Today after Sacrament Meeting, I sat in a stupor in the back of the cultural hall (because, no matter how hard I try, we rarely get to church early enough to sit any closer), contemplating how I was going to get my mammoth diaper bag, Vivi’s church bag, Baby Tad, and his awkward car seat through the crowded hallway to Sunday School.  As I sat there and tried to formulate a plan, surely in response to my silent prayer, a dear friend went out of her way to find me and offer assistance. And then another friend arrived at my side, gifting me a baby sling/nestling to help keep my busy boy safe and sound on my hip while still allowing me to try and get things done around the house each day.

Upon arriving to Sunday School, I sat down next to another friend who promptly took Baby Tad and fed him a bottle while I soaked in a wonderful lesson taught by yet another amazing comrade.  

After church, we enjoyed a delicious dinner prepared by … you guessed it … yet another sister who will also be picking Vivi up tomorrow morning to take her to the park to play with other kids from the ward.

As BT headed off to church again for more meetings this evening, I was struck not with grumbling but with gratitude.  From perfectly-timed phone calls to heart-felt notes, home-baked goodies, play dates and especially prayers, I have been blessed immeasurably by my sweet sisters in the gospel who are keenly in tune with the spirit and who put into action the principle taught in Sunday School today: One way we can more fully pay our devotion to God is to come to church prepared to “seek out and strengthen others.”

In addition to feeling incredibly grateful for those that lighten my load, I felt a prompting and a promise that if I come to church more fully focused on seeking out and strengthening others, the frustration and loneliness I often feel on Sundays will be tempered.

During the week, BT would be most comfortable in holey duds… cut off shorts coming apart at the seams, t-shirts that have seen better days (i.e., the early 1980’s).  But on Sunday, it’s all about “holy” clothes… suit, white shirt, tie. He wears church clothes from before sunup until well after sundown.

Because I want Baby Tad to grow up to be just like his amazing father, when I found some ties on clearance at The Children’s Place (99 cents each!), I knew that I had to have them.  I may be just a tad biased, but I think my little guy looks awfully cute … just like his big sister.

As I read this note from my dear Aunt Chris, visions of the old church movie “The Mailbox” flashed painfully across my mind:

I have taken Grandpa Hess to get his mail several times in the last little while and it is always empty except the dumb ads  It would mean a lot to him and me if you would occasionally send him a little note in the mail.  Not E-mail because he doesn’t get on the computer much anymore.  He may not even remember that you have sent him a note or even who you are but it would be so fun for him to get little notes of love instead of an empty mail box.  I don’t know how long we will have this great man with us so please take this advantage and do this. 
Love Aunt Chris

 (Vivian & Great Grandpa Hess, Summer 2007)

All it will take is ten minutes a week to write my amazing, aging Grandpa Hess. I know, because I just sat down and did it.  And whatever pleasure it brings him to receive the note will be nothing compared to the love and gratitude I felt as I wrote it.

I’ve tucked away the last two letters my grandfather wrote me (also addressed to his other immediate family members).  Although the content of the letters will be of no interest to anyone else, I feel compelled to include a few excerpts from one of them and will post links to the entire transposed documents later.

One the letters is the substance of the testimony my grandfather bore in Sacrament Meeting back in November 2004. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was (and will be) the last time he bore his testimony in church.  He told of a party being held to honor his Navy Battalion during WWII:

“The Battalion was made up of good, skilled men, solid citizens; but of course they had never heard of the Word of Wisdom . . . and so I didn’t fit in very well at the party.  The Executive Officer of the Battalion said to me: “Oh Chaplain, you will be just like the rest of us in a few months.” I left the party early that day and drove in my jeep back to my tent in the Unalaskan Hills; and on the way I sang at the top of my voice and with tears in my eyes: “True to the faith that our parents have cherished. True to the truth for which martyrs have perished. To God’s command, soul, heart and hand, faithful and true, (I) will ever stand.”

Grandpa Hess, may I ever be found staying true to the faith that my GRANDPARENTS have cherished. True to the truth for which you and Grandma sacrificed so much.

I pledge to you “to God’s command, soul, heart and hand, faithful and true, (I) will ever stand.”

“. . . Hell has officially frozen over.”

No, not because we started our Memorial Day by eating breakfast at the Dream Cafe–sharing a Monte Cristo sandwich and cloud cakes like we always do.

Or because we then met Lisa at Grapevine Mills Mall and caught a matinee of “Night at the Museum 2.” Although, actually going to see a full-price, new release movie is, indeed, a rarity for our family.

