You're Kidding Right?

"Laughter rises out of tragedy when you need it the most, and rewards you for your courage." -Erma Bombeck

www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFWHbRApS3c‎

Ok, so I am pretty darn proud of myself for figuring out how to stick a link on my blog. I don't even know if I did it right. But the fact that I made an attempt is noteworthy. If it doesn't work, I'm sure you all know how to do your own google search.

Why this link, you ask? I'll tell you why. Because I picked Sabrina up from school yesterday, and she informed me that she had been assigned to create a Rube Goldberg machine out of household materials and that it was due on Monday. WHO THE CRAP IS RUBE GOLDBERG? I began to grumble inside. No, I grumbled out loud, nice and loud. The teacher realizes that there are only 5 school days left right? She understands that parents have had it with school projects right? She realizes that had such a project been assigned two months ago, and had she given us a week or two to work on it, my complaints would have been minimal, but the fact that she assigned it on this, the last week of school, makes me want to hunt this woman down and give her a piece of my mind?

The pathetic handout Sabrina was handed by her teacher offered few clues as to what a Rube Goldberg machine is. My initial response was, "Just take your project from your exploring technology class. That should do the job." This is an example of poor parenting, you say? Perhaps. Aren't you just teaching your child how to "work the system", you ask? It's quite possible that that is exactly what I'm doing. I think that Sabrina's hydraulic crane is quite the contraption and would fulfill the assignment, sort of. She made the whole thing completely by herself. I thought it was a brilliant idea. Actually, it was Neil's idea. Brilliant! But Sabrina insisted that the crane was not what the teacher was looking for.

What exactly did the teacher want us to concoct in one weekend? We turned to the Google Machine for answers, and we found the above video. I started to chuckle, then laugh, pretty soon hideous guffaws came from the corner of the room as I watched. It wasn't your jolly laugh. It was more like a crazed lunatic laugh. You know, something you might hear from that woman in the short story "The Yellow Wallpaper" or perhaps from a character in "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest".

I hope you enjoyed the video. As you can see, it should be a simple project really. It shouldn't take more than 30 hours and 43 takes to get it right. It's a good thing I'm not tired from a long school year or anything, because this should just be fun. Oh, and the teacher is providing the bell. She's awfully generous. Wouldn't want to overburden the parents or anything. Did I mention that the same child has been assigned a report in English class on a poet that I have never heard of and can't be found in any of my college literature books? It's due three days before the last day of school. But it's ok. There's plenty of time. It should be fun, real fun. Yes, that's laughing you hear.

Pessimism or Just Reality Speaking?

"When you've been struck by lightning as many times as I have, you start to expect the worst pretty much all the time." -Jennifer Bosworth

I experienced some tragedy at a fairly young age. I learned all of the valuable lessons that come from such experiences. They refined me and helped mold me into the person I am. As a whole, I believe that person is better because of her trials. But such dramatic challenges have left me altered in some ways that aren't exactly positive. Traumatic events have left me with a few somewhat crippling side-effects.

When your father is offered a job promotion in another city, it is an exciting thing for a teenage girl.  When your whole family packs up and leaves their house of 12 years to settle in a new city, it is an exciting and scary thing for a teenage girl. When, three months after moving to a new house and a new city, your father is diagnosed with a rare terminal cancer and as a result is given a job demotion, and your family spends the next three years living barely above poverty while watching their father slowly die, it is a very traumatic thing for a teenage girl.

I have overcome many of the scars and difficulties that come with such an experience. It has, after all, been almost 20 years. But there are a few challenges that remain. One such challenge is that constant underlying anxiety that something awful lurks around the corner. I can not make a decision that may alter our life for good without being haunted with that fear, that if I make such a decision, I will be struck with some horrible disease and my husband will suddenly lose his job. After all, if it happened once before, it can certainly happen again.

The very realness of disease, death, and tragedy has lingered with me over the years, and I can't seem to kick its dampening effects. My poor husband has had more tests than he'd care to have, because every time he complains of a minor symptom, I instantly scream cancer and send him to the specialist. After all, if they found a bizarre cancer connected to the outside of my dad's small intestine, a cancer that they only knew of 50 other cases in the world, then it is entirely possible that they might find one of those in my husband. And let's not even begin to discuss the common cancers. I am at the dermatologist every other month getting things frozen off, when the doctor assures me that it is nothing to be concerned about. But you know, just in case, let's just remove it before it morphs into some deadly mass. I watch my children with trepidation. Any lump or discoloration on their body sends me into panic-mode.

