In praise of morning

Somehow I knew it was five—it happened every morning I was there—and I heartily opened the window to the still-dark morning, letting in the chill of the night and early-hour summer sounds: sprinklers just starting their cycle, the newspaper carrier’s oldish car boasting morning news radio with two successive thwacks on the driveway, a few over-achievers in their vehicles leaving for obviously far-away jobs.  The nights are so loud where my mom lives compared to our neighborhood, so I had to block out the night in order to sleep soundly. But, peeking at the clock, I realized I still had an hour to linger under the thick comforter I’d dismissed during the cozier evening, all of a sudden a welcome friend in my oversized queen bed that was still half-made, piled with pillows on one side.  A luxurious week of sleep visiting my mom alone in her show-room-worthy house (immaculate because she’s trying to sell it and she’s the only one to make a mess), just the two of us rattling around in blissful clean quiet.  We spent a week attending classes at Education Week and were on BYU’s campus from 8 a.m. - 7 p.m. everyday.  We are too old to be in school all day, so nights were a welcome reprieve from the demands of note-taking and staying quietly still and awake in our collegiate seats.

I’d finally get up at 6 and venture down the dark stairs to exercise and wake up a bit before starting the day.  On the weekends we’d walk around the cemetery in the crisp fall-tinged 55 degree pale light, a favorite start to any summer morning at my mom’s house.  By the time I’d exercised and showered she’d opened all the shutters and windows to the easy morning light and refreshing canyon breezes.  The sleepy house stretched and slowly permitted the cool air to dance with its warmer night partner.  A beautiful respite from the August heat that would inevitably envelop us later on in the day.  Just a grand part of my days with my mom, playing spectator to the fading night.

I recall a picturesque early morning not long ago when I postponed not only my exercise but also my weeding for just a bit and took my reading and blanket out on our front porch.  Because as I age I’m becoming more keenly aware of how fleeting time can be.  And I’m learning to relish seemingly insignificant moments. I’m recognizing that the best parts of life seem to come back to stolen minutes off the clock like these, so I indulged.  Summer days in Montana are long, but somewhat intense, so most of us have come to appreciate the bookends of morning and evening.

Over the years I’ve tried to decide which I prefer, and I guess I could argue for either.  I’ve always liked the idea of twilight and the satisfaction of a nearly-completed day, a chance to reflect on accomplishments and activities and memories I could tuck away.  I’ve always appreciated the soft, enchanting pastels, the graceful way the light says goodnight.  I like the thunderstorms over the mountains that pass over us so many times during the summer evenings both in Utah and Montana.  There’s nothing like finally feeling cool enough for blankets after a busy summer’s day full of both work and fun.  A respite for just a few hours till the sun finds us again.

But I also love mornings.  When I was a little kid I remember finding my mom in her bathroom and she would tell me how early it was for me to be awake.  Maybe I was just done sleeping, I have no idea why my older kids can sleep till 10 when they could be useful, and toddlers insist on waking up in the 6’s.  As a freshman in high school I had a 6 a.m. religion class, so I set my alarm for 4:30.  For a couple reasons.  I always ate a really big breakfast.  I also had stick-straight hair, the worst possible hair to have been born with as an 80s teen.  It required major effort each morning to wash, blow-dry, curl, spray, coax, and tease to an acceptable height.  I also packed an enormous lunch since I’d be gone for so long.  I could be so much more stream-lined these days.  And I would certainly not waste sleep trying to fit some random hair standard.  Just look at the pictures of any 80s girl and you would agree it was not worth the effort.

The kids balk during the summer that we make them get up at 7:30.  To us, that is sleeping in.  During the school year the older kids would get up at 5.  I would join them at 5:30.  Todd and the others would get up at 6:30.  Summer is a vacation in retrospect!!  We just feel it’s important to keep some semblance of a schedule, to get a good start on the day, so this is the second summer we’ve made them get up early.  There’s less of that sluggish, wasted feeling.  They can get their weeding and mowing done while it’s cool.  We have time with dad before he leaves for work.  We can eat breakfast and read a little before he has to go.  From our parental vantage point it’s mostly good.  I kind of miss my long uninterrupted mornings alone with Todd and then alone with myself, but it’s been good. The kids, on the other hand, haven’t even made it to the platform, let alone hopped aboard.

I think back to college and recall my 7 a.m. Spanish class.  Every day.  A 15-minute walk across campus, one of a small entourage with such an early-morning class.  We were a very serene bunch.  I recall many days being done with my class and coming back to sleeping roommates.  Even on Saturdays I couldn’t sleep in much and would walk across the deserted campus before 7 to do a little running and weight-lifting.  How I loved this alone time.  With 30,000 students and a full dorm of giggly girls it was hard to find any alone time.  I came to savor these quiet moments, found most effortlessly in the calm of the morning.

Maybe that’s when I first made the connection that clear thought occurs most easily in the wee morning hours.  I’ve always known that I start out strong at the beginning of the day and definitely wane near the end.  Morning appeals to me because I can think uncluttered, I’m more open to ideas, happier, less stressed and more relaxed, more in-tune with who I am.  I can see my goals clearly and am less distracted by what the day tells me I need to be.  In the morning I trust myself.  I’m centered and collected.  I know what I need to do.

This is when I write.  But as the day gets lighter I can hardly help but peek out over the back yard with the dark, freshly-cut grass contrasted with the residual gray clouds from last night’s storm.  I take in the the scene and breath deeply, calm.  Reflective.

It’s in these early morning moments I can access the deeper parts of my life, the parts that are necessarily pushed to the margins as I deal with the demands of my family and the day.  I’m more aware of small and simple ideas, feelings, inspiration.  I have all sorts of questions and worries, concerns and issues I face individually and on behalf of my family.  I might be nervous about an upcoming assignment.  I might have a relationship that isn’t quite right that makes me uneasy.  I question the best way to handle an issue with a child.  I rely on these quiet moments first thing in the morning because I’m calmer inside, I’m not darting here and there, as we inevitably get caught up in the duties and activities of the day.  This is a clear time to receive and acknowledge answers.

It’s not just me, this is a truth that’s been taught through the ages.  Aristotle advised, “It is well to get up before daybreak for such habits contribute to health, wealth, and wisdom,” while Benjamin Franklin warned, “He that riseth late must trot all day.”  And a favorite admonition from a wise man, Harold B. Lee, “If you are to be successful…, you will need to be inspired.  You will need to receive revelation.  I will give you one piece of advice.  Go to bed early and get up early.  If you do, your body and mind will become rested, and then, in the quiet of those early-morning hours, you will receive more flashes of insight and inspiration than at any other time of the day.”

