Because sometimes Naps don't Happen and Oh My This Job can be Hard

This morning Jack and I went upstairs for a few minutes of quiet snuggling before his nap. We rocked in the rocking chair and swayed back and forth and smiled and laughed and got good and sleepy. Finally I lay him down, sure he would quickly drift off to sleep. Sure enough, he was quiet within just a couple of minutes. I hurried downstairs to make the most of his nap time, hoping to exercise and get a quick shower before he woke back up. Fifteen minutes later, I heard Ivy talking, Henry talking and Jack crying all through the baby monitor. After a thorough investigation, it was apparent that Henry had decided he needed to change his clothes for no particular reason at all and his jabbering little sister had followed him into his room. Even though the baby was sleeping. Even though the baby had only JUST gone to sleep. Fabulous. I sighed a heavy sigh, then we all came downstairs together. Henry's still getting used to sharing a bedroom with the baby so I can't hold him tremendously accountable. But still... a baby not napping is a baby I must be holding. ALL. THE. TIME.

A few hours later, Jack went down for a nap again, this time already thoroughly asleep. Because we'd gotten off our schedule when he missed his first nap, he ended up falling asleep while eating his lunch. So. Up to bed he went, and down I went to again, try and make the most of his nap time. Five minutes later, I glanced up the stairs and saw that Jack's bedroom door was open, and the light was on. For whatever reason, Ivy had decided that the rug in the boys' room was the perfect place for her to spin in circles, and then fall down. With a big loud shout. And lots of innocent laughter. Can you see where this is going? It didn't take long for the baby to wake up. Again.

So now it's 4 PM and the baby still hasn't taken a nap and we are both still in our pajamas. I just looked at Sam, also in his pajamas and said, "Dude, why don't you go and put some clothes on?" He looked at me, eyebrows raised and glanced at my own less than glamorous attire. Um, right. Maybe I should put some clothes on too? Except every time I turn around, something is waking my baby up, or screaming, or yelling or  spilling something or hitting someone or wanting something to eat or asking to play Wii...

I'm tired, people.

I love my babies. Each and every one of them. You know this, don't you? But sometimes it feels like I'm juggling cats--wailing, screaming, clawing cats that don't like being thrown in the air. Some days, I barely manage to shift beyond crisis management mode. I solve problems and apply band aids and wipe away tears and clean up messes and try and make babies sleep and assign chores and dole out punishments. I take kids to the library because reading is good and I take kids to the park because exercise is good and I teach children piano because music is good. I encourage, I scold, I lead. And some days, I do it all while screaming inside. I hold back tears and will my hands to stop trembling, begging the Lord to give me the patience I need to just. keep. going.

And that's what I do. I keep going because I have to. Because hard or not, these little people need someone to care for them and that someone is me. I never doubt that the hustle and bustle and often utter and complete chaos of my life is worth it. I wouldn't trade my circumstances for anything in this world. I know to be a mother is a blessing--to have these beautiful incredible people in my care a sweet privilege. And at the end of the day, even the hardest days, I always have moments that I can think back on and relish. They are tender mercies, those moments... the one's that allow me to see with crystal clarity the divine purpose in mothering, and mothering well. I will find the joy in those moments.

I will find it when it is easy to see - full and rich and abounding in the eyes and touches and sweet gestures of my children. Still other days I will search long and hard, digging deep to find even a sliver of joy because HAVE MERCY ON MY SOUL THIS JOB IS HARD. But I'll find it. I'll find it because I know it's there.

Even when we're all still wearing pajamas at 4 PM.

Reverent Children are Weird*

*In a question and answer session with the former General Relief Society President of the LDS Church, Julie B. Beck, someone asked how to encourage reverence in their children. Sister Beck responded that we had to do the best we could, but not to worry about it. "Reverent children are weird," she said. I love her for that remark.

Three weeks ago, I had an experience at church that was terrible in every sense of the word. It wasn't life changing or earth shattering or linked to any major consequences, but in the moment, it hurt a great deal. I hesitated to write about it because I didn't want to speak negatively of another person, but I think it might spark a discussion that could remind us all to think about how we treat people, as well as how we react when people treat us.

I'll set the stage for you. Our chapel is small - about six rows deep, with three sections in each row, moving across the room. If packed full, it would probably seat about 100 people comfortably, though we never have that many in attendance. I expect some people think I'm crazy for it, but I sit in the front row. I do this because the front row is closest to the door and inevitably I will need to escape with one or more of my children during the course of our Sacrament meeting. And also, my husband currently serves in the Branch Presidency (the lay leadership of our congregation) which means he sits up front, on the stand. When I am in the front row, I am close enough to my husband that one of the boys can go and sit beside him if need be. And he is close enough that he can parent the children, JUST BY LOOKING into their eyes. We don't need to mention the fact that I also generally arrive at church 2 to 5 minutes late every single Sunday. Since there are seven of us, it would be difficult to squeeze in anywhere else besides the front row which is generally empty until we get there.

So. Front row. One mom. Six children, one of which is three weeks old. Another of which is a 2 year old. Another of which is a 5 year old. Am I sounding desperate yet? Now, I think Ivy is a pretty delightful 2 year old. She's funny and spunky and generally a pretty happy kid. Like most two year olds, she doesn't like to sit still and she is absolutely incapable of remembering to whisper for longer than 45 seconds. These things make church challenging on the best of days, down right impossible on others. But we go and we manage the best we can and we pray that all those around us will be forgiving and tolerant, perhaps especially so in the weeks just after a baby is born when our entire family is trying to adjust to the extra responsibility and activity that comes from another addition.

For all these reasons I was completely bowled over when just after the meeting closed my first Sunday back at church, a woman that I didn't know approached me with a not so nice look upon her elderly face.

"I hate to be so bold," she said. "But someone has to be bold with you..."

She then went on to tell me how absolutely disruptive Ivy was for all of Sacrament meeting. She was loud and distracting and made it so that she and her husband weren't able to hear for the entire meeting. She told me that she had children that were young once, and you have to discipline them, you have to tell them to be quiet. You have to be firm, and she didn't see me one single time tell "that little girl" to be quiet. It was so terrible, she didn't think her husband (who wasn't a member of our church and was visiting) wasn't ever going to come back.