I feel guilty for struggling with these feelings. I am supposed to come out of such experiences with an undeviating faith in God and his plan for me. And I do have faith, because despite all that tragedy, my family ended up being ok. But it is hard not to walk through life with the fear that lightning might strike again. It is difficult not to go along without flinching at every life change. I find myself cowering when opportunity knocks. Rather than embracing these blessings, I hunker down and brace myself for the storm that most certainly must be on the horizon. 

It is something I am fighting to overcome. It is interesting what small struggles come after overcoming big challenges. I suppose to expect to come away from such a trial unaltered and unaffected  is ridiculous. I just wish I could get a handle on this particular problem so that I could make a decision for my family and just relish all of the happiness and excitement that it brings. Living in Faith not Fear. It's not always as easy as it sounds. But I'll keep on trying. Do you think I'm too young for a colonoscopy? Just kidding. What about a mammogram? Yes, I think I better call for an appointment.

I Can Almost Taste It

"Leroy bet me I couldn't find a pot of gold at the end, and I told him that was a stupid bet because the rainbow was enough." -Rita Mae Brown

"Mom, Dad, come see this!" were the exclamations that came from the other end of the house. And it was worth getting up to see.

We were sitting on the bed discussing the fact that there were no more evening concerts to attend, no more homework packets to wrestle Jonah into doing, no more major school projects that needed completing. Our main concern at this point is who needs to wear sunscreen to school and who needs to bring a water bottle to the next field trip.

It is so close I can almost taste it. Warm summer nights free of agendas. Oh I suppose there will be agendas, but they will be of the slurpee consuming, nature walking, quality family time variety. 

The end of another school year. It really is the light at the end of the tunnel, and that light is getting bigger and closer. It is that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and I can almost reach out and grab it.

Let Me Tell You About Grandpa Fellows

"Each happiness of yesterday is a memory for tomorrow."

It seems that I did not take a single picture this Memorial holiday. I did find a few from last year.

I no longer weep at my dad's grave when we visit on Memorial Day. Time is the great healer. But I do get a little sad, because to my children, this grave they are visiting represents someone a little nebulous to them. 

It is the grave of the grandfather they never knew. I don't know that they fully understand that there are parts of them that came from this man that they've never met. But I see it. I see my children, and sometimes I see glimpses of my father. They don't know that some of their most remarkable traits may very well have come from this elusive grandpa that lingers on the other side.

I try to remind my girls, as they draw beautiful pieces of art, that their grandfather was also an amazing artist. I struggled through an art class in 7th grade. (Apparently the artistic gene skipped a generation) I can remember bringing my meager still-life drawing home to my dad in hopes that he could somehow salvage it. A few strokes of the pencil, and it was a masterpiece. 

As my son gets up in front of people and seems to be a natural born public speaker, I am reminded that his grandfather could keep a congregation or a classroom riveted with his poignant analogies and his knack for public speaking. He was a remarkable story-teller. Many a night, I sat spell-bound as Dad recounted his tales of adventure in the Uintah mountains. He delighted us with stories of lost gold mines and his strange encounters with Sasquatch and mountain lions. So when Spencer won the story-telling contest in both the 3rd and 4th grade, there was no question where this gift came from.

When Jonah troubles me with his meticulous and perfectionistic nature, I am reminded of a grandfather who may very well have passed his traits on to his grandson. Dad would walk in from work and go straight to the curtains, where he would begin to straighten them. He would pick up any tiny pieces of lint off the carpet as he would make his way to the bedroom. He would then carefully change out of his suit, putting everything into its proper place before relaxing for the evening. He never needed an alarm. He woke up at the same time everyday, and the man was never late. We were always the first ones to church, the first ones to family parties. All six children were always dressed and ready to go promptly 30 minutes before any event, because Dad hated to be late.

When we sit at the kitchen table, where wit and sarcasm abound, I remind the kids that their grandpa had quite a sense of humor. It was subtle, and it was quiet, but it could send you into side-splitting laughter.

I try to help them know this Ricky Clayton Fellows. He is more than a name etched on a grave marker. He was a living breathing person who has a story. He had quirks, quirks that are alive in his children and grandchildren. 

I remind them of their grandfather who loved the mountains. He was most content when he was fishing, or hiking, or spelunking. 

He was an avid reader. When I picture him, I can see him in his recliner, with a book in hand, usually McConkie or Nibley or something about the Lost Rhoades Mines, always non-fiction.

 He was a gentle soul. Though he grew up hunting, he spent the last few years of his life hunting fossils while his brothers hunted deer. It just broke his heart to destroy those majestic animals. He treated others with kindness. He served and served and served. He was always at someone's house helping them finish a basement or shingle a roof, or he was pulling money out of savings to help another family.

