On a Scale of Green to Red

I had a rough parenting day today.  One of my sons embarrassed me in front of friends by telling them that the bouncy party place they had taken us to was boring.  Another brought home news of a bad behavior day at school for the second day in a row.  And two were found to have cavities...again.  Big ones that I can see without any dental training whatsoever.

The blows were spaced throughout the day so that they didn't hit all at once, but by the time the cavities came about I couldn't take any more and flipped out on the neglectful toothbrusher who happens to be a repeat offender. I wanted him to feel badly for the money he will cost us so close to Christmas when there really isn't money to spare.  I wanted him to wish he had done better.  I wanted him to feel horrible because I was feeling horrible.

When I was done letting Ethan have what I thought he was due I bathed the younger boys, brushed their teeth, and brushed the cavity-riddled ten-year-old boy's teeth because apparently I have to do that. Then I went to my bedroom to finish being furious. On my bed I found Ethan's wallet with a ten dollar bill, a handful of coins and a note that simply said, "yours".  It was the last of the money Ethan had made from selling his Nook.

All the steam went out of me, all the muttered curse words vanished, and the absence of anger left me with just the simple feeling of defeat.  Why is this so hard? How can I have been a mother for almost thirteen years and still have no clue how to do this right?  Why can't I handle disappointment or anger or regret or humiliation without making them problems that consume me?  Every time I get arrogant enough to think I have parenting figured out it slaps me with a hundred more things I don't know.  How can my sons possibly survive this, let alone become the men I hope they'll be? How can they when I am not the mother I know I need to be?

And not one of today's three problems is the end of the world.

We have insurance, crappy insurance, but insurance nonetheless that will help offset the cost of Ethan's dental work.  And a hundred or two dollars this close to Christmas hurts, but it doesn't hurt like not having the money to fix it at all would hurt.

Drew has been in school for three and a half months with only positive green behavior days until yesterday.  It could have been orange or red, but it was yellow - the color of a kid who asked a sick friend if he was feeling better when he should have been quietly doing math.  And my two-day yellow boy is getting two awards in school this month for being inclusive, not leaving anyone out.  Why was I so angry about two days of yellow on a scale of green to red? 

As for Trent and the "this is boring I want to go home" embarrassment - he's five.  What can I do?  He was hungry, not bored, so I guess I could teach him the difference between the two feelings and have a heart-to-heart about emotional eating.  But letting him cry himself to sleep during his time out might have been a little harsh for an innocent five-year-old mistake.

These tiny little struggles amount to nothing in the long run.  I won't even remember them in a month or a year.  But what they have done, along with all the struggles of all the days that came before today, is reminded me of the mom I have always wanted to be but haven't yet figured out how to become.  I hope someday my kids have that mom.  And I hope I figure out how to be her before all they remember is the one they have now.

Disappointment

Back in January I went to a school district meeting about middle school options.  Cameron will be in middle school next year, and the district we're in has something like eight magnet schools for the kids to apply to.  

I've always been a little bit opposed to magnet schools and charter schools as a part of the public school system, simply because a very small percentage of the kids in the district get to go to those much better schools while everyone else is left back at the neighborhood schools with not great teachers and bad learning philosophies.  It just seems so unjust.

But when I heard about this environmental middle school that is available in our district I swooned over it.  The benefits of attending this particular school were numerous and impressive.  Plus, it was right up Cameron's alley with the science curriculum.  

I wanted Cameron to be one of those unjustly lucky kids who got to go to the really good school.  But only 64 kids could be accepted.  Two thirds would be chosen by lottery, the other third in a second consideration process.

We went to open houses, information nights, Cameron shadowed a student for half a day...  We did it all.  

And he didn't win the lottery.

So he wrote an essay and he went to an observation/interview - all in hopes that he'd get one of those last few open spots...

He did not.

And it honestly made me a little bitter.  I went back to feeling like the entire system is unfair.  I thought about my kids spending the entire month of February being tested over and over until they passed the state tests or failed them three times in a row.  I raged about how nonsensical that was and wondered what all the lucky magnet school kids had been doing in February...  I still feel a little bit sad about the whole thing.  Why do some kids get the obviously better education while the rest have to settle for what the school district calls our "best fit", when really it's just the "crappy leftovers"? 

I don't have the happy place answers yet.  I just know that disappointment is a huge part of life and we have to learn to take it in, refuse to let it poison us, and make the best of whatever we do have.

I also know that other kids being chosen doesn't mean that Cameron didn't deserve to be accepted.  It just means he had crappy luck.  And when we have crappy luck, we treat ourselves to ice cream.  (That's why we're chubby.  Lots of bad luck happens here.  We're used to it, and we'll feel better soon.)  More positive post coming later.  :)

I'm B-AAA-AAACK!

Did you miss me?

To be honest, I've missed you.  Blogging has really taken a back-seat lately, in case you hadn't noticed, and I have been anxious to get back to it.  The problem is knowing where to start.

I could tell you about the horrors of moving 800 miles through a blizzard two days after Christmas, but I've moaned about that here in Blog Land enough already.  And besides, the outcome was that we arrived and no one died.

Then I could tell you about how I caught fire at the fancy-schmancy VIP night during the grand opening of my husband's store, but that's really all there is to that story.  I caught fire.  My husband dragged me out of his showroom for fear I'd set off the sprinkler system and all those highfalutin interior designers in there sipping on their cocktails would get soaked.  It was embarrassing.  My favorite jacket was ruined.  The end. 

Then I could tell you how the hubs and I are being audited by the IRS, but that's a rather personal story that just makes us look bad, so I'll skip it except to tell you that the pit-stop we made at his mom's house is turning into a much longer stay than we'd anticipated...

And finally, I could regale you with the story of how I had a stroke at the ripe old age of thirty and landed in the hospital for three days.  Turns out I have a hole in my heart, just like my dear father, who felt the need to share with me his less than desirable DNA.  The good news is that this story is on-going and you'll certainly be kept up to date.  Also, I'm not drooling uncontrollably or anything - the stroke was a mini-stroke which doesn't leave lasting effects.  But I do have some hilarious pictures to show you at a later date. 

The best way to summarize the month of January is to say that it has been crap from start to finish.

HOWEVER!

