Lessons from daniel

Last Monday marked the two-year anniversary of my second miscarriage. A dear friend, who was right beside me during that dark time, stopped by with flowers. More specifically, she brought me an enormous hanging basket of fuchsias, one of my favorites. I confess, until I opened the front door and saw Erica there, I had forgotten what day it was. While I felt a bit guilty at first, I realized it signified something I am deeply grateful for: I am healing.

I decided to re-pot the fuchsia into a large terracotta planter, so it wouldn't be battered by the wind that blows hard against our north-facing front porch. I was initially heartsick by how roughed-up it got, how many delicate pink-and-purple blossoms and even branches broke off in the transition. I admit I even cried when I gathered them all up. The branches that were left seemed to stick out at odd angles and the plant just didn't look as lush and happy. Erica assured me fuchsias are hardy, that new branches would grow back, and over the next few days as I watered it faithfully, new buds and leaves did indeed appear.

Then, yesterday afternoon, I found out someone very close to me had suffered a miscarriage. My heart aches for her, because I know. I know. I haven't had the chance to talk to her yet, but thinking about what I would say--and more specifically what I would not say--got me thinking about what I have learned from my miscarriages.

If you have experienced miscarriage or stillbirth, or if you know someone who has, I hope these words may be helpful navigating through the grief, or comforting someone who is trying to do so.

1. There is no "good time" to lose a baby. My first miscarriage was at almost eight weeks and my second at nineteen. I grieved for each baby differently, but each was equally precious to me. The first one wasn't "easier" just because I didn't know the gender, or because I hadn't felt it move yet. In some ways, that was almost harder--because I felt like I didn't even know this dear little person who left me far too soon.

2.  People are going to be insensitive. I was surprised that some of the worst offenders were loved ones and people from church--those I expected would be more compassionate and sensitive. People I hardly knew offered to lend me books on grief. Books on weight loss. Folks who had heard I was pregnant, but not that I had lost the baby, congratulated me. Women who had miscarriages of their own took it as an open invitation to regale me with their stories--which I might have been ready for later, but at the time I was lost in my own sad story. I was told all kinds of things, some of them outright lies and others that were painfully true. I must not be a good enough mother to get another baby, God must be trying to teach me something I hadn't learned yet, my tribulation would help me have greater empathy for people I knew who had miscarried. That last one? True, but oh, the timing! No grieving mother needs to hear how her loss will help her to be more understanding to others; that realization comes with time and healing. In spite of having my feelings wounded even more deeply, I found relief in letting go. And I learned to say, "I'm sorry, but that's not helpful to me right now."

3. People are going to be amazingly sensitive, generous, and kind. I was the grateful and humbled recipient of meals, flowers, phone calls, gifts, emails, childcare, and Erica--the one with the fuchsias--came to the hospital with a tiny blanket she had made for me to wrap my baby in. I was surprised that sometimes the ones who had at first been insensitive later did things that touched me deeply. What meant the most were those who came to just sit with me in my grief: right after I got home from the ultrasound, at the doctor appointment the next day, in the hospital while I waited to go into labor, and in the weeks and months after. Sometimes I didn't want to talk, sometimes I did--and I appreciated so much those who were there to bear the burden with me in whatever way I needed at that moment. I learned to accept offers of help, and even to reach out and ask for what I needed.

4. Name the baby. A friend called me after my first miscarriage and gently asked if I would be interested in a book she had heard about, Naming the Child: Hope-filled Reflections on Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Infant Death, by Jenny Schroedel. She sent me a link so I could check out the description, and later gave the book to me. I found that choosing meaningful names for my babies helped me feel more connected to them, which in turn gave me some desperately needed closure about losing them.

5. Women and men grieve differently. My husband was not devastated the way I was at the loss of either baby. Rather than being resentful, I was grateful because he was stronger than me and I could lean on him. I learned to ask specifically for what I needed to work through my own grief, and I did my best to ask Jim about his own feelings and respect his needs. My biggest mistake was holding back my grief instead of sharing it with him as fully as I needed to. Months after my miscarriage, I was worried he wouldn't understand why I was still hurting or would think I just needed to get over it, so for a long time I didn't share my feelings with him--which was unfair to both him and me. Once I opened up, I was able to move forward with healing inside.

