Motherhood Changes You

I read an article the other day about how when women are pregnant, cells from the fetus work their way through a woman's body and stay there even after she gives birth to the baby, becoming part of major organs like her heart and her brain. Scientists believe this is a common phenomenon, and they've done several studies where they've found Y chromosome cells (the man cells) in the bodies of women who have given birth to sons.

Now, I'm not a scientist, so I don't really understand how all of it works, but I do understand this:
Motherhood changes you. It changes your heart and your mind and every little part of you.

I often think about the person I was "before." I'd be lying if I didn't admit that sometimes I yearn to go back to her. That woman could think! She had brain cells! She had the smarts! She had some confidence! She rarely went two days without showering!

I am in a time of life at the moment where motherhood sucks the life out of me. My children are small and they require so much. I am blessed with a husband who does more than his fair share of the work, but there is still so much asked of me on any given day. I feel like I lose intelligence daily--I find myself unable to recall facts I once know--like the order of operations or basic rules of grammar. My nerves are so fried I don't know if I will ever be whole again. Threenagers, you know? 

I am jealous of the women who say they love every minute of motherhood, just like I'm jealous of the women who can pop out babies with little more than one doctor's appointment a month and some slight nausea.

Does the fact that sometimes I fiercely dislike motherhood mean that I don't love being a mom? NO.

I try not to complain about being a mother. I am overwhelmingly grateful for this calling in my life, and I wouldn't trade being a stay-at-home mom for any fancy, famous career. I guess I'm just trying to find balance on that fine line between loving what I do and being genuine about how much it stinks sometimes.

Before I was a mom, I wanted to travel the world. I wanted to see it all.
Now, I can barely make it through a two-day anniversary getaway because I miss my kids too much.
Do I still want to travel? Yes.
But not too far right now, because taking my kids with me doesn't seem like all that much fun either.

Before I was a mom, I had dreams about getting all sorts of educational degrees.
Now, it takes me a month to get through any "heavy" reading.
Do I still want to attend graduate school? Absolutely.
But I have to get my brain back and get my kids through elementary school first.

Before I was a mom, I wanted to write best-selling novels that would change the world.
Now, when I have a minute to myself, I'm reading or sleeping.
Do I still have stories in my head? Oh, so many of them!
But sometimes there are more important things to do in a day. Like laundry. Because one's children can't run around naked, even if their mother is writing a masterpiece.

Before I was a mom, I thought I was so tired.
Now, I fight through fatigue on a daily, hourly, minute-by-minute basis.
Do I think I wasn't tired then? No. I was tired then! I'm just more tired now.
But midnight snuggles and "Mom, I need a cuddle"s are so much better than being well rested.

Before I was a mom, I thought I understood everything.
Now, I understand that there are so many facets of life to be understood and that, even in the hereafter, there are things I may never know.
Do I still want answers? Yes.
But I've learned that sometimes not knowing can be worth it.

Before I was a mom, I thought I was someone.
Now, I understand that there is so much more to me because I am a wife and mother.
Do I still have hopes and dreams beyond making it to naptime? Oh, yes. Oh yes oh yes oh yes!
But I also am coming to understand that you don't have to "be someone" before you become a wife and a mother. You can become someone better as you do it with someone else to help you along the journey.

I have realized that the times I get most frustrated with being a mom are the times when I have something else I want to be doing and my children have a different agenda for our day. When I take a step back, I realize that my "this stinks!" moments are usually because of my own selfishness. And it is hard to let go of those things that I think are important to me to take care of the needs of my little ones. I want to fully acknowledge that. But, in letting go of the things that I think make me me, I gain something better in the process. Sacrifice is never really a sacrifice, because there are always greater blessings in the giving up than in the giving in.

A few weeks before I left on my mission, I was talking with a friend and he suddenly paused, looked at me, and said. "Rinda, I'm so jealous. You're about to learn more about yourself in the next few months than you can in any other way."

And you know what? He was right.
Then.

But now, when I see pregnant mothers, I think, "I'm so jealous. You're about to learn more about yourself than you can in any other way."

