Called to Serve

After weeks of waiting (and conjecture: "Maybe they don't want us to go." "Perhaps the call letter is being delivered by handcart." "Or, maybe the mailman tried to drive BUT THERE WAS NO ENGINE IN THE CAR!"), the large, white manilla envelope came. As one of two witnesses to The Opening (I will address the second witness later), I will recount, to the best of my ability, and for my nine siblings, what what down on T. Lane that afternoon.

Me (upon opening the front door): "Hey! Let's open it!! I got Rachel on the phone."
Mom (gingerly holding the envelope in both hands): "I'm too nervous. I can't open it.
Me: "Oh, we are not doing this. Just like a band-aid - RIGHT OFF!!"
Rachel (in a plaintive whine): "What's going on? Where are they going? I have to go to work in like twenty minutes!"

I finally hustled Dad, Mom, and the other witness into kitchen.

Me (egging Mom on): "Just do it. C'mon...."
Mom (looking in Dad's direction): "Why don't you do it?!"
Dad (putting up his hands in defense): "No, no, no. You do it."

ARGH.

TWO HOURS LATER .... *note - time may have been exaggerated due to the anxious state of those involved*

Mom (gently tearing at the envelope, the way Grandma tore at Christmas wrapping paper: "We can save it for next year."): "Um..... Minnesota! MINNESOTA!!"
Me (yelling into the phone): "Dude, Rachel! Minneapolis!!
Rachel (laughing): "Yay!!" *pause* "Does Mom realize how much snow they get?!"

Sister Randall's copy.

Dad (looking at his copy of the letter): "Hey, mine says a different mission!?"

Steely eyed look from Mom.

Dad (quickly backpedaling): "You doing okay? You like this call?"
Mom (laughing): "Yes! Let's call all of our children. Right now."

I think this should be the photo that goes on their missionary plaque. 

Dad making the calls.

Looking through the packet - especially enjoying the pictures of "appropriate senior missionary attire" and the box of Rice Krispies that was sent along with the call.

And I was left with the one other person in the room who saw the whole thing first hand.

From the kitchen floor.

In her diaper.

And the furrowed brow of concern.

Are you going to pick me up or what?

And this last photo leads me into the second part of this blog post, which I have lovingly entitled "Grandma vs. Avery".

With her parents and older siblings gone galavanting through the highly chlorinated water spray of Great Wolf Lodge, Avery was left in the care of her grandmother. Oh, I helped ... ease the building tension between mother and granddaughter.

Mom (stressed): "She spit up again today. TWICE!"
I glanced at Avery - a sly smile appeared on her lips. Yes, she was thinking. I got to finally put on the outfit I really wanted.

Mom (exhausted after a sleepless night): "She is so talkative - and runs that pacifier up and down her crib like it was an instrument."
I glanced at Avery - again, that secret smile. They'll think twice about leaving me without a pacifier all day, she muses.

Mom (yelling, slightly panicked): "Where is she? Is she crawling toward the stairs?"
I follow the sound of the "swish, swish" of her crawl and see her at the bottom of the stairs, her climb to the top blocked by a baby gate. Disappointment fills her gaze and she silently asks "Don't you trust me?"

Of course, Mom handled the babysitting gig with the upmost aplomb - and for the umpteenth time in my life, I saw how she and Dad could raise ten children.

And now they can take their skills and keep the Minnesota Minneapolis missionaries in line.