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.”

Motherhood Monologues 2016: That's a Wrap!

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading!

Love,
Rinda

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

Motherhood Monologues #25: Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is all I have ever wanted.

Motherhood Monologues #24: Breathe in, breathe out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But sometimes, I end up exceeding my expectations. 

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

Motherhood Monologues #23: Play, revisited

Bedtime.

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

Oh that's right, I love bedtime.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(*a sacred room in the LDS Temples)

Motherhood Monologues #21: Patience AGAIN?!

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

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

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

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

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

That's a big fat NOPE.

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

For example:

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

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

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

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #20: Choose

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

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

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

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #19: Laugh

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

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

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

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #18: Home

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

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

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

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

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

He is home to me. 

Motherhood Monologues #17: Grow, Part Two

Dear Marinda,

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

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

You're not done screwing up her life yet.

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

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

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

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

Moving on,
Marinda

Motherhood Monologues #16: LOVE

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

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

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #15: Gifts

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #14: Stop

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

Note: we aren't.

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

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

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #13: Play

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

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

I remember, I remember, I remember.

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

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #12: Patience

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

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

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

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #11: Allow

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #10: Inspire

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

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

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

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

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #9: Rhythm

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

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

No metronomes for me.

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

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

Motherhood Monologues #8: Clearing Space

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

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