Houston's International Quilt Festival

Damian’s mom and Aunt Vicki came to stay with us again this week during their yearly rendezvous to Houston’s largest convention. Really, at over 60,000 attendees it is THE largest and I can attest that it's international as we sat with ladies from Australia and New Zealand for lunch. Kris and Vicki were at the George R. Brown Convention Center taking classes all week, and Eden and I decided to tag along with them on their last day. (That is, after Damian got home from his 12.8 mile run. Just because I typed that doesn't mean I am encouraging. Impressed, maybe a little. Encouraging? Most definitely not.)

I went a couple of years ago (to the quilt show not running...well, yep at least that long), but I forgot the magnitude of the show. The best word I can come up with to describe it is overwhelming. Anything and everything that has to do with sewing or crafting can be found at the show. Well, I guess things not so related like the hair removal thingamajig I got can be found there too.

I bought a couple of products that I was really impressed with. One was the Bonash 007 (bonding agent), another was Lickety Grip (conditions fingers for better grip & control), and my very favorite is…unmentionable because it just might end up under a Christmas tree near you. There were a couple that I wanted to buy, Fabric Organizers II & Art Glitter, but showed a little restraint. Definitely worth a look if you are into sewing or glittering though.

Last summer, Kris helped Eden make a quilt. Eden picked out all the fabric, did all of the cutting and sewing (with lots of patient supervision that I can NOT fathom…it must be a grandma thing), and even used a long arm machine to quilt it herself! Pretty impressive for a six year old! They wanted to bring the quilt to show it to one of the ladies at the Festival. Well, one turned into about ten different opportunities for different people to sing Eden praises.

Eden couldn’t keep the smile from her face as people told her over and over what a brilliant job she did. One thread manufacturer told her she deserved an award and gave her 4 spools of glow in the dark thread, another asked if we would let her put her picture on her website, another gave her a package of crystals.

The most impressive encounter we had was when someone insisted that she show the famous-in-the-quilting-world and has her own tv show, Alex Anderson. She didn’t disappoint. She followed suit making such a fuss over Eden’s quilt. She told her she would be famous someday and to stick with it. Of course Eden had no idea who these people were, but she felt so S.P.E.C.I.A.L. nonetheless.

We quickly covered aisle by aisle of the convention center and made our way to the actual quilt display. It is hard to understand all the thought, preparation and time that go into these quilts. Some of them I sat in awe of how they were created. $10,000 was awarded for the Best of Show quilt, which looked like it could sell for more than that. My favorite was the quilt made by three sisters of themselves. (You can click to enlarge.) It was a great day, and I am so glad I left my to do list, piles of laundry, and stacks of clutter at home and took a day just being inspired by the creativity of others.

hAppY hAllOwEeN!.!.

Make a Smilebox scrapbook

Dad's Night

Wait. But those are pictures of Mom, Brother and Sister. Yep. I get to add Dad’s Night to my list of life with a husband in school and working full time, along with being totally outnumbered during dinner and bedtime at least 200 nights, being the lone chaperone at birthday parties, and cleaning up at least 3 toilet and 1 sink floods, among other things.... At least he will be home tomorrow night for Halloween! Last year he had school.

Having Dad gone so much makes us appreciate him and all he does for us that much more. He is such a wonderful husband and father! It is because he IS so helpful and fun when he is home that we miss him so terribly. At the same time, those are the same reasons that even though the past year and a half has been nothing short of craziness bordering insanity, I have no problem supporting him going back to school to get his MBA. Babe, just promise me that you are not toying with the idea of furthering your education with any additional degrees. I don’t think I would be able to be as supportive. Scratch the think part. I am actually pretty sure it would push me over the edge and make you way too educated to hang out with me anyways.

Damian really hated to miss spending the one on one time with Carter tonight, but he had a dinner program in Port Arthur for work. Carter was NOT happy about it either. He was totally bummed, and he made it known that he didn’t want me to take him. It is times like these that I just wish so badly that we lived close to family! Damian called and talked to Carter into letting me take him, as long as he promised that on Mom’s night Dad would attend. My husband, the salesman.

So, the whole family, minus the dad, went to Dad’s night. It was a little weird to be there with all the dads and grandpas, but refreshing to see so many solid families supporting their kiddos. It was fun for me to be able to see what Carter does a couple days a week. When we got there he had to ‘sign in.’ They teach them to write their name correctly by having them trace a laminated copy. Then, he has to wash his hands and find his name stick on the counter and put it in the cup when he’s all clean. Clever!

This was the picture that was on the bulletin board when we came in.

