What I Found Under the 16-Year-Old Boy's Covers

This song just came on, and it reminded me that I have been meaning to write about the 16-year-old boy. I guess listening to Chris Rene singing about how he became clean, and remembering how the 16-year-old boy explained the song to me, pointing out where it was shot, in Santa Cruz, one of our most favorite vacation spots, and how long Chris has been clean, made me have warm and fuzzy feelings towards my oldest son at home. I love how he is moved by songs about cowboys and their relationship with God and former drug addicts and their road to recovery.

But the above paragraph isn't really what I wanted to write about. I wanted to tell you what I found on the 16-year-old boy's bed last week.

I had called John, and we were having a discussion about our budget, one that required diligent attention on my part. Extending this attention was difficult with the kids riding their new trike through the house, singing The Cave over and over, and throwing Legos across the dining room, so I decided to veer into the 16-year-old's room, which was the closest private area to my then current location. I closed the door behind me, then as I listened to John talk about how we would pay for what that week, I looked around in disgust at my son's bedroom. It smelled bad, like old football clothes and cowboy boots. And food. And a waffle-scented candle he lights sometimes to cover up all of the smells. And here is what his bed looked like...

He had slept in it only a few hours previously, incomprehensibly, but as I sat down on his bed to continue the conversation with John, and took a close look at what was actually on his bed, my heart started to melt and I realized what a sweet-on-the-inside football player/cowboy/electrician/teenage son I have. Let me show you.

First, we have his scriptures opened to where he fell asleep reading them the night before...

I notice that this happens often, and I find myself turning off his lamp and covering his feet in the dark hours when the house is perfectly still.

Next we have a Strength of the Youth pamphlet in Spanish....

The Strength of the Youth pamphlet is a set of guidelines the youth in our church, and should I say the youth of all the world, should live by. It includes information about prayer, Sabbath Day worship, appropriate dress, media, dating, and much more. If you'd like to read one in English, you can go HERE.

Under the Fortaleza de la Juventud pamphlet, we have several Dr. Seuss books...

At the time I didn't know if he had been reading these to a younger sibling, or if he enjoyed them himself, but either way, endearing, don't you think? Later, after I'd asked him to clean his room, I went to check on it and saw large lumps under his comforter. I pulled it back, only to see all of these items still on his sheet. I said, "16-year-old boy. No." He said, "Mom! You can't just come in here and pull down my covers and say 'No'. These are all things I use every night!" And then, unapologetically, "And I read Dr. Seuss books." So there, without prompting, question answered.

Now we have a prayer rock....

I remember the family night when we painted these rocks. He was only about 9 years old. I was amazed that he still had it, and apparently uses it to remind himself to pray every night.

Next, I found a collection of Popular Mechanics and Science magazines....

The 16-year-old boy doesn't enjoy reading novels, but he can bury his nose in one of these magazines all morning. I love that he loves to learn.

And last, but not least, I found a stuffed rottweiler puppy in the corner of his bed....

I think he took it from his Grandma's house on the border town where I grew up. Need I say more? The whole concept of a football player sleeping with one of his grandma's stuffed animals is adorable.

For all the struggles parents go through with teenagers, some days we hit paydays, and that one day last week was one of them. I love the 16-year-old boy and the young man he has become....

Thanks for listening.

Our Missionary Returns!

If you've been following me for a while, you'll remember that our first-born boy left for a 2-year mission for our church what seems like only a few short months ago. Well, apparently it's in reality been two years, and he's home now. Our reunion was delightful and here are the pictures to prove it. If you'd like to go to our farewell post, it's HERE. 

The following photo needs explaining. So my mom is very easily tricked and good-spirited about most things. She is also obsessed with Walmart, making multiple trips to the corporate giant each day. To take advantage of both of these traits, my sister with the Ph.D. thought it would be fun to give her a false later return date of our son, then stage a meeting at Walmart where she would go to the McDonald's inside her favorite Walmart for a Diet Coke and our son and the rest of us would be waiting there, completely unexpectedly. I shared this plan with John, and he agreed to be the one to find a reason to invite my mother to go with him to Walmart at the specified time. John, however, had different plans. HE thought it would be fun to spoil our surprise and have my mother get through the airport x-ray somehow and meet the 20-year-old boy at the gate and surprise US.

