

"Wow, Jesus is pretty good at making stuff. I didn't even know Jesus made all this stuff, like trees and streams and waterfalls. He must be smart, like me. I am smart, and I am good at making stuff. Me and Jesus match. But not Eric. Eric is not smart. Sometimes Eric is smart, but not like me and Jesus. But I love Eric. He is cute, and he's my little boy. But he's not smart."

I'm thinking next week's lesson might be on the virtue of humility...

The Gospel(s) of Grace

Tonight Grace climbed up on my bed, pulled my scriptures onto her lap, and began to "read." Verbatim, here is her account:

"And Jesus went into the temple of God, and threw out all of them people who bought and sold in the temple, and threw the tables and chairs of those people. And He said to them, 'my house shall be called a house of prayer. It's a happy place. You have made it a den of badness. In my house, as for me and my family, we will serve the Lord.' We believe in God the Eternal Father and in His Son Jesus Christ and in the Holy Ghost. Amen. And the blind and the lame comed to Him in the temple, and He healed them."

Not bad for a five-year old budding theologian.

A Day of Remembering

This morning when I hassled all the kids out to the car they were delighted to see a flag on our front yard. This happens on select days of the year, compliments of our local Boy Scout troop.

For the kids this is a joyful occasion, since anything bright, large, colorful, and blowing in the breeze--on your very own front lawn--is reason to celebrate. President's Day, Memorial Day, Flag Day--each one is an excuse for my darlings to dance around the flag pole and comment enthusiastically all day long. They've recently figured out that there is a method to the madness, and so on each magical day that the flag appears they ask me why we are "celebrating."

When Grace innocently posed the question today I was stuck. The only thing I could think was that awful moment when I watched a plane fly into the second tower, watched the first and then the second tower fall from the safety of my living room, in the comfort of my pajamas, knowing that nothing would ever feel truly safe or comfortable again.

How do you explain that to a little girl who wasn't even born, who hasn't known anything different than this post-9/11 world she inherited?

Tonight as I taught my latest crop of bright young thinkers someone offhandedly made a comment about hoping that 9/11 would soon become a 'real' holiday so we could have the day off and actually celebrate it. I was surprised by the vehemence of my own reaction.

It's not a day to celebrate. Ever. On this one issue I actually agree with George W. It's a day of remembrance.

I know the arguments. We combat terrorism by going forward with life, even celebrating survival and resilience, the human spirit and the greatness of America. We celebrate our unique American culture by wallowing in commercialism and running up our credit cards and eating too much and lighting lots of dangerous explosives that look really cool. Celebrating lets us thumb our noses at those who tried to knock us down but only made us stronger.

I know the arguments; I just don't agree with them.

A few days ago a colleague sent me a provocative article on how digital media is influencing the learning and thinking patterns of young students. Embedded in the article was the idea for a 'wonderful' virtual reality game that would simulate concentration camp experiences so that students could learn about the Holocaust in a powerful way, without even realizing that they were learning about it because it was all in a game.

My gut response was that some things just aren't meant to be games. In that same vein, some things just aren't meant to be celebrated.

Every September 11 I remember. I remember that hate and intolerance carry a high price, and very often innocent people pay that price. I remember that this country has a remarkable potential to come together when we need to, and an unmatched capacity for compassion. I remember stories of heroism and selflessness. I remember lists of names on the television screen. I remember unending photos of people who were loved, prayed for, and desparately missed.

I cried when I watched the towers come down. All I could think--and not very coherently--was how many thousands of families would never forget this day, would have it seared into their hearts and woven throughout the reality of their lives in ways that I can barely imagine.

The least that I can do each September 11 is remember.

Photographic Evidence

that I am the luckiest momma on the planet.

Losing our Virginity

One of my very favorite events of the year took place this weekend—the annual retreat with my sisters. Once a year we escape husbands, kids, jobs, houses, and every other mundane and boring aspect of life in order to lounge, eat, gab, eat, watch movies, shop, eat, play tourist, eat, sleep in, and oh yeah—eat some more.

