No More Babies

The past few days have been hard.

Too many reminders lately that I am no longer a "young" mom-- that I no longer have babies.

* The emails I still get from the Wiggles, even though Drew hasn't been interested in them in nearly two years. I just can't bring myself to unsubscribe.

* The "play dates" the moms in the ward plan for their toddlers. I'm not included anymore-- no need.

* Walking through Publix or Sam's Club alone in the morning, passing by the cookie counter, knowing there is no one with me eligible for a free sugar cookie with sprinkles.

* The bulk-box of baby wipes sitting underneath Eve's bed that hasn't been touched in nearly six months since her last diaper.

How on earth did I get here? How did this happen so fast?

Needless to say, I've been a bit weepy today... Okay, maybe A LOT weepy.

I was so excited to go and help out in Eve's preschool class today, since I've never been able to do it before without having to find a sitter for the younger one left behind.

This was the first time there wasn't a younger one. Convenient, right? And sad...

Young motherhood, of which I've been a part of for the past ten years, has been so incredibly exhausting, physically, mentally, and emotionally. And, in spite of the prophesies I received from nearly every elderly person that walked by, I sort of felt like it was never ending. And, yet, here I am. All four in school without a baby to nurse and cuddle, and contemplating taking the child safety latches off all the cabinets.

I have always had a hard time with change, so this comes as no surprise to me. I bawled like a baby at my last Ensemble concert in middle school, or at my high school graduation, or when I left for BYU... I cry when I think about packing up and moving into the house we are building a mile away-- after all, three of the four babies were newborns here.

Memories mean so much to me. Geez, I hope I don't get Alzheimers.

And my memories (the good ones, anyway) of my children as babies and toddlers and preschoolers, I don't want to leave behind. I really don't think I'm ready for all that to be gone.

Before putting Eve down for her nap thirty minutes ago, I made her promise that she would never grow up and I would stay a mom like I am forever. She threw her head back and laughed with that look of mischief. "Mama..."

On Friday Kevin and I went to the temple, deciding to do sealings of couples and families. The sealer, an 80-something-year-old Brother Allen, would give us a break now and then, since Kevin and I were the only couple (and kneeling across the altar for too long can get tiring). During those breaks he would chat and counsel and teach. He testified of how important families are, and told us, with tears welling up in his eyes, of how he would "Do it all again. In a heartbeat." And I thought how grateful I was that I was living it right now.

The Lord has truly blessed me, although I'm undeserving. My family means absolutely everything to me. They have truly taught me what it means to love deeply and unconditionally. They have given me the slightest, albeit poignant and powerful, glimpse into the love Heavenly Father has for me. And them. And the lady in front of me in the check-out line at the grocery store. And the guy at the intersection panhandling.

My heart is bursting with gratitude for that love. And for the way it has completely changed me.

I guess it's comforting to know that although my phase of life is changing, that love will not. I can keep it with me, along with my precious memories.

I think about those sealings we did... Couples that had passed on a century or more ago were given the chance to seal their marriage beyond mortality into the eternities. Children long ago deceased were sealed to their parents for time and all eternity. Families forever. What a privilege to give others the same blessings given to me the day over fourteen years ago when Kevin and I knelt across the altar.

Although times and seasons change, our family is an eternal unit. Eternal.

I can be okay with life changing. Of course, it's normal to mourn. It's normal to resist change, especially when there has been so much goodness that has come from what has been. But the change will bring goodness, too. Maybe not the same kind. But still. It will be good.

As it is, all of my kids can communicate with me at a relatively intelligent level. None needs a diaper, which means I don't have to carry a diaper bag around with me wherever I go. I can wear whatever I want without having to worry how it will work with a nursing baby.  I can get grocery shopping done in half the time because I don't have to break up any fights or banish anyone to walk behind me because they are messing around (a-hem, Allie and Sami...). The kids can walk home from school by themselves. I can feed all of them nuts and popcorn.

See, it's all good.

And Drew and Eve are still little enough for cuddle time. So I will soak it in while I can.

A Confession

I confess.

I don't run marathons... or triathlons. I don't even have a gym membership. It expired six years ago.

I don't eat solely organic foods, and I don't care a hoot about GMO's.

I don't make my girls' Christmas dresses, nor do I know how, do do I care to learn.

I don't can my own food or make my own beef jerky. I suppose I could learn, but I know myself. It would never get it done. Again, I don't care.

I don't homeschool my kids, or teach piano to my preschoolers.

I don't read books all that much. Shocking, considering I taught English, for crying out loud.

I don't build anything or sew very much, and I am no gourmet chef. And I have no prospects with which to start my own business.

I don't decorate my house with clever odds and ends, purchased from a garage sale and refurbished to look "shabby chic". Truthfully, my house isn't really "decorated" at all.

My house is nearly always a disaster, my carpets are always stained, and my walls are are all the same color (well, except for the scratches and scuffs).

I wear the same flip-flops everyday, my make-up sits in the case lonely and practically unused, my hair always needs trimming, and my clothes are generally made up of sale items or hand-me-downs.

