Friday, October 2, 2009
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.)
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
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?
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?
Monday, September 21, 2009
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.
Monday, September 7, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
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.
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