Sleeping babies, bedtime, dads with lower cortisol

I read a short post about dads putting babies to sleep. The claim was that dads carry less cortisol than moms and therefore may have better outcomes when they manage their baby's bedtime.

So ----- that might be generally true in the culture I live in. Though it can be true that females have low cortisol, as well, and they remain calm as they observe the baby, looking for signals that baby is giving to communicate its needs. So in that case, mom would have good outcomes for bedtime. It seems it should be equally possible for a man or a woman to be effective at bedtime, provided the person has learned to navigate life and babies with lower cortisol / stress.

For me as a mother, it was true that I carried more cortisol. When dad put the kids to bed, everything went smoothly and I was grateful for that. But I also thought there was something I should have been doing differently, some way I could have more success with putting the children to bed myself.

When Adara was very young, Jon watched me trying to care for her. At some point, Jon finally convinced me to leave the house and go somewhere while he worked to calm and care for Adara. I did leave, but I had nowhere to go. We lived in Phoenix, Arizona, and I didn't have a support group or friends --- I didn't know how to develop a support group or ask the Relief Society or my ministering sisters and brothers for help.

There were families in the ward who were aware of us. I can't tell you any of their names now. Oh, except a guy named, I think, Frank. He was a musical person and arranged for me to sing a solo (I think I remember) at a theater production..... or something. 

Well, I thought there was something the matter with me that I couldn't get Adara to be calm and to sleep well. And as the years went by, and Jon would put the kids in their beds and they would all go to sleep ..... and I didn't have that same experience. The kids didn't calm down and go right to bed when I was the one putting them to bed.

I was frustrated. I knew there had to be a different way of being, but I didn't know where to begin.

 wanted

when i was 4 years old, my family lived near St. Paul, Minnesota. (I think --i'll fact check this later.) For Christmas that year I was surprised to find a doll that could walk and talk. It was for me. Someone guessed that I would love a doll like that. I don't remember if I'd seen the commercials and shown interest. Or whehter my mom simply knew.

The year I was 9 years old, or was it 10, I received a homemade cabbage patch doll. The doll had black yarn for hair. I hated the doll. Because it was homemade. Because it had black yarn for hair. My hair is not black. That's what I wanted to believe.

At the age of 5 years, I think I remember the age correctly, I received a family of dolls of the same size and shape as the Barbie dolls. The mom had medium-brown hair, curled, and perhaps there were some highlights in the mother doll's hair. There was a father doll. I think he had brown hair and brown eyes. But his hair was painted on to the molded plastic shaped like a man's haircut. Then there were two children dolls. The little girl I think had blond curly hair. And there was a baby boy, who maybe had brown hair that was not painted like the dad's, but was short and quite pleasant.

I don't remember receiving any other dolls for Christmas, and I don't remember any for a birthday, either. I'm sure I had some other dolls that I played with, and they must have been the Barbie type dolls. But where they came from, I don't recall.

Oysters and Mussels and Crawdads and Grandpa

 When my Granddaddy was a boy and he was hungry, he would go to the river. I guess I don't know all the details about that, because I'm wondering now why he didn't try to catch fish. Maybe he was too hungry and went for the easy calories! (Think about the title of this post.)

As an adult, out with friends and work associates, sometimes the opportunity to eat shellfish came up. From what I've been told, my Granddad did not care to eat shellrish as an adult. I reflected on that as I opened a can this morning -- oily, already-shelled shellfish in a convenient can. Maybe it doesn't taste like a delicacy. Maybe it is hardly palatable at all. But the fat and other benefits assure me that I won't be hungry when I eat them. And at least some of what's in the food is good for me.

I wonder whether I'll go the way of my Grandfather as I expand my horizons, and stop wanting to eat the little creatures found in riverbeds and on the ocean floor. Or maybe I will aspire to be like Sam Walton, eating a can of tuna while chatting with boots-on-the-ground employees in my stores.

Kids mimic parents, TBIs, Autism, and my memories

I'm exploring traumatic brain injury, autism, how children emulate their parents' behavior, and my own life experiences both independent from, and within my family of origin.

A noteworthy piece of information is that my dad suffered a traumatic brain injury when he was a small child. Also of note is the influence that his upbrining may have had on his altered behavior. His father was an officer in the Marine Corps. His grandmother and school teachers were Catholic. I have heard reports that my dad's grandmother was quite critical, and that she had a big part in raising him.

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When I was in kindergarten, in the days when playgrounds were still a little on the wild side, there was a metal "bubble" or "spiderweb" for kids to climb on, hang from, and play under. The bubble was twice as high as I was tall. Maybe a little more.

One day my class was playing on the bubble. I remember it as though it were a special occassion. Maybe  the teacher was giving us an extra recess as a reward for our good behavior in class? I had dared to swing from the bars of the web, and was a little anxious about it. The bars were a little far apart for me. Maybe I had a friend doing it and I wanted to join her? And I was elated when I found myself hanging at the top of the structure, swinging freely and savoring the sensation.

A boy climbing above me started prying at my fingers. Who knows why? I voiced my displeasure to the boy, but he didn't stop, and I fell. Maybe I hit my head on the hard, black rubber tiles below. Maybe my mom came to pick me up from school, and maybe I was a bit nauseous.

I often think about how my dad hit his head when he was about the same age. 

I also think about how I feel a kindship with neurodivergent thinkers. And I've wondered about the disrupted brain development of people on the autism spectrum. And about traumatic brain injuries. To me it seems reasonable that people who've experienced TBIs and people with autism would relate to each other's experiences. Because it involves their brains might function more similarly to one another than to other people.

