Motherhood Monologues #19: Laugh

I knew when I married my husband, he would make me laugh every day for the rest of my life. I knew when my son's personality started to shine that he had inherited that same gift for creating laughter. And even my daughter can bring out the giggles in me. I think it is genetic.

Even for all that we laugh together in our home, they still can't make me laugh so hard that I worry about wetting my pants. That job has always been reserved for my siblings.

There may have been a family dinner without giggles, but I don't remember it. Nobody can toss witty insults the way that my little brother does, or make silly comments like my little brother, or elevate a party like my little sister. The three of them are the perfect combination of Burningham dry humor and clever Browning witticisms.

From a young age, I knew that I didn't belong to the same class of hilarity that they do--and that was fine with me. They needed an audience in order to be funny. Often, my parents didn't understand why they could make me laugh so hard--tis a mystery I haven't figured out for myself.

I may not have gotten the "entertainer" gene--but I am one of the entertained.

Motherhood Monologues #18: Home

My mother explained my writing style best when I was in college.

"Rinda," she said, "no matter where life takes you, your writing always brings you back home."

Every day that I sit down at my keyboard, I am being called home. Even when I am editing, or writing fiction, throwing together a shutterfly book or slideshow, home is never far from my mind.

When I was younger, I thought that you could only have one home. As I've grown, I realize that there are so many places that are home to me:

• my childhood home
• my grandparents' homes
• my in-laws homes
• the areas where I served in Texas
• Utah State University
• the small town in Montana where my mom grew up
• my best friends' homes
• any LDS Temple
• anywhere my children are, I create a home for them
• and most of all, my husband.

He is home to me. 

Motherhood Monologues #17: Grow, Part Two

Dear Marinda,

Remember those first few days of being a mom and all the many things you did wrong when it was just you and the baby at home? Yeah, I know those two incidents that are flashing through your mind right now. I remember that time that your blood sugar got low, so you set the one-month-old baby on the couch surrounded by a nursing pillow to go get a granola bar. I remember the thud and her shrill screams and how you thought for sure your neglect would lead to permanent brain damage. I also remember the first time she got a cold and how, when you went to squirt some saline spray up her nose to loosen the snot, you did a little too much and she started choking.

You need to stop remembering those things. She's fine.

You're not done screwing up her life yet.

Rest assured, these two instances are probably going to be very low down on the totem pole of all the things you've done wrong in her life.

They might also be the only two incidents she doesn't remember, so let's focus on the positive here.

You can take solace in the fact that the nursing pillow fell with her and that you learned that in order to take care of your little ones, you need to take care of yourself first. Please realize that you've now mastered the art of squirting saline up a snotty nose and that you can chill out when it comes to small childhood viruses.

We've got bigger fish to fry at the moment (unless, of course, you want to wipe your child's butt every time she poops for the rest of her life).

Moving on,
Marinda

Motherhood Monologues #16: LOVE

10 things that make me feel loved (in no particular order):

1. When my husband does the dishes or another job that helps me out (without me asking or reminding)
2. When I wake up to an early-morning email from my mom
3. When the tulips in my backyard bloom and I am reminded of a God who loves me
4. When loved ones (or complete strangers) comment on my blog--I view reading my material as an "act of service" 
5. When I open my arms and my little boy runs at me, full speed ahead, and gives me a slobbery, slimy, snotty kiss on my "sheek!"
6. When my daughter shares a memory with me of something we've done together that she enjoyed
7. When I receive book recommendations from friends (or when others take my book recommendations)
8. When I look back on pictures, letters, and memories of my time as an LDS missionary in Texas
9. When my siblings send me funny things on facebook or via texts
10. When I get hugs from my dad

10 things that make my family feel loved (in no particular order):

1. When I put down the phone and just play
2. When dinner is ready and waiting as soon as Daddy walks in the door
3. When I take time to sit down and cuddle
4. When I push my children on the swings in our backyard
5. When we sing songs and pray together
6. When I write about them
7. When I leave little notes for them
8. When I give them each kisses goodnight
9. When I give up my needs for their wants
10. When I tell them I love them...and my daughter says, "I know Mom! I didn't forget!" and then she asks me to tell her again tomorrow

This Day, That Day

Today I bring you an unscheduled break from our regularly scheduled Motherhood Monologue programming. 

