Thoughts on Time and Self-Love

It's been awhile.

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

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

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

But it isn't everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I've been ignoring it.

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

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

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

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

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

Small Moments, Simple Words, Great Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conversations with Sly

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

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

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

--

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

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

Way to be optimistic, son.

----

Saying the prayer over dinner last night:

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

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

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

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

Almost Unhurried

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

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

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

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

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

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

"MOMMY!"

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

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

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

Hands

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CPR Parenting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FHE Payday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When did you feel that feeling?"

"Yesterday."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Joys

Is there anything sweeter than holding a sleeping baby at Christmastime? The pause and the peace and the gentle rocking of the recliner relaxes me and fills me with more happiness than I think I have ever known. I count her long, dark eyelashes. I admire the smoothness of her slightly chubby cheeks. I watch her mouth move as she breathes and dreams and relaxes into my arms.

Was this how Mary felt? Sometimes I wonder how much of our perfectly placed nativities actually resemble that original night in Bethlehem. Somehow the stable dung piles never get painted into those heavenly-lit scenes, though I am sure they were copious. After having children, it is harder to forget the pain of childbirth that was real for Mary that night. Despite her divine infant, and perhaps because of Him, I don't think she was spared the pain. But neither was she spared the joy.

I think of the moments that make my Christmases special, and how my favorite things have changed over the years. I used to love eating the treats given to us by neighbors, but now the best part is leaving cookies on doorsteps and the worst part is all the houses we drive by that I wish we could fit into our budget, because they do fit into our hearts.

I used to love attending the endless parties with family and friends, and now I find the joy in planning the gatherings. I loved listening to Christmas music for weeks and weeks, but even the best of Kurt Bestor and Anne Murray cannot compare to the slightly off-key choir that is our family of five, singing a song about Jesus each evening before bed.

I used to love the anticipation of opening gifts early on Christmas morning; that wait has turned into something so much harder as I wait for my loved ones to open the gifts I spent hours making or carefully choosing. I love to find and give the perfect thing. I hate it when I can't find anything good enough to express my feelings, gratitude, and love.

I used to love waking up in the wee hours of Christmas morning to see the family room lit only by the lights on the tree, stockings overflowing and mountains of gifts blocking walkways. Now, those scenes can't compare to the feelings I have as I stay up late with my husband, smiling and whispering as we assemble our family's Christmas. There may be less gifts, but there is no shortage of love!

I loved listening to my mom read "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" every night and watching "Elf" and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" with my siblings, wrapped in a blanket. Now I delight in the sparkly picture books my children beg me to read on repeat. I've even learned to love Trolls Holiday, despite watching it more than a dozen times with a three-year-old cuddled on my lap.

My holidays were wonderful as a child, but...nothing compares to holidays now. Every moment is special, even my husband's eye rolls as I spend another evening with Shutterfly while he watches basketball on TV. Although my distractions annoy him, he knows how important every single detail is to me, and because he loves me, he goes along for the sleigh ride. He even puts up Christmas lights at the beginning of November because who knows how long the pristine fall weather is going to last along the Wasatch Front.

I climb into bed happily exhausted every single night, because creating magic takes a lot of energy. I try to ignore the piled up cookie sheets and crusted loaf pans, because time is always short and it is more important to make all the things than clean up all the messes. I mourn over the service I can't do and the charities I can't donate to. I wish there were more of me to go around. I rub lotion into my cracked hands, because I've spent my days changing diapers, making bottles, and helping a little boy go potty and the repeated hot water washings have done a number on my hands.

This is my life right now. This is my best Christmas pageant ever. It looks nothing like I thought it would, just like the scene at Jesus' birth was probably nothing like Mary anticipated. And yet, like Mary, I am grateful for the craziness and chaos and the crowds because I hold in my arms a precious gift from God.

Although the world spins around us, we are in our own little bubble, just me and a baby who will grow up too fast.

The Last Day

"I'm so excited!" She giggled and wiggled as I tucked her into bed with her threadbare fleece blanket and Fancy Nancy storybook. Her sparkling eyes spoke volumes, as they have since she was born: this is it! they seemed to say. The big day is FINALLY here!