I've learned a lot along the way:  don't move in the winter, don't stand near open flame, if you know you made a mistake on your taxes you should fix it instead of brushing it off, and sometimes life is just insane and there's not much you can do but ride it out.

I've also learned that in the midst of every trouble there are blessings, and those blessings usually trump the bad stuff - if you focus on them.

I believe in God, (I hope that's not shocking to all of you), and I also believe that He does not send us trials that are beyond our capability to handle.  And I believe that those trials are meant to refine us and strengthen us, not trample us into despair. 

I feel stronger.  I feel awakened to how much good is in the world, and in the people around me.  I feel joy in the smallest blessings in life, and it's become easier for me to spot them.  They are everywhere.  I am glad for this horrible month in the sense that it has changed me for the better - if only just a little bit.

Homeless

I had to run an errand today, and I decided to take the kids to Burger King for lunch so they could play on the indoor playground there.  I know, I said I'd never do that again, but I was desperate.  All this freezing weather and snow has kept us cooped up inside and the kids needed some room to run without me yelling at them to be quiet and walk.

Sigh...

So we ran to Wal-Mart to pick up a night light and some craft supplies.  When we left the store a man approached us asking for change or a dollar.  I had to turn him away because I didn't have so much as a nickel on me.  But when I got into the driver seat, Cameron held up two dollars that he had found in my change compartment.  I told him we could drive around the parking lot to look for the man and give the money to him.  We drove around and around, but couldn't spot him in the crowds of people coming in and out.  As it turned out though, there were homeless people on every corner with cardboard signs asking for help.

Here in Utah, or in my town, rather, that is a rare thing.  We don't have people standing at freeway exits panhandling.  We don't see people sitting with their dog at the back of the Target parking lot asking for handouts.  We take notice when someone is standing outside with a cardboard sign because it's not something we're used to.  

There are a lot of different opinions about whether or not it's wise to give money to those people.  We don't know what they'll spend it on or if they really are as needy as they appear.  A lot of people say it's better to give money to a homeless shelter or a food bank than to hand out a spare dollar to panhandlers.  Well, that may be true, but I never do that.  I bet a lot of people never do that.  Have you ever driven down to a homeless shelter and written a check, or dropped off a sack of food to a food bank without someone coming to your door to collect it?  I haven't.  So giving someone on a corner my meager change is the best I can do.  It isn't ever much, but it's something.  And if my little something plus someone else's little something means that someone can buy himself a cheeseburger or some gloves, then that's a good thing.  If it's used to buy alcohol or drugs, then so be it.  I won't presume to dictate what my gift can be used for.  I've never walked in anyone else's shoes, so I can't judge.  

We gave up looking for the same man who had asked us for change and decided to give the money to a different man on a corner.  He was wearing a blue stocking cap and a red and black checked jacket.  He had a patch over one eye and his skin looked weathered and worn. Though he didn't smile, I could see that some of his teeth were missing.  His sign said something about being a single father, but I didn't read it all.  Cameron rolled down his window as we approached and held his hand out with the two dollars.  The man approached quickly, took the money from Cameron's outstretched hand, and with a strained voice from either cold or emotion he looked at Cameron and said, "God bless you.  Thank you Little Buddy."  I wished him a happy holiday, which seemed like an impossibility, and we drove on.

I don't know that man's story.  I don't know if he really was a single father, if he really did have a problem with his eye, if he was there by choice or circumstance; but I knew he was genuinely grateful for those two dollars.  I've handed money out of my car window enough times to know when it's really appreciated and when it's just another drop in the bucket.  Cameron felt it, too.  He said, "We really helped that man, didn't we?"  The truth is, not much.  But we did something.  Something is always better than nothing.

This time of year we think about the Savior and how he came into the world with nothing but the love of a family.  I feel so blessed to have what I do.  I may not be wealthy, but as I look at all the weariness and hopelessness in the world, I feel nearly crushed by all my riches.  And it might be corny or cliche, but we're all beggars.  We all need help from our brothers and sisters at some point in our lives. Today I saw Christ in the faces of all those people standing on corners holding their signs asking for help.  I hoped that they could feel the Savior carrying their burdens, whatever they are. 

You Might Be A Crappy Parent - Sports Edition

I need to get something off my chest.  And I don't normally rant on my blog, but I figure I am allowed to do so every now and again.

I coach a second grade boys soccer team.  I volunteered to do this because no one else did.  The rules of this league state that players are to rotate positions and all players are to have equal playing time.  We are allowed seven players on the field during the game, and with a ten member team, this means that I sit three players out at a time throughout the four quarters.  We rotate.  We take turns warming the bench, playing forward, full back, and goalie.  

But we've all heard the saying, "There's one on every team."  One what?  One, big-headed, arrogant jerk of a kid who feels entitled to play his favorite position the entire game and never sit out because he thinks he is The Shit.  'Scuse my French.  I'm really heated over this.

I can't stand those kinds of kids, and even more, I can't stand the parents of those kids who raise them to believe that they are above their peers and that they don't have to respect the authority of their coaches.

Why does there have to be one on every team?  Why can't all parents raise their kids to be polite, unassuming, respectful, and kind?  

Well, to the parents of that one kid on my team, and to anyone else who thinks they might be guilty, I would like to direct the following:

If you only cheer for your own kid, you might be a crappy sports parent.

If you ignore the coach and spend the entire game shouting play-by-play instructions to your kid, you might be a crappy sports parent.

If you allow your child to throw a tantrum on the field whenever he is told to sit out, you might be a crappy sports parent.

If you tell your child that he doesn't have to go to practice because he's already better than everyone else on his team, you might be a crappy sports parent.

If you yell at other players on your kid's team for not letting your kid have the ball, you might be a crappy sports parent.

And finally, if you truly believe that all the other kids on the field are simply there to facilitate an hour long show-off exhibition for your own kid, you are definitely a crappy sports parent.  And if you're going to play it that way, you might at least want to make sure your kid scores a goal.

Just so you know.  Oh, and nobody likes you.

Putting Motherhood First

A few days ago I took a call from a woman I love. That call was a very rare thing as she works so much that it is nearly impossible to get hold of her on the phone. I was so excited to talk to her because she is vivacious and spunky and alive. She's a fun person to be around.

But quickly that conversation turned one-sided as she told me about a spat she had had with her mother over the number of hours she was working. I sat in stunned silence as she told me that she was working really hard to make sure that her kids had everything they needed, and she even said that her own childhood would have been so different if her mother had worked at least part time.

