Saturday, December 24, 2011

Called to Serve


When each of our sons was born, I counted all of their fingers and toes and 
kissed their sweet little cheeks and gazed with motherly love into their
angel faces. It seemed like they would be little for a long, long time.
But they just went ahead and grew up. 
So far, the first three boys have taken their 
turn heading off to college and then making the choice to serve a mission.
They came to this juncture in their lives each in his own way.
I've lived long enough and parented long enough to know that my
hopes and dreams for them may shape the way I lead them, guide them, and 
walk beside them; but in the end, they have to have their own hopes and dreams.
When the decision to serve a mission is confirmed, I am grateful and happy for them.
I know it will be a pivotal, life-changing experience.
So, Seth recently received his call:
The Georgia, Atlanta Mission.
He reports February 15th, 2012

His impeccable table manners will serve him well.

He can certainly rock a suit.
Plus, he knows all about brotherly love.

He will definitely "Be Prepared"


Yesterday was a beautiful day...
and the weather was pretty nice too.






Saturday, December 17, 2011

Yay For Shay!

Our Miss Shayla

And her debonair brothers
got all dressed up and went to the church.

So that Shayla could receive her
 Young Womanhood Recognition
 after completing all of her Personal Progress.


She has personally progressed quite satisfactorily and
though her clever sign says she is done...
we all know she has just begun!



Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Newly Wed

This boy...

...and this girl

Got married in the temple...

It brought the whole Gale bunch to the rainy Northwest
to support their brother Spencer 

and his new bride, Adrianna

Baby Mason enjoyed some time with Pops

and Uncle Seth

Pre-wedding primping courtesy of the Gale sisters

Shane, Shayla, and Sam spiffed up for the occasion

Hanging out in our cozy hotel room

We checked on our cabin--
love that place.


Bonus Mason picture
Love that face.

Monday, December 12, 2011

So...Airport...We Meet Again

The recent marriage of our son in a different state gave me the opportunity to return to my favorite place...the AIRPORT. Just can't get enough of that insanity. I booked flights for myself and our three youngest with frequent flyer miles. You know, that awesome rewards program where you have to use your mad skills to outwit the airline and actually get to where you need to go at the time you need to be there. They make it as challenging as possible by eliminating any days and times that normal people like to travel and by offering flights with 26 minute layovers with plane changes. Game On!

Our flight out left at 6:18 am. Our connection was in LA. We were flying on United. I checked in 24 hours ahead. I paid for the extra bag I was planning to check.  I mapped out my plan and timed everything to include a little extra for possible glitches. What!? Glitches me? Never! I got up at 3:00 am and had the car loaded with kids and baggage by 4:00 am. We got to the airport without incident--not too many people on the road at four-o'clock in the morning.

 I found long-term parking. San Diego Airport likes to keep it interesting by moving the parking around randomly--it's always a fun surprise to find that parking lot you used two weeks ago is now a fenced off construction site. We parked right next to the Commuter Terminal but we needed to get to Terminal 2 because we were on United. We hopped on a shuttle and made it there with time to spare. But, oh dontcha know--all LA flights leave from the COMMUTER TERMINAL?  I guess it would have been useful to have that printed on the boarding pass I printed off 24 hours earlier or perhaps shared with the customer in some way--a sign perhaps?  We waited by the red sign under the pedestrian bridge with several other surprised LA passengers. The Airport Loop shuttle eventually picked us up and gave us the Grand Tour of the whole awesome San Diego Airport Construction Fiasco and eventually dropped us back about 50 yards from where we had parked to begin with.

We hurried into the Commuter Terminal and I was relieved to see that I was next in line to drop off the bag I had already paid for online. There were three employees checking bags and each seemed to be expert in the art of taking as long as possible (make elderly people go back to the computer kiosk and start over with printing off their own boarding passes, and shout instructions at them as they try to figure it out). After standing there idly for 10 minutes while that went on, two of the employees disappeared. Just as I was stepping up for my turn, the lone employee called out the name of the guy who had just strolled in and shoved his bags under the stretchy rope things. Apparently he was quite chummy with our helpful, courteous United ticketing agent--they discussed his trip to Bermuda and the recent unrest in the airline industry as well as the various pros and cons of his favorite coffee shops. By now I was worried about making our flight but I knew I just needed to leave the bag and get through security. As he swaggered off, the employee looked at me with contempt and asked if I had checked in at the kiosk; had I not learned anything from those poor elderly people? I explained that I already had our boarding passes and also had paid for my bag. Oh, but you must STILL check in at the kiosk. Really?  I was supposed to know that? I could have done that with all that idle time I had there standing in line. I went to check in at the kiosk as she called the next people forward. WHAT? They don't have to check in at the kiosk? I entered my confirmation number and got the message:
"It is too late to check in for this flight. You will need to choose a different itinerary for all four passengers."
I looked up and said in a panic "It says I'm too late to check in!"

