The reflection in my childrens' eyes

When I was younger people would comment to my mother how good her kids were, and she would always blame all the goodness on having started with good stock.
The nature verses nurture debate will last forever, but I like to think that every child reflects two sets of parents. Each of us reflects his or her earthy parents, be they biological or adoptive, and heavenly parents, the ones who fashioned our souls.
I think my mother had a point, my kids are certainly better people than the influence of their family and friends could have possibly made them. There is something in their eyes that reflects goodness known longer than their sojourn under my roof. There is a spark of love in them that is eternal and perfect, and the proof of divinity lies within that spark.
I live in wonder of all that God teaches me about Him and I through my children, and I thank Him for them every day.

I collaborated on a song recently

My friend sent me a file with a rought melody in it, she said that it was a song she had been writing and it needed words. As soon as I heard it I could feel the words coming together in my soul. So I put the kids to bed that night and sat down to see if I could pin those words down.

To tell the absolute truth though, I didn't write the words alone, and my freind didn't write the music alone. If you want to know who we had helping... read on.

He Loves Me Because I’m His Daughter

In a world ever changing I’m trying to grow,
and among all the paths pick which one to follow.
But among all life’s mysteries, this one thing I know,
That He loves me because I’m His Daughter.

I have beauty and promise I don’t always show.
If you look at my head you won’t find a halo,
But through all of my struggles this one thing I know,
That He loves me because I’m His Daughter.

So I pray to him each day, and through his guidance
I’m finding his ways… this I always know
That He loves me because I’m His Daughter.

There are good works and service that I strive to do,
and because of his blessings I seem to come through,
Then with each of our triumphs we prove this is true.
That He loves me because I’m His Daughter.

Through devotion and strife, I’ll prove with my life,
That I’m like him because I’m His Daughter.


If you want to hear the tune you can find it here, the person singing is my friend who wrote the music, and due to the recording conditions and the tune not being suited for her voice it's not the best recording in the world, but I still love it. I figured those who love me will love it too.

A prayer for the letter T

The difference between thought and though,
and this is something I should know,
is not but a letter, the letter t.

A single letter the difference defines
between excuses and errors prevented by time,
by tact, by taboo, by temperance and by me.

For what is “Thora,” but another t-word?
And what effect do I wish when “Thora” is heard?
My actions decide what the definition shall be.

Lord help me to think, and to pray ere I act,
to retrench my impulses and exercise tact,
that someday my title be a credit unto me and Thee.

Thora 6/14/08

Most Peaceful Trees

In the passage of time and throughout history,
be there anything as peaceful as a tree?
What but a tree could grow so large or tall
and not have bullied his way at all?

Each starts as a seed so passive as he moves
born on the wind, eaten, shuffled into grooves.
Then he nestles into the cool damp earth,
and waits patiently for his eventual birth.

Slowly he exercises the wisdom of eons,
and extends first his root, forever to lean on.
Only once he is rooted in times greatest treasure
does he reach to the sky in potential unmeasured.

Gently he grows, gracefully extending his boughs
dancing on the wind as only arbors know how.
With each sweep and bend in his undulating dance
He captures the viewer's heart, as if in a trance.

Then rest the gentle tree when naught disturbs him
and soaks up the sunshine that sprinkles upon him.
And whilst he is still, high above the ground,
his roots he extends without making a sound.

But there in the trunk, an insect invasion
the tree first confronts it with gentle persuasion
"I'm not tasty I'm tough, just look at this bark,
surely there's a tastier treat in the park."

But not dissuaded the ravaging parasite
bores into the tree and administers it's blight.
Defenses breeched he can naught but bleed,
and pray before his death to scatter his seed.

Then scatter he does, his last gift to the world
his young to grow up all leafy and knurled.
To dance and to play us the raspy leaf song
and grow to the sky so slender and long.

And to fill the void that is left by their sire,
once to the forest floor he has at last retired.
Whispering, "The worst damage he ever did at all,
was the day that his greatness, expired did fall."

Then with the autumn as each shivers and grieves,
and divests it's self of its opulent leaves,
they cover the dead, their beauty now shorn,
and in branches and sticks, his passing they mourn.

But once come the spring, his memory celebrate
and send forth new leaves, a memorial ornate,
and with dancing and music to celebrate life,
a sound more beautiful than dulcimer and fife.

Rejoice oh ye young trees, rustle and bounce,
spread forth your joy, despair thou renounce,
for life is your purpose, your being, your song,
and bestow it thou dost, thine whole life long.

Breathe in and breathe out oh generous tree,
Send forth sweet breath to each living thou see,
Gently nudge us aside, when thy way we do hinder,
And reward our lea with thy wondrous splendor.

Thora 6/14/08

My Dad's the Greatest Guy

When I was a kid they had a talent show at church, and I sang a special song for my father while my mother played the piano. It was called "My Dad's the Greatest Guy," it was from a tape of kids songs we had at home, and it was a resounding success. The primary goal, making my dad proud, was evidently accomplished by the way he just beamed the whole time. I was also asked to sing it in church the next day, so I guess it wasn't to bad of a performance (even if my brother did mess up the cue cards).
Thinking back though, the song listed lots of generic guy things (being strong, throwing pitches), but it really failed to list why MY dad is the greatest guy. Considering that I didn't really know my father well until I was an adult, it think it's about time I set the record straight.

