An Eye-Opening

My daughter said the prayer over dinner tonight. My siblings would be proud of her two-sentence prayer, not because of the substance, but because of the length. My family often groans when my Dad calls on me to say the prayer. I'm kind of long winded. Once I was even told that if the phone rang while I was saying our family prayer on Christmas Eve, I needed to say "Amen" and just be done. The comment was meant to be a joke, but about a minute into my prayer, the phone did ring and I did say "Amen" as quickly as I could. Even my husband rarely calls on me to pray--he claims it is because he knows I say every prayer during the day, but a few months ago I confronted him and as he blushed, he admitted, he rarely asks me because I tend to go on and on. "You say great prayers!" he tried to recover. "I just am really tired at night!"

Apparently my daughter takes after him.

That's okay with me.

Those that know me know I am a by-the-book person, not just because I love books but because I can't bear to break rules. When I was in the fourth grade, I overheard my teacher tell my mother she was afraid I would give myself an ulcer because I took life so seriously.

I'm learning, however, that living with that kind of personality doesn't mesh so well in my current line of work, because three-year-olds make their own rules and little boys are going to jump on the couch even when you tell them not to. Showering every day, which was once a main staple of my hygienic routine, is now merely a suggestion. Shaving my legs weekly? Putting makeup on when going out in public? Wearing a bra to take out the trash? Eating fruits and veggies with every meal? Vacuuming weekly?

Socially acceptable hygiene practices are considered guidelines anyway, right?

I want to tell you about a friend of mine who has been on my mind for the past several days. She and I are made from completely different molds, except that we happen to be the same race and gender and grew up with the same religion. We shared a dorm room with four other girls for 19 days in August 2008. Those days were stressful. We were going from college co-ed lifestyle of jeans and textbooks and dating to a celibate, skirt-clad, white-handbook ruled life for the next year and a half and it was a difficult transition.

We all embraced missionary life in our different ways. I took the "Nun" approach--I did my very best to follow the rules to a "t" and I expected every one around me to do the same. My friend? Well, she was more of a "Maria" (you know, like from the Sound of Music). She and I had the same purpose--but whereas I was trying to leave absolutely everything behind, she was trying to figure out how to be a missionary, but not lose sight of herself. Each of us thought we were taking the correct approach, and we stepped on each other's toes and hurt each other's feelings. The difference being, I hate confrontation and avoid it at all costs (not an effective form of open communication) and she wasn't afraid of asking the hard questions and having the hard conversations (she is very effective at communicating).

How do you solve a problem like Maria?

The thing is, she wasn't a problem. Not in the least. She is an amazing person, and she has taught me more than she will ever know. Oh, how she humbled me those days in the MTC. I remember the aftermath of a particularly hard confrontation accusation conversation--how I got on my knees and I realized she was right and I was wrong and I had to own up to that and apologize. Admitting my mistake was the hardest thing my mission had asked of me to that point--but also exactly the lesson I needed. I remember getting off my knees, walking over to her bunk, and kneeling down next to her and waiting for her to finish praying, then asking for forgiveness and admitting that I really needed to take a chill pill. It was a lesson I learned over and over again for the next two years as I tried to merge Marinda the Person with Marinda the Missionary.

I remember one night as we were gathering with some of the other girls in our assigned group having a nightly prayer. It was supposed to be a bonding ritual. During the preparation for this prayer, this particular Sister Friend of mine admitted that she pretty much never closed her eyes during prayers.

My first thought? SINNER! Isn't that like the first thing you learn as a child? When you pray, you bow your head, close your eyes, and fold your arms or you aren't doing it right?

"I can concentrate better on the prayer with my eyes open," was her explanation.

Fast forward six or so months. I was teaching my investigator--the one I'm convinced I was sent to Texas for--and he asked me, "Why do you Mormons pray with your arms folded? Can't you pray with just your hands clasped or something?"

I laughed and explained that folding arms was probably more of a way to keep children reverent than a requirement for prayer.

Light bulb.

A couple of weeks later, this same investigator joked with me about how you can tell kids who are Mormon: when their schoolteacher asks them to line up in the hall, they always fold their arms.

