Halloween Smiles

It is currently 13 minutes til November and I am still awake. Why? Because of all the things I expected or anticipated to happen on this Halloween evening, having low blood sugar at bedtime was definitely not on the list.

So I stand in my kitchen, have a stare down with the dirty dishes, eat my protein bar and reflect on this day.

Holidays are so much more fun with kids. They are even more fun with kids and friends. And it doesn't hurt that Scott convinced our kids weeks ago that any candy in an orange wrapper was for parents (Hello, Reese's!). By the end of the evening, everyone fell asleep within three minutes.

Everyone except me and #3.

And the refrigerator.

And I can't help but smile as I see the "coloring" page Sly brought home from church yesterday. He must be in a rebellious stage because the only color on the page was his name written in orange crayon.

Despite his minimalist effort (or perhaps because of it), he insisted on hanging it up on the fridge next to his sister's Halloween worksheets.

And this morning, as I was getting him breakfast at the crack of dawn, he turned the page upside down to the frown and with that teasing twinkle in his eye said, "Wook Mommy! A picture of you!"

And we smiled any trace of any frown away.

Third Time's the Joy

So, I'm pregnant.

Most of my readers probably already knew that, but if not, well, now you do!

And I am finally sitting down to write the story of this baby, this baby who has brought miracles into my life--and more than that, an appreciation of miracles. His or her presence in me fills me with unspeakable joy. Though I have by no means felt great, the fact that I have been able to feel happy amidst the struggle is a whole new concept.

I don't think, however, that you can really understand the story of this baby without knowing the story of this baby's sister and brother.

During my first pregnancy, I was physically miserable. There may have been a day I didn't barf, and there may have been a day that I only barfed once, but I really don't remember those days. I survived on spaghettios, top ramen, gobstoppers, and an occasional order of Chicken McNuggets. I didn't trust my doctor; we argued at nearly every appointment. As a first time pregnant-person, there were many things I didn't understand, one of them being that I really should have made the effort to find a doctor that wasn't constantly telling me I was doing everything wrong.

You know the rest of Kevin's story: water breaking eight weeks early, three hospitals, three weeks in the NICU, several miracles and more than a little PTSD.

Then came Sly, almost before we were ready. Okay, I admit it: nothing could have prepared me for the kind of pregnancy I had with him. I was amazed when the constant vomiting never kicked in; I know now that was a tender mercy of the Lord, because I surely could not have withstood the physical anguish along with the mental and emotional trauma I experienced while pregnant with him. If the aftermath of Kevin's birth were not enough, the 60+ prenatal doctor's appointments were enough to do me in. I was starving and going through major sugar withdrawls, but my stress levels made my blood sugar uncontrollable and every nurse I talked to treated me like they were my drill sergeant. I knew what I needed to do, but despite every sacrifice I made, my body would not cooperate. I was told more than once that if I didn't get it together, I was going to harm my baby. I was determined to give my baby his best chance at life, but in that process so many of my choices stopped feeling like they were mine to make.

Now that little boy is my little spot of sunshine in every rainy day. The fact that he makes me laugh daily, multiple times, more than makes up for the depression I experienced while growing him. And his joyous little soul is a constant miracle to me.  Those nine months with him were some of the darkest of my life. I knew I could not do that again.

But would I do it again?

That was the question Scott and I wrestled with for months. We knew our family was not complete. We knew we could not wait forever. I knew what I was in for. I knew baby-growing is not my forte, I knew there would be much sacrifice involved. This time, however, we decided to make some changes and do things my way, our way.

We began on our knees and enlisted the help of the Father and the Master Healer. We were guided in our choices, and we made them together.

It started by deciding that I was never going back to the drill sergeants. I know they are helpful, I know they were doing their job, but if there ever was a set of people I would apply the term "fun-suckers" to, they were it. And don't get me started on the worthless meetings with the nutritionist.

So I started by talking with my diabetes doctor. And instead of waiting until I was pregnant to get things under control, we took control first. I went straight to insulin. I took shots for several months to bring my a1c down before I even came close to taking a pregnancy test. Instead of new, purpley stretch marks, blue and yellow bruises covered my abdomen from shots that hit veins and scar tissue instead of fat.

It hurt, but it was my choice.

