"Halfway" is rather charming, actually!

How do you celebrate "Halfway Christmas?" a friend recently asked me on social media. My response: "Halfway." We have an abbreviated, very low-key Christmas celebration in June, when we are halfway way to the real Christmas.

...and it's rather charming.

As an example, for the real Christmas, I buy multiple gifts for all five of my kids, so shopping takes me weeks and weeks, and yes, I love every single second of it! But for Halfway Christmas, I buy only one gift. We all draw names and buy one $15 gift for the person whose name we draw. Then we put all the gifts around my little Charlie Brown Christmas tree and open them one at a time.

This year, everyone seemed delighted with his or her present. It was lovely to witness. Here's the rundown:

I got a PopSocket for my phone, something I've wanted ever since I got my new phone in November. Gerald got an assortment of treats to take to work: Pop Tarts, iced oatmeal cookies, licorice, Good & Plenty candy, and a Mounds bar.

Seth got some fancy hair gel, and Isaiah got spicy chips and Lifesavers Gummies.

Eli got a new water bottle since he's given up soda (Can he really be an Erichsen-Webster?), and some bright socks. Amanda got an expansion pack for their "What Do You Meme?" game and a lemon-scented candle.

Shulamith got a T-shirt style dress that she had in her Target shopping cart a few weeks ago, but ultimately put back, deciding it was a luxury she didn't really need. So I texted Eli (who had Shulamith's name) and asked if he wanted me to grab it for him. He said yes (!), and it was done.

Swen got two Hot Wheels ID cars for his collection, Kennedy got purple hair extensions and a new sleeping mask, and Theodore got a set of 12 different vehicles and a mat to drive them on.

For the real Christmas, we pretty much eat all day long, grazing on numerous snacks and some real food as well, usually egg casserole first thing, then either crepes or French toast mid-morning, appetizers throughout the day, and often fondue in the evening. It varies, but it's always an all-day feast. For Halfway Christmas, we plan just one meal. Yesterday, Eli grilled chicken kabobs, and Shulamith prepped a baked potato bar and rolls. For dessert, she fried scones, which we topped with butter, jam, and cinnamon sugar.

Simple. Uncomplicated. Delicious. Halfway! That said, between the gift opening and dinner, I was seriously craving sugar. Like I needed something sweet. So Shulamith whipped up some peanut butter, oatmeal no-bake cookies; that's how much she loves me.

During the real Christmas season, I listen to Christmas music nonstop from November 1st through December 25th. For Halfway Christmas, we played Christmas music just the one day, but still, it was incredibly comforting to hear those words of hope, the joy of a promised Savior, whose birth, life, death, and resurrection continue to offer hope today, despite the scary and uncertain circumstances in which we live.

We sometimes watch a Christmas movie on Halfway Christmas, but this year, we instead opted for a rousing game of Phase 10, which we didn't finish but enjoyed nonetheless. Well, most of us did. Seth thinks it's a stupid game because there is no strategy involved. I think that's what makes it so perfect.

Another Halfway Christmas for the books. It was rather charming, actually!

COVID anxiety, and how do you get the hood of my car up?

So at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, I thought I was handling it all very well. Others even commented on how calm I was. With my anxiety disorder that specifies to fear of fatal illness, everyone expected me to crumble right to the floor over coronavirus. I didn't. I attempted to use logic, and I was mostly successful. I have none of the risks for a serious reaction to the virus. I am female, young, healthy, and normal weight. I exercise regularly and have no underlying heath conditions. I even have Type O blood, for heaven's sake, which I guess is the best type to have for this virus. It's all good.

That was 3.5 months ago. As time passes and the uncertainty grows, I find my anxiety grows right along with the uncertainty. The fear is getting worse, not better. The past two nights I've lain in bed, terrified, sure I had a fever, because I was cold. Both nights it took every once of courage I could muster to get up and take my temperature, which registered 96.7 and 96.2 Degrees Fahrenheit, respectively. As Shulamith likes to tell me, I'd probably be better off just staying home 24/7, not leaving the house at all. That's what my mom does (and I'm very glad she does!), because she is 80. So far, I haven't gone to that extreme, but I wear a mask and gloves everywhere in public, and I'm definitely not comfortable with people outside of my family coming near me.

