Almost Tragic

Yesterday, Halloween of 2018, was my 15,000th day of life.  It was also almost the last day for two teenagers who crossed my path.  I almost killed them.  I'm not writing this to be dramatic.  It's just impossible to share a story about almost killing someone in a way that isn't dramatic.  And I'm not writing this to be funny.  This is very serious.  It's so important to me that I've blogged about this exact topic once before.  And, yesterday, when I was the person driving a car that almost hit children, I knew it was time to blog again.  If you are reading this, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE talk to your children about pedestrian safety and lecture yourself about aware and defensive driving.  First I'll share what happened and then I'll give my tips for how to do your part to keep our kids safe while crossing the street. 

I teach piano lessons before school a couple of days a week.  It's a bit harried to have scripture study with my family, drive kids to seminary, take a shower, and make it out the door in time for a 7 a.m. piano lesson.  Sometimes I'm rushing to avoid being late and my little girls ALWAYS act like I'm leaving on a week-long vacation.  "Mommy! Don't go! I need one more hug!  Will I see you again before I go to school?"  "No" I reply as sweetly as possible while gently extracting arms from my leg.  The answer is always no, but they keep asking.  "I love you.  I need to go.  Have a great day!"

I drive to the lesson, just a couple of minutes away, teach, and come home ready for a nice quiet and healthy breakfast.  Yesterday was typical, but I lost the race against time and was running just two minutes late.  It's not a huge deal, but I won't short change my students any of their allotted 30 minutes, so I needed to hurry.  I pulled out onto 6200 South and fate was in my favor as I was able to merge into traffic before quickly getting back into the left turn lane at the next light.  I just needed to get to the neighborhood one over from mine.  Luck was with me and the light was green so I had a chance to turn left right away. As I decided to turn, the light turned yellow, so I accelerated a bit.  I quickly pulled my steering wheel to the left and looked over. 

My brain instantly flipped to fight or flight mode--adrenaline surged.  There were two costume-clad teenagers, crossing the dark street, right in my path.  My tires left rubber on the road as I slammed on the brakes and the light turned red.  Thankfully, the other drivers were paying attention to my car and waited to go until I was able to safely turn. 

The teenagers didn't react at all, other than glancing at my car.  I had a barrage of thoughts flash through my head as I drove down the street towards my pupil. 

" I almost killed those kids!"

"Why didn't they look before stepping into the street?"

"The walking man wasn't flashing.  The don't-walk sign was flashing."

"Why aren't there any street lights at that intersection.?

"I almost killed those kids."

I almost killed those kids.

  If I had hit them, blame would have both not mattered and also mattered VERY much. They did something wrong -crossing when the signal said it was too late.  I almost did something wrong- not checking the crosswalk.  The city has failed to do something - putting up a light to illuminate a legal crosswalk.  I checked it again this morning as I drove back from the early morning seminary trip.  It's right next to an elementary school and there are NO lights anywhere near.  It was very, very dark. The only way I saw those kids was from my own headlights after I started turning and the faint glow from the stop lights.  This is not acceptable and I will be bringing it up at our next Community Council meeting for the Jr. High where we have the ability to reach out in an official capacity to request changes to make sure our children's walking paths are safe. 
So, story time is over now and I'd like to share my tips for avoiding auto-pedestrian accidents. 

DEFENSIVE DRIVING:
1. Always check intersections and crosswalks for pedestrians before entering them.  Assume that kids will cross illegally. 
2. Never pass a stopped school bus. 
3. Stop for pedestrians at marked crosswalks.  They have the right-of-way.
4. NEVER EVER EVER assume that a pedestrian sees you until you have made eye contact and exchanged acknowledging signals. 

SAFE CROSSING TIPS:
1. Only cross the street at crosswalks.  It's hard enough for drivers to watch out for you at marked crosswalks. 
2.  Look before you cross.
3. If there is a car, don't cross until you have made eye-contact and have exchanged acknowledging signals.  This means a wave or a head nod from both YOU and the DRIVER. 
4. Number three is the most important tip.

