I was out of town and standing in a long line, sandwiched between two mothers with their children we all started a conversation.  Talk was typical enough, but quickly changed when one of the mothers bent down to check her little one.  It was subtle, but she felt her child’s belly in a spot I knew so well.  When she spoke again she told me something I had already guessed: her daughter had a “button” and it has been leaking lately.

I knew exactly what she meant and simply replied that my daughter had a feeding tube for almost two years (a “button” is a type of feeding tube).  I told her about our two-week stay at the Seattle Feeding Clinic, we griped about our medical teams’ focus on weight and laughed about how our tube-fed kids were never denied any kind of food they wanted to eat (especially fattening ones).

Reflecting back on that incident I was at first surprised at the odds that I would meet another tube-fed child so randomly when on vacation.  But what perhaps shocked me more was the confused look on the third mother’s face.  Was it horror? Pity? Or was it simply lack of awareness?

February 5-11^th is the second annual Tube Feeding Awareness Week.  The goal of this week is to raise positive awareness of tube feeding as a life saving, medical intervention in hundreds of thousands of tube-fed children and adults.  And while I only have experience with feeding a child this way for two years, I can say that those years were some of the hardest I have ever faced. The daily vomiting, the constant doctor appointment, the threat of staph infections, the fear of aspirating, the accidental pulling the tube out, the extra equipment, the huge amount of time it took to prepare her food and feed her, the isolation, and the overall stress it put on our lives was tremendous.  I dreamed of a day when we could finally wean her and am still unbelievably overjoyed that she is now fully eating.  But… I digress into the negative…

There is one, undeniable, incredibility positive, aspect of Gia having a feeding tube: it allowed me to feed her when she could not feed herself.  I was able to give her my expressed breast milk when she could not nurse and blend solid, healthy, food for her when she was not capable of eating.  She needed time to develop her feeding skills and I am very thankful for the medical intervention.  Without the tube, well, she certainly would not be the happy toddler she is today.

It’s been a year since Gia and I attended the Seattle Feeding Clinic intensive wean program and I am still quite emotional when I read my first Mamalode.com essay about it.  I continue to have a love/have relationship with the feeding tube.  I also realize how lucky we actually are; there are many kids and adults who will never be medically cleared to orally eat and being fed through a tube is just a part of regular life.  As much as I might complain about the tube feeding, I know if Gia did not become an eater that would be OK too.  Our family would adjust.  The truth is, if tube-feeding was the worst medical issue she has in her life, I’d be pretty darn happy because it really isn’t such a big deal; just a quicker way to the stomach!

If you could do one thing, during Tube Feeding Awareness Week take the time to reflect on those kids and adults who need to eat via a feeding tube, explain it to your kids too.  Realize that those are individuals who simply ‘eat’ a bit differently and don’t deserve to be stared at, mocked or shunned.  If you’ve been meaning to do something extra for families with a tube-fed kiddo, now would be a great time.  Help, a sympathetic ear, or a real hug is always appreciated.  Living in an eating world when you or your child can’t is very difficult, understanding and sympathy can make all the difference.

And the next time I find myself in the middle of a conversation about feeding tubes I will do my part and tell our story because I believe compassion begins with awareness.

To find out more please visit: http://www.feedingtubeawareness.com/

Gia enjoying a blended diet through her feeding tube.

I just finished a book. It was Jeannette Walls’ Half Broke Horses and I devoured it over the span of a week, reading only when my kids were asleep and I wasn’t doing the domestic engineering (a fancy term for cleaning and laundry), which I also try to conduct when they are blissfully unaware and enjoying their afternoon naps.

Reading for my own personal enjoyment is one of the things I miss most since becoming a mom and raising a toddler and an infant. Back in the day, I would have read that book over the course of a weekend, reading whenever I felt like it and for as long as I wanted. Those days, at least for the time being, are gone.

I feel a twinge of jealousy when I hear my girlfriends talk about their book clubs and compare films to the books they’re adapted from (movies are another pastime that has dropped off dramatically with the arrival of children). They talk about the Twilight series and express disappointment that the final book is already out and consider what they will do without Harry Potter? Thankfully, it appears the Hunger Games series will keep them preoccupied in the short term.

