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.

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.

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. 

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.

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. 

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

Motherhood Monologues #1: Breathe

From now until the beginning of May, my favorite blog is running a series of Motherhood Monologues with a writing prompt for each day. Since I desperately feel the need to do more writing in my life, I've decided to complete these daily prompts and post them here. Welcome to Day 1.

My oldest is a very light sleeper. I was able to check on her when she was smaller, and I often did, especially in those days when we first brought her home from the hospital and the act of breathing was still something she wasn't excellent at. Gradually, the oxygen went away, and my nightime and naptime visits to her room decreased in frequency until they had all but stopped. When we moved into our new home, these visits really did stop because there is a creaky floorboard right in her doorway now, which means that unless I conquer stealth mode (me as a ninja=current failure), I don't often get to watch her breathe. I do, however, occasionally pull out some yoga moves and hang on to her doorway to peek in and watch her sleep in all of the crazy positions she gets from me.

My son sleeps a bit deeper, but I don't often take the time to watch him sleep unless I have to go in and wake him up. I treasure those small. 30-second pauses, watching his chest rise and fall and wondering what sort of wonderful dreams he is having and if I am part of them before I interrupt him and bring him back to reality.

A wise woman once told me that if you want to find good kids, you peek into their rooms and watch them while they are sleeping. Somehow, the act of sleep can turn a terrorist two-year-old into the most innocent, sweet little lamb. I've tried to remember this advice and on the particularly tough days, I try to take a small peek at my little ones while they are in their angelic state. Somehow, the act of watching them in their most helpless state is enough to fill my motherhood canteen with love and give me the courage to try again tomorrow.

One Thousand Hours

Last week I overheard my aunt tell my mom that she had been quoted in my aunt's congregation's church service. My mom created a program for parents of preschool age children to help them prepare their children for kindergarten (Time Together...check it out). After three decades of teaching preschool and kindergarten, my mom is pretty much the best in the biz.

"She said--over the pulpit!--that you said that it takes a thousand books to prepare your child for Kindergarten," my aunt related.

At this point, my eyes widened a little bit. I mean, I read to my children daily--as often as I remember or they bring me books, but even then, I doubt we are close to a thousand books. Unless you count the number of times I've read Pinkalicious or Dr. Suess's ABC Book or The Little Blue Truck.

My mom reacted with a lopsided, half-smile, "Well, that's close to what I said. It takes a thousand hours of lap time to prepare your children for kindergarten, but a thousand books is good too, I guess."

This comment ate away at me for the rest of the evening and the whole next morning. Somewhere in there, I convinced myself that she had said ten thousand hours and I realized that something about the math was off there.

Is that even possible? I wondered as I opened the day counter app on my phone. Doing some rough (and I mean rough) math in my head, I realized that my daughter will be somewhere around 2,000 days old when she enters kindergarten.  Even I could do that math...10,000 hours in 2,000 days...FIVE HOURS A DAY?!

We are so behind! I panicked. Then I realized that since it was a government holiday, my mom was actually home and not in the middle of teaching five-year-olds geometry, so I called her.

"That quote from sacrament meeting yesterday?" I rattled quickly, knowing I was interrupting my parents' When Calls the Heart marathon, "was that ten thousand hours or one thousand hours? Because I think we're a little behind."

At this point, she just laughed at me. "One thousand hours."

I let out a sigh of relief. "Okay, but still..." I did some quick math in my head. "That's more like half an hour a day instead of twenty minutes, and we've got an extra six months before she starts kindergarten."

She confirmed that this was true. She laughed a little as she told me that she tells parents that as soon as they bring the baby home from the hospital they need to pull out the books.

"How does that work when your child's attention span is barely thirty seconds?" I asked. "Does it count if they are playing in the same room and you read out loud to them?"

She pointed out that my daughter will sit through a book now, and I clarified that my son, on the other hand, will not, and my daughter only started listening to books in their entirety within the last year.

I am failing my children. I'm staying home to avoid this kind of situation, and I'm still failing my children.

