Breaking the Tenth Commandment

I have several more fun posts to write, cute pics of the kids to share, and all that good happy stuff. But I'm gonna take five minutes to keep it real.

We went to Michigan for a family trip a few weeks ago and coming back from that has been really, really hard. When we lived in Brooklyn and would take trips to see family (and escape the city), I'd always be filled with a feeling of dread on the ride home. As the years passed, the feeling lessened. And when we lived in Rutherford, I noticed I was eager to get home after some time away. But this time, our first trip while living in our apartment in Fair Lawn, the feeling came back with a vengeance on the ten hour ride home. (For the backstory on why we left our house in Rutherford and moved to an apartment in Fair Lawn, click here.) It was probably exacerbated by my having to continually climb back and forth between the front seat and the back row to cater to my children's every whim, but it couldn't have been all of it. (Any advice on that one? I can't reach the two kids in the back two seats and they're strapped down in their seats so tight they can't reach anything on their own.)

Once we got back, I started having problems with insomnia again. I don't think I've had a good night sleep since. Adam has done his best to help me sleep better by getting up with the kids and letting me sleep in on Saturdays. And he's always trying to tidy up our bedroom because he knows that contributes to my anxiety. But I still can't seem to just fall asleep, no matter how early or late I go to bed. 

The fridge still sucks and we're hoping to get a new one when the Labor Day sales come around. The neighbors downstairs still smoke like chimneys, outside AND inside their apartment. And Tot Lot and Elizabeth's "free" swim lessons are over so now the summer perks of our neighborhood are all but over and gone. So all I'm left with is this deep and persistent despising of where we live. Up until a few days ago, I've been really, seriously pissed off at God for telling me we were "supposed" to live here. And I've gone through the whole rigamarole of wondering if he ever really did, or if it was just my imagination, and if so if every spiritual witness I've ever felt wasn't real, and if so then my testimony is invalid and I should leave the church and turn in my temple recommend and give God the one-fingered salute. 

But those feelings finally passed. I'm okay with not knowing why I felt like we should live here. I'm trying to be more humble and put it on the shelf. But I'm still far from peace. And this is why:

Lately, there are times when I'll walk through the neighborhood, or drive around town, and every house I see fills me with this overwhelming hatred, anger, and jealousy. It's crazy. And awful. But it's true. I literally hate the person, whoever they are, who owns and lives in that house. I hate them because they have a big, beautiful house and I don't. I hate them because they can afford it and I can't. I don't think those words consciously, but I've started to recognize the feeling when it comes. On the bright side, at least I've been able to step back and look at the feelings and go, "Huh. That's weird." But that's as far as I've gotten.

Thou shalt not covet, the Lord commands us. And I firmly believe he doesn't give commandments just to be bossy, but to help us be happy. And there's nothing happy about coveting. 

So what do I do?

Summer Fun

July was hot, hot, hot. But that didn't stop us from having a lot of fun. Here is a re-cap of our month in pictures. Aunt Megan came to stay with us for almost the whole month. But for some strange reason, we got very few pictures of her. But she was a joy to have in our home and, as I said in my last post, she wins Aunt of the Year for helping me potty train the triplets. 

Okay, picture time. 

Fourth of July Parade. Our friends and now next-door neighbors, the Pascuals, invited us to watch the Glen Rock parade with us. Glen Rock is the town just north of ours. North Jersey is filled with towns, or boroughs as they call them, all packed tightly together but each one has their own small-town feel. There are only a hand full of actual "cities." The boroughs/townships each have their own school systems, usually just one high school, and their own police and fire force.

Anyway, here are some pics:

We're having so much fun.

That hair.

Waiting for the fun to begin.

 My friend, who is also named Emily, also is a mother of multiples. She has a 9-year-old girl and 7-year-old twin boys. Elizabeth is currently in love with one of the twins, though she'd be hard-pressed to tell you which one.

