So I don’t profess to be a design star, but . . .

I have watched my fair share of HGTV and read enough home magazines that I think I know my way around a room. Well, after a very short trip back to St. Louis and barely sitting down, unpacking a lot of boxes, moving furniture, hanging pictures and organizing, I think we got mom's house to be pretty comfortably situated. Here are some photos:

Moderation in All Things?

Saturday morning was white and cold and required Eric going out with the snowblower to take care of our sidewalks and driveway. It's funny--how I didn't think about the fact that snow removal would be our responsibility when we bought the rental house downtown. But we realized we'd have to take care of that on Saturday too.

So after a quick breakfast, Eric started up the engine on the ol' snowblower and began clearing the snow off our driveway, then our sidewalk. He didn't stop there. He continued around our cul-de-sac and did all the sidewalks. Good for him, I thought as I glanced out through the front window. A good deed.

Then next time I looked out, he was doing the entire driveway of our neighbor on the other side, then continued to go around doing everyone's driveway in our entire circle. I was about to explode. I was sitting in the house with a crying baby and was trying to finish up all the breakfast dishes and fold the laundry, then Bianca kept traipsing in and out the front door leaving piles of snow to melt in the entryway. Next I was trying to get myself and Portia dressed and brush Bianca's hair so we could all head downtown to take care of the snow there.

After what seemed like two hours, he came back in. I wouldn't talk to him, then we started fighting. I'm ashamed to say that I used the term "moderation in all things" when arguing with him. Do you think it's meant that way too? Moderation in doing good deeds?

I know it sounds selfish of me, but I sometimes feel like Eric would help everyone on our street and completely forget about me in our own house. It drives me crazy.

After the fighting was over and we were trying to leave the house--with snowblower safely packed in the back of my car--Bianca wouldn't get up from the computer where she was replaying the "Christmas Time is Here" song from The Polar Express movie that's on my playlist. She was trying to learn all the words and playing the song over and over and over and over. "Bianca, moderation in all things," I told her as I turned off the computer.

I think I'm safe using that term for my own benefit.

If you knew my dad . . .

It's the weirdest thing. I was in Draper at this live nativity, taking pictures for an article I'm writing. Anyway, tonight when I got home, I was sifting through the pictures I took and came across this one.

A couple boxes of running shoes. . .

. . . and a half-used package of diapers. I've known that they're in the closet all along, but I've been buying new packages of size-three diapers anyway. I remember pulling them out of the box of Miranda's things and stuffing them into the bathroom closet before Portia was born. And I remember thinking how sure I was when I'd bought those diapers two and a half years ago that I would need them all. At the time it hadn't seemed odd, but now it seems so presumptuous to think that Miranda would have been around to use all those diapers.

I finally pulled them out yesterday after I completely ran out of diapers and put the first one on Portia. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. But it did make me think about three boxes of brand-new running shoes.

Several months before we found out dad's cancer was back, he and I had driven to California together to visit my sister. On our way home, we stopped at some outlet malls to walk around and stretch our legs. Dad also needed some new running shoes.

I don't remember the store where dad found them, but they were having a buy two, get one pair of shoes free. So dad bought three identical pair of the same size shoes. So sure he would wear them out and need them all. It makes me cry to think that he never even wore out the first pair.

I asked mom where they were and she didn't remember them. She'd left dad's closet as it was and hasn't completely gone through everything yet, even though she moved out of my childhood home last weekend. In my mind, I picture these boxes stacked perfectly in the corner of his closet. I don't know if they're there, but I know they're somewhere.

I'm worried about my mom breaking down about the assumption that dad would be around to wear out all these running shoes. The way I did when I found the half-used package of Miranda's diapers.

I've been worried a lot lately. Now that my mom is moved out and is in that great-big house all alone, all filled with boxes where she doesn't know where to begin unpacking them. But I know I need to do something for her, somehow get her more comfortable in that big old house. So, I'm heading back in two weekends and Susannah and I are going to try to bring some order to her house, break it in for her--if you will. The first Christmas is hard enough without a loved one, and I can only imagine how hard it will be alone in a big house.

Maybe while I'm there, I'll dig out those boxes of shoes. Find a good use for them. Maybe I'll hold on to a pair of them, stash them along with the jacket dad left in my coat closet when we went to California last summer.

Not-so-Black Friday

Yes, I went shopping on Black Friday. I took Bianca to the mall so we could pick up a couple things--mainly I needed to get something for Eric at Macy's and they'd advertised a "free breakfast set," which included a pancake bowl, spatula, whisk, snowflake mold (to make snow-flake shaped pancakes), and a snowflake towel. They still had them and the lady threw in a free mini Christmas Tree w/ ornaments to boot.

Then we went to Gymboree, and I let Bianca pick out a dress (oh my gosh--I love the new winter dresses!). Then since it was around 2, we decided to stop at the pretzel stand. We were just going to share a pretzel and cheese and a couple lemonades (I won't share with her because she's still sick, which it's been nearly four weeks now and we've been singing around the house that it's "the cold that never ends.")

Anyway, the total came to about $6. I handed over my MC because it's one of those lame places that only takes visa or MC. Well, after a couple swipes, the lady told me my card didn't go through. I thought with dread how Eric had told me a couple weeks ago that they sent new cards and I didn't "call in to verify" so they stopped our card. I pleaded with them to take my Discover card. "Sorry." Everyone behind me in line (and yes, there was a line as we'd been waiting for nearly 10 minutes to order) was looking at me holding my Gymboree and Macy's bags and undoubtedly thinking that this lady has a maxing-out-her-credit-cards problem. I gazed forlornly at the steaming pretzel and cheese and lemonades, then said I was sorry for wasting their time. Bianca let out a cry of despair, and we began to walk away.

I felt a touch on my arm and a middle-school-aged girl said, "My grandma is going to pay for you."

I turned back around, explained she didn't have to do that. Could I please buy her something with my Discover card somewhere. No. Are you sure? Yes? I thanked her profusely. Bianca and I scarfed down our pretzel. Sometimes I think we forget how kind people can be. And I wondered if I'd ever do that for someone else. Probably not, had this not happened to me. But I've resolved that if I ever see this happening to someone else, I'm going to step up. What a great example this woman is to her grandkids. I want to be that person for my kids.

The rest of the shopping trip was a daze of people hurtling in front of people, lines everywhere. As Bianca and I were driving out of the mall parking lot, a woman was at the intersection with her poster. And yes, I know these people might not be who we think they are. But right there is a teaching experience for my daughter. I searched my car for something I can give this woman regardless of who she was. Turns out, the only thing we could find was a party-size Butterfinger. We rolled down the window and asked her if she wanted it. She did. God bless. Merry Christmas.

A Bored Meeting

I hadn't been this bored since the sixth grade. Last night, I spent four and a half hours at the Jordan School District board meeting. Wow. I wish I'd brought a book along--the guy in front of me had obviously been to a meeting of this kind before.

I was there because the district was making some announcement about ALPS, the program that Bianca's in. I'd heard rumors days before that they're completely overhauling it. That the system, which was initially there to provide special classroom structure for "gifted" children, is now more geared toward "accelerated learners" so the whole system is failed.

At first I was angry. Not only had school vouchers not passed and Bianca is number 72 on the waiting list to get into the new charter school in Herriman, but dissolving the ALPS program as we know it would mean I'd have no options. None. I can't stand being backed into a corner.

So I went. I'd read all the information on the web site earlier in the day and waited. I waded through all the restructuring boundaries in West Jordan, other boring stuff I don't remember, another obscenely long boundary shuffle (I can't remember where, but I remember thinking snidely that this was the board's attempt to bore all the angry ALPS parents into leaving).

Finally, at 8:45, they got down to business about what was happening with ALPS, and it was as I'd heard. Most of the kids in the ALPS program are "accelerated learners," not gifted. The true gifted children most likely have behavioral problems, can't learn in a normal school setting, yada, yada, yada. I deduced that my child is NOT gifted. She must be an accelerated learner. After they went through all the details, 38 people had signed up to speak. I'm not a public speaker. I wrote my letter and emailed it already this morning. Anyhoo, 38 people can speak from 3-6 minutes each and I was bored stiff until after 11 o'clock. With a couple good suggestions, a couple I didn't care for, but really getting nowhere.

I don't know how I got myself into this situation. Why I feel like I need to attend these things. I found myself driving home, sleepily I might add, at 11:30 and had no benefits of staying out late. No fun book club conversation to think about. No yummy food or drinks in my stomach (and I was so thirsty through that meeting--I should have jotted over to Chic-filet [sp?] for a lemonade when I realized how wordy everything was going to be).

I slunk into bed around midnight and Eric asked me if I'd been on a date. I wish. I stayed up for another hour tossing in bed, trying to get comfortable and planning what I'd say in my letter in the morning. Twelve hours later, and I'm still bored at the thought of last night.

If you ever end up going to one of these meetings, be sure to bring along a LARGE drink and a good book.

What if?

I've been crying for three days straight. Back in June, I found out that a woman in my support group, who had already lost a baby from seizures, had another baby who also had the same disorder as the first baby. This second baby was born 10 days before Portia, April 13. I cried then and held my baby close.

Two days ago, this baby died. And I've been crying so much that Eric just expects my eyes and nose to be red when he looks at me. I pick Portia up at the first sound of a cry and hold her as much as I possibly can.

I'm thinking about going to the funeral on Saturday--not that she would know me from Adam, but just to be there. I wouldn't bring my children. But I'm scared mostly because I haven't ever been to another baby's funeral. Eric and I were talking this morning about Miranda's funeral--how it was a big blur and he said something about turning around and seeing everyone crying and wondered why exactly they were crying.