Fast forward five years, to my dinner table, covered in "Germmy" (German) Pancakes and Bacon because we've already had pasta for dinner three nights this week. My daughter volunteers to say the prayer, because dinner is the one prayer she will consent to say each day, and she tells us she is going to do it herself.

And after she begins, I quickly open my eyes. I glance from my son, who is "folding" his arms by pressing the backs of his hands together, and my daughter, who is staring and her plate and thanking Heavenly Father for "the food and everything we did today" and saying "Amen!" Her arms are barely folded, her head isn't bowed, and to my knowledge, she has yet to close her eyes during a prayer.

I don't bother to correct her, because I don't think there is ever an incorrect way to say a prayer (Rameumption aside). I don't even care that she uses the same lines during each prayer, because it is hard enough to get her to pray and in my opinion, if a child is praying, he or she probably has a more direct channel to Heavenly Father than any adult, except maybe the prophet.

Merging Marinda the Person with Marinda the Mommy has been difficult at times. I am still learning that rules can, and sometimes need, to be bent. I am still learning what Mother Teresa taught so many years ago: "When you judge people, you have no time to love them." Sometimes I get so busy trying to figure my children out that I forget that by loving them, they will be the ones to show me their true selves. Sometimes playing paper dolls is more important than doing dishes. Sometimes reading the "Goodnight Football" book for a sixth time in three hours means that my son isn't so much learning the game of football as the fact that his mother loves him and will make time for him. Sometimes the things I think I'm sacrificing--careers, showers, half a Starburst that the toddler pulls out of my mouth--aren't sacrifices at all.

As Daniel Tiger says, "Look a little closer and you'll find out what you wanna know."
You sang that. I know you did. Don't lie.

My MTC friend taught me to look closer at people, especially those different from me. My first reaction may be to think that they are in the wrong, but let me tell you, 99.5% of the time, I'm the SINNER! who needs a reality check.

She is now living a very different life from mine. She's building playgrounds in Africa and empowering women (she helps women in Ghana run this awesome custom-made dresses business)and discovering herself and  and I am using playgrounds and empowering children and discovering myself.

It turns out that even though our lives have changed and our roads are varied, we still have the same purpose: to love people and not judge them.

Remember how we just talked about not judging? 

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.

2016 Reading Challenge

I wasn't going to do a reading challenge this year, but out of curiosity I looked into the challenge for this year and decided that it looked much more manageable than 2015's (only 41 instead of 53!), so here I am, picking it up again!

For the printable list to complete your own 2016 challenge, go here.

• A book based on a fairy tale: Princess of the (Midnight Ball, Glass, Silver Woods) by Jessica Day George (***)
• A National Book Award winner: 
• A YA Bestseller The Fault In Our Stars by John Green (*** PG-13)
• A book you haven't read since high school  college: Eve's Daughters by Lynn Austin (**** PG-13)
• A book set in your home state: Christmas Jars by Jason Wright (** PG) --okay, so this might be a stretch, but the author seems local and no official setting is given, sooo..?
• A book translated into English: Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay (*** PG-14)
• A romance set in the future The Birthmarked Trilogy by Caragh M. O'Brien (**** PG-13)
• A book set in Europe  The Painter's Daughter by Julie Klassen (** PG-13)
• A book that's under 150 pages Ellen Tebbits by Beverly Cleary (**** G)
• A New York Times Bestseller The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh (**** PG-13)
• A book that's becoming a movie this year: Me Before You by JoJo Moyes (** PG-13)
• A book recommended by someone you just met A Night Divided by Jennifer A Nielsen (***** PG)
• A self-improvement book One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp (** PG)
• A book you can finish in a day Mr. Lemoncello's Library Olympics by Chris Grabenstein (**** G)
• A book written by a celebrity (or someone you know?): Immortal Writers by Jill Bowers (**** PG-13)
• A political memoir The Boys In the Boat by Daniel Brown (***** PG)
• A book at least 100 years older than you (or one set more than 1000 years ago?): The Legendary Inge by Kate Stradling (***** PG)
• A book that's more than 600 pages Romance Collection by Melanie Dickerson (*** PG) 
• A book from Oprah's Book Club
• A science-fiction novel The Vault of Dreamers by Caragh O'Brien (*** PG)
• A book recommended by a family member Fireweed by Terry Montague (***** PG)
• A graphic novel (well, this one had pictures, sooo) Library of Soulds by Ransom Riggs (**** PG)
• A book that is published in 2016 The Summer Before the War by Helen Simonson (***** PG-13 sort of)
• A book with a protagonist with your same occupation The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah (***** PG-13)
• A book that takes place during Summer: Summer of Sundays (** G)
• A book and its prequel Until The Dawn by Elizabeth Camden (**** PG)
• A murder mystery The Daring Ladies of Lowell by Kate Alcott (**** PG-13)
• A book written by a comedian
• A dystopian novel The Crown by Kiera Cass (*** PG)
• A book with a blue cover Keeping the Castle by Patrice Kindl (** G)
• A book of poetry
• The first book you see in a bookstore A Heart Revealed by Josi S. Kilpack (** G)
• A classic from the 20th Century Cold Sassy Tree by Olive Ann Burns (****PG)
• A book from the library The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield (*****PG-13 for sheer wierdness)
• An autobiography Etched in Sand by Regina Calcuttera (**** PG-13)
• A book about a road trip The Apothecary by Maile Meloy (*** PG)
• A book about a culture you're unfamiliar with: When Crickets Cry by Charles Martin (***** PG-13)
• A satirical book
• A book that takes place on an island The Princess Academy: Forgotten Sisters by Shannon Hale (*** PG)
• A book that's guaranteed to bring you joy Salt to the Sea by Ruta Septys (***** PG-13) note: this is not a happy book, but the way it is written brings me joy. I love Ruta Septys' work. 

