VIPKID: Can it cause mush brain?

Last spring, Shulamith began working for VIPKID, a company based in Beijing that teaches online English lessons to Chinese children. It's a wonderful job for at-home moms because teachers work entirely from home, and they choose when they work and how much. At first, I didn't consider applying myself; I already have a part-time job, teaching English at a two-year college, and that is plenty. However, at that time, because of its rapid growth, VIPKID was desperate for teachers and offering a $100 bonus for successful referrals.

I decided to go through the application/hiring process, just to get Shulamith the bonus. Of course anyone who works for VIPKID knows that the application/hiring process is the hardest part of the job by far. Once you're hired, it's a piece of cake, comparatively. I passed my initial interview and then went to the Mock I class. I thought that went very well, so I was annoyed when I learned that I'd need to do Mock II, so much so that I almost discontinued the process at that point, but then I thought about Shulamith's $100 and persisted.

Finally I was hired and could begin booking classes. I only had to teach one lesson for Shulamith to earn her bonus, but once I did that, I didn't want to stop. It's seriously so much fun, and the whole thing is sort of addictive. You get up, put on an orange shirt over your pajamas, talk to a cute Chinese kid for 25 minutes, and think to yourself, "I just made $10." So you do it again. And again. And again.

When I first started, I was in the middle of summer semester at my college, so I didn't open a lot of slots for bookings. But these past four weeks, I've been on break, so I opened tons of slots, including the very early morning peak hours. Beijing is 13 hours ahead of us, so prime time there is 5:00 a.m. - 7:00 a.m. our time. To be clear, I'm NOT a morning person. Come to think of it, I'm not really a night person either; I'm a "middle of the day" person. Yeah, that's what I am.

So these early hours are seriously kicking my trash. My brain might be turning to mush.

Evidence? Sunday I was scheduled to speak in church, my absolute most favorite thing ever, so I got up early, took a brief walk (only 2,000 steps), and jumped in the shower. I got out and went about my regular routine, starting with makeup, and then I removed the towel covering my head. What did I find? Slimy hair. Totally slimy. I had completely forgotten to rinse out the conditioner. What is wrong with me?!? Mush brain from VIPKID. Clearly.

Well this dilemma was quite a serious pickle because I had just applied flawless makeup. How would I get the slime out of my hair without destroying all that? I couldn't go back in the shower and let water run all down my face, so I had to rinse my hair ever so carefully in the sink. It wasn't a perfect rinse job, but I managed to get most of the slime out and style my hair as planned.

Whew.

Then, as it turned out, I didn't get to speak after all. Our bishop talked for 15 minutes before our meeting began, and then the first speaker went about 10 minutes over his time, leaving only five minutes for my talk. Nope. Not gonna work. I quickly texted the bishop and asked if he would like me to speak another day. He said, "How about next week?" Perfect! So now I get to be excited for another whole week. Woo.

My new semester began yesterday, so I've scaled back my VIP bookings to a manageable number. Perhaps this will cure my mush brain. We can only hope.

When you borrow an egg, it's about way more than just the egg; same with babies and even wedding cakes

Last night in my English class, my students were discussing how language is both a tool and a resource. It serves as a tool to get things done, but oftentimes it provides a richer resource, one that digs deeper and builds relationships. Our discussion reminded me of a sermon I once heard from an intuitive pastor a long time ago. He said, "When you borrow an egg, it's about way more than just the egg." He meant that far more important than acquiring the needed egg, the connection you build through the act of borrowing might forever change your life.

This past weekend I traveled to Rexburg, Idaho to do two things, visit Eli and his wife Amanda, and hang out with my friend Lindsey. I always feel like I'm double dipping when I can do both in one weekend, like I'm somehow cheating the universe; it results in a feeling if immense satisfaction, bordering on smugness even. It had been too long since Lindsey and I had spent any good time together. I was missing her. Lots.

