To be more generous

A peculiar resolution to be sure, but certainly a weak area that needed some attention.  Because I’m cheap.  Shrewd with my time.  Regrettably measured, calculated, efficient, thrifty. I have to admit, I haven’t stayed with it all year. Sometimes I forget I ever made the goal in the first place.  I still think it’s been worthwhile.  But yeah.  Definitely been a stretch.

Don’t get me wrong.  I haven’t turned a corner, I’m not a completely different person.  But what’s been happening is that I’m paying attention more now.  As I’ve watched my friends, strangers, random people I interact with here and there, my kids, Todd, my mom and sisters and so many others this past year, I’m humbled by what generosity looks like and how abundantly people give.

I think I started noticing it last November when I was in the hospital and then home recovering.  I couldn’t believe what people did.  Dinner from a teacher at school our kids had never even had.  Sweatshirts from girlfriends I didn’t know were really that close.  DVDs of shows a friend knew I’d love, gift certificates, freezer meals that lasted more than a month spear-headed by a mom at school; I didn’t realize we were that good of friends until she showed me—I still can’t get over that.  My mom and two sisters who left their lives for a week to just come be with me.  Friends who took my kids and who washed my hair, my daughter who helped me in the shower, my family who helped measure my drains.  I’m still in awe of the ways people found to creatively and personally serve me and my family so generously.

My sister reminded me of my goal when I went to stay with her for a weekend this fall.  She made a bed like a cloud.  It was the best, most luxurious sleeping accommodation I’d ever slept on.  She treated us with tiny little bath washes and loofahs on our pillows, even ear plugs for our other sister, she remembered the tiniest details.  She bought us special food, an assortment of cereals, fruit, all sorts of snacks.  She set up lunches and breakfasts for us with her friends.  A trip to San Francisco.  She was a tour guide and a spoiling grandma all in one.  I made a mental note to be a better hostess.  She’s come for years, and I’ve never thought of even half the stuff she did.  I always assume people are just coming to assimilate into the family; I’ve never thought of pampering them.  But my mom and sisters are just like this.  They’re always leaving little bags of See’s on my pillow, bringing me special soap or a little treat they know I love when we see each other.  I love it; they inspire me.

I guess I just wanted to be more like all these people I love and admire.  I’ve wanted to pay it all forward.  I’ve wanted to have the mindset of “There’s plenty!” instead of “I hope there’s enough….”  To live with faith instead of fear.  I’ve always worried if I spend too much time with my elderly friend I won’t have time to get to my list back home.  Or if I give them too much soup we won’t have enough left for our dinner.  Silly, but I admit that’s been my paradigm.  However, this year I’m slowly realizing that we can be generous in small and simple ways, that somehow whatever we think we’ve “given” comes right back to us, that when we have a “there’s plenty for everyone” way of viewing life, there really will be.  Oddly enough, a specific idea that changed my mindset more than any other was in a parenting talk, “Open your homes to the friends of your children. If you find they have big appetites, close your eyes and let them eat.”* I felt he was talking right at me, I’ve always had such a hard time with this! I admit being generous isn’t all that natural, it’s harder for me than most would imagine.  But his words have stuck with me, and I’m working on it.

On the other hand, Todd’s awesome at this.  He’s a great tipper.  He even leaves extra in those glass jars at ice cream counters and sandwich shops.  He always rounds up, he’s never cheap.  When I’m making dinner for someone I’ve usually made just enough.  But now I think about how he’d do it and I’ll throw in another chicken breast.  Or fill the plate with just one more layer of cookies.  I’m still learning to trust that there’ll be plenty, but I have seen how God continues to bless us with whatever we need when we’re sharing with others.  My confidence is growing.

But being generous has less to do with money and more to do with being selfless, looking for ways to make life better for someone else in ways that are meaningful to them.  So of course it would’ve been an easy goal to check off—I could’ve done it back in January—if I had just decided to write more checks to Heiffer International or the Disabled Veterans.  Easy.  But that’s not really what I was after.  I wanted a change of heart, a new vision, a less stingy, worried frame of mind.  I wanted to to open my eyes to needs around me, to feel free and willing to give more effortlessly, without feeling anxious.

As with any necessary change, it’s helpful to start close to home. How can we be generous with others when we’re stingy with ourselves?  I think this is becoming easier for me the older I become because I’ve seen it backfire when I haven’t taken care of myself, when I’ve been generous with others at my expense.  Which actually isn’t bad on occasion, service is mostly inconvenient, it’s good for us to sacrifice here and there.  But when it goes on for too long, we can become resentful and grumpy.  So I’m learning to take time for my own well-being.  To buy myself a pair of shoes when I need them.  To take a nap in the afternoon.  To stop the housework at a reasonable time so I can just be with my family or my book.  To let the bathroom go one more day so I can write for an afternoon.  Small and simple ways I find to be generous with myself so that I can also be generous with others.  

I love this thought from Suze Orman, “True generosity is an offering; given freely and out of pure love. No strings attached. No expectations. Time and love are the most valuable possession you can share.”

This is maybe the best (and hardest for some, including me) way to be generous.  Just spending time with people.  Slowing down enough to be present. Engaging. Carefully listening to what they’re maybe not even saying, watching closely.  This has definitely been tricky for me, so counter to the way I live.  Because I like to iron while I watch tv, listen to talks while I do the dishes, sew while we talk, clean up the kitchen as we visit.  But over the years I’ve discovered how much more satisfying it is to curl up on the couch next to Todd or one of the kids or a friend and just talk.  To leave the kitchen for now.  And our phones.  Without me getting a two-for-one out of it, squeezing in some work on the side.  Simply being.  Such a tiny way to be more generous.  I’m truly converted.

I’ve seen other ways people have been generous using their creativity and abundance to  enhance lives around them.  I take note of the baby gifts and birthday gifts they buy.  I love how they give from their heart, looking for just the right item that will make the recipient feel known and loved.  They look less at the price tag and more at the person they’re shopping for.  I love that mentality and I’m trying to make a shift in my mind, instead of whatever’s cheap or easy or what I have on hand to thinking about what my friends would really like, what would make them feel cherished.

I’ve observed the generous way friends have shared words.  Hearing them passing along a compliment in a group, asking questions that demand honesty and a soulful response.  Cards that uplift, texts that she’s on your mind.  Not what one typically thinks about when we talk about generosity, but withholding praise, keeping a compliment you’ve heard about someone to yourself, refusing to pick up on cues that a friend needs to talk all seem to be the opposite of generosity.  In my younger days I was afraid to give these away as well, thinking it would devalue my worth, that I would be less if I told someone how great she was.  But it’s strange how it’s just the opposite.  The more I share without holding back, the closer I become to friends, the more our hearts are connected.  The more I notice the good qualities in others, and then tell them, the more confident I feel about contributing my own gifts.  I’m in awe of what other people create and do and are; I’m not sure how it works, but as I express my admiration for them, nothing leaves me at all.  I’m completely satisfied that we all have a work to do and are competent in different arenas to bless lives.  Acknowledging that in ourselves and others lifts us all.

