Blame it on Design Mom

Design Mom came across my radar screen via Rebecca Bingham, whom I met blogging and who now is one of my favorite people. I became addicted during Design Mom's wildly generous November/December giveaway spree in which I won absolutely nothing, but which I enjoyed immensely. What I love about Design Mom are the great ideas, the fabulous guest posts and the cool shopping finds. But especially how the photos are like eye candy for the soul.

In the past several months Design Mom helped me discover the perfect Christmas present for my husband.

She also put me on to a great deal on three new ornaments for my Christmas tree. ("Why three?" you may ask. Because eventually one will get broken. And then another. But by the time my three boys and one tomboy are out of the house I should hopefully have at least one ornament left intact.)

And, after practically drooling over some of these on Design Mom, I was able to truthfully tell a close friend who made me thishow much I had been wanting a beautiful wreath for my front door. It was just what she needed to hear.

And now I'm madly craving--of all things--a pretty pastel cashmere sweater because I really NEED to cut it all up and make me some betz white bunnies for Easter.

In addition to some great product and website recommendations, Design Mom's posts are full of great ideas. You will find fun project ideas (such as the one above), tips on just about everything, book recommendations, and even a feature called Ask-Design-Mom. And it's all presented so tastefully.

So I do love to look. Window shop, if you will. Imagine soft sunlight shining through perfect window sill, which looks out onto some pretty green foilage. Dotted along the sill and the top of the bottom window are a number of mismatched glasses, cups and such. Hanging from the ceiling are some bright decorative cards. Something like this:
After a long hard Utah winter, it was the perfect vision of spring. It didn't have to belong to me. I was happy just to look at it.


And not just that. Although previously I found it easy to aware of elements of design found in nature or to apply them while gardening or quilting, I'd never given much thought to what Design Mom describes as "where design and motherhood intersect." But since reading Design Mom regularly (she posts early so it's become a great way to start my day before the kids wake up), I find I notice and fall in love with even the simplest of things. (Might I recommend some of these beautiful cards, creations of my good friend geo?)

I even made an entire family event just out of opening my first ever gift from


(Thanks! Maure and Angela)

Design Mom's generous giveaways are some of my favorites. I cheered when some of my blog friends won, but I was never one of the lucky ones. Until this time. I quickly wrote some generic comment because I was almost late for work. Knowing competition is tough for these coveted prizes and comments often number in the hundreds, I was doubtful I would ever win. But this time I got lucky and scored a great gift from YoonKids. (Keep entering! Design Mom gives away great prizes quite regularly. The next lucky winner could be you!)




So you can blame it on Design Mom if I'm now more inclined to pick up and purchase the perfect polk-a-dot skirt. Covet a great new find at Moda Home. Or find myself tempted by the prettiest easter chocolates available on the world wide web. Design Mom makes my world a more a better place.

And that's a beautiful thing!






(Don't miss guest bloggers c jane and nie nie on Design Mom on Monday, April 2.)

Some people marry axe murderers...

Me? Apparently I just married Earl.

Last night for the weekly church youth activity several fearless leaders disguised themselves for a scavenger hunt at the local mall. They were supposed to dress up and then wander the mall aimlessly while groups of energetic teenagers roamed the mall and tried to get up their nerve to approach anyone looking out of the ordinary and ask for their signature. Imagine my surprise when my husband came up with this great get-up. The kids all thought he looked like a guy whose name is Earl. You know the one.

B., who happened to be at my house delivering what might possibly be the best salsa in the world (Thanks b.!), agreed.

Throughout our married life my husband has been told he resembles a number of celebrities: Mel Gibson, Mark Harmon, Huey Lewis, Steve Erwin, and now Earl. (The Mel Gibson thing occurred a number of years ago whilst he was one of the few, the proud...the only handful of male students in the elementary ed. program at BYU. I tried to tell him the two female students in his program who told him that were hitting on him. But he didn't believe me.) He also had a MacGyver stage, which was one of my personal favorites.





Here are the other leaders. Can you spot the city water director? He cooks up a mean dutch oven dinner. Just ask the mayor.

Urgent, Important and most of all Relevant Reader Poll

The other day at work an urgent and highly contestable question occupied our minds for most of the day. Passion was palpable. Tempers flared. In fact, I would say that some individuals became quite animated over the debate.

