Troy joined the Anderson family through marriage nearly 26 years ago. When Monica started dating Troy there was a general inquiry by the younger siblings about who Troy was. Since there seemed to be an army of Leishmans in Rexburg, exactly which Leishman was this Troy? One of the first identifying pieces of information was the front window of the Anderson home on Apache Avenue. A pair of oversized, nearly body-length windows faced the street from the dining room. Among one of these windows, was something that looked like a bubble, or maybe a lodged marble inside the glass. Having never taken notice of it before, and having asked for clarifying information to link to this new boyfriend, we were invited to look and see this curious malformity in the windows. We learned it was not in fact a lodged marble, but the crusted tomb of a small BB bullet shot from a BB gun in the street. Did we live in a gang-ridden inner city? How had this window not completely broken? Why didn’t we grow up cursing the fool that had shot at our home?

“Well, several years back the Leishman boys shot at the window. At least we think it was the Leishman boys. We’re not sure if it was Todd or Troy, but they were always together.” 

Wait, this was the guy that was dating Monica? Keep in mind this piece of history wasn’t ingrained in our minds like it was in the window, it simply came up when we asked. But it definitely left Troy in the market of already having some making up to do, at least before he was given the green light to be Monica’s Number One.

Wait….so this kid who shot BB guns in neighborhoods, he was the same Leishman kid who had the cheesy permed mullet when he was in High School? The very one. 

 Two strikes! 

Nonetheless, the window remained and Troy was welcome into the home. After all, the mullet and it’s accompanying rowdy lifestyle were years ago, and there was a polite sweetness to this now newly returned missionary. 

As you now know, Troy did in fact become Monica’s Number One, and as far as the Andersons were concerned, Troy didn’t strike out. He even batted a home run. He got the girl! They were married less than a year after their courtship began. 

Watching a loved one become a wife or husband, seeing them start their own family, cultivating their new family culture as they bring their own history and expectations, well this is always a curious thing. By the time Troy was given the green light from the Andersons and got himself a pretty little wife, we loved and respected Troy. 

We knew that: 
A) If Troy was raised as a hunter, and passionate outdoorsman, and
B) Monica was a Coach’s Daughter and grew up in a sports family, then 
C) Which culture is more annoying? What would their new culture be? 
D) Are all sports people rude jocks? Are all hunters weird rednecks? 
E) Would Monica be left with new little ones and be ditched every hunting season? Or worse... 
F) Would those cute little babies eventually grow up and (*gasp*!) have their own disgusting mullets someday too? 

You think this is an interesting math story problem, but it’s actually a trick question. Because what we haven’t told you thus far is that there was an underlying foundation that was shared by BOTH families. And what that shared culture was, well it trumped everything else. What was it? It was the gospel of Jesus Christ. It was faith in a God who was in fact our Father in Heaven. It was devotion to family, and faith in the goodness of people. It was obedience to a living prophet, and a patient outlook on the work required to raise children. 

So how did that translate into the welding of this new family culture created by Monica and Troy? It meant that Monica had to get used to the man of the house not being gone for basketball games, but gone a bit during hunting season. It meant that Troy had to cut his hunting season short sometimes so he could stay home and help with the kids. 

Apart from the horrible general stereotyping that has happened so far in this little essay, there was the individual personalities and quirks of Monica and Troy, and that’s where it really gets interesting. Because Monica wasn’t just a “Coach’s Daughter”, she was and is a very capable, smart, independent woman. She can do complicated math in her head at the same time she is blazing creative energy into sewing, cooking, or crafts. The girl can’t sit still and she takes no crap! She is generous to a fault, and yet has a hard time disguising her frustrations at self-absorbed or lazy people. THE GIRL GETS IT DONE. 

What about Troy? As you well know, he wasn’t just a “Crazy Hunter”. He was and is a patient and kind man. He built relationships with rough-mouthed construction workers as easily as he did with sports coaches, sanctimonious clergymen, or retail clerks. He started a company by his boundless work ethic, then he made it a thriving business because it became synonymous with integrity and a job well done. Not only did he work his tail off, he still made time to water-ski, snowmobile, dirt-bike, hike, fish, and garden. The man dies at 47 but has left a lifetime of adventures with his wife and kids. That’s because his outdoor lifestyle wasn’t just a man’s club, it included his children and wife as well.

Speaking of children, how could such a macho outdoorsman hold all the tiny hearts in his hands? Babies and little children flocked to Troy. He cuddled and loved on his own kids, and when they grew up he didn’t stop. There was many a church and family function where Troy was swaying a baby, carting around a toddler, or playing with children. He was an expert at playing and he was pure in heart, and children loved him for it. 

