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.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Brobee birthday
Last Thursday my little nephew turned two. As I listened to the plans for his special day I noticed a cake was not mentioned. I asked if I could make one. His mother consented, giving one simple instruction. It had to be chocolate. My nephew loves chocolate!
My sister-in-law was throwing a Yo Gabba Gabba party, complete with hats, napkins, figurines, noise makers, and other Gabba paraphernalia. I've done a lot of cupcakes lately, and I immediately formed some ideas for Brobee cupcakes. He seems to be Jax's favorite.
But the more I thought about it, the more I felt a full-sized cake would make a much bigger impact on a two year old. Around 3:00 P.M. I mixed up my first batter, and just before 11:00 P.M. I slipped the finished product in the fridge. It was a record for me. Layers of chocolate cake, whipped ganache, and fresh raspberries marinated over night whilst I awaited the big reveal of my. . . .
We sang to Jax and he blew out the candle so well we lit it again and let him blow it out a second time. While we cleared a spot on the counter for cake cutting, Jax examined the smooth fondant. He poked, stroked, wiggled, and walked his fingers along the cake until we had to rush it away after his finger went up his nose. He was served a piece and after each bite exclaimed, "Yummy!" It was worth every minute spent on that cake for his reaction.
Here's a video of him in action in case you don't know who he is.
Andrea prefers Foofa.
Brobee cake!
Jax saw the cake and said, "Oh! Brobee!" I was so excited that he could actually recognize him.
Unfortunatly. . . Brobee went to a party. . . a party in our tummy. . .
Saturday, August 11, 2012
My first love
I don't think I can remember many times in my life where I've lack more confidence than I do now. At the end of this month I am going back to school, hoping to complete my degree by 2015. It's been less than two years since I've walked the musky halls of an old college building, but it feels as though I'm stepping out of the 1800's to a new bizarre world of learning. My last semester was during my third trimester. Andrea was born the first day of finals week, and just 3 days postpartum I waddled on to campus for my exams. Sitting in the JSB testing center, tears streamed down my face. Each chair that squeaked sounded just like my precious newborn cuddled in the arms of another human seven miles away. I feel as though a decade has past since I was that young mom, and I'm full of fear.
Because the feeling of youth has generally left me, I find myself worrying if my feeble mind is up to the task of educational rigor. Will my rate of retention be equal to that of my younger self? How will it feel to be the old mom on the class of eighteen year old whipper-snappers? How will I keep up with my household responsibilities or cope with not being home to lay my daughter down to sleep every night? I've already made a lengthy mental list of all the reasons I shouldn't do this.
But a fire of learning burns in my soul and yearns to prove itself. My inner voice tells me school will only be more difficult the longer I wait. My husband supports me and wants me to know what it feels like to stare at that embossed diploma. After all, he has two. So I've signed up for classes, readied my work station, and prayed hard, so hard the tension of my words being forced to heaven have pushed me prostrate on the floor night after night.
The upcoming back-to-school date has become my new deadline. Sewing projects, cleaning assignments, and copious amounts of socializing must be completed now to fill the void I will create myself as I withdraw from society a bit for the sake of essays and assignments. And I find it somewhat amusing that the rhythm of life I resisted for so long is being so disrupted just as I've come to love it so dearly.
So, please, if you see me at the grocery store and I burst into tears, know it's how I fight away insanity. And if you see me on campus and I'm glowing, know it's because as hard as this next chapter may prove to be, learning was that first love I never got over.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Binky
I've never really wanted Andrea to stay a baby forever. I was always excited when she developed a new skill or met another milestone. Even though I've often marveled at how quickly time passes with her running circles around my ankles I've never wished it backwards. But today I caught myself crying as I faced the decision to wean my little munchkin off her pacifier (a.k.a. binky).
My mother told me her children were binky-free by the age of one, and the pressure to keep up with that standard had been weighing on me. In May I began planning the event. In June we went to Illinois; I felt she still needed it for comfort and familiarity as she slept in many new places. After our return home I thought it might be time. However, I've spent the last month subconsciously delaying this process, not because of the potential sleepless nights, but because that binky, in conjunction to diapers, is the last evidence of her infancy. Taking away binky means no more baby. For the first time, I'm finding myself wishing she could just stay my baby for a little longer.
Despite my emotional protest, I began operation "Binky Wean" this afternoon by snipping a tiny hole in the tip of Andrea's binky. My mother used this method with her children-- each day the binky gets a tiny snip. As the binky grows increasingly uncomfortable in the child's mouth, the child decides to reject it. Andrea, however, didn't need days of snipping. She noticed right away. At nap time she nestled into her comfy place in her bed, wrapped her arms around the neck of her bear, and plopped in her binky. It took less than two seconds for her to feel a difference and pull it out for inspection. I ran from the room, afraid to witness the scene. But from the comfort of my bed, I listened to her reaction on the monitor.
