More Christmas

This month is flying by way too fast, and I feel like I haven't had much time to soak in the season. I'm incredibly thankful for Christmas music that can make washing dishes, cleaning toilets, and snuggling sick kids just a little more festive. The next few days will be filled with the best kind of madness and people I love like crazy. For me, being around family and friends is one of the best gifts ever, only second to my Savior.

As I've read a piece of the nativity story with my children each morning, I have been so touched by the simplicity. Sometimes I feel this need for more stuff or more adventures or more talent or more praise. But that is not what Christ wanted us to have more of. He wanted us to have more charity. More love. More compassion. More understanding. More joy. More peace. That is what I want to strive for in the upcoming year. I hope you all have a merry Christmas filled with all of the best and most worthwhile mores.

Face washing

I have been wanting to write this blog post for a while now.  Actually, I’ve really just wanted to say it out loud.  For over four and a half years, my life had been consumed with thoughts and feelings I could not express because I did not know how or feared they would be misunderstood.  Today I had a moment of clarity while washing my face, and I think I am finally ready to deal with the elephant in the room.

Since having my children I have learned two major things.  I love my children more than I ever could have imagined, and I dislike motherhood more than I ever could have imagined.

There.  I said it.  Judge away.

I love my children.  I love their little feet and soft kisses.  I love tickling them and wiping their faces so I can look into their crystal blue eyes and tell them how precious they are.  I love hearing them speak about their feelings, dreams, and discoveries.  I love watching their little bodies as they learn to crawl, walk, run, jump on one foot, and dance.  I am obsessed with their imaginations, in awe at their bravery, and humbled by their forgiveness when I make mistakes.  I have learned more about divinity raising these little spirits than any scripture I have ever read.

I have also learned a little something about my limits.  To be honest, before motherhood, I hadn’t met many challenges that I couldn’t work through.  Learning came easily.  With much practice, I even became a decent musician.  I loved working and being surrounded by people and praise.  More than anything, I loved feeling in control.  And if you love feeling in control, boy, is motherhood a wake-up call.  Suddenly, I was thrust into a world where my precious control was striped from me and replaced with inconsistency.  Try as I may, I just could not seem to put the puzzle together the way I thought it was suppose to fit.  I could not seem to get my daughter to sleep, I did not know how to comfort my son when he cried endlessly for the first year, and I could not poof them better with they were sick.  Today, I cook healthy food they will not eat and spend all day talking to little persons who do not listen.  I repeat repeat repeat repeat so many things that I feel forced to raise my voice, and those little blue eyes turn on me in shock.  I’ve read parenting blogs and listened to advice from others, and when those methods do not deliver as promised, it all comes back to me, and I wonder why I am such an inadequate human that I can’t get anything right.

I was never that girl who begged to hold babies.  They terrified me, and if someone handed a little drooler to me, it often cried, which sent me into a tailspin of anxiety.  After having two of them, I can honestly say I still don’t care for babies.  I don’t mind them for short bits of time, but there is not enough money in the world to pay me to go back to that stage.  They are too unpredictable for this control freak.

For me, motherhood has never felt natural.  It has felt like this constant urge to run away fighting against this intense love pulling me to stay.  So, for four and a half years, I have been holding my breath like I am watching the climax of a movie, just hoping the beloved hero doesn’t get squashed by the frightening villain.  I always have one ear focused on their bedrooms at night, waiting for crying or coughing or, heaven forbid, productive heaving.  There isn’t ever one minute where I am totally relaxed and at peace.  Fall is my favorite season, but for the past few weeks, the cooling air and shorter days have only reminded me that flu season piggybacks on Autumn, and I have a son that runs from me when he throws up, leaving long vomit trails in my carpet.

Last year, during my difficult battle with postpartum depression, I sort of gave up.  I felt like I was stuck in this miserable cycle of existence where I was inadequate beyond measure and unlovable.  Perhaps my children would have been better off with a mom who loved all the moods of babies like my mother-in-law or had the natural presence to command an army of tots like my mother.  In that moment, is was as if the hand of God reached out and pulled me off the edge of a cliff.  He reminded me that what I was experiencing would be written in my book of life preceded by “and it came to pass.”

After that experience, I re-enrolled in school, completely changed my diet, cleaned more, involved my kids in the everyday workings of the house, finished my book, started a second one, and reached out to others (like my husband) instead of isolating myself.  I felt sunshine reenter my world. . . but not permanently.  Occasionally, I still feel suffocated, inadequate, and completely out of control, but as my children are getting older and more communicative, those feelings definitely come with less frequency.

That brings me back to tonight and washing my face.  Recently, I have decided to start dressing and grooming as if I am going out in public more.  I think as a stay-at-home mom, it can be easy to get into the housework bun and sweats lifestyle, but I have noticed when I spend the time to put myself together in the morning, I feel more put together throughout the day.  Consequently, I have had some adolescent acne reemerge from sleeping in my makeup.  I tried to cover them with more and more make-up, but a few weeks ago, someone suggested I  actually try washing my face instead.  I caved and bought a cleansing brush and made it a part of my nightly routine.  Within three weeks of using it, the acne disappeared, and my face is starting to look more youthful again.

Tonight as I was washing my face, I realized that for a long time I had wounds and imperfections that I tried to cover up, but they just kept getting worse and multiplying.  In the past six months as I have made changes in my life, it felt a lot like washing my face.  It has been difficult to expose the demons I was hiding but also necessary to treat them.  The Lord has said “if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” (Ether 12:27).  Facing my flaws head on has been incredibly difficult; however, I have faith that by showing my weakness and humbling myself, the Lord can use me to bless my children’s lives.  I will continue to wash my face and take my burdens to my Heavenly Father, because as much I as I dislike motherhood sometimes, I sure do love my kids.

Annie

". . . 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70!" Annie is counting beside me.  She's discovered that she can count to seventy on her own and with a gentle reminder she pushes on to ninety.  Her honey hair drapes across her forehead, cut straight, and covers her daddy's triangular eyebrows.  Her blue eyes are so sparkly and full of life, glistening divinity and innocence. Tiny fingers graze my arm, inspecting the hairs with that intense curiosity I noticed fresh from womb.  She embodies perfect imperfection.  When I hold her I feel warm, nurturing, and feminine.  Sometimes I snuggle her in her bed and she touches my cheek and plays with my hair. The room is silent and the air calm, as if time slows. Its magical and sacred.  She holds a piece of my soul.  Annie sees me with such intense understanding because she is me and I am her and the combination of the two of us in one.

