Boogers on the Wall

Author’s note: Tomorrow would have been my son’s sixth birthday. Instead it’s his 6th angelversary – it has been six long years since he was born stillborn.

What is my life like six years later? It’s busy. It’s crazy. But despite all the running around I do for our family, in the back of my mind is always the thought of the one other kid we could be running around. We’d have one more school program to go to in the spring. One more teacher to see at parent teacher conference. One more birthday party to plan each year. 

But instead of a birthday party for Luca we will have a memorial celebration. Because no matter how many years go by, we will never forget our baby and the day we got to meet him.

Today I once again reflect on the brief, brief time we had with Luca and the impact he has had on my life.

Once again I dedicate this week’s blog post to Luca and his story.

My Angel’s Story

I was tired, I was huge and I was ready to have my baby boy. But not ready for the way it would all turn out. I would have happily carried him weeks beyond my due date if it meant he had a chance of being born alive.

Honestly? I wasn’t quite ready for a third child. I always wanted my kids close in age, but my two boys, ages 3 and 1, were a lot to handle. I was okay with waiting a while. But both my husband and I had strong impressions that we needed to try for another baby.

Despite those impressions, I was still extremely nervous about how I could be a good mom to three boys under the age of 3. Each day I grew, not only in circumference, but also in my confidence in being able to raise three tiny spirits.

On April 21, 2010 I had my 37-week check-up. Luca’s movement had been slowing down significantly for a while now and I was worried. I discussed my concerns with my doctor and we listened to his heartbeat, which appeared to be strong. So, my doctor and I decided that maybe little Luca was running out of room in my overcrowded womb.

The beginning of my pregnancy was a piece of cake. I felt better than I had with my other pregnancies and had virtually no morning sickness. But the end was pretty bad. I kept having sharp pains in my side and my muscles were aching.

Fearing the worst

My mother-in-law kept my other two boys while I went to my appointment so I decided to lie down and take a nap until she brought them home. That’s when I started panicking because I couldn’t remember the last time I felt Luca move.

I know what some of you are thinking? Why didn’t you rush to the hospital??? Knowing what I know now, my advice to any pregnant woman who is the least bit concerned about her baby, would be, GET TO THE HOSPITAL, NOW. Speed if you have to. What are they going to do? Tell you your baby’s fine and send you home? Hopefully. Laugh in your face about your unnecessary worries? Never. In all reality, even if I had been in labor and delivery when Luca’s heart stopped beating, they still wouldn’t have been able to save him. There wasn’t anything I could have done. I realize that now. But there are other reasons why babies stop moving. In my opinion it’s just better to get it checked out as soon as possible.

I literally worried all night about my Luca’s movement. I think the strong feelings and confirmations I had received that I was supposed to have another baby kept me waiting for his little legs to kick or his fists to punch. Luca’s pregnancy was my only pregnancy I haven’t run into problems conceiving. I thought that was a sure sign that this truly was meant to be. It was meant to be, just not in the way I hoped or expected.

I waited, and waited for him to move. Finally at about 2:30 a.m. I couldn’t take it any longer. I got up and sat in the bathtub for a long time. Travis came in and convinced me to go to the hospital. My mom came over to sit with my boys so we could run up to the hospital. When I got there, they hooked me up to a monitor and we found the baby’s heartbeat. Well, at least we thought we did — turns out the sound of my own heartbeat was reverberating back. We didn’t know that for sure until they hooked me up to a basic ultra sound machine and zoomed in on the heart. I knew immediately that my son had died. I looked at my husband and he knew it too. We had seen a number of live, beating hearts in ultrasounds. This one was still.

But the nurses said nothing. They tried to remain calm as they called my doctor and asked him to come in. He arrived at about 4 a.m. to confirm my baby’s death. We all cried — nurses included. He told me I could go home and come back later to deliver my baby or he could induce me right away.

The thought of leaving the hospital knowing that I was carrying my dead child made me cringe. I knew that having a stillborn was going to be the worst thing I had ever experienced. Delaying it wouldn’t change anything. They wheeled me into a corner room and posted a grieving sign on the door.

Shortly thereafter we started calling family members to let them know they were going to have to come in sometime that day to simultaneously tell Luca “hello” and “goodbye.”

