I think I can change my mind

Holidays from my perspective (as the mom) were always meant to be fun and unencumbered by the extra stress of dealing with the unknowns.  Meaning people I didn’t know very well.  Across the table—our table—from me.  Small talk and all.  So I’ve always stuck with inviting our friends, the familiars, the easies.  Until this past Easter.  Unexpectedly, it turned out to be one of my favorite holiday gatherings ever.

Not to say at all that anyone we invited this year was hard or someone we didn’t like.  We’d just never had any of them over (except one of the families) until now.  So we ended up with a mom and her four kids—some of our kids’ best friends and the mom is one of mine; for some reason we’d just never had them for dinner, I don’t know exactly why.  That led us to invite a couple with no kids left at home, along with an adult sister who lives with them, who is somewhat blind and is younger than her years.  She’s awesome.  And then we added a friend who stays in a wheelchair.  So Andrew made her a ramp.  Then I noticed a grandma at the egg hunt on Saturday with my friend’s three little kids and realized she probably had nowhere to go.  I already knew I’d love her.  And then a family that we do stuff with all the time—just didn’t realize they’d be coming home that morning from their trip.  Twenty five.  One ham.  With leftovers.  From my angle it was perfect.  They were the gem guests, and conversation was smooth, the food everyone brought was yummy, there was plenty, the day was sunny, a great variety of both personalities and ages.  It was so pleasant and nice.  I loved it.  And I think I’ll never go back to the old way of just inviting people we do stuff with all the time.  Even at church I kept noticing people I should’ve thought to invite.  I’m already thinking about our next holiday because instead of the anticipated anxiety, I honestly felt a kinship, a familial, comfortable feeling with these friends.  I only knew half pretty well, the others I was barely acquainted with.  And it was perfect.  So I’ve changed my mind about holiday dinners.

And so it goes.  A little boy at the school library was looking for a particular book, but when I helped him try to find one that would work, there were none.  So I pointed him in another direction.  Happily, he chose one and explained, “I think I can change my mind.”  Of course I smothered a smile, but I kept it close for the rest of my time in the library.  And I’ve thought about it since.  Who says we can’t change our minds, that if we proclaim to hold an opinion we have to hold fast to it, stoic and stubborn? Why can’t we change and mature, obtain more information, broaden our thinking, tickle our palates?  Maybe you’re thinking I’m inconsistent because a past post boasted we really are so much like our little kid selves.  And I do believe we are at our cores.  And yet, there’s still some wiggle room to expand our thinking and to modify our opinions.  I’m sure you’ve got examples of your own.

I used to dread winter, especially with all the snow and ice I’ve had to get used to over the years.  But now I look forward to a little time of hibernation, a respite from the yard work and intense travel schedule.  I like the breather to hunker down and watch movies and catch up on inside projects.  In such a small way I’ve changed the way I look at the snow and ice.  It means I can stay home for the day once in awhile.

I almost cringe when someone asks if I’ve read a certain title or seen some movie.  Because I might have.  But I wouldn’t read it now.  Or watch it.  And I certainly wouldn’t recommend it.     I’ve always loved biographies and historical fiction, ever since I was a pre-teen.  That hasn’t changed.  But I’m not as forgiving with novels and movies as I used to be.  There’s simply too much good out there to waste my time on trash.  And so I’ve pulled away from some of the stuff I used to indulge in.

I have always been a morning person, but in college I loved going to Salt Lake and the venues around BYU to go dancing every once in awhile.  Night was when everyone stayed up late talking.  I’m the same now as I was then, in that I love going to bed around 9. But sometimes it’s 11:30 or 12 before I get to sleep, especially on the weekends if we have friends over or we stay up watching a movie or talking.  So even though I’m basically the same, I can see there are times when it’s worth sacrificing some sleep.  And so occasionally I switch things up just for fun.

Maybe just another way I’m weird, but I’ve eaten Brussels sprouts my whole life.  I’ve never liked them.  Until the past few years.  I’m not saying I’d choose them over a hot fudge malt, but I don’t hate them as much as I used to.  Haven’t you ever tried to train yourself to like certain foods because they’re good for you?  Todd thinks I’m nuts.  I still don’t care for olives, and avocados aren’t my favorite, but I’ll swallow both.  And I’ll eat cantaloupe because it’s so good for me.  I do appreciate it when it’s at its prime, although I still don’t love it.  I didn’t care for fish much until I started dating and that’s what we ended up eating at all those San Diego restaurants, and I did end up learning to like seafood over the years.  I remember my dad trying to get me to try his onion bagel with cream cheese, the whole thing warmed up in a paper towel in our ‘80s microwave.  Sounded disgusting.  But eventually I conceded.  And admitted it was good enough to start making my own.  I tried Rye Krisps at my grandma’s house as a kid—liked them then, hate them now.  Quinoa is a staple these days, and I discovered I like spinach (but you have to admit fresh spinach salad is so different from the canned or frozen soggy kind from yesteryear).  So yeah, my tastes have changed a bit over the years—not entirely—but I’ve gained some new options.

There are still some songs I’ve loved for decades, songs no one my age should really know because they are so old-fashioned.  But you know I was meant to be born in another decade, if not century.  So it stands that Moon River, Somewhere in Time, and Through the Years by Kenny Rogers are a few of my favorites, I have a list somewhere.  Those have been solid since I very first heard them.  But I remember trying on music as a teen.  One group I specifically aimed to like was the Beatles.  A guy I knew listened to them and we had similar music tastes. My mom grew up with them, I figured it was a given that I’d like them too.  But when I was honest with myself, I didn’t.  I ended up giving my White Album away.  I didn’t love it, even as I tried for many months.   So in those instances I knew what I liked and I stayed with it.

