School: The "Right" Path

This morning I hopped on Facebook for a few minutes, which I tend to do here and there throughout my day. I have loved seeing all of the pictures lately from the first days of school. I smile, because some of these kids I knew when they were babies, and others I never got to even meet. It's fun to see my friend's families grow.

But as I went to the website this morning, a came upon a post from a college friend from years ago. The post was about home schooling, and it rubbed me the wrong way.

Let me step back for a moment to say that I greatly respect those that home school. Their reasons for doing so vary, but their common dedication to their objective is admirable. They stick to it, even though it is difficult, and, for the most part, their kids thrive. They are smart and curious and talented. They will be able to provide a great service to their future families and communities.

Now let me bring you back to my friend's post. She said (I just cut and pasted), "In a couple of hours, all of my local friends will start posting pictures of their kids' first day of school. For a moment, I wonder what my life would be like if sent my kids to public school. However, there is nothing that can compare to watching my kindergartener write his first cursive words (using wrist instead of whole-hand movements!), racing my eight-year-old to complete our Latin worksheets, or watching Logan learn from his older siblings."

I admit it. I was sort of angry. To me, this post sounded elitist. If I read into what I thought this post was really saying, I would conclude that because I send my children off to school I am lazy and am not involved in my children's education-- that home schooling is all-around the far superior choice in education, and that, yes, those that home school are superior mothers in intelligence and nurturing.

Now I am quite aware that this may not be the message my friend was sending at all. Perhaps she was merely trying to say how glad she is that she gets to actually witness every moment in her children's process of education-- that the sacrifice of a quiet house is worthwhile. 

But, the fact that she even said it at all suggests to me that she feels she made the right choice-- as if there is only one right way in education, and she took it.

I know a lot of mothers that home school. Some even do it reluctantly, because they just felt it was the right thing to do for their kids. Did you catch that? For their kids. 

But I do sense a bit of this elitism from some of my other friends. As if their children are going to turn out so much smarter than my own because their home school curriculum is far superior to that available in public school.

Maybe it is superior. I will give them that. And for some, that alone is a selling point against sending their children off to school-- public or private. 

But just as those mothers that home school have their reasons that are right for their families, those that choose the traditional classroom have our own.

Let me just fill you in on why I don't home school. 

I had considered it. When it came time for Allie to join the ranks of the Kindergartners I was suddenly afraid. I didn't like the idea of her being mentored a good portion of the day by someone I didn't already know or trust. I didn't like the idea of relinquishing that much control over her environment. But then I remembered something I had decided long ago.

Years before I had come to the decision that I wanted to send our kids to school. I truly felt that for them that would be the best way in which they, specifically, could not only learn, but be a good influence, a force for good, in a world with ever-increasing evils and temptations. I knew that meant they would be exposed to those very evils and would probably even succumb to them at times, but that ultimately their good examples would help other children along. I knew we would have to be vigilant about family scripture study and Family Home Evening-- that we would have to talk with them often about their experiences and relationships. But, ultimately, good would result.

And as I faced the moment to register Allie for school, I was reminded of this decision-- one I had not made lightly. It brought me peace and comfort that for our family, we were making the right choice.

I won't even attempt to dissect and criticize the reasons some mothers home school. Doing so would make me no better than the home schoolers who attempt to do so to my own. 

I only wish I understood why women are so critical of one another... Why women so often take light jabs at one another to assert their own "superiority". Why we feel this need to be competitive. It's baffling, really, because most of us seem to understand that tearing another down does not really put one on a higher plateau. 

But I do suppose that this criticism is a reflection of the self-criticism that occurs. So, really, if we all stop being so self-critical and self-doubting, much of the dissonance between us would most likely dissipate. 

If each of us truly loved ourselves, looking in the mirror each day to see only a beloved daughter of God with tremendous capability for good, we see such worth in others. We wouldn't need to criticize to make ourselves feel some pseudo-self-worth. We would have the real stuff. We would actually believe that we are valued because of who we are and who we are capable of becoming, and not because of our talents or capabilities or accomplishments.

