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I’m a writer. Obviously.

I’m actually a lot of things: Wife, mom, daughter, sister, friend, housekeeper, student, marketer, photographer, cover designer, historian, cook (not a good cook though–more like the kind at a fourth rate restaurant in a creepy back alley; don’t ever ask me to cook for you if you value our life). In spite of all the things I do and am, writer defines me. My first indication of being a writer was in second grade. The teacher asked us to write down what we did best and how we thought we could use it as a career. I put down write as my thing I did best and put writer as my career choice. So I’ve known for a long time that this is who I am.

I’ve worked at being a writer my whole life, from poetry to short stories to novels to screen plays to articles to ad slogans. If a thing can be put into words, I’ve tried to be the one to make the words.

But I don’t always succeed. I have more rejection letters than most people I know. I have nice letters, form letters, letters that feel they were written by the head of the department of ruination, letters that sing praises to my words and curses to the timing. I have acceptance letters too. And I’ve actually made a career out of this thing I said I could do back in the second grade.

While cleaning out my garage the other day, I found something that halted pretty much all work: a box of old things. Really old things. The kinds of things where the paper crackles with fragility. Newspaper articles from my long dead great grandmother. Her name was Dezi Irene Dunlap.

She was a writer.

I had some vague knowledge of this before but never had I realized the depth of our connection. My great grandma wasn’t just a dabbler-writer. She was serious about her craft. The first news article–the one that caught my attention as I moved the box from one shelf to another– announced on the society page in bold print

Feasting the Muse . . .

The article shares the details of an awards banquet for short stories. A picture of my great grandmother ties up a good portion of the left bottom corner of the newspaper and the caption declares her to be a “national magazine writer for the Saturday Evening Post and other slicks” My great grandmother! How cool is she? And I hadn’t really known the extent to how much she wrote, to how dedicated she was to the craft.

Inside this particular box I found several of her stories as they were published in national magazines including the Ladies Home Journal, Saturday Evening Post and Good Housekeeping. I found rejection letters. I found signed contracts. I discovered she’d actually been the president of the League of Utah Writers at one point in her life.

And on April 16th, 1944, my grandma was featured in a newspaper article that  discussed how Salt Lake City would one day be a focal point of great creative writing. The article mentions how many Salt Lake writers were coming to the fore in ever increasing numbers, their names appearing in national magazines standing as a witness to their success.

It was interesting to me how seventy years later, Salt Lake could indeed be considered a focal point of great creative writing. With so many of my friends being on the New York Times list and so many more winning awards and signing movie contracts and myself achieving so many things in the literary world,  I can only smile. My great grandmother and I would have been great friends had we had the chance to know one another. She died just one year before I was born. We would have sat through banquets together, clapped and cheered for one another’s successes and maybe provided a thoughtful critique or two for each other. I am so glad I found this box and had a chance to connect to someone whose blood runs through my veins. Thanks, Grandma, for this connection to my past and congratulations on your successes, but more importantly . . . congratulations for sticking it out through the rejections and slush. That is an accomplishment to be truly proud of.

Grandma is the lady on the left

Grandma is the lady on the left

I wonder how long it took her to pin up her hair like that . . .

Comic Con 2014 report

Attending Comic Con 2014 turned out to be a marvelous investment of time. My kids have all wanted to go since last year’s event and have been pestering me to make sure it happened, so when I was given the opportunity to be a presenter, have a booth, AND attend, all my previous arguments over how Salt Lake is so far away melted, and we loaded up the car and went.

I asked my friends on Facebook if I should dress up in a costume or go as a serious, professional author. One of my friends, Bruce Eschler, said that I should dress up as Jane Austen. That way I could go in costume AND be a professional author.

Does it surprise anyone that I actually own a regency gown? No? And this is why I love you people. So I dressed up as Jane and took her on a tour of Comic Con. Jane had many experiences:

Being abducted by a mad man in a blue box would certainly be traumatizing enough for any upstanding British author, but then to be dropped into a sea of fifty thousand science fiction and fantasy fans? Let’s just say that poor Jane felt a tad bit overwhelmed.