As I stood there with my three week old baby in my arms, I was absolutely speechless. I've come up with quite a few things I could have said since then, each thick with the same "boldness" that she used when addressing me. But in the moment, all I wanted to do was cry. So I did. I escaped to the nursing mother's room and cried while Jack nursed. I was embarrassed, I was angry, but more than anything else, my feelings were hurt. I have less of an issue with the fact that this woman told me my kid was loud. I know she's loud. I sit with her every single Sunday. But to tell me that the reason she is loud is because I wasn't parenting her as I should have? That was hard to hear.

By the time Jack finished nursing, I was feeling a little better. I vented to my husband and to my friend Valerie, both of whom were firmly in my corner. Had this woman every attended church in a place where there are 25 nursery age children and 65 primary children? In our branch, the two youngest children in our congregation both belong to me. Ivy is usually in nursery by herself. I know she's loud, but she's not near as loud as 25 two year olds. And let's not even begin to talk about the fact that this was my first Sunday back after having a baby--my first Sunday trying to juggle six children through an hour of reverence. I could go on, but I expect those of you that are mothers are feeling enough indignation that I can stop.

Three weeks later, I can look at the situation with a little more kindness. Kindness doesn't change the fact that I feel this woman was wrong. But I can, at the very least, acknowledge that I understand where she might have been coming from. A few years ago, I frequently visited a woman that was hard of hearing. She explained to me that many Sundays she sat in the congregation and for an entire hour, wasn't able to hear a single word of the meeting. She would leave frustrated and disappointed that what she expected to be an uplifting experience fell far short. She also explained that when you wear a hearing aid, the device picks up the sounds that are closest to you. If a noisy child is in between you and the speaker, your hearing aid will pick up the child, leaving you to wonder if the speaker is talking about the fried chicken he wants to have for lunch. Both the woman who confronted me and her husband were, for lack of a more delicate way to put it, OLD. I don't know that they were wearing hearing aids, but it's a very logical possibility. Couple that with the fact that this woman, who IS a Mormon, had brought her husband to church, who is NOT a Mormon, and it's easy to see how she could have been frustrated if he wasn't able to gain any spiritual insight because of the distracting two year old in the front row. Especially if he usually attends a different church where children are kept in childcare and are not in attendance with their parents. I also have to admit that my filter for how much noise requires the removal of an offending child is probably a little thicker because if I leave the meeting with one child, I am leaving my remaining children in the meeting to be attended by those sitting around me.

All this to say, church with six children is hard. Though, my run in with this woman, who isn't someone that regularly attends in our area, is most definitely an isolated incident. Generally, I'm surrounded by fellow branch members who understand that with my husband sitting on the stand, I may need an extra measure of tolerance, or a willing set of extra hands or arms to hold a baby or help an older child. There are so many that love and support my family. We feel lucky to live where we live. But because I love these people, I would hate for their Sunday experience to be diminished because my family is noisy. There has to be a balance, I think. If my experience with this woman has taught me anything, it's to make sure I strive for that balance and not take advantage of the kindness and tolerance of others.

How do YOU find a balance and what would you have done in my situation?

"I Don't Like it That People Have to Die"

Last Saturday, my husband received a phone call asking if he could drive an hour to a hospital where a member of our local church, Susan, was ill. She was in need of a visit, of prayers and support. Could he help? Saturdays are valuable for Josh when it comes to spending time with the kids. He works long hours during the week, and cherishes his weekends when we can all be together. Not wanting to leave us all at home, we piled the kids in the car and went to the hospital together. 

Ivy wasn't feeling well. We decided it was better not to overwhelm a very small hospital room with a lot of people, one of which was potentially contagious. Instead, I opted to stay in the car with the younger children while Josh went up to visit. After all, I had plans to return just a couple of days later and visit myself, when in town for a doctor's appointment. Josh stayed with Susan for nearly an hour. They talked. They prayed. Before leaving, he kissed her on the forehead and told her he loved her. 

The next morning she passed away. 

I don't write about it because all of you knew my friend Susan. I write because somehow, it feels wrong not to--not to mention her in someway. She was a remarkable woman - funny and spunky, gentle and so very loving. There was an ease about her that made her easy to talk to, easy to enjoy. Widowed early in life, Susan didn't have any children, or any family close by. In many ways, her friends and fellow church members were her family.

I've spent a lot of the past few days wondering if we did enough, and feeling sadness over the what if's and the whys that flood our hearts after sadness. Why didn't I just run up to see her while we were there? Did she know that we loved her? Did we do enough to show her how much we all cared? Susan was alone when she died - a thought that plagues me most of all. I have to remind myself that while I don't have a lot of experience with death, I've experienced enough to know that the veil is so very thin between this life and the next. Susan was surely surrounded and supported by heaven's angels. 

When I tucked Lucy into bed last night, she said to me, "Mom, I don't like it that people have to die." I don't really like it either, but I'm grateful for the knowledge that I have that makes it easier to understand. 

I know that Susan will be missed. Those of us she left behind are better for having known her. But I also know that heaven got a little brighter when she arrived. And that's the thought I'll carry with me.

A Word for 2012? How about 2?

I've read many lovely posts by people that are picking their word for the year 2012. I hadn't really thought about a word for me, aside from the obvious choice, BABY. But then, that's been my word in many of the past ten years so that one feels a little anticlimactic. Choosing another word was easy.

It's the word that's been on my mind the most lately, though perhaps not in the way you might think. Of course, my role as a mother of nearly six children requires a healthy dose of patience. But patience with my children isn't quite as challenging for me, as the daunting task of being patient with myself.

I admit it. I want it all. I want to have all the time in the world to mother my kids superbly, love my husband to the fullest degree, serve in my church, volunteer in my community, and still have time to write best selling novels, all while eating three square meals a day, bathing on a regular basis, and getting to sleep at a reasonable hour. But lets be real. With so many kids in the house, many days my list of accomplishments is nothing more than the regular list of hamster wheel chores that even when accomplished one day, will inevitably need to be accomplished all over again the next.