I, on the other hand, have been enjoying another author:  Sandra Boynton. The passion with which she penned, Moo, Baa, La La La was palpable, and who could forget My, Oh My, Oh Dinosaurs? I can’t get enough—I’m gobbling up every new title I come across, and I’ve memorized most of them, much to the delight of my 2 year old. Happy Hippo, Angry Duck? Life-affirming. The same can be said for Pajama Time, Snuggle Puppy and the epic, But Not the Hippopotamus. Pure literary gold.

I’m only half-heartedly sarcastic about this. Truly, I’ve been tempted more than once to present these as my book selections for the book club I never have time to attend—to lament a bit about my lack of literary acumen these days and what is or should be on the New York Times Best Seller list. But, Sarah Boynton has, through her silly short ditties, given me something far more profound than those heavy-hitting best sellers. She’s given me JOY:  I see it in my child’s face as we look at the funny pictures and I hear it in his voice when he, too, recites part of the story back to me.

One of my resolutions this year is to read more books for my own enjoyment. I’m going to make time to get back to books and rediscover the pleasure of a well-developed plot. But I’m also going to remember that I get a lot more from reading to my kids than just what’s written on the pages.

Paula Parks is mama to two wonderful kids and lives with her husband in the Bitterroot Valley. She is half of the “Scott & Paula Morning Show” on 107 The Ranch in Missoula. Paula’s hobbies include playing with her kids, cooking, writing and taking in all that life in western Montana has to offer. www.107theranch.com

Photo lovingly taken by Sarah Millar

“Mama?” she said.

“Wait just a minute,” I said.

A few minutes passed. “Mama?” she said again.

“In a minute!” I said.

Eliza, having gotten tired, I think, of her sister’s pleading and my roundly putting her off, opened the bathroom door to see what was going on.

“Mom! Lucille trimmed her hair!” Eliza said.

“What?” Seth, who was in the middle of making dinner, said.

“What?” I said moving toward the bathroom and away from the problematic computer with a pit in my stomach.

“Oh, my god,” Seth said a second before I rounded the corner to see our little girl standing in the bathroom, shorn, almost all of hair in a circle around her feet.

And in what will go down as one of the worst mothering moments in the history of the world, I sank to my knees, covered my mouth with my hands and said, “No!” over and again.

When Lucille, who had cut her hair without the aid of a mirror, saw my reaction she knew something was terribly wrong and she, finger to lip, slowly erupted into big, hurt sobs.

It was awful.

I’m not usually prone to drama but my reaction was just short of Oscar-worthy and I’m not sure why. I had none of that motherly protect-her-with-a -smile business going on, just pure, unadulterated shock. And it showed. When I finally pulled myself off the floor and my head out of my ass, I picked Lucille up and held her close. I showed her in the mirror what her hair looked like, hack marks and all, and promised it would grow back. It was heartbreaking because I knew she had no idea what she’d done. She didn’t realize she wasn’t playing dress up, she didn’t know that it wouldn’t grow back by next week.

Then, I took the sharp scissors she had used and said a little thank you to the powers that be that even in cutting her hair completely off, Lucille had not cut her fingers or her scalp. It was truly astonishing. I worked the scissors around the rough edges of the cut as best I could, trying to clean it up. But there wasn’t much I could do. As I tried to trim, I told her I used to have short hair that my friend Casey had too and Anne and, oh thank god, so had Melissa Bangs.

“Melissa Bangs had short hair?” she said. Melissa Bangs is, to Lucille, the epitome of feminine. She is one of my only friends who wears lipstick on a regular basis and she once took the time to play dress up with Lucille, who has never forgotten it.

“Yes, Melissa Bangs had short hair,” I said. “I’ll see if she can send us a picture.”

After patching up her bad hair cut and trying to make up for my colossal night of bad mothering all the way from Firefox to thanking the academy, I nuzzled my little pixie in bed. I lay there with a to do list and when I got up I started texting madly.