Last night I listened the pounding of my heart and wondered why she cries in her sleep, why she sounds so tortured in a moment of what should be peace?  I think about her perfect little soul in this horrible world. She asks me about bad guys, and I don't know what to say other than reassure her that she is safe.  But it's one of those lies we must tell as parents, one of those burdens we carry until our children are old enough to share it.  I cannot keep her safe always.  She will fall off her bike, she will get water up her nose, and she will be hurt by others making poor choices. The best I can do is promise her that I will do my best, and pray the atonement makes up for the rest.

Why I want to be a teacher

I could hear the excitement in my mother's voice as she told me about a conversation she'd had with the high school band teacher.  "If you go in and play for him, he'll put you in the top band!"  I laughed at the hope in her eyes.  I was never going back to a band room.  Painful memories of junior high mockery flooded my vision with HIS face. So often invisible, he looked past me everyday.  The girl in the second row.  But it was better than when he did see me.  On the occasion that he was forced to acknowledge this chubby student he degraded me, stifling my desire for growth with the disgust behind his icy blue eyes. He weaved my inadequacies into the pads of my instrument and infused the metal keys with a thousand reflections of my ugliness.  No. I would never open the Pandora's box that was my clarinet case lest I unleash a myriad of memories I buried the last day of 9th grade.

Then my mom clarified that I didn't really have a choice.

I can't imagine what thoughts raced through this new teacher's mind as I entered his office. Palms sweaty, clutching the plastic shaft of the old clarinet, and tears welling up in my eyes, I licked the chipped reed and sank my teeth into the mouthpiece. He asked me to play a scale. Dissonant notes swelled in the air as my fingers stumbled over the keys. Do. Re. Me. So, no it's fa. Fa! So. Ti flat. . . ahh! La. La. Ti. Doooooo. He smiled sympathetically and I painfully plunked out another out-of-tune scale.  He handed me a piece to sight read.  It had been over a year since I'd looked at any sheet music and my brain no longer connected my fingers to the little black dots and stripes on the page, not that they ever did very well anyway.  Tears ran down my face and dripped on my t-shirt as I guessed and questioned and squeaked my way through the unrecognizable song.  Some audition. He gave me a hesitant but warm smile and said he'd see me in class.

You've got to be kidding me, I thought.

I barely made it though my first day in Symphonic band.  Warm ups began with the twelve major scales. I only knew seven, so I fumbled and fingered my way through the last five, letting out a gigantic sigh of relief when it was over. The teacher raised his hands again and called out, "Now minors!"  I watched in horror as my classmates played through their twelve minor scales without hesitation. How was I going to play any of the music in this band when I couldn't even play the warm-ups?  Sure enough, he handed out the pep band music which might have well have been Arabian scripture for all I knew. The next class period was chair auditions. I knew I would be last chair.  I knew it more than I knew the sun would rise or that my mom would serve soup on Thursdays, but it stung as the peers I only barely knew watched me take my rightful seat next to the bassoon.

Every day in that class was a painful reminder that my junior high instructor was right about me. I had no potential, no skill, and that last place I deserved to be was a top band.

At least, that's what I thought for a little while.

My new band director recommended a clarinet teacher he knew from college who was wonderfully patient and could help me catch up.  In her living room, I had to relearn the most basic of techniques. Reed care, embouchure, fingerings, and scales; I was discovering my instrument for the first time and realizing just how little I'd been taught as I'd sat under the nose of that junior high teacher for three years, unworthy of his tutelage and wisdom.

At the end of the first semester, we re-auditioned for chairs and I moved up a seat.  It was a small accomplishment but enough to motivate a little extra effort on my part.  I practiced just a little longer every day.  I tried to sight-read songs, memorize those dang minor scales, and work on intonation so I wasn't always so sharp. When the school year ended I felt sad at the coming summer.  I would miss all the musical friends I'd made and the encouraging nods from my conductor.

Over the summer I practiced.  This may seem like a trivial fact, but it was monumental to me.  My mother wasn't forcing me.  My teachers were grading me on it. I just wanted to be better. When my senior year began we had chair auditions, and I was not the last or second to last chair.  I was fourth.  Out of eight. I was average at last!  I celebrated with my clarinet teacher.  My mother cheered when she heard the news.  I wrote about it in my journal. Yet, there was still that little part of me that wondered if it was some sort of fluke.  The clarinetist in the chair just below me had been second chair the year before.  Surely, I didn't play better than her.  She must not have thought so either, because a couple of weeks into the semester she challenged my chair.

I went home and cried.  How could this girl take this accomplishment away from me when I'd worked so unbelievably hard to get it?  I cried to my clarinet teacher.  I bawled at my mom.  When my dad walked through the door I collapsed in despair. My father tenderly, yet firmly scolded me for my behavior.  In my shock, I stopped crying and stared at him in disbelief.  He told me if I sat around whining I would lose my chair.  I remember the creases around his hazel eyes as he said, "Get to work."

That week I spent every waking moment glued to my clarinet.  I followed me to dinner, sang out during the commercial breaks during my favorite show, and accompanied me to the bathroom. Good acoustic, you know.  And on the day of the challenge, I stood in the office of my band teacher shaking, with memorized music in hand.  He smiled at me and asked me if I was ready.  I could see in his slightly mischievous grin that he not only was confident in my quaking hands, but he was rooting for me.  I breathed out slowly and raised my instrument to my lips and listened to my song soar over my head as if it came from another clarinet in the room.  Fast and high, it fluttered about until the final note settled in my chest.  My teacher's eyes were ablaze with excitement.  He handed me the sight-reading piece selected by my opponent, and I played through it slowly and carefully.  He opened the door of his office and invited me back into the classroom.  I sat down and avoided eye-contact with everyone as I awaited the verdict.

I heard the teacher step onto his squeaky platform.  "Both of these ladies are talented musicians, but-" Here it comes, I thought.  The end of my two week run of average.  I said a silent goodbye to my seat and looked up.  "But I've decided to leave the chairs as they are." I started to tear up, the fifth chair avoided my gaze, and that inspired teacher nodded to me as if to confirm his choice.  I sat up a little taller and practiced a little harder.

Christmas break rolled around.  Every day I sat in front of the piano and played Christmas songs on the old clarinet.  I could feel the pain of junior high being stripped away as a new-found confidence set in.  The feel of the cool metal keys sent shivers up my spine and a joyful flutter in my heart.  The new semester began after the holidays and chair auditions came knocking.  I felt nervous, but also calm.  Music was no longer about accomplishment.  It was about the joy of creation and the beauty that teamwork that a little elbow grease could produce.  Even still, I was shocked when the results of the auditions were posted and I had landed myself in SECOND chair.

