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.”

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."

Two People

Last night I watched my husband hold another woman, and my heart broke.

I saw the look she gave him as we walked into her sparsely furnished bedroom, the way the tears heightened the despair, grief, and sadness in her eyes. The room was full of people, her family and her friends, but it was when she saw him that something in her changed.

I pushed him forward and he sat next to her on the bed, which was nothing more than a full-size mattress on the floor. He put his hand on hers, and she cried. After a minute or so, he looked up at me. This kind of situation is not his forte. I don't think it is anyone's forte. What do you say to someone who has just lost their entire world?

"Hold her," I mouthed more than whispered. I left the room to silence my cell phone. I watched from the doorway as he put his arm around her and pulled her close.

My husband doesn't have sisters and his mother is not prone to tears. When I am sad, I retreat or I get angry. I get quiet and I want to be left alone and there have only been a few times when I've sobbed in his arms.

He cries even less than I do. In our entire marriage, I've seen him cry three times (I'm not including the times where we watch sports movies, because his eyes always seem to leak during those. Pass the hat for Eddie! *I'm not crying, you're crying.) The last of those times were happy tears as he called Kevin early in the morning to tell her she had a long-awaited sister.

But yesterday morning, he cried again.

I knew something was wrong when I picked up my phone after leaving it on the counter for ten minutes and there were two missed calls, a text and an email. My stomach dropped because I thought he'd been in an accident. I figured if he was calling, he would be okay, but I was still worried. The voice on the other end of the phone was not the one I usually hear. "Hi, are you okay?" I said in one rushed breath. "I'm fine," he answered slowly. "I'm fine."

Then he was silent for a moment before he went on, "Do you remember hearing about that drowning accident at Deer Creek Reservoir?"

"Maybe?" I answered.

"The one where the husband drowned and the wife was barely saved?"

Suddenly my mind flashed back. I had seen the headline on facebook. It occurred to me as sad, but I didn't read the article and I kept scrolling.

"That was Anshul and her husband."

"No," I whispered. "No. No. No."

I've only met Anshul a handful of times, but I've heard my husband talk about her nearly every day for the last year when he comes home from work. She has been a helpful addition to his team and I'm grateful that she's been able to shoulder some of his workload. He'd tell me about conversations they'd had about religion, culture, finances, cars, everything. She loves our little ones, especially Sly, and is always excited to see them when we visit Dad at work.  Their relationship was more brother-sister than coworker, and I was grateful for that. I remember him commenting on Thursday of last week about how excited Anshul was that her husband was flying in for the weekend. "She's seemed sad and lonely lately. Today she was almost giddy because he's flying in tonight."

Anshul and I come from different worlds. She and her husband are from India and their marriage was arranged, although they had a courtship and very much agreed to the match. He was finishing up a research and advanced degree in Illinois and she was working in Utah. Their plan was for him to join her in a few months when he finished. In the meantime, they lived apart, flying back and forth to see each other once a month, staying in contact through emails and chats and video messaging. The very concept of a long-distance marriage absolutely threw Scott and I when we first met her. The two of us can barely survive an eight-hour workday away from each other. We came to realize, quickly, that their love wasn't any less real than ours.

Anuj would order her lunch. Sometimes he would add a cookie to the order for Scott. He would take care of his wife from a distance. We'd heard much about him and were planning on going on a double date one of these days when he was in Utah to visit. We were looking forward to meeting him at the company party last Friday, and were both impressed by his warmth, friendliness, and intelligence. He came over and struck up conversations with us more than once. And Anshul? She was practically glowing to have him finally by her side.

I knew all these things about her. And I'm sure she knew more things about me. And even though she is more my husband's friend than mine, my heart ached for her.

But my heart also ached for him.

"I'm sick about it," Scott told me. I could practically hear his mind trying to wrap itself around the tragedy. "She tried to contact me on Saturday. I got this email saying 'URGENT, emergency, call this number.' I thought she'd been hacked, so I didn't respond."

It felt like he was the last coworker to know, when he really should have been one of the first. A couple of people from work tried to call and text him, but nothing ever came through on his phone. And selfishly, I knew this was a tender mercy for me. Yesterday was Sly's birthday. Saturday and Sunday were spent cleaning up and getting ready for the party and then hosting a party. Had Scott known, we wouldn't have had his full attention, and I didn't know we needed it until I realized that there was a reason we didn't find out about the accident until yesterday morning.

Our minds spun in circles all day long. Scott met us after swimming lessons. We took the kids to McDonald's for Sly's birthday. He told me about the news article and how mean people were, commenting on how "they should have been wearing their life jackets."  "100% Avoidable." "Why would you not wear your life jacket if you don't know how to swim?' People think they know so much...but they don't know Anshul, and they didn't know Anuj. He told me how his coworker pointed out that there was one comment, longer than the others, from the girl who helped pull Anshul from the water. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he told me about this merciful woman, gently and kindly reminding people that these were two people, people with friends and families:

"My brother and I were the ones who saved the wife, and weren't able to find her husband. 
First of all let me remind everyone that these are two human beings, one who lost his life and one who had to go home without her husband. I spent over two hours with her yesterday, and I cannot even begin to fathom the hell she is living through. Please have some compassion. 
Second it is terrifying how fast this all happened. From the time we saw them in the water, to barely seconds later realizing they were in trouble, (We were less than 200 yards from the couple, our boat already idling, we sped there as fast as possible, and we dove in before the boat even stopped.) and still just before we got there the husband went under and didn't resurface. This all happened in a matter of seconds. The wife had taken what looked like her last breath and was under water when my brother got to her, he handed her to me and started diving for the husband. As others from our boat and nearby boats we waved down started diving as well. 
You always imagine someone who's drowning to be splashing, waving their arms, etc.. they don't have the energy for that, at first glance it looked like they were just swimming. If you ever see someone in the water, take a second look, and go check on them! Although we know we gave it our all, the regret and frustration we both feel in not being able to find him will be with us forever. If we had hesitated, they would both be gone. How would that feel, knowing we "could have"? A life is always worth it. 
Be prepared, wear a life jacket, wear your seat belt, don't hesitate to help, and be considerate. My heart goes out to this sweet woman, I pray that she can find peace. Sweetie if you see this, I love you. I truly do."

When Scott and I arrived at Anshul's apartment last night, her friends thought we were the rescuers. Granted, we were the only caucasians around, it was an easy mistake for them to make: a tall man with brown hair, a shorter woman with brown hair. "If she sees you, she'll have to relive it all over again," her friend said as she walked us to the other side of the apartment building. We could barely understand her, so we just went with it. Imagine our surprise at waiting in a random woman's apartment alone for a few minutes, only to be joined later by half a dozen of Anshul's Indian friends and four very white people. The older woman asked Scott how he knew Anshul, no doubt surprised to see us in the midst of Anshul's friends. It wasn't until Anshul's brother in law entered the apartment and started talking to them that we realized: these were Anshul's rescuers.

I felt like an imposter, witnessing that meeting, listening to them share their stories with one another. Anshul's brother-in-law had arrived that afternoon, the only member of her family with a valid visa because he visited the United States often for work. Emergency visas were unobtainable because of a weekend followed by a national holiday. He shared more details from Anshul's side of the story: how they had been wearing their life jackets, but when they went back to shore they found they still had 15 minutes on their kayak rental, so they decided to get back in and stay close to the shore and Anshul kept telling Anuj they needed to put the flotation devices back on, but he waved it off, thinking that they'd be fine since they weren't going to be in the water long and they were close to shore.

And then the Rescue Family started to speak, humbly and yet confidently sharing their side of the story. It was supposed to just be the parents on the boat that day, but due to irregular circumstances, they somehow convinced their two children, both grown and married, to join them on the lake. How the parents weren't strong enough swimmers to have gotten to Anshul and Anuj in time. How the dad had been watching the kayak, and when it tipped, he noticed that something was wrong. How minutes before, wave runners and boats had sped (too fast) past the no-wake zone, creating waves that may or may not have tipped the kayak. How the son, who got to her first, didn't know that there was another. "I never saw him," he said, "And if I had, my natural instinct would have been to go after him first and we would have lost both of them."

Detail after detail. Miracle after miracle.
People like this family---they are rare. They had such love, such compassion, such sorrow for not being able to rescue both. Their lives will forever be marked by their experience.

As I put my arms around the daughter, the one who served as Anshul's guardian and protector and comforter for hours on Saturday afternoon, I whispered, "You did a good job." It was all I could get out through my tears. I wish I could have found the words then, when I had the chance, to tell her how grateful I was that God placed her in Anshul's path that day. How much I admire her for compassion and love. And how extremely grateful we are for the way that she stepped up, once again, and shielded Anshul from an onslaught of people who think they know better than her just because they weren't the ones not wearing life jackets that day.

Anshul is not the same woman she was on Friday. All the wishes in the world won't take her back to that person, and yet that glowing, happy, woman-in-love is still inside her somewhere. More than one friend remarked to us, "she will have to move past this. We will help."

And though our options to help seem so very small and insignificant, sometimes simply being there to hold someone and cry and not talk and offer quiet prayers from the heart are the only things we can do.

Anshul's friends have set up a gofundme account to help with funeral costs (including the astronmical task of sending her husband's body back to India). If you can, donate a little.

If you can't, please say a prayer for my husband's friend.

She Gives

They say babies are helpless, and I believe this is true.

I do everything for our little miss (who still doesn't have a code name, work on that please Flan). And if I'm not doing it for her, someone else is. We've spent a lot of time with extended family over the past month, and there have been many helping hands and hearts willing to cuddle our sweetheart so that my hands can be employed elsewhere. I spent an equal amount time watching my baby be cared for by those who love her. She has been fed, snuggled, changed, bathed, soothed, and played with by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, great aunts, great uncles, and dear friends. She has been given attention and love in so many different forms, and by extension of that, so have I.

This morning as I snuggled her close and propped up her bottle so she could get her fill, I thought of her helplessness. She depends on others for everything she needs.

What most people don't realize is that babies are some of the least selfish creatures you'll ever meet.

That may sound odd, but hear me out. Sure, she is in constant need. She can't take care of most of her basic functions (and that isn't going to change anytime soon, if she follows her siblings' examples).

But what she does is give us everything she has without hesitation.

