Incubated Rivalry

Last night Nohea started crying in her sleep. Kulani tried consoling her, and then she scooted over by me to see what I could do for her. I snuggled her in close to my belly and stroked her hair.

Wouldn't you know it--the little lady inside of me turned into Mia Hamm kicking like crazy. I think she was saying, "Get away, big sis! This is my territory!"

Already it begins. Oy vey.

My Idaho Sistahs

So I've admitted my fascination over an incredibly stupid reality show on Bravo called "The Real Housewives of Orange County/New York City/New Jersey/Atlanta." I think there is some correlation between the television shows we choose to watch and the kind-of people we are.

However, my fascination with this show runs almost completely perpendicular to the kind-of person I think I am. Maybe I'm just not self-aware enough, but if you were to look up "high-maintenance housewife" in the dictionary, I like to pride myself into thinking my name would appear under the antonyms.

• I've had exactly ONE manicure in my whole life, and zero pedicures. Call them a "mani" and "pedi" and I'll want to scratch your eyes out with my chewed-on nails.


• I get a haircut once or twice a year whether I need it or not.


• I own about five pairs of running shoes, three pairs of flip-flops, and two Sunday shoes. No Minola Blaniks (or however she/he spells her name).

I blame it on my rural-Idaho upbringing. Perhaps this is a news flash for some of you, but Idaho girls, at least the girls I grew up with, were as tough as they come. Put a hardened gangster girl from the streets of L.A. in a ring with an Idaho farm girl, and I'd put my money on the farm girl.

I didn't actually grow up on a farm. My dad was a used car salesman, and my mom was a teacher. But I had friends who lived on farms, and I was hired with them for summer help starting at the age of 13.

Most of the farm girls I knew had to move pipe right alongside their brothers. They also picked rocks and hoed and thinned sugarbeets. There was no line between "girl's work" and "boy's work." Well, except for maybe hauling hay. But I'll bet some girls even did that. It was all work, and it all needed to get done, and everyone in the family pitched in to help.

My friend Jana's dad was one of the farmers who hired me for the summers. Jana's poor dad had four girls before finally getting a boy. So did his daughters just sit at home getting manis and pedis? No, they were out in the fields working.

It's not to say that we didn't WANT to dress up and curl our hair and have expensive clothes. It just wasn't an opportunity that was readily available to us. We had too much work to do, darn it! Daylight was burning!

And we had tons of fun, too. After most of our days of working in the sugarbeet fields, we'd drive to the nearest canal and go swimming. And we'd slather ourselves with mud as if we were at an expensive day-spa. And then we'd jump in the canal to clean ourselves off.

At the end of each summer, we'd take our hard-earned money and go to Lagoon in big-town Farmington, Utah.

One year I also saved enough to buy me a "fancy" pair of shoes. I bought me a pair of Birkenstocks. Maybe there is some high maintenance in me afterall.

And when I'm outside working in my yard and hauling big rocks around, I think of the Pussycat Dolls song, and I sing it loud and proud, "Don't you wish your girlfriend could move rocks like me? Don't you wish your girlfriend could mow the lawn like me?"

This was part of our beet-hoeing gang. Pictured to the left in the back are Jana Baily (now a realtor and business woman in the Boise area), Jaime Catmull (now a fashion marketer and model who bounces between L.A. and SLC), me (mom and yard maintenance extraoirdinaire), Carol Cueva (mother and school counselor), Stacey Schafer (landscape designer in the Boise area), and Keri Anderson (mom to four girls, just like me, in Colorado). My two cousins, Monica and Wendy, also hoed beets with us, but they weren't there this summer.

Taxes

Anytime I take a bite from my children's food, or drink a swig from their drinks, I proclaim it "Mom tax." Not that I do it THAT often, just every meal or so. Especially if it involves french fries from the Golden Arches.

Well ask not for who the tax man comes for he comes for all.

The other day I asked Lilia to get me a can of Squirt. She did, opened it, and took a swig. After taking  her share she told me, "Lilia tax."

