I Hope You Get a Child Like You

Wondering where I've been the last seven months? Check out this new page. For now, here is a piece I wrote last winter but never posted:

Recently Grace was helping me clean the bathroom floor. She approached the task with the same vigor and endless energy that she does everything else in life. As I watched her serious expression while she scrubbed with all her toddler might, I couldn't help but smile and think, "Oh, Grace, I hope when you grow up you get a child just like you." Grace is the source of endless smiles and laughter around here. Her enthusiasm brings us much joy.

That night Jake overheard me telling Cameron how hungry I had been before dinner. Thinking the same might still be true, he dashed off to secretly make me a sandwich then raced in to present it to me. My boisterous, affectionate, passionate Jacob--I hope when you grow up you get a child just like you. Every parent should have a kid who hugs so tightly and writes such wonderful love notes. I feel like such a lucky mom.

The same day Abby decided it was time (in the middle of a blustery winter day) to have a picnic in the backyard with Grace. Ignoring my warnings about outside temperatures, they bundled up in coats, scarves, gloves, and sun bonnets and set out with apple slices and a basket full of toy food. I love Abby's active imagination. I love watching her play. I love hearing her delightful little giggle. I hope when she grows up she gets a child just like her.

And then there is my sweet baby Emma. She smiles, laughs, and doesn't complain about being schlepped about from one destination to the next for all of our family's different obligations. She is mild and sweet and a great source of joy and laughter. I love nuzzling her and whispering to her that she is my little slice of heaven. It's true. I hope when she grows up she gets a baby just like her.

Young motherhood is exhausting, but through it all our children bring us much joy and satisfaction. I hope when they grow up they all get children just like themselves.

I Never Knew I Would Love It

It had been another week at the library--storytime followed by checking out armloads of books for the kids (plus a few for myself.)

We headed out into the sunshine, but Abby stopped on the steps outside. A mother and a couple kids were heading inside, and one of her little boys had a prosthetic leg that was clearly visible beneath his shorts. Abby stared and stared as the boy scampered obliviously up the stairs and into the building.

"Abby," I said. "Isn't that cool? That boy has a special leg just like I have a special eye."

Of course, this label launched us into a discussion about why the boy had a "special" leg. I offered a few suggestions. And, as I always do in such scenarios, I felt grateful to the tips of my toes for the opportunity to show our kids that different is OK.

I am always the first to admit that cancer is no fun and no one should have to go through what we went through. And yet, so often I am grateful I have a personal experience to relate as I try to demonstrate for our children that different is OK. Sometimes it's wonderful. Before my cancer I don't know how I would have responded to Abby staring at that little boy. But now such little experiences are priceless teaching moments.

I never knew how much cancer could teach me. I never comprehended the depths I would discover or the joy that would follow our sorrow. I never knew how much I would love sharing the things I have learned.

To the Moms at Storytime

I love taking my kids to story time at the library. Barring illness or major scheduling conflicts, we're there every week. I love librarians who work so hard to prepare worthwhile books, finger plays, songs, and art projects. And I love mom watching. There are a lot of awesome moms out there. But story time at the library this week touched my heart even more deeply than usual.

I saw a mom who I am casually acquainted with bring in her 19-month-old twins and her two older children. One of the twins has some special needs, so she signed the whole program for him...all while juggling her other children.

I saw a mom with an active little boy in a leg cast and a newborn try to help her son participate while still caring for her infant.

I saw another casual acquaintance who is the mother of a toddler and a special-needs 5-year-old son who can now walk with the assistance of a walker. Somehow she always manages to give her daughter love and attention while juggling the assorted needs of her son. I wonder if I would exhibit the patience, love, and grace she always manages.

I saw a former coworker helping her three little kids with the story time art project. Afterwards she took them to a park and read and snuggled with one of them on a bench while the others played. There's something heartwarming about a mom spending one-on-one time with a child.

As I watched one of these mothers leave the library with her little brood I smiled and called out after her, "You're doing a good job!" I wish I could hug every mother there and tell her the same thing.

Motherhood is consuming and exhausting with little moments of love, hope, and joy that make the sacrifices and fatigue completely worth it.

Watching mothers who are willing to dig deeper to find previously unknown levels of patience and love inspire me and fill me with hope for the world. As long as there are mothers who are willing to love and sacrifice, their children will light up the world with peace and love. And the world will be a brighter place because there was a dedicated mother there.

