Horton Teaches a Lesson

I come from a long line of readers. I think my love of reading is just as genetic as my diabetes, judging by the bookcase full of heirloom novels in the middle of my kitchen, most of them bearing either a grandparent or a great-grandparent's signature. My Grandma Burningham taught me appreciation for a good love story. My Grandma Browning taught me how to find an interesting storyline and how it is sometimes necessary to read a book with a pencil and highlighter in hand. My father taught me a love for history and nonfiction and a need to seek truth in what I let into my mind.

But it was my mother who first taught me how good a book can feel in your hands.

My childhood was full of board books and picture books, of Arthur and the Berenstain Bears and Mercer Mayer's Little Creature and Disney Princesses and Goodnight Moon and all of these books that I find myself searching for on the library shelves so that I can read them to my daughter. I am not naive enough to think that I can force her into loving reading--my younger siblings have taught me that sometimes a love of reading just doesn't come as naturally as I think it should--but I am going to do everything in my power to guide her into literary enjoyment. I am happy to report that she has progressed from eating her books to opening them up, turning the pages, and saying, "Da da dad da da!" at the top of her lungs.

Saturday is a major holiday. One of my favorites. Some call it "Read Across America Day." To me it is better known as "HAPPY DR. SEUSS APPRECIATION DAY!"

We have been preparing for the last two weeks by reading some of my favorite Dr. Seuss books and watching the movies of said books that I actually approve of (did you catch that the main character's name in The Lorax is Ted? As in short for Theodor? As in Dr. Seuss's real name? I am extremely proud of myself for putting that together).

And in the midst of this preparation, I learned that Dr. Seuss knows a thing or two about mothering. And the best example of a mother I've ever found in literature is a two-ton male elephant.

So here's what was happening in my life this week. Or more like the last month. Actually, the last six months.

I have this daughter that refuses to adopt a bedtime routine. Heck, most nights lately she refuses to sleep more than an hour or two at a time. And after too many interrupted nights, I was starting to feel like a zombie AND the worst mom on the planet (a dangerous combination). I actually wrote an email to my husband saying, "perhaps she should be an only child because I clearly can't do this mom thing right." After all, all the parenting books say that getting a baby to sleep at night should be a breeze, you just have to follow steps A, B, C. And it seems all of my friends and family members know how to get their babies to sleep. Twelve. Hours. A. Night. So the problem must be me, right?

Right.

Then, on Tuesday afternoon, as I'm trying to get my teething child to calm down for a few minutes, I pull out the last of the unread Dr. Seuss books from our recent trip to the library. I sit down near where Kevin is playing on the floor and open it up.

"Horton Hatches the Egg," I read, and then turn to her and say, "This is Grandma Burningham's favorite."

And it only takes me a few pages in to understand why my mom loves this book so much.

"Sighed Mayzie, a lazy bird hatching an egg:
"I'm tired and I'm bored 
And I've kinks in my leg
From sitting, just sitting here day after day."

I know how that feels, I think. I am tired and I am bored. My legs are screaming for exercise but the weather is too cold and the air too crummy to take Kevin outside for a walk.

"It's work! How I hate it!
I'd much rather play!
I'd take a vacation, fly off for a rest
If I could find someone to stay on my nest!"

It is work, I think. But this is where Mayzie and I differ...because I don't hate it. I'd like a vacation, but I am so glad I don't have to find someone to stay on my nest!

Through the next few pages, an unassuming Horton wanders past, and Lazy Mayzie cons him into sitting on her egg, saying she "won't be gone long, sir. I give you my word. I'll hurry right back. Why, I'll never be missed."

But she is missed. If not by her egg, then by the person solely in charge of watching her egg. Because Horton, he sits there, day after day. He makes the tree a home. And then he puts all of his energy into nurturing the egg. And he sat and he sat and he sat and he sat. But it wasn't lazy sitting. It was active sitting. Through thunder and lightning, sleet and snow, cold and wet. And when springtime came, everyone around him just made fun of what he was doing, telling him it was absurd and he wasn't meant to be there and how funny that he would do such a thing.