I hope this doesn't come out sounding wrong, but I think I know why people were crying. They were thinking about their own children and the genuine possibility of losing them had just been slapped in their faces. Of course they were sympathetic to us, I'm not saying they weren't. And I appreciated every person who came there to support us, and I appreciate every person now who isn't afraid to talk about Miranda to me. I welcome hearing her name.

And that is, after all, why I've been crying for days now and keeping Portia so close. Because it is possible that Portia could be taken from me too. It could happen. I am truly sympathetic to this woman and my heart breaks for her, but who am I really crying about? I've never met her baby. I know my baby and hold her and feed her every day.

Perhaps I'm crying for Miranda who isn't with me anymore and the real possibility that Portia could be taken away too.

That’s it. The cleaning ladies have to go.

No, it's not what you think. They're doing a fine job, if you don't count missing one of the sinks last time, but who's counting. I think I have to end the cleaning-lady saga in my life, after looking through Bianca's backpack today.

I pulled a cute little book titled "Thanksgiving" that she meticulously colored and wrote in. This is what is says:

BOOK: Long ago, the Pilgrims sailed from England to America on a ship called the Mayflower. What could you travel on today?

BIANCA: And today we do not have those. We'd fly.

BOOK: They wanted to build a new life and have freedom. What are you free to do today?

BIANCA: We do not have to work today. We can hire people.

Okay, I'm going to stop there for obvious reasons. Yes, it's been nice having the cleaning ladies come every other week, but if this is what I'm teaching my daughter, then I'm going to have to say goodbye to my lovely cleaning ladies and their wonderful cleaning supplies. This hurts me to say, but I guess cleaning a few toilets and showers every other week is better than showing my daughter that we don't have to work.

I'm feeling like a crappy parent today.

Another Day

Today turned out nothing like I expected. After all, I dutifully checked my planner last night and knew that I had to be at the Holladay Library at 10:30 to take some pictures of Curious George for the paper. And I knew I had to swing by Eric's work to pick him up at 1, to go to the mortgage place for our house closing.

But last night had me up--all night. I shouldn't complain. But poor little Portia was up moaning. Moaning because she was sick and feverish. We took her temperature and she was teetering around the high 102s. Nothing that special, I'm sure. But the moaning bothered me. So not normal for her--or any baby I've ever had, for that matter.

So this morning, I called her pediatrician first thing and went in at 10:15, the earliest they could get me in and simply knew I could scratch my library appointment off my list. I expected the doctor to say the normal things--she has a cold, or an ear infection, and send me home. Instead, she told me that Portia's soft spot on her head was swollen and I needed to take Portia to Primary Children's ER immediately to have her checked for menengitis.

My first instinct was to cry, which I did, and then I left for the hospital. I did swing by and pick Eric up though, it just wasn't where we were planning to go.

I hate Primary Children's for obvious reasons. I hate recognizing nurses or social workers from my time there. And I hate was all those tests were doing to my baby.

I'm glad Eric was there. I have a needle phobia and can't watch the nurses and doctor poking and prodding my baby. I stepped away and took a walk outside. After all, I didn't want to pass out on the ground and end up in a hospital room of my own. I didn't realize how scared I was of IVs and needles until five years ago when I took my cat, Kitty Bumpkin--may he rest in peace--to the vet to be tested for feline leukemia. He was a slow bleeder and I started to pass out while trying to hold that big fat cat in place while they squeezed his furry little arm. They ended up bringing me a cool washcloth for my head and some juice to revive me. I can't believe after all this that I've actually gotten through three entire pregnancies and a tumor surgery. Sorry, back to the story.

Portia had to have a catheter, and an IV, and a spinal tap, and five and a half hours later, we were finally leaving that place. Fortunately, everything turned out negative and guess what? Portia's ear looks just a tad bit red, so she has an ear infection. Just a little frustrating. But this is what we do as moms and despite all the craziness of today, I'd never opt to forgo the test and maybe miss something life threatening. I know I'd do it again tomorrow if they told me to go back.

A dog and a baby--just a couple anecdotes

With Bianca in school all day, I've got two constant companions--Portia, of course, and Tigger, who follows us from room to room. He even tries to sit on my boppy pillow while I'm nursing the baby--up until recently when Portia's been much grabbier. Anyway, I had a couple funny things happen and thought I'd share:

Since I still have a weekly piano assignment, I have to practice daily. I keep a blanket on the floor by the piano and a couple toys for Portia to play with while I practice. She actually enjoys the music sometimes--I can tell by her reaction that she loves the music from Pride and Prejudice and doesn't quite love "Have I done any good today?" Anyway, when Tigger wants to play fetch, he grabs one of his pups (they are those big-nosed stuffed dogs that were in the Happy Meals at McDonalds a couple years back). He's pulled all the eyeballs out of the pups and spends a majority of his days pulling the stuffing and beads out of the them. Nonetheless, these are his favorite fetch toys. Ever since Portia was born, I've noticed that Tigger leaves his pups by Portia's blanket. Probably dismayed that I'm playing the piano and not paying any attention to him, he brings Portia his pups and waits for her to throw them to him. I still find them by this blanket and it always cracks me up.

After I take a shower, I always wrap a towel around my head to dry my hair. Portia's usually about had it by the end of my shower (waiting in her carrier), so I go pick her up with the towel around my head. Any other time when I pick her up, Portia stops crying. However, if I have a towel on my head, she cries even harder and doesn't stop until I take the towel off. I guess she doesn't recognize me or is just scared that I look different. Who knows, but I think it's funny.

I turned on the fireplace during one of the past cold days we've had. I spread a blanket in front of the fire and read a book until Portia woke from her nap. Tigger LOVES the fireplace. Probably because he has so little fur and it keeps him warm. At first when I laid Portia down by Tigger, she kind of pet his fur. But then she found his ear and grabbed. I know it hurts him by the way he yelps (which he also does sometimes when he wants to get away from Bianca and she isn't hurting him; he's quite the actor, but this time I admit that it probably did hurt). Anyway, it was so funny, Tigger couldn't decide which was worse--sitting by Portia or not being by the warm fire. He kept getting up, undecidedly, and then moving each time she rolled a centimeter toward him.

Poopie or not poopie?

This summer while I was in St. Louis with my family and our kids were running around together playing, the word poopie was thrown out a lot. It was started by Elissa, my sister Betsy's daughter who is three. Now, I realized pretty early on that at three, there are very few things that are more insulting than being called poopie. Probably because they were just removed from diapers when they were often literally poopie.

In fact, Bianca would come tell me, "Mom, Elissa (or Aidan) called me poopie."

Well, at the time, my sister Susannah and I were reading this book called The Four Agreements about people only saying mean things when they're dealing with their own issues of inadequacy, so I responded, "Don't worry. He (or she) is dealing with his/her own issues of feeling poopie." She shrugged, ran off playing again. It didn't bother her that much--she's not three. And I sit back and laugh about it now, but at the time I never wanted to hear that silly word again.

Fast forward three months ahead, Bianca's carpool just started up again. So, she heads out the door around 7:30 a.m. (Eric usually takes her to school), so carpooling leaves Eric extra time to linger lazily in bed. Yesterday morning, he was listening to the radio in bed. It was the manly morning show on 1280 The Zone, a specific thing they do called "Gay or not gay." I guess people email in things they're not sure are acceptable for manly men and Eric thinks it's hilarious. I admit, it is pretty funny. It has this really funny song that goes along with it--gay or not gay.

Yesterday, Eric emailed in something--about a certain Brother-in-Law who had free movie tickets and brought along a friend. This friend said he would buy the snacks, then brought in a soda with two straws. Eric is so pleased with himself for thinking to send this in. We'll see if his story gets on the radio next Thursday.

Anyway, this morning, carpool again left Eric with a lot of spare time. He kept singing that "gay or not gay" song. Portia woke up, so I brought her into bed and smelled her bottom. You know, to see if she was "poopie or not poopie." Well, she wasn't poopie which meant we didn't have to change her diaper right away, so the result of a lot of spare time mixed with a jingle that Eric just couldn't get out of his head turned into "poopie or not poopie." And we came up with this great idea for a talk show on some kids radio channel:

Poopie or Not Poopie?

Co-hosts 3-year-olds Elissa and Aidan

Story: "My brother took my toy car from me. Poopie or Not Poopie?"

Concensus: Definitely Poopie

We laughed talking about the idea. Then figured the show would end every time with Elissa and Aidan arguing:

You're poopie.

No, you're poopie.

No I'm not. You're poopie.

I'm telling.

No, I'm telling.

Ahhh, I miss my 3-year-old neice and nephew. Miranda was their age. And I can't help but wonder where she would have fit into the poopie arguments. In my head, she's a perfect angel and would have been the peacemaker saying that neither was poopie. But let's face it, she would have been three, meaning that poopie would have been an extreme insult to her and she probably would have thrown out a few poopies of her own.

Why I don't trust dentists

I don't know why I'm writing this now. The only reason I've even thought about dentists in the last two months is because my friend Christie called and was looking for a trustworthy dentist in the area and Eric's cousin just moved away to the east coast to go to dental school, only to be another dentist among a sea of dentists in the world (it seems like there's a practice on every corner nowadays). But here it is, the reason I don't trust dentists.

Over two years ago, I saw an advertisement saying that you could get a free teeth whitening if you go to this particular dentist (a $500 value!). Sure, my previous dentist, Uncle George--who is actually Eric's boss' uncle--is all the way over in Sugarhouse and I was tired of driving that far. So, I thought: Okay, it's time to switch to something closer.

Let me preface this by saying I've never had a cavity in my entire life. Never. I always attributed it to the flouride in the water where I grew up (although we had well water at my house, maybe I got enough of it at the drinking fountain at school). Anyhoo, I never had one. But when I went to see this dentist he told me I had not one cavity, not two, but EIGHT!!!! Eight cavities and I'd never had one before.