And, in keeping with last year's tradition, here are my recommendations based on books I've already read:

• A book based on a fairy tale: Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow by Jessica Day George
• A National Book Award winner Ramona and Her Mother by Beverly Cleary
• A YA Bestseller The Book Thief
• A book you haven't read since high school To Kill a Mockingbird
• A book set in your home state The Guardian by Dean Hughes
• A book translated into English The Little Prince
• A romance set in the future Red Queen
• A book set in Europe The Forgotten Garden
• A book that's under 150 pages The Hundred Dresses
• A New York Times Bestseller All the Light We Cannot See
• A book that's becoming a movie this year The BFG
• A book recommended by someone you just met...
• A self-improvement book How Will You Measure Your Life?
• A book you can finish in a day Hattie Ever After
• A book written by a celebrity 
• A political memoir Benjamin Franklin's Autobiography
• A book at least 100 years older than you Little Women
• A book that's more than 600 pages 
• A book from Oprah's Book Club Ellen Foster
• A science-fiction novel Ender's Game
• A book recommended by a family member Enchantment by Orson Scott Card
• A graphic novel: 
• A book that is published in 2016
• A book with a protagonist with your same occupation
• A book that takes place during Summer: A Song for Summer
• A book and its prequel The Mysterious Benedict Society
• A murder mystery Killing Mr. Griffin by Lois Duncan
• A book written by a comedian Dad is Fat 
• A dystopian novel The Birthmarked Trilogy
• A book with a blue cover The Princess Academy
• A book of poetry: Where the Sidewalk Ends
• The first book you see in a bookstore (yay! A trip to Seagull book!)
• A classic from the 20th Century Anne of Green Gables
• A book from the library Anything By Sarah Addison Allen
• An autobiography Alicia, My Story
• A book about a road trip  Hope Was Here
• A book about a culture you're unfamiliar with  The Rent Collector
• A satirical book
• A book that takes place on an island The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
• A book that's guaranteed to bring you joy The Book of Mormon

Someday I will finish filling out this recommendations list--clearly I have some reading to do!

On the Eve of the End of an Era

I overheard my husband talking to our daughter as he tucked her into bed.
"Do you know what tomorrow is?" he whispered, unable to mask the excitement in his voice.
"What?" She yell-whispered back.
"It's Daddy's Graduation! That means I am done with school!"
"And you get to wear a dress!" 

Yes, tomorrow is Graduation Day, and yes, Kevin is most excited about Dad's graduation gown (aka dress). It's a fitting ending, considering at the beginning of his MBA, it took weeks to explain to her that his messenger bag backpack was not a purse.

Scott has been in school our entire marriage, save for a couple of summer semesters and a six-month break between his undergraduate degree and his MBA (during that time, however, he took the GMAT twice, spent time applying, and attended orientations, so I'm not sure it really counts).

