"The spirit is indeed willing...

...but the flesh is weak."

We tried. We really did. All three of us. Gerald, Shulamith, and I all really wanted to participate in the March for Our Lives event this morning, an effort to stand up to the NRA and encourage legislators to do the same, by enacting sensible gun laws like the rest of the civilized world already has. Enough is enough. Too many have died. Even one life is too many lost to senseless violence because Americans are in love with their guns, and the NRA controls congress.

We knew we wouldn't be able to participate together. Shulamith is in St. George this weekend, I'm in Rexburg, and Gerald is home in Salt Lake. But we still thought we could do it. There was a march in St. George and another in Idaho Falls, 30 miles south of Rexburg. The Erichsen-Websters would stand and march.

And the spirit was indeed willing. So willing. But the flesh...

Of the three of us, only Gerald wound up participating. Here he is at the march in downtown Salt Lake City, which started at West High School and finished at the Capitol.

Shulamith had hoped to join the march in St. George, but with all the kids, etc., it didn't work out. They are returning home today, so she needed to help pack up and clean and load the car.

As for me, I got up early, showered and got all ready. I even made my sign:

Okay, so sign-making is not one of my strengths. Did any of you really think it would be?

Super quiet so as not to wake up Seth, Eli, and Amanda, I slipped out the door, sign in hand. What I didn't know until I stepped outside was that it was dumping snow. Seriously dumping. I could barely see ahead of me. I wanted to go to the march so badly, but no, I would not brave the snowstorm and drive by myself the 30 miles down to Idaho Falls. That felt like a bad idea. Instead, I drove the 1/2 mile to McDonald's and did school work until people here woke up.

Now I'm back, and Eli and Seth are planning out their bro day together. What will Amanda and I do while they're gone? Not sure. Whatever we do, it will be a delight because she is a delight.

I wish I could have marched. I wish Shulamith could have. And I'm glad Gerald did. I'm grateful for all who stood today to make their voices heard. I hope legislators listen to voices all over the country who say "enough is enough."

A year of "lasts." It's hard, guys.

It really is.

Back in September, I remember writing about how I was going to relax and enjoy Seth's senior year, and that it was going to pass slowly, very s-l-o-w-l-y.

Yeah, that was a lie. It didn't happen that way at all. Fall was a whirlwind as Seth, along with 200 other music and theatre students at Hillcrest, prepared for the presentation of Les Miserables in November. It was amazing, but we barely saw Seth during those weeks, as they rehearsed nearly every day.

As that show closed, Seth had just a week off for Thanksgiving before the Vocal Ensemble Christmas concerts began. This talented group of 32 students performed all over the valley, often doing four performances in the same day. I followed them around to a few gigs, and every one was lovely. Beautiful music and fun choreography.

Quite honestly, I have no idea what happened to January and February; they just sort of disappeared. Near the end of February, I attended my last ever parent-teacher conference. It was so sad. I really love parent-teacher conferences. Then March arrived, and another "last," Seth's (and my) last prom! Again, so sad, but way to go out in style....I mean just look at these pictures:

Isn't Becca's dress beautiful?! Of course, this brought back all the feels, all the memories of the other kids' proms, like this one.

Reports are they had a super fun day and evening, with a yummy breakfast that another mom from their group prepared, an escape house, dinner at Olive Garden, and of course, the dance itself.

This morning, I went through yet another "last," the last time nurturing one of my babies through wisdom teeth removal. Now you make be shaking your head and thinking, "This is just not a big deal, Terrianne," but you'll have to trust me. It is. All five of my kids were briefly put to sleep with general anesthesia for the removal of their wisdom teeth, and I had the privilege of taking care of each of them post-oral surgery. By this point in life, sometimes it's easy to feel like your kids don't really need you anymore, or at least not very much. They are quite independent. In Seth's case, he is very independent and hardly asks for anything other than the car and (occasionally) money, when he's been too busy with choir stuff to work.

But when they get their wisdom teeth removed, they need their moms. They really need us. And it's so great. Seth drove us down to Provo this morning. He wasn't scared, not even anxious that I could tell. I was, a little, even though it was my fifth time. We met with the oral surgeon, who was just wonderful. He talked with us for about 10 minutes and answered our questions, reassuring us that he removes wisdom teeth from between 20-35 patients daily. Then I was out of there, and Seth's eight-minute surgery began and ended, just like that. Before I knew it, they were wheeling him out to my car in a wheelchair. He was so funny and adorable.