Carter told me that he drew him and Daddy at the movie theater

watching a really cool boy movie.

The first station of choice was the snack table. Boy loves his food! They made ‘Cowboy Cookies’ (graham cracker they put chocolate frosting and peanut butter on). Then Carter showed us the centers. I was really impressed with all of the different kinds of activities they had set out for the kids to rotate through: listening, science, art, reading, sensory, along with the typical preschool playthings. One of the boys’ favorite centers was pounding golf tees into a pumpkin, and of course Eden liked the art.

We also rotated through music, and ‘Enrichment.’ Carter and Wyatt had a great time building Landon into a box with the waffle blocks. We headed out right before chapel, but Carter wanted to stay. That’s a good sign too. After watching Carter tonight, it was obvious that he has lots of friends, teachers who like him, and that he really enjoys being at school. That is just what a Dad, I mean mom/brother/sister, needed to see!

Sad, but true.

You know you are a worn out mother of 3 little munchkins when you roll out of bed, brush and floss your teeth like crazy mad, rush to the dentist’s office to get to your appointment five minutes late, and sigh with relief as you realize that you are ALONE. It doesn’t matter that you are about to be drilled and poked. (Insert add above. Hmmm...looks like somebody needs a new marketing supervisor. ;) ) The solitude is refreshing. One hour with no one asking where something is, yelling ‘mom’, and one morning of not being in charge of the rush to make the school bus. Fantastic.

Before they call me back, I think of my Sara’s trip to the dentist and find myself laughing out loud. I hope she doesn’t mind me sharing, but I literally almost wet my pants when I read it. (It doesn’t take much after having 3 kids OR when you are 19 and in Paris on Valentine’s day. Long, too embarrassing to tell story, but I know Sandra and Carrie are laughing.) Even if you haven’t checked the child-birthing box off your list yet, you just might find yourself wetting your own pants. So, back in the waiting room, I take a moment to relish in my memories and enjoy the tranquility.

After she calls me in, the hygienist lays my chair back and asks me if I would like a magazine. What? Someone making ME comfortable and offering ME brainless reading material that I thoroughly enjoy? I’ll take it. As I am reading about J.Lo surprising her husband with a fancy 40^th bash and being relaxed by the easy listening music faintly playing in the background, I had to stop myself when I actually wished I did have a cavity so that I could have another ‘appointment’ with Dr. Crouch.

Wait. What? I have always hated the dentist, and honestly would much prefer a trip to the gynecologist, which wasn’t much higher on my list but it beat out a trip to the dentist if I had my choice. The drilling and scraping inside my head is what created my previous dentist hatred, but that’s all gone now. The dentist brings serenity to my life as a busy mother, and score one more point for me when I actually ended up with one cavity. Ah, I must go back.

Now that I managed to cover peeing, child birth and the gynecologist in two paragraphs, I will move on. I am wearing a sweater today…ta da! What makes that even better is that it is super cute, if I do say so myself. Think ivory, chunky, and classic yet funky with three big buttons. It was originally $80 on clearance at the Talbots outlet for $15. It just got cuter after you read the last part, huh?

The chill in the air every year causes me to mourn for the loss of sweaters past. After living in Wisconsin for 2 years and going to college in Utah I had had it with the cold. In an attempt to rid myself of the days where I had to don long underwear and two pairs of pants or find myself covered in hives from head to toe, I gave all my toasty warm sweaters away.

Good riddance until I moved to Houston. Here I don’t have to wear them for their practical reasons, just to sport something besides my black sweats when the weather cools. (a.k.a. My ‘Triple Threat’ sweats. My sister informed me that the three pieces of my black sweats are not appropriate to be worn all at the same time due to the nature of all three pieces being a little too blinged out.) I wish I still had some of my cute sweaters, but I will suck it up in my cute new one and

welcome fall...ya'll!

my new habit...

When Eden got home from school today, I braved Costco with all of my ‘helpers.’ This is after we had been to Party City, Children’s Place, Garden Ridge, and the park. I knew I was pushing my luck, but they were great. It was in the middle of the store that I realized I had picked up a habit. Good or bad is yet to be decided.

Of course all the kids wanted to walk, which I knew would be a trial of my patience, but I said a little prayer and told myself I asked for this. I went about my shopping as quickly as possible. When I stopped the cart they all scrambled in different directions so they could make sure that their fingerprints canvassed the entire warehouse before we moved on. It didn’t matter if they were checking something ‘cool’ out (their current adjective of choice), having walking backwards races, or trying to get me to look at one of the hundreds of ‘cool’ toys they think they needed, when I was ready to go, I would just whistle and they would follow me to the next stop on our Costco list.

