Lane Change

My nephew is getting married on Thursday. That's the day after tomorrow. Nope I'm not ready. Did I mention that Lane is only SIX? Okay. Not really. He's a little bit older. But that's not how I remember him. So six he remains in my scrawny brain.

Yep. Six. Swimming. Eating popsicles. Dirty face. Underwear wearing, snotty nosed, mouthy, arrogant little booger from unknown regions. He was an AWFUL child. We argued. We fought. I disciplined. He pouted. We laughed and cried and loved together. And despite ALL evidence to the contrary, Lane has flourished and grown into a most impressive adult.

When Lane was a little guy (I swear it was just yesterday) Uncle Mark would call him "Lane Change." Lane would howl and holler and protest VERY loudly "THAT'S NOT MY NAME." So of course, Mark would continue "Lane Change. Lane Change. Lane Change." (Yeah, I'm married to a two year old.)

Fast forward a few years and Lane Change is just what he did. I swear to you, I have NEVER seen anything like it. I watched this boy drop his friends, drop his bad habits and drop his self destructive behavior. He looked down the road and recognized that he was heading for disaster. That was NOT flying with this boy. Nope. No way. No how.

So Lane changed.

Lane is strong and kind and good and generous and loyal. Oh, and handsome.

I read through this writing and it sounds as if Lane was not strong and kind and good before he made the switch. You would be wrong. He was all that. And more. However, Lane just forgot to show all these qualities and soon enough they got lost in the mud and the mire of bad behavior. Lane simply began to tap into his strength and kindness and goodness and loyalty THAT WAS ALREADY THERE waiting for his acknowledgement.

Oh yeah, and guess what? He loves his Aunt Nette. Despite all the yelling and discipline and warnings and butt-smacking. Lane loves me and I'm better for it.

I'm so lucky to be a part of his life. The Deason's are lucky to have him. Tim and Shannon and Devin were blessed to raise him. Bayley is lucky to marry him. The world is a better place with Lane in it.

Don't tell me that change can't happen. Don't tell me that it is too hard to make the changes to better your life. Don't tell me that it's not fair to have to change. Don't say the words.

I've seen it.

I've witnessed it.

My all-time favorite quote is from Mahatma Ghandi.

"Be the change you wish to see in the world."

Lane did it. So can you.

Introducing Lane and Bayley Deason. Together they'll do wonderful things.

Beyond Cereal Bowls

So Jaden turned SIXTEEN today. What? How did that happen? I swear I didn't blink. I swear I didn't turn my head. I swear ON MY HONOR that I have treasured every single moment with him. I don't know how it came to be, but 16 he is and will stay that way for one whole year.

Quite a few blog writings back, I stated the wishes that I have for each of my kids. I wrote:

"My wish for Jaden would be the greatest of all wishes. He has the most time. His path in life hasn't be scarred with the pits and valleys of growing up. I wish for him to take advantage of the opportunities he can't even see yet."

He's had a broken heart now. He has experienced disappointment and sadness. He's seen disloyalty, greed, fear, pain and all the things that come with growing up. Yet, he's funny, kind, generous, smart, and fierce in the face of a storm. And now I'm glad that he has seen the dark and turned it into light.

Jaden has always idolized his siblings. He has blossomed and grown while silently watching and learning from Tyson, Goose, Tanna and Shelby. Nope. Hasn't always been an easy road. I like to say that Jaden has six parents. The other "kids" are so much older than he, that I find myself quite often saying to them, "I'm the parent." Mark believes that Jaden is his easiest teen because if a screw-up happens, Tyson or Goose will take care of him. Oh geesh. Poor kid. The village that raised my youngest all share the same DNA and the last name of Deason.

My younger Jaden was obsessed with spiderman. He had all of the toys, t-shirts, costumes and gear necessary to look the part. If it had spiderman's picture on it? He wanted it. He climbed the wall of our staircase. He shot "webs" from his fingers. He dressed the part and talked the talk.

Maybe spiderman is a super hero that YOU know, but Jaden is a super hero that I know. Nope. No comic books written about him. There isn't a movie showing his lifesaving tactics. You won't find toys, action figures, coloring books, t-shirts, costumes or books blaring his face and screaming his name. He IS a super hero nonetheless.