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I asked Grok AI to describe the similarties for me. Here is some of the information I received: 

"People with TBIs often struggle with interpreting social cues, much like those on the autism spectrum. This includes:

"Difficulty recognizing emotoins in others' facial expressions (facial afect recognition), particularly negative ones like fear or disgust, which can lead to misunderstandings in interactions and increased isolation or depression." (reference psychologychartered.co.uk)

"Challenges maintaining eye contact, reading body language, or navigating social situations, resulting in deficits in social judgments and communication skills." (flintrehab.com; thetreetop.com)

"Broader communication deficits, such as language disorders or trouble with verbal and nonverbal expression, which mirror autism's core traits." (pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov; healthline.com)

SENSORY AND PROCESSING DIFFERENCES

"Sensory processing disorders, where everyday stimuli (like sounds or textures) become overwhelming, akin to sensory overload in autism. (flintrehab.com; pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov)

"Impaired information processing speed, which affects how quickly someone responds to their environment -- a shared deficit that can make routines feel essential for stability." (pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov)

BEHAVIORAL AND EXECUTIVE FUNCTION OVERLAPS

"Repetitive or rigid behaviors often emerge post-TBI, echoing autism spectrum patterns:

"Problems with self-regulation and behavior, including emotional outbursts, impulsivity, or repetitive actions like rocking or hand-flapping."(citations are the same as above citations.)

"Impaired executive function, such s challenges with planning, flexibility, or attention, leading to a strong preference for sameness and routines.

"Heightened anxiety, stress, or behavioral disorrers that can intensify in social settings.

PHYSICAL AND OTHER SHARED TRAITS

"TBIs and autism can both impact motor skills and overall health:
"Balance/coordination issues and reduced muscle strength, which might contribute to clumsiness or motor delays.

"Seizures, learning difficulties, and gastrointenstila problems, which co-occur frequently in both.

"These overlaps highlight why professionals emphasize thorough assessments -- treatments like cognitive behavioral therapy or sensory integration can help both, but tailoring to the root cause (injury vs. innate neurodivergence) is key. If this relates to a personal situation, chatting with a neurologist or specilist in neurodiversity could provide tailored guidance."

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The next thing I asked Grok is: "I'm curious how the child of a person with TBI and/or autism might emulate their parent's behavior. Even if the child has a neurotypical brain and no history of TBI?

Grok responded: "Absolutely, this is a fascinating (and important) aspect of child development--neurotypical kids can indeed pick up and emulate behaviors from a parent with TBI or autism through everday observation, without any neurological shift on their end. This happens via social learning theory, where children naturally imitate those closest to them to navigate their world, build attachment, or cope with family dynamics. It's not about "becoming" nurodivergent but adapting to the home enviornment, which can shape social habits, emotional responses, and even sensory preferences. Research and personal accounts show this emulation can be subtle or pronounced, often peaking in early childhood when modeling is most automatic. I'll break it down by condition, with examples, and touch on why it happens even in neurotypical brains. 

"Why and How Emulation Happens in Neurotypical Kids

Kids are wired for mimicry—it’s how they learn language, play, and social norms. In families with a neurodivergent parent, the child’s brain absorbs these patterns as “normal,” leading to:

•  Observational learning: Simply watching and copying to fit in or get needs met.

•  Emotional mirroring: Adopting coping styles to manage family stress, like withdrawal if a parent does it.

•  Environmental adaptation: Home routines or interactions become the blueprint, reinforced by reinforcement (e.g., praise for matching the parent’s style). This isn’t genetic or injury-based; it’s behavioral plasticity at work. Studies on family contexts highlight bidirectional influences, where parental traits subtly guide child behaviors over time.

Emulation in Children of Parents with Autism

Neurotypical kids might adopt “autistic-like” traits as survival strategies in a sensory-rich or socially unique home, leading to temporary awkwardness or later identity questions. Common examples include:

•  Social and communication habits: A child could mimic reduced eye contact, literal speech, or using silence as a “conversation” tool, making peer interactions feel off-kilter. One parent shared how their neurotypical daughter started over-exaggerating facial expressions (a masking technique) to bridge communication gaps with her autistic sibling, but this stemmed from observing family dynamics. In personal stories, adults recall questioning if they were autistic due to learned poor social cues, like avoiding small talk, only to realize it was emulation—not innate.

•  Sensory or routine preferences: Kids might develop aversions (e.g., hating certain colors or textures) by copying a parent’s reactions, or insist on rigid routines to match the family’s predictability needs. A Reddit thread full of reflections described neurotypical adults who avoided red clothing into adulthood because their autistic mom tied it to negative sensory overload, calling it a “learned phobia.”

•  Stimming or self-regulation: Subtle copying of fidgeting or rocking for comfort during stress, or scripting responses in social settings to echo the parent’s style.

Long-term, this can cause confusion (e.g., “Am I autistic too?”) or social challenges in neurotypical settings, but many “unlearn” it with exposure to diverse peers. One article on neurotypical kids in autistic families notes they often feel like the “odd one out,” leading to coping like situational mutism from mismatched interactions, but it builds empathy and adaptability.

Emulation in Children of Parents with TBI

Post-TBI, a parent’s changes—like impulsivity, emotional swings, or withdrawal—can ripple into the child’s behavior as they model survival tactics. This is especially evident in family functioning studies, where parental behaviors moderate child outcomes.

•  Emotional and behavioral coping: Kids might emulate avoidance or over-helping to “fix” family tension. For instance, school-age children (6-12) often become overly well-behaved or take on adult roles, believing it atones for the injury, per insights on coping with TBI-affected parents. Teens could mirror resentment through oppositional acts, like skipping family events, to match the parent’s frustration.

•  Social adjustments: Copying reduced social engagement, leading to withdrawal or poor peer bonds. Preschoolers (up to 5) might regress (e.g., tantrums or clinginess) by imitating the parent’s unseen struggles like concentration issues, fearing “contagion” or blame.

•  Routine and regulation: Adopting rigid structures or mood swings if the parent does, as family stress amplifies these patterns.

Over time, unaddressed emulation can lead to anxiety or altered life choices (e.g., staying local to “help”), but positive modeling from the other parent can buffer this.