I think this was the point when my mother mournfully put Hope Valley on hold and switched her voice into "pep talk mode."

"You're doing better than you think you are," she told me. I only half believed her, because she's my mother, so she has to say that. Even as I ended the call, half an hour later, I felt unsettled and gathered my children on the couch and read them four Llama Llama books in one sitting. (Well, one sitting for me. The boy was up and down at least a dozen times, and the girl took a few breaks to rescue her toys from her brother).

"Mom?" she said after we finished the last book and I reached for another one. "I done."

And she was gone. And I gave up.

Then, today, when she told me the same thing about quiet time and I made her wait ten more minutes so I could finish the season 3 premiere of When Calls the Heart, she asked me if we could play a game. Not up for another frustrating round of Candy Land where she breaks all the rules and I land on the peanut every other turn, I suggested we pull out the Time Together kit that my mom let us borrow.

Before this afternoon, all I knew about the kit was that it came in an orange bag, contained a white board, and somehow magically would help me prepare my daughter to read, write, listen, and do math.

I was surprised, then, when I pulled out item after item of activities we had already done, some that we do daily. Nothing the kit contained was new to my daughter. I thought we'd barely be able to do one activity before her brother woke up; instead, we breezed through them and I had to stop her from doing everything in one day.

Maybe I am doing better than I think I am. I finally started to believe it. After three weeks of noticing all the ways my daughter seemed to be behind her peers--and all of my frustrations because there seemed to be so little I could do to help her that I wasn't already doing--I finally felt a renewal of hope as I leafed through the parent papers in the kit and landed on "Age Appropriate Skills & Activities for 3-4 yr. old Children."

• "A three minute attention span and minimal understanding of yesterday and tomorrow." She has those down, I thought. Check.
• "Can hop on one foot and walk in a line." It's not pretty, but she can do that. Check.
• "Can follow simple directions and accept suggestions." After some negotiating, yes, she does that. Check.

The list continued: "Can put on shoes.... Understands some dangers.... Identifies common colors.... Still doesn't cooperate or share well.... Can sort of dress,,,. May prefer one parent (often the opposite sex). Knows whether a boy or a girl."

Yes, she can put on her own boots. Not always on the right feet, but she does it by herself. She understands dangers enough to warn me when her brother is getting into trouble. She knows all of her colors and makes a big deal of matching, creating "patterens" and making sure she gives us our favorite color of plastic IKEA plate when she sets the table.  She definitely lives life on her own terms, and she knows the word "cooperate" because she's heard me ask her to do so several times a day. Just yesterday she explained to her father that she had "lost the pwvilege" of going on a walk because she misbehaved at church. "Can sort of dress" is a good explanation of her Fancy Nancy clothing styles and ability to somewhat pull her pants up after using the bathroom. Oh, that's right, I forgot--they're leggings not pants. Definitely prefers her father (who knew being a Daddy's girl was a developmental milestone?). Knows the difference between her and her brother; we've had the "that's his peanut" conversation more than once.

So, yeah, I guess we are doing better than I think we are. 

And those thousand hours of time together? I'm learning that they come in small, 2-3 minute increments, like when my son pinches his fingers in the door and comes and sits on my lap for a cuddle before going about his daily, havoc-wreaking business. Or when my daughter asks me to play pretend and informs me that she's the mom and "I's the girl" and she helps me dish up my purple sghetti and cuts up my food for me before tucking me into bed on the couch with a "couple a books." Or how when we read Pinkalicious she fills in the words whenever I pause. Or how my son will run to me, carrying Llama Llama Time to Share and starts yelling "Llama Ama Mama!" Or how my daughter points out to me that yesterday the mountains were blue and today they are white and how come? Or how, when you ask my son what Mr. Brown says, he yells at the top of his voice, "MOOOO!"

1,000 hours. 60,000 minutes. 360,0000 seconds = the amount of time I spend being my child's first exposure to learning. 

It's so much less time than I thought I had, and yet we are doing so much more with it than I ever thought we could.

"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).

 --Taken from the Time Together website

My Favorite

They say parents aren't supposed to have favorites, but I totally do.

