Reading Challenge 2015

Since Scott's classes are on Thursday nights this semester, I am predicting that most of my blog posts happen on Wednesday or Friday...don't judge and just be happy that I'm posting.

I found this Reading Challenge on pinterest a few months ago, and I am so excited to use it to guide my reading for 2015! That means I need to work in a little more reading time into my day, so if you have any suggestions on how to do that with two over-active little ones, please share!

I often get requests for reading suggestions, so I thought that a good way to start off this year's "Rinda's Reads" posts would be to list books that would fit with this reading challenge from ones that I've already read. The ones in italics are ones that I haven't read but I plan on reading this year, the ones in bold are books that I've read. My goal is to read new books to fulfill the challenge, but perhaps you are looking for suggestions on where to start with your reading this year. Well, here you go!

2015 Reading Challenge: Suggestions

• A book with more than 500 pages: Pick a Harry Potter, any Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling
• A classic romance: Persuasion by Jane Austen
• A book that became a movie: The Book Thief by Markus Zusack
• A book published this year: The Heir by Kiera Cass (if you haven't read the rest of her "Selection" series, I really enjoyed them! This newest installment is coming in May)
• A book with a number in the title: Counting by 7s by Holly Goldberg Sloan
• A book written by someone under 30: The Diary of Anne Frank
• A book with nonhuman characters: The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis
• A funny book: The Honest Toddler's Guide To Parenting by Bunmi Landitan
• A book by a female author: The Blue Castle by L.M. Montgomery (every woman should read this book)
• A mystery or thriller: The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley
• A book with a one-word title: Christy by Catherine Marshall
• A book of short stories: Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson
• A book set in a different country: Mr. Pettigrew's Last Stand by Helen Simonson
• A nonfiction book: Here is Where by Andrew Carroll
• A popular author's first book: Edenbrooke by Julianne Donaldson (perhaps this author is popular only in Utah; nevertheless, I love this book!)
• A book from an author you love but haven't read yet: ANYTHING by Lynn Austen (if you haven't read her yet, you should!)
• A book a friend recommended: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
• A Pulitzer-Prize winning book: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
• A book based on a true story: Twenty and Ten by Claire Hutch Bishop
• A book at the bottom of your to-read list: (this isn't at the bottom of my list, but it is one I love and couldn't fit anywhere else on the list) The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Stewart
• A book your mom loves: Love is Eternal by Irving Stone
• A book that scares you: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs
• A book more than 100 years old: Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (technically this book turns 100 this year, but I love it so much I just had to put it on the list)
• A book based entirely on its cover: A Song for Summer by Eva Ibbotson
• A book you were supposed to read in school but didn't: Warrior's Don't Cry by Melba Pattillo Beals
• A memoir: Alicia, My Story by Alicia Appleman Jurman
• A book you can finish in a day: Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink
• A book with antonyms in the title: Big Sister, Little Sister by LeUyen Pham
• A book set somewhere you've always wanted to visit: The Silent Governess by Julie Klassen
• A book that came out the year you were born: Charly by Jack Weyland
• A book with bad reviews: Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
• A trilogy: The Birthmarked Trilogy by Caragh O'Brien
• A book from your childhood: Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine
• A book with a love triangle: Matched (series) by Allie Condie
• A book set in the future: The Giver by Lois Lowry
• A book set in high school: Scribbler of Dreams by Mary E. Pearson or The Secret Journal of Brett Colten by Kay Lynn Mangum
• A book with a color in the title: The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley
• A book that made you cry: The Help by Kathryn Stockett
• A book with magic: Enchanted by Alethea Kontis
• A graphic novel: I've never actually read one of these.
• A book by an author you've never read before:  Something by Charles Dickens (because I've never actually read a book by him!)
• A book you own but have never read: The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
• A book that takes place in your hometown: As far as I know, there is only one book set in Richmond, UT and it is a history of the town. Looks like I'll have to write one!
• A book that was originally written in a different language: Ruby Red (The Precious Stone Trilogy) by Kerstin Gier (translated by Anthea Bell)
• A book set during Christmas: Little Red Buckets by Lynda M. Nelson
• A book written by an author with your same initials: I'm still looking for this one!
• A play: Twelve Angry Men by Reginald Rose
• A banned book: Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
• A book based on or turned into a TV show: Arthur by Marc Brown or The Little House Series by Laura Ingalls Wilder
• A book you started but never finished: Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte 

Comment below if you want any additional info on any of these books!

