Mama Drama

I was pushing the shopping cart along the cereal aisle of Kroger this afternoon - which, if I'm being honest, is really rarely a good experience. For one thing, I have this unspoken rule that I can't buy a box of cereal for more than $2.00 (...does this mean the rule is spoken now?) so, since I don't buy the cheap sugar cereals anymore, I either come out of the aisle empty handed, or overflowing with 34 boxes stacked up to my chin. For another thing, the opposite side of the aisle is stocked with romance novels, self-help books, and showy magazines displaying the faces (and other body parts) of airbrushed models posing behind bold words that promise your life can be happier with the one secret contained behind that very cover. By the time I reach the end of the aisle I feel like I've been bombarded by singing jeers from the cereal side (You Can't Afford Us, Neener, Neener, Neener!) and laser messages coming from the other side (Your Life Isn't Good Enough, We Have All The Secrets!). Plus... it's a crowded aisle.

And it's the homeless cart hangout.

Today was a little bit different, though. The setting was the same, of course. Crowded. It was a Leave Empty Handed day, so I turned around and started making my way to the back of the store and got stuck behind an elderly gentleman trying to decide which type of bran to buy. As I was quietly waiting, I noticed a self-help book sitting on top of the abandoned shopping cart I had stopped next to. The title intrigued me, Mama Drama, so I picked it up and read the long sub-title. Making Peace with the One Woman Who Can Push Your Buttons, Make You Cry, and Drive You Crazy. I thumbed through the pages for a few seconds. Words like 'conflict', 'guilt trip', 'resentment', and 'hopelessness' jumped from every page. And when the old man pushed on, I threw the book back into the cart with a smile on my face.

Well. I don't have that problem, I thought. If I wrote a book titled Mama Drama it would be all about how I don't get to see my Mama enough.


My parents came out for McKenzie's baptism and, though it had only been a few months, it had been far too long since I'd seen them. We all need a little confidence boost sometimes, right?, and they always fill that role to overflowing when they're around. I've just recently realized that this is not something to be taken for granted, and I appreciate how good they are at making me feel good about myself and the work I've done so far in raising my family. They think my kids are wonderful, they think my husband is the perfect catch, they love us all dearly, and I appreciate how good they are at showing that to me. Yes, they are my parents, so they might be biased, but it's enough for me.

And the kids? Well... the kids can't get enough of them. Poppy was battling bone spurs in his shoulder, patiently waiting for surgery, and still found the strength to play a few games of dodge ball,


play with Carson on the swing,


and watch a Duke basketball game with the kids.

Watching basketball (or football) is a true treat for my kids. Especially when they know they'll be able to stay up a little past bedtime to finish the first half. I think Miles is just in for the popcorn.

Nana spent her time playing along with Miles and his Bunny,

and helping me finish up the apron I was making for McKenzie's birthday. The heart pocket? Her stroke of genius to hold measuring spoons.


She was also an invaluable player in getting all the food ready for McKenzie's baptism... but that will be saved for the post all about McKenzie's birthday.

But before I write that post (and to end this one), you must hear two funny stories (actually, both of them could be classified as 'a bit sad' too... but let's go with funny):

Growing up, my dad was not really known for his silent sleeping. On the contrary, my siblings and I would catch ourselves giggling at the snores of his sleep if he happened to doze off any time before us. So when the rumblings started floating from the guest bedroom during a quick late-morning nap last week, I thought Miles would enjoy laughing at them with Nana and me. We all quieted down to silence and Miles's eyes started widening.
"What is that?" Nana asked him. Miles shot a wide-eyed glance in Nana's direction just as another snore broke loose. Nana followed his lead and opened her eyes wide as well. "Is it a bear?" she asked. "I think there might be a bear in the house." Miles barely moved as his little brain tried to figure out how to process the information. He then decided that this was a real force to be reckoned with.
"Eff-a-nunt," he whispered.
"You think it's an elephant?" I asked.
He slowly nodded his head and started instructing us all to get our feet off the floor and, at his insistence, we scrambled to rearrange our positions. We sat for a moment in silence, feet propped underneath us, listening to the snores, watching Miles and waiting for his lead. "Eff-a-nunt," he repeated. His little hands went up to his ears as he whimpered, 'I sared'.
"You're scared?" I repeated.


