Banana Cream Pie.

I pulled out my recipe book today.

This sounds like I actually use this recipe book.  But, not so much.  I only pull it out a few times a year.

Because in it are only a handful of things that I actually use.

Star Valley chocolate chip cookies.

Grandma K's german pancakes.

Homemade syrup.

Mom's chili.

And banana cream pie.

I could eat an entire pie by myself.  No problem.

And as I pulled out the worn 3x5 card with my mother's handwriting on it, I could feel my heart moving its way up to my throat followed by the sting in my eyes.  Tears were coming.  Because that banana cream pie means much more to me than just a delicious dessert.

It is represents everything good I know in my life.

It is family.

It is love.

Isn't it beautiful how food can connect us so easily to some of the most beautiful moments?

Grandma Gilligan dancing in the kitchen with her 

pudding spoon, slapping at any seeking hands, 

mom standing over the stove teaching me how to 

whisk, whisk, whisk to prevent the pudding from clumping, 

sitting at the Thanksgiving table with turkey comas 

and yet, somehow making room for pie.

My grandmother taught my mother how to make these pies and my mother taught me.  And today, I will gather my girls (and boys) around me  and teach them how to make pudding from scratch.  Just like my mother did.  And just like hers did.

And it will go on and on.  

I love how food connects us to the things we love most in life.

8 Bowls of Oatmeal.

Time is precious.

So, I've become very protective of my time.  I have learned that it is okay to say no to

favors 

and programs 

and extra practices.

To more commitments.

To meetings.  

And to PTA.  

And it is okay to do nothing but watch little fingers explore cupboards, and watch as little eyes widen at the touch of a fuzzy caterpillar, and sit back and enjoy the sounds of gurgles and coos and smiles. 

There is nothing wrong with doing less.  

Because I realize that before I can even blink, my little baby girl with the chipped tooth and toddled walking will one day be walking out of my home.  And into her own.

And so, I've learned that using my time to do things like fill these eight bowls of oatmeal is enough.

It just is.

Names.

Destiny and Stormy.

And those are just two names.

There's many, many more.

Marcus.

Tony, 

                                                       Timothy, 

Gilbert.

Noel                                      and Nicole.

                                 Dede

and Meisha.

Aana, 

                         Rita, 

                                                  Steve.

Betty.

Damian.  

                                               Jacob.

Rose.

Peati.

Marvin 

                                            and Jose.

People often ask where I received my college degree.  And I answer with true alumni pride, "The University of Utah."  But when asked where I received my education, I'd have to say,

 "From these guys."  

Because you see, I learned very quickly not to let schooling get in the way of my education.  I learned that real learning comes from the people around us.  And for me, that began with some of the most incredible people I've ever known.

Maya Angelou said,

"Your legacy is what you do every day.  Your legacy is every life you've touched, every person who's life was either moved or not.  It's every person you've harmed or helped.  

That's your legacy."

So thank you.  To all of you.  For really moving me to be better.  For really touching me.  For helping me to understand the world just a little bit better.

You've left a beautiful legacy 

on me 

and taught me more than I could have ever 

imagined possible.

You are more than just names to me.  I will never forget any of you.

Never.

Buckets.

Sometimes I feel 

e m p t y.

Like I have nothing else to give.

And nothing left to 

cope 

with what may come.

And when those moments come, I have to make a decision.

About what to do with the time that is given to me to fill up that emptiness.

There are many choices.

And those choices either fill me up

or 

drain 

me 

even 

more.

But I've learned where to fill my bucket.  Totally and completely.

It's in moments like these.

I hope it fills yours today.

Dear Mr. Elementary.

Dear Mr. Elementary,

Or are you a Mrs.?  Excuse me for not knowing.

But that's just it.  I don't know you that well.  And yet, you see three of my babies five days a week.  And Mr. Middle School has one of my very handsome babies.  But I haven't yet figured out how to approach Mr. Middle School yet.  That will come later.

But you.  Mr. Elementary.  I am more familiar with.  My children run to you at 9 a.m.  And then leave your care at 3:30 p.m.  You share most of the day with them.