First text: preschool teacher and friend, Mina. I wanted to give her a heads up so that they, at Lucille’s preschool, might do a better job than I did with a poker face. Mina was in Hawaii visiting her family and I’d totally forgotten, but she quickly texted back that she’d alerted all of the other teachers at the school and they were at the ready to make a smooth transition the next day. Next text: Casey, Anne and, of course, Melissa Bangs. I asked them to dig back to the 90s and send me pictures of themselves with pixie cuts. They all did within hours, Casey even got out of bed to do it that night.

The next day when Lucille woke up I had lots of pictures to show her of women she loves with haircuts just like hers. She started to perk up about the whole thing. I did too. Preschool went off without a hitch, even Lucille’s three-year-old arch rival had kind words for her thanks to the modeling of positive reactions from her thoughtful, amazing teachers. That afternoon we went to a professional who did what she could with Lucille’s remaining hair.

“This is the best one (self cut) I’ve ever seen,” she said. “Give it a few weeks and it’ll look like you meant to have her hair cut this way. By the way, how are you doing?”

This women must have been there once, I thought. We made a plan to touch up Lucille’s hair every few weeks for a while and I made a mental note to tell everyone that Kelly at Boom Swagger is the person you want in your corner on such occasions.

A week later, headbands and hair clips have saved us. Time and a community that loves my daughter has too. Lucille’s hair is filling in and I have to squint to remember her previous bangs-and-bob cut. She’s a natural pixie, spritely personality and all. As for my bad mothering, well, I’m working to forgive myself. I still haven’t figured out what’s going on my computer but, for now, I’ve stopped trying. I’ve closed it on several occasions to answer when I hear a sweet little voice calling mama from the other room.

It was August 30, 2006. The article on fatal off-campus house fires was on the front page of USA Today. I had been so pleased to receive a call, some three weeks earlier, from a reporter working on the story. They had done extensive research on all the fatal off-campus house fires across the country since 2000, and the article would run just in time for college students moving into off-campus housing for the upcoming school year.

It was everyone’s hope this article would keep other college kids from making the same mistakes as my daughter Liz and 61 other college kids who lost their lives due to fire in off-campus homes.

When I found out the article was going to print, I excitedly emailed all of my friends and family. Liz’s picture would be included in the story.

I bought three copies of the paper on my way to work. I couldn’t wait to get to my desk and read it. But, once I did, the senselessness of Liz’s death hit me as if it was September 20, 2003 all over again. I guess I should have expected that kind of reaction, but it took me by surprise and I was having a terrible time dealing with all of the raw, painful emotions that once again bubbled up and grabbed me.

I was mad at myself. How naïve could you be? I thought to myself. How could you possibly think this article would make you happy?

I tried to forget about the story, but I couldn’t. All day long, I had a steady stream of co-workers stopping at my desk to see the article and it was all I could do to keep my composure.

I hadn’t had one of “those” days for quite some time. I’d get through it, I told myself, because tomorrow would always be better. I had dealt with this other times in the three years since her passing—I had to feel the pain before I could make it go away, I learned.

So, I worked through emails. Suddenly, a familiar address popped up. It was Liz’s high school French teacher—her favorite teacher, and we had kept in touch after her death. I had shared my news about the USA Today article with her, and assumed she was emailing about the story.

Much to my surprise, she wasn’t. She told me I would treasure THIS. She was in her classroom cleaning out files, getting ready for a new school year, when a lone file folder fell on the floor. The folder was labeled “Liz Wencl Essay.” She opened it and discovered an assignment she had given over four years ago.

The assignment was to write a letter to a parent, in French, telling them what they represent in the student’s life. “Kim, this is a letter Liz wrote to you!” she wrote.

Now, I don’t speak French, so Jan translated it for me. The letter was a parent’s dream. In it Liz told me how much she loved and missed me in so many different ways. And, amazingly, even though the letter was written when she was in high school, it made complete sense for life after September 20, 2003.

Suddenly, what had been a very difficult day became a completely amazing day, and I was once again emailing friends and family to share this wonderful letter.