They drew out how much it was all going to cost, how much my dental insurance would cover, what I'd have to pay. I can't remember now, but it was something like $500 out of my own pocket. Then the dentist told me how vital it was that I get this work done immediately, then smiled his sparkling big-white-teeth smile (the guy knew he was goodlooking, I'll give him that, he was).

Even worst, the free teeth whitening was only available if I did a certain preventative process--that my insurance didn't cover, by the way. So, I didn't get the teeth whitening after all.

Well, I was going to get the work done. I really was, but then the accident happened and teeth were the least of my worries. About six months after that, I decided to make the trek all the way to Sugarhouse and see Uncle George before I had the work done.

Turns out, I didn't have any cavities. I was furious. I called Get Gephardt, then the Better Business Bureau. Whatever. They called me said they'd heard of this happening all the time, but knew how it was going to go--the dentist will insist he has a new, ultra-modern tool that shows cavities that most other dentists can't see. Still, he was going to pay the dentist a visit, but it would probably be to no avail. They were right.

I'm sorry, but if a dentist can't detect a cavity without this great little tool, I'd rather wait. And I'm still waiting. And still have had no problems with my teeth.

Uncle George has since gotten sick and doesn't practice anymore. I'm afraid to go anywhere else. I don't want to happen upon one where they DO carry this nifty little cavity-detection-before-the-cavity-even-exists tool. Maybe I'll brush really well and just wait the four years until Eric's cousin gets back here from dental school and starts his own practice, maybe it'll be on my corner. I'll be sure to warn him against investing in that little tool.

We got it!

Okay, so on Monday, we made an offer on a house and four counter-offers later, we've sealed the deal (well, of course with houses there's always a way to back out, but we're not planning on it unless absolutely necessary).

Anyway, it's a fourplex downtown Salt Lake--it has two one-bedroom apartments and two studios.



They're all rented out. Yeah, I'm a little worried that I'm taking on a new job with this. I hope it doesn't drive me crazy, but at least I know what I'm getting myself into.

Not your typical working mom

No, typically work-out-of-the-home moms have daycare. And rightly so. But there's me, who thinks I can take Portia with me and work at the same time. Well, I have to admit, I did try to find someone to watch her, but it didn't work out, so I figured I could just take her along.

I had to go to this check-award ceremony where Dannon (you know its yogurt) gave a $30,000 grant to Utah Food Bank to help out low-income children in the community. A great cause, huh? I thought so too. This just so happened that it was on a work-day and since most of the other reporters work full-time jobs, they couldn't do it, but I could.

I decided I could just put Portia in the Snugli and pack her along with me. (I thought maybe if I'm not pushing a stroller or holding a carseat, then it's more like she's attached to me. Come on, I'm only five months removed from just being a pregnant lady.) Well, since I hadn't used the Snugli since I left St. Louis, Portia didn't like how close it was to me, and she kept struggling to get away from me. Too close. She was fussing and making quite a bit of noise. At first it wasn't a big deal, because it was just me and two cameramen--one from Fox 13 News and ABC. And we were sitting around stuffing our faces with muffins and fruit and--what else?--yogurt. But after the Senators and Mayors and other VIPs came in, I started to feel a little uncomfortable.

One woman from Dannon even commented to me, "Wow, you sure look calm." I responded that I'm glad it appeared that way. But that's when I knew everyone was probably wondering what this amateur person was doing, bringing her baby along. Maybe if it had just been a Utah thing it would have been fine; after all, all women in Utah have a baby all the time (or so it seems). But most of the suits from Dannon traveled here from New York.

After everyone took their seats, thank goodness, a woman from Dannon offered to hold my cute baby while I took some pictures. I tried not to notice Portia's white-knuckled grip on her perfectly done hair. Oops. Oh well, I had photos to focus on. I forgot to pull out my recorder and press play and it was right there, in my bag, but I was so flustered that I didn't even think. I took pictures. The lady passed Portia off to the man sitting next to her, disentangling Portia's fingers from her hair, and of course Portia smiled back at me where I was standing--ready with my camera--right before she stuffed the guy's tie in her mouth.

The ceremony part was finally over and all the suits shuffled out of the room, the cameramen were packing up their equipment, and I was met by Dannon's P.R. guy from NY. I commented, "I'm a working mom." To which he replied, "And I'm a working dad." We talked for a while about Utah Food Bank and Dannon's grant award, while I even thought about pulling out my recorder but at this time had no extra hands to do so.

I got to take a cooler stuffed full of Yogurt and yogurt drinks home.

As I was leaving, the ABC cameraman pulled me aside and said, "Don't worry about the baby thing. I think it was great to have her here. Hopefully it reminded everyone why they were all here--for the children." Thank goodness for kind people in stressful situations.

I'd never been so relieved to be in my car. I drove home, trying to get there before 11 when Fox 13's news came on. I ran downstairs and started the Tivo. For you see, without a recording and no hands to write down anything anyone said, I was missing an integral part of my article--quotes. Fortunately, I got one from Fox 13's broadcast. Unfortunately, that was all.

For the last two days, I've been trying to scrape together as much "official" stuff as possible. I pulled quotes from the press release, which I know I'm not normally supposed to do but I quoted it as such. I'm mainly worried about what the editor will think. What would he think if he had seen me in action on Wednesday?

Well, I have to have the article in by close of business today. It's my worst by far, I know it. I have learned a lesson here, though, and it's that I cannot take any more stories that require me to be there in the day when I don't have a sitter for Portia.

Even today, with the article nearly finished and being in the comfort of my home, I'm still cringing at the thought of what I looked like with my struggling baby, trying to be professional, trying to blend in.

This morning, as Eric was leaving for work, he grabbed one of the Dannon yogurt drinks to have on the drive. "Thanks to the fruits of my labor," I reminded him. After all, although I like free things, I actually don't like yogurt.

He gestured toward the house, "to the fruits of my labor," (which I hate when he does that).

I then held up Portia, "to the fruits of my labor."

And you know what? Despite my frustration over this article in the past week, I'd take Portia over dignity or any job in the world.

General Conference

A little over a month ago, we had a message left on our voicemail from Cocoa or Kona or Cola from the presiding bishopric's office. Hmmm, I didn't know our stake had a presiding bishopric, I thought, I'll have Eric call them back later. When Eric heard the message, he said, "When did this message come through?" A couple days ago. I couldn't really remember.

"Jeana, the presiding bishropric is over the entire church." Right then, our minds started reeling over why the presiding Bishop (Edgely, it is) would be calling our house. My first thought was, Oh no, Eric's being called as a general authority. (Yeah, go ahead and laugh, but I knew it wasn't for some high calling for me. Eric's definitely more righteous.) No one's getting excommunicated are they? Maybe I didn't properly repent for that stuff in college. . .

When we finally reached Bishop Edgely, we found out the reason for the call. Two summers ago, he got ahold of the Salt Lake Tribune and saw Robert Kirby's column that ran right after the accident. (You know the one, the accident that will forever bisect my life into pre and post.) Who knew that general authorities read Kirby's column?

Anyway, General Conference is coming up (this weekend to be exact), and Bishop Edgely will be speaking in the first session on Saturday morning and I'm guessing talking about compassionate service. I'm not sure if he's using our names (I kind of wish he wouldn't actually) but he'll be talking about my ward in the aftermath of the accident.

I thought I should let everyone know so they won't be shocked to hear our names or read it in the Ensign the next month.

Bishop Edgely sent us family-member tickets to attend (I've actually never attended General Conference before), so we'll be there. I just have this frightening thought that the cameras will span to us when he's talking about our accident the way cameras show family members of football players cheering in the stands. I know they don't do that kind of stuff in General Conference, right?

Prayer and Meditation

Growing up Mormon in a small Midwestern town wasn't easy. One of my sister's friends--let's just call her Angie--once started a rumor about our family after spending the night at our house. No, it wasn't that my dad had horns but I had heard that one before too. The rumor was that she saw my dad standing on his head, meditating, when she went to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.

First off, my dad couldn't stay awake past the ten o'clock news, so the likelihood of that is not great. Secondly, although my sisters and I were quite acrobatic, my dad wasn't and I never so much as saw him do a cartwheel, much less stand on his head for any period of time.

Turns out, another friend of my sister's dad was taking the mormon missionary discussions. I don't know what she heard, but it must have been something about praying and then "listening" to God for an answer. Or maybe they even mentioned the word "meditation." Not sure, but I do know that several weeks later, this friends' dad killed himself. I don't know if learning about God was a last-attempt before the alternative. But I know his death must have crushed my sister's friend's world.

Nonetheless, the rumor was still flying around the small town of Columbia Illinois much to our dismay. Because in small towns, no bit of gossip is brushed under the rug. Everyone knows everything, even when it's not true.

I'm reading a book, "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert where the author went to India to stay in an Ashram with her spiritual guru to learn how to really meditate. It all seemed so weird to me. I mean, really, a room full of people closing their eyes, chanting, focusing on . . . none other than listening to God. After all, as she put it, praying is talking to God and meditating is listening to God. Of course, it all makes sense. To have a conversation with God, to really know God, you couldn't just have a one-way conversation, could you?

I realized though that I haven't listened to God in a long time. Since before the accident when Miranda died. I've been feeling like I could practically pat myself on the back for still going to church every Sunday, still praying, not hating God like I was tempted to feel. But I have been selfish, as grief usually is. And I haven't been listening to God.

So last night, I decided to close my eyes, sit very still, and say the words. Ham-sa. Yes, I felt like I was being weird. And almost felt like surely Susannah's friend Angie was looking in through the window, ready to spread the news that I was meditating.

The world has come a long way since the 20 years ago when this rumor started. Meditating is more accepted (maybe as its sister yoga came into the limelight and became not only accepted but the thing to do).

But as I told Eric last night in bed that I've decided to start meditating and started reciting the little chant, ham-sa, ham-sa, in bed, he said, "Just remember, Jeana, your meditation can very easily be my irritation. Please go into the other room if you insist on meditating."

