Halloween and My Husband's Alter Ego

I never really have gotten into Halloween. It's kind of my least favorite holiday. I'm not a big fan of lawns decorated in dead people or scary movies (which lost their appeal after I no longer needed to find an excuse to get a boy to hold my hand or put his arm around me). Add to that the fact that I am diabetic and Halloween is a lovely reminder that I love candy way more than candy loves me, it really isn't fun for me at all.

There is one thing, however, that I do appreciate about this holiday, and that is the watching my husband celebrate it. For the past three years he has dressed up as Buddy the Elf. Mostly I like it because it gets me excited for Christmas, which is one of my very favorite holidays, but also because given his 6'4" frame and usually shy nature, the costume is a big hit and allows him to escape from his comfort zone once a year (okay, usually twice because he usually finds an excuse to wear it during the Christmas season). And, luckily, given a few changes in jobs and living quarters, he's been able to recycle the costume year after year.

So, the goal for next year is to be settled enough that he won't be able to wear it again and we'll have to come up with something new.

So, in honor of the fact that Halloween is almost over and then it is Thanksgiving (and Diabetes Awareness Month, aren't you so excited?) and then it is CHRISTMAS!!!, go to this link and watch the video (for some reason it won't let me embed the video).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUmoo1ZzICE

Because if pictures are worth 1000 words, then this video must be worth like a billion words, and I have nothing else to say today anyway!

Happy Halloween!

Every Little Thing She Does is Magic

I love magic. I believe in it. There is made-up, fairy tale magic, like Harry Potter and Disney promote. There is love magic, the kind that you feel with true love's kiss or that touch from the person who can command the butterflies in your stomach with just a fingertip on your hand, arm, or face. There is the magic of success, the kind that breeds confidence and helps you move another step forward. There is food magic, medicine magic, a-pair-of-good-shoes magic, make-up magic, coupon magic, Mr. Clean magic eraser magic, book magic, credit card magic, grandparent magic, music magic, clothes dryer magic, and thermostat magic. 

Of all the kinds of magic, however, my favorite is the kind you are born with: a child's magic. 

"We all start out knowing magic. We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand....The truth of life is that every year we get farther away from the essence that is born within us. We get shouldered with burdens, some of them good, some of them not so good... Life itself does its best to take that memory of magic away from us. You don't know it's happening until one day you feel you've lost something but you're not sure what it is. It's like smiling at a pretty girl and she calls you 'sir.' It just happens."

- Robert R. McCammon, Boys' Life


Unfortunately, this magic gets harder and harder to come by as you get older.

My goal lately has been to try and foster the magic in my daughter and try and regain some of it myself. This is why we make it a point to read at least three books together every day. This is why we create towers with blocks and then knock them down. This is why we experiment with hairstyles and wear Mardi Gras beads like they were diamonds and why sometimes my husband comes home to find me wearing a tiara simply because I'd forgotten I had it on. This is why Kevin has dolls and balls, purses and tractors, a stroller and a ride-on car. This is why we have giggle fests right when I get her out of her crib in the morning and dance parties before lunch.

I want her to have a magical childhood--because I had one.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to those days. We had a tree in our yard that I could climb and one time I carved an "X" in it so somebody would know I got there first. If I walked down a gravel road through a forest (aka a field of Christmas trees), there were always cookies and ice cream and a Hallmark movie and my Grandpa's lap awaiting me. My siblings and I used our driveway to play "Cops and Robbers" and the stairwell to the basement made a perfect prison. We had "ghosts" and "fairies" and a roller skating rink in our unfinished basement.

When we moved to a place with no trees but a superb gutter and a lot of dirt, my mother dressed my siblings and I in old clothes one afternoon and sent us out to play in the mud until my father came home. We weren't allowed back inside until we were completely covered, that was the rule.