He had a contemplative spirit. You would often find him outside on a warm summer's evening, "thinking the situation over", he would call it. It was a privilege to get to sit and think or talk the situation over with Dad on occasion. 

He loved food. Loved food. After we were tucked into bed at night, we would often hear the blender going. Dad loved a malt before bed. You were a lucky soul if you snuck into the kitchen and were allowed a swallow of that milkshake. With six kids, such a privilege was a rarity. The first thing out of his mouth when I would come home from a date was, "What did you order for dinner?" I could sense that he was vicariously enjoying that meal as I would describe the delicious entree.

He was one of the few people I know who was good at everything. He was incredibly artistic, but also incredibly logical. He was extremely intelligent. He graduated at the top of his class. He was musical and had a beautiful singing voice. He was good at sports. He worked well with his hands. He was charismatic and witty, but also quiet and unassuming. He was a good writer and good at mathematics. 

Above all, he had an unshakeable testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He did not rest his scriptures. His faith in the Savior did not waver, and it carried him through life and into death.

My children will meet him someday. I hope that he will instantly be familiar to them. And then they will understand who they came from and why they are the way they are. Until then, I will continue to tell them marvelous stories of their Grandpa Fellows.

And That's The End

"Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon." -Winnie the Pooh

Well, it's finished. Another school year of recitals and concerts and plays is finished. I gathered just a few of this year's programs. The goal was to make a folder for each child this school year and to methodically place each program in the proper folder after every event, thus allowing for easy documentation of my kids' lives. 

I found some of these programs in my purse, some on top of the microwave, still more on my nightstand, and a few in the current book I'm reading. Who knows how many more are strewn about the house. I really want to be that super organized mom. I really do. Laziness just wins out far too often.

We finished out the year with both girls' concerts falling on the same night. Neil and I had to divide and conquer. He hit Jessica's concert, and I went to Sabrina's. The final concert was combined with the art show. Here she stands next to her drawing of one of her favorite actors. Benedict Cumberbatch. Yet another British actor who is three times her age.

She also played a couple of duets as entertainment during the art show. Bring Him Home and On My Own from Les Miserables on the violin. It was beautiful. The orchestra also did a flash mob of Don't Stop Believing.

But my favorite had to be the last piece of the evening. The Spirit of Adventure from Up. There was something about balloons floating up from each instrument that just made me happy. It was a delightful end to a wonderful school year.

A Concert At the Park

"The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes-ah, that is where the art resides." -Arthur Schnabel

Last Saturday was Jonah's first piano recital since returning to piano lessons. His teacher planned a delightful "Nature Recital". All of the recital pieces were based on nature, and the venue was in a bowery at a park. So cute! The torrential rain almost ruined our afternoon of music, but the sun eventually came out. It was freezing but dry.

The smell of cow poop wafted in from the neighboring pastures. Llamas from said pastures wandered back and forth as the performers played. Some pianists were even serenaded by eager magpies who were obviously touched by the music. Ahhh nature, in all its uninhibited glory. 

Jonah did a beautiful job. His piece: As Morning Dawns. He worked so hard to have it perfectly memorized, and his performance was flawless. I hope I have trained my children adequately. I hope that all of my kids encourage their children to pursue music, because the thought of ever being done with these marvelous little recitals really just breaks my heart. Feces aroma or not, I will always love watching those little ones get up there and plunk or bow away. No matter the venue, no matter the weather.

Dry Eyes?

Jessica: "I think I figured out why I never cry. I read about it in a magazine. I think I have chronic dry eyes."

Me: "Are you sure it isn't chronic cold-heart?"

Sabrina: "No, I'm telling you, she has No-Soul-itis!"

At which point I spit my half-chewed spaghetti across the dinner table. With these kids around, I'll never enjoy proper digestion at mealtime. 

A Village Packed Into One Small Gymnasium

"There was something about being in front of audiences when I was in elementary school plays that gave me a thrill. It was like the rush you get from a roller coaster drop." 

-Mira Sorvino

Last night was Spencer's 6th grade play. The "Dig It" play is a lovely little musical all about the ancient civilizations that the kids learned about throughout the school year. There were dancing mummies and skeletons, a darling Confucius, and cute Greeks. Spencer did an amazing job, as usual.

I do have one question. How is it that I can arrive at such an event 45 minutes early and still get stuck on the 5th row? Since when did public school programs become more difficult to land seats at than a Taylor Swift concert? I say this, because this was about my 20th school program this school year, and I'm having to arrive earlier and earlier to get a decent seat. I've probably spent 200 hours saving seats over the last nine months. I mean, I'm not complaining. I get some good reading done, but really?