 Since the month is almost over (I started this post four weeks ago!), here's how I'm doing so far:

• A book with more than 500 pages:
• A classic romance:
• A book that became a movie: 
• A book published this year: 
• A book with a number in the title: 
• A book written by someone under 30:
• A book with nonhuman characters: 
• A funny book:
• A book by a female author: 
• A mystery or thriller: 
• A book with a one-word title: 
• A book of short stories:
• A book set in a different country: 
• A nonfiction book: 
• A popular author's first book: 
• A book from an author you love but haven't read yet: 
• A book a friend recommended: The Winter Witch by Paula Brackston (*** PG-13)
• A Pulitzer-Prize winning book: 
• A book based on a true story:
• A book at the bottom of your to-read list: 
• A book your mom loves: 
• A book that scares you: 
• A book more than 100 years old: 
• A book based entirely on its cover: Into the Whirlwind by Elizabeth Camden (**** PG)
• A book you were supposed to read in school but didn't:
• A memoir: 
• A book you can finish in a day: 
• A book with antonyms in the title: 
• A book set somewhere you've always wanted to visit: 
• A book that came out the year you were born:
• A book with bad reviews:
• A trilogy: 
• A book from your childhood:
• A book with a love triangle: 
• A book set in the future:
• A book set in high school: 
• A book with a color in the title: 
• A book that made you cry: 
• A book with magic: Wisdom's Kiss by Catherine G. Marshall (*** PG)
• A graphic novel: 
• A book by an author you've never read before: 
• A book you own but have never read:
• A book that takes place in your hometown: 
• A book that was originally written in a different language:
• A book set during Christmas: 
• A book written by an author with your same initials:
• A play:
• A banned book: 
• A book based on or turned into a TV show: 
• A book you started but never finished: 

I will update this list monthly, so come back for more ideas! The star ratings are based on a five-star system. The list includes 50 books, so if you want to join me you should plan on reading a book roughly every week. Happy reading!

Living Life Slow

I am trying my very best to keep up with this blog this year. As you can tell, I'm not doing so well. I've been working on last week's post for over a week (it's a list of reading recommendations, so be on the lookout for when I finally finish it). I'm so far behind on our family blog that I'm hoping we at least make it into the New Year by Valentine's Day.

I always thought that life would take on a slower pace when I was a stay-at-home mom with small children. We aren't even to the point of extracurriculars or preschool yet, but life seems busy. When I step back, I know it isn't, I just want it to be.

Scott is taking a class about human behavior for his MBA this semester. Last week they had an online discussion about the pro's and con's of the "Living Life Faster" trend going on right now, where employers are asking more and more of employees and in an effort to do more and be more, are we really accomplishing anything? A wise woman in his class pointed out that as employees devoted more time to their employers to move up corporate ladders faster, it was their homes and families suffering most. She thoroughly explained how, as the workforce demanded more and more, the employee's home life started to crumble. And when you look at it that way, our quest for success is really only hurting the next generation.

I often feel guilty for being a stay-at-home mom. I'm not sure why, when I know this is where Heavenly Father wants me to be, but there it is: I feel guilty. I feel like I could do more, be more. I feel like I have so much wasted potential. I could be changing the world, right? It is hard to not feel stuck changing diapers when I want to be superwoman.

Last Thursday Scott headed back to school. We are almost halfway through his MBA and it has been one of the hardest things I've ever done, but we both know the time is right and he needs to be there. I was having one of those days. I think I sent Scott the email with my bi-weekly Motherhood Resignation around 2:00 pm. Thank goodness he doesn't take those things seriously. The rest of the afternoon was difficult, as I was spending more time counting down the hours until the weekend hit and I wouldn't be on my own anymore.

That evening, I had gotten Sly to sleep for his pre-bedtime nap (he seems to think that he needs to sleep for 45 minutes around 7:00 pm and then be up until ten...but he sleeps through the night so we let him) and Kevin and I were playing in her room. Well, she was playing, and I was trying to figure out how to talk her into starting the bedtime routine of pajamas and brushed teeth and winding down.  She told me she had to put her baby to bed first and I consented wearily. She then proceeded to sing "Jingle Bells" to her baby doll, cradling the plastic body into her chest in a way that mothers do with their infants when they don't care if anybody is watching because the whole world only consists of them and their sweet-smelling, sleepy baby.