The best part of the parade for the kids was all the candy the paraders threw at the crowds. We were at the very front of the parade so the kids got a ton. Emily's kids knew from experience to come prepared, and each walked home with a grocery bag full.

When Tot Lot (the neighborhood drop-off playgroup) started at the beginning of the summer, the only way I could convince Eddie to go was to let him bring his blankie. Now it goes with him wherever he goes. Even during a heat wave, he sports it like a scarf. It's also been a cape, a shawl, a turban, and a whip. He's turning into a regular Linus.

Finishing a lollipop, wearing his favorite accessory.

Here's that blankie again. He's also started doing this really adorable side smile whenever we tell him to smile for the camera. This was at the branch president's house where they hosted a BBQ. 

That night, Megan was good enough to stay home and babysit so Adam and I could go see fireworks. (She got to see some the following Sunday. Basically every town in NJ does fireworks on a different night so you can spend the whole week of Independence Day going to fireworks. Awesome.) This was in Leonia near Overpeck County Park, home of the best playground in the world.

One of the best parts about our new neighborhood is the Radburn Association. Besides a whole summer of Tot Lot and swimming lessons, they do a Family Day with everything from carnival games to pie-eating contests. It was very hot and muggy that day, but we brought lots of water, stayed in the shade, and had a lot of fun.

Charlie asked for a butterfly. 

The finished product.

Eddie asked for Batman. Didn't think he knew who that was. I still don't.

Rainbow!

Rainbow II!

Train ride!

Megan was the one who figured out it was just a dressed up lawn mower.

Feeding a calf.

Here's Elizabeth mourning the loss of this duck's dignity and freedom.

Free snow cone!

Elizabeth concentrated on perfecting her bounce, while Charlie gloried in the fleeting elation of being airborne like his totem, the butterfly.

 

Another great date night was our concert down in central NJ to see Guster, Ben Folds Five, and Barenaked Ladies. 

Guster was amazing. BF5 was good, though disappointing that he didn't play a single song from the one album I have, and we left before Barenaked Ladies because, well, beating traffic and getting home at a decent hour totally beat sticking around and listening to songs that were overplayed in the 90s. Adam has wanted to see Guster live as long as I've known him, so this was a real treat. They didn't play long enough for our liking, though. Just 45 minutes. But after BF5, on a bathroom break, I heard a song that sounded familiar. And live. I wandered over to a small crowd and couldn't believe my eyes/ears. Guster was doing an extra set out there next to the merch booths. I ran and got Adam and we got back in time to hear a few more songs. We were just feet away from them. It was epic.

We ended the month with our branch's Pioneer Day celebration. We got a surprise visit from some former members of the branch who'd moved away almost a year ago. Their daughter, Callie, was our first mother's helper when we moved to New Jersey. She is still remembered and beloved by our children. 

"Stop talking, Mommy."

Let's hear it for old school.

For those of you unacquainted with Pioneer Day celebrations, it usually involves some kind of bicycle parade for the kids in the ward (congregation.) If my childhood memories of growing up in Utah are accurate, kids usually decorate their bikes and even dress up in pioneer costumes. I think in a nod to that tradition, our branch has a bike parade. Or, in our case, a scooter parade.

Yes, it was a hot but fun July. And to end the post, the best pic ever of the best branch president ever, President Nick Bria:

Potty Training X 3

When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary to potty train three two-year-olds, a decent respect for the enormity of the task requires that the trainer should declare just how on earth such a thing was accomplished. And maybe just toot her own horn. Just a little. 

I'd put it off so long. For months I'd felt they were ready. For weeks, Charlie had been putting himself on the potty. But then we had to move. Then we had the wedding trip. Then the kids got sick. And then the excuses ran out and it was time. Time to potty train times three. I knew it'd be hard. I knew it'd be exhausting. But I knew we'd all survive, somehow. Plus, I had back-up, in the form of my sister-in-law Megan. She's 14. How many teenagers do you know would help potty-train three toddlers? Yeah, she's amazing. 