Overlaps and Broader Insights for TBI + Autism

If a parent has both, emulation might blend—e.g., a child copying scripted responses (autism) alongside emotional outbursts (TBI). Personal anecdotes from X highlight this: One grandma fumed when her neurotypical granddaughter spent a summer “studying” and fully mimicking her autistic son’s traits, like using props, showing how immersive environments accelerate it. Another parent noted their autistic kids mimicking wrestling moves from dad, blending joy with learned physicality. Importantly, this isn’t harmful if recognized—many kids gain strengths like deep empathy or resilience.

If this hits close to home, resources like family therapy or books on neurodiverse parenting can help unpack it. Kids thrive with open talks about differences, turning emulation into understanding. "

Dad's legacy. My dream.

Not long ago, after my father had died, my brother and I were talking about him. 

He was like a tank, my brother said. 

He described the kind of man our Father was. For example, if Dad had worked as a service technician, and the issue he was servicing was a simple matter that took little time and even less effort to resolve, dad wouldn't charge the customer a fee. Never mind the cost of the vehicle and gasoline to drive to the customer's home. Or being paid for the time to drive there and back again.

My takeaway from that conversation with my brother is that, for my dad, money just wasn't something he cared about. He just wanted to be of service. He lived by the principle (at least in his work, he lived this way) to "do unto others as you would have them do unto you." 

------------

The following started as a reflection of my dad's influence on me. What I was trying to say in the paragraphs below is that I had some dreams and I didn't realize what they were. People in movies have dreams and somehow the dreams come true. I didn't know what happened to make the dreams come true. So I didn't know that I could make my dreams come true, and I didn't know how to identify what my dreams were.

"I loved my dad. He would sing variety songs from groups like The King Singers. He loved playing with words. His dad loved poetry, and his dad died in the 1960s. I wonder if quoting the poems his dad loved was his way of helping his kids love their grandpa who they'd never met?

My dad should have been an engineer. Probably an electrical engineer. I wanted to be like him, but I didn't really spend much time with him. I wanted to do projects with him, like when my sister built a solar panel for a school project and the two of them worked on it together. She was good at math, maybe because of his tutelage.

Instead of math, I excelled in language. I could have bonded with him over that, I suppose. But he didn't write poetry. He had terrible handwriting, which he blamed on the nuns who taught him to write -- they wouldn't allow him to write with his left hand, and he believed he was left handed. My oldest daughter is left handed.

Instead of writing and literature, my dad and I watched movies, Star Trek, and nature documentaries. It wasn't just me watching with him, of course. If I'd had the chance as an adult, I would have watched more shows with him and enjoyed the writing together with him.

Anyway, I ultimately studied linguistics - more of the philosophical side of that discipline. The school I attended was small, and there were no linguistics studies. The best fit for me at that school was philosophy. I believe I would have ended up in linguistics if I had gone to the state school. 

The difference was that, in the school I went to, the music department was basically non-existent when I started. Which meant I was blessed with the opportunity of studying music, where otherwise I would not have, since my musical talent is limited. On second thought, though, I may have studied musical composition and/or choral conducting if I had gone to the state school.

Either way, I would likely have ended up at MIT, either studying linguistics with Noam Chomsky, or studied music there and learned to enhance my skills with the help of technology.

Instead, I traveled to Belgium in 2002 to teach English as a foreign language, and then received a certification for that discipline from an organization in Prague.

I have had many opportunities to grow my music skills over the years. At least in piano playing, which is not my primary instrument, but I have enjoyed learning to express myself artistically on that instrument, to enhance my average vocal skills.

I guess I didn't know that it was okay to follow my dreams. I had learned about the music and linguistics at MIT. There was a vague sense that some people would have the opportunity to participate in those programs. It didn't occur to me that I could be one of those people who could have that opportunity.

On the other hand, the practical experience of living life, traveling to different linguistic cultures and performing music on an everyday, practical level --- that has its own unique value.

I wonder, too, what my family situation would have been like if I had pursued more education. I'm sure I would have found someone like-minded and pursued all of my dreams -- including having a family. That was the only dream I had been taught to have. "A woman's most important role is in the home" is what I was taught. Which didn't mean a woman's OnLy role is in the home --- but somehow that's how it has expressed itself in so many cases, including mine.

Most importantly -- my dad chose to have children. He loved each of us and taught us as well as he was able. I am grateful for my life, and for my dad's love, and for the things he did that are an example of loving with integrity, and with passion.

What I love about my dad is how very much he sacrificed to give all of his children their lives. He obeyed the commandments as well as he could, he loved his children and his wife, he persevered, he laughed, and he sang. Simple pleasures. And the most impactful, most lasting and enduring legacy of all: giving life to children and teaching us to be decent people.

 An Unexpected Day Off

Instead of going to work today, I stayed home, wondering what to do with the time that I had mentally prepared for being at work. I made a couple messes, trying to "clean up" some things. The phone rang and I was free to focus on the conversation with my friend, which meant the outcome of the conversation was good beyond what I expected. But immediately after hanging up, things went downhill again. After a good few hours, beginning to spiral into self-destruct mode, I made a quick exit to my car and went for a drive. 

Some things in the car needed to be dropped in various places. And then I saw a string of letters and a number that reminded me of something my dad had told me when I was in elementary school and was complaining about kids teasing me because I'm so short. He told me that sometimes big things come in small packages. Like dynamite. And he also said something -- maybe it was at a different time in my life -- about how some things take a long time to bloom, and when they do finally bloom, it's a sight to see.

Oh - the symbols I saw were on a license plate: C4AM. I had a good, heartly laugh when I saw that. I just needed to laugh, and thinking about my dad, his humor and the values he taught me, was just what I needed. A short time later, the license plate AM0 brought another smile to my face.

Arriving back home, I began to clean up the messes from earlier that day. Picking up a thread from a text message conversation, I laughed to myself some more.

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Me: What about lemonade? Refreshing and lighter than dairy.

