When I see this picture, I am 9 years old. In the laundry room are all the plastic bins with clean folded clothes. I check them every few days, and take them to my room. When I say goodbye to my favorite shirt in the hamper, it quickly reappears in my bin. I wear it the next day and start the cycle over. I wonder why my little sister Niki has the name "Nicole" written on her bin.

One year ago this April, we celebrated the 90th birthday of my last living grandparent: Geneal Call Cooper. Although her birthday was in January, she had a hip replacement in that month, my folks were in Hawaii, so we pushed her party until spring-time. The family encouraged her to get the hip replacement because she was still so healthy and young. Just look at her, and you will see: This mama does not look 90!

this quiet passing in the night?

Tis not the end but genesis,

Of better worlds and greater light.

-words by Gordon B. Hinckley

full poem with accompanying music found here.

I'm not sure what's going on at Mrs. Olsen's house. I mean, I feel like I have a lot to say, but have proceeded on a mystic impetus to shut up. Or maybe turn off. Since I'm averaging one post a month right now (does anybody miss me?) my mystic impetus has temporarily aligned with the mass reminiscing, crossroads of life, wetting-your-pants impossibility of that fateful day: September 11, 2001. Those double elevens hit me today (the 22nd) and said: tick-tock, almost out of time, don't forget. Never forget.

After the long arduous journey through the awkward adolescent phase, spending college weekends taking love notes after watching Sliding Doors or Return to Me, all the while wrenching through immature (yet educational) break-ups, trying your hand at the love, in love with the romance more than love, finding your true self over time, and then finally, finally, you meet The Mister of the House and everything clicks. No more dating games. No more innocuous romantic comedies. You settle down and watch this other half and eventually come to this: I want to see what you're like as a daddy {eyebrow flirt}.

And then one day you inflate with a blossoming baby and after lots of pain, pain which takes you through the valley of the shadow of death, you're officially on the other side: You're a Mom.

Me : Last Week : Visiting the folks : Hometown : Doin' the church rounds :

First! A Confession: Remember this mug? He's 17 months, just one month shy of being officially eligible for the church nursery. He's still on the teat.


So whether I have a headache, have a hungry baby, or have gas I have a ticket to take a breather in the inner sanctum of the church. The one room with cushy recliners. The room with the hidden door after the last stall in the bathroom. The ever-ready for the multipliers of the earth: The Mother's Lounge.

So back to me : In Idaho : Taking out my Nugget of JOY [above] because he was a Chunk o' Grump : Making my way to my fellow lounging mothers and gearing to rock and love back my sweet baby boy:

Shuffle diaper bag. Shuffle baby. My peripherals catch a fellow mommy with a shiny....yes, shiny baby. Gettin' crazy with the baby oil huh? Hmmm. Steal a double- take only to realize fellow mommy is a high school girl. Rocking a doll.

Nervous laugh. Rocking and rocking. After 10 minutes of silence Mrs. Olsen blurts out: Soooooo, whatchya doin'? Are you in High School?

Here's the deal: 15 years ago when I went to the high school, those darn kids in the Parenting Class had to cart around flour babies for a full weekend. Oh, technology. Now they give them real baby dolls that cry intermittently. And will require a quick shove with the magnetic bottle to stop crying. Sometimes. It could just be a throw down on the tummy to snap the back-flap for a single swipe with the magnetic diaper. But mostly just sitting there with a doll that is making no sound for a solid 15 minutes while you rock. And rock. And nervously laugh. And rock.

Can I blame her?

Ugh.

Now that I'm getting a little age on my back, I've been thinking about who I am, how I've changed, and why I could happily be buried in the Colorado River running silty through the Grand Canyon.

You see my point is, that I once hiked through The Grand Canyon and was annoyed to learn that the average visit time was fifteen minutes. And how if I tried to hike right now, I would probably cry and not even have fun. My body testifies of a different life. But my spirit remembers. And smiles.


And how I truly in my heart adore old friends who are sacrificing their taut figures, and degrees, raising little kids who love the Lord. Seeing them do this knowing that once we slept on the trampoline under the stars, dreamed about boys together, or jogged alongside Idaho wheat fields makes motherhood more inspiring to me.


And hearing stories about The Mister's Grandma B (of those yummy caramel marshmallows) and how she grew up in the Depression. Her dirt-poor folks scrounged to get enough sugar to make...lollipops. Just one lollipop for each kid at Little Bernice's birthday party. Excited, she invited her entire class to her birthday party. She proudly displayed the suckers as a rare sweet treat for her guests. Then she waited. And waited. and no one came.

And you know what? She refused to celebrate her birthday for years. Oh, she was giving and loving and serving. But when it came to her birthday, forget it. Get back to her tomorrow. In her 80's, her family finally said enough is enough and threw a surprise party for her.

She was surprised alright. And she cried like a little girl.

Her body testified of service, love, and hours of cooking for her five kids. But her spirit remembered. And what? maybe it was relief. I'm sure it was part love. plus a little sad. maybe.


Power mother and dear friend who was horribly abused by various men in her life, some related. Pulling up the past and looking at it square in the face and empowering herself to rewrite history:


A piece of her will always be rising above the pain to love, serve, and protect her family. And as a testament to the wondrous nature of our spirits (as divinely gifted by a loving Heavenly Father) she has powered through the pain to be filled with more compassion, more love.

A piece of me will always feel a sisterhood for female returned missionaries. A piece of me will always wish I was carefree and careless on Apache Avenue. A piece of me will always cheerlead a woman giving birth at home. A piece of me will always be a daughter. Now a wife. A piece of me...someday...will always remember and cherish little chubby arms reaching across my head, tripping me when I turn from the sink, crying when their toy is broken, and peeing their bed.

Okay, not the last one. Just checking if you were still with me.

And so I lay awake at night, and see SIXTY just around the corner. And hope to have some eternal friends who will look back with me, and remember, and smile. Because a piece of me will always pray, and hope, and yearn that my children will rise up knowing their divine heavenly parentage, and that...in spite of me...and maybe even because of me...they will be happy.

the end.

Think of me as retired, conspiracy theorist, and a redneck. I am now resident spammer, but this week I'm not filling your inbox with blonde jokes, I'm goin' for love. I signed up to pay it forward from my old high school buddy, volleyball wizard, and supercrafter Danielle. I'll be getting some homemade love from her, so here's how I'm passing it on:

...begin with an almost alien-like body consumption that cooks your brain it hurts so bad.

I have so much to say about childbirth and how it's a womans rite of passage, but am not sure where to start. Sometime down the road, or perhaps later in the second stage of labor, I might start that rant series, but for now? Let's just enjoy this picture of my sister-in-law prior to going into labor with her first child.

She is practically erupting down the middle and the sides. And BTW, where's your stretch marks Holly....not fair!