A season without sports

I just can’t help but wonder how we got here.  And if here is a good place to be.  I wonder what we’ve given up, what we’re trading to be here. Not that it’s necessarily all bad.  I just wonder if we ever stop to think about it.

Super sensitive topic, I hesitate and delete and try again and erase and pause and pick it up later.  I hate the idea of hurting anyone’s feelings, and I’m aware that I’m definitely in the minority. But I’ve thought about this for years now and I feel even more strongly about it than I did when we first made some changes back when the kids were in elementary school. Because I’ve seen so many kids grow up, I’ve talked to friends intimately and honestly, and I’ve heard regret. 

And possibly (probably?) I lean this way because the culture in our family isn’t super athletic.  But our background is similar to many of yours.  We did our share of sports growing up (tennis, track, softball, t-ball, swimming).  Our kids have all done sports.  They did community soccer from when they could barely dribble between cones.  We tried karate.  They’ve nearly all done cross country.  One did tennis.  A couple have done track.  A couple have done volleyball.  It’s not like we’ve been on the sidelines.  And yet I feel as if we may as well be up in the bleachers. 

I know I’m out there, but I’m just wondering aloud if we push competitive sports too much in our culture. And if there’s a way to invite them into our lives without letting them take over.  I wonder if we could go back to making it a little less heavy and intense.  What about just for fun? What about going back to being able to play a variety of sports because you didn’t have to specialize in just one?

Most of us are living pretty tightly scheduled.  With a bunch of kids of different ages, I get that.  I’m right there with you.  (Kind of.)  But I wonder if we can ask ourselves and our kids some questions when it comes to their activities.

How important is this to you?

What are we giving up as a family to make this work?

What do you see yourself doing with this in the future?

Do you have time for the really important things in life? Do we as a family?

Do you have time for people?

How’s your stress level? How are you emotionally?  How’s your school work?

Do you have unstructured time just to be?

Will this add joy and happiness to your life?  Is this fulfilling?

Could we achieve some of these objectives in other ways?

What are we learning from coaches that we couldn’t learn from parents?  In other ways?

Is what we’re sacrificing for sports worth it?

Are there other ways you might like to spend your time? Would you consider taking a break to try something new?

I guess I just hope we’re being mindful.  That we aren’t just signing up because we can.  Yes, we may have time.  Dad or mom is the coach, we’re doing it with them. Yes, it may be his God-given talent.  Yes, it may pay for college.  Yes, he’ll probably even play in the pros and yes, if we work hard enough she’ll have a shot at the Olympics.  Yes, we know how much you loved athletics when you were her age. Yes, there are a million great things we can learn from participating with a team and all that entails.  Yes, coaches can be awesome mentors.  Yes, teamwork, commitment, follow through, dependability, life skills, exercise, yes, yes, yes.  But is this the only way? And is it the best way?

What if we worked as a team in the garden? Or to build a greenhouse? Or to build someone else a house?  What if we didn’t have practice or a game and could just go up to the mountains all day Saturday or for family night picnic on a long summer evening? What if we just read a book in the hammock or played tennis with a sister since we have a free afternoon? What if we invited friends over and played volleyball or football in the yard?  What if we used our yards? What if we didn’t have to stick around all of June and could go camping instead? What if we didn’t have to fundraise? What if we used even a little bit of the thousands of dollars (hotels, gas, eating out, fees, equipment) and saved it for college in case, for some reason, she doesn’t end up getting a scholarship? Or used it to go on a family vacation that didn’t require sitting on a soccer field?  What if we didn’t have any idea what we’d do with the extra time and money but we just said no?  Just for a season.  Just to see what would happen.

To be agreeable, I’d say one sport and one music (or whatever works for each family) at a time is plenty for a kid.  Even at that, with several kids in a family, it can still get out of control.  And so maybe we need to ask some hard questions and make some sacrifices. Maybe we need to rotate who can do what each season.  At least while they’re young.  I love the athletics at the schools, with practice right after, close, convenient.  A few games or meets, a short season, doable, I’m in.  I’m also completely fine once they can drive themselves.  But I still think we need to be mindful.  And talk about the impact sports are having on our families.

And this is why I even broach such a controversial topic.  Because I feel like the world is already influencing our kids too much.

Schools have our kids all day and then sports seem to be taking up the afternoons and into the evenings and even spilling over into the weekends.  Social media seems to be filling in all the gaps.  I just feel like to be able to teach our kids and to influence them and to share our values we need to spend more time with them while at the same time allowing them time to figure things out on their own (with more unscheduled time away from teachers and coaches even).