Yes, it’s true. Apparently I have resorted to whistling at my children. Whether this is so I don’t get confused trying to match the right kid with the right name, so I can sound so ‘cool’ that all the other parents around look at me like I have gone mad, or because I feel somewhat like a sheepherder at times, I now whistle and they know they have been summoned. I don’t know when I started this, but it must have been a while ago since they are now trained and know there will be consequences if they don’t come when they’re called.

Obviously, I’m not sure how this all started, but I think I have a good thing going. It makes for less yelling on my part and more brain for me to try to focus on what I am doing. The downside, some might say, is that I treat my children like animals. Although that might seem accurate, I would have to argue that they kind of act like animals. And since we are going with that analogy they are house-broken, immunized, and well-nourished little pups that I love the snot out of. Ew. Shouldn't that count for something?

I guess it’s better that I’ve developed a whistle instead of some other animal call. Ha! Imagine me pushing my cart down the aisle at Costco screeching like a monkey. Oh, better yet, barking like a seal. Now, that would really give people something to look at. Is my whistle really that bad?

My Carter...

Carter and I snuggled up during quiet time today. We had just finished reading When I Became a Pirate, one of Carter’s favorite stories. I think I have documented several times how much I adore my 4 year old son’s big heart and soft chubby cheeks. I will be so sad when the day comes that he gets whiskers. Such a shame! I intend to get my fill now. So, I put the book down and found my favorite place to nuzzle my head next to his.

After a minute, he looked at me and said, “This is my most favoritest part!” I thought he was talking about the book, but when I asked him what he meant he said, “When I get to cuddle with you during quiet time!” Well, melt my heart and call me swooned! I wrapped my arms a little tighter around him and drifted off to sleep with a big smile spread across the expanse of my face.

I woke up with a kind of grossed out feeling when I realized that I was laying in drool. One of the blessings of motherhood is the assurance of the daily encounter with some kind of body fluid. As I sat up I was even more grossed out when I realized that I was the one that had been drooling. Nice one, mom. Hopefully, the big spot I left on his shoulder will dry before he wakes up. Sorry, Bud. At least I am the one who does your laundry.

As a mom, I sometimes feel guilty for always saying “No.” “Put that back.” And the classic, “Maybe you can ask for it for Christmas!” When we were checking out at the store after a string of these reprimands, they asked for a box of “Hot Mama’s” (Hot Tamales). They had been good. Translation: we only had to stop once to use the bathroom and we hadn't broken anything that I was aware of, so I caved. It helped their cause slightly that I am somewhat fond of the spicy chewies, and hearing them say "Hot Mama" until the movie sized box has been devoured is an added bonus.

On the way out to the car, they did something naughty. Not so naughty that I can even remember what it was, but naughty enough to make me mad. Once they were buckled in, they wanted some Hot Mama’s. I told them they already had one. (My joke every time they ask for this particular candy. Hilarious, aren’t I?) Of course, they weren’t thwarted by my humor. Being the good mother that I am, I stood firm in my decision that they would have to wait. Being naughty means you have to miss out on treats for awhile, right? So they waited…a whole ten seconds to ask me again…and again…and again…and again. For the love! By this point I was flustered with the stupid hot mama’s and their impatient naughty fans.

Me: “If you ask me one more time, I will throw them out the window!”

Carter: “You know you won’t throw them out the window mom, because a police man would come and pull you over, write you a ticket and take you to jail for throwing trash out the window. Dad would be mad at you.”

(Busted.)

Me: “Then I will just give them to someone else.”

Carter: “No you wouldn’t because they probably don’t want them or even like candy. Maybe they would even be allergic to them, and if it was a stranger they wouldn’t take candy from you.”

Me: “Well fine, maybe I will just eat them all myself!”

(Ha!)

Carter: “No you won’t because if you did your body would be full of sugar and you wouldn’t have room in your tummy for healthy things. Then you wouldn’t have any energy and you would get a fat tummy.”

Darn cute smart kid.

WHITE FLAG!!! WHITE FLAG!!!

sidetracked...

Today was going to be the day when I played catch up. I love Sundays for so many reasons. The biggest being that I get to attend a church that I love, associate with people that I respect and admire, and be enriched by warm comforting feelings like I get no other place on earth. Sundays are perfect for family time, especially because we don’t do shopping or parties or even go out to eat. We believe the Sabbath is to be a day of rest, so Sundays are great for guiltless napping. Sundays are days when I get to do what I really want to do.

