The Greatest Snow (Mishaps) on Earth: Snow Tubing

My little White girls after a day of sledding in Provo more than a decade ago.

You’ll remember my experience downhill skiing (aka human bowling, aka across-hill stomping) as a 13-year-old.  I wish I had remembered it a year later because that experience should have taught me not to join the annual ski trip with my church’s youth. But I was a slow learner when it came to those sorts of things.

Look how they've grown!  (#5 has been born.)
So far, #3, my current eighth-grader, has escaped this winter
unscathed.  She does not take after her mother in that respect.
This selfie is from our New Year's Eve sledding at East Canyon.
My sister, Carolyn, was kind crazy enough to invite us to
share her vacation condo and disturb her peace for a few days.

The winter of my eighth-grade year came around and I found myself piled into another minivan on our way to the same ski resort.  This time however, I was determined to not give the bunny hill a second chance.  Instead, I convinced a few other friends that we should join those who were snow tubing.  The ski resort had a really great “hill” for this.  In plowing their road all winter, the resort had built a big berm of snow between the road and the stretches of meadow that were now blanketed in several feet of Utah powder, This sloping meadow made for a wide tubing hill.  In theory, the bank of snow protected tubers by keeping them on the meadow side, rather than on the road side.  

(Do you see where this is going?)

The rental shop was very helpful in providing all sorts of injury-inducing snow gear, so that’s where we picked up our tubes.  We would ride our snow tubes on the meadow side of the snow bank, the long hill carrying us away from the lodge, probably a quarter of a mile.  One leader would drive on the road side of the bank, pick us up at the bottom of the hill, and drive us back up to the top of the road, where we would hop on our tubes for another ride.  It really was great fun.

Imagine these rolling hills covered in snow and children sledding.

Tangent time! Next to ice skating, flying downhill on an out-of-control piece of plastic was my favorite winter activity.  My parents used to take us sledding at the Mount Ogden Golf Course.  The course crawls up the foothills of Ogden, Utah, becoming a perfect sledding site in the winter.  We used to plant our three-person toboggan at the base of the trees that line the course, load everyone on while one parent held us in place, and then race down the hill into the open, wide space below.  There was plenty of room for dozens of sledders coming down the foothills together.

#5 on a sled run at East Canyon, circa 2015

Sledding, the next generation.
This saucer wasn't built for three people, but it's a step up
from the laundry basket that carried our kids down the hill
the previous year.  I like how #4 is "buckled" in by Dad's leg.

After a few outings, my family became more sledding savvy.  In addition to our plastic toboggan and Flexible Flyer, we started bringing our tubes.  In those early years, we went sliding on the big, black tractor inner tubes that we used for floating canyon rivers in the summer.  One or two of us would climb on, avoiding the giant inflation stem, wrapping our little arms around the sides and around each other, and clinging for dear life as we screamed with exhilaration all the way down the slope until it leveled out somewhere on the tenth fairway. Then I'd call Alfie, our Golden Retriever, who would retrieve my tube's rope and drag the tube to the next sibling waiting at the top of the hill.

The year that we got the yellow waterpark tubes was special, because then we had handles and we could take on the man-made snow bumps that would launch us into the air.  I distinctly remember taking flight like this photo shows.  There was one run where my tube and I became separated in the air, but gravity brought us back together and we continued down the slope.  It was both breathtaking and intoxicating!  

Back to that fateful night with the youth.  As an experienced tuber, I was confident that the ski resort’s lengthy tubing hill would convince my friends that sitting in a plastic doughnut and handing all control over to gravity was obviously superior to racing downhill with poles and skis on which one could supposedly stop and start as desired.  My friends and I made our first tube run with no mishaps--just lots of laughs and shrieks.  Good stuff!  But fate was teasing me.

We piled with our tubes in the back of the pickup truck for our lift to the top.  (For those readers who are worried by the fact that we weren’t buckled safely in the cab, just know that this was a compromise.  Out here in the West, another winter sport, when there aren’t hills around, is to simply hitch trains of toboggans behind a truck and get pulled around icy parking lots.)  This tubing train idea caught in our brains that night, too.  At the top of the road, my friends and I lined up our tubes side-by-side, grabbing each other’s handles to attempt to go down the hill in chain formation.  The natural bulges and depressions in the meadow’s snow forced us apart as we picked up speed.  I must have hit one of those snow bumps exactly the wrong way, because it bounced my tube right to the protective berm that stood between me and the road.  I remember hitting the edge of that berm like it was a surf wave, flying into the air, and hanging onto my tube for dear life.  I did not want to lose that tube!  The tube and I both flipped over in mid air and came down on the road.  We then proceeded to slide along the asphalt for a few yards--upside down. Upside down, aka on my face.  

