12 Years

A little over a week ago we celebrated our 12 year anniversary.  I would be an ingrate if I didn't acknowledge one of the greatest blessings and joys in my life.  

"Marriage is hard."  I hear it all the time on TV and among friends, and grew up thinking marriage would be nothing but endless cumbersome years.  I remember as a kid thinking of marriage something like a long vacation: fun and exciting at first, but tiresome and more of an inconvenience at the end.   

I remember when I met Dennis thinking that while I wasn't immediately attracted to him in the romantic sense, that he would someday be married to one of the luckiest women in the world.  I had no idea that woman would be me.

After 12 years, I can not agree with the phrase, "marriage is hard." At least not in my case.  Sure, we've had our moments of frustration, impatience, and even anger with each other, but overall, marriage to this man has been one of the greatest delights of my life.

I love that we disagree, and actually quite often we do, but rarely do we quarrel.  The longer we're married, the more differences I see between us as far political and social views go.  But the longer we're married, the closer we become in the things that bind us together.

I think of the advice that is often given to new brides- to become one with their husband.  I think perhaps that advice is taken too literally at times.  As a new bride, I remember thinking that if I were to be a good wife I needed to brand cows and shoot guns with my husband, and become a unified front in all of our views. In an attempt to please him, I started listening to country music and even I even chose blue as my wedding color when my favorite color was red.

What a wonderful surprise it has been in my adult years to find my own identity, so very different from his, and to discover that if anything, our differences have drawn us closer.  I rarely listen to country music anymore, I don't hide the fact from him that I don't like guns, and haven't branded cows with him since we were dating.  Politically we have discovered even more significant differences, but we have agreed to disagree, and leave it be.

But we share our faith, the love of our country, the love of learning, the love of our children, and in quiet moments, we share our insecurities and confidences with each other.

If I could give some advice to my children in choosing their spouse, ultimately I would say don't choose based on commanlities, choose on compatibilities.

I love this man more with every passing day.

One of our treasured traditions.  Early on in our marriage we started leaving notes for each other on our bathroom mirror with a dry erase marker.  Sometimes the notes are loving, and at times they are apologies for angry words said the night before.   Either way, I love them.   Dennis left this note for me a few days ago and I haven't been able to erase it.

Dear kids,

I am officially pledging here an now to try to avoid lecturing and unsolicited advice as I raise you, but as your  mother, I think there are times when it's appropriate, and possibly even my right, to share some thoughts with you.

All throughout history, parents have been concerned for the up and coming generation.  They see their honored values fading and frightening new ones emerging.  In the 50's the fear was rock and roll, in the 70's it was the hippie movement, in the 90's it was the Simpson's, and so on.  And somehow each generation has found ways to keep moving forward and to not blow up the world.  If the 70's didn't do it, then I have great hope for the future.

Someday you'll roll your eyes when you hear me talk of the days before the internet or how I grew up with just one phone in the house, that had a rotary dial nonetheless.  But believe you me, it will be strange to you when you're in my shoes and you see the cool things from your generation become eye-roll worthy to your children.  Like the word "cool," in my case.

So, my concern with some of the problems I foresee in your generation is nothing new.  But as someone who is transitioning from the up and coming generation to the "has been" generation, I think I can say a thing or two about the major shift that was completely unprecedented even just 5 years ago.

Within the last decade, the use of social media hasn't just exploded, it has become a staple of many people's lives, like reading the newspaper used to be. Anonymity has become a ghost of the past as many people live their lives on a constant virtual stage for the world to see. Ten years ago, if a girl wore a cute outfit she might receive a few compliments from her friends, but now, within just a few minutes of being posted online, it can be viewed and receive dozens or even hundreds of "likes."  But you know this already, because these things have been a part of your life since you were born.

I haven't stayed immune to all of this. The virtual stage has become as much a part of my life as it has for the next person.  But this constant visibility has done dangerous things.  It has evolved us into people who thrive on the praise and attention of others.  Compliments and encouragement can be helpful and encouraging at times, but can become dangerous when taken in too high of doses.  Our actions become driven by success measured in "likes," "followers," and comments.

I've fallen victim to this myself at times.  I recently completed a project that received a large amount of positive feedback and praise.  As I felt my head starting to inflate, I found myself having to stop and put myself in check.  I said a silent prayer, asking Heavenly Father to not let the success I was experiencing go to my head, making me forget that He was the true author of my success.

Do not fear failure.  If you're going to fear anything, fear too much success.  Success is a fickle and fleeting teacher.  With too much success in the eyes of our peers, we can lose our bearings and forget what should be our true motivator- to do what's kind, to do what's honest.   Every cool, new thing has a lifespan- and it's usually a short one.  Case in point: MC Hammer, pogo sticks, backwards jeans.

