Don't let the Devil Get You Down, Brother.

Dear Elder I,

February has gone by too fast. I can’t believe it’s the last day of the month today. It’s hard to believe the spring is right around the corner. I can’t wait for warmer weather here. I’ve been imagining baby J crawling around in the grass this summer. He is so big; really—a chunk of a kid, and so stinking adorable. Jdog is wiggling around, arching his back, holding his head up when he’s on his tummy, and smiling with a triple chin all of the time. He makes me work to get him to giggle, but when I do, it’s worth it.

This week was somewhat strange. The husband’s injury ended up not being too serious—a cracked metatarsal and sprained ankle. Much better than what it could have been (phew!). I’ll send you the story I wrote about that evening. I think it would give you a good laugh. So, every morning the boys and I drive the husband to school. It’s somewhat early, so we’re not even dressed yet. Atrain loves to bundle up in his ducky blanket and be carried out to the car. We all exhale cold clouds into the air on the way to the husband’s school/work. Right now he’s doing his Radiation Oncology rotation and he loves it. I think he’s made his final decision. It won’t be easy—one of the most competitive residency programs to apply to, but I know things will work out. I’m lucky to have him as mine.

This weekend was our stake’s conference. The messages shared filled me with motivation and desire to do better. Elder Kearon of the First Quorum of the Seventy and his wife spoke to us. I loved both their messages, but his wife’s thoughts are still resonating with me. She read the lyrics to a song. I forget the name, but the lines “But you made wine out of water, raised Jarius’ daughter, fed thousands with a few fish and some bread…can you make more of me” have been replaying in my mind. She talked about how easy it is to feel empty and inadequate with all that we have on our plate, but God can make wine out of water, and He can feed thousands with only one plate of food to work with. Why can’t he make more of me—change me into something sweeter, more divine? He can, I just have to let him.

I think the process of changing me into something more must be more difficult than changing water into wine. I’m more stubborn. I don’t perfectly obey every one of God’s commands. I want to be wine, but sometimes I’m just water. I want to be more patient, more loving, more charitable, more like Christ—and I’m trying. But when I mess up, when I’m just me, it’s hard to imagine how I could ever be more. Our Stake President spoke on Sunday and the thing I remember most from his message was this: if you want a revelation, ask God to show you your sins. Then ask him to help you overcome them.

That’s what I did this morning. And there wasn’t a shining vision filled with all my wrongdoings, but later—when I was trying (again) to motivate little Atrain to get dressed for school—I saw myself from a different light. Atrain was getting upset with me that I wouldn’t let him have another chocolate egg. He was really mad and he yelled, then raised his hand to hit me. I raised my voice and told him to stop. He didn’t. He kept hitting me…all the way to time out.

As I held the door to his room closed I started crying. I was so angry. I was angry at myself for not teaching him well enough to obey. I was angry at him for not listening when I asked him to stop, used the “stop sign,” told him to “put his hands in his turtle shell,” dishing out all of the “red light” phrases I could think of that we have taught him. But he wouldn’t stop. And then someone helped me understand why. A thought came to me from somewhere outside of my frustrated, offended mind. I know that it wasn’t from God because it didn’t make me feel guilty or inadequate. It taught me that my anger was wrong.

Yes, I was angry at my three-year old because he made a mistake. I was angry at him for not remembering to do something the right way. Even worse—I was mad at him for doing things that God forgives me for on a daily basis. And he’s not even old enough to be held accountable. I was angry, and Atrain could see it in my face. He could hear it in my voice. He could feel it in my body language. He was mad that I was mad. And he was just trying to tell me. My angry reaction taught him nothing.

So, as I sat there holding his door shut, I heart him say, “I’m sorry mom! I’m sorry! I want you to hold me!” I broke down into sobs, sorry for the way I reacted, sorry for my own sin. I scooped him up and held him and said, “Thank you so much for telling me you’re sorry. I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I got angry. I love you.” Atrain thought my tears were funny. He laughed. He frankly forgave me—teaching me again how I need to be. How I want to be. No wonder God wants us to become like little children.

Anyway my dear brother, I sure love you. I know that God can make more out of us than we can ever make on our own. I know that he can also teach us how. Don’t ever listen to feelings of inadequacy that you may have. Don’t ever let anything or anyone tell you that you’re not good enough, that you’re not doing enough. This morning I did have a revelation of sorts when I asked God to show me my sins—God gives us sorry when we flub up, not guilt or feelings of inadequacy. He will teach us and motivate us to do better. Don’t let the devil get you down, brother. I’m so proud of you. Keep up the good work. Thank you for inspiring me.

Love,

MJ

Sunday Drive

Today after church ended I told the husband that I wasn’t going to get out of the car until Atrain fell asleep. He said, “ok.” So, we drove around the city for hours with both our babies sleeping soundly in back. It was amazing.

We worked on the husband’s personal statement for upcoming applications. We admired the beautiful homes in the area. We fantasized about the next few years of our lives: where we will be, what a semi-stable residency program will feel like, and how much more in debt we will be when we get there. We talked about God, the future, how funny it was when Atrain said this morning, “I told you to turn the lights off,” and how sweet it is to hear Jdog giggle—especially when Uncle Esteban had him laughing this weekend.

I think the peace of our slow, meandering Sunday drive will sustain me through the tantrums this week. When I said to the husband, “We’re probably wasting gas,” he replied, “No. We’re buying our sanity.” He was right. He always is. I sure love that man. Wherever we will land in the next few years, one thing is for sure: there will be sweet, slow Sunday drives.

The Hairs on My Head

I’m shedding. It’s officially been three months since I had a baby. I’m pulling long strands of hair out of clothes as I fold them. Hairs are hiding between the creases in my baby’s triple chin. My shower wall is streaked with wet hair balls whenever I wash. A bird could nest inside of my brush. Ew.