Day One. 

After breakfast, we gathered for a family meeting. I told them what was going to happen, we sang a "Bye Bye Diaper" song, then it was off with the diapers and on with the big-kid underwear. I spread a big ol' blanket over the one nice rug we have. I pulled out the three potties we'd been storing forever. Filled the sippy cups with juice and water. Here we go. Every fifteen minutes, I'd put the kids on the potty and reset the timer. Sometimes they went, mostly they didn't. Lucy especially seemed to never need to go. Until she wasn't on the potty. It was so mindnumbingly boring. But I made it to nap time and was so very grateful when I got to put diapers on them and take a break. By the end of the day, they were starting to go when I'd put them on the potties. But man, was I tired. 

Day Two. 

Same routine, except set the timer for every half hour. We still stayed at home and I started to feel major cabin fever. And wish we had easy access to a nice, fenced-in yard. Or didn't live in a tropical jungle. Yes, New Jersey (at least this summer) is in the tropics. The kids were doing better at making it to the potty on time. At least, I thought they were. Then we had the first poop-in-pants incident. . 

And I thought changing poopy diapers was bad! Why did I ever start this??? 

Day Three:

After a pep talk with my friend/expert Lindsay, I was ready for Day Three. The plan was to send Charlie with Elizabeth to Tot Lot (the neighborhood drop-off playgroup) since he'd been doing the best, and keep Eddie and Lucy home, still reminding them to go every half hour or so. They were learning really quickly, but I'd learned on Day Two that they still needed a lot of reinforcement. Adam came home early that day, as he does every friday in the summer (best thing ever) and we all went to the pool. He also mentioned that he noticed the IHOP on his bus ride home had a sign that said kids eat free on Fridays. I took that to mean he wanted to take us out for a pancake dinner. I sold him on it by calling it a celebratory dinner. I think the reward system definitely needs to be extended to the adults doing the potty training. We had a great time and no accidents!

Day Four: 

I don't remember much of this day except that they had a LOT of accidents. Well, Charlie and Lucy did. I think this is when Eddie pretty much pole-vaulted past his siblings to the position he currently occupies of the least accident prone. But of course, all I could see was the failures and I was pretty discouraged. And Sunday, with our three hour church schedule, was looming in the distance.

Day Five:

Sunday morning, during the frantic eating, dressing, gathering, bickering, panicking that is getting ready for 9 AM church, Adam and I didn't even have time to come up with a game plan for church. At the last minute, we just packed a change of underwear for each kid and said a prayer. Little did we know, the kids had entered the stage of "every little twinge means I have to go." I swear they each asked to go to the bathroom every 15 minutes. And not at the same time. Yeah, we didn't attend much of our Sunday services. But we also didn't need our back-up underpants. Boo-yah. 

Days and Days:

Starting Monday, I felt like we'd left full-blown potty training mode. They were staying dry, even during their naps. But the poop. The POOP! I made the mistake of thinking we could handle a trip to IKEA. We all had been eagerly awaiting the day when the triplets were potty trained so the kids could all go to Smalland together. We even got to the store 10 minutes before it opened. But when Charlie, Eddie, and Lucy stepped up to give the worker their shoes, she looked at them, pulled out the measuring stick, and said they were too short . . . by an eighth of an inch. The rest of the trip went downhill from there. Three accidents later (two of them #2 and none of them Eddie), we were all ready to go home and cry. Then there was Charlie and his inability to control his bowels whenever he got into the pool. Poor guy missed a lot of fun in the sun last week. I felt bad, but it was pathological. The minute he was submerged in water, boom! Time to chlorine shock the kiddie pool. How long will this go on, I kept asking myself. It was driving me crazy.

And then, and then . . . 

They got it. The pooping in the pants stopped. The wetting their underwear stopped. Cue angelic choir.