After his nod, I broke the game and picked him up to peek in on Poppy and see that there was nothing to be afraid of. We spied on him for a second and then went into Miles's room to read a book. He was not completely trusting and made sure the door was completely closed before we sat down in the rocking chair and read, The Bear Feels Scared.

This little guy seems to have a few real fears (well, if you classify elephants as real fears) and has mentioned that he feels scared multiple times in his life. The other day I walked into his room when I heard his after-nap calls and found him huddled in the corner of his crib whimpering. Upon further investigation, he said he felt 'sared' and pointed over to the curtains. I still don't know exactly what was going on, but we may be in for some real monster fighting with this one...

Second story:

McKenzie came tromping off the bus on Friday afternoon and informed us that she had a small problem.

She had slipped this giant bolt on her ring finger while she was packing up to come home and was having trouble getting it off. Brian worked on it for the better part of two hours. Pulling. Twisting. Soap and water. Crisco. Dental floss tied around the biggest part of her finger to compress the skin. Thankfully the bolt had plenty of room to slide around underneath her knuckle (so we weren't worried about circulation), but that poor knuckle ended up swelling and was very sore before he decided the next best thing to do was to let it sit for a while to let the swelling go down. I gave her a little Ibuprofen, Nana gave her her very own can of Root Beer and, per her request, we left her alone downstairs to read books until dinner time. You can imagine how distraught she was... "My very last day of being a seven year old, and I have to have this bolt on my finger," she said fighting tears.

A half an hour later, just before eating, Kenz and I knelt down and quietly said a prayer. We asked Heavenly Father to help us know what to do about the bolt, and we asked him to help McKenzie be happy in the meantime while we figured it out. He answered the second part of that prayer immediately and her spirits improved. Around the dinner table we all talked about the options we had. InstaCare? A small hacksaw? We finally settled on lots of Crisco and trying to slide some small, flat, plastic toothpicks underneath the bolt to hopefully provide a sort of track for the bolt to use, and maybe some compression for the swollen part of her finger. Fail. Next idea was to cut a straw lengthwise and try to wrap that around her finger and stick it under the bolt. Fail.

Up till this point I had left the pulling and coaxing up to the men, but decided that I should take a turn. I gently twisted and pulled and then pulled and twisted a little harder. For some reason, I looked up at my dad and mouthed the words, 'I'm going to pull.' He nodded and hugged McKenzie a little closer. Brian started rubbing her back and I began to put much, much more pressure on that poor knuckle. She started screaming, and I wanted to stop...but I strangely didn't feel able to. I twisted around and around and pulled with as much force as I felt was safe without ripping her finger out of the socket. I started noticing some progression after about 10 seconds (which is a long time...think about it) and it fueled me to keep going. "It's almost there, Kenz!" I shouted. 10 more seconds and I felt the last of the swollen skin slide under the bolt that was now resting in the palm of my clutched hand. I wrapped McKenzie up in a huge hug and praised her for getting through it.

"Linds! Linds!" Brian said. "Good job, Linds!" His relief was so intense it lasted the rest of the day (he even continued making comments into the following day) . He turned his attention to McKenzie and said, "It's off, Kenz! I thought we were going to have to baptize you tomorrow with a bolt on your finger!" She chuckled a little through her tears and said, "Me too."

I had some thanks to say in my prayers that night. It's not really in my nature to 'just pull', especially if I know it's causing my own kid pain. But I got the idea and the strength from somewhere... Phew.

Well, anyway, hooray for wonderful parents. And hooray for no real Mama Drama. We're so glad you guys came to celebrate McKenzie's special day!

We love you!

(PS - speaking of drama - sorry to all of you Google Readers out there! I posted this one with the date wrong, so I tried to re-post it and accidentally posted the draft to the beginning of McKenzie's birthday post instead! Anyway, then I finally got it right on the third try... sorry! And, you can consider yourself lucky that you got a sneak peak of McKenzie's birthday post.)

