So, how's that camper-thing working out, anyway?

For any of you who have stuck it out with me, reading even when I have nothing to say and say it badly, this is your reward: finally, an update on life in Zion's Camper (a stray sunbeam doubled as a flash of inspiration in Gospel Doctrine one fateful Sunday, and we realized that this camper was our march from Kirtland to Jackson County. Only we don't actually want to go to Jackson County. And we don't want dysentery. But we DO want Zion in our home.)

Here are some answers to FAQs, either asked or implied:

Q: Are you guys poverty-stricken?
A: We're doing fine, thank-you.
Q: No, really: are you dirt-poor?
A: No, we're really fine. But thank you for the ham. (Just joking--no one has yet left a stray basket of food items on our doorstep.) We really are doing just fine--we'd be a little better if the guy renting our house paid his rent anywhere near on time. (So if you know of a more reliable tenant, we are open to suggestions. . .)

Q: What's the hardest thing about living in a camper?
A: Boundaries. We have little to no privacy, and the kids take full advantage. I'm at this minute staving off attacks from three small saboteurs who should have been in bed an hour and a half ago. Also, someone keeps using my toothbrush, which wasn't a problem when I had my own bathroom. Although I ought to be thoroughly grossed out, it turns out that I'm just glad that they're brushing their teeth.

Q: How do you keep your sanity?
A: How do you?

Q: Is there anything good at all about living like sardines in a tin can?
A: Surprisingly, yes. There are a lot of blessings that come with being so close--we're closer as a family and more aware of each other's needs, strengths, and weaknesses. We spend a lot of family time together. I get to spend a little time each day with each child doing something that is specific to their needs and wants. (Vilate's wants are pretty simple, by the way, but deeply felt--right now she deeply feels that she should be fed.) I also really enjoy living without all our stuff--we have just about what we really need (and a little bit more, to tell the truth.)

Any more questions?

The sweetness of family time in a cramped space.

So, my husband is making chocolate chip cookies for FHE. Six very eager pairs of hands are helping with every step, when I overhear, "No touching! And what I mean by that is no touching!" So, of course I reply with some smarty comment about what he means by that, only to hear this gem, "Get your tongue off the mixer!"

Also, we just happen to be making cookies to disco music ('cause sometimes you just gotta have a little Abba). So he asked the many helpers to move their hinders (the "out of the way" was implied) and the three-year old started to boogie, asking her dad "like this? Move my hinder like this?"

It's just that kind of night. But, hey! Cookies!

Art projects

We have different fun art projects every week. Each girl recently did a self-portrait by tracing a photo (I know, it seems a little bit like cheating, but I didn't want to focus on the drawing part. I wanted to focus on looking at different gradations of color.) At any rate, everyone had fun, and I think a little of their personality came out in their portraits.

Help!

So, now that we are soon on our way across the pond (as they say. I'm not sure who "they" are, because I've never actually heard anyone say it. I don't run (or sit, or walk) in those circles.) it occurred to me that it would be great to have a photographic record of our adventure that doesn't look like a drab tourist photo essay (you know, everything all gray and busy and full of pieces of random people standing in front of various monuments.)

My first thought, of course, was to shanghai someone like Amy to do all the work for me, and make everything look charming and dear, but since that is impractical, I wondered if anyone has any suggestions for a book on digital photography?

Friends

We had a lesson in church today on friends (it's here, if you're interested in actual references.) It made me think of (in no particular order):

my children, that I hope will someday grow to be my true friends.
my mother, who has become my friend.
my sister, who I waited for so long to grow up and become a real friend.
All of my brothers and sisters, de fato.
the brothers and sisters in different areas that we lived in, who have opened their hearts and allowed us in.
my mother-in-law, and the whole family I married into, with their welcoming and generous hearts.
A little Cambodian refugee girl (she seemed huge to me--she must have been ten, and I was five, but she let herself be my pal).
Missionary companions.
Church friends.
School friends.
Roommates.
Neighbors.
Not to mention, a husband who is the best, most complete type of friend.
The Savior.

I'm pretty fond of this idea of friendship. It seems impossible to love so many different people, but it must be possible because I do.

She walks.

