Seth and the Bee

Okay, so it doesn't have quite the same ring to it as Akeelah and the Bee, but his name is Seth, so yeah.

Can I start by telling you how much I HATE spelling bees. Seriously, they are right up there with other things I passionately hate like Cub Scout pack meetings, punctuation errors, and snakes on my walking trail. Uh huh, I hate them that much. I have been subject to these awful spelling bees for the past 16 years, ever since Luke was in the fourth grade. They are positively miserable for moms. You sit there as your precious baby marches to the center of the stage to spell his word. You pray fervently that the word will be easy or at least one your child knows. You hold your breath, letter after painstaking letter, as he so carefully spells the word.....and FINALLY, you are flooded with relief when he gets it right. And you do this over and over again, round after round after round. What could be more torturous?

Luke competed in his school's spelling bee every year from fourth grade on. Every year was more painful for me than the one before, because every year he was more desperate to win, so of course I was more desperate for him to win. Motherhood is certainly not for wimps! I'm pretty sure I lost a year of my life watching Luke in those stupid bees. In particular, I remember his sixth grade spelling bee. This was his last year in elementary school, so his chances of winning were optimal. Then came the fatal word: almond. Yes, Luke knew perfectly well how to spell the word "almond." He marched up to the stage and declared, "Almond. A-L-O...no wait...A-L-M-O-N-D." Ack! If you are familiar with the rules of spelling bees, you know that if students start over spelling a word, they must spell it exactly the way they did the first time; they may not self-correct. It was over. Luke went out on "almond."

In middle school, the competition was stiffer, and Luke came close to winning in seventh grade, but not quite. He placed second or third. Then came his final spelling bee in eighth grade. It would be then or never. I was a wreck. Other parents, including Gerald, were actually able to sit quietly and even calmly on chairs in the auditorium. Not me. I stood outside in the hallway and listened. And paced. I listened, and I paced. One by one, he spelled word after word successfully, and one by one other kids were eliminated. Finally, it came down to the last round. He would need to spell two consecutive words in order to win. Teeth clenched and tense from head to toe, I listened. He did it! He got both right. The entire auditorium exploded in a chant: "Luke, Luke, Luke, Luke." This mom was overcome with joy, so much so I had to fight back the tears. He won. After five years of spelling bees, he won.

The three middle kids are not quite the natural spellers that Luke is. They participated in spelling bees, but never made it to the end. I honestly thought (hoped?) my days of spelling bees were happily behind me. I was wrong.

Now we have Seth, who is apparently as much a visual learner as his oldest brother and hence a natural speller. When he came home last week and told me he got first place in his class bee and would be competing in the school bee, I cringed. I hugged him and told him how proud I was, but inside, I cringed. I have to go through this all over again? Keep in mind my heart is now 16 years older than when Luke first began competing in these things. Would it survive another round of this? Then Seth told me the date and time of this year's school bee: February 22nd at 2:00 p.m. God is good. I'm in class at exactly that time. I immediately texted Gerald to see if he might be able to go to work a half hour late, so he could watch Seth compete in this spelling bee. Yes!

So today was the day. I wished Seth good luck and sent him off this morning brimming with confidence. Then I promptly forgot about the whole thing. Perhaps I subconsciously blocked it out? I taught my 1:15 - 2:45 class as usual, and when I returned to my office, I found 24 new text messages from Gerald. "What on earth is so important that he needed to send 24 texts?" I wondered. Gerald had sent a text in each round, telling me the word Seth spelled and another text telling me how many kids were left standing. Thank heavens I was safely upstairs teaching and didn't have to receive these text messages live.