I agree, it would have been different. But I think she and I see that difference in completely opposite ways.

In actuality, this woman isn't working to give her kids everything they need, because her husband is perfectly capable of doing that. She is working to give them everything she didn't have when she was a kid.

Listening to her go on, I felt like a bug being squished beneath the shoe of a superior bully. She was knocking everything that I have spent my life happily sacrificing for.

I am a mother who has not worked a day outside the home since my first child was born. Sometimes my kids do go without certain things that they might like because we just don't have $160 extra dollars a month for the older two to take karate lessons, or a spare $300 to make sure they each have a new wardrobe for every season.

We have to be careful with money, but my kids have never, NEVER, had to go without anything that they needed. And if you ask me, they get plenty of things that are simply for fun. We have season passes to an amusement park, we take them fishing, camping, to the park, we go to the theater, they play the sports they want to, they get birthday and Christmas gifts, we buy them ice cream for no reason, we make memories together. My kids are not deprived.

I was angry during this phone call because this woman, who I continue to love, caused me to feel like I was being a bad mom for not providing my kids with the things she deemed necessary. Essentially, she was saying that her kids would have a better childhood than mine because her kids would have THINGS.

I steamed about this call for about a half hour before I came to my senses. I understand now that she and I just have different beliefs.

(And here is the part where I will most definitely introduce controversy and force people to bring out their claws. I accept that because I feel so strongly about this.)

I believe that, with very few exceptions, mothers who have a working husband should be home with their kids.

I believe that putting my kids in daycare, whether provided by family or otherwise, is a bad idea. No one can love my kids like I do, and my kids deserve to be raised by the parents who love them more than anyone else does. And what's more - our kids WANT to be near us, not dropped off to someone else. I know that any child who was given a choice would choose to spend their days with their mom, not a babysitter.

I believe that most, (not all), women who are working could find ways to stay home with their kids if they really wanted to. It takes guts and sacrifice, but when I consider who my husband and I are sacrificing for, there is no doubt that it is the right thing to do. No one can convince me that a high paying career or a boat or anything else is more important or rewarding than a sticky kiss or "I love you, Mommy" from a toddler who is growing faster than I want him to.

I believe that spending time with my kids is far more valuable to them than spending money on them. We could provide all the toys, clothes, vacations, and lessons that we want, but if I am not around to read to them, play games with them, answer their questions about life, teach them at every turn, praise their good deeds, see them grow, and discipline the way I believe is right, then I am doing them a disservice. If I'm not doing those things, someone else is. Only so much life happens after working hours.

I DO NOT believe that "Mother" is a title one receives by giving birth, but rather, is a badge of honor that is earned outside of the delivery room.

I believe that it is important for a mother to be there for every milestone and learning opportunity in the early years. It is a mother's place, her right, to see the first steps, to teach right and wrong, to shape and mold her children.

I believe that the later years are just as important. Kids need to come home from school to a welcoming mother, not an empty house. Kids need to talk about their day, they need support, they need to feel like Mom is always there to talk to. They need to know that there is someone checking up on them, keeping them on the right path. Choices are good and all, and I hope that my husband and I have taught our kids well enough that they make good ones for themselves when we're not around, but kids can only handle so much temptation and responsibility. Teenagers are notorious for making bad choices - it's their job. The parents job is to keep them out of as much trouble as they can.

I DO NOT believe that a woman can "have it all". She can certainly try to be a mom, a wife, run a house, and have a career, but she will almost always fall short in some area. It's the kids, and often the husband, who suffer for the selfishness of the mother who wants success or fulfillment for herself as well as a picture-perfect family life. It is an illusion. It is stressful. It is not worth it.

Could I be a good mom if I worked? Absolutely. But I am most definitely a better mom for devoting my entire self to it, and don't my kids deserve my best? Not to mention my husband who prefers a wife who isn't run ragged and completely spent at the end of every day from trying to do it all.

Does being a stay-at-home mom automatically make me a good mom? Not at all. It completely depends on what I do with my time every day, the example I am to my kids, and what I teach them.

So after listening to this other woman state her purpose, I realized that I am the lucky one. I am choosing to be a full-time mom to my kids and to build a peaceful and happy home for my whole family. I am putting time with my kids before stuff for my kids. I have a husband who strongly supports this decision. I have not missed a minute of their growing up.

I think this other woman just doesn't yet see all the wonderful, irreplaceable things her mother gave her by staying home and raising her. One day, she'll realize.

Time with my kids is precious and fleeting. I know that I am right where I am supposed to be, and I'm loving every minute of it.

Confession Session - Safety Smarts

I have taught my kids some bad things - unintentionally of course.

For instance, I am trying to watch my language around them, so now, when I say, "Oh, (long pause), my, (long pause)...", my two-year-old finishes up for me.

"Hell," he concludes in an appropriately somber tone.

I am Yoda. The Master.

Believe it or not, I have taught my kids some good things, too.

Examples: They can clean a toilet.

They know how to pretend that nothing happened when Grandpa farts.

Most of them know how to wipe. Okay, one out of four knows how. Okay, he's not that good at it either. Let's change that one - They know how to keep their hands clean. (Don't wipe.)

And then there are some things that I've taught my kids that are both good and bad.

Case in point - I taught them that people who ride bikes and motorcycles without a helmet are stupid.

Not careless, not risky, not forgetful.

Stupid.

As in, dumb. They are morons. They are so idiotic that they don't care if their brains get splattered all over the pavement for a city worker to hose down like the aftermath of a squished raccoon. And I feel no guilt for teaching them to call certain people "Stupid".

So now, when we're driving down the road and see a slick guy dressed in black leather astride a hot looking chrome chopper with the sun glinting on the top of his shaved head, my kids chime in excitedly - "Look, Mom! That guy is STUPID!"

Yes, boys, yes he is.

Trying To Make Sense Of It

There are moments in parenthood that break my heart. Most of those moments have come from Cameron. The first time that he told me that he plays by himself at recess, I was crushed. When he told me that a kid at school called him ugly, I wanted to march to that kid's house and punch him right in the face. And the times that Cameron calls and asks if he can come home from a friend's house because there's another kid there who isn't nice to him, I just want to wrap my arms around Cameron and tell him that life won't always be this way.

