Story of One's Own

Ashes

2012-01-29T23:14:00.000-08:00

On the way to school, in the early morning light, we drive by a disaster.
Fire in the night has turned a once-house to blackened rubble.
A once-home.
Now piles of debris.
Possessions.
Now strewn about, mixed with mud and ash.
Smoke rises in isolated tendrils toward a colorless sky.
The mocking rain falls.
I wonder if the drops sizzle when they land.

A red shirtsleeve, bright against the black,
seemingly untouched, is tangled in charred rebar.
My heart hurts for the loss. For strangers who now have no home.

I take a picture so I won't forget how fragile things are.
I watch as a man paces the hot black floor.
His barefeet are black like the mounds around him.
He drops a plastic water bottle on top of a pile.
A pile of once-things.
Now ash.

The End

2012-01-25T18:20:00.000-08:00

I don't think about "The End" very often. And when I do, it is fleeting, a passing thought. Sometimes my Leasie reminds me of endings with her heavenly homesickness. But this weekend, we watched all three Lord of the Ring movies. And I was struck by a conversation between Pippin and Gandalf:

Pippin: I didn't think it would end this way.
Gandalf: End? No the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it.
Pippin: What? Gandalf? See what?
Gandalf: White shores. And beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.

Ah. It gets me every time. Even as I write the words, I feel the power of them, the beauty and the truth of them.

I have many friends who are going through difficult things right now. And I am so very sad for them.

In my heart I have hope for a better world. When all the struggles and battles are over. When all the sicknesses and pain are done. When I've learned everything I came here to learn, I look forward to the grey rain-curtain of this world rolling back.

And I will look to my left and my right. I will be with those I love.

And together we will take in the view.

My Shower

2012-01-20T22:41:00.001-08:00

My shower is fickle at best.

First off, it doesn't even look like a normal shower. The shower head resembles a six inch pipe or a thick silver wand.

Sometimes my shower decides to be nice, sending me warm and toasty water.

But a lot of times, it is luke warm. Or just plain cold.

My favorite (not) is when I'm rinsing my hair in a toasty warm stream of water, only to suddenly be blasted with icy cold. Yelp!

Today. Today I was in the middle of shampooing my hair. Sudsy. My mouth closed so as not to get any water in my mouth. My eyes closed so as not to get soap in my eyes.

And that's exactly when the shower decided to shut off. Completely. No more water. Not even a drizzle or drip.

Really?

Me...climbing out of the shower, one-eye open in a Popeye grimace, reaching for my towel, soap dripping from my hair...

I still love Jakarta. But today, I'm missing my American shower. A lot.

Sunshine Buns

2012-01-19T01:29:00.000-08:00

The house smelled like cinnamon rolls.
Warm, yeasty, sweet.
A recipe called "Sunshine Buns" from my friend, Karen.
And that's just what they were.
A bit of sunshine on an otherwise stormy day.

The kids lumbered off the bus.
Trudged through the rain.
Backpacks dropped from their shoulders.

I could see it in their faces.
A hard day.
And then they smelled the Sunshine Buns.
And the clouds in their countenances cleared away.

Food doesn't cure everything.
But today it helped.

So did an evening of fingernail painting.
(Especially with fun Shatter!)

So did snuggling on the couch with a read aloud.

And kisses from CJ worked wonders.

"How are you?" I asked my oldest as I tucked her in.
"Good."
"Really?" I asked, because now I know.
"Really."

There are plenty of clouds.
But there's lots of sunshine too.

Dreams

2012-01-16T15:46:00.000-08:00

I dream in full color. Action packed blockbuster movies. And all of my dreams conjure up real emotions. I have woken with tears on my cheeks and an uncontrollable sadness. I have woken from dreams so scary that my heart is racing and I have to sleep the rest of the night with the lights on. And I've had dreams so happy that I've tried to go back to sleep to dream them again (like when I was about six years old and dreamed I was on the TV show Happy Days, and I was Pinkie - the Fonz's girlfriend).

At one time I considered blogging just about my dreams, but then thought A) it might be too revealing or worse B) it would just get boring.

But two nights ago I had a dream worth sharing. In my dream I was back in high school. Not either of the two high schools I had actually attended, but it was clearly a high school with hallways, lockers, and classrooms. The halls were full of students. Some I recognized from my past, while most were strangers. What made the dream remarkable was the pervasive feeling of loneliness. In my dream, I had no friends. I wandered the hallways with no one to talk to. The loneliness was absolute and complete. It consumed me so that it was hard to walk. I dragged my feet along the linoleum and stooped with sagging shoulders. The loneliness was so heavy.

I woke from the dream, and it took me till the afternoon to shake the blues. But the dream helped me remember something I had forgotten. I used to be lonely. Junior High and High School was an undulation of highs and lows, but I certainly experienced moments of extreme loneliness.

Now here's the kicker. Since moving here, three of my five children have expressed feelings of sadness and loneliness. However, I chalked it up to par-for-the-course. Yes, moving is hard. And yes, until you make friends, moving can be lonely.

Even as recent as the holiday break, my children shared how they did not want to go back to school. It wasn't until this dream, this pseudo reality that seemed so real, that I became more aware of what my children are going through and feeling right now.

My eyes were open and I took time to not only ask each one what is really going on at school, but also listen to their answers.

Some of the answers weren't easy to hear.

Life is hard. Life is hard when a mom's kiss can't make everything better. Life is hard when a yummy breakfast isn't enough to get through the next 7 hours of bus rides and school. Life is hard when you are lonely.

I just pray that my children know they are loved. And that my love, my husband's love, and the love of their Heavenly Father, will be enough.

Roaming the halls...I hope they know they're never alone.

Blossom

2012-01-09T03:05:00.000-08:00

Two hours before my parents left for the airport, my mom and I took a walk.

We greeted the embassy security with a "Salamat Pagi" and walked out the green gate. At the edge of our housing complex, I spotted a scattering of my favorite flowers. They had fallen from a nearby tree in the morning breeze and were strewn across the road. White petals on black asphalt.

My mom and I picked them up and held them to our noses. I collected them until I had a handfull. Mom tucked a perfect blossom behind her ear.

When we got home, we put them in a bowl. And for the next few days, each time I saw the bowl with the flowers, I remembered my morning walk with my Mom.

This morning I went for a run, alone. I was on the verge of loneliness, but then I noticed that on almost every block, my favorite trees were blooming. White flowers scattered across the road right in my path. I had to jump and leap to keep from crushing them under my running shoes.
I bent down and picked up this perfect bloom.

These flowers are more than beautiful. They are part of a memory. And every time I see one, I will think of my Mom.

Joy Times Two

2012-01-03T18:43:00.000-08:00

These twins of mine. How I love them!

I love that they've never been alone. They shared a crib. They shared bottles. They learned to crawl together. They learned to escape the playpen together. They rode in the double baby-jogger together. Together, they drove me crazy.
They rode the bus for the first time together and started Kindergarten together.

They've played together. They've laughed together. And they've cried (oh, how they cried!) together.

On Monday, the twins turned 8 years old. And that meant, that yesterday, they shared something else. They shared their baptism day.

They were baptized in a pool. At the Paul's home. Here in Indonesia. Grandma and Poppy, who traveled all the way to the other side of the world for that special moment, spoke at the baptism. They bore their testimonies not just with their words but also through their presence - such a tremendous effort to be here for the occasion.

It was late in the evening when we made our way outside to the pool. The sky was dark. Insects swarmed the porch lights leaving a scattering of wings on the steps.

Amelia entered the water first, wearing the white dress Grandma made. The evening call to prayer was loud and close. Not a quiet background noise. As their Dad offered the baptism prayer, calm yet strong into the night, I felt a power. The Muslim song mixed with our Christian prayer. A contrast, and yet so fitting for a baptism in this beautiful country we love.

Truman followed his sister. And Dad offered the second baptismal prayer of the night.

I had envisioned this moment in my mind before. Of course, not in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined any of my children would be baptized in Indonesia.

Nothing can compare to the magnitude of joy and love I felt at that moment. My heart was so full, it nearly burst.

I love that these babies of mine came together to this world. In the process, they rocked my little world...but also made me a better person.

Joy times two.

New Year's Eve

2012-01-01T05:59:00.000-08:00

The mountain road closed minutes (maybe even seconds) before we arrived. We are the fifth car in the line of cars that grows steadily.

"What do you mean the road will be closed for the next three hours?" I ask the Indonesian policeman.

He doesn't understand my question, or is just too polite to answer.

We turn around and consult a map.

Yes, there is another road. It winds down the other side of the Puncak pass toward Bandung, and curves around to head back to Jakarta. It will add at least 2 hours onto our drive. We've never driven that far. Heck, I've never driven in this country off the beaten path. We weigh our options, and choose to drive instead of waiting three hours.

The scenery is beautiful. But the roads are too harrowing for me to take much note of anything else. I drive the stick shift up and down the mountain roads. Near misses as I round curves and other trucks are driving in the middle of the road!

Bumps rattle the suspension, send the potted plants we'd purchased flying in the back seat. Tman sweeps up the dislodged dirt with his hands.

Five hours on the road. My Dad sits in the passenger seat and keeps us entertained with stories from his childhood.

Potty breaks at gas stations. I try not to think of my too-long pants dragging on the floor. Nearly scream outloud when my purse falls off the hanger onto the damp tiles. Hand sanitizer please.
We arrive home and my legs are shaking.

I'm in bed by 9pm - exhausted.

I wake to the sound of popcorn. No, not popcorn, fireworks. So many pops and booms it could be popcorn. The clock tells me it is 2012. I check on everyone. They are asleep. I decide to wake Madi.

We walk outside together to a sky lit up by fireworks. Everywhere we look, every direction, the sky is filled with light. I have never seen so many fireworks...not even on the 4th of July. Our neighbors wave and call out a "Happy New Year!" Madi and I are the only ones in our pajamas. I squeeze her shoulders, happy she is here with me.

We go inside before the fireworks have ended.

I find my husband asleep. He drove the other car today and is as tired as I am. If the fireworks haven't woken him, I decide not to wake him either.

I bend down and whisper in his ear, "Happy New Year."

Grandma and Poppy

2011-12-31T05:08:00.000-08:00

They came. My parents. They came to the other side of the world. And when I saw them in the airport, I cried, because I was so happy.

We show them Jakarta. We ride elephants. We brave the tropical heat.

We show them Puncak where the mountain sides are carpeted with emerald tea bushes, where the clouds play tag across the blue sky, and where gardens bloom.

We play croquet on the Merisole lawn. We hike the volcano to the triple waterfalls. We drive past the terraced rice fields that lay before us like a green quilt. Tufts of rice plants in perfect rows.

We watch the sunset from the Hilltop restaurant.

I remember my grandparents following my family all over the United States. From Alabama to Alaska.

And like them, my parents followed us.

We've shown them Jakarta. But nothing can compare to the love they've shown us by coming to the other side of the world.
My heart is full.

Good Tidings

2011-12-24T06:53:00.001-08:00

Today, we went to visit Lestari, an orphanage here in Indonesia. We came with presents, food, and baby supplies. I couldn't think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve morning.

I was prepared to be saddened, and perhaps a bit shaken, by the experience. But it was quite the opposite.

There are no sad faces here.

The children here are loved, kissed, and well taken care of.
They have sad stories. Sad histories. Like this fellow, who only had a father. The father had to work every day. So the boy was left by himself (age 3!) for 8-10 hours a day. His father would leave him money by his bedside to buy food. He recently came to Lestari. And he is now healthy and loved.
This is Roby. He is 1 year old today.
The woman who runs the orphanage, Ingrid, has a PhD in Social Sciences. She moved here because she wanted to make a difference. The orphanage motto is: "Always a shelter, always a home."

I left here, not feeling sad at all. I felt uplifted. There is good in the world. I saw it today. There are good people, like Ingrid, doing incredibly good things. There is beauty. There is joy. There is peace.

Merry Christmas.

My Leasie Turns 10

2011-12-21T19:24:00.001-08:00

You came this way.
Sweet from the beginning.
A nurturer even when you were two.

A tender heart.

A sunny heart.
A heart that smiles.

A lover of music, dancing, and singing.

A girl who is brave and soft at the same time.
A girl who often shows me the way.

You are an angel on earth,

and I am so blessed to be your mother.

Happy Birthday.

The Extra Package

2011-12-19T21:48:00.000-08:00

I have seen many disabled people here, many with terrible deformities. There is the street of the blind, where the blind people stand every few meters, ringing bells. There is the one legged man who walks using his able leg and two arms, bent, head down, gorilla-like. There is the woman who holds her child in a sling, pacing through the traffic in the hot midday sun.

But nothing prepared me for this.

My girls and I emerge from the shops at Myestik, each holding a bag of fabric for new dresses. I watch as a mother spreads a blanket on the cracked concrete between the line of parked cars and the gravel road. She sits down, and then I see her daughter.

I consider shielding my own daughters from this sight, steering them in a different direction. But Meya squeezes my hand, and I know she has seen.

The child on the blanket turns her head to look at us. Where a mouth and nose should be, there is only a gaping black hole. Three teeth poke out at odd angles between her eyes. She cannot close her mouth, because the hole is too large.

She turns away from us, and I see that the cleft palate is not her only burden.

Bulbous growths protrude from the side of her head and back. Large and pink, the size of grapefruits.

She snuggles into her mother, her face against her mother's chest. Just the way my own children do when they feel shy.

I cannot open my wallet fast enough. But I stare at the bills. I feel sick. What can I give that could possibly express how sorry I am? What can I give that will provide any relief? I take out the most I have ever given and offer it to the mother.

She accepts with gratitude, but I am haunted. It is not enough. I'm not sure anything would be enough.

As we drive away, I clutch at my own children, pulling them to me. I hold their perfect hands and lean against their perfect heads. My gratitude has no words. But guilt is mingled with it. Guilt at too often, too little gratitude for all I have been blessed with.

There is a sadness. I carry it with me like a package throughout the day. It fills my hands and hurts my heart. But unlike the plastic bags from Myestik, this sadness, I cannot put down.

Sometimes Jakarta breaks my heart.

Brown Paper Packages

2011-12-13T02:27:00.000-08:00

Oh the love!
Brown paper packages...

Charlotte's face pretty much sums up my feelings.

Presents with the Amazon insignia. Love boxed and shipped from the other side of the world. Karen - the care-package extraordinaire! Christmas arriving by mail.

These are a few of my favorite things.

Giving Back

2011-12-09T23:08:00.000-08:00

I stand on the balcony of the JIS module. I'm just a substitute today, so I look on as an observer, not a full-fledged participant. But I'm happy to be here, to watch what Madi does every Friday.

The students gather at the Bali stage for the morning assembly. The air is warm but not oppressive. The trees spread out above us in a giant canopy. There is a buzz of excitement as students pile their backpacks on the grass and find friends to sit next to.

A teacher takes the stage. He describes another school in Jakarta. This one is an all Indonesian speaking school. This one has no Bali stage, no shade trees, no massive funding. And we soon find out - no library. "There are 150 students," he tells us. "And only 50 books...all in English. No Indonesian fiction books in the entire school." He goes on to challenge the JIS student body to help with a book drive.

And I am moved. Moved by the problem. Moved by the blessings I take for granted...like a library filled with books for my children to read. Moved by a student body who claps their hands and pledges their help.

And I pledge too.

That night, we gather as a family and make a decision. On Monday, we will go to an Indonesian bookstore. Each of us will pick out a contribution.

Madi wants to find The Lightening Thief in Indonesian. Elise wants to find a counting board book for 1st graders. The twins will look for mysteries or Junie B. Jones. Me? I think I will look for Harry Potter...because we all deserve a little magic.

Train in Jakarta

2011-12-06T05:11:00.000-08:00

The motorcycle ride to the concert was usurped by threatening rain clouds and a flat tire (although Elise is convinced it was an answer to her prayers - she was extremely worried about her parents riding on a motorcycle).

There was no taxi to be found. They all seemed to be out of service for dinner. So we walked down the street until we found a sympathetic (non-dining) taxi driver.

Traffic was traffic. But we arrived at the venue just in time to eat a delicious dinner at a restaurant called "Grass Fed Cows."

I expected a crowd of expats. But we were definitely the minority. We stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd. Though I was stuck behind the one Indonesian with a three inch mohawk.
My only complaint was that it was soooo hot. Hot as in sweaty sweaty sweaty. I literally could have wrung out my clothes by the end.

My favorite moments:

Getting filmed for a local Indonesian morning talk show with Cherylyn, and the camera man saying "No good. Do over. This time with more emotion!"

Tanner announcing "sweat is dripping down my ankles."

Hey Soul Sister, Drops of Jupiter, Meet Virginia, Calling All Angels

Watching Patrick Monahan almost get mobbed by screaming Indonesian girls.

Holding hands with my husband while we listened to "Marry Me."

Finding and purchasing Train t-shirts that say "Train, Live in Jakarta"!!

And then there was the strange moment when I realized the people around me all knew the lyrics better than I did. And I was amazed how American pop culture has reached the far corners of even this wonderful third world country.

Indoor Snowstorm

2011-12-01T16:07:00.000-08:00

Wednesday night. The kids watched Nickelodeon in the sunroom while I perused the internet. The night was turning out to be a forgettable one. Then I read a post by Shelley, one of my favorite bloggers and friends, and it changed the course of our evening. You can read her inspiring story here.

I shut my laptop, turned off the TV, and announced, "It's snowflake time."

We pulled out our box of scissors and a stack of pristine white copy paper. I demonstrated the folding process, and soon creations were underway.
Madi experimented with tiny snowflakes. Her masterpiece was one the size of a dime.
Soon the table and floor filled with tiny paper shards and scraps.
Meya remarked that the scraps of paper scattered across the table and floor looked suspiciously like snow.

I thought of my friend Shelley, again. And made a rare spontaneous (and even rarer messy) decision.

We scooped up the scraps in our hands and moved to the open space by our front door. On the count of three we threw the paper in the air. I looked up, and for a moment, it did look like snow, fluttering down. The scraps got caught in our hair and on our shirts. We piled them up a second time and made it snow again.

Outside the mosquitoes hummed in the warm night. The call to prayer from the nearby mosque mingled with our "Cherish the Ladies" Christmas album. And thanks to a brave friend, who is helping me be a better mom, we had our very own snowstorm.

