When I was pregnant with Kaleb, one of the things I craved was pomegranates. I found some on sale for 2/$1.00 (quite a pomegranate bargain, don't you think?); I bought twenty of them and ate every single one. You have to really want to eat a pomegranate to spend the time scooping out all the seeds; underneath my nails was faintly ruby/purple stained for a few weeks. After the twenty were devoured, I started craving oranges, and my pomegranate penchant faded into pregnancy myth.

Last week, though, Costco had pomegranates. Even better, they had pre-scooped-out bowlfuls of pomegranate seeds. No faint staining required, so I bought some (even though they were far too expensive!). Last night, as I was finally feeling better after my weekend illness, I sat down in my quite house (as everyone was sleeping) to eat some pomegranate seeds.

And I burst into tears.

That flavor, and especially the texture, the juiciness surrounding that little white snap, took me right back to the early days of my last pregnancy. How can my days of pregnancy be finished? It's one of the things I did well in my life. But more specifically. When did my pregnancy with Kaleb end? I mean, I know when it ended, of course, as I was there for an hour's worth of pushing. But how did it pass by so quickly?

It's so me, though, to be analyzing even as I cried. I realized that I was crying for several things: for all of my pregnancies, for the lack of possible newborns ever in my arms again, and really, really: for time itself, and how its ultimate bequest is separation. Motherhood is about separation, at its roots, because you do all you can so that these little creatures can head out safely and (hopefully) mentally and emotionally prepared for the world. And then I started laughing because it hit me that it was pomegranate seeds that made me cry---next to the apple, the oldest fruit of ending in the world.

You know the Greek myth of Persephone---she is taken away from her mother, the goddess Demeter, by Hades to live in the underworld, and her mother mourns and this brings winter. Demeter does everything she can and gets her daughter back---but alas, Persephone has eaten the pomegranate seeds Hades gave her, and now she is no longer innocent. Nothing will be like it was; she will only get to be with her mother for half the year. So time goes: Persephone with her mother in the spring and summer, when Demeter rejoices and gives us flowers and growing green things; Persephone with her lover Hades in the fall and winter, when Demeter grieves and takes away the flowers.

I love this Greek myth---it's my favorite one. It's why I laughed as I cried last night. Because this ache of separation, of knowing what is my life right now, my children still young enough to really need me in their lives, will end. But knowing that all mothers in all times have felt that same ache. Unlike Demeter, we don't get to take away all the flowers. Tears seem awfully futile. There's really nothing you can do---nothing I can do---except to try and savor the days.

Which brings me to the poem. I have a goal, come January, to start memorizing poems, two a month. (This is my little stab at preventing Alzheimer's.) But this is a poem I memorized ten years ago, after I read it in one of my university lit classes. I respond to it on so many levels---because of loving the Persephone myth, and because of the language the poet uses (read it out loud to yourself and you'll hear why it is a poem), the repetition of blue, because there is just one flower left, enough to light his way, because even when we are descending we all want some light with us.

Bavarian Gentians
                   ~D. H. Lawrence

Not every man has gentians in his house
in Soft September, at slow, Sad Michaelmas.

Bavarian gentians, big and dark, only dark
darkening the daytime torchlike with the smoking blueness of Pluto's gloom,
ribbed and torchlike, with their blaze of darkness spread blue
down flattening into points, flattened under the sweep of white day
torch-flower of the blue-smoking darkness, Pluto's dark-blue daze,
black lamps from the halls of Dis, burning dark blue,
giving off darkness, blue darkness, as Demeter's pale lamps give off light,
lead me then, lead me the way.

Reach me a gentian, give me a torch!
Let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower
down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness.
Even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September
to the sightless realm where darkness was awake upon the dark
and Persephone herself is but a voice
or a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark
of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom,
among the splendor of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on the lost bride and her groom.

So, it's early Thanksgiving morning, 1:45 ish, and I'm finally heading to bed. The three batches of dough roll are in the fridge. The berry jello and the cranberry mousse are chilling, too. The kitchen is clean and the dishwasher running. And I'm exhausted, so I head to bed.

