Complaining.
We all do it. We all want to do it. Sometimes we hold it in. Sometimes that only makes us complain more when we finally burst. Thanks to social media and an overly emotion-friendly society that thrives on social media, we probably all do it a little too often.
But here is what my most recent {difficult} pregnancy has taught me.
Sometimes complaining just makes you sound silly.
It is not often in my life that I have to sit in the "wo is me" chair--usually I have things pretty good and usually I am enough of a person to recognize that (though sometimes not). Right now, I am parked in that miserable chair. Want to hear about how bad I have it? Call me anytime. Then call my husband and tell him thank you for putting up with me (because whatever I told you, I probably have said five+ times to him).
Sometime this past week, a very pregnant acquaintance of mine complained that she was now 36 weeks along and the doctors told her at 30 weeks that she'd be having her baby by 32 weeks. I understand that she is miserable. I know that gestational diabetes and being huge and uncomfortable is absolutely NO FUN (trust me, I've been doing the GB diet since 7-8 weeks and most women don't have to start it until 20-22 weeks). But, as I sat there reading her posts and thinking about my own past, I couldn't help thinking that her complaint was a blessing I am spending a significant portion of every day hoping and praying and working for. 36 weeks...I just want to make it to 36 weeks. Anything beyond that will be a bonus--maybe an uncomfortable and painful bonus, but a bonus nonetheless.
Have you every heard the saying "One man's junk is another man's treasure?" I've discovered lately that one woman's complaint is another's counted blessing.
Sometimes it makes me upset when I see people complaining about things I would love to have (or have more of)--half a dozen children, graduate school opportunities, vacations, money, nice new home projects, a newborn who doesn't sleep but gets to come home within two days of being born, sore muscles after a marathon-training run, too much rain, too much heat, too much to do, a cool job...the list goes on.
How does a single person feel when somebody complains that her husband and children never replace the toilet paper?
How does an unemployed person feel when somebody complains about working overtime?
How does a person suffering from infertility feel when someone complains about having two babies under the age of 18 months?
How does a pregnant woman who just can't gain weight feel when you complain about gaining too much (though still a healthy weight) in your pregnancy?
My point of this post is not to tell people to stop complaining. That doesn't usually work. Then they just get moody and eat chocolate that you can't have in front of you. Sometimes complaining is necessary. We'd burst without it.
But here's a little trick I learned from my mother that might help (Moms are so helpful, aren't they? They have the best ideas.) Sometimes, the things that drive you most nuts about life can also be turned into the things you appreciate most about life.
For many of my growing up years, my mother taught preschool out of our basement. I was often home when her classes ended in the afternoon and I would hear her complain sometimes about certain things that drove her nuts--a parent who was always early, another who was always late, a child who just couldn't listen because they had so many stories to tell, a child who never stopped singing, a child with too much energy, etc. She didn't usually name names, but having helped in her classroom often enough, I usually knew who she was talking about.
Here is the amazing part of this though. Every May, when preschool graduation rolled around, my mom would recognize each child and talk about something she remembered or a talent she appreciated. And usually the things she talked about were the very things she complained about during the year.
"So and so was always on time for class."
"So and so was always so patient waiting for his mom to come get him."
"So and so tells wonderful stories."
"So and so has a beautiful singing voice and loves to share it with others."
"So and so is always energetic and happy."
In a nutshell, my mom found a way to turn their weaknesses into strengths, and in the process, it turned her complaints into her blessings. Was she lying when she said she admired these traits? Absolutely not. She meant everything she said about their talents. (I am a skeptic. I watched and listened carefully. You can trust me on this.)
One of my favorite (and one of the most quoted) scriptures from the Book of Mormon shows the Savior saying to us:
And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble, and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them. (Ether 12:27)
We are all given weaknesses (even if your weakness may be not recognizing your weaknesses). For some of us, those weaknesses are more visible than another person's may be. But I believe the Savior 110% when He tells us that His grace is enough to make up for those weaknesses--if we humble ourselves enough to recognize them.
What complaints do you have that could be counted as a blessing today?
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Coming in Second
I tuned into the Olympic coverage this afternoon for a few minutes and happened upon what should have been a happy scene but looked more like a heart-breaking one. Shot after shot of crying women with sweaty hair, still in their hockey pads, looking a bit shell-shocked. They had it, the announcers kept saying. They were only three minutes and thirty seconds away from a gold medal.
I watched, entranced, as the crying continued but the women tried their best to put on a happy face as they accepted their silver medals. Silver. Medals. In the Olympics. That's what they were trying so hard not to be disappointed about. They smiled, accepted their flowers, but you could tell in their eyes that what should have been an exciting moment was now nothing more than a heartbreaking one.
I thought about this scene, and I thought about other Olympic competitions we've watched over the last two weeks--there were athletes there that were overjoyed just to get a bronze. We cheered with Noelle Pikus-Pace's family when she took silver. We were duly impressed with Shaun White when he reacted so graciously to not even making it onto the podium. We've watching snowboarding, skiing, speed-skating, figure skating, ski-jumping, hockey, and even some curling (Kevin has been up at 2 am too many times in the last couple of weeks).
I've been thinking about those women all day. I feel for them. I've been in second place far more often than I've ever been in first place. My older brother never misses a chance to remind me I'm even second place in our family. I competed in Debate for two years in high school--the best I ever did was second place in region (not saying a lot when your particular even only has so many people participating in it). My best piece of fiction writing (maybe my best piece of writing ever) took second place in the creative writing competition I entered it in. Some of these moments were disappointments, but I have to admit as I look back, sometimes second place was an accomplishment that felt out of my reach.
I've also had perhaps more than my fair share of winning moments, and although it seems odd to say, most of my second-place finishes have felt more like grand championships than the reality of not-quite measuring up.
Here is what I take from today's results, from those brave women representing my country who feel as if they have lost it all, even with one pound of pure silver hanging around their necks: sometimes it means something just to be there. Sometimes it means everything that you tried and did your best, even when your best was not good enough. Sometimes you will work hard and put in hours and hours of sacrifice and think you have it all figured out and then a glitch will be thrown in your plans: a discouraging diagnosis, an unexpected injury, a family emergency, a financial setback, a broken pipe, a broken heart, Sometimes you can do everything right and it still won't be enough.