And then pudgy, dirty little hands grab at me and I think about how this is a mission that never ends.

It's true. Motherhood changes you.

The Least of These

My current assigned calling, or job, in my church is to work with the children. I serve in what is called the Primary Presidency, which is a group of four women asked to make sure that our church's program for children ages 18 months to 12 years old runs (I would say smoothly, but as everyone who has worked with children knows, there is bumpy and there is less bumpy and then there are rocky roads and then there are Himalayan hiking trails).

When I was first asked to serve in the Primary, I was terrified. Working with children was my mom's and my sister's thing, not mine. Heck, I can barely handle my own two children. But I'm not one to say no when the Lord asks me to do something, so I said yes. Seven months later and I am in love. This just might be my favorite church assignment that I've ever had.

Sure, Sundays are difficult, and I often feel that I'm in over my head and as my brother would say, "tu no sabes nada." (aka, you know nothing!)

But...

There are some Sundays that--that-- well, there are just some Sundays that I know I am where I am supposed to be.

We have a neighbor who has recently taken three foster care children into her home. They have joined our Primary and we are so excited to have their beautiful faces smiling at us on Sundays. Yesterday was their second time attending Primary with us.  I felt so terrible the first week because I only remembered one child's name out of the three. All week I reminded myself of the second child's name and practiced it so that I knew I had it correct for her when I saw her on Sunday.

She was sitting on the back row, near the isle, happily singing and interacting with her new friends. On one of my numerous trips to the back door to make copies, do hall patrol, and be on bathroom duty, I knelt down by her chair and whispered, "Hi, Katie*, how are you doing today?"

She looked at me and her eyes got huge, "You know my name?" she asked, incredulous.

I swallowed, giving myself a chance to regain my composure, and said, "Yes, sweetheart, I know your name. I felt bad that I got your name wrong last week, so I've been practicing all week to make sure I got it right."

Without hesitation, she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tight, the best way she knew to show me how she felt.

I remembered her name.
It was such a small, small thing.
It meant the world to her.

I was instantly transported back to one of the hardest moments on my mission. We had been invited to eat dinner with a less-active sister that we'd been working with for a month or so. She had two daughters and an infant son. It was not a happy home. This sister was very unkind to her daughters and it was clear that the baby was given all the love and attention (of which there was very little) available in the home.

During that particular dinner, I sat across from one of the little girls. She was wary of strangers and people in general and it was clear that she hadn't felt kindness from an adult in a very long time. I smiled at her every time I caught her looking at me. My arms ached to hold her and hug her and whisper in her ear how very much she was worth to our Heavenly Father--but, due to the missionary rules that I promised Heavenly Father I would obey, I was not allowed to pick her up, hold her, or do much to provide a gentle and a loving touch.

My heart broke even further, then, when she slipped off her chair and came around the table and tried to sit on my lap.

Trying desperately to explain to her that I wanted to hold her but I couldn't, I had to push her down as she attempted several times to climb up. I tried to give her a side hug, but every time I did she took advantage to try and settle into my lap.

Oh, how she cried.

Oh, how I wanted to!

I felt powerless. I wonder sometimes if maybe I should have just broken the rules and held her. Knowing her mother and grandmother, who would have taken advantage and probably reported me for something I did not do, I know that obedience was the correct course of action.

I pray that in the six years since that awful dinner appointment that someone has been able to show that little girl love. True love--the love of a Diety and values her so much that He gave His only begotten son--and the love of an older brother that willingly gave his life so that he could know all the aches of her small heart.

Every child deserves love. EVERY child.

When Katie threw her arms around my neck yesterday, I hugged her back as tight as I could, grateful that this time I could do what I could not do that first time. And in my head I heard the words whispered,

"If ye have done it until the least of these...ye have done it unto me."

photo cred: http://cslewis.drzeus.net/forums/viewtopic.php?f=9&t=8163&start=15

*names have been changed

Blanching and Blessings

This past week I finally finished up the Fruit Preservation Project 2015. I didn't actually preserve all that much fruit, but it felt like it. This year I picked all of our fruit off a kindly neighbor's in-laws trees, then turned a bushel of pears and a box of summer apples into 11 quarts of pears, 7 quarts of applesauce, two large batches of fruit leather, and over 30 fruit squeezies (the only way my daughter will eat fruit). To serious canners, this doesn't seem like much. Granted, this was a "light" year for us also, but for someone who is only in her third canning season, it still seemed a monumental task.

