Hunger

I miss having babies. Can you believe that? I mean, really believe it?

If I really stop and think about it, I remember that I hated being pregnant. Being sick non-stop for several months; gagging every time I brushed my teeth; and enduring a pinched nerve that would stop me dead in my tracks several times a day—if I was able to get started at all (and that problem has never completely gone away from me). Joints so loose that I thought I was falling apart; an emotional wreck; feeling heavy; thinking I looked awful all the time. Yeah. I did not like that. Labor was no picnic either—especially my intense dread of labor and delivery; and not just with the first one or two—I was afraid to the point of tears every time. And then a baby that keeps you up all hours of the night; huge, swollen (and leaky) breasts; dirty clothes all the time—not the just baby's, mine too.

Really, it sounds like no fun at all.

But lately I see women with new babies and have a twinge of envy; a little bit of, "Oh, I want one!" And I even see pregnant women and think they look lovely, and miss it—being pregnant. Not the being sick, of course. But the growing of a new life inside me. Feeling a baby move within me; having a little someone to talk to (so I don't just look like I'm talking to myself). And then that sweet, amazing someone who is mine and more incredible than any other being in existence.

It is kind of sad that I didn't appreciate it more when I was going through it. Well, I always appreciated the babies; just not the being pregnant. I don't really blame myself for feeling that way—not at all. I was sick and miserable, and my babies all came in quick succession: eight kids in eleven years—and the last three of those eight (Kaylie, Rachel and Jessica) were born in three years (2001, 2002, 2003). I was pretty worn out, and it really did take years for the pinched nerve to not bother me daily; sometimes it still does sneak up on me.

I do think that now—after a long break—I would appreciate it more. But having a new baby of my own is in my past; I am not having any more. This doesn't really make me feel sad because I can remember all the busy, hard stuff about those little babies, and I don't think I really want to tackle it now, in my dotage. ;-)

But most of all, I love my family; all my kids are amazing and it is so fun to see them grow up. And whoever spread that nasty rumor about teenagers—I don't know what their problem was. Teenagers are terrific! A little willful sometimes, yes; but lots of fun.

So, no; no more babies for me. Just delighting in the family I have. And, I hear that grandchildren are even better than your own kids. Just a few more years from now—like five to eight. Now there's something to look forward to!

Love and Marriage

When I was growing up, the story I heard most often and liked the best was the story of my parents meeting and getting married.

Dad had a dream before he left for his mission; he saw his wife and his family, and he knew that his wife would be from another country. My mom, Dolores, was born in Brasil; and my dad, Orlin, is from the United States. Dad served a mission in Brasil and, as Mom puts it, she was his souvenir.

But I'll just tell you the story the way we heard it as we sat around the dinner table (and if I get it wrong, Mom will just have to excuse me because I'm going entirely by memory):

Dolores was engaged to another young man in Brasil when she first saw Orlin. She says that she was walking along and looked up and saw a missionary on the steps of the church, and she thought, "I'm going to marry that missionary with the glasses." So she went home, and broke off her engagement to the unfortunate Brasilian guy. (This was the most frequently repeated, and my favorite, part of the story.)

Mom would say about that missionary with the glasses, "He was so good-looking, and he had lots of thick, wavy hair."

Later Dolores found out that another girl was also interested in Elder Johnson; this girl was even knitting him a sweater. So Dolores went to the nuns, who were great friends with her mother and her family, and asked one of them to knit a sweater for her—a blue one, I think. I believe Dolores' gift to the young Elder Johnson was finished first; and I believe it was many years before he found out that Dolores hadn't knitted it herself. But to make doubly sure the other girl didn't get in the way, Dolores told the mission president that this girl was very interested in Elder Johnson. I believe the mission president got the message confused and thought that Dolores was interested in Elder Johnson; either way, Elder Johnson soon got a transfer to another area in the Brasil mission.

Orlin recalls that one day another missionary was showing a home movie (maybe a gift from home?). It turns out that Orlin's family knew this other elder and so their pictures were in the movie too. Orlin says,"When I saw the pictures of Esther (his sister) I thought, 'I like Dolores as much as I like Esther.' "

Before Orlin went home he was able to visit Dolores' town again for a little while. And then he was off to the states again. Back home, he wrote to her and asked her to marry him! And she said yes! So her parents allowed her to go to the states, but to be sure everything was on the up and up they sent her sister, Helena, as a chaperone. They stayed with Orlin's family.

Because Dolores hadn't been a member of the church for a full year, and because of some kind of mix-up getting her records to the states, she wasn't able to get a temple recommend. Orlin was getting a little frustrated with the waiting because he would soon be going to Germany with the Army. Finally he told his mother (who, at the time, wasn't too excited about him marrying a foreign girl) that if they couldn't get married in the temple they would just go to Las Vegas. My Grandma Johnson didn't want that to happen—if they were going to get married, it would be in the temple! So she called church headquarters, and my parents were interviewed by President David O. McKay, and Mom got her temple recommend. They were married in the Manti Temple on July 8, 1953 (I think Mark E. Petersen was their sealer). Three days later Orlin went to Germany. It was six months (or was it nine?) before Dolores could join him. They had lots of adventures from marbles in the marble cake, to having their first baby, to seeing the sights in Europe before they came home to the states.

