Google Me

Lately I've been interested in readership. I knew this would happen. I'm too prideful. Or maybe I'm just curious. It's probably both. I googled "the puddle," and a few muddling specimens surfaced from the murky depths of the internet. My blog was not one of them. So, this is my mediocre attempt at fighting off the other creatures lurking in the google puddle to break into new google readership circles:

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Hum....maybe I need a new approach.

from paul's brain:
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Feeding Wonderboy

Have you ever met a woman who agrees to make food to feed over 300 people? There are probably a few of them out there, but not many who would do it as willingly and as well as my mother in law and her team of wonder women. They didn’t just order pizza, either. They whipped enough cream to fill a large bathtub. They chopped enough lettuce to feed a rabbit family for generations. They cooked enough tortillas to help Hansel and Grettle make a trail of tortilla crumbs across the globe. There was also rice, beans and pulled pork, but I’ll spare you the comparisons. My mother in law is superwoman. I feed her son. You get the picture.

I would be willing to cook for that many people, but I doubt anyone would give me that assignment. Don’t get me wrong, I have a few good dishes mastered, and I’m always working on a few more. But memories of mistakes like mashed potatoes with broccoli or the pancakes that had a mysterious garlic flavor hold me back from reaching my true culinary potential. It’s in there somewhere. It may take a few more years of polishing to uncover. In the meantime (lucky for me) wonderboy is easy to please…or at least he’s really good at pretending.

A Family Portrait

Our day begins at 4:00am. Poor Jdog snorts his way through his early morning meal. Wish I could find that darn nose sucker. We are in and out of sleep until Atrain creeps into my room at 6:45 and says “raur!” I scream. Jdog cries. Atrain laughs. On go Atrain’s cochlears.

The husband comes home at 8:00am. It is so good to see him, especially after he makes crepes and does the dishes. Yum, crepes. Hooray for no dishes.

The husband studies, Atrain and I read books and Jdog stuffed his face. We go running in the fog and Atrain admits (for the first time all winter) that he is freezing cold. Thank heavens. I was beginning to worry about his temperature receptors.

We get home, clean up a bit, snack on left over crepes and decide to give baby J a bath. Once this kid’s clothes come off it’s hard to put them back on. He’s just too rolly poley cute. Atrain decides to “help” wash the baby, and it’s time to take the Jdog out. It won’t be long before the big boy dives in. I leave Atrain in the tub with a squirt bottle to keep him company while I clothed the little one.

After a quick snack, Jdog is out for a nap, snuggling next to his studying dada. I retrieve Atrain from the tub and marvel at the amount of water that can be splashed around in 10 minutes. Then I chase his naked little behind down the hallway a few times before I pin him down and force on his outfit for family pictures. Soon enough his cochlears are back on and he curls up on the couch for quiet time to watch Super Why while I sneak into the shower.

I linger a little longer in the hot water, knowing that all my boys are content for at least a few minutes. I wonder where we will live in a couple of years, if we will be able to afford a home and upgrades for Atrain’s implants, if my bellybutton will ever look the same again, and what I should wear for the pictures.

I emerged from the shower to discover a dispute over the T.V. between Atrain and the husband. It was time for the BYU basketball game and Atrain was not happy. He is tired. We manage a distraction. How rude of us.

As I blowdry my hair I can hear the husband growing more and more disgruntled by his favorite team. I guess they’re loosing. Too bad Jimmer Jammer couldn’t save them from this one. The husband tells me he can get ready for pictures in fifteen minutes. Hum…guess he’ll have to cut his bath down from a half hour to ten mintues.

My sister shows up with her camera. She’s excited to get some “urban” family picture shots. With two tired little boys, I hope we don’t disappoint. I wear the blue coat my mom gave me, my new two dollar tank, six dollar jeans and the boots my brother in law gave me for Christmas last year. The husband successfully emerges from the tub in less than ten minutes and has his clothes on I laid out for him. He’s so handsome.

We load up in the double jogger and it’s still freezing outside, but Atrain and Jdog are surprisingly good sports. Atrain complains when my sister leaves him out of the shot. I love it when I’m left out. Seeing my boys huddle together in different arrangements is sure sweet. We end family pictures on the bridge as the sun sets. Even if the subjects don’t work out, the scenery is gorgeous. I watch Atrain run across and realize that we’ll be moving somewhere in a year when med school is done. I’ve been crossing under and over this bridge since before he was born. I pushed him in the stroller when he was Jdog’s size and I was on my way to grad school graduation. He’s grown up here. Jdog was born here. We’ve grown together here. Our med school home has been good to us.

