Go Away, Day.

Yesterday was a bad day: a disastrous, dangerous dump of a day. I can’t decide which part was worse: watching my baby tip off of a bench near a balcony and coiling with pain at the thought of what could have happened (thank heavens for the railing); when my three year old slapped me in the face, intentionally, multiple times; when I accidentally told the husband that it’s much easier to get along when he’s not around—I didn’t mean it; or when it began to snow. Never mind. It was definitely the balcony scene.

My mind keeps replaying it: heading to the bathroom with niece Bubbins while Jdog and Atrain stayed on the bench with the family, glancing backwards to see the kiddos gathered around baby J; hearing a gasp; spinning around to see the underside of the car seat and exclaiming “Oh my gosh” in the middle of the Children’s choir’s rendition of “As Shepherds Lately Knelt;” wanting to fly instantaneously back over the crowded bench, but watching helplessly as my MIL came to his rescue; irrationally hating myself for ever leaving Jdog’s side; listening to the cacophony of cries break out as the whole family rushed out—far out of the concert; hugging baby J who was completely fine, but super scared; trying to calm Atrain who was also understandably upset about the scene; and congratulating Bubbins who—amidst the chaos—took bathroom matters into her own hands and relieved herself on the (outdoor) steps up to the concert hall.

Wanting to erase all but the last detail of that horrible event, I threw in my dishrag and called it a day. As I drove the 45 minutes to our home with two angry boys yelling from the back seat, it was hard for me not to doubt everything about myself as a mother. I tried so hard to make it a good day, but the universe just wasn’t going to let me win today. I should have known. Any day that begins with lonely tears at 3am probably won’t end well. There’s some sort of poetic justice to it all. I can’t wait to close my eyes and go to sleep wishing this day would just go away.

The Giving Game

The husband left for Texas 10 days ago. Almost every day since then I’ve been taping envelopes to our door addressed to Atrain from Dada in Texas. Inside each envelope sits a toy or a treat and a message that says something like, “I love you and miss you, from Dada in Texas.” Recently I scored a huge bag of star wars characters from online classifieds. Atrain looks forward to the “mail man” coming every day. He even tapes the envelopes to his bedroom door for a cozy spot for each star wars character to sleep when the lights are out.

But today Atrain turned the tables on me. He took one of his dada envelopes, taped it to our door and told me that the mail man had come. “Really?” I asked. “Yep. I’m Dada in Texas and I sent you a toy from Texas.” And, sure enough, taped to the door was Darth Vader. I giggled with glee and the little husband repeated the gesture until he had given me all of his Star Wars characters. He even dipped into his cars box to find more gifts to tape to the door when his supply exhausted.

His happiness was contagious. Watching him pretend to be the husband is priceless. I’m still not sure if he has my sneaky mail-man methods figured out, or if he is just sweetly pretending about my pretending. Either way, the giving game is a good game to play. And, Atrain sure enjoys seeking Star Wars character advice via video chat from Dada at the end of the day. We can't wait to board the Millenal Falcon and fly strait to Texas.

Teen Talk

When the husband and I were in high school we stole many a late-night hour from the bedtime tyrants (the parents) as we talked to each other in hushed conversations on the telephone. I even lied to Wonderboy (the husband), telling him that the second phone line at our household only rang in the basement. It didn’t. But he never would have called me that late if he had known that either of my parents could have picked up the other end of the line.

So, often after my magical dates with Wonderboy he would hold my hand all the way to my doorstep, hug me—a long one if I was lucky—and then tell me he planned to call. I rushed inside, checked in with the parental units, then flew like a phoenix on fire to my bedroom where I stood vigilantly by my phone, waiting for the “incoming call” light to blink. If I knew Wonderboy planned on calling, I always caught the call long before the phone even thought of ratting out our midnight conversations.

