The Christmas I Remember Best

Christmas – especially the anticipation of it – has a way of transforming a child’s fuzzy sense of time into crystal-clear precision. Come December, youngsters who normally don’t care a whit for calendars suddenly know the daily countdown to Christmas.

So it was in my family. With every passing day my brothers and I grew more excited. I am sure that I, as the oldest, instigated most of our waiting games. My brothers and I wrote letters to Santa, read catalogs, made lists, drew pictures. We coached toddler Benji into sharing our enthusiasm. Our household was boisterous. We children simply could not wait.

My mother had a very different countdown of her own. It is only after becoming a mother myself that I have come to appreciate her role in all this. My father was on a weeks-long business trip to Indonesia. I knew he was far, far from our Denver-area home, but I don’t remember feeling any stress or anxiety about his absence; I knew he’d come home by Christmas, and in the meantime Mom took care of all.

We went about all our normal holiday preparations. It seemed forever, though, before we got our Christmas tree, picking one from the sparse display at the grocery store entrance. It was dark and finger-tingling cold, and my mom urged us to hold each other’s hands so we wouldn’t slip in the icy parking lot. The tree was the smallest ever – it could fit in the car with the four of us children. The night we decorated it ended with another X on the calendar. We were almost there!

Finally my mother had to sit us down. How would we feel, she asked, about postponing Christmas until Dad came back?  Problems scheduling connecting flights meant our father might not make it back in time for Christmas after all.

Would we reschedule Christmas? Would we wait to open presents and dig into our stockings? We’d work it out with Santa, Mom promised the younger ones. Would we wait?

Without hesitation we, (at least those of us who could talk), said yes, we would. We wanted to wait for our dad.

That night I went to bed with a warmth I’d never known before. My excitement for the holiday, previously based on what presents I hoped to receive, shifted outward. This celebration would be special.

Then, one morning before Christmas I awoke to unexpectedly bright sunshine, the reflected light off new snow from a major storm the night before.

My mom ushered me into her room. There was my dad! Inexplicably he’d made smooth connections all along his multi-country journey home. He landed at Stapleton airport in the middle of the night and took a taxi home so my mother wouldn’t have to worry about loading us in the car to pick him up.

My dad was home! It was then, and remains now, one of the happiest surprises of my life. All of us crowded onto the bed and bounced Dad awake. We soaked up his attentions as eagerly as we did the warm indoor sun. 

Yes, the Christmas I remember best is short on certain details. I don’t know for sure how old I was, 9, maybe 10? Without consulting my mother I couldn’t say what year it was, or how many weeks my father had already been overseas, or the exact date he returned. I don’t even remember what material presents I got that year.

That didn't matter. I doubt she planned it, but by giving us the choice to postpone that Christmas, my mother gave me something far better. That year I formed part of my core, that having my family all together was what I wanted most. The spirit of Christmas – Christ’s love – transcends time and is not bound by the grid in a calendar.

I celebrate this forever.  

Overlapping traditions

In sorting through several digital Decembers I was amused to find these two very similar photos, taken two years apart:

They both show Elise and Emma working to decorate the roofs on wooden gingerbread house forms made by their Grandpa Hatch. The first one was taken in 2007 (ages 6 and 9); the second, which includes Samuel, 2, in 2009 (ages 8 and 11).

The very best traditions are as comfortable as a favorite pair of shoes, or in Grandpa Jim's case, socks. Every Christmas morning he catches my eye and pulls up a pant leg to model that year's installment.

James, 3,  and Grandpa Jim, Christmas 2007

Traditions can be silly, meaningful, cooperative, fun. They connect us. So follow along in this chain of pictures from some of our family's Christmas traditions.

Andrew, 10, and Kyle 11, 2007. 

We all buy tons of candy, cereal and pretzels; packages of powdered sugar and cartons of eggs; and descend on Grandma's house for a day of decorating gingerbread houses with the cousins. Grandma whips up batches of royal icing while the kiddos get to work. This particular tradition brings adult personalities into sharp focus. One wants to just get it done, the quicker, the better, so he can sweep up the kitchen. Some like to help make sure every surface is decorated, happily assuming the task themselves when finished children saunter off. Many, like Jeff, hover  to eat the candy. (I've noticed, though, that no one bothers buying chocolate anymore.) I'm rather laissez faire myself, letting the kids decorate as randomly as they want. (It's less frosting for me to have to clean off the wood later!) No matter what, it's fun, and I'm grateful to my in-laws for establishing these memories.

Ready for the chain? Watch!