The baby has taken her first, tentative steps. She is so proud of herself. It's a delightful process to watch--and we're savoring it, since running is never very far behind. And there's never any time to savor that. (For anyone keeping track, she's our second fastest walker. Brigham has her beat by one day.)

Relief Society Lesson

I taught a Relief Society lesson on Sunday. I completely biffed it. The topic was 'Jesus Christ: the Savior of the World," with two talks from April General Conference as reference (one by President Uchtdorf and one by Elder Oaks.

I hmmed and hawed, I froze up, I got sidetracked and stuck on a peripheral point. At one point, I even developed tunnel vision, when everything outside of a small round area turned dark and fuzzy. I didn't tell one personal story or make anyone laugh. It was double-ungood.

This is the point I meant to make: That we do our part by serving each other with compassion and with joy. We can know that the Savior will do his part: that he knows us, loves us, and will intervene in our lives and the lives of our loved ones, that he will truly save us. The atonement is real.

Simple, right?

It depends on what side you're on . . .

On one side of the door: a two-year old and three-year old who don't want to be in bed and are clamoring to get out. On the other side of the door: an eight month-old standing and pushing with all of her chubby might, trying to be with the others. Oh, the sweetness.

It's been a while . . .

Things that have happened in the last few months . . .

One trip to Texas. 3000 miles, over 100 mosquito bites (spread over six kids, mostly garnered in Arkansas), overnights with amazing aunts, uncles, and cousins, and by the way, one fancy mortarboard.

Trips to the National Zoo, the National Archives, the Natural History Museum, and the most northernly (don't you love that word? It's on the sign at the entrance.) cypress swamp in the USA.

Czech classes twice a week. I'm not fluent yet. Probably not next week either.

I started yoga. I thought it was mostly flexibility, but it seems to be more involved with impossible feats of simultaneous strength and balance. I'm sure it's good for me. At least, pretty sure.

An exhibit titled "Czechoslavakia through the eyes of the Secret Police." The communist regime is described as "wicked." I don't think that I've really seen that word outside of the scriptures and some Victorian literature, but it's absolutely appropriate.

A trip to King's Dominion where we met up with another aunt, uncle, and cousins. A day of roller coasters, adventure, and best of all, zero whining, complaining, or asking for stuff. (A day like that should be cast in resin and kept forever.)

And 7:30 this morning was beautiful.

Adventures on the East Coast: Part 1, The First Week

Day 1: At two-thirty in the morning we said good-bye to our last two faithful helpers, and locked the doors of our beautiful (and now exceedingly clean!) grand old house. My husband and I shared a long, lingering look under the moonlight and tenderly kissed each other one last time in the shadow of our Belleville hopes and dreams. And then we each got into our separate cars and drove off into the night. Or at least he did. My car's battery had conked out. My husband came back, got out the jumper cables, and once again all was well in Zion. As I followed him to pick up the children, his back door swung open and a single watering can fell out. I honked frantically, all the while thinking, "We have so little space and we have room for a watering can? This is lunacy!"

Day 2: After four refreshing hours of sleep, we were awakened by Briellen screaming. Her finger had been shut in the door of her room (we were at the hotel on base) by Brigham, with no little vigor. A precursory look, and we were off to the nearest emergency room: back in Belleville. We were able to leave the hospital around 1:00 pm. Briellen's finger was wrapped in gauze, and she is missing the skin and most of the fingernail from the middle finger on her right hand. (It's healing nicely at this point, but she will need a plastic surgeon to supervise her recovery.) After repacking the car and various other persnickety errands, we get a late start on our drive. We made it to Indiana, and stayed at a hotel with some of the friendliest staff I have ever met.

Day 3: More driving. Today we would make it to Washington, DC. Not. Our trip was like swimming in molasses. One pair of shoes were lost at a rest stop in Kentucky. Everyone in my car had had enough far before our destination point. We stopped at a place in Virginia.

Day 4: Awake at 3:30 am. Finish trip into DC, and make it to campground at 8:00 am. We are exhausted and having a hard time appreciating the natural beauty of the surroundings, but it's there. Go out to dinner later and pay exhorbitant amount at seafood restaurant.