For our sister and daughter personally, he was a doting husband. He respected her spitfire while simultaneously tempering it. He adored his children, and allowed them the space to pursue their own unique talents, even if they differed from his own passions. Monica and Troy’s work ethic was only matched by each other. There have been many meals delivered, clothes mended, adventures organized, and literal refuge during other people’s personal life “storms” given freely from Troy and Monica.

Back in aught-five there was an explosion of babies.  Just in August, came my son and 3 girl cousins.  Four months later 2 more cousins arrived, yet another girl and finally a boy.  With cousins spread here and there, we were able to track down at least one to share a special day with....8 years later.

I pressed her as we played with her barbie house.  To this day, I can't remember what it was that she had done, but whatever it was it dissolved like butt-ah on a hot pancake the moment she was immersed underwater.  It was magic!

From that moment on, I latched on to my sins that I knowingly had committed.  We grow up in families and learn to share and get along and fight, I'm not talking about that stuff.  I'm talking about knowing better and choosing the other way.

Sin #1) I stole a small handful of Swedish fish from Porter's Variety Store.  I loved them sooo much, and my mom wouldn't buy them, and they were right there in front of my face.  I took them, and was quickly busted and escorted back to the store where my sins were publicly confessed and a dime was given to the cashier.

Sin #2) Knowing that I was getting baptized in a year, I remember visiting my Aunt and Uncle's house in Blackfoot.  Sitting on their couch with my cousin Quinn, I busted out every swear word I could think of.  I did this knowing these words were bad, and that once I was baptized they would be permanently off-limits.  That consisted of the following: shit, damn, and hell. 

{Now when I mutter these under my breath, I'm proud of myself for not dropping a double-fudge brownie like I heard a million times a day when working at a ski resort (exclamation, adjective, greeting).} 

So I was excited for the big day, I was ready and wanted to follow Jesus.  I also knew that He was powerful and that on my baptism day I would witness my first of many miracles.  I waded into the font, excited to see my dad, and got ready to be baptized and have my sins washed away.  

As the prayer was said, I fixated on my Swedish Fish Fiasco.  I reminisced the details of the store, the chewy release of raspberry? strawberry? Sweden?  The pounding of my heart as I knew I was taking something without paying, and then it was time!  I took a big gasp of air, plugged my nose, and bent my knees for a smooth ride.  Down I went, under blue, waiting for the magic of baptism and my sins to not only be washed away, but scrambled from my brain forever.

Up I came and took a new breath, happy but confused.  In case you didn't notice, I have been describing my former sins approximately 30 years later.  That means when I came up out of the water as my new 8 year-old self, there it still was, like an out-of-town uncle that took over your bedroom for a week and was supposed to be gone yesterday.  I don't mind you, but I thought I was getting my bed back?

The main thing is: I didn't steal anymore Swedish Fish.  As for sin #2? I'm doing pretty damn good at watching my language.  Every now and then in a moment of unbridled stress, something slips out.  But for the most part, we're just hugging on the kids and praising God in our heart.

But like I said, that was 30 years ago.  And today?  Well, who knows what my Vanilla Wafer was thinking about when he went in the water.  I'm hoping it was something more along the lines of: Heavenly Father loves me!  I want to follow the Savior! The gospel gives you power and happiness!



Here's Leif and Eliza with Grandma and Grandpa Cozy!  Grandpa confirmed Leif an official member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and commissioned the Gift of the Holy Ghost.

We had family from Idaho, Salt Lake, and Draper.  It was so great to have such awesome family support.
 Mmmmmm....kissy kissy.

 The Olsen's in 2013 look like this.

Today is Saturday, and my last post was just a few short days ago. It feels like it was forever ago. The trial and pain of being a ripe-for-the-harvest pregnant woman left me reflecting on "pain" and how that mini-trial, and its grouchy self-imposed symptoms, left me suspecting that should I really endure a major trial like cancer, there was a risk I might be in the bitter category (as opposed to the sweet communion category).

So yeah, a real trial that has the risk of life, or perhaps the risk of financial suicide. Maybe both. A trial (and I can see more clearly now: a blessing) that came to the earth just a few short hours after clicking "publish" on the hypotheticals of pain: a beautiful blonde boy, born at 7:55 a.m. on Tuesday April 5th, weighing a staggering 9 pounds 10 ounces.


Since that time I have pondered the ironies of this crazy week.

How The Mister of the House and I chose a birthing center, so we could receive professional treatment outside the annoying protocol of a hospital birth.

How this decision was also based on the fact that a normal safe birth at a birthing center would cost considerably less than a normal safe birth at the hospital.

And how, apart from the terror-inducing screams that bellowed from the innermost parts of my soul as this giant baby passed through the birth canal, I enjoyed a childbirth that was quick, healthy, attentive, and safe.