Only to be woken up not thirty minutes later by the dulcet tones of Jake, throwing up. Of course, I hate it when any of my kids get the stomach flu, and my kids seem to be super-susceptible to the rotovirus, as I am. You can set your calendar to it: in November, the Sorensens get the stomach flu. But when Jakey gets it? Man, he gets it bad. Moaning and dry-heaving and hours and hours of misery. He can't sleep between bouts of throwing up---he is just miserable. And when he got it early Thanksgiving morning, there was no reprieve because of the holiday. He writhed for four hours straight, and I did what I could. (I always wish for my mother's stomach-flu remedy she'd give us when we were little: paragoric. Yes, I know it's liquid opium. But it worked!) We both finally fell asleep at about 6:30.

The good thing about this particular round of stomach flu was that at least it was short---when Jake woke up at about 11:30, he was feeling better. After making sure no one would be bothered if he came to Thanksgiving dinner (and checking with the pediatric on-call nurse, who assured me that once the throwing up and fever stop, the child isn't contagious anymore), we headed to my mom's for the feast. Which was excellent---I think this year's rolls were my best ever.

But that wasn't the part that made me feel blessed. No, my own bout with the stomach flu did that. Late Friday night, Kaleb started throwing up. Four hours later, Nathan was up doing the same thing. By seven in the morning, I was sick, too, and then Haley an hour later. That left four of us sick---and Kendell couldn't stay home to help out. He had Christmas lights to hang for one of our most demanding customers, and rescheduling wasn't an option. OK then. I wasn't sure how I would deal with three sick kids when I was also sick, too.

Here's how I dealt with it: Jake took over. I didn't ask him to. He just came to me and said, "Mom, I'll take care of you," and I was too nauseous and out of it to protest. He took care of Kaleb (remember, it was a short bout, at least, and Kaleb was feeling better by the time he woke up)---played with him in my bedroom while the rest of us slept. He got him bottles of water and soda crackers. He kept him happy until nap time, when I dragged myself out of bed to rock him to sleep. Next, Jake made lunch for himself and Nathan (who was now also feeling better). When Kaleb woke up, he took care of him again---playing and feeding and keeping him happy.

Several times throughout the day, Jake would show up with a glass of fresh ice water for me to sip on. He answered the phone and took messages. He even picked up the kitchen a bit. He hugged me and told me to feel better.

I don't know that I've felt very many things more sweet than being taken care of by my almost-9-year-old son. He was so gentle and concerned and caring. And I don't think I could be more blessed than I am to have him as my son.

My friend Sophia posted this little meme on her blog and I thought I'd do it, as Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday!

Do you cook all or part of the meal? Only part. We take turns eating with my family one year, Kendell's the next, so I've never actually cooked an entire Thanksgiving meal by myself. I HAVE been the Thanksgiving Hostess twice, but my mother-in-law helped out. SO. I nearly always bring homemade crescent rolls, cranberry mousse, and some other kind of jello salad the kids will like. This year I'm making blueberry jello with blueberries, raspberries, and boysenberries. And I always top my jello with REAL whipped cream!

How much do you spend buying groceries for the meal?  Hmmm...hard to say. It sort of stresses  me out to buy all the stuff at once, so I spread it out over a few weeks.

Do you eat at home or go to someone else’s? This year it's our turn to go to my mom's. When we eat with my side of the family, we always eat at her house. When we eat with Kendell's side, we decide where to eat based on who is coming. Last year it was just my family and Kendell's parents, so we had it at our house.

Describe your perfect bite? I am not a mix-your-food-on-your-fork kind of person. SO not that person! (Not that there's anything wrong with mixing food on your fork.) So, I'd say my perfect bite is actually a series: turkey, stuffing, potatoes, cranberries.

White meat or dark? White ONLY. I don't do brown meat!