Day 5: Fourth of July: we head to the Mall and watch the fireworks with two million other Americans. Oddly, I don't hear The Star-Spangled Banner played. I also don't hear other people singing as the musical talent breaks into "I'm glad to be an American" (Tradition at my high school was that everyone stood and joined in--this doesn't seem to be the case practically anywhere else.) I am feeling tired and cranky with all of the walking.

Day 6: I can hardly lift my head off my pillow, but go to church anyway. It's a large bubbling ward, very friendly. I don't have the energy to care, and go sleep in the car after sacrament meeting. For the next several days, I will be plagued with fevers, chills, sweats, and the inability to keep my head up for more than five minutes at a time.

Day 7: I don't remember.

Day 8: Alan unloads 14,000 lbs from moving trailer with little help. Sarai cheers him on, at his side. At five o'clock, extra help arrives. He is enormously grateful and exceedingly tired. I know I survived, but I'm not sure how. My temperature hits 104, and I can still hear Disney movies running in my head since the kids watched them over and over as I lay semi-comatose on the couch. I wonder if the neighbors think I'm a lush, since I can't walk without staggering.

Day 9: Don't remember.

Day 10: Finally go to Emergency Room. My now life-long companion, the fevered brow, is absent for the first time in days. The nurse triages me accordingly in the "broken fingernail" category. Two hours later, I see a doctor. He sends me for x-rays, and discovers pneumonia. I think to myself "Take that, triage lady!" between racking coughs. Home again with antibiotic: our adventures are just beginning. Please let the rest be less exciting than this.

Random Notes

My husband gave me some pots and pans a few years ago. These weren't just any pots and pans: they were the All-Clad stainless steel that I had dreamed about having. I had researched the best cookware, and it came down to All-Clad (although I'm also partial to Le Creuset.) I did not expect to actually get the pots and pans, since they were expensive and all, but my husband does good by me. The point is, after he gave me these fabulous, amazing, beautiful, useful objects, I carefully put them away and didn't use them. I wanted to keep them new for a while. Finally, this year, I have started using them on a regular basis.

This week, we are leaving Illinois permanently. We will rent our house and eventually sell it, but for the next nine years, we are at the mercy of the military. But the thing is, I am not finished yet. I am not finished being part of the family that we have gained here. I feel like I have just finally gotten to the point where I'm ready to use my shiny new friends, and now I'm leaving them behind.

Getting the Olmsted scholarship and living abroad with our family has always been our dream. Dreams are very comfortable when they stay where they belong, up in la-la land, but when you actually get your dream? That's when things get difficult. You have get out of your comfort zone (but I just barely got here!) and let go of some of your other dreams (like eating the hanging tomatoes you planted, or planting trees, or being there when someone you love has their long-awaited baby.)

So, this crazy thing our family is doing? It is absolutely the right thing to do. But I will leave a piece of my heart here in this area. Fortunately, we live in the information age with such wonders as the Inter Net and the World Wide Web, so I can continue to keep up on people's happenings through their blogs. Unfortunately (?), I have again become friends of the non-gossip variety, so I may not get all of the news. Fortunately, that's not any different than the present.

This week I was worked into the ground by a nonagenarian. She arrived ready to work looking very trim and lovely in her casual outfit with lipstick and her face all made up. She never broke a sweat or got a hair out of place, and she exhausted me. Extraordinary.

. . . And here is my new kitchen.

I hope it comes with the basket of apples.

Kitchen

So, last November, right before Thanksgiving, we started to rip out our kitchen. We replaced the lighting (from hideous fluorescent bulbs--think school classroom--to recessed can lighting), we replaced the oven (now a double oven and a cooktop), we replaced the sink, everything. Alan built the cherry cabinets from scratch. And now, at T-9 days, it is completely finished. I can bask in its loveliness for a whole week more. Here is a link to the whole gallery of pictures, but I'll give you just a taste right here:

Fireflies

It has come to my attention that we have been much too busy this summer. We have been busy doing inside things like (constant) cleaning, packing, and building. And so, it wasn't until last night, that quite by accident, we came home from frenetic erranding just at dusk, which is exactly the right time for fireflies. And although the fireflies have been around for quite awhile, you just don't see them while you are in the house, picking up a precious, treasured gum wrapper (or something of that ilk) for the fifteenth time.