This evolved from a tradition began when we were all teenagers, sharing a bedroom and staying up half the night talking about boys. We called them 'socials,' and we planned them out like military maneuvers. We'd stock up on ice cream and potato chips, stash it all in the garage, and then late at night when everyone else was asleep, we'd climb out the bedroom window to retrieve our snacks and spend the rest of the night stuffing ourselves, giggling, and playing absurd versions of "Truth or Dare."

Adolescence is still in style at our yearly retreats. "Wendy, why are you wearing white tights with your pajamas? Oh my gosh, those are your LEGS!" Snicker, snicker. Wedgies and belching contests... some things never change.

Saturday we realized that we were all, every single one of us, pedicure virgins. Considering all the beauty treatments we’ve indulged in between us, this was amazing and cried out for immediate rectifying. We found a strip mall salon with the winning name of Sparkling Nails, where for $20 a team of Vietnamese men and women will slough, buff, and ‘sparkle’ your feet for an hour.

As you can see from the pictures above, it worked. I felt like I was five again—“I want the pretty flowers with the shiny jewels…” My five year old is insanely jealous and begging nonstop for me to take her to the store with foot bathtubs and sparkly toe nail polish.

We decided that losing our communal virginity needs to be our new tradition at our annual sisters’ retreat. The challenge will be coming up with something that none of us have done. More of a challenge than you might think. Here are some things we thought of and discarded because at least one of us had already done it:

Tattoos
Botox
Laser treatments
Bungee jumping
Nose and/or belly piercing
Male strippers
Full-body massage (not by said male strippers, although maybe that could be the new experience next year…)

Because what is said at sisters’ retreat stays at sisters’ retreat, I can’t divulge which of us has done which of the above items. Apparently we are a rather adventurous lot, which doesn’t leave many options for new exploits. The extremely short list of things that NONE of us have done reads like this:

Skydiving (there is a reason some of us haven’t tried this. We’re currently in discussions about whether adult diapers would solve the fear factor).
Making out with a woman (this one isn’t going to happen. For any of us. EVER.).
Reading all of Jane Austen’s novels (the question is, do any of us really WANT to read all the JA novels?)

Colonoscopies

I'm hugely hoping that we think of more options before next August, otherwise I'm going to end up either reading more ga-ga girly stuff than I can stomach in one weekend, or laying on a table with a tube snaking up parts of me I don't want to think about. I'm not sure which would be worse.

Appropriately for such an estrogen-heavy weekend, in an estrogen-heavy post, quoting from another ga-ga girly girl, "You know full as well as I do the value of sisters’ affection to each other; there is nothing like it on this earth." –Charlotte Bronte. Here's to the girls. Love you!

Retiring the Crown

While the good Lord has blessed me with many talents, apparently artistic ability is not one of them. Normally this would not pose a problem, in fact, it wouldn't even be known, to me or anyone else, but my current calling is leading the music in Primary, and it seems creating visual aids is part of the calling.

Early on I erroneously assumed that because they are children they wouldn't be very particular about the quality of the artwork--in fact, they would be forgiving of my halting attempts. Wrong. The first time I showed up with posters I'd illustrated and drawn myself, no one knew what the stick figures were supposed to be. Some of the teachers snickered.

I gave up on creating visuals myself and decided to buy them. Thankfully there is a thriving industry of psuedo-Mormon "art" for Primary, so for $9.95 plus tax I had visuals for an entire year.

These particular ones have to be colored first. No problem--coloring in the lines doesn't require artistic skill. Once again, wrong.

I finshed the set of visuals for a new song we were learning this past weekend. No matter how I looked at it, every picture looked like the winner of the Miss Jesus 2008 Drag Queen Pagaent. Too late to redo things, I figured the kids wouldn't notice if I just held the pictures up with a smile and acted like they were perfectly normal. Wrong.

Before we could even begin the song, a little girl halfway back raised her hand. "Um, did your kids color those pictures? 'Cause they're really bad." There went the remnants of my ego.

But she wasn't done. After church she followed me outside. "I have a suggestion for you," she said. "I think maybe you should let your kids color the pictures, 'cause it would probably be better than if you do it." OUCH! I asked if she realized how young my kids are. We're still in scribble mode at our house--apparently that includes me. She pondered that. "Well, then maybe I could color them for you. Or maybe we could just learn songs without any pictures."