I smiled, though I felt like sighing. Yup, that day is here. "You need to go to sleep, you have a big day tomorrow" I told her three more times as I sent her back to bed. What is Disneyland compared to Kindergarten? The excitement was more than her little body could stand. Finally, after her brother and sister had been asleep for an hour and her Dad headed to the gym, I decided to put the matter in God's hands.

"Should we say a prayer to help you sleep?" I asked, and she nodded. We said a little prayer, I kissed her forehead, she headed up the stairs, and for the hundredth time today, the same phrase went through my head.

It's the Last Day.

Kevin has always had a hard time handling anticipation. When she was about three, we started using the phrase, "it's the Last Day!" to let her know that her wait was about to be over. Every Monday she'd wake up asking, "is it the Last Day?" and I'd have to carefully break it to her that we had several days to go to make it to the Last Day. Somehow Friday always arrived and I loved to start her day with, "Guess what sweetheart? Today's the Last Day! Daddy doesn't have to go to work today!" or "it's the Last Day! Tomorrow we go to Papa's House!" or "It's the Last Day! Tomorrow is your birthday!"

There was no need for that conversation today, but my brain still reminded me.

I was reminded as I watched her sleepily walk down the stairs, realizing that tomorrow she'll have to be out the door by this time.

I was reminded as she came up from the playroom to find me, telling me, "I just thought, 'I miss my Mom,' so I thought I would come up and see what you are doing."

I was reminded as I gave in to her brilliant idea to paint our fingernails, surprising her by painting my nails to match hers. It's like the Kissing Hand, I thought. "Tomorrow," I told her (and myself), "If you are missing me, you can look at your fingernails and remember that ours are the same and you'll be fine."

I was reminded when painting our nails turned into playing paper dolls, her standard request whenever her sister is sleeping and her brother is watching his shows. I looked at her and realized:

It's the Last Day.

My last full day with her at home. Our last day before we start the grade school era of our lives, which will be followed by middle school, high school, college, missions, marriage, grandchildren...

I wonder, have I done enough to prepare her? Have I read a thousand books to her? Did I spend enough time teaching her letters? Practicing counting? Mixing colors and recognizing shapes? Did I model enough appropriate social behaviors? Did I teach her to be unfailingly kind? Will she know how to make new friends? How long will it take for her teacher to correct her habit of starting at the bottom instead of the top when she writes her letters? Did I instill enough confidence? Humility? The child is not resilient. I know that much. I tried. Oh, I've tried.

It feels like the end. The timer is about to beep. My time is up.

And then I remembered this quote that my mom shares in her kindergarten readiness parent workshops:

"Children’s first and most influential teachers are their parents/family. They play an important foundational role in the child’s learning and achievement. When parents, educators, and caregivers work together in the education and well-being of a child, a partnership is formed that will influence the best possible learning outcomes for the learner" (Utah's Early Childhood Standards, p. 4).

 I may be her first teacher, but I will not be her last. 

After all, tomorrow is the First Day. 

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.

My Happy Place

I've been thinking about my life lately. Not my big-picture life. Not the things that make up a resume or the things I want recorded in my obituary. No, I've been thinking about my little-picture life. The candid shots that don't make it into the 11x14 frames or canvas prints. I'm talking about the snapshots, the pictures that are rarely printed out but scrolled through in the evenings after a busy day. The little life in which most days follow a similar routine: early morning cuddles with the baby before she goes back to sleep. Watching my son play with his "mag-in-ex" (magnet) toys. Listening to Kevin's endless stories and commentary, doing my best to keep up with all of the activities she'd like to pack into our days.

I've been thinking about how I eat cereal for breakfast and a PB&J for lunch almost everyday, and how even though I feel like I probably should add variety, in the end that's what I want to eat and there is no one to tell me I can't, so Honey Nut Cheerios and strawberry jam it is. Every day.