Sharing the Heart-Breaking News

My poor mother. She was the first to hear of his death. And she had to take the news while watching over my other two little ones in my quiet, lonely home. I can’t imagine how alone she must have felt. She texted me awhile after I called to tell her he had died, asking what she should tell my other boys when they woke up. That literally broke my heart. What did I want her to tell them?

We didn’t want to tell him that their brother was “sleeping” or that he was “gone.” We decided to tell them the truth. That he had died. They were sad, but their grief was expressed differently than an adult. They didn’t cry much but they did throw more tantrums and asked to be held a lot more.

Telling people and hearing their reactions was one of the hardest things for me. I could handle the pain that I was going to have to bear, but having to inflict some of that pain on others made me so sad. It still makes me sad.

Our family members started gathering at the hospital and at our home waiting for the time when they would meet Luca. I knew we would only ever have a few short hours with him and so I prepared to face my nightmare with a smile on my face. This was the only time I was going to hold my baby. The only time I could take pictures of his beautiful face. I wasn’t going to let my grief overcome my ability to make the moments meaningful.

I don’t know if it’s all in my head, but I don’t think I had the full power of my epidural during his delivery. It was by far my most painful delivery. Not only emotionally, but physically. Maybe that’s because I didn’t have the anticipation of meeting my healthy baby to pull me through. With each painful push, I knew I was a step closer to meeting a baby I wouldn’t take home. I’ll never forget the shock in my doctor and nurses voices and faces as Luca was born. They all gasped in unison. He had suffered a cord accident that was visible the moment he was delivered. The cord was wrapped around his neck several times and it contained a true knot. Umbilical cord knots are extremely rare and knots resulting in a baby’s death are even more rare. Although I will never be grateful for what happened to my son, there is something I am extremely grateful for: The fact that we found out why he died.

He was born at 5:13 p.m. and weighed 5 pounds 13 ounces. He was beautiful with curly reddish brown hair and rosy red cheeks. We each took turns holding him and taking pictures. Utah Share came and casted molds of his hands and feet. Pat Wimpee came and took dozens of priceless photos of him and our family. I don’t know what I’d do without those photos. I think I would forget the details of his face. The wrinkles of his toes. The size of his tiny fingers. At times I stared at his little body, waiting for his chest to rise or his eyes to open. He literally was perfect.

We had Luca in our hospital room for five short hours. My legs were still numb from my epidural, so I was forced to watch everyone’s encounters with him from the comfort of my hospital bed. That was really hard for me. I wanted to hug and comfort everyone and yet I was stuck on the sidelines. I am sure that those who came to the hospital to meet him will forever be changed. There was such a special spirit in the room. It was a terribly sad, yet wonderfully peaceful experience.

The next several days were a blur. I left the hospital on a Friday morning. That afternoon I sat in the mortuary office preparing a funeral. We had a very small service on Monday, just four days after I delivered. Thank heavens for pain medications. Without those my traditional delivery pains coupled with the pain of my milk coming in, would have been unbearable. I buried my baby and part of my heart on April 26, 2010.

How am I dealing with his death?

I believe, as my religion teaches, that I will raise little Luca someday. Sometimes that thought brings great comfort, other times it is little solace for a grieving mother who longs to hold her angel infant now. Although he is in a better place, free from sorrow and sin, I wanted the challenge of raising him in this crazy world. Wanted to see him wrestle with his older brothers or hear him giggle as the four of them cooked up mischief. I hate that we don’t get to have him now.

I have experienced all of the traditional grief stages at least once. I have felt depressed, angry, honored, jealous, comforted, tired, rude, bitter, overwhelmed, out of control, anxious, stressed and unmotivated. There have been times I have sat on my couch, not wanting to do anything. Then other times that I feel an urgency to give back to others in honor of my son’s memory.

What do I do when the grief is too much to bear?

I take long soaks in the bathtub where I blast Pandora and cry until my eyes are strawberry red.

I watch movies like Tangled and sob when I see Rapunzel reunited with her parents. I wish I only had to wait 18 years to meet my “lost” baby.

I take my boys fishing. Fresh air and the beauty of nature clear my head and remind me of my place in the world.

I lay by my other kids while they are sleeping. I put my hand on their chest to feel their heart beating and their lungs filling with air. That reminds me of the beautiful children I do get to raise on Earth. I can’t let myself take them for granted.

