Comfort

I would like to define comfort for you.

• A pillow, blanket, and soft bed or couch
• A Diet Coke
• An episode of "Prison Break"
• Fresh blueberry muffins

Just so you know.

Happy 18th Birthday

Yesterday was Eli's birthday. And it wasn't just any birthday; it was his 18th birthday. Eighteen - the age of legal adulthood. I always joke with our kids that, regardless of what the law says, they aren't really adults until they're fully self-supporting, which for our kids comes at some point later, once they're finished with missions and undergraduate degrees. Nevertheless, yesterday Eli joined his older three siblings as a legal adult with all the privileges and responsibilities attached. As he looks to the future, I think he feels a certain degree of angst, along with the excitement and anticipation. With college and mission right around the corner, who wouldn't? Change is scary. But Eli will do just fine. There is no doubt in my mind.

Eli is special in so many ways. For one, his sweet personality and infectious smile make him irresistible. Everybody loves Eli. As his mom, I'm completely biased, but he's one of the most balanced, well-rounded kids I know. He enjoys so many different things. He loves to sing and to make others happy through song. Same with piano. He also enjoys sports, particularly basketball, and can be quite competitive. I don't think there was a happier soul alive than Eli last week when the Skyview Ward won the stake basketball championship. He told me he almost cried. He also loves church and has a steadfast testimony of the Gospel. Yesterday, on his birthday, he spoke in Sacrament Meeting about how he plans to serve an honorable mission and one day be a righteous husband, father, and Priesthood holder. This talk completed the final requirement for his Duty to God award.

So Happy 18th Birthday, Eli! The future is yours. Can't wait to sit back and watch what the world has to offer as you make your incredible mark on it.

Becoming Utes!

It's for real. The sign is in the yard. The lock box is on the door knob. The house is on the market.

Wow.

When you talk about something, dream about something, for months and months, it feels somewhat surreal when it begins to become reality. We have been planning for about a year to sell the house and relocate to Salt Lake City, with definite plans solidified this past summer. Let me backtrack.

When we moved to Billings in August of 2004, we committed to stay here until Eli graduated from high school. He was just 11 then and headed into 6th grade. His high school graduation, or even Isaiah's for that matter, seemed far in the future. We were prepared to settle in and raise our "middle boys" in Billings, and that's exactly what we did. Looking back, I marvel at how those 6-1/2 years disappeared so quickly. In some ways, it feels as if we just moved here. We have had so many good experiences and met so many good people, but we always knew we would not stay forever. We looked forward to what we called our "window of opportunity," when Eli would graduate and Seth would still be in elementary school one more year. It's hard for kids to move once they're in middle or high school. Our window of opportunity is now.

Originally, we weren't sure where we'd go next. I dearly love the Pacific Northwest which is "home" to both Gerald and me. I love the mountains and the ocean. I LOVE the rain! But alas, none of our children are there, and yeah, kids trump mountains and ocean and even rain. Our two older sons are still in college, and Eli's headed to college in the fall, so we have no idea where they will eventually wind up. Only Shulamith is settled, and she is in Salt Lake City. Isaiah is currently there too! Since I spend a ridiculous amount of money flying there to visit them pretty much every month, we decided Utah was the place to go. We've joked that if the Billing Logan Airport closes down after we move this summer, you'll know why. Possibly even the Denver Airport as well since I spend half my life there en route to SLC. We truly hope our other kids will one day join us in Utah. I suppose it's unlikely that they would all ultimately settle there, but I can hope.

So there you have the history which brings us to listing our house for sale two days ago. We're slightly behind our planned time-table; we intended to list the house "after the first of the year." It is indeed after the first of the year, but when we said that, we sorta meant January, not March. There were just a couple of glitches, things that needed to be done before we could list, including having our roof replaced after the storm last summer.

