Kick 'em to the Curb

I've heard it said that the huge fence surrounding the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah is there not to keep missionaries in, but to keep mothers and grandmothers out. Having just looked at it up close yesterday, I can testify that it would indeed be a tough climb over, but I'm sure that hasn't stopped a mother or two from trying. No matter how you slice it, leaving one's precious child for two years is not easy for us moms.

The process for dropping young elders (oxymoron?) and sisters at the MTC has changed dramatically between the time we sent our first missionary and now. When we delivered Luke there in 2006, we were allowed to park our cars, gather his luggage, and with our entire family, enter the doors of the MTC right along with him. We were greeted by loving missionary couples, and I was given Luke's missionary name tag, "Elder Erichsen," which I got to pin on him. We then moved into the chapel, where we attended a brief meeting. The MTC president and his wife spoke, assuring us of their love for our kids and their promise to care for them just as we would during the time they are there. Lastly, we sang the familiar hymn "Called to Serve" and were admonished by the MTC president to "push back those tears and sing it like you mean it!" And we did. All too soon, the meeting ended, and after final hugs goodbye, new missionaries exited through one door, and families through another.

Yesterday was an entirely different experience. A few years ago (2009?), the Swine Flu hit our country hard, and church leaders decided that perhaps it wasn't wise to bring several hundred missionaries, along with their parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins into the MTC every Wednesday to associate in close contact, creating the ideal environment to pass around harmful germs. So they instigated this curbside drop-off method instead. We all assumed that once the imminent threat of Swine Flu subsided, they would return to the former process, but they did not. I don't know for sure, but my guess is the new way was so much more efficient and less time consuming that they decided to make the change permanent.

I was sufficiently warned by my students at LDS Business College what to expect. Many of them are recently returned missionaries themselves. They told me to be sure to say all our goodbyes ahead of time before even driving onto the MTC campus. "Say everything you want to say, and do everything you want to do because once you get in there, elders will descend upon your car, remove your son's luggage, remove your son, and before you know it, you'll be left standing there on the curb alone. Yikes! Okay, calm down, Terrianne. You can do this. Other mothers do this.

It wasn't quite that bad. It was quick, yes, but it wasn't hurried. It was peaceful actually. As we drove through the front gates, we were greeted by many enthusiastic missionaries. "Welcome to the MTC!" they exclaimed. We were directed where to park next to the curb, and as we got out of the car, a young elder came up and shook Eli's hand, patted him on the back, and said "Welcome to the MTC, man!" Eli smiled as only Eli can and responded with equal enthusiasm. The elder asked Eli if he had any cell phones with him. Right answer: No. And if he had his immunization record. Right answer: Yes. At that point, this sweet young man stepped to the side, as though to give our family a bit of privacy.

By now, I could not hold back my tears. My friend Diane told me it was my calling as a mother to cry. I definitely fulfilled my calling. I hugged Eli as tight as I could and whispered to him how much I love him and that nothing he could do in the entire world could make me prouder than I was in that moment. He shook hands with his dad and sort of hugged (Gerald doesn't really hug), and said goodbye to both Isaiah and Seth. One final hug for me, and he was off, glowing with happiness, so excited to embark on this incredible opportunity to serve the Lord.

How Do You Spell Relief?

In January, I posted about my chronic anxiety disorder and its tendency to present itself in irrational fear of fatal disease. A friend of mine who reads this blog commented in response. She mentioned struggling with anxiety herself and some counsel she received from a kind bishop, who asked her, "can you think of an entity that would want to rob you of the peace you deserve?" When I read those words, I recognized for the first time the source of much of the anguish I experience when my anxiety is high. That is not to say I doubt the biological component that exists; I don't. But I do know who would most love to take full advantage of that situation and exploit it to the fullest. I vowed that next time this wretched condition reared its ugly head, I would try my best to defeat it by recognizing its source.

I'd like to tell you I was successful in this attempt, but alas, that is not the case. I can tell you I tried. I really did. I tried hard. And perhaps I would have been worse off if I hadn't tried? Perhaps. But once again, this crappy stuff got the best of me. It's been a rough week. And it was about the last thing I needed the very last week before Eli enters the MTC. Yep, about the very last thing. Here's what happened.