We return home to our little apartment and watch a replay of the pictures we took. Hubby is handsome. Our kiddos are cute. I still have some baby weight to loose. “Wow, I’m going bald,” says the husband. Se la vi. I’m glad we now have a few pictures of our family.

Make Over

Before baby J began sleeping through the night (not waking for long periods of time) he and I would often find ourselves on the rocking chair in the wee hours of the morning flipping through three channels: HGTV, TLC and STYLE. HGTV has been my favorite network since high school. I like TLC’s lifestyle shows. And, most of the stuff on STYLE is silly and somewhat sickening, but it sucks you in. “How do I Look,” was a late night favorite for me and the Jdog.

I learned a few important things about myself while watching that show: someday I want subtle blue highlights in my hair, and that my style is cheap and/or careless. Let’s face it, being stylish costs money. I don’t have much money these days, and if there ever comes a day when I do, I don’t think I’ll spend a lot on being hip. I like to look nice, but I’m not sure how much I care about being fashionable. There are plenty of other things that I care about that also need money…like throw pillows, food and cochlear implants (though not in that order).

Lucky for me, I have people who care enough about me to save me from my style-less self. Who knows what I would look like without my mom’s ever-giving wardrobe well. And, we all witnessed what this blog would have forever looked like without my sister-in-law’s design expertise. This woman is amazing. I don’t think there’s anything she can’t do. Maybe back-hand-springs—yes, I can definitely be the teacher in the back-hand-spring department…because I’m sure that skill will be so handy someday. But really, she’s my teacher. Mrs. Jones is the kind of person who I try to emulate in so many ways: extremely talented, but more important—extremely selfless with all that she has been blessed. Thank you for that Mrs. Jones, and thank you for my digital make over.

The Giggle

Little Jdog giggled today. It sounded like pure, sweet delight. I was the only one who heard it. I tried to attract Atrain’s attention without scaring away Jdog’s fragile little laugh, but it was gone before I could procure a witness. I smiled for the rest of the afternoon, just remembering that simple, fluttering, happy sound.

The husband came home and I relayed the news. “He giggled?” he said with a doubtful lilt in his voice. “Yes, he giggled” I said, building up my defenses. “I was playing peek-a-boo and tickling his legs like this,” showing the husband how I garnered the giggles out of Jdog. But baby J just stared up at me with his wide almond eyes without even a hint of a smile. In fact, his lower lip began to quiver. “Well he did,” I said. “Uh-huh,” said hubby, raising his eyebrows. “You’re just jealous,” I retort.

He did. Jdog giggled today, just for me; just like he poops his pants every day, just for me. The hubby should be jealous. I’m the lucky one who gets them both.

Young Love

It’s hard to close your little boy’s bedroom door at night when he holds out a flower for you—even if it’s an hour past his bedtime. Lately we’ve let Atrain keep his bedroom door a little bit open (per his request) as long as he stays in bed. He has responded miraculously well to this privilege, and I have to admit that it feels great to not have to tie his door shut every night. But tonight he tested my resolve. I could hear him milling around in his room, then soon enough I heard his door creak open. “Looks like I’ll have to get the jump rope out,” I thought. Then I saw it: the petals of a fake flower emerging from the crack between his door and the frame. “I got this flower for you, Mama!” Atrain said.

My heart skipped a beat, but not for the same reasons it did when “Awe-she-baba” gave me a flower when I was a sophomore in high school. I saved that silly little daisy for weeks. This heart fluttering moment meant so much more than that. I am the woman in my son’s life: the only head of hair he cares to play with, the only one he calls princess, the only one he gives flowers to. And yet, I am also the one who puts him on time out, nags at him to use the big boy potty, ties his door shut at night with a jump rope, etc. I’m flattered that he so easily overlooks all of my faults and loves me regardless. Glad he’s learning well from his father.

He broke the rule, but I decided to let this first offense slide because it was just too darn sweet. I knelt down, looked at my little boy, gave him the biggest hug, grabbed a cochlear from the table and said “Thank you so much for the flower! I love it. I love you…now please stay in bed or I will have to lock your door.” Atrain retreated to his bed, but within the next few minutes he was back at the door yelling, “MOM! I want my flower back!” Awe, young love.

