Making Motherhood Memorable

Benefits to Basement Living

2012-01-17T13:59:00.000-08:00

Nearly five months ago, my husband and I did something most people thought was crazy. We put the upstairs portion of our house for rent, and we moved our family of seven down to our basement. Now, I'll admit from the outside, this probably does seem like an insane idea, but the truth is, we had prayed for an answer as to how to pay off the debt we incurred through adopting our newest baby, and this was the solution that we felt inspired to try.

From the onset, I was determined to have a positive attitude. We found a great little family to rent the upstairs and signed a one-year contract with them. One year. I figured I could live through anything for one year. So, we sold half of what we owned, and the other half we strategically nestled somewhere in new living space. Truthfully, it felt great. I couldn't believe how much we had accumulated that we simply didn't need. We worked extremely hard all summer to get the house ready. Now came the hard part--actually living together in a more confined space. I totally expected us to go somewhat crazy; I expected to get depressed from the lack of sunshine; I expected more fighting from getting on each other's nerves; I expected it to be a tough year. What I didn't expect was to love it!

That's right. I know I sound even crazier now, but I truly love basement living. Here are a few reasons why:

1-If we have a week of cloudy, yucky weather, I really can't tell. I mean, we have good windows downstairs and they are even pretty high above the ground, but it's not the same as having big upstairs windows that let in the sunshine. Of a truth, I do miss the sun a little, but overall, it's nothing like I expected.

2-No solicitors!!!! None! Ever!! I love it!!! Major perk!!

3-Half a house to clean. I mean, seriously. Half the house work. It takes us, well . . . half the time to get the work done. Less work, more play. What can I say?

4-More family togetherness. Okay, so this is not always a positive thing. There are days we want to choke each other, but overall, I truly think we are growing closer as a family. For one thing, there's no place to hide. We are pretty much all together all the time. Because of this, we are learning patience, tolerance, unselfishness, and much, much more. I firmly believe we will look back on this experience one day and realize it was one of the best times in our lives.

5-Free educational "experiences." What do I mean? Well, one day we walked outside to find a baby frog on our front steps. Another day it was covered with worms. We woke up one morning to a strange sound and noticed a frog climbing up our window screen outside our bedroom. The frog could climb up to the top of the screen, but then he couldn't figure out how to jump to the ground to safety. My boys were all over this. They ran outside to try to help the frog; the only problem was they were both too scared to touch it. Another morning we woke up to find a mouse in the window well. A praying mantis made its way up and down the screen on our bedroom window for weeks as well. It was like a different Discovery channel episode every day, and it was right outside our windows. Can't have that experience living upstairs.

6-Better temperature control. Sounds crazy, I know, because I honestly thought we would freeze down here. But without vaulted ceilings, it's much easier to get the house warm or cool. Lower ceilings do have their advantage. Another is that my kids can't jump rope, play catch, or do other inappropriate indoor activities they used to do upstairs, even though I told them not to. It's not an issue down here because it's simply not possible.

7-I'll probably get in trouble for saying this, but if I'm completely honest . . . another perk is that we have less overnight company. That's actually a very ironic statement coming from me because one reason I wanted to have a bigger home with a finished basement is so that our regular company would have a place to stay when they come. The truth is I love visitors, especially our families. But I have to admit it's been nice to have a small reprieve from constant company. Since we have no extra room, we seem to have no extra guests. I know the day will come when I will be ready for more room and more guests and I will welcome that day, but as for now, it's one tiny stress I'm enjoying living without.( I still love you, dear family and friends--honest I do! Please keep visiting.)

8-I guess what it all really boils down to is that life is more simple. Yes, that's it. In getting rid of stuff and space and a lot of extras I was living with, I now have more time with my family. I am happier than I think I've ever been. Life continues to be so good to me--to us. I'm learning we can be just as happy, just as grateful, just as fulfilled living in the basement as we ever were living in the entire house, and that's the best benefit of all!

Spicing Up Dinner

2012-01-05T14:16:00.000-08:00

In an effort to make mealtimes more meaningful, I decided to try something new. Truthfully, I am infamous for pulling little "tricks" out of nowhere to draw my children into something I feel is important, whether it's a system to encourage kindness, or a new incentive to make it to scripture reading, or whatever. Such was the case this time. A little light bulb popped into my head and I did what I usually do--I ran with it. Most of the time my ideas start out with interest and fervor, and then end up losing momentum in no time. Somehow, that doesn't seem to deter me from inventing more and more schemes to manage, encourage, and . . . okay, I'll just say it because it's probably somewhat true--coerce my children into adopting positive behavioral patterns and attitudes.

So, here's what I did. I told my children that although I didn't have questions printed out yet, I thought it would be fun at dinner time to take turns choosing a random question out of a jar and giving everyone an opportunity to answer it. Questions would range from silly and easy-to-answer, to more thought-provoking and intrinsic. All in all, we could find out fun facts about one another and maybe even learn more about what is deep inside each other's heads and hearts. Mostly, though, we would all stay at the dinner table for a while--together--rather than some of us getting up and down or engulfing our food in one bite and then disappearing.

Since I didn't have printed questions, I decided to simply pull some out of the air to ask my family. Diving right in, I started with a deep question. "What is one thing you have learned from the current prophet, President Monson, that has stuck with you?" Noticing immediately that my husband wasn't portraying the kind of excitement I hoped him to, I decided to draw him in by directing my question to him first. "Dan?"

It was immediately apparent he had only been half-listening, but he reviewed the question and then tried to come up with an answer. Nada. Not off to a good start. I moved on to one of my children. My 10-year-old came up with an amazing story I had heard years ago and forgotten about a boy who had had his prayer answered. Impressive. And then my 12-year-old came up with a good answer (although she wasn't entirely positive the counsel was from the current prophet). My six-year-old gave her usual "Sunday school" response--"Read your scriptures," and my five-year-old . . . well, he was losing interest in our game already.

To be safe, I decided to lighten things up. Next question: "How many kids do you want to have?" Again, I started with my husband. I knew this was sly trickery but I couldn't help myself. He gave me the deer-in-the-headlights look as if to say, Is this a trick question? Then, he wittingly pointed to each child and counted up to five as he did. "Five!" I smiled and moved on.

My older children both said, "four or maybe five," and then when I got to my six-year-old, she immediately and matter-of-factly answered, "two!" I was impressed that she was so certain, so I asked her why she wanted two children. That's when she said (in a voice as if to say, "duh!"), "Because I have two names picked out!" I love the way children think! Of course! You can't have more kids than the number of names you've picked out!

Lastly, my five-year-old son said, "I want to have 10 kids."

Ten? Wow! Again, I probed further. "Ten kids is a lot," I said. Then, thinking myself quite clever I asked, "What will you do if they are all naughty?"

"Have you teach them to be nice!" he answered. What a solution! That's when my oldest daughter looked at me and said, "Well, Mom, I guess you've got 10 more kids to raise!"

Feeling a little tired at this point, I decided to end with one more question: "What is one goal you have to improve yourself this new year?"

"Dan?" I asked, catching him off-guard once again.

This time he had a good answer. "Well, keep exercising, keep reading my scriptures . . . and study more of what the prophet says so I have an answer the next time you ask me!"

I chuckled right out loud. I wasn't sure how anyone else felt about our new family dinner tradition, but I had found it very enlightening! It turned out to be one of the most insightful dinner conversations I'd had in a long time.

So, if anyone is looking for a way to "spice up dinner," you could give this technique a try. Just a little warning--be prepared for anything. You never know what answers you might get!

Christmas--The Most Wonderful Time of the Year???

2011-12-27T17:11:00.000-08:00

I absolutely love Christmas music! Truthfully, it's one of my favorite things about the Holiday season. This year, I started listening to it regularly as soon as FM 100 started playing it nonstop. I just had it going on a little radio in my house all day long, and I'm telling you, it brightened my spirits every day. My favorite songs of all are the traditional ones, like "White Christmas," "Sleigh Ride," "I'll Be Home for Christmas," and of course, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year." If you visited me during the month of December, chances are you found me turning up the volume and belting out some of these fabulous tunes. My kids constantly shook their heads in dismay, but I noticed it brightened their spirits as well. There's nothing like an optimistic lyric, such as "It's the most wonderful time of the year" running through your mind all day. That is, until things start falling apart.

Then, it's just annoying.

Let me explain.

Here I was, all full of joyful, uplifting Christmas spirit, a long list of activities planned to do with my children during Christmas break. I was higher than a kite as I thought of each carefully planned activity and how much fun we were going to have together. It was going to be our best Christmas break ever!

Oh, how wonderful! Oh, how positive! Oh, how naive!

My children came home from school early the first day of the break to a smiling, warm mother. An hour later, that mother (me, I hate to say) was ready to ship them all to Siberia and pick them up when they had resolved all their issues and were ready to cooperate. That's when the baby started throwing up. The rest of the day I sat on the couch with a terribly sick 7-month-old and tried to help her through one gagging episode after another.

Day 1 of Christmas Vacation: Failure

The next morning I woke up rejuvenated and ready to face a new day. That's when my 12-year-old started heaving. She slept on the bathroom floor that night while I lay in bed, listening to her heave her guts out, wishing there was something I could do.

Day 2 of Christmas Vacation: Failure

My six-year-old caught the bug by the following morning, and as much as we tried to pretend we all felt well enough to go to the movies, at last we faced reality and stayed home. No one cared to eat the delicious treats I had prepared or the dinner I had planned. In fact, no one cared to do much at all, except lie around. When my nine-year-old (the last of my kids to get the flu as my five-year-old had already suffered through it the week before) threw up all over my bedspread and bedroom carpet, I began to come a little unglued. This was not the Christmas break I had dreamed about, prepared for, and looked forward to. The song, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year " came on the radio, and I immediately switched it off. There was nothing wonderful so far.

Day 3 of Christmas Vacation: Failure

I spent that night waiting to throw up. I was sure after cleaning up as much bodily fluid as I had all week, I was sure to be next. I woke up Christmas Eve morning exhausted and a little downhearted. We managed to make it through the day without a single person losing their stomachs. Does that mean it was a success? Maybe.

Day 4 of Christmas Vacation: Semi-successful

After quickly laying out Christmas that evening I fell into bed, exhausted. To ensure I actually slept, I decided to take a sleeping pill. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but the next morning when my children were out in the living room raving about what Santa had brought them, I couldn't arouse myself from my pill-induced sleep. I tried unsuccessfully a few times to drag myself out of bed, but to no avail. I finally got up in time to take a quick shower, put my hair in a bun and slump into the car to drive to church. Not exactly the Christmas morning I had envisioned. The amazing breakfast I had planned for the day didn't actually happen until noon. All of the spiritual activities I had planned to help us remember the true significance of the day . . . well . . . they just didn't happen. I was too tired to put it all together. I crashed on the couch and fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke from my nap, I finally felt like a real person again. Too bad it was a little late to make a fabulous Christmas day.

Or not.

Although nothing had gone as planned, I decided to make the most of what was left of our Christmas. I whipped out the strobe light my little girl had gotten from Santa and her Party Mix CD and turned out the lights. Not exactly a Sabbath Day activity, I know, but since we had blown it all day, I decided we would start fresh the next week. We danced and sang and danced some more. It was on the second stanza of the all-famous "YMCA" song that I realized I may have gotten into the activity a little too much. I jumped up to form a "Y" with my arms and when I came down, I realized I had had a little accident. In other words, I had peed my pants a little (sorry if that's tmi--I don't know a nicer way to say it. After giving birth four times, my bladder is just not what it used to be). Running to the bathroom, I thought to myself, Oh great--I've blown it again. How lame can I be? But my kids actually thought it was hilarious, and I dare say it made their whole night. I mean, what can be better than Mom dancing so hard she peed her pants, right?

So, all in all, we ended up spending some quality time together. As we nesteld together to watch a movie after the dancing, I looked around at my husband and children and realized life just didn't get any better. The infamous Christmas tune returned to my mind once more . . .

"It's the most wonderful time of the year!"

And I couldn't help but agree.

Day 5 of Christmas Vacation: Success at last!

Officially a Conger

2011-12-07T11:20:00.000-08:00

Nearly a year ago my husband and I took one of the biggest leaps of faith ever in our married lives and turned in adoption papers. We had four wonderful children of our own--two boys, two girls--and felt life was pretty much perfect. Our youngest was four years old, growing more independent every day, and so it seemed we were entering a more comfortable stage of life. That's when it happened. You know, that nagging inside that tells you something is missing. My husband told me he kept walking into the room and feeling like someone wasn't there, but then he'd look around and notice we were all accounted for. He thought it was kind of strange; I knew it had to be something more.

And so, we prayed about it and decided to take the plunge one more time and get pregnant. Three months later, when it seemed everything was working against us, we reevaluated our decision. It just didn't feel right, and when my back flared up, making it difficult to function, we realized sadly that my body just wasn't up to another pregnancy. We were reminded of other health concerns and sadly accepted the fact that we would not be welcoming another child into our home. It was a poignant time in our lives. On one hand, we were so grateful for the four healthy children we had been blessed with. And it wasn't that they weren't enough. They were. But, when you feel in your soul that there's more out there for you, it's hard to ignore the prompting.

That's when I began to seriously think about adoption. We had discussed it a couple of times in our married lives, but since we had been blessed to have our own children, it never became a matter of serious contemplation. Now it was. What started as a tiny idea began to grow in my heart and mind until I could hardly think of anything else. There was just one problem. Money.

Adoption is a very expensive endeavor. We were barely making ends meet as it was. It seemed impossible. That's when I ended up in a Wal-Mart check-out line one evening behind a woman with two heaping shopping carts. As I helped her unload her groceries, I couldn't help but ask if she had a large family. She proceeded to tell me about her seven children--four biological, three adopted from three different venues. I told her we had considered adoption and she said, "Then it must be right for you. Not everyone feels that way. Don't be afraid to really pursue it. It's such a wonderful thing." I've never seen this woman again; I don't even know her name. But I do believe we were meant to meet. You just never know what can happen at Wal-Mart!

I went home and told my husband my experience and we began to pray sincerely for answers. It took a lot of faith to even ask, because if the answer was affirmative, we had no idea how we would make it actually work. As the provider for our family, my husband was especially hesitant. I, on the other hand, was ready to move forward full throttle. I knew if God had told us to do it, He would then provide a way to make it work. That's all the answer I needed.

Two months later, we handed in adoption papers. I was ecstatic! Dan was petrified (kind of like when I found out we were expecting our first child:). Six weeks later we were offered an unexpected situation. It was Monday. Two little girls, one three months old, the other 17 months old, would arrive on Friday. Did we want them? Wow! We certainly hadn't expected two. We had only one afternoon decide. It would mean a new vehicle since we didn't have one that would fit us all. It would mean two in diapers. It would mean a major change! We thought about all of this--and said yes.

Four days later we anxiously awaited the opportunity of meeting the birth mom and taking home our two new little girls. They never came. Days went by and we never heard from them again. It was excruciating. We were heartbroken. It was hard to keep moving and going on with life as normal when inside I felt a part of me was gone. I fell to my knees time and time again, seeking strength and understanding from a Source who knew the bigger picture. Peace always came. I decided to simply trust.

Less than a week later, we were offered a new opportunity. A birth mom was here from South Carolina. Her baby was due in 10 weeks. A girl. Did we want to be matched with her? It was a difficult decision. On the one hand, I was more than eager to get ready for another baby; on the other hand, I was still mourning what we never even had and scared we might have our hearts broken once again. That's the risk you take any time a baby is coming into the world; it seems like an even bigger risk with adoption. It's tough when the final decision isn't resting in your own hands. We prayed, we pondered, we discussed, and we prayed some more. Then we committed.

Our beautiful baby girl was born May 5, five weeks early. Weighing only 4 lbs, 13 oz. at birth, she was the tiniest package I'd ever brought home from the hospital. She was a miracle to us. My heart was so full of gratitude. Our other children welcomed her with open arms and loved her immediately.

Berkley Maya Fern Conger

Life changed forever. Not only did we now have a tiny baby to care for, but we had to make some pretty big sacrifices to meet the financial obligations we now had from the adoption. We felt prompted to move our family of seven to our basement and rent out the main floor of our home. It seemed a little crazy, but we did it and found that we are just as happy downstairs as we were upstairs! We have all sacrificed time, sleep, energy, and more for this little girl to be part of our family. The crazy thing about sacrifice is that, if it's for the right reason, it ends up feeling like it's not a sacrifice at all.

This past month it all came together. We woke up one morning, got dressed up and went to the courthouse to have the adoption finalized. It was a short, simple, yet wonderful experience. Our children were as excited as we were to finally have Berkley an official member of our family. But it was what happened 11 days later that made everything especially worth it.

Inside the courthouse--with the judge

On Saturday, November 26th, we went as a family to the Bountiful, Utah temple, where Berkley was sealed to us for eternity. Words cannot describe the joy that filled my heart. I felt it would surely burst in gratitude and pure, complete happiness. When our children were brought into the room, all dressed in white, I caught a glimpse of eternity and felt a fullness of joy like I've never felt before. It was one of the most beautiful, sacred experiences of my life. Berkley smiled sweetly the entire time, like she knew exactly what was happening. I realized in that moment that surely we had been missing something. Now we felt complete and whole and oh, so happy.

Outside Bountiful Temple

I think there are few times in our lives when we really grasp what life is truly about, when we see things from God's perspective, rather than our own limited and flawed point of view. When those moments come, you wish to bottle them up, to hold on as tightly as you can so that you won't ever forget them. But life moves on--all too quickly--and time, energy, and resources are in constant demand. Then, before you know it, special feelings, events and memories have been pushed too far back to recall them at a moment's notice. That's why I forced my heart and mind to take a picture--not just a picture, but a 4-D memory--so that I will never forget the way my children looked, arrayed all in white, bright smiles gleaming on their faces--like angels; the way my husband gazed at me--like he loved me more than anything else in the world; the way our families and friends gathered around us to share this special event--like it meant the world to them, too; the way I felt inside my heart--like I was the most blessed of any woman.

How grateful I am for those gnawing little feelings that tell you something is missing and that just won't go away until you carefully consider what they are trying to say. How grateful I am for answered prayers, to know that we never have to make decisions on our own with our limited knowledge, experience and expertise. God will always direct us if we ask, and I know I can trust Him implicitly. After all, He's a parent, too, and only wants what is best for us, just like we do for our own children. And how grateful I am for a beautiful brown baby girl who is now "officially a Conger" as my nine-year-old son wrote in his journal. She's the greatest gift in our lives since . . . well, our last child! Five amazing, challenging, wonderful children. All unique and different in their own way. All sent to teach me.

I must have a lot to learn!

You're Gonna Miss This

2011-11-18T16:53:00.000-08:00

Maybe it's because we brought a new baby into our home just six months ago. Maybe it's because we rented the upstairs of our home to help pay for the new baby (adoption is so not cheap) and moved our family of seven to our basement. I'm sure it's in part due to the obvious fact that I, as the mother of these five children, have been, shall we say, less than highly functional due to the many procedures I've had the past couple of months. Maybe it's the weather! Whatever the reason(s), my children have been pretty much out of control.

Usually, when things are a little rough it's because one of my kids are acting out and struggling a bit. That's when I realize this child may need extra attention or intervention for a while until he/she gets it together again. It's not fun when a child is struggling, but I've always been grateful it wasn't all of them at once. That is, until about two weeks ago.

That's when my children--all of them--started acting out. Constant fighting, constant tattling, constant beating each other up. I just kept thinking, "What is going on here?" I mean, my children are far from perfect, but we've never hit such rock bottom before all at once. I was beginning to think my children had made a pact with the devil or something, and I just wanted my real kids back again. I fell into bed exhausted every night from the never-ending effort to make and maintain peace in our home.

This past Sunday, after a grueling day of consistent contention, my husband and I looked at each other and just said "thank you" that we had each other to rely on and weren't trying to deal with it all by ourselves. I was so grateful to have a tag-team partner so that when I felt myself losing it, I could give him "the look" and he could jump in. Then, when I saw his patience wearing thin (which seldom happens), I could come to his rescue. Finally, a few nights later, I told him I wasn't sure I was up to it anymore. I was scared for him to go to work the next day and leave me all alone. That's when he reminded me of the miracle of the seven-hour school day, and I realized I'd never been so grateful to have three of my four older children in school all day! I just might survive after all.

I went to bed that night quite discouraged. Trying to give my children the benefit of the doubt, I reminded myself of all my kids had been through lately.Then I groaned as I faced the fact that I was heading in for another surgery. I wasn't sure our family could handle it. I found myself wishing for the time to pass quickly so we could get this all over with and life could be simpler, easier. I couldn't help but think that if my kids were older . . . if the baby wasn't so dependent . . . if Dan's job wasn't so demanding . . .and so on, this trial wouldn't be so difficult.

That's when I turned on the radio to a song that has always touched me. It's by Montgomery Gentry, and it's called, "You're Gonna Miss This." The lyrics explain how we have to enjoy the stage we are in with our kids--even if it's a difficult one--because they grow up fast, and one day we will realize we miss what we had. I love the chorus, which says, "You're gonna miss this. You're gonna want this back. You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast. These are some good times. So take a good look around. You may not know it now . . . but you're gonna miss this."

Those words struck me like a lightning bolt. My first reaction was, "Oh no, I'm not! I am not going to miss this! " But then, that darn song kept racing through my mind the rest of the day, and by night time, I began to really listen to the lyrics and apply them to my life, and I realized how true they were. No, I probably won't miss the the fighting, tattling, hitting, name calling, finger pointing, etc., but I will miss this time of my life. Even now, when things have been a little tough lately. Why? Because I know we are learning and growing as a family, and as difficult as growth can be, it feels good in the end. We are getting through some rough things--together--and I wouldn't have it any other way. I truly believe we will all be more humble, more tolerant, more understanding, more willing to serve others like we have been served because of these tough times. And besides that, there's a whole lot more about life right now I'm gonna miss some day.

Like watching my nine-year-old son play football--a sport he loves--and win the Mini-Bowl this year. Asking him if he feels it would be wise to cut his football-watching hours down on Sunday to make it more of a special day, and hearing his thoughtful answer, "Yea, I think I should. How about I only watch five hours?" Like hearing him tell me he loves me and giving me hugs and kisses every day before leaving for school.

Like smiling as my six-year-old tries on five different pairs of sweats before school each morning as she agonizes over which pair to wear (after all, you have to be comfortable at school). Watching her pretend to teach preschool, just like her mother, every spare minute she has. Like feeling her wonderful little arms around my neck, squeezing me in the best hugs ever.

Like watching my almost 12-year-old daughter set a goal to make a 14-under Power Volleyball club team, and make it! Hearing her show extreme patience with her five-year-old little brother and help him through problems when no one else can. Seeing her grow more beautiful every day and not even know it. Like seeing her smile when she notices she's now just slightly taller than I am.

Like watching my little five-year-old scrunch his eyebrows together as he tries to figure something out. Hearing him beg me to teach him to read and constantly saying, "I know how to spell_____" and then spelling it sort-of right. Listening to him bump his head and then saying, "You broke my smolder" because he loves movies and can quote them all day. Like hearing his insatiable laugh and seeing the sparkle in his eyes.

Like soaking up the beautiful smile of my baby! Seeing her learn and grow right before my eyes. Recognizing the miracle she is in our family. Like looking at her and knowing all is right in the world somehow.

Like watching my husband walk through the door at the end of the day and automatically thinking of how much I love this man. Being amazed at his unbelievable patience. Watching him lead and guide our family through example and meekness. Feeling his arms embrace me at the end of a very long day, knowing we can get through anything together.

Yes, I am gonna miss this. And so I'm determined--even on very rough days--to simply take it all in, see the good, and not be in such a hurry to enter a new phase of life. Because one day I'm sure I'm gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast . . .

. . .At least most days, that is!:)

LIFE--Oh, So Good!

2011-11-15T17:28:00.000-08:00

Okay, I just have to say from the start that my blog is having issues. It won't allow me to publish as normal, so if the layout isn't great, and the words are all scrunched together, I'm so sorry.

It seems like when life is harder than normal (not that normal isn't hard enough), and I'm groping to figure things out, I find myself drawn to the keyboard. I recently heard on a Dr. Phil show that writing feelings down can be a good way to find answers, resolve issues and move forward. That's my hope, I guess. And if I get to the end of the page and still have nothing figured out . . . well, at least I'll have a journal entry.

Three weeks ago I went to the dermatologist for what I thought would be a simple routine procedure to remove a small bump on my nose that was possible basal cell carcinoma. Four and a half hours later, I left with a huge hole in my face where my nose used to be. Apparently, the skin cancer had been growing deep beneath the surface of my skin for many years, spreading throughout my nose and to the corner of my eye. The plan was for me to walk next door to the plastic surgeon to get sewn up, but after staring at every angle of my face for what seemed like a lot of minutes, the plastic surgeon sighed, and told me there really weren't great options. The cancer had been in the crease of my nose, a very hard place to repair. It had also spread to the corner of my right eye. He would need thick skin for one part of my nose and very thin skin for another part. After taking pictures of me, he said he would study my nose that night and present us with options in the morning at the surgery center. I made the mistake of looking in the mirror before we left. Pictures don't really do justice. I gasped as I saw the deep, red gap in my face and wondered how it could ever be fixed.

(A little graphic--I should have warned you. Worse in real life. Almost to the bone. The tear rolling down my face is because I just looked in the mirror).

It was only three weeks previous that I had checked into the very same surgery center to have a laperoscopy. An ovarian cyst had ruptured and I had a lot of scar tissue built up from a surgery years ago that was pressing against my ovaries, causing pain and discomfort. I felt I was just getting back on my feet and feeling good when I found myself going under anesthesia once again. This time when I awoke I had a huge bandage sewn to my face and the pain had moved from my abdomen to my nose. It was necessary for the doctor to take a skin graft from my collar bone, and then also to make a cut up my forehead to take some thicker skin from there. Of course I looked pretty . . . what's the word . . .scary? But, determined not to let it discourage me or affect my attitude or self-perception, I took a couple of days to recover and then went about life as normal.

(three days after surgery--my collarbone shows where they took one of the grafts)

As I went out in public I experienced a little bit of what I'm sure many people with varying disabilities have gone through in their lives: pointing, staring, whispering, and more. My biggest fear was that my little four-year-old preschoolers would be afraid of me. I warned their parents that I looked a little abnormal, but these darling little children seemed more concerned that I was in pain than that I looked funny. That's the miracle of children. But in reality, I knew every time I left the house that I did look like I had gotten in a fight with a barbed wire fence and lost, and when people stared at me or children pointed, I was so grateful it didn't bother me. Of course I wished they were staring because of my astounding beauty, rather than my lighting bolt scar and blotchy skin graft, but I understood, and it was okay.

My six-year-old daughter, who happens to think appearance matters way more than it should, asked me one day if I was embarrassed to leave the house. When I told her I wasn't, she commented that she sure would be if it was her! My husband flashed the famous scolding look, but I only smiled, unoffended. It was a valid question. I was just thankful that, although I certainly don't look the way I'd like to, that my looks have nearly nothing to do with my life or my happiness. I'm just as happy--just as ornery, just as tired, just as emotional, just as everything--as before this happened. I guess it helps that I've never considered myself beautiful. Either way, life is still so good.

(what I look like now)

I returned to the dermatologist two weeks later to have some skin cancer removed from my back. The darn doctor told me it wouldn't be painful, but he lied. For two days, I bit my lip all day, trying to endure the pain from the incision and wondered if I was simply turning into a wimp. Even now, nine days later, my back is extremely sore. I've decided maybe my pain tolerance has decreased to the point of being intolerant altogether. Either way, I found out last week that I have a torn meniscus in my left knee and will be going in for a knee scope at the end of this week. Even as I write about it, I know how insane it sounds and I've considered cancelling it, but the throbbing in my knee insists I take care of it (and my husband reminding me our deductible has been met is a little hard to ignore as well:).

So, I'm feeling a bit beaten down. Sometimes I go to bed and don't know which pain to complain about--the one in my nose, my back or my knee (so usually, I go with all three, just to be consistent:). But, despite the pain and discomfort I have felt, which is so small compared to what I know zillions of other people have gone through, the part that has been the hardest is the toll it's taken on my family. My kids are sick to death of my problems and my inability to be at the top of my game. And I can just imagine them one day, when everyone is talking about all the great things their moms did, things like, "My mom always had freshly baked cookies waiting on the counter when we got home from school," or "My mom always woke up with a smile, whistling happy tunes all day long," my kids will only have this to say: "My mom always had surgery." Not exactly the legacy or the memory I'm hoping to leave behind.

I've thought a lot about Stephanie Nelson these past few weeks(not that my trials can even compare to what she's gone through). You know, the amazing woman who was burned on most of her body from a plane crash? I remember watching a small video clip about her as she talked about getting back into life again, and how difficult simple things were to do now. I can only imagine the pain she suffered and still does suffer from her injuries. But the part I will never forget is when she said this: "Life is good. It is oh, so good." I would think that would be pretty hard to say under her circumstances. And yet, I know what she means.

Life IS good. It IS oh, so good. Even when it's beating me up. Why? How? Because of what I know. And this is what I know. That I am never alone. That God hears my prayers and answers them in countless ways. That I am his child, his daughter, which means that it doesn't matter what my nose looks like. That He prepared a way for families to be together forever through sacred promises made in holy temples. That very little of what the world deems important matters at all. That I'm so grateful to be a wife and mother, especially now that being a supermodel is definitely out! That I have the gospel of Jesus Christ in my life; I have a family who loves me despite every reason I give them not to; and that it is enough.

So, here I am at the end of the page, and although I'm just as clueless as when I switched the computer on, I know things are going to be okay. I will get through one last surgery; my nose will eventually heal; scars will fade; and I will get to the top of my game once more. It just may be that the top isn't as high as it used to be!

The Wisdom of Four-Year-Olds (and Six-Year-Olds)

2011-09-02T09:31:00.000-07:00

What do I love about motherhood? The unique insight and wisdom of small children who seem to have life all figured out. Here's what I mean.

A couple of mornings ago I fled to my van in an instant rush when I noticed my nine-year-old son had once again left for school without making his bed or cleaning up his dirty clothes. Heaving a frustrated sigh, I decided I must follow through with my previous warning to pull him out of school to come home and clean up his mess, and I grabbed my keys. Thinking if I hurried I could catch him before he even got to school, thus maintaining some sort of dignity for the both of us, I threw my younger children in the van and took off. As I rounded the first corner, the thought occurred to me that if I didn't actually catch him before he got there, I was in a bit of a predicament as I had left home without a thought to put shoes on, or a bra either, for that matter. Thinking out loud, I mentioned my concern to my children. That's when my little four-year-old son, in a worried tone, said, "Oh no. I didn't put a bra on either!" Then, reassuring himself, he said, "Oh yea, I probably don't need one, huh, Mom?" Chuckling to myself, I told him I thought he'd probably be okay without one. Despite the stress of the whole event, I smiled all morning long.

Only a couple days later, another incident with my young son again made me laugh. He had come home from Chuck E Cheeses with some little washable tattoos he was thrilled to try out. Now, I'm not really too concerned about washable mouse tattoos at this point, but realizing we had been discussing in church the past few weeks the topic of our bodies being temples, I thought it would be a good opportunity to relate what we had learned to the situation at hand. So, I reminded my little guy about what we had learned in Primary, to which he kept saying, "Yes, I remember--so can I put the tattoo on?" Finally, I said, "Son, it's your choice. I think it would be better not to put a tattoo on, even if it is washable, but you are old enough to choose for yourself. So, I think you shouldn't do it, but it's your choice." He jumped off the bed, squealed with delight, then ran into the kitchen, yelling, "Mom said 'Yes!'" I shook my head and laughed. Apparently, I'll have to be more blunt next time.

Later that day, we were in the car and stopped to pick up a little friend. Boston had drug along a helium-filled star balloon (also from Chuck E. Cheese's--darn place) that he couldn't leave home without. Not thinking about the balloon, I opened the back hatch of my van to put in a bicycle, and out flew the star balloon. In moments it was soaring high above us with no way to retrieve it. My son was so distraught as he watched his precious balloon fly away. I knelt down to comfort him, telling him we could get another balloon. I felt terrible it had been my fault we had lost it. That's when Boston said, "Do you think that balloon will go all the way to heaven?" I answered, "Probably." He then said, "Then Jesus can get it." That's positive thinking, I thought. But then he really caught me off guard when he said, "And when I die and go to Heaven, I can ask Him to give it back to me, huh, Mom?" Well, how do you answer that question? I wasn't about to plunge into a scientific explanation on how long helium really keeps balloons in the air, so instead I just said, "That sounds like a great idea, son." And then smiled inside the rest of the way home. He never asked about the balloon again.

Just yesterday he did bring up Jesus again, however. Right out of the blue he said, "Mom, is there more than one Jesus?" Now, I have been caught off guard a few times by deep spiritual questions from my small children, but still, they never cease to amaze me. "Yes, honey, there is only one Jesus," I answered. "So, does that mean there is only one world?" he probed further. Oh boy, how do I answer this question, I thought. I always want to answer honestly, but sometimes these questions are more than difficult to answer exactly. "That's all I know of," I said, hoping that would satisfy him. But, as the day wore on and I thought about this young child's deep desire to know of spiritual things, and I was humbled. How is it that my four-year-old is asking questions I've never given much thought to? How is it that he seems to understand the simple beauty of Heaven and how it works more than his mother? Well, that's just the absolute wonder of children!