I awoke Sunday morning with a very sore muscle in my upper left thigh. I didn't pay a lot of attention to it the first day, but by Monday when it was not only sore, but swollen and hard and bruised, I was imagining all sorts of horrible illnesses. This went on all week. I'd have some rational periods for sure, but they were all too quickly overpowered by thoughts of dying, and especially what that would mean for my family. I am first and foremost a mom. How would an 11-year-old little boy get along without his mother? Would Eli have to come home from his mission? Would I even get to meet Shulamith's baby? Yeah, my mind spins right out of control to all these places, and I just can't stop it. Have I mentioned that anxiety really sucks?

Then, tonight, I figured out what most probably caused this injury. Her name is Kitty, and she is a 60-lb Boxer puppy whom I love more than anything. She is seriously the sweetest dog ever, but she's very playful, and she loves to jump right up on your lap as though she were a toy poodle. As I was sitting here tonight with ice on my thigh, it occurred to me that last weekend, Kitty had done just that. I was lying on my bed, and she jumped up and landed with her paw right on my thigh. Then she just stood there with paw digging into my thigh, until I picked it up and removed it. OUCH!

The most interesting part of all this is the incredible relief I felt once I figured it out. My entire body had been in "fight or flight" mode for six days. Every muscle was tense. When I finally made sense out of this injury, it was instantaneous relief. And so joyous! It's like I need some way to celebrate RIGHT NOW! When you have been so scared for so many days in a row, with no reprieve, once it's over and the fear is gone, the sense of well-being is overwhelming.

How do you spell relief?

K-I-T-T-Y!

Sympathy Over the Top

As most of you already know, Shulamith is pregnant and expecting a baby boy in late June. So naturally, she's experiencing normal pregnancy symptoms. Those amazing hormones that work so hard to produce a perfect little baby can cause some less-than-desirable side effects for mom. It's to be expected. It's worth it. Totally.

That is, as long as you get a baby in the end. And that's the problem. For some reason, I seem to be experiencing some of these symptoms, myself, except I'm not pregnant. Why is this happening? Sympathy symptoms? Pheromones? I don't know. What I do know is if I got my own baby in the end, this would all be worth it, but since I won't get a baby, I'll pass on the pregnancy symptoms, thank you very much!

First, I've gained 5 pounds since Shulamith's been pregnant. Yes, I often gain a little bit through the holidays, but by March (!), those pounds are most certainly gone. Not this time. Ugh!

Then there's the acne. Let's be clear: I do not get acne. I didn't have it as a kid. I didn't have it as a teenager. I didn't even have it when I was pregnant. But Shulamith has been plagued with it during her pregnancy, and guess what? Suddenly, I have pimples on my face. For the first time ever! Just as one big annoying one was about gone, I awoke this morning to three ugly, new ones on my chin. Double ugh!

Lastly, there are the aches and pains pregnant women often have, the result of stretching that obviously goes on inside to make room for the baby. Shulamith often feels achy in her lower left abdomen. Her doctor has reassured her that all is well; it's just those ligaments stretching in ways they never have before. So the other day, I woke up feeling distinctly achy in my lower abdomen. "Are you kidding me?" I thought. This is beyond ridiculous.

Like I said, if I could look forward to my own baby, I'd be more than happy to deal with all these symptoms and more. But since that's not the case, the "sympathy pregnancy symptoms" can stop any time.

Is March Making Isaiah Mad?

Until one year ago, I had never heard of such a thing as "March Madness." We are not sports fans. Not at all. I've often joked that I married the one man on the planet even less interested in sports than I am. It's just not our deal. We don't really get the point of it. Why would we want to watch other people play games?

The single exception to this is when one of our children is playing. That changes everything. I love to watch my children do just about anything. Without question, I prefer the choir concerts, piano recitals, plays, and dance performances over sporting events, but if it's sports they're playing, I'm totally down. Shulamith played basketball, softball, and soccer as a child. Then she cheered for high school football, basketball, and wrestling. So yeah, I attended my share of sporting events (every game she cheered at for three years, actually), but my purpose there was to watch her cheer, not to watch the sports themselves. Then came Eli, who played football, baseball, and basketball through elementary and middle school, and even into high school if you count church basketball. I watched nearly all his games.

