"Like" the teacher's FB page, and stay on top of homework!

Here is our Seth, who began 8th grade two weeks ago. From what I can tell, his school year is off to a fantastic start. Several times in the past two weeks, he has mentioned to me his personal goal to finish the academic year with a straight 4.0 GPA, all three terms. Now generally speaking, I'm fairly opposed to the worship of the "Almighty A." When each of our four older kids entered high school, I was always relieved to see that first "B." It took the pressure off. Minus the stress of maintaining the 4.0, students are free to focus on learning rather than on grades. And that's a good thing. However, with Seth this year, I think this goal is reasonable, especially in light of the fact that last year, he only missed it because of a homeroom-type class that required students to fill out planners. And Seth, with all the disdain a 7th grader can muster, declared in no uncertain terms that "planners are a waste of time and space." You can read about all that here if you like; suffice it to say that he didn't fill out the planner, and the result was an "F" in the homeroom class, seriously damaging his otherwise flawless GPA.

Planners are not required this year. I don't know whether that's because he's in 8th grade or because the school, in general, has changed its requirement, but it's very good news for Seth. And he has decided he wants a perfect grade point average. Tonight he and I ate dinner at Panda Express, one of his favorite restaurants. As we enjoyed our orange chicken (Seth) and black pepper chicken (me), he talked to me about how he intends to make sure every single grade, all year long, is an A. And I have to admit I was shocked. Not in a bad way, mind you, but shocked nevertheless. I expected to hear such strategies as getting every assignment in every class completed and handed in on time (though he pretty much already does this). Or making sure to study for tests. Or doing any extra credit that's available. Or going to the teacher for additional help if there's something he doesn't understand. These are the strategies I would have used when I was in middle school, and it wasn't that long ago.

But no. None of those obvious strategies made Seth's list. Instead, he talked to me about various technological tools he will use. First, he will log into his Skyward account every couple of days. There he can access his grades in every class, his total percentages, and check on any possible missing assignments. Next, he will "like" his teachers' Facebook pages (not their personal walls, but pages created expressly for their students) where he can see assignments, due dates, upcoming tests and quizzes, etc. And just as he was explaining all this to me, he received a text message on his phone. It was his science teacher who had this to say: "A reminder that Using Properties to Classify Matter (blue) is homework if you didn't finish it! Should be quick homework so you can enjoy your weekend." What?? Yes, indeed, he gave his teacher his cell number, and now she will send texts such as this reminding him about various assignments. How totally cool is that?

Can I just say I am impressed. So good luck, Seth, in this endeavor. You are off to a good start, it seems. And may I add just one suggestion to help? It also involves technology. Maybe consider spending fewer hours playing video-games? Good idea, huh?

Love you, Seth!

But what about the missionary parents?

Mis-sion-ar-y (n.) Someone who leaves his family for two years so that others may be with their families for eternity.

 But what about the parents? The ones he leaves behind?

What do you get when you put nearly 20 missionary parents together at the same time in a relatively small space? We found out yesterday afternoon, as parents of missionaries serving in the Arkansas Little Rock Mission of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints gathered in Lehi, UT. We come from different families, different backgrounds, different traditions, even different states. But we have this one thing that unites us: Each of us has sent a child, a precious son or daughter, all the way to Arkansas for two years (18 months for girls) to volunteer their time, effort, strength and energy at their own expense to spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ. And that is enough. That is enough to bind us with a bond so strong and so intense that several of us found ourselves still there, five hours after we first arrived, wrapped in conversation, hanging on each other's every word, knowing we needed to leave, but not wanting to.

It was most incredible. A room full of people who, in most cases, had never met, were so engrossed in conversation that from the outside looking in, you'd swear it was a family reunion of folks who had known each other all their lives.

Now who's your son again?

Oh, Elder ___________! My son loves your son.

Where's your daughter serving currently?

Bartlett? My son's in Collierville!!! That's really close to Bartlett. I'm sure they know each other.