I had another one of those heart-breaking moments earlier this week when Ethan came bursting in the front door after school and breathlessly told me that Cameron had done something really bad. As it turns out, Cameron had been picking on a tiny, little first grade girl. Ethan told me what had happened during their walk home from school, and Cameron didn't deny it.

Cameron and I talked about it, about what it means to be a gentleman, a good guy, a defender and protector, or a bully. We talked about why girls need to be treated gently and with respect. We talked about why this had happened. Cameron didn't know. It just did.

I walked him to this little girl's home and he apologized for his behavior and told her it would never happen again. And then her father said that it has happened from time to time and they appreciated our coming over.

It had happened before.

I know that Andrew and I have taught Cameron better...or have we? I never imagined that we would have to sit down with Cameron and tell him that it's not okay to hit little girls with his backpack or knock them down and make them cry. I thought that in trying to teach our kids to be kind to everyone that we had covered our bases.

On the walk back home with Cameron, I told him how sad it made me that he would do something so cruel. And I thought about why we were there in that situation. Cameron is not the type of kid to physically hurt others, or wound their feelings intentionally. Why this little girl?

I wondered if growing up with three brothers has taught him that everything in life can be handled with a touch of violence and then we're all friends again.

I wondered if all those times that kids have picked on Cameron and teased him have left him feeling like he needs to unleash his pain by bullying someone smaller than him. And I was angry that other children's behavior had possibly affected my child's emotional health.

I thought about the world we live in and how every interaction and observation that my kids have is going to influence them for good or bad, and how few of those influences will be good.

And I felt helpless for just a moment. How can I beat out all those forces and be Cameron's lighthouse in a stormy sea? It is overwhelming.

But I know I'm not alone. My kids are all going to face things that make my skin crawl, make my heart sink and make my mind whirl, but I don't have to hold them in safety by myself. I have help. And that makes it just a little less scary.

There's always time for happiness.

Last night it was my privilege to attend the wedding of my Grandfather to the Sweetheart of his winter years. It was beautiful to witness two people embracing life when so many others their age have decided that they have done all they are going to do, seen all they are going to see, and experienced all the good there is in life. I don't know Joyce all that well yet, but I know that she is now one of the luckiest women in the world to be a member of the John O. McClurg Jr. family. I pray that the newlyweds have many adventurous years together.

On my way to a mid-life crisis.

I keep waiting for maturity to hit, and I fear I may be waiting in vain. My mind still feels like it's eighteen years old, while my body approaches thirty with a back-burner type of panic that flairs up every time I sit with my legs underneath me and then stand up and have to hobble for the first few steps while the bones in my feet realign themselves to their proper position. Maybe it's not age - I could be gaining weight. At any rate, I was standing in the shower the other day, (because who doesn't do their deepest thinking while standing in the steam letting their eyes go out of focus?), and I began to think about the phrase, "You're only as old as you feel". This is where my 18 year old brain comes into play and I begin to have a two part dialogue with myself:

"Does feeling mentally immature count as young, or are we talking about physical feeling?"

"I don't know. Maybe we mesh the two?"

"Yeah, maybe. So let's see; If we feel 18 mentally and 50 physically, (of course, we can only imagine what a 50 year old body feels like, but it seems a good guess), then do we average out to 34?"

"I think so! We've been robbed of 5 years!"

"Hmm. Isn't a woman's mid-thirties supposed to be her sexual prime?"

"I think you're right. That might not be so bad. Let's google that later."

"Okay. I'll try to remember. With age comes forgetfulness, you know."

"Good point. You know what else? If we're aging that quickly, then we really ought to quit wasting time shaving our legs."

So here I am, trying to accept the fact that while I thought that I had another 6 months of being in my twenties, I'm actually already in my thirties and didn't know it. Thinking back through my youthful years, I conclude that I've spent too much time worrying about things that are small, too much time sitting on my butt doing nothing, and not nearly enough time living.

I can regain my twenties before they are gone by waking up every morning as though I had a choice, (and that it was to get out of bed), and by letting my kids take me back to the important things.

I took my three oldest kids to pick out pumpkins tonight, and they agreed that today was the "best day ever". Just because of carving pumpkins. I wanted to let their enthusiasm seep into me, and I have to say that I loved squishing my fingers through the mushy, orange pulp, and chanting that "Ethan is a sissy!" with Cameron when Ethan refused to touch the guts of his gourd with his bare hands. Sometimes I am amazed at how simple life is when I let the kids take the lead. All the bad "what-if's" are replaced with simple curiosity. Every bothersome chore becomes unimportant. Excitement is tacked on to both ends of everything. While we stood at the window and watched the candles in the jack-o-lanterns flicker in the night's breeze, I decided that I don't care how old I am in real life or in a hypothetical equation - I just always want to feel young enough to think that carving pumpkins could make for the best day of my life.

My Never-Before Declared and In Some Cases New Rules for a More Peaceful Life

I will not agree with someone just to spare their feelings or avoid confrontation. I will keep my mouth shut when I can, but if you ask how I feel - be prepared for the honest truth. I will no longer say that I think Rush Limbaugh or Glenn Beck are great, when I really think that, while I agree with a lot of their views, they are sometimes just alarmists and can both be a bit of a whackadoo.

I will treat everyone with the respect that they deserve.

I will not feel guilty for my opinions.

I will not attend anyone's party, get together, baptism, barbecue or public execution unless I am given ample notice of when and where, do I need to bring some Handi Wipes or just a casserole?, etc.

Anytime I am home and do not have previous engagements, I will happily host any family member or friend in my home who contributes to the joy of our household, but not those who detract from it. You come here and fight, gossip, make us feel uncomfortable or talk incessantly about politics or Volkswagens - you're out. Curse words, in the mild form, are still ok, because I have not yet mastered my tongue and can't expect more from others than I do of myself. It's the whole beam vs. moat thing. I'll let you know when all curse words are taboo, and not just the Top 4.