I can only speak for myself, but embracing the morning strengthens me. I know others find their time to be the evening, later at night.  I get that.  And so maybe it’s not the time of day that matters so much as carving out some time to be alone to sort out what’s going on, to realign ourselves, to ponder.  Waking up slowly, soaking in the bands of color and fresh air, acknowledging the beauties of an unencumbered moment or two, grateful for the chance to start anew reminds me of a favorite sentiment from Lucy Maud Montgomery, “Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it.”  I love the power in letting go of whatever held me back yesterday, doing my best to reconcile my missteps.  But I also welcome the inevitable opportunities to learn more in the coming day, a promise of growth born from lapses in judgment, oversights, omissions, and ordinary blunders.  Mornings remind me that there have been other days, other valuable lessons, dark nights, clouds, even storms.  And there might be some in the day ahead.  But with the sunrise of hope, even if there are clouds, I’m optimistic.  It’s worth waking up for.

A mother's last day

It’s the dissolution that’s getting to me, the cliched beginning of the end.  The end of our family as we know it. I think you know what I’m talking about.  I’m not sad that he’s leaving, it’s what we’ve all wanted for as long as I can remember.  It’s what I wanted when I was his age.  I couldn’t wait to go to BYU, the land of my dreams.  But I wasn’t the parent.

It’s not that I’m worried.  I’m pretty much the opposite of a helicopter parent.  He’ll be fine.  It’s just that it will never be the same.  No matter how often Christmas and summer breaks come around.  I think I hate it.

It’s like this morning, going in to wake up kids.  I could only muster a half-hearted “time to wake up” and a little nuzzle and a kiss and then I had to leave them.  My youngest daughter lay there effortlessly under the cover in the early summer sun, the leaves outside her window tinkling in the young day.  Her smooth cheeks sun-kissed from the lake, her nose losing its top layer, freckles peeling off, it was all too much to disturb; I couldn’t bring myself to arouse them from their deep summer slumber.  In the split second that I made that decision, it was as if all our days together raced through my mind in one quick memory: kissing my tiny babies, so relieved they’d finally succumbed, and then anticipating their little awake-sounds from their cribs.  I can’t believe she’s filling in her whole bed.  And that I have so little time left.

Because now I’ve seen how short that time is.  I know I hate it.  I want what’s happening.  I’ve always been the kind of mom to teach skills, to encourage self-sufficiency, to let them explore and learn, to allow a few injuries and heartaches for the sake of growth.  I’m good with that.  But here we are.  And I suppose it’s worked on some level because he’s leaving.

I think life is good when most of the kids are riding along in elementary school.  Someone told me that once, and so I’ve mulled that over.  I have to say I agree.  You’re off the hook as far as sippy cups and diapers.  Homework is still relatively familiar.  Summers are gloriously simple affairs at the parks and lakes.  The zoo is still charming, spray parks and wading pools provide entertainment for hours.  Everyone’s around for dinner.  We can count on story time and an occasional nap. Their bedtime comes before ours.  They can handle some chores, they’re eager to learn, life seems to coast along for days, months, even years at a time.  Until there’s a lurch.  It’s like the downhill part of Thunder Mountain and you wonder if it will ever slow down so you can catch your breath.  You chug along, gaining momentum through jr. high, a little curve here and there, a maybe a tiny change in topography, but nothing you can’t handle.  Until that downhill part.  You never do really catch your breath when they’re in high school or when you’re accelerating on the tracks.  Because before you blink the ride’s abruptly over and you can hardly believe how fast it went after waiting in line for so long.  But the seat ejects you and you’re shuffled away from your now-warm seat.  I feel like I’d been anticipating this ride ever since I was his age.  It’s what I always dreamed of.  But to see the ride end is breaking my heart.

A seasoned friend once told us they’ll leave as fast as they came.  We had five kids in eight years.  I hate that our family dynamics are morphing.  I was so used to having them all home in the evenings, reading, eating dinner together, comparing notes about the day.  I loved having Andrew come in to our room at 10 or 11 and finally start to talk about life.  I’ve told you before how soothing the sound of his belt grinder’s been, humming along in the garage.  It’s been a blessing to have him home so much, to have him engaged in a hobby right outside our door, reminiscent of my dad working in his upholstery shop, also right off the kitchen.  I hate that he’s tidying up his shop, finishing up his knife orders, packing away old shirts.  I knew it would come.  We’ve counted the months and weeks even.  But the days are killing me.  Because I only have today left.

I think it’s grief.  I know it is.  Grieving a life we’ve loved but have to give up for something better.  Better?  I suppose that’s the right word.  But I’m not quite there yet.  Give me some time.  Because I’m not not sure what could be better than the seven us home on Sunday nights playing games over ice cream and popcorn.  I’m not sure what could be better than late nights on the lake catching fish as the sun really does turn sky-blue-pink and the loons welcome their mates home.  I’m not sure what’s better than cheering on the kids as they wrestle their dad for family home evening activity and the boys being almost as strong.  I’m not sure what’s better than being at church together, all seven of us filling up the pew, close enough to touch, heads on one another’s shoulders for support.  I’m not sure what’s better than gathering together at the end of the day for family prayer, everyone safely home after a full day, sharing thoughts about what’s transpired and what’s on our minds.

But I trust because I have faith.  I have maybe only one or two strong points, but faith is one of them.  A gift that’s always brought me comfort.  And so I trust that while so much of what I’ve felt secure about is changing, there are still good times ahead.  He will continue to grow and learn and even become more engaged in our family as he comes to realize and recognize it’s what’s mattered all along.

So yes, I hate it.  I hate that what we had is changing.  But I’m also the kind to not dwell on things I can’t change.  I find myself saying “What do you do?” all the time because so much is out of my control.  You do the best you can, in that you love along the way no matter what, you never give up the hugs, you continue to look for and see the little kid inside, you cherish the times he hangs out with the family instead of his friends, you stay up late, you get up early, you don’t smother or try to control, you support, encourage, and teach.  What else can you do?

And so, on my last day with my son home in the way it’s been for the past 18 years, I’m not even sure what to say.  Except I’m so glad I got in line.  It wasn’t always what I thought it would be.  I didn’t expect a few of the dips.  And I certainly wasn’t anticipating some of the hills.

All I know is it was worth the ride.  I just wish I could do it again.