I've been thinking about how I keep moving all day long, like a soccer ball in a scoreless match, so in sync with the needs of my family that I do things almost without even noticing that I'm doing them, like refilling sippy cups and picking up toys and stacking books so they don't get stepped on and switching the wash and shutting toilet lids and asking all the learning questions. "What sound does the letter a make? How many chicken nuggets are left on your plate? What shape is your blanket? How many people are in our family?"

There is so much monotony in my life, but every day is different. And it's the little moments that I love the most, like Sly coming in to my room with sleepy eyes and climbing in to bed with me and asking, "how are your dreams today, Mommy?" Or Kevin saying her bedtime prayers as fast (and repetitively) as she can so we can read a few pages of Ramona the Pest before she goes to sleep. Or that heavenly, exhausted feeling of answering the cry of an infant, who will stop as soon as she feels my hand touch her body and my voice say, "You're okay, baby, Mommy is here." And then I lift her into my arms and she snuggles into my chest and we both feel complete.

A few years ago I wrote a post entitled "The Happiest I've Ever Been." I didn't know then that a two-year long battle with antepartum and postpartum depression was about to ensue. I quickly went from the happiest I'd ever been to the saddest I'd ever been, and the only thing that had really changed about my life were my hormone levels. I'm still dealing with the effects of that era. I'm not sure my battle with depression is over, but I do know that there is help. I'm still taking medication and luckily, it is working.

Sometimes I ask myself if I'm happy because of the pills.

The answer is no.

I'm happy because there is joy in what I choose to do everyday, even when it means wiping syrup off of faces, washing the same "magic blanket" I washed two days ago because it is the only one that gets the baby to sleep, and listening to Sly and Kevin fight over toys, yelling, "That's not bery nice!" I know that in a few minutes they'll be begging each other to go play in the playroom and the fight will be forgotten.

There is joy in the two-year-old walking down the stairs and asking, "What are you holding, Mom? Oh yeah. A wonderful baby."

There is joy in Kevin having the magic touch and being able to instantly calm her baby sister while I make a bottle or kiss Sly's owie.

There is joy in their happy cries and sudden bouts of jumping when the garage door starts to open and "Daddy's HOME! Mommy, Daddy's home!"

There is joy in hearing little voices say, "Mom, I wuv you."

There is joy in the silence that comes after all three kids are tucked in bed...usually because it has taken hours to achieve that quiet peace that means we survived another day.

There is joy in knowing that this is where God intends for me to be at this point in my life. There is joy in finding ways for my family to succeed.

I was happy when it was just Kevin and me, but no longer is that period "the happiest I've ever been." That time is now.

Because of the bumps and bruises of the past four years, I know a greater happiness now because I've been through greater sorrow. Life is rarely perfect, and contrary to how this post may sound, there comes a point in almost every day where I email Scott and tell him I'm selling our kids (at least the two oldest, we still are reveling in the baby around here!). There is mess and chaos and broken furniture and thirty-minute long time outs and a fussy baby and never enough sleep. I know there are challenges ahead (cough *potty training* cough). I know I won't always be on this newborn honeymoon high.

But I'm going to enjoy it for as long as it lasts, because this is the happiest I've ever been.

Bonding

She slept on my chest for over two hours this morning, so still I had to occasionally check to make sure she was still breathing. She would let out a contented sigh, attempt to snuggle closer, and then her body would settle again into mine, listening for the heartbeat that has been the soundtrack of her whole life.

Before she was born, I worried, I wrestled. Do I attempt it this time? Am I a coward if I decide to not even go there? What kind of woman--mother--am I if I don't even try to sustain my child with my own body? Because, well, what if--what if the third time is the charm and she gets it and we can work together in a way that never worked for her brother or sister?

But what if it doesn't work? Will she hate me? Will I mean anything to her if I am not her source of nourishment? Will she prefer someone else's touch, smell, love before mine?

These thoughts, these feelings, they scared me in their realness. Deep down I knew what I--we--needed to do, and that was bottle feed from the very beginning. My husband is 100% supportive, and frankly a little relieved, to not have to deal with the stress of watching me try to do something my body was supposedly made to do but couldn't quite manage to make work. To him, bottle-feeding is a way for him to help more, a way for him to bond with our baby and take care of his wife. It's a way for him to provide her with nourishment.