Have a favorite age for my children, that is.

Here's a clue: it is definitely not three-years-old.

No, no. My favorite age, by far, is the current age of Sly: that point when babyhood is still a recent memory, and the baby lotion smells haven't quite disappeared but toddler time is in full swing, complete with bumps and bruises and an irresistable waddle-run. It is that time when you can look at a little person, and with a certain outfit or hairstyle or pose, you can see glimpses of the little boy, and eventually the man, he is going to become.

I have been aware for the past, well, while, that most of my blogging seems to center around my daughter. I know why, but I don't know how I am going to explain that to my son when he is old enough to ask about the imbalance. So here's my explanation, Baby Guy, and I hope you understand one thing above all: you are loved. More than you know.

Here's the thing, Sly. Your sister, well, she's nuts, and I have spent the last three years trying to figure her out, and one of the ways I make sense of things is to write about them.

You have always made sense to me.

I'm well aware that this may change, probably in the next four-to-six months as we hit that "terrible two's" window. But for now, and for the past eighteen months, you are simply my baby boy, and though I am not always happy about the way you constantly hang on my knees, I am grateful for your simple, constant devotion to "MOOOOMMMMMMAAA!"

My first memory of you happened at my first perinatologist appointment. Oh, how I hate that place. That was a rough day, and the beginning of an even rougher journey to get you here healthy. I remember laying on a cold paper sheet with a thin piece of cotton fabric over me, searching a grayscale screen to make sense of the blobs. And then, I saw you, not even a fully formed fetus yet, but there was a beating heart and a backbone and you were curled up on your side in a way that seemed to say to me, "Why are you so worried, Mom? We've got this."

And so we do. The way you calmed me then and the way you calm me now aren't all that different. I don't often find the need to write my way through your life, because I would rather cuddle and throw a "fooo-ball!" with you instead.

Sometimes parents dread that phase between 12-18 months. Admittedly, it does make attending church services a million times harder, but since Daddy is the one who has to wrestle you through 2/3rds of church, I'm not really bothered. I love this age.

I especially love you at this age.

Your learning seems to have accelerated. You know over 65 words, and I love to hear you say them. Sometimes I ask you to say sorry just because I love how you apologize while smiling, "sawwy!" (I tend to laugh when I apologize to your father too). I love to hear you say "pweese!" and how you ask for a "cooo-kie" because you know that I have to have some hidden somewhere. I love how the first thing you say in the morning is "ball!" and when I get you out of your crib, we have to shoot a few hoops before you will let me change your bum.

I secretly love how you climb on everything, especially your father. I know I tell you to sit down in the firmest voice I can muster, but I will admit this here: I am always impressed at the way you are able to surf on the rocking chair.

I love how you hold your own with your sister and the way you get a fake whine in your voice when you tell me (in gibberish) what "siss-ta" has done to you. You little tattle-tell, you. Most of the time she hasn't done anything but love you a little too hard.

I love how I watched her do a "high jump" off the bottom stair today and seconds later, after I'd walked into the kitchen, I heard a thunk and when I went back around the corner, you were laying on the floor looking a little dazed.

You would fly through life if gravity would let you.

You accumulate new bumps and bruises daily, but you usually only cry long enough to get a cuddle out of me. You don't snuggle for long, but occasionally after your nap you want to be rocked for a just a minute or two while your eyes adjust to the afternoon sunlight coming in through your window.

You make me laugh. You make everybody laugh. You are a big flirt, and it doesn't matter if the girl is 8 months old or 80 years old, you charm her to pieces. I love the way you go to give me a gentle kiss but then ram your head into my cheek and I have to turn my face so you don't break my jaw. You don't know your own strength yet, but you do know that carrying around Balto is a feat that impresses adults.

I love how your chubby little feet bounce when you do your happy dance and how you have perfected the art of spinning just close enough to the stairs to make my heart race but still stay out of danger.

I love to watch you sleep in the car, because stillness is such a foreign state for you. I'm always afraid to creep into your room lest I wake you up before I have mustered up the energy to parent you, but I must admit that when I have to wake you so we can get out the door, I always spend an extra minute or two staring at your sleeping form before I nudge you and scoop you up into my arms.