Touche, tax lady, touche. None of us ever escapes death or taxes. Or lessons of "what goes around comes around."

Some reflections on the life of Grandma

"Mother could be both extravagant and frugal, generous and somewhat stingy, loving and exasperating, full of praise and full of criticism, thoughtful and impulsive, diplomatic and tactless, in other words, just like the rest of us. But when we look at the finished tapestry of Mother’s life, it is rich and beautiful, and I wouldn’t want to change it a bit." -- Karen Christenson McEuen, from a talk given at Grandma McEuen's funeral

I've been wanting to post something about my Grandma McEuen since her death on March 17. But the words haven't really come. I'm not so much in sadness or overcome with grief. By this stage in my life, I've experienced enough of the life cycle to know that everyone does die eventually. And Grandma's death wasn't catastrophic or unexpected.

But even still, like my father said after my 97-year-old Grandma Christenson died, "We prayed for my mom to be able to leave this life, and now that she's gone, I miss her." And I miss Grandma, and it's hard to sum up my life experiences with this lady, because my feelings for her are so diverse. Like my mom said in her talk, Grandma exhibited attributes from all over the human psychological spectrum.

I've tried to add up all the months I spent living with Grandma. Between me and my sister Mary, I think we lived with Grandma the longest of all the grandkids. So I do feel justified somewhat in telling a little bit of Grandma's story, but from my perspective.

Grandma and Grandpa were the "cool" grandparents who lived in Southern California. So during my grade school years, visiting Grandma and Grandpa McEuen's meant the beach, Disneyland, and all the glories of Southern California.

Grandma liked to send us small newspaper clippings from her favorite newspaper: The National Enquirer. She'd always include a few lines of advice and instruction. My mom unburied a small piece of advice she left us:

“I believe getting along with people is important to our personal happiness. And the only way to live happily with people is to overlook their faults and admire their virtues. This is a tall order. Faults and virtues are both real, but we can become skilled in the art of human relations and people (loved ones especially) become more valuable in our eyes. There is always something good in all people, if—we look for it. And when we find it, we ought to express sincere appreciation. The poor human ego gets quite a kicking around.…It is grateful for any expressions of admiration.”

Grandma and Grandpa moved from their home in Montebello, California to Orem, Utah in 1987. They had both retired and wanted to live closer to their children. They built a brand-new house in an upscale neighborhood in Orem. To us, their house was a beautiful, extravagant place.

Grandpa died in 1993, but Grandma continued living there. I graduated high school in 1994, and was determined to go to BYU. I wasn't accepted for fall attendance, but at that time, BYU allowed students to come during the summer, and if your grades were good, they allowed you to stay for the fall, winter, and beyond.

Because I didn't have that summer to work and save, I asked Grandma if I could live with her rent free. She allowed me free room and board, with a constant supply of cottage cheese in the fridge.

Grandma didn't cook a whole lot, but what she did cook was good. She made really good chicken. Cooking chicken is a bit of a dark arts for me. It can either be burnt or too dry, but both my mom and my grandma could and can cook great fried chicken.

Living with Grandma had its pluses and minuses. Grandma expected a lot out of you. Perhaps its that pioneer stock that seeped from her very core.

Her great-great grandfather had been pulled by a Missouri mob from his house at night, was tarred and feathered, his health ruined, and was considered to be one of the first martyrs of the restoration.

Her great grandfather was with Brigham Young in the first pioneer company into the Salt Lake Valley in 1847. He colonized San Bernardino and spent years away from his family doing missionary work. Her grandparents left relative ease and comfort in Sweden to join with the saints and come to the harsh desert environment of Southern Utah. Her own mother was the Relief Society President for many years as she cared for her family of 11 children in difficult circumstances. Grandma Johnson instilled a fierce loyalty in her children.