Christmas traditions mean ... 

... enjoying the process as much as the finished project ...

Jessie, 5. 2009

... snatching the goodness while you can ...

James, 5, and Elise, 8, sample sprinkles while Emma, 11, cuts more sugar cookies. 2009.

... making other kitchen yummies to share ... 

Jeff stirs a batch of fudge. What? You don't see any? Yeah, that's a tradition, too. It disappears fast.

... stirring, stirring, circling ... 

OK, this link is a stretch. But if I'd taken the photo a minute earlier you would have seen Elise spinning into the strand of pink lights the other children wrapped around her (2009).

... lighting up anew ... 

Above: Samuel, 2, and Jeff at Temple Square. Below: James, 5. (2009).

Kyle, 13, stops to admire the lights. (This was a long exposure.) 2009

... reflecting.

No, this photo isn't upside down. Almost as cool as the Temple Square lights was my children's response to seeing their reflection in the ceiling of the parking garage elevator. 2009.

Elise, 8. likes her reflection in a Christmas ornament. 2009.

I hope you'll find lots to smile about this holiday, too!

Christmas story recommendations

James, 3, Elise, 6, and Samuel, 3 months, read The Berenstain Bears' Christmas Tree. December 2007

I love to fill my home with books, and at Christmas time we're burstin'! I wrap books to make an advent calendar, we make meals to match certain stories, I choose special ones to launch family home evening discussions. Our Christmas celebrations would not be complete without books, most especially Jeff's well-thumbed Bible that he holds each Christmas Eve to read from Luke chapter 2. 

Here are some new favorites:

Angela and the Baby Jesus, by Frank McCourt. Illustrated by Raul Colon.

My mother gave us this beautiful book this year. I am glad I read it by myself first because I was surprised at my strong emotional response. Even when I knew what was coming I couldn't stop that choke in my voice as I read it aloud to my family. It is the story of 6-year-old Angela (the author's mother) who frets over the uncovered baby Jesus in the church's nativity scene and secretly takes him home to warm him. The obvious question of why she just didn't bring a blanket is answered by the author's descriptions of Angela often being cold and hungry herself.

Angela's older brother Pat figures prominently into the story. The author never outright says, but I understood Pat to be mentally challenged somehow, yet exceptionally loved. This, when Angela's secret mission is thwarted:

She nearly died of fright when the back door of her house creaked and out came her brother Pat going to the lavatory. He stopped and stared at her and the Baby, but she didn't mind because he was like a baby himself and often said foolish things even she wouldn't say.

Raul Colon's subdued palette and texturally combed paintings add richness to the story. My favorite picture shows Angela throwing the baby Jesus over a wall she couldn't climb while holding him.

McCourt won the Pulitzer Prize for Angela's Ashes, also about his mother. He retells the unfolding events of this tale without moralizing, which for me made it all the more powerful, for the parallel to Christ's Atonement is one I drew myself. Thank you, Mom!

Father and Son: A Nativity Story, by Geraldine McCaughrean. Illustrated by Fabian Negrin.

This story, which I picked up from the library, also twinges the heart. When all is finally quiet the night of Jesus' birth, Joseph alone is awake and contemplating what he has to offer this precious Lord. 

"How can I put a roof over your head, knowing it was you who glass-roofed the world and thatched the sky with clouds, and stitched the snow with threads of melting silver?

"And how shall I ever astound you, child, as my father did me? You are the one who fitted the chicken into the egg and the oak tree into an acorn!"

Naturally, the story ends with Joseph deciding what he can do for Jesus, but it was the very last page that got me the most, and made me reflect on my own role as a parent. Do read it!

Now, for a change of pace ... 

It's Christmas, David! by David Shannon

This one is on the list with a caveat: This is the children's favorite that almost wasn't.

We are big fans of Shannon's "David" books, so when I saw this one on the French book order, it was a no-brainer. I had not seen the English version before, and that proved problematic.

For when James brought the order home from school, I was SHOCKED to look through the book and see a page with David's signature in yellow across a snowscape. You follow? Hmm, let's call it an art activity boys can do but girls can't. Got it yet? Now, that irrepressible David is a naughty fellow, but I thought author Shannon went too far this time.

I was going to send the book back. Jeff laughed that off, telling me this is what boys do. (He is Scoutmaster, you know.) When I learned both of James' teachers (English and French) read this to their classes, I softened and decided to keep it. Really young kids, for whom this book is aimed, won't dwell on the picture or require explanation; older ones who do know should be reminded "Naughty, naughty, naughty!"

