I Like to Look for Rainbows...

While in Salt Lake City, I got up early on Saturday morning in hopes of getting some nice pictures of the Salt Lake Temple.  I was hoping that the early morning light would give me some really great highlights and shadows and that would translate into really interesting photographs and perhaps something I might want to watercolor.  My hotel was several blocks away, and I walked there early enough to be there when the sun came up.  I found a nice spot across from the church office building and waited for the sun.  But as the sky turned lighter my prospects did not look good.  The sky was blanketed with grey clouds, and I was worried that when the sun did come up over the Eastern mountains, the clouds would hamper any hopes of shadows.  I had time, so I decided to sit and wait, in hopes that the clouds might blow off.  While I waited, I pulled out my scriptures and started to read.  It started to rain, and I relocated myself under a large tree, reading my scriptures, periodically looking up to the east, to watch the sun making its ascent up over the mountains, hoping the clouds would part, and the sun would come out so that I could get my bright light and shadows that I had been hoping for.  As I read my scriptures, and tried to keep them out of the mist and sprinkles, the sun finally came up above the eastern hills.  But the clouds had thickened instead of blown off and I knew my hopes of great morning light on the temple were not to be.  Then I turned my head away from the rising sun that I had been watching and toward the temple.  What I saw there took my breath away!  There, curving perfectly over the house of the Lord, was a luminous rainbow!   I looked around to see if anyone was around to share the wonderful sight, but I was all alone.  This wonderful scene was a gift, just for me!  My heart skipped a beat as I grabbed my camera and took several pictures of it before it faded away into the mist, as suddenly as it had come.

I sat back down under the big tree as the rain began to fall more steadily.  The sun never peeked through the clouds again.  Soon there were a few people around, on their way to the temple and such.  As I sat there I was completely overwhelmed with what I had just experienced, and the gift the Lord had just given me.  I realized that I had come this morning really wanting something - really wanting to take some nice pictures of the Salt Lake Temple.  So I was looking for the sunlight, and the accompanying great light and shadows.  That was what I was hoping for, and I had been disappointed by the rain.  But the Lord had something different in mind for me - something so much better.  He sent me a rare and wonderful rainbow, curving perfectly over his house - a gift of beauty and light, but one that is only visible in the rain.  I had been keeping my eyes, and my hopes on the rising sun - hoping and praying that the light would come and the clouds would clear, and was feeling disappointed and despairing that it would not happen.  It wasn't until I turned to look at the temple, that I saw the rainbow.

What would have happened if I had kept my eyes on the sunrise and had never turned to see that temple when I did?  Surely I would have missed the rainbow all together.  I realized that there was a profound lesson for me here.  Sometimes we want something and hope and pray that we will get our desires.  But when the rainclouds hang overhead and threaten, and when the sprinkles start falling on our hopes and dreams, we think that the Lord had decided not to give us what we think we need and want.  This may be true, but he may not give us what we ask for because he has something better in mind for us, something greater than we would ever hope for or even imagine for ourselves.  I wanted bright morning sun, and he sent me a rainbow instead.  Most mornings there is usually bright morning sun on that temple.  I would certainly get my chance on another trip to Salt Lake.  But a perfect rainbow curving gracefully over the temple was a rare and beautiful gift - something I could never have planned .  Even a professional photographer could not have planned it like this.  It made for a beautiful (albeit amateur) picture, and an even lovelier memory.  I knew at that moment that the Lord loves me.  ME!  This rainbow was a tender mercy of a loving father for his imperfect, yet beloved daughter.  The spirit bore witness of his love for me at that moment.

In life, we have challenges and problems, and we think we know what we need to make things better - if the Lord would just send us what we think we need.  But the Lord who loves us and knows us often has something else in mind for us, something infinitely more wonderful, and often those blessing are to be given only in the rainy, stormy moments of our lives.  If I had gotten my bright morning sun, there would have been no rainbow. 

 Rain is necessary for any rainbow - and so is a ray of light.  When life is stormy and rainy, we don't need clear skies, but merely a ray of light, to have a miracle.  

I thought how wonderful it was that I didn't see the rainbow while looking for the immediate sunrise, but only when I turned away from the sun and looked at the temple.  What powerful symbolism!  When we keep our eyes on the horizon, looking for the answers to our prayers in the here and now, we may miss the really best blessings that the Lord is sending us.  We might even get bitter that the sun is not rising as fast as we think it should, and that there are still too many clouds in the way when it does come.  But when we stop watching and waiting for the immediate sunrise, and instead look toward the temple, and the eternal perspective that it gives us, that is when we see the blessings - the rainbows in the rain.  

Some blessing require the perspective of the temple to be seen for what they really are.  The primary song says "I like to look for rainbows, when ever there is rain..."  Well, I have been reminded that when life gives us rain, we can look for rainbows in the temple.

Young Gun

So that's why they call him "The Kid"!

Boys are Gross!