PARENTS:
Please teach your kids not to cross the street without making eye-contact with drivers AND exchanging acknowledging signals, either a nod or a hand wave.  When a driver stops, it doesn't mean he/she sees the pedestrian.  A driver might stop for a stop sign or to wait for traffic to allow for a left or right turn. A driver stopping does not mean he/she sees the pedestrian. I see a lot of kids that know these rules and follow them.  I also see a lot of kids, mostly teenagers, who act like the road is their personal private pathway and that cars should part like the Red Sea when they step into the street.  When I am driving around Taylorsville High School, teenagers step in front of my car without looking at all. They assume I will stop.  And because I am a careful and defensive driver, I do stop.  I'm not about to teach them a lesson the hard way in this situation.  It is so frustrating though.  I am so afraid for them. Nearly EVERY crosswalk related auto-pedestrian car accident could be avoided if EVERY driver and EVERY pedestrian followed tip number 3.

Make eye-contact.
Exchange acknowledging signals.  

Please have a talk with yourself and your kids about this today and then again and again and again.

Let's keep our kids safe so they can give us gray hair and grandkids one day.

Pineapple and Beans, Reuben is Leaving

Do you have any food that both appeals to you and sort of grosses you out at the same time?  Something where you have to eat part of it, a part which you don't really enjoy, but you do it to get to the good stuff?  It's like a 4D memory.  I feel the chewing and the tasting and the distastefulness, waiting to get to that delicious part.  I think I eat the first part because it's good for me and because you have to get through it to get to the good stuff.  And I think that might also be how I'm feeling about my son leaving on his mission.  It's like piano practice, which ranges from deep discomfort to utter torture, especially when I am overseeing it and not just doing it.  I really don't like it.  It doesn't feel good.  My mom used to make this dish when I was a kid.  It was pork and beans with hot dogs and pineapple.  The pineapple mixed in truly grossed me out, but we had to eat what we were served.  So, I always ate it first.  And then I could enjoy the other two ingredients.  Some people eat what they like first and save the yucky stuff for the end, but that's not my style.  I like to get the ick out of the way.  

But, sending a child on a mission isn't really like eating a bowl of soup with zucchini in it, which I can only tolerate in it's celestialized form.  Savory zucchini is DISGUSTING.  What is wrong with your tastebuds?  Yes, I'm probably talking to you, because you probably like zucchini. Most of you do. If it isn't hiding in bread or cake, NO THANK YOU.  But, I digress.  The point here is that when I get a bowl of soup with zucchini in it, I pick that out and eat it all first. The same with tomatoes.  I like to get it over with. The other point is that my son is leaving. 

How do you do that with your kid leaving for 2 years?  And not seeing him AT ALL the whole time?  How do you get past the part with only 4 phone calls total and weekly emails to let you know your child isn't dead? How do you forge through and focus on the good?  

For two years? 

I'm not asking this in a hypothetical way.  I really want to know.  A lot of you have done this and have some answers.  

Please share them.  

Sending him away to college was hard enough. Watching my 8 year old open the program at church every Sunday and start bawling when she sees his missionary information already in there is harder still.  He hasn't even left yet and she is mourning.  

He's speaking in church tomorrow. His last day of work is Thursday.  His birthday is the next week.  And then he'll be gone.  He won't see his brother, his best friend, for 3 or 4 years. That is the hardest part of all.  

This is like BEING PREGNANT.  I hate being pregnant, by the way.  It's for a really good cause, but it's so dang hard. 

Somebody, please teach me to like eating pineapple in beans.  

 

Her Office is a Bathroom

Last week I stepped out of my comfort zone and attended the National PTA Convention in New Orleans, Louisiana.  For weeks before leaving, I was racked with extra anxiety, something I have been dealing with for several years.  Anxiety can be about real things and it can be about nothing at all. Mine is both.  It ebbs and flows throughout the day and night, sometimes hardly there, sometimes seemingly gone, sometimes coming with a force that literally takes my breath away.  I cannot breathe.  I wake up in the night as I sit up in bed gasping for air, then automatically apologize for waking my spouse, and lay back down to sleep as soon as my pounding heart recovers.
In the weeks leading up to my departure, my mind barreled at manic speeds as I juggled my responsibilities and choices back and forth. Nestled in my sister's rocking love-seat, I wrote down my negative self-talk, burned it in her bathroom sink, and replaced it with positive affirmations directly counter to my fears.

