My Dad.

(Yes, Deak is chewing on a rubber tube...don't ask.)

My dad has taught me lots of things.

He's taught me how to pitch a softball, persevere, and look at people as more than a name and/or ward member. Lot's of things I am thankful for.

It was his birthday yesterday, and in classic Bill style...we ate here:

Well, right next door to there.

It was Delicious; A little spot my dad happened to notice while watching Diners, Dives, and Drive-ins. It had great BBQ, live music, and a little culture.

Perfect.

The cute couple.

My Grandparents.


Deak actually had a lot more fun than this picture gives him credit for. He only screamed when the live music took their 30 second break between songs (but, those screams were kinda brutal). He even pulled out his newly discovered Stevie Wonder style dance moves. It was pretty awesome. He's getting some moves ready to live up to his idol/Halloween Costume.


Ab and Cam. Enjoying front row action.

Some of the group. I suck at getting everyone in a picture.

All of the Grandkids (and a very naked Deak).

Happy Birthday Dad. Thanks for the fun night.

Just in case...

...You were wondering.
I have happened to learn a few things over the past month.
Some about myself, and most well...have been at the very least, interesting.

1. In Elementary school, it is perfectly acceptable to wear your pants at a height some may consider "wedgable." It is also completely okay to chew on your belt if you're hungry.

2. Most of the time elementary kiddos are extremely complimentary (ie. "You look like a princess in your high heels" etc.). If taken to heart, one might actually begin to believe she actually is a princess, and could lead to all kinds of complications in one's marriage (not that I know this personally). Thank goodness, once every six years there's a child who dumps a cold bucket of reality on you by saying, "Ah...Mrs. Howe...I wasn't going to tell you this, but I am. You're fat." I guess she could tell I needed some humbling.

3. Apparently second graders do Algebra now. My daughter brought a math worksheet home for homework last night. Ummm...it contained "X's," "Y's" and solving for the missing variable. Second grade? I'm totally screwed when she starts bringing home calculus in fourth grade. Math is not my subject; just take a look of the nice job I've done with my budgeting. Anthropologie purse + Groceries/Gas = Negative Balance.

4. Kids don't always think it's cool if you like Miley Cyrus. They just kind-of think you're an old fat freak. On a related note...if you go to Boyz to Men, and get the comment of, "Wow. You are so awesome to STILL be going to concerts"...it is not a testament to your youth.

5. Freezer meals are great in theory. Someone forgot to tell me that they take HOURS to cook. I spent the better portion of last weekend making many, many square and rectangular shaped meals. Sure, I am kind-of glad to have food to feed my family this week(let's face it, the cereal supply has been understocked) - but, I had to work my ass off to get them here. I want freezer meals that are not cooked by me.

6. Where was my opportunity to become a Magician's assistant in high school? I recently was cut into pieces by a magician (that oddly resembled Job...for any Arrested Development peeps) during a school assembly. My popularity increased tenfold. Everyone suddenly knew my name, and made special visits to "talk" with me/coerce me to release the details (of which I will not do)...but, let's just say...it was not an easy thing to fit into a 1 ft by 3 ft compartment and be spun around and chopped at with real sharp swords. I will also add that I was given the compliment of, "Wow. You could really do this for a living" by magician Job. I would consider it if it weren't for the fishnet stocking requirement...I have been told I'm fat recently.

7. I eat like hell. I know I've stated that before, but really, it is disgustingly true. I have at least 7-8 diet cokes a day (beginning with the drive to work), sometimes a heavy one (with sugar) to take the edge off in the evenings, and typically don't eat much else other than the bag of swedish fish or sour patch bites I hide in my drawer at work. In fact, right now, as I am typing this, I am eating my second Tasty's donut of the day. Hence, the reasoning behind the comment in #2, and the food preparation in #5.

So, take them for what it's worth. Hopefully these experiences will come in handy the next time you're dissed by an eight year old, craving a meal made of ice, or asked to be cut in two.
You're welcome.

MaMa.