I've decided my children will say or do at least 20 hilarious or meaningful or heart-warming things every week. I just have to listen. For instance, last night, while in the car with my six-year-old, I laughed right out loud when she told me she must be "left-toothed" because every time she puts gum in her mouth she wants to chew with her left teeth! A couple of months ago she assured me she was "left-shouldered" because she always wanted to hang her purse on her left shoulder, but being "left-toothed" was adding a whole new dimension to this "left-" stuff, and I giggled about it all evening long.

As a mother there is always plenty to laugh (and yes, cry) about. Spending time with my children reminds me I still have a sense of humor and a thousand other different emotions I sometimes forget about. My favorite is simple joy at knowing these amazing little people are mine, that I am their mother and always will be. What could be better?

Golden Moments

2011-08-27T15:41:00.000-07:00

Where to begin. . .

Life keeps ticking by, day by day, and amidst laundry and diaper changes and house cleaning, plus much, much more, I consistently find myself recognizing "golden" moments. You know, those times when your children say something simple yet profound, or when they tell you something and you just marvel at their uniqueness and clever way of thinking; those precious moments when you smile from deep within at the simple beauty of raising children because, although you're exhausted and stressed out and a little crazy, the joy and wonder of it all hits you for just a few brief minutes--sometimes even seconds--and you realize once again what a miracle parenthood is. Well, I've had a lot of those moments this summer, and I've thought over and over, I should write about this. I must remember this.

The best thing about these moments is, they're almost imperceptible. In fact, to just anyone, they're not "golden" at all. But to a mother, a person these amazing little creatures spend most of their time with, a person they talk to about anything and everything--the person who has the opportunity of seeing the best and the worst that's within them--well, these moments are priceless because mothers see and feel so much more. Mothers understand that something as simple as a facial expression can feel "golden" when it's just the right expression at just the right time and in just the right way.

Relating these moments to others often leaves the teller feeling disappointed because the person you share it with seldom understands the significance of the moment or why it made your heart smile like it did. Hence, I've learned to simply revel in the moment myself, understanding it has just as much meaning when it's just me that saw or heard or felt it, as it would if many others did.

As the mother of five children ranging in ages from almost twelve to almost four months, experience is teaching me just how significant these moments are, and to never let them go by unnoticed. They can make even the most dismal, grinding day a little brighter, even if only briefly.

Over the past twelve years since I first became a mother, I have learned an incredible amount--about myself, about others, about my husband, about the sacred role I have. My children have taught me everything from how to multi-task and accomplish four roles at once, all while keeping my whits about me, to what it means to really be sorry and sincerely ask for forgiveness. Different seasons of our lives have produced various learning curves, each one meant to sanctify and teach me things I'm certain I could learn in no other way. Through the perspective of each unique child, I have learned to see the world differently. I've learned to laugh at myself and stressful situations; I've learned to bask in the complete reverence and beauty of a sleeping child; I've learned that housework really can wait, but children can't.

Right now I'm learning to take notice of "golden" moments and bask in them. They are one of the perks of motherhood, and I'm so grateful for them. Holding a small hand while we walk down the sidewalk, kissing the warm cheeks of a sleeping child--then kissing them again, listening to the delightful giggle of a four-year-old, looking into my baby's eyes and feeling she somehow knows me and understands how much I love her, spontaneously laughing when something blows up in your face, listening to the spiritual insight of a small child who seems to know more about Heaven than you do. All of these experiences, and many more, are the thread--the "golden" thread--that make up the fabric of a mother's life. And I'm so grateful for them.

So, how do you do it? How do you sort through the chaos enough to take note of these precious gifts of time? I don't have the magic bullet, but I know for me it simply takes listening. Something I'm honestly not that good at. But when I take the time and energy to really listen, I learn that my children are absolutely amazing! Their insight is priceless, the senses of humor delightful, their unique perspectives worth paying attention to. In short, I find myself thinking over and over again what a miracle these children are in my life and being in utter awe that they are mine.

Golden moments. Just more evidence that true happiness comes from family life. God is so smart!

I Just Want You to Love Me

2011-07-14T23:48:00.000-07:00

I can hardly believe it's been two months since I've last written. Pretty obvious I have a newborn, right? Now that I've had five of them, I can attest to the fact that the first two to three months after you add a baby to your life are pretty much a blur. Between the lack of sleep and the new demands placed on the family (especially the Mom), I've found myself just trying to keep my head above water; hence, many tasks have simply not gotten done, such as recording our lives. The fact I'm writing this at 1:00 a.m. only further proves how out-of-sorts life has been since Berkley was born, but what never ceases to amaze me is that even though I'm exhausted most of the time and am uncomfortable with the feeling that life is controlling me rather than the other way around, I think about or look at the cause of all the upheaval and just thank God again for the blessing she is in our lives. It's truly a miracle of motherhood and family life.

Due to the fact that I've been getting only about half the sleep I was accustomed to, coupled with the adjustment of a little eight-pound beauty completely controlling my time, and the craziness summer brings with all of my children home all day piled on top, needless to say, I've been a little . . . well, how do I put this nicely? Beastly. Not all the time, of course, but I've found it much easier to simply lose all self control and holler at my children when their lack of obedience and complete acquiescence to everything I ask them to do presents itself. I just haven't seemed to have it in me to exhibit an overabundance of patience or understanding. Hence, I've found my children at times looking at me like they don't know who I am anymore, and honestly, it's quite frightening, especially when I wonder the same thing at times!

I keep telling myself it will get better, that the baby will start sleeping more and then I will return to the loving, profoundly patient and happy mother I used to be. But then that inner voice seems to always pipe up and remind me of the person I should be, regardless of my circumstances. I sure hate that inner voice sometimes. But then again, if it's not my conscience reminding me of how to be, it's my children. And how is it that the wisest of us all is often the youngest and least experienced?

My four-year-old has surely had his life turned upside down since Berkley arrived in our family, especially since he was the youngest for four-and-a-half years and then all of a sudden is expected to be completely independent and "big." It was a concern I had as we prepared for this baby, but then as children do, he has surprised me by loving this little girl so much, he has a hard time not smothering her constantly with kisses as he professes his never ending love and adoration. But even the most tolerant and understanding hearts have their limits. And tonight I realized he had hit his.

As bedtime approaches every evening, I have one goal in mind: get the children to bed as quickly and painlessly as possible. I'm not one for long, drawn-out bedtime routines, but rather prefer gathering up each child, helping brush teeth and say prayers, then snuggling him/her in bed with smothers of kisses and a simple, "Goodnight. I love you." It's a routine I've pretty much perfected and on flawless nights can perform for two children in less than eight minutes. Not very impressive, I know, but by 8:00 at night, I've pretty much given the day all I've got and I'm more than ready for peace and relaxation, rather than a long ritual.

Tonight as I gathered my little guy up and hustled him into the bathroom to go potty one last time in an effort to get him to bed in record-breaking time, I found myself frustrated as he explained to me after going potty that he hadn't been paying very good attention and hadn't stood quite close enough to the toilet. Hence, his jammies were wet, as was the floor. Not what I was hoping to hear. Now, not only would this delay getting him in bed by at least four minutes, but it would expend more of my already-spent energy bank for the day. Heaving a huge sigh, I knelt to help him remove his wet clothes and grabbed some supplies to clean up the floor, all the while saying things like this: "Oh buddy, what in the world? How did this happen? You've been going potty for a long time. Why didn't you pay better attention?" and so on. I didn't yell or get mad; I simply expressed my frustration and disappointment in my little whiny, tired voice. That is, until he said something that stopped me dead in my tracks. In fact, I haven't been able to get it out of my head since, until it has driven me to my computer in the middle of the night to write about it, because I never want to forget the important lesson he taught me tonight as he put one hand on my shoulder and said. . .

"Mommy, I just want you to love me."

I immediately stopped scrubbing the floor and looked into his deep blue eyes. "What?" I asked.

"I just want you to love me."

So simple. So profound. So something I needed to be reminded of.

I took that little boy in my arms, and with tears in my eyes, I said, "Oh honey, I do love you. I love you so much! I love you with all my heart." But I knew I hadn't been living to show that love. And it felt almost like a cheap lie because words are so empty without the actions that prove them. And I knew I had been so caught up in trying to survive each day and accomplish everything that seemed important, that I had been missing the entire point of life, which is this: simply loving.

I swept my sweet little boy up in my arms and held him so tight, and as I tucked him into bed I could hardly let go of him. I just kept thinking, How have I been so selfish and so blind? How is it that I could have something so wonderful--who somehow loves me unconditionally--and take him for granted? How could I get so caught up in "life" that I completely forget what it's really all about?

Mommy, I just want you to love me. How grateful I am tonight for those eight words that put everything back into perspective. And how grateful I am for four other children as well, who remind me constantly of the kind of person I want to be. I love them more than they could imagine. They are my greatest source of joy and love and complete contentment. And all they want of me is to love them--to stop getting so caught up in the daily demands of life that I'm too busy or preoccupied or selfish to show them. I read recently that love is spelled T-I-M-E. I think that's what I've been missing. Motherhood itself is so demanding, but add other current stresses and pressures of life and it's pretty easy to be too busy being a mother and homemaker that you don't take time to really BE a mother. But as I sit and weep at my computer at 2 a.m. at my foolishness, I just keep thinking that I can't wait until morning so I can just love my husband and children and give them my attention, my understanding and patience, and yes--my time.

My sweet little guy--how could I not love this amazing little person?

A Little Piece of Heaven

2011-05-19T10:22:00.000-07:00

There are few things that bring the feeling of heaven into a home--children sharing and looking out for one another, meaningful family prayers, expressions of sincere affection and appreciation--are a few. But from my experience, newborn babies top the list. With their arrival comes a distinct peace, love and fulfillment that is unsurpassed. I've never completely understood how it happens; I only know that miracles often come in very small packages, and our latest came two weeks ago, weighing less than five pounds. Here is our latest piece of heaven--Berkley Maya Fern Conger.

An Unforgettable Mother's Day Gift

2011-05-08T10:13:00.000-07:00

I will never forget the anticipation I felt when my husband and I found out we were expecting our first child. I was elated; he was terrified. But it was an incredible moment. To know we were going to be parents, a mother and a father. It was unlike any feeling I had ever experienced. And when that child was born and we welcomed that beautiful baby girl into our home and our lives, I knew we would never be the same.

I was right. And so it was with each additional child. The thrill of the anticipation, the utter joy at the birth, the overwhelming peace and love at bringing each child home and caring for him/her--those are some of the best moments of my life. And now, as I watch each child grow and become their own individuals, it is so fulfilling.

This past year as my husband and I made a somewhat difficult decision to adopt a baby, I couldn't help but wonder what the experience would be like. There's such a natural bond between a mother and the growing child within her womb, I wondered how quickly or easily I would be able to bond with a child I had not personally carried for nine months. I was thrilled and elated at the prospects, however, and have looked forward to the day we would welcome this new child into our home with joyful anticipation.

After experiencing disappointment from one failed adoption, it was difficult to allow my heart to let go of fear and not hold back, and it was a struggle to allow my mind to even consider and hope for this to work out. It's taken a tremendous amount of faith, more than has ever been required before as we've prepared to add a child to our family. But knowing that the risk would definitely be worth the outcome, we plodded onward, putting our faith and trust in God that this adoption would in fact work out.

Last Thursday morning, May 5th, we received an unexpected text from the adoption agency. The birth mother was in labor and the baby would be born that day! We were not expecting the baby for nearly three more weeks, so to say we were surprised and excited would be an understatement. Less than 30 minutes later we were given the news that our baby girl was born, 4 lbs, 13 oz, 17 " long. Tiny, but beautiful.

I desperately wanted to shout for joy and thrill in the excitement of this anticipated event. But . . . I couldn't. Not yet. It would be at least 24 hours before we would know if the baby's mother would in fact sign the adoption papers and this baby would be ours. It was a long day and an even longer night. It was after 3:00 a.m. when I finally fell into a short and restless sleep. But eight hours later we received the news that the papers were signed and the baby would be ours! A thousand different emotions enveloped me: relief, joy, gratitude--especially gratitude.

Because this was a closed adoption we were not allowed to see the baby until the birth mom had left the hospital and the baby was more than two days old. I looked at this tiny bundle and could hardly believe she was ours! She was so beautiful! I felt an immediate love for her and desire to be the best mother to her I could possibly be. I held her in my arms and felt immense joy and humility and love. But I felt something else also that I didn't anticipate. I felt a deep love for her mother, who made a difficult and painful decision to give this child up to a family she knew could offer her baby a life she couldn't. I longed to know more about this courageous woman and I wanted desperately to thank her in person. But it was not to be. I could only express some feelings in a card and hope she somehow understood what an incredible gift she had given our family.

And so, this Mother's Day, not only am I profoundly grateful for the now five children God has so mercifully blessed me with, but I am grateful to another mother, an unsung hero, who on this Mother's Day, just three days after giving birth to a beautiful baby girl, said goodbye to her only a couple of days later, allowing me the opportunity of being a mother once again. Mothers, no matter who they are or where they come from, truly are the most remarkable people in all the world. I'm so honored to be one, and so honored to the one who so recently blessed our family this weekend.

It has been the most unforgettable Mother's Day gift I've ever received!

My Private Date

2011-05-05T09:40:00.000-07:00

After receiving the news we planned to adopt, many people gave me the advice to use the time waiting for the baby to be born to really connect with the children I already have, to soak up the time spent with them and focus on them because adoptions and new babies take up so much time and energy. That sounded like great advice, so over the past two months I've gone on field trips with my nine-year-old, stolen my 11-year-old out of school for a special lunch date, dropped daily tasks to snuggle on the couch with my four-year-old and watch his favorite movie, and I took my six-year-old on a private date. Each experience was wonderful! There's absolutely nothing like spending one-on-one time with a child, and I loved every minute of it. The date with my sweet little daughter was a bit unforgettable. I was smiling clear to my toes as I visited with her. It was only one hour, but oh how much I learned--about her, her personality, her goals and her outlook on life. This is how part of our conversation went.

"So Regyn, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Long pause as she pondered the question. "A mother," she finally answered resolutely.

Loving this answer, I continued on, "A mother? That's a really great thing to be. What a fabulous choice!"

"Oh, and a vet," she interrupted.

"A vet? Do you know what a vet is?" I asked, just to be sure.

"Yeah," she said as if to say, of course! "Like, if you have a sick dog or something, you take him to the vet and he makes him better."

"Right. I didn't know you were so interested in animals," I said.

"Oh yeah, I love animals, so I'm going to be a mother and a vet."

Then, realizing it might be hard to manage both occupations all the time, she quickly added, Well, I'm going to be a vet on Thursdays."

"On Thursdays?" I asked, trying to peer into her mind.

"Yes. Because I want to spend as much time with my kids as possible so I don't want to be a vet every day, but then sometimes I'll need a break from my kids, so that's why I'm going to be a vet on Thursdays."

What great thinking! She seemed to have it all figured out. Except for one thing.

"So, who's going to take care of your children on Thursdays while you work as a vet?" I asked, thinking I was sure to catch her in a dilemma. Not so.

"Hmm," she pondered momentarily, then came up with the perfect solution. "My husband!"

I couldn't help but let out a chuckle. "So, let me get this straight. You are going to take care of your children every day except Thursdays, when you will work as a vet? Your husband will work every day but Thursdays, so he can watch the children while you work?"

"Right!"

"Just one more question," I said. "When will you spend time with your husband?"

At this point she must have realized I was trying to catch her off guard. We both smiled a knowing smile at each other and continued enjoying our fabulous ice cream cookie dessert. But as we sat there together and I thought about her answers, I was overwhelmed with joy and gratitude over this child of mine. I watched her from across the table and tears came to my eyes as I realized once again how much I love her and how wonderfully unique and amazing she is. I forced my mind and heart to take a picture and never forget the moment, for it's all these little moments as a mother that add up to a wonderful life.

Just days later, I laughed once again at this precocious little child. She happens to be left-handed and very left-footed as well, we've noticed as she's played soccer this year and struggles to kick the ball with her right foot. She had a new little bag she was pretending to be a purse, and she asked me what shoulder I usually hang my purse from. I said, "I don't know, my right one?" to which she replied. "Not me. I use my left. I think it's because I'm left-shouldered."

I love it! I've never heard of someone being right- or left-shouldered, but I couldn't help but smile at her thinking process. I'm truly grateful for the ability to recognize these small moments that could easily pass as mundane and inconsequential. They make me smile from deep within and remind me that truly there is not a more wonderful job in the world than simply being a mother!

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

2011-05-01T15:58:00.000-07:00

Driving home from Wyoming recently with only a sleeping four-year-old in the back seat, I turned off the radio and just enjoyed the peace and beauty of the drive. The sun was shining (kind of rare this year) and the snow-capped mountains caught my attention. They were beautiful. I thought to myself, I sure love peaceful drives and the amazing mountains that surround us. That's when my mind began reviewing all the things I love. And for the next few days I began paying attention to things that make me smile and bring me moments of joy and satisfaction. Here are a few of my favorite things:

-When my four-year-old wraps his arms around my neck and says, "I just love you so much." My favorite words from a child.

-When that same child says funny things, like, "What if my shirt was blue instead of red?" (How do you answer that question? Idk. "Then your shirt would be blue instead of red.")
OR when he's trying to prove himself right to his older sister so he asks my opinion. When I say, "I think it does this," and his sister says, "See?" to which he replies, "Think means it's a possibility, Regyn--not for sure." I love that kind of thinking!! It makes me smile all day.
OR when this same little boy asks, "Is it fast Sunday today?" and I answer, "No," he says, "So, it's slow Sunday?" How can you not smile?

-When my nine-year-old son tells me he'll race me home from a house down the street. He's on his bike and I'm running. Although running is totally something I shouldn't ever do due to major back problems, I shrug and think, what the heck as I set off on a dead sprint. I beat him home. This now super-competitive child tells me how amazingly fast I am and that I should be in the Olympics. Does it get better than that?

-When my six-year-old daughter gets a small package of cotton candy at the store and after tasting how good it is tells me she's going to save the rest to share with her older brother and sister after school. I remind her that a number of children walk home together and that she will have to share with lots of kids, to which she says she already knows that and she's happy to share one small pinchful with each child. I wish I was that unselfish. It warms my heart.

-When my 11-year-old asks me why anyone would want to interview me for the newspaper, to which I facetiously reply, "because I'm kind of awesome." Instead of rolling her eyes at me, she says, "Yeah, you are." There's nothing like the feeling your children think you are great--even if it is only momentary.

-When my husband comes home for lunch. Such a simple thing, but it reminds me that I am so happy he works so close to home and that he actually wants to see me in small spurts in the middle of the day. And that I want to see him. I get excited for lunch, even though we are only eating grilled cheese sandwiches. Spending time with my husband is definitely one of my favorite things.

-Family balloon volleyball in the living room
-Holding hands with my husband in church
-Watching one of my children do something hard and feel good about it
-Hearing "Thanks for dinner, Mom" on the rare occasion I fix it.
-Watching The Biggest Loser with my children and rooting for everyone on the show.
-Private dates with my children
-Seeing the sun shine
-Reading the Book of Mormon and knowing it is true all over again
-Hearing my children pray
-Laughing with my siblings and parents
-Watching my children grow up right before my eyes

I could go on and on . . .

Such simple things. So simple, in fact, that if I'm not paying attention, I could easily pass by the moment and miss out on everything that makes life worth living. Family.

Sitting at the ball park the other day on a freezing cold night, waiting for my son's baseball game to begin, I noticed a mother, baby on hip, playing soccer with a group of small children. It brought tears to my eyes. Mothers are so remarkable. Then I noticed a father pushing his two boys in swings for over a half hour. A half hour! That's a long time. I personally avoid swings at all costs because once you start pushing, your children never want you to stop. The boys were giggling and enjoying each push . When the father finally pulled his two small boys from the swing, one had wet his pants. I couldn't help but smile. It was a sure sign the small child had had so much fun, he couldn't contain it.

Everywhere I look and everywhere I go, I seem to find signs of all the things that make life so fulfilling and worthwhile, and they all begin and end with my family. From the family I come from and still love to pieces to the family I now have, my life is rich and full due to these relationships.

And so, even though life has its share of challenges and there are many unknowns ahead, I don't need to look far to find--not just a few--but many of my favorite things!

Breaking My Own Rules

2011-03-24T15:53:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl, I had a perfect plan for how my life would be. Everything lined up in perfect little rows in my head, and I was certain that even though there might be bumps in the road, all my dreams would evolve as planned. For example, I would have six children--three boys and three girls. At the latest, I would be finished having babies by the time I was 35. There would be two-year gaps between each child. A bit idealistic, I'll admit, but if you're going to dream, you might as well make it good. Today, my plan has changed a little bit. It goes something like this:

Don't plan. Simply enjoy today and follow the promptings of the spirit because the Lord's plan, although more difficult, is far more enriching and eternally rewarding.

My husband and I have been blessed with four great kids (even have two girls and two boys--sounds almost perfect). We love them to death. They are so amazing, and we feel so darn grateful for them. But here's the thing. About a year and a half ago we started to wonder if our family was complete. Prayer led us to deciding it wasn't. My health then led us to think it had to be. More prayer led us to considering something amazing but seemingly impossible. Adoption. Even more prayer led us to filling out papers and embarking on a journey that would forever change us. Already this path has been incredibly difficult. The thing about adoption is that the highs are really high and the lows are really low. Until you get to a point that when a high is offered, you hardly dare hope it will really happen. When it doesn't, you find out what low really is.

Two weeks ago we received a much-anticipated phone call. It was like nothing we ever expected. The adoption agency called and asked us if we would consider a sibling group--two girls, one 3 months old, the other 17 months old. We hardly knew what to think. TWO was not in our plans, and yet as we seriously considered it, we soon became thrilled. How could we be so blessed? We had only one night to make a decision, and the next morning we called the agency and said, "Yes." That's when we reviewed our week and realized we had one of the busiest weeks ever. It didn't matter. We would make it work. This was Tuesday morning. The mother was supposed to bring her babies to Utah Friday morning. We would meet with her that evening, and then as soon as she signed papers, the babies would be ours.

All week long, I pushed myself to the point of exhaustion, trying to get through all my responsibilities so we could be ready by the weekend. My mother came to offer help, thankfully, but it seemed there was really little she could do. All I kept thinking was, "I hope the birth mom gets on that plane." We signed papers late Thursday night and were comforted by the agency's reassurance that they had just spoken to the mother and she was planning to come the next morning.

She didn't come.

It may be unbelievable to think a person can love children she's never even seen, but I loved those little girls already. We were devastated. That's when we prayed even harder--for this birth mother, for the little girls, and for ourselves, that we could move on. Peace came, and with it an even stronger desire to welcome a child into our home.

We are now planning to adopt a baby girl the end of May. Am I terrified? Yes. Does it seem like two months is an eternity to wonder if this too will fall through? Yes. Am I scared to allow myself to even get excited and plan for this little girl? Yes. But, even stronger than my fears is my faith. And the truth is, it simply isn't in our hands. I can't make anything happen in and of myself. But thankfully, I don't have to trust in myself.

And so, I'm going to get excited for this baby. And I'm going to prepare for her to come, just like I have all my other babies. And I'm going to trust that everything will work out, because it sure beats thinking it won't.

I'm breaking all my previous rules. I will be 36 years old when this baby is born. This little girl will ruin my even-gendered family, making three girls and two boys. There will be a four-and-a-half year gap between this baby and my youngest child now. And one other thing I never saw in my "life plan" but am so excited about: this baby is half African American, half Hispanic. What a wonderful way to add diversity to our family!

I've thrown my perfect little plan out the window. And honestly, although this journey is tougher, I've never been happier. God has been so good to me personally and to our family. His plan for me has always had surprises and unexpected turns, but it has always led me right to where I want to be in the end.

Besides, I've always heard rules are made to be broken!:)

L-O-V-E

2011-02-09T14:24:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking quite a bit about the concept of love lately, it being almost Valentine's Day and all, and I've decided love encompasses a whole lot more than I usually give it credit for. When I was a little girl and my mom told me she loved me, I knew that meant she was glad to be my mom, that she would clean up my scraped knee and bandage it, and that she would hold me and comfort me if I had a nightmare. Pretty simplistic. But important just the same.

Then I grew up and fell in love. Although the romance and excitement was just as wonderful as I expected it to be, I couldn't imagine what real love would do to my life, how it would sanctify me and fulfill me and strengthen me until I married my husband.

Now I am a mother with four children I deeply love. And yes, that means I'm glad to be their mom. And yes, it means I wipe away their tears and bandage their owies. And yes, it means I'm always there in the night if they have a bad dream. But more than all that, it means I'm willing to give up fame, fortune (not that I'd have either of those things anyway), comfort, ease, and so much more to simply be their mom. It means putting up with tantrums, fighting, whining, teasing, name calling, mess making, and so on. It involves potty training, carpooling, teacher conferencing, soccer coaching, chore training; the list goes on and on. It's taxing, exhausting, overwhelming, frustrating, irritating, mind boggling, nerve racking, etc., etc.

But more important than all of that is this: It is love. It fills me with the most fulfilling, deep-in-the-core kind of love that changes my life forever because it changes me forever. I go to bed at night wondering how I'll ever get up in the morning and start the whole routine over again, but then my mind starts to review every exhausting aspect of my day, and I can't help but smile clear to my toes. That's when I realize that although I've never been so tired, I've also never been so happy.

A couple of days ago I left the house in a rush. I hollered goodbyes as I hurried out the door and got into the van. Just as I was shutting the door, I heard some little voices tell me to stop. I looked up to see my two youngest children waving at me from the porch in the garage. It was obvious they wanted me to come back. With an exasperated sigh, I exited the van and trudged back up the stairs in the garage so they could each give me a hug and kiss. My little four-year-old wrapped his arms around my neck and attempted to smother my cheek with a raspberry jam kiss. I immediately jerked back. After all, I had made great efforts to look good, and I was pretty sure a sticky, red face wouldn't help my appearance. But then I saw his excited grin as it lit up his whole face and I felt how much that little piece of wonderful loved me, and I couldn't help myself. I wrapped my arms just as tightly around him and allowed the sticky smooch. As I got back into the car I realized I hadn't been that happy all day long. I realized it was worth being a few minutes late. I realized how much I love raspberry jam kisses.

Two days later while subbing at the elementary school, I opened my lunch bag to find a note stuck there from my 11-year-old daughter, telling me she loved me and to have a great day. It meant so much, I found myself wiping away tears. And I realized how much her love means to me. I smiled as I thought of what a wonderful concept love notes are, and I decided to leave more of them.

On the phone later that day, my nine-year-old son called home to update me on his plans with his friends. As the conversation came to an end, he said, "Thanks, Mom. I sure love you." Words I've heard many times before, but what struck me this time was that I could hear his friends standing near in the background and knew they could hear his conversation. I forced my mind and heart to remember the moment, realizing (and hoping against it at the same time) that he's getting to the age where I may not hear those sincere words of gratitude and love from my son in that situation for very much longer. I wanted to be sure I appreciated them to the fullest at that moment in time.

My biggest fear as a mother is that I will go through all the motions of being a mom, my kids will grow up and move out, and I will realize I never appreciated each moment enough. The hard, frustrating, nitty-gritty moments and especially the sweet, delicious, fill my soul with inexpressible joy moments. What a waste that would be. What a waste to not appreciate the love in my life enough.

And so, this Valentine's Day, I just want to say how grateful I am for love--every kind and every aspect of it. Especially the love that can only be found within the family unit. That is the love that really matters, that makes life meaningful, that endures forever. That is the love that gets me through every day and that makes me want to be so much better. That is the love that can never be replaced.

Oh, how blessed I am to know such love!

Read-A-Thon Turned Fight-A-Thon

2011-01-04T17:37:00.000-08:00

There are few days in my life as a mother that I can really say I'm pretty much "The Bomb," but when such a day occurs, it's definitely something to write about. At least that's what I was thinking while I was busy patting myself on the back after sitting my children down on the couch and explaining to them my brilliant idea of holding a Read-A-Thon one dismal day during Christmas Break.

Yes, my children were losing their holiday jovialness (is that jovialness a word? I don't think so. But since it so perfectly describes what I'm trying to portray, I'm hoping you'll forgive it this time), the anticipation of Christmas having long faded, the joy of new treasures having lost their novelty already. And yes, I was losing my Holiday Smile as well, the incessant whining, tattling, begging and overall negativity affecting my usual upbeat, infectious aura (okay, so I might be exaggerating slightly, but since I'm the writer I deserve taking such liberties:). And yes, it seemed World War III was just around the corner unless a brilliant plan was put into effect--immediately.

That's when I got an idea from a neighbor to encourage my children to do some reading. I came up with an absolutely fabulous idea that would not only make up for all the days my children hadn't read during the holiday break BUT it would also keep them from fighting, too--two birds killed with one stone! I was amazing! I was clever! I was . . . naive.

It's not that my battle plan wasn't good; and it's not that I didn't allow for enough time to accomplish the said plan; it's not even that my children weren't more than mildly excited about the day's prospects; it's just that even good plans lose their effectiveness after a while, and I found that after two and a half hours of reading, my children had definitely forgotten we had a plan at all!

Here's how it went down.

1-Mother excitedly calls her children together to lay out amazingly brilliant plan and enraptures each child with her bright smile and infectious positivism (again, may not be a word. Work with me here).

2- Mother loads up children in van and off they go to the local library to explore the wonderful world of books and choose an unlimited number to spend the day reading.

3- Mother already runs into unexpected barrier when oldest child can't find the one book she is determined to read for the day and leaves library pouting and protesting the plan before it's even really began.

4- Mother thinks quickly, and determined to not be affected by this negative turn of events, happily explains that she is willing to drive to yet another library to pick up said item.

5- Mother drives to two different places to buy rewards for whomever decided to follow said plan. She leaves each store as if walking on air, sure she is bound to be up for Mother of the Year after she pulls off this amazing day.

6- Mother walks into living room to find children have set up "camp" in the one place in the house Mother wishes to remain clean. Each child has laboriously claimed every pillow, blanket, unused mattress and stuffed pet to accompany them during their reading times. Mother wants to shake her head and demand an immediate clean-up of the area. Her face turns red. She takes a deep breath. Then, unwilling yet to give into the urge to abandon her brilliant plan, simply smiles and verbally praises each child for their ingenious and dedicated effort to make themselves comfortable while reading. Mother sets the timer for 20 minutes.

7- Mother praises herself inwardly for how well The Plan is being executed. Even her four-year-old is reading a chapter book, skimming and turning each page right on cue with his older siblings who actually know how to read. Mother rewards all four children with a new coloring/activity book she purchased for only 25 cents each on an after-Christmas clearance. Mother is smiling clear to her toes. Not only are her children reading but she was able to bribe all four of them for only $1.

8- After an hour break, Mother calls children into their "places" once again for the second round of the Read-A-Thon. She sets the timer for 30 minutes this time and relaxes on the couch for some much-needed reading time herself. Mother has to remind children off and on to actually read their books. Mother again rewards all four children with a piece of candy--again bought for 25 cents each on an after-Christmas sale (never mind the candy was so hard the children wouldn't eat it). Mother's smile still reaches from ear to ear.

9- After another break, Mother and children settle in for Round Three--45 minutes of reading. After the tenth time of answering the question, "How much longer do we have to do this?" Mother's smile is fading a bit. The fun is slipping away as the whining begins to take over. Still, there's one more round to go, and Mother is determined to conquer. Four children get a reward that only two children deserve since Mother is not feeling up to a tantrum and is losing her confidence that she is a brilliant, strong, amazing mother.

10- After one final break that wasn't nearly long enough, Mother gathers children for the final round--60 straight minutes of reading (or at least pretending to). The four-year-old has abandoned his chapter book for play time at the neighbors, so there are only three children left to accomplish the daunting task.

That's when the nit-picking, teasing, taunting, pestering, fighting begins . . . and never stops. Never mind the best reward of the day is hanging over their heads (is it possible they think Mother will give it to them anyway since she faltered after Round III?)--a bottle of blue, liquid sugar that makes their eyes pop just thinking of it. Never mind that Mother never buys such drinks due to the fact that, well, they're about the worst thing you can buy your kids to drink. And never mind that Mother is quickly losing her perma-grim and is beginning to come unglued one piece at a time.

The Read-A-Thon officially turned into a Fight-A-Thon, and when the buzzer beeped signalling the end of Round IV, not only was Mother sure she was the stupidest, most ridiculous mother around, but she was also could care less about how many minutes her children read over the holidays.

So, the next time said Mother comes up with a brilliant plan that she's sure will win her accolades on every level . . .

She's handing it over to Father to carry it out!!

(The kids BEFORE the fights broke out. The four-year-old has jumped ship by this time. Yes, this is my living room/entrance way. Don't you think the plant adds a nice, homey effect to their cozy, individually designed reading coves?)

