That's Not Why

When my kids were shorter than my knees, I always told myself that once they went to school, I would have time for me, and when that happened, I would write books to my heart's content. This went pretty well when my youngest started preschool in 2020. I would drop her off, head home, and immediately sit down to go to town on my keyboard for the next two hours. I had to set an alarm so I would remember to escape my imagination and go pick her up. My time was limited, so I made the most of it. 

Oh, how I looked forward to having all three of them in school all day so I could write. 

Last fall, the littlest started all-day kindergarten. I went into this school year fully anticipating finishing some ongoing manuscripts and writing one or two new ones. I would get into a good writing groove and by May I would be only a few steps away from publication. 

Spoiler alert: none of that happened. 

Instead, when I sent my baby to kindergarten, she was already reading at a second grade level. I knew she needed a few months to get used to school and to mature, but once the middle of year testing came along, it became clear that I needed to champion her into a higher grade level. As the year progressed, I spent more and more time at the school, helping her and her siblings. Suddenly, all these hours of time I thought I would have were chopped up into smaller bits. My stress levels increased as I worried about all three of my kids and their different tough challenges, so what little time I did have during the day between volunteering and dentist and doctor appointments was spent reading because that's how I survive. 

My kids didn't stop needing me just because they were at school all day. 

I also had the misconception that my husband would be busy working all day, and that would mean that he was taken care of and wouldn't need me.

(Insert laughing-crying emoji here). 

Scott working from home means he needs me to be his social interaction, his sounding board, his "water cooler" buddy. He's been working on getting healthier and I've been dragged along on this journey (but not kicking and screaming. I'm a willing participant). This means taking time for gym dates and lunchtime walks. Our daily Yahtzee and Quixx games at lunch are needed for both of us, but they take time, and sometimes the only uninterrupted time we get together is during those precious school hours. While we've had a few bumps and bruises trying to balance what he needs from me with the time I need for myself, I think we've finally found that open line of communication. 

School gets out for the summer tomorrow. 

A few days ago, Scott and I decided to take advantage of "our last week of freedom" and go out to lunch using a gift card we were given for our birthdays ten months ago. When something is bugging me, it takes a long time to get to a point where I feel I need to share that burden with someone else. Finally, away from the mess and chaos of home, I told him what had been weighing on me for the past two weeks since I returned from the writer's conference I attended with our neighbor. 

"I'm worried I won't have time to write this summer," I told him. "And I need to write because I'm so close to just giving it all up because I don't seem to be getting anywhere."

The look of shock, concern, and compassion on his face told me I could keep going. I don't need the work breaks to grunt and groan about how life is going. I'm an internal processor. I rarely get to the point where I need to work through personal thoughts out loud. So, when I told him how I felt like I was wasting time, trying to achieve this dream that felt so far away, I think he knew I was serious.

I'm not even very good at writing, I told him. I shared how I've been working all year (albeit sporadically) on a romcom manuscript that isn't working. After the conference, I felt I needed to scrap the whole series and just walk away because I was working in the wrong genre. I was frustrated because I felt like I'd never have anything to show for the time I spent writing. 

He paused, then meeting my eyes he gently said, "But that's not why you write."

His words stopped me, and I remembered Sarah M. Eden teaching in her keynote address at the conference that we needed to find our reason for writing, and that it couldn't be to attain some degree of fame or a certain award. When I got home from the conference, I'd taken an hour to write down all the reasons why I write. 

And Scott was right--money, publication, awards, none of that was listed in my "Why" document. 

I've been so busy helping my family and chasing my dream as an afterthought that I've veered off course. While I have a clear goal of wanting to see my name in print, I also want to put my family first. And I don't want writing to feel like a job. I'm not ready to give it up as a hobby in favor of a career. 

In that same keynote speech, Sarah M. Eden also challenged us to write something just for ourself. Put our best work and effort in and see our heart on the page.

And then she told us to delete every word. 

Letting go of your soul in written form is not something I'm ready to do yet. But I am ready to reset and go back to the reason I started writing in the first place, utilizing words as a tool to make sense of the world around me. 

