The Angry Elf From San Francisco

A couple of weeks ago my daughter, Emma, and I went on our yearly mother daughter weekend getaway.  We started doing this several years ago as a way to spend time together, have fun in the city, and get some shopping done...which is desperately needed when you live in a town as small as ours.  The trip is something we both look forward to all year.  As part of our weekend extravaganza we usually get pedicures as a way to make it extra special for Emma, who is now 11 years old.  Last year I realized that if we got our pedicures at a beauty college it would cost $12---less than half the cost at a nail salon.  Being cheap, I decided that the college was the way to go.  After all, it wasn’t about the quality of the pedicure for me, but rather the experience of getting pedicures with my daughter.  Last year we had a great time at the beauty college, so we decided to return to the same place.  As we walked in, we were greeted by the student at the front desk and told to wait for the students who would be doing our nails to come and get us.  When our apprentice-pedicurists came to show us back I immediately suspected we were in for a good story.  The girl who was going to be doing my nails looked sweet and shy, but the girl assigned to my daughter did not look sweet.  Or Shy.  She looked like a bulldog who has just been kicked in the chops.  It’s true that half of her head was shaved, yes, but the part that worried me wasn’t the way she looked, but rather her demeanor.  As she stared us down, with hands on her hips and pierced eyebrows raised, I felt like a little girl who had done something very bad and now needed to pay the pierced and shaved lady for my wrongs.  The tone of disappointment in her voice made it feel like she was accusing us of coming in for pedicures.  I thought perhaps that she hated doing pedicures and she was stuck with us, but later found out that she’s the best nail tech at the school.  A line from  the movie Elf went through my head about a hundred times while we were sitting there…”She’s an angry elf!”

As the pedicures began, my daughter, raised in a small town where you don’t run in to as many angry little elves per se as in the city, looked at me with large eyes that asked if she should be worried.  I gave her a comforting glance that bespoke all of my assurance: that as we get to know this vexed pixie over the next hour we will see that she isn’t angry so much as misunderstood, like a chocolate lava cake...steamed and cracked on the outside but soft and sweet inside.  Emma swallowed her fear and faced that pedicure head-on, like...well, there are no analogies for that, but head-on nonetheless!  I was surprised to find that our shorn friend liked to talk.  I had imagined her to be the angry, sullen type, but was quickly disproved in that stereotype.  We learned all sorts of things about her:  she grew up in the San Francisco area, she had a three year old son, and most importantly that her labor and delivery were at the same time the easiest and the hardest in the history of the world...which is a serious accomplishment when you stop to think of it!  We also began to see that everything she said was accusatory...as in “If you don’t agree with me and nod your head vigorously and smile then I’m going to break your knee caps”.  We came to this crazy conclusion because her most frequented saying to us was “I’m going to kill you”, but said as a filler phrase the way I would use the phrase “Do you know what I mean?” or “So anyway”.  Emma, who tends to be shy around strangers anyway, melted into the pedicure seat, saying absolutely nothing so as to not be noticed or.....threatened.

I felt closer and closer to our pedicurist as she went to great lengths to share intimate details about her labor and delivery, in between death threats, of course.  For example, Emma and I can now tell anyone who is curious how many pushes it took to get the baby out of our nettled pedicurist, how many stitches she received after his birth, and what the stitches felt like...exactly.  She was even kind enough to introduce us to new vocabulary terms and phrases that I had never heard before, but that were graphic enough for even the likes of us to visualize and understand.  To top it off, she even acted out her delivery for us so that we could really feel what it was like to have been there at the easiest and hardest birth in the history of the world…which I thought was really generous...especially seeing that sweet 11 year old Emma has clearly never given birth. It’s wonderful how willing some people are to share their hard-won knowledge! I can honestly say that her reenactment moved things within me.  I really felt like I was the doctor as she, time and time again, told him she was going to slap or kill him, and of course, break his kneecaps.  She especially showed off her acting prowess as she revisited the tender scene describing how she grabbed her brother’s...yes, you read that right...BROTHER’S, arm during the delivery and shouted the “F bomb” at him.  Lucky for us, she chose not to edit that memorable moment, so the actual “F bomb” rang out into our innocent ears.  I was literally speechless through much of that particular depiction...which, again, is really amazing.  If you know me at all, you know that not many things render me speechless.  

