To Will, on Your Third Birthday

Hey Kid,

You're 3. I just went back and read through the "Hey Kid" series because, while it isn't exactly a story I could forget, life gets moving and it becomes increasingly more difficult to remember to reflect on the incredible way God brought you to us. I suppose that this blog is a bit like the stones of remembrance piled up by Joshua. When you ask me in times to come what these "stones" mean, I will let you know that my journey to you is like the drying up of the waters of the Jordan. I will tell you that our being together is as though we crossed that river on dry ground. I will remember and I will tell all the people of the earth that the hand of the LORD is mighty. (From Joshua 4:21-24)

You are incredible. A series of contradictions running around in the most coordinated of toddler bodies. You are sweet and spicy, kind and ever so naughty, rarely calm but somehow calming, tender but tough. You are part of Newton's first law existing in human form. A body in motion will remain in motion...

Pretty much.

And a body that is scared at night will climb into its mother's arms and wrap limb around limb like entwined octopuses. A body that used to sleep perfectly through the night will suddenly have terrors and all bets are off and the parents are tired. A body that doesn't want to will basically refuse to potty train even though that same body is absolutely capable of doing it and even though the aforementioned parents want to be done buying diapers and also would like to stop scraping poop out of tiny underwear. A body in motion will remind its parents that being a toddler is sometimes rough but it is also, perhaps, the most hysterical, adorable time in a person's whole life.

You were so excited about your birthday this year. Whenever anyone asked you what you wanted, you only ever replied, "A cake party and a gift card." Naturally, we had to buy a giant Costco cake because it was really a go big or go home kind of request. You wanted a baseball cake--because you're obsessed--and you joined in with the chorus of friends singing yourself Happy Birthday. We invited our Community Life Group and a few others to celebrate with you and you were positively darling. Your eyes were lit up like chocolate sparkles. One of your friends walked in with a balloon and you so nicely told her, "I love your balloon!" before being made aware that it was for you. Your first gift card came to the party and you were so happy to receive it. What a funny little guy you are.

What you lack in potty training ability, you make up for in your command of the entire English language. I know everyone else will catch up and the fact that you talked early and impressively will not be such a big deal. But for now, you know ALL THE WORDS. (Or, at least, a whole lot of them.) I basically think you're brilliant but I may be entirely biased.

You are the most coordinated just three-year-old that I have ever, ever seen. You can smack a ball off a tee and, if accurately pitched, you can hit one in midair. You can balance on your bike and zoom around the backyard on your brand new birthday scooter. (Thanks, Grandma and Grandpa!) Your climbing skills astound and you can catch a football from across the room. So, I mean, really, what can't you do? TELL US WHEN YOU HAVE TO GO POOP AND THEN DO IT ON THE POTTY, THAT'S WHAT!

(I hope you are reading this as, I don't know, a fully functional adult who is toilet trained. I really hope that because if you're twenty and I still have to reward you with an M&M for using the potty instead of a Pull-Up we've got a lot of big issues.)

One day, not long ago, I was upset about a thing. I was upset and then I drove our van right over a bird who didn't get out of the way. By the time I realized he wasn't going to move, it was too late. The tire thudded right over that unsuspecting fowl and I burst into tears. From the backseat, your little voice came, soothing and gentle, "Mommy, don't cry. It was an accident. It's OK. Mommy, I will take good care of you." Then you softly sang Jesus Loves Me. When you completed the song, you whispered, "It's OK. I'm right here." My darling boy, you have listened. You have heard me as I rub your back and tell you that I am here.

I love you so much. You make me laugh every single day. You are a joy gift from the real Joy Giver. I lose myself in your gorgeous eyes and endless curls (except right now you've got a summer shorter cut but they'll grow back). I am so proud of you and so very blessed to be able to call myself your mom.

Always, No Matter What,
Mommy

Interview With 3 Year Old Will

I always ask my boys these questions on their birthday. We decided to give it a go with Will who turned 3 today.

1. What is your favorite T.V. Show? Paw Patrol.

2. What did you have for breakfast? Pancakes and sausage.
3. What do you want to name your future son? Jack (Phew. A nice, normal name.)
4. Favorite Food? McDonald's. Marshmallows. (It's pizza but okay. He can sound like he has junk food junkies for parents.)
5. What food do you dislike? Potatoes. (He likes potatoes just fine but whatever.)
6. What is your favorite color? Green.
7. Favorite lunch? Peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
8. What is your favorite thing to do? Play toys.
9. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would it be? I would be lost. Okay, but where would you like to go on a trip? San Diego.
10. Favorite sport? Football is my favorite sport. Are you sure? What about baseball? (Because he is obsessed with baseball.) Oh, I love baseball.
11. What do you want to name your future daughter? Peanut butter is a good girl's name. (Is it though?)
12. Are you a morning person or a night person? I love the night. (Then why are you always up early?)
13. Pets? Sloth and fox. (These are his stuffed animals but he just turned 3 today so we'll go with it.)
14. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us? I love jumping up and down.
15. What do you want to be when you grow up? Matt. Okay, but for a job? A trash man.
16. What is your favorite candy? Mints are my favorite candy.
17. Where is the farthest place you've ever been from home? I went to Oregon.
18. What is your favorite book? Room on the Broom.
19. What are you most proud of? My birthday! I am PROUD.
20. What is your favorite movie? The one with popcorn. Okay, can you tell me a name? Elsa. Frozen? Yes. Frozen.
21. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The egg. You think? How come? I love eggs.

