Fam Friday: Summer Lovin'

Today my firstborn child graduated from the second grade.  As is tradition, the family congregated down at Wasatch Elementary to watch the end-of-school dance celebration.  Keep in mind that the Glediator went to Wasatch and these dances haven't changed in more than twenty years.  Jackson did a flawless routine to "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" and made his momma all kinds of proud.

Now, the question remains:  WHAT IN TARNATION AM I GOING TO DO THIS SUMMER????

I wish I were the funnest mom in the world, overflowing with fanaticism over child development.  I know some moms who are beautifully gifted at that.  But let's be honest:  I have anxiety about my kids being home 24/7 this summer.  And while in the past I have been envious and have wondered what might be wrong with me, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I have different strengths.  So, to  all you moms out there with brilliant ideas on how to pass the time with your kids at home for the next few months, I invite you to bring your good wisdom to the table that we might sup together.  May your summer be filled with lemonade stands, slip 'n slides, sidewalk chalk, and meltdown-free road trips.  Godspeed.

Fam Friday: Meet Dustin Gledhill

I was sixteen when I first met my now brother-in-law, Dustin.  He was a seventeen-year-old (twelve-year-old looking) young man with a haircut that resembled a foam microphone windscreen.  In fact, my sisters and I called him "Microphone Head."  (Girls can be so mean!).  I might also add, just for visual interest, that he was also wearing knock-off Birkenstocks with socks.  Why am I telling you this?  Because by looking at this GQ babe now, you would never know it.  Yes.  I just called my brother-in-law a babe.  Get over it.

Me and Dustin at Le Pavillon Hotel in New Orleans

I've known Dustin for a long time (even longer than the Glediator) and he is one of my very best friends.  My initial mockery of his hair and Birks with socks was chastised when I heard him play the piano in my home a few weeks after we met.  There is nothing in this world that compares to seeing and hearing Dustin play the piano.  Your jaw will fall to the floor in marvel.  

Dustin started playing at the age of three and gave his first recital to a sold out crowd at a three hundred seat auditorium.  Twenty-six years later, after scores of competitions and soloing with symphonies across the globe he is still at the top of his game at the Manhattan School of Music.  Our family just returned from attending a solo concert he was invited to give at Loyola University in New Orleans.  He was incredible.  (To purchase Dustin's album "Live at Wigmore Hall," head on over to itunes or Napster!)

We are so proud of you Dustin.  Way to go!  Enjoy these highlights from Dustin's killer performance:

Fam Friday: Meet My Mother-In-Law!

Photo courtesy of Cami Lynne Photography

You might hate me by the end of this post.  So allow me to apologize in advance for all the bragging I'm about to do:  Forgive me, but I have the best mother-in-law in the world.  

Leslie Gledhill, mother to my husband, The Glediator, lives across the street from us.  I know what you're thinking.  You would never live across the street from your own mother let alone your mother-in-law.  God knows I don't deserve such a blessing, but for whatever reason, he has shown me mercy with the sweetest mother-in-law I could

 ask for.  

Not only is she sweet, she also has a sense of humor (don't be jealous!).  She is famous for her "fish face," her nick name "Lester," and is also known by her kids as "The Hunchback of Cherry Lane."  She's a good sport.  Her kids joke with her about her bunions.  For her recent birthday, we played a swell game of "Pin the Bunion on the Foot."  We were all in stitches.  

Leslie's yard boasts the most beautiful tulips every spring, her lawn always lush (but watch out for the Great Dane's land mines), and she even has chickens in the back yard (Hooray!  They're legal now!).  Walking into her home feels like you've walked into a magical gingerbread house deep in the woods.  There is always a fire when it's cold, yummy things to eat, quilts galore and cinnamon sticks boiling on the stove.  

One of my favorite memories with Leslie is of our girls' trip to NYC - roaming through the Flea Market and "Olde Good Things."  Things I will always love about her are how she makes every holiday so special, the books she reads to my boys, her chickens, her home-made grape juice, her strawberries and pumpkins, trips to Puerto Vallarta, her collectibles, her wanderlust and best of all: her son, The Glediator.  (The man treats his mother like a queen.)

I love you Lester!

Fam Friday: Meet My Noni

Noni and her late mother, Ruby

Noni is the daughter of Idaho onion farmers.  Noni is the mother of nine.  Noni is Karen Hart who married Rich Winkel.  Noni is the matron of the Sacramento LDS Temple.  Noni is a beauty.  Noni is my mother.  

In grade school, I first read "Strega Nona," by Tomi Di Paola.  From that, "Nona" morphed into "Noni" and that is what I (and all of her posterity) have called my 

mother ever since.   

