Thoughts on Time and Self-Love

It's been awhile.

I have so many thoughts flying around my brain that I am still trying to make sense of. Two weeks ago, I realized it had literally been months since I'd taken time to write anything more than a grocery list. Even my usually bursting planner has been abandoned for most of this summer. I gave up on updating our family blog a while ago. I have been trying to muddle through Shutterfly scrapbooks, but I'm still a year behind on those. I haven't created anything, painted anything, or designed anything just for the sheer joy of it in months and months.

Why? I thought to myself. Why am I not making time for these things that I love?

I've been reading. Actually, I've been flying through the fluff fiction. 25 books since May. Reading is breathing for me. It's life.

But it isn't everything.

I'd be lying if I said that this summer has been the best ever. Parts of it have been amazing, but 70% has been downright miserable. I've been losing track of myself, retreating into a person who is neither pleasant nor successful nor content. I feel as if I've been hiking through wet sand, uphill, in a wind storm. My husband comes home to find me battered, listless, and completely worn out. I'm not usually one to back down from a fight, but my whole summer has been a losing battle.

In explaining these emotions, I wish I could find the reason for it all. I have my suspicions: an anxiety-riddled six-year-old, a potty training flunkie, a curious baby who makes me realize that my other two were, in fact, somewhat mellow toddlers. At least more mellow than her! I shake my head and have to laugh. My favorite portion of my older two's childhoods was undoubtedly that period between 12 and 20 months. I'd got back to 4-6 months with my youngest in a heartbeat. She had such a pleasant babyhood and oh how I loved being with her! Of course she is highly entertaining nowadays and nothing melts me more than when she'll stop whatever mischief she is making, crawl over, and thrust her head into my lap for a sort of half-cuddle before she is off again.

With all my energies going three different directions, there is very little leftover, and what I do have, I like to give away: to my husband, my parents, my friends, my home. I've been doing these people a disservice though, because I haven't been taking enough time for me.

I don't feel like my routine has changed that much. I've been going to the gym, saying prayers, showering on a consistent basis. I am starting to realize, however, that sometimes when life gets harder, you need longer time outs and more time for you. As a mom, it is hard for me to take that time without feeling like I'm stealing something from the people I love. An overnighter with my best friends restored me more to myself than I've felt in weeks--but I still came home feeling like I'd been away too long and cheated my family out of something that should have been theirs. I feel like I take these breaks but they are always a race against the clock, because there is always something waiting for me when the break ends.

Having something to come home to is a wonderful thing. I first really learned this lesson nine years ago on my intermission, when time was both my enemy and my ally. This time my break was at home, doing some of the things I now like to escape from. I wanted so badly to be back in Texas, but oh how I relished that time that I had to be somebody's sweetheart, somebody's sister, somebody's best friend--and all without a nametag and a structured bedtime.

The other night my newfound stylist and friend had a last minute opening for a haircut. My hair feels like it has been falling out faster over the past few weeks, and sometimes  haircut gives me a mental peace of mind that I won't go bald. I know it doesn't make much sense, but that's the way it is. I snapped up that appointment and then made sure it was okay with my husband. When he got home from work a few hours later, he found the wife he's been finding all summer in a not-great state. A conversation about going out for dinner turned into trying to get the kids herded out the door, a feat that we gave up after twenty minutes of pre-leaving activities (like putting away laundry and going potty and getting along). After overhearing me leave a child's room when said child refused to do his/her (protecting the identity of the not-so-innocent) responsibility or listen to what I was calmly (I'm giving myself props for staying calm here) trying to say to said child, he came upstairs to find me brushing my teeth at 5:00 and, for the first time in our married life, pushed me out the door with a directive to go get some dinner and have some time to myself before my haircut.

So I did. I left. His actions gave me the permission to breathe for a minute. I used a birthday coupon to get a free hamburger and treated myself to onion rings, which I ate in the library parking lot while reading a book on my phone. I went to the store without having to coral children or feel guilt about spending money. I was buying toilet bowl cleaner. I felt...liberated?

Then I took my tired eyes to my appointment and spent the next two hours (the haircut did not take nearly that long) talking to a kindred spirit. I found myself telling her about the struggles of this summer. We talked about the wonderfulness of understanding husbands, the frustrations of messy houses, the challenge of mental illness and depression, the feeling of losing control and losing yourself. I found myself explaining to her that writing was my outlet, my thing that helped me make sense of the world. And I inwardly kicked myself because I have been robbing myself of that understanding. I called it cheap therapy, but she corrected me and said no, there's nothing cheap about it. It is therapy and it is necessary.

And I've been ignoring it.

No wonder I haven't been able to make sense of life lately. No wonder simple chores have seemed pointless and my relationships with my children strained. I've said to Scott on more than one occasion how I feel like they treat me like I'm worthless and there is no element of gratitude, only entitlement and how I wish I could get that through to them that life doesn't owe them anything.

Perhaps the answer here is as simple as my epiphany about getting Kevin to practice her piano. It's probably the same as reading, I thought. She sees me reading, so she knows I love books and she wants that too. Maybe I just need to find time to sit down and play the piano more just because I enjoy it and she'll see that it can be fun and not self-imposed torture. 

Maybe if she sees me taking the time to love myself more and treat myself better, she'll find that she wants to do the same. Maybe it's okay to put myself first, to come home and not apologize for being gone too long, to sit down at the computer and ignore the to-do list and focus on the to-be category.