Before we pulled into our driveway, six little mouths were championing the cause of the their empty stomachs. At least one little person almost completely wasted away from famine. But when the car doors were opened, the magic fireflies distracted all but one from their horrible fate. They spilled out of the car into the dusk, screaming and laughing, and caught several fireflies (at least one of which is now illuminating the inside of the house at random intervals.) I had to entice them inside to eat the barely warm, but still scrumptious, Colonel's specialty.

Again tonight they were outside as soon as dusk hit, chasing lightning bugs and other benign creatures of the night. Two toads were captured in the lightning bug house. They looked as if they were finding their captivity quite tasty. The only firefly I could see was a partial one on the outside of Mr. Pipi's mouth. (The larger toad was apparently named for his action on retrieval.) That is the beauty of summer. Its the time when life reaches out and pulls you in, to let you know that the thing that you've been working for, hoping for, dreaming for? It's here and it's all around you, and it's time to go catch some lightning bugs.

Aunts

My children are abundantly blessed with Aunts. Sixteen all together, I think. (and let's not even get into the great-aunts!) Last week, when Alan and I had to go out of town, two Aunts came to take care of the children. Now, these are not old-fashioned spinster-type ladies who have nothing better to do. They both took off work and flew out, shared fun times with the kids, (and left my house immaculate, by the way.) So, of course I am grateful that they came out to help . . . but there is something I am more grateful for.

Someday soon, my five girls will be growing up. And I recognize that there are important things that they will not always want to talk to their mother about. (I would have been mortified to tell my mother about my first kiss!) I'm not saying I'm not available--I would love it if my children were to tell me every detail of their lives (after all, we've held small celebrations for toilet bowl deposits, for crying out loud) but still sometimes a kid just needs an adult to talk to that's not her mom . . .

When my girls need someone to talk to and counsel with, they have all of these wonderful aunts. Aunts whom they love and trust (and already miss). And whom I love and trust. Those type of relationships are pure gold. So Rosemary and Emily, thank you for saving my bacon this last week. But I'm afraid that this is only the beginning. And I have a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you're good with that.

Books, Books, Books

At playgroup today, the conversation turned to books. Somehow, we went from the Periodic Table of Elements to Cheaper by the Dozen to a book about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. Here's a little more information on some of those books for anyone interested.

From School Library Journal
Grade 6-9-The Nolan family's dreams of prosperity in a new country are shattered when baby Joseph fails the medical exam at Ellis Island and must be taken back to Cork by his father. Though Da promises a quick return, Ma is miserable. Frustrated by her dependence on the unwilling hospitality of prosperous relatives, she gladly accepts money from her brother-in-law for herself and her three daughters to return home. Having few opportunities in Ireland, 16-year-old Rose rebels and she and 12-year-old Maureen are allowed to remain in New York to seek work and schooling. Rose finds them a room with a kindly Jewish family, and the landlord's labor unionist daughter, Gussie, gets her a position at the Triangle Waist Company. The teen feels especially happy one morning, wearing a dress in a new color called "ashes of roses" in anticipation of a nickelodeon outing with friends after work. Within hours, her clothing choice takes on a macabre appropriateness as she, Gussie, and Maureen, who also works there, fight for their lives in a fire still recalled as one of the worst industrial disasters in U.S. history. Fast-paced, populated by distinctive characters, and anchored in Auch's convincing sense of time and place, this title is a good choice for readers who like historical fiction.
Starr E. Smith, Fairfax County Public Library, VA
Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information, Inc.

This was excellent--a window into real lives and real tragedy at the beginning of the nineteen hundreds.



Classic Story of the raising of 12 children, by 2 siblings who came from a family of 12. The authors dedicated the book to their parents. "To DAD who only reared twelve children and to MOTHER who reared twelve only children.

This is one of my favorite all time books. It's absolutely hilarious, and yet really touching. Family vacations--morse code--phonographs--first dates--skipping grades--my fine little Irishman--the glorious car with it's loud horn "Ah-ooga!" Excellent. In fact, I wonder which bookshelf it's on. I think I'll read it again.

