Are You My Mother?

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When Everything Is Going Well...

...Does It Feel Like It Has Always Been That Way?

And When Everything Falls Apart, Does It Feel Like It Will Always Be That Way?

A friend asked me this question several months ago. She and I both agreed that when it's good, we feel that it has always been great and will be rosy from here on out. And when it's a mess, it feels so hopelessly like it has always been that way and will always continue to be that way.

So I started an informal poll of people I talk to and found that the vast majority (all but one) feel this same sort of narrow view. (Hats off to the one!!)

I've heard my brain tell me what a perfect marriage I truly do have only to be shocked a few weeks later that it is not. And I've felt that I would actually trade my children in for any others that were available because there's no way to fix the mess I've made.

This is not a healthy mental attitude, I've decided. It's too black and white. And it can't be what the Lord wants us to feel. So it must be from that Other Guy.

But, what do I do about it?

What Can We Do About The Hurting and Shouting?

In a family counsel at dinner last night, the topic was one unnamed person's hurting and shouting and what we should do about it.

Most of the ideas ran along the lines of time-out and extra chores.

Chas's solution: "Dad and I could move somewhere else. Like maybe a different country. Like maybe Utah."

Do My Kids Think I'm Angry All The Time?

Because I feel angry all the time.

What Was I Thinking?

I was thinking how laid-back and easy going he was. (It was an act.)

Perhaps I was thinking that it was exotic to marry a Canadian.

I think I might have been thinking that we would lie on the grass as he expounded the scriptures to me. (Not too much grass lying has happened since we got married.)

I think I thought life would be a fun ride with him.

I know I was thinking that he said his dream was to live the Gospel.

I wasn't thinking that I would never worry for a day whether he would provide for his family.

I wasn't thinking how his cow-milking work ethic would sustain our marriage in rough patches.

I wasn't thinking that our first date, which cost no money, was a sign of future frugality.

I didn't know how grateful he would be for some of my talents. (Job-security for me.)

I didn't know that I would always feel like the most beautiful, talented woman on the planet in his eyes.

I didn't know how similar we were. Or how young. Or how immature.

I wasn't thinking how much he might need me. I didn't know how much I needed him.

Ten years in, I think it's all working out quite well.

Could It Get Any Worse?

Somehow I found myself as the volunteer parent in the swimming pool with my kids' classes this Monday. I thought it would be OK when I agreed to help. I thought Chas would have fun in the pool. I had forgotten that I am a hippopotamus. I had forgotten that my maternity swimming suit has a dumb skirt that looks ridiculous and floats up around my armpits in the pool. I forgot to shave my legs. I hadn't realized that I would need to help by herding children from one pool to the other, cheering them on in the change room, and other duties that require frequent pool exits. And I definitely didn't know that about a dozen other (skinny, make-up wearing, fully-clothed) mothers would hang around on the pool deck the entire time.

Could it get any worse?

Of course.

Today there was a fire drill at the pool. So the half-naked hippo with the dumb skirt had to stand with all the other mothers making chit-chat near the emergency exits while the life guards figured out whether we were about to be incinerated. I think I almost would have chosen flames.

Do You Want People To Clap Between Each Song...

...or Wait 'Till The End So It Doesn't Distract You?

Eliza has her Graduation Piano Recital today. She'll play 14 little songs at our house and then we'll have munchies. The ketchup chips are the part she is most excited about.

When I asked her whether she would like me to ask everyone not to clap between each (30 second) song so she didn't get distracted she responded with a big smile,

"The more clapping the better."

Really?

"I'm going to take you to school today in my pajamas, so we're not late."

"Umm...Really?!"

As if the 3-week unmowed grass full of dandelions, the everything-under-the-sun-stored-in-here carport, and the 30-inch weeds growing in the walkway aren't enough. Now I have to go and take the girls to school in my pink-flowered-can't-be-mistaken-for-clothes pajamas.

I'm hitting bottom.

Do You Want Me To Do More In Relief Society?

Several weeks ago I gave a workshop at a Relief Society Evening. Until then I hadn't met the Stake Relief Society President. And she didn't come to my presentation, so I still don't really know her.

Last week the Relief Society Secretary sent out a general email asking for feedback on the Relief Society Evening and what we would like to see taught next year. I replied with quite a long list of ideas for topics I would be interested in seeing.