Based on the answers of the boys in comparison to the responses of the girls, I began to formulate an interesting theory or two. But additional scientific research is needed. And, dear blog friends, I need votes from more than just the female sector and my handful (on a good day) of male readers. So query your husbands. Your boyfriends. The dishwasher repairman, too.

And tell me...

"Who's your favorite Disney Princess?"








(If you're so inclined, you can tell me why, too. Your reason may (or may not) help support my theory.)

Post of the week...

If you don't know her already, let me introduce to you a fabulous blogger, mental tesserae, via one of my favorite posts ever, lather and rinse. It is a rare gift indeed when someone can sum up almost two decades of one of your most deeply personal internal confllicts and its ongoing resolution in a single post.

Growing old ain't for sissies

"Grandpa Smitty," 1909-2007

This past Tuesday I got a phone call at work at a little after 10:00 a.m. "Grandpa got his wish," was all my mom could say. Well over two years after a diagnosis of congestive heart failure and the doctor's giving him six months to live, my maternal Grandfather finally passed on. He had just turned 98. His final act of kindness to my grandmother was to wait till the first day of spring, as he knew she couldn't bear watching them lower his coffin to into the cold hard winter earth.


I was privileged to have been able to help care for Grandpa and Grandma in their home for several months during 2005. During that time and many times since I was a witness to their tenderness and love for one another. It is a blessing I will never forget.

I loved watching them touch and kiss and especially loved seeing them hold hands across their respective armchairs. My favorite part of the mornings was every time Grandpa would go back to bed. I would scoot around Grandma to the other side of the bed and help her tuck him in; then give him a kiss on the forehead after she kissed him goodnight. Grandma always said, "It's double or nothing." I noticed how sometimes they would kiss and then they would keep going back in for more. They just didn't want to let go of each other.

Many times I caught the worried and fearful look behind Grandma's eyes on those days Grandpa wasn't feeling well enough to get up at all or when she'd asked him to stay up a little while and he just couldn't do it. But one morning I learned how that feeling was reciprocated. Grandma had gotten up early that day and found Grandpa still sleeping--it was one of those dark and dreary days that were meant to be slept away. Grandma went back upstairs and made her bed and got to work on some other things. Meanwhile Grandpa had got up and been puzzled not to find her up waiting for him and on him already. It was almost 8:00 and he started to really worry that something had happened to her. He said to me "I wondered what I was ever going to do without her!"

Grandpa was such a good example of not complaining. The closest he ever came was when he would tell my husband in a wistful voice, "Growing old ain't for sissies!" Every day he would sit in the chair and patiently let me hook him up to the pulse oximeter and the blood pressure cuff and he would wait for the machine to tell him what he already knew--it wasn't going to be today. Sometimes he would be almost apologetic about not feeling well enough to do much more than sleep--and on a good day watch a little TV. On those days I would try to reassure him that at his age and with the active life he had led for almost a century, surely he had earned a little rest.

Grandpa kept his sense of humor and used it wisely to get out of irritating situations. In one instance I remember he was having a bad day and Grandma was fussing over him, trying to test his oxygen tube where it went into his nose. (Even back then Grandpa was so tired of the oxygen tube.) They sort of tussled over it and he finally said, "Why don't you just wrap it around like that [he wrapped it around his neck] and get it over with!" Then he smiled at her tenderly and they hugged. She kissed him softly as she tucked him in. The entire time his tone of voice was one of patience and long suffering.

Watching both Grandpa and Grandma taught me a lot about what it really means to "endure to the end." Sometimes it's not only about staying good or being long suffering. Sometimes it's just about patiently waiting. I'm sure I can hardly begin to comprehend how that must be at the ages of 90 and 98.

One of my favorite experiences was when Grandpa slyly asked Grandma her opinion about something. Of course she started to give it to him. Then with a big grin on his face he pointed to his lack of hearing aids and therefore his obvious inability to hear one word she said on the subject. We all got a good laugh over that one.

June 8, 2005: Grandma said that Grandpa was asking about how Mom's house is coming. Grandma told him the latest she heard was that it wouldn't be finished until December. Grandpa then asked "Will we have to move in December?" Grandma assured him that they could stay in their home as long as they wanted. But I was struck by the sad irony of Grandpa one day waiting patiently--wondering when it will be his time to go--and another day worrying about something as far away as December.

