Jen reveals her secret...

My oldest, Jenifer, who is 12, this week decided to make me privy to her darkest secret.
She is, it seems, part unicorn.
Now I was understandably surprised by this, since I am her mother and know her father very well.
It got even more interesting when she started telling me some of the unicorn rules. So I asked her to write them down.
Imagine my surprise when I came home and found this. I've typed it up and, yes, I did punctuate. Can't help myself. If you've ever wondered what rules the creatures must follow, read on.

UNICORNS by Jeni Kyle, age 12:
Unicorns are known as myths. They used to be called mystics. Jhon H. Unicorn discovered a group of them. No one believed them. Of course, people decided to make stories of them and they decided since Jhon Unicorn found them, that would be the name.

Unicorns can transform into any living thing but can only be one for less than 24 hours. If a unicorn stays a fish, it will have a small amount of fish DNA. If a unicorn stays a fish for 48 hours, it will be a fish and lose its powers. Unicorns can basically breed with anything living except for leap frogs. They have a unicorn poison.

All unicorns are allergic to oil, celery, cauliflower. Unicorns can't eat carrots, avocado, ketchup, pine trees, fish, cactus or lemons after 6 to 9 p.m. Unicorns were made beautiful, so they are also allergic to makeup, which is sad when a unicorn breeds with a cat.

Unicorns try their best to keep quiet about themselves. The population is bigger than you would think. Picture a row of ten houses. Every house is made up of only humans except for one. It has all humans and one unicorn. Unicorns have many powers. They can fly, transportate, run fast, jump fences, eat 36,000 leaves in one day and other things.

The Unicorn Mountain Council is not allowed to tell creatures unicorns are considered one of the smartest animals at 28 years of age. Unicorns are helpful and are herbivores. Lots of unicorns are afraid to tell family about it because humans will not want to play checkers, tag or baseball with them and they love to play. Unicorns at the time they are born are uncooridnated and fall a lot. At the age of 15 a unicorn should be rightfully ready to handle flying and should be sure-footed.

Unicorns are cool creatures because their hair grows very fast. It's a unicorn's natural instinct that tells them their hair needs to be in their face. Unicorns are playful creatures that are trustworthy.

Most of the world still does not see how important unicorns are. Every spring they use their super eyesight to produce more cow milk. During fall they paint leaves with their wings and put them on trees. That's why the wings of their close friends, Pegasus, are beautiful and colorful.

From the heart of strangers

I've heard of prayer quilts before, but never actually held one in my hand until today. For some reason, the sight of it set me weeping.
A week or so ago, I got an email asking whether a stalking-horse bidder had been found for an oil refinery that's for sale. I didn't know the answer, but said I'd watch for it.
I asked about her interest and she told me that her husband hopes it sells so he can go back to work. We chatted like neighbors over a fence, comfortable and personal both. I told her I sympathize; that my husband will soon be unable to work because he's on a transplant list and is starting to struggle.
She told me she's part of a prayer quilt ministry and asked if they could pray for him.
Absolutely. And thanks. We accept all prayers and good wishes. And we believe in their power, as well.
The card that came with it shows what they prayed as each knot was tied — the gist, not the words.
They prayed for Beaux to get a transplant. They prayed help with the cost of the antirejection meds he'll need. They prayed that shifting insurance will not put his placement on the transplant list in jeopardy. And that he will have comfort and peace and feel God's presence.
And as I held that beautiful, loving gift from strangers in my hand, tears streaming down my face, I reached out and grabbed every blessing I could get.

Do it for them...

