"The spirit is indeed willing...

...but the flesh is weak."

We tried. We really did. All three of us. Gerald, Shulamith, and I all really wanted to participate in the March for Our Lives event this morning, an effort to stand up to the NRA and encourage legislators to do the same, by enacting sensible gun laws like the rest of the civilized world already has. Enough is enough. Too many have died. Even one life is too many lost to senseless violence because Americans are in love with their guns, and the NRA controls congress.

We knew we wouldn't be able to participate together. Shulamith is in St. George this weekend, I'm in Rexburg, and Gerald is home in Salt Lake. But we still thought we could do it. There was a march in St. George and another in Idaho Falls, 30 miles south of Rexburg. The Erichsen-Websters would stand and march.

And the spirit was indeed willing. So willing. But the flesh...

Of the three of us, only Gerald wound up participating. Here he is at the march in downtown Salt Lake City, which started at West High School and finished at the Capitol.

Shulamith had hoped to join the march in St. George, but with all the kids, etc., it didn't work out. They are returning home today, so she needed to help pack up and clean and load the car.

As for me, I got up early, showered and got all ready. I even made my sign:

Okay, so sign-making is not one of my strengths. Did any of you really think it would be?

Super quiet so as not to wake up Seth, Eli, and Amanda, I slipped out the door, sign in hand. What I didn't know until I stepped outside was that it was dumping snow. Seriously dumping. I could barely see ahead of me. I wanted to go to the march so badly, but no, I would not brave the snowstorm and drive by myself the 30 miles down to Idaho Falls. That felt like a bad idea. Instead, I drove the 1/2 mile to McDonald's and did school work until people here woke up.

Now I'm back, and Eli and Seth are planning out their bro day together. What will Amanda and I do while they're gone? Not sure. Whatever we do, it will be a delight because she is a delight.

I wish I could have marched. I wish Shulamith could have. And I'm glad Gerald did. I'm grateful for all who stood today to make their voices heard. I hope legislators listen to voices all over the country who say "enough is enough."

A year of "lasts." It's hard, guys.

It really is.

Back in September, I remember writing about how I was going to relax and enjoy Seth's senior year, and that it was going to pass slowly, very s-l-o-w-l-y.

Yeah, that was a lie. It didn't happen that way at all. Fall was a whirlwind as Seth, along with 200 other music and theatre students at Hillcrest, prepared for the presentation of Les Miserables in November. It was amazing, but we barely saw Seth during those weeks, as they rehearsed nearly every day.

As that show closed, Seth had just a week off for Thanksgiving before the Vocal Ensemble Christmas concerts began. This talented group of 32 students performed all over the valley, often doing four performances in the same day. I followed them around to a few gigs, and every one was lovely. Beautiful music and fun choreography.

Quite honestly, I have no idea what happened to January and February; they just sort of disappeared. Near the end of February, I attended my last ever parent-teacher conference. It was so sad. I really love parent-teacher conferences. Then March arrived, and another "last," Seth's (and my) last prom! Again, so sad, but way to go out in style....I mean just look at these pictures:

Isn't Becca's dress beautiful?! Of course, this brought back all the feels, all the memories of the other kids' proms, like this one.

Reports are they had a super fun day and evening, with a yummy breakfast that another mom from their group prepared, an escape house, dinner at Olive Garden, and of course, the dance itself.

This morning, I went through yet another "last," the last time nurturing one of my babies through wisdom teeth removal. Now you make be shaking your head and thinking, "This is just not a big deal, Terrianne," but you'll have to trust me. It is. All five of my kids were briefly put to sleep with general anesthesia for the removal of their wisdom teeth, and I had the privilege of taking care of each of them post-oral surgery. By this point in life, sometimes it's easy to feel like your kids don't really need you anymore, or at least not very much. They are quite independent. In Seth's case, he is very independent and hardly asks for anything other than the car and (occasionally) money, when he's been too busy with choir stuff to work.

But when they get their wisdom teeth removed, they need their moms. They really need us. And it's so great. Seth drove us down to Provo this morning. He wasn't scared, not even anxious that I could tell. I was, a little, even though it was my fifth time. We met with the oral surgeon, who was just wonderful. He talked with us for about 10 minutes and answered our questions, reassuring us that he removes wisdom teeth from between 20-35 patients daily. Then I was out of there, and Seth's eight-minute surgery began and ended, just like that. Before I knew it, they were wheeling him out to my car in a wheelchair. He was so funny and adorable.

I took him right across the street to JCWs to get him a milkshake. Haha, trying to get him to tell me what kind he wanted was the only challenge. I read him all the flavors that didn't contain seeds or chunks, but he kept losing focus. Finally, I said "Seth, sweetie, you have to tell me which flavor you want," to which he replied "vanilla's good."

Done.

We parked in a space outside JCWs, and I fed him spoonfuls of the vanilla shake, laced with Ibuprofin. Gotta get on top of that pain before it even starts.

We hopped on the freeway, and he asked me where the milkshake came from.