Journey to the Other Side of the Earth

Recently we made a grave error: we decided to indulge some childhood memories by showing our kids an episode of Reading Rainbow. We watched a nice little segment about the Magic School Bus traveling inside the earth. The next day Jake announced a plan to dig to the other side of the earth.

I got out the globe and showed him that digging to the other side of the earth would land him in the middle of the ocean. He remained undeterred.

I asked if he would like to check out a library book on what is in the center of the earth. He agreed.

"I'll start in our yard and dig out some weeds since you don't like them," he explained.

On second thought, perhaps I'll let him dig out a couple weed patches before checking out that library book.

Lessons from My Weeds

We are once again making feeble attempts to grow a garden. I started a little herb garden right outside my back door, and I love snipping bits of basil, rosemary, thyme, and parsley. Ahhh, the smell of fresh herbs is intoxicating.

I've been enjoying my herb garden enough that I've actually been taking special care to weed it regularly, rather than waiting till the weeds are two feet tall to fret about how to save any remaining plant life. These days I pluck up these little suckers as soon as they appear. It doesn't matter that I am huge and pregnant--I want to save my herbs.

Recently my kids were having some obedience issues, and it felt like everything I asked them to do bounced right off the walls on its path out the door--they sure weren't listening. Finally I snapped and started handing out more consequences. I tried to compensate for my new strictness by placing extra emphasis on praising and encouraging. But it didn't take more than a day or two to realize that I was on the wrong track, and I don't want our family to revolve around me doling out dictatorial consequences or threats. I needed to pluck out that little weed of a habit quickly before its roots got too deep. I had to save my plant life before the weeds overcame any local goodness.

So we held a little family night about obedience. We started by pretending to make cupcakes with no regard for a recipe and discovered (no surprise here) that we didn't end up with cupcakes. Recipes and rules both have to be followed if we want good results. We discussed scripture heroes (Moses, Noah, Nephi, etc.) and analyzed what would have happened if they hadn't obeyed God's commands. We ended by eating some real cupcakes (previously prepared) and talking about the importance of obedience, telling the kids how much we love them, and discussing how we could help them remember to be obedient before we get too grumpy about it.

Presto! Life got magically better after that. I didn't have to work nearly so hard to find actions and attributes to praise and encourage, either.

Sometimes a weed appears in my habits or behaviors, and it's better to pluck it out while its small. I can't think of much I value more than the plant life of our precious little family.

The Joys of Bubble Wrap

The doorbell rings.

 It is the mailman with two packages--one with wrapped birthday presents for the girls, and one with a new doll for Abby. I set aside the wrapped packages, and Abby quickly abandons the new doll in favor of the bubble wrap from the other package.

Soon all three kids are jumping off the couch onto the bubble wrap and beating the tar (I mean, bubbles) straight out of it.

Note to self: Forget Christmas shopping. Buy a roll of bubble wrap in September and relax for the next three months.

Growing Pains

Third trimester is here, and boy can I tell.

Some mornings I wake up with a delicious sense of excitement. I may be weeks away from my due date, but I can't help fantasizing about what it will be like to have another sweet little newborn to snuggle and hold. I wonder when she will be born, what her temperament will be, and how our family will change and grow in the process.

Still other moments I feel so fatigued and wonder how I will care for another little person--especially while Cameron is still in school. When I was pregnant with Jake a coworker told me a well-meaning but vicious lie. Seeing how tired I was at the end of my pregnancy she said reassuringly, "This is the worst of it. It will be better after your baby is born." Ha! Yes, I am always tired in the third trimester, but I am always even more tired after our baby is born and I am being woken all night to care for a newborn.

Recently I was tucking Abby in one night and she said, "I don't want to grow up and be a mom."

"Why not?" I queried.

"Because I don't want to leave our house."

Growing up is scary business, whether you are contemplating leaving home and being an adult or giving birth to your fourth child. But I want to live life deliberately and with faith. It doesn't make everything easy. But it's a lot better than the alternatives.

I choose to have children and, consequently, I choose seasons of sleep deprivation and exhaustion. It is worth the sacrifice. I choose faith. I choose Cameron. I choose our marriage and family.  