Being Baptized

(I do realize that, in an ideal world, this invitation would have gone up on the blog before the actual baptism... but I abandoned the idea of an ideal world long ago. I felt happy to just get a handful printed out and delivered to a few neighbors and teachers!)

I have two very short memories from my own baptism day... in one of them I am sitting on the front bench in the chapel, dressed in my clean, white jumpsuit, trying to keep still next to several other kids dressed the same... ... ... And in the next memory, I'm standing in the girls' bathroom with my mom. My hair has been towel-dried, my wet jumpsuit replaced with my beautiful baptism dress. My mom knelt down just in front of me and locked my eyes in hers. "I'm so proud of you," she said. She held up a necklace... a golden heart swung from a tiny gold chain. The words I Am a Child of God wrapped around my very own birthstone and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

I was so excited when it was time for my little sister to be baptized. In my all-knowing 10 year old wisdom, I repeatedly told her how special it was. It's so fun was my catch phrase. I sat as close to the font as I could while my dad immersed her in the water, and as she came up I whispered, "Well?! Wasn't that fun?!" She looked at me and wrinkled her dripping eyebrows. "That was boring," she whispered back.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Two years later I went to the temple with my Young Women's group for the first time to perform baptisms for the dead. As I walked down into the warm water, I felt my jumpsuit stick to my legs and remembered that that had happened at my own baptism. As I was immersed into the waters of baptism for the second time in my life, I couldn't help but think, I wish I could do this for myself again. I felt I could do a better job at keeping the commandments now that I was four years older and I wanted a fresh slate to try again. In my all-knowing 12 year old wisdom, I felt sure that 12-years was a much better age of accountability than was 8.

. . . . . . . . . . .

It's been 17 years since I went to the temple that first time ... and I have my own 8 year old. Now, through my mothering eyes and in my far-from-all-knowing 29 year old wisdom, I see how perfect that 8-year old mark is... at least for McKenzie. She has been taught since birth about the reality of God. Up to now, she has believed all we say because she hasn't yet been introduced to real doubt. If I say God is real, then He is. If I believe in Santa, so does she. When I say it's going to rain today, she prepares for rain.

But things are changing. I notice her pausing to think about the things I say. Analyzing them in her own mind to see if they make sense in her growing understanding of reality. One day during the Christmas season this year she asked,

"Mom, will I always believe in God?"

I could only answer, "Well, I hope so, but only you can answer that for yourself. I do."


How wise to catch her at this time of changing. Young enough to still have an overwhelmingly strong desire to please her parents (of course she will want to be baptized), yet old enough in her own reality to feel like she's fully in charge of a large decision in her life.

. . . . . . . . . . .

I wrapped the towel around McKenzie's shivering body as she came out of the font. I kissed her wet head and told her how much I loved her. Together we worked to get her into her beautiful baptism dress and as she was shivering into it, I asked her how she felt. She could only reply, "I'm frrr....eee...zzz...ing!" I was curious to know if she felt any warm feelings from the Holy Ghost but I didn't press the issue any further. It was clear that the only word she was thinking was 'freezing'. Later that night I asked her how she felt as she received the gift of the Holy Ghost. Her answer, "I was really itchy the whole time and kept thinking hurry up prayer! I need to scratch!"

I don't know what she'll remember from this day. Boring? Maybe. Freezing? Probably. Itchy? Possible. Nothing? Perhaps. She is only 8, after all. 21 years later, I don't recall what I thought as I stepped down into the warm water with my dad. I don't remember how I felt as I was immersed in the water. I don't have any memories of being confirmed and receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost... if I felt the Spirit warmly testifying of truth at any point, I certainly didn't recognize it. But, those details don't matter. The details that matter are that the baptism was performed, and that the Holy Ghost was given. I'm sure the Lord wasn't planning on many intensely spiritual experiences to accompany those sweet, pure 8-year-olds. From the ages of 8-18 I could probably count on one hand the number of times I consciously felt the Spirit... but in the last 10 years he has truly become my constant companion. Leading, prompting, comforting, enlightening... how excited I am for McKenzie to grow and develop in this way. But lets focus on recognizing him, first.

. . . . . . . . . . .

