Alien Testing

I've never been abducted by aliens and probed on their spaceship. But I imagine it would be an awful lot like having an MRI.

I took my youngest son in yesterday to have an MRI of the lump on the back of his neck. In his sweet innocence, he was actually excited for it. So, when they put him on the long table with an IV port in his arm and padding all around his head and a plastic frame over his face, he was ready for adventure. They finished him up with earplugs and blankets for both of us, then slowly slid him into the giant metal tube--"It's like your going into a cool spaceship," they told him. Yeah, an alien spaceship.

We both jumped when the first unexpectedly loud whirring and banging sounds began. Do you know what it's like to tell a 9-year-old boy to hold completely still for 15 minutes, even without sudden loud noises? That's like telling atoms in a nuclear reaction to sit quietly for a second so nothing gets broken. Well, fortunately I guess, my son loves rules, so, he actually lay there perfectly still the whole time. The second round was a little more difficult since his head started to hurt. And with all that banging and whirring and thumping and whatever else aliens do to scan your brain and figure out a way to take over your planet, it isn't surprising he wanted so much to squeeze the emergency button and scream, "Get me out of here, now!" But he didn't. He stuck it out. He tried as hard as he could, and he did it.

"That was by far the worst thing I have ever done," he said. "I can't believe I was actually excited for that. Why didn't you tell me?"

Good question. Well, I guess partly I didn't realize it would be so bad, and partly I didn't want to scare him. I suppose it's one of those things like serving a mission or having a baby--it seems so exciting at first, but if someone could tell you how hard and scary it's really going to be, you wouldn't do it. And it's something you have to do and is completely worth it in the end.

Same with the MRI. The test came back clear. Nothing to worry about. What a relief! Of course, for my little son who has always wanted to be a space scientist and astronaut, this whole alien space ship experience may change his mind. But, then again, maybe it will be like having a baby--after a while you forget about the pain and fear and actually, purposely, go back for more!

Irrational Fears

As much as I love Halloween, I don't love the 3 am awakenings..."Mom, I can't sleep. What if that noise is a pack of warewolves fighting zombies over a vampire steak?"

After one eye squints open I say in best reassuring voice, "It's ok, Honey, it's just the milk man."

I can see the mix-up.

Sometimes our minds conjure up all sorts of things. But why are they usually the weird, crazy, scary stuff? I mean, unless it's Christmas (when every sound is Santa's reindeer), each little creak, or thump, or house sigh is Frankenstein searching for his brain, or crazy birds attacking through the chimney.

Unfortunately, it isn't just the noises at Halloween. I do the same thing with my children. If one of them has a high fever for a couple of days, somewhere in the back of my mind I start seeing sick pigs or those crazy birds, and imagine swine flu or bird flu or Jack and the Beanstalk flu. I keep calm, of course, for my kids' sake, but inside I feel a little panic.

But why do I jump straight to scary instead of to flying reindeer when I'm coming to a conclusion about something unusual? Take, for instance, my youngest son--last week he informed me he has a big bump on the back of his head that had been there all week. Well, I tried thinking back, remembering any falls or collisions or soccer injuries, but couldn't come up with anything. I guessed perhaps it was a swollen lymph node or reaction to a recent bee sting. That's what I said out loud, at least.

But, as soon as I finished reading our good-night story, the first thing I did was google head/neck bumps. A few things showed up, such as swollen lymph nodes and allergic reactions, and a few unpronounceable cancers. I called the doctor in the morning and took him in. She wasn't too reassuring and ordered an ultrasound. So, I was still saying outloud it was probably just a big fatty lipoma or weird cyst, but inside I was fearing the worst.

Over the weekend I had several panic moments, imagining what could be wrong with my little son, even wondering what I would do without his cheerful eyes, and sweet your-the-best-mom-in-the-world comments, and his prayers--oh, his prayers, thanking Heavenly Father for everything from the blades of grass and being able to go to church Sunday to Mine Craft and winning his soccer game.

I guess I often fear the worst because I love so much.

But for now, I will try to take the positive approach with this weird bump. I'll tell myself it is an extra growth of brain cells--he's extra-super smart and will be spouting foreign languages and theories of relativity, or maybe he will have super powers like running faster than a bullet or flying--that would be cool, or maybe he is just growing a protective layer of fat around his spinal chord in preparation for all the sports he loves to play. It will be like every day is Christmas, and all those creaks are just reindeer on the roof, and those thumps are just Santa climbing out of his sleigh and the bumps are his toy bag, full of all the fabulous things I wish for for Christmas. Well, I already know what I'm going to ask for this Christmas--I wish for health and happiness for my wonderful family.

