The Wind Beneath My Wings

When I was a kid, the months of October-March meant shoveling snow.  This is the curse of living in Northern Utah surrounded by the Wasatch Range of the Rocky Mountains.  Shoveling snow was in our DNA.  It was usually done in the darkness of the early morning before my parents and siblings and I would gather around the dining table to read the scriptures together.  This was also a job that only the boys were employed to do, and one I would say that Clay and I grew to resent.  It meant waking up a half hour before everyone else and dressing ourselves in garb fit for the Arctic Circle.  That, perhaps, is an exaggeration, but the point I want to stress is that it was a cumbersome process just to get to the cumbersome project of removing an endless supply of falling snow from our sidewalks and driveway.

I have vague memories of my father’s silhouette against a lit hallway as he opened the door to my bedroom to beckon me to the work, then his silhouette disappeared in an explosion of blinding light from the ceiling fixture.  He’d say something soft but stern, letting me know that helping was not optional, and that our expeditious cold-weather assistance was expected, not requested.  I also remember one morning after he woke me up, I fell back asleep.  My bedroom light was still on, by my eyes had gone black.  I don’t know how long I was out.  Probably a few minutes, maybe longer.  But soon my absence was noticed and I heard the sound of my dad’s footsteps in my subconscious.  Before I had time to kick my own butt out of bed, I awoke to the angriest version of Herm charging at me from my bedroom door.  He did the butt-kicking for me.  I don’t remember to perfection, but it’s perfectly possible I had to change my underwear before I finally joined him and my brother outside in the winter wonderland.

Okay, let’s get back to mom.

Mom was always very aware of what we were going through on such mornings.  She was aware of the toiling that Clay and I, and of course my dad, would go through on almost a daily basis.  She was aware that the temperatures could drop below zero on certain mornings, and that each shovel’s load could be wet and heavy for my young back.  She was aware that the snow, when piled, was usually taller than I was.

I can’t remember if she did this every morning, or just most (I certainly remember it happening more than I remember it not happening), but when we finished our work, my mother would stand at the garage door as I put my shovel up and shed my winter gear, and she would sing.  She would sing, which she did with the voice of an angel.  And she wouldn’t just sing anything, and to my knowledge, she didn’t sing to just anyone.  The way it written in my memory, she would sing to me, and she would always sing the same song: Wind Beneath My Wings, by Bette Midler.  And she would always start it at the same place:

            Did you ever know that you’re my hero,

            And everything I would like to be?

            I can fly higher than an eagle,

            Cause you are the wind beneath my wings.

I would try to mask my embarrassment when she would do that, but it always made me feel loved.  Unquestionably.  Unconditionally.  My mother loved me.  If it was not made plain by the singing, it was certainly made plain by the warm breakfast that she usually had waiting for my brother and I (dad had already eaten several bowls of mixed dry cereals by the time he woke us up).  One day is was French toast, another day it was scrambled eggs, another day hot bowls of Cream of Wheat, which we kids became adept at perfecting with several pounds of brown sugar.

Pancakes were her specialty, and when pancakes coincided with a holiday, you could expect them to evolve into some creative culinary creation.  Green shamrock pancakes on St. Patrick’s Day.  Pink heart pancakes on Valentine’s Day.  Orange pumpkin pancakes on Halloween.  That is the kind of mother I grew up with.  Special pancakes and special songs.

Other times in my life she would sing that song to me.  Sometimes she would just whisper it in my ear if it was appropriate for the occasion.  I think it made its way into many milestone moments of my younger life: graduations, piano recitals, high-stakes tennis matches, saying goodbye at the MTC, my wedding day.  It kind of became our song, and it is inexorably linked to the memory of the mother of my childhood.  My sweet mother.  The wind beneath my wings.

Yes, We're Having a Baby...

When we went home for Christmas a couple of months ago, we were immediately seized upon by family with questions and updates about our family planning.  This was not unexpected.  We were open to talking about it as we had been in the past, but this time around Celeste and I repeatedly deflected questions as best we could.  What my family didn't know was that we were were trying to keep our surprise a surprise.  In essence, this meant lying through our teeth over and over again.  We were spitting bald-faced lies left and right to the people we care most about.  They showed genuine concern.  We responded with strategic dishonesty.

Then came Christmas morning.  Many a present were unwrapped, many hugs given, and smiles were exchanged like currency in a large living room at my parent's house that now struggles to hold our swollen extended family.  It was the last Christmas morning we would spend together as an entire Olsen Clan.  And just in time.  For Celeste and I, it was our first Christmas in Utah since 2009.

The morning eventually lulled and the initial Christmas-fueled adrenaline started to wear off.  At this moment, Celeste and I delivered a neatly wrapped Christmas card to my mother, who was sitting next to my dad.  She removed the wrapping paper, opened the card, and began to weep.  She showed it to my dad.  He studied it for a moment, then lifted his eyebrows to the ceiling and opened his mouth in awe.