Nobody blogs any more, but I'm still here. I remember how I felt when I was sharing and writing these personal essays on a weekly basis. I'd like to get back to that. There are memories and moments with my children I need to record, like watching my oldest confidently walk her little sister to her first full day of first grade in April and remembering how she used to cry every time I dropped her off at preschool. Or how all three of my kids called me while I was at my writing conference and begged me to teach them how to write their own books this summer. Now, when people ask them what they are looking forward to this summer, it isn't sleeping in or our trip to Yellowstone. They immediately start telling about how we'll be doing "Writer Wednesday" and their mom is going to teach them how to write a book. Their confidence in my ability to teach them astounds me. They have no doubts that I will help them "write a better story." It doesn't matter that I'm not published and outside of a few hundred followers on instagram, no one knows my name. They know me. Their friends and teachers know me. 

They need me.

That's why I write. 

I am Here

 My youngest child does not sleep through the night. She hasn't since we took her binky away. That was nearly three years ago now. We fought it for a while, but that just resulted in all three of us being purely exhausted every morning. We finally just put her crib mattress next to our bed and told her that if she needed to, she could always come and sleep there. This has saved us a lot of sleep. Some nights she comes in without waking us up. Most nights, I am still awake reading when she comes in. For a long time, I couldn't go to sleep until I knew she was settled. Call it one too many nights of falling asleep only to be woken up ten minutes later and be up for another two hours because sleeping is hard, y'all. 

Every once in a while, she has a night terror. Last night was one of these nights. I was in the bathroom when she started to cry out. My husband when to check on her and she flipped out on him. She must have associated him with whatever villian she was fighting in her dream, because she absolutely did not want anything to do with him, even to the point that she refused to go into our room. "I don't want Daddy! I just want my Mom!" 

"I am your mom," I would tell her. "I am here. I am here." 

After much effort, she finally agreed to drink some water, which is usually what snaps her out of her trance enough to reason with us logically. I got her some water, held her for a while, and when I knew she was capable of thinking, suggest we go back into my room. She fell asleep on the mattress a few minutes later, a peaceful smile on her face. 

For a long while afterward, surrounded by the sound of my husband's CPAP machine on one side and her congested sniffles on the other, I thought about those words: "I am here."

My mind went straight to Horton Hears a Who. We talk a lot about Horton, and revere him for caring and listening, but what about the Whos? Sometimes we just want someone to acknowledge that we are here.

We are here.

We are here.

We are here.

When I was a child, I struggled with debilitating anxiety and panic attacks. Nights were always the worst time of day. My parents did what they could, but I recognize their exhaustion now. At the time, I thought they were so mean for not caring that I was dying in the middle of the night. I try to remind myself of those terror-filled nights when I'm being woken up yet again by a little person needing me. "Can I cuddle with you, Mom? Just for a minute?" 

I know someday she will grow out of it. I know for sure she's already on her way to growing too big for the crib mattress. But until that day comes, and even after, I will be here. 

There is a line in scripture that often comes to my mind; it is about the Savior and how his "arms are stretched out still." I know there are times when I am annoying. I know that I often ask too much of him. I know that there are days when I'm just not what he needs me to be. Regardless, his arms are stretched out still. 

"I am here," the Great I Am says. 

And he is here, for me. Every day. Every night. When I need him and when I don't recognize that he is the person I am crying out for in my terror. 

"I am here," he comforts, and his arms are there, stretched out still. 

Book Review for Lynn Austin's newest release, "Chasing Shadows"

4.5 Stars* for Lynn Austin's latest slam dunk contribution to historical Christian Fiction. I've been a fan for a long time and this book did not disappoint!

Lynn Austin's love and respect for the Dutch people comes through every page. There are a million WW2 books out there, but this one really opened my eyes to the struggle of the everyday citizen in occupied countries. The characters show a full range of experiences, from the refuge to the ordinary citizen just trying to do the right thing in a world gone wrong. "What would I do in this situation?" came to my mind more than once, and the story has stayed with me for days.

In the story, Lena calls the people she is hiding on her farm "the shadow people." They only came out at night; most of the time she didn't even see their faces. Yet she fed and sheltered them. They didn't know her or her family, but they depended on her for their very lives. The shadow metaphor grows stronger throughout the story. Over and over, the main characters learn to take refuge in God's shadow, trusting in His will and His word as they sought to survive the darkness.

An excellent choice for book clubs or anyone seeking to deepen their faith, I highly recommend this book!

