Leaving The Nest

Coolister is getting ready to move out next week.

I have mixed feelings about it, but I won't bore you with my crazy roller coaster of emotions.

As he was packing his life up into suitcases and boxes I came down to his room to check in on him. I started to tell him that some of the things he had packed into storage boxes were unnecessary things he wouldn't care about. (I was told recently that this is called Helicopter Mom Syndrome. I prefer to call it 'intervention with love' - but I'm trying to quit. Really.)

There were some plastic flags torn from the finish chute at various races (I'll put those in my running journal), notes and schedules from some classes in high school (I can pass those along to some friends who are taking those classes), plastic dollar store trophies won in contests (But don't you think they're funny, Mom?), an intricate snowflake cut from printer paper (My friend David mailed that to me. It is NOT going in the trash!) and so on.

At one point he showed me a letter and pointed out that it was a note I had written him. He mentioned that he could tell me all about what it said without even opening it up and that he kept things like that because they meant something to him. My heart softened a bit.

He pulled out a thank you card and told me it was one I left on his bed a few years back.

And then he pulled out the bottom drawer of his dresser, gathered something hidden beneath it into his arms and turned to show me this:

Every lunch bag I had given him during his sophomore year of high school.

You should make these into a book or something, Mom - these were the best jokes, ever!

Do you think I should have thrown these away?

Maybe not.

I realized in that moment that he and I have something in common. We are both overly sentimental and hang on to silly objects that hold happy memories for us.

My oldest boy, who I always see so much of his father in, has a part of me in there, too.

I left the room and let him finish packing.

On his own.

Sunday Letters

The 4 of us with Elder McDaniel in front of the house on Gramercy.

My Dear Aunt Bonnie,

I have been feeling nostalgic lately about my life as a child and many of my greatest memories come from the time we lived in your home with your family. I do not recall exactly how many years we lived there with you but it seems like there were so many memories packed into the short time we shared a home. I am not sure what order these memories actually occurred in, but here they are, nonetheless.

The first thing that comes to mind is your address – ever etched into my memory in a rhyming, sing-songy sort of way: 27-32, Gramercy Avenue.

On our flight from Des Moines to LAX I was filled with anticipation. An anxious, giddy, nervous, excitement for what we would find. I was certain that the airport would be filled with celebrities and that movies would be filmed on the street we would live on. Although neither of these were true, I was not disappointed. I remember that the first thing you asked my mom was how she was feeling and when she signed the word for 'tired' you asked if that meant that her bra straps had broken. I laughed right out loud and knew then that I was going to love being around you – you always made us laugh.

I remember that your house was surrounded by other houses with kids. Across the street there was one house with a tire swing and another with a tree house and next door there was a girl my age whose name was common but spelled in a unique way (was it Aimee?) and she had a playhouse in her backyard. We could walk in one direction and get to a grocery store where candy bars were 5 for $1 but I only ever had enough money to buy a pack of Sixlets for a dime. If we walked another way we could browse the Hello Kitty store where I loved to admire the pencil boxes but could only afford erasers and pencils. I loved that there was a park and our school (Torrance Elementary) within walking distance as well.

So many small recollections come to mind. Jami played us her My Turn On Earth record and Chip and I still have every song from that musical memorized. Dana introduced us to Dr. Demento and we still have a good number of those songs committed to memory as well – including the one she helped Chip and I write about our dog, Tiffany, that we left behind in Iowa when we made the move to California. I will never forget when a man, wanted for robbery or some such thing, had escaped into our neighborhood and was found in the shed in your backyard. I was scared to sleep on the couch by the front window after this happened so Dana and Jami let me sleep on the floor in their room. Once, when our families went to Denny’s for dinner, the waitress accidentally spilled a drink (it was either very hot or very cold) on you (or was it my mom?) and we all ate for free because of it.

I have so many crazy memories of Uncle Dick. Chocolate ice cream will put hair on your chest. Don’t swallow watermelon seeds or you’ll grow a whole one in your stomach. I always believed these things he would tell us. It took a good, long time for me to eat watermelon or chocolate ice cream again. I didn’t care for either one until I was well into my twenties – and chocolate ice cream is still a little iffy. I remember how Chip and I made Indian costumes from paper bags one Thanksgiving and Uncle Dick pretended not to recognize us all day long. We loved that.

Torrance Elementary was, by far, my favorite school of my childhood. I remember singing “Choosing” and “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” at the talent show. We went on field trips to Chinatown, Griffith Park Observatory, Olvera Street, the La Brea Tar Pits and the Queen Mary. I will never forget that my first friend at the school was a boy who tried to stump everyone with story riddles which he would share on the playground. No one ever knew the answers and thought he was quite clever until I came along. I quickly recognized these as mysteries from the Encyclopedia Brown series of books and could answer every one. I think he befriended me so I wouldn’t give away his secret.