Of course, you can always freeze the lemonade to a semi-solid. Like a slushie. When I was a missionary in Alabama, I had heat stroke and didn't know it. Thankfully, my companion had worked in an organization that took "troubled" kids out to the desert and sort of left them there (with supervision and basic supplies) for 10 days to give them a taste of what life really is.

So, since she was well-versed in guiding young people in dangerously hot situations, she knew immediately that the best course of action was for me to drink, slowly and carefully, a blue Gatorade slushie from the convenience store. It made me nauseous, which she told me as a sign that her diagnosis was correct.

I'm still not a fan of slushies. I do, however, enjoy a good lemonade from time to time.

I remember my companion's name. She was from Arizona, which makes sense, because where else in the U.S. do people leave their kids out in the desert? Anyway, I saw on Facebook at some point that she was married and using her husband's last name. It's the same as my married name, and it's a pretty common name. But .... I mean, if I could figure out the probability of one of my missionary companions having the same married name as me ... I wonder whether you even can calculate a probability like that. It seems there would be more variables than would be reasonable to calculate for.

And is that even the right way to talk about probability? I can't even convert easily from percentages to ... whatever you convert percentages to. So I probably have no business discussing things like probability.

JB: Yes, it would be pretty easy to calculate a probability like that.

Me: Lol. That's wonderful. I love that you know that.

Is it actually useful information, though?

I read a book that used this kind of information for some business application. I think the book was called Freakonomics, and I only remember a few details that were oddly useful. To someone. Though I'm not sure the usefulness applied to my life, especially not at that point since my days were filled with princess dress-up dance parties and trying to get the kids to stay in their rooms at nap time so I could recover a smidgeon of sanity before dinnertime.

Of course, now I can barely get the kids to come out of their rooms, and my sanity is suffering now from too many options of things to do with my free time, but still confned to my home since I can't get the kids to be seen with me in public.

Okay, that's not entirely true. But they do make the outings less enjoyable, since they complain when I start talking about things like Freakonomics with random strangers in the sporting goods store.

And I still don't know why that stuff is useful, but apparently it is because the authors of a book had a podcast and such. Realy, the infomraoin they came up with must be useful to someone.

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At this point, I put my phone on a shelf and walked myself to a neighbor's house, fearing lest I continue writing and begin to dwindle into potentially less interesting drivel.

When I returned from returning the neighbor's belongings, I finished cleaning up the mess I'd made in the morning. And with my car now nearly empty of junk, it was ready to admit more junk. I sent another text message, this time to a different friend:

Me: I think that, sometimes, we get an itch to do something, and it ends up being preparation for another thing. And sometimes I think that the Lord must have been, maybe giving me a slight nudge to do that thing, knowing I would be happy to move on to the next thing.

But I wonder ---- maybe I just make a choice, no nudges from anyone, and the Lord honors the choice I made by making me aware of an opportunity that I am now prepared for? 

SP- attached a heart emoji to my message

Me: Which is to say, I'm cleaning out my vehicle of all the recycling and donations that have been accumulating in it, and I'm looking for opportunities to use my now-nearly-empty, large vehicle.

Or, for real, I can take it to the mechanic now that they can work on the doors wihtout having used electronics and light bulbs falling on their heads.

SP: Beautiful thoughts.

Me: :)

SP: From my experience God honors my choices. He loves it when I use my agency. And if I am going to use it wrongly I will get a prompting letting me know before I go too ar down that path.

Gratitude. Adventure. Stillness

Gratitude:

I can read
My eyes are relatively healthy
I've been educated enough that I am able to read
Conscientious people in my life have led me to worthwhile books
The library near my home loans - for free - the books that inspire me
An app on my phone allows me to borrow books without even leaving my home.


My children listen to the stories I read out loud to them
They are anxious to hear more of the story
It is a very easy way to share time with the children.


The adventure story in today's reading reminded me of what adventure really is.
At first, it feels good to start on the adventure. It's exciting and you feel energized.
Before very long, the adventure becomes uncomfortable. Often, there's no other option except to continue until you arrive at a safe place. It's tedious, the mind becomes numb, the body is in pain.


And, when you arrive at your destination, there is more to do. The comfort you longed for at the "end" of your task may be delayed. You might even feel like you're lost, because the path doesn't look the way you envisioned it.

But -- if you are quiet and pay attention -- you may notice that the Lord is with you. And all the pains and monotony feels natural and good. Even though it's still uncomfortable.

My Mirror: Weeds and Grass

Life is a mirror. The things I experience in my environment are a reflection of the state of my soul.

The ongoing drought in the western U.S. has caused me some personal angst. All around my neighborhood, the weeds are flourishing while the grass lies low. And somewhat brown.

For a year or two, seeing the weeds in the grass bothered me greatly. I hated seeing the lawn sprinklers running, strengthening the weeds, while the grass made only a slight improvement.

There wasn't much for me to do about it. I don't own any of the property where the grass is growing. And even if I did, the idea that it would take years to rehabilitate the grass added another frustration factor. I felt so helpless to make any significant changes in this moment to my environment.

Finally, I had the idea to pray about the situation. I had an immediate sense of diminished stress over the issue. And as the months have passed, I have begun to appreciate the diversity of plants in the lawn, and the increased number of insects and birds present. Yes, weeds are pests. Bugs are undesirable. But it is life! And it is abundant!

But it is not acceptable to grow weeds in your lawn. And it's now my lawn.

Sports and the Outdoors - personal history

When I was 12 years old, Brockbank Junior High had gymnastics as an after school activity. I had been tumbling since I was at least 4 years old, and had been on the exhibition team in 5th and 6th grade at Webster Elementary. I was excited to finally be able to learn more gymnastics.

I quickly learned that my expectations for the gymnastics team were more grandiose than my actual abilities. I had watched the Olympics Gymnastics competitions multiple times. In my mind I could see myself spinning and twisting on the apparatus and in the floor exercises.

In actual gymnastics practice, I found myself unable to mount the low bar on the uneven parallel bars. I had no experience with the dance moves associated with the floor routines. At least the vault involved running really fast, which I could do. But my teammates teased me because I ran with my chin leading the way.