I had my list of must do’s for this Sunday:

• Church- check (We were even on time! Small miracle.)
• Quality nap- check (Two, actually. One with each of the boys. I heart soft chubby cheeks.)
• Make a real meal- check (Salsa chicken- thank you Jessica Blad)
• Make a tasty dessert- check (Pumpkin Roll- one of my fall FAVES!)
• Spend evening with the Danners- check (They had friends from Iceland in town, Damian was thrilled to chat in Icelandic, although broken and rusty, as he served a two year mission for our church there. Thanks for a great evening!)
• Hound family about not emailing me stories- check (yearly Family stories written by everyone and given as a Christmas gift to all. Kim Girgenti’s tradition that I had to steal.)
• Read my scriptures- check

My unchecked list for today:

• QT with my handsome husband
• Write Eden’s birthday letter (written every year for my kids that I will give them someday)
• Write Thank you note to Susan (she taught an awesome lesson last week)
• Call my family (I. miss. them.)
• Post drafts from my blog

See, it was right there on my to do list: Post drafts. I was bouyed up by all your comments from my rant and I was going to pull through and totally ‘blog barf,’ but…

I had time to finish almost everything left on my list once the kids were asleep, but when I sat down at my computer I checked my email first. I know better. I always get sidetracked with my email, but tonight it was a good tangent. Thanks so much Jordan. Let me explain.

Perhaps you have heard of the young couple from Arizona who were in a serious plane crash a few months ago. They both survived, but were severely burned. They have 4 small children whose families have rallied around during their parents’ recovery. Several friends had told me of the tragedy, and the family has done many interviews that you might have seen.

Until tonight, I had not seen any of it, And then I read this inspiring article. I sobbed like a baby for almost a half an hour at the beauty of this family. Below is the unedited article that was published today in the Arizona Republic. It is 11 pages long, but I wanted a copy of it in my blog. I hope sometime you will take the time to read it. You won’t be disappointed. After I ran out of tears, I went to their blog and spent the last three hours reading post after post.

So, since it is almost one a.m. I am going to hold off any more cyberspacing until tomorrow, but I will say this: I am so grateful for MY sisters and MY family (both through blood & friendship).

I love Sundays.

http://www.azcentral.com/news/articles/2008/10/26/20081026sisters1026a1.html

After fiery plane crash, a sister is held even closer

by Jaimee Rose - Oct. 26, 2008 12:00 AM
The Arizona Republic

She knew just how to hold her sister.

Eleven years older, Page would slip across the hall and scoop that crying baby from the crib before their mother could stir.

Into the rocking chair they'd go, back and forth, Page and Stephanie together. Don't cry, Page whispered, I'm here.

"I had this feeling that I knew her and she knew me," Page says, "and we would help each other."

Now, Stephanie whimpers, and before the nurses come, Page is there. She climbs onto Stephanie's hospital bed, wraps her sister, now 27, in her arms.

"Don't cry," Page says, "I'm here." She knows just how to hold her sister.

Stephanie Nielson and her husband, Christian, 29, were injured when their private plane went down Aug. 16 in St. Johns, Ariz., while on their way home to Mesa. Christian, the pilot, was burned on 35 percent of his body, and Stephanie on 83 percent of hers. They were taken to the Arizona Burn Center in Phoenix.

In the hospital, Page winds the long bandages around Stephanie's burned arms and legs. She wraps Stephanie's face carefully so she can still see the freckle on her lower lip. Page Checketts, the oldest sister, is the strong one.

All three of Stephanie's sisters are here, at the hospital. One cries in the corner so Stephanie can't hear. Another stands by the bed, whispering in Stephanie's ear, her hand on Stephanie's strong heart. She likes to feel it beating.

As soon as Stephanie's three sisters heard about the crash, they came. There was a pull, a panic to be near her. There was worry for the four children Stephanie and Christian left at home.

The sisters decided to do all the things Stephanie couldn't. Her children came to their homes. Her care became their responsibility. They even inherited her blog.

For three years, Stephanie wrote the NieNie Dialogues, read by hundreds across the nation. It was a daily picture, both lovely and honest, of the life of a mom. There were self-portraits too, all red lipstick and green eyes, pale skin, a child often on her lap.

She shared sadness, also. One of nine children raised in Provo, Utah, Stephanie was the only one who moved away from home. Sometimes, she missed her sisters so much that she called Provo, found them giggling in someone's kitchen and cried into the phone.

Before Stephanie's sisters left for Arizona, they posted news of the crash on her blog and asked for prayers.

The first visit

The first August day the sisters came to the hospital, only Stephanie's toes and ponytail peeked out from beneath the bandages. Her eyes were swollen shut, her face wrapped, too. Heavily sedated, Stephanie was silent and still.