A Christmas Miracle

2010-12-26T09:52:00.001-08:00

It's been a while since I've written. I guess I haven't felt very inspired, so instead of sitting at my computer plucking out a jumbled mess of words in an effort to express my thoughts and feelings, I've avoided it instead. But sometimes, life drives me here, and I can't resist the urge to write. Maybe because it's good therapy, or maybe because it helps me realize how blessed I am; I think the main reason, though, is that I fear life will keep forging ahead, refusing to break at significant moments, and I will forget all the experiences--small and great--that make up my life and insist I look outside of myself to see the miracles happening all around me. I think that's what drives me here today.

It seems that every year at Christmas time, I feel deeply sober as I examine my life and the passing year and wonder if I've become any closer to the woman I hope to one day become. Always, I am drawn to my knees, pleading both for forgiveness for the many ways I still fall short, and also for a nearness to the only One who can help me in my plight. This year was no different. Except that my heart has refused to remain comfortless and hopeless. The year was difficult in many ways--unrealized desires, discouragements and even the death of a loved one plagued me and those I love and forced deep introspection and mourning. But, amidst it all, I am closing 2010 with tears of deep gratitude for all I do have and a desire to have more faith in the miracles that are possible in every life and every situation.

My family did something a bit uncharacteristic of us this Christmas season--we got together for a few days and followed a scheduled itinerary of events to celebrate the holiday season. It's not that we don't usually try to get together, but we're never very organized, nor are we ever usually able to all be together at once due to crazy work schedules. This year, however, my sister Traci planned, invited and carried out a well-executed family event that lasted a couple of days and proved to be an absolutely wonderful experience. We decorated sugar cookies (the kids in newly made aprons, each personally embroidered with their names), went sledding, enjoyed a wonderful feast, visited, laughed, shared favorite memories and experiences, and even went caroling together on a horse-drawn sleigh.

It was while we were bundled together, nestled on bales of hay situated on the wooden sleigh, listening to the jingling of the bells as the team of horses trotted over the snow-covered ground, the sweet scent of sweat lifting off the team and drifting into the air like steam, that I took a moment to realize I was experiencing something most people probably only dream about. It was a picture you read about in story books--a large family snuggled together on the back of a horse-drawn sleigh, singing, laughing together, enjoying the moment in a way most of us never do any more these days. And I was determined to soak up every part of it--the feeling, the smells, the sight, the sounds--all of it. And just at the moment I thought I couldn't be happier, I looked around at every family member, and the closeness we shared--the pure joy and contentment of the moment--overwhelmed me and I thought of how lucky I am to be a simple ranch girl from Wyoming who grew up in a family that's certainly had its share of problems over the years but who loves each other so deeply it hurts sometimes.

Only two days later, on Christmas day, did it come full circle once again. After enjoying a joyous Christmas morning with my husband and children, grandparents visiting to join in the excitement of new toys and games, the doorbell rang. We opened the door and were surprised to find an older couple from our neighborhood, he in a Santa hat, both holding gifts. It was then that the gentleman leaned down and offered my five-year-old a small wrapped package, explaining that he had made the gift himself just for her and wanted to present it to her as a way of thanking her for her prayers on his behalf over the past few years.

I was deeply touched as my little girl opened the package and found a gold chain ornamenting a glass heart pendant hand-carved with a pink rose inside. It was beautiful and meaningful beyond words. He told my sweet little girl how thankful he personally was for her unending faith in his behalf as he had been told she prayed for him every day. His wife expressed her appreciation as well and expressed her belief in the answered prayers of little children.

I asked them how long it had now been since her husband had been diagnosed with cancer, and when they told me three years, I could hardly believe it. Had it really been three full years that my child had faithfully offered prayers in his behalf each time she prayed? That would mean she was only nearly three years old when she began to supplicate the Lord on behalf of this man she hardly knew. I had simply mentioned one evening that he was having health problems and we should remember him in our prayers, but she had done much more than that. I was humbled as I knelt beside her and looked in her eyes in an effort to help her somehow understand what a wonderful thing she had done and what a meaningful gift he had given her.

It was then that I realized I was preaching to the choir. I was hoping to teach her a lesson she had already taught me. My own prayers for this gentleman had ceased after only a few months, while my little girl had steadfastly continued to ask the Lord to bless him, even amidst disgusted remarks from her siblings that she could probably stop praying for him now.

For me, it was a Christmas miracle. Another example of what my children are teaching me and why I am so grateful to be a mother. From seeing my own mother rejoice at the sight of her children fully enjoying time spent together, to feeling deep appreciation and gratitude at the faith and love of my own child, I realized once again what a miracle motherhood is, and that it is truly meant to bring the greatest joy and satisfaction possible.

And so, as another year draws to a close, although I still feel inadequate and dissatisfied at my performance as wife and mother, I realize that my children are filled to the top with goodness, and I believe it will show itself at the times it is most needed. I read a Chinese fortune at the beginning of 2010 that read, "This year, your highest priority will be your family." It was a profound reminder to me of how to spend my time and energy. And as I've simplified life and worked to truly live that proverb, my life has been so blessed and I have found once again that my greatest joy comes from my family. Motherhood truly is memorable and I am so grateful for that.

Unlucky? Maybe. Maybe not.

2010-10-22T19:20:00.000-07:00

I recently read a story about a wise man who had a series of fortunate and unfortunate events happen in his life. When good things happened, his neighbors would tell him what a lucky man he was. When bad things happened, they would tell him how unlucky he was. With each comment from his neighbors, he would only reply, "Maybe. Maybe not." The man seemed to understand that good fortune would not last forever, and that challenges often brought blessings. Oh, to be so wise.

Over the past six weeks our family has experienced what many would call a series of unfortunate events. It all began with my sister-in-law's unexpected passing. Definitely an unlucky, difficult experience, one I would never wish on anyone, one I would never choose. Yet, with her passing has come a lesson on empathy, a strengthened testimony in the Plan of Salvation--including the resurrection, a renewed reliance and trust on the Lord, more fervent prayers, more love for my family. I could go on and on. Truly, I have learned lessons I could have learned in no other way. So unlucky? Maybe. Maybe not.

Last week we called an ambulance once again. This time it was for my three-year-old son, Boston. I was visiting my family in Wyoming when he started having signs of croup. He seemed fine one minute, not fine the next. My sister and I gave him a breathing treatment, put a humidifier in his bedroom, and put him to bed. My brothers arrived to give him a priesthood blessing. His breathing was labored and I felt certain it would be a long night. I had no idea. Thirty minutes later I was holding my little son on the front porch in a frantic effort to get him to breathe. He was severely retracting, working tirelessly to get air into his lungs. We got in the car to take him 30 miles away to the closest medical care when it became obvious he needed medical attention immediately. My sister called 911 while I prayed silently for help. The same ambulance crew (except one person) that carried my sister-in-law away only five weeks earlier arrived and off we went to the hospital.

It was a long night of breathing treatments, steroid shots and no sleep as my little son struggled to recover in the same emergency room my brother had just lost his wife in. The reality of it all was overwhelming. Thankfully, this time the outcome would be much better. We made it through the night and Boston has recovered. Of course now we are faced with medical bills we hoped to never have. Unlucky? Maybe. Maybe not.

As I held my little boy that night, I realized once again how grateful I was to be his mother. I wrapped my arms around his small frame and thanked God over and over for this miracle in my life. I knew he would be okay, and my heart was so grateful. Another precious reminder of the value of life itself and of family.

Today, another unfortunate event. My dad rolled a 4-wheeler down a mountain and sustained numerous cuts, scrapes and bruises. Truthfully, he looks like a train wreck. And the 4-wheeler doesn't look much better. He was alone, rounding up some cows. No one knew where he was. Unlucky? Maybe. Maybe not.

My dad has multiple sclerosis. One side of his body doesn't work all that well, and he has to literally drag his left leg around. Ranch work doesn't really suit someone in the kind of shape my dad is in. But ranching is what he's always done. There have been so many close calls. Ones like today, when he so easily could have been killed, or at least broken a limb and sustained more serious injuries. But somehow he keeps coming out of things in tact.

So, tonight, even though I am tired and a little beaten up inside from the battle scars we've received recently, I feel so lucky. Actually, it isn't luck at all. I feel so blessed. Through every challenge, every heartache, every scare, every bad day, there are blessings to be found and reasons to be grateful. And so, even though I miss my sister-in-law terribly and the reality of life for my brother and his children is difficult to bear, my heart is full of gratitude for so many blessings that have come these past couple of months. And even though our medical bills are depressing to say the least, I am so grateful for my sweet little boy who is worth far more than the bills require. And even though my dad is a little beaten up, he's still here, and he's going to be okay.

How can I be so lucky?

Nine Minutes

2010-10-11T12:22:00.001-07:00

Another rough day. It seems like I've had quite a few lately. Days when I'm constantly running and yet never accomplishing anything. Days when my children seem especially needy. Days when the reality of certain circumstances in life is all too vivid and painful. Days when all I really want to do is close the curtains, lock the door and sob--without interruption--for as long as needed.

Since my sister-in-law's passing (see former blog post), I've experienced quite a few days like this. It's not that I don't feel peace about it, and it's not that I haven't accepted the fact that she's gone. I guess it's just that I miss her so much, and the pain of it all just blindsides me constantly. Life is good. It's really, really good, and I have so much to be grateful for. But there is still heartache and pain, and somewhere inside of me, I am deeply mourning. And so, if I have any quiet, still moments at all, I find myself in tears--tears of sorrow, tears of gratitude, tears of a thousand different emotions all at once.

Such has been today. A hectic morning, running a little behind schedule, exhausted. Wanting and hoping to be the woman I need to be, all the while trying to hold it together when I know at a moment's notice I may break into uncontrollable sobs.

My five-year-old throws her usual tantrum about having to ride the bus to school. She's begging me to give her a ride instead. I'm holding her hand, walking her to the bus stop, thinking I have allowed her enough time to get over this whole bus problem she's developed and that surely it's time to encourage her to do something she doesn't want to do. But inside, I wonder if I'm being a good mother. I'm thinking to myself, Just drive her to school. She can ride the bus tomorrow. But then comes the opposing voice, But if you drive her today, she'll want you to drive her tomorrow, and this has got to stop sometime. I look into her beautiful blue eyes and I want to tell her just how much I understand how hard it is to keep putting one foot in front of the other when you don't feel like it. I hug her goodbye, blow her a kiss and help her get on the bus. Thankfully, she's smiling as she waves goodbye through the small windows.

Then my three-year-old doesn't want to eat his lunch. He just wants snacks instead. I don't blame him. I don't feel like making lunch, and I could really care less about nutrition right now. But then I realize this has been my attitude for the past month, and it's probably time I become a more responsible parent and be sure my little one is eating something with nutritional value every day. I decide to ignore his crying. I clean up the kitchen while he sits on a stool and sobs as if his heart is broken. Finally, I put my rag down, wrap my arms around him, snuggle him in his favorite blanket and plop down on the couch, holding him as closely as I can without impairing his breathing.

Neither of us say a word. It's like we both know all the other person needs is a little breather, a moment to sit and be held. Finally, I ask him if he would like to watch a movie or read books. He shakes his head no. "Well, what would you like to do then?" I ask.

"Just sit on the couch."

Me, too. I just want to sit on the couch and hold my precious child and cry about everything in life right now that hurts. I allow myself nine minutes to do so. Then, I gingerly prop my now-sleeping son up on the couch and get back to work.

That's all life allows sometimes--nine minutes. And then we as moms have to get off the couch and get back to work. I have to admit there are days when I just don't want to. But truthfully, I'm grateful that motherhood demands more of me because I am becoming someone far better than the person I would be otherwise. And I'm finding that it's often the hard days I end up appreciating the most because they force me to turn to God for help and to take a deep breath and exhibit patience (with myself and my children--and sometimes even my husband) and to simply show love. And through this sanctifying process, I am becoming more like the woman, the mother, the wife I really want to be.

I guess it's just one more reason to appreciate motherhood.

How Do You Replace a Mother?

2010-09-26T18:36:00.000-07:00

When I signed off from blogging a few months ago, I never expected my next entry would be about something so tragic and so personal. But, as I'm sure most everyone knows, life happens, trials come, tragedies occur, and we are left to pick up the pieces, to try to keep breathing in and out--even when it takes a conscious effort to do so, to try to find understanding in whatever event that occurred that rocked our very world.

Three weeks ago my brother lost his wife. She was 31. She was perfect. She was beautiful and healthy and full of life. She was the mother of two children.

In the days following her death we tried so hard to make sense of it all. She was not feeling well, had gotten up in the night and thrown up, thought she had a little flu bug that was going around. The next day she felt better. She was tired and lay down to take a nap. She never woke up.

I have thought of this dear sister of mine continuously over the past few weeks. And I've thought of my brother, only 31 himself and now a widower. And I've thought of their children. Michael is only five, just beginning his first year of kindergarten. Olivia celebrated her first birthday (without her mother) yesterday. And I've wept for these dear children. Not because they will not know love now; not because they are alone; not because their futures are not bright. But, how do you replace a mother?

It's not that I mean to diminish in any way a father's role in the lives of his children. His influence is so important, his role in a home so vital. But, he's not a mother. He may be able to cook, to clean, to taxi, to teach, to guide. But he's not a mother. He may be a great multi-tasker, a patient listener, a careful organizer. But he's not a mother. How do you replace a mother?

When little Michael can't find his backpack, it's Mom who always can. When he asks for a particular shirt to wear, it's Mom who knows just which one he's talking about. When he sits down for breakfast before school, it's Mom who knows what his favorite thing to eat is--oatmeal--and she makes it just the way he likes it. When Olivia is crying inconsolably, it's Mom who can soothe her. When she smiles that beautiful smile, it's Mom who lights up right along with her. When she's taking a bath, it's Mom who knows she doesn't like to lean back, but would rather have water poured on her head. You see, Moms just know stuff no one else does. So, how do you replace a mother?

Grandmas step in and offer love and stability. Aunts and uncles wrap loving arms around as often as they can and whisper love. Grandpas show more patience and listen more attentively to stories about school and friends and ideas. Cousins are especially kind and spend more time playing. Friends are understanding, offering sympathy and concern. Teachers take special note to attend to tender feelings. Dad does all he can to mend the hurt and fill the void. But, regardless of everyone's selfless efforts, how do you replace a mother?

Leaders of nations are replaced by their successors. Soldiers that fall in battle are replaced with new recruits. Retirees are replaced by fresh graduates. Sports heroes are replaced by younger replicas. But, how do you replace a mother?

The answer is straightforward. You don't because you can't. You see, a mother is the one person in all the world who simply cannot be replaced. No matter how many people love Michael and Olivia, no matter how hard everyone tries to make up for their loss, the truth is, it can't be done. No one is Zoe. No one is their mother.

And so, I just want to say to every mother out there: Remember--you are not replaceable. No one can step in and do your job in just the way you do it. No one can love, nurture, guide and bless her children like you can. No one. And for all of you who have lost your mothers, my heart goes out to you, for you have lost a precious jewel.

When I think of my dear sister-in-law, I think of a woman who gave everything to being a mother. She only had a few short years with her children, and she soaked them all up. She was bright, she was funny, she was dedicated, she was irreplaceable.

And so are you.

Final Thoughts

2010-07-06T07:55:00.000-07:00

I have been pondering this decision for a few months now, struggling with the idea of letting go of something that has become such a part of me and my life, but today is my last blog post--at least for a time.

I began writing this blog a couple of years ago. At first I struggled to think of what to write on a monthly basis, but before long, I committed to writing a weekly post, and it quickly became a commitment I looked forward to. One of my major motivations for beginning the blog in the first place was to improve my writing skills, to write on a regular basis, thus becoming a more experienced, improved writer. What I received in the process, was a love and passion for sharing something much greater--my thoughts, feelings, and personal experiences as a mother.

I knew from the start I wanted to write about motherhood; after all, it's the thing I'm most passionate about, the role I reverence and appreciate more than any other, the responsibility I want to succeed at more than anything else in life. Writing about it came easily. There were weeks I could have written a post nearly every day, but in an effort to not become consumed by blogging, I refrained. I loved writing about my children, about what they are teaching me, about what motherhood means to me, about the difficulties, the frustrations, the trials and especially about the joys, the victories, the growth.

To all who have read my blog over the past few years, and especially to those who have commented, I thank you. I have appreciated the connection we have built though enjoying each other's words and gleaning from the glimpses into your minds, hearts, and lives. I think that's one of the surprising enjoyments of blogging--the thoughts and inspirations gained from the associations built through connecting in this way. Nevertheless, after much deliberation, I am saying goodbye for a season.

The thing is, I've spent two years writing about my family being my priority, writing about my desire to make my children and husband the focus of my life because I know one day--all too soon--my children will be grown, my husband and I will older, and I will be left with lots of time to ponder how I spent my time. I don't want to live with regrets, to wish I had not busied myself with things of lesser importance to the point I didn't make the necessary time for what matters most.

My life has become increasingly busier. Out of necessity I have taken on greater responsibility, and because my children are getting older, their commitments are increasing as well. As a result, I often have a large number of obligations demanding my time and attention. I have found myself sitting at my computer to write, only to finish hours later, due to constant interruptions. I have also found myself sending my children away so I could type out all the reasons I love them and want to be a good mother to them. Somehow, that seems a bit hypocritical.

And so, in a process to weed out what is unnecessary in my life so I can devote plenty of my time, energies, and attention on what I value most, I am writing my final blog entry for a while. Even as I write this, tears fill my eyes, because through the process of sharing my life with you--my thoughts, my goals, my frustrations and discouragements, my humorous moments and my joys in motherhood--I have grown. I have come to see just how much this sacred role means to me, and how vital I feel about succeeding at it. I have come to see myself as so much more than just a mother, but a nurturer, a cheerleader, a trusted friend, a leader, a provider of truth, unconditional love and patience. I have been blessed with four incredible little people who look to me to help them become the best that's in themselves, to lead them to truth and true happiness, despite living in a world where counterfeit ideas of happy living are all around us. To succeed, I must devote the best of myself to them. I must be willing to give up some things--even good things--that distract me from this sacred, daunting responsibility.

And so, I say goodbye. And I leave with a hope that my readers, however few or often you read, gleaned something from my ideas about motherhood. If nothing else, I hope you laughed or cried at some point along this journey.

I know I have.

Motherhood and the Energizer Bunny

2010-06-29T10:25:00.000-07:00

I've been on vacation. Actually, can you call it a vacation if you take three of your four children with you? Either way, it being summer and all, we're trying to take advantage of fewer commitments so we can travel a little bit. My husband took my oldest son to Canada fishing for nine days, and I took the rest of the troops to Wyoming for a week to visit my family--a much anticipated trip.

Everything started out great. The kids played nonstop with their cousins while I rested, visited, snacked and enjoyed the beautiful fresh Wyoming air (all except the drones of mosquitoes, that is). It was exactly what I needed.

Unfortunately, the best things always come to an end.

Halfway through the week I felt my patience starting to thin. Between the tattling, the whining, the begging for snacks, and so forth, I realized that location means very little when it comes to children. They can drain my reservoirs just as easily at Grandma's house as they do in our own home. When day four came and my three-year-old hit me for the upteenth time, I found myself on the other side of a bedroom door, wiping my brow in exasperation as my little guy threw a fit on the other side--a scenario I've participated in all too many times lately.

My 85-year-old grandfather came out of the next bedroom and must have noticed my reserves waning. I let out a sigh of frustration, to which he responded, "The trick is to outlast them. Then they learn to respond better to you." I laughed at his comment as a picture of the Energizer Bunny immediately appeared in my frazzled head. No one outlasts the Energizer. The familiar commercial jingle repeated itself in my mind as I nodded in agreement.

As the day wore on, and my stamina wore thinner and thinner, I decided my grandfather was exactly right. Motherhood is all about "outlasting"--outlasting fits, poor behavior, groundings, potty training accidents, poor attitudes, and so on. Our goal is to become Energizer Bunnies, so we can outlast all the problems that arise in a day and thus produce happy, wonderful children.

So, on days when my endurance is low, I'm just going to remember that little Energizer Bunny beating his drum as he rolls along outlasting everybody. And maybe then I will be able to outlast my children's determination to be naughty. If only I had batteries to help me!

Fortunately

2010-06-14T16:42:00.000-07:00

One last backpack full of papers/books made it home to my kitchen table a week ago, signalling the final days of school. I had already chucked a large amount of collectible items, so I tried to put a little effort into sorting and saving a few remaining mementos. Eager to read my eight-year-old son's writing, I began by picking up a story he wrote entitled "Fortunately." Just as I was hoping, it tickled me clear to my toes and made me chuckle the entire day. Here's how it went (with corrected spelling so you could actually understand it).

Fortunately, my friend invited me to his birthday party.
Unfortunately, they were riding bulls.
Fortunately, I was sick that day.
Unfortunately, my friend decided to wait until I got better.
Fortunately, I got to ride a little bull.
Unfortunately, I figured out the little ones are the wild ones.
Fortunately, I only rode for one second.
Unfortunately, another friend invited me to his birthday party.
Fortunately, we went swimming.

I just love catching a glimpse into the heads of my children sometimes. I never cease to be amazed at how clever and funny they are. They definitely keep me smiling. So, as a tribute to my son, I decided to dedicate this post to him and write my own story entitled "Fortunately." Here goes.

Fortunately, I am a mother.
Unfortunately, sometimes I'm not a very good one.
Fortunately, my kids love me anyway.
Unfortunately, I still want to throttle them at times (not literally).
Fortunately, I'm learning there are better ways to handle frustrating situations.
Unfortunately, I still blow it all too often.
Fortunately, my kids are very forgiving.
Unfortunately, they want to throttle me at times (not literally).
Fortunately, at the end of the day, they're still glad to be my kids, and I'm still glad to be their mom.
Unfortunately, they'll never be perfect kids, and I'll never be a perfect mother.
Fortunately, they'll always be the perfect kids for me, and hopefully I'm the perfect mother for them because I love them more than they could ever know!
Unfortunately . . . I have no more unfortunatelies.

Life is good, and I'm so thankful it's full of fortunatelies.

HOME

2010-06-07T12:28:00.000-07:00

Last week being the end of the school year, my children trudged home every day and emptied their backpacks full of papers, books, art projects, etc. they had collected over the past nine months. Needless to say, the thought of going through all of it and choosing a couple of things to save was a little daunting. One day, however, I grabbed a pile of my eight-year-old son's papers and books and started sorting. In the process, I came upon his school journal. I didn't have time to read every page, so I simply flipped it open to see if there was anything interesting. This is what I read first.

"I like to . . .
play soccer out at reses with my friends
eat helthy stufe like brokly and stroberrys
play football and stare worse on the wii
swim and get wet
do my beste in school"

Obviously, spelling isn't one of the things he likes to do, and I am a little surprised by his desire to eat healthy food like broccoli. But, the thing that caught my eye was the last thing he wrote. He drew a picture of our family and wrote, "I like to be with my family a lot."

I immediately choked up when I read those words. Not that I thought he hated being with his family, but the fact that he wrote it in his school journal touched me deeply. So, I read on.

"My family . . .

We like to go to Lagoon;" (can you believe he put a semicolon here? The kid's grammar is atrocious, but then he throws in a semicolon--I love it!) "and my favorite thing to do is play sports like football, soccer, tennis, golf, baseball, basketball and racing; "(another semicolon--they must have had a lesson on these or something. And I love that the kid can hardly spell his name, but he spells every sport correctly) "My mom dose wired (I think he means weird) stuff I would not do like doing like landry every day of her life; (yet another semicolon--and glad he's noticed I do laundry every day) and going on baby rides with my brother; but I still love her very much;" (tears are dripping off my nose at this point, but the next one is the kicker) "My family is the best family there is on the planet."

Needless to say, I couldn't read more for a few minutes because my eyes were full of tears and I couldn't see the words anymore. Sounds a bit ridiculous, I know, but there's just something about your son admitting his love for his family in his school journal that gets to you. When I finally got a hold of myself to sift through a few more pages, I was again touched by what he wrote.

"My Favorites:"
Things to do: sports like football, basketball, soccer, etc.
Things to eat: sweets like candy and ice cream
Places to be: home"

I was expecting his favorite place to be to be Disneyland or the gym or his friend's house. I never thought he would say his favorite place to be is simply our home. But it meant more to me than he could know. And as I reached for yet another Kleenex, my heart was full of gratitude. I wondered to myself if I would list home as my favorite place to be and decided I would. Despite the constant chaos, the never ending list of responsibilities, the continual refereeing, and more, still home is where I choose to be. It's where I get to be. It's where I love to be.

I never did make it through all of the paperwork; in fact, just today I decided to ditch the project altogether and I threw everything else in the trash. But I kept the journal, just in case I need to pull it out one day and remind my son how he once felt about his home and family. Or in case I need to pull it out to remind myself how he once felt about his home and family. Either way, all I can say is that I hope that one day, when it's all said and done, all of us can say that we like to be with our family a lot, that we have the best family on the planet, and that our favorite place to be is home!

Four Kids--Four Personalities

2010-05-31T09:49:00.000-07:00

It never ceases to amaze me how different the children in one family can be. Not only do siblings often vary in appearance, but I've noticed an even larger discrepancy in personality. Take, for instance, my kids.

My ten-year-old is responsible, sweet and sensible. She looks and acts more like a 13-year-old, but in a good way (meaning, she's not into boys or popularity and such yet). She's a bit dramatic and can lose her temper, but she immediately gets a hold of herself and apologizes. She is seldom in any real trouble, although her mother does wish she would show more respect and love to her younger brother. She doesn't care a lot about personal appearance, and in fact, could probably up her performance in hygiene a little.

For example, just last week she was invited to a party with some girls she plays soccer with. Since she's not asked to such events often, I thought it might be a good idea to take her hair of her daily pony tail and maybe spend a few minutes brushing it out and making it look a little more presentable. Also, I suggested a change of clothes--nothing fancy--just clean and unholy. She didn't agree. "It's not a beauty pageant, mother. It's just a little pizza party." Agreed, but a little more effort couldn't hurt, could it?

Then there's my eight-year-old son. He's athletic and fun and soaks up the most he can out of life. He is always busy, and in fact, cannot even sit on a couch without tossing a ball up and catching it. He has a lot of friends and needs them. He does not like playing solo. He has a great sense of humor and a wonderful heart. He gets into trouble on a more regular basis and has a horrible temper, but he's learning to go to his room, get a grip, then come apologize. He absolutely does not like it when someone raises his/her voice at him, so I have to be so careful in how I speak to him when I am frustrated, and in fact, I have to discipline him completely different from my ten-year-old. He makes me smile every day with his quick wit.

The other day I was telling him about a neighbor girl who had run into another child on the playground and had ended up cracking her skull in two places. My other children were riddling me with questions about the accident when Nate looked at me and said, "So you're telling me she ran into someone and broke the school in two different places? Where did the school get broken?" It took me a moment to realize he was thinking of the building he attends every day to learn, rather than the girl's head. We all laughed as I explained that when I said the word, "skull," I meant the bones that surround the brain in our heads. What I loved most is that, rather than be offended that we laughed at him (like my 10-year-old may have done), he joined in and laughed right along with us.

My five-year-old is a diva in training. She cares a lot about how she looks and changes her clothes many times a day. She is particular about how I fix her hair and loves nothing more than for someone to tell her she looks cute. I picked her up from preschool recently and asked how it went. Her response was, "Nobody said I looked cute today. Dari's hair was cuter than mine." I didn't even know how to respond. Just the next day, she came into the bathroom while I was getting ready and said with exasperation, "Oh great, you look cuter than I do today!" She's a smart as a whip and helpful and sweet, but when she decides to throw a fit--watch out! She plays with a swarm of little boys in the neighborhood and when I asked her why she liked playing with boys so much, she said it was so she could boss them around. I have no doubt that's true. She's also a bit of a pathological liar (she recently told her preschool teacher I was expecting twins--not true), but we're working on embracing honesty.

While exercising at my friend's house the other day, she asked me if she could go upstairs. I told her she needed to stay downstairs where I could monitor her. She was not pleased with that answer, and a minute later, I heard her tell her little brother, "Mom won't let us go upstairs because she's a (pause) mom--a word I can't say because it's a potty word and I don't want to have to do a chore." That's Regyn (or should I say Savannah since she also told me she hates her name and wants to officially change it) to a tee.

Lastly, there's my three-year-old. He's usually happy and content and loving. He follows Regyn around like a little puppy and apparently doesn't mind being told what to do all day. He loves to read stories and do puzzles and most of all, ask questions. I've never known a child who can ask so many questions. "Are we going swimming now? At the pool? Where there's deep water? Where I have to be careful so I don't drown? Because drowning means I die? And you don't want me to die? Because then you'll be sad?" And on and on and on. I try responding to each question but it gets tiring fast.

Last week I was rushing to get ready to go to the school for an event for one of my older children. Running a bit behind schedule, I was trying to come up with a fast hairdo. Without realizing it, I said out loud to myself, "I can't do that to my hair. I look like an idiot." The next thing I knew, Boston was at my side. "Mom, what does an idiot look like?" Needless to say, I had no answer for that question.

Four kids--four unique personalities. What can I say? At least, it keeps life interesting.

The Best Therapy

2010-05-24T10:16:00.000-07:00

Last week I did something absolutely amazing! After I finished, I felt like a whole new woman--more free, more in control, more fabulous. And I thought to myself: Why in the world did I wait so long to do this? It changed my whole perspective on life. I mean, it was literally life-changing!

I cleaned out my closet.

Okay, so you were probably expecting something more dramatic but I'm serious when I say it made a significant difference in my life. I immediately felt like I had lost 10 pounds (the feeling every woman wants, right?), and I could not stop wondering why and how I had let things get so out of control. I also could not stop finding myself in my closet throughout the next few days, just staring at the organized shoes and clothes, simply breathing in the feeling of neatness and order.

I guess you would have had to have seen just how bad it looked before you could really appreciate what I'm talking about. I even took "before" and "after" pictures so I could remind myself of what I never want my closet to look like again. That may sound a little over-the-top, but I'm telling you, it was worth it.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

(Honestly, you can't possibly tell from the pictures just how dramatic the change really was).

Life the past nine months consistently spiraled into craziness. Between teaching preschool, supporting my children's athletic and school events, dealing with health issues, coaching a club volleyball team, church assignments and a gazillion other life responsibilities, my role as homemaker took a back seat--like way back, like the caboose back. In other words, the bare minimum was getting done, and little by little, my house became a hazardous zone. I kept telling myself I would get to it, that when the basement was finally done (we've been working on it for a good year), I would find a place for everything and get officially organized.

Well, the other day, I hit a wall. I walked into my closet (actually, it was nearly impossible to walk into it because of everything piled all over, so carefully attempted to make my way without tripping would be a more accurate description) and decided enough was enough. I was not going to live another day with such a disastrous room. And I got to work. Two hours later I emerged. I felt as if I had conquered Goliath. The rest of the day, I kept returning to stand in the middle of it and just stare. I realized I could even lie on the floor and make a snow angel in the carpet if I wanted to since the floor was free of debris. It was the most wonderful feeling!

But then I walked out of my closet and felt . . . like crying. The whole house seemed to need a major overhaul. I decided to take on one project a day until the entire house was as fresh and clean as my closet. I didn't care what other responsibilities had to be put on hold--I was on a mission to find my house again one room at a time, and no one was going to stop me!

Except my children and their obligations.

A few days went by without progress. That's when I had a rough day of motherhood (my three-year-old is teaching me patience--need I say more?), and before I knew it, I had thrown open the hall closet and started tossing everything over my shoulder. It was as if I had discovered a new form of therapy--decluttering--and it was working like a charm. Ducking as they passed by, my children wondered what was going on with Mom and why I was furiously organizing the closet. "I'm taking control of my life again," I said. And that's exactly how it felt.

Over the course of a few days I cleaned my pantry (too bad I didn't take "before" and "after" pictures--it was unbelievable) and numerous drawers and cupboards in my kitchen. And with each tidied space I felt a little more free and in control. It was amazing!

One day my son became sick and felt like he had a fever. I rushed to the newly organized closet and grabbed for a thermometer (I found out I own four--before the feverish cleaning expedition I wasn't sure I even owned one), plopping it under his tongue with a smile of satisfaction that I knew exactly where to find one. I felt empowered. I decided right then that regardless of how crazy life gets, my role as homemaker will never get pushed so far to the back again.

A few years ago I watched an Oprah that talked about your home being a reflection of you. They said if your home is cluttered, your life is cluttered. I thought it was interesting, that some valid points were made. But I had never fully experienced it until this past week when I decided my life was full of way too much clutter, and I got to work. If only I had known I could feel so much better just by making a space for things and then making sure things got put away in that space. So simple, yet so hard .

Now, reality tells me it won't stay wonderfully tidy forever, at least not without consistent effort. But I just have to say, if you want to do something amazing for yourself--something that doesn't cost a thing, something that will change your life--simply pick a closet. It truly is the best therapy.

Seemingly Small Acts

2010-05-17T12:18:00.000-07:00

Sludging through the daily grind of life--school schedules, sports schedules, lessons, church responsibilities, and more--we often seem so busy I wonder if my children are soaking up the things that matter most each day. Important habits, such as scripture reading, praying, fulfilling family responsibilities, serving and helping each other, often get rushed through or even pushed aside as we run to keep up with everything else. Yet these are the activities I want my children to pay the most attention to, because in the end, they are the only things that really matter.