A smile, a coo, a giggle. A snuggle, a cuddle, a reason to laugh. A chance to pause, a peaceful moment in the quiet hours, a lullaby that soothes us both. Her patience when she has to wait, her gratitude when she is filled, her trust that we will take care of her needs. She is our wake-up call, our divine reminder, our greatest joy.

And although there are so many things we do for her, there is no doubt in my mind.

She does more for us.

copyright by Marinda Fowler. Please do not share or use this picture.

Six-Week Survival Mode

There I was again, in the small, one-windowed cement-bricked room, face to face with my mission president.

"Sister Burningham," he said to me, "You can survive anything for six weeks."

I was one week (or possibly less?) into a new transfer in a new area with a new companion. I'd just come from a place that felt like home and a companion that felt more like a best friend and sister than someone assigned to be with me 24/7.

Six weeks, I repeated in my mind. I can survive anything for six weeks. 

And so I did. I had no idea at the beginning of that transfer that survival mode is so much easier to bear when you are working hard, serving hard, and loving hard. My companion and I butted heads daily, but I came to love her for who she was and her unique gifts and talents. And before I knew it, transfers were upon us again and I gained a new companion. The weeks stretched into months, the months turned into spring and my Californian companion teaching me why 4/20 was now written all over our hippie-college-town area sidewalks. Within a week of that weird-smelling tracting day, I was sitting in my childhood bedroom, saying to myself once again, six weeks. 

Six weeks became fifteen, but I survived. Nine months until the end of my mission became 11, and Scott survived while I thrived.

I was home (for good) for six weeks when I gained a diamond ring and nine weeks later, a new name. As semesters, jobs, and challenges have come and gone, I've often repeated my mission president's words to myself. You can survive anything for six weeks.

Teething? Sleep-training? Husband's heavy workloads? Re-curring winter storms? Colds that won't go away? Meltdowns by the millions?  I can survive anything for six weeks.

Last Sunday, I hit 33 weeks of pregnancy, which means that I have only six weeks of this pregnancy left. Though pregnancy is definitely not easy, compared to my last two child-growing experiences, this one has been a piece of cake (maybe because this time I can actually have an occasional piece of cake). In the past two weeks, however, everything has gotten harder: sleeping, maintaining blood sugar control, managing anxiety, showing patience and charity to my children, telling myself to slow down and then forcing myself to ignore all the messes in my home and just let it be. I don't write this to complain--I write it to remember.

I write to remember the things and people that helped me survive:

• My two-year-old asking me to cuddle on the couch and then falling asleep in my arms, forcing me to snuggle, meditate, and enjoy the last of his true babyness before becoming a big brother forces him to grow up faster.
• My daughter replacing the toilet paper by herself, making me realize that although I may feel like a craptastic mother most of the time, I have at least taught her one human skill that most adults struggle with. 
• My husband, responding to my "I just can't deal anymore" email and working from home all afternoon, even though I know he gets so much more done in office. While I am slipping in and out of sleep, I hear him changing a poopy diaper in the next room while simultaneously making a work call. 
• And all the little things: packages with new baby goodies in the mail. Waking up to an email from a faraway friend. Not having trouble finding a babysitter to watch my kids during yet another doctor's appointment. Free insulin samples from my doctor. Realizing that I have more than enough prenatal vitamins to last through the end of this pregnancy. Making plans on the calendar for after the baby's due date. 

There is an end in sight. In six weeks, I will have survived the worst and hardest part of this pregnancy. 

And then, as I'm adjusting to three kids and a newborn schedule, I'll keep repeating the words to myself:

I can survive anything for six weeks.

A Bit About Me and Scotty

In honor of Valentine's Day, here's a bit of Q and A about my marriage.

Here's our Valentine's Day love story!

1. Anniversary? September 18
2. First date? July 23, 2004
3. How did you meet? At Especially For Youth (EFY, a kind of LDS Bible Camp) in 2003
4. What is your song? Lucky by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat
5. Do you remember the first movie you saw together? Ella Enchanted. It was a terrible movie.
6. First road trip together? Aside from drives back and forth from Sandy to Richmond, I think our first road trip together was to Vernal to the DinoTri, a triathlon he was competing in with his brother. We went with said brother, brother's wife, and three little girls. A few weeks later we went to Twin Falls with the same brother's family as well as Scott's parents. They'd gotten a hotel with 3 queen beds. Scott insisted on sleeping out in the mini van, which meant he left me to the mercy of his family. I haven't quite forgiven him for that yet.
7. Do you have kids? Yes- almost 3 little ones
8. Older? Him, by 11 days (but if you are talking gestational age, me, because I was 16 days overdue)
9. Who was interested first? I'm not really sure. Probably him.
10. Who is the most sensitive? I think we're about the same. He'll say me.
11. Worst temper? Me. Unless he hasn't had enough sleep, then definitely him.
12. Funniest? I think we're about the same. He makes me laugh everyday, but I do/say things that catch him off guard.
13. More social? Him. I think a lot of people would disagree with us, but I'm fine with being a homebody, he has to get out and have interaction with people. This is why he works in an office and not from home.
14. More stubborn? Me, unless he is fighting with our son, and then he can be super stubborn.
15. Wakes up first? Scott. Every day of our marriage. Except like, maybe, two days.
16. Has the bigger family? His, definitely. Once this baby comes, the total in his family will be 35. Mine, on the other hand, will be 13.
17. Eats the most? Me, no question. He puts up a good front, but I always have a bigger appetite and snack more.
18. Who said I love you first? Me, in an email sent right before I went back to Texas after my intermission.
19. Better cook? Probably me, but he is a pretty good cook too. I just get more chances to practice. Except right now, because I'm not a fan of cooking smells, so he gets plenty of chances to feed us. If our baby comes out looking or smelling like a taco, spaghetti, or breakfast foods, I won't be surprised.
20. Hogs the bed? Me, no question.
21. More romantic? Him.
22. How long have you been together? This is a confusing question. We've been friends for 13 and a half years, became more than that seven and a half years ago, and got married six and a half years ago. So, I'm not really sure, but probably forever.

