Settle Down

Settle down.

My dad used to say this to me all the time. Not in a mean, angry way. But in a calming, kind parent way. Usually I was in a panic or sobbing or ranting and he would look at me in a soothing way and say, "Settle down." He always knew that whatever it was that I was in a tither about was going to be okay. After the "settle down," we would talk and his words always made me feel better.

I can remember crying about something when I was very little and he said this to me while sitting on my bed. I can still see the sun coming through my Holly Hobbie curtains and sitting with my dad and knowing that he loved me and whatever I was upset about was going to be ok.

I remember sitting in the library parking lot with him crying over a boy that broke my heart. He said those words, "Settle down." It was going to be alright. There would be other boys.

I remember holding onto him after Mom died and sharing tears with him. Crying so hard that no sound was coming out. But, Dad could make it better.

The last time I remember him saying these words to me was when he was in the hospital and I was upset about it. I was very pregnant and worried and he simply said, "Settle down." And I did.

I realized recently that I say the same thing to my children when they get worried or upset. They come to me with their fears, so giant in their tiny little lives, yet so small in the grand scheme. What if they don't like their teacher? What if they aren't good at swimming on the Varsity team? What if they get tackled really hard at football? What if they get yelled at for forgetting their scout book? What if there's nothing good to eat? What if they lost their DSi? What if they need new school clothes? What if we have to clean the house and go to piano and football and pick up the big coat? What if we're late? What if their foot, chest, finger, back, *insert body part here* hurts?

And first I say, "Settle down."

And then I listen and try to solve.

Usually it works. They calm down and we talk and resolve the issue.

I imagine that Heavenly Father is the same. I come to Him with my fears looming so large in my life, yet tiny in eternal perspective. I cry and stomp and sob. I tell Him that I can't see how this problem is going to possibly work out. I make quite a production.

Yet He knows all and he can see the resolutions to all my worries. And He simply and quietly tells me, "Settle down. All is well. "

And He's right. Every time.

What does this song mean? For my whole life I don't know what this song means.

I have set some goals for myself for the New Year. I am reluctant to call them resolutions because in my experience, most people break their New Years resolutions. I prefer to consider them to be "Personal goals set that coincidentally coincide with a new year." That makes me feel a little better.

1. To clean and organize my basement, garage, closet and Cameron's room. Typing those 11 words made me feel sooooo tired. I just hate thinking about those 4 areas of my home. They are all disasters. I am unorganized and busy. In addition, I have inherited a disorder from my father called "Ballard cleaning." With this disorder, if you need to put something away and you do so and can't see said item anymore then it is put away and organized. This could include putting item under the couch, in the couch cushion, shoved in the cupboard, under any of the beds or thrown in the garage or down the basement stairs. My husband has been trying to cure this disorder for 13 years and has had no luck. Maybe this is the year I can lick it!

2. To cultivate a lovely yard and flower garden. I am pleased to have a goal that I can procrastinate for 4 months at least. It doesn't require immediate attention.

3. To always be honest. President Medley gave a great lesson on temple attendance on Sunday in which he listed each question asked during a recommend interview. I have chosen honesty as one which I can most improve upon. My own husband's talk reminded me to be "steadfast and immovable" in this principle.

4. To attend the temple every other week. I know I can do this and I know it will make me a better person.

5. To find something that I can do to make money for my family. I'm not sure about this one yet. I don't want to work outside the home but I want to contribute to our family's income. I am not sure if I could make something and sell it or if there is something else for me to do. I really want to do this though. It is going to take a lot more thought on my part.

6. To write the children's book that is rattling around in my head. Maybe this is the answer to #5.

7. To not snap at nor be impatient with my children. As I type this, Spencer is standing next to me asking me the same question over and and over and over again and it is driving me crazy! However, I am not going to snap. I will calmly help him with his issue of great importance. This is going to take some practice!

8. To read all the RS Lessons before class and not just the ones I have to teach.

9. To recycle. I know have really missed the boat on this one. Here's my lame excuse for not caring about Mother Earth...I don't have a convenient spot to hold my recyclables. I am going to figure out how to make this work in my life.

I know you are thinking..."Um, hello? Where's the weight loss goal?" *sigh* I have been overweight for so long that I am at a point in my life now where I don't believe that I could lose weight. My attitude is "why bother?" I know all the answers: because you'll be healthier, because you'll live longer, because you'll feel better, etc... I just don't think I can do it. Am I happy so overweight? I'm not. But I have resigned myself to it. So I'm not even setting it as a goal. I don't want to set a goal that I'm sure to fail.

