Annie Valentine

Rex was baptized on Saturday.

I would love to tell you that it was a wonderful, peaceful day, that we saw doves and rainbows and frolicked in the meadow with the angels afterward. But if I’m being perfectly honest, it was a horrible day. From the moment my feet hit the floor of my dusty bedroom things just went wrong.

Because I’m so smart I wanted to keep the day simple so I did the obvious thing and scheduled a large luncheon where I offered to feed people. It was such a glaringly obvious mistake that a few of my girlfriends wisely insisted that I let them help me make food and not tempt the Lord by trying to independently feed the 5000 (okay, so it was like four other families but they all have a LOT of kids).

One of the keys to a successful baptism is having a warm baptismal font. There is nothing less inviting to the Spirit than ice cold water, especially if you’re dragging a seriously nervous eight-year-old in your wake. In order to make sure the water heater had time to provide moderately luke warm water we had to arrive at the chapel two hours early to prime the pump.

This might have been my saving grace. Let me tell you, Satan hates churches.

It was a crazy morning. I was preparing food, and fixing hair, and ironing shirts, and fixing hair, and writing talks, and fixing hair, and trying to get my five-year-old to stop dancing around and practice her song already. I had to continually feed my children first and second breakfast, snack and first lunch, all the while reminding Rex seventeen times to pack clean undies and a towel and clothes for the park. There were missing church shoes and malfunctioning printers, biting and kicking and more than a little yelling.

Jason was busy trying to de-shrub the backyard so the German-speaking neighbor could haul the mess away before we left, and I was stuck in the house with the kids and my to-do list. And of course, I started to stew. It was the most ridiculous thing in the world, I started to monologue in my brain about alllllll the work I was doing for the baptism. All the planning and the effort and the scheduling and what was my husband doing? Pulling weeds. The nerve.

Looking back it makes absolutely no sense that I reacted that way. What an absurd thought, where did it come from? (WHERE DO YOU THINK?) He was working his tail off and I couldn’t see the forest for the shrubs.

By the time we got out of the house, miraculously on schedule, I was mostly foaming at the mouth and kicking everything in my path. I probably should have tried to track down some of my monthly Prozac but I was too wound up to think of anything but anger, anger, anger. I lost my temper in the car, we argued all the way to church, and by the time we got there both of us were wondering what in the heck we were doing in the same family.

I’m embarrassed and ashamed to admit all this but I think it would be unfair to my posterity to pretend that Rex’s precious baptism day went off without a hitch. It was almost a disaster.

But you know what, the most amazing thing happened when we got to the church. Getting there two hours early was a little gift for our family. The moment we entered the doors the contention evaporated. It was like someone sprayed us down with a spiritual fire extinguisher as we walked inside. Looking back, I’m amazed at the change that took place once we entered the chapel doors.

The next two hours were mostly hassle-free. Jason and I had only mostly kind and loving words for one another, Rex was mostly excited and happy to be there, and June stood at the microphone and practiced her song ten times like a good little girl (although I think the microphone’s influence had more to do with it than the Spirit’s influence; she is so my kid).

And when I watched Jason enter those not totally freezing waters with my beautiful boy in hand, even Rex’s cute little, “Brrrrr! It’s c-c-c-cold!!” couldn’t detract from the Spirit.

In that moment, I had to laugh at myself. Moms. We work so hard to “create” something wonderful and magical and memorable and special. We polish shoes and sew dresses and give haircuts and write talks. And yes, all that is important and precious. But in the end it really just came down to Rex and Jason.

How dumb that I had tried so hard.  Covenants are so simple and so cool. I seriously love being a Mormon.

Our day wasn’t perfect and there were bumps and bruises beyond the baptism, but it was a good kind of memorable. The adversary might be real, but Jesus wins.

PS – This is Rex’s favorite youtube video and the song Junie sang.