6. Healing takes time. Lots and lots of time. With both miscarriages, I reached a certain point where I told myself, "You should be over this by now. Move on." Later,  I came to realize that getting on with the day-to-day business of my life--caring for myself, my family, my home and my other obligations--could happen while I was still grieving. I tried hard to be open with my kids about what I was going through so that they would know it was okay to talk about their own feelings of sadness. I took small steps at re-entering society: shopping at the grocery store, taking my kids to the park, going to the library. Sometimes I found I was doing too much too soon; I wasn't ready to see my pregnant friends and all the babies at church, so I stayed home on Sundays. For weeks. I didn't put a statute of limitations on my sadness, and I found that letting it take as long as it needed to allowed me to grieve more fully and ultimately, to heal more fully.

Messy

A shout out to my dear friend and fellow poet, Elizabeth Maurer. She bravely invited me and the kids over for a playdate yesterday with her, her dog Max, and their trampoline. Later, she challenged me to write a poem about it and while I initially demurred, some phrases kept bouncing around in my head, trying to get out. 

So Lizzy, it's rough and yes, messy, but this one's for you.

Messy

Being a mother is messy

in ways having nothing to do

with blood, amniotic fluid

snot, urine, vomit

pureed carrots, mashed bananas

mud, grass stains

or crayon on a white wall.

A visit to a childless friend unravels

when three children (mine)

mix with overly friendly dog (hers)

and fancy landscaping (also hers).

The boundaries of whose mother I am blur

when my friend needs me

as much as my son

after he falls off her deck

and scrapes his back and elbows

on the volcanic rocks in her flowerbeds.

How can I explain to her

that next time may still be messy

even if dogs and children

are kept apart?

That being a parent is not just about preventing chaos

by compartmentalizing variables

but accepting it will still be unavoidable

when large minds housed in small bodies

learn the limits of their world

and their wills?

She cannot know

until it happens to her

how a woman’s hands leave the wheel

the instant she conceives

and never return.

I can hope, though

she will open herself, get her hands messy

and find the art of nurture can be learned

only in facing the fear

that what we have to offer 
will never be enough—

that giving up control

before the unthinkable even happens

is what prepares us

to be the calm eye

in the storm.

Obscurity and competance

A while ago, my friend Kim at pagooey made an observation that resonated deeply inside me:

"If you wake up in the morning, if you're still Here, then there must be something left in this world that you're supposed to do. Originally I attached some pretty noble/vain aspirations to myself, out of this...but at 40, I've allowed that perhaps My True Purpose On This Earth is not necessarily to cure cancer, or attain the Presidency, or even write that blockbuster bestseller that gets me on Oprah. Maybe my purpose is smaller in scope, or meant to be taken a day at a time."

It gelled for me today on some never-before-reached level, as I was I teaching my Primary class of 9, 10 and 11 year-olds at church. Our lesson was about how John the Baptist was foreordained to his calling, and how all of us have our own unique callings we can choose to accept. Or not. Even for those who aren't religious, I believe there's a compelling universal truth in the idea that we each have a purpose to accomplish in life, one we can tap into when we listen to the cosmos--or whatever higher power we recognize--and follow where it leads.

As I was teaching, I had an "aha" moment when I realized I'm actually content--not resigned--but at peace with more modest purposes than I used to dream of: learning the art of being patient with my children, nurturing their minds and bodies, reading books for pleasure as well as knowledge, getting laundry done, working at my marriage, taking care of my body, once or twice a month cleaning the toilet, and slowly (but surely) building up a body of cohesive poems for my first chapbook (probably not the Pulitzer Prize-winner I once fancied, but a start). Those are things I can do, and possibly even do well, one day at a time.

Mark Twain had it when he said, "Obscurity and competance--that is the life that is best worth living."

NaPoWriMo #9: paradise

The NaPoWriMo prompt for today at Read Write Poem was "paradise". Which stymied me until a friend serendipitously sent me a completely non-related email that had a picture of a signpost showing PARADISE 12 KM. Somehow that visual got my creative juices percolating, so thank you, Gretchen!