In an effort to change the subject to not only cut down on the PTSD that Emma was quickly developing and to also remind the hostile nail painter that her audience included a child, I mentioned that Emma’s twelve year old birthday was coming up and how excited she was for it.  Without missing a beat,  the pedicurist assured her that age twelve was awful, sixteen was worse, and eighteen was a nightmare.  I felt like giving open thanks for this candid commentary because I have felt for too long that we mistakenly make life out to be exciting and happy when deep down we all know that it’s really just a tiptoe through one cesspool after another.  Thanks be to those who are willing to call it like it is to the young and naive!  The subject of shopping later that day then came up and with a defiant stare she asked me if I was going to buy her something.  I quickly assured her that I was.  When asked what exactly I was going to buy her I answered with the most obvious choice: “a crow bar”.  At first she seemed taken aback by my answer, but after a moment of mulling it over she slowly started nodding and told me that she could actually use that.  I thought so.

When all was said...literally...and done, we emerged from the beauty college with our kneecaps still intact, which was my biggest concern, and our nails painted in bright, happy colors.  Yes, we were each twelve dollars poorer, but full of laughter...which kept pouring from our eyes in the form of tears.  Twelve dollars seemed a small price to pay for that, and a story that will be remembered for years to come.  The truth is that our pedicurist has most likely led a much harder life than either of us and probably has a lot of reasons to feel angry and cynical.  I’m sure that when she graduates she will probably become either a great pedicurist in some hard core, shaved head, hell’s angel’s, hostile salon somewhere, an elementary school counselor, a candy striper at a local birthing center, or a hit woman for the mob (this one is actually quite likely due to her newly promised crow bar).  Either way, the world is her oyster and I am sure that she will excel at whatever she puts her mind to.  

Having lived in other, bigger, and more diverse places, I have seen stereotypes of mine go out the window as I have gotten to know people for who they really are.  So often we have preconceived ideas of how people who look a certain way are supposed to act and as we get to know the real person we realize that nobody is one dimensional and everyone has something to offer--including our pedicurist.  Though we didn’t really get an opportunity to get to know her, there were a few human characteristics that came out in the short time we spent together amid the more stereotypical angry swearing “I’m going to break your kneecaps” moments.  One of which is that she loves her son and finds him adorable, which he was--- she proudly showed us his picture.  I can relate to that as a mother.  I can also relate to the fact that childbirth is painful and one heck of a story.  She also is clearly trying her hardest to be a provider for him by attending this beauty college.  That is something I can admire because being a young single mom is more exhausting, more gut-wrenching, more mind-blowingly difficult than the regular “mom-ing” I already do.  I’m grateful that we met up with such a pedicurist on our little weekend getaway because I think it’s healthy for Emma to encounter people and places that are different from what her world usually hands her.  It helps to teach her that the world is a diverse place full of sights, sounds, smells, and reenactments that we are not used to...and that it’s okay for things to be different.   I know that Emma got an eye and an ear full, but she knows a few things that help her to stay grounded:  She knows that she should be tolerant and not jump to judgement.  She knows that she should use clean language.  She knows that her life is full of wonderful possibilities at twelve, sixteen and even eighteen and beyond.  She knows that she shouldn’t  believe everything she hears.  Most of all, though, she knows that when all else fails we should laugh until we cry...and then laugh some more.  

At The Foot Of Her Bed

Today is my mom’s 82nd birthday. She has always been the epitome of fun, kindness and grace.  Since I was born when she was 44, I was the only child at home throughout much of my life.  When I was nine she was stricken with an autoimmune disease which led to much of her life being spent in a wheelchair.  These factors (me being the only child at home and her illness) could have led to sadness and loneliness for both of us, but thanks to my mom’s natural self-effacing humor, a Lucille Ball-like ability to land in the middle of a great escapade and amazing storytelling abilities, my childhood was filled with joy, laughter and adventure.   I have so many memories of Mom sitting at the foot of her bed telling stories from her youth.  Many of the stories that she shared are the kind that others would hide.  The ones where we act ridiculous, or end up in embarrassing situations or are otherwise mortified.  She understood from an early age that you have two choices in this life: laugh at yourself or hide under a rock.  She chose to laugh and she taught me to do the same.  For that I am eternally grateful.  It is a hard thing to take ourselves so seriously in this life.  There are so many things that are serious and that we must suffer, it is nice to not let our own need to be perfect be one of them.