Selling a house is a very unfamiliar experience. We have sold only one home previously. That was in Mount Vernon, and in that case, by the time we had a competent realtor we were already living here in Billings. I have learned a great deal in the past week, and I expect there is lots more to learn. One thing I can tell you for sure: A house fit for showing is entirely incompatible with a house fit for living, especially when you have kids. Following instructions from our excellent real estate agent, we cleared out much furniture, packed up nearly all wall photos, and cleaned and double-cleaned every inch of the house. Our job now is to somehow keep it this way at all times. This, I'm afraid, will be easier said than done. After only two days, I find myself wondering how we'll ever keep the house in "show" condition constantly. I'm trying not to stress. Other people, even those with kids, manage to sell their houses while still living in them, right? Right. We can do it too.

So wish us luck as we set forth on a new adventure, leaving Montana behind and becoming Utes.

You Might Be in Rexburg, Idaho If...

Friday evening, Gerald, Eli, Seth, and I loaded into our little red car and set out for Rexburg, Idaho. This was not the original plan. When I first planned out this trip, I intended to drive myself and Seth to Utah for my spring break (which is now!), stopping in Rexburg to visit Lindsey for a couple days both on the way down and on the way back. What a great plan, right? I miss Lindsey terribly, and Rexburg is the perfect location to break up the long drive to Salt Lake City. It never occurred to me that during SPRING BREAK (!), the weather would interfere with my plans. I should have considered this, I suppose, considering this has been the worst winter in Billings in the seven years we've lived here, and it's usually even worse in Idaho.

The week before we were scheduled to leave, the forecast was horrible! Snow was predicted in Billings, Rexburg, Salt Lake City, and on every mountain pass in between, with a high temperature of just one degree. Bleh! I was sad and worried. I really dislike driving in snow, especially by myself with Seth in the car. So many things could go wrong. Aside from the obvious fear of sliding out of control into a ditch or (worse!) into another car, there's this issue of the terrible cold. What if the car broke down or got a flat tire, and Seth and I were stuck in below- zero weather by the side of the road? Sensing my discouragement and anxiety, Gerald kindly volunteered to drive Seth and me to Rexburg Friday evening. Seth and I would spend the weekend with Lindsey and then ride the shuttle down to Salt Lake City Sunday. Gerald would spend one night in Rexburg and return to Billings Saturday. Then he would come back and pick us up in Rexburg the following weekend. Plan B, for sure, but a good Plan B. When Eli heard about this, he decided to come too, so he could tour the campus of BYU-Idaho where he will be attending in the fall.

Plan B worked flawlessly. It was cold for sure, but the roads were actually much better than we expected. I really could have driven it myself, but I'm glad I didn't have to. I far prefer being a passenger. I can relax, read, and write blog posts. How perfectly lovely! I spent Friday night and all day Saturday in Rexburg with Lindsey and her family. It wasn't a long time, but we made the most of every second. Emma, Jase, and Hanna are growing so quickly. I don't realize how much I miss them until I'm with them. Hanna fell asleep at the bowling alley, and I got to hold her in my arms for a nice long time: pure delight. Lindsey and I got some good time to ourselves as well. Saturday morning we attended a women's conference where Relief Society General President Julie B. Beck was the speaker/presenter. It was so, so good. Then we bought beads, so Lindsey could make beautiful watch band bracelets for Shulamith and me. Saturday night we went to see "The Tourist," a good movie, by the way; I recommend it.

I had never spent much time in Rexburg until Lindsey moved there, and I'm still discovering new and interesting things. Since Eli will be there this fall, it's good that I am familiarizing myself with the little town. In case you're interested, you might be in Rexburg, Idaho if...

...it's so cold and snowy, you actually wish you were in Billings, Montana.

...on Sunday, you feel like you're in a ghost town because almost nothing is open.

...you go to a movie, and it costs $3.00 for your ticket, plus $7.00 for a "date night" package that includes a large popcorn and two large drinks.

...before the movie starts, the advertisements on the screen say "Got honor?" or "Got integrity?" and tell you how wrong it is to sneak food into the theatre.

...you find CTR rings for sale in Walmart.

...there seems to be a disproportionate number of jewelry stores and bridal shops.

I look forward to returning to Rexburg again this weekend, probably again in May, and most certainly many times this fall when Eli is there. It is a quaint little town with a personality all its own.