Which brings me to what happened here:

Yesterday, Shulamith and I were at Smith's picking up a food order. If you haven't tried this, Smith's online grocery orders and parking lot pickup are fabulous, especially if you don't feel comfortable going inside stores. The Smith's worker brought out the bags of groceries, and we were good to go until Shulamith tried to start her car. Dead. As a doornail. Wouldn't even make an effort to turn over. This didn't make sense. She drove there with no problem, and the car had only been shut off maybe 10 minutes. We decided we needed to try to jump the battery, but how does one do that, we wondered? And where would we find jumper cables?

We called Seth to ask him to check in Isaiah's car, and sure enough, jumper cables! Kindly, Seth came right away to save us. But then that first question. How does one jump a car battery? Shulamith and I are educated, resourceful women, so she pulled out her phone and googled the question. The result was a diagram showing how and where to place the positive (+) and the negative (-) gripper deals. We were terrified! Why worry about COVID-19 when you can just blow yourselves up with jumper cables?!

Okay, we can do this.

So I drove my car around to face hers, but then. Then we needed to get both hoods open. We pulled the release in both cars, and her car hood opened just fine, but neither of us, to save our very lives, could figure out how to get mine up. We tried for several minutes before the nice Smith's truck driver pictured above came over to help. He managed to get my hood up right away and attached the cables for us. And yes, he was so kind to help us, but please everyone, PRAY he didn't have the virus, because there he suddenly was, right in our space, no one wearing masks, talking to us. I nearly freaked and ran away. I should have. I was just so stunned to have a stranger that near me. Oh my goodness. And now I'll be on high alert for two weeks, waiting for symptoms to appear. Blah.

And then the stupid cables didn't even work. Her car still wouldn't start, even with the jump. By now we'd been out in the hot sun for an hour, and her cold food needed to be refrigerated. Matt was on his way driving from work, so I left and took her cold groceries to put in my fridge. Once Matt arrived, they were able to buy a new battery and all's well that ends well.

Except my COVID anxiety is now ten times higher. And I still have no idea how to get the hood of my car up.

"Teen Empty," after 22 years

 

Twenty-two years ago, our oldest son, Luke, revolutionized our family by becoming its first teenager. Two years later, our youngest son, Seth, was born. Today, Seth effects yet another dramatic change by leaving us "teen empty."

Today is his 20th birthday, and for the first time in 22 years, our family has no teenagers. I struggle to wrap my mind around it. Pretty much my whole identity is centered in being the mom to kids and teens. What now? I honestly have no idea, but it can't be very good.

One of my plans for this blog in 2020 was to tell each of my five children's birth story in the month of his or her birth. There have been three so far: Eli, Isaiah, Shulamith. Following the pattern, this would be the time to tell Seth's birth story, but as I was scrolling through posts just now, I see that I've already done that. This is my 733rd post, so yeah, sometimes I forget what I've written. If you'd like to read the story of Seth's birth, feel free to go to to the post titled "A Decade of Joy," which I wrote exactly 10 years ago.

Regarding that story, I will add just one thing. Had I any idea back on June 14, 2000 that my precious baby would share a birthday with a man who would become the most incompetent, egotistical, unhinged, immoral, and downright terrifying president our country has ever seen, I would have sacrificed my preference for waiting for spontaneous labor, and demanded my doctor induce me on June 13th. Really, I would have, Seth. I am so sorry.

Believe me when I tell you that Seth is nothing like that other man. Seth is kind and smart. He cares about others. He's hardworking and resourceful and has the most delightful sense of humor. He makes me laugh every day, and though this crappy COVID that ended his mission four months early is not what he would have chosen, he continues to adapt and adjust to life's circumstances with grace and humor.

It's now 8:44 a.m., and he is still dead asleep. I'll pause for a bit and finish my post this evening, when I have a full report on the day's celebration...