Now:

It's been almost two weeks since we started and I feel like I can say without hesitation that THE TRIPLETS ARE POTTY TRAINED. They are asking to go when they need to, or better yet, going by themselves. I've gotten rid of all but one of the little potties and they all prefer to use the real toilet. Only Eddie, bless his little heart, still asks for "sticker and treat!" every time he goes. I still make a big deal out of pooping in the toilet, especially for the previous repeat offenders. And—Hallelujah!—Charlie has stopped crapping in the pool. (Sorry, but that's really the only word that conveys the disgustingness that is poop in a public pool. I deleted my previous word choice.) I still put him in a reusable swim diaper, though. And I'm sure we'll still have accidents from time to time. Don't we all? (Don't we? Am I the only adult out there?) 

But let's just say it all together now:

THE TRIPLETS ARE POTTY TRAINED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I feel like I need one of those "I survived..." t-shirts.

Preschool "Graduation"

Elizabeth's first year of preschool ended in May. The local high school had a child-development class that offered preschool three days a week, for an hour and a half. The teacher taught the students, and then the students would create lesson plans and run the preschool. It was the perfect introduction for Elizabeth to school. And it was free!

She loved school. She loved her teacher, Mr. Williams, and all her "high schoolers" (especially the pretty blond girls. Kids are shallow like that.) Every school day when we'd pick her up, she'd jump into the mini-van and her siblings would demand to see what awesome craft she'd made that day. The curriculum was basically playtime, crafts, and snacks, which was fine by me. 

For graduation, the families were invited to come to the high school auditorium where the preschoolers would be doing a presentation. They'd been practicing for weeks and every day after school, Mr. Williams would tell me what a little star Elizabeth was—how much she loved being on stage. And then I'd hear another parent told that her son needed to listen to directions better and I'd feel so smug. Of course she's a star. She's my daughter.

The day of the "graduation" ceremony, we dropped Elizabeth off at the usual preschool entrance then went to the auditorium. 

Here we are waiting for it to begin.

Some of us were happy . . .

Some of us, not so much.

And then the curtain came up and this is what we saw.

All the kids waved their little props and did their little actions to the songs, while Elizabeth hung her head and wouldn't move.

After the first song, I went up to the stage and tried to help calm her stage fright, but I think I just made it worse. The teacher didn't know what to do, and it was only when one of her high schoolers volunteered to stand with her, that she went back on stage.

The cheese, apparently, does not stand alone.

Don't look at me.

She wouldn't even look up to get her certificate.

And how did she act as soon as the curtain went down?

Like this:

Ah, Elizabeth. We love you. Stage fright and all. 

And lest you think this is not my typical Emily-bares-her-soul post, I had a really hard time watching Elizabeth act like that on stage. I was embarrassed  I kept looking around. All the little "awws" and "poor things" from the people around me just heightened it. And my embarrassment was only compounded by my ignorance of how to deal with it. Part of me wanted to run up and tell her she could come off the stage. But part of me said, no, you can't rescue her from every hard thing she'll ever face. And of course there was the part of me that was beating myself up for feeling embarrassed in the first place. Anda tiny part of me was really miffed that the little boy who'd goofed off during rehearsals had been the star of the show.

On the walk home, I kept asking Elizabeth why she'd been so afraid. All I could get was that there were just too many people in the audience. Not like rehearsals, I suppose. I told her over and over how proud we were and that we understood she was afraid and that it was okay. I just hoped she didn't catch on to any of the other emotions I was struggling to sort out.  

But you know? This was her day. And after the performance part, which she obviously didn't enjoy, she was laughing and eating refreshments, and taking pictures with her high schoolers, and could care less. And despite my repeated questioning, she seemed completely oblivious that anything less then ideal had happened. And that's something I truly admire. 

Easter 2013

It's been a while since I posted some pictures of the kids, so here's a recap of our Easter. It's still May so it's technically still spring. So I'm totally legit.

