Farewell Jodie

I met Jodie 5 ½ years ago after moving to Cambridge and into a new church congregation. I was assigned as a visiting teacher to Jodie. When my companion, Megan, and I visited the first time, I had a hard time understanding what Jodie was saying; she talked very fast and had a thick Boston accent, although if you asked her, it was a “Sum-muh-vull” accent - not Boston. A few years later, my assignment changed but we stayed close friends - exchanging dinners, having playdates, and engaging in some of the most spiritual discussions of my life.

Jodie was a proud resident of Somerville for almost her entire life. She moved a few houses across the Somerville-Medford town line for a few years, but never considered herself a Medford resident. She showed me the street she grew up on and she talked about how all the young kids moving in called it “the ‘ville” now, how Davis Square was hardly recognizable, and how gentrified it was becoming. She loved the grittiness of Somerville, the diversity of the people, and the general busy-ness of the crowded city.

She was a lot like Somerville: always a busybody, rarely able to sit still, all action, constantly chattering but never wasting time chatting about dull or meaningless things. Jodie was one of the most honest people I have ever known. She never asked “how are you?” without really meaning it. She sometimes told me I looked tired, but she also gave the best compliments.

Jodie always had a hard time with organized religion, but never flailed in her relationship with Jesus Christ. She told me she had a rough upbringing, but then turned her life around and dedicated it to Christ more than a decade ago. She talked to God the way most people talk to each other. Sometimes she praised him, sometimes she begged him for whatever it was she wanted, and sometimes she was so mad at him that she fought with him.  

Jodie often left lengthy voicemails on my phone. Here is a snippet from one that lasted 2 minutes, 11 seconds in October: “Hi Emily, it’s Jodie. I am feeling better. I had the worst week of my life last week. Every bad thing that could happen happened. But I endured and I did not curse God. But I prayed because I was too afraid I would curse Him. But we talked about it and He’s cool….”

Sometimes she attended the Mormon church with me. She loved taking the sacrament, bringing her granddaughter, and livening up Sunday School classes with her honest commentary. She had no problems calling out a whole congregation for not reading from the scriptures enough or not helping the poor enough. She was honest and big-hearted, and she expected everyone who called themselves a Christian to do the same.

She sometimes attended the Catholic Church because it was so close to her house. She enjoyed the music and the rituals. She even liked confession. Even when she attended the Catholic church, she always said she knew the Mormon church was the true church. But she still paid tithing at both.

Our church puts on a wreathmaking activity every year around Christmastime and Jodie owned this event. She loved the live Christmas music, the spiritual message, and socializing with women while making a wreath. She always brought about a dozen friends and never missed it. She attended this in December between stints at the hospital and made a huge bushy wreath with a gigantic bow on it. It was about half the size of her front door.

Jodie always had crazy things happening to her. She called them her “God winks” - times when she knew God was looking out for her. In December, she posted on Facebook that she wanted a free Christmas tree. An hour later, a friend of hers pulled up with a free tree. He said he was walking near Davis Square, had just read her post, and a man randomly offered him a free Christmas tree. It was perfect.

Another time, she saw there was an Aerosmith concert nearby and convinced a friend to take her even though they didn’t have tickets. They sweet-talked an usher and made it into the concert. When she found dimes on the ground, she said they were signs from her husband, who passed away suddenly a few years before we met. She loved him and talked about him often. Sometimes she would hear a song on the radio and swear that he had sent it to her at that moment.

Jodie worked as a housecleaner for a living. She worked hard and was proud of it. She bragged about how spotless the bathrooms were once she was finished with them. She worked up until a few months ago when the physical stress of her job caught up with her. Jodie never had a lot of money, but never considered herself poor either. She always contributed to food drives and toy drives, and always bought me and my kids Christmas presents even when I told her it wasn’t necessary. Bruce cherishes a shark tooth that she gave to him. Phoebe has a whole collection of playdough and coloring books. Oliver got some finger puppets. I have a few pieces of clothing she gave me, including a purple sweater that she said would look good with my red hair.