As my dear friend Anne Shirley says, "It's not what the world holds for you, it's what you bring to it."

I'm going to spend a little more time bringing myself.

Small Moments, Simple Words, Great Things

This is my 2018 entry for Fruitland Home's annual Motherhood Monologues collaboration. I wrote it a few weeks ago, but I didn't want to forget to post it here. 

I was sitting in the mother’s room at church, feeling guilty for taking up a rocker with my bottle-fed, clearly-not-sleeping baby when I heard the voice over the speaker say these familiar words: “Through small and simple things, are great things brought to pass.”

A planned lesson. A hello, how are you? A kind look. Calling a child by name. Greeting a newcomer. Volunteering for an assignment. Participating in class. Getting the children ready. Making sure we are there. Raising my hand to sustain my husband in his new calling, knowing that it means more lonely evenings, chaotic one-woman bedtime routines and dirty dishes left in the sink.

I was standing in the kitchen, pen in hand, planner open, baby on my hip, and looking the faded clipping of a painting I’d cut out of an Ensign nearly ten years ago. The faces in the painting, familiar to me because of the models, show a mother and two sons with a Bible open between them, reading the words of God. The caption my adolescent Sunday School teacher attached to his painting was an unassuming scripture: “Now ye may suppose that this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass; and small means in many instances doth confound the wise.”

Piles of reading homework from the kindergartener. Joy school lesson plans scribbled on index cards. Baby bottles lining the kitchen counter, keeping the painted rocks and brown paper bags company next to last week’s grocery ads. An open planner, the empty slots betraying the business of my days because writing “laundry” six times on a weekly spread is depressing. This month’s book club book waiting to be opened, the calendar says the meeting is next week. Crayon drawings adorn the fridge, the star space belonging to a construction paper pot-of-gold with a glued on rainbow drawing and lined white paper with pencil markings that proclaim, “mY sistr si speshul.” Two piles of photos from birthday collages, waiting to be put away in memory boxes. In the garbage is an orange bag that used to be filled with peanut butter M&Ms—my husband got a handful. My kids didn’t even know the bag existed until it was empty and they found it in the garbage.

I was scrolling through my Instagram feed, ignoring the screams and yells of my children fighting and the voice in my head highlighting my failures at keeping a peaceful home, when I read the words a friend had attached to a snapshot of her daughters, dressed in their Sunday best but clearly not wanting to pause for a picture: “’We may be doing things that only God can see, but they are the very things that make the greatest difference in our own lives and in the lives of those we love’-Tiffanie Brown, April Ensign.”

A kind word. A phone call, a text, a pinterest joke. Updated family pictures on the walls, a record of our family's growth. Blog posts from events that happened almost a year ago. An email here or there.  Hours spent researching family history. A prayer for a friend in need. Giving up a shower to cuddle a baby. Making sure everyone has clean underwear. Picking up debris off the floor before it finds the baby's mouth. 

I was sitting on the floor in my living room, trying to ignore the piles of toddler toys surrounding me as I talked to my mom on the phone for the first time in a week. I knew my husband was waiting for me to spend some rare time with him, but I just couldn’t help continuing the conversation because all week, I’ve needed my mom and we finally had a chance to talk. She’d left me a message on Thursday, the hardest day of my week, but I couldn’t call her back for fear of the tears that I knew would come once she answered the phone. All evening, I treasured that voicemail in my heart, thinking, my mom called me. SHE called ME.

On this evening, I had called her. I wasn’t feeling as alone, had taken a nap that afternoon, and was refreshed by the parts of the Sabbath day that didn’t include wrestling and wrangling children.

After so many days and so many reminders, I finally found myself voicing the truth I felt inside my heart:

“It’s hard to be the one at home. He’s got so many amazing and grand things going on, and I’m in the throngs of the small and simple.”

“Yes,” my mother’s voice confirmed. “But Rinda, the small and simple things one day will be the great things.”

Conversations with Sly

Sly: "Mommy, my nose is hurting."
Me: "Do you need me to kiss it better?"
Sly: "NO! Kisses don't work!"
Since when do my kisses not work? My heart starts to crack a bit, and then he says:
Sly: "But a cuddle would work!"

---
A few days ago, at lunch:
"Mommy, you'll always be my favorite parent."

--
Before lunch, with his dad, while his mom and sisters were gone:
Scott asks him if he wants chili for lunch. Sly makes this observation:
"Did you know that poop and chili are the same color brown?"
Scott takes him to a restaurant for lunch.

--

During joy school, we talked about the letter "W" and sang Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree and then I had the kids draw a picture of what they see out the window.
This is his picture:

He looked out the window and what did he see?
A crack.
A crack in the window.

Way to be optimistic, son.

----

Saying the prayer over dinner last night:

"Please bless that {Sofa} can grow up to be a big sister....Amen."
Followed by a talk about how that probably isn't going to happen.

---
His favorite thing to say to us after getting out of time out is "I don't love you, but I forgive you."
---

Bedtime is literally painful with Sly. It takes forever and rarely sticks the first time. It is infuriating and frustrating and does us in just about every night, despite our firm and strict expectations. A few weeks ago, after putting him to bed two or three times, he came out and before I could scold him, he said, "Mom, I just don't have enough powers to go to sleep. I need some Mom cuddles to give me sleeping powers."

Admittedly humbled, I cuddled him and then sent him back to bed.

Almost Unhurried

She was playing in the shadows, on the floor, the only light coming from the fluffy Hallmark TV show because the Jazz were too distracting and she refused to calm down and sleep.