She then proceeded to pray with her doll. I mean, really pray. "Hen'ly Fader, Thanks day. Thanks our famiwy. Bwess [Sly]. Christ, amen."

It was the first time I'd ever heard her say a full prayer on her own, without help. And it meant even more because lately she refuses to pray, even with us helping her, and I haven't pressed the issue, just simply asked her to close her eyes and fold her arms while her Daddy or I pray. Those simple words simply melted me.

And then it came, the little reminder, the little whisper of the Holy Ghost: "You are doing something right. She is listening!"

Suddenly, the day didn't seem so long. The hours didn't seem so slow. The job didn't seem so miserable. I have all day everyday to teach my babies to pray. And they have all day to teach me to do and be a little better.

New Year, New You...No Thanks

I read a book to my daughter yesterday that disturbed me greatly. It was one of those "I can read it all by myself" Cat in the Hat labelled books (although, thank goodness, it wasn't written by Dr. Seuss) and she had picked it out at the library all by herself.

I should have known by the title.
Oh well.
Hopefully her childhood an emotional well-being isn't too terribly scarred (and we can all be grateful for the fact that she doesn't actually listen for more than two minutes when I read her books). Although perhaps it is not a good sign that I just bribed her with two chocolate kisses for the rights to borrow said book long enough to write this post.

This is how it went down yesterday.
"I Want to Be Somebody New!" by Robert Lopshire.

"Once I wanted to be in the zoo. 
And that was the day I first met you.
You said that the zoo was not for me.
The circus, you said, was where I should be.

At about this point, I realized once again that I read way too much into simple children's literature (see my controversial facebook post about Curious George that took place about a month ago). But already, two pages in, I was seeing literal evidence of a social media phenomenon that has taken over my facebook timeline and instagram feeds: #newyearnewyou and proclamations that if we all just lose 20 pounds we will feel better about ourselves.

And so the circus is where I went. 
I did my tricks with spots on a tent.
I put my spots way up in the air. 
I put my spots just everywhere!

Do you see where my mind went with this? If spots are our talents and perhaps our time, I started to view myself and others putting our focus on outward beauty, something that the faceless "society" has told us we must be and do: a stay-at-home mom must have a side business (most likely some pyramid scheme); a woman must have a passion that every spare moment is dedicated to (and it cannot be family or religion, that's just wrong); if you didn't sign up for a 5k, half-marathon, triathlon (or heck, a gym membership) this year, what the (bleep) is wrong with you?

My tricks with spots were lots of  fun. 
But no more spot tricks!
I am done!
Now I want to be somebody new.
So here's a  new trick I'll show to you!
   Ready! Get set now.
  One, two, three...
Now look and tell me what you see.

This just in...all of those things, if they are something that you feel compelled to do by some outside force and not a real, inner desire, will cease be fun and at some point they will not be enough. You will have to go further, work harder, and spend more time, all for the sake of becoming someone new.

When will just being you be enough?
Surely, I thought, that was where this book was going. The character had to find out he was okay being just the creature he was, right?
And, it did, eventually, but this is what I had to wade through to get there...

But being that big cannot be fun. 
Say! You must weigh at least a ton!
...You're very big.
You're very fat.
We do not care for you like that.

...But  being that tall can't be any fun.
You're taller now than everyone!
Your head is now so high in the air,
it's hard to see your face up there.
...We do not like to see you tall.
We do not like you tall at all!

...You are as small as small can be.

Well, what do you think? 
I'm asking you.
Do I look good this way to you?

We did not like you fat or tall.
And now you know what's wrong with small!

Okay! Okay! Okay, you two.
I'll make myself be someone new.
Ready? Get set now,
One, two three...

Now look and tell me what you see!

Oh no you don't! 
You stop right there!
We like you and we really care. (Insert sarcastic snort here from me)

We liked you best, a whole whole lot,
when you were just our old friend Spot.

Say! You are right!
As right can be!
And it does feel best to be just me!

FINALLY, I say. FINALLY.

Why does this get to me so much, you wonder? Surely this is no big deal. And why does this book immediately remind me of body image?