"And Horton was lonely. He wanted to play. 
But he sat on the egg and continued to say:
'I meant what I said
And I said what I meant....
An elephant's faithful
One hundred percent!"

And as I continued to read, I could see how my situation and Horton's weren't all that different, except that Kevin is my baby and nobody else's. But even if she were adopted, she would still be mine and nothing would change. I said I wanted to be her mom before she came and I never want to take it back. And some days that means sitting through some pretty awful conditions, like teething and colds and runny noses and temper tantrums and days without naps and nights without REM sleep cycles. And Mayzie was right, because it is work, just sitting here day after day. And sometimes people laugh and they all run away and you sit there lonely. Sometimes they make you feel like you can't do anything right. You want to play, too. You want to be valued and feel like you are doing what you were meant to do. You want to know that what you are doing is right.

And maybe Horton reached a point where he felt like he wasn't good at his job at all. Fifty-one weeks is a long time to do something without feeling like you are getting any results. That's how long Horton sat on his egg before Mayzie reappeared (not through any effort of her own). That's how old my baby will be in two days.

And that's when the egg cracked. And Mayzie claimed it again.

"(The work was all done. Now she wanted it back.)
'It's my egg!' she sputtered. 'You stole it from me!
Get off of my nest and get out of my tree!'

Poor Horton backed down
With a sad, heavy heart...

But at that very instant, the egg burst apart!
And out of the pieces of red and white shell,
From the egg that he'd sat on so long and so well,
Horton the Elephant saw something whizz!
IT HAD EARS
AND A TAIL
AND A TRUNK JUST LIKE HIS!

So maybe it's my fault she is how she is. Maybe I don't always know how to help her the best. But I'm working on it, and I'll do it for as long as it takes. Maybe someday she'll get something from me.

At some point, I stopped reading out loud. And at another point, Kevin crawled over to me and climbed on my lap. And she looked at me and let me know that I should keep going. Out loud. Because it wasn't the story she cared about. It was my voice. It was me.

Maybe she is what I am meant to do with my life.

"And it should be, it should be, it SHOULD be like that!
Because Horton was faithful! He sat and he sat!
He meant what he said
And he said what he meant....
....And they sent him home
Happy
One hundred per cent!"

And yesterday I realized that despite all my feelings of inadequacy, I can still be happy, even if it isn't one hundred percent. Because as my sickly baby and I cuddled on the couch, I looked down and saw this.

So, I may be the source of her problems. I fully admit that. I am the one responsible for messing her up. But I am also the one responsible for helping her grow and be good.

 I am there for her.

One Hundred Percent.

Note: This post is not meant to be a commentary on working moms vs. stay-at-home moms in any way, shape, or form. Working moms can be Horton moms too! I fully believe that!

Rinda's Reads: February Finds

Never fear, this is not my Thursday post for the week. It is simply my "Rinda's Reads" post for the month because it is the last day of February thank goodness hallelujah. I am ready for spring. And basketball. And a family getaway to a warmer place. The only thing I'm not ready for in March is Kevin's birthday. I'm just not ready for her to turn one yet!

This month I probably started about a dozen books but only really made it through two. The others either got put down because they were too boring, the writing was all sorts of awful, or they got vulgar. Urgh.

So I am going to recommend the two that I did make it through, because they are seriously worth reading. Thanks to my sister-in-law Tamsen for the recommendations!

The Story of Beautiful Girl by Rachel Simon. Have a book club assignment coming up and no idea what you should recommend? I suggest this one. Be warned, it is not an easy read or an easy topic, but it is one of those books that will make you feel like a better person for having read it. Rachel Simon's first book, Riding the Bus with my Sister was made into a Hallmark movie. This one also revolves around a character with special needs and takes place in a "school" for the mentally handicapped in the 1960s.

The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan is my second favorite book of the month. This one is deep on many levels, but if you don't want to go deep, it is a fascinating read at the most shallow point. The novel focuses on a young woman, Grace, who finds herself on an overcrowded lifeboat after a shipwreck in the year 1914. As days start to pass and rescue doesn't come, the overcrowding of the lifeboat becomes a question of who stays and who goes. Sounds dark...well, yes, I suppose it is...but it will make you think. I like books that make me think, so that is why I am passing it along.