I’m sure the husband notices, especially when he picks never-ending threads of hair from his underwear. I know that God notices: “Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God? But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not therefore: ye are of more value than many sparrows” (Luke 12, 6-7).

If God notices how much hair I’m loosing lately, He must also notice how hard I’m trying to do good lately. Even if my efforts yield rather small, seemingly insignificant results…He notices. Even if it’s hard for me to really measure the meaning of it all, I’ll keep trying—just like I’ll keep shedding. Maybe someday I’ll see where all of it ends up.

Sweet Teeth.

I have a sweet tooth—28 of them, actually. Today I couldn’t stop feeding them. They kept begging for more sugar: sugar pressed into frilly little hearts that say “I love you,” every time I put one in my mouth; sugar encrusted chocolate eggs that nested sweetly between my lips; hot, liquid, frothy sugar foaming in my mouth. Mmmmmmm, what’s wrong with me. I can’t stop. I love you too, sweethearts.

Octomom

Do you ever feel like you're running backwards, chasing a Jdog and an Atrain who are headed in opposite directions, racing the sun before it sets into bed, all while trying to catch the shadow of your own expectations? I do; especially today. I'm doing my best, but I can't do it all.

I guess the laundry will just have to kick around the house a little longer while I figure out how to sprout a few new arms so that I can play Operation, feed a baby, do the dishes and type on my computer at the same time. Then again, more arms might be dangerous. I might just loose control of one of them and begin strangling my three year old. Sometimes he is the most adorable little man. And then there are the moments when he insists on squishing his little brother. Yes, more arms would probably be dangerous right now.

Truth

Today Atrain was begging to eat another chocolate peanut butter bar. This was our conversation:

Atrain: Mom, I really really want another chocolate bar.

Me: Maybe you can have another one after you eat something healthy.

Atrain: But chocolate is so good for me.

Me: Chocolate is good, but it is mostly a snack.

Atrain (in an adorable pleading tone): But please, mom! I just love chocolate.

Me: Why do you love chocolate so much?

Atrain: I just DO!

Me: But why?

Atrain: Chocolate is just....perfect.

Me: Amen Atrain. Amen.

Missinary Tuesday

My Dear Brother,

It’s been too long since I’ve written you. At least, two weeks seems like a long time, but it can pass faster than Dalliwag’s gas. Just kidding. Not a day goes by when I don’t think of you—especially Mondays when I haven’t written you and I imagine how it must feel to open your inbox and be disappointed by the lack of email within. I have also missed your Monday replies. They make my life so much sunnier. I stink worse than Dalliwag’s gas for not writing you for two weeks. No joke. I do love you and am proud of you.

So much can happen in a couple of weeks. For example: the husband broke his foot during our family date night. He’ll be fine—already healing well, thank heavens. Valentines day also came and went…it was rather unremarkable, but also rather funny to spend Vday at McDonalds. We do what we can to keep the romance alive with kids on a budget. :) Also, Atrain is now 3 years old. We had a killer Monster Truck Jam birthday party. He had a blast. He also is beginning to agree to sit on the potty…and even though nothing really happens, I have faith that we’re headed in the right direction. I really don’t enjoy changing the diaper of a 3 year old. Finally, we paid a good chunk of change to get our car fixed again. On the upside, I got to drive around Dad’s monster truck for a while. Atrain loved it.

Our little family spent the weekend in your old room. Goodness it brought back a lot of memories—not to mention the fact that mom just transferred all of the home videos over to DVD. Needless to say, I was relieved when the infamous “Hairspray” video wouldn’t play. If you do know which one I’m referring to, may it forever rest in peace in your memory. Do you remember the “rollercoaster” Allerina and Dalliwag got for Christmas one year? You were so cute showing them how to play with it. That was before your voice changed. Oh the good ‘ole days.

Something funny from the weekend…well Atrain decided that it would be fun to dump out all of the games out of the game closet. I’m sure it was fun. Clean up wasn’t—especially with Spud around. Spud thought it was fun to run through the mess and eat various pieces of the game. “Stop it stupid dog!” I said as I chased him around. I didn’t realize Atrain was watching me so closely, but he immediately picked up on the phrase. He chased spud around the house saying, “Stop stupid dog!” Oops. Not my best mothering moment. Dad thought it was funny. I’m glad mom didn’t hear Atrain’s new phrase.

I really enjoy reading your emails, even if they aren’t addressed to me. They make me think. It must be interesting to be on a mission. Obviously, I can’t exactly understand what you’re experiencing, but I like to imagine. It must be difficult. I think I would have a hard time feeling the full time responsibility of others’ salvation. Of course, it’s not your job to “save” others—the Savior is the only one who can offer us salvation—but I do think it would be difficult to feel the constant responsibility of sharing His truth. It’s probably especially difficult when there aren’t many who want you to share with them. I want to do better at sharing this responsibility with the full time missionaries.

Brother, I also have a hard time with the idea of “the elect” when applied to missionary work. You have used it to describe those who are ready to hear the gospel, who accept the missionaries into their homes. Christ talks of the elect in Matthew 24, saying that in the last days even the very elect shall be deceived by false prophets. He also says that he will gather his elect from the four corners of the earth. Does he mean “the elect” are those who have accepted the gospel in the last days, or is he also talking about the righteous who will/would have accepted it as well? There seems to be some disconnect between Christ’s usage of “the elect,” and how many modern Mormons use the term. I feel like there are so many good people in the world who are not members of the church. And, perhaps a lot of these people have had the opportunity to hear the Gospel, but for one reason or another turned down a visit with the missionaries.

JD, I wonder if I hadn’t been born into the church and the missionaries came knocking on my door if I would be “too busy” or unwilling to let a couple strangers in my home. Of course I’ll never know the answer to that question, and I am very grateful that I was born into the family that I was and had such great influences in my life to help me gain a testimony of my own. I love the Gospel of Jesus Christ and I know that this church is true. I am so thankful that I know that God knows each of our hearts and will judge us accordingly. He knows “the elect” that he will gather, and I don’t really have to worry about who they are. I just hope that I, other members and missionaries alike don’t make too many distinctions because we can never really know the hearts of others.