I love how people are generous with their touches rather than saving them for special occasions.  I love that our teenagers just hug us out of nowhere, that they aren’t embarrassed or  timid.  I love how women I’m barely getting to know unabashedly throw their arms around me, I love that we can hug friends we haven’t seen for awhile and that it’s totally comfortable.  I love that it feels like the American greeting. It feels like immediate acceptance, so generous.

I can’t help but notice the way so many of my friends serve, without letting on that they might think other people’s toilets are gross.  Or that the hospital is clear downtown.  Or that she never reciprocates.  Or that it doesn’t seem to make a difference.  They just keep giving in ways that are hard.  Scary.  Out of their comfort zone.  I’m not there yet.  I think we all have a list with two columns.  Easy service ideas, no brainers, got it.  And then there are the hard ones.  And the women who embrace this column are so generous in my mind, consistently extending themselves, showing the rest of us how to serve as Christ would.

I can’t help but think of all the subtle but meaningful ways we can practice generosity.  We’re kind and generous—giving just a little more than necessary—when we sense the need and then let them talk and talk and talk.  When we say, “Of course!” to the request for a donation at the Costco check-out. When we put a little extra effort into dinner or make the table look nice for our family simply because it’s been a long week for everyone. When we bump up our donation five or ten dollars.  When we include someone in our get-together we don’t know that well, even when it pushes us out of our comfort zone.  When we go ahead and put a couple dollars in his guitar case.  When we give the benefit of the doubt, when we try to see his perspective instead of insisting he see ours.  “Charity [which in my mind is simply loving generously] is having patience with someone who has let us down. It is resisting the impulse to become offended easily. It is accepting weaknesses and shortcomings. It is accepting people as they truly are. It is looking beyond physical appearances to attributes that will not dim through time. It is resisting the impulse to categorize others.”**

And yet, while the way others express generosity can inspire us, it doesn’t mean our offerings are less generous if they don’t look the same.  All of us fluctuate in what we can give from one moment or situation to the next.  Our energy, life circumstances, paychecks, and demands are all different and changing.  I love the reminder in the Bible of the woman who anointed Christ before his crucifixion.  Some were disgruntled about it, to whom Christ taught, “She hath done what she could.”  As always, there’s a lesson for us.  In our family it’s easier now to be generous with our charitable contributions than it was when we were students and just starting out, and yet I still feel bad we can’t (or don’t) do as much as so many people around us, but I remind myself we’re doing what we can.  At some point in my day the most generous thing I can do is hold my tongue or go to bed.  At another, I may have energy to write a letter to someone, to make cookies for a friend, or to go and sit on my teenager’s bed and talk for a bit.  I want to be more generous with good night kisses and tuck-ins when I’m the one wanting to be tucked in instead.  Generous when the last thing I have energy for is small talk but remembering what it feels like to be on the fringes.  Generous with praise when I secretly wish I had the same talent I’m loving in someone else.  Generous because even though it might be a small sacrifice for me, I sense it might make all the difference to someone else. 

* President Hinckley

**President Monson

The massage table

I was enduring another massage.  Oddly enough, I look forward to these appointments; previous times are awash to my mind.  Sort of like with getting pregnant again.  It all starts out serenely enough.  Lights dimmed, table heated and cozy, blankets a comforting caress to my exposed body.  Nature and instrumental sounds waft soft and low in the background.  Thankfully the ambience is soothing because nothing from this point on is.  She sometimes starts with my neck, just to get things warmed up.  But today she goes right to my shoulder.  I compare myself to a prisoner-of-war.  Guards trying to get me to talk.  As if she’s been mulling over how she can stretch and contort my body in unusual and bizarre ways.  And yet I trust her implicitly.

As she instructs me to crane my neck, to sit up, lie back down, hold up my arm, move it side to side or up and down, I’m compliant. I feel as if she’s digging her sharp talons into my soft arm, yet we talk as we work.  I ask her about all of it.  Why, what’s happening, what will this do.  She holds the muscles tight in place in her firm grip as I maneuver my arm through various positions.  She presses on the most tender spots—she knows just where to find them.  I feel like crying.

The first time we worked together I did.  She talked to me about it, thinking I was letting go of all my stress; massages have that effect on people, it’s normal she told me.  But it wasn’t anything like that.  I don’t need a massage to let things go, I feel like I’m pretty open about things, I’m not afraid to cry or be vulnerable.  No, I felt my hot tears spring up when I asked her if there was any hope or was I too far gone to be healed.  She assured me that even in my case, where my shoulder has deteriorated over the past year, we could work through this.  I was hesitantly ecstatic, overcome with emotion.  I relayed how sore it had been for so many months, nothing else had worked, was she sure.  She assured me again, yes.  We can fix this.  I cried and cried.  So grateful for a glimmer of hope, that she believed I could get back my normal range of motion, that my pain would subside.  That I could really be whole again.

But normally I don’t cry when we’re working. I laugh as I tell her how sore it is.  I squirm.  I pull away.  I compensate by lifting my shoulder.  I’m not afraid to tell her it hurts, that I’m not sure this is working.  She talks me through it.  “Let it go.  Soften.  Deep breaths.  Let me have your arm.”  She says some people never come back.  It’s too hard, too painful.  I was incredulous because I couldn’t think of where else they would go.  I’ve tried other remedies.  I’ve tried working it out on my own.  They’ll just flounder, it will get worse.  Until they realize they should never have left.  I told her how much I trust her.  That I know the pain is an investment.  That, as distressing as our sessions are, I can see the incremental improvements.

I asked about the clients she has, if everyone has some kind of pain.  I wondered if all this work was taking a toll on her own body.  But her physical pain is nothing compared to what her soul is going through, she confessed.  We talked about her advice to me and others, “Let it go.  Soften.  Deep breaths.  Let me have it.”  She admitted how difficult it was to look in the mirror.

As she jostled and pressed on me, I started to appreciate the parallels in our lives.  I knew, even as I asked, that of course we all have pain we’re living with, that we mask or ignore, that we hope will go away on its own.

I think about what it took to even consider going in for a massage for my shoulder the first time.  I figured I could handle it on my own, it would eventually get better, would anything really work after all I’d tried?  I imagine others feel the same as they deliberate about returning to church and to God.  She talked about the regrets she has, all that she needs to ask forgiveness for.  I understand, Why didn’t I pay attention?  Why have I waited so long?  I feel so embarrassed, so much guilt for my indiscretions, regret that I didn’t make it a priority sooner, wistful about lost time.  Arms and souls, we can all relate.

