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