Meat, and Other Joys of Fall

It's nearly that time of the year again--leaves turning the color of pumpkins and pomegranates, the smell of cinnamon and spiced cider in the air, and unusual meat items.

Yes, you read that correctly. Meat. Along with being a weather weenie, my husband is a meat junkie. When we moved to England for a couple of years, we chose our house based on the fact that it was around the corner from a butcher's shop ("A real, live butcher--right here in the village! Brains, liver, tongue--anything!"). The butcher, by the way, became one of his favorite people, but more about that in a moment.

You see, I grew up with a frozen Butterball at Thanksgiving, a ham at Easter, a ham at Christmas (both of which were those oblong shaped red-wrapped hams that I'm pretty sure are first cousins to balogna), and hamburger or pot roast in between holidays. So, you can imagine my curiosity when last week I saw an E-bay receipt for a 35-pound bottle of peanut oil, only to find out it is for deep-frying a turkey (and anything else that has a surface, apparently). Fine. I'm pretty happy with most things with a greasy, crispy coating. At least it's an actual turkey, unlike the great "turkey loaf fiasco of '98" as I've come to call it.

My grandparents had kindly taken in a woman who, conveniently was a nurse and could help take care of them, and had no other place to live. Since before I can remember, my grandmother had hosted Thanksgiving dinner for all my cousins--turkey, stuffing, yams with apples and marshmallows, candy corn--the whole spread. Well, in an effort to help my grandma, this lady convinced her to simplify, and to cook something simpler. That something turned out to be a loaf of turkey parts, probably mostly meat shaped into a brick. Grandma died a few years ago, but I'm guessing she still hides behind the post of the pearly gates every time Thanksgiving rolls around and we remember that day, it's shock, it's horror, it's gnashing of teeth, and maybe even a little bit of fainting. We can laugh now whenever we tell the story.

We laugh too about the "Turducken." Yeah, that's pretty much what it sounds like--a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken, each with a layer of dressing in-between. Something my husband read about in the Wall Street Journal. "Did you know you can order these, and they'll ship them too your doorstep in dry ice?!" That they will. And there's nothing like dry ice in a pot of water to entertain your kids for the afternoon.

But to entertain my husband, meat is usually part of the picture. There's something about it that helps create memories--like our memories of England. At Christmas when the butcher posted a sign to order your Christmas goose early, you can guess who was first on the list. "It's like having a real Charles Dickens Christmas in England!" I had to admit, an English Christmas goose did sound a bit romantic. Until it came.

"Do you have any cash?" my husband asked when he walked in the door from the butcher. "I didn't actually ask how much the goose would cost--he said I could pay him the rest the next time I went in." About $120 later, we realized our Dickensian Christmas goose wouldn't fit in our tiny British oven. So, as any red-blooded American would do, we barbecued it on the grill. And you know what? That was the tastiest meat I've ever had! And a great memory, too.

So, while the rest of us are planning Halloween costumes and trick-or-treating routes, and maybe getting a jump on our Christmas shopping, my husband is conjuring up his next great meat feast. Let's just hope it doesn't start with "SP" and end with "AM." I'll keep you posted.

I Believe in Christ--Can't You Tell?

I sat in my car in my garage and cried this last week. I couldn't help it (and it wasn't because of the scattered balls and nerf guns and catapults and sawdust and Halloween decorations and popsicle wrappers all over--I let go of that a long time ago). It just became so personal when a prominent pastor proclaimed, in an attack against Mitt Romney, that Mormons aren't Christian. Now, if you've read my Moms for Mitt blog, you've seen me before defending his values and goodness as a person, not just his intelligence and expertise. But this time wasn't just about Mitt. It was about me.

I was struck again, not only by the misconceptions of so many people, but by my own example. I had to ask myself again, "Is the way I live a testimony of what I truly believe and to whom I am truly devoted?"

I'm adding a little excerpt from my other blog about some of these ideas:

"I can’t help but feel that when people say Mormons aren’t Christians it is just expressing their own ignorance. “Mormons” is just a nick-name. The actual name of the Church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and if the name doesn’t give it away, all one has to do is look up LDS.org or Mormon.org on line, or better yet, ask a church member what they believe, to find out.