This is the book Samuel asks to hear all the time. Tout le temps. Like other Scholastic books, my copy is unevenly bound, and some pages jut out. An advantage this time, because during read-alouds I can easily skip over the questionable spread without making it obvious I've turned two pages. Ha! So be forewarned, it's right after the picture of David's long Santa list.

And finally ... 

The Latke Who Couldn't Stop Screaming, by Lemony Snicket. Illustrated by Lisa Brown.


Hey, I know what you're thinking. Isn't it disrespectful to classify a tale about a latke, that traditional Jewish food, as a Christmas story? Well, that's the subtitle itself: A Christmas Story.

And that, my friends, is the source of the latke's frustration. This is the story of how Hanukkah began, told from the latke's point of view, who jumps from the frying pan and tries, in exasperation, to explain the Jewish holiday to all those Christmas-centric objects around him.

Snicket, of the A Series of Unfortunate Events fame, imbues the same wicked satire here. There's depth for adults, and just plain fun for the kids. We loved it. Last year I read this over a dinner of, what else? Latkes served with sour cream and homemade applesauce. I'm craving them just writing this.

What are some of your favorite holiday books?


P.S. Based on comments, my last post must have come across as a fishing expedition for compliments. I'm sorry. I merely wanted to set the stage for how much James' sign in the middle of sacrament meeting meant to me. But thank you for your encouragement!

Organized thought

I used to subscribe to the Shel Silverstein school of thought regarding playing the organ in church.

Witness his poem "HOW NOT TO HAVE TO DRY THE DISHES":

If you have to dry the dishes
(Such an awful, boring chore)
If you have to dry the dishes
('Stead of going to the store)
If you have to drop the dishes
And you drop one on the floor --
Maybe they won't let you
Dry the dishes anymore.


See? Replace "dry the dishes" with "play the organ" and you've got it. Well, maybe we ought to tweak the word boring, and ... oh ... no shopping anyway. But hey -- the "drop one on the floor" bit is not far off. I make some glorious mistakes. And still, the choir director keeps asking me to play the organ. Aargh!

Silverstein's theory? IT DOESN'T WORK!

So the absolute best antidote to walking off the stand after yet another iffy attempt is to see this in the congregation:

This is an after-church reenactment, of course.

I was mortified and warmed all at once by James' on-the-bench cheering section. When I quickly pulled down his arms, it was really to wrap that crazy boy in a hug.

We Are Sowing

We are sowing, daily sowing

Countless seeds of good and ill ...

Seeds that lie unchanged, unquickened,

Lifeless on the teeming mold;

Seeds that live and grow and flourish

When the sower's hand is cold.

Selected passages of the poem "Pure Diamonds," anonymous. Words were set to music for the hymn "We Are Sowing," number 216 in the LDS hymnbook.

When my 8-year-old daughter giggled with confusion that we were planting bulbs in November -- a time, she pointed out, that's really the harvest -- I was again glad that gardening provides a unique classroom for so many life lessons. You reap what you sow. We won't have tulips in spring unless we plant bulbs now, I explained. Though you may not see the outcome for many years, dear girl, the choices you make now will affect the rest of your life.

This Thanksgiving I'm grateful for new insight into the law of the harvest. I'm thankful to know that If I keep sowing, even when my hand is cold or my heart troubled, my Maker understands and makes up for my deficits.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Grandma Morgan's rolls

One of my prized possessions is an index card smudged with butter and ink.

Years ago, I don't remember when, I asked Jeff's Grandma Morgan to write down her recipe for rolls. She looked a little surprised. Surely she knew how legendary her rolls were, how no holiday dinner was complete without them. Surely she basked in the flurry of arms reaching to grab a hot one when she paraded around her big dining table with the latest pan fresh from the oven. I don't think anyone bothered with a roll basket.

I never saw her mix the dough or shape the cloverleaf balls. When we came to dinner, even well before the appointed time, she'd already done most of the work.

I wish I'd thought to ask for a private lesson before arthritis robbed pliable fingers, and before the baker was gone.

Grandma Morgan died last month. She was an elegant, accomplished woman who made me want to stand a little taller. She loved babies and cultivated incredible gardens. I love that she seemed equally at home playing in the dirt and -- at least once upon a time -- in flour.

Yes she was surprised when I asked for her recipe but she pulled it from the top of her head and wrote it down quickly. The arrows, cross-outs and spartan directions of this recipe card amuse me. I treasure it.