I don’t remember my first thought, other than being confused about how this had happened.  Why had snow tubing turned on me?  Literally.  Then I noticed that my face burned. I suppose, given my luck, I should be grateful that I didn’t land on my leader’s truck or under its tires.  The adult leader who had been driving alongside us on the road stopped and climbed out as my friends punched holed with their boots across the tubing hill to see if I had survived.  

Everyone was a little concerned, I think, by the blood and sandy gravel covering my face. Back at the ski lodge, I spent the next half hour in the bathroom with wet paper towels, picking bits of road out of my face. Once again, my snow “fun” had turned into another evening alone in the ski lodge.  As dozens of teenage skiers returned, I had the displeasure of telling my tale over and over to all who saw my face and asked, “What happened?”

One of the tamer GPK.
I never liked these cards.

I got to repeat the retelling several times at school the next day, too. It was humbling to face my peers 12 hours later with scabby road rash face. I looked pretty gross. But it turns out that in eighth grade, gross can be good. (Keep in mind, this was in the age of Garbage Pail Kids.) My face earned me a lot of attention that day, including from the boy I then had a crush on. He seemed particularly impressed by my toughness, as evidenced by his compliment at the end of my story: "Cool."  

Go road rash!

The Greatest Snow (Mishaps) on Earth: Alpine Skiing

When I was a youth, my church took all the teenagers downhill skiing for one night every winter.  I had never been Alpine skiing before, and not being the adventurous type, I went only because I always went to our weekly activities.  I remember my 13-yr-old self gathering with high schoolers in the parking lot of Nordic Valley Ski Resort. These older, cooler kids pulled me into their circle and offered some “community Carmex” as they talked about how fun this activity would be. I took courage from their interest in me, a lowly seventh grader, and their apparent concern to protect my lips from the harsh wind I would be facing in a few minutes as I swooshed down the mountainside. It’s funny how kids’ brains process friendship.

We rented our gear in the resort’s lodge.  Once I had everything strapped on, and a firm grip on my ski poles, I joined two or three other friends who had never been skiing before.  One of our youth leaders offered to teach us the basics.  I’m sure I don’t remember everything he tried to teach me, but it probably sounded a lot like this sage advice I found on e4s.co.uk: “Skiing Tips for Beginners”.

1. 

   Helpful tips for avoiding this

   Gravity - This takes you from the top of the mountain to the bottom in the most direct route.
• My seventh-grade understanding of physics, specifically mechanics and motion, concurred with this assessment.
2. Balance - snow is slippery! Trying to balance whilst sliding down a mountain isn't easy!
• Agreed.
• Also, “whilst” is one of my favorite non-American English words.  I’m going to incorporate that into my verbiage.
3. Dress Code - Stay warm!
• Got it.  We hadn’t reached the part in our science class about thermodynamics and heat transfer, but I was pretty sure that winter night temperatures + snow + not being cuddled up in a blanket watching “My Two Dads” = the chance for chilly.
4. Protect your skin
• Carmex applied.  Check.
5. Gear - I'd recommend renting your skis and boots
• Check.
6. Skis - All rental shops should give you skis that suit your ability, but their height is the key. Make sure they are 20-30cm shorter than your height.  If you find the front of your skis keep crossing whilst you ski then don't be afraid to take them back to the rental shop and ask for some shorter ones.
• Check, I think.  The rental shop guy held skis vertically next to me until he was satisfied, and he seemed to know what he was doing.
• Whilst!
7. Learning to stand up
• I reminded myself that I’d been working on that skill all day every day for more than a dozen years.  Confidence boost!
8. Speed control/Stopping - If you can't control your speed and stop then there is a good chance you will hurt yourself and other people. The snow plough position is perfect for both controlling speed and stopping on gentle slopes! To slow down to a stop, simply turn your toes towards each other slightly more and push your heels further apart - making the snow plough wider at the back but keeping a small gap between the tips (front) of your skis.
• Got it, at least in theory.
• And it's farther apart, not further. (I can't tolerate poor grammar on my own blog.)
9. Getting involved - Strapping planks to your feet and slipping down a mountain may not sound like something worth forking out a few hundred quid for but...it really is. It's a great sport, no matter what standard you are! Skiing is a massive confidence sport though, so take your time learning and don't rush straight up to the top of the mountain, because getting out of control and stacking it at high speed can put people off.
• Yep.  
• Notice how he didn’t say “skiing is a massive confidence-building sport”?  Just...yep.