Anyway brother, I sure love you. I hope you are doing well. It’s hard to believe that you are a quarter of the way through your mission. I think of you every day and pray for your wellbeing and your ability to find those who are ready to let Christ in their lives.

All my love,

MJ

Buying Water

Atrain said something very revealing about our family’s finances today. When we’re driving down the road we often ask him questions about the cars and buildings he sees. Given the abnormal amount of road noise we have while driving in our car, it is a listening exercise for his cochelar implants, but it is also fun to hear what he says.

Today we drove by a “Wendy’s” fast food joint. The husband asked Atrain, “What do we buy at that store?” In an honest, matter-of-fact tone he replied, “That’s where we buy water.” Yep. It’s the same fast food place that is on our way out of town where mommy always goes through the drive through and asks for water. I’m shameless.

The husband seemed somewhat puzzled by Atrain’s response. You see, he’s the courteous kind of guy who would actually order something(s) along with the large water, so that his business consists of more than just mooching.

“Yep, it is a gas station too, you’re right, we do get water there sometimes,” he replied to Atrain. (I’m also that person who runs into a gas station and fills up a water bottle without making a purchase). “Nope,” I interjected. “He’s right. We often do go through the drive through and get a cup of water before leaving town.” The husband shakes his head and laughs, “Just water?” he says, as if to confirm that he really did marry Elly May Clampett (minus the curves and the oil). “Uh-huh. Occasionally we get chicken nuggets, but water is most often all we really need,” I explain. “Uh-huh,” he responds, still laughing and shaking his head, glad that he’s never in the car while we’re “buying” water. “I’m glad you’re the one in charge of finances. Our loan money is in good hands.”

A No Good, Very Bad Date

It is a rare opportunity these days when the husband and I get to go on a date. And, even then, we take the little Jdog because he doesn’t like eating from anything but his momma--but, it is a date nonetheless. All week I had been looking forward to Saturday because not only were we going on a date, I had convinced the husband to do something besides dinner and a movie. We were going power tumbling.

After successfully leaving Atrain with a babysitter, we headed to the tumbling gym with my sisters, Banbie, Katydid, Allerina, and their significant others. When we walked into the gym the familiar scent of chalk and body sweat sent my mind reeling back to my gymnastics days. I couldn’t wait to try out the ski floor and see if I still had it. We paid, signed the waivers and removed shoes. But before we stepped out on the floor, Jdog howled. He was ready to eat again. So, I headed back to the car to give him a little privacy while he chowed down.

I sat there in the dark while Jdog ate wondering what the others were doing: if Allerina needed a spot with her back hand spring, if GAP had successfully landed his full twisting back flip, if the husband was enjoying himself. Then, just as I imagined how awesome my athletic hubby must look springing into the foam pit, there was a knock on the car window. It was Katydid. She had bad news.

“Your husband has hurt himself,” she said. It took me a moment to register what she was saying. She said it with such a strange expression—mixing her grief with a slight smirk. “Is he alright?” I asked as I unlatched the Jdog, who began howling again. “Yeah…I think…something with his leg…but he’s really hurt,” she responded.

Shoot. The husband was hurt. It was all my fault. I pictured him lying on the ski floor with his bones contorted, sprouting from his leg. If only I had grown up learning to love a hobby that was more refined and useful. That way when I got nostalgic and wanted to relive my glory days I wouldn’t put my husband’s life at risk. Nope. Not me. I’m a flippin’ tumbler.

I walked into the gym, gave Jdog to Bambie and rushed to my husband’s side. He was lying on the ground with his left foot propped up by a spring board. He was very calm, trying to joke with his in laws while his foot swelled in two different spots: his ankle and his fourth metatarsal. It looked like his toes had somehow ingested a couple of golf balls. As he explained what happened he began to shake. He was in a lot of pain.

“I jumped on the edge of the tramp, but it doesn’t have any support there. It’s just concrete below,” he explained. “Too bad we just signed the waiver,” I said, trying to break the tension—a stupid idea. As if anything else needed breaking. “I’m so sorry. I drug you in here. Let’s get you off the floor and call Dad and Pollyanna,” I said. It’s wonderful to have relatives who save people’s lives on a regular basis.

The husband was carried off the floor by the brother-in-laws. “At least you didn’t break it while spitting a grape,” Gap said, poking fun at my last broken bone. Very funny. As we sat on the sidelines deciding what to do the husband examined himself, estimating which bones he had cracked. All the while my worry wrinkle is digging deeper into my forehead. “I just hate that I’m on my Rad Onc rotation right now,” he said. “I know. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault,” I replied, feeling so badly that I wanted to burry myself in the foam pit and never surface. I knew that’s what he would be most concerned about—the future of our family hanging on the balance of his broken foot. “Everything is my stupid fault,” I confessed.

The husband looked at me and grinned, “It’s not your fault,” he said, “it was the trampoline…no wonder we had to sign waivers.” “Nope, my fault again,” I replied. “If only I had gone to Law School instead of getting an MPA…I’m useless.” This time he laughed. “You’re so dramatic you should have been an actress,” he said. He was right. And I needed to get my act together to take care of him. I dialed his dad, who said we needed to wait until Monday to get an x-ray at his office, but we could splint it until then. We called Pollyanna, who said we could come in the ER tonight and he could check it out. I voted for Pollyanna’s plan. The husband voted for dad’s plan. Jdog voted for more food. The husband won.