I thought it would be fun to reminisce a little on some of the stories that my mom and I experienced together.  When I was about 10 years old Mom, Dad and I decided to take a day trip to a small southern Utah town to search out some genealogy.  While eating lunch at a small locally owned restaurant, my mom decided she needed to use the restroom.  Not arguing with a woman who’d had five children, I jumped up to ask where the bathroom was located.  I was told that it was handicapped accessible and just up a ramp to the second floor.  As we neared the “ramp” it became horrifically apparent that in an attempt to make his facility “accessible”, the owner of the restaurant simply laid planking over the top of his staircase that went to the second floor.  It was a deathtrap. I asked if she wanted to try to find somewhere else to go, but it was clear that the lady needed to go!  No person in their right mind would try to push a wheelchair up that ramp of insanity...except us.  I told her to hold on for her life.  I backed up to get a running start and off we went running up, up, up.  About halfway, my 10 year old legs were still running for all they were worth, but we were at a standstill.  My mom grabbed the railing to the side of her as if her life depended upon it...because it did.  As I tried desperately to gain traction and forward momentum she clung.  We would have made better progress if we would not have been laughing so hard.  By the time we made it to the loo we both were drenched with tears...of course we counted ourselves lucky because we could have been drenched by much worse!

A few years later, when I was 17, my sister, Teresa,  was visiting from out of town.  We decided to go with Mom out to lunch at a restaurant located on a busy downtown street in Salt Lake City.  When I pulled up to the restaurant’s curb my sister unloaded the wheelchair and opened the car door for my mom to get out.  Only then did we realize that the curb was too high for her to transfer into her wheelchair.  I spotted a driveway a half block down that would work better and told my sister to just push the wheelchair down the street to that spot. Now, something that’s important to know at this point is how dramatic my mom and my sister are.  I am too, it’s true.  I have joked before that we all live in a movie with our own theme music playing which varies according to the kind of movie we happen to be in at the moment.  The difference between my mom and sister and I is that they are very innocent and gullible and I...well, I exploit that...and enjoy every minute of it.  Getting back to the story, when we pulled up to the curbless spot it became apparent that it was a driveway for a loading dock.  My mom asked if it was safe for us to stop there and I innocently said “Well... at the moment it is.  But any second a semi truck could come careening in here and kill us all.”  With a gasp and frantic look to my sister sauntering down the block with her wheelchair my mom screamed in the most urgent and panicked voice “TERESA!!!!  RUN!! RUN!!  WE ARE ABOUT TO BE KILLED!!!”  Not missing a beat, my sister took off, wild eyed, pushing an empty wheelchair, that held only my mother’s purse, at break neck speeds down a city street, not knowing what or who was about to kill those she loved.  She looked like a purse snatcher who had just mugged a handicapped woman by throwing her from her wheelchair and escaping with the purse and chair!  The entire distance was frantically run with my mother continually screaming “RUN!  FASTER!  IT COULD BE HERE ANY MOMENT!!”  Now, you would think that I would have put a stop to such a situation that I, myself, had created.  I could have, but I was laughing so hard at the scene presented to me that I was literally unable to communicate.  When my sister arrived at the car out of breath and full of unanswered questions she saw me in a ball in the driver’s seat with tears streaming down my red face and all too quickly realized that I was the source of terror.  We went to lunch and all laughed and laughed until our sides hurt.  Nobody can laugh at a good story like my mom...or be as generous to someone who scared her to death as she always was to me.