Stuffing with giblets or without? Hmmm. My mother-in-law's stuffing doesn't have giblets. My mom's might, but I don't want to know if they do or not, so I won't be asking. I like them both!

Anything you won’t eat at the Thanksgiving meal?  Brown turkey. And pumpkin pie. I love the concept of pumpkin pie. Love the smell and the color and the presence of a pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving. I've even made them several times. I like the taste. But I just CANNOT do that texture. (I don't like pudding or yogurt or ice cream that's melted too much, either. And I struggle with bananas!)

Carve Mr. Gobble at the table or serve on a platter?  Serve on a platter.

Favorite pie? Apple pie---but it MUST have cheddar cheese on top. Extra-sharp cheddar cheese! My grandpa ate his apple pie this way (I still have a vague memory of him teaching it to me), and while I'm the only one left in my family who likes it this way, my mom never forgets to have extra-sharp cheddar on hand. And she makes a fabulous apple pie!

Formal table or Chinet? Formal.

Your menu?

• Turkey (there are so many of us this year that my mom is cooking a 23-pound turkey and my sister an 11-pound one!)
• Stuffing
• Mashed potatoes and gravy (we always have to distract my mom when it's time to mash the potatoes, as she likes to be healthy and not put in any butter, and the rest of us WANT OUR BUTTERY POTATOES!)
• Green bean casserole
• Brussels sprout casserole (an acquired taste)
• Cranberry mousse
• Berry jello
• Crescent rolls
• Something bubbly & festive to drink

Favorite leftover? Apple pie and stuffing (although not at the same time!)

Extended family, friends, both or just the immediate family for dinner?  We'll have about 25 people at Thanksgiving this year. These are all extended family, my three sisters and our families, plus two of my nieces are married, so their husbands are coming for the first time. This is the first year for a great-grand baby to be at Thanksgiving, too.

After dinner, do you go to the latest movie or football on TV? We just sort of hang out...talk about stuff, help clean up, etc. Somewhere in the house there'll be a football game on, probably.

Do you watch the Macy’s Parade? No---I never have time to watch TV on Thanksgiving Wednesday.

Christmas decorations up before or after? After! Our house lights have been on since before Halloween, but Thanksgiving night will be the first night we actually turn them ON. Otherwise, I'll start working on my tree on December 1.

Black Friday shopping or sleep in?  I've done the Black Friday shopping since 1998---but this year I don't think I will go. The things we need just aren't on any fabulous deals.However, as Kaleb thinks that 5:30 or 6:00 is a perfectly fantabulous time to get up in the morning, I won't be sleeping in, either! Going to the gym, I think.

Any special Thanksgiving tradition? We started one last year, in which on the day before Thanksgiving, we make pumpkin muffins and deliver them to people on our street, fresh and hot out of the oven.

Favorite thing about Thanksgiving? The thing that makes Thanksgiving my favorite holiday is that, while the food is obviously a big part of it, it's not really about getting anything, as Easter and Christmas and Halloween and even birthdays are. It's just about hanging out and being together and eating.

Favorite Thanksgiving memory? My memories of Thanksgiving as a child are fuzzy. And I have several good memories that revolve around my kids. My favorite, maybe (it's hard to pick!) was the Thanksgiving after Nathan was born. He was born six days before Thanksgiving, but I had thought he would be born the day after Thanksgiving, so it was just incredible to have him there with us. Or, there was the Thanksgiving when I told my family that I was pregnant with Kaleb. Or, the year...well, I can't pick a favorite!

And here's a cute picture from this past Sunday, which was Nathan's seventh birthday party (I SO cannot believe that he is seven!), just because. He had seen this jacket at the Gap way back in August and has wanted it ever since. I finally found it on sale and snatched it up. He was SO thrilled!

As part of my scrap-room reorg---as the final step, incidentally, meaning I'm nearly all reorged!---I've been sorting through my pre-digital-camera pictures. I have a good system for organizing these pictures, but I've needed to actually do it for a long time. So, I've gathered pictures from various piles in my room and then started filing. And as I've looked through these older pictures---photos from 1999 on up to 2003---I have noticed something: you can actually see the progress of my dad's Alzheimer's.

