Tonight when we came back from the hot tub, the snow was sparkling.
I had forgotten how it does that.
Like the world is made out of glitter.
Speaking of sparkling, Savannah got a video camera for Christmas and has been delightedly documenting our every move. Here is her first video.
And just for the record, it snowed all day again today. Two feet of fresh glitter.
The boys are on the floor playing legos.
Olivia has her earbuds in, celebrating her Christmas with Taylor Swift and the boys from One Direction.
Savannah is making electronic cupcakes and David is programming his new running heart rate monitor.
We are snug and happy in the lap of a huge mountain.
A mountain we were nearly lost on forever just yesterday.
We took the kids skiing and after getting everyone's ski boots and skis on (surely the hardest part) we were making remarkably good progress. The girls were independently skiing and taking the lifts by themselves. Caleb was competent, if timid, and Ethan was wildly careening and crashing, but happiest when tearing as fast as he could down the icy slopes.
It was snowing lightly all morning, but after lunch, conditions deteriorated quickly. The flakes got bigger and faster and the wind started blowing. I could no longer see the girls skiing down the mountain from the lift. We decided to head for home.
We were on an unfamiliar mountain, but eventually figured out there were two ways home: the gondola or the "short cut." The gondola was a gentle enclosed ride to the bottom. But since the short cut involved skiing to the bottom, and the kids were doing so well, and we had already paid the lift fees, we decided to get our money's worth and ski down. How hard could it be? We'd just follow the green trails all the way to the bottom.
Trouble was, pretty soon we were lost. There was so much snow and wind we couldn't read the trail signs or the map and even the green trails became treacherous with all that new powder.
There was crying. (The kids.)
There was screaming. (Me.)
There was gnashing of teeth. (David.)
There was fervent prayer from all of us: Get us off this mountain.
At one point Savannah lost control and ended up in a huge snow drift with so much powder that she lost one ski and both poles. Only her head was sticking out. I laughed so hard I couldn't breathe while she screamed. She saw me laughing and started laughing herself, until she had to dig four feet down to find her ski. We never did find one of her poles.
Olivia went somersaulting down a particularly steep section of mountain (who knows where we were at that point--green or blue or black diamond, all we could see was white) and lost both skis and had to try putting them back on in the powder at a 65 degree angle.
The ski patrol came by several times to ask us if we needed help, but apparently they only send rescue snowmobiles to help the bleeding and broken and since we were only desperate and in over our heads we were on our own.
Unfortunately, when you are in this situation, on a foreign mountain, in blizzard-like conditions, with four panicked and inexperienced skiers with you, there is only one way home:
Down.
A long way down.
At the lowest point (emotionally but not vertically) we were huddled together on the mountain. I was sitting in the snow. Too tired from digging for skis, and trying to get them back on the kids' feet, and pulling kids out of snow drifts, and dumping out boots and gloves, and trying to bully children down the mountain, to stand any longer.
The youngest two were crying.
Caleb was trying to put a positive spin on things, "Well, we'll never forget this Christmas Eve."
The ski patrol came by one last time. "Are you in trouble?"
David just stared at him. Because, um, yes.
Olivia asked, "How much farther to the bottom?"
"Only a mile or two. You're almost there."
Olivia started weeping.
David gave everyone a pep talk. There were protests. I put things more starkly. "Unless you want to die on this mountain, there is only one way off it. Get up and put your skis on. Now!" I could be a motivational speaker.
Needless to say, eventually we found the bottom.
All of us in one piece, er...six pieces.
We only lost one ski pole and believe that to be a supreme triumph, considering.
Funny enough, the kids were so delighted to be down that they are only looking back on the whole thing with fond reminiscing, as if fear of imminent death and blinding snow with all that screaming and crying only added to the fun. By dinner, everything was hilarious.
Merry Christmas, from us, alive and well, far over the misty mountains cold.
Phew.
So, how did the election turn out?
Seriously, though. How does two months go by and I not even notice? I am too busy by half. Wait. That doesn't even make sense.
Well.