My dad has been a cop all my life, and sadly some people will never know him as anything but that. Being a cop is a huge chunk of a person's identity, and I have always been proud of the way in which my father had protected and served his community. He's a hero, and he's a bit of a ham... pun intended.

There is so much more to my father than the badge though, so much more than the excellent marksman and karate black belt. My dad is a renaissance man. My dad does it all.

If I ever have a question about anything, my dad is my personal google. Why is it hotter at lower elevations and colder on mountain tops? My dad knew. Need a few quotes from Chaucer? My dad can recite them. Who's his favorite daughter? All 7 of us are. How to calm a baby with colic? My dad can do it in seconds, with kids that aren't even his. What are the key points in the history of the Knights Templar? He can orate upon them. Want to know the location of Nevada ghost towns? He'll drive you there. How to say "Your lawyer is on the phone," in seven languages? He knows that too.

I think my favorite thing about my dad though is the poet in his soul. It is from him I learned to never be without paper and pen. He reads my writing, I read his, and through it we share a connection. As much as I am like my mother, I really think that I look at the world more like my father does, through the lens of a writer.

Some people look at a beautiful scene and wish to capture it on camera, my dad and I look at it and begin composing in our hearts. Then suddenly the words come spilling out of our over-stocked hearts and we scramble to catch them on a page before they are absorbed into the infinity of language from which they sprang.

For us, words are a labor of love and a vessel to convey the wealth of emotion with which we have been blessed. Words are precious gems to us and more powerful than "The Elder Wand." We simply cannot fathom how some people can go through life and not constantly seek for new words. So many people spend their life describing all their highs and lows with the same shallow four letter words. People like my father and I find that grossly ill-beseeming. With the breadth and depth of the English language one would think that the power of words would appeal more to the general population.

Perhaps I inherited this writer’s gene from my father or perhaps it’s something I learned by proximity, but that’s why I love my father so, we share this secret. His soul is as complex and multi-faceted as my own, and I shall always cherish the relationship I am privileged to have with him.

(Are your allergies bothering you, Dad? Well, Happy Father’s Day.)

Perhaps I will get old, after all

For as long as I can remember I've dreaded getting old.
It's not so much the wrinkles and grey hairs that frighten me. I think I can handle losing my "beauty," or at least I'm determined to accept it gracefully.
It's not a fear of death either, because I am so very confident in my beliefs of what's on the other side of that wispy dark veil.
What my fear of being old is really about is being infirm, being a burden, and having my mind slip away.
I know I'm not alone in my fears, at the very least they were shared by one of my Grandmothers, who committed suicide when I was a pre-teen. My mother supposes it was because Grandma was losing her independence and couldn't face a future of her body gradually failing her, a little at a time.
I'm sure that others join me in fearing the loss of mental capacity, Alzheimer’s or other "dementia" disorders are a daunting prospect. A future like that, perhaps languishing for year after year in a care facility, or lashing out during a spell at one of the people we love most, is terribly frightening.
However, I’ve had the fortune recently to have a learned a little about this subject from a woman in my area. I’ve never met her, but I work for her daughter.
My manager, K, is one of the most genuinely pleasant people you will ever meet. Sometimes I have been suspicious of people who smile all the time, like they were hiding a darker side under that perma-smile, but K isn’t at all like that. I honestly believe that K just decided to be a happy and lovely person, and she does it very well. She’s an inspiration to me.
One day though, she seemed to have misplaced her smile, her eyes bore the shadows of pain and exhaustion, and though I barely knew her I walked up and gave her a hug, she seemed to need one. It was then I learned that her mother, F, has a brain tumor, an inoperable one that by all medical calendars should have quieted her pulse long ago. K is the driving force of F’s emotional support system, while raising two great kids, being active in church and community, and excelling at her demanding career.
K is my hero, needless to say, and I’ve added her to the list of people I worry about (while driving or cleaning or enjoying a relatively quiet moment at work.) I wonder at how she holds up in such a circumstance, how she even puts one foot in front of the other much less goes about doing so much good.
Then I realized this morning as I was reflecting (while driving, of course) on the relationship between the aged and their children, that K’s mother’s condition isn’t anywhere near as much of a burden as it is a blessing to her daughter and general acquaintance. In these, the last vestiges of her mortal life, she is giving her final gifts.
To her daughter, she gives the opportunity of service, and the chance to see beyond her mother’s activities and really see her mother. She has learned in these last years the person her mother is, something so many of us may never know.
To her husband she gives a fond farewell, a chance to really demonstrate in these final years the love that he has nurtured for her all along.
To her friends she also gives an opportunity to serve, that precious chance to step outside themselves and care for another. They are also blessed with a valuable reminder that life is short, and love is too important to be suppressed in favor of the mediocre daily pursuits of our lives.
Lastly, to this particular complete stranger she unknowingly bestows a gift of wisdom and peace. As I scurry throughout my life, striving to serve my friends and family while I am still able, I shall remember F. Perhaps I will get old, after all. Perhaps I will lose control of my limbs and eyes. Perhaps I will not remember things as clearly, or perhaps I will eventually become so disconnected from the world around me that my children will see a hollow shell where their mother once was. I just pray, that in that day they will have learned the lesson that God finally got through to me. People age so that the younger learn that part of us will never die. Age is the very evidence of the immortality of the soul.
Thank you F, you are my hero.
Happy Mother's Day.