And, for fun, I asked him the same questions that James Lipton asks at the end of Inside the Actor's Studio.

1. What is your favorite word? Smash.
2. What is your least favorite word? Gross.
3. What turns you on? (I rephrased with, "What do you like?") Popcorn.
4. What turns you off? (I rephrased with, "What don't you like?") I don't love playing with ghosts. (Um. Good.)
5. What sound or noise do you love? Music.
6. What sound or noise do you hate? A ghost.

7. What is your favorite curse word? Stupid.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Fireman.
9. What profession would you not like to do? A toilet cleaner.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? (I omitted the "If Heaven exists" part)? Um. No way! (We break into hysterical laughter) When you meet Jesus, what might he say to you? Smoosh the peanut butter. Seems we have some theology and Bible lessons to go over.

Put Something in the World

I was wondering why I felt like crawling into bed for the afternoon when my to-do list is roughly 17 miles long. Perhaps it was the sporadic downpours, the spontaneous claps of clamoring thunder, the curly topped toddler quietly watching a show next to me because his nap was less than stellar. Maybe I'm starting to get sick? I thought. And I suppose it could be so--that place between well and sick, that time you look back on and say, "Oh, yeah. That's when I started to feel this coming on."

I'm pretty sure it isn't that.

I'm pretty sure I'm suffering from PTSD (Post Theatrical Sadness Disorder). This is directly caused by the extremely high high that I feel before, during, and just after a theatrical experience--even one that I am not particularly impressed with. There's only one way to go from that mountaintop and it's straight down.

Inevitably, I start to feel like, "What have I done with these 37 years? What have I done with my $80,000 degree? Where do I go from here?"

And it isn't that I instantly feel the need to be on Broadway. I don't. I'm under no real delusion that the talent level needed for that lies within me. I don't even instantly feel the need to be part of the theatre at all. It's just that I instantly remember that I am made to create.

Words. Characters. Something. I'm made to put something in the world that hasn't been there before. For a minute or two, the head-in-the-clouds artist in me sighs a sigh of contentment that today will be the day I start my book which would be something like The Greatest Story Never Told and would probably shock just about everyone. Or today will be the day I memorize a monologue and audition for something again--finally. Or today will be the day I write a Bible study or burst with some great magnitude of creativity.

But then I look at the house that needs cleaning, the toddler who needs chasing at least 12 hours of every day, the classes that need teaching, the dinners that need making, the life that needs living. Suddenly, I feel it in the nerves that somehow seem to vibrate as they realize, There will be no time to create today.

I fell in love early with art--with both the written and performed word. I was little when the magic of a play first bit me. It bit hard. I couldn't shake it loose and I didn't want to. Performance art held one heel and literature, the other. College both nurtured this love and broke it.

I am a perfectionist. I always have been. Even from the time I was a tiny child, I wanted to be perfect. And if I couldn't be perfect, why would I do it at all? I could work hard enough to be at the top--or at least very close to the top in whatever I set my mind to. Because of this perfectionist trait, my parents rarely had to get on my case. I was already on it enough for the three of us. I don't need a lot of constructive criticism because I've likely already thought of it all. And I will take zero feedback to mean that you believe I'm failing in all the ways I've already thought up.

So, in college, I was told over and over again by writing professors that I showed great promise. But all it took was one professor, in an unrelated field, saying one thing and I suddenly didn't believe that I could write. I'm also convinced that this person didn't think I could act, either. He did think I could produce and direct and manage and, now, I wish he'd at least focused on that. Because, yes, that probably could have gone somewhere. Instead, I left college thankful that I'd found the love of my life and could stop pretending that I was any good at writing or acting. I could get married and teach.

You see, I'm very good at choosing one opinion that matters to me and betting the whole farm on what that one person thinks. I look back now, nearly two decades later, and I know, beyond the shadow of any doubt, that I chose the wrong person's opinion. That's the thing about it though. I can know, even now, that I'm choosing the wrong person's opinion and still find myself unable to shake the words and actions of that one person. Why? Because I am a perfectionist and I want EVERYONE to think I'm nearly perfect.

The psychosis runs deep.

So what of the need to create? There is so much failure in human creation. And failure requires time. Time to improve. Time to try again. Time to rewrite. Time for a class to teach success. Time.

I don't know where to find that time.

I know, intellectually, that pursuing perfection is futile. I've dedicated entire conference talks to this very thing. I know that my God doesn't expect perfection from me and I know He made me to create. I know His is the SINGLE and ONLY opinion that matters.

So you might ask the question, Why ever see a single other play in your life if it makes you have a raging case of PTSD? The answer to that is, the high of witnessing creative art is worth the impending low of wondering if I'll ever contribute anything of creative substance. I'd rather be on the sidelines than not in the stadium at all--even if the sidelines force me to think about my own psychosis and why I can't make time for failure.

And, I THINK, the sadness just might be my God saying, "How many times do you have to feel this way before you remember that I made you to make something and that I don't care if you fail 20,000 times in pursuit of creation?"

And, in that highest high of watching creation unfold before me, I'm forced to believe that maybe one day I'll have something to show for all the days that followed.