Her mother could only stand to be in the room for 15 minutes. One sister saw Stephanie's once-bouncy, happy ponytail and talked loudly in a weird high voice, trying to diffuse the angst.

"Stephanie! I'm just so excited to see you."

The nurses looked at her like she was insane.

The doctors said Christian would fully recover in months. After skin grafts to his arms, legs and one ear, he'd learn to walk again, to curl his fingers, to bend his arms. His face would heal on its own.

But Stephanie's prognosis was grave. She had a 60 to 70 percent chance of survival, her doctors said. Third-degree burns took almost all the skin from her back, chest, face, neck, arms and lower legs. Her organs were strong, her slender body working hard, but there would be months of recovery and years of pain.

Her hands were burned to the tendons. The doctors were able to preserve the cartilage of her nose, but that sweet face full of the freckles she shared with her sisters, gone. The sisters felt like Stephanie was gone, too.

The funny sister

Courtney Kendrick, the second-oldest sister, is the funny one.

In the hospital room that first day, she bent and whispered into Stephanie's ear.

"I'll take your kids," she said, "but you gotta promise me I'll be skinny in return."

Standing by Stephanie's bed, two thoughts crept into Courtney's mind.

Take care of Stephanie's children. And tell her story.

Courtney promised to continue her sister's blog. She knew Stephanie felt her message was important, that somewhere in the photos of Stephanie's laundry basket and dinners under the mulberry tree, other moms might find a laugh or even strength. Stephanie once posted a photo of Courtney nursing on her blog. Courtney forgave her.

The four children could come home to Provo, Courtney thought. They could attend Stephanie's grade school with their cousins, hike Stephanie's favorite mountain and feel their mother in the autumn air. The children needed to escape the worried visitors that kept talk of the crash in their minds.

Already the mother of a newborn, Courtney took Claire, 6, Jane, 5, and Oliver, 3. Another sister took Nicholas, 2.

Courtney and her husband packed the car so quickly that clothes and baby blankets flew off the roof rack somewhere near the Arizona border. She lost her voice in that car filled with little ones, but Courtney found her sister.

"I felt Stephanie around me all the time, talking to me, whispering in my ear," she remembers.

The first week was long while Courtney learned how to mother Stephanie's children. She solved who wanted what on their toast, chanted "shoes, girls, shoes" over and over. And Courtney listened for her sister.

Have Jane help you vacuum if she gets too hyper.

Whisper something in their ears before they go to sleep.

One night, Courtney surveyed the day's mess with exhaustion. As she bent once more over a pile of errant toys, she heard her sister.

Thank you. Thank you. I know it's hard. Thank you.

But I love this, Courtney wanted to say back.

"Ollie wakes me up, and I think what an honor," says Courtney, 31. "What an honor to make this guy Cheerios with one eye open and one eye closed."

At night, Courtney always thinks of Stephanie. She tucks the children into bed, whispering "your mom and dad love you" to each one. Claire and Jane take the longest, demanding story after story in the big bed they share.

Sometimes, when they listen to Stephanie's favorite lullaby, Jane clutches a photograph of her parents and cries into her pillow.

Sometimes Claire has bad dreams, she says, "so I snuggle with my sister Jane, and that makes me feel better."

Every morning, Courtney finds them huddled together, holding each other like only sisters know how.

"Sisters are the closest thing to you, the closest thing to yourself," Courtney says. "We knew we were as close as these kids could get to their mom."

The careful sister

Lucy Beesley, the youngest, is the careful one. She looks just like Stephanie. The two share the same brown hair, peaked chin and pink puffed cheeks covered in freckles. They both worry over clothes and feelings and if the homemade pizza crust turned out right.

Lucy is caring for the 2-year-old, Nicholas. He calls Lucy "Mom."

"Mom! Mom-mom-mom-mom," Nicholas insists, toddling toward her with eyes bright, a new toy in his chubby fist.

She answers.

"A copter?" says Lucy, 24. "Oh, you lucky boy!"

Growing up, just three years between them, Stephanie and Lucy shared a bedroom. They shared dresses.

They slept in the same bed until Stephanie was 16. They would giggle under the covers until their mother came in, ordering everyone to sleep. Night after night, the sisters slept snuggled, born knowing just how to hold each other.

"I do miss her, I miss her so," Lucy says. "I miss asking her questions."

Sometimes, she hears Stephanie's voice.

I need you to teach Nicholas.

Sometimes Lucy talks back.

I took all your clothes, she tells Stephanie.

The clothes "remind me of her," Lucy says. "I want to feel her close to me."

