On the Eve of the End of an Era

I overheard my husband talking to our daughter as he tucked her into bed.
"Do you know what tomorrow is?" he whispered, unable to mask the excitement in his voice.
"What?" She yell-whispered back.
"It's Daddy's Graduation! That means I am done with school!"
"And you get to wear a dress!" 

Yes, tomorrow is Graduation Day, and yes, Kevin is most excited about Dad's graduation gown (aka dress). It's a fitting ending, considering at the beginning of his MBA, it took weeks to explain to her that his messenger bag backpack was not a purse.

Scott has been in school our entire marriage, save for a couple of summer semesters and a six-month break between his undergraduate degree and his MBA (during that time, however, he took the GMAT twice, spent time applying, and attended orientations, so I'm not sure it really counts).

Getting Scott to study--or even attend class some nights--during his undergraduate courses was torturous for the both of us. He was only a year or two into his degree when we were married three weeks into the semester. I knew we were in it for the long haul, being only a few semesters away from graduation myself. By the time he could call himself an Aggie Alumni, we had made a major move, had a baby, and dealt with some significant challenges. I was actually relieved when he was accepted into his MBA program. I knew it would provide him with growth and more opportunities to find his career path. That excitement faded when a week or so later when I retook a test and passed with two pink lines.

I'm not one of those wives who excels or even functions when her husband is away. I cringe to think of Scott ever having a job that requires extensive travel. Having him away in the evenings, even for just three hours, forced me to grow in ways I never really wanted to. For example, it wasn't until the beginning of this semester when I finally mastered the skill of Putting The Children To Bed By Myself, and even then, most of the time I only managed a 50% success rate.

Can I tell you a secret? Sometimes I find myself mourning the fact that our college days are almost over. Somehow I am still functioning under that unicornian principle of  "when he's gone I have time to myself"--which I have never had, except for maybe five hours this whole semester when the kids actually fell asleep and I got to read, or write, or clean (hah, that never actually happened), or just sit on the couch and stare into space. On one such evening in the middle of November, I turned on a Hallmark Channel Christmas movie. Scott came home in the middle of it, excited to tell me all about his class, and I simply looked at him and said, "I am watching this movie. You may talk to me when it is over." That's the closest I ever got to having an agenda for "me time" during class time, so really, it's no great loss, because everyone knows Candace Cameron Bure falls in love with the guy ten years younger than her and eventually reconnects with her dad, who is probably Santa Claus.

Besides, the things I've learned about myself during the past two years aren't things I've learned when I am alone. Okay, I take that back. The most important lessons I've learned about myself have happened when I am alone--with two children.  Like how, when I get upset or frustrated, it almost always stems from my own selfish desires (aka, get your bum back in bed and be quiet because Mom wants to read this book not take you potty for the millionth time today!). I've learned that there are going to be days when I just don't feel well, and that I can't always count on Scott to rescue me, even though he would if he could and usually tries to even when he can't. Sometimes I have to cowgirl up and put on my big girl panties and pretend like I'm not tired and I don't feel like I need to throw up and I actually still like my children when they whine.

So, yes, I do get to pick where we go to lunch tomorrow, because I have earned knowledge in my own right, and I may not have paid for it with FAFSA, but I have paid, people. I've stretched my brain and my body, trying to soothe fried nerves while listening to him come home and spout of the merits of Tesla Motors, business strategies, financial reports, and information security and the stupidity of classmates who don't know how to write a decent paper because they haven't lived with and Editor Wife for five years.

I've done my share of "so when are you going to go and take that test?" and "we probably shouldn't turn on that show tonight, you need to work on your paper" and Saturday night "did you turn in that assignment that is due tomorrow?" reminders. I've stocked the pantry with Swedish Fish during mid-terms, given pep-talks before stressful presentations (C's Get Degrees! You'll Do Great Honey!") and commiserated with "Death to Doris" choruses when macro-economics ruined the last half of our summer. I've picnicked on the campus lawn while my babies crawled through clovers and grass, eaten more Arby's Jr Classic Roast Beef sandwiches than I can count, and gained a few pounds because meeting at a "runchraunt" every class night was the only way the kids and I could make it through a twelve-and-a-half-hour day. I've soothed "I JUST WANT DADDY!" meltdowns and given in to "can I stay up until Daddy gets home?" requests.  I've edited with a baby on my lap, wrestling with commas while keeping the kid away from the mouse. I've nodded my head and "participated" (listened) to discussions about things I know nothing about (nor did I usually care about at 9:00 PM on a Monday night). I've suggested paper topics and presentation strategies, added a little style here and there to documents and PowerPoint slides, and mostly just stepped back in awe of how much growth Scott was experiencing with each semester. No longer did I have to beg him to study or go to class--first, because I am too tired to nag these days, and second, because he had learned to enjoy learning.

And you know what? I don't even feel the need to edit that last ten-page paper, because I know he knows how to write a proper paper on his own, and has, for a long time.

And tomorrow, three of us are going to put on dresses with a hint of purple and we are going to graduate.

Becoming Mrs. Claus

I put up our second Christmas tree yesterday.  It has taken me a week, but all of our indoor decorations are up and we are finally fully Christmas functional. Late last night, as we were playing Yahtzee by the light of the giant tree that takes up a third of our living room, my husband turned to me and asked, "Do you like having a second tree?" I just smiled guiltily and nodded. and he smiled too, and I know we were both thinking the same thing.

I have become my mother.

Last year I wrote a post about my dad being Santa Claus. Nothing about that has changed. This year, however, I am realizing just how vital Mrs. Claus is in all this holiday hullabaloo. 

I have been working on Christmas ever since the day after Sly's birthday in August. With Scott being super busy at work and overloaded with his last semester of his MBA, and trying to keep my depths of depression at bay, I needed something to focus on, and what is cheerier than Christmas? Nothing, so Christmas is the happy place I went to when the weather was still sporting 80 degree temperatures.  

And, even with all that prep, we hit December 1st and my advent calendar and Jesus Tree still weren't up, but that's okay. My kids can't read a calendar and Kevin was more than happy to put two Jesus Tree ornaments up last night. 

After Sly went to sleep, I cuddled Kevin on the couch and I read "The Polar Express" to her. She is finally at an age and attention span that allows me to read longer books to her. As I read, it wasn't my voice I heard telling the tale of the bell still rings for those who believe. 

It was my mother's.

I heard the inflections in her voice. The parts she would emphasize, the things she would point out in the pictures. I could smell the candle my Dad always burned at Christmastime layered with the organic scent of my Grandpa's homegrown Christmas tree. I could hear the Anne Murray and Yanni CDs playing softly in the background. I could feel, more than see, the primary-colored lights on our family tree. 

I remember one Christmas in particular when my mom took the time to read to us each evening. By that point in time, we were older school children and we'd either embraced the deliciousness of reading on our own (me) or tried to ditch books altogether (my siblings). Looking back, I think it must have been one of those times when my mom was at the end of her rope and grasping at straws as to how to keep us occupied and her calm and keep the home feeling like Christmas even when the blizzards were inside and not outside. 

Granted, we weren't super excited when she gathered us in the family room and told us she was going to read a Christmas book to us each night. But, in true Mrs. Claus style, she found a most magical story that appealed to all of our ages and within a few days, we were begging her to read more about Gladys and Shazaaamm! Unto you a child is born! and Imogene and the rest of the Herdmans. We were actually sad when the book was over.  

Perhaps you've seen that saying floating around on facebook: "There is no app to replace your lap." 

In this season of mile-long to do lists, too much sugar, and closets full of hidden presents, I challenge you to add one more thing to your plate. Read to your children. It doesn't matter if they are two weeks old, two-years-old, twelve or twenty. Being read to by a parent is something that sticks with children so much longer than Tickle Me Elmo or the newest iPhone. 

It is a gift that lasts for generations, because someday, your daughter might be reading to her children and it will be your voice proclaiming, "Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more."