My mom and I were always good friends.  I would come home from school and sit at the foot of her bed and she would patiently listen to me recall all the ins and outs of my social life from elementary years through high school.  She is a gifted writer, so I, in turn, would listen to her latest poem or story that she had written that day.  I always knew that I could confide in my mom and she would be loving no matter what I said.  I also knew that she could tell when I was lying which helped me decide to confide in her since she would figure out all my secrets in the end anyway.  We loved to take drives together just to give her a way to get out of the house.  I remember many times that we would take off with no idea of where we were going, just the object in mind of finding something interesting and fun to see.  We were the closest of friends, made so by the circumstances of our lives together.

I spent much of my childhood praying that my mom’s illness would be taken away from her.  I was troubled that my prayer was never answered until I got older and had the power of perspective on my side.  I began to see that God allows mortality to afflict us as the laws of nature require.  We are in a mortal existence and as such we will experience mortality with all of its pain and suffering.  That does not mean that He is not there to lift the burden of those trials and ease our suffering...because He does!  He also uses the trials that we must bear to bless us and teach us along the way.  I began to see that He did answer my prayers, just not in the way that I expected. My mom and I were given a special relationship partly because of her physical limitations.  The trial was eased, in part, because of the blessings the trial itself brought.  It made me a more compassionate daughter.  It gave her plenty of opportunity to listen to and spend time with me.  It gave me more motivation to spend time with her.  God blessed her, and in turn He blessed me, with a sense of humor to be able to laugh at life and the experiences it brings us.  Marjorie Hinckley once said “The only way to get through life is to laugh your way through it.  You either have to laugh or cry.  I prefer to laugh.  Crying gives me a headache.”  This is something my mom understands to her core.  She has faced a life of physical and emotional pain and has laughed her way through experiences that would make others crumple---not to minimize what she has suffered or to insinuate that she has not or could not cry.  For there have been tears.  How could there not?  Yet laughter prevailed and she passed on to me a legacy of laughter, and grace, and kindness in the face of pain.  I will forever admire and love my dear mother who taught me to look for the fun and interest that life has to offer and most of all to laugh at myself and the situations that life brings me.  

When Alan and I decided to move to the middle of nowhere eight years ago we successfully talked my parents into moving down here as well.  It was a safe place where they could retire and I could help them as they grew older.  Mostly, though, I wanted my kids, who were still very young, to be able to associate with my sweet parents on a regular basis.  I wanted them to hear from the lady herself all about her Lucille-Ball like moments and to have the pleasure of laughing with and learning from her just as I had... at the foot of her bed.

All In a Night's Work

One morning last week I woke up absolutely amazed.  I had slept.  I mean actually slept.  As in I went to bed at a decent time and never woke up, or to be more specific, was never woken up, until my alarm went off in the morning.  I honestly was so pleasantly surprised that I laid there a moment trying to recall the last time that had occurred in my life.  I couldn’t remember the last time I had made it through an entire night.  I sound like a little kid who slept in my big girl bed all night.  Except, I am a big girl who is THRILLED to have slept in my big girl bed all night...but there are plenty of kids in this house who make it their life’s pursuit to make sure I know they are alive ALL NIGHT LONG!  