But my freshman roommate in college was from a small town in Idaho.  Apparently they listened to a lot of country music.  Hailing from the city, our high school team made fun of the teams we played against in the more rural outskirts of San Diego, thinking they were hicks.  And so there wasn’t really a place in my world for country music.  And yet, she won me over.  I never have liked the twangy stuff, the kind my dad would play in his upholstery shop in the ‘80s.  But I eventually started hearing the romantic country ballads of the ‘90s as background music for my life as I was falling in love with Todd.  And I learned to country dance.  Maybe country music had morphed over the years.  Or maybe it just altered me.  However it happened, I changed my mind about it.  I think it’d be nice for my roommate to know I actually own the stuff now.  But still nothing twangy.

So though I’m basically the same little-girl Caren that I’ve always been—a little odd in some ways, an older spirit with more seriousness in her than traditional fun, a girl who likes to clean and organize, read and write, ask questions and delve into the mysteries of how people work—in some ways the ideas and experiences I’ve been exposed to have awakened my senses.  And I freely admit that while I once subscribed to one philosophy or opinion, it’s ok to switch and to say I was wrong or ignorant or immature or my tastes just changed.  I don’t mind.  And I certainly won’t be offended if you change your mind either.

When the parents come to town

It’s a funny thing.  I’m not a perfectionist by any stretch.  Any stretch.  And yet, I really do like to have the house clean before either set of parents come.  Not crazy, baseboard, top-of-the-molding-and freezer-clean, just tidy.  Dishes done, guest bathroom wiped down, beds made, their room vacuumed.  Not over-the-top, but ready.  I do like the floor mopped too.  Just so it’s not sticky.  If I’m honest with you, which you know I am, I like the idea of having it look like a Bed and Breakfast.  I want visitors to feel pampered and like the guests.  But at the same time, of course like family.  Which is why I don’t care that we get back to regular life once they’ve gotten here.  Just initially I like it to look nice.  Ready for them.  Like we made an effort to acknowledge their visit.  I guess that’s why it’s hard not knowing exactly when they’re coming sometimes.  Because I’m not usually home during the days, so I end up pushing things to the edge since Callum is sleeping in the sheets of their bed until the morning of their arrival.  But both sets are always so gracious and accommodating, no matter what state the house is in.

I also prefer to do the cooking when they’re here.  For much the same reason.  I like to treat them.  Like a Bed and Breakfast.  After all the years they've pampered us and taken care of us as kids, I want to return the favor.  I want them to just relax and catch up on their reading and have their dinners presented to them.  A treat for them.  Kind of how a salad or sandwich tastes better if someone else makes it for you.  I want them to not have to have any concern about the preparation; I want them to really feel like they’re on vacation and having a little break for a few days.  We like to take Todd’s parents out for lunch because they don’t get to each out much.  And I look to cook for my parents because they don’t do much cooking anymore.  I like to make cookies for Todd’s dad and cinnamon rolls for mine.  I know both sets of parents like healthy, homemade meals.  And I like doing that for them.

I also don’t need a lot of help with the dishes.  They've done dishes for years.  I want them to take just a few days off.  Besides, each kid has a part to play in clearing and putting away the leftovers and washing and loading and emptying the dishwasher.  It’s all organized; they’ve been on it for years.  It’s good for them.  And again, our parents do their own dishes all the time.  I want them to have a little vacation.  It’s not that I have a special way I like the dishwasher loaded.  Are you kidding?  I just want them to have a little break.

Each set of parents is different in what they want to do.  Todd’s parents are content to sit and look out the window or walk around our yard or read on the Kindle.  When my parents come we’re all up and showered and ready for the day early, which always entails shopping, no matter how many times my mom tells me she just wants to run into Dillard’s and then we’ll be home for the rest of the day to just relax and watch movies.  Todd’s parents sometimes go off and do their own thing—whether it’s a day trip up the mountain or a little visit to Kohl’s.  Both moms will sit and read, which I love.  Because then I can cook for them.  I love that Todd’s parents will play games with the kids after school and again with the big kids and Todd late into the night.  My mom is story-teller extraordinaire, and I love the way she reads to the kids.  It’s a tradition that my dad always takes the kids for tacos.  There’s nothing I like more than for the grandparents to talk about their lives as children and young people.  I like the connection that creates between our kids and their grandparents.

My mom and dad fade early.  Nine is getting late.  But my mom is up about six, reading the paper, putting on her make-up.  I tip-toe past her to go exercise.  I need to wake up a bit.  I’m not as chipper first-thing and need my alone-time.   My dad sleeps in.  And takes a nap later.  Todd’s parents have all sorts of energy and his dad can stay up late with the boys playing games till all hours of the night.  They usually get up when we do.  Who can sleep through all that racket?  My mom nods off throughout the day.  Todd’s parents last all day.

