Monday, November 13, 2017

Two Years Later: The Exclusion Policy

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Believe it or not, I hate writing about religion on my own blog. The cost is just too high. But every time I do, someone (often, multiple someones) reaches out to me. "I thought I was the only one who felt this way," they might say. "I don't have anyone else I can talk to about this." So here's my PSA: if you need someone to talk to about church stuff, I will listen without pushing an agenda and without judging you. Your confidence is safe with me.

Two years ago this month, my church's new policy regarding LGBT families was leaked. In essence, it says that same sex couples who marry are apostates and must be subjected to a church disciplinary hearing. It further states that the children of homosexual parent[s] in a same-sex relationship (or even who were previously in a same-sex relationship) cannot be baptized, cannot be ordained to the priesthood (just boys--girls aren't ordained), until they are 18 and "specifically disavow the practice of same-gender cohabitation and marriage." These children are also not permitted to receive a baby blessing (the Mormon equivalent of a Christening).

I stand behind what I wrote here one year ago: I think this policy is deeply harmful, needlessly inflexible, and fundamentally unchristian.

Why am I writing this? Because this policy is so obviously wrong. Because silence feels complicit. Because I don't want people to forget. The policy may not be making headlines anymore, but it's still affecting lives and harming families. 

I'm straight, and most of my LDS friends and family are, too, so this policy doesn't affect me on a deep personal level. Here are the words of an acquaintance of mine that poignantly express his experience:

"Pain. November 5, 2015. It's still there everyday, even after two years of settling in with "The Policy" and working on healing within my LGBTQ community of Affirmation. Perhaps I'm more resolute and not expecting any changes anytime soon, but the pain and devastation I see still goes on in my circles. It's like a bad dream playing out and not getting resolved or getting any better. How to deal with the grief I feel of being part of the tremendous loss of human resource the church has experienced and continues to lose among LGBTQ Mormons, their friends and families. I'm sad because I loved and contributed to the Church for over 40 years of my life and it was a huge part of my identity. Now my life has become that of Mormon Refugee. I still attend occasionally, but my whole experience has changed, and feels surreal. I'm definitely one of those coals taken out of the fire, set on the hearth and am feeling the effects of cooling. And yet my deep love of the gospel still remains. Perhaps the pain will go away? I don't know."

I feel his sense of loss, of pain, of bewilderment, of resignation. It shouldn't be this way. It doesn't have to be this way. 

I don't have any local or general administrative authority in my church with which to effect change. But I can raise awareness, model empathy, and sit with the marginalized. This post is one small attempt to do just that.

Saturday, October 7, 2017

Vegas Strong

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I'd never donated blood before (for various health and/or convenience reasons). But then my city was viciously attacked. I felt helpless. Useless. My feelings surrounding this tragedy are complicated: I was not harmed; my loved ones were not harmed; I don't feel anxious about my safety. But this loss feels so personal: I was just on the strip for a concert a week previous; I or my children have been admitted to three hospitals here over the years, and all three (plus others I've visited) took in victims; the gunman is from a sleepy town 45 minutes away from where I grew up; I personally know people who were there and who are in mental and spiritual anguish. When it comes to traumatic events like this, we all feel the horror of it whether we live close by or halfway around the world, but the setting of this one is the setting of my daily life. I haven't gone to the strip much in the five years I've lived here, but I see its skyline often in the distance on my drives around town. I have a perverse sort of affection for it and its blatant excesses (like, thanks to drunk tourists, I don't have to pay state income tax! But I digress...). Vegas, for better or for worse, is my home.

So on Monday morning, shaky with shock but determined, my friend and I drove around for an hour to try and find a place to donate blood. At the largest location, traffic was at a standstill as people tried to find parking and join the throng of willing donors. The line weaved around the parking lot of the blood services center, around the parking lot of an apartment complex, and down the sidewalk of the city block. We then drove to a mobile unit by the level one trauma hospital, and though there were fewer people, they turned us away. We looked almost jealously at people with telltale gauze bandages around their elbows.

