Although I pray that the leaders of our nation will be blessed with wisdom, understanding, and a determination to do what is right, in this unprecedented era of bankruptcy, bailouts and Obama, I find myself feeling increasingly unsettled and powerless to influence the course of these historic times.

Certainly in answer to another daily heavenly petition … that faith may replace my incapacitating fear … I’ve had three thoughts over the last few days that have helped me feel a greater sense of empowerment and peace.

I. On the final night of our family reunion at Bear Lake, my dad gathered us together for a family home evening. In his brief remarks, he reminded us of the promise found in Mosiah 2:22:

“He has promised you that if ye would keep his commandments ye should prosper in the land; and he never doth vary from that which he hath said.”

Yes, the mortal me may sometimes have a different definition of and timetable for said “prosperity,” but I do believe that the promised blessings will come as I strive to be faithful and obedient.

II. In my parents’ sacrament meeting last Sunday a very well-prepared sister spoke on the importance of teaching our children.  As she shared the following quote by former First Lady, Barbara Bush, I suddenly understood that I am not as politically impotent as the adversary would have me believe:

“Your success as family, our success as a society, depends not on what happens in the White House, but on what happens inside your house.” ~Barbara Bush

And as if in response to the ever-present gnawing that I’m never doing enough as a mother, Sister Binks kindly shared:

“Successful parents are those who have sacrificed and struggled to do the best they can in their own family circumstances” James E. Faust (April 2003 General Conference, emphasis added).

Although I will likely never occupy a seat in Congress, as co-chair of my own little Homeland Security Committee, I truly can help ensure our home is a place of safety and peace and can measurably influence the success of our society.

III. Attending the temple with my dad earlier this week reminded me of the promises of protection and peace contained in the dedicatory prayer offered upon the Kirkland Temple in 1836:

“We ask thee, Holy Father, to establish the people that shall worship, and honorably hold a name and standing in this thy house, to all generations and for eternity;

“That no weapon formed against them shall prosper; that he who diggeth a pit for them shall fall into the same himself;

“That no combination of wickedness shall have power to rise up and prevail over thy people upon whom thy name shall be put in this house;

“And if any people shall rise against this people, that thine anger be kindled against them;

“And if they shall smite this people thou wilt smite them; thou wilt fight for thy people as thou didst in the day of battle, that they may be delivered from the hands of all their enemies” (D&C 109:24–28).

By making the sacrifice to attend the temple more regularly, I will have greater claim to the peace and protection of the sacred covenants I have made.

On Monday as I was running hither and yon like a chicken sans head, I was reminded of this story from my childhood, introduced to me by my Grandma Hess.

The Old Woman and Her Pig

AN old woman was sweeping her house, and she found a little crooked sixpence. ‘What,’ said she, ‘shall I do with this little sixpence? I will go to market, and buy a little pig.’

Even though I should have been packing for our UT trip, Baby Tad and I headed to meet BT at his work to exchange vehicles so I could get his battery replaced for him.

As she was coming home, she came to a stile: but the piggy wouldn’t go over the stile.

But when we got to his work, the truck would not start and the battery could no longer be jumped.

She went a little further, and she met a dog. So she said to him: ‘Dog! dog! bite pig; piggy won’t go over the stile; and I shan’t get home tonight.’ But the dog wouldn’t.

BT’s propensity for procrastination had bitten him in the bum.

She went a little further, and she met a stick. So she said: ‘Stick! stick! beat dog! dog won’t bite pig; piggy won’t get over the stile; and I shan’t get home tonight.’ But the stick wouldn’t.

And so Baby Tad and I headed off to Sam’s to get the battery and bring it back so BT could it install it; we’d then take the truck to the Ford dealership to get an alignment, safety inspection (over-due since APRIL!), and oil change (overdue since last fall!).

She went a little further, and she met a fire. So she said: ‘Fire! fire! burn stick; stick won’t beat dog; dog won’t bite pig; piggy won’t get over the stile; and I shan’t get home tonight.’ But the fire wouldn’t.

But when I got to Sam’s, I realized that I had forgotten my wallet.

She went a little further, and she met some water. So she said: ‘Water! water! quench fire; fire won’t burn stick; stick won’t beat dog; dog won’t bite pig; piggy won’t get over the stile; and I shan’t get home tonight.’ But the water wouldn’t.

My propensity for being a scatterbrain had bitten me in the bum. At this point, I was seriously wondering if I’d get home tonight.

She went a little further, and she met an ox. So she said: ‘Ox! ox! drink water; water won’t quench fire; fire won’t burn stick; stick won’t beat dog; dog won’t bite pig; piggy won’t get over the stile; and I shan’t get home tonight.’ But the ox wouldn’t.

And so I drove back home to get my wallet, after which I stopped at AutoZone to buy a battery because it was closer than having to go back to Sam’s, but it was 25% more expensive than Sam’s, so I loaded Tad back in the car and drove to Sam’s to buy the battery.