Hopefully as I do our children will learn that they don't have to be afraid of the future or afraid of change. God will light the way for them one small step at a time. He doesn't ask us to grow up all in one day. He just asks for one step and one choice at a time. Choosing faith over fear. Choosing to have another child. Choosing His will.  Choosing to grow up. And knowing that He will always be there to help. 

The Hardships of Being Four

It was family night and Cameron had just led the kids on a clever re-enactment of the scene from Mark 2 where the people open up the roof to let a sick man down to Jesus. We followed it up with cake, ice cream, and a discussion about how some things (like climbing through the roof of a house to reach the Savior) require good old-fashioned hard work.

Cameron: Abby, have you ever had to do anything hard?

Abby: Yeah. Clean my room.

Who knew being four was fraught with such difficulty?

Life's True Treasures

My kitchen floor looked like this.

 But my girls looked like this.

An immaculate home is a sign of a wasted life.

I should probably make a sign and post it somewhere in my house to explain to some of my guests.

Abby lovingly helped Grace step into her tutu. I grabbed a scarf and turned on some music. We twirled, swayed, and danced through the living room.

Life isn't about the number of breaths you take. 

It's about the moments that take your breath away.

I never want to choose having a spotless house over showing my children that they are my real treasures. My house may be messier than I'd really like. I may be pregnant and tired. But my kids' cute little faces take my breath away.

And as long as the local ant population doesn't move inside to claim my crumbs, my kitchen floor can wait a while.

To Each Their Own Disorder

Grace is enjoying all the delightful mobility of toddlerhood this spring as she climbs to the top of the highest slide at every park we visit. I have always been a bit afraid of heights, and I usually stand nearby wringing my hands and encouraging her to come down the slide instead of lingering near the top where she could topple down the nearest ladder or climbing wall.

Sometimes I wonder what disorders my children will develop courtesy of my idiosyncrasies. But it seems that my fear of heights isn't yet one of them.

Grace was at the top of the play set in our backyard one day. She got a little too close (for my comfort) to the edge. "Back up a bit, Gracie. That's not safe," I called from the ground.

Grace obediently stepped back, then leaned over and whispered, "Monsters."

Monsters. Fear of heights. To each their own disorder.

Motherhood Is...

It was Jake's birthday, and the basement was crammed with relatives who had come for his birthday dinner. After dinner and cake Jake started opening the presents, and his favorite was definitely this little fellow.

OK, I have to be really honest here. Jake's pet is completely nocturnal, I am not, and my attempts to catch a shot of our little guy have been completely unsuccessful. This pic was stolen from the internet. So just imagine this one is ours, because this is what he looks like. 

Yes, Jake is now the proud owner of a Madagascar hissing cockroach. And as I watched different relatives take turns letting this lovely little friend crawl all over them, I couldn't help musing about what motherhood is.

Motherhood is boldly going where you've never gone before...like to the pet store to inquire after the needs of your cockroach. (Yes, I am quite sure I never saw this coming back in my single days when I started tiara-wearing trends at work and actually paid attention to how my toenail polish was faring.)

Motherhood is full of amazing discoveries...like how low-quality crepe paper dye is. You get to discover this sort of thing when your kids leave their library art projects on the floor and then step on them with their nice wet feet after their bath. For good measure, they spread some of the dye to their towels which were unceremoniously forgotten on the floor rather than hung up or placed responsibly in a laundry hamper.

Motherhood is courage and strength when it's needed most...like when you are five months pregnant with your fourth child, your husband has to work 12 and 13 hour days (plus an 8-hour Saturday at school), and you are left home to care for your puking children and all the laundry and stains they generate.

Motherhood is sacrifice and wisdom...like when your family goes to the fun center and instead of mini golfing you try to keep your toddler out of the water, rocks, and bushes while everyone else golfs. But you realize that when you go to a fun center with your kids, you do it so they (and not you) can have fun. And you're OK with that.

Motherhood is full of discoveries you never thought you'd make--discoveries of strength, love, sacrifice, and joy you didn't know were possible...which reminds me, I need to go help Jake clean out his cockroach's cage.

That Infernal Racket

One thing we love about our house is the fact that we are less than a mile from the local library. That means lots of trips walking to the library in the summer and driving in the winter. We go to lots of story times, puppet shows, magic shows, or art opportunities. And we love, love, love exposing our kids to oodles of good books.It also means that we help Jake feed his John Deere obsession by putting lots of John Deere books, CDs, and movies on hold.