Hairy/Scary

I just finished watching the documentary “Good Hair” featuring Chris Rock. Some women shave their heads to demonstrate their devotion to God. Others budget thousands of dollars they don’t have to buy those sacred scalps. Then there are those young, naïve white girls with long blond hair who braid it in corn rows for family vacations to Disneyland. That was me. I remember wondering why so many people asked if my hair was attached to my hat, wondering why so many black girls made strange comments, and wondering whether or not I should be embarrassed by my waist-long corn rows. I wonder if my parents had any idea.

*puddle jump*

Atrain was terrified for the first time today. And it wasn’t because of how my hair looked (though I’m pretty sure my greasy do frightened away a few neighbors). I left Atrain in the living room with the P90x DVD running while I went to put on my shoes. He usually loves to do “movie exercises” with me. The next thing I knew he screeched, then bolted around the corner yelling for me. He flung himself into my arms and wrapped his skinny legs around my waste. It felt nice to be his protector. I asked him what happened and he bravely tried to hold back his tears as he told me that the movie was scary. I looked at the T.V. screen, and sure enough, it was a scary sight to behold. A shadowy, headless eight pack was striking the Heisman pose. Yikes. We had to find Atrain’s sword before we could begin the work out. I’ll never look at the P90x DVDs the same way again.

Missionary Monday

Dear Elder I,

Hello JD. I hope that you are doing well. I have been thinking about you so much lately, wondering where in the world you are now, if you’ve been planting any more palm trees, if you’ve had any more opportunities to teach “golden” investigators, etc. I’m sure a lot of investigators are golden—some just need more time to refine than others. I sure need a lot of refining. I’m glad that the Lord has patience with us.

Yesterday was an interesting Sunday. The husband left for meetings really early and didn’t get back to pick us up until five minutes before church started. I was doing my best not to be impatient, especially with myself. I couldn’t seem to find anything to wear and I was getting more and more flustered by the minute. I don’t know why. I stood there flinging through the dresses in my closet, feeling sorry that my little one just wanted to be held, that I hadn’t don’t a great job preparing for Primary’s singing time (a calling that I don’t technically have any more—it’s complicated) and that I was a little miffed that my husband wasn’t home yet (he had the car and I’m trying to be early for church these days…). So, when the hubby came through the door at five minutes to the hour I was relieved to see him, but I shot him a wide-eyed “what took so long” look. As we rushed out the door he apologized, explained that the meeting went extra long, and then went on about concerns that were much more substantial than my “what should I wear” worries. Clothes don’t matter. People do. I felt stupid and sorry that I had even cared about which skirt to put on.

I sat there at the beginning (well, partway through the opening song if you want to be technical) of the meeting trying to pinpoint what exactly I was feeling: ashamed—sort of; restless—yes; tired—always; sorry—yes; guilty—no. I think that we Mormons misuse the word guilty. At least, I do. I stick it to situations like being late for church or not making cutesie home-baked refreshments or not dressing up enough for meetings, as if I’ve committed a moral crime. Perhaps a cultural crime, but that’s not what is most important.

I need to be better at the basics, like Elder Uchtdorf said last October, “As we turn to our Heavenly Father and seek his wisdom regarding the things that matter most, we learn over and over again the importance of four key relationships: with our God, with our families, with our fellowmen and with ourselves.” I think that the last couple of months have thrown me off in a few of these areas. I’ve readjusted pretty well after baby J’s birth, but I’m still relearning how to use my time. If I try a little harder to be a little better at developing these relationships, I know that I’ll find more happiness and fulfillment in each day. I know that it will help me be a better wife and mother. I know that God can help me understand the person I am and who I can become.

I don’t know what you’re going through out there, but I hope you don’t get discouraged over things that are not the most important. Don’t follow my lead on that one. J I’m going to do better at focusing on the simple, most important thing in my life. In Oct. 2006 Elder Ballard gave a great talk about Jacob’s “O Be Wise” call. He said:

Brothers and sisters, may we focus on the simple ways we can serve in the kingdom of God, always striving to change lives, including our own. What is most important in our Church responsibilities is not the statistics that are reported or the meetings that are held but whether or not individual people—ministered to one at a time just as the Savior did—have been lifted and encouraged and ultimately changed. Our task is to help others find the peace and the joy that only the gospel can give them. In seven words, Jesus summarized how we can accomplish this. He said, “If ye love me, keep my commandments” (John 14:15).