Over that summer I spent a few nights with them while my mom, who lived with them and managed their care, was away. One night as I arrived I noticed there was trouble with one of the lamps blinking on and off. I was amused both by Grandpa (who had already removed his hearing aids before going to bed for the night) saying "give me a holler if you run into any trouble," and by Grandma joking with us that the light going on and off certainly did not mean she entertaining any boyfriends.

Another day I had spent over 1 1/2 hours trying to clear up a billing issue and the cancellation of an accidental death insurance policy. To authorize everything, however, the company required I put Grandpa on the phone to cancel the policy. He couldn't hear a thing, even when I repeated back what the CSR had said. Afterwards he said it would have been easier to have just been killed.

Grandpa once said, in regards to his age, "Sometimes I'm even looking forward to reaching 100...but not very often."


The last time I saw Grandpa, Grandma had not been feeling well. Grandpa wasn’t really sure where he was and the evening was difficult for all of us. In spite of all his frustrations, Grandpa finally calmed down enough to ask Grandma simply, "What do you want me to do?' Eventually he settled down and went to bed, but not without telling me to make sure Grandma went to bed, too. And telling Grandma one more time how much he loved her.


My first thoughts when I heard the news were, "What a great party!" When you live to be 98 you probably know more people on the other side than people left here on earth. And in Grandpa's case there was reason to rejoice. His father, who was born on the trail to Utah, was 60 years old when my grandfather was born. Grandpa was one of the last living immediate sons of the pioneers. Loved ones from generations past would surely praise his name for his great efforts to record their histories. We know their names--we know them--because he shared their stories.

So now I share his. Just a few brief paragraphs are inadequate to tell the story of almost a century of a good man's life. No, Grandpa, growing old ain't for sissies. But you did it with courage and kindness and a tenderness toward grandmother that was an honor to witness.


Thanks Grandpa, for the example of a life well lived. I know you often wondered why it took so long. And I don’t know. But I am deeply grateful for every single one of those kisses goodnight I was blessed to bestow upon your forehead and for all you taught me while you were waiting to go home.

Rest in peace.

Real moms eat plastic pizza...

(Thanks for the tag conqueso.)

...and say "please" and "thank you" at pretend tea parties.


Real moms know how to laugh when they could very well cry!


Real moms (with teenagers) promise themselves they will never curse their own kids with kids just like them. Because now they know what it feels like when what goes around comes around.


Real moms DO bake cookies!


Real moms learn to be prepared for whatever's next when the neighbor across the street begins her sentence with, "I just thought you should know"...


Real moms say "I'm sorry" when they lose their cool.


Real moms get real with their daughters.


Real moms will march right down to the principal's office when necessary. And let it be their child's fault. At least when it really is.


Real moms know how to appreciate the simple things in life. Even when it means being tolerant of creative play. And knowing long-awaited appreciation is a fleeting thing.

Real moms learn to find contentment.

Real moms--at least on a good day--realize they are not completely responsible when their kids grow up and need therapy. Because sometimes kids just come that way.

Real moms love madly, deeply, truly and no matter what. At the end of the day they know that no matter what else they've done with their time, the most important and relevant accomplishment has been to love.

It doesn't get much better than that!


If you can read this, "Tag! You're it!" Either add a "real moms..." line in the comments section or write your own post. If you post send me a link and I'll post it right here!

Players: Daredevil Mom

(more links in the comments)

Pave paradise and put up a parking lot. And other nonsense.

After the style of a certain and mediocre local restaurant reviewer, I too want to be queen for a day.


We are annoyed:

Boo! Hiss!

We don't need high rises. We have mountains!



But mostly we are amused:

The latest findings in important health research are a compelling reason to run right out to Target this very minute and purchase a package of the new green Peeps.

But only if you have an arsenal of matches, alcohol and other destructive materials on hand.

I sense the makings of a fabulous science fair project.


The Valerie Plame story is something I take almost as seriously as the latest Peeps research. The passion is palpable.

She is tall and thin, with pink lip gloss and frosted blond hair betraying a hint of dark roots. A diamond ring reminds us of her husband, who, for once, has not accompanied her to a location where there are cameras.