As if magically, this heritage of sacrifice and faith could be intensified down into one look from Grandma. The look that said, "Me and all of my ancestors have sacrificed everything for YOU, and if YOU disappoint us, there will be hell to pay." Never, never, did I want to disappoint Grandma. (Side note: My mom also inherited that look, and luckily for me, I have too. One look and my girls know I mean business. It's a top-secret weapon I only use sparingly so as not to lessen the affect.)

Grandma didn't need to yell or browbeat. It was just that look and we knew she expected greatness. To which more than anything else she taught, I'm grateful for that expectation she had for us to rise above ourselves and be great. (Not that I'm great--far from it. But the goal is there.)

She didn't make it easy to live with her. She wanted me in bed and asleep by 9:30 p.m. I had an early morning custodial job, and she wouldn't allow phone calls to reach me past 9 p.m. While other college kids my age were partying it up and wasting their parents' money on flunking grades, I was chilling in Grandma's basement or watching reruns of Matlock with her. At 18, I was atrophying into an 80-year-old.

That summer I moved back home with my parents in Idaho and worked two jobs to be able to afford college in the fall. I saved enough that I was able to move into my own apartment.

I moved from Grandma's upscale basement apartment to the cheapest apartments near BYU. There were six girls living in three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and buckets full of hair everywhere. And I loved it. I loved my independence. Living with Grandma helped me to value independence.

And in the end, isn't that what a good parent does: encourage the kids to leave the nest, to live on their own ... to make their own way in this world? Not one of Grandma's 24 grandkids lives with their parents or relatives. All have managed to make a spot for themselves in this world, some in nicer living arrangements than others. When times were hard, we may have leaned on Grandma a bit, or our parents, but it was only a temporary stop.

Grandma was quite the lady indeed.

Some pictures of the ones she left behind:
My sister Hetty sporting some of the bling Grandma left behind. Grandma loved jewelry and all of us granddaughters inherited at least one piece of her bling-a-ling.

Pallbearers, from back to front: Bryce McEuen, David McEuen, Kenny Greer, Keith Greer, Anthony Thomas, Dan McEuen, Edward Christenson. You can't see Wayne in this picture.

Edward and Amanda Christenson. Ed is the youngest of Grandma's grandchildren.

Family members listen for the family prayer. From left to right are Liz McEuen, Kathy Christenson Heslop, Hailey Heslop, Liz's daughter, Nathan Smedley holding his son Ty, Amy Smedley, Sarah Smedley, Grace Smedley, Brian Christenson, Kelsie Christenson, Carson Christenson, and Dan McEuen.

Mom and Aunt Kathy sharing a story of Grandma, while Uncle Pat tries to listen in. Cousin Kenny is also in the picture.

When Kulani graduated from law school, we lived with Grandma for a short time while he looked for a job. Lilia was about five months old in this picture. Grandma loved little babies.

I wanted to find a picture of me and Grandma on my wedding day, but this was as good as I could find. I was probably thinking only of myself to take the time to get a picture of me and Grandma. Both my Grandma Christenson and Grandma McEuen are pictured in the left of this photo.
Grandma's four children from left to right: Fred McEuen, Karen McEuen Christenson, Kathy McEuen Greer, and Patrick McEuen.

Me and my girls next to Grandma's casket.

Grandma's Decline

Judging from both sides of my family gene pool, I will likely live to be older than dirt. My Grandma Christenson lived to be 97. My Grandma McEuen is nigh unto 88.

But sadly, these look like Grandma McEuen's waning months. I'm not sure she has a whole year left in her. She may surprise us, though.

The Johnson women, Johnson being my grandma's maiden name, are sturdier than an amish barn. Living with Grandma in my late teens, Grandma and I would travel around the state of Utah visiting each of her sickly sisters. I watched her sisters peel off one by one. Aunt Effie and then Aunt Alice. Aunt Hazel held on like her life depended on it. All in their 90s before leaving this life for the next.

Grandma McEuen, in her not-so-delicate way, would say to me after we'd visit Aunt Hazel in the care center, "Why doesn't she just push off?" Sweetness doesn't exactly roll off the tongue of Grandma.