When it comes to mothering, very little is cut and dry. There's the obvious-- be loving and nurturing, teach them to be honest and moral and hard-working, and be a good example. But the rest of it is pretty gray. The Lord gives us an awful lot of leeway... with guidance, if we seek it. So, really, no mother's path will be the one-size-fits-all "right" path. And in that case, how on earth can we judge one another's chosen paths? 

So, to my friend, I'm not angry anymore. I'm over myself now. But you go rock that home school! Your kids will do great! 

Meanwhile, I will sit here and enjoy the last thirty minutes of quiet before my precious girls walk in the door and spill their guts.

Grandma

It has been nearly a year and a half since my grandma's passing.  And I miss her often.  She rarely called me, for fear that she would catch me at a bad time... which she claimed to be every moment of the day with all my kids running around.  And truthfully, she was right.  But I loved the times that she did call, usually to ask me if she could purchase a box of frozen steaks or chicken breasts to mail to me, just to help me with quick meal prep for when I'm too spent to make anything myself.  I loved those gifts-- something practical, thoughtful, and consumable, for which I didn't have to "find" a place to put it.  Those phone calls were usually quick and to-the-point, with a few anecdotes to makes each other laugh.  Grandma had a great laugh, even though it usually ended with her hacking up a lung.  A consequence of smoking most of her life, although she had quit ten years earlier.

I do miss her.

Although, on Friday evening as I stood dressed in white in the temple's baptismal font with Kevin by my side, I could feel her near.  Her name came up on the monitor in front of us, and Kev and I looked at each other smiling, with tears in our eyes.  It was an honor to be her proxy.

Earlier in the week I called Gramps and asked his permission to take her name to the temple.  He said, "You know your grandma was sort of a religious philosopher... I think she would be pleased...  And I'm fine with it, too.  I'm what you would call a 'liberal Catholic."  I had to chuckle.  Grandpa cracks me up.

But I think he was right.  I think she really was pleased.  My mom used to joke with her, "You know, Mom, that you really are practically a Mormon?"  After all, Grandma had finally quit smoking, she didn't drink anymore, had read and believed in The Book of Mormon, and she faithfully watched General Conference.  She just never wanted to "take the plunge" into the baptismal waters.  Thought she was "fine".

Before Kev and I had left for the Youth temple trip that evening, he had asked if I would sit in the chapel with the Young Women and talk with them following the confirmations.  He gave me some paper and pencils, and wanted me to give them a chance to write as well.  He gave me very little direction... which bothered me.  I like to feel like I have a purpose, and I wasn't sure what he wanted me to say.  But as I stood in front of them, all I could think about was Grandma, and how grateful I was that I could take part in this beautiful, essential ordinance on her behalf.  And I thought of how each of the deceased sisters for whom each of these girls had entered the waters of baptism had family members who loved them just as much as I loved Grandma-- that these women were just as loved and treasured, and of just as much value to their loved ones and to the Father as my grandmother.

One day we will be reunited.  Some people believe that this life is it-- that death is the end, so might as well live it up while we are here.  How sad.  And empty.  If only they understood that the Spirit does, in fact, live on.  How might that change their thinking, their choices, their lives even?

I can miss my grandma... but I know I will see her again.

Until then maybe I should order some frozen chicken breasts or steaks.  You know, for old-time's sake.

A Seed Has Sprouted

Sunday morning actually went pretty smoothly, compared to most normal Sunday mornings getting the kids off the church without Kevin.  There was very little fighting, very little complaining, and we actually were able to leave the house exactly when I wanted.  I was even able to get stew cooking in the Crock-pot for dinner.  This was all quite welcome considering I had a choir concert that day, for which I would need to leave church early, right after Sacrament Meeting.

Then we pulled into the parking lot.

In unbuckling Eve from her car seat, I found she had pooped.  I sighed and walked everyone in, bags hanging from my arms, as well as a gallon jug of lemonade in hand, which I was needing to put in the fridge to chill for the reception honoring our retiring conductor after that afternoon's concert.

I had just made it through the door into the foyer when my new visiting teaching companion saw me and wanted to talk to me about visiting sisters, as well as give me her correct phone number, etc.

Eventually, I made it to my seat, looking a bit frazzled.  I mean, I still had bags to unload, a baby's diaper to change, and a drink to take to the kitchen.