The balance beam was a completely new level of tumbling. I could perform the tasks on the ground with relative ease. Doing the same task on the balance beam required a great deal of precision, and the penalties for moving too far outside of one's ability included the possibility of serious injury. Or at the very least, the inconvenience of having to climb 3 1/2 feet into the air again and re-centering oneself before continuing to perfect the skill.

I had dreamed of being recognized and praised as a result of my gymnastics ability. When I found that even the warmup exercises and skills training were beyond my ability, I was deflated. I don't know why I continued to work on the team. Probably it was just something that I had already decided to do. I was a gymnast, so I went to practice. Having other people show up every day after school was a definite factor in my decision to continue. If not for the team, I am not sure whether I would have continued.

My mom somehow came by a practice balance beam, which she brought home for me. I could practice only inches from the ground, instead of several feet in the air. Being closer to the ground, and having it at home, made everything so much easier! The

 only real issue with the practice beam was that there was no place for it in the house. So it stayed in the driveway. It might have had a protective cloth covering on it at first. I don't remember exactly. I do remember that it was just wood by the time I was finished with it.

That my mother found, bought, and allowed the beam to remain in the driveway! of our home is a memory I treasure. It is evidence of my mother's dedication to helping me do the things I loved. She had many demands on her time, with 10 children, a toddler/preschooler with a congenital heart defect, a home, a church calling, and the hobby that would become her business. I think she knew how much it meant to have something you could do that you were good at. And when she had an opportunity to help me get better at something I was already good at, I am sure there was no question in her mind that she would help me. She never mentioned anything about the cost of the beam, b

ut in a family where there was never enough money, having that gift meant the world to me.

After 3 years of junior high, beam had become my best apparatus. I was able to place in the top 3-4 competitors at some of the competitions. I also improved greatly in the floor exercise, which was somewhat satisfying. But I never felt I had achieved as much as I had wanted to. Decades later, even after birthing my children, I would visualize myself doing my uneven parallel bar routine. I thought I was doing that visualization because I loved gymnastics so much. And I did, of course. But thinking about it now, I realize that visualizing the routine was almost certainly a part of the training my coaches had given me to do. And not having ever achieved the success on the bars that I wanted, my mind continued the visualization. As silly as it may seem now, as a 45-year-old mother of 4, I still sort of think that I could one day do that bar routine better than I did as a 14-year-old.

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In the backyard of our home in Magna was an oversized truck tire. I used to play on it, jumping from one side to the other. I climbed the scraggly trees that grew right next to the back fence that separated our property from the Trombinos. They had a trampoline, and the girls, Jolene and her older sister, were close to my age. I wished I could play with them on it, and think I only did a handful of times in the 9 years that we lived there.

I loved being outside. Hanging laundry was one of my favorite chores, probably because it involved going outdoors. The smell of sunshine-warmed sheets became dear to me. And the way I could pretend I was in a private world when I was "hiding" between the lines of clothes was satisfying to my imagination, my need for independence, and a sense that I was making a valuable contribution to the family.

My mom knew I loved being outside. When she planted a large patch of tomatoes one year, in the sizeable flower bed by the front door, I would wiggle in underneath the leaves of the tall plants and pick off the tomato worms that were always present there. I remember distinctly, one time, an incredible number of them! I had filled the container I had brought with me, and had to recapture some worms that were escaping before I had completed the task! 

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I would walk and explore the neighborhood. Webster Elementary School was a nearly straight line down the hill from my home. 2 1/2 blocks or so, from 3100-ish South to 2900 South. And then a block or so to the west and that was my daily commute. 

Sometimes on the way home from school I would walk by the irrigation ditch that bordered the fences of Kennecott Copper. I remember being warned not to play in the ditch, because water could flow unexpectedly down it at any moment. But I did -- a few times anyway -- feel brave enough to go down into it. I would run at an angle along the sloped walls, winding from one side of the ditch to the other. Such a simple activity, and yet so satisfying.

I wished I could have played soccer with the boys during recess at Webster Elementary. I didn't know how to play soccer. I didn't know how to tell the boys I wanted to play. I didn't know how to ask for someone to teach me to play. So it stayed a private wish until I advanced from junior high to high school. Cyprus did not have a gymnastics team, and I didn't even ask my parents about doing gymnastics elsewhere. I joined the soccer team because it was the sport that needed people, even if they had zero experience like I had.

I tried to find friends who lived nearby. I would knock on the neighbors' doors, looking for a friend to play with me. That only worked 2 or 3 times. I never understood, and still do not understand, why the children my age, who lived nearly next door, would not come play with me. I did spend a time or two in one girl's home -- her name was Trina, and we played barbies. Maybe I was the one who was not comfortable there? That is probably right. I may have thought that I was being a bother to the parents, so the wish to play stayed in my mind and I only rarely would ask if Trina and I could play.

As I got older and more familiar with the neighborhood, I would walk farther. I came to love the way the sky looks when a storm approaches. And the feeling of being sheltered among tall trees, even if it was a neighborhood with paved roads only a block or two from a main thoroughfare. No one came to Magna unless they lived there. The neighborhoods where I walked were mostly quiet, deeply shaded, and had a somewhat rural feeling. There were old, established homes with well-cared-for lawns and gardens. And there were other homes, apartments, or trailers, that were less-well-cared-for. 

Sometimes a dog would bark at me, or worse, chase me. I had been afraid of dogs for a long time. There was one little yapper that lived on the corner of our street. Every time I came near the fence of that home, it would bark incessantly until I was well out of earshot. On another occasion, as I was riding my bike, a dog zoomed out of its yard and bit my ankle! I made sure to keep both ankles on the side of the bike away from the dog when I dared to venture back that way again.

Earliest memories - personal history

My mom told me that when I was a baby, I squeaked rather than cried. At that time, I was the fifth child in what would end up as 8 girls and 2 boys.