As a little girl, I hosted my share of tea parties and Barbie balls, but I also played ball with my brothers. My older brother wrote his own plays and I co-stared in them (Kid Boy rocks!). I taught my little brother how to run away to the basement.  The four of us bobsledded down the stairs in a cardboard box more than once. My little sister and I were playing "Neverland" one day and we were walking the plank (aka the wooden side of my brother's waterbed frame) and we jumped into the ocean a little too hard, not realizing that my brother had left a thumbtack somewhere in his bed, and, well, we'd never seen a flood like that before.

I'm sure my parents were upset, but I don't remember them ever getting mad at us for having an imagination, no matter how many casualties of war we created. We were simply allowed to play, and play free.

I worry about my daughter a lot. I worry about what the world will be like in her future. I worry about her development. I worry about giving her the right kind of experiences and opportunities. I worry that today's society will force the magic from her life a little too soon. I worry, I worry, I worry.

I shouldn't.

You see, I have spend the day alternating between feeding and playing with her and reading Reflection's Contest literature entries for my nephew's elementary school. I don't know any of these children, but their thoughts and words have inspired me today (and, on occasion, made me laugh out loud). There is a little more magic in my heart because of this experience. I wish I could just share every story and poem and essay with everyone (but I'm sure that would be some breach of something so I can't.)

I am excited for the days when I can teach my daughter to create worlds with her words and then we can bring them to life with a few homemade costumes and a camera. I am excited to read chapter books with her and discover the characters of my childhood all over again. I am excited to bake miniature treats for her tea parties and teach her how to slide down the stairs in a sleeping bag. I am excited to make our future swingset into a pirate ship and our living room into field of volcanic lava.

It is my job to give her the chance to be anything she wants to be without the limits of money and adulthood and somebody saying, "you can't do that, you aren't qualified."

Magic qualifies a child to be anything he or she wants to be. Parents, however, are the gatekeepers of the magic. We can either let our children fly or chain them to the ground. I must give her the opportunities--she needs to be the one to take them.

Right now our couches become mountains as she struggles to climb them. Cereal turns into puppy chow as we crawl around on hands and knees. Crayons create scribbled masterpieces and books teach her that there is no limit to the places she can go and the person she can be.

She has no idea that Balto isn't a "real" dog and that her baby's bottle isn't full of milk. She doesn't know that her blocks can't build homes and that when she pats her drums she isn't really creating the music that comes out of them.  She doesn't know that her stuffed animals don't really have personalities and that her red shoes aren't really made for dancing.

But, in the end, maybe she is the one who is right about her world.

She has the magic, and I am only trying to hold on to it.

She Makes Me Beautiful

I made a new friend at church on Sunday. At least, I thought she was going to be a new friend. With only four weeks left in this congregation, I felt like it was good of me to even attempt to make new friends at this point. After a few minutes of conversation and finding out that she also has toddlers, a play date was suggested. Realizing I need to make a better effort to put my only child in an arena where she can learn to be sociable, I readily agreed. And then that little phrase snuck in...

"We'll do some facials too!"

Thinking the emphasis was still on the kids can play, I tried to hush my cynical side, but sure enough, when Kevin and I arrived at the play date two days later, not one of this lady's two kids was in sight. There, on the table, however, were those nifty little black trays with attached mirrors, along with a counter full of pink and black tubes and every kind of cosmetic product imaginable.

I tried to shoot an apologetic look at my daughter, but as she didn't know there were supposed to be two cute little boys there to play with her, she didn't seem too disappointed. She alternated between playing with the toys in the living room and coming over to see what was happening to my face. 

At first, she was highly interested. I put a little bit of moisturizer on her cheeks when I'd used all I needed. Later, I pretended to brush some blush on her cheeks and then let her play with the lipstick applicator as the guilt ate me alive inside when I realized I was saying phrases like, "There! You look so pretty!" as if she really needed makeup to enhance her already naturally rosy cheeks and lips or to bring out the blue in her non-photoshoped vibrant eyes. By the end of the makeover, however, Kevin was't curious. She looked disturbed. What had they done with her mommy?