But people weren't just donating blood. I saw many creative ways people reached out to help. People offered childcare so I and others could serve. While we were at the mobile blood unit, we saw large SUVs full of food and water drop off supplies. Massage therapists set up massage chairs and offered their services to people waiting; as we watched, an exhausted looking policeman gratefully accepted an offer for a massage. My facebook blew up with professionals offering free services to those affected: counselors offering therapy, lawyers offering probate services, surgeons offering hand care, airlines offering flights, hotels offering rooms, restaurants offering food. In five days, people from Vegas and across the world raised over ten million dollars for the victims. The police stations and the American Red Cross became so inundated with donations they had to stop accepting them and redirected donors to Catholic Charities and Three Square.

Telling my children what had happened was difficult, but I didn't want Kate to hear about it at school. The next day, I took her to the end of a candlelight vigil after her music class. We stood and listened to the music and watched the lighting of candles for a few minutes.

"Mom, why are we here?" she asked.

"Because when people are hurting, we show up," I said. "We do what we can to help them know that we care and that they are not alone."

A couple days ago, another friend and I bought a bunch of bagels, snacks, and drinks (partially subsidized by a faraway friend who wanted to give something) and dropped them off at a local fire station (where I got to thank a fireman who was on duty when my neighbor's house burned down), tried to drop some off at a police station but were kindly turned away because they were already overwhelmed with donations from the community, and dropped off the rest at the mobile blood donation unit across the street from University Medical Center. (We'd wanted to drop them off at UMC for the doctors and nurses working overtime, but the area was blockaded because President Trump was visiting victims in the hospital.)

I have really tried recently to serve people in the way they want to be served, not in the way that I might want to serve them, but when the need isn't clearly defined, sometimes you have to make the choice between potentially self-serving service and not serving at all.

I had tried to make an appointment to donate blood, but every location was completely booked out at least 2-3 weeks. When we dropped off supplies at the mobile donation unit, however, they said there was only about an hour wait for walk ins, and they allowed me to sign up for an appointment for later in the day. 

I was a little bit nervous, honestly, because my veins are really small, but I drank ridiculous amounts of water beforehand, and it all worked out. My flow apparently had some stops and slows at the end, but with a little babysitting of my line, we got the job done. I was once again grateful that I'm not squeamish around needles. And I know it's stupid, but I felt like a freaking superhero. I was ridiculously proud of my body for being able to bleed for others. It felt like I was actually doing something.

I feel weird about writing all this publicly. I've done other things--some probably helpful, some probably not. I just wanted to try and capture how it feels to be here, to capture the disconcerting juxtaposition of normal daily routines and a pervading sense of uneasy impotence, to capture what it's like to be so close to ground zero for a tragedy. There will still be much to do in the coming days and weeks, and I hope all of us, me included, can remember feeling this intense drive to help wherever needed.

I've heard a lot of talk about God in the aftermath of this and other tragedies. Personally, I don't see God in the event, either in who survived or in who died or was injured. I can't get behind the idea of a capricious God who spares some but not others. I have seen God, however, in the people helping others to safety, in the actions of first responders and medical personnel, and in everyone trying to help in all the spheres they can. I see God in people, and in the goodness of people, God is magnificent.

Thursday, September 7, 2017

Drew: A Birth Story, Part IV

It's become a tradition for me to publish my babies' birth stories on their first birthdays. I'm an all-the-gory-details kind of writer, so feel free to skip this series if words like "placenta" aren't your jam. I've broken this into four parts, and I'll be posting them over the next few days.

My mom drove down to Las Vegas once she finished work for the day and took over watching the girls from Marlene and Emily. Since it was so late by the time we were ready for visitors, we had her leave the girls home and come by the hospital on her own. I tried to call several friends who'd offered help to ask if they'd watch the girls so my mom could come by, but I couldn't catch anyone on the phone. Jay finally called one of his employees, and she was kind enough to help out. 

Kate and Jayne were so excited to meet their brother the next morning. Seeing them interact with each other and with him is a family highlight I'll treasure. Jaynie reached out her little hands for the baby, but once he was in her lap, she retracted her arms and refused to touch him. Kate brought a little toy for him and tried to play with her new brother.