Well, perhaps it is this January Resolution time of year. Perhaps it is the post-Holiday treat guilt trip you find on billboards and commercials and junk mail and every outside source that tells you there is no other way to be a "new you" without losing ten to twenty pounds.

Here's the thing. I did that.
Not--and let me make this very clear--not on purpose.

Almost five months ago, I gave birth to a nine-pound baby. I now weigh 55 pounds less than I did the night before I had him. That's more than just getting rid of the pregnancy weight in celebrity speed. I now weigh 30 pounds less than my pre-pregnancy weight, all thanks to a medication that keeps me alive.

And, you can hate me if you want for saying this, I didn't put one ounce of effort into doing that. I ate every darn cookie and carbohydrate and French fry I wanted (I'd spent the previous eight months on an extremely strict diet). And, unless you count running up and down stairs fetching clean diapers and burp rags and running after a two-year-old all day, I did nothing in the form of dedicated exercise. No marathon training or yoga routine here.

So it might make sense to you why every time someone compliments me on my weight loss, I feel a bit like quoting Taylor Swift: "Fakers gonna fake fake fake."

I have extremely conflicted emotions about all of this (catching on to that now, are you?). While I appreciate that people care about me to notice, there is some part of me that hurts with each compliment.

"You are looking so good these days!"
Did I not look good before I lost thirty pounds?

"You get more beautiful each time I see you!"
Was I not a beautiful person before I lost thirty pounds?

"You are so skinny!"
Are you saying I was fat at what I thought was my ideal weight (twenty pounds ago)?

Actual quotes from actual people. Actual thoughts from actual me.
Please do not be offended if you have said something like the above quotes to me. I am truly not offended, and it is truly the sweetest and most cherished people in my life that have said these things. I just feel that it is important for me to set the record straight.

It might seem crazy to you, but I don't feel like a new person (isn't that what all the ads promise? New year, new goal, new weight, new numbers, new person?). Aside from the weirdness of putting on size six skinny jeans, I still feel like the same me. When I look in the mirror, I see the same person. In fact, I don't really notice a difference around my middle (where the most weight has disappeared), but rather on my feet and ankles and wrists and fingers. Sometimes (gasp!) I even miss the weight I was before--I liked those clothes, and I loved being able to wear my wedding ring 24/7 without worrying about it falling off my finger.

I know, people change. We become new people daily (haven't I written about that before?). But at the heart of it all, there is a core to me that will always be the pure essence of Rinda. It is what lets you recognize me through the years and trials and education and experiences and a few extra helpings of cheese and ice cream.

I was very blessed to be raised by a family that didn't base their love for me off of the way I looked. I always knew my parents found me beautiful, and my siblings appreciated me for me (even when we teasingly called each other "40 Fat" and "Chubalub," weight did not define our love). Those traits have blessed me well in my marriage (did you know that my husband lost 85 pounds on his mission and I loved him long before he became a triathlon athlete?)

While sometimes I did feel out of place growing up as a tall, "solid, big-boned" girl, those thoughts and feelings always came from outside sources, never my Heavenly Father or my family. I learned over a decade ago that my beauty was not dependent on how I looked on the outside. I learned that if I worked hard to make my inside beautiful, the outside beauty would come.

That is what I hope people see when they see me.
Not my weight loss.
And maybe, perhaps if you are someone who has said something to me, that is what you meant to compliment. Because you know what? I am looking good these days because I am feeling good these days. I love being a mother again. I am no longer battling depression every hour of every day. My family has brought a new light and twinkle to my eyes. And, two and a half years after the job that destroyed my writing soul, I am coming up with new story ideas daily and I am gaining the confidence to start writing again.

So this is what I hope to teach my daughter and she grows older and taller,as she inevitably (which she reminds me on a daily basis) will "get big!"

Try new things, find new passions, work hard to be the person you want to become.
But don't let your body image, a number on a scale, or outside forces define who you are.

And, though it seems so Pinteresty-cliche, be-you-tiful.

Stages of Life

My mom and I were shopping a couple of weeks ago and happened upon a sign that describes my father's life fairly well at the moment:

The Four Stages of Life
1. You believe in Santa
2. You don't believe in Santa
3. You are Santa
4. You look like Santa

My father gave in this past year and stopped dying his hair and mustache. He made this decision somewhere between the time we dropped Kevin off at his house and he brought her to the hospital to come meet her little brother. Having a baby I could adjust to...seeing my dad actually look like a Grandpa was another thing all together.