Paris

I said to my mom and then, also, to a good friend, that I was going to run away--all by myself--to Paris, France. I don't know why I said Paris because that's never been a bucket list stop for me. Maybe I said Paris because people could spend a year trying to find me in Paris when, really, I was in New York all along just watching a crap ton of plays, eating cheesecake from Junior's, and cupcakes from Magnolia. So what I'm saying is that if I go missing, DON'T LOOK FOR ME IN ANY THEATRES OR BAKERIES IN NYC.

When Garrett was a toddler and he got head lice, I wanted to quit being a mom for a minute or two. Just long enough for my replacement to clean up his scalp and do all the laundry. But since then I haven't wanted to duck out on my responsibilities.

But right now. World, the flu has been swirling around the toilets of this house for a straight week and I am over it. It isn't just the stomach flu though. It's not just the fact that someone in this house has been throwing up or thinking they're going to throw up or having excessive poop for seven entire days. That's disgusting and I kind of want to just burn the house to the ground and start over again. But I'm also just really, really exhausted from lives falling apart around me.

The really great thing about the fact that no one ever reads my blog anymore (which probably has a lot to do with the fact that no one ever writes anything on this blog anymore) is that all the lives in turmoil around me are not lives who frequent this particular writing space, ever. So when I say that a marriage is in shambles (not mine) or that a mother is dying (not mine) or that a husband is a wreck and his wife is in distress over it (not mine, not me), no one is going to look at that say, "Oh, man, she wrote about me on her blog that no one reads."

I am so incredibly blessed to be able to speak into people's lives.

And maybe that is the takeaway. I thought about writing that I am tired of crises and that if one more friend tells me one more awful thing that I cannot fix but will want to, I will just hop on the nearest plane and fly to "Paris" so that I can escape the doom and destruction and difficulty. Because I can pray and that is of utmost importance but, also, I am a pretty positive and upbeat person who just wants to stick my hands in things and put pressure on that bleeding organ until someone can stitch it closed. And when I can't fix it, sometimes, the terrible and evil side of me just wants to yell, "Stop hurting!" When I know just as well as anyone that we don't just stop hurting and a lot of times we have to walk over those hot coals and those shards of glass barefoot. We have to put in the work and we need people to walk beside us while we do it. We don't need people to run away to "Paris" never to be seen again.

I am so incredibly blessed to be able to speak into people's lives. That is what God just told me while I prepared to dump my own frustration and pain and WHY onto a blog I haven't updated in almost a month. He has put me right here, right now, to be a safe space for people to ask for prayer. A safe place for people to cry. A safe place for people to share their hearts.

Yesterday, a friend in my life said, "I don't know what overcame me but I just saw you and I thought I've got to go and see Lori!" She did. And I saw her crying and I just wrapped my arms around her. I've never hugged her before. Ever. But I just knew that was the thing to do. Because I have Jesus and He loves me. And if I can wrap that love around another person who is hurting, I will.

But there are moments...

Moments when I think, I just need a few days in "Paris" to get away from the diarrhea and the vomit and broken hearts.

Pray for your Pastor's Wife. And pray for me. I need prayer for my own self--so that I can pour the love of Jesus into others.

Interview With 10 Year Old Matt

1. What is your favorite T.V. Show? Grizzy and the Lemmings

2. What did you have for breakfast? Cereal and yogurt.
3. What do you want to name your future son? Marek (I mean, I guess I can think of worse names. It's a Slavic name that means warlike one.)
4. Favorite Food? Cheeseburgers. But I do like everything.
5. What food do you dislike? Cooked broccoli.
6. What is your favorite color? Red.
7. Favorite lunch? Peanut butter and jelly.
8. What is your favorite thing to do? Reading or watching TV.
9. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would it be? Ireland.
10. Favorite sport? Football.
11. What do you want to name your future daughter? Leia. (Simply because he likes Star Wars. Every woman wants to be named after Princess Leia, I'm sure. Insert eyeroll.)
12. Are you a morning person or a night person? I'm a totally night person.
13. Pets? Tessie. Ollie. Hamilton.
14. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us? I have a new cousin named Sophie. She's my biological aunt's baby. (Awww. Cute.)
15. What do you want to be when you grow up? An actor.
16. What is your favorite candy? Lollipop.
17. Where is the farthest place you've ever been from home? Israel.
18. What is your favorite book? Star Wars books.
19. What are you most proud of? That I have a good family.
20. What is your favorite movie? Star Wars. The Force Awakens.
21. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The chicken.

And, for fun, I asked him the same questions that James Lipton asks at the end of Inside the Actor's Studio.

1. What is your favorite word? Word. (Er. Ok.)
2. What is your least favorite word? onomatopoeia (I asked him if he was serious and he said yes because it's hard to say)
3. What turns you on? (I rephrased with, "What do you like?") Going outside.
4. What turns you off? (I rephrased with, "What don't you like?") Bullies.
5. What sound or noise do you love? Tap dancing noises.
6. What sound or noise do you hate? Styrofoam 

7. What is your favorite curse word? Stupid.
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? A director.
9. What profession would you not like to do? Be in the military.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? (I omitted the "If Heaven exists" part)? Your sister wants to see you. (Good thing this was the last question. I'm basically a puddle of goop now.)

Ten Years Old

Dear Matthew,

I hope you see this as a "Mom's been really busy with teaching and studying and chasing Will and I'm glad it was late instead of not at all" and not a, "Wow, guess she can't even remember when my birthday is" letter. I DO know when your birthday is. I bought cupcakes for school and we had a party and you had presents and everything. Remember? It happened. Six entire days ago BUT IT ALL HAPPENED.

