Stretch Marks

Several weeks ago we sat at dinner with some friends who have struggled for years with infertility. They are currently in the process of trying to adopt a foster child, but it is a long, hard road. They posed a question about whether they would be ready for a child.

“You’re never really ready to be a parent,” we quickly jumped in. “Parenthood is like a mission. It doesn’t matter how many classes you take or books you read—nothing prepares you for what it’s really like.” You get there, jump in with two feet and an open heart, and the Lord molds you for the burden. And you quickly see just how much you need Him.

At our house we are eagerly awaiting the arrival of baby #4 at the end of the summer. We are excited. We feel so blessed that the Lord is sending us another child. Will we be ready? Is anyone ever truly ready to be completely responsible for the care, teaching, and nurturing of another person? No. We will try to prepare. Then we will get there and the Lord’s grace will carry us.

We don’t have children because we are incredibly prepared or unusually bright or talented or capable. We don’t have children because it’s easy or convenient. We have children because we are so completely in love with each other and the kids we have and we want to have more. We have children because we believe that one of the nicest things you can do for your kids is to give them siblings.

We have children because we trust His will. We trust that as we grope through the darkness we will find His hand. He will lead us to the light. We will come to know Him better as we learn to love and care for the precious souls He entrusts to our care.

The decision to have a child is a decision to be stretched—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It is a decision to grow. But the child is His and He will walk with us. And we will need Him.  

What You Get

What do you get when you marry an engineer?

Well, the first thing you might notice is a closet overrun with plaid shirts. Next you will discover a husband who is both determined and talented at solving all household problems, from why your favorite wheat bread recipe abruptly stopped rising to why the light fixture in the basement doesn't work.

Then in a few years you may notice your son picking up some of his dad's tendencies...like constructing a little snow plow by lashing a snow shovel to the front of his sister's trike, tossing a few scoops of rock salt in the back bucket, and happily pedaling down the sidewalk.

That's what I get for marrying an engineer. It's a pretty good deal all around.

For Vanya

I have a very sweet husband. A month or two ago he noticed a new local restaurant that touted southern soul food. Having spent years listening to me comment about the food I ate on my mission, he decided that for the 15-year anniversary of the day I arrived in my mission we would all go eat at Papa O's. So Monday night I ate hush puppies, collard greens, pulled pork, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, baked beans, coleslaw, grits, and cornbread for dinner. And I was transported back to the precious time I spent in the Virginia Richmond Mission--a time when I was led by the Spirit, discovered sacred truths about my Savior Jesus Christ and His Atonement, and loved the people I met so much I thought my heart would burst. I have spent the last few days lost in my memories. And I have wept tears of sheer gratitude for the opportunity I had to serve and the beautiful experiences I still treasure.

In the beginning of my mission I served in Smithfield, Virginia--a quaint little town with people I adored.

My heart has turned to Vanya, a wonderful girl I know from Wales who will arrive in the Missionary Training Center this week for a few weeks of Slovakian language training before heading out to the Czech Slovak Mission in March. What would I tell Vanya (or any other prospective missionary)?

First, I would say that the decision to serve a mission is one of the best you can ever make. No, missions aren't for everyone. But if you serve a mission you will benefit from it the rest of your life. I can think of no better preparation for motherhood or life in general. Fifteen years later I still think of my mission often. And I have always been so deeply grateful I got to serve.

I would tell her that missions are hard, hard work--harder than anyone can really comprehend before they go. But I would give her the advice my mission president gave me: "Get addicted to the Spirit." As you dive into the work and throw yourself into the scriptures you will develop a sweet relationship with the Spirit. You will see miracles, have beautiful experiences, and feel a deep peace, happiness, and joy that is unmatched in life.

I would tell her to love the people. The richness of a mission (and life) is in the depth of the love you feel. So love the people you teach, the local church members, the other missionaries, and the people you meet every day. The more you feel the Spirit, the more you will love them. That love will mean deep disappointment with some people's choices. But in missions and life the best choice is always to love people anyway.

Finally, I would tell her that the best convert she will gain on her mission will be herself. Some missionaries teach and baptize many; some teach and baptize few. But if you are changed throughout your mission--if you come to know your Savior, learn to lean on His Spirit, feel your infinite worth as a child of God, discover the power of the scriptures, and see God's power operating in your life--you will come home a forever better person. And as the years pass you will look back and realize that as much as you loved the people and experiences you had, you are eternally grateful for the deeply personal ways that you were changed. It is a sweet, sweet discovery.

Of course, Vanya is a bright, talented girl who is probably a much better prepared missionary than I was, and she probably doesn't need my advice. But this week as I have been summoning up memories and basking in their warm glow, I have thought of the people I loved and the things I learned. And I couldn't help but share.

I love you, Vanya! You will be an awesome missionary!

Totally Tutu-ed

Abby got two tutus for Christmas, and she loves to wear them everywhere. Sometimes she'll even wear both at once. Grace enjoys them, too. It's fun to see them both being so girly.

Shortly after she got them, Abby was dancing around the house in one and paused to ask me if I liked her tutus. I reassured her that I do.

"But you can't wear them because your bum is too big," Abby told me.

Ouch.

Of course, there are many responses to such a comment. I chose to laugh, feel grateful for health and good nutrition, and remind myself that I actually don't want to have the same waistline as my 3-year-old. Really.