I think one of the hardest things about growing up is watching your parents get old. My parents and my in-laws are both dealing with health challenges that we all thought were a good 15-20 years away. Suddenly our invincible parents aren't so untouchable anymore.

When I was little, I knew my dad was superhuman. He was the strongest, smartest, funniest man I knew. He could answer any question, solve any problem, and he always had the money for ice cream (even if he didn't spring for the idea of going to get some at Casper's). I never worried that he couldn't carry me to my bedroom if I fell asleep in the car or that he wouldn't be able to help me with my homework. He was the kind of dad that saved up his PTO and I didn't figure out until I was older that Dads don't automatically get your birthday and your school breaks off work. He came to every parent teacher conference, every recital, every ball game, every awards ceremony. He spent an entire school year driving me to middle school so that I could go where my friends attended. He checked my homework assignments, edited my Sterling Scholar portfolio, gave me advice about boys (which was usually just what I needed to hear). He scared off all the high school boys and helped me register for college. When I asked him how they paid for my brother's mission, he told me that if I wanted to go, they would find a way.

And so they did. It wasn't easy.

He taught me that it is okay for diabetics to eat treats and enriched pasta.

Though they probably shouldn't have done it, he found a way to leave home at the very worst possible time and take my mom and me back to Texas, where he got to meet everyone I loved and eat the three-dollar taco plate on Taco Tuesday at Rosa's. While we were there, one of the investigators I had been working with for over a year finally got baptized (I knew all it would take were some handsome Elders asking her), and my dad spent the whole time talking to her parents in Spanish and explaining what was going on.

A week after we came home, he helped me book a plane ticket to go back a month later so I could be at the Temple Sealing of one of the people I taught.

And somewhere in there, when Scott asked for my hand, he was man enough to say okay, even though he knew there wasn't a man alive good enough for his daughter.

He's also the one who turned on the child lock when we got to the Temple on my wedding day so I couldn't get out of the backseat.

Dads have a hard time letting go.

So do daughters.

Turns out, however, that me getting married just might be the best thing that ever happened to him.

Enter: Kevin.

His #1 Fan.

In a season of my life where I realize just how human my Dad is (and I love him all the more because of this), where I see him getting old and withering and struggling to do the simple things that used to come so easily, my daughter sees the very, very best in him.

To her, he isn't sick. He isn't aging. He isn't chronically tired and in pain. He doesn't have any other responsibility in life other than being her Papa.

He is her hero,

If her sunglasses break or her colored pencils are dull, the answer is always, "Papa can fix it." If we are out of purple paint, "Papa will get me more." If she can't sleep at night, "Papa come play me?" If her dad is taking too long to get home from school and her mother just can't handle her anymore, "I call Papa?"

Her pack-pack is continually packed for Papa's house. It's better than Disneyland (where she's never been) or the Temple (which is her favorite building).

She knows, without a doubt, that he loves her. That he will do (and frequently does) anything for her, even if it means setting her in the baby exersaucer that she is two years too old for. He plays dollhouse and babies, he takes her to see the pets, he feeds her crackers and cookies and ice cream. He reads stories and sings songs and rocks her to sleep and shows her love in a thousand different ways.

A few weeks ago, I was rocking and singing Sly to sleep when Kevin peeked her head through the doorway, excitedly whisper-shouting, "Papa sing me this song!"

For a week after we brought the baby home, she kept telling me that she was "borned at Papa's house." And she wanted to go back.

It would not surprise her at all if I told her that her Papa was Santa Claus, and not just because he has a ton of white facial hair. And it's more than the fact that Papa gives her way more presents than Santa does and he loves to eat cookies.

It's because Santa embodies all things good, and she knows there is truly no better person than her Papa.

You want to know why I believe in Santa?
Because he's my dad.

A Mother's Lament

A funny thing is occurring in our family at the moment. Today is my daughter's 1,000th day of life. In a few days I will reach my 10,000th day of life. And within the past two weeks, my husband has reached his 10,000th day and my baby reached 100 days old. That means, for this brief period of time, Kevin is ten times older than her brother and we, as her parents, are ten times older than her.

That's a lot of math for an English major...so let me tell you how this translates into words and feelings.

Yesterday I was snuggling with my sick little baby and watching Peter Pan Live! while Scott took Kevin Christmas shopping so she could pick out a present for me. 