Receiving that letter was no coincidence. I believe my daughter knew I was having a difficult day.  She reached out to let me know just how much she loves and misses me, just as I love and miss her.

The letter is framed and hangs in our living room. It is a constant reminder of the power of our love—visual proof that Liz reached out and touched me on a day when I needed it most.

Now, I am sure, I will have more sad days in the years to come. But when I do, I will read her letter and feel the strong bond of love between us. It is a bond that can never be broken, not even by death.

Kimberly Wencl, a former businesswoman of 35 years, found new meaning and purpose in life after the heartbreaking and untimely death of her daughter. Now she writes and speaks about her journey from “Tragedy to Transformation—a Mother’s Story.” She is also a contributor to the book, True Stories of Messages From Beyond by J.Aydlott & Friends and has written articles for Midwest Caregiver, Angels on Earth, Campus Firewatch, You Need Never Walk Alone and many others. She will be a keynote speaker at the Grieving in Plain Site Conference in Spokane, WA this August. http://kimwencl.com

My friend Anna has a heart as wide as the ocean and a personality that rivals Oprah on the motivation meter. We live in the same community and started running together to train for the last Missoula Marathon. During those long training runs, as we told life stories, talked about our kids (she has 4), joked, had life revelations, and supported each other the way women do, I quickly learned that Anna is not JUST a talker. Nope. She is a doer… an action hero ready to take on the world!

So it didn’t surprise me in the least when a random fresh face whom Anna dubbed as their “new angel” started showing up in all of her family holiday pictures. I didn’t know what the story was, but I figured it had something to do with Anna stepping up and helping someone who needed her, as she does so beautifully.

Anna and Alisa

It turned out the new face was Alisa, a seventeen year old who was receiving radiation treatments for her second brain tumor in three years. The first one, at the age of fourteen (my oldest son’s age), was followed by a stroke and rehab to regain her ability to walk and talk. Alisa was staying at the Saint Patrick house because her family was not able to be constantly present, and it was too difficult to traverse from Hamilton where she was living.  Anna and Alisa became quick and true friends, and took on the nicknames Banana and Lis.

Last week, during the prime time of my episode of sickness and self-pity, I happened upon Banana’s Facebook post. My friend the action hero had a brainstorm in the middle of a run, as so often happens,  to fulfill a wish of Lis’s to meet Tim Tebow. She quickly sprinted home and spontaneously videotaped Alisa telling her story to post on Facebook.

Alisa’s wish is to meet Tim Tebow, and we’re gonna try to make it happen. Her social worker at St. Pat’s is working on it, and we will try to get this video to the right recipient. If you have any ideas for making it happen, let me know!

I watched the You Tube video and was immediately struck by Alisa’s faith and her story. Because regardless of how one might feel about football, Tim Tebow, or religion, Alisa’s voice, her story, and her remarkable spirit cannot be denied. Beautiful inside and out, young and vibrant…an action hero who already battled the demons of cancer one time before and won.

And it resonated with me, as I sat there in my melancholy mood. Once again, I was broke open by the wisdom and grace of the next generation who has oh-so-much to teach those of us who are supposed to have the lesson plans of life readily available! The dam had been breached, and as my eyes filled with emotion. I knew that this young lady was going to have a profound impact on numerous lives.

I quickly shared, emailed, and asked for help from friends and local groups. So did literally dozens of others who were probably just “wasting time” on Facebook. The rest was pure magic! Since the video came out, thousands of people have watched. The dream of Alisa’s to meet Tim Tebow has come true. She has been interviewed by local radio and TV stations, offered a job, had a photo shoot from a very generous local photographer, and literally touched hundreds of lives. People with similar health issues have reached out, and friendships have been formed by those who came together on behalf of Alisa and her family. The Make-a-Wish Foundation contacted her, ready to step in to grant another dream beyond the efforts of the already successful grassroots effort of our community.

