She Made Me Who I Am

Marty and Gabi, 1970

Exactly forty-three years ago, on a July morning at 7:00 am,
Gabi made me a mom.

I wasn't quite twenty-one when she was born, and I didn't have a clue about what it meant to be a mom. I just knew it was what I was meant to be. (My big fear as a teenager was that I would die before I had kids. I wasn't afraid of how I would die, or being dead, but that my dream of being a mother wouldn't come true. I must have wished on a lucky star!)

She was born breach (and totally natural, I might add) folded in half, and she inhaled before she hit oxygen, leaving her breathless. The nurses worked on her for a few minutes and then whisked her away somewhere, without telling us anything about how she was. After over nine months of togetherness, it was terrifying to be apart. Several hours later they brought her to me. I was overwhelmed—now I was breathless!

For a couple of days I kept trying to say a magnificent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for letting me have her, but I couldn't find the words. I felt ungrateful just saying "Thank you, thank you" over and over again, but I think He may have understood.

Early days.

Gabi came into my life only 18 months after Dee did. She's known us almost as long as we've known us! In fact, she helped us become US. She lived in our first tiny trailer home, our second less (but still) tiny trailer home; she rode in the VW and the Vega, and saw Dee as a soldier. She was part of our college life, and part of our pre-TV, pre-income days. We started leaving shoes out for St. Nickolas Day, and cookies for Santa because of her. She made us a family.

I read out loud to Gabi from the day she was born. Mostly I read Dr. Spock as I nursed her, trying to figure out when she'd do something interesting. Dee laid on the floor with her for hours demonstrating how to roll over. It actually took hours of watching her for him to figure out the steps of rolling over. He practiced with her for about six months until she caught on. We figured we'd taught her, not realizing that she'd come already programmed to do every important thing. We didn't have to teach her much. In fact, she taught us.

'Noopy

I read an article about how to make your child a genius. It said to tie helium balloons to your baby's wrists and ankles, and their eyes would catch the movement. Eventually they'd realize they were pulling the strings! I tried it, and it must have worked. She became a genius, and knew how to pull all our string.

She could sing dozens of songs, say the Pledge of Allegiance, recite poems and ask questions by 18 months. By the time she was two, I was asking her questions.

Gabi 1972

Looking back, I see that she brought color into my life. She became my best friend. I'd even consult her about what I should wear! (She knew exactly what they were wearing at the laundromat, and milk depot, which were my usual destinations.) Her siblings started arriving about that time, and it was a joint project for us. I saw her as my confidant and support.

She was an awesome babysitter, first for me, and then for many others. She became a nanny, and tended kids for weeks at a time while their parents traveled. She worked at a nursery school and daycare center during high school, and then majored in Elementary Education. She taught 6th graders who were taller than she was. She also taught Kindergarten and Pre-school. She was born to teach.

She met her perfect match, they got married and worked their way through college for a few years before they graduated. Being the perfect parental candidates didn't translate to being parents. While they waited, they built careers and houses and moved across the country. They traveled and had fun together until the other shoe dropped. They did become parents . . . twice in three years, and then again with twin boys . . . and they did it with a flourish!

It's stunning to look at this woman whom I admire and respect so much, and realize she's my daughter! She sets an example of kindness, hospitality, charity, spirituality and energy that I can't come close to emulating. She changed me forever and I'll be forever grateful to be her mom.

Happy Birthday, Gabi!

Mountain Oma

Two nights of this—

Was totally worth three days of this:

Arizona Cousins greeting Colorado Cousins,

Little cousins meeting big cousins.

Boy buddies,

Girl buddies,

Best buddies.

Weaving,

Braiding,

Knitting thirty-one hearts together.

A couple of nights on the ground was totally worth it!

Results

Introducing
Kate Juniper Halverson

"Twenty-one grandchildren?" my friend gasped. "Can you even remember their names?" What a silly question! They are the result of my life's work. Let me explain.

One night 43 years ago I sat at a table in Salzburg, Austria surrounded by students. Someone asked someone else if they wanted kids and we all announced how many we wanted. I said "Twelve" at the same time a boy at the other end said "Twelve" and someone else said, "You two ought to get together." We did.

One of our first conversations was "working moms." It was a hot topic in the late 60's with women's lib and birth control offering opportunities to break traditional molds. I told Dee I wanted to be a professional mother, not a mom by default. That was what he wanted for his kids, too.