I remember the day I was at school and thought I was experiencing my first California earthquake but it turned out I was just very, very sick and was sent to the hospital for quite some time. (My mom still doesn’t recall the exact reason why I was hospitalized, only that it had to do with my white blood cell count. So that is what I remember, too.) When I finally returned home my room was completely dust-free – even my stuffed animals had been washed.

My best memory of all was the day that the missionaries came to your house to find our family. (If I remember correctly, Jami had referred them to us while she was in the MTC.) Chip and I were playing out front and saw them coming to the door, signing to each other. They asked if our parents were home and that was the beginning of our family’s conversion to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We took the missionary discussions in your home and started attending the Deaf ward while living there, too. The missionaries taught us to pray and hold Family Home Evening there in your front room. We were eventually baptized and my life was changed from there. I remember realizing right away, as I came out of the water on my baptism day, that I was the same Gerberta yet also somehow completely different.

I remember returning to Gramercy Avenue as a teenager, wanting to show some friends the place where I first lived when we moved to California, and feeling almost empty when I saw that the house was no longer there but had been replaced by condos or townhouses or some such thing. I felt like something had been taken from me without my permission – but eventually I realized that the memories are what we carry with us. The memories are what matter.

At the time, as a child, I did not give much thought to the sacrifice involved when your family opened up your home for our family to come and live there with you. However, now I understand that it could not have been an easy thing to do. I want you to know how much I appreciate what you did for our family then – taking us in when times were difficult, giving dad a job when he could find none in Iowa. Thank you for loving us and welcoming us and making us feel at home.

Your family and your home will forever remain in my mind as a place filled with happiness and love. I will forever be grateful to you and your family for the years that we shared on Gramercy Avenue.

Much love,

Gerberta

My Heart Is Heavy

photo from pbase.com

I feel like I am about to write an obituary.

Really, it is just a building. However, it is a building which for many, myself included, holds many memories as well as a rich history.

This morning Allen showed me the breaking news story on KSL which told of the demise of our historic Provo Tabernacle. It was up in flames, smoke billowing from the collapsed roof and broken windows.

photo taken from the mayor's blog

Just a building? I suppose. It's the building where Allen and I went to a few Sunday firesides when we were dating. It's the place where we have attended almost every Stake Conference we've been to in our married life. My kids have been honored and received awards in assemblies held in this place. Some of them have even performed there. I have been uplifted and inspired while inside. My kids have played on the spiral staircases within the four corner towers. The architecture of this building was incredible. Every time we sat inside its walls we marveled over the intricate woodwork and beautiful stained glass windows.

These memories are not only mine- they have been the same memories of others who have lived in Provo and been a part of all of the same things I have mentioned. The same meetings, firesides and assemblies have been held here for years. This structure has been a part of our community and our lives since the late 1800's. It is one of the oldest buildings in the state.

All of that is gone now. All that remains is an empty outside shell. All that the walls contained is destroyed.

As I drove Thumbelina to school this morning I passed our Provo Tabernacle. Smoke still poured from every available opening as firefighters continued to douse the building with water. It was a heartbreaking sight.

The cause of the fire is still unknown.

How does one describe the feelings associated with the demise of a structure? Words fail me. It was more than just a building, it was a part of our community. It will be a sad thing to drive past this corner of our city and see only the walls remaining.

Today is a sad day for Provo.

It's About Time

As school has been quickly approaching my kids have expressed their anticipation to return. "You'll just be wishing for vacation days once you're back in school," I reminded them. One child responded with these words: "Well, summer hasn't been that great because you never let us do things with our friends. At least when we're at school we get to see them everyday."

Ouch.

It is not true, by the way, that I never let them do things with their friends. I will be the first to admit that I am a bit more protective than most parents, but I try to be sure that my kids have plenty of friend time intermingled with their family time. They are already running around enough as it is with Cross Country practices (sometimes twice a day), Scouts and church activities, piano lessons, appointments, etc. We are not all at home together as a family often enough.

Here's the way I figure it, though. I only get my kids for their first 18 years. That's nothing! Do you know how quickly we went from this:
to this?
It was like a blink! This month we will celebrate our 18th wedding anniversary - but I can still distinctly remember picking out that awesome peach dress with the big shoulder pads and lace collar for our first professional photo together. Time flies!

So I blink, and 18 years have passed. Then, one by one, we lose the kids to college, roommates, jobs, missions... and even eventually to their own marriages and families. Maybe lose isn't the right word. I do look forward to these landmark moments but recognize that they will have their own lives at this point - they will make decisions without needing my approval. They will take care of themselves and no longer be dependent on me for life's necessities. I do look forward to this aspect of their independence... but at the same time I do not look forward to it. My heart is torn when I think of their futures. More specifically, their futures without me, their mother.

Why can I not pull this jumble of thoughts from my head and form them into coherent sentences!?