Her second born and only son, Jase, is now 11. I will always be grateful to Jase for introducing Lindsey and me. Once upon a time, about 11 years ago, I was sitting in a Gospel Doctrine class in our ward in Billings, Montana. Behind me was a mother holding her newborn son. I didn't know her; I'm not even sure I knew her name, although maybe I did because I was Relief Society President at the time and made it my business to know all the sisters' names. At the time, my own baby was already six, and I definitely suffered from "empty arms syndrome," a condition that still haunts me now and then. I glanced back at this mother with a longing that she obviously sensed, because finally she said, "Would you like to hold him?"

Would I like to hold him? Uh.......yes.

She handed me Baby Jase, and just like that: a decade-long friendship began. One that would survive long-distance moves (neither of us lives in Billings anymore), two more babies (hers), significant events in my own children's lives, and more.

When you borrow a baby, it's about way more than just the baby.

Some friendships are eternal, and this is one of those. Along with some lovely extended conversations and two McDonald's meals (cuz it's what we do), good visits with David, and amazing hugs from each of their four kids, I also got to spend a bit of time with Eli, Amanda, and their cat, Ramsay.

It was a busy weekend for them; in addition to their regular work schedules, Amanda was helping a friend with her wedding, and the word "helping" is a gross understatement. Amanda not only lent this bride her wedding gown and assembled a "bride's wedding day survival kit," but she also volunteered to bake the wedding cake! I'm not even kidding. Now you may be wondering, "Is Amanda is a wedding cake baker?" Until this past weekend, no. She had never baked a wedding cake in her life. But she saw a need and she stepped up: "Sure! I can do this!"

When you bake someone a wedding cake, it's about way more than just the cake.

Throughout my three days in Rexburg, I watched Amanda care for this bride-to-be with meticulous detail. She did far more than just bake the cake (which was no easy task); she invested her time and her heart. Layer after layer, she worked, relentlessly, until late in the night. Once each layer was baked, cooled, and carefully frosted, she asked Eli to say a prayer that they could safely transport all of it to the reception. I have never seen someone work with more love.

I once borrowed a baby, and the result was a friendship I could have never imagined as I sat in that Sunday School class all those years ago.

Amanda once baked a wedding cake for a friend, and just look how lovely that turned out! But as always, the process was even greater than the product.

A wise pastor once said, "When you borrow an egg, it's about way more than just the egg."

He was right.

If only life were like "Arrival"

In the Oscar-nominated movie Arrival, time is not chronological. Events are not experienced one after another, but rather synthesized and often simultaneous. I hope that's how Heaven is. Then I'll never have to miss anything.

But here on earth, the well-known statement "I can't be two places at the same time" couldn't be more true, a dilemma I faced this past weekend.

My brother was throwing an 80th birthday celebration for my mom, and of course, it was also the weekend of the long-awaited total solar eclipse. I didn't think much about that three months ago when I booked my flight to Portland to attend my mom's party, but as the date grew closer, I thought, "Dang, it would have been fun to go with Gerald up to Rexburg to view the eclipse." But more than that, we all wondered what travel might be like, as residents of Portland were warned to basically stay home, because going anywhere would be a challenge. The eclipse would be 99% in Portland, so while not quite totality, about as near as you could get without driving 45 minutes south to Salem.

Would traffic to and from the airport be miserable? Would my flights be on time? Most importantly, would we have to cancel our beach trip Sunday, as a result? I only get home to Portland about once a year, so when I do, I really, really want to see the ocean! I miss it. Almost as much as I miss the rain. I did not get even one drop of rain this time, but I did get to go to the ocean. Ahhhh. Here is a picture of my mom and my brother and me right out on the beach to prove it:

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. The surprises began Friday night, when my brother picked me up at the airport, and we drove to my mom's house. That's right; she had no idea I was coming. Tom texted her to ask if he could stop by, and we just showed up at her door. I think she was pretty surprised. "How did this happen!? How did you do this!?"

Haha, on an airplane.

Saturday was the big bash as she became an octogenarian. Can you even believe that? Because I can't. My mom is young. How the heck can she be 80? When I told Isaiah I was going to Portland for her 80th birthday, he expressed my thoughts perfectly: "No! Grandma is not 80. That's ridiculous. She is a normal person that you can have a normal conversation with." Right Isaiah.

