Forgetting

Thanks to my brother Percy who last week thoughtfully sent me some interesting articles about "forgetting" that got the concept swirling around in my head.

This is my dad rough-housing with six of his eight children.  I was the baby at the time.

“Mom, I’m awake,” whispers a voice, pulling me out of a fitful sleep.  “Can I play on your Kindle?”  It’s Camden, my oldest son, who can’t sleep past 6:30am to save his life. 

I roll over and look at the alarm clock.  The red lights read 6:43am and I'm so exhausted that my body aches with fatigue.

“Yes, but please take it downstairs and turn down the volume.” 

It was a rough night.  I swear my kids play paper-rock-scissors every night to decide who’s going to be the one to get up in the middle of the night.  Last night it was the baby who wailed inconsolably for well over an hour for no apparent reason. 

Other nights, it’s a nightmare that brings one of them in.  I stumble to their bedside with them and we pray together, asking Heavenly Father to remove the fear from their little hearts and to grant them restful sleep.

But it never fails.  Sound sleep is something from a former life.

To top it off, I have a sinus cold that kept me tossing and turning and blowing my nose most of the night.  I figure it was about 4 hours of fitful sleep that I got- tops.

In a fog, I stumbled around the house getting the kids breakfast, making beds, and changing diapers.  As I kissed the top of Camden’s head before he headed out to the bus stop, I reminded him that we hadn’t prayed together that morning.  He asked if he could offer the prayer and asked God to please help his mom feel better.  Gosh, I love that kid.

I came back into the house where Calista was wailing and Luke and Lauren were already bickering viciously… and it was barely 8am.

Good grief, I thought.  Why don’t moms ever get a sick day? What I would give to go back to bed for the rest of the day…

As the morning went on as I scrubbed bathrooms, read books to the kids, and broke up fights, a thought came to me.  Given my kid’s young ages, if I were to die tomorrow, they would barely remember me, if at all.  I've given the last 9 years of my life to being a mother but I would be no more than a vague memory, a few pictures, and a blog that they might occasionally read to find out about what went on inside my head.  Memories of my own life before the age of 10 are sketchy, at best.

And then I realized, even if I live to a ripe old age, they still probably won’t remember today- the sacrifice that it was to pull myself out of bed and take care of them when every fiber of my being wanted to crawl back in bed.

So all this- cleaning, playing referee, fighting the pounding headache… what is the point?  What if I crawled back in bed?  They probably wouldn’t remember that either.  Can something they can’t remember hurt them?

As the thoughts raced through my head and the temptation to crawl back in bed grew stronger, I remembered a conversation I had with two dear friends as we went on a brisk early morning walk on Thanksgiving day.

One of my friends asked, “We believe that we lived in a pre-existence where we were prepared and taught things we would need to know that would help us in this lifetime, but we can’t remember any of it. That has me wondering, what is the point of learning something we can’t remember?”

I had just had similar thoughts after listening to General Conference in October and wondered how I was supposed to remember all of the things I learned from them, year after year.  No matter how determined I was to remember, even just the things that spoke to me personally, I knew it was impossible.

 I told her that I didn’t believe we always need to remember.  When we learn something, it’s not remembering it that helps us- it’s the fact that what we learn changes us.   Remembering can be helpful with some things, but it’s the change that is the most important.   

I thought of my own parents and the countless nights they must have tucked children back in bed after being awakened by nightmares, how many holes my mother patched with her sewing machine, how many times my father drove me to parties, how many thousands of hours my mom spent bent over the kitchen sink washing dishes from a meal she had spent hours preparing.  And I can’t remember more than a few of each of those times.  How I wish, for their sake, that I could remember each and every time, and thank them for their sacrifice.  My parents are some of the most hard-working, selfless people I know, and yet most of their sacrifices escaped the notice and memory of others.

And yet, I believe (hope) that while many of their sacrifices have escaped my memory, they have in fact changed me. 

As I reflected on my own situation, I thought that perhaps the things I do for my children are more for my sake then for theirs.  Perhaps I’m the one that needs to remember- the one that needs to change more than they do.  Motherhood is a sanctifying furnace of sorts.  It magnifies every flaw and purges any notion of “I’ve got it all together” out of us.  

