The spring of fifth grade we decided to ride our bikes to Oklahoma. I don’t remember how this decision came about, but it was as real, and we were as determined, as could be!

Andi had a map of the United States on her wall – one of those Disneyland-esque maps with cartoons of each states’ main attractions. A key of the distances was located in the corner. Using some blue yarn we measured the approximate distance – ahem, as the crow flies, from Salt Lake to Oklahoma city.

We were excellent bike riders, this we already knew. We could ride any hill in the neighborhood without the need to stand to pedal ourselves up. We could both ride no-handed, even down the same mentioned hills. Each morning we rode our bikes to school, leaving an hour early just so we could explore.

So a bike ride to Oklahoma didn’t actually seem that unreasonable. We determined we’d have to convince my mom first – and then she could convince Andi’s mom. I remember going in to her room. She was reading. I told her of our plans – our determination – to ride a third of the way across the county, if we only had permission. She looked up, thoroughly unrattled, and said it was fine with her.

And so we began practicing. We planned to sell home-made rag dolls and salt dough Christmas ornaments to raise funds for the adventure. We would pack water and snacks in our retro-fitted saddle bags. We would ride each day, stopping for meals. We’d have someone drive alongside of course. By our calculations it would take about three weeks to make the journey.

As summer approached we determined we’d better start having practice rides. And so one day we decided to go for it – to ride as far and as long as possible – just to see how it would be.

Up the hill of Cottonwood Lane – up and around to the elementary school. That part was easy. We did that every day. Then on, on, on down Holladay Boulevard. It was a hot day. We didn’t have water with us, and we were long past the familiar homes with the familiar families we could stop and ask for water from. No matter. We pushed on in the heat.

Eventually Holladay Boulevard empties out onto 6400 South, the location of the old, dilapidated (even then) Cotton Bottom – bar. We knocked on the door. I remember the surprise on the waitresses face when we asked “for a drink.”

She gave us a firm “no.” Even as we pleaded for water in the heat, she told us we couldn’t even come inside to the air conditioning. But she did tell us if we followed 6400 South down we would eventually come to a “Wendy’s” – and they surely would give us some water.

So, we continued on our way, parched and sweating, down around to Wendy’s. We parked our bikes outside, too tired to concern ourselves with bike locks. Inside the air conditioning helped, but was far from completely relieving us. I remember standing in line, worried that they would want a quarter for a cup of water. I didn’t have any money on me, and I was so thirsty!

But they gave us each a drink. We sat in that Wendy’s for a good long while as we recovered from the shock of heat and distance.

Eventually we climbed back onto our bikes and rode home – down Highland Drive, and back up into the neighborhood the back way. The entire ride may have been only five miles.

After that a bike ride to Oklahoma was never talked about again.

And now, on busy days when we’re out and about, I often run down to the very same Wendy’s for chicken nuggets and Frosty’s for my posse. They don’t know the history of the place.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

You can read all “Tales for Tuesdays” here.

He just wanted me to relax too.

Wyatt turned to me the other night and said “You know, I understood you so much better after I watched ‘Winnie the Pooh’.”

Today was one of those days – one of those wild-monkey-poo days. As I type this mass hysteria is broadcasting in hi-def stereo quality from the basement, the ear piercing result of children being sent to bed early. Early bed the consequence to the aforementioned wild-monkey-poo day.

It wasn’t all bad – you know, except the part that was. The part where Calvin cried, and cried and cried because Everett did something or other. And then Olivia was upset because so and so said such and such. And then because we had to run errands. And then because I wouldn’t let them wait in the car. And then because I told them to wait in the car, I’d only be a minute. Then it was time to clean rooms. And oh, by golly, but that caused drama. And then the injustice of the wrong tv show, and then having to wait to dye the Easter eggs, and then the Easter eggs falling and cracking, and don’t mention the tantrum Everett threw to get Olivia to give her his egg, or the tantrum Olivia threw when Everett wouldn’t give it back. And when I mentioned “Fort Friday” the angels smiled – for only one brief moment. Then there were tears because I didn’t share a treat just right, and then because dinner wasn’t quite right. And then because I said we couldn’t sleep in the fort. And then because I said we couldn’t even make the fort. And then because I said “Straight to bed!”