It's no wonder that we were shocked when just 5 hours after giving birth, during which time I enjoyed a full one-hour cuddle session immediately after his arrival, a time when I nursed him twice, a time when we cooed and sniffed and laughed at the unforseen odds of getting another blondie, well were just a little confused and shocked to be following an ambulance whisking our offspring to the NICU at the hospital just a few miles away.

Ironic that such a big healthy boy is so sick! Infection in the lungs, attending rise in blood pressure in the lungs, putting undue work on his little heart, and a seven day run of IV antibiotic fluids.



Ironic how we relished the thought of not being in the hospital, and how I now live there. Ironic how the hospital staff, and their annoying protocol, saved and is continuing to save my son's life.

Ironic that we planned on returning home the same day for an informal birthday party, and we haven't been home since (well at least me and the babe).

How my sweet and thoughtful blessing way necklace is around my neck everyday, but with another accessory: a NICU PARENT badge.



And more importantly, the irony that this pain is so much more real when compared to the pain I complained of on Monday (although valid: come on! I had a nearly 10 pound kid in my gutt).

And the sweet revelation that God is ever mindful of our family, and especially our little boy, and how we feel lifted up by his spirit through this unexpected detour we are taking. Through the tears, and the heart-to-heart conversations, The Mister and I have felt a sweet communion as we reflect on the possible and shocking changes this may bring to our family.

And ironic how we feel so blessed! Our family has been amazing and supportive. Our little giant is making A-MAZING progress in the NICU. He is growing stronger and is now getting all of his sustenance from me (yay!).

We are hoping to go home on Tuesday. Please keep baby Gideon in your prayers for a quick recovery.

** I have so many pictures I want to post! I will update them as soon as I am able. Thanks for all your prayers and concern for our family.**

Today marks the first time I have ever been over my due date. I cannot believe I'm still pregnant. This conversation sums up my existence right now:

Friend arrives to my house last week to pick up eggs. I haven't seen her in two weeks:

Friend: (freezes in her tracks and stares) Oh. My. Gosh. You have gotten so much bigger just since I saw you two weeks ago.

Mrs. Olsen: Oh. Yeah?

Friend: Yes. How are you feeling?

Mrs. Olsen: Like I want to have a baby.

(2 minutes later)
Friend: So are you retaining water?

Mrs. Olsen: Nope. Not really. My wedding ring still fits me fine.

(10 minutes later, after friend is gone)
Mrs. Olsen realizes that the water retention question is relevant to the concept of How in the crap did you explode like that in two weeks? Mrs. Olsen subsequently teeters between blog-savvy women empowerment and unnerving esteem dips that make her want to hibernate away from the general public.


Basically I'm bi-polar right now. I've been super ornery and feeling sorry for myself. Then I listened to General Conference, where a speaker (who happens to be a surgeon) talked about the role that pain plays in our lives.

Pain, aside from the obvious physical ailments, can also be acquainted with spiritual pain, the tough times we all go through in our life but never saw coming. He spoke about how as a surgeon, he had to inflict pain oftentimes to alleviate pain and how people responded to pain very differently.

A) The pain (aka trial) makes them humble, more compassionate, and closer to Christ.

or

B) They become bitter and resentful towards loved ones, and God.

I basically realized that I have a tendency to fall into category B. I thought that if I ever had a real, life-threatening, prolonged physical challenge like cancer or something, there would be a high likelihood I would be an ornery bitch. Sorry Norma. There's no other word for it.

This realization was super lame, and also a little humbling.

I also realized that no one wants to hang out with someone who stinkin' complains all the time! So I've stopped answering my phone. It's to protect all the people checking up on me, loving me and worried about me, who might discover that I'm absolutely no fun to be around right now.

However, I occasionally will reach out during one of my "highs" to say hello, go to a matinee or eat out. So thank you for thinking of me, and don't take it personal.

Meanwhile, I'm trying to channel The Mister's sweet Grandpa. He has had fried nerves since he had shingles several YEARS ago. He falls into category A. He always talks about how my little Vanilla Wafer looks like he did when he was young.



The Mister's eloquent poetress cousin, sums it up nicely in her poem Persimmon. It's about Grandpa Jack, and her first poetry book is available here.

Persimmon
By Dayna Patterson

Wait for the first frost,
he said

The limbs sag with fruit
hundreds of green shiny eggs

Wait for the frost
and they will be pure
sugar in your mouth

The word persimmon
a parcel of liquid semivowels,
already sugars the mouth.

The persimmons slowly ripen
to tangerine brightness.

They're not ready
till they swell like water
balloons, skin splitting,
almost rotten.

