This one deserves a pause.

May has somehow disappeared, but I can't let it slip away without a nod to "Mental Health Awareness Month." It seems like there is a "day" or "month" for everything, too many to keep track of, way too many to observe. But this one. This one deserves a pause. We have come a long way as a society since Mental Health Awareness Month was first observed in the United States in 1949, but we still have far to go. The stigma still exists. Many who wouldn't hesitate to disclose publicly that they suffer from diabetes or heart disease are embarrassed to reveal that they deal with anxiety or depression or bipolar disorder or OCD. That is not only sad; it's terrifying. 

Our family is all too familiar with mental illness. I lost my dad to depression four decades ago, and I have struggled with debilitating anxiety for as long as I can remember. I wouldn't wish this illness on my proverbial worst enemy, but there is clearly a genetic link; I have passed anxiety disorders to three of my beautiful children. At times I feel so guilty about this. I know how much it sucks. Other times, I feel grateful for my firsthand experience and understanding of these disorders, so I am able to support my kids. 

I've written extensively about my anxiety disorders in this blog, so I won't say much about those today. Instead, I'll just point out two truths that make mental illness so challenging to deal with. One is that it can be so invisible. Its symptoms don't usually show themselves to others at least not right away. I can't count the number of times people have said things to me like, "I can't believe you have anxiety. I mean, you are the most 'together' person I know, so confident and in control." When I hear such comments, I'm always quick to invite these people over to chill with me at 3:00 a.m. when I'm climbing the walls because I'm convinced I have a fatal disease. Haha, no one has taken me up on this offer.

Second, while it's impossible for those who don't struggle with mental illness to fully understand it, some try harder than others. I've been told that I'm just making it up or that I should just not think those thoughts or feel those feelings. If only it were that easy. If only.

As the month of May and the month of Mental Health Awareness concludes, may we push forward to end the stigma attached to mental illness. To those who suffer from mental health issues, to those who have lost dear ones to mental illness, to those who (like me) fit into both categories, or to those who simply care enough to want to raise awareness, I feel you, and my voice stands strong with yours.  

Just stop buying food for your kids for a week, and sell Swen's Pokemon cards.

Shulamith: "Dang, tickets are only $65 for tomorrow. Tell me again that we're waiting to go to a second series game."

Isaiah: "Why not both? I bet the price went down since we're playing the Grizzlies now."

Shulamith: "Cuz I'm poooooooor. I'm gonna save the $70 and put it toward the $160 second round tickets."

Isaiah: "Just stop buying food and stuff for your kids for a week."

Shulamith: "Hey, they don't eat anything anyways, so maybe that's not a bad idea."

Isaiah: "Sell Swen's Pokemon cards."

This dialogue is a snippet from a conversation Friday on our 3-way text thread, whose theme wraps itself primarily around our favorite basketball team, the Utah Jazz. If basketball isn't your vibe, I get it. Totally. It wasn't mine either for most of my life. But then Isaiah moved to Utah for college and jumped on the Jazz train. And I followed. Because, you know, I'll do most anything to hang with my awesome kids. (Remember this, for example?).

I no longer follow the Jazz just to chill with Isaiah; I'm a diehard fan in my own right. And this year, oh my! For those who are unaware, this basketball team finished the regular season as the #1 seed in the Western Conference and with the best overall record in the NBA. For real. Coached by the brilliant Quin Snyder, and led by the incredible talent of Donovan Mitchell, Rudy Gobert, and Mike Conley, this organization has proved to the basketball world that, indeed, team is everything.

It wasn't a perfect season. It never is. They made mistakes. They lost games they should have won. But as Rudy likes to say, "on to the next one."

On April 16th, in a game against the Indiana Pacers, Jazz leading scorer Donovan Mitchell suffered an ankle sprain. Shulamith, Isaiah, and I were watching, and in the moment, we had no idea the extent of his injury. Did he break his ankle? Would he be out for the remainder of the season? All the questions. It was so sad. As you know, I am forever the "glass half empty" girl, so I was sure this was the end of our rainbow. They were already barely hanging on to the #1 position in the west, with Phoenix right on their heels.