After offering my "I didn't bring my wallet" excuse, (somehow, saying "I just can't afford this stuff"--a nice way of saying "$319 for makeup? Are you out of your mind?!" and "I only wear makeup two days a week anyway" felt too personal) I picked up my daughter and walked out the door. 

And I instantly felt guilty.

I didn't want to buy anything. I know my appearance could use some sharpening up. I know I should be taking better care of my skin. I know my husband would appreciate it if I put in a little more effort to look good for him. But that lead to the thought that he would also not appreciate me spending $15 on mascara that has to be replaced every three months anyway. $60 a year to put organic tar on my eyelashes? No thank you. 

The accountant wife in me felt better.

And then the mom in me felt worse. What was I teaching my daughter, saying that putting some crap on her face somehow makes her prettier? As far as I am concerned, she is the most beautiful person in the whole world.

She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen when she came out purple and wrinkled and covered in blood. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen when her skin turned yellow and her beautiful face was covered by a mask as she sat under biliruben lights day after day. She was beautiful when she wore a nasal cannula and she was beautiful after she got to take it off and I saw just how chubby her cheeks really were. She was beautiful even when all of her hair fell out at five months and it took three months for it to grow back in. She was beautiful when she had no teeth and she is beautiful now that she has twelve.She was beautiful when she only had two thin little pigtails on the top of her head and now that she has two thick pigtails that sit right above her ears. She is beautiful when she cries and even more beautiful when she laughs. 

To quote Bruno Mars, "she's beautiful, and I tell her every day."

It kills me to think that someday she might not believe me about this. 

When I was a little girl, I took dance for several years until I noticed I was the biggest (in my head fattest) girl on stage and then I quit at the tender age of nine. I still appreciate the lessons I learned from taking dance, however. I still use those skills on a daily basis as my daughter and I dance together often in the kitchen, or bedroom, or living room, or in the car, or wherever we can manage it. I remember the beautiful leotards and tutus and the opportunities those costumes gave my mother to teach me about modesty. 

And as I left the playdate turned sales pitch the other day, I heard my mother's voice when I asked her why I couldn't wear make up for the recital like all the other girls in my class did. I thought they looked so pretty with the stunning blue eyeshadow and the vibrant pink lipstick and the sparkles on their cheeks. My mom would just smile and say, "You don't need makeup to make you pretty. You are already beautiful without it."

I thought it was an excuse. I knew she didn't want me to wear makeup because she thought I was too young. 

Now I know she wasn't lying. 

She really believed--and still does--that I am beautiful. She thought I was beautiful when I was born 16 days late and the doctor declared me "overdone." She thought I was beautiful when I had the fattest, chubbiest cheeks and thighs and the pediatrician told my parents that I would be obese. She thought I was beautiful when I insisted on wearing my hair in two long braids just because that's the way my doll Molly had her hair done. She thought I was beautiful when in the fourth grade I told her I wanted to cut all my gorgeous hair off (and she let me do it, even though my dad protested and she cried). She thought I was beautiful when I started getting zits and wore braces. She thought I was beautiful when I had to get glasses and I thought my life was over. She thought I was beautiful even when I didn't get asked to homecoming. She thought I was beautiful when I grew my hair out and cut it off two more times to donate it to Locks of Love. She thought I was beautiful when I attended my first day of college and she even found me beautiful when I went home every weekend, disappointed because I'd gone another week dateless yet again. She found me beautiful when I sat crying in a hospital bed, 32 weeks pregnant and scared out of my mind about what was going to happen to my daughter.

And, as often comes with motherhood, now I understand why my mother thought and did and said the things she did. To her, I truly was beautiful. I still am.

Funny thing, though, is that when I try to tell my mom how pretty she is, she doesn't believe me. All she sees are extra pounds and wrinkles and dark circles under her eyes. 