There were maybe 20 people in the room, but each person was saving ten to fifteen seats. And I was no different. I rushed madly to the first open row and began emptying the contents of my purse in order to save seats. My cell phone and keys were each holding a spot, as was my chapstick and sunglasses. I think I had a stick of gum holding the last seat for me. The front row is never even an option. I've never actually seen a living person sitting on the front row, when I arrive at a ridiculously early time, but there are blankets and jackets heaped upon every seat. I'm quite certain that, earlier in the day, someone is slipping a twenty to the custodial staff along with their jacket and blanket, but I have yet to prove it.

As I sat reading my book last night, I noticed one lady walk up and take six seats from a back row and add them to the end of the third row. Part of me was bothered, but another part of me was jealous that this genius idea had never occurred to me. A gentleman sat behind me and said in an obviously loud voice that he felt that seat saving was morally wrong. If the moral decline of this nation stops at seat saving then let the corruption continue unencumbered. I'm sure the comment was directed at me, but I didn't let it bother me. I had grandparents rushing straight from work to make the program, and children at home trying to finish up homework and violin practicing. There was no need for everyone to drop everything to get to the school, when my chapstick could hold the seats just as easily. My favorite is when a family of five shows up to these events five minutes before the show starts and are shocked and disgruntled when there is not a seat to be found. I was that family once. Now I camp out.

If the sixth grade play is busy, then the school musical is utter mayhem. They open the doors a half an hour before the show starts, and people start lining up an hour before that. Seat saving is strictly prohibited at this event, so I drag my brood with me and encourage the grandparents to maybe bust their butts to get there early because there is no guarantee I'll be able to hold their seat. 

Get this, there is a Priority Seating line for the elementary school musical. I'm pretty sure that shady deals nothing short of Watergate go down for half the people in that line, and the other half had do donate at least 1,000 volunteer hours to secure their coveted spot. It's possible that younger siblings have even been sold into indentured servitude so that mommy can be in the first three rows. Those teenagers you see cleaning the school every afternoon? I always thought that they received a paycheck for their efforts, but I am now convinced they are simply working off mom's front row seats from the Jungle Book production of 2007.

They open the doors, and once the priority seaters have skipped their ways to the front three rows, the rest of us must fight for the remaining seats. Black Friday looks like a picnic after opening night at the school play. Let's face it, throwing a couple of chairs out on the gym floor is not exactly stadium seating. The Watergaters up on the front row are really the only ones who can see. Without fail, I get stuck behind the lady who allows all of her children to stand on their seats so they can enjoy a nice view of the show. And all of this so that my child can at least sense my presence in the audience, if he can't see my smiling face.

I'm being a little snarky here. I may have embellished things a touch. The truth of the matter is, I'm not all that frustrated with the pre-program insanity. As you can see, I spend most of my time snickering at the silliness of it all. 

A packed house at the sixth grade program means that you have a whole stage full of children with strong support systems. Little Sally may only have 13 seconds on the stage, but she has parents, two sets of grandparents, an aunt and uncle or two, and a dozen siblings and cousins, sitting on the second row, staring up at her with pride in their eyes and love in their hearts. And they praise her at the end as if she owned the stage. 

It takes a village to raise a child. And if the whole village shows up to every performance, then that is one loved child. And if it means that I have to fight tooth and nail to secure seats for my village of supporters for my #1 kiddo, then I'll do it gladly. It is a sad day, when I'm the only one who shows up to a school performance. May the gymnasiums continue to burst at the seams, because the next generation needs as much love as they can get!

Open Lines of Communication

"Every book is a quotation; and every house is a quotation out of all forests, and mines, and stone quarries; and every man is a quotation from all his ancestors." 

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sixty years ago, this little Swedish family packed up their few belongings and got on a boat headed for America. As their first view of Lady Liberty appeared in the horizon, they looked forward to the blessings awaiting them. 

They saw a few sights after landing in New York, and eventually settled in Salt Lake City where they were able to be sealed as a family for time and all eternity in the Salt Lake temple.

 Nine months after arriving in the US, my mom was born. And this little Swedish family made Utah their new home.

Sadly, my mom's parents divorced when she was nine. My grandmother died of a brain tumor in her early 50's. So I know very little of the history of my mother's family. I know almost nothing of my Swedish and Finnish relatives.

I am a history buff. I have books and books about first hand accounts of those who lived through the Civil War and those who survived the holocaust. I have volumes about the founding fathers, british monarchs, french royalty, and russian tzars. 

And yet, this history buff knows very little of her own history. It is a fact that has always bothered me.

Do you ever feel like the channels of communication between you and the Lord are closed? That you're kind of floundering? Do you ever wonder if you're even living the life that God intended for  you to live? Or is it just me? Because I've had that feeling for a couple of years now. 