One of my favorite things about canning season is the time that I get to spend with my mother-in-law. For whatever reason, we didn't can anything while I was growing up. We did lots of other things, and my mother equipped me with many superb life skills, but making applesauce wasn't one of them. Probably because I'm not a big fan of applesauce.

My husband, however, loves applesauce. He especially loves to dip Cheetos in applesauce.
Don't knock it 'til you've tried it.

Before Stephanie taught me how to preserve fruit, I had no idea what "blanching" was. For us, it is the first step in the process (after picking the fruit and letting it ripen).

Here's the Wikipedia term for the culinaryily illiterate, like me:

"Blanching is a cooking process wherein the food substance, usually a vegetable or fruit, is plunged into boiling water, removed after a brief, timed interval, and finally plunged into iced water or placed under cold running water (shocking or refreshing) to halt the cooking process."

Because I picked our fruit myself from trees that hadn't been treated (or touched, really), some of it looked pretty rough. I used the worst-looking ones for fruit leather and squeezie puree. I wasn't sure we would get any "whole" halves out of the bunch. I was amazed, however, that after an appropriate amount of blanching time, the skins came of easily and for the most part, the fruit underneath was white and pure. Sure, there were a few pears that took a little more rubbing to get the bruises off, and some where the core was just plain rotten, but for the most part, blanching took care of the impurities.

As I was blanching pear after pear this year, I thought about how our Heavenly Father uses the same process on us. Sometimes we look a little bruised, battered and scratched on the outside. It's hard to believe there could be anything worthwhile under our skin. That's when Heavenly Father plunges us into boiling water--He gives us trials, tests, and challenges. Sometimes it just feels like all we are doing is swimming in hot water, but after a time we are pulled out--and then comes another "shock." The cold water brings another trial, and if it works, we become humble enough to be easily changed. That outer skin and the natural man slips away with a little twisting and rubbing.

It isn't pleasant for us, but once the process is said and done, we are in a better state than we were before and the blanching becomes a blessing, and the sweet fruit of those trials can be preserved for years to come.

Texts to my Mother

Motherhood is hard. Sometimes I am not very good at it. This summer has been R.O.U.G.H. I'm glad it is almost over, although I am sure fall comes with it's own challenges (my husband taking a double classload for his MBA being one of them).

Good thing that we are equipped with someone who has "been there" before, and dealt with us as whiny three-year-olds, and helps us realize that we turned out okay so our children will probably be fine too.

The following are a series of texts I have sent to my mother over the course of this summer. I share these for two purposes:
1. Your Enjoyment.
2. To Remember.

June 29
Me: Scott came home for lunch and I asked [Kevin] t tell him how many time outs she has had this morning. Her response? "I don't know...Three? Four? Nine? Seven, nine." (Correct answer: Two).

July 25
Me; "Want a threenager? I do not like her Sam I Am.
Mom: I am sorry...Do you want Papa to call her?
Me: No! He will take her side!

July 26
Me: For sale. Three year old. Comes with adorable dress, cute hairstyle, and a ton of attitude. No returns.
Me: Freshly bathed and potty trained.
Mom: Papa would like to take you up on it.
Me: He is more than welcome to her! She doesn't come with any toys though (she lost them all) and she is out of clean underwear.

July 28
Me: Does Papa still want to buy Kevin? We are running a special. Free shipping.

July 29
Mom: Did today go better?
Me: I only swore four times.
Mom: If that is an improvement then good for you.
Me: Yesterday I only cursed twice...
Me: But I also let my kids (swim in the backyard pool) today, so maybe that makes up for my sins?
Mom: Good job!