If you live in Salt Lake County, both of these books can be found in the Reader's Choice section through April.

Kevin and I read some good books this month too, with lots of Dr. Seuss thrown in as preparation for our family Dr. Seuss celebration that will take place on Saturday. You will probably hear more about Dr. Seuss later this afternoon, as he taught me a valuable lesson this week. But here is my children's lit pick of the month!

I found this adorable book that I think every mom should read to their little girls! It is called Just Being Audrey and outlines the life of Audrey Hepburn in a children's book. The pictures are really beautiful and her story is just amazing. After reading it I wanted to watch Roman Holiday in a bad, bad way. Good thing I own that movie!

How cute is that cover?

A Little More Like Her

Sometimes I get myself into these moods where nothing I do quite measures up.

For example, on Monday, I decided I would clean our whole apartment. And I mean deep clean. I figured it was a good day to do it because I'd gotten a full night's rest (hasn't happened in months) and Kevin was in a good mood, content to play by herself and take decent naps (a rare feat). So I cleaned, and I cleaned, and I cleaned. I mopped the floors, scrubbed the bathrooms, dusted and polished all of the wood in our apartment. I even vacuumed! I even cleaned the vacuum itself!

And by Tuesday, you couldn't tell that I'd done a darn thing.

The kitchen floor that I had so carefully mopped was covered in remnants of Kevin's dinner and breakfast. The kitchen counters that I had so dutifully wiped off were covered in dirty dishes from the dinner I had so carefully and lovingly prepared for my family. The bathroom counters had water spots and the mirrors looked streaky. Kevin's toys covered not only the floor in her room but the living room floor as well.

So by Wednesday, I just gave up.

And all the laundry that I did on Monday is still sitting, unfolded, in a basket. And the clean dishes are still in the dish drainer, waiting to be put away. And the vacuum is still sitting there, taunting me, telling me I should get it out and use it again like all the good, sanitary moms do on a daily basis.

And I think, I should be more like them.

I should be more like my missionary trainer, who keeps an immaculately clean house just because she loves to clean. I should learn to love it too.

I should be like my sister-in-law, who gets up at 5:20 am everyday to go work out to keep her body healthy and keep my brother company at the gym. I should learn to love exercise and not loathe it and avoid it at all costs like I do.

I should be more like my neighbor, who spends time each day teaching her little boys colors and shapes and is undoubtedly getting them ready for their future education. I read to my daughter each day, yes, but most of the time our Story Time ends up like it did yesterday: me enthralled in Bartholomew and the Oobleck, merely reading it out loud to myself while my eleven-month-old uses my body as a jungle gym.

I should be crafty. I should be better at budgeting. I should be focusing on learning a new skill. I should cook a completely nutritious meal every day and pack my husband's lunches besides.

I should be more than I am.

I suppose I should amend my earlier statement to this: sometimes I get in these moods where nothing I do measures up to my own expectations.

If life were the way I perfectly picture it, I would be that wife whose house is constantly clean and organized, who is always dressed and put together and wouldn't dream of wearing yoga pants all day, who looks and feels rested all the time because her child is perfectly sleep-trained to go to bed on her own at seven pm and doesn't wake up until nine, who finds time every day to not just read a verse out of her scriptures (if she is lucky) but to sincerely study them, who would take the time to call that friend or family member who has been on her mind instead of waiting for them to call her. I would have the energy to keep up with all the things I want to get done as a wife and a mother and find time to do some freelance work and thus keep my brain fresh while also helping with the family finances on the side. I would be educated in current events and not just up to date on the latest episodes of my two current favorite TV shows (still can't believe they killed Matthew and that Neal is Henry's dad!). I would have taught my daughter baby sign-language two months ago and she would be less frustrated now because she could better communicate her needs to me now. I would already have her first birthday party planned and subsequent projects done, not just a list on a scrap of notebook paper I took out of one of my husband's school notebooks.

I would be everything I think I should be.