I consider how tranquil both her massage room and church are.  Environs conducive to change.  Music soft, words encouraging, being tended to.  I feel warm and cocooned, safe in expressing myself, admitting how hard it is.  But knowing I’m in just the right place to get the help I need.  Where else would I go?  I’ve tried it on my own.

I contemplate the exercises I’m doing at home.  At first it was all such an inconvenience, I wasn’t as compliant as I needed to be, it was kind of shaky, I didn’t see much improvement.  And so my motivation was low.  But I’ve stuck with it.  Though so imperfectly and inconsistently.  Over time however, along with my massage sessions, I’m noticing that I’m slowly making progress.  I think how uncomfortable it is for some to go back to church, how hard it is to remember to pray and read.  But like my wand maneuvers and nightly rice bag, these habits also become second-nature the more we do them, even if we’re rocky and haphazard at first.  Little by little we come to value them and rely on them to strengthen and restore us.  We’ve seen the difference small and simple things make.

I think about how painful these sessions are.  Pocked with moments of sheer gratitude and optimism.  I think we’ve all been there.  Quiet times with ourselves, candidly evaluating where we are, admitting we’ve got some work.  But at the same time, we can’t deny that we feel a ray of hope.  That maybe we can become whole again.

I think of the massage table as an altar.  Where we finally let go. Soften. Take a deep breath.  And let God take it.  Where we finally and humbly acquiesce and release all we’ve been holding on to.  Trusting that it’s all for our good.

“The submission of one’s will is really the only uniquely personal thing we have to place on God’s altar. The many other things we “give,” brothers and sisters, are actually the things He has already given or loaned to us. However, when you and I finally submit ourselves, by letting our individual wills be swallowed up in God’s will, then we are really giving something to Him! It is the only possession which is truly ours to give!  Consecration thus constitutes the only unconditional surrender which is also a total victory!” (Neal A. Maxwell)

And so as both I and my massage therapist friend figuratively lay our troubles on the altar, I’m confident that we will both sigh with relief and celebration as we feel more and more like ourselves, unimpeded by the pains we’ve carried for so many months, victorious.  Whether we are restricted by tight muscles or a hard heart, the healing is the same.  Believe you can change.  Do your part.  Let it go.  Soften.  Take deep breaths.  Have faith that all the pain, the discomfort, the stretching will be worth it.  Trust the Healer’s hands.

The secret to writing

I’ve told you a million times, I’m no expert.  At anything.  Least of all, writing.  But I love it.  I’ve heard it all before, it takes at least 10,000 hours to become an expert in something.  So maybe in twenty years I’ll have figured out some tricks.  All I know is I love writing.  I’ve got a picture of me when I was maybe two with a little pencil crouched over a small pad of paper.  The longing to write is embedded in me, writing is the most natural thing I thing I do.  I long to share all the lessons I’ve learned throughout my life, I want other people to see all the beautiful things that have crossed my path, I crave deep exchanges—even if they’re just on paper.  I have this innate desire to write and share all of this, but I’m not sure how to go about it.  Like I’ve said, I’ve never even taken a real writing class except the generic ones in college about how to write a research paper.  But even in all my ignorance, I have stumbled upon one tidbit that never fails to help me out.

When I have an idea, I just let myself write and write and write.  All the details I want, long paragraphs, not to worry about how it all sounds.  I just want ideas.  Lots to work with.  And so I sat down to evaluate a blog I’d been writing.  I knew it was simply too verbose. I figuratively tossed and turned.  I loved the minutia, the tiniest details, unfortunately so much of which was unnecessary.

I’ve learned to trust myself.  And that unsettled feeling when I just know it’s not right.  Not morally not right.  Just that it’s not ready.  And so I reminded myself of what I know.  Because I’ve not only felt it intuitively but I’ve also read it.  The best way to write better isn’t always about adding more facts, finding longer words, or beefing up the paragraphs.  Most of the time it’s about eliminating.  Which sounds counterintuitive, but I think it’s spot on.

So I started editing.  But what I really ended up doing was cutting.  Sad.  I hated erasing so many words.  I hated that I wouldn’t be spelling it out, but I clung to the hope that someone would be able to read between the lines.  It forced me to think about what words I wanted to keep, which would convey most accurately what I was getting at.  I started small, just a paragraph at a time.  One by one, I slowly modified my essay.  Made it more succinct.  Till I recognized the feeling, an exhale, a calmness that tells me it’s done.  Not perfect.  I already told you I don’t know how it’s supposed to look, what the guidelines are, what good writing entails.  All I know is that feeling of peace, that I’ve been able to convey what I set out to share.  I can hear my voice in what’s left; it feels authentic.

As I revisited this lesson just the other day, you know I couldn’t help but wonder how this principle might apply in other facets of life.  And I realized that it’s a postulate I’ve subscribed to in other arenas.  Eliminate the superfluous.  Simplify.  Get rid of what’s encumbering you, what isn’t working.  I think this sentiment rings true, “Today’s complexity demands greater simplicity” (Elder L. Tom Perry).  With so much we’re juggling, why do we insist on keeping so many balls in the air?

I think about my house when it’s cluttered with projects or relics from the day’s activities.  Or even with charming decorations. The best relief for my psyche is to clear some space.  I love tackling the kitchen, seeing the clear counters stretching, coming to life.  I love that my pottery canisters stand out now.  That my basket of fruit makes its own statement.  I love re-working an area of adornments when I feel that something is amiss.  I’ll move items around and around until it finally dawns on me that what I need is an empty spot for my eyes to land, a little bit of blank.  Sure enough, that usually does the trick; de-cluttering—even the pieces I’ve loved at some point—helps me enjoy those I’ve left for display.  I don’t get rid of the other; I just have a box on a shelf labeled “decorations.”  And every now and then I’ll find a little keepsake I’d like to use again.  Not gone forever—although some have been relegated to the donation bag—but eliminated for now, just to allow me some time to assess and live with my new design and decision.

I’ve known this principle to work when I’ve applied it to activities and commitments, books and entertainment, hobbies and items on my to-do list.  The less is more mentality.  Sounds trite now that I think about it.  But it just seemed to pop up everywhere once I started looking.

But it’s more than simply making cuts.  We need vision to know what cuts will make a difference.  Like the snowflakes we’d make in school.  You can’t be so haphazard and inattentive when you’re down-sizing the paper that you snip the whole thing apart.  It takes some foresight.