Six-year-olds make it look easy.

We glided out of the lodge and paused, looking down the steep slope towards the ski lift.  Our leader then pointed to the death-defying bunny hill.  He explained we would be using the bunny hill for starters, though I was sure it would be my end.  He showed us how keep to our skis parallel and most importantly, how to make a snowplow V with the ski tips, which is supposed to stop you from going down the mountain too fast.  

I plucked up some courage and went along with my cohorts who said we understood and were ready.  I pointed my skis toward the ski lift and let myself pick up a little bit of momentum.  As my speed increased, I got nervous about my ability to stop.  I remembered the wise words of my leader and pushed my heels away from each other into a deeper snow plow.  My ski tips were close, my heels were far apart, I had my Carmex on...but I couldn’t stop. I started calling ahead of me, “Look out! I can’t stop!”

Tangent 1: I learned years later, as a passenger in a van that malfunctioned and wouldn’t stop accelerating, even with brakes applied, that making noise is my go-to skill for “survival”.  In that instance, all I could think to do as we approached a red light was to honk the horn and find something soft to run into on the other side of the light.  It was good that Kent was driving.  He simply pulled into the left turn lane, turned off the engine, and coasted to a stop at the red light.

Back to the slopes.  There was a group of people gathering around the ski lift, and maybe they didn’t know which way the sound of my voice was coming from, but whatever the reason, no one got out of my way.  So I went into theirs.  I ended up skiing right between a lady’s legs, pulling her down on top of me and pulling her date on top of both of us. It was pretty embarrassing, especially for adolescent me who had not yet learned to laugh at herself.  The lady and her date, who very well may have forked out a few hundred quid to be there that night, were also not laughing.  I gave my apologies and they let me get up and leave in shame.

The only thing that went right that night?
This wasn't me.

I had made it almost all the way to the ski lift. Carefully, I scissor-stepped the rest of the distance and then waited with dread to catch one of the chairs that came around.  At this point I was terrified of 1) catching the lift, and 2) being able to stay on the lift. Thankfully, I did manage both of those parts of the skiing process.  My friend and I disembarked awkwardly at the top of the bunny hill where our leader was now waiting for us.  He reviewed with us again, eyes fixed on me, how to snowplow and how to keep my weight distributed to maintain an upright posture.  Then he smiled (maliciously?) and sent me on my way down the hill.

I fell so many times I stopped counting. Despite the assertion from the Brits that “[skiing] is a great sport no matter what standard you are!”, it actually wasn’t fun getting my limbs twisted beneath me, and tangled up, and stuck with skis and poles...and it was cold...and more than slightly embarrassing.  I was one of those kids who did most things right, so becoming the laughing stock of the evening was not easy. Looking back, based on how my middle-school P.E. classes were going, I probably should have known not to even attempt this Alpine activity in the first place.

Tangent 2: All the way through middle school, my P.E. teacher recognized how bad I was at coordination. I think she felt sorry for me because she would customize physical tests for me to pass to get through her class.  For example, while in the volleyball unit, everyone else had to bump, spike, set, and perform all other sorts of athletic feats.  When I couldn’t set the ball against the wall more than twice in a row, my final came down to just bumping the ball on my own wrists 20 times in a row.  (20 times! Was she serious?)  I remember her standing next to me and counting aloud for me. I would get to eight bumps and I’d drop the ball and start over. Then I’d get to six and drop it and start over. Then I’d get to 13 and drop it...and you get the idea.  I spent the whole class period bumping that ball.  I think eventually I got 18 bumps in a row and she said, “That’s good enough.  We’ll just round up.”  So I got an A in P.E. for doing almost none of the work the others had to do.  I did dress and show up for my daily humiliation in the gym, so I guess my A was for effort.

What my teacher was asking for.

What I delivered.

The bunny hill didn’t seem to care that I had dressed and shown up.  (As I said in my last post, snow is cold through and through.) Halfway down the slope, as I was wrestling myself in the snow, trying to detangle my legs from the poles and skis, I realized, I’m not getting a grade on this. This isn’t fun.  And I don’t like people watching me fall repeatedly. I looked up and noticed the ski lodge directly across the hill from me.  I pressed my pole into my bindings to free my boot from its plank, did the same to the other boot, picked up my skis and my poles, and I stomped across the ski slope to the lodge.  About ten paces in, I became aware of people yelling at me.  Why aren’t they grateful that I am finally getting off their slope? I wondered.  Are they upset that I’m taking away their entertainment at my butt-plants?  One loud, angry voice rang out across the hill to explain it to me: “You’re punching holes in the snow and ruining our slope!”  I did not care.  I could not win.  I finished my trek to the lodge, marched straight to the rental office, and returned my downhill ski gear for the first and last time.