I sure do love you JD! Thanks for your example and all that you are doing to bring peace and joy to others. I hope I can do the same out here, at the very least in my own family. That is what is most important.

Just so you know, I’m not this crazy every Sunday. Last week was much better. We got to take a loaf of our bread to church to be used for the sacrament. We went early and sat in the pews to watch the husband set things up. We talked about it a little, but I didn't really notice how much Atrain was soaking in until we got home from church. Atrain insisted on carrying the bag of left over bread in from the car. Then, when we got home he told me to sit down on the bench. He then told me to be reverent while he opened up the bag and passed me an entire slice. "I'm a sacrament boy," he said. "Just like dada." I hope he continues to see himself as a sacrament boy. Now we'll just have to work on saying prayers that are longer than, "Dear Heavenly Father...Amen!" Two steps forward, one step back, right.

I’m proud of you.

Love always,

MJ

Baby Mine

Tonight I checked my email and opened a video sent to me by my husband’s cousin. It was the “baby mine” song from Dumbo, with all of the original animation. The hubby was sitting on the other side of the room when he heard the song flowing from my computer. Then he heard me sniffle. “Are you crying? What are you watching?” he asked. I couldn’t get the words out for a few moments, then my voice choked on the phrase, “It’s not what it seems.”

Yes, I was crying as I watched the momma elephant swing her baby to sleep with her trunk, but my mind was elsewhere. My mind was wading in the words of my aunt who responded to the video, “[My son] and I watched [this video] many times at the Children’s Hospital when we were waiting at the clinic…cherish motherhood…” Her son passed at a young age. I cannot imagine that pain. It hurts to wonder.

This is the time in my life that I get to devote myself to my little ones. I never want to neglect this opportunity. The moments they are small enough to swaddle in my arms and sing them to sleep only last so long (then they begin to prefer that “Mater Monster truck” sing them to sleep…though I’ll cherish that memory too). Tonight I swaddled baby J in my arms long after I heard his breath slow into soft, rhythmic sleep.

Supermom Moments

I had a few supermom moments today: breastfeeding my baby while buttering 8 pieces of toast, driving an SUV with 6 children inside, letting my husband catch up on his sleep (undisturbed) after a night in the hospital, managing tantrums without getting frustrated, and getting my running pace back down to 8 minutes/mile on the treadmill (impressive for me). I’m choosing to ignore the fact that I never got in the shower, the piles of laundry that remain untouched and all of the dirty dishes lounging in my sink. I’m not going to let them ruin my supermom day.

Poop and Blogging

Today I tried to bully the husband into skipping out on his studies. He was given the day “off,” but for many med students, including my hubby, time off means time to devour textbooks. He is a good student—one of the best and I’m so proud of him. I tell him that I am, but I should show him more often. Instead, I say something like this:

Me: (doing my best to sound stupid, rather than passive aggressive) “Why does the number of pages you have to read balloon when you get a day off?”

Hubby: (doing his best to ignore my attitude) “It’s always been the same number of pages, but now I have a better timeframe in which to read them.

Me: (scrambling for words to express my disgust for the time he has to spend with his textbooks) “Looks like the big boy is poopy! Do you have enough extra time to change his diaper?”

Hubby: (wearing a mischievous, knowing expression) “Sure. Attain, do you want me or momma to change you?”

Atrain: “Momma!”

Me: “Not fair.”

Hubby: (laughing to himself) “He just loves you.”

Me: (annoyed) “How sweet. That’s the third time you’ve skipped out on diaper duty this week.”

Hubby: (beginning to pack up his things to head back to school) “Not true, I’ve changed plenty of poopies this week.”

Me: “Maybe little boy diapers. But remember that one time they were both poopy at the same time and you ran for the swaddlers rather than the #5 big boy diapers?”

Hubby: (now laughing at the technicality of our poop conversation) “I was already in the middle of Jdog’s diaper change.”

Me: (miffed that he’s right, wondering what other ammunition I had to throw into this disagreement). “Hum…I’m going to blog about you!”

Hubby: “Don’t blog about me. I help out.”

Me: (giving up and hugging him goodbye) “I know you do. You’re the best. I’m just trying to get your attention. I love you.

