What I Can't Talk About

a lump in my throat.

a shooting pain in my heart.

I feel the immediate squeeze in my jaw.

and the tears are right there,

just behind my eyes.

I bite the inside of my cheek to hold on

and then,

I have to change the subject

to you, to yours, to the weather,

to anything other than

my son.

Just sitting here in the quiet of morning,

alone with my thoughts,

I wonder if I can

if I dare

let this out.

I've guarded this with all that I can--

when asked about my son,

I hold back and say,
"I can't talk about it."

Because, if I even start to go "there"I know I will lose it,
and the person on the other end is going to be left standing there
feeling helpless to say whatever they can think of to comfort
a mother's heart that is torn and bereaved to the point
that there are no words that can give comfort.

And that would be a burden I don't want to place on any unsuspecting person.

I hold these feelings as sacred to me.

And while I know there are others who carry similar burdens--
I suspect there are others, anyway--
there isn't anyone in my circle of family or friends
who truly truly know how I feel.

It began last December when Dean had a seizure that took him to the ER.
He was in the hospital for 5 days...
MRI, CATscan, blood tests, spinal tap--
where was found a lesion on his brain.
The neurologist said if we'd noticed aggressive behavior increasing in Dean--
that was a 'yes'--
then he said it's because the lesion on Dean's brain was exactly on the part of the brain
that controlled aggression.

To counteract the seizures,
a drug called "Keppra" was prescribed
and a follow-up appointment was to be made
by the host home provider and agency that oversees Dean's needs.

That was December.
I asked about that appointment over and over and over and over and over and over and over--
given excuse after excuse after excuse after excuse
as to why it hadn't been made.

I was trying to be patient,
but in the meantime,
we couldn't have time with Dean because he'd lost control
while he was around us,
and it was too hard to do that.

He calls me everyday
and asks to come over.
He misses us.
And I was told to keep away from my son
because he is worse after seeing us--
with the promise that once his meds kicked in,
he'd be better.

In May,
while I was at Women's Conference--
the first day I was there in fact,
I got an awful phone call that said Dean had been removed
from his host home because of serious bad behavior--
the police had been called,
Dean had been handcuffed.
handcuffed.
My special needs son, who has the cognitive ability of a 3-8 year old,
handcuffed.

I was sick.
I sucked it up and tucked it inside,
deep inside my heart,
and went through the rest of the trip
half there.

I came home and had an emergency meeting with Dean's team.
He was there too,
but as soon as he saw me,
took a swing at me and had to be removed.
My heart broke for him.

This isn't my son.

I demanded help--
when is the neuro appointment?
You know, the one from December??

Turns out, the agency lost the referral months before
and no appointment had been made.

WHAT??

I went home and made phone calls.
To the State agency--
I needed help for Dean.
It was at the end of the day-- 4:57pm--
with a prayer in my heart that someone
ANYONE would answer the phone,
I was relieved that the actual Director took the call--
when he said later,
that he never answers the phone so close to the end of the day.

I could barely get out my name,
before the flood gates opened
and I sobbed to this stranger on the other end,
telling him what was going on with my son,
and asked for any kind of help.

He gave me names and numbers,
and support that I have been needing for months.
He gave me his personal cell phone and email
and told me to call him anytime at all.

I hung up, relieved, with a plan.
I was going to take control and demand accountability!
I contacted ARC and got an Adult Advocate assigned to Dean
to protect him and his rights.

There were more emails to lots of people--
each seeing that I copied the Director on them
as he told me to do.

Things with Dean got worse before they got better.
He ended up in the ER again,
in the psych unit--
escorted by police--
only to be held there for a few hours and released
with no treatment plan.
I sat in the waiting room--
unable to go to him because someone identified me as a
"trigger".
I cried when I had to leave the hospital
and he had no idea I was even there.

"It's the DRUGS! This is not my son!", I kept saying.

He was moved more than six times between May and July.
Six nights I didn't sleep.
Six nights and more mornings, I went to bed with tears and woke up the same.
Kent gave me a preisthood blessing, wherein I was told
that I have much work to do for Dean and
I will be given the strength to do it.

I fasted for him.
I fasted that he would get in to see the Neurologist.
A new nurse was assigned to Dean at the agency, Shannon.
She came in to get things done.