Now I’m the bedtime tyrant. But, I’m still steeling away many a late-night hour in hushed conversations with the one I love. After a few hours, it’s not that we even have that much to say anymore. It’s just the thrill of hearing his tired voice on the other end of the line tell me how much he loves me, how much he wishes I were with him, and how much he wants to see our sleeping sons. I feel like a teenager again—except that we never said the big “L” word, we whispered so that we wouldn’t wake our parents (not our boys), and Wonderboy isn’t just a few miles away. He’s in Texas.

Even though the husband is 1,500 miles from our home, I do feel like our frequent phone conversations have improved the quality of our communication. Odd, I know, but it’s easy to become complacent and take the company of the one you love for granted. I’m not distracted by the dishes and the laundry and the many miscellaneous messes piling up around me. He’s not allowing his attention to be split by email, research and catalogues of online sports stories.

I discussed this phenomenon with the husband and he agrees, but he also thinks that being in the same room with the one you love is worth a thousand words. I say that thousands of words are worth thousands of words. Of course, our time together can never really be replaced by phones or video-chats or text messages or letters. But I love listening to his undistracted, uninhibited thoughts. I remember how it feels to soak in every sweet sentence. I adore the way he laughs at my clever, flirty attempts to catch his attention. And I love hearing him do the same.

Even though it’s hard to be apart, in some ways I feel like the distance is helping us grow a little closer together. The husband even sat down to read, “Five Love Languages” the other day. Now I want to read it too. I don’t want this to last forever, but I’m thankful for the reminder that deep down inside of me is still the smitten teenage girl who stands watchfully by her phone, waiting for the moment that Wonderboy will call.

Playing Dada

The boys and I have gone on a lot of sunset walks this week. The moment when the sun yawns and stretches its arms across the sky is the most beautiful time of day. Her rays wrap me in peace. They make me imagine a medley of messages God may be sending through the colors that cloak the sky.

Atrain was sending me a very obvious message: I love my dada. When we got to the playground he insisted that we stop. So, I obliged. He ran over to the rocking airplane and said, “I’m dada, I’m going to Texas…come on, fly to Texas with me!” So, I sat on the back of the airplane while “dada” flew us to Texas. Then, we hopped down and he said, “We’re here. I’m picking you up in my red car.” So, we hopped into his red car and drove all the way to Dada’s Texas apartment. All the while, Atrain kept reminding me that he was the husband and that Atrain was playing right beside him. I played right along—all the way to our Texas beds where I tucked in the little dada and kissed him goodnight.

Though there is nothing sweeter than Atrain's dada impersonation, I can’t wait to kiss the real husband goodnight again.

Super MIL

It’s a bird—no, it’s an angel, no…it’s…it’s my mother-in-law! Super MIL swooped in today to save my kids from the deathly clench of the duty radio. I love my job, and I love my kids, but on exceptionally busy duty days I have to call in a second wind to satisfy all demands. So, just as the clouds huddled overhead and the winds began to howl at the kiddos who were growing ever more irritable from a day spent chasing endless check-out calls around campus, MILly wrapped her arms around my boys and flew off to the comfort of our cozy apartment. There, she shared many of her super-powers with my kiddos: reading books, cuddling, sword fighting, scrumptious surprise dinners and even sleeping on Atrain’s bunk bed—per his request. And, she was the first thing on his mind when he woke up in the morning. He sure loves Super MILly.

Almost Here

Last night we google chatted with the husband for a couple of hours while getting the kids ready for bed. The husband watched Jdog roll around on the floor, listened to Atrain tell him about how he was dizzy yesterday, and followed my frenzied mind as it puddle jumped through the thoughts of the day. We even brought dada’s digital image into Atrain’s room for our bedtime routine. It was almost like he was here.

But I do miss telling the boys that it’s time to settle down every time dada’s tickle hands attack at bedtime. I miss dividing the round-up of Atrain’s nightly necessities: a “grununga” bar, a cup of water, a toothbrush and collection of toys. I miss watching him rock baby J in the plum recliner just before I carry him off to his crib. I miss resting my head on his chest as we laugh and/or cry about the events of the day when the boys are asleep. I even miss annoying the husband with my subconscious footsie playing. I miss him.