The education I missed

I took a mother personality test many years ago, just to see how far off the charts I was in terms of weirdness.  Turns out there are others kind of like me, the learning types who look for any sort of educational opportunity they can as mothers.  We’re the family with the huge map on the dining room wall.  We spew the newspapers across the kitchen table and my heart sings when Mitchell reports on the latest world conflicts and Andrew tells me how the stocks are doing.  I’ve tried similar tactics with our church paraphernalia but with limited results.  When we’re on a road trip, nothing catches my attention more than those brown Point of Interest signs, which would obviously steer us in an educational direction.  I like museums.  Zoos are my favorite.  I loved exploring the Midway in Hawaii—Pearl Harbor and the beach tied in my book.  There’s not much better than the air conditioned library on a carefree summer morning and Barnes and Noble on a cold, snowy evening with the kids all enraptured in their selections.  These moments and experiences warm my core, this is true mothering to me: a question on our drive that leads to a teaching moment (or pep talk, as Avery calls them), an informal discussion about a conference we all attended, the low-down on a business venture Mitchell’s interested in, trying out a new recipe in the kitchen together, pointing out a new place on the map—knowing they will want to know how far it is from Montana and teaching them how to figure it out.  Giving Callum the go-ahead to research volcanoes and wolves on the computer for as long as he wants, sending Andrew off to Washington DC with the other eighth graders, letting Avery explore the castles of Scotland as a 12 year-old, signing Mitchell up for a two-week engineering camp on a college campus a couple hours away, saying ABSOLUTELY! to Andrew being a page, encouraging school, church, and scout participation, letting them play with fire and knives, basking in the fun Andrew and his buddies have camping and fishing and hiking alone in the mountains, letting Mitchell make explosions with his friends, bringing home electronics for Callum to take apart.  These are the kinds of things that make my heart sing.  I love learning, we’re just a curious bunch. I love to read and love to read to the kids, and I love that our kids love to read.  We’re just that kind of house and family.

But I feel like a fraud, a fake, a counterfeit.  Because I know so little, I’m so ignorant.  I barely know enough to skirt by.  I’m not being falsely modest.  I’m not faking this.  I’m about the least educated educated person I know.  For how long I went to school myself and with Todd, for how old I am, for how much I’ve read, for how long I’ve been a member of my church, I just feel like I should know more by this point.

Where exactly I’ve been while all my contemporaries were learning their stuff, I don’t know.  I can tell you that I know close to nothing about history.  Except the parts I’ve read books about, the stuff that resonated with me, the stories I cling to.  I have a working knowledge of a few wars and leaders, but mostly I like to know what everyday life was like for families in, during, and after the Civil War.  I like to read how the newly emancipated slaves created lives for themselves.  I’m drawn to life on the ranches of early Montana, what the gold-mining towns were like.  I like the books that help me imagine the Salem witch trials or what The Greatest Generation was really like.  I like to read about immigrants then and now.  But that’s not much to go on.  I even bought Don’t Know Much About History.  I’ve listened to his audio books.  But if I don’t learn it in a way that connects with me, it’s just a bunch of facts and people that are too muddled and many to keep track of.

I haven’t had a geography class since 9th grade.  1987.  I just remember coloring rivers and pastel countries.  That have now changed names on me.  I can’t tell you how lame I feel.  I even sit right across from our map in the dining room during every meal.  We reference it every single day.  I’m fascinated by the one that stares at me in the little blood donation room.  I feel like I’m cramming for an exam every time I’m in there, trying to nonchalantly act like it’s all just review, as if I’ve seen it all before.  When in my mind I’m scrambling to make connections, to glue down the name of just one more sea or newly-named country that I can quickly recall when mentioned in casual conversation.  I don’t know how the kids know more than I do.

I can compute ok.  But not in front of an audience.  Like when I’m doing concessions at a crowded basketball game. Yikes, nothing throws me more off-guard than making change for a cute dad or large group of teens even though when I’m waiting in line as a patron I’m pretty quick. I’m ok with mental math, what with recipe alterations, shopping for large groups, that kind of thing.  I actually kind of liked algebra and chemistry and even physics simply for their nice clean concrete answer formats.  Equations and number riddles.  I didn’t ever get imaginary numbers, and it took me a long time to reconcile that a vector was also imaginary—just a make- believe line in the sky.  But math homework was my favorite because I could close the book when the assignment was complete.  I’d learned what I needed to for the day.  Because I’d come to the end of the worksheet.  But I don’t get many chances to show off my algebraic solutions as an adult, it just doesn’t come up that often.

It doesn’t happen all the time, but enough.  Somehow we get off safe small-talk topics and move quickly to the rapids.  Which I’m good with and even welcome.  I love it when we can move away from the doldrums of weather and house projects.  But inevitably this is where I start to feel dumb, ignorant, wondering where I’ve been my whole life.  How do they remember or know political figures from our childhood?  And their deeds and controversies?  How do they know so much about all these medical conditions?  How do they keep track of all the senators from the various states and years?  I can understand my ignorance about sports.  I’m ok with that; everyone who knows me knows I couldn’t care less.  But I really should know which countries are at war (aren’t most of them?), who’s holding hostages, and whose economies are teetering.  I should listen to both sides (and the moderates) on all sorts of issues even though I think I know what I think.  How do my friends know so much about bible history and the Greek and Hebrew translations and what Isaiah was talking about?  When have they had time to learn about warfare through the ages and ancient cultures and where all the ruins are?  And the pros and cons of various types of energy?

I want to know everything they know.  I want to feel smart and be well-read and to have opinions based on peer-reviewed research.

But I can’t even remember the stuff I learned in college.  I’m hard-pressed to remember what the various hormones in our bodies do even though I took physiology and majored in health.  I don’t know if I could write a grant, even though I took an entire class on it.  I don’t remember what books I read for English and if I liked them.  I suppose I was present like most of you, but I’m sorry to say not much has stuck.

Except if you ask me about the classes I loved like environmental biology, history of dance, public relations, tennis, ballroom, sociology, work and relationships in the home.  I have a few areas I feel ok talking about but people think I’m nuttier than they already suspect when I mention the social issues I’m passionate about and read about.  They get the glossy look or the wandering look.  I don’t even finish.  I just back-pedal and ask a nice safe, So, what-other-plans-do-you-have-for-the-summer kind of question.

So how do people my age and younger (and of course older—although I give them the benefit of additional years) know and retain and regurgitate so much?  I surmise they must submerge themselves in the media, that they read the paper everyday like my son and grandpa, or they listen to NPR on the half-hour commute back and forth to work everyday like Todd.  Maybe they listen to news radio like so many people I know.  Some friends get magazines like Time and US News and World Report.  I remember having to subscribe to The Wall Street Journal for my public relations class; that would be helpful to do again I guess.  I think the people I admire must read a lot of books.  And not just fluff.  I think they read faster than me or sleep less or just have better brains.  Maybe they paid better attention in high school or got better grades in college.  Maybe they joined clubs where they learned this kind of stuff first-hand.  Maybe it was their AP classes.  I suspect they are just naturally smarter.

And how does a girl like me of average intelligence who has missed all the boats that have come so far manage to jump aboard?  Where do I start?  I’d love to know if anyone feels like I do.  And if they’ve managed to turn things around.