In an effort to drive this point home, I find myself constantly working to make these seemingly small acts each day become the heartbeat of our very lives. Still, I often wonder if I'm succeeding at all. Most days it seems I'm not, but if there's one thing motherhood is teaching me, it's that our children are watching and learning from EVERYTHING we do, even--and maybe especially--when our influence on them may be nearly imperceptible. I sometimes feel exhausted from that pressure because I certainly can't and don't set a perfect example at all times. But the good news is my children are soaking up more of the good than I ever suspect, and to me, that's one of the miracles of motherhood. It's one of the ways God makes up the difference. Since we can't be perfect moms and get it right all the time, He enhances the effect of our positive influences on our children when we are trying hard to do the right things. And I have to believe these are the experiences that will shape my children and make up for the many times I blow it.

This past week we experienced a morning that proved this point to me. I had been working hard all week on carrying out a few large responsibilities. By the end of Wednesday evening, I found myself with a migraine headache, so sick I could barely get myself to bed. Every thought I had or move I made shot sharp pain through me head and left me feeling sure I was going to throw up. I took some medicine and crawled into bed, praying for a miracle since I knew I had to teach preschool the next morning, as well as meet some other commitments.

Somehow I made it through the night, although quite miserably. Morning found me finally able to rest a little deeper, and I thought to myself that if I could only sleep in a bit then I might be able to actually get out of bed and make it through the day. The problem was my husband had to leave early for a meeting at work and could not stay to help me. That left only my children, and although I wanted to believe they were up to the task of fixing themselves breakfast, getting ready for the day, and accomplishing the morning routine in time for school, I admit I was a bit skeptical. In fact, I didn't even dare ask them to try. I just kept willing myself to get out of bed, only to find myself falling sound asleep again.

I finally awoke with a start and realized it was 8:00. My older children needed to be leaving to catch the bus soon and I wasn't even sure they'd had breakfast yet. Just as I was throwing back the covers to slide out of bed, all four of my children appeared at my bedside. They were dressed, had eaten breakfast and were all ready for the day. Even better than that, my 10-year-old had organized family scripture reading. My eight-year-old was speaking to me in soothing tones as he rubbed the back of my neck and back and asked me if there was anything else he could do for me. The beds were made, the teeth were brushed, and they were ready for family prayer.

I was amazed and humbled and grateful. Wow, they're getting it, I thought. In fact, it seemed they'd gotten it. I began to wonder if they needed me at all in the mornings since they had accomplished all of this 10 minutes earlier than usual. That's when my eight-year-old told me to fold my arms and close my eyes so he could pray for our day. My bedroom became a sacred place when his simple words included a humble plea for me to get feeling better. Tears filled my eyes as my four sweet children each kissed me, hugged me and told me to have a great day. I was overcome by the love and compassion and service they had shown me, and as I lay there in bed a little longer, I wondered when and how they had become such thoughtful, loving children.

That's when it hit me. It's who they've been becoming all along, and I just hadn't fully realized it. I'd been so adept at noticing the weak spots in our family, I had failed to grasp how effective our daily righteous habits had been on teaching my children goodness. Now, I'm going to be quick to say that my dear children have a long way to go. They certainly aren't always so thoughtful as they were the other morning, nor are they always so efficient and loving. But I believe our efforts to fill our lives with important habits like scripture reading and prayer and service make more of a difference at the end of the day than we could ever imagine. It's a lesson I hope to not soon forget.

And I've been thinking that maybe, just to give them extra practice, I'll be sick a little more often!

Happy Mother's Day!!

2010-05-09T16:48:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day this year proved to be an education for me. Not only did I learn some things about myself I didn't know, but I also came to the realization that one reason I have had less-than-ecstatic feelings about this holiday every year is that my children seem to choose this day to be at their absolute worst. Fighting, name-calling, whining, begging, and more all seem to culminate on Mother's Day, making it extremely difficult to refrain from my usual hollering and nagging long enough to feel like an accomplished mother.

This year my children inundated me with special notes, which were not only sweet, but very informative. For example, from my 10-year-old I learned I am "octofantastic". What, you might ask, does octofantastic mean? Well, I'm not sure, although I've chosen to assume it's something great. She didn't know herself; it was just a word she made up when she couldn't think of any other one that started with "O" for an acrostic with my name (I was just thankful the word "ornery" didn't come to mind).

My eight-year-old attempted to show his love through an acrostic poem as well. Using the word "mother," this is what he came up with: Money, Oatmeal, Tame, Hot, Easy, and Rough. Not exactly words I would use if I wanted to impress my mother, but oh well. I was just about to ask what he meant by writing money, oatmeal, rough and tame when I decided instead to focus on the word "hot." Wow, I thought, at least he thinks I'm something great to look at. He must have read my mind, because without me even asking, he said, "The hot just means you get hot when you're outside, Mom." Great. Thanks, son. I feel so special now.

My five-year-old filled out an entire paper all about me. Apparently, I'm 21 years old (I love that girl!), I'm as pretty as a heart (whatever that means), and my favorite food is tomatoes and onions in a sandwich. At least she didn't have to make up a word (like octofantastic), or use a word like oatmeal or rough to describe me.

The real kicker was my three-year-old, though. In an effort to make the day meaningful, my husband gathered the children together for a special Family Home Evening on none other than . . . how great mom is! He started by asking the kids to think of things I do for them. This brought a lot of sighs, eye rolling, and inaudible muttering from the kids. They were less than enthusiastic about the topic. Personally, I thought it was a great idea. I sat back, folded my arms and waited for the appreciation to start flooding in.

Number one on the list was the laundry. Okay, not bad, but is that the best these kids can come up with? It was Boston's turn next. My husband turned to him and said, "Boston, what does Mommy do for you every day?" I held my breath as I awaited what I was sure would be a sweet little answer that would melt my heart. Instead, he looked right at my husband and said matter-of-factly, "She gets mad at me." Not exactly heart-melting material. Young children are so uncensored!

Round two of this little activity found my eight-year-old saying, "Mom's a good influence." Finally, a thoughtful answer. If only he hadn't followed it up with, "What does influence mean?" Somehow a compliment becomes less meaningful when the person saying it doesn't even know what it means.

The end of the day found me grateful it's 365 days until Mother's Day rolls around again. I've given it quite a lot of thought, and I think I'll use the time to coach my children on more appropriate, meaningful responses for next year. If nothing else, I plan to be the most octofantastc mom ever !

Making the Grade

2010-05-05T17:52:00.000-07:00

Life lately seems to be a test on motherhood. And although failing might be a harsh grade to give myself, I think my GPA would probably fall somewhere below average. And as hard as I'm trying to keep up on everything, inevitably a "pop quiz" appears, finding me unprepared. Since repeating the term is not an option, I keep telling myself to get my act together; unfortunately, my act has been hard to find. Think I'm exaggerating? Trust me, I'm not. In one day, I forgot to send my son with his speech homework; was late (the last mom to arrive--every child's worst nightmare) to a preschool program, and when I did arrive I had forgotten the camera; forgot completely about sending my son to scouts; made dinner, only to find that apparently the rice was supposed to be cooked before being thrown into the crock pot, so we had to go to plan B for dinner--Ramen noodles and toast. Oh yeah, and I lost my cell phone. These mistakes are just minor, I realize, but I think it suffices to say, I'm not excelling.

Yesterday my sweet little five-year-old broke into an all-out tantrum when I picked her up from preschool because she wanted to stay and play on the playground for a while. Truth be told, I've been promising her all year that one day (when the weather was warmer) we would stay and play, and that promise has yet to be kept, so I hardly blamed her for feeling frustrated. I was even considering changing my mind when the fit started, and when I say fit, I mean screaming, flailing, pushing, bawling, HUMONGOUS fit. So, of course, I couldn't give in at that point and let her stay to play, even though I sympathized with the poor child. The tantrum lasted for at least ten minutes, and all the while I kept kneeling in front of her to try to calm her and talk with her about options, but she just kept pushing on me and screaming at the top of her lungs. I finally had no choice but to pick her up and throw her in the van. Even then, she opened the door and tried to escape. It was truly every mom's worst nightmare. I finally got her locked in long enough to make the drive around the corner and home. I told her when she was finished with her fit she could come inside. She cried it out for 20 more minutes before she finally came in, her red, puffy eyes looking sorry as ever.

Grateful the episode was over, I went about trying to get dinner on, only to find the same sweet little five-year-old throwing yet another tantrum. My patience wearing thin, I immediately took her hand and led (drug is more accurate) her to her bedroom, explaining she was to stay there for five full minutes. Then I shut the door. Of course she opened it right back up, so I felt my only option was to put her back inside, shut the door, and hold on to the doorknob. I wasn't sure I could last for five full minutes with her yanking on it from the other side, but I was determined to give it my best shot. She had gotten the best of me all day, and it was my turn to return the favor.

After about 20 seconds, I felt my patience wearing even thinner. I was sure I could not hold on for another four minutes and forty seconds. What to do? Hmm. That's when a thought struck me. What would a good mother do in this situation? Good question. I don't know--run and hide? It's what I felt like doing. I looked down at my white knuckles gripping the doorknob and realized that a good mother would probably not battle it out like this with her five-year-old.

That's when an even better question came to mind. What would a great mother do? Oh yeah, I don't want to be just a good mother. I'm not sure being a good mother is going to get the job done these days. I have to be better than that. What would a great mother do? Beats me.

And that's when the really important question flashed through my mind. What would an exceptional mother do right now? It didn't take long to loosen my grip on the doorknob. In fact, before I knew it, my heart had changed completely. I no longer cared about winning the battle with my little girl; I only cared about showing love to a very tired, frustrated child. That's when I opened the door, hit my knees, and held out my arms to her. At first she just stared at me, wondering what the catch was, but then she seemed to understand. When she met my embrace, and we held each other close, I realized how often I do it all wrong. Not that I can be an exceptional mother all the time--I have too many weaknesses to maintain such a high standard--but I couldn't help but wonder why I settle far too often for just being a good mother, or even a poor mother.

"I think we're both having a rough day," I whispered as I stroked her long, blond hair. "And when I'm having a rough day, the thing that helps me most is if someone I love wraps her arms around me and tells me it's going to be okay." Her beautiful blue eyes looked up at me as she wrapped her little arms tighter around my neck and we cried together for a few minutes. It may not have been what an exceptional mother would really have done, but at that moment, it seemed right.

I'm not hoping to earn any worldly accolades for my role as a mother; I'm not worried about impressing anyone with my mothering skills (if I even have any); and I'm not trying to outdo anyone else or be a better mother than the woman next door. But what I am trying to do is be the best mother to my children I can possibly be, and sometimes I find I just don't give it the right kind of effort. At the end of the day, my children and I (and maybe my husband, although he's gone most the day) are the only ones who really know what kind of mother I've been (a fact I'm extremely grateful for). But I'm learning I sleep a lot better at night when I can think through the day and know I've given it an "A" effort, even if the pop quizzes that inevitably come with motherhood have found me a bit unprepared.

So, if you've been finding the tests of motherhood to be especially daunting lately, hang in there. That's exactly what exceptional mothers do!

The Waiting Room

2010-04-26T13:50:00.000-07:00

Five-thirty a.m. this morning found me lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, a dreadful pit forming in my gut. Not the way I usually like to start my day, but on my agenda was a trip to the gynecologist for my yearly exam (t.m.i--too much info? Sorry), and no matter how hard I try not to, I always end up working myself into a sweaty, nervous wreck by the time I get there.

Hoping to get the appointment over with as quickly as possible, I climbed the three flights of stairs with optimism, only to feel my heart sink when I squeezed into a chair in the packed waiting room. It was obvious my visit was not going to be speedy. The worst part was that I had forgotten my book so I had no choice but to people-watch. Perusing the waiting visitors in hopes of finding someone or something interesting, I settled into light despair--almost everyone was absorbed in either a book or their cell phones. Drats!

That's when a young mother with two toddlers in tote and a baby car seat trudged in. We could actually hear them before we could see them. The mom lugged the car seat on one arm while she balanced her diaper bag and backpack on the other and herded her small children to the only available seats--right next to me. As the crew made their way past the rest of the visitors, the mother announced rather loudly, "We'll try to be as quiet as we can." I couldn't help but grin as I wondered if she realized she had already broken the peaceful mood.

Oh, goodie, I thought, this little family will at least provide some entertainment while I wait. No sooner had my thoughts formed than this darling woman announced to the entire waiting room that she was there to get birth control (definitely a little t.m.i, don't you think?). She then pointed to her children and said, "Can you tell why?"

That's when I noticed her children were all very young. After talking with the oldest, a little girl, I found out she was only three and was trying to get rid of her binky and get potty trained. Her little brother was nearly two, and the baby was three months old. Wow! As a mother who has been through the stage of three small children (not that close together, however) I have humble adoration for mothers who are managing such an ambitious load. I've decided that no matter who you are, if you have three children under the age of four (or something close to that), you are in over your head! Some mothers may not be willing to admit it, but it's nonetheless true. That doesn't mean they aren't perfectly capable of loving and handling their little ones, but it does mean they are doing the hardest job ever, and they are more than likely exhausted in every way by the end of the day.

I couldn't help but notice that this dear mother's children, like many children those ages, were quite a handful. The poor lady never sat still for longer than 20 seconds. After about ten minutes, I thought of her promise to be as quiet as possible, and giggled to myself. They were anything but quiet as they pushed chairs up to the fish tank, ran around the waiting room, begged for snacks, and asked when they could go home. It was all so familiar to me, I sat there with a knowing smile. Before long, the mother was ripping covers off the waiting room magazines to make paper airplanes. That worked for about . . . two minutes, and then she was taking them for their third drink to the drinking fountain, and pulling out cars from her bag, and so on.

I noticed some of the other visitors had set their books down by now so they could enjoy the entertainment as well. One lady volunteered to help keep the two-year-old from escaping, and it was at this point I decided I would put my visit off longer to let her go ahead of me. I couldn't help but wonder if there was anyone in the waiting room who had come to the doctor with the intention of hoping to get pregnant soon who was having second thoughts.:) But I watched this young mother patiently deal with each new scenario, and a new kind of lump formed in my throat. I saw how resilient she was as she ingeniously thought up new ways to keep her kids entertained (I have to say, the looks on people's faces when she started tearing pages out of magazines for paper airplanes was a little priceless!), and I was filled with awe once again at the miracle of motherhood.

It was a scenario I've seen or experienced myself many times over as I've struggled with children at a doctor's office, or a grocery store, or anywhere else I've dared drag them along, and to me, it's the greatest sign of selflessness and love there is. I looked around the waiting room once more at each woman there and wondered what their stories were. I'm sure most, if not all, were mothers or hoping to be mothers. I watched one very young girl and found myself wondering if she was just beginning this journey, and I couldn't help but think she had no idea what kind of roller coaster ride she was hopping on, but it was sure to be filled with excitement! I watched another expecting mother waddle painfully to the back when they called her name, and although I have no idea what her struggles are, my eyes filled with tears for her willingness to endure discomfort to carry a child and bring it into the world.

That's what motherhood is about. That's what it's always been about. Love, sacrifice, unending service, pain, embarrassment, laughter, selflessness, and my personal favorite--pure joy. I endured my appointment and rushed home to my own children with a renewed gratitude for the gift of being a mother. It is the hardest thing I've ever done, but it's also the most rewarding. I wanted to tell that young mother to hang in there because one day she would look back on this time of her life and realize it was one of the greatest, but I didn't want her to lose optimism for the future!:)

Instead, I silently thanked her for reminding me of what I've always known, but sometimes forget: I am profoundly grateful to be a mother!

Throwing Away the Textbook

2010-04-12T09:23:00.000-07:00

I had looked forward to this past week for at least a month, anxious for a change in routine and a reprieve from the pressures of every day life; however, our Spring Break ended up being anything but spring or a break. Between the icy cold temperatures and snow of Wyoming storms and dealing with the flu bug half the week, by mid-week my expectations were not being met in any sense of the word. On top of that, my children decided to veto bedtime, and I found myself spending over an hour getting my children to bed on more than one evening, resulting in frustration and impatience on my part.

When we finally returned home, I was ready for our regular routine. The last couple of days in Wyoming proved a little sunny and relaxing, but I looked forward to normal bedtimes and a schedule that keeps my children busy and happy. I guess I'm a bit of an optimist because we've now been home for three days and I'm still waiting for the no-hassle bedtimes, the productive busyness and the happiness.

Last night was the final straw. My two youngest had been in bed and asleep for two hours, but my oldest child was determined to stay up as long as possible. Knowing school awaited the next morning, I was adamant that she retire early enough to get plenty of rest. Unfortunately, she did not see things the same way. She kept insisting she wasn't tired as she followed me around the house. Finally, I realized I had to take some serious action.

"If I have to tell you to go to bed one more time, you're going to lose your privileges," I warned.

"What privileges?"

Okay. She's smarter than I thought. She's going to weigh her options. I'd better come up with something good. "Television. No TV this week," I said, naively waiting for her to hop right up and head to bed.

After thinking it over for a few seconds, she said, "Okay. No TV this week."

This was not going well. I knew I had to come up with a privilege that meant more to her, so I said, "Friends. No friends, either." I immediately knew that was a rather ridiculous punishment since she rarely plays with friends anyway.

"Okay," she said.

Now I was floundering. "Your Ipod. I'm taking away your Ipod."

"I don't have an Ipod." Darn it! This is not looking good. She's outsmarting me at every turn.

"Okay, well, whatever it is you have, I'm taking it away." Knowing I was sounding completely desperate, my frenzied mind struggled to come up with a punishment that would mean something to her. Finally I had it.

"Food. You're grounded from food," I said. It was the only thing I thought she would really miss.

At this, we both looked at each other and burst into the giggles. We laughed so hard we were rolling on the floor. What kind of mother threatens to starve her child if she doesn't go to bed on time? Certainly not a sane one.

At least the tension had been broken, and somehow the absurd threat worked because my clever daughter finally picked herself up off the floor and mozied into bed. We were both still giggling as I kissed her goodnight.

This morning as the kids were getting ready for school, I heard her tell her brother that I had grounded her from food. Her "I think Mom's pretty much crazy" tone was not lost on me, but I decided I'd rather have my children think me a little loony than think me hard-nosed and unapproachable. So, although my parenting skills are far from textbook (As soon as I said it I knew I had broken Rule #436 in Parenting 101--Never threaten to take away something you can't follow through with), I just have to say, sometimes as a mom you just have to throw the textbook out the window and go with your gut instinct. And if your gut instinct is telling you to discipline your child in a somewhat ridiculous manner, go for it. You never know when your sense of humor will pay off. And if you're having a hard time knowing how to discipline a particular child who doesn't seem to be fanatical about anything you can use as leverage, may I suggest taking away . . .

Food!:)

Some Days Just Stink!

2010-04-06T11:48:00.000-07:00

Remember a couple posts ago when I said I was reaching the point of maturity where I could take a deep breath in the middle of motherhood disasters and simply deal with the problem at hand with a degree of composure since I reached the realization that motherhood isn't meant to be easy?

Well . . .

I must have been asking for it, because since then I've found myself having to take a lot of deep breaths, and my degree of composure is diminishing in a hurry. I've repeated the phrase, "It's not meant to be easy. It's not meant to be easy" over and over, but it hasn't seemed to help. I'm to the point where I don't care if it's meant to be easy--I'm ready for a few easy days. Here's why.

Thursday night my three-year-old woke up in the middle of the night hollering my name. I ran in his bedroom and spent the next couple of minutes trying to figure out what he was saying. "I need a ?" he kept repeating. Trying to guess, I kept plugging in answers: a drink? to go potty? a blanket?

"No," he finally screamed, obviously a little frustrated at my lack of understanding. "I need a . . . "
And that's when I finally understood exactly what he needed--a bowl--because he threw up all over me.

Okay. Not what I hoped for at 2:00 a.m., but whew! (my deep breath). I can handle it.

I cleaned the vomit out of my hair, off my clothes, stripped my son, washed him up, scrubbed the carpet, and tucked him back in--with a bowl this time.

Things went great until about 24 hours later when the process repeated itself. Thankfully, I was johny-on-the-spot this time, and the kid already had a bowl in bed with him, so there was no big mess to clean up. But what I didn't know is that it was just the beginning of four long days with the flu.

He threw up again at breakfast and again at lunch. That's when I had to load up all my kids to make the two hour and 15 minute drive to Wyoming so my older son could speak at my niece's baptism. One hour into the trip I stopped to get my little guy a drink since he acted dehydrated. I scooped him into my arms and rushed into McDonald's, setting him down on the bathroom sink. That's when I realized he now had bodily fluids coming out the other end. I don't think the poor child even knew he had soiled himself, but believe me, I did. The stench was unforgettable, and it was now all over my dress. Praying no one would need to use the women's restroom for a few minutes, I stripped the poor kid down while he draped himself over one of the disgusting toilets so he could throw up again. I kept trying to pick him up so his chin wasn't resting on the front of the public restroom toilet, but he was too weak to even care.

Whew! (deep breath again). I was sure I was about to join him in throwing up myself. Between the smell of my now-soiled clothing and the sight of my sweet little boy wiping himself all over the filthy toilet, I was about to lose it. Fortunately, I kept myself together, and we continued on our trip. Five minutes out of town, he threw up again.

Whew! (yet another deep breath). I was beginning to feel a bit stressed. Not only did our van smell like a dozen dirty diapers, but if we had to make many more stops, we were going to miss the baptism entirely. And at this point, I had to squeeze in a change of clothes before attending.

The good news is we did make it in time. My oldest daughter stayed at Grandma's with my sick little boy, and all was well. By bedtime he seemed better. Yes! The flu bug had finally run its course and would be over soon.

Or so I thought.

Two more days, two more sleepless nights, one more time of being completely puked on, and I will admit, the deep breaths were not doing it for me anymore. I know mothers deal with sick kids all the time. I even know it was probably my turn. But after four days and four long nights of it, I didn't care. I was tired of trying to handle it with composure, sick of trying to be mature about it. I just wanted it to be over.

I finally got my wish yesterday when my child slept through the night and woke up as if nothing ever happened. As the day wore on, he acted naughtier and naughtier, and that's when I knew he had made a full recovery.

Whew! I did it. I survived the four day stomach flu. It wasn't easy, but I did it. And I never totally lost control. I'm amazing. I'm resilient. I'm a rock star.

Okay. Back to reality. I'm no rock star. I'm just a regular, old take-everything-as-it-comes mother. And to be perfectly honest, I'm scared spitless. Why? Because, as you all know, an illness that tough is sure to affect more than one of us. I'm just waiting for another of my children to tell me they're not feeling well, and then we'll start the process all over again.

So, in summary, although I know motherhood isn't meant to be easy, although I know it's what I signed up for, I just have to say. . .

Some days just stink!

What A Week!

2010-03-30T16:00:00.000-07:00

Tuesday: My five-year-old daughter marched into my bedroom and made a ridiculous request. I don't even remember specifically what it was, but I remember my response: "Regyn, you've got to be kidding me. Get real."

"I am getting real," she said, her bottom lip sticking out.

That's when my three-year-old chimed in. "No, you're not. You're getting fake, Regyn."

Have I mentioned how funny three-year-olds are?

Wednesday: I changed my clothes four times: once to work out, once after I showered (dressed up to teach school), once to coach volleyball, and once to go to a Relief Society meeting. Add getting my p.j's on, and that makes five times in one day! Does that seem like overload to anyone else? No wonder I feel like all I do is laundry! One thing is for sure--I'm scheduling a nap for tomorrow.

Thursday: Taught eight delightful, energetic preschoolers, before fixing lunch and looking forward to my siesta. Unfortunately, all my responsibilities kept chanting my name, so I gave in and stayed busy the rest of the day instead. Okay, now I definitely deserve some time to chill tomorrow.

Friday: Was up all night with a sick three-year-old. When I finally groaned in exasperation at 4:14 a.m. at the sound of my little guy getting out of bed again, my husband awoke out of his comatose state and asked what the problem was. I told him I'd been up six times in the night and had not slept at all, to which he replied, "Really? I didn't even hear anything."

I wanted to punch him . . . really hard . . . in the nose. Hasn't he learned by now that is NOT the thing to say to his exhausted wife when she's been up all night with a child? Some people are such slow learners.

Saturday: Planned on napping since I got no sleep the night before, but instead I: went to the temple; painted our entrance, hallway and staircase; spring cleaned the house, including all window sills, ceiling fans, shutters, and more; weeded the entire yard; completed two loads of laundry, and crawled into bed that night because the pain shooting from my back down my legs made it nearly impossible to walk. Planned a nap for Sunday.

Sunday: Went to church to find I was supposed to have planned the lesson. Winged the lesson. Drove home promising myself I'd be more on the ball. Cooked dinner for friends and my sister's family (she came from Wyoming to stay the night), plopped into bed, hoping like heck I'd get a nap the next day.

Monday: Drove to Salt Lake with my sister and six children (two of mine, four of hers--all under the age of seven). Spent two and a half hours at Ken Garff while my sister's van got repaired (I'm sure you can fill in the missing details of that scenario), ate a greasy, over-paid-for lunch, made two more stops with the six children in tow, and pulled in my driveway glad I don't really have six kids under the age of seven. And yes, I promised myself I would let everything else go the next day so I could have a snooze.

Now it's Tuesday again, and I still haven't had that nap. The truth is, it eludes me every day. You'd think I would "get real" myself and stop planning it, but somehow deceiving myself into thinking I might actually have an afternoon when I can curl up on the couch and rest, keeps me going every day.

So, although I have no idea what tomorrow really holds, you can bet I have a nap planned. And if you are finding you need a comforting, wonderfully relaxing activity planned for the next day just so you have something to look forward to, my advice is this:

"Get real!"

Take the Shot

2010-03-23T11:17:00.000-07:00

I recently read somewhere that good photographers have a motto they work by--"Take the shot." In other words, don't be afraid to get the picture--just click away without holding back and see what great results you can get. Too often those of us with a camera in our hands hesitate clicking the button because we are waiting for the perfect shot--the exact pose, the flawless smile, the textbook moment. Somewhere in the midst of our reluctance, the perfect photo passes by us, and we end up with disappointing results. Sound familiar?

Instead, we should take advantage of the moment and simply take the shot. The lighting doesn't have to be just right; the clothing doesn't have to be impeccable; the grouping doesn't have to be staged. We just have to push the button.

I know for me, the first step is getting my camera out in the first place. I've somehow convinced myself that something absolutely amazing, unique, or hilarious has to be happening for it to be a camera-worthy experience. Thus, I've missed a lot of great memories by simply leaving the camera behind, or not pulling it out.

The next important key is for the camera batteries to be charged. I hesitate to count the number of times I've pulled out my camera only to find it's dead. Ugh! I hate when that happens.

But the most important part of it all is simply to take the shot, to find the miracle of life in that one certain moment and not be afraid to push the button. It's to stop waiting for just the right time or place or situation and just soak up the here and now, because one day, those captured moments will mean everything.

That's how I feel about motherhood.

It's easy to let life pass me by each day without taking the time and effort to pull out my camera, so to speak. And if I do sort through the stress and busyness of every day life to see the great moments, it's then I find all to often my batteries are not fully charged, and I still miss the most important parts. I find I'm not living in the joy of the moment; instead, I'm rushing through each day, sticking to schedules and deadlines, fulfilling my ever-growing list of responsibilities and missing the whole point.

That's when I look at my children around the dinner table and wonder when they grew up. When did my ten-year-old get to be so beautiful and mature? When did my eight-year-old start using manners (actually, I'm still waiting for that one)? When did my five-year-old get to be so smart? When did my three-year-old stop talking with that adorable little lisp? When and how did this all happen? And where was I?

I was waiting too long to take the shot. I was waiting for things to settle down a little bit, for life to get less hectic. And in the meantime, the most precious photo ops passed right by me, and I found I missed them entirely. I am left with an empty album because I can't get those moments back.

I've decided photographers life by a very wise motto. And in the past few years I've tried to adopt it. I'm not perfect at it, but I try to remind myself every day of how fragile and fleeting life really is, and then I tell myself to soak up every single moment so it doesn't escape my heart and my memory.

When my children were little, I decided to never walk into my their bedrooms when they're sleeping without taking a moment to simply watch, to take in the miracle of each child, and then to lean in close and kiss them one more time. That's a shot I never want to think I missed.

Now I am working on dropping my own priorities so I can focus more clearly on my children and their pressing needs. When one of my children ask me to read a book, no matter how busy I am, I try to do it--to not put it off, because inevitably I will forget and then I will have missed the chance to snuggle close and share someone's wonderful imagination with a child I love. And one day they'll stop asking me. I hope to get in lots of shots before then.

When my children come home from school and have a hundred silly, meaningless stories to share about their day, I try hard to take the time to listen. To drop what I am doing and look them in the eye and really listen, because I know I will miss the endless chatter and laughter of children one day when they are all grown up and don't race home from school anymore.

So, all in all, I'm hoping to stop letting the simply joys of motherhood pass by me unnoticed. To stop waiting for life to offer the perfect moment before I take time to notice and enjoy every day life as a mother. In other words, I'm simply going to take the shot!

Marriage, Parenthood, and Frosted Flakes

2010-03-16T12:44:00.000-07:00

Lunchtime today was interesting, to say the least. Sharing the snack bar with two five-year-olds and one three-year-old proved to be both informative and entertaining. As usual, they talked while I served them lunch and listened, hoping my constant grin wasn't too obvious.

Today, the topic was marriage.

"Remember you're going to marry me?" the five-year-old neighbor boy asked.

"I've decided I'm not going to marry anybody. I'm just going to have kids," my five-year-old daughter answered with complete seriousness as she leaned her chin in her hand, resting her elbow on the counter.

As hard as I try not to intervene during conversations such as these, I couldn't help myself this time. I felt I had to clarify a very important point. "Well, actually honey, if you want kids, you need to be married first."

"Yeah, you're going to have to be married," the neighbor boy said with new determination. "You're going to have to marry me."

"No!" I think my young daughter was feeling trapped in this relationship. "I don't have to marry you."

Worried her comment may have come over a bit harshly, I gently reminded her that just last week she told me she was, in fact, going to marry this very boy.

"I've changed my mind," she stated matter-of-factly. Now I'm going to marry Wyatt" (the neighbor boy who lives behind us).

I watched her newly cast-off beau intently, hoping his feelings wouldn't be crushed. Then, in an effort to smooth over the rejection, I said, "Well, the good news is you don't have to decide today. You're only five. "

But the matter was not closed. My daughter must have finally found a bit of her conscience because she suddenly thought it important to find someone for her friend, and she began naming girls in the neighborhood.

"No. I know who I'm going to marry," the undeterred boy said. I could tell he wasn't about to let her boss him around or have a say in his future at this point. "It's that girl that lives over there," he said pointing. I thought it quite amusing he didn't even know her name.

"Sarah?" my daughter asked.

"Yeah. Sara. I'm going to marry her." I couldn't help but wonder if Sarah knew anything of this impending union, or Wyatt either, for that matter.

The topic seemed to fade while the kids leaned over their cereal bowls, slurping up their lunch of Frosted Flakes. And then, just when I thought the marriage conversation was over, my three-year-old son looked at the two other kids and said,

"I'm going to marry Frosted Flakes!"

We all threw our heads back and laughed.

The rest of the mealtime consisted of the three of them explaining why being a mother is so easy and being a dad is so hard (according to my daughter), and vice versa (according to the neighbor boy). I just listened with a constant grin, reveling in simpler days when I too was young and naive.

Lunch finally ended and we loaded into the van to head to preschool, but I couldn't stop thinking of wonderful life must seem to five-year-olds. They're sure they have everything figured out. And if five-year-olds possess a unique outlook on life, three-year-olds have it even better. So, although I'm pretty certain my little guy will never actually grow up to marry some cereal, I just have to say, I will never eat Frosted Flakes with the same perspective again!

The Easy Button

2010-03-09T12:17:00.000-08:00

You know that Staples commercial that shows people in distressing situations who are trying to meet deadlines and perform under pressure, and just when they find themselves stressed completely out, a big red button with the word "Easy" on it appears out of nowhere? They press the button, and, wha la! Their problems are magically solved.

Have you ever wished there was one of those for motherhood?

I certainly have. It wasn't that long ago that three of my four children were younger than kindergarten age, the last two being only 20 months apart, and I often found myself searching frantically for that big red button! Unfortunately, it never appeared. I just kept reassuring myself with the thought that some day things would be easier. Now, a few years later, my youngest is three, and although I can admit motherhood has become less difficult in ways (no baby to keep me up at night, no teething or potty training, no diapers to change or small toddler hanging on my legs all day, etc.), I have found my challenges have only changed, not dissipated. I guess what I'm trying to say is this . . .

There is no "Easy" button in motherhood because motherhood isn't meant to be easy!

That seems like too simple a truth to be meaningful, but it has actually been a life-changing fact to recognize. Why? Because in those difficult mothering moments when it seemed I was drowning, I found myself being frustrated by the fact it was all so hard, and I kept waiting for things to magically get easier. When I finally came to the self-realization that it wasn't going to get easier--that motherhood wasn't meant to be easy, that we just simply have too much to gain from our experiences as a mother for it to be easy--then my whole perspective changed. Somehow knowing there is no easy button, and that there never will be, made me rise to the challenge and plunge ahead, expecting and conquering difficulties, rather than wondering why they were in my way or wishing they weren't. And that has led to a happier, more patient, more self-fulfilled motherhood experience for me.