That was the start of everything. Now Orlin and Dolores Johnson have eight children, 37 grandchildren (I think Mom says it's 42, but I think that counts the children of our Navajo foster sister), and 13 (?) great-grandchildren. They have been married 57 years today.

about 1977

As a side-note: Mom's sister, Helena, eventually married Dad's brother, Norman. And Grandma Johnson did grow to love my mom; she died in our home with Mom right there (in Mom's arms, if I remember right).

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad!

Happy Father's Day

OK. So I'm a day late.
But here are some pictures for Father's Day. :-)

Rachel

Michael

Jessica

Ryan

Lindsey

Kaylie

Jason

Brandon

Ryan

I haven't written about any of my kids—like a spotlight—for a long time. So I'll tell about Ryan:

I was pregnant with Ryan—although I didn't know it yet—when we made our long drive home from Tennessee in December of 1998. Bruce's sister, Amanda, had flown out so she could spell me on the drive back. After all the packing and loading and getting stuff ready, we were ready to drive out on a Monday afternoon. No sooner did we get on the road (Amanda was driving), than I fell asleep. A light sleep; every time she changed lanes or came to a stop, I would startle awake. (Amanda is a very good driver—it wasn't her driving that woke me.) I felt kind of bad, because the plan was for us to take turns driving the car while Bruce drove the moving truck, but I just couldn't stay awake. So the next morning I bought some No-Doze. One of those little pills had me bouncing off the walls and I drove for a couple hours. Then I came down off of it and was miserable and headachey the rest of the day. I threw out the No-Doze and just let Amanda drive the rest of the three-day trip.

When we got back to Salt Lake, the first thing we found out was that Bruce's Grandma Ward had died on the day we started driving. :-( Her funeral would be that Friday. It was after the funeral that I first suspected I was pregnant. We'd gone to lunch with the family and I realized that I was too hungry, and a little sick, but mostly that my dress seemed way too tight. A test a couple days later confirmed it. Ryan was on his way.

blessing outfit, 3 months old

Ryan's first name came quickly; I just knew he was Ryan. I was a little worried that we'd get Brandon and Ryan's names confused a lot, and even tried to think of a different name, but it was definitely Ryan. A middle name was a little more difficult. Then one day, while we were watching Treasure Island (with Charlton Heston and Christian Bale—the only Treasure Island I've seen that was worth watching) the good-guy captain hollers at the pirates, ". . . as my name is Alexander Smollet, I'll see you all to Davy Jones!" Alexander! Ryan Alexander North—a great name!

7 years old

We were living with Bruce's parents that first year home from TN, and through my entire pregnancy with Ryan. In February of 1999 Bruce had started working for Acclaim Entertainment, a video-game company that expected him to live in the studio. So I was having contractions about five minutes apart around 9:30 p.m. on August 4 and Bruce was still at work. But I wasn't in agony or feeling desperate yet, so I just waited for him to get home from work. At about 11 p.m. Bruce had gotten home and then we were on our way to the hospital in Salt Lake City.

one year old

Naturally the ride there made all my labor stop, but I was dilated to 4 1/2, this was my fifth baby . . . they kept me there overnight to see if anything would happen. During the night I dilated a little further, but the labor was irregular; still, since it was the fifth baby, and my babies come fast when they come, they didn't send me home. In the morning (August 5) they called my dr. and he told them to start me on pitocin to get things going again. Since my last two epidurals had done nothing to help me they decided to give me the epidural before they started me on the pit; they thought that might work better. It was nasty to feel that needle go into my back without the pain of labor to distract me! It was also the first time Bruce had ever watched the needle going into my back and he got woozy. The nurse made him sit down and put his head between his knees and they got him some juice while I got hooked up to an I.V. and monitors.

The pitocin worked right away; the epidural did not. When the nurse and the anaesthesiologist saw how miserable I was they said they'd remove the epidural and try again—sometimes it doesn't get into the exact right spot. I wasn't too excited about re-doing the epidural, but I wasn't thrilled with the heavy contractions either. Before they could do anything, though, I had this huge, terrible contraction, so they said they'd do the epidural-thing after they checked me once more (after the contraction ended). Too late. That contraction got me from seven centimeters to ten. So they just removed the epidural entirely, and the doctor came in to break my water. He just barely touched me and my water broke and got everywhere; I could feel it splash my feet and it got the doctor all wet, too. So Ryan was really on his way! [photo: 2 years old]

That naughty little baby thought he'd arrive like Superman, with one fist extended in front of his head. So I had to stop pushing and let the doctor push Ryan's arm back and out of the way or he might be born with a dislocated or even broken collar-bone. But soon there he was, screaming his little head off; my cute little red-haired baby boy. (All the medical people and some of my family said Ryan had red hair, but I didn't think it was. But looking at his photos years later I thought, yeah—it was reddish.)

red hair?