I read an article last week about Mommy Guilt--how stay-at-home moms and working moms alike beat themselves and then each other up for not being everything we think we should be. I don't know about you, but I get Mommy Guilt on a daily basis. And that turns into Wife Guilt. Which then turns into plain old Marinda Guilt because that is how I have been since the day I was born.

I must be perfect.

I can't possibly be perfect.

So I must settle for being me.

And for those who matter most, being me is enough.

For my husband, who really only wants to know he is loved and appreciated and to be given time with me at the end of each day.

For my daughter, who looks to me for comfort, love, guidance, a playmate, food, shelter, and joy.

For my Heavenly Father, who only asks that I, as His daughter, be His daughter.

Last week, after Kevin's bout with the virus from h.e.doublehockeysticks, my mom gave me this gem of wisdom: "Sick children are draining physically and emotionally. It gives a small glimpse of what our Heavenly Parents and the Savior feels for us."

After I read that, I thought about how all day, every day, Kevin seeks me out. If I am in another room, she crawls to find me. If she is stuck in her crib, she cries out for me. When we are playing together, she smiles and laughs to let me know she appreciates me. I am her first thought when she wakes up and her last thought as she falls asleep.

So it seems that the only person I really should be trying to emulate is my toddler, who is teaching me daily what it means to be a Child of God. What if I sought him out in every minute of every day and tried to keep Him in my sight at all times? What if, the instant I woke up each day, I started crying out to Him? What if, when I find myself feeling joy, I said a prayer of gratitude to thank Him for blessing me with those moments?

What if I was a little more like her?

Becoming THAT Mom...

Surprise! Since the blog hit over 1000 page views yesterday, and since I want to share these thoughts in writing, I am awarding my readers with a Friday post.

I went to Target on Wednesday. I took my daughter, my yellow bag full of everything we could possibly need, and my cell phone. I was excited. It had been a while since we'd gotten out of the house, and since I didn't have my husband with me, I could take as long as I wanted to shop and look around. And since I haven't lived in the vicinity of a Target in my whole life up until about a month ago, I was so excited to go and browse.

But the shopping trip didn't turn out as expected.

And by the end, I realized I'd become that mom. The one you see looking completely frazzled. The one you feel sorry for. The one you promise yourself you will never, ever become.

It all started when I went to put Kevin in the cart seat and realized she only had one sock on. We gave up putting shoes on her a couple of weeks ago--she's at an awkward size where nothing fits and she pulls any shoe off anyway. Ironically, getting her a pair of shoes was one of the reasons for said shopping trip. So, embarrassed and wondering whether her pink sock was in the car or somewhere in the parking lot, I decided there wasn't much I could do about it and I should just get on with business. I pulled up her remaining sock and tried in vain to pull her little jeans down over her bare foot. Guilty, I thought about the fact that she'd been sick for about a week now and most germs are spread through feet. Oh dear.

We headed to the baby section first. I wasn't planning on buying any clothes for her, but I just like to look at the clearance racks, you know, just to see. During this time, my phone rang. It was my sister-in-law, Holly. I hadn't talked to her in forever and she'd been on my mind lately, so I answered despite being in the middle of a too-small aisle. We talked for over ten minutes as I made my way over to the toy section (to see if there were any good birthday present ideas for Kevin, who will turn one in less than a month!), and then to the other part of the baby section to look at overpriced shoes, none of which seemed to have the capability of fitting my daughter any better than anything we already had.  By the time I said good-bye to Holly, I'd been down the non-clothing baby aisles about twice and put two or three "splurges" in our cart, and then put them back, and then put them in the cart again.

We decided to move on to the whole reason for the shopping trip anyway: a Valentine present for Scotty. I quickly found the section for what I was looking for, but every tag was $10-15 more than what I wanted to spend, so I decided to forget it and just get him the candy bar he'd asked for. I knew he'd be disappointed, but oh well. I found the right card, so that should count for something. What a good wife I am.