According to quora.com the three most vital (and indispensable) traits a super hero must possess are: 

1. Extraordinary powers and abilities
2. Courage
3. A strong moral code

That's my boy. His strength and courage is remarkable. His moral code is enviable.  A super hero? Without a doubt.

Jaden saved me. I argued and argued AND ARGUED with my doctor. I was NOT pregnant with my fifth child. I wasn't. I wasn't. I WASN'T. I was. Crap.

I bawled and howled and hollered and stubbornly pouted and on June 15, 2000 my son was born.

Giving birth to Jaden about killed me, you know. After seven blood transfusions, many days and nights in the hospital, two emergency surgeries, one scheduled surgery, tons of worry and fear and swearing and work, my body mended and for the fifth and final time, I slipped into the role of being a mother to an infant.

Jaden taught me to notice the small things again. I remembered the significance of bugs and leaves and butterflies and puddles. I reveled in walks and talks and cartoons and warm blankets. I reaffirmed the value of rice crispy treats, ice cream, popsicles and cheetos. Once again, I could recall nursery rhymes and songs and childhood dances. We did it all and loved each moment immensely  Even better? We have loved each other without boundary. Yep. He saved me.

You won't find a cape in Jaden's closet. There isn't a cool uniform with a logo emblazened across the chest. No spandex or tight-fitting-muscle-showing outfit folded nicely in his dresser drawer. Nope. Looking through the jumbled mess you'll find jeans, plain t-shirts, Nike socks and Vans. A chess set, a television and cereal bowls adorn his room.

Keep looking. You'll find more love than you can handle. You'll find loyalty beyond measure. You'll find a true friend and a simple boy that will save your day. He saved me. He might just be the one to save you.

I Think I'll Go To Boston

I must like music. I (once in a while) read back through my blogs and there are quite a few times I write about a song that has struck me. Here we go again. Another blog about another song.

In 2005 the rock band Augustana released a song "Boston" on their album called "All The Stars and Boulevards". I don't know where I first heard it. It has played in the background on some television shows. But I think I heard it on the radio. However it came to be, I heard it, loved it and bought it. I put it on my iPod which is on "shuffle" and periodically the song comes on and I fill with whimsical thinking.

"In the light of the sun
Is there anyone?"

I just went with my gal pals/sisters-in-law to Cabo San Lucas. Oh what fun we had! No worries. No stress. No obligations. No timetables. No cooking. No cleaning. No laundry.

Lots of fun. Lots of sun. Lots of pool time. The ocean. The sun. The sun. The sun. Oh how I love being in the sun.

I came home and what the crap happened? Everything is falling to pieces and it feels oh-so-out-of-control. It seems the more I work on fixing "things" the farther the puzzle pieces seem to fall. And I feel so very alone. 

My kids were students at Franklin Elementary and one of our most favorite teachers IN THE HISTORY OF EVER was Miss Sutton. Oh how we love that lady! Shelby used to "babysit" her dogs when she left town. They were the best of friends and Miss Sutton will forever remain a soft spot in the heart of the Deason family.

One of the times Shelby was asked to keep track of the dogs and house, Miss Sutton was headed home to bury her father. She was oh-so-sad. I tell you, it's my biggest fear. Age is creeping up on my parents and their time is getting shorter on this earth. Therefore, when "parents" leave and kids are left behind I weep right with them. I cry for my beloved friends, and I cry for myself - out of fear of what is yet to come.

Miss Sutton and I were sitting on her couch talking about her dear father that she loved so much. She was telling stories of youth. Of her dad. Of her home. 

As the stories progressed, Miss Sutton began to cry. And cry. And cry. Through her tears she whispered, "I tell myself to BE STILL, but it is so hard."

Through the years I have thought about the words "Be still." At times I have emulated stillness. Other times I SHOULD have stilled my tongue.

These last few weeks those words have echoed in my mind. Over and over like a mantra. Be still. Be still. Be still.

And I wait. For patience. For forgiveness. For gratitude. For kindness. For hope. For power. For love and grace and peace.

"I think I'll go to Boston I think that I'm just tired I think I need a new town to leave this all behind.
 I think I need a sunrise. I'm tired of a sunset...

 Boston. Where noone knows you're name."

My Goose

Goose turned 29 today. I know you hear it all the time, however, I REALLY can't believe my baby is growing up. And doing it so well.

April 28, 1987. That day changed my life and I've never looked back.

