Guest Blog: Corn Maze 2025 by the Dog Walker

 This is the moment of truth. Ever since the beginning of October, Mom was hoping that I start putting up the Corn Maze for this year. I was about to do it over the weekend during General Conference, but on Saturday, it was so rainy, that the plan had been delayed. So, I ended up finishing it on Sunday while Princess and the Frog came over with dinner and their kids. They were fun to be around and we had a delicious meal from them called Cheeseburger Casserole. After that, we played games together, like it was the beginning of the holidays.

This will be the first time that we are celebrating the holidays without Dad. We're always going to grieve over Dad's passing, but he wouldn't want us to give up on the things he taught us to do, like putting up lights for the holidays. Anyway, there haven't been much new things to put up this year, other than a couple of blowups that were given to me for my birthday last year. There have been some blowups that we've had for a decade, but they stopped working. It was kind of sad to have to throw them away, because they were beyond repair, but Mom told me that I still have plenty of them to show to every kid throughout our neighborhood. I hope you enjoy the looks of it.

Curly's Longest Game

You all know that Curly is the center for Bingham's football team #63. It is his senior year and it is so fun to watch him take charge in the huddle and be an amazing leader on his team.

So last Friday, they were playing Copper Hills. The score was 20-3 for Bingham as the game rolled into the 4th quarter. It started to drizzle. Before long, there were huge flashes of lightning and the teams were sent to the locker rooms and the fans were asked to leave the metal bleachers. 

I gathered my things and headed for my car. By the time I got there, it was really pouring down. I wondered if they would just call the game since most of it had already been played with a clear winner established. After sitting in my car for about 20 minutes, I glanced at my phone. It was 9:42. I didn't know if Curly had access to his phone, but I fired off a quick text and then I headed for home. 

At 10:30pm, the lightning had subsided for at least 30 minutes and the the teams reemerged and began to warm up. Just as they took the field, another flash sent everyone back to shelter. Finally, at 11:10pm, they  were able to take the field and finish the game. Curly said they walked off the field at 11:55pm with the same victory they would have had if they had called the game with 11 minutes to play. 

I waited up for him, but it was after 1:00am when he came through the door. Maybe we need to reconsider the high school rules for lightning delay. Otherwise, I need to arrange for him to eat and take a nap before the opening kickoff.

Guest Blog: General Conference Weekend by the Dog Walker

Sorry that we haven't been blogging much. We've been really busy with a lot of things. Ever since Dad passed on, we've been trying to get our lives in order and to know what we can do. We even just learned about the passing of the prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Russell M. Nelson pass on as well. We've been watching General Conference and it's the first time that we ever watch the sessions without the General Presidency. We'll probably hear who the new First Presidency will be in the morning and afternoon sessions on Sunday. After dinner, Mom and I watched Armageddon, which I've heard of before, but never seen it until now. It was quite an emotional movie with a scene that I'm pretty sure that Baby Doll couldn't bear at this very moment. While watching that long movie, Mom was snapping green beans and putting them in the jars, while I worked on a birthday gift for Baby Doll. I'm sure Mom will talk about Baby Doll's birthday soon. It's really special for her.

Wordless Wednesday - Duchess's Newest Game

 

Guest Blog: Reading Holes to Mom by the Dog Walker

 Even though time has been going by really fast, life has been going really slow for us ever since a lot of us have talked about all those good times we had with Dad. Before Dad passed on, he wanted me to read the series that he used to like as a kid, called The  Great Brain. I'm pretty sure I've told you all about it before. He at least got to hear the series one more time before moving into the afterlife. Mom always likes it when I read to her, especially other books. I've read Tangerine by Edward Bloor to her a month ago. And now, I just finished reading Holes by Louis Sachar. After finishing reading the book to her, she wanted to watch the movie, and I was thinking of watching it with her when I get off work tonight. I'm thinking of being Stanley Yelnats for Halloween this year. 

My Sweetie's Funeral Talk by Teach

Teach's talk was written with talking points, so some thoughts here are incomplete.