By this point, Kevin is done with sitting in the cart and must be carried. So I pull her out and balance her on my hip as I push the cart along to the grocery side of the store. There is really nothing over there that we need, except to see if there is a good Valentine treat for Scott from Kevin. When we get to the back of the store, where all the boxed chocolates are, I decide that the Starburst we already picked up will be sufficient. But wait! Kevin has been sick, and I was supposed to see about getting her more Pedialyte, and that is back in the baby section, so back to the Baby section we go. When we get there I look down and see that Kevin has lost her other sock. She now is completely barefoot. This is unacceptable.  So I find a pair of socks, rip off the tag, put them on her feet, and stick the tag in the cart where I know I will remember to pay for them. Oh dear. When I was younger I was always embarrassed by the people who would let their kids eat or use things before they'd paid for them. And all of the sudden I was one of them. I am THAT mom. Oh no. It's an emergency, I tell myself, but I don't feel any better about it.

That's enough of this shopping trip, I think, and head to the check out stand. Kevin is back in the cart seat and highly offended. We check out just fine, but then I hear my phone buzzing again. Amy Arzani, the caller ID reads. I haven't talked to this particular mission companion in over a year. Curious as to why she is calling, I answer. She needs a favor. I steer the cart over to the cart parking near the exit. Worried and trying to figure out if I can help her with what she needs, I haphazardly pull Kevin out of the cart and head out of the store.

I'm still talking to Sister Arzani when the call-waiting goes off. This time I decide to ignore it. I finish my conversation with Sister Arzani, wishing I could help more but realizing I probably can't, and start buckling Kevin into her carseat. I go to get in the driver's seat and realize I can't find my bag of purchases anywhere. I double check the back seat and realize the bag probably never made it out of the store. Flustered, I unbuckle Kevin and rush back to where I left our cart, hoping against hope that nobody has found/stolen our stuff yet.

Sure enough, there it is. I walk around the Mom that is trying to herd her two pre-teens in the right direction. She sees me pick up the bag and laughs. "I didn't even see that there!" She says.

"I'm losing my mind," I admit, embarassed and heading back toward the door. I'm ten feet away when I realize I am trying to go out the entrance. So I turn around and almost run into the lady again as I make a wide circle around the jumble of carts.

When we get back to the car, everything goes smoothly. I buckle Kevin in and then get into the front seat. I'm slightly shaky and starting to regret my small lunch of chips and salsa. My sugar is running low and I need to eat something. So I break open one of Scott's Valentine treats and start eating it. At this point, I realize that my cell phone is missing. It isn't on the seat or in my pocket. I check back by Kevin. Not there. Oh dear.

At this point I ask for the help I should have asked for a long time ago.

"Heavenly Father, please help me find my cell phone, and please let it be in the car and not back in the store. I'm too embarrassed to go back in there!"

My mind flashes with inspiration and I have an impression of the hole in the lining of my yellow bag. All sorts of things get lost in there, why not my phone? I feel the bottom of the bag. There it is! There is a phone! I dig down and pull it out and panic. This phone has red trim on it, which means it isn't my phone at all, but Scott's old phone that we got out for Kevin to play with so she would leave ours alone. I take a deep breath and reach in again, pleading with God to please let my phone be in there too.

Sure enough, it is. So I say a quick "thank You and please please please get us home safely" prayer. Before we leave, I check my message, which is from my mother-in-law. I call her back. She's invited us to dinner. I say yes for three reasons: 1. She's a great cook. 2. This means I don't have to make and/or clean up dinner. and 3. I remember that she is watching my niece and nephew, ages 10 months and two-and-a-half, and she will never ask for help but I know they are going to be worn out by the time dinner rolls around and could probably use a break or some help.

Sure enough, we get home safely. Two hours later we head over to my in-law's house. When we walk in my nephew is fighting eating his bottle and my niece is sitting in the high chair, looking downtrodden, an un-crusted, un-eaten peanut butter sandwich on the napkin in front of her. Her parents and two older sisters have been in Disneyland for three days. And since this little girl is by far the hardest of our nieces and nephews to win over, since she has a very, very small list of people she likes, I say a little prayer that she will let me be on that list tonight.