So, I'm going to try harder. I'm going to start listening. After all, what is the point of asking questions to God if you're not sticking around to listen for the answer?

Sports

Picture this: There's a six-year-old girl sitting forlornly on the bench with her softball cap hiding her eyes. She doesn't care that the rest of her softball team is playing on the field and she's not. When she finally does get out to right field and a pop-fly is coming her way, she holds her handed-down-at-least-twice glove in the air, closes her eyes, and hopes that it will magically fall into her glove. When it doesn't, she hears where the ball plopped onto the grass several feet over and scrambles for the ball, throws it to the second-baseman just after the hitter rounded toward third base. Yes, this person was me as a little girl.

I don't know why my parents put me in softball every year, but they did and I dutifully went to practice and games each week and never got much better. I woke up thinking about my childhood sports experiences this morning, after Bianca's soccer game last night.

Our team this fall is actually good. We are on a roll and are actually winning. Not only winning, we're creaming the other teams. It's great. It's fun to cheer for the "White Tigers." Eric's helping our friend Paul with the coaching and he loves it. But I can't help but wonder why I'm so bothered by soccer this time.

I think I have it figured out, but am ashamed that these are my feelings. Bianca's just not very good at soccer. In the spring, I thought she was good because she was one of the best players on the team. (Now, I wish I didn't have to mention here that her team didn't win one game, but Bianca scored goals and had her foot on the ball many times throughout her games.) Now we're on a good team, and Bianca is just another kid kicking at the ball in a flock of children and never breaks away with the ball.

Is it against the universal purpose of sports to say that I wish Bianca were on a bad team so that she could stand out instead of on a good team where she doesn't?

I'm already starting to think: Okay, we tried gymnastics--not her sport; we tried soccer--not her sport. Am I going to keep going down the list until I find something she's good at? Or is the point not to necessarily be good at the sport, but just play it because you like doing it?

I don't know. But when I think back on my soft ball days, I don't remember liking it. In fact, I don't remember liking sports until I found something I was good at. I found gymnastics on my own and I'll admit that I was good at it. I was even fairly decent at track (I wasn't a stand-out on the team, but I managed to like it). But throw a ball into any sport, and I sucked and didn't like it.

Is it normal to only like things we're good at? Is it normal for me, as the mother, to only like my daughter to be in sports that she's good at?

I feel sick to my stomach

I finally did it. I actually submitted my short story, and I have the worst feeling in my stomach.

I had to do it eventually. After all, from what I've heard, you have to receive enough rejection letters to wallpaper a room in your house before you actually get published. At least I know that. At least I'm prepared, right?

I mean, I'm not actually expecting them to say yes. I feel like such a beginner.

It's funny though. How writers deconstruct their rejections too. Yes, I wouldn't have believed it either, but someone from my writing group said she found a web site where the writers actually categorize their rejection letters into "personal," "form letter," "form letter that sounds really personal," and so on.

But I'm just submitting it one place--it's actually a contest. I won't know for several months. And no, it's not the $15 submission fee that is making me sick. I've already accepted that I'm losing $15.

I was told once you're supposed to start at the top--meaning, The New Yorker? Yeah right. I was so nervous just pressing "enter" onto my keyboard to get the The New Yorker's web site that I simply fled the web site, my heart beating so loudly it almost woke Portia up in her room. Maybe that's why I'll have enough to wallpaper a room, though--from starting close to the top. Because I'm definitely not getting into The New Yorker.

Let's face it, I'm not tough enough for all this stuff. I don't market myself well. I just like to sit in a room all alone and feel completely okay because I am alone. No one is reading what I'm writing. That's the only reason I have enough courage to even write.

Agh, how did I get into this?

Maybe I'll just be that person who puts a completed manuscript into a cedar chest and waits until I die, then my daughters can find it, submit it, and I'll be famous, once I'm safely four feet underground. Okay, so I'm not honestly thinking I'll be famous. I just would like one person to feel better off for having read my thoughts. That's it. Maybe there's something to say for humility, I guess that's one thing I do have.

I'm off to shop online. Maybe that will settle me down. Well, maybe not, the "rope dress" from Gymboree that I've been waiting to buy for Bianca until it went on sale is gone.

Just spending the morning torturing my dog

It's almost Halloween again, so it's time to start thinking about what we're going to be. I don't know why I love Halloween so much, but I do and I love coming up with cute, original ideas for Bianca. This year, we decided on a theme based on a cute kids book called "Skippyjon Jones." He's a siamese cat who thinks he's a chihuahua.

Well, it just so happens that our dog is a chihuahua, so of course, he'll be El Skippito the great sword fighter (a.k.a. Skippyjon Jones). Bianca will be Mother Junebug Jones and Portia (Bianca decided) will be Jilly Boo Jones--both Siamese cats. I don't know what I'm going to do about Siamese cat costumes. I just spent the morning scouring the Internet and nada. But maybe I can play around with a black-cat costume and make it look Siamese, I don't know.

Well, anyway, we were able to produce a make-shift Skippyjon Jones costume. It's almost like he knew we were measuring him up as I crafted the mask out of felt. He got nervous and started spending a lot of time underneath the kitchen table, then when we lunged toward him he tried to do everything he could to get away from us. But alas, it was two against one and we finally surrounded him and put his costume on. What do you think, does the costume work? (By the way, if you haven't read this book to your kids yet, you really need to.)

House Hunters

So I'm an HGTV junkie. I used to watch House Hunters all the time. Bianca and I would run around the house singing the little doorbell-ring song that they have at the beginning of the show. But that's the most I've ever known about buying a house. Eric and I never had to do that when we built our house. We walked into a model home, signed some papers, picked out some tile and paint colors, and voila! our house was ready to move in.

But I like to watch for houses that go up for sale. I'm not really interested in moving, it's just interesting to see what's going on around us. That is, until last week, when I had an afternoon with a realtor. So, we weren't looking for houses for us to move into; we're looking into buying a rental property. We thought maybe around the U or the Y. The U seems a little more expensive, so we found a couple at the Y. After all, my children very possibly could go there, along with all their cousins.

So, we found our house. It's a triplex and the rent pays for the mortgage, and seems to be "the one." So, we put on offer on it Wednesday, along with someone else. I got off the phone with Eric and I felt suddenly like there were cameras on me, and the way I spoke seemed so distant and cliche, just like the people on House Hunters. "I hope we get it, Eric." It was a little surreal.

Well, the seller came back and said whoever can put in the best offer by Friday at six wins. I've already accepted that we're not going to get it. It's okay. I haven't attached myself to it (not the way you actually move into the house in your head when it would be where you live; however, I have imagined myself going around to pick up the rent).

Who knows what will happen?

Well, I guess I will tonight a little after six.

I love my job

Yeah, okay, so it's hardly a job. I maybe put 4-5 hours into a month, but that's part of the reason why I love it so much. I get to do everything I need to with my girls--stay home with Portia, pick Bianca up from school; I can leave the state for six weeks; not think about it for weeks if I can't; and there it is, waiting for me when I get back.

I get to do tons of stuff I wouldn't normally do. For example, I dragged my entire family to the West Jordan Days a couple weekends ago. There was free stuff all over, so many activities for kids to do, and I wouldn't have been there in a million years if it weren't for my "having" to be there.

Last night, I had to go to the W. Jordan police department where they were training a new police dog. As I was getting ready to leave--quotes safely in my notebook and pictures stashed away in my camera--one of the police officers asked me if I wanted to put on the "bite suit" and let the dog attack me. Of course not, but then I thought, why not? Hopefully, and I do mean hopefully, I'll never have another chance to be attacked by a police dog. So I did it. I put on the 50-pound outfit and whinced in fear as the dog came barking and barreling at me, knocking me off my feet twice. (see picture below)

Another reason I love it: my editor Mark actually tells us what a great job we do. Although I am getting paid, just to get compliments on my writing is worth more to me than the money. After having some of the worst bosses in the country--no wait, the world--I can definitely appreciate being appreciated.

I found out last week that the Deseret Morning News got rid of their zones, eliminating their section which is equivalent to the Close-up section for the Tribune. It was rumored the Tribune was doing the same. Fortunately, it didn't but they reorganized the zones to make five, instead of eight. I nearly lost my job and as I was reading the email from the editor, I realized that I cared about my job a lot more than I let myself believe. I love putting the words of my articles together, talking to people about different subjects, and especially seeing my name in print. I don't mind the paychecks either.

At the end of the traumatizing email explaining close-up's destiny, Mark acknowledged each one of us. Mark said to the entire group that I was (and I quote here) "a fine writer." Embarassingly, I kept returning to the email that night, reading it over and over. I never look at my paychecks that much.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm grateful for my job.

What should surprise you at the zoo?

Okay, so it's been months that I've been kicking this blog around in my head--since I was in St. Louis.

As I do everytime I go back to St. Louis, I went to the zoo practically every other day. And I had a couple things happen on different days that I thought I'd throw out there and see what you think is normal or okay or just plain silly:

Story One: I was walking through the zoo, I believe we just spent an hour in the museum at the children's zoo watching meerkats and naked mole rats and provoking a sleeping bat when I saw a crowd gathering behind the stage where they put on the animal shows. Always interested in what's going on, I joined to crowd and followed their pointing fingers. Here up in the grass were two kittens playing. No, they weren't cheetah or lion kittens. They were domesticated kittens like you can see anytime you drive down a street in anytown USA. Kittens. I shook my head and walked away, and I wanted (but didn't) to say, "We're at the zoo. There are zebras, giraffes, hippos, and you're wasting your time on kittens?"

