Cuz I'm an adult. And I can.

My friend Lindsey and I both have memories of our young adult years, when we'd get fast food almost every day, because we were finally adults, and we could. No longer were we stuck eating at home because our parents decided so. Those memories are long in the past (longer for me than for her), but sometimes I still feel empowered by my adulthood, free to exercise my agency. Cuz I'm an adult. And I can.

Such an experience occurred on Saturday. I left early in the morning with my computer and school bag and landed in my favorite booth at my place of personal refuge when I need to get school work done: Corner Bakery at Fashion Place Mall. Free from the distractions of family and fortified with a never-ending supply of Diet Coke on tap, I can pound out work faster there than anywhere else.

And pound it out I did. Lots and lots of work. I barely noticed the hours passing until Shulamith came to visit me at nearly 2:00 p.m.! We ate a pumpkin muffin (her) and a lemon/blueberry hand pie (me), and talked about the mundane things of life as we do every day, along with more interesting topics like my trip to Thailand (or Japan? I'm not sure yet) to visit Isaiah when he's traveling in Asia next summer.

She left, and I considered what I would do next work-wise, when I happened to open my Fitbit app.

Eight hundred ninety-two steps! I'm not even kidding. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I had spent six hours sitting in a booth, not moving. I had wasted the better part of a beautiful fall day reading Request for Adjustment and Negative Reply letters, millions of them it felt like, and taken just 892 steps! Well, I closed my laptop right that second, gathered my stuff, and went home.

As I quickly changed into running shoes, grabbed my headphones and headed out the door for a long power walk, the thought came to me, "I'll listen to Christmas music. That's what I'll do. Cuz I'm an adult. And I can."

Granted it was still four days before Halloween, my self-imposed earliest day for holiday music, but whatever. I needed a boost. Not only had I just worked for six hours on a Saturday doing my "part time job," but tomorrow was Sunday, and I'd need to go to church in the new ward. Friends, this still isn't easy. It's only been a little over a month, so the growing pains of change are still very real. It won't always feel like this. One day it will feel like it's really our ward. One day we won't feel like visitors. One day we'll all have callings and fit right in. Oooh...this: One day (soon? maybe? hoping?) I'll get to speak in Sacrament Meeting!

One day. But not yet. It's a surreal experience. We meet in our very own building, so familiar. But then we sit in the chapel and look across the aisle, and instead of seeing Amy and Kevin and kids, or a few rows up, Kayla and Spencer and kids, or Kara or Katie or Caitlin or Emily B. or Nichole and their families, there's a giant sea of unfamiliar faces, a room full of strangers. They are all so nice and are trying so hard to welcome us, but what can they really do? There are so many of them and only just a few of us sprinkled among them. It is what it is.

So yeah, I needed a boost to mentally prepare for the next day, to get my "positive" on and focus on the Savior and why I go to church in the first place, rather than thinking about how much I would miss my ward family. The answer to that? Christmas music! Just like that, without even the slightest guilt, I switched my Spotify to my Christmas station, put on my headphones, and did five miles. Woo!

It was lovely. And honestly, church the next day was good too. In Relief Society, they played Family Feud, and they let the four of us from 6th Ward be one team, and oooh, it felt nice to participate. Emily L. and I joined the ward choir, Emily because she sings like an angel, I because I'm desperate to make some sort of connection. The choir is preparing for the Christmas program, so yay, more Christmas music.

When I was a young adult, I got fast food nearly every day; I still eat out a lot, certainly more than I cook at home. And Saturday, I started listening to Christmas music four days early.

Cuz I'm an adult. And I can.

Drive 'em Till They Smoke!

There are a couple of idioms, both involving straws, that point to fairly insignificant events all by themselves, but when added on top of a bunch of other events, are enough to push us over the edge. "It was the last straw," we say in desperation, or "It was the straw that broke the camel's back." I'm not sure why it's always straws.

Regardless, that happened to me two days ago. Here I was, minding my own business on a crisp, October morning. I jumped in my van to head to the Trax station to ride downtown and teach my one Friday class, but before I even got out onto 80th, my front right tire went totally flat, as in I was completely down on the wheel. I barely made it over to the side of Angel St. Shulamith was planning to meet me at Trax to collect her child, so I called her and told her to pick us up first.

And that little event right there turned out to be the proverbial last straw.