I doubt anyone disputes the fact that our families require our attention.  Look around.  Families are flailing and failing.  And they desperately need us to be engaged in significant ways.  Our kids need us.  They don’t need good coaches more than they need parents.  They don’t just need other young people their age to keep them company, they need to develop strong relationships with their siblings and extended family. More than team spirit and comraderie with girls on the volleyball team, they need to forge lifelong connections with their brothers and sisters who are growing up and leaving home; these are the people who will carry them through life and who will always have their backs, not their teammates from jr. high.

And, to be honest, we simply don’t have time for it all.  I know we think this season is short.  This is temporary insanity.  We laugh knowingly when we talk about our schedules with other moms. It will be over in another month.  Until it’s time for the next sport.  But stop and really play it out.  When do we get back to real life? Are we tricking ourselves into thinking this isn’t real life?  That this isn’t how it always is, that this just happens to be an outlier, just one particularly hard, crazy season.

When we started soccer, it was an hour practice across the street from our house with a short game on Saturday.  When we started karate it was an hour a week.  But then it all started becoming more competitive and demanding and, without realizing it, we were sucked in to more than we signed up for.  What started out as a fun way to get some exercise and try something fun changed over time.

Are we splitting up the family to go to games in different parts of the region? Just to meet up again Sunday as we hit the new week?  When do we have dinner around the table as a family? Maybe Sunday? What about the other six days of the week? When do we have time for leisurely conversation about the mundane, the nuances of relationships the kids may be grappling with, the questions about life and their place in this world?  Yes, in the car.  Yes, while we eat our sandwiches on the sidelines.  Yes, I’ve been there; I lived there for years.  I know how it works.  And it does work.  To some extent.   I just wonder if we can give our kids something better.

Where will they learn the intricacies of working things out among peers without a coach to mitigate every conflict?  What happened to back yard play time or simple unstructured self-directed play with the inevitable, “I’m bored” whine? Why is that something we want to avoid? What if it actually propelled them to get creative and problem-solve and figure out their own fun without a paper schedule to dictate what they’re to do next? What would happen if we allowed or even encouraged loads of free time? What if they got a job? Worked more on family projects? Had more time to serve? Discovered a new hobby or learned a new skill? What if we simply cut back even a little?

What if we just talked about it as a couple? What do we really want for our kids? What role do we want sports to play in our family’s life? Are they enhancing our family life in long-term, valuable ways or are they depleting our already scarce resources of time and money and energy? Do we have time for the cornerstone activities: dinner, spiritual time, un-rushed time to talk, one-on-one one time with the kids, dates? And bring the kids into the conversation.  How do they see things? Is this how they want to play out the rest of high school? Do they have time for everything? Will these sacrifices matter long-term? Are they creating and keeping strong relationships outside of the team? Especially with their family? Will they regret how they spent these years?

And maybe the answer will be, We’re great! This is working for us! We’re thriving as a family, we’re fitting it all in, everyone’s good.  It’s crazy, but in a good way.  This is what our family does and we love it.  And that would be fabulous.  I know lots of families who somehow manage to do it all, kudos!  You’re the kind of family who could run circles around ours, you make me tired just listening to your schedule for the week, I’m in awe.  And if that’s you, carry on!

But I just wanted to at least bring it up.  I feel like our culture has swept us away in a sea of sports options starting very early and becoming ever more intense and involved, taking us away from other worthwhile pursuits and activities, which may include nothing more than a lazy afternoon on the grass and a pillow and her thoughts.  And if we’re not mindful and cognizant of the choices we’re making, we may inadvertently be missing out on other valuable, even critical, parts of life as a family.  I just wonder if someday, even many years from now as we look back on it all, we may have regrets about how we spent the tender, formative, and fleeting years of their childhoods.  And I wonder if we would've chosen a little differently if we had just given it a little thought.

Good, Better, Best talk by Dallin H. Oaks

Snapshots of contentment

A young friend was trying to paint a picture of one of those perfect days, “You know.  Like it’s 70 out and we’re just hanging out on the deck and the kids are playing.”  I knew exactly what she was talking about and agreed that those are some of my favorite days to be a part of.  In fact, I was feeling that way right there at my kitchen table on that lazy Friday afternoon as she was talking to me, early fall, big kids back in school, a breather from all the responsibilities, burdens, and cares we sling around with us as moms, a refreshing couple of hours, just the six of us, no place we needed to eminently rush off to, catching up from what we’d missed this summer, laughing, and just knowing each other.  Splendid.  Of course I know what she was talking about.

Her sentiment has stayed with me this week, and I’ve thought of so many other times where I’ve felt at one with the world and—as my sister always says—in my happy place.