My home will be a safe haven for my children. They will feel safe here from all kinds of evils including verbal abuse, favoritism, and lack of appropriate and loving discipline. When my kids are punished, they will know that I do it out of love, and that nothing they ever do or don't do could make me love them any less. But I will not tolerate disobedience or less than their best. I will not put-down my children by asking them if they are retarded when they track mud all through the freshly mopped kitchen floor. Also, if anyone comes into my house and tells one of my kids over and over how cute they are while the other three shrink into holes of self-loathing from listening to it, then I will make sure to tell that person that I think all their kids are equally ugly. But I'll do it when the kids aren't within earshot, of course.

I will not listen to gossip, and will do my best each day to never speak ill of anyone. There is a difference between venting and unloading garbage. Everyone has bad days now and again and sometimes they need to call someone and say, "Can you believe what I have been though today? I am at my wit's end and was hoping you could tell me that I'll feel better after a good cry and a giant milkshake." I am happy to help in those situations. I might even stop by with a chick-flick for us to watch together. What I do not need is to hear anyone nark about how much somebody hates somebody else, how everyone in a thousand mile radius is trying to make them miserable or all the reasons why every relationship somebody has with all the important people in their life has become a giant pile of steaming manure and it's all my fault. Do, however, let me know when your dog eats his own droppings and then comes inside and horks it back up onto your white carpet and you don't know if you should kill the mutt or feel sorry for it's lack of superior intellect. I'll laugh with you, cry with you, and recommend a fantastic carpet deodorizer.

I will do one nice thing for someone every day. Even if it's just calling someone to see how they are doing, and ask if I can help them in some way. Or making my sons' beds for them, or putting an extra treat in their lunches. Or even just not e-mailing an unflattering picture of my sister to my father so that he can forward it to all of their co-workers.

When someone asks me to do something, or for something, I will tell them I'll have to think about it. It's this thinking about it part that gets me into trouble. I agree to things all the time that I haven't thought through, just because I'm afraid of looking bad or selfish. And it makes my life harder. Like when I was nineteen and told my uncle, "Sure, I'll come work for the same company that you're working for," and then found out that he had lured me into a job with a boss who was on a mission to control every aspect of her pions' lives, not just what they did while on the clock, and in which I sometimes had to employ my acting skills to pretend that I knew what I was doing, and ultimately - my uncle ditched me for another job and left me to go to lunch with the crazy woman who told me daily about how nice it is to live alone so that she can flounce around in the nude anytime she wants and that eating in such a state is somehow more enjoyable. Thanks, David. ;)

I will not hold grudges, harbor ill feelings, let someone else's opinions hurt me, or dwell on things that poison my soul. This means that if someone apologizes to me, I will accept and forget. I will try to recognize when I need to apologize and do so. I will not spend days thinking, "I should have said...", and then relish in the imagined verbal slap. I will start every day with an attitude of fresh beginnings, and yes, that probably involves Cherry Pepsi, chocolate and weight gain. But we're talking about mental and spiritual health here, not carbs and sugar.

I will remember that Family is a sacred thing. Sticking up for one another rather than tearing each other down is always going to be the appropriate thing to do.

I will not keep anything in my life that does not promote the well-being of my family or my happiness. This applies to habitually negative people, the dust bunnies under the couch and the movie, Without a Paddle. This also means that I cannot be a negative person, or I will have to abandon my family and find a homeless shelter to live in until I can find a job that requires no skills other than dish washing and sarcasm.

I will be an all around better person. I won't claim perfection - never have, but there is room for improvement. I will still offer my help anywhere I can, but now I'll try to do it without complaining about it to my mother. I will stop raising my voice to my kids, and instead, bridle my anger and wait until I'm calm before I speak. I will offer to rub my husband's back instead of waiting for him to ask and then feeling put-out because "I'm trying to unwind, Hello?!" I will no longer think that people who can't stand horror and suspense films are just wimps. I will finish reading A Tale of Two Cities, even if it kills me. I will stop writing right now and go clean my house like I meant to today.

Now that I think about it...

I just can't stand to leave things so negatively. It's true, I feel like life is kicking my butt right now, but that's life. I'll get through it, and by the weekend things will be great. So why waste the energy having fits of self-pity? It's kind of like the video posted below - Sometimes, you get taken out by something smaller than you that sneaks up from the side and pummels you with a cheap shot. ;) You might lay there for a while thinking, "Dang! That hurt!" But then you get back up and kick some butt of your own!! Bring it on, Life!!

(Thanks to Mason and Aiden for giving me some perspective!)

The Disgraceful, Uncut Truth

Almost a year and a half ago I found out I was pregnant with my fourth child. It was the first unplanned pregnancy that Andrew and I had experienced, and it took me several weeks to get used to the idea. Once I had accepted that we would be bringing home another baby in December, my thoughts turned to the gender. This was it, my last chance for a girl. I had known since I was young that I didn't want more than four children, so now or never. I knew that it was pointless to wish or pray for a girl; the deed was done and what would be, would be. But I hoped. I hoped all the while that I would be blessed with a daughter. We all know how the story plays out, so I'll spare you the suspense.

We found out in late July that we were to have another boy. I was laying there on a table in the ultrasound room desperately trying not to cry. I had to turn my mind to other things so that I wouldn't lose my composure in front of the ultrasound tech. In her line of work, she must have seen that situation daily, and I didn't want to be one of the ridiculous women that cries over being blessed with a beautiful, healthy baby just because the gender wasn't what they wanted. I held it together until she left the room and then Andrew looked at me and apologized. I let just a few tears fall, and then I was angry. Angry at him, angry at God, but mostly angry at myself. I knew that, scientifically speaking, it was Andrew's biology determining the sex of our baby, so this boy baby's existence should have been entirely his fault. We shouldn't even have been expecting a baby; we had a one-year-old at home!

I held my emotions in check until we got to the car, and then I sobbed. Self-loathing came from so many places. I hated myself for having let my hopes get so high. I hated myself for being so immature, but I couldn't help how I felt. And I hated that God surely thought me to be unfit to raise a daughter. I cried until Andrew became frustrated with me, and then I cried some more. I wept from my very soul.

Then there was the matter of telling family. Everyone from Utah to Washington knew that we were going in for the ultrasound that day and they were all waiting to hear the news. I didn't want to speak to any of them. Not even my mother. So I sent a text to my sister-in-law in Vancouver, asked her to spread the word, and then turned off my phone. I don't know if I told anyone on my side of the family. I wanted no one's pity. I didn't want to hear anyone say that they were so excited for me to have another boy, or that I was such a good, "boy mom", or that I must be needed to raise good missionaries, or even that they were sorry that I was disappointed. It was all crap. Just a bunch of shallow words and thoughts trying to make me feel better. I didn't want to feel better, I wanted to feel sad. The truth was, I knew that when I held that baby boy in my arms, I would love him more than life itself. I was not upset to be having another son - I was devastated to know that I would never have a daughter.