The point of eliminating is discovery.  Like the paper snowflake and my writing.  When I look at the shards of paper scraps or words that drop as I cut, I no longer mourn their departure.  I appreciate what I can now see.  Even amusements and enjoyable commitments from last year might not be as fulfilling any more.  When I’ve decided to finally make the cut with ones that aren’t working, I’m able to focus on and enjoy those that are truly fulfilling without that nagging feeling in the the back of my head.  When we rid our lives, even temporarily, of whatever’s cluttering our minds, space, time, energy, and pages in our books of life, we’re left with what really brings us joy and satisfaction:  seeing the wood grain of the table once I sweep away the newspapers and breakfast dishes, remembering the clothes I’d forgotten about now that I’ve untangled them from their cramped quarters, dismissing ones I never really liked, free evenings to spend reading, playing games with the kids, watching the new mini-series on Masterpiece, discovering new friendships when others are no longer thriving.  When I rid myself of things that aren’t making me happy, I have room for things that do.  “There is a beauty and clarity that comes from simplicity that we sometimes do not appreciate” (President Uchdorf).  Kind of like clearing away the underbrush and noticing the tiny trees that had been sprouting all along.

I can tell I’ve made appropriate cuts when I hear my voice, when my life feels authentic and veritable.  When I’m not trying so hard to write a page in my book, hopeful it will be acceptable to others.  When I feel that familiar peace, the exhale, I know that I’ve carved out just the space I needed to feel aligned.

There’s a popular book among my friends, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, that keys in on this principle; she encourages clients to keep only items that “spark joy.”  I love simplicity, simplifying, because it unearths the clutter in our lives, leaving room for items, people, enterprises, and even the remaining words, that truly bring us joy.  Once I’ve re-worked a piece of writing using this principle, I find myself face-to-face with what’s left, what I wanted to say in the first place. Once I decide to let go of something, no matter how much I wanted to hang on at first—my words, a relationship, a habit, a fun but not-so-good book—I admit I’m relieved.  I sometimes look back, like Lot’s wife, and wonder if I made the right choice to move on.  But I love knowing in my heart I did.  Because whether we’re writing or making a life for ourselves, what really matters is not so much about what we let go, it’s all about what we let stay.

One year out

I was in my friend’s kitchen just the other day when she mentioned to all of us it’d been a year since she moved in.  No way, I thought.  And then I looked around, remembering standing in that spot with her exactly one year ago.

I’ll always remember it was a Tuesday because I’d been waiting since Thursday for the results of my biopsy.  I’m pretty calm, I don’t really get too riled up about things.  But I could focus on little else as I brought her closet’s contents to their new alcove.  As I put away bowls.  As we discovered the cool spice rack behind pillars by her oven.  As we made our way up and down all her stairs.  As she gave me the tour of her gorgeous new house.  I know we talked.  But my mind was a million miles away as I wondered what the year would look like for our family.

Of all the days of the past year, these were some of the most difficult.  Just waiting to find out.  Not knowing the outcome, how long you’ll have to deal with it, what it will entail.  And the scariest of all the questions I had to ask, am I up to the task?

I remember similar feelings many, many years ago as I was waiting to see if we might really be pregnant.  Once we decided to transition to parenthood, we found ourselves waiting for months with no luck; we had no idea if this was simply going to be one of our trials in life or if it was just going to take some time.  And so, as I’ve approached my one-year mile-marker, I was thinking how similar it was in many ways to what I experienced my first year with a new pregnancy and baby.

I remember the relief in both cases.  Odd to say.  But it’s only because knowing is easier than not knowing for me.  In the case of a pregnancy, we were elated.  But I was scared to death.  Would I have a miscarriage? Would I be able to manage a healthy, term pregnancy? I’ve never felt that great around kids.  How would I be as a mother?  Were we ready? I remember finding Todd the next day at school and crying to him.  We were so poor.  And young.  And naive.  And unprepared.  I felt nearly the same as I cried to him one night in the bathroom after we’d found out I had cancer.  He just loaned me his shoulder and I let myself be sad for a minute.  Would this ruin us financially?  We’re so young to be dealing with something so serious.  We have no idea what we’re doing.  We’re not ready for a trial like this.  I know what you’re thinking.  Babies are good, cancer is bad.  But in my mind, scared as I was, cancer seemed more straight-forward; nothing about parenting is clear-cut.  

We had decisions to make.  In both cases I read a bit.  Way more about pregnancy than cancer.  To this day I still don’t know what kind of cancer I had.  You’d have to ask Todd or my sister.  But I had faith in the experts.  I listened to their advice.  And then we trusted ourselves to decide, both with cancer and each birth.  No, I’d like to have an epidural.  This time we’ll go with a midwife.  And a bilateral mastectomy.  I’d like to leave my baby in the nursery for as long as possible.  We’ll bottle feed along with nursing.  And use cloth diapers.  Node removal first.  I know that will mean two surgeries.  And yes, I’d like immediate reconstruction please.  I felt good with all of it.  I feel like we listened to what experts had to share and then moved forward, making decisions that felt right to us in both cases.

Both scenarios—a little baby and a little 1 cm ball of cancer—required loads of medical visits.  I felt like I was always running to the doctor the first year or so.  Check ups, blood work, prodding, touching, disrobing, being vulnerable—showing so many people my body, exposing my ideas and myself as a mom.  I have to admit, I’ve kind of loved most of it.  I love engaging with a variety of people, great nurses, advocates, doctors, caregivers.  I love being touched, even if it’s just getting my blood pressure taken. I think we all love having our babies admired.  You know I love questions. Confirmation that my baby was healthy.  That my gross scars were healing appropriately.  It fascinated me to no end.

Nothing was as soothing as having Todd with me at all these key appointments, in the hospital, holding the baby and my hand, helping me eat, sleeping on the little sofa next to me, checking in on me every morning and night.

I don’t how I was so unprepared for the pain I’d encounter with childbirth and surgery, but how could I have known?  I just felt so disheartened and discouraged.  I felt battered by both, like I’d never feel normal again.  But I trusted other women who’d endured the same, and I trusted my body to be able to heal itself.

As expected, sleep eluded me for a long, long time in both cases. It hurt to lie on my back incisions.  I couldn’t sleep soundly with a baby in the room.  I wanted sleep to be my escape, and yet it was really just another hard part.  Both giving birth and undergoing surgery wore me out.  Grumpy.  Irritable?  Resentful, even though I knew better.  

Getting ready took forever.  I’d gear up with special baby soap and lotion, tiny washcloths and diapers.  I’d brace myself for my own shower every day.  My breasts were so sore in both cases.  The water, even the air, was painful. But after my surgery, my back was wounded too. I cried in the shower.  My secret place where tears would coalesce with warm water and no one would know how really weak I felt.  I felt discouraged as I’d see my misshapen and sore body in the mirror.  A year later it’s still hard.  Not to shower.  To look.