It's strange. Nothing physical has happened to him; it's all been inside of his skull. But gradually, his face has changed. In photos from, say, 2001, he looks completely like himself. You can nearly see his personality hanging out on his face, a transparent mask. But look at a picture of him now, and he doesn't look like himself. The mask has clouded.

It feels a little bit like reacquainting myself with him, looking at these old pictures. Like he's been on a long trip and now he's back home. Except---they're only pictures. And maybe if I pushed myself a little bit, I could find something to say about how this is why you should take pictures, and this is why you should write stuff down: because you'll never know what changes life will bring.

But really? I don't have the emotional energy to go down that road; it seems pointless because having his real self looking back at me in a picture only serves to highlight the differences. Instead of sweeping, grandiose ideas, all I am left with is the piercing realization of how my dad, when he stands in front of me, is no longer my dad. Of how much he has..."changed" is the first word I can think of, but somehow it suggests a difference that comes about through conscious effort. He would never have chosen this outcome for the end of his life. Maybe "progressed" is the right word. As in "progressed through the disease." Or the euphemistic "declined." That's always a good one. It seems that all I am left with is euphemisms---words you use to replace the true ones, to make reality seem a little less harsh.

Because there really aren't many words to say how I feel. Except for this: I just miss my dad. Even when he's standing right next to me. Especially then.

This is my year, it seems, to be sick. I guess it's fair---I kept the sickies at bay for nearly the entire two years I was teaching (simply because I couldn't cope with planning lessons far enough in advance for a sub!), and now it's catching up to me. Just a cold, except for it's left me without a voice, which isn't a good thing as I have work to do that requires a voice! So, in an effort to keep my mind off being sick, I've been reorganizing my scrapbook room.

You know those scrapbook rooms you see in magazines, with walls painted something other than white, and gorgeous furniture that all matches, and beauty and function and Rubbermaid containers that actually match? Well, my room's nothing like that. The walls are white. My computer desk is made with a door set on two metal filing cabinets; my two tables give me lots of space but they don't rank very high in the "gorgeous" department. I do have this fairly amazing antique desk I inherited from my grandpa, but in this room, it only fits in the closet. So it's far from impressive. But It's functional. I've got a sort of organizational system that works for me. (Well, as much as an organizational system can work for a girl who really isn't bothered by a little bit of chaos.)

I didn't want to just put stuff away (although, the putting of stuff away was a job itself, two months' worth of the left-over bits of layouts and new stuff waiting to be filed away). I wanted to purge. To get rid of stuff that honestly, I know I'll never use again. So, all my ancient lettering templates (remember? The ones Pebbles used to sell? Man I loved those things. I used them all the time. And I bought every.single.one they made) have been moved to the kids' scrapping/art supplies box. All magazines older than 2006 are being recycled (except for the ones with moi in them, of course, lol). I've got a box full of paper, stickers, and card stock that'll go to the kids' elementary classes once I'm finished. And I'm still not done yet.

As I've worked on cleaning out this room, I've been whispering angrily to myself (remember? no voice!). "Why'd you buy 22 different colors of pattern paper from Close To My Heart and then never use it?" "Why can't you bring yourself to part with your collection of Bryce and Madeline stickers when you know you'll never use them and they're just taking up valuable space?" "Ummm...why is it, Amy, when you've got a stack of 4"-tall blue card stock, you had to go and buy more? Just because it was on sale?"

I'm feeling this weird mix of emotions. Annoyed at myself for spending way too much money on stuff I never used. All of this stuff...it makes an emotional temperature in the room that's nearly claustrophobic. Like something is getting buried underneath the mounds and piles. But there's also a creative anxiety---a sense of being full of ideas and excitement at using the stuff I am keeping. (Not the Bryce and Madeline stickers, though. That was always the problem: they were too cute to use!) It's something akin to how I feel in the scrapbook store. Nearly overwhelmed with wanting to buy everything so that I can use everything, but also hearing that "yeah, but" voice: "yeah, but will you ever use it?" As I wrap up this cleaning/reorganizing project, I'm reminding myself of an insight I had a few months ago. I've been meaning to write about this in my blog, and somehow, today's the day.