Jodie always looked out for the underdogs. She collected coats and warm clothing for the homeless. A few weeks ago, she said she couldn’t sleep because she kept thinking about the homeless sleeping outside on such a cold night. She was a frequent volunteer at the Ruby Rogers shelter in Union Square; she served food and chatted with the homeless like they were her siblings. Being a widow herself, she was always mindful of others in her situation and comforted several women who lost spouses.

She babysat my kids a few times, sometimes on short notice. One time she watched Bruce, Phoebe and Oliver while Scott and I attended a work dinner. I hadn’t left Oliver with anyone except family and he was still breastfed exclusively, so I was really worried about leaving him for a few hours. I texted Jodie in the middle of dinner, “How are the kids?” She didn’t reply, and I tried not to stress out and enjoy the night. We never texted, so I wondered if she even had texting on her phone. Two days later, she finally replied, “WHO ARE YOU AND WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?” Turns out that she had gotten a new phone, didn’t have my contact info in it yet, and got the text much later than I’d sent it. Jodie will be one fiercely protective guardian angel.

Jodie loved all my kids, but she had a special spot for Oliver. When I was pregnant with him and trying to come up with a name, she asked, “Have you thought about the name Oliver?” Except that she said it, “Oh-liv-ahhh.” I loved the way she said it and the name stuck.

Jodie has two grown kids about my age and a handful of grandchildren. She loved spending time with her family and loved cooking big meals with them. Jodie was about 4’10” and maybe 75 pounds after a Thanksgiving dinner. She was Italian and loved food, but she was such a busybody it never showed on her frame. Jodie always raved about the food I brought her, and I think I may have brought her more just because she praised it so much. She told me I needed to open a restaurant because I was shortchanging the world by not sharing this food with the general public. I told her she needed to try my mom and grandma’s cooking. She liked trying new foods, but also had a few favorites. Carrot cake may have been her number one choice, so I made her a big one every year on her birthday.

Jodie had some chronic health problems, but never told people how serious they were until it was too late. She didn’t want to be remembered as a sick person, and so she carried on as usual until she absolutely could not. When she was put on hospice care, she went to a respite center for a few days. She came home from that and complained about how there was nothing to do there: “You just lay there and watch TV! There’s not even a garden to walk in or activities or anything!” When Jodie finished her work here, she died on Thursday, February 5, with her children at her bedside. I played Aerosmith in her honor, and I imagine she is having quite the party with her husband right about now.

A few of our favorite things

1. Summertime! Bruce and Phoebe have one more week of school left and are counting down the days until vacation. We get a zillion holidays during the school-year, so that combined with the other zillion snow days we had and we have a very late summer vacation.

2. Hampers. Oliver's new favorite trick is to overturn the hamper, throw out all the laundry piece by piece, and then climb in. And just hang out. He doesn't really do much once he's in there. He just sits.

3. Our garden! I am happy to be able to do a little more in the garden this year. Our little plot yields a few tiny ripe strawberries per day, plus a good-sized salad. We have strawberries, herbs, lettuce, spinach, broccoli, a million tomatoes, and a tiny blueberry bush.

4. Running. I recently switched running clubs from the Greater Boston Track Club to the Boston Athletic Association. GBTC practices were across town and increasingly difficult to get to, while the BAA practices are a half-mile from my house. I am getting to practice more reliably and I'm hoping this translates to better fitness at some point. I still feel postpartum lumpiness, but I managed to run a 19:56 in a hilly 5K last weekend (first race since the marathon!). This weekend I'm running a trail 5K that I am really excited about.

5. Minecraft. Every day after school, Bruce speeds through his chores so he can get his 30-minute fix of Minecraft. He builds villages, trades diamonds for cookies (makes sense, right?), battles zombies and dragons, and blows stuff up with TNT. Afterward he tells me all about it. I just nod my head.

6. Everything related to firetrucks. Phoebe is still crushing on firefighters, particularly the ones at the station closest to us. She knows a half-dozen of them by name and regularly tells stories about their firefighting exploits.