While my children likely won't remember today and things we did together, I suppose it creates more of a building block than a memory.  Hopefully it's a building block that changes them into people who know that their mother loves them- that I love them more than sleep.  

So perhaps instead of focusing only on building memories with my children, I should focus more on building change.  Not only in them, but in me as well.

Some random kid thoughts and anecdotes

I find that in many of the articles I read about motherhood, there seem to be two types of writers.  The first paint motherhood as a land of eternal sunshine and rainbows and perpetual bliss, while the second tend to paint a more dismal picture- one of tattered patience and constant exhaustion.  I fear sometimes that in my attempt to stay real, I come across more as the second type of writer.  I would never want my kids to read back on their mother's experiences and think, "Gosh, we just drove her crazy, didn't we?"

I want my kids to know that they are the biggest joy in my life, but to also know when they face similar challenges with their own children and within themselves, that they aren't alone.   I think one of the most common complaints among young mothers is when they hear, "My kids never behaved that way!" or "With all of the modern conveniences, life is so much easier nowadays for you young mothers!"

I think what most young moms want to hear is, "Oh man, I remember when my kids were toddlers.  They were a handful too.  Hang in there.  You're not ruining them.  This too shall pass and they'll love you for your efforts."

Writing down the little anecdotes, both frustrating and heart-warming help to keep my heart grateful for this time in my life.  I know the day will come when I look back on these days and wish for them back.

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This morning I woke up before the kids with the intent to get a workout in.  I really hate early mornings...with a passion.  I feel so tired that my body literally aches, but I know that unless I workout before the kids are up, it just never happens.  Ten minutes into my workout this morning, I heard howling coming from Calista's room so I pulled her out of her crib, sat her on my bed, and turned on some cartoons for her to watch, hoping to keep going.  Within about two minutes, she crawled off the bed and sat on my tummy as I did crunches, thumb in her mouth and watched me with eyes bulging- the way my kids' eyes do when they're tired.  "My goodness," I thought, "she is beautiful."  It felt like I was seeing her for the first time.  Then she layed down on my stomach and drummed her fingers against my chest.  I wanted to melt.  This little girl has a gift of calming those who she's around.

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Later that morning, I made gak for my kids to play with.  I made the mistake of leaving them unattended for about five minutes and came back to find gak splattered all over the kitchen in big white clumps.  Lauren had emptied the entire contents of her bowl and it was everywhere- on the walls and all over the floor. When I asked what had happend, Lauren explained in her best princess voice that she was, "trying to throw it at Calista's butt, but she wouldn't hold still."

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Camden attends a dual language school and has been learning Spanish remarkably well.  I love to see his little brain try to figure out words and phrases.  He can get quite creative in his attempts.  The other day he was asking me in Spanish for a "maza cacahuate."  

"A what?"  I asked.

After a few giggles, he explained that he wanted a doughnut.  He had used the literal translation of "dough" and "peanut" to make up his word.  I was so proud!

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A few weeks ago we were playing a trivia game with the kids for family home evening.  Their answers were the best.

Q:  What do you call the yellow part of an egg?   

A: A pupil.

Q:  What do you call a children's doctor?

A:  An animal doctor.

Q:  Who was the first person to walk on the moon?

A:  Aliens.

My little Lauren has had a thing for make-up lately.

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It's easy for me to forget that every word that comes out of my mouth carries an impact.  The other night, I went to tuck Camden in for bed and found him weepy.  I asked him what was wrong and he said, "Mom, do you wish I hadn't grown up?  Do you not like me as much now that I'm older?"

I was taken back and caught completely off-guard by this question.  "Camden, why in the world would you ask that?  Of course not!"

"You keep telling Luke, Lauren, and Calista that you never want them to grow up and to please stay little forever.  Is it because you don't want them to get big like me?"

My heart sank.  I had said that so many times, and jokingly told them that maybe if I pushed their heads down every day, they would stay little forever.  Except I had never said that to him.

I did my best to reassure him that I would always love him, no matter what his age.  I told him how proud I was of the young man he is growing up to be.  But I was afraid the damage had been done.  