Celebrating "Lasts"

As of this past December, Gerald and I have been in the parenting business for exactly 26 years. It doesn't seem like nearly that long, but indeed, that's how long it has been. By the time Seth leaves home (assuming he goes off to college at 18), we will have been parenting for 34 years. Not that parenting ends when kids turn 18; it most certainly does not. In fact, in some ways it becomes more complicated with young adults. As I've said before, my absolute favorite time of life was the three years I had all five kids home, after Seth was born and before Luke left for college.

In many ways, I'm sure we are typical parents. We think our kids are the smartest, most talented, best looking, most amazing kids ever born. We know full well we're not objective, and we really don't care. In other ways, though, we are somewhat unusual. We have always embraced a parenting style that assumes the kids, themselves, generally know best what they need. I've sometimes referred to it as “live and let live” parenting. Love them. Serve them. Make sure they know we're there for them, and then basically sit back and let them live their lives. Neither of us is or ever has been a disciplinarian. We have no idea how to do that and no real desire to learn. We tried to model self-discipline and then hoped they would each learn that for him/herself. And they did. We could not have been blessed with easier kids to raise, and though we're not nearly finished (thank goodness!), Seth shows promise of growing into a wonderful adult one day just like his siblings.

One part of “live and let live” is trusting that young children generally know for themselves when they're ready for the next developmental step and allowing them to develop at their own rate without pressure to achieve milestones on our (or others') timetable. That can be challenging sometimes when parenting can feel like a race to see whose child is first to do this or first to do that. Surely the kid who sits up first, crawls first, walks first, talks first, or is the first out of diapers is superior and more intelligent, right? WRONG. Human development is not a race. Parenting is not a race.

Along this line, I was thinking the other day about how each of our kids has his/her own personal “last.” Each reached a particular development step at an older age than all the others. Luke, for example, was the last to walk. At around a year old, he mastered crawling, and by the time he was 17 months when Shulamith was born, he was crawling everywhere, but nowhere near ready to walk. Anxious new mom that I was, I asked our pediatrician, “Is this normal?” because all around me were children much younger than Luke running around. “Absolutely!” she replied. “Walking is a neurological process, and when Luke is ready, he will stand up and walk.” And so he did. At about 18 months.

If you know Shulamith at all, you probably won't need to think too hard to discover her personal “last.” She was our last child to eat. Okay, yeah, all my babies nursed from infancy, a couple to ripe old ages, but I mean actually eat...like food. As she approached a year old, we knew she needed to get going with some solid food. At about a year, babies need a couple proteins not found in breast milk. Near the end of her first year, we started to introduce some solid foods, and guess what? She hated everything! She spit out all baby food and threw finger food on the floor. Without pressuring her, over time we found a few things she would eat, and today, she is still the pickiest eater on the planet. Whenever we discover yet another food she doesn't like, Matt jokes that of course she doesn't like it: it's not meat, peanut butter, eggs, bread, or rice.

Then there is Isaiah. If you read this post, you already know his personal “last.” He was by far the last of our kids to talk. At age three, he spoke nine words. We had a list on the refrigerator because we were so excited over all nine of them. When he went to preschool, his teacher greeted him at the door on the first day and said, “Can you tell me your name?” Isaiah replied with the sweetest, quietest little voice, “saiah.” (Isaiah pronounced without the “I”). That was the one and only word he spoke in preschool the entire year. I can't really remember when he started to talk more, but he did, at least a little bit. He is still a quiet kid although, ironically, he's an excellent writer and public speaker.

Eli holds the record in the family for the last child to wean. When I said “ripe old age,” with Eli, I wasn't kidding. I decided to let him self-wean. I know that, for so many reasons, it isn't always possible, but when it is, I absolutely believe in child-led weaning, and I love toddler nursing! Here's a funny story about Eli, well a couple funny stories actually. From the time Eli was two, I stopped ever suggesting or encouraging breast-feeding. When he would ask for milk, I'd say, “Okay, let's get you some milk” and head for the refrigerator. More often than not, this was fine with Eli, but occasionally, he would inform me, “I don't want milk from the frigerfrator, I want milk from YOU!” As is typical in natural weaning, over time Eli chose to nurse less and less often. He was about 3-1/2 the very last time. But here's the funny part. About six months after that, my visiting teacher came over with her newborn baby. While we visited, she nursed her baby. When Eli saw this, he was very curious. “What is she doing?” he asked. “She's feeding her baby. That's how babies eat. They drink milk from their mommies. You used to drink milk from Mommy, Eli,” to which he replied indignantly, “I DID NOT. I would never do that.” Short-term memory problem??