Getting Scott to study--or even attend class some nights--during his undergraduate courses was torturous for the both of us. He was only a year or two into his degree when we were married three weeks into the semester. I knew we were in it for the long haul, being only a few semesters away from graduation myself. By the time he could call himself an Aggie Alumni, we had made a major move, had a baby, and dealt with some significant challenges. I was actually relieved when he was accepted into his MBA program. I knew it would provide him with growth and more opportunities to find his career path. That excitement faded when a week or so later when I retook a test and passed with two pink lines.

I'm not one of those wives who excels or even functions when her husband is away. I cringe to think of Scott ever having a job that requires extensive travel. Having him away in the evenings, even for just three hours, forced me to grow in ways I never really wanted to. For example, it wasn't until the beginning of this semester when I finally mastered the skill of Putting The Children To Bed By Myself, and even then, most of the time I only managed a 50% success rate.

Can I tell you a secret? Sometimes I find myself mourning the fact that our college days are almost over. Somehow I am still functioning under that unicornian principle of  "when he's gone I have time to myself"--which I have never had, except for maybe five hours this whole semester when the kids actually fell asleep and I got to read, or write, or clean (hah, that never actually happened), or just sit on the couch and stare into space. On one such evening in the middle of November, I turned on a Hallmark Channel Christmas movie. Scott came home in the middle of it, excited to tell me all about his class, and I simply looked at him and said, "I am watching this movie. You may talk to me when it is over." That's the closest I ever got to having an agenda for "me time" during class time, so really, it's no great loss, because everyone knows Candace Cameron Bure falls in love with the guy ten years younger than her and eventually reconnects with her dad, who is probably Santa Claus.

Besides, the things I've learned about myself during the past two years aren't things I've learned when I am alone. Okay, I take that back. The most important lessons I've learned about myself have happened when I am alone--with two children.  Like how, when I get upset or frustrated, it almost always stems from my own selfish desires (aka, get your bum back in bed and be quiet because Mom wants to read this book not take you potty for the millionth time today!). I've learned that there are going to be days when I just don't feel well, and that I can't always count on Scott to rescue me, even though he would if he could and usually tries to even when he can't. Sometimes I have to cowgirl up and put on my big girl panties and pretend like I'm not tired and I don't feel like I need to throw up and I actually still like my children when they whine.

So, yes, I do get to pick where we go to lunch tomorrow, because I have earned knowledge in my own right, and I may not have paid for it with FAFSA, but I have paid, people. I've stretched my brain and my body, trying to soothe fried nerves while listening to him come home and spout of the merits of Tesla Motors, business strategies, financial reports, and information security and the stupidity of classmates who don't know how to write a decent paper because they haven't lived with and Editor Wife for five years.

I've done my share of "so when are you going to go and take that test?" and "we probably shouldn't turn on that show tonight, you need to work on your paper" and Saturday night "did you turn in that assignment that is due tomorrow?" reminders. I've stocked the pantry with Swedish Fish during mid-terms, given pep-talks before stressful presentations (C's Get Degrees! You'll Do Great Honey!") and commiserated with "Death to Doris" choruses when macro-economics ruined the last half of our summer. I've picnicked on the campus lawn while my babies crawled through clovers and grass, eaten more Arby's Jr Classic Roast Beef sandwiches than I can count, and gained a few pounds because meeting at a "runchraunt" every class night was the only way the kids and I could make it through a twelve-and-a-half-hour day. I've soothed "I JUST WANT DADDY!" meltdowns and given in to "can I stay up until Daddy gets home?" requests.  I've edited with a baby on my lap, wrestling with commas while keeping the kid away from the mouse. I've nodded my head and "participated" (listened) to discussions about things I know nothing about (nor did I usually care about at 9:00 PM on a Monday night). I've suggested paper topics and presentation strategies, added a little style here and there to documents and PowerPoint slides, and mostly just stepped back in awe of how much growth Scott was experiencing with each semester. No longer did I have to beg him to study or go to class--first, because I am too tired to nag these days, and second, because he had learned to enjoy learning.

And you know what? I don't even feel the need to edit that last ten-page paper, because I know he knows how to write a proper paper on his own, and has, for a long time.