I kneel down next to her highchair. "Hi sweetheart," I whisper. She needs a mommy's touch right now, I think, and then, realizing that I am a mommy now, I whisper to her, "Do you need a mommy hug?" With tears in her eyes, she nods, and I lift her out of the chair and hold her close for five straight minutes. Scott's mom tells me with a laugh that as we were pulling into the driveway, this little niece said she "was scared of Marinda." That fear doesn't seem to stop her from wanting a mommy tonight--anybody's mommy.

Even me.

For the rest of the night, I help with her bath and her hair and her jammies and we read stories while Scott helps get her little brother down for the night (because it seems a little nephew is missing his Daddy tonight too). Kevin is content to slobber all over Grandma's toys and tackle her little boy cousin while her mom is playing substitute mommy and Grandma is taking good care of everybody else. Well, content for a while at least, until she's had enough and then Kevin lets us know it is time to go home and put her to bed. And my niece starts crying when I put on my coat.

I apologize to my in-laws, but secretly I have a little sliver of satisfaction inside.

I might be that mom who goes into a store with a barefoot child in the middle of winter. I may even be that mom that uses a pair of socks she hasn't paid for and leaves everything she's bought in the cart when she leaves the store.

But I am still a Mom.

So I still count.

Daddy Delivers

"Hater's gonna hate, but I, for one, have always loved Valentine's Day. I just love love. #andnowiamgoingtoleaveahashtagbecauseiamcleverlikethatallyouneedislove" reads the facebook post of the friend from middle school who inevitably came home with at least two roses every Valentines Day and spent the majority of our bus ride trying to figure out which boy she liked better. 

I still hope she gets flowers every February 14th.

But I haven't so quickly forgotten that feeling of flowerlessness, or the long days when I was that girl that everybody was friends with but nobody was in love with. Valentine's Days were long, and hard, and only worth it because of the chocolate and the homemade pizza dinner and valentines my mom made for us every year. 

But then, one year, everything changed. 

The school day was the same, the bus ride was full of rose-colored envy, and the trudging up the hill to our family's back door was the same. The dog barked a greeting. I carefully stepped around the ice so I didn't fall.  I kept my head down because I was a depressed adolescent. 

And then I opened the door. And because my head was down and I was looking at my feet, I couldn't miss it.

A rose.

Pink and perfect and surrounded by baby's breath.

With my name on the card. 

I picked it up and inhaled the scent. I'd never had occasion to smell a rose of my very own before. Up to this point in my life, the only flowers I'd been given was a small bunch of wildflowers that my Grandpa cut out of his garden and and handed to me on a particularly hard and yet sweet day.

It must run in the family, because when I opened the card, there was a sweet note signed by my dad.

And Valentine's Day never bothered me after that, because I knew no matter how long the day was, there would be a flower waiting for me when I got home.

Throughout my first few years of college, my father delivered the flowers himself.  And I never felt sad when my roommates were all on dates, because I had the best Valentine ever. One year we all got flowers--everywhere you turned in our apartment there was a vase with petal pretties in it. Within about five days, all the flowers were dead. Except my Peruvian lilies.  They lived for three weeks. I took it as a sign that I was the most loved. 

Even as a missionary, he made sure flowers were delivered. I remember the second year that I was a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints on Valentine's Day. Most people know that missionaries are not allowed to date, but I was one of the lucky ones who had someone special waiting at home, so I got my share of romance in the form of weekly letters that never said anything about love other than a "love, Scott" at the end of the page. February of 2010 found me living in an apartment built into a barn on the 5M & R Ranch in Aubrey, Texas. Because postmen don't usually deliver mail to barns, all of our mail went through Brother Martino's mailbox. Very few things slipped by Rick Martino, and I know he noticed that the letters I got most excited about all came from a certain "Brother Fowler" in Sandy, Utah. So I wasn't surprised when I detected a tone of disappointment in his voice when he called on the day before Valentine's Day to tell me that there was a special delivery waiting for me at his house. When we went to pick it up, he handed me the green box with the name of a flower company on it with a frown. I knew what the frown meant. Missionaries aren't supposed to be getting flowers from sweethearts. It's too distracting. It isn't appropriate. I thought you were a better missionary than that. 