He tearfully hugged me and told me that it was okay but I felt awful. There are few things in life that carry heavier guilt than when I feel like I have messed up with my kids. 

That's when I have to remind myself that God made children resilient and very forgiving.  It's us, the grown-ups, that would have it serve us well to turn back the clock and learn from our children.  

I was talking to my sister yesterday and I was reminded through our conversation that motherhood is just as much a refining and learning process for us now as childhood is for our children.

Putting a price tag on time

The last few weeks have been a rat race but things finally seem like they're starting to slow down.  It seems like the more things I check off my to-do list, the longer it grows instead of shrinks.  And the crazy thing is, my kids are still so young, and their schedules are quite open.  Heaven help me when they start getting older and into sports.

The past few months have been a time of agonizing self inspection and far too many nights of laying in bed awake at night thinking about it.  As I mentioned earlier, I've finally decided to start charging money when I take pictures for people. Agonizing, because how do you put a price tag on something you love but feel so insecure about?  I fear that people will look at me and laugh when they find out that I'm starting to charge.  While this was something I swore I'd never do, it has started to take so much of my time and money, that I realized I need to be compensated mainly for my time away for my family.  One night as we were talking about it, Dennis said, "You have to realize that when you give your time away, you are also giving away my time, and the children's time."  Each photoshoot, from beginning to very end, takes well over a dozen hours which translates to literally hundreds of hours away from my family.

The most interesting I've learned from this whole experience, which I think not only applies to photography but to life in general is this:  the more you do for free, the more people will complain, the more they'll demand, and the less satisfied they'll be.  To their defense though, I've put out some pretty atrocious pictures as I've been learning. I cringe when I look at some of my pictures from even just three months ago.  My sincerest apologies for some of the atrocities I've clicked into existence.

As I was going through this process of deciding what to do, I talked to my favorite friend when it comes to advice, who also happens to be a psychologist.  She told me that this is pattern of dissatisfaction when something is given for free is actually part of human nature.  She told me we are innately built with the desire to contribute and give back when something is given to us.  When that opportunity is taken away, or not offered, we can eventually become hostile and angry.  We talked about patients in nursing homes, who after several years of being taken care of hand and foot, become bitter and resentful.  After a lifetime of being caregivers, they now become receivers, with little to no opportunity to reciprocate and they quickly grow resentful.  How true this is, on  so many levels and in so many different situations, even for myself.

So I guess that's the skinny on why I haven't blogged in the past month.  My little brain has been bursting at the seams.  And then I have to take a step back and remember why I even got a DSLR in the first place, and it was never with the intent to make money or to take pictures for other people.  It was simply to learn something new and to take pictures of my own beautiful children.

Some funny outtakes of the same session.  Camden cooperated the very best so unfortunately there aren't any funny outtakes of him.

Jury Duty

I'll be honest, I didn't really like myself today.  I was impatient, self-pitying, and overly critical of myself and others- all of the things I'm sure men can't stand about the female species.  As I tried to put my finger on what had gotten my panties in such a knot, I realized it wasn't just one thing.  It has been several little things piling up, culminating with this suffocating inversion.  It feels like the pressure cookers I used to see my mom cook with when I was a kid-  boiling and building pressure until the steam has no other choice than to come out whistling wildly.  A few weeks ago when I needed a break, I explained to Dennis that at the end of the day, he gets to clock out and leave the office.  Mothers, on the other hand, never really get to "clock out."  Even when our spouses are home, we're always "at the office."  I guess I've just been at the office too long.  But really, there's no good excuse.

I realized I never wrote about my participation in jury duty so I thought that would be a good thing to help me unwind and let the steam escape a little.  Writing usually does that for me.

Our county has an interesting way of summoning jurors.  Once we are summoned, we must call in every evening for a full month to see if we are needed the following day.  I was summoned and then selected to sit in on a jury for a what was a somewhat high-profile case for this area.

It was fascinating, to say the least, and I was grateful to have been able to have participated in what lies at the heart of the American dream: the right to an impartial jury.