Sigh.

Zucchini

I have finally found a plant that I can't kill. Several glorious zucchini plants are sprawled across my garden boxes, and for the first time EVER we're actually eating food from our own garden. Well, technically we're also eating food from many neighbors' gardens, because my black thumb is notorious and over the years people have taken pity on me and designated us as the drop-off for surplus produce.

The kids liked the theory of eating something we grew ourselves far more than they liked the reality of zucchini stir-fry. Of course, if they controlled the menu we would live solely on macaroni and cheese, chicken nuggets, fruit snacks, and grape soda, so I take their opinions with a grain of salt.

I know, I know, there really isn't any honor in harvesting zucchini. My friend considers it the weed food. She laughed until she cried when she saw how many zucchini plants I put in this year. "Is it even possible to kill zucchini," she wondered. Since I'm probably the ultimate test, I can state with some authority now that, no, apparently it is not possible to kill zucchini. Those hardy vegetables can survive even me.

Not everyone would be thrilled with a garden full of zucchini; fortunately I love zucchini. I could eat it every day. Good thing, as apparently I will be.

My gardening methodology is one of benign neglect. Come to think of it, that pretty well describes my parenting. Many posts ago I blogged about how parenting was like gardening--you don't control the outcome; you only control certain aspects of the environment. If that's true, I suspect that God, knowing how I am with growing things, sent me zucchini children. Hardy, resilient, independent, abundant, and thriving in spite of me--yep, that's my kind of kids. Good thing I love zucchini.

I Can't Wait for School to Start...

As I prepare for a new semester, inspiring and prodding (okay, mostly kicking and dragging) young writers and writer-wannabes, this seemed appropriate to share.

From English teachers across the country, actual student metaphors:

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thighmaster.

His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free

He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

She grew on him like she was a colony of E.Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

The plan was simple, kind of like my brother Joe, but unlike my brother Joe, this plan would work.

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.

McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00pm instead of 7:30.

Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36pm, traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19pm at a speed of 35mph.

They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.

John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.

Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it has rusted shut.

Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for awhile.

He was as lame as a duck. Not a metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a landmine or something.

The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one long slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

HRM Carole the Cool

Wahoo! My sister Carole and her husband Paul were sealed in the temple a couple of weeks ago. See photo above. Not the green door pic, the other one. The following weekend we sort of house sat for them for a few days, which was an adventure in itself. Mercie locked us all out of the house for several hours, requiring help from the police and the one and only town locksmith to get back in, Eric stuffed a bead up his nose, requiring an emergency trip three hours back home to the doctor, and Grace reprogrammed their family room TV...and that was all just in one day of our visit.

Anyway, Carole's been on my mind lately. I've decided that if she weren't my sister I'd probably hate her. She's like Mary Poppins--practically perfect in every way.

She's an incredible mom. Really. She juggles five kids in a yours-mine-ours family with helping to run a family business, church responsibilities, daily workouts, and maintaining a house that would make Martha Stewart green (more about that below). As I held Claire yesterday I noticed that her hair smelled nice. Then I realized that Carole had washed her hair the night before. Hmm. She actually bathes her children regularly. Novel concept. I hose mine off in the front yard once a week. You think I'm kidding. Unless you're my neighbor, then you know I'm not.

She has great fashion sense. When I was a teenager periodically my clothes would disappear. I never could figure out why my favorite sweaters or dresses or blouses were there one day, gone the next. Years later Carole confessed that she and my sister Becca had been so embarrassed by some of my outfits that they occasionally took the worst offenders out in the yard and burned them. I had to forgive them because, let's face it, they were right. I'll own up to the talents and abilities I have, but dressing well is not one of them. Heck, look at the picture above. There's a beautifully groomed, poised, polished woman and right beside her is a woman who is...not. As an adult I get to be the beneficiary of her skill. She's the perfect shopping companion, and even better, when she cleans out her closet she gives me the hand-me-downs.