I have always known it.  Little girls label little boys as gross.  We laughed and giggled at the gross things boys did.  You know "girls rule, and boys drool."  We just couldn't figure those strange, dirty, stinky creatures out. They liked everything slimy, stinky, and just plain ugly.   It was common girl knowledge - Boys were just gross.

But then as I grew older (and started liking boys) I started thinking maybe it was all an exaggeration.  Boys weren't really that bad.  After all, they were kind of cute, OK really cute, and what used to seem so yucky and stinky suddenly became very attractive.  (What powerful things those hormones can be - deluding us into finding such things appealing!) I thought what silly little girls we had been! Boys were suddenly pretty fantastic.  

Now I have six sons, and my opinion about boys has come full circle.  I realize how wise I was at a young age to perceive that boys are gross.  In fact, my acquired wisdom and experience has only taught me that boys really are much more disgusting than I had previously imagined- so very much worse.

Sometime I feel like I am surrounded, like a bad dream where slimy swamp creatures are all around you, moving in closer and closer, and there is no escape.... ahhh!

Yep, kinda like that.

Case in point.  Last week I took my darling firstborn son to the dentist.  He NEVER brushes his teeth.  We have taught him proper brushing technique, and tell him constantly to brush, but he has chosen an alternate, non-hygienic lifestyle and does not brush.  So guess what the Dr. found?  Not one, not two, not even six or seven cavities.  He found 8 cavities! Eight!  And its not like these cavities have accumulated over years.  We take our kids to the dentist regularly twice a year.  He developed all those cavities in 6 months time!  Holy stinkin' cow!  When the financial advisor came into the exam room, I knew we were in trouble.  His decision not to brush is going to cost us about a thousand bucks!  I was so upset I had to get up and leave.  Good thing Dennis had arrived just then.  Do you know what we could do with that $$$?  It is a good thing his exam wasn't last week, or we would have had to cancel out trip to Disneyland.  Filth is expensive.

He is not the only one.  Sadly, all my sons have chosen a life without hygiene.

There is just nothing like gazing into the beautiful face of your angel child, and then they smile that award winning grin... and you see that indeed moss grows on the north side of teeth as well as trees.    

Or you look in the rear view mirror to catch a glimpse of your beautiful family... only to see one kid who has a nasty habit of playing with wads of his own spit and avert you eyes only to spot a finger up a nose, well, half a finger actually, and  you quickly look away before you have to witness that same finger take a quick trip to the mouth.  Ug!

Or your sweet child comes to give you that big hug you are aching for...and you are accosted with an overwhelming mix of body odor and smelly feet as greasy hair smears across your cheek.

Ugh.  

Fact is, all five of my poor senses get accosted on a regular basis! 

Fuzzy teeth are a chronic problem around here.  Their teeth wear their little winter coats all year long. I will tell a kid to go get me his tooth brush, and he will declare that he doesn't have one.  When asked how long he has been without a tooth brush he will shrug his shoulders, "I dunno.  A while."  We have about fifty brand new toothbrushes in cupboard and they KNOW THIS but always look at me like this is new information - like I have been hoarding the toothbrushes and they have been suffering because of it.  I can't even imagine going a day without a toothbrush.  

And they are under the impression that showers should be a weekly occurrence, and any more than that are strictly optional.  When they are forced to shower, they will often just step into the shower and wet their hair.  Then they are always dumbfounded that we figure out that they didn't actually wash down with soap and shampoo.  But our noses can't be fooled that easily, and the fact that there is often a patch or two of dry hair in the back is a good indicator too.  Oh the injustice they claim when we insist they step back in the shower to finish the job.

Hand washing, too, is performed with a similar M.O..  I always sneak a  peak when they are "washing" their hands.  Cold water on. Soap dispensed into hand (again, often optional) and rinsed immediately in water without lathering up - the soap slips right off.  Then water is turned off (often not before the kid puts his mouth on the faucet to take a quick drink.)  Then the wet hands are wiped dry on the dirty pants.  Done.  Ya think?

You know it is a bad sign when you ask if their hands are clean and they have to look.  If you have to look, they are not clean.

Derek's glasses are always so dirty, I don't know how he can see through them.  He'd probably see better if he just took them off.  If my windshield was that dirty, I would get into an accident for sure.

My kids are constantly wearing dirty clothes.  OK, yes, kids get dirty.  That happens.  But I mean they are wearing dirty clothes first thing in the morning.  They put on dirty clothes.  I will tell them to change.  "I just did."  "Go change again." "Why?" "Because your clothes are dirty." "But I just put them on."  "Where did you get them?" "On the floor."  "Uh huh.  They are dirty."  Shock.  "I didn't know!"  "Here's a helpful hint.  Look at the sleeves of your shirts.  If there is a crust where you always wipe your mouth it is dirty.  Look at your pants.  If there are smears of crud here were you always wipe your dirty hands, then they are dirty.  Oh, and if you look in your underwear and see this skid mark because you don't wipe your bottom, I would be willing to bet they are dirty too, and you should not wear them."  "Oh."  

Oh yes.  These are not fictional accounts.