7. Scott! We celebrated Father's Day with a manly breakfast, new headlamps, church, and dinner with a radiology friend. Speaking of church and Scott, he got called as the second counselor in the bishopric two months ago. So far it means that he is stressed out a bit more, emails a lot more, disappears on Sundays, and doesn't sit with us in church. Looking on the bright side, he pays more attention in church (since he has to sit up front!), and gets to counsel people and make a difference in their lives.

You are invited...

Our family is having a bit of a celebration in two weeks and you are all invited to join us. The first event will be Bruce's baptism on Saturday, August 3, from 9-10:30 a.m. at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (email or call me if you don't know where it's at and I'll send you directions). Bruce turned eight years old in May and decided that he is ready to follow Jesus Christ and be baptized.

In our church, we believe that we should be baptized only when we can discern between right and wrong and when we have the desire to follow Christs's example. Bruce has shown both of these things and we are proud of the many good choices he is making.

Bruce will be baptized on Saturday, and Oliver will be blessed on Sunday, August 4, during the 9-10:15 a.m. sacrament meeting; again, it is at the church and everyone is invited. The baby blessing is a simple prayer that Scott offers to give Oliver his name and to provide some protection and direction for him.

If you would like to celebrate with our family, eat a few treats, and maybe see me cry like a baby (and maybe see Oliver cry like a baby?!), please join us on August 3-4.

Fast & Testimony Sunday

On the first Sunday of every month, our church has a sort-of "open mic morning" where anyone from the congregation can get up and share their feelings and brief testimonies about Jesus Christ and the gospel. We usually abstain from food for 24 hours (fasting) during this meeting, but being pregnant I've excused myself from that.

I usually excuse myself from getting up and speaking in front of people too. I come up with lots of excuses to avoid getting up in front of a microphone: my kids are driving me crazy, I'm too hungry and therefore cranky to get up and say anything nice, I'm sandwiched between too many people that I don't want to trip over, etc. Mostly though, I just don't like public speaking. It makes my heart beat really hard, my brain shuts down and I can't think of anything to say, my throat feels five times smaller, and I feel like I'm going to barf. I will still do it when asked, but I don't prefer to torture myself more than necessary.

Earlier this week I challenged Bruce to share his testimony this Sunday. We have been talking a lot about what it means to be baptized lately, because Bruce is almost eight years old and wants to be baptized. Part of being baptized, I told him, is being a witness of Jesus Christ. Bruce said he was scared of getting up in front of everybody (gee, I have no idea where he gets that from!), so I told him I would come too. He accepted the challenge and wrote down a few things he wanted to say.

And so today, I asked him again if he was willing and ready to share his testimony. He said he was. Phoebe then said she wanted to come too. I figured it would probably be best to bring her anyway because Scott was home sleeping after a long night shift in the ER; I didn't want Phoebe sitting in a pew by herself. When the time came, we walked up to the front. Someone else was talking, so we sat down toward the side and waited our turn. Phoebe had a hard time sitting still because she was so excited (you can thank Scott for those superbly self-confident genes). As soon as she heard "Amen," Phoebe jumped up and shouted "My turn!" while sprinting to the microphone.

She was too short for the pulpit, so I lifted her up a little and her face hit the mic: THUD. "Owww!"

She stared at the crowd for a moment and I asked her if she wanted to say something. She said, "I love my brother." She breathed in the mic for a few more seconds and I asked her the same question again. "I love my family." More breathing. "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

Bruce came up to the microphone next and read his perfectly polished and prepared testimony. He talked about how Jesus was baptized and how he wanted to be baptized too. He didn't even look nervous; he did great.

And then I got up and tried to say something somewhat coherent. I admitted that I don't enjoy public speaking, but that getting outside of my comfort zone is how I grow. I testified that the Lord helps me as I seek this growth. While I spoke for a minute or two, Phoebe ran behind me to the organ and swiped the organist's shoes. Bruce tried to drag her away from mischief, eliciting a few yelps and shoves. When I finished speaking, Bruce shuttled the shoes back to the organ and I shuttled Phoebe back to our seat.