This is the truest confession, the most honest assessment, a peek into my soul.  But I find myself being so different with each set.  Todd’s parents are really laid-back, but for some reason I find myself being up-tight when they’re here.  Extra clean, more tightly scheduled, efficient, fast.  It perplexes me.  And bothers me that I unconsciously do that.  My mom is naturally all those things, and so I swing the other way when she’s in town.  I feel myself pulling away when they want to make plans, I find myself being lackadaisical.  I do try to pick up and keep things tidy, but I’m not as hyper-vigilant with crumbs, for instance, as I am with Todd’s parents.  I know I’m nuts.  I think what it’s about is me wanting to prove in some twisted way that I’m not the same as them, that I’m my own person, valuable and competent, but just in a different way from them.  Maybe because I can’t be quite the same or as good as they are in the ways they parent and run their households, so I emphasize our differences.  Is that it?  I just barely started realizing I do this and how inconsistent it is.  And I think I’m crazy.  But I just confessed this all to a friend who admitted to me she’s the same way.  I felt validated, but I still don’t know why I’m different with each set when in reality I’m a mix of those two extremes.  I like a clean house, but sometimes the clutter gets away from me, along with the blinds and ironing.  I keep a loose schedule, but I’m neither over-programmed or sitting home all day.  I’m efficient, yet I like to play games and just sit and visit and watch movies and read fluff magazines as much as anyone, that’s why we have them.  Along with a million puzzles and games.  It’s not like I’m completely different from myself when the parents are around, that’s so much work;  I just feel myself pulling a little in one direction or the other for some reason.  So weird.  But I can tell this is why I’m more irritable and grumpy when either set of parents comes to visit.  Because I’m not being entirely true to who I am.

But in thinking about this while driving the other day, I realized something that maybe you can relate to.  Maybe not you men, but possibly some women out there.  I don’t really care what most people think these days.  I feel confident that I know my heart and my intentions, what our family is dealing with, and what my relationships are like with the people I care about.  So I just do my best and assume everyone else is doing the same.  And yet, for some reason—I think it’s because Todd and my kids and our extended families matter the most to us—I do care what the parents think, both sets.  At least somewhat.  They don’t know the whole story either.  How could they without living with us day-in and day-out for years on end?  I just hope they feel like their grandkids are in good hands.  And yet, what does it matter?  I know.  It’s no big deal.  I’m doing the best I can.  I feel vulnerable that it comes up in my thoughts.  And I wonder why it even does.  I kind of hate that.  We joke that Todd never has to worry.   My parents might like him more than they like me.  They wanted me to marry him before I  knew I’d want to marry him.  He never has to wonder where they’re coming from, they adore him.  I love it, and it makes me laugh.

So maybe everyone has a few paragraphs in them about what it’s like when the parents come to visit.  Maybe not.  Most of you are smart enough to not analyze things this much.  But one of my main purposes for even writing this blog is to help us all feel our humanness, to recognize that we’re all the same in some ways.  We all have parents who come into our lives intermittently, and I just wonder what it’s like in your home when they do.  As much as we anticipate their visits and are excited to see them, I almost always hug them goodbye with a little sadness in my heart for letting these kinds of things mar our visits.  I feel a twinge of regret for not completely being myself (is that even possible with guests in the house for several days?), for letting expectations get the better of me, for not just basking in our short days together.  Over the years I’ve gotten better, and this Christmas really was our best ever.  When I think about that, it makes me want to rekindle whatever worked and remind myself that it’s not about getting the work done, making the house look nice, what kind of mom or wife I appear to them to be, or anything else like that.  The best times we have are when I’m myself, relaxed, and open to whatever transpires. Because I think that’s all they want when they come to visit anyway.

Reading material

I love those fluff magazines like Good Housekeeping.  In fact, it’s been a secret pleasure since I was a pre-teen, so nerdy, so true.  Sometimes my aunt would take me with her on an errand while I was supposed to be cleaning her house, and we’d end up in the check-out aisle of the grocery store.  Inevitably it would be Christmastime, and I have no idea how she knew about my young-girl Caren dreams, but she would almost always buy me one of those glossy magazines littered with decorating and craft and cooking ideas.  They were saturated with photos dripping with colorful balls and bulbs and bobbles.  I was intensely satisfied, allowed to wander through fancy houses I could only dream of.

In between colorful holiday table settings were of course grown-up articles like Hints from Heloise and Can This Marriage Be Saved, you know the ones.  I wanted to be a grown-up since before I was a teen.  So there was little better than for my 12 year-old Caren than to drape over a brand new Christmas issue of Family Circle.  Really.

Have you ever gotten an offer for a magazine you honestly can’t figure out how they can even make copies, it’s so cheap?  So that’s how we’ve come to get oodles of magazines pouring out of our mailbox.  So many, such big piles of Discover, National Geographic, Blade, church periodicals, Family Fun, Highlights, Real Simple, National Geographic Kid, Grit, Hobby Farms, Mother Earth News, Montana Sporting Journal, Good Housekeeping, Country Living, Better Homes and Gardens, and I don’t know what else we’ve had over the years, not to mention the bee, hunting, seed, and sportswear catalogs.  That’s a lot of periodicals to cover.  I remember a new friend of ours, his house, his own pile of news weeklies, remarking how magazines are about his speed:  short articles, low commitment.  We sort of agreed that we also liked that feature as well.

But there came a time several years ago that I heard a talk many of you are familiar with, encouraging us to not only seek the good in life—and here we’re just talking about reading choices—but to see if there is something better, maybe even a best.  That admonition encouraged me to take a good look at my reading habits, to see if there was some improvement I could make.  And you know if you take a good look at any part of your life or yourself what the answer will always be.