Here are some of my favorite books for reading out loud:

For little ones:

• Llama Llama Holiday Drama by Anna Dewdney
• Babylit version of A Christmas Carol by Jennifer Adams
• Sing to Baby Jesus by Rachelle Pace Castor
• Five Christmas Penguins by Steven Lenton

For younger children:

• How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Suess
• The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg
• The Tale of the Three Trees by Angela Hunt
• The Legend of the Candy Cane by Lori Walburg
• My Treasury of Christmas Carols & Stories
• The Nutcracker (any version)

For elementary-age children:

• Christmas in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder
• The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson
• Any of the American Girl "book three" books, for example "Molly's Surprise"
• Chapter Six of "Ramona and Her Father" by Beverly Cleary

For pre-teens and teenagers:

• A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
• The Little Red Buckets by Lynda M. Nelson
• Two From Galilee by Marjorie Holmes
• The Christmas Box by Richard Paul Evans (this is actually a triology, and I especially enjoyed The Timepiece)
• Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Over the River and Through The Woods

I had that dream again last night.

I'm not usually one to repeat dreams--let alone remember my dreams--but I've been having the same dream consistently over the past two years.

I guess the dream itself is always different, but the setting is always the same: my grandparent's house.

I had what one could appropriately call a "magical" childhood. We lived next door to my grandparents, down a dirt-and-gravel lane, on several acres full of trees. Not just any kind of tree, though--my grandfather grew Christmas trees.

Even in the summertime, the setting was a wonderland. Grandpa would take us for tractor rides, loading as many small bodies as he could into the bucket and raising us high in to the air, then taking us for a tour around his unconventional farm. In the early spring, my mom and I helped weed my grandmother's flower garden. I remember the zinnias. Those were my favorite, and the most colorful of all the flowers in Grandma's garden. During the summer, Grandpa would have me help him pick raspberries. In the fall, the leaves from the deciduous trees lining the lane would fall like golden sprinkles on the rocks, and we would crash through them on our bikes as we played cops and robbers. In the winter, Grandpa would groom the ice on the hilly part of their driveway moat so that he could race his red flexible flyer sled down it whenever he liked. Sometimes he'd even let us join in, but for us, it was more fun to watch him than to sled down ourselves. I remember watching deer sneak through the fields in February, finding Easter Eggs hidden in the rocks in June, building forts amid the trees in August, watching families trek through the fields to find the perfect tree every November.

As magical as Grandpa's outside was, there was something even more loving about Grandma's inside. Sometimes, when I am stressed or need an exit from reality, I close my eyes and walk through their house.

I enter through the garage, pausing to stop and look at the surrey bike that I wish I were still small enough to climb into (also wishing that the battery pack Grandpa rigged onto it still worked). I pass by the ancient deep freezer, picturing all of the frozen fish from Grandpa's Yellowstone trips and Grandma's Emergency supply of at least 20 cartons of ice cream hidden inside. I walk up the ramp, past Grandpa's muddy boots, and open the door to the mud room. I see Grandpa's collection of mesh trucker hats hanging on their pegs--there must be at least 30. The room is full of shoes, mostly from aunts and uncles and cousins come to visit. When I step through the next door, I am greeted by the kitchen--and Grandma sitting on one of the twirly stools, watching the news on the small TV sitting on the counter next to the cookie jar, always full of Fudge Stripes for my little brother and Pepperidge Farm gingerbread men for the rest of us. The kitchen smells simultaneously like goulash and pot roast, although to my knowledge Grandma never made those two meals together.  I kiss Grandma's leathery cheek as she gives me a hug, then I still on a stool and spin around a little bit--because really, who could resist? We talk books and ice cream and the weather and school and she shares all the family news: an angel told her how to cure my cousin's chronic illness, another cousin is getting married, my aunts are coming up in a few days to stay for the weekend. She invites me to get a Fat Boy or a Monkey Bar out of the freezer, and on my way I am stopped by the collection of my cousins's faces on the freezer door. Grandma has an unspoken rule that she only replaces your picture if she likes this year's better than last year. My Australian cousins always get updated, because Grandma only sees them every seven years or so. Some of my Salt Lake cousins are stuck in Kindergarten. My little sister is in fourth grade. I'm lucky enough to have made it to my Junior year of High School.

Bits and pieces of real memories weave their way through my daytime dreams as I wander through their home, searching for the love and peace that I always found there, even when Grandma was swearing at Grandpa.

I walk into the pink bathroom that smells of everything floral and sink my toes into the pink shag rugs before I step on the antique scale. I don't really care what number it lands on, I just like watching the numbers spin past. On Grandma's scale, the higher you can make it go, the better. The digital scales we have now are just so much meaner.

In the laundry room, I check Grandma's homemade cloth birthday calendar, just to make sure I'm still on it, though the decades-old ink is permanent and is only slightly faded. Newer names, from a handful of younger cousins and the great-grandbabies that have started coming (much to Grandma's delight!), stand out in their bold black lettering.

I peek into their bedroom, only for a minute, because somehow that room is sacred, and private, just for them. There is a picture of the younger version of my Grandpa, one from his teaching days, displayed on the dresser.

I pass the seven frames of  Grandma's school-aged children. My dad must have been in second grade in that picture. He has the same mishevious smile as my grandpa, only we rarely catch it on film. I go into Grandma's sewing room, which is filled with dusty silk flowers and boxes of family artifacts. I open the top drawer of the dresser and pick out a video--either Heidi or Annie, but if Grandpa and Grandpa are around to sit down with me, then it is definitely Sarah Plain and Tall. But since we probably watched that yesterday, I pick out Skylark or Winter's End. If Grandpa is in the mood for music, it's Rigaletto.  I take the movie back through the house, to the family room, and I cuddle up in Grandpa's Lazy Boy, and Grandma joins me.  I look around at their book cases, old wooden stove, pots of flowers, the old leopard stuffed animal that always sits on the couch should a small child come for a visit with his or her parents.

There is a wall full of family photos, framed and varying in age: ancestors in pioneer clothing, my grandpa as a marine in WWII, my uncle in his military uniform, my older brother as a baby. That wall tells as many stories as the chuck-full wall of book cases connected to it.

I tip toe through the untouched carpet of the parlor, past the red front door that nobody actually uses, to the staircase where I look for the preserved fish my Grandpa caught and the framed picture of him fishing. I'm still not so sure what is so special about that fish--it creeps me out, actually--but at the same time there is something comforting about it always being there.

I know every inch of the basement, from the storage closet full of red and brown folding chairs under the stairs to the cleaning closet and the storage room full of canned fruit and cranberry juice. The only room I don't know is tucked in a forgotten corner, locked and guarding all the memories and souvenirs of Grandpa's military service.

There is a red coverlet on the bed that hangs out in the open--it is almost identical to the one on my Molly doll's 1940's-replica bed. The bathroom downstairs is decorated in a pale orange, and it still smells like peach from the time I accidentally spilled a whole bottle of peach shower gel on the floor. There are two actual bedrooms downstairs--one is cream-colored and there is a small decal of an Argentine soccer player stuck to the mirror attached to the dresser. There is a rocking chair, an old crib that probably isn't safe, but we all climb into it anyway, just to play. The closets in that room are full of my grandma's old clothing--and when we think Grandma doesn't know, my sister and cousins and I try all the dresses on.

In the pink room, there is a lovely bedroom set, a Victorian style chair, and a vintage pink chair from the mid-1900s that I just love to curl up in because it is perfect for reading. This room was mine for a whole summer once. In the closet are old games, a spirograph, decorations from my aunt's wedding, old quilts, more old dresses, and a solid hope chest that is perfect for climbing.

Out in the open, there is a wooden stove that Grandma feeds daily. The pot of water on top has crusted over so completely I don't think it would be possible to remove it. Grandpa has stacked the brick storage area with wood, and the smell of it burning combined with the radiating heat feels like a hug.

The walls show evidence of my father's mission to Argentina, with decorative cow hides. There are also Native American artifacts. Or perhaps they are Maori, from my uncle's mission to New Zealand? I don't know, I just like to run my fingers across them and feel the fibers.

When my cousins are over, we push the velvety, ugly red couches together to form a boat. One couch is longer than the other, so there is a perfect opening for entering and exiting. There is a small cupboard, a tiny table, a shelf of children's books, and a bucket made into a seat for the smaller children to play in. There is the piano with another spinny stool, where I would come and practice before my family had a piano of our own. I didn't know then that the air vent in the ceiling led directly to the upstairs family room and my grandpa liked to sit in his chair and listen to us pound out our practice sessions. It was all music to him, even though it in no way compared to the operas he would play on the ancient stereo in the upstairs closet.

