on sacrifice

There was a discussion in Sunday School last week about how Christ, a perfect being, needed to take upon himself a physical body in order to work the ultimate, miraculous sacrifice of the atonement.  Not only did he suffer for our every sin, but he physically felt our every pain.

My tired, achy physical body is on my mind all of the time right now, as many of you know (sorry again about all of the whining).  I’ve thought about how He designed this amazing human body — every cell, every organ, every physiological process.  Wondered at how without much help from me, it knows how to produce a human child.  I have also wondered (I’m sure I’m not the only one) why God couldn’t have made this procedure a little easier on the woman.  Had He wanted to, He could have sent children to us in a twinkling, with nary an ache or a pain.

And certainly, the very physical nature of motherhood does not end with pregnancy.  There is the impending pain of childbirth, the act of breastfeeding a baby, and the subsequent years of little children crawling all over you all of the time.  Even older children occupy a mother’s physical space on a regular basis, with sometimes uncomfortable proximity.  All of this physicality seems a burden now, but I can only imagine the pain that ensues when one’s children begin to strike out on their own, ending this physical era of mothering.

As I have pondered all of this, I am reminded that though we are ultimately spiritual beings and our spiritual life is what matters, our experience on earth is a physical one.  This tiny discomfort I am in the midst of (many women, pregnant and otherwise, suffer far more than I do), is a sacrifice that is required of me in order to receive another child, and is part of my earthly experience.  I don’t know why God requires this sacrifice of mothers, but I do know that His wisdom is infinite.  And I am willing to pay this price, not only to bring a child to our family, but as His servant.  For although He loves me, and as my Father would not wish me pain, I know it is His will for me to make this small sacrifice, and that by doing so, I may draw nearer to Him.

Now will reminding myself of this each day make the next three months of discomfort easier?  I’ll let you know.

on being a fun mom

Since we’ve already established that I’m not a particularly fun person, it’s probably safe to say that I’m not what you would call a “fun mom” either.  What’s a fun mom?  I’m not sure how to describe it, but I know one when I see one, wouldn’t you agree?  Here’s what I wonder though.  If you’re fun all the time, doing little creative projects, special treats and elaborate outings for your kids every day, won’t they just end up expecting that sort of treatment, and not end up being appreciative of any of it?

There was a great Wall Street Journal article last week (do fun moms read the Wall Street Journal? — probably not) about the “millennials,” the generation hitting the workforce right now.  A group of them who were meeting with a consultant/coach about interviewing for jobs were asked, how do you think employers perceive you?  The coach told them she was thinking of a specific word, and it started with an ‘e’.  Excellent?  Energetic?  Enthusiastic?  No.  Entitled.  That is what I’m talking about.  (If you’re interested in reading the entire article, here’s the link.)

So I’m saving my kids from being future obnoxious adults by setting the bar pretty low.  Once in awhile I ask one of the older ones a few questions about how they think life in general is around here, and from what I can discern, I’m not scarring them too badly.  Here’s Sam’s recent birthday celebration.  I know fun moms have a party every year, but we’ve established ages 4, 7, 9, and 12 as party years (mostly because those were the years I felt like having one for Sam, and we had to be fair).  So this year was a “family party” year.

That cake was a winner, by the way.  One word:  ganache.  I bought an ice cream cake at Baskin Robbins one year, and was horrified by how expensive it was and how cute it wasn’t.  Now if one of the kids requests an ice cream cake, I make it myself.  Also, notice how I never spoil anyone’s fun by making them comb their hair or put a clean shirt on.  Besides the cake, we had a few gifts for him, and took the whole family out for a dinner of his choice.  Nothing very elaborate or exciting, but not what I would consider deprivation either.

I was particularly grumpy, sluggish, and whiny last week, and therefore even less fun than usual, so I decided that on Friday (my kids get out of school early every Friday) I should take them to do something extra fun.  Off we went to Gardner Village to hunt for witches (if you live in Utah and have no idea what that means, let me know),

after which we got everyone a haircut, for obvious reasons, following which we picked out pumpkins for carving this week.  Oh, and on Saturday we made cut-out Halloween cookies, complete with homemade frosting and sprinkles, an activity which requires my complete patience (Is it just me, or are cut-out cookies a royal pain?). 