For the first time ever, I got to make four Easter baskets and get really excited doing them. Elizabeth's special gift was Tinker Bell wall stickers, Lucy got a hair clip to match her (hand me down) Easter dress, and the boys got the ties in the pic above. Thank you, Target dollar bins. 

They all also got nets to catch butterflies, or fairies!

But these are the only things they ever caught . . . 

Even though they'd already done an egg hunt at a friend's birthday party, I still had all this candy and all these eggs, so . . . we did another one!

Charlie took it very seriously . . . 

Can you see the hidden egg?
 

I found one in there!

Lucy was finding eggs, and looking good doing it.

 And Eddie, after he'd found a few, plopped down and started to eat the candy. 

What?

Elizabeth? I don't have any good pictures of Elizabeth hunting for eggs, and this is why:

The next day, Easter Sunday, we got duded up in our new Easter outfits. 

Handsome Boys

Turquoise!
 

Our sweet Elizabeth

 After church and a nap, we went over to some friends' house for Easter dinner. They have two (now three) of their own, and most of the people they invited had kids, so it was crazy. Fun, but crazy. The kids did ANOTHER egg hunt. And we got them all to do this:

All in all, it was a great Easter weekend. I hope our kids got the message of Easter, through all the candy and eggs and fun. We "read" scriptures (ie. looked at pictures in the Gospel Art Kit) all through the week, going over each day leading up to Resurrection morning. I have no idea how much a 4 or 2-year-old brain can understand things like death and suffering and forgiveness. Even trying to explain the concept of the Resurrection was difficult. But this mama knows it's real and that He lives. And I trust that someday they will, too. So happy Easter/Spring! 

Here comes summer!

How Emily Got Her Groove Back

On our front porch. It's going to be hard to leave.

Last week we signed a year lease for our new apartment home. It's been quite the roller coaster getting here and I want to get it down before I forget it all.

As most of you know, our landlady surprised us with a "hi, you're great but you need to move out in two months so I can move back in" letter not too long ago. The moment the mailman put the certified letter in my hand, I knew there was something horrible inside. To say we didn't see it coming is an understatement. It's also a statement on how naive we were, considering we knew all along that this was a month-to-month lease. But she had just okay'd us to put in a garden AND a sandbox. So we were completely, though foolishly, blindsided. Two months to find a new place?? What on earth do we do?? For months now I'd been looking into buying our first home, but by looking into I mean, dinking around on Zillow and trying to come up with my own calculations on how much of a mortgage payment we could afford. I'd even written it on my to-do list to contact our neighbor who works in real estate to talk about maybe starting to think about starting to get ready, maybe.

But with the prospect of being kicked to the curb in sixty days, I suddenly found all the motivation I needed to get my rear in gear. And thus started the Buy A House whirlwind, which turned out to be more of a tornado. I contacted our neighbor, Fara; she put me in touch with a mortgage broker, Jim; I started gathering all the financial information I could; and I spent every spare minute searching the NewJersey multi-list service for homes and Craig's List for temporary rentals. I knew we'd never be able to close a home in less than sixty days, so I figured we'd better find something to last us a few weeks or months until we could move into our new home.

All this time, Adam and I talked about renting versus buying. But deep down in my heart, I think I'd already decided that I was going to buy a house, with or without his help. But I kept looking for rentals, just in case. As the days went by (and they felt like weeks), I got more and more stressed out. I was crying all the time—I really, really love the house we're in and had hoped we could buy it. I was up and down with thinking, "There's no way we can afford this!" to "There's got to be a way to afford this!" And under it all was this terrible despair that the future as I'd planned it was ruined and life would never  be happy again. People kept saying, "When a door closes, God opens a window." I wanted to punch those people in the face.