Even dressing after both hospital stays required a new skill set. Comfort was my top priority.  Along with what would work.  Most of us don’t come home from giving birth to putting on our jeans, and all I wanted to wear after my mastectomy was zip-up sweatshirts since my arms didn’t work and so I’d have pockets for my drains.  Just as I had to learn about unsticking my baby from his messy undershirts, I still spend a lot of time trying to unstick myself from the tops I’ve pulled over my head.

As we all know, the initial sharp pains eventually subside.  Every few days I realized I felt a little less damaged.  I’m used to the tight feeling around my rib cage.  I got used to nursing.  My body was mine but different.  Week after week though, I would feel more and more like myself.   I learned first-hand that healing simply takes time.  Millions of women have been through both birth and cancer.  I’m certainly not the first to have blazed these trails.

In both cases, I knew it would take a year.  I hated thinking about it in those terms.  So long to be dealing with the ramifications of a tiny lump, to think of sleepless nights with a crying baby.  But we all know the difference a year makes.  People still ask me all the time how I’m doing, and it’s easy to talk in terms of procedures.  But I want to ask new moms all the time how they’re doing, what they’ve learned, how it’s really been.  But no one wants to admit how hard it is.

I constantly see women who are in the middle of both—mothering infants and dealing with the effects of cancer.  I know it sounds trite, but I honestly want to hug them.  I know first-hand what it’s like to be tired, worried, discouraged, excited, hopeful, helpless, relieved.  I know the miracle our bodies are, that they can come back.  I know what it’s like to need help.  To hate the weak feeling of not being able to do it on my own.  To want to heal quickly so that I can help someone else.

Just the other day we were walking into Target behind a youngish woman and a small girl.  The woman was completely bald.  I felt it all over again.  The guilt.  I wouldn’t in a million years admit to her that I’d had cancer at one time.  I barely scratched the surface of what she’s been through.  I admired her from afar, her strength, her courage, her obvious hope in the face of trial.   My sister has a new friend, a sweet little boy; his mom has stage 4 breast cancer.  I can’t even pretend to know what that feels like, the pain and sadness and heartache she and her family are going through.  That’s tough cancer.  The real kind, in my mind.

I feel the same when I see moms who are dealing with children with autism, severe physical disabilities, learning challenges, children who test a mom’s every awake minute, moms who get hardly any respite.  Mothers who have adopted children, who have willingly taken on the conflicts that come with some of these children.  Mothers who are doing it all on their own.  I had it so easy with my babies.  Easy, non-eventful pregnancies for the most part.  Easy, non-colicky babies who eventually learned to sleep through the night.  I had a supportive and useful husband, all the resources I needed, friends, church members, a grandma next door with subsequent babies.  We had the easiest case scenario by any stretch.

Women like this one with no hair, as well as these heroine mothers, impress me to no end.  They are the ones who have been in the trenches.  They know what it’s like to really hurt, to be exhausted and tested to their limits, to long for reprieve, to wonder if it will be worth it, to ask over and over why.  And how.

It’s humbling, so humbling.

I have no way of knowing what her details are—or what any of the women I see are really dealing with—but she reminded me that in every single way I took the easy way out.  That this past year really wasn’t harder than any of the others.  I’m not down-playing that each of these first years had their challenges compared to what I’d been used to, but in both cases it was just different set of months, a chance to see life from a new angle.  By all accounts, an exquisite, unexpected blessing of a year.  Both of them.

Of arms and marriages

My physical therapist sent me home with two sheets of exercises I’m supposed to do three to five times a day.  I hate that it’s come to this.  But it’s my new reality for awhile.  (They say 1-3 years.)  I’ve thought about my frozen shoulder and how gradually it came on.  Looking back I suppose I should’ve known what to look for.  I should’ve been researching side effects of node removal or mastectomy on the internet.  Or asked my doctors if I should be aware of anything post-surgery.  Or read the little words on all the papers they sent home with me.  But that’s all so not like me.  I just shoved all that stuff in my cancer file and figured if I noticed anything weird then I’d deal with it later.  No sense looking for trouble.  And so as my arm started bothering me I guessed I’d just slept on it funny.  That I’d tweaked it somehow.  So I babied it and took it out of commission as much as possible for several weeks.  But it got worse and shooting pain would paralyze me for a minute or two and tears would leap to my eyes out of nowhere.  As it became more difficult to ignore, I surrendered and went in.  X-rays, physical therapy, massage ensued. A little exercise routine that makes me feel like an old lady.  It’s been months already.  Acupuncture starts next month.

But as I’ve been tending to my arm, it occurred to me that I’ve experienced this all before.  Not physically, but in my marriage.  And it seems that if we think about it enough, maybe we’ve all been there.  Maybe not in your marriage, but maybe another relationship or some other part of life.  You never saw it coming, you have no idea how you got here, but out of nowhere you’re in some deserted land that wasn’t even on the map.  And you’re not really sure how to get back.

Most of our friends took a similar path as us as we pursued post-graduate work.  It was awesome, loved it.  The midwest enthralled me.  The people were warm, we made sweet friends, we hiked and camped and visited every small town we could.  We loved the antiques, the covered bridges, the fall festivals, the Amish, the state parks.  It was a great, great four years.  But also hard.  Because, you know how it is, you rarely see each other.  We worked.  We had church commitments.  We were just learning to be parents.  We had no family around for hundreds of miles.  He was at school all day and most evenings.  The last year he had rotations and I felt like I never saw him.  (I loved how he got the equine rotation right at foaling time.)  We had dinner together and spent Saturday and Sunday together when we could, but it was still tough.  And that’s life.  But I wasn’t used to it, I didn’t realize how hard it would be on me.  And our marriage.

I remember arriving at the point but not knowing how I’d gotten there.  But one dark night I admitted to myself that I felt completely apathetic about our marriage.  I felt alone.  I didn’t have any fight left in me.  I didn’t really care any more if he was home or gone.  It didn’t seem to matter any way because there was nothing I felt I could do.  I simply let go.

Nothing in my life has scared me as much.  

Kind of the wake-up call you get when you’re driving along the highway late at night and catch yourself falling asleep at the wheel.  This was mine.  I realized I had a choice, I was at a junction.  I could continue to coast.  Or wake up and make some changes.

Just like with my arm, I finally acknowledged things wouldn’t just get better without some intervention.  It’s been forever, so I don’t remember the details.  I just remember deciding.  Sometimes that’s all it takes.  At least that’s where it always starts.  Because of this experience, I’m forever looking at the fork in the road now.  The pivotal moments when a decision will take you one way or another.  And I’m always looking ahead to see where I’ll end up if I take one path versus another.  Some things don’t matter much to me.  But I’m all in when it’s the big stuff. I’m not willing to let my kids or my husband or convictions get away from me.  Way too much at stake.  I think this was the first time when I could see that our little fishing boat had become untied from the dock and that it was slowly inching its way out.  Even though the waves were minimal, you know how water is and how, before you know it, you’re out of touch with your vessel.