To backtrack, we are known for driving our cars until they smoke. Sometimes literally. If I'm gonna pay interest on something, I'm gonna get my money's worth. We once had a Volkswagen Fox, a tiny car with just four seats. As I drove out of the parking lot of Luke's kindergarten one day, a huge cloud of black smoke arose from the front hood. Yep, the car was toast. I happened to be pregnant with Isaiah at the time, and this little car with four seats would not accommodate a family of five anyway, so that very day, we bought our first minivan.

It is with pride that I tell you how that very minivan is the car Isaiah used when he was 15 and took driver's ed. It didn't actually ever smoke, but near the end of its life, I had to carry gallon milk jugs filled with water and stop every few hundred yards to add that water to keep the engine from overheating. As the frigid Billings winter approached, we decided it was time to cave and replace our perfect van, which we owned for 15 years.

This we did with my 2004 Oldsmobile Silhouette, the car that got the flat tire two days ago. I've had it 14 years. It's been lots and lots of places. Shulamith and I drove it from Billings to Portland at least twice. Gerald drove it to Dallas, so Isaiah and his friends could attend QuakeCon, a giant computer LAN party. I've delivered kids to school, to piano lessons, to friends' houses, and Eli used it to pick up all his friends in the wee hours of weekday mornings for seminary. 

Oh how we have loved our van, but with over 180,000 miles, one by one, things malfunctioned. For several years, the automatic windows haven't worked, so I just don't use them. Ever. The most annoying part of this is driving through food places (which I do literally every day) and having to drive way forward past the window and then open my whole door to both pay and get the food. The sliding doors stick, so it takes two hands and a hefty tug to open them. The rear turn signals haven't worked forever, making me terrified when I drive at night that someone is going to rear end me. Recently the speedometer quit working; it shows me doing 110 mph pretty much all the time.

So that flat tire Friday morning was very much the last straw, in a series of straws, that ultimately broke the poor camel's back.

Not that I would have been brave enough to go buy a car on my own. Keep in mind I don't do this often. I find it terrifying! But Shulamith (aka Olivia Pope) was on it. She looked online and found a car she knew I would love, a crossover between a minivan and a small SUV. It's important to me to have a car that, if needed, would seat the seven Erichsen-Websters, even though it isn't often we have all seven of us in a car together. It had to be the easiest sale this cute 21-year-old saleskid ever had. I looked at the car Shulamith found, drove it up and down the street, told him what payment I wanted, and within 20 minutes, was signing papers.

Hoping to drive it till it smokes.

The Evolution of Missionary Momhood

As most of you know, Seth is my third child to serve a full-time mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I've heard some one-time-only missionary moms say things like, "It was great, but I'm glad I only had to do it once. Once was fantastic, but once was enough!" Well, okay, but you see, I didn't get to decide how many of my kids would choose to serve missions. Turns out my number is three!

The experience of being a missionary mom has evolved over the years. I did not serve a mission myself, but if I had, my parents would have had to wait each week for a snail mail letter, never certain if or when it would arrive. And pictures? Uh, probably few if any. Honestly, how did missionary moms do it in those days?

When I sent my first in 2006-2008, we at least had email. I could be reasonably certain I'd hear from Luke on P-day (Monday), unless it was a legal holiday when libraries were closed, and then I had to wait another week. He sent very few pictures. Occasionally, a dear member in Portland would email me a picture. Oh the joy! With no social media to connect missionary families, this incredibly generous lady named Betty organized email groups for parents of kids serving in the same mission. I joined the OPM (Oregon Portland Mission) email group right away and was able to connect with several moms of Luke's companions. Thank you, Betty!

By the time Eli served in 2012-2014, we not only had regular P-day email, but with the advent of social media, we had Facebook! Oh yes indeed, the Facebook page for the ARLM (Arkansas Little Rock Mission) families became my rock. I could go there with questions for parents of kids who had been serving longer than Eli. I could chat with moms of his companions. I could even connect with members in the mission who were taking such good care of him. Those of us living here in the valley would gather occasionally, either at restaurants or at someone's home, to share experiences, concerns, and mutual understanding. It's just impossible to understand missionary momhood until you are one. Eli has been home over four years now, and I still hang out with friends formed from that group (Hello Diana, Carlene, Janeen, Lisa)!

