Give me three days

In my three days off work, I managed to:
-- Shovel Al's bedroom, which in fairness to her, was a hybrid problem. Jen moved downstairs but left a mess behind. We moved Al into a partially cleaned room, because we are shuffling everyone around for the day when Beaux can't do stairs anymore. We know it's coming.
-- Install a bargain price but high-security router (took 10 minutes, including playing online to see that it worked).
-- Sew the curtains I've been promising Jen for her new room. Did I mention I hate to sew?
-- Cook a real meal every night. No microwave. Ta dah!
-- Turn the room that used to be Al's into a storage/work room.
-- Do a ton of laundry. Ugh.
— Organize the computer room.
— Take the girls grocery shopping at 10 p.m. just because it seemed like an odd thing to do.
There's a lot I didn't get done. But I made a dent. Hoo-ah!

Boo! I want my mommy

The porch light's been extinguished, the friendly ghost that howls "Happy Halloween" silenced, and I am approximately $40 worth of penny candy lighter, but I love Halloween.
I think it's because of my mom, Mary. She was born blind, but loved the costumes and revelry of Halloween. I grew up in more innocent times, when you could hand out homemade treats. And my mom would get up really early to pop lunch bags of seasoned popcorn to give to the kids who came to the door. They loved it. In her later years, when store -bought was the safety decree, she switched to penny candy, too, and I felt bad about that because the popping was a service she performed for love.
She had a little metal counter that she'd keep on her hand and as she dropped the candy in to the bags she'd click away, then gleefully tally it at evening's end.
I use the counter now. And I inherited her delight in opening the door, though I can gaze at the pirates and princess and scary goblins, while she had to say "what are you this year" as she directed them to hold their bags out where she could feel them.
I like to open the door with a loud, "What did you bring me?" Sometimes, the littler ones shyly offer me my pick of their treasure and I laugh and give them triple the candy.
We live now at a crossroads, the only actual house on our side of the street, between two neighborhoods. We get children from both. And because Beaux decorates like crazy and the ghost yells "Happy Halloween," we sometimes have kids 20 deep on our porch. Seriously.
I remember living in an apartment in college and being disappointed I only had about 20 trick or treaters. I have friends who say no one stops. Tonight, we got 268 before 10 and a few stragglers after. The teens, to my surprise, were the ones most apt to say thanks. The littles told me repeatedly my house was "pretty" with its graveyard and zombies, pumpkins and ghosts. Their parents stood at the end of the drive (except the ones that carried their own trick or treat bags -- what's that about?) and took photos.
It was not the biggest crowd; I once clicked 371 on a spooky night. But I feel sorry for the folks who don't bother to stay home and greet the kids with treats. A lot of houses are dark because both parents go out with their children. They miss the part about giving, although they do the receiving part okay. Me? I could care less how much the girls bring home. But I love the excited buzz of children on the porch, the surprise of "You're Jeni's or Aly's mom!" from classmates who live further away, the sheer pageantry of the evening.
And I think my mom would have liked this house on Halloween. It draws the kind of crowd she craved.
Happy Halloween, Mama.

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.