So we waited, unsuspecting, and talked about and laughed about the upcoming Walmart surprise as we stood at the bottom of the escalator waiting for our son to greet us after waiting for two years. And what to my surprise when I saw him, and saw that he was accompanied by an older woman. I could not figure out why he was behaving so familiarly with this woman until she got closer to us and I realized that she was my mother! I stood at the foot of the escalator with my hands on my hips and shouted, "This isn't FAIR!!" Here is their reaction to my exclamation.....

Many of the following photos are self-explanatory, so I will show them without commentary.....

 My favorite part about the following photo is how the 20-year-old boy is on his knees, the better to hug Twin A.... :)

 I still get warm and fuzzy inside when I remember hearing his flawless Spanish for the first time upon his return. Having learned Spanish on his mission will serve him well for the rest of his life...

 Waiting for luggage...

Lamenting over lost luggage...

 Wondering why I am shooting photos of him as he talks to the airline authorities about his lamentable lost luggage...

 Waiting while the lamentable lost luggage situation is resolved...

 Twin B finally got tired of pulling up his pants and just gave up...

At the 20-year-old boy's favorite restaurant in the border town where he grew up...

 

The welcome-home banner purchased and strung up by my sister-in-law and a friend, a fellow-missionary mom, whose son returned four days after ours, which sign was a wonderful surprise to us...

It's amazing having a return-missionary son home. We sent him off at 18 years of age. We received letters from him each week and Skyped with him on Mother's Day and Christmas, but to hug him and speak with him face-to-face was indescribable. It felt like having a newborn. He's my son, but I felt like I was getting to know a new person. Although the following traits certainly did not define our son, gone were the selfish and typical youthful habits of the teenage boy we sent off. The man who returned was one who spent his few days here inviting his baby toddler brother to watch movies with him, fixing things, making his bed without being asked, and talking to me like we are friendly, comfortable peers. He's started his new life in California now, with my sister with the Ph.D., working in her lab, and surfing and eating at trendy restaurants and working with the missionaries in Santa Cruz and he couldn't be happier. Neither could we. We are so grateful for the example he has set for his eight younger siblings and we look forward to many more missionaries in our future.

If you would like to know more about our church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, or "The Mormons", please visit us HERE. Thanks for listening. :)

 

40% Off at Flirty Aprons!

Hey everybody, Flirty Aprons is having another one of their amazing sales! 40% off six of their most popular aprons!! Here's one I've had my eye on for a long time and I'm getting it today.....

I'll be stocking up on more for Christmas presents. How about you? Click HERE for the sale and have fun!

An Unlikely Story in the Mountains of Chihuahua

Here'a an anecdote you might find interesting.

A couple of weeks ago, John, his father, my sister, and the kids and I drove up into the mountains for a hamburger fry. It was the first time in a long time I had nine of my children with me on an outing and I was really enjoying myself. We listened to my sister regale us with stories we already knew from our past, but which are always much funnier when she tells them, we watched the twins jump through the stream, and sat and relaxed as John began the meal preparations.

After starting to feel a little guilty about not helping him, I got up and started digging through the ice chest to see what I could do. It was then that I remembered I hadn't packed the smoked gouda as I'd planned to. I really can't stand eating a hamburger or veggie burger without cheese. I'd rather not eat one at all, so I said out loud, "Oh. I wish I had some cheese."

About twenty minutes later, and before my veggie burger was finished cooking, a man and a woman in an old pickup drove up through the shallow stream to where we had set up. The last time we had seen civilization was at least half an hour before, and we were completely alone in our shaded area by the stream. We waved at the driver, and he stopped and waved John over. After talking to the couple for a few seconds, John turned and yelled down-stream to where we were, a smile on his face, "Jen! He's selling cheese! How much do you want?"

You see where I'm coming from? Is this not an interesting anecdote? What are the chances of this occurring? We ended up purchasing a huge block of the ranchero cheese, and two weeks later we're still working on using it up. Only in Mexico!

Here are a few pics from the outing. I didn't take many, because I was simply enjoying the relaxing time with my family. Thanks for listening.... :)

The view of the mountains where we would meet the cheese man.....

