Baking Aisle Epiphany

Scene: Friday afternoon, Winco, baking aisle. 

Tired mom trying to get her kids out of the house, pass time before dad comes home, and replenish the pantry.  Mom is distracted trying to find the most economical package of shortening. Daughter's feet "just can't work anymore!" Son has already done up the buckle on the shopping cart and is therefore bored. 

Enter: bearded stranger, dressed in black work clothes and walking quickly.

Son: "HI JESUS! HI JESUS!"

Mom's cheeks turn red and her head whips around to see if the stranger has heard. He is still walking quickly.

Son: "Hi Jesus! Mommy, Jesus!"

Mom realizes that maybe her first reaction was wrong. Sure, in all probability, that man is not Jesus. But the fact that her son doesn't find it strange at all to see Jesus at the grocery store is kind of special, right? That he has the kind of relationship where he would gladly greet the Savior with a happy hello? That he knows Him?

Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shallappear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.  -1 John 3:2

She Smiled

There are those who will find this post...immature.
There are those who will find themselves...scoffing.
There are even those (cough*mysiblingsandhusband*cough) who will make fun of me...

but here it goes.

I swear she smiled.

The past 15 years of her life have been spent moving from dusty dresser to antique chair to original packaging. Her hair has stayed in the same braid--because styling it another way might mean it all falling out. She's lived for those occasional seasonal outfit changes, hugs I sneak in when no one is looking, times when I proudly pull her out to show a niece or a little friend in my neighborhood, times when I whisper in her ear, I haven't forgotten. I still love you.

Perhaps she doesn't like to be manhandled. And she certainly doesn't like being called a baby.

But "yours little girlie?"

That I don't think she minds.

I confess, it was the new Cinderella dress that did me in. Five bucks at an outlet sale, never quite fitting on any of the baby dolls living in our upstairs.

I wonder...it would look so great...maybe she's ready?

"Just a minute, sweetheart," I tell her, as she begs to play house once again. "Let me go get my doll!"

I run downstairs. She is right where I left her--as faithful a friend as she has been since day one, despite the many moves, horrid hairstyles, preteen tears, and being forgotten one too many times in a hot Utah minivan.

She looks a little worse for the wear--but the past two decades have aged me too.

I enter my daughter's room, wearing my Molly smile, and after getting her dressed in some new, more "modern" clothing, I hand her over, I pass her down, I turn her into an heirloom. She's resurrected, reborn, renewed, refreshed.

She looks at me from my daughter's cradling arms.

I swear she smiled.

Motherhood Monologues 2016: That's a Wrap!

I'm sad to see it end, but tonight's post concludes this year's Misses Miscellany Motherhood Monologues Prompts (say that five times fast). I have enjoyed getting to know myself better over these past 25 days. Thank you for those that have taken the time to respond, react, and share my emotions with me. I know it isn't an easy task!

I'm not really sure why I am writing this conclusion, except that I feel that I need to. I wish that these monologues were called "Womanhood Monologues"--1, because that would make it easier to say, and 2, because I know that all women are mothers, regardless of whether or not their name is listed on a birth certificate other than their own.

Mother's Day is not my favorite holiday. I feel like there are so many other, better things to celebrate. But when I really stop and think about the blessing that having a mother, being a mother, and learning from other mothers is to me, well--the only holidays that could possibly mean more are Christmas and Easter. And really, if Christmas is a celebration of the birth of Christ, then it is also a celebration and an indication that motherhood is truly one of the highest callings--because, after all, that is how God sent his Only Begotten to this earth. And so it is not only how He sends his children to earth, but how He guides them throughout their mortal sojourn. And as for Easter--well, I don't know about you, but my celebration of Christ's resurrection is made that much more meaningful knowing that it was to a woman that He first revealed his perfect and restored body.

If these monologues have touched your life in some way--if you have gotten to know and understand me better, or felt better about yourself, or realized that you are not alone, or had cause to pause and consider your effect on others, then all this time that my husband has sacrificed so that I can clickety-clack away at the computer keyboard has been worth it.