One of the older children was responsible for me: diapering, bathing, etc. And I also had a sister just 2 years older than I was, and she also considered herself one of my caretakers. One time when I was in the church nursery, I was crying and the leaders were trying to find my mother to help calm me. The playmate sister intervened, and although she was only about 4 years old, she told the worker that I could join her in the older kids' class.

My playmate sister told me a memory that she had of me that I was too young to remember. She told me that one day I had been misbehaving and my dad was displeased with what I had been doing. The playmate sister stood between my dad and me and told him that it was not okay for him to punish me. So instead of me receiving punishment, she was punished for her lack of respect of authority.

A few memories my mom shared with me: while I was potty training, I was so excited at a step I had mastered. I was standing next to the training potty, with a puddle on the floor underneath me. My mom reported that I exclaimed, "I'm potty trained!"

Another memory: since my mom had a baby every 2 years or so for the space of 22 years, she was pretty worn out at the end of the evening after putting the kids in bed. I must have been quite young, with one of those cute faces and voices that is hard to say no to. I would come to her when everything was quiet and ask, "mama make brownies?" And she inevitably would oblige. Because brownies were her favorite.

We moved a lot while I was growing up. I was born in the high desert in south eastern California, by age 2 we had moved to Salt Lake, and at age 4 I lived in a tent for a summer in Minnesota before we found a home to stay in there. 

Shortly before I turned 5, we moved back to Salt Lake, where the age requirement allowed me to begin kindergarten at the tender age of 4 11/12ths. Some of the kids played pretty rough, and I genuinely did not understand why they were so cruel. One time I was hanging from some metal bars that we called a "spider web". A boy was above me, and he pried my fingers off of the bar. I couldn't fathom it, and was unprepared when I fell. I hit my head rather sharply, felt nauseous and laid down in the nurse's office for some time.

I don't remember if it was the same visit to the nurse's office, but I associate my chicken pox experience with this same playground accident. I stayed home for several days, a little bit itchy with red spots. I was probably bored, but it was not so bad, because I was home, quiet, with my mom.

As kindergarten progressed, I made a friend. Her name was Sherry, and her birthday was exactly the same day as mine. I was so excited. I was a very young kindergartner, and it felt really good to have someone my age in class with me. I felt like it was fate. 

I asked my mom if I could go play at Sherry's house. I remember going at least once. Sherry lived too far away for me to walk to her house, and for my mom (who had 7 kids at this point), driving me to play at a friend's house on a regular basis was not a priority. 

I hoped, at least, that Sherry and I would get to celebrate our 6th birthdays together. So, when we moved again during the first month of my 1st grade year -- before my birthday -- I was crushed.

Count Your Many Blessings

My mom sent me a text message this morning.

"Can you come to my house?"

I didn't ask why or what she wanted. I just texted back, "Yes. I can be there in 30 minutes."

As always, songs started flowing through my head.

"Make all my wants and wishes known."
"And oft escaped the tempter's snare by thy return, sweet hour of prayer."

"Count your many blessings see what God hath done."

The blessings flowed quickly and intuitively, ideas encompassed by a single word or phrase, without much form or structure. It felt unfinished, but I was driving and it was sufficient.

I visited my mom. She just wanted to talk about how things were going. I'm trying to find a house, a job, deal with the divorce.

When I left her home, within 5 minutes I had been pulled over. The driver's side brake light was out. The police officer spent a long time checking over the license and registration. I wondered how many of my recent encounters with the police had appeared on his little computer screen, and worried what he might do or say when he came back.

"How did this happen?" The officer asked as he handed back my registration. He was referring to some damage to the frame of the back window.

"It's a beater car," I said automatically, without thinking.

"A beater car?" he questioned.

"It's a junker. It's my sister's car. I don't know what happened, but I imagine they locked their keys inside and tried to open the door somehow and damaged it."

"Okay," said the officer. "Well, tell Dorothy she needs to get her brake light fixed."

He got back in his car and left, and I just sat in the car, shaking a little and putting away the registration and insurance cards. I had messaged Jon when I had been waiting for the officer to come back, and I sent another message again to tell him that it was just the brake light.

Jon's message back was cool and calm. He offered to fix the brake light when he came to pick up the kids later.

"That's the blessing," I thought to myself. "Jon wants to help. Changing a brake light's not a big deal for him, but for me it's just one more thing on my plate. And it was s a small thing. Just a small interaction between the two of us that would take us one tenacious step towards re-building trust."

Later, as I was driving again, feeling that the immediate threat had passed, I could think clearly about the implications the law enforcement officer had been making. If I had been really guilty, I would have been immediately offended at the implication. Thank goodness I'm innocent!

Fred

My brother committed suicide when he was 29. It was three months before his 30th birthday.

His death taught my family and me the importance of caring for one another. And, most importantly, it taught us the necessity of caring for our individual selves.

It was the worst way to have to learn that lesson. But even worse if we didn't learn.

Deaf Poem for Upworthy

"Speak!"

Slap

Angry faces

Wordless voices

Kind fingers

soothe purple mounds

of tortured flesh

Where is the love at home?

New faces

Finger speaking

Crying joy, shame

I don't belong here

But I didn't belong there

There it was family love

But here it is true love

I can't accept

Official faces

open mouths

moving hands

Tender smile

patient

It's not your fault.

Come play a game.

It will be okay. 

Come home with me.

Beer, Parties, and Young People

Birthday parties in Santiago generally consist of family and friends sitting down together at their home. They listen to music, sit together, eat cake, and drink. Seriously. They don't really stand up and mingle or mix. They literally sit in one place for hours at a time, talking to whoever is sitting next to them, and partaking of whatever refreshment the host serves.

In my mind's eye, I can envision these natives doing much the same thing for generations -- sitting together in a circle, not having any reason to stand up and move around. Just sitting and being content to listen to each other and just be together.

So yesterday, as I was walking down the street, I saw my neighbors outside having a birthday party. Martha and Reynaldo were visiting his sister in her home. I've visited all of them often, since his sister is frequently at Reynaldo's house and I often stop in to say hello there.