I often tell people how funny you are, and when they wait for an example, I can't think of anything specific. There is just something about you--maybe that cunning twinkle in your navy blue eyes--that makes a person want to chuckle and be happy.

Can you tell just how deeply you have me tied around your fingers? You are one of my favorite people, and I'm so glad I have you to brighten my days. I know the emails to your father may say otherwise--and let's be honest, using your fingers to slurp up your sister's leftover waffle syrdup is not the best way to keep your mommy smiling in the morning--but I genuinely love you, you, you--all of you. Just the way you are,

this...

and this...

usually turns to this in about thirty seconds.

(Note: Just the way you are now, because when phase-age-stages two and three hit, this is subject to change. I know this because when your sister was this age, I wrote this post on "The Happiest I've Ever Been" when Kevin was 17 months old and I realize now that although being a stay-at-home mom did and does bring me happiness, it sure as heck brings me a lot of misery too, so I probably was so happy because she was so happy all the time.)

A Mom of "Just" Two

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

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

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

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

Oh, how this lesson hurts me sometimes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Lives at Grandma's House

I guess this post is really a sequel to last week's post, but I couldn't let such a sweet moment pass by without recording it somewhere.

This past weekend was our church's General Conference. Growing up, this mostly just meant that we got to sit at home, watch church on TV while wearing pajamas, and eat M&Ms. Now, it is an opportunity to have my questions answered and my soul revived, and eat M&Ms. 

This weekend was no exception. There was a talk for every concern of my soul, from how to deal with three-year-old power struggles (seriously! There was a talk about that!) to why God gives us health challenges. I learned so much about my Savior and my divine role in establishing his kingdom. I wish I could share with you every quote that I noted, but that would take far too long. I am very excited to go back and study these words and to be able to lovingly say to my Heavenly Father, in much the same timid voice my daughter uses after she has been disciplined or taught, "I understand."

We watched the last session of Conference with my in-laws. This wasn't very productive for them, as our kids would much rather cuddle and play with their grandparents than with their parents, so it did mean that Scott and I got to hear more of that session of conference than any other. 

After conference had ended, we sat around visiting for a few hours. Sly delighted everyone with his most recent tricks--walking, folding his arms for prayer, talking in a loud voice. His favorite trick was to escape from the family room before we noticed he was gone. He kept working his way into their front room, which is kept nice and sacred and has quite a few breakables, making it impossible for us to leave Sly in there alone.

We thought he was going for the piano, because that is a favorite noise-maker of his at our house. After going after him a few times, Scott noticed that it wasn't the piano drawing our son into that room.

He was mesmerized by their small Christus statue. He was trying so hard to get the words out, but all we heard was "Jesus!" and "blpffft" sounds. He would crawl to the middle of the room and sit on the rug for a few moments, in reverent awe. Slowly he would work his way closer and closer to the statue, his smile growing.

 We may not have understood the words he was trying to tell us, but we understood the message: This is where I want to be. With Jesus.

After Scott shared with his mom the reason for Sly's escapades, she shared with us that my two-and-a-half year old niece had done the same thing. This particular niece is a bit wild and rambunctious, full of energy and spunk. For her to be calm and quiet is a rare thing! When they couldn't find her and the house was quiet, they started searching. They found her in the front room, holding Jesus' hand.

What a blessing these little children are. I know we're the ones that are supposed to be "leading and guiding" but lately, it seems that I am the one being taken by the hand and taught.

The very last talk of conference yesterday touched my soul in ways that you wouldn't think a talk about old men (really, that was the topic of his talk) could do to a 28-year-old woman. But one of the points of his talk was that no one is exempt from trials, especially physical health challenges. This has long been a concern of my heart. There are so many things I want to do--and yet, physically, these days I find myself unable to do much of anything but the bare minimum, and sometimes not even that.

In this particular talk, Elder Bednar shared a piece of advice Elder Hales had given him: "When you find yourself unable to do the things you used to do, you find yourself only doing the most important things."