Goose has a real name. It's Kadell Mark Deason. Yep. Kadell. While half-heartedly browsing through name-your-baby books, I ran across the name Cadell. I HATED IT. I couldn't believe that name made "the list" and I vocalized to anyone who would listen how much I hated that name. Problem is, I couldn't get it off my mind. I substituted a K for the C. I loved it. And that became his name.

Until...

Kadell was young when Mark flung him in the air while asking "How's my little goosebump?" And the name Goose came to be. On the first day of school, his desk was found because "Goose" was displayed loud and clear. He learned to write Goose long before Kadell was memorized. Friends, classmates, co-workers and family all know him as Goose.

I have been thinking about this blog for over a month now. I have combed through stories and thoughts and memories to share, yet, words elude me. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe the stories are too long to write. Maybe, just maybe, as I think of words to describe my son, they seem SO small, so inadequate, so trivial in the world that Goose has created.

My boy works harder than anyone I know. He loves immensely. His laugh is contagious. He's honorable and gracious and kind and generous in spirit and action. He is sentimental, loyal and is consistently and fearlessly compelled to do what is right. Don't mistake his kindness for weakness. He might cry while doing it, but he will knock you upside the head if needed.

When Daulton and Goose got married, I wrote Daul a letter symbolically giving "one of my five treasures" over to her. It was all a lie. Goose is MINE. I don't want to share his spirit or his strength with anyone. Yet, I puff with pride as I hear stories of how great my kid is. And he is, you know? He is.

And I'm proud.

Goose rocked 28 and year 29 holds limitless boundaries for this guy. Up is the only direction he can see and that's right where he goes.

Yes, he is kind and wholesomely good. But most of all? He loves his mom. And there is nothing finer.

It's a BAD word, but I used it. ALOT.

Let's face the facts. I swear. All the time. I swear when I'm happy. I swear when I'm mad. I swear when I'm excited, glad, upset, sick, or feeling absolutely nothing at all. I make an honest effort not to subject my readers to my potty mouth on social media of any kind. I have friends and family that don't have filthy language and I try to keep my sailor-talk to myself.

Except now.

Late Thursday night (March 31) my I-love-him-EVER-so-much brother-in-law, Gerald, brought his pretty-amazingly-awesomely-fabulous wife, Randi, and my cooler-than-cool-super-beautiful-inside-and-out niece, Camryn, from California for a visit while killing two birds with one stone. They came to watch my super-talented-handsomely-gifted nephew, Cody, pitch for the Arizona Wildcats as they played the Utah Utes and the BYU Cougars and of course the other stone was to visit ME and (I suppose) the rest of the family.

I spent Thursday cleaning the house, washing bedding and getting the house presentable for the visit and I was ever-so-tired when I collapsed into bed. Therefore, when the Deason clan came rolling in, I didn't lift my sleepy head from my pillow to greet them and left the welcoming job to Mark.

7:00 am rolled around and I figured the California visitors were brutally tired from their journey and had decided to run to the grocery store and get some food in the house before they awoke. I was throwing on some jeans, Mark was heading out of the house and Jaden was showering for school when I heard Mark come back in the house. "Oh good," I thought, "I'm going to ask Mark to start my jeep to get it warming up for me."

Nope. Didn't go that way.

"You're jeep is gone."

"What?"

"Yep. It's gone. Call the police."

"What?"

I looked out he window. My jeep was gone. I looked again, thinking I had maybe missed seeing it. It was gone. I called the police. I looked out the window. I couldn't believe it was gone. It was.

The police came. Took my statement. "Was there anything of value in the jeep?" "Heck yeah. My Tim McGraw CD was in it."

I went down the stairs to ask Gerald if my jeep had been there when he pulled in late last night. It was. Later, as we were all talking about it, Mark, Gerald and I had heard an engine rev up. I remember hearing it. And then I passed it off to someone speeding down the street.

I spent Friday and Saturday in a HUGE funk. I was shocked. I felt violated. I was angry and sad all at once. I kept looking out the window awaiting it's appearance in my driveway.

Yes. I had left the keys in it.

I have lived in this house for many, many, MANY years. I NEVER locked my front door. Mark and I used to leave our keys in our vehicles. I've left my purse in my jeep. My i-pod, my phone, cash, checks and personal belongings have all resided at one time or another without EVER being disturbed. Our neighborhood has changed enough that we have been locking our front door for a while now.