So there you have it, folks. I’m a bully. Poop and blogging are my weapons of choice. Maybe I should develop a few new tactics.

Final Score

I’m sitting in the parking lot of the grocery store with my babies sleeping soundly in the car. Yes, I took my computer with me in the car. Especially after spending a half hour trying to convince a screaming, sleep-deprived Atrain that it’s not ok to wear basketball shorts outside in the winter time, I knew this might be my only chance today to jot a few thoughts down. He really is an especially sweet boy. But he’s also rather stubborn. I’ve tried to match his stubbornness today, and it’s been exhausting. No wonder he needs more sleep.

Today it was my goal to get him to take a bath and let me wash his hair. My first approach was to make an exchange—we could watch Superwhy if he washed his hair. Guess who has been content pretending to be Superwhy rather than watching him. I’m happy with this reaction, so I move on to strategy #2: lure him into the tub by letting him help me clean it. Atrain sprayed, splashed, washed and wiped down every inch of plumbing in the bathroom. Now I have a sparkling clean tub and an even dirtier Superwhy running around. Next I tried to trick him out of his basketball outfit (part of the reason why he won’t take a bath) by insisting on a trip to the grocery store to prepare for our ice cream party tonight. He knows he’s not allowed to wear his shorts outside, and maybe the ice cream party incentive would help sweeten the deal. After about a half hour tantrum involving his bball clothes, his tricycle and hundreds of “I don’t want to take a bath; don’t wash my hair!” guess who is sitting in the parking lot of the grocery store with her unbathed babies sleeping soundly in the car. Oh yeah, it’s me, but I already told you that.

The hubby just called. Our tub faucet just broke off. Phew. Looks like I’ll have a good excuse when I bring my stinky toddler to preschool tomorrow. Final score: momma-0, Atrain-3.

My Monster

Some days it’s hard to shake off a little monster that hangs around my neck. I’m not talking about Atrain or Jdog. I love those little monsters. They can strangle me as much as they please. The monster that I loathe doesn’t have a name, but selfishness, guilt or impatience would fit her nicely. Whenever she’s around it’s hard to look in the mirror without seeing the extra postpartum 10 lbs I still have to loose. It’s hard to sneak shower in without feeling like I’m neglecting my kids. When I’m picking up after the boys (again) she makes me yearn to do things that are more important or appreciated, then she scolds me for having such heathen thoughts. The worst thing about her is that she wants me to believe that she’s the best I can do: that she’s my only honest critique, the only one who sees me for what I really am—that she is me.

But she isn’t. I can do better than that—especially when she’s keeping me from doing and enjoying the things I love. Time for some girl power music.

Immunizations

Today Jdog had his two month check up and immunizations. Oh how I hate betraying my children in the doctor’s office. Baby J was so happy and proud as he laid down on the scale with his clothes off as the nurses marveled at my nearly 15 lb. baby. He cooed at the doctor as he was examined. He smiled at me when I put his clothes halfway on—leaving his rolly poley legs exposed. Atrain knew what was coming. He clambered up on the table and said in his sweet voice, “Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hand baby J.” Then the nurse came over and stabbed him with the needles. Jdog’s scream grew louder and more bewildered with each of the three shots.

It makes my heart sink when there is no way to explain my children that I’m doing what’s best for them, when I have to cause them a little pain now to strengthen them for whatever they may encounter later. But that's my job. It’s painful in ways I never predicted—especially when I had to let the anesthesiologist pry my child from my arms while I stood there helpless, listening to him cry my name all the way to the cochlear implant operating room. There were moments when I thought I would never forgive myself for that. But now Atrain can hear his little brother crying after his immunizations. He can tell him calmly and clearly, “It’s ok baby J, you will be ok…do you want momma to feed you?”

Sometimes parenting stinks, discipline stinks: the responsibility to cause my children pain now in order to prepare them for later. I couldn’t do it without hope and faith that God also knows and loves my children and will help me raise them to be the good, strong individuals they can be. I couldn’t do it if I didn’t know that he also knows and loves me. I’m a little stronger than I was last time…at least with Jdog's first immunizations I didn’t cry, leaving the nurses to deal with two sobbing babies. That was a little embarrassing.