We stole my sister’s car and I rushed the husband to my mom’s house. We stopped at my Grandma’s on the way to pick up a pair of crutches. Once at my mom’s I got him ice, ibuprofen, and left over lasagna. Then I started digging around for an ace bandage: nothing. “Are you sure you won’t let me take you in to the ER?” I said with my best pouty, pleading whine. “Yep, I’m sure,” he responded as he held ice on his ankle. “You medical people,” I said angrily, “you would make me go in.” He shrugged me off and said all he really needed was a splint for now. So, Jdog and I were back in the car to pick up a proper bandage.

I rushed to the local drug store just in time to see the owner shutting down 15 minutes early. At least I tried to buy local. Wal-Mart was the next best option. Poor Jdog was crying in the back, still upset that his dinner got interrupted. Of course there was nowhere to park when we arrived. I wondered if all these people went on dates to Wal-Mart on Saturday night and began to feel a little better about myself. I made a B-line for the pharmacy, settled on a nice Ace wrap, and then went strait for the check-out. I was horrified to find them stretching all the way to the jewelry counter. And, for a brief moment, I honestly considered stealing the ace bandage. My conscience and ingenuity convinced me that the customer service desk was a better option. It was—even if the teenage worker acted like I asked her to shave her head and paint the Wal-Mart smiley face on top.

Jdog and I escaped from the Wally Maze and snagged Atrain from the babysitter. I explained to Atrain that Daddy had broken his foot during our “meeting” (the vernacular we usually use when we leave him with the babysitter…somehow I think it takes the sting out of leaving him with a responsible stranger while we go have fun). He thought long and hard about the information. “Diva’s dada didn’t breaked his foot at the meeting?” he asked. “Nope, not Diva’s dada,” I confirmed. “Just my dada hasd a broked foot?” he asked. “Yep,” I said. “What was Dada doing at da meeting?” he asked. “He fell off of a trampoline,” I explained, realizing how confused Atrain will be when he grows up and realizes that trampolines usually are not at meetings.

When we finally returned to the husband I found him nestled in front of ESPN with his crutches at bay. He answered all of Atrain’s questions as I wrapped an ice pack around his foot. “Are you going to be ok?” I asked. “I’m going to be fine,” he said. “Maybe it will help you stand out during your rotation?” I suggested. “I hope,” he responded. “Can we go out again some time?” I asked. “Maybe if we stick to the theater,” he said with a smile. I agreed...at least for the next few months.

Potty Day

I failed to potty train the Atrain again today. I hate to say that he failed because that’s just mean, and he did try really hard. The poor guy has only known how to poop in his pants all his life. And here I am, expecting him to sit comfortably upon a little throne to do his business. The nerve.

I really thought today would be the day. He woke up excited to set up his potty training premises (obviously something we’ve done before). We pushed the table over to the corner, clearing more room on the tile for games, trains, puzzles, and oh yes, the potty. He even brought it out from the bathroom. Then he strapped on the “Mater bum” underwear. I constantly have to remind myself not to call them panties. The husband is horrified when I slip up with that one.

It was my goal to not put too much pressure on him. That has backfired in the past. I let the “Frightening McMean” monster truck potty chart speak for itself. He kept eyeing it. I kept reminding him to tell me when he needed to use the potty. We set up a huge train track. I fed JJ on the tile. We put together the Lightening McQueen puzzle—four times. His panties—I mean underwear—was still dry. He was still content to keep his distance from the potty.

I knew it wouldn’t be too long until he needed to poop. He went the whole day yesterday without a messy diaper. Two hours of tile play time passed. He began to look uncomfortable—shooting sideways glances to his playroom (his favorite spot to do his dirty work). “Would you like to sit on the potty?” I asked gently. “I want my diaper.” He responded. NO. This wasn’t going down like this. I had to do something. I had to pull out all the stops. I grabbed the Lindor Chocolates bag and the Frightening McMean. “If you do it on the potty you can have one of these, and you can hold monster truck McQueen!” I could see him considering my offer…this was progress. Usually by now he’s running toward his playroom yelling at me to go away. “Ok—I go on the big boy potty? We check off five potty times and I can have it?” He said nodding his head. Phew—he bought it. “Yep.” I said.

So, there we were in our little bathroom…for an hour. He played with McMean in the box, he read “The Prince and the Potty,” he talked about who also has a penis. Not even a drop in the toilet. He was uncomfortable. He told me he wanted his diaper. He started crying. As I strapped on his diaper I considered doing the same.

But then I realized that he’s just three. He did demonstrate impeccable control…even if the diaper was still his final destination. “Big boy” steps are a little bigger than “baby steps,” but I still need to patiently wait for him to keep up. He is doing a great job.

Maybe today wasn’t the magic day, but that’s ok. Maybe it will be tomorrow. I’ll keep the train set up in the kitchen, just incase.

The Lottery

I’ve never gambled in my life. Of course there have been those rebellious quarters that somehow slipped their way into the Vegas slots, and the oh-so-daring girls’ camp 3am poker rendezvous. But really, I’ve never gambled—unless you count medical school.

This morning when the husband left he told me that he was going to be home late. Why? He and a few of his boyz planned to “put in for the lottery” that evening. I’m not really even sure what occurred at this event. Perhaps it was a rowdy Mormon muster complete with caffeinated beverages, ESPN and chip dip. But I doubt it.

They were probably huddled on the couches of a cinder-block student apartment, commiserating about getting “pimped” for information by pompous physicians. I’m sure they were strategizing their medical game plans, sweating over which combination of away rotations, research stints and clinical experience will put their best foot forward come residency interview season (only 9 months away). I’m sure it was nothing like gambling.

“Putting in for the lottery” is merely a phrase devised to make medical school’s subjection systems seem fun and exciting. I guess there is an element of self-direction in there somewhere: the husband gets to prioritize the combination of required months we spend paying thousands of dollars we don’t have to beat his brains over impressing the un-impressables. But even then, nothing is guaranteed. Even if you work as hard as you can, achieving the best scores possible, performing perfectly for every person salivating with fangs bared to rip you apart—even if you do well, no one can promise you that you’ll be offered a position in your dream job.