Sometimes I wonder at the insanity of my life. I giggle in retrospect at the sheer audacity I have to even try this gig called motherhood. I love them – but some days I feel like a zoo keeper locked in the monkey exhibit when they’re flinging their poo!

Love you, babies!

So I started my work. I didn’t feel like putting up the fight of making the children do it themselves (although I know I should have). Instead, I banished them to the backyard while I worked. Every once in a while they would come in “to get something” and I would bark in my most grumpy-I-mean-it way: Stay outside or you’re going to have to clean! or You better not be making a mess upstairs or else!  or Do not come inside, you have to play outside!

After having barked adequately at each child that they actually believed me and had stayed away awhile, I was just finishing up Olivia’s room (the last of my cleaning for the afternoon) when I picked up her bed canopy (which had fallen down last week). Underneath I found a red kitchen towel, folded neatly. I unfolded that to put away what ever she was hiding.

Inside I found an Easter cake – a precious remnant of last week’s treats. They had been gone for days, so I thought. The first thing that came to my mind was “She’s hiding treats, the little turkey!”

And then, beneath that I found a coloring book. Olivia has been making coloring books for a while now – each one stapled together with little illustrations on each page.

And then I read the cover -

“All about me – Olivia. For Mom, Happy Easter” (Or something to that effect, I’ll requote this on Sunday).

Then I read the coloring book (I probably shouldn’t have, but I was instantly charmed and couldn’t put it down.)

The book told all sorts of interesting things about Olivia, complete with darling illustrations.

And then, beneath the coloring book, a card for me, telling me I was the best mom.

And then – there I sat, on the floor of Olivia’s room, my kids, scolded to trepidation to stay outside, and me, with a home made gift Olivia had concocted on her own, days before the holiday, wrapped and securely hidden away for its grand presentation on Easter morning.

And in that moment I felt at once both two inches tall and like a superhero all at the same time.

And it reminded me (again) – (and again) – that having the house clean is not nearly as important as having lovey happy children.

So I went right upstairs, and packed the lovies up, and off we went to IFA to get the seeds I had promised the kids I would get them so they could plant their own garden this weekend.

I sure can’t wait for Easter!

*I’ll update this post in a few days with pictures of the dear little book.

Can you feel the betterness already?

This year, in addition to the flower gardens I dream about, I’m ready for the practical application of a vegetable garden. Last fall we finally cleared out the “garden” corner of our yard – the space designated for the “some day,” that has been piled with wood/junk/construction material for the past five years. Last Friday, with fine weather forcasted for the weekend, I conned Wyatt into coming home early from work so we could spend the weekend building garden boxes.

We built five -

2 4×4′s
2 4×8′s
1 4×12

Last year we heard of the concept of “square foot gardening” – where you section off your garden by square foot, and each square holds a plant. Sounds genius/easy/impressive, and since I have absolutely no experience in gardening, I am willing to try anything.

So I sectioned my garden off by square foot (in plan only so far). Do you know how many square feet I have? 140 Square Feet. That’s a lot of plants. (And my mother in law almost cried when I made my garden so small. Seriously).

Well, today I  made my plan for what to plant and where. I did research about what plants/varieties do the best in Utah, as well as what plants to put by each other so that everything should maximize it’s potential.

I’ve got a plan.

Now I need dirt – to fill up my boxes. And seed – to plant.

And then a long summer to grow my produce.

And I LOVE long summers.

21 Corn Plants
2 Zucchini
12 Pole Bean Plants
96 Carrots
2 Summer Squash
6 Pepper Plants
4 Cucumber Plants
2 Eggplants
2 Early Girl Tomato Plants
2 Big Boy Tomato Plants
1 Roma Tomato Plant
1 Cherry Tomato Plant
18 Yellow Onions
18 Red Onions
A Kajillion Green Onions
3 Broccoli
4 Pumpkins/Winter Squash
Lots of Cilantro
Lots of Basil
Lots of Parsley
And the whole thing lined with Petunias, Marigolds (which are theoretically good snail repellants) and Sunflowers.

And what about the excess produce? Well, I will can salsa if I can – and we will have summer barbeques with our yummies. And I love zucchini bread and earth bread. And then my ward always has a farmers market (where we give our produce, not sell) where we can all share our produce at the end of the summer, so I know it won’t go to waste.

Click here to download a printable planting guide.