Time on the mission when I wanted him to write his conversion story and he told me that he didn’t really have one because he was, like me, just someone that always knew the plan of salvation. That it always made sense. he didn’t need a large moment of conversion for it was simply always there. 

I struggled with my relationship with my dad for many many years. I didn’t think we had much in common, I felt like he didn’t “get me” and I felt the term “cowgirl up” was unfairly used way too often. I always loved my dad and I knew he loved me, but we didn’t vibe great. To be totally clear - this was a me problem. It was an unmet expectations issue that I couldn’t put into words and didn’t know how to reconcile. Yet life has a way of giving you experiences that bring growth and change. One night about 6 or 7 years ago, I was driving home from picking up Felicity at my parents house. My dad was sitting on the porch when I left and I said, “bye dad,” he responded and I got in the car, he waved, I drove down the street. I don’t know what was different- I don’t remember what changed, but before I had made it as far as the elementary school I was in tears and knew I needed to go give my dad a hug and tell him I love him. So I turned around and did just that. As hard as I try to remember I can’t remember any more context or results of that day. Yet I know it changed how I interacted with my dad from that point forward. 

When we moved to NJ, I started to see my dad - both my parents actually - as these vessels of knowledge. And I called many times I wanted to get into a new hobby. Dad helped me virtually learn to make bread. He walked me through fixing the plumbing, I had to call mom cause dad didn’t do video calls, and say “hey, I need to talk to dad, I got a dad question” and then I would walk him down the Lowe’s aisle of screws, nuts and bolts trying to find the one that would replace one we had lost. This specific story was especially monumental because when I was about five dad took me to Anderson Lumber to pick out screws and it was the most boring experience of my life. And he would always joke about how much I loved shopping for screws.  

He helped walk me through the process of building a garden in 2019 when we lived in Taylorsville. Much to his chagrin, it died. But he helped me in 2021 when I wanted to try again in NJ with our small garden box. He even sent me a camera so I could catch the ground hog that would sneak out from under the shed to eat my plants. That garden didn’t make it. All I harvested were some lettuce leaves. Then again in 2023, he and mom flew out to see me graduate with my Masters and we tried once more to build a garden. We found the perfect wheeled boxes, I tracked the sun and shade to give him details of the conditions. He and mom helped me pick and plant so many adorable veggies! I would send daily updates. Yet - come harvest time I got some tomatoes and a pepper the size of my thumb. I made the world’s smallest omelette. It has become abundantly clear that while I take after my dad in passion for cooking, baking, eating. I do not have the ability to grow a garden. But he never gave up on me. Some day I’ll figure it out. 

Finally the best and worst part about talking to dad was the unsolicited fatherly advice. He always had advice that I usually didn’t want to hear, but 9 times out of 10 would improve my life. He shared his opinions and he cared deeply about our lives. My dad loves his grand kids. He always wanted them to be comfortable and feel valued and wanted. My dad often would tell me how much he loved seeing me be Thomas’s mom and that he was so proud of me for all I do for Thomas. He loved them all so much. I asked him if he thought he would see the twins before they come down earth side - and although we don’t know heavenly logistics, I hope he does. I hope they are both at his side (surrounded by other future Christensen grandkids) and they are hearing my dad tell his stories. Because there is nothing better. 

My Sweetie's Funeral talk by Bossy - Part 3

I purchased my house just over 14 years ago in July and it was too late for a garden that first year, but you can bet that second year I was all in. Much to Paul and the boys dismay we had been gardening forever, prior to owning a home, I would come help plant, weed, harvest and prepare for food storage. We had been doing the easy stuff for years. Things like remembering to water, maintaining healthy soil, proper crop rotation, seed selection, I leaned heavily on my dad. And each year my garden has gotten a little bigger and a little better. Every spring it was our special planning session garden layout and design, which variety of tomatoes we wanted how to spilt the multi packs to get the best deals. Eventually I was trusted enough to go and purchase and divide the plants myself without specific lists and the post freeze enchilada sauce recipe was entrusted to me. And early each March as I start planning and humming Paul knows that while I am humming “The prophet said to plant a garden” I am singing My father said to plant a garden. 