This feels familiar.

Turning 40 this year, I’ve thought about maybe giving skiing another chance.  I do like cross-country skiing, afterall.  The universe must have heard my thoughts because it responded with one of my experienced-skier friends breaking his shoulder and one of #1’s squad concussing on the slopes in the past few weeks.  Two witnesses that I should stay away, and that’s enough for me.  Get well soon, friends. I'm sticking with the ounce of prevention and staying home.

*Thank you internet for providing images of what my adolescent experience was like since my peers didn't have cell phones back then to capture the real thing--thank goodness!

The Greatest Snow (Mishaps) on Earth: Snowballs

*This began as a single post, but two paragraphs in, I realized there was no way to fit all my snow mishap stories in one post.  I hope you enjoy this three-part series.*

Excepting a two-year stint in Massachusetts, I am a Utah girl, born and raised.  Snow has been a part of my life every November through February--and April.  (Utah weather likes to toy with us.)  I have fond childhood memories of playing in snow, as well as not-so-fond adolescent memories of being defeated by that menacing substance.  Snow is cold through and through.  (Oh so cold.)

My youngest children are still enamored with the stuff, though.  In 2014, I gave #5 a snow shovel as a just-thinking-about-you gift.  He loves it!  What eight-year-old boy doesn't feel more manly shoveling his family out of the house alongside his father.  I love sitting at the dining room window with a cup of cocoa, watching the two of them shovel almost as much as he enjoys the work itself.

The view from my window during a December 2015 snowstorm.
There is a house across the street that is hidden by the windy snow.

The blizzard picked up while #5 was out shoveling, but he was undeterred.
If you look, you can see his silhouette with the snow shovel.
The wind blew everything back almost as quickly as he cleared it,
so he took a break until we could see across the street again.

When I pick up the kids from school, #5 likes to point out the increased size of the giant snowball that moves a couple feet across the schoolyard each day.  He tells me that the kids with the best gloves are selected to push the snowball hands-on while everyone else lines up behind them to add pushing momentum.  As the oldest children in school, #4 and the other sixth graders have taken it upon themselves to protect the snowball from all who would do it harm each recess.  I guess they figure if they're too cool to play at recess, they might as well provide a security service while standing around out there.

My sisters and I made a snowball like that once.  We had rolled and packed most of our front yard's snow onto it and were pushing it to the backyard for more layers.  We were navigating our snowball through the side yard when we met with an obstacle: our lilac bush.  Our childish bodies strained to keep that snowball under control as we inched around the 7-ft-tall bush.  Our family's first second car, a 1973 Ford LTD, lay unsuspecting in the driveway only a few feet away.

*Here comes a tangent!  Before writing this post, I had not considered the influence of Ford in my family.  I grew up singing our extended family's song with great gusto at family reunions.  The song includes a line about "We pack our lunch and load the bunch and come from near and far, to come to this reunion in the good old family car."  (The lyrics work well set to the tune of the University of Utah's fight song.)

I always thought that was a throwaway line so that "come from near and far" could rhyme with something.  Not so.  As it turns out, the family car was an important part of each family reunion.  When my great-grandfather, Alfred, penned the lyrics to the song, he was probably thinking about the car deals that frequently went down at these family reunions.  Great Grandpa's brother-in-law, Uncle Walt, worked at the Ford dealership in Meridian, Idaho, and he always had a car just a year or two old. The Rohner reunions, which apparently influenced the Glauser reunions, became a time to admire Uncle Walt's latest Ford or Mercury.  Catching up with each other soon turned to talk of buying Uncle Walt's current, gently used car.  How convenient to have it there for a test drive!  My dad and his younger brother always got excited at the prospect, which sometimes paid off.  Both my grandpa and great grandpa bought used cars at family reunions.  This begs the question whether my brother, Jacob, is now a Program Management Analyst at Ford Motor Company because it runs in his blood--or at least in his last name.

A perk of working in Motor City:
Jake sometimes borrows new cars for the weekend.