Last week we came home from vacation and I was so desperate to make my overdue newspaper deadline for tomorrow’s paper (not actually checking the date) that I submitted some stupid story about snails. SNAILS. It’s the fourth of July, I’m surrounded by heroes and what do I come up with? Snails. Disgusting.

Today I sat across from one of my good friends as we worked furiously on a sewing project and talked about her life. A few weeks ago their family received the shocking news that her husband was getting called to action–sent to Kabul, Afghanistan to deploy. It wasn’t your typical deployment, this baby came down with his name specifically on it and it was hot. Not the kind of place you’d want your children’s father to serve.

I can’t tell you the heartache and turmoil this call brought their beautiful family. I’ve seen a lot of assignments come through our crowd and watched a lot of women bravely send their soldiers off to fight, but it’s not often that the men who leave have six children at home and get a one way ticket to the danger zone. It’s not that she’s unwilling to do their part it’s that the danger to sacrifice ratio for this job is pretty darn high. To take a guy who’s spent his entire career behind a safe desk and plunk him in the middle of a war zone with a mere two weeks of weapons training…terrifying for all of them.

Sending a loved one off to fight is a mind game. You have to be prepared to hear That News, the news that only comes from a Commander who pulls up in a numbered car in front of your house and knocks on the door. Today we talked about her five step plan for handling That News, should the awful day ever come. I’m telling you, this girl is faithful and hardcore supportive of her husband and this country. But no one wants to see that car, no one wants to hear those words. It happens every day. Four families here, five families there. Numbered cars bring pain and loss.

We got about three steps into her plan before we couldn’t talk about it anymore. Step one, call the neighbor to take her kids. Step two, call me to come and hold her up. Step three, think of a way to tell the kids…and suddenly we couldn’t talk about it anymore and found ourselves overcome with a serious craving for ice cream. Just thinking about it was painful for my imagination, my mind kept skirting around how a mother handles that. Like she said, “I’m not that woman who will take the news with a brave face. I will crumble to the ground, it will utterly destroy me.”

And that is the kind of emotional weight the men and women who fight for our country handle every single day. Men and women who leave their families, put their lives on the line for the person standing behind them, we don’t hear much about it in the news because it’s more than we can take. Reading about the firefighters who lost their lives this week reminded me of all the men and women who are losing their lives in pursuit of justice every single day. I honor them. I honor their families. I pray for their safe return.

Tonight I sat in the movie theater trying to distract myself from watching “World War Z” (because I have a love/hate relationship with zombies and was feeling freaked out). In an effort to not wet my pants or break Jason’s thumb I pulled out my phone (yes, I’m that person) and checked my messages. And what did I find?

Her husband is hours away from leaving for his pre-deployment training. Yesterday, while standing at the kitchen sink, my darling friend begged and pleaded with the Lord for Him to spare her husband, that if at all possible he could remain with his family, be here to give his oldest son the priesthood in a few months, serve where his service would be of the most value–but only if it was the Lord’s will. She told him, “Lord, you’ve got 40 hours to turn this around and keep my husband here. Please…don’t take our father from us.”

Tonight her husband was stuck in the office, the last man out. And just before he left his orders came through. The deployment has been cancelled. End of discussion.

There are so many ways soldiers can serve. I believe that the role they play in our communities both at home and abroad, the example soldiers set and the code of conduct they follow has the power to influence lives. This man, he is a good man. One of the best I’ve ever met. I have no doubt that his influence in the home will be as powerful a force as anything he could do in the war zone. He’s got four little boys, they need their dad. Being a father is a special kind of soldier.

God protects our soldiers. We should pray for them today, pray for all of them. Pray that they can make it home to the ones they love in safety, the sooner the better. I am so grateful for this little miracle on the fourth of July, this tender mercy.

God bless America, and God bless the men and women who fight for us.

You know how you say you’re never going to be like your parents, but then you have four young children and one day realized that maybe they knew something you didn’t? This is kind of like that. It’s also just another example of really horrible parenting but I’m claiming it anyways.