There is a reason her nickname is Martha. Even with five kids, her house usually looks like a photo spread from Better Homes and Gardens. The really amazing thing is that it ALWAYS looks like this, even when she was living in teeny little grubby apartments. She's my go-to gal for anything decorating, and I've learned over time that she is always right. She said to skip the orange (I called it terra cotta) paint on my front door, and boy, was she right. Speaking of which, after three years of living with that mistake, I finally fixed it! I stayed up really late (thanks Michelle!) and painted it a strange shade of super dark green with the unappealing name 'sealskin,' and it's ever so much better than orange. THAT'S the picture of the green door.

Carole's a perfect--and delightful--contradiction. Her sense of humor is "Dumb and Dumber;" her spiritual insight and wisdom often blow me away. When I'm feeling tossed to and fro, spiritually speaking, a phone call to Carole straightens me right out. She has a gift for combining faith and practicality and going right to the heart of things.

She's one of those women who would make all the other women at church sick except that she's so freaking nice you can't hate her. She chaperones youth trips, ferries boys to Scout activities, substitutes in Primary at the drop of a hat, works in the RS presidency, fills in for the ward organist from time to time, and makes it all look easy.

We've had our moments. When she was four I begged my mom to send Carole back where she came from. When we were teenagers I once chucked my alarm clock at her head and called her unprintable names.

Growing up is a good thing. Now that we're both adults and friends, I'm glad she's my sister for two very important reasons.

One, coolness by proximity. Maybe she'll rub off on me, and even if not, people will assume I'm sort of cool like Carole just because we're sisters.

Two, I have hope. If she weren't my sister I could write her off as the impossible ideal and spend my energy quietly jealous and hating her. But she is my sister and we share the same genes, which gives me hope that maybe someday I too can be cool like Carole.

Someday. For today I've got to run outside and hose off the kids, just as soon as I find my orange polka-dot lounge pants that I haven't seen since Carole was here last week...

Things Stuck in Noses, Part Two

A few days ago Mercie told me there was a bead in her nose. Assuming that she was just jumping on the bandwagon, I ignored her. Unfortunately Eric came home from the doctor with a huge stack of stickers, and all four kids have been plotting how to get back to the doctor so they can also collect massive quantities of stickers.

A day later Mercie told me her nose hurt because there was a bead in it. I took a cursory peek in her nostril, didn't see anything. I felt the outside of her nose; no bulge.

The next day Mercie got mad at Eric (something that happens approximately 11,435 times a day). She opened her mouth to take a deep breath for the loudest possible scream and when the scream came out, so did an object--from her nose. A slimy, snot-covered clear plastic bead.

All four of my children have now tried shoving things in their noses, with varying results. On days like today I remind myself of Roseanne Barr's credo: "As a mom, if the kids are still alive when Dad gets home from work, then hey--I figure I've done my job."

Moments of Grace

For quite awhile now Sundays have been hard. Just hard. Mostly Sacrament Meeting, sometimes other times, but mostly that particular 70 minute period. I joke that if I were a drinking woman, Sundays would be a multiple-shots-of-vodka day for me. Sometimes I wish I weren't joking.

I know why it's rough, it is what it is; I trust that eventually it will get easier. Therapy helps. Priesthood blessings help. Relying heavily on the Lord--fasting, prayer--all help. I think at times I'm making progress. Then a particularly rotten Sunday pops out to deflate my optimism and I'm back to that dark little place where I wonder why on earth I keep putting myself through this nightmare, on purpose, week after week, when there is a super easy alternative called 'just stay home.'

Last Sunday my palms looked like hamburger by the time Sacrament Meeting was over. Digging nails into my hands to keep myself on the pew, fighting a visceral urge to run for the door will do that.

As I sat there in my personal black cloud of despair, all I could think to pray for were little pinpricks of light, some tiny rays to break through and give me a reason to come back.

I could stay home. I could worship on my own terms, in my own way, and take my chances. But even on the worst days, I still trust God's plan for my happiness. I trust that when He asks us to gather together and fellowship with the saints, there is a reason. I trust that when He asks us to participate--together--in sacramental ordinances, there is a reason. I trust the reasons all involve our happiness, not our despair, not our depression or angst or turmoil or trauma. And I trust that in some miraculous way I don't begin to understand, when we are where we're supposed to be, doing what we're supposed to do, grace takes over and makes it enough.