During that semester, my teacher gave me so many opportunities to grow.  From being handpicked to play in the concerto orchestra, to a solo at graduation, I basked the rays of reassuring sunlight that poured over me from this teacher that never gave up, from my clarinet tutor who wouldn't allow me to be held back by excuses, and from my mommy who, obligated by uterine law, and probably prompted from some divine source, believed in me even when I sounded hopelessly horrible. (No really, it was bad for a while.)  All of that unwavering faith washed away the doubt and self-loathing placed there by that junior high monstrosity and helped me see who I could have been all along. Myself.  And me was good enough.

This is why I've always wanted to be a teacher.  This is why I wanted to be a mother.  If I could show my children and impressionable teenagers how special and incredible they are, then maybe, just maybe, I could pay forward the life-changing lessons I learned with a clarinet.

Not so great expectations

Do you ever completely dedicate yourself to something only to be disappointed with the results? I haven't been blogging lately because I've been working on a little project. At the end if June I was struck by the lightning of inspiration and flooded with ideas; unshakable ideas that seemed to come from another world, and they chose me to tell their story. So when I returned home from our eventful trip to Illinois I began to write. Every nap time and bedtime I plugged myself in to my laptop and watched chapter after chapter flow from my fingers until it filled my depleted body with life. I felt fulfilled, happy, and more like myself than I'd been in years. Parenting was more enjoyable, my husband was handsomer, and my house almost seemed to have a linen closet. Almost.

Then there was chapter 20, the climax, the pinnacle of prose, the summit of syntax, and I got stuck. Suddenly, the wave of ideas recessed and the low tide left a sandy graveyard of loop holes, questions and doubts. The more I forced myself to muscle through the feeling the more I began to hate all 55,000+ words I'd written. I stepped away from the project and prayed for perspective.

What followed was a couple months of the worst depression of my life as I realize this whole book thing was a metaphor for my experience with motherhood.

Please be gentle with your judgement.

When I was a little girl there were two things I wanted more than anything: to be a teacher, professionally, and to be a mom.  I looked forward to stroking my diploma from BYU, arranging my classroom, tutoring after school, and grading papers in the evenings while snuggled up in my little cottage with a fluffy dog sleeping on my feet. Then when I was old enough to be considered an old maid (by Utah standards) but not so old that I was infertile, I would marry a perfectly obnoxious salesman and quit my job to dedicate the remainder of my days to rearing children. It was a fantastic plan and I couldn't wait to make it happen.

Then life took an unexpected turn.  I got married young, took a hiatus from school, had some babies, and fast-tracked to the motherhood part of the plan with a significantly less obnoxious husband. It doesn't take much digging through the blog archives to see how painful it was for me to give up school and becoming a teacher.  Once Annie entered my life I knew my only option was to stay home till the day I die, never to write on a white board or attend staff meetings or argue with the lady in the copy room about the tests she forgot to copy. (Dramatic much?) However, a little piece of me was okay with making this sacrifice because I thought motherhood would automatically make me content and fill my whiteboard-marker, red-pen, teaching dreams with something as equally satisfying.

It did not. I definitely had good days, especially when it was just me and Annie, but as soon as Sam entered the picture it was like someone flipped a switch, and motherhood became torturous and stifling. You can imagine how much that bothered me. I began to ruminate and obsess and berate myself for not feeling like dancing on pink and blue pastel rainbows as I listened to hours of crying, got out of bed six times a night, and never really had a moment alone expect for the times I spent locked in my closet weeping. I wanted to be like those "normal" mothers who still felt like motherhood was the hardest and best thing to ever happen to them.  I just felt like it was the hardest.

But wait! This is what I've always wanted! This is what I spent my whole life preparing for! Why did I feel so disappointed?

On Sunday we had a lesson in Relief Society about the ten virgins. Five had oil in their lamps, but the other five didn't not. The ladies with oil couldn't share or they would run out themselves before the bridegroom arrived. While I sat in my cushioned chair, the Lord whispered to me, "You are out of oil."

I don't have date night with my husband. Paul works long hours and isn't home much. There are no Girl's Night Outs on my calendar. My children accompany me almost everywhere I go. Annie and Sam both have medical issues and personality quirks that make them high maintenance and exhausting. And I'm so afraid of being a burden on someone else that I can not ask for help.  So there is no one taking care of me, not even me. I'm completely out of oil. Heck, I can't even find my lamp in this mess.

Anyway, I want to start blogging again because I love to write (but not that stupid book; it makes me homicidal).  And I want to take on a few more little projects around the house to keep me busy.  Hopefully, I can conjure up some courage to take people up on babysitting offers too.  I want to enjoy my children again, like really bad. So if it takes a little more effort to make motherhood feel more effortless, then it's worth it.

Crash

I remember the sneeze and then looking up at a red light.  My right foot jumped to the breaks as my arms gripped the steering wheel and braced for impact.  The thud of my blue car hitting a suburban unforgettably rang through my ears.  I don't recall the air bags deploying because my face was numb from their explosive power, but the smell, burnt and putrid, enveloped my senses.  I could feel wet beneath my nose and I reached up to touch what I expected to be blood and was surprised by what I found.  Snot.  From that distracting sneeze. I could hear my sons cries and my daughter began babbling in shock.  I whipped around to make sure she had kept her seat belt on. She had, thank heavens!  I began panting and panicking, shaking like a chihuahua.  If it weren't for that horrid smell, I might have not believed it was real.  I crashed.  I crashed the car with my babies in the back seat.

I remember crying.  I couldn't stop.  Through violent heaves and desperate sobs I kept repeating, "My babies!  My babies!"  Even though both we safe, unharmed, and quiet once I pulled them out of the car.  I was overwhelmed by guilt and shame, and the tears reflected the inner turmoil causing a great deal of nausea.  The other driver tried to comfort me and told me he wasn't mad or hurt.  But I was hurt and mad.  Hurt with dislocated ribs, bruises, and a busted lip, and mad at myself because, although I didn't crash on purpose, I was to blame.

The following days were difficult.  When my eyes would close the first thing I would see was the side of that tan suburban.  Then there was that thud.  I couldn't stop hearing that thud.  Andrea kept talking about it.  Hourly, I'd hear her telling bear about the sneeze, the crash, and my red teeth.  It pained me to hear, but I let her talk and process and cope.  Through all of her retellings I began to see immense bravery that surrounded my daughter like a protective armor.  She must have got that from her father.

I was not brave.  The thought of driving again sent me into a shaken and panicked state.  Even riding as a passenger was traumatic.  Every bump and flashing light turned me into a white-knuckled cling-on, gripping at the dash like it was my lifeline.  Sometimes I would cry, and Paul would softly reassure me.