"I am powerful.  I am as strong as I need to be.  I do not need to run faster than I have strength.  I am a daughter of God and He loves me.  I CAN let go of what I cannot control, I WILL let go of what I cannot control.  I will be peaceful in my anxiety because Jesus is my anchor and my firm foundation.
Why will I have such an amazing time in New Orleans? because I am amazing."

Folded in my purse, this mantra carried me, not away from my fears, not freed from my anxiety, but through my fears and through my anxiety to my place of strength.

Miraculously, I hardly felt any anxiety while I was gone, just smidgens here and there and one sit-up-in-the-bed-and-gasp-for-air episode.  I'm not sure if that woke the saint of a woman who let me share her bed when there was no room for me. She didn't say.
I went in full force to learn and to share and it was AMAZING.  I made friends with several people. They laughed, and said yes, when to their faces I asked, "Will you be my friend?", referring to Facebook, but also life.

I learned from masters, women and men who serve on state and National PTA boards, children with wisdom beyond their years, and mothers, struggling to balance their own crazy lives but driven by vision and passion to better the lives of their own children and the children of America.  But, most of all, I was touched by the woman working in the bathroom. The convention was held in the largest conference center I have ever seen in my life. It stretches .62 miles and 11 city blocks.  Near the main ballroom where we had our general meetings, was a mammoth bathroom and a woman who worked there.

She was there every time I went inside.

On the second day I went the to bathroom 4 times between 7 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. She was in there every time. She works in the bathroom.  ALL DAY LONG.  And the bathroom smelled bad. ALL OF THE TIME.  I wanted to know her. I wanted to know her story.  Is she grateful for her job? Does it bring her joy?  Do her feet hurt?  Does she feel invisible?  Does she feel trapped? What is her story? What could she teach me?

I was pretty bold last week, but not bold enough or rude enough to invade that woman's realm and pepper her with personal questions. Yet, I admired her.  She smiled as she worked.  She showed up. Her office is a bathroom. She was always there, despite difficult circumstances.

And, without talking to her, I felt a kinship.  She's doing what she has to do.  And so am I.  And if she can show up each day and work long shifts in a windowless, smelly bathroom, I can do the hard things, both placed in my life and there by choice. 

I needed to share this and, on my very last day, as I walked and walked and walked those halls, and walked some more, eating the most delicious dripping double scoop Bluebell ice cream waffle cone, I decided to stop once more in her bathroom, just to see, "Is she really always there?" And as I approached, I saw her, OUTSIDE OF THE BATHROOM, laughing as she  talked to a co-worker and pushed a trash can across the polished floor, briefly emerged from her "office", not completely trapped after all.  She was beautiful. She is strong. And so am I.







 

Grandma Shoes

     Oh, how I miss my 30 year old body, before I developed allergies, before I had to start watching what I eat, before my body decided it's a zombie.  It's not easy being one of the living dead.  Seriously.  So, when somebody makes it a little bit easier for me to function in this world with my falling apart body, it means a lot.  And now, zombie jokes aside, I'd like to share with you my shoe shopping experience on Saturday. 
     About two years ago I stopped wearing cute shoes.  I gave away my boots, my slip-ons, even my silver and gold sparkly ballet flats. I loved those shoes. They literally looked good with everything.
My right foot hurt too much to wear them.  After several expensive trial and error pairs of tennis shoes, I settled on some pink and white Altras. Comfort trumped color.  But, what to wear to church? Every Sabbath step was agony and set my foot off for days.  It was time to get serious.  It was time to accept that my body thought it was dead, or nearly so. 

 I started wearing Grandma Shoes.  These are serious enough that they do in fact require capitalization. 