My morning drive

2011-11-29T22:43:00.000-08:00

I got stuck in traffic on the way to meet some ladies from my church for a primary presidency meeting. While we were chugging along at a snail's pace, I snapped a few pictures out my car window.

Bench for guard and driver.

Corner grocery store.

Fresh vegetables. Love the rainbow umbrella.

Thanksgiving Thoughts

2011-11-24T16:49:00.001-08:00

Our smallish friendly gathering for Thanksgiving turned into a dinner for 30 as my husband and our embassy friends learned of co-workers who had no place to go. And Thanksgiving, in my opinion, is just one of those holidays that should not be celebrated solo. So we kept saying yes and filled up our house to the brim with pies, turkeys, sides galore, an extra dining room table, 10 additional chairs, and people, people, people.

And so on this Thanksgiving, here's what I want to remember:
Pulling those 12 pound, $40 turkeys out of the oven and making sure not a morsel was wasted!
The mountain of Vanessa's rolls on my kitchen counter...
enough that everyone could have four if they wanted.
Trying delicious mangis fruit brought by an Indonesian family.
Having thirds of carrot souffle that turned out wonderfully
thanks to Megan's yummy recipe and an emergency call
to Karen in Virginia for tips.
Checking on the kids upstairs and finding them belly laughing together.
Cutting and serving pies (it was like handing out plates of love).
Finding my sweet husband and CJ taking a much deserved nap.

Standing side by side at the kitchen sink with Yuli doing dishes until late in the night. In just two months she has become an invaluable presence in our home, and also my friend.
The march of the dining room table and chairs at 10pm
from one end of the cal-de-sac to the other,
while the distant lightening turned the sky into a strobe-light.

It wasn't a cozy, relaxing Thanksgiving. There was no Macy's day parade to watch or cold weather to bundle up for.
But that's just fine.
It was a day filled with food, family, friends new and old, and
that...
...that is what makes life worth celebrating.

Perspective

2011-11-22T15:43:00.000-08:00

JIS soccer field, right before the rain storm.

I stand in the empty classroom, the students having just left.
Outside the rain comes down in steady sheets. Puddles grow before my eyes. The sound on the tin-roofed, covered walkways is thunderous.

Looking at the walkways, I remember when we first walked this campus at Madi's orientation in August. And I remember thinking "How nice that this campus has provided shade for the students as they walk from building to building."

Now looking at the pelting rain, I realize. The cover was less for shade and more for protection from the rain. There are, after all, plenty of shade trees on the campus.

I have just completed my first stint as a substitute teacher in middle school. Middle School. Now there's a place I NEVER thought I'd teach. In fact, just last year I warned my sister vehemently about taking a job in a middle school...because it is just so scary. And yet, here I am. And it isn't as intimidating as I once thought it would be. It helps, of course, that I have my very own middle school daughter, who isn't scary at all.

But it's gotten me thinking about perspective. About how experiences broaden my vision. How my perspective is not only malleable, but down right changeable.

After all, years ago, if you asked me what I thought about Jakarta Indonesia. I would have said it's a third world country somewhere in Asia.

And it is those things.
But it is also a place with warm summer-like days almost all year long.
A place with a churning sky.
A place with people who are quick to smile and just as quick to nap.
A place where the wind whispers through the palm trees.
Where fruit is fresh, abundant, and oh so sweet.
A place where I would teach middle school for the first time.
A place that for now, is home.

Sunday

2011-11-13T22:41:00.000-08:00

Morning Drive
We drive to church past the traditional Indonesian market.
A black cloud of flies hovers above the butcher block.
A live chicken struts and pecks at the ground under her hanging sisters,
pink, plucked and ready for sale.
Goats in bamboo pens bleat.
There is a truck with mangoes stacked higher than the cab
I wonder if they will spill over the side and roll down the street like marbles.
A woman wearing bright red flip flops
carries a plastic bag of newly purchased onions, garlic, and greens.

Primary Program
Four of my children are on the stand at church.
Tman looks at the congregation and speaks clearly - a huge accomplishment for him!
He peeks over the piano at me when he sits down,
I give him a thumbs up.
Meya recites most of her talk from memory.
I am not surprised - she's just that kind of girl.
Leasie talks about Jesus. And when she says she has felt His love, I know it's true.
It is Madi's eighth primary program,
and her last.
She sits with the other eleven-year-olds and narrates the program.
I look for traces of childhood still lingering on her face.
But she is more youth than child now.
She bears her testimony and teaches me.
Tears - happy tears because of the girl she has become,
and sad tears because of time's ferocious speed.

Afternoon Storm
CJ and I snuggle in my bed for an afternoon nap.
Her bare toes wiggle, tickling my knees.
We wake to darkened windows and the rumble of thunder.
I wander downstairs to find the children laughing and snuggling with Dad.
We play board games to the accompaniment of pattering rain.
Tman has a glorious win.
Leasie and I work in the kitchen together.
Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.
We blow the fuse five times trying to use the electric griddle.
We opt for the stove top.
Warm gingerbread with whipped cream.

We stay together as the stormy evening blurs into night.
Our laughter drowns out the sound of the rain.

I have lived many Sundays.
This one...
this one was one of my favorites.

DMV

2011-11-06T01:26:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago I drove home from a soccer game. Yes, I drove! In the traffic! There were screams from all passengers - mine being the loudest. And there was a collision between me and a moped carrying a huge ice block. The moped and ice block disappeared up the street before my shock even registered into an audible swear word. Our car sustained minor damage to the headlight.

After the experience, I decided it was time I became a legal, licensed driver here. Just in case.

Thus, my trip to the Indonesian DMV:

I boarded the bus at the embassy early in the morning with other eager license-seekers. The ride to the Indonesian DMV was long. I stole glances at my book while we were at a dead stop. Then watched the city roll by as we trundled along. The muddy river clogged with trash. A crane lifting trash from the water. Street after street of tin houses with laundry strung from windows.

An hour later, the bus pulled a Uturn and entered a barbed wire area. From my window I saw drainage ditches as big as baseball diamonds lined with bamboo. They conjured images of castle motes, with spears jutting out.

We unloaded into the bright sun. To say we stuck out is an understatement. All eyes were on us as we walked to the first building. Rows and rows of blue folding chairs filled a warehouse-sized room. Our Indonesian "helper" collected the first amount of money from each of us.

Now, I'm not sure how much of that money was for a bribe or the actual cost, but we circumvented the long wait and were filed into a small room for an eye exam.

Easiest eye exam ever. Three letters. The same three letters the person just before me had to repeat. Hmmmm. Could explain a lot about the traffic problems in Jakarta...I'm just sayin'.

More money. (Bribe?) And a little waiting while paper work was filled out.

More money. (Pocketed?) And a long wait.

Finally our Indonesian helper announced that the computer system was down. We have to come back tomorrow.

Really? Another 2 hour ride home. Another 2 hour ride back to the DMV tomorrow?

Me: Not a happy camper.

But bright and early the next morning, I boarded the bus again. This time the computers were working.

Here's the room where we got our picture taken. I liked the fake flowers - added a nice touch, softened the room a bit, don't you think?

And here's the result of 10 hours of riding, bribing, and waiting...

Watch out Jakarta (i.e., ice-carrying mopeds), I'm driving!

An Indonesian Halloween

2011-11-01T23:25:00.000-07:00

I think what I love about Halloween is, at least for me, it involves an entire month of preparation. (Unlike Thanksgiving, for example, where really the prep is 48 hours max.)

This year, Halloween required an extraordinary amount of forethought. It began back in August when the movers had packed up my Halloween decorations and after tears and a good 'ol temper tantrum (actually a whopper of a tantrum), I had them dig out the orange Rubbermaid boxes, unpack them, and send my gravestones and garlands with our early shipment. I know those Spanish speaking movers went home to their families with stories of a loco lady who cried over fabric ghosts - but it was worth it!

On October 1st, Tman enlisted the help of our driver, Abidin, to hang up the ghosts on our front porch. Together, they strung the rope-web between our house and tree and carefully mounted the big, hairy, black spider.

Then of course, there were the costumes. Decisions. Decisions. We've always done family-themed costumes every other year. And this year was a theme year. I figured, this might be the last year I can convince my family to do a theme, so I wanted to make the most of it. And oh it was fun to visit a tailor and get custom-made costumes.

Alice in Wonderland ("We're all a little mad here") seemed the perfect theme for our first Indonesian Halloween. Not pictured: my husband who was an Ace of Spades soldier for all of fifteen fun minutes.

The kids enacted their favorite scenes from both the Disney and Tim Burton movies in our back yard. Meya's "Off with her head!" was by far the most authentic.

I had this plan to have a "small" dinner with friends before trick-or-treating on Halloween night. And as with most holiday plans, it grew and grew until we had a full-on PARTY. No less than 30 kids and 14 adults came. Yuli and I worked in the kitchen side by side for 3 hours getting all the food ready. I served Karen's award winning white chili, mummy hotdogs, bat cupcakes, fresh papaya and dragon fruit, and homemade pumpkin doughnuts. Friends brought witches brew, pumpkin soup, more chili, and lots of treats.

With full tummies, we poured out of our house into the dark night. The streets were damp from an afternoon thunderstorm. Peels of laughter could be heard as children approached the more "scarily" decorated houses. There was no traffic in our gated neighborhood, so the children walked from house to house and crossed streets, with no worries. It was a strange sight, strange in its familiarity.

Only the air did not feel Halloweeny - it was humid and warm, more like a summer night. But everything else felt just right. Children. Costumes. Smiling neighbors. Cobwebs spread over bushes and trees.

And of course plenty of candy.

It is a strange holiday to get emotional about. But there they were...a few stray tears just as we walked back to our house and ducked under the ghosts on the front porch. Perhaps it was the result of familiarity lapsing into a bit of homesickness. Perhaps it was gratitude for friends and traditions here on the other side of the world.

Most likely, it was both.

What does she do all day?

2011-10-30T02:41:00.000-07:00

Last week at work my husband was asked "What does your wife do all day?" I'm pretty sure, this question was in reference to the fact that since moving to Jakarta our family has hired a full time pembantu who does most of the housework.

Over the last couple days, I've thought about that very question. What do I do? And is what I do of value?

The literal answer to the first question is:

I get up at 5:30AM, make breakfast, have a family prayer and get the kids off to school. Then I exercise for one hour (aka my therapy time).

From 9:30AM to 2:30PM I mainly take care of three year old CJ which includes getting on the floor and playing with her, doing puzzles, reading books, swimming at the pool, and occasionally teaching preschool. There's also grocery shopping, volunteering at school, and church responsibilities.

2:30 to bedtime, I greet the kids when they get off the bus, I make after-school snacks, I help with homework, I make dinner, I take kids to and from soccer practice, I spend time with my family, I pack lunches for the next day, I read aloud from a chapter book to the kids, we read scriptures together, have a family prayer, and I tuck each of my children into bed.

The answer to the second question (is what I do of value?) is simple.

Yes.

Sure, I don't bring in any money. And I'm not contributing to any business, government, or corporation. But I believe what I'm doing, and what every mom does, is vitally important. Being a mom is full time job, even without the laundry and house cleaning. I'm creating a home. I'm raising five amazing children into five independent, talented, incredible people.

So what do I do all day?

I mother. And I LOVE my job.

Mayestik!

2011-10-24T17:22:00.000-07:00

Mayestik: An Indonesian plaza with every fabric under the sun. Satin. Polyester. Cotton. Silk. Raw silk. Brushed silk. Chiffon. Linen. Wool. Every color imaginable.

Meya and I literally wade through meters of fabric looking for the perfect black and red for her Halloween costume. We are handed disposable cups with sealed lids - there is no air conditioning. We sip water through our straws as we search. My broken Bahasa Indonesian coupled with their limited English and we leave the store with a bag of our material.

Next stop is the one-stop-shop of everything else. You want ribbon? They've got ribbon!

You want buttons?
A whole room...four huge walls, floor to ceiling of buttons!
It is like a treasure hunt. Definitely a new favorite spot in Jakarta.

Happiness is...

2011-10-12T18:08:00.000-07:00

We drive in the car past the buildings whose tops touch the yellowish sky. We take the toll road for a mere twenty cents. In the back seat of the car, the kids fight over the two leapsters. Really CJ creates the biggest scene as she screams when it's not her turn to use the leapster. But fifteen minutes into the drive, her head bobs and her eyelids droop. And I'm glad I decided to give her the full dose of Dramamine.

Soon the sky scrapers and the smog is behind us. And all I see are fields and red tile-roof houses. Banana trees line the highway. My husband and I share the ipod, one ear bud each.

Once we enter the town of Bogor we catch glimpses of mountain peaks. Purple and gray mountains playing peek-a-boo behind the fluffy white clouds. As we begin the ascent of the mountain, driving the switch backs, my stomach lurches. The steep mountain side is cultivated with tea plants, shrubs the size of azalea bushes with lime green new leaves.

The vacation house perches on a mountain ledge surrounded by a lawn of true green grass just begging for us to play a game of soccer (which we do). I breathe deeply and it's as though my lungs are tasting the sweetness of the air.

I have four days of wonderful moments (mingled, of course, with all the crazy that comes with five children).

I sit on the porch with my husband and laugh at the kids as they play tag on the grass. The clouds float in, coating the yard in white gossamer. The clouds touch my childrens' heads and settle amongst the trees.

I watch my children climb six foot tall tree roots as though they're playing on a jungle gym.

I gasp as my two most brave children, Madi and Tman, lunge in the pool at the base of the waterfall and then stick their heads under the falling water.
I scream at the animal snouts and trunks and faces coming through the car windows at Taman Safari - and I watch my husband laugh so hard he goes into a coughing fit.

I run (but mostly walk because it is so dang steep) along mountain roads with my husband in the morning. I watch him barter with a local to purchase a painting on canvas of the mountain we've so enjoyed.

Happiness is hiking for two hours and feeling the spray of a waterfall brush against my cheeks like a million kisses. Happiness is hearing the kids fight in the car followed by the peace of all of them sleeping. Happiness is wrestling a three-year old in the tub, trying to get her clean followed by a fire crackling in the fireplace, cuddling on the couch, hot chocolate, and a good movie. Happiness is being wakened way too early by CJ who pat pat pats into my room and climbs into bed with me. Happiness is the morning mist that pools in the mountain valleys. Happiness is Tman crying in the car because he's scared of the animals at Taman Safari. And then watching him gather his courage and reach a carrot out to a zebra.

Happiness is the mess of screaming children and the music of their laughter. It is exhaustion mingled with satisfaction. It is the good and bad rolled into one. It is knowing the peace because I've known the crazy. It is recognizing beauty because I've seen the horribly sad. It is savoring clean air because I've breathed the smog. Happiness is the bitter, sour, and sweet. And it's only during those moments of clarity when I truly see this, that happiness comes fuller, and sweeter, and sooner.

Good Things

2011-10-05T00:08:00.001-07:00

Tman and I visited the commissary this week. We found Thomas bagels and english muffins! Heaven! I did a happy dance right there in the corner of the store. Tman refused to join me in my public celebration. Though thoroughly embarrassed of my boogieing, he still wanted to take my picture.

And oh the cheers I received when the rest of the kids came home from school. Bagel sandwiches galore.

There are no coin operated "rides" at the local malls and shopping centers here. But! I found this at one of the Carrefore stores: a pedal-operated ride. The swans and cars go up and down as the man pumps the bicycle. And the bike operator will even turn on music with his cell phone if you pay a little extra. Music and a ride - the Jakarta way! This is a good thing.
Finally, though the calendar says it's October, it is a little difficult to feel autumny when it is a balming 80 degrees outside. And palm trees swaying in the breeze just don't do the same thing to me as the vibrant autumn colors. Still, I opened all my Halloween boxes and decorated the house with garlands, pumpkins, and all things fallish. For family home evening, we ate caramel apples thanks to Karen who shipped me a caramel apple kit from Virginia. So even through it may not look or feel like autumn, we still were able to enjoy some autumn family traditions. And that...that is a very good thing.

Seven years later...

2011-09-29T03:27:00.001-07:00

Seven years ago I taught my first preschool class. A group of my peers, all with three-year-old children, started a home preschool. We were young. Bright-eyed. Eager. All first-time mommies. I think we opted for the official "Joy School" program designed by the Eyre's. I have fond memories of the experience, mostly because of dear friends.

But my memory of that time also holds a lot of unseen angst (unseen, that is, hopefully from my peers and co-preschool moms). At that time in my life, getting ready for preschool was a monumental chore. On a preschool morning when I was teaching, I stormed around the house, picking up, shoving clutter in closets, agonizing over the snack, organizing the craft supplies so that everything was exactly ready, wielding Madi's hair in perfect pigtail-buns, and stashing away Madi's "special" toys that I knew she wouldn't want to share. Stress comes to mind. Stress and ironically, not much joy.

By the time the children arrived, I glued a smile on my face. But inside I was exhausted from the self-imposed stress.

Seven years later (and half a world away)...I get a last shot at doing a preschool with my youngest child. This week I taught my first class.

On this last-first preschool morning, there was no sign of a storm. Not even a drizzle. I prepared the crafts at the last minute with stuff I had on hand (cotton ball clouds and puff ball catapillars as pictured below).

Toys littered the playroom. But hey, that's what a playroom is for, right? Snack was simple. And when the children arrived, I greeted them with a smile. Not glued on. I was actually happy to see them.

So why the change? I'm not sure. Maybe I could chalk it up to experience-I've since taught everything from preschool to college. Or maybe I've adapted to the chaos of my own five children - so a preschool with four three-year-olds is no big deal. It could be that I know this is my last child, and therefore, my last home preschool. Or maybe I've just learned to let go of the need for perfection over non-important things. Whatever the reason, the day was delightful.

As I read "The Quiet Cricket" to the four children sitting cross-legged on the rug, I felt a deep sense of joy. They asked me to read the spittle bug page again and again...I read it four times in a row and they belly laughed each time.

So this is what home preschool can be! Seven years later, I'm finally enjoying the experience.