What I'm trying to say in all of this rambling is that I want my kids around as much as I can keep them here while they're still under our roof. 18 years is such a short time! They are going to be living with Allen and I for probably less than 1/4 of their lives. Why does that seem so unfair to me? I want to build an abundance of memories and share plenty of laughter. I want us to dance and sing together. I want to teach them the value of service and the skills they will need in their individual futures. I want to bake them their favorite treats, cook up the meals that they love and talk about what they have learned in the books they are reading. I want them to have gospel knowledge and strong, unwavering testimonies. I want to help them gain a love for arts and cultures and nature. I want to teach them to be self-confident and kind.

I want our home to be a place where they will long to return once they have ventured out on their own.

How can I do these things, create this bond, if they are away with friends all of the time? Perhaps I am selfish. Perhaps things will be different once some of my younger kids are the oldest still at home. I don't know. What I do know is this:

I love my family. I love having my children here at home with me. I love spending time together, creating happy memories. All I can do is hope that, once they have left the nest, they will see the value in my possessiveness. When it comes their time to go, I hope they will fly away with confidence and knowledge and kind hearts. I hope they will come to their father and I for advice and encouragement and laughter and love.

In the here and now I hope they don't resent me too much for trying to keep them around as much as possible while I can.

And in the future I hope that they will all choose to remain close to our family while doing the same for their own kids.

Memorial Day

I went to the cemetery with my mom yesterday to go visit my dad's little spot of ground. We brought along some of the younger kids and enjoyed just watching the other visitors as they came and went while we sat there at dad's grave.

Hubba was with us and he quickly recognized the name on the gravestone as his own (he is named after my dad and has been learning to write his name). "Hey, that's MY name!" he pointed out. "Yes, Hubba," I told him, "remember how I told you that you are named after my dad? This is his grave."

Hubba has heard stories about my dad many times. He knows that he died. We have brought him to the cemetery before. But apparently this time he was old enough for it to all sink in. "Grandpa Hubba died? That makes me so sad," he remarked. And then as he looked around at the cemetery, he started to cry. "All of these people died? All of the graves are for people who died? Why did so many people have to die?"

So there I sat, amidst the coming and going of so many other people who were there to visit the final resting place of their loved ones, trying to explain the inevitability, pain, unexpectedness... but also hope in death to my tender-hearted 5-year-old boy. I told him how it was amazing that he even took on the characteristics of my dad as a little boy - the white-blonde hair and spunky personality. I ended by telling him that I named him after my dad because I loved my dad so much and I wanted to be able to remember him every day. How every time I say Hubba's name or look at him it makes me happy.

Hubba wiped his eyes on his sleeve and gave me a hug. "Does it make Grandma happy, too, to see me when she misses Grandpa?" I assured him that it did.

As we stood to leave, Hubba grabbed my mom's hand to walk to the car. He looked up at her and said, "I love you, Grandma." She smiled and squeezed his hand, a way she and my dad used to communicate their love for each other. I couldn't help but be filled with emotion when I saw the two of them walking hand-in-hand.

I like to think that Dad was pleased, too.

Youth Dances: Then and Now

(photo from primarytimes.net)

Allen and I were asked to help chaperone a youth dance for our church last Saturday.

Can you say: awesome?

First off, I will admit that it has been nearly 2 decades since I have attended one of these functions as a youth. Since that time, the dances have seen their share of changes. These are my observations...

THEN: Popular radio DJs were hired to play the latest dance music and a small fee of $2-$3 was charged to cover the bill.

NOW: A local church member was hired to play the latest 'jump' music (more on that later) and admission is always free.

THEN: Chairs lined the walls of the gym and girls sat in groups, waiting (hoping) to be asked to dance to every song - slow OR fast. Occasionally there would be a group of brave girls who would dance together during the fast songs or a crazy girl (me) who would tear up the dance floor all alone if 'Dancing With Myself' was played.

NOW: No chairs. The teenagers are all either dancing or standing around in groups on the dance floor. If dancing to fast music, for the most part boys are dancing with boys and girls are dancing with girls. If dancing to slow music, boys are dancing with girls - but sometimes girls are goofily dancing with girls, too. When approached and asked whattheheck? I was told, "Boys are stupid." (Translation: WE LOVE BOYS!! But they didn't ask us to dance so we're doing this to get some attention. Kind of like that crazy girl who danced by herself when I was a kid.)

THEN: Everyone used the same dance moves for fast songs: either Rowing The Boat or the even more popular Step, Touch, Head-Bob. Occasionally we were graced with The Sprinkler or a breakdancing dance-off.

NOW: There is one dance. It is called jumping. If you are a more advanced dancer, it will include a bit of arm-flailing or fist-pumping. At one point, however, a wide circle was formed and there was something similar to the dance-offs from back in my day.



I would like to add that I loved being at a dance where my teenage kids were. It was such a blast to observe them from the sidelines and just fall in love with them all over again. They have some great friends and they all know how to have fun.

