Before the moment and memories pass me by, I wanted to quickly record the events of the day.

Vivi, Ariana and I made a stop at Target to get the fixings for Christmas dinner. We had originally planned on making the trek to Georgia for Christmas, but Bryan’s work necessitated a change of plans.

Having spent a fun evening with friends at the Chamber’s house, we returned home and unwrapped the traditional pj’s. We set out goodies for Santa and said a family prayer. I wish that I could say that it was a wonderfully peaceful experience, but as we all knelt there, hands clasped in front of us, Vivi shouted, “rock, paper, scissors” throughout the prayer.

After a cup of “magic Christmas hot chocolate” which promises to help little ones sleep, the girls are off to bed. A few more preparations to finish, and I’m headed there too.

. . . Make Lemonade!

Growing up in California with a wonderfully prolific lemon tree in our backyard meant that we made lots of lemonade. It kind of reminds me of the part from “Forrest Gump” where Bubba talks about everything that you can do with shrimp. We not only made lemonade, but we also made lemon bars, lemon pie, lemon bread, lemon cake, lemon sauce, lemon cookies, lemon cheesecake, lemon chicken, etc., etc. I have lots of good memories of lemons, so I couldn’t quite understand my someone wouldn’t WANT life to hand them lemons.

And then it happened. I fell in LOVE the summer following my senior year in high school, and the schmuck broke my heart a few months later while I was attending BYU. Suddenly, the words had special meaning to me, and not just because I was in the “depths of despair” (line from Anne of Green Gables). Trying to help ease the pain that I was keeping bottled up inside, my perceptive mother penned the phrase to me in a sweet letter. It was a special moment between mother and daughter–a mother who, despite being as tough as nails, reached out to her fragile daughter who simply didn’t want to grow up, who just wanted to stay at home with her mommy and daddy for the rest of her life and stop the clock and not have anything change.

But I did grow up and, although lots of things have changed in my life, my love for lemons hasn’t.

Fast forward eighteen years.  Ariana and I have been juicing lemons from the trees now growing in big pots in our kitchen. I hope that she, too, will learn to love lemons . . . that I will learn to effectively reach out to her when she needs me . . . and that she will learn to make lemonade with life’s lemons.

p.s. The trees will be staying inside year-round, and Bryan is in charge of the “artificial insemination process” next spring. We’ll keep you posted on how that goes.

As I approached our house on Wednesday night, I thought that I was lost. I was greeted by hundreds of twinkling lights, a sign that said, “Honk if you believe,” and, among other things, a host of giggling elves (teenage girls and their church youth group leaders). We had been “elfed.” I’ve never seen Ariana so excited!

The gist of the story is that the girls in our church youth group split up into three teams, each seeing how extravagantly they could decorate the front yard of a member of the bishopric. Quantity not quality was the goal. I’m proud to say that our yard won top honors, and in the dark, it looked very festive. Thankfully, they came and cleaned it up the next afternoon before our home owners’ association sent us a nasty-gram because, as one girl said, it looked very “ghetto” in the light of day.

For a couple of weeks, the theme song around our house could have been, “Oh, Christmas Tree.” But instead of the joyful refrains normally heard this time of year, we were singing in mournful tones.

As a consequence for Guppy’s lackluster performance at swim team, our Christmas tree was still in storage, and I must admit that I was surprised by the lack of support I received from Bryan. He went so far as to basically suggest that I was holding Christmas hostage because I was an overbearing swim mom who needed do a few laps in a chilly pool. Even my own mother who is the queen of TOUGH LOVE tactics was feeling sorry for Ariana. But everyone knows that one of the most important rules of parenting is to follow through when dishing out discipline. Right?

Thankfully, Ariana put together a string of good workouts last week, and we were able to usher in the Christmas season. We even started a new tradition–making Grandma Daniels’ custard (Bryan’s favorite) and eating it after the tree is up.

p.s. I really do need to chill out about the swim team thing. More on that later.

He Coulda said something.

He really Shoulda said something.

And he says that he Woulda said something if it just hadn’t been so funny.

In my haste to get Vivi ready so that we could head out the door to dinner, I forgot something.

And although Bryan was well aware of the situation, I didn’t realize it until it was too late.  Needless to say, I kept my feet hidden under the restaurant table throughout the meal.

Clumsily, she climbs up onto the chair.

I carefully gather up little wisps of white blond hair into tiny tails.

She sits so still, waiting for the magic words.

“All done!”

Her head pops up and, gazing into the mirror, she exclaims “Pretty Hair! Pretty Hair!”

I pinch myself and realize that this is real. I am a mom of a sweet baby doll who loves me to play with her hair.

As I interact with Vivian, I sometimes wonder if she remembers anything about her life before she was born. When she cuddles up close to me with her head on my heart, is the beat that she hears comforting to her? I like to think so.

And when she climbed into the bottom of her doll stroller and watched a movie with Ariana, did this contorted, fetal-like position actually feel natural or at least vaguely familiar?

“Any turkey can tango, any turkey can dance, if they only have the chance.”

These were the lyrics that replayed in my head all evening after eleven adorable children performed a talent show for us after Thanksgiving dinner.  A stark contrast to last year’s Thanksgiving dinner–gross, greasy grocery store deli cuisine eaten in a vacant mall parking lot on our way to the Tampa, FL airport–this year, we enjoyed a relaxing gathering with five other families who, like us, had decided to stay local.

Although both Bryan and I would have loved to be with our extended family on this special day, I am grateful for our faithful friends that shared their home, their time, and their yummy food with us.

An unknown phone number . . .  yet a familiar area code . . . and a voice from my past.

“Lori, this is Katie Miller,” the caller said. She didn’t even have to tell me who she was. Even though it has been years since we’ve spoken, I recognized that sweet voice of my high school yearbook advisor, English teacher, friend, and mentor.

As wonderful as it was to speak with someone who has had so much influence for good on my life, she went on to share the sad news about the passing of one of my dear friends, Mikel Husband. As I’ve spent the last couple of days learning about Mikel’s post-high school achievements and have read comments posted across the world wide web by those that knew him, I am touched by the legacy that he has left.

Isn’t it strange how princes and kings,
and clowns that caper in sawdust rings,
and common people, like you and me,
are builders for eternity?

Each is given a list of rules;
a shapeless mass; a bag of tools.
And each must fashion, ere life is flown,
A stumbling block, or a Stepping-Stone.

~R. Lee Sharpe

Mikel Husband is a stepping stone.

Katie Miller is a stepping stone.

I hope that someday someone somewhere will be able to say the same of me.