But she made friends fast and managed to snag herself a badge so she didn’t get kicked out. She especially enjoyed the princess party with kindred spirits!


Things were going well enough until she ran into a little Troll Trouble.


She wanted to go home after that, and some kid in a contraption called a Delorean offered her a ride home, but she ended up in some place called Hill Valley where things felt as dangerous as they did with the troll. That will simply not do at all.



And then she met a cheeky little fellow who referred to her as his “precious.” Oh the mortification of it all!


She was able to speak on a few writing panels discussing things like creating strong women in fiction, writing for youth, and making time in life for creativity and art. She had to work with the very incredible distraction of the emergency alert telling everyone to exit the building  because some prankster pulled the fire alarm. But the distraction proved to be a wonderful real-life example of working through, and around, distractions. She loved the metaphor of it all. She met up with some lovely people, but ultimately decided she might be better off in her own time. The mad man in the blue box was too busy to give her a lift back to her home, but he introduced her to a lovely weeping angel who offered to send her back in time.


Comic Con was a blast. So many people had elaborate costumes that were simply stunning (such as the weeping angel). And it really was great to reconnect with so many of my friends and meet readers. My booth was great! I was able to do some magic tricks and sign a lot of books (which is always nice). And even better, my kids were able to have a FABULOUS time wandering the floor and seeing the sights. We had a blast, spent a lot, and went home exhausted. We are definitely going next year!

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Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is a tough one for me. It is a time for me to reflect on all the stuff I do wrong both as Mom and as Daughter. That is a lot of reflection, folks, because I do a LOT wrong. But I look at my kids . . . the people they are and I can’t help but be proud of what I see. They are amazing humans. They are fun to be around, to converse and laugh with, to have at your back when things get tough. So then I wonder if maybe I wasn’t so bad because how do they grow up so awesome if I sucked more than a Hoover vacuum cleaner? Maybe they grew up that way in spite of me? Either way . . . Mother’s day is hard. I had several years of infertility where I hated the day out of principle and then I guess it just became a habit to hate it. But today I am trying to enjoy the day for what it is. My boys made me breakfast this morning, going to the trouble of replacing a fortune in a fortune cookie so that my fortune read “You are so lucky to have great kids who make you breakfast. Merry Christmas . . . or whatever holiday this is” I laughed. And then my daughter wrote me a note that made me cry (a good cry, not the other kind) and I think maybe I did okay. Maybe. Or maybe God knew how emotionally unstable I was, so he sent me the best he had to help me out. Regardless of how they became to be my personal superheroes, I’m glad for them, grateful in ways I can’t explain. And, based on the example of an old high school friend, maybe today isn’t the day to hang on to our guilt for all the things we mess up on as moms and as children of moms, and to simply be glad we have other people in our lives who know our faults and yet still manage to say the words I love you to us.

Have a great day everyone!


Dear Daughter

My daughter graduated last spring, turned eighteen over the summer, and moved away to begin her own life.

It. Happened. So. Fast.

People always say that. I heard it a million times while the kids were crawling all over my furniture and getting handprints on the mirrors and windows and making me crazy with their “needing” one more glass of water at bedtime. I heard all the voices of those who were older telling me to enjoy it, because it goes by fast.

It didn’t feel fast at the time. It felt like those kids would never be potty-trained. It felt like they would always need bottles, and diapers, and babysitters.

Until they didn’t.

It was when my daughter hit double digits that I realized things were changing. I tried hitting the brakes at her accelerated growing. But she kept growing anyway. I started taking more pictures, realizing I didn’t take enough of them when she was small. Now that she’s gone, I wonder . . . did I tell her everything she needs to know? Did I forget anything Important? She’s in China now–serving a humanitarian mission. I really miss her. She told me we still had a moon in common. So the moon makes me happy.