And nothing had frozen over yet when we went to the Bass Pro Shop so that the girls could see the fish; however, Lisa did scare the bejeebers out of Ariana while she was looking at a big FAKE shark . . . came up behind her, shouted “boo,” and Guppy screamed like she’d just been attacked by Jaws.

But after we left the Bass Pro Shop, the temperature started to drop as we headed east on highway 635 toward the Galleria. We nearly had to turn on the heater as we parked in the “Purple” parking garage.  And then it happened.  BT entered the American Girl Boutique and Bistro and he started to shiver and shake . . . but not with excitement. I am so proud of my BT for getting in touch with his “feminine side.”  He did say that if Baby Tad ever has “issues,” it can all be traced back to that fateful day.

I was dying to take some pictures to memorialize the event, but I was afraid that something might mysteriously happen to my precious camera in the middle of the night if I did. BT doesn’t get mad, but he does get even.

When I saw this handmade vintage wool “daisy” afghan on Etsy for $20, I had four thoughts.

1. That would make the coolest photography prop–the three different shades look great in B&W, too
2. The yarn alone would cost far more than $20
3. Even if I learned how to make something like that, I’d never finish
4. Some poor woman is rolling over in her grave because her ungrateful decendents clearly have no clue how long it took her to make that blanket

The only way I could keep Baby Tad contained this morning was to put him in his little wagon. Perhaps I’ve forgotten what the girls were like at this age, but I am seriously worn out from chasing the little guy around the house, trying to keep him from hurting himself.

His favorite hangouts are under the computer desk where he can chew on electrical cords of all shapes and sizes and in the corner of the kitchen where he can dine on little bugs that have escaped the constant sweeping and mopping I seem to be doing (mostly because Vivi’s potty training has been derailed in a big way).

Right now, he’s up in his crib, awake after a very brief nap, vocalizing his loneliness; but I don’t have my wits about me enough to go get him and start the rat race again.

~~~DEEP BREATH~~~

Ok. Ok.  Here I come little buddy . . . 

I’ve been eyeing the darling camera strap slip covers sold on Etsy but couldn’t bring myself to pay for something that I should be able to easily make.  With the help of my genius mother (who, despite being 1,000 miles away, always seems to be able to explain things in such a way that even I, her “blonde” daughter, can understand), I whipped this little beauty up tonight using a variety of scraps.

I even created a handy dandy pattern and posted it HERE.

I hadn’t intended to write a blog entry this afternoon.  In fact, I just went into the craft room to try and make a swanky slipcover for my camera strap.  But as I sat down at the sewing machine, I was suddenly overcome with a sense of gratitude and love for my sister, Lisa.  I’m the engine, she’s the caboose, as far as siblings go.  But even though there are eight years between us, we have so much in common.

(Lisa, Mom, Lori, Heidi–day of my wedding)

I am incredibly grateful that Lisa chose to relocate from UT to TX, and even though life hasn’t been smooth sailing since her arrival, she’s a survivor. Some of the happiest times in our family are when Aunt Lisa comes to visit. She is so good to take the girls outside and blow bubbles, kick the soccer ball, or play catch. The last time she was here, she and Ariana sat at the piano for a good long time and sang songs from Wicked at the top of their lungs. In addition to her kind heart, Lisa has been blessed with uncanny musical abilities. She can pretty much sit down and sight-read any piece of music.  AMAZING!

We all love you so much, Lisa, and can’t wait to see you again.

Humble pie was the appetizer on the menu tonight.

Feeling overwhelmed, tired, and ill, I was definitely not winning the Mrs. Congeniality award as I fixed dinner. And as is often the case, my two daughters took the brunt of my foul mood. 

So, as we sat down to dinner, I apologized for my grumpiness.

Trying to help me feel better, sweet Guppy said, “It’s okay mom.  I’m sure that any mother of three young children who doesn’t get enough sleep and whose husband is gone almost all the time is grumpy like you.”

And then the kicker. . . “In fact, I’m sure that some day, I’ll be just like you when I’m a mom.”

Oh, no. Not that.

Tomorrow, I’m determined to be the kind of mom I want my grandchildren to have.

“I did have a mother,” said the baby bird. “I know I did. I have to find her. I will. I WILL!”

“There she is!” he said. “There is my mother!” He crawled right up to it. “Mother, Mother! Here I am, Mother!” he said as he latched on and started to nurse.

I am NOT your Mother! I am a . . . 

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Needless to say, as part of our baby proofing efforts, we’ve started removing the plastic tip from the doorstops throughout the house.