Ideally, the members’ belief and devotion to Jesus Christ is demonstrated in the way they live.Whether through the countless volunteer hours of Mormon Helping Hands service projects cleaning up neighborhood parks or building shelters and new homes after natural disasters, or through simple acts of kindness like making a meal for a sick neighbor or canning fruits and vegetables for the hungry and needy, these people strive to be Christ’s hands here on earth.

Along with donating 10% of their income for tithing, “Mormons” give a fast offering monthly to help those in financial need; they believe in the sanctity of marriage and family and practice sexual abstinence until after marriage; they don’t drink or smoke; they read scriptures daily and have an evening set aside every week for Family Night. “Mormons” attend church each Sunday, and as part of that they partake in the sacrament, renewing their covenant to take upon them the name of Jesus Christ—that means they always remember Him and try to do the things He would do if He were here.

Now, having said all that in an small attempt to clarify whether or not members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, “Mormons,” are Christian, I think about many of my neighbors and friends who are not Christians, but rather Jews, Muslims, Sikhs, Buddhists, etc.Many of these people are also very kind and generous. They give service whenever they can. They pray. They do things to strengthen their homes and families and the neighborhood. I don’t think it’s news to anyone that “Mormons” do not have a monopoly on “goodness.”Christians are not the only people with good, moral values.

So can we say that feeding the hungry is only worthwhile if a Christian is handing out the bread? Will a drink only quench thirst if offered by a Christian? Is clothing the naked only useful if a Christian gives the clothes? Would it be true that caring for the sick, the stranger, those imprisoned only counts if done by a Christian?

Goodness benefits everyone in society, no matter who offers it or who receives. Christ himself was no respecter of persons, meaning he loved all, no matter their religion, their culture, their spiritual status. Can we not do the same?"

I am determined, however, to take this latest misunderstanding and use it as an opportunity to re-commit myself to following my Savior, and stand as His witness at all times, in all things, and in all places. I want there to be no question in the way I live that I believe in Christ.

A Treasure of Inspiration

Inspiration

We had a lot of mixed emotions this month when we took my brother and his kids to the airport to fly out to their new home in Virginia.

Two years ago this week we moved out here to San Diego to be with them after my brother's wife passed away, having fought an amazingly valiant battle against cancer. There were many times I felt inadequate, wondering what I could possibly do to help my niece and nephews and brother. In the end, I think they helped us far more than we ever helped them. Not only did they help us have fun in our new home and make us feel welcomed and loved, but their example of strength and faith was unbelievably inspiring.

As I went through their empty house, just gathering the last minute bits and pieces to be packed or cleaned out, I came upon a treasure: quotes that my sister-in-law, Juli, had written and taped to her kitchen cabinets.

Now, to fully appreciate this find, you have to understand the kind of person Juli was. For nearly eight years she was sick, but you would never know this by being around her. She ALWAYS had a smile on her face and laughter in her heart. Every birthday brought a hand-made card she had designed and sent. We all have dinosaur bath towels she made for each of our babies when they were born. Her Christmas gifts were something she created with skill and love that we will treasure forever.

She was a brilliant, kind, gentle, wise, and loving wife and mother. And we NEVER saw her get angry--not at her children, not at her husband, not at her illness, not at God. NEVER. We often asked her how she did it. She'd just laugh and smile.

Well, I think I found one of her secrets, or at least her inspirations. And I'm going to share them! Here are some of the quotes I found:

"We seldom get into trouble when we speak softly. It is only when we raise our voices that the sparks fly and tiny molehills become great mountains of contention...The voice of heaven is a still small voice; likewise, the voice of domestic peace is a quiet voice." --President Gordon B. Hinckley

"The stroke of the whip maketh marks in the flesh; but the stroke of the tongue breaketh bones." --Ecclesiastes 28:17

"Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking be put away from you, with all malice;
And be ye kind to one another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you." --Ephesians 4:31-32

"Be constructive in your comments to a child--always.
Praise each child individually for what that child is.
Speak hopefully. Speak encouragingly." --Elder Jeffery R. Holland

Clearly these ideals guided her home life, as well as her husband's. Even when her body was so weak my brother had to gently carry her from place to place in his arms, she had great strength in her spirit and her words. She was ALWAYS positive, ALWAYS kind. Her strength lifted and inspired others. It was a privilege and joy to know her. We have missed her. And although we will miss her family now so far away from us, we are excited for them and their new adventure! Good luck (I said that with a pretty soft shout)!