Grandma shoes look ridiculous with fancy dresses.  They look ridiculous with most dresses.
I have three pairs of these pricey shoes.  And they are super-dee-dooper-dee comfy. 


The sandals are actually pretty cute.  And the others, well, they are Grandma Shoes. 

I went into the SAS store on Saturday, planning to buy a pair of these:


The owner told me he wouldn't sell them to me.  He said he hated them.  They happened to be on clearance, but I saw them online and went in specifically to get these shoes. 

"They'll make your feet hurt. They haven't figured out how to make them right yet."

I asked about these ones, and he let me try them on to see for myself. 

He was right.  They slipped off my heels and pinched the sides of my feet. He suggested these instead:

I tried them on and found the right size and fit.  They are less bulky than the clunky black ones I have, but I still wasn't sure if they were going to fit the bill for the fancy dress up event I have later this week.  I grimaced. 

He understood.  He asked me how far away I lived. "15 minutes" I replied. 

"Take them home" he said. "No paperwork. Just take them and see how they look with your dress. Bring them back when you can." 

He could have made me buy them to take them home and see.  I still would have had to come back to return them. He didn't even ask me my name.  He just handed me the box and let me walk out of the store with $160 shoes. 

Today, I brought them back.  I might purchase them in the Winter time, but today I got a different pair - the same Grandma Shoes I have in beige and black, in a cool shimmery grey.  Yep, I'm embracing my Grandma Shoes.  I'll be wearing a long black skirt to that party with big old clunky, super comfy, Genuine Grandma Shoes on my feet.  And I'm sure some people will notice and wonder why a person who looks fairly young still wears shoes like that.  If they ask me, I'll skim over the chronic pain and share the story of the SAS shoe store owner who trusted me, a total stranger, and made it just a little bit easier to walk in my shoes.

Tender Mercies for Little People

Today I had to take Emmeline to the dentist for two fillings, a pulpotomy, and a crown. We have known for two weeks that she needed this, but hadn't been able to go in yet for several boring reasons. Last night, her tooth started to hurt quite a bit and she was very distressed due to both pain and fear. At this point I let her know that she would be going to the dentist today. I made the appointment last week, but didn't want to tell her too far in advance because her treatment plan, upon discovering she needed work done, was to "die before ever coming back to this dentist. Mommy you will have to drag my dead body here! If you tell me we are going, I will hide!" We prayed together as a family and she was able to calm down and sleep all night, but bright and early she came into my room, scared, hurting, and crying. For her, at only 7 years old, this problem was huge, just about as big and bad as anything she has ever faced. I held her in my arms for a moment before she looked over at me and asked me to pray. We folded our arms and I thanked God for the great privilege of living in America, for dentists, and for dental insurance. I asked Him to calm my little girl's fears, to help her feel peace, to help her to trust me, and Him, and the dentist. I asked Him to help her know He is real by answering this prayer and helping her feel peace. By the end we were both crying. We got up and got ready and she bravely entered the dentist's office holding two stuffed animals and my hand. Gone were the tears as she ran off to watch the T.V. After 10 minutes of waiting, an office manager came out and apologized as she explained that they had made a mistake and scheduled Emmeline for a cleaning, and that they couldn't see her yet. Could I come back in the afternoon? Luckily, I could come back, but I worried that this would cause Emmeline hours of distress. But, she was fine. We went home and got her sisters and went for a walk/bike ride. We came back and ate lunch, watched some TV, and I taught her a piano lesson. When it was time to go again, she grabbed her two stuffed animals and we loaded up in the car. As I drove Emmeline asked me, "Mommy, do you think Heavenly Father answered our prayer?"

"Well," I asked back, "Do you think He did? How have you felt today?"

"I think he did. I feel really good."

It's a small thing, but so are sparrows, and if God loves those little birds, think of how much he loves my little girl, and every little girl, and every little boy, and every man, and every woman.

He gave her peace. As I watched her transformation from wanting to do anything to avoid the work, to walking in calmly and sitting bravely in the chair for 30 minutes of needles and drills, without even needing to hold my hand, I KNOW that God answered that prayer.