Just be happy that you don't have to look at Mr. Romney anymore.
It occurred to me last night as I was drifting off that I had just sent out my Christmas cards with my blog address at the bottom and that our friends all over the world were possibly going to click on to see more of my cleverness only to find the election was still going on.
Sort of like salt in the wound.
So I thought I'd better post.
Olivia and Ethan are on their way home. I just heard the garage door. It's a half day and our holiday is about to officially commence. Caleb and Savannah of course go to real school and won't be home until after three and then party will really get going. I can hardly believe we made it throught the semester. The blessing of this tender mercy has been on the minds and lips of every prayer in our house the last few days. We made it. Thank you.
Now we have big plans for late nights and later mornings, puzzles and games, and kissing in the middle of the day.
Nothing could be better.
Merry Christmas.
Do you have plans for tonight?
David does.
It's the second presidential debate.
I know. I'm excited too.
I just can't wait to hear the same questions and the same answers all over again.
But wait.
This time it's town hall style.
What? Holy cow, that changes everything.
Now I'm totally excited.
Because different people will be asking the same questions that the same two guys will be answering in the same way.
Oh yeah, we're kickin' it town hall style tonight.
But what I want to know is if any of this is really necessary. I mean, I could do all the answers for them at this point. In my sleep.
What is left to suss out?
Do people really not know who they are going to vote for?
I don't believe it. It's not that hard. Do you want more or less of what we've had for four years? See? Easy.
I want to know who all these "undecided" voters are and ask them why they can't get their junk together.
Get your junk together, people, so the rest of us can get on with our lives.
I thought about having a tailgating party for the debate. You know, invite the neighbors, break out the grill, use red and blue paper plates, and napkins that say "Power to the People." Maybe my neighbors will bring beer because I am pretty sure I cannot do another one of these without alcohol.
What? Too far?
Not far enough, CIM says.
If I was at that townhall tonight, and Candy Crowley handed that microphone to me, here are the burning questions I'd ask the candidates:
Why are there no good designers on Project Runway this season?
Are skinny jeans actually an ironic joke that make us all look fat?
When is Starbucks starting up their salted caramel flavor again and what do we have to do to get that to be a year-round thing?
How does Connie Britton look that good all the time?
Is it wrong that some guy has the energy and determination to get himself 24 miles above the earth and I have trouble getting the energy and determination to get myself up 24 stairs to put the clothes away?
Should I join my ward bookclub or is my eventual disappointment inevitable?
Is using eventual and inevitable in the same sentence redundant?
Can I use the shrimp I didn't use last week, but put in the refrigerator to defrost, or is that just asking for trouble?
What do you think we should wear for our upcoming family picture? Keep in mind that the last official family picture we took was four years ago when one of you took office, so this is most likely going to be on the wall for some time. The voters cannot afford a mistake.
Should I curl my hair or wear it straight for the aforementioned family picture? Should I color it the same color as Connie Britton's?
Forget that last one. That's just silly.
Or is it?
Regardless, as Fox News let us know this morning, there are only twenty days until the election, and then David will be all mine again. And for the record, I am really hoping Romney wins tonight. Because when Romney gets lucky, we all get lucky.
What? Too far?
Yes, says RIM.
Well, we lost.
We cheered. We rose and shouted. We wore black to match the boys' jerseys.
But we lost anyway.
The truth is though, it didn't really matter to any of us except Ethan and David.
Mostly we were just thrilled to be in that beautiful stadium in the mountains, surrounded by crisp air and fond memories. There is no place I'd rather spend a Saturday afternoon in October.
The fall weather was perfect. Just cold enough to pink our cheeks and warrant sweatshirts and lap quilts, though it must be noted that many of the Utahns around us were in short sleeves. We, however, wore our gloves and regretted not bringing a beanie for Ethan's ears.
The Cougars scored three touchdowns and a field goal and we went hoarse yelling our praise.
My favorite parts: 60,000 heads bowed in prayer at the start of the game, hearing my children lustily sing the BYU fight song, looking at David's handsome profile framed by the mountains, and the cheering--the roars and groans--that echo off the ancient Rockies. Those giant hills are on our side.