Yesterday I received this email from the Stake Relief Society President:

"I feel impressed to share with you a quote from Boyd K. Packer: 'Your every need shall be fulfilled, now, and in the eternities; every neglect will be erased; every abuse will be corrected. All this can come to you and come quickly, when you devote yourself to Relief Society.' I haven't always known the truthfulness of this generous promise but I do now, and pray that it will be yours as you need it."

I don't get it.

Is she suggesting that I should be more devoted to Relief Society than I am? (I LOVE Relief Society)

And what I really want to know is--Are the neglects and abuses that will be erased and corrected the ones I am perpetrating or the ones I may have endured? Somehow I think it's the latter, but what I really need is the former.

Why Does Christ Descend From Bathsheba?

I've wondered about this for a while. Somehow it didn't seem right for his genealogy to descend from fornication and murder, especially when there were even other wives of David that seemed more suitable (i.e. righteous.) But I have a theory now.

Christ's lineage is one of kings (Solomon) and sinners (David) and converts (Ruth) and prophets (Abraham). It is not chance that His lineage does not follow the most righteous line from Adam to Seth to Noah and down. Just as it was not chance that He was born in a stable. It includes representation of all types of people.

Christ is truly God to all the world--to every race and caste and religion, to every level of righteousness, to converts and to the original chosen people, and...

...to me.

Answer #5--Something Is Better Than Nothing

A couple of weeks ago I helped package up shoes and clothes and toys for nine orphanages in Africa. I asked several times, "Will they use this?" or "Is this helpful to them?" The woman in charge looked at me like I was crazy to suggest that Africans might not find Elmo stuffed animals, or fleece pajamas, or gold high heels helpful. The truth is she hasn't ever been to Africa.

I kept hearing the cynical, educated voice in my head say, "Don't impose our Western way of life on a culture that works in its own way." Later, with teary eyes, she told me that many of these children would get shoes for the first time in their lives because of our shipment. I cringed as I heard my internal voice argue that maybe life was OK without shoes. Is life OK without shoes? I don't know. I've never been to Africa. I've never had a moment without shoes unless I took them off intentionally.

And so I've spent a while digesting this experience. And I've decided that it falls into a category where I find myself too often--I think I'll do nothing until I know just the right thing to do.

No good.

Here's one of the lessons I learned when Chas was in the hospital. People asked what they could do. I mostly held them off and told them I'd let them know when I figured out what would be helpful. The truth is, I was too confused to know what would be helpful. I was waiting for just the right thing to ask them to do. The one, very most helpful thing I could think of, so that I would not use their help needlessly.

Many of them did not wait for me, but found things to do anyway. There were flowers and food. There were cards and emails and balloons. There were gas gift certificates and Happy Meals for my children. There were Franklin DVDs from the library and a CD player for the hospital room. There were Conference talks and phone calls and people who sensitively didn't stay too long when they visited. There was a bag that included fingernail clippers and a new toothbrush. There was a list of all 34 temple prayer-rolls that had been called. I think the list of helpful things people did could go on endlessly.

The point is, there was nothing that wasn't helpful at some level. Something is always better than nothing.

Sometimes we strike upon a way to fill the need perfectly. A few years ago my mother broke both of her arms. Her brother showed up with an electric toothbrush. Now that was a perfect match!

But, more often than not, we don't know how to fill the need exactly. Better for the need, and so much better for our own souls, to offer something rather than nothing.

Can't We Stop Time?

...please?

Why Can't I Go To Bed Without Someone Here To Tell Me To?

Because when Dallin's away I read poetry late into the night. And watch BYU Devotionals. And look at James Christensen art and Norman Rockwell art, and even Jackson Pollock art online. And I dabble in the piano. And I chat with long lost girlfriends on the phone. And I go through my filing cabinets and throw stacks of stuff away. And then an hour after I fall into bed, someone small wets their bed. Or wets my bed. Or has a bad dream about bears.

When Dallin's away I get no sleep. I think I need a mother. I need the reverse of an alarm clock.

Is Everything Exactly The Same As I Left It?

Because the Vancouver Airport is far away, we often combine Dallin's departure on business trips with another excursion that takes us away from the house for many hours or several days.

This always seems like a good idea, logistically.

...Until the moment late at night when I have to drive up our half kilometer driveway to our big, dark house with three sleeping kids, a pounding heart, and my logic and my imagination duking it out.

This time I left a few lights on, which helped. But there is always the moment of pulling into the garage, getting out of the car and opening the laundry room door that nearly stops my heart dead with fear.

