Personal Cheer Squad

Jake and Abby have been performing various tasks around the house the past few weeks to earn money for Christmas presents. (It's going to be a rough break in January when Mom and Dad are no longer shelling out the change every time they sweep, help cook, or tend Grace.) Jake had agreed to vacuum the basement, but he was running out of steam.

"I want you to help me!" he whined.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked. It seemed obvious that if I did it for him, he wouldn't get the money. Jokingly I continued, "Should I cheer for you?" I put on my most dramatic cheer moves (be grateful you weren't there to witness this) and shouted, "Go Jacob! Go Jacob! Go Jacob! Go!"

Much to my surprise, he agreed. "Sit on the couch and cheer," he instructed.

I did, and I've never seen such zealous vacuuming.

But then again, who wouldn't want a cheering section?

Mom is awesome, Mom is cool! Watch her use those cleaning tools!

Go, Mom, go! Iron those clothes!

Hip hip hooray! Pancakes today!

Watch out dust and watch out crumbs! Watch out dirt 'cause here she comes!

Our Mom rocks! She washes all our socks!

Maybe I'll add "Mom's personal cheer squad" to the kids' Christmas fundraising options. I better go buy some pom poms.

Letting Go

Recently I took Jake to take a test for advanced learning placement in school. It was a decision Cameron and I had debated and ultimately left in Jake's hands, and he elected to take the test. So one afternoon (the day after Jake had the flu) we sprinted across town in rush-hour traffic for day one of a three-day testing process. We met Cameron there and he went with Jake while I took the girls home.

I was surprised by the flood of emotions I felt as I walked away holding Abby's hand on one side and balancing Grace on my other hip. Jake has always been very intelligent--at times I have wondered if I have the capacity to provide the right opportunities to sufficiently challenge his growth. I felt a calm confidence that Jake was prepared and I had done what I could as a mother to prepare him. I could walk away, let go, and trust his abilities.

Then my mind sprinted forward through the decades. He will graduate from high school, serve a mission, go to college, marry, start a family. In each instance I will need to take another step back, trust his innate goodness and abilities, and let go. I will hope and pray for his success.

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. 

  It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking 

around outside your body,"--Elizabeth Stone

Motherhood is a paradoxical journey. It is loving your children so deeply and fiercely and sacrificing yourself to teach and prepare them. Then it is releasing them, letting them go, hoping you've given them the right tools, trusting, and standing back to watch them fly.

Two days later Cameron and Jake left early on a Saturday morning for the final day of testing. Five minutes later the phone rang; Jake was calling because he hadn't given me and the girls hugs and kisses before leaving. He blew a kiss into the phone for me. I silently cried. One day my boy will grow up and move away. Thank goodness for now he's still mine to hold.

Seven Years

Seven years ago today I awoke early. Cameron called me while I was driving to my hair appointment--somewhere around 6:45am. He joked that he had always been an early riser. We still laugh about it because we both know he actually isn't a morning person at all--we were both just so excited to be getting married that day.

He picked me up from my hair appointment and we drove to the temple talking giddily about how happy we were and what a perfect day it was. It was the beginning of many incredibly wonderful days and a few miserable ones. Through pregnancies, sleepless nights, juggling little people's needs, temper tantrums, sick kids, cancer trauma, and ocular dismemberment, he has been incredibly steady, selfless, and faithful. Thank goodness I found him. Seven years later I still think I am one lucky wife!

Cocoons

Since my cancer, I find myself even more drawn to scriptural accounts of Christ's healing power.

Have ye any that are sick among you? Bring them hither. Have ye any that are lame, or blind, or halt, or maimed, or leprous, or that are withered, or that are deaf, or that are afflicted in any manner? Bring them hither and I will heal them, for I have compassion upon you; my bowels are filled with mercy.

I picture myself at the feet of the Savior. He would heal my eye. I close my eyes and try to remember what it was like to see out of both eyes. I'm starting to forget.

And it came to pass that when he had thus spoken, all the multitude, with one accord, did go forth with their sick and their afflicted, and their lame, and with their blind, and with their dumb, and with all them that were afflicted in any manner; and he did heal them every one as they were brought forth unto him.

 And they did all, both they who had been healed and they who were whole, bow down at his feet, and did worship him; and as many as could come for the multitude did kiss his feet, insomuch that they did bathe his feet with their tears.

Recently when I saw a depiction of Christ's marvelous healing recorded in the Book of Mormon in 3 Nephi 17, I was struck with a new thought: If Christ were here to heal me now, what growing experiences would I miss? How would my eternal progression be stunted? What would I not become?

And then I thought of butterflies and cocoons. Butterflies must struggle and work to emerge from their cocoons. But if that struggle is cut prematurely short, their wings don't have the strength to fly. They are forever stunted.

The Lord gives each of us cocoons to struggle against. One of mine is living with one eye. Like Paul, we may sometimes wish to be healed of our "thorn in the flesh". But if His perfect wisdom was overcome by His mercy and He cut our struggles prematurely short, our growth would be forever stunted. We wouldn't become what He made us to be.