Every Sunday

1.16.11

Every Sunday the hubby and I have the same conversation. It morphs here and there, incorporating bits and pieces of new information and experience, but we mostly reiterate thoughts and ideas we have always expressed about our careers and choices and the direction of our family. I love this conversation. Without explicitly making a list, we reaffirm our goals. Without a planned presentation, we share our love for our God. And, without breaking out the yearbook, I’m reminded of the young man I fell in love with a decade ago and the reasons he stole my heart.

Caring is Complicated

January 15, 2011

Today the husband recommended that I put a counter on The Puddle. I’ve considered it, but I sense a problem with this recommendation: counting would compel me to care, and caring makes things complicated. Take the first time I really cared about what someone (outside of my family) thought about me, for example. I was high school and I was completely smitten by a boy. He was smart, handsome, kind, cultured, confident, involved in every sport in every season and played every instrument in the orchestra (and a small ensemble of girls as well). But, since he was quite literally the Hercules of our high school class (and for other not-so-superficial reasons) I adored him. I was also completely in denial. Years passed. And then, for some fateful reason, I decided to take a risk and tell him. I thought about it for weeks, how and when exactly to say, “I like you.” This was a big deal. I had never said anything so loaded in my life. What if he didn’t like me too—what would that mean? I wasn’t pretty or smart or _(fill in the blank)_ enough? Or would it be the opposite—that I was too nice, too long or too _(take your pick)_? I was bound to be too much or not enough of something. But, somehow I mustered the courage to care enough that I was willing to take a risk and spill my gigantic bottle of beans, even if it meant spending the rest of my life all alone, cleaning up every last dirty, dejected one. One night when we walked me to my door I told him quickly and awkwardly, right then and there. It was so stupidly quick and awkward that I had to repeat myself. I waited for his response…forever. Then, just when I was about to bang my head against the front door and tell him to drive off and leave me on the porch to die, he smiled. And his sweet, crooked grin echoed my awkward confession. He liked me too—apparently a lot, because every year since then he’s been by my side, helping me clean up every last spilled bottle of beans. My Hercules.

Where was I? Oh yes: caring makes things complicated. Having a complicated life isn’t necessarily a bad thing. On the contrary, a complicated life can be the most fulfilling, if you treat it with care. In the case of the hubby, I’m glad that I cared enough to take that risk and consequently make my life more complex. I’m just not sure that I care enough about the number of people who step in my puddles to take the risk and count. After all, the only ones who really count are already reading.

Growing boys

There is a question that I ask myself every morning, and it comes sincerely--as if I’ve never asked it before, “How are my babies growing so big, so quickly?” Even though I know the answer (and it sounds stupid when I ask the question out loud), when I wake up in the morning and cradle baby J in my arms I can’t help but ask. He changes overnight. Jdog’s little almond eyes have become so alert, following faces and squinting when he smiles. His little lips are so defined, so tiny and so sweet when they widen and show off his many gummy expressions. Somehow his legs keep getting longer and simultaneously larger. He kicks them, coos and squirms around whenever he’s excited. Then sometimes when I look at Atrain it hurts to realize that his features are stretching out and his expressions are maturing. This little boy used to be as little, chubby and cuddly as Jdog. This question makes me want to take more pictures, to steal away these moments in their lives before they slip through my memory, and to write more about their sweet phases before they pass me by.

Poster Girl

If I had a superpower, it would probably be poster making. I've never been the fastest runner, the most graceful dancer, the best vocalist or the craftiest crafter--but I've always been the best poster maker. I pride myself in my ability to wield the thick, dripping, paintbrush poster markers. This is what I was doing today. When my husband reminded me that I am on maternity leave and I don't "have" to be making posters for my job right now, I reminded him that I still want to do a good job--even if I'm on leave. He continued to question my logic when I got out the Elmer's glue and sparkles. I got a little defensive and said, "What if I like what I'm doing?" Sorry for that, honey, and thanks anyway for always trying to save me from myself. Its just my superpower. I make posters. That's what I do.

Oedipus Complex

Atrain is the best staller around. Whenever he’s on track for bedtime he always finds a way to get derailed. After brushing his teeth tonight he insisted on getting a drink. I said ok, expecting him to hoist himself up to the faucet. But, of course he needs a cup—so he gets a measuring cup. Then dada needs a drink—but no mom, not from the measuring cup—he has to fill up dada’s pitcher. I giggle at his antics and then pull the stop.