July 31
Me: On Daniel Tiger this morning: being silly= peanut butter and pickle sandwiches
Note: those are my mom's favorite kind of sandwich.
Me; Also, Kevin fell in the toilet yesterday.
Mom: I fell off the toilet when I was little, my mom said. I guess we will have to call Grandma's sandwich the silly sandwich.

Aug 11
Me: Do you know of any good boarding schools for three-year-olds?
Mom: (sends their home address) Papa headmaster.
Me: Perfect. I'll bring her by tomorrow and pick her up at Christmas.
Me: Make sure she knows her ABCs by then.
Mom: I will let him know!
Me: Seriously though.
Mom: Sorry it has been a rough day.
Later
Me: Both kids are having a screaming match and it's been going for 15 min. I'm hiding in the basement.
Mom: Maybe they will go hoarse
Me: One can only hope. Deafness would be an asset right now.


Maybe these texts don't cast me in the right light. Does that matter? I make an effort to be genuine and truthful on my blog. Truthfully, this summer has just about done me in. Mixing the overly emotional threenager with the busy madness of a baby-turned-toddler and a husband who is drowning in school and work, in addition to the fact that my health has been flaring up and my medications don't seem to be doing their job but the labs seem normal so no one at my doctor's office is too concerned...well, it makes for a depressed, exhausted, and snarky Rinda.

Motherhood is hard. I swear sometimes. I can't handle life some days. I take more naps than my preschooler. My brain was too tired last night and this morning to let me look over my husband's final paper for his economics class--the first time I haven't been able to edit because my brain literally could not think.

But, you know what? It's okay. I know I am doing what I am supposed to do.

A few days ago I was sitting in the Primary room at our church. Primary is the children's organization for kids age 3-12, and I serve in the presidency. Every week I get to sit with 70+ children as they sing and learn about Jesus. It truly is a privilege. Some weeks are tough, however, and we just pray something is getting through as they do gymnastics routines on their chairs, ask to go to the bathroom a million times, and call us out on every mistake we make. I watch the teachers of the individual classes and see their energy levels drop and the color drain out of their faces as the hour goes on. I was watching this on Sunday and I was overwhelmed, once again, of the feeling of charity I felt for these little ones. I knew it wasn't my love I was feeling, it was God and Christ's love for these children. I knew that their parents and teachers didn't always see the good they were doing, but that day, I could see it. I could see the improvement in behavior, the growth in their testimonies, the outward actions that showed me that something was getting through.

And suddenly, the Spirit whispered to me the reason that I'd been asked to serve in the Primary. It wasn't because my talents were needed (although they have come in handy) and I had a willingness to serve wherever I was needed. Rather, Primary has started to serve as a type and symbol of my daily life with my little ones. The teachers in those classrooms are doing the same thing that I do with my children every single day: teaching them the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Most days it doesn't seem like anything is getting through, and we spend more time coloring and taking bathroom breaks than the actual learning. But I think Heavenly Father wanted me to know that if learning is happening in Primary (and I know it is), then it is happening in my own home, and I'm doing a better job than I think I am.

After all, there are swear words in the Bible too.

Research

Let me tell you about a little moment I had with my children this morning. We were playing in Sly's room--and by playing I mean that I was sitting in the glider looking at my phone while the two little ones went to down pulling out every single toy in the vicinity, all to the musical symphony of my husband installing a ceiling fan in the room next door.

After a few minutes, I looked up from my phone to find that Kevin had claimed her throne (aka sat in the little chair that was once hers but now has been adopted by her little brother) and was "reading" one of Sly's books.

"Baby duck says 'quack,' baby puppy says 'ruff!'," she chanted as I smiled to myself, relieved that she still knew her animal noises (you know, in case they quiz you on that sort of thing when you start preschool). Soon she came to a picture of a baby giraffe.

"Momma? What sound does a giraffe make?" she asked.

My first thought was hold on a sec while I ask Siri...just kidding, I don't have an iphone. 

"I'm not sure, honey," I answered her. "Maybe they make a 'nom nom nom' sound when they eat the leaves."