It is the same feeling I had dozens of time as a teenager when the Colossus roller coaster at Lagoon (the one that goes upside down twice) would pause at the crest of the hill before it plummeted downward.

These are short moments filled with
desperate, sincere prayer.
I thank God for the gift of the Comforter.

When Can We Go Again?

We ate at Mexican restaurants. We took a nap. We hiked to nowhere. And we saw a mediocre musical.

It was wonderful!

When can we leave our kids for 55 hours and do it all again?

Am I The Only Person On The Planet Who Can Not Multi-Task?

A friend asked me many months ago what I think about while I'm cleaning house and doing other "brainless" tasks. So, I took note next time I was folding laundry: "Hmm.. there's a stain. Fold arms in. Fold front down. Check tag. Size 7. Probably Eliza's. Put in pile. Now towel. Fold. Fold. Fold. Fold. Now Underwear. Why do I fold these at all? Now socks..." I took note next time I was mopping the floor: "Scrub. Scrub. Forward. Back. More water. Scrub. Scrub. Wring. Wring." and it was the same for washing dishes, cleaning toilets, and weeding the garden.

Apparently this friend, and many others I have checked with think about real things as they fold or mop or wash or weed. They decide what they'll teach at family home evening. They remember our conversation and think of wise advice to pass onto me next time we speak. They wonder about their children's relationships. They ponder over doctrine!

I don't get it at all. I think "fold, fold." "Scrub, scrub."

In a workshop I gave a couple of weeks ago I used a quote that said that the measure of a person's character is what they think about when they have nothing to think about. What does it mean that I think "scrub" and "fold"?

But, it all falls apart if I think about anything else. Even when I try to do more than one mindless job at the same general time as another mundane task. Today for example. I decided to make bread, pizza dough, and cinnamon buns in succession since I would have all of the ingredients out. Meanwhile changing laundry every now and then and interacting with my children a tiny bit. Here was the result:

I washed three over-stuffed loads of laundry (and dried them) with the water level setting to "very small" load. (The clothes don't smell so great, but I think I'm going to fold them anyway.)

I forgot that I was kneading bread in the electric mixer and left to get my sick kids set up watching a movie. Which turned out to involve finding and watching three previews online to help them decide which one to watch, getting Dallin to fix the DVD player, and overseeing a negotiation between "Barbie Rapunzel" and "Bats and Balls." When I came back to the mixer (about 20 minutes later), some of the bread dough had overflowed onto the counter and the floor, some had entwined itself into the spring-motor thing above the dough hook attachment and was spreading black motor grease stuff throughout the bread, the motor was making strange noises, and the casing was about 300 degrees Fahrenheit. I picked out the black parts. Now the bread is rising.

I put an empty pitcher into the little sink in our island to fill with water, left for some reason or another, began vacuuming, and returned to flood across the island, waterfalls in the cupboards, and lake across the floor. (This is the third time I've had this exact fiasco.)

And I forgot to take Chas to the highlight of his week-hockey class.

Why do I do these things? Inability to multi-task, I've decided.

Another friend says, "Multitasking is the bad word of the 90s." I think I agree with her. A little bit like I cherish the sign on my mother's fridge: "Dull women have immaculate homes." Not because I actually think that, but because it comforts me in my ineptitude.

Is Robert Browning Right?

Oh, please, please let it be true.

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in His hand

Who saith "A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

...Not for such hopes and fears

Annulling youth's brief years,

Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!

Rather I prize the doubt

Low kinds exist without,

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,

Were man but formed to feed

On joy, to solely seek and find and feast:

Such feasting ended, then

As sure an end to men;

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied

To That which doth provide

And not partake, effect and not receive!

A spark disturbs our clod;

Nearer we hold of God

Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff

That turns earth's smoothness rough,

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!

Be our joys three-parts pain!

Strive, and hold cheap the strain;

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

...Not once beat "Praise be Thine!

I see the whole design,

I, who saw power, see now love perfect too:

Perfect I call Thy plan:

Thanks that I was a man!

Maker, remake, complete,--I trust what Thou shalt do!"

...Therefore I summon age

To grant youth's heritage,

Life's struggle having so far reached its term:

Thence shall I pass, approved

A man, for aye removed

From the developed brute; a god though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon

Take rest, ere I be gone

Once more on my adventure brave and new:

Fearless and un-perplexed,

When I wage battle next,

What weapons to select, what armour to indue.