My sweet McKenzie, you have such a strong desire to do what is right. You think hard and seriously when we ask you questions about the gospel, and your heart is tender in all the right places. I worry sometimes about what curve balls the world will throw at you and fully realize that your 8-year-old baptism surely doesn't signify your conversion... not at all. But I can't think of a better way to start this new, independent and exploratory phase of your life. Your baptism opened up that first locked gate on the path back to your Heavenly Father, placed your feet squarely in the middle of that path, and gave you a gentle nudge to Start. Walking. The Holy Ghost was given to you to help you along your way... and oh, McKenzie, he will help you if you ask. Conversion will come later, if you desire (and I hope you desire), but now you're old enough to support your own weight and put one foot in front of the other. Thankfully the beginning of the path is still heavily protected for you. Dad and I are committed to serve as bumpers for as long as we can while you learn to recognize the promptings of the Spirit. And, eventually, I hope you'll want to keep going on your own.

We love you, Kenz. And we're proud of you. We're proud of your sweetness, of your helpfulness, and of your desire to do what is good and right. May you always keep that as we start this new journey together...

Love,
Mom

Perfectly Imperfect

I've made it a general rule not to lean too closely to the mirror. It's a good rule, really, because there is something rather scary that happens as the distance between my noses starts shortening... something that has the effect of turning my content, oblivious expression into one that might be better described as 'horror', 'disgust', 'disbelief'. It might have something to do with the thick layer of peach-fuzz that is threatening to turn into a manly beard and mustache, or maybe it's those dark veins that run so prominently along either side of the bridge of my nose. It could be the blemishes and freckles, or the wayward hairs that try valiantly to give me a uni-brow, or the unsymmetrical smile that looks vaguely like I've had a minor stroke... but whatever the reason, my slightly fuzzy vision makes me much happier with the girl standing a few feet away from the mirror.

But I had a date last Friday night, you see.

A date with a tall, handsome, funny guy that I happen to be falling madly in love with. A grown-up date at a real restaurant where they served steamed asparagus and gently smashed potatoes - there wasn't a chicken nugget, finger, tender, or crisp in sight - and the anticipation of the date turned me a bit giddy. I curled my hair, folks. And... I got uncomfortably close to the mirror.

I wanted to look ... nice. Date nice. Close-up nice. So I leaned in close and tried not to be disappointed when I saw, first hand, what every-day living for almost 30 years has done to me. I trimmed and plucked, scraped away dead skin and covered up discolored skin; using eyeliner, I tried to create an illusion that would turn my round eyes into a more appealing almond shape; I pulled out the lipstick and experimented a bit on how to use it in conjunction with the lip liner and lip gloss that had almost never been opened. And then I reached for the eyelash curler.

Eyelashes are always the last thing I do when I'm getting ready. My mom passed to me a set of long, thick, low maintenance eyelashes... but leaning into the mirror as I set my lashes in the curler, I noticed with a rather disappointing feeling that I could count each and every eyelash coming out of the (apparently) balding tip of my eyelid. Great, I thought. Now my eyelashes have made it to the list of reasons I don't get close to the mirror.

My mind flashed back 15 years and I was climbing up into the passenger seat of our red Dodge Durango. I put the shopping bags from our mall trip at my feet and clicked my seatbelt into place. My mom shifted the SUV into reverse and smiled after she stole a quick glance at me from across the car. My eyebrows furrowed into a questioning glare. "What?" I asked.
"Nothing," she responded.
"Mom, you can't do that. What? What did you just smile at?"
Still smiling but saying nothing, she slowly started backing out of her parking space. And then, as if thinking better of her silence, she took a deep breath, "I was just thinking that I hope you enjoy those while you have them." I swept my eyes around my area to see what she could be talking about and came up with nothing probable. "Enjoy what?" I asked.
"Your eyelashes. They might not always look like that, you know." I remembered the compliment the cashier at Claires had given that day for my eyelashes and wondered if Mom had been thinking about it ever since.
"Really? Why?"
"I don't know... sometimes when you get older they start falling out. Mine used to be just like yours."