If you allow it to, scrapbooking can become not about the process of putting pictures with words and accents. It becomes all about getting. Getting the latest and greatest. Getting everything new and wonderful. Getting all the magazines. Getting published. Getting famous in the industry. Getting the cute stuff for organizing. Getting the awesome camera and amazing printer.

All this getting? It makes scrapbooking become something it's not. Or, at least, something it is not to me. I don't want to feel like my layouts only have value because they're covered in whatever was the it product at CHA. I want them to have value because they express something of myself as they preserve something of my subjects. But more than that, I think that being ruled by getting wrecks havoc on your creativity. It is like Wordsworth said: Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. The focus on getting turns scrapbooking from something simple and fun and expressive to something commercial. And commercialism? It's the antithesis of creative power, in my opinion.

So, as I wrap up my room reorg, I'm more determined than ever to stay away from the scrapbooking store. To fall in love again with the stuff I used to love---the stuff I have now. To keep it about the process and the words and the pictures. And to save my creative powers from withering under the suffocation of getting.

Yesterday, I went to Salt Lake to attend the blessing of my very best friend, Chris's baby. In the LDS church, sometime during the first two or three months after a baby is born, he or she is blessed, given a name and a blessing for his/her life. And Sunday was the blessing day of Chris's baby Collin. Here's a picture of Chris and me on the day Collin was born:

Isn't he cute? He's even cuter now. She let me hold him during church and he looked at me with the sweetest expression. I fell head-over-heels in love with this baby! He gooed and smiled at me, and just exuded his own cute little personality. I actually had this thought, looking at him: I need a little daughter so you can marry her one day. LOL! He took quite awhile to get here, so the feeling I had for my friend to have this baby is indescribable. Chris and I have been friends since 1987. She came into my life at the exactly right moment, when I needed a real, true friend. We fell in friendlove immediately and have been best friends ever since. Both our lives have held difficulties, and we've stayed by each other's side.

But Chris? Well, it's not a prize anyone wants, but she wins for the most hard times in her life. Her mom died when she was three and that was just the beginning of her trials. This girl has been through almost every bad thing you can imagine. She has every excuse in the book for slinking away and becoming an unproductive member of society. But she has never used anything as an excuse. She has dealt with what was given her and become a better person. She's created an amazing life for herself, with a great husband, cool job, sweet daughter, and now her little son. I am so proud of her.

So my gratitude today is for Chris. For that Friday night when one of my "friends" left me at the dance club without a ride home, and this vaguely familiar girl who was dating one of the boys in my high school (even though she didn't go there) gave me a ride home. Grateful I accidentally left my wallet in her car. Grateful that the next morning, we both had job interviews at a telemarketing firm. We sat next to each other for over an hour, both afraid to say anything (both of us were also, incidentally, memorizing our social security numbers, as we had nothing else to do), but we each were hired and we ended up in the same training team. When I look back at the way we became friends, it reminds me of God's influence in my life, as it relied on the decisions of so many other people. Serendipity, our friendship. Chris has been the place I have turned to over and over again in my life. And I am so grateful to call her my friend.

After the first chapter---after I had figured out the narrator is death, and the notes here and there in bold were his careful annotations---I couldn't put it down. Even though the house is (still) messy. Even though I have work to do. Even though everything. I read this book whenever I could because it is that kind of book, The Book Thief. The kind that forces you to abandon your children to the television for an hour longer than they should be watching, because you cannot sleep without knowing how it ends.

Somehow, I am consistently drawn to and moved by books about the Holocaust. It is like a fairy tale, really, that time period: It looks familiar, and yet you have to completely suspend your disbelief in order to let your mind make any sense of it. Maybe that is how the German citizens lived through it---suspension of disbelief. The protagonist of the book, Liesel, however, is eventually fully aware, and tries to live with the smallest amount of cowardice possible.