Do not fear anonymity.  I heard once that we've created a generation of children who believe they are simply  celebrities in waiting- that someday they will have their day in the spotlight when everyone knows their name.  What a life of disappointment most of them will face when they live their lives missing the beauty that's right in front of them.  Life does not have to be Instagrammed for it be beautiful.

That being said however, do not fear vulnerability.  I think our generation has forgotten what the true meaning  of vulnerability is.  It's not Facebooking what you had for breakfast or Tweeting the color of your ear wax.  Vulnerability is pulling yourself and the talents God gave you out of hiding for others to see and at times criticize.  It's the queasiness you feel at the starting line of a marathon when the other runners looking half your age and twice your speed.  It's opening up your broken heart when it's likely to be rejected.  It's learning to play the guitar when you feel like God gave you nothing but thumbs.  It's dancing in public when you have two left feet. Learn to embrace this as part of a part of a meaningfully lived life.

But God made you strong and He made you smart.  I have no doubt you'll figure it out better than I'm trying, and often failing to do.  And like I said, if the 70's didn't do us all in, then I'm sure you're going to be just fine.

With love,

Mom
  

I should add that vulnerability for me is putting a picture of myself online that I don't like, without any corrective help from photoshop.  So in the spirit of vulnerability, I'll post an unflattering, unedited picture (other than a black and white conversion) of myself that carries special memories. 

Choosing the better part

This post was written with my daugthers in mind.  For almost all women, regardless of the era, century, or continent, the feeling of drowning in expectations and responsibilites seems to be a common thread.  I'm convinced that no matter the modern conveniences that come our way, life will always find a way to be challenging and a constant balancing and rebalancing act of priorities.  In twenty years or so from now, when my daughters are mothers themselves, surely there will be some new-fangled invention that makes food preparation or transportation more efficient.  But I think back to the days before smart-phones or the internet.  While they've made some things more convenient,  life hasn't necessarily become easier since they've come along.  Other challenges have come right along, hand-in-hand with them- like the challenge it has become to stay focused, present, and satisfied.  

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Peter the apostle and Martha (sister to Mary and Lazarus) are two of my favorite people in the Bible.  I imagine it's because I feel we share what many people consider to be character flaws.  Peter, who was at times impetuous and impulsive- and Martha, who was gently reproved for failing to choose the better part as her sister Mary had done.

As a child, hearing the story of Mary and Martha always saddened me a little.  I felt sad for Martha- that she was so often used in Sunday school lessons as the prime example of "what not to do" in selecting priorities.  I imagined her working her little heart out, sweeping floors and preparing food, only to be told that she had missed the bigger picture.  What a let down that must have been for her!  My heart went out to her, and as I've grown older, I've come to realize that that's probably because I'm a Martha.

The other night as I lay in bed, I felt overwhelmed and discouraged with all the responsibilities that I face on a regular basis, feeling like I was falling further and further behind.  It reminded me of when I would visit the St. Anthony sand dunes as a child and I would try to walk up the face of one of the steep dunes.  It seemed like for every step I took, I would slide two back.  The top of the sand dunes always seemed out of reach, no matter how hard I tried.

Usually when I feel discouraged at night, I realize it's fatigue-not logic- who's doing the talking.  The best thing I can do after 9pm is to turn my head off and look at things again in the morning after a good night's sleep.

In the morning I did feel better, but was still aware of the overwhelming responsibilities I face and the need to re-prioritize.

In an attempt to validate, but not enable my feelings of inundation, I wrote out what I believed were expectations in the different areas of my life: personal, family, children, spouse, and church.  I realize that as women we often stress ourselves out over imaginary expectations- most of which are self-imposed so I tried to be realistic in deciding what my expectations are for myself- things like daily scripture study and prayer, exercise, spending regular one-on-one time with each child, allowing myself and my husband our own personal time, fulfilling church responsibilities and such. Thirty-one expectations came from my list- many of which I feel need to be done on a daily basis.

I thought of the Savior's admonition to Martha, who pointed out that Mary had "chosen the good part" and I felt overwhelmed with the question, "what in the world is the better part?" I've resented this admonition at times, which over the years has become a very personal one to me.  What to I trim out, when my time, resources, and human capacities are already so stretched?

I thought back to my trips to the sand dunes and remembered that even when I felt like I was going nowhere, I would usually look up, after what seemed like hours of trudging (which were probably only a few minutes) and realized that I had in fact made it to the top.  The summit would always come if I just kept moving, putting one foot in front of the other.  The sand flowing downward created an optical illusion, making me believe I had been going no where, when in fact I had been moving all along.