*4.5 stars instead of 5 because I did feel that there could have been more language showing instead of telling the story. Some parts moved too quickly for my liking; I felt that they could have been flushed out more.

Dear Grandchildren: A Few Thoughts about the Pandemic

 Dear future grandchildren,

I know someday you will be given a school assignment to interview some old person who lived through the Covid-19 pandemic, and since your grandfather will probably drag his feet about an assignment like this, I thought I'd be proactive and write down a few thoughts while the soreness in my arm from my second vaccination shot is still fresh.

It has been a longer year than anyone ever imagined it would be. I know that your parents will have different memories of the pandemic than I do. Hopefully they remember the fun things we did--like going for walks to peek at the teddy bears in our neighbor's windows or the Christmas parade where we stood in the driveway and waited for the parade to come to us and your grandpa threw out Elf MREs. I sure hope that movie is still one you watch at Christmastime. Perhaps they will remember being anxious about the health of their grandparents, or how much they missed playing with their friends and going to church. I'm sure they will remember when schools shut down, and how it was no big deal to wear a mask to go back in the fall because every one was just so grateful to be able to be back at school.

There were tears as we waited anxiously to see if everybody would be 100% healthy so we could go to Thanksgiving at Papa's house. And Kevin told me more than once, "if it means keeping Papa safe, we can stay home."

The prophet asked us to fast and pray to end the pandemic, and miracles did come from those prayers, although it took more time than anybody wished. At some point, 11 months into the pandemic, Sly remembered that we had forgotten to pray for the end of the coronavirus and he said that was probably why it wasn't going away. Some would call it a coincidence that in the days after his prayers, his father and I were approved to get the vaccine. I call it calling upon the powers of heaven.

There were birthdays without grandparents, a postponed baptism, and Sophie's preschool shutting down for two weeks at a time, three months in a row. We wore masks everywhere. We cancelled vacations. We cancelled family gatherings. We learned to measure time without the landmarks of holiday traditions.

But we also embraced new traditions, new experiences. We went hiking more. We played as a family more. We went for walks and the kids finally learned to ride a bike. We left treats and dinners on doorsteps, admired new babies from afar, spoke to neighbors six feet apart or over fences. We found new ways to show we cared, new ways to serve. There are a lot of things I hope don't go back to the way they were "Before."

I've written a lot about what the pandemic was like for my kids and my family as a whole, but what you probably need to ask about is how the pandemic affected me. 

Were there tears? More than once.

Did I wake up at night in a cold sweat because I'd dreamed I'd gotten sick and there was no one to take care of my children? More than once.

Did I panic and go get tested even though the only symptom I had was a shortness of breath that was probably due to an anxiety attack? Thankfully, that only happened once.

I've never felt so weary and weighted as I have this past year. In some ways, it was lonely, but in others I was less lonely because we were more aware of the need to reach out. 

Two weeks into the pandemic, my niece and nephew came to stay for an undetermined amount of time, since with their Mom having pregnancy complications in another state and grandparents quarantined to stay safe from the pandemic, there was no safe place for them to be. This was one of the hardest things I'd ever experienced--not because they were hard kids or that I resented having them here. Oh no. Quite the opposite. I worried about all of the little ones. I struggled to keep them occupied, distracted, and happy. I am so proud of how brave those two were, having to be away from their parents for a month, staying in a new home with new rules, even celebrating their birthdays without their mom and dad. All five of the kids were total champs. Yes, there were squabbles and tantrums and whining and all the normal childhood maladies (in addition to a sprained ankle, ear infection, and homesickness), but the thing that wore on me was the emotional toll of worrying and not being able to fix anything. 

Eventually, God provided a series of miracles that allowed my niece and nephew to head home and enjoy their dog and new baby brother. I was so relieved but even now, a year later, I miss having them here (don't tell your Grandpa I said that). I miss the feeling of being useful, of being needed. 

That was only the beginning to the hard things that 2020 brought. It wasn't just the pandemic--in fact, by the end, the pandemic was just something we were accustomed to working around with masks and hand sanitizer and distance. 

And, I have to admit right here, we were in no way hit as hard as others. Grandpa's job stayed the same, and he'd already gotten used to working from home. Financially, we'd never been more stable. We had a comfortable home. We had resources to buy new vehicles, do home improvement projects, help with a wedding. 