Who's your son's companion? Oh, my son served with him a few months ago. Awesome missionary!

 How long has your son been out?  Wow, 10 months already! Mine comes home in 6-1/2 months, but who's counting? Wait, I am!

So many questions. So many answers. So much love. Missionary parents "get" each other. We understand why Monday is the best day of the week. We know how it feels to wait for that P-day email and then to sit at our computers, feasting our eyes on every single word. We remember that MTC drop-off day. Some of us were stoic, at least until we drove away. Others of us left our kids, their very last memory of us sobbing uncontrollably.

We missionary parents love to talk about our missionaries. We love to tell their stories. I will never forget yesterday when one mom told us all about her elder's extreme fear of dogs. "Mom, I'd rather serve in inner-city Memphis where I might get shot than have to go to a house where there's a dog." But of course, there are dogs in the Arkansas Little Rock Mission. Lots of them. When this young elder encountered one such ferocious canine creature, he insisted that he and his companion climb up on top of their car and sit there for 45 minutes in order to stay safe. We all listened intently to this story, awaiting its outcome, when the mom mentioned her missionary's final comment: "Mom, if that dog hadn't been chained up, he would have eaten us for sure! He wanted to eat me!" By this point, we were all laughing so hard we could hardly contain ourselves.

We heard the story of one elder who loves to sing and how he sang the other elders to sleep every night in the MTC. We heard stories of hard days, hard weeks, hard transfers. We heard stories of grace and miracles and baptisms and personal conversion. I even snuck in my elder's spider bite story. We love to tell our missionaries' stories, and we love to hear them. We got to hear many stories from our guests of honor, a couple who very recently returned from serving six months in the Arkansas Mission. Technically "senior missionaries" (though these two are barely middle aged), they had met all our kids, or very close to all of them. They didn't necessarily serve with all of them, but they met them. That means they have seen our kids more recently than we have. Did we hang on their every word? Their every story? Ya think? Thank you, Tom and Linda, for your service to the mission and to our kids and to the Lord. And thank you for coming back to Utah to tell us about it. We are grateful.

We tell the stories because we can't bring ourselves to say what is actually in our hearts. That we miss them. We miss them so much. We are so very proud, and we wouldn't have them anywhere else doing anything else. But we still miss them. Two years is a long time to be away from one's child. But it's a sacrifice worth making.

Mis-sion-ar-y (n.) Someone who leaves his family for two years so that others may be with their families for eternity.

Ding Dong

Every time you move to a new community, you discover a unique culture. We were quite "at home" living in Washington, probably because Gerald grew up there and I grew up in Oregon, whose culture is much the same. Things made sense. We understood why people did what they did. Everything felt familiar. When we migrated to Montana in 2004, we found ourselves in a brand new culture. Lots of things were different. For one, it seemed as if everyone we met enjoyed outdoor recreational activities, especially hunting. This was new to us. That's not to say no one hunted in Washington. I'm sure some people did, but it was the exception, not the norm. Now let me be clear; I have nothing against hunting. Absolutely nothing. If people like to hunt for their food, that is totally fine with me. I happen to prefer to buy mine at the store....well, truth be told, I actually prefer to buy mine in restaurants and eat it there too, but either way, I don't hunt for my food, and neither does Gerald. In Montana, lots and lots of people hunt. In order to do that, they need guns. In their homes. This made me very nervous. When we moved there, I had three little boys, ages 13, 11, and 4. I didn't want them to go to homes with guns. The idea scared me beyond belief. But I also wanted them to have friends, and like I said, it seemed as if practically everyone we knew liked to hunt for their food.

In time, I eased up a little, but it wasn't easy for me. I had lengthy and repeated discussions with Isaiah and Eli about the danger of guns. "If you ever see a gun in someone's home, you leave immediately. You don't ask questions. You don't stop to look at the gun because you are curious. You don't ever, ever think of touching it. You leave the house. You walk right out the door. Then you find a phone and call me." Once I believed I had this sufficiently drilled into my boys' heads, I began to let them go to friends' houses where I knew there were guns. I didn't like it. I never liked it. But I did it.

