My Journal Entry

I haven't written much this last year.  It's been a hard year and I have a tendency to either tell you everything that's in my head or, out of protection of my heart, tell you nothing.  I shared nothing.  But I'm excited right now, to show you a little peek of my heart if you're interested.  So here's my journal entry from April 3, 2012.  It wasn't written with an audience in mind, so hopefully it still comes across alright...

March 30, 2012

April 3, 2012

March was a good month.  Especially the second half.  You see, Paul had this interview that we were feeling really confident about.  They didn’t let us know for WEEKS that he didn’t get the job.  I know, we should have seen that as a sign, but when you REALLY want something, you’re willing to look right past the red flags, or at least, in this case, remain blind to the thought that no green flag also means no job—and I don’t know what color flag that would be.  But it was okay.  Because happy things just kept happening.  


We were enjoying all these mini-family outings to free places around town.  We were hiking to the tops of local islands—and when you are SO far away (literally and figuratively) from the exotic ones, the desert island in the middle of the Salt Lake DOES count.  We had birthday parties and early Easter celebrations and warm weather.  And everything was still okay.  In fact, on March 29^th, I told my mother in-law, “We have no plans.  None.  There is absolutely NOTHING that I can plan past tonight’s dinner.  And you know what?  I’m okay.  I think I am actually being patient to a degree and at a level that I never have been before.”  She knows me very well.  She was proud.

And then came Friday, March 30th.  We had another job interview which was good, but we were not feeling nearly as confident about this one as the last (and remember how the last one didn’t work out so well?)  But Paul gave it his all, and called and reported that he had done his best, and he’d be home in an hour or so.  When he got home, he kissed my face and I washed my dinner-prepping hands and folded them across my chest to chat with my mom and Paul.  Paul handed me a paper, and all I could see on it was a dollar amount.  And then, it clicked.  He had the job.  And holy cow, they weren’t going to be stingy about the compensation either.  I sobbed.  And sobbed.  And sobbed some more.  And little by little, the weight of a thousand worries both spoken and too dark to be spoken, were lifted.  We celebrated that night.  We went out to dinner and saw a movie at the expensive theater.  Then we went to buy a pregnancy test which I took the next morning.  And guess what?

We have another one on the way.

Seven months of self-doubt, dissolving plans, and bitter disappointments just turned a page for us.

Update: I am now 15 weeks along, with baby due on December 2.  Paul and I have rented a great little apartment in Clearfield, Utah and life is moving along beautifully again.  Finally.  And about my Grace?  Well, frankly, I think she's stunning.  OH!  And I started sewing.

Why I'm Going to Take up Sewing

Life doesn’t go as planned. I know. I know. I should have learned that by now, but I mean, it REALLY doesn’t go as planned. In fact, it SO doesn’t go as planned that when I went to the quilt shop (shoppe?) with my mom last weekend and I saw a trite little phrase stitched on a pillow that normally would have made me roll my eyes (behind my eyelids because eye-rolling is super rude in my book) or shudder somewhere in my guts (because I got this idea somewhere—Blake—that I am too sophisticated for trite phrases)…instead, my eyes watered and my heart dropped to my guts and in that sickening moment I felt a connection with a Higher Being. I connected, and not just connected, I’m talking SPOKE-TO-MY-SOUL, did this trite little phrase. See? I didn’t plan that reaction, and I didn’t plan for what’s on my plate right now. My whole life is full of watery eyes and anxious tummies these days.

And it’s not bad, it just mostly is. And that’s the hard part! Because I had this great plan! Essentially, the plan was to do everything right and avoid pretty much all the hard stuff. I'm serious. The only trials that were acceptable were the ones that obviously couldn't be planned for, but all the others weren't going to happen to me. My foresight was simply going to be a good as my hindsight. Because I decided. I PLANNED it.

It didn't work.

My foresight is not as good as my hindsight.

In fact, I am beginning to wonder if MY sight had anything to do with it at all--except that it might have been the crux of the problem.

But I’ll let you in on a secret. The mere fact that I can even mention this to you at all is because I am coming to terms with things. I am starting to accept the new path. I’m not as afraid. And probably that’s why the trite little phrase caught me so off-guard. It mocked my self-induced pain; reducing it to its true and pitiful form. And not wanting to be the fool who couldn’t take a hint, I let it heal me.

So…the moral is…

If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.

P.S. I am tormented by the irony that I am exasperated by trite phrases, and yet this post is littered with clichés. Sigh. So much more for me to learn. Perhaps my next life lesson on humility will be skillfully tole-painted on a piece of wood.

P.P.S. Plus, this is better than anything I could have EVER planned. Ever.

She put that hat on herself.

But I was the one to color on her face.

No. Not really.

But clearly, there's nothing to REALLY worry about here. You might say, "It's all under control." Just not mine.