Wizard (practice round)
Harmonica
Priest (Six left standing)
Preacher (Five left)
Hazardous (Four left)
Waffle (Three left)
Arena (Two left)
Devoid
Enjoyable
Croupe
Domino
Loathing - missed
Malign - missed

Seth made it through several rounds battling just one sixth-grade girl, but ultimately, she was the winner, and Seth was was pleased with 2nd place. And I, the Queen of Anxious Moms, missed the whole thing. Will this be the last spelling bee Seth competes in? I doubt it. Will I be so lucky next year and have to miss it? Not likely. Will I survive another kid in spelling bees? I don't know. If this blog abruptly ends about a year from now, you'll know I didn't.

'Tis the Season for Bits and Pieces of Joy

I sit wrapped in a blanket, essays on my lap. My semester grades are due tomorrow, and I have just a few papers left to read before I can click "submit" in my grading program and be totally done. But exhaustion has taken over, and no longer can I offer students a "fair read," so I'll stop and finish in the morning.

Thoughts of the season surround me. It has come quickly, too quickly, perhaps because Thanksgiving was so late this year? Every day has felt rushed. I haven't had the time I usually do to relax and take in the sights and sounds of the season. Maybe now that I'm completely done with school and nearly done with shopping I might find that time? I can hope.

Despite non-stop activity from the time I step out of bed in the morning until I fall back in at night, a few bits and pieces of joy, a few beautiful "Christmas season 2013" memories have resulted, and others not so beautiful, but still worth recording. A couple weeks ago I got this bee in my bonnet that I needed to make Eli a paper Christmas tree complete with paper ornaments with personal messages and pictures from all his friends. Frankly, I often feel terribly inadequate as a missionary mom. You should see what these other moms do. One mom hand sewed an Advent calendar with an embroidered scripture messages for each day. Another one sent 12 individually-wrapped gifts, so her elder would have a new gift to open on each of the 12 days of Christmas. Another mom wrapped her missionary's Christmas box with pictures of him from all 20 Christmases of his life. Another one sent a fully-decorated tree for her elder's apartment, along with a variety of other festive decorations. And here I thought I was doing great just to get Eli's gifts packed up in a brown box and delivered to the UPS office in enough time that they guaranteed delivery by Christmas.

But back to the paper tree. Okay, may I speak freely here? You are my friends, right? And you know me. Some of you know me well. Some of you have known me for a long, long time. The next time I get some crazy idea to do a craft project, I need you to intervene. I need you to tell me straight up: "Terrianne. You cannot do this. You can do many things, but you CANNOT do THIS!" I am counting on you. Don't forget.

So I posted on Facebook, on Eli's wall and on mine, that I needed personal messages and permission to steal FB photos from anyone who wanted to participate. That was the easy part, and the response was incredible. Eli is loved by many. But then I had to actually make the tree. Help! I bought green butcher paper, and before literally butchering it, I attempted to draw the shape of a Christmas tree. I tried on one side and then the other, then again on the original side, but nothing looked even remotely like a tree. Finally, Shulamith took over and drew me a tree, and I cut it out. Done. Then, putting aside my personal hatred for all things sticky, I glued the photos onto the ornaments (red stockings), and Shulamith wrote the greetings on the back.

Then, one by one, I taped all the photo ornaments onto the tree and thought, "Wow, I did it!"

And I felt incredible joy for about three seconds until I realized there would be no practical way to mail this thing in its current form. It would not roll up; it would not fold up. The stocking ornaments were not flexible enough. In that moment I mostly wanted to give the entire thing to Swen to tear up into tiny pieces and then throw each piece into his favorite toy on earth: the garbage can. And I came just this close to doing exactly that except I felt sad for all the friends who so willingly contributed. Tears streaming down my face, I carefully un-taped each stocking photo ornament from the tree, and then drove to the store and stuffed the whole thing, folded up tree and ornaments alike, into a mailer and sent it off. I was not happy with this. I'm still not.