We love you, Grandma!

with 1-day-old Elise, 2001

Rolls 

(with my notes in italics)

2/3 cup shortening (part margarine) --  (I asked her to clarify this; she said 1/2 cup margarine and a rounded Tablespoon of shortening. Go figure!)

2 cups scalded milk

1/2 cup sugar

1 Tablespoon salt

3 yeast cakes (or pkgs.)  in 2/3 cup warm water and 2 teaspoons sugar

4 eggs beaten, add to cooled milk

8 cups flour, approx.

Raise one hour. Roll Mix. Roll out. Raise again, 1 hour or plus. Bake 375 for 8-10 minutes.

More!

1. Scald milk. Meanwhile, mix yeast packages (equivalent of 2 Tablespoons plus 3/4 teaspoons) in 2/3 cup warm water and 2 teaspoons sugar.

2. Remove milk from heat. Add 1/2 cup margarine or butter with rounded Tablespoon of shortening to warm milk.

3. Beat 4 eggs.

4. Mix yeast, cooled milk, eggs, 1/2 cup sugar and 1 Tablespoon salt. 

5. Gradually mix in  8-9 cups of flour.

6. Let rise one hour. Stir down dough, make into desired shape and place in greased pans. Let rise another hour.

7. Bake at 375 for 8 to 10 minutes.

It gets better

The perspective of details:

1. I gave Samuel ice cream. La-di-dah. Ho-hum.

2. It was a potty treat.

3. Not as a reward for producing -- a bribe just to get him to sit there!

4. It was 5 p.m., almost dinner time. I didn't care. This kid hadn't produced since 10 a.m., and was a screaming, naked time-bomb running through the house. Something had to be done. Enter the bit of ice cream Jeff brought home for our in-house date. (He'd eaten his share alone.)

5. THE ICE CREAM WAS BEN AND JERRY'S!!! THAT'S PREMIUM STUFF, PEOPLE!!!

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

And here we see a scene I vividly recall from my own childhood when I, like Elise, was enlisted to read to a younger brother in training.

I'm thinking about installing a loudspeaker in the bathroom so James can read to Samuel, and I can listen to James from the kitchen while I work, thus fulfilling James' oral reading homework.

P.S. On Elise's watch, Samuel ran off from the EMPTY potty and, er, "decorated" the fireplace.

Do-it-yourself pumpkin portraits

Emma saw me working on this post for another blog where I freelance (and I mean freelance), and she convinced me to come out of blog exile (did anyone notice?) and put it here. Hmm, maybe because she's the star? Whatever. Enjoy!

Something about Halloween releases the creative juices, wouldn't you say? Characters, decorations, eerie foods, ways that parents can hide the candy ... 

Usually around here Halloween is a crazy rush. Out of necessity I am an absolute pro at making last-minute costumes, and I can carve a basic triangle-eye, gap-toothed pumpkin in no time flat. 

But one year I let those creative juices steep and stew for a while with very satisfying results. Ah yes, Halloween 2000, I remember you well. It was a presidential election that year and I saw a newspaper photo of two jack-o-lanterns someone had done of Bush and Gore.

I could do that. At least I wanted to.

Only I had two significantly cuter subjects in mind, my 4-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter. 

The dreaming, ambitious side of me actually considering drawing my children's faces onto the pumpkins (!), but then the practical side reminded me that I'm not an artist. So I decided to use a photograph as my pattern.

Here's how to create your own using Adobe Photoshop:

1. Choose your pumpkin and get an idea of the size area you want to carve.

2. Size the image to match your carving area.

3. Convert to grayscale (black and white).

4. Go to Image, then Adjustments, then Posterize. Play around with the number settings until you like what you see. This step ends up looking something like this:

Hmm, is that an orange speck of pumpkin goo on her chin, and in my scrapbook all these years?

5. Print and get ready to carve! Or in other words, set aside your entire day and thank your lucky stars that PBS can help occupy the children while you sit in the room with them.

I wanted the white areas of my pattern to be the lit, open areas of the pumpkin. I drew on the pattern before carving to better outline the parts I would cut. Then I taped the pattern to the pumpkin and used the poker from an inexpensive carving kit to punch dots through the pumpkin. With a paring knife I "connected the dots" in specific sections to make the cutaways.

This is what the pattern of holes looked like in reverse:

I carved Emma's pumpkin first and actually got better and faster as I did Kyle's. I scooped, outlined and carved the two pumpkins over a five-hour span tending my children. 