I spent two nights in the hospital when I had Kate and just 24 hours when I had Jayne. I loved that I got to come home quickly the second time since I wasn't scared to death of my new baby like I'd been the first time around. With Drew, I felt like I had the newborn thing pretty well under control and was ready to get out of there, but we had to stay in the hospital for two days because I'd tested positive for group B strep. 

Jay stayed with me for most of the day Wednesday. That night, the hospital provided a fancy celebration dinner in our room. I was freshly showered, wearing my own pajamas, and feeling pretty good, so it felt like we were on a date. 

That night, Drew would not sleep. He would nurse, doze off, and wake up screaming five minutes after I'd put him down. 

I'd promised myself that I'd be a more chill mom the third time around. That if nursing wasn't working for me, I'd switch to (or supplement with) formula. I had to put that to the test just 24 hours in. It caused me a bit of angst, but we called in the nurse and she provided us with 30 mLs of formula. Drew sucked it right down, had a good burp, and finally slept.

Jay went back to work Thursday (#businessowners), so I was alone with Drew in the hospital. My mom had taken the girls to St. George, and I was getting so antsy to get home. We were finally released from the hospital that afternoon.


Drew joining our family was unexpected. I did not feel ready to have another child so soon, and I especially was worried about having a son. Generally speaking, I tend to interact better with young girl children than young boy children, and I was afraid it would be hard for me to love a son like I'd loved my daughters. 

There is something about a helpless baby, though, that is impossible to resist, and Drew snuggled his way into our hearts. From the moment he was born, there was no question that he was known and loved. All of my months long denial hardened into resolve, and I have loved my boy fiercely ever since.

Friday, August 25, 2017

Drew: A Birth Story, Part III

It's become a tradition for me to publish my babies' birth stories on their first birthdays. I'm an all-the-gory-details kind of writer, so feel free to skip this series if words like "placenta" aren't your jam. I've broken this into four parts, and I'll be posting them over the next few days.

Jen, my seriously awesome nurse, pulled some strings and got me upgraded from my cramped, ugly, out-of-the-way hospital room to a seriously spacious and beautifully decorated corner suite. 

Hunger began to gnaw at my insides around 2:00, despite my sneaking occasional snacks from Jay. I finally told Jen about my deal with my doctor and asked if she would be comfortable bringing me food and a drink of water. I was already on pitocin, my contractions gaining strength and speed at 2-3 minutes apart, so I was nervous she'd say no, but she brought me snacks and water refills without complaint or censure.

"Your doctor said you can have an epidural after you're dilated to a four," she said. "You're still at a three, though your cervix is thinning out considerably. I'm going to increase the pitocin a bit, and I'll check you in a couple hours."

The contractions grew stronger, and I finally started to feel them in my back and thighs. We turned on the TV and watched Everybody Loves Raymond reruns. I'd never watched that show before, but it helped distract me a little from my growing discomfort. By 4:00, I clenched my eyes shut and focused on breathing through each contraction, releasing each breath with a series of blows.

The baby was so active the entire time I was in labor that Jen was having a hard time keeping him on the monitor. I had nurses coming in my room several times an hour to adjust the sensors on my stomach, sometimes staying and fiddling with them for 20-30 minutes as Drew performed acrobatics inside of me. 


At 4:30, Jen came in and checked me again. 

"You're at a four," she said. "You can have an epidural now. Do you want me to get the anesthesiologist?"

I was hesitant. I didn't want the epidural to slow me down, and the pain was still manageable. Jen understood.

"You can wait as long as you want, but the anesthesiologist has a C-section at 6:00 and won't be available again until 7:00. If you want the epidural before that, you'll need to have it done by 5:30."

I was okay with waiting the hour to see how things progressed, but at that moment, as Jen turned to talk to a nurse who had just walked into the room, the baby gave an almighty thrash. There was an audible pop and a gush, and I yelped. 

"Something just happened," I said to the startled nurses. The feeling was so intense and so weird that I couldn't immediately put words to it. 

"Your water broke?" Jen asked, then confirmed. "I think I'd better get the ball rolling on this epidural right now; what do you think?"

I agreed, knowing how much more painful and accelerated labor would soon become.