I love that word.
We spend so much time when our babies are little trying to get them to formulate their mouths in the right ways in order to validate our egos and sleepless nights. For me, the gratification has not been so immediate, but the reward I must say is sweeter.
Deak loves to call me "MaMa."
Loves it.
Loves it so much that sometimes when I leave to walk into another room at home, I'll hear the jabbering "MaMa...MaMa.." to which he knows will be be momentarily responded to by an easily amused and over-affectionate crazy lady running to meet his every demand. I can't help it, I just love the sound of his voice that too often I don't get to hear (yet.)
Each afternoon as I pick him up I am graced with that precious word. Some days I count the minutes until I can pick him up just to get my "MaMa" fix. He usually adds an "I La Ya," just for good genuine measure. Those words are almost always followed by belly laughs and smooshy cheeked smiles. Smiles, because he is proud. Proud he can make someones heart so happy by a simple sentence.
You'd think I'd get tired of it.
I Never Do, and I Never Will.
In fact, Abby still calls me MaMa when she is feeling sentimental, and each time I feel my heart flutter...knowing those moments of hearing that word from her mouth are growing more rare with age. Age that I am so desperately wanting her to slow down.

I hope to become the kind of mother whose children always feel comfortable enough to call "MaMa."
Forever and ever.

To The Wolves...

At least, that's where I feel I've left my heart.

My boy started preschool today.

My boy who wasn't supposed to live hours after his birth.

My boy who wasn't supposed to have anything to offer this world.

My boy.

It is inevitable each time Deak hits any particular milestone, that I travel down the path I've ridden with him. As I sat in my car, driving as slowly as possible, Deakon traveling with his cute babysitter in the car behind me, I couldn't help but have those tears. Those tears that cry,
"Damn you people. Damn you for taking away my hope. Damn you for causing heartache that encompassed my entire soul. Damn you for saying he "can't." Those tears, for the tears I cried three and a half years ago.

I have been on pins and needles the past few days; attempting to push any thought of Deakon going to preschool out of my mind. If it came, so did the tears, and I couldn't take an entire weekend full of them. My mind was put to ease some as I sat with Deak's teacher this afternoon. She was so kind to give up some of her lunch time to help nurse an aching mother's heart. Deak was happy, but then again, he always tries hard to be happy. Upon meeting his teacher for the first time, he sat on the floor, turned in a circle with his feet, and reached for her arms. She lifted him and he stood in between her knees and smiled as he bounced. I knew he would be okay. The other children began arriving and I was stunned at their gargantuan size...I felt as if I was handing Deakon over to a class of fourth graders. Deakon didn't seem to mind.

Deak will be okay. My heart will heal, and it will get better. Deakon will eventually attempt to color his name for longer than two seconds before eating the marker, and I have a hunch he just might be walking to the door when I pick him up before he's finished there.

Day One...Complete...let the healing ensue, and the learning begin....

Solutions.

Since having Deak, I have learned that solutions to any problems or issues I may be having with him, do not come packaged as cleanly as they sometimes do with Ab. Solutions require inventive thinking and patience, and unfortunately for Deak, I did not come with a whole lot of either of those. The team of therapists that work with Deak provide me with a plethora of solutions, some work and some don't...but, at least I have some ideas.

Deak is appearing to be having some issues with auditory sensory processing. Basically, anything he hears is over-processed to a certain degree (especially in new or unexpected situations). This causes a "Wild Rumpus" of sorts in his brain; all the yelling, whistles, car honks, etc...that come along with being outside in crowds is extremely overwhelming. If it is bothersome to us, it is nearly intolerable for him.

This sensitivity has become more apparent over the past year, and notably at Abby's soccer games. Deak has had a hard time filtering out the psycho screaming parents and coaches and random whistle blows, and by the end of the games he has usually entered into an uncontrollable screaming fit. The second we leave the area, he can self-soothe and calm himself down.

Needless to say, people stare. They don't usually ask to help (and last season, I was ALONE every game), they just look at me like I am not doing anything to stop my son from the crying rage that is annoying them. I haven't really cared, because even though I love my Deak, there are times when I am also needed as a support to Abby, and her soccer games happen to fall into that category. So, the staring and screaming has become a staple of my Saturday afternoons.

Until yesterday...