For example, just yesterday I ventured to the store with my two youngest children. Experience has taught me that taking my five-year-old along only leads to an unhappy shopping experience, so I usually go to extreme lengths to leave her behind. Unfortunately, it was not an option yesterday, so I loaded both children in the van and forged ahead with determination to make the most of our trip, secretly hoping my five-year-old would find it within herself to behave today.

She didn't.

She was great for the first ten minutes while we were picking a few things out for her, but then as the real grocery shopping began, so did the fits, the whining, the begging, and so on. Now, I have learned (both from my own sad experience and that of others I've seen) that Wal-Mart is the least desirable place for an episode to occur between parent and child. Someone you know is bound to be there and witness the whole embarrassing scene, so no matter how frazzled I am, I try desperately hard to keep my cool while maneuvering through the store with crying, bratty children. Yesterday was no exception.

As problem after problem arose, I constantly found myself reviewing in my head the parenting books I've read about how to deal with aberrant behavior. I squatted down to eye-level, looked right at her, and explained to her that I wanted to go home as badly as she did, that the constant stopping to deal with her problems was slowing the process down, that I expected better behavior. After about the sixth time, I didn't care about eye-level anymore. It hadn't seemed to be effective. In fact, I hardly cared about making a scene at this point. I simply wanted the child to get a grip, and I was nearly ready to use more extreme measures to get my point across.

That's when I turned to choose something from a shelf across the aisle and I heard a big crash. Something told me it probably had to do with my children, but I hardly dared to spin around to see. I heard someone draw a quick breath and I saw someone else from the corner of my eye rush to the scene, but it wasn't until I heard my five-year-old start wailing that I knew it was indeed my children with the problem. Taking my eighth deep breath of the shopping trip, I forced myself to turn around and see what the commotion was about. That's when I saw my two dear children lying flat on their backs on the floor, both pinned beneath the tipped shopping cart, their hands still gripping the handle. They had been fighting over that "spot" and had decided to both hop on it at once in an effort to steal it from the other, and in so doing, they added too much weight to the near-empty cart, and it tipped over backwards, right on top of the two of them. It actually would have been quite a funny sight if it wasn't that they hit their heads pretty hard on the cement floor and that my darling daughter was screaming bloody murder.

I was tempted to gather my children and simply escape, leaving it all behind me, including my cart, but I knew I would regret it when I went to make dinner that night and we had nothing to eat, so due to the fact no big red "Easy" button appeared to magically solve all my problems, I had no choice but to pick up my kids and the cart, and continue on our way. Regyn cried the entire time. The old me would have been frustrated and frazzled, but the new me, the one who realizes these are the moments that really shape us as mothers, the one who understands that this road I chose wasn't meant to be easy, the one who believes it will all pass one day--all too quickly--simply smiled as I maneuvered down the grocery aisles with two tired, crying children.

And I've just gotta say that although that "Easy" button has always held an enticement for me, I think I'm finally getting to the point where I am ready to embrace an "I Can Do This" button instead!

The Simple Pleasures of Motherhood.

2010-03-02T13:09:00.000-08:00

Last Friday was a bad day.

I won't bore anyone with all the details, but suffice it to say I wasn't at my best, and apparently, neither were any of my children. When 1:00 rolled around and I heard my youngest yell from the bathroom not to come in--a sure sign something disastrous had happened--I trudged to the bathroom with drudgery and an overall feeling of self pity. Apparently my cute little boy had waited too long to hop on the potty, and while he had been climbing on to the toilet in his unorthodox way, the poop just started oozing right out. And apparently he's been eating too much fiber because his stools were especially soft that day. And apparently, he hadn't had a bowel movement in a while because there was a whole lot to clean up--more than is normal. I found myself cleaning up soft, squishy poop from off my toilet seat, the floor, the bathroom counters, the front of the toilet, and my three-year-old's legs (and later, his bedroom carpet, which I can't even begin to imagine how poop made it all the way into there). It would have been far less of a disaster if the darling child had not tried to clean it up himself, but by golly, if there's one principle this kid has caught on to, it's that he's responsible for his own messes, a lesson I wish he had not learned so adeptly, at least when it comes to messes that have to deal with poop!

Needless to say, I was feeling less than enthusiastic about motherhood at this point. Since I was already experiencing a less-than-fabulous day, all I wanted to do was to go to my room, shut the door, and bawl for a while, BUT due to the fact I recently decided I'm reaching the point where I should be more mature than that, I sucked it up and cleaned up the mess. I didn't even have the gumption to lecture my son, although I couldn't help but wonder how this could have happened, seeing how he's been potty trained for a long time now.

Anyway, as I scrubbed and wiped, cleaned and sanitized, I found myself muttering under my breath, "Yep, this is motherhood at it's best, right here!" Determined to feel sorry for myself the rest of the day, I plastered a frown on my face and plopped into bed that night glad to have the day over. And while lying there staring at the ceiling, rehearsing the events of my horrible day, it hit me. . .

Stop focusing on the negative.

Nothing new or profound but something I needed reminded of. I simply had a bad attitude. So, in the past three days since then, I have decided to focus on all the simple pleasures motherhood affords. Here are just a few of them.

1-My morning walks with my 10-year-old. I recently decided to spend some one-on-one time with my oldest daughter in an effort to keep communication lines open and just focus on her every day for that time (an idea I stole from a good friend). She talks and I listen. It's wonderful.

2-My eight-year-old son got up early to go to the bathroom this morning and then snuggled into bed beside me since his father was already up and in the shower. My son reached over and grabbed my hand. It was a simple gesture, but it made me smile all the way to my toes. I have a feeling those moments are not going to last forever. I'm so glad he had the urge to hold his mom's hand for a minute. It was a great way to start the day.

3- My five-year-old's fashion statements. She came out of the bedroom Sunday in blue tights, a black and silver mini skirt, a green shirt with pink trim, a brown jacket and a red headband in her hair to top it all off. She looked a bit eclectic, to say the least, but it brought a smile to all our faces. And of course, she thought she looked fabulous. I sure wish I had such a healthy sense of self-style--I love that about five-year-olds!

4- A dinner date with my three-year-old. Last night I found myself in a very rare situation: my three-year-old son and I were eating dinner together with no one else around. It was the most delightful conversation I've had in a long time. We talked about everything from why Heavenly Father made me a girl and his dad a boy, to what we're going to say to Mickie and Minnie Mouse when we see them at Disneyland (he chose the topics--I just followed along). I was grinning from ear to ear the entire conversation, and I found myself thinking, What a wonderful little boy. This time I have with him is priceless. And it was.

And so, from now on, when my job as a mother isn't going particularly well, I think I'll take a step back, stop focusing on everything that might be going wrong, and simply train my eyes and heart to see all the simple pleasures of motherhood because I'm learning there's a whole lot of them!

Amen!

2010-02-22T12:27:00.000-08:00

The more I live my life as a mother of four children, the more I realize how clever kids really are these days. There have been plenty of occasions when I have thought I had gotten the best of one of my children, only to find he/she ended up getting the best of me instead. I try to remember being that clever when I was young, but I just don't think I was. Apparently, I need to take "clever lessons" from my kids. At least I'm developing a healthy sense of humor; in fact, I'm learning that few things are greater than laughing right out loud when my kids have out-smarted me. It makes for a great memory.

For example, a couple mornings ago I was perched at the kitchen table, my head dropped over the scriptures as I read while my children busily finished eating their breakfast and got their school bags ready to go. I kept inadvertently lifting my head and glancing around to ensure my children were still in the room and listening (There's been more than one occasion when I've gotten a little too caught up in reading and looked up only to realize my children had disappeared and I was reading to myself--not that I don't need all the scripture reading I can get, but reading to no one but myself seems to mute the point of "family scripture study"). More than once I found myself shushing them and reminding them to be quiet and listen while I read. It seemed pretty obvious they were getting nothing out of our reading that morning, and I was feeling a little bit irritated by their basic apathy and lack of focus.

Now, I admit reading scriptures is probably not at the top of my children's "fun" list, and I also acknowledge that some days, the reading is even more laborious and difficult to understand than others, but that aside, it was still something we committed to do and had been doing for a long time. I found myself thinking they should be more interested than they were (I mean, they could have at least pretended to be listening, couldn't they? ), especially since I made a sincere effort to make the words we read come alive for us by pausing to try to explain what was happening and by occasionally inserting my own thoughts and feelings on our subject matter.

I finally finished the section, which happened to end like this: "Watch, therefore, that ye may be ready. Even so. Amen." Then, thinking to make a point to the kids that they needed to be better listeners, I decided to quiz my eight-year-old son about what we had just read, sure he would have no answer, driving my point right home.

"What was your favorite part of what I just read?" I asked, as if I was naive enough to think he'd actually been listening. I flashed him my famous "I caught you again" grin, and waited for him to falter so I could begin my lecture, but just as I opened my mouth, he surprised me with a confident answer . . .

"The 'amen!'"

I burst into laughter at his all-too-clever response. "At least you're honest," I chuckled, realizing how true his answer had really been. I'm sure the "amen" probably was his favorite part since that meant the section was over!

I sent my kids out the door to school without the lecture, grateful my son had lightened the moment, even if his answer only proved he hadn't been listening to what I read (I'm pretty sure the only word he remembered from the reading was the last word I had said--"amen"). Laughing together was a much better way to end our morning than my harping would have been, and I found myself smiling and chuckling inside throughout the entire day whenever I thought of his quick answer.

So, although my kids will probably always find ways to get the best of me, I can at least honestly say . . . I'm looking forward to it!

DIVORCE

2010-02-16T15:13:00.000-08:00

My parents recently celebrated their 39th wedding anniversary. Calling to wish my dad a "Happy Anniversary," I said, "Thanks for staying married, Dad." It was a simple statement, but I meant it with a depth and sincerity he probably didn't realize.

Chuckling, he responded, "Well, you're welcome."

"Seriously," I said. "I know it wasn't always easy." Growing up as the middle of five children (who seemed to have a knack for finding trouble), I remember moments of realizing marriage and parenthood were roles that were probably not all that easy. I saw the stress and tension my parents faced at times, and I remember wondering if they ever thought about not staying together. In a world where divorce touches so many lives, I can't help but wonder how close it came to hitting my own home, and I can't help but feel extreme gratitude that my parents had a good marriage and it was never something I had to deal with.

It must be a natural thing for kids to think about because, right out of the blue last night, my son made a comment that blew me away. In an effort to have a private conversation about a surprise vacation, we shooed the kids out of the bedroom and asked them to give us a minute to talk. My eight-year-old son said, "Why do you need us to leave?"

"Because we need to talk about something that's just between us," I answered.

"Are you getting a divorce?" he asked.

I couldn't believe he would even think such a thing! "No!" I said. "Why in the world would you think that? Do we act like we might get a divorce?" I laughed as I asked the question, finding it funny that my son would even mention that word, especially since my husband and I were sitting on our bed, snuggled up against the headboard smiling and laughing, his arms around me.

"I don't know," he said. And although a slight grin appeared as he spoke, his answer disturbed me. How could he not know that his dad and I had never even thought of the word divorce, that we had a solid, good marriage, that we loved and adored each other, and that we were committed to each other for forever? My mind began racing back through the previous weeks and months, trying to pinpoint anything that might have led to my son's concerns, but nothing came to mind. Although life is full of ups and downs, one constant source of happiness and peace is our marriage (I'm fortunate enough to be married to a truly wonderful man), and I thought for sure my children felt and knew that. I began retracing our daily lives, reviewing all the things Dan and and I do for each other, or the ways in which we have shown our love for each other through service or kind words or hugs or kisses, and I was left to wonder if my children were paying attention, or if these times were enough. Feeling a little sick inside, I realized how important it is to me for my children to feel completely secure about our marriage and their family situation.

When I finally got over my panic, I came to the conclusion that perhaps divorce has become such a common occurrence, it's something most children think about (at least on some level) at one time or another. I know I did as a child, even though my parents were committed to each other and stayed together. Life is not easy, especially family life. Families today are under more stress and pressure than ever before; they are dealing with social, spiritual, physical and political issues never before faced, and as a result, some marriages and families are falling victim to it all, often resulting in broken marriages. I can't help but think it's a silent fear that crosses most children's minds as they begin to grow up and sense the stress their parents are under.

So, keeping this in mind, I've decided to 1-thank my parents more often for staying together, and 2-reassure my own children more often by the way I serve, talk to, and act around my husband. I know many good people and wonderful families who have struggled with this difficult issue, and my heart goes out to them.

So, tonight I think I'll hug my husband even tighter . . . and thank him again for putting up with such an imperfect mother and wife. And from now on, when I feel the urge to wrap my arms around him and tell him how much I love and appreciate him, I'll make sure the kids are watching.:)

My Mother, the Nag

2010-02-09T15:33:00.001-08:00

They say the first step in overcoming a bad habit is admitting you have a problem. So here goes.

My name is Lori Conger, and I am a nag.

There. I said it. I completely admit it, and just like most bad habits people are addicted to, I hate it! I have a dream of one day becoming completely nag-free, but as for now, without even realizing it, I nag constantly!

And, like all addictions people have, my biggest fear is passing this annoying trait on to my children. I mean, do they stand a chance of being a normal parent some day, one that is patient and wise? I doubt it, and at this point, all I can think is, My poor grandchildren!!

It's not that I don't try to encourage my children without nagging; it's just that I seem to like immediate results, and experience has shown me that nagging helps produce them. As soon as I tell my children I'm going to stop nagging, the urge to do so becomes even stronger.

Last week I sat my children down one by one, showed each of them a list of responsibilities I had printed out for them, and discussed my expectations. I then looked each child in the eyes and said, "Now, I'm not going to nag you about these things (I'm sure my children were thinking, yeah, right!). These are responsibilities I expect you to do without being asked. And when you have successfully accomplished each responsibility for ten days, you earn a treat. It's completely up to you whether you earn your treat or not. It's your choice." Then I sent them on their way, sure my little talk would produce happy, self-driven children who would accomplish their obligations without prompting or nagging.

Ha! I have to laugh at my naivety sometimes. Not 24 hours had gone by until I was nearly bursting at the seams wanting, to "remind" my eight-year-old son that all the time he was wasting was really time he should have been spending checking off his list of responsibilities. I had to nearly bite my tongue completely off in an effort to keep my mouth shut.

Finally, I broke down. "Okay," I said to my son, "I know I said I wouldn't nag, but I just have to say that you're going to be so sad when your sister gets rewarded and you don't, so you might want to check out your list."

Ugh! That's exactly what I didn't want to do. Why can't I be patient and just let time teach a lesson? It's obvious I have a serious nagging problem. So this week, I decided to dedicate this post to my children, and in an effort to sympathize with them, I wrote this poem. Here's to all children with mothers who are addicted to nagging.

My Mother, the Nag

My mother is a nag, you know.
She just can't help herself.
From, "Have you cleaned up all your stuff?"
To "Put that on the shelf."

She reminds me of my homework
As soon as I hit the door.
Before I hang my backpack up
She tells me three times more.

"Practice your piano.
Make your bed and do your chores.
And while you're at it, please, please try
To find your bedroom floor."

I roll my eyes and plug my ears
As I begin to moan.
Just then I hear a ringing sound,
And Mom shouts, "Get the phone!"

Trying to distract her,
I ask if I can play.
She loads my arms with laundry
And says, "Go--put away!"

"Take a shower. Brush your teeth,
And don't forget to floss."
Sometimes I wish my mother
Wasn't such a constant boss!

I know she doesn't mean to;
In fact, she says she wants to quit,
So I told her I'd remind her,
But that hasn't helped a bit.

It seems she just can't help it
No matter how she tries,
And ignoring all her promptings
Hasn't proven to be wise.

So, if your mother happens
To be something of a nag,
All I can say is, "Sorry
That your life is such a drag."

And as for me, I have to say,
Although it isn't fair
I've decided to tell God about it
In fervent, pleading prayer.

Dad always says if I have faith
My wishes can come true,
Though how God's gonna change Mother
I haven't got a clue!

And though I don't feel lucky,
I just have to say
My biggest fear is growing up
To be a nag someday!!

The Stronger Half of My Influence

2010-02-01T10:17:00.000-08:00

Ever wonder if your children are really catching on to what you are trying to teach them? I mean, I never cease to be amazed at how quickly they learn to imitate my negative behaviors and attitudes, or those of others, but when it comes to passing on positive influences, it often seems they aren't paying attention. It's like they have a radar for internalizing all the "bad stuff" thrown at them in a day, and that radar seems to pass over the important, character-building lessons to be learned.

Case in point. I will never forget the time when my now 10-year-old was only two. I had been a bit stressed out, trying to deal with a move and prepare for a new baby that was coming soon. Instead of handling her whining and fits with patience and composure, I had begun to say, "Hallee, get a grip!" (I'm pretty sure you won't find that technique in any parenting manuals).

One day, when I was particularly stressed about something, I found myself pacing around our apartment, mumbling under my breath, accomplishing nothing productive. My young child peeked her head around the corner, and said (in exactly the same tone of voice I had often used), "Mom, get a grip!"

Now, I'll admit it was actually a pretty effective way of getting my attention and reminding me to pull myself together, but it's not exactly the type of parenting behavior I hoped to pass on.

Then there's the time I was having a bad day when something happened that I decided was "the last straw." Forgetting about self-constraint, I immediately screamed, "Aaaaahhhh!!!," stomped to my bedroom, slammed the door, and told everyone who tried to find out what my problem was to, "Go away!" (If there is one thing I've perfected in adulthood, it's definitely fit-throwing). My whole march to the bedroom, I kept hearing that little voice inside my head telling me to model a better way to deal with frustration and anger, but at that moment, I was tired of the little voice in my head, so I ignored it and went about throwing my tantrum.

It wasn't until a few days later I wished I had listened to that voice of wisdom. My son got frustrated, threw his homework on the floor, stomped to his bedroom, slammed the door, and told everyone to leave him alone. When he finally settled down enough to talk about his feelings, I began my sermon on how to deal with feelings of frustration and anger in more appropriate ways. That's when he looked at me and said, "But Mom, that's what you did when you were mad the other day." Somehow my speech suddenly seemed a bit ineffective and hypocritical. He was right. I had set a poor example, and he had picked right up on it. When I thought about it later, I wondered why he hadn't picked up on all the other times I had been stressed or frustrated and had handled myself with some degree of composure. It's like his radar hadn't been turned on all those other times, but as soon as I lost my edge, he was right there to copy my poor behavior.

I mean, seriously!! I can't do it right ALL THE TIME, but I was hoping if I could get things right more than half the time, the stronger half would win. That makes sense, doesn't' it? Apparently not.

The holidays this year found us less than perfectly happy. I was so excited to spend all day every day with my children, but by the end of the first week, I was counting the days until school started. My children fought like cats and dogs. Determined to remain patient and calm, I came up with inventive strategies for distracting them and trying to help them get along. Nothing seemed to work. The weeks turned into a month. Our family nights were focused on kindness, family love, thinking of others more than ourselves, and every other topic my husband and I felt we all lacked. No change. To say the least, I was beginning to be discouraged.

Then, just the other day, while picking up in my girls' room, I found a little sticky note with my oldest daughter's handwriting. It only held a few words, but those words made my entire day. On this sticky note, she had written her goals for the upcoming year, and by golly, a few of them even included some way to love her family more.

I sat down on the bed, and with tears in my eyes, took a deep breath. I found myself thinking, See? They are paying attention. They are picking up on some of the positive ways you are trying to influence them. It's not all in vain. Being a strong believer in goal-setting, I often write my goals and stick them somewhere I will see often, and apparently, my daughter has caught on to this practice. It's such a simple thing, but it reminded me to never fool myself into thinking my influence (good or bad) isn't making a difference. Sometimes our imprint as parents may be so subtle it takes a while for our children to internalize it and apply it in their lives, but the truth is, that without even realizing it themselves, our children are soaking it all up, and I believe that one day, when they need it most, it will all come back to them.

So, although I've decided to try minimizing my tantrums to when my children aren't around (which, by the way, is never, since I have young children at home), I'm also hoping to remind myself regularly that my children are learning some of my good habits as well. And maybe if I'm lucky, that stronger half of my influence will eventually win. Atleast I hope so.

If I Had My Life to Live Over . . .

2010-01-19T12:09:00.000-08:00

A commercial on television caught my attention the other day. It's a very simple commercial with a powerful message. It starts with a man reading a letter to himself. In this letter he tells himself how much he would like to quite smoking and how he wished he had never started. He explains that now he is having a baby, his need to quit is even greater. Then, with tears in his eyes, he ends the ad by saying, "From, Me," or something like that.

After seeing the commercial aired a couple of times, I found myself thinking, Wow, what would I say if I could write a letter to myself? Smoking isn't an issue, but nagging at my kids certainly is, as well as numerous other flaws I have in regards to motherhood. Then, I found this article I have saved for many years by Erma Bombeck that has a similar message. It reads:

"Someone asked me the other day, if I had my life to live over, would I change anything?

"No, I answered, but then I began to think . . .

"If I had my life to live over, I would have talked less and listened more.

"I would have invited friends over to dinner, even if the carpet was stained and the sofa faded.

"I would have eaten popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.

"I would have taken time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.

"I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.

"I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.

"I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not worried about grass stains.

"I would have cried and laughed less while watching television--and more while watching life.

"I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.

"I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.

"I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.

"Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was my only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.

"When my child kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, 'Later. Now go get washed up for dinner.'

"There would have been more I love yous . . .more I'm sorrys. . . but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute . . .look at it and really see it . . . live it . . .and never give it back."

Isn't that awesome?

As a very busy mother, wife and homemaker, I often try to stop and consider how I'll feel when it's all said and done, when my kids are grown and out of the house, and all I have left are memories of our time together. My biggest goal is to have no regrets. Now, of course that doesn't mean I will do it all perfectly; it just means, I will never let life control me, that I will be the one who chooses how my time is spent and that I will choose right most of the time. I decided a few years ago, at a time when it seemed motherhood was getting the best of me, to constantly keep this theme in mind, and to start NOW, while my children are still young and I have a chance to work on my weaknesses and make changes. I mean, doesn't that make more sense than waiting until they're gone?

So, if I were to write a letter to myself, or if, starting from this moment, I had my life to live over, this is what I would say:

"Dear Me,

Laugh more, and cry less.

When your children are upset and calling you every bad name they can think of, like 'dummyhead' and 'big fat jerk' and 'meanest mom in the world,' simply smile, hug them, and tell them you love them, keeping in mind it could always be worse, and probably will be some day.

Stop nagging--your children don't listen when you do anyway.

Instead of sending your children off to do chores, work beside them so they not only learn how to do it right, but they learn to enjoy it.

Save yourself a lot of grief and DO NOT sign your children up for piano lessons! (just kidding--it will be worth it some day, right?)

Instead of showering your children with rules and expectations, shower them with kindness and respect.

Remember to love them, hug them, kiss them, talk with them, listen to them, and spend TIME with them every day because they will be gone before you know it, and you never want to look back and say, 'If only . . .'

Love,
Me"

I've decided if I can simply write myself a letter like this, say on an annual basis, perhaps I really will be able to live with few regrets. Perhaps I can soak up all the good in motherhood and survive the bad with few battle scars if I simply change my perspective regularly. Perhaps I can even become a glimmer of the mother I've always hoped to be, so that one day, if someone asks me what I would change if I had to live my life over, I can say with calm assurance, "Nothing." Or I can write a letter to myself that says something like,

"Dear Me,

Good job!"

My Good Fortune

2010-01-11T09:13:00.000-08:00

It's that wonderful time of year again--you know, the time of year when we get to look back on the mistakes of last year and determine to get our rears in gear for the next 365 days, hoping next January we will feel like new people. I often find myself feeling a bit overwhelmed and under qualified as I sit down to write goals for the upcoming year. As December came upon me this year, I actually felt anxious to take some time to reevaluate my life and set some simple benchmarks to help me prioritize my responsibilities better.

Then I had two surgeries in less than two weeks and Christmas and New Year's to plan, and my longing for some peaceful time to reflect and look to the future ended up taking a back seat. Finally, this past week, when my kids went back to school, I decided I couldn't put it off any longer; I mean, it's really quite ineffective to set New Year's Resolutions in May, right? I thought of the business of the upcoming months and realized if I didn't take time right now, it would probably be at least May when I did get around to it.

With determination and fervor, I marched to the junk drawer to find a pen and pad of paper to begin my quest. As I began rummaging through my messy drawer, hoping to find a pen that actually worked (yes, the thought crossed my mind that perhaps my goals should include becoming more organized), I ran across a small folded strip of paper. Of course, there were lots of scraps of wrinkled, folded paper askew in my draw, but for some reason, I felt intrigued to unfold it and see what it was; in fact, I felt a rush of excitement because this paper was just the right size to be a fortune from a fortune cookie, and as crazy as life had been at my house the past few months, I felt I could really use some good fortune.

I opened the paper, wondering to myself what amazing fortune it must have held for me to have actually hung on to it, since I tend to be the "throw everything that isn't absolutely necessary away" type. I held the paper closer so I could see the small words . . . then I took a deep breath, set it on the counter, and with tears in my eyes and an even greater resolve, I found a pen and paper and set out to accomplish my original task. This is what my fortune read:

"This year your highest priority will be your family."

I must admit I don't remember when I originally got the fortune, and I certainly don't remember stashing it in my junk drawer, but none of that mattered as I read those words that morning in my kitchen. All that mattered is that I had read them at just the right moment, at a time when I was about to sit down and map out my year, trying to figure out how to balance all the roles I play in my life. And I found myself feeling profoundly grateful I had had to rummage through my drawer for a pen, for those words were spoken to me at the time I needed them most.

Coincidence?

I don't think I believe in coincidence. I had been praying for divine guidance as I set about making goals for this upcoming year, hoping to become better at the things that mattered most, mainly my role as wife and mother, and I felt this small fortune was God's reminder to set goals that helped me accomplish that. I have found it very easy to get caught up in the "thick of thin things," working tirelessly to make sure I fulfilled my obligations to others and never let them down, when sometimes in the process of trying to be everything for everybody else, my own family was left wanting.

When the holidays rolled around this past year I was determined to soak up the time with my children, to set aside some of my other responsibilities and simply enjoy my kids. It was wonderful (exhausting, frustrating at times, trying, but wonderful)! We played games, watched movies, built snowmen, went sledding, baked cookies, and many other activities, and although I was absolutely exhausted when it was all over, I was also happier than ever. I was reminded, once again, that I truly only have these kids for a short time--before I know it, they will be grown up and out of my home, and the last thing I want is to be left wishing I had spent more time with them, that we had laughed more, hugged more, and enjoyed each other more.

So this year, thanks to a simple reminder from a fortune cookie, my highest priority will be my family . . .

. . .I have a feeling, it will be my best year yet!

Princesses, Tutu's, and Pink Nail Polish--How Far Do We Let This Go?

2009-12-28T10:40:00.000-08:00

My three-year-old aspires to be a princess some day. This same child begs me to wear a skirt or princess dress every day, no matter what we are doing or where we are going. This child wants only one thing for Christmas--a microphone--to be able to sing with Hannah Montana and Taylor Swift, and when asked to cut out some pictures for preschool of appreciated items, this child chose bubble gum and pink, fluffy tutu's. When I pull out fingernail polish or make-up, especially lip stick, this child begs me for it incessantly.

I'm sure this all sounds perfectly normal for those of you who have raised little girls who are enamored with "girl stuff" and princesses, but to be perfectly honest, I'm starting to get a little concerned. I mean, it's not that I have anything against being a little fanatical about princesses; it's just that my three-year-old is . . .

. . . a boy!

It all seemed kinda cute at first. Whenever we would ask him his favorite color, he'd say "pink." Whenever his older sister played dress-up, he would participate. Whenever we'd paint our toenails, his would appear, and we figured since no one really saw them, what's the big deal? When he became addicted to watching Hannah Montana, I thought it was an interesting movie choice for a little boy, but hey, boys are rock stars, too, right? But now that he insists on wearing a fluffy skirt every day and gets upset when I tell him boys aren't princesses, it's starting to concern me just a little. I mean, how far should we let this go?

Finally, the other day when he was talking about his new wardrobe, I felt a need to intervene. "Son," I started.

"My name isn't 'Son,'" he corrected me with a little giggle.

Oh boy, we weren't off to a great start. I persisted anyway. "Boys grow up to be princes, not princesses."

His eyebrows puckered as he looked up at me as if to say, "What's a prince anyway?".

Not wanting to crush his wonderfully innocent idea of the world in one fatal blow, I proceeded carefully. "Only girls grow up to be princesses. You're a boy. In fact, you're a strong, handsome little boy."

My husband, eaves dropping on our little conversation, intervened at this point. "Oh forget it, Lori."

I looked back at him with wide eyes, as if to encourage support. I noticed an awful, dreadful fear in my heart at this point, and I began to wonder at what point we should stop this nonsense and put away anything to do with princesses.

Our little guy, who was still thinking over my comment about princes, now asked, "Only Cinderella is a princess?"

"Exactly!" I said.

"And Snow White?"

"Yes, yes, and Snow White."

At this, he thought about it all for a moment, and just when I was getting my hopes up that he was actually beginning to understand the concept, he said, "Well, when I get bigger and turn into a princess, then can I wear a dress?"

Okay, so he wasn't catching on.

What to do now. It's obvious a frank discussion is not the answer. So, at this point, i'm reverting to "Plan B." We've "lost" Hannah Montana, and the dress-up clothes have somehow disappeared as well. I told my older son to please start spending more time with this little guy, and I encouraged our four-year-old daughter to please spend less time with him. I can't say I think it will solve our little issue in a hurry, but a mom has to start somewhere!

Wish me luck!

Our Testimony of Christ

2009-12-21T18:05:00.000-08:00

Family Home Evening the other night found us without our two littlest family members; hence, we were actually able to have a somewhat focused discussion with out two older children. In an effort to reinforce the true meaning of Christmas and share our own testimonies of Christ, my husband and I began a discussion on this important topic. We asked our children to tell us what they knew about Jesus Christ--it could be anything about Him, His life, His mission--anything. Taking turns, we went around the room, each of us saying something about Christ. Our discussion started off a little slow, but before long, I found I couldn't write fast enough. In a few short minutes, we came up with this list.

He died for us.

He fasted for 40 days and 40 nights.

He was resurrected and He lives.

He suffered for all our sins.

He loved little children.

He created the world.

He was a peacemaker.

He performed miracles.

He healed the sick.

He instituted the sacrament.

He walked away from none.

He was happy.

He forgave, even those who hurt him.

He visited Joseph Smith.

He is kind.

He can help you when you need help--no matter what.

He organized His church.

He answers our prayers.

He was baptized.

He was born in Bethlehem.

He takes away our sin.

He is the Son of God.

He was born in a manger.

He is our brother.

He is the only way back to Heavenly Father.

He visited people in America.

He knows us.

He will come again.

He can make our weaknesses become strengths.

He changed our lives.

He showed us the way.

He was willing to be our Savior and fulfill Heavenly Father's plan.

He is perfect.

He was obedient.

He blesses us.

He is our Savior and Redeemer.

He is the Light of the World.

He is the Lamb of God.

This simple list, identified by a 10-year-old, a 7-year-old, and my husband and I, only touches the surface of who Jesus Christ is and what He did for mankind. But at this special time of year, we add our testimony that He truly is the reason for this wonderful season. As we sat quietly in our living room and talked of Christ, the spirit filled our home and hearts, reminding us of the immense love created by a newborn babe in a manger years ago. And as a mother, I am eternally grateful for His life, His example, and His sacrifice--not only for me and my mistakes, but especially for my children's.

So, at this special time of year, we add our testimony of the Savior of the world and wish everyone a very Merry Christmas!!

A Night Away From the Kids

2009-12-12T11:13:00.001-08:00

Having four children, it's not often I get a night away with only my husband, but two nights ago we were presented with the perfect opportunity. It might not be what most people would consider ideal, but hey, you take what you can get. I was in the new IHC hospital in Salt Lake, awaiting a procedure on my heart to repair an ASD (or hole in my heart). Dan's parents were home with our children, and so we found ourselves completely alone (not counting medical personnel, of course) for 27 hours.

I have found these rare "alone times" to often be quite entertaining as we get reacquainted and discuss matters we don't often get to in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. I am often reminded of just how funny, cute and wonderful my husband is, and I usually end the experience thinking I sure married well and promising myself I won't allow my role as mother to get in the way of my role as wife, which can often be the case. This time away was no exception. I found myself laughing out loud many times as my husband and I anxiously (nervous anxious, not excited anxious) waited for me to be wheeled into surgery. The hospital had asked me to arrive at 9:00 a.m., explaining the surgery would probably take place around 10:00 a.m. They were a little off in their calculations, and it was nearly 1:00 p.m. before I got wheeled away, leaving three hours to basically kill time and try not to think about the impending procedure.