I took him right across the street to JCWs to get him a milkshake. Haha, trying to get him to tell me what kind he wanted was the only challenge. I read him all the flavors that didn't contain seeds or chunks, but he kept losing focus. Finally, I said "Seth, sweetie, you have to tell me which flavor you want," to which he replied "vanilla's good."

Done.

We parked in a space outside JCWs, and I fed him spoonfuls of the vanilla shake, laced with Ibuprofin. Gotta get on top of that pain before it even starts.

We hopped on the freeway, and he asked me where the milkshake came from.

Me: Seth, I got you this milkshake from JCWs. Remember, I read you all the flavors and asked you what you wanted.

Seth: No, I don't remember that at all. You're making that up. And I wouldn't have chosen vanilla.

Bahahaha.

We've spent the afternoon at home, resting. He's watching March Madness; I'm keeping track of his medication schedule, replacing his ice packs, and giving him jello and yogurt and apple sauce and pudding. I just love taking care of him. How many more opportunities will I have to do that? No idea.

At one point, a cute girl stopped by with a dish of  Cold Stone cotton candy ice cream. He popped right up and spent 20 minutes chatting with her, but I could tell he was tired and hurting.

She left. I gave him more medicine, and we're back to this:

So these "lasts" are kinda killing me. But I'll take this one and appreciate it. The doctor told me I will need to wake him every three hours through the night to give him pain medicine. "Pretend you have a newborn baby again," he said. 

But I don't. And every "last" is hard. It's hard, guys.

Can it really be 130?

In the fall of 1990, feeling early-pregnancy nauseous, I sat in a tiny, kindergarten chair across a tiny, kindergarten table from a tiny, kindergarten teacher with short, dark hair named Ms. Lee. It was my first ever parent-teacher conference. I would hear all about my smart, spunky, five-year-old Luke, who could already read and do simple math but couldn't hold a pair of scissors correctly to save his life. "Maybe you could work at home on his fine motor skills." Sure! Cuz I definitely have time to do that with five-year-old Luke, four-year-old Shulamith, and a growing baby Isaiah inside.

That was 27 years ago.

Last night I walked the halls of Hillcrest High School and visited with six of Seth's teachers. It was my last ever parent-teacher conference. I thought about how many conferences I've attended in my life. With five kids moving through the public K-12 school system and two conferences each academic year for each of them, I suppose this was around my 130th.

One hundred thirty parent-teacher conferences, and last night, my very last. It was so sad. I walked slowly. I hoped for crowds, so there would be lines outside the teachers' rooms, but I hardly had to wait for anyone. It went way too fast.

As parents, we have little to do with how our children turn out. Sorry, if you are under the misguided impression that you do. Their lovely spirits have lived a very long time, and they come to us, well, the way they come. We do our best to influence and guide, but in the end, we can only stand back and watch. Even so, and I'm not even sure why, there is barely anything more emotionally gratifying than hearing ardent praise about one's child, dripping forth from the mouth of pretty much anyone, but teachers especially.

Which is why I love parent-teacher conferences.

Ms. Lee did ask me to help Luke with cutting, but not before telling me that along with his curious, precocious mind, she had never met a happier, more well-adjusted kid. The following year, we had moved from Oregon to California. Shulamith's kindergarten teacher became ill early in the fall, but not before the first parent-teacher conference. Oh how she loved Shulamith. Apparently, my little socialite daughter had convinced all the girls at her table that they, too, could read. She could read. And she told them they could too. So they did!

By the time Isaiah and Eli were in school, we had moved to what I'll always refer to as "home," a little town an hour north of Seattle, called Mt. Vernon. The middle boys had many of the same teachers, including a 3rd grade teacher named Ms. White. In my first parent-teacher conference with her, she asked me if I thought we could convince our introvert Isaiah to play Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, which she produces in her class each Christmas: "I think he's the only boy I have this year who could learn the part." We convinced him, and he did an outstanding job.

Two years later, Eli also had Ms. White. I walked into the fall parent-teacher conference, so happy to greet a familiar teacher whom I already knew and liked. She approached me with a hug, followed by the "Eli gushing" I would come to expect from pretty much every teacher, coach, or church leader Eli would encounter through his growing up years: "Terrianne, you know how much I loved Isaiah," she said. "And I really did. But this child. This child has stolen my heart."

Can you see why I love parent-teacher conferences? Why I was so sad last night as another parenting landmark came crashing to an end all around me?