What is a woman?

What is a woman,
when you look at her core,
under scrutiny what is found
that was overlooked before?

For often at first glance
a hurried label is attached
and with a group or genre
her identity is attached,

But what shallow judgements
will so very often fail to see
is women have so many sides
they number infinitely

She's not a jewel to be shaped
to produce a transparent glitter
but a thing of much more worth,
that glowing crowns befit her.

Nor is there a woman born
who's soul is an open book
for casual study to comprehend
or to be known within a look.

To truely know a woman
to know just what to ask
is the labor of a life time
the reward within the task.

For even when you know her
enough to love her true
you'll find she's only begining
to unveil herself to you.

If she ever stands before you
her secrets known and sure
rest while you can, for inside
she's not who she was before.

While the why of woman's changes
has stymied philosopers of the past
today I shall reveal it to you
the motivation known at last.

While men do daily struggle
the whole universe to subdue
a woman's heart whispers low
"the universe is you."

Creation, flux, revolutions,
the fires and the seas,
the violence of clashing worlds,
the gentle hum of bees.

Kings, prinicipalities, riches,
such frail and passing shades
in comparison to a woman
their glory wanes and fades.

So, by your side she'll toil

perhaps herself unknowing,

strive you harder than she

lest you be found owing.

For she is the embodiement
of power, greatness, charity.
Alas, poor man have ever
you seen her with clarity?

For where you see a woman,
through the lense of eternity
glimpse with me my friend
the Goddess that will be.

Thora
T.E.L.H. May 5, 2008

I'm still writting

I know, I know, I haven't posted anything in nearly a year. Bad Thora. I have been writting though, mostly in my book (100+ pages, woohooo!) and today I had the presence of mind to put something on here that I wrote. Good Thora. Enjoy!

How May I Bear For Thee?
To bear another's burden, what will that mean today,
As I go about my duties and watch the children play?
Will it be a sore knee kissed, or kind words after a loss?
Will it be a chasm of guilt, that only I can reach across?

Will what is needed be my hands, making something light,
Or is my shirt what's required, to soak up tears tonight?
What tools have I to fit me for the holy work of God?
Perhaps naught but my feet planted firmly on gospel sod.

Perhaps my lips through prayer can serve and help a suffering friend,
or with kind words and true intent a long felled fence may mend.
Better yet still, perhaps I could erect no boundary fence,
but there I'll plant a garden, where love grows thick and dense.

Today my oven may bake God's way into a lonely heart,
or perhaps my phone today will His words of peace impart.
At the very least I'll stop and think, before speak in jest,
that no idle words of mine will pierce another's breast.

I'll meet the weary of the world each door that I pass through,
and the service that is needed is never something new.
It's time and patience, forgiveness, and work with good intent,
true service be naught but good hearts on worthy labor bent.

So I'll "bear another's burdens, that they may be light,"
and through my simple services I'll help the day be bright.

Thora 4/16/08 (written to get Stivey's mental juices flowing for her talk in church)

Minorities

A few days ago someone came to my Babycenter LDS board and put up a poll question:
Are there minorities in the LDS church? Explain.
The poll answer options were yes and no.
So as soon as I read it, red flags go up everywhere in my mind. There were several ways to interpret that question, and most of the responses had traps ready to spring if used. If nothing else, 4 years on Babycenter boards being goaded by "trolls" has taught me about people being trapped with their words, so I responded thus (typos and all):

ummmm Wow, interesting question.
If you are looking at numbers, then by "race" (who made up that dumb term anyway? We are all human.) I'm fairly certain that "whites" come in second behind "hispanics," "blacks" and "asians" I have no idea which would rank next in the numbers. In the USA "whites" are the majority, in Africa "blacks" are, in Mexico and South America "hispanics" are the majority.
I think we tend to concider ourselves a collective people. Personally I would class us as a minority in and of ourselves.
We also have different perspectives on the origins of various nations because of what our religion teaches us, so if a huge portion of the planet is of the house of israel... then what does any minority definition matter?

So here are my questions: Who ISN'T a minority? What defines what a minority is? Who defines whom is a minority? Why do we let these distinctions define our relationships with each other? When are people going to start looking beyond one dimensional classifications? Why do we even have a term for this when in one way or another it can be applied to everyone?