The negative pregnancy tests that followed were a shock to me. For those that struggle with infertility, I know that is a terrible thing to say. I couldn't understand why our wait was prolonged. Then I got bronchitis and had to have my chest x-rayed. And I understood, and I kept working on preparing myself for this pregnancy. And I put it back in God's hands.

At the beginning of August, I took another test. I'll admit, I was surprised when this time two pink lines showed up instead of one. I was overjoyed, which was a completely different emotion from my first two pregnancies. Even as the nausea set in and my productivity lessened and I let friendships fade, Scott and I held our secret in our hearts, giggled over it, and smiled and smiled and smiled.

All was not perfect those first few weeks. A few days after I took the test, a family in our neighborhood lost their baby halfway through the pregnancy and a couple of weeks later, one of my best friends found out that her baby, due two days after mine, would be lost to an ectopic pregnancy. I had so been looking forward to having a baby the same age as theirs, and now I wondered, would my little one feel like a constant reminder of what these dear, dear friends had lost? I cried for them, for my child's lost friends. I also wondered if I would lose mine too. Why do some get to keep their treasures and others have to send theirs back to God? It seems a cruel blessing.

So we took things slow.

With our first two pregnancies, we inevitably ended up telling people before we were really ready. So we did things differently this time around. We did not keep this baby a secret, but we do hold this pregnancy sacred, so we waited patiently and gave ourselves time to adjust, telling those we wanted to tell in the order we wanted to tell them, days and weeks in between, not worrying about what people would think or what was socially acceptable. Getting those precious, private moments with loved ones let us really revel in the joy of our expectations and allowed others to strengthen us with that love. 

We told Kevin and Sly in the car on our way up to Logan. The news was a little over their heads. Kevin waited a few weeks before telling her beloved preschool teacher. Nightly she would pray for me to feel better so I didn't have to spend quiet time napping and could spend time with her. Her prayers broke my heart. Eventually she stopped praying for me to give her more time; instead she asked for my comfort and health. It takes a certain amount of maturity for a child to watch their mother be sick day in and day out, give herself shots, coax blood from her fingers before every meal. Though her child-mind may not understand, her wisened spirit has supported me in ways I never expected. And when she went to get her flu shot, she didn't even flinch, because shots are not scary to her. 

Sly ignores the topic of a little brother or sister, though he will admit that he wants a "grirl" and he does point out a baby to me every time he sees one. 

I have gone from dreading doctor's appointments to looking forward to them. My OBGYN, who is the same person that took care of my through Sly's prenatal care and birth, has been nothing but supportive since that first visit at seven weeks when I told her I wanted to avoid the perinatologist office at all costs. She was nervous about that at first, I could tell, but somehow she understood what I could not explain about the stress that those visits caused me. I worked hard with my Diabetes doctor to get my blood sugars in the right ranges. I started being more stringent about what I ate--but not because somebody told me to. Because I wanted to, because it was my choice. Knowing that I can sneak a cookie or a bowl of ice cream here or there has done wonders for my well-being. 

Still, I was anxious about explaining away those two or three high readings on my blood sugar monitor. My doctor looked at my numbers at that 11-week visit and when I started to give my excuses he just laughed and said, "those numbers tell me you are human," and praised me for what I had been able to do right. I'd never gotten a "you should be proud of yourself!" or a "keep up the good work!" during a prenatal appointment before, and all of the sudden I was hearing those very phrases from both of my doctors. I was being told that I didn't need the hellish progesterone shots, that I could do my target ultrasounds at my regular doctor, that whatever I was doing was working so just keep it up. 

With this has brought me the freedom to actually enjoy being pregnant, to anticipate adding a new soul to our family. Pregnancy is still no cake walk, and there are definitely days when I full on hate the routine and the symptoms, but those days are not every day. There are times when the heartburn hits after drinking a glass of cold water and I dread what the next 25 weeks will bring, when I wonder how on earth we are going to manage with all of the other things on our plates right now, and then I remember.

This baby is our choice. 

And we choose joy. 

Love is an Open Door

I dropped my four-year-old off at preschool this morning. Last year, I walked her to the door, trying to calm her fears and stop the tears before she went in to join the rest of her class. This year, I walk her to the edge of the driveway, sneak in a side hug and a kiss before she runs off to join her teacher. As I drive down the lane, I watch her gracefully and confidently walk through the open classroom door, not holding anyone's hand, head held high as she passes the dogs, and I think, she is growing up, and she is teaching me so much.