Noni and Baby Mindy.  Noni, you look so young, but so tired!

For my whole life I have been a part of the rat race to try and get a piece of Noni.  It is one thing to be one of nine children who all need their mother, but everyone who knows her wants a piece of Noni.  As a young teenager, my parents were mission presidents in Spain for the LDS church.  Hundreds of missionaries, church members, neighbors, parents of school friends and even our nannies wanted to be mothered and befriended by Noni.  WHY?

Because Noni's presence makes you feel love like you've never felt before.  She is beautiful and I remember how she was often mistaken for one of my dad's daughters.  Noni is all grace and loveliness personified.  She wants nothing more than for you to know and feel of your worth in her presence.

My favorite memory with Noni is of a day when she set aside time just for me.  Together we drove through the picturesque countryside of Spain to the medieval pueblo of Siguenza.  We hunted for treasures in her favorite antique shop, visited the castle and had lunch in a village restaurant.  On the drive home, Noni stopped on the side of the road to clip some rose hips she spotted from a mile away (she loves rose hips and keeps them in old Mason jars for decoration).  I watched her graceful figure bend over the rose bushes as she gently spoke wisdom about the purpose of life and why things are the way they are.  In that moment, I felt something magical I have not forgotten. 

It can hurt to love someone so much and always have them taken from you.  Aside from the whole world wanting Noni, she has also moved around the globe from Mexico to New Zealand serving humanity.  Long distance relationships of any kind are hard.  There have been times where I have thrown my hands in the air and shouted, "I give up!"  I retreat and choose denial over the labor it is to experience my feelings.  Then Noni feels sad that there is only one of her, so far away, and a host of children and grand children that want to divide her into shares.  Still, Noni gives all that she has to her relationships and it falls to me to let that be enough.  

It is more than enough.  I can only hope to measure up to the divine woman that is my Noni.

Mom, why on earth are you wearing an area rug?

Fam Friday: Meet My Big Sis, Vicki

Baby Emmett, left, Vicki, right, 04.06.09

Out of the nine kids in my family, the one just above me is my sister Vicki (or Wicki, Biddies, Wee Wee, Jick, or McJick if you please).  Vicki is exceptional at everything she does.  (I don't ever get jealous about that or anything).  Growing up, she was always the best pianist, soprano, comedian and a true basketball star.  Once, our coach in grade school asked me if I could play just "a little more like Vicki."  Being that she was the only girl allowed to play on the boys team, that seemed like a pretty hard feat.

Vicki, left, Mindy, right, in the Barley fields at Grandma and Grandpa's ranch (1993?)

When we moved to Spain, Vicki attended our English speaking International school for one year and then gave it the boot, declaring she was switching to a pure Spanish high school (and folks, those schools are brutal).

When I came to college, it was Vicki who registered me for all 

my classes and signed me up for the honors program.  When I got married and had a baby at the ripe old age of twenty, it was Vicki who watched my baby, enabling me to continue my college education.

She continued to take the world by storm, visiting third-world countries, helping women get micro-loans, delivering babies in Honduras (seriously) and then went on to medical school.  Now she is a doctor (a psychiatrist to be exact).  She called me from the hospital this week as she was in the delivery room, in labor with her first baby.  "I can't stand the way this nurse is talking to me!" she laughed.  No doubt she knew more about what to do in the delivery room than her staff.  Not trying to brag, but she really is so smart!  Don't you ever feel such immense pride over your siblings?

Congratulations Vicki!  You're going to be an amazing mother--just as long as you don't treat Baby Emmet the way we treated our Cabbage Patch Kids (a.k.a.  CPK abuse).

Mindy, left, Vicki, right -- always hilarious (1984?)

Fam Friday: Meet My Bulgarian Family

My Bulgarian Family

5:30 a.m., March 19th:  I wake alone in my bed.  

Sadly, the Glediator is away on business.  (Sigh).  The last two nights have brought on dreams where I see the faces of Bulgarian orphans who also sleep alone.  Though they slumber in dormitories or with a few roommates, they are alone in their thoughts; without much identity, purpose and certainly without the guidance of loving parents.  On the wall of a young girl's bedroom in Slaveikov Orphanage in Sofia is penned, "There is nothing, nothing, nothing."

I question God: Why is there so much suffering?  

His gentle reply:  My Son suffered.

And how can these children who suffer be so full of

 love?  (We were smothered with hugs and kisses for eight days straight).

God's answer:  The light of my Son is in all people.  My Son is full of love.