Sometimes our disappointments in life can actually become our biggest victories. It's all in how we react to them.
Most of the time, life will seem unfair. No matter how hard you work, somebody will always perform better when it counts most, and it will seem that they've had everything you want handed to them with very little work. Sometimes what you see, what you feel isn't the real truth.
It's okay to come in second. It's okay to come in tenth, or twentieth, or to not even have a placing at all. You are a champion just for showing up.
I watched, entranced, as the crying continued but the women tried their best to put on a happy face as they accepted their silver medals. Silver. Medals. In the Olympics. That's what they were trying so hard not to be disappointed about. They smiled, accepted their flowers, but you could tell in their eyes that what should have been an exciting moment was now nothing more than a heartbreaking one.
I thought about this scene, and I thought about other Olympic competitions we've watched over the last two weeks--there were athletes there that were overjoyed just to get a bronze. We cheered with Noelle Pikus-Pace's family when she took silver. We were duly impressed with Shaun White when he reacted so graciously to not even making it onto the podium. We've watching snowboarding, skiing, speed-skating, figure skating, ski-jumping, hockey, and even some curling (Kevin has been up at 2 am too many times in the last couple of weeks).
I've been thinking about those women all day. I feel for them. I've been in second place far more often than I've ever been in first place. My older brother never misses a chance to remind me I'm even second place in our family. I competed in Debate for two years in high school--the best I ever did was second place in region (not saying a lot when your particular even only has so many people participating in it). My best piece of fiction writing (maybe my best piece of writing ever) took second place in the creative writing competition I entered it in. Some of these moments were disappointments, but I have to admit as I look back, sometimes second place was an accomplishment that felt out of my reach.
I've also had perhaps more than my fair share of winning moments, and although it seems odd to say, most of my second-place finishes have felt more like grand championships than the reality of not-quite measuring up.
Here is what I take from today's results, from those brave women representing my country who feel as if they have lost it all, even with one pound of pure silver hanging around their necks: sometimes it means something just to be there. Sometimes it means everything that you tried and did your best, even when your best was not good enough. Sometimes you will work hard and put in hours and hours of sacrifice and think you have it all figured out and then a glitch will be thrown in your plans: a discouraging diagnosis, an unexpected injury, a family emergency, a financial setback, a broken pipe, a broken heart, Sometimes you can do everything right and it still won't be enough.
Sometimes our disappointments in life can actually become our biggest victories. It's all in how we react to them.
Most of the time, life will seem unfair. No matter how hard you work, somebody will always perform better when it counts most, and it will seem that they've had everything you want handed to them with very little work. Sometimes what you see, what you feel isn't the real truth.
It's okay to come in second. It's okay to come in tenth, or twentieth, or to not even have a placing at all. You are a champion just for showing up.
Friday, February 14, 2014
A few thoughts regarding this holiday
You know what is nice about being married to your best friend?
Everything.
I think we've finally got this holiday thing figured out. Very few disappointments anymore (and probably more on his end than on mine). The first year was rough, but now that we're in our fourth year of marriage, we are starting to figure things out.
Partly, this is because I finally figured out my wants to make a great holiday, and now all he has to do is follow a simple checklist.
I want:
1. A night out (doesn't have to be on the actual holiday...in fact, we've never gone out on our V-Day date on the 14th of February, but we have gone on a special date every year)
2. Some flowers (yellow or roses or yellow roses=a bonus)
3. A love letter
4. A surprise
To me, it seems like a lot because it is a lot. I'm still trying to figure out what he wants. So far I think it is something along these lines:
1. A simple date night
2. A thoughtful little something
3. Gratitude (even when this comes in the form of me running down the stairs to catch him before he goes to work, bedhead in full swing, and throwing my arms around him to give him a big hug before he is out the door)
4. (This is the one I just figured out this morning) We were sitting on the couch, sneaking in a few cuddles before he had to go and I said something about "I'm sorry I don't have anything to surprise you this morning" and he held me tight and said, "Rinda, just let me spoil you." Okay, done. So I guess that makes number #4 something along the lines of "let me go above and beyond and outdo you on the gift-giving sometimes."
I love being married to my best friend. I realize how spoiled I am because of that. I wish everybody could have a best friend. I know not everybody has that. But everybody has somebody who loves them, even when it is hard to recognize.
This past week the women's organization in my church congregation got together and had a little lesson on love languages. I was asked to talk about "quality time" which is the language that Scott and I share (we are both bilingual, I also receive love in the form of acts of service and he recognizes love in the form of physical touch). In addition to being our love language, quality time is our "destress" language. I know lots of couples do better when they have some time away from each other--we are the opposite of that. If we don't get enough time together we start to fall apart. This is why sometimes, even though he has a full load of homework and would like to go to the gym, he stays home and watches Austenland with me because he knows I have had a beyond difficult day.
I often wonder what I will say when Kevin gets old enough to ask me those questions everyone runs into at some point in his/her life: What is love? How do you know when you are in love? What if you love someone, but you don't love them like that? How can people do mean things to the people they love? Why did Heavenly Father send us here just to have our hearts broken?
In all likelihood, I will tell her my main answer to all these things: I'm not sure I know.
But I do know this: Love sometimes means letting go. Love sometimes means you have to wait. Love sometimes means you will get you heart broken, and love always means you have to learn to forgive. Love isn't always romantic. Love isn't always perfect and it definitely isn't always a fairy tale. Love sometimes means having the courage to speak up and stand up and disagree. Love sometimes means protecting someone from themselves, but it can also mean being willing to let them make mistakes and love them through it. Love is something it takes a moment to feel and a lifetime to learn.
Everything.
I think we've finally got this holiday thing figured out. Very few disappointments anymore (and probably more on his end than on mine). The first year was rough, but now that we're in our fourth year of marriage, we are starting to figure things out.