Okay, it's now 10:08 p.m., and the celebration is dying down. For lunch, Seth and I got Panda takeout because Panda is Seth's favorite food in all the land. He says he probably wouldn't eat Panda every day, but every other day would be perfect. When he looked at his bowl of honey walnut shrimp, orange chicken, and chow mein, he noted that "this is possibly the most perfect bowl of food I've ever seen."

In the afternoon, he and Matt (Shulamith's husband) went disc golfing, arriving home just in time for dinner and games. Shulamith grilled burgers and Polish dogs and made pasta salad. I made brownie sundaes with ice cream, strawberries, and whipped cream. While Seth enjoyed all of this, the best moment was when he opened his one birthday present: Apple AirPods. He was so surprised and thrilled, which is EXACTLY how presents should be. My heart was happy!

Happy 20th birthday, dear Seth! Even though you were supposed to stay a teenager forever, 20 looks dang good on you.

"Like hell you will." My only close experience with racism.

"What nationality are you?"

It's a question I'm never asked. In the course of the typical, awkward, get-acquainted conversation, people want to know all sorts of other things. "How long have you lived in Utah? Are you married? Do you have children? How many? Where to you work? What are your hobbies? But no, "What nationality are you?" is never a question people ask me.

The answer, by the way, would be "On my dad's side, English and Dutch. On my mom's side, German and Native American."

Yes, you read that right. My maternal grandmother was Native American. You'd never guess that by looking at me. I didn't inherit any physical characteristics from my Native American grandma; I have mousy brown hair, blue eyes, and very light skin. Even my mom doesn't look like her mom. She has some facial features that reveal her Native American heritage and her body type is similar to most Native American women, but no one notices those. It's that mousy brown hair, blue eyes, and light skin that people see, the traits she inherited from her German father.

My grandma, however, was asked that question all the time: "What nationality are you?" People often guessed Latino or Italian or even Jewish (because she talked with her hands). The sad part is my grandma was always hesitant to tell the truth about her ancestry, embarrassed to admit to her rich, noble culture. She had been mistreated and marginalized too much as a result of it.

I am but two generations removed from that bigotry, and it breaks my heart. How could anyone not love the woman who loved me better than just about anyone? How could people not see her grace, her charity, her tremendous faith? How could they make a judgment based solely on her skin color? I'm baffled. And horrified.

Like so many, I'm also horrified over the recent murder of George Floyd at the hands (or knee) of a uniformed police officer in broad daylight, surrounded by onlookers including three other cops, as he begged for his life, using his last bit of strength to utter the words "I can't breathe!" I feel sick about it. I also feel driven to write something. But what? What could I possibly add to the narrative that hasn't already been said? Nothing that I can think of.

Instead, I'd like to tell you a different story, one that reflects my only close experience with racism, a story of my grandma. I wasn't alive yet when this happened, but I have been told about it, both from her perspective and also from my mom's.

My grandma was divorced, raising my mom on her own for about 10 years before she met my grandpa. His name was Albert F. Hartung, and he was the love of her life. A second marriage for both, they wed in a Unitarian church in downtown Portland on September 5, 1953, when my mom was a young teenager.

Like her first husband (my mom's biological dad), my grandpa was of German descent. He was also the president of a large labor union, The International Woodworkers of America, which represented those who worked in the logging industry throughout the United States and Canada. He began as a logger himself, where he experienced firsthand the wretched working conditions and sub-poverty wages in that industry, moving him to organize his coworkers into the solidarity of a union, in order to demand better. Through his effort and that of so many others, that union was formed, and he ultimately became its president, leading over 20,000 members in five regions: three in the U.S. and two in Canada.

In that role, he led individual meetings in all five regions of the IWA, traveling regularly through both countries. And in 1953, he married a Native American woman. A year or so after they were married, meetings were scheduled in Region 5, which included the southern states, at a hotel in Laurel, Mississippi. As my grandparents entered and approached the front desk to register, they were told that my grandmother couldn't stay in the hotel. I wasn't there, so I don't know exactly how the conversation progressed, but the bottom line is they wouldn't allow my beautiful grandma to stay in their damn hotel because of her race, or more precisely, because of her dark skin color.