I feel pretty positive that I can achieve these nine goals that I have set for myself. Not only will the achievement of them help me personally, but they will also benefit my family, friends and the world around me.

Show and Tell

Lately, I've been thinking about some of the more interesting things I took for show and tell in my life. Spencer has to take something for show and tell every Monday and it is supposed to be not a toy. It is supposed to be something interesting for the other kids to see. Personally, I think 4 year olds find other kids toys very interesting to look at, but that might just be me. As we hunt around our house and yard to find things for him to take in, I am reminded of some of the things I took in as a child.




The first show and tell that I remember was in 1st grade. I had started collecting Smurf figurines. Every week, if I practiced my piano like I was supposed to, my mom would take me to J.I. Cooper and buy me a Smurf. (If I didn't practice like I was supposed to, it might surprise you to know that she would spank me with a wooden spoon. Actually, that was just once. And I am certain that I and my smart mouth deserved every spank.) I could stand before the Smurf display for hours trying to decide which one to purchase. The first one I chose was Postman Smurf. I loved him and played with him. I kept collecting Smurfs until I had about 9, which I thought was about 100. So the first show and tell, I bring my Postman Smurf in to show my class. I tell about it and how much I like it and how I have 8 other Smurfs at home. I was really proud of myself and sat really tall in my seat. A little later, some kid gets up with his giant bag of smurfs. He probably had over 50 smurfs. Everyone was in awe of his Smurf collection. Somehow my one little Postman Smurf seemed small and insignificant. I was totally dejected. Who gets their kids that many smurfs?

Also in first grade, I took in a "Merlin." You have to be at least 30 to know what a Merlin is. I loved my Merlin. Played with it constantly. I wish I had it now to show my kids. They would probably die laughing at it.


Second grade was the year of the strange show and tells. It was in this year that I took in a giant puffball mushroom, a cow's tooth and the most wonderful baby pictures in the world.




The giant puffball mushroom grew in my Grandad's yard in Haslett. With my dad's help, I carefully extracted it from it's home in the yard, placed in a shoe box and rode with it cradled on my lap for the 2.5 hour drive back to Toledo. I cared for my mushroom in my room until it was show and tell day and then took it in to my class. My teacher, Mrs. Alexander, was actually really impressed. I got to keep the mushroom in the classroom on display for several days until the mushroom started to stink. Then I took it home and kept it in my room where it continued to eminate the most horrible smell. Slowly, it opened and rotted and released fungi spores all over my room. It was really probably quite unhealthy but my mom was in the hospital and my room was a mess anyway. No one really noticed. Finally, the stench was even too much for me and I threw the mushroom away. It was a sad day. While looking on the web about the mushroom, here's an article about the harms of inhaling the mushroom spores. Guess I'm lucky to be alive. http://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/preview/mmwrhtml/00032029.htm

Also in 2nd grade, I took in a cow's tooth. My grandpa had a great woods behind a far field he owned. Once, I was exploring the woods and came upon a bone head of a cow; aka: skull. I was mystified. Right before my eyes was the entire skull. It was amazing! I brought my dad to see it and he also thought it was pretty neat. But not neat enough to take home. I begged and pleaded. Finally, we came to a compromise. I could take a tooth. Which I did and carried home in my pocket back to Toledo. I took it for show and tell that week. I could tell the other kids were very impressed.

Finally, in second grade, I took in the most amazing pictures of my new baby sister. She was born 12 weeks early and weighed just 2lbs 15ozs. She was 14 inches long. I showed these precious snapshots of her bursting with big sibling pride. I remember my teacher tearing up viewing the sweet photos. They really were wonderful to behold. Images of a tiny, red baby being sustained with all kinds of tubes and miracles of modern medicine. She was the miracle baby. She still is.

So that's my show and tell experience. Back to the hunt for something interesting for Spencer to take next week!

The Only Good Cat Is Not A Dead Cat

I love cats. I have been loving them since as long as I can remember. As a little girl, my grandma had barn cats that lived on her farm. I loved them and cuddled them and named them all. Since I was the only city girl in the family, I'm certain that all my farming aunts and cousins thought I was nuts loving the grungy barn cats like I did. I named most of them Pearls. I had a Pearls I and a Pearls II. There were also several Cream Puffs. Once there was a Tiger. I loved those cats with all my heart. I remember one time when I visited Grandma's house, one of my favorites was gone. They told me it "ran away." Now that I am an adult, I know that "ran away" is code for probably dead. I would look for it on every successive visit. You never know when it might return. Sad.