"Giraffes eat leaves?" She reiterated, as if the idea was blowing her mind and she hadn't, in fact, seen a giraffe eat leaves on at least half a dozen visits to the zoo when she was two.

"Yes," I said. "That's why their necks are so long, so they can eat the leaves at the tops of the trees."

She nodded, gave me a skeptical look, and then went back to her book. A moment later she got up and walked out of the room, somewhat agitated. When she came back, she was holding a board book about jungle animals and their daddies. The first pages just happened to feature a giraffe and its father, go figure, eating leaves.

"You're right mom! They do eat leaves!" She said with a little laugh, amazed that I was correct.

And thus it began.
My daughter is no longer "taking my word for it."
She's doing her own research.

And just maybe, this experience has taught me not to roll my eyes every time she asks the question, "Why? But why? Why? Why, Momma?"

Why, indeed.
She's starting to figure out that I don't know all the answers.

Why do you have to grow up so fast, little one?

Yes, but why?

Justice and My Friend Mercy

I think we all go through those seasons of life where there seem to be more storms than sunshine. Scott and I went into July knowing that it would be an expensive and fun month, but we had no idea just how adventurous it was going to be. It seems that since the second of July, we've had one rough day after another, with challenge after challenge. These trials are nothing we can't handle, we have friends and family members going through worse, but they've been hard on us.

Mostly because the hardest parts aren't our fault.

I think sometimes it is easier for Scott and I to go through trials when we know why something happened--we understand agency and choices, and we try to accept responsibility for our actions and not complain about the things we ourselves have caused (with the exception of having children, I need to have a better attitude about that, but seriously, we were both good kids--where did these two miniature crazies come from?!).

Last weekend, Sly started running a high fever for the second time in a month. We debated for the next 48 hours about whether or not he would be well enough to make the trek to Idaho Falls for my Grandma's annual Float N Bloat family reunion (the name explains it all: we float the canal and eat lots of food. Scott says that the older you get, the less floating and the more bloating you do). On Friday night, we started making different plans for our weekend. Sly had just endured possibly the worst day of his life thus far, and I just didn't want to make this illness harder for him to overcome. I prayed and prayed to know what to do. The next morning, he woke up doing lots better, even though he was still not 100%. I had a strong feeling that we should go, so we packed up and headed out.

An hour or more into the drive, we were almost rear-ended by a driver who wasn't paying very much attention. Thankfully, Scott was and he was able to move our car in just the right ways to avoid an accident. We knew we were being watched over and continued on our way.

Then, when we were about 45 minutes from our destination, Scott and I were in the middle of a conversation when the semi in the lane next to us made a loud noise and started spewing debris at our car. Chunks of rubber and cement (yeah, cement!) blasted the front of our car. Scott and I both watched as the black and gray matter came straight at our windshield, and then somehow miraculously bounced over our heads and off our car without coming through (or even denting) the glass.

I wasn't scared until Scott said, "They cut our power. I don't have any brakes."

And I started praying as I pushed the button to turn on our emergency lights. It took us a couple of miles to get over to the right lane, then to the shoulder, and then to slow down enough that the emergency brake would stop our car without sending us fishtailing into a ditch.

When we looked back, the semi that we thought had pulled over was no where to be found. Apparently he didn't have enough damage to stop, so he moved on and left us on the side of the road in the July afternoon heat, wondering what on earth we were going to do now. The front part of our grill was gone, with pieces missing. The hood was so dented we couldn't open it. Liquid was pouring out from underneath the carriage.

And our kids were waking up.

We started looking for some other adults to take charge of the situation. There were none, so we began making phone calls.

I kept thinking, "Why us? Why now? I thought we had been prompted to come to the family reunion. If this was supposed to happen, why did I feel that way?"

My father wisely explained to me later that sometimes these things need to happen "to give us experience" just like the scriptures say, even when we don't understand why it is necessary.

I don't know why exactly we needed to be in Idaho that day--part of me knows we needed to spend that time with family, and another part of me thinks that Scott's smart driving skills saved more than one life that day.