So I sit in Sacrament Meeting and fight the panic and fight the despair. The Sacrament is passed and I do what I always tell my kids to do--think of Jesus. Just for a moment the storm is stilled. I turn my heart to Him and there isn't room for anything else.

It's testimony meeting. The cynical side of me snickers. In years past my favorite Fast Sunday activity has been testimony bingo. Use the back side of the program to make a bingo grid, put the names of all the testimony meeting 'regulars', and see how long it takes to get a winning row. In our ward, not long. There are a couple of people I trade off putting in the center free spot.

Today I hardly register the testimonies. I hear other people professing what they know and believe and all I can do is doubt. Doubt that they know it, doubt that what they believe is really true. I'm still calling out silent prayers. I still know God hears me. I'm not sure I know much else.

Then my friend Julie gets up to bear her testimony. It's quiet. Reverent. Peaceful. I can almost see the shaft of light breaking through from her to me. Her testimony isn't grandiose or self-promoting. It's pure and true. I feel the Spirit confirming her words to my heart. The contrast from the negativity and darkness I've been wrapped in and this sweet, familiar comfort of the Spirit is a wonder. I soak it in and marvel at tender mercy. For the rest of the meeting I'm more open. Little pinpricks of light break through here and there.

In Primary we practice a new song. I haven't paid much attention to the third verse but today it jumps out at me. "He is always near me, though I do not see Him there. And because He loves me dearly I am in His watchful care..." My dad gave me a blessing a few weeks ago. It promised, among other things, that the Lord would be with me and that I would know beyond a doubt that He was near. As the primary children sing the words, peace flows over me and I do KNOW. Really know. Even when I'm wrapped in a fog of doubt or despair or pain or whatever the heck it is, He's still there. Even when I don't recognize or see or feel, He's still there. My angst doesn't negate His love.

My mom sent me a blog post she stumbled across that has comforting relevance.

Sitting there in the foyer by myself on that bleak February afternoon listing to talks I couldn't decide if I believed a word of, I felt the strangest, most unaccountable sense of mercy. There were no answers to the complexities of the Great Apostasy, or to the more pressing, personal complexities of how on earth it is that I am to go on in this church. There was no sense of clarity about what to do or even what to think. There was just a sense of not being alone in my aloneness, as if some divine, compassionate hand had brushed the tears from my cheek. There were no answers. Only grace. ... I have been so foolish and so wrong. I have mistaken the voices of well-meaning human men and women for the voice of God.

I think sometimes grace takes two different forms. It comes directly from the Source, as a healing balm directly to our broken hearts. Sometimes it comes more indirectly, through the voices of those well-meaning human men and women. I treasure moments of grace when my soul communes with God while the world stands still. And I love those sacred moments when I hear in another frail and flawed mortal like myself the voice of God.

His grace is sufficient. It's enough. Not only to save, heal, sanctify, cleanse, and exalt, but to get me through one more Sunday.

Monkey See, Monkey (Try to) Do, or 'Lego' of the sibling imitation!

Last week we sort of house sat for my sister while she and her family were out of town. More on that in a separate post.

On the last night there I heard snuffling, snorting, and weeping from the kids' room long after they were supposed to be asleep. Eric was the source of the commotion, and after lots of prodding and prompting he disclosed that his nose hurt. I finally located a flashlight and could see, stuck way up near his sinuses, a blue lego. Given how long it had taken to get everyone else to sleep, how far we were from our doctor's office (three-hour drive), and the fact that this was the third time I've dealt with a child who stuck bizarre objects up his/her nose, I told Eric to go back to sleep and we'd deal with it in the morning. Yep, I'd nominate myself for Terrible Mother of the Year except I'm already a shoe-in for the past five years' running.

The next morning he was fine. The 'lego' was still there, but other than the occasional snort and a suspicious bulge above his nose you'd never know there was a problem. I told the kids that we had to get packed up and on the road right away so that Eric could get to the doctor. They were incredibly intrigued. Grace immediately started imagining the most bloody, dramatic methods that the doctor might remove the lego. She had everyone enthralled, so I slipped upstairs to get dressed.