In the decade since I've added three more children ... who vocally wonder why they don't have a jack-o-lantern portrait too. (Hey -- fold the laundry and I'll do it!) Sadly, I've never done another; my time has been needed elsewhere. This project was indeed rare for me, to actually see my ideas take form -- and that's why I love my memories of it. A little creative victory, if you will, all thanks to Halloween.

P.S.

If you've read all the way through this, let me reward you with a little tip. What do pumpkins and canning rings have to do with each other? Oh, I'm so glad you asked. I DARE you to find a better tool for scraping out a pumpkin's insides. So get carving!

Happy Halloween!

Modeling clay

The walk to school on the first day, Aug. 23.

Indulge me here. I know, I know. The first day of school was last week, and I honestly had this post written in my head then -- but it was trapped there, awaiting the time my hands were free from housework long enough to type. (O, laundry, will we ever part?)

We're off to a great start of school. Our goal is scripture reading at 6:20 a.m. before Jeff leaves for work. So far only Elise has a perfect record of attending, but we'll keep at it. It's worth it.

The children are split two and two between the elementary and junior high schools. And if you're thinking -- what? Emma is in junior high? -- yes, my heart tried to deny it too. 

The traditional front step shot. James is wearing a name tag his teachers mailed to him.

Ooh -- somebody go get Samuel!

Never mind.

Samuel's favorite site at the school: the aquarium.

Modeling Clay

The boy took his assigned seat across from James, scanned the room of new classmates and blurted out in disgust:

"Not him again! I HATE George!"*

James looked up briefly from fist-pounding his yellow Playdoh.

I waited expectantly. I was there, having dropped James off for the first day of first grade. In mere seconds my head was already screaming with "Hey, that's not very nice!" and "I'm the only adult who heard this, what do I do?" I watched to see James' reaction. Would he reply with something far worse?

"Well, I like him," he said evenly. And that was that. Boom. Boom. Boom.

I was so proud of him. Without hurting the speaker he stood up for the subject. 

But I also know that, just as easily, on another day, James could be the one saying hurtful things. It comes with the territory of being a child. You hope, when you can't be there yourself, that someone else will gently help your child squish out the mistakes and start molding and forming again. That if caught in time, no harm is done.

We all reach a time as parents where we simply cannot be as hands-on as before. First grade is one of those measurable times for me. I struggle knowing that the balance of my child's waking time in the home, compared to out of it, shifts dramatically. It's hard.

I can't be there every minute. Instead, I can make sure the clay of my children's character does not dry out, that it does not get broken down by grit and debris, that it does not become so diluted and soupy that it can't take shape. I can teach and model, over and over -- till I'm blue in the face! -- but ultimately my children must sculpt themselves.

Their creations amaze me.

*name changed, of course :)

Dear Grandma,

Dear Grandma,

Thank you for the package! When Mom and I came home from a meeting it was fun to see a box under the door mat. Mom was really excited when she said, "Samuel, this is for YOU!"

I already knew that. "Yeah, my toy is inside," I told her.

She took pictures of me opening it, but she didn't take pictures of my words. If she had, they would have looked like this:

Wow!

and

This is so cool!

over and over that day.

I love my new tools! They're just the right size for my hands.

The drill makes a really great sound -- but that's not the only way I can use my ears:

See? How about my nose?

(James taught me this but I'm pretty sure I would have figured it out on my own eventually.)

I haven't put the drill in my mouth yet (at least not that Mom has seen ... shh!), but my new tools do turn my mouth into a big smile.

Thank you, Grandma. I love you.

Love,
Samuel

Someday Eyes

Gardening has taught me appreciation despite flaws. Gardening has taught me to look at an expanse of land for what it can become, to see future flowers where now are just weeds and hard-packed dirt.

Gardening requires my "someday" eyes.

The children I raise need the same approach. One recent day I was particularly hurt that my teenager exploded in anger when his sister's sudden sickness prevented our trip to the amusement park. I was so upset with him. Where was his compassion?

Where, too, was mine?

I sought a quiet moment to reconcile my negative feelings. The prayer was quick. I came to understand my son's disappointment and his limited tools to express and control it. Even greater, a picture formed in the upper right corner of my mind. I saw him as a man, leaning beside his own daughter in the bathroom and stroking her hair out of the way.  Blond, I think.

Someday.

I saw my son for all the potential within him, and my heart swelled anew with the charge to get him there.

You know you're a mother when ...

... from a room away you can HEAR the difference between a crayon and a Sharpie permanent marker in your 2-year-old's hand.

60 things about someone who's 60

Photo: Elise, James and my mom, Shirley Ann, showing a special music box. Christmas 2009.