I was wrong. Even facing adversity, the team persevered. They fought. Their passion pushed them forward, one game at a time, without Donovan and eventually without Mike Conley, whose chronic hamstring issue flared up. They finished the regular season in the #1 position. 

The post-season games began this week, with our first series against the 8th seeded Memphis Grizzlies. We should win. Yes, we should. Even without Donovan, we should win. We lost the first game. The first quarter, they played well, at least on the defensive end, enough to get us a 14-pt lead, but then, I don't know, everything just sort of fell apart. We couldn't make shots, and the turnovers...yikes! Up until 20 minutes before game time, Donovan (and the rest of us) believed he would be playing. He didn't. They pulled him. I'm glad they're being extra cautious with his injury; we need him healthy. 

Game 2 of the series was last night. I expected them to come out strong and determined, and they did. They don't like to lose. This time, yes, we had our Donovan, who was insanely on fire. It was a solid win, and now we need just three more of those to progress to the second round series. 

Oh, and in case you're wondering, Shulamith's kids are fed, and we did not have to sell Swen's Pokemon cards. All is well. We'll catch a game second round, and you know, when they make it to the championship finals, maybe then.  :-)

The best text message in all the land!

As a mom, I get many text messages throughout the day. Lots of these come from my kids, and some are definitely better than others. My least favorite are the cryptic ones that shoot my anxiety all the way to Mars: "Are you home?" "Can I call you?" "Why aren't you answering your phone? Are you in the temple?"

The all-time worst text message was from Isaiah about five years ago. I was teaching a gospel principles class on a Sunday morning, when this came in: "I messed up, and I need help." Okay, pause.  Isaiah is the smartest person I know and the most responsible. He carefully monitors every area of his life, sets goals, achieves them, and always makes informed, well-researched decisions.

Still, the text kinda threw me. Keep in mind my super hero persona: "Anxiety Girl: Able to jump to the worst possible conclusion in a single bound!" And jump I did. Thoughts of him in jail or freezing at the bottom of a ditch somewhere raced through my mind as I ran out of class and into the foyer. I remember saying something to my class like, "Uh, I need to go make a call. Go ahead and talk about whatever we were talking about." Turns out Isaiah was in the middle of the application process for his first career job out of college, and he somehow missed the email from HR telling him to go take a drug test the previous Friday. He wanted me to help him write a reply explaining and apologizing. That I did, and he got the job. Whew!

After that fiasco, I know you're all dying to find out what is the best text message in all the land. Well, let me tell you. It's these four, simple words:

Can I cook tonight? 

When I see those words on my phone, my heart sings with joy. My breathing slows as endorphins flood my body and brain. As most of you know, I hate to cook. And I totally suck at it. That beautiful, shiny text message means I don't have to decide what to make for dinner. I don't have to shop for the ingredients. I don't have to cook the food, and I don't have to clean up the mess. Can I get an "Amen"?

Never in my wildest dreams did I think this scenario could happen to me...and regularly, even. But it does. A few months ago, Isaiah began to experiment with Asian cooking. He loves Asian food, and I certainly don't know how to cook it, so he took matters into his own hands. He's made various noodle dishes, including Ramen and Pad Thai, a fried chicken entree, and a couple different Pho recipes. So far, everything has been delicious. 

Then a couple weeks ago, Seth sent this same text message. Seth! Say what? I was, uh, shocked? He never cooked anything until he went to Paraguay, and there he learned to make eggs and rice but not much more. He, too, loves Asian food, and I think eating Isaiah's meals spurred him to try cooking. He made this bowl of cheesy noodles with shrimp and cilantro. It was so good.

As Mother's Day approached, Shulamith and I were complaining to each other that we shouldn't have to cook for everyone that day, when we are the two mothers. So she hatched a plan to get Matt to do most of the work. I bought ribs, and he smoked them all day; in addition, she talked him into making three loaves of sourdough bread from scratch. So basically, he prepared the whole meal. I opened a can of baked beans, and Shulamith made a pasta salad, but really, it was all Matt. Ooooh, those smoked ribs were yummy, and the bread....well, imagine warm, homemade bread straight out of the oven.

By this point I had three guys cooking meals for me. What could be better?