The plot, in brief: a 9-year-old girl is brought to a foster home in Mochling, Germany; her brother died on the way to this town on the outskirts of Munich. At the small graveside service, she steals a book from one of the gravediggers, about how to dig graves. She steals it even though she can't read. Her new foster father, however, teaches her to read.

The story is heartbreaking---set in Nazi Germany, how can it not be? But the story is almost not even the point. The point of reading it is that it forces you to realize the power of words. It makes a point: without words, Hitler would have been nothing. It wasn't his political clout or wealth or soldiering skills that gave him so much power. It was his way with words. What Liesel discovers, though, is that everyone can use words, anyone can use them for anything, and her way is as a blanket, a heavy, warm, resolute blanket that protects and hides and warms.

When I finished the book, I dragged my children away from the television to put them to bed. Little Nathan had falled asleep on the couch with his feet on the foot rest and the blanket covering his face. When I woke him up---he is too heavy to carry anymore---he started to cry. Earlier, I'd gotten angry with him all over again, him AND Jake, because they've both lost their new hoodies. I didn't really say anything too harsh, except for that I was frustrated, and that I wanted him to find it. But somehow his half-awake, half-asleep psyche dredged it up and he sobbed because he couldn't find his hoodie.

I thought of the book. Of its point. Which was brought home to me in Nathan's sobs. So tonight I am grateful for the words "I'm sorry." And for the power they hold to mend a little bit. And I'm grateful to have read this book---and I hope you will read it, too.

Not a bad day. Not an amazing day. Just a day. Poor Kaleb. He definitely wins the "worst case of HFMD" award in our family. HIs face is actually just fine---only a few blisters. But his hands are covered. And his feet? Oh, his poor little feet. The blisters are huge, and he's got them on the bottom, too, so there's not much walking for him. But, he's feeling a little bit better. Good enough to finally take a nap, at least. Not good enough to do much more than hang out in my lap.

Haley's still being pleasant. Jake watched Kaleb for me after school, so I could finally clean the house a bit. (Still need to do the bathrooms.) Nathan and his friend Zac raked the leaves in my front yard---how amazing is it that two six-year-olds can rake the whole yard? Kendell and I got a nice long hour together all by ourselves.

See, just a day. I'm tempted to say "nothing remarkable." But it was---remarkable. Worthy of a remark. Because it's what I'm grateful for today: just normal days. If I've learned anything over the past five years, it is to never start to expect your life not to change. You never know when the rug will get pulled. So today, I am grateful for normal days. Or, more precisely, for the "normal" my life is now. I've also learned that you can adapt to changes, you can make new normals. But I love my current normal. And I'm grateful for it!

And on a completely different note, I thought I'd share this picture of my kids at the pumpkin patch last week. I love it, even though Kaleb's not looking at the camera---he's at that age when he's looking away (at something far more fascinating than mom with a camera) in about 85% of pictures. Cute anyway, I think:

My house is a disaster. And you have to know that in general, a little clutter or mess, a not-yet-swept kitchen floor or a few clothes on the floor? Really doesn't bother me. So if I say my house is a mess...it is a disaster. Kaleb has come down with hand, foot, and mouth disease. Each of my bigs caught this when they were about his age, so I've done this before. But it is not the funnest thing ever. Poor baby has the blisters on the soles of his feet, so it hurts to walk. He's got them in his mouth and throat. And on his hands. So, it's been a day of sitting in the rocking chair and not much else.

However, I was out of milk. And I knew Kendell wouldn't be able to help me, as he has started hanging Christmas lights (we have a small Christmas lighting business). So, even though he wasn't very happy about it, I had to take Kaleb out today for milk. I felt guilty about this for a few reasons, first off being he just didn't feel like leaving the house (although, there were lots of conveniently soft samples at Costco today; the vanilla ice cream was a definite hit for him). Second I felt like a spreader of the Plague or something equally horrible. But what else could I do? What household with kids can survive without milk? I took a couple of anti-bacterial wipes with me in my purse, to wipe down the cart when we were finished.