I start finding something I can do for others. I know it sounds cheesy, but sometimes serving others has been my saving grace. I understand the need to be still and internalize my grief and emotions, but sometimes it’s overwhelming. I have to find a productive way to patch over my grief until my emotions settle and I’m able to digest them.

Finally, I write through my heartache. Writing has always been a way for me to work through life’s problems. I imagine I’ll write through this problem my entire life.

I just have to keep reminding myself that life is hard, life is good and life is necessary.

The much anticipated first ever Clemens family fishing tournament has finally happened. We waited three months for the perfect weekend to hold our tournament and it was a blast.

My oldest son is obsessed with fishing – I’ve written about that several times. He started planning a fishing tournament in December. He made hand-written invitations and made a list of rules and requirements. He spent a lot of time getting the tournament stuff put together. Only to have his dad and me tell him it was too cold, and the ponds were frozen – a minor setback.

He was heartbroken for a while until we planned a new date for the competition – March 12.

We put together certificates and prizes and cooked a bunch of hot dogs for bait. Then we all met at the ponds for the 9 a.m. tournament start time.

My three boys and two of their friends fished for two hours. Then we tallied up the score and handed out prizes.

There were times it was crazy – like when one of them would get their pole tangled like a bird’s nest, or when two of them would catch a fish at the same time. We kept losing the pliers we were using to unhook the fish and I kept tipping over the pole we were using to measure how big they were.

But overall it was a fun thing I hope to do again. The five boys ended up catching a total of 20 fish thanks to the awesome Power Bait lures that one of the boys brought – we didn’t even use the two packages of cooked hot dogs we brought.

We gave prizes for youngest fisherman, least fish caught, most fish caught, biggest fish and most unique fish.

There was kind of a hiccup while handing out prizes because like most kids I know my oldest son wanted to win all of the prizes. Who wouldn’t?

But we got it worked out and all the kids left with smiles on their faces. Including my youngest – our one-year-old daughter who is learning to fish and loves reeling in her own pole.

I didn’t really want to do the tournament. It felt like just one more thing to plan and cram into a busy weekend. But like most other times when I put my children and family first I end up having a great time. My kids are always teaching me new things and helping me reach out beyond my comfort zone. I am grateful for that.

We’ve been in a feud with leprechauns for years. They have trashed our house, marked footprints all across our floor and even peed green into our toilet.

We set traps to catch them year after year and my boys love exchanging notes with McGregor the leprechaun king who is also our distant cousin.

St. Patrick’s day is a big deal at our house. My father in law served a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Ireland. His grandpa came to America from Ireland. So my kids have grown up with a dash of Irish pride.

I’ve written about our St. Patty’s day activities before but I don’t think I’ve ever written about one of our family’s favorite annual events – The Clemens Family St. Patrick Day Pot Luck.

Each year we hold a relaxing dinner with my husband’s family where we can all come and enjoy some Irish tunes while eating Shepherd’s Pie.

I don’t remember why it started, but we’ve done it going on seven years now and we look forward to it every year.

Why is it so much fun? I don’t know exactly. But I think it has something to do with the ease of the evening. There are no games planned. No performances (unless you count my boys busting out in impromptu Irish dance). No real structure.

We simply sit down and enjoy one another’s company. There’s no rush, no hype and no expectations.

I love a good party with activities and assignments, but every once in a while it’s nice to take it easy.

My boys have helped me make a few decorations for the party each year that we save and pull out to reuse. We made these rainbow/gold pot hangers last year.

This year we used some of the gold and confetti that the leprechauns have left for us in the past as table decorations.

I also put together some rainbow licorice cupcakes and put some gold treasures on the tables.

It looked colorful and it was really easy.

This year we tried a new Shepherd’s Pie recipe. It was a big hit – anything with cheese and bacon usually is at our house. You can see the recipe here.

My mother-in-law makes the best bread to go with our shepherd’s pie and my sisters in law always bring side dishes or desserts. We top it all off with green Kool-Aid.

We held our party last Sunday and it was a huge success. We haven’t really ever set a dress code, but year after year most everyone shows up in green.

If you’re in the mood for getting together with family in friends, try planning an easy night. You won’t regret it!

Stay Anchored. That’s the theme our ward is using for relief society this year. So when planning the annual relief society birthday dinner it only seemed fitting to do a nautical theme.

I currently serve as the activities coordinator for our relief society. I have a wonderful committee that helps me plan and put on the best activities. Here’s what we did to kick off last year, here’s a fun service project we did last fall and here’s what we did for our ward’s Christmas party.