The evening was every bit as gratifying as the other 129 have been. We are not a family that worships the "Almighty A," and all my children have earned their share of Bs through the years. But for some reason, Seth decided to end his high school career with a 4.0 GPA his senior year. I walked from one classroom to another, first hearing about his current "A," but more importantly, how much his teachers like and respect him. He is kind, they told me. Yes, he is.

As I always do now that we live in Utah, I ended my conference night by walking across the parking lot to the seminary building, where Seth spends one period every other day studying church doctrine. His cute, young seminary teacher, Sister Brown, wanted to know all about his post-graduation plans. Her excitement began when I told her Seth was already accepted to Utah State University, her Alma mater. It grew more intense when I told her he plans to defer his enrollment two years in order to serve a mission. She also wanted to know if he is going to prom and who he's taking. :-)

I picked up my paper cup filled with M&Ms and pretzels (seminary always gives out treats on parent-teacher conference nights), and headed to my car. I want you to know that I didn't ugly cry or anything; a couple tears may have escaped my eyes, but only a couple.

So those of you who are still in the game, enjoy those parent-teacher conferences, all 130 of them. They will be over before you know it. 

You roll out of there, but not without grabbing a Tootsie Pop for "later"...

.....except once you get into the car, you don't wait for "later." You unwrap that sucker right then.

Allow me to indulge myself in a bit of nostalgia as I introduce to you Sayler's Old Country Kitchen.

Look at that menu in the shape of the famous 72-oz. steak. It's the exact same menu that I looked at when I was a young child and dined with my mom and dad and grandparents regularly at Sayler's; really all that's changed are the prices. Did you know that if you can eat that entire 72-oz steak, along with a set number of side dishes, you get your meal free and your name up on the wall? No one I know ever attempted it, but Tom and I always tried to get our dad to do it.

This past weekend, I flew to Portland to visit my family. It was a wonderful, but, as always, I'm left with such bittersweet emotions. I love to be with my family, and I never want to leave. The climate in Portland is perfect; I can breathe there, and the rain does wonders for my overall well-being. At the same time, I always miss my own little family here in Utah, so I also want to come home. Mostly, I wish I could have both. I wish we lived closer.

Sayler's Old Country is a must-do on the agenda when I'm there. We love the food, but the memories we love even more. My mom used to order Tommy and me one, 4-oz. tenderloin steak off the children's menu to share, and for awhile, it was plenty. As we grew, she eventually had to order us each one of our own, and then came the time that I'd eat my whole steak, plus part of my dad's. It was then that I learned to truly appreciate steak. He always had a filet, cooked medium rare, way better than my medium-well tenderloin. Mmmmmm. Well, here's a picture of that filet, topped with a signature onion ring and baked potato on the side. I'm pretty sure I've eaten off that exact metal tray at least once before in my many, many times at Sayler's.

But the thing about Country Kitchen is that a bunch of other stuff is also included in the single price of the meal. The first course is this cool relish tray, along with french bread and melted garlic butter. You can see everything in this picture except the olives hidden underneath, so just imagine the olives.

After the relish tray comes either soup or salad. I get a delicious salad with blue cheese dressing. Along with this course, we always order a plate of onion rings. I won't try to describe them to you; just look right here:

Then comes the main dish and potato, followed by your choice of ice cream, the standard vanilla and chocolate, as well as peppermint, orange sherbet, and (my favorite!) spumoni! And no, Amanda, it does not taste like bubble gum.

It was such a fun night; I can't even tell you how much fun. Let me show you what a group we had:

And since this blog is my sole answer to family history, let me name these fine people in case anyone ever wants to know. From right to left around the table: my niece, Leslie, and her husband, Silas; Eli and Amanda (who met me in Portland for the weekend); my brother, Tom; my niece, Katie; my mom, Claudette; me; my sister-in-law, Jacqueline; Leslie's daughter, Sydney; and Jacqueline's husband, Mike. Whew!

The only Portlanders missing were Carley and Julia and their son, Finn, but we got to see them for breakfast Saturday morning and also dinner that night at their new restaurant, Etc. Eatery. It features local, Pacific Northwest cuisine from Oregon, Washington, and Idaho, including giant Idaho spuds with a variety of toppings.

Time with my family is as precious as it is rare. I miss them. I don't realize how much I miss them until I'm there. Shulamith and I plan to visit again in August, six months from now. Between now and then, my brother might road trip out here sometime this spring, and Jacqueline is going to stop here in late July when she travels from Arizona back to Portland. I really hope both these things happen.