And now it's Grandma's turn. Grandma's been inflicted with Alzheimer's for the last six or seven years. The first thing to go was Grandma's ability to drive. It was very hard on Grandma, and especially hard on her children as Grandma made it known in a not-so-quiet way how upset it made her that they would take away her car.

Then Grandma had a bad fall that broke her arm and hip and bruised her face. After that, she needed better care and she sold her house and now lives in an assisted-living apartment.

And up until recently, it's been a great place for her. Her Alzheimer's actually made her rather nice. She didn't have any worries. Her apartment is very pleasant. Her needs are met.

But she's lonely. Yesterday while Kulani took the girls out for their weekly culinary appreciation dinner, I visited Grandma.

No less than 13 times did Grandma ask me who I was, who I was married to, and how many kids I had. That was the okay part. I don't mind answering her questions again and again. Thankfully, Kulani took a continuing education class on Alzheimer's and gave me some tips on how to interact with people suffering from it.

Firstly, you don't say, "Do you remember me?" You just tell them who you are, again and again.

Grandma has a super sweet care lady who checks in on her in the morning and at night. I'm not kidding you when I say this woman is getting a free pass to the heaven of her choosing. She is so sweet to Grandma, and before she leaves each time, she says, "Goodbye, Helen. I love you." And I definitely feel like she really does mean it.

Grandma's helper lady said that Grandma hadn't been out of bed for two days, and she gave me a run down on everything Grandma had eaten. After the care lady left (shame on me for not remembering her name!), Grandma started asking me if she could come home with me.

"Sure," I said. And then she'd call my bluff.

"Let's go," she'd say, and make a gesture as if she was getting out of bed.

I stopped saying "sure" when she'd ask, and instead said, "I'll talk to your kids about it in the morning." And then Grandma would get upset with me and give me the gesture that says, "Forget you!" Well, not that gesture. It was more of a wave-of-the-hand gesture, but I got her meaning.

Another lady came in and administered her some medicine. I asked her if it would help Grandma sleep. She said that was one of the side effects, but that it was for anxiety.

Grandma asked if I'd like to stay the night. I told her I'd stay with her until she fell asleep. (Mind you, you don't talk normally with Grandma. You have to yell so she can hear you.) That didn't make her very happy either.

We watched some basketball, Grandma's favorite sport to watch. And then we watched part of the Olympics. I think I was keeping Grandma awake, as I would catch her nodding off.

She asked me if I had someplace to be. I told her no. Then she asked where my husband was. I told her for the dozenth time that he was on a daddy-daughters date. She told me they would be waiting for me.

I got the hint. She was ready for me to leave. I kissed her goodbye and told her I loved her, and I left.

I'm not sure my visit did any good. It seemed to bring her more disappointment than anything.

Next time I visit, I'll bring my kids. Seeing the little girls always cheers Grandma up. And she likely won't ask to come home with me, because although she loves seeing kids, she doesn't like living with kids.

And when looking into my future, it's nice to be surrounded by those I cherish most.

Compliments and Complaints

Kulani bought me a new pan. It's the Turbo X3000 Calphalon Super G 12-inch non-stick pan, melded from hot coles burnt from rocks brought back by the astronauts who landed on the moon.


Check out the side-by-side comparison between the new and the old pan (which we bought at Shopko for what we thought was really expensive ($20) when we were still students):

See how the egg in the old pan on the left is sliding and not staying uniform? When I flip that baby over, half of the egg stays stuck to the pan. On the right is the super deluxe new model. No egg slipping. It all stays nice and uniform. The new pan also has no Crisco or buttery coating to aid in unsticking, and when you flip the egg over, no sticky-sticky. I'm no scientist, but I think it has to do with moon-rock vaporage condensation and the planetary pull of waves that gives the pan it's awesomeness.

I'm Not 80 Yet, But I'm Doing My Darndest To Complain Like It

My bellah is getting huge. I'm not kidding. It's like Sputnik; a virtual planetoid. It's got it's own weather system. I'd cry myself to sleep every night on my huge pillah...except...