Returned home to try to make dinner---very hard to do when your 24-pound 17-months-old-in-five-days one-year-old refuses to be put down. Found someone to take Jake to his cub scouts meeting, as I couldn't anti-bacterial wipe the entire meeting. And then more rocking. He's finally sleeping now, although I'm guessing that won't last very long. And I'm obsessing, as one of the complications of HFMD is breathing problems. I've got the monitor turned up loud enough that I can hear him breathe. And I think I'm in for a long night.

Which brings me, however, to today's gratitude. I think today I am grateful for medical advancements like liquid Motrin for babies, the ear thermometer, and my pediatrician's nurse, who is motherly and kind and never annoyed at a phone call. And my pediatrician is amazing---he has a busy practice but manages to remember me and my kids personally. Of course, that might be because I visit him so often. My kids are virus magnets, especially strange viruses. All of them except Nathan (who has only ever had three ear infections in his life) went through an intense stretch of constant ear infections. Haley's had stitches once and broken her arm in the same place three times. Jake has had stitches three times, all on his face. Plus he was hospitalized for three days for dehydration when he was 13 months old. Nathan had to have surgery at 15 months for an abnormal cyst underneath his eyelid, and he's had stitches three times, too. (One day either Sophia or I will have to tell the story of Nathan's knee stitches.) Maybe it'd be simpler to say that we definitely get our money's worth out of our medical insurance. And I can't even imagine how mothers survived before modern medicine. So that's what I'm grateful for: good doctors, close hospitals, antibiotics, ibuprofen, Target's pharmacy and those nifty bottle caps they have.

Recently, I've had two things happen that reminded me how important gratitude is. The first: out of the blue, one of the women from my ward ("ward" is the name for an LDS congregation) called me to thank me for the lessons I teach once a month. This phone call came after a lesson I was feeling fairly discouraged about, so it had even more of an impact. Second: again out of the blue, I got an email from a former student. (Heather, if you're reading this...please don't let the tardiness of my response make you think I didn't get your email---I am still finding words to respond!) She thanked me for my teaching efforts. Holy cow. I can't say how this made me feel.

These two things happened within one week of each other, and ever since, I've been thinking about gratitude. Wondering if I express mine often enough. Wondering if I even have enough gratitude for the people and landscapes and passions and things that make my life mine, make my life good. I decided that I am going to blog every single day of November, and every single day I am going to express gratitude for something or someone I'm grateful for. Ready?

Gratitude #1: Today I am grateful that Haley disobeyed me last week. She has been dying to watch the TV show Lost. I don't think she is old enough to watch this show---too violent and too full of adult situations and experiences for an eleven-year-old. She has pestered and begged and cried and tried to wrangle her dad over to her side, all to no avail.

But last weekend? She just went ahead and watched it. I cannot even tell you how angry I was with her! She only saw about five or ten minutes of it before I caught her, but still. SO MAD. And disappointed. We had a long talk about being honest and about how if something is wrong, it's wrong no matter if you get caught or not. And, of course, about my ESP that allows me to just know when she's doing something she shouldn't.

And then I handed down her punishment: one week without TV and without the computer. I turned the kids' PC off and it can't come back on until Saturday. And here's why I'm grateful: her punishment has given me a clue to her recent attitude. Of course, it could just be coincidence. But after just two days of no computer---meaning, specifically, no texting with her down-the-street friend and no music---that attitude has started to dissolve. She's been far less difficult and rude. She's been...herself. I didn't think that there was much difference between hanging out with her friends and texting them, but apparently I was wrong.

In a larger sense, what I'm grateful for is how parenting is so dynamic. It is always changing and, if you're willing, it's always teaching you something. I'm grateful I was able to spot this lesson and for the chance to become a little bit better mom. And I'm grateful for a respite---no matter how long---in sixth-grade attitude. I love this girl!