They are always sleeping without pillowcases on their pillows and sheets on the bed.  They can't even fathom why silly mom finds this practice so extremely disgusting, or why mom is equally disgusted when they never take their sheets off to be washed.  Whatever, mom.

And their bathroom.

Oh my. 

That bathroom.  It is, well, it is a health hazard.  Really.  You do NOT want to go in there!  I have to force myself to go into the belly of the beast.  It always smells like urine.  Always.  Even after a good scrubbing it smells like urine mixed with bleach.  There is toilet paper everywhere (does that mean they are using it?) and mildewed towels piled on the floor.  Inside the toothpaste drawer is a sticky mass of toothbrushes, half-squeezed tubes of toothpaste, none with caps, and a little bit of hair and legos stuck in for good measure.  No wonder the teeth are fuzzy.  The only thing clean and untouched in that bathroom are the pretty bottles of deodorant all lined up in the medicine cabinet.  They would be completely unused if it wasn't for the someone occasionally using them to scribble on the bathroom mirror.  At least someone is putting them to good use.

It isn't like we, as parents, don't try.  Oh we teach, and guide, and beg, and scream.  Due to a need we have recently re-instituted regular hygiene instruction during our family home evenings.  You know: Song, prayer, the six BEs, a scripture, family business, followed by instruction on the proper care and wiping of bottoms, then a lesson on the plan of salvation, song, and prayer.  Every family has to do what works for them.

And as if it isn't enough just to be disgusting, the also have to talk about disgusting things. 

The other day Caleb announced that earwax doesn't taste good.  His brothers all agreed!  I guess they have all tried it and decided that was one body cavity not worth exploring further.

 And just this very morning, in fact, as we were climbing into the car, Caleb just announces, "Mom, farting is so fun!"  followed but a lengthy family discussion about long versus short, loud verses silent, etc., accompanied by fairly accurate sound effects.  That's when I turn the radio up.  Way, way up.

Such is my life.

Well, at least we don't have to worry about girls knocking down our door, right?

Of course, all this could change when my boys discover girls.  Then we'll have a whole new set of problems to deal with.  But I can handle them if it means shiny teeth and clean hair ... I think.

Christmas Morning and the Sad, Sad Tale of the Gift that Wasn't

It is a classic tale of love and loss.

There once was a fair, not-so-young maiden who loved a camera, and the camera loved her.  They traveled the world, Venice, London, Hawaii, Yellowstone, taking beautiful pictures together.  But the maiden became increasingly selfish, used and abused her camera, carelessly dragging him everywhere, even places he did not wish to go, using him whenever she needed him, carelessly banging him into stuff, then tossing him to the side and paying him no mind when she didn't need him.  

The poor camera - cold, neglected, alone.  He dreamt of the days when she would pamper him and take care of him, lovingly caressing his lens with a soft cloth and carefully placing him in his nice warm padded case.  He had not seen the inside of his case for so long.  He, as any camera would, could only take such abuse for so long.  Then one day in early October, he clicked his last click... and he was gone.  

The maiden rushed the poor camera to the camera store, but the diagnosis was grim.  An operation could be performed, but at great cost, and he probably would never be the same again, and would die anyway.  She, tragically, discovered too late what her neglect and abuse had done and had to let him go.  In her sorrow, she made a solemn vow to never treat another camera that way again. 

The kind camera doctor, seeing her distress, offered to introduce her to another fine young camera friend of his, that he thought she might want to get to know.  The doctor pointed him out to her.  He was sitting in a glass case across a crowed room.  Her eyes, and his lens, met, and it was love at first sight.  She knew they were meant to be together, and she bought him on the spot and brought him home to occupy her now empty camera bag.  

But all was not well, for this fair maiden had a husband.  He had known about his wife's love affair with the first camera, but he was not the jealous type.  In fact he was the one who had introduced them in the first place.  He figured her little stint with the camera made her happy, and that made him happy.  However, he had watched with concern how she had used the camera, and had feared for the life of his digital friend.  When the husband discovered what had happened to the camera, and that his wife already had a new camera in her bag he was distressed.  He feared she had bought that new camera on the rebound, without carefully checking into him.  So the husband took it upon himself to do a little digging into the new camera's past.  

What he found was that his wife had indeed chosen well.  He was an upstanding fine young camera from a remarkable family with an excellent history.  But while the price she had paid for him was good, her husband discovered the same camera at an online store for much, much cheaper.  So he took it upon himself to return the camera she had brought home, and order one from the online store, only to find that the camera he had discovered for such a great price was back ordered.  He reassured his hysterical grieving wife, who had lost not one camera that she loved, but two, in one day, that all would be well, and that a few hundred dollars would be saved if she could just hold on, alone and camera-less, for a few days.  So the woman, who loved her good husband even more than she had loved her camera (and that is a whole lot) agreed to wait.  But those days turned to weeks, and the weeks months, and alas, no camera.  