Just because I noticed we were drifting doesn’t mean things got better right away.  But I remember we made the effort.  I remember reading and learning about marriage.  I tried to be more supportive as he carried such a heavy load.  Slowly it came together and we pulled it off.  And I’m forever grateful for this wake-up call.  As scary as it was, it’s stuck with me.  I realized then—and am constantly reminded—how precious our marriage is.  And our relationship with our kids.  And with God.  I’m reminded of how gradually these can all slip away from us if we aren’t tethered together.

This lesson poignantly came to mind as I realized my shoulder wasn’t healing on its own.  I had  to stop ignoring the pain.  I needed to acknowledge that things needed to change.  Just like before.  I’ve been looking into it, learning about it.  I’ve been diligent—but not perfect—with my exercises.  I forget to do some of the parts.  I don’t even know if it’s working.  This all sounds so familiar.  But I know eventually it will make a difference.  Because I’ve seen it all before.  Small investments of time doing my stretches and massages, hanging out at night together before turning in, making time for each other.  Consistently putting in the effort.  Even when we’re too tired for it all.  Kissing good night.  Long hugs.  Giving the benefit of the doubt.  Pushing myself even when it hurts and makes me tear up.  Love is like that.  It’s not always easy to be honest.  Or to apologize.  But we work through the painful parts because we’re committed.  We know it will all make us stronger.

I look forward to the day when I’ll realize I have my shoulder back.  When I can use all my weights the way I always have instead of sitting out some of the sets.  When I don’t feel pain when I turn a certain way by accident or shift in my sleep.  When I can tie my aprons and dresses behind my back.  And tuck in my shirts.  When I can move my arm in all directions again.  The pain and immobility will leave as it came.  So slowly I’ll hardly notice.  But I know the small, consistent efforts, the attention I’m giving it, will eventually pay off.  Because I’ve been here before.  The investment I’m making will be worth it, no matter how long it takes.  If it’s anything like my marriage, I won’t be able to pinpoint the day it healed; it will be so gradual.  I’ll just know it feels right. But if it’s anything like my marriage, I’ll never take it for granted again.

Getting results

As I was walking through the school parking lot this afternoon, arms laden with books, I couldn’t help myself.  This is a new school year, I told myself.  We can tweak things if we want, the perfect crook in the road to make changes.

I wondered if this was the year I’d finally become that kind of mom.  But nearly as soon as I’d asked myself, I knew my answer.  Not the answer, not probably the right answer.  But my answer.

I admit it.  I don’t make my kids practice the piano.  Or read.  I’ve never been the kind to work on their letters with them before they go to kindergarten or done a lot of flash cards or cared when they actually learned to read.  I don’t check on their homework status.  Or band practice charts.  I leave a lot up to them.  They know what they’re supposed to be doing.  Most of their school-related stuff is between them and their teachers; the saxophone and piano are between them and their instructors.  I bring it up now and then, but I wait for them to bring their practice sheets and reading logs and school planners to me to be signed, I’m not the kind of mom to ride them about things they can handle.  I’m more concerned that they’re making headway—not just in geometry but in life.

I guess my slant is a little non-traditional, certainly not one touted by educators and the kind of moms we love.  But I have learned that the best kind of mom is the one who uses her unique personality and strengths to mother—whatever that looks like.  I have learned that we are happier and more relaxed (and thus, better) moms when we lean on our own instincts.  When we are authentic.  And so, for me, that just translates into worrying less about results and more about what happens along the way.

I know that we’re a results-fueled society.  We compare and judge each other on the bottom line.  But I don’t know that that’s what I’m in it for.  

I don’t know that grades exactly offer a true representation of intelligence or how much a kid has learned or even effort exerted in some cases.  We all know how inflated grades can be (extra credit for bringing in treats?) and how they can’t possibly showcase all a kid has learned (maybe he has absorbed the concepts but is a poor test-taker?).  We’ve all had teachers who refuse to give A’s, whose reputations are legendary, whose classes we learned the most from and whom we hold in highest esteem.  I couldn’t care less if my kid gets a B in a class like that.  We always tell them to take honors classes whenever possible—even though it does little for their college application and might even hurt it when they get Bs instead of As—simply because it will be an enriching learning experience.

I don’t know that a kid who learns to read as a four-year-old is any better prepared for school than one who learns along the way in kindergarten (which in and of itself if astounding if you think back to what we were learning at that age).  I’d rather expose them to the library, let them choose their own books, read aloud a million picture books on everything from how they make crayons to the fairy tales we grew up with, Shel Silverstein to Percy Jackson.  Giving them nooks and crannies to curl up and read on a warm summer afternoon or snowy wintry night.  Showing them by example how much pleasure (and wisdom) you derive from reading a variety of genres and authors.  I’d rather that my kids have a passion for reading than an accelerated proficiency but who read only to tick another book off their list.

I don’t know that someone who memorizes lengthy scriptures and poems and documents is any better than one who has lived their teachings.  I’d rather have my kid wrap his heart around the meanings of great pieces of writing than to be able to quote them perfectly.  I know scriptorians who have no idea what charity or humility are all about.  And I know some of the sweetest, most tender—maybe even less educated—people who have no idea what the scripture references are or what the word sequence is in one they’re trying to recall, but who embody all the qualities we read about, who have imprinted these words on their hearts.  I know which kind of person I’d rather have my kids emulate.

We read The Battle Cry of the Tiger Mother in our book group awhile back.  While I certainly applaud her efforts and subsequent results, I can’t imagine having a mother-daughter relationship that is more about performance than closeness.  Her daughters certainly delivered, and perhaps that pay-off trumped everything anything else in their lives; but I’d rather have a warm, loving relationship with my daughter than to have her be a renowned concert pianist.  Some families strike the balance, they’re awesome. They have found the sweet spot where the parents are totally involved and oversee daily practice and kids still love their instruments and practice compliantly.  I’m just saying, if that’s not the case, at what cost are we making the instrument (or sport or grade, etc.) more important than the relationship?

I get it though, I do.  When we have put in the effort, we can play more flawlessly, perform confidently and with ease, quote at will, we have been reading years ahead of our peers and have a grand vocabulary and skill base.  But I guess I just have to ask myself, at what price, and is the end result really what we’re after?  Or is there something else?

To me, it’s more about a relationship than it is a destination.  A relationship with the piano and books and our bodies, with our families and friends, with God.