Me: Seth, I got you this milkshake from JCWs. Remember, I read you all the flavors and asked you what you wanted.

Seth: No, I don't remember that at all. You're making that up. And I wouldn't have chosen vanilla.

Bahahaha.

We've spent the afternoon at home, resting. He's watching March Madness; I'm keeping track of his medication schedule, replacing his ice packs, and giving him jello and yogurt and apple sauce and pudding. I just love taking care of him. How many more opportunities will I have to do that? No idea.

At one point, a cute girl stopped by with a dish of  Cold Stone cotton candy ice cream. He popped right up and spent 20 minutes chatting with her, but I could tell he was tired and hurting.

She left. I gave him more medicine, and we're back to this:

So these "lasts" are kinda killing me. But I'll take this one and appreciate it. The doctor told me I will need to wake him every three hours through the night to give him pain medicine. "Pretend you have a newborn baby again," he said. 

But I don't. And every "last" is hard. It's hard, guys.

Can it really be 130?

In the fall of 1990, feeling early-pregnancy nauseous, I sat in a tiny, kindergarten chair across a tiny, kindergarten table from a tiny, kindergarten teacher with short, dark hair named Ms. Lee. It was my first ever parent-teacher conference. I would hear all about my smart, spunky, five-year-old Luke, who could already read and do simple math but couldn't hold a pair of scissors correctly to save his life. "Maybe you could work at home on his fine motor skills." Sure! Cuz I definitely have time to do that with five-year-old Luke, four-year-old Shulamith, and a growing baby Isaiah inside.

That was 27 years ago.

Last night I walked the halls of Hillcrest High School and visited with six of Seth's teachers. It was my last ever parent-teacher conference. I thought about how many conferences I've attended in my life. With five kids moving through the public K-12 school system and two conferences each academic year for each of them, I suppose this was around my 130th.

One hundred thirty parent-teacher conferences, and last night, my very last. It was so sad. I walked slowly. I hoped for crowds, so there would be lines outside the teachers' rooms, but I hardly had to wait for anyone. It went way too fast.

As parents, we have little to do with how our children turn out. Sorry, if you are under the misguided impression that you do. Their lovely spirits have lived a very long time, and they come to us, well, the way they come. We do our best to influence and guide, but in the end, we can only stand back and watch. Even so, and I'm not even sure why, there is barely anything more emotionally gratifying than hearing ardent praise about one's child, dripping forth from the mouth of pretty much anyone, but teachers especially.

Which is why I love parent-teacher conferences.

Ms. Lee did ask me to help Luke with cutting, but not before telling me that along with his curious, precocious mind, she had never met a happier, more well-adjusted kid. The following year, we had moved from Oregon to California. Shulamith's kindergarten teacher became ill early in the fall, but not before the first parent-teacher conference. Oh how she loved Shulamith. Apparently, my little socialite daughter had convinced all the girls at her table that they, too, could read. She could read. And she told them they could too. So they did!

By the time Isaiah and Eli were in school, we had moved to what I'll always refer to as "home," a little town an hour north of Seattle, called Mt. Vernon. The middle boys had many of the same teachers, including a 3rd grade teacher named Ms. White. In my first parent-teacher conference with her, she asked me if I thought we could convince our introvert Isaiah to play Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, which she produces in her class each Christmas: "I think he's the only boy I have this year who could learn the part." We convinced him, and he did an outstanding job.

Two years later, Eli also had Ms. White. I walked into the fall parent-teacher conference, so happy to greet a familiar teacher whom I already knew and liked. She approached me with a hug, followed by the "Eli gushing" I would come to expect from pretty much every teacher, coach, or church leader Eli would encounter through his growing up years: "Terrianne, you know how much I loved Isaiah," she said. "And I really did. But this child. This child has stolen my heart."

Can you see why I love parent-teacher conferences? Why I was so sad last night as another parenting landmark came crashing to an end all around me?

The evening was every bit as gratifying as the other 129 have been. We are not a family that worships the "Almighty A," and all my children have earned their share of Bs through the years. But for some reason, Seth decided to end his high school career with a 4.0 GPA his senior year. I walked from one classroom to another, first hearing about his current "A," but more importantly, how much his teachers like and respect him. He is kind, they told me. Yes, he is.

As I always do now that we live in Utah, I ended my conference night by walking across the parking lot to the seminary building, where Seth spends one period every other day studying church doctrine. His cute, young seminary teacher, Sister Brown, wanted to know all about his post-graduation plans. Her excitement began when I told her Seth was already accepted to Utah State University, her Alma mater. It grew more intense when I told her he plans to defer his enrollment two years in order to serve a mission. She also wanted to know if he is going to prom and who he's taking. :-)

I picked up my paper cup filled with M&Ms and pretzels (seminary always gives out treats on parent-teacher conference nights), and headed to my car. I want you to know that I didn't ugly cry or anything; a couple tears may have escaped my eyes, but only a couple.

So those of you who are still in the game, enjoy those parent-teacher conferences, all 130 of them. They will be over before you know it.