And tomorrow, three of us are going to put on dresses with a hint of purple and we are going to graduate.

Becoming Mrs. Claus

I put up our second Christmas tree yesterday.  It has taken me a week, but all of our indoor decorations are up and we are finally fully Christmas functional. Late last night, as we were playing Yahtzee by the light of the giant tree that takes up a third of our living room, my husband turned to me and asked, "Do you like having a second tree?" I just smiled guiltily and nodded. and he smiled too, and I know we were both thinking the same thing.

I have become my mother.

Last year I wrote a post about my dad being Santa Claus. Nothing about that has changed. This year, however, I am realizing just how vital Mrs. Claus is in all this holiday hullabaloo. 

I have been working on Christmas ever since the day after Sly's birthday in August. With Scott being super busy at work and overloaded with his last semester of his MBA, and trying to keep my depths of depression at bay, I needed something to focus on, and what is cheerier than Christmas? Nothing, so Christmas is the happy place I went to when the weather was still sporting 80 degree temperatures.  

And, even with all that prep, we hit December 1st and my advent calendar and Jesus Tree still weren't up, but that's okay. My kids can't read a calendar and Kevin was more than happy to put two Jesus Tree ornaments up last night. 

After Sly went to sleep, I cuddled Kevin on the couch and I read "The Polar Express" to her. She is finally at an age and attention span that allows me to read longer books to her. As I read, it wasn't my voice I heard telling the tale of the bell still rings for those who believe. 

It was my mother's.

I heard the inflections in her voice. The parts she would emphasize, the things she would point out in the pictures. I could smell the candle my Dad always burned at Christmastime layered with the organic scent of my Grandpa's homegrown Christmas tree. I could hear the Anne Murray and Yanni CDs playing softly in the background. I could feel, more than see, the primary-colored lights on our family tree. 

I remember one Christmas in particular when my mom took the time to read to us each evening. By that point in time, we were older school children and we'd either embraced the deliciousness of reading on our own (me) or tried to ditch books altogether (my siblings). Looking back, I think it must have been one of those times when my mom was at the end of her rope and grasping at straws as to how to keep us occupied and her calm and keep the home feeling like Christmas even when the blizzards were inside and not outside. 

Granted, we weren't super excited when she gathered us in the family room and told us she was going to read a Christmas book to us each night. But, in true Mrs. Claus style, she found a most magical story that appealed to all of our ages and within a few days, we were begging her to read more about Gladys and Shazaaamm! Unto you a child is born! and Imogene and the rest of the Herdmans. We were actually sad when the book was over.  

Perhaps you've seen that saying floating around on facebook: "There is no app to replace your lap." 

In this season of mile-long to do lists, too much sugar, and closets full of hidden presents, I challenge you to add one more thing to your plate. Read to your children. It doesn't matter if they are two weeks old, two-years-old, twelve or twenty. Being read to by a parent is something that sticks with children so much longer than Tickle Me Elmo or the newest iPhone. 

It is a gift that lasts for generations, because someday, your daughter might be reading to her children and it will be your voice proclaiming, "Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more."

Here are some of my favorite books for reading out loud:

For little ones:

• Llama Llama Holiday Drama by Anna Dewdney
• Babylit version of A Christmas Carol by Jennifer Adams
• Sing to Baby Jesus by Rachelle Pace Castor
• Five Christmas Penguins by Steven Lenton

For younger children:

• How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Suess
• The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg
• The Tale of the Three Trees by Angela Hunt
• The Legend of the Candy Cane by Lori Walburg
• My Treasury of Christmas Carols & Stories
• The Nutcracker (any version)

For elementary-age children:

• Christmas in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder
• The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson
• Any of the American Girl "book three" books, for example "Molly's Surprise"
• Chapter Six of "Ramona and Her Father" by Beverly Cleary

For pre-teens and teenagers:

• A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
• The Little Red Buckets by Lynda M. Nelson
• Two From Galilee by Marjorie Holmes
• The Christmas Box by Richard Paul Evans (this is actually a triology, and I especially enjoyed The Timepiece)
• Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Over the River and Through The Woods

I had that dream again last night.

I'm not usually one to repeat dreams--let alone remember my dreams--but I've been having the same dream consistently over the past two years.