It’s just ironic that I value education and intellect and learning so much and yet I’m the furthest thing from a poster child when it comes to this kind of thing.  And it’s bothered me for so long.  I think it’s on my mind because the other night we were hanging out with some couples and it hit me how much they know, one friend in particular.  He just seems to know everything.  Not a know-it-all.  Not at all.  Just simply oozing with facts, ideas, years of experience and learning.  He’s fascinating and amazing and easy to listen to.  He says he’s a slow reader.  But I know he’s crazy busy, so it’s not like he’s sitting around all day reading.  It seems to me he chooses carefully.  He likes documentaries, and he gravitates to non-fiction.  Which is why we can relate.  But his recall is better.  And he’s more passionate about the topics we focused on than I am.

I do recognize one glitch, a minor obstacle.  My heart breaks when I read the paper.  I have a hard time detaching myself from what I read.  My stomach churns and my innards tie themselves in knots when we talk about controversial topics and seemingly non-solvable problems of the world.  I feel like the world is out of my control.  It’s so hard for me to really engage and to learn the truths of what’s going on.  I’m fine with the spider articles in our National Geographics, but to turn the page and see the tiny boys leaving at 4 in the morning on fishing boats cracks my heart to bits and I’m paralyzed for a large part of the day, it’s consuming.  It’s hard for me to find joy in simple parts of my life because I feel guilty for the pleasures and comforts I’m blessed with, maybe and most likely because of people like these boys and others in sweatshops and diamond mines.  And so sometimes I see myself choosing to step aside.  To not be educated for a minute.  And yet I feel like I can’t escape for long.  The headlines are jarring, the news is bleak.  I wonder what purpose being “educated” serves if I just bemoan the state of our world with others.  So I straddle.  I want to be learned, on top of world happenings and its histories.  I want to be aware of others struggles and new discoveries.  I want to know what goes on behind-the-scenes and what life is like for a diverse world population.  But at the same I know what it all does to me.  Because I feel helpless.  I hate knowing about something and not having a take-home message that I can work on.  I like to learn so I can do.  So it can change me and help me change the world.  But so much of what the media teaches us leaves me dangling, wondering what I’m to do with what I now know.

And so, that’s part of the dilemma.  There are other hurdles.  I have such a slight and weak foundation in so many subjects that I’d have to go back to the basics and I’m not sure how to do that.  I’m more than embarrassed.  I need a Life for Dummies book.  Everything you should’ve learned by now but haven’t.  In fact, now that I think about it, I did order a book like that.  I loved it.  But I loaned it out before I even read it all.  That’s telling.

I imagine you’re thinking this girl is weirder than I even imagined.  I’m just glad I don’t live in her world.  But maybe someone out there hears me.  Maybe you’re inquisitive, like so many of my friends, who know so much about so many areas of life.  Maybe you retain what you hear like my sons and husband.  Maybe you read voraciously like a few women I know.  Maybe you have strong opinions like another friend who has researched and reviewed the issues.  Maybe you’re just naturally smart like so many people I’ve known throughout my life.  But maybe you know what I’m talking about.  All I’m saying is I’ve been a little lax.  I should’ve been doing better all along.  I’ve missed some opportunities and been a little lazy. I regret it.  And I want to do better. 

The upholstery shop

My earliest and most prominent shop memory was sweeping.  In a funny little dress.  Because it was a weekday and I had primary that afternoon.  Sweeping could keep any girl occupied for a long, long time.  There were always bits of fluff, stuffing hiding in nooks and crannies, an abundance of staples and sometimes tack strips or long skinny pieces of cardboard.  Large patches of material almost too big for little hands.  Oversized trash bins, a necessity when dealing with couch shards.  Over the years the refuse was a constant source of entertainment for a girl who likes things tidy.

The shop wasn’t so much about a particular space—because the locale changed several times over the years.  So although the configurations occasionally switched around, the innards remained basically the same in my dad’s upholstery shops over all the years.  I can only recall a window of time when I was young—really little, like 4—when he didn’t have a shop.  He’d go to work at night as a CNA (I think).  I remember making him a peanut butter and jam sandwich in the evening.  But most of the other days of my life I could count on him being at his shop.  My favorite days were when I’d come home from college and he had his shop in our house garage.  How convenient and comforting to have him at home with me, but these days were far too few.   I would’ve loved that luxury as a kid.  So many days we spent alone while he and my mom were at work, how nice it would’ve been to know he was so close.

He left early, maybe 7:30, every day of the week except Sundays.  He’d pick us up from day-care around 5 or 5:30, although in the winter it seemed much later.  Sometimes we felt like we were forgotten, we were always one of the last.  But even then we might have to run an errand with my dad to do an estimate or a delivery or to go to Keyston’s (upholstery supply company) far away on the freeway.  But we also knew my dad would always be available to come get us since he worked for himself; he had the flexibility that I assume most workers would envy.  Occasionally he’d take us by the shop on the way home from school or we’d spend some time there on a holiday if there were no other options.  

The shop was, due to the nature of the work, necessarily a bit messy.  But orderly.  I noted his creations like the pin cushions attached to the wall by his sewing machine.  My favorite was his thread-color-er.  He built a contraption that ran thread through permanent markers that he’d slit open to dye the thread.  Ingenious and so interesting to our young minds, but I always wondered why he didn’t just buy the right colored thread.  There were little pegs for thread hung to the walls.  Cubbies that contained his work orders and stamps.  Pegboards where weighty sample books hung precariously.  He made work tables that seemed to run the length of his work shop, padded of course.  This is where he’d make us a bed if we were sick and unable to cope with school for the rest of a day.  My parents rarely, if ever, missed a day of work (unless they’d just had surgery), so we followed suit.  But kids in daycare inevitably fall ill on occasion and we’d find ourselves being nursed at my dad’s shop  if my grandma was unavailable.  Soup from one of those paper packets with hot water from somewhere (I don’t know if it was just hot from the faucet or maybe he had a coffee pot?) in a styrofoam cup.  Now that I think about it, what did he eat for lunch everyday?  I never saw him take a lunch.  All those years.  Maybe he delved into his soup supply, I don’t know what happened while we were apart.  I’d never thought about it until this moment.

He taught us how to make buttons—for his projects and for our amusement—when we had time to kill.  A fascinating experiment in creating something practical and perfect—even for our young and clumsy hands—out of seemingly nothing.  A magic show unfolding before our eyes nearly every time.  Now that he’s gone we still aren’t sure what to do with the old green metal contraption with no electrical parts.  It’s simply a lever that provides pressure to tighten the button components together.   Who needs or wants something like that?  And all the parts that go with it?  But to part with it seems so final.  Just opening the drawer containing all the button bones flooded my mind with memories of fabric-covered buttons of all sizes.  We felt useful, as every couch he made was tufted and required many, many of these small details.  Such a valuable skill that not many have honed.  Such a specific, albeit simple, machine.  And memory.