It all started perfectly normal, but after a while, I think we were both a little bored and anxious, so the silliness began. In the corner of my room was an apparatus that looked an awful lot like a toilet, with a flusher handle and everything. Above it hung a sign that said, "This is NOT a toilet. It is equipment to flush medical waste (or something like that) only. Restrooms are in the hallway if you need one." Upon noticing the sign, we both kinda laughed. Then my husband came up with a funny idea.

"Should I stand here in front of this thing so it looks like I'm using it the next time the nurse walks in?"

He stood in front of it, and I had to laugh. Due to a short wall right next to the thing, it looked like he was really using it. I agreed it would be a funny trick.

Then the idea grew. "I think I'll take this sign down first and hide it. Then I'll act like I've just finished going, and when they ask me if I saw the sign, I'll pretend like I have no idea what they're talking about. They'll point to it and notice it's gone, and I'll just look at them like what I did was perfectly normal." My husband's eyes were twinkling with delight.

I was chuckling harder than I had in a while at this point, imagining the look on the nurse's face. "We can tell them they've been punked," I said.

Just then a nurse came in and handed me one of those dreaded cups. I regrettably told him I had just used the bathroom, so he set it down and told me to get a urine sample whenever I could. After another hour of waiting for surgery, I began to wonder if the hold up was the fact that I hadn't provided the urine sample yet.

"I wish they had told me they would need a urine sample before I used the bathroom," I said. "I wonder if this is the hold-up, and I just don't need to go yet."

"I know," my husband said with the same mischievous grin, "Why don't I go for you? Then I'll hand the nurse the cup and say, 'I wanted to do something to help, so I just peed in this cup for Lori. I hope that's okay.'"

At this idea, I was laughing hysterically, thinking we sure could shake things up a bit around here with our brilliant ideas. Man, my husband is a funny guy, I found myself realizing again. I had kind of forgotten what a great sense of humor he had. Some nurses finally arrived to wheel me away for my procedure (which was amazing, by the way--I was totally awake while doctors went up through a vein in my leg to patch a hole in my heart--I saw the whole thing on the screen, the part I dared open my eyes for anyway), and I found myself being grateful for the one-0n-one time with my husband. He certainly made the experience less scary and more fun, especially since he stayed the night with me and everything.

So, the moral of this story is, if you need some time away, schedule a surgery that requires an overnight stay in the hospital. JK! Actually, the real moral is to take advantage of any situation you find yourself in, even if it's not an ideal stay at a fancy hotel, to get a break from your job as mother and just enjoy your spouse for a while. It could be the most fun you've had in a long time!

A Lie, A Cuss Word, and A Prayer

2009-12-02T15:11:00.000-08:00

Have you ever looked at your preschooler and wondered where you went wrong? I mean, it seems pretty hard to mess up a child in only four short years, right? I've always hoped to at least wait until my children hit adolescence before feeling like I've blown it, but apparently I'm not going to make it that long.

A couple weeks ago my sweet little four-year-old bounded into the van after an afternoon of preschool, oogling over her treat from the "prize box." I glanced at the gift in her possession and had to admit it was a lot more spectacular than her usual small prizes, and I questioned her about it.

"Wow, that's quite the prize. Why haven't you chosen a big prize like that before?"

"Well, today I got my kindergarten shots at preschool, so I got to choose out of a different prize box."

"What? What do you mean you got your shots at preschool? Who gave them to you?" She had my full attention now. I was pretty sure I didn't remember getting any paper asking my permission to administer shots at preschool.

"Miss Ashley gave them to me," she said matter-of-factly.

"Did the whole class get a shot?" I was starting to panic just a little.

"No. Just me. I was the only one brave enough," she answered as she tore into her prize.

"Well, where did you get a shot?" I tested her.

"Right here in my leg," she said, pointing to her thigh.

"Pull down your pants and let me see," I insisted as I pulled into the garage. This story was sounding more believable all the time.

"No," she giggled, but I insisted and wriggled her pants down around her ankles. Sure enough, there was a little red spot on her thigh, right where she had pointed. Unsure if the spot was really from a needle, I probed further.

"Why don't you have a band aid?"

"Oh, well, it wasn't bleeding very badly, so they just wiped it off with a tissue and told me I'd be fine." And with that, she pulled up her pants and hopped out of the van, leaving me to wonder how I missed the note home about kindergarten shots.

That night as I rehearsed the story to my husband, he instructed me to call the preschool teacher and find out exactly what happened. A bit sheepishly, I made the call. I couldn't imagine the story was true, but then again, my child hadn't skipped a beat in answering all my questions with very believable answers.

I felt even more sheepish a few minutes later when I hung up the phone. Apparently, my daughter had fed the preschool teacher just as big a lie earlier that day so she could choose a big prize from the prize box. She had told her teacher that I had taken her in for shots earlier that day, that her little brother had cried, but she didn't because she was so brave. A series of believable answers to her teacher's questions and a sweet little smile, and she went away with her longed-for prize.

Ugh! I couldn't believe it! I mean, it takes talent to lie that well. She fooled two intelligent adults, answering our interrogations with the ease and confidence of a skilled professional. Great, I thought, I'm raising a pathological liar.

Not two weeks went by and I was called downstairs by my husband, who proceeded to tell me that this same dear child had just said a swear word. Apparently my husband had questioned her over and over about whether she had made a mess at the neighbor's house. She kept telling him "no," but as is his nature, he kept teasing her about it. Finally, to make her point, she said, "He_ _, no!"

Now, I realize in the realm of inappropriate words a child could say, that one may not rank as one of the worst, but this child is only four, and add this little act to her previous offense, and I realized in a hurry I was on the road to raising a juvenile delinquent.

"I just can't trust her anymore," my ten-year-old said in exasperation, throwing her arms in the air. I had to admit, I was feeling the same way. Where had my sweet little angel disappeared to?

Then today, only a few days later, this same child was called on to say family prayer. She offered the familiar thanks for our blessings, asked the Lord to bless a man in our neighborhood who has been sick for a long time, and then in her sweetest voice, she said, "And please bless Mommy that she won't have to have any more surgeries." (I just had my third surgery of the year--this time on my sinuses--and I think my kids are ready for their mom to be back in full swing).

I looked up from bowing my head just in time to catch her sparkling blue eyes look into mine in a knowing way as a humble, sweet grin spread across her little preschool face, and I realized that, juvenile delinquent or not, I love that child more than anything! It wasn't that I had forgotten her past grievances, just that, in the big scheme of things, she was still mine, still wonderful, and I still couldn't imagine life without her.

I think that's the miracle of a family's love for each other. No one knows our weakness better than each other, but at the end of the day, we're still all on the same team and we'd do anything for each other.

So, although I still have nightmares about my four-year-old and what she'll be like as a teenager, I guess for now I'll just be glad her offenses weren't anything too serious. I'm sure in only a few short years, when she's lying about things like boys and curfew, when her knowledge of cuss words extends far past the one she knows right now, and when she's praying her mother will have another surgery so she'll leave her alone for a while, I'll look back on these days and simply smile.

At least for now, I can still take her in my arms, kiss her until she laughs, and give her a lecture she might actually listen to!

A Healthy, Happy Holiday

2009-11-23T12:26:00.000-08:00

While sitting in the waiting room of the doctor's office this morning waiting to get a CT scan of my sinuses (which, by the way, is no fun--they tell you to lie on your stomach, prop your head up so all your weight is on your chin, and then DON'T swallow, which of course is all your throat wants to do when it's concentrating so hard on not doing it), I randomly picked up a magazine, flipped it open and started reading. Although I don't usually find much helpful information in magazine articles in waiting rooms (two weeks ago I was reading all about the latest gossip in Hollywood when I suddenly realized the magazine was over a year old. Great, I thought. Now I'm not only uninformed but the information that is floating in my head is outdated), this article caught my attention.

"Want to stay healthy and happy this holiday season?" it prompted.

Healthy? Yes! Happy? Even better. I read on.

The article began with mentioning how important it is to get plenty of rest. "Don't feel guilty about wanting and needing rest," it said. "Good rest is vital for a person's immune system to be strong and for a person to maintain overall good mental, physical and emotional health."

I agree, I thought wholeheartedly. I am going to bed earlier, and I'm not going to feel bad about it; in fact, I think I'm going to start scheduling a personal afternoon nap, just to be sure I'm in the clear. Yesiree, the experts say rest is vital, and I'm not about to dismiss this important piece of advice.

I couldn't wait to read on. I was sure the next pointer would mention chocolate on some level; maybe it would even suggest it would be a good idea to eat at least one cordial cherry chocolate after each meal throughout the holiday season (okay, so that's not the healthiest habit, but it sure makes me happy). There was no discussion on chocolate, but I loved what they did say. It was surprising and simple.

Play!

The article said adults need to play more and mentioned three different types of play. I can't remember the exact terminology, but we need active play (like playing on the floor with our toddlers or going outside with our kids), creative play (like scrap booking), and play that involves our brains (like board games and such). That's right. To be perfectly happy we need to schedule time to play. I love it!

In this competitive, busy world, I have been feeling the need lately to push real life aside more often and simply spend time with my kids--reading, snuggling, watching movies, listening, doing art projects and more. I had no idea I was actually following advice from experts on how to be healthier and happier. But I will say I have been happier. Life demands so much of our time, resources and energies, and too much of it is non important clutter, yet I find myself getting caught up in it anyway. Well, not anymore. My kids are really what matter, and they are growing up all too fast. So, I've decided this holiday season, I'm going to follow the advice of the experts and simply . . .

PLAY!

I've been almost giddy as I've made my mental list of stuff to do with my husband and kids: sledding, building snowmen, playing board games, reading Christmas books, listening to music, dancing and singing, making treats . . .

I feel healthier already!

Questions, Questions . . . and More Questions

2009-11-17T13:31:00.000-08:00

My ears are tired.

I have had a persistent ear ache the past few days, and it didn't dawn on me until this morning why that might be. I think my four-year-old and now three-year-old made a secret pact to see who could say the word "Mom" the most times in a day and who could ask mom the most questions in a 24 hour period.

Let me explain. Yesterday was my youngest's three-year-old birthday. Here's how the day went, from the moment he woke up until I tucked him in at 9:00 last night.

"Mom!"
"What?"
"Can I have some birthday cake?"
"Not right now."
"Why?"
"Because we have to wait until after dinner when everyone is here."
"When Grandma and Grandpa come?"
"Exactly!"
"Are they coming for my birthday?"
"Yep."
"Are they coming to our house?"
"Yep."
"To see me for my birthday?"
"That's right."
"And eat some cake?"
"Yes, to eat pizza and birthday cake."
"And go swimming with us?"
"Yep."
"But not at the deep end, huh? I'm too little for the deep end."
"Right."
"Are you too little for the deep end?"
"Nope."
"You're big?"
"Yep."
"Because you're old?"
"Kind of."
"And when you were little, you didn't swim at the deep end?"
"Nope."
"Cause you didn't want to drown?"
"That's right."
"Cause drowning is scary?"

And so on, and so on--the same conversation repeated numerous times throughout the day. By the time the grandparents actually arrived and it was time to eat the cake, I felt like I'd already had it. My four-year-old asked me at the beginning of the day yesterday if it was going to be a long day or a short day (I have no idea what she was referring to). I quickly summarized my day's agenda in my head and answered . . . "Long." I didn't realize how prophetic my answer would be.

Driving home from the swimming last night my children started peppering me with questions about unimportant stuff I was sure they already knew the answers to. Finally, I said with as much kindness and patience as I had left, "The next person who says, "Mom," or asks me a question is going to get their lips ripped off." (Okay, I realize that's not a real kind, patient, or appropriate threat to make, but it was how I felt. And besides, my children thankfully know me well enough to understand I wasn't completely serious. They simply giggled and reminded me there was probably a nicer way of asking for a peaceful ride home.)

When all my children were finally sound asleep last night I heaved a huge sigh of relief and took a moment to soak up the peace and quiet, sure I had survived the worst of it since the birthday was over.

Then I woke up this morning.

"Mom!"
"Yes?"
"Can I watch a movie?"
"Not right now."
"Why?"
"Because it's almost time for preschool. Maybe you can watch a movie later."
"After preschool?"
"Sure."
"Hannah Montana?"
"Probably."
"You getting tired of Hanna Montana?"
"Yes."
"You want to watch a different movie?"
"I don't care. I probably won't watch a movie, so it's not a big deal."
"You want to find the princess movie?" (I had been looking for Princess Diaries all morning, hoping to take it back to the library. My nine-year-old finally found it--in the VCR. Why didn't I think of that?)
"Yep."
"You don't know where it is?"
"Nope."
"You've looked everywhere?" (Must have heard that from my conversation with Dad)
"Yep."
"You even looked under the couch?"
"Yep."
"You have to take it back to the library?"
"Yes. I hope I can find it soon."
"The princess movie isn't ours?"
"Nope."
"It's the library's?"
"Yep."

And so on, until not only does my ear hurt, my whole head is pounding, wishing this persistent little voice that will not stop asking me questions will just take a little nap or something.

But then I have this sudden moment of realization that this little voice will grow up to be a big voice all too soon, and that I might even wake up one morning wishing a little voice would ask me non-stop questions all day to break the terrible silence of an empty home.

So, although my ears are tired and aching, I can't help but keep listening and answering, grateful for the little voices that fill my home. . .

But I have to admit one thing: bedtime is happening a lot earlier at my house for a while!

You Know You're A Mother If . . .

2009-11-09T19:37:00.001-08:00

I've started paying closer attention to mothers lately. Maybe it's because there have been 6 babies born in the past couple of months in my husband's and my families, so I've had lots of opportunities to see mothers starting over again with new babies. In a conversation with one of my sisters-in-law yesterday, she made the comment, "Everything about motherhood is just plain hard!"

I had to laugh inside. I've had that same thought on many occasions; in fact, just today I had one of those moments when my two grade-schoolers arrived home early from school (it's early-out all week due to SEP conferences--a minor fact I had completely forgotten) and began fighting non-stop. In the midst of trying to referee the arguing, I accidentally poured milk on my two-year-old's bowl of popcorn, rather than his bowl of cereal. I would probably never have known except that he looked at me with an extremely quizzical look, which forced me to look down at his two bowls in order to see what his problem was. My four-year-old was nearly gagging by this point, but I simply shrugged, poured milk in his cereal bowl and told him he might as well try the soggy popcorn. "Maybe it's delicious--who knows?" Another suspicious look from my little guy (you know, the kind that says, "I'm pretty sure my mom is crazy" )and I couldn't help but think, "You know you're a mother if life is so chaotic you accidentally pour milk on the wrong bowl of snacks, and it doesn't even phase you." Hence started this list:

You know you're a mother if . . .
1- Your vertical leap increases by six inches when your toddler poops in the potty.
2- A productive day means you showered before noon and made your bed.
3- A date with your husband means he tags along with you at the grocery store.
4-A clean house consists of a cleared path from the front door to the bathroom.
5- All you want for your birthday is two hours ALONE, without interruption.
6- Cooking mac and cheese counts as making dinner.
7-You cry with joy when your baby sleeps through the night for the first time.
8- You cry even harder when your child actually gives his/her part at the Primary Program.
9- You wear your clothes eight times before putting them in the wash to conserve on laundry.
10-You wake up relieved you still only have six children, after dreaming you were pregnant with twins.
11-Ice cream and chocolate make everything feel better.
12-You hide in your closet with your bedroom door locked to talk on the phone so you can actually hear your conversation.
13- You fall asleep saying your prayers at night because you are so exhausted.
14- Exercise consists of walking (jogging on a good day) to the mailbox and back.

And lastly, you know you're a mother if . . .

15- No matter how bad the day before was, you wake up every morning thinking you're sure glad to be a mother!

Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?

2009-11-03T16:05:00.000-08:00

I was just thinking recently how adorable my little two-year-old is. Famous last words. I've learned as a mother that as soon as I think a child is wonderful, he or she turns into Mr. Hyde and I end up eating my thoughts or words. As ridiculous as it sounds, it's a natural phenomenon that seems to occur every time. This was no exception. One day I was laughing at my sweet little guy, thinking of how quickly he's growing up; the next, I was ready to accidentally leave him at Grandma's for a few extra days so I could get a small reprieve from his whining, screaming, hitting and fits.

Here's my sweet, funny little guy:

1- I have made it a habit to grab his hand when we get out of the car to go into a building or anywhere in hopes of avoiding an accident. Not feeling particularly fond of this routine, he would always resist and I repeatedly explained I grabbed his hand so he wouldn't get hit by a car. Recently, we were walking down the hallway at church, and I reached down to grab his hand as a gesture of love. He looked around in confusion as he withdrew his hand. "There are no cars." His simple statement made me giggle.

2- My older children are fond of eating chocolate pancakes for breakfast (healthy, I know), aka "brown pancakes." My little guy is not so fond of them. He came in the other day begging me for "blond pancakes" instead. Clever!

3- I snuck in his room to give one final goodnight kiss the other night. He asked me to turn the ceiling fan on, to which I explained that it was now cold enough outside that we didn't need to turn the ceiling fan on anymore. "I said to turn it on in my bedroom, not outside!" he replied, as if to say, "duh!" I just get a kick out of the way he thinks.

4- We stopped by my husband's work the other day to say hello. Of course my two young children begin running the halls, speaking in "kid tones" (the opposite of "church mouse tones"). My husband and I both told them to speak quietly. "Why?" my two-year-old asked as he looked around? "Nobody's sleeping." We both got a laugh out of that one.

See, a funny, adorable little guy, right? Absolutely! Except for the times he isn't.

Like today, for instance . . .

I was teaching preschool, an activity he usually joins in, but with both him and his sister being under the weather, I instructed them to stay downstairs and watch a movie instead. With 20 minutes left of school, he suddenly appears. He's butt naked except for his shirt, which is now soaked at the sleeves and saturated with poop as well. In his hands he was holding a wet wipe covered in poop. Upon further discovery I notice the smelly stuff all down his legs and, of course, all over his hands and under his fingernails. Apparently he had missed the toilet and had tried to take care of the mess himself--Ugh!

At this moment I realize I'm in a bit of a predicament, as six other children are in my care, but as I quickly weigh my options I realize I can't let this child stand there covered in poop for 20 more minutes! For one thing, he stunk! For another, he was a huge distraction. Yes, it was obvious I had no choice but to take care of the problem. I left my diligent preschoolers working on their coloring project and darted down the stairs and into the bathroom where I found a poop-smeared mirror, rugs and toilet. This was really not a 30-second clean-up I was facing. But since 30 seconds is all I dared leave my students, I threw my son into the shower, furiously scrubbed him, Clorox cleanup-ed my mirror, toilet and floor--all in a record one minute and twenty seconds!! The part that frustrated me the most is that he was screaming bloody murder the whole time, being very uncooperative, as if he was the victim in the whole scenario, which I have to say, I strongly disagreed with.

Needless to say, I didn't have my happiest mom face on when the ordeal was over, and my thoughts of my son had quickly turned from the good, wonderful Dr. Jekyll to the infamous, naughty Mr. Hyde.

I need a serious break from this child, I thought to myself. But then, less than two hours later, I found my arms wrapped around him in a giant bear hug and kiss, whispering my undying love in his ear after he handed me a picture he drew just for me and flashed me his winning little smile. And I couldn't help but wonder as I smiled and cooed at him if my little boy asks himself the same question about me--Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?

What a Dilemma!

2009-10-19T14:58:00.000-07:00

A couple mornings ago, my seven-year-old greeted me in the kitchen with an exasperated declaration. "Guess what, Mom? I can't play football at recess anymore!"

This sounded serious. "Why?" I asked with concern.

"Because. Everyone wants me on their team!" It wasn't exactly the problem I was expecting.

"And that's a problem?" I asked, a little perplexed.

"Yes. All my friends fight over who gets to have me on their team. I'm always chosen first, and I never even get to be on my best friend's team."

Trying to approach his problem with the seriousness he was expecting, I said, "Wow, most children complain when they are always chosen last for teams. I never realized what a problem it is to always be chosen first." Okay, so I was being a little facetious, but he didn't seem to catch on. He was dead serious about his dilemma.

Being the problem-solver he is, he quickly came up with a solution. "I need a paper and scissors," he announced. I couldn't imagine how paper and scissors would help him with his recess problem, but I found him the needed items anyway. With breakfast to finish preparing and kids to push out the door, I forgot about our conversation until a couple hours later when I found the project he had been working on. One side of a paper had a schedule of teams for the week, from Monday to Friday (see below--note the spelling--I love it! I especially love how he spelled Austin--Oston); the other side of the paper held a serious threat (I think he meant to say "strict" instead of "striked").

I couldn't help but giggle, but my humor soon turned to concern over the obvious fact that he had left the paper at home. I was sure he would be upset when he realized he had gone to school without it, and as crazy as it sounds, I even considered running to the school to give it to him before first recess (I've noticed motherhood often produces temporary insanity). I decided that idea was ridiculous, but as the day wore on I couldn't help but think about my son and his predicament. I kept picturing in my mind the scenario when he announced his plan to his friends, and I wondered if they would be as sure about it as he was. I anxiously awaited his arrival home, nervous about how the day had gone.Finally, he stepped in the door.

"How did it go at recess today, son?" I asked immediately.

"Fine." I hate that reply. It basically means I don't have the energy to tell you any details.

I told him I had worried all day because he had forgotten his schedule. "Oh, that's okay. I had Friday memorized," he assured me. I should have known an assertive child such as he would have it all under control.

Next, I asked him if he thought the schedule really helped.

With frustration and complete earnestness, he replied, "No, not really, because my friends still whined and complained. I tried to explain to them that they all had to take turns having me on their team and that next week I would be on their team for a whole day of recesses if they would just be patient, but no, they complained." (I'm sure it sounds like my son is a bragger, but the funniest part of this whole scenario is that he didn't even realize how crazy his dilemma sounded. He was not boasting, just simply expressing frustration at a problem that was very real and very serious to him.) The whole thing tickled me to no end.

"Wow, this really seems to be a problem," I said, hoping to prolong the conversation.

"Yea, it is. My one friend kept saying, 'it's not fair.' I should have told him, 'fair is where the pigs go.'"

Okay, I admit a giggle slipped out at this comment. I don't know where he got that from.

"I guess I'm just gonna have to quit playing football at recess. I already quit playing soccer earlier in the year because I was having the same problem. Now I'm going to have to quit playing football, too." His disgust hung heavily in the air.

I couldn't help but tease just a little. "Maybe you'll have to start cheer leading at recess instead since other sports just aren't working out for you."

Nate caught right on, and without missing a beat explained, "No, Mom, that won't work either. Then my friends would come up with the idea of having a cheer leading competition and they'd all want me on their team again. Plus," he added, "then I'd have to take pom poms to school."

At this, I laughed out loud. This kid was even more clever than I thought. We never officially solved his recess problem, but I sure enjoyed trying.

And for those of you who think it's horrible to always be chosen last, keep in mind it could be worse--apparently, being chosen first all the time is an even bigger problem!

An Educational Experience

2009-10-12T16:05:00.001-07:00

I've spent quite a bit of time lately flat on my back staring at the three inches of dust on my ceiling fan, the piles of clutter on the dressers and night stand, and the unevenly hung window treatments in my bedroom. I've even noticed the builders used two different types of trim around the door leading to my bathroom, leaving an unmatched corner. Yes, since last Friday when I endured a spinal tap, leaving me plagued with spinal headaches, I've had the opportunity of lying in my bed, listening to life happening all around me, and it's been a very interesting experience.

Not only am I now acutely aware of how filthy my master bedroom has become, but I've also had the opportunity to be a bystander, or outside listener, to what Conger family life really sounds like--a scary experience, let me just say. But I have to admit, it's been quite enjoyable at the same time, as I've listened to my children try to solve their own problems, fix their own meals, get their own snacks, and help each other do the stuff I usually do. Add a husband to that mix and it's been downright entertaining at times. All I can say is I do a lot more around here than I even realized, and if you don't believe me, just ask my poor kids. They've had to do everything from laundry to brushing teeth and putting the younger kids to bed. My seven-year-old was in charge of breakfast this morning (my husband had to leave at 5:30 a.m. for a business trip today--what timing) and I had to chuckle at how seriously he took his job. He swept the floor, wiped down all the counters and lined all eight opened cereal boxes on the snack bar with bowls, spoons and milk. He even put the dirty dishes in the sink, and miracle of miracles, remembered to put the milk away before he left for school.

My nine-year-old was in charge of showering the two younger children, and I've learned if you ever want to know if you really have an influence on your children, simply give them a task you normally do regarding other children, then listen to how they handle it. It was like I was listening to a recording of myself as Hallee worked with Regyn and Boston to get them to cooperate and get washed and out of the shower. Wow, I thought. I really am constantly influencing my children, even when I'm simply doing the same old mundane tasks. Although that realization always scares me a little bit since I'm far from the perfect example, deep inside, I am so grateful. Who better than a mother to leave lasting impressions and teach valuable skills?

So, although I hope to be back up and at it soon, in the mean time I think I'll take copious notes on the things I need to improve on as I listen to my children take on my role. And for those of you who wonder if your children ever listen to you, trust me, they watch and listen more closely than you could imagine. If you don't believe me, just take a few days off, lie flat on your back in bed (hopefully you won't have dust and clutter to stare at like I do), and listen. It's sure to be an educational experience!

A Weekend Away

2009-10-05T15:13:00.000-07:00

Seeing how our anniversary a few weeks ago was a huge bust (I had a major migraine and the doctor gave me a shot that put me completely out--went to bed at 2:30 the afternoon of our anniversary and didn't wake up until 7:00 the next morning--"Happy Anniversary, honey, but I've got a headache!"), my sweet, patient husband and I decided to spend some time away alone together this past weekend. I looked forward to the vacation with eager anticipation. As I loaded our bags in the van I felt literally giddy at the thoughts of experiencing uninterrupted conversation.

As usual, due to my husband trying to squeeze something in, we left about two hours later than we had planned, cutting in to our time together before we even left town. When we were finally on the interstate heading away from home, I took a deep breath and began to soak up the peaceful lull of traffic when my husband sheepishly admitted he hoped to stop "quickly" by a fireplace store on our way. Making every effort not to roll my eyes, I agreed and we exited. An hour later, we opened the van to load our purchase and found our son's football gear he needed for practice in two hours. My patience was wearing thin, but nonetheless we had no choice but turn around and head back home. So, nearly five hours later than we originally hoped to take off, we were finally on our way.

Paradise, here we come! . . . Or a stop for my husband to run another "quick" errand. We managed to eat and make it to our destination by bedtime.

The good news is, I was determined to remain cool, calm and collected the entire trip; in fact, I informed my husband that since he was such a good sport about our anniversary, this trip was going to be all about him. Yes, my demands were going to take a back seat to his every wish and desire. He was to choose where we ate, what we did, what movie we attended, and so on. Who could ask for more?

The only problem was, old habits are hard to break. Not only could I not stop being a bossy, demanding backseat driver who manipulated my husband into choosing everything I wanted, but he couldn't make a decision for himself even when I did bite my tongue long enough to hear his opinion. We shared the milkshake of my choice, saw a chick flick, and even ate at two different eating establishments one night because he knew I didn't care for Domino's pizza and he was dying to have one since they advertized a $6 large pizza. I assured him over and over that I was happy to eat the pizza, but I guess after 11 years of marriage, he knows me better than that, so I ended up getting take-out Chinese while he enjoyed his pepperoni pizza, and we were both happy.

Driving home we reviewed our time away and couldn't help but chuckle. We had both thoroughly enjoyed our little get-away, but it had become obvious some things will never change. I'll never stop getting my way, and he'll never stop giving it to me.

Oh well, I'm thinking life could be a lot worse than that!

A Wheelbarrow, Some Sand, and a Load of Balls

2009-09-28T17:07:00.000-07:00

I should know better by now, but this morning I found myself thinking it had been a while since I had caught my children in some sort of disastrous mishap. Subconsciously patting myself on the back, I grinned at the idea that maybe my children are no longer at a stage where they secretly do naughty things or make insurmountable messes.

Wrong!

I took the rare opportunity to visit with my next door neighbor out by the mailbox in front of my home this afternoon, and all the while I was chatting away, my two littlest lovebugs and a neighbor boy made small work of project that took us much longer to clean up than it did for them to accomplish (I've noticed that's how mischevious messes usually turn out). The ironic part is that, although a little voice kept telling me I should probably check on the kids, I could hear them playing cooperatively around the corner of the house, so I dismissed the voice I know better than to ignore, telling myself how lucky I was today that the kids were playing so nicely. Am I naieve or what?

Finally, my older kids came around the corner from school, and sure enough, the first words out of their mouths were, "Have you seen what Regyn and Boston have done?"

A pit immediately formed in my stomach as I said goodbye to my neighbor, and bracing myself for what I might find, cautiously proceeded around the side of the house. The little neighbor boy must have heard my kids tattle because he ran up to me, spouting off excuses as fast as he could, telling me it was all Regyn's idea. Although I was nervous at just exactly what I was going to find, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. Kids sure learn at an early age to pass the buck, I thought. But then again, knowing my four-year-old, I was also sure he was right--it probably was her idea.

I finally turned the corner and found out what the crime was: a wheelbarrow full of sand now also held 50 dozen golf balls (yes, 50 dozen), a dozen or more baseballs, and even a couple of basketballs. Dispersed alongside the wheelbarrow was a mound of empty egg cartons the golf balls used to call home, crushed into the pavement. Feeling somewhat responsible for the mishap, which probably would not have occurred if I had not been so neglectful--or at least not to such a great degree (I mean, perhaps if I had been more attentive, not EVERY carton of golf balls we owned would have been emptied), I decided to spare my kids my usual lecture and dig into help clean up the mess instead.

The worst part is that the balls were not only emptied into the wheelbarrow but also deeply buried in the sand, and seeing how the reason we have the entrage of golf balls in the first place is for my son's golf ball business, we not only had to dig out each ball to place it in the now-crushed egg cartons, but we had to sort each one by brand: Titleist, Calloway, Nike, etc. Since Regyn was the instigator of the crime, I was determined she would help--the only problem is she can't yet read, so we ended up resorting most of her cartons, only adding to our tedious task. Finally, near the end of our clean-up, that smart little cracker finally figured out that if she saw a "C" on the ball, it was a Calloway, a "T" it was a Titleist, and so forth. Too bad I didn't give her more credit sooner--we could have finished in half the time.

The good news is that Regyn was more than happy to help undo her actions; in fact, she even "pinky promised" she would not be repeating her efforts. "Doesn't that make you happy, Mom?" she asked cheerfully. It was hard to feel happy at the moment, covered in dirt, my nails burrowed with sand, and hundreds of golf balls still to dig out and sort, but I forced a smile anyway.

We finally finished the task, stacked the smashed cartons back onto the shelf, brushed off our clothes and washed our hands. All in a day's work, I thought. But next time I feel the urge to pat myself on the back, I hope to at least take note of the nagging voice inside my head that warns me I should probably check on my "well-behaved children playing so cooperatively" around the corner.

And for those of you who need used golf balls, I happen to know where 50 dozen of them are stored, meticulously sorted by whatever brand you desire--you just may need to brush off a little sand!

Fruit Takes Time to Ripen

2009-09-21T13:37:00.000-07:00

Have you ever thought maybe you needed a time out? Just a little break from the routine--a reprieve from the mundane, thankless, draining tasks you do every day? I've often had the feeling that if I could just come up for air, drink in a little sunshine and fresh oxygen, I could dive back into the pool of motherhood I feel I'm drowning in and actually swim on top for a while. Thus, this past weekend, I took a time out. Literally.

I drove to Logan, and with a dear friend and former mission companion, I went to an event called "Time Out for Women," sponsored by Deseret Book. These events have been held all over the country throughout the year for many years, but this was my first experience going. I now hope to make it an annual vacation, as the break was great and the experience wonderful!

"I'll come home a better wife and mother," I promised as I waved goodbye to my husband and children and escaped to my waiting car, leaving them to wonder what to have for dinner . . . and breakfast the next morning. . . and lunch after that. I really didn't know for sure what to expect, but I had a feeling it would be worthwhile. And it was. Although I wish I could share the whole meaningful experience, I've decided to just share one thought I came away with. Emily Watts, a noted speaker and author of many successful, humorous books on motherhood shared this thought:

Fruit takes time to ripen.

Okay, so what does that have to do with motherhood? Well, let me tell you. Let's say our children are the fruit. It takes time for them to learn who they really are and become who they can really become. Some fruit takes longer to ripen than others, and that's okay; either way, every child requires a lot of nurturing, care, and love to become who they were really meant to be (so, if your child seems to be the slow-to-ripen type, don't fret; he/she just may not have hit the ripening season yet--there's still hope).

Isn't that a wonderful idea? I thought so, too. But then, as I kept pondering this metaphor, something else came to mind. Thinking of each of my own four children and wondering about which "ripening" stage each one is in, I couldn't help but picture innumerable experiences we've had together as I worked to nurture and care for each one in helping them to reach their potentials as children of God. And with each experience came the realization of what I learned in the process. I've always hoped to be a light to my children, to lead them down the path of goodness and happiness, but what I never could have imagined when I began this journey, is what they would teach me in the process. Through my experiences as a mother, I have learned more about love, patience, endurance, organization, service, humility, and so on, than I ever thought possible.