The anesthesiologist had me lie on my side while he did his work. He was kind and talked me through it all. I hate getting epidurals--to me, it's the worst part of the labor process. The painful discomfort of it feels wrong somehow; the heavy pressure on the nerves in my lower half as the anesthetic is injected is unnatural. 

I'd told him that my last epidural hadn't been strong enough, but I wish I hadn't because he gave me a high enough dose that after 15 minutes, I couldn't feel anything below my chest.

Jen checked me again as the epidural began to take hold. "You're at an 8," she said. "I'm going to call your doctor and tell him to get over here."


It was an eerie feeling, knowing that my body was laboring but being so detached from it. With both of my previous epidurals, I'd still felt the hard contracting in my abdomen enough to know when to push. 

I was at a 10 as my doctor came in and gowned up. "I know you can't feel anything," he said. "Let's try a couple practice pushes, and then we can wait until some of the numbness wears off."

Jay and the new nurse (Jen had just left) held my legs. They may as well have been someone else's legs for all I could feel. My previous deliveries, I'd been able to wiggle my feet and even move my legs, but not this time. 

"You're having a contraction," the doctor said. "Go ahead and push."

And I tried, but I felt nothing: no tightening of my abdominal wall, no clenching of my diaphragm. "Am I even doing it?" I asked. 

"Yes," he said. "Keep going."

In the middle of the third contraction, he told me to stop pushing. "Do you want to feel your baby's head?" he asked.

I was surprised--I hadn't realized I was almost done. I'd refused the offer in my previous deliveries: with Kate it was too weird, and with Jayne I'd been in too much pain. This time, I reached down and felt, to my shock, not the tip of the baby's crowning scalp, but his whole head. It was surreal.

One more contraction and push, and Drew was born. They plopped him on my chest, Jay cut the cord, and my baby started squalling. He calmed after he warmed up, his skin pressed against mine.

The doctor delivered the placenta ("I think this is one of the biggest I've ever seen! It's enormous!") and showed it to me and Jay. I got one stitch--my first ever--and watched as Drew weighed in at nine pounds even.

Thursday, August 24, 2017

Drew: A Birth Story, Part II

It's become a tradition for me to publish my babies' birth stories on their first birthdays. I'm an all-the-gory-details kind of writer, so feel free to skip this series if words like "placenta" aren't your jam. I've broken this into four parts, and I'll be posting them over the next few days.


Jay's awesome aunt and cousin offered to stay with our girls for the day until my mom could get there that evening, so after eating one last meal and packing a bag, I drove myself to the hospital around 10:30.

I checked into Labor and Delivery at Mountainview Hospital. My nurse, Jen, led me to what has to be the redheaded stepchild of delivery rooms--it was small and cramped. I changed into an ugly hospital gown (there's no such thing as a "cute" hospital gown, but these garishly pink tent-like monstrosities with awkward cutouts for breastfeeding deserve the qualifier "ugly." For any of you entrepreneurial types out there, consider designing a line of, if not cute, at least inoffensive maternity gowns), filled out a bunch of paperwork, and then lay back uncomfortably as Jen checked me to see if this was the real deal or not.

"I'm keeping you!" she said. "There's fluid pooling, so your waters definitely ruptured. You're dilated to a three, but your baby is high and you're not very effaced. Your contractions are six minutes apart. If they don't start picking up soon, we'll start you on pitocin."

I'm convinced shock is a denial hangover. I was suddenly glad I'd packed my hospital bags, though I'd left everything in the car.

Jen got my IV started (one of my least favorite parts of this whole process--that catheter hurts like hell the whole time it's in) and began the antibiotic drip. At one point, she increased the dosage concentration, and my whole arm seized up in pain. It was agonizing for a couple minutes until she adjusted the dosage again.

The hospital's laborist came in to do a quick ultrasound to make sure the baby was head-down since he was so high up Jen couldn't tell. The quirky doctor confirmed the baby was in position. "Do you have an estimate of how big he is?" I asked. I hadn't had a late-term ultrasound this time, so I wasn't sure what to expect.

The doctor placed his hands on my abdomen and kneaded around the baby. "Nine or ten pounds," he said, and I couldn't tell if he was joking. 