Here in Utah, it is much the same with the hunting thing, so I've taken the same precautions with Seth. Lots of talking about this issue. Lots of warnings, repeated over and over. And thus far, my kids have stayed safe. There are other cultural surprises here, none as dangerous as the combination of guns and children, but new and different nonetheless. Most I find amusing, especially the linguistic differences. I am, by nature as well a by profession, interested in language. Here in Utah, they have several expressions and word usages that were new to me, and I've enjoyed finding out about them and even expanding my narrow experience in order to embrace some of them. For example, here in Utah they call "pop" (you know, carbonated beverages like Pepsi, Dr Pepper, Sprite, and my drug of choice - Diet Coke) "soda." They call it "soda." It's so weird. Because when I picture a soda, I see a large glass containing a specialty drink that includes ice cream and flavored syrup with carbonated soda water. I have the fondest memories of sodas. As a kid, every time I had an orthodontist appointment, on the way home, my dad would take me to our favorite soda fountain on Division Street, and we would sit on stools side by side and each get a chocolate soda. I miss him. I will always miss him.

But I digress. When they say "soda" here in Utah, they mean regular pop. Because I am a self-professed Diet Coke addict (Hi, my name is Terrianne, and I'm a Diet Coke addict), I order pop quite regularly, and I must admit that after two years here, I am gradually becoming converted. Maybe half the time now, I say "soda." Sorry, Gerald, I know you hate this, but I really do it. Then there's this other language difference. In Utah, they "tend" children. Where I come from, we do not tend children. We babysit them. We care for them. We watch them. But we don't tend them. We tend sheep. Well, actually most of us probably don't have any sheep, but if we had sheep, we would definitely tend them. But we don't tend children. I hear this expression all the time, probably several times a week, and every time I hear it, I visualize this vast field and a shepherd and hundreds of little kids running around. And it makes me smile. I am not converted to this one yet, but who knows? Maybe in time I, too, will tend children.

Perhaps the most surprising cultural shift that I've discovered living here in Utah, is the number of times my doorbell rings. I'm pretty sure I went weeks at a time in both Washington and Montana without ever hearing that sound, at least not unexpectedly. And yes, both houses had doorbells.  People here love to "drop by." They drop by just to tell me things, usually just one small thing. They could call. They could send a text. They could email. They could Facebook message. But they don't. They come over and ring the doorbell. And I startle every time it happens. I fear something terrible has happened to one of my children, and the police have come to tell me. Really, that's what I think because I am so unaccustomed to people just dropping by. (Okay, it's also because I'm a crazy, over-the-top, uber-anxious mom, but mostly it's because I'm just so not used to it.) It is definitely ingrained in the Utah culture.

I have to wonder if it has to do with the Mormon tradition here and missionaries. I have a missionary serving now. I know he spends countless hours, far more than he would like (because actual appointments are so much more effective than tracting), walking the streets of Collierville, Tennessee, ringing doorbells. Or perhaps it is just the tradition of person-to-person, face-to-face contact in our church. I'm not sure. But it is very new to me. In Washington and Montana, people rarely just drop by. If they want to come visit, they always call first. It's almost considered rude not to do so. But that is not the case here. I'm trying to adjust. Along with the initial heart attack when I hear the doorbell (Oh no! What is wrong?), I don't love greeting people unexpectedly. Why? Well, let's just say that I don't always exactly look my best when I'm at home. Especially right now when I'm in my semester break, deep cleaning mode. I get started right away after waking up, before I've showered or done my hair and makeup. I wear the oldest, rattiest clothing I own because many of my cleaning products contain bleach. I look like the Wrath of God, and then somebody comes to my door. It literally happened four times yesterday within just a few hours.

My choices are to ignore the doorbell (feels rude, PLUS what if it really is the police informing me of an accident with one of my children?!?) or to answer the door, humiliated by my pathetically disheveled appearance. Neither is a good option, but I tend to choose the latter. This is most certainly a cultural difference that I will need to adjust to if I am to live here. I'm not there yet. I am working on it.