Two days after the crash I knelt beside my daughter's bed and asked her to pray.  Unprompted, she began.  She thanked Heavenly Father for the things she loved: Grandma Gragraw, the supermarket, bear, vitamins.  Then she petitioned Him for help; not for herself, but for me.  She asked Him to help me remember Jesus and be calm.  As tears rolled down my cheeks she ended her pray with one final request: Help me take care of my mommy.  My daughter was not only brave, but wonderfully loving.  In that moment I knew I would be okay because I had faith in my Heavenly Father, and I had faith in Annie's faith.

Are we there yet?

I'm taking a break from homework to blog a little because I feel like I'm losing my mind.  As I was showering this morning I felt the random urge to cry, and since I was essentially alone, (I'm never really alone as I live with a three foot tall peeping Andrea) I decided it would probably be a great release to allow some tears to mingle with the water running down my face.  It was rather exhilarating until I tried to resume singing which seemed to drag me straight back into sobbing episodes.  I thought it was perhaps my choice of music so I experimented with some Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree and Wheels on the Bus.  No matter how goofy the song, the results were the same: me singing/laughing/blubbering/looking like a fool.  I am so ready for this semester to be over.  Just two more weeks, I tell myself.  Are we there yet?

I have a list of things to do that probably spans from here to Denver, but I know until all of my papers are written, my biology assignments are submitted, and my tests have been studied for and taken, I am at the mercy of UVU.  And UVU doesn't care that I'm having a baby, planing a move, or taking care of a commonly sick toddler.  Nor does it care the the dust bunnies under my bed and behind the couch have names as they've grown large enough to become sentient life.

Wilbur and Helga

UVU merely wants me to rise the occasion, so that's what I'm trying to do.  Thank heavens for my hubby who has been super dad too many times to count. . . and for my parents for letting me steal a corner of their kitchen table for an occasional Saturday homework marathon.  Oh, and thank heavens for my little sister who, on multiple occasions, has arrived at my house for what she thought was fun and frolic only to find herself babysitting so I could take a test.  Opps.

As hard as this educational pursuit feels sometimes, I'm so grateful that I have the opportunity to study at a university level.  I have learned so much about the world and about myself as I've written papers about topics that challenged my views and studied societies that lived and believed differently from what I've chosen.  I've learned that several of my limitations are only concrete if I choose see them as such.  The efforts required these past two semesters have forced me to break through invisible barriers I had built for my personal comfort, and as I did, confidence began to replace fear.  I know that I have not had to do any of this alone.  Divine hands cared for me and my family.

Having said all that, I am still looking forward to taking a year off to regroup and rededicate some time to my home, that man I love, and my little Rowbabies.  I bet they are just as excited.

A search for ore

Thursday night I stood in the bathroom listening to the sound of the fan whirring above me and staring at my pale face in the mirror.  Andrea was sick again for what felt like the thousandth time this season.  And there I was, hiding in the bathroom, drowning out the potential sounds of the baby monitor with the ventilation fan so I could pray for help with out being interrupted by her cries or coughs.  My arms shook and my legs tremored under the weight of motherhood and loneliness.  Please help me, I cried out to my father in heaven.  Please help me to find comfort so I can give her comfort.

Throughout this winter, as Andrea has battled nearly ever virus and bug circulating around, I have often found myself overwhelmed by physical and emotional fatigue.  The pressure of school and the discomfort of pregnancy make her illnesses not only heart-wrenching to watch, but completely overwhelming to handle as they make it nearly impossible for me to take care of any other aspect of life.  When my body finds itself so overwhelmed it manifests in tremoring chills that are difficult to overcome.  I have often turned to prayer and have felt immediate comfort sweep over me or found that singing hymns in my head bring stability back into my nervous body.

Thursday night was different.  Thursday night I was not given immediate peace, no did a song still my arms.  Instead a little voice whispered into my mind, turn to your husband.  I thought it was a strange and somewhat cruel prompting since he was out late helping on old classmate with his taxes, so I turned off the fan in the bathroom and listened again for a more timely message.  Turn to your husband, I heard again.  With the fan off I recognized the sound of my phone vibrating in the other room.  It was Paul calling to tell me he was on his way home.  I turned my thoughts toward heaven again.  Fine, I'll do it Your way, I conceded.

Leaning on my husband for support is not an easy thing for me.  I like to be his support, talk tough, and let out enough vulnerability to seem normal.  Once I've had my fill of complaining, I tighten my bootstraps and take care of things myself.  I've always been this way.  But last May when I found myself bleeding away a pregnancy I called my mother and asked her to take me to the doctor while Paul stayed home with sleeping Andrea.  "No!"   She insisted.  "You need to be with your husband."  I still think it's sad that after three years of marriage I found it more natural to turn to my mom for strength during that trail than the father of the baby I was losing.  However, her insistence that I take Paul turned into a blessing in our marriage.  For the first time, I let myself really turn to him and discover the true strength of his soul, and things have never been the same.

Yet, in many ways, I am still the same.  Still hesitant to open myself to the power of vulnerability.  So on Thursday night, the Lord, in his omniscient wisdom, thought He'd help answer another of my most common prayers: Please continue to help Paul and I grow closer in our marriage.  When Paul got home I told him I needed a moment of connection, so we knelt across from each other on our bed.  He took my hands in his and we both closed our eyes and allowed  the circuit of energy to flow between us.  Tears streamed down my cheeks and I wordlessly unloaded my burden.  He silently absorbed it and pulsed calm into my veins.  When peace returned to our sphere, I opened my eyes and stared at his face.  He smiled at me, cracked a joke about parking tickets and tucked me in with a blanket of lighthearted humor.  The Lord was right.  I needed to turn to my husband.

Minutes later I was reading in the Book of Mormon (1 Nephi 17) where Nephi was asked to build a ship.  Nephi turned to God and said, "Um. . . I actually don't know how to do that. . ."  The Lord didn't poof a ready-to-assemble ship in front of him stacked neatly in Ikea boxes.  He didn't wash an unused vessel up onto the shore.  He said, "Don't worry. I will tell you where to go to find ore."  I was reminded that night that sometimes miracles like peace are dropped upon us like manna from heaven, and sometimes we're told where to go to find it.

What I'm thankful for

Andrea's whines and whimpers oozed out of the monitor and snaked across my nightstand.  They wrapped themselves around my throat and constricted my airways while the muscles in my back tensed uncomfortable.  "Paul," I squeaked.  "What do I do?"  I looked to him desperately as if he were a child-rearing oracle.  He shrugged nonchalantly.  I looked toward the monitor once again as Andrea sputtered and coughed, wondering if I'd be cleaning up mucus puke before midnight.  Soon I could hear her binky squeaking between sniffles, so I sunk back into my bed.  My eyes closed and I said my one thousandth prayer for her to sleep, or at least for some parental clarity for myself.  Do I go into her room and the risk of a hysterical reaction, or do I let her whine alone?  Do I insist she sleep in her bed where she's most likely to fall asleep, or do I risk her being awake all night by trying to let her rest on the couch with me?  Do I rub more essential oils on her feverish skin, or do I concede to a small dose of ibuprofen?  I waited for an epiphany and as dumbfounded silence filled my head I wondered if I was even asking the right questions.