She went a little further and she met a butcher. So she said: ‘Butcher! butcher! kill ox; ox won’t drink water; water won’t quench fire; fire won’t burn stick; stick won’t beat dog; dog won’t bite pig; piggy won’t get over the stile; and I shan’t get home tonight.’ But the butcher wouldn’ t.

My frugality was taking a big bite of time out of my day.

She went a little further, and she met a rope. So she said: ‘Rope! rope! hang butcher; butcher won’t kill ox; ox won’t drink water; water won’t quench fire; fire won’t burn stick; stick won’t beat dog; dog won’t bite pig; piggy won’ t get over the stile; and I shan’t get home tonight.’ But the rope wouldn’t.

When I arrived back at Sam’s, I couldn’t find my Sam’s club card, so I had to get a new card, but my membership also needed to be renewed, so I renewed the membership. And then I got the battery. (FINALLY!)

She went a little further, and she met a rat. So she said: ‘Rat! rat! gnaw rope; rope won’t hang butcher, butcher won’t kill ox; ox won’t drink water; water won’t quench fire; fire won’t burn stick; stick won’t beat dog; dog won’t bite pig; piggy won’t get over the stile; and I shan’t get home tonight.’ But the rat wouldn’t.

I drove back to BT’s work with the battery and called his work #. No answer. I called his cell #. No answer. I waited in the scorching hot parking lot wishing for a big drink of cold water and thinking not-so-kind thoughts about BT’s propensity for procrastination.

She went a little further, and she met a cat. So she said: ‘Cat! cat! kill rat; rat won’ t gnaw rope; rope won’t hang butcher; butcher won’t kill ox; ox won’t drink water; water won’t quench fire; fire won’t burn stick; stick won’t beat dog; dog won’t bite pig; piggy won’t get over the stile; and I shan’t get home tonight.’ But the cat said to her, ‘If you will go to yonder cow, and fetch me a saucer of milk, I will kill the rat.’ So away went the old woman to the cow.

BT was finally able to break free, and he installed the new battery, but because of all the delays, the Ford “dis”Service department was now too busy to help us.  And so, thinking not-so-kind thoughts about Ford dealers and about BT’s propensity for procrastination, we called around and found  another shop that could squeeze us in.

But the the cow said to her: ‘If you will go to yonder haystack, and fetch me a handful of hay, I’ll give you the milk.’ So away went the old woman to the hay-stack; and she brought the hay to the cow.

Upon arriving at the service station, I handed BT the coupons so that he could go “check in.” Perhaps suffering heatstroke from changing his battery in the wickedly hot parking lot, with a dazed look, he said, “Remind me again what work I need to have done on my truck???” I kindly took the coupons back from him, and leaving him with Baby Tad, checked the truck in so that we didn’t inadvertently end up with an engine overhaul instead of an oil change.

As soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat.

We dropped BT back off at work, and I headed home to finish laundry.

As soon as the cat had lapped up the milk, the cat began to kill the rat; the rat began to gnaw the rope; the rope began to hang the butcher; the butcher began to kill the ox; the ox began to drink the water; the water began to quench the fire; the fire began to burn the stick; the stick began to beat the dog; the dog began to bite the pig; the little pig in a fright jumped over the stile; and so the old woman got home that night.

But before long the truck was done, so I went to pick BT up from work, we drove back to the service station arriving minutes before they closed, got the truck, fueled it up, went back to Sam’s to return the old battery, grabbed a quick bite to eat, finished my pre-vacation errands. And then this old woman went home and FINALLY finished packing (at MIDNIGHT!!!)

It’s off to Ho’s we go!

As the moon is to the sun …

As a weed is to an orchid …

As a Hershey bar is to a Godiva truffle …

Such are my talents and abilities compared to Heidi Ho’s … the red-headed phenom.

Seriously.

She can install a sprinkler system one day … sew a gorgeous wedding dress the next … finish a quilt the following afternoon … whip up an amazing dinner that evening (with extra to bring to a neighbor in need) … while simultaneously running her four wonderful children around to their various activities.

And that’s just scratching the surface.

Seriously.

For the next three weeks, the kids and I will get to hang with Ho, one of the most kind, spunky and talented people I know … and I happen to be lucky enough to be her sister.

Good times.

it’s the day we get ready for Sunday!

… unless the truck battery dies a day late, on Sunday morning, as BT tries to leave for church meetings …

… and BT forgets to gas up, leaving him with insufficient fuel to get to all of his various church destinations once the truck has been jump started …

… making Sunday a special day with more daddytime than normal.

Although some children may brag that they “swim in a pool to keep themselves cool” or “swing in a tree up high,” the Tolbert children will respond: “We make our annual trek to the Denton Central Appraisal District with our miserly mom.”

For the fourth straight year, I loaded the kiddos up and, armed with my spreadsheet of comparable sales data, we made our annual summertime pilgrimage to Denton to protest our property valuation.

With parked cars lining the street and overflowing into nearby gravel lots, my heart sank as I pulled up to the building. This clearly was not going to be painless.