Partly, this is because I finally figured out my wants to make a great holiday, and now all he has to do is follow a simple checklist.
I want:
1. A night out (doesn't have to be on the actual holiday...in fact, we've never gone out on our V-Day date on the 14th of February, but we have gone on a special date every year)
2. Some flowers (yellow or roses or yellow roses=a bonus)
3. A love letter
4. A surprise
To me, it seems like a lot because it is a lot. I'm still trying to figure out what he wants. So far I think it is something along these lines:
1. A simple date night
2. A thoughtful little something
3. Gratitude (even when this comes in the form of me running down the stairs to catch him before he goes to work, bedhead in full swing, and throwing my arms around him to give him a big hug before he is out the door)
4. (This is the one I just figured out this morning) We were sitting on the couch, sneaking in a few cuddles before he had to go and I said something about "I'm sorry I don't have anything to surprise you this morning" and he held me tight and said, "Rinda, just let me spoil you." Okay, done. So I guess that makes number #4 something along the lines of "let me go above and beyond and outdo you on the gift-giving sometimes."
I love being married to my best friend. I realize how spoiled I am because of that. I wish everybody could have a best friend. I know not everybody has that. But everybody has somebody who loves them, even when it is hard to recognize.
This past week the women's organization in my church congregation got together and had a little lesson on love languages. I was asked to talk about "quality time" which is the language that Scott and I share (we are both bilingual, I also receive love in the form of acts of service and he recognizes love in the form of physical touch). In addition to being our love language, quality time is our "destress" language. I know lots of couples do better when they have some time away from each other--we are the opposite of that. If we don't get enough time together we start to fall apart. This is why sometimes, even though he has a full load of homework and would like to go to the gym, he stays home and watches Austenland with me because he knows I have had a beyond difficult day.
I often wonder what I will say when Kevin gets old enough to ask me those questions everyone runs into at some point in his/her life: What is love? How do you know when you are in love? What if you love someone, but you don't love them like that? How can people do mean things to the people they love? Why did Heavenly Father send us here just to have our hearts broken?
In all likelihood, I will tell her my main answer to all these things: I'm not sure I know.
But I do know this: Love sometimes means letting go. Love sometimes means you have to wait. Love sometimes means you will get you heart broken, and love always means you have to learn to forgive. Love isn't always romantic. Love isn't always perfect and it definitely isn't always a fairy tale. Love sometimes means having the courage to speak up and stand up and disagree. Love sometimes means protecting someone from themselves, but it can also mean being willing to let them make mistakes and love them through it. Love is something it takes a moment to feel and a lifetime to learn.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
God Gives Us Two-Year-Olds
Okay, granted, my baby is not two yet. How could she possibly be two? I have no idea. But, in a little over a month, it will be official.
I just read a post from a friend whose daughter just turned one. I feel like it could have been me writing about Kevin's first birthday...right down to the balloons, the "one curl I insist on keeping," and the ruffly Target dress (except Kevin's was green instead of pink). And now...now we are quickly approaching another birthday and I am wondering, yet again, where the past year has gone.
I am also wondering where that one curl has gone...now she has a few dozen and her hair is an unruly mess. I can't seem to bring myself to let her have a "real" haircut, so I insist on trimming her bangs and watching the back (where all her curls are hiding under the top layer of stick-straight hair) get wilder and wilder. Her hair is longer than mine now...how did that happen?
Even though we still have a month of this blissful, adventurous year-of-being-one, I am starting to realize why God allows children to turn two.
Because how else would we survive life?
This week--okay, the past several weeks--have been so difficult on me. You think you've got the Mommy thing down and then BAM! there's something else to conquer. I thought being pregnant was bad the first time. Oh, how I complained--the morning sickness, the food aversions, the climbs up Old Main hill to work, the days of trying to just make it through class--and now I am wondering what that girl thought was so bad about it all. This time around seems so much harder, so much worse.
I've been trying to figure out why.
I know you think you know where this post is going...I have a two-year-old after all...
And this is the closest I've come to an answer:
When you are pregnant, people (especially close friends and relatives) like to ask how you are feeling. And, as a pregnant woman, you like to tell them how you are feeling--physically. For me, that answer has gone something like this, "well I'm not nearly as nauseous this time around, which has been nice." And that ends the discussion--no nausea equals a piece of cake pregnancy, right?
That's what I thought too.
But somehow, I never spent whole days crying during my last pregnancy, and that has been an all-too common occurrence this time around (somebody give my husband a trophy!).
Do you know what happens when you spend whole days crying? You work yourself into a tizzy, that's what. You can't see an end, you can't even see a beginning. You feel so lonely and become positive that there is no help to be had (when in reality, help is only a phone call away the whole time...if you can stop crying long enough to dial). You start to feel trapped. You start to lose hope. You start to lose joy.
Then God gives you a two-year-old (or, in my case, an almost two-year-old).
Here's the thing about toddlers, especially ones that are starting to learn their own minds and climb the stairs with their feet and not their hands and knees: they are stubborn. They know what they want. They don't accept excuses. They will probably look at your tears and wonder how to make them go away so that they can wrangle a package of fruit snacks out of you before lunch. They will pull and push you into playing with them. They will start laughing for no reason, and that will make you smile. They will get excited about the little things, and that will give you a reason to try and create some magic on an otherwise dreary afternoon. Sometimes they will break their routine and take a three-hour-nap in the middle of the day just when the nausea makes a temporary appearance and you desperately need to lay down.
And sometimes, even though they are not inclined to be cuddly, they will give you a hug for no reason. Or maybe, if they are feeling particularly generous, they will give you a kiss. And they will do other adorable things like call out for their "Daddy!" at 4:00 am so you are in no way responsible to get up with them. They will start talking your ear off and expect you to know every answer and make your heart melt when they offer an unsolicited "thank you!" They will copy every move you make, and when you lay down on the floor and cry--they will repeat the gesture 20 minutes later, just to show you that there are more important things to cry about than hormones (like binkies that get taken away before they are willingly surrendered).