J. Willis Photography took beautiful shots of Alisa

Sitting with Alisa, Anna, and other friends who were able to join together for lunch in honor of her eighteenth birthday, I was filled with immense gratitude for the action heroes around me. Lis, the young hero, small but mighty, determined to set the world on fire in all ways good. Banana, the mother to many in the village, unknowingly an action hero by her sheer will and fierce determination. Friends, new and old, celebrating this beautiful teenager who reminded me that if we want to feel a little more happiness in our own lives all we have to do is simply share a little more happiness with others.

Celebrating with one amazing teenager on her eighteenth birthday.

I think this story has just begun…..

The magazine is available at Barnes & Noble, Shopko, craft/fabric stores and more. Heads up, they are collectable magazines so they do cost $14-15 dollars.

Below is a sneak peek of the opening spread!

Elke Govertsen_WWC0212-1

I sit on my couch to write. My kids are in their bunk beds, finally down for naps and I have my time, two feet away, on the other side of a temporary wall we built last weekend.

We readied for a walk. Margot wanted to wear her princess costume with tights. No, with socks and leggings. But not those socks. Or those. One orange and one red, one dirty and one clean. Leggings over the top. Socks first and then leggings. Boots were fine as long as she could carry her princess shoes in a bag. And some babies to keep the shoes company. A hat. Where is the green one? It’s the only one that fits just right over her veil. And she’d like to push the shopping cart. Which will need to hold more babies. Maybe she’d like to wear tights after all?

Mommy? (giggles giggles giggles) Ruby is climbing up into the top bunk again. Hi baby sister!

Girls, please. I need some time without interruption. And you need some down time.

I get up and place Ruby on the bottom bunk. I sing Oh Mister Moon twice.

Ruby wanted to ride in the stroller. In the bottom part that she can’t ride in unless there is a kid in the top part. She gave in to the top ride and didn’t want to be buckled. She wanted to ride backwards, arching her back so she could see the world upside down. She needed two babies, one tucked under each arm.

I fielded question after question. Request after request. I felt a fist tightening in my shoulder. Things I normally find endearing were like fingernails on a chalkboard. Or a woodpecker tapping my temple.

Mommy? Mama? Mama? Mom?

Can I have a playdate with Phoebe when rest time is over?

Ruby is climbing up here again!

We finally got off on our walk and settled into a slow, meandering pace, dictated by the spontaneous discoveries of my kids. I had my camera and took photos of *this moment*, wondering if my memory would be getting out with my kids and dog on a beautiful day: Ruby with her sweetly chatty observations and excitement, Margot confidently dressed in bride regalia, pushing a shopping cart full of babies.

Mommy? Mom? My arm hurts really bad. When I push right here but I can’t see anything.

Or if my memory will be of my inability to parent my children in the way that feels best. My irritation made me vulnerable to everything being irritating. I faked patience. I used a high, sing-songy voice, feigning engagement, craving engagement. Oh yeah look at that! I said barely noticing what it was I was to look at.

Hey, mama? My body is telling me I am all done resting. Can we play now?

Ruby is awake. I feel defeated.

we ditched the cart on the side of the road

About halfway through the walk, something shifted and we had fun for a bit. Stomping on the slushy snow, watching geese through a crack in the fence. And then Margot whined, I just want to go home. Now. Ruby fell and got snow up her sleeve. Part of me wanted to push on, to turn our shit storm around but, instead, I gave into the grumpy, agitated, surliness of the experience. Like we were on a vision quest and discovered what we needed was not a walk together, but a walk apart. We headed home.

Ruby is now buckled in her car seat in the car just outside our door. I get up every few minutes to check on her. She is asleep. Margot is reading.

Living in our 400 square foot apartment has so many advantages and, honestly, I’ve really enjoyed it so far: limited stuff, managing our space, concentrated family time. And the challenges are real and exactly the same as the advantages: limited stuff, managing our space, concentrated family time.

Andy just got home from skiing and he and Margot are going to hike up the hill behind our house. Ruby is awake and back inside, snuggling next to me. I am frustrated, wanting to write but I stop to hold my girl.