I couldn't let this day pass without some kind of an acknowledgement. It's April 25th, you know, which makes it the perfect day: not too hot, not too cold, all you need is a light jacket.

But Miss Congeniality is not the reason I celebrate--or at least retain in remembrance--this day.

It's because I survived. 

Not this day today (I'm almost there but I still have a few hours and one awake child to go), but this day seven years ago. 

I remember every detail of that day: waking up, putting on the pink blouse my family had sent for Easter a few weeks before just because I knew my mom would like it, finishing my last minute packing, cleaning out my desk and taking down the taped-up scriptures and Ensign clippings, tracting and teaching for a few hours until it was time to haul my luggage to the Denton Institute, saying goodbye to my companions, watching as they started a lesson without me, and crying silent tears as I ate Sister Perkin's dark chocolate in the back of Brother and Sister Green's car as they drove me to the mission office. I remember the exhaustion, the stress, the loneliness, the anxiety, the guilt, the excitement, the swirling thoughts of "where do I go from here?" and "will I ever come back?"

I remember the Assistants driving me to the airport and them remarking about how well they knew their way around the airport--and thinking, but they've never had to get on that plane, so how much do they really know? I remember finding my gate--and finding my uncle standing underneath the gate sign. He'd heard I was flying home that day, but I think the fact that we ended up on the same flight was more Heavenly Father's doing than Uncle Gary's. And though it was awkward, it did feel nice to have someone familiar nearby.

I remember the plane ride home--the relief that I wasn't seated by my uncle, the nice gentleman that asked me about my tag and my health, the attempt to write in my journal. I remember searching the Utah landscape as the plane touched down just after sunset. I dragged my heels, but my Uncle waited for me anyway, and he and I walked to baggage claim together, where he made a joke to my mom about how he found me first and she said, "Get out of my way, Gary!" and ran toward me, throwing her arms around me as soon as I reached the finish line--the security sign? She held me so tight I couldn't breathe and it was oddly refreshing. 

Behind her stood my father, my little brother, my sister. They were all there to take me home and I wasn't even sure that was home anymore. There were a few awkward jokes, but mostly just an awkward silence.

How do you handle life when it doesn't turn out the way you expected?

You deal. 

I may or may not have cried myself to sleep that night--I don't remember. I do remember the relief on my mother's face, the worry on my brother's, the hug and kiss on the cheek from my father before I fell asleep in a room all by myself for the first time in eight and a half months.

I remember the shelter of being home and how that night, for the first time, I knew I would learn to deal with my disease and get feeling better because I had to--I had to go back. 

I remember all these things, but I forgot about them today, until I went to mark off our scripture reading calendar and realized today's date was April 25th. 

Today today was not a particularly rough, or funny, or memorable day. It consisted of cuddles, laundry, dishes, books, puzzles, PBS shows, a walk around the block (me pushing my baby in his stroller and my daughter pushing her baby in the doll stroller) in between rainstorms, breaking up fights, sending kids to timeout, dinner and family home evening. 

When I fell asleep that night, I was looking toward the future. On this night, I do the same thing, with a nod to the past seven years. How could I have seen then the way my "intermission" would change the course of my life, how I found love during my transfer at home and healing in an almost-forbidden kiss? 

I still bear daily the scars of my disease, the bruises and the extra pounds and the fatigue and the finger pricks and the stress and the worry about the future. I will end my evening tonight as I did seven years ago--with a shot of insulin to my stomach, made harder now because of the strech mark lacework decorating my abdomen. My body is still figuring itself out, and I'm still along for that ride. 

And after I give myself that shot that some how always pinches a little more than I expect it to, I will once again look forward to going back to Texas.

But this time I won't be alone.