Finally, though, he got in.
Turns out, the Keppra has known side effects that induce aggression and violence.
Seriously.

Dean had another MRI scheduled.
He would need to be sedated for it.
The morning of, the nurses didn't put it in his chart (or whoever was supposed to, didn't)
so that appointment was cancelled AFTER he got there.

Another appointment was made weeks out from that one.
Shannon was on top of it.

Finally,
the MRI was done and we had to wait two weeks to get the results:
which were
that the lesion on Dean's brain had hemorraged to the point that
there is no brain matter left in that part of the right frontal lobe.
Which means he will continue to deteriorate in his abilities
to remember things, names, people.
Me.
That his language skills, already difficult to understand, will decline.
As well as his ability to understand language.
And his posture is affected.

I can't even talk about this.
I am looking at these words,
and I can't even say them outloud.

I have seen Dean since they took him off Keppra.
In fact, I saw him last Tuesday.
He looks homeless.
I don't know why his respite care provider doesn't make sure
his teeth are brushed,
his beard is trimmed,
he's wearing clothing that fit him...
I've complained.
I said it isn't OK with me that Dean looks unkept.
But his new HHP is committed to changing that,
and I am hopeful that he keeps his word.
Anyway, I got to look into my son's blue eyes.
He was sweet and hugged me and stood close by me
as we talked about him going to a special needs camp
in the mountains last week,
put on by the Lions Club.
His speech is slurred, his posture is weak,
he couldn't remember the kids' names--
Joseph and Bee were with me--
it is evident he is struggling.
But his smile was there.

He went and had a great time.
The Leader of the camp wrote me email and sent pictures
of Dean while he was there and said he did great.

I interviewed a new host home provider, Eric.
I met with the team again,
and requested a new case manager as the other one
clearly didn't care about Dean--he was better at excuses than action.
I was applauded by other team players afterward for that decision.
The new case manager is awesome.
I love her. I need her. Dean needs her and she is on top of everything!
At the meeting where Eric was present,
I told him and the rest of Dean's team that once Dean's meds have been
evaluated and changed and he's doing better,
I want him home.

He belongs to me.
I belong to him.
Just as I belong to my other children,
but even more so.
And if you have a special needs child,
you know what I mean by that.
Having a special needs child,
makes me a special needs mother.
I have needs regarding his care that exceed my abilities
at times.

I believe,
I have been blessed by God in heaven
to see Dean's last moments on this earth
and I am at his side in those moments.

His days are known.

"Thy days are known, and thy years shall not be numbered less; therefore, fear not what man can do, for God shall be with you forever and ever."

I can't talk about this.
I say that to my family, to my friends, to anyone who asks.
I can't.
It is too real. Too hard. Too much to put at anyone else's feet.
Too much.
I don't think anyone really wants to hear it all.
And I certainly can't talk about it without my heart leaking through my eyes.


When I close my eyes at night,
my heart opens and reaches toward the heavens,
and my silent prayer is the same,
"Please watch over my Dean. Help me, Lord, to be strong."

It's How You Ask The Question: Talking to Pre-teens

Last weekend,
in an effort to give the youngest two yahoos
something to do while I was at work,
besides sit on their laptops or in front of the TV--
I took them to Home Depot and let them choose a color
to paint their own bedrooms.

Arianna chose a lovely, "Lavender Verbena"
while Joseph chose a neutral tan called "Tobacco Leaf".

They helped one another get set up
by moving furniture,
laying down the drop cloths,
taping where needed,
and then they got busy painting
on their own.

Now, this was part of my plan
to get them to actually clean their rooms--
both needed to go through things,
thin out closets and drawers
to get ready for another school year.
And their rooms hadn't been painted since we moved in
two years ago.
Seemed like the perfect way to get them motivated.

The room painting went well.
Perfect, really.
By Saturday afternoon, they were finished.
We bought new bedding for each--
Ari found hers at Marshalls,
while Joseph found his at Ross.

To make putting their rooms back together
more of a game,
and to get them motivated to really do a thorough cleaning,
I offered up a "money prize" for the person
who filled the most garbage + giveaway bags--
relative to each person.