Welcome to the Roller Coaster

It was a Saturday, Cameron was going to be in school all day long, and I have learned that if I don't want to go crazy on weeks when Cameron works and studies all week and has class all weekend, I had better find some ways to get myself out of the house. So the kids and I arrived at a local fun center when it first opened that morning, and we were all set to play for a few hours before naptime. I had it all under control.

Fifteen minutes later play was just getting under way when I noticed a suspicious wet spot on the seat of Abby's pants. It seems she got so excited to play that she decided to forego a trip to the bathroom. Whoops. We would have to go home to get her changed and clean. And I didn't want to make another 40-minute round trip back to play after that.

Crash.

Motherhood is a roller coaster. You think you have your day planned, your child figured out, or life under control. But you learn that planning is only partially helpful, children change what they need from one moment to the next, and life is actually never under control.

     "Life is just like an old time rail journey ... 

       delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders, and jolts, 

interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. 

The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride."

Jenkin Lloyd Jones

Photos courtesy of wikipedia commons

Yes, it's a roller coaster. No, it's not under control. But I am grateful for the ride. I'll just keep reminding myself till the next time I find the ground.

Barbie Dolls, Swim Suits, and Spiky Heels

I am aware that Barbie dolls can be a polarizing issue--some people love them and have large collections, and others think they are evil and won't let their kids play with them. I have sympathy for both extremes, but my feelings on Barbie dolls are fairly moderate. Nevertheless, when Abby got one at a holiday gift exchange, I was less than enthused. I just wished it could have been a Barbie doll with a little more clothing.

Shortly thereafter Abby came to show me her new toy, and the conversation went something like this:

"Mom, look at my new doll."

"Oh, look at that."

"She's wearing a swimsuit."

At this point I was feeling rather stunned and speechless at how neatly Abby had resolved my unspoken concern. Finally I found the words to say, "Wow, Abby, you are so smart. How did you know it was a swimsuit?"

"Because it has these straps," Abby said, fingering the spaghetti straps on the dress.

Oh, of course. Swimsuits have straps, so if it has straps, it is obviously a swimsuit. How simple.

Truthfully, I still don't love the doll, but I don't think of it longingly every time I pass the dumpster, either. I haven't figured out why Barbie is sporting tall, spiky heels on the swim deck. Perhaps I should ask Abby. She probably already knows.

Love Me

When I was Primary president we had a boy in one of our classes who was adept at trying people's patience. On more than one Sunday I would sigh as I climbed into the car after church and exclaim to Cameron, "That boy needs a flashing neon sign above his head that says 'love me'!" His behavior issues stemmed from his background, and he was silently crying out for love, acceptance, and approval. If he had a sign reminding those around him of what his real goal was, it might have been easier to remember why he was misbehaving.

Now sometimes I think of that boy and when one of my kids misbehaves or a loved one disappoints me, I can almost hear them whispering, "Love me." When people aren't at their best they are silently, probably unconsciously, crying out for us to love them anyway, love them unconditionally, and not get too frustrated or impatient.

When I am feeling tired of little people's constant needs and acting rather grumpily...love me.

When Cameron comes home late from work feeling tired and worn out...love me.

When Jake misbehaves and tries my patience...love me.

When Abby is overtired and whiny...love me.

When Grace wakes up at night craving closeness...love me.

I wish I could say that realizing this makes me better at doing it. I'm not sure it does. But perhaps if I keep trying next year I'll be a bit better. Hopefully the year after that I'll be a step better still. And then perhaps the trend can continue. In the mean time, thank heavens for a sweet husband and children who on some level recognize that when I am flawed and not responding very well, I am really crying out...love me.

Egg Roll

What do you do when your one-year-old develops a fondness for unloading eggs from the fridge and rolling them down the kitchen floor?

You can blame the incident on your monocular status and claim that if you had two eyes you surely would have seen what was happening while you were innocently making breakfast. (Yes, it was on my blind side. But I don't think self pity is really worth the trip here.)

You could deeply regret taking your kids mini bowling twice in the last few weeks and blame the episode on the example that was set there. (A decent scapegoat...but then again, one-year-olds will be one-year-olds.)

You could let out an anguished scream a short while later when you see said one-year-old poised and ready for an egg-rolling relapse. (This actually happened.)

You could start waking up in a cold sweat at night from nightmares of an egg-covered kitchen floor. (This might happen soon if the trend continues.)

You could recognize a small miracle and thank heaven for the dozen or so guardian angels who must have been dispatched to catch all of her pitches. (Two of the eggs were cracked, but none of them were broken. Anyone who doesn't believe in miracles doesn't spend much time in my kitchen.)

You could laugh or you could cry. I'm trying to laugh.

Treasure Today

I had successfully survived another week in the grocery store. Jake was in kindergarten, and the girls had played peacefully in the cart while I zoomed through the aisles. The checker smiled at Grace as she rang up my groceries. "Sometimes I miss those little babbles," she said. Her children are teens and young adults. When she doesn't sleep through the night now it's because she's wondering where her teenager is. Ouch.

I thought of a friend whose grown son recently succumbed to a decades-long battle with depression, leaving behind a wife and young family. I don't know of a better person on this earth than my friend. If she could raise a son who struggled so much, any of us are vulnerable.

Do we really understand what we sign up for when we welcome a child into the world?

I'm sure I don't. But I think of my friend and the grocery store checker and I want to hold my children closer, smile at them more, and treasure the precious people they are. I want to be more patient with their messes and more compassionate with their tantrums.

I do not know what the future holds. But I want to treasure today.