There was no better place for young girls than the portion of the shop where the office supplies lived.  He had forms in duplicate and maybe triplicate.  Rubber stamps.  Stapler.  Business cards.  Loads of pens and pencils.  Cubbies and fabric samples.  Obviously we played office and took customers’ orders for what fabrics they’d like on which pieces of furniture.  Stapled business cards in the top corner to tie the whole packet together.  Gloriously engaged, satisfying work that entertained me and my sisters for hours.

He had an industrial Pfaff machine that would sew through cardboard and even metal, it seemed.  It was made for thick and uncooperative fabrics.  But he made it purr.  He sometimes used clear, nylon thread like fishing line and he was always offering to repair pieces of our life, viewing all items as small pieces of a couch.  Backpacks, purses, blankets, clothing.  There was always a bit of tell-tale stiff fishing line-like thread left hanging out.  But the repair was strong, tightly stitched over and over, just like the seam of a cushion must be.  It was good at times.  Not so good at times.  When we needed sewing done, we naturally bypassed mom and simply went to the professional.  I suppose not many dads sew, but it was normal to us.  And interestingly, two of my kids have a natural inclination to use their hands in much the same way, both have seemingly innate ability for sewing just like their grandpa.

When we tired of quiet work, there were always couches and chairs to strip.  While he salvaged cushion wrapping of fabric so he’d have a pattern for the new ones, all furniture needed to be stripped before reupholstery could begin. We owned small, untrained hands with low muscle mass.  But we pried out staples and tacks with a special tool just right for the job.  We ripped off long strips of fabric.  We created our own piles of remnants to be swept and contended with much later.  We did all we could, like tiger cubs taking the first few bites of the latest kill then leaving the real meat for the older, stronger parent to finish up.  But we felt like we made a contribution, we thrilled in the challenge, muscle vs adhesive.  By the time we and our dad were done, the carcass had been picked to its bones, resulting in a form of pure and cleaned wood.  Always with a residual staple left sticking out, a little skewed from being yanked on by willing but not-quite-strong-enough hands.

He built couch frames starting with heavy wood, maybe a special kind of thick wood.  Because no one I knew then or over the years has ever owned furniture this heavy.  We never had store-bought furniture growing up.  And I didn’t dare buy any even as an adult.  What would he say?  But the store ones we finally bought are light and airy in comparison.  I’ve always been impressed with his abilities.  Although I never knew they were unique until I got older.  But to tie springs and get dimensions right, to be able to match up patterns like stripes that would run the length of the couch on the frame as well as the cushions was all ingenious to me.  He was always drawing couches and chairs at our kitchen table on bits of paper, so that kind of thing was constantly on his mind.  His homework didn’t travel with him in a briefcase like some dads.  He just sketched in the evenings and weekends and asked us for our school rulers to get things just right.  I recall little couch, chair, table, and bookshelf pencil drawings with dimensions written around their perimeters scattered throughout my life, a reminder that I lived with an artist.

   

It’s quite remarkable to watch any sort of structure come to life from the ground up, whether it’s a new bank, playground or couch.  It starts out so slowly you have to strain to make out in your mind how the pieces will work together to become something.  But then you start to recognize the outline, and eventually it begins to take on a familiar form.  Finishing touches like the newly polished wood pieces that stuck out or the just-tacked-on skirt or the arm covers completed the outfit and it was hard to match up the before and after pictures in my mind.  The reconstruction was always unreal, as remarkable a transformation as any beauty make-over touted in a glamour magazine.  I loved the newness and softness of the fabric, the personalities of the materials that matched their owners.  After the initial viewing, the pieces would be shrouded in an old sheet, protected from mishaps during the shipping process.  We were rarely allowed to sit on or touch the creations, but they were still marvels to me, even from a safe distance.   It was easy to tell which items were ready for delivery in the shop because of their cover.  He’d always eagerly show us his latest masterpieces, letting us sit down—supervised—for just a moment to test out the softness of both fabric and cushion-feel.

As every dad does, he brought home stories.  I remember some eery ones like the day he was working alone in an deserted shop on old wooden chair, he’d turned around to pick up the fabric to place it and the chair had faced the other way on its own.  Those kinds of experiences gave me shivers and made me question what sort of history or homes these pieces of furniture had lived in.  I knew he didn’t make up that kind of thing, so it intrigued me.  As did his discoveries, all sorts of items when he ripped down furniture, lots of lost coins, cockroaches, old-fashioned pig hair stuffing, we found it all fascinating!

I liked that, unlike most dads, he was done for the day when he picked us up from daycare.  He didn’t bring home stacks of paperwork.  He didn’t rush through dinner and have to run back to work for the night or stow away in an upstairs bedroom to finish up his caseload.  He worked a hearty 8-5 (or maybe 7-5:30? I never did pay attention to when we came and went) and called it a day.  He was ours for the evening.  Once in awhile he’d have an estimate or delivery, but not usually.  Like most families growing up in the 70s and 80s, we had dinner together every night. He’d show us his battle wounds, his fingers always stained and injured as he shared his stories from the day. It was all so familiar and comforting to us.  We knew the shop.  We could visualize where he’d been all day because we’d spent so many hours there ourselves.

Because we spent so much time in his shop, all three of us girls know songs from the 50s and 60s and early country that maybe most people our age aren’t familiar with.  It was just what we grew up with, and even as a teenager I started buying my own music like his.  I had an Elvis record, old 50s singles, and I knew exactly where to tune my radio to pick up his station.  Over the years as I’ve patronized antique stores I’ve been transported back in time when I’ve heard his music on the crackly store radios.  Usually an AM station.  It’s better than any time machine. Nostalgia inevitably sets in, memories cascade over me.  All at once all my days with my dad in his shop seep in, saturating me with familiar comfort and longing to be his little girl for just another day.

As I became a teenager and had jobs of my own I didn’t spend as much time with him ripping down couches.  But I remember driving my little Ford Escort into the alley every once in awhile for a little visit.  Just to hug my dad and to say hi and tell him I was thinking about him.  I wish I had thought to bring him a Slurpee.  Why didn’t that ever occur to me??  (Probably because I’ve never in my life stopped at a gas station to buy myself a drink.)  He would’ve loved that.  I was always baking cookies.  Why didn’t I think to make him a plate of warm ones to share with his workers?  Why is it when we have disposable time and income as a teenager we don’t think to think outside ourselves?  Such little things that would’ve been so nice.  I wish I could do that part over.  It would’ve been so fun to pamper him in small ways.

But I know he never thought of what he was missing.  He loved us all day.  His shop was plastered with our art work and school pictures.  He had his parents smiling over his sewing machine.  He never let go of the hope he’d see his other four kids again, keeping their most recent school pictures up year after year.  He eventually stopped receiving updates, and so we grew closer in age—in our pictures at least—to our long-lost half-siblings.  He loved them immeasurably, and their pictures remained right next to ours over all the years.