Well, that worked!
They got busy and thinned their stuff out
just as I had hoped.
When it came time to pay the winner--
(we had already decided to pay them both),
they pouted about the amount of the prize money.
Twenty dollars, each.

We were shocked
for all the logical reasons--
and said so to them...
they each went to their rooms in a huff.

Kent & I just looked at each other in disbelief.
What the heck happened?
How did we raise such "entitled" kids?

We were embarrassed for them and us.
What was supposed to be fun and rewarding
for all of us,
ended badly.

I sat at the desk and then did some research on
"entitled kids" for a few minutes.
I came across alot of articles & videos on the topic.
Apparently,
we are not the first parents to have this dilemma.
Whew!
Linda and Richard Eyre have a whole book about it,
called, "The Entitlement Trap".
They've also given several interviews on the subject
which we sat and viewed together;
there are also many other professional family counselors
who've spoken on the subject
and we read and watched those too.

THEN,
we called the two yahoos back to the loft office--
one at a time and used our new-found tools on them,
to make some corrections and come to a better understanding.

Here's how it went down:
First, we asked the pre-teen how they wanted us to talk to them:
"Do you want us to talk to you as an adult or as a child?"

This was an important question...it took them by surprise, actually.
Both responded, "an adult."

Okay.
Then we went back over what had happened:

"When we offered to let you paint your room to make it your own space,
that was US being kind and supportive of your personality and taste,
and showing confidence in your abilities.  Noone told us we had to do that, we just did.
We provide a safe, comfortable home for you, we make sure you go to nice schools, and you always have enough food--those are essentially the basics in parenting and we do our part.
And while it is part of being an adult to care for one's own personal space and possessions, we thought it would be FUN to interject some competition by offering a money prize in there for you both.  Again, noone told us we had to do that, we just wanted to--it makes us happy.
We planned on giving you both the same amount--to go to the movies, or to spend on  little errands or whatever you wanted, because it made us happy to give you a GIFT.
Somehow, it came across that we OWED you for taking care of your things--we do NOT owe you for taking care of the items in your room, as we ALREADY bought them for you. Caring for them is your part."

I'll stop here with our conversation, as it continued for just a little bit in a more personal way for each of the kids.

I want to share here though, that it worked.
The way we spoke to them, from the outset, worked.
It ended any rolling of eyes, stomping of feet, protests of power or blame or what-abouts--
nothing else happened.

There was not a payment of twenty dollars to either of them--
it was forfeited when the game was deemed "unfair" by both of them.

I found that explaining what my intent was, in clear terms helped alleviate any remaining angst,
and I learned that from now on, if I decide to reward my children for any reason,
that I make it clear to them what that reward is based upon--
either it is "GIFT" on my part,
or a result of their hard work--and in that case, the amount will be agreed upon up front.
At the end of our discussion the other night,
we laid all of this out for the future so we don't repeat the mistakes of the past.

What I learned from these professionals:
* An "entitled kid" isn't born-- he/she is created by the parents.
*Communication is essential.
*Identifying what is a "gift" to a child and what is "an earned reward" is essential--not just for a family, but for their lifetime.
* Asking if they're ready to be treated as an adult sets the tone for the conversation...it brings us to a common expectation and a level of respect.
* It is never too late to learn and teach these principles of parenting and relationships.

These little things work for us and I will continue to use them.

UpStaged! is workin' it!

So I had to stop by the realtor's office that we are working alot with lately,

and then I noticed this:

That's an UpStaged! House!

Woohoo! on the cover!

The realtor, Monica, gave me two copies right there

with a big smile on her face!

If you're getting ready to sell your home,

hire a stager!

Summer 2013

This Summer 2013 shall go down in the books as
"The Fastest Summer of All Time"--
it has flown by.

The yahoos go back to school August 19th
and here we are at the end of July.

Usually, by this time of summer,
I have. had. it.
I am ready to send all of the yahoos
on a long boat to China.

This summer has been different, however,
because I am down to having just two kids
at home.
Two.
TWO!
I could do two kids, drunk.
I could take a Benadryl and still care for two
that's how easily two kids are for me.

Yes, they squabble.
Yes, they leave their breakfast bowls on the table
and glasses of orange juice with an inch of backwash in them
on the counter.
But it's two, people.
I got this.