My baby went off to first grade, and I was just beside myself trying to figure out what to do with the precious hours now allotted me in the middle of the day. And here I sit, three years later, still beside myself, wondering if I am simply idling away this time.

Do you ever pray and pray that the Lord will inspire you as to what his will is for you right now? Now that diaper changes and breast-feeding aren't the consuming activities of the day, what would He have me do with this time? 

I uttered yet another one of those prayers yesterday morning. Then I got up and began to read my scriptures. As I read, the thought kept coming to me that I should attend the Relief Society activity planned for the evening. I had already resolved that I was not going to this activity. It was going to be a three hour ordeal, and I had so much to do. How was I going to get dinner on the table and get Spencer to viola and get to the activity, and I should really stay home and quiz Jessica for her AP exam.

But it was a nagging thought. I started to think about how dinner could just be simple, and that if Jessica didn't already know her stuff, then two hours of frenzied cramming really wasn't going to  make or break this test. And then the thought came to me... Is the channel of communication really closed, or do I just have it on mute? Do I only want inspiration that is convenient and fun for me? 

So I asked Neil if he might grill some burgers while I rushed Spencer to viola. He's always perfectly willing to help facilitate these last minute mind changes that I seem to experience all too often. 

I got to the activity with surprisingly little effort. We then trekked to the Family History Library, where cute little retired folk got us all set up on computers and taught us how to research our ancestors.

Sabrina came along. She is so much more computer savvy than I. She took over the mouse many a time last night. The first thing we noticed was that there were names from my mother's line ready and waiting for temple work. I was shocked at how simple it was to request those names. We had those names printed and in our hands before we left the library.

We also left energized and eager to search out our kindred dead. To find their names. To learn their stories, if we can. Each name on that computer screen has a story. And each name on that screen represents a person who is part of me. And there are many names not yet on that screen. Names that belong to people who had stories and are also part of who I am. 

I don't even know where to begin in this process. It is all very daunting. I think I'll need to take some more extensive classes. More prayers will need to be uttered as I consider beginning a work that seems so overwhelming.

Perhaps the Lord hasn't been silent on this matter. Perhaps He has just been whispering, as He usually does. Perhaps He intends for me to spend a little less time blogging and rushing off to the gym and a little more time engaged in his work of redeeming the dead. Perhaps He just hasn't gotten me to sit still and shut up long enough to convey the thought to me. 

So I'll give it a shot. See if I don't learn a thing or two and maybe even contribute a thing or two. Here goes.

What Do You Do?

"When you go on an audition, it's very frightening." 

-Victoria Jackson

So what do you do after a week, ok a month, all right an entire year of soccer games and music concerts and recitals and plays? What do you do when you are running on fumes, ok the fumes ran out a long time ago, you're running on sheer will power? 

What do you do when your son comes up to you and says, "Be sure to sign me up for soccer next year!" This as he runs out to the front yard to practice before the game he is so excited for? Oh, and by the way, he'd like to try basketball next year.

Well, you take a deep breath in, and you sign him up for soccer next year. And you start saving up for basketball shoes and fees.

What do you do when your son wants to try out for musical theatre next year? Well, you email the theater teacher and start looking up monologues for your son to work on. That's what you do.

What do you do when your violinist says that she might like to try out for Davis Youth next year? That it would be fun to be in the symphony with her sister? You tell her that that is a fabulous idea, and you start saving your pennies. That's what you do.   

What do you do when your cellist informs you that she has an audition for Utah Youth Symphony in two days, that she still plans on doing Davis Youth Symphony, that this symphony costs four times as much as Davis, that the rehearsals are 30 miles away, and that they rehearse for four hours a week?

Well, you pick your chin up off the floor, and your drive your daughter to Gardner Hall.

And you watch her warm up with butterflies in your stomach.

And you hold your breath as she goes into the audition, and you pray she makes it.

That's what you do. Because right now, it really isn't about me having leisurely Saturdays or quiet evenings at home, is it? I am the facilitator of my children's dreams. They are only children for a short time. I want them to live it to the fullest, but they can't do that by themselves. They need funding and transportation and a fan club in the audience or the sidelines. 

So that's what I'll do, for another year. Thank heavens there is a summer for refueling. Because this tank is EMPTY.

Survived Another One

"Yes, Mother. I can see you are flawed.  You have not hidden it. That is your greatest gift to me." -Alice Walker

I am learning how to handle this whole Mother's Day thing. I'm not there yet, but I'm slowly getting there. I didn't cry this Mother's Day. I'm pretty proud of myself for that one. 

I think things have improved because I have quit attending sacrament meeting on Mother's Day. In years past, I have sat in the congregation holding back ugly sobs as well-meaning brethren have discussed their angel mothers and the angel mothers of their children.I have sat slumped in my seat as these angelic descriptions in no way resemble myself. 