You know the people who are focused on getting married.  Instead of enjoying a variety of relationships in their young adult years, using the time to learn and grow, they’re intense and rigid, citing an engagement as their only goal.  Marriage comes naturally.  Or it doesn’t.  But it’s always better when it’s not forced.  Yes, you got your results.  But is a ring really all you’re after?  Wouldn’t you rather have developed a strong foundation of friendship and love that naturally evolves into a commitment?

Or parents who force religious compliance at the expense of the relationship.  They forget that God is love.  And agency.  That He always, always cares more about the relationship than the dos and don’ts.  Of course that’s not to minimize the commandments or rules in a family or anything like that.  Just that the most important commandments are about love.  A wise pattern to follow as parents.

A million other examples come to mind, especially as we raise our kids and maintain our homes.  In my mind it’s better to let the kids make their own beds—whatever that ends up looking like—than to go behind them (or worse, do it for them) to make sure there are no wrinkles, that the comforter is on squarely and pulled tight simply to impress company.  I’m not espousing an “everyone’s a winner” mentality or giving in to shoddy effort.  I just feel it’s better to let them load the dishwasher their way than to assure all the bowls are maximally spaced and so it looks good.  Giving them free reign in the kitchen to experiment and create is empowering—it’s never been about whether the cupcakes are beautiful or whether it can be done without a mess.  All that we’re doing in the home is really more about developing relationships and teaching than making it all look a certain way.  We’re teaching the reasons behind homemaking skills, why we believe in being tidy and orderly.  Which has nothing to do with showing off a beautiful house but is more about creating a climate that is nurturing and comforting, where we can feel the spirit of God soothing our souls.  We teach them skills in laundry and bathroom maintenance and cooking so that they can be self-sufficient, to build confidence, to let them feel the satisfaction of a job well done, to know they can do it.  We let them plant their own garden boxes of herbs and wildflowers, not simply to earn money or compare production to last year, but to provide a setting where we can spend time together.  Different from farmers who are really tied in to yields, our garden is more to teach the kids the law of the harvest, to teach them to work, to encourage healthy eating, to showcase God’s handiwork and miracles, to provide a sense of accomplishment as they sell their produce or turn it into salsa.  And when crops unfortunately fail, it’s always been more about the lessons and the process than the outcome. 

Even in business, where you’d think this philosophy wouldn’t apply, I see it working.  Think of the companies we love most like Nordstrom, Chick-fil-A, Ace Hardware, Starbucks, Costco (they’re all rated in the top 10 for customer service).  Granted, their bottom line is to make money (that’s what businesses are all about)—just as our goals are to have our kids excel in school and sports and music and life—but look at the way they go about it.  That’s what makes all the difference.  The way they do business feels softer, less cut-throat, less intense.  They have learned that when the relationship with the customer is their top priority—instead of money—business naturally follows.

Our instructor this summer—a long-distance runner—told our class about his experience with goals.  He had been wrapped up in his times, focusing solely on the outcome.  Deciding to switch things up, he kept his goal time to himself and instead use his race time differently.  His only “goals” were to thank every volunteer along the route and to notice three things to be grateful for throughout the course.  Instead of worrying so much about when he’d cross the line and what his numbers would be, he backed off and focused more on the journey and the relationships with the volunteers, nature, and himself.  His times naturally improved.  But his better race-times became a by-product and not his sole motivation.

I loved happening upon this thought as I was reading the other day, “The ultimate measure of success is not in achieving goals but in the service you render and the progress of others [and yourself].  Goals are [merely, I would add] a means of helping you bring about much good….” 

And I guess that’s my slant.  Not that we don’t set goals or strive for excellence.  Or teach our kids to give life their best effort or to work hard.   But rather to view success less in results and more in what they learned or felt or experienced along the way.  To see people and relationships and connections as the greatest of all successes.

*  Preach My Gospel, 146

A few of my favorite things

This started out as real items that I’ve bought and swear by.  But then it went a little past that, as my blog posts usually do.  Sorry it’s another list.  Bulleted items are easier this summer than analogies.  Again, another insight into a person; I encourage you to write a list for your own kids. By the way, I think a list like this is absolutely never done.  Every day I find another part of life that makes me happy, and I know you're exactly the same.

Yellow rubber gloves that fit just right.  I know how weird that sounds.  But I was cleaning the church bathroom and felt over the moon relieved that there was a substantial barrier between my skin and the residue of so many strangers.  I also love their protection especially in the winter months, when I’m home and making food more than usual, so many dishes and bouts with water.  Sore, cracked hands.  It’s a pleasure to have lotioned them and veil them in a shroud of rubber.  A bargain considering all the work I get out of them.  I buy them by the box at Costco.

Skinny rubber spatulas.  Perfect for tight jars, since you know how I hate to waste.  My favorites are the short tiny ones from Williams Sonoma.

Speaking of which, we love their winter dish soap.  Immensely.  It’s like a little walk in the forest every time we wash our dishes.

Brand new tight running socks.  Perfect for just-lotioned feet.  They feel massaged and coddled, cocooned and protected.

A first cold night with warmly dried flannel sheets.  And likewise, the freshly laundered summer variety—crisp and cool on the first hot night of the season.

The potted ivy in my kitchen window.  I’ve kept it alive for three years.  I know.

Todd dressed in his suit for church, smelling awesome.

Finally pj’d with brushed teeth, hunkered down with my Real Simple that just arrived that afternoon.

My shower towel warmed by the heating vent.

The smell of potpourri on the stove.  The kind with the orange and cloves and cinnamon simmering away on a fall afternoon.  I think I love that it not only smells fresh and homey, but also that it was essentially free and I know that it's not messing with my health, it's natural.

The satisfaction and the tired feeling of a really productive day.  They usually start early and with a plan.  Not all days need to be, but I love a great day of yard work and house work or just getting more done than I thought.

Cuddled up on the couch in late afternoon with a pillow and blanket and the breeze wafting over me and being woken by the kids coming home from school one by one.

A handwritten love note amid the bills and junk mail, not an obligatory thank you note, something just out of the blue, completely unexpected.  It rarely happens.  But it has.  And I love it so much.  It carries me for days.

Flowers on the table cut from our yard.   I love how cheerful they are.  And that they’re free.

Walking through Hobby Lobby and Michael’s and even Target’s holiday section starting at Halloween time.  I love the tiny house displays—I’d love to lift my kids to show them the moving parts.  I love the colors, the reminder of fall and winter holidays.  It’s as if all is right in the world when all we have to worry about is decorating for the next occasion.

Peanut butter and chocolate.  In just about anything.  Smoothies, candy, granola bars, ice cream.  I’m a sucker for it all.

The blue tube of $4 Cover Girl mascara that I’ve been using for years.  Holds up exceptionally well under teary conditions.  I hear.

Watching tv as a family, could be a church clip, stand up comedy, a Redbox movie or just re-runs of Little House or Brady Bunch that I’m trying to introduce to my kids.  Just a cozy, intimate time cuddled under fuzzy blankets with homemade popcorn.