I’ve never been a person who much needed to ask for defined personal space because, until now, it was built into my life. I could, at the very least, walk into another room. I really like being around my kids all the time and, in our new living situation, I realize part of liking it (and my daughters enjoying it too) is having space to experience each other. We need opportunities to do things without an audience, we need autonomy. We especially need it when our circumstance places us no more than 10 feet away from each other at all times. I am thankful for that funky walk with my kids, where all our idiosyncrasies and needs collided. The collision sparked clarity.

Margot peeks her rosy face in from outside.

Mama! Want watch me ski down the hill?

There’s nothing I’d rather do.

And then I am going to step into another “room” for a bit.

Motherhood is a life-changing event. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But there is also no denying that you simply can’t call in sick for motherhood. Our little (or not so little) people depend on us every day. Regardless of how busy, or ill or injured we might be, a mother’s needs often take a back seat to the needs of those we love.

Last year, I spent a lot of time in the back seat. I was in the middle of training for my first triathlon, desperately trying to get my girlish figure back. Truthfully, I haven’t been acquainted with that figure in a long time, but I digress. Nonetheless, I was getting into shape. I discovered running in college and ran my first marathon when my daughter was 6 months old. It’s therapeutic and I love that runner’s high. The triathlon seemed like a natural step up and I liked the idea of cross-training (swimming and biking). I wasn’t particularly good at the latter two sports, but I improved.

Unfortunately, I never made it to the actual competition. Three weeks before my triathlon debut, I came down with shingles. While on vacation. In Hawaii. It was painful. It was a long recovery. It contaminated my right eye and by the grace of God, didn’t affect my eyesight. It took me the better part of two months to recover, all the while holding up my responsibilities as a mama. I started running again and made a personal commitment to be even stronger than before. Not too long after, I suffered a grade 3 sprain from—WALKING.

My doctor suggested a full physical, just in case. Then, last summer, at the annual BlogHer conference, I got the call. They found abnormal cells. I was scared. I tried to be positive. I tried to be brave, but I was terrified. For the next three months, I underwent tests and biopsies before the cancer scare was finally over.

Today, I am once again recommitting to health, fitness, wellness and being the best I can be. It feels like a second (or third or fourth) chance and I refuse to squander it. I joined the San Diego Track Club’s annual Rockin n’ Runnin’ Marathon Training Program.

It’s hard. I can barely run a full mile without stopping to rest. I am out of shape. I am overweight. I have a long road ahead. But if I put one foot in front of the other, I know I can achieve my goals. Five days a week, I lace up and go.

Is snail a pace?

I lost 10.5 pounds since January 1^st and there is no going back. I make mistakes. I fall off the wagon now and again. But as long as I stay focused on the big picture: my health, fitness, family and loved ones, I won’t stray too far.

This journey won’t be easy. Finding time to take care of myself isn’t easy. Yet I know I have to make the time. If I don’t tend to my own mental, physical and emotional well-being, I certainly can’t take care of anyone else’s. It’s not selfish. In fact, it is one of the most selfless acts I can perform.

Laura Lohr is a blogger, wife, mom to a precocious 6 year old, runner, writer and dreamer. She met and fell in love with her best friend when she was 21. She began blogging in 2004, in part and parcel with the journey to her first marathon. She is currently a finalist for Mamavation Mom-Campaign #11 and she would love YOUR support. Learn more at www.mamavation.com/2012/01/vote-for-mamavation-mom-campaign-11.html. Voting ends Monday, Jan. 30! Visit her blog My Beautiful Life at www.lauralohr.com

“This dialogue will be different than recent community discussions because it will be for women,” said Cindy Weese, YWCA executive director. “Instead of focusing on the University, police officers, or alleged perpetrators, this discussion will create a safe space for women to speak about their experiences and concerns.”

YWCA Missoula works daily to assist survivors of domestic and sexual violence through the Pathways Program. The program includes a confidential domestic violence shelter, 24-hour crisis line and weekly support groups for women and their children. Trained YWCA advocates will be on hand at the forum to provide individual support as needed. NCBI Missoula will facilitate the forum.