A Birthday

In the world of blogging, blogging mothers seem to always write a birthday tribute to their children on their blogs that is very sentimental and touching. I had no desire to do this this year. Even my journal entry on her birthday was very lack luster. Probably because I have spent the last 8 days preparing her the greatest little one-year old party I could ever think of (on a very small budget.) It was magical. I spent last Saturday at my mom’s house with just a vague idea of what I wanted to do floating around in my head; Ladybugs. So mom and I spent the day planning and practicing cakes. It took hours. There were parts that were not even fun anymore. They even, I think, stressed me out. That is, until I had a talk with myself. “Self,” says I, “This is a party. Parties are fun. If you are not having fun, and you spend this next week blowing your kid off because you’re trying to throw her a party, you are doing something wrong.” SO. I made a list of everything that needed to be done and when it needed to be done, and I stuck to it, and pretty much, I had an entire week of ladybugs and lots and lots of fun loving up the tiny party girl. Hopefully similar feats can be managed with later parties. Though I suppose there will be some of both: stress and no stress parties. I commented to a friend that I couldn’t believe how much time I had spent on these assorted lady bugs and she reminded me to think of what I would have been doing if I were still working and then I remembered, I am a mom. Just a mom now. And this is what I do, I celebrate life with my children. And celebrate we did.

Everything was ready by 6:00 when the guests started arriving. I handed Grace off to her willing aunt from Tennessee, and painted lots and lots of little faces (and my brother’s shaved head) while Paul barbecued hot dogs.

Then we ate the hot dogs with lots of salad and chips and drinks. Then, it was time for the piñata. The incredibly crafted and ingeniously engineered ladybug piñata. The design was mine, but Paul master-minded the bug's aviation. And that Ladybug sure did fly. We started with the littlest kids first and they all took swings until the biggest (Alex--age 13) punched—with his manly fist—the tar out of that bug and sent the candy and cookies and marshmallows flying (marshmallows and cookies had been wrapped in baggies days before.) The children, who had been standing in a PERFECTLY straight line behind the appointed blanket, eyes bulging with anticipation, squealed as they collected loot in everything from their shirts to their broken arm slings.

And on to presents. Grace never quite caught on to the unwrapping, but she had the playing down perfectly. And so did her cousins and friends.

Then came the cake. A four-plate, tiered, culinary feat. Gracie had a plate sized little lady bug cake complete with 3D chocolate feelers, and descending in tiered steps were three plates of 59 little lady bug cupcakes. Complete with their own coconut grass lawn; cake ball, pink-frosted, polka-dotted bodies; and of course, own little chocolate feelers.

Gracie enjoyed eating her cake one finger lick at a time, until her mom, at the suggestion of her aunt, shoved her entire hand into the ladybug’s back. Well, that was one too many party games for her and the wee girl cried because she wanted to. At which point she was wiped clean (another reason to cry) and then cuddled with her new toys as dusk fell. Like I said, we had a celebration.

And I must say thank you to everyone who came out to love my little lady, give gifts, and pitch in on food. Grandma and Papa, Blaine, Katie, Hailey, Jamie, Blake, Alli, Josh, Grandma and Grandpa, Rob, Tim, Kate, Scott, Chelsea, Addy, Crystal, Clark, October, Alfred, Jen, Karlene, Tanna, Trenton, Jim, Amy, Morgana, Sam, John-David, Julian, Tennyson, Amelia, Eleanor, Jen, Bismark, John, Lisa, Alex, Courtney, Zach, McKenna, and Jordan, Thank you. We love you.

And to you, my Little Love Bug, Happy Birthday. I love you with all of my heart.

Do Over

I made a dent in the project on Wednesday. The dent consisted mostly of saying my goodbyes to anyone who was left to say goodbye to, and then giving away what little of my enormous effort could be taken. I spent years in that room, thinking and creating and teaching, and on Wednesday, I began to put it away. On Thursday Paul and I went back to tackle the grunt work. I condensed 4 years of grinding, molding, and polishing into 5 file boxes and one poster box. The rest I gave away, left behind, or threw away. Some things couldn’t be given away and I think that was the hardest part. The really valuable stuff—the stuff that makes a difference—couldn’t be given away. Its acquisition is trapped somewhere in the universe of personal experience. Sure, some of it can be imitated, but the rest can only be seared in the soul through one’s personal effort. So I was left with this beautiful, painstakingly and lovingly created masterpiece—this teacher—and nowhere to put her. She’s to be thrown into the fire, melted and crafted into something else, and for a little while the thought of it hurt. I doubted about whether or not it was worth it to have worked so hard just to walk away. So for a second I searched frantically for somewhere to put that teacher, or some way to infuse everything that she was into someone else, but it was impossible. She’s simply got to be remolded. Sure, some parts of the new work will look familiar, maybe even identical, but I didn’t think about that. For a few minutes, I just let myself feel all the pain of leaving.

And then I went home—to grace.