Above the piano are three shelves of books--hardcover from Grandpa's college days, paperbacks and Reader's Digest collections for my Grandma, church books from the 1960s. Grandma used to pay me to clean her basement. The first few times I cleaned, she told me I went too fast. I learned to slow down by dusting each book separately, lovingly touching their old familiar spines and looking inside the front covers for signatures and publication dates.

Many (okay, most) of those books now sit on my shelves.

And sometimes, when I am missing my grandparents and the home that was also, in a way, mine, I stand in front of my bookshelves and I touch the spines, smell the pages, trace the signatures.

To Grandmother's house I go.

Lifelong Learning

My husband will be done with graduate school in six weeks. (That is, he will be done, provided he passed his class last semester--we are still crossing our fingers for that one.) Although he has technically only been in graduate school since January of 2014, he has been attending school for our entire five-year marriage, minus the six months he took off between his undergraduate and his graduate degree.

For the first 15 months of our marriage, I was also attending the university. Sometimes I think of this time as our "Golden Year." We always seemed to have enough--enough time together, enough money, enough to keep us busy. We would spend our evenings doing homework side-by-side on the couch. Our brains were constantly being exercised. And I loved it. I love to learn. I love school. I loved learning with him.

But then I graduated. That last semester of school, admittedly, was my least favorite, but that could have been because I had morning sickness as a constant companion and a job with a boss that was highly stressful to me. So, once graduation happened, parenthood happened, and me quitting my job happened, my new life was a relief and a blessing.

I enjoy being a stay-at-home mom. I wouldn't want to be ANYWHERE else, despite the hard days. There is one thing I do miss, however.

My brain.

A friend once told me that she lost a quarter of her brain with each child. She has five children. You do the math.

According to her logic, I should still have half a brain left. I seem to have misplaced it though. There are so many days when I can't remember the simplest things--how to do math, grammar rules, basic history facts. It didn't help when last week a friend posted an article on Facebook about how Type II diabetes is pretty much the same thing as Alzheimer's. That induced a bit of panic in me.

It is difficult for me to send my husband off to school each week more than just because it means another three hours without him and being a one-woman show with our cranky kids. I suppose, in a word, I am jealous. Every day he comes home and tells me about what he has been doing that day--talking about the software problems he countered, the complicated processes he has run, the future of the business where he is employed. On school nights, he comes home full of enthusiasm about what he is learning and the discussions he has experienced. I nod my head and pretend like I understand the business jargon. To me, he seems so smart. Of course, he has always been smart, but now he just keeps getting smarter. He knows so many things. He can do this complicated job, and what can I do? Name every character on Daniel Tiger and Sofia the First. Recite the first Pinkalicious book by heart. Sing 20 different songs about spiders, pigs, buses, pumpkins, witches, or monkeys on command.

Growing up, I was always the smart child. My siblings struggled in school, each for their own different reason and challenge. I never really did. My biggest challenges were people and my own emotions. But the actual acadmics? With the exception of one pop quiz in geometry when my brain just plain quit, I never struggled to learn and know and succeed in school.

At this point, however, I'd probably say I am the least smartest child of all my siblings. My older brother has a juris doctorate. My little sister is a CNA, working toward being an MA and she is so stinkin smart when it comes to all things children and medical. My little brother, well, he knows everything (and what he doesn't know, he covers up with his charm and witty comments that have you laughing so hard you forgot what he was supposed to be doing in the first place).

So, I've lost that title, and you know what? It's taken a while, but I'm okay with it. I'm happy--ecstatic, really--to see my siblings succeed.

But sometimes I do miss that intellectual part of me that seems to have retired.

Here's the thing I am realizing, though. I may not be gaining academic knowledge or career experience or excelling at a recognizable, formal institution, but every day I am still learning, and the things I am learning now are just as important as the things I learned in school, if not more so.

Things like how to adapt recipes to fit my family's needs and what we have in our pantry.
Finding the best deals to make our money stretch farther.
Recognizing when those around me are in need of love and service.
Instilling a love of reading in my children by not only reading to them every day, but being an example to them of a person who truly loves to learn through reading.
Working through threenager and toddler meltdowns with patience and a calm demeanor (still practicing that one).  I

 am learning how to learn from the past to shape the future. I am taking the time to do the small things--kiss an owie, play the piano while my kids "sing" on their chosen stage of our staircase, playing catch and baby dolls--and still, somehow, finding time to still be myself in the midst of it all.

This past week we picked up a book at the library by Weird Al Yankovic entitled, "When I Grow Up." During show and tell at school, a little boy named Billy shares with the class the long list of things he hopes to do with his life--everything from being a famous chef to a snail trainer to a deodorant tester. When his teacher kindly reminds him that he should probably narrow down his list, Billy says that his great-grandfather is 103 years old and still hasn't figured out what he wants to be.

Here's what I learned from that book: I've got time.

And according to the Christian Rock radio station, when your kids leave for college, mom gets her brain back.

I hope, wherever that half of my brain is being stored, that it has enough preservatives to last another 20+ years, because I've got a lot of things left to learn.

More Than Yesterday

I wrote this post out in my head at 4:30 am this morning. Fifteen and a half hours later, I can't even remember what I wanted to say. I should have just gotten up and written it. Sigh. You live and you learn, right?

A couple of days ago, a friend of mine posted this picture on my facebook wall, with the caption, "When I saw this, I read it in your voice...probably because you are one that doesn't pretend every day is perfect. And your kids drive you crazy plenty."

Ladies and gentlemen, all of the above is true.

My kids got on my nerves yesterday. Fried my nerves, actually.

I do my best not to pretend that every day is perfect. Because, although there are moments of absolute perfection (like when my daughter grabs our family copy of the Book of Mormon and settles into the rocking chair to flip through the pages because she just needs to "take a break and read scriptures"), the only perfect day I've ever had is my wedding day. And even then I could have done without my dad locking me in the car.

Funny how life changes over time. I was able to have dinner with three of my best high school friends last night. We parked ourselves in Zupas with our soups, salads, bacon paninis and chocolate-dipped strawberries and talked for nearly three hours. At one point, someone asked us what our biggest regrets were from high school. Although we started out talking about things like boys and extracurricular activities, our conversation eventually turned deeper. And, now that I've had 24 hours to ponder that question and conversation, I think that my biggest regret from high school--and to a point, college too--was feeling like I had to be perfect all the time. I felt that was what was expected of me: perfect grades, perfect habits, perfect choices, perfect girl. I had and was none of those things. Maybe it was the "P-Squared" nickname (aka, perfect person, which for real really was one of my nicknames, although I did not give it to myself). Maybe it was my class of constantly-competing, ladder-climbing, accolade-seeking peers. I guess "maybe" it was a lot of things, but mostly, it was me. 

I have an idea of when my perfectionist persona changed, or at least when it started to change. 

Somehow, in the past ten years, I've gone from pretending perfection to embracing imperfection. I'm glad that others can recognize that about me now. It's a wonderful compliment to know that someone, somewhere, acknowledges that you aren't anything more or less than who you present yourself to be. 

To prove this to my friends last night, I demonstrated my cussing ability as per their request. Together, we openly admitted our failures and successes, the simple things that bring us joy (I'm talking about you and that freeing sensation, Tess). We talked about how motherhood is the hardest thing we've ever done, how marriage isn't always perfect but we are so grateful for the men in our lives, how we were all stupid in high school and should have probably kissed a few more boys, how our best memories involved the police, how our girl's nights in algae masks were so much more fun than the dances we didn't get asked to, how we wished we'd realized then we should have taken more time to appreciate the true friendships that we had instead of seeking after false ones. 

Yesterday, as I was rushing to get out the door to meet my friends for dinner, I said goodbye to each of my family members and told them I loved them. As I finished giving her little brother a kiss, Kevin asked me, "Mommy, do you love yourself?"

I smiled and answered honestly, "Sometimes, sweetie."

A few hours later, I realized that I wasn't quite as honest with her as I thought. The truth is, I do love the woman I have become. Despite how far I have to go to reach my true potential, I do love being me.

After all, I'm not perfect.

Jesus Lives at Grandma's House

I guess this post is really a sequel to last week's post, but I couldn't let such a sweet moment pass by without recording it somewhere.