No, medical school is not like the lottery. It’s more like a raffle (the lottery’s Mormon counterpart). We’re not spending thousands of dollars buying tickets to win an undisclosed sum of money. We are spending thousands of dollars buying tickets to win back the intricate, hand-stitched quilt we spent thousands of hours perfecting.

I’m really glad the husband has a good poker face. He’s under a lot of stress right now as he plots out, prepares for and prays about our future. I can see the pressure building up in his eyes (as well as the pain) as we discuss the months he will be gone during the upcoming year. I probably don’t help all that much. With every mention of his away rotations I know the words “I can’t do anything without you” flash across the lines in my forehead, even though the words that come out of my mouth make me sound like a brave, strong momma.

I’m sure a lot of jobs are like this. I know there are a lot of moments in life like this, when you can’t just fold under the pressure of the unknown. I know we’ll have to lay all of our cards out on the table for this one, and I know that it will be worth it. Everything we do together, with God is worth it—even (and especially) gambling with the future.

So, bring it on. Deal the cards. Let’s see what we have to work with. After all, betting on the husband is a pretty safe bet indeed.

My Buddy Bob

There is a man in my life named Bob Duallie. We run together for about an hour every day. He is huge—so huge that people are forced off the sidewalk when they see us barreling toward them. Sometimes we even struggle fitting through standard doorways. But I don’t mind, being with my buddy Bob is worth it.

Bob is great with my kids: Atrain and Jdog adore him. He holds all of Atrain’s treats and toys while we run. He holds mine too. Jdog is lulled to sleep whenever he’s cradled by Bob. And if the road is a little rough he absorbs the bumps and manages to keep the kids suspended in dreamland.

Mr. Duallie takes a lot of abuse from me. He puts up with my grunts and complaining when we’re huffing up hill. And he always lets me push him around. No matter how hard I push, he just rolls with the punches. He’s just that kind of guy.

I’m glad that Bob is around. He helps me feel good about myself when my spirits are low. I worked hard to earn his company, running around with a cheap old Graco for years before I met Bob. I know the husband doesn’t mind…he doesn’t like running anyway.

One Dozen Surprises

I’m not really sure if I like Valentines Day. Romance is mostly romantic when an unexpected gift or moment (planned by your partner) reveals how much he or she has been thinking about you…how excited he or she has been to surprise you with something they’ve been planning for weeks. Part of me is annoyed by V-day’s contrived expectation of obligatory romance. Another large part of me wonders all day long if the husband will “surprise” me with something sweet and special. I did end up liking this Valentines Day, but not because the husband surprised me with a dozen roses. The day gave me one dozen (mostly) sweet surprises instead:

Surprise #1: 50% off lowest marked clearance price at Smiths’ Market Place. I scored a couple of inexpensive jackets for the boys for Easter—a holiday I definitely like.

Surprise #2: The mechanic said that our car would only cost $230 to get it repaired rather than $750…I always had an itchy feeling that Big O was taking advantage of my mechanical ignorance.

Surprise #3: The custodial staff came by my apartment today to do my Spring Cleaning. Even though this surprise was planned, (they offer this service free-of-charge once every year to on-campus apartments) it never ceases to amaze me how incredible it feels to have someone else clean the bathroom for me.

Surprise #4: A couple of Atrain’s friends are allergic to peanut butter. I wish I would have packed a bigger variety of Valentines, rather than relying solely on the good-ole Reeses hearts to hand out to his neighbor friends. At least Atrain enjoyed devouring the left-overs.

Surprise #5: Atrain was deeply disappointed when the husband and I decided to get our chicken nachos via take-out from our favorite restaurant. He really wanted to go in.

Surprise #6: The Chick-fil-A that existed on our GPS by Fashion Place mall is now a jewelry store.

Surprise #7: There are too many McDonalds restaurants without play places. We drove by three of them on our quest for a family-friendly Valentines dining experience. Atrain knows how to say, “Let’s look a little harder.” I never thought I’d be so happy to see the golden arches on 2100 South.

Surprise #8: Jdog loves watching Atrain run like a crazy man around Mickey D’s.

Surprise #9: Little boys with long pony tails make great playmates.

Surprise #10: Atrain can hear me through the maze of plastic tunnels when I yell at him to come eat his happy meal.

Surprise #11: The husband did think about buying me a bouquet of flowers on his way home from the hospital, but decided against it because of the ridiculous price tag. On our student budget, I was just happy to hear that he thought about it.

Surprise #12: Cold, slightly rubbery chicken nachos still taste wonderful when eating them with the one you love.

Three

Three years ago my first son was born. I started scheduling my day around the appetite of another individual. I began examining bowel movements. I started studying sleep schedules. I set out on my morning run with a stroller. I began laughing at spit, speaking like a child, and crying like a rain cloud. I began to be a mother.

Three years ago I even started to hate sound. I hated that I couldn’t give it away, or trade him for his ears. I hated myself for not knowing anything about being deaf, and hated that I had to make a choice for him that he could hate me for later. But I was beginning to know what it means to love my child: to give everything you can to help them be everything they can.

Three years ago I started to understand what it meant to pray. I began turning myself inside out, hoping that God would hear me. I started listening to Him when He told me that we could do this. I learned how much God knows and loves my children, and how much he really knows and loves me.

Three years ago my life began to change when your life began. Even today, after I watched you wake up with a suspicious smile when you saw your streamers; after I listened to you giggle with pure delight at new birthday surprises; after I watched you shake others’ hands with confidence and tell them that you’re three—even today you changed me. Every day you help me smile a little wider, become a little better, to work a little harder and to feel a little deeper.

Three years ago I never knew how happy I would be today. Thank you for every one of the past 1065 days. Happy Birthday.