Paul shut down his computer and informed me the best thing I can do for Andrea is turn off the monitor.  I looked at him like he was crazy as he stepped toward the bed and swiped his pillow.  "I'll sleep on the couch and listen for her.  Just turn off the monitor in here and try to get some rest."  Hesitantly, I kissed him good night and allowed him to leave me alone in the bed.  Guilt slipped in between the sheets to cuddle me as I wrestled my exhaustion.  I hated my weakness.  I yearned to be stronger.  I fought the urge march into the living room and relieve that man I love of his nightly watch.  Heaven answered my prayers with the strength of my husband, and it seemed a little ungrateful to decline such an offering.  And sometimes it's okay to not be the strong one all the time, right?

Sleep finally overtook me and my dreams consisted of holiday commercials and things that smell like pine.  I woke up around seven, feeling more rested than I've felt in months probably because Paul wasn't elbowing me in the face all night, so I tiptoed into the living room to check on my manly nightwatchman.  He was already awake, and his report was relatively good.  Andrea was alive, didn't cough up a mucus surprise, and was chattering happily in her crib.  Paul metaphorically handed me the care-giving baton as he dressed for work and I retrieved the child.  After such a solid night of sleep, I found wrestling a cranky and feverish toddler to be much more tolerable than usual, and my mental clarity was vastly more acute.  When I felt prompted to allow Andrea to nap on the couch, which usually ends in no nap at all, I acted upon the impression.  She "cwimb cwimbed" up onto the couch and happily curled up against me.  In the dark of my basement living room, I laid in complete shock as she quickly fell asleep.

For an hour and a half I held her warm and wheezing body, overwhelmed with love for her little soul, for the man who helped me bring her into the world, and for a loving Heavenly Father, who gave me both of them.

The day before May 4th

On May 4th, 2012, my husband walked across the stage and received his master's diploma at the University of Utah.  It had been an event we had been greatly anticipating and made many sacrifices for.  It was not only the graduation from classes, but the graduation from impoverished student life, constant business, late night paper writing, studying, and hectic and ever-changing schedules.  I began preparing for it weeks in advanced.  In February I bought red cups.  In March I started planning Ute themed confections.  In April I sewed a dress for Andrea.  I didn't think there was anything that could take away from my excitement.

But. . . twenty four hours before I sat in that hard red chair high above Paul in the Huntsman Center I was sitting in the hospital losing the baby I'd been growing for eight weeks.  I went through waves of shock, despair, and acceptance.  I had a feeling when I saw the positive pregnancy test three weeks before that this would not end in a baby.  I assumed the feeling came from my own insecurities about my relationship with the Lord.  We'd been through some rocky times, He and I, and I wondered after denying me so many heartfelt desires if this was one more too-good-to-be-true blessing that would not come to fruition.  I was ashamed of these thoughts and decided to tell immediate family and some close friends that we were expecting.  It was my way of showing the Lord I would trust Him this time.  But when I saw the blood on May 3rd, I knew that feeling wasn't insecurity at all.  It was revelation from my Heavenly Father preparing me for what was coming.

As I sat in the hospital waiting room, holding Paul's hand, I felt the most amazing feelings of love, comfort, and peace come over me.  I think that moment is when I really knew, without any uncertainty, the reality of my Heavenly Father and Savior. For I had never in my life felt them so near.

The next day I put on my brave face and Ute outfit for Paul's graduation.  That morning he received a job offer, which was an answer to our prayers.  That afternoon I sat with his parents for the commencement ceremony, and in the evening we congregated at their house for a celebratory dinner.  Someone asked Paul if he felt any different today.  He replied with a shoulder shrug.  "But, Paul," his mom said.  "Yesterday morning when you woke up you didn't have a Master's degree or a job!"  But he still had a baby, I thought.  I began to cry and tried to hide my face behind my husband, but not before my little niece saw my tears.  "Oh! Do you miss your baby?"  She asked as she touched my arm tenderly.  I could not speak, but I nodded.  Because I really really did.

Life was hard for a while. It's difficult to describe the emptiness one feels after a miscarriage.  It was hard to tell my family and friends that I wasn't going to having another little December baby after all.  I hated that I  had to put on maternity jeans because I bought them just days before the incident to replace my worn out pre-pregnancy pairs.  I hated that I still had to take prenatal vitamins when there was nothing inside me to benefit from those nasty yellow pills.

The passage of time healed some wounds, but I'd occasionally have a little breakdown when I tried to make sense of what happened on May 3rd.  Gradually, the time between mourning moments grew longer until I felt generally happy with life, happier than I had been in years actually, and I thought I was healed. But during the second week of school my philosophy teacher had us analyze a trial we recently went through and why it needed to happen in our life.  I wrote about the miscarriage and was surprised to find myself crying in class.  The truth was I still didn't know why that had to happen.  Why did I have to lose that baby?

As I philosophized, scenes from my new happy life were brought to my attention.  Since the miscarriage Paul and I grew closer together than we'd ever been before.  For the first time in my life I allowed myself to lean on him and share my burdens.  He, intern, opened himself up to me and allowed me to support and care for him in way I'd never been able to do.  Our strengthened relationship allowed us to love Andrea more fervently and feel joy in the family we'd created.  I felt like that impromptu philosophy lesson, not scheduled on the syllabus, was Heavenly Father's continual reassurance that He knows what I need.

Wednesday night I had miscarriage dream that darkened my mood on Thursday.  That afternoon, when my academic reading was completed, I spent some time on Pinterest as I waited for Andrea to wake up from her nap.  I stumbled upon a board of beautiful infant photography.  One particular picture caught my eye.  It was a little girl holding her new baby brother beneath the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree.  I was overwhelmed with sadness because just six months ago I thought I'd have a new baby in my arms just in time for Christmas.  I took a little time for a pity moment, but tried to move on with my day.  Last night I had another miscarriage dream.  This one was vivid, intense, and filled my heart with foreboding.  I awoke with tears streaming down my cheeks.  Heavenly Father came to my rescue again in the form of Elder Bowen's talk.

'I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you. Yet a little while, and the world seeth me no more; but ye see me: because I live, ye shall live also' (John 14:18-19).

A little reminder

I'm all signed up for classes, and today I ordered my parking pass.  My fears and anxieties are beginning to fade as excitement builds in my chest.  It's all I can do to not tell the cashier at the grocery store that I'm going back to school.  I only feel guilty at the burden I'm placing on Paul to be mommy and daddy Tuesday through Thursday evenings.  But I've been an education widow to a full-time student for the past three years.  Now it's Paul's turn.