The night before, I had gone to bed around eleven (which, unfortunately, is a bit early for me) and I laid awake for an hour unable to sleep, even though I felt dreadfully tired.  Finally around midnight sweet sleep overtook me and I drifted peacefully into dreamland.  Ten minutes later I was jolted out of sleep by the most horrific sound.  A VERY LOUD and VERY ANNOYING toy jukebox had suddenly decided to play its music loud and proud in baby Jacob’s room.  Nothing could have pushed the play button on it other than sinister spirits straight from the devil himself.  I bolted from my plush pillow paradise toward the nursery with only one thought running through my mind.  Murder that jukebox.  Nothing can incite blind fury within my soul quite like getting ripped out of sleep for something so asinine as that.  In my rush for vengeance I failed to grab my glasses.  For many that would mean life looked a bit fuzzy in the darkness, but for me it gives the phrase “blind fury” literal meaning.  As I entered the nursery to quiet the satanic device I searched desperately through the darkness.  Finding the blurry light source I plunged toward it.  Grabbing the toy I wildly pushed buttons trying to desperately to locate either the “off” or “incinerate” button.  Unfortunately, because of the aforementioned blindness, I was only able to locate other offensive yet happy tunes.  After many frantic and failed attempts Jacob started to cry.  In one grand and sweeping motion, I turned on my heel to run out of the room, stepped on a toy, fell full force slamming the changing table into the wall, scraped the skin off my finger, and fell to the floor, all the while clutching the happily singing demonic device to my chest in hopes of smothering the neverending tune.  It must have been quite a sight as I emerged from the room on all fours in the darkness.  I made it to the front room where I could turn on a light and euthanize the overly chipper plaything properly.  Then I had no alternative but to sit in the hallway and wait for Jacob to go back to sleep.  I knew if I passed his door (even slinking like a snake on my belly….which is not beneath me) to get back to my room that he would see me and the jig would be up.  So I sat...and looked at my blurry bleeding finger...and pondered life.  Finally he succumbed and I crawled back to my bed.  Do you know the feeling when you have wanted nothing more than the comfort of your pillows and mattress, the feel of the warm blankets as they rest upon you?  Well I felt it.  And as I eased in under the covers I gave a great sigh that it was finally over.  It took me a little while to fall back asleep because my adrenaline had been pumping, but soon enough sleep took me...and I rested...for twenty whole minutes before Brigham woke me to tell me that he had diarrhea.

The truth is that everything that happens to me as a parent is deserved, especially where sleep is concerned.  I was born into a family where I was eleven years behind my closest sibling and twenty behind my oldest.  I am sure my parents were already exhausted when I arrived on the scene.  Unfortunately, this youngest child of theirs was blessed with a vivid imagination and a vivid sense of her own mortality.  From my earliest memories I was terrified to sleep alone knowing that my short life would come to an end in any manner of horrific ways if I tried to last the night on my own.  Unfortunately, there weren’t any kids to share a room with.  My parents tried everything to encourage, support, cajole, and motivate me to sleep in my own room, but to no avail.  To their utter delight, I am sure, the most comfortable spot conceivable to my young mind was their bedroom floor.  They told me there were probably spiders down there.  “Spiders.  Who cares about little spiders”, I thought, “when there are murderers in my room?!”  They pled with me.  They gave me a brand new bed for Christmas when I was eight.  Who want’s a brand new bed when you can sleep on your parents floor and listen to your dad snore like a freight train?  Certainly not me.  I was as content as a bug in a rug...or as content as all the bugs in the rug that I slept on.  It was pathological and no matter what they did I always snuck into their room as soon as they were asleep and staked my claim on their carpet.

Before they knew it years had passed and I was still bunking with them.  Then heaven intervened and my mom did something that turned all my sleeping priorities on their ear.  I was twelve...yes, you read that right...twelve years old.  I am ashamed now to even admit it...but there it is.  My mom was driving my friends and I to school when she innocently  reminded me that I had forgotten to clean up the blankets off her floor that morning.  Horror.  Utter horror went through my heart.  What if my friends found out my dirty little sleeping secret?!!  What would happen to me if the whole school found out that I slept...ack...with my parents??!!  At that moment the terror of being murdered in my sleep was insignificant compared with this new dreaded threat.  The pendulum had swung and my life would never be the same again.  That night, and every night of my life thereafter, I went to my own room and slept.  Then I grew up and had kids which means that now I go to my room each night and take short naps intermixed with helping them all night long.

Honestly, I feel my lot is easy compared with what my parents went through, and the laws of justice demand that I deserve every bit of what I get.  My husbands dirty little childhood sleeping secret is that he was a bedwetter.  When we got married I told him we would probably have a kid that slept on our floor and peed on our carpet until he or she was twelve.  Thankfully we don’t have that.  So, though my finger is bloody and my eyes are baggy, I am grateful.  Truthfully, it is these experiences in life that help us learn what being a parent is really all about and help us to laugh as we learn.  What would life be like if we slept every night and woke up in the morning feeling refreshed?  Boring.  Boring... and awesome actually.  For now though, let’s focus on the fact that it IS boring and as parents we must unite in the mantra that WE WILL HAVE NONE OF THAT!  Hail the sleepless eventful night!  Hail Pond’s Hydrating Moisture Cream and Avon’s Virtual Lift Serum for baggy eyes in the morning!