Strangely, this was the impression I had every time we drove away from an orphanage.  You would think I would feel despair and anger, but I felt ever reminded of how much God loves his children.  In a country that has forsaken them, He has not. 

I hear the simple words of Deborah Gardener, CEO of One Heart Bulgaria, to a teenage girl who is afraid to go out in the world after her eighteenth birthday:

"We pray for you."

The young girl cries at the notion and pleads that we remember her.

One Heart Bulgaria is one of two outside organizations that Bulgaria allows into their country to provide aid to their orphans.  A little goes a long way in Bulgaria. I saw firsthand how the donation of a small playhouse from a nine-year old American boy (who held a pizza party with his friends to raise the money) brought so much joy to a previously dull and dirty playroom.  Through other donations, the organization has been able to replace broken windows, doors, provide music time, dance teachers, medical supplies, operations, bedding and clothing where they are very much needed.  To make a difference, visit http://www.oneheart-bg.org.

Photo Album:

 

Boshidara, 2 years old

Boshidara, a baby with Hydrocephalus, lays in her crib unable to be relieved from the ants that are inside her fists, clothes and the wound on her head from her shunt surgery.  I wanted so badly to bathe her.

This was the happiest orphanage we visited.  One Heart Bulgaria provides a music teacher for these kids and they knew how to have a good time.  Here, Sam plays "Do As I'm Doing" while we march along.

We had to travel for three and a half hours with eight people and a 20 suitcases crammed in this van.  Good times.  I think Sam blocked those suitcases from falling on my head the whole trip.  Thanks Sam!

Uncle or "Chicho" Jeremy is a big softie.

Music time with Sam.  Sam was magical with the children.

The little girls to my left have shaved heads (very typical) for easy maintenance and to avoid lice.

Bulgarian children are beautiful.

Fam Friday: Meet Lou Lou Belle

"Cake"  Self portrait by Lou Lou Belle, herself

Len, Lenny, Lenlet, Lizbo, Linzafee, Lizzy, Yinzy, Zinzy, ZeeZee, Lou Lou Belle, Lou Lou, or just plain Lou. These are a few of the more popular choices in nick names that our family uses for our baby sister, Lindsey.

Born at the tail end of a boisterous brood of nine children, Lindsey is the crown jewel of our family. She was born brilliant and we all like to think that she has a little piece of each of us in her upbringing. I'm sure at times, Lindsey has felt more like the caboose of the family rather than the crown jewel. She reflects often that she felt looked over by the crowd as a child (we all did Lou), not really having a voice among the hoard of bubbling children. She would speak very loudly and I can still remember my siblings saying, "LINDSEY, you don't have to talk so LOUD!" If I could transport myself back in time, I would have picked up that curly headed little girl and let her yell as loudly as she desired right into my ear drum.

Lindsey had to learn to speak loudly and to have opinions. No doubt this was a survival tactic. I hope she can now see the advantage of having to be strong in a society of chaos. She is still beautifully opinionated, bold, and multi-talented. Living on her own, carving out a temporary living as a waitress and putting herself through the Art program at the U of U, she is more than just "surviving" these days. She is downright frickin' AWESOME.

As you walk into the front room of Lindsey's early 1900's apartment in downtown Salt Lake City, your jaw drops in wonder. The light spills in from the streetside window onto a chalky deep blue-green wall adorned with empty antique picture frames. Found art intrigues at every corner.  A coral colored velvet sofa beckons one to sit. A floor lamp concocted out of found parts from thrift stores provides light. Her vintage guitar sits in the corner and of course, sculptures by Esmeralda herself make for the best of conversation pieces.

Lindsey is an artist at her very core. A Jack of many trades, she once studied sound recording technology before switching to art. She is a knockout songwriter, and has a stellar "speak-y" quality singing voice if that makes any sense. She let me steal an awesome line to one of her songs to insert into one of mine ("You Don't Define Me" found on the red ipod to the right). Did I mention her wicked guitar skills?

A few years back Lenny lived in my basement apartment. Oh, how I miss those days. I used to get intense neck and shoulder pain (which I don't miss) and Lindsey would always massage it out for me on her bed while I cried into her pillow.  Then there were the times when we would sit and listen to awesome music, talking about this and that concerning song writing and mixes. 

There are few people that possess a heart as accepting as Lou Lou's.  It's a relief to know I can go to her with things I would normally speak of to no one.  Thanks for listening to my junk Lenny.  You're my best friend.  And just for the record, you're still brilliant.  

To read more about Lindsey, visit her cheeky new blog here.

