Heavenly Reminders

Every so often Heavenly Father has a way of correcting us through something our children do or say. Like that moment you hear your child repeat something you've said, causing you to close your eyes in the sudden desperate hope that that isn't what you really sound like when you say it.

I had one of those moments yesterday.

Natalie had an appointment with the pediatrician and we were running late. I would like to say that I was cool and collected. However, I have an aversion to being struck with heavenly lightning, so let's just say that I was pretty stressed out about getting there on time and leave it at that.

I pulled up hurriedly at the on-ramp for the interstate, with a couple of cars ahead of me. The lead car at the stop sign sat there with its turn signal blinking, but unmoving. A quick check showed there was no traffic coming the other direction. But the car still sat at the stop sign like a giant paperweight.

It sat there.

And sat there.

Finally, in sheer frustration, something slipped (loudly) out of my mouth that would have gotten my kids in big, big trouble if they had been the ones saying it:

'Where are you going, Butthead?!'

An immediate response floated up from behind me in Natalie's cheerful, sweet little voice:

'We're going to the doctor!'

I was immediately hit with combined cringing shame and rueful laughter.

I am SO glad that Heavenly Father has a sense of humor. I stand VERY corrected.

Full Moon

Earlier this week I was really excited to hear that last night's full moon would be in perigee, meaning a wonderfully big, beautiful moon. I thought it would be the perfect way to break in the tripod Brett gave me for Christmas. Last time I tried to take pictures of the moon I ended up with a blurred mess.

Darned if we didn't get clouds and haze that obscured the rising moon! By 10pm or so we had a break in the clouds, so I rushed out to give it a try. It was fun to use my tripod, even if it wasn't the shot I'd hoped for.

Camille tries Hoops

Camille decided to try basketball this year. I thought it was brave of her to jump in during her eighth grade year when lots of her teammates have played for years. I don't think I would have had the guts to do that!

It was a definite learning experience for her. We were so proud of how much improvement she made. She also got to spend some time with her friends and even gain a new interest (yeah for March Madness!).

With her team

I promise . . . this is her. (Don't give me a hard time. Sport photography is a lot harder than it looks. Especially in this dungeon of a gym.)

See? There she is.

Good work, little sweetpea!

Why Dads Run Boy Scouts

Moms do Cub Scouts.

I'm not sure how that got started--maybe with after school pack meetings when most Dads are at work?

I do know that by the time Max was done with Cubs, I was done, too. As soon as Max and I returned from the Scout Store with his crisp, new khaki uniform shirt and Boy Scout manual, I told Brett that I resigned. If Max was going to do Boy Scouts, the ball was now in Brett's court.

I must not be the only one that feels that way. Last month Brett and Max went on the Eleven Year-old Scout snow camp out.

Yes. Camping. In February. With snow. Outside.

This is how I know I am not alone in ditching scouting responsibilities once the Arrow of Light emblem was pinned to my collar.

If Moms were in charge of Boy Scouts, snow caves ((shudder)) would not happen:

'Is that really SAFE?' worries Mom

Neither would this:

'That's your tent?!"

or this:


And this would CERTAINLY never happen:


The differing gender reaction to a boy climbing on the heavily snow laden roof of a (hopefully sturdy) pavilion:

Mom (screeching): "Get down here this instant!"

Dad: "Cool! Get the rest of the boys up there and let's take a picture. Five bucks if you can hit that big drift when you jump off."


Moms don't allow tossing snow on your buddies, intentional or accidental, with a snow shovel:


Moms also wouldn't let you gorge on Hostess fruit pies, teriyaki beef sticks, unlimited half-frozen sodas and so many Doritos that your hands are permanently stained orange.

And most assuredly, Moms have limited tolerance for the humor of eleven year-old boys.

Moms want to make their sons wear their snow pants before the car door is even opened instead of displaying the amused patience necessary to let the boys learn for themselves the natural consequences of wet jeans in sub-zero temperatures.

If Moms ran Scouts, this snow forged camaraderie would never happen:


Or this Father/Son bonding and its resulting tutelage by example in how to be a man who holds the Priesthood with honor:


And wouldn't that be a terrible, terrible shame.

Aren't you glad Dads run Boy Scouts?