I laughed and without opening the card or the box said, "Relax, Brother Martino. They're from my dad!"

And then he smiled. Because he had a daughter on a mission too. Only I think it is a lot harder to get flowers delivered to shacks in Argentina.

I should note here that Scott's pink card came two days later.

The next year was the most depressing Valentine's Day of my life.

You see, I was married. I had a sweetheart. And my dad trusted him to take care of me. And he did. He took me to a wonderful lunch and my favorite muscial, The Music Man, and we sat in the grand tier and I felt awesome. 

But that was two days before Valentine's Day. 

And on Valentine's Day, my sweetheart had to work and go to school and I was all alone for most of the day. 

That didn't bother me.

The absence of flowers from my dad did. 

The next year, Scott and I celebrated early again. And when it came to the actual Valentine's day, around 3:00 I gave up waiting for him to remember what day it was and reminded him, and he delivered a very sweet private blog post on the blog he keeps just for me. 

And once again, there were no flowers.

But I have become a better wife in the past year. And I have learned that sometimes you need to tell your husband what you want and why you want it and then drop a multitude of hints (okay, you should do this all the time, but I'm not a perfect wife yet). 

But I was still surprised when last night Scott asked me to look under the bathroom sink and see if there was any more distilled water for Kevin's humidifier (a post on what I learned from her week-long illness is coming soon). There wasn't. "Check the other side," he said, watching me with a huge smile on his face. 

I gasped as I pulled out a dozen full, beautiful white roses. They smelled better than anything I had ever smelled before. I smiled and thanked him and held them up for Kevin to smell (luckily she didn't try to tear them to pieces). 

"They didn't have any yellow ones," he said, because everyone who knows me knows that yellow roses are my absolute favorite. "But this is the closest I could find."

I told him I liked the white ones. They symbolize purity. And they looked luxurious. And they match the beautiful tablecloth on our dining room table. 

And I know why this year is different. It is because this year Scott is a dad. And being a dad has made him gentler, more thoughtful, more sensitive, and more mine than ever. So this year he knew what to do. And this year, I am happy to say, I am more in love with him than ever. 

And not because he remembered the all-important Valentine's Flowers.

It is because I have seen him grow and change and struggle and overcome obstacles and learn more in the past 11 months than I ever have before. 

It is because I woke up to Kevin screaming in the wee hours of the morning and went out to find them battling on the couch: Daddy wanted to cuddle. Kevin didn't. Daddy wanted Kevin to go back to sleep. Kevin wasn't ready yet. And, when she finally went back to bed thirty minutes later and Scott and I climbed back into bed to cuddle before he went to work, he said something about his relationship with her being nothing but cuddles and battles.

He must be doing something right, eh?

And someday, he will be the kind of Dad that leaves a rose behind the garage door for his 13-year-old daughter.

And she will never, ever, ever forget that he loved her first.

When real life reads like fiction...and when it doesn't

I have this little sister.

She is beautiful.

Not kidding.

She is the most photogenic person I have ever met: dark, thick, luscious brown hair, stunningly shaped eyes, defined features, short enough to wear high heels and not be six feet tall, and a personality that puts all of her outward beauty to shame because it is so LOUD and EXCITING.

And her life reads like fiction.

You'd have to know to her to believe it.

Don't just take my word for it; catch a glimpse at her resume:

- Ran a fever of 106 when she was a baby (perhaps that started it all)
- Got bitten by a bald eagle when she was four
- Ran over a baby duck on her way to work one summer
- Got attacked by a swallow while weeding my mom's flower beds (the bird gave her the biggest shiner we'd ever seen)
- Got her tonsils out when she was twelve. Went to the doctor last month and found out they had grown back (the odds of that happening are one in a million).
- Had a nightmare about spiders while she was in college. Ended up sleepwalking and hitting her head so hard that she needed stitches. While a couple of her roommates ran her to the emergency room, the others woke up to blood trailing from her room to the front door. They were a little freaked out by the bloody handprints on the wall. I would be too.
- Had a legit brain tumor (don't worry, it wasn't cancerous. We named him Winston). Has also had her gall bladder removed. That is as far as I will delve into her medical history for you. Said legit brain tumor is also growing back. She's good at growing things back, apparently.
- Got into a fight with her car door one very frosty morning. The car door won and gave her a concussion and a fractured face (with a good shiner, but not as good as the one the bird gave her).