I was confused and let the conversation turn stale as my mind tried to make sense of the new information it had received. It's true that I hadn't realized that my eyelashes might, one day, become thinner... but the thing I was most confused about was why I had detected a little longing through that last sentence. Did my mom care about what her eyelashes looked like? That made no sense to my teenage brain. She was my mom. My best friend, my therapist. Loving, accepting and generous towards all of my friends... even the ones that maybe weren't so deserving of it... and smiled lovingly each time one of them called her Mom. She had her finger on my emotional pulse at all times and wouldn't hesitate to excuse me from class, or start up a conversation, or let me shut myself in my room if she felt it was best for me. She often made nachos or banana chocolate milkshakes in the evenings just to make us happy. She was selfless - so selfless - and fun and spunky and happy. Completely understanding of my mistakes and tirelessly cheering me on and encouraging me in my talents... To me, all of these things made her the very definition of beautiful.

Why would she care about her eyelashes?

Of course now, feeling the disappointment of holding the eyelash curler to my own balding eyelashes, I understand. I understand that seeing inside your own heart is so much harder than seeing your reflection in the mirror. And, when you focus on the reflection in the mirror, I understand that the voice of the world - shouting it's messages of beauty - is deafeningly loud and can so easily drown out the still, gentle voice reminding you of your own, unique beauty. And, like a two-edged sword, when you are able to focus on your heart, I understand that seeing the good in yourself - the deep down, soul emitting good - is painfully hard to see when the flaws and mistakes keep getting in the way.

I put down my eyelash curler and smiled at my reflection. My hair is neither blonde nor brown, my face is not symmetrical, my teeth are not perfectly straight, my skin is not blemish-free and my neck has wrinkles. But harnessing that unconditional love I have for my mom, that love that somehow separates the things that matter from the things that don't, I worked on turning it toward myself. I tried to remember that there is so much more to me than my eyelashes. Or my waistline. Or my grandma-hands. Or my fill-in-the-blank.

Instead of feeling down on myself, I tried to find strength in those that love me. Who don't care about trivial imperfections and who love me for the good of who I am. Those friends who have stuck with me through tough times and who offer sincere and kind words to build me up. Those sweet kids that call me mom and cuddle up next to me even when I haven't showered in three days. Those in-laws who feel comfortable in my home and make me feel comfortable in theirs. Those parents who listen to my irrational frustrations and sprinkle advice and wisdom to taste. And, most of all, to that tall, handsome, funny guy that I happen to be falling madly in love with. I have no doubt that we could have happily gone on our date with my hair in it's signature ponytail and all my make-up still sitting in my make-up bag. That man unquestionably loves me for my heart.

I don't plan to change my rule... I will still get ready a few feet away from the mirror... but whenever I start to get down on myself I will remember to find strength in those who think:

"You are amazing. Why do you care about your eyelashes?"

Wordless Wednesday

Wordless Wednesday

Handsome

Oh Miles. Thank you for trying so hard to do your own hair this afternoon. Twice. I'm not sure why I didn't put the gel up after the first offense - so I guess I have only myself to blame for this one.

You know, I must say this was 100 times better than the Vaseline your sister put in her hair when she was about your age:

(PS - This picture was taken after the first washing...)

January Schmanuary

I looked at my calendar yesterday. It said it was January 4th... I'm confused.

Generally, I'm excited for the new year to start. I'm prepared with my resolutions list, sharp pencils, a crisp new 5-Star notebook to help me keep track of my life, and filled to the brim with a fresh energy to do exactly what I've resolved to do. The last day or two of December I feel like a racehorse locked behind his gate - chomping at the bit - eager for the door to swing open so I can test my legs on those new resolutions and see how far I can carry them.

So how, I wonder, did we jump halfway into the first week in January without me so much as turning a brain cell to this new year? Weird.

I guess, my heart is still a bit stuck on Christmas. Yes, I know it's been 11 days, but... have you ever bought a new kind of shampoo, one with a different smell than usual, and then at random moments during the day - maybe when the wind blows, or when you turn your head quickly - catch a whiff of it that makes you smile? That's kind of like what's happening with me and Christmas this year. It felt different than usual, and at random moments during the days I keep catching whiffs of it that make me smile... It feels good, and I kind of like it lingering.