So I wanted to write this letter to you today to let you know how very lucky you are....to spend so much time with them.  

I have taught them.  I have nurtured them.  I use every spare minute possible to fill them with everything I can give them so that when they come to you, they can put to use and practice what they have learned at home.

They know what it means to be honest.
They know how to share.
They know it's okay to believe in things they cannot see.
They have talents.
And yearn for more talents.
They know how to be tolerant and forgiving.
They have felt empathy.
They understand the value of work.
And working with others.
They know kindness. And love.
And they are not perfect.

Which is why they need you.  To give them new opportunities to be successful.  And to make mistakes.  And to learn from those mistakes.  They need you to give them what I cannot.

So could you please?  Could you give them a problem they need to solve?  Could you please sit them beside someone who is different from them?  Could you hold them accountable?  Will you please give them a friend to love?  And someone who loves them?  Could you give them another adult to trust?  Could you please test their strength to stand up for themselves?  Will you push them to try harder?  Will you give them a useful role?  Will you please have them help?  Will you ask them about their future?

You see them in the day more than I do now.  So I'm relying on you.  A lot.  Please don't let me down.

With appreciation,

The Mom

Death. And life.

Where one tree falls.  And dies.

From it, another grows.  And lives.

I am not an ecologist or a dendrologist.  I do not know the specifics of the science behind this.

One tree has fallen.  And is dead.

And yet, hundreds of years ago, a little seed sprouted on this fallen trunk.  And a sapling began to grow.  Its roots have formed itself around the base of the trunk.  It is beautiful and strong and sure.  Because it had strength to grow on.

And one day, the fallen tree will completely erode away.

And all that will be left is the empty space where it should have been.  Like this tree.

My grandma died.

I miss her.

She left a 

space 

too.

She gave me a solid place to grow on.  And she gave me a base. 

She taught me how to laugh.

How to use a shoe as a weapon.

How to find treasures.

How to eat popcorn.

How to hold a baby.

How to imagine.

How to sing.

How to choose the right.

How to love.

And while we can no longer see her.  Our very beings have been shaped because of her.  And we can see that.

And that's beautiful.

Wonder. Ful. Wrinkles.

I have wrinkles.

And I like them.

Because I wonder.

  And the story of wondering is told on a wrinkle between my eyebrows....my 

wondering wrinkles.  

I have smiling wrinkles and mad wrinkles and wrinkles from squinting my eyes.

And they each tell a

story.

But today, I like my wondering wrinkles.  Because.  They ponder the world in awe.

Wonder: To think or speculate curiosly; 

To be filled with admiration, amazement, or awe.

Like

How it's possible that when my hair falls out in clumps after pregnancy 

it then somehow grows into Reagan's hair....

Or what it might be like to be a Christian refugee.

Sometimes it's amazing to wonder about some things.  And sometimes it's easier not to.

But I've learned that I'm in awe.

And curious.

With the world.

And the people in it.

So, it's wonderful.

It's a wonder that I have wrinkles that tell these stories.  

Wrinkles are a beautiful

signature

of the life we've lived.  

I don't know why everyone is in such a rush to erase the very things that tell our stories.

This guy.

He's got some stories to tell us.  Isn't it wonderful?

Finding Balance.

A couple of months ago, I stood on a circular balance board at our local science museum.  I wanted to test my balance.  So, I handed the baby off to my son, stood on the circular disc, pushed the timer, and balanced.  I consider myself a generally coordinated person.  I do yoga.  I carry two kids down the stairs.  All.  The. Time.  I figure I have good balance.

Wrong.

I lasted 4 seconds.

But then, I was handed my baby girl.  Everyone else wanted to head back to try their own things.

So I tried again.  With her on my hip.

And I was astonished.   I balanced for over a minute.

Something happened to me then.  I had a realization that the very thing I thought would throw off my balance was actually the source of my strength.  I felt stronger with her in my arms.

And so it is.  I feel stronger, more capable, full of much more potential when I take the time to look at these little people right in front of me and hold on tight.  Of all the giving we do as mothers, we do receive.  Sometimes it takes standing on a balance board to realize that.