(The other night, while packing up some things at my old house, I came across a box full of my Gulf War memories-–newspaper clips, some journal entries, a calendar, a gas mask box cover. These little things transport me.)

It's January, 1991.

I’m twelve years old. It’s the middle of the night and I’m sitting in bed, fully dressed, staring out my window towards Jerusalem’s Old City, of which I have a crystal clear, unobstructed view.

It’s always hard to calm down after an air raid. Tonight it seems particularly difficult. When the siren sounded a few hours ago, we’d raced to the bomb shelter, as usual, carrying our gas mask boxes and our shelter bags. Chairs and blankets were already set up, waiting for us in the shelter. The first item of business upon arriving at the shelter was to put our gas masks on-–we must always assume that Saddam Hussein is using chemical warfare, because one of these times he might be. We know he has the capabilities.

Some of the little faces in our shelter are too small for gas masks, so for toddlers there are special plastic hood-style masks and for infants there are “tents” which look like incubators. Some of the babies scream. They don’t want to go in there. It breaks their parents’ hearts to shove them in. But because it could mean the difference between life and death, it just has to be done.

Our shelter, deep within our fortress, is full of interesting people. While there aren’t very many employees left at the BYU Jerusalem Center, there are a few, and most of them have, upon invitation, brought their families to live in the Center during the Gulf War. It’s just safer here. So, Arab and Jew alike, security guards and kitchen staff and Professors all camp together in the shelter. Because there are no students and very little staff here, there’s lots of room and all are welcome. Still, there are only thirty or so of us all together. We’re a myriad of colors, faiths, and languages, and most communication is done through pleasant smiles. Whatever might be going on out there, we all get along in here.

Once gas masks were on, we sat for a minute, getting oriented, hearts beating, wondering how soon we’d know if it was a false alarm or whether conventional or chemical missiles had fallen in Israel, or if they were on their way–or what?

The American man who is the Center’s director is trying to finish the Bible before he goes home in a few month, so he opened his big scripture and balanced his glasses over the outside of his mask–a comical but reassuring picture of serenity. Our appearance is difficult to describe–we look like large insects, or maybe aliens. J, my 15 year old brother, and I pulled out blankets and set up a board game instead of trying to sleep–we both knew we wouldn’t get any sleep, even if we’d tried. A game was better. Anything to take our minds off of things unknown.

One of the old women in our shelter who we’ve come to know and adore, suddenly exclaimed to her husband, having just come in contact with her own morning breath in the personal intimacy of her rubber mask, “how have you stood it all these years?” J and I nearly laughed till we cried.

After awhile, one of the Arab guards checked on his children. Recently the Jerusalem Post has reported that an infant and three elderly women suffocated in their masks. He leaned down over his young son wearing the hood-style mask–he touched him–no response. Shouting, he pulled the boy to his feet and ripped the hood off his head. Suddenly, the boy inhaled and started to cry. His mother pulled off her mask and, crying out, grabbed the boy, holding him in horror against her. J and I watched from our corner of the room with terror and relief all at once. Soon everyone calmed down. Everything was okay. But I confess to having shed a tear or two.

Soon the all clear siren sounded, and we were allowed to back to our apartments. Which brings me back to now, as I stare out my window.

This city outside my window seems so vibrant, so alive, so eternal. There’s an aura of peace, even among all the terror. I often find myself looking out the window, just to make sure it’s still there. And sure enough, after 3500 years, it is. It’ll take a lot more than a Desert Storm to shake it.

I jump a little as the phone starts ringing. I hear my father answer it before slamming it down. “What was that?” my mother’s muffled voice asks him. “A man, saying that he’s planted a bomb in our apartment and we’re all going to die.” My father sighs.

I just shake my head. We know it’s a lie. We’ve had similar calls in the past. No one can possibly get into our home here, our fortress. But they attempt to use the power of fear against us. It hurts me in my heart to think of their hatred for me, simply because of the color of my skin and the nationality on my passport. We’ve seen pictures on the news of our Palestinian neighbors, sitting on their rooftops as they watch scud missiles fly overhead, cheering. I’m too logic-driven to understand this. I asked my dad why they would cheer rather than seek shelter for themselves. He smiled sadly and explained that some people don’t care if they die, just as long as we die too. We know that this is just a small handful of people, a vocal minority, and certainly not the feeling among all.

Still, when I wander through the streets of the Old City, dropping coins into beggars’ hands, buying souveniers so that a father can feed his family tonight, and listening to a continuous stream of men offer my dad a certain amount of camels in order to take me as their wife, I can’t help but wonder if these are the people calling my house in the middle of the night with their bomb threats–the people rooting for my death.

It’s time to pull my eyes away from the window and go to sleep. Just before I close my eyes, I catch a glimpse of the pin on my bulletin board above my bed that says, “Free Kuwait”. I laugh a little. Who would have ever thought, when I was given that pin in London six months ago, that those two little words would have such a profound impact on my existence.

But I must rest now. Tomorrow this day will all start over again. I need to be ready for it.

Goodnight.

I just bought the movie Barbie in the 12 Dancing Princesses for my Fluffy, and fortunately her brothers don’t yet know that it’s not cool for them to like Barbie movies, so they’re all happily watching it. We’ve all probably seen it about 57 times now.

And I have the most random thing to admit.

I think “Prince” Derek is HOT.