Story Two: I was at the zoo with my childhood (and adulthood) friend Hilary and her two boys when we decided to stop for lunch. It was kind of a rainy afternoon, so we decided to eat under the covered area near the restaurant. The zoo is always full of squirrels and chipmunks and peacocks and turkeys wandering loose on the sidewalks. I accept them. They're cute. I do occasionally point them out to Bianca. But as we were coming closer to the food area, a rodent darted out in front of us on the sidewalk. This wasn't just any rodent. It was a very large rat. I screamed. A zoo worker was right next to me and I shouted, "There's a rat." Hilary rolled her eyes and said, "We're at the zoo, Jeana." But it was a rat, not in a cage as animals are supposed to be at the zoo. It was running free, growing fat on the food in the food court. Ugh.

Just curious, what are your thoughts? Okay or not--considering our location, the zoo.

It’s back to school (Big sigh)

Yeah, so it shouldn't be back to school already, but we live in Utah where children seem to grow on trees and the schools here are nearly bursting, requiring year-round school. In fact, Bianca's already been in school for over two weeks now.

I shouldn't have any problems. Things worked out exactly as I'd planned. Last year, since Bianca didn't make the cut-off for public school (she turned five in October, instead of by September 1), I found a private school in the area that had a later cut-off date. She went to kindergarten when she was four and despite my concerns, she did great. I then had her tested for a special program in the public school district for first grade that lets the children learn at a faster rate. She got on the waiting list, then got into the class at the beginning of the summer. This was exactly what I'd hoped for.

Not only did I not have to pay tuition for the private school or buy another set of uniform clothes, but the public schools here even pay for all school supplies. The class is small--only 19 kids, which is typically unheard of at Utah schools. So that was another thing I was excited about.

But what I worried about was all the kids in the program being so smart. Bianca is a whole four months younger than any other child in her class. And she was bringing home three to four homework worksheets a night the first week of school. One math worksheet particularly concerned me. I taught Bianca how to subtract (which I don't think they even covered in her kindergarten class) but this worksheet had 17-8 and like problems. I helped her with them, as I always will, and sent them back to school.

A week into school, they had a back-to-school night. All the parents shuffled through the halls into the first-grade classroom, where I heard the teacher say, "Now, I know the worksheets the kids are bringing home seem easy now, but they're just review. They'll get harder soon." That's when I tried my hardest not to be concerned. But I can't help it. I am.

I'm going to sit this out and hopefully things will get better. When I ask Bianca if school is too hard, she says "no, it's fine."

Bianca came home on Monday saying that the little girl who sat next to her is going to a different school now. Are kids dropping out because it's too hard? Should I consider a similar option?

The next night, she had a homework assignment for the parents to do with the kids. It said to pull out twelve beans and an envelope. Take a random number of beans and put them away in the envelope. Let the child see the beans that are left and tell me how many are in the envelope. There was a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth that night. For when I asked her the questions, Bianca just guessed random numbers. She wasn't even trying to figure it out. I wanted to scream. In fact, I think I did. I then called Eric and told him he had to come home early enough to go over this with Bianca. That had similar results, with a little shouting and I believe I once heard his hand pounding off the dinner table in frustration.

When she got home yesterday, our first priority was to figure out the bean problem. But I had an idea. Instead of beans, I used gummi bears. And instead of an envelope, I used her tummy. We went through it over and over, where she consumed A LOT of gummi bears. But ultimately, it worked and she figured it out. In fact, she said she enjoyed it so much she wanted to do it again tomorrow, which we'll keep doing until she has all numbers that make twelve so rock solid in her brain, she'll never forget them.

I know this is going to take a lot of effort. I worry about the school year. School should, after all, be fun and not stressful--at least for the mom who sends her child off to school all day. No, but for the child too, at least in first grade.

I'm optimistic. We're going to stick this out. Let's hope it's not too hard for me.

Sometimes a dream is just a dream

The death of my father spurned a string of dreams/appearances from my dad for my entire immediate family. Most of us have had them--short little snippets of him that have been so unique that we are certain they were visits. And this sounds just like something my dad would do in the afterlife.

I've had two. The first one happened while I was still in St. Louis and it was really simple: Dad was there and he hugged me. That was it. My second was a little bit longer. He was there again, smiling. I realized immediately that it was my chance to talk to him and said, "Dad, wait, I've got to know, are you happy?" I was trying to get out the words so hard that I was mumbling in my sleep, so Eric woke me up (so used to rescuing me from nightmares by waking me). I didn't get to hear his reply. Both of them happened right around 5:30 a.m.

This morning, inbetween the wakefulness of early-morning baby feedings and getting Bianca ready for school, I had another dream with dad in it. A tree in our yard fell down and for some reason, we lugged it into the house and put a sheet over it. I noticed the sheet was moving. Two woodchucks came hurtling out, along with some squirrels. Dad and I were chasing them around the house, catching them, and putting them outside. After clearing the house of woodland creatures, I realized I had dad right there again and tried to ask again. My mom appeared out of nowhere and so did someone else, but I can't remember who it was. "Dad, is there an afterlife?"

He shook his head and said, "I don't know."

To which I replied, "But you died. You must know. Is there an afterlife?" I saw a tear in his eye and he looked uncertain and shook his head, I guess so.

I told Eric about my strange dream when I awoke this morning. He then looked very grave and said, "This poses a very interesting question." I was waiting to hear what he'd say about it. Surely something philosophical. Maybe that there wasn't an afterlife or that you don't even realize you're in it. But then he said, "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?"

Yeah, so maybe I've been trying to find meaning or answers when there are none. Maybe sometimes a dream is just a crazy, wild squirrel-chasing dream.

A gift

When I first found out I was pregnant with Portia, the timing was just so (her due date was on Miranda's birthday) that one of my friends, Christie, said that she was a gift from Miranda. I didn't buy it at the time because I'm skeptical. It's just biology, of course. Lately though, I'm starting to believe this more and more.

Since I've returned home from St. Louis, I've gotten settled back into my house and into a scheduled nap and bed routine. Anyone who knows me knows how important this is for me. And Portia responds really well to it.

Most afternoons, Portia sleeps for three to five hours straight. Then I put her to bed at seven and she'll usually sleep until morning (usually around five or six to eat, then she'll go back and sleep until after nine).

I honestly didn't think babies like this existed. I'd heard things about them, but they were usually formula-fed or I simply didn't believe it.

This morning, after 6:30, I woke up ready to explode from not feeding Portia all night. I hadn't heard anything, but decided to creep into her room to make sure she was okay. (I know all moms do it, but I'm particularly afraid of something happening to my baby. I know firsthand how fragile babies are. And I pray every night that I get to keep this one.)

Anyway, she was awake, sucking on her fist, just waiting for me to come in and get her. Despite how hungry she was, just one look from me and she smiled so big. I can always make her smile even if she's so upset just by looking into her face. I fed her and now she's back in bed.

Bianca's in school now, so I've got time to start writing again, and reading more. Maybe a nap here or there. Perhaps to clean my house? (But let's not tell Eric that, as I really like the cleaning people to come.)

This past Saturday marked two years since Miranda passed. With Portia came less time to sit around feeling sorry for myself about losing my baby. It has become easier. Not because I don't feel the same way or love her, but because there's not as many moments that I sit down and let myself think about her. When I do, I'm just as sad as I was.

So maybe it's true. Maybe Miranda sent this perfect, easy baby to me to help me move forward and help me grieve a little less.

A relaxing night at the spa

Spas are not places where I feel comfortable. I know that's supposed to be the point of them: soothing, relaxing places where tranquil music plays overhead and comfortable chairs are set around nearby little pitchers of cucumber water and bell jars filled with mini muffins and scones and grapes. It smells heavenly like oranges or pears and expensive creams.

But my problem begins before, when the thought of spending $50 for a pedicure or $125 for a massage makes my stomach lurch. Add on top of that the dressing room where I'm extremely aware of how inadequate I feel about my not-back-to-prepregnancy-form body.

With the help of several of my wonderful book-club friends Christie, Christie, and Amber, I found myself in the dressing room changing into a robe at a local spa, still anxiously aware of my body, Thursday night. The sign "Embrace the silence" scared me as we were escorted in, knowing full well that silence is the antithesis of what my book club is all about. All we do is talk. Talk about books, life, everything.

But we tried to whisper and keep our laughing somewhat stifled. And they let us be a little raucous in the pedicure room, where four stations were set up altogether. The manager did, however, come and close the door. Didn't bother me. It was still relaxing sitting in a room with my friends, having my feet rubbed and soaked and babied.

And I deserved this three months after giving birth, rocking and incessantly feeding a crying baby, and dealing with the death of my father. My husband was on-board and gave me the green flag to leave the kids with him and go, relax, enjoy.

And I did. The four of us had dinner together before slinking into a quiet house at 11. The baby was sound asleep. Eric was waiting up, playing a video game. I sat down beside him and put my feet up on the coffee table next to where his were resting. I took one look at his cracked heels, compared them to my baby-smooth heels, and decided he definitely could use a pedicure.

What's in your heaven?

A couple days before dad passed away, he started saying crazy things while he crept in and out of sleep. Before he lost the ability to speak, he said something that now seems so intriguing. These were his words: "I always knew there was something on the other side, but I thought I'd relate to it."

I'm not sure what this means. He also said something about where those two guys went who were standing "right there," where no one had been for hours. These were our last signs.

I always thought that heaven would be things we liked. So, of course heaven would be filled with food that would never put a calorie in us. (We wouldn't have bodies, so of course not. It would just melt away after we were able to taste it.) But would there be food? Food is required because we have bodies. Without bodies, would it be there?

But it makes SOOO many people happy. Of course there would be food.

My sister Susannah pictures the food from Harry Potter--how it just comes and is delicious and then disappears. No clean-up. Now there's an idea.

Maybe it doesn't necessarily mean we have things because we need them, but because we want them.

I guess that means there's running, without actually making our bodies any thinner. But maybe there wouldn't be shortness of breath or sweat. . .