This past weekend was our church's General Conference. Growing up, this mostly just meant that we got to sit at home, watch church on TV while wearing pajamas, and eat M&Ms. Now, it is an opportunity to have my questions answered and my soul revived, and eat M&Ms. 

This weekend was no exception. There was a talk for every concern of my soul, from how to deal with three-year-old power struggles (seriously! There was a talk about that!) to why God gives us health challenges. I learned so much about my Savior and my divine role in establishing his kingdom. I wish I could share with you every quote that I noted, but that would take far too long. I am very excited to go back and study these words and to be able to lovingly say to my Heavenly Father, in much the same timid voice my daughter uses after she has been disciplined or taught, "I understand."

We watched the last session of Conference with my in-laws. This wasn't very productive for them, as our kids would much rather cuddle and play with their grandparents than with their parents, so it did mean that Scott and I got to hear more of that session of conference than any other. 

After conference had ended, we sat around visiting for a few hours. Sly delighted everyone with his most recent tricks--walking, folding his arms for prayer, talking in a loud voice. His favorite trick was to escape from the family room before we noticed he was gone. He kept working his way into their front room, which is kept nice and sacred and has quite a few breakables, making it impossible for us to leave Sly in there alone.

We thought he was going for the piano, because that is a favorite noise-maker of his at our house. After going after him a few times, Scott noticed that it wasn't the piano drawing our son into that room.

He was mesmerized by their small Christus statue. He was trying so hard to get the words out, but all we heard was "Jesus!" and "blpffft" sounds. He would crawl to the middle of the room and sit on the rug for a few moments, in reverent awe. Slowly he would work his way closer and closer to the statue, his smile growing.

 We may not have understood the words he was trying to tell us, but we understood the message: This is where I want to be. With Jesus.

After Scott shared with his mom the reason for Sly's escapades, she shared with us that my two-and-a-half year old niece had done the same thing. This particular niece is a bit wild and rambunctious, full of energy and spunk. For her to be calm and quiet is a rare thing! When they couldn't find her and the house was quiet, they started searching. They found her in the front room, holding Jesus' hand.

What a blessing these little children are. I know we're the ones that are supposed to be "leading and guiding" but lately, it seems that I am the one being taken by the hand and taught.

The very last talk of conference yesterday touched my soul in ways that you wouldn't think a talk about old men (really, that was the topic of his talk) could do to a 28-year-old woman. But one of the points of his talk was that no one is exempt from trials, especially physical health challenges. This has long been a concern of my heart. There are so many things I want to do--and yet, physically, these days I find myself unable to do much of anything but the bare minimum, and sometimes not even that.

In this particular talk, Elder Bednar shared a piece of advice Elder Hales had given him: "When you find yourself unable to do the things you used to do, you find yourself only doing the most important things."

I may not be able to do much these days. But I am capable of doing the most important things: giving cuddles, reading stories, teaching about Jesus, praying with my children, reading scriptures, singing songs.

I know many times our parents--my children's grandparents--wish there was more that they could do. I think a lot of the times they don't realize how much they do--and how, to me, the most important things they do for our family is reinforce the values of faith and love that we are working so hard to instill in our children. Because of them, my children have beautiful pictures of Jesus hung in their rooms, and that is the first thing they look at in the morning (of their own accord). Because of them, we are able to set an example of Temple attendance and worship. Because of them, my children know that they have two additional refuges from storms of the world besides just their own home.

And, as evidenced by my son's actions yesterday, there is something else they know.
Jesus lives at Grandma's house.

The Palms of His Hands

I went to the doctor yesterday. It was supposed to be for a routine checkup, but since my health has been so terrible lately, both Scott and I knew that this appointment would be a game changer. I didn't want to face it alone, and God blessed me with the kind of husband that made sure I didn't have to. He held my sweaty hand, asked all the fancy pharmaceutical and medical jargon questions, and brought up the concerns we had that I forgot to mention. Also, he saved me from having to take crushed up pig thyroid.

By the end of the appointment, we had a possibility of a new diagnosis and I sat drinking a 37-carb bottle of OJ because the nurse could tell I was looking a little pale and shaky after she drew 6-7 vials of blood (I lost track because I couldn't watch anymore).

When it became apparent that I wasn't going to be able to drive myself home, Scott took me out for a bite to eat. When I was still looking like death after 60+ more carbohydrates, he made an executive decision to work from home for the rest of the day. He went over to work to grab his supplies while I sat in a daze in the car. Then we picked up our children, drove home, and I slowly made my way upstairs and into bed.

Within ten minutes, both Sly and I were asleep. Sly woke up a little while later. I did not. I slept through several Kevin meltdowns, Sly walking and crawling all over the place, a Kevin potty break just down the hall, and all sorts of interruptions that made it impossible for Scott to work. Eventually I started to come out of my coma and I received a text that said, "Kevin is asleep on my lap. Your son is on his way up to see you."

Within seconds, Sly had pushed the door open and his head popped up at the foot of my bed. He started jabbering and cruised his way around so that I could pick him up. I was grateful to have recovered enough to be able to lift him. He gratefully came into my arms, and as I picked him up, I noticed he went quiet.

He turned his head and pointed to the painting of Jesus on my bedroom wall. He looked back at me and said, "Mama. Jesus."

Then, before I had a chance to reply, he looked at me and held out his hands. He touched the pointer finger of one hand to the middle of his other hand's palm, and then repeated the action a couple of times, switching hands.

One chubby little finger to the  exact middle of one tiny little palm.
"Mama. Jesus."
Mama, Jesus will make everything all right.

How did he know? We've certainly never covered the events of the Crucifixion in-depth with our one-year-old. We've talked to him and his sister about the Atonement in Family Home Evening, but somehow that didn't explain his reaction either.

Sometimes, I think, these little ones know so much more than they are able to tell us. But, when we need those messages from Heaven, the veil parts a little bit and with a mere gesture of his hands, I was given the comfort I so desperately needed yesterday.

You can be cured without being healed. You can be healed without being cured.

I have not forgotten thee. I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.

Look unto me in every thought, doubt not, fear not. Behold the wounds which pierced my side, and also the prints of the nails in my hands and feet; be faithful, keep my commandments, and ye shall inherit the kingdom of heaven. Amen.

There are several scriptures where Christ asks us to become like little children. I've always interpreted that to mean innocent and pure and teachable. Perhaps, however, what Christ is really asking is for us to remember what we knew as little children. 

My son knows so much more than I could have ever been able to teach him in a short 13 months. He has taught me more than I could ever fathom in his small lifetime, and I know there is a certain amount of testimony and knowledge that he brought into this world that he can only convey to us in small words and actions.

Like touching the palms of his hands.

art by Simon Dewey

Motherhood Changes You

I read an article the other day about how when women are pregnant, cells from the fetus work their way through a woman's body and stay there even after she gives birth to the baby, becoming part of major organs like her heart and her brain. Scientists believe this is a common phenomenon, and they've done several studies where they've found Y chromosome cells (the man cells) in the bodies of women who have given birth to sons.

Now, I'm not a scientist, so I don't really understand how all of it works, but I do understand this:
Motherhood changes you. It changes your heart and your mind and every little part of you.

I often think about the person I was "before." I'd be lying if I didn't admit that sometimes I yearn to go back to her. That woman could think! She had brain cells! She had the smarts! She had some confidence! She rarely went two days without showering!

I am in a time of life at the moment where motherhood sucks the life out of me. My children are small and they require so much. I am blessed with a husband who does more than his fair share of the work, but there is still so much asked of me on any given day. I feel like I lose intelligence daily--I find myself unable to recall facts I once know--like the order of operations or basic rules of grammar. My nerves are so fried I don't know if I will ever be whole again. Threenagers, you know? 

I am jealous of the women who say they love every minute of motherhood, just like I'm jealous of the women who can pop out babies with little more than one doctor's appointment a month and some slight nausea.

Does the fact that sometimes I fiercely dislike motherhood mean that I don't love being a mom? NO.

I try not to complain about being a mother. I am overwhelmingly grateful for this calling in my life, and I wouldn't trade being a stay-at-home mom for any fancy, famous career. I guess I'm just trying to find balance on that fine line between loving what I do and being genuine about how much it stinks sometimes.