Listening to the prosecution and the defense banter back and forth, almost like two children arguing over a toy firetruck, was fascinating.  The most intriguing part was when the defendant, who was representing himself, testified on his own behalf.  He had to act as both the attorney and as the witness simultaneously, so he would pose a question in second person, and then answer his own questions in first person.

What was the most unsettling for me was feeling myself sway back and forth as each side presented their case.  I knew what they were doing- it was the art of persuasion and manipulation at it's finest- and yet I felt powerless against it.  Surely both attorneys had been schooled extensively on persuading a jury and yet there I was, feeling like mental putty in their hands as they spoke.  It was mind-spinning and completely exhausting.  The one thing each of the jurors said each morning was how utterly drained they felt when they went to bed at night.

It was interesting to see the bond that the jurors formed over the course of the trial.  We were given strict instructions that we were not to discuss the case with each other or with anyone else until after deliberation.  What was more interesting, was trying to come up with conversation with 11 other perfect strangers when we were forbidden to discuss the one thing that had brought us all together.  We spent several hours together, literally locked up in the jurors room as we waited out delays of every type, and they all turned out to be lovely people.  I was sad when it was all over, knowing I would likely never see any of my juror friends again.

It wasn't until we were given our instructions by the judge on our deliberation that I felt my stomach tie up in a knot.  This man's future was lying in our hands- 12 inexperienced people, practically plucked off the street- who had to take this information and render a verdict on this man's fate.

After three and a half hours of deliberation, we found the defendant "not guilty," almost entirely based on reasonable doubt.

We were forbidden as jurors to do any research on the defendant or the case until after the verdict was rendered.  We could only use the information given to us in the courtroom, in the form of testimonies and evidence, to reach our verdict.  As I've learned more about the case and the defendant, I've struggled as I've wondered if we did the right thing.  And yet I know that that one tiny phrase, "beyond reasonable doubt" is what makes our criminal justice system so great- so American.  Even though I have serious doubts about whether or not he was truly innocent of the crime, he was protected under the shield of reasonable doubt.  And I suppose that's the way it should be.

What an amazing criminal justice system we have here in the United States.   Such incredible trust they place on the lay citizens who comprise the jury.  This trust is what I think makes our country so unique.  In other countries I've lived in, you either knew or you didn't- you were either of importance or you were of little consequence.  And yet here were people from all different backgrounds, educations (or lack of), and socioeconomic statuses, coming together for a common purpose.  With each passing year, I find myself more and more proud to call myself an American.

Evolution

I just found this post I had written last May but never posted.  It's astounding to me to see the athleticism of my little Lauren.  She has mastered puzzles, roller blades, and anything else that involves fine or gross motor skills.  

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And who said Darwinism is a hoax?  I think he could have bypassed the Galapagos and done his studies in my house to develop his theories on evolution. 

And this little girl can hold her own quite well in a brawl, I tell you.

Age when they learned to open a door
Camden: 2 1/2
Luke: 18 months
Lauren, in Houdini-like fashion, learns to open doors with child locks: 2 1/2

Age when they begin to eat only the marshmallows in Lucky Charms and throw out the rest:
Camden: 2 1/2
Luke: 10 months
Lauren: I'm embarrassed to say- let's just say, much too early and I'm a bad mom for giving them to her at that age.

Age when they begin giving Mom orders on how to do their hair
Camden: 7 (I'm not sure he even noticed he had hair before then)
Luke: 3
Lauren: 2

The first time riding a two-wheel scooter:
Camden: 4
Luke: 3
Lauren decides to bypass the scooter and go for the roller-blades: 2 1/2

 At this rate, it's a little scary to think what lies in store for us with Calista...

Update since this post was originally written:

My little Calista has grown up immensely since this was written last May and it never ceases to amaze me how each child comes to earth with such different strengths and personalities.  Dennis and I have decided that while Calista hasn't leapt ahead like her sister did in terms of athletic abilities, she has proven to be more calculated in the things that she does.  She is one to quietly observe, analyze, weigh the risks and benefits, and then act- the first of my kids to show such deliberatness.  Such an incredible thing to observe.