Nothing, I thought, until today. Shulamith and I were out for one of our multiple walks, and she said "I'm making enchiladas tonight. Do you and Isaiah and Seth want some?" Uh, YES! Later in the evening, I stepped out my back door, turned left, and walked around 50 steps to meet Shulamith "on the grass" (as we call it) and brought back these lovely enchiladas:

Mmmmm! She worried they might be too spicy for me, but nope. They were perfect. Because, again, I didn't grocery shop, cook, or clean up. 

So those of you who like to text me, be informed. The best text message in all the land is this one:

Can I cook tonight?

"Measure 20 times; drill once!"

It may not surprise you to learn that interior decorating is not exactly my jam. My mother is super good at it, but I inherited none of her talent. I am an auditory learner and as non-visual as anyone I know; I couldn't tell you what looks good in a house to save my life. All this makes moving into a new home challenging. Suddenly, I have so many empty rooms and blank walls. We moved nearly six months ago, and it's taken me about that long to get the living and dining rooms furnished, and I'm still not quite done, but close. A few months ago, my uber-talented sister-in-law, Monica, sent me two lovely pieces of art that she created, and until this past week, they were literally the only things hanging on my walls. Look how beautiful:

I'm definitely a minimalist when it comes to home decor; for me, less is definitely more. But I still needed something! Back when we packed up and moved from Angel house, Amanda made me promise not to allow anyone but her to hang things in the new house. I've mentioned before that she has a remarkable skillset, and one item in that set is her eye for design, combined with her precise attention to detail. Her mantra: "Measure 20 times; drill once!" And it works too!

Shulamith is, shall we say, less prone to exact precision and far less likely to measure 20 times. Or even once. In the middle of "Project Make Terrianne's Living Room Wall Look Good," I believe I heard Shulamith say something like, "Think twice, measure once, drill five times." Haha! Still, let's give credit where credit is due. While Amanda arranged this wall grouping, Shulamith was the one who talked me into buying the mirror, and she is also the one who found the cute "E and "W" tiles. Eli thought it was "dope" that we were decorating our living room with his initials, so I made sure to get an ampersand sign to separate the two letters, which (sorry, Eli) represent the two last names in our family.

This project took two evenings, and both were pretty wild rides. I busied myself cleaning and tried to stay clear of the whole measuring and drilling thing. I am positively useless to help, and I just get stressed. The first night, the goal was to hang the three major pieces in the wall grouping Amanda had created. 

The second night, the goal was completing the wall with the final two smaller pieces: a plant and the initial tiles. I'm not sure which night was hardest; they were both difficult. "Measure 20 times; drill once" is only the first step. There is also this thing called a "level," which Amanda uses to make sure things are straight. So her mantra, more accurately, should be "Measure 20 times; check level; measure again; check level again; measure once more; get Eli to hold everything up; step back to see how it looks from far away; measure again; check level again; and (finally) drill once."

I will never be an interior designer. That sounds like the job from hell, right up there with telemarketer or door-to-door salesperson. This stuff is so hard for me, and I don't enjoy any part of the process. I am so grateful for others who are willing to share their talents. Thank you, Amanda, for your creativity and for your eagerness to always volunteer to help with so many projects in so many ways. Thank you, Eli, for (1) marrying Amanda and (2) always helping out with any project at any time, even when you're crazy busy finishing up one job and training for another. Thank you, Shulamith, for running around with me, here and there and everywhere, to look for all things "house," and for always being by my side with unequivocal support and encouragement and for being my very best friend. Though they weren't part of this (or any) home decorating project, thank you Isaiah and Seth for your constant friendship, for making me laugh every day, and for just being the coolest! And thank you, Luke, for making me a mom.

Happy Mother's Day to all. I am, indeed, a lucky mommy!

Oh...and here's the final product!

Once upon a dream...(or how to be a professional Mormon)

I used to say that Eli would be happiest if he could figure out how to be a professional Mormon. I was mostly kidding, but all jokes have an element of truth, or they wouldn't be funny. Eli was always my most "churchy" kid. While others sometimes balked at attending all their meetings, serving on committees, giving talks in sacrament meeting, Eli was always eager to do anything and everything. "I'll serve on the dance committee!" "I'll usher for stake conference!" "I'll lead the ward's youth basketball team!" "I'll drive around and pick up the kids in the ward and take them to early-morning seminary!"