Does that mean that role is taken away from me?

I wondered.

And then, suddenly, my water broke and 14 hours later she, our Mystery Box baby, was born! A girl. It seems I'd known all along that she was a she, but didn't fully wake up to the thought until I saw her purple body. She didn't cry, but she was alert. She looked around. The nurses cleaned her up, and handed her to her father. I watched him melt as he held her.

And then, finally, after a million years, he handed her to me. And she settled in. And nursing was the furthest thought from my mind, but not hers. We tried for a minute, then we let it go. And that was the end of that, if there was ever even a beginning. And this time I was the one melting.

There are so many things it seems I just knew when I saw her. I knew her name. I knew her divine identity. I knew she was meant to be ours. I knew her calm, her sweetness, her spirit. And I knew that I loved her more than I'd ever loved anything or anyone, save for her father and brother and sister.

Over the past few days, I've come to realize that she was born knowing certain things about me. Colostrum or no, she knows that I am her mother. She knows I am a safe place. She knows my heart because she has heard it. She knows (and Dad knows) that when Dad fails to understand her, I will figure out her needs.

Sometimes, that need is, simply, me.

Bend Backwards

I am 35 weeks pregnant and have reverted back to the state of a toddler.

I am prone to giving strangers crusty looks and wanting to answer "no" to every question.

I am hungry all the time but have no idea what I want to eat. I also get mad when I can't just have cold cereal, candy, or ice cream for dinner.

Patience is not my thing.

Sleeping is something I crave and fight at the same time. I can't make it through the night. I tend to wake everyone up when I do wake up and then it takes me forever to fall back to sleep.

I never know what I want, but you can bet I'll whine and complain about it until you figure it out.

Walking long distances is not my favorite.

I waddle everywhere I go, and tend to lose my balance when I bend over.

I am not happy about sharing. Anything. Especially food, blankets, and physical affection.

So what does this have to do with anything? Nothing. Just wanted you to know.

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.

January Journaling

In an attempt to keep myself more accountable to "keeping a record" of my daily life, I have decided to try and do a journaling blog post every month this year. I'll take five questions (aka journaling prompts) and spend some time writing out my answers. So, here it goes for January.

1. What is your number one goal this year?

My number one goal this year is to celebrate and enjoy the little moments. I have so many things to look forward to (cuddling a new baby, a family trip to one of my favorite historical sites on the planet, my oldest starting kindergarten), and some scary things I might not be looking forward to (my third trimester, turning 30, potty training my son). I'm trying to find the little joys and let go of my fears, frustrations, and worries. This is easier said than done. I want to remember this year as being a joyful one, full of lots of things to celebrate. 

2. What is your best memory of last year?

I don't really know that I can pick just one. We had so many wonderful moments last year! I think one of my very favorite moments was walking in Texas with my sweetheart. I'd been waiting 8+ years for that dream to come true.

3. What is your favorite thing to drink?

Currently, I crave hot chocolate. I try not to drink a lot of it because, carbohydrates. My close second is OceanSpray's diet Cran-Pineapple juice,  2 carbs and so much deliciousness per serving. My whole family is addicted, which means I can't get it out unless I'm willing to share half the bottle with my children. I'm not a fan of sharing my juice. 

4. How much time did you spend at the grocery store the last time you went? 

I went yesterday, two kids in tow. It takes us an average of 40 minutes; yesterday I think it was closer to an hour, since we had to pick out Valentine's for Kevin's preschool class. I am both faster and slower when I shop by myself--it is more convenient, by far, but then I also make an extra loop around the store because alone time. The kids do pretty well for the most part, as long as Sly is buckled into the cart! 

5. Who was the last person to tell you they loved you?

Sly. Every so often he will just pause and say, "Mommy, I wuv you." I love it. I do the same to him, and his sister. I don't want them to forget. Also, sometimes I have to remind myself that I do love them. Charity is tricky.

This month I took my questions from this handy pin on pinterest. Take a look if you want to join me on  similar journey. I am hoping to do these posts a couple of times a month, but I'm not promising anything.

