Fun in the rain.

This has been the wettest summer of my life. There have been only rare days where we haven't gotten at least some rain here in Rochester. By some rain, I mean sudden-onset thunder with a blanket of water. It is exhilarating.

Round 1: Today, after spending 1/2 an hour changing out of my work clothes, getting the kids to put on their shoes, coaxing them out of the sandbox, away from the swings, across the road and out of a puddle, I finally made it to the vegetable garden . . . just as the first drops of rain began to fall. Ashton climbed into my arms and tucked his face into my shirt saying "It's getting on me."
In defiance I retorted, "It's getting better, see it's going to go away." just as the rain drops grew to the size of pistachio nuts. Fine. "Isaac, take your brother over to the playground and hang out under the bridge." I began weeding around our sorry, yellow tomato plants until I realized that with all the water spilling over my back I might as well be weeding in a swimming pool. I picked a few woody turnips and conceded this round to the rain.

Round 2: I ran to the playground, only to find that the kids had NOT decided to take shelter under the bridge and now looked like happy drowned rats. I hesitated, set down the turnips, and climbed up the slide with them, plummeting down into a fat, juicy mud puddle. Isaac and Ashton got some serious air, landing full-body into the sloppy mess. After the kids' faces were caked with mud and I had no clean area of clothing left to wipe their eyes, we finally came home. Luckily, the rain washed most of the mud off before Aukai laughed at us.
I win round 2.

Final score: Rain 1, Heather 1. There will be a tie-breaker later this weekend.

Twinkled

I was tucking Isaac into bed when he turned to me and said, "Mom, I don't want you to die."

Me: "I don't want to die either, but it is a normal part of life. Besides, I don't think it will happen for a very, very long time."

Isaac: "I hope Jesus comes and twinkles us soon."

M: "Are you talking about the millenium?"

I: "Ya, I hope Jesus comes and twinkles us so you will be alive again and Grandma will be young again."

M: "Where did you learn about that?"

I: "In Primary."

M: "You learn a lot of things in primary, don't you."

I: "Ya, but only good stuff."

M: "Well, Isaac, I don't expect I will die until you are old and have children of your own. But if I do, you need to know that even though you can't see or hear me, there is part of me that will always be with you."

I: "You will be my guardian angel, right Mom."

M: "Right."

I: "Will you be Daddy and Ashton's guardian angel too?"

M: "Yes."

I: "I guess you can be Ashton's guardian angel as well, if you want to be."

Favorites

My family is sitting on the bench waiting for our airplane.

Isaac turns to me and says, "This is so cool, I am next to Daddy and Asthon is next to you, Mommy."

"Well would it still be cool if you were next to me and Ashton were next to Daddy?"

"Ya, I am starting to like you and Dad the same now."

"Oh really. Why is that?"

"Well, you used to be my favorite, but Daddy was gone for while, so now I like you and him the same."

Flying Home

There are two ways to fly into Salt Lake City.

The first is to fly North to Idaho and then fly South over the Wasatch Front. All you can see are mountains.

The second way is to come from the South and fly North, following the path of Highway 89. The stewardess had said she thought we were coming in over Idaho, so I was surprised when I saw a big, intrusive "Y" pasted to the side of the mountain.

This way is always a little strange to me because, in a literal and figurative way, you see your past from an aerial view: Brigham Young University, what I assume to be Mount Timpanogos (but I'm not quite sure because I have never been able to see the "woman" on top), the point of the mountain, the eerily well-organized Salt Lake City, the Capital Building, the Great Salt Lake, the oil refinery, the beautiful rose sunset colored by pollution from the oil refinery, the Bountiful Temple. It gives me a chance to reflect about where I was, where I am now, and if I am anywhere near where I expected to be.

It's a bit nostalgic and uncomfortable.

My New Favorite Blog

My husband recently came across a blog called 6yearmed. It is written by a clever and insightful 2nd year resident in pediatrics. Like a drug, I can’t stop reading it, even though it makes me cry.

I cry because the tales she tells are heart-wrenching and honest.

I cry because I’ve watched my own patients through similar journeys.

I cry because I am angry. Angry at her for having something that I am desperately afraid of loosing. This past year has been wonderful, but it has also been somewhat akin to breathing polluted air. The greater part of it keeps you alive, but there is a part of it that slowly poisons you, and I am frightened that I will some day turn around to find some fumigating lung cancer stealing my breath away.