Back to the late 1980s and our 1973 Ford LTD.  This particular car was a hand-me-down to our family from my grandparents, who got it from my great-grandparents, who got it from Uncle Walt.  For many years, this car had enjoyed gentle owners before being turned over to our family of five children.  And now there it sat, naive and off guard, relaxing in our driveway that winter's day.  As the snowball, my sisters, and I rounded the bend of the lilac bush, our lopsided, 50-lb. creation tipped to one side.  We strained against it but simply couldn't stop its momentum.  As if in slow motion, we watched helplessly as the giant snowball rolled into the driveway, right into the side of the LTD.  The steel body panel was no match for our ball of packed, icy water.

Picture this beauty with a tire-sized dent in the passenger door.

That was the beginning of my snow mishaps.  Fortunately, steel likes to retain its original shape and my parents were able to pop the body back to almost perfect.  Not all snow-induced damage is so easily rectified, though.  As the next two stories will demonstrate, my snow mishaps became increasingly perilous.  Stay tuned...

Spelling Bee5*%!

I have attended many spelling bees over the past ten years, and I've learned that the bee divides students into a few categories.

1. There are those who are not great spellers who know they are not great spellers.  These children generally go along with the competition, knowing they will get out on the classroom level of the bee.  This may be the only time of the year that these children grumble about their learning time being wasted as they are forced to listen to classmates say letters s-l-o-w-l-y.
2. There are those who deeply care about every academic competition.  Some of these students spend days or weeks studying for the bee.  Some look at their older sisters' bee records and figure ten minutes of practice per day for the last two days before the bee--along with natural talent--will carry them.  Either way, this group usually leaves the bee in tears when they lose.  It's hard to see their hope that comes from minutes of studying get crushed by one (or three mistaken) letters.
3. Then there are students who don't study, don't care about the bee, but still end up placing in the grade or school level.  This is my favorite group, because the older they get, the more entertaining are their spelling bees.  (Keep reading.)
4. I suppose there is a fourth group, being Akeelah and other students who study for months and compete quite well.  I almost forgot about this group because none of my children are in it.

My #1 falls into the first group.  She never became a bee bully, teasing the children who were actually good spellers.  She spells fine, but she has always known the competition she was up against, so it wasn't a big deal when she never made it past the first-round classroom bee each year.

#5 is in the second group.  He studied really hard for two days before this year's class spelling bee, plus at least six minutes of study during the drive to school on the day of.  His confidence waxed strong, even though he missed every fourth word when we practiced the night before.  What he didn't take into account is the Samantha factor.  Samantha is the youngest daughter of my friend who organizes the school spelling bee each year.  That family takes spelling very seriously.  In their junior high years, Samantha's older sisters competed in the district and state levels of the bee.  Samantha is in #5's fourth-grade class this year, which means he didn't stand a chance.  Sometimes being an eternal optimist means you come down hard.  He was f-l-a-b-b-e-r-g-a-s-t-e-d when I told him Samantha probably started studying at Thanksgiving.  (She went on to place second in the school-wide bee, losing first place to an eighth grader.)

Until this year, I wasn't sure into which group #4 fit.  When I picked up the kids at the end of school on the day of the class bees, #5 bravely told me that he had taken fourth place, and (with tears in his eyes) added that he wouldn't be advancing.  #4 wouldn't offer her results until I pressed: "How about you [#4]?"  "I made it."  Her friend who carpools with us was now the flabbergasted one: "You made it into the grade-level spelling bee?!"  "Yep."  I figured she was downplaying her enthusiasm so she could be cool in front of her friend.  At home I congratulated her sincerely, which she returned with, "Whatever."

Over the next few days, I asked #4 if she would like to study for the bee.  She never did.  (It's pretty hard to tear her away from editing videos.)  I asked if she would like me to come for the sixth-grade bee.  She didn't care, so I took that as a yes.  #4 was the second speller of twelve.  She went to the mic to receive her word.  I don't remember the word she was given, but I remember her response: "Oh great.  Really?  Okay."  At least she was going to keep the bee a little more interesting for the audience.  She spelled that word correctly, shrugged, and took her seat.  She only lasted two rounds, but at least her nonchalance got chuckles from her peers.  Yep, definitely in group three.

#2 has been great at spelling since age four, so I had high hopes for her.  I rescinded those hopes when she was eight, after sitting through her third year of 70-minute-long bees.  Those are not the most exciting events, and I sometimes get dirty looks when I bury my nose in a book during every other speller besides my kid.  #2's sharpest memory of a spelling bee was the one time she got out at the class level.  She misspelled some unknown word like pusillanimous--which, at that point in her spelling bee history, she wasn't--and then the next speller was given alligator.  #2's response upon hearing the next speller's luck was, "Alligator!  Seriously, alligator?  EVERYONE knows how to spell alligator!"  Way to go down with grace, daughter.  