Our occupational therapist at Shriners also specializes in sensory-processing issues. I happened to mention a couple of weeks ago that Deak and soccer games were not friends.at.all. She quickly said, "Wait here one second..." and she took off into another room. She returned with some gigantic headphones...or so I thought. Being as that I tend to lean a little more left than the political crowd in Utah, I haven't had any experience with gun safety. Had I, I would've known that she came out with noise reducing headphones that hunters apparently use when they shoot Bambi. In our case, they were going to be used to save my sanity (yet again) during soccer games and other crowded and loud events.

Look at this face...

It worked better than I could've hoped. Deak was happy and content, and actually entertained by the soccer game. I was able to watch an entire game for the first time in a year. I knew the headphones were working when Deak kept handing me his Diego toy to "turn on" because he couldn't hear the sounds it was making.

So, maybe we had a few more stares due to the giant earphones Deak was sporting, but really, I didn't care. I'm learning to ignore those stares. I just enjoyed my peace...

I wanna dance...

I have a house cleaner coming to my house tomorrow at 8:30 am.
When I talked with her, she said she wanted to clean my baseboards.
Really.
If only my husband understood the depth of joy a sentence like that can bring me...he might just...nevermind.
Anyway- $50 a month is worth it.
Way, Way, Way worth it.
Where has this concept been all my life?

For the Freaking Love....

I made the momentous mistake of opening my high school yearbook last night. It was supposed to be a quick "look up" of someone, but curiosity got the best of me....and I began browsing...

Let's just say, it was not good. Not. at. all. The following thoughts ran through my head while tormenting myself down the memory lane stroll.

*Why in the world did any of you I knew in high school allow me to cut my bangs directly above my eyebrows and then part my hair down the middle? Really? Did you not think to mention it to me that it may NOT have been the most flattering look? Those of you who didn't know me then, might think it was just one year of bad judgement....WRONG! All THREE freaking years....same hair style. NOT GOOD.
*Thank freaking goodness they do not do full body shots. I apparently liked wearing sleeveless sweaters in my yearbook pictures (Soph AND Junior)...so I am terrified of what was going on to help cover my legs. Shorts with the sweater tucked in? Tapered jeans? The possibilities are enough to give me nightmares for weeks.
*Those drapes they make you wear in your senior pictures are from hell.
*I think my neck can suspend itself like a robot and move forward...right into the direction of the camera. You'd think I would've picked up on this awesome trait by now, but I haven't. It became apparent when I noticed that my face takes up the ENTIRE little box (Think close-up) and everyone else's face is placed a nice reasonable distance away. Why else would I be shoving my face forward? I don't' know.
*I pretty much didn't attend Seminary. At least, that's what I figured after reading the signatures from Seminary. They all began with the phrase..."Well, I didn't get to know you that well, but..."
*I am fairly certain, "You're so cute" is code for, "Seriously...you are okay, but COME ON already, do something with your HAIR!" It is the only plausible solution I came up with after reading the exact same phrase 400 times. That, and "You're a stud." Really? Do people even say that?
*I will NEVER allow my daughter to have a serious boyfriend in High school. EVER. I will put her in a Catholic nun place where they lock her in rooms or whatever...if I have to. Enough said.

The awkwardness, drama and weird hairstyles came flooding back as if it all happened yesterday...I don't want to go back there ever again. Thank goodness some of you stuck it out with me all those years...

(Okay, maybe I do have some good memories - just not ANY associated with the yearbook.)
(And...NO...no photos are, nor ever will be, available for your comedic pleasure on this blog. I am damaged enough).

A couple weeks into it...

Oh...the nights I have spent half-awake in worry, hoping that my little (big) boy I have spent most waking moments with since birth would not feel abandoned at my abrupt departure into the world of school counseling. The guilt...

Only to discover - he is ready. And okay. And a really, really, happy and good kid.

In fact, last week, every afternoon when I came home, I was serenaded for hours with, "MaMaMaMaMa...I La La La Ya." The most beautiful husky monster-voiced song I have ever heard. Man, I needed it.

So, Deak's cool...just wish I could say the same for me...

If I could only get my bathrooms to clean themselves, groceries to magically appear with bright yellow labels instructing me to cook them for dinner, and my poor body to respond with the vigor of a sixteen year old - I would be freaking set.