I used to write her letters–a little journal of her life through my eyes. I gave her the letters and then regretted giving them to her because it felt like I’d lost something in not being able to write to her in that way. So here it is . . . One last letter to my child daughter. The last because now she’s an adult.

Dearest Tjej,

You are beautiful. I used to always tell you that it was more important to be pretty inside than it was to be pretty outside because I didn’t want you to be snotty about the fact that you’re gorgeous. You SHINE with inner beauty. You love people with your whole soul. You protect people who can’t protect themselves. You stand up for what’s right–even when it costs you personally to do so. On the subway train in New York when you faced real hatred and prejudice for the first time, you were one of the few people who tried to do something about it. A train full of adults, and it was you (and your dad) who stood against that cruelty. Everyone else stayed quiet with their heads down–not wanting to be involved, but not you, the thirteen year old. Never you. I hope that fire to protect other people stays with you. People are worth protecting.

When you were little, I heard giggling from your bedroom. You and your two toddler brothers were laughing those great belly laughs–the kind filled with delight–the kind that made me laugh just to hear. I followed the noise to your room and peeked inside. You had on a ballet skirt with lots of little sequins sewn into it. And the way the sun was setting through your bedroom window caught the light off the skirt and reflected it back to the walls, floor, and ceiling. You stood in the center of the room and twirled like crazy while your brothers tried to catch the “stars” you created for them. The world is joy. Be prepared to dance in it.

When you landed in China, you sent me a text to let me know you were safe. This is what you wrote:

Just landed 🙂 it’s humid and hot and I’m loving it.

I cried at the airport as I watched you walk away.

Of course I cried.

Now that you’re out in the big wide world, did I do enough to prepare you for it? Did I tell you about broken hearts and how they keep beating long after they shatter? Did I tell you that hearts are reparable? Did I tell you you’ll be doing the breaking as often as you’ll be the one getting broken? Love is so many things. It’s fire and ice. Hearts are big places. There is room for a lot of love. I won’t tell you that time heals all wounds. Time doesn’t necessarily heal anything, but it creates distance. Distance offers perspective. Perspective allows healing. But did I tell you not to get lost in perspective? Looking back and looking forward are fine, but do you know not to let them get in the way of being IN the gift we call the PRESENT? Do you know that sometimes you have to straighten up, suck it up, and deal with what comes? No matter what? Do you know it’s okay to fail sometimes? Did I tell you that sometimes you’ll fall down and skin your knees and worse . . . skin your soul? Do you know there are bandages big enough to cover the soul wounds?

And there’s Rocky Road ice cream.

I don’t know if I told you everything you need to know.

You went and grew up–prepared or not. And I am done raising you. (I have loved raising you). When you come home, it’ll all be different. You’re an adult now with real world experience. I won’t be able to give you curfews. I won’t be asking if you got your homework done. I won’t be asking who you’re going with when you leave the house or asking if an adult will be present. You are the adult now. It has been a great eighteen years, Tjej. You three kids are my greatest accomplishments. You have made me so proud and so humbled and so excited to see your future. You will be a great mom. You will be a great wife. You ARE a great person. You will have happiness. And you’ll be sad too. Sometimes things get lost along the way, But I believe in an eternal Lost and Found. Nothing valuable is ever truly lost. You’ll have bad days and dumb days and sideways days and off days. Life is like that. It’s true that there must be opposition in all things. If everything was always good, how would we know what good was? So there must be the bad days. But when those days come. I’ll still be here—still be mom, still loving you.

You’re extraordinary.

Be safe. Be kind. Be happy. And everything works out.

And remember . . . I’m watching you.