Admiring Atrain

Today was little Atrain’s 3^rd birthday party. He’s really not so little any more.

The past 24 hours have been very loud: lots of cute kiddos enjoying lots of noisy toys, lots of dirty counters begging to be cleaned and re-cleaned, lots of impatient party prepping errands to run, etc. But I did manage to freeze my mind for a few quiet moments to admire my growing boy.

When Atrain woke up at 6:30am the first thing he said was, “We’ll make my cake now?” He knew it was the special party day we’ve been planning for weeks. After a quick run to the store with sweet Jdog, we got right to it. His little fingers have become so finely tuned, carefully cracking open each egg. Once all of the insides were drained, he put the shells on the counter and smashed them one by one into granite, laughing with delight. When the chocolate batter was finished he could not keep himself from snitching licks. And when it was finally frosted and decorated with his I-screamer monster truck on top, he guarded the cake with his life.

It makes me so happy to watch Atrain enjoy those around him. He was overjoyed with the arrival of each of his party guests, bringing them in immediately to watch “Mater Monster Truck” on the big screen. He laughed with them, danced with them, hid under the table with them, and talked to them. I loved hearing him ask his cousins, “You come with me downstairs to make monster trucks?”

When the time finally came to sing the birthday song and blow out the candles on his cake, he knew it was his moment. He sat in the chair at the head of the table with it directly in front of him. He listened to the group sing to him, and a few phrases before the song ended, he blew out his candles. He wanted to be sure that he was the one who delivered the extinguishing blow.

After we said goodbye to his guests, Atrain spent a few quality moments with Jdog, showing him all of his birthday winnings. He loves his brother. He brought over his big bag of cars, and said, “I’m such a strong man,” before tipping it over next to his little brother. Then he laid next to him and put his arm around Jdog’s little head. Both of my boys looked up at me from the ground. I tickled them, laughed with them and thanked God that I have them.

Atrain finished the day out by playing a game of basketball for me in his grandparents’ front room. I love this kid’s imagination. He pulled the bar stool over to play the part of the hoop. He shot. He got hit. He fell in slow motion. Then he stood for applause. He stole my heart again—just as he has done every day for the last three years of my life. I can’t wait to celebrate his birth day tomorrow.

My First Kiss: Part 1

The husband and I had an anniversary this week, and there is a story to tell. Writing it has kept me up at night, and it's much longer than it should be, but it's done. Actually, in many ways it is just beginning. There are three parts because I think the length deserves three posts. Rewind back nine years before you begin to read. Hope you enjoy them.

Part 1, the rejection:

It’s Friday, finally. I shut my car door a little too quickly—on accident, I think. I just can’t take this stupid situation any longer. I am the one who’s embarrassed. I am the one who has to explain myself to the entire student body. Wasn’t he the one who got rejected? Shouldn’t that put him in the hot seat? I thought I would be nice—not tell anyone about what happened, not even my sister Bambie. I’m always too nice. Then ‘nice’ always slaps me in the face.

I still can’t believe that I showed up to school on Monday morning to see Kram laughing his head off. “Is it true?” He asks me with a grin the size of Rainbow Bridge. “Did you really dodge Wonderboy’s kiss?” He snorts. “As he went in for the kill did you really pull his head to the side and whisper, ‘Never try that again Wonderboy!” Kram grabs his belly, swings his head back and laughs.

My face must have matched the crimson lockers. I didn’t understand. Why would he tell everyone? Why was it so hard to believe? And why was it so funny? Wonderboy was even laughing with the ACB boys just a few yards away. That boy has the confidence of a fox. Too bad he’s not as smooth as one.

He should have been humiliated—to just assume that it would be that easy to steel away my first kiss. His attempt was lazy. The execution was confusing. And before I realized what was happening, I was telling the boy that I adored, admired and maybe even (though I’ll never admit it out loud) loved that I never wanted him to try to kiss me. Good one MJ. You really are hilarious.

…But he must still like me. I can’t explain why, but he must. I have two dozen little roses in my room to prove it. And he did ask me if I would ever let him kiss me. “Maybe beneath a canopy of fireworks or in the middle of a warm summer rain, or really anywhere but in your driveway,” I told him. He must be willing to try again. Or maybe he’s just considering whether or not I’m worth the wait.

After the most ridiculous week of my life, I’m glad that I told the cheerleaders that I would help them decorate for the Sweetheart’s dance tonight. I don’t think I can take another mocking, “Never try that again!” joke from the ACB peanut gallery. And I’d rather avoid Wonderboy all together on the anniversary of the night I told him to never kiss me again. Yet, there’s no one I want to be with more. There’s nothing I want to do more than…kiss him.

My First Kiss: Part 2, the chase

I head back to the high school and hide my emotions in cheap dance décor and poster paint. It is therapeutic, even if I can’t stop painting MJ+WB on all the decorations. My friend Fiff and I catch a serious case of the giggles as she reviews the number of times she caught Wonderboy staring at me this week. I’m not very good at gambling with love, but Fiff has a way of reassuring me that I’ve played my cards well. Before I know it, it’s dark and my mind is revolving around one thought, “Is he going to call?” My cell phone rings. It’s him.

My heart gallops in my chest as I fumble for the “accept” button. His voice sounds like pure, audible happiness. “I’m coming to get you,” he insists. There’s a party at the Frampton’s and he can’t believe I’m not there already. I put up a measly fight about ditching the decorations, but I’m already headed to the bathroom to reapply makeup and tease my hair. We hang up. I squeal. Fiff rolls her eyes. “Are you going to kiss him?” She asks. “I don’t know.” I answer honestly.