I may not be able to do much these days. But I am capable of doing the most important things: giving cuddles, reading stories, teaching about Jesus, praying with my children, reading scriptures, singing songs.

I know many times our parents--my children's grandparents--wish there was more that they could do. I think a lot of the times they don't realize how much they do--and how, to me, the most important things they do for our family is reinforce the values of faith and love that we are working so hard to instill in our children. Because of them, my children have beautiful pictures of Jesus hung in their rooms, and that is the first thing they look at in the morning (of their own accord). Because of them, we are able to set an example of Temple attendance and worship. Because of them, my children know that they have two additional refuges from storms of the world besides just their own home.

And, as evidenced by my son's actions yesterday, there is something else they know.
Jesus lives at Grandma's house.

The Palms of His Hands

I went to the doctor yesterday. It was supposed to be for a routine checkup, but since my health has been so terrible lately, both Scott and I knew that this appointment would be a game changer. I didn't want to face it alone, and God blessed me with the kind of husband that made sure I didn't have to. He held my sweaty hand, asked all the fancy pharmaceutical and medical jargon questions, and brought up the concerns we had that I forgot to mention. Also, he saved me from having to take crushed up pig thyroid.

By the end of the appointment, we had a possibility of a new diagnosis and I sat drinking a 37-carb bottle of OJ because the nurse could tell I was looking a little pale and shaky after she drew 6-7 vials of blood (I lost track because I couldn't watch anymore).

When it became apparent that I wasn't going to be able to drive myself home, Scott took me out for a bite to eat. When I was still looking like death after 60+ more carbohydrates, he made an executive decision to work from home for the rest of the day. He went over to work to grab his supplies while I sat in a daze in the car. Then we picked up our children, drove home, and I slowly made my way upstairs and into bed.

Within ten minutes, both Sly and I were asleep. Sly woke up a little while later. I did not. I slept through several Kevin meltdowns, Sly walking and crawling all over the place, a Kevin potty break just down the hall, and all sorts of interruptions that made it impossible for Scott to work. Eventually I started to come out of my coma and I received a text that said, "Kevin is asleep on my lap. Your son is on his way up to see you."

Within seconds, Sly had pushed the door open and his head popped up at the foot of my bed. He started jabbering and cruised his way around so that I could pick him up. I was grateful to have recovered enough to be able to lift him. He gratefully came into my arms, and as I picked him up, I noticed he went quiet.

He turned his head and pointed to the painting of Jesus on my bedroom wall. He looked back at me and said, "Mama. Jesus."

Then, before I had a chance to reply, he looked at me and held out his hands. He touched the pointer finger of one hand to the middle of his other hand's palm, and then repeated the action a couple of times, switching hands.

One chubby little finger to the  exact middle of one tiny little palm.
"Mama. Jesus."
Mama, Jesus will make everything all right.

How did he know? We've certainly never covered the events of the Crucifixion in-depth with our one-year-old. We've talked to him and his sister about the Atonement in Family Home Evening, but somehow that didn't explain his reaction either.

Sometimes, I think, these little ones know so much more than they are able to tell us. But, when we need those messages from Heaven, the veil parts a little bit and with a mere gesture of his hands, I was given the comfort I so desperately needed yesterday.

You can be cured without being healed. You can be healed without being cured.

I have not forgotten thee. I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.

Look unto me in every thought, doubt not, fear not. Behold the wounds which pierced my side, and also the prints of the nails in my hands and feet; be faithful, keep my commandments, and ye shall inherit the kingdom of heaven. Amen.

There are several scriptures where Christ asks us to become like little children. I've always interpreted that to mean innocent and pure and teachable. Perhaps, however, what Christ is really asking is for us to remember what we knew as little children. 

My son knows so much more than I could have ever been able to teach him in a short 13 months. He has taught me more than I could ever fathom in his small lifetime, and I know there is a certain amount of testimony and knowledge that he brought into this world that he can only convey to us in small words and actions.

Like touching the palms of his hands.

art by Simon Dewey