And here's my cute Elder Webster with a little boy he baptized:

So things changed a lot for moms between my first and second missionaries, but guys, it's nothing compared to the changes in the last four years. Now I have Seth in Paraguay, way farther away than either of my other two, and yet, I have more information than I ever had with them. Yes, we still have weekly email, only Seth has the technology to send pictures every week.

Like this one today:

And yes, there's a Facebook group, two actually, one for families of missionaries serving in the Paraguay Asuncion Mission and one for the mission itself, administrated by President and Sister Hansen. Both provide tons of information, and missionary moms hunger for information with an insatiable voracity.

Beyond Facebook, we also have the Westovers, a missionary couple currently serving in the mission, who happen to have a blog. Well heck yeah! Cuz I just happen to love people who blog. Sister Westover provides weekly updates about their experiences in the mission, and she writes with such genuine voice! I love reading it. And she also posts pictures. For example, this one right here:

I would never have seen this picture of Seth on his way to his first area, were it not for Sister Westover's blog.

I get kinda mad at technology sometimes. Especially when it doesn't work. But I wouldn't go back to earlier times for all the asaditos (sp?) in Paraguay! (These are asaditos, by the way.)

I can't even imagine no connection beyond a letter that may or may not arrive in the mailbox. Yikes! Heavenly Father knew I needed to be a missionary mom now, and not 20 years ago.

Even though it's hard sometimes, I'm so grateful for the opportunity I've had to be a missionary mom three times.

I hadn't cried since the airport...

Okay, maybe I teared up a couple times when I walked into his room and saw the Paraguay flag hanging on the wall, his clothes hanging in his closet, clothes he won't wear for two whole years. Maybe I shed a tiny tear when I drove by Mr. Mac and remembered the night I took him there to be fitted for his mission suit. But no, I hadn't down dirty ugly cried since the airport.

Until this morning.

I got up early to get our beloved egg casserole in the oven, so it would be ready for everyone by the start of conference. If you ever want to be eternally grateful to me for sharing the most delicious food you will ever eat, then open this link right here. You're welcome.

Then I began to clean. Why? Because even though I spent much of last evening working to get my house what I call "General Conference clean," there were still tasks left to do. As I knelt on hands and knees in the bathroom, scrubbing out the tub and floor, it hit me. All at once. Out of nowhere. My Seth would not be with me to watch General Conference. "Well, duh," you are probably thinking. "He's in Mexico, preparing to fly to Paraguay Monday." I know that. I do. But the pathos attached to it didn't all come together for me until I was kneeling over that bathtub, struggling to scrub the dirt out of the those stupid grout-filled tiles.

You see, for the past several years, Seth has been my General Conference buddy. Everyone else seems to come and go. Gerald usually has to work during at least one session on Saturday. The older kids do crazy things like go away to college, serve missions, even get married! Sometimes they're here; sometimes they're not. Seth is the one constant. He's always here. I can count on him to set his bungee chair in front of the TV, wrap himself in a blanket, get his spiral out to take notes for seminary, and begin asking for food (treats he requested earlier in the week).

I texted Shulamith:

Me: I can't stop crying. Seth isn't here to watch Conference with me.

Shulamith: That must be so hard. But remember, if he had decided not to serve a mission, that would be even harder.

Me: Yes, of course you're right. But I just really miss him today. And I can't stop crying.

Shulamith: Start walking to Chevron. I'll meet your there. We'll get Diet Cokes and go home and watch together.

Girl, you have always been, and will always be, my best friend.

Some have told me I can't have it both ways. I can't encourage him his entire life to serve a mission and then be sad when he does. I disagree. I can absolutely have it both ways. Yes, I taught him to prepare himself to serve the Lord on a full-time mission. Yes, I helped him with every step of the process. And yes, I wanted this for him more than anything. Nothing he could possibly do would make me any prouder.

But yes, I still feel sad sometimes, and today was one of those times. The memories flooded over me. Early in his childhood, when watching a full two hours of Conference was unreasonable for a little kid, I would encourage him to listen when prophet spoke. And he did. I remember him sitting on my bed in our house in Billings. He got really quiet when President Hinckley spoke. It was as if he could sense that he was sitting at the feet of a prophet of the Lord.