I don't know exactly what I'm trying to say, but I also wonder if our "heaven" or "other side" isn't something we can relate to. Like maybe something so absurd that we don't have any idea. Not things that we understand, like food or exercise.

What do you think would be in your heaven?

Tomorrow at the funeral, I have to say a few words

When we were small children, my parents would pack us all in the van early on summer mornings and we'd drive to the track. There, we five kids would run, play, pick dandelions, whatever. And my parents would jog. My dad would jog miles and miles. And my mom would run too. However, usually one of us would walk past her, while she jogged. Then we'd all tromp to the park pavilion and devour a dozen donuts and milk.

Of course my parents wanted to exercise and were teaching us the importance of exercise and staying fit, but they were also creating some of my fondest memories.

Years later, after I grew up, moved away, and started a family of my own, I continued to come home every summer, usually for about a month. We'd practically move into my parents' house. In the mornings, my dad would knock on my door at six a.m., and we'd put on our running shoes and head to the track. Here we'd run. Together. Sometimes mom would walk my girls in the stroller while we ran. Sometimes I'd beg to get donuts, trying to re-create that memory from so many years before. But mostly I enjoyed getting to spend that time with my dad. Doing something that I knew he loved. That I learned to love because of him.

My father always encouraged us to get out there and do something. When I look back on photos from my school days, pictures of me doing long jump or running would many times capture my father in the background, watching. He was always at those track meets or basketball games. He'd stop working, or whatever he was doing, and he'd be there. To support us, his children. To make us his priority. He always supported us, and we always knew we were loved.

My father loved his grandchildren with the same dedication. Several years ago, when my daughter was in the hospital in very serious condition, my father pled with God to take his life instead of hers. He offered himself up to save his granddaughter's life. This wasn't the first time he'd been willing to sacrifice himself for one of them. He was devoted to all his grandchildren and would have done anything for them. The grandchildren have also lost someone very important this week. I can only hope they remember him for the devoted grandpa that he was.

When I think about where he is right now, I picture him in a heaven where he's surrounded by all the things that he loved. I can picture him running strong confident steps. Running marathons each morning. Maybe stopping for donuts afterward. Maybe teaching my daughter who is up there with him to love running. And just maybe, they're up there running together.

It happened

Last night, after seeing my dad completely restless and nervous and jittery and unable to speak words or take steps on his own, I prayed not for the miracle of healing for my dad, but just for his release from his body.

This morning, when my mom woke up, my dad wasn't breathing. She called and I rushed over there, before changing into regular clothes or changing Portia's diaper. He passed away early this morning.

I knew this was imminent, but it's still so hard to see.

My head is pounding from crying.

The funeral's on Thursday.

This life is a trip

very summer, I pack up a bunch of things and head to St. Louis--usually for somewhere around a month. This year, I yanked Bianca out of her last couple weeks of kindergarten and packed up my newborn baby and jumped on an airplane.

It's hard to be away from Eric. I don't have anyone to help me when the baby's crying in the middle of the night. Or to change a diaper once in a while. Or just to hold the baby so that I can eat.

Every night while I'm here, I'm grateful to get through another night. Like it's another check mark on the nearly six-week stay in St. Louis.

I'm not nearly as comfortable here. I only have a handful of clothes to wear, which I have to rotate every couple days. Getting something in the kids' mouths is a major project. But I keep thinking about how this is only temporary and in less than a month now, I'll be back home in my comfortable house where I have everything I need and I know exactly what to expect.

While I'm here, I try to help out with the things my dad needs. I fill up a cup with ice chips and I feed them to him. I try to intervene when my mom pushes food on my dad. He doesn't want it. He has no appetite. But my mom acts like it's a personal affront that he wouldn't want to eat the food she's offering him. If I'm feeding him, he asks me to dump a shake or take the food away. And I do it. Not because I want him to die--which I know starving himself will end up ultimately--but because I want him to be happy. And food does not make him happy. It stresses him out, like it does to me when I'm holding it up to his mouth. He likes the ice chips and I'll feed them to him, until he asks me to stop with the ice chips.

I know what the end result of this trip is probably going to be. I've accepted it. It doesn't mean I don't love my dad. I do. But if you look at the big picture, our life here is just a trip, a temporary ground where we do things, check mark each day, but we aren't quite as comfortable as we will be at our "real" home.

When my dad can be released from his body, he'll be free again. I have to look at it that way. It's the only way I can be on his side of the food struggle.

As I watched him today, I saw him grasp for breath, saw his body shake. I watched him wince in pain while he's sleeping. I know his check-marked days are dwindling.

I can only hope that Miranda is somewhere closeby when his trip is over.

The frog's skeleton came out of the closet

You know that story (or rather, it's a "moral") about the frog that's in a pot of water when it's cold and when you heat up the water gradually, the frog never realizes the difference and is boiled to death? Well, this isn't one of those stories. Here, I'll start at the beginning:

I've been home (home being the house where I spent my entire childhood until I left for college) for a couple days now. My two brothers and my two sisters and I came together to be with my father while he's been very ill. We've done a lot of sitting around and talking together.

Amidst all the conferring, a little piece of truth came out yesterday, much to my horror. It was about my frog. It was a little African clawed frog I bought from the pet store when I was in high school. His name was Oscar. I probably paid a couple bucks for him. You've probably seen one of these frogs yourself; it was a swimming frog you see a lot in with the fish. They just swim back and forth in the tank and if you buy one, they usually die in the first week or two. Well, I got the exceptional frog.

He lived so long and grew so big that he shocked everyone, including me. I moved out of the house to leave for college and my parents kept Oscar and fed him and took care of him. My dad was so attached to him. He would stick a little net into the fish tank and Oscar would float up to the top and my dad would scratch his back and his tummy with the net. It was really quite amazing. And they cleaned out his tank once a week.

On Oscar's last living day, my parents were cleaning out his tank. They usually filled up the sink with water, put Oscar in while they cleaned the tank, then transferred him back to his fresh and recently cleaned tank. This particular time, the sink was inadvertantly filled with steaming, boiling hot water. My mom said when they put Oscar into the sink, he hopped up a bit. A little different from normal, but my mom didn't think anything of it. She went over to clean the tank. When she came back to get Oscar, he was belly up. Completely boiled.

They never told me the truth. They said he died of old age, which I totally believed because he really had lived nearly six or seven years. My sister let it slip.

I then asked my mom what really happened to my childhood pet, my bunny rabbit Butterscotch. Had he really gone to that happy farm where they needed a rabbit? No, it turns out they had given him to a family friend who butchered him and ate him.

I wonder what else I'll learn in the next several weeks . . .

Always there

I can't sit still. I feel like I need to be doing something. Packing a suitcase for a trip that's still three days away. Making arrangements. Cancelling appointments.

If I don't stay busy, I'll probably lose it. I understand why my mom used staying busy as a way to mentally work through problems. It helps--for a while anyway. Until there's nothing left to do but sit down and rest and think about my dad who I'm not sure I'll even recognize when I arrive at the airport on Saturday.

I'm scared he won't know my name, remember I just had his granddaughter, know why I'm there.

But I want to be there. I have to be there. This is my father. Last week, at the hospital, he made a comment about "waiting for his children." Was he lucid when he made the comment? I'm not sure, but I'm going to be there nonetheless.

When I've gone back to look through pictures of my youth, I've found so many photos of me doing long jump or running and in the background, my dad is there--watching. He was always there. Never missed a track meet. He'd drive to O'Fallon or Sparta or wherever. Always made time for it. For us.

I can't believe it was just last year that dad and I were jogging together at the Columbia park. Now, he needs help just walking to the bathroom.

I know this is going to be a challenge. Because I live far away, I've been able to distance myself from the reality of what's happening to him. The deterioration of his body. I'm scared when I see him that I won't recognize him, his frail body that used to run marathons. That could always beat me in a race, even when he was over sixty.

I know I've been through a lot, but I hope I'm strong enough to get through this too.

A new camera

I missed a lot of photo ops this weekend. The first was Bianca singing a solo at the ward talent show Friday night. She was awesome, and I didn't even get one still shot. Then Saturday afternoon, Bianca scored her first goal at her soccer game. It wasn't so much the goal that I missed, but after she scored the goal, she ran across the field in lightning speed—with the most genuinely happy smile I've ever seen on her face—to hug Eric. I'm not sure if it was the dollar I promised her if she ever scored a goal or the actual goal, but in a picture, it doesn't matter. Does it?

Of course I didn't have my camera. I've been sick over misplacing my camera for the last several days. I've taken ever spare moment to look for it. Over and over, the same places I know I already looked. But I don't know what else to do. Last time I saw it, it was in my diaper bag, about two weeks ago.

A lot of things have happened since then. I had my cleaning ladies come in while I took Portia to her first pediatrician appointment. I hate to even suggest that they may have taken it.

I've left my garage door opened for several hours so Bianca could get her scooter while I did other things. Someone easily could have wandered by, opened the door right into my kitchen where I normally keep my camera.

Could I have left my diaper bag in the car and forgotten to lock it while I ran into Smith's for five minutes?

It could have been any number of things. But worst of all is the idea that I probably left it somewhere or lost it.

I have an article assignment for Monday, and I had to have a camera by then. So, I pushed through the nauseating idea of spending $300 on a new camera and bought one yesterday. It's fine. It's actually a little nicer, and I think I'll end up liking it more than my other camera, but it just makes me sick.

I hate losing things.

I never thought I'd say this . . .

but I'm tired of wearing comfortable pajamas and sweats. What I wouldn't give to just wear my normal clothes again. It's been three weeks and I still can't get back into them. I'm dying! Each day, as I watch all the swelling go down and things start looking back to the way they should, I optimistically try on my regular jeans and I always end up disappointed. Why is it that they put the incision from the C-section right where the top of the jeans hit?