My heart has gotten heavier and heavier as the importance of motherhood is emphasized and re-emphasized, and I realize the countless areas I may very well be failing my children in. 

We are reminded that if there is anyone who can save the world, it's the hand that rocks the cradle. It is reiterated that the success of future generations depends wholly on the success of mothers in the home. I have been tempted at times to stand up and say, "Stop it! It's too much. I can't save the world and get dinner on the table! Don't place this all on me."

So I just stay home and prepare my Young Women's lesson, thankfully not on motherhood. Then I sneak into church to teach my lesson and try to sneak out unnoticed. Usually I get snagged by yet another well-meaning brother, trying to make sure I get my bag of Mother's Day chocolate. Wouldn't want me to go unrecognized on this special day.

It is a wonderful holiday. I love appreciating those angel mothers in my own life. There just isn't much room for us moms of the more mediocre variety. So I put on my brave face every year and endure the holiday. I get a little better every year, and breathe a small sigh of relief when it is finally over. 

Let It Be Documented

"I remember thinking how often we look, but never see...we exist, but never feel. We take our relationships for granted.  A house is only a place. It has no life of its own. It needs human voices, activity and laughter to come alive." -Erma Bombeck

Let it be documented that on this, the 9th of May, this mom helped her children make cutsie, creative gifts to hand out to their favorite teachers. Let it be documented that such a project required great courage and resolve on the mother's part. She had to enter a craft store and purchase a hot glue gun, an object ne'er before seen in these parts. She had to find cute little cans of fruit with pull tabs on the top, and she had to buy bags of Dove chocolate to replace the fruit with.

This mom almost chickened out at the last minute. She almost retired the cute little fruit cans to the basement food storage. She nearly hid the bags of chocolate in her underwear drawer, to be consumed at a later date. She came close to returning the glue gun to the store from whence it came, thus forgetting that this crazy notion had ever entered her mind.

But this mom held her ground. She gathered patterned paper, and ribbon, and tape. She pulled that glue gun out of its impossible plastic packaging and learned how to operate the darn thing. She gathered her children from the far reaches of the house and got them all excited and busy cutting and gluing and taping. She even asked the oldest daughter if she might like to make a couple of cans for her favorite teachers. The teenager replied, "Mom, I'm in high school." The mother mumbled under her breath, "Suit yourself", then shed a small tear inside, realizing that for this child, it was everlastingly too late to embark on these cutsie crafting adventures. But this mother rallied and decided to cherish this moment with the remaining children.

Let it be documented that this mom finally followed through on a cute and creative project, and her children were better for it.

Let it also be documented, that on this the 10th of May, said mother got up at 6:30 to prepare a breakfast of french toast and sausage for her daughter who would soon be taking an AP English exam. The mother lovingly dipped bread and sizzled sausage so that her daughter's mind would be fully nourished and better able to retrieve the rhetorical devices floating around in her little brain.

It is only 9:00, and this mom is already spent. All of this being awesome business can leave one exhausted. How do mothers do this day in and day out? Oh well, this mom feels she's good for at least another year. Perhaps there are some remaining Dove bars lying around the house. This mom thinks she will plop down on the couch with a book and some chocolate for the remainder of the day.

Let it be documented.

Flying Solo

"The dinosaur's eloquent lesson is that if some bigness is good, an overabundance of bigness is not necessarily better." -Eric Johnston

Neil was out of town for six out of the last eight days. He was at a Sales Conference, which is code for manager's play time in southern Utah. I'm actually thrilled for the guy. He works so hard both in the workplace and on the home front. The man never takes any time for himself. So it made me smile to know that he was spending the week on ATVs and in slot canyons. 

The only challenge is that this conference unfailingly falls on the week that all four children have performances. At least Neil maintained fairness in the home by missing every child's performance. You'd hate for him to catch the violin recital but miss the 4th grade program. We try to preserve equality, even when we are speaking of neglect. I say all of this with a tinge of sarcasm, because Neil never misses the kids' performances. The man takes extended lunches to catch daytime recorder concerts. He's literally the only dad in the room. He has actually scheduled business trips around his children's concerts. Neil is always there, with camcorder in hand. Except for the week of his yearly sales conference. The guilt is almost more than he can take. He feels guilty for not being there for the kids, and he feels guilty for leaving me stranded for one of the busiest weeks of the school year.