...Youth ended, I shall try

My gain or loss thereby;

Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:

And I shall weigh the same,

Give life its praise or blame:

Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

...So, take and use Thy work:

Amend what flaws may lurk,

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!

My times be in Thy hand!

Perfect the cup as planned!

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

(Robert Browning)

If A Husband And Wife Vote For Different Candidates...

...Do Their Votes "Cancel Each Other Out"?

Absolutely not!

Why Is It OK To Say That?

It has become obvious to strangers that I am expecting. This state of affairs seems to silently invite everyone's opinions.

Last night at the PAC (PTA) meeting a lady said to me, "Number Four!?! You'll figure out how to plan these things sooner or later."

The other day at the shoe repair shop, the old man on the cobbler's bench said, "Well, one of these day's you'll learn what's causing the problem and be able to stop it."

My kids' former piano teacher asked in a secretive voice, "Was this planned!?"

Why does the same etiquette not apply to pregnancy that applies to so many other things?

When was the last time someone said to you, "You know you really are fat. I'm sure you'll figure out what to do about it sooner or later." ?

Or, "Your kids are monsters, this parenting book will explain what to do to fix them." ?

Or, "Did you want your house to look this way!?" ?

It is all I can do to resist saying something very shocking to remind them how I arrived at this state in the first place. It would probably cause quite a silence.

Can I Have A Bell All The Time?

Yesterday morning my family skipped in to my room at 7:30 am with breakfast in bed (corn pops, bacon and orange juice), flowers, and a bell.

When I ring the bell a smiling face bounds in and asks, "What can I do for you, Mom?"

Now, this is a glorious invention! Cheerful, obedient children with the ring of a bell. Why didn't we think of this sooner?

Can I have a bell every day, or only once a year?

Can Faith And Fear Not Exist Simultaneously?

Because I feel like I feel both.

"Fear and faith cannot coexist in our hearts at the same time."
(Elder Neil Andersen, October 2008 General Conference)

"Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?" (Matthew 8:26)

How Do You Know A Wheel Needs Grease If It Never Squeaks?

She doesn't whine much. She never throws a tantrum. Everything always seems to be going well. She would choose almost any activity over "chatting." 9 times out of 10, when my lectures start with, "You kids..." I know in the back of my mind that she actually hasn't done what I'm about to lecture on.

Very sporadically since about November she has mentioned, in passing it seemed, that she doesn't have anyone to play with at lunch. But it wasn't until Naomi said to Dallin, "Eliza seems sad at lunch. She never plays with anyone," that I tuned my ears to listen. I asked Eliza about it and she said what she had said a couple of dozen times before, that she has no one to play with at lunch. She still sounded casual, as though it was no big deal.

I asked her if she would like me to come to school for her lunch time (which I did almost every lunch when Naomi was in Grade 1) or would she like to come home for lunch. She jumped so enthusiastically at the chance to come home for lunch that I was startled and sad about the past 6 months (129 lunches). She came home all last week and was so clearly thrilled by it, both at lunch time and at the end of the day, that now I'm wondering what else might need grease, but I can't hear it.

Why Are We Starting Another Project?

Because one begets four.

Here are the projects on the go at the moment:

• Laying stones for a path to the pool.
• Erecting a slide for the hill.
• Finishing the basement into a playroom for the kids.
• Building bookshelves in the "library."
• Moving the garden boxes.
• Tearing down the hill behind our house.
• Flooring the storage room.
• Hooking up solar panels for the pool.
• Laying sod on the place where the garden boxes used to be.
• Turning a cement pad into a strawberry patch.
• Creating a playhouse in the shelf basement.
• Moving the compost bin.

I'm certain they all started with one isolated, simple project. I'm just not sure which project is to blame for the fallout.

Perhaps we should consider finishing one before we move on to another one?

What Will I Do When I Run Out Of Questions?

Give up blogging, of course.

Who Has The Best Sense of Humour In Your Family?

This was the question we pulled out of the box for dinnertime conversation last night. After explaining to them what it meant to have a good sense of humour, the kids each had a turn to answer.

Chas was sure that it was Chas.

Eliza thought that it was probably her.

Naomi said that since Sister Murley was not part of our family, she guessed that she had the best sense of humour.

Well after all that, I couldn't say what I had thoughtfully concluded was the real answer (me), so I made up something about how they were all so fun that I couldn't decide.