And so I started making a list.  I thought I’d have a few highlights from my life, days that stood up a little taller than the rest.  But after two pages, I realized it’s just life. They’re everywhere.  And every day.

When we pay attention, when we put away our phones and decide to just take a mental shot instead, when we decisively allow ourselves this moment, it’s quite humbling to note how many opportunities we have to feel this quiet peace, this happy-place feeling.

It was noticing Andrew on the wooden swing under a leafed-out summer tree, just talking to his girlfriend in the warm afternoon away from the ears of his family, alone with her voice, warming my heart to its core.

It’s a little time-out, a pause in my day, when my mom or a sister or a friend calls. Sometimes I’ll just sit down at my special table, so happy for some time with my puzzle.  But I’ve also curled up in my plush, brick red chair my dad made years ago.  It’s textured, velvety stuff, still soft and caressing after all these years.  I’ve spent so many hours just cradled in its arms, bridging the span of miles and weeks while I gaze out at the spring leaves or the gathering snow listening to some of my favorite people.  Heavenly.

It’s seeing the kids or my sister so comfy and cocooned.  One of our living room couches is cornered with windows all around it, showing off glittering leaves shaking in the summer breezes or branches littered with first snows.  The perfect napping spot.  I point it out to my visiting sister, who claims it every day, agreeing that it’s the ideal spot for her siestas.  There is nothing more relaxing than the clatter of everyday life going on around her while she rests.  I totally know the feeling.  I feel myself smiling as I settle into my naps there myself.

It was walking along the shore in Oregon, early morning or at dusk.  The seals, the shells, the fishermen, the kids.  Barefoot, carrying our shoes, getting our legs wet as we both avoided and chased the waves.  The sand was warm; the air, cool.  Coming home to our rental and cooking dinner for real and cuddling on the couches.  No distractions or places to go.  Just being together as a family maybe one last time before college started up again.  I paid attention.  And sighed with emotion.

It’s being around to watch the kids do their things.  I’m not a runner, but my kids are.  And so I’ve loved the cross country meets at the lake.  So many trees and fallen leaves, breezes and voices. I just love watching my kids enjoy themselves, to see them interacting with their classmates and friends, to note how grown up they’re becoming, to see them trying to outrun themselves, to be out in autumn with friends.

It’s late nights in bed with Todd watching a movie on our little DVD player.  I know we could go downstairs to the big tv, but this is so much better: cozy, close, nestled, propped up, sleepy.

It’s walking with my mom around the graveyard on early summer mornings before anyone is up.  I have cherished these times for years and years and sometimes it occurs to me that one day it will change. And even though we can’t go as long as we used to, I think I appreciate these slower walks more each time I visit.

It was so many summer nights last year, interspersed with some Saturdays, during which we turned the radio up loud and simply painted the house with our brushes.  All the kids working alongside us, dogs running around, each of us taking a turn on the ladder, moving around the exterior and taking note of our progress.  At the time we grumbled, especially the kids.  And when we had to have all the siding ripped off and replaced, we complained a little more.  But I only look back on those times with fondness (and a little questioning), grateful for the family time we had before Avery went off to college.

It’s long walks with Todd.  I texted him last Friday at work, asking if we could walk around the Country Club later on since we once again had the night to ourselves.  Always up for any semblance of time away and alone together, he agreed.  We meandered up and down the hilly streets, commenting on improvements we’d make if we owned the houses, comparing yards and rooflines.  The sun faded and twilight settled in.  His arms produced little goosebumps, it felt like fall.  But our hands were warm, entwined as they were.  The kids were all away for the night and so we had nothing to get home to but the honey harvest.  We lingered a little longer.

It’s hotel room stays as a family. Todd and me in one bed, the kids all huddled together in the other until it’s time to sleep, all tuned in to Myth Busters or Home and Garden, doesn’t matter, we’re just happy to have tv channels.  We’ve learned to bring microwave popcorn, and they still like to try out the pool and hot tub, even at this age.  A cold and dark respite during a mid-summer road trip or a cozy, soft retreat after an evening walking the snowy small-town streets decorated for the holidays.  I fall asleep easily on these nights, so comforted amid the bodies of all my people.

It’s watching the Alaskan documentary with the grandparents on a late Sunday night, all in agreement that this is what our family does. Not even having to negotiate or ask if everyone wants to watch this, a given. It’s every Sunday night with popcorn and ice cream.  It’s knowing that this is what will happen, just like our Sunday night walk.  It’s having traditions like these as our cornerstones. 