Unlike last year, the customer service lady that greeted us didn’t act like she hated our guts. She politely and apologetically explained that there was currently at least an hour-and-a-half wait to meet with an appraiser. Sweaty bodies wearing scowling faces filled every seat and lined the walls up and down the corridor. Knowing that my three children would do much to liven up the dreary place … in all the wrong ways … we trekked back across the scorching asphalt, piled back into the car, and went in search of a more suitable place to wait out the next few hours until it was our turn to plead our case.

After some overpriced Icees and pretzels at the “Golden Triangle Mall” set us back $11, the pressure was really on to make sure our venture ended up in the black. And to make a long story (three hours roundtrip, to be exact) short, even with our refreshment expenses factored in, I’m happy to report that we chalked up another victory (equating to a not-too-shabby $650 tax savings this year) extending our perfect record–four decreases, four years in a row.  Denton CAD should spare us all the inconvenience and administrative expense and just appraise my property correctly the first time … because you can bet that we’ll be back next summer if they don’t.

Of course I can’t get too excited about the fact that our home value has dropped; but because the only way I’m ever moving is if I’m carried out in a pine box, I’ll celebrate the tax savings for now.

Trying to get a family picture to document our July 4th weekend jaunt to Waxahachie proved to be more difficult than anticipated.

It’s a crummy picture, but the look on Vivi’s face is priceless.

Where are you going my little one, little one
Where are you going my baby my own
Turn around and you’re two, turn around and you’re four
Turn around and you’re a young girl going out of the door
Turn around (turn around)
Turn around (turn around)
Turn around and you’re a young girl
goin’ out of the door

The day I brought my newborn Ariana home from the hospital, her life flashed before my eyes, and I sobbed. I couldn’t bear the thought that someday my precious firstborn would move away.

The weeks leading up to Ariana’s first day of kindergarten were nothing short of tortuous. I’d cry into my pillow at night, eventually having to relocate myself to the couch so that BT could get some sleep.

The day Ariana was baptized, I managed to remain relatively composed in public (much to BT’s surprise … he even congratulated me on my self-control), but I definitely had my teary, private moments leading up to the event.

Each milestone in my children’s lives is bittersweet for me.  Even Vivian’s pottytraining has brought a dose of sadness as I realize that she, too, is growing up much faster than I’d like.  And don’t get me started on Baby Tad. The day the ultrasound revealed I was having a boy, I began to panic at the thought of him going away for a two-year church mission when he turns 19.

And so it is that today’s purchase of Ariana’s first stick of deodorant makes me want to hold her tight and somehow stop time.  But despite my angst, she is elated with the thought of rubbing fragrant goop in her armpits, and I really do try my best to share her joy.  Perhaps her fascination with deodorant will be as short-lived as her premature experiment with training bras.  After wearing a training bra to school a few months ago, Ariana proclaimed: “It was itchy and uncomfortable … but maybe because I had it on backwards.” (I hope she meant “inside-out” and not “backwards.”)

p.s. This picture is a perfect example of why NOT to use the built-in flash on the camera.  Notice the really, really harsh shadow behind her arm.  If I’d taken the time to pull out my external flash, that shadow wouldn’t be there.

I start each day with a renewed determination to be a better mom than the day before …

+more playfully crawling around the floor with Baby Tad
-less scrubbing and sweeping the floor while Baby Tad cries in his exersaucer

+more booktime with Vivi, even pausing long enough to show her the pictures rather than reading at the speed of light so that I can move on to something more “important”
-less time at the computer

+more tolerance of Ariana’s piano practicing
-less use of the word “crap”

+more hugs
-less hollering

But as dinnertime approaches, the witching hour casts its dark shadow across our home: my nerves fray, my patience is threadbare, my good intentions unravel, and my caustic replies to the increasingly whiney demands of my children make hydrochloric acid seem like sweet nectar. By bedtime, my metamorphosis is no-less dramatic than that of Dr. Jekyll having imbibed his poison potion.

Gratefully, slumber’s restorative powers transform mother and child, and I arise with a renewed determination to be a better mom than the day before …

“Try a little harder to be a little better.” Gordon B. Hinckley

Exhausted from a day of non-stop domesticity, I plopped into my chair at the dinner table, eager to taste the fruits of my many labors.

On the menu this evening was a colorful vegetable platter featuring the latest harvest from our garden, homemade ranch dip, freshly baked homemade rolls still warm from the oven, freshly canned chili sauce infused with tomatoes and onions from our garden, pink lemonade chilled with pristine ice cubes from my newly-cleaned freezer, and a succulent roast that had been simmering in the crock pot all day.

The Makings of Chili Sauce–13 pints of it!

(Of course, Vivi was still wearing her pajamas, and I hadn’t quite gotten around to finding the Disney princess-of-the-day panties so she was running around au naturale … but something’s gotta give on a day like today.)

As BT went to dish Vivi’s dinner, she halted him and, after examining the roast closely, innocently asked, “Daddy, is that poop?”