I guess the dream itself is always different, but the setting is always the same: my grandparent's house.

I had what one could appropriately call a "magical" childhood. We lived next door to my grandparents, down a dirt-and-gravel lane, on several acres full of trees. Not just any kind of tree, though--my grandfather grew Christmas trees.

Even in the summertime, the setting was a wonderland. Grandpa would take us for tractor rides, loading as many small bodies as he could into the bucket and raising us high in to the air, then taking us for a tour around his unconventional farm. In the early spring, my mom and I helped weed my grandmother's flower garden. I remember the zinnias. Those were my favorite, and the most colorful of all the flowers in Grandma's garden. During the summer, Grandpa would have me help him pick raspberries. In the fall, the leaves from the deciduous trees lining the lane would fall like golden sprinkles on the rocks, and we would crash through them on our bikes as we played cops and robbers. In the winter, Grandpa would groom the ice on the hilly part of their driveway moat so that he could race his red flexible flyer sled down it whenever he liked. Sometimes he'd even let us join in, but for us, it was more fun to watch him than to sled down ourselves. I remember watching deer sneak through the fields in February, finding Easter Eggs hidden in the rocks in June, building forts amid the trees in August, watching families trek through the fields to find the perfect tree every November.

As magical as Grandpa's outside was, there was something even more loving about Grandma's inside. Sometimes, when I am stressed or need an exit from reality, I close my eyes and walk through their house.

I enter through the garage, pausing to stop and look at the surrey bike that I wish I were still small enough to climb into (also wishing that the battery pack Grandpa rigged onto it still worked). I pass by the ancient deep freezer, picturing all of the frozen fish from Grandpa's Yellowstone trips and Grandma's Emergency supply of at least 20 cartons of ice cream hidden inside. I walk up the ramp, past Grandpa's muddy boots, and open the door to the mud room. I see Grandpa's collection of mesh trucker hats hanging on their pegs--there must be at least 30. The room is full of shoes, mostly from aunts and uncles and cousins come to visit. When I step through the next door, I am greeted by the kitchen--and Grandma sitting on one of the twirly stools, watching the news on the small TV sitting on the counter next to the cookie jar, always full of Fudge Stripes for my little brother and Pepperidge Farm gingerbread men for the rest of us. The kitchen smells simultaneously like goulash and pot roast, although to my knowledge Grandma never made those two meals together.  I kiss Grandma's leathery cheek as she gives me a hug, then I still on a stool and spin around a little bit--because really, who could resist? We talk books and ice cream and the weather and school and she shares all the family news: an angel told her how to cure my cousin's chronic illness, another cousin is getting married, my aunts are coming up in a few days to stay for the weekend. She invites me to get a Fat Boy or a Monkey Bar out of the freezer, and on my way I am stopped by the collection of my cousins's faces on the freezer door. Grandma has an unspoken rule that she only replaces your picture if she likes this year's better than last year. My Australian cousins always get updated, because Grandma only sees them every seven years or so. Some of my Salt Lake cousins are stuck in Kindergarten. My little sister is in fourth grade. I'm lucky enough to have made it to my Junior year of High School.

Bits and pieces of real memories weave their way through my daytime dreams as I wander through their home, searching for the love and peace that I always found there, even when Grandma was swearing at Grandpa.

I walk into the pink bathroom that smells of everything floral and sink my toes into the pink shag rugs before I step on the antique scale. I don't really care what number it lands on, I just like watching the numbers spin past. On Grandma's scale, the higher you can make it go, the better. The digital scales we have now are just so much meaner.

In the laundry room, I check Grandma's homemade cloth birthday calendar, just to make sure I'm still on it, though the decades-old ink is permanent and is only slightly faded. Newer names, from a handful of younger cousins and the great-grandbabies that have started coming (much to Grandma's delight!), stand out in their bold black lettering.

I peek into their bedroom, only for a minute, because somehow that room is sacred, and private, just for them. There is a picture of the younger version of my Grandpa, one from his teaching days, displayed on the dresser.