And I was ready to start the next piece.

But for the record, you will be missed Professor Paula and Miss Jensen. Especially you Miss Jensen aka "The Bomb A." Thanks for infusing so much of you into me. Love, "The Bomb B"

And for the record, I did make normal faces at my students, just not very often.

Father's Day

Me and the Grace-face have a nasty cold but I woke up to tape little paper Gracie-handprints all over the house to tell Daddy everything that we love, love, love about him. There were 24 hands (which was not nearly enough to include all the reasons, but at 10:00 last night when I finally was able to sit down and finish them, it was enough for my brain and energy to create.) So at 7:00 this morning (which obscene around here in the summer) I taped little hand-y-love-notes all over the house with my eyes about to burst under an enormous balloon of increasing sinus pressure and went back to bed with a happy little smile (and two tablets of Aleve) about the treat Daddy would wake up to. Some time later, I made breakfast, and the decision to skip church after the Grace-face sneezed and two enormous strands of green fluid draped from her nose to her chin; I thought it best not to share such amazing feats with others. After Daddy found all the little handprints, we hugged and kissed him till I am sure that it is just a matter of time before he finds himself needing to be very careful when he sneezes too.

The rest of the morning was spent getting my very own Daddy’s present ready. It came in three parts. A box of ammo from Gracie. A big-ol’ box of clay pigeons from the Josh-man. And a clay-pigeon thrower assembled and mounted to a tire from the kids. We we’re as excited as the proverbial kids on Christmas to give our Daddy this loot. We even broke years of Bockholt family tradition this time and opened presents first, before dinner and cake and all that. Because you see, I probably have the best dad ever. He’s been faced with a mountain of hard things in his life and has come out on top, with a wife, kids, and grandbabies that love him to pieces and take pride in the fact that we share his best quirk: we start conversations in the middle of a long train of thought and leave everyone else in the room wondering where in the heck the comment came from.

So to all of our Daddies and Papas out there (Daddy Bockholt, Dad Herrick, Grandpa Riggs, Grandpa Harley, Grandpa Ron, Granddad, Gramps, and ALL the Brothers –Blaine, Blake, Rob, Tim, Scott, Christian, Mike, Matt and Brian) Happy Father’s Day. We love you. A lot.

And ESPECIALLY you, Paul.

Bug Quota

Tonight was a good night, if you disregard the part where Grace and I were pretty frustrated with each other. The part where she was bored out of her mind and I was trying very hard, without the help of a Daddy who was at work, to get us ready to go somewhere interesting. Because that part was pretty bad. She insisted on being held and I insisted on not holding her and she SCREAMED and SCREAMED and I was this close to joining her. But then I realized that with 27 years of life experience compared to her short 10 months, that me screaming would be wrong while her screaming was justified. Either way, it's hard to think rationally when so much screaming is to be had. Just saying.

BUT!!!!

We made it. We got out of the house with cheese and ham and juice and graham crackers and sweaters and sunblock and a baby WITH a cute bow dang-it and went to a great little concert in a beautiful little community garden (and I ACTUALLY used all the stuff that I brought which is great because you hate to think that you spent a bunch of time packing stuff while your kid was screaming that you didn't actually need anyway...)

And Grace loved watching the singer (who reminded me what I want to name the next tiny girl one day, by the way...) and then she enjoyed crawling around, and then she would have enjoyed eating the bark-chips that lined the flowerbeds, but I decided she had consumed enough bark-chips last Tuesday at Gramma's house and licked enough dirt off rocks last night in the garden that her clay-dirt-vitamin-mineral-germ-bacteria-iron-bug quota had been met this week. Plus people were watching---which is the real reason I made her stop.

And then we went to In-n-Out, bought a strawberry shake which we shared with Daddy at work while he watered plants, and then, because no one was watching this time, we let Gracie play in the water and I took a sopping wet, very happy baby home to take a bath. And when she cuddled me with her wet hair and towel draped body, I knew that in spite of its very loud beginning, the night was, well,

Perfect.

Collections

Last Friday was probably the best day ever, huh? Except that's not really fair, because then where do we rank our wedding day? Or Engagement? Or Grace's birth-day? Or that one day when we laughed really hard?

So I guess that means that life's favorite moments can't really be ranked can they?

Hmm. But do you think that maybe we could collect enough favorite memories that when it's time to go home, I mean HOME-home, that we could hold hands, and be REALLY sad, but happy at the same time, you know, because of the collection?

Me too.

But, Paul, it's gonna take me a super long, long, long, long, long time to make a collection big enough. So you can't leave me here early. I need you till the very, very end. And then I get to go first, okay?

Oh, Lover, do you really think we'll get to go Home at the same time? Cuz, that'd be great. But let's not talk about that any more. Let's just talk about that sweet little face, and how there will be a couple more to go along with it one day.

A collection of little faces to help create a collection of perfect memories. We have the best ideas.