My Portland weekend also included a brief but delightful visit with my friend, Lorrie. We sat outside the ice skating rink at Lloyd Center, the smell of Joe Brown's Carmel Corn permeating our olfactory senses. I can't begin to imagine how many hours I spent there as a child and figure skating student. Early mornings in "patch" practice, creating and repeating figure 8's on the ice, followed by freestyle skating, perfecting jumps and spins.... and always the smell of that Joe Brown's Carmel Corn. Much has been updated at Lloyd Center since those days, but not Joe Brown's; it's still in the exact same location with the exact same treats. Lorrie and I ate Cinnabons and talked nonstop for 2.5 hours, solving world problems, not to mention those in our own little lives. We're smart like that.

There were some flurries of snow when I left Portland, and everyone panicked, stocked up on groceries, and planned to hibernate inside their houses for the duration of the "terrible storm." Honestly, when I heard about it on the news, I almost thought it was a parody. I looked out the window to see a light dusting of snow on the grass and nothing more.  Meanwhile, winter decided to descend on Utah while I was gone, and I flew home last night to nearly a foot of fresh snow with more falling. It was really beautiful as I walked home from the Trax station. I don't love the weather in Utah, but I can't deny this is beautiful.

You roll our of there, but not without grabbing a Tootsie Pop for "later," .....except once you get into the car, you don't wait for "later;" you unwrap that sucker right then. Thanks, Leslie, for the perfect click bait for this blog post. See you in August!

Gospel Essentials: Where the "cool kids" hang out

So in our church we have a lay clergy. That means our local leadership is not paid, but rather, we spread around the workload, and everyone has a part. I have had many parts (callings) in the church through the years, from teaching Sunday School, to going to camp with teenage girls, to leading the women's organization, to directing the music for the children.

But my time in Utah has been completely different, as in....weird. When we first arrived in our ward here, Shulamith and I were called to be primary teachers for Seth's class. We did that for just over a year. Then I was briefly (3 months) the secretary in the relief society presidency, until that presidency was released. Then I was called to teach gospel essentials, an adult Sunday School class designed for new members or those learning about our religion.

That was over five years ago. And here I still am, teaching that same class. Which is weird. Even bishops are typically released after five years. The worst part of this is the manual. It never, ever, changes. It is exactly the same, year after year after year. Other church manuals are updated regularly, but not this one. So I have taught the same set of 47 lessons five times, and just last month, I started back at Lesson #1 for the sixth.

If this sounds painstakingly repetitive, rest assured, it is. I've joked that the only way to get released is to move out of the ward or die, and I sure hope it's the former. Except sometimes I fear I'm not joking.

But there is one upside, and that's what I'd like to talk about today. By far the coolest people in the ward attend my class. Not one of them meets the qualifications I noted above: new member or someone investigating our church, because we don't really have any people like that in our ward. So these guys, these faithful few, come week after week, year after year, anyway. One of them has been in the class the entire five years I've taught it. And he keeps coming back! In addition to him, we have four stalwart couples who attend regularly. Occasionally, one or another of them called to a different 2nd-hour responsibility and is gone for awhile, but (since other people actually get released from their callings without moving or dying), he or she always come back. Then there are a few others who randomly drop in here and there, which makes a solid class of between eight and twelve people most weeks.

I can't tell you how thankful I am for these dedicated folks. Their insight never ceases to amaze me. The manual covers only the most basic principles of doctrine, yet these thoughtful, intelligent, spiritually-gifted individuals are somehow able to dig deep and extend these lessons to generate meaningful, interesting discussions.

So last Sunday, we were back to the lesson on "The Creation." As I watched these people sculpt their Play-Doh into beautiful new "creations," I thought how blessed I am to know them. They are my friends. And though I really do need to be released, sooner rather than later, and I pray I won't need to move or die for that to happen, until it does, I will try to be patient. I will also be grateful.

I purposely did not name these class members because some folks don't like to be mentioned, especially in a blog as pubic as this one. But you know who you are. So thank you. So very much. You are truly the coolest kids in the ward. Thanks for hangin' out with me.

I need to step aside

Those who know me well, know of my extreme dislike for a set of slang words people sometimes use to discuss bathroom issues. Many of those words begin with the letter "P," and oooh, how I dislike those, every last one of them. When I was in the hospital after giving birth to our first child, I remember some of the nurses using those words to talk about my brand new, perfect little Luke. I tried my best to be polite, but goodness, it was hard. You can say he has a wet or messy diaper, but please don't use those gross, slang "P" words to talk about him. Please!