(Have I mentioned before that our family is practiced at the art of sarcasm?)

#3 is good at sarcasm, but she's possibly better at spelling.  After placing in the school-wide bee a few times, she had the p-r-o-s-p-i-c-i-e-n-c-e this year to know that she could probably get by on humor and no studying.  Besides, she was up against the eighth grade's funny boy who is too smart for his--or his teacher's--own good.  He was determined to not advance to the next round, and so spelled impugn as i-m-p-u-g-n-3-r-2-9-x-o-8 (or something along those lines).

#3 appreciates his humor, but wasn't ready to betray her intelligence, either.  Following is an excerpt from her eighth-grade class spelling bee.  #3 thought she may have met her downfall before making it to the grade-level bee, so she decided to have fun with it.  

• Teacher:  "Please spell pharmacopoeia."
• #3:  "Um, what?"
• Teacher: "Pharmacopoeia."
• #3:  "Could I have the definition please?"
• Teacher:  "Pharmacopoeia is a book that lists medicinal drugs, their uses, and their effects."
• #3:  "Could you use it in a sentence please?"
• Teacher:  "A doctor may reference the pharmacopoeia when prescribing medication."
• #3:  "Could I have the language of origin?"
• Teacher:  "Pharmacopoeia comes from Greek."
• #3:  "Can you say it a little more slowly?"
• Teacher:  "Fahr-muh-kuh-pee-uh."
• #3  "Can you say it even slower?"
• Teacher:  Raised her eyebrows doubtfully.
• #3:  "Okay, fine.  I'm sorry.  Could you say it faster?"
• Teacher:  Gave #3 the stink eye.
• #3:  "Can you say it backwards?"
• Teacher:  "No."
• #3:  "Could you spell it for me?"  (That little trick works on substitutes and the occasional elementary-school teacher.  To the delight of her classmates, #2 has successfully used it on multiple spelling tests.)
• Teacher:  "Just spell the word."
• #3:  "Can I get a Bic Mac with that?"
• #3's BFF from the back of the class:  "With fries!"
• Teacher, with unending patience:  "No.  Just spell the word."
• #3:  "Pharmacopoeia: p-h-a-r-m-a-c-o-p-o-e-i-a.  Pharmacopoeia."
• Teacher:  "That is correct."
• #3:  "Dang!  Seriously?"

I think the teacher was relieved that most of her eighth graders were too cool for spelling so she didn't have to go through another round with #3, who subsequently went on to the grade-level spelling bee where she placed fourth.  That was fine by her, because she didn't want to go up against the fourth-grade Samantha factor in front of the entire school.  

As a former teacher's pet, I must give props to Samantha and others like her who do well because they don't rely solely on raw talent, but actually STUDY!  And, I guess, good job to my kids who show up and win ribbons with their i-n-s-o-u-c-i-a-n-c-e.

Back in the day, four years ago,
when she was still nice to her teachers.

One-Half, One-Third

Mid-life crisis?  No way.  I'm looking forward to my one-third-life breakthrough!

Kent and I both turn 40 in the next few weeks.  I know many twenty-nine-year olds dread turning 30, but I looked forward to that birthday.  For us, it signified a new decade defined by parenting.  At that time I was pregnant with my fifth (and last) baby, and 30 felt like a nice place to be as a young mother.  Our twenties were the decade of setting the future forward with an education, a marriage, and children.  My thirties were my time to focus on family, being an involved mom, and creating a home where my children and their friends wanted to be.  Kent used the last decade to build businesses and find personal health.

Of course there is overlap from one decade to the next, but we're looking forward to our forties being a decade of raising teenagers into adulthood and venturing on new projects.  By the end of this decade, I expect Kent and I will be empty-nesters and grandparents to a few babies.

Kent calls this his mid-life birthday.  Since I'm planning to live to 120, at this one-third mark, I'm still only getting started on life!  

My plan to defy aging is to defy expectations of whatever number of years I've been alive.  On a recent date night, a new friend was in disbelief when we told him that our oldest child is a senior in high school.  He said, "You guys don't seem old enough to have kids that age."  That's the response I hope we get more often!  The more years that pass, the more contrast I want in how we live compared to expectations for our age.

I had my annual checkup a couple weeks ago.  My labs look good, and the indicators favor me avoiding cancer, heart disease, diabetes, and dementia.  Kent and I work to stay physically, mentally, and spiritually healthy, so I see no reason to check out before my century is over.  Since I have a lot of life left to live, I might as well live it up!