By the time I got back in the chapel with a fresh Eve, the meeting had already begun and the congregation was singing the opening hymn.  And both girls were crammed to one side of the pew-- the side closest to the aisle of course, leaving me to room to get in.  I whispered for them to scoot over.  They argued with me.  "I don't want to!"  "I was sitting here first!"  "I don't want to sit by Drew!"  I repeated to scoot over, in a more "firm" whisper.  The arguing continued, and I could feel all the eyes upon me.  I said, "Get out.  To the foyer."  They stared at me, and I repeated it, my whisper almost not a whisper anymore.  Sami was slow to respond, so I grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the chapel.  Allie followed.  Once in the hall, I noticed all the seats in the foyer were full, so I pointed to a spot on the wall on the far side of the foyer.  "Sami, you sit there.  Don't move."  And I pointed to a similar spot on the near side of the foyer.  "Allie, you here.  Time-out."

And I walked back in the chapel.  Alone.  They were out there for maybe five minutes.  And as much as all three of us were embarrassed, at least I had those five minutes of peace and quiet.  Well, except for the "epic battle" noises Drew was making with whatever toy he had.  I really shouldn't let him take toys to church anymore, but I digress...

I eventually went and brought them back in the chapel while the congregation sang the Sacrament hymn.  I eyed Allie as she entered the pew and sat right where she had previously.  I looked at her and again said, "Scoot over."  This time she was wiser and made room for me and Sami.

Since it was Fast Sunday, the testimonies began after the Sacrament.  Member after member walked up to the stand to testify of what they knew to be true.

And then Sami turned to me.  She whispered, with a bright smile, "Am I old enough to bear my testimony?"  Shocked, I responded, "Of course! Do you want to?"

"Ummm, sure, but I have to think about what I would say first."  She leaned back in the pew, looked up pensively, and put her hand on her chin.  A minute later, she shot forward and said very matter-of-factly, pointing one finger in the air, "Ah ha!  I know what I would say!"  Again, I asked her she wanted to go up.  She agreed, but only if I went with her.

Minutes later it was her turn.  She walked up to the microphone and looked at me worried.  "What do I say?"

"Whatever is in your heart.  Say what you know."

She whispered, "But how do I start?  Do I say, 'I'd like to bear my testimony...'?"

"Sure, that's fine."

She put her mouth to the microphone and began.  "I'd like to bear my testimony that I know that Jesus is real... and I know that this is the true church.  In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

All her own words.  All from her heart.

Suddenly the frustrating events from earlier in the meeting didn't seem so annoying.  In spite of the arguing and pettiness, they are learning, they are listening, and seeds of faith and testimony have been planted in their hearts.  And, by golly, they are even beginning to sprout.

Sami proved it.

A Bathroom with No Mirror

Someday, if I ever get to design my own house, it will have one important feature.  Or rather, it will lack one.  My bathroom will have no mirror.  Oh, yes.  Just above my sink will be... nothing.  Okay, well, maybe not nothing-- I mean, like, maybe a picture or two.  Maybe.  I just want to be able to walk in and out of the bathroom without little voices picking out all of my physical faults.  Look at those stretch marks!  You sure ain't 18 anymore! or Ouch!  Looks like those wrinkles are getting a bit more defined, don't you think? or Did any of those blueberries from lunch get stuck in your teeth?  Ya don't want to go into Target looking like a fool...  Those voices have much more to say than that, but I won't go into it.   Not exactly "G" rated.

I think those voices must live inside my mirror.  So that's why I won't have one.  So there.

After dropping Drew off at school, as I drove home, I pondered the changes my body has gone through since I bore my first child.  Perhaps with Allie's ninth birthday being yesterday, I am a bit more reflective.

Parts of me are stretched, sagged, scarred, or shrunken.  I often think of these as being my "battle wounds."  But when I see it all in the mirror, those voices tell me I am worth less because of it all-- that I'm not as beautiful.

But as I sat in the car today, I realized something I had known all along.  Those "battle wounds" are there not to punish me or make me feel less feminine, but to remind me of the sacrifices I have made to perform the most feminine and even most divine act possible on earth-- to give life.  They are there to remind me and my children that I have cared more about them than myself.

And I drew a parallel.