At home, I curled up on my bed and tried to become numb. It felt ridiculous to be this upset over something that could have so easily been good news, if only I could let it. Our baby had a beating heart and arms and toes. That should have been enough, but I kept playing in my mind scenes from a future that would never be. Braiding hair, shopping for small, pink shoes, watching a dance recital, helping an excited, teenage girl pick out a prom dress, and then a wedding dress. Watching Andrew dance with a beautiful bride on her wedding day. Being called to help my daughter care for her own first, newborn child. A million crushed possibilities were played out before me. My heart was more than broken; it felt as though it had been torn from my chest and stomped upon. I mourned for all the could-have-beens and the never-woulds.

It was months before I could talk out loud about it without suffering pain. I spent the days after the ultrasound trying to distract myself and avoiding the telephone. A couple of weeks later, I got a package from my older sister, Natalie. I opened it up and found inside, a "Happy-Gram". All kinds of things to enjoy, just for myself. Chocolates, a movie, nail polish, a picture frame with four spaces - one for each of my kids, a few other things... And a letter. The beauty of Natalie's letter was that it came after I had settled a bit and could appreciate that her words were sincere, not hollow reassurances. (I'm not saying that anyone's words to me were insincere, just that I couldn't accept them for what they were in the beginning.) Natalie said:

"Life is funny. Just when you think you've found a comfortable spot to sit and take a rest, a rain cloud comes along and drenches your hopes. I know it seems like your life is a little soggy right now, but I've been doing some thinking about that. I remembered when you guys were trying for little Drew, and that it wasn't an easy road. There were doctor visits and prescriptions, and several months of waiting, and then we got the news that there was a baby on the way. Now there is this new little one on the way. He was definitely a surprise, but he came without all the hardships you had before. Heavenly Father knows you and he knows your children better than you know yourselves. He must have something very special in store for your family to send you another little soul so quickly, and he must have great confidence in you as a mother of these children. My point is, I know you are overwhelmed and maybe a little disappointed, and that's okay. But try not to despair because Heavenly Father has a plan for you. Put your trust in Him. And remember that you have a lot of people who love you very much and will always be there for you and all of your boys!

All my love,

Natalie"

With bitter sweetness washing over me, I was reminded what a wonderful thing a sister is.

The day drew closer when Trent, my fourth son, was to be born. Peace had settled over me, so that by the time Andrew drove us to the hospital in the darkness of that December 7th morning, my scars had healed, and I was anxious to welcome my sweet, perfect child. From the moment that I first held him in my arms and saw his pouty lower lip sticking out, I knew that what Natalie had said was true. My Heavenly Father knew me well enough to send me that particular boy to be the final touch to our incredible family.

I love all my boys more than I can put into words. I may occasionally feel aches of sadness when I see little girls with curly pigtails, or open the mail to find a wedding announcement sent by a bride's proud parents, but I will never consider Trent, or his brothers, a disappointment. Maybe it's true, maybe we do choose our families in the pre-existent world. I know now, that given the chance, I would never choose anyone else to be my children.

Now that I've put everything on the table, let me say that I realize that there are people in the world who are unable to have children. Some children are born, and then taken away all too quickly. Nearly every person in the world, including myself, will experience greater heartache than what I have described here. I wrote this hoping for neither pity or praise. I wrote this because it was honest. It was my real emotion, raw and truthful, even though it may have seemed to be a selfish or inappropriate feeling. I am sure that I am not the only person in this world to feel these same feelings - Longing for something that is not meant to be. I hope that I now have a better appreciation for how unique a person's feelings are. One's past, present, and hopes for the future all make up what they feel and how they interpret life and dreams. We all take different roads in life, endure individual journeys. Maybe from here on out, I will be a person who can sympathize without assumptions, and love with understanding.

Lessons I Learned Today

#1. Allowing your kids and four of their friends to eat pixie sticks on the living room rug when your vacuum is broken is a bad idea.

#2. Talking to your kids about maybe inviting their friends over for a party sometime soon is interpreted by children as "We're having a party tomorrow, so we better go invite all our friends right now. No need to tell Mom, it was her idea."

#3. Parties give me headaches. They also fry my brain so that after the party, I have to stare at my kids for several moments to try to decode any simple question they ask and conjure up an appropriate response.

#4. Picking fights with family on Facebook will nearly always make you look bad.

#5. Men are wimps. Well, in some regards. But this I already knew, so not really a lesson I learned today.

#6. Having a 2 year old who speaks some made up language is just as difficult as having one who throws tantrums at every turn to try to get what he wants, and I have both, all rolled into one. I'd like to think that the tantrums come from my inability to understand this made-up language, but having learned other lessons on other days, I know that the truth is probably that I have just let him become a brat. Maybe tomorrow I will learn how to correct that, but right now, I am going to buy some kind of cheap fast food for dinner because the kitchen is a mess, my head is still recovering from all these lessons, and I don't feel like cooking.

"Excuse my moaning, I'm just experimenting with my vocal cords."

I was determined to have a productive day. Andrew was home, as it was his day off, and I had just put the babies down for their morning naps. Time to get the weeding done. I headed outside and began plucking the invasive little buggers from the miles of ridiculous landscaping in my yard. I filled several buckets, got very sweaty, and eventually finished voiding the backyard of weeds. Okay, most of the backyard. It was right about then that I forced back a surprise attack of nausea and then went inside to see if Andrew was planning on mowing the grass before the thermometer outside broke the ninety-five degree mark. Andrew was asleep in the recliner. Can't blame the guy - it was his day off. As I sank onto the couch with a bout of weakness, Andrew got up and went to tackle the mowing. That was about the last helpful thing he did that day.

Now let me pause here and state that I am in no way about to bash my husband. This is not a rant - it is a story of enlightenment. In order to convey my point, however, Dear Andrew will have to suffer much humiliation.