"Oh no!" She cried. "Where it go? Nanananan binky? Binky!" She wailed. The new thing I'd handed her clearly wasn't her binky, and she wanted hers back. The whining continued as she wondered aloud what fate could have possible befallen her little rubber friend. I googled whilst she jabbered, hoping to find a way to handle my complete lack of resolve. She eventually drifted off, sans binky.
Tonight I bathed her. I let her play until she was pruney as I put off bedtime, but bedtime could only be delayed so long before she'd start to get cranky. Fussy, no binky, dark room. . . Yeah, perhaps not the best equation for weaning, so when the floor of the bathroom was sufficiently soaked I drained the tub and plucked out her dripping body. Jammies, brushed teeth, and a bedtime story later I walk into her room, holding the being I once carried in my womb. I lifted her tiny body over the threshold of her crib and handed her that mutilated binky. The ceremony ending her infancy was complete. She refused the binky, and I left the room. But from that cursed monitor I again heard her little voice, "Binky? Where binky? Where it go? Mama! Binky? Oh no."
I felt my heart fall from my chest to the floor and each step from her room was trampling the broken pieces that trailed behind me. "Paul," I whispered. "I'm not ready."
He smiled that beautifully permissive smile. "Then don't do it." He said, and those words freed me from the drudgery of the situation as I ran back to her room, retrieved an untouched binky, and gave it to my little baby. She took it in her mouth happily and wrapped an arm around her bear.
Maybe next month.
My mother told me her children were binky-free by the age of one, and the pressure to keep up with that standard had been weighing on me. In May I began planning the event. In June we went to Illinois; I felt she still needed it for comfort and familiarity as she slept in many new places. After our return home I thought it might be time. However, I've spent the last month subconsciously delaying this process, not because of the potential sleepless nights, but because that binky, in conjunction to diapers, is the last evidence of her infancy. Taking away binky means no more baby. For the first time, I'm finding myself wishing she could just stay my baby for a little longer.
Despite my emotional protest, I began operation "Binky Wean" this afternoon by snipping a tiny hole in the tip of Andrea's binky. My mother used this method with her children-- each day the binky gets a tiny snip. As the binky grows increasingly uncomfortable in the child's mouth, the child decides to reject it. Andrea, however, didn't need days of snipping. She noticed right away. At nap time she nestled into her comfy place in her bed, wrapped her arms around the neck of her bear, and plopped in her binky. It took less than two seconds for her to feel a difference and pull it out for inspection. I ran from the room, afraid to witness the scene. But from the comfort of my bed, I listened to her reaction on the monitor.
"Oh no!" She cried. "Where it go? Nanananan binky? Binky!" She wailed. The new thing I'd handed her clearly wasn't her binky, and she wanted hers back. The whining continued as she wondered aloud what fate could have possible befallen her little rubber friend. I googled whilst she jabbered, hoping to find a way to handle my complete lack of resolve. She eventually drifted off, sans binky.
Tonight I bathed her. I let her play until she was pruney as I put off bedtime, but bedtime could only be delayed so long before she'd start to get cranky. Fussy, no binky, dark room. . . Yeah, perhaps not the best equation for weaning, so when the floor of the bathroom was sufficiently soaked I drained the tub and plucked out her dripping body. Jammies, brushed teeth, and a bedtime story later I walk into her room, holding the being I once carried in my womb. I lifted her tiny body over the threshold of her crib and handed her that mutilated binky. The ceremony ending her infancy was complete. She refused the binky, and I left the room. But from that cursed monitor I again heard her little voice, "Binky? Where binky? Where it go? Mama! Binky? Oh no."
I felt my heart fall from my chest to the floor and each step from her room was trampling the broken pieces that trailed behind me. "Paul," I whispered. "I'm not ready."
He smiled that beautifully permissive smile. "Then don't do it." He said, and those words freed me from the drudgery of the situation as I ran back to her room, retrieved an untouched binky, and gave it to my little baby. She took it in her mouth happily and wrapped an arm around her bear.
Maybe next month.
Monday, July 23, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, July 20, 2012
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
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
Monday, July 16, 2012
House projects
I have a love/hate relationship with renting. I love that if something breaks the landlord fairy comes and fixes it, but ever since I've been married I've never truly unpacked and completely settled in to either apartment we've lived in. I always have this temporary feeling that's kept me from really making my space homey. However, our two year anniversary of moving into this apartment is right around the corner and I've decided some of my hesitations are just silly. Therefore, some little projects have taken place to hopefully get me out of this rut.
Here was my living room before with large baron walls.
And here was project number one. Using scrapbook pater I bought at Wal-Mart for $5.00, I created a collage matching the color pallet of our hand-me-down couches.
Then I found this little baby at a yard sale, also for $5.00, and I thought it had a lot of potential.
Using some spray paint I already had, I painted the gold and red base a lovely shade of neutral grey.
I eventually would like to replace the shade with a white drum
Like this one.
I think the changes, although small (and cheap) have already made my living room more homey. The day I added the lamp Paul and I put Andrea to bed and then stood in the kitchen admiring how different our space felt. It made me wonder why it took me so long.
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