"You really think so?" I asked.

"Ten percent chance he's over ten pounds," he said as he backed out of the room with the ultrasound machine. "One percent chance he's less than nine." 

"So..." said Jen, "Do you have anyone coming to be with you?"

I told her Jay would arrive around noon, and he did, snacks in hand. 


I wrote out a birth plan before this delivery, the first time I've done so. I reviewed it with my doctor at my last appointment, and he was on board with all of my requests except for my desire to eat and drink during labor, at least until I received an epidural.

"I'll give you ice chips and IV fluids with electrolytes," he said. 

One of my biggest anxieties about delivery is not being allowed to eat or drink if I'm hungry or thirsty. I know that seems like a trivial thing to get worked up about, but how on earth am I supposed to summon the energy to birth a baby if I'm shaking from hunger or dry mouthed with thirst? I explained this to my doctor and acknowledged that I doubted it would even be an issue since I was planning on laboring at home as long as I could and expected a relatively short labor, but I still needed to know I had the option to eat if needed.

He finally said that he couldn't give me permission to eat or drink for liability reasons, but that if I was willing to assume the risks, he wouldn't stop me. 

I happily assumed all risks.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Drew: A Birth Story, Part I

It's become a tradition for me to publish my babies' birth stories on their first birthdays. I'm an all-the-gory-details kind of writer, so feel free to skip this series if words like "placenta" aren't your jam. I've broken this into four parts, and I'll be posting them over the next few days.

Kate's birth story
Jayne's birth story

When we told my parents way back in January that we were expecting a baby and the due date was August 26, my mom said, "I know exactly when you're going to have that baby: August 23, because that's when classes start and the one day I can't come."


In my previous pregnancies, no matter how anxious or unprepared I felt in the lead-up to birth, I hit a point around 38 weeks where "better in than out" became "anything is better than this--better out than in!" 

I never hit that psychological wall this time around. Every week brought a level-up of pain and discomfort, but I still didn't feel ready. I was anxious about birth--anxious about having a newborn--anxious about not having everything ready.

When my OB checked me for the first time at my last appointment--one day shy of 39 weeks--he sounded almost disappointed that I was only dilated one centimeter and not effaced at all. "I can't even feel the baby's head," he said. "He's way high up in there." 

So we talked about potential induction dates "just in case" and agreed on Wednesday, August 31st--five days past my due date. 


My only real goal with my delivery date was to not have this baby on Jayne's birthday--I didn't want them to have to share. When her August 19th birthday came and went with no baby, I felt a sense of relief.


Monday, August 22, was rough. I felt out of sorts and uncomfortable and anxious. We went to Costco that night, and as we walked, I had strong contractions. Not labor contractions, but intense abdominal clenchings that were difficult to walk through.

As we stood in the checkout line, a woman went out of her way to approach me.

"You're totally having twins," she said. "Aren't you." It wasn't a question. Certainty was written on her face.

"Uh," I said, and I adopted my cheerful honesty voice, the one I use every time someone puts their foot in their mouth when they comment on my body, "Nope. Just one."

The woman looked a bit shocked--she had been so sure--and tried to backpedal. "Oh! It's just that I looked exactly like that when I was pregnant with my twins."

I gave her a half-smile. "I was even bigger with my last one."

She clearly had no idea how to respond and slowly backed away.


I slept fitfully that night. Every positional shift brought short, gasping breaths as I tried to manage both my bulk and my pain. I woke up at 2:30 in the morning to the sensation of small, wet gushes. The feeling and the volume was pretty much identical to what happened when I went into labor with Jayne. I was group B strep positive this time, so I knew if my water broke I needed to go to the hospital relatively soon so I could get started on antibiotics, but I was hesitant because when I'd gone in with Jayne, they'd sent me home and said my water hadn't actually broken.

I went back to bed with some mild nausea and a strong sense of denial.


"Denial" is the word that best sums up this pregnancy:

I dealt with flu-like symptoms for over two weeks before I even considered I could be pregnant. 

I couldn't believe we were having a boy.

I didn't think the day would come when I'd ever actually give birth, or that if it did, I'd at least feel ready.