Then I thought about Conference just one year ago. In the Saturday afternoon session, Seth and I didn't watch together. I watched the session live in the Conference Center, and Seth watched it from the choir loft, where he sang with a group of youth from our area. I was right down on the plaza floor, with a perfect view of Seth.

When the session ended, we weren't sure how we'd find each other since they didn't let the kids keep their phones (because, you know, teenagers would never pull out their phones while singing in a choir at General Conference). But I walked outside the door and within only a few minutes, there he was:

Today, Seth did not watch Conference here with me. He watched with around 800 other missionaries in the Mexico CCM. I hope it was so wonderful for him. I hope his testimony was fueled by Elder Soares, who invited him to reach out to people of other cultures (like Paraguay!) and welcome them into the church, and by President Uchtdorf, who reminded him that God's love is transformative and powerful, sufficient to overcome the "Weltschmerz" that, at times, plagues all of us. 

Between sessions today at the CCM, they served fresh, hot churros with toppings of chocolate sauce and fruit and whipped cream. Seth loves churros! I hope he ate two. Maybe he even gained another pound. 

I hadn't cried since the airport. But today. Well, today was a day. Perhaps I had to get it all out of my system before Monday, when I might get to talk to him (yes, actually hear his voice). Missionaries are allowed to call home from the airport when they leave the MTC (CCM) and before they fly off to wherever they're serving. But giving international phone cards to Gen Z kids, who have never in their lives not had cell phones, and telling them to use these cards in a pay phone at the airport to call home, well let's just say it's pretty much a crap shoot, whether or not they'll figure out how to do that. Seth has literally never used a pay phone or, until now, seen a calling card.

Elder Frost's mom and I are praying hard one of them figures it out in time for both of them to call. 

You pray too! Thanks!

He gained two pounds!

Okay, that probably doesn't mean anything you, but let me explain. Anyone who knows me, knows about my dumb anxiety. I've written about it lots:  here, here, and here, if you'd like some examples.

Blah!

Anyway, this past week, I began to believe that Seth was not eating enough in the Mexico CCM and losing weight. He is as skinny as a rail and has no excess weight to lose, so this whole fear took on a life of its own (as anxiety tends to do) to the point that I was physically ill this morning, knowing he'd email today, and fearing he'd tell me he has lost a bunch of weight, making him too sick to travel to Paraguay on Monday.

Yep, I believed all this. Or at least my body did. It all started when I played "Where's Waldo" with the 100s of pictures the lovely people at the CCM post to their Facebook page. After searching helplessly for a glimpse of Seth, I finally found three pictures of his district. Yahoo! Except then, in one of the pictures, it seemed to me that Seth looked unusually thin. Touchdown, anxiety! And we're off to the races once again.

Just so you can see what triggered this, here's the picture from the CCM:

So there is Seth's district. Seth is in the tan pants on the left side of the photo. See how skinny he looks? I immediately texted Shulamith:

Me: Look at this picture. I think Seth is losing weight from not eating. Just look at him!
Shulamith: He looks exactly the same. He's always been thin.
Me: No!!!! How can you say that? He looks much thinner than when he left.

Next, I emailed poor Elder Frost's mom. Elder Frost is Seth's companion, and they're both pretty skinny, so I wanted to gauge my worries against a normal, non-anxious mom. She was so sweet to reply without judgment. She said she was a little concerned about them eating enough, but not terribly so. She reminded me that when we see pictures of the missionaries in Paraguay, they all look healthy and happy. Thank you, Jen.

Today was P-day, and I tried to remain sane as I waited for that email, but I mostly failed. It arrived about 10 minutes later than usual, so poor Shulamith was the recipient of my frantic text messages: "It's always here by now! Where is he? What's going on?" Then, just like that, the email arrived. And just like that, relief flooded my body, so fully and so perfectly that I nearly cried. Here is a copy/paste of the section of the email that addressed this issue:

"I still think it's funny how you're STILL worrying about me eating even though I'm in the CCM lol. I'll have you know that I have gained 2 pounds since I've been here and eat plenty every day. The food is all mediocre but it's all edible."

HE GAINED TWO POUNDS! Did you read that? He's not wasting away. He's not sick. He's great, so so great. He's super excited to fly to Paraguay on Monday. Everything is wonderful.

Just look at these P-day pictures:

I should sleep well tonight, but to quote Amanda, "It's gonna be a long two years."