She's a walking pep-talk, saying, "Look what a great job you did the first time! I was worth it then, and the next baby will be worth all the work and sacrifice this time around too!"
So, while sometimes I think we are crazy for attempting to add another child to our family while our first one is still so young, I sometimes also realize that she may be the only reason I survive this pregnancy.
I just read a post from a friend whose daughter just turned one. I feel like it could have been me writing about Kevin's first birthday...right down to the balloons, the "one curl I insist on keeping," and the ruffly Target dress (except Kevin's was green instead of pink). And now...now we are quickly approaching another birthday and I am wondering, yet again, where the past year has gone.
I am also wondering where that one curl has gone...now she has a few dozen and her hair is an unruly mess. I can't seem to bring myself to let her have a "real" haircut, so I insist on trimming her bangs and watching the back (where all her curls are hiding under the top layer of stick-straight hair) get wilder and wilder. Her hair is longer than mine now...how did that happen?
Even though we still have a month of this blissful, adventurous year-of-being-one, I am starting to realize why God allows children to turn two.
Because how else would we survive life?
This week--okay, the past several weeks--have been so difficult on me. You think you've got the Mommy thing down and then BAM! there's something else to conquer. I thought being pregnant was bad the first time. Oh, how I complained--the morning sickness, the food aversions, the climbs up Old Main hill to work, the days of trying to just make it through class--and now I am wondering what that girl thought was so bad about it all. This time around seems so much harder, so much worse.
I've been trying to figure out why.
I know you think you know where this post is going...I have a two-year-old after all...
And this is the closest I've come to an answer:
When you are pregnant, people (especially close friends and relatives) like to ask how you are feeling. And, as a pregnant woman, you like to tell them how you are feeling--physically. For me, that answer has gone something like this, "well I'm not nearly as nauseous this time around, which has been nice." And that ends the discussion--no nausea equals a piece of cake pregnancy, right?
That's what I thought too.
But somehow, I never spent whole days crying during my last pregnancy, and that has been an all-too common occurrence this time around (somebody give my husband a trophy!).
Do you know what happens when you spend whole days crying? You work yourself into a tizzy, that's what. You can't see an end, you can't even see a beginning. You feel so lonely and become positive that there is no help to be had (when in reality, help is only a phone call away the whole time...if you can stop crying long enough to dial). You start to feel trapped. You start to lose hope. You start to lose joy.
Then God gives you a two-year-old (or, in my case, an almost two-year-old).
Here's the thing about toddlers, especially ones that are starting to learn their own minds and climb the stairs with their feet and not their hands and knees: they are stubborn. They know what they want. They don't accept excuses. They will probably look at your tears and wonder how to make them go away so that they can wrangle a package of fruit snacks out of you before lunch. They will pull and push you into playing with them. They will start laughing for no reason, and that will make you smile. They will get excited about the little things, and that will give you a reason to try and create some magic on an otherwise dreary afternoon. Sometimes they will break their routine and take a three-hour-nap in the middle of the day just when the nausea makes a temporary appearance and you desperately need to lay down.
And sometimes, even though they are not inclined to be cuddly, they will give you a hug for no reason. Or maybe, if they are feeling particularly generous, they will give you a kiss. And they will do other adorable things like call out for their "Daddy!" at 4:00 am so you are in no way responsible to get up with them. They will start talking your ear off and expect you to know every answer and make your heart melt when they offer an unsolicited "thank you!" They will copy every move you make, and when you lay down on the floor and cry--they will repeat the gesture 20 minutes later, just to show you that there are more important things to cry about than hormones (like binkies that get taken away before they are willingly surrendered).
She's a walking pep-talk, saying, "Look what a great job you did the first time! I was worth it then, and the next baby will be worth all the work and sacrifice this time around too!"
So, while sometimes I think we are crazy for attempting to add another child to our family while our first one is still so young, I sometimes also realize that she may be the only reason I survive this pregnancy.
Rinda's Reads: In which I admit to being a slacker
I know I haven't posted a reading list for a while. The truth is, it's been a while since I read anything new worth sharing. Seriously--for most of the last two or three months, I've simply been rereading my favorites and skimming through some new ones that haven't amounted to more than your typical Christian historical fiction fluff.
Finally--finally! I picked up a new book and I couldn't put it down. I don't even remember the last time I was so engrossed in a book I read it in three days.
So I am sharing it with you less than an hour after I finished it.
What is this book you ask?
Here. Here you go. You are welcome.
Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs.
Hands down the best thing I've read since The Book Thief (the first time). It's another young adult novel that takes place in the 1940s (okay, kind of, it also has a taste of the here-and-now and a bit of time travel). If your teenager doesn't like to read but is into slightly creepy things, hand them this book. The best way I can describe it is a mixture between The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Goosebumps series (which I never read because I was too much of a scaredy-cat BTW).
The story is a magical mixture of prose and photography (even Gaston can't complain about this one--there are pictures! Lots of them!). Every photograph used in the book is real--as in, not something the author staged just to fit in his book, but real vintage black-and-white photographs. These are pictures he searched for, found intriguing, and when the stories behind the people in the photos couldn't be found, he made up his own, and that's how Miss Peregrine's collection of Peculiar Children came about. Just flip through the pages and I guarantee you will want to know the story.
Here's the disclaimer though: it gets intense. And scary. Like, don't read at night when you are home alone scary. And there is some choice language I could have done without (think PG-13 language, no f-bombs). So, don't let your ten-year-old read it. I probably wouldn't hand it to anyone under the age of 13. But your 15-18 year-olds will be fascinated. And so will most adults who love a good adventure, all-things-extraordinary kind of story.
And the best part is, the sequel (Hollow City) came out two weeks ago, so you don't even have to wait for the second one!
Finally--finally! I picked up a new book and I couldn't put it down. I don't even remember the last time I was so engrossed in a book I read it in three days.
So I am sharing it with you less than an hour after I finished it.
What is this book you ask?
Here. Here you go. You are welcome.
Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs.