Here’s what I think about all of this fun.  First of all, because I so seldom provide this level of entertainment for my children, I think I should get some kind of “mom bonus” for a day like that — like a pedicure or something.  (Now who’s entitled?)  Second, I think we can be doing all the fun things in the world, and I still might not be a really fun mom, with all of the “stop hitting your brother!” and “no more raw dough for you!”

So, as much as I occasionally feel guilty for not having a daily craft time, never making anyone a special birthday banner, and inserting as much time in between trips to Disneyland as possible, I think I’ll just keep being who I am.  While we were finishing up the cookies, I had a discussion with Jon about how we should always say ‘thank you’ when someone does something nice for us.  He was the one who brought it up.  I later heard him say to Mary, “what do we say?”  “Thank you,” she replied.  And gratitude is the opposite of entitlement.

murphy’s laws of motherhood

These are just the ones that apply right this minute – I’m sure you can think of more….

If you start telling people a child was “so easy to potty train” and “she practically trained herself” she will immediately start wetting her pants, possibly even refusing to use the potty at all.

If you ever reach a moment in life where you feel you might have home and family just about under control, one of your children will come down with the stomach flu.

Anyone?

P.S. This isn’t a Murphy’s Law, but is it possible we could end the societal practice of telling pregnant women how cute they look?  Maybe some people like it, but I for one don’t feel a bit cute and would like to know what is cute about gaining 20 pounds around my mid-section.  Please.  When the baby comes out, you can tell me how cute HE is all day long.  Just had to get that off my chest.

some bad news

Well, not that bad.  Don’t mean to alarm anyone.  I’m still pregnant, almost 24 weeks, which some people would call six months, but do the math — if you measure that way, the whole thing takes ten months which is completely depressing.  A month is slightly more than four weeks, people.  I prefer to date my pregnancies by counting backwards from my due date (January 24), which puts me just past five months.  But it seems like forever!  And that brings me to my bad news revelation.

You cute young moms who have birthed a baby or two, I hate to tell you, but after about the third one, it gets worse.  You know that thing people say about the second trimester, the thing where it’s the fun/easy part?  You look so cute with your little bump, you don’t feel pukey any more, you can still sleep at night, you aren’t in too much pain or discomfort?  I would have agreed with that the first two, maybe even three times, but now?  All bets are off. 

Let me just describe month five/six with the fifth pregnancy.  I look big enough that you might think I’m ready to have a baby any time.  Ok, I’m not that big, but I did just meet a very cute girl who is due any day with her first, and I swear I looked as big as she did.  (I definitely look as big as Nicole Kidman did at term, but probably not a good idea to compare myself to her, pregnant or not.)  My belly protrudes enough that my lower back is already killing me.  Actually my upper back hurts pretty bad too, which is either bad posture, or my giant chest.  My hips are already achy, which I am pretty sure usually doesn’t happen until the end.  And I’m exhausted.

Was that whiny enough?  The trouble is, I still have FOUR months to go, and I know all of this is just going to get worse.  I hope I didn’t just talk anyone out of having a big family, because the level of chaos around here is something I know many people aspire to attain.  I keep trying to remind myself not to be cynical, that this baby is a miracle, that he was what I really wanted.  But, I managed to complain enough to a friend at church Sunday that she showed up with dinner for my family Monday night.  For shame!

I’m going to start thinking up something inspiring for my next post, because I think a rant is good for the soul on occasion, but this level of negativity better not be the headliner for long.

And the winner is….

I had a very sweet conversation with my three boys in the car this morning.  Reminding them that we would likely learn the gender of our baby today, I inquired which they thought it would be — a boy, or a girl.  (Matt had already asked them last night whether they thought it would be a mammal or a reptile, which I didn’t find all that funny.)  Two boys were rooting for the home team, “A boy, a boy!”  The third said thoughtfully, “We already have a lot of boys.  Maybe another girl would be good.”  At which point Mary chimed in “Grill, grill!” (That’s how she says girl at the moment.)

“Why does Mary want it to be a girl?” one of the boys wondered. 