I would say that my proudest moment of the night was when Thriller was played and Coolister led the group in the Thriller Dance that he and his friends concocted and practiced until they had it down. My friend ~j. was there chaperoning as well and I think I told her no less than 10 times how much I loved watching my oldest boy do that Thriller dance. (Thanks for letting me gush, ~j.)

Another happy moment was when I finally found ElemenoB (it seems as if I was searching all night!) and wowed her group of friends with my amazing dance moves. She had asked me earlier that night to 'please not come dance near me' but because I am fluent in teenager language I knew this meant 'please come and dance near me so my friends can see what awesome moves you've got' and I did not want to disappoint.

My conclusion? I am totally available to chaperone these dances whenever needed.

Or even if not needed.

Until then, I'll be practicing the Jump-Dance and teaching my kids The Sprinkler. You know, bridging the gap and all of that.





Want to read more about it? Go see what ~j. had to say.

Nobody Wins

photo from heroworkshop.com

Haddas.

I didn't remember her name until a few days ago when something triggered the memory of a day in the 6th grade that had long been pushed into the farthest recesses of my mind. I went to my old yearbooks and found her there, frozen in time. As the details simmered about in my mind and certain specifics began to rise to the surface, I could vividly recall how each of my senses played a role. I could feel the fear, the uneasy rhythm of my breathing. I could almost even hear the squeak of my blue Kangaroo sneakers on the wet pavement.

I'm not sure who put her up to it. All I remember was that some of the so-called "popular" girls had decided to instigate a fight after school. Someone told Haddas that I had been making fun of her accent or her clothing or some such lie and convinced her that a sound beating in the ball fields after school was the only way to resolve it.

A small group of girls found me in my quiet corner during lunch, my own hidden place behind the Resource Center where I would sit and read by myself. I will never forget the words I heard which caused me to jerk my head up and wonder why these girls would come to find me.

"You better look out after school, Helicopter Head," they taunted me, using the cruel nickname they had gifted me on the first day of school because of the braided ponytails I had been so proud of. I will never forget the exact words which were spoken just then... "Haddas is going to wail on you for bagging on her." Stupid, silly sixth-grade words that have remained etched in my memory. They snickered as they turned and left me there, paralyzed.

I had never been in a fight before. I had often heard the whispers among kids throughout the day of a fight that would take place or the chanting of "fight, fight, fight..." on the playground as one erupted during recess but I had never imagined myself in such a predicament. I lived to be invisible. I kept to myself whenever possible. How had this happened?

By the time the school bell signaled the end of the day, I had formulated a plan. Rather than walking my usual route home through the baseball fields I was going to take a longer route, one which kept me in neighborhoods with plenty of homes, where traffic was busy. I stayed in my classroom as long as possible and then made my way towards the front of the school.

To my dismay, it had started to rain. People would not be out in their yards today.

Still, avoiding the fields seemed to be the best plan. I held on to the hope that the drizzle from the heavens had deterred the crowd from waiting for me to show up as I made my way through the neighborhoods, silently praying that all would be well.

I was rounding the corner just a half block from the middle school campus when I first heard the footsteps from behind me. They were deliberate, coming faster, and I knew almost immediately that I had been followed in my attempted escape.

My tormentors corralled me back around the block, into the waiting crowd. A wide circle was formed around Haddas and myself and I noticed something in her eyes that was familiar... fear. "I don't want to fight you," I told her. Everyone laughed as if I had just made a joke. For a moment I thought that she might agree with me, call the whole thing off and let me leave. But instead, she stepped forward and pushed me to the wet grass.

I started to silently cry, knowing I could not escape my fate. "Get up!" the crowd yelled at me, but I continued to sit as I tried to gain some composure. I was already an outcast in the eyes of those gathered here, I could not bear the thought of being known as a crybaby as well.

"Get up!" the crowd chanted as I looked to Haddas. Her eyes still reflected fear. I decided then that my best option at this point was to run. I grabbed my backpack and quickly turned just as someone shoved her toward me. We both fell, face forward. The crowd cheered, but I jumped to my feet and ran.

My legs carried me past the fields, through the chain link fence that surrounded the school and almost to a safe haven behind a cinder block wall before they gave out on me. I collapsed to the ground beside a parked car as great, heaving sobs escaped me. Why were they doing this? What pleasure was there in forcing two frightened social outcasts to come to blows with each other? I did not understand and was not sure I wanted to. I only knew that it was terribly wrong for anyone to have to endure the anguish and torment brought on by bullies.

When my sobs had ceased, I wiped the tears from my face and stood to make my way home.

I dreaded going to school the next day. I fretted and worried all night about what would happen when I returned to this place I was quickly learning to loathe. I debated faking sick but knew that would only buy me a day, maybe two. I determined that the best thing to do would be to follow my normal routine and do my best to remain invisible.