Before I was a mom, I wanted to travel the world. I wanted to see it all.
Now, I can barely make it through a two-day anniversary getaway because I miss my kids too much.
Do I still want to travel? Yes.
But not too far right now, because taking my kids with me doesn't seem like all that much fun either.

Before I was a mom, I had dreams about getting all sorts of educational degrees.
Now, it takes me a month to get through any "heavy" reading.
Do I still want to attend graduate school? Absolutely.
But I have to get my brain back and get my kids through elementary school first.

Before I was a mom, I wanted to write best-selling novels that would change the world.
Now, when I have a minute to myself, I'm reading or sleeping.
Do I still have stories in my head? Oh, so many of them!
But sometimes there are more important things to do in a day. Like laundry. Because one's children can't run around naked, even if their mother is writing a masterpiece.

Before I was a mom, I thought I was so tired.
Now, I fight through fatigue on a daily, hourly, minute-by-minute basis.
Do I think I wasn't tired then? No. I was tired then! I'm just more tired now.
But midnight snuggles and "Mom, I need a cuddle"s are so much better than being well rested.

Before I was a mom, I thought I understood everything.
Now, I understand that there are so many facets of life to be understood and that, even in the hereafter, there are things I may never know.
Do I still want answers? Yes.
But I've learned that sometimes not knowing can be worth it.

Before I was a mom, I thought I was someone.
Now, I understand that there is so much more to me because I am a wife and mother.
Do I still have hopes and dreams beyond making it to naptime? Oh, yes. Oh yes oh yes oh yes!
But I also am coming to understand that you don't have to "be someone" before you become a wife and a mother. You can become someone better as you do it with someone else to help you along the journey.

I have realized that the times I get most frustrated with being a mom are the times when I have something else I want to be doing and my children have a different agenda for our day. When I take a step back, I realize that my "this stinks!" moments are usually because of my own selfishness. And it is hard to let go of those things that I think are important to me to take care of the needs of my little ones. I want to fully acknowledge that. But, in letting go of the things that I think make me me, I gain something better in the process. Sacrifice is never really a sacrifice, because there are always greater blessings in the giving up than in the giving in.

A few weeks before I left on my mission, I was talking with a friend and he suddenly paused, looked at me, and said. "Rinda, I'm so jealous. You're about to learn more about yourself in the next few months than you can in any other way."

And you know what? He was right.
Then.

But now, when I see pregnant mothers, I think, "I'm so jealous. You're about to learn more about yourself than you can in any other way."

And then pudgy, dirty little hands grab at me and I think about how this is a mission that never ends.

It's true. Motherhood changes you.

The Least of These

My current assigned calling, or job, in my church is to work with the children. I serve in what is called the Primary Presidency, which is a group of four women asked to make sure that our church's program for children ages 18 months to 12 years old runs (I would say smoothly, but as everyone who has worked with children knows, there is bumpy and there is less bumpy and then there are rocky roads and then there are Himalayan hiking trails).

When I was first asked to serve in the Primary, I was terrified. Working with children was my mom's and my sister's thing, not mine. Heck, I can barely handle my own two children. But I'm not one to say no when the Lord asks me to do something, so I said yes. Seven months later and I am in love. This just might be my favorite church assignment that I've ever had.

Sure, Sundays are difficult, and I often feel that I'm in over my head and as my brother would say, "tu no sabes nada." (aka, you know nothing!)

But...

There are some Sundays that--that-- well, there are just some Sundays that I know I am where I am supposed to be.

We have a neighbor who has recently taken three foster care children into her home. They have joined our Primary and we are so excited to have their beautiful faces smiling at us on Sundays. Yesterday was their second time attending Primary with us.  I felt so terrible the first week because I only remembered one child's name out of the three. All week I reminded myself of the second child's name and practiced it so that I knew I had it correct for her when I saw her on Sunday.

She was sitting on the back row, near the isle, happily singing and interacting with her new friends. On one of my numerous trips to the back door to make copies, do hall patrol, and be on bathroom duty, I knelt down by her chair and whispered, "Hi, Katie*, how are you doing today?"

She looked at me and her eyes got huge, "You know my name?" she asked, incredulous.

I swallowed, giving myself a chance to regain my composure, and said, "Yes, sweetheart, I know your name. I felt bad that I got your name wrong last week, so I've been practicing all week to make sure I got it right."

Without hesitation, she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight, the best way she knew to show me how she felt.

I remembered her name.
It was such a small, small thing.
It meant the world to her.

I was instantly transported back to one of the hardest moments on my mission. We had been invited to eat dinner with a less-active sister that we'd been working with for a month or so. She had two daughters and an infant son. It was not a happy home. This sister was very unkind to her daughters and it was clear that the baby was given all the love and attention (of which there was very little) available in the home.

During that particular dinner, I sat across from one of the little girls. She was wary of strangers and people in general and it was clear that she hadn't felt kindness from an adult in a very long time. I smiled at her every time I caught her looking at me. My arms ached to hold her and hug her and whisper in her ear how very much she was worth to our Heavenly Father--but, due to the missionary rules that I promised Heavenly Father I would obey, I was not allowed to pick her up, hold her, or do much to provide a gentle and a loving touch.

My heart broke even further, then, when she slipped off her chair and came around the table and tried to sit on my lap.

Trying desperately to explain to her that I wanted to hold her but I couldn't, I had to push her down as she attempted several times to climb up. I tried to give her a side hug, but every time I did she took advantage to try and settle into my lap.

Oh, how she cried.

Oh, how I wanted to!

I felt powerless. I wonder sometimes if maybe I should have just broken the rules and held her. Knowing her mother and grandmother, who would have taken advantage and probably reported me for something I did not do, I know that obedience was the correct course of action.

I pray that in the six years since that awful dinner appointment that someone has been able to show that little girl love. True love--the love of a Diety and values her so much that He gave His only begotten son--and the love of an older brother that willingly gave his life so that he could know all the aches of her small heart.

Every child deserves love. EVERY child.

When Katie threw her arms around my neck yesterday, I hugged her back as tight as I could, grateful that this time I could do what I could not do that first time. And in my head I heard the words whispered,

"If ye have done it until the least of these...ye have done it unto me."

photo cred: http://cslewis.drzeus.net/forums/viewtopic.php?f=9&t=8163&start=15

*names have been changed

Blanching and Blessings

This past week I finally finished up the Fruit Preservation Project 2015. I didn't actually preserve all that much fruit, but it felt like it. This year I picked all of our fruit off a kindly neighbor's in-laws trees, then turned a bushel of pears and a box of summer apples into 11 quarts of pears, 7 quarts of applesauce, two large batches of fruit leather, and over 30 fruit squeezies (the only way my daughter will eat fruit). To serious canners, this doesn't seem like much. Granted, this was a "light" year for us also, but for someone who is only in her third canning season, it still seemed a monumental task.

One of my favorite things about canning season is the time that I get to spend with my mother-in-law. For whatever reason, we didn't can anything while I was growing up. We did lots of other things, and my mother equipped me with many superb life skills, but making applesauce wasn't one of them. Probably because I'm not a big fan of applesauce.

My husband, however, loves applesauce. He especially loves to dip Cheetos in applesauce.
Don't knock it 'til you've tried it.

Before Stephanie taught me how to preserve fruit, I had no idea what "blanching" was. For us, it is the first step in the process (after picking the fruit and letting it ripen).

Here's the Wikipedia term for the culinaryily illiterate, like me:

"Blanching is a cooking process wherein the food substance, usually a vegetable or fruit, is plunged into boiling water, removed after a brief, timed interval, and finally plunged into iced water or placed under cold running water (shocking or refreshing) to halt the cooking process."

Because I picked our fruit myself from trees that hadn't been treated (or touched, really), some of it looked pretty rough. I used the worst-looking ones for fruit leather and squeezie puree. I wasn't sure we would get any "whole" halves out of the bunch. I was amazed, however, that after an appropriate amount of blanching time, the skins came of easily and for the most part, the fruit underneath was white and pure. Sure, there were a few pears that took a little more rubbing to get the bruises off, and some where the core was just plain rotten, but for the most part, blanching took care of the impurities.