I thought of the Savior, and how as the resurrected Lord, He was recognized by the nail prints in His hands and the spear wound in His side.  His very own "battle wounds" are a reminder to us of His ultimate and infinite sacrifice-- to give us new life.  They were there to remind us that He cares more about each of us than Himself.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."  (John 15:13)  Now that is beautiful, don't you think?

Every mother is given, in the sacrifice of her own body to bear children, just a small glimpse of the pure love the Lord has for all of Heavenly Father's children.  We will do whatever it takes to bring these precious souls to our families, even if it means the giving up of our bodies or even our very lives.

How could I look in the mirror and see these marks of divinity and allow these nasty, hateful little voices in my mirror to tell me I am worthless?

Who knows if I will ever get to build my mirror-less dream bathroom...  Actually, in being completely realistic, I'm pretty sure I never will.

So in the meantime, I will have the privilege of admiring my stretch marks and deepening wrinkles each and everyday.  But I should probably still check for the blueberries in my teeth.

I don't want to go into Target looking like a fool.

Janessa Squiggly

As I tried to leave the Primary room after church, my friend Caroline from the other ward walked in. We chatted a bit, and then she asked, "Hey, did you see the article about 'Janessa Squiggly' (name has been changed... thank goodness) in the paper this morning?"  I hadn't, so I made sure to open up the paper when I got home.

Since most of you don't know Janessa, here's the run-down...

She is the oldest of 12, she herself having seven kids.  Her dad is a well-known lawyer whose TV commercials teach lessons about family and self-reliance.  She has gorgeous red hair and a smooth, fair complexion, and majored in vocal performance at BYU.

As for things I found out in the article, she also apparently won beauty pageants and music awards, wakes up at 5am every morning to (cheerfully) exercise and get her kids out the door, prepares meals with organic whole foods, makes whole wheat bread and smoothies for breakfast, and has kids that pull their weight in the house without complaint on their part or a wasted moment nagging on hers. Her kids all attend private Christian and Catholic schools and play the piano and violin, and she continues to study voice herself.

I think, perhaps, that such an article would make most women, including myself, feel like garbage.

But, really...  After pondering it, I thought, Good for her!  She obviously has many incredible, and incredibly visible, talents.  If her kids are stubborn like mine, then good for her for whipping them into shape!  (If they aren't, then lucky her!)  She thrives off of running an efficient household, so good for her for doing it so proficiently.  Good for her for being poised.  Good for her for working on her musical gifts, and honing those of her children.  Good for her for for wanting to keep her home free of preservatives and processed foods.

All wonderful, commendable things!

Here's the beauty of the gospel, though.  I don't have to do any of those things.

Satan wants all of us regular women to get caught up comparing ourselves to such women-- comparing our weaknesses to their strengths.  He wants us to waste our time trying to be her, rather than embracing our own strengths and focusing on being obedient to the Lord.

Please understand that I'm not trying to say that she is wasting her own time, because she's not. Janessa obviously is embracing the amazing daughter of God that she is.  But I'm not her, nor will I ever be.  She appears to thrive working with and organizing the chaos that is her life.  I despise chaos. Even four kids is pushing the envelope for me.  She must love regularly waking up before sunrise.  I'd rather gnaw off my arm.  Occasionally I make homemade bread, but mostly I buy mine from the store.  And when my sister came and visited recently, she pointed out that my kids "eat a lot of cereal."  Yes, yes they do.  They would love it if I made them pancakes or smoothies every morning, but let's face it, that isn't going to happen.  Ever.

And that's okay.

Sister Squiggly isn't going to inherit some higher, unadvertised degree of celestial glory because she fed her kids whole wheat bread and had a stellar chore chart.  She isn't going to be moved to the front of the line at the pearly gates because she has great hair and can sing an opera aria.

She is a good person (as most of us are)-- a person who is doing her best with what she has been given.  She is a person who teaches correct principles to her children-- faith, hard work, kindness, unity.  She seeks to obey God's word.  And let's face it, many of us do all that as well.  Her efforts are not any more valuable than ours.  The love the Lord has for her is the same as the love He has for each of us.

He knows each of our names just as He knows hers.

So, again I say, "Good for you, Sister Squiggly!  I'm coming over to your house for breakfast next Sunday morning..."