All I see is the way that her brown eyes see the good in people, especially her students. I see the way that her hands stay busy all day long. I feel the strength in her arms as she gives love and hugs to those who need her strength. I admire the way she carries herself with grace and confidence, even when she doesn't feel either of those things. I see who she is. 

She is beautiful.

This week, I realized that perhaps I see in my daughter what my mother sees in me. And I dare to hope that one day my daughter will see in me what I see in my mother.

So for her sake, I am going to stop criticizing my body. After all, it brought me her, and she is worth all the stretch marks and lingering rolls and premature gray hairs. I am going to focus on my positive traits and highlight those. I am going to stop worrying about the makeup I wear, the clothes I don't have, and the way my hair is thinning. Those things don't make me beautiful. 

She does.

A Measure of Success

My morning started about a minute after the front door to our apartment shut and my husband went to work. I heard chattering coming from the next room. I glanced at the clock, listened to my daughter's conversing, and decided that maybe her dad hadn't left for work after all. Maybe he had done what he so often does and stayed just an extra minute or two to see if he could get her to go back to sleep. Knowing that if he hadn't already left, he needed to leave soon, I untangled myself from the blankets and my husband's pillow, which I almost always unconsciously hijack after he gets out of bed, and put on my glasses before quietly walking out of my bedroom and pausing outside her door. I cracked it open to see her laying on her back, a binky half in her mouth, talking to the pictures on her wall. Sure enough, Daddy was gone, and she was wide awake. Within minutes, we were back into the routine of dirty diapers, tropical toy storms, scrounging up something for breakfast, and this morning's dance party.

And in between the mess-making, breakfast-eating, tantrum-stopping, and day-starting, I took the time to read these two articles, shared by friends of mine on facebook:

http://powerofmoms.com/2013/10/becoming-supermom/

http://themattwalshblog.com/2013/10/09/youre-a-stay-at-home-mom-what-do-you-do-all-day/

Now, you don't need to catch up on these articles to read what I am about to say. You don't have to be a stay at home mom. You don't have to be a working mom. You don't have to be a working mom who is a part time stay-at-home mom or a stay-at-home mom who works on the side. You've probably already heard the debate, been part of the argument, chosen a side, or lamented that there even have to be sides at all.

Been there, done that.

You've heard about the "Mommy Guilt Trip." The Catch 22 paradox. It is that little bug Satan has planted that tells working moms they should be home and stay-at-home moms they should be working and those that are attempting to do both that they can't eat their cake and have it too. Something's got to give.

And, as in all of Satan's lies, I admit there is a shred of truth in what he says to us. No matter what we do or accomplish, it will never be enough.

So, I am going to make an attempt today to step away from Satan's "Mommy War" and focus on Heavenly Father's intentions for today's mothers. All of them.

That is, simply, that God wants us to be mothers. He wants us to bring children into this world into established families with a father and a mother. And when that isn't possible, he wants us to be parents anyway. He wants us to show our children love and teach them how to be resilient, hard-working, kind people.  God would like us to strengthen our families. He would like us to put forth our best effort, no matter our situation. 

This past weekend, members of my church gathered in Salt Lake City and across the world to participate in a General Conference, where for two days we listened to the voices of men and women that I believe are called of God to be leaders in our day. We listened to a Living Prophet. We heard from Twelve Apostles, called to do the same work that Peter and others were called to do when Christ walked the earth and first established his church. From them, we heard messages from God. Many of these messages addressed the growing struggle that families face in the world today. These inspired men and women didn't seek to tell us what we were doing wrong, but rather to applaud us for what we are doing right and warn us as to situations that are threatening our families today.  