Fruit Find

2011-09-23T19:55:00.000-07:00

"Let's try a new fruit every week!" Madi says as we walk down the aisle at Grand Lucky grocery store. Crates on either side of us are piled high with foreign fruits. Sure we can find familiar ones against the far wall like Gala apples, Sunkist oranges, bananas, and pineapples. But the rest of the fruit section is a maze of new sights, bright colors, and fragrant smells. To our right is a bin of various melons, mostly green. A few cantaloupes labeled "rock melons" (they do look like rocks, don't you think?) peek out.

To our left is a pile of yellow angular fruit the size of a mango. Star fruit. I'd tried it in a salad at a restaurant a week ago and was already a fan! We buy four.

Once home, we fill a large bowl with bottled water and add a squirt of fruit wash. We add the star fruit and wash them thoroughly. Next we transfer the fruit to a colander and rinse them with more bottled water. Then...we sliced them.

Oohs and ahs as the stars accumulate on the plate. "They're beautiful!" Leasie says.

They are. Can you believe nature has created such a beautiful fruit? (Am I the only person who has never heard of these before moving here?)

We each take a slice and bite. The texture is like a firm tomato. But the flesh is fruity with a tart kick. Refreshing.

Love this fruit find.

Different

2011-09-22T03:19:00.001-07:00

Before living here, I'd considered myself a pretty well-traveled gal. I traveled to Russia and Poland in high school with the choir and band. And when in college, I completely lucked out and was asked to be TA of London's Study Abroad. Check England and Scotland (twice). But having lived here for almost two months, I realize that my "world" experience was extremely limited...and sheltered. I can't even really count England and Scotland as different cultures, right?

But here. Everything feels different. Take for instance, the way garbage is collected. People put their trash out. But not in cans. It just goes though a hole in people's gates and sits on the side of the streets. Often un-bagged. Just a pile of garbage. (Don't get me started on the rodent problem.)

Then the garbage is collected daily by a garbage man like the one shown below (I snapped this picture on my run this morning). They load the garbage in the hand-pulled wagons and walk to the neighborhood dump - nothing more than an enclosed vacant lot. So different.

But then I'll have moments of absolute sameness. Today I walked through the Ponduk Indah mall and walked by a Gap, a Wendy's, and a Krispy Cream store. The floors were polished and shiny. The overhead lights, bright and modern. I could have just as well been at the Dulles Town Center mall. Sometimes during these moments, my head spins, and I'm not sure whether to be grateful or sad.
And then there's a mix. This morning, I came across this group of Indonesian boys. They were on break at school. While their classmates bought snacks from the booths across the street, they were playing in the water by the flower stall. They giggled as one boy removed his sandal and inserted a hose. Water squirted out like it was going through a sieve. The playfulness was exactly like something Tman would do if given the chance.

I paused to watch them in the morning sun before starting my run.

Different and same all in a single moment. While the differences out number the similarities, it's the unexpected sameness-those on a personal, human level, that make me glad I'm here.

My New Running Route

2011-09-12T17:28:00.000-07:00

I walk through the gate that separates our section of the neighborhood from the rest. I greet the three guards, "Salamat Pagi" good morning. They flash their smiles - Indonesians have wonderful smiles - and return the greeting. One calls out, "You go jogging?" (his English is much superior to my Indonesian.)

I walk past the grocery store where the parking lot is already buzzing with mopeds and vehicles.

The road is wet and I splash across the giant puddles. The man holding the hose smiles.

I start running through the neighborhood, criss-crossing through the narrow streets. Most of the houses are fenced off from the road with cement barriers nearly as tall as castle walls.

I approach my favorite tree with the vines hanging down. I jump up and swipe at them with the palm of my hand.

Flowers adorn walkways, trees, bushes, gates, and walls. Almost everywhere I look there are flowers of some kind. It is strange to see flowers blooming in cracked pots and growing along crumbling sidewalks. Life and beauty in the midst of disrepair and decay.
My lungs begin to burn. Not from exertion but from the exhaust coming from the cars and modpeds. I get stuck behind a bus. Black smoke plumes from its exhaust pipe. I stop and cover my mouth and nose till it passes.

I feel grit in my teeth when I bite down.
I finish my run by turning at a flower shop. My shoes splash in the puddles. I notice that there are fresh blue hydrangeas. My favorite. They remind me of home. I will be coming back later today ready to bargain.

I slow to a walk. I raise my face to the warm sun which is high in the sky even though it is not yet 9AM. I squint into the brightness and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

It is not my Virginia run by any means. But it is a run. And that is good enough for me.

To be 3...

2011-09-08T03:26:00.000-07:00

You wake up early and come to find me, calling "Mommy, I awake!"

You ask for bananas, cookies, and Welch's fruit snacks on a regular basis.

You sing for absolutely no reason at all. And your songs are usually about what's going on around you. For example: "I swinging at the playground...I eating my lunch...you making me angry."

You love this banana tree at Madi's school - it is just your size.

You just about killed me with the potty training. But on your third birthday, you just decided to be potty trained. It was like flipping a light switch. You haven't had an accident since. Thank you for that special birthday present!

You can't wait to be a big girl and go to school like your brother and sisters. You love living in a neighborhood here in Indonesia where friends are just a short walk away.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like without you. And I confess, I allow myself to imagine moments of delicious solitude doing exactly what I want to do. But then you come and climb in my lap, look up at me with your big brown eyes, and say, "Mommy you my best friend." And I am grateful for you - more than any free time I could ever have.

So thank you for being my partner as we figure out the Jakarta grocery stores together. Thank you for being my taxi companion. Thank you for letting me read to you and swim with you. Thank you for asking me to take you on walks so we can discover new "tropical flowers."

You are sunshine. You are the glue that keeps our family laughing together.

My life would be so lonely without you.

What Indonesia is doing to me

2011-09-04T02:34:00.000-07:00

(Disclaimer: Most of this blog will sound awfully whiny, because, well, it is. But stick with it, or simply skip to the end).

Saturday was busy from the start. We had to get Tman to the JIS fields by 9:30AM for a soccer game. That meant leaving the house at 8:30 because A) we needed to navigate to JIS with my husband driving and B) you just can't predict the traffic, so better safe than late. It was a stressful drive, we made a couple wrong turns and then when we finally arrived, the guards at the gate wouldn't let us in because we didn't have a parking sticker. Who knew we needed a parking sticker? Tman and I jumped out of the car and ran to the fields while my husband sorted out the parking.

The morning was HOT HOT HOT with a cloudless sky and plenty of humidity. I entertained the four children in the shade of the bleachers while my husband cheered for Tman on the sidelines. CJ, who has decided that she doesn't want to wear diapers anymore (yay), but hasn't figured out potty training completely (ugh), poohed in her pants. I tromped across two fields with her to get to a bathroom and change her. Let's just say, by the end of the soccer game, I was not the cheeriest soul.

We had just an hour at home before needing to turn around and head back to the fields for Madi's soccer game. After getting lost...again...we finally arrived only to find out that we were half hour late for the game (I had read the email wrong!) Huge failure on my part which I felt horrible about. Madi played the second half of the game.

By the afternoon, I was ready for a break. Some pampering. Something!

So we joined two other mommy daughter teams and headed to a spa. Halleluiah! My heels have been dry and ugly for a month and the nail polish on my toes has been chipped for weeks. We arrived at the spa and I plopped in a chair. Turns out they only had one pedicurist...and she was already busy with a client. That was okay. I could wait in the peace and quiet.

My friends and daughters opted for other spa treatments: reflexology and a hair cream treatment. But I was going to hold out for a pedicure. One hour went by. Two hours went by. I asked the receptionist in broken Indonesian what was taking so long. The pedicurist was also doing a manicure AND a color job on the client. That was okay. I was still willing to wait.

And wait I did. Three hours went by. Everyone else drove home while I waited, patiently. I planned to just take a cab home. Finally I got my pedicure. And I confess, it was lovely. Almost worth the three hour wait. Almost.

I gave the receptionist my credit card to pay. But it didn't work in their machine. Embarrassed, I asked where the nearest ATM was. Luckily, it was close. I went downstairs to an ATM to pull out cash. But it didn't like my card, either! Panicked, I called my dear, sweet husband for help. I waited for another 40 minutes for him to arrive with cash.

Five hours after I arrived at the spa, I returned home. Grumpier than ever. I felt so sorry for myself. All I'd wanted was a nice time to relax and recharge. Surely I deserved some perks for living in Jakarta.

Today in church was testimony meeting. We were late (which drives me crazy) and there wasn't enough room on any benches for our family to sit together. I was ready to throw my hands up in the air and call it quits for the day.

Soon after the meeting began however, an elderly Indonesian man stood to bare his testimony. He stood straight and tall at the podium. His deep voice resonated in the chapel. I was in the middle of mental whining, when he said the following, "When I was growing up here in Jakarta, my parents didn't have very much. They didn't have enough money to send me to school. And they didn't have enough money to buy me clothes. But they loved me. And I knew it."

My mental whining was silenced as the magnitude of his humble statement hit me full force. I am so blessed. I have been blessed my entire life. Here, I had spent most of my weekend complaining and sulking, about trivial things like traffic, potty training, and (I'm ashamed) waiting for a pedicure, when I should have been counting my blessings.

And I realized at that moment that I have two choices. I can let Indonesia and all of its challenges turn me into an unhappy, whiny person. Or I can let Indonesia and all of its humble, wonderful people, turn me into a grateful person.

For now, I choose the latter. And hopefully, with practice, it will become habit.

Happy Idul Fitri

2011-08-30T20:32:00.000-07:00

We got the green light to move into our house in Kemang early. A family needed our temporary housing, and so everything got sped up.

We spent the day before Idul Fitri (the Muslim equivalent to our Christmas Eve) moving our stuff back and forth. Not an easy task. The temp apartment was on the 27th floor. Elevator rides are one part of our temp housing that I will not miss. My husband navigated the roads between the two places. Thank goodness the roads were mostly empty because of the holiday. Our car is right hand drive and we have to drive on the left side of the road. He did great...and I didn't scream even once.

By evening we were tired and hungry. I was not up to cooking and cleaning up after a meal. So we got back in the car and drove around trying to find a restaurant that was open. We drove by this KFC.

But we opted for a more Indonesian restaurant - it was Idul Fitri, afterall. We found a restaurant that serves a mix of Indonesian and western food. The kids ordered mashed potatoes and you'd have thought they were eating ice cream sundaes. I opted for gado gado - a delicious Indonesian salad served with a spicy peanut sauce.

By the time we got back to our house, it was dark. Some of the neighborhood families had gathered as one family shot off fireworks. These weren't the wimpy kind you can get in Virignia. These were the real thing! Huge booms.

We watched as the sky lit up with color. And once again, CJ thought they were just for us.

Soccer at Sunset

2011-08-26T23:33:00.000-07:00

We wind our way through the maze of bungalows at Jakarta International School. After an hour-long ride in traffic, it feels good to move faster than slug-pace. The air is warm. And from over the high cement wall that borders the campus comes the smell of charcoal. Madi thinks someone is cooking hotdogs - but I'm sure it's saute. Either way, it smells familiar, like a summer barbeque.

We finally find the field (there are at least four large playing fields on the JIS campus). Coach Tim is from Holland with a beautiful accent to match. We meet the other team members...Sindre is from Norway and Ruben is the coach's son. We're guessing Nicholas is Italian because of his dark hair and accent. There is also an Indonesian boy who stops warm-ups to break his fast. Madilyn is the only girl tonight. There's another girl on the roster, but she didn't come.

The trainer leads them through drills until all of them are breathing deeply and drinking water. The field is large - football sized. Stadium lights flicker on and hum in the evening air. Bats dart and dive above the field.

The boys hold back, probably not sure how to interact with Madi. They are tentative at first. But after she scores two goals in their scrimmage, they treat her as an equal player...and don't give her an inch.

I watch her sprint across the field chasing down the ball. She fights for the ball. She wins some and loses some. I know she will learn a lot playing at this level.

It is a bit surreal to watch Madi and consider that here we are, on the other side of the world, playing soccer.

I lean back, rest my hands on the cement stairs, and look up. There are no stars. And the night sky is a rich shade of plum.

Favorite Day (So Far)

2011-08-21T05:00:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, we took the embassy city tour of Jakarta. I really needed this break from the daily routine. As a side note, the daily struggle of just figuring everything out from food shopping, to getting taxis to and from everywhere, to learning the quirks of my apartment oven and washing machine (and not knowing the language!!) has taken its toll. I'm exhausted.

But today, today was a welcomed break! Finally, a chance to explore a little bit of this huge city. (I apologize for the tininess of the pics - I had to use the camera on my iphone because we packed our other camera's cables in the shipment - this will have to do for now).

We visited Istiqlal Mosque near the city center. It is the third largest mosque in the world! Jakarta is 85% Muslim. Since we hear the call to prayer five times a day, it was interesting to get a look inside.

Here are Madi and Elise in the mosque's courtyard.

We also visited Jakarta's national monument. I know you can't tell from my brilliant photography skills (sarcasm), but the monument looks a lot like the Washington monument. We took a non-air conditioned elevator to the top. We were smashed together like cattle and I really thought I was going to throw up. Wouldn't that have been lovely? But the view from the top was amazing. There is no end to this huge city...from every direction as far as I could see, there were more buildings.
My favorite part of the day was a visit to the old part of Jakarta. We ate at a fabulous restaurant called Cafe Batavia. It was like stepping back in time. Big Band music, wicker furniture, large overhead fans spinning lazily, guests sipping fruit drinks from tall thin glasses - picture Casablanca (but in Asia).

After lunch we explored the puppet museum next door. Here's a shadow puppet demonstration. It was in Indonesian, but the girls and I belly-laughed at the fight scene. The sound effects were hilarious.
Here's the main square of the old city us. Behind us were rows of bicycles to rent (each bike had a fancy sun hat to go with it).
At the end of the afternoon, we bought streamers on sticks from a local Indonesian. He showed the girls how to make the streamers flip, twirl, and wiggle in the air. The girls twirled the colorful ribbons all the way to the bus.

The Unexpected "Walk"

2011-08-17T04:46:00.000-07:00

We told the taxi driver to stop and let us out. We'd gone around the same block three times. (Even I knew we were driving in a circle). I've decided to believe that the taxi driver was more lost than us. I refuse to get cynical and think that he was just out to make a couple more dollars.

"Di sini?" he said (here?).

"Di sini," my husband repeated.

We opened the door and spilled out of the blue cab onto the broken sidewalk. We were on our way to the American Club, and we knew we were close. With swim bags slung over our shoulders, and CJ asleep in my husband's arms we started to walk. Huge trees, that crumbled the sidewalk and asphalt with their trunks, shaded the street. There was no traffic because it was a holiday, and we were well away from any main thoroughfares.

We stepped over large holes in the sidewalk where the cement or brick was missing.

We walked by two men sleeping on their push carts. Their feet were bare and as black as the asphalt. We walked by a tree that held a miniature tree house in its branches - pet monkeys? We didn't stick around to find out. Two bird cages swung from low branches holding a pair of doves.

I had the distinct feeling that if my mom could see us wandering around this strange neighborhood, she would get on a plane that instant and come take her grandchildren home. But I didn't feel unsafe, just completely out-of-place.

We walked into a crowd of Indonesian teenagers all wearing red shirts (in honor of their Independence Day). There is no drinking or smoking age limit here, and it was strange to see such young kids smoking cigarettes as they leaned against their bicycles.

I smiled and greeted them, "Selamat Siang." Good afternoon.

"Siang." They replied and smiled back.

We found the club. It was close, just like we thought. We walked through the guarded gates and passed through the thick cement wall. We spent the rest of the afternoon swimming in a crystal blue pool. We dined on hamburgers, hot dogs, and milkshakes - a taste of home. We laughed and enjoyed spending time with new friends who we've known less than a week.

It really was a lovely afternoon. But tonight as I think about my day, what sticks with me the most is our unexpected walk. And seeing both sides of the wall.

Sunday

2011-08-14T14:15:00.001-07:00

We piled into a blue bird cab in our Sunday best. (The cab size is similar to a Civic). We were just a tiny bit squished, with a few lap-sitters. But cabs are our only choice until we find a car. So we rolled with it!

The roads were eerily empty at 7:30AM. We've been used to bumper to bumper traffic and hoards of mopeds. So it felt strange, but oh so nice, to drive at 40 mph down the streets.

All throughout Jakarta are huge bronze statues. But this is my favorite so far. It is called the Pacoran Statue and it represents the Indonesian airforce. We saw it on our way to church...and would you believe, he's pointing the way to our LDS chapel!

Amidst concrete buildings, and various stores, there it was, an LDS church building. A sight so familiar, down to the golden insignia sign (of course this one was in Indonesian). I got a bit choked up pulling into the parking lot.
We were warmly welcomed by everyone. We took our seats on a cushioned pew and opened up a green hymn book to sing the opening song. "Go Forth with Faith." The significance was not lost on me.

There are only two primary classes here: Junior (ages 2 to 7) and Senior (ages 8 to 11). It looked like there were about 20 children total. Madi wasn't sure how she felt about being in the same class as the 8 year olds. But I told her it was good chance to be a leader and example, right? And the twins echoed the sentiment about being in the same class with 4 year olds. But they emerged from their classes happy to have met some new people.

My favorite moment of the day was sitting in Relief Society. There were only about ten of us - but there were women from all over the world. I sat next to the sweetest Australian sister who has lived here for six years. There was someone from the Philippines, a woman from Tonga, an Indonesian sister, and the rest from the states. We sang "As Sisters in Zion" and that song has never rung truer for me.

"As sisters in Zion we'll all work together,
The blessings of God on our labors we seek.
We'll build up His Kingdom with earnest endeavor
We'll comfort the weary and strengthen the weak."

Out the window, I could see the palm branches swaying in the morning wind. My tears of gratitude flowed freely. And I didn't wipe them away.

Cooking

2011-08-13T01:25:00.001-07:00

I'd been warned that cooking in Indonesia would take more time. Many newly arrived people opt for take-out and restaurants for the first week, just until they get settled. But with school starting for the kids and my philosophy about food (it's all about the love), I was bound and determined to make some home-cooked meals.

First meal: Mac&Cheese.

Easy, right?

I had brought a box of good 'ol Kraft Mac&Cheese in my suitcase. The kids were hungry, CJ was crying because she was tired-we'd just gotten back from a school orientation. So I whipped out my box of Mac&Cheese. Cheers all around!