After the game we went bowling, browsed through Blickenstaffs, and ate dinner around a round table with flavored lemonades, where Ethan and David commiserated over a few freak plays in the fourth quarter that turned the game in the Beavers' favor.
Savannah asked why they call it "homecoming." Someday she will understand. For me, it truly is coming home. Back to the beginning. Back to the start. These mountains are the cradle of my adult life, and will always be home.
This afternoon, just at gloaming, we took David's favorite drive. The mountains were covered in a bright blush of orange and red and the clouds were low and thick, as if the flaming, changing leaves had actually caught fire in the sunset. The higher we climbed up Timpanogos, the thicker the clouds became, until the aspens at the top looked like ghosts in the mist, their black knots a thousand evil eyes keeping watch from the edge of the road.
It was eerie. It was breathtaking. It was bewitching and enchanting.
Caleb and Ethan stretched their arms out the windows to touch the cloud and imagined they were hobbits, climbing the mountain closer and closer to Smog's lair, right into the belly of the beast.
Savannah clutched her seatbelt and asked David over and over to be careful.
Olivia sighed about how it looked just like being inside a book.
David, who has driven this road dozens of times, reminisced at every bend in the road, recalling the picnic here, the nap there, the test he studied for while he sat in the sun on that lovely outcropping of granite.
As for me, I tried to memorize it all, to write it in my heart, and engrave it on my bones. That when these leaves have fallen and disintegrated into the dirt, when these giant boulders have been weathered by the wind and water into dust, when this majestic mountain itself has risen and crumbled and been swallowed by the earth, this moment will still remain.
The first time I drove this road with David I could not have predicted this other moment, more than eighteen years later--with my children's dreams and fears and fantasies swirling around in the car with us, mixing with our throbbing memories--and yet they seemed to be one and the same. That first drive inevitably lead to this one, like two points on the same road, a road laid out for us long ago.
I craned to see the bends and climbs and views ahead, but it was all fog and clouds and dragon smoke. I settled back and looked at David, content to sit next to him, as the road continued its slow and beautiful revelation of our mysterious future.
My Basis kids, Caleb and Savannah, have the whole week off. Believe me, they've earned it. They've done the work of an entire year in just nine weeks. And then some.
My other two, trudged reluctantly back to school today, as I pumped them full of promises of a couple more days off at the end of the week.
Minus David, we all spent the day yesterday playing round after round of Bang! and eating the weekend leftovers. This morning Caleb and Savannah slept blessedly late and then we played a few more hands and an opening match of Caleb's new game, Power Grid. Then we went for a late lunch and a lazy trip through Barnes and Noble, mostly just to browse. It was a near perfect way to spend the day, and I feel nothing but lucky to have them to myself for the week. Believe me, I've earned it too. As amazing as I am, chauffeuring and cheerleading and championing has worn me thin. It is not to much to say that for the past month, the thought of this glorious week in my future has been the only thing getting me out of bed in the morning.
Tonight my three oldest have gone to the temple. It's Savannah's first time inside. When I was ironing Caleb's shirt, I overheard Olivia reassuring Savannah not to worry, that she would show her what to do. And she will. David is on his way home from surgery committee. He had a terrible day, but I will cheer him up because I could not have had a better day. I even managed to wash and fold the laundry in between my turns on the game board. I was fun and efficient. A near impossible combination.
This morning as I was sorting laundry and doing dishes and picking up pens and highlighters and General Conference notes, I found a treasure: Ethan's careful summary of each talk. Succinct little sentences of what he heard. They were a revelation, sweet and tender and unaffected. Then under the notes from President Eyring's talk, Ethan had written:
President Henry B. Eyring talked about the temple and how you can't see Jesus Christ inside the temple.
Which probably wasn't quite the message President Eyring wanted to convey.
I smiled. And wondered if there were any talks that I had misinterpreted as well. What a job those men have!