Our last picture together before you ditched me for another country. No really. I’m not bitter or eating too much ice cream . . . It’s fine. Love you madly . . . Miss you crazy


The Story of Us

This is a long story. My twenty-first wedding anniversary was a month ago. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. We’ve been married 21 years. But we’ve been together 25. A quarter of a century has passed since my first date with Mr. Wright. The story should be long, I suppose, since it represents such a long period of time. I met my husband for the very first time two weeks after my fifteenth birthday. I went to the high school yearbook stomp even though I wasn’t technically  “in” high school yet. Our school kept the ninth grade in the middle school. Turns out that no one actually dances at a yearbook stomp. They sign yearbooks. Go figure. It was a sad realization to my wanting-to-dance, fifteen-year-old self.

To get over my grief, I signed yearbooks. Oh sure, I didn’t actually know any of the people whose books I signed. But it was a big high school. They probably didn’t know I didn’t know them. I signed a yearbook for one Scott Wright. I went home and didn’t think about it again.

I met him again on the first day of school my sophomore year. Neither of us remembered the yearbook incident. It was pretty much not memorable. Strangers float in and out of our lives every day. Why focus on any one stranger? It was French class where we became non-strangers. He asked me to move up a desk, and we spent the school year laughing at jokes, becoming excellent friends, and *not* learning the French language. At the end of the year, Mr. Wright asked me to prom. I wore a fancy dress, had my hair done up cute, and felt beautiful for the first time in my life.

He asked if he could kiss me goodnight.

I told him no.

I had my reasons. They were valid reasons, too. I wasn’t a jerk about it. I explained those reasons to him, and to his credit, he took it pretty well. Then, I went inside my house and wept the tears that only a teenage girl falling for a boy could muster. I knew he would never talk to me again. I just knew the kiss was the deal-breaker.

He called the next afternoon to see if I wanted to go to a movie.

And the friendship continued. We did everything together, from taking cooking classes that didn’t do me any good, to him teaching me how to change a tire, to me opening up and sharing my dark and dreary poetry with another person. I admit it now. I was a terrible poet. THAT should have been the deal-breaker. We had water fights–the epic kind, cake fights, ice fights, and even a few real fights. Together, we learned about religion, the environment, and debated the finer points of sunrises and sunsets. We spent hours playing King’s Quest.

We climbed trees, and mountains, and Life together.

One day I kissed him . . . my choice–he’d never approached the issue again. I kissed him, because whenever I looked at him, I couldn’t imagine a day of my life without him. We discovered I’d been the flirty, bossy girl  signing his yearbook. And then he left to serve a two year mission for our church. It was a long two years. And I, being young and foolish, assumed all boys were like that boy and began dating others. LOTS of others. None were like that boy. Which is not to say they were all bad. Some were quite wonderful. Some were kind, some were short-tempered, some were funny, some were quiet, some were respectful, some were creeps. Some were creepers. Some were just good guys that I am still grateful to have had the chance to know. But none were that boy.

I once read an advertisement for Nike–one that talked about a girl growing up. One of the lines in the ad was: I fell in love . . . I fell in love . . .  I fell in love. Then I really fell in love. I did it backwards. I really fell in love the first time around which made the other fall-in-loves somewhat less than what they could have been. Apologies are probably necessary. While he was gone, we both grew. Differently. But still growing. We stretched, reached, and became. He came home, and in spite of all my detours during his absence, his coming home was a homecoming for me as well.

So we got married. We discovered that water fights were more fun than the real fights, that dancing was a sore topic and that taking dancing lessons together would not keep us married. We found that all these years later, we are still Friends which made marriage that much better, that much easier. We learned that he’s a creep when he’s hungry,  I’m a creep when I’m tired, and that we’re the definition of pure evil when he’s hungry and I’m tired at the same time. We discovered that we are genetic super heroes. If we had known that our three kids would all turn out this fabulous, we would have had a dozen. We’ve hiked mountains, swam in oceans, walked over deserts. We’ve caught frogs, colds, and subway trains. We’ve missed deadlines, flights, and Each Other when we’re apart. We’ve opened businesses, closed businesses, moved into houses and out of houses, packed in and out of hotel rooms all over the world. We’ve boarded airplanes, cruise ships, sail boats, ferries, taxi cabs, limos, scooters, subway trains, cross country trains, Disneyland rides, four wheelers, and tandem bikes. We’ve watched fish die, turtles die, dogs die, People die. We hold each other a little tighter when we lose people, some part of us afraid of losing each other. We’ve fought, faded, forgotten, and flared up again. We’ve cried, yelled, whispered, sung to babies, scolded babies, laughed at babies. We’ve laughed. We laugh a lot. I tell him all the time that he stopped being funny over a decade ago, but it isn’t true. He’s hilarious.