The party was a huge success. Tom decorated with balloons and banners and invited all her friends from her work, along with our family. His oldest daughter put together a video with each of his kids and each of my kids wishing her "Happy Birthday" and sharing their memories of Nanny/Grandma. (Tom's kids call her "Nanny" and mine call her "Grandma.") My personal favorite of all the messages was Eli singing "Happy Birthday" in Italian, but I may or may not be biased.

And of course if you're a Webster, the single most important element of any event is the food. So just look at these delicious pies made by my sister-in-law, Jacqueline.

Yep, chocolate cream and banana cream and both crazy delicious. It was such a treat to visit and catch up with Jacqueline after way too long, and she tells me the banana cream is "so easy." Indeed, I've heard that line many times, and it's rarely true, but I think I will at least try to make this because banana cream is Mathew's favorite pie, and Shulamith wouldn't get near a banana.

Sunday was beach day. We loaded into two cars and caravaned to Seaside for a day filled with fun, food, and fire. Highlights included riding the Tilt-A-Whirl (I LOVE that ride!) and eating an elephant ear. Dinner was yummy, and would have been delightful, except for a game my brother plays where he takes random, candid pictures of everyone and then sends them out on a group text thread. Ugh! Those who know me, know how I feel about candid photos. No way! If you want to take my picture, you give me fair warning so I can fix my hair and makeup, and then you count, "1-2-3." Duh. Taking frivolous, unplanned pictures and then sending them out to people is just wrong on so many levels.

The best part of the evening was the bonfire on the beach. These people are expert fire builders! Here are my cute nieces, Leslie, Katie, and Carley, getting started:

And just look at the result:

It was a cool evening, and the fire was warm and inviting. So much so that a passing mother with her six-year-old daughter (whose birthday it was) wandered over and asked to "borrow" some warmth against the cool ocean air. All I could think of was "My glowing fire, my loaf of bread, my roof's safe shelter overhead," as we gladly shared this lovely fire and made the little girl a birthday S'more.

It ended as quickly as it began. Before I knew it, Tom was driving me back to the airport early this morning. It's hard to say goodbye. So much of me would love to move back home. To my family. To the beautiful rain. To my many friends, all of whom I missed seeing this weekend because the visit was so brief.

Meanwhile, in Rexburg:

Gerald waited 38 years since the last total eclipse to see this one. And see it he did, up in Rexburg with Eli and Amanda. Was the whole thing as amazing as he thought it would be, I wanted to know:

"Awesome, with the stress on the 'awe.'"

As for me, I didn't really notice it. I think I was either riding Trax from the airport or walking home from the Trax station at its peak here. Maybe 93% just isn't that cool? It's an A-, so that seems good, but I didn't even notice a change in brightness. When I got home, I put on glasses and looked at it, just as the moon was at the very end of its pass with the sun. So I saw that. It was fine.

I guess we have to wait seven years to see the next one, and we'll have to travel south. Pretty far. Maybe we'll plan a trip down to Eli's mission to see it.

And so ends an eventful weekend. One day we will live in Heaven. And it will be like Arrival. And we won't miss anything. We will be able to attend birthday parties and total solar eclipses, in two different locations, at the same time.

And that will be truly awesome. For now, we'll settle for pictures. Here are some more:

Take heart; there is good in the world

Those who know me also know that I have zero observation skills. That, combined with an abysmal sense of direction, means I can't find my way out of a paper bag. So the best technology ever to happen for me....

....okay, no, not the BEST. The best technology advance is digital photography. Now I can see and delete all unflattering photos of myself before anyone else sees them. A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. No more getting family portraits taken, only to tear them all up and throw them away (happened multiple times).

But the NEXT BEST technology advance for me is GPS tracking. Because in addition to my lack of direction sense, I can't read a map to save my life. Maps look like nothing more than pieces of paper with cooked Ramen noodles thrown on top. Incomprehensible!

Welcome GPS. I love you. Really, I do.