Wonderboy pulls up to the high school in his parent’s suburban and even though my eyes have been glued to the window since we got off the phone, I act like I don’t notice so that he’ll come in and retrieve me. He does. He’s so handsome. He grabs my hand and I feel the same surge of excitement I did when he first held my hand a year ago. I had never held anyone’s hand before then. He was also my first date. I probably would have kissed him before now if he hadn’t been such an idiot. I don’t care if we’re just teenagers. If you really care about someone, you don’t go around kissing someone else. Maybe I’m a prude, but I’m not a fool.

Once we’re in the car he pulls me over to sit in the middle. I relax. I know he’s not going to try when we’re in the car—he knows my rule. We talk about the party, about the five (out of six) classes we share, about anything but the big gorilla who’s puckering up in the seat next to me.

When we get to the party I can’t believe how many people are there. Wonderboy disappears somewhere in the crowd and I’m left feeling like I’m interrupting everyone’s conversation. I wander. It’s a beautiful home: grand pianos, china cabinets, a few staircases and a two-tiered deck out back. “Where did you go? I’ve been looking for you.” I hear Wonderboy’s familiar voice as he slips his arms around my waist. I blush, dip my chin down and smile. “Guess you found me.” I respond. “Let’s go for a walk,” he says as a crooked grin grows on his face. I choke on my breath, but manage to blurt out a suspicious, “ok.”

It’s freezing outside, but I don’t care. Wonderboy walks in front of me, securing my arms in a link around his body. My chin rests on his back and all I can think about is how warm is and how nice it feels to be close to him. This is it. He’s going to try again. I can do it. I can kiss him, here, at this stupid party—I’m gonna do it.

He leads me around the house and under the deck. No one is out here. I begin to wonder if he was scoping out a spot during his mysterious disappearance. We stop walking. He spins me around and we’re suddenly face to face. Our eyes lock in a stare. His intense blue eyes have me captured. It’s as if I’ve never looked at him before. Then a door slides open on the deck above. I can hear familiar friends’ voices, but just as I’m placing them with names, I realize that they’re carrying something. Then that something starts to tip. Water begins pouring through the cracks in the wood directly on top of my head. I squirm, but Wonderboy is holding me in place. “You dork—what are you doing?” I screech. “Kiss me, MJ, It’s raining!” He says.

I break out of Wonderboy’s grasp and begin to run. “Wait, MJ!” I hear him call. He can’t be serious. How stupid can high school boys be? Did he honestly think I would kiss him now? I’m freezing. I’m angry. My lucky sweater is soaked. This must be a joke. What an idiot. I was just about to give in, to forget that I’m scared out of my mind to kiss him—to trust him. And then he dumps a bucket of water on me. I stop running and allow myself to laugh at the situation for a moment. Then I start to cry.

When I’m a few houses down the block I hear him jogging up behind me. Good thing I’m soaking wet. The running mascara will blend in. “MJ, what are you doing?” he asks. “Going home, it’s really not far.” I respond irrationally. It’s really far. “I’m not letting you walk home,” he says as he grabs my hand. Butterflies flutter in my stomach, but I act like I don’t care. “Besides,” he continues, “you left your car at the high school.” “I don’t care,” I lie. Then he picks me up, throws me over his shoulder and carries me back to his car. I scream, and laugh, and realize that he’s also soaking wet.

My First Kiss: Part 3, taking flight

On our way back to the high school I continue to give him the cold shoulder as he fumbles his way through an explanation. “I thought you would like the rain,” he says honestly. It’s hard to believe, but I really think he expected me to just stand there and let his friends dump water on us while I kissed him for the first time. I laugh. It’s my fault anyway. There probably weren’t any warm rain showers in the forecast for another few months. And he has been pretty patient and forgiving of my romantic idealism. My defenses start to crumble.

We pull up to the high school and he shifts the car into park. He looks at me, smiles kindly, then looks down at his lap and asks, “Why won’t you kiss me?” He really wants to know. “I’m afraid…” I say, “that I won’t be that great of a kisser.” I say sheepishly. It’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. He doesn’t but it. I continue, “and…I’m afraid of what it might mean if I kiss you—that I’ll actually be admitting how much I really like you, and how much I could get hurt…again.” There it was: my dagger. I took it out in front of him, polished it, then plunged it into his heart. I was afraid to trust him.

Wonderboy let go of my hand and put it on the steering wheel. He wasn’t angry, but he wouldn’t look at me. His intense, blue eyes drooped. Then they started to glimmer in the streetlight. I made Wonderboy cry. What is the matter with me? He kissed Brandy after he held my hand. So what. I’d rather say goodbye to the guy who makes me feel like I can fly just because I’m too afraid of heights? The silence began to suffocate me. “I’m sorry,” I said impulsively. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “I deserve it. You don’t trust me.”

“You’re wrong,” I responded. “It is my fault. The rules are complicated and I have too many of them. I take everything so seriously that I’m willing to throw away the fact that you’re the best person I know just so I can live inside of my perfect little bubble. I’m sorry.” I let my hand wander to his, hoping that he’d hold it. He did. “Walk me to my car?” He does.

Our hands linked together, fingers intertwined, but it felt mechanical. He doesn’t say much. I don’t blame him. I had blown it. I know he isn’t going to try again. A few paces from my car I curl our interlocked hands around my back and face him. He looks down at me and smiles. I can’t breathe. I’m close to his face, but he doesn’t lean in. What a punk. If it’s going to happen, I better do something. So, I close my eyes and pucker up.

I can’t see him, but I can feel his smiling lips lean in to mine. We kiss. And, for the first time in my life, I’m flying. He wraps his arms around my waist, lifts my feet off the ground, and spins me in circles. When I land he says, “You kissed me,” then he leans in to kiss me again and I meet him in the middle. “You kissed me,” I say. And he laughs quietly. The moment seems to last forever.