It's making jam, picking raspberries, playing games, walking in the snow, harvesting the garden, eating dinner on the back deck, curling up with a book, cuddling with our dogs, decorating for the new season.

And so I’ve tried to figure out what it is.  What is it about these times, these memories, that create a contented feeling, a temporary respite from our worries and concerns, a wash that centers me and allows me to breathe and remember that this is the stuff that matters?  That life is good.  That it’s not all heavy.  I’ve realized most of these memories were just pieces of regular life.  They were simple times.  Most didn’t cost a thing. Almost all of them were with people I adore; although sometimes it felt good just to be alone.  Easy, ordinary, carefree, spontaneous. An awareness is all it is really. I wonder how it would lift our spirits if, instead of always reaching to take pictures of what we’re doing, we just used our minds instead, if we gave more of our attention to the experiences themselves. I admit I’ve probably missed out on some photo ops, and maybe I’ll wish I had taken more pictures.  But as I recall these random occasions, and so many more just like them, I’m grateful I took note and that I was present enough to have captured the moments forever in my heart instead.

Advice from an old friend

I came home from a week at my mom’s. Her house is muffled and chilled, a soothing and inviting respite from the oppressive outdoor heat.  Scented.  Like Bath and Body Works.  No dishes in the sink waiting for another day.  Manicured lawn. Bathmats so fluffy that they get in the way of closing the doors.  Towels straight out of a Downey commercial.  Even the toilet paper is plush.  The coordinating room sets allow us to name the rooms: the yellow room, the blue room.  Quality comforters an inch or so thick.  Carpet throughout.  All of it feels a lot like a hotel.  The nice kind.

It’s both easy and hard to come back.  Obviously, I love being with Todd and the kids.  I like the quiet of our area.  I feel refreshed, ready to be home where my heart is; it’s comfortable.  But you know what it’s like to be gone on a trip for a week.  You kind of get the chance to look at your life through a new lens, maybe a little less biased, a little more objectively.  So as I took it all in, scanning, taking note, I was surprised to feel a little saddish.

We have hardwood floors mostly.  Our living room is sort of long and spread out; I wondered if my mom’s felt a little cozier.  I like our style because it fits us, but my mom’s is traditional and vibrant, full of reds and blacks and yellows.  Ours is mostly brown.  I couldn’t help but notice how unfinished everything was as I walked around.  Trim is absent or partly finished.  Same with the paint.  Bathrooms are from the olden days (not the cool olden days), all the toilet seats are askew or flimsy.  The sinks don’t have plugs, nor do the bathtubs.  The wood is antiquated and gummed from many previous tenants having primped in these very same corners.  The showers are crumbling and etched from years of well water usage.  No doors on any of the closets.  That was just inside.

The driveway is gravel and dirt mix when it’s warm; a mud hole when it’s wet. An oversized industrial shop with a brown roof and a lighter brown wall set greets new arrivals.  Nothing at all like the shops our friends have built on their properties that coordinate with their beautiful homes.  So, so, so many weeds.  All over the driveway.  Along the shop.  Vines poking up through the cement.  Chickens and their food scraps scattered.  Yard piles and projects everywhere I turned: trailers, old boat frame, pallets ready for the dump, landscaping rocks, shutters that haven’t worked out.  It just all felt a little overwhelming to come to home to my work, to notice the un-done-ness of our property and all that we still had to get to.

I took pictures of what I saw and admitted I just felt tired, not exactly depressed or dejected, just weary.  Imagine my surprise when an old friend quipped back with a short reply, “Don’t be tired. The fun part is fixing it up, enjoy it while it lasts.”  So unexpected.  But I was touched that he would even respond to my whining.  His simple words affected and inspired me, and I’ve thought about them ever since.  Todd and I have always tried to make ourselves feel better by asking each other what we would do with all our time and money if we already had a perfectly finished house.  And we admit that we would rather buy a fixer-upper than have a brand new home; we remind ourselves that we chose this.  And while we plugged as much as we could into our summer days and nights and made headway on some of the projects on our list, it can feel a little heavy thinking about how much we still have much to do.  But every time I find myself feeling weighed down, I think about Mike’s advice.  And I try to remember that it actually really is fun to be able to see the transformation take place, to see the renaissance happening right in front of us.  His reminder motivates me to put on my gloves again and quit crabbing.

I’ve thought about how true this is in so many facets of our lives.  Sometimes we just want to sigh and feel tired.  Sometimes we just want to be done and move on, telling ourselves that surely this isn’t part of the journey we are supposed to enjoy, we want to curse whoever came up with such a dumb line, this couldn't possibly be what they were talking about, this here is just a hiccup in the road on the way to where the real fun starts.