My husband used to lament about his traumatic childhood. He is the oldest of five children, and with two little sisters directly under him he was routinely getting in trouble for being rotten. On days when it was really bad (says he) his parents would put him in the car and drive by the “orphanage,” threatening to leave him there if he didn’t straighten up. He claims that one time they actually made him pack a bag. I can’t be certain, but I think the first time he told me this story he got a little emotional about it. So sad.

The other night I went to a meeting and left the children with Daddy for the evening. I came home just in time to tuck in my girls and say prayers. Georgia, our two-year-old, prayed this: “Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for this day, please bless that Jethro won’t come here, or be under my bed, and that Jethro will not come here and he’ll be nice, but not be under my bed. Amen.”

Jethro? Jethro who?

By the time I finished my nightly chores I had forgotten the incident and went to bed without asking dear old Dad if he knew what the baby was so afraid of.

The next morning Rex, seven, woke with a severe stomach ache. He had no other symptoms and I finally weaseled him into telling me what he was so worried about.

“Well,” he said, “I just couldn’t sleep and my stomach hurt all night. I was having nightmares all night about…about that guy, Jethro. I don’t want to talk about it! Don’t talk about it!”

“So,” I said to Jason, “You want to clue me in on who Jethro is?” I relayed the current emotional climate of the household and waited patiently for his explanation.

“Oh, I guess they were listening.”

“Listening?” I asked.

“Well, June was pretty awful last night,” he said. This comes as no surprise, June is five and gets naughty when she’s tired. And when she’s hungry, or bored, or if it’s Wednesday or lunch time, or a holiday, or any other unfortunate moment of the year. Unbirthdays, you know.

“And?” I said.

“And…I got desperate. I had to invent Jethro.”

“Who’s Jethro?”

“Jethro is the man behind the door at my office.”

Oh.

A few months ago I dropped June off at her father’s office one afternoon for an emergency time-out. He didn’t know what to do with her so he took her to an interrogation room and pointed to the closet door. “You see that door?” She nodded with fear and dread and more than a few tears. “Well, you don’t want to find out what’s behind that door. If I were you I’d listen to your mother and stop pinching your sister or someday you might have to open that door. Got it?” She was an angel for the rest of the week.

“Wait, but who is he?” I asked.

“Well,” Jason said sheepishly, “You remember the scary guy off the Goonies movie? That’s Jethro. We got on the internet and I showed her some pictures, you know, just to give her a good visual. I guess the other kids were listening, sorry about that.”

I don’t know about you, but I can say that for a week now all June (or anybody else) has to do is hear the word “Jethro” and she’s in line faster than a kid in a theme park. One more thing for her to talk about someday in therapy; we’re going to have some serious baggage by the time she’s nine.

One Saturday afternoon a father sat on the couch in his family room and attempted to watch a football game. His three year old daughter repeatedly attempted to keep him from watching his football game.

“Daddy! Sing me the song about Blow the man down!” She said, putting her little nose right in his face.

“Now sweetie, I’m busy right now and this isn’t a good time. You sit here quietly and I’ll play with you later.”

Not to be deterred the little girl put her hands on both of his cheeks. “Daddy, tell me the story of Tiddlywinks!”

“Honey, I said not right now.” He gently moved her aside and looked past her at the television just in time to see that he had missed a major play.

Was it too much to ask for one little hour of peace and quiet? It had been a long week with long days and he needed a moment. Besides, it was obvious his little girl was not learning to properly respect her elders.

At that timely moment a commercial interrupted his game and he decided to take the opportunity to teach his little girl something about obedience.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said giving her his full attention, “Let’s play a little game. You be the Mama and I’ll be the little boy. Mama, what would you like me to do today?” Now he had her, he would show her exactly how a good little boy obeys his parents.

She looked him in the eye, smiled and said, “Turn off the TV.”

Happy Fathers day to my sweet Daddy who listened to me all those years ago. 34 years and he’s still turning off the game anytime I need to talk about anything.

I LOVE YOU DADDY!