Missinaries Tuesday

Dear Elder I,

It’s late, and a lot of things are running through my mind tonight. This past week I felt stuck in a torrent of bad luck: I lost my key card, lost my keys, temporarily misplaced my husband, locked my keys in my car, and then ended it all with a bang in the ER with Atrain. Normally, I consider Sunday the first day of the week, but on this special occasion I’m officially kicking Sunday to the back of the line. No offense, I loved talking to you for a few seconds, but any day that ends with Atrain in the hospital is the worst day of the week.

We went to ER for another extreme case of vertigo. I can’t even imagine how it must be to feel like you hopped aboard an endless Gravitron ride. My poor boy. I wish there was more that I could do. He’s doing so much better now. In fact, we spent the day like many others: masquerading as Peter Pan, Wendy, and Michael; and then switched over to and Dar[k] Vader, Princess Leia and Yoda. Then we went to have sandwiches at Subway for dinner—a special treat, indeed. Atrain loves ham, olive, mayo and lettuce sandwiches.

We parked in front of Subway along a strip mall that is connected to our favorite grocery store. It’s our favorite because it reminds me of the grocery store back home: happy people, yummy samples and nice baggers who are always willing to push my cart out to the car when my hands are full of kiddos. I definitely took advantage of that service tonight. Atrain insisted on “checking out” all of the stores down the strip, so how could I refuse? I loved holding Jdog in my arms, pushing the stroller and watching Atrain walk so nimbly around the various store obstacles. He was perfectly balanced with such a determined stride. I like letting him lead the way. It’s often impractical, but he soaks those moments in—he asks questions, the makes observations, he discovers.

Before long, I discovered that we had walked all the way to the grocery store. Then, of course I had to get bread, milk, bananas, cheese, cereal, etc. I even picked up a bright blue dollar sword to surprise Atrain. I love surprising him. Before I knew it the basket of Jdog’s stroller was overflowing. But, the grocery store clerk insisted that one of their nice young baggers accompany me all the way to my car (about a block away). That bagger’s picture should be immortalized in a museum of amazing employees. What a nice young man. Service is the best way to sneak your way into someone’s heart.

We have been served a lot lately. I guess I’m just in a time of life where I need a lot of help, especially this last weekend. Jdog is still nursing, so I needed him at the hospital with me, and I needed to be with Atrain. Everyone in our family and the husband’s family volunteered to go. Mom won the “coveted” spot, and she endured a pretty sleepless night with me and the boys. The husband’s mom is planning on spending the night with us on Wednesday to help me while I’m working. I have been so blessed. I yearn to do more, to help more people, to be better, to have more faith. It was especially difficult on Sunday when I couldn’t even help my son. Sometimes it’s hard to pray and ask for a miracle. I never know what to expect, and often feel like the father of the child Christ healed who said, “Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief.”

I have faith that God can heal Atrain—he has and he does. It is a miracle that my child was born profoundly deaf, but he talks clearer than many hearing three year olds. It’s is a miracle that Atrain can be on the floor—unable to move with such extreme cases of vertigo, then 36 hours later be up on his feet, pretending to fly like Peter Pan. It is a miracle. And as I sat by his side, praying that God would heal him, and listened to Dad give him a Priesthood blessing that told him he would feel better soon, there was a part of me that wants to ask, “Now, please—heal him now.” But why would Christ heal one blind man on the spot, and then in a separate case make clay spittle, rub it on another blind man’s eyes and command him to wash in the pool? God knows what we need. Miracles and faith are interdependent, but I don’t think there is a “miracle quota” to fill: x amount of faith = x amount of miracles. Faith is the process by which miracles come to pass, and as my faith grows, the comprehension of the miracles God brings to pass in my life also grows. I believe in God. I hope for a better world, especially for my sons. My hope anchors my soul, and my faith helps me keep going—keep trying, keep praying, especially when I’m searching for a miracle.

I love you brother. Keep up the good work.

Love,
MJ