Single parenting is one thing. But single parenting when there are concerts and programs and soccer practice and piano lessons and field trips scheduled, is quite another. Neil used to call me from his hotel during such weeks, and I would sob into the phone and tell him that this was just too much for one person to do. I'm a little more resilient these days. Now I look at my planner at the onslaught of such weeks and yell out, "Bring It!"  Neil will call me and ask with trepidation how things are going. I'll reply, "Fine. This isn't my first rodeo, you know." He'll ask how the kids are doing, and I'll tell him that I don't really know, I spent six hours in the van tonight. But I can usually boast that they are all present and accounted for, with some sort of food in their bellies.

 I can thank perdium for some of my resiliency. I'm not speaking of Neil's perdium. I'm speaking of mine. Neil's company gives him money to spend on eating out while he is on business. The family bank account gives me money to spend on eating out while I am trying to keep my head above water while Neil is gone. My superhuman capabilities stop at meal preparation. I can get four kids to ten events, but I can't prepare a homemade well-balanced dinner in the process. I think I managed one night of grilled cheese and a can of soup, and I threw a frozen lasagna in the oven another night. The rest of the nights, we depended on Cafe Rio, and Subway, and The Pizza Place to sustain the family. There was one day that I realized that I didn't even have time to pick up dinner in the evening. So I picked up Subway at noon and had it sitting in the fridge for the kids to eat when they had the chance. So much for quality family time around the dinner table. It's only once a year, right?

Anyway, Tuesday was the last day of utter mayhem. Neil was in Vegas for the Lawn & Garden show and was flying home that night. I spent all day on a field trip with Jonah at the Dinosaur Park. I was surprised at the pleasantness of this field trip. The last time I did this field trip, we arrived at the park at 10:00 and were told to keep these kids entertained until 1:30. The children had reached their saturation point by noon, but we were forbidden to enter the buses for another hour and a half. My little group ran amuck while I tried to keep tabs on them. I came home grumpy and exhausted.

They have improved this field trip in the last two years. We got there and sat down to a most informative lecture by an enthusiastic paleontologist. Am I the only mom who wants to answer and ask all of the questions at these things? I think I'm made for the lecture hall. It is possible that I was oohing and aahing over the fossils even more than the 4th graders. After 45 minutes of learning, it was time to peruse the museum.

 And then it was time for lunch. That left us with just over an hour to hunt the dinosaur park for the specific dinosaurs listed in our handy little field guides. On top of that, I only had our cute little neighbor boy to keep an eye on besides Jonah.

 It was one of those delightful afternoons with just the right amount of learning and playtime, an ideal field trip in my mind. I still got home tired, but not grumpy this time.

I got home with just enough time to grab half the kids some dinner and to bring take-out home for the others. Jessica and I were ships passing in the night this week. I rushed Spencer to his viola lesson only to realize that it was cancelled due to the Youth Symphony concert that was the next event on my list to get to. I rushed home and grabbed the kids and made it to the high school in plenty of time to snag a good seat.

We've got this concert thing down to an art. Now that the kids are old enough to sit quietly, we can procure good seats nice and early, and it gives us a good 40 minutes of reading time. Well, Jonah gets a good 40 minutes of Clash of Clans time. I even let the kid play his Ipod during the concert this time. Since I was doing this concert solo and was left with strict orders to capture the event on camera as well as camcorder, I couldn't be bothered with trying to convince the ten year old to sit still and enjoy the music. Don't worry, this ten year old boy has sat through more than his fair share of stuffy orchestra concerts. He is not hurting in the cultural arena.  Not many ten year old boys can sing Carmen, and Dvorak's cello concerto, and Bocherini's Minuet in his sleep, but mine can. I figured we could let this one slide. Funny thing, he put his Ipod away part way into Tchaikovsky and just enjoyed the music.

Leslie joined us during intermission. When the orchestra started in with Slavonic Dances, Leslie turned to me and said, "This isn't your run-of-the-mill high school concert is it?" No indeed, it was not. This was a group of talented teens performing some top-notch music.

When it was over, Leslie mentioned how her heart jumped a little to be listening to such fine music live. She told me that I was lucky to be able to have such an experience all of the time. I know I'm lucky. It's why we keep doing crazy weeks like this week. Because once I sit down and can take a deep breath, it is nothing but complete musical bliss after that. Beautiful hearts making beautiful music. It's a beautiful thing.

To our surprise, Neil had slipped into the back for the final movement of Tchaikovsky and for the encore, Sabre Dance. His flight had come in a little early, and he had sped home and dragged the two engineers with him into the high school auditorium to watch his daughter's big Tchaikovsky finish. What did I tell you? The man doesn't miss his children's shining moments. He ran his engineers home then met us for ice cream. We got home to a kitchen that looked like a scene from a World War II documentary. It's funny how that happens despite the fact that I didn't cook a single meal this week. We cancelled any and all events last night and spent some time catching up on homework, and eating a meal around the dinner table, and relishing the fact that we didn't have to go anywhere. 