Other books not discussed, but that come to mind: for young adult fans of historical fiction (or those young adults who need a little push toward good history), anything by Ann Rinaldi. Her work is always well-researched, interesting, and pretty fair. I particularly liked A Break with Charity: A Story About the Salem Witch Trials. It's about a group of girls as accusations of witchcraft ran rampant in Salem. Modern-day explanations of the events in Salem involve rust on the rye (which was one of their primary grains.) The rust was a hallucinogen that acted somewhat like LSD, which explained A LOT about some of the very disturbing events of the time. (Of course, anything about witches and Puritans leads to The Witch of Blackbird Pond, another great read from my youth.)

At this moment in time, we are packing our books. Nineteen bookcases, filled with wonderful books that I (and the children) had forgotten about. As you can imagine, the packing part is almost impossible. Instead, I sit on the floor in front of piles of books (with at least three children), reading snippets, and thinking, "I can't pack this one! We need it!" despite the fact that said book has not been noticed or missed for the last year. There are worse trials.

Random Thoughts on a Few of My Children

Brigham's two favorite phrases are active: "What's that for?" and "What's that do?" He's been as involved as possible in helping Dad build the new kitchen. Occasionally, one sees him with two hammers and a screwdriver. And he knows what they're for. And what they do.

Mirielle has a unique way of moving. She sort of drifts effortlessly from place to place. Her white hair is like dandelion fluff, barely anchored to our particular idea of time and space by her tiny, graceful body. There is a simple joy in just watching her comings and goings. It's quite possible that she slips in and out of our dimension; or that she is some sort of faery changeling. What is certain is that her being is a great gift.

Occasionally, when I am somewhere in Vilate's orbit--holding her, or near her while she sits in her swing, I sense someone looking a me. And sure enough, her big blue eyes are fixed on me, drinking me in, just hoping, hoping! that I, her one and only mother, will look at her. And when I do--oh, the joy, the rapture! Her eyes fill with light and something for which "smile" is an understatement possesses her whole body. She is all that is good and wonderful and right, and in those few moments, I become a better mother and a better person.

A response to Mona Charen

Mona Charen (whom I generally like) wrote an article for National Review about marriage (do read it.) She said that we are having the wrong marriage debate: focusing on the case against gay marriage instead of the huge problem with unmarried pregnancy. Here's her closing argument:

Young women, especially poorly educated ones, have gotten the idea that marriage is all about them — about their romantic hopes. In fact, while marriage often does deliver on the promise of happiness for adults, it is only secondarily about adult happiness. It is primarily about safety and security for children. The old stigma against illegitimacy was harsh and led to its own kind of suffering. But it prevented narcissistic young people from impairing the lives of their children on a grand scale.

While I agree with what she had to say, in comparing the two issues surrounding marriage, she misses that they both have the same root cause: a definition of marriage rooted in adult happiness. If marriage is primarily about adult happiness, or a vision of romantic love, we end up with all of the problems we have today: high rates of divorce, high rates of illegitimacy, and confusion as to the nature of parties involved in marriage. In fact, if marriage were primarily about adult happiness, Henry VIII wouldn't have needed an executioner on retainer to sever the heads of his inconvenient wives and their near relations.

Romantic love is a Good Thing. It does not make, however, a stable foundation for marriage. Because in marriage come things like varicose veins and childbirth and toothpaste in the sink, which are not romantic and not particularly happy. Marriage, in its highest sense, is a covenant between a man, a woman, and God. God is essential because He's the only one who's likely to fully keep the covenant: the other two parties will strive in different degrees, but because of our very human nature, we fall short of perfectly keeping the covenant. In its most elemental sense, marriage is a contract between two people and society. A marriage system built on adult happiness asks, "What can society do for me? Where are my benefits?" A marriage system built on the interdependency of generations asks instead, "What can I do for my society? How can I contribute?" And that, as someone once said, makes all the difference.

Nerdy t-shirts

All of this fun and whimsy courtesy of this site.

Extreme sports

People do a lot of things to get an adrenaline rush. Back in my day, skateboarding on a half-pipe was at the very edge. Now, extreme sports are going places no sport has gone before. Behold, extreme ironing.

Baby Sumo Wrestling.

Via this website, this is for Susan, who has one of the most adorably plump babies in the world. (If you need proof check out this or this.) Newborn babies are pitted against one another in the ring. The first one to cry, wins.