John's long-lost brother Don

Separated at birth?

The Mystery of the Perry Monster

Where are Scooby and that gang of meddling kids? I have a very important mystery to solve:

WHY do people think Rick Perry would be an outstanding, incredible president (because that is certainly what we need right now)???? WHY?????

Everyone in the world knows what a huge mess our nation is in economically. But, guess what Rick Perry got for his grade in his Economics class at Texas A&M--go ahead--guess-- D! That's right, a D! D, as in dumb, ding-a-ling, disaster, disgusting. D.

Perry joked this week in an address to students at Liberty University, about his poor academic performance, and the C's and D's on his transcript. Well, The Huffington Post printed this copy of Rick Perry's Texas A & M transcript. Here it is:

I don't think that is much to joke about when you are running for President of the United States. When we have someone like Mitt Romney, with a law degree and an MBA both from Harvard, who has proven himself extremely smart and capable of turning around failing organizations, whether it was businesses, the Olympics, or Massachusettes, why are we even considering someone, at a critical time like this, like Rick Perry? It's a mystery.

Scooby Doo, where are you?

The Most Interesting man in the World

http://www.theatlantic.com/infocus/2011/09/vladimir-putin-action-man/100147/

(I'm technologically challenged, so I can't add this link. But I promise that if you go to the trouble to type this in and look up this site, you'll have the biggest laugh of your day!)

Why can't this guy be our president? I guess he's too busy being the most interesting man in the world!

Remembering September 12

For most of us September 11, 2001 is a date that changed our lives. But for my oldest son, the date that changed his four-year-old life was one week before—the day his “B” disappeared.

“B” was his little green security blanket. We had brought him home from the hospital wrapped in it, and he’d been attached to it ever since. Now it was gone.

We searched high and low, then re-searched again and again. He was certain someone had stolen “B”. We then began the search for the replacement. Nothing.

“I’ll never be able to go to sleep again,” he said and cried and cried. I cried too. I felt his anxiety as I imagined the sleepless nights. And perhaps even worse was the fact that in less than two weeks we would be getting on a plane and flying to our new home in London. I wasn’t sure either of us would make that nine hour flight without his “B.”

Just when I was losing hope, he pulled out his little, blue fleece jacket from the suitcase. “This smells like ‘B,’” he said. He wrapped a sleeve around his hand, pulled it across his face and fell asleep. He’d found security once again , and I’d found relief. At least temporarily.

On the one-week anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the United States my family got ready to begin our trans-Atlantic flight. I’ll admit I was more than just a little nervous. I don’t like to fly under the best conditions, but when passenger planes had just been used as weapons, I was feeling scared. It felt as if our nation’s security blanket had been taken, and we were still crying ourselves to sleep over it.

I put on a brave face. Next to me my son had his little blue jacket. He was set. I wished for a security blanket of my own. I watched him all comfortable in his seat, testing out his tray table. I just wanted to lean over and ask, “Can I borrow a sleeve?”

Now, ten years after “9/11,” it’s still difficult to think back to that terrible day. But the day I do like to remember is September 12. That was the day the healing began in full force. A blanket of hope was already wrapping our nation, woven with the threads of friendship and faith, of courage and kindness. Whether it was firefighters risking their lives or strangers passing out shoes and peanut butter sandwiches, we were bound together with the indomitable American spirit of strength and determination. That’s what makes us who we are.

We still stand now, not only the greatest nation on earth, but also the greatest hope for the world. I love this verse of our national anthem:

Then conquer we must

When our cause it is just

And this be our motto

“In God is our trust.”

May that spirit live on forever in America.

Homework and Zombies--Welcome to the New School Year!

First, a disclaimer--my daughter couldn't sleep last night, which, of course, means I couldn't sleep last night, and to make matters worse, our smoke alarm randomly went off not once, but twice in the middle of the night! So, if you were listening to this blog instead of reading it, you would hear that tired, whiny voice that I send my children upstairs to bed for using.

Now then, do any of you three who actually may glimpse at this blog occasionally have any advice whatsoever for helping a child remember to take their homework to school and turn it in????

And, yes, I realize my kids must learn to suffer the consequences for their actions, but when we've just spent the last 1700 days telling our Freshman how high school actually counts for something, and you have to perform well if you want to get into college, I still feel the necessity to bail him out on the second day of school. Hey, the government can do bail outs, so can I, right (of course, maybe they should have handled things differently, but there it is)?