If we had been in a smaller car, we would have been dead. As it was, he and I should have been severely injured and we weren't. Kevin, who would have been traumatized by the whole thing slept  right through it, and Sly was facing backwards where he couldn't see and wasn't even disturbed (until, of course, we stopped driving and he got bored).

My first thought was to call my parents. My mom didn't answer. My dad never has his cell phone, so I didn't even bother. My aunt didn't answer. I only had 2% left of my phone battery, so I hurried and dialed my Grandma's number on Scott's phone. My aunt Luci just happened to be in the house (the celebrations, already well under way, took place entirely outside) and answered the phone. I then talked to my mom, who quickly sent my uncle David Jack and Luci with her car to come rescue us, before we even knew what would be happening with our car (all we knew was that we wouldn't be driving it to Idaho Falls).

Scott called 911 and an officer responded immediately. Somehow, in all of our AC/tire replacing excitement of the week before, the owner's manual and insurance card had been taken out of the car. We couldn't reach anyone with access to our number, and then Scott just happened to find it on his email (because we'd sold his car to my little brother and gotten the insurance switched over only days before).

Luci and David Jack showed up right after the tow truck. We moved our bewildered, hot children and all of our belongings over to my parent's car, signed the necessary documents, and watched my beloved car get towed away. Seriously, I adore that car.

Though Scott and I were still a little shaky for the rest of the day, we so enjoyed our time with family and family friends. Literally and figuratively, arms were wrapped around us and anyone who could jumped in to see if they could help. My aunt Rah, who would be spending the next week in Idaho, offered to let us take her car home so that we wouldn't have to pay an outrageous price for an  out-of-state rental without the insurance company to help us negotiate a reasonable rate. My parents also offered their car, (and somewhere along the lines this equated to Papa telling Kevin that she was coming home with him) and nobody minded that we didn't float and ate more than our fair share of Steph's caramel brownies.

As Scott and I drove home that evening, we analyzed the accident from every angle. When we approached the place where we had pulled off, we started scanning the road for debris, but we saw nothing unusual. As we drove past "the scene of the crime" a quote that I'd shared at our family history conference the month before came to mind.  

“Whoever seeks to help those on the other side receives help in turn in all the affairs of life….Help comes to us from the other side as we give help to those who have passed beyond the veil.” –John A. Widtsoe, 1980

I knew then, without a doubt, that we had been given divine aid, and that we had been extra blessed because I had spent time trying to help my family members who had already passed on. I don't know which angel was in charge of keeping me calm. I don't know which angel deflected the cement missiles from our hood. I don't know which angel kept Kevin asleep, or which one guided Scott's hands and feet as he directed our car to a safe place. 

I just know they were there.

I know there were other angels there too, and these ones I can name, because they are the ones who physically rescued us and calmed our nerves. 

Last fall, Scott's car was the unfortunate victim of a nasty hit-and-run. For days and weeks afterward, we struggled to forgive our nameless, reckless neighbor for costing us so much money and taking away a car that felt like part of our family (maybe a dependable family dog is a good comparison). It was tough. We had done nothing wrong, and yet we were dealing with the consequences of another person's bad decisions. Gradually, we learned that we were never going to know who did it and we needed to forgive to find our own personal peace. 

This time around, I had the same feelings, but they resolved themselves much more quickly. 

For the past few days I have been thinking a lot about the laws of justice and mercy.  There doesn't seem to be a lot of justice going on here, and though I sometimes still wish that somebody else would take the financial hit, I am also not at all happy when I think that someday, in the life hereafter, somebody will have to pay for what happened to us. Because in my heart of hearts, I want these people to be forgiven, and I know that in the end, it is really Christ who ends up paying for the bad decisions that we all make, whether we accept his help or not. 

I have also learned that when there seems to be an absence of justice, there is an abundance of mercy. There were so many things that could have gone wrong--but most things went right. We are taken care of, we are safe, and we are together. 

And we couldn't ask for anything more.

Sharing is Caring

We have reached that haggle stage of siblinghood with my two children. They frequently want the same toy, the same sippy cup, the same parent. It gets exhausting to constantly be the referee and court judge, deciding what is fair and what course of action should be taken.