I'm white, for some that's the end of the story. I'm white, so supposedly I know nothing of suffering, nothing of persecution, nothing of bigotry unless I'm the one dishing it out. People look at me and see red hair, stark white skin, and they see nothing else. By that I am judged "safe" by some, and "a risk" by others.

In reality I am a member of several minority groups. My people have been driven and slain and oppressed at different stages throughout history, and mostly by each other. I have Native American blood, I have Jewish blood, I have English blood, I have German blood, I have French blood, in short I have good old American mutt blood. I am the product of generations of people who struggled to survive in a lifelong battle against oppression, poverty, and politics. You name a form of bigoted persecution and it's been done to my people, even slavery.

That's not what really makes me a minority though. People didn't throw rocks at me because my last name was Germanic, or because of my obviously Native American facial structure. No, they threw rocks at me because I'm LDS. I'm a minority in open persecution season.

My point is this. We are all minorities, therefore there are no minorities. We all come from the same roots, each branch of the vine just took a different path up the wall than the others. No matter how you trace it, religiously or scientifically we all come from the same place, we are all human. Sub-divide us as you will, we are all basically the same.

Whom among us doesn't long to be loved? Show me one person who wasn't teased as a child. Bring me one person who has no burden. Search the secluded places of the world and find me one person who has never made a difference in another person's life.

I think these lines that are drawn to divide us are as stupid as exiling all the knitters in the world to some empty rock to avoid the click-clack of needles.

People are people, worthy of love, respect, and assistance, no matter how much or little melanin they have in their skin or what their perception of the divine. There is one race, the human race, and the sooner we all accept that the better off we will be.

So Mrs. Staats, whomever you are, there are no minorities in my church. Thank you.

Keona Marie

Hanging out on an internet board for parents gives me plenty of opportunities to talk about this subject, I guess that's why I've not posted here about it. Helping other women get through this, and helping people relate to those who've been though this, is kind of a mission of mine, a mission I share with untold millions of women through out the world and throughout time. It's time I should post about it here, as it's a big thing to me.
Advance apologize to those who love me but do not know this story, it was to to hard to tell at the time, and is a different kind of hard now as I fear hurting you with what I wasn't strong enough to share.
You see in February 2003 I got pregnant (a very common thing I've noticed, November seems to be a favorite for giving birth.) It took us a bit to get used to the idea, as we hadn't been planning on three kids yet, but I was getting excited and doing the dreaming thing.
I've found that women tend to start dreaming and hoping for their child long before it is born, and the moment we start loving a child is the moment its existence is suspected. I'm told there are women who don't feel this way, but I've yet to confirm this one single time. Nevertheless, I feel this way. A child is a gift to be cherished every moment, through morning sickness, and high school, and sometimes death.
I just never really expected to cherish through death.
I knew something was wrong with this pregnancy. With my previous two I had FELT them there (skeptics be-gone, I know what I felt). With this pregnancy though, I just didn't feel an extra little someone hanging around the house. It was un-nerving, and I tried to reason it away, but when the spotting started, well I knew what was happening. At 8 weeks gestation there was nothing for doctors to do, and my hopes and dreams were packed away in the parts of my mind I try not to disturb.
I was a mess, but I tried to muddle through, pretending it was no big deal.
I got pregnant again immediately, another accident. I embraced this new life. A child! I was so sure it was a girl, too. By the end of the "risky" first trimester I was in full swing of the dreaming and the planning. We picked a name, Keona. It means "gift from heaven" in Hawaiian. Joe's best friend is half Hawaiian, and closer to us than some of our family, so we felt it appropriate. I vacillated on a middle name. The initial choice was Faye, it seemed to flow so well. However, after a few weeks I chose Marie instead. Marie is one of my sister's middle name, and I liked the biblical and familial connection of the name better than the meaning of Faye, which is Fairy.
I thought of her as Keona Marie all the time, and watched my belly expand so beautifully to accommodate her form. An early ultrasound was ordered, and I watched that little heart flicker on the monitor. I was totally in love with this child. The presence I felt around the house was the sweetest I've ever known. Completely kind, selfless, loving, and cheerful. I couldn't wait to meet her and have her in our family.
At my 17 week check up my dear friend and brilliant physician, Dr. S (Dave, to me) had a bit of trouble finding the heartbeat we had heard a month before. I teased him a bit, and eventually he went to get another Doctor to give it a try. Dr. D came in and tried her hardest. I won't go into the feats of dexterity we performed to try and hear that little heart, but we just couldn't find it. So an ultrasound was ordered across the street at the hospital, and my husband was sent for. It was very late by the time we got into the ultrasound room, the face of the ultrasound tech was a bit to impassive, I ignored that, clinging to hope.
Dr. D was off saving someone's life with the other Doctor on duty, Dave's best friend Dr. B, so by the time they got down to talk to us it was after midnight. I didn't mind the wait, I adored my doctors, but each moment I waited I lost a bit of my will to believe that everything was fine.
Their soft and kind faces destroyed my hopes, and a wall of fiery emotional pain enveloped me even before the words "no heartbeat" could reach my ears. Through the smoke that billowed from my carefully crafted dreams they explained my child had stopped developing at 13 weeks. Four weeks, a month, she had been dead and I hadn't known it. A month my child had been loving me from the opposite side of life from where I wanted her to be.
We went home to rest, and the next day my husband and I discussed our options and decided on a D and C. I didn't like to think of doing the same thing to my deceased child as so many women do to kill their alive but inexplicably unwanted child. (The thought of THAT happening makes my soul scream in agony, but that's a whole 'nuther soap box). However with my history of excessive bleeding with childbirth (facts of life for many red-heads) a natural conclusion to this pregnancy seemed dangerous. Dr. S pulled some strings and got me the best at the hospital, and that concluded my mothering of Keona Marie, "gift from heaven" "bittersweet."