My grandparents' reactions to this discrimination differed, hers and his. She quietly whispered to him that it was okay. "I'll just go home, Al. I'll just catch a flight and go home to Portland." Again, I wasn't there, but I know my grandpa, and he was never one to mince words or to hide the strength of his conviction. I imagine him turning to her and declaring, "Like hell you will, Nina! We will pick up our things, and we will move all these meetings to a hotel that will welcome my wife and me." And so it was. IWA members from all over the south who had gathered that day in Laurel, gladly moved to a different venue when President Hartung asked them to.

This man was my hero. Though he died when I was only 14, more than anyone else, he shaped my worldview and taught me the importance of caring for the weak, the downtrodden, and the marginalized of society. In an issue from The Woodworker, the IWA magazine, way back in 1958, he wrote, "If we stand united and remember that an injury to one is an injury to all, we will drive the fascist-minded enemies...back into their holes."

He would be outraged by the fascist, dictatorial, divisive agenda of the current administration. And do you know what he would tell me? He would say, "Tannie (that's what he called me), stand up! Never stop fighting for what is right. Never let hatred and oppression win. Gather support. Build unity. Do whatever you can to vote this insane man out of office in November."

I will try my best, Grandpa. I will try my best.

Motherhood in the Time of COVID-19: It's okay to vent.

As moms, it's our job to fix everything. Always. We kiss away the pain of scraped knees, comfort the broken hearts of teen romances, and console the disappointed dreams of failed exams, sports losses, and college rejection letters. We are always on the frontline, first to offer support and encouragement. We make it all better. It's our job.

But what about when we can't?

Sometimes life brings such challenging circumstances that even a mom's love isn't enough. Sometimes we simply don't have the energy to meet all the needs of every kid all the time. Sometimes, though well intended, we just mess up. The truth is every one of our children will one day have reason to sit in a therapist's office, burdened with some demon that is the result of an unmet childhood need. I often wonder what that might look like for my kids. Am I too protective? Not protective enough? Will my anxiety ultimately make them anxious? Is my focus on fitness and body image causing them harm? Do I worry too much about the little things? Do I not worry enough about the big ones? The list goes on.

As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I take comfort in the promise that the atonement of Christ has the power to heal and to make up the difference where I fall short in their lives. I think of my Heavenly Parents and their unyielding love for each of us. They were the only perfect parents, and even they lost a third of their kids. Somehow, this gives me solace.

But COVID-19 has thrown me right off the parenting rails, especially with regard to my two unmarried sons, Isaiah and Seth. This virus has halted both their lives, just as it has for almost everyone, but I feel like I should be able to fix it for these two. I should be able to make their lives better. Because that's my job. I realize it's irrational. I can't eradicate the virus. I can't make it less dangerous. I can't decide it's safe to cease social distancing when clearly, it is not.

For Isaiah, COVID has stifled the two passions of his life: the NBA and international travel. All he has left is his job, which he does here at home, day after day. He rarely leaves the house. On the one hand, that means he's very safe; on the other hand, it's a recipe for depression. More than anything, I want him to be able to travel. He has a trip to Japan with some friends planned for November, but will they even be able to go?

For Seth, it's a matter of his absent social life. He was abruptly taken out of his mission in Paraguay five months early, and returned to 14 days of total quarantine, followed by social distancing. Unfortunately, the Gen Z community, with its still developing cognitive maturity, seems to mostly ignore COVID-19. Seth has just one friend who practices social distancing as we do (Thank you, Kara!). All the others are gathering in groups, dating, throwing parties, eating in restaurants. Every day Seth turns down at least one invitation to something or other. It makes me so sad. I want to help. I want to fix it. I want him to be happy.

Seth doesn't complain much. He has no desire to cease social distancing because he understands its importance. His two grandmas will be 82 and 90 this year. He cares about older people. But it's so hard to feel so left out of a social scene that was once so important to him, friends he hasn't seen for two years and still can't see, other than 6 ft. apart, wearing protective masks. It's no life for a young single adult.