I couldn’t do it alone. It takes a lot of work and a lot of planning to put on an activity. We held our dinner Tuesday night and it was a huge success. I’d like to share what we did.

Like I said, we chose a nautical theme.

I cut out pennants and letters on my silhouette machine to make a few banners. The big banner said “Live Life Anchored.” We hung it in front of a navy bed sheet onto the bulletin side of a rolling chalk board using push pins. Then we took a roll of light blue and a roll of white tulle and pinned up some “waves.” I also cut out some gold anchors which we tacked up and someone on our committee brought the cutest burlap ocean ribbon which we used to tie a bow on the side.

We hung smaller “Stay Anchored” banners in front of the doors with more tulle waves behind. The last banner we hung on a table next to the speaker’s podium.

We used long white table cloths as a base for the tables. Then layered navy table toppers and light blue rectangles on top. We alternated red and gold/yellow napkins around the tables.

Someone on our committee brought sand and we filled glass vases with it then lit battery-operated tea lights to place inside for the table’s centers.

Someone on the committee made fabric keychain/lanyards for every sister. We put those in plastic sacks with a quote from Dieter F. Uctdorf inside.

We have a sister on the committee who is a professional chef. She made the most amazing food for the night. She also came up with the cutest, most fitting cupcakes. She made clams out of cookies and placed candy pearls inside. They were beautiful and perfect.

We wanted this dinner to be more elegant than most of our other activities so we used silver plastic silverware. Who knew they even made that? They look like real silverware but they are disposable! I found them at the dollar store. We also used disposable plates that looked like real china.

I used downloadable files from this site to print out a couple signs and make a poster announcing our evening.

I can’t tell you how good the food smelled that night. Our chef made several types of pasta and three types of sauces – alfredo, marinara and pesto sauce – that people could put together on their own plates. Then she had several toppings to add to the pasta – like bacon, mushrooms, sun-dried tomatoes and parmesan cheese. We also had chicken and salmon. Delicious! We were really spoiled.

Sisters from the ward signed up to bring salads, salad dressing and bread, breadsticks or rolls. My mouth still waters when I think about how great everything was.

One of the highlights of the evening was getting to catch up with a dear friend that I haven’t seen – except on Facebook – in years. I asked Jackie Hunt Herrin to speak to us. Jackie was Miss Utah 2001. She has received multiple awards for community service and work as a fierce advocate for organ, eye and tissue donation. She is truly and inspiration to me.

She was perfect! Through her words I was reminded that no matter what this world sends to me if I stay anchored to my savior I can be happy and work toward my eternal goal of living with my Father in heaven again. This life is full of experiences – good, bad, happy, sad – but that’s why I’m here. To learn and grow and help others on our way back Home.

I am so grateful for all the people who helped make our relief society birthday dinner such a success. I left feeling rejuvenated and ready to tackle the winds and the waves.

Looking out our front window I could see it in his body language. His shoulders slumped, head down, bottom lip downturned. He walked slowly from the neighbor’s to our yard, dragging his feet. I could tell I was not going to be welcoming a new fourth grade class mayor into our home that day.

Before he even opened his mouth I knew the election did not go in his favor. He was finally home from school and I finally knew the result. I had been on edge all day wondering how things would go.

He had his heart set on running the town. For days he researched famous quotes on equality and doing good for his campaign speech. He dreamed up new laws and a new town name – Pesce (Italian for fish.) He campaigned at recess, talking to his friends about why they should vote for him.

But when election day came things did not go in his favor. It was extremely close – with only 12 students in his class to vote there was a three-way tie for the mayoral seat. The dozen students voted three times. Still tied. So my son’s teacher let the class vote for two students for one final round. That’s when another student pulled ahead and won.

And my 9-year-old felt the impact of disappointment.

I tried to hug him as he sat on our couch, tears streaming down his cheeks. But he pushed me away – he didn’t want to be comforted.

In the end I convinced him to come with me to the dollar store to pick out a prize for all his efforts in the race. He settled on a two-pack of yo-yos.

I gave him the I-am-so-proud-of-you speech and told him over and over again that he did the best he could.

But in the morning when it was time to face his unsuccessful race again he didn’t want anything to do with it. He curled up in the covers of his bed and claimed he wasn’t going to school.