Meanwhile, I need to go answer the door.

And they're off...

Backpacking.

It is a legend in our family. For over 20 years, Gerald has been taking our kids, just as soon as they're old enough to be safe, on overnight backpacking trips. In Washington, they hiked the Cascades; in Montana, it was the Beartooth Mountains; and now in Utah, there are a crazy number of choices right close to home.

Me? No. I don't backpack. I love a good day hike, not so much because I enjoy hiking, but because it's a super good calorie burn, so I feel like I can eat whatever I want on hiking days. But overnight backpacking? No. I did it once. It was back when we were very newly married, newly enough that I wasn't even pregnant yet, so it had to be within a few months of our wedding. I tried my best. I really did. But the problem is that I am a woman, and a curvy one that that. I really don't think women were ever intended to sleep on the ground. We have too many curves. My hip bones dug right into the hard earth, and I barely slept at all. Then, on the way out, I was eaten alive by mosquitoes. They just love me so much! Yeah, that was the one and only time I went backpacking.

But Gerald loves it. He loves it so much that he is willing to do whatever it takes to make sure our kids have positive experiences and great memories, and they all do, every one of them. Countless stories have come home from the dozens of backpacking trips he has taken with one or more of the kids. I'll never forget the time he came home from a trip with Luke and Shulamith. Isaiah and Eli were still tiny, and Seth was not yet with us. Luke had severe asthma as a baby and young child. Most times that asthma was triggered by viruses, but occasionally his allergies would cause a reaction. Gerald walked in the door, followed by Shulamith, followed by Luke, who honestly looked like an alien. Oh how I wish I had a picture to show you, but imagine this: his ears were swollen to about twice their size, and his eyes were nearly swollen shut. His entire face was red and itchy. I was FRANTIC! We got him some Benedryl right quick, and he improved immediately, but it was scary.

But my favorite story of all Erichsen-Webster backpacking history is one told to me by Luke, NOT Gerald. The two oldest kids were young; it might have even been their first trip. I'm guessing they were maybe 7 and 6, or there about. Now keep in mind that when they were that young, Gerald didn't make them carry anything. Like not a single thing. He would carry the tent, all three sleeping bags and pads, all the food and cooking equipment, absolutely everything. So his pack was heavy. Very heavy. Apparently, Shulamith was having a "moment," and she no longer wanted to hike. She was tired. She was hot. She was done. But there was still plenty of mountain to climb before they would reach their campsite. So what did Gerald do? He left Shulamith sitting in some shade and carried his pack up the trail 100 feet or so. Then he went back, picked up Shulamith, and carried her up to his pack. Then he did it again. Over and over and over, until she was feeling better and able to walk herself. But when I asked him how the trip went, he didn't mention this story at all. I wouldn't know about it if it weren't for Luke. Gerald told me it was an amazing trip and that everyone did well. That's how much he loves to hike. That's how much he loves his children.

And the legend continues. Pictured above are Gerald and Seth at the trail head where I dropped them off this afternoon. They will spend the next two days up in the mountains together. They took cards and a cribbage board. They took lots of yummy snacks and plenty of sports drink. And this time, Seth even carried his own pack. I hope they have an incredible experience as they add to the memories that will never fade.

Meanwhile, I will sleep comfortably in my bed.  :-)

See. I Really Do Have Friends - Road Trip to Oregon - Part 3 of 3

I have lived here in the Salt Lake Valley for two years now. I like most everything about it. I like the size of the city. I like the mountains all around. I like the TWO shopping malls just short distances from my house. Oh, and I really like my house. I like my very part time job. I like the variety of restaurants nearby. Most especially, I like that Shulamith lives right downstairs. I know that can't last forever, but while it lasts, I will enjoy every second. Yes, for the most part, I like it here in Utah.