Just the day before he’d given his shop a thorough cleaning, a final cleaning.  That was one of the hardest parts to venture into in the days after he died.  Its smells were intoxicating and woody.  Smells of our childhood.  For the past 14 years he’d made his shop in the garage of the house he shared with my mom.  This was a perfect place for him to spend his weekends and evenings.  It was a simple, functional upholstery shop where he continued to create furnishings for friends and neighbors all over the Utah valley.  Brooms in their corner.  Old, but still-working radio in its.  Bolts of fabric remnants carefully compiled in under-the-table shelving.  Cabinets and small drawers for all sorts of hand and power tools.  The air compressor that always threatened to halt my heart with its abrupt and unpredictable groan.  Staple guns that I used to hide from, their pulsating shouts always scaring young Caren.  Carpeted sawhorses resting their backs from the loads they’d carried for years. Larger-than-life scissors and hand-made tool belt lay unobtrusively on the padded workbench at the end of the day.  The last couches my sister and brother-in-law and I quietly carried to their new resting spot.  A final delivery from the shop my dad loved so much.

A summer week without Todd

The kids and I got back into town last Saturday evening from being gone the previous week.  Todd left Sunday for his turn at scout camp.  So we kissed goodbye after a full day together and said we’d catch up in a week.  Lots of families do this, it’s not that weird.  But it switches things up a bit.  Inevitable, can’t be helped.

The first request the kids make when Todd goes out of town is that we have Hawaiian haystacks, which he hates.  Not my favorite, but I relented, as I usually do when he’s gone.  It’s tempting to forgo regular meals when he’s not around, but I just can’t do it.  We did dinner as usual, on the back porch at our metal tables, lingering in the warm shade for just a tad longer than we needed to.  Summer nights can be heavenly.  And there is nothing better than having all your kids under your wing.

As far as housework when he’s gone, it’s mostly the same as having him here.  I try.  And pretty much go to bed swearing I’ll get on top if all tomorrow.  I never usually care if the hand-washing ones sit for a day or three.  But maybe because I knew—really knew—nothing would happen if I didn’t handle it myself this week,I spent more time than usual keeping up.  Same with the floor.  What with popsicles, mud, smoothies, and watermelon juice, there was only one way around it.  On my hands and knees.

The shed has been demanding attention for the past year or so, and I finally felt I had no more excuses.  But first we had to move the wood pile.  I couldn’t help but notice how much it had deteriorated and rotted over the years.  And then I realized all the dark wood chips were mouse droppings.  I simply couldn’t get over the crawly feeling and had to abandon my post for weeding instead, instructing Mitchell to just huck the short logs onto the grass for now.  I’d compose myself and try again later.  I’ll let spiders live right beside me in the shower, the stairs, or even the bedroom. I pick up live earwigs and dead moths in my ungloved fingers to displace them outside.  I’m always on the look-out for worms after a rain so I can put them back in the grass.  But mice get to me.  Even Callum was too grossed out and refused to finish the work (like he needed another excuse).  So that left Mitchell, what a stellar woodworker.  The girls and I painted, but a thirsty wooden shed with walls looking over the south and west vistas took our gallon in no time.  Back to Lowe’s (as every good project entails), more brushes for good measure.  We’re on our second coat now.  Some of the high trim is still waiting.  For me to overcome my fear of really high heights.  Except that I did finish the wood pile side so we don’t leave the grass to die while Todd’s gone under a heavy load of rotting, mouse-house cottonwood logs.  Mitchell and I moved most of it back under a pastel summer sun last night.  There is no better way to solve the world’s problems than  while you’re engaged in manual labor, distracted just enough that you don’t censor yourself as you would do in a more concentrated setting.  So we talked about classic movies that hardly anyone his age knows about like Harvey with Jimmy Stewart, some of the musicals we’ve watched together like Phantom and The Music Man, as well as true classics like Monty Python and The Princess Bride.  We tried to remember the words to the songs.  It was sticky and hot.  Neither of us seemed anxious to stop because there is not much more satisfying than seeing your work unfold before you.  Just one more row and then we promised we’d quit.

While Todd and Andrew were on their own last week Todd managed to make progress on a few yard projects, but there is always more weeding.  Flowers need to be dead-headed.  Morning glories are more tenacious than a two-year-old in the middle of a tantrum and seemingly grow from nowhere and everywhere, it’s only surface work, there’s no end.  We have grass in the raspberries and raspberries in the grass.  Our strawberries are thriving and tangled.  Beans and peas and lettuce and spinach and currants and potatoes all need to be picked, dug, and used up.  The kids took orders from the neighbors, and we’ve tried to stay on top of the harvest.  We’ll make currant jelly later, thankfully they can just be frozen for now.  The kids are still doing their bucket a day of weeding.  Actually, I’ve let them trade it out for wood pile moving this week.  I’ve had some takers.  And some weeders.  Remembering back to Monday, we tackled a substantial weed-ridden area where we live.  But it’s disappointing because there’s so much more we didn’t get to.  Sigh.  Thankfully, we will always have weeds and thus opportunities to learn to love to work.

We’re expecting eight guests this weekend, around the same time Todd gets home.  Which is fine, great really.  We’re excited for his family to join us for a few days.  I spent the day making up six beds, putting up the crib with Bronwyn, cleaning bedrooms, trying to make it look like kids don’t live here, washing duvets and sheets, hanging them in the summer sun.  Thankfully Callum was being entertained by friends so Bronwyn and I could work harmoniously on project after project.

It’s Andrew’s 18th birthday.  I’ve already told you I’m not that into birthdays, but I have no idea what other people expect.  I’ve asked a million times what he wanted to do to celebrate.  Kind of hard with two family members missing, but I still wanted to do something.  I shopped with the little kids for sleeping bags, one thing he’d specifically asked for.  But how to choose?  Just want to make sure he has a good adult welcome, but I’m so not the party type.  Yet neither is he. So we had bacon and blueberry pancakes (hand-picked just a couple of weeks ago in Minnesota, in fact) for breakfast after sleeping in.  Then he took Callum biking and Bronwyn and I met him at Olive Garden for lunch.  Avery is still out of town, and  Mitchell was mowing and not interested.  He wanted a simple chicken dinner and we’ll have cake and presents tomorrow; he’s going out with friends tonight.  So that’s how turning 18 goes down around here I guess.  He also gets ordained this week, so I’ve been reminding him to follow up on that and his other church/Eagle stuff.  You know how hard it is to remind people to do stuff that would be easier to just do yourself.  Mostly because it uses up energy and brain space I don’t seem to have as much of anymore.