But during 2020, we did have to bury Grandma Gardner. We watched as Pa (Grandpa's dad) succumbed the effects of early-onset Alzheimer's. In the beginning, it was trying to keep him happy and occupied as his wife took care of her mother's end-of-life symptoms. Then, Grandma Fowler decided it was time to sell their house. We helped with the move, and although your grandpa didn't seem upset by it, I mourned the loss of what had become a third home for me. Then, after we wrapped up the move, Pa had to move into a memory care facility. A month later, four days before Christmas, he was gone. 

Funerals during pandemics are so different. Grandma Gardner's was held outside in a grove of trees. Being December, that wasn't an option for Pa's funeral, so the gathering was limited to family and close friends. It felt like a half-funeral, because so many traditions were left out, but in the end, I think that made it even more beautiful.

In 2020, my dad was diagnosed with melanoma, aka skin cancer. I helped drive him down to Salt Lake for appointments and surgeries. I waited in a cold car in a parking terrace because I wasn't allowed inside the hospital--we were just grateful that my mom was allowed to go with him. 

In 2020, my foot started hurting again. I'd had a major surgery on it in 2019 and had hoped to be done with foot issues for a while, but that was not to be. In November, I had a third (albeit minor) surgery. 

We all dealt with mental health issues in one way or another. We learned to work around things that had been our usual crutches--and other crutches became much more necessary. I watched more TV in 2020 than I ever had in my life, simply because by the time the kids finally went to bed (your parents were such stinkers), we had no brain power or energy to do anything but eat peanut M&Ms and watch Netflix. I lost count of how many shows we binge-watched. 

I think the thing I have learned most from this past year is that life doesn't stop. The pandemic tried to shut everything down--no sports, no school, no church, no gatherings, no vacations--but it failed to stop life from moving in its usual cycles. Our family experienced births and death, weddings and moves and all the usual growing pains that come within an annual trip around the sun. 

As I think back on all of the hard memories, I have a hard time recalling just why they were so hard because there was so much beauty in the midst of it all. And as our lives once again change and the world seeks a new normal, my gratitude for so many things has enhanced. Things like not being scared to go to the grocery store, planning a vacation, taking a friend to lunch for her birthday, picking out books at the library, inviting friends over for a holiday party. 

We held an Easter Egg hunt last week with my best friends from college. I am teary just thinking about how wonderful it felt to be together, in person. We'd kept in touch through texts, phone calls, Marco Polo video chats, cards in the mail, care packages dropped of on porches. All of those things helped us survive, but nothing felt so good as wrapping my arms around my friends (who had also had hellish years), holding them tight, and feeling loved. 

You can't stop living. That's what we learned. After a couple of months of strict quarantine, we started to decide what was worth risking. For my mom, it was hugging her grandchild. For my children, it was playing with friends outside whenever the weather allowed and wearing masks to school. For me, it was letting God take my worries so I could focus on what was happening instead of what could happen.

We didn't live through the pandemic perfectly. We tripped over bumps in the road so many times. But now that we've made it to the end, I can't say that I regret any of it. I am grateful we came out better than others, but I think if I came out of this experience having not changed at all, I'd just be a fully-vaccinated failure. 

Love,

Your Future Grandma

PS- You are welcome for the dig at Grandpa in the first paragraph. Simply remind him what I said and he'll do anything for you. Who am I kidding? If he's anything like my dad as a Papa, all bets are off and he'll do anything you want him to do. So maybe you will choose to interview him after all, but just know, I'm prepared. 

Not My Own

 She's been complaining all week that she didn't have preschool.

Naturally, I thought that she'd be excited to go this morning. 

We picked out a cute outfit for her to wear, the same one her sister wore to school on her fourth birthday. Probably my favorite of all the size 5 clothes in her closet. I let her play on the tablet while I curled her hair. We practiced her smile. 

And as soon as our neighbor's car pulled into the driveway to take her to school, she curled up like a potato bug in a child's hand. 

This child, my youngest, is the most cleverly manipulative of all my children. Just yesterday, I told her I needed to go talk to Dad before we could play baby dolls. After about five minutes of sitting in his office, we heard a boom crash above us and then little footsteps descending the stairs. She burst into the room, handing her dad a package of crackers so he could have a snack. How sweet, you might be tempted to think (and her Dad certainly thought so), but I could see the working gears grinding in her head. Bring Dad snacks. If he's eating, he can't talk. If he can't talk, Mom can come play baby dolls with me. 