I’m nowhere near where I want to be.  I long to fly through the tomes like my intellectual friends, to recall with accurate detail what the arguments and symbolisms were.  I aspire to be a scriptorian and to know all the people by name, role, and place in time.  I want to be able to retain the information in the studies I read about in my interesting non-fiction social science books so I can apply all those delightful tidbits and share the detail of the experiments.   Alas, this is where I am.  And I vow to change it every single day.  But here’s my reality.  It gets to be about 9 p.m. and I realize I’m running out of time (and steam), so I get ready for bed and tell myself I’ve got half an hour or so.  But some days I haven’t read my scriptures until this moment, and so I prioritize my reading like you would.  And then I can choose one of five or so reading options: 1) to just hang out and catch up with Todd and skip reading anything altogether, 2) look at a magazine together, 3) look at a fluff magazine I like while he looks at one of his bee-keeping or gardening choices, 4) read a novel, or 5) read something a little heavier.  And I bounce around between them all, no rhyme or reason, just based on what I feel like.

Here’s what’s changed over the years.  I stopped subscribing to some of the magazines I felt were probably in the good category—nothing more than fun and entertaining—basically because I just couldn’t keep up.  I still get a couple.  And some nights that’s the most mindful thing I can do.  I’m so tired or in a grumpy mood that there’s no way I want something that’s good for me, I just want fluff to help me transition and to relax, nothing more.

Sometimes I’ll read my book.  Once in awhile I’ll do a novel, but mostly I love my non-fiction.  To me there is nothing more inspiring than real people who overcome incredible odds.  I love learning lessons through others’ experiences, I like seeing what makes people tick, I’m intrigued by the science behind our social behaviors.

If I have any sort of residual energy I really do like to look at a magazine with Todd.  Sometimes we have a lot to catch up on, so we’ll spend the hour or more just talking.  But we love our magazines packed with yard plans, appraised antiques, and houses for sale in small country towns.  We are truly us when we’re perusing Country Living cuddled in bed on cold snowy nights.

I can rate my reading choices as good  (magazines that inspire me to decorate and organize my life, improve our gardening techniques, how to spot a good deal on antiques), better (interesting stories that make me think, that introduce me to new and different ways of looking at life and people), and best (selections that inspire me to be a better person, to be kinder, more accepting, less judgmental), just as I’m sure you could come up with your own criteria for what you choose to read.

A lot of nights I’m medium—I’ll read a good book.  Some nights the best I have in me is to read a fluff magazine column before I succumb.  Other nights I’ll have energy to really engage in some deep study; I’ll even take notes on what I’m reading.  I think we all have a mix of days like these.  While we surely would love to be our best all the time, sometimes we have to admit we’re just having leftovers for dinner or we’re going to stay up late and go out for ice cream, we’re taking some time out and are just going to watch movies while it rains, a fluff kind of day.  Sometimes we’re more disciplined and plan earlier in the day so that we can make bread and get some some stew in the crock pot and stick to our bedtime routine, a solid choice.  Other days we have enough stamina to pull out all the stops and make dinner for another family, clean even the window sills, and make homemade chocolate cake with homemade ice cream with a little plate for the neighbors.  Kind of an almost best effort.  I guess I’m just saying while some days good is our best, maybe we could occasionally raise the bar and see what else might be better.  And every now and then step it up and discover what best feels like.  Not to put any more pressure on ourselves, but I wonder if we can improve in incremental ways, starting with an area as seemingly benign as reading.  Because as much as I long to immerse myself in every interesting tidbit-filled publication and tantalizing new novel on the best-seller list, as well as all the world tempts me with, I just can’t seem to fit it all in.  And so I have to prioritize.  And be really in-tune with what seems best when I face my stack, whether it’s the books by my bed or the hours in my days.

Click here for the talk I'm referring to

When you're sick

I tried to be sick this weekend when the kids were out of school.  Shaky, feverish, chilled, stomach pains, just weak.  Todd knew something was up when he found me just sitting on the couch.  I never really do that except when I’m making small-talk with someone.  But I had to take Avery to town and Mitchell to our car insurance office.  He got his license the other day, but I told him he was still privy to enrichment lessons when driving with one of his parents.  We also dropped by the library, being that we were already downtown and all.  I was driving home (so he could read).  Down a main, one-way street.  Awesome for a driving instructor.  A Frosty and fries for everyone on the way home (to celebrate still being alive).  By the time we got home I was spent.  I was supposed to go watch Andrew run at his track meet.  I slept instead.  Or tried to.  The door to my room kept opening.  Before I knew it, High School Musical 3 was on the tv and Bronwyn was in my bed, occasionally caressing my head.  The dog needed to sleep beside me.  I tried to sit up and read the paper in my bed after my half-hearted siesta, which worked for a bit.  Then I needed to lie down again.  I heard Callum yell down to Bronwyn that she was in charge of the macaroni and cheese now that he had done all of it to the point of dumping the noodles in.  I figured they had it.  Woke up minutes later to a stench and the kids trying to remedy the burned-on noodles.  What a smell.  I boiled vinegar water and spiced water (cinnamon, cloves).  Nothing worked, it was so intense.  By this time I had to go pick up Avery.  And drop her off at her grandma’s.  The dog threw up in the van on the trip into town.  Too much residual macaroni and—I’m sure—car sickness.  Good grief.  When I got home again, decided I might as well wash the sheets since I wasn’t getting any sleep in them.  And so it went.