And even if you think me more annoying than ever, well, that's okay too. Because the past twenty-five days have taught me that I have more value than I think I am worth, more intelligence than I give God credit for, and more purpose than changing dirty diapers and making sure the laundry gets done. You do too.

Thanks for reading!

Love,
Rinda

PS- I'm starting a new "growth challenge" next week. I can't wait to tell you all about my aunt's genius and the things I want to learn this summer. Be on the lookout for my 111 Days to Zion series (and I promise I won't flood your email inbox daily for the next 111 days...unless, of course, you want me to).

Motherhood Monologues #25: Home

When my husband and I went to close on our home, I felt terrible that I couldn't contribute financially. I mean, I knew I worked hard to keep our family functioning, but it wasn't a very nice feeling to watch him sign all of the paperwork with the caveat "oh, we'll add your name later" because I had no income. Not just steady income--literally, no income.

Somewhere in the process of picking out the house, making offers, packing up our apartment, and scrubbing the house clean of its former occupants, I made a promise to myself that if I couldn't get us a house, I would move heaven and earth to make the house I was provided a home.

Making a home is easier said than done, especially as children grow and careers change and roofs need replacing and basements flood and illnesses fluctuate. In my mind's eye, I know how I want my home to be, but like the development of myself into the woman I want to be, there are a lot of things I simply don't know how to do. So I'm working on it.

I have always wanted the type of home that would be a refuge for not just my family, but for any friends, acquaintances, and neighbors that come along. I want it to be a place that, while it might not always be clean, is always cozy. I want a place where visitors can walk in and immediately know that we try our hardest to keep Christ at the center of our home. We will not apologize for the life we desire to live, and we will especially not apologize for it or hide it within the walls of our personal refuge, but we will gladly invite anyone in who is willing to respect us and our beliefs, even if they do not agree.

I want my home to be a place of laughter and learning. I want to see the evidence of imagination--hence why I painted a wall so my kids could color on it and there are food coloring stains on the kitchen counter and a crocodile that lives in our bathtub (aka, a mat from IKEA. His name is Lyle.) There are shelves full of books in every room--reading material is never far away around here. There are princess gowns and blanket forts and every kind of sports ball. There are notebooks and art walls and sheet music and spaces to dance. There is culture here--it may not be classy, but it is enlightening.

I want my home to be a place of play. Every kind of play, from the swingset in the backyard to the kitchen set in the family room to the piano in the living room to the shelves full of puzzles and games in the front closet. We work hard, but we also play hard. Sometimes playing with my children is work for me--sometimes playing with me is work for my husband (as anyone who has ever played Monopoly with me can attest). 

I want my home to be a place of growth. Although my husband jokes that the gigantic ruler in our front entryway is simply a way to tell how tall a burglar is before he/she runs out the door, to me it is a record of the lives of my children. They ask to stand by it often and in those moments I can see them aging before my eyes. Those inches that they pack on come slowly, a millimeter at a time, but when I notice that she has sprung up four inches since her last birthday I am able to see the difference between what was and what is.

I want my home to be a breath of fresh air. From the plants in our yard to the occasional scented candle or wax warmer, it is important to me that my home feels, smells, and sounds clean even if it is cluttered. There are times when I turn off all the inside noises and open the windows just to hear the renewal of spring and the see the whitening effect that direct sunshine can have on a person's life.

Our house is not perfect. It is not new and it is not fashionable, and we have a whole notebook full of our home improvement project lists (or we would, if we actually took the time to write our dreams down). Little by little, we are making changes. Some are temporal and tangible, like fresh paint and new doorknobs. Some are spiritual, like consistent scripture study and family prayer, and some are emotional, like the institution of family hugs and the passing of the "loving sign" and the kisses of kindness that my daughter's preschool introduced to our lives. Each of these changes, small or large, expensive or frugal, serves to change our house and change us--and that is what truly makes our dwelling place a home.