Hands down the best thing I've read since The Book Thief (the first time). It's another young adult novel that takes place in the 1940s (okay, kind of, it also has a taste of the here-and-now and a bit of time travel). If your teenager doesn't like to read but is into slightly creepy things, hand them this book. The best way I can describe it is a mixture between The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Goosebumps series (which I never read because I was too much of a scaredy-cat BTW).
The story is a magical mixture of prose and photography (even Gaston can't complain about this one--there are pictures! Lots of them!). Every photograph used in the book is real--as in, not something the author staged just to fit in his book, but real vintage black-and-white photographs. These are pictures he searched for, found intriguing, and when the stories behind the people in the photos couldn't be found, he made up his own, and that's how Miss Peregrine's collection of Peculiar Children came about. Just flip through the pages and I guarantee you will want to know the story.
Here's the disclaimer though: it gets intense. And scary. Like, don't read at night when you are home alone scary. And there is some choice language I could have done without (think PG-13 language, no f-bombs). So, don't let your ten-year-old read it. I probably wouldn't hand it to anyone under the age of 13. But your 15-18 year-olds will be fascinated. And so will most adults who love a good adventure, all-things-extraordinary kind of story.
And the best part is, the sequel (Hollow City) came out two weeks ago, so you don't even have to wait for the second one!
Thursday, January 30, 2014
A Tale of Two Sisters
Yesterday marked the birthday of two remarkable women in my family history. Both are gone now, and the memory of one has faded more than the other, but both have made a profound impact on my life and my family.
Blogging world, meet Elizabeth and Eleanor Gray.
Elizabeth (or Betty, as she was known throughout her life) was born several weeks premature in a snowstorm in 1916. Her father put her in a cigar box on a wood-burning stove to keep her warm and miraculously, she became something that would define her for the rest of her life: a survivor.
Her little sister Eleanor's birth story is less well-known. As in, I can't tell you any details; I don't know them. All I know is that she was born on her big sister's birthday exactly two years later. This detail somehow seems significant to me. I wonder sometimes if, from the very first day of her life, Eleanor felt as if she lived in her sister's shadow. Maybe this is because, in my memories, she lives in her sister's shadow still.
I know a few stories from their childhood, growing up in the backwoods of Montana in a logging camp. To Betty, every day in the mountains was an adventure. She took after her father. To Ellie, I can't help but sometimes think that every day was a struggle to get the hell out of there and make something better of her life. I am thinking she took after her mother.
Once, when Ellie was about three years old, the gypsies came around. Betty thought this a prime opportunity to make some extra cash, so she sold her pleasing and pretty little sister (whom, I'm told, was great at dancing) to the gypsies. Don't worry, their parents got Ellie back, and all the event is now is a memory lovingly shared with a laugh. I heard the story often as a child, and oh! how I wished I could sell my little sister to the Gypsies, but unfortunately gypsies are hard to find in Cache Valley, Utah. I have been looking for them for over twenty years.
Once, when the girls were still little, they were playing "house." They set up a small square in the dirt with cans and leaves for a home and Ellie played the housewife, sweeping the dirt and making an effort to keep things clean. Betty, playing the drunk husband, bashed through the walls yelling and screaming and having a jolly old time. Betty told me this story with a twinkle in her eye. Betty lived life with "wild abandon" as the phrase goes--everything was fun and people--other people were the best part. Every person held a new adventure. Especially the children. My little sister is similar in many ways. I get the feeling that for Ellie, the game was not so fun.
Once, when Betty was a young teenager, her parents sent her to live with Quaker relatives in Pennsylvania so that she could go to a girl's school there and be properly finished. She didn't want to go, but they made her, and she spent most of her adolescence there. Ellie, who would have loved to be somewhere prim and proper, stayed home and watched their parent's marriage unravel and helped her mother take care of her five younger brothers. Sometimes, when I heard Betty talk about her time at school, I wondered if Ellie was relieved to stay or if she longed to be back East, learning all the things that Betty had no interest in. What if she had been the sister sent away? What would have happened to her then? What would her life have been like?
What would my life have been like?
As they grew, their lives continued to follow an opposite path. One married her one true love, the other didn't. One worked on a farm and as a teacher to keep her family afloat, the other became a Senator's wife surrounded by beautiful things that she loved. One had a son, the other two daughters. One kept on surviving as the years got more difficult--the other didn't.
The one thing they have in common--perhaps the only thing besides the fact that they are sisters--is that they loved their children and their grandchildren and their great-grandchildren very much.
I have two memories of my great-grandma, one I know is my own and the other one I have adopted from my mother's memories. The clear one comes from sitting behind the veiled curtain at her funeral as a seven-year-old, thinking how weird non-Mormon funerals were. Actually, since hers was the first funeral I attended, it was probably just how weird funerals in general were. The part about non-Mormon funerals must have come later, at her sister's funeral, held the day before I turned twenty-four.
All the memories I have of my great-great Aunt Betty come from the time in between those two funerals. There are so many, I can't number or even remember them all. They float like snapshots through my mind: field trips during the summer, craft projects, watching her do my mother's mending (a whole year's worth, actually), eating and laughing together, watching game shows or cooking shows on TV, comparing our diabetes numbers, visits for graduations and mission farewells and even my wedding, trips to Montana to take her home, how she fed the sister missionaries the whole time I was in Texas, introducing her to my fiance, making a trip through a Montana blizzard just to hear her stories, helping her do the most basic of tasks--getting dressed, putting on lotion, doing up her bra--and just being glad for her company.
That first year without her was hard. We all mourned her loss, my grandmother and my mother and my aunt and my little sister especially. I feel like everyone has that one person in their life that they know loves them best out of everyone in their family. For my sister Liz, that person was Aunt Betty.
I always wondered why I wasn't the one named after the four "great" women in my mother's life. I was, after all, the first born girl in the family. I was always jealous of the heritage behind Liz's name, but I think it is obvious to anyone who knows us that I am not the Elizabeth in the family. I was never meant to be, and that's okay. And while I knew Aunt Betty loved Liz best and I respected that, I must also make it clear that Aunt Betty made me feel special also.
Perhaps she got that from her sister.