Some of my favorite moments with him were the times he wasn’t aware I was watching–the times in the morning when he would take the baby feeding so I could sleep a little longer, where I crept out and peeked around the corner to watch my husband with our little girl–to find him balancing a baby, a bottle, and the scriptures while he read out loud to her. He never misses moments to teach the kids, conjugating verbs, explaining an electrical box, helping them understand directions and maps, being the example of picking up litter and recycling, being the example of being a good human by saying please and thank you and holding open doors and putting away chairs, by pitching in when there’s work to be done. He teaches them to love by loving them. The highest compliment given was by our middle son when he said, “I can’t wait to be a dad, so I can joke around with my kids like this.”

We’ve been sick, healthy, sad, happy, depressed, stressed, excited, elated; we’ve battled diseases and monsters under the beds. We’ve discussed politics, religion, science, literature, and anything else that might give us a good debate. We’ve fought, made up, gone to bed mad, stayed up late talking. We’ve dreamed dreams, fought for dreams, let some dreams die, fought harder for others. We’ve grown up and grown older together. We’ve laughed some more. We’ve even danced–in spite of it not being his favorite thing ever.

Have our lives been perfect? Is every day perfect?    No.     But every day has been perfectly us. The most perfect part?

We’re not done yet.

I’m looking forward to another quarter of a century.

Love you Käre, harifrån till evighet. Jag är lycklig at du är min. Jag älskar dig varje dag.

Prom "Forever Young" 1988

Prom “Forever Young”

New York, Battery Park 2013

New York, Battery Park




What a Wonderful World

I recently came back from a family cruise to the Mexican Riviera with my entire family. My dad, mom, brothers, sister, all the in laws and the all the grandchildren. It was so many shades of fabulous that i could gush for several pages, but I will spare you all that gushing by simply saying, “Wow!”

It was fun. Yes, of course it was fun, but more than that it was wonderful to reconnect with my family that way. We had no distractions of our regular lives to take us away from each other. We ate meals together, went on walks on the track that overlooked the pacific ocean and watched the sun sink into its watery bed, and simply *enjoyed* the world around us.

I’m home now and though I hated the laundry mountain that had to be tackled at the end of the trip–I regret absolutely nothing (except not being able to finish that last chocolate melting cake on the last night of the cruise)

My boys have the Klondike Derby today for scouts where they will be sleeping out in the snow capped mountains over night. They left me the stuff they wanted to take in huge piles on the living room floor so I could organize the stuff into something manageable–no one packs like I do. I was in the midst of writing little Mom-Loves-You notes and tucking them into various pockets of their rucksacks when I was thinking about all the really beautiful things I’d seen on the cruise and on shore.

The rain forests, the sunsets, the pod of dolphins, the whales, the caves by the sea, the way the waves would swell before crashing on the shore and as each wave crested, it revealed schools of colorful fish that I hadn’t noticed before. Beaches of sand so light, you almost felt you were sinking into it, the simple joy of feeding an orange to a parrot.

Each little bit of uncovered beauty felt like a note carefully hidden in one of the pockets of my life for me to find at some unexpected moment saying that God loves me. I don’t what your religious affiliations are and don’t know that you don’t think I am intensely corny for feeling this way, but regardless of your beliefs, you have to admit, we live in a truly wonderful world.