I cooked those noodles and was just about to add the mix, when I suddenly realized I had cooked the noodles in tap water, not bottled water. Here in Indonesia, you can't even eat/drink the boiled water; it's still too dangerous. I didn't dare risk it - though I confess, I considered it for a moment. So the Mac&Cheese was ruined. I dumped the inedible noodles in the garbage. And I cried just a little bit.

The kids were greatly disappointed - there may have been some tears. We had Ramen instead.

Second attempt: Taco night.

Easy, right?

It's my go-to fastest meal. In the states I can have it on the table in 10 minutes flat.

Not here.

First, I had to soak the tomatoes and lettuce in the vegetable wash and rinse them with bottled water. The lettuce had to be done leaf by leaf. (20 minutes) Next, I cooked the meat and was ready to tear open a seasoning packet...uh oh, no seasoning packet. I made up my own mix (thank goodness I had mailed my spices ahead of time). (10 minutes) Time to grate the cheese from the block of cheese I had frozen and brought in my suitcase. Uh oh, no cheese grater. My husband cut the cheese in fine pieces (10 minutes). Tortillas which I'd brought in my suitcase - check.

40 minutes later dinner was on the table. At least I didn't have to go out and butcher a cow.

Since those first two experiences I have made pumpkin muffins (actually found Libby's canned pumpkin in a grocery store!) and pancakes (topped with Lisa's delicious homemade thimbleberry jam). So I'm getting there.

But next time you fill your pot with water from the tap--or rip open a bag of shredded cheese--or rinse your vegetables with plain water, think of me. And be grateful. :-)

First Impressions

2011-08-09T14:11:00.000-07:00

We sit around a table in the Hong Kong airport and share a bowl of steaming noodles. Tman uses his chopsticks like spears, jabbing at the noodles. Leasie twists the noodles around her chopsticks the same way she twists her hair around her finger. We all agree it is the yummiest breakfast. Beyond the airport, the sun rises over of the emerald mountains.

My first view of Jakarta from the plane's window is of rows of orange-tiled roofs amidst clusters of swaying palm trees.

Red flowers on a tree. Petals the size of my hand.

A man walks in socks carrying buckets of wet cement.

Dinner is delivered by our sponsor (aka our angel). The chocolate chip cookies are still warm. I shed a few grateful tears and eat three.

Mopeds swarm the streets like insects, buzzing, passing, dodging, suicidal. I actually scream on the way from the airport to the apartment because I am sure we are going to hit one of them. (The driver does not appreciate my vocal concern).

I listen to my husband converse in Indonesian, and I am humbled by the work he has done to allow our family to come here.

Grocery store - nothing is in English. Nothing is familiar. I search through foreign looking fruits and veggies to find something as simple as carrots and apples. "Overwhelmed" doesn't even come close. (Perhaps we should have waited a couple days to brave the grocery store instead of going two hours after we'd arrived in Jakarta! You think?)

The dichotomy: Elegant fountains on one side of the road, and on the other, a canal with garbage extending five feet from its bank. Palatial apartment buildings with marble floors next to shacks pieced together with sheets of tin. A man with only one arm and one leg begs in the middle of the road during evening rush hour. He teeters on a crude, handmade crutch while collecting change. Minutes later we are walking through a mall passing high-end stores like Gucci and Prada. The dichotomy is unsettling and tugs and my heart until I want to cry. I don't know how to reconcile the polarity in my conscience.

The first night, we stand as a family at our window on the 27th floor and look at the city lights. Somewhere someone shoots off fireworks. We look down, instead of up, to see them. CJ thinks they are just for us - welcoming us here.

We are so very grateful for this experience.

Last Run

2011-08-06T04:37:00.000-07:00

The gravel crunched under my asics. I ran by the red roofed barns and the grazing black cows. I passed the clump of black-eyed susans, with their gold petals and their fuzzy gumdrop centers. The sky held ribbons of overcast gray and the oak trees towered above me. My favorite road to run on.

To the tunes of Ingrid Michaelson on my ipod, I gave myself over to a moment of sadness. Not because I will miss this road (though I will), but because I am so grateful for the time I've been given.

I've decided that everyone should experience a significant move. Not for the boxes, sorting, cleaning, headaches, backaches, and tremendous amount of work. But because when you know you are leaving, you savor everything.

In the last two weeks, I've been given the gift of time to savor this place and especially the people here. I've savored the hugs, the farewell dinners, the affection and love that sits on the surface of every conversation and every goodbye. I have savored the stolen minutes of time with friends--reminiscing, cheering for our SYTYCD favorites, gingerbread cakes, trips to the pool, playdates for the kids, and yes, even packing into the wee hours of the night (thank you Lisa!)

And the biggest gift of all. Amelia's eyes. Healed. Perfectly. And so our extended time here has truly be a gift.

So I gave myself over to tears as I ran this morning. And for a small moment I allowed myself to wonder, how can I leave this place and these people who have been so good to me? And I wondered how these next two years will change me. Surely I'll have more wrinkles, but will I also have more gratitude, more charity, more savoring moments? I hope so.

And so, farewell road. Until next time, when my feet pound the gravel. And I again get to listen to morning crickets and breathe in the Virginia air. When I'm surrounded by hellos instead of goodbyes.

Until then, I will miss you.

Love...on a baking sheet

2011-07-28T17:00:00.000-07:00

I could smell the orange rolls even before she opened the door. She greeted us with a smile and a hug and led us into her kitchen. A baking sheet sat in the center of the table. An entire baking sheet of warm, orange rolls. Perfect bow knot-yeast rolls, drizzled with orange glaze. Her specialty.

The kids and I eagerly sat around the table. (There may have been a little drooling.)

"The entire sheet is for you," she said. Then as we began to eat, she got out glasses and poured cold milk.

You know how I feel about food and love. Here it was, an entire baking sheet of love.

I ate three. Yes, three! And I licked my fingers.

Oh, how I will miss these orange rolls for the next two years (I just have NOT mastered the yeast roll technique). But, I will miss the baker so much more.

I know today was part of a goodbye, though neither of us wanted to talk about it. So instead we looked at pictures of Jakarta's hazy skyline. We laughed at CJ's antics. And I used her computer to send photos to Costco. It was like every other wonderful moment I've spent in her kitchen.

There is a rare moment in a friendship when the lines between friend and family become blurred. For me, the moment occurs when I no longer clean my house for their arrival. And this friend has seen it all. She's seen the breakfast dishes on my kitchen table at three o'clock in the afternoon. She's seen not only the dust and messes of my closets, but all the skeletons too. She's seen me at my worst and loved me anyway. We've laughed together, cried together, cleaned together, traveled to NYC together (twice!!), run together, and shared delicious meals together over the past seven years.

I tried not to think about any of this as we sat in her kitchen. It would have made me too sad to leave. So instead, I enjoyed the comfort of absolute familiarity. And I breathed deeply, inhaling the delicious citrus scent.

Home

2011-07-27T04:04:00.000-07:00

Meya stood in the middle of the room, barefoot. Water dripped from her freshly washed haired onto her pajamas. We were just about to begin the nighttime routine: book, prayer, lullaby. But her nose became pink and her eyes filled with tears.

"I want to go home, Mom."

I know what she was asking for. She wanted to return to our house on Ivandale St. But it was more than that...it wasn't just the place she was missing. She was longing for the stability and familiarity associated with the house we moved out of two weeks ago.

I held her and rocked her and I tried to convince her that "home" is wherever our family is. She calmed down enough so that I could continue with the routine. I tucked her into an unfamiliar bed and said goodnight.

Home. I've been thinking a lot about it - even before Meya brought it up.

This will be the 10th move (as in moving to a completely different state) I've gone through in my life. Six of them happened before I graduated from high school and headed off to another state for school. And I can say with conviction that every place I've lived was, for a time, home.

Walls. Plaster. Timbers. An address. These things have very little to do with a home.

Traditions. Routines. Love. Laughter. Work. People. These are what makes a home.

And so as I go through this transient part of our travels--hopping from hotel to hotel, living at friends' houses, and arriving at temporary quarters in Jakarta--I will try to help my children not feel homeless. We're bringing home with us wherever we go.

Warm Bread with Butter

2011-07-11T16:16:00.000-07:00

I was doing fine. Really. 36 hours till the movers would arrive.

The house looked like a tornado had blown through (still does). Piles everywhere. And I was trying really hard to keep it together emotionally. I even laughed a couple times today.

Then at 6pm tonight, someone knocked on my door. It was a friend, her arms laden with a hot dinner for our family. Chicken straight off the grill, steamed broccoli, brown rice pilaf, and watermelon. She walked through my disaster of boxes, bags, piles, and debris, the smell of dinner wafting behind her.

We cleared a spot on my dining room table and hunted for the paper products that were hiding under some boxes of Macaroni and Cheese.

And then she uncovered the bread. Hot from the oven. I burst into tears--surprising myself. I guess I was more stressed than I was allowing myself to acknowledge. The dinner was such a gift!

I had planned on frozen pizza, instead my family ate, among other things, warm bread with butter. And I sat down and enjoyed every bite.

Rolling with the Punches

2011-07-07T04:01:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we found out that Meya needs surgery on her eyes. She has a similar condition that Tman had, only instead of her eyes crossing (like Tman's did), her eyes turn slightly out. We knew that down the road, surgery was a possibility. But as of yesterday's check-up, the doctor said, "It's time."

The good news: Meya will be able to have the surgery here in the US, with a doctor that we know and trust.

The bad news: Our departure to Indonesia is now complicated. My husband will still leave as scheduled. But the kids and I will now stay an additional two weeks to allow Meya's eyes to heal. Then (deep breath!) I will fly with the kids, on my own, to Indonesia. We will arrive (another deep breath!) with only three days before the kids have to start school.

I experienced a modified version of the 7-steps of grief while in the doctor's office. I choked on denial then moved on to accept not only the diagnosis, but also the solution. Panic ebbed and flowed as the consequences of the decision (mainly the 22 hours on a plane with my 2 year old and no husband) became clear. Then after leaving the doctor's office and riding the elevator down two floors, I gave in to tears. My emotion unnerved Madi who came to my side and hugged me.

And then, something else happened...I called my mom as I drove home. From her perspective (which I quickly adopted) she saw this as a HUGE blessing. How much better for us to have Meya's medical care done here than trying to work things out in a third-world country where I don't even speak the language. Also, we both realized that my mom and dad will actually be here when Meya has her surgery - dad was going to be here on business anyway.

Finally, my mom reminded me that pioneer blood runs in my veins. If my ancestors could trek across the plains pulling their belongings in wagons and handcarts, I could certainly survive a plane flight and lay-overs that will last less than two days.

By the end of the day, my perspective had changed. Instead of seeing this turn of events as a punch to the stomach, I saw it as a huge blessing, wrapped up just for us, that happened to land perfectly in my lap. I am reminded that Heavenly Father is mindful of me and my family, and for that I am so grateful. Instead of feeling buffeted and bruised, I felt blessed. Yes, it had been a stressful day, but I was able to lie down and sleep soundly last night.

Sistah Time

2011-07-04T16:54:00.000-07:00

The premise of my sister's visit was to help me get ready for the move. Katie did, after all, inherit all the organizational/cleaning genes in the family (I certainly didn't inherit them!). She flew all the way from St. George, Utah. And I really couldn't wait to see her!
Doesn't it look like we worked hard? :-) In actuality, we did get stuff done. On two of the days she was here, we cleaned in preparation for a house-showing. We also organized my TV cabinet and threw away tons of stuff.
The kids also got in some good auntie-Katie time.

The fact is, when your sister is also your friend, we had to fit in some play time. We shopped (just a teeny tiny bit). She introduced me to green shakes - I could only stomach two mouth-fulls on the first day, but by the end of the week, I could drink a whole cup. We went running and she joined me at my gym for a spinning class.

But my favorite nights were the daddy-daughters date nights. Dad happened to be in town for business. Tuesday night, Katie and I had tickets for "Old Times" at the Shakespeare theater. Dad joined us at the last minute - there just happened to be an open seat available right next to us.
The next night we went to Georgetown for dinner. Dad stood in line at the Georgetown Cupcakery while Katie and I explored the Georgetown row houses. We got a little turned around (not lost!) and raced back just in time to enter the store with Dad and make our delicious selections. Then we walked across the Key Bridge at dusk as the lights of the city twinkled across the Potomac River.

The premise of Katie's visit was to help me get ready to move. And she did. Sure, we did a little work but more importantly, we made some wonderful memories.

My favorite picture

2011-06-22T04:00:00.000-07:00

This is not my favorite picture from this soccer season...even though it shows amazing Coach Jason, wonderful Coach Colleen, and Madi and her soccer team with their winning trophies.

As in season's past, Madi played both Saturday games of the tournament. But she chose not to play on Sunday. And though she's made the same decision for every tournament since first grade, it doesn't seem to get any easier. The feeling that her team needed her and her loyalty to them has only grown stronger over the years. But, though Madi LOVES soccer and her team, she loves Heavenly Father even more.

That's why this is one of my favorite pictures...
And this one... (Thanks to Shaun Maher - photographer extraordinaire - for capturing these moments!)
You see, Madi and I drove to the soccer field after church on Sunday. We arrived just in time to watch the last two minutes of the final game. And it was a nail-biting close game (2-1). When the ending whistle blew, Madi threw her orange flip flops to me (they would have slowed her down), and sprinted across the field, barefoot, to congratulate her team. When her teammates saw her coming, they ran to meet her and encompassed her in a huge hug. The scene got all blurry for me. To watch my daughter win is one thing. To watch my daughter make a good, but really hard, decision is another. But to watch my daughter be accepted, surrounded by her teammates, her friends - oh what a joyous moment.

And then there's this picture...
The girls spontaneously linked their arms and walked like this to the end of the field where they received their trophies. I don't have to tell you how symbolic this picture is. Suffice it to say, it is my favorite picture of the season.

All good things

2011-06-16T11:25:00.001-07:00

Today, two said goodbye to first grade. And I said goodbye to Mrs. Chunta who has been the first grade teacher to four of my children. That is a big deal to me. So with plastic leis around our necks we dined on fruit kabobs. I watched as Meya bounced around the room passing out goodbye hugs like candy. Then Mrs. Chunta announced that the books they'd been writing for the past two months had arrived "fresh off the press from the publisher!" And I sat in a small, first-grade chair and listened to my children read their books to me.

Today, Madi said goodbye to fifth grade...and Hamilton Elementary School. Oh the celebration! (This school may be small in population, but it does everything BIG). There was the 5th grade skating rink party on Tuesday, the pool party on Wednesday, and the graduation ceremony with "Pomp and Circumstance" playing in the background. We pulled Leasie out of her 3rd grade class so she could watch her sister.
And I'm left feeling so grateful to this place and to the people who have molded my children's lives. Mrs. Kessler was a brand new teacher to Hamilton this year, and I confess, I was skeptical. But she turned out to be exactly what Madi needed. She was fun. She LOVED science and math and made it cool. (She even kind of looked like Madi.) She was a great teacher and an even better role model.
How could I not get teary as I looked at Madi with her group of friends? She's been with five of these girls since Kindergarten! They are so grown up and beautiful - all of them!
Yes, I'm sad to leave Hamilton. Yes, I'm worried about what the future holds for my children. And yes, I wonder if what we're doing is the right thing for them. But, here's what I do know. With all the learning, friendships, firsts, and lasts, there was a lot of good in this goodbye. This has been a good place. My son's smile on the last day of school says it all.

Breathe In, Breathe Out

2011-06-08T08:09:00.000-07:00

Deep breaths. That's what I need. We've been on a whirlwind of getting all things ready for our next adventure. It started with the house. We decided that as long as we were getting it ready to rent, why not try out the housing market and put it up for sale?

We pulled long 16 hour days painting, cleaning, sorting, de-junking, gardening, and hauling. We made late-night dumpster runs. And many friends came to our aid as painters, cleaners, and the all-important moral supporters. We enlisted the help of both grandpas - they spent one afternoon together painting Tman's room and the hallway. Then Grandad came an extra week to help replace light fixtures, replace basement windows, and tons of other projects.

But the house looks great! (All those projects I swore I'd do the first year we moved here, are finally done.)

And in the meantime, life is whizzing by. Tman and Leasie ended their soccer season. Tman emerged as a talented soccer player (and he literally smiled almost every second he was out on the field). Leasie, the tallest member of her soccer team, enjoyed the social aspect as well as the competitive aspect of the game. She was a solid player and a stand-out goalie, making some excellent saves!

The girls and I completed our run of Scarlet Pimpernel. I loved crying together with them during the prison scene, singing with them during "Madame Guillotine," and watching them throw flowers during the wedding scene. Madi ended up being indispensable as my backstage costume helper.

We've become pin-cushions with all our shots. I just had my 7th and 8th shot yesterday.

And the passports are in process.

Life surges forward. And I'm left trying to catch my breath each day. Even though the kids have one week left of school, summer is here with strawberries and blueberries. We've had our first cook-out, eaten our first berry pie, and taken our first barefoot walk.

Here's to one more month of stuffing our life full of preparations and parting memories.

A Reunion and my First Goodbye

2011-05-06T04:38:00.000-07:00

A decade ago I was a new mom. And I was as neurotic and protective and clueless as most new moms are. But I had something quite special...a group of wonderful women who were all new moms. We set up playdates, ran a thriving joy school, and most of all, just relied on each other as we all tried to figure out this new life experience.

During that time of my life, both my husband and I were in graduate school. We were poor. We shopped at Aldi's and consignment stores. "Eating" out was a trip over to a friend's house for dinner. But for the most part, all of us (this group of new moms) were in the same situation. And so we called each other about sales, congratulated each other on thrift store finds, and planned dinner dates on a regular basis.

I look back on this time as one of the best in my life.

This week I made a quick trip down to DC to visit one of these dear moms. We're both veteran moms now and our lives are much different. I have such a tender place in my heart for this woman, because of everything we went through together in those crazy early years.

We talked and talked as CJ ran through the museum to her heart's content. It was wonderful to laugh about our first-year-mom mistakes, commiserate about recent heart aches, and celebrate successes. And when it was time to go, I shed tears. It was my first official "goodbye" before our family leaves for Indonesia.