I had halfheartedly tried to rock her a few different times, but my heart was torn. Do I relish that last night of rocking her to sleep before she turns one tomorrow, or do I put off bedtime as long as possible so tomorrow takes a little longer to get here?

She made the choice in the end. She wiggled her way off my lap and onto the floor, where she played with her brother's blanket and her pink giraffe (a gift from a neighbor because she was born in the middle of April the Giraffe's labor) until she came across her bottle, which she handed to me emphatically. She'd already had two bottles, but she wanted more.

Who was I to say no? She's almost one which is almost two which is the land of a thousand "no" conversations daily.

So I went upstairs, warmed up some milk, said a little prayer of gratitude that we no longer have to fit formula into our grocery budget, snuck a cookie from the pantry, and went back downstairs.

She looked up as soon as she heard my footsteps. Her smile grew on her face and she said something she's never said to me before.

"MOMMY!"

In that moment, I was reminded of why growth is so bittersweet. As a mother, you think that nothing could be better than holding that newborn, but then she starts smiling at you, and that is the best feeling ever. The long days and longer nights turn into short weeks, and soon she is belly-laughing at her brother and reaching for her sister and playing with your hair while you feed her, and how could life get any better? And then she starts hitting milestones, unhurried, because she knows she is your baby and the only way for you to be okay with her growing up is if she takes it nice and steady and slow. Suddenly, you are looking back on your camera and realizing that you somehow missed that magic moment when she turned from newborn to infant to baby to almost-toddler.

She started with "Dad Dad Dad" and eventually started to master "Momomomomom." Last week she began saying "Mama" and yelling at her brother and calling for her sister and saying "hi" to everyone. 

But tonight she knew what she was saying.
And I knew she was growing up.
Who am I to say no?

23

It's the age I was when I got married.
My aunt's number in sports; we all wore it at one point or another. (Forget Jordan and James, they don't count).
And it's the birthday day that I share with both of my grandpas.

I was born 16 days late. Don't believe me? Ask my mother. She has for sure never forgotten this about my birth. We joke about all of the reasons my birth was delayed: I needed extra heavenly instruction, I didn't want to leave, my husband (who was born a mere 11 days before me) wouldn't marry an older woman, I like making people wait, I'm a stubborn cuss. I think all of the above may be true. All I know for sure is that I love being born on the 23rd.

And I miss the men whose birthday number I shared.

My Grandpa Browning would have been 80 years old today. He died three days before I turned 24. I miss him everyday. Sometimes I forget what side of heaven he is on; I often expect him to show up at family functions. I have no doubt that sometimes he does; we just can't see him.

I didn't get to say a "real" good-bye to either of my grandpas. When my Grandpa Burningham died, my parents wisely decided that it was best for us to remember him the way he was the last time we saw him: smiling and chuckling at my little brother's 11th birthday party. When my Grandpa Browning died, he wisely decided that none of his grandchildren would see him in such rough state. I never saw him in his halo, but I still think of him everytime I hear Beyonce on the radio. I remember sitting in a bland family waiting room at the U of U hospital. I remember the smells of the Subway sandwiches we brought as they went stale. I remember talking to the two of my cousins who also were there. I remember Scott sitting with me as I watched my parents, aunts, and uncles go in and out of the room. I only saw my grandma in the hall, the clock jutting out of the wall reading somewhere between two and three am. She was flanked on all sides by a bedraggled, tall, Browning army. The whole scene is monochromatic in my mind: their usually rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes seemed dull and gray.

In every creative writing class I ever took in college, my professors had one rule: DO NOT WRITE ABOUT A GRANDPARENT'S DEATH.

It's too cliche, they'd say.
Everyone's been there.
You have nothing new to add.
Everybody dies.
In essence, get over it, but don't write about it.

So every time I've wanted to write about their deaths, I've tried to avoid the subject. After all, I have two degrees that say I know better.

I've since learned something that my professors could never quite verbalize: we treat death over-dramatically. When you know what comes next, and how close those who no longer have bodies really are, then death is nothing more than someone trading in a body for temporary invisibility. They live in grander ways after they've died. They live in our memories, our hearts, our fettishes and inside jokes and tender mercies and stories and our motivation to be better.

Both of my grandpas have a place in my home.

Grandpa Browning is there when we have family scripture study and family prayer. He's there when I tease my children and drag my daughter out of bed over-cheerfully. He's there when I sprinkle cinnamon sugar on my daughter's toast and put fresh strawberries on my ice cream. He's there in the way I try and treat others will love, kindness, and a smile. He's there when I curse under my breath. He's there when my son gets some crazy idea and there when my baby girl starts giggling for no reason. He's there when we talk about heaven, there when I teach my children the meaning of the word "resurrection." He's there when I make out with my husband in the kitchen and there when I buy flamingo stuff just because. He's there in the antique books and rocking chair that he passed to me. He's there in photos and in decisions and in heartaches.

Grandpa Burningham was not as loud or boisterous, and his gentle influence is felt in calmer, steadier ways. He's there when the trees and flowers start blooming. He's there pointing out a bird's nest so I can show it to my children. He's there at the first snow; I see him on his red flyer sled laughing like a little boy as he sleds down the gravel lane. He's there when I send my husband off to fulfill a calling, there when I watch and sing Broadway musicals, there when I learn something new about World War II. He's there, silently giggling when I'm in a bad mood for some insane and unimportant reason. He's there when I pour my son a bowl of Golden Graham's or give my children an ice cream treat. I can see his smile and feel the warmth of his hugs. Memories of him remind me that sometimes it is important to just sit in the recliner and listen to music or cuddle a child; because of him I know that you don't need words to express joy, love, support, or satisfaction.