I’m sure that at some point during the last ten years I potty-trained my three older children. I know this because aside from the occasional puddle or really horrifying smudge on the bathroom tiles all three of them are relatively good at using the toilet.

But ask me to tell you how or when I potty-trained them and I will probably lay down on the floor and put myself into a coma. Yes, it was that painful.

I’ve heard hundreds of women claim that their two-year-old was “potty-trained in three days.” Really? You’re telling me that you didn’t spend the three months post-training pulling spare undies from your purse because you threw their dirty predecessors in some public trash can? You never retrieved your toddler from the playground with wet socks? Never watched a three-year-old pee his pants while he was watching Dora because he was too lazy to use the toilet? Really??

I decided shortly after the birth of our fourth child that I would never, ever potty-train another child. I don’t mind diapers. Diapers are convenient and disposable even on a four-year-old. I can remember one of my sisters-in-law putting off training her fourth child. We would watch him bring her a diaper and wipes, lay it down on the ground for her, carefully climb on top, and then ask her politely if she would change his pants.

Forgive me for ever falsely judging her, she was obviously a far more brilliant parent than I will ever hope to be. If that’s not training I don’t know what is. I made up my mind that until Georgia (2) was ready to say, “Mother dearest, I am feeling the urge to vacate my bladder. Might there be a water closet at our disposal?” I wasn’t going to do a darn thing about potty-training her.

A started noticing the first few signs of interest about two months ago. You know, practicing her flushing skills with squares of toilet paper and small toys. I did my best to keep the bathrooms closed and told her detailed stories of the toilet monster that lives in the hole.

And then she started taking her diaper off and forcing me to change it the moment it was wet.

Enter June, my five-year-old.

“Mommy!” she said a few weeks ago, running into the kitchen, “You won’t believe this, look!” I looked and there she stood holding the small, removable toilet bowl from the dusty old potty chair.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“I got it out of the basement so I could help Georgia learn to use the potty today!”

I stared at her. Was it really possible? Could it actually…No. No, it was too good to be true. It’s like a rainbow, don’t chase it because you won’t find anything but a puddle of pee at the end of it. “Hmph. Interesting,” I said and promptly walked away.

Five times. Five times that morning June carried Georgia’s piddly offering down four flights of stairs to show me and then sloshed it back up to the 6th floor toilet for prompt disposal. I’d see her coming and look the other direction, giving neither daughter the slightest bit of attention on any spectrum for any of it.

At the end of the dry day I was sure it was a hoax. I put Georgia to bed in a diaper and kissed both girls, making no mention of their successful day. The next morning Georgia’s diaper was dry and her sister had her on the toilet and back in undies before I had time to wipe my…eyes.

I managed to invent a good reason to keep June home from school for three days in a row, and what do you think I had on my hands? A fully-functioning, toilet-using two-year-old. It’s been over a month since that miraculous training and I have to admit, I’ve had the same pair of dry undies in my purse for four weeks now.

Miracles, you  know.

You know when you fall in love for the first time and you really want to tell everyone you meet but you keep it to yourself because it’s probably too good to be true, and then you find out it’s for real so you sing a lot? This is kind of like that.

I have…a mop lady. That’s right, I did it. Much to the absolute horror of my husband I found myself a brilliant cleaning woman and pay her real money to come every single week and scrub my bathrooms and mop level 3 (of 6). She’s not cleaning my house top to bottom or doing the laundry, and she doesn’t have time to do windows or dust, but when she leaves and I’m left alone with my sparkly bathrooms and spot free floor on level 3 it makes me obnoxiously giggly.

The hardest part of this process was telling Jason. Not asking, telling.

My husband is almost the best dude ever. He loves me and supports me and cleans by my side after work and mows the lawn without being asked, he’s willing to watch the kids while I teach lessons or hang with my friends, and he lets me buy whatever groceries I want. I’m not complaining here, really I’m not.