As the day progressed, I became more out of sorts; suffering with stomach cramps and body aches. By the time my sister came to pick up her son at 5:30 I was pretty well unable to get off the couch, but I did anyway since Andrew had gone to take a nap half an hour earlier. Yes, shameful, I know. I had thought that I had made it very clear that I might have had the flu, and could very well die an ugly, painful death...but Andrew was still able to sleep like a baby for three hours.

When Andrew emerged from the bedroom at 8:00 that night, I was trying to get Trent's diaper fastened before I passed out, (which I never actually did), while Drew climbed all over me, but I had not the strength to shove him off. Finally, with diapers changed and Drew distracted with a book, I fell back onto the couch exhausted and moaning. I admit that I made a few of those moans a little louder than they needed to be in hopes of attracting some attention and sympathy from the man who is supposed to be my companion in life through thick and thin. I was desperate. He took no notice.

An hour later I had cleaned up spilled Kool-Aid from the kitchen floor, gotten Drew a snack, put him to bed and coerced Cameron and Ethan into showers and then pajamas. I felt like I had been beaten repeatedly with a baseball bat while simultaneously being stabbed in the stomach with a meat fork. So I crashed on the couch again for a little more whimpering, and I threw in a tear or two for good measure. All of it was quite unintentional that time, though. I lay there longing for a drink of water, but was too sick to get up again. I yearned to throw up, but I had no place to do it and certainly couldn't make it to the toilet.

Finally! Finally! Andrew tore his eyes from ESPN and said to me, "You're acting like your on your death bed. Can I get you something?"

Here, believe it or not, is where the enlightenment occured.

He had no idea that I was as ill as I was. He has long accused me of being a drama queen, but it dawned on me at that moment that he does not know what it looks like to be sick! When Andrew gets a cold, he sleeps for three days and wakes up feeling dandy. Andrew rarely gets the flu, but when he does, he sleeps for three days and is fine. Never has he had to suffer through his daily responsibilities while being on the verge of death. He has never had to cook food for someone even though the smell of it makes him gag. Children have never climbed all over him while he lay completely vulnerable on the couch. And not once has he had to wipe up sticky juice from a floor while wondering if anyone will hear should he happen to collapse into the puddle.

Realization that my husband had never been taught how to care for someone who is ill washed away all resentment. How could I expect him to know how I felt if he had no idea what it was like to be sick and not sleeping it off in a quiet room? Now, I have played nurse maid to Andrew many times, but if a person is not instructed in this art, they cannot be expected to obsorb all the required knowledge by receiving good care when they are ailing. Especially if said person is a man. They would be feeling terrible and should concentrate on getting well, not learning the trade by example.

My sweet husband would have been very helpful, had I told him that I was very sick and could not take care of the kids. I could have told him that they needed to be fed and bathed and put to bed, and that I was going to bed then and there. Without a doubt, he would have been fine with that. Stupid as I was, I expected him to know all those things just by listening to my moans and watching me hold on to doorways when I walked. I did not look sick to him, because sick, to him, looks like someone sleeping for hours on end in a dark room in the middle of the day.

Then and there I knew that in order for my sons to stay married to their future wives and not come back home as thirty-year-old men wondering what more they possibly could have done to please their spouses, I must teach them how to take care of the ill. We do spend so much time teaching our children how to tie their shoes, clean a toilet, do their homework, read, be nice to their friends, tidy their rooms and say their prayers; why has it not occured to me to teach mine compassion? Maybe I assumed it was just something a person acquired through experience. But when a person is sick, we, as mothers, quarentine them to prevent spreading the illness. We fuss over them as any loving mother would. We do our duty quietly and without complaint. And therefore, we rob the rest of our family of the opportunity to learn how to nurse someone back to health. (Or maybe it's just me.)

Having experienced my twenty-four hour bug in this way, I have resolved that the next time a member of my family gets sick, one of my healthy children AND MY HUSBAND will be assisting me in making sure that the patient is comfortable, gets the rest that they need, is not bothered by other family members, eats, (if they can), meals that are brought to them, and has everything they might need. Next time I am sick, I will expect the same to be done for me. And I have no doubt that with a little instruction, Andrew will rise to the occasion.

How the true identity of a dazzling sister can affect your love life.

I was a freshman in high school. He was perfection. And he asked my sister to Homecoming. Thus begins the story of my life. Well, a story in my life, anyway.

It really all began much earlier than our high school years. I was born one year and eleven days after my older sister, Natalie. We were great friends. We confided in each other, had Miss America pageants with our paper dolls together, borrowed each others clothes in later years, (or was that just me pilfering her clothes?), and struck deals such as Natalie getting to drive Mom's Explorer to work when Mom and Dad were out of the country, and in return, I could drive her Probe to school. We were "tight", as the kids say.

When I was about 12 years old I began to realize the differences between my sister and myself. The one that most people seemed to notice was the big, external, in-your-face difference. More than one person was caught in an awkward situation when, upon catching sight of Natalie, would exclaim how beautiful she was. "Oh, Natalie is so gorgeous!"...and then their voice would falter as they realized that I was standing just behind Natalie, and they surely could not compliment one daughter while ignoring the other, so they would stammer for a moment, and then say, "...and Bethany is so funny!", or some such cover up. Okay, maybe it was just the one time that someone made that blunder, but it certainly made in impression.

From then on, I was painfully aware that my sister possessed the gift of beauty while I was left to search for other gifts that I might delight people with. I never resented her in any way for being so alluring while I was stuck in the shadow of her glow, but I obviously envied her.

I'm not sure if Natalie ever did realize exactly how attractive she was and still is. It wasn't just the outward appearance, either. She was, and remains, kind, intelligent, thoughtful and humble. Always, it seemed that she sought the approval of others. She needn't have, because she embodied most of the characteristics that everyone considered good and lovely. And she did so seemingly without effort. Through my eyes, her face was simply the crown of all her glories.

Through the years we went, until we sisters arrived at the age of high school crushes and first loves. You can imagine my distress as I watched Natalie attract attention from all fronts. I was to follow her in the dating game by a full year, and it was already too late for me. School was bad enough, but at church every boy took an interest in her as though she had slipped them all a delicious love potion. There were probably moments when my innocent envy became sincere jealousy, but the moment of true torture did not come until she was asked to the homecoming dance by the boy who occupied most of my daydreams. We'll call him Leslie. (Yes, I chose that name because now it seems fitting, and it makes me laugh. Apologies to anyone who's real name is Leslie.)