The maiden watched time pass and her children grow without being able to capture those precious memories.  Sure, she was a modern woman, and had another portable camera in her purse, but it took terrible pictures and was ornery and stubborn. As time passed she began to miss her beloved camera more and more, and hate her stupid purse camera more and more as well.  Her iphoto suffered, her blog suffered, and she became more and more despondent each day.  When her husband asked her what was wrong, all she could utter was "my camera, my  camera." He vowed to get her the camera of her dreams... someday.

Then disaster struck again.  This time a sick child and the accompanying medical bills.  All thoughts of a new camera were swept aside.  When a decent camera was needed, the maiden's father lent her his, and she survived this way for some time.  

Time passed, and Christmas was drawing near.  The camera widow mentioned to her good husband that Christmas was coming, and that if ever she needed a new camera, it was during this season of giving and love.  She believed that he was planning to get her the camera for Christmas, but in her greed she begged him to give her the camera before Christmas, so she could take pictures of all the holiday happenings.  Opening the camera on Christmas morning would simply be too late.  She just couldn't get though the holidays with that stupid pocket camera she had been using.    Her husband assured her that money was tight, and there would be no new camera.  But she held out hope, as any blogger would.  

Meanwhile, the crappy pocket camera apparently had heard all the nasty things she had said about him and disappeared - walked out the door and never returned.  There was no love lost there, after all, a new camera was coming soon, she thought.

Then suddenly, it was Christmas Eve.  She saw her children all dressed up snugly in their festive caroling attire and once again begged her husband to give her her camera early so she could capture the moment.  He assured her there was no camera coming for Christmas.  Frustrated that her husband, who usually gets too excited and can't wait until Christmas or birthdays to give gifts,  had suddenly decided this year to hold out until Christmas morning, the maiden ran to her father, told him her woes, and he let her borrow his camera for the evening.

That night she dreamt of her her old camera that she had loved so much, and hoped that her new camera would love her has much as she would love him.

Then it was Christmas morning.  The children were stirring, anxious to run into the living room to discover the plethora of gifts that Santa had left them.  In her heart she knew, that one of those gleaming packages also held the camera for which she had waited for so long.  It was going to be a very happy Christmas, indeed!

  She went to grab her father's camera to capture those first few moments of discovery when the children see the tree for the first time.  But the camera was not there.  Her father, believing she was getting a new camera for Christmas, had taken the camera home with him the night before.  She ran to her purse, and started to dig around, before remembering that her purse camera was long gone.  Desperately she went for her video camera, at least it would be something, but it was out of memory.  She ran to her husband, and pleaded and begged him to tell her which package her camera was in so she could capture the magic that was Christmas morning before it was too late.  

Again he told her that there was no camera at all, and a look into his eyes told her it was true.  There really was no camera!  He really couldn't afford it.  He was so sorry.

She crumpled to the floor, hopeless and camera-less.  How had it come to this, on Christmas morning of all morning?  Her despair overwhelmed her.

The children, who could no longer be held back, came bouncing into the room, their eyes gleaming, and shouts of wonder and joy escaping their lips.  There was tissue flying and paper tearing, stockings un-stuffed and shrieks of delight.  But the maiden could do nothing but watch those moments as they quickly passed, becoming mere memories fading into the distance of Christmas past. 

 Oh the depths that her own selfishness and greed had gotten her!  She had had a camera she had loved, and it had died due to her abuse.  Then she had another camera in her hands, but because of her greed had lost that too.  And her little camera, the only camera she had left in the world, she had hated and called names, until he, too, was gone.  

And so the end of the tragic tale of the Christmas gift that wasn't.  (Not a classic Christmas tale, to be sure).  That is why there are no pictures of Christmas morning this year.

 Let this serve as warning to all.  Love your camera while you still have it.  Treat it well, pamper it and let it know you love it.  Lives of cameras are short, and you just never know when they are going to stop clicking. 

 (By the way, that goes for people too.)

Windows

A Window! A Window! My kingdom for a window!

I have been sitting in this room at my kid's side for over a week now, and it feels like I have been sitting in a cave, and noisy cave with a lot of beeping.

There is a window in this room, but it isn't on our side of the room. It is on the roommate's side. His name is Joseph and he is 14. He gets the window, and we get the door, which works our fine for him since he has been in isolation for two months and thus has no need for a door. Joseph always keeps his curtain closed, for privacy, obviously, so we can't even see the window. But that doesn't matter because Joseph always keeps the shades down on the window. Dylan and Joseph both like it dark for napping and watching movies. Thus the cave-like atmosphere.

I have a book light and spend most of my time reading in the cave. I can use the computer, when Dylan isn't using it to watch his DVDs. My escape is the hallway. There are always lights there, but no windows. I know the halls of the 5th floor well, as that is my only exercise, pacing the hallway, talking on my cell phone or waiting for the bathroom. There are no windows in the hallway, only doors. I can go through a whole day and not catch a glimpse of the blue sky. I don't know if it is dark or light outside. Time mushes together and means nothing.

I did see a window when Dylan was having his surgery and I was in the surgical waiting room. I saw a guy up on a cherry picker putting Christmas lights on tall palm trees. Whoa! I was just recovering from Halloween. Where the heck did fall go? This is a bad season to have several weeks sucked away. I am always stressed out at Christmas, but this one is really going to be a doozy.