I tentatively walked towards my middle school that morning, alone as usual, and frightened. I remember how I had dressed myself in neutral colors that day, hoping to blend in with the walls and be unnoticed. At first, I thought it was working. But eventually I realized that the fact of the matter was that no one cared. The excitement was over, the whole thing was forgotten; it was almost as if it had never happened.

But I didn't forget. I will never forget.

I remember how those same girls mocked me years earlier when I had been so excited to wear my brand new, homemade clothes to school and again when I wore my shiny black church shoes because my tennis shoes no longer fit.

I remember every time they threw my lunch onto the roof of the school and laughed as they dared me to tattletale to a teacher about it.

I remember being reluctantly chosen last for every kickball game played during P.E., being banished from four-square and jump rope and a turn on the swings at recess.

I remember being followed and mocked as I walked home from school and every pebble thrown at my backpack.

I remember changing the way I dressed, the route I walked to school, even my posture - all in an attempt to make myself less noticeable to these kids who sought out targets for their cruel words.

I remember how excruciating it was to endure such intimidation and loneliness.

I may have forced the memories of this part of my childhood into places which are far-reaching, but I haven't forgotten.

I remember every name of every bully, every malicious word spoken and cruel action targeted towards me.

I like to think that I am a more kind-hearted, sensitive and loving person because of all I was made to endure. I am doing my best to raise kids who have the self-confidence to avoid being prey for bullies but also the courage to look out for and befriend those who are not so fortunate.

As I come to the part where I attempt to draw a conclusion with this post, I'm not sure what to say or what point I'm trying to make. However, it has been good to work through the memories and release them from the place I've kept them locked up for so long.

In my adult life I am saddened to see that bullying continues. Sometimes it is in the form of power over another, sometimes it is evident in the cliques which, despite my advancing age, still exist and exclude others, but most often I see bullying in the words people choose to use as weapons against another. Words are not as innocent as people may think. They are powerful.

In one final attempt at closure, I would like to add something for all of my childhood bullies who will never read this and never care...

I don't know what you may have endured or why you gained such pleasure from the anguish you put me through. I hope you look back on your childhood with regret towards your actions - but regardless of any of that... I can honestly say that I forgive you.

But I will never, ever forget.

Spreading Sunshine

Friday was the 9th anniversary of the day my dad died. Rather than mourning this profound loss, I chose to celebrate his life by spreading sunshine all week long. You can read more about that here.

Friday was the big finale. Dad loved ice cream so I arranged to have our local grocery store print off some coupons for free soft-serve ice cream that I could purchase and then share with others. I must admit, I was a bit disappointed in the look of these. I guess I had pictured something with a bit more pizazz than this:


So I decided to spice them up a bit.


I found a template for some pockets and got to work cutting out & gluing together little pouches to deliver my coupons in.


I added messages to the front of each one and then plastered them in unexpected places all over our city.












I have no idea who got any of these coupons or if any of them will even be used, but the simple hope that it would make someone smile to enjoy one of my dad's favorite treats was worth every effort.

Happy Thanksgiving

Can you spot the girls in this picture?
(The Royce kids, circa 1979)

I will never forget the anticipation of Thanksgiving as a child. For us, it was almost as exciting as Christmas.

We lived much too far from most of our relatives on both sides of the family, but Aunt Jan lived close enough that we would occasionally make the long journey to her house. The six of us would pile into our little Volkswagen Bug with an ice chest full of sandwiches at mom's feet and off we'd go.

My favorite part was always being able to sit, knee-to-knee, with my younger brother in what we called the 'very back' seat. We felt bad for our older siblings who had to share the roomier seat in front of us. Funny thing is, they never seemed to complain.

We would pass the time trying to be the first to spot a certain letter of the alphabet or license plate, guessing how many miles we had remaining before reaching our destination and doing our best to annoy our older siblings in as innocent a fashion as possible. Our arms would be sore from playing Slug-Bug and our throats would be raw from the stifled laughter produced by inside jokes. We'd sing the songs learned from Sesame Street and The Electric Company as well as theme songs and commercial jingles.

For me, getting there was half the fun.

Once we arrived at Aunt Jan's place we'd stretch our cramped legs, run around like wild Indians for a bit and then immediately look for Aunt Jan's dog, Toby. I always got some secret delight from the fact that this little poodle shared a name with my oldest brother. Poor Toby (the dog, not the brother) would usually be cowering in the corner beneath the couch, not looking forward to our visit. Aunt Jan would have him all dressed up in a striped sweater and finally he'd come crawling out, resigning himself to his fate over the next few days.

I don't recall any specific dishes that were prepared but I do remember that mom and Aunt Jan would spend hours in the kitchen preparing our feast while we played outside in her yard. When we were called in to eat the aroma of turkey and stuffing blended with potatoes and hot rolls was intoxicating. I also remember there being such an exorbitant amount of food covering the table that I'd wonder whether we would be able to actually sit around it.