I get it. This race was his whole world right now. All he could see in the near future was his class fabricating a fake town with mailmen, journalists, council members, and a mayor. He has to face the town and his fellow students day in and day out for the next month or so while they learn about government, work responsibility, how to manage a business, etc.

And oh how my heart aches for him.

My mind flashed back to dark days in my life when I too didn’t want to get out of bed. Times when it seemed like my world was over.

Ironically, during one of my darkest times that sweet little non-mayor was the one who drug me from bed. He and his 7-year-old brother were the only two reasons I got out of bed for many, many days after I delivered their brother Luca stillborn.

My world was crashing down around me but they were there keeping me going.

And so I have to be there to keep him going.

I tugged the blankets down from his face and pulled him from his bed. He didn’t like it, and I had to be stern, but he did it. I hugged him and told him he had to go.

I half wondered if he would run away and hide behind a bush in the back corner of the school’s playground after I dropped him off – I actually called the school to make sure he checked into class.

He went to school all day even though he didn’t want to.

So many times we have to keep going even when we don’t want to. I don’t know exactly how to teach my children that. Especially when my heart aches for them and I know how it feels to want to give up.

But I can’t let them. I want to teach them that it’s all right to feel sad and down about disappointments. But we have to keep going.

And I’ll be there for them when they get up and face their hardest days. Just like they were there for some of mine.

Organize your life they say. It will be fun they say. It will be easy they say. Ten easy steps. Five minutes a day. Everywhere I turn I see articles, posts, pins, and more, telling me to de-clutter, reorganize and simplify.

So I started.

I dove right into my closet and office area. It took me hours and days to get through the paperwork and decorations I needed to look at.

And it was not easy and it was not fun.

These articles are misleading. They don’t tell you that it’s going to get much worse before it gets much better.

They don’t tell you how you are going to get sick of staring at your kids’ schoolwork while trying to decide which homework sheets to save.

They don’t tell you how your one-year-old is going to “help” you organize things while crawling and scrambling papers all over.

They don’t tell you how you are going to be elbow-deep in picture frames.

They don’t tell you that a small pile of nick knacks can take up your entire living room floor.

After pulling out all the things I wanted to sort through I had stuff lined up in different piles all over my master bedroom. And then I had to figure out where to put those piles.

It took me forever.

Yes. My office looks amazing. The desk has never been that empty and organized. Ever. My closet on the other hand still isn’t finished. I didn’t even touch my clothes.

But I can’t do it right now. I really want to de-junk the rest of my house – because I really only got through half a bedroom – but I’ve got to take a break. I’m just not good at this sort of thing.

Maybe I’ll pick it up again next year. When another round of new-year’s-resolution articles circulate online.

But then again. Maybe not. Maybe I’m OK with the clutter.

I don’t like going to the cemetery. It’s a cold place for me that symbolizes brutal finality. It’s the place where I left a piece of my heart.

I have only visited there a couple of times by myself. If I go it’s with Travis and our kids.

But last Saturday I ran a couple of errands in the area where our third son is buried. I found myself a couple of blocks away and couldn’t in good conscience drive by without paying him a visit.

As I parked the car and got out I was struck by the anger that consumed me.

Part of me wanted to sit and sob, part wanted to chuck icy snowballs at a nearby tree.

I crouched down and looked at the faded decorations we left there a month earlier for Christmas. The tissue in the paper nativity we made was colorless. The edges of the mini stocking we have brought for several years in a row had lightened from red to pink.

Sun beat down on the scene.

Snow had begun to thaw in the cemetery’s baby land section. Yellow and brown grass was exposed around our little Luca’s headstone.

The cold was melting, yet my heart felt frozen; engulfed in sorrow.

How could my beautiful baby boy be buried beneath there? How could something so perfect be forced to lay rest beneath that soil? How did I let him go?

I still can’t completely fathom it. Most of the time my mind protects itself by not dwelling on the details.

I rarely stop and think about the day he stopped moving in my womb. I block out the horror and pain – both physical and emotional – that shrouded his birth.

It was the ultimate bittersweet ordeal. I got to say hello to my 5 pound 13 ounce chubby cheeked angel. But then had to say an immediate goodbye.

A light breeze rustled through the trees as I sat melancholy at the cemetery last weekend. It tickled the wind chimes that hang from the neighboring tree and they jingled through the silence.