 

Motherhood Monologues #15: Gifts

From my parents: the Temple Clothing, specially packaged, that I thought they had forgotten about, the trip to Texas that none of us could afford but all of us needed
From my aunt: the letter waiting on my bed when I returned home from my mission
From my Grandpa: the rocking chair he spent hours restoring for me
From my Grandma: the gift of letting me help her with family history
From my Burningham Grandparents: the books they gave me for my high school graduation
From my sister: the beautiful sketch she drew of my children
From my big brother: that time that one of his high school friends came up to me and said, "oh! You're the one who writes for the newspaper! Ben told me about you." when I thought nobody in the school knew we were related because I was too much of a dork to merit acknowledgement.
From my little brother: all the hours he spent keeping me company when I was recovering from my initial diabetes diagnosis. Also, the continuation of the furby wars.
From my in-laws: the hutch sitting in my kitchen, that I absolutely love.
From my best friends: the Texas charm bracelet that is so totally me.
From that sweet neighbor: the simple card in the mail just to brighten my day
From my husband: that simple Christmas stocking full of French chocolate, the constant phone calls and emails over the last few years, the camera that blew me away, and the kisses, hugs, and words he gives when he knows I need them most.
From my daughter: the time when, as a toddler, she wrote on a heart so I wouldn't be left out of our family Valentine tradition
From my son: the reminder that Jesus has the power to heal me

My love language hasn't always been gifts, but as a sentimental person, gifts mean the world to me, especially when they are thoughtful. The best gifts I have been given are the gifts of time and support and friendship. Sometimes these gifts come in the form of experiences together, a well-timed email or text message, or a tangible gift that is so thoughtful that I am overwhelmed by love. Of all the gifts I've ever been given, however, the gift that means the most to me comes from my Heavenly Father: His son, by whom my whole life is illuminated and meaningful.

Motherhood Monologues #14: Stop

Tonight we had the opportunity to have some friends over for dessert and games. They are getting married in six days. We feel like we've been waiting a long time for them to tie the knot...so I'm sure it feels even longer to them! They asked us for some marriage advice and opened the floodgates. At five and a half years of marriage, we think we are experts.

Note: we aren't.

I was surprised by my husband and what he called his most important piece of advice: "Don't stop courting each other."

He looked at my jaw nearly hitting the table and apologized for being so bad at taking me on dates. Sometimes we go months between going "out" and usually that is only if we have a special occasion or I get tired enough of the children to arrange for a babysitter and ask him out.

The truth is, though, that I need to be better about letting him court me. I am notorious for ruining his surprises. I can work on that. I need to acknowledge that the little-big things he does for me, like ordering that new card game that I wanted or getting up with the kids at night or doing the dishes are all acts of love and wooing.

Unintentionally, I stopped being grateful for the little things. I need to start finding ways to serve and surprise him again so we can not just move on--we can move forward.

Motherhood Monologues #13: Play

A favorite childhood memory? "I could no sooner pick a favorite star in the heavens." (Danielle, Ever After, where are my 90s movie peeps?)

My childhood isn't so much defined by the things I loved to do, but the people I loved to play with. I remember chasing my older brother up and down the lane on our bikes while we played cops and robbers. I remember playing dollhouse and Barbies with my little sister (those rare moments when we got along!). I remember making wooden boats and "racing them" down the canal with my cousin Jake and dressing up in Grandma's "vintage" clothing with Jill. I remember making cookies with my little brother. I remember sledding and playing hide and seek in the snow with our St. Bernard, and how my fiesty, unfriendly cat was always good for a cuddle when I was sad. I remember monkey bars, Hallmark movies, and tractor rides at Grandma and Grandpa Burningham's and cinnamon toast, Cinderella puzzles, and racing billiard balls at my Grandma and Grandpa Browning's. I remember my third grade teacher letting me direct and put on a play for my class and my fourth grade teacher inviting me on the class trip to Yellowstone even after my family had moved away. I remember playing house with my best friend Mindi and spending weekends at my second family, the Spackmans' home. I remember being obsessed with all things American Girl, taking a cooking class, piano and violin lessons. I remember my aunt coaching my basketball teams. I remember my mom reading to us and throwing the best birthday parties. I remember square dancing Daddy Daughter Dates.