I am sure when I eventually sit down and give other’s a chance you will hear stories of what a great consistent provider my dad was and how he always served others.  It was August and we had just finished building and moving into the dream house. Space and room for the five kids to grow and spread.  Customizations and wishes granted.  We had two water heaters and two a/c units!  We had arrived!  After months of cramped living in the tiny three bedroom apartment we were ready for space.  And dad was let go from his job. We were in a heat wave but those a/c units were “broken” and didn’t start.  I remember gathered together laying on the floor of the master bedroom fan trying to stay cool and my dad worried about how we were going to pay the mortgage, but school clothes and feed us.  He was scared. I was scared. 

It wasn’t easy for him to accept the help from the church that got those through those few months of unemployment.  His pride was hurt he was the provider. But it was also the turning point.  He showed us what it was to be humble and to serve with all your heart.  I remember dad cleaning the church with such pride and care in exchange for whatever help the bishop was providing.  And I know that from that point forward he took every calling with the most serious thought and care.  When we were financially stable he was always the first to notice and know when other families were struggling.  We started the 12 days to not just give back but I truly believe it embodied the pure love of Christ and serving our neighbors that had humbled my dad those months. I know he knew exactly what was happening with the families he was assigned to home teach and he prayerfully considers those in his quorum or his cub scouts even his nursery kids were prayed over.  

It wasn’t work hard, play hard.  It was work hard, serve harder and play. 

Serving by building a room for his father-in-law what living independently was no longer an option. Serving by his post pandemic bi monthly Saturday visits to his mother to make sure her yard was taken care of, she was eating, take care of any house needs like installing shower bars and automatic curtains.  Serving by hosting thousands of family parties. For playing Santa and making sure every cousin, boyfriend, girlfriend whatever had a present.  I may be making this up, but I am pretty sure Santa visited Kiyna’s low income classroom a few times.

When I asked Paul what he wanted me to share he gave three stories. How he took in strays referring of course to himself, Paul’s belief that my dad didn’t know how to shingle a roof, and the time he lit my house of fire. 

Paul jokes about taking in strays but that isn’t entirely untrue.  Paul got to feel first hand the love and acceptance Dad would give to anyone in the family.  Dad welcome Paul as his rough around the edge son who needed guidance, and he did a great job with retraining him.  Dad has helped mold and shape Paul into being a great loving man, a hard worker, a provider.  I don’t believe those descriptors would accurately describe the homeless, jobless man I tried to defy my mother with.  Dad never questioned Paul’s previous children and eagerly accepted them into the fold as his own children.  When we did foster care he was grandpa to all our kids equally as including them in the counts of grandchildren. When we were discussing how Dad could literally do anything and build a house from the ground up Paul said except for the roof. And I gave him a look because he was absolutely crazy, and Paul said he always made me fix the shingles.  Dear husband, Dad could have fixed the shingles but we needed the money and he didn’t want you to feel like a charity case, he wanted you to earn it. 

When we had been in our home about five years we decided it was time to finish the bathroom in the basement.  It had the sink and shower, but needed tile and a toilet.  Dad showed us how to tile, I think this was when he redid the blue bathroom and we tackled it together, honestly it turned out much better than anticipated we had a great teacher.  Shortly after installing the tile we start noticing a wet spot in the hallway floor carpet.  It grew and grew and eventually the entire floor was soaked.  Clueless on how our tile install would have created such a problem we had dad come could to help solve the mystery. And after a great deal of sleuthing he discover the upstairs bathroom sink had a leak that had been dripping down the wall into the downstairs bathroom, this leak had previously just been contained in the bathroom  and self draining but once we title and installed the toilet the leak was redirected and was no flowing under the wall into the carpet. The location of the leak was in the main beams of the upstairs floor in the wall.  Dad was in the downstairs bedroom and Paul was in the bathroom as they tried to removed and repipe the leaky elbow. (This was before the shark bite plumbing fittings were popular.) Dad armed with the torch and soder and Paul was armed with the fire extinguished to put out the fire. Dad knew there was no way to repair this without a small amount of fire damage.  And that is when my Dad and Paul intentionally lit my house on fire. 