So recently, I treated myself to something I've wanted for a long time: eyelash extensions. No more short, scrawny, thin eyelashes for me. A month ago, I drove down past Lehi to Saratoga Springs to get new lashes from a lovely girl named Shannon, on the recommendation of our family friend, Amy. I've known Amy since she was six years old; there was a time when I felt like her second mom. She grew up to be a cosmetologist, beauty consultant, hair stylist, and makeup/eyelash extension artist. And she is very, very good at all of this. So when she recommended Shannon, you can be sure I trusted that recommendation, enough to drive the 20 miles south to Shannon's home, where she has turned a bedroom into an eyelash salon.

How did I find her house, you may ask? With my GPS, of course! It worked perfectly, and I left with beautiful eyelashes. Thank you, Shannon. Thank you, Amy. I couldn't be more pleased.

Fast forward four weeks. The thing about these extensions is that they don't last. Every few weeks you need to get them "filled." So I made another appointment with Shannon for today, and off I went. No worries, I thought, as I put Shannon's address into my phone.

But then this happened.

Just as I exited the freeway, my loyal "friend" quit talking to me. That beautiful voice that informs me which way to turn, how far to drive, where my destination is, etc. just stopped completely. My phone was dead.

I tried not to panic. I failed. Here I was five minutes from my appointment time, with no earthly idea how to get there. I knew I took the right exit, but other than that, no clue. Thoughts ran through my mind, one after another, but nothing made any sense. I couldn't call anyone. I couldn't text anyone. I was totally lost somewhere south of Lehi in an industrial area. Well great.

I prayed for guidance and came upon a place of business that looked open, so I took my chances and went inside, where I found a storage company and a nice receptionist. I told her my dilemma, and we began to bounce ideas back and forth:

"You could use my phone and call the person." (Well, except I don't know her number.)

"You could tell me her name, and I could try to look her up." (Well, her name is Shannon, but I don't know her last name, so that's problematic.)

"You could call someone in your family, who might be able to help you." (Well, except by this point I was so frazzled that I couldn't remember anyone's number, not even Gerald's or Shulamith's. Duh.)

And then the light bulb moment! No, not mine, mind you, but this unnamed receptionist:

"Wait! What kind of phone do you have?"

I told her I have an iPhone, and she immediately pulled out an iPhone charger. For real she did!

I plugged in my phone and waited just a couple minutes for it to activate and called Shannon. As I was apologizing profusely for my tardiness and Shannon was telling me not to worry even a little bit, the receptionist asked for the address where I was going.

"I'll look it up on MapQuest in case your phone dies again."

I gave her the address, and she looked it up and printed out directions. I told Shannon I was on my way, thanked the kind receptionist, and hurried off. I got lost about three more time trying to follow the printed directions, so I used the last 1% of charge in my phone to call Shannon, who directed me the final couple of miles to her house.

Forty-five minutes late, I lay on the table and tried to relax as Shannon skillfully filled my eyelashes.

Why do I tell you all this? Because it's been a rough few days in our country. Truth be told, it's been a rough few months since that fateful day back in November and its sad culmination in January. Since then, it's been a bit like reading Jude the Obscure, where the crazy darkness worsens page by page. Just when you think "The only thing worse that could happen would be if _________," you turn the page, and it does.


Some days the only thing keeping me sane is the brilliant Stephen Colbert, who is unafraid to tell it exactly as it is: "What does he think the 'T' in 'LGBT' stands for? Trump? Tomato?"

The recent events in Charlottesville and the president's slow and equivocal response leave us sad, confused, angry, and disheartened.

But take heart!

There is good in the world. There are kind, decent people, people who are eager to help even when they don't have to. Sometimes that human decency shines in the form of a gentle word. Or a hug. Or a soft reply. Sometimes it comes in larger acts of service or sacrifice.

And sometimes it comes in the form of a receptionist, sitting at her computer, with a smile and an iPhone charger.

Confessions of a mother of a capstone child

This past Thursday I drove to the Gardner Concert Hall on the campus of the University of Utah to watch Seth's performing choir, Vocal Ensemble. It was the culmination of a 3-day retreat. Several high schools participated, and of course Hillcrest was the best.