As a stay-at-home mom, I appreciated the fact that many of these talks celebrated women who, like me, have chosen raising children as a profession. They did not ever, ever belittle working mothers. They simply made statements focusing on the importance of raising the rising generations, such as this one made by Apostle D. Todd Christofferson:

"A woman’s moral influence is nowhere more powerfully felt or more beneficially employed than in the home. There is no better setting for rearing the rising generation than the traditional family, where a father and a mother work in harmony to provide for, teach, and nurture their children. Where this ideal does not exist, people strive to duplicate its benefits as best they can in their particular circumstances." (emphasis added)

Sometimes, I feel that even though I am so "beneficially employed," I am also belittled for my choice to be a mother. Interesting, because 90% of the time when someone asks Scott what his wife does and he tells them I stay at home with our daughter, their reply is "Good for you!" because he makes it possible for me to make this choice day after day- my choice to stay at home is his choice also. When I am asked the same question ("What do you do?"), I only get that "Good for you!" response about 50% of the time. As to the other 50%, although friends, family members, acquaintances, and sometimes strangers are too polite to say it, I can see in their eyes that they question my choice or feel that my talents would be better used elsewhere. Even those who support my choice sometimes put pressure on me to find a side job that I can do from home or tell me I should study really hard so that I can get a perfect score on the GRE and get a full-ride scholarship to do grad school online. I simply shake my head at that, knowing myself enough to know that my energy levels can't even keep up with my toddler and at this time in my life her naptime is better used to refresh my waning strength by reading or sleeping (gasp! I don't even clean up the house. Shame on me.). There is no escape from the war, and sometimes the battle comes from those dearest to us. In my case, however, too often the Mommy War I am fighting is in my own head.

Sometimes I feel that even though my choice is a good one, there is no possible way for me to succeed. If I am going to be a stay-at-home mom and make this my life's work at this time, I need to have at least half a dozen children, right? And those children must always look adorable, behave correctly, sleep perfectly, and eat nutritiously, correct? At the moment, I have one child. She eats too much sugar and sodium and not enough vegetables. I don't even need to check a label to tell you that. She doesn't have a set sleeping schedule and she still wakes up during the night (though only occasionally, thank goodness). She is an Olympic athlete when it comes to tantrum-throwing and her speech development is behind. Some days I don't do her hair and I dress her in stained clothing because there is nothing more she could possibly do to ruin that outfit. Sometimes I let her wear sandals when it is cold outside because I don't want to fight the battle of getting her to wear more suitable shoes. Sometimes I let her cry in her bed for an hour before I realize she isn't going to take a nap. Sometimes she has to literally take my hand and pull me away from the computer, or book, or laundry pile. 

Sometimes she has to remind me who I am and what I am doing.

As a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I learned to measure my success by key indicators--numbers in certain categories that told me how hard my companion and I were working. There were only a few times on my mission where I was able to reach the key indicator goals that were set for me, and even then I always felt the pressure to be better and do more. It didn't seem to matter that those numbers were often based on other people's decisions to listen to and accept our message. Most of the time on my mission, I loathed key indicators. I didn't feel like they were a true measure of how hard I was working or how much success my companion and I experienced in our given area. Some areas were harder than others. Some people were prepared to hear the gospel, others weren't. I got tired of hearing over and over again that if we just had more faith, we could reach our goals. 

I had faith. I worked hard. I was obedient. I did everything asked of me and as much more as I could think of to possibly do. Sometimes, I just didn't measure up.

Here's the thing, though. That pressure I felt, it wasn't from Heavenly Father. It was from other people--other missionaries, sometimes other ward members, sometimes my leaders. I don't blame them--please don't misunderstand me. I have a deep love for all of those people. They taught me many things. But I have also come to understand that they were under the same pressure as I was. When I paused to step back and ask Heavenly Father what he thought of my work, I almost always felt a sense of peace and reassurance. In the times where that peace didn't come, God showed me ways where I could improve, and I used the Atonement of Jesus Christ to repent and do better.