I’ve hit 4k words now if I am reading this directly without additions. And while I could easily say 4k more about when Dad became Grandpa I am sure there are others who would like time to share.  So I will close with the final tender mercy I received last month.  About three Sundays ago I was sitting in sacrament meeting when clear as day 7 year old Calder came to me and said, “Mom, I am ready to play with the 9 year old boy.  I need him here for my birthday.” It knocked the wind out of me, I wasn’t ready.  I had been trying for 20 years to give my dad a baby girl to hold a mini Kira and I just needed 4 more months.  Could I please have 4 more months? And he firmly but gently told me we’d get Dad’s last birthday, but by his birthday it was his and Ollie’s turn. Last Wednesday, Calder woke me and told me it was the day, and that I needed to go buy peaches and say goodbye to grandpa because it was his turn. So I listened and found lemon albertas and went to say goodbye. Because my turn was over and there were people who have been waiting for his stories, forts, silly songs, and service on the otherside. 

My Sweetie's Funeral Talk by Bossy - Part 2

In the early 90s, when the West Jordan house was bursting at the seams, it was time to build the dream house. I remember the thought, care and prayers that went into selecting the perfect lot in the best neighborhood. I remember touring the model home and watching my dad’s keen eye finding inefficiencies in layout and design, the redesigned kitchen perfect for canning and gatherings, and changing the open floor plan master to accommodate the large jetted tub. Growing up the son of a plumber, my dad had an appreciation for a jetted tub, especially an oversized one. He understood what was necessary to re-enforce the floors and he planned every step. He was darn proud of his tub.

When building the house, Dad wanted the future. He planned for a security system and an intercom and to afford it. we wired everything ourselves. We spent hours at the new house pulling wire with Dad up and down the ladder while he taught by skill and example. He really could have built a home from the ground up and I depended on him many times to learn the skills that helped me with my own home. The carefully selected lot for the big house was planned for a perfectly placed home triangulated by the schools so we could always walk to school safely. This was a lesson learned the hard way at the Creekwood house where a scary open canal and train tracks made them bus kids to elementary school. Though, looking back on it, I think we were driven to school more than we rode the bus to school. For some reason, we just chronically missed that early bus.

At the new house, we could walk to school, but the option of early morning band happened. Mom asked grandma for her old plastic clarinet. And Dad, who always wanted a saxophone player to play like the guy from Eddie and the Cruisers, purchased an alto sax for Neal. But Neal’s hands were too small and pretty soon I was in both advanced and early morning band getting rides to school 4 days a week. There were no crossing guards available for early morning band, and soon we were given that ride to school

every morning. Without big sis, of course, the younger kids couldn’t walk, so my dad delayed the start of his work day to transport us to school ever day. That ride was Dad’s check in time. Those were quiet alone moments where he got tabs on us and felt out how we were doing at school, with friends, and at church; semi-private dad conferences that I didn’t appreciate. 

As I was thinking over this talk, I realized this was the start of the "unsolicited fatherly advice" my dad was so famous for. As we graduated and became parents ourselves, these check-ins took place on the front porch in the green rocking chairs. My final long drive home with Dad happened this July. It was strange to be the one in the driver’s seat; we all knew Dad hated to be driven because he never wanted to be stranded.

You didn’t wager with Dad. After Calder died, Paul and I went to a fertility specialist who very bluntly told me if I wanted to have more babies, I needed to lose weight. And so in a seeking "fatherly advice" on the subject conversation, I was listing excuses as to why I didn’t want to lose weight and at the time the biggest barrier was I didn’t want to have to buy new clothes for work. So Dad said, "If you lose 100 lbs, I’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe. Some time later, after my surgeries and 150 lbs weight lost, I had just shared the news of being pregnant with Ryker to my dad on his birthday. I brought up the new wardrobe, hinting that I would be wanting new clothes after I was done with this pregnancy and he better be ready to pay up in March. My sly dad said, double or nothing. Instead of a new wardrobe if Paul and I had 10 kids he’d give me $10k. I didn’t really care about the new clothing and honestly the odds of hitting 10 kids when I had 4ish seemed impossible, so I took that bet. Two years ago, after Denver was born, Paul was teasing Dad about how Denver was number ten and it was time to pay up.