I have been blessed with good friends through my life. And I am so grateful.

Liberty

2011-04-18T14:44:00.000-07:00

She took my breath away...this Lady Liberty, standing tall and proud on the water.

We climbed all 156 steps (Meya counted them outloud) to the platform beneath her feet. We looked up at the massive book, the torch, her generous hand. I tried to imagine what it was like for those thousands of people who came from all over the world, seeking freedom, and seeing her for the first time.

And I was grateful--grateful in an awe-struck way. Grateful for my freedoms and my liberties, which (though cliche to say) I take for granted much too often. I read a quote in the museum and have not been able to forget it, "Liberty is not doing what you want, it is the desire to do what you can."

The city spread out before us, the skyscrapers miniature from our perspective. And I think my children caught a glimpse of the magnitude of their incredible fortune to be born in this land of freedom.
And for that, I am also grateful.

A Day of Possibilities

2011-04-14T04:47:00.000-07:00

We purposefully left the day completely unplanned. I explained to the girls as we drove into the city, "The day is like a blank page just waiting for us to fill it up!"

With Karen's encouragement, we went on a GREAT DOUGHNUT QUEST which led us to Chelsea. I dropped off Karen and the girls at The Doughnut Plant and circled the block (I was only honked at once!) Karen came back to the car with a cardboard box holding a baker's dozen. The first one I tried (yes, I tried more than one) was their most popular creme brulee. They "torch" them so that there is a crunchy crust before the soft dough. And the filling! Oh. My.

My other favorites (yes, I tried more than two) were the coconut with coconut cream filling, the strawberry one with fresh strawberries in the frosting, and the chocolate which was like biting into a moist, chocolate cake (okay, okay, I tried five different doughnuts!).

Now I like doughnuts and have enjoyed my fair share of them throughout my life. But these doughnuts were amazing - truly. "Gourmet" doesn't do them justice. They were so good that I will go out of my way to return to The Doughnut Plant the next time I'm in NYC.

Here's Karen echoing all of our sentiments: "These are SOOOO good!"

The day was too beautiful to not go to Central Park. The girls jumped, slid, and climbed all over the giant rocks. Madi commented, "I remember them being...bigger." Ahhh, she's three years older and much more grown up. But they all managed to enjoy themselves immensely.
My wish list item? Watch the Tartan Parade on the Avenue of the Americas. My Scottish roots made my soul soar as I listened to the bagpipe music. Men in kilts - am I the only one who finds them sexy? And our favorite site...the street full of Scottie dogs.
We hadn't planned on seeing a show. But by the afternoon we decided to try our luck at the Wicked Lottery. At 5:30pm the odds were NOT looking good. There were over 100 people entered in the lottery with only 13 lucky names to be drawn. We crossed our fingers and I'm sure a couple silent prayers were uttered. Name 11 to be chosen: MEYA!! We whooped and hollared! It was so perfect that for Meya's first time in NYC, hers was the name chosen. We made a quick decision. Karen and Meya went to see the show (front row for $26.25 each!).
Which left Madi, Leasie and I with decisions and possibilities. We decided to try to find a good deal for a show. We went to three different box offices looking for last minute deals, we rushed to the TKS window, and finally with only 10 minutes till show time, we went back to the Phantom box office. The nicest man with a head of distinguished white hair, checked and checked looking for three open seats. Finally he gave me a deal I couldn't refuse...front row seats at the cheapest ticket prices in the house. Yes, on the front row, we saw the chandelier fall, we saw the tears on Christine's face, we made eye-contact with handsome Raoul, and we saw the spit fly. It was wonderful!
A couple more memorable moments/quotes:
* Madi: "We're pottying our way through NYC!" (yes, I think we visited every public restroom in the city).
* The salad lunch at Rockefeller plaza was nothing short of divine!
* Me: "Now if we could just hear the organ" (the St. Patrick cathedral organ began to play "You Raise me up"), Karen: "Now if only we could hear someone sing" (a soloist began to sing). Miraculous!
* Three girls asleep before we reached the Lincoln Tunnel.
* Karen and I sneaking a few more bites of doughnut on our drive back to the hotel.

That blank page? We filled it up front and back until there was no room left.

NYC 2011!!

2011-04-13T05:01:00.000-07:00

DAY 1
Three years ago Madi, Leasie, my dear friend, Karen, and I traveled up to NYC for a girls weekend. I was pregnant with CJ and sooo sick. We basically ate our way through NYC. But in spite of the sickness, we had such a good time that we planned, saved, and determined to go again.

Here we are ready for the five hour drive. Now let me just say, the drive was great fun. Karen and I told stories, the kids laughed, we found a Panera Bread in Allentown just when we needed it, and we didn't even turn on the DVD player until the last hour and a half.

We all came to NYC with a wish list of to-do items. Meya was the first to check one off her list: go round and round through a circular door.
The American Girl Store--ahhh the joy! The girls had saved their money and with a little extra cash from Grandma (thank you Grandma!), they ohhed and ahhed and painstakingly made their purchase choices. There were customers there who were picking out dolls and entire wardrobes for their children (it always floors me!). But I dare say, my girls were just as grateful and thrilled about their selections, if not more so.
The dinner was better than I remembered (but of course, last time I was sick!). The warm, buttery cinnamon rolls, the lovely crudite platter, the tilapia on a bed of spinach and brown rice, and the dainty dessert plate with our favorite chocolate mouse flower pot. One thing I had forgotten was the incredible NOISE level. Wow a room full of happy, squealing girls creates an ear-splitting decibel level. Karen commented, "It's like we're at a Lady Gaga concert!" Indeed!
There was only one member of our party who did not fare so well. Poor Molly. In Meya's enthusiasm for the dinner, she had difficulty sitting still. Which meant that Molly tumbled from her chair, not once, not twice, not even three times...but FOUR times. Molly ended the dinner terribly disheveled. (I laughed so hard, I cried.)

Failures and Successes Part 2

2011-04-06T04:40:00.000-07:00

A Failure...

The dirty dishes filled the sink and overflowed onto piles covering the counters. The stove. Oh, the stove. Pots and pans on every burner--one with dried sauce, one holding leftover noodles, and a third with soggy broccoli. The dishwasher was full of clean dishes that still needed to be unloaded and put away. My kitchen looked like some ghastly episode of "Hoarders." (Okay, maybe not quite as bad as Hoarders, but close.)

It was 9:30pm, and I was exhausted. That day had been a doozie. After running kids to soccer practice and music lessons, helping them with homework, making dinner, doing assembly-line style showers for the youngest three, and going to a two hour play practice, I now faced the fallout. Disaster Kitchen!

Anyone who knows me well knows that I hate doing dishes (and I don't use the word hate often or lightly). I would chose to clean all three bathrooms than face a sink full of dirty dishes. And my wonderfully faithful dish washer was in Indonesia.

But there I was...facing my failure. I should have kept up with the dishes, one meal at a time, but the priorities of the day (and my hatred for dish washing) kept me postponing the task.

So I washed. I unloaded. I dried pots and dishes by hand to make more room in the drying rack. I took out the garbage in the dark. I scrubbed the counters. I washed and cleaned for nearly 2 hours. (My friend says I need to learn to wash faster - probably true). And I cussed. (Sorry, it's true).

I collapsed in bed smelling like dish soap and feeling like a failure.

A success (or two)...

The next night, I faced another sink full of dishes. I'd done a bit better during the day cleaning up as I went, but I'd made a yummy after-school treat for the kids and brownies for dessert and the evidence of my baking episodes was spread throughout the kitchen. It was again 9:30pm and the kids were ALL still awake.

Madi and Leasie sensed my need for help (maybe it was my stifled scream that tipped them off). But boy did they rally. Leasie wiped the dinner table and swept the entire back room. Madi helped CJ get into pajamas and sat in the rocking chair reading books to her. By the time I finished the last dish, the back room was picked up and CJ was asleep in bed.

I gathered my two big girls in my arms and thanked them again and again. All three of us collapsed in our beds...but this time, I didn't feel like a failure.

Another Success. General Conference weekend (my favorite of the year). During the first Saturday session, I was at a play rehearsal with T-man, Leasie, and Meya. Madi had stayed home with CJ. She called me a little before noon asking how to watch conference on the internet. When I praised her for wanting to watch conference she said, "Of course I want to watch it...I love it!" Oh it made my heart swell.

I was able to watch the remaining three sessions over the next 36 hours. But as it turns out, Madi watched all four sessions. On her own. Without any prodding or bribing. I admire her so much. When I was her age, I'm pretty sure I did good just to watch the prophet speak. Madi's desire and example to me is perhaps the biggest success of them all!

Failures and Successes

2011-04-05T04:43:00.001-07:00

Finally, I can write about what has REALLY been going on for the past three weeks. My husband has been in Indonesia doing a language immersion program in preparation for our upcoming move. Which means three things: 1) He had some adventures in our soon-to-be new home country, 2) I was a single parent for 3 weeks, and 2) Between the two of us there were plenty of failures and successes.

This will be a two-part post...and today I'll just focus on some of my husband's adventure. This is the view from his hotel window:

Tropical. Steamy. Jungle. I can feel the humidity just looking at this picture. It is common to have coconut and banana trees outside most buildings. It rained at least once every day (I guess I'll be taking our rubber boots), hence the greenness.
My husband rode the public transportation as he traveled to and from the college campus. One day, a woman was on the bus with her chickens. They are not dead - just amazingly calm and tame. They were going to market.

He saw crazy things being transported by moped, but his personal favorite was a fourteen foot banana tree.
Eating. Who knew my husband could be such an adventurous eater? He tried many of the local fruits: salak (a fruit that looks like an avocado), jeruk bali (a melon-sized green grapefruit), and seafood galore. One night he dined on squid cooked in its black ink.

We exchanged daily emails (I'm so grateful for technology) and they were often the highlight of my day. The kids and I laughed right outloud at some of his stories. I walked away from those emails with a mix of emotions...utter, gut-wrenching fear of what we're about to embark on, and butterflies of excitement as I imagine the adventures we'll have and the stories I'll soon have to share.

The countdown to Indonesia has begun!

The Mom Struggle

2011-03-24T10:01:00.001-07:00

I was touched by a blog entry my friend wrote last week. Read it here. The lines that resonated with me were "Motherhood is the hardest kind of service...[it is] not glamorous service, but humble, often thankless service." I couldn't agree more. And like my friend, I often find myself trying to fill my life with lots of things that are wonderfully fulfilling distractions from my mothering job.

Of course, this is nothing new. I think some women are talented at embracing motherhood and finding great joy in that role (I admire them!). And while I do LOVE being a mom, motherhood is a constant tug for me between things I'd like to do with my time and life and things I should do.

But with my friend's words of encouragement swirling around in my mind, I woke up today committed to embracing my mothering responsibilities. I made homemade pancakes for breakfast which I haven't done for a couple weeks. Oh the elation and resounding "thank yous." Then instead of starting a painting project (which was my original goal), I sat down and played doll house with CJ. We acted out a birthday party for "Daddy."

For lunch we had an indoor picnic lunch. I spread a blanket on the floor and we dined on left-over pizza, apple sauce, and cantaloupe.

CJ loves cantaloupe, and I captured this moment of her enjoyment:

And you know what? Happiness came. It just spilled out like a tipped cup. As simple as that. I found myself laughing and enjoying the moment.

This morning with my daughter made me more happy than any novel-reading/writing could. It was equally satisfying as a long run :-). And had much more far-reaching importance than a painted room (which I'll still have to do).

I am blessed to be a mother. And I'm blessed to be able to spend these years of my life taking care of my children and enjoying them. This is what I need to remember.

T-man's Day!

2011-03-17T05:09:00.001-07:00

Remember my post about my unhappy boy? Well, this week he had a lot to be happy about. He entered an essay contest sponsored by the Washington Post and was one of six finalists. On Tuesday, he and I drove to Washington DC for a summit luncheon on childhood obesity where he read his essay aloud.

The luncheon was adorable. I loved these center pieces (the grass was real!)
He was sick that day with a fever - but both of us wanted to go. So we relied on liquid Tylenol and Ibuprofen (my purse was very heavy) and pressed forward.

He was pretty nervous right before going up on the stage...and he was the first one in line! But he did a stellar job. He read the words with emphasis just like we practiced at home. "I LOVE vegetables!" he said with a smile. And when he read his line, "When I was little..." and the audience laughed, he just kept going. He even put his paper down and looked out at the audience on his last line, "I usually eat two helpings of vegetables...and sometimes even thirds!"
Celebrity moment! Carla Hall, a Top Chef contestant, made the lunch. She made her famous chicken pot pie. (The funny part is - I've only watched two episodes of Top Chef, ever. And it just so happens that her "Pot Pie" episode with Jimmy Fallon was one of them!). So, I was thrilled to meet her and eat her homemade pot pie.
It was a wonderful day to spend with my boy. I loved riding in the car with him and getting the chance to just talk. I loved walking from Pennsylvania Ave. up 15th street holding his hand. I loved our sight-seeing side trip to take a picture of the White House. I loved watching him shake everyone's hands. I loved watching him read his essay. But mostly, I just loved seeing him smile...all day long.

The Value of Work

2011-03-08T10:35:00.001-08:00

I really like to play. I like to read a good book. I like to take long walks or go to the park. I relish movie nights with a tub of buttered popcorn. And I LOVE road trips when I can leave behind all cooking and housework. I've decided that I'm much better at playing than working. My husband, on the other hand, loves to work. Often, he works to relax (an oxymoron in my opinion - but not his).

Work is on my mind because for the next few months we'll be doing much more work than play. Painting. Cleaning. Organizing. Packing. Yard work. Work. Work. Work.

Last Monday night during our weekly Family Home Evening lesson, my husband talked to the kids about work. He explained that we were all going to be required to do more as we prepare for our move. There were the expected groans and grumblings. Really, who likes to be told that more work is ahead?

But last night I saw a glimmer of hope in my five small children. We needed to get the house ready for a Realtor who was coming to look at the house. My children did job after job after job. Wiping walls, sweeping, dusting, organizing, and vacuuming. They surpassed their tired point and kept working. All of us collapsed into bed exhausted. But we had done it!

And while I'd still much rather curl up on the couch with a lovely book, I have to admit that it really felt good to work hard. David O. McKay said "Let us realize that the power to work is a blessing and the love of work is success." I may not have found success quite yet, but I know I'll have ample opportunities in the next few months to "work" on it.

What do you do?

2011-02-27T16:57:00.001-08:00

I promised myself I wouldn't over-think this post. But the truth is, I've been ruminating about it all week. Still, I will attempt to get it all out in one short BLEH, and be done with it.

Last week as I tucked my seven year old son in bed, he began to cry. Not a quiet, I'm-so-tired-cry, but a shoulder-shaking sob. Huge crocodile tears. "What's wrong?" I asked as I held him and tried to comfort him. "I want to be young again," he said between raspy heaves. I actually had to stifle a grin and keep myself from saying just wait until you're 37! But his genuine heartache was sobering. "Why do you want to be young again?" I asked.

"Because, I was happier then."

"What made you happy?"

"Staying home. Reading books. Snuggling on the couch. Going to the park."

"What was your happiest time?"

"One afternoon it was sunny. And Dad threw me up in the air again and again."

After some additional coaxing, comforting, and listening, I discovered something interesting. For all the family togetherness time we share, my son was missing individual time. And even though I'm at home all day, our life is far from peaceful. We are definitely busy. Busy with homework, busy with sports, busy with church, busy with CJ, busy with errands, busy with music practices and lessons, busy with chores. Busy with life.

I certainly can't turn back the clock. And pulling him out of school to do home school isn't an option for us either. He didn't want to cut out any of the sports, or music, or activities. But we did come up with a solution. It is quite simple. Very simple. Every day I will sit and read one book just with him. We can't count our evening chapter book reading. It has to be just me and him.

So that's what we've done for the last four days. And it's been lovely. To snuggle and talk together. To hear him laugh at the "Julius Baby of the World" book. To answer his questions about "Where the Wild Things Are." To hear him recite lines from "Peter Rabbit." In many ways, we have turned back the clock.

Is it crazy that I had to be reminded to slow down? Is it crazy that I had to schedule one-on-one time with my child? Maybe not crazy. Just necessary.

How did this happen?

2011-02-22T15:43:00.000-08:00

...How did my daughter get old enough to be eleven years old?!

It was an unconventional birthday...which was fitting for my wonderfully unconventional girl.

She wore shorts on her birthday, because it was 70 degrees outside. Definitely a first for February.
She wanted to go roller skating, but ended up spending at least half the time playing four square and ping pong.

She wanted chicken kabobs for dinner...and she wanted to eat them outside at a park. By the time my husband met us and we picked up the food from our favorite Afghan Kabob place, it was getting dark. The playground was a black silhouette against the gray sky. But we set up our dinner at a picnic table and ate just as the stars started to appear.

After dinner, she wanted to run to the rocks and climb on them - never mind that it was completely dark. So we ran across the field. And we watched the giant yellow moon rise as we sat on the rocks before loading back up in the car.
She wanted blueberry pie for her birthday (a girl after my own heart), but settled for a flaming donut. The blueberry pie came a couple days later.

My dear dear girl. I love that you are free spirited. I love that you love to learn. I love that you love pie. I love that you're old enough to be a helper in our family and a good friend to me...but young enough that you still let me sing you a lullaby and tuck you in at night. I love that you can't get enough of reading. I love that you sit at the piano and play the "pretty" songs again and again. And though we butt heads occasionally, I love that you are opinionated and strong willed because it will take you far.

I love that you're my daughter. And I marvel that I am so blessed to be your mom.

Happy Birthday Madi!

Listen to the Swings Sing

2011-02-18T16:56:00.000-08:00

A reprieve from winter.
The afternoon air is warmer than my heated house.
We shed coats, jackets, and sweaters in a pile and bare our arms.
I notice CJ's elbows are dimpled.

Race games in the park, one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand.
"Do I scare you?" my boy calls as he climbs to the highest point (not meant to be climbed) of the playground equipment.
We swing. Our legs stretch with pumping.
The chains creak their rhythmic song. Back and forth, back and forth.
I lean back and listen to the swings sing.