Ryan was a healthy, happy little baby. And he grew into a mischievous, tow-headed, silly little boy. When he was about three years old, we started home-schooling. There was quite a large group of home-schooling families in our area, and we got hooked up with them, so our kids were able to participate in some fun activities. One of the things they did was perform a Christmas play about a bunch of trees who each wanted to be Santa's own Christmas Tree. Ryan got to be in the chorus of kids, dressed as an elf. During the opening number he sat on the front of the stage with all the other little kids; only he tucked his hands under his arms, flapped his "wings," and sang, "Bawk, bawk, bawk," through the entire song.

the silliest, little elf

In Kindergarten Ryan was an amazing reader. I remember the incongruency of sitting in our livingroom, reading scriptures with our family, and hearing Ryan flawlessly read out loud from the Book of Mormon while on the floor I could see one of those little paper books that the school sent home for him to practice reading. ("The cat sits on the mat.") This year he took second place in the Reader's Showdown between the fifth and sixth grades (he's in fifth grade). And he's very bright in math and every other subject, too.

[photo: 5 years old]

Ryan is almost 11 years old. Blond, with a charming dimple in his left cheek that'll drive girls batty later, soon he'll be taller than me. Ryan is my one boy who has always liked—and still does like— to give me hugs. :-) He still loves to read, and does great in school; he shares the same silly sense of humor that the rest of the family has. He is a great kid!

A Day in My Life

Bruce suggested that I map out an average 24 hours of my life, so the world could see what a person with eight kids does all day long. Apparently some of the people he talks to about me are amazed that I can even get out of bed with eight kids. Sometimes this amazes me, too. So I thought I'd take him up on that challenge.

But first I'm going to gripe about my laundry again. You know, I made up a list of the clothes we would use in a week—if we were nice people who changed our clothes every day, instead of sleeping in them and wearing them the next day: 7 shirts each (70 shirts), 2-3 pairs of pants each (50 pants), 7 pairs of socks (140 socks), 7 pairs of underwear (70 underwear), 2 towels each (14 towels). I didn't include Sunday dresses, or dish-towels and rags, or floor-mats that the dog threw up on. Then I figured out how much stuff could go into one load of laundry, and came up with 16 loads of laundry a week. From sorting, to washing, to folding, that translates into 32 hours of laundry a week! A part-time job. No wonder I'm always drowning in dirty laundry!

Anyway . . . ahem! A day in my life:

2:30 a.m. I get up to use the bathroom. This has got to be leftover from all those pregnancies. I don't even really have to go that badly.

5:20 a.m. Do I really have to go to the bathroom again? Probably not. I think I'm just aware that my boys have to get up for early-morning Seminary now. They get themselves up, but I wake up anyway.

5:56 a.m. I'm awake again—or did I ever really go back to sleep? Bruce has to get up soon.

6:00 a.m. Now the alarm is going off for Bruce to get up. Can I sleep for another hour?

7:00 a.m. No, there really is no rest for the weary. Time to get the kids up for school. I go to their rooms and flip the lights on. "Time to get ready for school!" I sweetly croon. (Really! I usually do say this very nicely; it's just with the light-switch that my cruel nature shows through.) I also turn on all the lights in the house so that my carpool boy knows we're awake and doesn't go back home.

7:08 a.m. Tucker's barking; Benjamin must be here. I let him in and check to see if all the kids are out of bed.

7:12 a.m. I go get dressed for the day.

7:20 a.m. Brandon, Ryan and Lindsey are dressed and in the kitchen. I send Lindsey to hurry her sisters along—it doesn't usually work.

7:25 a.m. "Everyone grab your scriptures and get into the living room; it's time to read!" I go down to see how the girls are doing. Kaylie is dressed and getting her shoes on. Rachel is sitting on her bed with her shirt on, but no pants; she's reading a book or coloring. Jessica is still in bed. When I ask why they're not ready they say they can't find their clothes. Wonder why? So I find shirts and/or pants for them and tell them to hurry and come read with us. By the time I'm back upstairs Michael and Jason are home from Seminary.

7:40 a.m. We are finally sitting down to read scriptures. As we're reading the little girls mosey on up and put their shoes on. I brush their hair while I try to listen to the scripture-reading and assign the next kid some verses to read.

7:55 a.m. Wow! We're making good time today! We have a family prayer and I send the kids out to the van, except for Jessica who can't find her socks. I rush around to find any socks that might fit her—clean or dirty—and tell her to put them on in the van.

8:02 a.m. And now we're off to pick up Paul's kids.

8:07 a.m. I'm waiting for Paul's kids to get in the van. By the time I have all the kids with me I've loaded my 12-passenger van with 13 people. Will we make it to school before 8:20 so my little ones can get breakfast?

8:16 a.m. We made it. The kids all say their goodbyes to me and head into the school. Benjamin informs me that now it's time for the most boring part of his day: his four-minute ride to school alone with me. Poor guy!