I've started walking at nights again--thanks to my friend Dani. I'm so eager to look like I did about 10 months ago. But nothing's changing. I'm still stuck in pajamas and work-out clothes and I don't feel like I can go anywhere because I can't dress like that.

On Thursday I have a work meeting. I'm hoping that in the next two days, I'll optimistically put on my jeans and find that they fit. I don't know if my editor will appreciate me showing up in my pajama bottoms and my "I survived finals week at BYU 1994" t-shirt.

Let's keep our fingers crossed.

Another boring old star

I had an epiphany the other day--I'm not a teenager anymore. It happened while I was trying to get through another day. I pulled out the DVDs of "My So-Called Life" that I obsessed over in college. Maybe it's something about feeling old that made me want to travel back there, where life was less complicated but we thought it was as complicated as life could get.

I'm coming to a close of my self-determined child-bearing years. But I guess in the back of my mind, I always felt like I was still a kid. You know, when the entire world was at your fingertips. So many chances to get it right, so many decisions to make.

But I know that most of my decisions are made now. There really aren't many left. Now, I have to sit back and let the rest of life happen to me, instead of choosing my own paths. And it doesn't help that I look in the mirror and I'm amazed to find that youth is gone from my face and my body.

There's something about that coming-of-age time of your life. I want it back, but I'm so beyond it. It took me over ten years to realize how beyond it I've become. Now I'm the mom left at home as my daughter goes off to school. I'm the one waiting until she returns. The one behind the closed door. I'm the one that will probably embarrass my daughter in a couple years, the way my mom used to embarrass me. I'm the one she'll be begging to "stop singing" or "could you just walk a couple feet in front of me?"

I'm ashamed to admit when I was in fifth/sixth grade, my mom used to drive this enormous brown van. I refused to walk into the store with my mom to pick up a few groceries, because I had seen two boys in my grade riding their bikes on main street. So when she went into the store, I fell to the floor of the van, lying in fetal position, just trying to avoid being seen by anybody, but especially the two boys. I remember the feel of the bumpy vinyl floor on my cheek and I especially remember how I felt when I heard knocking from the window of the van and looked up to see the two boys looking down at me on the floor. Wow—I just know that I've got it coming back to me.

I guess I get to watch it happen now to my daughters. They get to have their most alive time now. I guess this is the way life works. We don't get to stay kids forever. It's such a short time but its impact is lifelong. Like the difference between a shooting star—so radiant and fleeting, and so amazing—and just another stagnant star in the sky. Barely noticeable when you look up among all the rest.

My personal rollercoaster

Take me back to the hospital.

Yeah, yeah, I know, my hormones are out of whack. My moods are dictated by how long it's been since I took my last Lortab. Once I've taken it, I'm as happy as can be--nothing's wrong with the world. If I forget, my life truly sucks. It's only been a week. I miss having a nurse come press my pills into my hand every so many hours.

My house is as hot as the desert. I hate this summer weather already. I'm dying here and don't feel like I can walk into my own kitchen to refill my glass of water. I guess I can just use the tap in my bathroom. But it always makes it taste worse. I miss the pellet ice at the hospital and pressing a button to have someone go fill up my cup again.

I'm up about three hours at different times throughout the night. I feed the baby, and she cries minutes after I put her back in the crib. I can't keep her awake to eat, and I just want to crawl back into my bed. But it never lasts. I wish my house had a nursery where I can send the baby when I really need to sleep.

I miss sleep, water, sanity. I actually miss the hospital. Is it crazy that I want to go back?

I was tagged

The rules are: Once you have been tagged you have to write a blog with 8 weird or random things, facts, or habits about yourself. At the end, you choose 8 people to be tagged, list their names, and why you chose them to be tagged. Don't forget to leave a comment that says, "You are tagged" on their profile and to read your latest blog. Have fun!

1. I've gained 43 pounds in the last 9 months

2. I love winter time more than all the other seasons.

3. I can't have the closet door open while I sleep at night.

4. I like watching Backyardigans with my 5-year-old, and singing along, of course.

5. I have to work hard to get vegetables on the table each night--I don't like them, but Bianca will never know.

6. I am a believer in horoscopes now.

7. I belong to three book clubs, and two writing groups

8. I can't stand the sight of blood or having an IV or needle poked into me. I've thrown up and passed out in the past because of them.

My mini me

never thought Bianca was much like me. She definitely doesn't look like me the way Miranda did. I always just kind of thought she was a nice mix between Eric and me. But lately, I'm seeing a lot of me in her.

When I was about Bianca's age, probably a little younger, I told my mom as I was drawing pictures that I wished I could write so that I could make up the story to go along with my drawings. I used to glue the insides of the pages together to make books.

Over the last several months, Bianca's taken quite an interest in writing stories. Her first story was about six-seven pages and was about a princess who had eight pet birds. The birds turn into fairies in the story's climactic ending. Not bad. Pretty creative.

Her next story she wrote was about a princess whose sister died. The sister would come to the princess while she slept and take her to heaven, to do all sorts of different fun things together. She illustrated it too. I submitted it to a contest (I'll let you know how that turns out) for kindergarteners.

She has this amazing creativity and I've been so proud.

In Bianca's phonics class, they've spent the last several weeks writing stories. I couldn't have been happier. All the parents were invited to this "Author's Tea." I couldn't wait to see what Bianca came up with in class. At 9:30 this morning, Eric and I were both there, sitting on kindergartener-sized chairs packed in to see the 15 kids.

Bianca went up to the front to read her story. It was about a Cheetah, which incidentally was the topic of about seven other of the kids' stories as well. It went like this: "Cheetah maxe friends. One day there was a cheetah. It hunted for lions. The End."

Of course I clapped like she'd just won the pulitzer prize. After all, she wasn't scared to get up there and read to the entire class with all the parents. But I looked to Eric like what-just-happened-here. It's not that I thought the story was bad, but it was just like most of the other kids' stories. I know Bianca has the potential to write a much better story. I've heard it. I've seen her do it. And here she is, reading something so below what I know she can do.

Why do I care? I'm not sure. I'm never going to say anything about it. I want her to keep writing stories. But it's just so hard for me to stand back and watch.

There's something lurking around the house

Call me crazy. I swear everytime I'm pregnant, there's one night in particular when things seem to go "bump in the night." It happened on Saturday.

Eric was out for the night with the "guys", so I put Bianca to bed at 7:30--her bedtime--and I sat down to finish the book I was reading. I had about 75 pages to go. I decided to take a jetted bath to help with my back pain. Baths are about the only relief I can get from the constant pressure nowadays. I read in the bath until sweat dripped into the tub from my forehead and then got out and continued reading on my bed.

About 20 minutes after I had gotten out of the tub, as I was lying on my bed, the jets from the bathtub automatically turned on. There was no water in the tub by that point, so I'm sure you can imagine the sound it made. Something between a hovering helicopter and what my dog sounds like after he's peed off the mat on my newly cleaned carpet and my foot sent him into his bed for "time-out." It wasn't good. I jumped up and turned it off, thought how weird it was, picked my book back up, and continued reading.

Five minutes later, which is about just how often I have to get up anymore to pee, I had to take a bathroom break and fill up my cup with more water. The door to Bianca's room that she just moved out of--before she moved to her new room downstairs--seemed like it was opening on its own. I wasn't wearing my glasses. I put them on and thought it was just an optical illusion. But by that point, I called Eric and asked him when he'd be home.

He returned a half hour later without another problem. We talked, went to bed, and after much tossing and turning, fell asleep. I always feel safer after Eric's here. It was dark and peaceful in bed.

Around one o'clock, we were startled awake by the brightest light that there ever was. I hurried to turn it off, scared, jumped back into bed, and nestled in as anatomically possible to Eric, inside the comforter and sheets, as I could.

Eric's convinced that it's our new baby checking things out at her new house. When I was pregnant with Bianca, a huge shelf in my bathroom jumped off the wall. With Miranda, it was probably the same old thing--lights turning on, and just sounds.

He got the idea from his mother who swears the same types of things happened while she was pregnant.

I am a believer in ghosts, always the scary kind that won't leave me alone--especially when Eric's out of town. Whenever you have time, I'll tell you about the "ghost" that lives in my parents' basement and I revisit every summer when I go hhome to visit.

I'd prefer to believe this was Portia messing around than a ghost. But it could always be wishful thinking. What do you think? Is it possible?

Saturday morning breakfast

Two cars arrive separately and take parking spots next to each other in a McDonald's parking lot. A woman, pregnant in a flowing olive-green tunic, steps out and waits while a man gets out of the other car.
"Do you have a pen?" he asks.
"Yeah." She unlocks the door she'd just locked with the remote and pulls out a heavy leather bag. She straps it across her shoulders and they both walk inside. Eyes downcast.
They wait, standing a couple inches apart, behind several people ordering Egg McMuffins or pancakes or breakfast burritos. They don't speak. Just wait. Then order. She orders a sausage biscuit, and he gets a McGriddle sandwich. "I'll get it," he says and pulls out a credit card, swipes it, while the woman finds an empty table, across from two elderly men with discarded wrappers littering their table, still drinking their coffees.
The man walks over and takes a seat at her table. "Let's get this done," she says and pulls a black pen from her bag, then sets the bag carefully next to her seat. He opens a stapled wad of papers.
"Okay, sign and date here," he says, pointing to a blank line on page three. She signs, a sadness in her face, while she stares down at the words on the page.
"Now here." She signs again. The black ink trailing and drying on the page while she hesitates, her arm resting on the page.
The man stands and brings over their food.
"Don't you think we could work it out?" she says, resting her arm on the shelf her pregnant belly provides. Then rubs gently the foot away from where it's lodged under her rib, creating a sharp pain.
He shakes his head back and forth, then slides her sandwich across the glossy table until it stops, in front of her. She opens the wrapper and eats quickly.
"The child care isn't a write-off," he says.
She nods understanding and signs one more time, after he points out the last blank line.
"Why?"
"Your company had a loss this year." She looks up and smiles.
"What? I didn't make a profit?" They smile.
"Maybe next year."
They finish their food quickly. Then walk out of the restaurant separately. She sits heavily into her car and drives south, while he goes north.