And so, I will my heart to be still - to stop and savor and cherish the moments of today, focusing on the good - the accomplishments that no matter how small, still have merit, and I remember that soon, there will be time for more. More writing. More giving. More intentional time, less hamster wheel time. This year, I will strive to be patient - to be realistic in what I expect of myself and remember the joy of this season of life.

And now, because one word is never enough when you love them quite as much as I do, my second word is INTENTIONAL. I speak from experience when I say that being patient with myself is less difficult when I spend my time wisely. It's hardly fair to be frustrated over not meeting my weekly writing goal if I've blown three hours playing Thread Words on my Kindle. My free time is oh, so very limited. I must make the most of it and be intentional with how I spend my time. It seems reasonable to assume that a more intentional use of my time will then make it easier for me to be patient, yes?

Have you shared your word for 2012? What is it? If you haven't come up with one, what's the first word that comes to mind? (It's perfectly reasonable for that word to be chocolate.)

Loving my Big Family

 A few days ago, I took my kids to Walmart to pick up a few things. It was after school, late in the afternoon, everyone was a little keyed up, and really, I probably shouldn't have risked it. But we were there and we needed milk, and well, sometimes we have to do hard things. Shopping with children isn't easy. Shopping with five children along is a little like parental suicide. I felt it keenly after I lost one of the five, then had him returned to me by a friend who happened to find him at the jewelry counter and was nice enough to stay with him until they'd tracked me down. And of course, it didn't make it any easier when, while speaking to the friend who'd just saved my 8 year old from a sure to happen Walmart abduction, my children attacked a wrapping paper display, chose their weapons, and started sword fighting.

Yesterday afternoon, I jumped between Jordan who needed help with his Social Studies homework and Lucy who wanted a piano lesson, to the computer where I was trying to fix Jordan's flash drive so he wouldn't lose an entire semester's worth of work, to the kitchen where dinner was cooking, to Henry who needed help with his game, to Sam who couldn't find his missing worksheet, all with Ivy on my hip...

I don't have a problem admitting it. Big families are hard. My laundry is never finished. My floors are in constant need of cleaning. The house is always noisy, bustling, busy. My grocery bill is ridiculous. Back to school shopping can break the bank. My patience is constantly tried, tested, pushed to the limit. Many days, I fall into bed and wonder if it's worth it. Many days, I feel like there simply isn't enough - enough time, enough money, enough energy, enough of me to go around. Many days, it's hard to walk through the store with five kids, pregnant with another and constantly field the looks and stares and exclamations, while trying to keep the sword fighting to a minimum and the bickering at bay. Many days, it's just hard.

But.

Every day, even the hard days, it is always worth it. Worth it because my children are incredible, wonderful little people that love each other and love me. Yes, they bicker. Yes, they whine and complain and act ridiculous in the isles of Walmart. But they also teach me patience. They teach me love and compassion and generosity and they teach me to recognize God's goodness in every single aspect of my life. They are pure and good and oh, so much fun. And you know what else? I think they teach each other love and patience and compassion. They teach each other to be generous and kind and thoughtful. If anything is certain, you can't grow up in a family of six children and think you're the center of the universe.

Makes my mother heart happy, this one...

I know that in many ways, this life Josh and I have chosen will be more difficult because we've chosen to have six kids. But I'm certain, it will be more of the good too - more full, more rich, more entertaining.

Walking downtown, enjoying Christmas lights and 'open late' shopping... I have no idea what Henry is doing... and yes, Jordan does look a little angry. I don't have a reason for that either.

Notice the baby bump... determined to not let this pregnancy pass undocumented like all the others... even though I look like a goof and have soup in my mouth and Sam is... um, being Sam.

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How do you feel about big families? Comments have been oh, so very meager lately. So, let's discuss. I draw the line at six - for my health, both mental and physical. What about you? And also, I've linked this post with Chatting at the Sky's Tuesdays Unwrapped, because sometimes I have to unwrap the chaos of my life to find the joy always hidden on the inside.

The Last Time

We know who it is before he arrives.

The shuffling of his little feet and the swish of his blanket dragging behind him give him away. He doesn't need anything - not a drink, or a visit to the bathroom. He only needs to be close. And so we throw the covers back and he slips in between us, snuggling into the narrow valley of space between our pillows. He pops his thumb in his mouth and is back asleep in a handful of seconds and I wonder if this will be the last time Henry will wake up and need us in the night.

Those last times slip away from us so easily. They happen and life keeps happening and then all of a sudden we realize we can't quite remember when things changed. They just did. They always do.

Just like the others, somewhere in the hustle and bustle of getting older and being almost four or almost five or whenever it may happen, Henry will grow up just enough to no longer need an extra dose of close. And just like that, his nighttime visits will be over. But I'll never know it. Not until he's far too old or far too big to even consider the possibility. He'll be like Jordan, my almost ten year old who scoffs at the thought of needing anything in the middle of the night that he can't take care of on his own. But Jordan was Henry once... sneaking in, snuggling in. There was a last time for him... I wonder if I even woke to acknowledge the occasion.

Will I know the last time that Ivy nurses? (This one is particularly tough for me as I embrace the very likely possibility that this last time with Ivy will be the last time in general. It hurts my heart a little bit. Not as much as it would hurt my sanity to do it again, but you know. It's still sad.) Will I know the last time that Sam cries over a skinned knee, or gets scared in the middle of the night? Will I know the last time that I tie Lucy's shoes or braid her hair before she shoos away my mothering hands so that she can do it for herself?

We celebrate the firsts. First steps. First words. First food. But those lasts sneak up on us. They come like a thief in the night, stealing away little pieces of babyhood, then toddlerhood, then full on childhood. I imagine I'll blink and then suddenly have a house full of grown ups, no? Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll be able to pinpoint a few of the lasts. But with five kids, I'm not getting my hopes up. What I will do is try and enjoy this growing of children and relish the moments, even those that seem small or simply ordinary. And I won't try and rush it. I won't rush my children's lives and I won't rush them out of my life. I will revel in their sweetness and live it up good.