AND I WANT SO DESPERATELY TO FIX IT FOR HIM! But I don't know how. When will he be able to see his friends? I have no idea.When will he get to go to college? No idea. When will his current circumstances change? No clue. No timeline. That is the most frustrating part.

Last night he was voicing some of that frustration, and I immediately felt that "mom need" to fix it. I began talking in circles, searching for the right thing to say, something that would give him hope. Finally, he said, "I know you can't solve this thing, Mom. I just needed to vent."

Well, it's okay to vent. Perfectly okay. Social media has produced some posts recently, shaming people for their feelings of frustration over prolonged social isolation. Some even go so far as to remind us of our Jewish brothers and sisters, who hid for months in small spaces, barely allowed to speak or move or do anything at all. And here we sit with our laptops, TVs, iPads, and smart phones.

But a wise therapist I once sought out for help with my dumb anxiety told me something I won't soon forget: "You can't compare pain," she said. She's right. Always there will be those who suffered more than we did. Always there will be circumstances so much worse than our own. That doesn't mean it's not okay to feel our feelings.

Motherhood in the time of COVID-19. It's okay to vent.

"There is NOTHING you have to do": Anxiety dreams? Anxiety non-dreams?

I just wrote a note to myself on an actual piece of paper that I will place strategically here on my nightstand, easily accessible throughout the night. In big letters, it reads "There is NOTHING you have to do for school or on your computer: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! (Go to sleep!)"

Who remembers the student anxiety dream? You come to the very end of the semester. Finals week looms just ahead, and suddenly you realize you were registered for a class that you never attended. Somehow, some way, this whole class slipped past you. Now you're going to earn an "F," which will plague your GPA for the rest of your natural life. You'll probably never graduate from college, and if you manage to somehow squeak by with a degree, one look at that transcript and no one will ever hire you. The classic student anxiety dream.

My kids tell me there's a similar dream for servers. You suddenly realize that you haven't greeted half your tables, and all your food comes up at the same time, except for the one table whose food you forgot to ring in. Then you deliver the food, but it's all wrong. Every order is completely messed up, everyone is yelling at you, and every time you pick up a glass to pour a beverage, it breaks. The classic server anxiety dream.

But what about anxiety non-dreams? Lately, I spend way too much time awake at night, certain there is something urgent I need to do for one of my classes, something on the computer, but hard as I try, I can't figure out what it is. It feels like it's right on the edge of my brain, so close, but I can't quite access it. This is not a dream. I am not asleep. I lie in bed, convinced I have forgotten to do this critical thing for my students, always on my computer. I've even gotten up, opened my laptop, and tried remember what it is, always to no avail. Why? Because it's a pile of crap. It doesn't exist. There IS. NO. THING.

This anxiety non-dream makes a small degree of sense during the semester, you know, when I actually have classes. With real students. Right now, I'm between semesters. I submitted final grades for spring last Wednesday. I'm officially off contract. I'm not getting paid, meaning I'm essentially unemployed until mid-June, and yet....and yet. This stupid anxiety non-dream continues to haunt me practically every night.

Last night was especially bad. I was awake at least three hours trying so hard to remember. This "thing" was right there in front of me, I felt like, but I couldn't grasp it. At least with anxiety dreams, you wake up. You wake up! And you realize none of it was true. But I'm already awake. It's way scarier.

So tonight, I try a new plan: this note. Wish me luck, dear readers, because this super sucks. I need to sleep, uninterrupted. I'm on break, for heaven's sake. I shouldn't be thinking about school. Or students.

Or make-believe stuff I forgot to do.

Mother's Day 2020: You five are my everything.

Yesterday morning, during our social-distancing walk, Emily and I dove right into the most natural conversation topic: "How was your Mother's Day?" Of course there's the obvious. Quarantined holidays don't quite measure up. Since the shelter-in-place advice was first issued, our family has celebrated three birthdays, plus General Conference, Easter, and now Mother's Day. We also welcomed our missionary home, abruptly and prematurely. Life goes forward, COVID-19 or not, just differently.