Side note: I asked her what kind of present she was going to get me. She, of course, answered "Purple!" because everything is purple these days. I told her I would like a book. She told me she would get me a purple book. Seeing this as an opportunity to give her father another clear hint at something I really want for Christmas (the Dr. Seuss collection found at Sam's Club), I told her I would really like a "Cat in the Hat" book. A few hours later, after Scott had already loaded her into his car, he peeked his head back through the door and accused me of planting ideas in our daughter's head. "I just asked her what she wanted to get you and she said a Cat in the Hat book!" Good job, baby girl.

As I snuggled with my little man, watching the beginning of the story of the boy who never wanted to grow up, I thought about what a paradox growing up is--at least in the eyes of a mother. You want your children to grow healthy and strong, to learn and to overcome and to become successful contributors to the world. You can't wait to see what they make of the talents that you can see budding in them now. Part of you is excited for the day when you take your adult daughter out to lunch and hear her talk about her life (the same life that used to be yours, twenty-some-odd years ago). Part of you can't wait to see your son helping his dad with home improvement projects, dressed in a tux for Prom, offering to reach the things in the high-up kitchen cupboards that you can't get, even on your tippy-toes. 

What wonderful moments those will be!

And yet...

There is a part, and it is no small piece, of your heart that wishes they could stay little forever. You can't imagine the day when you can no longer pick her up or he no longer grabs fistfuls of your hair as you lean down to blow raspberries on his tummy. You want to always hear her little voice singing her own version of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and hear him cooing at angels when he first wakes up. You don't want to have to put another pile of barely-worn baby clothing in a too small pile, or break it to her that her favorite sparkle shoes no longer fit. You don't want to think about the day that she starts school or he no longer needs you to carry him from room to room, though you know those days aren't far off.

Your arms are tired, your shoulders weary, your head aches from all the screaming and crying, your feet are calling out for a rest, your eyes are fighting to stay open, and your heart...your heart doesn't want it to ever end.

In the beginning of Peter Pan, there is a line that goes something like this:

"All children grow up. They start to realize this at about age two. You might say, therefore, that two is the beginning of the end for children."

A truer statement has never been spoken.

Kevin's favorite thing to talk about is how she is getting old. Sometimes she will ask to do something and I will tell her that she'll be able to do it when she is a little bigger. Then she will look at me with a big smile on her face and say, "Wook at me! Wook at me growin!" 

Yes, sweetheart, I see you growing.

Then, to add salt to the wound, she will point to her brother and say, "Wook! Wook! He's growin too!"

It's a strange thing to notice, when you spend every day with your children. You are so wrapped up in their lives and involved in their growing, that you don't notice that something has changed until a grandmother points it out or you show off one of their new tricks. To her kindergarten teacher grandmother: "Look how she can count to ten!" To his strong Papa: "Look how he tries to sit up!" To her seamstress grandmother: "Look how tall she has gotten, all of her dresses are so short!" To his playful Pa: "Look how he smiles so big!"

And, in a way, though I am well into my twenties now, there is still a small piece of that two-year-old in me that is still telling my parents to "Wook at me growin!"

And, to our parents, there is still that piece of their heart that begs time to slow down and let me stay young just a little longer.

Balding and Bonding

It really is true what they say--that Satan works on you hardest when the best things are about to come your way.

Boy, has Satan worked on me this year. Although I was never as physically ill during my pregnancy with my son as I was with my daughter, I had a different kind of illness that was much harder for me to cope with. I felt sad and depressed all the time. I quested my ability to be a mother and my decision to stay at home.  I felt extreme guilt that I couldn't contribute to our family's limited finances and was instead leaching them away rather quickly with every doctor and pharmacy visit. None of these thoughts and feelings were prompted by anyone else--they all came from inside my own head. This was a war I fought constantly. I see now that I should have asked for help--and while I knew that then, a major part of me rebelled at the thought of spending any more money on medications and any more time at the doctor's office, no matter how badly I felt.

I was in a dark place. This is most of the reason why I haven't blogged consistently for the last year. I only realized that last week--that I was feeling so much better, I not only wanted to write again, I needed to write again. (Thanks, Mom, for noticing.)