The other memory I have of my Great-Grandma Ellie is one that I don't remember at all. I was three years old when my little sister was born. I was accustomed to having a brother, but a sister was a whole new ball game. A sister meant I was no longer the only beautiful child. I was no longer my parent's only little girl. I was no longer the youngest, no longer known as "Baby." And while everyone else was celebrating my sister's entrance into the world, Grandma Ellie was the one that celebrated my entrance into the world of being a big sister. She gave me a dress, something to make me feel special, pretty. Something beautiful. Something for me.
Isn't it interesting how you can know a person without really knowing them, just by knowing the people that loved them?
She was not perfect, I know. I've heard those stories. Life handed her several hard turns. Perhaps she did not face them with the courage and optimism that her sister had, but she still faced them. Today, she might have been considered OCD or clinically depressed. They didn't have help for that in her lifetime.
But there were moments of joy in her life, I know that. She loved her home, and she took pride in it always being immaculately clean and well-cared for. It was not a place for children. Being a mother, a grandmother was not something she came by naturally, but she tried. She really tried. She gave beautifully-wrapped (with a little too much tape) gifts. When my aunt was on her mission, my great-grandma sent homemade cookies every month. Even on the smallest holidays, a card was sent.
Everything I know about my great-grandma, I know from the people that she loved: her sister, her daughter, her granddaughters and grandsons. Most of the facts of her life are still just speculation to me, but it is in the wondering that I come to know what kind of strong woman she was. And I know she was strong, because the people she left behind are strong too.
While my grandma isn't her mother reincarnate, she has a certain intelligence and resourcefulness and appreciation for the lovely things in her home that I know came from her mother. And every family holiday, my mother finds all the little ways to add beauty to our table, and she always pauses for a moment to say, "My Grandma would have been proud of this."
I realized last year that I always celebrate Aunt Betty's birthday, but my grandma gently reminded me that two great women were born on this day, and both of them are part of me.
Perhaps giving my family and me so much love and adoration was something Aunt Betty did to remember her sister, to serve her after she was gone. Maybe she would have done it anyway, but maybe there was a small part of her that thought of Ellie as she spent time with us.
Those two sisters, they could not have been more opposite.
But there is something about being sisters, they've taught me. There is something about being sisters even when you have nothing in common. Having a sister is a beautiful thing. Having a sister completely different from you is an adventure. Having a sister is a blessing.
And maybe it's genetic, but in every generation of our family since theirs, there is at least one set of sisters with nothing in common but the fact that they are sisters.
And the fact that they are loved.
Blogging world, meet Elizabeth and Eleanor Gray.
Elizabeth (or Betty, as she was known throughout her life) was born several weeks premature in a snowstorm in 1916. Her father put her in a cigar box on a wood-burning stove to keep her warm and miraculously, she became something that would define her for the rest of her life: a survivor.
Her little sister Eleanor's birth story is less well-known. As in, I can't tell you any details; I don't know them. All I know is that she was born on her big sister's birthday exactly two years later. This detail somehow seems significant to me. I wonder sometimes if, from the very first day of her life, Eleanor felt as if she lived in her sister's shadow. Maybe this is because, in my memories, she lives in her sister's shadow still.
I know a few stories from their childhood, growing up in the backwoods of Montana in a logging camp. To Betty, every day in the mountains was an adventure. She took after her father. To Ellie, I can't help but sometimes think that every day was a struggle to get the hell out of there and make something better of her life. I am thinking she took after her mother.
Once, when Ellie was about three years old, the gypsies came around. Betty thought this a prime opportunity to make some extra cash, so she sold her pleasing and pretty little sister (whom, I'm told, was great at dancing) to the gypsies. Don't worry, their parents got Ellie back, and all the event is now is a memory lovingly shared with a laugh. I heard the story often as a child, and oh! how I wished I could sell my little sister to the Gypsies, but unfortunately gypsies are hard to find in Cache Valley, Utah. I have been looking for them for over twenty years.
Once, when the girls were still little, they were playing "house." They set up a small square in the dirt with cans and leaves for a home and Ellie played the housewife, sweeping the dirt and making an effort to keep things clean. Betty, playing the drunk husband, bashed through the walls yelling and screaming and having a jolly old time. Betty told me this story with a twinkle in her eye. Betty lived life with "wild abandon" as the phrase goes--everything was fun and people--other people were the best part. Every person held a new adventure. Especially the children. My little sister is similar in many ways. I get the feeling that for Ellie, the game was not so fun.
Once, when Betty was a young teenager, her parents sent her to live with Quaker relatives in Pennsylvania so that she could go to a girl's school there and be properly finished. She didn't want to go, but they made her, and she spent most of her adolescence there. Ellie, who would have loved to be somewhere prim and proper, stayed home and watched their parent's marriage unravel and helped her mother take care of her five younger brothers. Sometimes, when I heard Betty talk about her time at school, I wondered if Ellie was relieved to stay or if she longed to be back East, learning all the things that Betty had no interest in. What if she had been the sister sent away? What would have happened to her then? What would her life have been like?
What would my life have been like?
As they grew, their lives continued to follow an opposite path. One married her one true love, the other didn't. One worked on a farm and as a teacher to keep her family afloat, the other became a Senator's wife surrounded by beautiful things that she loved. One had a son, the other two daughters. One kept on surviving as the years got more difficult--the other didn't.
The one thing they have in common--perhaps the only thing besides the fact that they are sisters--is that they loved their children and their grandchildren and their great-grandchildren very much.
I have two memories of my great-grandma, one I know is my own and the other one I have adopted from my mother's memories. The clear one comes from sitting behind the veiled curtain at her funeral as a seven-year-old, thinking how weird non-Mormon funerals were. Actually, since hers was the first funeral I attended, it was probably just how weird funerals in general were. The part about non-Mormon funerals must have come later, at her sister's funeral, held the day before I turned twenty-four.