The first talk that I ever gave in Primary was about cats. My parents weren't even members of the Church yet and I volunteered to give a talk. I was 6. My teacher said I could talk about anything I wanted. Little did I know she meant I could talk about anything I wanted to from the scriptures. I wanted to talk about cats and talk about cats I did. I even took a picture of me with a cat as a prop. I can remember how frightened I was standing there in front of all those children's staring eyes. I wish I had a video of that talk. I'm sure it would be hilarious.

My parents bought me very unique stuffed cats every year at the Ann Arbor Art Fair. They were large--maybe 18 in. high--and beautiful and signed by someone named "Nancy." I had 4 and slept with them every night. There was a Pearls and a Cream Puff and Nancy I and Nancy II. I don't know what happened to them as I got older. I have googled "nancy" and stuffed cats but to no avail. The mystery cat crafter is no where to be found.

When my Grandpa retired and moved from the farm to a city house, he left the cats at the farm. I was very upset about this. You don't just leave pets! I remember being slightly mad at he and my Grandmother and my Aunt Tina for being so cavalier about their family pets.

My best friend growing up had a beautiful cat named, Eli. Eli had the most beautiful blue eyes. Eli was a shy cat and he wouldn't often allow you to hold him. I would try though and stare at the mesmerizing cat's eyes. Eli met with a tragic end in a frozen lake. There is only one cat that I have known that I did not like. It was the pet of a family that I babysat for and it was mean. It would attack my legs and skulk around the house waiting to pounce. I would take a water bottle with me to their house and squirt it whenever it came near.

I would love to have a pet cat now, but my dear husband is seriously allergic. It is pretty sad. I joke that when he dies, first thing I'm going to do is get a cat. He took this one step further to say that he'll arrange to have whomever gives me the news of his death (policeman, doctor, etc...) give me a cat when they give me the news. I'll name it Chris in his honor. Chris Cream Puff Pearls Vos.

Lost and Found

I know that every mom goes through this similar trial. We moms are no stranger to the phrase, "Mom, I can't find______." You can fill in the blank with almost anything. My shoe, my book, my french horn, the possibilities are endless. Why is it that only the mom is capable of finding the lost items? I have no answers to this question that I'm sure has plagued women back to Eve. "Eve, have you seen my fig leaf? I can't find it anywhere." Lately, our home has experienced the loss of several items that have given me cause to pause and question why. Why does this happen? Why are children and husbands incapable of finding things? Am I an enabler? Should I not be able to find something of theirs so they look harder? I don't know the answers. Tell me if you do.

A couple of weeks ago, my son lost his athletic cup. Not the kind you drink out of. He usually comes home from football and washes it out in the bathroom sink. Then he leaves it there to dry. It disgusts me so I told him, stop leaving it on the sink. Keep it in your room or with your football gear. It's time to get ready for football one night and he can't find the cup. Can't remember what he did with it. It's nowhere to be seen. I start looking. I can't even find it. This is unusual because I can find anything. The cup has disappeared into thin air. Of course now there is five minutes until football practice and the coach's motto is "If you are on time, you are late." So he is stressing...can't find the cup...no time to buy a new one...going to be late. He went to practice with a sippy cup lid protecting his testicles that day and thankfully he wasn't hit down there. We bought a new cup the next day. And threw away the sippy cup lid. What do you know, but the old cup was in the washing machine. Just where cups should be.

Last night, I was asleep. Let me repeat that. I was asleep...in bed...covers all the way up. Not trying to go to sleep. Not thinking about sleep. ASLEEP. All of a sudden I hear from the kitchen my husband's voice, "Jennifer do we have milk?" He yells it a couple of times and it takes me a minute to register that he is speaking to me. Because I was asleep. "Jennifer, I thought you went to the store. Didn't you buy milk?" He continues to yell. "The milk is in there. Look for it." I groggily shout and turn over. I was mad. He woke me up because he couldn't find the milk. I know it was in there. I put it in there. Then I couldn't sleep. What if the milks not there? What if I left it in the cart? I start to doubt myself. I toss and turn. Finally back to sleep. This morning I head for fridge to check out the milk situation. There it is on the shelf. It is behind something, but clearly it is there. Visible. To the naked eye. I'm pretty sure that my husband isn't blind. All my children have their sight also.