And yet being sick is soooo much easier these days!  I usually feel fairly secure that the kids will be around when I wake up if I need to lie down for a minute.  We may have a small fire, but most members will be accounted for. No guarantee what anyone will eat or be doing.  Guaranteed that no dishes will be done.  88% certain the door will open at least 2-3 times—quietly—accompanied by a whispered, “Mom,” scaring me from slumber.  It’s sometimes best just to rest my bones on the couch in the middle of it all to direct the affairs.  And yet, this is a million times easier than being sick with babies.  Or worse, toddlers.

Do any of you remember what that was like?  Maybe a lot of you are still living the dream.  Wow.  There’s just nothing that resembles taking time off for being sick, unless another adult is in charge.  There’s no way you could take a nap and  just hope he stays on the couch for Barney or Land Before Time or Walking with Dinosaurs (I have no idea what shows kids watch these days, these are the ones we had when I mine were little).  It could look like the perfect set-up, things should stay pretty stable for one short 20-minute time-out you think to yourself, 40 winks is all you need when you’re sick, just enough to take you over the hump.  But after a few experiences, you don’t even bother trying as a young mom.  You just gear up for the day and push through any kind of discomfort or sickness you’re dealt.  It’s just not worth it to try it any other way.

But I tried, in my mini-trial—my couple of sick days—to really be mindful.  I was thankful for this little incident because it reminded me of what other sick people might love.  I didn’t want anything to eat, so that made me wonder if bringing food really is the best thing to do for a sick friend.  Our go-to means of showing compassion.  And maybe it is, for the family.  So maybe something other than sick-people-food like soup would be better next time.  I checked out our house.  I tried to find the bomb.  I wanted a cleaning service.  No, I wanted my kids to be the cleaning service.  So I hired the two little ones for $1 each to clean the kitchen.  It was beyond the scope of their normal kitchen chores, but it was manageable.  A good deal on both ends.  But maybe I could do this for a close friend. I longed to clean my bathroom and to get the laundry started; maybe she’d feel the same.  I wanted someone to play games with my kids or to take them outside to a park.  I hated that they watched so much tv and played on the computer.  And yet, I let them because I felt like little else.  A good idea for next time, take her kids.  I couldn’t focus on any of my seven books on my headboard.  So I watched a fluff movie, a romantic one I won’t even tell you the name of, it was so fluffy.  And so, here and there, throughout the days, I caught a glimpse of what life feels like from a patient bed.  It was a good way to really get on the inside track.  I rarely ever get sick.  I don’t know why, it’s just not in my deck.  So I was grateful a) that it was short-lived, super short-lived, b) for a chance to empathize with how lame sickness makes a person feel and c) to understand what might be helpful the next time a friend of mine gets sick.  I kind of do wonder about the timing of it all since I had just barely returned my library copy of How to Be a Friend to a Friend Who’s Sick that morning.  I wondered if subconsciously my inner-me was excited to test the premise out.  Just kind of interesting timing, I thought.

Some thoughts on Easter

I usually try to keep things pretty broad here because I realize we all have different beliefs.  And yet, I feel to briefly share my feelings about Easter.  Please forgive me if it’s offensive, but I did want to warn you before you go any further.  Check back another time because you know these posts are normally pretty shallow and surface.   I’ll just wish you a happy Easter here and you can continue to enjoy the hunts, pictures with the bunny, filling the eggs and other festivities.

Which is actually why I’ve never really liked Easter as an adult.  I’m not into pastels (to wear or decorate with).  Easter’s like a hiccup in the run of nice and easy holidays, what with Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s behind us, we almost get to the point where we feel home-free for another year.  Valentine’s Day is fine, just make sugar cookies and send some treats to school, buy a little candy to stick on the kids’ cards, a red dinner and we’re good.  But Easter requires a bit more preparation.  As the kids get older they don’t want candy so much, and yet I continue to get it.  I feel like I need to create some sort of spread sheet once again to ascertain how far a large bag of Swedish Fish will stretch, if we still have bubbles and sidewalk chalk and paint from last year or if we need to replenish our stock.  I have to scratch my brain to recall what each child’s favorite candies are and which they avoid.  I don’t want to spoil them, but I don’t want to be chintzy either.  I have never yet figured out the logistics of all the parts that are supposed to go down.  Hard boiling and coloring eggs. Check.  But no one in our family likes hard boiled eggs or egg salad sandwiches, and it’s weird to have pastel-tinted white parts of deviled eggs.  With five kids (the big kids, for some reason, feel to join us if they aren’t invited and shun us if I throw the invitation their way—no rhyme or reason), that could potentially be 30-60 eggs (if we go crazy and let them dunk a dozen each).   Do we hide them in the yard even though no one really wants them?  Then the plastic eggs.  If we fill them with candy, do I hide them or do I use them to puff up the contents of their baskets?  And we’ve always just presented the baskets on Sunday morning, but I know others who like to keep the pagan and religious parts separate and prefer to do baskets a different day.  I’m just going by tradition here.  And yet I bag tradition when it comes to new dresses for me or the girls.  I’ve never bought any of us a new Easter dress, although I remember wearing the pastel frocks as a little girl, at least one was long—all the way to the ground.  Ensembles were completed with some kind of floppy hat.  I’ve even known gloves to show up in pictures.  Probably it’s my stubbornness and I don’t want to be told I need to buy dresses just because it’s some sort of tradition.  OK, really it’s because I’m cheap.  I figure we’ve got plenty of church clothes.