About a week before the stealing-of-the-jeep incident, someone broke into my jeep and Mark's truck. They took a few things. They were of NO value to the thieves. But the the realization hit that (duh) I need to remove my keys and valuables every night.

Tyson broke his ankle while playing basketball. Surgery was required and I found myself Thursday morning waiting at the Surgery Center to hear that my son was alive and well and would be back on his feet in no time.

Surgery went well. Tyson survived and will walk again.  I headed home. I was super upset about something that had happened and wanted to get home to Marks rational thinking. I pulled into my driveway, jumped out of my jeep and wobbled into the house. I didn't think NOT ONE TIME about my keys dangling from the ignition.

Is this my fault? I have relived that moment over and over and over. If I had just grabbed my keys. If I wasn't so dang emotional. If... If... If...

Whatever. I didn't do this. I didn't ask some moron to violate my trust. I didn't invite some stranger onto my property. And I sure as crap didn't give permission for my jeep to be stolen.

Sunday morning around 10:30 my phone rang. Provo Police. "We found your jeep." OHMYGOSH! They had found my JEEP! It was in American Fork. Mark got the address and we madly drove to the location. We pulled up to the house and a sinking feeling hit my gut.

"That's not my jeep." They had it wrong. This jeep was silver and ugly and dirty. My jeep is teal and clean and cuter than cute.

Mark's answer? "Yes, it is."

Mark got out of the truck to talk to the cop-guy waiting for us. I wobbled up the driveway to look at the hunk of junk that they kept calling my jeep. Yep. They were right. It was my jeep. You could see my Deason chick sticker. Albeit it was covered in this awful silver paint, but the outline of the sticker could still be seen. And I started crying. I opened the passenger door. The filth was abundant. I have had my jeep for years now. It is NEVER dirty. Ever.

I cried harder. My stereo was gone. My speakers? Gone. The ignition was ripped out and the jeep was not drive-able at all. What the crap did they do? They had the dang key!

The spray paint, the filth, the violation, the sick feeling... all of it summed up to "dumb ass." I said it over and over and over again. Then I lost it. I opened the passenger door and flung all the crap out.

Mark had called Goose and Daulton on our way to American Fork and they had met us at the stealer-of-my-jeep house. Goose yelled for Daulton to "Get mom out of here." I was having no part of it. I threw and swore and threw and swore. I kicked and hollered and yelled and bawled.

And we towed the jeep to our house.

Tuesday I began removing the spray paint. 3 gallons of paint thinner and scrubbing and working and swearing brought my jeep closer to the jeep that was before it was stolen. I scrubbed the inside. Gerald had found a needle in the jeep. Apparently the dippety-do-dah had overdosed in my jeep, someone had called the police, he was revived and carted off to jail. The tags were off the jeep. It was OBVIOUSLY spray painted and the police ran the VIN. Stolen. Mine. NOT YOURS.

His name is Kevin Ontiveors. Nope. I don't know him. He's a lost soul who decided that it would be easier to grab my stuff instead of working and getting a jeep of his own.

To every bad, there is a good. Yin and yang. Right? Sometimes it's more difficult to sift through the horrible. But it's usually there. This time it came in the words of the American Fork police officer who found my jeep and witnessed my mental and emotional breakdown.

When all was said and done and the tow truck was on the way. Mark pulled me out of the truck for a photo op with my new BFF.

"I'm sorry this happened to you."

"It's okay. I forever say that 'worse things have happened to better people.'"

"Well, I don't think so."

I Need A Smoke Break

In August of 2015 Carrie Underwood released her album Storyteller. Smoke Break is one of songs. There was a period when the tune was played OFTEN on the radio, however, as the year progressed and new songs were released, I have heard it less often. Yep. I like her. I like the song. Good stuff.

The other day I was toodle-ing along, enjoying the warm sun and blasting my radio when this song came on. I boisterously sang along and thought "Man, I need a smoke break."

Things can be rough, can't they? 

Family. Kids. Relationships. Pets. Chores. Bills. Age. Health. Life. They all have ups and downs, don't they? At times, it feels like the stress and worry grabs control and dominates all waking thought.  

I had a pretty-amazingly-radically-awesome-oh-I-love-her-so-much neighbor that would periodically sit on her front porch and take a smoke break. I could see her chatting on the phone or sitting in silence. At times, I would wander over and sit and chat with her. Sometimes the smoke would waft through my open windows and I would fondly think of Brit. There were times that I vocalized "I wish I smoked." My reasoning? I envied that "take a break from life" opportunity a smoke break can provide.