There were two main things that added to the greatness of the year. One was that we added new traditions that helped us focus solely (is that really how you spell solely? I had to Google it after spellcheck fixed it because I didn't believe it! Are you technically supposed to put two 'l' sounds in it? Oh, wait... I get it. Sole, meaning one, and then 'ly' making it an adverb. Wow... never thought of that one before. Sorry - random tangent) on Christ. My new favorite book is A Christ-Centered Christmas by Emily Freeman. You should read it. And buy it. We took several traditions right from her words, and modified another several to fit our own family. I'm already filled with ideas on how to make next year even better.

The other thing that made Christmastime so wonderful were these people:

The more time I spend with Brian's parents, Con and Jean, the more in love I fall with them. After a rather homesick Thanksgiving, they brought a bit of home to us and cheered the dreariness right out of my heart. They came into our home and merged into our lives for 8 days... they expected nothing, loved everything, played 537 games of Phase Ten and Uno, built Lego towers, chatted, helped with dishes, tossed compliments, and made the kids feel like 'Grandma and Grandpa live for nothing more than to play with you.'

Grandpa took Carson fishing...


He also read Happy Feet Two to Miles over and over and over again. I thought the first movie was T.E.R.R.I.B.L.E. I can't imagine the patience he must have had to read the second book that many times... But... you can see that Miles is enjoying it.


And he proudly wore his dollar store tie all day on Christmas. After the kids had gone to bed that night, his wife said, "You know, you can take that off now." Not many Grandpas can pull off a singing tie...but Con did it well. Too bad we opened it after church.

Grandma taught Miles how to twirl a swirly ribbon, but then sat and laughed at him while he tried it out himself... poor Miles might have low-ribbon-twirling-self-esteem from now on.


She also was one of the most active audience members for the kids' puppet show. After asking several questions that remained unanswered she said with a laugh, "Oh, I guess you're not really supposed to be asking questions in the middle of the performance, are you." I don't know why you were confused, Jean - - - The Three Little Pigs being performed by a frog, a bear, a tiger and a duck - - - what's confusing about that?


One of my favorite memories is of Jean laying on the floor with the kids, all lights off but for the Christmas tree, to tell a new Christmas story every night. Originally I think it was meant to be just for the kids, but the peaceful atmosphere and her energetic story-telling drew every member into the room with her.


I was also super impressed with their crafty-skills. They helped make candy-cane cookies,

(This may have been one of Miles's favorite activities...)


and helped make 21 graham cracker houses which then led to supervising 17 kids (and the missionaries) while they decorated them. Before the crowd arrived, Con said, "after we get through this, we'll all deserve two cans of Cherry Pepsi. I will have three." We all laughed, but he unsurprisingly handled the chaos true to the calm, laid-back personality that defines him. I was quite impressed with Jean, however. She's one to be found raking leaves in the wind, so to speak, to keep on top of the mess - and knowing this might very well kill her, I gave her permission to sneak away to her room to read a book if the chaos and mess got to be too much. :) But she stayed till the bitter end and, dare I say, maybe even had as much fun as the rest of us.


We sang Christmas carols and drank hot chocolate,


and thoroughly enjoyed watching the kids open their presents on Christmas morning. McKenzie had one recycled emotion for each present: Awe. In the first picture, Is this really what I think it is? I cannot believe I got a calculator. And the second, Is this really what I think it is? I cannot believe these are real Break-Your-Own-Geodes. Looks like Santa scored with the $.99 calculator, and Nana scored with a box of rocks.

Carson was funny too. After he opened the wooden car in the first picture he said, "Hey! I think Santa's elves weally made dis!" And the second picture just seems to be Carson. That present doesn't stand a chance against your opening skills, Dude.

But, if Carson had to choose one gift he loved the most, he would probably choose his pack of orange gum. He devoured the whole pack in one day. At one point in the day he had so many pieces in his mouth he had to remove the wad before he could say anything.

At the end of the vacation, Jean summed it all up nicely. "Whenever I smell orange gum, I will forever remember Carson and the Christmas of 2011."