I had to wait for the experience of becoming a mom, and went through a wide range of emotions, getting there. I’d reached the bitter “why you” stage (which is after the “why me” stage) when a particular R.S. lesson struck me positively. I’d heard the concept numerous times, that adversity has a purpose, but applying it to my situation was most comforting and I didn’t need to know what the purpose was, just so there was one. It was a very liberating insight. I was nearing 35 when Grant was born. [Just for the record, that’s his left hand “waving” in the birth picture - does anyone out there know how to flip a picture-of-picture in iPhoto on a MacBook Pro?]
You’ll notice he’s on the skinny side in his six-month picture. His half sister Gina, who was ten years older, called him her “Sweetheart Skeleton.” He was a failure to thrive baby and it took the first five months to get him headed out of the woods of being so allergic he once got huge welts from projectile vomiting 100% hypoallergenic Nutramigen (first and last usage). (At Relief Society, over himself, me, and several women!) So I became a Le Leche League fanatic (eliminating dairy) and he finally started and continued putting meat on his bones. (Also the reason Jewel was the opposite if you look back at her picture - I wasn’t going to be accused of a second starvation!) I’ve told him he can thank me for having so few baby fat cells he’ll be lean for life. I want to make mention here that though I truly was fanatical about it, it still was for me a very private experience, and only close family and league associates were aware of the details (from me). I also have to thank my sister-in-law, Chris, who after tons of useless advice including the doctor's, took me to the first meeting where for the first time someone asked me what I thought before giving me suggestions that actually worked.
This is Grant at the coast the year+ before Jewel joined us, and kinda explains why he is attracted to unusual colors in his attire. J It was a trip we took with my Dad and Norma. On the way home we spent a night in a motel and after being on the road the next morning 20 minutes, I realized I’d forgotten my nice down pillow. Norma insisted we go back for it. Grant’s dad was driving and had figured out where we’d get to before we’d need to gas up again, but pre this change in plans. We ran out of gas, 12 miles short of LaGrande, OR, so his dad hitched a ride to town. It left us a long time waiting in the car, me saying it was my fault for leaving the pillow, Norma saying it was hers for making us go back. Grant, who was 2-1/2, finally settled it, saying, ‘It…it…it’s all…all, ALL your fault, Grandma!” and we burst out laughing.
When Grant was almost 4 years old I read him this poem, while he looked at the illustration:
David L. Harrison, “The Boring Life of a Clam,” Friend, Aug 1983, Illustrated by Dick Brown