Am I wrong? The only problem with that, then is the fact that since it is only the second day of school (and the kids just got their schedules the first day at school, so we parents didn't even see where their classrooms are--I think they do that on purpose--note to self: get a copy of his schedule and go locate his classes) I have no idea where my son is right now. When I got to the school they told me I was not allowed to go to the classroom without pre-arranging a visit with the teacher, so I could not take him his work myself (I even told them my plan to show up, embarrass him badly enough that he never forgets his work again--they didn't like my plan). So, I asked if they could give him his work. They said no. They could put it in a drawer for him to pick up at the office. So, I asked if they could send him a note to come pick it up. They said no. So, I asked how he was supposed to know it was there. They said I could text him. I said his phone was off--AS PER SCHOOL RULES NOT TO BE USING YOUR PHONE DURING SCHOOL HOURS! They said sorry. Sorry? (this was the point where my former, less diplomatic self would have ranted about parental rights at a public institution and would have made a break past the 102 pound 16-year-old manning the front desk and gone running from class to class calling my child's name until the 122 pound woman--not sure what her title is--driving the golf cart around locking the gates, ran me down)

I took a deep breath, smiled, and walked away (then I called my husband and cried out on the sidewalk--remember, sleep deprived).

Well, they are sorry, I'm sure. And I forgive them. Otherwise my frustration will fester and boil and bubble up until I write scathing e-mails and blogs and make angry phone calls and contact the school board, Congressman, President, and Jon Stewart. In fact, I not only forgive, but I thank them for bringing to my attention my need to have a back-up plan for emergencies. When the zombies and aliens invade our town, I need to know that my son will not be getting the message. So I better have an escape plan, a meeting place, and figure out where the biggest hole in the school fence is.

But until then--back to the question at hand--does anyone have any suggestions for getting a kid to turn in his homework on time?

Summer Time, Free Time, and Flying Potatoes

I find myself saying this a lot: "I don't know whether I should be proud or horrified!"

My wonderful 11-year-old created a potato cannon today. He tried to explain to me all about how he was going to do it, and I tried to follow and understand everything he said--I really did. I figured in theory it would work, but it wasn't until I heard a small explosion (similar to a very big pooof sound) and got a whiff of singed hair that I really realized it was more than just a theory--that cannon was fully functional!

He took apart a lighter, got a PVC pipe, some tape, a drill, and a bottle of hairspray, and voila! Next thing I see is a potato flying across the patio (I at least had the wherewithal to tell him to keep it outside, aim it toward the pool, not get too close to the fence where it might over-shoot and hit a car on the road below).

Is this a sign it's time to go back to school, when the summer-time inventions include flames and projectiles? Before he burns the neighborhood down (did I mention the death-ray he built earlier this summer)?

Start squelching that creative curiosity with text-books, schedules, and over-crowded classromms before it's too late--that's what I say. Oh, wait--this kid's home-schooled!

Enchanted Unicorns and Tiki Torches--Recipe for Sucess

You know when your five-year-old asks in her prayers that her magical enchanted unicorn birthday party will go exactly as she hopes, that she has something magnificent in mind. And that is serious pressure.

So, after trying, and failing, to get a picture of what she was envisioning for her gala event, I finally took her to Party City to see if they had what she wanted.

Hold everything! When we walked in the door the entire display of all things “Hawaiian luau” were swarming us.

“I know what I want!” she screamed—literally. “I’m going to have a Tiki party!”

Now, knowing the fickle mind of a young girl, I put off planning anything, figuring she would change her mind to the mystical pony or haunted castle or some other theme probably six times before the final party day. But she didn’t. Tiki party it was.

“What exactly is a Tiki party?” you might ask yourself. Well, so did I. I gathered real tikis we had collected from various vacations, had my sons design posters of tikis, got out the limbo stick and hula skirts, had straw hats and tiki torches—yeah, I was feeling rather proud of my efforts, even rivaling my sisters’ skills in party planning.

But, as it turned out, the real piece de resistance was simply a giant orange flower piñata.

So, when it came down to it, I think I could have thrown out a few dried snake skins and stinky gym socks, and she’d have been completely satisfied, as long as we had the fabulous piñata (of which, of course, I have no photos—picture the Mystery Machine’s floral decals, and you’ve pretty much got the piñata).

I should have known—friends, swinging a big stick, and loads and loads of candy make any party a success. Remind me of this next time I try to knock myself out trying to put together a birthday bash!