Happy Birthday! You are, somehow, ten years old now. I guess an entire decade has gone by but I hardly comprehend how.

This past year was a pretty big one for you. You saw your birth parents and all your siblings this year. You hadn't seen your mom since you were just over a year old and you hadn't seen your dad since right after you turned two. I'm sure I've put it in writing somewhere before but I'll leave it here for you also. Our goal has always been to try to discern what is best for you right now AND what is best for you once you're an adult who very well may want to have all your parents and all your siblings in your life on a consistent basis. So we hope and pray that we're doing right by you now and we also hope that translates into healthy adult relationships with all of us. And so, of course we flew to Texas to attend your sister's graduation last June. And of course we welcomed your dad when he came to visit in November. It was a big year with big feelings and I hope you know how very much we all love you, how much we all loved you from the minute you came into our lives, and how much we will all love you forever.

You are so uniquely you. You're smart and hilarious and stunningly handsome. You just pulled straight A's except for a pesky little B in keyboarding. You got straight E's too. Well done, you. You love science and are so looking forward to 5th grade because you'll get to do a science experiment! (To anyone else who might read this, my son is a crazy person who hasn't yet realized that the science fair is the bane of all existence. BUT HOORAY FOR ENCOURAGING EXCITEMENT IN STEM MINDED KIDS!) Hey, Matt...you're STEM brained. I don't know what to do with that. We might need to hire a Standby Mom that we bring in to perform the role of Science and Math Mom.

"In tonight's performance, STEM Mom will be playing the part of Actual Mom."

Speaking of standbys, I DO know what to do with your love of acting and theatre and that is to FOSTER THE HECK OUT OF THAT PASSION. No, you can't have the agent you've been asking for since forever ago but you CAN come with me to see Wicked and I will for sure take you to the stage door to get pictures and autographs and I will direct you in church Christmas plays and I'll keep putting money in that NYC Trip Fund we started. I'm not sure about the Hamilton tickets you requested but time will tell.

Sports. I don't know, man. You keep trying new things, looking for your niche. This fall you tried taekwondo and you were doing really well. You loved it at first and then that kind of fizzled. You played a quick season of basketball and really seemed to enjoy it. Now you're signed back up for baseball. Here's to hoping you find something you really, truly love some day.

You continue to be a man of a few close friends. You're still quiet and reserved until you really get to know someone and then you turn into a total goofball. You love your alone time but you love being cozied up to the family for a movie night. You are complex in ways I am not and simple in ways I am not. You are introspective and brilliant. You adore Garrett--when you're not busy trying to fist fight him--and you're great with Will, who you love so deeply but who you also struggle to tolerate in all his two-ness.

I really can't believe you came shrieking into our lives an entire ten years ago. The only one to scream and scream and scream and refuse to be consoled and yet, the quietest one of the trio now. I had no idea what kind of adventure you were about to take us on. But I'm so thankful you landed here, in my arms. I cannot imagine life without you. Happy double digits dude.

Love,
Mom

That Girl

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately.

It has everything to do with the fact that I saw Wicked three times on its current Salt Lake City run. (The first step is admitting you have a problem.) (Also, to defend myself, the first time was a gift to Matthew. The second time was a deeply discounted gift for a friend. The third time was her lottery winning gift back to me. So it isn't quite as bad as it sounds. Obsessive, yes. But less expensive.) These three times are in addition to the several times I'd already seen it in previous years.

If you've been reading this blog for a hot minute or two, you know that I looooove Idina Menzel. This deep affection began long before she originated the role of Elphaba. It began in my college dorm room in 1999 when I obtained the Rent cast album and declared my undying love for her right then and there. And so, of course, I was thrilled when she won the Tony for her portrayal of Elphaba, beating out, among others, her costar Kristen Chenoweth. 

Elphaba/Galinda. Glinda/Elphaba. (You see what I did there?) The roles are equally iconic. Until yesterday afternoon I believed that the Tony winning role--all else being equal--is Elphaba. And I suppose that I sort of still do. It's her story, really. She's the one who belts The Wizard and I, Defying Gravity, and No Good Deed all alone on stage. The role was written to earn the Tony.

Maybe it's the phenomenal performance by Kara Lindsay that got me. Maybe it's that I saw the show from the second row and that gave me a perspective on Glinda's character arc not afforded to anyone sitting beyond the first ten rows or so. But my goodness does Glinda ever grow. She is crazy and caffeinated and hysterical and snobby and awful but she is also incredibly tender and strong and beautifully tragic and tragically beautiful. She doesn't really get even one show stopping song. Popular is as close as she gets and, though arguably the funniest scene in the entire show, she still shares the spotlight with Elphaba. In fact, the only song Glinda sings alone on stage is the reprise of I'm Not That Girl. 

And so Elphaba wins the Tony (and I'm not complaining because Idina slays). But she wins it for her vocal solos and the fact that it's called Wicked instead of Good. I have long loved Elphie. So much so that I named my cat after her before finding out that our cat was actually a boy kitty and changing his name right quick to Oliver. But I finally realized that Glinda is, maybe, (I struggle to even put it in words) the more challenging role. GASP.

Or Kara brought a depth to it I've never seen before. It's one or the other. (That's not to say that Jackie Burns--who I have also long loved--didn't absolutely bring down the house. She's amazing. Incredible. A joy to watch and listen to. Stunning and phenomenal.)