Meet my Sophie, blog world. You don't really know her, because life got admittedly 1000 times crazier after she was born. She is no stranger to social media. She has quite a following on my instagram account. My mom always reports to me that "so-and-so said she loves your Sophie Stories." Chronicles of Sophie, my mom calls them. 

Coping mechanism, I call them.

Last fall, we signed her up for soccer. She showed the most promise of all our children, naturally dribbling a ball across the backyard during our family scrimmages.  Boisterous and bubbly, we thought for sure she'd be the one to get in there and be aggressive and confident. 

No, instead she stubbornly sat on the sidelines and threw funny fits and I decided that instead of getting frustrated at her not playing, we should just roll with it, and I started recording her antics in my instagram stories. Thus Sideline Sophie was born. 

Yesterday I was looking for a blog post I wrote years and years ago, and I chuckled when I came across one titled "The End of the Threenage Year(s)." Curious, I clicked on it, and immediately felt guilty because I used to be so much better at recording my thoughts and feelings. Blogging was the coping mechanism that allowed me to survive Kevin's early childhood. As I read, my guilt morphed because I had such a hard time remembering Kevin as I described her in that blog post. She turned nine two weeks ago. She's now a confident third-grader who finishes her library books within two days and loves to play card games, roll her eyes at her dad, and tackle new art projects. 

What if I forget what Sophie is like that this age? I wondered as I formed a bow with the yellow ties on her dress. I've been so terrible at journaling or blogging. What if I forget how she says funny things constantly? How she joins Scott and I for lunch daily and when I tried to excuse her behavior toward him the other day, she said, "Nope, Dad, I was making fun of you." And then, ten minutes later, "Dad, I'm still making fun of you!" Or how she goes grocery shopping while the big kids are at school and thanks me for "Mommy and Sophie Time" as if she never gets enough of it? Which, clearly, must be true because she inevitably crawls into my bed every night. And in the morning, when she's just waking up and her arms start to snake around my neck and I ask her why she's in my bed, did she have a bad dream? She whispers, "No, I just needed you."

I love being needed, but I am exhausted. I don't sleep because I need that hour of reading time to myself in bed after Scott starts snoring. It's the only peace I have, knowing they are all asleep and I can breathe and be me.

I picked my little potato-bug preschooler off the ground and cradled her as I walked out the door to put her in my friend's car. "You can't stay home with me, sweetheart, I have to go to the dentist this morning." 

Buckling her in was a tag team effort. I told myself she'd stop crying as they pulled out. After all, her best friend cried all the way to ballet when we carpooled for that on Tuesday and then she was just fine. I went inside, fixed myself a cup of Nestle hot chocolate with just a hint of Stephen's Raspberry Chocolate flavoring. I sat down and folded my arms, out of habit, and I started saying a prayer in my mind, out of habit. I thought of my crying daughter and my prayer changed into a pleading with my Heavenly Father to please help her be brave and take care of her. 

I went to the dentist. I got home and there was a message on my phone from her preschool teacher. "Hi. CALL ME." 

I did. Picture day was not going well. "She only says she'll do it if her Mom is here." 

It's the first time I've ever had a teacher call me for any of my children, asking me to come. I've gotten calls for Kevin about clumsy playground accidents, but they usually ended with, "She's fine now, I just wanted you to know." I've never had a teacher complain about Sly. Ever. (This is probably the most surprising thing about my life, as Sly these days is a whole other blog post I'm not sure I'm ready to write). 

So I put on shoes and a jacket for the second time this morning, and Scott emerged from his office to come get a snack. "I guess Sophie doesn't want me to be a writer," I told him, trying not to be frustrated that my writing time was being further interrupted this morning (going to the dentist is bad enough). I'd promised myself long ago that once my children were in school, I would use that time to write. When we registered Sophie for preschool last spring, I was ecstatic thinking that time was almost here. For four hours every week in September, I wrote. For four hours the first two weeks of October, I wrote. And then life happened. I spent that time helping chauffer my parents to my dad's melanoma surgeries and appointments in Salt Lake City. I was happy to help. Then, when it seemed like that hurdle was conquered, Sophie's school went into a soft closure for two weeks. That began a three month journey of two weeks in school and then two weeks out of school for Covid closures. In between all that was Thanksgiving break and Christmas break and pretty soon, I was scheduling Relief Society meetings and  dentist appointments and doctor appointments and errands while Sophie was at school because it was just easier.  I told myself I'd get back to writing, that I would become like those lady authors I started following on bookstagram, that I could do it too, even though I don't now how any of them manage to publish books with smaller children than mine at home. Don't compare yourself, I constantly lecture my psyche. You do you. Now is not the time.

