Hey! This is Post 501! Kind of a Big Deal, Right?

On September 11, 2001, I was serving an LDS mission in Quebec City. My companion and I had visited a less active member in the morning, and she explained how, "America really had it coming to them." She often said off base things, and somehow her comments failed to raise any alarm.

We returned home to eat lunch around 11 or 11:30, and there we received a phone call from our district leader. He informed us that upwards of 10 million people had died, that the pentagon was gone, the White House was gone, the Lincoln Memorial was in shambles, the President was dead, and that, until further notice, "MISSIONARY WORK WAS ON HOLD."

It's funny to me, looking back on it, that the outrageous death count and the supposed death of the leader of the free world didn't alarm me beyond reason. However, the cessation of missionary work was personal and frightening. I had been tracting in negative 40 degree weather, for heaven's sake. At that temperature everything in your nose freezes and icicles form from your eyebrows. I had taught discussions to the dredges of society, with porn wallpapering the cubicles that served as apartments. I had spent one unpleasant evening being yelled at for hours and lectured on the severe brainwashing my parents had pressured on me. Nothing stopped missionary work. No unhallowed hand shall stop the work from progressing.

The gravity of the situation pressed in on me, and my companion and I spent the rest of the afternoon in the apartment and looked up scriptures about the end of the world.

You become a little bit crazy on a mission.

The next day, missionary work resumed, and because I had no access to TV or media, life seemed to carry on as usual. My father wrote me a letter that served as my talisman, and said "I guess my only comment on the terrible events of this last week are that this world desperately needs the message you are called to share." And so I continued to teach people about Christ.

I returned home three months later. America had changed in that space of time. People seemed to hand together more, even with LDS missionaries, the pariah of Christianity. And everywhere there were flags. Flags on flagpoles, flags on front porches, flags in advertising, flags on bumpers. Each proclaiming their support and commitment to not be vulnerable, but to still be the Unites States of America.

I still feel a little inadequate seeing flags. 11 years beyond the event, I'm less crazy now about the missionary "end-of-the-world" obsession, but I'm probably more crazy because having children has made it possible to weep during cotton commercials, so I'm consciously decided to ignore the detials of September 11--the phone calls good bye, the blockbuster heroics, and above all, the films of the attacks. But I can honor America. I raise my flag in honor of the time where a divided nation pulled together. I may not be so proud of me, but I'm very proud of us.

Only 9 Months 3 Weeks Late

Back in the day when Finn was born, I think there were still a few people who still read this blog. However, since I've complete alienated any readers, this is just for Finn. Which is probably the way it should be.

Mid-July: Several months before Finn was born, I looked at a calendar. Since I have great big giant babies and rather predictable pregnancies, Dr. Cannon has felt fine scheduling temporary inductions at 39 weeks. Since I was teaching, I looked at my schedule and realized that 39 weeks was a Wednesday morning, and the following Tuesday I had off because of BYU's Thanksgiving break. If Finn came on November 16, I'd have nearly 2 weeks off before I had to teach again. I booked the induction.

August, September, October: More children have only intensified my nesting instincts. Which is just a romantic way to say "scrubbing the kitchen floor." Or scrubbing the walls. Or scrubbing the crown molding. Or cleaning out the cupboards, reorganizing the laundry room, reordering the children's fall clothes, winter prepping the garden, cleaning the refrigerator, making decorative letters, cleaning out the closets, organizing the toys, and, finally, making a "Welcome Home Finn" sign.

November 9: At my 38 weeks appointment, I'm dilated around a 3 and 75% effaced. Knowing that I was close, Tyler looks at the calendar and realizes that I'm nearly to November 11, 2011. 11-11-11. Tyler starts up a campaign to encourage me to deliver on precisely that date, ignoring my protests that I didn't really have any control over the situation. Tyler tells me to stop making excuses.

11-11-11: Contractions begin at regular intervals. Tyler is ready to christen Finn his favorite.

11-12-11: Still contracting. Still no baby. Finn is relegated number three.


November 15: THE DAY BEFORE my scheduled induction at 8:00 am, Tyler calls me up with a cookie emergency. The frozen cookie dough sold during his school fundraiser is due to arrive on the 16, and Tyler is indispensable to the cookie organizing process. I sadly call the hospital. The induction is rescheduled for the 17.

November 16, 6:30 am: I call the hospital and they tell me they have a bed ready and waiting for me they tell me to be there at 7:15. I drop Talmage and Asher off at Jason and Lori's, and Tyler and I made our way to the hospital.

7:45 am: Harried arrival at the hospital, and I tell you what, being harried at 39 weeks and one day pregnant is a site to behold.

8:05 am: Wired up and ready to go. The nurse checks my progress. Dilated to a four and nearly entirely effaced, she says, "Let's just give him a push." The smallest dose of pitocin brings on regular labor.

8:30 am: The nurse breaks my water.

9:32 am: Ready for an epidural. The kindest, most gentle, saint-like man, serves as my anesthesiologist. Bee sting numbing, tube in, medicine ready to go. The doctor waits until there is tingling in my legs, telling me that my legs should feel numb, not dead.

9:50 am: While my legs are tingling, my uterus is raging, albeit predictably every two minutes.

10:02 am: I receive a second bee-sting anesthetic, tube-in epidural. Saint Anesthesiologist is pretty confident its going to work this time.

10:45 am: I assume the fetal position as it becomes clear that the second epidural is doing nothing. I will remain this way for the next half hour.

11:15 am: The holy pain doctor returns. With a quick, "Well, it's not doing what it's supposed too. Let's do it again," he gives me my third epidural.

11:49 am: I get nervous that I can't feel my legs. When I call the nurse in to point this out, she laughs and says, "Honey, you had three epidurals in one day! You won't feel anything for days!" While she's there, she decides to check me. One quick look and she announces, "His head is right there. Time to call the doctor!

11:55 am: Dr. Cannon arrives. She assesses the situation and tells me, "One cough ought to do it."

12:00 am: One push and his head is out.

12:01 pm: One more push and Finn arrives. 9 lbs, 2 oz, 21.5 inches of Finn Darris Howe.

I'm Banking on the Fact That Nobody Follows This Blog Anymore to Read My Potty Humor

I came across a video on about.com titled "5 Embarrassing Running Problems and How to Deal With Them." It chronicled a number of problems--tripping, sweating, getting lost. You know, problems that clearly never concerned any person who actually runs. It did, however, fail to mention the MOST embarrassing running problem. You runners know what I'm talking about.

My typical run is anywhere from three to five miles. This is largely because around four miles my intestines are sufficiently jostled that I had better start looking for a 7-11. I can hold it together for five miles. I need an alternate plan for any longer. Immodium is a good Plan B.

Having children has not helped the issue.

This particular running problem is one that I kept secret from everyone until one Saturday morning when I was on a long training run with my little sister. Marissa and I were running parallel to Foothill Drive when it became apparent that neither one of us had the bowel control to make it to the Capitol Building, our intended destination. We sprinted into Primary Children's Medical Center, located a restroom, and there shared a secret experience that bound us closer than our shared blood. Like teenage boys who make a pact never to share the details of their midnight joyriding, Marissa and I will take those sounds to the grave.

And so it is with great respect I give homage to the Honey Bucket on Wasatch Blvd. Located at least a mile from any trails or construction, I can only imagine it was erected for those of us who love to exercise our bodies, but not our bowels. There it sits, blue and lovely, freshly cleaned, smelling sweet, and located precisely four miles from my house.