8:22 a.m. Benjamin's at school and I can go home. :-)

8:30 a.m. A leisurely breakfast while I read my emails. Aaaahhh. I just wish the kitchen wasn't such a mess.

8:50 a.m. Time to check my bank accounts, budget sheets, and menus and then make a grocery list. I look at my email first. Oh, crap! I didn't see the homework notice Rachel's teacher sent me last night. Oh well.

9:45 a.m. I want to bake bread today. Should I start it before or after I go to the store? Today I think I'll start it before I go. Oh. But the kitchen is dirty. Why don't the kids rinse out the sink and wipe down the counters and table when they clean up the evening dishes? >:-( I guess I'd better start on the kitchen. And put in a load of laundry, too.

10:25 a.m. I get a call from the school; Lindsey forgot her book for English class. She needs it after lunch; I can take it when I go shopping.

11:00 a.m. The kitchen is clean, I have my list, and I have Lindsey's book. I'd better get going, since the day is flying by and I prefer to have all my running around done before lunch. I wish I'd had time to get the bathroom and living room clean this morning, too. I'll tell the kids to do it when they get home.

11:15 a.m. I'm at the store: 7 gallons of milk—I'll have to come back in a few days and get more; three packages of cereal; four pounds of cheese; a few canned goods (maybe 20 cans); some chicken, beef, hamburger; 30 pounds of fresh veggies; about 15 pounds of fresh fruit; odds and ends. And, oh yeah! I'm out of flour. (How did I let that happen?)

12:15 p.m. I'm in the check-out lane. And I'm starving for lunch!

12:45 p.m. Home again, home again. Can I wait to bring in the groceries until after lunch? It's 40 degrees outside—it'll probably be OK. I go into the kitchen only to realize that there's no bread and I forgot to buy any. Oh, man! Now what'll I have for lunch?

1:10 p.m. I found some good leftovers—I'd rather have that than a sandwich any time. And with lunch inside of me and the kitchen straightened up again I can get back to the groceries. I start hauling them into the house, tripping over Tucker every time I go in or out the door, or up or down the stairs. Dumb dog.

1:20-1:30-ish. I start putting the groceries on the shelves and in the fridge. Shoot! I forgot about the frozen veggies; well, they're probably OK. And, dang. I've got to clean the fridge—the shelves are looking pretty grimy. Another day.

2:15-ish. The groceries are all put away. Now . . . do I start mixing the bread dough or just forget it? A little clock math: If I start mixing it now it'll be ready to start raising around 2:40. Raise for an hour . . . that means I'd have to shape it by 3:40. I won't be back from picking up the kids until 4:00, but that's OK. But then I'll have to start making dinner. What's for dinner? Oven-fried chicken. I guess I won't be baking bread this afternoon.

2:30 p.m. Since I'm not baking I can take a little break—reading, blogging, or maybe re-balancing my accounts since I went shopping this morning. But when I sit down I realize that I'm about to pee my pants. Wow. Have I even been in the bathroom since first thing this morning? Well I've really got to go to the bathroom now. No wonder I wake up thirty times a night—I'm making up for what I miss during the day.

3:00 p.m. Time to go get the kids. I get to the school by . . .

3:10 p.m. Right on time! And I wait. And wait.

3:25 p.m. Everybody in? All seven of my kids? The DeArmann's? Good. Let's go. We drive off and take Jacob and Alyssa home. Then we turn around and go get Benjamin from his school. He's in the van by 3:50.

4:00 p.m. We're home! Time to start issuing orders: "Change out of your school clothes . . . and put them away! Meet me back in the kitchen so I can boss you around. Find your library books—tonight's library night. Clean the living room. Your bedroom is a wreck—clean it!"

4:20 p.m. Now I can get started on dinner. What to have with fried chicken? We'll go the KFC way and have mashed potatoes and a salad. Maybe a hot veggie. As I work on dinner, kids periodically come up to talk to me about school, about scouts, or ask where to put the paper they found in the living room. They throw field-trip notes at me to be signed, or important school notes that I'm supposed to read. They still haven't gotten the message that I really can't read or sign papers when my hands are covered with flour and chicken-goo.

5:00 p.m. I wonder when Bruce will get home. I wonder, why does it take so dang long to make dinner every night? Hmmmm. Two whole chickens to be breaded and baked, a big salad, a 2-quart pot full of mashed potatoes . . . and do I really want a cooked veggie that badly? Why does it take so long?

6:00 p.m. At last! The kids have cleared and set the table, dinner's ready . . . where's Bruce? I save him a plate, we have a prayer, and dig in. When I sit down I realize that I'm totally exhausted.

6:10 p.m. The kids have just about finished eating. Why does it take two hours to cook dinner and ten minutes to eat it? And now Bruce is coming in. I sit with him and finish my dinner while he eats his.

6:30 p.m. I call the assigned children to clear the table and wash the dishes tonight. "And please wipe the table and counters when you're through. And don't forget to wash the pans." I also send the rest of the kids to finish gathering the library books.