I remember, I remember, I remember.

This is the kind of childhood I want to give my children: the ability to imagine and play, the memories of laughing with their siblings, the kinds of friendships that, although they have faded, still bring a smile and a warm feeling to their hearts. I want them to have teachers that will recognize and encourage their interests and build their confidence. I want them to have the kind of relationship with their grandparents that makes them feel loved by simply recalling their faces or stepping into their homes. I want them to go on adventures with their cousins, have days where they get covered in mud, and feel as if the worlds they create for themselves are as real as the house next door.

And for me? I hope I get to be part of their experiences, even if it is from the sidelines. I want to be able to take joy in their play and laugh at their escapades. And I want to have days when I can sit down and play paper dolls and cars without feeling the need to start picking up the toys that surround me.

And I hope that occasionally I can get my siblings together and play a round of cops and robbers.

Motherhood Monologues #12: Patience

1. Regularly occurring situations I need to be more patient about:

• Sunrise and the need to wake up each morning
• Snot wiped all over my shirts
• The need that children have to walk straight into swinging swings instead of walking around them (seriously, is it that hard?)
• The fact that my family wants breakfast, lunch, and dinner (and second breakfast, snack, and second dinner) every. single. day.
• The inability of my body to keep my blood sugar in acceptable ranges while I eat everything I want to eat
• The fact that clothes never quite make it into a laundry basket
• How there aren't two hours set aside each day to specifically be my reading time
• The cost of living and everything costing more than I think it should be worth
• The whining
• The fact that things are never as clean or organized as I want them to be
• That "naptime" isn't a given for adults
• Dandelions and all other weeds taking over my yard
• Dust taking over my house
• Fuzzy mom brain
• Her meltdowns
• His refusal to just let me change his diaper without a wrestling match
• Bugs that fly through the door
• Donald Trump and all things politically wrong with America
• Misunderstandings
• Llama Llama can't make it through a book without throwing a fit
• Brown Bear never sees anything besides a red bird
• The Aggie basketball team being a continual mess, year after year
• The preschooler's bedtime routine must always include four elaborate and unnecessary rituals
• Running out of chocolate
• The weather not cooperating
• My son's habit of pulling on my arms or legs to get me to go where he wants me
• The laundry is never actually completely done

Wow, that list could go on and on. Patience is not exactly one of my best virtues.

2. Situations it is time to stop being patient about and make a change

• My daughter. I need to stop doing things that she is capable of doing for herself just to avoid a meltdown or a battle.v
• My talents.  I need to take the time to do those things that make me me outside of being a wife and a mother. 
• The weeds. I can attack them, and I will, even if I am the only one fighting for my side.
• My health. I may not be able to control everything, but I can make choices that will certainly help and make me feel better.
• My emotions. I need to stop dwelling on negativity and when it comes to my children's emotions, I need to realize that I can be in charge of how I react to their outbursts.
• The Project List. There are a lot of things that I tell myself I am waiting for help on--I need to learn how to do some of those things (and wield power tolls) by myself.

Motherhood Monologues #11: Allow

This year I have tried harder to allow myself "me" time--much to the annoyance of my children and husband, who sometimes have to find ways to entertain themselves. The thing is, I can't be their everything all the time--even when that only amounts to watching a basketball game I don't care about or sitting next to my daughter while she colors. In order for me to be the best mother and wife I can be, sometimes I have to ignore the crying and the annoyed sighs and finish my book, write on my blog, or create art. If I don't take the time to breathe, then I will suffocate in the constant tugging and pulling that is being a wife and a mother.

Speaking in terms of "allowance," I think I need to give myself more time and space to do the things that relieve my stress and make me happy WITHOUT punishing myself for it by carrying around the guilt of "but I could have been doing something for them."