But I can't promise I won't cry a little when I realize all my babies are big kids and then that all my big kids are teenagers and then that all my teenagers are grown up and gone from the house.

(Except that last time, I'm thinking my tears will probably be tears of joy. And then I'll take a big deep breath and throw myself one hell of party.)


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Love and Forgiveness

I was folding laundry tonight. Standing up behind the kitchen table folding and folding and folding. It had been a day. Not a bad day, but a busy day. A day of leftover Sunday dishes and vacuuming and mopping and laundering and invasive species science projects and fractions and parts of speech.

Generally, when I fold laundry, I listen to music or watch a movie to pass the time. But tonight, I folded in silence. I thought a little and prayed a little and allowed my mind to wander as it would. I won't go so far as to say I enjoyed it. It was still laundry. But the process of doing something necessary was a bit more peaceful because of the silence. 

Sometimes, it feels good just to be still.

Do you know what I thought about while I folded? I thought about Jesus' admonition in Matthew to become as little children. Why children? The scriptures tell us that children are meek and mild and humble. But do you know what else little children do? They forgive.

It's amazing, really. Amazing that these little people who live in my home are always so willing to wrap their arms around their grossly imperfect mother who has yelled or ignored or forgotten and just love me anyway. I don't deserve such Christ-like love, and yet they so freely give it. In spite of all of my short comings, in spite of all the times I've failed in my efforts as a Mom, they still love me completely. I want to be more like them. I want to be unconditional. I want to love and give and forgive readily, constantly. 

It weighs on me most when I look at Lucy. Lucy - this perfect little person who is so good and so strong and who wants nothing more in this world than to be just like me. ME. But she is so much better than me. I can see that already. And so I want to be better - better for the little girl that watches me so close, and for her baby sister who will grow up watching us both.

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Acknowledge Him

It seems like every News website and television channel is currently brimming with information about the man with the golden voice... Have you heard the story? If not, you can learn about it by watching these videos on Youtube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O6kI_u3ho_c&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWG6zNf4xY0&feature=topvideos

I think it's a great story. Everyone deserves a second chance, and this guy has been nothing but humble when it comes to why his circumstances are what they are, and what he ought to do differently this time around. I watched an interview yesterday where this man was asked how he was going to stay grounded when things were happening for him so quickly. And they are happening quickly - everything from job offers to television and radio interviews, to countless other perks and advantages.

Do you know what he said? (Forgive my paraphrasing.) He said that in the past, whenever he had successes in life he never acknowledged God. He never said thank you for the things he was given, for the blessings in his life. But now, he has found a deeper sense of spiritual awareness and he knows that at every turn, he will say, Thank you, God. In all things, he will acknowledge Him. He will say thank you for this, and forgive me for that. Because of this, he knows that when success finds him this time, he will be alright.

I don't know this man. I don't know how successful he'll be. But to his newfound philosophy on life, I give a wholehearted Amen. I hope that he will be able to move forward and find joy and happiness in life without getting any of the dirt of Hollywood under his nails.

Proverbs 3: 5-6: Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

Deliberate

When I first started blogging, I don't think I thought much about what it was I planned to post. I think I sat down, started writing and just let the words come out. I read back over some of those posts and find many of them horribly embarrassing. Some are good, but more are ridiculously silly and not at all interesting. (And obviously written before I finished eighth grade English. Seriously, people. My punctuation was terrible.)

I'm a little more deliberate now, I think. I do not blog as often, but I like to think I'm more willing to own every word (and ellipsis) that hits the blog these days.

Deliberate.

It's been one of my favorite words as of late. I like what it means - to consciously and intentionally do something.

At the beginning of the summer, we cancelled our satellite. Our television viewing now consists of only what can be streamed into our living room through Netflix, and then only when we specifically invite it. Do you know what this change has done? It's made our television viewing much more deliberate. See, you can't just sit mindlessly for an hour that becomes two hours that becomes three when you're streaming movies or past season television shows. No channel flipping, no mindless surfing. Instead, you have to make a choice. Do I want to invest in an entire movie right now? No? Well then I'll do something else.

I thought I would miss it, but really, it's so completely liberating to be free of any self imposed obligation to catch one show or another. All I really feel is lighter. And more deliberate. See? There's that word again. There's something to be said for doing things on purpose - for avoiding those, "Holy cow, have I really been channel surfing/web surfing/blog reading for three hours?" moments. That doesn't mean I don't watch/surf/read. It just means I do it more deliberately. On purpose. Because it's worthwhile.

And it isn't just about entertainment. There are so many ways in which we can be more deliberate - in our personal discipleship, in our relationships with our kids, in our efforts to serve others. It's a good word.

What do you do to be more deliberate?

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(Also, thank you so very much for all of your supportive comments last Sunday for Terry and his family. I'm so pleased at how thoughtful and wonderful your words were. Stay tuned for the next highlight, not this Sunday, but next. I'm hoping for every other Sunday posts. And don't forget, I'd love to have your nominations! Read about why, and how by clicking here.)

Presence

When my babies are still tiny, fresh with the newness of life, still sweet with tenderness, they spend the nighttime hours in a small bassinet beside my bed. It's easier that way, having them close. Easier for feedings, and easier for my hand to rest on their chests, feeling the reassuring swell, up and down, as they breathe.

In those late, but actually early hours, dark with night, but still bright with love, I sit and nurse my baby. Sometimes, I marvel. I curl tiny fingers around my own. I trace tiny eyebrows. I smile at tiny baby noises that melt my heart. Other times, I doze uncomfortably, willing the little bundle of difficult to finish feeding so I can just get some sleep already, and mutter about the ridiculousness of needing to eat every two and a half hours in the first place...

My mood? Not very consistent at 2 AM. But there is one constant, a presence I know I can always rely on. Whenever I nurse, sitting cross legged on the bed, my husband reaches over and puts his hand on the small of my back. I am ill equipped to feed the baby, his hand says, but I'm here. I'm with you. I know that you're up, that it isn't always easy.