38 was Kent's year of getting healthy and getting energy.  39 has been my year of realizing that I want to try new things.  Here are a few for our bucket lists:

• Learn to play the violin
• Try downhill skiing
• Live somewhere with amazing food, a low cost of living, and great weather.  (Guatemala!)
• Publish a novel
• Try public speaking
• Travel the world: Italy, Spain, China, USA
• Learn Spanish
• Maybe give hiking another chance
• Study improv entertainment
• Attend a meditation retreat
• Learn my ancestors' stories
• Create a valediction project/business
• Become a certified yoga instructor
• Take a carpentry class

How are we going to get it all in?  Let me recommend Greg McKeown's book, Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less.  As his website explains, "The Way of the Essentialist isn’t about getting more done in less time. It’s not about getting less done. It’s about getting only the right things done. It’s about challenging the core assumption of ‘we can have it all’ and ‘I have to do everything’ and replacing it with the pursuit of ‘the right thing, in the right way, at the right time’. It’s about regaining control of our own choices about where to spend our time and energies..."

We enter this decade believing that life is joyful and we have much still to explore.  Here's to 50 more years of crossing off bucket list items.  I'll let you know at my two-thirds point (90) what new items are on my bucket list.  There will probably a lot more books to read, and hopefully a lot more time with my family.  I'm also hopeful that a lot of my friends will still be around, so take care of yourselves, and we'll plan on a snowball fight at 101!

Finishing 30-Day Contemplation

Only three days to go!  Yes, I know this is a 30-Day Challenge, but since December has 31 days, I figured I'd round out the month with a bonus day of contemplation.  Besides, St. Ignatius was not around when living apostles were on the earth, so he didn't have the chance to reference the reading I've added for Day Thirty-One.  You will find a link there to a document written 16 years ago.  It is the testimony of the fifteen men that members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints sustain as prophets and apostles for our day.  Whether or not you subscribe to the belief that God speaks to prophets in our day, I encourage you to read their words and see how they jive with how you feel about Christ.

I think these last Exercises are particularly fitting as we draw to the end of a year.  The new year is a popular time to make resolutions to change.  What I love about the most important work of Christ's life--and it continues today--is that He continually invites us to change and turn to Him.  I encourage you to contemplate what you can change about your life, commit to a plan to make that change happen, and then do it!

Day Twenty-Nine
Question:  How have I changed this month as I have searched myself in relation to Christ and His example?
Read:  John 17:3, 11:25-27, and 14:6
Ponder:  Can I set my spiritual sights higher?  If so, what particular steps do I want to take?

Day Thirty
Write what you feel about Christ now that 30 days have passed.  Compare what you wrote with your first entry.
Read:  Isaiah 40:5 and Psalms 119:24
Ponder:  What is most precious in my life?

Bonus!  Day Thirty-One
Question:  What more do I want to learn about Jesus Christ?
Read:  "The Living Christ: The Testimony of The Apostles"
Ponder:  How can I get to know my Savior personally?

Order Obeyers and Boundary Breakers

One of my dear friends is a boundary breaker.  We had been friends for several years before I began to realize the extent of her shenanigans.  During that time, she had related her kidhood stories of cutting school or sneaking into bars as an underage teen, or inadvertently causing property damage through her pranks.  (Name withheld to protect the repentant.)  She has a great sense of humor about those wilder days, and the stories are all the more funny because she turned out to be a nice--but still fun and funny--Mormon mommy today.

Her one story that hit me profoundly, though, had nothing to do with getting into trouble.  It was how she got out of it.  As her high school graduation approached, this friend of mine knew there was no way she was going to graduate with the grades she then held in her classes.  But she also knew that she held a secret power; a gift that had served her well and saved her many times before.  She went to her teachers and sweet talked her way into passing grades.  And then, because they knew of her gift, two of her cronies asked her to talk to their teachers about their grades.  "Sure, why not?" was her reply, and so she cajoled three diplomas for students who had not earned them.

That story rocked my world.  I was not a cajoler.  I obeyed order.  I was the student who knew how to get straight As, and so I worked and crammed for them.  My parents had told me at the beginning of my high school career that I would be paying for my own college tuition, and I could do that either through a job or through scholarships.  Scholarships sounded easier, so I got really good at the game of schoolwork and tests.  I had no idea there was an entirely different game being played by those who didn't care about school.

I thought rules were rules and success meant working within that framework to receive their highest reward and result.  The fact that my friend proved that some rules were arbitrary and associated rewards depended more on the discretion of authority figures than on adherence...well, it has given me pause.