Dad quickly started counting the babies. Ultimately, he decided that I could count Cat and Dakota as kids because they had lived with me for several years, but he wasn’t going to count Elizabeth in the total kids for the bet because she hadn’t lived with us. Therefore, we were at nine kids. On Father’s Day, when Denver wore his big brother shirt and it clicked, Dad shouted for joy and quickly turned to panic when Paul said, "Yup, number 11." 

"Dad, this is a crappy way to get out of our bet."

My dad loved cars. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting in the front seat (it was the 90s) and helping “shift” while Dad drove. I distinctly remember being taught how to shift on our way to  Montessori from the condo. I also remember the elicit gas station breakfasts on these school trips. Perhaps the only “selfish” thing my dad did was the purchase of the G8. Before the G8, Dad always had the hand-me-down commuter car which were usually given to me eventually and driven to their demise. The Escort, the Suzuki; I remember when dad was sideswiped driving to L3 and the Suzuki was totaled. Neal bought the Suzuki because he wanted to learn how to drive a stick and there are very few manual cars that could accommodate his size and allow it. Eventually it was gifted to Paul and it became Paul’s everyday commuter until Cat needed it and she eventually wrecked it. It was mostly cosmetic, but our insurance refused to cover repairs so we gifted it back to Nephi who also wanted to learn to drive a manual and fix up the car. And while that project has been sitting and has since been gifted down, I hope the project is actually fixed and Kori does get to drive it, because year before that, it was Dad’s daily commuter and fatherly advice is woven into the fabric of the car. No pressure, little brothers.

With the Suzuki wrecked, dad drove the big van and after months of commuting and the parking nightmare, he decided he wanted to buy the G8. It was researched and planned. And too expensive, something mom complained about the first time he needed to buy his special tires for it. But dad was so proud of that G8. Although to this day. I do not believe he ever let my husband drive it, not even to play driveway shuffle. Sorry Paul, you shouldn’t have rear-ended Andrew Clark in the snow at 5 miles an hour the first winter we were married.

Back to building the dream house; Dad’s childhood house was magic, more than the pull up bar on the stairs and the unfinished wraparound porch with the excellent climbing rocks. It had the shed full of Grandpa Christensen’s tools, and the larger than life garden and sandbox. So when my parents  purchased their third of an acre lot, it was no surprise that we would have a big garden and mom had consented to a sandbox similar to the small garden we had that the West Jordan house. I remember the day the dump trucks brought the sand. Yes, I said trucks. Now dad claims it was a miscalculation when he ordered 2 trucks and a pup worth of sand for our sandbox, but I know that man knew how to calculate materials correctly. And that sandbox was the 9-year-old boy's fantasy. I could spend the next hour telling stories of flooding the sandbox and playing hard in the yard with Dad. But few appreciate the work and efforts he has made over the last 30 years to maintain it as a sandbox and not an outdoor litter box. First, it is high quality sand, not the construction sand that was in his Dad’s sandbox. 

He worked hard to keep it weed and pest free and I have never found any animal waste in that sandbox. It has always been a safe clean space for imaginations to run wild.

Last part tomorrow...

My Sweetie's Funeral Talk by Bossy

Bossy's talk will be split over several days because of the length. But you won't be sorry, it is worth the read; funny and heart-warming.

I was almost five when my dad’s dad, Grandpa Christensen died. Same age as Ryker and Oakley, a little bit younger than Thomas, Gavin, and Josh. In those beginning years, Neal and I were college babies; we had young and financially strained parents who lived a great distance from their parents. We would visit when we could; during fall and winter break, other holidays to can and raid the food storage, and to see our grandparents. I believe there is one photo of me with grandpa Christensen, but I don’t remember him personally. What I remember is the superhero tale told by my father, when he was growing about his father. Grandpa Christensen was stronger than Superman, he could withstand the force of multiple blows to the head with a 2x4. He ran faster than a deer. He fought hard for our country, so hard that his hair turned white overnight. The man, the myth the legend, kept alive by the artful storyteller that was my own father.