Update

This post is really no more than an update on some of the things that have been going on around our house.   They are mostly random and probably mostly funny just to me and Dennis because we know our kids, but either way, I wanted to get them written down.

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The other day Luke was getting dressed for the day when he realized that all of his sweats (workout pants) were dirty and going to be laundered that day, leaving him only a pair of jeans to wear.  He was extremely irritated and he began hollering, "Mom, it's YOUR fault that my pants are all dirty!  I only like stretchy pants, not jeans!"  Where he came up with this being somehow my fault, I'll never know, but I explained that I only do laundry on Mondays and Thursdays and that  within a couple of hours he would have clean pants but to go ahead and just wear his jeans until then.  "I only like stretchy pants!" he said as he defiantly folded his arms across his chest.

I think I may have mentioned before that this kid has a stubborn streak as wide as the Grand Canyon... so he walked around the rest of the day in only his underwear.  Because of this little tantrum,  I decided I'd hold off on washing his batch of clothes until the very last to show him that his tantrums wouldn't get him very far. He was beyond indignant by the end of the day when Dennis got home.  According to him, I had made him walk around all day completely naked.

That evening in an effort to lighten things up, I began telling a make-believe story about a new superhero,  "Capitán Stretchy Pants," (said in the voice of Nacho Libre) who saved the world with the amazing stretch of his pants.  Amazingly, el capitán refused to wear any other pants, especially jeans, and would rather walk around in his underwear than be caught without his trusty stretchy pants.  Luke began giggling as he realized I was referencing him and his little tantrum from that morning.  By bedtime he was rolling around laughing and squealing, as I told of the adventures of el capitán catapulting dirty diapers and capturing bandidos with the amazing stretch of his pants.

Now Dennis has taken over telling the kids the stories of "Capitán Stretchy Pants," and since he apparently tells the stories better than I do, with more enthusiasm and a better accent, I have been banned from telling the stories because I'm "not as funny."  

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As babies, each of my kids have loved the song "You Are My Sunshine," so this has naturally become one of the songs that is sung to them every night.

One day as I was changing Calista's diaper when she was only about 14 months old, I was singing to her as I changed her.  At one point I sang, "You are my sun..." as I paused to reach over and grab something. 

To my complete surprise, she completed the phrase, "...shine."

I wasn't sure I had heard right so I sang the next line, "My only sun..."

"Shine!"

I was shocked since "momma" and "dadda" were the only two words in her vocabulary, or so I thought.  I Perhaps I had heard wrong so I sang the next line, "You make me hap..."

"Peee!"  she sang out with a wide toothy grin on her face."

I continued, "When skies are..."

"Gray!"  she sang out again.

We continued the rest of the song with her finishing the last syllable of each line.

I was shocked.  All along I had been singing to her, never realizing she was learning the words to the song. Who woulda thunk... my kids actually do listen to what I say every once in a while.

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The other night as Dennis was putting Lauren to bed, he asked her how her day had been.  With an overly dramatic sigh, she placed her hand on her forehead and theatrically said, "It's not easy being a princess, dad."

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Camden and Luke have acquired a new interest obsession with King Tut.  Apparently he's the flavor of the month, so to speak and it has been non-stop questions about him.  

One day Luke told me, "Mom, I can't wait to die."

"What?!  Why in the world would you say that?" I asked.

"Because dad told me that I probably won't be able to meet King Tut until after I die and we're all resurrected.... and I think that would be super duper cool.  But he is kinda cweepy so I don't know..."

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My parents visited us over Christmas and we had a wonderful time with them.  My kids absolutely adore my parents.  We had several fun half-day outings to a local pond, to visit an uncle and drink malts in his restored 1950's diner, and to enjoy the glory of Costco's hand-dipped almond bars.

My mom brought Mr. and Mrs. Santa suits along with hats and outfits for the kids to wear as well.  She told me one of the must-do's of her visit was to get a picture with the kids in their Santa suits.  Unfortunately my kids have developed a reflexive scream-n'-run reaction anytime they see a camera pulled out. 

So my mother paid them each a $5 to pose for the camera.  And then of course, they were full of all sorts of smiles and spirit of cooperation.  