So, I'm beginning to realize maybe I'm the fruit. And my children are really the caretakers, nurturing me and helping me become the woman I hope to truly become. And sometimes that ripening process is quite painful--for all involved. Emily Watts noted that during her hardest times with her children, she looked back and found that is when they were ripening the most. That's the beauty of God's plan for families. The harder we work together, the greater the harvest, and during times of deep struggle (weeding), if we keep focused on what matters most and help each other, we will find we have ripened significantly. And one day, I believe, we will become a delicious fruit, and it will all be worthwhile.

Until then, I am grateful to four children who are patiently (and not-so-patiently at times) grooming me and tutoring me, teaching me valuable lessons that I need to learn to one day be fully ripened.

And as far as my kids go, on those days when I wonder if they're simply a "bad apple," I now know I only have to be patient and with the proper care, even naughty fruit can ripen and become irresistible!

Life's A Climb

2009-09-14T19:49:00.000-07:00

If I told you my two-year-old is absolutely addicted to the Hannah Montana movie, would you think that's a little crazy? What if my two-year-old is a boy? That's right! My little man watches Hannah Montana a couple times a day, and he knows quite a bit of the dialogue and most of the songs. Although I find myself shaking my head in disbelief that a little boy would like a movie like that so much, I have to admit I quite like the flick myself. Of course it's a little cheesy in parts, but I do think Miley Cyrus is pretty adorable in the movie, and I love the music.

My favorite part, though, is the end. I won't ruin it for those of you who haven't seen it yet, but let me just say, no matter what I'm doing or what kind of mood I'm in, I bawl my eyes out every time I hear her sing, "It's The Climb." The other morning I found tears dripping into my dishwater as the song blared from my television in the next room, and I had to wonder what was wrong with me. Then today, after plopping down on the couch to snuggle with my little one for a moment (watch him jump from my coffee table to my couch and back again is more like what actually happened--the snuggling ended up being merely a dream), I watched Hannah Montana sing that song, and as the tears threatened once again, I realized the reason that song gets to me so much.

It's because it's totally about me.

And, today it dawned on me that it's about motherhood, too. Just read these lyrics: "There's always gonna be another mountain. I'm always gonna wanna make it move. Always gonna be an uphill battle. Some days I'm gonna have to lose (these last two lines are the ones that remind me of motherhood the most:). Ain't about how fast I get there. Ain't about what's waitin on the other side. It's the climb."

Pretty darn profound. I can't even mention the number of times I've had great intentions as a mother, only to fail. Most days are an uphill battle, and there are definitely times when I lose, BUT it's okay. What really matters is that I'm enjoying the climb. And if I ever get so caught up in how fast I'm "getting there" or about what's in it for me in the end, well, I will have missed the satisfaction, view and joy of the journey--the climb.

In the movie, Hannah's boyfriend says, "Life's a climb . . . but the view's great." That's how I feel about motherhood. Most days it takes the best that's in me; some days, I have to simply be content to not lose ground, hoping tomorrow will be better. It doesn't matter who's mastered motherhood better than I have; it doesn't even matter that some days I slip up and fall down the mountain a little way. What it all boils down to is accepting that it's a tough road and enjoying the view anyway.

And the view is definitely great! On those (sometimes rare) moments when we are all in sync and there is peace and harmony in our home, when we are laughing, learning and sharing together, when I hear, "I love you, Mom," then I feel deep gratitude to be on this journey, however difficult it is. When I take a step back and see how much I've been blessed, I realize I wouldn't have it any other way. It's then that I discover once again that no matter how steep or daunting this journey of motherhood may be, the view is truly magnificent, and I wouldn't miss it for the world.

Yes, Hannah Montana has it right--"It's all about the climb."

A Child's Prayer

2009-09-07T11:15:00.001-07:00

I have always thought it a good thing that God has a sense of humor, especially since my children at times have offered prayers that have been more comical than humble. And although I would still term their prayers "innocent," I wonder if they have figured they might as well try to manipulate their Heavenly Father, too, as it works so well on their earthly parents! Yes, at times I have found myself chuckling as we've said "amen," wondering exactly what God thought of their petitions. Here are a few examples.

" . . . and please bless that we won't have to eat snakes and frogs when we grow up and go on a mission." (snakes and frogs--where did that come from?)

Nate--7 years old

". . . and please bless that Regyn won't get into my stuff while I'm gone to school today and ruin everything I own." (I love it--Mom's not doing a good job of guarding my possessions, so I'm taking it to a Higher Source!)

Halleee--9 years old

". . . and please bless that we can listen to our moms and dads and that we won't fight anymore."
(Moms and Dads--what, are there more than one of us? And it never fails, this prayer is said either right before or right after a huge fight)

Nate--7 years old

" . . . and please bless we can go to Grandpa and Grandma's today."
(pulling the Grandma and Grandpa card--that's one prayer that probably won't be answered seeing how we have to stay home and go to school).

Nate--7 years old.

" . . .and please bless mom to not scream at us today."
(Oh, the faith of little children. I hope I don't slip up and yell today.)

Regyn--4 years old

And my all-time favorite:

" . . . and please help us to have a great day tomorrow."
(Tomorrow? What about today? Her answer: "I prayed for that yesterday!")

Hallee--9 years old

As much as I enjoy some of the humorous prayers offered in my home, I just have to say how much I love hearing one of my children offer a sincere prayer in someone's behalf. Whether praying for me, or a grandparent, or a person who is sick in our neighborhood, I can't help but think that God puts special emphasis on the prayers of little children, answering them with more urgency than others. I truly believe in the simple, perfect faith of children, and so when my children pray, "please bless Mom to not have a headache today," after seven days of a crushing migraine, I smile with the assurance that maybe today I will be able to function without a throbbing pain in my head.

Yes, I am sure God hears every child's prayer and answers in turn, and I have a feeling He laughs at the funny ones, too!

Early Morning Snuggles

2009-08-31T09:02:00.000-07:00

Rousing from a peaceful night's sleep the other morning, I awoke to find my four-year-old standing next to my bed staring at me. A quick glance at the clock told me my other children were probably still sleeping and that I needn't get up for a few more minutes.

"What do you need?" I yawned.

"Can I get in with you for a few minutes?"

How could I resist? Much to my husband's chagrin I love snuggling in bed with my children every now and again, and this seemed like the perfect time. I opened the sheets and she climbed over me, settling in right beside me. We lay there for a few moments, and then I reached over and pulled her close to me, soaking up the smile that spread across her sweet little face.

"Can we play our game, Mommy?" she asked.

Although she didn't specify, I knew exactly what she was referring to. I didn't much feel like playing a game, hoping to simply lie in bed and rest for my remaining few minutes of peace, knowing that soon three more kids would appear and "life" would begin in one hectic swoop, but it seems that whenever I am faced with a decision to make time for one of my children or selfishly follow my own agenda I suddenly glimpse them growing up and not wanting to spend time with me, and I immediately agree to take advantage of the time I still have with them. I agreed to play the game, and she began.

"I love someone in this room who . . .has brown hair." I rolled over to play along and say my part, which is, "Me?" and then I tickle her and kiss her cheek before taking a turn. But she stopped me before I could continue, saying, "Wasn't your hair red the last time we played this game?" I giggled inside. I had recently colored my hair and it was darker than last time. Four-year-olds are so perceptive, I thought.

Then it was my turn. "I love someone in this room who . . .loves to ride her purple bike."

"Mom, Nate gave me his bike and now I ride it. It's blue and yellow."

"Oh, well, I like the purple one better. Just say your part." This game wasn't going as well as it normally did. She said her part and started a new series.

"I love someone in this room who . . .hmm . . . has a nose," she finally managed.

"Honey, everyone has a nose," I said. "Can't you think of something else?" So much for her sharp perception.

"Oh yea. I love someone in this room who . . . has blue eyes."

My eyes aren't blue, I thought. Should I say something? Probably not, but I couldn't resist. "Regyn, my eyes are green."

"Oh. Okay, I love someone in this room who has green eyes."

"Me?" I asked as incredulously as ever before tickling her and planting a kiss on her cheek?

"Yes!" she said with as much enthusiasm.

And so the game went along for a few more minutes until, just as predicted, three more faces showed up telling me they were hungry. I squeezed Regyn one more time before rolling out of bed to start breakfast, still chuckling inside at how our little game had gone. I couldn't help but think as I plugged in the frying pan that it was the perfect start to my day, and I wondered to myself, Will Regyn remember these moments when she gets older? Will the memories of snuggles and tickles and giggles and love remain stronger than the memories of cross words and harsh discipline?

I certainly hope so, but to improve the chances, I hope to hope to store up a lot more memories of early morning snuggle games, taking turns professing our love to each other, rather than memories of nagging and yelling and being frustrated with each other. I sometimes fast forward in my mind to an interview someone has with my children when they are grown where the interviewer asks about their mother, and I fear their answer will be something like, "My mother loved to nag. I can still hear her nagging voice today." AAHH!! Oh, how I hope their answer will be something more like, "My mother loved us. She always told us she loved us."

I guess that means lots more early morning snuggle games. I can't wait!

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

2009-08-24T19:08:00.000-07:00

My friend was telling me the other day about a commercial she saw that made her chuckle so hard she nearly fell off her treadmill. The familiar Christmas tune, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" was playing while a mother danced through a store, throwing school supplies in a cart.

How telling!

I have to admit the commencement of school this year snuck right up on me. In fact, last night I drew in a quick breath and panicked just a bit, quickly gathering my children to begin the bedtime process as I said, "You've got to get to bed early tonight. You've got school in the morning."

"I do?" came the reply. So much for preparing my children for the abrupt change in schedules.

And although we had a wonderful summer together, I must admit I was giggling with glee inside this morning when I awoke, looking forward to the first day in three months when my children won't ask me what they can do because they are bored. They are anxiously engaged in a good cause, and I don't have to do anything, I thought to myself. Oh, how I love school!

The truth is, the years of sending all four of my children out the door to catch the bus are approaching faster than I'd really like them to. I know there will come a day when I'll look back on these days and realize they were some of the best days of my life.

BUT until then . . .

I can't seem to get that Christmas song out of my head. "It's the most wonderful time of the year!"

Grandmothers

2009-08-10T11:01:00.000-07:00

My maternal grandmother is dying. Even as I write that, I can hardly believe it's true. I have been blessed in my life to have known and associated closely with all of my grandparents. Both of my dad's parents, as well as my mom's, are still alive, so this will be the first grandparent I lose. Although I know she is old (84) and she's been in a nursing home for the past six months or so, and she hasn't really been herself in years (she's suffered from dimentia), it is difficult to think of losing her.

She's a remarkable little woman (only 4' 10" tall) who played an important role in my life as I was growing up. Living right across the field from her, I would visit every day. I will never forget the puffy purple coat she wore while she drove through town in her little white truck, straining to see over the steering wheel, or seeing her her in her recliner, focused on a crossword puzzle. I'd ask her what she was doing, and she'd always say, "Not much of anything. How 'bout you?" Or I'd ask her how she was doing, and she'd always say, "Gettin a long just fine." I will sure miss hearing her say those familiar words.

Since she's been on my mind so much, I decided to write a few thoughts about grandmothers.

Grandmothers are . . .

Cookies when mom says "no,"
Surprise appearances at baseball games,
A break from chores, and
Someone to spoil you when no one else will.

Grandmothers are . . .
Warm, delicious meals,
A drive home at midnight when you decide you don't really want to spend the night,
A soft hug, and
Homemade doilies.

Grandmothers are . . .
Picnics at the park,
An unlimited supply of sweets,
A real education about life, and
Chocolate milk.

Grandmothers are . . .
Mothers made nicer,
A time-out from rules and consequences,
A breath of fresh air, and
God's way of making life a whole lot sweeter.

Whatever life holds for me, I sure hope I get to live long enough to be a grandmother!

Ways to Keep Your Cool:1-3

2009-08-01T13:30:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if it was what you might term "fate" that I happened to find a long lost parenting article I printed out a year and a half ago and then forgot about, but the other day, right out of the blue, I found an article entitled "Seven Ways to Keep Your Cool." Sounds a little fishy, doesn't it? Especially considering the fact that lately, as soon as my husband walks through the threshold from work, I've riddled him with how trying one of my children has been and how difficult it has been to remain the calm, loving parent I'm working to become. So, either my husband is trying to offer helpful hints, or God is answering my prayers with less subtle messages in hopes I'll finally catch on. Either way, I thought I'd share a couple of these ideas that I think are from the Good Housekeeping magazine last year.

1- Know When You're Being Baited

We all have triggers--certain words that set us off or shut us down--and no one knows that better than our kids. So seal your lips whenever you hear these classic calls to arms: "I hate you!" "You're stupid!" And the real killer, "I wish I had a different mother."

Okay, seriously, the more I think about it, this paper must have fallen from heaven because I hear each of these phrases numerous times nearly every day, and as hard as I try to ignore them, thinking "this is simply kid-typical behavior," I struggle. What I really want to do is run into my bedroom crying. I know they're just kids and they don't mean it, but that information does not seem to make their words any less painful. Am I alone here? Oh well, I guess I'm going to have to start repeating in my mind the words, "you're just being baited, you're just being baited." Maybe that will work.

2-Don't Mess With Messy Bedrooms

Having their own space is essential to kids becoming separate individuals--and if it's "their" room, they can keep it the way they want (except maybe a twice-yearly cleansing for hygiene's sake). Whenever you look at their lair and feel a hissy fit coming on, go clean your own room instead.

A hissy fit? Have these guys been peeking in my windows? I understand the concept of children having their own space--I really do--but when a room becomes so messy it's dangerous, should we not intervene? Or when we can't find anything anymore due to the piles of clothes and toys and objects shoved under the beds? I can't help but think there's a certain limit to this advice, but then again, maybe that's why I needed to read it.

3-Give Up Your Need to Know How They Feel

You can ask, but they usually won't tell--and then you get mad and risk a blowup. Yelling is particularly pointless in this situation, since most of the time kids simply don't how how they feel (neither do most adults). So inquire about their feelings, help them learn to express themselves. But let go of your need to make sure they feel the "right" way, which is usually nothing more than the way you think they should.

Who writes this stuff? (jk) Honestly, lately I haven't wanted to know how my kids really feel. Their actions have said enough. What I struggle with is wanting them to know how I feel, and I'm pretty sure they're getting tired of that.

If you're dying to know what 4-7 are on the list, just tune in next week. For now, I'm just trying to work on 1-3. I have a feeling one of these days I'm going to give up on trying to keep my cool, and enjoy a good, long fit. I figure as long as the kids are gone to school while it happens, I'm not in the red. Only 22 more days!

What I'll Miss

2009-07-27T08:39:00.000-07:00

In an effort to really "soak up" every moment with my children this summer, I have made a specific effort to mentally take in every situation--good and bad--hoping I won't look back one day and wish I had lived in the moment more. Without realizing it, I found myself mentally categorizing every scenario, task, and experience into two different groups: "What I'll Miss," and "What I Won't Miss" about mothering young children. Here are a few things I came up with.

Things I Will Miss:

Holding a sleeping child
Watching a sleeping child (they are so innocent and sweet when they're asleep)
That a trip to the park makes their whole day
That I can tickle a smile out of a grumpy child
That a kiss makes everything better
Speaking of kisses--an endless supply of hugs and kisses available at any time (only works with little kids)
Tiny arms wrapped tightly around my neck
Kids on my lap, snuggling and reading a story together
Uninhibited singing by my little ones
Everyone waking up with a smile
Small expectations (pb&j for lunch every day, mac & cheese if we really splurge)

Things I Won't Miss:

Fruit snack wrappers
Whining
Playdough
Car seats
Sippy Cups
Potty Training
6:00 a.m. wake up calls (which consist of my two-year-old asking for a movie and chocolate milk)
Screaming fits
Shutting the front door at least 15 times a day because a child has gone in or out and left it open

I sat in my kitchen the other night chuckling under my breath. My husband and I were working together to get dinner ready, trying to have a conversation, while the rest of the house held total chaos. Kids were screaming, crying, whining, pounding on doors, and more. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought I had more than four kids! As I strained again to hear what my husband was saying, a picture passed through my mind of what our home must look like to an outsider, and I couldn't suppress a small giggle (I've come a long way--it's usually tears I can't suppress). Just then, a thought ran through my mind, adding another bullet to my "won't miss" list.

I'm sure not going to miss this when the kids are grown and gone.

But as soon as I thought it, I immediately regretted it, because the truth is, I think I'll miss pretty much everything about my children being home--even the chaos. I can totally picture in my mind the day I get up to a quiet home, do my daily routine without interruption or noise, and go to bed with the same deafening silence (excepting small talk with my sweetheart, of course). And I'm willing to bet there will be days when I wish I could go back to a simpler, louder, crazier time, because something tells me that even though there are many days I want to run away and hide, the truth is, when it's all said and done, I have a feeling I'll look back on these days and think they were the best days of my life.

So, for now, I think I'll condense my lists into one big one: "What I'll Miss." That way, if I do ever find myself missing this stage of life, I can read my list and find comfort in the fact that at least I didn't take it for granted.

Well, better go--the front door is open again!:)

To My Mother

2009-07-20T15:24:00.000-07:00

Forgive me for being so personal, but I've decided to dedicate this week's post to my mother.

Most of my earliest memories revolve around the woman I call mom. From sneaking chocolate chips with my older sister in our farm house in Raymond, ID and getting caught, to riding my bike up to the corner service station in Cokeville to chat with my mom while she helped my Grandpa with his books, sharing a snickers bar and soda pop, to learning how to sew in our basement, carefully unpicking imperfect seams, my mother was at the center of my life.

Despite lots of moaning and groaning, my mother was determined in our family scripture study each morning, gathering us in the living room to take turns reading from the Book of Mormon before she sent us on our way to school. She always hugged and kissed us and professed her love to us before we left, and I remember being grateful I knew my mom loved me.

When I entered jr. high, I was privileged to play volleyball with my mother as the coach. She was spirited, dedicated, and highly successful. Everyone loved her signature cheer leading jump after great plays, and it never got past me that she rooted for every underdog and made each one feel valuable. We were undefeated my whole jr. high career, but even better than that was playing for the best jr. high coach around and my biggest fan, too--my mother.

High school and college came and went, my parents supporting every athletic event and extra-curricular activity possible, sometimes traveling hundreds of miles to be there. They supported me through a mission and the transition that came afterwards. And when I became a mother myself, my mother was right outside the curtain, waiting to help me begin this incredible, daunting journey.

When life has been hard and I've needed careful advice or sometimes even just a slight change in perspective, my mother has said just the right thing to help me get back on my feet again. She taught me how to work, to read, to pray, to love--the most important things I do each day as a mother to my own four children.

As I have grown older, I have learned an important truth--that you never outgrow your need for a mother. A mother's work is never done, even when her children are grown and gone, and she is never tossed aside like clothes and shoes that we've outgrown or that have gone out of style. Moms never go out of style.

I've also noticed mothers never outgrow challenges either. My mom still has her share of hurdles to cross, one being the challenge of hearing loss, but still she manages to be a mother, a grandmother, a fantastic children's librarian, a wife and a friend. She's overworked and under appreciated, as most mothers are, but she still keeps plugging along because, well, that's what mothers do.

So today I just want to say "thanks" to a remarkably talented woman who has influenced my life in more ways than she could know. And I hope that somehow she knows how much I love and appreciate her, but chances are, she'll go to bed tonight like she does most nights, wondering if she's making a difference at all, thinking back to all the ways she wants to be better, rather than all the ways she's already great, because mothers have a tendency to do that.

So, just for today, I want her to know she's fabulous and I'm so glad she's my mother.

Talk about Multi-Tasking!

2009-07-13T11:11:00.000-07:00

Have you ever wondered if you were taking the multi-tasking idea a little too far? I mean, it's pretty much a mandatory trait these days as a mom to be able to talk on the phone, pay the bills, and tie a shoelace all at the same time, right? In this fast-paced world, if we don't become adept at doing at least two things at a time, we will simply find ourselves further and further behind.

So, where do you draw the line?

I've decided the car is one place. I no longer try to have a phone conversation, change the radio station, and keep the car between the white and yellow lines, all while trying to resolve some conflict in the back seat, as the issue of safety comes into play.

I've also tried to limit my multi-tasking while at church. It just didn't seem appropriate to be planning my week's menus, coloring a hand-out for my primary class, and painting my fingernails (j.k. I've never actually done all of this while at church, but I have thought about what I could be doing while I'm just sitting there--I'm telling you, multi-tasking can be addicting to the point you don't know how to relax and enjoy the moment), while I listened less-than-attentively to the speakers. Yes, church is definitely one place I allow myself to let all my other responsibilities go and just take in the real purpose of being there.

The place I continue to struggle is in my home. I almost feel lazy if I'm not trying to complete a number of tasks all at once. If I'm sitting down to enjoy a good book, I have to get up every so often to change laundry or clean a bathroom or something so I don't feel like I am wasting time. Even when I watch television (which is rarely), I have a book to read or some little project to do at commercials. Otherwise, I would feel like I was using my time poorly. I put an earpiece in while I talk to my sisters in the mornings so my hands can be free to get work done, and I find myself responding to e-mails and writing blogs while juggling dinner. I have to wonder if the pioneers had the same phobia. Somehow, I doubt it. I have a feeling they were content enough with completing one chore at a time, putting one foot in front of the other, not feeling a need to do everything all at once.

Yes, I'm pretty sure I have become addicted to multi-tasking to the point of insanity. How can I be so sure? Well, let me just say that my husband walked in to the bathroom the other night and caught me brushing two of my children's teeth at the same time--one with one hand, the other with the other hand (I must say the child's teeth I was brushing with my right hand ended up with cleaner teeth than the one's with my left; however, I am sure that with more practice, I can build up the coordination in my left hand and be brushing teeth in record time!). This is quite impressive as it is, BUT the part that takes it to the next level of multi-tasking insanity is that I was accomplishing this task while going to the bathroom!!

Talk about multi-tasking! At least I spared you the pictures!

The 90/10 Rule

2009-06-29T09:50:00.000-07:00

Have you ever found yourself exhibiting high quantities of patience throughout the day, only to finally lose it before bedtime, destroying any harmony you worked so hard to maintain throughout the long, arduous day?

This phenomenon is what I call the 90/10 Rule, and it's literally the story of my life. Let me explain further.

I wake up in the morning, happy to experience life and be a mother. I am optimistic, singing and whistling and speaking to my children in happy, light-hearted tones. Then the whining begins. Followed by the fits. Followed closely behind by the fighting, which is followed by the begging for snacks and friends. My nerves a bit frazzled, I float through the house, solving every problem and softly but firmly redirecting all negative behaviors. I am like a goddess, fluidly working around each obstacle with ease and finesse, and above all, patience.

By noon, I am a bit tired. It's time for lunch and I barely got breakfst cleaned up. The whining has increased, as has the incessant complaints that "there's nothing to do." I fix a lunch nobody likes (including myself), all the while giving myself pep talks inside my head in hopes I can keep my cool and ramain a calm, well-collected mother.

The afternoon passes slowly, a combination of kids running in and out, leaving doors open, making messes we just spent the morning cleaning up, grabbing snacks they weren't authorized to grab, passing them out to the neighborhood, fighting about who got the most or the biggest snack, and on and on. My reserves are beginning to wear down a bit, but still I manage to take deep breaths and remind myself this is what having children entails; and besides, it's summer, so I should relax a bit and let my kids be kids.

It's now time to make dinner. I haven't thought about it all day and have no idea what to make. My husband will be home soon, hoping for something satisfying to eat and for a peaceful, enjoyable evening with his family. I feel the pressure. By now, the kids are pulling at my pant legs, whining more than ever, and I'm feeling just as tired as they are. I juggle putting together a make-shift dinner with refereeing fights between siblings and meeting the demanding needs of my toddler, all while trying to keep my wits about me. I'm counting the minutes until a reinforcement (my husband) arrives.

My husband walks in (late, of course). It's complete chaos. The house is diseheveled, the kids are fighting, dinner isn't ready, I'm holding on by a thread. I still manage to pull it together somehow.

Then bedtime rolls around. My nerves are raw. I'm tired, and so are the children. They begin to resist the bedtime routine, and . . .

I lose it!

I raise my voice, threaten, and stomp through the house on a small rampage. It's over in a matter of minutes, but still, the damage is done. All the patience I exhibited throughout the day disappears as though it never happened, and I am left feeling disappointed in myself as a mother.

It's then my husband looks at me in either of two ways: 1-like he' as scared of me as the children are, or 2-like he wishes I would handle things better.

I send myself to my bedroom, shut the door, and promise myself tomorrow I will make it through 100% of the day with my sanity in tact.

Sound the least bit familiar? It's the 90/10 rule, and it's amazing how consistently it appears in my life. I can't number the times I've told my husband that if he could only have seen what a wonderful mother I was while he was gone all day, he'd be thrilled and amazed. It's completely unfortunate that he happens to be home when the ten percent makes its appearance. The only glitch with that explanation is when the weekend arrives and life begins looking more like 60/40 than 90/10, and my husband is home all day to witness it.

Oh well, all I can say is that I was patient for close to 90% of the week!

Below are pictures of my two-year-old when he had his tonsils out this past week--when my 90/10 may have been more like 80/20. The surgery went well, and he's done great, except for the agitation and fits. I'm afraid my nerves have been raw all too often lately.

Boston--before surgery, listening to his heart--my sweet little boy

Boston--right before they wheeled him away--that adorable little smile has not come back since!

After surgery--sleeping with Daddy (before the fits started).

Trouble--Times Two!

2009-06-20T12:35:00.000-07:00

I found out this week why I don't have twins.

Actually, there are lots of reasons, the summation being I can hardly handle ONE child at a time, let alone two, but this week reinforced in my mind the exact reason why giving birth to twins has never been one of my life's aspirations--they turn into two-year-olds!

Not that I don't love two-year-olds. The truth is it's one of my favorite ages, and I think of all the stages I'll miss as my children grow older, it's this one I'll miss most. The pudgy hands, the loves and kisses, the curiosity, the developing speech (especially if he has a lisp, like my two-year-old does), the energy--I love all of these wonderful traits--just not times two!

Let me explain.

My sister came for a visit this past week, bringing her three little girls and newborn baby boy. I truly love their visits and couldn't wait to get my hands and lips on that sweet little boy. However, there were a few mishaps while she was here, and I don't want to sound like a tattle-tale, but at the bottom of each disaster there were two little innocent faces and hands: my two-year-old and her two-year-old.

We finally (I know what you're thinking--we should have caught onto this idea a little sooner) decided we needed to watch them like hawks, never letting them out of our sights. Still they managed to find trouble. Two-year-olds have an uncanny nack for that. Needless to say, by the end of the week we were both exhausted. The only thought that consoled us was that she only had to go home with one of them, and I only had to keep one of them.Yes, as darling as they are, one at a time is more than enough for me! Here's a short recap of our week:

Day One: my master bathroom was "wall papered" with a whole role of Charmin toilet paper and a bowl of toilet water. There was 1/2 inch of toilet water all over my bathroom floor and small shreds of toilet paper all over the walls and their clothes. It looked like paper mache--sort of. I only wish my husband would have taken pictures before he cleaned up. I took a quick shot of Boston's clothes (after they had been washed out) before I threw them in the washer. On top of that, Boston pooped his pants. A trip to the tub.

Day Two: My master bedroom was repainted using twelve different colors of craft paint I had stowed away in one of my dresser drawers. We scrubbed paint out of my bedspread, the carpet and my dresser. The drawer had to be removed and ran under tap water to get the paint out of it, there was so much. My best towel was covered with paint, as was their clothing, which had to be thrown away. A trip to the tub. Oh yes, and this was the day it took my sister nearly two hours to get her darling little lovebug to go to bed for the night. That was a LONG day!

Day Three (the day we decided to keep a more careful eye on them): My Demdaco figurine was broken (I'm so thankful for super glue--most everything in my home has been superglued back together at least twice). Mireya (the other infamous two-year-old) pooped while swimming in our kiddie pool. Not wanting to pull herself away from the fun, instead of informing us of her accident, she kept swimming for who knows how long. We're just waiting to see who gets ecoli first. A trip to the tub.

Day Four (still keeping a watchful eye): They started digging the sand out of my flagstone and getting into the mulch in my flower beds. Thankfully, they were caught before a major felony occurred.

It was then my sister went home.

I think by the end of those four days, we averaged giving baths two times a day, taking deep breaths to control our frustration four times a day, and shaking our heads in disbelief six times a day.

So, for those of you out there raising twins or triplets or so on, you have my deepest respect. And if those children happen to be two years old right now . . .

You're in my prayers!

Truths From Little Children and Worn-out Mothers

2009-06-13T13:05:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure where I got this, but I found it recently and chuckled as I read it. If you're in the mood for a laugh, read on; OR if you're searching for some comfort in knowing you're not experiencing the mayhem of motherhood alone, keep reading. I think we can all relate to a few of these "simple truths from little children."

1-No matter how hard you try, you can't baptize cats.

2-When your mom is mad at your dad, don't let her brush your hair.

3-When your sister hits you, don't hit her back. They always catch the second person.

4-Never ask your three-year-old brother to hold a tomato.

5-You can't trust dogs to watch your food.

6-Don't sneeze when someone is cutting your hair.

7-Never hold a Dust-Buster and a cat at the same time.

8-You can't hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.

9-The inhabitants of Moscow are called Mosquitoes.

10-The parts of speech are lungs and air.

Now, just for fun, I'm adding my own simple truths. I think I'll call them "Truths From Worn-out Mothers." Feel free to add a few of your own.

1-Never cuss the neighbors when your children are in ear-shot.

2-Be sure to explain the difference between alligators and elevators before the need arises to take your toddler to the doctor on the fourth floor.

3-Explain that the "F" on your perfectionist child's tithing slip stand for "female," not flunking, before you attend tithing settlement.

4-If you are in desperate need of some rest and relaxation, asking your children to leave you alone for a few minutes will only ensure they will stick to you like glue.

5-If you are on an important phone call, it only makes things worse to ask your children to please be quiet.

6-No matter what they tell you, double chocolate ice cream does not come out of white sweater vests that have been left for days by your "helpful" husband, regardless of how much bleach and stain spray you use, or how many times you wash it.

7-"I made a mistake, and I'm sorry" are the seven most important words you can teach your children.

8-It is important to be sure your potty trainee's underpants are poop-free BEFORE you wash them with all of your white clothing--twice.

9-There are worse things than finding your children jumping from your couch to your coffee table to your love seat--like finding your children jumping from your couch to your coffee table to your loveseat with full cups of ruby red kool-aid in their hands.

10-When your children stand before you, holding out freshly picked flowers (the ones you splurged for because they were perfect for your flower beds), grins spread across their innocent little faces, it's best to simply swallow hard, smile, and say, "thank you for your thoughtfulness."

What Life is Truly About

2009-06-01T17:32:00.001-07:00

I just returned from the hospital where my sister Katie gave birth to a beautiful, eight pound baby boy.

And I can't stop tearing up.

My mom and brother and six little kids and I arrived just in time to hear the nurse announce his weight and height. Standing on the other side of the curtain, I immediately felt the familiar sting of grateful tears and the throbbing of a humbled heart when I heard that sweet little newborn cry. I've often wondered how unbelievers could ever hear the first sounds of precious life and not be awed at the miracle of birth and life, realizing it's got to be of eternal consequence.

As I watched my sister and her husband and three little girls all huddle close to the hospital bed for a picture, I could see clearly in my mind four times before when I was the one lying in a hospital bed, having just given birth to one of the four greatest things that have ever happened to me, reveling in the amazement of it all, my heart offering constant prayers of gratitude to God for blessing me so much. And just like today, when I heard the first cry of each new baby of mine, my tired body became wracked with joyful, thankful, humble tears. And each time, the doctor and nurses came to my side to see if I was okay. What they didn't seem to understand is that I was more than okay; I was absolutely perfect. I was holding in my arms a miracle--a special part of both my husband and me--a little person who would unequivocally change our lives forever.

I always love the first couple of days after my babies are born--not only because I can finally bend without losing my breath, sleep on my stomach, and sleep at night--but because I get the chance to remember what life is really about, and I am reminded of how grateful I am for the opportunity of being a mother.

Then, we go home from the hospital and real life settles in, making me wonder what I've gotten myself into! About one year later, I finally wake up feeling like life is nearly normal again--and about two months after that, we start talking about having another baby! What a life!

I traveled to my home town this past week to hear my dad speak at the high school graduation there, and I was so impressed with his very last remarks to the graduates. He left them with three pieces of advice, all of which were good, but the last one struck a chord. "No matter what you aspire to in your lives, no matter what degree you choose to pursue or what job you decide to take, remember that the most important thing you will ever become is a father or a mother," he said. Then he continued with, "No words mean more to me in my life than the words 'dad' and 'grandpa.' So make sure you become the best mothers and fathers you can be, because no other title matters more."

I couldn't agree with him more. New little babies, excited older brothers and sisters, that look between a husband and wife when they've just witnessed the miracle of bringing another baby into the world--what could be better? Nothing else compares. What happens on Wall Street is not more important than what happens at home, and it never will be.

What I witnessed today, in a hospital in Layton, UT--that's what life is truly about!