He's pretty great. I think I'll keep him. 

Third Time's the Joy

So, I'm pregnant.

Most of my readers probably already knew that, but if not, well, now you do!

And I am finally sitting down to write the story of this baby, this baby who has brought miracles into my life--and more than that, an appreciation of miracles. His or her presence in me fills me with unspeakable joy. Though I have by no means felt great, the fact that I have been able to feel happy amidst the struggle is a whole new concept.

I don't think, however, that you can really understand the story of this baby without knowing the story of this baby's sister and brother.

During my first pregnancy, I was physically miserable. There may have been a day I didn't barf, and there may have been a day that I only barfed once, but I really don't remember those days. I survived on spaghettios, top ramen, gobstoppers, and an occasional order of Chicken McNuggets. I didn't trust my doctor; we argued at nearly every appointment. As a first time pregnant-person, there were many things I didn't understand, one of them being that I really should have made the effort to find a doctor that wasn't constantly telling me I was doing everything wrong.

You know the rest of Kevin's story: water breaking eight weeks early, three hospitals, three weeks in the NICU, several miracles and more than a little PTSD.

Then came Sly, almost before we were ready. Okay, I admit it: nothing could have prepared me for the kind of pregnancy I had with him. I was amazed when the constant vomiting never kicked in; I know now that was a tender mercy of the Lord, because I surely could not have withstood the physical anguish along with the mental and emotional trauma I experienced while pregnant with him. If the aftermath of Kevin's birth were not enough, the 60+ prenatal doctor's appointments were enough to do me in. I was starving and going through major sugar withdrawls, but my stress levels made my blood sugar uncontrollable and every nurse I talked to treated me like they were my drill sergeant. I knew what I needed to do, but despite every sacrifice I made, my body would not cooperate. I was told more than once that if I didn't get it together, I was going to harm my baby. I was determined to give my baby his best chance at life, but in that process so many of my choices stopped feeling like they were mine to make.

Now that little boy is my little spot of sunshine in every rainy day. The fact that he makes me laugh daily, multiple times, more than makes up for the depression I experienced while growing him. And his joyous little soul is a constant miracle to me.  Those nine months with him were some of the darkest of my life. I knew I could not do that again.

But would I do it again?

That was the question Scott and I wrestled with for months. We knew our family was not complete. We knew we could not wait forever. I knew what I was in for. I knew baby-growing is not my forte, I knew there would be much sacrifice involved. This time, however, we decided to make some changes and do things my way, our way.

We began on our knees and enlisted the help of the Father and the Master Healer. We were guided in our choices, and we made them together.

It started by deciding that I was never going back to the drill sergeants. I know they are helpful, I know they were doing their job, but if there ever was a set of people I would apply the term "fun-suckers" to, they were it. And don't get me started on the worthless meetings with the nutritionist.

So I started by talking with my diabetes doctor. And instead of waiting until I was pregnant to get things under control, we took control first. I went straight to insulin. I took shots for several months to bring my a1c down before I even came close to taking a pregnancy test. Instead of new, purpley stretch marks, blue and yellow bruises covered my abdomen from shots that hit veins and scar tissue instead of fat.

It hurt, but it was my choice.

The negative pregnancy tests that followed were a shock to me. For those that struggle with infertility, I know that is a terrible thing to say. I couldn't understand why our wait was prolonged. Then I got bronchitis and had to have my chest x-rayed. And I understood, and I kept working on preparing myself for this pregnancy. And I put it back in God's hands.

At the beginning of August, I took another test. I'll admit, I was surprised when this time two pink lines showed up instead of one. I was overjoyed, which was a completely different emotion from my first two pregnancies. Even as the nausea set in and my productivity lessened and I let friendships fade, Scott and I held our secret in our hearts, giggled over it, and smiled and smiled and smiled.

All was not perfect those first few weeks. A few days after I took the test, a family in our neighborhood lost their baby halfway through the pregnancy and a couple of weeks later, one of my best friends found out that her baby, due two days after mine, would be lost to an ectopic pregnancy. I had so been looking forward to having a baby the same age as theirs, and now I wondered, would my little one feel like a constant reminder of what these dear, dear friends had lost? I cried for them, for my child's lost friends. I also wondered if I would lose mine too. Why do some get to keep their treasures and others have to send theirs back to God? It seems a cruel blessing.

So we took things slow.