The whole Ann Romney flap has got me flapping. Stay-at-home-moms were often looked down on in my day. Some people assumed that since working moms did mom stuff, too, those of us who stayed home only did half the work they did. I won't go all defensive here (actually I just did, but I deleted those paragraphs) but I will say I worked full-time. My work was to raise seven well-adjusted, happy kids (we didn't make it to twelve) who would contribute goodness to the world.

I am totally satisfied with my career choice—
especially when I see the results!

Christmas Scenes

The Griswold's House

How do you picture the perfect Christmas?

I loved this talk by Dieter F. Uchtdorf:

"Sometimes it seems that our efforts to have a perfect Christmas season are like a game of Jenga ... each of those little wooden blocks is a symbol of the perfect Christmas we so desperately want to have. We have in our minds a picture of how everything should be; the perfect tree, the perfect lights, the perfect gifts and the perfect family party. We might even want to re-create some magical moment we remember from Christmases past, and nothing short of perfection will do.

"Sooner or later, something unpleasant occurs; the wooden blocks tumble, the drapes catch fire, the turkey burns, the sweater is the wrong size, the toys are missing batteries, the children quarrel, the pressure rises; and the picture-perfect Christmas we had imagined, the magic we had intended to create, shatters around us. As a result, the Christmas season is often a time of stress, anxiety, frustration and perhaps even disappointment."

"When we set aside our expectations of perfection, we will see Christmas in details around us. It is usually something small; we read a verse of scripture, we hear a sacred carol and really listen, perhaps for the first time, to its words, or we witness a sincere expression of love. In one way or another, the Spirit touches our hearts, and we see that Christmas, in its essence, is much more sturdy and enduring than the many minor things we often use to adorn it."

You must hear the rest of his talk!
To watch this Christmas devotional, click here.

Here are a few details from scenes that have lit up the Christmas season for me:

Long-lost cousins.


My own personal St. Lucia.

Displaying old decorations in a new place.

Elves.


Plays, recitals and Christmas concerts.

Meeting the stars after the show.

What are the Christmas scenes you'll remember from this year?

(Here's some ideas of where to look:)

1. The dreaded family Christmas party will be better than you think.
2. Drop in on a grade-school program and you'll leave jolly, I promise!
3. Send a note to a friend from your past and remind him (and yourself) what was special about your friendship.
4. Listen to some old Christmas CD's (Oakridge Boys, John Denver, Peter,Paul and Mary do it for me.)
5. Bake that cake your mom used to make and tell your kids how you got your tongue caught in the beater.
6. After you hear the whole Dieter F. Uchtdork talk, consider how you'd react with love if your darling four-year-old set your house on fire Christmas Eve.
7. Look up Luke chapter 2 in the Holy Bible. Read it out loud to someone, or have them read it to you. Listen for the words, but notice the majesty of the language and feel the Holy Ghost testify that the story is true.
8. Write a letter to a teacher/friend/frenemy? who you could thank for something.

Leave us an idea to make someone's Christmas' better
(which is guaranteed to make ours better.!)

Sending Christmas Kisses

A Christmas Oma Package

1. Packet of cocoa mix (with baby marshmallows) for each kid
2. One package of candy cane Hershey Kisses
3. A note that says "Have a kiss in your cocoa from us!"

Tuck it all in a padded envelope decorated with Christmas stickers, and send it off while blowing kisses to faraway kids of any age. You'll get some blown back to you, I promise! (They'll taste like chocolate mint. Yum!)

Bullies

Will

Oma: How was your day?

Will: Fine, except for when I was attacked for no reason.

Oma: How awful! What happened?

Will: I just got beat up.

Oma: Who did it?

Will: Madelyn.

Oma: What did you do?

Will: What do you think? I ran away!

Art by Feodor Rojankovsky

The other day I got attacked for no reason. I was halfway out the door, already late for an appointment, when the phone rang. Thinking it might be a call I'd been waiting for, I rushed back in to answer. The woman, an acquaintance new to a group I'm part of, began with some observations of how things were done differently in this group than she was used to. When I tried to explain the reasons, she launched into a full-blown critique of the group. Then she got more personal and listed some of the things I was doing wrong. She assured me she was just trying to help.

Devastated, I listened to her soft-spoken and (supposedly) well-meant evaluation of my performance, thanked her for calling, and said good-bye. At first I felt embarrassed—I didn't even know I needed her help! What a loser I was! Then the defensive team in my psyche took over. Hey! Who was she to beat me up? She wasn't aware of the circumstances or the efforts to do the very things she'd suggested. And I won't be explaining them anytime soon. Sometimes the only thing to do is run away—fast!

