There She Goes Again

I suppose if there is anything that can bring me back to writing again, it is Women's Conference.

The first question you are going to ask is, "Was there pooping?" To this question, I can answer a resounding, "Yes!"

One small difference: This year it was all in the toilet, which, most would likely argue, is the appropriate location in our advanced civilized society. It doesn't matter so much that it wasn't always flushed in a timely manner, but...baby steps.

I was actually looking forward to the experience this year.  Okay, I am a terrible liar.  I was looking forward to this like the Grinch looked forward to the Whoville celebration of Christmas.

It's possible that it might have showed in my countenance as Wednesday approached.  On the one hand, I certainly was happy to do this for Nicki.  Yet, on the other hand, I was none too excited about the prospect of "Dahoo Doray" floating to my ears.

I committed to myself that Nicki would be able to return home Saturday night to 6 living children once again.  Or, at the very least, they would not die at my hand.

That first night, my two 14-year-old daughters decided to try my resolve.  I responded by going to bed.  Say what you will, but they survived the night.  In fact, the next morning, they were getting along wonderfully, even helping one another with crimping hair and getting ready for school.

It wasn't until Friday night that I was tested.  In all fairness, it wasn't all the kids' fault.  There was a confluence of events that day surrounding plans, friends, and work that served to help decrease my patience ability.  Yet, all 6 children awoke in mortality Saturday morning - chore day.

I don't expect everyone to understand - and that's okay.  But this is not something that comes automatically when you adopt older children.

My little Whos were running all around the house.  It wasn't "Dahoo Doray."  It was actually hip-hop versions of Primary songs.  Perhaps it was the 2 and a half days of service that I was forced to provide for my children, along with my renewed determination to not only survive, but have my children survive, as well.

But there, standing in the kitchen, doing the dishes and cleaning up from breakfast, I suddenly felt an overwhelming, over powering feeling.  What was it?  What was I feeling?  It may have looked like this:

Only I wasn't dressed in a Santa suit, and I am not quite that hairy or...yellowish.  And there might have been tears, but I won't confirm or deny that tawdry rumor.

Sorry, no stories of destruction and torment from this Women's Conference.  No.  But there has definitely been a change come over this Grinch this year.

Glory Days

This past weekend, my family and I celebrated, along with 74 other alumni and their families, the 20th Anniversary of BYU's Vocal Point.

I was in the group from 1995 to 1997. And enjoyed performing in front of millions of screaming women - perhaps not millions; one or two, perhaps? - dying to hold my hand. It was BYU, after all, and certainly there would be nothing beyond that sought after or desired by either party. (Please no Brandon Davies jokes).

It is always a particular rush to perform on stage when the crowd is enjoying it and for a brief moment you are the focus of their attention. Let's be real. We each got an 8-10 minute opportunity to do it again during the afternoon concert.

But performing on stage simply cannot compare with this:



Watching that live (twice) caused my heart to grow many, many more times than the Grinch's did. I cannot put into words how awesome it was to watch 3 of my children perform in front of a sold-out 670 seat theater.

That evening, though, reliving my glory days collided with reality. After the current Vocal Point group did their evening show, I was congratulating them on their show and on how quite very good they are. (WAY better than my years were.)

"Thanks, Brother Avery. I was 7 when you were in the group."

CRASH!