An Attempt

I was happy when I first heard the news, but later hit at some point, and it was a different emotion altogether. I have tried to write something about the passing of the Prophet repeatedly. As you can tell by my prolific blogging and the constant maudlin blathering, I've gone overboard. (Sarcasm in writing doesn't always translate. DIdn't know til now.)

It's gotten to where I'm verbally constipated in other areas of my life as well. I think the problem stems from the inadequacy which any words of mine have in expressing my feelings about it. Particularly as there are so many other ones floating around in cyberspace, some so well written I want to plagiarize their words as representation of my own sentiments. Even now, determined as I am to say something, anything, my fingers wander away of their own accord in this unworthy side-note slash excuse for my absence.

Did I mention I attempted to go to the viewing? Again, I attempted, while Leroy succeeded. Why? At any rate, I made my northern pilgrimage in a vain attempt (here's that word again) at I-don't-know-what. All I know, is when we arrived, the conference center more resembled an army of ants at a leftover picnic than the sparse lines of solemn mourners I had imagined. Maybe hoped for.

When we were told (by Jamie, from our last ward) that it was a good 5 hour wait, hope, which I didn't realize I had, adjourned. I felt like a child who's favorite toy has been taken over by that alien, and no good, other child and I have no way of knowing that I'll get it back. Not that the prophet is my personal toy. At any rate, as we stood on the street corner waiting for the light to change, my biggest urge was to wail. Sound melodramatic? Since I didn't want to scare the kids, or my companion street crossers, I suppressed the urge. No strait jackets for me today.

Eventually, i managed to swallow the knob of sadness and even enjoyed the rest of the evening surrounded by the other thwarted mourners as well as the wax figures of past Prophets, afterwards eating banana pie with Miss and Bubs. Much like any other Friday night.

Here I sit, mostly happy, generally consumed with everyday living. But every now and then, I am momentarily sad again. That is, until I remember that he has had a happy reunion with a dearly missed eternal companion, lived a life of no regrets, and is free from a sick and tired 97 year old body. ANd, that Thomas S. Monson will not just attempt, but succeed in being a great Prophet.

I leave you with another's sentiments anyway. My words alone were not enough. Maybe his will be.

I pledge Allegiance...

to the Bumbo seat.*

Here's to being a bad Mom; I love the bumbo seat, nay love is too common a word for the intense affection I feel for this present-day miracle worker. I know, I know. It's a safety hazard to infants everywhere. Don't I know it's been recalled? I suppose if anyone wants to liken my love for Andrew with my refusal to ban the bumbo, I will come out stinking like the Narcissus ('fragrant', my foot- have you ever smelled one? The stench is by no means pleasant, as implied by use of the word 'fragrant' in it's package description.) But, I digress.

The point is, there are moments or things which we cannot remember a time before. Husbands. Children. Owning a home. Domestic slavery. Etc. Such is true of the Bumbo.

Andrew, by the time he is steady enough to graduate from it's soft, yet simultaneously firm, azure embrace, will probably have a bumbo shaped bum for years to come. By that time, we will likely have to use the jaws of life to extricate him from it (I swear we could write 'Gone with the Wind II" by the time he's a stabile sitter.)

Until that time, I am savoring it's existence in my heretofore unpriveleged world. To all the bumboless, save yourself many futile moments daydreaming of growing additional arms. Think of the expense saved: bumbo seat- $40. new wardrobe to accomodate new arms- $700 (this is a custom wardrobe we're talking about here). Countless mutually satisfied moments (yours, your baby's, and anyone rescued from holding him/her whilst attempting another task)- priceless.

And to the bumbo have's, welcome to a bright new future: just you and your bumbo (and your baby).

*Caution: Since they can fall out, it's best used on the ground or very closely supervised. This writer takes no responsibility for it's use, abuse, or any accident that may befall it's occupant.

All choked up

Well, we're all done.

It's official and irrevokable- Andrew's ours! We were sealed in the Mount Timpanogos temple on Friday, December 28th. It was such an incredible experience and everyone seemed to be especially benign and congenial there. Of course, sympathy could have been inspired by the constant sniffles and errant black tears, but we'll take kindness on a special day (or heck, any day) regardless of the motivation.

Funny how trivial things unravel a string of others. Just walking the kids into the temple youth center brought home my own walk into another temple nursery some 32 years prior. I remembered so clearly all the ladies in white, several cribs, the layout of the room, and many coloring books. (But, most of all, i remember being bored - my parents had endowments to do at the same time and they were of the old school variety!)

What I don't remember was the actual sealing. I'm surprised because, of course, that's all I'll recall about this one- What a moment. They were so beautiful in their spotless white ensembles: Morgan in her frosted pearl floor-length dress, and Bubba in a dwarfed replication of Dad's white shirt and tie. They were wreathed in smiles- even Andrew. He was exquisite; they had brought him straight from napping, his little red cheeks and clear blue eyes contrasting with his creamy porcelain skin and the snowy white of his gown. He put his hand on ours and kept it there throughout the sealing, looking from Leroy to me and back again for the duration. Near the end, he gave me a luminous, delighted grin- which set me off into the 'ugly' cry. (You know, the one where you can't contain your lip twitch, your face crumples like a wad of paper, and black rivers stream down your face.) Fortunately, I was otherwise engaged and didn't care until later.

Regardless, the moment was sublime. It still seems like a picture in a children's book, but rather than some anonymous faces caricatured there, they're ours.

Although we weren't able to get our group together in the traditional group foto posed before the temple, the sisters did get permission for a brief all white pic of our family outside. Which I don't have yet, it being held without bail or parole on Dad's camera until the sentence is served and is freed from it's dark Canon detention center. Talk about cruel and unusual. The moment of its release, you can be assured of a media frenzy by numero uno.

Until then, I recline in blissful and utter relaxation to collect and compose myself ... but the alarm goes off, and chaos reigns again. We're back from the Magic Kingdom. And I don't mean Disneyland.