So then we’re in his room, talking about tonight and tomorrow, just like we do every night. “It’s momma and Atrain’s special day tomorrow—no school, we get to stay home together!” I say. “Dada too?” he asks. “No, Dada still has to go to school tomorrow,” I explain. A disappointed expression grows on his face, then he changes the course of the conversation. “When baby J grows bigger and bigger, then he can sleep in my room?” he asks. (We talked about this last night). “Yep, you’re right Atrain—Jdog will sleep in your bed and you get to sleep in the bunk!” He smiles and his eyes grow bigger than quarters. “Then,” he continues with the same excited expression, “When I grow even taller and taller, then I can sleep in your room!” It takes me a minute to follow his train of thought and he sees my confusion, so he continues, “Taller like dada?” I smile bigger than I have all day. I guess my room is the top of the totem pole. Words can’t explain how much I love this kid. “You’re right Atrain, when you’re tall like dada then you can sleep in my room.” I lie with all my heart. When he’s that old he won’t want to anyway. I’ll soak it up while I can.

1/11/11

Some things only happen once in a lifetime. When I think of those moments in my life I think of my first kiss, my wedding day and the days my children were born. Perhaps the day I swam with sharks can fit in there somewhere too (because that aint happening again). And then there’s every other day: the grocery day, the laundry day, the “I’m not sure how many times I’ve changed this kiddos clothes,” day, etc. These days, the “routine” days float out of my memory like steam out of a pot.

Even though today’s events fell more on the “routine” side of the spectrum, I tried to capture at least some of 1/11/11’s moments in my memory before they evaporated away. I want to remember how it felt to push my two kiddos in the stroller down the frozen sidewalks; trying to carry on a conversation with Atrain, but realizing my cold cheeks couldn’t correctly form my words; staring down at my little bright-eyed bundle of a baby cooing happily into the cold air. I want to remember how Atrain thought it was so funny when I chased him like a velociraptor, and how funny it was to watch him imitate me. I want to remember how he stole my “I can’t believe ______” phrase from our conversation and applied it so cutely and so incorrectly. I will never forget how he refuses to wear his coat over his basketball attire because he wanted to be sure everyone knew that tonight was the big game night with dada. I wouldn’t mind forgetting the fact that we forgot to change his batteries before the game and he ran out toward the end. I hope I always remember how sweet it is to hear him request hugs from his little brother, and how much Jdog squirms in Atrain’s arms. I never want to forget how much I love hearing hubby whistle to himself, even when he's on the throne.

These things happen every day—the unremarkable, routine life happenings. And, they make every day pretty darn special; especially 1/11/11.

Missionary Monday

Today is the first post in a series written every Monday with my LDS missionary bro in mind. I want to pay more attention to the "missionaries" in my life that inspire me to do better and come closer to God.

Husband and I were watching my new favorite TV series, Modern Family. When I was in labor with Jdog it was my pre-epidural drug. On the latest episode the husband compares his wife to a border collie, “She needs to be run every day or she goes crazy.” I laughed out loud and gave the hubby a knowing look. He’s too nice to joke about it, but there have been a few moments in our marriage when he kindly encouraged me to lace up my nikes. Running is my daily prescription for sanity.

It’s rather humbling to try and establish a regular routine after a new baby. Lately I’ve been hitting the gym after dropping Atrain off at preschool. Usually Jdog sleeps soundly in his car seat while I tread on the mill. Yuck I hate treadmills, but between the snow and the smog I thought it was my best option—I was wrong.

All of the treadmills were taken, so I decided to check out the basketball court to see if I could do a few laps around the perimeter. To my surprise, I spotted an indoor track on the second level. Perfect: an entire gym to me and my baby. It took my back to my undergrad days…minus the newborn. But my and baby J’s unaccompanied run didn’t last long. Five minutes in we were joined by another pair of runners.

From the opposite side of the track I noticed that the two were different. Rather than running side by side or slightly offset, these two ran in a strait line-one right in front of the other. The one in back was the shorter of the two, had graying hair and frequently called out various cues in a practiced, matter of fact way. The runner in front was very tall, roughly sixteen and had a noticeable limp in his gate. The two steadily gained on me as I slowed to a walk, now holding fussy baby J in my arms. I became even more curious about them as I heard the runner in front mumble incoherently when tail runner directed their lap around mine. As they passed me on the left I glanced in their direction, making eye contact with the older runner in the back. He gave me a kind smile and wink, and I realized that he was a father running with his disabled son.