This was just his personality, and it was a joy to watch. 

In terms of a career choice, by mid-elementary school, he knew that education would be his path. He wanted to be a teacher like Mr. Mac.  And, that absolutely happened! Two years ago, he was hired to teach 5th grade at a local elementary school. His first year was cut short because of COVID, when everyone went fully online, so this May will complete his first full year. It's been filled with the normal ups and downs of teaching, but he has a class of delightful students who adore him, and their test scores reveal that they have progressed in huge ways, and he is way proud of them. 

Still, in the back of Eli's mind, another dream always remained, the dream of teaching full-time seminary. You see, when he was in high school, we lived in Montana, where seminary is taught by unpaid, sacrificial ward members, who rise at the crack of dawn five days a week and teach lessons to sleepy teenagers who attend these classes before school. But here in Utah, where church membership is high, they have seminary buildings near every high school, with paid, professional teachers. Students literally walk across the street from their respective high schools and attend release-time seminary, one period each day (or every other day, if it's an A/B schedule). 

In Eli's mind, this would be the greatest job ever: teaching the gospel full time and getting paid to do it (or as I describe it: being a professional Mormon). Most of us have secret dreams, things we'd love to do, but sadly, many times we don't act on those. Either they aren't practical or scalable, or fear gets in our way, or we just don't have the energy to pursue them.

But last fall, Eli took a chance. He woke up one day and thought, "This seminary thing. It's now or never, so it might as well be now." He registered for the seminar that could lead to teaching within the Church Educational System. It was a long shot for sure. It's extremely competitive. But Eli moved forward with faith instead of fear and began taking classes in January. It was quite a process. After four instructional sessions, he had to prepare and present a 20-minute peer teaching lesson, based on the weekly "Come Follow Me" curriculum. After that process was completed, the class was cut from 70 prospective teachers down to 20. Stressful much?

The following week, he was informed the he made the cut and was invited to participate in the next step, an actual teaching practicum in a local high school seminary class. This time, he had to prepare and teach two 90-minute seminary lessons to real live seminary students! At this point he decided it was time to cut off his beautiful hair and shave, in order to look like a seminary teacher. So this happened...

And Amanda and I might have cried. 

Next, he prepared two wonderful lessons from the Doctrine & Covenants and practiced teaching them to all of us, as we pretended to be high school students. Teenagers are decidedly different from 5th graders. Most notably, teenagers aren't always so eager to talk, while 5th graders won't shut up. But during his two practicum classes, Eli successfully engaged the kids enough that they actively participated in meaningful gospel discussion. Hooray!

Then the waiting began. 

It was a full six weeks until yesterday, when the email arrived. "Brother Webster, we'd like to offer you a position teaching seminary in the fall of 2021." YESSSSSSS! He is beyond thrilled, and I am so thrilled for him. And yes, so proud. He chose to chase this dream, however fleeting and far away and unlikely it seemed. 

...and now, it's no longer just a dream. It's reality.

And sometimes procrastination pays off: An allegory of shoes

Once upon a time, perhaps 10 years ago, a woman sat in a council meeting at the palace where she worked. The topic of discussion turned to what happens when the king doesn't like a worker, especially one who is somewhat recently employed. One man, who knew a lot about such things, declared, "If you're a relatively new employee in this palace and the king doesn't like the color of your shoes, you're gone."

This statement was a bit alarming to the woman, who, herself, was a fairly new employee at this palace, but as with most things, it eventually slipped wistfully from her mind. A few months later, the king summoned her for a meeting. It should be noted here that this was not the actual king; this was the "interim king," hired to serve in that role until a permanent king could be chosen. 

By this point, the woman and her family had already decided to move to another kingdom far away, so she would be leaving her job at this palace. However, Interim King Dum Dum was not yet aware of her impending move, because her official document announcing her resignation was still at home on her computer. 

...and sometimes procrastination pays off!

Come to find out, Interim King Dum Dum didn't like the color of the woman's shoes. Now it's surprising he had even noticed her shoes, since Interim King Dum Dum had never been in the rooms in the palace where she worked and had never observed her working; he hadn't a clue about much of anything actually, but nevertheless, he decided he didn't like her shoe color.