I pass the seven frames of  Grandma's school-aged children. My dad must have been in second grade in that picture. He has the same mishevious smile as my grandpa, only we rarely catch it on film. I go into Grandma's sewing room, which is filled with dusty silk flowers and boxes of family artifacts. I open the top drawer of the dresser and pick out a video--either Heidi or Annie, but if Grandpa and Grandpa are around to sit down with me, then it is definitely Sarah Plain and Tall. But since we probably watched that yesterday, I pick out Skylark or Winter's End. If Grandpa is in the mood for music, it's Rigaletto.  I take the movie back through the house, to the family room, and I cuddle up in Grandpa's Lazy Boy, and Grandma joins me.  I look around at their book cases, old wooden stove, pots of flowers, the old leopard stuffed animal that always sits on the couch should a small child come for a visit with his or her parents.

There is a wall full of family photos, framed and varying in age: ancestors in pioneer clothing, my grandpa as a marine in WWII, my uncle in his military uniform, my older brother as a baby. That wall tells as many stories as the chuck-full wall of book cases connected to it.

I tip toe through the untouched carpet of the parlor, past the red front door that nobody actually uses, to the staircase where I look for the preserved fish my Grandpa caught and the framed picture of him fishing. I'm still not so sure what is so special about that fish--it creeps me out, actually--but at the same time there is something comforting about it always being there.

I know every inch of the basement, from the storage closet full of red and brown folding chairs under the stairs to the cleaning closet and the storage room full of canned fruit and cranberry juice. The only room I don't know is tucked in a forgotten corner, locked and guarding all the memories and souvenirs of Grandpa's military service.

There is a red coverlet on the bed that hangs out in the open--it is almost identical to the one on my Molly doll's 1940's-replica bed. The bathroom downstairs is decorated in a pale orange, and it still smells like peach from the time I accidentally spilled a whole bottle of peach shower gel on the floor. There are two actual bedrooms downstairs--one is cream-colored and there is a small decal of an Argentine soccer player stuck to the mirror attached to the dresser. There is a rocking chair, an old crib that probably isn't safe, but we all climb into it anyway, just to play. The closets in that room are full of my grandma's old clothing--and when we think Grandma doesn't know, my sister and cousins and I try all the dresses on.

In the pink room, there is a lovely bedroom set, a Victorian style chair, and a vintage pink chair from the mid-1900s that I just love to curl up in because it is perfect for reading. This room was mine for a whole summer once. In the closet are old games, a spirograph, decorations from my aunt's wedding, old quilts, more old dresses, and a solid hope chest that is perfect for climbing.

Out in the open, there is a wooden stove that Grandma feeds daily. The pot of water on top has crusted over so completely I don't think it would be possible to remove it. Grandpa has stacked the brick storage area with wood, and the smell of it burning combined with the radiating heat feels like a hug.

The walls show evidence of my father's mission to Argentina, with decorative cow hides. There are also Native American artifacts. Or perhaps they are Maori, from my uncle's mission to New Zealand? I don't know, I just like to run my fingers across them and feel the fibers.

When my cousins are over, we push the velvety, ugly red couches together to form a boat. One couch is longer than the other, so there is a perfect opening for entering and exiting. There is a small cupboard, a tiny table, a shelf of children's books, and a bucket made into a seat for the smaller children to play in. There is the piano with another spinny stool, where I would come and practice before my family had a piano of our own. I didn't know then that the air vent in the ceiling led directly to the upstairs family room and my grandpa liked to sit in his chair and listen to us pound out our practice sessions. It was all music to him, even though it in no way compared to the operas he would play on the ancient stereo in the upstairs closet.

Above the piano are three shelves of books--hardcover from Grandpa's college days, paperbacks and Reader's Digest collections for my Grandma, church books from the 1960s. Grandma used to pay me to clean her basement. The first few times I cleaned, she told me I went too fast. I learned to slow down by dusting each book separately, lovingly touching their old familiar spines and looking inside the front covers for signatures and publication dates.

Many (okay, most) of those books now sit on my shelves.

And sometimes, when I am missing my grandparents and the home that was also, in a way, mine, I stand in front of my bookshelves and I touch the spines, smell the pages, trace the signatures.

To Grandmother's house I go.

Lifelong Learning

My husband will be done with graduate school in six weeks. (That is, he will be done, provided he passed his class last semester--we are still crossing our fingers for that one.) Although he has technically only been in graduate school since January of 2014, he has been attending school for our entire five-year marriage, minus the six months he took off between his undergraduate and his graduate degree.