Thoughts of my sweet boy and the short time we spent with him flooded my mind as I got back in my car and drove away.

It’s been more than five years since his death and I find myself still cycling through the stages of grief. Most of the time I’ll be doing just fine. Then suddenly out of nowhere I’ll find myself mad at the world and all of its injustices.

Maybe I should have thrown some snowballs that day in the cemetery. It wouldn’t have changed anything but it probably would have felt amazing.

My consolation prizes given to me by my local Walmart after they couldn’t find my online order. The local store was really helpful and genuinely sorry that they didn’t get my order. The second party call center, on the other hand, was not.

Several weeks ago I wrote passionately about my new love affair with online grocery shopping. Today I am sad to say that the affair has come to an end. Walmart grocery and I are going to have to break up.

It appears our relationship was too good to be true.

And after the customer service experience I had yesterday, I can no longer recommend this service to my friends.

My kids were home from school on Tuesday for a teacher prep day. I knew pay day was approaching and so I started to get my grocery list together. I have ordered from Walmart.com/grocery a few times before so it was easy for me to log in and start shopping – all while my three little boys played Minecraft on their Kindles and my baby girl played with her Fisher Price princess castle on the floor next to me.

It was magical. I virtually placed each item on my list into my shopping cart, scheduled a time to pick them up the next day (Wednesday), then checked out.

I got a confirmation email saying my groceries would be ready to pick up between 9-10 a.m.

Perfect! I could drop the older kids off to school, drive 15 minutes to Walmart, load up the groceries, run my other errands and be home before lunch.

My plan started out wonderfully. I called Walmart while I was on my way to their pickup location. That’s when the trouble began. They couldn’t find my order.

I’m not talking about the groceries that they had gathered for me, I’m talking about the actual list of items they were supposed to have gathered for me. They hadn’t received it yet. Therefore they hadn’t gathered anything yet. And I was minutes from the store.

I got there and the associates I worked with were very helpful. But they couldn’t do anything to find my order. Apparently Walmart has a second-party off-site company it uses as a call center for the walmart.com/grocery program.

It is the place that receives all the orders and forwards them to all of the stores who are currently piloting this new program. I don’t know the exact number of stores trying this out but have been told it’s somewhere between 160-180 nationwide.

I sat in my van and talked to a customer service representative from the call center for more than 20 minutes. She started off by saying that my order was pending because my credit card wouldn’t give Walmart authorization. Then she backpedaled and said it was a problem with their own processing department. Then she concluded that my order was stuck in limbo.

How does that even happen?

She was unable to cancel my order, but it wasn’t being fulfilled. After a long phone conversation and several “let-me-place-you-on-hold” moments, I still had no solution – just an offer for a $20 voucher to use on my next online grocery order.

I left without my food and without any answers to when I could get it. Just a, “probably not today.”

Now I don’t know about you, but when I need to go grocery shopping I need to go grocery shopping. I don’t do it for the fun of it. I go twice a month max because I hate it. I stockpile a giant list and get it all at once to minimize my shopping trip torture.

So when I scheduled to pick up my food yesterday, that’s when I needed it. We are out of milk, butter (except for the half of a stick left over from what I borrowed from my neighbor to cook dinner last night), cheese, paper towels, chicken nuggets and apple juice, and more. We aren’t going to starve by any means – we have a mass supply of long-term food storage in my basement – but you try looking at a 1-year-old baby girl who won’t eat ANYTHING and telling her that you don’t have any of her “joose.”

I felt like the call center associates were treating me as an order number, not as a busy mother who needed food for her hungry babies.

Sadly, they didn’t care.

I asked to speak to a couple different managers who confirmed to me that they couldn’t help me. I’d have to wait until I got home and resubmit my order again as a new order. And hope that the other one would be cancelled.

So that’s what I did. I got home around 11 from running my other errands and got online to reorder my food. I’m sure you are wondering why I ordered through them again after all of this. Well, truthfully, the $20 voucher was the only reason.

But because it was so late in the day, I couldn’t select a pick-up time for that day. It would have to wait until the next day. Seriously?! They messed up my order but I was still going to have to wait to get my food. Again.

I am beyond depressed about this break up. I had high hopes for my Walmart grocery shopping relationship. I was in it for the long haul. I was willing to forgo any sales or coupon shopping and drive an extra 10 minutes to be able to have someone bring my food out to me.