But Jason does not want to pay for a housekeeper. Or rather, in his mind he is already paying for a housekeeper. Slightly chauvinistic? Just a bit.

If all I wanted out of life was a clean house it wouldn’t be quite as difficult, but on Mondays and Fridays I’m out of the game completely teaching voice for six hours with half hour breaks in between lessons. My cleaning time has been seriously hampered and I’m struggling to get to any of the deep stuff. Frankly, I need some help that doesn’t require constant supervision and bribery.

Three weeks ago when I told Jason I was going to get a cleaning lady he laid down on the sticky tiles in the kitchen and kicked his legs a lot.

“Why do you have to do this?” he asked. “This costs money, I don’t want to pay for this.”

“Because,” I said, “I can’t keep up with this big house and the four kids and the laundry and the dog, I just need some extra help. Voice lessons has really knocked out my weekend pre and post game cleaning and I can’t seem to get to the deep stuff.” Voice money, btw, transforms itself into Travel money.

“Well,” he said logically, “Then you should quit teaching voice lessons.”

I seriously considered kicking him in the knee cap, slashed all four of his tires and making him sleep on a flea-infested pallet in the back yard.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Well,” he backtracked, “I mean, if voice lessons is keeping you from being able to do your real job–”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“You know…taking care of the kids and…stuff.”

“Stuff. Don’t you mean scrubbing the toilets? Is that what you’re saying here? That I should quit doing this one little thing that I love, that makes me happy and pays us money, so I have more time to scrub the toilets?!”

Suffice it to say Yvonne has come for the past three weeks and it has made me happier than a first grader on a field trip. Apparently Jason has decided that happy wife equals happy life and has silently endured.

Secretly I think he’s enjoying it.

During the past year I’ve been dealing with Psycho PMS Woman Syndrome (I think it’s worthy of a second “syndrome” because it’s that bad). This has reached a point of awfulness that I am no longer willing to put up with. Seriously, you know it’s bad when a week into PMS your children duck and cower every time they hear your footsteps AND I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING.

My poor mama had it terribly (we did a lot of ducking and cowering when I was a child) and her SOD (stupid old doctor) told her PMS was all in her head. The man is lucky he still has a head if you ask me.

I got online a few weeks ago and found out that in 2003 the Great Brain (FDA?) decided that really horrible PMS is an actual thing and renamed it PMDD–premenstrual dysphoric disorder. As soon as I started sifting through the information I knew this is exactly what my mother had and probably my problem as well. Since it’s been three years since I’ve been in for a girly visit with my doctor I decided it would be a good time to take care of that and talk to a professional. Did you know they only recommend paps every three years now for those of us with regular results and boring/STD free lives? Kind of nice to know.

I sat across from my lady doctor and we went through the checklist. After acknowledging that it’s been ten years since I even thought about doing a self-breast exam, I decided to get right to the point. “I think I have PMDD,” I said.

“Really? Why?”

“Well, for the last year I turn into a raging monster the week before I get my period.”

“Um…okay. Can you give me an example?

Easy. “Last night my husband came home from work late. I had saved him a plate of dinner and sat down to visit with him while he ate. He was so sweet and thanked me for the wonderful food, but within thirty seconds I had to leave the table. I couldn’t help it, I was going to punch him in the face for chewing his food in front of me.” Let the record state that Jason has very nice table manners and chews like a normal, civilized man.

“Yeah,” she said, “That sounds pretty bad.” We went through the checklist and by the time we were done looking over the information she was more than convinced.

“So,” I said, “I’ve heard there’s a vitamin B shot that really helps, is that a possibility?”

“Well, vitamins have been known to help in some cases, but you will probably get way better results if I just put you on a low dose of Prozac on day 14 of your cycle. In fact, you can take one tonight before bed and you should notice immediate results.”

I have never used mood meds for anything and I have to admit, it made me nervous. No, I’ll go further than that. In the past I’ve been unfortunately proud of myself that I have come this far in motherhood without any pharmaceutical help. But was it really mental strength or simply stupid pride that has kept me from asking for help? I have to say, I’m done. This PMS has taken over two weeks of my month and it’s not fair to my family. They deserve a kind mother who is rational and less-threatening.