We got to see a few windows the day after surgery too. Dylan was in great pain, you know how the day after surgery is always the worst. One doctor ordered for Dylan to get an ultrasound. They sent up a wheelchair to transport him down to radiology. Getting him to the wheelchair was horribly painful, screaming, the whole bit, and sitting up in a chair a day after hip surgery was no fun either. We wheeled down to radiology, we passed a few windows. I think it was day. Apparently they do have windows here, but on other floors, other wings. When we got to the ultrasound room he had to go from the wheelchair up to the bed. Dylan refused. Too painful to have to stand up, turn around then lie down flat. We might as well have asked him to walk through hot coals. We finally convinced him to do it. It was so hard to watch him in that kind of pain! He finally got up on the bed and the technician lifts up his gown to do the ultrasound only to find the his whole belly and left thigh are wrapped in an ace bandage. He can't do an ultrasound through a bandage, and won't remove it. The doctor who sent for the test was obviously not the surgeon and had no idea he was bandaged up like that. The technician could do nothing and sent him back to the room. In insisted on a gurney. No wheelchair. We had to wait for the gurney, then had our trip back past a few windows to the room, again. Someone mentioned the possibility of a doctor removing the wrapping so he could go get the test. I insisted he stay right on that gurney until they knew for sure one way or another. I was not going to let them make another painful move to his bed, just to have them have to move him back to the gurney for another trip downstairs. Finally it was decided that the test could wait a few days. Good. What a fruitless waste of time and unnecessary suffering. At least we got to see some windows.

So anyways, that was our other encounter with windows this week. Didn't really get to sit and gaze out of them.

So when people ask what I need, I say "Can you send me a window?" I really need a window.

We have one picture in this room. It is a big picture of a momma, daddy, and baby killer whales. It is a nice picture, but holds your attention for all of three seconds. I suppose we could put curtains on the picture and pretend we are underwater.

My friend Farai even drew me a window, but forgot to bring it to me. I appreciate the thought, though.

Other people on other rooms have windows. I envy them their windows. I envy Joseph his window too. Why doesn't he just open his window? Even indirect sunlight would be better than nothing.

One day when Joseph got a rare trip out of his room, I took a sneak peek out of his window. I pulled up the blinds and what I saw was not the rolling hills and tall cypress and palm trees I had seen out the window a few doors down on that first morning we arrived here. All that can be seen from Joseph's window is a white wall and some dark rectangular windows. It reminded me of a prison for some reason. No view. Just a wall. No wonder Joseph keeps his blinds down. This hospital, with all of its policies needs to make a simple policy that the isolation rooms must have the best views. This kid has been sitting in isolation for two months and all he has to look at out of his window is a wall. It is beyond cruel! I asked if they have a suggestion box somewhere because I have a few suggestions. They don't have one.

Joseph's view-less window made me sad. I felt bad for begrudging Joseph for keeping the shades down. I didn't understand his circumstance. It was also true in other ways. Joseph is noisy, rude, and belligerent. I was really put off by him at first, feeling sorry for ourselves that we had to share a room with that kid. But the longer I have been here, and talked to him, and looked out of his window, so to speak, I have changed my mind about him. He has not has a single visitor since we have been here, other than his tutor, physical therapist, nurses, doctors and the rest. When those guys come, he messes around with them and causes them grief. I see now that he is just trying to get some attention. He wants them to stay and hang out with him, not just run off to their next patient. His mom calls every couple of days, but it usually ends up with him hanging up on her. His dad is in jail for drugs. He is going home next week not to his home, but to a group home. His only love is football, but three surgeries on his knee mean no more football for Joseph. He had a blood clot and has to have shots in his stomach twice a day. That can't be fun either.

Now that I understand Joseph a bit, now that I have looked out of his window and seen the crummy view that he has to look at everyday, I don't envy him his window anymore. He doesn't bug me anymore. I like Joseph. I listen to him when he needs to talk through the curtain, and I tell him he is smart and good. The other day he had a math game he wanted to play with me. I humored him and he won. I am terrible at math, so that is no surprise. I told his how smart he was. I meant it. Then he challenged his nurses, and his PT guy, and anyone who would stop their busy day to play a few rounds with him. He won every time. That night I heard him tell his mom on the phone "There are some people here who think I have a brilliant mind... No, Mom, really."

His tutor gave him an assignment the other day to write an essay about something that happened in his life. It stressed him out because he couldn't think of anything positive in his life that he even wanted to remember or have someone else read about. He got frustrated and told her he wasn't doing it. She left. I talked to Joseph, and told him I bet he was a great writer, and that all the great writers had had bad things happen to them. It was those experiences that helped them be great writers. He told me he wasn't doing it. Period.