And in the wee morning hours on August 23, still three days before my due date, I knew I couldn't possibly be in labor. I was certain I'd have more time.



I lay in bed with Jay and insomnia, my other frequent nighttime companion, for about an hour before drifting back to sleep. I got up again around 4:00 with another bathroom urge and a tiny bit more fluid.

"Do you think you're in labor?" Jay asked. 

"No," I said. "I don't think so." And both of us slept just a little bit more before we got up around 6:00.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Should I cancel my patients?"

"I don't know," I said. "I don't feel like I'm in labor, but clearly something is happening: I can't sleep, I'm losing small quantities of fluid, and I feel restless and strange. My contractions aren't super regular, and I don't feel them in my back or my thighs like I normally do when I'm in labor."

We'd had this same conversation at least four times since 4:00. We'd have it at least another three before Jay left for work. 

I couldn't tell him to cancel his patients for a baby that may or may not arrive that day. It was a lot of pressure, and I didn't feel like I could make that call without knowing for sure that I was in labor. So Jay left for work at 7:15, and I timed my contractions and took a shower and finally called my doctor's office at 8:30. The nurse urged me to go to the hospital to be checked, just in case. I finally told Jay to cancel his afternoon.

Monday, August 14, 2017

Kate Goes to School

{First day of Kindergarten, just a couple weeks shy of five and a half years old}

I have some authority and control issues. I know this about myself. And when I found out two years ago that the Nevada legislature had mandated full-day kindergarten, I was irate. Not that I have anything against full-day kindergarten: I think there are some kids who need it and some parents who want it, so I believe everyone should have the option to choose which option works best for them. But Kate doesn't need it academically, and I didn't want her to be away from me for an extra four hours a day when it wasn't necessary, so over the past year I have called dozens of charter and private schools and spent many hours trying to find a place that would allow Kate to do half day kinder. 

{Kate wanted her hair in one braid "like Elsa," so I tried my hand at a little french braid. I had flashbacks to living with my cousins in fifth grade when we all got our hair tightly braided most mornings. You can't see it, but she has a batman lunchbox in her backpack. She likes what she likes, and I love it.}

And I found one: the perfect private school. It felt like an amazing fit and meshed with all my educational philosophies (can I just get an "amen" for how crazy it is that public schools are forced to follow protocols (for testing, recess, homework, etc.) that, in many cases, aren't evidence-based and actually go against what research recommends?). But in the end, I couldn't justify it. Because I think Kate will be okay in full-day, even if it's not ideal, and I think it will be fun for her to be in the same school with the kids in our neighborhood. Plus, she got a fantastic teacher, and one of her best buds is in her class. 

Kate has been so excited. Last week she was a little nervous, but after we met her teacher at back to school night, I asked her how she was feeling about going to kindergarten. "I'm feeling wonderful!" she said. 

{Jayne wanted to be in the picture, too. Not sure what she's going to do with herself while Kate's at school--they are the best little friends.}

I took her school shopping last week and let her try on clothes in the dressing room for the first time. She likes her two outfits so much that she told me her wardrobe plan for the school year: "I'll wear this dress today, and that outfit tomorrow, and then this dress again (you can wash it while I'm at school, Mom), and then that outfit again, and then this dress again. Like a pattern." #trendsetter

This morning we were a bit late getting out the door (gotta take those first day pictures), and she said, "Mom, I hope we're not late. I don't want to miss anything." It was adorable. We made it just in time to line up with her class. She was so excited to troop into her classroom that we just had time for the briefest goodbye. 

Kate is friendly, social, and bright. She can write all her uppercase letters and is sounding out basic short words. Her drawings are getting more creative and decipherable. She's articulate and fun, has a great imagination and can entertain herself for hours. We're so excited to see the progress she makes this year.

Monday, July 24, 2017

In Which I'm Thankful for Firefighters

Today, our neighbor's house caught fire when a barbecue exploded next to her house. Flames traveled up a vent and spread to the attic. We had no idea anything was wrong until we were loading the kids in the car to go to Jay's aunt's house for Sunday dinner and saw the firetrucks. As we watched, thick yellow smoke began billowing from the house and more and more firetrucks raced, sirens blaring, up our street. 