The next couple of weeks look pretty crazy as well, but at least I won't be flying solo. Then comes summer. Then come quiet nights and home-cooked meals and family adventures. Bring It!

Performance Number Thirteen

"Nerves and butterflies are fine - they're a physical sign that you're mentally ready and eager. You have to get the butterflies to fly in formation, that's the trick." 

-Steve Bull

Sabrina performed in what I counted to be her 13th Suzuki violin recital two nights ago. I remember her first recital. She played a duet with her teacher. Pop Goes the Weasel. The teacher did all of the playing until it was time for the weasel to go "Pop". At this point, it was Sabrina's job to pluck her tiny A string with her tiny finger. That was her first performed piece.

I think her next piece was the "E String Concerto". Once again, her teacher did most of the playing while Sabrina played the same note through the whole piece. Open E in a "Tuga-Tuga-Stop-Stop" rhythm. Each piece brought its own challenges for an eight year old with limited coordination. 

She has come a long way, from Pop Goes the Weasel to Boccherini's Minuet, performed Monday, with it's tricky rhythms and fancy trills.

I sat in the audience and listened to the twelve performers that preceded Sabrina. I found myself nervously fingering along with the performers. There was a tightness in my chest as challenging sections approached. I asked myself, why was I so anxious when these were not even my children performing?

And then it occurred to me. Sabrina had performed everyone of these pieces at some point in the last six years. The anxiety I had experienced for her during the performance of each piece came rushing back to me. As each little performer concluded, I couldn't help but give a sigh of relief and a hearty applause for her and her agonizing mother, who I knew sat in the audience with bated breath.

Violin recitals have never been an easy thing for Sabrina. She is a sensitive child and has always been keenly aware of her circumstances. This can be a challenge when dealing with performance nerves. Her nerves have tended to get the best of her in past years.

I have sat in rehearsals, just hours before recitals, and listened to her make mistakes that she had never made before in her life. She has had many a "Bathroom Rehearsal", minutes before performances, to try to work out those rogue mistakes.

I have uttered prayers, pleadings really, with the Lord that he would calm her nerves and bless her to play like she did in the bathroom minutes earlier. I've sat in the audience and fingered every note with her, willing her fingers to play the correct notes.

I have held my breath as a challenging section approached. I've felt my heart sink as she's choked during such a section. Then my heart has stopped and time has stood still as I've listened to her fumble through the next four measures, dragging her accompanist behind her.

I have begun to breathe again as she finds her place, only to realize that the section must be repeated three more times. 

At the conclusion of such concerts, I would meet Sabrina with a big hug and praise for a job well done. She would always respond with, "But Mom, I messed up again!" I would quickly remind her that none of that mattered, that no one even noticed, and that her intonation was impeccable. But kids know. They know when they've butchered a phrase. They know when their performance was less than par. Her disappointment would break my heart.

But recent performances have been different, and Monday's performance was a sheer delight. She walked to the center of the stage with confidence, poised herself, announced her piece, perched her violin beneath her chin, took a deep breath, and brought in her accompanist with the first vigorous notes of Boccherini's Minuet. 

She played with beautiful tone and musicality. Her eyebrows raised and body swayed with the fluctuating notes. I was recording the performance, and I'm afraid it was a very shaky recording indeed. I was a nervous wreck. There were a few tiny slips that she glided over with the grace of a seasoned performer. She played her final note, then froze, and finally lifted her bow off the string, welcoming her warm applause with a gracious bow. Her body language said everything. She knew she had nailed it.

Now, when Sabrina witnesses another performer struggle on the stage, 

she says, "I know what that's like. That used to be me." 

I reply, "I know. Performing is hard. But it will come for that sweet girl, just like it came for you. It just takes maturity and experience, doesn't it?" Sabrina nods. It's true of just about everything in life. Most worthwhile pursuits take lots and lots of practice and work, and on top of that, they take the maturity and experience that only time can bestow. 

It is after nights like Monday, that I can honestly say, it has all been worth it. Worth all of the miles put on our mini van. Worth the hours I've spent sitting on Cathy's couch taking notes as Sabrina struggles through each new piece. Worth the hundreds and hundreds of hours of practice, mostly with me by her side. Worth the treacherous drives on snow packed roads to her teacher's various houses that have always been perched at the bottom or top of a massive hill. Worth the thousands and thousands of dollars spent on instruments, strings, bows, sheet music, and lesson fees. It is all worth it, when your daughter walks off the stage, and into your arms, and says, "Mom, I did good!" Yes you did, Sabrina. Yes you did.