Cue the lava already. Or the crickets. Or more palpable passion if you will.


This man is freakin' brilliant. Maybe you have to read his books to fully appreciate the genius. Maybe I'm just twisted. But unless you absolutely loathe fantasy, give "The Eyre Affair" a go. I've never been so thoroughly amused or distracted.

"You know Jack...?"


Except maybe by this. I was first introduced to the theory of bracketology over at excessively diverted. If you think about it, the possibilities are endless. Be sure to check out my personal favorite, marital arguments.

JOE:
The only fight we'd ever have is what
video to rent on Saturday night.

KATHLEEN:
Who fights about that?


And now we'll take another order of your limp fries, thank you very much. Even though call it personal preference... we like ours crispy.

C is for Cookie and that's good enough for me!

With fond recollection of this fine day:


...and a burning need to make this happen again (only with cookies this time), I ask you this pertinent question:


What's your favorite cookie recipe?


Don't limit yourself to sugar cookies, but if someone has anything remotely like the buttery perfection I had to purchase again at the Provo Bakery this morning, do tell.
Please. My new life ambition is to create a comparable cut-out cookie.

In the meantime, I guess you'll have to settle for these:


Giant Ginger Cookies

4 1/2 c. flour
4 tsp. ground ginger
2 tsp. baking soda
1 1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
1 tsp. ground cloves
1/4 tsp. salt
1 1/2 c. shortening
2 c. sugar
2 eggs
1/2 c. molasses
3/4 c. coarse sugar

Stir together dry ingredients in a separate bowl. Beat shortening until softened. Add sugar and beat till fluffy. Add eggs and molasses; beat well. Add half of flour mixture. Mix. Stir in remaining flour mixture. Shape dough into 2" balls for giant cookies; smaller if desired. Bake on ungreased cookie sheet for 12 minutes at 350 degrees.


...and these:

Pumpkin Cookies

2 sticks butter (1 cup)
3 c. sugar
2 eggs
2 tsp. vanilla
2 tsp. cinnamon
2 tsp. nutmeg
2 tsp. soda
2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
4 1/2-5 cups flour
1 lg. can pumpkin
1 bag gourmet milk chocolate chips
1 c. chopped pecans

Cream butter. Add sugar, eggs and vanilla; mixing after each addition. Stir in dry ingredients. Mix. Stir in chocolate chips and nuts. Drop by spoonfuls on cookie sheet. Bake 12 minutes at 375.

(Both of these recipes make bakery-class cookies.)

I WAS SO MAD

I. Blogger won't let me post pictures. So I am unable to post the blog I really wanted to write. I am SO mad!


II. This is the totally lame response I got back from Best Western regarding my horrible hotel stay in Tucson (see adventure IV): (The gist of it is since the hotel manager won't bother responding to your concerns he gets a pass and we'll put your letter in the round file.) I am SO mad!


Hello Ms. R,

Thank you again for your e-mail concerning your stay at the Best Western
Executive Inn. I apologize our office has not received a response to
your comments from the management team.

I would like to assure you that Best Western members are required to
uphold the guidelines of service and accommodations as set forth by our
Board of Directors. To ensure that these guidelines are being met in
accordance with Best Western policies, quality assurance reviews are
conducted for each Best Western member property on a regular basis. The
observations, concerns and experiences of guests are a vital part of
this process and are carefully considered. Your correspondence will be
retained in the Customer Service files for inclusion in the next quality
assurance review of this hotel.

You are a valued guest and your business is very important to Best
Western members. Since customer satisfaction is the primary goal of Best
Western members, guest comments are greatly appreciated. Again, thank
you for taking the time to bring this matter to our attention.

Sincerely,

Mr. T
Customer Care
Best Western International


Here is my response:


Dear American Public,

If ever find yourself in Tucson, absolutely do NOT stay at the Best Western Executive Inn on 333 W. Drachman St.

Unless you are a drug dealer or a pervert.

Or you do not at all mind strangers having complete access to your hotel rooms in the middle of the night because staff has not bothered to secure the hotel building or to fix the broken sliding glass doors into your rooms.

Or you have a penchant for sleeping in and/or showering in other people's dirt.