Many nights, that simple gesture of kindness tethers me to reality. Sometimes, it just helps to know there is someone there. I'm grateful that I know my husband well enough to recognize that gesture for what it is. It's the little things, I think, that often make the biggest difference. But do we always recognize them? How often do we fail to see?

It's been on my mind a lot lately - the need to see the little things. Not just in my relationship with  my husband, but in my relationship with God.

Do I recognize His presence?

Am I failing to see?

I have found that if I really look for it, I can see His presence in every single aspect of my life. His hand is there, on my back, all the time - leading, guiding, encouraging. But, oh! It's so easy to grumble, to see the flaws, the difficulties, the misery of our own plight. We are alone, after all. These things that we are doing have to be done by someone, and it us that must do the job, and it is only us, and no one really understands, or will ever understand...

Except, wait. There it is. If I close my eyes, I can feel it. A light touch, a kind word, a supportive hand. He is there. He is everywhere. Always has been, and always will be. His presence is constant.

It is up to me to simply see.

My kids think I'm Awesome

This afternoon, I went downstairs to run on the treadmill. I hate running on the treadmill, but with five kids at home, including a baby that wakes me up once or twice a night, an afternoon run in the basement is sometimes the best I can do. My typical run is 3.1 miles - a 5K. I've been working on improving my time, and today, with about a half mile left, was set to finish about 45 seconds faster than my last best time. I was stoked.

And I was HURTING.

My kids, hearing me groan, came downstairs to cheer me on. And they DID cheer me on. It was adorable and totally inspiring to have my own fan section. When I finished, they asked me if I wanted some water. I nodded my head and they raced up the stairs to get it ready for me. They proudly brought me the biggest ball jar in our cabinet, filled to the brim with ice cold water.

And then it occurred to me. These little people think I am awesome. It's what we all want, isn't it? To have people think we're awesome? We spend time working to impress, blogging to impress, singing, performing, whatever-ing so people will notice us, and think highly of us. But, do we think, as often, of impressing our children? Do we focus on increasing their opinion of us? They will, after all, be the people who are with us the longest. When we are old and gray and in need of assistance, I'm pretty certain it won't be a fellow blogger that tends to our needs.

Who the stink needs blog followers? I've got my own personal set right here. They give me kisses and hugs and big glasses of water when I'm thirsty. AND they think I'm awesome. No matter what I say on my blog.

Outside perspective

My oldest son, Jordan, has always been a pretty good kid. He isn't the kid that talks too much, he can't tell a lie to save his life, he's responsible, and sensitive. He is also hard headed, impulsive, and stubborn as the day is long. I don't necessarily see those as bad qualities though. Annoying to his parents when he is young, yes. But if we teach him right, I think they can be admirable qualities when he's grown. 

It's the growing him part that can be tough sometimes. 

When Jordan was 5 years old, he and I found ourselves locked in a battle of wills that lasted nearly a week. You see, he was in kindergarten. School started at 8 AM, and conveniently enough, was just five minutes down the road. It shouldn't have been difficult for us to get him to school on time, but it was a battle every single morning. Jordan didn't want to put his clothes on. He didn't want to eat his breakfast. He didn't want to get his shoes, or pick up his own backpack. 

"You do it!" he said, over and over and over.

I was frustrated, to say the least. This child was five years old - more than capable to put on his own pants, or pick up his own bag. To me, it appeared to be a power struggle. He wanted me to do for him what I thought he ought to do for himself. How was I ever going to teach my child personal responsibility if he couldn't accomplish the simplest of tasks? 

So. I did not budge. (Stubbornness came from his Momma, perhaps?) For three mornings, Jordan sat in time out in the corner of my kitchen, arms folded across his chest, scowl of absolute refusal plastered onto his little face. All I wanted him to do was exercise a little bit of initiative. You know, do something, anything besides lay in a crumpled heap on the living room floor, whining that he just couldn't do it. A glimmer of effort was all I wanted. But he wouldn't budge either. So we sat. Morning after morning, hour after hour, he sat in the corner and frowned. By the end of the week, absences were piling up and my nerves were stretched so thin, I couldn't do anything but cry. I was failing, you see. And I just didn't know what to do. 

And then, my Mother, bless the woman, decided I needed an intervention. She called a good friend, a Family Therapist and said, "Please, oh please call my daughter." 

Her friend called. I'm pretty sure I blubbered on the phone - not just cried, but real honest to goodness chest heaving blubbered. I might be a little embarrassed about that now, but in the moment, I felt so completely clueless about how to reach my child. I explained my situation, detailed my desire for Jordan to be responsible, my surety that I could not give in, because then my kid would think all he had to do to get his way was pitch a fit. This was a battle I HAD to win, but it had been going on for three days and Jordan was starting to throw kitchen chairs at me, and time outs weren't working, and, and, and... could she see how distressing my situation was? 

Distressing, indeed. Her answer was so simple.

"Jenny," she said, "You're getting ready to have another baby. (Henry was due in just a few months.) Every morning, you send Jordan off to school, and then spend all day with his baby brother and sister. And now, you'r having another baby that will also be home with you all day, while Jordan is off at school. He doesn't want to be replaced, Jenny. And he's scared." 

I will never forget the clarity of mind I experienced when she said those words. A light bulb of epic proportions suddenly lit up.

"I hadn't even thought of that," I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. 

So what to do? "You baby that child," she said. "Carry him to his bed. Get him dressed. Feed him his oatmeal. Carry his backpack to the car, and into his classroom. Brush his teeth. Do for him exactly what you do for his younger siblings. I promise, within the week, he'll be telling you he can do it himself. He just wants to know that you love him the same. Right now he doesn't need to learn to be responsible. He needs reassurance. He just needs a little bit of extra love."

It was so very clear, I was ashamed I hadn't considered it on my own. And yet, I was so involved, so emotionally attached to what I thought was best for my child, how could I expect to see the possibility of a bigger picture?