We dance the rest of the way to my car. I know I’m out past curfew, but nothing could bring me down right now. If I get grounded for a couple of weeks again, it’ll be worth it. He opens my door and I slide in. We say goodnight. “I’ll call you,” he says, then kisses me again and closes my door. I watch him walk back to his car and when he’s a safe distance away, I release a loud, long, excited scream. I drive home with the windows down and the heater blasting. At home, I park my car, run to my trampoline, do fifty back flips and then scream again. Mom and dad rush out of the house in a panic. I tell them what happened and they laugh. “It’s about time,” my dad says. He’s right. He doesn’t even care that I’m out past midnight.

I jump on Bambie’s bed downstairs. She was sleeping and is startled by my disheveled appearance. I tell her the story and she laughs he head off, then proceeds to give me all sorts of kissing pointers. I get the feeling she’s been waiting to have this talk with me for a while. I run to my room, break out my journal and write the date. February 9^th, 2002. Maybe I won’t get to marry this kid, but I’ll remember this day for the rest of my life.

My phone rings. It’s him. He tells me what a great night he had. Then he tells me that he’s never had a kiss that felt that way before. I smile, not knowing exactly what he meant. I can hear the sleepiness in his voice, but he insists on staying on the line. I start to tell him what has happened in the 30 minutes since we parted and I hear him start to snore. He’s sleeping.

I love him. I’ll probably never tell him and I won’t even write it in my journal. But I do. Even if we don’t end up together, even if he breaks my heart again, I’m glad it was him. I hang up the phone and fall asleep dreaming of what it feels like to fly.

Zombiemomma

I’ve slept on the couch for two nights in a row. Things are fine with the husband, but poor Jdog has been grunting, coughing and snorting up a storm for the past 48 hours. I check Jdog’s temperature every few hours and we’ve been lucky that it hasn’t risen above 100.2. The poor guy is so tired. So am I. Life gets a little strange when my nights become my days. I feel myself morphing into Zombie-momma. She isn’t pretty: old make-up, bad breath, erratic behavior, bad social skills, etc. I’m surprised things aren’t worse with the husband.

Disregarding the obvious downsides of being zombie-momma, today I found that she does have some useful qualities. She found the overdue library book I’ve been searching for—and she found it in a place that I have searched over a hundred times. She can sleep anywhere…comfortably. When we ran out of infant’s ibuprofen we made an emergency trip to the grocery store. With the kiddos sound asleep in the car, as soon as we parked I splayed myself irregularly across the driver and passenger's seats (no room to recline in my car with the kids’ seats in back). I don’t know how much time went by before I heard a car door slam and bolted upright. I didn’t even have a kink in my neck.

Best of all, zombie momma is apparently pretty funny. Today Atrain kept asking me (with a hilarious, confused expression on his face), “What ARE you talking about?” Then he would laugh his head off. I returned the favor, “What are YOU talking about?” Then laughed so hard I forgot all about zombie momma. Thank you Atrain.

Small and Simple

Dear Elder I,

I hope you are well, brother. I had the strangest moment yesterday at our family’s heathen Superbowl party. Mom set up the love sac and some other seating in front of the couch. I was sitting on the couch nursing baby J and a large head moved right in my line of sight. “Sheesh, I wish JD would move his big head,” was the first thought that came into my mind. But, it was Dalliwag’s large noggin blocking my view, not yours. He recently grew a foot and cut his hair. When I told him that he was looking taller he said, “I hit my growth spurt,” with such a pleased tone. My littlest bro isn’t very little any longer.

So, big little bro, I’m glad you’re having more opportunities to share the gospel in your new area. Your experience about speaking from your heart during your sacrament meeting talk was so sweet. Thank you for sharing that with me. It is amazing to feel the spirit work within you to help you speak or do or understand more than you would have otherwise.

I might have missed the chance to do just that yesterday. As it was the first Sunday of the month, we had testimony meeting in our ward. Atrain kept telling me that it was my turn to go up to the microphone. I didn’t. The husband was home with sick little Jdog and it wasn’t hard to imagine what would happen if Atrain followed me up to the pulpit. It’s hard to focus on sharing what’s in your heart while the squirmy little boy in your arms keeps moving the microphone up and down. But maybe seeing the confidence of a sweet little boy is a testimony in and of itself of God’s love. I was also conflicted with the idea that I was sure to be a hypocrite that day, as I was planning to watch the Superbowl in just a few hours. Anyway, whatever the reason or excuse, I didn’t have the courage to get out of my seat when I felt the Holy Ghost stir within my heart yesterday.

If I would have born my testimony yesterday, maybe I would have said something about a scripture that was on my mind last week. Our bishop challenged our ward to read the entire New Testament by the end of March. I’m doing my best…listening to chapters throughout the day is my most effective approach. I hope that still counts. My mommy schedule doesn’t lend itself to a lot of uninterrupted, quiet study moments. Anyhow, listening to the gospels has been a sweet experience thus far. I notice things that I haven’t before. When I was listening to the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 6, I realized that the phrase, “thy Father who seeth in secret shall reward thee openly” is repeated three times. That phrase has been marinating deep in my heart ever since.

Most of my day happens in “secret.” Occasionally I’ll meet up with someone for a few hours here or there, but really, there really are no adult witnesses to the simple, yet important things I do all day long. Sometimes it’s hard to feel appreciated when no one really notices, or even knows what the heck I’m doing all day long. I know the husband appreciates me, but I still hate cleaning up his socks over and over again. It’s probably because I’m prideful.

As the phrase “thy Father who seeth in secret shall reward thee openly” repeats in my mind, I’m reminded that God notices. Not only does he notice, I know that He considers the well being of my little ones as the most important thing I could be doing all day long. Even if my day to day routine is not all that “notable,” I know that He sees, He knows, and He loves me and my family. That thought helps me keep going. It helps me keep planning with my children, preparing them for the future and fighting to find meaning in the mundane, every-day activities that add up to who we are. I know that by small and simple things, great things are brought to pass.

Oh my brother, I love you and am proud of all the great things that you are doing. Thanks for your example.

Love,

MJ