When Lucy kisses Nicholas, she does it just like her sister: feasting on those soft, fat cheeks. She combs his hair and brings him to Courtney's house every afternoon for family dinner and story hour with his siblings.

"I put him down to bed and . . . we say a little prayer together," Lucy says. "I lie there until he falls asleep, and I know she's there with me. I can just feel her, and she's comforting him."

Nicholas turned 2 on Oct. 6, and oh, how Lucy worried over his party. Stephanie always made birthdays so magical.

Lucy and her husband held the party at their farm: chili, scones and a hayride to a pumpkin patch.

Stephanie always told her sisters that someday, she wanted to move back to Utah and live on a farm. She wanted grapevines and apple trees in the backyard, pumpkins growing and Christian by her side.

Standing in the farm, surrounded by family, about to release balloons into the air, Lucy felt that deep pang for her sister. How sad that she missed this. As a toddler, Nicholas changes by the week. He's a new version of himself every Sunday.

Stephanie's been sleeping for 10 Sundays. Nicholas is losing his chubby cheeks. His wispy tufts of baby hair have been trimmed, tamed, combed to the side. He's talking now. He's growing from a baby to a boy. Stephanie's missing all of it.

Lucy worries about time passing, about this boy who sleeps near his mother's photograph but calls Lucy "mom."

"What's going to happen," she wonders, "when he leaves me and sees Stephanie for the first time?"

His mother looks different, too.

Love and flying

Stephanie loved to dress up for Christian: a pink hat on Easter, his favorite skirt on a Friday night. Stephanie, the second-youngest, is the romantic one.

She liked to write her husband love letters, even posting them online. Her brothers teased her. She didn't care.

"You always knew Stephanie and Christian were going to be late for everything," Courtney says, "that they were going to . . . dress up, to look good for each other."

Stephanie and Christian fell in love when she was 19 and he was 21. Months later, they married in the Provo Mormon temple and started their family. While Christian finished his degree in facilities management at Brigham Young University, Stephanie stayed at home with the children. They moved from Provo to a job in New Jersey and later Mesa, where Christian was raised as one of 11 kids.

In Arizona, Stephanie and Christian lived with his parents while they saved for a house, but Stephanie felt that tug pulling her home to Utah, to her parents, five brothers, and three sisters. She tried to ignore it, her sisters said. She wanted to make him happy.

"She was just a softie," Page says. "She wanted fun and happiness all the time."

Stephanie and Christian mined the magic of life. They wanted each moment to matter. Stephanie wore her trademark red lipstick even to the grocery store and sent thank-you notes to the dentist. Christian liked to dance in the living room and pick Stephanie up and carry her to bed.

Stephanie knew Christian always had yearned to fly. He ate birdseed at age 6, hoping he might grow wings.

For Christian's 28th birthday, in 2006, she bought him his first flying lesson. Stephanie called him Mr. Pilot Nielson and loved to be his passenger. She played the Out of Africa soundtrack on her iPod, lost in romance, pretending she was Meryl Streep.

He told her that whenever she needed her sisters, he could fly her to Provo.

He earned his pilot's license in July, and a few weeks later, Stephanie came to him with a request. On a recent vacation to his family's ranch in Bluewater, N.M., she had spied a pair of suede moccasins at an Indian reservation nearby. She mentioned how she wished she'd brought them home, and Christian said he'd fly her over on Saturday to get them. It would be good practice, he said. Their flight instructor, Doug Kinneard of Mesa, could join them, and they could leave the kids with Christian's mother.

It could be a date.

The flight home

On the way home from New Mexico, Stephanie wore those moccasins. They stopped in St. Johns around 3:30 p.m. to refuel. During the landing, the borrowed Cessna's engine quit and wouldn't restart.

Christian and Doug pushed the plane to the fueling area and filled the tanks. The engine started easily, according to the National Transportation Safety Board's preliminary report.

Christian stopped to call his mother and told her they'd be home soon.

He taxied the Cessna back to the runway, and the plane climbed slowly. Witnesses say it never got the altitude it needed. At the end of the runway, the plane veered to the left and crashed onto a residential street about a block away.

Neighbors heard the power lines snap as the plane came through. They heard the plane hit a truck parked on the street and then another. They heard the scrape of the plane's metal belly shredding as it skidded across the asphalt into a woodpile next to a home, where it caught fire. The power lines had sliced off the left landing gear. Then the neighbors heard footsteps, running.

Christian and Doug jumped from the plane, their clothes on fire. Christian ran across the street, still burning, calling for help.

"My wife," he cried, staring back at the airplane already lost to flames. "My wife."

Stephanie escaped, and neighbors found her beneath a tire swing.