Saturday one of my best friends got married.  As Paul and I pulled out of the driveway to attend the blessed event, we discovered my car had a flat tire.  Thank heavens we have two vehicles.  We loaded the car seat into Paul's Honda and took it up to Salt Lake.  As we merged on the freeway and the temperature in the car began to rise (both of our cars have broken A/C), anger began to bubble beneath my skin.  Sweet Paul tried to make sense of my sudden shift in mood as I tried to explain without crying, though I hardly understood it myself.  As the words left my lips, however, it became clear what my frustration was all about.

I wish I could say that day was atypical, but it wasn't.  Cars breaking down left and right is normal for us.  And as Paul sped down I-15, I could not imagine a world any different.  That's what made me so mad.  I felt doomed to starving student life, driving clunkers in constant disrepair, and having to make homemade wedding gifts because I can't afford something on the registry. .  I am ashamed of those feelings, but they were real.  Miraculously, God gifted my bitter heart with a tender mercy.  The air conditioning choked out enough puffs of cold air to keep us from showing up to the wedding dripping in sweat.  I probably didn't deserve it, but I'm glad to have received it.

This Sunday I got a new calling in my ward that has to do with scouting.  Scouting!  I know literally nothing about scouting except they decorate bland-colored shirts and carve pinewood derby cars.  Oh, and pee in camp fires.  I called my mom who told me I needed training and certification.  I'll have Pack Meetings, Round Table, and some kind of committee meeting.  I was completely overwhelmed.  How was I supposed to fit all this in to my school, family, and housekeeping schedule?  Thankfully, I was given a blessing on Sunday setting me apart for the job.  In the blessing I was told that I'd be able to find balance and my burdens would be made easy.  It was exactly what I needed to hear.

Sometimes I forget that the Lord is aware of me and that I matter.  But I do.  We all do.  This weekend it was nice to be reminded.

Primary

Sorry that last post was such a downer.  It wasn't meant to be a pity post, rather a little glimpse of a weak moment and the strength I found on this site.  Ever since I was called into Primary I've had trouble feeling close to my Savior.  I used to worry I was broken.  I watched men and women stand on Sundays and bear testimony of all the things they'd learned from the little children, and there I sat feeling disjointed somehow.  I even resented my calling a bit.

Through that trial I found comfort in two things.  The first was my limited interaction with the children. I'm mostly running around with armfuls of rolls and paperwork, not teaching.  How could I possibly gather bushels of humble, childlike insight when I’m not spending so much time with the children?

Even with that new attitude I desired adult Sunday School and Relief Society.  Between Andrea and “singing time” I didn’t feel like I was getting much in-depth instruction.  It took me almost a year to discover that my lack of spiritual progression was not because I wrestled a baby all through Sacrament Meeting.  It was not because I was in Primary and not an environment geared toward adult learning.  It was because I wasn't putting in my effort at home.  I was praying and reading my scriptures, but I wasn’t pouring my heart out to the Lord or feasting on the words of Christ.

I’m trying to do better, and in doing better I’ve not only found comfort in times of difficulty, but I’ve learned to not resent Primary.  In this more open state I allowed myself to be exposed to some amazingly funny things.

Most Sundays our resident super hero, Captain CTR, pays a visit to our Primary.  He spotlights children who’ve been choosing the right in their homes, at school, or in church.  As children move in to our ward I try to collect some spotlight-worthy information about the newcomers.  One little boy when asked what he did to choose the right said, “Spiderman!”  I asked him again, trying to prompt a different answer.  “Spiderman!” He said.
“Do you share your Spiderman?” I coaxed.
He smiled.  “Spiderman!”
I wrote it down.  Spiderman chooses the right. . . right?

Today I asked a little girl how she’s chosen the right.  She said, “I get rid of hiccups.”  I asked for another example and she said, “I visit my daddy’s work for a party.”  Good enough for me.

Last week Captain CTR said he was going to spotlight a boy.  A little four year old shouted, “I’m a boy!  I’m a boy!!”  Then he grabbed his pants to show us.  Awkward.

I spend so much time sitting in the back of the Primary room laughing that I should probably be paying the parents for this entertainment.

They come

Tuesday was just one of those days that I felt completely alone.  I woke up with tears in my eyes that seemed to linger for hours.  I did my best to ignore it.  I cleaned the kitchen, did a load of laundry, read books to Andrea, built towers, tore them down, picked up bath toys, and made the final edits to a wedding invitation for a friend.  But the moment I laid my little girl in her bed the distractions disappeared, and I found myself alone in my room facing the feelings head on.

The first emotion to rise to the surface was that loneliness. Not because I was the only one in the room, but because I had feelings of insecurity and fear I felt uncomfortable sharing with anyone.  Without a confidante to throw ideas around with I set in the computer chair fidgeting and staring at my e-mail.  I wished Andrea would have restless dreams and call for me, distracting me once more.  But she didn't call.  She slept soundly for three hours whilst I wrestled with the unsettled feeling in my soul.

As time passed the loneliness turned into sorrow.  After two silent hours fighting back tears, my creased forehead gave way to the dam waiting to explode from my eyes.  Streams if sadness morphed into heavy sobs that sounded so comical I almost forgot what they were for.  In my state of embarrassing blubbering I remembered a video I'd once seen.



"Some blessings come soon, some come late, and some don’t come until heaven; but for those who embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ, they come." -Jeffery R. Holland

Real life begins

Yesterday was a big day. Star Wars Day. May the 4th be with you. The day Paul walked across the stage, received his empty diploma case, moved his tassel from one side of his hat to the other, and said goodbye to school forever. It was also the day that he was offered his first big boy job as a Junior Commission Analyst (whatever that means). We couldn't be more thrilled!

Andrea wore her matching dress so stylishly.  She even left in her hairdo for the entire. . . walk to the car.  It's a start. . .

These too looked so cute together.  Andrea was a little frightened by his hat though.

We ended up in the nose bleed section at the graduation which was perfect since keeping Andrea quiet is nearly impossible.

Although, snacks helped a little.

The ceremony felt a little like a Vegas wedding.  They had to read off over 800 names and it took just under two hours.  My father-in-law did manage to get a picture of Paul amidst the chaos right after he got his "diploma".

I tried to match also but ran out of time to make a matching skirt.