What's been funny is what we discovered
since Dara has left for Alaska--
when there's three yahoos around,
the "blame game" is alive and well.
But down to two,
hey, there's not alot of wiggle room
for finger pointing.

ON the other hand,
when a yahoo leaves the nest,
it becomes amazingly clear the impact
on the house that one person has in the dynamics
of family life.
For example,
when our oldest, David Scott was home,
we had to buy five gallons of milk a week.
He said he didn't really drink that much milk.
It wasn't him.
When he left for his mission,
we suddenly had extra milk in the fridge--
so we cut our milk order down to two gallons a week.
So, yeah, that was a difference.

When Danielle left for her mission to New Jersey,
our heating bill went down twenty five dollars a month--
girlfriend used to take long hot showers every day
until there was none left.
She balked when we told her it was expensive to do that,
but when she left the house,
well, the bill said it all.

When Dean left our house,
I stopped sleeping peacefully.
Having a special needs son out in the world,
has it's own unique worries.
That's another post for another time.

Our Nana left for Provo a couple of years ago,
and all that meant was less drama.
And mashed potatoes,
as she is the only one I really made them for.

Dara has been gone a week--
I'm convinced my blood pressure has stabilized.
She is very good at being eighteen.
She announced her age many many times:
"I'm eighteen!"
"I'm eighteen!"
She'd declare when it suited her fancy.
And on my end was no shortage of the same declaration:
"You're eighteen! For cryin' out loud! Eighteen!"

It was the perfect time for her to go off on her Big Alaskan Adventure,
to test all of her eighteen-years-old-knowledge.

So far, she hasn't called much
except to tell me she had fifteen dollars in her bank account--
when she should have had a bit more than that.
Also, a FB message that said she has to get up two hours early
to get up for work--
she has to catch a bus, an hour before she has to be there.
Now, this girl is not a morning person.
Refused to be a morning person when she lived at home--
and she is up by 6:45am...
she cannot run upstairs with ten minutes to spare,
exasperated, "We have to go NOW, Mom!"
Which unraveled me to the bone.

She's shared that she has had a few mornings where she's had to RUN
to the bus stop,
that is downhill from where she is,
and then had to turn around and run back UPHILL to the apartment
fetching something forgotten,
and then run back to the bus stop!

Ha! Yes! The Lessons of Life are at her eighteen year old feet!
I love it.
She won't forget these lessons of Independence, will she?!

My girl used to say she hated doing dishes so much,
that when she moved out
she would only eat off paper products
and try with all her might
to never have a dirty pot to wash.

"How's that going?" I asked her.
"Um. Yeah. haha. I do my own dishes. And cook." she answered--recognizing the reality.

So our girl is learning things away from home
on a fast track to maturity.
She's paying her own bills, for her own food,
for her own fun.
I did put $50 of her own money from a savings account
into her checking yesterday to get her to her first payday tomorrow,
but she knows that money is for college and I'm protecting that for her.
She is happily living away from home,
meeting loads of new people--
going to church, young adult activities, Institute,
and she even had the sister missionaries over for breakfast--
she made them crepes!
It is comforting to see that she's doing good and being good.

So summer is nearly over.
I've been so busy with work and staging homes,
that we haven't done much else.
Joseph went to Camp Alexander Scout Camp for a week--
he took the kayaking and mountain bike merit badge courses--
which means he did alot of this everyday

Joseph is the tallest boy on the far left.  

Ari went to Girls Camp in Rye, Colorado and had a great time.

But we haven't done anything as a family yet...but a camping trip is coming up next weekend and I am so looking forward to it, even if it's just Kent and I and the youngest two.  It'll still be good to get up in the mountains and breathe those in...

Dean is at a Lions Camp for Special needs young adults this week. I got an email from the Director that said he's having a great time and that fills my heart with gratitude.

Okay, time to make the donuts...hope you're all having a great summer.  It'll be over before we know it.

Why Mormons Don't Wear Crosses

This morning a sweet southern blogger shared this topic with her readers,
and for whatever reason,
I have decided to do the same.

For my friends of other faiths,
perhaps you didn't know this
or maybe you do,
but Latter-Day Saints aka Mormons
do not wear crosses,
nor do we have them displayed in our chapels
or temples,
or our scriptures or hymnals.
Not anywhere.