One challenging part, however, is that after two years, I haven't really had any luck making friends. Okay, I guess you could say I have made two friends here: Jane and Jennilyn. So if either of you is reading, I am not forgetting you. I love you both, and I am grateful for you. But only two in two years??  It's weird, especially because I have never struggled with this before. I have made amazing  friends every other place we have lived. I have all sorts of ideas (all purely speculative) about why it's so much harder here, the social culture, etc., but I won't go into all that. Mostly, we just laugh at the situation. A while ago, a person from my ward "unfriended" me from Facebook. Yep, for reals. So not only can't I make friends; I can't keep the ones I have. This gave us further opportunity to laugh because laughing is clearly better than the alternative. Shulamith will just out of the blue say, "Remember that time you got unfriended from Facebook?" Hahahaha!

More often, though, she says, "You have friends. Many. They just don't live here in Utah." And that is the absolute truth. Which brings me to this third installment of my blog about our recent road trip. On Friday, I left Shulamith, Seth, and Swen with my mom and escaped by myself for a night of socializing. It was awesome! First, I stopped at Lloyd Center to meet up with my friend Lisa. It was pure serendipity that I would get to see her because she lives not in Portland but in Billings, Montana. She works for Horizon Airlines and was in Portland for the week training new employees. I wrote about her once before here, so I won't say a lot. Except that with Lisa, it doesn't matter how long it's been since we last saw each other or even had any contact (in this case, a full two years), we pick up right where we left off. We are instant BFFs again. It's as if we were never apart. We spent two full hours immersed in conversation, and it was lovely.

My intent was to ask strangers to take pictures of me with each friend I saw that night, but I got way too wrapped up in conversation to remember to do that, so I had to go with Plan B and steal photos from Facebook in order to prove to you that these people actually exist. Here is Lisa with her daughter:

From Lloyd Center, I made my way over to Chicago Pizza to have an appetizer and a soda with my friend Janice. She is a friend from the distant past, when we lived in a house whose backyard was adjacent to hers. We lived there when I was in 5th - 8th grades, the longest we ever lived anywhere. Our moms were "over the backyard fence" friends, and Janice and I played together almost daily. Her sweet mom, who passed away just a year ago, was my 4-H leader. My culinary skills were no better then than they are now, but Jeanette showed me such kindness and patience, regardless. I will always remember her. Janice and I lost contact for many years but reunited through Facebook to discover that among other similarities, we both married and had five children. Here is Janice with her son's little boy:

All too soon, that visit ended, and I headed across the parking lot to meet my friend Lorrie for dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Now unlike with Lisa and Janice, Lorrie and I remain in close contact almost daily, through the technology of email. Though we see each other rarely, those frequent emails which discuss the ins and outs of both our lives keep us intimately connected. Lorrie and I go back almost as far as Janice and I (though not quite). I met her when I was 13 and joined a service organization called Rainbow Girls. We remained friends through my high school and her college years and ever after, and we were each other's honor attendant at our respective weddings. Lorrie doesn't use Facebook, so I had to resort to stealing a picture off her daughter's wall. I am resourceful indeed!

So ended my socializing for that evening, but there was even  more to come the following day. On our drive to Boise on Saturday, we once again stopped at McDonald's in The Dalles, but this time my friend Diane met us for a short visit. I knew Diane when we lived in The Dalles between 1985 and 1991. She had four "big kids," while I had only two tiny ones. In fact, her daughter Anne-Marie was Luke and Shulamith's first babysitter, and a wonderful one she was! I looked to Diane as the ideal mom, and I wanted to be just like her. All these years later, I hope I at least partly succeeded. Here is Diane at her son's wedding:

The only unfortunate part to all my socializing is that I barely got to see my brother while I was in Portland. Ironically, his vacation week was the exact same week we were there. Thankfully, we got to stop by his work for a brief visit the night we arrived, but he seriously needs to come to Utah. Soon. Are you reading this, Tom? Here is a picture of him with his three cute daughters:

So there ya have it. See. I really do have friends.