I really should know this lady's name but it's 2 a.m. as I type this (fell asleep, woke up at 1:30, decided to write). Anyway, her son, Fernando, was having a birthday party. I was somewhat hesitant to join them this time, because of an experience I had a few weeks ago.

I went by somewhat later in the evening because I had an urgent concern I wanted to discuss with Martha. The family was outside in the years, socializing and drinking. I didn't fully appreciate how drunk Martha was until I had already committed to stopping to talk, which meant I'd have to stay at least a half an hour.

Every time I visit, if they are drinking, they always offer me some and I always refuse. But on that occasion, they wouldn't take no for an answer. Martha was literally trying to pour beer into my mouth!

So this time when they offered me beer, I used my strong "no." I changed the subject and talked about how important her friendship was to me, and how I get drunk on the joys of life and friendship. She just was not letting go of the need for me to drink with her. But thankfully, I got the idea to turn to her son, who was next to me, to start a conversation. And Martha allowed herself to be distracted.

Dito (Reynaldito, a.k.a., Reynaldo Junior) is 18 years old. He graduated from high school last December, and pretty much on graduation night began his journey into true adulthood by getting his girlfriend, Flavia, pregnant. They're married now and living in his parents' home. His dad is away during the week because he has to work pretty far from Santiago and can't travel back and forth daily. So Dito and his young wife and baby live in the home. His mother is often there with them, taking care of the baby so that Flavia can finish her senior year of high school.

Lately, Dito has initiated conversations with me. When I'm out of town, they notice, because our chicken coop is right behind their back yard. So he started messaging me when he could see the chickens were being neglected. I've asked him for help on several occasions. His mom, of course, is generally in charge of the whole affair. But I communicate through social media with Dito.

I don't know why he started messaging me for no apparent reason a month or two ago. Maybe he feels sympathy for me being in a difficult situation with my marriage. I think he can sympathize being in a marriage where one or both of the partners aren't in love with each other. But when he messages me, he doesn't have anything to say. We don't exactly have a lot in common!

So when he texts, I just talk about what I always talk about when I visit my neighbors. I talk about my life, which lately has had a lot to do with finding God in the everyday routine and challenges that I face. I suspect that has struck a chord with Dito, seeing how I've weathered the difficulty that I'm going through in my marriage.

I'm guessing that Dito feels something when I talk about God, and he probably doesn't understand very much of what I say, and can't really fathom why I do what I do. It really seems to be beyond his comprehension - and not just his. I've tried having these types of conversations with others. I guess I have to learn a different way of communicating. Maybe just my refusing to drink beer, and always talking about God is what they need to help them understand.

So trying to evade Martha, I felt confident in turning to Dito for a conversation. I asked him why he wasn't drunk like everybody else. His reply was surprising - if Mary Lynn isn't drinking, neither am I. Or something to that effect. I really can't understand everything people say.

His meaning was evident, though, since, as we talked, I could see that he had punctured the bottom of the can that he was holding and allowing the beer to spill out onto the ground. I'll have to remember that tactic. I'm not sure I can always avoid going to the parties. And once I'm there, they'll expect me to drink with them.

I learned today that as long as I am holding something in my hand, they sort of leave me alone. Sort of. I had a glass of water in the beginning, and I think they were kind of okay with that. But, silly me, I drank it all. And when my glass was empty, they had to fill it up again! With beer!! That's the point I was using all my powers of diversion and evasion to avoid drinking it. But for the rest of my stay there, I held a cup of beer in my hand.

I thought how opposite that situation was from what I've been taught -- avoid the very appearance of evil. Holding a cup of beer in my hand would certainly seem to fall into "the appearance of evil" as I was taught. But here in Santiago, with my neighbors, refusing to drink with your friends is the greater evil. So, in order to avoid the appearance of evil here, I had to hold a cup of beer in my hand.

Real Work

Blog - 14 January 2019

One week ago I started teaching free English lessons for what’s left of summer vacation. It’s really a laid back atmosphere. After the 30 minute lesson we play. One time we went to the Plaza to teach the inexperienced how to ride a bike. There was only one bike, so the others kept themselves busy in other ways while waiting for their turn.

  My kids have been helping with the “teaching” by reading to the kids in English. We also learn Spanish by asking the Santiagueñan kids how to say things in English, and my kids read to the younger ones in Spanish as well. Win-win!

We also get to watch a house being built only 300 meters from where we’re staying. So far the work is with simple hand tools. The workers dug holes by hand, two meters deep, for the foundation pillars. By afternoon they were ready to fill the holes with cement.

I want to make posts of everything that’s been happening up until now. At this point, though, I’d better just stick to what’s happening today. Hopefully I’ll be better able to stay on top of things now that I’ve figured out the Internet here and have replaced the computer that I lost. (Jon bought me a notebook for Christmas.)

 

Back up

Today is Sunday, 18 November. Since I last wrote, I lost my computer (left the suitcase in the Uber and the driver says he never saw it). A month later, my phone was stolen out of my hand as I sat next to an open window on the bus. The thief reached through the window as the bus was going slowly through the crowded street at 10:30 p.m.

I just now re-established my connection to gmail and can now resume blogging. More to come soon!

Sidetracked

3 October 2018

In my mind I have written several blog posts between now and the last one that I can see is published here. I have a blog post prepared, just waiting to upload the pictures onto the website, and then ...

I left my suitcase in the Uber car during a busy weekend in Santa Cruz. Bye bye computer. Bye bye pictures, journal entries, expensive Apple laptop, and several hundred dollars' worth of Bolivian currency. Not to mention half of my clothing (I brought very little to Bolivia in the first place), one of each of my regular shoes (I've been wearing a stabilizing boot on the hurt leg), medications and other sundry non-valuable items, but impossible to replace in Bolivia.