Our house is literally ten feet away from our neighbor's and isn't separated by anything but a spit of gravel that runs nearly the whole length of our houses. From the backyard, we saw firefighters battling flames on the roof. The winds shifted slightly, and our yard filled with acrid smoke. After a brief consult with the fire captain, we decided to leave as we'd planned so we could escape the smoke. He told us they hoped to have the blaze under control soon.

It was eerie to run through the house as the kids waited in the car. It felt like a dream where an impending threat draws nearer and time moves in slow motion. If you had five minutes to leave your house for what could be the last time, what would you save? What would you do?

Turns out I get panicky when there's a crisis, so my thoughts weren't the clearest, but I changed from my dress into jeans and a shirt. I grabbed my wallet, laptop, camera bag, and the girls' monkey and leopard comfort objects. Jay grabbed a file of our important papers. I unlocked the doors in case the firefighters needed access. And then we left.

(If I could do it again? I'd have moved Jay's car out of the garage and parked it down the street and grabbed a change of clothes for the kids and work clothes for Jay. Maybe the quilts I made and a box of my journals if felt the need for more. But everything else seemed replaceable.)

We squeezed the minivan between the two firetrucks blocking our driveway and counted eight firetrucks on the scene as we drove away.

We had our car, we had our kids, we had each other. "We have what matters," Jay said. And he was right, but I was still afraid. The thought of "home" didn't feel safe at the moment, and I wasn't sure how to handle the insecurity.

Kate said a prayer on our drive, and though I felt agitated during dinner, several neighbors texted awhile later letting us know the flames had subsided and our house was safe.

I feel so grateful to the firefighters who put their safety on the line to protect our neighborhood in general and my home in particular (three were actually injured on the job). My neighbor's house sustained an estimated $300K in damage. She has been in our thoughts; I can't imagine the grief and shock she's experiencing. My relief that our house was spared is tempered by the knowledge that hers was not. 


In other news, Drewby is 11 months old today, and this is the only picture I took:

He is the sweetest, happiest little nugget. We love him dearly.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Kate Turns Five

Kate had her fifth birthday last month. I can't believe it's already been five years since she joined our family. 

She wanted to celebrate her birthday by playing in the snow, so we went up to the cabin for the weekend. She loved being outside in the frigid temps and happily made snow angels and clambered up snow piles. 

Jay sledded down the hill with Kate, which she liked, and helped her trek back up the hill, which she didn't like as much. 

Jay let Kate pick out her birthday cake mix and frosting at the store: funfetti cake and super-pink frosting with pink sprinkles. 

Everyone cringed at the finished product; the frosting was so lurid that several of us didn't even try a piece (these pictures don't do it justice). Even Kate had just one bite of cake and then ate around the rest of it to finish her ice cream. 

{I have no idea what is up with Jayne's face in this picture. There were three other similar pictures, and she looked the same in all of them, so it's not like I caught her mid-blink.}

The next morning, my brother Steve looked at the barely touched cake still sitting on the counter and said, "Is it just me, or did that thing get pinker overnight?"

Drew got really excited about Kate's presents and wrapping paper.

He scrunched the paper and tried to eat Kate's presents. Typical.

And check out Jayne. I don't think I've ever seen a cuter snow-suited-up kid.

She went sledding with her daddy and loved it. 

Within a five day period, Jayne turned two and a half, Drew turned six months, and Kate turned 5. It was a week of age milestones.

On Kate's actual birthday several days later, we had a very small gathering of some of her friends. 

Event planning gives me hives, so I was hoping to not have to do a friend party for another year or two, but Jay promised her one, so I threw something together. 

It was super casual and chaotic, but Kate seemed to have a great time. Ultimately, it was a pleasure to do something for her because she was so grateful and pleased with everything. 

She said she wanted chocolate cupcakes with yellow frosting. I borrowed a friend's frosting bags/tips and piped some frosting for the first time in my life. It was far from professional, but Kate looked at the finished product and said, "Mom, these look perfect! This is exactly what I wanted!" My party-Grinch heart may have grown three sizes that day.

Drew's double chin is everything.

Happy birthday, dear Kate!