My mother spent several hours making a dress for Natalie to wear to the dance, and upon it's completion, I could not believe that anyone could look so utterly glamorous while wearing long, black, lace sleeves. Natalie was the picture of elegance. Her normally perfectly straight hair that I longed to have for myself was set in glossy curls that framed her almond eyes, delicate nose and full lips. And she had boobs too! That's another story though...

Leslie came to pick Natalie up for their date, and he was nearly a match for her. His smile was intoxicating to me as I sat there on the couch watching him fumble with her corsage. Sparkling eyes and flawless complexion, and ooohh, I could smell his cologne. And then the boy who I was convinced that I was madly in love with walked out the door with my sister.

Leslie must have been mad with curiosity as to why Natalie did not agree to go out with him again. I can only imagine his confusion as he tried to work out whether it was his looks, his personality or some other unknown factor which lead to her apparent lack of absorption with him. When he couldn't figure it out on his own, I suppose that's when he recruited help. Me. Poor, little naive me. He lured me simply by paying me attention. We discussed Natalie and plotted ways for him to win her affections. Surprisingly, this caused me no anguish because I was spending time with him, and it didn't matter how we filled those hours. Eventually, he gave up the game realizing that he was getting nowhere. I don't know why Natalie did not accept a second date with Leslie, but I can admit that she must have seen something in him that I did not. But Leslie's toying with me did not stop. I spent my lunch hours at school with him, planned my route to my classes in attempt to pass by him hoping for the honor of his glance and spent hours talking with him on the phone. And all the while, he remained out of my reach. I was truly unwise and inexperienced when it came to teenage love. So obsessed was I with Leslie, that he soon became my reason for living. I returned to school just days after surgery on my foot because I couldn't bear not to see him. This was just one of my pathetic displays, but the rest make me look even worse and are not crucial to this particular plot.

In the middle of my sophomore year of high school I was presented with a choice. I could stay at Battle Ground High School, or join my aforementioned sister in transferring to La Center High School. It was an arduous decision. In the end, I finally came to my senses and decided that the best thing I could do for myself would be to remove myself from the situation of being led on, toyed with and made to feel silly and worthless by the person who I had wished to gaze at forever.

To this day I don't understand what was going through the mind of that boy that I had first fallen for. Was I a game? Was I a means to an end - a way to win my sister? It's been more than a decade however, since I have cared. By transferring to a new school I was blessed enough to be able to capture a boy, who, for the first time in my life, did not have an infatuation with Natalie. Silly thing.

Looking back through my muddled memories, I find that I have learned many lessons. I have learned that my big sister is, indeed, very beautiful, but that does not make me less than her; although other things might! I have learned to put my love in places where it will be multiplied, not used or mocked. I have learned to look for the inward good in people before determining their worth. Who knew that first loves could be so crucial in teaching us some of life's greatest lessons? In the end, I am grateful for my big sister and all the "beautiful" things that she has helped me to stumble upon.

It's All Gone Under the Bridge

A few weeks back I talked about this, and I think that I can now say that I am over it. I harbor no more ill feelings. I wondered for a long time if I simply over-reacted, but I don't think I did. At any rate, time heals all wounds, (although I'm sure it isn't "time" that's actually doing the healing here), and I am glad for it, because I hated how I felt about the whole thing and now I just feel serene with it all. I think we are now in a position that if it were to happen again, it wouldn't affect us quite as drastically, and we'll be able to shrug it off with a laugh. Okay, maybe not a laugh, but definitely with an attitude of "here we go again" instead of "what in the bloody **** is going on here??" followed by more cursing and unbridled anger. We're good!

"In a pickle"...is that because pickles stink?

I am in a bit of an emotional and spiritual pickle. I've never truly had a problem with forgiveness until recently. I know that we are required to forgive all men, but it seems extra difficult when someone has offended you, well, not really offended. When someone has done something wrong by you that effected your whole family, and that person either does not feel that they have done anything wrong or will not admit that they know they have done something wrong, the whole forgiveness issue becomes even more difficult to swallow. What I struggle with most is that I'm sure that because the person does not feel that any wrong doing has occurred, the incident will be repeated. And for some icing on top, it was a family member that did it. It therefore makes the incident even more offensive and it becomes all the more important that I figure out how to not harbor ill feelings for this individual(s). And that is where I am. I am sure that the only way I will be able to get past this and feel at peace is to pray for help. But I haven't yet because I am afraid I will continually be required to forgive the same thing. And yet, if I don't forgive, then I become the one at fault. In that frame of mind, does it become sinful to only forgive so that you aren't as bad as your offender? Yes, a big pickle.

Legacy

I'm about to start transcribing my Grandfather's personal history, and I can't help but feel blessed to be able to do it. I have now spent many hours with Grandpa interviewing him and listening to him talk about his life, and it's been a pleasure to learn more about him. Sometimes when I'm sitting there listening to him tell a story I can see the wrinkles melt away from his face and there in front of me is the young man he used to be so many years ago.
When talking to Grandpa, it's not hard to tell that he is most proud of his posterity. He keeps track of his children's children and their children on a pedigree chart that he hangs in his living room. He speaks fondly of each of them and looks forward to visits and phone calls from any of them. He mentioned the last time I was at his house that he had just spent time with his sister in California and was looking forward to a visit with another sister in Oregon. But he thought it was interesting, and perhaps sad, that neither of his two sisters have anywhere near as many grandchildren as he does. It made me think of my own life and where I might be in sixty years, and I have to say, I hope I will be in the same place he is now. It seems like in this day and age there is so much emphasis put on career, seeing the world and being the biggest success you can be. I look at my friend's and family's photos on the internet of all the places they are traveling to and all the amazing things they've done, and until that day at Grandpa's, I felt jealous of them. I have never been to most of the places I would like to see, never fulfilled many of the dreams that I had when I was younger and was envisioning how I wanted my life to be. But now, with Grandpa's observation about family, I know I am blessed beyond what I could have wished for for myself. I have four beautiful children and a husband who puts us before anything else. Sixty years from now I hope I will be reaping the benefits of a large posterity, just like my grandpa. When my face is aged with wrinkles, I would rather have a whole crowd of loved ones around me than a passport full of stamps.