The dinner’s not a problem.  It’s like Christmas dinner. Ham’s a breeze, so are potatoes, etc.  This kind of stuff is never an issue.  But every year, including this year, I ask myself what I should do about the Easter Egg Hunts.  I’ve taken them to egg hunts in the community, but not since I had the two little ones in a double stroller and the three others just causing me stress.  I don’t remember Todd ever really accompanying me, but I could be wrong.  I remember one time at the zoo, Avery was just a week or two old, and so I left her with a nice lady outside who was doing the hunt while I took the boys to the bathroom.  Can you believe I did that?  So these are the variables wafting through my head at this time of year.  Even though I’ve been at it for years, I don’t feel like I’ve met the requirements of this holiday.  I feel like I should consult some kind of rule book.  You can see why I have mixed feelings about it all.

And yet, on an entirely different level, it’s the one part of my life that means the most.  And maybe that’s just it.  I hate the way something so meaningful to me gets all mixed up with bunnies and chocolate eggs, much the same way Christmas has such a materialistic feel these days.  I like things in their pure forms.  And yet, I know kids need fun and everything doesn’t have to be heavy and serious.  So I accept this part of our culture and I do embrace it, in that I do the parts.  But I feel like I fail every year because I don’t know that I’ve helped them appreciate what it’s all about in a way that changes them in any sense.  Like every year, we had an Easter Family Home Evening.  We watched another short video mid-week.  I have pictures and stories from the Bible that I read to them each morning at breakfast and again at night, and we talk about the chronology of events.  I hang them up for the week so we can remember what the week is about.  Is there more?   I don’t know if any of this makes a difference, it feels like it’s having the same impact as when we discuss the current events in the world.  Not much.

And yet, what do I want?  Feelings are hard to share, especially about religion and sacred parts of your heart.  So I guess I don’t really expect them to talk much about it.  I guess I just want them to hear from us how much His life has meant in our lives.  Even if they just take that with them and tuck it away in their hearts.

Because honestly, He means everything to me.  He’s the reason I do most of what I do.  At least the good things.  The bad things I do because I’m lazy or prideful or selfish.  But when I do something good, it’s motivated by love for my Savior.  I long to see people through His eyes and to treat them like He would.  I have deep desires to be kind and to find the good in people and life.  I want to serve, not just dutifully, but lovingly.  I want to love children like He did.  But of course I fall short in all those ways so often.  And yet, that’s when I love Him the most.  Because of Him I’m able to feel sorrow and regret while, at the same time, hope and optimism that I have another chance, and I can try again.

I cling to His example as I try to apply His teachings in my own life. His way always, always works.  His love never fails.  And I know that because I’ve turned to Him when I’ve felt completely alone and misunderstood.  There was a time as a young mom when I had a leadership role and the people around me talked about me behind my back.  I didn’t know who I could trust or where to turn for support.  Another trial went on for 15 years, such a private one that I couldn’t really share it.  I didn’t know who would understand or not judge me.  So many times I’ve felt scared, alone, overwhelmed, at loose ends, unloving, stressed, or just unsure.  He’s never let me down.

And so that’s what I hope to share with my kids, not only at Easter, but throughout the year.  But maybe there’s no way to truly impart such tender feelings.  Maybe they come through years of living, of applying the Atonement, of using this power to empower us in our everyday lives.  So yes, I will continue to do the chocolate eggs and maybe even a hunt.  We will cook the ham and decorate in pastels for the day.  But I hope that somehow, in all we do in our family, our kids will remember the other parts we’ve talked about.  I hope they know that we love our Savior, that He means everything to us.  And that we celebrated Him not just at Easter, but every day.

Just a couple random and maybe odd ways we use everyday items

This one has no life’s lesson, no comparisons of carting in plastic milk jugs from the van to carrying heavy loads in life, nothing deep.  Totally random.  Hard for me to pinpoint why I even jotted this down.  I was cleaning out my desk drawer with Bronwyn and I thought how lucky I am to have so many implements at my disposal, so I made a list.  You know I like a good list.

One of my favorite items I’ve used the past few years has been a huge old dictionary that was falling apart.  I started tearing out its pages to recycle them and felt guilty, all that useful paper, still glued to its binding for easy tearing out.  So I’ve used the pages for wrapping gifts, as a mat in my picture frame and as a liner for my desk drawer.  I’m thinking scrap paper, you’d just have to use a Sharpie to make your message show up.  I also use maps from our trips as background for our scrapbook pages and to wrap gifts.  I know, I might be the type to file them according to what part of the country they describe.  And yet I’m really not.

We use Alfredo jars as glasses.  Pint-sized jars for kids’ drinks.  Perfect size.  Quart bottles for Todd and other men who come to dinner.  No need for quite as many refills.  I’ve also never owned one of those cool glass cups that measure liquids, although I’ve always secretly wanted one.  I just grab a quart jar and can estimate pretty accurately after so many years; lines are on the sides if we need to be sure.

An over-sized red tool box acts as our first aid kit.  Large metal-framed hiking backpacks from garage sales work as our 72-hour kits.  We’ve also found regular old school backpacks at garage sales for $.50-$1.00 for the kids’ kits.

My sister used to make and sell frames using scrapbook paper.  We have a huge apple-type box full of all sorts of odd-sized scrap bits she saved for us that is pulled out weekly for some project, whether a science fair tri-fold board, gift tags, holiday pennants, shelf paper, liner for my desk organizer or collages to cover composition books.  A true treasure box!