Doug, burned on more than 90 percent of his body, called out instructions.

"Call my students," he said, "tell them I won't be there this afternoon." In the end, he talked of his family and how much he loved them. Doug, 48, died the next day.

Neighbors helped Christian across the street. He asked someone to call his aunt and uncle, who live in St. Johns. They arrived just behind the ambulance, and Christian sent his aunt to Stephanie.

Stephanie lay on the grass, her head in the lap of a man who happened by. Stephanie reached up and cradled his cheek in her singed hand.

"Thank you," she told him. "Thank you for being here."

Stephanie was worried about her injuries.

"My mother's going to be so mad at me," she told Christian's aunt. "I'm all burned. I'm going to die."

As they waited for the helicopters to arrive, Stephanie became quiet.

"I don't want to do this," Stephanie said. "I just want to go home and make dinner for my family."

'Come home'

Christian woke up in the burn center one month later asking about her, his injuries healing but his worry fresh.

"Where is she?" Christian asked, as he came out of sedation. "How is she?"

They waited a few days before they wheeled him into her room.

"He didn't really look at her," Page says. Christian kept his eyes in his lap. He wanted to touch her, but he didn't know if he could. A nurse picked up his hand, placed it on Stephanie's. And then, though his voice shook, he couldn't stop talking. He told her of his love, how all the good in him and the children was because of her.

"Come back," Christian begged that day in the hospital. "Come home."

For weeks, all he could talk about was her. He guided his walker to her side three and four times a day to touch her, pray with her, talk to her. He tried to explain the magic of his wife to everyone who visited, to his mother every night, to his own sister when she came to sing him to sleep.

"She's just so wonderful," Christian said. "Nobody can really know how wonderful she is."

No one except her sisters.

The three women came to see him together one weekend, a quick flight to Arizona from Utah. He smiled at their freckles, at their mannerisms so like his wife's.

"When he looks at us," Page says, "he sees Stephanie."

Stephanie's choice

Page, Courtney and Lucy stop before they go into Stephanie's hospital room. Their arms find each other for a long embrace, like they're summoning all the strength they have and passing it to each other. It's still so hard to see her.

The sisters don't hear Stephanie's voice anymore, whispering in their ears. They feel her here, in this hospital room. They feel her fighting.

"We feel like she had a choice," Page says. "She could choose to go, and it would have been a beautiful life. Or she could choose to stay and fight. We feel like she's made her choice."

Stephanie is something of a marvel, says Dr. Kevin Foster, one of the burn surgeons leading her care. After 19 surgeries, her wounds are almost grafted completely, he says. Her body fought off the afflictions common to burn patients: infection, organ failure.

She will be in the burn center until at least December, he says, followed by months in a rehabilitation center as she learns to walk again and use her hands. There will be more surgeries over the next few years, Foster says, likely more than 100.

Just coming out of heavy sedation, Stephanie is dimly conscious and can wave her arms and shake her head. She is moving now, responding to her family.

The moccasins saved her feet from the fire, and her sisters like to stand at the edge of her bed, touching her toes.

In the hospital, Stephanie's sisters keep their voices happy and calm. They try not to mention the children too much because such talk makes Stephanie sit up in a white blur of urgency and worry.

"I think we tell her what we need to hear ourselves," Page says. She tells Stephanie to be patient and strong. Courtney keeps her voice light, tells her everything is going to be OK. Lucy tells Stephanie how many people love her.

The sisters have some news for Stephanie in the hospital this day: She's famous now.

Courtney kept her promise to tell Stephanie's story, posting news on her own blog and on Stephanie's. Sometimes, her words sound just like her sister's.

The news about Stephanie and Christian's crash spread quickly, and fellow bloggers offered their prayers. The Today show and the New York Times featured the family, and more than 50,000 readers now visit her blog daily.

Stephanie's hospital room is a scrapbook of love letters and photos from readers on each wall. Piles of packages from strangers arrive in Utah for the children every week. Fellow moms and bloggers have auctioned cookies and homemade dolls to benefit the family. Friends have held garage sales, carnivals, even concerts. They've raised more than $150,000 to help with medical costs, which will stretch into the millions. Insurance will pay some.

"Stephanie, do you want to be famous?" Courtney asks her.

Stephanie sits up and shakes her head no.

Apples and leaves

One day, when Page is tending to Stephanie in her room, Page whispers something else to her sister.

Page and her husband just bought Stephanie and Christian a house in Provo, in the tree-lined foothills where Stephanie grew up. There's a view of the mountains she loved, which fall is painting red and orange as Stephanie sleeps.