With Easter right around the corner, memories of them and others who have gained a greater life are prominent in my mind. New life comes from death; that's the great metaphor of spring, right? Pruning means a more abundant harvest. Rain makes the flowers grow. Beautiful rewards come with sacrifice and sometimes a painful price.

The seasons keep on changing and life keeps going.

Lessons from Lutitia

This is my fourth great-grandmother, Lutitia Shearer Warthen.

A year ago, I had never heard of her. I'm so glad that has changed. This little woman's big spirit has been with me over the past few weeks as my family enters new territory and, starting at 5:30pm today, a new era. She's taken me on a journey, one that I don't fully understand yet, but here are some of the things I've learned from her.


Lesson #1: Teething Babies Ruin Everything (better said, Patience is a Virtue and it's okay to take your time to make a choice if you stand by it in the end).
Like me, Lutitia is an oldest daughter. Unlike me, she played a major part in keeping her family afloat. With 11 younger brothers and sister, she was invaluable and was often asked to do things that she probably didn't want to do. She spent her early mornings doing chores and then walked six miles to gain an education the world told her she probably didn't need. Her father was a schoolteacher, so she was blessed with parents that valued knowledge. It is little surprise that when her parents encountered a "strange Mormon religion" in the early 1830s, they listened to the missionaries and went to hear the Prophet Joseph Smith speak so they could find out for themselves the truth of the things they had been taught.

Oh how Lutitia must have looked forward to that meeting! Oh how her heart must have yearned to be fully present, to listen and pray and learn. When they got to the meeting, however, Lutitia's baby brother was cutting teeth and it fell to her to walk with him at the edge of the crowd. I picture this young girl, arms full of crying toddler, shushing and soothing, straining to see and hear and knowing that it was probably useless to even try. Lutitia's parents were baptized in November 1830. Though she was eight years old at the time and could have been baptized with them, Lutitia wasn't baptized for eight more years.

Lesson #2: Life Gets More Challenging (especially after making an important decision).
Her life was certainly not an easy one, especially after she was baptized. The mobs and persecutions the early Saints endured began to grow during this time. Lutitia told her children and grandchild about sleeping with clothes and shoes on, watching her father be taken prisoner, stashing away food and clothing for emergencies and then disguising herself to go retrieve the stashes from the hiding places in the cornfield in the darkness.


Lesson #3: It Might Take a While, But Eventually You'll Get Where You Are Going.
Within five years of her baptism, Lutitia was married and a young mother, living in Nauvoo. Everytime she probably thought that things couldn't get harder, they did. The Prophet died. The Saints were run out of their homes. Lutitia and her husband, Joseph Warthen, lived for four years in a run-down camp at Council Bluffs, working to be able to make their way to Salt Lake with their small family. By the time they reached the Salt Lake Valley in 1850, they had four young children under the age of seven.

I can barely herd my three children from the family room to the garage...I can't imagine dragging them across 1000 miles of prairie!

Lesson #4: Be Careful What You Pray For (and be ready to accept God's answer to your prayers).
You would think things got easier once they had settled in Utah, but they did not. Lutitia's parents had strayed from their faith and her husband's testimony began to falter. How she must have struggled, alone and steadfast in her convictions, watching those she loved walk away from the things that mattered most to her.  Her husband wouldn't agree to be sealed to her or their children. She'd come all this way for what? A cabin in an untamed valley?

At one point, Joseph started talking about moving to California, where there would be more monetary opportunities for their family and especially for their teenage son, Albert. Lutitia knew that this would mean a break with the Saints for her and her children, and she desperately did not want to leave.

I am amazed that Lutitia's reaction was not bitterness or faltering in her faith. Instead, she sought to strengthen her relationship with the Lord. She loved her husband, who was a kind and generous man. So she prayed. She asked God to save her husband and help her family.

And then her husband was shot while he was lying next to her in bed. The hired man was to afraid to go for the doctor, so Lutitia went herself. Her husband lived three days and died, leaving her a widow with five young children.

Lesson #5: It Never Gets Easier, You Just Get Stronger.
Because she was a wealthy widow with a family in need of protection, she was quickly remarried into a polygamous marriage with a man who was poor and already struggling to take care of the family he had. She shared her abundance with her new family. Within two years, her husband left on a mission, leaving her pregnant with six children and responsible to take care of his first wife and their children. The grasshoppers came. She spent her days fighting bugs off the wheat and sold everything she had to feed her family.  She spent the night before he daughter was born watering the crops because she had no help and she knew it was up to her. She worked day and night and by the time her husband returned, she bore him a third child and then collapsed from a physical and nervous breakdown. Her husband abandoned her, but God did not. She recovered, divorced her husband, raised her family, and never faltered in her faith. She spent her days in the Temple, doing the work for her extended family. She knew that God had answered her prayers and provided a way for her family to be taken care of, both temporally and eternally.

Lesson #6: I am a Wimp.
My life is nowhere near as difficult as Lutitia's was, and I am nowhere near as strong or even faithful. My parents and husband are the most faithful people I've ever met. I have never had to worry about being run out of my home by mobs or not being able to feed my family because of grasshoppers. My needs have always always been provided for--without the work that Lutitia was required to do in order for her needs to be met.