I still have four wooden placemats from our wedding—folk art scenes—that I’ve always loved.  They became our backsplash above our cabinets; we’ve used them that way ever since we moved into our first home 14 years ago.

Shoe boxes are a rare find in our house, and they’re cherished.  They hold flashlights and batteries.  Bronwyn uses them to make lockers for her babies’ school days.  I use them on the high shelf in my kitchen cupboards to hold large spice containers and cupcake liners and for corralling all the random objects we find when we’re cleaning up (Legos, Nerf bullets, hair bobbles, you know the culprits).  Like most parents, we recognize the value in an especially large box and milk it for all its worth.  They don’t sell toys that versatile.

Twine works well to hang Christmas cards with clothes pins on either side of the hall, as well as kids’ artwork during the school year.  And of course to wrap gifts.  It’s like $1.38 at the farm store.  I hang hand-knit baby sweaters and socks in our laundry room, same way.  I also use clothespins to hold bags of cheese or chips shut.  I’m sure most people do.

An ugly tiny address book that somehow ended up in our house guards our passwords.  Hated to just give it away.

I have four push pins in my closet wall for my necklaces.  If you read my post about my wardrobe you’ll understand that I don’t own that many necklaces and why this works like a charm.

Our Basmati rice used to come in these cool burlap bags with handles.  They are perfect for gardening gloves, so I hang two by the back door in the garage.  I have two others hanging in our mud room closet: one for plastic shopping bags and another for my bread bags.  Since we’re talking about burlap bags, I’ve found huge ones for $.50 to $1.00 each at the local farm store.  Cut to size, they make excellent place mats and runners.

The socks and plastic containers and their lids have made some sort of secret arrangement because no matter what I put in the dishwasher or clothes washer, rarely do matches come out.  So we use the left-over socks for school whiteboards and to make rice bags.  And for a grown-up version of the matching game.  For the days when I can’t think of anything else to do.  We use the lone containers to corral nail polish and makeup in our bathroom drawers.  Leftover lids are perfect plastic plates when small guests come over because they’re just the right size and come with a ledge.  (You’ve probably gathered I hate using paper products.)  Like most of you, we keep our Costco-sized sour cream and cottage cheese containers, perfect for taking soup and a fruit salad to a sick friend; no dishes to have to think about.  Todd has his screws and nails organized in those Costco nut containers with the screw-top lids.  I’ve asked my friend to save her baby food containers (those little rectangle ones with lids) for me.  They are perfect for lunches.  They hold peanut butter to dip apples, Ranch for carrots, or salad dressing for Avery’s salads.  We also keep one in our mudroom especially for box-tops.  No need to recycle these containers quite yet; they all still have several good years of use in them.

Our safe not only holds our precious items, but also things like Andrew’s gas money (he has very little self control), as well as the cord that can link Mitchell to the internet.  He bought a computer for his room, but we guard his internet access.  I know safes are generally for jewels, but you know how many jewels I care about.  Our precious items include our birth certificates.  Nothing too crazy.

We use small flower pots for our toothbrushes and for silverware when we have large gatherings.  Saves me setting the table.  Speaking of toothbrushes, I stick them in the dishwasher, along with everything from sponges to the filters under our microwave.  If I’m using all that hot water and soap, might as well be efficient about it.  No use scrubbing unless you have to.  Another thing about toothbrushes.  Just the right size scrubbing brush to clean the toilet seat hinges, window sills, the filter in my washing machine, and the cracks in my wooden table.

We were hiking behind King Henry apartments years ago in Provo and happened upon an old tractor seat.  It and two seatmates hang on our entrance-area wall.  Todd bought two outdoor lanterns that he hung in our dining area.  I love the added dimension of rusty items that stick out a few inches.  He also found an old rusted plow disc that we used on our table filled with fall sticks and dried potpourri stuff, later small boughs for Christmas.  Now it’s in the backyard screwed into a Christmas tree trunk from a couple years back as a birdbath.

We get several boxes of apples and peaches from Utah every fall.  Most are plain white and really sturdy, so I store all my gifts in my closet.  Labeled of course: Friend Gifts, Birthday Party Gifts, Family Gifts, and Baby Gifts.  I love having an extra set of “drawers.”  We also use them for our toy closet, so tidy with them all the same size.  Larger cardboard boxes are for all the bigger toys to keep them separate and labeled: puzzles, Duplos, baby clothes, wooden train, baby toys.  They’ve lasted for years.

Todd’s parents inherited quite a large backyard of junk when they bought their resort in Northern Minnesota 15 years ago.  We loved hiking through the woods and coming back with treasures.  Our favorite finds were old broken out windows.  Todd put mirrors in about three that we have hanging in our house.  One is cream-colored and still has glass.  I put scrapbook paper in old-fashioned browns behind the glass with pictures of us and the temple and a quote for our bedroom.  One we painted white for the bathroom; the others are still peeling and chipped with brownish-reddish paint.  We have one with no glass that gets awesomely dusty and cobwebby hanging out in our garage all year, always in perfect condition for Halloween decorating.

We especially love old wooden boxes, perfect for nightstands and book shelves.  Large rusted cans hold magazines or plants.  I used an old soda bottle box for my spices; the slots were the perfect size.