Friends, let me tell you that the past week I have been myself. I’m…nice. And normal. And happy! And on my first PMDD-free day I counted at least five instances throughout the day where I would have railed on one of the kids the day before, but thanks to modern medicine I was kind and patient and monster-free.

Just putting it out there.

Nearly every family I know has at least one child who lives in fear of food. Are they frightened of highly over-processed, potentially toxic food-like substances, like hot dogs and gummy worms and cheese puffs? No. But dig it out of the ground or pick it off a tree and my boy Rex (7) starts having heart palpitations (the exception would be french fries because he is convinced they “aren’t real”).

This year at school we lucked out. Rex’s first grade teacher took it upon herself to insist that Rex eat his entire lunch. Early on we nixed the safe brown bagged peanut butter sandwich and launched him into the wide world of cafeteria food.

With the exception of the time he threw up the mashed potatoes, it’s been a successful endeavor.

The real payoff has been his self-esteem. Every day when I pick Rex up from the bus he tells me what he ate for lunch. Corn, cucumbers, beans, peas, lasagna and chicken sandwiches, salad! When we sit down for dinner and Rex starts to throw a fit, all we have to do is suggest that we call Ms. Vohar and get her opinion on broccoli, and Rex practically chokes it down.

She has single-handedly gone where no parent in this house has been able to go before.

We don’t keep a lot of candy in the house but now and then we get a flock of grandparents who fly in with large quantities of American sweets. Our kids think this is great, but a few weeks of over-indulgent treats from grandparents mixed in with back to back vacations, and trying to get them back on whole foods is like convincing a lion to eat cole slaw.

The normal eaters are bad enough, but getting Rex to eat fruit and vegetables after a steady diet of non-food is miserable.

I recently bought a honeydew melon. I know from past experience that Rex is willing to eat cantaloupe so I assumed melons were a safe bet. They’re super sweet and a great substitute for pixie stix.

Once the dishes, homework and piano were done, Rex came in for “a little treat.” I had managed to push the remaining candy out of the house earlier that day; there was nothing left but melon.

“Sure!” I said, “I’ve got some super yummy melon for dessert–”

“Melon?!” he yelled, “Blech! Yuck! It’s icky! I hate it I hate it, it’s ewey and gross, melon is not dessert! I want CANDY!”

After a week of fighting over every green pea and every kernel of corn I was done with catering to his cotton candy palate.

“That’s it, Mister, you are officially done with candy! We are taking a break from sugar so you can just march yourself up to bed right now and think about your attitude!”

He burst into tears and ran to his room. Since he was the third person to burst into tears in the previous half hour I wasn’t alarmed. We’re mostly numb to tears around here. Fire, flood or blood and we pay attention. But feelings? Meh.

I puttered around the kitchen and could hear Rex up in his room weeping like his world was ending. After five minutes without a significant decrease in volume I decided I’d better go up and see if I could smooth the frosting a little.

“Rexy,” I said sitting on the edge of his bed, “Just take a breath. It’s okay, we’re just going to have a little break from sugar around here and focus on being healthy,” he sobbed harder. “Look, why don’t you say your prayers and get some sleep? You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Okay,” he wept, “Dear Heavenly Father, I’m so sad about the candy, there’s no more candy here, no more Christmas candy–” huh? “no more Halloween candy–” big sob, “no more Easter candy or, or birthday candy…No more homework treats and no more candy at the grocery store with Mom…it’s just so sad today!”

I’ll be honest, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe banishing candy eternally wasn’t such a bad idea.

We have since reinstated peanut butter cups.

My eye phone took a two hour dip in the toilet yesterday. I put it in a vat of rice to see if the urban myth will work but I’m thinking it’s time for the upgrade. I’ve got to stop with the back pocket carry method, either that or quit using toilets.