Where do you even start when you’re talking about Uncle Terry? In my family he was known as “Terry 1″ because we had a plethora of Uncles by that name, but he was always first.

Uncle Terry could never talk without smiling. I think his smile muscles are extra short, for his mouth was always drawn up in a grin, and I never could decide if he was teasing me for being so serious all the time or adoring me because, well, he seemed to adore everyone.

Especially his kids. I never knew a dad in my entire scope of friends and family who spent more time with his kids – usually on the mountain tops. I remember the mixture of envy and terror I felt as he told me of the 25 mile hikes he would drag his kids on for a Saturday. Week long camp trips deep into the back country was how he vacationed. And no kid was too small or to weak for his excursions. Even my cousin, Zach, his son, who was born without abdominal muscles, was taken along, and had to keep up. Now on Facebook I see pictures of cousin Jeremy and his kids  – little toddlers out in the wilderness, and I laugh inwardly and feel the same mixture of delight and horror as he is doing the same thing.

It was the day after Christmas in 1996 – and my parents waved goodbye to Danny (18), me (17), Larry (15) and the little people in our family as we drove over five hundred miles in the old blue suburban to see Aunt Jill and Uncle Terry, who had invited us for a visit.

And it became a little nerve wracking as we drove over the Sierra Nevada mountains in a snow storm, and the Burb kept overheating. Danny would drive for a while ’til the thermostat was too much to ignore. Then we’d pull over, open the hood, and do the only thing we could think of to cool the car down – throw the accumulating snow from the side of the road onto the steaming engine.

Finally we couldn’t go any further, so, while Danny and the kids waited, I thumbed a ride into the next town to call Uncle Terry to come get us.

And when he came he had his typical grin, which made the stressful situation turn instantly into a silly and great adventure to tell my kids – someday.

This week we had the tragic news of Uncle Terry’s diagnosis of a terminal cancer. His time is limited, but his life seemed to be lived so fully, how can there be tragedy in that? The greatest sadness will only be for those of us who still need his grin to remind us not to take everything so serious, and to keep looking for the adventure in it all.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

When I was nineteen I spent a semester living in Moscow.

And one time we went on a grand trip through northern Russia, across the border to Helsinki, Finland where this story begins, and then across the Baltic to Stockholm, Sweden, where this story ends.

Now, we start in Helsinki, where we arrived at five am after an overnight bus ride from St. Petersburg. Six of us girls stayed with an LDS family who lived outside the city. We spent the day in Helsinki, shopping, seeing the sights, etc. But when it came time to return to Ruska’s house (Ruska was the teenage girl of the host family), someone had the bright idea that we should all dye our hair matching shades of wild red. Michelle opted out, but the rest of us bought our own two-week-wash-out in the shade of our choice.

Now really, if your house was invaded by six foreign teenage girls, would you want them all in your bathroom, dying their hair? I cringe at the memory of this, but still, we did it, and had a grand time in doing so.

In the process of dying our hair red. Silly girls!

And our coifs were wild and furious crimson by morning.

Well, the day or two after that we caught the overnight ferry over to Stockholm, where we planned to stay at the LDS Temple Hotel, the accommodations made for the members of the church who travel from around Europe to do their temple work. It was the nicest hostel at the best price available to us – but if we were going to take advantage of such an economic boon, we’d better do some temple work while we were at it.

And so we each brought our recommends to do baptisms for the dead, and spent the first morning in the Stockholm temple doing the work.

We visited with the workers of the temple, each were missionaries, most from the United States, called to serve and work here at the temple in the Sweden. I am relieved that they were American, for you can excuse the thoughtlessness of your own culture a little easier at times, and I hope they forgave us! Two or three girls had been in the font when someone mentioned that the water was looking a little pink. Then the girls took a closer look at their jump suits, and noticed a reddish tinge. And then the towels were noticed, bright bright red with the rinse of our hair dye!

We all panicked at our thoughtless faux pas. But I remember the lovely temple matron chuckling and telling us not to worry, for hurray! We had given the women something to do that afternoon when the temple was empty, they would wash all the linens and empty and refill the font.

Oh, good grief, we were hair brained – literally.

And months later when I came home to the US of A, my sisters greeted me at the airport with bright red hair of their own, and even my dad had dyed his greys “just a little” to make good fun of me.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

You can read all “Tales for Tuesdays” here.