All of that struggle? More than worth it. This little boy, he gives the best smiles. He is so happy and loving, especially toward me. He adores my face, and that makes me feel beautiful. Having a son is an experience I'm so glad I didn't miss out on. There is a special bond between us I never could have understood before now.

I am his everything. Well, most of his everything, since he also has a Daddy and a sister and doting grandmothers and aunts.

He has started learning to use his hands, but I can't get him to reach for toys. He does, however, reach for my fingers, my hair, my face, my arms. I was noticing this the other day when I realized what a privilege and a blessing it is to be so wrapped up in his beginning. My fingers are his first toys, my heartbeat was his first radio. My feet are his first mode of transportation, my ears are his first sounding board. My hair was his first soothie, my lips gave him his first kiss. My chest was his first nourishment (however short of a time that may have lasted) and my arms were his first cradle. I am his first introduction to love, but he has shown me to love in a far greater capacity.

The day I was dreading came yesterday. I gave him a bath and as I was brushing his hair, it started coming out in clumps. I knew it, I just knew it. He would have a bald period in his life, just like his sister, only hers came in June with summer and his has started with the snow. I love his dark, crazy hair, and somehow it makes me so sad to see it coming in much lighter. I'm not a big fan of the bald stage. I mourned about it all day, a little bit.

And then, my reality check came, when I followed updates about my high school best friend's older sister's little boy's third brain surgery. That little boy has no hair, and it wasn't natural growth that took it away from him. It was life-and-death necessity. Another high school friend posted about her little boy's third round of chemo for a brain tumor they found when he was only nine months old. An acquaintance from college was also entering her third round of chemo--and I had no idea she was even sick.

I'm a shallow, shallow person---with a great capacity to love.

I woke up early, early this morning, not feeling well. This is a common occurrence, but somehow this time when I woke up I knew it was for a reason (and not just to use the bathroom). As I was washing my hands, the spirit whispered that I needed to check on Sly. I'm a paranoid mom, so I brushed it off as just general worry and told myself that he was sleeping soundly and I shouldn't disturb him. But the thought came again, this time that he had wiggled his blanket over his face and I needed to go help him. Sleeping soundly or not, I knew I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep until I had made sure he was safe.

Sure enough, after I crept into his dark room, the blue light of the LED nightlight showed me that the spirit was correct (DUH!) and he had kicked his blanket up over his face. Not just a little bit, which sometimes happens, but all the way over his face, There was no way he could have gotten it off, or moved his head enough to get fresh air. I tried not to let myself think about what would have happened had I left him alone, but the thoughts came anyway. I pulled the blanket down, tucked it in securely, but he started to fuss. I got him a bottle and I held and cuddled him for all I was worth for the next twenty minutes. He never really woke up, but he took the bottle. When I put him back in his crib, I made sure the blanket was wrapped around him safely, and no amount of wiggling and kicking would lead to his face being covered. I breathed a sigh of relief, but it still took me over an hour to calm down enough to fall back asleep.

This morning, he was halfway through a bottle when his Daddy woke me up and handed him to me. Remembering the events of a few hours before, I held him close and whispered how much I love him. He started smiling so big that he couldn't keep the bottle in his mouth, as if to tell me thank you and he loves me in return.

Can babies say prayers? I think so.
Can we answer them? Yes. Absolutely.

A Child of God

God moves in mysterious ways.

So do toddlers.

Perhaps that is why the scriptures tell us to become like a little child.

Let me tell you about the last hour of my life (note: it ends here, me frantically blogging and praying the baby sleeps through his sister's screaming fest while also hoping that screaming fest ends in a nap).

It's been one of those days. The baby won't sleep, the toddler is cranky, and all I've heard come out of her mouth today is, "I want daddy!"

I'd finally gotten Sly to calm down by placing him in his crib and winding up his sports star mobile. He loves that thing. It has gotten more smiles than me today. The problem is, the music only lasts for about three minutes before it has to be wound again (which, if I am really fast, is enough time to go to the bathroom but not really enough time to do anything else). 

Kevin came in and after me telling her no to another ridiculous request, she falls on the floor and starts crying. "I want daddy!"

What followed was not one of my best mothering moments, but dang it felt good.

"I want daddy too!" I told her. "I want him to take you away!"

Understandably, more crying ensued.

This was followed by me dialing Scott's number on my phone, turning on the speaker, and handing it to Kevin with the instructions, "Here. Call Daddy and tell him you don't like Mommy," before I picked Sly up out of his crib. 