Fortunately, not every day was this frustrating. One bit of joy came when Seth and I (with intermittent help from Shulamith) decorated our Christmas tree. I have some advice for all those who want it. If you're going to have a capstone child seven years after your other four, make sure you have one as kind and delightful and overall wonderful as Seth Webster Erichsen. Just sayin'. I sat with my feet up, Christmas music playing in the background, and unwrapped our precious family ornaments. Seth took them, one by one, and as we discussed the history of each, placed them strategically on the tree. Once he finished, we dimmed the lights and sat frozen in time for a few seconds admiring the beauty before us. Bits and pieces of joy.

Last Sunday, I had the privilege to speak in Sacrament Meeting on the Restoration, a perfect topic for a missionary mom and also for someone who spends many hours out helping the sister missionaries. The few days leading up to Sunday, I decided to invite a couple of our investigators to church. Of course the sisters already do that every week, but I extended a special invitation since I would be speaking. Both agreed to come. One actually did! What a thrill to be seated up on the stand and to see him walk in with our Ward Mission Leader. Bits and pieces of joy.

Another occurred just a couple days ago when the first real storm of the season came our way. I struggle mightily with the air quality (or lack thereof) here in the valley. My allergies react terribly to something called the "inversion." I don't fully understand the science of it, but I sure do know when it's happening, and it's been awful this fall. I cough and cough and cough. My sinuses ache. My throat tightens. And of course my anxiety tells me I'm dying of some exotic disease. But somehow precipitation clears out this crappy air, and Thursday morning I walked outside to a classic winter wonderland, took a deep breath, and felt miraculously better. Bits and pieces of joy.

Then just yesterday, Shulamith and I took our sons to visit Santa.We weren't sure what Swen would think of the guy in the red suit, but Seth was willing to help in any way he could. Theirs is a blessed relationship, Seth and Swen. I didn't know how Seth would react to new baby in the family, having been the "baby" himself for 12 years. But he fell in love with Swen right from the start, and the feeling is completely mutual. They are tight for sure. In fact, Seth holds the record for getting Swen to sleep in the shortest amount of time, just 10 minutes. "How do you do it?" we ask, we who have spent 40, 50, 60 and more minutes in that room trying to convince Swen to go to sleep. "I just stand by his crib and sing him 'ba, ba, ba,' and he lies down and goes to sleep." Well of course you do! Shulamith, why haven't we ever thought of that? Ha! Swen wasn't at all impressed with Santa, but we still got this great picture.

With just over four days to wait, may we  all slow down just a bit, long enough to focus our eyes on the manger and the birth of him who would forever change the world, one heart at a time. May we look past the hustle of last-minute shopping, holiday food prep, and countless other Christmas tasks, that we may have time to discover the bits and pieces of joy.

A Mother's Arms are Filled with Many Things

Around 10:00 on Thanksgiving morning, just as I finished watching the Macy's Parade and dreaming of the day Shulamith and I can visit New York City and see it in person, I headed out to the convenience store down the street to get a newspaper for the Black Friday ads and Diet Cokes on ice for Shulamith and me. For the record, we generally wait until later in the day to drink Diet Coke; in the morning we really try to drink water. But holidays are exceptions, right? Right. It would not have occurred to me to take Shulamith's baby with me on this little jaunt, except that for some reason, he really wanted to go. He wanted to go so much that he literally followed me down the stairs, sliding on his tummy like toddlers do, and then attempted to follow me out the door, waving bye-bye to everyone in the house. Well what could I do if it was that important to him? I picked him up and put him in the car.

Inside the store, I put him down to fill our drinks and grab the newspaper, and as I was paying, I wondered just how difficult it might be to get back out to my car with two large Diet Cokes, a giant newspaper filled with Black Friday ads, and Swen! Just as I decided I would need to make two trips, a kind man behind me said, "I'll carry those drinks out for you," and he picked them right up. On our way out to my car, he continued, "A mother's arms are filled with many things."