“Well, she’d like to have a sister, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.  Maybe it should be a girl.” 

And that quickly, everyone was on Mary’s team.  It felt kind of tender that my young boys would be sensitive to someone else’s feelings, and I said a quick prayer of thanks for the wisdom to marry a kind, sensitive man.  Is kindness learned or inherited?  Both, I think.

They went to school.  She went to a friend’s house.  I went to the ultrasound.

It’s a boy. 

Hopefully, another kind, sensitive one.

on mother’s day

“Motherhood is near to divinity. It is the highest, holiest service to be assumed by mankind. It places her who honors its holy calling and service next to the angels.”

Isn’t that lovely.  Now let’s talk about my week.

Last Sunday evening, as we enjoyed the great food and great company of a Brazilian friend and his family, whose wife I had met exactly once before, Mary vomited violently all over me and all over the kitchen of said family.  I arrived home in borrowed clothing, still stinking of vomit, and proceeded to spend the next 48 hours on the couch, with the poor child heaving every two or three hours.  Day three the puking seemed to slow down (although there was an unfortunate incident in her bedroom which required the use of our steam cleaner), so of course the diarrhea began.  Lovely.  Oh, and I was sick that day too, but only for a few hours — even after breastfeeding for more than a year, the 33-year-old immune system trumps a two-year-old one.

When a young child is sick, I can think of no better purpose for her mother than to sit and hold her until she feels better.  Plus I watched movies, so it wasn’t all bad.  The aftermath is not too pretty, though.  Not only is my house a disaster (Some of you who only have a child or two probably can’t quite imagine the mess a family of six can make in a three day period.  Plus the vomit-y bedding, clothing, etc.) but Mary is a disaster too.  Matt thinks she has PTSD from all of that wretching — has to be frightening to a little one, no? 

Which brings me to this morning, lovely honored Mother’s Day.  Matt had a 6:30 church meeting, so I was awakened just before seven by Mary screaming at the top of her lungs for peanuts.  She’s had a whole series of food dreams this week (all of that vomiting makes you hungry?) where she wakes up screaming furiously — one morning for a sandwich, which she accused Ben of stealing, another for a donut, and another for a cookie.  But this morning it was peanuts, and she would not be consoled, even after I was sure she was fully awake.  And alas, there were no peanuts in my cupboard.  Matt was home soon after this, but even with his help, the church preparations were a little hairy, and by our appointed 8:45 departure time, three of the four children were crying.

Church on Mother’s Day is always inspiring.  You can count on hearing the Abe Lincoln quote about his “angel” mother.  I on the other hand, felt like no angel as I observed one child who is old enough to know better letting snot drip from his nose and another child picking his nose until it bled.  Inspiring, isn’t it?  Of course there were the typical squabbles over fruit snacks and crayons.  We finally got everyone off to class at the end of the meeting, and I could relax and go to my own classes. 

Matt is juggling child care and dinner preparations this afternoon, trying to give me a break and I’m trying not to be too cynical.  I know several mothers who detest Mother’s Day.  It just seems like a sham — someone makes you french toast and buys you some flowers, there’s a homemade card or a corsage, but still the children are whining, complaining, and arguing.  You can take a little break, but it’ll probably just mean more work for tomorrow.  It’s really just like every other day.

One of our speakers today told about Anna Jarvis, who was the mother of Mother’s Day, so to speak.  She realized after only a few years that she had created a monster, and began to fight the over-commercialization of the holiday.  She never had children, but her experience was a lot like motherhood — a lot more work than you’re expecting, and it doesn’t always turn out as you had pictured it.

p.s. I realize this post is kind of negative for such a special day.  I love you mom.  And Vicki.  And I love being a mother.  Really.

in review

I took a little hiatus from the “photo of the day” series last week.  Don’t worry, adoring fans, it will be back.  I’ve just been a little pre-occupied.  Also, the photos wouldn’t have been too pretty.  Would you like to look at the yards of smelly carpet Matt and I hauled out of our enormous attic last week?  How about a nice shot of a dumpster in my yard?  Or the tacky paneling I single-handedly ripped out of the back room of my garage?  My back and shoulders were sore, but I’ll tell you, demolition is good for the soul.  Some other events of the week:

Drove kids to school, play rehearsals, soccer practices, piano lessons, etc.  And back.