12 KM to Paradise

I used to say
tell me the latitude and longitude
for the exact spot where
the rainbow ends
traffic lights are always green
parking meters and payphones never run out
people work to live
and not the other way around
all lost socks are found
buses, trains and planes leave five minutes late
but still arrive on time
toilet paper rolls last forever
everyone says please, thank you
you’re welcome, I love you
I’m sorry, I forgive you
no one is allergic to cats
cherry blossoms bloom year-round
a lion lies down with a lamb
cereal boxes have a toy surprise inside
for every child who pours a bowl
and every child has a bowl of food to eat

now I don’t ask
because I know
there is no where
but here
and now
and me
reaching out
to do
and love
and be.

Bacon: an ode

A single slice still
on the serving plate too late I realize
I failed to savor what I already ate

and now am carried away by visions
of delectable crispy flesh
slowly melting on my tongue
guilty ecstasy of clogged arteries
nevertheless keeping me young
alive with sublimely smoky succulence
every tomato more exquisitely tangy
every avocado more silken smooth
even alone you are more than enough for me

alas it was not to be too late
white flash of empty plate rouses me
from unrequited reverie

for while I dreamed, he schemed.

I haven't written any poetry for a long, long time. But I was inspired by my friend No Cool Story, who has heretofore been my supplier of virtual bacony goodness, and who recently announced her retirement from said virtual bacon. Thanks for the memories, NCS. (Don't worry, I still love you; you brought back my muse!)

Housekeeping and safety

This post might not be about what you'd think from the title. I've made a few little "housekeeping" changes to my layout: cleaned up some buttons I'm not using while I take a hiatus from writing poetry (more on that in some other post, some other day); got rid of my blogroll and replaced it with a "followers" list; deleted the part in my profile about which town I live in. This was after reading an excellent post about blog safety by my good friend Aubrey. Which is just the segue I needed to transition from housekeeping into safety...

Recently Aubrey had a truly horrific experience with her blog and some very benign pictures she had posted of herself being viewed by an unintended and unwanted audience. She had an unfortunate crash-course in blog safety, and has generously passed on what she learned. It's definitely worth a read.

The reason I replaced my blogroll with a followers list is to safeguard the online privacy of my family and friends whose blogs I follow. Instead of using a blogroll to see when you update your blogs, I'm now doing it from the privacy of my dashboard. And I would request a favor of any of you who have me on your blogroll, if I may: if you have a link to my blog which uses my first and/or last name, please change it to "chicklegirl." I'd be ever so grateful.

I would strongly encourage any of you aforementioned friends and family who have used your first and/or last names as well as any information about where you live (like pictures of your house with the address showing, etc.) on your blogs to discontinue doing so. One of my friends who is a writer uses her full name on her blog to establish a professional reputation, but she is otherwise careful to omit any other distinguishing characteristics that would enable identity theft or stalking.

It may seem like a pain to go to all the trouble to remove information if you've been posting it on your blog. Especially if you've been doing it for a while. But it's worth every effort to protect yourself and your loved ones.

Better safe than sorry.

Whirlwind weekend

Last Friday morning Audrey and I headed over the pass, abandoning the boys to a weekend of Wii and fishing. I don't think they missed us. Much. First stop: I dropped Gertie off at the Singer service center in Bellevue for a much-needed tune-up. Five pairs of Jimmy's winter pants had holes in the knees, so (tightwad that I am) I cut them all off and hemmed them into shorts. I've also made some shorts for myself and a gorgeous new Mexican oil cloth tablecloth, so with all those heavy-duty fabrics, I've been wearing Gertie out over the past few weeks and her thread tension was starting to get funky.

Let me just say, if you live in Washington and have a Singer sewing machine, the service center is a great place to go for service and repairs, even if you have to make a trip to get there, like I did. A complete service costs only $89, which includes any mechanical parts that need to be replaced (electrical parts, like my lightbulb that burned out, are a little extra). That's a bargain for Singer factory parts and Mel, the repairman, is a pro and all-around nice guy. He gives great advice, completely free of charge, and had my machine ready for me to pick up in just two hours.