Phoebe gave me a big hug, squeezed my face, and said, "Mom, I am so proud of you."

Happy 2013!

2012 was a great year: med school graduation, an amazing trip to Costa Rica, overall good health and security. But 2013 is going to be even better.

A few weeks ago I spoke in church about having hope even when in grim circumstances. I slaved over this talk for almost a month and by the time I delivered it, I had rewritten it at least a dozen times. If you read to the end, you might figure out why 2013 is going to be an awesome year...

A Perfect Brightness of Hope

Good afternoon. For those who don’t know me, my name is Emily Raymond. I moved to Boston eight years ago with my husband, Scott, so he could pursue an MD/PhD. He graduated last spring and is now in the first year of a five-year residency. While Scott has been studying and working, I’ve done a lot in Boston: I worked at a biotech, filing papers and drawing illustrations of brain perfusion monitors. I worked at a publishing company writing newsletters and pamphlets for businesses. I worked at several web sites reviewing digital cameras and writing electronics industry news. I’ve taught fitness classes, I’ve run every race from the 5K to the marathon, and I currently nanny a two-year-old. But most of my time has been spent with our two children, 7-year-old Bruce and 3-year-old Phoebe.

I have been asked to speak about hope, specifically on the meaning of the phrase from 2 Nephi 31:20 that says we should have a “perfect brightness of hope” and how we can have this hope even when facing grim circumstances.

This is a topic I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about over the past few months for various reasons. Two friends of mine have gone through significant trials lately and their hope and faith remains unshaken despite the grimmest of circumstances. I saw a friend from my former ward at October’s Stake Conference ; her 2-year-old son is undergoing treatments at the Dana Farber Cancer Center for a very rare form of cancer that has a 10 percent survival rate.

Little progress has been made over the past few months and he now faces a risky surgery that will leave him permanently disabled, at best. Yet when I asked my friend how she was holding up, she told me of the outpouring of love and support people have shown her and her family. She told me of the miracles that she and her family have witnessed and the gratitude she has for a loving Heavenly Father. She still maintains hope that her son will make a full recovery.

Another friend of mine has a set of 4-year-old twin boys, one of which was diagnosed with cancer at three years old. After a year-long roller coaster ride of fear and hope, their doctors told them there was nothing more they could do. My friend wrote on her blog, “Today we learned that despite the many battles that Keith has won over the last year and a half, our sweet little boy will ultimately lose his war with cancer. The news is crushing. We continue to believe in and hope for a miracle in his final hour, while simultaneously praying for the strength and understanding to accept the will of God, even if it’s not our own.” Keith passed away shortly after she wrote this, and my friend’s hope is now that she will be able to see him again because of the Plan of Salvation.

With the steadfast examples of my friends in mind, I have been facing my own challenge in the past few weeks that has kept me toeing the line between hope and fear. Don’t worry, it’s not cancer – but I’ll get to that later. My past experience and statistics tell me I have good reason to fear, but I am doing my best to not only be hopeful, but to have a “perfect brightness of hope.”

Nephi says we “must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope and a love of God and of all men” (2 Nephi 31:20). I think when we think of hope, we often confuse it with its relative, optimism.

Indeed, Wikipedia says that “hope is the emotional state which promotes the belief in a positive outcome related to events and circumstances in one’s life.” But this seems to be a naïve hope, one that does not last beyond events and outcomes.

I believe that the “perfect brightness of hope” that Nephi talks about can only come from Jesus Christ. This kind of hope allows us to see beyond events and life’s circumstances. It isn’t blind optimism that ignores the past or statistics. It acknowledges that bad things happen in life, but that in the end Jesus Christ will right all the wrongs, soothe all the grief, calm all the fears, and take away all the pain.