All the memories I have of my great-great Aunt Betty come from the time in between those two funerals. There are so many, I can't number or even remember them all. They float like snapshots through my mind: field trips during the summer, craft projects, watching her do my mother's mending (a whole year's worth, actually), eating and laughing together, watching game shows or cooking shows on TV, comparing our diabetes numbers, visits for graduations and mission farewells and even my wedding, trips to Montana to take her home, how she fed the sister missionaries the whole time I was in Texas, introducing her to my fiance, making a trip through a Montana blizzard just to hear her stories, helping her do the most basic of tasks--getting dressed, putting on lotion, doing up her bra--and just being glad for her company.
That first year without her was hard. We all mourned her loss, my grandmother and my mother and my aunt and my little sister especially. I feel like everyone has that one person in their life that they know loves them best out of everyone in their family. For my sister Liz, that person was Aunt Betty.
I always wondered why I wasn't the one named after the four "great" women in my mother's life. I was, after all, the first born girl in the family. I was always jealous of the heritage behind Liz's name, but I think it is obvious to anyone who knows us that I am not the Elizabeth in the family. I was never meant to be, and that's okay. And while I knew Aunt Betty loved Liz best and I respected that, I must also make it clear that Aunt Betty made me feel special also.
Perhaps she got that from her sister.
The other memory I have of my Great-Grandma Ellie is one that I don't remember at all. I was three years old when my little sister was born. I was accustomed to having a brother, but a sister was a whole new ball game. A sister meant I was no longer the only beautiful child. I was no longer my parent's only little girl. I was no longer the youngest, no longer known as "Baby." And while everyone else was celebrating my sister's entrance into the world, Grandma Ellie was the one that celebrated my entrance into the world of being a big sister. She gave me a dress, something to make me feel special, pretty. Something beautiful. Something for me.
Isn't it interesting how you can know a person without really knowing them, just by knowing the people that loved them?
She was not perfect, I know. I've heard those stories. Life handed her several hard turns. Perhaps she did not face them with the courage and optimism that her sister had, but she still faced them. Today, she might have been considered OCD or clinically depressed. They didn't have help for that in her lifetime.
But there were moments of joy in her life, I know that. She loved her home, and she took pride in it always being immaculately clean and well-cared for. It was not a place for children. Being a mother, a grandmother was not something she came by naturally, but she tried. She really tried. She gave beautifully-wrapped (with a little too much tape) gifts. When my aunt was on her mission, my great-grandma sent homemade cookies every month. Even on the smallest holidays, a card was sent.
Everything I know about my great-grandma, I know from the people that she loved: her sister, her daughter, her granddaughters and grandsons. Most of the facts of her life are still just speculation to me, but it is in the wondering that I come to know what kind of strong woman she was. And I know she was strong, because the people she left behind are strong too.
While my grandma isn't her mother reincarnate, she has a certain intelligence and resourcefulness and appreciation for the lovely things in her home that I know came from her mother. And every family holiday, my mother finds all the little ways to add beauty to our table, and she always pauses for a moment to say, "My Grandma would have been proud of this."
I realized last year that I always celebrate Aunt Betty's birthday, but my grandma gently reminded me that two great women were born on this day, and both of them are part of me.
Perhaps giving my family and me so much love and adoration was something Aunt Betty did to remember her sister, to serve her after she was gone. Maybe she would have done it anyway, but maybe there was a small part of her that thought of Ellie as she spent time with us.
Those two sisters, they could not have been more opposite.
But there is something about being sisters, they've taught me. There is something about being sisters even when you have nothing in common. Having a sister is a beautiful thing. Having a sister completely different from you is an adventure. Having a sister is a blessing.
And maybe it's genetic, but in every generation of our family since theirs, there is at least one set of sisters with nothing in common but the fact that they are sisters.
And the fact that they are loved.
 |
| the first generation (plus Luci) |
 |
| the second generation |
 |
| the third generation (plus Liz) |
 |
| the fourth generation |
 |
| the other fourth generation |
And isn't love the most important legacy we leave anyway?
Thursday, January 23, 2014
The Good, The Bad, The Ugly
Hi all! I know you are all so surprised excited to see me blogging today. I'm not really in the mood to write, which means I need to write. So here we go. Here are a few things on my mind tonight.
My 2014 media consumption
The Good: I found a new show! Actually my mother-in-law's missionary bff found me a new show. Lark Rise to Candleford. Nobody does TV like BBC.
The Bad: I have spent wayyyyy too much time watching said show.
The Ugly: I only have once season left. What am I going to watch after it is over?
Exactly. Should probably get up off the couch and work on that.
Pregnancy
The Good: I am expecting! Yay for a baby!
The Bad: This gestational diabetes diet is killing me. I mean, really, being diabetic is torture. I'd forgotten.
The Ugly: You're probably going to hear wayyyy too much about my pregnancy (and my diabetes) between now and August (that's when the baby is supposed to arrive, and all of this extra work and extra appointments and extra co-pays are supposed to make that a reality).
I solemnly promise to not let my hormones take over this blog. They are taking over everything else.
Pinterest
The Good: Pinterest has been a great bonding tool for my little sister and me I love it when I wake up in the morning and she's sent me like 10 funny pins. It brightens my day and I feel like it is a very sisterly thing for us to do.
The Bad: There are LOTS of recipes on pinterest. Most of them have wayyyy too much sugar and wayyy too many carbs for me to try these days.
The Ugly: You know your zofran has kicked in when you can look at Pinterest again without getting nauseated.
Really, I haven't had hardly any morning sickness this time around. But it seems like whenever I do, I like to torture myself by looking at Pinterest. Why do I do that? I don't know. Blame it on Liz.
Reading in 2014
The Good: I've read three books so far...
The Bad: Okay, so I sort of read the first three chapters and the last three chapters of one of those. And I skipped about 40 pages of The Book Thief, which I had already read.
The Ugly: I can't even concentrate long enough to read "I Love You Through and Through" to Kevin.
I need some easy reads to bring my stress level down. Anyone have any suggestions?
Kevin
The Good: She's starting to talk! She says heartwarming things like "thank you" and "miss you" and "call Papa."