So, go ahead. Look down on me if you want. Seriously, have at it.

Because I just don't care anymore. Or at least, I don't want to care.

No matter whatever few things I accomplish, somebody will always accomplish more. Someone will always be smarter, prettier, more talented, clever, or handy. But life isn't about me. Even my own life-- it isn't about me.  And yet it is. The challenge is to just get over myself... while remembering how important I am.

I think about some of the most positively influential (and happy) people in the world-- Mother Teresa, the apostles, even our Savior Jesus Christ (who once was mortal, remember)-- and their impact was so far-reaching because they lost themselves. They didn't put themselves at the center of their own world.

(Ironic, really, in the case of the Savior, considering He created that world...)

Such people don't need constant validation. Such people don't need to compare or criticize or boast. They aren't even looking at themselves anyway. They aren't even the type to dwell on everything they aren't, because such thinking is vain. It's a waste of time and energy to dwell on such things.

Such people understand that their value is not truly equated with what they accomplish.

Their value is defined simply by the fact that they exist at all. That they are truly unique sons and daughters of God. That each is one-of-a-kind royalty-- from a mold that was broken the moment they came to be.

All of this temporal, superficial stuff just doesn't matter. Of course it does matter to always try to learn new skills and develop one's talents, but the extent to which I do that, or in what manner, really doesn't matter. It does not, because is should not, influence my view of my own worth.

So back to my challenge. Yeah, it's time to get over myself. I'm not Wonder Woman, and I never will be. Heck, I won't even come close really.

I will continue to just do the best I can... which may be different than your best. And I won't think twice about it. I need to do a lot less dwelling on me (for bad or good), and look past my own nose.

After all, it's not about me.

My Kids

Allie had to stay up a bit late tonight working on her homework. One of the assignments took her entirely too long to do, which was her own doing. "Write a story that includes the word 'pilfer'." That's it. One word. I asked her what on earth was taking her so long. I mean, come one, it's one dang word. She said the story could be as long as she wanted it to be. Translation-- write a novel. Okay, so it really wasn't that long, but still...

So, yes, she had to stay up a wee past her bedtime finishing up a math assignment, when I came across two graded reading tests in her folder. Both marked with a "C". Ouch. Although, I already knew about these grades after having seen them posted online the day before.  But considering how much this kid loves to read, and knowing of her sharp "thinker", grades like this must have a story. When she finished her assignment I sat down to talk with her.

I told her I had seen her grades online and that she had all A's... except for one. She scrunched up her face, a sheepish smile crossing her lips. She muttered, "Was it reading?" I nodded and I showed her the tests. We talked about what happened, and figured she was reading the tests the same way she reads for enjoyment-- lightning fast, and without attention to detail. She also confessed that she tended to hurry through tests so that she could spend the extra time leftover reading. That kid would live in a library if I would let her. As long as she had a never-ending supply of quesadillas she would be good to go.

We took a few minutes and discussed some strategies to help her get through the tests. She seemed to feel better. More hopeful. I gave her a hug, and she looked up at me with her sweet blue eyes. Love poured out of them. No, it gushed out. She wrapped her arms around me and then off she went.

Earlier this evening, before I gathered the troops to the kitchen to clean up, Sami, the ringleader of fun (and mischief), had convinced Drew and Eve to dress up in socks, knitted caps, scarves, and gloves, to "ice skate" around the tile in the entry way. They looked absolutely ridiculous... and absolutely adorable.

And I thought, "I sure love my kids."

My house is a disaster, with a large refrigerator box "playhouse" practically smacking you in the face when you walk through the front door. Toys are scattered far from their "homes". I did straighten up the living room after all the kids were in bed, which means I just moved the mess-- threw some stuff in the toy room and set the rest by the kids' bedroom doors.

The mess used to really both me. I mean really bother me. Then I realized, finally, after having been told a zillion and half times by older friends and strangers alike, that this time of life passes way too quickly-- to just take time to really soak it in and enjoy it. When, at the end of the last school year, I saw that Allie would be soon moving on the fourth grade, I sort of panicked. Where did the time go? She is almost ten... I was then that I decided (yes, I made a conscious choice) to not let the mess bother me. I wouldn't allow it to depress me anymore. I knew that all too soon that mess would be gone. Forever. And, yes, I would miss it.

I remember years ago on one of our visits to my parents' house, when, after having only been there a day, the kids had managed to scatter every toy and book in their house from one end to the other. My dad walked in after work, looked around and started laughing. I apologized. He waved it off and said, "Nah. It just looks like there is life here again." And he smiled. It makes me teary to even remember that. I didn't get it at all then. But I am starting to get it now.

Too fast. It's all too fast.

My family brings me so much happiness. Yeah, I feel a lot of anger, too... along with frustration, sadness, and discouragement. But the happiness is unmatched. That is what I want to take with me. I want to look back on these days and say I loved it. Realistically, I could never love every moment, but I can choose to make more moments to love.

My four sweet babies... If any of you ever read this, know two things-- that I love you forever, and that I love being with you. You are happiness.

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.