Next stop: Audrey and I had lunch and a visit with Lydia and her girls at their new digs in Kirkland. Far too short of a visit, but it was thoroughly enjoyable. After picking up Gertie from the service center, I went to Redmond to exchange some biking shoes I ordered online that turned out to be too small, then headed back to Bellevue for a visit with Faye (also wonderful, way overdue, and not nearly long enough), before heading to Everett.

Ramona, the youngest of my four original siblings, lives in Everett with her husband Jason and her little girl Aidan, who is a year older than Audrey. Ramona just graduated with her associate degree from ECC and has already been accepted to the UW history program. (I will demonstrate great restraint and refrain from making the obligatory plug for my alma mater and field of study. Uh, too late.) Dory was also there with her youngest, Gavin, and it was a wonderful time for us to support Ramona in her tremendous accomplishment, as well as strengthening our bonds as sisters. The photo above is us hamming it up (Ramona, Dory and me, from left to right). We stayed up way past our bedtime on Friday night (make that Saturday morning; I lost track after 3 a.m.) talking and enjoying the chance to get caught up on each other's lives. The babies had fun playing together, too.

On Saturday afternoon, I headed down to Seattle for a soggy but memorable picnic with Holly, Kim, Dean and their families. I've known Holly and Kim since junior high, and we all worked together with Dean on our high school paper. It was a treat to see them (especially since Holly lives in Munich and rarely makes it to the States). Everyone looked the same and yet older, in a good, dignified way that comes from laugh lines and gray hair: being happier yet sadder and therefore wiser. After the picnic, Audrey and I turned back and headed home, arriving just in time to give Jimmy kisses goodnight before he went to bed. It was nice to have a change of scene, especially to the vivid green of my hometown, but it sure is good to be home...

NCS, I ♥ U

NCS, this is Your. Very. Own. Post.

Totally and completely dedicated to recognizing the thoughtful wonderfulness that is you.

You rock my rickrollin' world!

You like me, you really like me

Ah, yes... it's awards season. Again. Still? Time for red-carpet fashion faux pas, effusive acceptance speeches, and a lot of mutual admiration hoo-hah.

This year I'm not as irritated with it all as I usually am, because: a) it's sadistic fun to see the Academy sweating though the WGA strike and trying to plan a big night that may not actually happen; and 2) I've actually won some awards, too! First it was Aubrey giving me an "excellent" rating, and now NCS has bestowed upon me:

Thanks, chica! It's almost like I've won a Golden Globe and an Academy Award! [Insert long-winded, self-serving speech here.]

The best thing about this type of award (unlike an Oscar) is I get to share it with others. I'm passing it on to Aubrey and Margaret, who both go out of their way to post beautiful photos and positive, inspiring thoughts on their blogs, as well as in the comments they leave for others.

Flashback friday: for kim

This little trip down memory parkway is brought to you by a good friend of mine. Kim and I go way back (was it fifth or sixth grade?) and she's always been (still is) one of the wittiest people I know. The other day she surprised me with a comment about a poem I had written when we were in high school. I was stunned she actually remembered the title.

Like many people I know, I hated my life in high school and tried hard to forget it after graduation. I have a few dim but bitter recollections: the time I got stood up for homecoming when I was a sophomore; my parents getting divorced my junior year; not going to my senior prom; and finally, the small matter of not actually having graduated because I failed my senior health class (I didn't find out about the not graduating part until eight years later when I ordered a transcript I needed to get into the UW). Good times.

Fortunately, I channelled much of my teen angst into prolific poetry writing, spent six years and big bucks on professional help, and got my health class waived so I could finally graduate (technically it was 1996 instead of 1988!), and I stand before you today a reasonably happy and well-adjusted grownup who got her associate degree before her diploma.

It was actually kind of fun digging through my old notebooks and reading my early poetry. Kim, this one's for you...


I Hope You Didn't Miss the Sunrise

When I woke up this morning
it was waiting for me
vast and patient in the sky.
All I could feel was joy
all I could feel was love
all I could feel was wonder
at its beauty.
It called to the world,
"Be at peace;
each new day brings hope
and the chance for improvement."
I wanted more than anything
to share how I felt at that moment.
I hope you didn't miss the sunrise.