What do you do when you feel bullied? Why do people outside a situation take on the responsibility of critique? How do you ever trust or like a person who you know disapproves of you? (Just wondering. I'm totally over it.)

I'm not a crybaby!

Oma's Halloween Parade

Which witch is which?

I've got clowns in five states

That might not recognize their clown-terparts!
So as president of the Cousin's Club,


I pray for ways to keep them in touch.


Kids from every generation come to the
Cousins Club Halloween Parade.

Here's what I do:

1. Send an email invitation to all my grandkids, asking them to email me a photo of them in their costume, by Halloween.
2. Drag each photo onto my desktop. (I have a Mac computer. I can't give specifics for a PC.)
3. Use Shutterfly to create an album with all the photos. (They tell you how on their website.)
4. Click on Share and it's automatically emailed to everybody I specify.
   

This year I'm using a little extra sorcery.
I'll create a slide show on iPhoto.
(There are step-by-steps on their website.)


Then I'll pirate a spooky song from iTunes
(just 99¢)
and add music to my iPhoto slideshow.


Then with the wave of a magic wand,
I'll have my Halloween parade
ready for YouTube!


(I dove right in and watched a YouTube
on How to Make a YouTube.)


Making my first YouTube I felt off balance,
but it wasn't as scary as it looked.

Whether it's a booklet of photocopies from Kinko's,
a YouTube, or an email attachment,
the Cousins Clubbers will think Santa came early.

At least they'd better.

Oma hatching an idea.

"She just goes a little mad sometimes.
We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you?"

—Norman Bates

Scary Stuff: Girls

Sam and Luke, Oct 2010

The twins forgot their swimsuits.

"Hey, guys," I consoled them, "you can just wear your shorts. They look exactly like swimsuits." There was a whispered discussion about undies, and I said, "Take them off, put your shorts back on, and when we get back, you can wear them while I dry your shorts."

"What if a girl sees us without underwear?" six-year-old Sam asked. "She'll never know," I reassured him. Without a bit of embarrassment they both stripped to bare buns right there in my living room, pranced around like puppies, and eventually put their shorts back on. The self consciousness returned, and they wrapped duckie towels around their waists, "Just in case there's a girl in the elevator," Luke explained.

Splashes and feminine giggles could be heard from the hallway. The boys froze and refused to go through the door for several minutes. "I'm not getting in until those girls are gone," Sam promised. They sat on a bench and watched three little girls cavort in the pool for a few minutes, until Sam huffed, "Well, OK!" and jumped in. Luke sighed loudly and dropped his towel. "This is going to be so embarrassing," he muttered.

Within seconds the boys had stationed themselves close to the girls. The twins' wild cannonballs sprayed water in every direction and they laughed hysterically as they carefully ignored the other kids. When the girls joined their dad in the hot tub, Sam and Luke followed, ducking each other and doing tricks on the handrail. Back went the girls to the pool and so did the dolphin act. Soon, the mom told her daughters get out. While they dried off and gathered up flip-flops and goggles, my little duo belly-flopped loudly and squealed like trained seals.

The door closed on the family and the water stopped sloshing and stood still. It was quiet as the twins watched them leave.

"That was so embarrassing," said Luke.

"Yeah. I hate girls," said Sam.

This is an example of show, don't tell type writing. Instead of telling you "Luke and Sam showed off for some girls at the swimming pool" I showed you their antics through words and you discovered the story the same way I did. By watching it happen.

*Homework: Write a blog using the show, don't tell technique. Get the story in mind, then back up a little and describe it as it unfolds. Link so we can check out your masterpiece.

Scary Stuff: Being a Teenager

Katy, 2009

My first teenage granddaughter.
Ah, I remember being thirteen—
high heels, make-up, boys . . .

I was about her age when I got arrested.

I wasn't even old enough to be in the church road show! In fact, I was cast as a rabbit in the entree act, singing:

♫ I'm late, I'm late,

For a very important date . . . ♫

But I loved road show practice, anyway. Summer nights, cute boys, walks through the cemetery while we waited for our part—it was my first taste of freedom. And my last, as it turned out.

One night my parents went to dinner at the Fort Douglas Country Club; I had strict instructions to come home right after road show practice. My younger brother Tommy would be tending our little sisters until I returned (by 8 o'clock at the latest.) Joan, my best friend, went over to the church with me, and a couple of cool sixteen-year-old boys in the ward joked and flirted with us. Ken had an old gray '53 Ford, and the guys asked if we wanted to go get pizza with them after the practice. A giant NO appeared in my conscience. I knew I shouldn't go, but I also knew my parents were gone, so there was a good chance they'd never find out. Temptation won.