But I can’t risk my order getting lost in the shuffle again. I can’t drive all the way there after getting a confirmation email saying my food will be ready only to find out the store never had the chance to put my order together.

Part of the reason why this service was so appealing was because it was going to SAVE me time and stress. Not cause more of it.

Rumor has it that other local stores are offering online grocery shopping. I think I may have to put myself out on the market again and find a new online shopping love.

Or better yet, I may have to stick to the independent life and get my groceries on my own again. If you want to make sure something is done right, I guess you have to do it yourself.

It seems like everyone thinks they are a professional photographer these days. And I’ll be the first to admit I’d really like to be one too.

I’ve loved taking pictures ever since I could remember. Pictures have always been an important part of the way I like to remember things – birthdays, vacations, milestones even everyday life. I love to capture it all.

But I am far from a professional. I am a hobbyist at heart – a hobbyist who loves to take pictures of her friends and family.

Several years ago, after I spent way too much money on a studio session with one of my young boys who wouldn’t cooperate, I decided to try my hand at taking my own pictures.

I borrowed my dad’s Nikon and hit the streets with my beautiful little boys. It was a lot of fun (for me, not them.)

I have dressed them up and propped them together many, many times since. They usually are really good sports – except the one time I made them sit on a blanket in the middle of our snowy backyard in order to take winter pictures of them outside with a white background. Or the time I wanted to get pictures of them by the pond near our house when all they wanted to do was explore – I think all three of my boys, and then I, ended up in tears that day.

For the most part they let me snap pictures of them every once in a while. And I have learned a lot by photographing them.

I saved my birthday and Christmas money for a couple of years to be able to purchase my own Nikon. I’ve had it for a year and a half and have taken thousands of pictures with it – partly because I love taking pictures and partly because I have to take dozens of really bad photos in order to get one good one. Ha!

Someday I’d love to spend more time and money learning the real way to do things – lighting, staging, balance, f-stop, shutter speed, etc. I’d love to learn how to spend more time behind my camera taking the pictures and less time behind my computer screen editing them.

Last fall I looked into enrolling at a local photography academy but the timing wasn’t right.

So for now I keep dabbling and practicing unprofessionally (in the little spare time I have). I keep taking pictures of my kids and occasionally friends’ kids when they let me.

Here are some of my favorites from over the years.

My three-year-old adores his great grandpa Deon. He loves to cuddle to him and watch movies together. He loves to help him in his garden. He loves to sit on his countertop and drink orange juice with him.

He has spent many, many times giggling with my grandpa. They have enjoyed some good times together.

Yet this week, for the first time in his life, my son noticed that his Papa Deon was different than him. That he only has three fingers on each hand – not five.

I watched in awe as the discovery played out. My beautiful little boy rubbed his soft chubby hands over his great grandpa’s rough palms while studying each detail of those unique hands.

Hands that lived though a horrendous explosive accident while my grandpa was in high school.

My grandpa and his friend were playing with dynamite one Sunday afternoon. They would light a stick, shove it in a bottle, screw the lid on then toss it into a nearby pond. My grandpa’s friend couldn’t get his bottle lid on so he handed the bottle – with it’s lit dynamite stick – to my grandpa. It exploded in his hands.

I can’t imagine what my grandpa lived through. Along with four of his fingers, he also lost sight in one of his eyes.

He was forced to learn how to live a new way. And that’s exactly what he did. He learned how to do everything all over again, despite his injury.

Which is why it doesn’t surprise me that it took more than three years for my son to realize his papa was different.

It melted my heart to watch my little boy look at his papa with love and intrigue as he turned over each hand for inspection. He didn’t run away scared or disgusted. He didn’t whisper behind his back and point a finger at the difference. He faced it head on with respect and curiosity.

Then he giggled as he realized, “You have three fingers (on each hand) and I’m three. That’s like me.”

Instead of pointing out how they were different, he relished how they were the same. Then he held his hand up proudly as he gave my grandpa a high “three.”

I’m going to try to remember this discovery as I embark on a new year. Instead of being scared and pointing out how others are different, I’m going to reach out with respect and curiosity.

I’m going to try to relish how we are the same – inside and out.

Better yet, I hope I can live without needing to even notice the differences. Like my son lived for three years before ever noticing my grandpa’s injured hands.

Here’s to embracing others for who they are; injured hands an all. Here’s to hoping others will do the same for me.