So as I've been indulging in thirty seconds of pity party here and there over the past week since my husband came home literally glowing from a meeting with his mentor, it is little wonder to me that the Holy Ghost brought Lutitia to my remembrance. Learn from her, the Spirit whispered, and so I have tried to.

I have learned that teething is tough on everyone and that it usually means you will have to miss out on something you wanted to be part of, but it is a blessing to be able to comfort a little loved one when he or she is in pain. I might have to miss out on things I desperately want to be part of, but that doesn't mean that blessings are taken away from me. I am given the gift of choosing my path, and as my husband and I face a new direction with our family, I am able to be a rather large part of that decision. It might take a while, but that's okay. Eventually I will understand.

When Scott first embraced this new path, I wholeheartedly supported him, and that has not changed at all. In the eight months since embracing this new opportunity, life has gotten a bit more challenging and the future a bit more cloudy. There are no easy answers, but there is comfort in trusting where God leads us. And He WILL lead us. I have no doubt that somewhere in the future we will end up where He needs us to be, and although the thought of doing what is required to get there seems as impossible as guiding preschoolers across the Great Plains, I know that the path will be made clear and we will get there, together.

Several years ago, I prayed for my husband to have a calling that would keep him busy and growing in the gospel. That prayer has undoubtedly been answered. When I prayed for this blessing for him, I did not consider all of the Sundays I would be flying solo getting our family ready for church or evenings I would spend putting our children to bed by myself.

When his work started to become frustrating and I began praying for him to feel valued and fulfilled in his career, I didn't know that God would want him to start a new career altogether. We were both blown away at how Scott's opportunity to teach at a university came so quickly and so (nearly!) effortlessly. I did not anticipate how excited he would become while planning out his course, or how this would give him that something he needed in order to hang on at his current job and see things through. I didn't know that God would ask more of him when it comes to church meetings and that I would be giving him up for yet another weeknight, and that would mean that I would be required to give up things I love (cough*bookclub*cough) so that our tired children could make it to bed at an appropriate hour. I didn't know that those additional meetings would guide him in his search for a direction for our future and provide answers to the questions we didn't realize he should be asking.

And when he came home from that meeting with the program director, he started throwing out words I never thought I'd hear him say, my mind protested but my heart opened my eyes and I could see our future, and deep down, I am okay with it.

And as I read through Lutitia's story, the same one I typed up for my family last spring, I realize that I will probably never fully understand God's ways, but that they are always right and He will always prepare us if we let Him. And, no matter what, I believe that God keeps his promises. He has always provided me with what I need, even when that need takes the form of a napping baby and PAW Patrol distracting my son so that I can write and learn and learn and write.

As I reread this quote from her biography this morning, the Spirit confirmed to me that this is the lesson I am meant to learn from Grandma Lutitia.

"If we could understand the great trials our fathers and mothers were called to pass through, it would help us to appreciate the wonderful opportunities we have at present. It is through their strength and bravery under the hand of God that we are surrounded by the comforts of this life."

Hands

My hands hurt. Even given the surgery I had to straighten my pinky at age 14, I don't think my hands have ever hurt this badly, this constantly.

Broken nails. Dry skin. Super dry skin. Cracked, bleeding knuckles. Warts. Acid burns from trying to remove said warts. Randomly numb fingers. Hurting bones in my thumbs--early arthritis? Too much texting? Too many kindle page swipes? I'm not sure.

This winter has been the mildest I ever remember in my life. We haven't even gotten our snow shovels out of the backyard shed. We took down the backyard swings but after two weeks, it was so warm that our kids begged us to put them back up. They've played outside almost every day since the second week of January.

Despite the warmth, my skin has taken a beating this winter. Between a bottle-fed baby, recently potty-trained preschooler who can't reach the sink faucet, and husband too busy to do the dishes as often as he usually does, my hands are constantly being exposed to hot running water.

When I look at them, I cringe. My husband gave me a manicure certificate for my birthday in July and I haven't been brave enough to book it because my hands just look so ugly these days. I want to hide them. If gloves didn't bother me so much, I would wear them all the time.

My hands work hard, and I am grateful for them. I am learning not to dismiss my gratitude for them easily. As my baby has switched her "favorite parent" allegiance from my husband to me, I've had to learn to do lots of things one-handed as she perches on my hip. My Jr. Jazz boxing-out skills have come in handy as I learn to use my body to block her freakishly long reach. I think often of Bethany Hamilton and wonder how she's accomplishing motherhood with only one arm, since my experience diapering my ten-month-old uses my entire body!

When the pain is at its worst, but there is still laundry and cleaning and feeding and bathing to be done, I remember another set of hands with "no beauty that man should him desire." These hands also fed and cleaned and bathed and fixed and worked. They also were sacrificed to serve others, cracked and bleeding and probably misshapen from the pain of nails pounded into a palm.

Though those hands did and do far more than mine will ever accomplish, sometimes my hands have the power to act in the place of His.

They soothe a fevered brow
They wipe away some tears
They break bread to nourish small bodies
They help another quench her thirst
They carry the weak and strengthen the faltering
They bathe and clean away the dirt of life
They clothe those who cannot dress themselves
They teach and train and tidy
They bleed willingly and bear the scars

And, without my having to reach, they bring me closer to Him.

CPR Parenting

This post was written as a guest blogger for Fruitland Home, but I thought I would post it here as well. It was posted on our personal family blog when I meant to post it here, so forgive me if you've gotten it twice!