I know it’s a little unconventional, but I guess I just can’t see the point of wasting.  And just because something is advertised to be used in a given way shouldn’t limit its potential.  So we keep our eyes open and our items in case we find a way to use them down the road.  Of course we re-use plastic spoons and forks, even the ones from DQ Blizzards or Café Rio meals.  And the containers lunch meat comes in.  And bags of all kinds.  Obviously bread bags are perfect for storing my homemade bread.  I wash out large zip-lock bags.  I take my lunch in gift bags that are too wrinkled to use again.  I also have a small (used check) box that holds used twist-ties and bread tabs.  I suppose that’s all a little over-the-top, although I’m not sure why everyone doesn’t.  I’ve ironed ribbon to use again.  Printed paper napkins too.  But I guess that’s more than I needed to share.  At least until we get to know each other a little better.  I’ll just let you get on with your day, perhaps leaving you to scratch your head, wondering how on earth a girl could be so weird.

Answered prayers

As I was falling asleep last night it hit me again how lucky I am.  But it’s more than luck or coincidence.  I know the song and movie about unanswered prayers, and I’ve written about that kind of thing.  But I feel like so much of my life is a series of answered prayers, whether or not I even thought to ask. 

As a young teenager I’d hope and dream of a happy family life, a dedicated husband, five or six kids, a house, a family that would go to church together and embrace it.  Lots of people do.  For some reason, that was a prayer I was granted.  I’m not sure why me and why not others; but because I longed for this kind of security and happiness for so many years from such a young age, I can’t help but be thankful.  This blessing has surpassed any hopes young Caren had.

I didn’t know I wasn’t the only mom who secretly hoped for twins with her last pregnancy.  I always thought that was just me.  Until I started hearing it from my friends.  Our reason being we wanted our last child to have a friend and not end up alone the last couple years at home, a little two-for-one deal.  Same reasoning for most of my mom friends.  A little let-down when I found out I was only have a singlet with my last pregnancy.  And yet Callum and Bronwyn are as close as any twins I’ve seen; they were just born 21 months—rather than minutes—apart.  When he was just a toddler I’d find them both in her crib, both sucking their thumbs, curled up together.  That’s gone on for years.  Even at nearly 9 and 11, they like to have weekend “sleepovers” in one another’s “passenger beds” (each having a spare mattress in the room).  Each is a little restless without the other.  To me, it’s a dream come true.  And an answered prayer.

A few weeks back I was feeling at loose ends, not knowing who I could help, who needed something, what purpose I had, if I was doing anything useful with my days.  I prayed to know how I could spend my time better.  I felt intensely blessed when opportunities presented themselves within days of each other.

There are so many more example of times when answers came before I even thought to ask.  Maybe to you they’re coincidences, luck, just the way things go.  But not to me.  The more I take note, the more I notice what’s been going on.

I was granted the perfect roommate.  I wouldn’t even have known what I needed at 18.  And I certainly wouldn’t have thought to pray about a future roommate.  But again, I was given just what I needed.  She was from a small town in Idaho, I was from San Diego.  She liked twangy country music, I liked alternative.  She slept late, I went to bed early.  Guys loved her, I had a boyfriend back home.  She was carefree and spirited, I was rigid and shy.  We were as opposite as roommates get, and yet He knew she would change my life and that I needed her influence more than anything else at that junction in my early years.  Truly a God-send.

My van was paralyzed a couple of weeks ago.  Not even a new battery changed that.  (Don’t you hate it when you buy something new only to discover that was never the problem in the first place?)  But what a blessing, because it was on my driveway and not in a scary downtown alley.  In fact, I’ve never been stranded anywhere alone; our vehicles have always had issues when I’ve been at home or with Todd or a friend, never on the side of a freeway alone or late at night in an unfamiliar part of town.  I’m so grateful for that.  I feel heard, an answer to an everyday prayer to keep me safe. 

Last year Andrew was competing at state two hours away.  I thought about taking the little kids, but I knew it’d be a long, boring day for them.  Todd was at work as usual.  I’d rather have company, but what a dreadful thing to request from someone.  When out of the blue a good friend called, told me the idea just came to her, she offered to drive with me.  What an unexpected blessing.  An answer to a prayer I didn’t even think was worth praying about.  It turned out to be a perfect time for us to talk for all those hours, to spend a great day together, and for her to remember days gone by when her son was racing.  I felt so noticed and warmed by a simple offer.  By both her and a loving Father.

We were pregnant with our third baby when we moved into our first, yet most unpresumptuous, house.  We felt it was the perfect home for us, although we hated the way it looked on the outside, as well as a lot of the inside.  But we soon realized why we’d felt to buy it.  Within a few short years we ended up with five kids.  No family closer than 600 miles.  Todd was busy with church and work.  We met a couple one block away who became grandparents to the kids and like another set of parents to me.  They’d help with my babies at church.  She’d come and sit with a sleeping baby while I picked up kids from school.  She’d do a load of dishes, fold some laundry, rock a fussy baby, clean up where she could.  She was heaven-sent, an angel.  The kids are just as close to them as they are to their other grandparents.  I never even thought to pray for something like this, it never occurred to me that I could be so richly blessed.  Without even asking.

I could write an entire blog about prayers that have been answered, both those I petitioned Him about and those I never even thought about.  I know He is close, so close.  He guides me, answers me, and absolutely knows what I need even before I do.  I know this has a slant, it’s not the way everyone sees it.  But to me it’s just the way it’s always been, whether I noticed it or not.