As I was blanching pear after pear this year, I thought about how our Heavenly Father uses the same process on us. Sometimes we look a little bruised, battered and scratched on the outside. It's hard to believe there could be anything worthwhile under our skin. That's when Heavenly Father plunges us into boiling water--He gives us trials, tests, and challenges. Sometimes it just feels like all we are doing is swimming in hot water, but after a time we are pulled out--and then comes another "shock." The cold water brings another trial, and if it works, we become humble enough to be easily changed. That outer skin and the natural man slips away with a little twisting and rubbing.

It isn't pleasant for us, but once the process is said and done, we are in a better state than we were before and the blanching becomes a blessing, and the sweet fruit of those trials can be preserved for years to come.

Texts to my Mother

Motherhood is hard. Sometimes I am not very good at it. This summer has been R.O.U.G.H. I'm glad it is almost over, although I am sure fall comes with it's own challenges (my husband taking a double classload for his MBA being one of them).

Good thing that we are equipped with someone who has "been there" before, and dealt with us as whiny three-year-olds, and helps us realize that we turned out okay so our children will probably be fine too.

The following are a series of texts I have sent to my mother over the course of this summer. I share these for two purposes:
1. Your Enjoyment.
2. To Remember.

June 29
Me: Scott came home for lunch and I asked [Kevin] t tell him how many time outs she has had this morning. Her response? "I don't know...Three? Four? Nine? Seven, nine." (Correct answer: Two).

July 25
Me; "Want a threenager? I do not like her Sam I Am.
Mom: I am sorry...Do you want Papa to call her?
Me: No! He will take her side!

July 26
Me: For sale. Three year old. Comes with adorable dress, cute hairstyle, and a ton of attitude. No returns.
Me: Freshly bathed and potty trained.
Mom: Papa would like to take you up on it.
Me: He is more than welcome to her! She doesn't come with any toys though (she lost them all) and she is out of clean underwear.

July 28
Me: Does Papa still want to buy Kevin? We are running a special. Free shipping.

July 29
Mom: Did today go better?
Me: I only swore four times.
Mom: If that is an improvement then good for you.
Me: Yesterday I only cursed twice...
Me: But I also let my kids (swim in the backyard pool) today, so maybe that makes up for my sins?
Mom: Good job!

July 31
Me: On Daniel Tiger this morning: being silly= peanut butter and pickle sandwiches
Note: those are my mom's favorite kind of sandwich.
Me; Also, Kevin fell in the toilet yesterday.
Mom: I fell off the toilet when I was little, my mom said. I guess we will have to call Grandma's sandwich the silly sandwich.

Aug 11
Me: Do you know of any good boarding schools for three-year-olds?
Mom: (sends their home address) Papa headmaster.
Me: Perfect. I'll bring her by tomorrow and pick her up at Christmas.
Me: Make sure she knows her ABCs by then.
Mom: I will let him know!
Me: Seriously though.
Mom: Sorry it has been a rough day.
Later
Me: Both kids are having a screaming match and it's been going for 15 min. I'm hiding in the basement.
Mom: Maybe they will go hoarse
Me: One can only hope. Deafness would be an asset right now.


Maybe these texts don't cast me in the right light. Does that matter? I make an effort to be genuine and truthful on my blog. Truthfully, this summer has just about done me in. Mixing the overly emotional threenager with the busy madness of a baby-turned-toddler and a husband who is drowning in school and work, in addition to the fact that my health has been flaring up and my medications don't seem to be doing their job but the labs seem normal so no one at my doctor's office is too concerned...well, it makes for a depressed, exhausted, and snarky Rinda.

Motherhood is hard. I swear sometimes. I can't handle life some days. I take more naps than my preschooler. My brain was too tired last night and this morning to let me look over my husband's final paper for his economics class--the first time I haven't been able to edit because my brain literally could not think.

But, you know what? It's okay. I know I am doing what I am supposed to do.

A few days ago I was sitting in the Primary room at our church. Primary is the children's organization for kids age 3-12, and I serve in the presidency. Every week I get to sit with 70+ children as they sing and learn about Jesus. It truly is a privilege. Some weeks are tough, however, and we just pray something is getting through as they do gymnastics routines on their chairs, ask to go to the bathroom a million times, and call us out on every mistake we make. I watch the teachers of the individual classes and see their energy levels drop and the color drain out of their faces as the hour goes on. I was watching this on Sunday and I was overwhelmed, once again, of the feeling of charity I felt for these little ones. I knew it wasn't my love I was feeling, it was God and Christ's love for these children. I knew that their parents and teachers didn't always see the good they were doing, but that day, I could see it. I could see the improvement in behavior, the growth in their testimonies, the outward actions that showed me that something was getting through.

And suddenly, the Spirit whispered to me the reason that I'd been asked to serve in the Primary. It wasn't because my talents were needed (although they have come in handy) and I had a willingness to serve wherever I was needed. Rather, Primary has started to serve as a type and symbol of my daily life with my little ones. The teachers in those classrooms are doing the same thing that I do with my children every single day: teaching them the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Most days it doesn't seem like anything is getting through, and we spend more time coloring and taking bathroom breaks than the actual learning. But I think Heavenly Father wanted me to know that if learning is happening in Primary (and I know it is), then it is happening in my own home, and I'm doing a better job than I think I am.

After all, there are swear words in the Bible too.

Research

Let me tell you about a little moment I had with my children this morning. We were playing in Sly's room--and by playing I mean that I was sitting in the glider looking at my phone while the two little ones went to down pulling out every single toy in the vicinity, all to the musical symphony of my husband installing a ceiling fan in the room next door.

After a few minutes, I looked up from my phone to find that Kevin had claimed her throne (aka sat in the little chair that was once hers but now has been adopted by her little brother) and was "reading" one of Sly's books.

"Baby duck says 'quack,' baby puppy says 'ruff!'," she chanted as I smiled to myself, relieved that she still knew her animal noises (you know, in case they quiz you on that sort of thing when you start preschool). Soon she came to a picture of a baby giraffe.

"Momma? What sound does a giraffe make?" she asked.

My first thought was hold on a sec while I ask Siri...just kidding, I don't have an iphone. 

"I'm not sure, honey," I answered her. "Maybe they make a 'nom nom nom' sound when they eat the leaves."

"Giraffes eat leaves?" She reiterated, as if the idea was blowing her mind and she hadn't, in fact, seen a giraffe eat leaves on at least half a dozen visits to the zoo when she was two.

"Yes," I said. "That's why their necks are so long, so they can eat the leaves at the tops of the trees."

She nodded, gave me a skeptical look, and then went back to her book. A moment later she got up and walked out of the room, somewhat agitated. When she came back, she was holding a board book about jungle animals and their daddies. The first pages just happened to feature a giraffe and its father, go figure, eating leaves.

"You're right mom! They do eat leaves!" She said with a little laugh, amazed that I was correct.

And thus it began.
My daughter is no longer "taking my word for it."
She's doing her own research.

And just maybe, this experience has taught me not to roll my eyes every time she asks the question, "Why? But why? Why? Why, Momma?"

Why, indeed.
She's starting to figure out that I don't know all the answers.

Why do you have to grow up so fast, little one?

Yes, but why?

Justice and My Friend Mercy

I think we all go through those seasons of life where there seem to be more storms than sunshine. Scott and I went into July knowing that it would be an expensive and fun month, but we had no idea just how adventurous it was going to be. It seems that since the second of July, we've had one rough day after another, with challenge after challenge. These trials are nothing we can't handle, we have friends and family members going through worse, but they've been hard on us.

Mostly because the hardest parts aren't our fault.

I think sometimes it is easier for Scott and I to go through trials when we know why something happened--we understand agency and choices, and we try to accept responsibility for our actions and not complain about the things we ourselves have caused (with the exception of having children, I need to have a better attitude about that, but seriously, we were both good kids--where did these two miniature crazies come from?!).

Last weekend, Sly started running a high fever for the second time in a month. We debated for the next 48 hours about whether or not he would be well enough to make the trek to Idaho Falls for my Grandma's annual Float N Bloat family reunion (the name explains it all: we float the canal and eat lots of food. Scott says that the older you get, the less floating and the more bloating you do). On Friday night, we started making different plans for our weekend. Sly had just endured possibly the worst day of his life thus far, and I just didn't want to make this illness harder for him to overcome. I prayed and prayed to know what to do. The next morning, he woke up doing lots better, even though he was still not 100%. I had a strong feeling that we should go, so we packed up and headed out.