And that is all I have ever wanted.

Motherhood Monologues #24: Breathe in, breathe out

Sometimes I wish someone would give me permission to feel my feelings.

I realize, however, that the only person who can do that is me.

I really struggle with excuses. I don't like them. I don't like to use them. I have an innate desire to be perfect and invincible, though neither of those things is possible. I often get mad at myself because I can't keep up with the pace  at which I would like to live life. My body and my children will not let me. 

I hate not feeling productive. I hate having my husband come home to a house that is messier than he left it two days ago. I hate knowing that I could be, should be, would be more if I would stop being so lazy.

I am learning, however, that there is a fine line between lazy and sick. And although I don't like to admit it, my body is ill and will be for the rest of my life. My handful of livable diseases can create a perfect storm of fatigue.

And some days I can't tell the difference between "I don't want to function today" and "I can't function today." All I know is that in the space between those two thoughts, there is a lot of room for guilt and self-doubt. 

I need to just do the best I can, right?

What happens when I don't know what is my best? 

Sometimes, when I try to get there, I overdo it and spend the next three days paying for my confidence. 

But sometimes, I end up exceeding my expectations. 

So I guess it all boils down to this today: I need to take a breather from berating myself and know that maybe someday I'll figure it out. I give myself permission to do that.

Motherhood Monologues #23: Play, revisited

Bedtime.

Nobody likes it, everybody hates it, why do we even bother?

Oh that's right, I love bedtime.

I just do not like putting my kids to bed. This has always been a struggle for us, more so with our daughter than with our son. With the help of Daylight Savings, the process of getting her to sleep has taken two hours most nights this week. This is really not okay with me. Or her dad. Or her emotions.

We've tried most approaches, and so I'll save you the time and not ask for your advice. It's just her, it's just life, it's just how it is. Some nights she goes right to bed. Some nights she struggles. Some nights she pushes her boundaries. It really just depends on her mood and if I've kept her busy enough to wear her out.

Last night was particularly terrible. Over two hours after we tucked her in, I went up to my room to go to bed and she was still awake. I decided to not let myself get frustrated (that approach had already failed twice in the last hour), so I went into my room, pulled out my worn purple teddy bear from my childhood (who had been hanging out in my closet because my son had somehow found him) and asked her if she could take care of him for me because he was having a hard time. She said yes and after another hug and a kiss, ten minutes later she was snoring.

The really payday came this morning as we played "house." I was the little girl and she was the mommy and she insisted on putting me to bed. I'm never one to say no to a rest, so even though it was 9:30 am, I let her tuck me into bed. She read me a story, gave me a kiss, tucked in the covers, turned out the light, and sang her own rendition of  "I am a Child of God at home at school at play."

I briefly considered giving her a hard time, just so she could know how it felt. Then I decided I would be better off playing the "be a good example" card, so the next time she came up to check on me, I tucked my phone under the covers and closed my eyes.

She tiptoed into the room, came over to me, and kissed my elbow because she couldn't reach my face.

And I learned that sometimes a person, no matter how big or small, just needs an extra love to be able to relax.

Motherhood Monologues #22: Clearing Space (again...because things never stay clean)

For all that I like to pretend that my living room is the celestial room* of my home, the reality is that my mood matches the state of my kitchen.

I am not the sole ruler of the kitchen, and there was a time in our marriage when I only did the dishes a handful of times in a year. My husband, bless his heart, does what he can, and since graduate school  and his current job came into our lives I've had to pull more weight in the cleaning of the kitchen. Especially since he is super good at loading and unloading the dishwasher and washing the hand dishes but not so great at wiping off the counters (a pet peeve passed to me by my mother and her mother).