I'm sure you know that three years later, as I write this, I'm crying over my keyboard. It's the revisiting the memories in detail that brings the tears. Thankfully, I have healed enough that I can mention my losses with out blubbering. I mention them a lot though, online, on the board that I volunteer host for Babycenter. We have losses, they blindside us every once in a while, and then someone who only skimmed over a previous conversation on loss will all of the sudden need to hear the words of comfort we offer again and again.
To each of my shattered and agonizing sisters I offer a few simple words of comfort and guidance.
Your loss is as real a loss as any other. You loved your child, and your child deserves to be mourned and honored as much as any other child who has passed on before us. Don't tell yourself that "it was just a pregnancy" or that you were "only __ weeks along." You and I and millions of others know that's a lie, don't lie to yourself. However much you loved this child, that's how much you need to grieve for it.
So cry, rant, rave, scream at the sky or that blastedly blank expanse of ceiling, lock yourself in your room, tunnel under your covers, and let it out. Let it out until you can't let out anymore, then slowly start to fill that gaping chasm in your heart up again. Hold whomever you have to hold, the Father of your child, a sister, a friend. These are the people your child would have loved, these are the people who would have filled your child's life, now let them fill it's death.
Losing a child can destroy you, okay so it did destroy you, or a part of you. It destroyed the part that blissfully went from good prenatal check-up to the grocery store, the part that saw your monthly "Aunt Flo's visit" as an annoyance and not a cruel reminder of the way you've been robbed.
Nothing I could ever say is going to take away your pain, but to be honest, I don't want to. I want you to hurt with me, just a bit when you see a new baby. I want you to cry out inside when you hear of another loss, because I am crying out inside too. I want to open my arms, and pull you into the embrace of every woman who has felt this pain, who has by some miracle survived this crucible. WE KNOW.
I know for a time you will feel alone in your pain, like no one else mourns the death of the most amazing person who could have been. In time you will see, though, that your child does not go un-mourned, or un-loved. We mourn your child with you, we honor your child with you, please know that. Please join us in the the secret society of women who can reach beyond time, distance, race, creed, and their own pain and support a beloved sister. Please, learn the lesson I learned from my "bittersweet gift from heaven" Keona Marie.

Jay's Hair

As I've posted about how cute Tali can be, I thought I'd post about something Jay did the other morning. He insisted on taking his wizard's cap with him on our trip to the store. Any other hat I might have objected to, but I just can't object to him wearing a pointy black hat in public, I'm to much of a Potter freak for that.

We are getting out of the car and he stops at the door to put it on his head. "I need to put my hat on so my hair won't get wet, I just bought it."

Just bought his hair... Okay Jay, whatever you say.

Then days later he is talking to my dear friend Amanda and her Fiance Dan. He asks, "Do you like my blonde hair? I wear it all day long. It keeps my brain from falling out into the duck poop water." (note: any time he refers to the duck poop water he is talking about the famous fall off the bridge in 2005).

Sometimes I'd like to see the world the way Jay does, it seems much more interesting from his point of view.

Mommy, where is your ammi?

It was just to cute and I had to share.
The kids and I went down to Florida for the weekend. My husband was down in Boca Raton at training for his company and my sister and her husband had just welcomed thier first child. So on the way down I'm on the phone with my husband and Tali pipes up in the back. "Mommy? Where is your ammi?" I'm thinking, ammunition, ammulet... no she wouldn't know about those... is she saing Auntie?
"Where is what?"
"Your ammi."
"My what?"
"Your ammi."
"My ammi..." then I had to laugh. My husband thought it was funny to.
I couldn't figure out how to explain this to her, I mean if I said "it's not your ammi it's Miami," she would hear "It's not your ammi, it's my ammi." I just couldn't get it across, and she can't read so spelling didn't help.
We reached my husband and then met my sister and her husband. He had to show them the cute thing Tali was doing. "Tali where are we?" "We're in Mommy's ammi."
Bless her, can I just keep her this way?

A moment worth recording

Today I took the kids to Super-Walmart for some odds and ends we needed. While passing through the fresh produce department Talitha was interested in a large head of cauliflower and asked if we could get it. Smart mothers don't let moments like that pass, the prospect of getting a single bite of vegetable down a 5 year old's throat is worth the cost of the entire head. So buy it we did, and they started begging for it as soon as it came out of the grocery bag. I broke it up into bits, dumped them on a plate with carrots and glopped ranch dressing onto plates.
"That cauliflower is pretty good, isn't it Jay?" I asked (making sure to frame the question with the response I desired).
"Yeah," he replied.
"I love cauliflower," Talitha interjected.
I figured I'd better write that down or no one will ever believe it happened.