As our children grew to toddlers and preschoolers, they learned to use the restroom without the need for any of those words. We taught them to say "I need to go to the bathroom" or "I need some bath tissue." Perfect! Music to my ears.

Now that they're older, they like to tease me about all of this. I'm not sure why, because it's not funny. Not at all. It's a matter of politeness and respectability. If you need to announce your bathroom plans (and I'm not sure why you would), here are some lovely ways to do it:

1. I need to go to the bathroom.
2. I need to use the restroom.
3. I need to use the washroom.

Or even better:

4. I need to excuse myself.

I especially love that one.

But recently I was thinking back to my college days as an undergrad at Willamette University in Salem, Oregon. I was an English major, but Willamette's liberal arts curriculum allowed me to explore a variety of disciplines, including philosophy, psychology, art history, theater, German, and religion. I loved my religion classes; had I not loved British poetry just a little bit more, I might have majored in religion.

My favorite religion professor was an older, southern gentleman (and gentle he was indeed). For the life of me, I can't remember his name, but I can see him so clearly in my mind and even better, hear his soft voice with its distinct southern accent in my head. By now, he almost certainly resides in heaven, but I will always remember the way he taught the New Testament, so carefully, thoughtfully,  and thoroughly. I learned so much. Lorrie, are you reading this? Do you know who I'm talking about?

The other thing I remember about him is the one day our class somehow found itself in a discussion of the proper way to refer to the need to use the bathroom. How did this conversation come about? No idea. But this dear professor, with his refined southern charm, taught us what his grandmother had taught him to say: "I need to step aside."

I think I'm in love.

"Waffles" Love!

To say I love dogs would be a gross understatement. One time, long ago, I started a movement called "Dog Liberation," whose goal was to empower dogs (or something like that). It was obviously ridiculous, but demonstrates both my love for canine creatures and my obsession with causes and fighting for what I thought was right, even as a kid.

Growing up, I had a few dogs. My favorite was Misty, a black toy poodle. I was around 10, and I wanted a dog so badly that I staged an all-out campaign to get one. My dad made grocery shopping lists, and when he wasn't looking, I added an item, "dog," to every list he made, pretty much every day. I also left him notes in his car, on the bathroom mirror, in his coat pockets, and anywhere else I thought might get his attention.

But he stood firm. We would not be getting a dog.

Or at least that's what he said.

But you see, just like me, my dad was great at lying in order to create and preserve the element of surprise. The morning of October 20th, my birthday, I was absolutely convinced I was not getting a dog, and I was prepared to be sorely disappointed in any other present. I walked into the living room and plopped down on the couch, my unhappiness evident to all.

And my dad began his carefully rehearsed speech.

"Honey, we really just can't get a dog. I know how much you wanted one, but it's just not going to work out right now."

As he continued on with this spiel, I noticed something moving on his lap. And then the noise, a tiny squeak of a noise. What? Are you kidding me? He had a little black toy poodle puppy hidden under his black shirt.

Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

Pure joy does not adequately describe my emotions, but it's the best I can do. My Misty girl was my favorite!

Fast forward a year or two to the present. When we bought this house six years ago, Shulamith got a sweet Boxer pup, whom Mathew named "Kitty." We all loved her so, and when she suddenly died of a heart attack at only 4 years old, we all grieved, even Gerald, who supposedly doesn't like dogs. Soon after, Shulamith got another pup, an Aussiedoodle, whom Mathew named "Woof." Again, we all grew to love him. Then this past October, they took him away somewhere, and I haven't seen him since.

I've missed having a dog. Seth too. So I told Seth we could possibly go look at shelter dogs. Once I said that, there was no turning back. That very day when he got home from school, we went to the Humane Society. I told Seth we probably wouldn't find the right dog that first day; the process can take time because we want to be sure the dog we adopt is a good fit.

But of course, I was wrong, and after looking for only a short time, Seth picked out the sweetest, most adorable dog ever.

Meet Waffles!

It took no time at all for Seth to say, "This is the one," and I had to agree. He is really such a nice dog. We filled out the paperwork and brought him home. He might have been a little unsure at first, but it didn't take long for him to find his perfect place in our home and in our family.

Can you feel the love?

Oh, I should have mentioned that Waffles is a yellow lab/Chinese Shar Pei mix. His partially-wrinkled face and spotted tongue identify him as Shar Pei, but his body looks like a lab puppy, even though he is full grown and two years old.

Can you tell we like him a lot? Welcome to the family, "Waffles" Love!