It’s nice to get little reminders that the world is good and there are great people in it. Family is awesome.

Nineteen Years

Yesterday was my nineteenth anniversary. It feels weird to think I’ve been married that long. I don’t feel old enough to have been married NINETEEN YEARS, and yet, I have a hard time remembering life before Mr. Wright—though that might have something to do with the fact that I went on my first date with Mr. Wright when I was sixteen-ish. I’ve learned a few things in the years of being married and decided to share nineteen things about being married I’ve learned in my nineteen years of actually being married.

  1. Romance is more about friendship and fun than it is about roses and candlelight
  2. Kicking a man under the table to get him to shut up is useless when he just loudly asks, “Why are you kicking me?” afterward.
  3. The three syllables I’m sorry are as important as the three syllables I love you.
  4. Mr. Wright and I must have a good mix of genetics, because our kids are beautiful, brilliant demigods.
  5. There is nothing sexier than finding your husband in the middle of the night trying to balance a bottle, a baby, and a book as he reads the scriptures to your newborn.
  6. Speaking well of each other inspires the other to live up to the reputation you’ve given them.
  7. I feel safer when he’s with me.
  8. I’m lost without him—and I don’t mean that in a metaphoric sense. I really mean I’m lost without him. I have never been good with directions, and he has a grid in his head at all times.
  9. I’m a complete grouchy monster of a female when I am tired.
  10. Mr. Wright is a complete grouchy monster of a male when he is hungry.
  11. We are pure evil when I’m tired and he’s hungry at the same time.
  12. Little things make a big difference. I love that he makes Crème brulee for me—that I hardly ever have to touch a gas handle because he tries to keep my car full of gas for me—that he laughs with me. That he never complains when I call him for directions when I’m on the road and lost.
  13. No one can chase a dream alone. No one can climb to success without someone else holding the ladder for them. I would not be a published author without his support, belief, and help.
  14. It’s funny when you dump a bucket of ice water over the curtain on a man taking a shower.
  15. It’s not so funny when he gets you back, and it’s hard to understand why he’s laughing when he should be apologizing.
  16. Listening to my husband explain physics, math, verb conjugation, the golden rule . . . to our children is some of the best noise I’ve ever heard.
  17. True love is sticking around when things are bad, so you’re still there when things get good again.
  18. I didn’t know what people were talking about when I was a teenager in love—when they would say I didn’t really know what love was. Nineteen years later when I love him more today than yesterday and more yesterday than the day before that . . . I think I am finally understanding.
  19. Growing up with him was fun, exciting, exhilarating. Growing old with him is perfect.

Happy Anniversary, Mr. Wright. I love you.

Who Is Romania Brown?

I have been asked this question a LOT over the last several months. I’ve received more fan mail for Romania Brown’s quotes in the book CROSS MY HEART than I have for the actual book.

People have Googled her, quoted her, and laughed out loud at her. And they want to know who she is. So I’m telling all. I will meta-tag this post so it comes up in a Google search. I want the world to know.

She’s my grandma.

Her full name is Julia Romania Brown Peterson. She is the person who I was named for. She was my very best friend growing up. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but it bears mentioning again–she was everything awesome in my life. I miss her sometimes more than I can stand. I hide bits and pieces of her in pretty much everything I write. It’s my way of keeping her with me. It takes away some of the ache, and I know she’d love the joke of it all. Grandma loved a good joke.

Now, the confession part is that Grandma didn’t write all those quotes. A couple of them are things she told me, but most of them are things I made up. I couldn’t credit myself because . . . well, it looks tacky to credit a quote to yourself. I tried using quotes from real people, but had to rely on things my friends would let me quote them in a book saying, or things that are over a hundred (or whatever) years old so I didn’t accidentally break any copyright laws. After using up my friends and classic works, I still needed a few quotes. It was then that I turned to my journal–my memories of grandma and my snarky personal commentary on love in general while I was in my dating years. I drew from that to come up with the quotes and the poem about love at the beginning of the book CROSS MY HEART.