 Suddenly, our "Employee of the Year" had a sticker for my bag printed and placed on it and my bag was given to a baggage loader. The youngsters and I ran to security--which, in the little Commuter Terminal is one lady who wanted to know the ages of each child and how Sam got so tall and how Shayla liked having so many brothers. We tried to be quick but not pushy and as we got past her and removed all of our shoes, jackets, belts, etc.,  I saw that they were doing the individual screening. At the same time I heard, "Gale, party of four. Report to Gate Four. Your plane is boarding." I went first so I could run to the counter and explain that we were there and coming. As I was pointing out the youngsters who were being carefully x-rayed and patted down, I saw Shane get in line for the wrong flight. I yelled from across the terminal just as he handed his carry-on to the agent to be tagged. Everyone turned to look at the crazy mom and I motioned for my kids to follow me as I ran out onto the tarmac to catch our plane.

On the small puddle-jumper planes, you check your bags on the tarmac and they load them in the belly of the plane. All the baggage had already been loaded but they hadn't closed it yet, so luckily they got someone to come and pick ours up. We boarded the plane and took our seats with a sigh of relief. But we were not the last ones on the plane. Mr. Chatty Bermuda strolled on after we did, sipping his coffee and looking like he had all day.

We began to move and it looked like we were going to take off on time--but then the pilot informed us that due to noise laws, we had to wait until 6:30 to take off. Since we had a whole 26 minutes to catch our next flight to Portland, that 12 minute delay was no problem. Thank you so much for offering a 6:18 flight knowing full well it couldn't leave until 6:30.

We made it to LA and waited anxiously for our carry-on bags, that we really couldn't "carry on",  to be unloaded and handed over to us. Then we made a mad dash for the gate--literally running at top speed--we made it just as they were loading the last of the passengers. Once again we slumped into our seats with a sigh of relief. We were grateful we made it, but sad we didn't have even a minute to grab something to eat. I should have packed a few snacks. They weren't able to serve even drinks because, YAY, we had to pass through some Santa Ana winds just to liven things up. We bounced and dropped like we were on a roller coaster--exciting for the kids, not for the mama who avoids all thrill rides-- I get plenty of  excitement  raising eight children thank you very much.

We made it to Portland and it didn't disappoint; we were welcomed back to our home territory by grey skies and moisture. We went down to baggage claim to pick up our one checked bag. And use the restroom after our eventful journey. Only to be greeted by policemen and some pretty serious looking dogs sniffing around the carousel...and blocking the way to the restrooms. We were lucky enough to get our bag and look for other restrooms before the full contingent of cops and dogs showed up a few minutes later--about the time Andy got there from Connecticut.

Let's just say "All's well that ends well"--and I might also add that I got up at 3:00 that morning to make sure I had time to wash my hair. So, on the bright side, my hair was clean.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Coming Soon...

A Wedding Post

But, in the meantime, here's a little something:
Last Sunday we attended our old ward in Camas, Washington because we were there for Spencer and Adrianna's wedding.  It's the ward we moved into fresh out of college when Scott (our oldest) was just nine months old. We lived there for 25 years and had our other seven children whilst in that ward. 
It was nice to fill up "our" pew with most of the Gale gang.
It was Fast Sunday and thus Sacrament Meeting was open to testimonies. 

Andy got up and began with:
"We moved into this ward 25 years ago--back then I had an afro and a six-pack.
Since then, both have disappeared."

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Born First: Scott's Birth Story



Scott was born in the days of our poverty. I was working full time at Bradshaw Auto Parts in Provo, Utah while Andy was finishing his two degrees at BYU. He was also working part time at the facilities plant on campus. We lived in the "Chicken Coop" and drove a beater Plymouth Volari station wagon. Each night before dinner, we would eat a bowl of Top Ramen to fill us up so that our sparse meal would suffice. We  took the prophet Spencer W. Kimball at his word when he said not to delay our families for school. We decided that if we were ready to be married, we were ready for children. We were blessed far beyond any sacrifice we made. Each child brought blessings beyond measure along with many blessings that could be measured.