I suppose I could improve upon "routines to keep in place to keep the space cleared." Currently, if I don't get to the dishes within a day, my current routine is to leave them there until one of three things happens:

1. He wants to do something kind for me and does the dishes without me asking
2. My grumpy demeanor and cold shoulder alert him that perhaps he could win my affection by cleaning the pan from Tuesday's dinner on Thursday
3. Four days pass and I do the dishes by myself for sanitation purposes

Obviously, this routine is not great for my mood or my marriage. That's just the state of the family right now. I feel like if the kitchen is clean, the whole house is clean (even if we are a prime setting for a Febreze commercial). That's my ideal clean space.

My husband has a different definition of the most important space to keep clear in our home: the carpet. He feels like if the floor is vacuumed, then the whole house could be covered in cobwebs and it wouldn't matter. 

Case in point: one day last summer he came home and excitedly thanked me for vacuuming the stairs, commenting on how nice they looked. For a minute, I considered letting him think that, and then I came clean and admitted there were lines on the carpet because our baby had been practicing going down the stairs on his tummy all day.

So occasionally I pull out the vacuum for him, and more often he does the dishes for me, and instead of just clearing space in our home, we clear the space between us.

(*a sacred room in the LDS Temples)

Motherhood Monologues #21: Patience AGAIN?!

Why is this a thing? The need to have patience? The urge to pray for it and then the instantaneous regret because that is always the one prayer God decides to answer right away?

I want patience--I just don't want to have to endure ANYTHING to get it.

My children are little, and right now we don't have all that much going on. Some days it feels like a lot, but in reality I know that the day is not far distant that our one dance class and two preschool classes a week will turn into choir and soccer and homework and piano lessons and chores  for multiple children. During that season of my life, a different kind of patience will be needed--the kind of patience that gives me peace as I run around like a chicken with my head cut off.

At the moment, my life requires the kind of patience that is the chicken getting constantly pecked at, peeped at, and asked for eggs (aka, when is the next chick coming along?). I learned a long time ago that the first rule of parenting is that you will have no control. Over anything. You might think you have control, but I think in that case you are probably doing something wrong.

At times I think, I should have control over myself, right? Is that too much to ask? Isn't that a basic human right? I'm an adult. Doesn't that mean I can make my own choices and control my own destiny?

That's a big fat NOPE.

The best choice I ever made for my motherhood destiny was to let go of my self-control.

For example:

Sometimes I want to ground my children to kingdom come; instead, I take a moment to breathe (a normalish time out) and then hug the problem out of them.

Sometimes I want to throw away the thousands of toys procreating on my family room floor; instead, I try to teach my children the art of cleaning up after themselves (along with a small amount of herd control via the DI).

Sometimes, I get upset that the dishes have sat in the sink for more than three days; instead, I ignore them until my husband sees them. (Hey, I'm not perfect.)

Sometimes, I would really like to shower and wear cute clothes and put on makeup every day; instead, I have realized that I need to treasure these moments when they come along and, on all the other days, wear lots of deodorant and body spray and embrace the fashion of the mombie: yoga pants and an old college game-day shirt.

I haven't given up every part of me--not even close. I've just given up on controlling every part of my life. And somewhere in there, I've gained enough patience to survive. The next ten seconds.

Motherhood Monologues #20: Choose

I have often wondered if I made the right choice when I decided to major in Technical Writing. I have very little talent for grammar or spelling, but I do know how to make words and thoughts flow on a page, and I do love to write.

I thought when I majored in this that it would be a good "work from home" job. And it is--if you can break into the market. I've been too tired to do that.

Sometimes I think of the other things I could have learned in college, like teaching or social work or family counseling. I wonder how my life would be different if I had taken one of those paths. Would I be better off? Would I be better able to bring in some extra for my family? Would I feel more fulfilled?

But what about all those English papers and resumes and cover letters and college entrance exams and thesis drafts and Christmas cards and reports that my family and friends send me for an extra look-over? Would I be able to be as helpful if I didn't have the same background? Maybe. Maybe not.

I've come to realize recently that I am not my degree and my degree is not me. These are things I have learned, but learning never stops. I choose every day of my life what I am going to be, and no piece of paper can determine that for anyone.