The Moments That Bind Us

In life there are just a few moments that are shared by the majority of us. Birth, death, 9/11, falling in love, these almost universally shared moments seem to act as the glue that holds the human race together.

I recently discovered that I had left one of these moments off my list. It had just never occurred to me that sending my child off to the first day of school could be one of those milestones in my journey through humanity. As I mentioned to people that my daughter was starting school, though, I noticed a spark of emotion in the eyes of those around me. It was as if, for a moment, we shared lives. In that moment my child was their child, my anxieties and hopes were reflected and enhanced in the mirror of their eyes.

Someone told me, I'm not sure who, that it doesn't get easier when it's your second child or third. Sure you know the drill, where the library is, how to put money on the lunch card, what kind of backpack to buy, but the feeling is the same.

On Monday I got up at 5:30 am, to the distinctly annoying beep beep of my alarm clock, hauled three kids out of their unconscious state, and poured cereal into them. Then it was time to dress them all, get the crazily curly hair into decent looking pigtails (braids just were not happening), locate the shoes and get out the door. This shouldn't take an hour, but it did, and then some. I thought we were good when we got out the door at 6:43. Then the traditional pictures had to be taken, and the little ones strapped in the jogging stroller. Just as my 5 year old led us out of the driveway we saw the bus pass the end of the block. We weren't off to a good start.

Luckily the school isn't far, I have her ride the bus so I have to get in a walk every morning, and once I've gone 5 minutes I might as well go 30 right? I digress, sufficeth to say I could still get her to school quite easily and on time, but I would miss the "first bus ride" photo opportunity. So I drove her over to the school and joined the line in the circle drive. I stopped the car, took a few pictures, got her out, took more pictures and pointed her to the door where she should go in.
Armed with a tour of the school on open house night, instructions on asking grown-ups for directions ("Honey, you see the badge, that means they are a teacher, not a stranger, you can talk to them."), and a backpack complete with a cold lunch, my baby girl walked through those doors and into a new segment of her life.

I didn't cry then, I was a tough mama with two kids in tow... In a tow away zone... But I'm tearing up now. It's not that she's not a baby anymore, or that I can't tolerate the hours of her absence, it's that from now on I'm a stranger to a part of her life. I can't help her. For seven hours a day she's at the mercy of a room full of kids. If my own school experience had been less painful perhaps my fears could be dismissed, but I can't shake them.

This week I have wanted to home school her more than ever.

She came back from school completely exhausted and refused to discuss the events of the day with me. Only with a little nap and a lot of coaxing from her Daddy did she reveal to us a few snippets of her day. She doesn't like it. She doesn't know anyone, she has little one to one contact with her teacher, the events of the day are unfamiliar. I feel like an ogre sending her back, but she needs to go to school, she needs to learn, and with the way my life is I really can't homeschool, so I have to send her back into the fray every day for the next 13 years.

So this is what that look of pity and shared pain was about. They all knew that kids don't like school and that I faced a battle. The assurances that she'll be fine were just those scripted things that society had prepared for us to say, to hint at but not reveal to much about those few moments that bind us. "She'll be fine." "_____ is a good teacher." "This is a good school." "It takes a little getting used to but you'll get the hang of it." "This is such an exciting time." Scripted, scripted, scripted, all these things are repeated at schools all over the world. Every parent hears them, every parent says them. I will say them myself someday, once I have fully stepped into the new pool of experience that waits to surround me. Just once I'm going to tell someone the truth though. That it's like cutting off your arm and feeding it to an alligator. That I wished I could turn myself into a bug like Rita Skeeter and hide under my daughter's collar and then hex anyone who was going to hurt her. I couldn't though. I could only stand by, and let her go, and hope that I'd said "I love you, your wonderful," enough times that she might remember it when someone else tells her she's not wonderful. I only hope that somehow my love can counteract the evil forces she will battle for the rest of her life.

Some days being a Parent is the hardest thing in the world. I guess that's why it's what glues us together, if only for a few moments.

The Ten-Minute-Tidy System

Do you ever have one of those days when you look at your house and you find it so overwhelmingly dirty that you don't know where to start. Those used to be the days when I ignored it and crawled in a whole.
All that changed a few months ago though. I had been posting on my boards, and getting sucked deeper in and deeper into the dramas of hundreds of other people's lives when I realised if I didn't get cleaning now I would never get my house done.
So, as a true internet addict, I posted to myself on a board that I wasn't allowed to post again until I cleaned! The strangest thing happened. These wonderful women joined me. The posted after me and said they were going to clean too and let me know how much they had done.
The next day I borrowed and idea from the Fly Lady (google her she's good, but you might want to skip the emails) I set my timer for 10 minutes and ran around cleaning. When it went off I posted online what I had accomplished. I was shocked at how much could be done in 10 minutes.
The wonderful women I mentioned joined me in my crazy timed cleaning spurts and it became a bit of a boot camp for housework.