The good news is that Dallin, under a little pressure later that night, agreed that maybe, although I was not as funny as he is, that I did, possibly, have the best sense of humour in our family. Maybe.

Does It Ever Feel This Way To You, Too?

Hold To The Rod--The Iron Rod

by James Christensen

What Happened To My Imagination?

AKA--What Does Dallin Know That I Don't?

Every time Chas talks me into playing some pretend game with him, I say to myself--I wonder how long I can stick with it this time. I think my record is 8 minutes and it was completely gruelling.

I timed Dallin playing with him the other day. I lost track of them at 45 minutes.

I can play checkers and Sorry. I can read stories and do puzzles. But Power Rangers and Transformers and Avatar are beyond my capacity.

I tried saying, "What does the pink Power Ranger say?" He told me I had to figure it out.

I tried saying that my superpower was a vacuum that sucked up his powers and he told me that I wasn't allowed to suck up powers.

He told me I had to be a bad guy, but then I wasn't allowed to die on the couch when he got me.

I don't get it.

What If I Did Everything I've Been Meaning To...

...For Just 15 Minutes A Day?

What if I weeded for 15 minutes?

And studied the scriptures for 15 minutes?

Exercised for 15 minutes?

Made the phone calls I'm avoiding for 15 minutes?

Cleaned my office for 15 minutes?

Prayed for 15 minutes?

Practiced the piano for 15 minutes?

Strummed the guitar for 15 minutes?

Entered the business accounting for 15 minutes?

Planned dinner for 15 minutes?

Organized some chaos for 15 minutes?

Would I get it all done? Would I be closer than I am now?

"Don't You Get Tired Of Arguing With Me?"

"Not really," she said.

Is this a helpful question to ask her?

Not really, I thought.

Why Can't The Hot Dog Bun People...

...and The Hot Dog People Get Together On This?

I'm so sick of 8 hotdogs and 12 hotdog buns. It only works if you have a family who is going to eat hot dogs in multiples of 24.

Answer #4--My Brother Is The Best

You rock my world.

You always have. Literally actually. Like the Led Zeppelin barreling out of your Nautilus Avenue room at 7 AM, followed by a groggy, stinky lug that I admired every speck of.

By the time I was in Preschool a week, Mom tells me that every teacher could say, “Now we know who Mark is.” There was no one I’d rather tell about, no one I loved more, no one who did cooler things. Like take me sledding and carry the sleds up every time. Like bounce me to the moon on the trampoline (except for the one time it didn’t end so well.) Like let a little sister hang out with you when you were a teenager. Like come to Boston and set up everything, even a hook for my bike to hang on. Like give me a speeding ride in the grocery cart on the way back to the store. (That trip ended up “rocking” my world too.)

I once said, “What if Mom and Dad had more kids than just us?” You rocked my world when you said, “I wouldn’t have liked them as much as I like you.”

I rocked your world too, sometimes: “STOMPEO. DANANANANA. STOMPEO.” Better than the Rolling Stones ever could have.

I feathered my bangs and had my hair cut like yours in 2nd Grade. The school nurse thought I was a boy. I tried to strut like you, but that didn't work out very well.

You were the man of my life for 22 years. You are still the man of my life, you’ve just become the silver medalist. But I’ve noticed that I’m a silver medalist now too. But I don’t mind. We used to talk every day. Now, not as much. That’s what you get with the silver medal—less fame. But I think the achievement is no less great.

I want my kids to be a sibling just like you. I want them to be gregarious and gentle and generous like you. In fact, I want to be gregarious, gentle, and generous like you. I want them to say to their younger sister who’s had a bad dream, “Garrruuuggghh,” which means, “Come on in, Kiddo.” I want them to sneak food to each other in bed after I’ve sent one of them to her room without supper. I want them to race to a train station to put their little sister on a train to the temple when they’ve overslept, even though the temple might not mean much to them at the time. And I want them to take their younger sibling for brunch at Bendix.

I love you. For 31 years I’ve looked on you as my rock. I’ve always wanted to be just like you. I want to be confident in job interviews like you. Fun with kids like you. Generous in time and money like you. Brave in skiing like you. Unruffled by criticism like you. Cheerful like you. Casual about broken things like you. A great sibling in-law like you. An awesome omelette maker like you. And a million other things like you. I just want to be smaller. And less smelly than you. And listen to better music.

Happy Birthday!