The Bacchanalia of Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men

(This post was originally written on December 25, 2013).  
Alan and I cannot make it through Christmas without quoting that line of lines from “A Christmas Story” which is the title of this post. Especially as we see our kids in full Christmas-morning-rip-the-presents-open mode. The truth is that they are very good and very patient and very grateful on Christmas morning....but we still quote it...every year. This year we really did pay homage to little Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” by buying the 2013 version of the Red Ryder BB gun, air soft rifles, for two of our boys. If you’re not familiar with these then welcome to the club. Neither was I as recently as December 1st when I stumbled upon them on Amazon. Essentially, they are BB guns that shoot plastic pellets instead of metal ones. which is good for two reasons. First, no windows will be harmed. Secondly, no child will need a bullet extracted from their body when the desire to shoot at each other triumphs over the desire for peace on earth, good will towards men, or brotherly love, or whatever you call that thing that prompts you to not hurt each other. As we knew that these boys would go through thousands of bullets in hot pursuit of targets, we purchased 5,000 extra BB's for them. Within one hour of outside play the canister of 5,000 BB's was spilled into every crevice between the boards of our back porch.  Which, as fate would have it, was the exact size to keep any of the BB's from falling through, but also the exact size to keep you from easily picking any of them out.  The next hour was spent in family time....crawling around with dustpans, paintbrushes, butter knives, and other extraction tools in hot pursuit of REALLY IMPORTANT plastic balls....thousands of them. We looked like a team of archaeologists uncovering a new species of yellow pellets. Bless us.
Other than that, the day was spent just being together. Games were played. Bicycles were assembled. I cleaned the house. More games were played. Food was prepared and devoured. I cleaned the house. Good times were had by all! That night we broke out another favorite Christmas movie of ours that our kids have never seen, “While You Were Sleeping”. We drank egg nog as we laughed our way through the movie. I realized anew how much fun it is to have my kids a little older and be able to share some things with them, like movies, that we love. In the morning they all woke up and commented that the house was so clean. They asked when I had done it. I told them that it was while they were sleeping. 

Christmas Adam

(This post was originally written on December 23, 2013).  Today is what we, in the Ward family, like to call "Christmas Adam".  Actually I think many more people call it Christmas Adam as well…it's just that I had never heard of it before I became a Ward.  If you have never heard of it as well then let me enlighten you about this most special of holidays.  It's a bit complicated so hold on to your brain cells.  It goes like this.  Tomorrow is Christmas EVE, so the day before that is Christmas ADAM!  I just blew your mind.  Supposing I didn't and you are still capable of reading we shall continue.   As it is Christmas Adam, my house is bubbling over with excitement, cheer, speculation, and …sickness.  Alas and alack 'tis true.  We have had diarrhea and SERIOUS runny noses for the past week and I thought we were going to make it to the holiday with a clean bill of health until Brigham, dear Brigham started hacking his living guts out this morning.  Sigh.  I quarantined him early on in the day in vain hopes that my baby, Jacob, would escape.  Unfortunately, Brigham and Jacob made a secret pact early this morning to share germs as much as possible throughout the day.  Within a one hour time frame they shared a cup, a straw, and 15 pieces of bubble gum (I don't even want to explain that one).  Needless to say, I think by Christmas proper we should have a Jacob who is hacking his living guts out.  Oh well, go big or go home right?  