Halloween Smiles

It is currently 13 minutes til November and I am still awake. Why? Because of all the things I expected or anticipated to happen on this Halloween evening, having low blood sugar at bedtime was definitely not on the list.

So I stand in my kitchen, have a stare down with the dirty dishes, eat my protein bar and reflect on this day.

Holidays are so much more fun with kids. They are even more fun with kids and friends. And it doesn't hurt that Scott convinced our kids weeks ago that any candy in an orange wrapper was for parents (Hello, Reese's!). By the end of the evening, everyone fell asleep within three minutes.

Everyone except me and #3.

And the refrigerator.

And I can't help but smile as I see the "coloring" page Sly brought home from church yesterday. He must be in a rebellious stage because the only color on the page was his name written in orange crayon.

Despite his minimalist effort (or perhaps because of it), he insisted on hanging it up on the fridge next to his sister's Halloween worksheets.

And this morning, as I was getting him breakfast at the crack of dawn, he turned the page upside down to the frown and with that teasing twinkle in his eye said, "Wook Mommy! A picture of you!"

And we smiled any trace of any frown away.

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. 

Falling

Over the past two or three weeks, summer has silently faded into fall. At first, the only sign was the return of football season, which has led to quiet Saturdays in front of the TV and my son requesting a shirt with a football on it as his required daily uniform.

Soon, the referee whistles were joined by pots of boiling water and the quiet, steady sound of my mother-in-law's hands moving three times as fast as mine as we preserved our way through two and a half bushels of pears, which equated to a freezer full of fruit squeezies and jam, bags of fruit leather lining my pantry, and more than two dozen jars of canned pears that I see as insurance against scurvy this winter, since pears are the only fruit my daughter willingly consumes.

Gradually, shorts fall to the bottom of the dresser piles as sweaters and jeans find their way to the tops. The lawn turns greener and stops needing daily watering.  The leaves on the trees start to debut their autumn wardrobes, the neighborhood grows quieter between the hours of 8 am and 3 pm, and the air conditioning only runs for a few minutes each afternoon. The sun sets earlier and bedtime is scooted up five minutes each day until we find our way back to that bewitching 7:00 bedtime and not-so-magical 6:30 am wake up call that sounds an awful lot like a dinosaur coming from my son's bedroom.

Life slows, life grows, life falls into a predictable pattern.

I find myself smiling while watching the rain blow leaves all over my neighbor's yards. I stand at the window with my children, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder and reflecting on the past nine months, contemplating the months to come. Outside, storms rage. Inside, there is a calm peace.

Autumn is a closing time, a changing time. In spring everything is new, in summer everything is fast, heated, blinding. But as September turns to October, I am left to remember everything I haven't done and all of the ways I fall short. My days are full of "I can'ts" and "I wish I coulds" and an overwhelming desire to hibernate. I am reminded that I am not like other women, that I have limits, and that sometimes, my idea of how I would like my day to go is thrown out the window at 7:30 am.

I am learning patience. I am learning to let things fall by the wayside, to not compare my dry evergreen pine needles to another woman's aspen gold or red maple. We are all made differently for a reason. The canyons are at their most beautiful when every individual tree focuses on putting on its peak colors--some deep red, some vibrant yellow, some bright green, some burnt orange, and even for some, the dull browns that provide contrast and are important in their own right.

We all have our season to shine, and our season to sleep. There will be times in my life that I can run at full speed--times when I will find the time and energy to exercise my body and my children's brains, times when I can act on every thoughtful service that comes to mind. There will be times when I have to slow down, take the day an hour at a time, do what I can and forgive myself for what I can't accomplish.

Fall teaches me that we all need time to reset, that this winter will give me time to rest, and that the hope of spring will breathe new life into this weary soul.

from littlelacelight.tumblr.com

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.

Baking Aisle Epiphany

Scene: Friday afternoon, Winco, baking aisle. 

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

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

Son: "HI JESUS! HI JESUS!"

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

Son: "Hi Jesus! Mommy, Jesus!"

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

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