Most of the time, I feel like a terrible parent. My kids fall victim to the “too much” Syndrome: too much tv, too much fighting, too much sugar, too much entitlement, too much in the toybox.  They have too much going on and it is too much for me.

Shortly after my youngest child was born, I was holding her and thinking about how it was so easy to remember to hold and cuddle her, because she demanded it, but how I forget to hold and cuddle my oldest child, although she still needs it. I’m really good at reading to my oldest, because she asks, and she enjoys it, but I’m terrible at remembering to read to my son, because he doesn’t like to slow down long enough to listen. On the other hand, he is excellent at getting me to play with him because he petitions me for playtime all day long.

I’m decently good at giving each of my children something, but I fall short in something else.  Above all else in life, I want us to have balance because I believe that balance leads to peace and happiness, even if “quiet” is rarely part of that equation.

So, I came up with something I call “CPR Parenting,” which allows me to simplify my mothering obligations into three meaningful activities that I strive to do with each of my three children daily: Cuddle, Play, and Read.  

I am a task-oriented person. There is a to-do list for every day, even when I don’t get anything on said list done. I can’t always keep track of every need my children have, and inevitably at the end of the day I will remember that I didn’t practice piano with her or go outside with him or read to the baby, whose brain is developing faster than the alarming rate at which I’m losing brain cells.  I can remember CPR though, and I feel like if I’ve done these most basic of basic childcare tasks, I have also done something meaningful with my day.

Cuddling gives them a sense of security in my arms and a chance to calm down and be still, even if that cuddle time only lasts two minutes. Each child has different needs, but a princess once told me that “everyone needs another hug.” Children need affectionate, safe touches. Some days they will need you more physically than others. That’s okay.

Playtime allows me to spend time with my child’s imagination. I have one child whose imagination knows no bounds---forks and spoons make families, balloons are a common mode of transport, and nothing is what it seems (is that a orange crayon? Why no, it’s clearly a dinosaur). I have another child who, although she is not as creative when it comes to coming up with plots and storylines, is amazing at creating things. Playtime with her usually means an art project, which usually means a mess, but I spent her whole toddlerhood convincing her that it was okay to be messy. Now she is the one who often reminds me, “if we’re messy it means we are having fun, Mom!” Playtime helps me to relax and have fun with them. I give myself bonus points if I can resist the urge to clean and organize the playroom while we’re doing what Maria Montessori referred to as “the work of the child.”

Reading is my outlet; I cannot survive without it. There is not a day that goes by when I don’t read something. I feel guilty sometimes that my reading becomes more important than reading to my children. I know that I am setting an example when my kids see me with a book in my hands, and that is important, but my silent reading doesn’t do much for their cognitive development. My mother, early childhood expert extraordinaire, told me that according to the research she’s done (along with 30 years of teaching preschool and kindergarten), it takes a thousand hours of “lap time” to prepare a child for kindergarten. By the time they reach the age of five, children have lived somewhere around 1,825 days. If you read to your child 20 minutes a day for each of those days, you’ll be at 608 hours. In other words, children need to be read to EVERY CHANCE you get or you’re already behind. Along with the academic benefits, reading is something that children can come to associate with love, adventure, and stress-relief.

I figure that If I can take time out of each day to give my children specialized, meaningful, separate time with me, then all the moments when I fail them will at least have something to counter balance the scale. 

Scholarship

A few weeks ago, I was contacted by the English department at my alma mater. They were seeking a "where are you now?" follow-up on me so that they could pass it along to the sponsor of a scholarship I received during my university education.

I had been contacted once before, as a follow-up to a different scholarship I had been awarded earlier in my college career. Ashamed that I had nothing significant to report, I selfishly and cowardishly never responded. Still carrying the guilt of that decision, I determined that this time I would reply to the email.

I still had nothing significant to report. In the past six years since I graduated with my two BS degrees, I haven't had a job. I haven't been published. I haven't written anything on a consistent basis, and even the few times I sat down and wrote something that I intended to share with the world, the documents never made it past being saved on my hard drive.

For a day or two, I mulled over what I could say, and then I forgot all about the assignment until I was contacted a second time with a reminder that they still hadn't heard from me. This time I immediately sat down and typed out a reply.

I was surprised in the words that came, because they were an awakening for me.

Dear Mr. Smith,

I was a recipient of the Ralph Jennings Smith Scholarship during my last year at Utah State University. The scholarship blessed my life in many ways, as it allowed me to finish not just my Professional and Technical Writing degree, but also to obtain a second Bachelor's degree in American Studies, where my true passion is. I am a ongoing student of American history and creative writing and I hope to someday combine both interests and write historical fiction novels for young adults.

At the moment, my opportunities to sit down and get lost in the sound of my fingers typing are few and far between. One of the major blessings of obtaining this scholarship was that it allowed me to graduate from USU without any student debt. Because of this, I have been able to live my dream of being a stay-at-home mom. If I was carrying the burden of student debt, I wouldn't be able to spend my days as I do with my three children. My oldest daughter, who was born a few months after I graduated, has recently started kindergarten. She and I like to read together at night, and some of our favorite books have been about girls throughout history.