We open the metal gate that seems to sigh.
We walk up the brown hill leaving the playground behind.
The grass is like straw that pokes our ankles.
We avoid the patches of snow that will surely melt.
Once at the top, we turn our faces to the sun like spring flowers.
Then CJ decides to roll down the hill, and thinking of the sogginess, I almost stop her.
But she laughs and her brother and sister join her.

And as I watch them tumble on the winter grass,
their laughter mingles with the soft wind that carries the swing's distant song,
And the music is lovely to my ears.

A tooth and a dance

2011-02-15T17:43:00.000-08:00

It started with Madi's swollen gum. She showed it to me last week after school. It wasn't painful, just strangely puffy. So we made a dental appointment just to be safe. We arrived the next morning at the dentist's office for what I thought was going to be an easy fix. But it turned out to be an infected tooth that needed to be extracted. Extracted. As in, pulled out! Oh it still makes me cringe. I nearly passed out when the dentist brought out her huge tooth (with the long root parts) in a plastic bag. Madi was a trooper. She braved the experience all by herself while I entertained CJ in the waiting area. She stayed home from school and ate lots of yogurt and jello.

We are both grateful for modern medicine and Tropical Cafe Smoothies.

Then there was a Valentine's Dance Saturday night with a live Big Band and dance instruction for the first 45 minutes. Now, my husband isn't what you'd call a dance enthusiast - but he took me, and we danced the night away.

It has been years since I've been to a real dance. In fact, I think the last time I graced a dance floor, I was single. Here's what I loved: I loved that I didn't have to wait uncomfortably on the sidelines to be asked to dance. I loved that we laughed at ourselves--a lot. I loved that by the end of the night we actually could do a couple swing dancing tricks (but only a couple). I loved that we enjoyed sitting next to each other eating chocolate covered strawberries almost as much as dancing.

I didn't love that we had to end the night early because the kids called with an utter breakdown at home. But I loved going home with my sweet heart.

Turning 37

2011-02-08T04:49:00.000-08:00

It's official. I can no longer say I'm in my mid-thirties (unless I stretch the truth a bit)...so it's a good thing my 37th year was a good one.

It was the year I taught my first summer course, it was the year I agreed to be the drama camp director of 42 kids (and survived!), it was the year I decided to take a break from teaching for the fall semester so I could be more present for my family, it was the year I took my first cooking class and learned how to make apple fritters, cream puffs, and use puff pastry (happy family!), it was the year I attended my first writer's conference...and it's the first year in a long time that I've felt truly content.

It was a year to be celebrated...and thanks to my wonderful friends and family, I celebrated! Here's my delicious birthday lunch at Karen's house. And here are some of my favorite birthday wishes: "Sometimes I dig deep and find my inner Holly" (Jess).

"I'm so glad you were born." (Magen)

"Attention Ladies and Gentlemen, and now the moment you've all been waiting for, the birthday crown!" (Joseph, pictured below).

"I remember taking you to dinner for your birthday 21 years ago...my parents drove us." (Brad on facebook).

"At least you only look 33 Mom." (Thanks, Madi)

And my personal favorite: "You make 37 look good." (Whether it's true or not, my sister, Katie, always knows exactly what to say to make me smile.)

Next year...I'll be celebrating my birthday in Indonesia! Crazy, I know.

Sunday Afternoon

2011-02-06T15:05:00.000-08:00

Ahhh, Sunday afternoon...
Sitting on the couch next to Madi reading scriptures.
Journal writing.
Letters to Grandma, Nana, and Aunt Jen.
Listening to Leasie read books aloud to CJ.
A fire crackling in the fireplace.
A quick trip over to Karen's house to borrow lemons and powdered sugar.
A luscious nap with CJ.
Board games on the kitchen table.
The girls and I slipping and sliding in our nylons and tights on the wood floors.
Putting an apron over my dress.
Making dinner with Madi: salmon, cranberry muffins, broccoli, and spinach sausage pasta (it was a fast Sunday feast!)
Lemon bars for dessert.
Listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
Watching CJ play make believe with a purple sun hat and stuffed whale.
Snagging a quick hug with my husband in the kitchen before he starts tackling the huge pile of dishes.
Family videos and lots of belly-laughs.

Friends

2011-02-03T06:00:00.000-08:00

I was not a very nice big sister. And I'm pretty sure I've confessed this in a blog post before. There was the time I promised Jen that she would be able to fly if she drank a special potion I made. The concoction was a blend of orange juice, milk, mustard, ketchup, and small chunks of peanut butter sandwich. She drank it (or more accurately, gagged it down)...and, of course, she didn't fly.

But that was nothing compared to the way I treated my baby sister, Katie. There were times when I was just plain mean. I called her names, I made fun of her, and tried to embarrass her when her friends called on the phone. The sad thing was, no matter how mean Katie tried to be in reciprocation, it never worked. With six years difference, it was impossible for her to hurt my feelings.

Once I left for college, and "grew up," my sisters and I became good friends. Thankfully, they have forgiven me, and now we laugh about my legendary big sister mistakes.

We can always hope that our children will turn out better than ourselves, right? I guess I've been thinking about these things lately because of all our close-quarter snow days. Sure, there have been brawling moments when I have to be more of a referee than a mother. But it warms my heart to see the friendship that is flourishing between my oldest daughter and my youngest daughter.

Here they are on one of our snow days, pretending the fruit rolls are long tongues.
Madi and CJ (we've graduated from Baby C). Their personalities are frighteningly similar. Both are high energy, both thrive on a certain amount of silliness, and both love to laugh. It is not uncommon to find these two wrestling on the floor, crouching in a corner to hide from monsters, or snuggling together on the couch with books piled up around them.

I hear Madi practicing the piano now, and I can hear CJ's tiny voice asking her to play.

One can always hope...right?

Snow Chronicles Part 2

2011-01-28T12:17:00.000-08:00

What do you do when there are nine inches of snow on the ground and the day presents itself like a blank piece of paper just waiting to be filled?

Well, I could have done some extra cleaning, I could have organized the office as per my January goal, or I probably should have started prepping my bedroom for my painting project. Instead, I made cinnamon rolls. Two batches.

We dined on warm cinnamon rolls after dinner last night then reheated them for breakfast this morning and again after we came back from the second day of sledding.
I wonder if this was a wise use of my time. And it has gotten me thinking...about my Grandma.

When I was a freshman in college I caught a ride with a friend to Idaho Falls (four hours away from Brigham Young University) to go visit my Grandparents. Of course, I brought my stack of books and my reading lists with the intention of spending the weekend getting ahead on my studies. I arrived in the evening and was greeted by my Grandma and Grandpa and a delicious meal. Piping hot ham, little peas and potatoes in a cream sauce, and homemade blackberry pie. After weeks of dorm food, the dinner was more than a meal. It was a feast.

After dinner Grandma and I went to her TV room. She had purchased my favorite wafer cookies with frosting (they came in a pack with vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry). She opened the package and brought me a tall glass of milk. We sat together watching a show, while she sewed, and I ate the cookies. At one point I said, "Grandma I've eaten an entire row of cookies!" She smiled approvingly over her sewing and said, "Good, Holly. Have some more. I got them especially for you."

You know, I can't remember what books I brought with me to read that weekend. I can't even remember a single fact I memorized. But I remember the food. And I remember the love from my Grandma that accompanied each delicious bite.

Sometimes, love equals food. In a good way.

So, I guess the cinnamon rolls were my way to show love to my family on this snow day. And in that sense, there was no better use of my time.

Snow Day Chronicles

2011-01-27T13:27:00.001-08:00

While I made dough for cinnamon rolls and took a delicious nap on the couch, here's what my husband and the kids were doing...

Swooshing Meya!

Madi with some serious air!

Tman takes the jump

Screamin' Leasie

Did I mention I got to take a nap? Snow days. Glorious times.

Angels

2011-01-23T18:30:00.001-08:00

2011 has gotten off to a bumpy start. I'm still debating whether or not to post just how "bumpy" in such a public forum. Maybe when it's not quite so close. Instead, I want to share two experiences that have helped me through the rough patch.

Our family started off 2011 with a whopping 16 hour drive back from a lovely visit to Mississippi. The kids were real troopers on the drive. But let's be honest, 16 hours is enough to drive anyone a bit crazy. The first night after 9 hours of driving we stopped at a Pizza Hut for dinner in a little town south of Bristol. I'm sure I looked exhausted, but I remember being really happy to be done driving for the night. My husband and I took turns helping the kids color their placemats and juggling Baby C while we waited for the food to arrive.

When we went to pay for dinner, the cashier told us that someone had already paid for us. We stood there for a moment, totally shocked. I think I kept saying "Thank you" to the cashier, because I wanted to thank someone. I was so touched by this anonymous gesture.

The second event happened just yesterday. I had posted on facebook that the twins had combined their meager money in hopes of purchasing a Harry Potter Lego set. They had only about $10 between the two of them. The set they wanted was $100. With Christmas and our Mississippi trip, we have no extra money for toys. So I posted that it was going to be a LONG wait until they saved enough.

Then yesterday in church the twins were handed a envelope. Inside was the money for the Lego set and a note from the giver. It was such a surprise! I was overwhelmed to the point of tears at the generosity, the love, and the kindness...that someone who I hadn't seen for a while cared about me and my family.

Angels. Are they real? Absolutely. I believe there are heavenly angels, unseen, who help us all the time. But there are other angels. I love this quote by Jeffery R. Holland from a talk he gave at the 2008 General Conference (you can read the entire talk here). "But when we speak of those who are instruments in the hand of God, we are reminded that not all angels are from the other side of the veil. Some of them we walk with and talk with—here, now, every day. Some of them reside in our own neighborhoods. Some of them gave birth to us, and in my case, one of them consented to marry me. Indeed heaven never seems closer than when we see the love of God manifested in the kindness and devotion of people so good and so pure that angelic is the only word that comes to mind."

I am surrounded by angels. And I feel so blessed.

A Lesson in Letting Go

2011-01-18T05:22:00.000-08:00

I'm a control freak (just ask my husband). Of course, my desire for control has its limits. It does not, for example, leak into the realm of a perfectly ordered and perfectly tidy home. And it does not mean that I don't appreciate a good surprise or spontaneous adventure every now and again.

But when it comes to planning out our lives, making big decisions (and little ones), and all things regarding my children, I really like to be in control.

Last fall when Madi brought home a writing contest form I was all over it! The theme was: "Together We Can." Oh I had so many great ideas. And I was more than eager to share my ideas with my 10 year old.

However, Madi had already started the story. It was a fiction story about two friends, Peanut Butter and Jelly, who were entering a debate contest together. I read her first couple paragraphs and thought (thank goodness I didn't say it outloud) no no no, this will never work. I tried making some suggestions, but Madi had her mind set on her original idea. I'm afraid to say, I actually stormed off. Like, stomped upstairs and brooded. I returned a little while later to apologize and offer some weak words of encouragement. She worked really hard on her story for the rest of the week. And in the end, I only did a final read-through and only made minor grammar and punctuation suggestions.

Last week, we attended the awards ceremony for the contest. Madi read her entry aloud along with six other finalists. Then came the big moment. The principal announced that Madi's story had won! She was so pleased. She beamed as she shook the principal's hand and took her trophy. And I stood back and watched her enjoy this moment. And it was truly HER moment. I watched as her friends surrounded her to get a look at the trophy and congratulated her.

Now here's the thing. If I would have insisted she use one of my ideas (aka let my controlling nature take over), I would have robbed her of this moment. And I would have robbed myself of watching my daughter shine.

Letting go. It's not easy. But it's a lesson worth learning.

Little Things

2011-01-10T15:38:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I wait too long to blog. I wait for the "big" events worth remembering. Sometimes life gets busy, and I put the writing on the back burner. The result is that I miss recording so many things. Little things that are so easily forgotten.

Take today. Today nothing monumental happened. It was just a series of little things. Meya stayed home from school with a fever. We read books while snuggling on the couch, Baby C on my lap, Meya at my side. We opened the new play dough Madi had given Baby C for Christmas. There was more than an hour of snake rolling, cake making, and cutting tiny pieces. Then while I folded clothes and listened to Josh Groban, Baby C insisted that I come dance with her. So we held hands and danced.

The school called to tell me that Leasie had forgotten her lunch. Last week Tman forgot his lunch three days in a row! I told the secretary that I planned to duct tape lunches to my children for the rest of the week. But I got in the car and drove the lunch to the school. As I scurried from the school to the car in the freezing cold, I realized how grateful I was to be home and accessible to my children.

And suddenly I was grateful for all the little things of the morning. The play dough snakes. The dance with my daughter. Even the forgotten lunch.

Though my life is far from luxurious, I am grateful for the luxury of staying home to be a mom to my children.

Let the Countdown Begin!

2011-01-07T07:35:00.001-08:00

In one of my favorite childhood movies (Never Cry Wolf), a crazed arctic pilot hollers as he is about to climb out on the wing of his plane, in a storm - mid flight, "How do you beat boredom? Adventure!" I love this line and have repeated it often throughout my life.

I've had some pretty big adventures. Living in Alaska. Traveling to Russia and Poland for a summer. Being the TA in London for a semester. Raising twins. But the biggest adventure of my life has begun. In just a short six months our family is moving to Indonesia for two (maybe three) years. We are thrilled! Okay, I am thrilled. And I'm pretty sure my excitement is rubbing off on the kids. I know they don't understand the immensity of the change...new school, third-world country, new food, new bugs, new climate, new language, new home, new people, third-world country, third-world country. But oh, the adventure!

And the adventure begins now as I tackle the daunting task of getting ready for the move. The house! Yikes! And the paperwork (medical, international school applications, financial records) all has to be in order. I'll have to be more organized than ever before.

But there's something about planning for such a huge change that just makes me happy. Call me crazy - but I look forward to having my life and world shaken up.

Last week of 2010

2011-01-01T08:18:00.001-08:00

We spent the last week of 2010 in the deep south where the air is 50 degrees warmer than home, kudzu vines hang from trees, beautiful Annabella homes stand as tributes to a former grand time, and the muddy Mississippi River runs steady and strong.

Of course, the best part of the deep south is visiting Granddad and Nana. The kids enjoyed a boat ride on the lake behind their house.

We went down by the river and walked along the river murals. An old caboose was as inviting as a playground.

The kids climbed and imagined until we heard a distant train whistle. Thinking a train was on its way, we hurried to scrounge up some pennies to place on the tracks. However, the train never arrived, and the pennies were left un-flattened.
When we weren't exploring, we built puzzles with Nana, fed the birds in their backyard, played basketball, and snuggled upstairs to watch Silas Marner and Sense and Sensability.

If 2010 had a theme for me, it was "All About Family." The best moments of this year were times spent together...whether it was watching my children on a sports field or playing instruments, eating pizza with Poppy, exploring a museum with Mom and my sisters, or enjoying time with friends who are part of my family too. This final week was a fitting way to slow down and say farewell to a year that whizzed by at break-neck speed...and enjoy time with family...which is truly the best part of my life.

A Good Day

2010-12-22T15:30:00.000-08:00

Baby C crawled in bed with me at 5:54 AM. Her downy soft hair tickled my nose.

Leasie serenaded me with "Up on the House Top" on her violin as I made my bed and got ready for the day.

Husband stayed home from work. He cut the grapefruit for breakfast.

The children caught the bus! (Barely!)

My husband and I attended the holiday sing along at the best elementary school ever. Baby C be-bopped and twirled on the gymnasium floor to the delight of her siblings and their classmates.

Breakfast at Panera with Lisa and Molly Kay. Egg bacon souffle.

Workout date with husband at our favorite gym. 40 minutes cardio and weight lifting. (The only down side was when he encouraged me to do a push up, which I completely flopped - literally).

Lunch with husband. Followed by afternoon kisses. There was also some laundry folding and dish washing. But both were much more fun with company.

The mailman delivered eleven Christmas cards, two packages, and a check.

Talked to my parents on the phone.

Wished my baby sister a happy birthday.

Grilled ham and havarti cheese on ciabatta bread for dinner.

Carolers sang and delivered delicious cookies.

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Old Rules, New Rules

2010-12-21T04:52:00.001-08:00

When I was young, our family rule was "You can't get your ears pierced until you're 18." Whoa (I know). But honestly, I don't remember ever feeling like it was an unfair rule. And by the time I was sixteen, I dated a boy who thought it was cool that I didn't have my ears pierced--that I was unique. That's all it took. Eighteen came and went, and I chose the clip-on earring route (enduring sore ear lobes and poor selection for the past 20 years).

Fast forward to 2010. My girls wanted to get their ears pierced. My husband and I don't prescribe to the 18 year-old rule. We think 9 is plenty old. So on Saturday, in celebration of Leasie's 9th birthday, we got our ears pierced!!
(Here's Leasie's "before" picture)
We drew quite a crowd when people realized a mom and her daughters were getting their ears pierced. I went first. It didn't hurt - really. Leasie was next, and Madi was last. The girls chose their birthstones. We held each other's hands for the actual piercing and then looked up with relief when it was done - it really didn't hurt. The crowd that had gathered clapped at the end. So fun!

And here we are with newly pierced ears.

I had two thoughts as we walked out of the store into the cold. First: Why oh why did I wait so long? And second: I'm glad I waited...so I could share this moment with my girls.

First Snow

2010-12-12T15:36:00.000-08:00

It lasted just long enough for us to watch with wonder as the gentle flakes fell from the sky and dusted the roads white.

Just long enough for Baby C to rush to the window.

Just long enough for us to run outside, leaving footprints.

Just long enough for us to scoop the snow off the walk way with our bare hands,

and taste the snow.

Christmas Moments

2010-12-09T12:47:00.000-08:00

Don't you love December? I do. I love the decorations, the twinkling lights, the music, the food (which deserves its own entry), and of course the traditions. With all the hustle and bustle of this season (which I also love) there's a good chance this month with slip by with very few entries.

But I have a few minutes and wanted to record a few moments...

Singing with the Pickwick Singers!