Hosted a whole bunch of kids and moms for a luncheon — I didn’t provide the food, just the location.  And man did they make a mess.

Entertained a surprisingly docile bunch of cub scouts.

Endured a torturous dentist appointment (just a cleaning, but man that scraping strikes a nerve), followed by an only slightly less torturous cub scout “round table.”

Removed the entire contents of my rather large refrigerator/freezer to the kitchen table (I should have taken a picture of that sight — it was comical) in preparation for placing it in my new one.  The best thing, though, is my new range, which is a vision of loveliness compared to the old one.  [note:  we’re taking advantage of G.E. employee discounts while we still can…changes are in the works with Matt’s employment]  [note 2:  some women are really into jewelry, but I’ll take some stainless steel bling any day]

Sat through a colder-than-expected soccer game with wet hair (good thinking).  Have you watched five year-olds play soccer?  It is so dang funny.

Listened to many hours of general conference over two days, which is always inspiring and relaxing, with the exception of the Sunday morning session, which we insisted our kids be in the room for — not even to listen, just to be in the room — which was the longest two hours of my life.  Ok, not my whole life, but the week.  Felt encouraged by Elder Ballard (text will be available Thursday at lds.org) and amused/pleased that he quoted Anna Quindlen.

Enjoyed a little female interaction during the priesthood session, including a round of Apples to Apples, a game I can wholeheartedly recommend.

Attended a reunion of some of the people Matt knew on his mission to Brazil.  Haven’t absorbed any Portuguese by osmosis.  Observed many beautiful part and/or full Brazilian children and decided my Mary could pass for one of them.

A typical, busy week.  The photo of the day will be back — I miss it, even if no one else does.

Christmas music for the kiddoes

Do you have a bunch of favorite holiday cds that you pull out each December?  Or a favorite radio station that plays Christmas music (I personally can’t stand pop music settings of Christmas favorites, but to each his own)?  I realized this year that I didn’t have any great Christmas music for the kids.  Why it took me 10 years to realize this, I do not know.  Don’t get me wrong, I think they should be exposed to the Messiah, Bing Crosby, and all of my favorites.  But there are some artists that are particularly appealing for kids, so why not?  Just as I had been thinking about this, someone in one of the many blogs and periodicals I read (can’t really remember which one) mentioned Raffi’s Christmas album — a Raffi Christmas album?  Hot dog! 

I’m sure this sounds totally nerdy, but I really like Raffi.  He is clever and folky, and his music doesn’t make me want to shove a sharp object in my ear like some kids’ music does.  His Christmas album is years old, but I tell you, it holds up.  We’re enjoying it thoroughly — in fact a little fight broke out when the faction that was running an errand with Dad wanted to take the cd in the car, while the group that was staying home wanted it playing here.  Holiday cheer all around. 

Now that I’ve shared my little recommendation, please let me know if there’s a must-have Christmas album, kids’ or otherwise, that I might need to purchase.  The music collection improves a little every year. 

last Ferber post

You cannot let a baby cry in a hotel.  She fell asleep in our bed Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.  And napped in the car as we drove from place to place.  Last night, I put her in bed and she went right to sleep with no crying — a miracle!  Today, she would not nap and conked out about 6:30 darnit.  She woke up after about an hour and I am not looking forward to the night’s festivities.

I’m bored with this (aren’t you?), and I’m not going to tell you about Mary’s sleep any more.  Promise.  So if you’d stopped reading my blog out of sheer irritation, come on back.  Fun pictures from our trip coming soon….

Ferber — day 4

No nap.  Catnap in the car for maybe ten minutes.  Grouchy.

When Matt put her down at about 8:30 she was clearly exhausted and didn’t fight too hard, but she did cry.  15 minutes later, he checked on her and found her asleep standing up!  He got her to lie down, and she slept all night.  Phew.

The bad news is, we’re all staying in a hotel room together in Southern Utah tonight.  I’m thinking we might have to start all over again when we get back.  Sigh.