I am a believer that it's the little moments that matter. The small talk at the dinner table. Snippets of conversation while driving to run errands. Comfortable silence while walking in a park. These moments speak volumes in a relationship. 

Maybe it's just as important to take those little moments and turn them inward. Maybe it's not so bad to forget the big things that smother us and take a moment to focus on the little things that inspire us. Maybe the crud that surrounds us will ALWAYS surround us but maybe we forget that joy is patiently waiting to be noticed. Maybe stress is the hare in the race we call life, but maybe, just MAYBE happiness is the tortoise. MAYBE peace and joy and happiness and comfort will prevail if we just be patient. Just maybe....

She said, I don't drink
But sometimes I need a stiff drink
Sipping from a high, full glass
Let the world fade away
She said, I don't smoke
But sometimes I need a long drag
Yeah, I know it might sound bad
But sometimes I need a smoke break

Angels Drive Mini Vans

A few months back, I found myself needing to go to the mall by my house. It was a quick run in and out event, so I gave no thought to swinging in there while I was "out and about". Epic fail. Oh, I can enter the mall without a problem. Leaving? Not so easy. I can climb steps and walk on an uphill grade unassisted like a "big girl". However, walking DOWN steps of any kind and/or if there is ANY sort of a downward slope a handrail is required.

I exited the front doors of the mall and was seized by anxiety. There was a step from the curb to the parking lot and it was HUGE. The only way to avoid the curb was to toddle down a sloped grade. There wasn't a handrail in sight.

I stood there. I looked at the curb and quickly determined that it simply wasn't going to happen. My gaze fell on the sloped cement. Nope. Couldn't do it. I began to panic. How was I going to get to my jeep? I debated walking in to ask someone at the customer service desk to render me aid. My face must have been plastered with pure panic because a guy walked up to me and asked if I needed something. I tearfully asked if I could hold his arm to step down the curb. He gallantly held it out for me and allowed me to clutch it in a death grip. I thanked him profusely and wobbled humbly to my jeep. I thought, "Well, that's it. I'll never again go to the mall unassisted." Then I bawled the entire way home.

My tiny little brain compartmentalized the event in the "Let's just forget it ever happened" drawer and a few weeks later I found myself needing to run in to the Provo Towne Center Mall REALLY QUICK. So that's exactly what I did. Sort of.

I made my dash in, hit the kiosk that I had to get to, turned around, walked out the doors and FROZE. What the crap was I thinking? I can't get to my jeep. I can't. I can't. I can't.

I had parked in a handicap space in the upper parking lot. I needed to go about 50 feet to the left in order to get to my jeep. I saw that I could follow the sidewalk to the front of my jeep and use the vehicle as a handhold to step off the curb. EXCEPT the sidewalk sloped downward toward the lot. That slope NO KIDDING looked like a gaping cavernous hole in the ground.

I began making my way along the sidewalk. As the ground sloped more and more, my legs shook and my strides decreased to minute proportions. The realization came that there was no way possible for my sidewalk strategy to work. BUT, if I could walk in the grass for three feet, I could circumvent the slope, get back on the sidewalk, head to my jeep and get the crap out of there.

No problem, right? I walk on my grass ALL THE TIME. I got this.

I stepped off to the grass and embraced my epic mistake. This grass was plush. Spongy. Mushy. Squishy. Deep. And I was stuck. I do mean STUCK. I couldn't get back up to the sidewalk and I could not make a SINGLE step in the grass.

I know you're probably thinking "Oh, quit being so dramatic." You would be wrong. I was going to be in the grass until hell froze over. There was no way around it.

A minivan was parked in the lot. Unbeknownst to me, a gal had exited the mall WITHOUT A PROBLEM and got in her van to drive away. She must have been eyeing my meltdown. Through my tears I heard, "Do you need some help?"

I grasped her arm and shook VIOLENTLY the entire way to my jeep. But I made it.

I watched with tears streaming down my face as she drove her van away.

Have I not said it a MILLION times? Take a minute and LOOK around you. Be the person that helps. Be the strong arm, the shoulder, the friend, the angel to those in need. You'll be better for it. I promise.

Yep. Angels drive mini vans. Who knew?