And to think that when I was a kid, we'd get either a pull of our sideburns (we Hawkes girls were cursed with unfortunately long and unbecoming sideburns that came in very handy during times like this) or a not-so-gentle squeeze of the underarm (right in the sweet spot between the bicep and the tricep).  

Maybe if she had offered us MONEY, and $5 a piece at that, our pictures would have looked more like this:

and less like this:

Good times on a dark day

It's well past midnight and I really should be asleep, but I didn't know how I could let a day like today pass without writing down some thoughts.  I know tomorrow I'll be paying for this late night vigil when the kiddos, as usual, wake up well before dawn.

Even before the horrific tragedy of this morning, before the lives of 20 school children were taken by a gunman, I had been thinking about my time as a stay-at-home mom.  I've wondered if I'm doing enough to maximize these precious few years when I have them solely in my care.

So many times I struggle to be present and to stay engaged with my children.  I love the feeling of "getting things done" and it doesn't help that my mind is usually racing a few hours ahead at full speed.  This often leaves me distracted or too much on a mission of one kind or another as I pass the day- be it cleaning, or doing our finances, or grocery shopping, or whatever seems a priority for the day.

But when I try to really get down and play with the kids, it often erupts into bickering among the children or frustration that mom doesn't know how Hot Wheels tracks are to be built to meet a five year-old's approval.  And then when it's time for playing princesses with the three year-old, I get them dressed all wrong.  And the book pages aren't turning fast enough when it's reading time with the 18 month-old.  And how could have I gotten out the crayons when he really wanted watercolors?  And then diaper changes turn into a game of "kick mom's face," immediately followed by a game of "catch me if you can" as she runs around baring her naked little bum cheeks.

All of the sudden, toilet scrubbing and mopping floors seem so much more appealing.  At least I'm good at doing those things.  Why is it that the one thing I've chosen to do full-time feels like the one thing I'm the worst at?

I understand how so many stay-at-home moms, including myself at times, develop Facebook, or Pinterest, or blogging addictions.  It's an escape from the sometimes cruel and unforgiving reality that we face on the home front battling unrelenting little tyrants.

I've firmly come to believe that an absent mother in the home, is worse than a mother outside the home.  And yet far too often, I'm that absent mother.

Tonight as we tried to pass the time with Dennis being out of town, I suggested that we watch a Christmas movie together.  Of course they chose the one with the talking dogs, the cheesy singing, and the predictable lines- all the things that I detest in a movie.  I was tempted to settle them in with popcorn and drinks, and to keep checking things off my To-Do list.

And then I thought of what had happened earlier today in that Connecticut elementary school.  I looked over at Luke as he sat on the couch, with his gorgeous eyelashes, and thought to myself, "Good heavens, children his age were gunned down in cold blood today as they arrived at school with their tiny little backpacks and lunchboxes that their mothers had packed for them this morning."  I couldn't bring myself to imagine what it must have been like.  It was too horrific, even for thought.

I thought of Camden and the deep concern he had expressed for the families of the victims when we had discussed it earlier this evening. I realized that as of today, the world he lived in was now changed and fundamentally different than it was from when he woke up this morning.  A piece of his innocence had been stripped away.

So I sat down and endured the whole 96 minutes of excruciating cheesiness with them.  And who woulda thunk, I actually enjoyed myself as the shamelessly predictable story line unfolded itself and the magic crystals sparkled for Santa and his talking dog.

Then I decided it was time to educate my children on an essential piece of pop culture that will forever mark this decade, just as MC Hammer defined the early 90's:  Gangnam Style. More squealing, more laughing.

By the time the kids were settled in to sleep with their sleeping bags at the base of the Christmas tree, I thought to myself, "This was a good evening. I feel like I was a good mom tonight."  That thought only rarely crosses my mind if the kids are still awake past 8:30 at night.  My mantle of patience, as shoddy and thin as it may be, is usually gone, nowhere to be found, by 8:00pm.  But tonight was good and full of the Christmas magic that you hear sung about in the carols.

 My heart is sick tonight, but so full at the same time.  The world was fundamentally changed today and I pray that within myself, a deep and fundamental change has also taken place.