I am so proud of this guy.  He began working toward his bachelor's at UVU just after we started dating.  In four years he earned not only that bachelor's degree but a master's at the U of U as well.  There has been blood, sweat, and tears.  We added a baby to our family.  I felt like a single mom.  He spent nights sleeping at school because by the time he commuted home he would have had to turn around and go back.  We scrimped, saved, starved, did without a lot, and wondered if there would ever be an end to student life.  Yesterday's graduation AND job offer gave us the answer we'd so diligently sought.  Yes.  Yes, there is an end and we made it-- alive.  Now REAL life can begin.

This week, while filled with joyous events and miracles, was also a very challenging one for me.  As I experienced a particularly difficult trial I was often reminded of the love my Heavenly Father has for my family.  I saw His hand in all things and am grateful for the peace He brings.  But for those moments when I was too distraught to recognize that peace, I was given an angel-- An angel who held my hand, joked with me, and promised to be strong so I didn't have to be.  I'm so grateful that he's stuck with me forever.

Congratulations Master Paul!  I'm so proud of you, and I love you!

Prayer

You may have noticed I changed the color of my blog.  It's suppose to be red in preparation for Paul's matchy-matchy graduation, but it actually looks very pink.  It's the thought that counts, right?  [Update: fixed it!]

Oh man, my class starts this week.  Paul graduates next week.  Paul and I are planning a trip to Illinois in June.  We'll be driving. . .  My birthday is also in June, and you know what that means?  Andrea will start going to the nursery at church.  I'm so excited!

It seems like a lot of exciting things are currently happening in my life and I go through phases of relishing in the adrenaline of it all.  But lately, it's been really hard to get pumped up about the happy things because of all the sad things happening right now.

One of my best friends has a son a year and a half older than Andrea who was just diagnosed with a heart condition that is going to require risky heart surgery with potential for a few difficult complications.  He seemed like a perfectly healthy little boy until at a wellness check the doctor thought he heard a heart murmur.  That heart murmur turned out to be a constricted aorta.  The doctor told my friend he was surprised her son had lived this long.  I've been praying for him everyday that he stays safe until his surgery next week and that everything will go well.  I've also been praying for my friend and her husband that they will have peace in this difficult time.

My mother probably doesn't want mentioned in this blog post so . . . A female relative of mine (who I can neither confirm or deny may or may not have given birth to me) had a hysterectomy about five weeks ago.  It seemed she was healing nicely until she had a rather rare and serious complication last week that had her family worried and frightened.  It has been so hard for me to see this mysterious female relative is so much pain because she's one of the strongest ladies I've ever met.  I'm thankful to be living so close to her so I can be as helpful as possible while she recovers.  I'm also thankful for the ward members who've brought her family meals.  I know she feels like she is a burden, but she's not.  She has given so much service to others, and it has been refreshing to be able to give back to her.  I'm praying for her as well.

My grandmother also had to have emergency surgery as is currently healing from that trauma.  I wish she wasn't 1,400 miles away so I could be of some use to her as well.  Thankfully, she has children living close that are watching over her. Praying for her too?  You bet.

Andrea is becoming so patient during mommy's long prayers.  We give her little cheers when she's reverent through the whole thing.

Sometimes when all I can do is pray for someone in need it doesn't feel like the most productive course of action.  But there really is power in prayer.  A loving Heavenly Father is listening and answering when we pray.  I have felt so much comfort as I've poured my heart out to Him.  And I have felt so alone when I've forgotten to do so.  I hope teaching my daughter the power of prayer will be a blessing in her life and give her hope in a world of uncertainty and turmoil.

For the bullies

I've been thinking a lot about bullying for the past few months. I suppose there is irony in all of the anti-bullying campaigns because in that same breath people are so quick to tweet and flood the internet with hate. I'm pondering deleting my facebook because every time I log on my feed is full of venomous articles and statuses. I've also thought about shouting out my hurt and filling cyberspace with rebuttals and hypocritical exposés. But that's just it. I would be doing the same thing I so strongly dislike. Last week in General Conference Elder Holland said, "Be kind and be grateful that God is kind." So I will keep my silent vigil on controversial topics because I don't think I'm ready to say something nice. (And you know what Thumper says. . .)

Many of my favorite blogs have lightly touched or deeply bit into riotous topics, and I was tempted to share my voice with the chorus. I, at times, felt shame because my hesitance was brought about by cowardice. But as I've examined myself and my intentions I realized I was not scared as much as I was concerned-- concerned my thoughts would hurt someone they way I've been hurt.

It is often difficult for me to be in a confrontation. I was bullied as a child and became very defensive. In high school I was quick to make sassy remarks to those who might try hurting me. Once I was told, “You teach people how to treat you.” Since I didn’t want to be walked over, I tried to demand respect.

I carried this attitude from my locker straight into adult life. But it was not a peaceful way of life. It still isn’t when I choose to go down that road. Christ taught, “Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloak forbid not to take thy coat also.” (Luke 6:27-29) I guess people will learn how to treat me by the way I act, but it's not my job to teach them.

I am also learning it is more important to be righteous than right. It is also harder. Restraining my first reaction and replacing it with one more thought over takes more patience than I have some days.  But when I try to approach conflict and biting remarks with kindness my relationship with my husband and family are better, and I feel happier.

Conference lift

I've struggled writing the past couple of weeks.  Mid-month I had a slew of thoughts that seemed to ooze out of my fingers effortlessly and compile themselves into paragraphs and stories.  But once those thoughts had officially evacuated I was left feeling vulnerable with a BAD case of writer's block.  I sat down so many times to write something only to stare blankly at a white page and a blinking courser.  Repeatedly, I begged that man I love to tell me what to write about.  After I continuously rejected his suggestions, guilt overwhelmed me, and I wrote about Andrea's new favorite word because it was important to him.  A small part of me thought if I just wrote something inspiration would once again fill the empty chasms in my head.  It did not.

So I rubbed my two brain cells together and tried to identify the problem.  After a brief conversation with my little sister where she asked me what I wanted to write about, I realized that my problem wasn't having nothing to write.  It was having too many personal things to write.

So here I sit, on my eighth (no joke) attempt to write beyond this point.

Friday before I saved and give up writing all together, I typed "I feel like a loser" and shut down my laptop.  But after watching General Conference this weekend I can actually say I feel renewed.  So many of my personal issues were addressed, and I'm left with hope.

With my renewed spirit I've begun making a dress for Andrea that will look smashing on Paul's graduation day.  I've started reading a new book.  That's one of my goals for the month-- to read the book club book and another book on the side.  I spent some time baking at my mom's house, and once the men left for the priesthood session Saturday night, us ladies youtubed some classic 70's hits and danced till our feet hurt.  Literally.

I'm so grateful for my family.  I would be lonely if they weren't so close.  Sometimes I just need to lighten up a little and my sisters and my mom and my goofy little brother and my dad just make me laugh until I'm sore.

