If you give a mouse a cookie...

I should never read other people's parenting stories. Yes, yes. I know. That's how we all learn to parent better. By listening to other parents' success stories and at least trying out the strategies that worked.

My kids. My kids are different from other kids. I love them. Deeply. Fiercely.

Monday I kept Kip home from school because he had a nose sniffle, and in an era of COVID it seems prudent to keep kids home when even mildly ill.

Tuesday, Paul pitched a fit about going to school, probably because Kip stayed home Monday. He did have a rough night of sleep (he woke up at 3 am having wet the bed and both he and Sylvia took showers before heading back to bed). Reasoning one 'mental health day' wouldn't be a big deal, I let him stay home, then made him read and write all day long. I didn't think it was a terribly fun day and assumed he'd be rested and ready to go back to school.

I have read so many stories about parents who, good-naturedly allow their children a day off now and then just because school is hard some days and sometimes you just need a break. Their cotton candy children go back to school the next day refreshed and ready to learn.

Those are so not my children. My children are the kind where if you give them an inch, they take a mile. If they sense any hint of compromise, they'll argue for the sun.

So we come to this morning. Paul again pitched a fit about going to school. He punched his little brother most of the way to school, until I (sternly. No, I'll be honest, yelling) told him I'd drop him off where we were if he didn't stop and he'd have to walk all the way to school. Then, when we got to school and the other two dutifully went to class (though not with out Kip also asking to stay home again), Paul sat in the car and refused to leave.

I parked the car and played a game on my phone. Then I realized Paul was too entertained by the game so I turned it off and just sat there. I got bored waiting (I'm honestly terrible at the wait them out thing) so I walked into the main office "looking for forms" (which they didn't have). Paul still refused to go to class, but at least the office was aware of where he was, and they offered to help if I needed it.

When we went back out, Paul locked me out of the car, so I went and stood in the sun where it was at least a little warm. Paul followed me out, begging for a fidgit. I emailed his teacher to ask what was appropriate, then tried to convince him he could go to class and I'd talk to her about it later (we have a parent-teacher conference with her this afternoon). That didn't convince him either. Nor did a phone call from his dad (the absent-minded professor, who set an alarm for this morning for a 5 am meeting that's happening Friday, and then forgot his computer charger). I finally bribed Paul with a cup of coffee. That worked. On the way into the office he offhandedly reminded me I hadn't signed a permission slip he needed that day.

So much drama.

We didn't start the fire

Yesterday was my 42nd birthday. I was looking forward to posting on twitter and maybe even facebook, "Today I am the answer," referencing Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

But given the combination of a global pandemic and rioting in my home country, it seemed a tad gauche.

It's absolutely surreal watching what's going on in the US right now. I watched a protest in Salt Lake City (SALT LAKE CITY!) over the murder of George Floyd and other acts of police violence against Black people. It was...unpleasant. I'm not sure what people wanted from the demonstrations, but the response of police was disturbing. It seemed like the police were saying, "we are the ones with the power here."

It doesn't seem right.

The level of violence, and the constant undercurrent of violence was disturbing, too. Watching it all unfold on a street I used to ride the bus down to get to school, and in front of a library I loved visiting when I lived in Salt Lake filled me with a sense of dread, and yet I couldn't look away.

I finally made a birthday cake to celebrate Derrick's and my birthdays, and we ate it tonight. His birthday is in April, but with Covid-19 happening I just couldn't pull myself together to bake a cake. The kids were still home at that point as well, so it's not like I had time around homeschooling. He asked for a pineapple coconut cake with orange buttercream frosting, which I was also a bit nervous about making. The previous times I've made it we were in the US and I had slightly different ingredients on hand--cake mixes and orange juice concentrate mostly. I tried a new recipe--the pinacolada cake from smitten kitchen with pineapple curd filling and orange buttercream frosting just made with normal orange juice. It turned out okay. The cake's a bit heavy, but it tasted nice, especially with the pineapple curd filling to really boost the flavor of the cake.

I always get so much from talking to you

I love my grandma Mimi's hands. When I was a child I used to sit next to her during sacrament meeting and play with the veins that wound over the back of her hands and looked so much like rivers, trying unsuccessfully to make one side or the other deflate. Her hands were always busy doing something, so I loved those moments where she’d let me just hold her hand. Hers were the hands that taught me to knead bread, to make frosting flowers, and how to sweep the floor and clean a toilet. She taught me to use a dictionary, and edited every essay I wrote for a year with those hands, marking up papers with her red pen until I had learned to write a grammatically correct sentence the first time. She grew tomatoes and daffodils, made grape juice (thick as milk) and jams from apricots, plums, choke cherries, and any other fruit that came her way. She could learn to do anything--she baked and decorated wedding cakes, birthday cakes, cinnamon rolls (only occasionally with cumin), and 4th ward brownies; she quilted and sewed and crocheted everything from baby dresses to temple altar cloths, and she gave all of it to the people around her as if to say, "Here, I love you, I made this for you."
Mimi taught us to speak. Professionally, she was a speech pathologist who worked with resource kids, and she understood the importance of speaking well. Everyone around her was subject to correction, no matter how old or young. She was a terrific writer, but so busy making and teaching she rarely took the time to put down her own stories.
I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. I still do.
Marie Hansen was the third child of Louis Manervan and Tressa Love Hansen, born in Mills, Utah, a town that exists today primarily as an exit on I-15. Her family were farmers, and when she was about seven her older brother broke his leg, forcing the family moved to Panguich, where there was a hospital. She helped her family picking peas for 25 cents a bushel. I imagine she was an energetic, industrious child before, but I'm sure that experience cemented her work ethic deep in her bones. While she was there she was put back a grade by a teacher who didn't think it worthwhile to educate "pea pickers." Another, more observant teacher, realized she was following along with the older children and moved her up a grade. She later graduated (early) from Delta High school; in 1970 she graduated Magna Cum Laude with a BS in Speech pathology and Audiology from the University of Utah, and a year later earned her MS, all while raising her seven children.
In addition to her own children, she had a hand in the raising of 24 grandchildren and 30 great-grandchildren, and one great-great granddaughter, along with countless neighborhood kids. When Marie was ten her mother gave birth to a daughter, Paula, and then developed 'milk leg,' and Mimi helped raise Paula, too. For 61 years she was married to Sterling Yates Nielson, and mourned his absence for the last 11 years of her life. I am sure they are ecstatic to be reunited.
The last time I talked to her, the day before she died, she wondered aloud if she'd done enough in her life. I wish I'd been there to hold her hands, now knobby and spotted, with veins popping out even more than when I was a child, as I told her yes, she had done enough. Even so, my ever-generous grandma asked her body be donated to the University of Utah for medical students to learn from. After ninety-one long, busy, ever productive years she's still teaching.
She was an incredible woman, a force of nature. She created our world, shaped and molded us, and always, always loved us. There is no monument to her but us, but our hands, which must now bear one another up and take on the work she can no longer do. We love you and will miss you always.