Minutes before we headed out the door today, she came to me complaining that her tummy hurt. This is a common occurrence and I've yet to pinpoint the cause. She told me she wasn't nervous or hungry, but I could tell she was worried about it, so I suggested we say a prayer before we left. We knelt on the hard, cold floor and folded our arms. Little brother joined us with his bowl of popcorn leftover from last night. After he had snuck a few pieces in his mouth, I said a prayer and we asked Heavenly Father to help Kevin's tummy stop hurting so she could have a good day at school. Then we rushed to put on jackets and shoes and get out the door. A few steps into the garage, she paused and turned around, a big smile on her face. "Mom! My tummy doesn't hurt anymore! Isn't that lucky!"

I explained that it wasn't luck, it was Heavenly Father answering our prayer.

And later, that feeling that flooded my heart as I watched her walk happily into school, Heavenly Father answered my prayer.

I often have to pray for charity for this child. She pushes my buttons, tests my patience, and makes life hard. I don't want to be so frustrated with her--so I ask God to help me see her the way he does. And the answers come in the little moments, where I pause and look at her--really look at her, and take time to be grateful for the sparkly spirit that she is.

A year or so ago, she won the battle of having her door open at bedtime. Her parents would prefer it closed, as she is a light sleeper and her brother can be very loud, but eventually we learned it was easier to leave her door open and the hall light on than battle her demons every night.

I find myself being grateful for that lost battle almost nightly, as I have the chance to peek in and watch her sleep for a few seconds before I end my day too. Sometimes she is still awake and flashes me a smile and the love sign. Sometimes she has already kicked off her blankets and I have to tiptoe around the floor creaks to tuck her back in. Sometimes her limbs are spread like a star, blankets already starting to fall of the bed.

Two nights ago, I found her fast asleep, her hand holding open the book of fairy tales I read to her before bed. My heart melted a little bit, and I made a wish for her dreams to take her on adventures like those found in her open book.

Falling

Over the past two or three weeks, summer has silently faded into fall. At first, the only sign was the return of football season, which has led to quiet Saturdays in front of the TV and my son requesting a shirt with a football on it as his required daily uniform.

Soon, the referee whistles were joined by pots of boiling water and the quiet, steady sound of my mother-in-law's hands moving three times as fast as mine as we preserved our way through two and a half bushels of pears, which equated to a freezer full of fruit squeezies and jam, bags of fruit leather lining my pantry, and more than two dozen jars of canned pears that I see as insurance against scurvy this winter, since pears are the only fruit my daughter willingly consumes.

Gradually, shorts fall to the bottom of the dresser piles as sweaters and jeans find their way to the tops. The lawn turns greener and stops needing daily watering.  The leaves on the trees start to debut their autumn wardrobes, the neighborhood grows quieter between the hours of 8 am and 3 pm, and the air conditioning only runs for a few minutes each afternoon. The sun sets earlier and bedtime is scooted up five minutes each day until we find our way back to that bewitching 7:00 bedtime and not-so-magical 6:30 am wake up call that sounds an awful lot like a dinosaur coming from my son's bedroom.

Life slows, life grows, life falls into a predictable pattern.

I find myself smiling while watching the rain blow leaves all over my neighbor's yards. I stand at the window with my children, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder and reflecting on the past nine months, contemplating the months to come. Outside, storms rage. Inside, there is a calm peace.

Autumn is a closing time, a changing time. In spring everything is new, in summer everything is fast, heated, blinding. But as September turns to October, I am left to remember everything I haven't done and all of the ways I fall short. My days are full of "I can'ts" and "I wish I coulds" and an overwhelming desire to hibernate. I am reminded that I am not like other women, that I have limits, and that sometimes, my idea of how I would like my day to go is thrown out the window at 7:30 am.

I am learning patience. I am learning to let things fall by the wayside, to not compare my dry evergreen pine needles to another woman's aspen gold or red maple. We are all made differently for a reason. The canyons are at their most beautiful when every individual tree focuses on putting on its peak colors--some deep red, some vibrant yellow, some bright green, some burnt orange, and even for some, the dull browns that provide contrast and are important in their own right.