I drove to the school, thinking about what part of my manuscript I would have been writing had Sophie not needed me. Self-conciously, I tried to manuver my mini-van through the waves of teenagers leaving campus. I know what I look like to them, I thought, glad a mask covered up most of my make-up-less, uneven countenance. A middle-aged soccer mom in unfashionable clothing, waaaaaayyy out of her element. 

Still, my daughter needed me, so I parked the van and started walking to the school. My phone buzzed. A text from Sophie's teacher.

"We got her to take a picture! It turned out so cute! She's fine now!"

After confirming that she did not need me after all, I told Teacher Sue I would let her be and to tell her that I'm proud of her for being brave.

Climbing back into the van, I removed my mask and took a deep breath. If I hurry, I can still have 45 minutes of writing time before I have to come back to pick her up. Then I let out a groan and welcomed the familiar complaint: my time is not my own.

Immediately, a picture came to mind of a man sleeping in a boat. Weary and sorrowful, He was seeking time to himself to sleep and grieve the loss of his cousin. But the winds and the waves and his companions on ship would not leave him alone. 

His time was not his own, either. 

He got up from a needed rest. He calmed the winds and the waves and the storm and the sailors. 

And my heart.

I've always believed there is a season in life for every thing I want to accomplish. Sometimes those seasons overlap, like when I get to take a break from normal life to travel someplace different and new. I pointed out to Scott yesterday that this year marks 10 years since I graduated from college, and next year will be 10 years since I've had a real, paying job. I don't regret leaving the workforce. I don't regret choosing to stay home with my children. But the absence of regrets does not always equal the absence of restlessness and the desire to be and do more. 

"I'm just too tired," I told Scott as I bemoaned the fact that I wanted to go help our neighbor get her house ready to sell but I didn't even have enough energy to take care of all that my house needed. 

On Sunday, a friend of mine shared a story in a sacrament meeting talk about Henry B. Eyring and his father. Hal was having a hard time with a physics problem, and his father was trying to help him but realized his son was stuck. Brother Eyring was surprised that his son didn't think about physics all the time like he did. This led to him telling his son to figure out what it was that he thought about when he didn't have to be thinking about it, and then choose a career in that field. 

For the past several days, I have tried to pinpoint what I think about when I don't have to be thinking about it. Mostly, it's sleep I crave. Then I think about my to do list. Then, my children. Then, what book I want to be reading. Occasionally, I think about what I want to be writing. But I'd be lying if I said I thought about writing all the time. 

I feel like in the last nine years of motherhood and ten years of marriage, my identity is constantly being put in the Lost and Found bin of my brain. Who am I and what am I doing? I have no idea. What do I want from life? So much, but ask me later because I'd rather take this moment for me.

Back to Sophie, because I have two minutes until I need to go and pick her up for realsies this time. 

I do not regret giving up my writing time to go to her school and not enter. If she needs me, I will be there. But I am equally grateful that she is discovering that sometimes she does not need me. 

Right now, my time is not always my own. That's okay. I've always wanted to be serving God instead of myself, and raising a family is what He has asked of me. And I won't regret feeling weary or tired or taking a nap, because even the Greatest of All did the same. And I will try not to grumble the next time an REM cycle is interrupted by fuzzy, fine blonde hairs in my face and a little body settling into mine, breathing deep sighs because she has found relief.  

It is a wonderful thing to be needed. It is even better to be wanted. 

And, life will not always be this way.

In six years, life will look different, and it will be a different daughter whose threenage years are a fuzzy memory instead of a stark reality. 

Hopefully by then she is sleeping through the night in her own bed. So I will take my 45 stolen-back minutes and I will record my feelings and I will get back to basics because maybe, just maybe, that is where I will find myself again.

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.