Growing up, I lived in a 1000 sq. ft. house with one front room, one small kitchen, one bathroom customized in size for leprechauns and hobbits, and three small bedrooms.  That's it.  My parents raised all five of their kids there.  At its squishiest point there was a several month period with eight people living there.  Obviously during those "squishy" times the bathroom was a serious commodity.  Fortunes were made and lost in desperate pursuit of precious time in that sanctuary.  When my sister got married and all the kids came home to visit for the wedding with their spouses and kids it was a no win situation.  You had to schedule five minute time slots three months in advance.  It was too much for my dad, who has a serious attachment to the room itself.  At the thought of not being able to get into said room at the drop of a hat he nearly lost his mind and developed some sort of psychosis.  On the morning of the wedding nobody could find dear old dad until we checked the backyard.  I'll never forget the sight of my very prim and proper father sitting in a childs' plastic swimming pool in his swimming suit shaving and bathing.  We laughed until we cried and then kept on laughing until the realization dawned on us that we suddenly had a second bathroom and should capitalize on the idea.  Reservations were taken immediately.  Unfortunately, being the youngest of the group, I couldn't get an opening until mid December.  Another holiday, about 10 years later, the whole family came home for Thanksgiving.  Again, we were happily jammed in like sardines waiting to glut ourselves on the dinner of all dinners.  Unluckily, we all came down with a serious stomach flu…at the same time…in the same house.   There is nothing a childs' plastic swimming pool can do for you in a situation like that.  It was horrific.  An unfortunate repercussion of the PTSD I developed from the experience is that if I ever enter a building or home with one bathroom, I immediately ask if I can make a reservation for the toilet and the child's plastic swimming pool.  I get a lot of odd looks, but I know that they're the ones that are going to be sorry when push comes to shove.  So, in hindsight, I suppose that coughing your living guts out is not as bad as it could be.  Plus, we have two bathrooms and a child's plastic swimming pool.  And I have reserved them until June of 2018. 

A Shout Out To All The Mom's Out There

My name is Camille Ward.  I am the wife of an LDS Bishop who is the love of my life.  We have five crazy kids who I devote my time and life to.  What I mean by that is that I am a stay at home mom by choice, rather than by default with a lack of better things to do.  I remember a few years ago my husband and I left town for a few days for our anniversary.  We were in the beautiful town of Ouray Colorado (which I seriously recommend as one of the most beautiful places I have ever been).  As we were walking through the town we met a few locals who asked us each what we "do".  I am always a little at a loss as to what to say when that happens because I just don't feel that there is a really great answer that sums up my job.  So I tried out a few throughout the day.  Here are some of my responses: " I am a professional monkey trainer"; "I am a character developer";  and my personal favorite, "I spend my life trying to help others become responsible and productive citizens of our country."  When people questioned me further I told them that actually means that I'm a stay at home mom.  It was great for a good laugh between us!  I really believe that whether mom's are home or working that their influence overarching.  I am always a little at a loss at the opinions of others where a mothers influence is  concerned, but alas, I can't control what others think.  What I can do, though, is write about my life (not that anyone is banging my door down to hear it).  Truthfully, it's just a story about life, and kids, and chaos, and love, and God, and trying to make it through this insane world together.  It's a story of mom's.  Myself, my mom, her mom.  No matter the station and situation in life that we are currently living, I hope it's a funny and thought provoking ride for all.

I was born to amazing parents who had already had four kids and were in the middle of, well, middle age.  When my mom found out she was pregnant she was shocked.  Actually, I don't think "shocked" even begins to scratch the surface of what she felt.  She had already begun the process of menopause and the children she already had ranged in age from 20 down to 11.  She was then 44 years old.  I think most women, when confronted with this situation would have felt similarly.  I believe that many of them would have considered abortion.  Though overwhelmed (and to be honest, a bit horrified) she never considered getting rid of me.  A decision which I will always adore her for.  Her pregnancy was terrible.  Just the usual suspects: weight gain, extreme fatigue, nausea.  She said that when they wheeled her into the delivery room she was loudly bemoaning her fate and when they wheeled her out she was loudly gushing about what a miracle children were.  Apparently the nurses got quite a kick out of her.  My mom is one of a kind.  Truthfully, having me was devastating to her health.  She could never get rid of the weight, and when I was only nine she found herself wheelchair bound due to a terrible autoimmune disease that would plague her the rest of her life.  In a world where women's bodies and personal happiness comes first, I honor my mother for choosing me.  I honor her for being selfless.  I have never heard her ever regret the decision she made, to do so would be going against her soul and everything she stands for and believes.  She is the definition of "Mother" in my opinion.  We live in a selfish world where so many put themselves before others...including mom's.  Perhaps that's part of what's wrong with our society.  We need more selflessness.  We need more kindness.  We need more Mothers.