One night we went to the library and Jake picked up this CD that Cameron had placed on hold for him. When we got home Jake went running into the house clutching his treasure. Full of end-of-the-day, third-trimester levels of energy, I lagged behind helping the girls out of the car.

By the time I got inside the house redneck children's music could be heard in every room. Grace was dancing to it in the hallway.

I quelled my first instinct, which was to march in and tell him to turn down that infernal racket. (Such authoritarian measures aren't really good for a loving, respectful parent-child relationship.)

I reminded myself that he was only 6 and not 16 and there actually wasn't anything morally objectionable in the music.

I noted that the urge to blare music at top levels from the nearest sound system is apparently hard wired rather than acquired sometime between the ages of 10 and 12. How unfortunate.

I was rescued by Cameron, who walked down the hall, glanced into the messy, music-filled room, and casually asked Jake to start cleaning to the tunes.

If I must listen to John Deere musical propaganda resonating through the house, at least I can comfort myself with the knowledge that our house is being cleaned.

Making It All Better

Sometimes as mothers we desperately wish we could make everything all better for our kids, don't we? We want to provide them a nice, smooth path with no bumps, weeds, or bruises. And when something goes wrong, we want to do anything we can to fix it. I had one of those moments recently. Grace's finger had been caught in the screen door, and I could immediately tell from her cry that something was both different and wrong. I rocked her in our rocking chair, prayed, sang, kissed her finger over and over, and did everything I could think of to soothe her. And I thought about how life will present her with oh so many owies through the years that I will be powerless to heal.

I also thought of a day last summer when a sweet, well-meaning woman at church inquired after my health. Referencing my cancer, she looked carefully at my eyes and noted how similar they are even though one is plastic. "You would never know the difference, would you?" she asked. I wanted to tell her that I can tell a difference every time I look in the mirror, but I am slowly learning to bite my tongue. For a while afterwards the comment grated on me, and I finally realized why. So often people want to tell me that my eyes look exactly the same, and to me the message is, "Isn't this great? You had cancer and lost an eye but nothing has changed. Everything is all better now." They want to make my cancer all better. But I don't want them to. My cancer changed me forever, and I wouldn't want it any other way.

Because of my cancer I am much more personally acquainted with sudden, acute trauma. I know what it feels like to be told I have a life-threatening illness. I know what it is to worry if I will live to raise my children or wonder if it is safe to have more. I know what it feels like to look different, to have people stare and point. I know what it feels like to be afraid to go out in public and have people treat me like I’m handicapped. I know how awkward it feels to run into old friends who are afraid to talk about why I’m wearing an eye patch. I know how incredibly alone you can feel after a major loss when people don’t know what to say or do so they don’t say or do anything at all.

Now I know what all of these things feel like. And I hope I know in some small way how to better love and reach others who are hurting. I don't want anyone to make my cancer all better. That healing ultimately lies in the hands of my Savior, and He does an amazing job of providing the experiences I need to heal spiritually and emotionally from the trauma of my cancer.

In the same way, as much as I want to protect my kids and make everything all better, that really isn't my job. Its His. My job is to lead them to Him, let them feel His love, and know that in the end, no matter how many thorns and weeds are on the path, Jesus Christ will make it all better.

Learn to Love

Grace had just awoken from her nap, and she's not the type of toddler who always wakens with a smile and lots of energy to face her next adventure. She came out to the living room with a scowl and climbed up onto my lap. I just snuggled and talked to her for a while. And I thought, "I have the opportunity to teach my children how to love."

Teaching anyone how to love is sacred ground. And it's something our world is desperately in need of. Headlines, bumper stickers, billboards, and tee shirts everywhere are full of rude, arrogant statements or discouraging news. Has our world forgotten how to extend mercy, compassion, forgiveness, love, and respect? Have we forgotten how to give the benefit of the doubt, assume the best of someone, and remember that we are all stumbling through this life the best we can? Sometimes it seems we have. We live in a world obsessed with serving and fighting for number one at all costs.

But motherhood? Ahhh, God made mothers with a few goals in mind, and one of those goals is to teach women how to love unconditionally, when it's not convenient, when it requires great sacrifice--to give their lives for others. And if mothers can learn these lessons, they can inherently instill them in their children one smile, one hug, one teaching moment at a time.