It was our baby.

Mama and Baby Olsen

Somewhere in the indistinctive lines and shapes of a black-and-white ultrasound photograph, our little Baby Olsen, no bigger than a pea, was there, smiling back at grandma and grandpa.  Their reaction to a seemingly insignificant Christmas card stirred curiosity throughout the room, and while some of my siblings moved toward my parents to figure out what was going on, others knew it without having to look.

We were expecting.  Baby Olsen was finally on its way.

The room erupted in cheers, sobs, and gleeful congratulations.  Celeste and I couldn't contain our emotions, and cried along with everyone else.  A similar reaction took place later that afternoon when we presented a similar card to Celeste's mom at their family home.  She had a somewhat stranger - but no less happy - reaction (she opened the card, yelled "No!" in disbelief then began to cry and tried to open another present.)

The Olsen Clan's final Christmas together.  In the center, Celeste and I are holding up the card with the ultrasound we gave to our mothers.  On another note, this is the only recorded time in history that my brother Wade has out-smiled his wife Amber for a photograph.

While sparing you the unpleasant details, I will tell you that Celeste and I have been struggling to get pregnant for about three years now.  We underwent several tests and medical procedures for this miracle to take place, not to mention severe mental and emotional turmoil that tested our capacity for pain.  But now you will find no two expectant parents happier or more grateful than us. Countless prayers have been answered, and countless wounds have been healed.  All our pain and frustration were melted by a plastic stick with a dash of urine on it, a computer screen with a microscopic heartbeat, and a family whose love and support knows no bounds.

Baby Olsen, now the size of an apple, is due August 9th, 2014.

Baby Olsen, clearly a genius.  Like an orange on a toothpick.

Remembering the Mother's Day of My Childhood

Mom & Dad

Celeste and I were recently reminiscing about our mothers because of Mother's Day, and while positive memories dominated the conversation, there was a point where I came clean: for me, Mother's Day played host to some of my most bitter and terrifying childhood memories.

Back me up on this, siblings.

I don't think God intended for it to be this way.  I mean, Mother's Day is planted squarely in the middle of Springtime, when birds fill the air with their birdsongs, and the sun's rays beam down upon the earth to illuminate its splendiferous glory.  And yet, as children, that day seemed to bring only storms, and tears from heaven and ours swollen eyes.  Why, you ask?  Why such gloom on what was meant to be such a joyous occasion?

My dad.  That's why.

Some of you are shocked, I'm sure, to learn that Herm-daddy could be the bringer of such bad omens and the conjurer of such painful childhood memories, but it's true.  He did.  And to his credit, he did it for all the right reasons.

See, in my father's head, he reasoned that Mother's Day had to be absolutely perfect.  To honor his beloved wife, every crumb would be swept, every meal would be perfectly prepared, and every task would be executed without my mother having to lift a finger.  What a model dad.  Truly.  He really knew how to take care of my mother.  The only problem is that for the kids, it meant a milder form of slavery for a day.

I've tried to block out the worst events, but I remember distinctly waking up on Mother's Days to violent shaking at my father's hands before dawn (it's a miracle I never suffered a heart attack) to do something ridiculous like churn butter or beat the dust out of our family's collection of rugs, all while Jedadiah (Clay) and Rosemary (Josie) ground the corn for fresh biscuits and polished the silver.  At least that's what it felt like.  Honest to goodness, I remember Herm asking me to vacuum the house one year.  That's not something we did on Sunday's in our family, and what makes it even more ridiculous, is that it WAS something we did on Saturdays, just a mere 24 hours earlier.

Dad meanwhile oversaw all of the day's operations from the kitchen, where he ruled with his iron fist while meticulously cooking a stew overburdened by potatoes and seasoning salt.  He also would be franticly mixing and baking his signature dessert: a Betty Crocker cake.  As a general rule, we kids stayed out of the kitchen and out of his way at all costs.  As a general rule, we kids didn't talk.

Meanwhile, mom would wake up to breakfast in bed, which we would deliver to her after we had covered our bruises with skin-toned makeup.  She would say sweet things to us and praise us while our father stood by.  Then there was church and dinner (supper, as dad called it), then visits to grandparents.  We weren't allowed outside.  We weren't allowed to have fun.  We weren't allowed to make mistakes.  Perfection at every turn.  No fighting or arguing (which we had grown to be rather good at).  It made for one of the longest days of the year, filled with motherly compliments and fatherly glares that could make you pee a little bit if you weren't vigilantly defending.  We avoided the glares as much as we could, and accepted the motherly compliments with smiles and nods, but secretly wished beyond anything to return to our bedrooms and hide in our dark closets until Monday came.

So here's to Mother's Day: a day to honor the sacred vessels that brought us into the world, the angels that nurtured and protected us from our very first moments on earth.  And here's to fathers, who may not have employed the best methods, but proved beyond question their undying and unflinching love and loyalty to such angels.

Cheers.