The Green Couch

So, I have been thinking about all kinds of things I want to ramble on about all week (torture. ordinary women. birthday parties. imperial weights and measures versus metric. a light cheese cake recipe I tried this week.) and maybe I'll give those subjects a chance later on--or maybe not. But right at this very minute, my husband is sitting on our old green couch in the library. He has four little people on his lap and crowded around him as he reads. They are all eagerly clutching their book--waiting for their turn. It seems to be Classics Night, as so far he has read "Where the Wild Things Are" and "Madeline," and it looks like a Jan Brett book is on tap.

We spend so much time with the busy-work that goes into living (and remodeling, and going to school, and homeschooling, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.) It's easy to get stressed out and get my priorities out of whack. But this thing that's happening on the green couch? That's who we are. That's the heart of our family--love and tenderness and togetherness. There isn't even any pushing or yelling or name-calling. Can you frame a moment and keep it forever?

Feminism

So, these are some thoughts on feminism. If you're looking for something light and humorous, click away! (Quickly, before you're sucked in!)

I occasionally read one of the feminist Mormon blogs. The problem is, every time I finish reading, I become much less of a feminist than I was before. (It's the whining. and the self-centeredness. And the looking at everything bass-ackwardness. And little things like that.)

I have realized that I believe a few key things differently than some of my feminist sisters. One, I believe that any understanding of women begins with the fact that we are different than men, and those differences are deep and eternal, and encompass not only the way that we look, but the way that we think and our own internal purpose. I believe that women throughout time have been strong and powerful in their chosen and necessary roles. I believe that we as women are communal, and when we cut ourselves off from our foremothers, by believing them to have been weak and powerless, we become weak and powerless. When we connect ourselves to their legacy and find the respect and the deep reverence that they are owed, we find that we ourselves are worthy of those things.

This is not to say that there has never been abuse, discrimination, or oppression. Certainly, there has. But when we focus on "the systematic oppression of a patriarchal system" we miss the matriarchy that is so essentially intertwined with that patriarchy. Destroying patriarchy as being devoid of anything positive and good quickly destroys its partner as well. So, I say, "Yay, Women!" " Yay, Men!" Love 'em both.

So, have you ever got one of those checks in the mail? They are written out to you, personally for $5000. Or maybe $10,000. Or something like that. And at first you get really excited and think, yes! And then you read the fine print that says if you cash this check--this amazing wonderful gift out of thin air that will solve all of your problems--you will owe the credit company 38% compounded interest for the rest of your life and your first child. Or your second.

So, I'm watching CNN's coverage of the tea party in Chicago, and the fabulous professional reporter lady is getting a little worked-up at one of the protesters, trying to help him understand that he has nothing to protest about because the government is going to send him a check for $400. And, all I can think is, does this woman never read her junk mail?

Happy Birthday

Happy birthday, my brother!

Today you would be 32 years old. If you were here, I would make you a carrot cake, of course. My children know you through my stories of a dark-haired mischievous boy with a wicked sense of humor and a love for the natural world. I sometimes see flashes of you in my children: Sarai has your love for the outdoors along with your "not-knowing-when-to-stop" issue. Brigham has your eyes. And almost all of my children are short.

It has been 13 years, and sometimes I worry. I worry that my memories of you will fade or be distorted since you can't correct me. Here are some few (that perhaps others will correct as needed). I remember when David drew your name for Christmas and gave you fish hooks. The look on your face was priceless--a sort of sad irony. I remember when you went out on the lake with Ray, and blistered the backs of your legs so badly you couldn't move for three days. I remember feeling smug when Helene was born and I got a sister instead of the brother that you and Luke were both cheering for. I remember playing in Grandma Sweetman's sawdust heap with you with all sorts of little bowls and cups--I think you must have played with little cars and trucks, though. I remember your first goatee--strawberry blond, which surprised us since your hair was so dark. I remember that you would come and steal little pinches of dough whenever I was cooking, and later you became something of a "master chef" in your own right. You were always so creative, so adventurous, so funny. You were also often frustrating, irritating, and sort of like a runaway train.