Note: most of these things have happened within the last two years. And this is just a sampling. Wouldn't want to ruin that bestseller she is sure to write someday.

So, a few days ago, when I received a text with a picture of her wrist in a brace and a message that said "I guess no more water polo for Liz =( thanks to my teammate for breaking my knuckle and sprang my wrist and middle finger..."

Scott and I just laughed and said, "oh Liz."

Other common responses are "poor Liz" and "man, your life sucks." We are very supportive siblings.

Also, compared to her, we lead very boring lives. Okay, so maybe my older brother doesn't. He goes to law school and lives on the East Coast and played college football. And maybe my little brother is just getting started in life and is so witty that his life will be awesome just because he was born that way (which is undoubtedly why my parents stopped at him).

So I guess that leaves me as the boring sibling. What adventures have I had? Let's see...one broken bone. Right arm, age 3, "I falled off the couch." One genetically mutated pinky (which has led to my over-anxious habit of worrying about Kevin's pinkies whenever they are bent while the other four fingers are straight). Bone spurs on my feet that mean I can't wear high heels ever again unless I want to get foot surgery. Occasional sleep talking, during which I usually teach gospel lessons to teenagers. Diabetes, hypothyroidism  giving birth eight weeks early (my medical history, while much shorter, is infinitely boring in comparison).

I went skinny dipping once.

(You're supposed to be impressed by that.)

So what am I getting at with this week's blog post?

Truthfully, I don't really know. That's why I write. To figure out stuff I can't figure out in my head, so I have to let my fingers do the talking. Because when your fingers do the talking, sometimes you are forced into looking at truths you only wanted to ignore before.

So, let's start here: I am jealous of my little sister. She would probably be shocked to hear it, but it's been no secret to me my whole life. She's the exciting one. She was expected to make mistakes while I tried as hard as I could to be perfect and failed miserably. She always got the cool presents at Christmas. My parents would buy her books because she refused to read them. I, on the other hand, never got new books because I read them too fast (apparently too fast to really enjoy them), so a trip to the library every other week would suffice. She got to eat way more chocolate chips than me because she always needed more help with her homework, which meant that my mom played the betting game more with her than with me. She likes to exercise. I hate it. She will spend money on frivolous things (like jewelry, purses, shoes, and clothes). I can't justify it and feel too guilty, so I don't. I would like to have a closet that looks as awesome as hers, but I don't. I hate how I look in a swimsuit, which means I would never have her bravery to become a lifeguard, or try out for the swim team, let alone practice with a university water polo team (I watched the Olympics; that sport is brutally nasty!)

She was the first child in our family to buy her own car. Ever since I had to endure the embarrassment of driving the family minivan to high school, I have always wanted to buy myself a car. For a multitude of reasons, I never managed it. Neither did my older brother. We both came into vehicles by virtue of marriage. I never really got to feel independent from my parents, because I came by "financial freedom" (note the sarcastic quotations) by virtue of changing my last name. My husband helped me finish paying for school, and now he works to support us while I stay home with Kevin. And while I love what I do, and my husband is so awesome about taking care of my every need and whim (like the seven seasons of Boy Meets World that we bought last weekend with some Christmas money)...I sometimes miss the feeling of being able to earn and spend my own money.

So this week's post is not about being content (which I usually am). It's about me being jealous of my little sister's broken middle finger, which means she can't flip the bird to anyone who ticks her off. I don't think I've ever flipped anyone off in my life, but that is beside the point. 

Why?

Because her life reads like good fiction, which means it would read like unbelievable, excellent non-fiction.

Mine does not.

But that's okay.

I can write about Liz's life for her....because she has a broken knuckle and a sprained wrist and can't type anything at the moment.

I guess that means I lucked out.