When the woman showed up for the meeting, Interim King Dum Dum had a witness there. (Rumor has it he eventually left his queen and hooked up with this witness, but alas, another story for another time.) Regardless, he was noticeably uncomfortable in the meeting, to the point of squirming awkwardly as he announced to the woman that he did not like the color of her shoes.

What??? At this announcement, everything inside the woman wanted burst out laughing and jump for joy! It was all she could do to contain herself. She was already leaving the palace and the kingdom, but now she could do so with a signed document saying the king didn't like her shoes, making her eligible to receive unemployment compensation from the kingdom she was leaving. That meant she wouldn't need to rush to find a new job at a palace in the new kingdom, but could take her time and decide exactly where she would like to work.

Careful not to reveal her excitement, she stood silently and watched Interim King Dum Dum squirm nervously, as she delighted in his discomfort. Was this a charitable attitude? Absolutely not. Could this woman experience schadenfreude as well as anyone? Indeed, she could; it's an all too human emotion. The woman and her family moved from this kingdom as planned, and she soon found a new job at a palace in her new kingdom, a job where her shoes were valued, but the interim king's decision provided some helpful income through the transition.

The moral of this allegory is twofold:

Kings are sometimes dumb.

And sometimes, procrastination pays off!

Two in April

Once upon a time, an almost 5-year-old girl became a big sister. The word "thrilled" doesn't begin to describe her emotions, and she immediately became the second mommy to her new baby brother. With Isaiah's birth, I now had two April babies, Isaiah on the 15th and Shulamith on the 30th. My 2021 plan is to tell a childhood story for each of my children in the month of his or her birth, so I'd better get started! But wait. What about this idea? What if I tell a story that includes both of them: a Shulamith/Isaiah childhood story. Yeah, let's try that.

Once upon a time, an almost 5-year-old girl became a big sister, and shortly after, we moved from Oregon to Northern California with three kids in tow: Luke (6), Shulamith (5), and Isaiah (3 months). It was such a fun time of life, full of non-stop action and so much love. Each day, Luke and Shulamith would go off to school, and Isaiah and I would hang out, often get fast food (shocking, I know), and spend the afternoon enjoying the sunny California weather at various parks with my friend Corrie and her 2-year-old daughter, Kelly. 

Shulamith's year in kinder was clipping right along, with various events, including the time she was "Student of the Month" at her school. I knew ahead of time she was receiving this award, so I made sure she was dressed in her cutest outfit, a black velour jumper and white blouse, with freshly washed hair and a big bow. Isaiah and I showed up at the school and hid in the back as all the students entered, so Shulamith wouldn't notice us. Isaiah, by far my most content baby, sat happily in his stroller as we waited for the assembly to begin.

I don't remember what else happened in the assembly, but I know it wasn't until the very end that they announced the Student of the Month. I wish I could have seen her face when the principal announced "Shulamith Webster," but instead, I witnessed her joy from behind as she hopped right up and marched proudly down the center aisle, her waist-long hair swaying behind her, to claim her award. Everyone applauded, and Isaiah joined in, having only recently learned to clap his hands.

This whole deal must have been too much excitement for her 5-year-old immune system to handle, because the very next week she came home from school covered in chickenpox. This began a two-week marathon, filled with oatmeal and baking soda baths, pink calamine lotion, and Popsicles to lessen the itching from the pox inside their mouths. You see, Shulamith was generous; she unselfishly shared the illness with Luke, who then shared it with baby Isaiah. Oh my! I'm sure I slept at some point in those two weeks, but I have no memory of sleep.

Luke and Shulamith fared better than Isaiah, who definitely had the most severe case. He was seven months old and had no idea what was happening to him. I could put the big kids on the couch, turn on the TV, and tell them not to scratch. But Isaiah. None of the above. I so clearly remember his perfect face with big blue eyes and thick, black lashes, looking pleadingly into my eyes as if to say, "Mommy! Fix this!" 

I couldn't. 

Everyone recovered, and I don't think anyone has any residual scarring. Eli had chickenpox a few years later, but by the time Seth was born, an effective vaccine was available, so he didn't have to go through this. Yay for science!

And yay for my two amazing April babies! I love them so.