Speaking of difficult jobs, mine was a very good one to have on a day like today.
Don't you wish I had something to say? Something funny? Something clever? Dare you hope, something worth reading?
Ya, me too.
I've figured out that Monday night is the perfect time to write, while I wait for my kids to finish practicing Mozart's 40th Symphony with their orchestra. I have a couple of hours to kill, with no one to interrupt or nagging laundry to protest.
Perfect.
Trouble is, my inspiration has not coincided with my calendar.
Pity, that.
What's left is a recitation of our strange-but-true weekend. (Sure to be less than brilliant. If you give up here, I'm not going to say you made the wrong decision.)
I had a mild-to-moderate breakdown on Thursday night. (David would definitely characterize it as more moderate, bordering on complete lunacy, but he's not telling this story.) Anyway, by the time Friday morning was upon us, I think he had given up all hope of a decent weekend.
(This is not the strange part.)
After I dropped the kids off to make their way through the final day of the quarter, I went to the gym. (Again, contrary to popular opinion, this is also not the strange part.) But instead of the treadmill or the Zumba class, I went to yoga, to try and get my brain or my hormones or my chakras in line. While I was in downward dog, I realized I needed my toes painted. (Look how focused I am in yoga! I am so good at so many things!) So, uncharacteristically, I went to get a pedicure. The girl at the salon said "Do you want a manicure too?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Okay."
And while she was doing my manicure and we were sitting face-to-face, she said, "Do you want your eyebrows waxed?" I think if anyone asks you that question, it's just like if someone asks you if you want a mint. They're trying to tell you something. And yes, you want one.
So what else could I say? "Yes."
And while she was waxing my eyebrows, she said, "Do you want me to do your lip too."
You got it.
It was a strange morning.
But I did feel better.
Strangely so. Even David noticed the change and found something a little odd when he kissed me at the end of the day. "What happened?" he asked.
On Saturday between sessions of General Conference we ran to Old Navy to get fleece coats for our weekend in Utah. While we were there I tried on (gasp!) and bought (shock and awe!) a pair of skinny jeans. I know, downright eerie. Who knows what possessed me, as normally I don't like my clothes to actually touch me. But there you go. It's fair to say that by the end of the weekend, I was practically unrecognizable.
And then, perhaps strangest of all, on Saturday night, after priesthood session, all the other kids were at friends' houses, so Caleb and David and I went for sushi. And over chef special rolls and wonton soup we talked about the new missionary age announced that morning. And what it would mean to us.
My sister Rachel had texted me that morning: How does it feel to have just lost a year?
Strange, indeed.
(And yes, to answer your question, that is an enormous amount of sushi for three people. We strangely, notoriously, invariably overorder. Saturday night was no exception.)
It has not escaped my notice that three of the last five posts have contained numbered lists.
(Be assured that your disappointment is no match for my shame.)
Regardless, somehow today turned into October. Amazing really, as I thought September and all it's horrors might never end. If I wanted to, I could make quite the numbered list, starting with "grrr" and ending with "ugh" and all the exhausting, soul-killing, first-quarter-back-to-school grievances in between. If I happen to find myself in purgatory at the end of all this living, mine is sure to be an eternity of September. Excruciating.
So, in a rare display of holiday spirit I dressed my mantle up in eagerness for the upcoming holiday. The kids, who know I have always downgraded Halloween to "minor holiday" status, hardly know what to make of my new-found zeal for Halloween. What can I say? October has never looked so good, with its promise of fall break and a few days of sleeping past five, fall food menus, a perpetual apple pie in my refrigerator, and six tickets to the BYU Homecoming game clipped onto my calendar. There will be fall leaves and crisp temperatures to go with the game, not to mention twenty or so uninterrupted hours in the car with my lovelies. It's nearly enough to make me weep, and more than enough to make me decorate in anticipation.
Now if only the election were already over, my life would be near perfect. Please Fox News, give my husband back.
Ethan,
The greatest
Winner of trophies
Raider of lost arks
The discoverer of
Alien skulls
And the holiest of grails.