During the past three weeks, I have become one sidedly acquainted with Ms. Lindsay.  She seems like such a true delight. I'm 99% certain that we would be fast friends. I am not so certain that Idina would want to be my pal but I honestly believe that, if I ran in Broadway circles or Kara was a teacher at my school, we'd be instant buddies. In an interview, she said that she leaves her dressing room door open so that anyone who wants to can come in. She also said she believes that the relationships forged offstage inform the performances onstage. I love both of those statements so much--from a teaching perspective, from a ministry perspective, from a life perspective.

Yesterday, I was telling my husband that I really see so much of Elphaba and Glinda in my own personality. Maybe everyone does. Perhaps that's the point. Or, perhaps, it's somewhat unique to me and that's why I have loved this musical so much for the past 15 years. Somehow along the way though, I've lost a lot of that Glinda spunk. I miss her. I told him that I wanted to pull out that buried part of my personality--to live naturally caffeinated, to not be quite so reserved or rigid. I suppose it's the teacher and mother in me. If I had to choose between Glinda and Elphaba to raise my children or teach my classes, I'd pick Elphaba every time. Flying broomstick notwithstanding.

I told him I was tired of being a toad. (I'm not comparing Elphaba to a toad in any way except skin color.)

But Glinda has more fun. She may lose the guy but does she ever HAVE MORE FUN. And better costumes. I want a big blue ballgown. And a crown. Or, at the very least, I want to find that part of my personality that would wear a ballgown and a crown. I want to dig up that girl who doesn't worry quite so much, the one who knows what she wants and goes for it, the one who doesn't win a Tony but maybe plays the more challenging part. The soprano. (Just kidding. I am unapologetically an alto. Or a tenor, probably.)

Glinda takes care of serious business in the end. She is a strong, good leader, but she still comes and goes by bubble. She seems to be the very best parts of herself and Elphaba. She doesn't win the Tony. But, by the end of the show, I don't think she cares.

Excuse Me, Sir!

Shall I regale you with the story of tonight? My friend, Abi and I were downtown. We parked in a spot that said 2 hour parking and we walked off. Fast forward about a half hour. We returned just in time to see a meter man walking away from my van--which was sporting a shiny white ticket under the wiper blade. We were so confused. Both of us are college educated women and we've both been reading for several decades. We approached the vehicle and stared at the parking sign. It said two hour parking. It did state, toward the bottom, that Saturdays were free but that was it. Not being a frequent visitor of downtown Salt Lake, I, apparently, do not know how these things work.

I've seen many a movie where the ingenue gets pulled over but talks her way out of the ticket. Since there was truly no ill intent and I was honestly confused, I decided to try my hand at getting out of the ticket. I chased the meter man down the road. "Excuse me, sir! Sir! Excuse me. Excuse me, sir, I have a question."

I was ready. I was ready to turn on any charm I might have. I was ready to explain my utter confusion and, thus, my innocence. I was ready to put the ole theatre degree to work if need be. "Sir!" The meter man turned toward me, clearly annoyed.

It was at that moment, after howling the word SIR several times, that I realized my big mistake. It was most assuredly a meter MAID (or a female parking enforcement officer if we're being PC). And she was not happy that I'd just called her a dude multiple times. She stared at me.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I only saw your hat!" And any hopes I had of getting out of that ticket were scattered on the cold sidewalk. No amount of charm would get me out of this one. I still sort of feebly tried but to zero avail.

And listen, I know she was ticked because I'd questioned her femininity but she was wearing her standard uniform plus a gray beanie. She had NO hair whatsoever poking out in any direction. Sure, women have short hair. That's cool. But maybe a pink hat or a purple one? Something that would otherwise identify her as woman so that the poor unsuspecting ingenue of the story didn't accidentally and completely insult her.

So the moral of this story is Salt Lake City needs to be infinitely clearer with its parking signs and, also, that one should correctly identify the gender of the parking enforcement officer BEFORE screaming sir.

As a result of my failure to sweet talk my way out of it tonight, I am now raising money to help pay for my parking ticket. If you found any humor in this post, please send me a quarter via Paypal or Venmo.

JUST KIDDING, of course. About the Paypal/Venmo thing. Everything else is, sadly, quite true.

Yeti Jammies

It was a Thursday morning in Walmart. The youngest boy and I had just gathered several items, checked them out ourselves, and were heading out of the self-check area when we noticed a small boy wearing what we call Yeti Jammies. Will owns said pair of pajamas with snow monsters on them.

Will: He has my yeti jammies.

Me: Yes. He does have your jammies.

Will: He give them back?

Me: Oh, Honey, no. He has the same jammies. Those aren't yours. Yours are at home.

Will: He went into the laundry and took them?

Me: No. Those are his. Yours are still at home.

Will: He came into my house and took my yetis? 

None of this was said with any malice. He truly just assumed the baby, who looked like he was just shy of a year old, broke into our house to lift one blanket sleeper. He never raised his voice but instead kept talking in a normal, albeit slightly concerned, tone.

Me: He has his own. Those are not yours.

Will: Can I get them back from him ever?

Me: Will. I promise that your jammies are safe at home. I will show you when we get there.

At this point, I told the mom of the other boy that my son couldn't understand why her little boy was wearing his pajamas. She smiled and laughed and then pushed her cart, her kid, and his yeti jammies off in another direction.

Will: Wait! He still has my yetis on!