I will tell you why.

It's not that we don't believe in Jesus Christ.
We do.
He is at the head of our church,
which is formally called,
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

Let me back up a little and share my personal experience
with wearing a cross--
when I was thirteen years old,
I decided to be baptized into the Baptist church.
For Easter that year,
I had asked for a cross necklace to wear,
and my parents gave one to me.
It was dainty and sterling silver
and it meant alot to me.
I wore it very conscientiously,
almost every day,
until the chain broke as I was pulling weeds in my parent's garden
and it got tugged on by a cornstalk as I tending to a cucumber plant.
My heart sank when the little silver cross dropped in the dirt
and I realized what happened.
I still remember that moment so clearly.

When I got in the house,
I laid it in my small jewelry box,
hoping for the day I would get a new chain.

Years passed by,
and I was introduced to the LDS church by friends
then I decided to become baptized again--
it was at that time, that my mind reflected upon my little cross.
I dug it out of a box and showed it to my missionaries--
and they explained to me why Latter-Day Saints
don't wear crosses:
it's because the cross was used as a cruel, torturous way
to end the life of our Savior.
They said we don't worship the manner in which He died,
but we celebrate that He lives!
And WE as His disciples and how we live,
are the symbols of the faith.

That made sense to me.

I still notice those who wear little crosses around their necks,
and I am careful not to judge their motive for doing so--
I get it.
But then, there are those who use the cross as a fashion statement
or as art in their homes...
and while it might not be as altruistic as other reasons,
a cross symbolizes Christianity worldwide,
so that it is still comforting to me
especially in this world that we now live in.


Former LDS prophet and Church President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910 – 2008) once said:
“I do not wish to give offense to any of my Christian brethren who use the cross on the steeples of their cathedrals and at the altars of their chapels, who wear it on their vestments and imprint it on their books and other literature. But for us, the cross is the symbol of the dying Christ, while our message is a declaration of the living Christ.”
Some have said that the symbol of Mormonism is our temples, or even the angel on top of our temples.  Others have said our symbol has become our missionaries, or the unique way that Mormons live their lives.  While all of these may be true, they all point to the true symbol and head of our Church—the risen and living Lord Jesus Christ.  
All Mormon temples have the name of Jesus Christ on them, all Mormon missionaries wear a tag each day that bears the Lord’s name on them, and each member of the LDS Church makes a promise to “take upon [them] the name of Christ, by baptism” (Book of Mormon, 2 Nephi 31:13).
Jesus Christ is the great symbol of our Church, and all other symbols in Mormonism point to and declare his living reality."



So, there ya go.
That's why Mormons don't wear crosses.

Thanks to Whitney at Southern Hope for the inspiration today.

Dara's Big Adventure Begins!

 Boy Scout Beach....

 Fireweed

 Outside her apartment door

 View from the Tramway

Doesn't it look like a postcard?

 Mendenhall Glacier

Dara's been super busy since arriving Saturday--she's learning how to use public transportation to get her everywhere she wants/needs to go--to church, grocery shopping, into town so she can use an Internet cafe, and to work.  She's met several college kids, just like her, at church and been to a few activities with them already--Family Home Evening (FHE) and Institute.  She also fed the sister missionaries breakfast on Tuesday morning--she called me at 7:30am her time asking for the recipe for crepes.  I do believe that's the first time all summer she was up at 7:30am--and to COOK no less!

She is a happy Adventurer--hasn't complained a bit--and begins her new job today!
I'm really proud of her and the choices she is making for her own life. I love that she is willing to own her life and work for what she wants.  She is on her way to gaining independence as an adult and I know will glean the benefits that come from those efforts, for the rest of her life.

I have to laugh, because in retrospect, this yahoo has given me a run for my money through her teenage years--and how many times I had to remind us both that we'd both survive and come out on the other end intact,  doggone it!  We lived through bad things: grades, friends, fashion choices, and bad music; oversleeping, borrowing-without-asking, late curfews, yelling, silence, rolled eyeballs, shrugged shoulders, talk-to-the-hands, and threats galore.
I feel like I need a t-shirt: "Survivor of 5 Teenagers And Still Going"-- there's gotta be a medal or maybe a parade held in my honor where I get to sit in a lazy boy recliner with a be-dazzled crown on my weary noggin and wave to all the other moms in the crowd, right?  I could toss chocolate along the way and say things like, "Don't Give UP! There are better days ahead! You'll survive those teen years, I promise, promise!"