Sincerely,

An extremely dissatisfied customer


(Lest you think I was overreacting and that requesting an escort to my room at 3am on a Sunday morning and then later locking myself inside my vehicle every time some questionable car drove up to the hotel was a little paranoid, please read this review. The irony of the fact that I carefully solicited directions to a pharmacy that might be more safe well after midnight on a Saturday night and then drove directly to a hotel in a bad part of town is not lost on me. My review of the hotel, in which I state, "I wouldn't keep my dog there," is pending approval.)


III. OK, so there is not really any three. Yes, there are MANY things that frustrate me or which I find extremely sick and wrong, but I try not to waste my energy on anger unless it's going to be productive. However, I really want to know...

What makes you SO mad?

Because obituaries are just way too short...moonshadow moonshadow

Friday evening we got the word it would be within hours. My husband stayed until around 2 am, but finally had come home. Then about 4:30 am on Saturday the phone rang. Verna had just gone in her sleep. We were relieved for her--she'd been in pain and was so weak since her stroke. But what a loss for the rest of us.

The obituary is just a brief outline. Not even a sketch of one woman's life. I only arrived at the last quarter. But here is what I remember:


They used to live in a tiny house in south west Provo. But on that small lot life was abundant. Verna could grow anything--inside or out. She kept geraniums alive, blooming, vibrant and happy all year round. And I've never seen anyone with more beautiful roses nor anyone who could make them bloom all summer long. It wasn't just a hobby. It was a passion. When my husband and I were dating (and we dated for forever) I would often find Verna's roses left in my apartment in tiny vases of water. Those were better and much more my style than dozens of long-stemmed roses from the florist. My favorite of hers was a pale purple rose with the sweetest of scents--it's called Moon Shadow. I've tried to grow my own, but mine are never as prolific. Nor do they ever seem quite as fragrant.


Verna accepted me like family long before I was officially so. And I always felt as though she accepted and loved me unconditionally. She treated me as if I were one of her own.


Another of Verna's passions was crocheting. Each of my four babies was blessed wrapped in a most beautiful blanket made by her hands. Even after her eyesight dimmed I would find Verna sitting in her favorite spot working her magic with a hook and a ball of yarn. It was as if her fingers had chained so many rows they knew exactly where to go--what to do--even without her eyes to guide them.

I've never been a big fan of Barbie, but Verna had a collection to be admired. Her tiny house on the west side could barely house them all. But when the city decided to raze that little row of houses and Verna moved into a larger home on the south east side of town they got their own room. She collected all sorts of dolls and had an enviable thimble collection as well.


Last year I decided I needed to make Verna a quilt for her birthday. It was a project I had started for myself, then decided to give to her, even though it was something I really loved. I finished it just in time and was so excited to give it to her on her actual birthday.

Let me tell you something about the giving of a quilt. Quilters put something of themselves into a quilt that only others who quilt understand. And they seal it almost always quite literally with a little blood, sweat and tears. This kind of meaning is often lost on the recipient, except when the recipient is another quilter.

As I gave Verna her quilt she got it. And she bestowed upon me the highest form of gratitude I could've imagined, "Oh, Mama would've loved this. She would've been so proud!"


A few weeks ago we got a call early in the morning. Verna was in the hospital. She'd had a stroke. I was leaving for Arizona the very next day and was debating whether or not to cancel my plans. But it appeared she was going to be OK, so I went. On my way home I talked to my husband and he told me she was getting ready to go home. Loved ones were coming to get her.

The day I arrived back in town I went to visit her in the hospital. She held me tight and said, "I was waiting for you to come." I knew I wasn't what she was waiting for, but I knew that she had anticipated my return. That meant a lot to me. I told her how much I loved her and she responded likewise. She acknowledged each of my kids in a deep and personal way. Pure love. I wondered why we wait till death to admit such depth of feeling to one another. I love the raw honesty of moments such as that. And the tenderness. I need more of it. I think we all do.


My husband, who is especially close to this particular aunt, went to visit her and tuck her in every night for those three weeks. Blood is thicker than water. It will be hard to say good-bye.


Bye. I love you.

Bowling for Ice Cream. . .

...because why the heck would anyone go bowling for soup?