A few days later Joseph declared to me that he was going to surprise his tutor and do the essay- due tomorrow - even if it took all night. The assignment was a bit more complicated than simple an essay. It had to have so many paragraphs, each with so many sentences, each sentence having to have a set number of nouns, adjectives, prepositions, etc. It was a difficult assignment. He was up until very late working on it. He kept asking me through the curtain things like "Is 'ugly' an adjective?" He kept me up to date on his progress, and I kept telling him he was so good and the tutor would be so surprised. He was so excited the next morning to hand his paper into his tutor. It was very good. He got an A+. Joseph was happy. I was happy too. Poor Joseph. I wouldn't want his window.

I've been thinking about the other people in these other rooms. There are some seriously sick children here, children who have cancer or horrible disease or trauma, children with major birth defects, children who are here because they were abused by their parents, children who have nobody at their bedside, children who will never leave this hospital alive. How can I really envy them their windows?

Yes this whole experience was very scary and very painful to go through. But in a week or so we will be back in our home with the big windows. By the new year Dylan will be off his IV, back in school, and by next Thanksgiving this will all have been a very bad nightmare, nothing more.

That is the window I get to look through, and I am so grateful for it. So the view from this room, as far as I can tell, is perfect.

Day of Tears

 I should have thought to wear waterproof mascara today, as I have been brought to tears several times today by the memory of that terrible day, Sept. 11, 2001.  

I still remember that morning.  We got up and Dennis jumped in the shower.  I turned on the TV.  The news was on.  I glanced up at the TV and saw two tall buildings with smoke billowing up from them, the commentator was saying something about a possible terrorist attack.  I wondered where it was, perhaps Israel, or some other war-torn country.  It never occurred to me that it could have been in America.  I kept waiting for the news to say what country had just been attacked.  They said something about trying to get a response from the president.  The president of what country? - I asked.  Then they said the president was in Florida, and I thought how strange it was that that country's president was in America.  I am so incredibly slow sometimes.  Suddenly, devastatingly, it all clicked.  America.  America.  Someone had attacked America!  Dennis came out of the shower and saw me frozen in the middle of the room watching.  Watching and crying, as I tried to wrap my mind around what was happening.  Could such a thing have really happened?  Couldn't their be some other explanations for what was happening.  One plane - a freak accident.  But two?  To use our own people, innocent people, as weapons against other innocent people, people who had just kissed their families good-bye and went to work.  Just people.  My mind couldn't grasp such evil.  Before that moment, I couldn't have believed that such evil existed.  That morning I saw the face of evil, rising in the smoke, reflected in the terrified, ash covered faces of people running through the streets of New York, running for their lives.  Who could hate us SO much?  Why?  WHY?

I sat there in my room and watched all day, and for days after.  So many images, images that I still can picture today, each new image ripping my understanding of the state of the world further into shreds. Images of papers streaming down like obscene parade confetti, and the horrifying image of people...jumping.  What horror did they face that jumping 100 stories to their certain death was preferable?  I remember watching the first tower fall, collapsing on itself. I could hardy comprehend what it meant.  People inside.  How many?  Then the unthinkable, the other tower fell, dropping out of the skyline.  Who could survive that?  No one, apparently, we learned as we waited, and waited, then stopped waiting , stopped hoping for survivors.  I remember the terrifying reports of another airplane hit at the same time - the Pentagon - edifice of our Nations strength and security -  a punch in the face of America.  The NERVE!  And then speculation.  What next?  The White House, the Capitol, or the west coast?  Disneyland?  LA?  So many possible targets.  And more reports of another plane crash, but this time in a field in Pennsylvania?  Something went wrong?  Then realization.  Something went right!  Heroes were born... and died..  at the same moment!  Some of the strongest images weren't images at all, but sounds.  Phone calls made to wives, husbands, children.  Last messages.  Voices of dead men walking.  "I'm fine."  "I'm scared." "I love you."  So many "I love you"s that really said "Good-by."  Or then eerie sound of empty skies.  No planes flew.  Not for days.  No white streaks in the sky.  Nothing.  

One image hurts more than any other.  Even seven years later it stings my brain.  It was the wall.  Remember that wall?  My eyes swell with tears right now as I think of it.  It was the wall near ground zero where people placed pictures of their missing loved ones, desperate to find them, hadn't heard from them.  Pictures of ordinary people, smiling, doing ordinary things, photos with friends, and pets.  All ages.  All races.  Just people.  Titles: "missing", "loving mother", "come home" with descriptions, and phone numbers.  Please call!  And as the days passed, there were more and more faces, names, stories, lives on that wall, not fewer.  Heart wrenching! I still remember how that wall just filled me with despair - their despair, the despair of those who hung those pictures there.  I remember how I cried.  It was the kind of crying that hurts your sides, aches with each breath, and burns your throat and eyes.  

I didn't cry like that today.  Thankfully.  Today's were the short, quaking in the chest, eyes fill with tears, try to control my breath type cries.  Maybe that is bad.  They say time heals all wounds.  Perhaps it is true.  I hope that it isn't.  I fear the day this wound heals over, and people forget, and get lax.  I'm afraid it had already started to scab over.  