So here are a few tips for when your house is ready to strangle you:

• Once you have certain things done you will feel a lot better about your house. Start with what bugs you most. Dishes in the sink? knock-em out. Beds a mess? tighten them up quick. It quickly breaks down the overwhelmed feeling you get when you open your bedroom to a house full of evidence that you are a mom.
• Timing yourself breaks the day up into manageable segments. You don't have to clean until you drop, you don't have to ge the whole house done. Just do 30 minutes of concerted effort. Chances are you'll make a huge dent.
• Reporting helps you see that yes, you have accomplished something. You can post it online, or you can make a to do list and cross things off. Or you can jsut keep a log on a piece of paper (this is especially good because then everything on there is already done and the "to do" items don't depress you. At the end of the hour, or day, you can say "Yes I have earned my play time!"
• Make a schedule. Not long after the ladies helped me conquer my house we switched to posting our to do list. One lady was so much more organised and we were amased at her lists. She soon reveled that she had a master list that she worked from. Each day she deep cleaned one room and thenjust did upkeep in the rest of the house. So we copied her list. The first week was rough. I spent all day cleaning the one room and keeping the others half tidy. The next week though was so easy. I can now usually knock out a room in an hour and have the rest of the house in shape by noon (except laundry day, so I put it on monday so I only have one horrible day a week.) Try it, it works.
• Reward yourself. I think this is a no brainer, especially for those of us who have hidden stashes of goodies. In time though having a clean house is very rewarding in and of itself. I love the feeling of turning away from my computer and seeing a clean room. I love to walk into a bedroom and see a made bed. I love being able to find a dvd when I want it! I think it's better than hershey's chocolate pie, though I won't turn down a slice, eaten at a clean table, of course.

Our exciting 2005 vacation

I thought I'd share the poem I wrote about our cross-country trip in 2005. I didn't include the car breaking down on the way to Vegas, or the soaked clothes in the luggage rack, or the luck of getting the last room available in a sleepy Illinois town at 10pm. What I did include was the illustration of the process by which we obtained something much more permanent, the scar on James' head.


Our exciting 2005 vacation

FLIP goes the feet and splash goes the head
AHHH! says the mom as her heart fills with dread
DOWN jumps the dad with the training of a Marine
UP lifts the kid, his head covered in red and green
PRESSURE thinks the aunt as she carries him toward the car
MOVE thinks the Mom as her feet feel stuck in tar
OPEN flies the door to the zookeeper's lair
WOOSH goes the faucet as we try to wash his hair
EEEEK yells the kid as they prod and poke his cut
TISK says the mom it'll need stitches to be shut
ZOOM goes the car as it seeks medical care
FLASH goes the card but is it taken here or there?
SIT STILL she repeats as the hour passes by
TWO is his age, and to his credit he did try
AHHH! says the kid as the wound is opened wide
SORRY says the doc but I have to get inside
THROUGH goes the needle and out the other side
ALL DONE says the doc as he shows his work with pride
SIGH go the parents as the kid falls fast asleep
BACK to the house where the aunt his siblings keeps
PUKE goes another kid all over the kitchen floor
SIGH goes the Mom, disaster is what vacation’s for.

Lest there be any confusion, the fabulously Harry Potterish purple line is a bunch of scratches, the stitches were in the dark area in his hair, just follow the part and you'll find the spot. If you ask him, he'll tell you the scar in his eyebrow is from the "fall in the duck poop water" but that's from a fall out of bed a few weeks later. The scar on his chin is yet another accident. Can anyone tell I''m raising a boy? (He's cute too!)

The lesson we can learn from grapes

A week or so ago I was shopping in a big warehouse store and stopped at a sample table. Usually these tables offer a tidbit of some delectable precooked prepackaged and pre-calorie infused treat offered in mass quantities that can be served to your visiting dignitaries within minutes of leaving the walk in freezer in your house. I buy these treats for my kids on occasion, the boxes last us for weeks. It's an easy alternative to the "Perfect Mothering" that I plan to discuss in a future blog. This particular day, though, at this particular table, the product being portioned out to club members was grapes. I popped one in my mouth, and then one into each of the eager palms presented me by my adorable children, and told them I wasn't going to buy them a whole 4 pound box because we had 4 pounds of strawberries at home.

The demonstrator overheard my comment and quickly used the sharp brain under her white paper hair net. "Have you ever had them frozen?" I admitted I hadn't, and she started extolling the raptures of the all-natural slushy-like virtues of the frozen grape. My kids were now drooling and I promised to keep the idea in mind.

A few days later the strawberries had been sacrificed to the ravages of the blender and I decided to pick up some of the fore mentioned grapes. Once they had been procured I let them sit in the fridge until I found time to clean and freeze them.