An hour or more into the drive, we were almost rear-ended by a driver who wasn't paying very much attention. Thankfully, Scott was and he was able to move our car in just the right ways to avoid an accident. We knew we were being watched over and continued on our way.

Then, when we were about 45 minutes from our destination, Scott and I were in the middle of a conversation when the semi in the lane next to us made a loud noise and started spewing debris at our car. Chunks of rubber and cement (yeah, cement!) blasted the front of our car. Scott and I both watched as the black and gray matter came straight at our windshield, and then somehow miraculously bounced over our heads and off our car without coming through (or even denting) the glass.

I wasn't scared until Scott said, "They cut our power. I don't have any brakes."

And I started praying as I pushed the button to turn on our emergency lights. It took us a couple of miles to get over to the right lane, then to the shoulder, and then to slow down enough that the emergency brake would stop our car without sending us fishtailing into a ditch.

When we looked back, the semi that we thought had pulled over was no where to be found. Apparently he didn't have enough damage to stop, so he moved on and left us on the side of the road in the July afternoon heat, wondering what on earth we were going to do now. The front part of our grill was gone, with pieces missing. The hood was so dented we couldn't open it. Liquid was pouring out from underneath the carriage.

And our kids were waking up.

We started looking for some other adults to take charge of the situation. There were none, so we began making phone calls.

I kept thinking, "Why us? Why now? I thought we had been prompted to come to the family reunion. If this was supposed to happen, why did I feel that way?"

My father wisely explained to me later that sometimes these things need to happen "to give us experience" just like the scriptures say, even when we don't understand why it is necessary.

I don't know why exactly we needed to be in Idaho that day--part of me knows we needed to spend that time with family, and another part of me thinks that Scott's smart driving skills saved more than one life that day.

If we had been in a smaller car, we would have been dead. As it was, he and I should have been severely injured and we weren't. Kevin, who would have been traumatized by the whole thing slept  right through it, and Sly was facing backwards where he couldn't see and wasn't even disturbed (until, of course, we stopped driving and he got bored).

My first thought was to call my parents. My mom didn't answer. My dad never has his cell phone, so I didn't even bother. My aunt didn't answer. I only had 2% left of my phone battery, so I hurried and dialed my Grandma's number on Scott's phone. My aunt Luci just happened to be in the house (the celebrations, already well under way, took place entirely outside) and answered the phone. I then talked to my mom, who quickly sent my uncle David Jack and Luci with her car to come rescue us, before we even knew what would be happening with our car (all we knew was that we wouldn't be driving it to Idaho Falls).

Scott called 911 and an officer responded immediately. Somehow, in all of our AC/tire replacing excitement of the week before, the owner's manual and insurance card had been taken out of the car. We couldn't reach anyone with access to our number, and then Scott just happened to find it on his email (because we'd sold his car to my little brother and gotten the insurance switched over only days before).

Luci and David Jack showed up right after the tow truck. We moved our bewildered, hot children and all of our belongings over to my parent's car, signed the necessary documents, and watched my beloved car get towed away. Seriously, I adore that car.

Though Scott and I were still a little shaky for the rest of the day, we so enjoyed our time with family and family friends. Literally and figuratively, arms were wrapped around us and anyone who could jumped in to see if they could help. My aunt Rah, who would be spending the next week in Idaho, offered to let us take her car home so that we wouldn't have to pay an outrageous price for an  out-of-state rental without the insurance company to help us negotiate a reasonable rate. My parents also offered their car, (and somewhere along the lines this equated to Papa telling Kevin that she was coming home with him) and nobody minded that we didn't float and ate more than our fair share of Steph's caramel brownies.

As Scott and I drove home that evening, we analyzed the accident from every angle. When we approached the place where we had pulled off, we started scanning the road for debris, but we saw nothing unusual. As we drove past "the scene of the crime" a quote that I'd shared at our family history conference the month before came to mind.  

“Whoever seeks to help those on the other side receives help in turn in all the affairs of life….Help comes to us from the other side as we give help to those who have passed beyond the veil.” –John A. Widtsoe, 1980

I knew then, without a doubt, that we had been given divine aid, and that we had been extra blessed because I had spent time trying to help my family members who had already passed on. I don't know which angel was in charge of keeping me calm. I don't know which angel deflected the cement missiles from our hood. I don't know which angel kept Kevin asleep, or which one guided Scott's hands and feet as he directed our car to a safe place. 

I just know they were there.

I know there were other angels there too, and these ones I can name, because they are the ones who physically rescued us and calmed our nerves. 

Last fall, Scott's car was the unfortunate victim of a nasty hit-and-run. For days and weeks afterward, we struggled to forgive our nameless, reckless neighbor for costing us so much money and taking away a car that felt like part of our family (maybe a dependable family dog is a good comparison). It was tough. We had done nothing wrong, and yet we were dealing with the consequences of another person's bad decisions. Gradually, we learned that we were never going to know who did it and we needed to forgive to find our own personal peace. 

This time around, I had the same feelings, but they resolved themselves much more quickly. 

For the past few days I have been thinking a lot about the laws of justice and mercy.  There doesn't seem to be a lot of justice going on here, and though I sometimes still wish that somebody else would take the financial hit, I am also not at all happy when I think that someday, in the life hereafter, somebody will have to pay for what happened to us. Because in my heart of hearts, I want these people to be forgiven, and I know that in the end, it is really Christ who ends up paying for the bad decisions that we all make, whether we accept his help or not. 

I have also learned that when there seems to be an absence of justice, there is an abundance of mercy. There were so many things that could have gone wrong--but most things went right. We are taken care of, we are safe, and we are together. 

And we couldn't ask for anything more.

Sharing is Caring

We have reached that haggle stage of siblinghood with my two children. They frequently want the same toy, the same sippy cup, the same parent. It gets exhausting to constantly be the referee and court judge, deciding what is fair and what course of action should be taken.

To comfort myself, I repeat often in my mind that I am helping them learn a valuable life skill. I don't think they should have to share everything, and I don't make them share everything, but taking turns is a part of life. If they can learn to balance this tightrope with stuffed animals,  maybe someday when they have to share bigger things, like a car and a mortgage payment, they will be better prepared to handle life. 

This is somewhat of a lie. I've realized this week that there are some things you never get used to sharing. 

For the majority of our four years-and-nine-months marriage, Scott has been in school. This wasn't so bad at first, because I was also working and in school, and aside from our callings, we didn't have many other things occupying our time and attention. 

And then I graduated. And the baby came. And I stopped working. And I had to learn how to share my time with him with my baby, along with the time he already spent at school and work.

And then he switched jobs. And I had to learn to share him with a commute. BUT, he graduated from Utah State and we were done with one phase of schooling, so that was nice.

And then he switched jobs again. And I had to share him with an even longer commute, because we bought a house, and I also had to share him with the backyard and leaky faucet and a half dozen other home improvement projects.

And then baby #2 was on his way. And Scott had to learn to share what little was left of my energy with not only our daughter, but our unborn son and all of the appointments, tests, shots, and procedures that went along with getting him here safely. And then, once Sly was here, Scott and I had to learn to share a little more of ourselves with our children, because suddenly we weren't double-teaming our daughter, we were stumbling around trying to figure how to play man-to-man. 

And about a month after we found out about Sly, Scott started graduate school. And because we all know that this (eventually) would be a great blessing to our family. I learned to share him with Weber State, and homework, and reading, and discussion posts, and paper writing, and group projects. And, I've happily learned to share him with a newfound passion he has for learning that somehow never really showed up during his undergraduate years.

As he has accepted new callings in our church congregation and we've made new friends, I've learned to share him and his thoughtful heart with those around us who need his helping hands on occasion. My husband is the most generous man I know. This is a gift he has inherited from his parents, who liberally give of their time, talents, and resources--often more than they should give, because it isn't in them to say "no" or "I'm sorry, I can't."