Strange things are afoot at the Circle-K

Okay, I admit it: I like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. What can I say? It's got So-crates, Keanu Reeves before his Shakespearean aspirations, and a totally bodacious soundtrack. My favorite song was "Two Heads Are Better Than One" by Power Tool (yes, please ignore the less than subtle sexual innuendo), which played as Bill and Ted were getting acquainted with Joan of Ark (Noah's wife).

Moving along... I've been away from my computer most of the day, but when I checked in this evening, I got a pleasant surprise; my dear friend Aubrey bestowed this upon me:



I, in turn, would like to share the love by rating the following blogging poets as most excellent and inspiring:

• Paisley at ...Why Paisley???
• Deb at Stoney Moss
• Catherine at Still Standing on Her Head
• Clare at Clare's Sunflower Sky

I've been reading each of them for a while now and am continually amazed by this diverse group of women writers, their command of language, and gift for crafting beautiful poetry. They are quite deserving, and I hope you enjoy them as much as I do!

In praise of girlfriends

Before I forget: here's a special birthday shout-out to my gorgeous red-headed twin sisters, Dorothy and Ruth, who turn 31 today. I love you both (and what would sisterly love be without me dragging out an old photo to commemorate the anniversary of your birth?)

And now, back to our regular programming...

This weekend Jim, Jimmy, Audrey and I made the trek over Snoqualmie Pass for a baby shower hosted by my buddy Lydia. While the boys had lunch and went on a quest for Jimmy's latest holy grail (a Spiderman wastebasket for his bedroom—sadly, not to be found), I got my estrogen fix hanging with some of my favorite girlfriends.

First, let me say that Lydia deserves some serious props for throwing the shower. Saturday morning, with less than four hours before it was supposed to start, she calls me because Roxy, her three-year-old, has been vomiting and she doesn't want to expose us to what ever bug poor Roxy is battling. The multi-tasking, creative super-trooper that she is, Lydia (at 7:45 a.m.) has already come up with an alternate venue for the shower (at Aubrey's, right down the block), and she just wants to make sure I'm okay with the change of plans.

Aubrey, who threw a party the night before, graciously let us take over her place and enjoy the gorgeous decorations (she created the beautiful strings of lights herself!) When I got there shortly after eleven, Lydia, Aubrey and Dyann were busy in the kitchen with all manner of amazingly delicious food. Thanks so much, ladies, for a wonderful party (and to Sundy, for the tasty pear salad).

One of the most amazing things about Audrey's birth is the way my girlfriends have rallied around and supported me—those that live close to me, as well as those far away. They've painted my house, brought our family meals, lightened my mood with cards and phone calls and emails, given us delicious fresh fruits and vegetables, baby sat or taken Jimmy on playdates so that I could rest and go to doctor appointments, visited me at home and in the hospital, thrown parties, showered me and Audrey with adorable and thoughtful gifts, and prayed for us to be well.

I'm always amazed at the strength we women draw from one another, and grateful particularly at this time to benefit from that. Thanks and love to all the women in my life: my mother, sisters, step-mother, mother- and sisters-in-law, and those who have chosen to be family even when they didn't have to—my friends.

Cut loose

On Sunday I got released from my calling as a Young Women leader at church. For those of my readers who are not Mormon, this means that I'm no longer assigned to work with the teenage girls. Callings in the Mormon church are all voluntary; assignments are made and changed based on prayer and inspiration on the part of the bishop and his counselors.

I know that my being released was in large part due to the fact that I'm having a baby this week. Debbie, who is the president over the Young Women organization, gave me a heads-up last week that it was going to happen. She told me that even though she should technically have waited until it was official to let me know, she didn't want me to think it was because she wasn't happy with my performance in my duties. And I know that's true, even without her saying so. There were some other staffing changes that needed to be made and with my impending delivery, the timing was right to switch things up.

Part of me is grateful because I know that I need to devote all my attention to this little person joining our family. Now I'll have my Wednesday nights back, not to mention all the other odd hours here and there that I ordinarily spend in meetings, preparing lessons, making phone calls, creating motivational handouts, sleeping in a teepee at girls' camp, coordinating via phone or email with other leaders, and so on.