Truthfully, I often feel woefully inadequate in this role. Do I respond to my kids with enough gentleness and patience? Do I hug them enough, look in their precious little faces, and fill them with the love that overflows for them in my heart? Such are the questions that fill the heart of any deliberate mother.

No mother is perfect. But when Grace wakes up from her nap with a scowl I can cuddle her and fill her with love. When Abby comes to me with an owie I can hug and kiss her. And when Jake has a tad more little-boy exuberance than is really in order at any given moment, I can remember that a little encouragement goes a long way.

I love my children with all of my soul. They are God's gift to me. And mine is the privilege to fill the world with love one beautiful, sweet child at a time.

What Kids Say

I was trying to put the girls down for a nap, and Jake kept interrupting me.

"Can I put dirt in this Cinderella cup?"

I wasn't sure the girls would want their princess cups used for one of Jake's mud-making adventures, so I helped him find an old juice container instead.

Minutes later I heard the door again, and Jake came into the girls' room. (The girls really appreciated these interruptions. I did not.)

"Mom, do you know where some ribbon is?"

"No."

Not long after I heard the door again, and both girls sat up in bed. Jake appeared in the doorway, and I cut him off before he spoke.

"Can you please leave me alone for a few minutes? I'll be out in a little while." He left, and I felt a little bad. I should have just listened to him and answered whatever question he had. It wouldn't have taken too long, I thought. 

So when he reappeared in the doorway a minute later I bit my tongue. And he showed me this bouquet he had made for me.

It is tender being the obvious object of your child's deepest affections. He left the room, and I sat thinking about the things kids say.

Sometimes I feel grumpy that no one thanks me for cleaning the bathrooms, doing the laundry, mopping the floor, doing the dishes, or making an endless parade of good, healthy meals. Sometimes I get tired of hearing, "Why are we having that for dinner?" or "I need heeeeelp!"

But when Jake makes me such a sweet bouquet he is really saying-

• Thank you for not coming unglued when I hammer on the kitchen table. 
• Thank you for not losing it when my friends and I track mud all over your freshly-cleaned floor.
• Thank you for not complaining when our basement looks like a Lego-covered minefield.
• Thank you for letting me spill dried barley all over the kitchen floor when I play "excavator".
• Thank you for letting me tear the living room apart day after day when I make blanket forts.

When Abby comes in with a huge smile and a handful of dandelions that she announces she is going to put in my "love-note box", she is really saying-

• Thank you for taking me to story time and helping me find fun books to read.
• Thank you for walking with me to the park and pushing me on the swings.
• Thank you for not complaining when I accidentally smear mud on the doors, walls, and counters.
• Thank you for praying with me when I am scared at night.
• Thank you for letting me splash water all over the bathroom every time I take a tub.

When I come home and Grace grins and shrieks, "Mommy!", she is really saying-

• Thank you for taking care of me at night.
• Thank you for picking me up when I cry.
• Thank you for helping me pet the neighbor's dog.
• Thank you for helping me with my dolls.
• Thank you for playing with me.

Sometimes I wish my kids would thank me more. Really, my kids say "thank you" and "I love you" all the time. I just have to notice how they say it. 

Our Irresponsible Rocking Chair

Abby was rocking in the rocking chair.

Grace started to cry, and I turned to see that Abby had just run into Grace.

Me: Abby, you need to fix things with Grace.

Abby: (crouching down on Grace's level) Grace, I'm sorry the rocking chair didn't see you.

Wow. What were we thinking buying such an irresponsible rocking chair?

Happiness Is...

It was one of those days where I was plotting how to get my house cleaner. How could I involve the kids more? When should we do it? Which tasks are appropriate to which kids? Hmmmm. Muddle muddle muddle. Think think think. Finally I concluded by feeling grateful for a sweet husband who never complains when the house isn't as clean as either of us would like.

Happiness, I decided, is recognizing what you have.

I don't have an immaculately clean house. But I do have a thoughtful, kind husband. And I do have a houseful of cute, lovable kids who I will miss terribly one day when my house is cleaner.

I don't have a masters degree. But I never racked up any accompanying student debt. And I am a stay-at-home mom--the ultimate goal I always dreamed of.