I still don't have the exact answer to "what is the better part?"  I imagine the answer changes day by day, child by child.  If I could have been there that day with Martha, I would tell her that in our attempt to see the bigger picture, we'll miss it from time to time.  And that's okay.  I'm coming to learn that that's part of the process.  I would give her a hug and tell her she's doing better than she realizes...  and that in the end, there is no such thing as lost ground if we just keep moving.

War on Heels

This morning I officially declared war on all those ridiculous high heels that make me hobble around any time I wear them for more than 15 minutes.  I cleaned out my closet this morning and tossed out a half dozen pairs of boots and heels that although cute and fashionable, did not make my new church rule:  if they hurt my feet after three hours of church (which I sit through almost the entire time) than then they're gone.

I'm sure Dennis will appreciate this small gesture of sanity. He has always shaken his head in bewilderment at why women put themselves through the agony to gain only a few inches in height.  Using the flawless female logic, I tried to explain to him that they elongate the leg and lift the derriere.  So in my case, totally worth it... until this morning.

As a 31 year-old mother of four, I think I've earned the right to wear something slightly more geriatric but much more comfortable!  I'm a little behind in the feminist movement.  :)

Although not super fashionable, Payless Shoes has these amazingly comfortable heels for $20.  I've worn them at least a dozen times since I bought them a few months ago.

Cemeteries and thoughts

Writing is my favorite form of self expression, but I've let myself become so busy with other things that I've been slowly letting it slide.  It's been over a month since I last sat down to write and I feel the void. It feels like an old friend that I haven't visited in a while and I miss it.

I need to write, not necessarily for others, but to give a voice to things that so often slip by unnoticed, but that make my life so beautiful and full.

I've learned that for everything new that we put on our plates, something falls off, whether we intend for it to happen or not.  One of the things that has fallen off my plate (among way too many others) has been writing. I hope to make it more of a priority again.

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Luke has been asking for the past several months if we can go to a cemetery so a couple of weeks ago we decided to take the kids to a nearby Catholic cemetery to enjoy a beautiful spring evening.  Of all my kids, Luke has been the one that seems the most curious about death.  So much of this little boy reminds me of myself.  I have a bit of a morbid fascination with death myself.  Not really with actually dying, but particularly by funerals and the raw emotion that surfaces when the someone's light is extinguished.

One of the images that will forever be etched in my memory came from my grandfather's funeral several years ago.  I'll never forget the moment right before his casket was to be closed for the final time and his children were invited to say their last goodbyes.  They huddled together in a hug, the group heaving in a collective sob.  My heart broke at seeing their grief, but felt the almost palpable love and unity they shared at that moment.

Before going into the cemetery with our children, we talked to them about the sanctity of cemeteries.  We encouraged them to show the same respect and reverence that they would show at church.  I explained to them that a cemetery is simply a resting place for the bodies of the deceased, and that their spirits- the real part of who they are- is in heaven.  To me, cemeteries have always felt like some of the most sacred places on earth.

As we walked through the cemetery we admired the beautiful headstones, calculating the age people were when they died, and guessing their ethnicity based on their names.

We came across a grave with fresh dirt over the top, where the sod hadn't yet been laid.  When I read the name I realized it was one of the residents from the nursing home where I used to work.  I had cared  for his frail, pain-ridden body, and had thought many times how much of a welcome respite death would be for this poor man.  And it had come.

Further on we came across a long line of small headstones that were inlaid, flush to the ground.  The plots were small and close to one another.  As we read the names and ages of those buried here, we realized this row must be reserved for small children.  10 days old, 14 months, 4 years old, 2 1/2 years old- all so young.  It took my breath away.  My children's reverence turned to solemnity as they quietly walked by, studying each headstone.

And then I saw another scene unfolding, that just like that of my grandfather's funeral, I know I will always remember.  A young man entered the cemetery through a distant gate and walked to a fresh grave site nearby where we were, still covered with fresh flowers, wreaths, and balloons.  The sun was setting behind him and I saw his silhouette huddled over the grave site, weeping.

It was then that I realized what I believe makes cemeteries so sacred- it's the volumes of tears that have moistened the earth, the vastness of grief, the hearts that have been broken at the sight of a fresh mound of dirt next to a silent casket.  How many prayers begging God to grant them so small relief from their pain have been offered from this very place?

I left that night, not depressed, but deeply sobered by the reality of the ticking clock of life.  The hourglass of our lives neither reverses nor waits for anyone.

This image comes from "Mitchell's Journey"- some of the most profound and touching writing and photography I've ever come across.  This photo was taken of Mitchell's mother, shortly after his death, but the scene reminded me of what I witnessed in the cemetery that day.  If you haven't read "Mitchell's Journey," there are fewer things I would more highly recommend. 

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.