the Baby woke up at 2:30 in the morning

ate some yogurt
and spaghetti
lay back down in his crib
and pulled his favourite yellow afghan over his face

then as I tiptoed out of the room
he pulled the afghan down and
asked in one pathetic syllable
whether I was leaving

"Shhh.  Mommy's still here,"
I said
and up went the afghan again

every two or three minutes
down came the afghan
and out came the plaintive cry

"Mommy's still here."
and up went the afghan again

he couldn't see me,
but checking in every few minutes
he learned to trust that I was still there

at 3:00 in the morning
I was very grateful to be someone's mommy

I wake up all through the day
fold some laundry
wipe a counter
and send my pleading cry

faintly I hear,
"I am still here"

I can't see Him,
but checking in every few minutes
I am learning to trust that He is still there

at 3:30 in the morning
I am very grateful to be Someone's daughter

Two Epiphanies

The Thing I Am Most Grateful For...

is to have been born to parents who are genuine, loving, intelligent, reasonable people. People who are down-to-earth and emotionally stable. Ordinary and without drama. Cheerful and open. Honest and kind. A mother who taught me the gospel and a father who showed me how it can change your life. This is a gift in my life which impacts every moment of every day.


And The Best Decision I Have Ever Made...

Hands down, the best decision I ever made was the day I said I would marry a man who prioritized the gospel above everything else.

Not in a the-best-decision-I-ever-made-was-to-marry-the-hunk-of-a-dreamboat-that-I-did sort of way. But in the way that I decided what would matter most to me in the dreamboats (some of them not so much) that I did look at.

It was the moment when Dallin and I were dancing and he said that his friend had all these ambitions and dreams that he couldn't understand. I asked him what his dreams were. His answer changed the course of my life. He said, "My dream is to live the Gospel. I just want to follow the Saviour. That's all."

Well, that's all. And it makes all the difference in my world. It doesn't guarantee a successful business, or well-behaved children, or a house or a yard that look reasonable. It doesn't guarantee that no one will have a brain tumour, or a learning disability, or anything else. But it fills me with confidence and unifies us and prevents the myriad of marriage sinking difficulties that I see around us. Thank God!

"What's The Hokey Pokey?"

Chas asked this morning. Eliza didn't know either. Nor Naomi.

Last week they wondered what sparklers were.



I rectified the sparkler problem on Halloween and the Hokey Pokey ignorance this afternoon in our living room.

They don't have a clue what's on TV. The only music they're exposed to at home is from before I was born. We had to Google the 4th grade music craze, Demi Lovato. They don't know what's playing at the movie theatres or the name of anybody famous except Obama. I'm not sure they know that video games exist.

What a deprived existence I'm carving out for our children.

The same one my mother created for me. The one I'm so very grateful for.

Am I The Coolest Mom Ever?

Or is your mother coming to school riding an

Inflatable Ostrich completely mortifying?

You never know about these things.

Can You Move In?

Everyday I notice something else.

You hemmed her pants. She wore them today.

You vacuumed the car. It wasn't due for the annual vacuum for another two months.

You had the van's lug nuts tightened.

You returned the overdue DVD to the library and saved us $1/day for five days.

You caught up all the laundry.

You stocked the fridge.

You must have mopped the floor because it never stays that clean with The Big Dig going on in the backyard.

You washed the living room rug that had never been washed and was also showing signs of The Big Dig.

You cheered on the 12th place cross-country runner. In the rain, I heard yesterday.

You went to speech therapy and soccer and the grocery store. All with three kids in tow. These are feats I don't even take on with all of them if I can help it.

You left a crockpot full of dinner for us to come home to.

You even separated the odd socks by size and color into neatly rubberbanded piles!

I don't need a nanny, I've decided.

I need a Nana!

How Many Stitches Does It Take To Get A Day Off?

Apparently more than six.

And in a more necessary appendage than my pinky finger.

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.

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.

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?

Which Opinion Is Really Mine?

There are about 60 blog entries to prove that I feel insecure in my capacity as mother.

BUT--insinuate that four might be too many for me as Dallin's Aunt did last night, or suggest that I am too young as hairdressers have for years, or that children's needs are best met in families of two children ideally spaced as several neighbours have, and here's the earful you get:

"Well, it sure seems to me that people educated, conscientious, and reasonably compassionate as I am ought to be having very large families. If we leave all of the child bearing to people who are so uneducated, stupid, or irresponsible as to think that raising children takes no thought our future will be grim. We who are trying to teach children to be socially responsible, honest, loving people need to have enough children to outnumber the ones who are growing up in a catch-it-as-you-can approach to values. I fully expect that my children will become responsible, hard-working, honest, kind people because of the effort that my husband and I are putting into their upbringing now. They are fortunate to have a father who sets an example of hard-work, honesty, and perseverance. They are lucky to have a mother who is sacrificing all sorts of things in order to go on every school fieldtrip, bring them home at lunch time when they need it, teach them to love people and literature and right. They already have learned to value courage, defending right, helping the weak, speaking the truth, education, and more and I've only had 8 years with them!"

And beware of mentioning to me how expensive it is to raise children, because that's a whole other tirade about what is really required to create these idyllic children mentioned above and by the way Dallin and I have three degrees between us and not a cent of debt for it. So there.

Well, it doesn't happen too often, but every now and then, I think, or at least say, how great a job I think I'm doing and how splendidly my children are turning out. You just have to ask the right question.

How Can I Give My Kids An Over-Inflated Image of Me?

My Mother's response to my posting about her was,

"Honey, I love you, but you have an over-inflated image of your mother."

How can I give that to my kids?

Why Can't I Turn Into My Mother Like Everyone Else?

I have the grey hair.

I lose my keys.

I sound like her on the phone.

And I have a big smile.

I worry about my weight.

I wear only one type of outfit (hers is pullover dresses, mine is jeans and t-shirt.)

I like to read.

And I like everybody. Even "characters."

But I don't laugh at tense situations.

I don't know what to do when my children melt down.

I don't control my words.

I don't look on the bright side like she does.

I don't keep at it until I fix it.

I don't think I can figure it out myself.

I don't see the real-life applications of scripture stories.

My kids don't know I adore them the way I knew my mother adored me.

Why can't I turn into my mother?

Everyone else turns into their mother.

If I can't turn into her, why I can't I at least be the woman she thinks I am?