With our first two pregnancies, we inevitably ended up telling people before we were really ready. So we did things differently this time around. We did not keep this baby a secret, but we do hold this pregnancy sacred, so we waited patiently and gave ourselves time to adjust, telling those we wanted to tell in the order we wanted to tell them, days and weeks in between, not worrying about what people would think or what was socially acceptable. Getting those precious, private moments with loved ones let us really revel in the joy of our expectations and allowed others to strengthen us with that love. 

We told Kevin and Sly in the car on our way up to Logan. The news was a little over their heads. Kevin waited a few weeks before telling her beloved preschool teacher. Nightly she would pray for me to feel better so I didn't have to spend quiet time napping and could spend time with her. Her prayers broke my heart. Eventually she stopped praying for me to give her more time; instead she asked for my comfort and health. It takes a certain amount of maturity for a child to watch their mother be sick day in and day out, give herself shots, coax blood from her fingers before every meal. Though her child-mind may not understand, her wisened spirit has supported me in ways I never expected. And when she went to get her flu shot, she didn't even flinch, because shots are not scary to her. 

Sly ignores the topic of a little brother or sister, though he will admit that he wants a "grirl" and he does point out a baby to me every time he sees one. 

I have gone from dreading doctor's appointments to looking forward to them. My OBGYN, who is the same person that took care of my through Sly's prenatal care and birth, has been nothing but supportive since that first visit at seven weeks when I told her I wanted to avoid the perinatologist office at all costs. She was nervous about that at first, I could tell, but somehow she understood what I could not explain about the stress that those visits caused me. I worked hard with my Diabetes doctor to get my blood sugars in the right ranges. I started being more stringent about what I ate--but not because somebody told me to. Because I wanted to, because it was my choice. Knowing that I can sneak a cookie or a bowl of ice cream here or there has done wonders for my well-being. 

Still, I was anxious about explaining away those two or three high readings on my blood sugar monitor. My doctor looked at my numbers at that 11-week visit and when I started to give my excuses he just laughed and said, "those numbers tell me you are human," and praised me for what I had been able to do right. I'd never gotten a "you should be proud of yourself!" or a "keep up the good work!" during a prenatal appointment before, and all of the sudden I was hearing those very phrases from both of my doctors. I was being told that I didn't need the hellish progesterone shots, that I could do my target ultrasounds at my regular doctor, that whatever I was doing was working so just keep it up. 

With this has brought me the freedom to actually enjoy being pregnant, to anticipate adding a new soul to our family. Pregnancy is still no cake walk, and there are definitely days when I full on hate the routine and the symptoms, but those days are not every day. There are times when the heartburn hits after drinking a glass of cold water and I dread what the next 25 weeks will bring, when I wonder how on earth we are going to manage with all of the other things on our plates right now, and then I remember.

This baby is our choice. 

And we choose joy. 

Love is an Open Door

I dropped my four-year-old off at preschool this morning. Last year, I walked her to the door, trying to calm her fears and stop the tears before she went in to join the rest of her class. This year, I walk her to the edge of the driveway, sneak in a side hug and a kiss before she runs off to join her teacher. As I drive down the lane, I watch her gracefully and confidently walk through the open classroom door, not holding anyone's hand, head held high as she passes the dogs, and I think, she is growing up, and she is teaching me so much.

Minutes before we headed out the door today, she came to me complaining that her tummy hurt. This is a common occurrence and I've yet to pinpoint the cause. She told me she wasn't nervous or hungry, but I could tell she was worried about it, so I suggested we say a prayer before we left. We knelt on the hard, cold floor and folded our arms. Little brother joined us with his bowl of popcorn leftover from last night. After he had snuck a few pieces in his mouth, I said a prayer and we asked Heavenly Father to help Kevin's tummy stop hurting so she could have a good day at school. Then we rushed to put on jackets and shoes and get out the door. A few steps into the garage, she paused and turned around, a big smile on her face. "Mom! My tummy doesn't hurt anymore! Isn't that lucky!"

I explained that it wasn't luck, it was Heavenly Father answering our prayer.

And later, that feeling that flooded my heart as I watched her walk happily into school, Heavenly Father answered my prayer.

I often have to pray for charity for this child. She pushes my buttons, tests my patience, and makes life hard. I don't want to be so frustrated with her--so I ask God to help me see her the way he does. And the answers come in the little moments, where I pause and look at her--really look at her, and take time to be grateful for the sparkly spirit that she is.

A year or so ago, she won the battle of having her door open at bedtime. Her parents would prefer it closed, as she is a light sleeper and her brother can be very loud, but eventually we learned it was easier to leave her door open and the hall light on than battle her demons every night.

I find myself being grateful for that lost battle almost nightly, as I have the chance to peek in and watch her sleep for a few seconds before I end my day too. Sometimes she is still awake and flashes me a smile and the love sign. Sometimes she has already kicked off her blankets and I have to tiptoe around the floor creaks to tuck her back in. Sometimes her limbs are spread like a star, blankets already starting to fall of the bed.

Two nights ago, I found her fast asleep, her hand holding open the book of fairy tales I read to her before bed. My heart melted a little bit, and I made a wish for her dreams to take her on adventures like those found in her open book.

Life at the Moment

I am a slacker.

This is nothing new, really.

A lot has happened in the past six weeks (gulp, yes, been awhile), and at the same time life has remained very much the same. We are in a peaceful spot right now, and I am grateful for that.