Preach My Gospel,  the training and teaching manual for missionaries, clearly defines what makes a missionary successful in the very first chapter. I often wonder why I forgot these words so very often as a missionary.  Today, I wonder why I forget them as a mother.

This section included phrases like:

• "Your success as a missionary is measured primarily by your commitment..."
• "Avoid comparing yourself to other missionaries and measuring the outward results of your efforts against theirs."
• "Your responsibility is to teach clearly and powerfully so they can make a correct choice."
• "When you have done your very best, you may still experience disappointments, but you will not be disappointed in yourself."
• "You can feel certain that the Lord is pleased when you feel the Spirit working through you." (Preach My Gospel, pages 10-11)

Many times as a mother, I feel like I am being held to key indicators that measure how successful my mothering efforts truly are. I feel like there is some mathematical equation that goes something like (number of children) x (daily activities) x (cleanliness level of the home) x (husband satisfaction)= level of mommyhood success achieved.  Some days, I get a big fat zero because as anyone who passed second grade knows, anything multiplied by zero equals ZERO. So if I fail in one area, I fail in all of them. My "numbers" as a mommy certainly aren't good. 

But who, really, is counting? Nobody but me. If I fail to reach the "goals" that pinterest and society has set for me, then I really am not failing anything but my own warped expectations, which are certainly tainted by Satan's influence and impossible standards and comparing myself to others. 

So, from now on, I am going back to Heavenly Father's measurement of success, which isn't much different than the measures of success I often forgot to employ as a missionary. I am going to measure my success as a mother by my commitment to my children. I am going to avoid comparing the outward results of my efforts to those of other mothers. I am going to fulfill my responsibility to teach my daughter "clearly and powerfully" so that she is equipped to make correct choices on her own, even if sometimes my "powerful" teaching only results in her pointing at the correct person in the picture and in her little lisping voice saying, "Jeshush." I am going to do my very best and forgive myself on days when I don't quite measure up. I am going to use the Atonement of Jesus Christ to become better.

And I am going to stop asking what the world thinks of me and start asking what my Heavenly Father thinks of me.

I am quitting the "Mommy War."

Who is with me?

Rinda's Reads: August and September catch-up

The past two months have been somewhat stressful for me, which means I've done a lot of reading. In addition to reading a majority of the Anne of Green Gables series, I've also found a couple of new authors and series that I highly recommend. Instead of going into details, I'll give a list with grades and ratings here and if you want to know more, leave a comment or send me an email!

Also, a great big thanks to my dear companion Sister Melodee Sharp for all the fantastic recommendations!

Promise Me This by by Cathy Gohlke, A-, PG, Historical Fiction (A fantastic "Titanic" read)

The False Prince by Jennifer A. Neilsen A-, PG, Fantasy (I thought it was predictable but the end surprised me! I can't wait to read the other two books in the series)

The Tutor's Daughter by Julie Klassen, A, PG, Regency Romance (as far as I remember. This was my favorite of the three books I read by this author)

The Apothecary's Daughter by Julie Klassen, B, PG-13, Historical Fiction

The Maid of Fairbourne Hall by Julie Klassen, A-, PG, Historical Fiction (I can't wait to read her other books, but unfortunately the library only has e-copies and I have no e-reader! If you like a good Regency romance, you will love her writing!)

Birth Marked: Prized: Promised (The Birthmarked Trilogy) by Caragh O'Brien A-, PG-13, Fantasy (these books had me hooked! If you liked "The Hunger Games," "The Giver," or "Matched" you will like this trilogy)

Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson, A, PG, Historical Fiction (Anybody who has read her first book, Edenbrooke, and loved it truly won't be disappointed by this second novel from an up-and-coming author! I couldn't put this one down!)

Safe in His Arms by Collen Coble, C, PG-13, Historical Fiction (I was kind of disappointed by this one: I've read other books by her and loved them).