We all have our season to shine, and our season to sleep. There will be times in my life that I can run at full speed--times when I will find the time and energy to exercise my body and my children's brains, times when I can act on every thoughtful service that comes to mind. There will be times when I have to slow down, take the day an hour at a time, do what I can and forgive myself for what I can't accomplish.

Fall teaches me that we all need time to reset, that this winter will give me time to rest, and that the hope of spring will breathe new life into this weary soul.

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Life at the Moment

I am a slacker.

This is nothing new, really.

A lot has happened in the past six weeks (gulp, yes, been awhile), and at the same time life has remained very much the same. We are in a peaceful spot right now, and I am grateful for that.

Since the kids decided to sleep in this morning, I decided to take a few minutes and record what our life is like at the moment. Nothing spectacular or ground-breaking, but our life. I am a believer that even the most ordinary lives are extraordinary when you pause to be grateful for every little miracle and tender mercy.

My son is approaching two. He is a ham, a clown, a firecracker. He gives the sweetest hugs--but only on the rare occasions when he slows down for more than two seconds. His latest thing has been to say, "play cars wif me a minute, Mommy?" Who could say no to that? He has an amazing ability to communicate. "Daddy's at work. He's gone. Be home soon." is a lecture I hear often, along with "I don't want to!" and "You see me, Mommy?"

He is not a fan of being bossed around by his sister, yet he gets extremely upset when she decides to play in her room by herself. He has decided he hates wearing a diaper and yesterday we had a three-hour standoff when he refused to wear pants. His sister attributed this to his love of Daniel Tiger and suggested that maybe we can't watch that show anymore.

He is quite the challenge in church--not because he is necessarily naughty, but because he is so very loud. Two weeks ago the speaker was talking about the "Stop It" talk from President Uchtdorf, and Sly, having learned to yell "Stop!" with his Papa the week before, frequently yelled, "STOP!" every time the speaker said it, complete with his pudgy little hand out like a cop directing traffic.

We visited a train museum last week and hauled him upstairs for a look at the gun collection. The museum curator was sitting at a desk putting lotion on his feet. As my daughter, cousin, and I admired the display about our fourth-great-grandfather, Sly was yelling, "STINKY FEET! STINKY FEET!"

He is a climber, a reader, a laugher, a social butterfly, a stubborn cuss, a fan of all things basketball-football-and-soccer, a tease, the epitome of the term "little brother" and the sunshine in my soul. Everyday, even though my body is worn out from chasing him and my nerves are singed from trying to stay one step ahead of him (and thus save his life), I take minute to thank my Heavenly Father for the presence this little boy is in our home. He brings me so much joy and I am so grateful to call him my son.

My daughter is growing up right before my eyes. I am amazed at how much about her has changed, even since preschool ended in May. Slowly but surely she is coming to learn all the basics--the alphabet, counting, shapes--but also things that most adults are still trying to learn: compassion, service, problem-solving, self-discipline. Her body is growing just as fast as her mind--all the shirts I bought for her this past spring are suddenly too short and everyday when she asks to be measured she is a centimeter or two higher. Her beloved hair is still not quite to that coveted Rapunzel-length, but the other day she realized that is because Rapunzel's hair is magic and sadly, hers is not.

We are on a constant roller coaster with her--some days she is so happy and sweet that I really don't want to put her to bed because I have enjoyed her so much. Other days bedtime can not come fast enough, and it is usually on these days that bedtime turns into an all-out, two-hour war that ends in her door being shut and her parents hiding in the basement with the TV turned up so we can attempt to ignore her battle cries.

The other day we were driving home from Box Elder County, surrounded by fields, cows, and the orange glow of the sunset, when she said, "I want to see Jesus." A minute later, she repeated the phrase: "I just want to see Jesus." We told her that was a good desire, and if she could live the commandments, that someday when Jesus comes again she will be able to see him. Her reaction to this was: "It's taking a long time for Jesus to come." I agree, sweetheart.

She has improved so much with her ballet dancing. Her first recital was last month and I will never forget the brilliant smile on her face as the music ended and she realized she had done her very best. She gave us the best wink as she walked off the stage.

Every evening as I put her to bed (before the inevitable "What will we do tomorrow?" conversation), we blow and catch kisses and do a thumb's up-fist-bump, which she has christened a "thumb duck."