Elder Neal A. Maxwell said that this kind of hope “is tied to Jesus and the blessings of the great Atonement, blessings resulting in the universal Resurrection and the precious opportunity provided thereby for us to practice emancipating repentance.”

It is the kind of hope that I have been clinging to for the past few weeks. I mean it when I say that I truly appreciate receiving this assignment to speak on this soul-churning topic. I have more fully studied how to maintain hope, which is just what I need to be doing right now, according to Elder Neil A. Andersen.

In his October conference talk, Elder Andersen said, “How do you remain steadfast and immovable during a trial of faith? You immerse yourself in the very things that helped you build your core of faith: you exercise faith in Christ, you pray, you ponder the scriptures, you repent, you keep the commandments, and you serve others.”

I want to focus my comments on exercising faith in Christ, praying, pondering the scriptures, and serving others. I think exercising faith in Christ is perhaps the trickiest when going through a trial. In the adult session of Stake Conference, a single sister raised her hand and tearfully asked leaders how she could have hope when she was getting older, was still unmarried, and felt like her chances for eternal progression in terms of having a family were waning. Sister Camie Conde from the Stake Primary responded with some inspired advice: “Keep doing what you are doing. The Lord is preparing your future. He knows where you are and where you are going.”

I feel like I have read this over and over again, reminding myself that Heavenly Father loves me, has a plan for me, and that if everything isn’t okay tomorrow it will be made okay through Jesus Christ’s Atonement.

Communicating with Heavenly Father is a wonderful gift that we have been given: Prayer helps me maintain hope. It strengthens my faith, reminds me of what I have and am grateful for, enlightens my understanding, and can help me make changes in my life. A few years ago when I was going through a particular trial, I was praying for the situation to change (Heavenly Father, please make this go away!). More recently I have been praying that I will change. I have been asking God to strengthen me so that I will be accepting of His will, whatever it may be.

Reading and pondering the scriptures is helpful in maintaining hope. Two weeks ago, Chris Gillespie taught a Sunday School lesson on the last few chapters of Mormon. He talked about Moroni, Mormon’s son, and his terrible situation, which Moroni recounts in Mormon 8:2-5:

“And now it came to pass that after the great and tremendous battle at Cumorah, behold, the Nephites who had escaped into the country southward were hunted by the Lamanites, until they were all destroyed.

And my father also was killed by them, and I even remain alone to write the sad tale of the destruction of my people. But behold, they are gone, and I fulfill the commandment of my father. And whether they will slay me, I know not.

Therefore, I will write and hide up the records in the earth; and whither I go it mattereth not.

Behold, my father hath made this record, and he hath written the intent thereof. And behold, I would write it also if I had room upon the plates, but I have not; and ore I have none, for I am alone. My father hath been slain in battle, and all my kinsfolk, and I have not friends nor whither to go; and how long the Lord will suffer that I may live I know not.”

And so while Moroni lived in this awful circumstance, how could he have hope? He didn’t have much hope for his present lonesome situation, but he still had that “perfect brightness of hope” that remained in Christ, as evidenced in Mormon 9:21:

 

“Behold, I say unto you that whoso believeth in Christ, doubting nothing, whatsoever he shall ask the Father in the name of Christ it shall be granted him; and this promise is unto all, even unto the ends of the earth.”

Moroni could have prayed for a boat to take him away or a companion to be with, and it appears that he had the faith to have that granted him. But his perfect hope was not in his present circumstance but in Jesus Christ – and he knew that his words and last works of his life would have an impact that would last for many centuries. It seems that Moroni, although very lonely and often sad in the latter stages of his life, found hope in the service he provided to future generations.

I have also found that service, while helping others, builds my hope. At times when my hope dwindles, I have found that taking someone a meal or driving someone to the grocery store helps me feel God’s love in a very real way. Being an instrument in His hands gives me greater purpose.