The Bad: She is teething and temper-tantruming me to my limit. She has also learned to turn on the light switch from her crib (we see lights flashing in the middle of the night) and has officially reached the "NOOOO! You can't wash my favorite blanket!" stage.
The Ugly: Well, there really is nothing ugly about her. I love her a lot.
I can't believe I have an almost-two year old!
Oreos
The Good: They just invented a cookie dough oreo.
The Bad: Obviously, I can't try them until I am no longer pregnant.
The Ugly: I've already made Scott promise to buy me a package, hide it, and then bring it out after I deliver and let me eat cookies to my heart's content.
Side Note: Kevin was born four days after Oreo celebrated its 100th birthday. We bought four packages on sale from the grocery store. We didn't open them until after she had arrived. I really did eat 1/3 of the package all by myself when they finally discharged me from the hospital. Nothing tasted better.
Football
The Good: An NFL team we actually like is going to the Superbowl!
The Bad: The end of football season is drawing to a close.
The Ugly: That means my mother (who is NOT ugly, didn't you read that post?) is about to hit her post-gridiron depression. Sorry, Mom. Kevin and Scott will join you. And then you'll have time to watch Lark Rise to Candleford!
Also, this just in: the Aggies have at least three players competing in the NFL Combine this year! And Scott went to high school with a player on the Denver Broncos team, so even though we will be rooting for the Seahawks, we will have fun watching out for him (he's the guy that went on Ellen a few days ago and she gave him some funny orange underwear).
Me, in general
The Good: I actually managed to post on a Thursday! And I did some domestic things today! And I've lost two pounds in the last week (I don't really need to lose said pounds, but I am trying to be positive about this whole diet thing) and am back to weighing what I did when I came home from Texas! And I am learning more about myself than I ever thought I would this year, which has been both eye-opening and hard. But still good.
The Bad: I haven't been in a great state of mind/body as of late. But I am working and fighting hard to come out of it and get back on top of things (despite the fact that my husband keeps telling me it isn't my fault that my body is out of control), so I am going to give myself some credit for that. For trying.
The Ugly: See? Pregnancy has already taken over the blog!
Happy Thursday everyone!
My 2014 media consumption
The Good: I found a new show! Actually my mother-in-law's missionary bff found me a new show. Lark Rise to Candleford. Nobody does TV like BBC.
The Bad: I have spent wayyyyy too much time watching said show.
The Ugly: I only have once season left. What am I going to watch after it is over?
Exactly. Should probably get up off the couch and work on that.
Pregnancy
The Good: I am expecting! Yay for a baby!
The Bad: This gestational diabetes diet is killing me. I mean, really, being diabetic is torture. I'd forgotten.
The Ugly: You're probably going to hear wayyyy too much about my pregnancy (and my diabetes) between now and August (that's when the baby is supposed to arrive, and all of this extra work and extra appointments and extra co-pays are supposed to make that a reality).
I solemnly promise to not let my hormones take over this blog. They are taking over everything else.
The Good: Pinterest has been a great bonding tool for my little sister and me I love it when I wake up in the morning and she's sent me like 10 funny pins. It brightens my day and I feel like it is a very sisterly thing for us to do.
The Bad: There are LOTS of recipes on pinterest. Most of them have wayyyy too much sugar and wayyy too many carbs for me to try these days.
The Ugly: You know your zofran has kicked in when you can look at Pinterest again without getting nauseated.
Really, I haven't had hardly any morning sickness this time around. But it seems like whenever I do, I like to torture myself by looking at Pinterest. Why do I do that? I don't know. Blame it on Liz.
Reading in 2014
The Good: I've read three books so far...
The Bad: Okay, so I sort of read the first three chapters and the last three chapters of one of those. And I skipped about 40 pages of The Book Thief, which I had already read.
The Ugly: I can't even concentrate long enough to read "I Love You Through and Through" to Kevin.
I need some easy reads to bring my stress level down. Anyone have any suggestions?
Kevin
The Good: She's starting to talk! She says heartwarming things like "thank you" and "miss you" and "call Papa."
The Bad: She is teething and temper-tantruming me to my limit. She has also learned to turn on the light switch from her crib (we see lights flashing in the middle of the night) and has officially reached the "NOOOO! You can't wash my favorite blanket!" stage.
The Ugly: Well, there really is nothing ugly about her. I love her a lot.
I can't believe I have an almost-two year old!
Oreos
The Good: They just invented a cookie dough oreo.
The Bad: Obviously, I can't try them until I am no longer pregnant.
The Ugly: I've already made Scott promise to buy me a package, hide it, and then bring it out after I deliver and let me eat cookies to my heart's content.
Side Note: Kevin was born four days after Oreo celebrated its 100th birthday. We bought four packages on sale from the grocery store. We didn't open them until after she had arrived. I really did eat 1/3 of the package all by myself when they finally discharged me from the hospital. Nothing tasted better.
Football
The Good: An NFL team we actually like is going to the Superbowl!
The Bad: The end of football season is drawing to a close.
The Ugly: That means my mother (who is NOT ugly, didn't you read that post?) is about to hit her post-gridiron depression. Sorry, Mom. Kevin and Scott will join you. And then you'll have time to watch Lark Rise to Candleford!
Also, this just in: the Aggies have at least three players competing in the NFL Combine this year! And Scott went to high school with a player on the Denver Broncos team, so even though we will be rooting for the Seahawks, we will have fun watching out for him (he's the guy that went on Ellen a few days ago and she gave him some funny orange underwear).
Me, in general
The Good: I actually managed to post on a Thursday! And I did some domestic things today! And I've lost two pounds in the last week (I don't really need to lose said pounds, but I am trying to be positive about this whole diet thing) and am back to weighing what I did when I came home from Texas! And I am learning more about myself than I ever thought I would this year, which has been both eye-opening and hard. But still good.
The Bad: I haven't been in a great state of mind/body as of late. But I am working and fighting hard to come out of it and get back on top of things (despite the fact that my husband keeps telling me it isn't my fault that my body is out of control), so I am going to give myself some credit for that. For trying.
The Ugly: See? Pregnancy has already taken over the blog!
Happy Thursday everyone!
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