A few minutes later Mia came in holding a teeny little lego and wearing a quizzical look. Holding out the lego she said, "Mom, how did Eric get that lego in his nose? I can't do it."

postscript one: to date, Mia has had three beads removed from her nose, four fruit loops removed from that same nostril, and an earring surgically removed from her ear (it's a very long story, the moral of which is that three years old is not the right age for ear piercing. Note to self).

Postscript two: the lego in Eric's nose was, in fact, not a lego at all, but a blue bead. The day after the doctor extracted it I walked in the front room just in time to see Eric contemplating a handful of pink beads before holding one up to his nose experimentally. Now he knows that bringing beads anywhere near body cavities makes Mommy scream really loud.

Sunday Morning Theology

A conversation overheard this morning:

Mia: Do birds poop?
Grace: Yes.
Mia: Do they pee?
Grace: I think so. Do cows poop?
Mia: That's disgusting! Cows make milk in their butts--they cannot poop in their butts! Ewwww!
Grace: Does Jesus poop?
Mia: Yes.
Grace: Does Jesus have a potty?
Mia: Of course. Does Satan poop?
Grace: No way! Satan doesn't have a body. He can't poop.
Mia: Hehe. Satan can't poop. Nyeh-nyeh, nyeh-nyeh, Satan can't poop. Only Jesus.

I promise, we actually do have genuinely spiritual conversations at times in our house.

The Joys of Family Scripture Study

Okay, here are the REAL reasons I have daily scripture study with the kids:

Waking up to Grace and Mia playing in their room as Grace trills, "Ladies and gentlemen, announcing....the Promised Land!"

Walking down the stairs to hear Grace shrieking at the top of her lungs, "John the Baptist! John the Baptist! Oh yeah! Oh yeah! I LOVE John the Baptist! It's the John-the-Baptist booty dance, mom! Oh yeah!"

Reading Joshua 24:15 with the kids and watching them create their own cheerleading shout, hands together in stack. "Ready, guys? One, two, three--IN OUR HOUSE, WE FOLLOW JESUS!!!"

"Eric, what's your favorite scripture story?" (This is a daily question. The answer is always the same). "Jesus' house! And he throwed the tables!" (Matthew 21: 12-14). It is SO appropriate that this would be Eric's favorite.

Watching Mia gyrate around the front room--"What are you doing, Mia?" "I'm being Jesus." "Um, what is Jesus doing?" "I'm Jesus shaking his booty." I figured, hey--she's seen Him more recently than I have. They probably had a rocking time up there.

Kids + doctrine= never a dull moment for Mommy.

If Only...

Last week I put detachable shoulder pads under a dress I was wearing. Late in the day I got tired of reattaching them so I reached up and slipped them out. Mia's eyes grew huge.

"Mommy! You took your breasts off!"

Yep. Every now and again I just need a break.

The Purpose of Relief Society According to Mia

The other day Mia kept trying to get my attention, complaining that she didn't feel well. It was a hectic day, and I must have been listening with only half an ear because she finally decided it was time to pull in the big guns.

Taking my hands in hers, she said, "Mommy! I've been trying to tell you all day that I don't feel good and you aren't listening! I just really want you to visit teach me!"

I couldn't resist. "What do you want me to do to visit teach you, Mia?" As far as I knew Mia's only exposure to visiting teaching had been the few times she'd gone with me to visit teach her friend Jackson's mommy, so I expected her definition of visiting teaching to involve playing with toys, eating snacks, or some other preschool age pleasure.

With total earnestness she said, "Visit teach means take care of me, say prayers for me, and tell me stories."

Mia was surprised when I picked her up and danced her around the room, singing, "You get it! You really, really get it! Mia, you are a true little Relief Society sister at heart!"

Who'd have thought that a three-year old could distill it down to perfect purity? I love, love, love the visiting teaching program because we get to take care of each other, pray for and with each other, and tell the happy news of the gospel to each other while we share the stories of our lives.

Mia is going to be one heck of an awesome visiting teacher.