A few rings and then a quiet but worried, "Hello?" 

Scott has this thing about the people in the cubicles next to him overhearing his conversations with us.

"I don't wike Mommy," a quiet voice answered.

"What was that?"

"I don't wike Mommy!" She says louder.

I can tell he is trying not to laugh, because he knows this is serious business. "Why don't you like Mommy, sweetheart?"

"I was cwying..." she gives him a long explanation, then hands me the phone and walks away without saying good-bye.

"Hi, babe," I say, feeling only slightly guilty that he is having to play referee between us while he is on the clock. Of the two of us, I have the harder job. 

"You know she only said that because you told her to."

"No, she means it today."

"No she doesn't. I'll call you later."

And that is that. My phone battery is almost dead, so I take it into my bedroom to put it on the charger and end up laying next to the baby in my bed for a few minutes, trying to recover my sanity. Within five minutes, Kevin has wedged three baby dolls, two fabric wipes, a gold bead toy necklace, a purse, and toy food between me and Sly.

He starts to yawn and I realize I might actually have a shot at getting him to sleep in his crib if I work it right. I sit up, gather all the toys in my arms, and take them into Kevin's room and dump them on her bed to the tune of another meltdown. 

"I'm going to rock brother to sleep," I tell her, ignoring the crying. "You can play in your room and when I'm done getting him to bed, it's time for a nap."

"I don't want a nap! I want to stay wif Mommy!"

"You just told Daddy you didn't like me."

"I wike you!" she says, trying to convince me. "I wike Mommy!"

Trying not to roll my eyes, I tell her I will come pay attention to her as soon as her brother is asleep.

By some miracle, this quiets her down. I take Sly into his room, closing the door so that there are only a few inches of light peeking into his room. I wrap him up in his swaddle, put up the blanket-turned-curtain over his window, and settle into the rocking chair. I need to calm myself down as well as get him to sleep, so I start to sing. His eyes grow drowsy quickly and he stops wiggling and fidgeting.

Halfway through the first verse of "I Love to See the Temple," a small shadow appears in the doorway and the comes the whispered request, "Child of God song! Sing the God song!"

I keep singing the Temple song and her shadow disappears for a moment, quickly returning with her favorite purple baby doll in her arms. 

I start to sing the words to "I am a Child of God." With each line, the door opens a little wider, but Kevin stays in the hallway. I hear her high, young voice start to match her off-key notes to mine, getting one word in five.

When I start into the second verse, the door opens a little wider. "I get my baby," she tells me, and Sly's eyes flutter. "Okay," I whisper, trying to quiet her down. She comes and sits in the child-size rocking chair next to me, rocking and kissing her baby doll and singing along. Suddenly, it is easier to believe that this is the same child who came up to me first-thing this morning, gave me a hug, and said, "I wuv you!" without being prompted.

The spirit is sweet, the baby is asleep, and I feel like I can like motherhood again  for a few more minutes. I put Sly in his bed, take her hand, and lead her into her own room.

"It's time for bed," I tell her.

"I want Daddy!" she starts screaming again.

And that is the end of that.

I realized a few weeks ago that there is a reason that we sing the song "I am a Child o God" to our young children over and over and over. Everyone thinks it is a song for children--but I've learned better. This is a song for parents, from their children. Most notably, this is a song for parents who are at the end of their rope!

I am a child of God,

And He has sent me here.

Remember, God gave me to you as a gift, so you'd better treat me more like a blessing and less like a  curse!

Has given me an earthly home,

with parents kind and dear.

Remember, you are supposed to be kind and dear and nice to me. 

Lead me, guide me

Remember, your example is the path I am going to follow

Walk beside me

Remember, I need you to be there for me, even when you want to sell me on Craig's list

Help me find the way

Remember, I might just help you find the way in the process

Teach me all that I must do

Remember, I won't always be this way

To live with Him someday.

Remember, families can be together forever (and that's a good thing!)

These children, they are mine. They are Scott's. But they are also God's, and even though I love them dearly, I know he loves them more. When I would like to quit, I remember that God will never quit on His children, so neither should I.

This is the lesson I will try to teach myself the next seventeen times Kevin requests to sing the "God" song today.

(note: she's still screaming, he's not sleeping, and you should probably keep an eye out for that ad on Craig's list)