Unless it isn’t.  Maybe the mess, the chaos, the unfinished-ness of it all is ok.  Maybe even more than fine.  Maybe it is the fun part.  When we reflect back on the days of our lives, we recognize that our memories weren’t always comfortable as we were making them. But with a tidy, cleaned-up perspective, we realize that it was in the mayhem and the floundering that we created these cherished recollections we so eagerly try to dismiss in the very moment they’re happening.

Certainly, we’ve lived long enough to know that—even when it’s trying and tiring—we’re going to miss this.   Because when we really think about it, how many days of our lives do we get to nurse or cuddle with a one-week-old? And be up in the middle of the night with our sick three-year-old who just needs to be held and reassured?  How many summer evenings will we really have with our teens listening to an old country radio station and painting the house till dark settles on us?  How many more nights will we have them for family dinners or late-night pow-wows? How many times will all the furniture be in the living room—even the beds—providing the perfect backdrop for a family sleepover?  How many times do we get a fresh start with a yard to do anything we want?  Why do I wish so much of this away, declaring I’m just tired.  He is so right, this is the fun part.

It sounded like I was giving up.  And maybe I’m ok with that—temporarily.  I think every now and then it’s ok to take a night off and regroup; I love those evenings without a project, when Todd and I sit together with our puzzle or maybe a show and some popcorn.  But to be too tired to get back to it all, that’s not the kind of person I want to be.

And so I love that these words would transcend time and miles to bless my life with renewed perspective and peace.  Along with energy and excitement for all that lies ahead in our todays and tomorrows.  We’re nowhere near Bed and Breakfast status, and our projects loom over us like a cloudy day.  But I choose to feel grateful.  For ventures that keep us occupied, for work that unites us as a family, for the ability to decide what we want our home to look and feel like, to watch it all come together over time, and for the strength and ability to make it happen.  The most satisfying kind of tired comes at the end an industrious day as we look back on what we managed to get done.  And that’s just it.  The fun is in the creation, in the conversion, whether it’s a staircase, a flower bed, a freshly painted bathroom, or a relationship.  And as I start again with this perspective in mind, I’m fulfilled as I simply handle what today brings with a better attitude.  I don’t need to wish this stage away—whether it’s dealing with a tough toddler or teen or making my way through college or lean years of early marriage or living without a kitchen or living room for several weeks—I think I'll follow Mike's advice and simply choose to think of it all as the fun part.  Because I know—looking back—this is what I’ll call it anyway.

Old time family vacation

Last Saturday morning, far too early in the young day, I was awake but trying to go back to sleep.  Too soon to get up for a weekend, I felt something familiar but from way back.  It took me a while to identify what I was remembering, but then it occurred to me that the birdsongs, the warm and quiet breeze, the stretching of an awakening morning, the lack of road sounds, the summerness of it all was taking me to a time when I was younger than 12.  Leaving from a week’s vacation in Utah, getting a head start on a promised roaster, as we headed south on I-15.

In the early years it was the station wagon; later, the van.  Both made me slightly nervous as we crossed Death Valley in the middle of summer in the heat of the day as we traveled back to San Diego from our annual pilgrimage to visit our cousins and aunt and uncle in Utah.  I wondered what would happen to us if we overheated, which seems like it was more of a thing back then?

My dad was an upholster and my mom worked in a bank.  We had a one-week family vacation a year, and this was it.  Nearly every other day of the year my two sisters and I went to year-round school and daycare.  There was an occasional day when daycare was closed and we’d have to go spend the day with someone from church or our grandma.  My mom did have a week off at Christmas, and I loved having a stay-at-home even as temporary as it was. But this was the highlight of our year.

Embarking on our trip, leaving from San Diego on a Friday night, the idea was for my mom to get off a little early so we could get out of town and head north at a decent hour.  Year after year this was the first argument of the trip.  My dad refused to prepare before we were all loaded in the vehicle.  We needed to gas up and pick up a new pair of sunglasses.  It was usually 6 p.m. by this time.  Grandma packed us food.  Celery and peanut butter wrapped in wax paper in a shoebox is the only part I can remember besides soda.  But we never ate it, which is why I have no idea what else we had on board.  We did pick up Mama Lina’s sandwiches from the deli across the busy street from our apartment: luscious subs on homemade bread with precisely the right amount of oil and vinegar dripping into the paper wrap.  The second argument of the trip was that a man needed a hot meal.  Requiring a pit stop to get a burger within an hour or so of us commencing our trip. 