Although there are days that I long for more time to write, I understand that there are seasons in our lives. In no way do I feel that I am wasting this season of my life--I am exactly where I want to be! That said, I very much look forward to the day when I can send my children to school and spend my days writing. Until then, I try and keep my skills sharp by editing term papers, resumes, personal statements, and advertising flyers for family members and friends, keeping a family blog, writing personal essays, and jotting down ideas for children's books on whatever scrap of paper is handy! When I was at Utah State, my mother read one of my personal essays and made the comment that my writing would take me many places, but in the end it would always bring me back home. As I've spent the past nearly six years at home, I realize that home is the best place for me to live my dreams.

Thank you for your generosity, which has helped me in my path as a writer, mother, student, and historian.

Sincerely, Marinda Burningham Fowler

Utah State University 2011

On the days when I might wonder what my college education was worth, this is what I want to remember. I may not have my name in print or get a bi-monthly paycheck at my dream job, but I am where I want to be. The skills that I spent five years in college developing sneak into my current life in the most curious ways: helping my husband plan the MBA data analytics course he will soon be teaching. Editing a dear high school friend's personal statement so she can apply to medical school. Giving my little brother tips on the online advertising campaign he is creating. Planning Sunday school lessons twice a month. Participating in monthly book club meetings. Keeping up with current events. Teaching my son's joy school class every five weeks. Giving suggestions on nonfiction books for a neighbor kid's upcoming book report. Helping my nephews with their History Fair entries. Teaching my daughter how vowels work as she learns to sound out words. Doing family history research. Creating a record of our family, here and now. Gleefully searching through tubs of  Scott's grandmother's old books with my mother-in-law.  Problem-solving with my children. Planning our future.

And so many other ways. 

FHE Payday

Last week my mom and I taught a lesson about Family Home Evening (FHE) to a few of the women in my church congregation. Family Home Evening is something that was started by a 100 years ago, and something that has really blessed my life. 

According to President Joseph F. Smith, a man I believe to have been a prophet, the purpose of family home evening is to take an evening out of the week and spent time as a family, strengthening each other spiritually. These were and are his instructions:

"Families were to take time to PRAY and SING together, READ the scriptures, TEACH the gospel to one another, and PARTICIPATE in other activities that would build family unity."

My parents did a pretty good job of having consistent FHE when I was a child, and their resolve strengthened as my siblings and I entered adolescence. My friends started calling my mom the "FHE Nazi" when I turned down invitations to Monday night activities (although almost all of my friends were the same religion as me). I may have been bitter about those missed activities at first, but I am now so grateful. Because of my parents, FHE was a habit, and Scott and I were able to start our marriage off with weekly FHE. We haven't always been awesome at it, but for the past five years, we've worked our tails off to make sure FHE happens. Our children don't know any different.

Does that mean they listen? Rarely. Does it mean that we always feel the spirit and no one ever goes to bed without refreshments? Haha. Our nights are chaotic; I don't expect that to change much as they get older.

Occasionally, however, we have a moment during FHE that helps me realize that these efforts of ours are making a difference for our children. We had one of those experiences tonight. I've known the topic of the lesson for three weeks now, but I just wasn't coming up with anything. I felt like a fraud. I spent an hour last week preaching to my neighbors about how important FHE is and how planning a lesson is so easy, you can do it in five minutes or less. After all, this is something God wants us to do, so we are entitled to his help, right?

Yeah, I seem to have forgotten that last part. My inspiration came less than an hour before we sat down together on the family room floor and started in on a off-key, off-lyric version of "Book of Mormon Stories."

But the idea that God gave me worked so much better than I would have expected. Wherefore didst thou doubt, oh ye of little faith?

Our family theme for the year is a scripture found in Doctrine and Covenants 19:23:

I made word strips with each of the three phrases and told the kids that we were going to have a treasure hunt and if they found the three pieces to the puzzle, then they would find a wonderful promise. They found the clues rather quickly: "Learn of me" on the portrait of Christ, "Listen to my words" on the piano, "Walk in the meekness of my Spirit" under Daddy's shoes. They fit the three pieces together and I gave them a whole paper that said, "You shall have peace in me."

At this point, since the treasure hunt was over, Sly went back to being more interested in his legos than the lesson and Birdie (trying out new code names for #3. She has a killer bird call trilling sound) rolled, lunged, and pivoted all over in an effort to take away Sly's legos. Luckily, Kevin was still mostly listening, so I asked her, "Do you know what peace means?"

At first she got a confused look on her face. I was about to jump in with the answer, but I was restrained. Within a few seconds she said, "it's....a good feeling."

"When did you feel that feeling?"

"Yesterday."

Yesterday, while Scott and I were tag-teaming feeding Sophie and making dinner, Kevin completely took us by surprise by picking up the living room without being asked, told, or begged. She didn't get mad at her brother for not helping. She simply left the toys he was playing with alone and cleaned the rest of the room up.

I walked into the room to tell Sly and Kevin that it was time for dinner. The carpet seemed to sparkle. I could actually see it. Even the glorious scene before me couldn't compare to the smile on my daughter's face when she saw my reaction. I was nearly in tears. I am always begging and pleading for help cleaning up, dragging the kids along as I try to teach by example how to take care of our possessions and our home. Most of the time, it falls on me. Homemaking and homekeeping have proven exhausting for me, and here was a light--there was help! There was hope!

You may think I am being over-dramatic, but this small experience means the world to me. That night, as I was tucking her into bed, I asked her how she felt after cleaning up. She told me she had a good feeling, and that she was happy. She explained that her church teachers had taught her about the things Jesus would do, and that she thought she would give it a try.