Me: Ok. Baby. I promise to show you your jammies as soon as we get home.

The entire way to the car, he calmly explained to me that the little boy still had his jammies and he had obviously stolen them from our home and he would like them back at some point. There was no reasoning with him. When I got home, the first thing I did was run up to his room. I opened his pajama drawer and...

THE YETI JAMMIES WERE NOT THERE.

I panicked briefly before remembering that they were in the dryer. I ran down and pulled them out.

Me: Will, look! Here are your yeti jammies.

Will: Oh! He already bringed them back! He is a nice boy.

Sigh.

The Tailor's Wife

Olive wood crosses scattered themselves across the walls. Pictures of family members--probably dead and gone--stood in cheap frames on the shelf. It was busy with figurines depicting biblical stories. The smell was something I cannot place but which immediately catapulted me back into my Israel days. Walking in to the alterations shop was exactly like walking into a business in the Holy Land. The sign says, Tailor Ibrahim from Bethlehem. He wears his homeland like a badge of honor.

Israel is somehow a swirl of foreign and comfortable, different and right. There are moments of longing to be home while simultaneously knowing that you already are. I do not know if it is this way for an unbeliever who finds herself there on holiday. But for me, it was as if my soul understood its connection to this place. As though the Spirit inside me was somehow pleased to be home, standing on hallowed ground. Truly, and inexplicably, I find myself longing to be there for always. Oh, to plant my feet in the Galilee, to wander the city streets of Old Jerusalem, to explore its beauty both assaulted by Antiquity and, seemingly, somehow, touched by nothing but the glorious hand of God. You cannot know until you have been there. You cannot understand the way it instantly pumps wonder and joy into your very life blood. I did not know I would love the Holy Land. And yet, I have never met a person who has been there who did not return home feeling as though they would always sense a magnetic pull back to land of our Savior.

It is why I can watch a video of Jewish women making challah bread and believe that, though I cannot understand a word they're saying, they are somehow speaking my native tongue. It is why I can walk into a tailor on State Street in Midvale, Utah and, somehow, want to stand inside forever. It looked like Bethlehem. It smelled like Bethlehem. Its people were Bethlehem.

Troy had dropped his pants off there a few days before and he told me about talking to the wife about the church in Shepherd's Field, his tours to Israel, and his love for the country. I wanted to go with him to pick them up. As he tried his pants on in a small, makeshift, dressing room, I stood staring at the pieces on the walls. I was taken back to the olive wood shop we have given our business to in Bethlehem. Aside from the sewing machines and row of pants hanging on a garment rack waiting to be altered, everything felt so very similar to those souvenir shops.

"Do you have children?" the tailor's wife asked me. I told her we had three. "How old are they?"

"Twelve, nine, and our youngest, he's two.

"A boy?" she clarified, her eyes beginning to sparkle.

"Yes. They're all boys," I answered.

When I tell people that I have three boys, I am generally met with a look of deep pity. Often I am asked if we're going to try for that girl. Occasionally, I've even gotten an I'm sorry. Several times I have had people say, I'm so glad I got girls. I don't even know what I would have done with boys. Or, I never could have handled boys--as though they are a wild creature in need of immediate taming. This is the western world's response.

But this Palestinian Christian from Bethlehem widened her eyes, "Oooohhhh," she somehow whispered as she inhaled, a quiet breath of excitement. A smile of awe tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Three boys! The Lord has truly blessed you." This is a Middle Eastern response--the reply of a land where boys have, traditionally, meant everything. It stood in stark contrast to the sad sighs of people who see my family and shake their heads, sorry that one of them is not a girl. It was beautiful to my heart.

In 2005, on my first trip to Israel, I crumpled a small piece of paper into a tiny ball and stuck it deep inside a hole in the Western Wall. It was a prayer, the deepest cry of my heart. Oh, that the Lord would give me a child. Standing in that land, with its foreign sights and smells, its unfamiliar culture, its ancient customs, I somehow believed that if I could just get that prayer into the depths of that wall, it would be answered. I was Hannah. I was Rachel. I was Elizabeth.

The Lord answered my prayer. The Lord answered my prayer. The Lord answered my prayer. Not one time. Not two times. Three beautiful times. It was not easy. Not a single one of them came to me without tears--enough to fill many bottles. Still, out of that adversity came these men. I believe that all children are a magnificent blessing from the Lord. I would have liked to have had a daughter. I miss her so. But I do not need or want pitied glances. The Lord has truly blessed me. He has given me boys.

I could have stood in that shop forever, maybe, listening to the lilt of their accents, smelling the flavors of Bethlehem, feeling that connection to a land that is somehow Home, my heart dancing in the blessing of a woman who looked upon me with joy.

Psalm 127:3 Sons are indeed a heritage from the LORD, children, a reward. (HCSB)

The Real Point of This Post...

I've seen Wicked way too many times. That didn't stop me from trekking downtown yesterday at 4:00 pm, in a blizzard, to try to get lottery tickets to see it again. I was unlucky. Although, they did call a Laura Burham and I held my breath for a second because, see, I'd waited in the freezing cold so when I wrote my name down on the card, my hand was numb and I thought, "Maybe I accidentally wrote something that looked like Laura Burham." But then the real Laura Burham started screaming and hooting and hollering so I was pretty confident that she was the actual winner. After the lottery, they offered discounted tickets.