I should Google it to see if there's already a parade for such a thing--maybe I could start a movement?

Staging a Haunted House?

Kelly and I arrived at the brand new home we'd been hired to stage--
we took a spin around each room on the main level to get an idea
of what we could do and then headed upstairs to check it out as well.

When we got to the top of the stairs,
just to the right, we saw a ladder upright in the middle of a bathroom
with an attic door open above it.
That's unusual and Kelly shouted towards the opening,
"Hey! Is anyone up there?"

No answer.

We figured there was something still being worked on,
and headed towards another room
before going downstairs and getting started.

One of the things Kelly and I do when we're staging
is to bring stuff from the car and put it in a main level room--
creating a "Go To" place where we can see what we've brought
and pick n choose items that best fit the spaces we need to fill.

It's alot of work upfront--
hauling things from the cars and all that,
but it's how we do it.

Well, we'd gotten all of our stuff inside
when we heard a noise coming from above our heads.
Again, Kelly yelled upwards,
"Hey! Is anyone up there? Hellllooooo?"

Nothing.

We were on a time limit because a photographer was coming soon
to take pictures of the house,
so we got busy and just barely started placing things in the kitchen,
when we heard a very loud crash above our heads.

I looked at Kelly and said,
"I'm outta here." and grabbed my purse, heading towards the door.
Kelly was right behind me.

We pulled away from the house--
now remember it is a brand new house in a new construction neighborhood--
not alot of people around,
and an empty open field behind the whole area.

We called the realtor and asked her if anyone was supposed to be in the house
that day,
she said 'no' and Kelly told her what was going on--
and then the realtor told us she'd been in the house the night before
and ALSO heard unusual noises--
"Call 911" she said.

So we did and then waited for the police squad car to come down the street.
We were parked just a few houses down,
and waved the officer down once he got close enough.
He told us to stay put (duh!),
and not to be alarmed when a Tahoe arrived,
as the officers would have their sidearms drawn approaching the house.

We waited and waited and waited.
The officers were in the house a really long time,
then they went door to door in the area,
and finally waved to us to come back.
They found nothing and noone.

They offered that perhaps a vent in the ceiling
was flapping because of the wind,
causing the noise,
but it sure didn't sound like that to us.
It sounded like someone jumping/falling on the ceiling.

Anyway, they cleared the house
and we got to meet the neighbors who'd just moved into
the house next door a couple of days before,
and we finished up what we came to do
just in time to get out of the way of a cleaning woman
who was there to prep for the photographer.

Later, the realtor sent me an email and when I told her what had happened
and that there was no explanation,
she responded,
"I think that house is haunted."

I hadn't thought of that.
I was thinking a squatter with 8 kids had set up camp in there
or something equally weird.

But not a ghost.