So the dishwasher’s been acting up for the past two weeks.  I finally got an appointment for  Thursday.  And yet Wednesday I realized we really hadn’t noticed the film that had been living on our dishes any more.  So I did the only thing you can do in a quandary like that.  I made cookies.  So then I’d have some nice greasy dishes to test my hypothesis.  And of course things turned out smashing, crystal clear.  Just in time to rescind my invitation to have the repair guy come tell us the same thing.  I was going to have him fix our ice maker at the same time (which I could leave indefinitely, I’m fine with our 3 ice cube trays, but Todd insisted if we were having someone come out anyway, have him fix it all).  I’ve also been researching washing machines.  I want an old-fashioned top loader with no electronic beeps or computer parts, but it’s been mind-numbing reading the reviews of such poor quality appliances available these days.  During this same past two-week period our van has been giving us some trouble, so I’d been concerned (since I’d be the one driving 1200+ miles alone with the kids), yet every time we’ve taken it in with the three different noises, it purrs like the cats who come into Todd’s vet office, having spent the past three days with vomiting and diarrhea but who now prance around without a care in the world.  Our computer also crashed during this time, so we upgraded.  But that’s taken some time to fiddle around with.  The morning after we purchased and set up our new computer, the guy at the repair store called and said they actually could fix our old computer after all.  But for about what it was worth.  I told him to just recycle it.  And then I called him back to tell him to go ahead and repair it, we’d use it for one of the kids.  I’m so embarrassed.  With all of it.  Good grief.  Does everyone go around in circles like this?

I figured this week would be a good time to paint the bookshelf that’s been hiding out in Mitchell’s closet.  Just needed to find the right sand paper.  Which made me want to clean Todd’s garage.  But I had to stop myself and just leave it all for another day.  I might go back this evening.  I set Mitchell up for the job and was pleased as punch (whatever that means) to see him out there on his own accord sanding away.  A glorious mother moment!

This was also a perfect week to iron every shirt.  And I meant to start Andrew’s quilt…  At least the window sills are void of fly corpses.  I just cleaned the windows and tracks two weeks ago, I don't know what they love about our house.

I’ve been camping with the kids in the basement for the past several nights.  I just thought it would be fun.  Maybe with Andrew being so old and all, I thought it would be nice to make some memories with the little kids since I’ve witnessed first-hand how fleeting it all is.  Plus it’s a lot colder and darker in the basement.  But the floor was so hard.  Even with our puffiest sleeping bag.  And the couches are too short for how long I am.  But I chose soft and squished over stretched and stiff.  I woke up before 5 today, always excited that I can put the sleeping part of my day behind me and get on with my projects.

I’ve had a meeting and a million errands.  I’ve made plans to get together with various friends and have just one day left of the week to prove myself.  We’ve gone swimming and had water balloon fights.  The dentist and my visiting teachers.  If you can believe it I’m still taking kids to the splash park—we were there for three hours!  The kids are on their second mowing of the week.  I’ve revived the dogs who survived a day in this heat with no water.  I’ve cleared away the piles by my bed and made Mitchell and Bronwyn gut their rooms.  I have a load to donate.  Well… the whole back of the van actually.  Recycling to part with.  More groceries to buy (I know we just went Tuesday).

I will admit that I haven’t exercised a single day this week.  I tried to last night, a last-ditch effort to manage all the cookies I’ve eaten.  But I was so impatient that I only made it through the warm-up.  I figure all my log-throwing will just have to suffice this week.

One of my favorite parts of the week was sitting on our front porch in my sweatshirt yesterday morning, when it was still chilly from the night, reading.  It’s usually so late by the time I get around to it, that I wanted to make it a priority.  I even wrote it down.  And it was perfect.  Not long.  But just right.

And so were the other parts.  I loved cuddling up on the bed-couches downstairs reading with the kids late at night, I felt like we were camping and like a kid instead of the responsible grown up.  Family prayer and scriptures just seemed cozier down there too for some reason.  I loved working with the kids moving wood and weeding.  I liked it when we all picked currants and just talked.  It was fun gathering the beans, noting that not too many were overdone this time.  So often I procrastinate and have to toss out handfuls without Todd seeing.  I liked talking on the phone with a good friend while I painted the shed—there’s no better way to iron or do blinds or paint.  I liked listening to our Beverly Cleary audio books as we crossed off our errands.  I liked our dinners on the patio and soaking up the night air, listening to the baby birds in their house right above us.

So many parts.  I’m just grateful to have been here for all of it, to have a family to take care of, to have a home that gets dirty and lived in, to have a garden and yard that produce—whether that’s weeds to help the kids learn to work or food that teaches them the law of the harvest.  I’m grateful for Todd, for his short absence that helps us cherish his presence.  It’s been a good week, most weeks are, but it’s just never the same when someone is missing.  So even though we’re doing fine, we can’t wait till dad comes home.

I hope we taught him enough

A friend mentioned on Sunday how fast time is going, her oldest is turning 11 in another month or so and she only has 7 more years to teach him everything.  I commiserated, reminding her I only have 3 weeks.

And I’ve known for a long, long time that time was winding down.  I’ve known it all along really.  But even after all these years, after all the tidbits we’ve tried to engrain in him, I feel like I’m going into my thesis defense as a grad student, but this time as a mom.  Will I pass?  Did I complete all the requirements?  Did I do what I was supposed to do?  Will someone catch on that I really had no idea what I was doing?  But what do you do?  Cramming never worked for me, and I doubt he’d pay attention to a condensed version of Life 101 at this point.  Plus I hardly ever see him.  But I know he’s mostly excited but apprehensive at the same time.  Real life has few safety nets, and I think it’s hitting him that he’s going to have to rely on his own resourcefulness.  I imagine most young adults have some of these thoughts.

It’s his 18th birthday.  And he leaves for BYU at the end of the month.  Our alma mater, his school of choice (with a little sales-pitch here and there from us, I’ll admit it).  Where we met.  Hopefully he’ll at least date.  People keep asking us in that voice how we’re doing with it all.  And we have to be honest.  We’re fine.  I hate that life is changing, I’ll give you that.  But it’s been changing ever since he went to high school.  At least that’s when it started to hit me because time sort of accelerated.  We’re good with it all because we’re so excited for him.  We loved college and being on our own, letting go of what people assumed we were, learning.  BYU was my dream come true and I relished my time there—maybe more than most—and recall many still-light evenings making my way across campus, silently yet genuinely grateful for the chance to be there.  That’s our backdrop, we have so many happy memories and look forward to him making some of his own.  And why we’re able to cheerfully and maybe even casually say good bye.  We just hope he’ll call and let us know what he’s up to.

It’s kind of weird backing off as mom.  He’s been bigger than me since 8th grade.  He’s been like a roommate to us instead of a son in a lot of ways over the past few years.  I’m even shy around him once in awhile.  I’ve never spent a lot of time around guys his age.  Up close anyway, never having had any brothers or close cousins.  So roles are subtly changing, and I think we’re mostly just looking forward to his new experiences, anxious to hear all about it.