7:15 p.m. The table and counters haven't been washed, but if we don't go to the library now we won't be back by bed time. At least the dishwasher is running. We pile into the van and head off to the library.

7:50 p.m. I've finally rounded up all the kids from the far corners of the library and they're all assaulting me for their library cards (which are always in my wallet for safe-keeping). While I'm trying to check out my books, they come up one by one and hand me their cards. Do I have all of them? And all the kids too?

8:00 p.m. We're in the van and headed back home.

8:10 p.m. "Go get ready for bed!" Bruce and I put on our jammies and collapse on the couch to start a movie. Mistake. We'll never get the kids to bed on time.

8:50 p.m. Well, family prayer is only 20 minutes late tonight. Hugs, good-nights, and send the kids to bed. Start the movie again.

9:00 p.m. Half of the kids are out of bed watching our movie with us. Do we fight it or ignore it? We make a half-hearted attempt to send them back to bed.

9:25 p.m. I've fallen asleep in front of the movie.

9:45 p.m. Bruce turns off the movie and we all go to bed. Why is it that taking out my contacts and brushing my teeth wake me right up? And now I'm thinking over the day. My room is a mess; I washed that laundry but never even dried it; I didn't work on that sewing project.
Did I get anything done today?

10:00 p.m. I say my prayers and lie down. Oh, it feels good to be in my bed; it's almost worth being really tired just for this. I start reading my book.

10:09 p.m. I'm asleep with my book on my face. Maybe getting ready for bed doesn't wake me up so much after all.

10:12 p.m. Put away my book; turn off my lamp; kiss Bruce good night. Is this the first kiss we've had all day? Still . . . just a kiss tonight, please.

10:15 p.m. Sleep, sweet sleep.

11:50 p.m. Got to go to the bathroom. My bladder must be the size of a grain of salt!

2:30 a.m. Bathroom . . . again?!

OK. I don't do exactly this every single day. On the days that I don't have a major shopping trip I might do this instead: Run to the store for the two things I forgot the day before; actually bake the bread; do some sewing that I'd promised to do for a friend. Some days I teach piano lessons; go to Relief Society meetings; drive kids to various activities. Sometimes I squeeze in time to run errands for other family members. Sometimes I can blog too. :-)

Twenty-four hours in the life of Loralee North.

Kiss and Tell

In honor of our 20th wedding anniversary, which was this past week on March 2, I'm going to tell you what Bruce and I did on the first night of our honeymoon trip:

Bruce and I, being kids, decided we would honeymoon in Los Angeles and go to Disneyland together. We borrowed my mom's car—which we thought would survive the trip better than Bruce's '69 Cougar—and drove away. That first night we stopped at the Peppermill in Mesquite, NV (which, by the way, was a new—and almost the only—resort there at the time). So we got a little room, and I went to draw a bath and slip into something a little more comfortable. While I was in the bathroom, Bruce was in the bedroom getting ready for bed. After a minute or so I could tell that he was a little frustrated so I stepped out to see what was wrong. It turns out that he forgot to bring something very important: his contact-lens removing tool.

When Bruce first started wearing contacts, he was given this little suction-cup thing that would pull his lens off of his eyeball. The idea was that he could use it until he learned to blink the lenses out of his eyes, but he just got used to using the suction cup all the time. And now here we were, in Nevada, and he didn't have it. He tried and tried to get his contact lenses out, but to no avail. Pretty soon I was there trying to help. I was poking my fingers around in his eyes, and pulling on his eyelids, and doing what I could to help get the lenses out. No good. We both tried and tried and tried, but couldn't get those lenses out of his eyes. We worked at it for nearly 45 minutes, and we were both getting more daring about how I touched him, but no luck. Finally, during a brief rest, Bruce had a thought: He was used to using suction to get the lenses out of his eyes; what if he got a drinking straw and I sucked the lenses out?

OK. I can totally understand that this is not how he wanted to spend the first night of our honeymoon. (Me either!) But that straw idea convinced me that he'd gone over the edge; that he'd lost his marbles. Still, we were both tired and frustrated and neither of us could think of a better solution. So Bruce went off to the bar and asked the nice bartender for a straw, and then came back with a fat, red drinking straw. He gave it to me and said, "Put one end in your mouth, then center the other end on my contact and then suck." I told him he was crazy, but I figured we'd already tried everything else. What else could I do?

So I've got this red straw in my mouth, and I'm looking down it's length into Bruce's eyeball. And here was Bruce's perspective: He could see my face and the straw in my mouth with one eye, and with the other eye he had a bird's-eye view straight up the straw and into my mouth. I began the procedure with much trepidation; put the straw in place and sucked on it. And . . .

It worked! He says my eyes got wide, and I looked really surprised, and with the straw still in my mouth I squealed, "Ooooo!" and dropped the lens into his waiting hand to be cleaned and put away for the night. And we both laughed and laughed. Then the other eye. Ah, sweet success! Oh, relief! And lots of giggling.

That's how we removed Bruce's contact lenses every night of our honeymoon. When we got back home he practiced—and became very good at—blinking them out of his eyes.