Since the kids decided to sleep in this morning, I decided to take a few minutes and record what our life is like at the moment. Nothing spectacular or ground-breaking, but our life. I am a believer that even the most ordinary lives are extraordinary when you pause to be grateful for every little miracle and tender mercy.

My son is approaching two. He is a ham, a clown, a firecracker. He gives the sweetest hugs--but only on the rare occasions when he slows down for more than two seconds. His latest thing has been to say, "play cars wif me a minute, Mommy?" Who could say no to that? He has an amazing ability to communicate. "Daddy's at work. He's gone. Be home soon." is a lecture I hear often, along with "I don't want to!" and "You see me, Mommy?"

He is not a fan of being bossed around by his sister, yet he gets extremely upset when she decides to play in her room by herself. He has decided he hates wearing a diaper and yesterday we had a three-hour standoff when he refused to wear pants. His sister attributed this to his love of Daniel Tiger and suggested that maybe we can't watch that show anymore.

He is quite the challenge in church--not because he is necessarily naughty, but because he is so very loud. Two weeks ago the speaker was talking about the "Stop It" talk from President Uchtdorf, and Sly, having learned to yell "Stop!" with his Papa the week before, frequently yelled, "STOP!" every time the speaker said it, complete with his pudgy little hand out like a cop directing traffic.

We visited a train museum last week and hauled him upstairs for a look at the gun collection. The museum curator was sitting at a desk putting lotion on his feet. As my daughter, cousin, and I admired the display about our fourth-great-grandfather, Sly was yelling, "STINKY FEET! STINKY FEET!"

He is a climber, a reader, a laugher, a social butterfly, a stubborn cuss, a fan of all things basketball-football-and-soccer, a tease, the epitome of the term "little brother" and the sunshine in my soul. Everyday, even though my body is worn out from chasing him and my nerves are singed from trying to stay one step ahead of him (and thus save his life), I take minute to thank my Heavenly Father for the presence this little boy is in our home. He brings me so much joy and I am so grateful to call him my son.

My daughter is growing up right before my eyes. I am amazed at how much about her has changed, even since preschool ended in May. Slowly but surely she is coming to learn all the basics--the alphabet, counting, shapes--but also things that most adults are still trying to learn: compassion, service, problem-solving, self-discipline. Her body is growing just as fast as her mind--all the shirts I bought for her this past spring are suddenly too short and everyday when she asks to be measured she is a centimeter or two higher. Her beloved hair is still not quite to that coveted Rapunzel-length, but the other day she realized that is because Rapunzel's hair is magic and sadly, hers is not.

We are on a constant roller coaster with her--some days she is so happy and sweet that I really don't want to put her to bed because I have enjoyed her so much. Other days bedtime can not come fast enough, and it is usually on these days that bedtime turns into an all-out, two-hour war that ends in her door being shut and her parents hiding in the basement with the TV turned up so we can attempt to ignore her battle cries.

The other day we were driving home from Box Elder County, surrounded by fields, cows, and the orange glow of the sunset, when she said, "I want to see Jesus." A minute later, she repeated the phrase: "I just want to see Jesus." We told her that was a good desire, and if she could live the commandments, that someday when Jesus comes again she will be able to see him. Her reaction to this was: "It's taking a long time for Jesus to come." I agree, sweetheart.

She has improved so much with her ballet dancing. Her first recital was last month and I will never forget the brilliant smile on her face as the music ended and she realized she had done her very best. She gave us the best wink as she walked off the stage.

Every evening as I put her to bed (before the inevitable "What will we do tomorrow?" conversation), we blow and catch kisses and do a thumb's up-fist-bump, which she has christened a "thumb duck."

She loves her brother and she loves babies. She is my best helper.  She tries to be brave and work through her anxieties, and it is a difficult, uphill climb for all of us. She reminds me to slow down for a snuggle and a story, helping me appreciate the sacred moments when they happen and not take her childhood for granted. In truth, she is the gardener and I am the little seed trying to grow. Loving her is not always easy, but that's what makes my immense gratitude and love for her so strong.

Speaking of growing up, let's talk about Scott for a minute. Just a little minute, because he kind of hates the whole "broadcast your relationship" on social media thing. I am constantly amazed by this man that I was blessed to marry. He is so dang smart. His company recently merged and while his coworkers were a little panicked and nervous, he was completely at ease in his outlook, seeing the new company as an opportunity for growth. Every day he comes home and tells me something he wants to learn to improve his skills. He gives 100% to most everything he does. He recently was given a new calling at church, one that is busy and vital to the workings of our congregation. He serves willingly and hasn't let the new demands on his time interfere with his devotion to his family.

Plus, he took me to Texas for eight days and it was amazing.

And me. What about me these days? I am tired. Keeping my body going is a constant battle. I feel like a bowling ball trying to make it to the gutter, but my kids are the bumpers making that impossible, so I roll down the slick lane at a snail's pace until I finally hit a pin or two on the side before dropping out of sight. That is my day in a nutshell.

I feel as if this year I have been able to really exercise my creativity. I've tried things I never though I could do and though I am very much an amateur, just the process of creating helps me to grow. I've had ideas form in my head and actually turn out tangibly with a decent resemblance to the picture I drew in my mind.