Fam Friday: Meet Jackson Gledhill - Part One

Birth control and myself have never gotten along.  I was only nineteen when the Glediator and I got "engagged," as my mother would say.  The pill made me so sick to my stomach.  "You'll get used to it," Dr. Savage reassured.  While the nausea faded somewhat, I began to discover a few months into my marriage that taking the pill would guarantee on onslaught of tears and thoughts of doom and gloom about twenty minutes after consumption.  I was relieved to find that all the depression was from the pill and not from being married to Mr. Hot Stuff.  I tossed them into the garbage nervously, but concluded that nothing could be as bad as taking the pill - not even pregnancy.  Sometimes I am really smart.  Sometimes I am really not.

Soon after (like 48 hours), a little Gledhill was conceived.  More nausea.  More tears.  More doom and gloom.  What was I thinking?  I wasn't.  I was only a teenager!  

When Jackson was born, everything I did from then on out was guess work.  My mom lived in a foreign country and I was the eighth of nine kids, so I didn't have any knowledge of what to do with a baby.  I was frightened and awkward at first with a case of the Postpartum Blues I wouldn't wish on anyone.  We didn't own a rocking chair, so I just sat on the edge of the bed and nursed.  Ouch.  My back was never so sore in my life.  We didn't have a crib or a bassinet.  Jackson slept in his car seat next to our bed.  Of course my love for the little guy welled up in my heart like a flood - never wanting anyone to touch him, checking on him every five minutes as he slept to make sure he was breathing.  He needed me and I needed him to teach me how to be a mother.

Jackson is witty and very intelligent.  When he was three, I remember this one day from toddler hell when he was pulling things off of shelves, breaking the family heirlooms and destroying anything that dared cross his path.  He even chucked  a billiard ball at my face after I dozed off on the living room floor.  After nearly a full day of such behavior he dumped a bag of sugar and a bag of flour on the kitchen counter and floor, topping it off with a few cups of water.  Where was I?  Probably passed out on the living room floor.  When I came downstairs to see what was going on I had HAD IT!  "Jackson!"  I cried.  "Why do you keep doing these things?!"  I got down to his eye level and firmly gripped his shoulders.  "WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY?!!!!!!"  I started into a fit of rage when Jackson peered up at me under his shaggy bangs and pled:

 "Mom!  I choose LIFE!"  

I paused.

Then I began to laugh.  Hard.

Then he began to laugh.  Harder.

I picked up my little man, drew him close in my arms and told him I was sorry I got so mad.  

When I think about how growing into motherhood was a difficult process for me, I now see from a different perspective that maybe the nurturing and matriarchal aspects of it that I have lacked have allowed me to be more of a close friend to Jackson.  I try to see him as a fellow passenger on this journey through life.  I'm definitely not the perfect candidate, but I'm here to help him through it the best I can.  I want him to know that I choose life too.  Life with him, messes and all.

Fam Friday: Meet Esmeralda Valentine

There are nine children in my family.  My two brothers were born first and then seven girls like pretty maids all in a row.  The Glediator always tells me, "That's a lot of estrogen in one household!"  Dad saw to it that his girls were the basketball team he always wanted as a father.  Most of us were pretty athletic and played sports growing up.  But Amy was born with a poem in her heart and a dance in her step.  

When I was five or six she started a dance studio in her room for the three youngest little girls.  With a pseudo name like Donna Deluxe and a platinum blonde wig on her head, we were in make-believe heaven with our older sister, dancing around the room to Wham and Cyndi Lauper.  Amy's bedroom was fascinating to me as a child.  Poems were penciled on the wall, her switch plate covered in a collage of ABC gum wads, acid wash jeans lay on the floor and then then there was the sprawl of Wet 'N Wild cosmetics on the bathroom vanity.

During her college years, Amy studied art.  Found objects, salvaged junk, broken body parts from dolls, and mannequins, mannequins, mannequins were EVERYWHERE in her apartment!  

The beautiful thing about Amy is that she embraces who she is, never concerned with meeting anyone's expectations but the ones she has for her own hopes and dreams.  We're talking about a woman who once changed her name to Esmeralda Valentine, who has an open obsession with fecal matter, who once lifted road barricades (orange vest, helmet and all), a blacksmith by trade, married to a Brazilian body builder ten years younger than her, who at 35, just had her first baby boy (Enzo) earlier this week.  

"Poo is Art" - Amy at the Museum of Fine Art in Boston

I can't wait to welcome baby Enzo into this family of bubbling aunties.  

I want to tell him all about how his mother gives the shirt off her back to perfect strangers. 

How her work ethic rivals that of Paul Bunyan.

How she always tells the best jokes.

How our family would never be the same without her.