An additional argument would be the air conditioning.  My dad would point it directly on himself even as we were sweltering in the back of the long station wagon or van.  Then he’d get cold and turn it off altogether.  Maybe vents for the backs of vehicles hadn’t been invented back then, but it was a constant battle.

I remember stopping in Las Vegas for gas en route.  It was, of course, dark but surreal, like opening the door to a hairdryer.  Such heat I’d never felt the likes of especially not at night.  And the lights.  It was like another world, so luminous and beckoning.  As sleepy as we may have been, this was a diversion we never wanted to miss.  So stimulating, such a thrill for us to be in such a strange land, a visual reminder that we were inching closer to our eventual destination.

What we did to occupy ourselves, I have no idea.  I just know we traveled into the darkening abyss until we docked in Mesquite, Nevada, around midnight to lodge overnight.  These were the days of optional seat belts and the rows of seats being folded to create a generous platform for sleeping or lounging.  You certainly have heard the tales, if not lived them.

We’d straggle to our motel room hours past our regular bedtime.  In olden-day establishments that might not have been reputable even then. Emblazoned in my mind was a time when we opened up the door with the key, turned on the lights, and watched the orange carpet emerge as a million or more cockroaches scurried to their hiding spots: brown to orange flooring appearing in seconds.  A challenge for a sleepy young mind to interpret for sure.  My dad marched right back to the office and asked if there was an extra charge for the cockroaches and took us elsewhere.  Can you even imagine what the bedbug situation might have been?  The bedspreads were original floral sorts.  That stale cigarette stench impregnated walls, upholstery, and carpet.  And yet even now old bowling alleys and antique shops with that same smell sort of transport me back to nights like this with my family.

We’d sleep soundly—as we all do in those perfectly climatized rooms with cold, loud air conditioning and thick, heavy, full-coverage curtains darkening out the light from both night and day on the other side.  But we always awoke full of anticipation, eager to be on our way to meet up with our cousins.  We were so close.

But this was always another of the difficulties of the trip.  My mom would be up early, dressed and ready for the day; we girls would follow suit.  But my dad slept.  He argued that he’d been up driving all night; couldn’t a man get some sleep?  I have to laugh now, but I can’t imagine the frustration both my parents felt.

But breakfast in Dixie called, of all things, Dick’s Diner, eventually smoothed things over, as diners have a tendency to do. Mom ordered eggs benedict (whatever that is) and the rest of us would have pancakes.  After breakfast, we would go to the little gift shop that was part of the diner, which is exactly weird now that I think about it.  I’d buy postcards or a glass animal for my collection or a plastic Indian doll, a tiny stuffed koala that I named Timmy.  My youngest sister would buy one of those bottles with a penny in it or a cheap little coin purse with beads on it.

We stopped for burgers for lunch, my middle sister always ordered one with ketchup and lettuce only.  My dad wanted a malt but always complained that they weren’t like the ones in the 50s; he wanted one thin enough to drink with a straw.  We were always embarrassed.  But now that I’m older I totally get it.  

By afternoon when we began to catch a glimpse of the mountains, our excitement escalated to the point of no return.  None of us could sleep or read because we were too focused on determining which mountain would contain the Y, our beacon of hope.

It was a small but glorious reunion: an aunt, uncle, a boy cousin and a girl cousin.  But they were the only family my mom had in all of America.  These were our people, and we were free from everyday life at daycare for an entire week.  One of the parts we loved most was Sparky.  We couldn’t have pets in our apartment, and so a week with a dog was novel and intoxicatingly amusing.

Our entertainment for the week trumped even Christmas, starting with dinner at Heaps o’ Pizza (aka Brick Oven south of the BYU campus) that first Saturday night.  Such a glorious kickoff, pizza and apple beer in a restaurant booth with everyone.  I was as content as Templeton at the fair.

Until Sunday.  I hated going to church as a visitor.  No one ever knew where La Mesa was, so we eventually learned to tell them all we were from San Diego even though it didn’t feel as precise.  A hardship for sure, I feel my own children’s pains when they balk at attending youth classes with strangers.

Over the years the details changed only slightly.  Our uncle worked at BYU so we would go visit him on campus in his upper-floor, windowed office. He seemed so important; his work so tidy.  Although I dreamed of a day, I couldn’t reach far enough down the road of my imagination to conceptualize attending this university as a student.  How interesting it was for me to walk those same halls as young student, grown up enough apparently to visit my uncle on my own.