But watch college or professional sports? Not a chance. I don't even know those people. Why would I care about their games or whether they win or lose? Unless one of my kids is playing, I'm not interested. And until last year, Isaiah felt the same. He was not an athlete, himself, and to the best of my knowledge, he never once attended a single sporting event in his four years at Skyview High School. His interests lay with other activities: video-games, Business Professionals of America, and choir. In college, his one and only focus has been computer programming.

So you can imagine my surprise last spring when he told me he was in some sort of basketball pool. Apparently, each year in March, a bunch of college basketball teams compete in a tournament called "March Madness." And last year, Isaiah somehow got involved in betting on which team would win. I tried to dissuade him, reminding him that gambling is never a good idea, but he rationalized that $10 isn't enough money to be considered gambling. Hmmm. I was still living in Billings at the time, so I wasn't as closely aware of this whole deal as I am now. I only know that he managed to win the whole pot and come out of the Madness $100 richer.

Fast forward one year. It appears March Madness is once again in full swing. Every Friday I pick Isaiah up at his dorm and bring him home for the weekend. His weekend job is much closer to our house than Westminster, so he almost always stays with us from Friday to Sunday. Today, however, he texted me and asked me to pick him up at a coffee shop a few blocks from campus. Okay, fine. When I arrived, I learned that he and his friends were forced to go there to watch the game after the power suddenly went out on campus. The second we got home, he raced into Seth's room to turn on some game, knowing full well I wouldn't allow sports on my TV. Evidently, there was some sort of upset in this particular game because we heard Isaiah screaming at the TV set. This is my Isaiah we're talking about. At least he looks like Isaiah.

Dragging himself away from the TV to go to work, he mentioned that he doesn't know when he'll be able to write the English paper that's due Monday because he will have games to watch every waking, non-working moment of the weekend. Seriously? How could anybody watch that much basketball. It all looks exactly the same. One team gets the ball, and they all run down court, and the one team tries to shoot. Then the other team gets the ball, and they run the other way and do it on the other side. Over and over and over and over. Occasionally, just to keep people from dying of boredom, they all line up around the basket and let one guy shoot without bothering him. That's really all there is to this game.

Which brings us to these questions: Has Isaiah been abducted by aliens who've put someone else inside his body? Has he undergone a personality transplant? Did he hit his head too hard?

Or is March making Isaiah mad?

Faith. Family. Friends.

FAITH
Though he doesn't leave for another two weeks, Eli gave his farewell talk in Sacrament Meeting yesterday. It felt a little early to be doing this, but next week is our Ward Conference, so it had to be yesterday. I sat stoically in the second row of the chapel and watched my baby boy address the congregation with poise, grace, confidence, and an unshakable testimony. I didn't make a scene (don't worry!), but I wiped quiet tears from my eyes over and over, as he spoke of his love for the Savior, for the Restored Gospel, and for the people of Arkansas, even though he has yet to meet them.

FAMILY
It was only our immediate family (and not even all of those) with us yesterday. Luke and his family are in Indiana, and all our extended relatives live in the Pacific Northwest. Still, those of us here in Utah were united in our support of Eli. We will send him off with bittersweet tears, with unyielding love, with the promise of constant prayer, and with anticipation of his happy homecoming two years from now. Will this missionary mom be counting the days? Oh yeah.

FRIENDS
We don't know the members of our ward very well; for one moment (just ONE, mind you), I wished we were back in Billings where Eli has friends, former primary teachers and youth leaders, people who love him. Everyone in our ward here was friendly and supportive, of course, but realistically, they only met Eli in December; they can't know him well. They don't have a history with him. They didn't watch him grow up. So it was a quiet farewell, but lovely just the same.

To my delight, some of my best friends made the effort to travel here to be with us. Lindsey and David and their kids drove down from Rexburg. They know all my children, but they are particularly close to Eli. David was Eli's first Aaronic Priesthood adviser when he was a brand new Deacon seven years ago. Lindsey and David watched him grow up; he babysat their kids. And last semester, they sort of replaced Gerald and me as Eli's substitute parents when he spent his first semester at BYU-Idaho. They picked him up every Sunday and took him to their home for dinner. They let him do his laundry there. They took him to his dentist appointments when he was preparing his mission papers. He loves them very much.

In addition, my long-time friend Patty and her daughter drove up from LaVerkin. While Patty only knows Eli through our long-distance correspondence, she is always supportive of missionaries. She dragged her entire family to Luke's mission farewell in Billings in 2006. It was such a treat to have her and her daughter (also named Lindsey) with us yesterday.