We gathered in the old Sona bank at the corner of King and Market Street for Leesburg's first night. We were hard to miss, with our colorful Dickens' dresses and the men in top hats. And yet, it felt just right, singing old English carols, a cappella. The notes of "Coventry Carol" and "In the Bleak Mid Winter" reverberated in the vaulted hall. After our scheduled performance, we walked the streets of old town Leesburg. People stopped us to take pictures, and we performed two more times by request (once at a Hot Dog restaurant - a rousing rendition of "Wasail" and "The Boar's Head" were quite fitting). Our breath puffed visible clouds of white as we sang on the street. I loved linking arms with Michelle and Robin to keep warm as we shivered and walked briskly to the car.

Cookie making!
We made gingerbread men...well, I made gingerbread men. Madi, who wanted to help, made gingerbread women, ducks, dogs, and her masterpiece: Calvin the Cat Head. We were dusted in flour, and the house smelled so delicious and christmasy. It was a complete mess. But oh so fun.

Oh Christmas Tree!
After decorating the Christmas tree, the kids turned off all the lights (which you can't really tell in this picture because I don't have a great camera...hmmm, Santa?). They plopped down on the floor. Baby C wasn't sure what they were doing. She cocked her head to the side, almost like a puppy, trying to figure them out. Then as though it was choreographed, she plopped down at the end of the line to join them.

They stayed there, looking at the lights, listening to soft music, until bedtime.

November Loves

2010-12-01T04:35:00.001-08:00

Top 10 November Loves:

10. Thanksgiving dinner with friends. (I didn't have to make a turkey!)

9. The Hale family stuffing - three kinds of bread and sausage. I had thirds.
8. Time with friends. Loved being with Lisa and her family. And had a lovely surprise by the Harris family Friday afternoon - got to go on a hike to Bear's Den in the blustery weather.

7. Harry Potter with Madi and Jen.

6. Long runs in the crisp autumn weather, my feet crunching on the fallen leaves. Watching the trees go bare and spindly. (Downloading my favorite Glee tunes for the runs).

5. November rain. And fires in the fireplace.

4. The school bus driver who says hello to Baby C over the loud speaker every morning (Baby C thinks busses talk).

3. Sunday morning snuggles with my husband before being joined by the kids.

2. Decorating for Christmas. Doing our chapter book read aloud with pillows and blankets under the Christmas tree.

1. A chance to reflect and be thankful.

More than Tradition

2010-11-24T13:13:00.000-08:00

Standing on my tiptoes, I reach up to retrieve a glass pie plate from the top shelf of my cupboard. I hold it for just a moment before laying it on the counter top. It belonged to my grandma.

The ingredients are lined up, ready to go. I open my recipe book. The binding is split, pages fall out, and the corner is tainted with a mysterious stain. I really need to replace the book, but can't bring myself to part from all the handwritten cards and pages. I turn to the pie recipe I copied years ago when I finally converted to my mother-in-law's amazing pie crust.

Pie making in our family is more than a tradition. It is a series of memories strung together, it is an art form, it is an act of love. I have been watching the making of pies my entire life. My grandma who has been gone for four years was a brilliant pie maker - her blackberry pies are legendary in our family. My Mom and Dad can whip out pies faster than anyone I know. And Katie's use of cookie cutter decorations on her crusts (a trick I've adopted) turn pies into masterpieces.

So as I measure, sift, stir, and finally roll the dough I think of my family, spread out across the United States. This year, none of us will be together, and I feel a little sad. I form the edges using my finger and thumb and wonder what everyone else is doing. As soon as I put the first two pies in the oven, I call my sister Katie. She has just put her pumpkin pie in the oven and has already talked to Mom this morning. It turns out Mom is baking pies today too.

Katie tells me, "Mom (as you know) isn't known for overt sentimentality. But today, she began her pie making by saying softly, 'Hello Mom.'" I put a floured hand on my heart for just a moment as the "missing family" becomes tangible.

On this Thanksgiving Eve, I'm thankful for family past and present. I'm thankful for traditions that tie us together across years and miles. And tomorrow when I take my first bite of delicious pie, I'll think of all of them, and in my own way, say hello.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Sister, Food, and Hockey

2010-11-22T14:38:00.000-08:00

My sister, Jen, is here visiting from Seattle. It's been four years since I've seen her (I know - WAY too long!) I lured her here, promising that I'd go with her to a Capitals Hockey game!

But our evening at the Caps game was more than just a game. Madi, Jen, and I started our evening with a trip to the Portrait Gallery for a look at the Norman Rockwell exhibit. (Did you know the Portrait Gallery is adjacent to the Verizon Center, like right across the street?) It was well worth the stop. Those faces, the characters, the scenes...captured by Norman Rockwell...some so familiar, others new to me. Here's what I loved - I responded emotionally to each picture whether it was a laugh or a tug on my heart. What an amazing artist.

After the art museum we looked for a place to eat dinner. I had wanted to go to GB - which is a great restaurant in this neat old building with a coffered ceiling. But the wait was too long. So we walked up and down the sidewalks through the swarm of red (Caps fans are serious fans!) until we happened upon Carmine's Italian Style Restaurant. There was an open table next to the window. Carmine's serves family style food. The waiter warned us that the portions were large...but we were still surprised. I think there were at least two heads of broccoli in that bowl. We were served an entire loaf of the bread. And the meatballs were the size of tennis balls. It was so fun.

Nothing could have prepared me for the excitement of a Caps game. It's a spectacle. The red lights, the music, the fans...and of course, the game. We cheered, screamed, and hid our eyes when they started fighting. The game went into overtime and then to a shoot out. Though the Caps lost, we had a great time!

Taste of Victory

2010-11-13T16:36:00.000-08:00

It's soccer tournament weekend which means we got to watch Madi's team play two games today. Bundled in scarves and mittens, we gathered early in the morning at the dewy green fields. The fields were surrounded by trees that blazed with autumn reds and golds. And we watched and cheered as Madi's team fought two hard won games.

In those final moments of victory, when the ref blew the whistle and the team, coaches, parents, siblings, and friends erupted in an explosion of cheers - I realized that the final victory was not one definitive moment, but the sum of all the small victories through out the game. Here are some of my favorites small victories, those I hope to always remember...

Victory was Heather, frowning at her mom because she knew it was going to be hard to cover the best opposing player, but doing it anyway.

Victory was Bree's goal punts that landed at mid field.

Victory was Diana clearing the ball out of the goal box, again and again.

Victory was MaKayla and Sidney taking direct hits to their faces with line drive kicks, shaking it off, and continuing to play.

Victory was watching Madi, Sidney S., and Fallon run in triangle formation and passing four (FOUR!) times before scoring.

Victory was Rachel being in the right place during the last ten seconds of the game to deflect a direct shot on goal.

Victory was watching Lizzy, one of the smallest girls on the team, challenge girls twice her size and never backing down.

Victory was Shannon who played with pure heart in both offense and defense positions (not to mention, taking a head butt and shaking it off).

Victory was getting shoved and shoved and even slide tackled, and still choosing to play clean.

Victory was Coach Valakis and Coach Colleen who never yelled a single harsh word from the side line and remained positive even when we were coming from behind.

I feel so blessed to be part of such a wonderful group of people. And today, I'm grateful that Madi and her team tasted the sweetness of victory...with the final whistle and in the accumulation of wonderful moments.

Halloween

2010-11-03T16:20:00.000-07:00

This year was a "choose your own" costumes Halloween. Every other year we do a family theme. We had quite the array: Leasie and Baby C were angels. Madi was the Goddess Artemis (NOT Athena, and heaven forbid she be mistaken for Aphrodite!). She had a bow - no arrows - and a pelt which she wore over her shoulder (not pictured) to help make the distinction. T-man was a skeleton. The costume stayed safely tucked in a drawer which no one dared open for the past couple weeks because of the scare the costume was guaranteed to produce. Meya was a witch. Her favorite part of the costume was the Harry Potter wand that had sound effects.

We were bummed that Halloween was on a Sunday this year. But we got our candy fill at a church trunk-or-treat and a party sponsored by the high school. Our next door neighbor invited the kids to come over Saturday night. The leaves crunched under our feet and the air was cold enough that we needed jackets.

On Halloween night we invited friends over for dinner. We dined on ghoul intestines, vampire blood, and ogre buggers (spaghetti and meatballs) and washed it down with a creepy crawly punch made by Leasie. Then the kids gathered in the living room with treats and pillows to watch Harry Potter 3 (the world is much more wonderful with Harry, don't you think?) And the adults talked and played "Ticket to Ride" (Owen won, of course).

The loot! Baby C caught on to the candy accumulation part of Halloween in record speed. She told everyone, "Happy Ween!" and collect more candy than anyone else. Then she raided everyone's candy bags on Sunday and Monday, and I finally had to stash the candy in the basement. Her detox has been brutal. :-)

Halloween, with it's fun, sweetness, spookiness, changing leaves, and family traditions is one of my favorite times of the year.

Writer's Conference Part 2

2010-11-02T00:11:00.000-07:00

This has very little to do with the writer's conference, and even less to do with writing...it just happened to be the same trip.

So my dear friend Lisa called me Wednesday before my trip and told me she'd love to come with me. I had made a blanket invitation to all my friends (since I had a room with two double beds) but never really thought anyone would be able to make arrangements. I was skeptical that she really wanted to come and hang out at a hotel all Saturday. But she assured me that time alone with a laptop and room service would be heavenly.

I'm so glad she came! I forgot how long 4 and 1/2 hours is in the car - but with a friend to talk to and laugh with, it was a piece of cake. I forgot how lonely a hotel room can be when you're solo - but with Lisa, it was like a slumber party.

My favorite moments of the weekend:

* Lisa administering CPR to "Judy Garland" (her not-so-trusty GPS).

* Michael's (Lisa's husband) suggestion, via phone, that we go into NYC Saturday night because "you're only 30 minutes away."

* Fabulous dinner find - little Italian restaurant between 40th and 41st street. Got seated in a window seat so we could watch the NY foot traffic (fascinating and entertaining).

* Catching the broadway play Screwtape Letters based on CS Lewis' book. So good! Great seats! And out by 10pm!

* Back in the hotel by 10:30pm and choosing to watch a pay-per-view movie "Salt."

* Yummy breakfasts two mornings in a row.

* Having fun with a friend all weekend long!

Writers Conference - Part 1

2010-10-22T04:38:00.001-07:00

The Rutgers One-On-One Writers Conference was this past weekend. I highly recommend it for any aspiring writers. Here are my thoughts about the day... I entered the Busch Center feeling pretty nervous. I had everything I needed: copies of my manuscript, snazzy new business cards (that I printed for FREE from Vistaprint), an outfit that I thought was professional and a bit artsy, and lots of questions.

Gathering Confidence...
I put on my name tag and entered the breakfast room. I was SOOO glad I'd already eaten breakfast at the hotel, because the food wasn't great and I was too nervous to eat by then. I sat down at a table and started talking to the other writers/conference attendees. I got an immediate boost of confidence when the girl next to me said she and all the people in her writer's group had applied for the past FIVE YEARS to get into the conference. Perhaps I had beginner's luck - but I also think being published (my articles) helped a lot with my application too.

There were writers from all over the country: Los Angeles, Conneticut, Arizona, North Carolina...

Five-On-Five...
So, the difference between the Rutgers conference and other conferences is that 1. You have to apply and only 1/6 of the applicants get accepted. 2. You are guaranteed face time with an agent, editor, or author where you can get hands-on help with your manuscript. 3. You can bring a work in progress. You do not need to have a finished manuscript.

My five-on-five session was great--besides my initial shock at how YOUNG the agents and editors are (SERIOUSLY YOUNG - like in their mid-twenties, as in, at least a decade younger than myself!!).

But I learned a lot. I learned what editors really want in a cover letter. I learned that when they ask for a synopsis of your book, they really want a synopsis, not a book-jacket teaser. I learned that each publishing house has a "feel" to them. I gravitated toward the Candlewick Press editors - they seemed more mature and more conservative. I left with five business cards and a promise from them that if I submitted my work, they would read it and provide real feedback.

The bad news: I asked how many new writers an editor will "find" in a year...how many projects are accepted through normal submission process? The bad news answer: One. One out of thousands of submissions. Shannon Hale says getting published is like winning the lottery. In terms of odds, she's right.

One-On-One...
Here was my big moment! My pitch to Annette (who works for Simon Pulse - a division of Simon and Schuster). She loved my concept and idea - especially the twist on Guardian Angels and the mystery subsplot with the murder and the clues left behind in a paperback copy of Hamlet. The most helpful moment was when she silently read my third and seventh chapters, but spoke aloud all her editorial thoughts and questions. I took notes like mad!

She asked to see a copy of the manuscript when I've finished, which is a good sign. BUT...

I learned fairly quickly that she and I (meaning Simon Pulse and I) are probably not the best fit. She told me about a recent project which is pushing the limits of YA fiction. She said "It's about incest, and it's wonderful. By the time you get to the incest, you're rooting for it." REALLY?! In my mind, incest and wonderful should not even be in the same sentence.

In other words, my novel (which has themes of redemption, choice/accountability, and forgiveness) probably isn't gritty enough for Simon Pulse.

Books Matter...
The keynote speaker was Deborah Heiligman (she wrote "Charles and Emma" which I fully intend to order on Amazon). She said that when she was young her parents wanted her to be a surgeon so she could save lives. Nothing could be more noble.

Then she looked out over the podium and this room filled with aspiring writers and said. "As a writer of children's literature...you are saving lives! Books matter. They save lives!"

I got a bit choked up as her statement resonated deeply with me. I thought of the books that have touched my life (I Heard the Owl Call My Name), that have contributed to the way I think about the world (The Book Thief), that have made me want to be a writer (The Penderwicks, Edward Tulane, The Underneath...). Yes, books save lives.

I walked out of the Busch Center with a mixture of emotions. I basically wanted to cry. I was a bit overwhelmed with the stress of the day and the harsh reality of how hard it is to get published. But I didn't cry. I sat in my car, with my hands on the steering wheel, and decided to keep writing. I decided to go back to my first novel The Letter Carrier and get it ready to send to Candlewick Press. I decided to finish The Reaping of Angels and not send it to Simon Pulse.

And then I counted my blessings...which of course, included books.

An Autumn Weekend

2010-10-12T04:51:00.000-07:00

It is Autumn here in northern Virginia. The leaves have started to change, the nights are cooler, and mums and pumpkins adorn porches. This weekend we enjoyed a family autumn tradition and started a new one.

The kids and I went apple picking like we do every year. T-man was a great apple picker but he was mostly interested in collecting leaves for his yearly leaf collage. We walked from grove to grove taste-testing the different varieties. The braeburn apples were my favorite - crisp with just the right mix of tart and sweet - almost savory. The kids couldn't believe how sweet the golden delicious apples were. Nothing like the bland ones from the grocery store. "It's like eating a mouth full of honey" Madi said. And as much as we tried to discourage Baby C from eating apples off the ground, she happily filled her mouth and her bucket with every apple she could find.

For the first time, we went camping with ALL SEVEN of us! My husband has taken the kids camping at least once a year, but I haven't actually slept in a tent since Madi was two. Here's what I loved: the crackle of the camp fire, the night hike with the park ranger, seeing a toad the size of a kitten, seeing the filmy Milky Way bow across the sky like a sparkling silver rainbow, holding my children's hands, eating foil dinners...

...licking my fingers to get the last of the sticky marshmallow, snuggling in the tent, reading our "Penderwicks" by lantern light, kissing my husband under the stars, and a morning hike around the lake.

Yes, I confess, I slept most of the night in the car (I just cannot sleep on the ground). And we could have done without the angry woman who yelled obscenities at us at 4AM because Baby C was crying (as if we weren't trying our very best to get her to go back to sleep!). I'm grateful to my dear husband who stuck it out in the tent with the kids and rocked Baby C, letting her sleep against his chest (I know he didn't get much sleep).

Despite the hurdles, the camping trip will go down in our memories as a wonderful weekend...one which we plan to add to autumn traditions.

Pumpkins

2010-10-04T16:17:00.000-07:00

Aren't pumpkins the best? If I believed in reincarnation (which I don't) and was given the choice to come back as a vegetable (is that even possible in reincarnation?), I would choose to be a pumpkin. There's something about pumpkins--their plumpness, their cheery orange color--that just makes me happy.

A couple weeks ago T-man and I made a quick stop at a local grocery store. The store front was practically blocked with a pumpkin display. Pumpkins were stacked and piled and spilling over onto the sidewalk. We nearly tripped over them on our way into the store.

T-man begged me to buy one which I agreed to...pretty quickly. Which pumpkin to buy took much longer. T-man agonized over finding the perfect one. He narrowed it down to three choices. A tall regal looking one, a squat jolly one, and a huge one. He decided on the huge one. We hoisted the pumpkin home. T-man named him, "Jack" and placed him on our porch steps.

Welcome "Jack" and welcome fall!

Typical Monday Morning (unedited)

2010-09-20T09:06:00.000-07:00

Okay. Here's my first attempt at writing and letting the writing stand, without over thinking, and over editing (does spell check count as editing?).

Monday Mornings: My morning usually begins around 5AM when I hear my dear husband rustling around the bedroom trying to find socks or in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I offer a silent thank you to him for being so darn good to get up so early, then gratefully, I turn over and go back to sleep.

The alarm goes off at 6:30 and I roll out of bed to say a groggy morning prayer. I make my bed (with my mother's encouraging voice ringing in my ears). Then I head downstairs in my pjs and crazy bedhead hair. I usually make muffins - but today I got lazy and made biscuits which are easier and quicker. While the buiscuits cook, I go back upstairs to gather the troops.

Baby C calls from her bed, "Mom? You Up?" Meya jumps out of bed. Leasie takes time to smooth her sheets and covers. T-man runs around in his pj bottoms looking for clean socks. Madi hides under her covers until Baby C finds her. We all stop what we're doing to cuddle with Baby C.

The beeper from the oven sounds and everyone hustles downstairs. The kids eat hot biscuits while I retrieve the lunches from the fridge and set them by the front door. Next I empty their folders (which I should have done Friday afternoon). Baby C asks for juice, a cheese stick, and Dora soup for breakfast. I argue with my two year old and do not win.

At 7:25 I give the five minute warning. There's a mad dash of stuffing mouths with the last bites of biscuit, running up stairs for teeth brushing, gathering backpacks, and kneeling down for a family prayer. Madi, with arms folded, stands as "look-out" incase the bus comes while we are praying (we've missed it before).