The thing is, I love working with the girls so much that I never really begrudged that time, and so now that it's sinking in that I've been released, I'm starting to feel a real sense of loss. On Sunday when my release was announced, the girls I work with all came up after church and said goodbye, some of them crying. I didn't cry much, mostly because I wanted to make the transition easier for them; they need to feel good about the new leaders who will be coming in, and its was neither appropriate nor conducive to transition to make this change all about me. And so I told them how much I confidence I had in the new leader taking my place, and cheerfully reminded them that I would still be seeing them every week at church.

It's hitting me today, I think, because later this morning I'm handing off all my leadership materials to the woman who's replacing me—and for the first time in quite a while, I won't be going to the weekly Young Women activity on Wednesday night. I'm just trying to remind myself what a priviledge it's been working with these particular women and young women, all the friendships I've developed that will continue on, and most of all, how much I've learned from and been blessed by knowing each of them.

God is good. He gives me the sweetness of such learning experiences, and tempers the bitterness of transition with other blessings to remind me that there is a season to every purpose under heaven.

Farm fresh Jimmy pix

Well, that's not strictly accurate; my friend Debbie doesn't have a farm, per se. But if you ask her, she'd say, "I'm a goat woman!"

Debbie is, in fact, a renaissance woman: she's got four kids, one husband, one old farmhouse, five goats, two cows, two dogs, two cats, a large garden, and she owns a business.

Debbie is loud, with a hilarious sense of humor, and she calls a spade a spade. She's an amazingly generous friend. She keeps me from taking myself too seriously, but has a soft shoulder to cry on when those crazy prenatal hormones get the better of me. In fact, she's kept me sane for much of my pregnancy. We have a lot of fun working together as leaders in the Young Women program at church, but we're also swimming buddies and she's been mentoring me through my first-ever quilting project. And she's single-handedly responsible for me starting to wear or sew anything that is lime green.

On Monday we went over to Debbie's so that Jimmy could check out her new baby goat. While we were there, he got to help collect eggs, feed the chickens, and jump on the trampoline.


Inside the chicken coop...


...Jimmy helps collect eggs.

Debbie schools Jimmy on how to feed the chickens...

...and now he's flying solo.

Lots of love for the big goats...

...but for some reason he's not so sure about the baby, Jolly.

Quilting bee

Back when I was pregnant with Jimmy, my sister Dory recommended a book called Birthing From Within. I didn't completely agree with everything in the book, but what I appreciated was its holistic approach and emphasis on being aware of your body during pregnancy, trusting your instincts, and preparing yourself emotionally for pregnancy and parenthood. I was rereading the book several months ago and was struck by the author's suggestion to create a friendship baby quilt.

Over the past few months I've been collecting fabric and creating a design for the quilt, with the object of having a quilting bee the first three Saturdays during this last month of pregnancy to help me pass the time productively. I sent out invitations, and the first session was this past Saturday. Life being what it is, almost all of the friends who told me they planned to come that day had things come up, including my friend Debbie, who had the rotary cutter I needed to cut the fabric strips for the quilt blocks (her goat had a baby and they spent the morning trying to get the vet out to their place).

For all of five seconds I felt like the unpopular girl in high school; then I laughed at myself for taking things too personally and just let it go. After all, my house was clean, and I had it to myself because the boys were off picking raspberries. So I chilled on the couch with my feet up. Later in the morning, two friends did make it. One went home, and the other offered to stay and massage my feet while we chatted (an offer I felt compelled to accept!)

Yesterday Debbie came by and showed me how to use the rotary cutter, so we cut out all the strips for the quilt. She had been the one to originally suggest a strip quilt as being fun and easy, and I was grateful for her help because I've never made any kind of quilt before. But she was right; so far it seems to be pretty easy. Last night after Jimmy went to bed I sewed all the strips together and started to cut out the pieces for the blocks. The shot above is of the pieces for the first block; I'll start sewing it together later today. Pretty cute, huh?

Hot hot hot

Here in central Washington the weather is starting to scorch; since Independence Day the mercury has crept ever closer to 100. Thank goodness for Costco; last week we sojourned to Yakima and picked up a window AC unit, so the heat has been tolerable.