Well, times have certainly changed, but most things remain the same. We now occasionally cram our family of 11 into our suburban with an ice chest full of snacks to enjoy on long trips. Our kids sit in the back and sing songs, play traveling games and try to annoy their siblings in a way that allows them to feign innocence. When we reach our destination we all pile out and enjoy the freedom from the car's confinement. There is still too much food and plenty of visiting... but no Toby in his striped sweater (the dog, not the brother).

Memories, road trips, family, good times, food, laughter...

There is much to be thankful for - and not only at Thanksgiving.

Bedtime Songs

I do not sing to my children often enough anymore.

Last night as I went downstairs to silence the bedtime rabble-rousing, Hubba made the request. "Mom? Can you sing me a song?"

"Which one?" I asked.

"Angel song," he answered without hesitation. This song, actually called Angel Lullaby, is one I have sung to every child in their infancy. It is one I learned as a child and have loved ever since.

I began to sing and Hubba stopped me. "Can you please look at my eyeballs like you're singing it just for me?" he asked. I smiled, looked into those wide-open, inquiring eyes and was immediately struck with the idea that this would not last. That these kids of mine are growing up much too fast and that I needed to make more time for things like this - simple things like singing a song to them at bedtime.

I felt an urgency to create as many memories as possible in the short amount of time I have with these kids while they are still in our home - to create a bond that would bring them back home to visit once they no longer lived here.

For a moment, I could not sing. I could only enjoy the warm feeling that seemed to permeate my heart - a simple yet profound gift to me wrapped in melancholy - a reminder to enjoy every minute with my kids while they're here with us in our home.

So, I looked into those beautiful blue eyes of his and began to sing the Angel Song, just for Hubba. When I finished, he gave me a little smile and quietly muttered, "Fanks, mom." Be still my heart.

I started to leave when Cowgirl made her request. "Can you sing Be Like A Child?" Another favorite.

I sang. And then All-a-Boy asked for a song as well. I even heard Coolister crack his bedroom door open. Was it so that he could once again listen to the songs he heard so often when he was younger? I like to believe so.

Upon finishing my last melody I stood to leave the room. All was silent. I took a moment to look at each sleeping (or almost sleeping) child and offered silent thanks that I am blessed with so many amazing little (and some not so little) people to share my home and life with.

Today, I am thankful for the chance I was given to remember that each moment (and each child) is a precious gift. I am thankful that they teach me so much. And although my dreams of performing on Broadway stages were never realized, I am thankful for the captivated audience I have at bedtime.

I am thankful for the song of my heart.

Reflections of November

Today I pulled out my old journals and was rifling through them, enjoying some memories and cringing at others. Here are a few excerpts from this very month over the years...

November 1980
"I have a very nice substitute teacher who seems to notice me. I like being at school when she is my teacher."

November 1981
"I am happy because it is raining and I love the smell and sight of it."

November 1985
"I am starting to wear a thing called a head-gear. When I wear it I look like a nerd and mom even says I have to wear it to school. She says I look fine in it so I think she must have problems with her eyes because everyone can see that it makes me look like a dork. I only wear it until I cross the street in the mornings and then put it in my backpack until I get home after school. That way we are both happy."

November 1986
"I feel like a total loser. You know why? Because I am one." (Ah, those wonderful teenage years!)

November 1987
"Being 15 years old is the worst. I bet there is no one in the whole history of the universe who liked being 15 years old except for maybe Ricky Schroeder."

November 1988
"Trish and I took a bunch of pictures today. I hope they turn out good 'cuz it's expensive black and white film and the developing costs like $11.00. We went to the dance in P.V. and they played Def Leppard! Trish asked me, "How is anyone supposed to dance to this?" So I showed her some of my headbanger moves. She was embarrassed but I had a lot of fun. Def Leppard's music is amazing and they make me wish I could play the guitar."

November 1989
"I spent the entire day at the kick-back cliffs with friends today. We brought a picnic and just talked about everything imaginable. When it started to get close to dark almost everyone left but I stayed to watch the sunset. I can't believe they were all right there with prime seats for the sun's big finale and they missed their chance. I sat beneath my favorite tree and stayed until there was not one flicker of light remaining. It was an amazing show."

November 1990
"I can never get enough of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Cherry Garcia and Chunky Monkey would have to be among my two favorites. I go into the shop so often that the workers know me by name. Whenever I walk in they yell out, 'Gerby! What's it gonna be?'"

November 1991
"Today I certified as a Level 2 Interpreter for the Deaf. That means I'm up to $10/hour! Not even half of what I made in California a year ago, but I'll take it. You know what I miss most about California, though? Weather that makes sense. Around here it changes about every two minutes: from a clear, cloudless day to dark, stormy skies with a promise of rain or snow. And, for the record, I'll almost always take the rain over anything else."