I needed an outside perspective - someone that could assess the situation without emotional involvement and then remove the blinders that  so stubbornly obscured my own view. 

As for Jordan, it worked. Within a week of extra pampering, and extra reassurance, my sweet natured, independent little boy, willing to dress himself and feed himself and brush his own teeth, was back. 

I learned a lot from that experience. I learned that a child's demonstration of poor behavior may be caused by something that at first glance, appears completely unrelated. In the months right after Ivy was born, for example, Henry's ability to remain potty trained was directly associated with how much time he was spending with me. 

And I learned that it's okay to seek wisdom and outside perspective from a good friend, a sister, a mother, or even a therapist. It's okay to ask for help, to admit we might not have all the answers on our own. This parenting that we do, this growing of children, it really can take a village. And that's okay.

Mamma Duck

It’s a weighty responsibility, to lead little ones. Especially little ones that know you, that love you, that would follow you anywhere you lead them. What if I take a wrong step? Make a wrong choice? What if I get scared? What if I don’t know which way to go?

The other day while fixing dinner, the baby started to cry, and all four older children started asking for four different things, all at the same time. The sudden chaos, the noise pushed me near over the edge.

I lost my cool.

I yelled. I pounded my fists. I overreacted.

Minutes later, the kids sat quietly, eyes downcast. I picked up the baby and took a deep breath. Not their fault, I thought to myself.

Then, an apology.

“Guys, I’m not a perfect Mommy. I make mistakes, I get frustrated. I shouldn’t have yelled. Can you forgive me and be patient as I keep trying to be a better Mommy?”

Instant smiles.

“Okay,” they replied.

Huh. Who knew apologies worked on our kids too?

It is so scary to lead… so scary to know they are looking at me, learning from me.

I’m not perfect, but you know what? Neither are they.

So we work imperfectly together, trying our best, learning and growing and experiencing joy. 

Because it is joyful.

(Thanks to my lovely nephews who played with me at our family campout last Summer and helped make these pictures so much fun!)

And Life Continues

"...nothing was said of the second child, from the time he noticed it's growth swelling her body until the day came in Autumn when she laid down her hoe one morning and crept back to the house...

Later before the sun set, she was back beside him, her body flattened, spent, but her face silent and undaunted.

"Is it male, or female?"

She answered calmly, "It is another male."

*from The Good Earth, by Pearl S. Buck

For so long, it was THE day - the only day I thought of. It was my focus, my goal, my light at the end of a tunnel.

And then she was born.

She changed everything, and yet, nothing has really changed.

Older kids still need to go to the dentist and the doctor; to gymnastics class and cub scouts. Messes are made, meals are prepared. School projects still need focus and attention. New shoes and new summer clothes, and church pants that aren't too short all need to be purchased.

Family life, my life, keeps going on. It just goes on with an extra tiny person around. She is new, but already, she is essential; a vibrant color woven into the fabric of our family, so lovely, I wonder how we ever looked complete without her.

It was but a subtle shift... an accommodation willingly made to welcome and make room. And now, she fits. She is a vital. She is us.

That day, the day she was born, was big. But what matters now are the small moments - the day to day events that bind our family together, stitching our hearts one to another, connecting our eternities.

A prayer that mentions each child by name - Jordan, Lucy, Sam, Henry, Ivy.

An after bedtime appearance on the stairs because a goodnight kiss for the baby was forgotten.

A quiet moment when baby's eyes reveal a soul fresh from heaven, ready to learn, to grow, to contribute.

Yes, birth is big. It is, after all, a necessary step in this thing we call life. But it's the progression of life, the patterns, the habits, the teaching, the onward and upward efforts that we make every single day that make up our eternity.

So onward and upward I go... all five in tow.

"It is not so much the major events as the small day-to-day decisions that map the course of our living. . . . Our lives are, in reality, the sum total of our seemingly unimportant decisions and of our capacity to live by those decisions."

- President Gordon B. Hinckley

Self worth.

When I was 8 years old, I started taking piano lessons from the same woman that had instructed my sister, 4 years my senior. I've mentioned before that my sister is a very gifted musician. At 12 years old, she demonstrated noticeable and noteworthy talent. It was obviously a gift - music would always be a part of her future. For me, it was more a skill to be learned. I was an adequate student - no better or worse than the typical 8 year old. But my well intentioned teacher could not help but compare me to my older sister and held her standard of approval for my efforts much too high. I will never forget the afternoon that she looked at me with exasperation, placed her fingers over her eyes and said, "Do you actually manage to get good grades in school?"

I will also never forget the resolute look on my Mother's face when she told me that I never had to go back to piano lessons again. She was my champion, you see - a mother who understood the fragility of my budding self esteem and didn't want me in any situations that would make me feel less valuable because I wasn't like my sister.

And she REALLY was my champion. When my love for horses became so overwhelming, I nearly cried myself to sleep with longing, my mother shrugged her shoulders, made a few phone calls, and signed me up for horse-back riding lessons. When I wanted to play the Oboe in middle school, she found me an instrument and an instructor. When I started high school, and wanted to give up band so that I had more time for theater, journalism and swim team, she supported me in every endeavor. When A's were made, she cheered. When that ever present B in Math repeated itself every single term, she shrugged. "You did your best," she'd say, because she knew that I had done my best.

The greatest gift my mother ever gave to my self esteem was the assurance that she loved me just the way I was - I was good enough. I never felt any pressure to be as musical, as smart, as anything as any of my siblings. What I was good at was good enough. Comparisons between my sister and I were inevitably made - we went to the same high school, had many of the same teachers, looked a good deal alike. I very frequently heard the line, "Well, I know who YOUR sister is..."

(You want to know my standard reply? "Yes, she is my sister... but I'm NOT as nerdy as she is..." He he... kidding. A little...)

I know without a doubt that the reason I was able to consider this a compliment, rather than an indication of my sister's ever present "shadow", is because of the efforts my parents made to value and support my individuality.