In many ways I have two stories to tell, the twenty years he was my dad and the twenty years after I had bestowed him with the title “Grandpa.” The best example I can give of my dad growing up, and forgive me if it is way off base, Kiyna, I have a confession. I stopped halfway through book five and never finished the series, but my dad was Hagrid.
Big guy, long hair, leather jacket, strong, loyal, and scary if you crossed him. He was a gentle giant who was also my spiritual rock.

Let’s start with the long hair. Most of my childhood, my dad and I were in competition for who had the best hair. I concede now that I likely lost this contest in my childhood, but my dad knew that in my insecure world as the chubby, socially-awkward child that when I was home, stewing about the mean girls at school, he could always turn my mood around by instigating a who had the longest hair contest. We would rally the judges and we each took turns, my dad with an exaggerated half back bend and myself contorting far more flexible, ever trying to will my hair to touch my butt and win. As a teenager, when the hair game became silly, instead my place to hide my insecurities was stealing his beloved leather jackets and hiding inside them. His shield protected me from the insecurities of an overweight teenager in a world that idolized anorexia.

Growing up, one of our favorite Grandpa Christensen stories was my dad sharing his own bratty behavior. We loved hearing about the time grandma-great threw the tv out the front door because her boys were being naughty, but a classic replay was the bike. My dad, the preteen, was over at a friend's house who lived up the street, uphill from their
house. He had ridden his bike over there. At some point, he entered a battle of wills with his mom and started being disrespectful. The mistake was that his dad was present
and had he heard him. My dad caught the look and knew he was in trouble. He made his exit plan and grabbed his bike. It was the 70s, so picture the banana seat with the handle on the back. Grandpa Christensen told him to apologize to his mother. And my
dad positioned himself carefully at the top of the hill ready to ride. He said “No!” and promptly took off as fast as his legs could pedal from the top of the street knowing he was free; he was on his bike and his dad on foot. Legend says he was to the neighbor's driveway when the strong arm encircled his waist to keep him from flying over the handlebars as his dad’s other hand grabbed the handle on the bike seat and swiftly ended his escape plans. Dad was marched back to the neighbor's house to apologize to his mother. 

We had heard this story hundreds of times growing up, so it shouldn’t have

been a surprise that we have our own version of this story. Neal was between 11 and 12, not yet 6’4” or whatever ridiculous height he is now. I was still taller at this point. We were
in the kitchen and Neal was mouthing off to Mom, Dad came around the corner and quietly and firmly in the don’t mess with me voice told him to straighten up and apologize. Of course as big sister, I was gleefully watching with popcorn. Forgetting all
the warning tells of Christensen boys who sass their mothers, Neal dug in with a “No!” We were inside, so he didn’t have a bike to escape on, so he planned a distraction, he knocked over a Pepsi. We will have to ask him, I don’t remember if Dad was holding it or it was on the counter, but with his distraction in play, he created a mess and fall hazard and took off
like it was Mario cart and the banana would assure his victory and escape. I’ve never seen my father move so fast and gracefully as he channeled his inner Superman and grabbed Neal by the ankles and proceeded to use his hair to mop up the Pepsi while
lecturing him on treating mom with respect and apologizing. He was strong.

Dad was so proud of his kids. I know that the secrecy of L3 and his work and not being able to bring us in and show off his lab was difficult for him. Even though we only got to see his office once during the special L3 party, I already knew what his office would look like. The model yellow Chevy Nomad I had gifted him with my own money, and a bookcase with 12 photos lined up; pictures of us kids. Dad would constantly brag about us and share our happenings. I am sure many of his coworker friends here know more about us than we know about them.