The Magic Bullet

2009-05-26T13:44:00.000-07:00

Even as I write this, feelings of anxiety are crawling up my throat. I hesitate to actually say the phrase, "Boston is one hundred percent, true-blue, completely potty trained," for experience has taught me that every time I think we've "arrived," it's like he has read my mind and responds with one accident after another, as if to say, "Not so fast, Mom."

It may be because it's taken six months--literally--to arrive at this point that I am a little gun-shy to bring this topic up again, but just in case there is anyone out there who is going through what I like to call the "Potty Training Nightmare," I want you to know there is a magic bullet, a fabulous, one-of-a-kind solution to your potty training woes, a never-fail trick that will lead your child to want to poop and pee in the potty EVERY TIME!

You just have to figure out what that never-fail trick is for your child.

Sound easy? Believe me, it's not. But if by chance, you happen to be lucky enough to jump through all the right hoops your first try, let me be the first to congratulate you. As for me, I tried about eight hoops before I accidentally stumbled into the answer. I tried treats after going potty; I tried gum (oh, how my two-year-old loves gum--I was sure it would be the answer--it wasn't the answer); I tried books and songs; I tried Mommy time; I tried outside time; I tried . . . nearly everything!

Or so I thought.

Then, one day, out of the blue, Boston pooped in the potty, looked into my exhausted eyes, and flat out told me what I had been failing to do. It wasn't what I expected. He simply said, "Say 'Yea!'"

I looked him square in the eyes. "Yea!" I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

"Say 'Yea for Boston!'" he prompted.

"Yea for Boston!" I yelled and threw my hands in the air with full vigor.

Satisfied, he flashed a brilliant smile and ran off to play.

I stood there in the bathroom, feeling once again like he had gotten the best of me. After everything I had done, all the begging and pleading and crying and encouraging--six months of begging, pleading, crying and encouraging--and all he wanted was a simple "Yea"? I couldn't believe it!

Oh well. After nine years as a mother, I've learned to simply swallow my pride and go with it. So, this has been our routine ever since. He goes potty, reminds me to cheer for him, then runs off happy.

The magic bullet.

I just can't help but wonder, if it was so magic, why in the world did it take me six months to figure out?

Hope you catch on a little quicker than I did--good luck!

Live Like You Were Dyin

2009-05-18T13:45:00.000-07:00

I recently had a conversation with a dear friend who, at just the right moment, reminded me of what really matters. I was explaining to this amazing woman that I was feeling a bit stressed, trying (as always) to balance all the good things in my life. As I have reached the stage in my life where I am no longer either pregnant or nursing a baby, I have had the opportunity to begin work on achieving some of my other aspirations a little at a time, as motherhood allows. Although it has been fulfilling, I have also noticed an added measure of stress as I have worked hard to use my time wisely and balance my responsibilities in such a way as to achieve peace and joy (Lofty goal, I know).

As I rehearsed my list of recent responsibilities to a woman who is extremely busy, I felt a bit small. Here I was, going on and on about feeling overwhelmed to a lady I love and admire, a lady who, from the first moment I talked with her, had won my friendship and trust with her positive energy and sweetness, a lady who is extremely valuable to many people (me included), a lady who recently lost her husband in a sudden, tragic accident--and I knew as the words spilled from my mouth, I was off-base.

She listened carefully, and then with the love and sweetness that so characterizes Karen, she said something like, "Just remember to give your best to your little ones. You're a mother first, and your children are relying on you, so don't let the other stuff take over." A twinge of regret pained my heart at having acted as if my role as mother wasn't my most important job as she told me how hard she had worked the eighteen months before her husband died. She was working 70-80 hour weeks in an effort to pay off bills and save money for them to go on a mission together--a wonderful aspiration--but, in the end, her sweetheart was taken unexpectedly and prematurely, and she wished for those hours back.

A lump in my throat, I thanked her for the poignant reminder, grateful for her words of wisdom and her example. What I wanted to say, but didn't, is that it's a lesson I've already learned, a lesson I've promised myself over and over to never forget, but somehow, in the midst of every day life, with many things clamoring for my time and attention, it's very easy to find myself getting caught up in the thick of thin things.

But I know better.

When I was only eleven, our elementary school was held hostage, and my mother faced the possibility of losing three of her five children in one fail swoop. I can only imagine what thoughts raced through her mind for those three hours when it looked like her family might be drastically reduced; I am sure she spent time thinking back on the past few days and weeks leading up to that moment, wondering if she had used her time wisely where we were concerned. I learned that day that life is a gift; I also learned it is more fragile than any of us realize, and if we don't take advantage of our time TODAY, it might not be ours for the taking tomorrow.

One thing my mother did that day was read the scriptures with us, pray with us and hug us goodbye, telling us she loved us as we left for school. And as I sat in that classroom that afternoon, I was so thankful for that. I am certain it helped me have more faith and peace as I faced a terrifying, uncontrollable situation. And so, I do the same each day as my children leave for school. I have learned that you just never know what the day will bring--what joy and growth, or what tragedy and sorrow--so you have to make the most of each moment, and cherish each opportunity. You have to live like you were dyin.

Now, in saying that, I certainly don't believe in living in fear, waiting for a natural disaster or tragedy to strike. I'm only saying I believe in putting first things first, in making each moment count, in making time each day to take a step back and realize how great you've got it, soaking up each stage of your life and your kids' lives, so that, heaven forbid, if something were to ever happen to any of you, there would be peace.

It's something I'm not perfect at living, but I think about it every day and hope I never forget. Life is a gift. My life. My husband's life. My children's lives. And we're simply not in charge of when it's gone. But we are in charge of how we live it each day--of how we spend our time, how we treat people, and how we show our love. So, I hope that I never have to be reminded again to put first things first--to be, above all else, a mother and wife--because I truly believe nothing else is more important.

Indeed, I hope to appreciate each day, to take advantage of each teaching, loving moment, to laugh more and frown less--to live like I was dyin.

Hip Hip Hooray for Mother's Day!

2009-05-11T09:10:00.001-07:00

I've never liked Mother's Day.

When I was little, I thought it was a day to make children feel guilty for not treating their mothers better; and when I became a mother, I was certain the day came around every year simply to make me feel guilty for not treating my children better. I've often sat in church with a pit in my stomach as I've listened to speakers go on and on about their faithful, patient, loving mothers. Meanwhile, pictures of me yelling at my kids or telling them "just a minute," and then never finding the "minute" were reeling through my head, making me want to climb under the benches.

This year, I decided to completely change my outlook. I decided to celebrate Mother's Day! After all, I do love being a mother, and since I've reached the maturity to realize that motherhood is about a lot of things--perfection not being one of them--I made a conscious choice to soak up the day.

And it was well worth it.

Not only did I enjoy thinking of the women who have greatly influenced my life for good, like my own dear mother and mother-in-law, but I was the receiver of wonderfully sweet notes and goodies all week from my own children--and even my husband. I loved it! Instead of feeling guilty for all I do wrong, I basked in the sweetness of the reminders from those I love of a few things I may actually be doing right. I went to bed last night exhausted, but happy.

I've decided to share a few of my favorite notes from the week, and even a picture of my children and me on this blessed day (note how we're all smiling:)

I especially love the portrait of me--if it was in color you would notice my hair is purple. I've never had purple hair, but who knows? Maybe it's a look I should try.

I hope your Mother's Day was just as fabulous as mine was! In the least, I hope you got a lot of wonderful pictures and love notes, because somehow they make it all worth while!

Twenty Minutes of Torture

2009-05-01T15:15:00.000-07:00

I'm a mean mom.

Of course I've been told that numerous times over the past nine and half years of my mothering career, but the other day I did something that proved the point even further.

I locked my kids out of the house.

Just for 20 minutes.

It was a beautiful day! Birds were singing, the sun was shining, the bikes were calling, and I needed some space. After spending a half hour trying to teach my four-year-old how to ride her bike without training wheels, my back was aching, I was sweating, and my kids were all whining they had "no one to play with and nothing to do."

I looked from one kid to another, decided they each had at least three other children to play with, and marched inside, explaining I would open the doors in 20 minutes. Summer is right around the corner, I reasoned, and I am not spending every waking minute listening to healthy, able-bodied children whine and complain that they are bored when there are plenty of wonderful kid-things to do, if only they would use their imaginations a little.

So I decided to set the standard.

One minute went by. Then two. I was smiling from ear to ear from the bliss of starting dinner with complete peace and quiet.

This is fantastic, I thought. Why didn't I think of it sooner?

Three minutes.

My bliss ended. One child was ringing the doorbell; another was pounding on the door that leads to the garage; yet another was knocking on the back door, insisting she needed to go to the bathroom.

"Sorry," I said unsympathetically. "You'll have to wait for 17 more minutes--or, if you get really desperate, you could go behind that bush over there."

I thought I was pretty funny. She didn't.

Another two minutes went by.

"Mom, it's been 20 minutes, hasn't it?" I heard a voice from inside the garage ask.

"Not quite," I mused. "Just a little longer."

Four more minutes. I heard footsteps in the basement and realized these clever little children were not going to go down without a fight. Someone had snuck through the basement door and climbed over all the building debris just to get into the house.

"Back outside," I demanded. I must have sounded like I meant business because my four-year-old disappeared as quickly as she had appeared.

Another three minutes went by. By then, all four kids were on the back porch, pressing their little noses up to the window pane like sad little puppies. My nine-year-old was bawling, sitting on the steps with her legs crossed in an effort to not pee her pants. I doubted very seriously that she even needed to go to the bathroom. It was obvious my children saw right through my tactics to force them to play together and were determined to make me pay for my abuse.

Three more minutes. "Mama!" my two-year-old yelled through the door. I was beginning to feel sick inside, realizing I wasn't only mean, but terribly selfish as well. Still, I was close to the finish line, so I ignored him.

Finally, four-thirty came, and I unlocked the doors.

"You did it!" I shouted with enthusiasm. "You stayed outside for twenty minutes, and some of you even came back in with a smile."

Unamused, they all looked at me as if I had a screw loose. I wasn't sure I didn't.

Still sobbing, my nine-year-old glared knowingly at me. Feeling certain I knew where she got her drama from, I ignored her by saying, "I thought you had to go to the bathroom." I couldn't help but gloat, wanting to show her I was smarter than she thought.

"I do," she mumbled as she trudged down the hallway.

She reappeared only moments later. I could feel the daggers in my back as she was determined to make me feel guilty for what I'd done.

Thankfully, about the time I thought I would crumble beneath her vicious stare, I was saved by a tomato sauce can. Cranking it open with a jerk, the red sauce splattered from the can and squirted all over the stove and counters, plastering everything within a few feet. A quick moment of silence followed . . .

. . .then we both burst into giggles. Even Hallee couldn't resist. It was all we needed to relieve the tension, and I knew we were okay again.

I don't know what I'll try next week when my children are complaining about the woes of childhood, but I'm pretty sure that, regardless of what I scheme up, I'll at least have them all use the bathroom first.

Maybe then I will only feel selfish, rather than guilty and selfish. Or who knows? Perhaps these four dear children of mine will decide for themselves they have better things to do than whine to their mother about being bored.

Probably not, but it makes me smile imagining it anyway.

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em

2009-04-27T18:22:00.000-07:00

I don't have a ton of vivid memories of my childhood, but I do remember fighting with my siblings a lot. I was the third of five children, and the first three of us were each only eighteen months apart, so we were close enough in age to find plenty of things to argue about. If we weren't being dishonest, lying to try to cover up some naughty scheme we'd dreamed up, we were pestering each other. We were expert tattle-tales (especially me), making a living of driving my mother absolutely insane.
As I think about it, I deserve every bit of the unhappy banter and incessant arguing and fault-finding that often occurs in my home now. They say, "what goes around comes around," and after the hour-long nit picking and arguing session we had during dinner tonight, it's obvious it's "coming around" to me.

It's not like my children don't fight about extremely important topics. I mean, the color of plate you get for dinner, or the size of spoon you're handed, or whether or not your glass and your bowl match is vitally important stuff. After all, who can be expected to eat dinner without solving these life-altering problems first?

And then there's the argument about who gets to say the blessing before we eat our meals. I'm sure we eat the most holy food of any family on earth some days, as each of our meals gets blessed two or three times just to appease every child who swears it's their turn.

And let's not forget the all-out war over who gets to answer the telephone or the door when the doorbell rings. I'm sure I'm raising at least three track stars. The only problem is they're all going to be recovering from serious injuries they incurred while racing each other to the telephone and front door. Today we had to rudely shut the door in a boy's face because my four-year-old got to the door first and my two-year-old couldn't handle it. He slammed the door shut, then opened it again to prove his point. Dan was left to apologize to the poor soul on the other side of the door who was wondering what in the world was going on. He obviously was unaware of the prime importance placed on opening the door first.

If we aren't racing to the telephone or front door, pushing aside everything and everyone in our way, we are fighting about who got more milk in his/her glass, who sits where at dinner, who hugged Mom first when they got out of bed in the morning, who gets to choose what to watch on TV later that night, who didn't do his/her chores, who showers the fastest, who loves Dad the most, and on and on.

If I don't have a house full of track stars, then surely I have a home full of debaters, because I'm telling you, my children can find a way to argue about anything, always trying to be one-up on each other.

"Mom said I could have ice cream after school."

"Oh yea, well she said I could have ice cream with chocolate syrup."

"Well, I get to have a milkshake. Milkshakes have a lot more ice cream in them than ice cream in a bowl does."

"Mom said I could have two milkshakes, one after school and one after dinner."

"Did not. Mom, did you say he could have two milkshakes?"

And on an on it goes. One argument after another. Until I feel like starting an argument of my own; in fact, maybe that will be my next strategic move.

"Dad said I could eat the whole half gallon of ice cream--with chocolate syrup, caramel, and whipped cream on top. He said I didn't have to share any of it, and he said I could eat it after breakfast, lunch and dinner."

Yes, that's it. I can't wait to see my children's eyes pop and jaws drop when I out-best them at their own game.

It is said, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Since I'm obviously not beating them, I might as well join them.

In fact, I'm signing off now--I've got to go pick up some ice cream!

Innocence

2009-04-21T10:03:00.000-07:00

As often as I pondered what motherhood would be like as I was growing up, I never saw myself needing to discuss sensitive topics to my children so directly at such young ages. However, due to an increasingly crazy and confused world, my husband and I have found ourselves praying for divine help and inspiration as we've had candid, sacred teaching moments with our children, hoping to convey vital truths in an appropriate way before the voices of the world have a chance to interfere first. Although our children are still young, ranging in ages from 2-9, we have already discussed topics such as procreation, pornography, and the sacred nature of our bodies with our oldest children in an effort to open lines of communication early and avoid confusion about what is true and right.

Traveling home from a short vacation together this past weekend, our thoughts turned to our children (as always), and we began discussing what the topic of our Family Home Evening should be. We decided to use "The Family: A Proclamation to the World" as our main source of study. Although the text is quite mature and difficult for young children to read and understand, we did not want to take from the power of the words exactly as they are written. We decided to take it one paragraph at a time, discussing each point as we went along. I was amazed as I was reminded this amazing proclamation was written over 13 years ago--boy, has the family been attacked in full force since that time!

Praying silently that our children would somehow understand the importance of the message, written by the First Presidency and Council of the Twelve Apostles, and be able to grasp what these inspired men were teaching, we sat down together and began taking turns reading each paragraph.

As is always the case when I approach a sensitive topic with my kids, I inwardly wondered how much they already knew about certain issues, such as same sex marriage. We read about gender being an "essential characteristic of individual premortal, mortal, and eternal identity and purpose." Then we read about the powers of procreation being employed "only between man and a woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife." We paused to talk about what this meant, explaining that many in the world believe it is right for two women to marry or two men. We mentioned the word "gay" and asked if they knew what it meant.

I was on pins and needles as we brought all of this information up. I wanted to be discussing topics such as family service projects, plans for summer, or even manners; I did not want to be introducing such heavy topics to our young children. But I knew it was important. I knew I wanted to be the one to inform my children, rather than friends or textbooks, so here I was.

"Why do you think God would want marriage to only be between a man and a woman, rather than two men?" I asked, in an effort to test their understanding. I was amazed when my seven-year-old son piped up with a very good answer.

"Because two men can't have a baby, and God said we should have a family."

"That's right, son," I said, impressed and a bit shocked. Does he understand more about the birds and bees than I thought? It wasn't a topic we had discussed with him yet, and I was getting nervous.

We continued on, but were quickly interrupted when this same child said, "Oh yea, and two women can't get married because then they would have two babies at the same time!"

At that moment, a smile couldn't help but spread across my face as I realized this child was just as naive and innocent as I thought. It all made perfect sense to him: Dad's don't have babies, so two men obviously couldn't produce a child; moms do have babies, so two moms would produce two babies!

We carefully corrected his misunderstanding, wrapped up our discussion and prepared for bed, but as we tucked our children in for the night, I couldn't help but think what a wonderful thing innocence is. And at that moment, I wanted to freeze time. I don't know exactly what our children will face as they continue to grow into adolescence and adulthood, but I am certain they will see and hear and experience many things that will taint them and deprive them of their innocence in one way or another. And that saddens me deeply. When I see or hear on TV or otherwise stories that depict the craziness of the world we live in, I am grateful to be able to shut it out, look at my children and feel peace in their innocence. Oh, that it would never change!

How I would love to be a child again and see the world through innocent eyes once more. Maybe then I would be more compassionate, more loving, and more pure. As for now, I am grateful to live with four sweet spirits who remind me often that the world is still a great place to live, even if it isn't innocent.

You're Gonna Miss This

2009-04-03T22:33:00.001-07:00

I'm done praying for things to write about. It seems like every time I think I have writer's cramp and don't have anything to say, disaster strikes in some way or another. Sometimes it's in the form of fighting children; sometimes it involves some type of clothing catastrophe; and often times it includes some form of embarrassment or frustration. This time, once again, it has to do with poop.

My two-year-old was doing so well--finally. The road to potty training had been long and rough, but we had cleared the mountain and were coasting down the other side. NOT! That darn kid seems to know every time I start to relax and think the task is behind me, and then he slaps me with a 2x4 upside the head, just to remind me who's really in control. It's like he has an internal monitor that forces a message into his head to revert to pooping in his pants if I ever get past the point of frustration and dismay. I mean, does he like to see my teeth grind, my shoulders sag, and my body temperature rise 10 degrees in a matter of seconds?

Apparently, he does. Either that or he just really still prefers pooping in his pants. And it's not just the pooping. He was staying dry most nights, too--until he wasn't. After six days in a row of washing wet bedding, I finally went against my firmest code of ethics and put a diaper back on him to go to bed at night. I had been monitoring his drinking habits, squelching the poor boy to death by not allowing hardly anything to drink after 2:00 p.m. Then, I shove a diaper on him and throw all caution to the wind with regards to how much he drinks in a day, and he stays dry every night! Explain this to me.

I'm telling you, there is some evil alliance in the Universe somewhere that is out to get mothers! Every time we think we are doing something right and making great progress with a child, BAM! It all goes to pot. I have no other explanation. It's either that, or I just need to be humbled on a more-than-regular basis. I prefer the former explanation.

I haphazardly draped a repeatedly-used diaper on Boston the other night and tucked him into bed with a sly smile. This diaper idea was working like a charm. Every night as I kissed him goodnight, Boston would repeat, "Don't pee in my diaper, huh, Mom?"

"That's right, son. Don't pee in your diaper. You're a big boy and you only pee in the potty."

"Yea," he would say, feeling proud of himself.

I couldn't help feeling proud of myself, too. I was conquering the giant; I had outsmarted my two-year-old and was teaching him to stay dry at night when he didn't even know it. I was one sly mother.

Famous last thoughts.

I went upstairs to watch a show with my husband, and as I shut Boston's door, the thought occurred to me that I would probably not be able to hear him from clear upstairs if he needed anything. As quickly as the thought entered my mind, I immediately pushed it aside, sure he would be fine. I was eager to have him down for the night and enjoy some relaxation.

You know that little mommy voice that rings in your head sometimes and tells you to act? Like when your toddler has been a little too quiet for a little too long, and this internal voice tells you to check on him, but you ignore it, deciding you're just paranoid? Then, by the time you actually listen to the internal nagging, you find he has found the aphgan you've been furiously crocheting for the past month to give as a gift at a baby shower the nex day, and he's unraveled it down to your first row. When you're potty training, it's the voice that tells you to check on your trainee because you have the distinct feeling he is hiding in a closet somewhere peeing in his pants. I can't number the amount of times I've heard that little voice in the past four months.

The great thing about the little voice is that sometimes, if you listen and act immediately, you save yourself and your child from disaster. You may arrive just in time to save a favorite vase from falling, or you may check on your kids outside at just the moment they were lighting a match to see how quickly your leaf pile can burn (kids come up with some good ones), or if you are potty training and you heed the voice without delay, you may even save an accident. Those are the moments of pure joy and satisfaction as a mother--when that wonderful intuition has kicked in just in time to save the day (or at least a mess).

The downside to the little voice is that if you don't listen, you may find yourself wishing you had. Such was my case the other night when I ignored the voice, sure Boston would fall right to sleep as usual, and I hurried upstairs and away from my mothering responsibilities for a while. It was three hours later that I opened the door to his bedroom and knew right away that I should have listened to the voice. I'm sure you can guess what the acrid smell was that greeted me as I pushed my way inside. It was obvious the diaper had lost its magic, and Boston had not only peed in his diaper, but pooped as well.

Berating myself for not checking on him sooner, or at least leaving his bedroom door open so I could have heard him tell me he needed to go potty, I took a deep breath, found the wet wipes and began cleaning up the sleeping child. I just kept wiping and wiping away the poop, which was up his back and down his legs. It seemed all too familiar as I examined his fingernails and found them filled with poop. I was not happy (Am I the only one with a child who likes to touch his poop?) But being the patient, take-everything-in-stride kind of mother I am (LOL), I cleaned him up without so much as a grumble, kissed him soundly, sprayed some air freshener and shut the door, wondering if this saga would really ever end.

It was then I remembered a phone call I had had with my younger brother on one of those days when the potty training hadn't been going real well. I had found Boston had pooped his pants again and had groaned in anguish and frustration. All of a sudden, I heard from the other end of the line a familiar song,

"You're gonna miss this. You're gonna want this back. You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast. These are some good times, so take a good look around. You may not know it now, but you're gonna miss this."

Smart alec. I wanted to reach through the phone and slap him, but I couldn't help nodding in agreement instead. Although his singing was meant to be sarcastic, I knew he was right. I was going to miss this, even these long, hard, unsuccessful potty training days.

I allowed myself one more sigh. Then I took a good look around, smiled with contentment, and cleaned up the poop.

No Regrets

2009-04-03T21:01:00.000-07:00

I'm sure this sounds ridiculous to anyone who read my last post, but I couldn't help renting the movie Marley and Me and bringing it home to watch with my husband and two older children. Yes, I worried about the pieces of adult content (the movie is rated PG, but I would probably choose to rate it PG13 myself--I really hate it when they do that--add just enough adult content to ruin it for kids. Dan and I had to distract Hallee and Nate at certain moments, not something you should have to do during a PG movie); and yes, I knew what was coming at the end; and yes, I even knew how I would react, but there are parts of that show that are so touching and so real that I couldn't help sharing it with a few of the people I love the most. (Now I must warn you, I share a bit of this movie in this post, so if you haven't seen it and don't want me to ruin it for you, you may want to stop and read no further).

For starters, John and Jen Grogan have an absolutely adorable relationship. It's hard not to get caught up in their fun-loving, supportive marriage and want them to succeed. But, like in all marriages, life isn't complete bliss, especially once they decide to take on a disobedient, massive dog!

One of my favorite scenes in the movie is called "No Regrets," and it begins by Jen apologizing about freaking out and screaming at John to get rid of the dog (Marley) because "he ruins everything." John suggests she might have post pardum depression, and she assures him she is not depressed--she's just exhausted. I can't help but feel empathy for John. It just seems that no matter how hard he tries, he just can't get it right. No matter what he says, Jen refutes it. And no matter what he does, Jen tells him he's doing it wrong. Yet he keeps on trying to please her and keep the peace, day after day. When he seeks counsel from co-workers on how to handle the situation, I found myself wondering if my poor husband has done the same thing from time to time, trying to come up with any logical explanation as to why his once-sane wife has gone off the deep end (I know what you're thinking: I guarantee Dan has done that from time to time--I had the same thought). What John probably doesn't know is that Jen knows she's being irrational and taking her frustrations out on an undeserving husband, and she knows it's unfair, but she just can't help herself (chronic fatigue does that to a woman).

Apologizing, Jen tells John she just got overwhelmed. "No one tells you how hard this is going to be," she says.

"Which part?" John answers facetiously.

"All of it." (Hello!! Has any of it looked easy? What an obvious answer!)"Jen goes on, "Marriage, being a parent. It's the hardest job in the world, and nobody prepares you for that. Nobody tells you how much you have to give up."

I like John's reply. "Sometimes I think they do tell you, but you don't listen or you think, ah, they're just miserable." Isn't that so true? I knew motherhood would be the most difficult thing I'd ever do, but I was sure I was prepared and could handle it. So naieve.

"I've given up so much of what made me who I am," Jen continues. "But I can't say that because I'm a very bad person if I say that, but I feel it. I really do--I feel it sometimes. I just want you to know that." Ever felt that way? I thought so.

"I do know that," John empathizes (of course--men always seem to think they know). "And you can say it. I say it."

Then comes my favorite part. Jen looks John in the eyes and says with conviction, "But I made a choice. I made a choice, and even if it's harder than I thought, I don't regret it."

"Are you sure?" John asks skeptically, "because it kind of has a 'there's no place like home' ring to it."

"I am very sure," Jen explains. "I just think these things are gonna happen, and we're gonna get through them, and we'll just do it together."

"Together," John repeats.

"Getting rid of Marley is not gonna fix anything . . .and getting rid of you isn't gonna fix anything, either." She smiles at this afterthought.

It's a touching moment. Then John has one request. "Can I ask you a favor?"

"Yes," Jen says with confidence.

"No more kids for a while."

"Absolutely!"

And the next scene begins with Jen being wheeled out of the hospital with a new little baby in her arms.

I love it! That scene is so telling. It shows the reality of life as parents. It portrays the reality of life as a mom, especially a stay-at-home mom. We do give things up. We do lose ourselves from time to time in the midst of the daily grind of motherhood, and we do become overwhelmed and exhausted. BUT, at the end of the day, we have no regrets, and somewhere beneath the lack of makeup and the abundance of stretch marks, we feel at peace.

It's kind of a miraculous phenomenon, but it's true. Somehow God fills mothers with contentment and joy, despite babies with collic, potty training disasters, endless homework, interrupted phone calls, toddlers pulling on your leg all day, endless whining, endless fighting, endless, begging--still, we wouldn't trade it for the world.

No easy path, no promotions, no sleep or sanity, but no regrets, either.

It's a pretty great way to live!

(And by the way, yes, I did bawl my eyes out again. Only this time my husband was awake and prepared).

I Wonder . . .

2009-03-30T12:39:00.000-07:00

I'll be the first to admit I'm far from the perfect wife, but a couple days ago I put my poor husband in a position he didn't appreciate, and it reminded me of a few scenarios we'd recently had that left him shaking his head in wonder--not the good kind of wonder that means you are fascinated and mesmerized by something awesome--I'm talking about the "I wonder how I ever got myself into this mess" kind of wonder.

It all started a few months ago when I realized we had gained a few extra boarders in our home. Since we moved here a year and a half ago we've had squirrels and birds make their homes temporarily in our garage, and we even found a frog in our basement, but my worst nightmare was finding little gray rodents scurrying about. There' just something about mice I cannot handle. Opening the door into the garage one day, I saw a flash of gray scurry to safety behind our neatly aligned rows of boots (the boots are the only thing about our garage that's neat). My stomach hit my toes as I hoped I was just having an illusion. No such luck. The next couple of days my husband pointed obvious signs of the little creatures in our unfinished basement. Ugh! I was immediately scared to go downstairs or into the garage. I demanded he get rid of them asap and we called a neighbor to borrow some mouse traps. My fear turned into the dread of finding a dead mouse, or even worse, hearing one get snapped in a trap.

One night while lying in bed, I was awakened by a little scratching noise I heard in the corner of the bedroom. Oh great! There's a mouse in my bedroom. You have got to be kidding me, I screamed inside my head. Just go back to sleep. Don't think. Don't move. Just pretend there's not a mouse nibbling on your slippers. Go to sleep. The mouse won't hurt you. I rolled over and put a pillow over my head. That 's when I realized I needed to go to the bathroom. Great! What was I going to do now? I tried my best to ignore the urge, but to no avail. After tossing and turning again and again, it became obvious I was not going to get any more sleep until I made a trip to the bathroom. But I could still hear the mouse.

What to do. What to do.

I looked over at Dan, sleeping peacefully. I hated to wake him, but . . . the scratching noise continued. This was a matter of life and death. I weighed my options and realized I had no choice.

"Dan," I hissed. No response. "Dan, wake up. I need you to go to the bathroom with me."

Finally a response. "You're kidding, right?"

I wasn't kidding. "Please, honey. I have to go really bad, but there's a mouse in here, and I'm too scared to go by myself."

"You're a lot bigger than the mouse, ya know. What are you afraid of?"

It was a fair question, so I gave it an equally fair answer. "I don't know."

How could I tell him I was worried one was going to run over my foot or nibble my toes or something? It sounded utterly ridiculous. My obedient husband stumbled out of bed and kept watch at the bathroom door. I heard the scratching noise again as we snuggled back in and couldn't help but be pleased with myself, knowing I had out-smarted the little creature. I listened for a while and thought how funny it was that the mouse only made noise when the heat came on. That is one tricky mouse, I thought. It was then I noticed a balloon floating near the ceiling. As I watched the balloon it became obvious that it was the reason for the scratching noise. I glanced over to see if Dan had noticed it, too, but thankfully he was already sawing logs again. I rolled over and sheepishly fell back to sleep, grateful to know there was no mouse in my bedroom after all, only a balloon that scratched against the ceiling every time the heat came on and blew it upwards. I decided to wait until morning to spill the news to my husband--no sense waking him twice for no reason.

Then, there was a night recently when I talked him into pulling into the McDonald's drive-thru so I could spoil myself with a hot fudge sundae. Doing his best to please me, he pulled right in and ordered. As we discussed how it was possible for the tax on a $.99 sundae to be a whopping nine cents, the man working at the window handed us our ice cream. I couldn't help but immediately notice a lot of white in my sundae cup, which meant a lot of vanilla ice cream--something I detested. I turned the cup around in my hands and shook my head in disgust as Dan started pulling away from the window.

Then I began complaining.

Dan listened as long as he could stand, then stopped the van and asked, "What do you want me to do, back up and ask for more hot fudge?" I'm sure he thought I would answer to the contrary, but I eyed my vanilla sundae once again and found myself saying, "Yes."

Realizing he had made a grave mistake, he followed with, "You're serious?" He hoped I would change my mind, but there was no turning back now. I was not one to take my food back; in fact, I normally would have thrown it away before going back, but I had my heart set on that hot fudge, and since he seemed willing, I decided to get my full $1.08 worth out of my sundae.

I nodded and he backed up, all the while shaking his head, saying, "This is not going to become a habit. I will not do this again." I assured him it wouldn't happen again, then ducked my head as he asked for more fudge.

We couldn't help but giggle as we drove away. Dan was laughing because he couldn't believe I'd actually talked him into doing that, and I was chuckling because the hot fudge was dripping down my chin, tasting just as good as I had imagined, and I hadn't even had to embarrass myself to get it!

Finally, a couple of nights ago, I went to see a movie with some friends--Marley and Me. Much to my dismay I cried like a baby at the end. Actually, sob would be a more accurate word. As I wiped the tears dripping from my chin, I found myself being thankful the lights were off. The ironic part was that I was sobbing over a dog dying when I am far from a pet lover. In fact, I won't even consider a dog in our home, or any other pet for that matter--not even a goldfish. But that movie got to me, and as I watched those little children bury that dog, I was touched to the core.

Still feeling the effects of the movie, I came home and climbed into bed beside my sleeping husband. I must have felt the need to talk about my feelings because I roused him and started rehearsing details about the movie. Before I knew it, I was bawling again. I was sure Dan was asleep but I couldn't stop rambling about how much I love our kids and how fast they are growing. "I can't even remember when Hallee was little," I sniffled. "I mean, she's only nine and I can't remember her being three. Before we know it she'll be in college and getting married." I was pretty sure Dan wasn't listening any more, but I couldn't stop. On and on I went about each child and what I loved about them and how grateful I was to be home with them every day.

Finally, just when I was winding down, Dan sat up in bed and said, "My forehead is wet. Why is my forehead wet?" Apparently my tears had been falling on his head.

"Oops," I said as I blew my nose one last time and settled in under the covers. I decided to skip chastising him for not listening to my blubbering for the past half hour.

As he rolled over to go back to sleep, it was my turn to wonder. I wonder how he ever learned to be so patient. I wonder if he'll still be glad he married me in ten more years. I wonder . . .

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Four Kids--Four Personalities

The Best Therapy

Seemingly Small Acts

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Making the Grade

The Waiting Room

Throwing Away the Textbook

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A Child's Prayer

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Innocence

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I Wonder . . .

DIVORCE