Here's another one...the cordless phone. We have three extensions to our cordless phone. One for the basement, one for the main floor and one for the upstairs. We are lucky if, at any given time, we can find 2 of the extensions. As I type this, one is currently missing. Earlier this week, we were missing an extension but to make matters worse it was off the hook, rendering all other extensions inoperable. There is no way to page it because it is off the hook. Quite the conundrum. I send the children around the house to find it. I don't know why I do that because they never come back with anything. Finally I get a brilliant idea. I send Emily to different rooms and have her yell. While she is yelling, I am listening in the extension that I do have. I can hear her voice getting louder and louder. We know the extension is in the basement. Then We do the opposite. Everyone is quiet and I start yelling into the phone so that hopefully she will hear my voice through the missing extension. It works! She finds the phone. It was on the couch in plain sight.

Margaret Mary Platte

I have the most wonderful Grandma. She is 90 years old and the sweetest woman on the planet. My grandma bore 13 children, raised 12 and buried 2 before she was 75. She worked hard and lived her faith. I don't know any woman like her. Growing up, there was no better place to be than with Grandma. I can still feel what it felt like to hold her hand. She is a very important person in my life. Here are some important lessons she taught me.

1. Food is very important and should be the first thing you offer people when they come to your house. It also should always be homemade, have a lot of calories and taste wonderful. Everything my grandma cooked was yum. Sloppy joes, potato soup, pie, cookies, her special salad dressing, fried chicken...everything tasted great at Grandmas. Even fried eggs.

2. Children are the most important thing in the world. My grandma is the mother of 13 children. Her first child died during child birth. She had 11 girls and one son after that. My mother was 7th of those. She delighted in her children, her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren. I never heard a harsh word towards me or my cousins. She was kind and caring to me all the time. She has hundreds of framed pictures of me and my cousins and our children as the decorations in her home.

3. You should accept your children for who they are. My grandma was upset when my mother left the Catholic faith. I don't blame her. If Emily came to me and said she was leaving the LDS church, I would be distraught. Somehow, my grandma came to peace with my mother's decision. I never saw my Grandma angry with her or harsh with her. She accepted her because she knows that love is unconditional. She loved my mother no matter what.

4. Things are not the most important things. My grandma's house is very comfortable. It is not flashy or fancy. The decor is nice and cute and shows what is important in her heart: God and family. My grandma knows that God and family are more important than fancy homes or clothes or cars.

5. When someone you love comes to visit, you should give them a really big hug. When they have to leave, you should wave with both hands until you can't see them anymore.

6. You should believe in God and give Him all the praise for the good things in your life. I loved going to church with Grandma when I would visit her. Even though we practiced different religions, it was comforting to be with her worshiping God. Hearing her words of prayer soothed my soul.

7. Hard work is a blessing of God and a necessity of life. Obviously, with 12 children, my grandma worked hard and she taught her children to work. Grandma was always cooking, washing, cleaning, sewing, or preparing to work. When I was a young child, she and my grandpa had a farm. They had animals and acres to care for. Not only did she care for her home, but she assisted in caring for the farm. She canned fruits and vegetables and meats. One fond memory I have is when they made sausage in the basement of the farm house. I think a pig had been slaughtered and they were making pork sausages. My parents were there helping and I was given the job of blowing up the casings for the sausages before the meat mixture was put in it. I was happily blowing up the casings until I asked what they were made of. I spit them out when I found out they were pig intestines.

8. Your husband should be the light of your life. My grandpa died when I was 15. I wasn't astute enough to notice what kind of a relationship they had. However, I have seen a picture of them at their 50th wedding anniversary. They are laughing and smiling at each other like there is no one more important than each other. I love that photo of them and I think that's how they must have felt about each other.

9. You should always laugh and have fun. One fun thing my grandma did with me were playing Kismet. I loved to play Kismet with her! Also, loved to play card games with her. Grandma was always laughing at a funny story or happening. She had a fun sense of humor. Her eyes were always smiling. I get a little catch in my throat when I think of my grandma's smiling eyes. They are one of the most wonderful things in the world. Grandma liked to go to McDonalds. It was a treat to go there with her.