To comfort myself, I repeat often in my mind that I am helping them learn a valuable life skill. I don't think they should have to share everything, and I don't make them share everything, but taking turns is a part of life. If they can learn to balance this tightrope with stuffed animals,  maybe someday when they have to share bigger things, like a car and a mortgage payment, they will be better prepared to handle life. 

This is somewhat of a lie. I've realized this week that there are some things you never get used to sharing. 

For the majority of our four years-and-nine-months marriage, Scott has been in school. This wasn't so bad at first, because I was also working and in school, and aside from our callings, we didn't have many other things occupying our time and attention. 

And then I graduated. And the baby came. And I stopped working. And I had to learn how to share my time with him with my baby, along with the time he already spent at school and work.

And then he switched jobs. And I had to learn to share him with a commute. BUT, he graduated from Utah State and we were done with one phase of schooling, so that was nice.

And then he switched jobs again. And I had to share him with an even longer commute, because we bought a house, and I also had to share him with the backyard and leaky faucet and a half dozen other home improvement projects.

And then baby #2 was on his way. And Scott had to learn to share what little was left of my energy with not only our daughter, but our unborn son and all of the appointments, tests, shots, and procedures that went along with getting him here safely. And then, once Sly was here, Scott and I had to learn to share a little more of ourselves with our children, because suddenly we weren't double-teaming our daughter, we were stumbling around trying to figure how to play man-to-man. 

And about a month after we found out about Sly, Scott started graduate school. And because we all know that this (eventually) would be a great blessing to our family. I learned to share him with Weber State, and homework, and reading, and discussion posts, and paper writing, and group projects. And, I've happily learned to share him with a newfound passion he has for learning that somehow never really showed up during his undergraduate years.

As he has accepted new callings in our church congregation and we've made new friends, I've learned to share him and his thoughtful heart with those around us who need his helping hands on occasion. My husband is the most generous man I know. This is a gift he has inherited from his parents, who liberally give of their time, talents, and resources--often more than they should give, because it isn't in them to say "no" or "I'm sorry, I can't."

The lesson that I want to teach my children, then, is that sharing really never gets any easier, but it can become a positive experience when you learn to share the things you love most with the people you love most. For example, in high school I learned to share my swingset with my best friends, and as a result many late-night heart-to-heart discussions created beautiful memories. In college, I learned to share my personality and intellect with my roommates, many of whom are still my dearest friends. On my mission, I learned to share my Heavenly Father and Jesus with complete strangers, and because of this my love for and my relationship with God grew. When we got married, I learned to share my favorite, oversized quilt and I've enjoyed it so much more now that I have someone to cuddle with under the green 1970's polyester fabric. I've learned that sharing my children with their grandparents spreads love through three and four generations, and this is a gift that at this point in life, only Scott and I can give to both our children and to their grandparents. We make the effort to give them time together, and they make the very most of it! We just have to learn to get out of the way, and all of the sudden, being a spectator is one of my favorite roles.

So it is with Scott. When I get out of the way and give him time to learn, work, serve, and play, my love for him grows and grows. The most selfish thing in the world that I could ever do would be to keep him to myself. I know better than anybody (except maybe his mother), the wonderful kind of man he is, and it would be wrong of me to keep him hidden from the world.

So, I let him go.

I send him to work. I send him to school. I send him to Elder's Quorum meetings, home teaching, and when we can manage, the Temple. I send him upstairs to play with Kevin and rock Sly to sleep. I send him downstairs to work on homework. I send him to Lowe's for hardware for the sprinkler system. I send him outside to talk to the neighbors. I send him back to bed to get a bit more sleep so that he can, by some miracle, find a little more energy to balance all that he has to do.

Actually, the truth is, I don't send him anywhere. He goes on his own. What I do do, however, is give him room to fly.

He does the same for me.

And because we are learning to share each other, those moments we have truly to ourselves become not only precious, but sacred. In that way, we aren't growing apart in the white space between us, but closer together.