I don't have two eyes. But I do have deeper levels of compassion, understanding, and gratitude than I ever had before my cancer.

I don't have loads of leisure time to pursue personal goals. But I do have a sweet family who wants to be with me whenever they can.

Do you see what I mean? We all have limits, and we all have blessings. We can choose which we focus on. Happiness is recognizing what we have.

Will They Remember?

I was finally starting to see the light at the end of the laundry room tunnel. It seemed all I had done for two days was sort, wash, fold, and put away. Occasionally Abby or Grace would bring me a doll to swaddle or clothe, but I was generally buried in laundry and they played by themselves.

A little while later I had left the laundry and was playing with them. I was a tickle monster, and they giggled, shrieked, and ran around while I hugged, kissed, and tickled them. Then I thought, "Will they remember this?"

Will my children remember me as being distantly present--in the kitchen or laundry room--but not really there? Or will they remember me laughing with them, playing with them, reading to them, and snuggling them? What will they remember of their childhoods?

A few weeks passed, and I was having one of those lovely days in the life of a stay-at-home mom. My kids were all sick and, I must confess, I find it to be completely unsettling to be surrounded by little people who cough, hack, snort, and sneeze on me. I was feeling tired (from caring for a sick toddler at night) and suffering from the sore throat that comes when you live in the aforementioned conditions. I was feeling a tad grumpy. So I decided to try to look for things that were funny. Surely they were surrounding me just waiting to be noticed--after all, I live with small children.

So a few minutes later when Abby picked up my watch and asked what it was for, I told her it was so I would know when to tickle my kids. When Abby wanted to wear a towel turban the way I do after a shower, I helped her assemble it.

 When Grace put on Abby's new swimsuit, I laughed and they humored me in a little photo shoot. 

When Abby pretended to be Captain Hook, I turned into the crocodile. It was a lot of fun. Thank goodness I decided to shelf my morning grumpiness.

I can't really control what my kids will remember, but I can control the effort and time I put in to help them have good memories. Motherhood is hard--some days it's really hard. But perhaps the next time I want to cry (or scream), I'll look for things that make me laugh. Then my kids will have something I will want them to remember. And so will I.

Socks Please?

For days Abby had been suffering from an eye infection and an ear infection. She looked and seemed pretty miserable. Then one day at lunch apparently her foot brushed against Jake's foot.

Jake: "Abby, your foot isn't well enough to touch my foot."

Did you know that eye infections and ear infections could be transmitted through feet? Boy, I better put on some socks.

Perhaps the luck o' the Irish can fend off those insidious germs...

Tender Moments

It was a Thursday evening, and we had just finished dinner. Cameron had retreated to our bedroom with his homework, and the kids had just joined a neighbor friend downstairs in the basement. I was left with the kitchen clean up. It was the beginning of a school weekend for Cameron, which often results in me feeling lonely and craving time with Cameron or just adult conversation in general. I was feeling tired and pregnant, and I wanted to sit down and cry, but I decided that it would be quicker to just clean up the kitchen and move on with life. I was barely getting underway when I heard Grace coming upstairs to find me. She walked over to me, pointed to her head, and said, "Bonk."

"Did you bonk your head?" I asked. She nodded, and I picked her up for a hug, kiss, and cuddle.

Mere seconds later she said, "Down." I put her down, and she headed back to play. She just needed a little love and sympathy before getting back to her activities.

Sometimes it surprises me just how tender and critical my role as a mother is.

A few days after that Jake had a fever and spent the day lethargically on the couch. Several times during the day he called forlornly to ask me to snuggle him.

It's easy to forget how much these precious little people need me. They depend on me for sympathy, attention, encouragement, comfort, and unconditional love. I feel so lucky to be their mom. I am there to watch Jake wash a firetruck at the open house for the new city fire station. I am there to join in the fun when Abby pretends there is a dragon under the kitchen table--we name him Orville and pretend to share our oranges with him. I am there when Grace puts Abby's underwear on over her jeans and then decides to finish off the ensemble with some of my heels.

I am there when Grace falls out of her toddler bed and cries at night. I am there to kiss Abby's finger when she pinches it. I am there to teach Jake a peaceful resolution to neighborhood squabbles.

Motherhood is tender, precious, and oh so sacred. I absolutely love it.