Motherhood Monologues #10: Inspire

Before I was a mother. Did those days exist? Before I was a mother. Hmm,

Before I was a mother, I used to play the "someday" game: Someday I will get married. Someday I will publish a book. Someday I'll be finished with school. Someday I'll travel the world. Someday I'll have children. Someday...

The antonym, or opposite, of "someday" is never. "Never" is not a game mothers are allowed to play. Once there is a fuzzy gray bean on that ultrasound machine screen, or even two pink lines on that plastic stick, you are a mother and you will be one forever, regardless of what happens to that bean. A mother carries a child for longer than nine months--a mother carries a child in her heart forever.

Sometimes I catch myself playing the "once upon a time" game. The "once upon a time" game propels me to the past, just as the "someday game" ponders on the future. Once upon a time my brain functioned. Once upon a time I could recall lyrics to more than just Disney movies and PBS kid shows. Once upon a time, I showered every day. Once upon a time I got butterflies when I saw his name on the caller ID...

...actually that last one is a "right now" game. I'm lucky that way.

So I guess this is what it boils down to: in the past, I was inspired by the future. In the future, I'm inspired by the past (aka, someday my brain will work again!). In the present, I should spend a little less time daydreaming and a little more time living the dream.

Motherhood Monologues #9: Rhythm

First of all, I can't even spell the word rythm rhythym rythym rhythm without help from spell check.

Secondly, tempo has never exactly been my strong suite. When I was a child taking piano lessons, it took me three years to learn eighth notes because my teacher refused to move on until I learned how to count. In the end my family moved on, I got a new teacher, and eighth notes opened a whole new world of music that I played by my own rhythm.

No metronomes for me.

And so it makes sense, then, that my family doesn't live by a specific schedule. We live by a routine, which allows for more flexibility in our days. We follow a pattern instead of a clock, meaning that sometimes naptime happens at noon and sometimes it happens at two and sometimes it doesn't happen at all, and that's okay. My children know the order of our days and I've learned to follow their signals instead of the beats set forth by parenting books and blogs.

After all, I learned to play for myself, not so someone else could sing along.

Motherhood Monologues #8: Clearing Space

My list of mental clutter (for today, anyway):
1. What's for dinner?
2. How many ways is my son going to unwittingly try to harm himself today?
3. All the characters and songs from Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood
4. Facebook. All the posts. Or at least the 90% of them that pertain in absolutely no way to my life.
5. My ongoing list of projects that I haven't started
6. OH LOOK! A BOOK!
7. I should really go pull some weeds.
8. I should really exercise.
9. Everyone looks better with a little chub, right?
10. How many days until the weekend, again?
11. Every worry of every possible thing that could ever go wrong
12. All the mommy guilt. I gave her the blue bowl for breakfast and lied when I said there wasn't a clean purple one.
13. How is it possible for one little boy to love string cheese that much?
14. OH LOOK! ANOTHER BOOK!
15. The people at V-Tech should be shot for making the most annoying toys on the planet.
16. He knows the word "kickoff!" I must be doing something right!
17. "If you have to go potty, stop and go right away!"
18. Laundry. I should probably start some. And fold the four loads I did last week.
19. How many mini Cadbury eggs can I eat in one day without feeling guilty? I shared one with my daughter after lunch. Surely that means I can eat five more.
20. Tomorrow. Everything tomorrow.

What I need to do to reclaim that mental space:
1. Sleep.
2. Read.
3. Breathe.
Not necessarily in that order.

Motherhood Monologues #7: Relax

"Mom, let's be-lax," my daughter says as she turns off the light and then climbs onto the couch, oblivious to the fact that I am holding a book in my hands and can no longer see, nor do I really want to watch Frozen for the gazillionth time.

But still, as I set my book aside and cuddle her next to me, wrapping her Olaf blanket around the two of us, I realize that these "belaxing" moments are important for us both. It isn't about the show, or the amount of light in the room, it is about the time we spend cuddling together doing a similar activity. Although these times are rarely relaxing for me, they are relaxing for her, and that's enough for me.