My earliest memories of my dad include, silly songs, pillow forts and the video camera. I swear he had the video camera for an arm from 87-93 recording the mundaneness of our everyday lives. Those home videos of slides and jumping into pillows were not special occasions that was our every day growing up with a dad who called himself a 9-year old boy. We were trained by the best, as children waiting for Mom to get out of class or

finish a Tupperware party, we knew where all the good parks and slides where Dad was always there alongside us, never afraid of getting stuck in a tunnel slide. And so grateful because it was difficult to make that 9-year-old angry. Neal and I got away with practically murder for naughty behavior growing up during a brief obsession with Cool Runnings.
We turned the staircase into a practice track with bunkbed mattresses and laundry basket
bobsleds, ruining the mattresses, baskets and putting holes in the wall. My dad just replaced and the patched wall. . By the way, the mattress stair slide sans baskets continued to the Bridle Oak house and nearly middle school. I am pretty sure at least once my dad also slid down the stairs to see how fun it was. He did, however, make us haul the matresses to the downstairs stairs because the open hallway was safer than landing into the wall at the bottom of the main floor.

At his childhood home it was the equivalent of the pull up bar on the stairs. Neal and I were too short to reach it, but that didn’t stop us from jumped from several stairs up trying

 to be cool like Uncle Greg. Eventually, Dad would come over and lift us up to reach and catch us when we could only hold on for a few seconds.

Come back tomorrow for more.

Time to Hear from Me

I'm so sorry that others have taken over writing for me. Everything is just so raw and new, and I am so tired. I don't sleep at night, but then I doze off during the day. My most embarrassing moment was at Baby Doll's volleyball game. I was actually visiting with one of the moms I have known for a long time. I thought maybe I had just zoned out, but she said, "You need more sleep." And we shared a laugh. 

Yes, I still laugh. It's just that the laughter is fewer and further between. I know and understand that my Father in Heaven's plan is much better than the one I had, but that doesn't take away the intense longing to hold my sweetie's hand or to hear about his day at work. 

Today, I spent hours taking his clothes and shoes out of our closet. I don't know what I will do with all the extra room. He always had more clothes than me. He loved to dress up in his fedoras and colorful Jerry Garcia ties. He had about a dozen different dinner jackets and SO many shirts!! I gave some to the Dog Walker and the others boys are taking a few. We will take everything else out to Deseret Industries. They always told me they loved the bigger sizes, so this should really make them happy. 

My sweetie's best work friend brought home the contents of his office in 3 small boxes. He had a bunch of plaques and trophies, but he always said his most prized possessions were the 12 little frames that held pics of our kids. 

We are working hard to find a new normal. You know, we spent a week out of real life, planning and then having the funeral, but life didn't stop for those around us. More school assignments were given, more PTO was used, and even some unpaid leave. Now we are trying to catch up. Curly is pretty good, but Baby Doll still has some assignments to do. Some of her teachers were kind enough to excuse some of the busy work and that has helped too. 

Baby Doll has another volleyball game tomorrow and Friday is Senior Night at the Homecoming Game for Curly. Can you believe they only have away games left? It seems like the season just started. I have been so impressed with their teammates. Nearly all of the volleyball players (over 30 of them) showed up at the viewing at the same time!! They gave Baby Doll the love and support she needed at the perfect time. And Curly told me the team was showing up for the funeral, but I thought he meant the coaches and his friends. But as I stood up to follow the casket out of the room, I looked up and was greeted with this sea of football faces! Curly said about 45 out of 60 players were there to support him and that is saying something because they had to get out of school, dress nice, all of it. I stood with him at the door as they exited the church, each grabbing him in a giant bro hug. Why are those darn tears always so close to the surface??

So for now, while my feelings are still so raw and tender, I might just have someone else post for me. Please keep coming back and supporting my kids, because they are hurting too. How long does it take for the pain to go away? I asked Scout to take my sweetie off speed dial today. Yesterday, I was at the mortuary again, going over financial stuff and choosing a marker for our grave. Today, some guy who went to high school with my sweetie called me for the second time since the funeral a week ago. BLOCK! Yeah. I need real life again. I don't really like this new normal.