Let me tell you how much I love my hood. In my hood live cool people such as my favorite superhero, kactiguy and his lovely wife the Lo Down. Within our environs we also enjoy the aroma of melody's garden, pflower and the estrogen garden, not to mention the perfectly pungent sister pottymouth. That is some serious blogodaciousness concentrated into one little hood, don't you think?

So last Monday night some of us (sadly sans melody, daredevil mom and sis. pottymouth) got together--along with some non-bloggers we allow to hang out with us--for some serious bowling. Because bowling with kids is heady stuff, you know. Afterwards we all headed over to the realm of Lo-kactiguy-Down for some ice cream. A good time was had by all.
















Notice whose cute kids had the hardest time keeping a straight face? Wonder where they get that from?

Let me tell you. . .

. . . about one of my best friends. She is aptly named Melody. She is a strong, clear and lovely voice for light and truth.

Yesterday Courtney asked me an interesting question. "Who is is that nurtures you?" I made some silly reply, but instantly knew I had misspoken. Melody, who is not only a beautiful woman, sister, friend and mother, is also a nurse. She is a healer. She has loved and helped heal my children's skinned or impaled-by-tweezers knees, lacerated and bumped heads, broken hands and bruised bodies. She has helped to heal my body of a serious case of pneumonia and a significant knee surgery. But best of all, her friendship heals my soul.

One day I will write more about this amazing sister-friend whose presence in my life is a precious gift from God. But today I just want you to read the beautiful poem she wrote for Kirsten Hinckley.

Melody would not tell you this, but I can. Her wonderful tribute was read at Kirsten's memorial service and printed on the back of the program for her services. I cannot begin to imagine the grief of losing a child. But I do know that during the deepest of sorrows or the fullest of joys, Melody's voice is that of an angel. In this mortal world there is no other better equipped to offer words of solace, comfort, joy and hope.

Talkin'Bout an evolution/Bring it on home, baby!

As most of you know, I work with a team of people half my age. Literally. Most of the time, however, it's not readily apparent that we come from entirely different generations (they are pure Gen Y, but I belong to the lost generation--those of us born between the Baby Boomers and Gen X; we are called, of all things, Generation Jones, because we are, apparently, still jonesin for our expectations to be fulfilled).

Except yesterday.


It began when one of my male co-workers was expressing frustration over his entire day's work from the day before being completely undone when someone changed his mind about what the client wanted. My co-worker was quite put out over that and seemed inconsolable.

Trying to illustrate how good hard work and effort is never a complete waste I said, "Look at it this way, someday you will have great empathy with your wife and the mother of your children."

He seemed surprised, but interested. I continued to explain how nearly everything one does as a stay-at-home mother becomes undone in a matter of mere minutes. EVERYTHING!

"You mean it's a complete waste?" he asked. "No, and that's the point. In essence it's the most important work I will ever do. But most all the actual work I do gets undone almost immediately."

I take my job of creating awareness over women's issues very seriously, no?


By now a number of people were interested. The discussion eventually digressed into gender equity regarding housework. I respectfully made the observation that most men in my generation still see housework as women's work. Granted there have been great strides taken in understanding the importance of paternal involvement in the raising of the children. But even in homes in which two parents work, housework is still primarily perceived as the woman's responsibility. S-l-o-w-l-y that's changing. I have observed that generally, this generation is becoming more evolved than my generation in this respect. Many mothers I know--myself included--work very hard to instill the message in their kids that taking care of the house is meant to be a shared responsibility.


Just then someone asked where "Ben," one of my co-supervisors, was. Ben got married last October. It has been sweet to witness a change in him as he has grown from a bachelor into an attentive husband.


Remembering where he'd told me he was going, I started to laugh.


"He took a long lunch today so he could go home to do the dishes and the laundry and clean the house."


Well, he certainly knocked that one out of the park.

Bring it on home, baby!

Goodnight; sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite

in honor of my good friend geo, who somehow manages to do this and much, much more every day

Tonight (Sunday) I tucked my ninety-year-old grandmother into bed for the night. Some time ago I regularly had the pleasure of turning down her bed for her before her afternoon nap, but it's been awhile and this was the first time at bedtime. I gently nestled the sheets beneath her chin and laid out the Underground Railroad quilt I pieced for her for her 88th birthday and made her promise to me that no matter what happened with Grandpa during the night she would stay in bed and page the aides and let them deal with it.