I started to go see homes and then we finally saw one in our town we could afford (It was a fixer-upper, which, besides the homes in flood zones, were the only houses we could afford in our town.) The day we put an offer on the house was one of the most stressful days of my life. I was on the phone with my real estate agent, the mortgage broker, Adam, or my parents almost every minute of the day. But I still had Elizabeth and the triplets to take care of. I was a wreck. At one point, I was trying to feed them lunch, my phone was ringing off the hook, and I seriously lost it. I screamed to poor Adam, "I CAN'T DO THIS!" and then proceeded to go ahead and do it. But that's life, right?

But this is where God steps in. The night before we made the offer, when we were deciding if we really wanted to commit to buying this house, Adam and I knelt down to pray together. I think it's very significant that it wasn't until we were united in prayer that I finally got an answer to my almost constant pleading for help. The answer came very strongly, in two parts: First, we were supposed to make an offer on this house. Second, no matter what happened, everything was going to be okay.

I didn't have that feeling of peace with me for very long, but we went ahead and acted on it. That night, after my meltdown at lunch, I told Adam that I'd had enough of trying to buy a house, and that if we didn't get this one, I was ready to find a rental and sign a year lease. I'd been talking about it with my father, and I realized that a big reason that I'd wanted so badly to try and buy a house (in two months. I'm crazy.) was because of shame. Not only was I finding it difficult to find rentals that could fit six people, but I felt ashamed of it. People with four kids just don't rent. What is wrong with us? I've always envied people who own their own home, but discovering this hidden shame was eye opening to me, and very helpful.

So when we found out a day or two later that the owners had gotten a better offer, and cash at that, Adam and I prayed, together, again. This time, we prayed to see if the Lord wanted us to rent. We'd gone and seen a place that our friends in Fair Lawn had told us about. The place just two doors down from theirs was open and we'd gone to see it the previous week. It was big enough for our family, but it was the second and third floor of a two family home, and a row house at that, so it was less than ideal. (Just don't call it an apartment! It's NOT an apartment! Yes, I AM prideful!) When Adam and I prayed, again, I got a very clear answer, in two parts. First, we were to rent for one more year. Second, we should rent the home near our friends, because we are needed there. This time, I was crying with gratitude because I knew the Lord knows me so well. He knew that if I hadn't gone through the process of trying to buy a house, all the way to making an offer, and had just settled on renting straight off, that I would have spent the entire year wondering, "what if?" He knew I needed to try so when the "no" came, I would be ready for it. Heck, I wasn't just read—I was thrilled. We don't have to buy a house!? We don't have to move twice?? We don't have to go through this horribly stressful rigamarole right when I can least handle it?!? Hallelujah!!

The next day, Adam called the landlord of the rental we'd seen. He said he was about to list it, but was going to call us to see if we wanted it. <Cue angelic choir.> Everything fell into place, and we'll be moving June 1 into our new home. I hate moving. And I really, really, want to settle down in one community for the long term. But I know that will happen, if it's meant to happen. Just not right now. I can finally FINALLY say, "If it's meant to be, it will be." And mean it.

And Then There Was the Time . . .

I scared the stuffing out of a family from Sierra Leone. 

**Here's a quick primer for those of you unfamiliar with Mormons and their wacky ways. We don't go to church wherever we feel like. We are divided geographically into boundaries called "wards." If the area we live in has too few members to make a full-fledged ward (being an all-volunteer church), we are put into "branches." For a lot of Mormons, the ward/branch is pretty much the foundation, focus, and source of almost all our social life. Oh, and we call each other "brother" and "sister." But we're not Quakers.**

When we moved to our fair town, we knew we'd be moving into a branch, not a ward. At first, it was really difficult for me to be okay with this. Call me a snob. Call me lazy. Call me maybe. But I was not thrilled to be in a unit that I saw as so needy. (Not talking $ here. Talking leadership, experience, etc.) I kicked against the pricks until one night, the Relief Society president and I went to visit a sister who'd recently had a baby. I didn't know the sister at all, except that she and her family were refugees from Sierra Leone, and that her laugh was loud and infectious and wonderful.