One thing I don't worry about: where you are now. My first memory is of the altar in the Idaho Falls temple. I remember seeing myself and a little blond boy (Luke) in the eternity mirrors. There must have been a round-bellied Mom in the mirror, too, since you were born a month later. ( I probably had to look up too far to see Mom and Dad. That's probably why I don't have their image in my memory. Maybe if I thought hard enough, I could remember their knees.) I have felt such a sense of peace since you passed on, knowing that you are a member of our eternal family, and that Heavenly Father loves you and knows better than I your worth and the work that you need to do. I have felt that you are at peace, and that you are working hard, sharing the gospel with those near and dear to us.

I love you and I miss you, dear boy.

More Olmsted

(This is cross-posted at the family website for anyone who has already read it.)

So, here's the update: Alan will be starting school at Charles University in September or October of 2010. In between then and now, we will have to finish remodeling the house and getting it ready to sell and do 47? weeks of language training in Czech. Czech is an Indo-European language, so it's sort of like a fifth cousin once removed of English (but a first cousin of Ukrainian and Russian.) None of us have any experience with Slavic languages, so this will be a new experience for us.

There are two main language schools for the military: one is in Monterrey, CA and the other is in Washington DC. It looks like we will probably head to school in Washington DC (Good-bye beautiful Pacific Ocean. Good-bye sea lions. Good-bye California sunshine, Monterrey Aquarium and walks on the beach at sunset. Sigh.) Nothing is set in stone, though. It's possible that we could do our language training in-country, however, and be in the Czech Republic in October of this year. Nothing is certain yet, other than we could really use an army to put our house together zippity-quick (Good-bye kitchen! 'Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all!)

Olmsted

We got the news today (via an Army staff sergeant) that we made the cut. Alan was selected to receive the Olmsted Foundation Scholarship, and hewill be assigned to study at Charles University in Prague, Czech Republic. Wow! I am overwhelmed!

Random Thoughts

I am currently without a kitchen sink. So we're washing dishes the pioneer way--or at least, how pioneers would have done dishes if they had running water and electricity. Maybe not so tough, after all.

My new kitchen is going to be awesome. I look at the cherry cabinets and they make me smile inside.

The powers-that-be will give us Official Word on Tuesday (supposedly) of whether or not Alan won the Olmsted. . . . .

Mirielle: Was Jesus married?
Me: Uh, what do you think?
Mirielle: I think he was married to Mary, the one that's not his mother.
Me: (thinking, "Where did that come from?") Why do you say that?
Mirielle: Because she was his friend.
. . . and then the conversation between my five-year old and I got even stranger. You can only imagine. I guess small people have a talent for metaphysics or something. It got to the point where I wouldn't have been surprised by the casual mention of Kant or Emerson or a desire to visit Walden Pond.

Other memorable quotes:
Analise: My mind is empty but my heart is full of love.
Briellen: (pushing up her nose) I look like a hippopotamus.

This week is science week again. I like science week--it's relaxing, interesting, and hands-0n. Remind me again why all of home school isn't this way? Oh that's right. There are just some things people have to learn to do that they don't like. Like writing legibly, darnit.

I know this is SO last week, but . . .

25 DVDs? Really? Next time that heads of state come to visit, might I suggest this little number instead? As a bonus, it's very cheap and kitschy and they can be made in bulk for all of our foreign policy needs.

Swimsuits

I am at the post-pregnancy point where I really, REALLY wish the extra weight would just go away by itself. It won't though, so I am looking longingly at exercise equipment, DVDs, and strangely, swimsuits. I bought a few DVDs--the ones for the kids came last week and have been a smashing success. There's nothing like a stick-like little girl attempting kick boxing (yes, pure awesomeness.) I haven't tried my DVDs yet, but I am certain that I too, will have a willowy, dancer's body, just like the females on the cover. Even if I have never had a willowy body in my entire life, hope springs eternal.

I actually wasn't thinking about swimsuits (not even close!) until I clicked on a link for some of the new spring collections during Fashion Week. And the swimsuit collection? It was just a bunch of bikinis that looked exactly alike--immodest, uncomfortable, and unrealistic. (Okay, if I were comfortable showing that much flesh, I'd just walk around nude. It's certainly cheaper.) So I started wondering what there was in the line of modest swimsuits this year, and I found a few at Lime Ricki Swimwear and Lands' End. I really liked a few at Lime Ricki--maybe I will be in actual swimsuit shape this summer. Or maybe not.