I have needed this strength from service, prayer, and exercising faith as I have faced my most recent challenge: I found out that I was pregnant 9 weeks ago. This is usually a joyful event for people; I am really happy about it and it’s exactly what I want, but my reaction also includes fear from bad experiences in the past. Before I had Phoebe, I had three miscarriages and each one served up a new flavor of grief. My successful pregnancies – Bruce and Phoebe – ended six weeks early and resulted in lengthy, stressful hospital stays.

So while every day I hope that this little baby will get comfy and stay awhile, my past haunts me into a state of guarded optimism. I realize that by sharing this, I could very well be opening myself to a world of pain, but I’ve also learned from the past that I could use a support crew regardless of the outcome. So come the New Year, I will probably need a hug or a kind word either way.

I hope that this works out, but I honestly don’t know if it will. I do know that Heavenly Father exists, that He loves me and has a plan for me, and that He sent Jesus Christ to atone for my sins, sorrows, and pains. I know that He has helped me through grim circumstances in the past and that He will be there whether I have a baby in July or whether I miscarry tomorrow. This is where my hope lies: not that everything will go my way, but that Christ will be there to comfort me when it doesn’t and celebrate with me when it does.

I testify that as we exercise faith, pray, and serve, we will look to Christ with a perfect brightness of hope. I say these things in the name of the one who brings us the truest form of hope, Jesus Christ, Amen. 

 

 

So it did work out!!! I am now 13 weeks along and this little baby is still kicking around in there. I am breathing a big sigh of relief now that I'm past that ugly first trimester. I'm going to enjoy the next few months before things get crazy during the third trimester. I am due July 16, but if this baby follows its siblings' footsteps, it will debut sometime in early June.

 

The kids are ridiculously excited. They both want a boy, mostly because of a cheesy song from Phineas and Ferb. I'll be happy either way, but I'll admit that I'm biased toward a boy too: less inner-family competition for Phoebe and more manly connection with Bruce. Scott thinks another girl would be fun, but he is clearly not envisioning the teenage years. He also picked out a few names - Zoila for a girl and Perseus for a boy - again, not thinking about the teenage years. 

Clearly, we have a lot to work on before June.

Happy Birthday Elder Mars

This is a vintage photo of my youngest brother, the 10th of 10 kids, Ben. You might think that because he's the youngest, he is pampered, spoiled, and self-centered.Pampered? Maybe a little. Spoiled? Not so much that he doesn't appreciate it. Self-centered? Not at all. We definitely had fun together. During my last year of high school and for the next few summers, I took my younger siblings on "dates." We raided the Entertainment Book and collected all kinds of coupons for free stuff, and we would go out on the cheap. We would often go for a round of bowling (free for kids, coupons for the rest of us), then to a few restaurants (free pizza here, free fries there, etc.). The above photo is from a date where we went to a restaurant that offered free meals to anyone in a coconut bikini. Today Ben turns 21. He will not be getting drunk and having a wild party. Instead, he will be knocking on doors, talking to people about Jesus Christ, doing service projects, and studying scriptures. Ben was assigned to proselyte in the Hartford, Connecticut mission; since then, the Hartford area mission has combined with Boston. Elder Mars has been within a mile of my house and been in church buildings that we attend, but we have not crossed paths (missionaries aren't supposed to contact family other than a weekly email while on a mission). He finishes his two-year mission in a few weeks, and then he will get to stop by my house, say hello, and finally meet Phoebe (she was a home-bound newborn when he left). Happy Birthday Elder Mars!

Meet the Stuarts

My parents sent me home with a trunk-load of freshly picked corn. Some of it was for me, but some was for my youngest brother, Ben, who is serving a church mission in Hartford, Connecticut. Because Ben is supposed to stay focused on sharing the good word, he isn't allowed to contact family by phone or in person. He does send a weekly mass email that tells about his experiences as a missionary. Recently his emails have been telling about the Stuarts, a family he met and taught and baptized.
It turns out the Stuarts came to Boston this weekend to go to the temple. We met them there and swapped corn and stories of Ben. They took the corn home and cooked it up for Ben. We took a few pictures at our meeting; the temple grounds are gorgeous!