Over the years as a mom, I’ve always felt my calling was to be a teacher because that seems to sum up what we do as parents.  Foremost we wanted to provide a nurturing environment, to help the kids feel secure and loved and valued, and that entails preparing them to leave as confident and competent young adults.  But even more than that, and this is what’s hard.   Anyone can teach life skills, but it’s not easy to teach them to be humble, to think of others’ feelings, to be selfless, to be compassionate, to be kind.  That’s the kind of stuff I worry and wonder about.  I feel like I missed some teaching moments along the way.  And I can’t help but wonder how they’ll all do without me reminding them.  I won’t be able to be there at their “comps” (comprehensive exams), and I cross my fingers they were paying attention.  And that they were listening more than watching.  But I know that’s not how it works.  I think that’s why I worry.  Because we all know kids pick up on our actions more than our words.  And yet, that’s why I’m grateful to have had so many teacher-aids in their school of life.  So many stellar examples of what empathy and humility look like.  What it means to be a dad and a man.  How to treat others, even the hard others.  We’ve had friends, as he has, over the years who have been on our team, who have backed up what we’ve tried to teach.  There’s nothing like Andrew coming home from his workout, for instance, with new tips for being a healthy runner, telling me what kinds of foods his coach suggests, how a lot of it is mindfulness, what kinds of stretches work best, etc.  I majored in health.  I ran track.  I thought I’d told him all that.  No matter.  At least he’s got it now.  I’ve got to remember to thank all the tutors he’s had along the road.

We’ve tried to teach them basic skills to be self-reliant.  And I think he’d make it if he were stranded in the wilderness.  He’s been packing his bags and playing with knives and fire for as long as I can remember.  When he’s stayed alone at home he’s forgotten to take care of the dogs or lock the door, and we’ve woken up with the garage door wide open, lights blazing after he’s been working on his knives late into the night many mornings.  But that’s suburbia.  Lost in the back country, I’d trust him with my life.

It’s the housekeeping arena I think I failed him. I tried to teach them to make their beds back when they were younger.  But it’s different than making a bed when I was a kid.  Back then we had sheets, of course, then a blanket, and then a thin-ish bedspread.  And you’d tuck the bedspread under the pillow to make a smooth, proper bump. These days there might be a top sheet, maybe not, but then only a lumpy, carefree comforter.  I did show him nurses’ corners and he was impressed that that was the way to get sheets to stay tucked in.  But he hardly ever makes his bed, let alone change his sheets (definitely not without me reminding him), let alone tuck them in like a nurse.

I am still giving bathroom tips.  Reminding them of crevices that need to be checked.  How to get off soap scum (I like Bon Ami with cheap shampoo), that the floor is still considered part of the bathroom, to use an old toothbrush for tough spots.  I typed detailed instructions and taped them to the insides of the bathroom doors.  I think just for me, no one else has ever read them.

I’ve tried over the years to get them to cook.  We’ve tried assigned nights.  Except that he gets home so late with all his sports and long work hours.  I’d like to do better; I feel like I missed some opportunities and because of that he’ll resign himself to nasty processed, sugar- and salt-laden food stuffs when he has to cook for himself this year.  He’s admitted that’s the one part he’s most nervous about.  I can imagine.  I didn’t know squat when I had to start cooking for myself back as a college sophomore and even as a new wife my repertoire was pretty sketchy.

I think he and the others will be ok in the textiles department, not great, but passable.  I sometimes see their white church shirts in with their black church socks.  Not what I had taught, but I suppose they’re trying be efficient (another lesson I’ve tried to instill in them, hard to decide which value trumps in a tricky situation, I get it).  They’re good with ironing.  Only because I won’t do something for them that they can handle on their own.  No idea about sewing, that worries me a bit.  Although Andrew makes knife sheathes by hand, so I suppose he can apply those tactics to attaching a button.  I notice they don’t know a thing about stain removal.  Probably because I rarely spend much time on things like that myself.  But I need to remember to tell him about collars on white shirts before he leaves.

I wonder who will do the dishes in his apartment.  Maybe the other roommate.  The one whose mom was on it, who taught him that they can go right in the dishwasher.  (Not to make excuses, but I feel like we were always waiting for the one who was on Empty Dishwasher so others could then load.  The timing just never quite seemed to match up.)  Maybe they all had moms like me, too little too late.  I’m sure they’ll figure it out.

We tried to help him understand why it’s important to be committed when you give your word.  Why you do your best instead of giving into your lazy side.  Why it might work out to study before the day before the test.  Or why starting a paper before the night before it’s due might feel stressful.  Why you stick with something even if it’s a little uncomfortable or you’re not that great at it.  Why it’s worth it to take a chance.  Some of those lessons have backfired.  But we we stand our ground.

We tried to teach them to work.  They’ve complained that they are our servants. We’ve tried to teach them about gardening and weeding and looking for ways to serve.  I know they’re never going to pick up trash when we aren’t carrying the bag for them.  They balk at weeding.    But so did Todd’s siblings.  And now they talk gardens when they get together.  There might be hope.

So at this point I feel like I’m earning about a C.  Nice.  Though I’ve always felt that, if nothing else, the kids do like to read.  I read to Andrew from the time he was a tiny newborn, just under 7 pounds.  I figured he’d like to hear words and his mom’s voice. I felt that reading aloud to my kids was one of the most important things I could do as a mom, plus it just fit me.  That, I feel, is my one redemption.  And that they all like broccoli.  Then again, that was the easy stuff.

It’s the other stuff I still wonder about.  Will he remember to hold doors open for the girls?  And the less-abled?  Will he read his scriptures? Will he ever change his sheets? Will he write thank you notes?  Will he study?  Will he ever eat vegetables?  Will he go home teaching without his grown-up partner reminding him?  Will he be generous and look out for others?  Will he return the favor when someone shows up with cookies? Will he look around for ways to help?  Will he filter and use discernment with entertainment?  Will he treat others—especially women—with respect?  Will he remember the values we’ve tried to instill in him?  Will any of this matter to him?

But, as I always say, I just don’t think it’s helpful to stress about things I can’t do anything about.  We’ve done what we can.  He’s officially an adult. It wasn’t always pretty.  It was far from perfect and not what I wanted it to look like all the time.  I can’t say we always did our best.  I know I faltered.  I was weak, I was too tired.  I was self-absorbed and distracted a lot of the time.  I think we missed a few things over the years, but I guess he’ll just have to learn the rest on his own.  Like we all do.  But maybe it’s not over.  Maybe there’s still more mothering ahead.  I think so.  Maybe he’ll ask for advice.  Maybe I’ll just keep giving it to him for free.  But I hope, like I wrote when he graduated, that he at least knows and remembers how much we love him.  And that he knows that’s what was behind everything we tried to teach him.