She had another TIA today. It's no wonder. Grandpa, just turned 98, has been very sweet and cooperative with her until these past few weeks. But now dementia usually has him in its vicious grip and he's had enough the oxygen tubes and little white pills and waking up every day to the disappointment of still being alive.

The nurse came in and took Grandma's blood pressure. They'd finally gotten it down to 145 over something earlier, but that was before the both of us had to double-team Grandpa to get him to down his meds. Now it was back to 150/70. The nurse was concerned. So was I, but I told him I was sure even my blood pressure was elevated after the battle over dinner. I hoped that if both of them would stay in bed through the night she'd feel better in the morning.

Now I'm afraid I'll be haunted forever by my memory of their supper. Noting it would be one of their last together. How sad it was to watch my grandmother desperately keep offering him different foods in order to get him to eat. And to see him refuse even the chocolates that had lit up his eyes just moments ago, but now didn't seem so enticing being offered as a bribe for a good boy who would take his medicine. (Note to self. If you find yourself married to someone who has already lived well past 90 years--the last two after being given six months to live--give him chocolate whenever he wants it. What's it going to hurt?) One moment Grandma is stubbornly persisting in trying to get one more bite of food down him. The next minute she's telling me how a friend of theirs finally just stopped feeding her husband because he wanted to go so badly and this was the only way. After well over 75 years, Grandma just can't quite let Grandpa go. Could you?

As for me, I recover from the sting of the swat and the harsh words with which he rejected the meds I knew I must give him. Even at my age, having my hand slapped by this man whom I could probably take down with one arm still smarts in the heart of the little girl who looked up to him, loved him and yet was still always a little bit afraid of him her most of her young life. I do note, however, that when it's finally all over, and in the first lucid comments of the evening, he pleads, "You do understand, don't you?" "Yes, Grandpa," I reassure him as I kiss his cheek. "I do understand."

As I was finishing up their dishes and Grandma was getting ready for bed Grandpa kept trying to get up. He needed to go save the children. He wondered how all the people were doing down south after the big flood. He didn't know where the ubiquitous "they" wanted him to go, where "they" wanted him to sleep. He wondered if we'd be staying at Heber's house in Ogden. He needed to find and put on his church shoes. Grandma (and I've noticed my mom does this as well) keeps trying to a). understand what he's saying and b). bring him back to his senses. I wonder if perhaps it's better just to play along. "The children are all fine, Grandpa." "That was a good thing you did." "Yes, that was a terrible disaster. But you need your rest so you can go back to help tomorrow." "Everyone is OK now."

This tiny man who has violently resisted our efforts to care for him finally settles down enough to ask Grandma simply, "What do you want me to do?' "Go to bed now" is her reply. Eventually he does so, but not without telling me to make sure Grandma goes to bed. And telling her one more time how much he loves her.


I kiss them both goodnight, turn down the lights and quietly slip out the door. I want to cry. But I'm so overwhelmed by trying to process everything I can't even find my tears.

"Goodnight," I recite. "Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite. . . "

Blogodaciousness! NOT just another bunny face

for c jane's theme day: self-portrait.

Thoughts, please?

5-year-olds in fish nets

Forget Paris?

"Mom, who is Paris HIlton?"

The question came out of nowhere. I was in the living room curled up in my favorite navy recliner. My daughter was in her bedroom trying to earn coins for my Club Penguin account so I can buy my own puffle.

Because she can be nice like that.


Duly noting that twisted way the world has of making completely random acts collide, I glanced up from the article I was at that very moment reading in today's issue of The Daily Herald: After a week without her, AP asks: Can we forget Paris?


"A spoiled little rich girl who has no visible talents or skills but through no effort or merit of her own is immensely rich and famous. Not to mention famously rich," I respond.


L~"Is she the one with the bunny face?"


I glance down to examine the picture (not this one) of Paris' overtanned face framed by her perfectly platinum hair. In my head I trace the outline of the typical hand-drawn bunny face--you know the one--superimposed over Paris'. I know exactly what she means.




"Yeah. She's the one with bunny face."


Apparently despite our best intentions or the utmost desires of our hearts, the answer would be a resounding, "NO!"

Post of the week.