Remember the other images.  The FLAGS!  Flags everywhere.  The real America rose from the ashes.  United.  Strong.  Unashamed of calling upon their God.  Remember that?  But I didn't see too many flags today.  I flew the GIANT one.  My kids and I all wore red, white and blue.  Not too many others did.  

Today I watched the memorials, and cried.  On Saturday there was a documentary about the twin towers on the Discovery Channel.  I made my kids watch.  They were amazed, they had so many questions.  I told them.  They saw me cry.  It was good for them.  My children were too young to remember much about Sept 11.  The twins were only 2.  My oldest was only 5. They are old enough to understand now.  I want my children to know that evil exists, secret combinations, just like we read about in the ancient days.  They need to see what evil is.  What evil does.  Why we fight.  They need to also see how heroes are made from ordinary people.  Americans are good, and strong.  Americans help each other.  There could be heroes everywhere.  They could be heroes.  They must be heroes if a day like this comes to them.  My boys need to see that too.

They showed more images today.  Not many.  There were so many that day.  But the ones that they showed seemed so fresh.  Raw.  And the sounds... Oh!  

They need to show more images.  And show them, and show them, and show them.  We need to cry more, and remember more.  And then we need to stand up and be that America again!   

One of THOSE Mornings!

Ever feel like this?

I had one of those mornings, a real humdinger! Roxanne and Alysa have already heard it - thanks for the ear my friends, and Roxy said, "You SO have to blog that." I think I will feel better when get it all down and throw it into the blogosphere. It's long, but it involves a lot of poop, so it might be worth reading, if you're into that kind of thing.

My bad morning actually started last night. Dennis and I went to the temple. That part was good. But it was our first time leaving the kids home alone to go all the way to Redlands. My mom was 5 minutes away if there was a problem. It was fine. There were no problems. In fact, when we got home after 10pm, the boys were all asleep. That was a good thing, right? School night. But that was also a problem, because they were too asleep! We realized that neither of us had a key and the house was locked up tight. Another good thing - no strangers were getting into that house. Only neither were we. It was serious lock down. No amount of ringing door bell or calling on the phone was waking anybody. Were we going to be spending the night on the trampoline? (Actually, Dennis might like to rough it out there!) After banging on their bedroom window until I thought the glass was about to crack, a light switched on and the shutters flew open, and when my oldest assessed that I was not the boogie man, he unlocked the front door.

The house was a mess. To be fair, I could see that they had attempted to do their dinner chores, but surprisingly their definition of a successfully completed job is remarkably different from my own. I give them credit for trying. I really didn't want to think about the mess by that time. I just wanted to hit the sack.

I found Caleb asleep in my bed. He had peed all over the bed, the comforter, and it went into the mattress. Nice. Dennis stripped down Caleb, and I stripped down bed and hauled it to the laundry room. The mattress needed airing out, so we finally crashed on the sofas. It was late.

So this morning when the alarm went off, we didn't hear it. When I woke up, it was almost 7. Wednesdays are Dennis' early day - 7am meeting. Of course its Wednesday. He jumped up, showered, and ran out the door. Then I hurried and got my middle schoolers up and ready, noticing again my dirty house and realizing that I had a friend coming over at 9am so I could help her make some invitations. My house was no condition for anyone to see it - six boys, six hours, no supervision, remember? It looked even filthier in the light of day. I rushed to clean as much as I could before I had to take my kids to school. When you have a mess like that, and limited time, where do you even start?

In my mad cleaning spree I happened to look up and see the clock. We had to get out the door right now if I was going to get my boys to the middle school. So I herded everyone into the car, snatched Luke out of his crib, and threw him into his car seat in his bulging night diaper. I remember thinking that I should probably change him first, but decided I didn't have time. Hind sight is 20/20, and now I see so clearly that a two minute diaper change would have changed the whole course of my morning, and saved me hours of trouble.

This morning, this very morning, was the morning that Luke figured out how to wiggle out of his car seat. On the drive to school, in the rear view mirror, I saw him bouncing around in the back. It was chaos! The kids were screaming, but I couldn't understand what they were saying. I was yelling at them to get him back into his seat. It is the first week of school, and I knew cops would be everywhere. It took me too long, and another look in the rear-view mirror to realize what the screaming was all about. Luke, in his escape form the confines of his car seat, had torn off the front of his diaper. He was trying to climb over the back of the seat, and his diaper was hanging in a flap behind him. Poop was everywhere! Not in a neat little pellet form, but the sticky, stinky kind. Bad. Bad. So very bad.

I stopped to let the kids out at the school. They squawked and moaned that they had poop on them. I thought of taking them home to clean up, but there was no time. Bad mom told them to find a bathroom. Use lots of soap. I couldn't listen to their protests, as I was out of the car, leaning into the backseat, trying to grab the naked poopy slippery little monster and wedge him back into his poopy seat. Ugh! I was digging around trying to find the wipes. No wipes. I remembered the my good husband had spend labor day cleaning out and vacuuming out the car. He must have taken out the wipes along with the 27 socks, candy wrappers, unmatched shoes, sandwich crusts, and 18 action figures. So much for a clean car.