This is an UN-premeditated blog . . . so beware

This is the first time I've actually sat down and started a blog that I had no idea what I was going to write about. I've felt so uninspired lately, to write anything, to clean my house, to stand up.

The good news is that my house IS clean. I hired some ladies to come over and clean it, and they came this morning. It was wonderful. Well, great, except for I felt so guilty letting them clean my house that I had to be up organizing and straightening while they worked. Why is that? I can't just sit down and relax. Not while they're cleaning up my mess. That and well, they were speaking Spanish to each other and laughing and I just couldn't knock that Seinfeld episode (where Elaine's getting her nails done by some Japanese women who sat around talking about her while they worked). Everytime they laughed, I wondered if they were laughing at how dirty my house is. Did I mention that pregnancy makes me a little paranoid?

I've been upset lately. Mainly about my dad whose health is deteriorating fast. We found out that his neck is fractured, along with several vertebrae. No wonder he couldn't hold his neck straight. Looks like he's going to have surgery soon. To put in some rods or something. I don't know if he's healthy enough to undergo anesthesia. I worry. My sister says that he's having a hard time concentrating on a conversation. That his brain just isn't functioning like it was. And worse, he's lost hope. I'm scared.

I'm also starting to worry about having this baby. I know it's going to be hard. I'm worried that I'll be overwhelmed, my hormones will be all out of whack, and then I'll have Miranda's birthday several days later. I'm worried about being depressed. My only other spout of depression (not catastrophe related) was post-partum, so I know it's possible. I hope that if I expect the worst, then it won't be as bad as I think. But not only that, I'm worried about the first fifteen months of Portia's life. That everytime she does something, I'll be thinking about the last time I went through my baby's first time, which will have been with Miranda. I'm pretty sure that's why people always said that that's why the first year after losing your baby is so hard--because you have to go through your first Christmas, Easter, birthday, everything without her. Well, here I go: I'm going to have a complete fifteen months of firsts with a baby that isn't her. And I'm scared. I'm scared I'll resent this baby for not being Miranda and that's not fair.

Wow, so I just dumped a lot down. Sorry. I guess I needed it somewhere besides stuck in my brain that wakes me at 3 a.m. and won't let me get back to sleep. I have, however, gotten a lot of reading done because of my body's inability to go back to sleep.

The phone just rang. It's a miracle. Eric's on his way home and it's 5:15. I think the last time this happened was in college.

I'm ready to take my dog to the humane society

It was weeks after Miranda was born that I got rid of my cat. Kitty Bumpkin. He'd been with me since before I was married, when I was living alone in my first 400-square-foot apartment in Taylorsville. I loved him. But when Miranda was born, he started peeing all over everything. I don't have that much patience.

I don't know if this is related to the baby on its way or not, but Tigger has been going all over my new basement. At first I thought it was because he was staking his territory with the construction workers downstairs all the time. But now they're gone and he's still doing it. I can't get it to stop and I'm about ready to go crazy.

So, I've decided to re-train him to go outside--he's been using training pads because he was never really trained. I put him in his travel kennel and I'm only going to let him out to go outside or if I can keep my eyes on him 100 percent of the time. This is a last resort. If this doesn't work, if any of you know someone who would like a purebred chihauhau who goes on pads, let me know.

He really is a cute dog and we've grown to love him, but it's usually right after I have a baby that I lose patience for anything that didn't grow in my uterus. I know this makes me sound like a horrible person, but I never really wanted this dog in the first place and I think of him as expendable. He was given to us. And he was an expensive dog. The person who bought him paid over $2000 for him. And you know me, I can never pass up a "good deal."

I'm trying to be patient. I really am. Even now, as I'm listening to him whining and barking and trying to get me to take him out of the travel kennel. He'd better get used to it. He's got another hour before I'm taking him outside again for another potty break.

Watching dust settle

The dust is finally settling. I mean, settling an inch thick throughout my entire house. And the banging, hammering, and drilling have finally stopped. My house is quiet again--well, at least in the mornings while Bianca's at kindergarten.

Our basement is unofficially finished. The carpet went in yesterday. I'm anxious to get down there with a mop and a vacuum and a thousand dust rags and go to work. The problem? After five minutes of cleaning, I'm completely worn out.

So yesterday I called around to get some quotes on hiring someone to help me clean the house before the baby comes. (For those who don't know, we've chosen April 23--Shakespeare's birthday--as our C-section day for Portia.) Back to the story, the bids were high, of course. And I know I'll probably just end up doing it myself.

I wish my mom lived here. I'd invite her over for a cleaning party. I love how she keeps herself busy when she's most stressed out or upset. You should have seen how clean my house was after Miranda died. But not only thanks to my mom, people were always showing up on my doorstep with buckets and cleaning supplies and mops then. And a good thing too. I probably would never have cleaned my house then. I have the reverse effect when I'm upset. I sit in front of the T.V. and watch things I loathe, like talk shows and dating games and other nonsense.

And then looking around at a dirty house makes me even more depressed--the physical manifestation that I am entirely too lazy to get up and do a half hour's worth of cleaning. I'm pathetic!

My arms are itching now and I'm starting to feel a little lazy sitting here at the computer. I think I'll grab a couple minutes now to get to work.

See you all later, I've got work to do. The basement's waiting.

A soon-to-be-outdated family picture

I hadn't had a family picture taken since Christmas of 2004. It had my complete family--Eric, me, Bianca, and Miranda. I didn't know when we had it taken that it would be the only one with Miranda in it. And I couldn't bear to have another one taken without her. In fact, I haven't even had a picture of Bianca taken since the accident. I don't know what I'm waiting for; it just seems wrong to have pictures taken without her.

But this Christmas, we had a "mandatory" family picture taken. Since my dad's been sick, my mom wanted to make sure we had a more recent photo taken with the entire (and I mean entire) family since we all came to St. Louis to spend Christmas together. Each family had its own picture.

I wasn't looking forward to it. Not only can Miranda never be in it, but I'm pregnant. And let's face it. Two things are going to happen here. First, the family picture is going to be outdated in, well, two months from now. And secondly, my body is pregnant. Translation: My nose will be at least an inch wider (which happens every time I am pregnant), my face breaks out, I can barely fit into any clothes that are decent, and well, my body is just plain swollen. Who wants a memory of that?

But we did it. Just like my mom wanted. Merry Christmas, mom. I even bought one little copy of the picture. We're certain on one thing: This is our last child, my last pregnancy. Maybe next time I forget how awful it is to be pregnant--the awful back pain, the uncomfortable nights trying to sleep, the peeing five times a night, the fat nose, I'll look back at that picture and remember that this is definitely my last pregnancy.

It's Valentines this week, so of course my mind is on death . . .

Eric's grandma died last Tuesday. She was 96, so you'll think: Yes, it was time. She lived a long life, etc. And I honestly think most people were relieved. She was in a nursing home where she was incredibly unhappy.

My last memory of her was at a Christmas party at the nursing home, where I was brought to tears by a glare she was giving my daughter. I'd never seen her eyes look so hard and what seemed hateful. I used to bring Bianca to her house to visit her once a week for nearly the first three years of Bianca's life. Every time we'd go, grandma would have sewn a new skirt or a new blanket or a new hat for Bianca. She even sewed matching pajama bottoms (with ladybugs) for Bianca and Miranda. I know she loved my girls, and they loved her. I loved her. She was so cute, fiesty, and nothing like the one grandmother I knew growing up. I think everyone wanted to adopt her as their own grandmother. I know I did.

The funeral was Saturday. I squeezed into a dress (which is getting harder to do lately without giving in and wearing a "pregnancy jumper") and we spent the entire day driving from mortuary to the first baptist church in Bountiful to the cemetery and back again.

When I saw her in the casket, she was wearing a suit that looked nothing like the woman I knew. I expected to see her in a "lavendar grandma-Peggy-cut church suit with matching home-made hat," but instead she was wearing a very clean charcoal suit. It was pretty, and modern, and nothing like grandma. Which I guess was okay since the face I saw looked nothing like her either--expressionless. I think that's why our loved ones' bodies really don't look like them, they have no expression.

I was glad to get through the day. Really glad to get home and lie down. I was hoping that Miranda was somewhere around that day, but like usual, I felt or saw nothing.

As we sat at the service, I was thinking about how grandma was up in heaven with grandpa and hopefully Miranda was somewhere nearby. But I just can't shake the thought that there might not be anything more. We sit at these funerals and we think about how happy they are in heaven, but what if this is all to make ourselves feel better? I believe in an afterlife--about 99 percent--but I can't shake that pestering thought that what if there isn't? And we're all sitting here hoping, hoping that there is. Because it's what we need, so that we don't just go off and end it right then and there.

Then on Sunday morning, as I picked up the half-soaked Tribune, I saw a story on the front page about a family who was in a car accident on Friday. The pregnant wife and two children died, while the other child in the car is at the hospital with brain swelling (which I know is not a safe place to be). And the father asks for prayers for the drunken teen who hit their car. I guess I'm not good enough because I hate the people driving the trucks who hit our car. Even if the accident "technically" didn't fault anyone specific--it was probably more my fault than anyone's--but I still hate those trucks for being there.

I guess I've still got a long way to go. I'm definitely not perfect and I haven't resolved what death means to me and I haven't found forgiveness in my heart, and I hate that my first thought about that man who just lost the majority of his family was--Good luck. It's just shock. He'll get angrier.

But maybe that's just me. Maybe I'm just the one who keeps getting angrier.