I can always relax later, right?

Motherhood Monologues #6: Grow

I always thought that I would feel like a grown-up when I got married, bought a car, had children, graduated from college, bought a house...you know, those big "adulting" things.

But, after having done all of those things, I am here to tell you that the day I felt grown up was the day I bought a swiffer.

That's right. A swiffer.

Because nothing says "I'm getting older" like cleaning supplies, right?

Motherhood Monologues #5: Honesty

There are very few secrets in my life, and most of the secrets I guard are not, in fact, my secrets, but the secrets of others.  Thus it becomes a hard task to break open the honesty box and pull out a story.

Pregnancy is hard for every woman. That's a fact. It's also a fact that it is hard in different ways for every woman. I feel like I've tried to be honest with my motherhood experiences, but I know that there are times that I need to open myself up more in order to be entirely truthful.

My two pregnancies have been very different. During the first one, I was nauseated constantly. I had never felt so physically ill in my life. During my second pregnancy, I was depressed constantly. I have never felt so mentally and emotionally ill in my life. Although I have struggled with anxiety since I was a child, that was the first time that I was able to recognize the dark clouds hanging over my head for what they were: depression.

I felt so low, so tired, so worthless. And though I was meeting with doctors on a bi-weekly basis, not once did any of them ask about my mental health. Perhaps I would not have shared if they had, but part of me knows all I was waiting for was someone to extend a hand to my drowning self and say, "it's okay. There is help."

That hand didn't come until a few hours before we were discharged from the hospital, my infant son in my arms. A blonde nurse dressed in maroon scrubs looked over the survey I'd filled out and with kindness and understanding in her eyes told me that my answers indicated I was at risk for postpartum depression. "It's nothing to mess with," she said. "I've been there. You don't need to be embarrassed." She encouraged me to ask for help, and six difficult, tear-filled weeks later, I finally did what I should have done years before.

Although my son is well past the baby stage, I still struggle. Daily. Medication helps heal my mental state, but not as much as knowing someone cares and that I am not alone. A hug, a text, an email, an honest conversation with a friend--these are the things that have the power to heal emotionally.

Motherhood Monologues #4: Prepare

I feel as if I should put a disclaimer on here, and an apology to all those who get my posts emailed to them. Please don't feel you have to read every single one of these. I am mostly writing them to get me writing and putting them on my Thursday blog seems like the best way to store these thoughts. So feel free to delete and be on your way. Or read them. Whatevs.

I've always been a worrier, but lately I find myself worrying extra about my daughter.  As time moves forward and she gets further into preschool and the process of growing up, I am seeing more and more evidence of those lost eight weeks in my womb. As a baby, she moved through milestones at an average pace and after about nine months, you couldn't really even tell that she is a premie. Certain skills took her longer to master, like crawling and talking, but once the process clicked in her mind, she quickly mastered each task and moved on to a new one. I never overly worried about her. We narrowly escaped that "special needs family" label, and that's something to be grateful for.

Somehow, in my mind, that sort of equated to "we won't stuggle." But we have. And every experience, like every choice, has a consequence. Most days we don't even think about her time in the NICU, but those memories linger like shadows in her bedroom. And I worry, am I prepared to handle all of the challenges that will come as she moves forward in life? Can I, with my limited experiences, help her navigate the mountains she will have to climb? Will I ever gain the patience to deal adequately with her struggles? Has my life prepared me enough to be her mother?

Last weekend, as we were driving home, she started to get excited and said to me, "Mom! I didn't have any issues today!"

I laughed. She might be able to get through a day without issues, but her mother has them on a daily basis.

Worrying? It doesn't get me anywhere. I often tell myself that if I can take our days situation by situation, then we will be okay. Sometimes that means making a healthy choice for a snack when it would be easier to grab a cookie from the pantry. Sometimes that means ignoring the dirty bathroom in favor of reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? for the sixth time. Sometimes that means taking a deep breath and instead of angrily reacting to a meltdown, holding her close and whispering calming words of love and strength so we can get through today's challenges together.