Every year somebody suggests ethics reforms for our elected officials and every year our state or national legislators find some reason to vote "No."
This year, my tolerance took a serious nosedive. I think it has something to do with the realization that when the Old Boys Club sins -- whether it's faulty financial practices within the banking industry or said ethical lapses by lawmakers — somebody's going to step up and bail them out.
And somehow, the rest of us will pick up the tab.
I think it's time, folks. And I think we start by demanding that lawmakers live by every single law they inflict on the public. Every one. That means no free pass when they speed, not carve-out that lets them have better health coverage than the rest of us, no exemption of any type.
We are all in this together -- just one big, happy family.
Which brings me to the next thing: Stop ripping my country apart with your partisan politics. Start viewing America as a country and not two teams in a competitive sport.
I think lawmakers need to explain every item they take as a gift and I don't care what the value is. I'm not telling anyone not to take gifts. Just tell me what you took. No limit, no exception. And if you're embarrassed to own up to it, do not take it.
And for lawmakers who have served decades and decades: Thanks. I mean that sincerely. Now go away. You have perpetuated a system where you make yourself too important and powerful. And the citizenry has bought the theory that without your seniority they won't get good representation. I believe it's possible that because of your seniority — and your entrenched-ness, if there's such a word — we won't get good representation. We need to start seeing other people.

My name is Lois and I have a story...

The child's name is Annie and she is 10 years old. She's tiny, with a smile that seems somehow bigger than her face, shiny dark brown skin and the weight of the world's orphans on her shoulders.
600 million children in trouble worldwide, she says. Enough that if they held hands they could circle the earth 18 times.
I don't know if her math is accurate. But I know that there are many children in war torn or poverty-ravaged countries in real trouble. America has its share of children in trouble, too, whether because of poverty or parental absence or just inertia on someone's part.
Annie was part of the Matsiko Children's Choir, which gave a concert at Northwest Middle School in an assembly, on Friday. Jeni came home enraptured and asked if we could go to the free show that night. Sure. Why not?
So I loaded up Jen and Al and two strays (dear friends of theirs).
Matsiko means hope back in Uganda, where the children come from, Jen told me. These kids are trying to give hope to struggling children worldwide.
What they gave us Friday was joy and love and exhaustion. It was such a high-energy performance that I burned calories watching it. And you just had to clap and laugh and go with it. The love came at the end, when some of the littlest kids hugged a visibly moved audience.
There was no pitch, although it was clear they hope to find sponsorships and donations for related children's programs. It was low-key that way.
And somewhere in the middle of the orchestrated, choreographed program, I had a Eureka moment. I need all of them I can get.
The kids were passing the mike down the row as the choir sang Jim Croce's "I've Got a Name." And one by one, they introduced themselves. "My name is Anita. I've got a name."
The Eureka part is the realization that it's tempting and far too easy to lump people together. The children's choir. The Democtrats or Republicans.My girls. Journalists do this. Teachers are like that...
I'm not like any other journalist. None of us are. I've got a name.
The "girls", Jen and Al, couldn't be more different. Why would I expect everyone else to fit in a little mold?
A name. And a story. Unique indeed

If I told you 'bout my life, I'd have to kill you...

I've been possibly the worst blogger in the history of the sport this summer — which, incidentally, beat all speed records for how fast it flew by.
Time does fly when you're being thwarted.
Beaux and I have been creating two separate realities this summer for the girls. By night, we do things like hang out until 2 a.m. watching the meteor shower out by the lake whenever we get the chance and can muster the energy. By day, we work long hours and drag home exhausted, him from disease and me from I don't know what.
On that recent jaunt, I made a mental note that, hopefully, that moment would stick in their mind as they recalled this last year. Memories of time together, instead of fears about what may be coming as Beaux gets sicker and his need for a liver transplant grows dire. We know it's coming, but we really are trying to do happier things. And although we don't talk about it, I suspect we're trying to fix memories in those young minds.
The other daytime activity has been the most aggravating of my life. Here it is, in a much-condensed form:
In May, our health insurance at work changed. The transplant will be covered. Anti-rejection meds will not. Those are a lifelong necessity and, depending on how much rejection you're experiencing, run between $900 and $3,200 a month. We don't have it. So we've been trying to connect Beaux back in with the Indian tribe to which we've been told he was born. That meant opening his adoption, which took place in 1965 when he was almost 4 (he'd been in foster care with his adoptive parents for quite some time).
People said that would be hard, but aside from having to figure out which county in Arizona did the adoption, it was not bad, thanks in large part to a very nice judge. We used the Indian Child Welfare Act and in early July received information about his birth parents. She was reportedly young and unmarried, so he was "allegedly" the father.
The tribe ran a quick scan and said they had only one match, and the girl was too young. I pointed out we thought she was very young and they said we should get a birth certificate.
Laugh here. Ugh. It's been sealed for almost 50 years.
I provided the court order opening the adoption records, but it wasn't good enough for Arizona vital statistics folks. So I asked the judge for another order, which she granted. It, too, was not worded to the taste of vital statistics. But third time's the charm (Thank you, Judge for being so patient!) and we finally, last Friday, got the original birth certificate.