November 1997
"Today Coolister (age 4) asked, "Mom, why does God put mistakes in our skin?" I asked if he was talking about things like birthmarks but he said, "No, I mean mistakes INSIDE our skin - in our bodies. Like when you want to hit someone or take a fish out of a fishbowl." I started to explain free agency to him but he stopped me and said, "Wait, I know this already. Because there's always good and bad, but WE have to choose." He is such a smarty pants."

(I had to add another one from 1997...)
"Coolister, in his most serious manner, told me today that when he grows up he wants to be a farmer, a cowboy or a doctor. He then asked, "Which is better?" I told him he could be anything he wanted so he asked, "Could I be ALL three?" I told him that he can do anything he sets his mind to. ElemenoB (age 3) had been listening in on the whole conversation and piped in with this: "I just want to be a dog when I get big. A little one." I guess it's a step up from her just wanting to be pretty when she grows up!"

November 1998
"I want to be someone who brings light into dark places. I'm not sure how to go about doing this exactly, but it is something I feel passionate about today."


Any other entries are still a bit too recent to be included... but if you come back in another 10 years or so I may have some new material to share.

( Today I am thankful that I kept journals in my younger years - even though I often debate creating a bonfire with them.)

Forever Is A Mighty Long Time

Some days I miss my dad a lot.

Some days, for no particular reason, I will have him on my mind all day long.

Other days something will trigger that place in my brain where all of my 'dad-memories' are stored.

In either case there is nothing much to do about it... except to remember.

When you lose someone you love to death, there is no describing the range of emotions experienced. I'm not sure I can speak for anyone else, but for me it has not gotten any easier as the years have passed. There will always be that void that only a father can fill. I will always love him and miss his physical presence in my life.

On days where I am particularly besieged with these thoughts and memories, I like to go visit his grave. There is some solace in being able to just sit there and sign to him, tell him my thoughts and feelings, disappointments and dreams. I am sure I appear to be something of a mad-woman, hands waving about in rushed thought and frenzied words as I sit at his graveside there in the cemetery, but it is my way of working through things.

When I have these days, I talk and cry and laugh and even scream until I have said my piece. And when I am done, I look down at his grave and see this:
And I am comforted. I find peace. I am so thankful to know that I will see him again someday.

I am thankful for the knowledge that death is only a temporary situation.

I am thankful that my family is a forever family.

Longing For Home

(That's me at my dad's knee. They called me the milkman's daughter.)

I watched parts of the movie Tarzan with my littlest kids today. I didn't intend to but I found myself strangely entranced. (I need to get out more, I know.) I wasn't sure what it was about the movie that caught my attention and had me transfixed until it came to the segment where the background music is the song "Strangers Like Me" by Phil Collins. That was when I realized what was so fascinating about it all: I am Tarzan, someone who is stuck between two worlds.

Most of you who read here know that I come from a family where both parents were Deaf. I was raised in what is known as 'Deaf culture', a whole separate world from the world of those who can hear. And I LOVED it. For me, this largely unknown Deaf world has always been the place where I feel most at home and this movie somehow got me feeling homesick again.

Words truly escape me when attempting to describe the love I have for the world of the Deaf. The people, the culture, the language... these are all ingrained in me. I embrace them and sometimes fear I will lose them completely. I never want that to happen - it would be like losing a part of my soul.

In my moments of greatest emotion the most frustrating thing remains to be the fact that I can not express myself in spoken words as well as I can in sign language. The difficult part is that the English language often does not translate the passion and depth of meaning behind the words in sign. This is why I love words. The more words I know, the more I have in my arsenal when trying to accurately express myself.

And the more I am able to integrate myself into this world of the hearing which still often feels like a new pair of shoes that are not quite broken in yet.

Embarrassment + Time = Comedy

It all started in my friend Holly's living room.

I had gone to her apartment to hang out, and there he was... her brother, Ted. He was laying on the couch, watching TV, as Holly and I went about our business. The fact is (and I am not proud of this), at the time I was pretty much infatuated with anyone who was male and paid any attention to me at all. I noticed Ted was watching us... and that was all the encouragement I needed.

In those awkward teenage years there was one thing I knew for certain: guys liked funny girls. And so I tried to think of something witty to say. Nothing was coming to me. Ted was still watching.

As Holly was talking to me I looked around and found a small, plastic object sitting on the counter. Its shape was such that it made me think of a walkie-talkie. I grabbed it and pulled it to my mouth, responding to Holly's dialogue with, "That's a big 10-4, good buddy." Holly laughed. I was clever! Hilarious! Witty!

I stole a sideways glance at Ted. He was still watching me, his eyes open wide. Yes, I thought. I have his attention. Before we know it, he'll be asking me to prom.

"Over and out!" I spoke into the plastic, holey walkie-talkie. Ted sat up. He was going to talk to me! Holly just kept laughing.

"Um, Gerb..." he started, obviously uncomfortable. "That's my cup."

"What? This thing?" I asked, inspecting it from all angles. "With all these holes, it must not hold much water!" I retorted, tipping the 'cup' to my mouth as I pretended to drink from it.