And that is the story of our first honeymoon night—or at least as much as you get to hear about it. ;-)

Margaret Louise White North 1945 - 2010

My mother-in-law passed away at 10:25 p.m. last Saturday evening, January 16, 2010. We knew it was coming, but that doesn't lessen our sadness. She was too young and it was too quick and she belongs with us.

I cried all day yesterday. I woke up OK, and then after a few minutes I just started crying. We went to church, and during Sacrament Meeting do you think we got to sing Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel, or Shall the Youth of Zion Falter? Nooo. We sang songs like Where Can I Turn for Peace? and Come, Follow Me. And we heard talks on Matthew 11:28-30: Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.

Church was not the place to be to stop my crying; I should have gone to play tennis instead. [above left, Mom's obituary]

After Sacrament Meeting was over, Bruce taught the Gospel Doctrine class (on the creation) and then I taught Relief Society (on "our heavenly family"). Our ward members got to hear, and see, more than enough crying from the Norths yesterday.

We went to be with the family last night. Before this last illness, Mom often felt very tired and spent a lot of time in her room even when we went to visit. And for the past month, every time we visited the house she was in the hospital. But now, even with Dad still there, and Brad and his family living there, and John, too, the house feels kind of empty. Maybe it's just the heaviness of our hearts that makes it feel so.

I am surprised by how very sad I feel. I mean, I love Mom and I knew I'd be sad, but I am so very sad right now. I know she must feel better to be freed from a body that was so sick; I know she's with her family who have passed on, and I know we will see her again. She does belong with us; we will be with her again. I know this.

But we will miss her; I grieve for my loss—even if it is temporary—I grieve for Bruce, who has lost his mother; I grieve for our brother John, with no wife to console him; I grieve for little grandchildren who won't know this grandma; and I grieve for Dad's loneliness too.

We will miss her.

This is one of my favorite pictures of Margaret. She is holding
her first grandbaby, Michael, on the day he was born.

Hard Times

Bruce and I spent this afternoon with his mom, at the hospital.

Just before Thanksgiving Margaret (Bruce's mother) spent 13 days in the hospital, when she was diagnosed with a lung disease called Bronchiolitis Obliterans. She was able to be home for Thanksgiving Day and seemed to be doing well enough, all things considered; she was pretty cheerful despite having to stay reclined and needing an oxygen machine.

But on December 16 she was having such a difficult time breathing that she was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. She has been in the ICU since then. Mom has been declining rather than responding to treatments, and so last week they did some biopsies to see what else might be wrong. It looks as if she also has cancer. And on top of all that, last night she started having heart arrhythmia; at first we thought she'd had some minor heart attacks, but apparently it's not the same thing. On and off, throughout the day, her heart rhythm will be . . . not right.

Mom has had a tube in her throat, for a little over two weeks now, helping her to breathe; she needs to be fed by a tube that goes into her nose and clear down to her intestines. It's hard to see her lying in the hospital, with so many tubes and I.V's in her, and so many monitors all around. She is so weak and is having so much pain. She's been heavily sedated, but every now and then you can see by her expression that she is in pain. It is very sad.

I've been part of the North family for 25 years. Bruce's youngest sister, Amanda, was only five years old when we started dating; I feel like I've grown up with them and always been a part of their family. I really love Margaret. It's a hard time.

Candid Camera . . . or is it Thrill-Cam?

Hmmm.

Hmmmm.



Who do you think took these pictures?

Michael

Well, I started to talk about Michael a long time ago and never got past his birth story. And since then he's asked me a few times if I was ever going to finish writing about him.

Probably not. Your first child is everything new; makes you realize that you're not as smart as you thought you were; makes you wonder if you really know how to do anything at all. It will never be finished.

I used to get so upset when people said my baby was bald. Hmmm.

Michael is very smart. He was using ten-word sentences before he was two years old, and he had (has) an amazing memory. One time when he was about 20-months old we were driving along the freeway and he started telling us about a billboard that had been on that same freeway, but had been changed about six months earlier. He's still too smart for his own good (certainly too smart for my own good) and if he puts his smarts to good use he will go far.

Two of my favorite little-Michael stories:

For Michael's first Christmas I took him shopping with me. We looked at toys and I showed him a popper--you know, those little push-toys with the balls inside that pop around like popcorn when you push the toy across the floor. He loved it! Every time we went to look at toys at the store he would grab one and push it back and forth. So one day Bruce and I took him to the mall with us so we could finish up our Christmas shopping; Michael could just barely walk if we were holding his hands. As we walked past the toy store we saw a whole rack of those poppers just outside the entrance. Michael had been walking with Bruce, and they headed to the poppers. Michael grabbed one, dropped to all fours and crawled away down the center of the mall as fast as he could, pushing the popper in front of him--to the delight of the last-minute-Christmas-shopping crowd. He loved those poppers!

Check out the look on that baby's face!