One thing I noticed was how many parents brought babies with them. This is definitely Utah!

When Luke and Shulamith were in high school in Washington, I was the only mom with a baby, our capstone child, I called him, seven years younger than his next older sibling and 15 years younger than the oldest.

Seeing so many parents of high school kids who were also the parents of babies made me smile and reminisce. I remember bringing Seth, first in a front pack and later in a stroller, to every Mt. Vernon High football and basketball game to watch Shulamith cheer. Sometimes the other parents would comment, "Glad it's you and not me!" to which I would respectfully reply, "Me too!"

I remember taking Seth with us on Luke's college search. When we visited Whitman, Luke's eventual choice, Seth was just two years old. We were decidedly the only parents there with a small one. We had both a toddler and a kid who would enter college the following year, not to mention the three in between. That's how blessed we were! The following year we had one child in college, one in high school, one in middle school, one in elementary school, and one in preschool. It was heavenly.

That capstone baby continues to bless our lives 17 years later, in more ways than you can imagine. Aside from keeping us fully involved in the parenting business for 30 years, we've had the joy of watching our older kids interact with him. I remember leaving a "sleeping" Seth with Luke, ever so briefly, when Seth was only a few days old, because I had to drive Isaiah to scouts. I returned to find Luke walking the floor, singing to a very "awake" Seth in his arms. Shulamith was 14 when Seth was born, and by the time she turned 16 and could drive, she pretty much took him everywhere. Both the older kids learned how to be nurturing parents through this firsthand experience.

Yesterday I was in Target, where they now have their back-to-school section, full of binders, notebook paper, scissors, crayons, and glue. I paused. So many years I spent walking up and down those aisles, lists in hand, searching for the right items for each kid. The start of the school year is so exciting! I really thought it would never end.

It did. Seth will be a senior in just a couple weeks. He might ask me to pick up a couple spirals for him and a pen. Maybe. Most of his work is now submitted online. Never again will I take a kid up and down the aisles at Target, with the magical anticipation of a new school year in his eyes. Even capstone babies grow up.

Sometimes parents, when they're reaching the "now or never" point, will ask me about having a child a few years after the others.  I always, always tell them, "If you're considering it, do it!" Gerald and I often say that having Seth was the best decision we ever made. And it was.

Admittedly, his growing independence is messing with my world a bit. He's had a job since he was 15, so that feels normal, but this driving and dating and running around with friends is all pretty new. I'm trying, at times more successfully than others, to adjust. But last night, when he was finally home, he came in and lay on my bed. We debriefed his day, his thoughts and feelings. We talked about work, school approaching, him possibly singing in a youth choir for the upcoming General Conference, his mission next year, and yes, even about girls. How could I be anything but grateful?

On some ridiculous level, I think I believed that if we had a capstone child so far behind the others, surely he wouldn't betray me and grow up. But time marches forward. Always forward.

I am the mom of a capstone child, born seven years after his next older sibling and 15 years after the oldest.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

One wide-brimmed hat. Check! (Is it really the last time?)

I bought a hat today. I went to Deseret Industries and bought a hat. I had hoped to find more costume pieces, but I really need Seth with me to get the rest, and he's at Lagoon today.

As I exited the store, it occurred to me that this is the very last time I'll shop for costume pieces for a high school musical. I gotta hand it to Hillcrest; they did pick the best musical of all time for Seth's senior year. This November, HHS musical theatre department will present Les Miserables. I can hardly wait.

Even though the show is still four months away, Seth is required to have his peasant costume ready by August 12th for "performing arts boot camp." The search is on! But back to that "last time" stuff. Keep in mind that Eli was in musicals all through high school, and Seth has followed suit, so yeah, it seems like every year for at least the past 80, I've been searching thrift stores for costume pieces.

And I hate it.

Really, I do. It takes so much time and effort to find all these different things and then in all the right sizes. It's not fun at all.

But oh how I will miss it! 