When we got there, Sister C's first reaction was to burst into tears. I was so confused. Is she embarrassed because she's . . . in her sweats?? She started to thank us for coming and I realized, she's crying because she's happy! Happy that plain ol' Emily and friend came to visit. It was like a light bulb went on. OMGosh, she's as lonely as I am! We talked about her boys, about her job, and a little about her life during the civil war in her country. She showed us the huge barrels she fills with hand-me-down clothes and non-perishable food and then periodically sends to her village, paying the shipping fees from their family's limited funds. We had a wonderful visit. And I vowed to never complain about anything ever again. 

We also learned that her mother had come from Sierra Leone to stay with them for a year to help her with her baby. Then the sister told us that her mom was really her aunt, but her mom had been killed in the war. And this was her aunt's/mom's first time flying on an airplane. And her first time living in a home with electricity. And the first time she saw snow, it freaked her out. And she never left the house because it was so cold out. And she spoke no English. And on and on. Wow. For days after, I couldn't stop thinking about how lonely that woman must be. So we called up Sister C and asked if we could come introduce ourselves and . . . welcome her to America???

I didn't know what quite to expect, but I should have known that she would be just an older version of my sister. Happy and laughing and warm. Sister C translated for us from English to the pidgin language they speak. It was fun listening to them because we could understand a lot of the words, just not enough to make sense out of it all.  I tried to think of some way I could help this wonderful lady, but all I could think was, since you're taking care of kids all day, want to have a play date? Then the obstacle of the cold weather came up. (Cold as in, not her usual 90℉.) A-ha! I thought. I knew we had a big, heavy coat at home that had been "given" to us by a good friend. We had plenty of coats and wouldn't miss this one. Perfect.

A week or two later, I was going to be driving near Sister C's home and decided to make the drop. I put the coat in a big bag, tied it with a tie and a big card that read "To Mama T. With love, from her American sisters." I was so proud of myself. I drove to their street, parked a few houses away, then ran up to the steps. I debated if I should just leave the bag, but they live on a busy street and I didn't want someone to steal the coat. To make matters worse, they didn't have a doorbell. No problem! I'll just bang really loudly on the door until someone comes down the stairs! So I bang away, then I hear the dad shouting "Hello? Hello?" I run away and hide behind the neighbor's car. Hmmm. . . he sounds . . . angry. I run to my car, hop in, and drive by slowly to see if they got the bag. I see my friend standing at the doorway, with the most terrified look on her face. And it finally dawns on me:

Maybe it's not such a good idea to ding-dong ditch someone who's a refugee from a war-torn country in Africa. Just maybe!

I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to call the sister and explain it was me. It was supposed to be anonymous! But what if they didn't see the note? What if they thought someone was playing a trick? What if they were mad? It was a Thursday night so I thought I'd see how they acted Sunday at church and explain myself if I had to.

Saturday night, I'm out with a friend. I get a voice mail from Sister C. She thanks me for the visit. She says her mom really appreciated it. Then she mentions that someone left a coat on their doorstep, and that, at first, they were all really scared because . . . 

THEY THOUGHT IT WAS A BOMB!

Oh . . . my . . . stars. I am an idiot.

In the end, the mom was very grateful for the coat.  I fessed up and said it was from me so I could apologize profusely for my cultural insensitivity. 

But a BOMB?!!

So as I've spread seeds of fear throughout the suburbs of New Jersey, I've learned so many things.

1. The only reason I had struggled at first to make friends in my branch was because (dramatic pause) it wasn't full of people exactly like me!

2. If you're lonely or feeling down, go find someone to help. Problem solved.

3. Ding-dong ditching is only fun and socially acceptable, if you've always lived somewhere where you always feel safe, where you know your neighbors, and where there isn't a FREAKING CIVIL WAR raging. 

Life lessons learned.