When Michael was about two-an-a-half Bruce was getting ready to graduate from Salt Lake Community College. One day we went with Bruce to the school because he had some paperwork he needed to get done (and we were going to go shopping or visiting or something afterward). Well by the time Bruce was close to finishing up, Michael was getting a little bored. So I told him, "Daddy's almost done--let's go beat him up the stairs!" So Michael ran over to Bruce, started kicking and hitting him, and then ran up the stairs. I was a little shocked, until I realized that Michael had just "beat up Daddy" and then beat him up the stairs as well.

Michael with "soccer-man" on graduation day

Michael was our only baby for three years, and I think younger siblings were kind of a shock to him. Suddenly the attention was split two ways; three; four . . . But he's far outgrown the shock, and his little brothers and sisters like him a lot. Within this past month Michael has taken three of his siblings out to the movies. And Jessica will go to him for help in my absence (even when Bruce is home.)

Michael makes a plaster relief picture of Anubis preparing to remove the brains from a dead pharaoh

Michael is a great help to me; he keeps an eye on the kids and the house while I run errands, and sometimes he even cleans up around home--voluntarily, without me asking first! How's that for a teenage boy? He's a deep-thinker, and can argue any point until I almost could agree with him. He'd make a great lawyer. But what he loves is creating, and it's fun to see his artwork and hear the ideas he comes up with.

Yes, my baby Michael is a great guy!

Kaylie was Baptized June 6!

Saturday was a special day for Kaylie. She was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

Bruce and Kaylie practice "the dunk," in the living room.

We were the first family to arrive at the church (which is a first for us!) Kaylie is all ready to go.

Bruce and Kaylie, dressed in white.

Congratulations Kaylie!

Kaylie is such a sweet, beautiful, good girl. I am very proud of her.

First Date

Many moons ago, when I first started this blog and I was telling Piano Stories, I threatened to tell about my first date with Bruce. So, here's the story:

It actually starts in January or February of 1985. Bruce and I were really good friends, and we spent a lot of time chatting with each other. I kind of thought I'd like to go on a real date with him, but I was too shy to ask a guy—even a good friend—on a date. Anyway, on that day in January or February we were talking about the upcoming Senior Ball. I asked Bruce if he had a date yet (a good, broad hint is as close as I ever came to asking someone out. I only learned much later that guys just don't really pick up on good, broad hints.) He said he hadn't decided who to ask to the dance. "Who were you thinking about asking?" And he said he'd made a list of girls. He even told me some of the names on the list. This was my big chance to say, "How about me?" But I didn't. He ended up taking someone who was not me. :-(

Fast-forward to April of 1985.

Now the Junior Prom was coming up. Again, I hoped for an invitation from Bruce—but, no. Time passed, and nothing. We were just high-school friends, and I would graduate and never go on a date with him at all. Pretty soon it was Prom night. Oh well. [photo left: Kearns High School]

My parents were going to a wedding reception the night of the Prom (April 26) and I had resigned myself to a night of watching TV with my little sister, Denise. But then, one hour before the dance, I got a call—from Bruce! And he asked if I'd like to go to the dance with him! Would I! I told him I'd have to ask my mom first; she said yes, as I was sure she would, and then I gave him a definite "yes." Could I be ready in about an hour? Yep! "Where's your house?" I gave him the address, instructions to get there from the high-school, and told him, "it's the house with the really bright porch light." (I found out later that he thought the porch-light instruction was kind of weird, bordering on stupid; but he saw what I meant when he got there.)

Mom's front porch has a really bright light.

After we hung up I raced to the grocery store for some really important thing—probably either panty-hose or mascara—and I raced back home to shower and get dressed up. Fortunately I had a few nice, formal dresses—one from my sister Melanie's wedding reception, one from Jr. High commencement a few years earlier, and one from the church's Sesquecentennial Ball a few years before that. They all fit well; I chose the commencement dress, which was my favorite. And I was ready when he came to pick me up an hour later.

Wow! We look like babies in this picture! And kind of geeky too.
Aren't I brave to post this pic?

Here is the story behind his asking me out one hour before the dance:

Bruce had thought he'd have to work on April 26, and didn't ask anyone out. Turns out he had the night off—oh, man! So that afternoon he went and watched his friend David Kenley play a church basketball game and then went home with him. David was getting ready for the dance, and Bruce was sitting in the Kenley's livingroom feeling sorry for himself. But then David's sister, Kristen, came in and asked him if he was going to the dance. Bruce told her his sad story, and she said, "You have to go to the Junior Prom—you're a Junior! Isn't there anyone you know who doesn't have a date yet?" Bruce said there was one girl he liked, and he didn't think she was going. So Kristen asked who it was. When he told her my name she said, "She's in my ward!" and got him the ward directory. So I got the unexpected, but gladly received phone-call. (Kristen and David also told him it was easy to find my house—just look for the one with the bright porch light!)