Pizza places weren't on every corner back in those days. In fact, we went clear up to The Pie, a cool, college hang-out by the U of U. It was packed. After an hour or so, we finally got our pizza. By then it was almost ten o'clock, and I had swarms of butterflies hatching in my stomach, but I was too embarrassed to tell these sophisticated older men that I had to get home. (I didn't know it at the time, but Ken was supposed to be home by nine, and was dying inside, too.)

Steve had heard about a place called The Guillotines up at Fort Douglas, and since we were driving right past, he suggested that we check it out. Maybe they were chopping somebody's head off or something exciting. The gates were wide open, so we didn't see the sign that said Military Property, Keep Out. It turned out that the guillotines were actually just old rifle ranges, but the shadows made them look sinister. We were on our way back to the main road when a military police car pulled us over. Uh-oh.

Apparently this was a popular make-out place, and the officer assumed that was our intention. The guy was fairly nice, but suspicious. He asked for ID and Ken and Steve showed their driver's licenses. Neither Joan nor I had one. When we confessed we were still only thirteen, he said he had to arrest us for being on private military property after curfew!

Back at the station, we were questioned, and told we would be released to our parents. Well, my parents were the last people I wanted to be released to—I was terrified they'd find out about my disgrace. Ironically, they were doing the cha-cha at a dance less than a block away at the country club.

The officer made me call home so he could talk to my mom. Good old Tom caught on right away when I said, "I know mom's still at work, but could you explain to this policeman why we can't call her?" Tom lowered his youthful 12-year-old voice and talked to the officer, man to man. "Can you give me your mother's work number?" he was asked. My brother answered, "Well, she works in a factory someplace and there isn't a phone there."

Steve had a brother old enough to be his dad who had come to his rescue a few times before. He drove up to Fort Douglas, posed as Steve's father, and promised the officer he'd take us all home. Then he followed the old gray Ford back to the real guillotine—my house. Mom and Dad wanted my head.

Valiant as a white knight, Ken came inside with me to explain why I'd been out 'til twelve, roaming where soldiers used to tread. I can still remember how his ice-cold hands shook, and how pale his pimply face looked under his bright red hair. He really was a gentleman. Of course, my dad didn't think so. Mom told him I was accountable for my own actions, and Ken was dismissed to face his own firing squad.

It was my first major offense, and I might have fared better with the military police. I was grounded for the rest of the summer. And my folks stuck with it. No road show, no sleep-outs, no phone calls, no friends. No fun. Ken was also grounded for several weeks. I think Joan and Steve got off Scot-free—anyway, they seemed to bond while their best friends were incarcerated.

As actual crimes go, it wasn't that serious. But it was memorable to me because I paid a consequence. I can't say I never disobeyed again; I was grounded on many occasions because I was too timid to admit I had a curfew. But that summer I learned that I would be held accountable for my choices. Mom and Dad were too smart to buy my immature excuses, and they cared more about being parents than being friends.

My brand-new teenager has that same blessing. But she's also a lot wiser than I was at her age.

Marty, 1963

What was I thinking?

Scary Stuff: Spiderwoman

Drawing by Joel Schick
The Gobble-uns'll Git You

It was chilly in the basement bedroom. I turned on the heat, kicked off my shoes and closed the door before I saw him hiding in the corner. My shriek echoed throughout the house and Brad pounded down the stairs to my rescue. I looked away while he killed the intruder . . . a giant, hairy spider.

Gabi and Brad left on vacation the next day, leaving me to protect their kids. I was walking down the hall when I noticed another large, black spider on the floor. Shivers ran up and down my spine as I realized there was nobody to help. Keeping an eye on the hairy beast, I walked backwards to the kitchen, put on some boots and got the telephone book. I was terrified.

With all the force I could muster I threw the book on the spider with a squeal and then jumped on top just to make sure it was squooshed to bits. Jake heard me yell and ran in to see what was going on.

Illustration by Judy Love

I was shaking as I lifted the phone book off the offensive creature, but I could see it was still big and fat. Jake leaned over to look closer, and picked up a black leg. "Why are you jumping on my plastic spider?" he asked, as he tucked it in his pocket. Duh, Oma.

Jake and Oma, 2009

Thanks for the memories, Jake!

Do you have any scary memories?