As much as we adored our uncle, the main reason for visiting campus was the book store, as it is even today when we visit Utah.  Far more than a literary warehouse, it is three floors of nearly everything you can think of from art, bumper stickers, and jewelry to arguably the world’s best fudge, extensive candy counter, and collection of collegiate wearables. A new sweatshirt was a given, the souvenir of choice.  They were expensive, as they are still today; but it was a non-negotiable.  One year our middle sister insisted on a letterman’s jacket, cajoling mom into buying it for her, insisting she would just wear it with jeans and a white t-shirt—our go-to foundational pieces whenever asked what we would wear with whatever item we were trying to get mom to buy us. It had a cougar on it.

The rest of the week’s activities rivaled the thrill of our day on campus.  We spent hours at a waterslide park that had just three blue slides: the minnow, the octopus, and the barracuda.  Mom and her sister would sit and tan, talking and talking and talking.  It was the same as we got older and ventured to Salt Lake to go to Raging Waters in an old borrowed green Baptist van that smelled a little off.  They had no idea where we were during any part of the day because that's just the way things were back then.  We’d go to the Young Ambassador shows and the mall, bowling in the basement of the student center at BYU and to the Stadium of Fire for the 4th of July show.  I remember holding a sparkler for the first time during one of these trips and noting the brave cousins and friends who would watch the fireworks from the roof.

One year my dad insisted on taking us to the family farm in Preston, Idaho.  I think my mom felt resentment about having to leave her sister for an entire day (it was a four-hour drive each way—that’s when the speed limit was much slower), but it was a family reunion and we needed to be there.  So many old people, so many relatives I had no idea about.  It was not my scene.  But I rode a horse.  And my grandparents and other cousins were there.  And it was sort of neat to see where my dad used to spend time as a kid and to hear about bats in their attic bedroom.  Small and quaint.  I know I would appreciate its charm if I could go back today.

We tried camping one year.  But neither of our families knew how to camp.  My aunt and uncle borrowed two pop-up campers that no one really knew how to set up, and the moms made mountains of food that we eventually just tossed.   We drank some bad water at a mountain reception and had diarrhea and violent stomach aches the entire time we were in Zion and Bryce.  So so sad.  Beautiful country, and we all but missed it.  But it makes for a marvelous memory.

So basically we'd just go swimming and shopping most of the week, picking up candy, cassette tapes and freckles (and sometimes blisters) along the way.  Just a glorious way to spend a portion of summer.  And so hard to return to regular life the next.  But as our vacation came to a close, we were satisfied.  Dad needed to get back to his upholstery work, and mom had to get back to the bank.  We had lived large and had soaked in all the memories we could hold for one year.

For some reason, I've reserved a place in my mind for those pleasant, sleepy mornings as our parents loaded up the van or station wagon with our suitcases and pillows.  All we’d have to do was hug the grown-ups goodbye, assume our positions in the vehicle and return to sleep, a blissful escape from the permanence of leaving the week behind. A sinking, hollow feeling hung in the air. But like the morning I awoke to just last week, the early canyon breezes felt refreshing, piercing the already warming dawn as the neighborhood still slumbered.  It felt like we were up before the day even yawned, as if we were trying to sneak away before we could change our minds and stay just one more day.  For an entire year, we would miss our family—and having a dog.  Our parents seemed happier, lighter, more relaxed; and we laughed a bit more than usual during this week away. And maybe these trips were part of the glue that kept our family together the rest of the year.  These were unforgettable times, and as simple as they were, they are etched in my heart forever.  Which is why I can still feel Utah in my Montana summer mornings.




*Thank you to Cheryl for helping me remember so far back into our lives as kids.

Saving the world

Just another uncomfortable silence as the last of the kids finally left for the day and I’m alone with my thoughts.  The boys are at work; Avery is off to a meeting and work as well.  We were just in the kitchen, she making her lunch and me making sandwich rolls and chocolate cake for dinner tonight, each of us so alike in the way we make our messes.

She just launched her thrift shop online, is continuing volunteer work with a group that encourages young voters, and is full of ideas to save the world.  She is majoring in international relations and wants to become an advocate for women. 

As we talked together, I told her we really aren’t that different.  She disagrees.  Which leads me to feel rejected.  I told her I was very much like her as a teenager, I joined amnesty international, I wore shirts with slogans about saving the whales and the oceans, we collected cans and newspaper to earn money for our school, we were uptight with our water usage, my grandma was a stickler about recycling, and my favorite class was oceanography.  I've always had an affinity for nature, have a soft heart for those less fortunate and am intrigued by documentaries and books about the environment and the poor, wishing there was more I could do. I wasn’t anywhere as well-read or as aware as she is, and I didn’t know much about the causes I was trying to benefit, but I bought the shirt to help Bosnia and ran the booth to send care packages to our servicemen in college anyway. I did the tiniest bits I could think of to assist.  It wasn’t much, but I felt drawn to these people and causes that tugged at my heart.