The lesson that I want to teach my children, then, is that sharing really never gets any easier, but it can become a positive experience when you learn to share the things you love most with the people you love most. For example, in high school I learned to share my swingset with my best friends, and as a result many late-night heart-to-heart discussions created beautiful memories. In college, I learned to share my personality and intellect with my roommates, many of whom are still my dearest friends. On my mission, I learned to share my Heavenly Father and Jesus with complete strangers, and because of this my love for and my relationship with God grew. When we got married, I learned to share my favorite, oversized quilt and I've enjoyed it so much more now that I have someone to cuddle with under the green 1970's polyester fabric. I've learned that sharing my children with their grandparents spreads love through three and four generations, and this is a gift that at this point in life, only Scott and I can give to both our children and to their grandparents. We make the effort to give them time together, and they make the very most of it! We just have to learn to get out of the way, and all of the sudden, being a spectator is one of my favorite roles.

So it is with Scott. When I get out of the way and give him time to learn, work, serve, and play, my love for him grows and grows. The most selfish thing in the world that I could ever do would be to keep him to myself. I know better than anybody (except maybe his mother), the wonderful kind of man he is, and it would be wrong of me to keep him hidden from the world.

So, I let him go.

I send him to work. I send him to school. I send him to Elder's Quorum meetings, home teaching, and when we can manage, the Temple. I send him upstairs to play with Kevin and rock Sly to sleep. I send him downstairs to work on homework. I send him to Lowe's for hardware for the sprinkler system. I send him outside to talk to the neighbors. I send him back to bed to get a bit more sleep so that he can, by some miracle, find a little more energy to balance all that he has to do.

Actually, the truth is, I don't send him anywhere. He goes on his own. What I do do, however, is give him room to fly.

He does the same for me.

And because we are learning to share each other, those moments we have truly to ourselves become not only precious, but sacred. In that way, we aren't growing apart in the white space between us, but closer together.

A Day in the Trenches

Yesterday morning, my mom sent me an email asking me to share the day with her by emailing her and "chronicling all the things we do in a day that wouldn't happen if we didn't do them." 

I'm an Aggie, so I've been trained to meet a challenge. This is what I did yesterday.


11:11AM
Woke up and got Scott off to work
Wished a friend happy birthday on Facebook
Checked blood sugar and took medicine
Put a second coat of paint on the chalkboard wall 



Got Sly up
Got us both breakfast
Played with him for a long time
Put him back to bed
Loaded the dishwasher
Wrote a birthday card
Worked on a family project for the Fowlers
Cuddled Kevin after she woke up
Got her breakfast
Tracked down the air pump and blew up the swimming pool
Cleaned up the breakfast spills from while I was outside
Took Kevin to the bathroom
Got her ready to go swim
Got Sly up again


Changed a poopy diaper
Got Sly and I ready to swim
Sunscreen for everyone




12:37PM

Took the kids swimming


Came in
Got everyone dressed
Hung up the wet clothes
Emailed Daddy
Instagrammed the experience and sent new pictures to family frames
Got us all water to re-hydrate
Snack time


Emailed my sister-in-aw back about the family project
Finished eating Kevin's breakfast
Gave Sly more food
Opened the baby gate for Kevin 
Dance party in the kitchen with Sly


1:08PM
Took the kids downstairs
Put up the baby gate and moved the broom so Sly wouldn't eat it
Did an art project with Kevin
Read two books to the kids
Broke up a fight over a basketball
Saved Sly's life half a dozen times
Sent Kevin up to use the bathroom
Put Sly in the jumper so he wouldn't eat anything off the floor while I was upstairs with his sister
Checked on Kevin, who decided she didn't need to go after all



1:40PM
Helped Kevin change her clothes since she didn't like the ones she had picked earlier
Put in a movie for her
Put Sly down for a nap
Sorted laundry
Started laundry
Checked my blood sugar again and made a mental note to call the doctor
Took three loads of junk back downstairs where it belongs
Picked up the family room
Answered a dozen "why?" Questions from Kevin
Swept the family room
Sat down to cuddle with Kevin and watch her movie with her
Checked and responded to emails

2;27PM
Took a 20 min rest
Helped Kevin go potty
Picked up my bathroom
Started picking up the living room
Helped Kevin change into outfit #3
Turned off the movie that she had stopped watching 20 minutes ago
Got a puzzle down for her so I could unload the dishwasher
Told her she couldn't have another snack
Explained that some elephants have tusks and others don't and the fact that cows don't eat people, people eat cows
Fixed her hair clip again
Realized unloading the dishwasher wasn't going to happen and helped her with the alphabet train puzzle

3:03PM
Taught Kevin about "big" letters and "little" letters
Put away the puzzle
Read a story to Kevin
Emailed Scott
Texted two friends
Planned BBQ menu for a friend's  moving party tomorrow
Took Kevin to the potty again
Went in to see why Sly woke up screaming
Gave him cuddles and distracted him by taking selfies on my phone
Caught him before he crawled out of the room
Started playtime in Kevin's room
Moved her garbage out of his reach

3:38 PM
Broke up several fights in the process of playing in Kevin's room
Went downstairs intending to switch the wash
Got distracted pulling the painter's tape off the chalk wall
Listened to both children banshee screaming 
Washed out a bottle and made a new one for Sly
Rescued screaming children
Fed Sly a bottle
Fixed a toy for Kevin

3:55PM
Switched the wash
Folded the load in the dryer and took it upstairs
Rescued library book from Sly's clutches
Told Kevin to go in the bathroom after she told me she pooped in her underwears
Found out that she lied and had a little talk about that
Put away the clean linens and hung up the line dry laundry
Got her a new pair of underwear anyway
Cleaned up the mess of hair stuff from when I asked her to bring me a ponytail holder this morning
Talked to her about choking hazards and little brothers
Pulled Sly out of the kitchen
Fished dried waffle crumbs out of his mouth
Blocked off the kitchen with a barstool
Rescued another library book from Sly

3:57PM
Rescued Sly and discovered the barstool trick doesn't work anymore


4:36PM
Gave a poop pep talk
Saved Sly again
Took Sly "flying" then became a human trampoline
Helped Kevin get dressed again after she decided she didn't want to go potty
Played the piano to try and distract them
Cleaned up Sly's spit up
Played the piano with Sly on my lap
Practiced the piano a a few more minutes and tried to plan Primary sharing time in my head
Broke up a few fights
Worked on Scott's birthday surprises
Breathed a sigh of relief when Scott walked in the door an hour earlier than anticipated


At the end of the day, my mom sent me this email:
" Now you have reinforcements. This has been fun to share the day with you. Have to admit I had ulterior motives. I needed someone to share the day with but most importantly I wanted you to see how full and valuable your days are. I guarantee that no one can do what you do and do it as beautifully as you do it....Your trenches are so much more important than a novel or a clean bathroom. Take it from me. I have navigated the trenches and it is worth it!"

I wanted to have a record of this day and this experience. Friday was a pretty typical day for me: by 2:00 I was tired and by 3:30 I wanted to give my kids away. This record doesn't show the emotional ups and downs. It doesn't reflect how I fell asleep with tears on my face the night before, wondering what the heck I was doing with my life and if I was using my time to do anything worthwhile. Most days I don't feel like much of a mother. For someone who was once used to excelling at everything she did, feeling like I'm floundering on a daily basis is beyond difficult, especially since motherhood is my life these days. There just isn't time or energy for anything else, as much as I wish I could be writing and publishing the stories flying around in my head.

My health has been crazy for the past few weeks. I'm not sure what is going on, if this chronic fatigue can be chalked up to my faulty body or the fact that I have two extremely active children and get literally no breaks during the day (except to use the bathroom maybe once, for thirty seconds, because I fully believe that everyone is entitled to use the bathroom without an audience). In the process of trying to figure out my body and my head and my life, I've come to some realizations.

Although my diabetes is something that gets put on the backburner most days, I can't ignore the fact that it has dictated my life for the past six years, in both good and bad ways. It changed the shape and speed of my mission, it led to my marriage to Scott, changed our family planning to have a baby earlier than what we had planned, defined my motherhood career. I don't have energy for a side job, or the career I once thought I wanted. This is what I am doing with my life these days. And although it is hard to be okay with that, I am beyond grateful that my diabetes took away the option of "something on the side" and led me to making my family my main focus.

I think sometimes, it is hard to see the war--or even the battle--when you are fighting from the trenches. All you see are sandbags. All you feel is sand and grit and exhaustion. Sometimes, you risk peeking your head above the walls to see the horizon and try and place yourself in the grander scheme of things, and inevitably you fail.

That's because it's not your job to plan the battle or singlehandedly win the war. Leave that to the General.

All He asks us to do is man the trenches.