The 12-year-old boy, climbing near ancient hieroglyphics...

The same boy, throwing large rocks over the cliff into the stream...

The 17-year-old girl, beginning a bike ride down the grade of the mountain on the way home...

Until next time!

Thoughts on Fútbol Americano

For the first 40 years of my life, I loathed football. My mother and father loved it, and would spend Saturdays, Sundays and Monday nights engrossed in college and pro games. My mother would jump up and down and scream when their team, The Cowboys, did something awesome, and so would my dad, until he became too obese to get up quickly. Then he would just shout "ATTABOYS!!!" without the jumping.

In the farmhouse where I spent most of my formative years, our TV room was right next to our den, where the piano was. Maybe I hated football so much because when I would try to practice the piano, it would inevitably be during a game, and my father would often yell, not knowing exactly which of his three girls were practicing, "Shut the he-e-e-e-e-ll u-u-u-u-u-p! We're trying to watch the game!" I would angrily storm out of the room, thinking how ridiculous it was that I had to put my piano progression on hold just so he could watch a stupid football game. My mother highly disagreed with how he dealt with our piano practicing, as she faithfully drove us to our piano lesson each Wednesday even though our teacher lived 30 minutes away, but no amount of talking to would ever change my father. That fact, was, in fact, one of the most congruent lessons he ever taught us verbally, and through example; that we should never try to change a man, because it doesn't work.

My father always told me that I didn't like football because I didn't understand it. How could I not understand it? He had been explaining to me since I could understand words, in the hopes, I'm sure, that we would all be one happy, football-watching family. I later came to realize that part of what he said was true. Although I understood the rules, I would only realize when I was 20 years old that I was near-sighted, and could never see the ball on the small screen my father had. Thus, I never knew what was going on, just that it was something good when my parents started screaming.

As a note, perhaps my previous remarks sound disparaging of my father, but please know that although we had a troubled relationship as I was going through my teens, he became one of my favorite people in the world as I grew up and started raising a family of my own. I still considered him certifiable until he died, but I always loved him and still miss him terribly. You can read more about him HERE.

Anyways, eventually my own sons started growing up. Football wasn't really a part of their lives, as neither of my husbands were huge fans, but things changed once John and I decided to move to Mexico. In this tiny Mormon/American farming community, high school football is everything, and I knew my oldest son would benefit in many ways by being on the team. Plus, I knew the coach personally, a cousin of mine, and that his number one goal was to help prepare these high school boys for the two-year-missions they would serve The Lord directly out of high school, should they accept that call. I felt strongly that the key to getting my son on his mission, as there were many influences pulling him away from this path, was for him to be on Coach Kortny's team.

As we waited for our the construction on our home to be completed, we spent two years on the border town where I was raised, where the then 14-year-old boy (who is now the 20-year-old boy) started high school after nine years of home school. I suggested to him that he should try out for the football team because then, when we moved to Mexico, he would already have a year of experience and feel much more comfortable on Coach Kortny's team. He replied that he really wasn't interested in playing football. I was devastated. I knew that it would be very difficult to make a high school freshman play if he didn't want to, so I had no idea what to do. So I just prayed... a lot.

During registration, as we were walking the campus finding all of his classes, we ran into one of his new teachers. As we started talking, he announced that he was the football coach and that my son looked like he could play. I believe the 14-year-old boy was quite flattered. When I had a moment, I pulled the coach aside and told him how important it was for me that my son be encouraged to try out, and he said he would work on him.

That night, the 14-year-old boy came home and said that his new coach's name was Charlie Brown, that he was really cool and that he was a Mormon. I immediately got a huge lump in my throat and couldn't speak for a long time. I just nodded and smiled and acted like it was no big deal that now he had decided to be on the football team and that my weeks of prayers had been answered.

So he joined the team, and played and seemed to enjoy it, but when we moved down to Mexico, he again expressed disinterest in joining the team. I knew it would be even more difficult to convince a high school sophomore to join the team than I thought it was to convince a freshman, so this time I tried reasoning and soft-speaking, and eventually, I said, "Well, it's up to you, Son." That year, some how, some way, the Lord answered my prayers again, and he joined the Lobos football team.