Photos courtesy of Wikipedia commons

Little Bedlamites

“So if you are trying to do the best you can—if, for example, 

you keep trying to hold family home evening in spite of the 

bedlam that sometimes reigns in a houseful of little 

bedlamites—then give yourself high marks”

--Elder Jeffrey R. Holland

Sometimes as I wade through the cacauphony and chaos that characterize life with a young family, I remember Elder Holland's quote. "Little bedlamites. I am surrounded by little bedlamites," I think to myself. Then one day the title to this poem popped into my head, and I had to write a poem to match :) 

Good Night Sleep Tight Little Bedlamite

                   The darkness comes so slowly on evenings such as this,

           When I am all too eager to bestow a goodnight kiss

           And move on with my evening, put up my feet and read,

           Forget my frantic, daytime, care-for-kids-each-moment speed.

           I hit the couch and heave a sigh, I’m starting to unwind
            When from the doorway down the hall my children start to whine:
           “I need a drink! I’m thirsty!” I hear their voices call.

           I fill a cup, deliver it, then head back down the hall.

           Sweet dreams, don’t let the bed bugs bite.

           Good night, sleep tight little bedlamite.

           I glance into the kitchen, with dishes everywhere.

           Why clean them up tonight? I don’t have energy to spare.

           Tomorrow will come soon enough, right now it’s time for me.

           I get a snack and sit back down, then hear another plea.

          “I need to use the bathroom!” my little one insists.

           She meant to make the potty—it's too bad for me she missed.

            It’s just another clean-up job to top a lovely day.

           I send her back to bed and hope that this time she will stay.

           Sweet dreams, don’t let the bed bugs bite.

           Good night, sleep tight little bedlamite.

           I find a cozy spot and settle in to rest once more

           (With just a little effort I ignore my spotted floor).

           “This is my time,” from way deep down I feel like I could scream.

          My kids don’t think that they should drift off to the land of dreams.

          “I think I see the big bad wolf! He’s underneath my bed.

           “I’m pretty sure the dark spot that I see there is his head.”

            In no time flat I show them that the dark spot is a shirt.

           “I think you’re safe. Just go to sleep. You’re not going to get hurt.”

            Sweet dreams, don’t let the bed bugs bite.

           Good night, sleep tight little bedlamite.

            Just one more time I dare to put my feet up and relax.

            I wearily lean down to pick a book up from my stack.

            The words start to go blurry and my head begins to bob.

            I’m dreaming of my little energetic, sleepless mob.

            They might peek out to check on me, but I will never know.

            I’m out too cold to answer one more urgent bedtime woe.

            Tomorrow I’ll be wise and feign fatigue at 7:10;

            They’ll go to sleep and I will have some time for me again.

            Sweet dreams, don’t let the bedbugs bite.

            Good night, sleep tight little bedlamite.

In Their Shoes

Both of my girls have gone through stages this year where they like to try on other family member's shoes. Abby mostly tries on mine, but Grace will try on anyone's shoes that she can. One day when Grace brought me Abby's shoes to try on, I thought of what it's like to be in Grace's shoes.

The night before, for some bizarre reason, Grace had been wide awake between 11 and 1. I believe in taking care of my babies at night--I want them to trust me to take care of them even when it's inconvenient, and I believe with all my heart that it's what Jesus would do. So I got up with her. And when I started to feel desperate, Cameron stepped in for a turn. (Thank goodness for a husband who will help at such times!) But there were definite moments in those two hours when I was frustrated and wondered why in the world she was awake. Were her incoming teeth bothering her? Was her stomach hurting? Was she getting sick? Did she have a bad dream? Or did she wake up to review and ponder her new toddler vocabulary? I will never know. But do I spend enough time thinking about what life is like in her shoes?

When I am helping Jake with his homework and feeling frustrated that he can't remember a word, do I remember that it really is a lot of work to begin to string letters and sounds together into words and sentences?

When Abby is pretending something in her little preschooler world and I want her to finish a task or hurry to go somewhere, do I pause to remember the joy of childhood and let her finish what she's doing?

My mom sent these cute wooden Dutch shoes, and both girls love them!

Do I think of what it's like in their shoes?

Do I think of what it's like in Cameron's shoes when he gets up early to go to work all week and has school all weekend?

Do I think of what it's like in my neighbor's shoes? Or the shoes of the rude driver in front of me? Or the grumpy person at the check-out stand? Do I think of what I could do to lighten their burdens?

Isn't Christ's knowledge of what it's like in each of our shoes one thing that we adore about Him?

I don't have Christ's omniscience. I don't even have His perfect love. Not yet. But I can keep trying to think of what it's like in someone else's shoes.

Baptism by Oatmeal

Recently I was walking past the pantry and noticed Abby sitting inside. She had taken the lid off the oatmeal bucket and was sitting next to it sweeping her hand around in the oatmeal. I was a little afraid of the disaster potential.

Me: (calmly so as not to startle her and cause any sudden movements) What are you doing?
Abby: My hand was getting baptized.

I'm just glad it was her hand and not her foot that wanted to follow Jesus.