Emily mentioned that she and Trent got to go somewhere together, kid free, courtesy of two of her sisters, who are currently staying at their house. Where did they go? I don't think I asked. Because really, where could they go? Maybe for a walk in a park? For a drive? To get some takeout? When they returned, her sweet sisters commented on the experience of caring for a 4-year-old and a 2-month-old. "Jeffrey cries and needs soothing, but then the second he is better, Evelyn needs a drink. Then Jeffrey is unhappy again because we put him down."

Rinse and repeat, the cycle continues.

"Welcome to my life!" Emily replied. Then she said something that resonated right through me. I'm paraphrasing here, but she noted how through this cycle of helping each kid as much as you can, then switching to the other, back and forth, you come out of it all feeling like no one's needs are getting met perfectly, and that you're not ever doing quite enough, even though you're trying with all your might. I told her I wish I could tell her that gets better, but I really can't. Cuz even though her kids are tiny and mine are older, I feel exactly the same.

Motherhood is the craziest gig. It's simultaneously challenging and joyful, frustrating and fabulous, heart wrenching and heartwarming. It makes us doubt ourselves on the daily, while highlighting more clearly than anything else, our divine nature. It tests us to our very core, as it digs deep to find the absolute best we have to offer. It's a paradox of feelings, often surfacing one on top of the other, as we move from kid to kid, from need to need, stretching in ways we never thought possible.

I often comment that I was a better mom to little kids and teens than I am to young adults. The former always felt like a a better fit. Seth is still technically a "teen," thank heavens! No idea what I'll do when he turns 20 next month. Let's not talk about it. Regardless, I am grateful beyond description for the chance to be a mom; no other role makes me happier, and this Mother's Day, though unusual, was still lots of fun.

Here are some highlights:

A few days prior to Sunday, Shulamith and I went on a hike to a place called Mill B South. I use the word "hike" loosely; it was just 0.5 miles. But the rushing water alongside the short trail was beautiful, and it was a great day. I see more hikes in our future this summer.

A few days before that, we decided to bathe both the dogs. We didn't get a picture of Waffles, but here's Woof:

On Mother's Day, itself, I awoke to Seth, carrying a plate full of eggs and chocolate chip pancakes. He has been bringing me breakfast in bed on Mother's Day ever since he was a little boy, and with the exception of last year (when he was in Paraguay), he hasn't missed a year. Over the years, the cuisine has definitely improved. He learned how to cook eggs on his mission. Protein was scarce in parts of Paraguay, so they threw an egg on just about everything.

Mid morning, Seth and I drove to the stake center, where our awesome stake presidency hosted a drive-by for the women in the stake. They wished me a Happy Mother's Day, and gave me an ice-cold Diet Coke, a Haagen-Dazs ice cream bar, and a dark chocolate truffle. We're talking legit treats. They also had plants, but I suggested they not waste a perfectly good plant on me. No doubt it would be dead before we ever made it home.

Next, the plan was to gather at a park for lunch, takeout from Buffalo Wild Wings. Isaiah volunteered to take everyone's requests and order and pick up the food. I requested my favorite sauce, honey barbecue, and mounds of the best onion rings on the planet. If you haven't had them, you're missing out. As we were about to leave, we found out that Eli was feeling sick (JUST a stomach upset, NOT the virus), so he and Amanda weren't coming. That was the only sad part of the day. In addition to not having them with us, I had really wanted to get a picture of me with all four kids who live here in Utah (our oldest son lives in Maryland). It was not to be. Instead, Matt took this one picture, and then Shulamith took one of me with my new Bluetooth headphones. I got two presents (!) from my nice children: new walking shoes, plus these headphones, for the times I have to walk alone, without Emily or Seth. I can listen to music or talk to my mom on the phone, hands free. Yay! It was such a fun afternoon. We laughed so much!

For the past 10ish years, I have spent Mother's Day at Macaroni Grill, where one or more of my kids was working. This year was different. Social distancing. No eating inside restaurants. But it was still good.

Thank you Luke, Shulamith, Isaiah, Eli, and Seth for the profound privilege of being your mom. I wouldn't trade this role for anything. You five are my greatest accomplishment (which isn't saying much because I suck at most things), but still.

You are my everything.