Next year when the musical comes around, Seth could be, well, just about anywhere! He plans to submit mission papers for availability on his 18th birthday, June 14th. I couldn't be any prouder of his decision, but sheesh, what am I gonna do without him? With a full seven years between him and Eli, it's been just Seth and Mom for quite a long time. I've sent two missionaries already, and neither time was easy, but there is no question this time will be harder.

I keep telling myself that a year is a long time. That it won't go fast. I suggest you not be the one to shatter that dream. For now, I'll move forward with my costume search.

One wide-brimmed hat. Check!

Oh and this too! I didn't think we'd ever find the right shirt for the period, so "1-800-Call Grandma!" My mom is an incredible seamstress. Now I know what you're thinking: "That can't possibly be true. Terrianne's mom could never sew." I know, right? But she can. And she's amazing at it. I happen to share neither her natural aptitude or interest for such things, but she is so, so good. I sent her the pictures and the suggested pattern numbers, and she was on it. A week later, we received this very cool shirt in the mail:

Now we just need loose khakis, tall boots, a belt or suspenders, a vest, and possibly a jacket. We'll get there. We always do.

It's going to be an epic senior year. And a long one. Very long. You can be sure I won't miss even the tiniest part of it. I've told Seth I plan to follow his Vocal Ensemble group around to all its performances through the year. That's the beauty of being the last child; mom isn't distracted by anything else. Fortunately, he doesn't mind.

I bought a hat today. One wide-brimmed hat. Check!

Once upon a steak dinner

So a few times throughout each day, either Shulamith or I will turn to the other and say, "Remember that steak dinner?" And we both pause. We pause just for a second, make eye contact, and sigh, "Oh yes!"

Back story, it's not wise for pregnant women to eat under-cooked meat (or cold lunch meat or sushi) because pregnant women are 20 times more likely than the rest of us to develop Listeria, a disease that is very bad for unborn babies and can lead to miscarriage, preterm birth, and a host of other undesirable outcomes. Now Shulamith wouldn't touch sushi with a 10-foot pole, but she really loves cold meat sandwiches and even more, medium-rare steak.

So every pregnancy, she yearns for these two things; what we can't have, we always want most! After every delivery, in addition to other delicious food, I always bring her a steak dinner. And it's always good, and she's always grateful, but with her first two babies, it was never perfect. One time, though I ordered it medium rare, they cooked the steak until it was nearly well done, defeating the entire purpose of eating it (well-done steak pretty much tastes like leather). The other time I think we had eaten a late lunch and weren't hungry enough to fully enjoy the meal.

But this time. Oh. My. Goodness.

Our last night in the hospital, we ate an early lunch and refrained from eating much else all afternoon. At about 9:00 p.m., after the rush of the day was behind us, I went out to Longhorn and ordered us each a Flo's fillet. Let me just say here that I very rarely (pun intended) get the fillet. My dad is now frowning down from heaven because he definitely taught me better. "Terrianne: Always get the fillet!" But at Longhorn, the fillet costs $10 more than a sirloin steak of the same size, and the sirloins are very, very good., so I usually get that (sorry, Dad.)

This time. though, we splurged and got the fillet. It was pretty much life changing. I don't know what more to say about it than that, but I struggle to remember a better meal. Why is that, though?  Could it be because

•  we waited until so late to eat that we were both ravenous?
•  we were both walking zombies by that point, after two nights of little Theodore doing his job as a newborn so perfectly and refusing to sleep much at all?
•  we were in a hospital room, where the food delivered three times a day is so disgusting I don't think even Gerald would eat it?
•  the smashed potatoes and fries (Shulamith) and Caesar salad (me) were the perfect sides to complement a perfect steak?
•  we somehow managed to choose a window of time in which we were left in peace, without doctors, or nurses, or vitals checks, or medication, or shift changes, or malfunctioning monitors, or those poor souls who deliver that disgusting food?

I don't know. I don't have an answer, and I don't need one. For now, the memory of this steak dinner is enough. It was special for both of us, Shulamith, because it was her first steak in nine months, and me because the following day we left the hospital, and I went back on my eating regimen with no breaks for the next five weeks.

Once upon a steak dinner....it was epic.