Happy Birthday, Mom! In your honor of your 60th, here's a list of 60 things we love about you:

1. You get Kyle's brand of humor when he told me: "If you were really nice, you'd say 50 things."
2. Your cooking.
3. You use cloth napkins for regular meals.
4. You pray for Ben.
5. The way you helped us evolve to like frozen chocolate chip cookies -- forget storing them.
6. Grieg's "Peer Gynt Suite."
7. Christmas music in October.
8. Carefully selected birthday cards -- purchased months ahead of time.
9. All the years you called me at 2 a.m. to wish me a happy birthday. (Or was it just once, and I dreamed the rest?)
10. You find the best bargains around.
11. You call to let me know of grocery specials.
12. College care packages.
13. "I'm shrinking, I'm melting."
14. You listened to hours and hours of Hanon and scales and never complained.
15. Trinkets on my pillow.
16. The stuffed animal with the "Jennifer, I love you" t-shirt, stowed in my suitcase on a high school trip.
17. How well you listen.
18. You don't look 60 at all. (See #1)
19. Kitchen sink baths and baby lotion rubdowns on all my infants.
20. When I, the woman, constantly call to learn the answers you tried to teach a disinterested girl, you've never once said, "I told you so."
21. Homemade bread -- and the fact I now also set aside Tuesdays for baking.
22. "Do I look like I'm wearing a black and white striped shirt?"
23. Your loving care of 2-year-old Kyle and me in your home for my five weeks of pregnancy bedrest with Emma.
24. Your rolls.
25. Road-kill pumpkin pie.
26. That you still let us tell the story about road-kill pumpkin pie. In public.
27. Having three guest rooms (Kyle digs this! It's the closest he'll ever get to the Ritz.).
28. "Do I look like I have a whistle?" (See #22)
29. Making Jeff lunch while he used Jim's computer during his job search.
30. The way you make plates "magically appear." (Jeff says you need to brush up on that, though.)
31. Surrounding us with no food.
32. The time you walked toward Kyle's high chair carrying a bib, but (subconsciously?) tied it around Grandpa Jim's neck instead.
33. Knuckle sandwiches, with jam.
34. Your one-day turnaround on laundry. I'd wear something to school, next afternoon it was washed and folded on my bed. Seems like it takes me weeks to go from hamper to dresser!
35. Happily paying such a steep price for trout ... what are we down to ... $1,000 per pound?
36. Movies on VHS cassette, complete with commercials. (But they're meticulously labeled with entire cast! -- the movies, that is.)
37. Your color memory. You'll buy something to go with an item I own, and even if you haven't seen it for a long time, it's a perfect match.
38. Your beautiful handwriting.
39. So we didn't feel awkward, you said all the grocery items you gave us during Jeff's unemployment were "buy 1, get 1 free." We knew it was a lot more.
40. If we were really, really nice, we'd end this list now.
41. You introduced me to Agatha Christie's mysteries.
42. The immaculate home of my memories. HOW IN THE WORLD DID YOU DO THIS RAISING FIVE KIDS? (Not that I'm baffled or anything.)
43. A freezer always full of ice cream. Holy frozen cow, woman!
44. The way you direct errands to your impressive food storage room. "It's on the third shelf down, about five boxes over, behind the pickles." And you're always right.
45. You address letters to our sons "Master Kyle, Master James, Master Samuel." It's as if you see something we don't.
46. Your wedding gift shelf.
47. The closet full of Christmas wrap.
48. The way you apologize, every Christmas, that it's not much -- yet we've never wanted for more.
49. Letting the grandchildren wind your music boxes.
50. You have a better grasp of my children's shoe sizes than I do.
51. When I had to leave the hospital before preemie Emma could, others said I was foolish to decline their offers to take Kyle while I recovered from surgery. (Jeff had to return to work.) You alone understood that I could not  -- I couldn't! -- go home to an empty house, and so you drove to our apartment daily to help me take care of Kyle.
52. You told me to say "Moo" when I had to buzz in for admittance to the NICU.
53. Granddaughter sleep-overs and your party bath tub. (So recalls Elise.)
54. Your curling iron technique. Elise, especially, loves your beautiful blonde hair.
55. Once squeezing my hand during the Young Woman's broadcast.
56. Your selflessness.
57. The way you constantly tell me how grateful you are for Jeff.
58. Your testimony of the atonement.
59. How just the thought of you gives me comfort when I am sick.
60. You've given me a model to live up to, every day.