Dara's Big Adventure

The world is a great book, of which they that never stir from home read only a page.
St. Agustine (354-430) (Agustine of Hippo)

~~~

Agustine got it right.

Can't do much living from sitting on the couch.

Just about the time my yahoos graduate from high school,

we both know it's time for them to get booted out of the nest.

Not in a rejected, hurtful way,

but to celebrate all that we have learned together,

it's the right time to go out into the world

and prove that knowledge--

and fill in the gaps, if you will,

along the way.

Here's how she got to where she slept last night--

what we did together to make her Big Adventure a reality.

I also grabbed some things off her Facebook page that shows what she's been thinking about for a long time.

We started planning for Dara's Big Adventure months ago...

where could she go?

what could she do?

"So i was looking through my news feed...and everyone was saying how much they are gonna miss high school and how much they cried and are sad they are leaving it behind. I'm just say this: I'm glad I'm done. I didn't enjoy high school, it wasn't awful, but it wasn't the best part of my life. that's coming this next year. I'm not sad about leaving everyone behind-I'm excited to meet new people and explore the world. I didn't cry today because I am glad to be leaving and to actually start my life, I'm not upset about leaving anything behind. The people I care about won't see the last of me, I'll come back. But I don't think leaving high school gives me a reason to cry. I'm running into the world with open arms, excited for a new adventure." ~Dara

On a hillside in Wales

You, with your "Adventurer's Heart" and constant companion, Diana.

First, we thought about ALL possibilities--

and through prayers and pondering,

we started our search for a great place to go.

One of our friends owns a dive resort in Roatan, Honduras--

such an ideal adventure!

We contacted him and he was optimistic and encouraging of her

to come down there to live and work at the resort.

Dara was stoked!

Playing "Shark Waters" at St. James Park, London, UK

"I want to explore. So excited to be going to a place that I get to do that all by myself. 

I'm getting the adventurous and spontaneous life I always wanted. "

We didn't want to put all our eggs into one basket, though,

so we also checked out other options online--

Coolworks.com

it's a great site for college-age kids who want an adventure.

We know friends of our kids who've found amazing jobs through Cool Works,

so we checked it out too.

Spring Creek, Choteau, Montana

We also talked to friends.

In fact, I posted on my facebook asking friends for ideas too,

and one sweet friend answered back and said,

"Send her to Juneau!"

Flyfishing the Platte River, Deckers, CO.

Dara was still holding out hope for the Roatan resort, 

but glitches came up that took that opportunity off the table.  

So instead of wearing shorts and t-shirts all summer and 

snorkeling, scuba diving, palm trees and beaches, 

we pulled up images online of Juneau, Alaska--

did some more planning and praying...

and made the decision:

"So it is now completely official...the ticket it bought....really going to Alaska!"

We packed coats and sweaters, socks and hiking boots, bought new gloves,

checked out rain boots to be bought when she got there...

the idea of a warm-water adventure was replaced with 

mountains, glaciers and whale-watching.

"In approximately 32 hours I will be on a plane on my way to Alaska!!!!!! GAH!"

"So...I dyed my hair red....whatcha think? Thank You to my friends you encourage me to try crazy things and take risks!! LOL"

She was a little nervous in the week leading up to her departure--

in fact, let's be honest, she was driving me crazy.

At one point last week,

                                                                        in frustration, 

                                                       (after dyeing her hair fire-engine red, which she had a                                                                                                                      professional remove the red and go over it with brown) 

                                                 I told her I was going to miss her "like a toothache". 

Just further proof,

that this is the perfect time for her to leave the nest!

"In approximately 24 hours I will be in Alaska! IN IT! GAHHHHHH!"

Yesterday morning,

packed and ready to go,

we made a nice breakfast,

then Dad gave her a Father's Blessing.

It was wonderful...blessing her with safety and joy

in the days and weeks and months ahead.

She was told to be a light in the world and serve others

in Juneau and seek out the good.

Nearing time to leave,

Dad and Ari took luggage out to put in the car--

I wanted a minute or two with our girl alone.

Taking her in my arms,

I said:

"You have the heart of an Adventurer--here's your chance to work harder than you've ever worked and have more fun than you've ever had. Say "yes" to everything you can--and serve those you meet up there in Alaska so WELL, that when you come home, they'll be sad to see you go; here's a chance to make lifelong friends; make the best of everyday--you won't regret a minute of it if you do!"

A few tears and a light in her eyes of joy and appreciation--

it's like the first time she's actually listened to me in months, really. 

I could get used to that.

And then she was gone:

 "On my way to the airport!!! Alaska here i come!"

"Layed over in seattle!"

"Boarded the plane to Juneau!"

"Oh my dang i am in Alaska!"

She woke up in Colorado Springs and went to sleep in Juneau, Alaska.

How stinkin' cool is that??

Here's to reading a book cover to cover--

thanks, Agustine.

Last Week's UpStaged! home and the Law

Kelly & I have been busy this past week--

a new builder here in town has asked us to 

stage ten homes,

one at a time 

as they complete building them.

we said "yes!"

 No furniture, just vignettes...

 So easy!

Entry

 Main floor bathroom

I didn't have time to take the pics of the rest,

because we had to leave quickly after staging.

But there's a funny story that goes with this house

that I'll be sure to share next time I get to sit down and blog--

it involves strange noises,

a 911 call,

policemen and loaded drawn guns.