Indeed they are. In this case, he meant that literally, and it's true literally; it's often so very true. Our arms are filled with dishes and laundry and irons and toys and homework and backpacks and lunch boxes and missing socks and, of course, babies! But it also occurred to me that this man's statement is also true figuratively. A mother's arms are filled with many things:

Sometimes, they are filled with worry. Yesterday was the first real storm of the season, and we awoke to a blanket of beautiful white snow but also treacherous driving conditions. I immediately thought about Isaiah, whose car doesn't handle all that well in the snow, driving to school and work and wherever else he needed to go. I texted him. I did. I try really, really hard not to bother my adult children with texts and calls. I rarely initiate contact with any of them; I figure they'll get in touch with me if they want to. But in this case, I deviated from that standard and texted Isaiah. Because I was worried. He texted right back saying he was indeed out and, yes, road conditions were awful, but he was being careful. A mother's arms are sometimes filled with worry.

Other times they are filled with angst. It's not exactly the same as worry. It's that feeling of dread just before our children are about to perform in a recital or play in a soccer game or cheer at a state tournament or dance in The Nutcracker. We so desperately want them to do well, to excel in their chosen activity, and most importantly to feel good about it. We say a silent prayer for them, and we sit frozen on the edge of our seats. I experienced this feeling just last night at Seth's holiday piano recital. He had worked so hard on his two pieces, and I wanted that effort to be rewarded with his best performance. It was. He played beautifully. But as always, I sat with my hands clinched together, praying for every single note to be correct. A mother's arms are sometimes filled with angst.

Other times they are filled with pride and joy. Whether its our kindergartner dressed as a shepherd in the Christmas pageant, our 3rd grader playing Ebenezer Scrooge in his class production of A Christmas Carol, our 8th grader representing his school at the state spelling bee, or our senior in high school singing a solo in his high school's production of Brigadoon, nothing fully describes the joy that fills our bodies from head to toe as we watch our children do whatever it is they do. Even when we don't get to watch in person, the feeling is the same. Just the other day, a church member from Tennessee, whose friend is taking the missionary discussions, posted a picture of Eli at church with this gentleman, and included these words: "I'm so grateful I can trust my friends Elders Webster and Hadlock to teach my friend, Tom, the truths of the restored gospel." Yes, sometimes a mother's hands are filled with pride and joy.

Other times they are filled with sorrow. As the saying goes, "A mother is only ever as happy as her saddest child." If we could, we would shield them from all of it. All the pain. All the disappointment. All the fear. All the judgment. All the danger. We would gladly take it all ourselves if we could only protect them. But of course that's not possible, so instead we live it right along with them. We hurt when they hurt. We cry when they cry. We are their advocates always, their soft place to fall, their forever friends.

Always, our hands are filled with gratitude. Though it is the hardest job we will ever do, much harder than we ever imagined, motherhood is the best job, the very best, and every day we give thanks for the opportunity to raise these precious children. And always, our hands are filled with hope because no one sees more clearly the potential in these beautiful little people than we, their moms. And always, our hands are filled with love, a love like no other, a love we never before thought ourselves capable of. For sure, it's the closest thing in life to understanding God.

A mother's hands are filled with many things.

So It's Probably the Craziest Thing I've Ever Done

...okay, let me backtrack. Between 1993 and 2004, we lived in a town called Mt. Vernon, 60 miles north of Seattle. During our time there, I had a friend named Joanne who made baby quilts. All the time. Dozens and dozens of them. She made quilts for every baby she knew and some she didn't. Not kidding. She would just happen to meet someone with a baby and think to herself, "That baby needs a quilt." Then she'd go home and make one. These quilts were seriously beautiful, absolute works of art. I watched her make them, one after the other, the entire process from start to finish, over and over. I was forever in awe of her talent.

Here is a picture of Seth holding the quilt she made for him 12 years ago when he was born:

Fast forward 12 years, and Shulamith is pregnant with Baby Swen. And I think to myself, "This baby will need a 'Joanne' quilt." But how? Okay, you guys know me pretty well. You know that my skill set is woefully limited. In fact, it takes only very basic math to count the number of things I can do. There are just three:

1. I can give talks in church.
2. I can teach English classes or Gospel Doctrine lessons.
3. I can write blog posts or edit text for others.