I didn't know what else to do, so I just rolled down the window and drove home. That was a long ride. At home, I tossed Luke into the tub, then went to tackle the car, armed with disinfecting wipes and lysol. Man, what a lot of work, and so HOT even this early in the morning. It is amazing what heat does to the smell of ripe feces. I cleaned up the car as best I could, but realized that I didn't have time to take the car seat out, take it apart, clean it, and get it put back together and in the car before I had to get the twins to school. Why do they make car seats so hard to clean? Hasn't anyone thought that a toddler might make a mess in their car seat? Hello? Maybe someone needs to ask a mom about designing a car seat. I just grabbed an old towel and threw it over the mess on the car seat, then ran into the house to get a nice fresh diaper on Luke, and get the kids into the reeking car.

While I was in the garage, Luke had dumped water out of the tub all over the floor, and was now in the kitchen, naked, swinging a full open bag of cheerios around over his head- imitating a helicopter, I think. My other three boys stood frozen two feet away while cheerios rained down all around him. By the time I got to him the bag was empty...and breakfast was over.

After a quick sweep of the floor, a diaper and clothes for Luke, and a short but energetic temper tantrum (me, not the toddler), I drove the boys to school. The windows were still open as the car now had the tangy aroma of baked poop and lysol. Back at home I went to get Luke out of his seat, and found that he had adeptly yanked the poop barrier towel out from under him. Of course he had. Another bath, and another change of clothes for Luke. Suddenly it was 9 o'clock and my friend was on her way. My house was still a mess, but it smelled a lot cleaner than a hot car full of poop, so I figured it was good enough. Besides, I figured that if anyone had an excuse for a dirty house, I did.

I was exhausted. After my guest left, I spent the rest of the day on my stripped down bed, and did nothing (except for six loads of laundry, disassembling, hosing down, washing, reassembling, reinstalling a car seat, and five more trips picking up/dropping off kids.) After all, I deserved a break.

Eat My Wake, Mister!

Sometimes I am so bad, I surprise myself.

I swim most mornings. I usually go around 5:30 and am often the only one in the pool at that hour. But in the summer I take the luxury of sleeping in a bit and this morning I didn't get there until almost 7:00. There were already a couple guys using the good middle lanes, so I had to take a side lane. The guy next to me was about 40 years old, a solid swimmer, good form, nice flip turn. He was busy doing his thing. I jumped in and started my workout. I usually start with 50 laps straight of freestyle. So I was swimming along when the guy noticed that I was almost at his side and he suddenly kicked it in. He was pushing hard - not going to let me pass him. So I pushed it too and soon I was right beside him. He kept pushing hard for a few laps, straining to keep up with me. But then the wall was there, and flip, in a flash I shot out ahead of him. (I love a good flip turn!) Soon I was out of his reach. About a dozen laps later I was at his heels again. Once again I saw him punch up his pace. I kept my pace steady (you have to when your swimming distance) but made my strokes longer and stronger and within 2 laps I had passed him again. When I was on about lap 46 I caught the guy again and he, not to be outdone, pushed it HARD for the next two laps and kept up with me pretty good, but at the wall, I flipped and shot off the wall again, and he stood up. He had had it. I still had two laps to go, and was pretty tired, but even if I was on my last lap, I know I would have keep swimming until I had a good solid lead on him.

I don't know what it is, but I LOVE lapping guys in the pool. I never feel that way with women. I hardly pay any attention to what the gal swimming next to me is doing. But I HAVE TO out-swim the guys. Isn't that bad? I'm not a man-hating feninista or anything, but when a man is swimming next to me I just feel this competitive fire. (Dennis will tell you that he beat me in a race. But that was one length of a backyard pool. Come on. One hard push off the wall and you're on the other side. He's yet to take me up on my challenge for, say, 50 laps, or even 20, in a real lap pool.)

Usually the guys never say anything afterwards. They'll act cool, pretending that they always swim that fast, weren't trying very hard, and that they didn't notice me lapping them time and time again. But today it was different. This guy pulled off his goggles in disgust and watched at me as I moved myself to the now vacant other middle lane. He was not happy! He was breathing heavy, his shoulders were slumped in defeat. "Man, you swim FAST!" ( But I'm NOT a man, that's the point.)

"Thanks," I say, trying not to sound too winded.

He just shook his head, clearly upset with himself. "I just can't believe I got my pants beat off by a woman."

"Your Speedos actually," I said. OK well, I didn't really say that, but I wanted to. I really just smiled.

"How do you do it?" he asked.

"Well, I have to do something to have enough energy up to keep up with my six kids," I replied.

His jaw dropped, and then his shoulders drooped even more when he realized that he had just been blown out of the water by the mom from Brady Bunch. Poor guy.

He climbed out of the water, deflated.

"See ya tomorrow, " I said as I readjusted my goggles.

"Yah, right," he said.

Then, just for good measure, while he was drying off, I did several laps of butterfly, shoulders nice and high out of the water. (That really was next on my workout - I promise.)

Poor guy. I think I ruined his day. .. but he sure made mine!