Outside, I distribute quick hugs and kisses. I tell Madi and T-man to put down their sticks. I demand they put down their sticks. They drop the sticks just as the bus pulls around the corner.
Some days I am sad to see them leave. But today, I simply stand by Baby C and smile and wave with her as the bus carries them off to school. It is a windy morning. Across the street leaves flutter to the ground, twirling and spinning as they go.

Baby C takes my hand asking for "George, please?" We walk back inside. Together.

To Write without Thought

2010-09-18T14:28:00.001-07:00

What if I were to write without thinking too much (i.e., over-thinking what I write). What would come out on this blog? I'm worried all the skeletons in my closet will jump out and scare me and anyone reading. A friend pointed out that most of my blogs are tied up neatly at the end, maybe too neatly. As if I'm really afraid to let the struggles, goofs, and untidiness of life stand as is.

But Baby C is standing next to me, hitting my arm, begging for Dora and threatening take over the keyboard with some very close-calls of palm open slaps.

Just an idea though...maybe I'll try it. For a day or two. Writing without revision. Could be scary.

It takes 2

2010-09-14T15:38:00.000-07:00

It takes a two year-old to turn my world upside down and inside out. She wakes up cheerful, ready to distribute hugs as I stagger out of bed. She cannot resist music, dancing and snapping her fingers every chance she can gets. She pulls my hand to join her on the dance floor. It takes a two year old to make an entrance into any room. She is my most friendly, non-shy child. She waves goodbye and gallops into the childcare center at my gym without looking back.

It takes a two year-old to melt my heart with her sweet "please!" and her "hold you" request. And she cracks me up when she recites lines from Diary of a Wimpy Kid, her current favorite: "Ha ha you're dead!"

I will not lie. There are times. And there are days. When I dream of quiet and solitude, and time to think, and time...(don't get me started). The first week of school, with the big kids gone all day, was a challenge (to put it mildly). She unlocks the front door and escapes...regularly, and most unfortunately, when I'm in the shower. She opens the fridge and helps herself to everything...regularly. She is fascinated with toilet paper and rocks. It takes a two year-old to push me to my limits and beyond.

But then. It took a friend, who has had to return to the work force full time and now leaves her twin two year-olds at daycare all day long, to remind me that time with a two year old is a priviledge.

It takes two. A mom and a child. And I'm so grateful to be a part of this two.

Summer's end

2010-09-05T08:15:00.000-07:00

It seems as though the rest of the country has already packed their lunches, put on their backpacks, boarded yellow buses, and gone back to school. But instead of feeling left behind, I've tried to relish this final week of summer.

I took the kids to our favorite swimming pool with the frog and duck slides.

I baked yummy breakfasts, and we ate them deliciously late each morning.

I stopped by Lola's (my FAVORITE!) with a friend. Though I was devastated that the s'more cupcakes were done for the season, I chose an almost equally tasty apple cupcake with cream cheese frosting. We took the cupcakes back to her house where our children were playing so nicely. We quietly grabbed cups and milk, and tiptoed up to her room where we ate our treats and talked in delightful seclusion.

I packed up the kids and drove to the National Zoo where we laughed at the orangutan playing with a tub of bubbles, shivered at the unsettling sight of the king cobra moving fast and reaching his head up to the dangling light, and cheered while watching the elephant play "tag" with a flock of birds.

And I let the kids stay up late so we could read "The Penderwicks on Gardam Street" (pure joy!)

Normally, I herald the coming of fall, but this week I've felt a real sense of loss as the end of summer approaches. Maybe it's because my children are getting so old. Madi enters her final year of elementary school this year. And the twins go to full day as first graders. Maybe I'm sad because we really enjoyed each others' company over the last few months and I'm going to miss them. And I know I'm feeling anxious about being in charge of Baby C by myself, ALL DAY LONG.

I love this quote by Thomas S. Monson (the president my church): "This is our one and only chance at mortal life—here and now. The longer we live, the greater is our realization that it is brief. Opportunities come, and then they are gone. I believe that among the greatest lessons we are to learn in this short sojourn upon the earth are lessons that help us distinguish between what is important and what is not. I plead with you not to let those most important things pass you by as you plan for that illusive and nonexistent future when you will have time to do all that you want to do. Instead, find joy in the journey—now."

So instead of jumping back into the schedule, practicing early bedtimes just to be ready (like the experts recommend), or getting out the backpacks, I'm going to find joy in these last two days of summer and hope that they go by slowly.

The Early Morning Gift

2010-08-25T10:39:00.001-07:00

Last night was craziness--an evening of overscheduled activities and meetings. My husband and I communicated via cell phone to keep track of all the comings and goings (what did we do before cell phones??). I made dinner for a friend who just had a baby. I drove to the airport to pick up another friend coming home from vacation. I flung plates onto the table as though I was dealing playing cards and practically threw the chicken, rice, and salad onto the plates. I ate in the car.

My husband and I both ended up at the same church meeting. We grinned at each other over our agendas. I stifled a chuckle as the words to the song "Some Enchanted Evening...you should meet a stranger..." popped into my mind.

We returned home to find the house a disaster. It resembled a crime scene--couch pillows and toys strewn throughout the downstairs, an overturned chair, newspaper pages scattered from room to room. But the kitchen was the worst. Dinner dishes piled in the sink. Dirty pots and pans on the stove. We tucked the kids in bed and dragged ourselves through the house trying to reclaim some semblance of order. We put the food away and rinsed the pots and pans. But the dirty dishes remained in the sink. We were just too tired. I flipped off the kitchen light leaving the dishes...lurking, waiting for me for morning.

Morning came. My husband was long gone having risen before me, exercised, and already completed his early morning commute. I padded downstairs barefoot and in my pajamas, dreading the sink of waiting dishes. I turned on the kitchen light. The sink was empty. The counters were clear. I rubbed my unbelieving eyes. Could it be true? Yes, the dish rack was full of clean dishes.

An early morning gift from my true love.

This is Fair Week

2010-08-18T11:41:00.000-07:00

Start with the smells.

Smoky charcoal grills cooking up the onions and peppers for the bratwurst.

Funnel cakes drizzled with honey.

Fried mini-donuts served warm in brown paper bags.

A whiff of pepperoni pizza.

The scent of hydraulic oil from the rides.

The pig barn, which can be smelled from yards away, so strong we hold the backs of our hands to our noses as we walk through to peek at the huge pink animals and their comically small, curly tails.

Fresh hay in the goat pens.

Soap at the washing stalls that is scrubbed from the animals and travels in rivulets down the hill, making sudsy puddles near the barns.

Rabbit fur, soft and warm, with the slightest hint of wood chips.

Now to my favorite sights:

Meya as "Little Miss Muffet" and Blaze as "The Spider" in the animal parade.

Madi's farm cake which she entered in the Junior 4-H category and won the grand prize. She auctioned it off Friday night and earned a good chunk of money for her college fund.

Madi saying goodbye to the rabbit she's about to auction off. Wearing her cowboy duds, she took the rabbit into the rink and proudly held it up as the auctioneer rattled off, "$10 a pound, will ya give me $10 a pound, $20 a pound, now 20, now 20, will ya give me $20 a pound, who'll pay 30, $30 a pound...going once, going twice, SOLD at $30 a pound!"

Leasie sitting on a bench before her auction. She grinned from ear to ear as she circled the rink to show her rabbit to the bidders. Her smile earned her an extra $5 a pound. Her rabbit sold for $35 a pound!

Moments before the auction after a week of work, showmanship, judging, ribbons, fair food, rides, heat&humidity, fun, laughter, and family time together. We all agree that besides Christmas, fair week is our favorite time of the year!

This is summer

2010-08-06T09:49:00.000-07:00

It is a summer afternoon...

Madi is curled up on the blue leather chair in the front room, her feet tucked under her, with a book in her hand. She doesn't answer when I call to her which makes me smile. She's too far away, swallowed whole by a good story.

Breakfast and lunch dishes fill the kitchen sink waiting patiently for me. A half eaten watermelon rests on the counter tilted on its side; bright pink juice puddles beneath it. I can still taste its sweetness on my lips.

I carry Baby C upstairs for her afternoon nap. She squirms in my arms as she reaches for her blanket. I kiss her cheek which is sticky with Popsicle. I brush her yellow curls away from her face and pull her shirt down over her wonderfully protruding belly.

The afternoon light squeezes past the edges of the window blind, and I pause for a moment in the artificially darkened room. Outside, Cicadas drone in rhythm as steady as lapping waves. I close my eyes and listen. Then I peek at Baby C who has already fallen asleep.

I nearly trip over the swimming towels strewn throughout the house like storm debris. T-man helps me gather and carry them to the basement. They smell of chlorine and Downy. T-man bends to push the last towel into the washer and as he does, his swimming trunks fall just enough to expose a perfect line of white skin at his waist. I'm surprised how tan he has become.

I hear thumps and thuds overhead and know that Leasie and Meya are dancing upstairs in my room. I'm sure it is a party of pink tutus, sequins, and fringe.

This chaos. This freedom. This nothing-importantness. This everythingness. This potentially forgettable moment of summer is exactly what I want to remember.

The past three weeks

2010-07-10T11:11:00.000-07:00

A blur. Craziness. Sleeplessness. Too much busy-ness. The first three weeks of our summer has been jam-packed with doing! I was the director of the Pickwick Players Summer Drama Camp for the first two weeks. It was a huge amount of effort (which included but was not limited to) dancing, singing, acting, preparing schedules, preparing daily theater lessons, playing games, preparing daily activities, truck loads of set, and costumes.

We went from this... To this...
And I agreed to do it all...for three simple reasons: Madi, Leasie, and Meya.

They were orphans in the show and loved it! (Madi is in the green shirt, Leasie is next to her in yellow, and Meya is in the pink shirt on the end)

As the cast took their final bow and the audience (aka parents and families) clapped, Meya burst into tears. "I don't want it to be done!" she sobbed as I hugged her. "I'm going to miss all my friends."

I've felt the same way at the end of past shows, and I was glad Meya had such a positive experience that she didn't want it to end.

Today...more than a week after their final bow and goodbyes, I found the girls in my room acting out the scenes from Annie. They were singing, dancing, and laughing.

So, I venture to say that it was all worth it.

Handfuls

2010-06-20T10:15:00.000-07:00

One evening this week we took a family walk in our neighborhood. It was dusk. The heat of the day had subsided and the air was full of the smells of summer: freshly cut grass, smoke from a charcoal grill, and sweet honeysuckle. We strolled to the empty lot at the end of our street. The field was alight with fireflies. The tiny blinking bugs hovered a few feet above the grass.

We introduced Baby C to the fireflies and soon she was walking with hands outstretched calling and coaxing, "Here bug."

Madi stepped through the field with hands down and cupped. She literally scooped up the bugs by the handful. Then she lifted her hands and watched as they gently took flight from her palms.

Soon all of us were scooping up the fireflies. Handfuls of light.

Later that night, after the children were tucked in bed, I flipped on my computer to check email. My dear friend had posted a beautiful blog entry about her daughter's battle with leukemia. She wrote about combing her daughter's thinning hair.

I imagined a different handful. And I wanted to cry.

Handfuls. Sometimes life gives us a handful of light, of pure enchantment that makes us believe in magic, goodness, and miracles. And sometimes life gives us a handful of heartache that forces us to believe and hope and pray. And both polar experiences make not only our hands, but our hearts full too.

The Juggle

2010-06-10T04:55:00.001-07:00

It is that time of year, when I have so many things to juggle I truly feel like I'm about to lose my mind. My calendar is covered with so much pencil and ink, it looks like it has been the victim of vandalism graffiti. I've got notes taped to walls and cupboards (for those events I think I might forget...which is many). And my daily to do list reminds me of a detailed procedural list for a scientific experiment: "At exactly 8AM, have at least one load of laundry done and make the following phone calls..."

So this morning I thought I'd just list it out. My to-do, not-to-forget, list, with the hope that I'll feel much better and not succomb to the chaos and go rock in a corner.

Prepare for 2 week "Annie" Drama Camp (I'm the director of 43 children!)
Host Drama Camp Counselor Kick off Party
Soccer tournament (includes two games this Saturday)
Baptism to attend on Saturday
Madi's piano recital (30 minutes after her last soccer game on Saturday)
Prepare for my 6 week summer class (I'm teaching at Nova starting June 29)
End of soccer party (bringing fruit salad)
Leasie's Violin recital next week
Kindergarten end of the school year Cowboy party
2nd grade end of the school year Mexican party
Restaff two teachers in primary
Write script for one part of the Stake YC trek
Plan for Primary activity on July 24th
Get Madi, Leasie, and Meya ready for County Fair (4-H project books!)

I know I'm forgetting something...oh yeah, take care of five children, cook food, do laundry, and try to keep the house clean.

No wonder my mind is spinning like an out of control merry-go-round. The funny thing is...I'd venture to say that most people reading this (especially my Mommy friends) have a list equally long. And to you I say...let's escape together to the Bahamas.

DC United

2010-06-06T17:35:00.001-07:00

Have you ever been to a professional soccer game? I hadn't...until last night.

Madi's soccer team won a sportsmanship award from their league and they received FREE (yes, free) tickets to a DC United game. My husband and I went along for the ride. A what a ride it was! The stadium was huge. The night was steamy hot. And the playing on the field was spectacular!
Here's our favorite player of the night. The DC United goalie pulled the ball out of the air on at least three corner kicks with opposing players surrounding him--boxing him in, and jutting their heads toward the ball. He made some amazing saves--diving across the goal box. He really got us on our feet cheering.

Of course, we dined on cotton candy (which, in my opinion, is the epitome of a summer, fun treat) and pretzels. And we guzzled water. (Did I mention it was hot?)

Here a picture of some of Madi's team - we're sitting in the far seats with Madi in the middle.

But my favorite moment of the night was at the very end. We ducked out with only one minute left in the game. The three of us held hands and ran through the empty stadium corridors, down through the tunnel, and into the dark parking lot. The stars twinkled above us in the nighttime sky. I looked down at my daughters face and she just beamed.

We made it to our car before the crowds and drove home in less than an hour. Madi fell asleep before we were out of the city limits. My husband carried her inside and we tucked our happy, exhausted child into her bed.

Good times.

Storms, Butter, and Curls

2010-06-03T16:21:00.000-07:00

I laughed out loud once and cried twice today.

I laughed when the kids and were caught in a downpour at the park. There was a rumble of thunder and suddenly one raindrop turned into a shower--a million huge plops that splattered and soaked us. What else could I do? I laughed.

I cried when I came down after putting laundry away to find that Baby C had finger-painted with butter on my kitchen floor. It was just such a big mess. What else could I do? I cried. And then I cleaned it up with lots of hot, soapy water.

And when I sat at the computer this evening, surrounded by the familiar sounds of evening (Madi practicing piano, Baby C giggling, and T-man protesting his dinner dish job), I read my dear friend's blog about her daughter's leukemia. What else could I do? I cried. I cried for my amazingly couragous friend who is facing a mother's worst fear. I cried for her dear daughter and all her pain and suffering. I cried for her thick brown curls that will soon be gone.

And when Baby C came to me with arms outstretched, wanting to be picked up, instead of sending her back to Dad or shooing her away to play with her blocks, I let her join my on lap. And I held her close.

What else could I do?

2010-05-18T14:58:00.000-07:00

From this... To this...

My house smells so good right now - every room is filled with the sweet aroma of fresh strawberries.

The final product of jam and Martha Stewart strawberry cupcakes did not come without lots of spills, messes, and even two minor temper tantrums (from me). The first occurred when Baby C grabbed a handfull of sugar with a soaking wet hand, then managed to wipe the sugary goop all over herself, and the chair, and the floor. The second tantrum was in reaction to finding Baby C had finger painted the kitchen floor with softened butter. My back had been turned for just a few minutes as I was washing and cutting the strawberries.

It was a day with one step forward, and two big messy steps back.

But by the afternoon, the messes were cleaned up. And all that remained were the treats.
The kids wanted jam on bread for their after school snack. And our family devoured the strawberry cupcakes after dinner.

Sure, I could wait until Baby C is old enough to attempt such grand cooking projects (or I could be smart and do my baking/jam making when she's napping), but life is too short to postpone such sweetness...right?

Strawberry Garden

2010-05-16T15:25:00.000-07:00

Ahh, to pick strawberries from our backyard garden on a cool spring evening... After all the waiting. After counting the blossoms, then counting the hard green berries...they were finally ready.

Ahh, to eat strawberries right off the vine...literally:

Ahh, to let the sweet juice dribble down our chins...

Heartwarming

2010-05-12T11:23:00.000-07:00

Nothing warms my heart more than the sound of giggles coming from upstairs. I tiptoe up the stairs and peek in the room to find these two playing together. Who would have guessed that a ten year old and a 20 month old could be such good friends? Something else that warms my heart (and puts my previous venting blog into perspective)...this link sent to me by a friend. I'm singing a different tune and counting my blessings...

Grumblings

2010-05-12T04:51:00.000-07:00

I'm not a happy, positive person by nature. I'm actually very much the opposite (just ask those people who really, really know me). This blog, in fact, is one of my attempts to focus on the good, as a mental, emotional exercise.

But as much as I try to keep the negativity at bay, sometimes the it comes crawling through. And most often, it rears its ugly head most fiercely when it comes to material things.

So let me just grumble and vent and get it over with.

In the past month, I've had three close friends take their families on Disney vacations. And I've had two good friends contract to have their basements refinished. Am I happy for them? Yes. Absolutely. But man, I wish we could do the same. Instead, we've had to change our summer vacation plans because we can't afford what I thought we could. And not only are we no where near being able to refinish our basement, we can't keep up with basic home repairs.

I look around me and I see a lot of affluence. Vacations. Granite. Beautiful homes. Big kitchens. Nice cars. Did I mention vacations?

So why is there such an inequality, why such a discrepancy? My husband works hard, long hours. And I guess I feel like we should have more perks...or specifically, a great vacation and a nice home.

Can you tell I'm feeling very sorry for myself? And for this entry, I'll allow myself this moment of pity, this moment of grumbling, this moment of bitterness. Then when I push publish, I'll try to lock up all the negativity and go about my day.

Breakfast dishes, here I come...