Which listed entirely different parents than those named in the adoption. . . I have no clue what we're to make of that. I literally alternate between wanting to cry and throw up. And I've talked to a couple of friends who are juvenile court judges here in Utah who say they've never heard of such a thing.
I am not sure how we resolve it. I've written to the poor, long-suffering judge who probably wishes she'd called in sick the day the original adoption petition came in. And I have fantastic scenarios playing in my head, like the 28-year-old of the birth certificate is actually his grandmother, who managed to get someone to fake it so she looks like the mother instead of her daughter, who is listed on the adoption paperwork....... But nothing really makes sense and I have no idea who to ask or what to do.
In the meantime, the tribe enrollment officer, who asked me to get the birth certificate, isn't returning my calls. And we don't qualify for help from the pharmaceutical companies.
That sound is me shrieking in frustration....


The photo, which shows how I feel, was taken by Alyson Kyle, age 10 at the time.

Have we met?

The Deseret News not long ago hired a fellow who for whatever reason appeared to dislike me. I decided, at first, it was a generational thing. He's one of the younger journalists, a fellow half my age.
Still, I'd watch him in animated conversation with practically everyone else, but though he sat right next to me and I tried countless times to strike up a conversation, he refused to take the bait.
"So, Ryan, what do you think of the healthcare reform debate?"
Not so much as a turn of his head.
It has really bothered me a lot, perhaps in part because I've always prided myself on being friendly. When we hire new people, I've always tried to get to know them and help them figure out the minutiae.
As we've gone to different shifts, though, it has become harder. For instance, we hired a fellow named Ethan on the police beat, but we've apparently always worked different shifts. I'd never so much as laid eyes on him.
About a month ago, I had one of those lightbulb moments that I seem to be in increasingly dire need of.
"Ethan?" I whispered tentatively to the oh-so-snobbish Ryan. "Is that you?"
His head whipped around and he smiled at me.
It helps immensely if you call someone by his actual name. I have no clue, now, where I came up with Ryan.
I'm thinking about this because my friend Ethan -- who got a tremendous kick out of my stupidity -- became my friend. (I think he thought I had an imaginary friend named Ryan and he was too courteous to make fun of me for it). And now he's moved on to graduate school and other adventures and I miss him.
This kind of thing seems to happen to me increasingly. And I'm left wondering if I'm confused or just too lazy to be a good caretaker of other people's details.
And I'm hoping it's the former, because the latter is a choice.
A bad one.

Forget abstinence...

Nancy Reagan made "Just say no" to drugs sound easy, but a whole generation of kids proved it was a lot harder than that.
In my fair state, they like to take the same approach to sex and the twin problems of sexually transmitted diseases and teen pregnancy. Abstinence education -- just say no -- is the core of the effort to deal with the raging hormones and poor judgment that are so much a part of adolescence.
And guess what? It doesn't seem to work as a deterrent for sexual activity any more than it did for experimenting with drugs and alcohol. Go figure.
I've given the issue a lot of thought. And by that, I mean A HELL OF A LOT OF THOUGHT because my two girls, now 11 and 12, mean everything to me and I want them to have their very best shot at an education and a childhood and .,.. well, you know what I'm saying. I don't want them to sabotage themselves.
I have listened to experts, read the books and yet, my moment of epiphany came in a most unexpected moment. I was sitting in the grade school library, helping ring up sales at a book fair, when it hit me.

Tell them about PTA. If you get pregnant, you will have children. Who will go to school. And you will be expected to participate in PTA. Tell them in detail. About the meetings. And the projects. And fundraisers.

If that doesn't scare them into behaving, they're already lost.