That leaves Seth. Can you guess what his personal “last” might be? I'm pretty sure it's the thing new moms fret over the most. For some reason, it can be such a sensitive and emotional issue and, sadly, can feel like the absolute definition of good parenting. What am I talking about? Yep, bathroom independence. There is this underlying (and totally false!) notion that the true indication of a good mommy is how quickly she can get those babies out of diapers. Seriously, these little people have so little control over their lives, can we at least give them this? Can we at least let them decide for themselves when they're ready to give up diapers and use the bathroom. I realize it's no fun changing toddler diapers, and I know diapers are expensive, but well, it doesn't last forever. They truly don't wear them to kindergarten. Oh yeah, how old was Seth, you are wondering. He was 4-1/2.

So while most parents celebrate their kids' “firsts,” I decided in this post to celebrate my kids' “lasts.” If my words can help even one new mom chill over one of these issues and just enjoy her child, my purpose is served.

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.

Schadenfreude

I have probably mentioned at some point in this blog my love affair with the German language. I studied German for four years in college and fell in love. For me, it was more than simply satisfying my foreign language requirement; I desperately yearned to learn this language. In pursuit of that goal, I did several things: I hung out with German foreign exchange students. I listened to cassette tapes (yes, I'm that old) daily to perfect my pronunciation. I covered the walls of my dorm room with German vocabulary. I was, indeed, one serious German student.

By the time I graduated, I had perfected my German "ziemlich gut." I was far from fluent, but I could get along okay in basic conversations. At that point I honestly believed I would one day speak the language fluently and flawlessly. I wanted to live in a German-speaking country long enough to make this happen, and I seriously planned to one day do just that. Over two decades later, that has not yet happened. What happened instead was marriage and five remarkable kids, who obviously trump studying German any day. Still, it is an unfilled dream, one I expect will remain with me forever.

Every now and then, I get the chance to test my oh-so-long-ago German skills. Last summer when we were in Costa Rica, we stayed at a small hotel owned and managed by a German couple. I spent hours just listening to them. The sound of the German language still captivates my soul. And though I couldn't catch even half of what they were saying, I felt at home listening. This is my foreign language. I used to know it well. I still know it to some extent, and I still love it. One of the things I love most is the way many German words are so vivid and so precise. A television, for example, is a Fernsehapparat. Fern = picture; seh = seeing; apparat = machine. So literally, a Fernsehapparat is a "picture seeing machine." How perfect!

Some of these words are so descriptive that they've made their way into the English language because we simply don't have anything that translates well enough. One such word, angst, I wrote about earlier. Another one comes to mind because of an experience I had last week:

Schadenfreude.

Literally, Schaden means pain or discomfort or sadness, while Freude means joy. Putting the two words together, we get Schadenfreude, which refers to the feeling of joy over someone else's pain or misfortune or suffering. Have you ever felt Schadenfreude? Have you ever rejoiced inside over someone else's unhappiness? Okay, you don't have to admit it. You're quite right; it isn't a kind feeling. It isn't the least bit Christlike. In fact, Schadenfreude represents the natural man at his (or her) absolute worst.

Last week, during a conversation, I have to confess I felt pure Schadenfreude. It was an uncomfortable conversation for the other person, although not for me. The longer it went on, the worse it got for him. I could have jumped in and said something to lessen the angst, but I did not. Not particularly fond of this individual, I chose instead to sit passively and watch him squirm and sweat. And the longer I watched him squirm and sweat, the more overjoyed I felt inside. Pure Schadenfreude. I am not proud of this reaction, but it was very real. Thankfully, I don't feel Schadenfreude often. In fact, I can't even remember the last time I felt it before this conversation last week.

No, Schadenfreude is not a feeling to be proud of. It is not kind, loving, or charitable. It's downright mean if you think about it. Nevertheless, it's awfully human. And leave it to the Germans to find the perfect word to describe it.