I am giving myself more credit for the things I do get done rather than beating myself up for the million things that fall to the wayside. I am learning to prioritize. I am learning to be more grateful. I am striving to be happy and content in my blessings--and as you can tell by this epic epistle about my greatest blessings, I am one fortunate soul indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(*a sacred room in the LDS Temples)

Motherhood Monologues #18: Home

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

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

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

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

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

He is home to me. 

Motherhood Monologues #16: LOVE

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

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

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

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

"It Worked Out Well"

Last Saturday, Scott and I had the opportunity to go out to dinner with his parents and three of his four brothers and their wives. We went to a fancy restaurant, ate some yummy food, and spent two hours enjoying each other's company and sharing memories. Most of the meal was spent in the brothers trying to top each other's tattle-telling stories (who crashed the car worse and who got off with easy punishments and who punched a hole in the wall and covered it with a bandaid and a note that said "ouch"). Scott's mom laughed and his dad shook his head.  It's the first time in probably five years that we've gotten together as just adults.

Towards the end of the meal, my sister-in-law Tamsen shared her memories of the first time she met the Fowler family. She talked about how impressed she was at the way Clyde and Stephanie were engaged in their boys' lives, how they took time to get to know her and include her.

I spent much of the meal sitting back and listening. Officially, I came last to the family--the last piece of the spousal puzzle for the Fowler boys, the last daughter-in-law, the last bride. In reality, I came into the family long before they met me in person and discovered that I was not just a figment of Scott's imagination.

Scott and I met at age 16. We wrote to each other often over the next several years. It probably seems odd, then, that the first time I met his parents in person was at my homecoming. I remember him informing me that his parents were going to attend with him and if I didn't want them to come, I would have to talk his mom out of it because she was a pretty determined lady. Since that time, I have come to know that "determined" is an understatement. I was flattered that they would make the time and the drive to come hear me speak. I had no idea what they looked like, but I knew the kind of people they were because I knew their son's heart.

For the life of me, I couldn't write that talk. I tried and tried in the three days I had between getting off the plane and stepping up the pulpit, but it never came together. I knew what I wanted to say, but not how to say it, and so my notes consisted of one Texas proverb and three names of persons whose stories I wanted to share. I've never been very good at auditions, and I felt as if I were auditioning to be part of their family. This was a role I really wanted.

When I stepped up to the microphone, there were dozens of familiar and friendly faces, people who had come to hear me speak. Sitting in the center of the front row of the overflow was my love. Sitting next to him, dressed in a pink jacket and somehow looking exactly how I had imagined her and not at all how I had pictured her at the same time, was my 6'4" boyfriend's  5' 4" mother. Looking back, she was probably as nervous as I was, so I shouldn't have worried. Next to her was my now father-in-law, wearing a goofy grin that set me at ease. Kind of.

After I stumbled through my talk, after we shook hands at the back of the chapel, after they'd met my whole family at the luncheon, after Scott had driven them back to Logan and then come back to Richmond, after the crowds had cleared and he and I went for a walk around Richmond and I resisted the urge to knock on doors--after all of that, Scott informed me that his parents liked me.

I got the part.

For so many years, I was an observant outsider. Scott would tell me stories about his brothers--we'd known each other for three years before I stopped him and said I knew their names, he could just tell me which brother it was that had cracked the joke. I have letters memorializing the birth of every niece and nephew from 2003-2010. I have records of their family home evenings, their outings, the triathlons he ran with Dave and the tennis matches with Bryan and how he tried to throw Greg's kids in a garbage can but they wouldn't have it. I know the scares and surgeries, when Grandma Fowler died, when Scott and his parents went to Tennessee for a HOSA competition and he placed nationally. I know about the blind dates his brothers tried to set him up on. I know their names, their interests, their children. I couldn't have picked a single one of them off the street, but the Fowler Family was already part of my heart.

Nearly six years later, I have become part of the family. Though I still feel like the youngest sister, I am not afraid to tease and play games and tickle the grandchildren or walk around in my pajamas when we stay overnight. I'm convinced that Clyde has given me more hugs than some of his boys--I can't help it, I came from a hugging family.

And so I can second Clyde's surprisingly short summary of their marriage at the end of the meal: "It worked out well."

Yes, yes it has.

A Mom of "Just" Two

Almost two and a half years ago, I wrote a post entitled "A Mom of Just One." A few days after I published it, a dear, sweet friend chastised me a little and suggested I take out the "just" in the heading. "Mothering is hard with one and it's hard with more, " she wrote. "Don't discredit yourself. You're not a mom of "just one", you're a mom. And you're fabulous." 

Folks, this is the kind of constructive criticism that works. I don't think she knows how often I have come back to her words to comfort myself when the rocky paths of motherhood trip me up and my soul is covered in road rash. 

No, I didn't take "Just" out of the heading then. I left it as a reminder of a day when I just felt down and I had forgotten my purpose. I can't tell you how many times in the past two and a half years I have had to revise conversations with myself in my head...if I can just get through today...if I can get through today...if I can just be a little better...if I can be a little better...if I can just be a little more patient...if I can be a little more patient...

Here is what I've learned: just is one of those words that distances us not only from our true selves, but from God's plan for us. 

Oh, how this lesson hurts me sometimes.