Yep that's it. I can't do anything else, and I am positively clueless about all things domestic. Sewing? Making a quilt? You've got to be kidding! But I'm also rather OCD, and for some reason I got this bee in my bonnet about Shulamith's baby having one of these quilts, so much so I decided that against all odds, I was going to make him one. Crazy? Absolutely. I mean come on....I've never so much as sewn on a button or made a hem. Never.

The first step was going to a fabric store to buy all the stuff. This was the nightmare experience I lovingly refer to as The Twilight Zone. You can read about it here if you like. After that it was a matter of remembering exactly what Joanne did and in what order. First, she would lay out the bottom piece and then put the white fuzzy stuff on top. Then she would put the top piece over the fuzzy stuff sort of like a sandwich and then pin the whole thing together. So that's what I did. Now it was time to begin the actual stitching. Sigh. Heavy sigh. Stitching is hard. I'm so not good at it. Even harder is threading the stupid needle, which seems to come apart about ever two minutes. Then there's the constant finger poking. Ouch! "Why do people do this?" I asked myself time and time again. It gives new meaning to the term "masochism."

My goal was to have the thing done by the time Swen was born, but as you know, he insisted that his mother deliver him a full month early, so alas, it wasn't done. By the time he was born, the actual stitching of the front was done, but I was utterly baffled by how to bind the edges. For the life of me, I couldn't remember how Joanne did it, and I still can't. I have some wonderful sewing friends, but sadly, they don't live nearby. One is in San Antonio, TX; one is in The Dalles, OR; and one is in Vancouver, WA. All of them offered advice from afar, and both Celeste (Texas) and Lorrie (Washington) offered to bind the quilt for me if I just mailed it to them. I considered both offers fairly seriously, but something held me back. I didn't know exactly what it was until Shulamith articulated it: "Are you sure you want to give up now?" she asked. No! I don't. I don't want to give up. This is the hardest thing I've ever done, and I want to finish it myself, but how? Oh how I wished that just one of those friends, Celeste, Diane, or Lorrie, were here to guide me through this final step.

Lorrie suggested that I buy something called "wide bias tape" for the edges. I thought that was a funny name: bias tape. It sounds like tape that is prejudiced! Anyway, I got some, and sure enough, it fit perfectly around the edges of the quilt. All three friends suggested that I find a sewing machine to sew one side of the bias tape to the quilt and then hand-stitch the other side. Now I know Joanne did not use a machine. I know she didn't, and I obviously don't own one or have the slightest idea how to operate one. But after trying every other possible way I could think of and having zero luck, I decided I would need to follow my friends' advice and find someone with a machine. But who?

Keep in mind that I have no friends in the Salt Lake area. Well, except Shulamith, who knows exactly as much about sewing as I do. So I did the bravest thing ever. Really, you are going to be so impressed. I called up a lady from the ward who lives down the street from us. I barely know her. We are not friends or anything close to it, but I know she's one of those people who can do anything. She's what I call a "Celeste." Everything she touches turns to beautiful! So I called her up, told her who I was, and asked her if she owned a sewing machine. "I do," she replied. In fact, she apparently has two of them, one for regular sewing and one for something she called "searching"? Anyway, she said she would be more than happy to sew the bias tape on one side of the quilt edge and that it would take her maybe ten minutes. It took five.

I was home in no time and ready to hand-stitch the other side of the tape. That was two weeks ago, and finally, last night, at about 10:30, it was done. Totally done. You can't even imagine the relief that flowed through my body. Now be cautioned: You won't want to look too closely at any of it. The stitching is crappy. Like really, really crappy. But I figure Swen is a baby, so he won't know the difference, and Shulamith doesn't care at all about crappy stitching, so it's all good.

So here it is:

Probably the craziest thing I've ever done.