Apparently her experiment was a success.  And when she brought up her experience in family home evening, I knew that she was getting it. And I  learned that this verse is a formula for obtaining peace. This verse was an example of the if/then principle often found in scripture when Christ is speaking: if you do this, then I will do this.

Together, we talked about how she came to feel that peace. First, she learned of Christ. She went to church to learn about Jesus. Secondly, she listened to his words. She paid attention to what her teachers were saying and internalized this knowledge of the Savior. Third, and perhaps most importantly, she walked in the meekness of his Spirit. She acted on what she'd learned and listened to. She had Christ's spirit as she meekly tested his words and followed his example.

And not only did she find peace--her parents found it too.

2017 Wrap-Up

I sure hope my husband loves me enough to forgive me for eating the last half of the discount chocolate orange we busted out last night. At the very least, I'm helping him keep our resolution to be healthier this year, right?

Five days into 2018 and 2017 already seems like a million years ago. I feel like I was a different person then. How is that even possible? It's only been five days! But already I see our lives changing, in positive ways and just-plain-hard ways. It'll be interesting to see where we are 365 days from now, because I know one thing is for sure: I won't be the same person then that I am today.

So before 2017's Rinda is a distant memory, I wanted to take a minute to jot down a couple of my favorite things from last year, both trivial and monumental.

Favorite TV Shows
2017 wasn't an awesome movie year for us. We only went to a few movies in the theater, and only made it through a few new ones at home (most of those took two or three nights to get through). Oddly enough, however, 2017 was a great year for TV. Here are some of the shows I spent far too much time watching, in order of my favorites:

• MacGyver
• Bull
• Victoria
• Timeless
• This is Us
• Wisdom of the Crowd
• Great British Baking Show (seasons 2-4, mostly binge-watched while in labor)
• Anne with an E
• Mercy Street (I'm kind of relieved that this one didn't get renewed, as it got harder and harder to watch)
• Crimson Field (an old PBS series I found on Amazon, worth watching even though it was cancelled after one season)
• Poldark (I had a love-hate relationship with this one and found myself doing A LOT of fast-forwarding)

Five-Star Books Read in 2017

I read somewhere around 75 books last year, not including the hundreds of children's books read to and with my children. Few of the novels I read were ground-breaking, but I still managed to read several that I rated five stars on Goodreads.

• The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley
• Ramona the Brave by Beverly Cleary
• Jackaby and Beastly Bones by William Ritter (the third and fourth books were disappointing)
• The Ghost and Mrs. Muir by Josephine Leslie
• Sixteen Brides by Stephanie Grace Whitson
• Greenglass House by Kate Milford
• Genevieve's War by Patricia Reilly Giff
• George Washington's Secret Six by Brian Kilmeade
• The Girl from the Train by Irma Joubert
• The Thirteenth Princess by Diane Zahler
• The Girl Who Came Home by Hazel Gaynor
• Wedded to War  by Jocelyn Green
• Wonder by RJ Palacio
• The Apprentices (The Apothecary Trilogy) by Maile Meloy

Honorable Mentions go to:

• Sorcery and Cecelia by Patricia Wrede (The sequel was highly disappointing)
• Out of the Easy by Ruta Septys (never though I'd enjoy a book about a brothel, but this one was excellent)
• The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill and The Ladies of  Ivy Cottage by Julie Klassen
• Romancing Miss Bronte by Juliet Gael
• To the Farthest Shores, From This Moment and Beyond All Dreams by Elizabeth Camden

Kevin's Bedtime Stories for 2017

Kevin and I made it through several books this year, and Sly even joined us for a few. Some were enjoyable and some were not. We gave up on The BFG because she said it was getting too scary for her. Here are the books we finished: 

• The Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder
• Runny Babbit: A Billy Sook by Shel Silverstein
• Nancy Clancy, Secret Admirer by Jane O'Connor
• The Princess Test and The Fairy's Mistake by Gail Carson Levine
• Felicity's Surprise by Valerie Tripp
• Ramona The Pest and Ramona the Brave by Beverly Cleary
• The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo
• Eloise and Eloise in Paris by Kay Thompson
• The Milly-Molly-Mandy Storybook by Joyce L Brisley

Meals I Made The Most in 2017

Haha. I mostly made Scotty cook, which means we had a lot of pasta and tacos and turkey steaks and breakfast-for-dinner. You can be jealous. My husband cooks AND gets up with the baby at night. He's the best ever.

I do want to list here that I accomplished the feat of being assigned to bring homemade rolls for holiday dinners. It's a BIG deal.

Random Cool Things That Happened to Me in 2017

• I got to go to NYC for a weekend in September. No kids, just me and three other women (my bff, my sis-in-law, and a complete stranger). We saw three Broadway musicals, walked through Castle Gardens National Park, took pictures by the fierce little girl statue, ate cheesecake, walked all over, happened upon a labor parade and Race for the Cure run, saw Alexander Hamilton's grave, visited the place where George Washington took the oath of office, and ended it all with a black & white shake at JFK international airport. 
• A woodpecker visited our backyard not once but twice,
• I dragged my husband and kids all over the backroads of Iowa and it was the highlight of our Nauvoo vacation and my summer (for me, not so much for them). 
• I visited all of these states: Utah (drove to St George by myself, a first), Idaho, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois, Missouri, and New York.
• I had a baby. She's amazing. If you meet her, you will smile. 
• I managed to potty train my son. That's probably the biggest accomplishment of the year. 

Bring it on, 2018.