When you include the word "just," it is almost like placing a deadline on your efforts. When you eliminate that word, there leaves a lot of wiggle room--and I like to think that is what God would like mothers like me to give ourselves.

I'm going to be a little raw and a lot real here, because I have some words and thoughts and feelings and emotions in me that I really need to barf into cyberspace.

Today Sly learned to say the word "baby." We were looking at a book I made for him for his first Christmas, and as soon as I opened to the first page, he pointed to a picture taken on his first day of life and said, clear as a bell, "baby!"

I hadn't coached him. We haven't really talked babies with him. This really is no great coincidence, as his sister totes around babies all day long, but it still took me by surprise, and instantly I was transported back to when his sister was that age and Scott and I were discussing family planning and after a frustrating day, I told him we couldn't even think about another pregnancy until she could pass three milestones: 1. Walk on her own; 2. Sleep through the night; and 3. Say the word "baby." 

For the first two years of her life, Kevin was a little behind developmentally. We knew this was because of her premature birth, and we didn't notice it very often, but now that we've had more than a year with a full-term baby, I can see the areas where she struggled because of those lost eight weeks in the womb. She walked at about the same age, but sleeping was and continues to be much more of a struggle with her than it ever has been for Sly. And talking? She said enough words for us to not worry, but she didn't communicate clearly until just after she turned two (and, quite frankly, she hasn't shut up since). 

So I didn't worry about her hitting the milestones too fast, because I knew by the time she did our family would be ready. 

It's been different this time around. After Sly was born, I was so deep into depression and health issues that Scott and I both knew that giving ourselves some extra space before we attempted a third (and possibly, probably last) pregnancy was going to be not only helpful, but necessary. What we didn't anticipate, however, was the strong stirrings of baby hunger that started this past fall. Every time we go to change our plan, we remember just how difficult and different the last two pregnancies have been and we pray about it and we know that, once again, the timing isn't right...yet.

That doesn't make it any easier when Kevin asks me almost daily when we can get another baby from the "hospidal" and talks about a sister as if she was a real person and informed me last week that there was a baby in my tummy (when I could clearly tell that there was not).

Or when nearly every one of my friends that was pregnant when I was pregnant with Sly is announcing a pregnancy.

A few weeks ago, Scott and I were talking about this baby subject (it comes up a lot), and he turned to me and said, "I bet if your health were different, we'd be close to having three kids by now."

Here's the thing that confuses me though: my kids drive me nuts. Why would I want more? 

Why, on days when I've had to sneak down to the basement twice for a handful of chocolate chips and my son has colored on the walls and my daughter can't stop the floors from jumping out and tripping her, do I tell myself I actually want another child?

Scott brought home a pizza for lunch at 11:30 am (yup, that kind of a day) and we were talking about our newest nephew (we've gotten two in the last 30 hours!) and I said to him, "I'm sorry we aren't at number five." What I really meant was: I'm sorry we will probably never even get to number five."

And he looked at me with that handsome smile of his, pulled me close so that my cheek was resting on his worn gray fleece jacket, and said with absolute certainty something along the lines of, "Sweetheart, I'm just fine with that."

So, all day I've been telling myself that I'm fine being a mother of just two. 

And then, thanks to Savanah, I remind myself that I'm not just a mother of just two...I AM a mother of two children. And motherhood is hard with one, with two, with five or with six, If you ask any woman who has struggled or is struggling with infertility, she will tell you that motherhood is hard  even when you are just trying to have children. 

During this past conference, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland spoke of the verbs of motherhood: to bear, lift, carry, deliver...and how the roles mothers play in our earthly lives are similar to the role Christ plays in our eternal life. The talk was beautiful--almost too beautiful, and I thought, "surely a sinner like me doesn't deserve those songs of praise!" 

But then he ended his talk with these words, and I needed them just as much in October as I need them today (and I will probably need them in a month, a year, ten years from now):

"To all of our mothers everywhere, past, present, or future, I say, 'Thank you. Thank you for giving birth, for shaping souls, for forming character, and for demonstrating the pure love of Christ.' To Mother Eve, to Sarah (a mother of one child!), Rebekah (she only had two children!), and Rachel (again, two children!), to Mary of Nazareth, and to a Mother in Heaven, I say, 'Thank you for your crucial role in fulfilling the purposes of eternity.' To all mothers in every circumstance, including those who struggle—and all will—I say, 'Be peaceful. Believe in God and yourself. You are doing better than you think you are. In fact, you are saviors on Mount Zion,¹³ and like the Master you follow, your love never faileth.’¹⁴ I can pay no higher tribute to anyone."

His words aren't just to the mothers whose families are complete, or those who are up into the 3 to 5 times tables when it comes to "multiplying and replenishing the earth." They are to those who have never been able to have children, to those who are trying, to those who are pregnant, to those who have birthed stillborn babies or suffered miscarriages, to those with one child, and to those, like me, who have children but want more and are wondering if my best efforts and childbearing and childrearing are possibly enough to earn me that title of Mother. 

And he never once uses the word just, though I have used it 20 times in this post alone.

So, right at this moment, I may have to take his word for it that I am doing better than I think I am, and that I can find peace in my role at this moment, and that though my love for my children may falter on some days, when it comes right down to it, that love never faileth.