Now, being a bit of a theatre connoisseur, I knew that if I wanted to buy tickets at full price right now (I don't) they'd be a pretty penny. I also knew that the good evil people of Salt Lake City are selling their tickets online for three times what they paid for them. So when they offered discounted tickets, I jumped on that deal. And that is how I ended up seeing Wicked again. Three days after I'd just seen it. It's kind of like going to see a movie more than once. If movies cost a whole hefty bunch more than they do, that is.

One of my biggest life laments is the cost of shows. Or maybe the lament is that I'm not wealthy. If I had more money, the cost of shows would be completely inconsequential. Well, that's neither here nor there. Shows are expensive and my wallet is slim. The end.

I just really felt that if Laura Burham got to see the show last night, I should too. And I'd driven through a crazy snowstorm to get there. So my friend and I graced the theatre (this particular one which happens to spell itself "theater" and I shudder whenever I see it) and I viewed the musical yet again.

On my way there, though, I thought about turning back several times. I prayed even, as I saw cars stuck in snow banks on the side of the road, "God, should I turn back?" In the absence of a clear answer, I just kept driving. I called Troy, "Husband, should I turn back?" He told me he thought it would be smooth sailing once I made it to the freeway. And he was right. But I said, "Okay, well, if I happen to die on my way there, I love you."

"At least if you die, it'll be doing something you love," he replied.

Except that I'm not sure that driving through the snow to try to win theatre lottery tickets is actually what I love. Now, if I'd been in the show and a lighting fixture had fallen on my head, then maybe we could say that I died doing something I love.

It was at 3:15 pm that I said to my husband something along the lines of, "I think I'll set out in this blizzard and try to get Wicked tickets for tonight. I'll be gone until 11:30 tonight and I'm leaving you with a sick toddler, mmmkay?"

And he was like, "Be safe. Turn around if you don't feel comfortable. Call me if you need help getting out of a snow bank. Have fun."

It was at 5:30 that I texted him and basically said, "I didn't win because I am not one bit lucky when it comes to winning theatre lottery tickets but they're offering discounted tickets which are way more than lottery tickets but also way less than actual tickets so is it okay if I go ahead and do it?"

And he was like, "Sure. Yes."

Ladies, find yourself a man like this. My husband isn't perfect and sure there are things I would change. Just like I'm sure that he wouldn't mind one bit if I didn't sing show tunes all the time. But he is always willing to support me even if he doesn't quite get it. I'm sure that driving downtown in the snow to see a show I saw three days ago seemed insane to him. But he never said no. He never cautioned me against it. He basically said, "Be safe. Have fun."

I told him he was great last night. It doesn't hurt to say it again, more publicly.

But the real point of this post is that there's someone living in my city with the name Laura Burham and she likes theatre. I don't know if Salt Lake is big enough for the two of us.

Both Sides Now

I think that I think about her all the time. When I see the bouncing raven curls of a child suspended between toddler and little girl, she is there. When I stare into the deep chocolate pools of her brother's eyes, I imagine her there. When I wander through the purple frills and pink lace, rows of dresses she'll never wear, even then, she is there, at my side. For brief moments, her tiny hand slides into mine and we walk together. I see her. I feel her.

I think that not a day goes by when she isn't on my mind.

But I am wrong.

There are times and moments where I long to be in San Diego so that I can stop by and wipe the dirt from her grave marker. I'd say hello to the girl who isn't really there and leave a flower. There are days when I hate being so far away.

Still.

We were just in San Diego for Christmas. I thought about going on Friday because we were nearby but I didn't because I knew her daddy would want to go and he wasn't there yet. I thought about going on the way home from the airport on Sunday--just her daddy and me. But the flight was late and the cemetery was closed.

And then it was Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and the day after Christmas and in all the celebrating and all the festivities, I didn't think about going. None of us did. I stared at the stockings and wished there was one more to be counted, but I didn't think of the cemetery. Later, on Friday, we were close by once again and it would have been the easiest of things to drive over. I even commented, staring at my niece and my son fishing together, that she should have been standing there too. I thought about her. Still, I somehow forgot to go to her.

I forgot until the middle of the following week. We were already back in Utah. The boys were getting ready for school and Troy was getting ready for work. I was being lazy, buried under the warmth of the covers. Suddenly, like when the mom in Home Alone finally realizes she's left Kevin at home, it washed over me like a wave.

I hadn't gone to my daughter's grave.

My parents are so, so good to her. They frequently leave flowers or holiday decorations. They acknowledge the day her body came into the world. They make every effort to show us that they count her as equal to their five other grandchildren. And I didn't go to my daughter's grave.

When this wave of realization and grief washed over me, I was hysterical. 

I felt like a terrible parent. Who forgets to visit her child? WHO DOES THAT? All I could think about was how I needed to go right that second--but, of course, I couldn't. So instead, I pulled the covers over my head and sobbed. 

I know that she is not there. I know that it doesn't make a bit of difference to her if we visit the cemetery every day or never, but it matters to me. In the realization that I'd remembered until I'd forgotten, came the awareness that time heals. 

In many ways, I suppose that I don't want to be healed.

I don't want to reach a place where I don't see her in the face of a stranger or hear her in the echo of a transcendent giggle. She is only as tangible as our memories--all the things imagined as we waited for her. It is strange, the way grief ebbs and flows. In the busyness of Christmas joy, the tide washed out. Then all at once, it rolled back in, reminding me of what I've lost.

Four years.

It takes four years to forget to go to the cemetery. 

Four years.

