The Seven of Us

Jared and I were on our way home from the temple yesterday when Caleb called.  He told us that Isaac had been hit with a baseball bat and needed stitches.  A couple hours later Isaac and I were in the ER getting his poor face taken care of.  I'm grateful he was okay; the damage could've been much worse. Still, seeing her child like this just makes a mom feel bad.

Taylor hit a milestone last month:  Her Magic Day arrived.  The Magic Day was her passport to freedom, aka Dating and Driving.  For a girl who's felt sixteen since she was half that age, this was a big deal! Her friend Quincy purchased tickets to a rodeo months in advance. She planned her whole day around going to the rodeo with several kids from Fort Morgn. First, she showered and was off to take her driver's test in Holyoke.  I was a little worried things weren't going well when it took longer than expected, but she passed her test. She came home long enough for me to call our insurance company and then left for Sterling, where her friends picked her up and whisked her off to Greeley.  I next saw her the following day (Jared went to get her--and our vehicle--late that night).  She still looked and felt like my kid, but I knew she felt different inside.  The Magic Day will do that to a girl.   I think the flowers were her fav...

I remember pitching to Caleb when he was four and thinking, "Wow. He can really hit."  He had a good swing.  And he loved to play.  He'd beg me to pitch to him just an hour after we'd finished playing, and many days included multiple rounds of baseball.  He just couldn't get enough.  He didn't play with many toys, but from an early age, he loved balls:  big, bouncy ones; little ones, and, later, white balls with red laces.  That was ten years ago, and nothing has changed except the fact that I'm no longer Caleb's best playing partner. I'm just not tough enough. I don't throw far enough. And I certainly don't pitch well enough to challenge him. Whenever I ask Caleb what he'd like to be he replies, "A pro baseball player."  So I've started saying, "What about after that?"  and he says, "A manager."  I  suggested he'd be a good baseball statistician,  lawyer, engineer, or sports broadcaster.  Nope...

This year Isaac is the correct age to play machine pitch baseball. (In Haxtun kids play tee ball at ages 5-6, machine pitch at 7-8, and begin the Little League program with Pee Wee ball at age 9).  Because we are short kids in the 9-11 age range, he and 3 friends were moved up to play PW this summer.  Isaac is not a bad baseball player at all; in fact, as you'll read  below, he can be a very good player.  He sometimes lacks a little focus and game sense. But today, in a PW tournament game against Holyoke Green, he and his Haxtun friends played their hearts out.  In fact, they played well enough to take 3rd place in the league.  I was concerned in the first inning because Holyoke made several great plays and allowed us no runs. But we turned around and, amazingly, did the same to them. We played better than we are, even making  a triple play in one inning. Yah, a triple play:  Clayton caught a ball, threw it to third, and the 3rd baseman thre...

I'm not sure why I equated the idiom "I'm submarined" with the song "The Yellow Submarine", but that's where my title comes from.  I'm just living in the Andersen submarine.  I'm also feeling just a little sunk. We've had a couple of rough nights at our house: late nights, followed bylong nights with restless kids, coinciding with friends needing emergency help at 3:30 a.m.  And rough nights usually mean rough days.  So today, as I was dealing with my own rough day, I had to deal with multiple others who were having their own rough days.  I'll admit:  teenage girls, distraught elementary schoolers, and an overtired, overactive preschooler with no listening ears and little understanding of the way his actions affect others make a loooooong day.  Really long.  A few of these summer days have rivaled the difficult days I often had when my three-under-four were young.  For the first time in a long time, I reached into my old fil...

What do we do with: Teenage girls who get emotional Kids who need help memorizing math facts Kids who get tired & cranky (or tired & naughty) A car that thinks it needs to rest (it's being repaired) when we need it to be driven Bills we'd rather not pay A kid whose only worry about college & a mission is how he'll pay for both Apricot trees raining on our lawn A disgusting #10 can of dehydrated beans which no one likes (they were free...guess that means they could get thrown out...wow.) A hotel reservation in Lamar, CO....length of which is determined by performance in a baseball tourney Kids who are not motivated enough to do what is asked Kids who need or want money Kids who need to work more Kids who don't want to work Programs which  are unimportant,  but which we feel obligated to participate in Siblings who don't keep in touch Parents who don't keep in touch The garage sale pile We realize that most of these things are wo...

Sometimes I like to talk.  Talking helps me  figure things out.  I have a lot of one-sided conversations, and, sometimes, I talk to Jared. (I think he gets sick of hearing the same things, so I try to spare him.)   That said, sometimes I don't enjoy talking to Heavenly Father.  First of all, I'm way too distractable to offer great prayers. With a lot of effort I can say decent, sincere prayers. With monumental effort I can listen --a little--for answers.  (Luckily, I like to read, so if the answer comes in written form--in the scriptures or in my patriarchal blessing--I'm all set...at least, once I realize it's intended for me, and not someone else in the reading audience.)  I guess Heavenly Father knew we all have different abilities & styles, and I think that's why we have multiple ways of finding answers.  This weekend, he answered my prayers in a powerful way.  The process was long, and I doubt it's over, but through p...

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