New shoes.  If I was rich this is what I’d splurge on.  Good quality ones for every occasion.

My lettuce knife.  It is the color of lettuce—bright green—and plastic.  I know Pampered Chef sells them, but I got mine for $3.99.  It prevents lettuce from turning brown, it’s totally light-weight, and a gem!

The smell and feel of a brand new paperback.  Intoxicating.

Fruit salad.  If I was on a deserted island and could have only one food for the rest of my life, this would be it.  I have it breakfast, lunch, and dinner many, many days of my life.  Any combination, any size pieces.  Cool and refreshing with blasts of flavor of all kinds.  Love!!!

The swimsuit makeovers in Good Housekeeping and of course What Not to Wear.  I don’t know why.  I think because we all have flaws and I love how they can make everyone look good!

A new entry in the book Todd and I share with Bronwyn.  It goes back and forth between us each night with us writing questions and answers to each other.  I love her little messages to us!

Lunch at a park next to a river or creek or waterfall in the middle of a road trip.  Better than a nasty fast-food place for sure.  Peaceful, beautiful sounds.  I love the smell of pine trees and watching the critters around us.  I love that it’s healthier, cheaper, so very, very us.

A couple hours in the middle of the day to sit and write with no interruptions.

Seasonal paper napkins with pretty designs. Totally my mom’s daughter!!

Reading on the couch to my kids.  We’re in the middle of a chapter book, but we still do picture books.  They’re 10 and 12.  I’m holding out.  It’s probably the only thing I do as a mom than I’m 100% confident about, certain that I’m getting it right.

The Christmas issues of all my favorite magazines, a peek into dream world!

Lying on one of the kids’ beds in the middle of the day sort of resting, mostly just cuddling and talking.

Indulging in a movie just for me.  Doesn’t have to satisfy anyone else.  It can be cheesy, romantic, motivational, a documentary, it can scream my name and no one will judge me.

A new email in my in-box that isn’t about scheduling something or giving me an assignment.  An email where a friend or sister or kid shares what’s going on inside.  I love a conversation that goes back and forth throughout the day as we analyze life from a variety of angles.

Being invited to someone’s house.  For any reason.  Any occasion.  I love taking a night off.  I love not having to clean my own house.  I love the company.  Mostly I love that someone thought of us.  Even if we can’t go.  I love that someone made the effort.

Movie theater popcorn.  And everything about the whole movie theater experience.  It’s like $100 for our family to go, so it hardly ever happens.  But I LOVE it.

Watching romantic Christmas movies with the girls and knowing they’re crying too.

Falling asleep listening to Todd and the kids playing their game.  Especially on a holiday when it goes extra late.

Getting my hair cut.  All the parts.  From the smell of the shampoo and massage as it’s being washed to the finishing spritz of the fancy hairspray and the extra smooth way it feels as I leave.

Putting on jeans on a late summer evening when you sense a touch of fall in the air.  I love the warm caress that hugs me tight.

Randomly going for ice cream in the next town over on a summer evening.  On a weekday.

Camping with everyone in the same tent and falling asleep all cuddled together.

Sandals and painted toes.

When someone totally understands.  A conversation when I felt completely heard and validated.  That’s all I really ever want, just to connect.

Cozy talk with one or two other couples around our fireplace on a late weekend night.

Saving a bundle because of good timing and coupons that worked out.  With free shipping to boot.

The perfect lipstick.  You have no idea how hard it is to find.

Short filed nails with clear polish.

The smell of Mary Kay and Ponds.  Even after more than twenty years of using them.

Freshly mowed lawn on a late Saturday afternoon, ready for the night’s company.  I don’t even care that the tiny blades litter our kitchen floor.  It just feels so fresh and tidy!

My annual hour-long massage in that dark cozy room with the pretty music and candles.  I love the heated table, the smelly lotion, and her soft warm blankets.  Heavenly.

Tahitian Renewal body wash.  I’ve tried a million others and I always go back. 

A freshly vacuumed vehicle.  Sort of embarrassing how good something so little can make me feel.

This great invention, Cover Gray.  It comes in a tube like lipstick but is about the consistency of shoe polish.  Whatever, it stretches the time between coloring if you’re dark-headed like me but have just enough grays to not be able to pull it off.

Two-packet hot chocolate made with milk.

The smell coming out of dryer vents when we’re on our neighborhood walks.

Lemonade/strawberry slushies I make in our blender (just lemon juice, sugar, frozen strawberries and water).  I was desperate for a treat this summer and we had no cookies.

You’ll laugh, but I love buying my kids new socks and underwear.  I feel so motherly, so in-tune with even the small details of their lives, and so grateful to be able to provide the basics.  I guess I just think of all the moms in the world who can’t, and so it just makes me so happy.

The perfume Todd and I fought over two Mother’s Days ago because it’s so expensive.  But I love it.  Dolci & Gabbana.

Driving to the airport to pick up Aunt Cheri or nana.  I think this about tops the kids’ lists.

Getting to my doctor appointments early and having a stack of Good Housekeepings nearby.  I don’t care how behind the doctor is—I’m in my happy place.

A clear desk, all the bills and papers filed away.  Or, to be honest, a desk with papers and junk just waiting for me to organize.

Fruit-smelling shaving cream made just for girls.  I always use soap because it’s cheaper.  But it is so indulgent to use the can of cream.

My huge white tablecloth that fits our table even with the extensions and white cloth napkins.  I love how black and white embellishments make a sophisticated tablescape, Christmas is magical, and even pastel Easter candies and napkins and flowers look sweet and lovely.

A song on the radio that makes you think back to being a teenager, summoning up a whole collection of memories in just a few seconds.  I can’t help but smile remembering back to being young.  I’m a sucker for the old slow country songs of the early 90s because they were my backdrop to falling in love with Todd.  Even now when we’re driving or I’m just working alone at home, those same feelings come to life and I’m a young college freshman falling in love all over again.

Fleece-lined tights.  My sister bought me a pair a few years back and they are revolutionary.  Slide right under even slimmer jeans.  I like the ones with feet and then I add thick socks.  For a wimp like me, it’s just what the doctor ordered.

Nights when the house is clean and smells good and friends are coming over and all the window sills have three twinkling candle votives with more on the table.  It feels so cozy and romantic.

Chocolate chip skillet cookies with hot fudge and vanilla ice cream.  Hands down one of my very favorite parts of life.

Topped only by having my family all home for the night, connecting after a busy day, knowing we’re not getting even most of it right, but feeling that we’re tight as a family.  That, if nothing else, we really do have a good relationship with each other and with each of the kids.  I could skip the whole list and be content if all I had was this.