“What will happen after the forum will be decided by the women who attend,” Weese said. “Regardless of the outcome, we hope all who participate feel heard, learn more about area resources and are empowered to take steps for change.”

For more information about the Community Sexual Assault Dialogue, contact Melissa Richards at 543-6691 or mrichards@ywcaofmissoula.org.

Founded in 1911, YWCA Missoula is dedicated to eliminating racism, empowering women and promoting peace, justice, freedom and dignity for all. Learn more at www.ywcaofmissoula.org.

It usually takes until the end of January for the Montana winter to freeze my Southern soul. And, well, here we are. This is usually when I start threatening to move, to fly south for the rest of the winter. I start thinking it must be nice in New Mexico this time of year and I tell Seth, over and over again, that’s where I’m headed.

We saw an old friend this weekend who now lives in Texas.

“Y’all should come on down,” he said. “There’s a lot of work. You could live in Austin for six months.”

That got me thinking about the Lone Star state and I even dreamed about walking around in a tank top in the middle of winter there. I don’t actually know if that’s possible in Texas but from where I’m sitting layered and wrapped in fleece, I like to think it is.

Last week we got a bazillion inches of snow over a few short days. Seth had to dig our Subaru out and park it at the end of our long driveway so it didn’t get really stuck. As the snow was falling, I was enamored with the quiet beauty of it. Schools in Missoula declared rare snow days so we stayed home, trenched our way across the yard to the wood-fire hot tub and soaked. Eliza and Lucille dressed as pirates and built forts out of couch cushions. They buried each other in the snow and slid around on the frozen ditch. We cooked, made pot after pot of hot chocolate and snuggled up on the top bunk for marathon reading sessions of the Magic Treehouse series. And magical it was, until it wasn’t.

By mid-afternoon on the third day of all this winter wonderland whimsy, the snow had turned to slippery walkways and knee-deep crustiness. I was enamored no more. My children were ricocheting off each other so I pulled them down our quarter-mile driveway in a sled with a backpack full of essentials for a few days strapped to my back. I raked off the mountain of snow that had engulfed our car and pulled onto our dirt road that, thankfully, had been plowed. I took the chains off the car, threw them in back in a frozen heap and headed down the hill toward a play date in town. Inside the car it was oddly humid. Everything we were all wearing was wet and melting snow clung to our boots, the sled in back, our gloves and hats. As I looked at the stuff crammed in the front seat, in between Eliza and Lucille’s car seats, in the way back of our hatchback, the Virgo in me started dying a slow death. All I could think was how did I get here?

Did I mention I’m an alumni of Alpha Delta Pi sorority? That I grew up in South Carolina? That it’s warm there almost all of the time? I’m sure my sorority sisters are still wondering why in the world I traded the Carolinas, where it will be spring next month, for this frosted existence. Well, to be honest, I was wondering the same thing that afternoon.

That’s about the time I started seeing some interesting pictures popping on my Facebook newsfeed. Missoulians, nearly naked, posing outside like it was a sunny day in July. These “frosters” as they’ve come to known posted pictures of mowing the lawn in their underwear, hanging the laundry in sundresses, barbequing with nothing on but an apron and reading the newspaper in lawn chairs all with at least a foot of snow on the ground. I found myself laughing out loud several times that night after the kids were tucked in bed, exhausted from their sledding date with friends.

The next morning I checked the Frosters Anonymous Facebook page again and found even more hilarious pictures. I kept calling Seth over to the computer to show him another picture of someone we knew “frosting.” This phenomenon was Missoula at its best. We’re snowed in. We’re getting a little bored. Let’s go outside in our skivvies, post a picture to Facebook and watch it go viral. Why the hell not?

Oh, how I love this town.

It didn’t take long before I decided to take off my cranky pants, put on my bikini and join in. Even though my backside was numb after climbing up on our old 1964 Ford, I didn’t care because I got a good laugh out of it. The whole experience cracked wide the January post-snow storm blahs and made me remember why I chose this town in the first place. It reminded me why I don’t want to live anywhere else.

Check out Frosters Anonymous on Facebook.