If I were smart, I would camp out upstairs next to the AC with a good book and never leave that spot, but no. On Monday I went up to the Ensign Ranch with the girls from my ward for our stake Girls' Camp. I got comments from several people who think I'm crazy for going up there in the heat when I'm seven and three-quarter months pregnant. Maybe, but I really love spending time with those girls—mosquitos, flat air mattresses, and adolescent silliness nothwithstanding. I never fail to be impressed with the miracle of what they learn from camp: appreciating the beauty of nature, overcoming their differences, building new friendships, showing great kindness to each other and their adult leaders, and deepening their relationships with God. For all those reasons, Girls' Camp helps me feel recharged and even though I don't get to stay the entire week, I always return feeling spiritually strengthened myself, with more appreciation and patience for my little family.

I got back last night and discovered that while I was gone, Aubrey bestowed upon me a most illustrious honor:


In passing this on, I may fall under criticism for nepotism, but I'm just so tickled that my own sisters have recently started blogging that I want give this award to them. So Dory, Ruth and Meredith—YOU ROCK! Go forth and share the glory!

Visiting teaching

I know some of the folks who visit my blog aren't Mormon like me, so here's a brief explanation to get you up to speed. The women's organization in the Mormon church (which happens to be the oldest organization of women in the world) is called the Relief Society and one of the things the Relief Society does to look after the physical, spiritual and emotional welfare of its members is visiting teaching. As a visiting teacher, I'm assigned three women to visit once a month, at which time I present a brief inspirational message based on scriptural teachings, as well as spending time just visiting and assessing any special needs. Usually these visits are done with a partner, but I'm currently without so sometimes I take Jimmy or I go alone.

Over years of visiting teaching, I've found that I've developed fast friendships with the women I visit that go far beyond my official duties. Just last weekend, we had one of the ladies I visit over to dinner with her husband. They're retired hay farmers, have six children, are both in their eighties, and I love listening to the wisdom of their life experiences. The husband is eighty-seven and still bikes twenty miles a day; he's my inspiration to get back on my bike after this baby comes and start training for another triathlon!

This is one of the reasons I absolutely love my church; it's tremendous to be involved in visiting teaching, developing friendships and caring for other women and their families. I feel humbled to be an instrument in God's hands by giving compassion, companionship and service. I also get visiting teachers who come visit me. This week my two fabulous visiting teachers, Heidi and Becky, were there for me: within a day of me finding out about having gestational diabetes, they had both visited me, bringing a mason jar full of wild sweet peas and some cute baby booties, as well as their shoulders to cry on. They were also my painting angels; on Friday they finished painting Jimmy's new big brother bedroom! I was overwhelmed with their kindness and generosity.

I paid that forward this weekend by visiting one of my ladies who has cerebral palsy. It took us several months to really get to know each other when I was first assigned to visit her, but recently things just clicked and now we're really friends. I took her a little present yesterday, and then this evening I went back with Jim and another man from church who gave her a special priesthood blessing to provide relief for some pain she's been having in her knees. It took some doing to coordinate getting them there to do the blessing, but it was worth it to see the look of peace on her face when they finished. I sure love visiting teaching; what a gift to have these connections with other women.

My painting angels

Meet Christina and Krista.

Oh, wait—first, the back story. Once upon a time, we had a hideous guest bedroom with brown shag carpet, walls painted a stomach-churning shade of mint-pistachio green, and mauve trim—all to sort of match a bizarre floral wallpaper that I can't image was ever in vogue (I think our landlady must have been smoking some of her home-grown crop from what used to be the underground greenhouse when she came up with that winning home decor combination).

When we got pregnant, we decided that Jimmy should move into a "big brother bedroom" so that the baby could be in the smaller bedroom right next to ours. Being the loving mother I am, I worried that the mint/mauve combo might stunt his emotional growth and sense of aesthetics. I couldn't do much about the carpet, but a coat of white paint and some cute fabric overlaying the wallpaper might freshen it up to a tolerable level. Paint was a problem: Jim's honey-do list was already too long for me to add such a project, and I couldn't do it myself because of the pregnancy ban on painting. What to do?

Enter Christina and Krista. These two lovely young ladies, who I work with in our church's young women group, volunteered to paint Jimmy's new room. They gave up one of the first afternoons of their summer vacation and got us one step closer to the new big brother bedroom. Are they sweet or what?