Well, he came and picked me up and we drove to the dance. Now, believe it or not, I have a terror of dancing—-I mean, ballroom dance-style dancing. Because I don't really know how, so I feel kind of stupid (never mind that none of the other kids knew how to dance either). So I kept Bruce talking, and we wandered all around the reception center, inside and outside, and we had a lot of fun. Finally they started playing a big-band song that might be danceable (even for me)—In the Mood—and we walked out to the dance floor. [photo above: Jr. Prom reception center]

But, oh, horror! I felt the zipper of my dress pop, and it fell open to the small of my back. So I quickly excused myself to the bathroom where I spent a few frantic minutes wondering how I could explain this to Bruce without dying from embarrassment, and how we could get out to the car without losing my dress in front of half of my peers. But, oh, joy! It was a self-fixing zipper; zip it down and then back up again and all was well. Whew!

We enjoyed the rest of the evening at the dance, and when it was over we went to Leatherby's with Bruce's friends. David kept looking at me funny; I felt like I must be losing my dress again, but probably he was just amazed that I went to the dance with only an hour's notice. But it was fun! And it was the start of . . . something more than a beautiful friendship.

A short epilogue: About two months after the Prom, Bruce and I went to Lagoon (the local amusement park) and we saw the Kenleys there. Kristen said to me, "I can't believe you went to the Prom with him with only an hour's notice!" Wait! Whose idea was it? (But it was a good idea.)
And I still have the dress; it is yellowed with old age, and I'll never wear it again, but Bruce won't let me get rid of it. Awwww. Isn't he sweet (in kind of a silly, sentimental way)?

Lindsey models my aged dress.
It's almost a perfect fit—doesn't she look pretty in it?

19 Years

Last Monday, March 2, was our 19th wedding anniversary. My marriage to my charming, thoughtful, fun-loving, charismatic, funny, handsome Bruce is the absolute biggest source of happiness in my life. There is nothing I like better than to be with him.

So, I thought I'd try to list the major events of our married years:

1st year, 1990: Well, we were newlyweds; how much better can it get?

2nd year, 1991: We were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple. Soon we were expecting our first baby.
3rd year, 1992: We had our first baby, Michael!
4th year, 1993: My parents left on their mission to Portugal. We moved in with Bruce's Grandma White just weeks before Grandpa White died.
5th year, 1994: Bruce graduated from SLCC with an Associate's Degree in communications and video production. We moved into my mom's house. I am expecting a second baby.
6th year, 1995: Jason is born! Mom and Dad return from Portugal. Bruce and I make a decision and a HUGE leap of faith and move to Tennessee so Bruce can get a Bachelor's Degree in audio engineering. Bruce's Grandpa Ward died.

7th year, 1996: Bruce is in school at MTSU. He delivers pizzas for Papa John's at night to support the family. Lindsey is born! We buy a trailer-home (it is the same price as renting an apartment, but with the benefits of being our own place and having a yard for the kids to play in).
8th year, 1997: More schooling. I am pregnant with baby number four.
9th year, 1998: Brandon is born! Bruce takes me on the Date of the Century. He graduates in December! We sell our trailer, pack up and move back home to Utah! Bruce's Grandma Ward died. I think maybe I might be pregnant again. (This was a big year!)

My Dad's a Grad!

10th year, 1999: Bruce gets a job as a sound engineer for Acclaim Entertainment, a video-game company. Ryan is born!

11th year, 2000: The world as we all know it does not come to an end. We buy our own, real, non-movable house! Bruce gets laid-off from Acclaim two days after we make our first house payment. He starts working nights for Fairchild Semiconductor while he looks for something better.
12th year, 2001: We decide to home-school our kids. Kaylie is born! Bruce gets laid-off from Fairchild Semiconductor. He starts working for ARUP Laboratories.
13th year, 2002: Rachel is born—what a surprise she was!
14th year, 2003: Jessica is born! (We really need to slow this down.)
15th year, 2004: Bruce starts in Primerica. We decide to send the kids back to public schools.
16th year, 2005: Bruce decides to work on his Primerica business full-time; it's harder than we thought. Bruce's Grandma White died this year.
17th year, 2006: Life just goes on. Good and bad. I'm glad we are together. Bruce starts working as a substitute-teacher; he loves working with the little kids. We get our kids enrolled in charter schools—we like this MUCH better than regular public school. 18th year, 2007: Bruce gets a long-term sub job that ends up lasting the entire year.
19th year, 2008: Bruce teaches 1st grade on an alternate license this year. He loves the kids, and the kids and their parents love him. But we discover that he earned more as a long-term sub than he does as a full-time teacher. (Go figure!) We win, and lose, a trip to the Bahamas.

I guess we've had some ups and downs; all kinds of happinesses and all kinds of stresses. (Who doesn't?) But it is good, and we have continued to grow closer and closer. I love Bruce with all my heart, and he dotes on me so much it is almost silly. Our marriage is our safe, joyful place; the place we turn for peace, renewal, happiness, and sometimes just out-and-out silliness. We hear so many people say that a marriage is hard work. We have never felt that way. If it is work, it is delightful work. What can be better than having your very best friend to tell everything to every night, and to wake up with every morning; to work and play with every day? I am so glad that we will be together forever!

What will the 20th year, 2009, bring?