I'm sure there are many more lessons I learned from her, I just can't think of them right now. These nine are pretty important ones. When I was a senior in high school, two girlfriends and I wanted to go somewhere for spring break. We all had family in Michigan and decided to drive from place to place visiting family, shopping and having fun. The second stop was to my grandmas. We were to stay there one night and then we were all planning on leaving the next morning. I went to bed that night feeling like I should cancel my plans with my friends and stay with my grandma for the entire rest of the break. For some reason, i needed to be with her. I told my friends in the morning what I was doing. They were pretty mad at me and our friendship was never quite the same after. However, my grandma I and had such a great time the rest of the week together. I don't specifically remember anything we did together, but I know it was wonderful being with her. I am thankful that I made that choice. Now I only see my grandma once a year at a family Christmas party. Age has left her body but taken her mind and I am not sure if she even knows who I am. I see her face and look into her eyes and squeeze her hands and want her to remember me . It is painful and very difficult for me to see her now. I know that one day I will be with the grandma that I knew again.

The Platter

Most visits to my dad involved a stop at the local antique market. This market was a warehouse of rented space to various vendors of antiques and junk. Dad liked to look for Fiestaware, small items from his childhood, antique toys for the kids...anything that was interesting. Most important was the hunt for Fiestaware. Dad knew the colors he was looking for, how much each piece should cost, the difference between real and fake. It was an adventure looking for the dishes.

Upon entering the market, the first space on the right had china cabinets filled with china, teacups, little sparkly knickknacks. The entire space was decorated like something from your great aunt's sitting room. Lots of old, frilly stuff. In the very back of the space, propped up on a table was a round, ivory Fiestaware platter. It was in perfect condition. I noticed it the first time we visited the market. During each visit, I would pause and look at the platter. It was beautiful and I really wanted it. I considered myself a novice collector of Fiestaware dishes. Dad had been giving me Fiestaware, little by little, for about a year. Each gift of the Fiestaware was like him giving me pieces of my mom. She loved Fiestaware. She would hunt it out at garage sales, rummage sales, wherever, buying chipped cups and saucers for $.25 at a time. The gifts of Fiestaware were like my Dad was saying to me, "You are worthy to have something of your moms. You are a good person like she was. I acknowledge the goodness in you by giving you a salad plate." It sounds ridiculous when I read it, but that is exactly how it felt.

I was sure I'd never have the platter. It was priced at $85. That's a lot of money for a plate. But I so wanted it. I admired it for about a year. Each time we would visit the market, I was sure it would be gone, snatched up by someone who didn't really know or appreciate Fiestaware. But, it was always there. It was waiting for me. For Christmas in 2002, Dad gave me the platter. It was wrapped in bubble wrap and brown paper. He handed it to me and said simply, "Merry Christmas." I opened it excitedly. I already guessed what it was by the shape and weight. I held the platter in my hands. It felt beautiful. It was a gift that he would have given to my mother, but she wasn't there, so he gave it to me. I was worthy of such a beautiful, pure, perfect gift. I held the platter on my lap the entire hour and a half drive home back to our house. I washed it by hand and placed it in the cupboard.

I loved the platter and everything it represented. Hors d'oeuvres and desserts were loving arranged on the ivory surface. The understated elegance of the platter made the food seem more appetizing, I was certain. The platter was one of my most prized possessions.

One Sunday afternoon, I was grilling pork chops for my family. It was an unseasonably warm, March afternoon and it felt so nice to be outside after such a long, dismal winter. I put the chops on the grill. I had two platters of chops and gave one to each of my boys and told them to take them right inside and place them in the sink. I turned around to tend to the chops and a few moments later, I heard a crash. I turned to see my son surrounded by the broken pieces of my prized platter. How could I be so stupid to hand my beautiful platter to an 8 year old? What was wrong with me? I burst into tears. I looked at the platter smashed on the driveway. My precious platter was broken. The crying turned to sobs as I stared at those broken pieces. It was the love given to me by my dad. There was his love, broken on the driveway. I couldn't glue it back together. It was gone. Never again would I have something to show that he loved me. My son went to pieces as he saw my reaction to the broken platter. I tried to assure him, through my sobs, that I wasn't mad at him. I hugged him and continued to sob for the lost approval that I had treasured.

My sister came outside and hugged me. She picked up the pieces of the platter and told me that she would crush it and make a mosaic out of it for me. The platter would live on, she assured me. I didn't believe it. The beautiful, ivory, smooth platter was broken. I never wanted to see it again. I never wanted to discuss it again. It would never be the same. I couldn't get back what I had. I could see Dad shaking his head in disgust. "She can't even keep the platter whole. I should have never given her such a responsibility to care for. She is so careless." I want to go back in time and place my beautiful, perfect platter in the cupboard and never take it out except to look at it and admire it for a moment and then put it back.