The house is in the center of her family: just a half-mile from Courtney, Page and their parents. Lucy is eight minutes away. There's a white picket fence on the side, an apple tree in front, peaches and plums in the back. The eastern fence is covered in grapevines.

In the hospital, Page hears her little sister crying once more.

Later, Page visits Christian in the Scottsdale rehab clinic where he is recovering, anxious to tell him about the house. In rehab, Christian is practicing walking, building his strength and professing his love for Stephanie to everyone. His mother stays with him nearly every night, even though he goes to bed at 8:30. He doesn't like to be alone. He says he doesn't want to publicly discuss the accident until Stephanie can talk about it, too.

Page is nervous to tell him about the house, afraid he won't want to leave his own family or that he won't understand how badly Stephanie will need her own.

A grateful Christian tells Page that what Stephanie wants, he will do.

"In my hardest, most difficult times, it's my sisters I want by my side," Page says.

Stephanie will need lifelong care, help with her children and all of life's routines and indelicacies.

Stephanie will need Page's strength, Courtney's laughs, Lucy's caution. She will need their freckles to remind her of her own.

One night, during a quick visit to Arizona, the sisters find each other at Stephanie and Christian's Mesa home.

Courtney is feeding her baby boy. Lucy is doing laundry. Page is comforting their mother. The day at the hospital was long.

One by one, they all stop and pile onto the bed in Stephanie's yellow guest room, drained. They lie on their sides like a row of spoons, their heads resting on each other's shoulders. They tease their mother, who is nestled in the middle, her hair suddenly much whiter than it ever was before. They laugh at Lucy's pajamas. They stay this way for a very long time, and then they are quiet.

Courtney says what they all are thinking.

"It feels like someone is missing."

The million dollar question...

“So, do you really like him/her?” “Are you sure you are ready to get married?” “What are you going to be when you ‘grow up’?” “When are you going to have another baby?” You know what I am talking about. The put-you-on-the-spot-and-make-you-a-little…. uncomfortable questions you get asked by well meaning family and friends.

The million dollar question that I have been asked quite a bit lately is “So, why haven’t you updated your blog?” After pondering the question and my noncommittal responses, I have come to the following conclusions:

1. 
   
1. When I talk to people who haven’t commented that they have read my blog but are up to date and informed on my life, it kinda wierds me out.
2. It really bothers me that friends and family know all the nitty gritty about my oh so exciting life, but I don’t know what’s up with them.
3. If I am blogging for a record of what our family is up to, do I really want it out there for the whole world to see?
4. I tend to be a little raw when I write. Should I be embarrassed that I don't really know who is reading all this stuff about me and my fam?
5. If I am blogging just for a record for my family, should it really matter to me who comments and who doesn’t?
6. If you take the time to read someone’s blog, shouldn’t you take the 30 seconds or so to give them a little shout out? I can’t deny that comments make me feel loved and oh so cool, but I can’t even get my own husband to comment on my blog. Oh and mom, word verification isn’t that hard to figure out!
7. You have probably noticed that I tend to, what my sister calls, ‘blog barf.’ Blog barfing actually refers to posting multiple days at once. Blog barfing occurs when I type an entry, reread it and then let it sit in a ‘draft’ status until I have the time to go back and find/edit the pictures to go with it and of course make the fonts all cute. Blog barfing tends to make readers of my blog (especially those who don’t use google reader) crazy because posts are dated accurately but posted whenever I feel like it.
8. Sometimes my perfectionism gets the best of me when I sit down at my computer to type in an entry. It has to be up to standard, which means I have to be in a writing mood and not a feeling like it has to be as good as…mood. There are some great blogs out there, and I am pretty sure blog envy is a real thing. I totally have it, which causes me to barf. See #6.
9. To sum it all up, I still don’t have a real answer to the million dollar blog question. I have, however, decided that I think I want to make my blog private and will hold out my drafts folder until I can at least get my too cool husband and family to comment on this post.
2. 
   

The fate of this blog lies in your hands, oh devoted fans and blog readers. If you want an invite to read my blog, send me and email...or better yet comment on this post!

Your comments are like the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders for the Cowboys. I know the Cowboys just wouldn’t be able to complete their plays without their scantily clad sideline cheerleaders, just as I don’t think I can continue to blog barf without your comments. So, what’s it gonna be? Are you too busy or perhaps cool to let me know that you are reading this rant? Scantily clad or not, make sure your comments don’t go unheard!

Introducing...

America’s next top designers and models:

Cowboy Landon

(yes I am fully aware that he has his finger up his nose)

Pampered 'Karate' Carter

Accessorized Eden