Something about watching the two while holding little Jdog made me well up with emotion. I wondered how many hundreds of times they had run together like this, how much of their daily routine they shared and how special their interdependent relationship must be. They humbled and inspired me. I want to be that kind of parent: gently leading from behind with confidence in my child’s ability to navigate their track. I want to be their friend and companion they can trust. I want them to know how much I love them and love God because of the things we do every day. I know that parenting is the most difficult mission I will ever undertake, but I have already learned that it will bring me more joy, sorrow and meaning to my life than anything else I could be doing right now. And I know that God can help us do anything.

I’m thankful for the example of this father and son. I hope to meet them on the track again some day.

Good Old Greenie

Today I wore my green dress to church. I’ve been wearing this dress since I was sixteen and every time I put it on it feels comfy and familiar, like having a long, meaningful conversation with an old best friend. My green dress technically wasn’t even mine until I moved away from home and officially stole it from my mom’s closet. It’s hard to sneak an outfit from your mother when you don’t come home at night to put it back. So, I stole the green dress and eventually mom gave up trying to get it back. Some teenage girls were boyfriend stealers. Maybe I was a bit of that too, but I mostly stuck to stealing dresses. Now I use much more civil methods—like begging—to obtain clothing from my mother’s closet. Mom is a stylish softie who loves to shop and loves to give me clothing hand-outs.

Someday I’ll have a little more money than I do now. Someday I won’t need my mother’s hand-outs (though I’m sure I’ll still want them). And I wonder if, when that someday comes, I’ll still wear my old green dress. I know that it’s not as stylish as it used to be, and some may even consider it ugly these days. The style gurus from “What Not to Wear” certainly would. They would take one look at it, scoff at me for still wearing something that I stole from my mom’s closet in high school and toss it directly in the second hand bin like an old VHS tape. I don’t really care what they would think. I hope that money doesn’t make me the kind of person who would stab my old green dress in the back. Besides, there’s got to be some kind of rule about how many times a hand-me-down can be handed down.

The Power of Football

#4

January 9, 2011

Today my son was playing football in the house. He runs around in a squatty position, elbows sticking out, chugging his arms to and fro. He juts his chin forward and crinkles his nose as loud, low, grizzly words jump from his mouth. Usually the words that form are, “Yes,” “Touchdown,” “hike,” and other predictable Neanderthal-like noises. But, today as he raised the football above his head just before taking off down the hall he said, “By the power of God!”

Glad he knows where his power comes from. Not sure if it’s blasphemous in this context, though it’s definitely worth a sideways glance at the hubby and a few chortles. Hubby blames the true videos (aka the living scriptures animated Book of Mormon stories) for the phrase. He always picks on my true videos. I’ve been watching them since I was Atrain’s age and I don’t recall a single (exact) “By the power of God” monologue. I’m choosing a much more likely target to blame: BYU football.

Worry Bath

#3

Today I sat in a puddle of worry. It’s that same one—the biggest one that I splash in at least once every day, but today I bathed in it. When I picked Atrain up from school his sweet teachers told me that they don’t think he’s been responding to their questions as quickly as usual this week. Sometimes they had to pounce on him to get his attention when he would normally respond immediately. He is a toddler and it’s difficult to get most toddlers to focus, but my kid has cochlear implants. This means that the moment he starts ignoring (or is he ignoring?), my worries start bubbling:

Is he just intently playing with his cars or is he unable to hear/understand me when asked if he wants an egg sandwich. Maybe I should ask if he wants chocolate. Does he just need a few days to get over this? Should I rush him to the audiologist? Should I take his temperature? He says he’s tired. Maybe he’s anemic. I need to buy some spinach. Can a brain be tired of listening? Did my two year old really just tell me that he’s teasing me? New words…that’s good. Very good. How young is too young to start using the “respond when spoken to” phrase? I wish my “CI kids ignoring” google search would turn up something useful. How many emails to our CI support team is too many?

I mostly hate baths. They’re supposed to be relaxing, but every time I try to soak up a nice, soothing bath my thoughts jump into everything else I’d rather be doing. So, why is it so hard to get my mind out of a tub full of worry? I wish I could enjoy bathing as much as others in my household. Tonight little Jdog followed in the footsteps of his father and was right at home in the warm water. If only I looked as cute as he does with all those extra rolls.