Faith. Family. Friends. As I prepare to send my Eli off for two whole years, I'm profoundly thankful for all three.

Don't Forget Ordicles

So I was just talking to my mom about my most recent blog post "Think of a Fantasy," and she said, "Don't forget ordicles." Ahh, how could I forget ordicles??? Rather than revising that post, I decided to add this little addendum because, well, we just can't forget ordicles.

Ordicles: A piece of yarn, long enough to be worn around the neck, with any number of things hanging from it, the more the better. Mine had safety pins, rubber bands, pop can tops (back when they came off the cans), gum machine rings, paper clips, etc.

I told my friends that they must wear their ordicles every day, and at one point nearly every little girl in my third grade class had them. Their mothers complained that they dressed their daughters up cute for school, only to have the whole outfit ruined by these ridiculous, home-made necklaces they insisted on wearing. I didn't care. Ordicles were important, right up there with cold-heat and The Order of the Pillows.

Yes indeed!

Think of a Fantasy

When I was six, a concerned mother called my mom. "Hello, is this Terrianne's mother? I live down the street from you, and I wanted to let you know that your daughter has been giving flying lessons to all the neighborhood kids, including my daughter! You hear of people jumping off buildings because they think they can fly, and well, I'm just a little concerned." Guilty!

The truth is I had recently seen the live theatre production of Peter Pan at Portland Civic Theatre. I, myself, was doing a show there, playing Baby June in the musical Gypsy, and my parents took me to the matinee production of Peter Pan, which was playing at the same time on the theatre's Blue Room stage. I was positively captivated by the magical world of Peter, Wendy, and Tinkerbell, so much so that I invented my own fantasy world and shared it with all my friends. And yes, that included flying lessons. I made everyone tie capes around their necks and jump off the picnic table in our backyard over and over, pretending to fly. The higher and farther they could jump, the better.

But it didn't end there. I also told them that the beach was under our cement patio. There was a small hole in the concrete, maybe three inches across, and the hole was filled with sand. So I told everyone that was the beach under there and that it needed to be fed. The beach liked to eat leaves and berries, grass, etc., and had to be fed three times daily. If I was going to be away from home, I'd set up a schedule and make my friends come over to feed the beach. Looking back now, what amazes me most is not this wild imagination, but the fact that these kids would actually do it. They did what I said. They would come over to my house, go out into the backyard, and put leaves into the hole in our patio.

And they would do other things I required. I made up an entity called "cold-heat." It was a clothes pin clipping hold of a cotton ball. The tricky part was the cotton ball had to remain wet at all times. If it dried out, cold-heat would die. My friends and I each had our own cold-heat, and we spent most of school recesses running to the drinking fountain in order to keep the cotton balls wet. When we wanted to do other things, we would find a babysitter. There was an amazing educator at the school named Mr. Cava. He taught 3rd grade (we were in 1st grade at the time), but he was always willing to babysit cold-heat during recess. He would stuff all these clothes pins and wet cotton balls into his pockets. This made it possible for me to give more flying lessons. There was a grassy hill at the very end of the school yard, and we could run down that hill and then use the momentum to propel us forward as we jumped, pretending to fly.

Years later, the friends had changed, but the desire for a fantasy life did not. I created an organization called "The Order of the Pillows." By this time I was a young teenager and member of a service organization called The International Order of Rainbow for Girls. At Rainbow slumber parties and at the yearly 3-day slumber party (AKA Grand Assembly), I made all the girls practice with pillows. We would lie on our backs and throw pillows into the air, in various twirling patters, then catch them on our feet. I made up whole routines with these pillows, and we would all learn them and perform them for whomever would watch. I invented a persona named Jean Escar, whom I said was the founder of the organization. I would write her name in phone books in the yellow pages under "Pillows." I still sort of believe in her. Until Google replaced phone books just a few years ago, I continued to write her name in all the phone books in our home. Despite what my husband and children thought, it made me happy to know that Jean was alive and well and still supervising The Order of the Pillows.

I hadn't thought about any of this in quite a long while, until Facebook recently connected me with the little girl whose mom was the one who called mine all those years ago with her concern about the flying lessons. Kathy commented, "I still have fond memories of the magical fantasy world you created when we were little." Ha, she remembers.