And there are still days I sob hysterically.

My goodness, do I ever miss what I never had.

Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

-Joni Mitchell

Remembering Kathryn (Kate) Ella-Grace who was born into the arms of Jesus on January 19, 2015, just seven and a half weeks before her due date.

Love Is...

The other day, my toddler looked up at me and, in his adorable little voice, said, "Mommy, I love you too much." It's a thing he occasionally says because, apparently, he thinks the words too and so are interchangeable. I often tell him that I love him so much. He returns the sentiment by telling me that he loves me too much.

It melts my heart.

But, in order to keep me humble I guess, he got mad at me a few hours later and shouted, "Mom! I don't love you!" Thinking (hoping!) that I'd heard him wrong because he's two and not fifteen, I repeated it.

"You don't love me?"

"No! I don't love you. I'm fwustwated!"

Well.

Toddlers are tyrants. And also they are adorable and fun and hysterical. Sometimes they love and sometimes they try to wound with words. They're kind of a coin toss.

I Never Expected to Live This Long

2018 was not the Year of Writing. This blog fell by the side of the road as we whizzed through the year, running here and there and everywhere. When my older boys were very small humans, I used to wish they would stay small forever while simultaneously praying that they would grow up just a little bit because there were certainly days that seemed long and hard. I look back on those charmed years where our commitments were limited to park play dates and church chili cook offs and I wish we could return to them. The truth is, motherhood just gets more intense with each passing year. Life really does begin to be measured in report cards, baseball games, science fair projects, taekwondo classes, and rare nights at home. I can't imagine how fast it will all seem when I have teenagers--and a little one, still. It is exactly what we signed up for. It is beautiful and exhausting and there isn't much time for writing.

Which is a cryin' shame because my toddler is maybe the funniest person on the planet right now. All toddlers are hilarious but our extremely verbal one leaves us in stitches regularly.

There was nothing life altering or earth shattering in our family this year. And so I look back on it, smile and nod. It was a year. The kids grew and changed and turned more into the people they will become. But I have noticed something.

I have noticed that I am no longer young. The groove in my forehead, just above my nose, is deeper. The bags under my eyes are darker and more wrinkly--especially in the morning. I am not old. But I am not young. It has been nearly 20 years since I graduated from high school.

And sometimes I feel like I should still be there, laughing with my friends, only vaguely recognizing the future years that will come and go like the tide.

Today, I watched as an old man walked past a baby. The child was in the front of a cart and, as he passed, the man reached out and gently tickled the baby. He never slowed his already slow pace. He just touched the little one as he shuffled past. I saw this and wondered about the very old. They seem to be drawn, intensely, to the very young. As I watched, I wondered. Do they, without even really thinking about it, long to connect, for just a single moment, with a beginning? Do they, without even really thinking about, feel the inevitable winding down of their own lives?

My grandfather will be 92 soon. As he walked out the door after we'd celebrated Christmas together, he looked at me and said, "I never expected to live this long." In some ways, I suppose that's true for me. That forehead groove will be something else if I live another 55 years. And yet, I cannot imagine not living to be 92. There is so much more I want to do and see and be.

I have noticed that my oldest boy is standing on the edge of childhood. The ground has been covered. There is not much left to traverse. It is behind him. Ahead is the true test of his character. Who will he become? What will he become? For Christmas, as a quick little add on gift, I bought him a travel case full of Axe products. I thought he might roll his eyes at me. You got me body wash and deodorant spray? Golly gee, thanks, Ma." Instead, he insisted on taking a shower as soon as we were done so that he could try it out. Then he made me carve out a spot under the sink just for his Axe products. And I thought, he wants to smell good. I'm trying with all my might to embrace this new season of our lives together. I can't seem to slow the hands of time, no matter how hard I try.

In the absence of time for writing, I have noticed laughter and tears. I have responded to anguished texts of a friend's marriage falling apart. I have thought of my own marriage and how we're never promised another tomorrow. If not destruction, perhaps death. So I cling, more tightly now, to my own. An entire life--and the lives of three children--are woven so deeply through the core of that man that I don't even know where he begins and I leave off. 

I have prayed for friends and the tiny child of a friend who have heard and responded to that dreaded word...cancer. I have prayed for friends over their children's diagnoses...autism spectrum disorder. And yet, in all of that, I have laughed until I cried and thanked the Lord for friendships, humor, and blessings.

We never know what tomorrow will bring. Joy. Grief. Blessings. Sorrow. 

But I have noticed that we look back, on December 31, and judge a year when, in reality, tomorrow is just another day. We are only one day older. Nothing much will have changed for most of us. 11:59 turns to 12:00 and the world keeps spinning. Still, it seems just as good a time as any to reflect. I predict that my life will only get busier and crazier in the coming year. My babies will keep growing, Lord willing, until one of them turns into a teenager, one of them turns into a three-year-old, and one of them remains in that sweet spot between toddler and teen. My marriage, Lord willing, will only get stronger. But, perhaps, as the groove on my head deepens, I will linger longer near that baby in the cart, soaking up her fresh beginning, as I discover the years between brand new and I never expected to live this long.

Merry Christmas

And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:10-12)

This day. There is happiness found in the traditions, in the delicious foods, in the faces of our children, in the time spent with family. But the joy, the true reason we celebrate, comes from the Gift sent to us--the Babe born to die-- for you and for me.

Merry Christmas to you all. "Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased." (Luke 2:14)