This brings us to this morning when I decided to take advantage of my children's preoccupation with their breakfast to complete this task. So while they concentrated on getting pre-packaged and pre-cooked waffles smothered in whipped cream (three pack of cans, near the milk) and syrup into their mouths I started divesting the grape vine of it's burden young.

Now most of the grapes came right off the vine and plopped cheerfully in the bowl to await the baking soda rinse that would free them from their pesticide coating. There were those few grapes however that clung tightly to their mother vine and ripped part of the vine of with them. These had to be retrieved from the bowl and the lingering vine portion carefully removed. I thought for a while that it was the fault of the individual grape, but upon closer inspection I discovered that it was really the fault of the vine.

You see the vine was weak because it had been pouring it's nutrients into the grape long after it should have started to let go. The healthy sections of vine remained intact because they had the floral integrity to let go at the proper time. The broken and withered sections had made the classic mistake of mothering to long.

It's an easy mistake to make, or at least I would assume so. (I'm trying hard not to make it.) It starts with a simple gasp of concern the first time the wind wiggles your precious grape within in your grasp. It's so tiny then, just a bud really, and you pull it close hoping to protect it from unnecessary harm. As it gets older it grows and being the good vine you are you keep it safely nestled in the heart of the bunch. When it's time to receive its dose of pesticide you make sure it gets covered, but worry that the powder will stunt it's growth.

Every day you pour everything you have into your little round joy, and you try not to think about the day of harvest when your little seed bearer will head off into the world. You stick with your darling until at length your resources are depleted, your once strong stem is withered and dry, giving every last drop of moisture, nourishing to the very end. Then one day some hot young red-head comes along and pulls him away. You have been giving for so long, you don't know how to let go, so the force with which she pulls snaps you in two.

So there you are, broken, depleted, and unable to free yourself from the bond with your off spring. Your world has changed and yet you try to live vicariously. You hope that sticking close to your little bud grown big will give you just a taste of what life was once like, back in the vineyard. The simple truth though is, this isn't your place, and there isn't enough of you left to go on.

So mothers, take a hint from the stem laying bereft and broken in my garbage can. Let go. Release your child a little at a time until the day comes when your child goes off on it's own. Do this and there will be something left of you when your child is gone. Start today. When your toddler stumbles say "Whoops! Haha, did that floor jump up and get you? Well stand back up and try again." When your child is learning to write her name find the point at which you stop putting down an example to follow. When your child is struggling in school, guide and teach, help him grasp the concept, don't do the homework for him. You have to let go!

That, my friends, is the lesson we can learn from grapes. Now I need to go put these in the freezer.

So I've joined the internet soul bearing...

"Why not?" I think to myself when I finish reading the blogs of a friend.

Actually I could think of several reasons right off the bat against Blogging.

One of which is that everyone is doing it. Those who know me well know that a good deal of my self image is wrapped up in the fact that I'm different. Some may say strange, many have said crazy, I've also heard weird, oddball, and nuts. Most of these terms are derisive in nature and most people would take offence at such labels. I, however, welcome them because every one of them set me aside as one of a class of people who aren't afraid to be who they are. I am not afraid to be who I am, because I am Thora. I'm ever-changing, complex, quirky, and wonderful. So avoiding the ruts of normal behavior and not blogging isn't a very good reason not to blog because a blog by a slightly nuts red-head is always worth writing, right?

Another reason not to blog is that it's going to be read. Normally my thoughts can flit un-checked though my brain and have no effect on my relationships with others. Here I have to carefully measure the possible outcomes of each sentence so as not to cause hurt to those with whom I am temporarily miffed. I can't just say " _____ is a total harpy and I could happily go the rest of my life with out ___ presence." One simply can't say those things online, one has to scream them into a pillow and try not to get any feathers in one's mouth.

Yet another reason for not blogging is time. I never have enough time. I could certainly blame this on my children. Three kids is a bit of a plate full, but certainly not as difficult as imagined by those with a phobia of pint sized humans. My kids are pretty good kids, and I encourage them to play with each other quite a bit. The real time hog in my day is the computer. That's right people (gasp) I spend a lot of time on the computer.

Now, in my defense, lest I be labeled as a video game addict, I spend most of that time on boards. I spend my day reading and posting on sites that electronically link me with people around the world who share my interests, if not always my views. One is a board full of LDS parents. Well okay, so we have some posters who aren't LDS, and some that aren't parents, and some that aren't either, but they just spice things up. The other is a board for Harry Potter fans, and is full of amazing people around the globe who share one common thing, we all love the HP books. Just about everything that could be discussed about the works of Jo Rowling has been discussed, so until book 7 comes out we are mostly just chatting and sharing the joys of being a HP fan.

My frequent posting on these boards however has only whetted my appetite for a place to store all the random thoughts that flow through my fingers. So I think that perhaps I will store them here, so that the contribution that I make to the big support group called the internet won't be lost in cyberspace when the pages expire and the threads get muched. In the very least I will have collected them, and could print them, and they won't be wiped out by the latest upgrade Joe does to my computer.

So here it is my friends, the debated against blog that came to be, and it's written by no one other than the one and only me.