I would have included a picture with that last statement, but I couldn’t find any, even through lengthy google image searches–which leads me to believe that I’m the only “grown up” who thinks that Derek is hot. Or, perhaps, that any animated character is hot.

Alas, it’s not the first time. I always kinda had a thing for Eric from The Little Mermaid and Prince Philip from Sleeping Beauty.

And really, I can’t believe I’m writing any of this.

Still, I know I’m not entirely alone. I specifically remember a moment in college when I was hanging out with some guy friends who had just seen Disney’s “Hercules” (it had just come out) and they were talking about how Meg was by far the hottest Disney character ever! When I saw the movie myself, I thought that she was definitely the skankiest of all of Disney’s princesses (which is, of course, what these guys found so appealing). Still, the fact that ALL of them were saying this about an animated character makes me think that perhaps this is not totally unheard of.

So, fess up. Did you ever have a thing for an animated character?

(And is anyone gonna agree with me about Derek? Come on…)

This was a dream come true for my parents.

My parents were great adventurers. They had pretty much seen everything and been everywhere. But this one last stop meant the world to them.

They were distracted. And who can blame them? How often is a lifelong wish granted?

Obviously, if you’d asked either one of them, they would have adamanty professed that the safety of their youngest daughter was more important to them than anything, including this. And I believe that they meant it too. But somehow they were so excited and distracted by their dream that they didn’t see my camel driver slipping away with me.

I watched in horror as my parents continued on towards the great pyramids, and I was being taken somewhere else. Logic would have told me to scream and make a scene, but I was a stupid teenager and it didn’t even occur to me that that was an option. I just froze and rode the camel to wherever it was being driven.

Fortunately, I wasn’t just stupid–I was lucky, too. How many little girls live to tell such a story? I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t even touched. My camel driver didn’t want me, he just wanted money, which I didn’t have. But my daddy did, and if he would kindly take me back to my family I would see that he got paid. Miraculously, my driver took me back to them.

They didn’t even know I’d been gone.

And now, I’m all grown up. I, too, get distracted. We all do. We sacrifice what matters the most for what’s distracting us in the moment.

My distractions include chocolate, entertainment, vanity, laziness, convenience, being in “too big of a hurry” and so much more.

What distracts you?

“I don’t want to LIVE anymore!!!” exclaimed my not-quite-four year old Bubba as he melted onto the floor in a pool of misery.

Where does he get this crazy dramatic streak?

Poor kid. His mother is SUCH a tyrant. See, I brought home spaghetti noodles last night and cheerfully told everyone that we would have spaghetti for lunch today. There was much rejoicing. Their dad doesn’t like spaghetti, so they don’t get such “treats” very often at dinner time.

(Some kids don’t get that spaghetti is a “treat” you know. But I never take such things for granted. My mother fed us raw almonds, tofu, and spinach all the time. Oh, what I would have done for a bowl of spaghetti!)

(My mother still eats that way, which is why, at 63, she has the body of an 18 year old…)

ANYWAY, just now Bubba decided that he didn’t want spaghetti. He wanted chicken nuggets. Oh, how he HAD to have chicken nuggets. And I, his wicked tyrannical mother, would not budge. “I told you all along that we were going to have SPAGHETTI and you’re gonna LIKE it!!!”

Which brings us back to the beginning of my post, where he melted into a pool of misery and exclaimed that he no longer wanted to live.

(On a side note, don’t you think it would be an interesting research study to find out how many people no longer wanted to live just because their lunch options weren’t what they had hoped for?)

So, of course, I had to show him and Fluffy all the joys of spaghetti, which started with the “uncooked-spaghetti-noodle-held-between-the-lips-and-used-as-a-sword” sword fight. And it worked. They loved the game. Forgotten was the need for chicken nuggets. NOW he had a reason to live.

And then they stabbed me with spaghetti noodles and I, like any good mother would, flailed around the kitchen in true thespian style and woefully denounced them a-la Mercutio with “you’ve made worm’s meat of me” and “a pox on BOTH your houses” and so on.

And somewhere it occurred to me that Bubba might, just might get his dramatic streak from me!

Nah.

Okay, I know I’ve posted a million times today, and those of you have me on google reader are probably ready to kill me right about now. But, as you can see, this is still a very new site and I’m trying my darndest to get it up and running. So, lucky for you, I’m pretty much posting everything that comes to mind right now! hahaha

So, yesterday while I was at my Relief Society meeting, a VERY PREGNANT woman came up to me.

“Hi!” she says. “I heard that you had your babies at home!”

“Three of them, yes,” I replied, not sure if she was going to admire me or condemn me to hell for such “endangerment.”

“Oh, that’s so great. Can I have your phone number? I don’t want to go to the hospital too early when I go into labor, but I’m afraid that if I wait TOO long, I might end up having this baby at home and I’d need your help, since you know all about this and you live so close.”

I was flabbergasted.

Just because I have given birth at home does NOT mean that I automatically know how to deliver a baby!! That’s like saying that since I had surgery on my kidney stones I can now perform the same surgery on someone else?

As if my midwife hadn’t gone through years of schooling, hundreds of births, and an extensive liscensure process. And as if I just happen to have oxygen and pitocin and other possible necessities lying around my house that I could stick in my trunk and bring to her birth.

However, I was taken off guard just enough that I said, “Um, sure! Call me anytime.”

Hahahahaha. YIKES!