She loves her brother and she loves babies. She is my best helper.  She tries to be brave and work through her anxieties, and it is a difficult, uphill climb for all of us. She reminds me to slow down for a snuggle and a story, helping me appreciate the sacred moments when they happen and not take her childhood for granted. In truth, she is the gardener and I am the little seed trying to grow. Loving her is not always easy, but that's what makes my immense gratitude and love for her so strong.

Speaking of growing up, let's talk about Scott for a minute. Just a little minute, because he kind of hates the whole "broadcast your relationship" on social media thing. I am constantly amazed by this man that I was blessed to marry. He is so dang smart. His company recently merged and while his coworkers were a little panicked and nervous, he was completely at ease in his outlook, seeing the new company as an opportunity for growth. Every day he comes home and tells me something he wants to learn to improve his skills. He gives 100% to most everything he does. He recently was given a new calling at church, one that is busy and vital to the workings of our congregation. He serves willingly and hasn't let the new demands on his time interfere with his devotion to his family.

Plus, he took me to Texas for eight days and it was amazing.

And me. What about me these days? I am tired. Keeping my body going is a constant battle. I feel like a bowling ball trying to make it to the gutter, but my kids are the bumpers making that impossible, so I roll down the slick lane at a snail's pace until I finally hit a pin or two on the side before dropping out of sight. That is my day in a nutshell.

I feel as if this year I have been able to really exercise my creativity. I've tried things I never though I could do and though I am very much an amateur, just the process of creating helps me to grow. I've had ideas form in my head and actually turn out tangibly with a decent resemblance to the picture I drew in my mind.

I am giving myself more credit for the things I do get done rather than beating myself up for the million things that fall to the wayside. I am learning to prioritize. I am learning to be more grateful. I am striving to be happy and content in my blessings--and as you can tell by this epic epistle about my greatest blessings, I am one fortunate soul indeed.

Baking Aisle Epiphany

Scene: Friday afternoon, Winco, baking aisle. 

Tired mom trying to get her kids out of the house, pass time before dad comes home, and replenish the pantry.  Mom is distracted trying to find the most economical package of shortening. Daughter's feet "just can't work anymore!" Son has already done up the buckle on the shopping cart and is therefore bored. 

Enter: bearded stranger, dressed in black work clothes and walking quickly.

Son: "HI JESUS! HI JESUS!"

Mom's cheeks turn red and her head whips around to see if the stranger has heard. He is still walking quickly.

Son: "Hi Jesus! Mommy, Jesus!"

Mom realizes that maybe her first reaction was wrong. Sure, in all probability, that man is not Jesus. But the fact that her son doesn't find it strange at all to see Jesus at the grocery store is kind of special, right? That he has the kind of relationship where he would gladly greet the Savior with a happy hello? That he knows Him?

Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shallappear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.  -1 John 3:2

She Smiled

There are those who will find this post...immature.
There are those who will find themselves...scoffing.
There are even those (cough*mysiblingsandhusband*cough) who will make fun of me...

but here it goes.

I swear she smiled.

The past 15 years of her life have been spent moving from dusty dresser to antique chair to original packaging. Her hair has stayed in the same braid--because styling it another way might mean it all falling out. She's lived for those occasional seasonal outfit changes, hugs I sneak in when no one is looking, times when I proudly pull her out to show a niece or a little friend in my neighborhood, times when I whisper in her ear, I haven't forgotten. I still love you.

Perhaps she doesn't like to be manhandled. And she certainly doesn't like being called a baby.

But "yours little girlie?"

That I don't think she minds.

I confess, it was the new Cinderella dress that did me in. Five bucks at an outlet sale, never quite fitting on any of the baby dolls living in our upstairs.

I wonder...it would look so great...maybe she's ready?

"Just a minute, sweetheart," I tell her, as she begs to play house once again. "Let me go get my doll!"

I run downstairs. She is right where I left her--as faithful a friend as she has been since day one, despite the many moves, horrid hairstyles, preteen tears, and being forgotten one too many times in a hot Utah minivan.

She looks a little worse for the wear--but the past two decades have aged me too.

I enter my daughter's room, wearing my Molly smile, and after getting her dressed in some new, more "modern" clothing, I hand her over, I pass her down, I turn her into an heirloom. She's resurrected, reborn, renewed, refreshed.

She looks at me from my daughter's cradling arms.

I swear she smiled.