Close to Famous by Joan Bauer, A-, PG, Young Adult Fiction (I love a good Joan Bauer book! This one is on the younger end of young adult fiction, but it was a "sweet" read)

Looking for Me by Beth Hoffman, B+, PG-13, Adult Fiction (I liked Hoffman's first book, Saving CeeCee Honeycutt,  but I thought her character development was better in this one.)

My Not So Fairy-Tale Life by Julie Wright, B, PG-13 for thematic elements, Young Adult Fiction (this was a somewhat run of the mill Mormon novel, but I enjoyed her take on adoption, and that made it worth reading).


Okay, I know what you are thinking now, "How does she have so much time for reading?" This, my friends, is exactly why my house is nearly always messy and un-vacuumed. It's a small sacrifice for my sanity. Feel free to talk books with me anytime!

And before I forget, here are Kevin's Picks of the Month!

BabyLit Board Books!



These books are adorable! They take some of literature's most-loved classics and turn them into primers, like counting or colors or weather. Kevin has actually only read about four of them (love the library) but there are twelve that I know of. Thanks to a fun groupon, she is getting a set of eight for Christmas! (I am probably more excited about them than she is, so maybe half of them will end up in my present pile). I wish we had some extra cash so I could stock up on these to use for baby shower gifts in the future. They are that adorable!

The Perilous Fight

I had one of those moments this week--a moment that causes you to pause and evaluate the world around you and leaves you with no clear conclusions as to what you really think or feel, but you are glad that moment happened anyway.

I was siting at a kitchen table in a stranger's home. Our French friends, the Labourels, were entertaining us. They are visiting this month from Bordeaux, France. We'd taken them to dinner and afterward they invited us to their "home away from home." Natalie served us a delicious, French-style cake. We laughed together at my lack of understanding of the French language and how Scott now struggles at times speaking the language he was fluent in less than five years ago. We collectively adored Kevin's antics, and the way that she flashed a smile at Patrick every chance she got.

And while Scott and Kevin played with toys in the living room and Natalie started to clean up the kitchen, Patrick asked us if he could play the clarinet for us. He played a few hymns. I relaxed and smiled as I shoveled more almond cake into my mouth.

And then this man who was visiting America from halfway across the globe, this man taught me a lesson about appreciating America in a few simple notes. He started to play "The Star Spangled Banner." At times the rhythm, the melody was not quite the way we sing it at sporting events and during church meetings in July, but it was beautiful nonetheless. I was touched that he respected and admired our country enough to learn our national anthem.

And because most French people know more about American politics than American housewives like myself, I know he knew that at midnight the night before, Congress didn't make it home from the ball in time, everything turned to pumpkins, and the government that my ancestors worked so hard for shutdown.

Earlier that morning, after getting up and reading the day's headlines, I looked out the window and marveled that nothing seemed to change. Cars still zoomed past, the leaves on the trees still changed color, the trax trains passed at regular intervals.

I didn't understand. The government shut down, right? Didn't that mean America was broken? Why didn't things look broken, or at the very least, stalled? Why did everything look the same as it had the day before?

All day I worried and wondered what was going to happen, how this shutdown was going to affect me and my family and my children and grandchildren and all those I care about. How long can it last? How much damage can it do? What is going to happen?

That night, in a few simple notes, Patrick the Frenchman taught me that though the battle rages on, America hasn't ceased to exist.

Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

I am not a politically savvy person, but I do know this: the government is broken. The government has ceased functioning. The government is tearing apart lives at the moment and it still remains to be seen what this repercussions this "shutdown" will have on my family. I am scared, but I haven't stopped living.

There is no doubt in my mind that our country faces a "perilous fight" at the moment. And although I haven't really followed politics since my AP government classes (sorry Mr. Rigby, I still vote though!), and I am totally confused by what is going on,  and even though I am more than a little worried but not sure how to get involved or where to go from here, I can still take pride that this is the the land of the free and the home of the brave.

(don't mind the South Korean flag here too, it is in honor of Elder Flan's mission)