(Shown here during his junior year, number 78, photo courtesy of Shauna Nielsen)

He stayed on the team until he graduated. The practices were grueling, and many times he talked about not doing it again the next year, saying they hardly ever won anyways, but for some reason, without any more encouragement from me, he kept with it. We went to all of his home games, and many of his out of town games. I still hated watching football, I think even more so then than ever before, because I don't think I ever saw any of the plays my son made. We were wrestling his eight younger siblings on dangerous bleachers, in blazing or frigid temperatures, the misery culminating during the year our twins started running about uncontrollably and we had an infant in tow.

But it was all worth it when my son sent a letter home from his mission a few months after he left. I've tried to find it among the scores that he sent, so I could quote it word for word, but I haven't been able to. In it, he stated that Coach was a huge motivating factor in his decision to go on a mission, and if it wasn't for him, he might not be there... and for us to let coach know that he felt that way. This letter brought many tears of joy to my eyes, and since Coach had already requested to be placed on my son's mailing list, and was receiving his letters each week, I knew this one would have very special meaning.

On to the next son, the 16-year-old boy. After watching his brother play for many years, there was no stopping him. He wanted to be on the team, no question about it. Before his first game, he asked if I would take pictures of him. I said sure. I remembered how much my oldest son enjoyed the photos his best friend's mom took of the team, and since she didn't have anyone playing with the 16-year-old boy that year, the job would be left to someone else.

So I stood on the sidelines and did the best I could. I'd never done sports photography, only stuff for my blog, but when I looked at the pictures, I realized that it was probably more fun than any other type of photography. I never knew what I would find as a went through hundreds of pictures of fast-moving action. Editing and posting them to facebook was even more fun, because the kids, parents and coaches gave such great feedback on the photos and expressed so much appreciation. So, eventually, I became the unofficial team photographer.

I now look so forward to each game! Not only do I understand the game, which I always have, I can see the ball! And not only can I see the ball, I always have to know where it is so I can get the best shot. And not only do I have to know where it is, it is possible for me to know where it is because my dearest, finest, most sacrificing husband is always in the bleachers taking care of the four rowdy little boys alone. I am so grateful to him every week as we arrive to the field and start to get all the kids set up and he says, "Go take your pictures, Jen. I've got the kids."

And what has the 16-year-old boy learned? Since he started playing two years ago, I have seen a vast difference in him. He is more responsible, more goal-oriented, more driven and more confident. We don't have Coach Kortny anymore, but Coach Brandon (another cousin of mine) is instilling valuable lessons in his players that will carry them through their adult years. Among some of the natural schooling is the refining lesson of failure, such as when there were eleven seconds left in the game, and the 16-year-old boy was told to run into the end-zone for the winning pass. He did, but just before the ball hit his hands, an opposing player jumped out of seemingly nowhere and snatched an interception. I think he blamed himself for losing the game.

(The 16-year-old boy, number 84, with the protective and compassionate arm of one of his best friends around him, only minutes after the interception. He openly cried as he walked off the field, although all of his coaches tried to comfort him.)

And there was the time when he missed a block and an ill-advised player for the opposing team apparently purposely drove his helmet into the quarterback's knee, causing him to later undergo surgery....

He still stands on the sideline leaning on a cane, but he's improving every day. The 16-year-old boy blamed himself for this, but I explained to him that sometimes things like that happen in games such as this. It's a dangerous sport and you're not always going to be able to make the play you hope for. I hope he has forgiven himself.

Ah, but then there are the joys of winning. The 16-year-old boy comes home elated each week they win, which has been five of the seven games they've played. And then there was his first interception, which came last week.....

I can't get over his happy faces....

Next in line is the 12-year-old boy. He's currently one of the water boys, and he spends more time on the field than the players do, carrying large plastic boxes and doing other things that take a lot of time.....

Judging by his game face, he's going to make an awesome addition.

So yes, the practice hours are long, leaving little time for anything else, the trips are expensive, and the injuries many of the players sustain are frightening, but to me, Fútbol Americano is all worth it. A huge thanks to all of the coaches and others who devote so much volunteer time to these young men. You are doing great things. Love you, Cousins!

Thanks for listening. :)