And so, God willing, it shall be with my own children. They are so very different. They are smart in different ways, excel in different areas, and have such different interests. I hope that I can be their champion - that I can encourage and support all the different paths they may choose to take. It often seems, in this day and age, with all the challenges young people face, self esteem is hard to come by. I'm determined to make my home a place where my kids feel celebrated; a place where they know they can be their very best self, and it will always be good enough. If they want to hike, sing, dance, act, play, swim, run, ride, snorkel, yodel... I'm in.

Fret.

"What are the odds," I said to my doctor, my eyes clouded with worry. "I have four lovely, beautiful, healthy children. When will fate step in and give me a baby that isn't perfect?"

"Perfect by whose standards?" my doctor asked. "Maybe your baby will have struggles. But that doesn't mean it won't be perfect. You are going to get the baby that God wants you to have... the baby that is perfect for you. Whatever may or may not come along with that, you'll be able to handle it."

I didn't have a specific reason to worry about my baby. I still don't. Everything appears to be healthy and wonderful and perfectly normal. And yet, I still worried. I felt as if I were waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the fateful blow that would rock my world and send me spiraling out of control. Until that day, when my doctor basically said, "So what?"

He was right, you know. And that day was the last day I really worried about this baby. Worrying accomplishes so very little. It can kill us though, can't it? Wear us down, consume our energy, keep us from accomplishing anything productive. That day I decided I was not going to surrender to worry. I imagine my baby and I are both much healthier because of it.

I'm not a high anxiety kind of person. But there are a few things that will cause some hand ringing. My children, for example. I've been known to lay awake at night worrying about them. But that's just part of mothering, isn't it? And for me, it's nothing that a heartfelt plea to my Heavenly Father for a feeling of peace and calm in my heart, can't remedy.

Another thing I stress about? Airplanes. I love flying about as much as I love a pelvic exam. And yet, what good does worrying do? My fears aren't so severe that they'll keep me from getting on an airplane and flying to Utah for the CBC. What good does it do to fret about it?

Sometimes, legitimate concern can lead to action, which is good. But worrying... fretting when nothing can be done to change an outcome, there's no purpose in it. We will all have trials and challenges and struggles throughout our life. They may come as a series of small hiccups, or as one massive blow that near wipes us out completely. But whatever it is, whenever it happens, we WILL have the strength to handle it. We've been promised as much. So don't worry.

Eatin My Humble Pie

(In addition to this post, I'm also featured over here today. Give it a click and read!)

A few years ago, my neighbor came over so that we could make homemade bread together. See, she and her husband had joined us for dinner the week before. We enjoyed a lovely meal of chicken noodle soup and french bread... bread that I had made from scratch. My neighbor couldn't believe that I made bread. In her words, I was "amazing". She couldn't fathom how it was possible to take care of four kids AND still have time to make homemade bread from scratch. So feeling all proud of me and my bad self, I told her it was easy, and I could absolutely teach her how. Wheat bread, white bread, french bread, sourdough... what was her fancy?

When she arrived, I welcomed her into my home, feeling confident and capable and much like Martha Stewart about to bestow gifts of domestic bliss and wonder on the unlearned. But first, I had to expertly whisk my baby off to bed for his morning nap. He smiled and waved as I carried him back to the bedroom, and went right to sleep without a peep. My neighbor made a comment about what a good a baby he was and how wonderful it was that he took such great naps. I laughed off her compliment and made some vague reference to years of parenting experience and expertise. I mean really, what would you expect from someone as capable and "amazing" as me?

(Insert ridiculously loud cough right here so as to fully punctuate my sarcasm.)

Then, we made the bread. I instructed, I gave tips, I explained what works and what doesn't. I shared my many experiences because all joking aside, I have actually been making bread for a long time. After setting the dough to rise, we had a nice chat about how you don't actually have to be afraid of yeast... it isn't really that scary. It's EASY to make great bread.

While she went to check on her baby, I went to check on the rising wonder that is MY homemade bread. Imagine my surprise when I turned back the dishcloth covering the dough to find a nice smooth ball of dough exactly the same size as it was an hour before.

Oh dear.

My neighbor came and looked over my shoulder.

"Ummm, isn't it supposed to rise and get bigger?"

Um, yeah. It IS supposed to. But I totally just got schooled by the wicked beastly creature that is yeast. And I'm thinking maybe my massive ego didn't do much to assist the baking process either.

Fortunately, my neighbor was wonderfully forgiving and laughed off the entire experience. We're all only human after all. ESPECIALLY me. Though it was nice, for that brief moment in time before I enjoyed a delicious slice of humble pie, to think that I actually was the Grand Master of all things Good and Domestic.

(You know, we aren't neighbors anymore... I ought to look her up and ask if her she ever tried to make bread on her own. I mean, after having had such a great teacher...)

Big Impressions on Tiny Lives.

When my oldest son, Jordan, was 18 months old, my entire family flew out to Arizona to meet my brother's new baby. It was early in the morning and the airport was nearly deserted. My dad decided to go for a walk down the empty terminal. Jordan wanted to go along. Grandpa and grandson walked off together.

I looked up and watched the two of them walk away. My Dad, tall and strong, walking with a peace and surety that only comes from many years life experience; and Jordan, so small and unsure, certain only in his unwavering desire to echo the man beside him.

 

I wonder if we can really know the impact we have on the tiny lives around us. We get angry, we judge others, we curse under our breath. We give a hug, we help others, we say a kind word. All the while, our children watch. Be it good or bad, we are their examples. When Jordan was 4, he was standing at the window, waiting for his Daddy to come home from work. I walked by and heard him mutter under his breath, "Where are you? I'm so angry that you're not home yet!" His tone was identical to mine and I knew that those were my words; words that I probably assumed he hadn't heard. Yet, here he was repeating them.

Experts say character and moral structure is mostly defined by the time a child is 6 years old. It's a wonder we parents don't all crawl under our beds and hide from such a responsibility. Surely I'm not the only parent that lies awake at night worrying about the character of a child that loves hitting and refuses to share. Do we teach them enough to make a difference? When there seems to be so much in this world against goodness... is it enough?