Instead of fun pictures from 2 months ago, now you will get only pictures from the last 2 weeks. I know it's super disappointing, not knowing what you missed. 😉

This picture is what I'm calling my birthday toad. We went to the hot springs near our home, a little town called Aguascalientes, for my birthday. We stayed the weekend in a little cabana and woke up one morning to find this guy behind the luggage. Happy birthday to me!

After the hot springs, we went to Puerto Suarez (a 3-hour drive) to attend our local congregation and discovered that the next day was a holiday (who knew?) and they were going to have a branch party at a nearby hotel. We already had our swimwear, and knowing we weren't going to be missing any school the next day, we stayed and had a valuable experience getting to know the members of the church there. (This was only our second time getting to our local church, as we have had to travel every other weekend in the opposite direction and have attended other congregations.)

Some of us are becoming very excited about having pictures taken of us doing unique and beautiful things.

 Later that week, when we were back home, I woke up one morning to find this in the yard. If you can't tell, it's a dead tarantula. I put a bottle of nail polish net to it for size context.

At the end of the week we attended a birthday party for our half-expatriate friends. The girl in the yellow is the birthday girl. Doesn't she look like she could almost be a cousin to JJ? And check out the that amazing party tree! Who wouldn't want that in their backyard?

That's all for now. Wish us luck with the suitcase.

Settling In

Friday, 30 June 2018

I took this as we were driving to Santiago. Find better pictures of this landscape here

The kids were quite
bored on the 6 hour
drive to Santiago.
Keenan sent this
picture to a friend
of his with the text:
I hate Bolivia.
Apparently the smile
is a ruse. Every time
 I ask if he's enjoying

himself, he adamantly 

denies it.

There's not much to do when you're new in town.

 

Here's the story of this next picture: When we had only been in Santiago for a day or so, we visited the Whitaker farm. We asked the teens if they wanted to go for a hike with us (see link and picture at the top of the page for what the landscape looks like). I didn't want to go because my leg is healing from a repetitive use injury, and Keenan didn't want to go because he just wanted to stop traveling around all over the place. 

I had started to walk slowly towards

home when I saw the Whitaker's 

jeep / truck coming down the road,

loaded with everyone who was going 

on the hike. I flagged them down and 

asked for a ride. Keenan got in the 

back seat / trunk area, which looked 

a little bit like a barrel of monkeys, 

but with a bit more space. There 

were Whitaker teens, Wilson 

children, and a smattering of 

more stereotypical Bolivians. 

When everyone returned home, Juliette came up to me with a sad face, but I didn't understand what she was saying. Jon came in and explained that they didn't notice that JJ was missing until they reached the trailhead, which was a 30 minute drive from where they'd started. 

Apparently, Mother Whitaker had also been unaware that Juliette had been left behind. She had been playing with the chickens so contentedly, and when Mother realized what had happened, she just let her continue to play. Although JJ was upset at having been left behind, and put on her best pouty face when she was reunited with me, she happily reported that she had performed some dances for Mother and for the customers who had come to buy milk at the farm that day. 

We have started cleaning up the property where we hope to build a home.

The previous owner is giving us tips and pointers on the house building project. Interestingly, he is an Italian who's lived in Santiago for a decade or two. He also sings in the choir.

 

 

Home Away From Home

Señor R and Señora A take care of us when we come through Santa Cruz. They're related to the owner of the hotel we are renting in Santiago. The motto of the ladies in this family seems to be "tranquility". They're always telling us to take it easy and be calm. The house always seems to be full of people: uncles, aunties, cousins, grandchildren, and friends. They really seem to enjoy taking care of each other, and us. The house is always full to overflowing when we're here and they always seem to be smiling and caring and gentle as they speak with us and with the children. They also spend plenty of time being quiet in their own rooms too! 😁

We arrived at the airport in Santa Cruz early in the morning. It was the middle of the last week in June, and we had been in Florida in the warm summer sun.

The sidewalks were wet when we left the airport, and the cool, humid air was a relief after the heat of summer.

We went immediately to R & A's home to sleep. We stayed and rested for a day, partly because we needed to buy another mattress, and partly so we could rest a little before making another long journey.

Sña. A has a granddaughter the same age as Juliette. While we were out shopping, Juliette learned that she could play just fine with someone who doesn't have any language in common with her. They were "cooking" all day, and when we asked what they were making, JJ said cake, and the other girl said beans and rice!





















Naomi came with us to buy the mattress. Before we left Utah, we had told the girls that ripped jeans wouldn't be acceptable clothing in the village. So, of course, the first day we went out to the city, we met a shop owner with some admittedly more artistically ripped jeans than I've ever seen. But ripped jeans nonetheless.

The son (Big Brother) of our host helped us buy a double cab truck. He brought it to the airport when we arrived (at 4 a.m.!) so we could manage our great pile of luggage. A couple days later, we piled back into the truck, ready for the roughly 6-hour trip from the city to our eventual home.

We arrived in Santiago on Friday, the 30th of June, at 9 p.m. The next morning, everyone immediately got to work rearranging furniture and unpacking. A friend of Jon's, who he calls his "Little Sister" helped fold all the kids' clothes and put them in the closets. What a godsend! (A brief explanation - when Jon lived here in the late 90's, he stayed with our current hostess and her family. This family includes the people I am calling "La Abuelita", "Big Brother", and "Little Sister".

We replaced one of the single beds with a bunkbed so all of the kids could sleep in the same room. They are having the time of their lives, staying up past bedtime and talking and playing. 

It was winter break when we arrived, so the kids all had plenty of time to get to know the grandkids and their friends while we went running around collecting the essentials for running a 

home.

This is our home and our hostess, La Abuelita. She has opened her kitchen to us, and regularly prepares a lunch (the main meal) large enough to include our family. She loves her yard and garden!

Our hostess' daughter (Little Sister, who is in her 20's now), has passed on her old jewelry making kits to our girls. They are in heaven, always brushing each other's hair (and mine!), putting on necklaces, threading beads onto string, and sharing earrings with their dolls. It has been a promising beginning.