"No... I mean, it's my cup," he answered, looking slightly disgusted. "Not like a drinking kind of cup."

"There is no way this thing is a cup," I answered, smiling at him demurely as I batted my eyelashes in his direction.

Ted looked to Holly for assistance. She was trying hard not to wet herself. He continued, painfully. "You know how I play football? Well... that's my athletic cup," he explained, motioning toward his nether-region with a cupped hand.

Oh. His cup. That cup. I am sure I turned 37 shades of red. I quickly set it back down and tried to play it cool. But honestly, how do you recover from that?


Oh, in case you were wondering- he never asked me to prom. I think he was the kind of guy who liked cheerleaders, not funny girls.

Sticks and Stones

Yesterday my two oldest girls were telling me about an incident at their middle school. Apparently a group of kids decided to bully one of the school janitors who has some disabilities. There was a schoolwide announcement made that the bullies could turn themselves in and receive a lesser punishment or wait to be discovered by the school and be dealt with more severely.

I hate hearing stories like this. I much prefer living in my little bubble where I believe that the world is good and people with disabilities are treated with love and respect.

Part of my anger upon hearing of the school incident stems from the fact that I have a tender spot for those with disabilities. You probably don't know that if I had graduated from college my degree would have enabled me to be a teacher in a special needs classroom.

But the deepest, darkest part of that anger is derived from my own days at school where I was the target of bullies. These are times I still prefer not to speak of - the feelings and emotions they dredge up are still tender and difficult. Because of this I do not and will not tolerate bullies.

You know the old saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me"? Rubbish.

I prefer physical pain. Physical pain is tangible. Physical pain can be soothed or fixed. Throw a stone at me. Hit me with a stick. It will hurt for a while but the pain will eventually go away.

Not so with the emotional heartache and pain that come from name-calling and teasing. This is intimidation and endless torment. This is anguish in its purest form. This is the power of words.

Because of what I was forced to endure throughout elementary and middle school I have developed what I call 'super empathy'. I can not see or hear of an injustice such as the incident at my girls' school and not want to do something about it, yet I often feel powerless to do so. Which brings about this question: what can I do, really?

I can persuade. I can educate. As difficult as it may be, I can share my own stories and hope they make a positive impact. I can raise my own children to seek out those who could use a friend- to understand that those who are labeled as 'different' are really very much the same as anyone else and deserve to be treated as such.

As the saying goes, I can be the change I wish to see in the world.

And I can work on that every day... and hope it makes a difference.

Make New Friends And Keep The Old

(Photo stolen from Pam's Facebook page)

Last night my brother and I were able to meet up with an old friend who was in Salt Lake City on business.

When I told Allen that I was going to have dinner with her, he asked, "Who?"

I told him her name may sound familiar because when I am reminiscing over my high school days I will often mention how Pam always got the parts I auditioned for. The parts I wanted. We were in drama and choir together. We never really hung out but we shared a lot of the same interests.

He remembered. And I went.

I went mostly because I am a grown-up now (okay, I pretend) and I enjoy catching up with people from my past. Also, I am now much more mature (pretending again) and do not harbor any ill feelings towards the teenage girl who could out-perform me.

Our visit was delightful. I learned all about what Pam is doing these days along with what she has been up to since our graduation back in 1990.

We talked about schools, jobs, life events, other friends, how stalking is totally underrated...

And here is what I realized.

There are so many great things we can miss out on in life when we keep our vision of others so narrow. When we base our perceptions of people on a limited amount of information we are depriving ourselves of the chance to broaden our circles of friendship.

Last night I realized that I missed out on something great in high school. I can't go back and change that. I can't undo the feelings I harbored towards someone I never really gave myself the chance to become acquainted with.

I also realized that it is never too late to start over.

Pam, it was so wonderful to "meet" you again.

Time Keeps On Slipping

Look at what my baby can do. He is walking! And because he is such a cute little smarty pants, he has also mastered the ever-tricky stair descent.

He's not so much a baby anymore. (sigh.)

I look at my littlest boy and am amazed at his ability to turn a corner, walk into another room, and upon his return have become even more adorable, more smart and silly and handsome, more endeared to my heart.

I do not want my baby to grow up.

Sure, I am excited for him to stop biting my leg whenever he gets close enough. And I think it will be great when he can feed himself and stop wearing diapers. But I do not want to forget the sound of his incessant baby-babbling chatter. Or the look of his 6-toothed grin... or the way he resembles Frankenstein when he walks. I want to remember the feel of his soft baby skin, the rolls of his Michelin-Man legs. The smell of his breath when he comes in for a slobbery kiss. The way my heart-strings are tugged every time he snuggles in to my shoulder and begins to suck his thumb.

I know I will blink and he'll be in kindergarten. In middle school. In high school.

Walking. Running. Driving.

Ready or not...my sweet baby boy is now my toddler.

I am going to do my best to bask in every moment.