There is something very painful about this journey. Sometimes it feels like the harder you try the harder things get. Because you are exhausted. And you say or do something that your peer misinterprets to mean that you are trying to screw him. Or a resident accuses you of being a bad parent and your husband is so tired and frustrated that you are convinced she must be right. Or you stay late with a patient only to be griped at the next morning for not spending more time because you slept in. Or you accidentally say something that makes a mother cry for 5 minutes and you cry for 5 days.

I cry because I am hate myself for being so human.

But most of all I cry because it offers hope. Hope that, even as this resident struggles with these same questions, there is a chance to retain one’s humanity amongst all the noise and bureaucracy that is medicine. And that maybe, if I don’t give up and if I turn to my patients, I can remember why I came to medical school and, with some luck, become the kind of doctor and person I want to be.

The Secret Behind the Curtain and other Tales

Aukai has one and only one rule regarding potty training: don't even try it until your boy is at least 3 years old. He adopted this rule from his mother who, after raising 13 children of her own, told him that training at 2 1/2 was too young. (After raising 11 boys, how can you argue with her.) So now that Ashton has finally turned three we have tried to kick up the potty training, checking out children's books on potty time, flaunting "big boy pants" as motivation, we've even offered gummy worms if he sits on the potty, but no bites yet.

The one thing all of this has done is heightened his awareness of his own bodily functions. A few nights ago he was taking a bath with the curtain half-closed. Suddenly, he got very quiet and peaked around the curtain. With somnolence, he pointed to the other side of the tub and whispered, "Mommy. There's Wee-wee's. Over there."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that if there was wee-wee's over there, it was everywhere.


= = = = = = = = = =

As my neighbors already know, bedtime in my house can be quite an ordeal.

A couple of nights ago, however, the fireworks were especially vivid. It started out with me putting Ashton's "wall-e" toothpaste on his toothbrush without prior authorization. You see, in our household, we can't just have 1 toothpaste. No, we have to have 4 different types collected from family gifts and dental visits, and even though Ashton consistantly prefers his "wall-e" it is necessary that we consult him each night to ensure that there has been no change in preference.

He did OK . . . at first, and then the next thing I know, I'm prying him off the pantry shelves with a crowbar because he knows if he eats he will get to brush his teeth again.

And then the fireworks start (by this time, it is past 11), and he has shut himself into the linen closet because he doesn't want to go downstairs because it is too far away from me but doesn't want to have to look at me. It is a complicated thing being a three year old.

At that point, I sat by the linen closet and tried to coax him to calm down enough to be able to talk to me. Finally, in shallow breaths and broken words he sniffled that he wanted to pick his own toothpaste. "Can you ask nicely?" Of course not, at this point it is a matter of principle.

But principle or not, he was ready to come out of the closet and talk to me. I asked if I could have a kiss. Again, on matter of principle, the answer was no as he ran towards me with his arms outstretched. And as he sat in my arms, a little ball of sniffles, I whispered in his ear, "I love you." Bursting into tears, his resounding reply was a simple, "me too" as if we were two lovers making up from a bitter fight. And I guess we were.

Isaac figures out just how smart I am . . .

I just finished a research elective. This means that after 5 weeks of surgery and several weeks of medicine my kids are finally starting to believe that I really do live here and remember that they once knew me as their mother. It has been a great opportunity for me to get to know them again as well.

For example, left with only his father to fend for him, Ashton is now able to prepare his own breakfast in the morning, including climbing 6 feet to the top shelf of our cupboard to pick out his favorite cereal. Isaac, on the other hand, has turned to song writing. His latest debut, "Pick the Wild Morning Glory" (the volume of which is about to crack my computer screen) will soon be released for purchase.

One of Isaac's favorite puzzles is a puzzle of the 50 states. I walked in on him starting the puzzle this morning and, looking right at me, he yelled out, "Dad, can you please help me." I smiled and kindly offered to help him. He gave me a look, shrugged his shoulders and said, "OK, but it might be pretty hard for you."

As we put the pieces in, I began reading off the name of each of the states. When we got to RI, Vermont and Conneticut, he looked at me in amazement. "Wow, Mom . . . you're smarter than I thought you were!"

Needless to say, I am relieved to find my cognitive abilities have the approval of a 4-year-old.