Motherhood Monologues #3: Engage

I think the activities and people that "drain" me the most are the ones with which I don't feel I have a lot of control. Negotiations with my small children can definitely leave me feeling that way, as can online encounters where my beliefs and opinions are belittled. People that make me feel as if I have to explain my every move and decision can also deplete my inner batteries and leave me feeling less than I am. Most often, those activities that I allow myself to engage in within my own head are the most draining ones of all: comparing myself to other women, thinking about what I don't have instead of being grateful for what I do, making rash judgements about others, justifying bad or unkind decisions, talking down my strengths and magnifying my weaknesses.

I think any time we engage with any person or activity we give away pieces of ourselves, and that can definitely deflate us, but it can also help us renew ourselves. The trick is to place our own limits and build our own walls. Sometimes this means blocking someone on social media, other times it means learning to say "no" when we truly should not extend ourselves that far.

A few years ago I did a personal experiment. For one entire year, I made it a goal to say yes whenever I was asked to serve someone. Rarely did this deflate me. Instead, I found that I gained friends and blessings I would not have otherwise experienced.

This year, I have tried to disengage from pointless arguments. Sure, this sometimes leaves me feeling as if my thoughts and opinions haven't been represented, but usually it keeps me from feeling negative emotions toward others and myself. Mostly I have started cutting myself some slack and giving myself room to spend time on those things that renew me without feeling guilty. I have picked up some new hobbies and skills, spent more time outside pushing my children on the swings while ignoring the weeds, stayed up late to finish a book, I am already starting to tell the difference between quiet time that truly has been wasted and quiet time that has given me a rest and allowed me to push forward.

Motherhood Monologues #2: Choose

I often feel that my choices in life are limited. That is, my main choice to stay out of the workplace and in the home often defines many other choices that I might have had otherwise.

Just a few days ago a friend posted on facebook that her employer was looking for freelance writers. I asked for more information, but as soon as I read her message, the message from God was the same as it has been for the past four years: "No. Not right now. Your children need you."

I often think that, since I am distracted by my phone, computer, and social media anyway, I might as well be earning money, right? But everytime I start to think that way, the Holy Ghost pulls on the reigns and I am reminded, once again, that being a mother--just a mother--is enough in and of itself.

What am I afraid of losing by choosing to not work? Myself--the person I once thought I could become.

And what do I gain by choosing to follow the Lord's counsel to me? Myself--the person He wants me to become.

Motherhood Monologues #1: Breathe

From now until the beginning of May, my favorite blog is running a series of Motherhood Monologues with a writing prompt for each day. Since I desperately feel the need to do more writing in my life, I've decided to complete these daily prompts and post them here. Welcome to Day 1.

My oldest is a very light sleeper. I was able to check on her when she was smaller, and I often did, especially in those days when we first brought her home from the hospital and the act of breathing was still something she wasn't excellent at. Gradually, the oxygen went away, and my nightime and naptime visits to her room decreased in frequency until they had all but stopped. When we moved into our new home, these visits really did stop because there is a creaky floorboard right in her doorway now, which means that unless I conquer stealth mode (me as a ninja=current failure), I don't often get to watch her breathe. I do, however, occasionally pull out some yoga moves and hang on to her doorway to peek in and watch her sleep in all of the crazy positions she gets from me.

My son sleeps a bit deeper, but I don't often take the time to watch him sleep unless I have to go in and wake him up. I treasure those small. 30-second pauses, watching his chest rise and fall and wondering what sort of wonderful dreams he is having and if I am part of them before I interrupt him and bring him back to reality.

A wise woman once told me that if you want to find good kids, you peek into their rooms and watch them while they are sleeping. Somehow, the act of sleep can turn a terrorist two-year-old into the most innocent, sweet little lamb. I've tried to remember this advice and on the particularly tough days, I try to take a small peek at my little ones while they are in their angelic state. Somehow, the act of watching them in their most helpless state is enough to fill my motherhood canteen with love and give me the courage to try again tomorrow.