Twice recently I’ve been in a pantry pinch and had to come up with Something To Take. These two recipes are from my very meager pantry offerings but both of them really surprised and delighted my overindulgent self.

Really Amazing Bean Salad or Really Amazing Bean Salad Dip (please don’t judge me for having the following ingredients in my pantry)

1 can pinto beans

1 can garbanzo beans

1 can mini corn spears–the kind that belong at a Sizzler salad bar

1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro

1 tomato diced

2 green onion stalks sliced and diced super fine

1 pkg dry ranch dressing mix (not the dip, the dressing)

Strain and rinse the beans and dice the corn spears then toss with remaining ingredients. Get a bag of tortilla chips and blow your low carb diet. I guarantee the scale will be up three pounds tomorrow.

Hunger Games Peanut Butter Cake – people might die fighting over the last piece

1 pkg yellow cake mix

1 pkg instant vanilla pudding

4 eggs

1 cup creamy peanut butter

1 cup sour cream

1/2 water

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 cup peanut butter chips (you can substitute with chocolate)

Mix everything but the chips until smooth then fold chips in. Bake in a bunt cake pan or an angel food cake pan, 350 for 45-50 minutes. I frosted it with the following fudgy chocolate goodness:

1 cube butter

1/2 cup bakers cocoa pwdr

5 TB milk

Boil all ingredients on the stove, stirring. Don’t worry if they curdle. Remove and mix in 2 cups powdered sugar–I added a pinch of water to make it a little smoother.

Once cake is turned out of pan pour the frosting on the top and let it melt over the edge (you can give it a little push). Then chop up a 1000 calories of Reese PB cups and sprinkle them on top. Chill in fridge for a delightful overindulgent treat.

Rex’s amazing first grade teacher is retiring this year and heading back to the states to take up Grandmotherhood. For the friends and family who have followed what a rocky road it was getting Rex into her hands, you know that this woman has a piece of my heart. How do you tell someone who has made such a difference thank you? Here’s my letter to her, writing it made me bawl my dumb old head off and even reading back through it the words don’t seem to be big enough. We just really needed her this year.

Thank you Ms. Vohar, you are so loved.

Dear Mrs. Vohar,

It’s funny, but all week long I have felt the weight of two or three decade’s worth of mothers on my shoulders. Like if I don’t take the opportunity to tell you how you have shaped and nourished and blessed our family I will be letting countless parents down, parents who might not have had the words or the occasion to tell you that you made a difference for their son or their daughter.

So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to say thank you for all of us.

Thank you for giving my son a place. Thank you for welcoming him with such a steady hand and demanding more of him than he wanted to give, he has grown and is better and stronger because of his time with you. I don’t know if it’s your incredible resume of experience or just the amazing heart that God gave you, but you embraced him and accepted him and we really needed that. Thank you.

I’m not writing this because it’s Teacher Appreciation week or because the PTA suggests it, I’m writing you because every time I pick Rex up from the bus and ask him about his day the first thing he says is, “Do you wanna know what I ate for lunch? Mrs. Vohar was so proud of me!” (Except, of course, that day that he threw up the mashed potatoes, but that was the exception.) It’s not all the reading and writing—which I know is supposed to be the real reason he’s there—it’s the way you have taken your part in his life this year one step further. This little extra bit of teaching that happens in the lunchroom makes such a difference in my boy’s day. He knows. He knows you care about him because you insist that he eats his cucumbers. Thank you for that.

I went through 13 years of public school and never had a teacher like you. You have been a gift to us this year. When Rex saw you in the classroom during that first day of orientation and you paused to wave at him…thank you. Thank you for seeing him, and then later for really seeing him. You are an incredible individual and the world is a better place because of you. On behalf of all the mothers who ever gave you candles or cookies or gift cards because they didn’t know how to put it down in words, thank you. Thank you for blessing these little children. You have made such a difference.

Love and good luck in your next big adventure!

Warmest regards,

Annie