Due to our busy schedules of work and school, we were not able to squeeze in the childbirth classes that are the norm for first-time parents. We ended up taking a one evening crash course which was really a refresher course for those who were on their second or third. A nurse gave us a summary of what to look for as signs of labor and then showed us a film of a birth. It was the first time I had ever seen a baby being born. We went home with a stack of papers and brochures which I studied intently. There was no internet, no Learning Channel with "A Baby Story" running 24/7. I was really on my own.

Scott was due on November 18th. I had the date circled in  highlighter on my calendar at work. As the day drew near, I became more and more uncomfortable sitting all day behind a desk. My ankles swelled and I waddled like a duck. The morning of the 16th, I awoke at 3:00 am with a contraction, then I discovered that I had lost the mucous plug. I recognized that as an important sign of imminent birth--so I decided to clean the house.  My main craving during my pregnancy had been the smell of Comet cleanser. I would come home from work and scrub the kitchen sink and the bathroom sink and tub just so I could smell it.  Crazy yes? So cleaning the house really wasn't necessary since I had been scrubbing for nine months. I didn't eat anything as per the instructions of the nurse in our childbirth class. By the time Andy was up getting ready for school, I was exhausted and hungry. When Andy got back from class late in the afternoon, I had called the doctor and he told me to come in and get checked. So we did. The contractions were coming about 20 minutes apart but the doctor was surprised to note that they were lasting for 5 minutes each. But I was only dilated to one. He told us we would most likely have a baby by morning and sent us home to wait it out. We took a detour to the Cougar Eat so Andy could get some dinner--I was still faithfully following the instructions: "Don't eat anything whilst in labor".  By  the time we got home, the contractions had gone up a notch and I had a hard time catching my breath during them.

At that time, Andy was playing on an intermural football team made up of accounting majors--really. And they had been winning. Around 6:00 he got a call from a team mate wondering if he was coming to the game that night. And here, Gentle Reader, is the stuff that legends are made of. Andy's question to me has gone down in history as the infamous What NOT to Say to Your Wife in Labor. The poor father-to-be who really wanted to go play football asked his wife:
"How long do you think you will be?"
I responded by bursting into tears.


After Andy decided he would miss the game for the sake of his distraught wife, we decided to call the hospital and see if I should come in yet--the nurse told me to come on in and get checked.  The contractions were closer and harder and I hoped that I had made some progress. I had made progress...the nurse informed me that I was now at 1+. She told me I should go home and try to rest, clearly it was going to take some time.

There would be one more false alarm visit to the hospital that night. Around 9:00 the contractions kicked up another notch and we debated whether to go in--Andy called the hospital and the nurse encouraged us to get checked--better safe than sorry. So we made the trek to Utah Valley Hospital yet again. They hooked me to a monitor and left us for an hour and a half.  The contractions were 5 minutes apart and were good and strong. I was anxious to get checked and see what progress had been made. At 10:30 the nurse checked me and I was dilated to........drum roll here.....2. TWO! I decided I was never going to have the baby and labor was going to go on forever. The sweet nurse found out I hadn't eaten anything for over 24 hours and brought me some grape juice. She also offered me a shot of Demerol which she said would help me rest. Within minutes of the shot I was shaking all over and puking my guts up--along with the grape juice. While this was going on, I could hear screaming coming from down the hall. It chilled me to the bone as I thought about what was ahead for me--and I figured how ever bad it was at the moment--it was going to get worse, so I had best just buck up and deal with it.  Andy helped me back into my clothes and we drove back to the Chicken Coop.

Through all of this, Andy had also been writing a paper that was due the next morning. His professor had told the class that their only excuse for not turning it in on time would be death--their own death. So he was frantically trying to write in between the comings and goings and the checking and not progressing. I resigned myself to a long night of labor and told Andy to just work on his paper. I laid down on the bed and tried not to make too much noise so that he could concentrate. I was determined not to go in again until birth was imminent--I did NOT want to be sent home again. It seemed like every hour the contractions would kick up a notch. Andy came to bed about 1:30 am and told me to wake him up if I needed him. By then I was gripping the sides of the bed with every contraction and watching the clock with agony during the few minutes I had to catch my breath in between. Around 4:00 am things felt different. More of a pushing sensation. I woke Andy up and he was a little groggy as we prepared to make the all too familiar trek to the hospital. He was upset that I had waited so long and was afraid my water would break in the car. Because it would be a tragedy to have that happen in our ancient, beat-up Plymouth station wagon. I grabbed a towel to make him feel better.