For the first 15 months of our marriage, I was also attending the university. Sometimes I think of this time as our "Golden Year." We always seemed to have enough--enough time together, enough money, enough to keep us busy. We would spend our evenings doing homework side-by-side on the couch. Our brains were constantly being exercised. And I loved it. I love to learn. I love school. I loved learning with him.

But then I graduated. That last semester of school, admittedly, was my least favorite, but that could have been because I had morning sickness as a constant companion and a job with a boss that was highly stressful to me. So, once graduation happened, parenthood happened, and me quitting my job happened, my new life was a relief and a blessing.

I enjoy being a stay-at-home mom. I wouldn't want to be ANYWHERE else, despite the hard days. There is one thing I do miss, however.

My brain.

A friend once told me that she lost a quarter of her brain with each child. She has five children. You do the math.

According to her logic, I should still have half a brain left. I seem to have misplaced it though. There are so many days when I can't remember the simplest things--how to do math, grammar rules, basic history facts. It didn't help when last week a friend posted an article on Facebook about how Type II diabetes is pretty much the same thing as Alzheimer's. That induced a bit of panic in me.

It is difficult for me to send my husband off to school each week more than just because it means another three hours without him and being a one-woman show with our cranky kids. I suppose, in a word, I am jealous. Every day he comes home and tells me about what he has been doing that day--talking about the software problems he countered, the complicated processes he has run, the future of the business where he is employed. On school nights, he comes home full of enthusiasm about what he is learning and the discussions he has experienced. I nod my head and pretend like I understand the business jargon. To me, he seems so smart. Of course, he has always been smart, but now he just keeps getting smarter. He knows so many things. He can do this complicated job, and what can I do? Name every character on Daniel Tiger and Sofia the First. Recite the first Pinkalicious book by heart. Sing 20 different songs about spiders, pigs, buses, pumpkins, witches, or monkeys on command.

Growing up, I was always the smart child. My siblings struggled in school, each for their own different reason and challenge. I never really did. My biggest challenges were people and my own emotions. But the actual acadmics? With the exception of one pop quiz in geometry when my brain just plain quit, I never struggled to learn and know and succeed in school.

At this point, however, I'd probably say I am the least smartest child of all my siblings. My older brother has a juris doctorate. My little sister is a CNA, working toward being an MA and she is so stinkin smart when it comes to all things children and medical. My little brother, well, he knows everything (and what he doesn't know, he covers up with his charm and witty comments that have you laughing so hard you forgot what he was supposed to be doing in the first place).

So, I've lost that title, and you know what? It's taken a while, but I'm okay with it. I'm happy--ecstatic, really--to see my siblings succeed.

But sometimes I do miss that intellectual part of me that seems to have retired.

Here's the thing I am realizing, though. I may not be gaining academic knowledge or career experience or excelling at a recognizable, formal institution, but every day I am still learning, and the things I am learning now are just as important as the things I learned in school, if not more so.

Things like how to adapt recipes to fit my family's needs and what we have in our pantry.
Finding the best deals to make our money stretch farther.
Recognizing when those around me are in need of love and service.
Instilling a love of reading in my children by not only reading to them every day, but being an example to them of a person who truly loves to learn through reading.
Working through threenager and toddler meltdowns with patience and a calm demeanor (still practicing that one).  I

 am learning how to learn from the past to shape the future. I am taking the time to do the small things--kiss an owie, play the piano while my kids "sing" on their chosen stage of our staircase, playing catch and baby dolls--and still, somehow, finding time to still be myself in the midst of it all.

This past week we picked up a book at the library by Weird Al Yankovic entitled, "When I Grow Up." During show and tell at school, a little boy named Billy shares with the class the long list of things he hopes to do with his life--everything from being a famous chef to a snail trainer to a deodorant tester. When his teacher kindly reminds him that he should probably narrow down his list, Billy says that his great-grandfather is 103 years old and still hasn't figured out what he wants to be.

Here's what I learned from that book: I've got time.

And according to the Christian Rock radio station, when your kids leave for college, mom gets her brain back.

I hope, wherever that half of my brain is being stored, that it has enough preservatives to last another 20+ years, because I've got a lot of things left to learn.