A Story About Bruce

Lately, Bruce wants to wear Scott's ties to church. He's too sophisticated for his clip-on ties now.
But these pictures have nothing to do with the story. I was not carrying my camera at the time; and even if I was, I still wouldn't have had an extra hand to take a picture. But if I did, I would have a picture of a metal box mounted to a wall next to a crusty urine-scented elevator. On the box is a "help" button - a little ironic here.

Bruce, Phoebe, and I ventured out to get a birthday present for Bruce's friend. We took the train and were planning on going to a bookstore. We got off the train, exited through the turnstiles, and strolled over to the elevator. Bruce pushed the "up" button on the elevator and then, almost like he were dancing, turned around and smacked his head on the help button box. His head hit the corner and Bruce buckled at the knees. His face was mangled with pain, and he was drawing that big long breath before letting out a long sob. There was blood coming out of the spot where he bumped his head. It wasn't gushing, but it was oozing.

The elevator came and the doors opened.

A man selling popcorn a few feet away grabbed a cold Mountain Dew out of his fridge and offered it for Bruce's head. I picked Bruce up and tried to hold the pop can to his head, but that made him freak out more. Thanks, I tell the guy. He lets me keep the bloody pop can.

I carry Bruce into the elevator while somehow also pushing Phoebe's stroller. We get up to street level and luckily, Bruce's primary care doctor is less than a block away from this train station. I walk, carrying a sobbing Bruce and pushing Phoebe. We cause quite a scene: some random guy tells me that Bruce's head is bleeding and everyone is looking at us.

We make it up to Bruce's doctor's office. I plop Bruce on the receptionist's desk and tell her we don't have an appointment, but that we'd like to see a doctor right away. A nurse comes out and pushes the stroller back into a patient room while we follow, telling our story along the way. She brings the doctor in.

Bruce is terrified that he is going to get a shot for some reason, so he starts sobbing harder. I tell Bruce to give me a big hug while the doctor cleans his head off with water. She cleans up his wound and says that normally she would put steri-strips on, but it would require shaving part of his head and he was already so traumatized that perhaps the best thing to do would be to just keep it clean for the next day or two and let it heal. She gives me a couple wads of gauze, a prescription for ice cream, and tells me not to shampoo his hair for awhile. Bruce is glad.

We get his ice cream and go sit outside to eat it. Bruce's head is oozing again, so I get out the gauze and clean up his wound while some curious - and probably grossed out - onlookers gawk. Bruce feels better, so we head to the bookstore to get the gift.

Bruce picked out an airplane, which he played with all the way home. We have yet to wrap it and actually take it to his friend. Before I wrap it, I'll be sure to clean the blood off.

Let the Wild Rumpus Start.

Today was the dedication service for our new church building. Ellen was there taking pictures and snapped this one of Phoebe giving a good deer-in-the-headlights look.

The big event this week was Scott's board exam on Wednesday. He said it went okay, which translates to it went well. When Scott says that he "bombed" a test, it usually means that he got a "B" instead of an "A." I'm sure he will roll his eyes and protest this, but I'm sure he did very well. Now that that's out of the way, he starts full-time in the hospital on Monday. He is excited. Giddy even. We watched Boston Med, a docu-drama on TV profiling real stories from the hospitals in Boston, and Scott could hardly go to sleep that night. He's ready.

Bruce is enjoying the summer "vee-cay-shun," as he calls it. Now that preschool is finished for the year, he has a bucket list of things to do. This week we've hiked, picked blueberries, visited the Museum of Science, and gone to a splash park a few times. He signed up for the summer reading program at the library and is determined to win all the erasers and bouncy balls.

Phoebe is eight months old and getting fun. She is ticklish. She babbles and smiles. She recognizes her name and gets excited. She is sleeping for longer stretches; not quite through the night, but I'll take six hours.

All in all, life is good but crazy. I'm still hunting for just the right job with the right hours, pay, and location. Scott's year of random hours in the hospital begins tomorrow. Let the wild rumpus start.