By the time we got to the hospital, I couldn't walk. Andy grabbed a wheelchair and took me into the lobby where I waited while he parked the car. We got in the elevator and stopped on the maternity floor--as the doors opened, the nurse standing there saw my condition and said "I guess this is the place you want." Andy said "No, she's having a baby!" and closed the doors and went up another floor. He sheepishly realized his flustered mistake and got us back to the right floor. I was taken to a labor room and hoisted myself onto a bed. The nurse checked me and said "Seven!" I wanted to cry--I knew I had three more centimeters to go and figured it was going to be hours longer. The sweet nurse reassured me that birth was close and I would not be sent home again. I was so relieved. The doctor made his appearance about then and said "What a pioneer woman you are! You went through all the hard labor by yourself!" I gave him a glazed look.

From there I was wheeled into the delivery room. Everything was shiny and sterile. Andy was outfitted in sterile scrubs from head to toe--I could only see his eyes above the mask. The nurse told me to scoot over onto the bed. I said, "You've got to be kidding me." I couldn't move. So she and Andy shoved and dragged me over. There I began the final pushing. It was excruciating but I figured the harder I pushed, the sooner it would be over. The nurse kept trying to get me to put my feet in the stirrups and I kept using the stirrup posts for leverage. She finally gave up and let me do it my way.  After about 20 minutes of pushing, the doctor made three quick cuts for an episiotomy and then one more.  Scott made his appearance and the doctor startled me with a shout of "POSTERIOR!" Scott was born posterior presentation. The doctor informed me that he was surprised I pushed him out so fast considering that and the fact that he had a ginormous head. But, there he was! We waited to hear the gender and the doctor held him up to suction his mouth and nose and then announced: "It's a boy!" He laid him up on my belly and I reached down to touch him. The doctor yelled "Don't touch!" and startled me yet again. I didn't realize I was about to contaminate my own baby--nevermind that he just came out of my body. The doctor cut the cord and the nurse wiped him off, wrapped him in a little blanket and handed him to Andy. Andy pulled up a chair next to me and we admired the fruits of my labor. He was beautiful and perfect. His face was shiny and he had just enough hair to cover his head. It was dark but reflected the light. He looked around quietly and turned his head toward me when I said "Scott". I was deliriously happy. I hardly noticed all the stitching going on to piece me back together as I admired our son. I couldn't wait to get my hands on him.

 I got to make another painful shift from the bed to a gurney and at last, my baby was placed in my arms and I snuggled him as I was wheeled to recovery. They took Scott to the nursery so he could be thoroughly inspected, weighed and measured. There were exclamations of surprise by all the nurses as well as the gaggle of student nurses who were hovering over me when Andy came to tell me the stats: 9 lbs. 2 oz. and 20 inches long. That's a pretty big boy.

Later, alone in my hospital room, I finally got the chance to hold him. According to my journal : "I will never forget the feeling of holding him just the two of us alone for the first time (Andy went home, got showered etc and went to class--he had a paper due after all! He was on cloud nine!) Such a beautiful little boy--tiny nose, ears, hands, feet and toes. I unwrapped him and looked at his little feet; there was even a teeny little toe nail on his smallest toe! He was asleep so I just held him and admired him. He has quite a lot of hair and the nurses had parted it on the side. He looks just like his daddy--he even has a little cleft in his little chin!"

We took Scott home to our little chicken coop house on a snowy night, two days later. We didn't have a car seat or a stroller or a high chair. We had borrowed a bassinet from our friends in the house in front of us. Most of the baby clothes we had were hand-me-downs. We didn't have a washer or dryer so we scraped money together when we could to go to the laundromat-- but in between, I washed out his little baby clothes in the kitchen sink and hung them by the wood stove to dry. We knew it was time to do the laundry when we got down to the pair of flowery pink pajamas that Andy hated to see on his son--and were only used as a last resort before laundry was done. We didn't have TV or any of the luxuries of the time. But somehow, Scott didn't seem to mind.

Happy Birthday Scott!

 It has been awhile since I updated this little family scrapbook on the internet. I like to pop over here from time to time and look at our ...