Some fun facts and commentary on a Sunday evening.

Brigham is trying to move the stove out of its place. Using my silicone basting brush. Wearing his sister's fur-lined pink boots.

Briellen is jumping off the couch. She is wearing a diaper. And a smile.

Vilate is sleeping.

Analise is jump-roping in her pajamas.

Everyone is playing kindly. No one has been hit or yelled at by anyone else for several minutes.

Mirielle and Briellen weigh exactly the same amount.

Sarai is in the same math book as her babysitter.

BYU Men's Chorus is awesome.

Valentine

Wow, it's been a long time since I posted anything!

Happy late Valentine's Day! I hope your day was filled with people you love and many small kindnesses. We had a family party (cookies! candy! bouncing off the walls!). Dad took care of two of the three Valentine's essentials: flowers and chocolate, so I had fun writing a poem for each of the children. Brigham's was the most fun, so I thought I'd share (and for you English purists--Mom and Mary, I mean you! I'm aware that it's not laureate material, but I still enjoyed writing it):

Brigham

Smashing, pounding, running boy—
Ka-pow! BOOM! Smash!
Climbing, yelling, jumping joy—
Ka-boom! POW! Crash!
Sparkling eyes and devilish smile—
Yowza! BANG! Crash!
Charming, loving, falling with style—
Oof! YOW! Smash!
Broken hearts and broken glass—
Sparkle! GLEAM! Smash!
Going everywhere and going fast—
Vvvroom! SHA-ZAM! Crash!
Fiddle-bowing, stomping, crowing—
“Oh the CLEVERness of me!”-boy
Oh boy! Oh beautiful Boy!

Vilate

Vilate Victoria

8 lbs 15 oz.

20 inches long.

This was probably my most difficult labor yet. It challenged me to my absolute limits. Yet, at the end of it all, there is now this beautiful, gentle, sweet little girl who is an integral part of our eternal family. We are extremely blessed. I can't wait to see her grow and develop and learn more about who she is.

She has come into a home where she is deeply loved and wanted by every single member of the family. Brigham and Briellen both adore her. Mirielle makes up songs and sings to her endlessly. Analise and Sarai both love to hold her and help with her. Mom and Dad are pretty content. And exhausted, to tell the truth.

Oh, and Dad? He's pretty much been heroic through everything. The night after we came home, he was up all night with three different children (not Vilate) and was so gentle and kind through his sleeplessness, (and this after helping me through labor the previous day). I was deeply impressed.

Also, a big enormous thanks to Amy O. She took our other children in again and again. We didn't have to worry in any way, and I am more grateful than I can express. Thanks, Amy.

Yup

So, I will officially go into labor at some point tomorrow. The 10th (11th? 15th?) doctor that I've seen decided that the team is tired of seeing me in the clinic, and very helpfully scheduled me for a 5:00 am induction tomorrow morning. So, hopefully, all goes well and as painlessly as possible. I will have yet another doctor that I have never met before deliver the baby.

Things I hope to stand strong on tomorrow:

NOT taking a wheelchair upstairs when I can walk perfectly well (It's hospital policy, but it makes me fell weak, powerless, and ill. All psychological, but still).

NO hospital gowns with convenient holes for heart monitors. I don't need a heart monitor. The convenient hole reminds me of the Seinfeld episode when Elaine sends out Christmas pictures . . . and then discovers that she is somewhat exposed. The heart monitor hole is even more exhibitionist.

Since I'm being induced, I will not pass on the pain medication. Maybe I can sleep through all of the hard parts?

Wish me luck!

Are you still here?

I did not want to go to church today. I did want to take the sacrament and hear the speakers and all of that good stuff, but I wasn't looking forward to the social aspect: the inevitable question "Are you still here?" But I went to church, and enjoyed sacrament meeting, and even primary with the new schedule and the new presidency, and was only asked about 35 times "Are you still here?" "Why are you still here?" "When are you going to have that baby?" And as hard as it is for me to continue responding that I am just waiting, the genuine kindness and concern is really touching.

The baby will come when it comes. I'm just not very good at waiting. I'm trying to be better though--what choice do I have?