So now you know.

Julia Romania Brown Peterson was hilarious. She loved to laugh. She was brilliant. Even without formal higher education, she never ceased to learn, to expand her mind, to grow her knowledge. She loved archaeology, which might be the reason I had such a fixation with Indiana Jones and that blasted hat of his. She planted all the seeds that created the person I am today.

And I do miss her . . . every day. But every day, I am also filled with gratitude that she existed, and she was *my* grandma. I am grateful that she was such a huge part of my life, and glad to share her with all of you even in this small part.

So now you know. Isn’t she wonderful?

Julia Romania Brown Peterson as a Baby

Growing Pains

My husband planned a date night last weekend. One that would particularly interest me because it involved tickets to the Christmas folk dance festival at BYU. I love those sorts of things. I love dance and music, and once–long ago in my past–I was a pretty good dancer myself. Those days are so over, but it’s nice to know they existed.

We left the kids in charge of the store and commenced to enjoy an evening OUT. Rae called to get a little help with the gas pumps since they weren’t cooperating. And while Mr. Wright was on the phone with her, having a calm, rational conversation about how to fix things, she screamed into the phone, “Copper’s dead!”

Copper is the family dog. More specifically, Copper is *Rae’s* dog. More specifically, Copper has very much become *my* dog. I love that animal like crazy.

Copper was hit by a car. Merks carried her broken little body into the store. And on the phone, an hour and a half away, Mr. Wright and I listened to our children’s anguish, and there was nothing we could do. We cried with them, but we also had to calm down the hysterics, the shrieking, the wailing, the begging for us to fix what isn’t fixable.

They’re all so little still–at least, they *seem* little to me. One’s already driving, the others are fast approaching that, but I hated they were dealing with traumatic grown-up problems on their own.  I hated not being there to hold them, rock them, cry with them in person.

But they did deal with it. Bing asked for a prayer for Copper. The three of them closed the store, wrapped her in a blanket, joined together and prayed for their little dog. Rae, realizing she was in charge until we could get home, really took charge–in a way I don’t think I could have when I was her age. She had them say their goodbyes, and herded the boys home to put up the Christmas tree (an act of service for me, since I’d had hand surgery the day previous and couldn’t decorate), and spend an evening comforting each other.

Being the adult sucks muddy rocks sometimes. You have to do things that are hard. You have to do things you don’t want to do–things you want to pawn off on somebody, anybody, else.

And my three little children did the adult thing that night. They handled it and were really there for each other. So while it’s hard  losing a little dog that became so much a member of our family, it’s good to know that the kids can come through a crisis without adult supervision.

They’re growing up. So. Fast. I blink, and they’re taller. I blink, and they’re driving, stretching, growing. And they’ve proven they’ll be able to handle growing up–even when it’s hard. Even as I’m blinking away tears.

Category: family life  8 Comments


My son saw an advertisement for a KISS concert and I made the comment that KISS had been around when I was his age and even longer than that. He squinted up at me, his face twisted in disbelief.  “They’re old guys?”

“Yep . . . really old guys.”

“What are a bunch of old guys gonna sing about? Is their title song going to be Get Off My Lawn?”

One of our neighbors was in the store at the time of this conversation and we laughed at him. Encouraged, he titled the rest of the songs in the album.  I wish I was as quick witted as this kid, but since I’m not, I’ll content myself to share his wit:

  1. Get Off My Lawn
  2. My Walker’s Broken
  3. Dentures Really Bite
  4. Wheelchair Races
  5. Got a New Hip Today
  6. Don’t Slap my Bald Spot
  7. WhipperSnapper Brats
  8. My Achey Brakey Back
  9. Turn Down That Radio!
  10. Don’t Rush Me; I Don’t Walk That Fast