Having said that, I'm not giving up. I still see the light at the end of the tunnel. I think of my son Jordan trying to walk just like his Grandpa and realize there isn't a better man for him to pattern his life after. I think of the times I've heard Jordan offer comfort to his brother and sister, often repeating words he's heard me say; this time, words of love and comfort. I can't guarantee that there won't ever be anything bad that passes from me to my children, and I can't always protect them from the often negative influences of the outside world, but I can cram them so full of good, that maybe the bad won't matter so much.

*Originally posted back in the good old days of 2007. It's still one of my favorite pictures... makes my heart happy every time I see it.

Judge not, that Ye be not Judged.

A few years ago, a sweet and energetic young missionary started her mission in our little tiny branch here in the secluded mountains of North Carolina. She was excited about the prospect of meeting others, of teaching the Gospel and ministering to any who were willing to listen. While I believe her heart was in the right place, a few things seemed to be holding her back.

One Sunday in the hallway, she bounced up to me and asked me what part of Utah I was from.

I smiled and shook my head. "I'm not from Utah," I replied.

"You're not?" she asked.

"Born and raised right here in these mountains," I said. "Did someone tell you I was from Utah?"

She smiled. "Oh, no. I just assumed you were from Utah because you're pretty."

Huh. Talk about a backhanded compliment. If you know anything about me, you know I'm very proud of my southern heritage. I love where I live... the culture, the people, the flavor of the south. I wasn't happy with the implications of her remark.

What I FELT like saying was, "Wow. So where does your bigoted idiocy make you from?"

But I didn't do it. It would have been just as ridiculous a remark as her own and I've never been one to try for intentional obnoxiousness. And really, what good would it do for her to think that the folks of North Carolina are not only ugly, but mean too?

(Note that I am not denying any cases of unintentional obnoxiousness. That seems to follow me everywhere I go and while I've often tried to disengage myself from such an identification... it clings to me like dog hair on your favorite black pants. But I don't seek it; not on purpose, and certainly not by sparring with Sister missionaries.)

For the short period of time this sister served in our area, she continued to struggle. Her disdain for the people, for the smallness and sometimes lack of functionality of our branch was obvious. I hope that wherever she served next, she was able to learn to love the people, regardless of appearance, color, or fashion sense. I hope that she was able to realize that a person's need for the Gospel, or ability to serve therein has nothing to do with how one looks and everything to do with how they feel.

Judgement is an ugly thing. It hurts to be judged and even worse, I think it hurts to judge wrongly and then realize opportunities or friendships lost because of our own shortsightedness. We can pin people into categories and by so doing, completely miss the person that they really are, the magnitude of what they might be able to offer to us, to others, to everyone.

When all we see is too southern, or too slow; too fat, or too thin; too old, or too ignorant; not capable, not willing, not pretty, we miss what's on the inside. And though it sounds cliched, it's what's on the inside that counts.

Truth be told, my little tiny mountain branch is a little quirky. We are an imperfect branch, full of imperfect people; people that have never lived anywhere but right here in these mountains. People that have been to college, and people that have not; simple people, complex people, pretty, not so pretty, fat, thin, and everywhere in between. But among those people, in all their diversity, are people that when faced with challenges and overwhelming obstacles, steadily put one foot in front of the other and live the Gospel. There are people who when they have nothing, give everything to serve others, to serve the Lord. This branch has taught me much about love and sacrifice and those lessons didn't have anything to do with appearance.

Many years ago, a different missionary was called to serve in the town where I grew up. The first few weeks after his arrival, his "southern" jokes were relentless. He spoke of toothless rednecks, refrigerators on porches, and hound dogs on every front step. He was harsh, to say the least.

One day, my mother, also southern-born and proud of it, backed him up against the wall and said, "Elder, are you planning on baptizing anyone on your mission?"

"Absolutely!" he energetically responded.

"How do you plan to baptize people you don't love?" my Mother asked.

Chagrined, humbled, this particular missionary went on to serve an outstanding mission and I believe wholeheartedly loved the people here when he went home.

Stereotypes are judgments too. Redneck. Yankee. Utah Mormon. Valley girl. They limit us, keep us from being people, individuals that can serve and contribute. They keep us from being ourselves, and from loving others for who they are, instead of for who we think they are based on judgments.

So we should just stop. The end.

A tiny miracle.

I REALLY couldn't handle being sick again.

The past few weeks haven't been easy, dealing with the flu, and secondary respiratory infections on top of the every day sickness that comes with pregnancy. My entire family has suffered for it, not to mention the dishes and ever increasing piles of laundry.

You can imagine my desperation when Thursday evening I found myself flat on my back with a fever, chills, and the worst body aches I have ever endured. Friday I went to the doctor. Do you know what they said?

It was flu. They tested me. IT WAS THE FLU. Except I just had the flu. How on earth could I be sick again? The doctor was nearly positive that this was the new H1N1 virus, (maybe I just had seasonal flu last time?) that has proved serious and in some cases, even fatal to pregnant women. Comforting thought, isn't it? I told my husband I couldn't do it. My reserves of strength and energy were completely gone and I just couldn't fight anymore, physically, or mentally. The idea of several more days of fever, aches and pains and a neglected list of motherly responsibilities was a wall I simply didn't think I could climb.

So my husband gave me a priesthood blessing, and family members offered prayers on my behalf.

Saturday morning, the fever was gone, and now by Saturday evening, I feel well enough to have just fixed my children pancakes, to have loaded the dishwasher, and even spend a few minutes writing up a blog.

In my weakened state, from previous illness and pregnancy, I feel fairly certain that H1N1 could have wiped me out for much more than 48 hours, had it not been for the healing power of the priesthood and the glorious intervention of prayer. I truly believe I was prayed to wellness and am so grateful that my Heavenly Father is aware of me, and was willing to intervene on my behalf.

I'm still taking it easy. But I feel SO much better, and was so happy to be coherent and functional enough that I could really enjoy today's sessions of General Conference. It was wonderful, wasn't it? Can't wait for tomorrow.