She waits for the frost,
the kill cold to tame
tannic acid, to trick
out the sweet.

She thinks about
persimmons and people
mellowed to sweetness
by adversity's cold clap.

Grandfather's shingles
blowtorch his chest;
he pins a sock roll to his pocket
to keep shirt from flesh

Yet folks feel like kin
and kin like kings
in the fountain
of his kindness

She waits for the frost
and hopes her mouth
will welcome cold fruit.


P.S. Any ginormous pregnant woman gets a free pass for being ornery. For the record. But still, I have had much to think about. Just want to make sure any prego friends are feeling the love. Bitch and moan to me anytime :)

The last full touring day of our trip we headed to....hmmm, what should I call it? Legally known as Londonderry, historically known as Derry, and from what I can tell, you can remain somewhat neutral as long as you simply refer to it as "The City of Derry". This is the place where Bloody Sunday occurred decades ago, and has been a porting city and immigration stepping stone for centuries. Such history!

In 2008, we left our little Victorian house with neighbors 20 feet away on two sides. We opted for a change of scenery and a steadier, more rooted, pace to life. We felt so blessed to find a home in a nice neighborhood that already had a finished basement apartment. Mortgage eater built in--awesome!

As a born and bred Idaho Girl, I was excited for a recent reunion away from the farm, over the river and through the woods to Island Park. Driving through southeast Idaho, the valleys are wide and plain. Plod further north and you get to beautiful Ashton, and right on the border of that town, you see the impending rise of the land, a major geologic shift forcing your transmission to growl. Within the course of a mile, the landscape transitions from wide sagebrush plains and winding rivers to forest. Don't think lush Oregon forest: ferns underground shaded by the massive outstretched arms of pinion pines catching oceanic gusts. It's just miles and miles and miles of tall, straight, narrow Lodgepole Pines.

Last week our two goats had their kids. During the month prior, The Mister of the House purchased a goat care book, watched disturbing YouTube videos, and checked on the expectant mothers several times a day. When some experienced farmer friends indicated that the goats could go any day now, The Mister of the House officially shifted into hyperdrive. He turned to me after they left and stated: I don't even have my birthing kit ready yet!

As for me, I generally snored like a lion while The Mister wrested the sheets worrying about the having to turn a baby goat for delivery. When it comes to his paternal-like worry patterns in comparison with my seeming indifference, I'd like to chalk it up to the fact that I have birthed three kids of my own, that I trust the female species to get the job down, and my inner sense of keeping it cool. Yet, I have to admit that my husband is a Man of Action who gets the job done. So I thanked him by nodding off mid-sentence and sleeping like a baby, all the while smiling sweet lover's dream of worried husbands scrambling to assemble a birthing kit.

As for my own part in the bringing of new life to the farm, I was excited! I have sweat, bled, and cried while bringing my kids into the world, and have never been afforded the birds-eye view of the process. To say I was curious is putting it lightly. And to calm The Mister's fears, and because I have smaller hands, I agreed to turn the baby goat if the delivery went amiss.

So last Wednesday I got birth on my hands. Okay just a second, how cool is that sentence: Last Wednesday I got birth on my hands.

Alright alright...I wasn't up to my elbows in the ooey-gooey. As my female senses detected (that's what it was right?) the baby goats arrived without any complication with no mid-birthing canal transitions. But apparently the curse of Eve and the consequential increase of sorrow while bringing life into the world attends all female counterparts, not just the human ones. So as it happened, the mama goat scrambled and jolted with her pains and practically birthed her kid into the wall. So after the crowning, and an exclamation of joy! I pulled the baby onto a towel so we could gargle the guck from his nose and throat.

It was truly precious to see. Mama licked her baby clean, licked my hands clean, then ate her afterbirth.

These things happen in nature people.

And I am left to ponder: Should I really be getting this attached to farm animals? Why does *most* life begin awash in blood and water?



And again and again, this scripture kept tumbling through my brain:

For by the water ye keep the commandment; by the Spirit ye are justified, and by the blood ye are sanctified;

Blood and water keeps working again and again: to bring life, to renew life, to atone.



Ready for some pictures folks?

I know I know! I honestly look like a new mother. Kindof cheesy, but here I am with one of Matilda's twins.



And here's the REAL farmer bob with the goats. To say that this man is finding his purpose in life here on the farm, is to say that everyone loves ice cream. Tis true. Tis true.


Poor little Rainbow Girl is the #1 help on the farm. After watching her second goat birth, she stated: I don't want to be a girl. But with her female-ness comes the innate love and nurturing that is a gift to all daughters of Eve, be they mothers or not.



Behold the seed of Agamemnon!



My poop boots are cooler than your poop boots.



The end.