As an adult, I've appreciated that the laws of man are themselves often arbitrary.  I once observed in small claims court a self-admitted speeding driver argue that she shouldn't be ticketed because of the circumstances.  She and the police officer agreed that she had been over the speed limit on a city street by about six miles per hour.  But it was after ten p.m. in a commercial area where most stores had been closed for hours.  The judge agreed and dismissed the ticket.

I thought the judge got it right in that case, which surprised me.  This was about the time that I realized adults don't really know what they're doing with society.  Politicians might pass a law...and a judge will later overturn it when it's been tested.  Business owners will try one strategy...and it may sink their business or attract a conglomerate buyer.  School administrators will swear by one curriculum...and then trade it in for the next trend in teaching.  Everything is fluid.

Like my friend, my own #3 realized this truth at a much earlier age than I.  I have referred to her as "Little Miss Loophole" because she loves to push boundaries.  I've discovered that trend is actually one of her traits.

Last week was spirit week at the charter school she attends.  Monday was Jr. High vs. Sr. High, and each group was to dress respectively in either all red or all blue.  Two minutes before heading out the door, I saw my eighth grader wearing all blue--the Sr. High color.  I questioned her, and she said no one would care.  I mostly just cared that she get out of the house that morning, so I let it go, figuring her teacher/s would call her on it and she could deal with the consequences.
I was right.  So was she.

During advisory, #3's science teacher--who has known #3 for four years and knows she is a smarty-pants as well as a smart-aleck--came into the classroom.  She noticed #3 and called her up.  "Why are you wearing all blue?" she asked.  #3 lied, "I got confused about which color our grade was wearing today."  "Uh huh."  The science teacher didn't buy it.  "You got confused?"  "Yep."  "Well, you're out of uniform.  You'll need to go to the front office and borrow a uniform."  #3 was not going down that easily.  She looked to her advisory teacher, "Do I really need to go change?"  The advisory teacher clearly had not been bothered by #3's so-called confusion, but she also wasn't going to undermine another teacher.  She sent #3 to the office.

Pushing uniform boundaries
way back when.

The school's secretary, who also knows #3 well and probably would have made her change clothes, was gone for a funeral, so #3 spoke with someone filling in.  The conversation went something like this:  "How may I help you?"  "My advisory teacher sent me here to get a uniform because I'm not in uniform today."  "But you're wearing all blue."  "Yeah, but I'm in eighth grade.  I mixed up which color I was supposed to wear."  "Then you just won't be counted in the total for spirit week."  "Yep."  "Do you want to change?"  "Nope."  "Okay, then don't worry about it.  Just go back to class."  #3 went back to class, was relieved that the science teacher was gone, and was not surprised that her advisory teacher said nothing.

I was somewhat disappointed, but not too surprised, to learn that only one teacher was willing to enforce the school's own rules.  I called her out on her lying.  #3 distracted me with another story.

At least ballroom dancing won't
tolerate rule bending.

Riding in the school's elevator is against the rules.  The school has a keyhole underneath the elevator button, which works to divert children at the elementary school.  The students there all assume the doors won't open without a key, so no one abuses the system.  At the secondary school, however, it didn't take long for students to learn that the elevator works just fine without a key.  Students routinely press the button as they walk past, and so the doors are often open when #3 is making her way to the staircase.  She and her friends began accepting the literally open invitation for a lift.  Apparently, the rest of her schoolmates are boundary (and button) pushers, but ultimately order obeyers: they open the elevator, but don't ride it.

A few weeks ago, the elevator carried #3 and friends upstairs and opened right as the school's director was walking by.  In telling me the story, #3 admitted to feeling startled.  The director stopped and watched the girls as they hid their panic and brazenly said hello on their way out of the elevator and down the hall.  Mr. Director called #3 by name, "Miss White, could you come back here for a moment?"  She knew she had finally been caught!  She turned back to bow to her fate while her friends ditched her for their classrooms.  (I was silently cheering as she related the story to me.)  "I need to ask you," the director continued, "How are you feeling?"  "Uh, fine."  Fine as in rattled and anxious!  "Good.  I know you got checked out for a headache a day or two ago.  I'm glad you're doing better."  Phew, escaped!  "I am.  Thanks."  She gave him a weak smile, and he returned a genuine one.  Then, she turned around and went to class.

So much for authority figures.  #3 is the dangerous combination of smart and not caring about rules that don't matter.  She has a bright future ahead of her.

Oh yes, and happy birthday #3.  I love you, you little boundary breaker.