Every pregnant woman knows you want to get the best sleep you can get before the baby comes, because once it gets here, your sleeping nights are over. The only problem is, sleeping with a huge belly isn't all that easy. You shift in the middle of the night and you roll around and your hips hurt and you have to use the potty every two hours. And then you have the following crowding you out of the bed:

More Misadventures of Nono

When it's only me and Nohea at home, she likes to play house while I work on the computer. I'm always the dad at work and she's the mom, but she brings me the baby to show and hug. She's started to entertain herself better, too, which doesn't always have the best results. I won't hear her for a half hour, so I'll go looking for her to make sure she is okay. I found an exploded pen on my comforter once, and her body was covered with ink.

And why do I even bother putting pillows back on the couch? She's just going to take them off again and build herself a house.

Lost Teeth and The Toad

Lilia lost another tooth. That makes two teeth in the last few weeks. This last tooth was pulled out by a girl at school. This girl is known for her teeth-pulling abilities, and she had Lilia hold two other girls' hands while the Tooth-Puller yanked out her tooth. Lilia then lost the tooth later while at school.

Being the tooth fairy is more difficult than I thought. I kept forgetting to write her note and stick it under her pillow with some money. So one morning while she was getting ready for school, I snuck the note into her room with the money. I put it behind her bed, as if it had slipped between the cracks.

I asked Lilia if the tooth fairy brought anything. We went to her room to look under her pillow. I told her to look all around her bed, because sometimes those things slip off the bed. Then she found the jackpot. Tooth-fairy gold.

And here's a picture of my Toad in all her rainbow-drawing glory:


Fishers out.

For the Po' Folks

"Now, for some of you it doesn't matter. You were born rich and you’re going to stay rich. But here's my advice to the rest of you: Take dead aim on the rich boys. Get them in the crosshairs and take them down. Just remember, they can buy anything, but they can't buy backbone. Don't let them forget it." -- Herman Blume from Rushmore.

I'm coming clean with a terrible habit I have of disliking and distrusting wealthy people. If you've never been the po' kid, I'm not sure you'd understand. Just as I probably don't understand how hard it would be to be the rich kid (poor little rich kids!).

In all honesty, where I grew up, most kids were the poor kids. We probably only had a handful of rich kids, and even they weren't really all that rich. Remember Napolean Dynamite and that "popular" girl's house? That's about as rich as they got in my town--maybe a touch richer.

Growing up in rural Idaho, we didn't have the disparity of classes as viewed in popular 80s brack-pack movies like Pretty in Pink, or the differences seen in an uber-wealthy private school setting like in Rushmore. But even still, in high school I found myself limiting some of my friendships because they would go out to fast food for lunch, and all I could afford was the 90 cent school lunch.

Nor was I able to afford to go snow skiing more than once or twice a year, and when I did go skiing, I brought my D.I.-discount boots and skis that didn't really fit me all that well. And I wasn't as poor as others, who I'm sure probably do view a bigger dividing class in south-central Idaho. And they never EVER got to go snow skiing, not even with used skis that cut off the circulation to the toes.

And while watching the Winter Olympics last night, Kulani summarized why it is I don't really care a whole bunch about the Winter Olympics.

"It's like watching all the rich kids compete."

He got an "amen" and a head nod from me with that comment.

When I'm watching the downhill skiiers, I think, "Dang! How much money did their parents spend to get them to this level?"

Still, I watch the Winter Olympics, but I don't have a love for them. These are people I just don't relate to. I'm glad for their accomplishments, really. Like I'm glad when I see someone winning an Oscar, or when someone tells me about a new boat they bought. It's nice for them.

And if they're happy, I'm happy.

Like Max Fischer said, I guess the secret is, you've gotta find something you love to do, and then do it for the rest of your life. For some, that's snow skiing. For others, it's a stable job that pays the mortgage and puts food on the table.