The calm before the storm

I seems that the last few months have been full of worries.  From what I've observed, worries are like dirty clothes.  If not taken care of they pile up.  But almost all of my current worries seem quite out of my control.

And it's no secret I have control issues.

So I have tried a few different things to help me handle these worries.  The first was journaling.  My poor journal, pink and Asian, had been withering underneath my bed for almost three years holding only a couple entries documenting my married life.  Oi.  In high school I was an avid journalist who regurgitated my ridiculous teenage thoughts and upsets onto the pages of some unfortunate paper.  After Paul and I started dating I just got out of the habit

A month ago, as I felt tension building around me, I retreated to staring at pictures of furniture and wallowing in ingratitude.  When I realized the harm it was causing my spirit I dusted off my journal where I began writing down the blessings that surrounded me.  The power of prayer, the opportunity I have to be with my daughter every day, a hard working man who loves me, no shinsplints after a long walk, clean water to drink, a dishwasher, beautiful music, my imperfect body. . . but as thankful as my days ended, they often began with feelings of fear and worry.

And because I didn't properly cleanse myself of job-after-graduation worries, my-father's-health worries, my-mother's-health worries, my-mother-in-law's-health worries, family-job-situation worries, calling worries, Andrea worries, and Paul worries piled up, filled their figurative laundry baskets, and overflowed onto the floor.

Stinky, piling-up worry.

Yesterday I laid down for a nap, because I had exhausted myself crying, but before I shut my eyes I was enveloped by the darkness that I was nurturing in my soul.  Then I remembered a scripture.  "For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." (2 Timothy 1:7)

If I had power and a sound mind as I'd been promised, than I had the ability to push away this worry.  I closed my eyes and repeated the scripture to myself until I fell asleep.

Today I feel peace.  Real peace.  Nothing has changed.  People I love are still sick.  Future jobs and stability are still just dreamed about.  But I feel calmer, relaxed, and happy.  I want to keep these feelings for a long time, so I'm ignoring that worried little voice asking if this is just the calm before the storm.

Not to pin

This is was kinda how I was feeling yesterday:

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Andrea and the computer don't mix.  If I get on at all during her waking hours she's immediately at my side tapping my leg indicating she wants on my lap.  She doesn't just sit and watch either.  She wants to type like mommy.  I know I've sent out some interesting Primary e-mails because I was in such a hurry to finish so the child crying at my feet could have some attention.

When I put my sweet child to bed, I am finally able to decompress and spend some time online staring at the IKEA website or lovely blogs with brightly colored furniture.  After an hour of this I am ready for bed and start encouraging Paul to join me.  He resists going to bed at nine.  Weird.  So we compromise and I nap while he finishes tax homework or gets three stars in Angry Birds.

At least, I try to nap, but when I close my eyes I see yellow dressers and purple couches and turquoise chairs and orange mirrors and black cribs and red picture frames and an angry bird being hurled at all of them.  It's not relaxing.  Giving up on the nap I sit up in bed, grab a Reader's Digest, and stew about how ugly I find the mismatched furniture in my bedroom.  Then I wonder if I'll ever be able to buy a proper bed frame.

Last night as Paul joined me in bed we knelt across from each other in preparation for prayers.  He asked me to pray (as he does five out of the seven nights a week) but instead of praying I blurted out, "I don't think I can ever join Pinterest!"  He probably doesn't even know what that is as I have yet to see a man with an account.  But he didn't inquire what it was rather why I was opposed.  I told him about my dreams and the images burned in my retinas.

He said it sounded like coveting.

"No!" I defended.  "I'm not coveting.  I'm just struggling to feel gratitude for what I have when I see all of the things I don't."  As soon as the words came out of my mouth I realized it DID, in fact, sound a lot like coveting.  What a coincidence. . .

Neal A. Maxwell said:

Myopic selfishness magnifies a mess of pottage and makes thirty pieces of silver look like a treasure trove. In our intense acquisitiveness, we forget Him who once said, “What is property unto me?”

I think it's time for a break from the IKEA website and beautiful DIY blogs, and I should start that gratitude journal I've been talking about for years.

P.S. This is just too cute.  She no longer wants us to cut her food up, but she gets a little too eager to eat it whole.

A teacher

I loved watching my second grade teacher, a short and stout, grey-haired woman named Mrs. Shannon, teach multiplication and read Arthur books.  She was kind, personable, strong, and smart.  Basically everything I aspired to be.  On a chilly Fall day while cutting out construction paper leaves, I decided, at seven years old, if my plans to become a cartoon Disney character didn't turn out then I would teach.  In junior high, I picked the grade that seemed most enticing and during high school my choice was solidified by my discomfort around small children.  I wanted to teach high school English.

The English major at BYU was not what I expected.  I had no passion for it.  If I was throwing thousands of dollars and four years of my life at something, I had to feel passionate about it.  While trudging through my generals I stumbled across a major that brought fire and desire into my soul.  It was a major worthy of my money, so I quickly changed directions.  The more I delved into that major the more conformation I received that it was right for me.  It was not conventional and didn't translate easily to high school curriculum, yet I was optimistic.  I would still find a way to teach.

Then. . . I got married and had to put school on hold.  As I unregistered for classes I waved goodbye to some future dreams and went into mourning.  Thankfully, just one month into my life as a newlywed I was extended a church calling to TEACH TEENAGERS.  It was obvious to me that Heavenly Father knew the desires of my heart.  I looked forward to Sundays every week and gained a great fondness for the adolescents of that ward.  When we moved a year later I wept.  I'm not talking about a few well place tears or a lip quiver.  There was blubbering and mascara waterfalls.

In my new ward I was called to the Primary Presidency as the secretary.  This calling is so flexible in terms of nursing, diaper changes, walking the halls with a fussy child, but best of all is Andrea can be a little noisy without much notice.  She loves watching the children and dancing during singing time.  Unfortunately, this calling does not require me to teach.  I've missed the Saturday night lesson plans, personal epiphanies, and my mind has wondered down some well-traveled roads of discouragement and self-pity.

January's visiting teaching message was on the importance of visiting teaching.  After reading the initial message I wasn't feeling super uplifted.  I decided to research the topic further to better understand what it was Heavenly Father wanted me to learn and teach about this.  As I was preparing my lesson, a little voice said to me, "See?  You're still a teacher."  And I recognized another tender mercy.

The gentle reminder that I was still a teacher opened my eyes to a myriad of opportunities I am given every day to hone these skills.  This morning, over a messy breakfast of applesauce and oatmeal, I patiently showed Andrea how to hold her spoon.  She snatched it from my hand, stabbed the bottom of the bowl rhythmically while I sang "Do Your Ears Hang Low," and licked the tip with her tiny, pink tongue.

Guess what?

I taught her that. . . because I'm a teacher.