I tried to explain that just because I’ve never been to a rally or a protest or a sit-in doesn’t mean I don’t care about the world or that I’m not trying to make a difference.  Not at all.  But I know she doesn’t believe that my efforts are the same or as valiant as those who are more prominent or vocal.

I apologize to myself and to the world. I am not as confident in showing up in a big way and am much more timid when it comes to putting myself out there.  The news makes me nervous, it honestly hurts my stomach and almost paralyzes me.  When I read a book or story or hear a clip about the pains and suffering, my own life seems beyond pointless. It is difficult to muster up the strength to clean a bathroom or shop for more food when so much of the world is impoverished, starving and homeless.  Why all this luxury, for what?  And so it has the opposite effect on me than it does on Avery.   It propels her to action, it gives her fighting energy.  It only makes me sad, despondent and overwhelmed with hopelessness. I feel immense visceral guilt for the life I have.  Which makes me feel completely useless.

And so I have tended to the causes and people that I've personally felt led to instead.  I’ll never be a leader type; I can’t imagine being front and center of anything.  I don’t feel pulled to travel to other countries or even to large demonstrations.  But for as long as I’ve known myself, I’ve felt a desire to help closer to home in small, nearly imperceptible, ways.

But is it any less noble to notice the one?  To visit the ladies who live alone or in a home that isn’t their own?  Was it helpful at all to read to the blind, recording textbooks in a small quiet library room to a tape recorder for friends I’d never meet?  Does it make a difference to send letters and notes and prayers and love across the miles even to strangers I’ll never meet?

A friend asked me just yesterday what I do all day.  I think I hate that question.  Because I feel like I have to validate how I use my time, to prove that I’m making worthwhile choices, that I am somehow contributing.  I told her the basics, where I volunteer, that we’re remodeling our house so I paint and do a lot of yard/housework.  I tend to the housekeeping of course and I cook a lot.  But nope, I don’t have a podcast, I’ve never taken a humanitarian trip or served a mission.  I refuse to be on the school board or go door to door to encourage the bond vote.  Just thinking about any of that gives me great anxiety.

So I try to tell Avery that even though it doesn’t look like much at all from her vantage point, the greatest success in life is never out there.  It is here.  Who cares about all the work you do across the oceans or continents if your own family is falling apart?  I tell her all the time this is a small recess for me, just a few short years that I want to devote myself to this cause.  I guess people can see it as a sacrifice of my own career, that I’ve given up myself and my potential to mop floors and cook dinners, that I’m not as valuable as those who have careers or organizations they’re growing because I’m just a mom. I tell her over and over that this is temporary.  I have decades to do whatever I want. But that this is the most important, influential work I’ll ever do in my life regardless of what else I choose to fill my time with later on.

The greatest, most powerful institution and organizational unit in the world is the family.  Without question.  Why would I not insist on putting my best energies here?  I have just five kids.  The most valuable thing I have done with my time—in all my lifetime—is to be present for them.  To teach them.  To answer them.  To guide them.  To explain to them.  To read to them.  There is no greater feeling than seeing them all take off, independent, confident, able, secure, and ready.   To have played the tiniest role in their growth overrides any sense of accomplishment anywhere else.

And I have just four more years with kids at home.  Only four.  I know they don’t require me in the traditional way toddlers do, but I believe teenagers still need parental influence and presence.  I’m content and honored with the work I do, both at home and in the slightest ways I can share joy with those around me with.

But I feel like I’ve not lived up to the role model Avery has wanted, and she surely doesn’t intend to waste her life the way I have.  I refer her to so many of my women friends who are doing exceptional work in the community and the world.  They are enthusiastically engaged in their causes, and their personalities are much more like hers.  My personality is simply and innately more reserved.  Maybe I’ve done her a disservice by not exposing her to more of these amazing women.

But I also wonder if she’s ever considered where she got the ideas she has or how she has been able to develop her passions.  It's possible her home life contributed in a small way to her open-mindedness and care for the environment and empathy for the less fortunate by our conversations and what we value, what we watch and what we read and what publications we subscribe to. But just because some choose a quieter path, those contributions can still have merit.  There is a place for those of us who are doing work on an individual level close to home as well as those who want to engage in larger, more public platforms.

I guess I just wish she could see that we’re not all that different in how we view the world.  There is some of me in her, absolutely.  I just didn’t have the confidence and drive she does at such a young age, nor the personality, to act on my inclinations.  She is funny though, I’ve been talking about the plastic packaging of body wash for years now and have tried to convince her of the merits of bar soap; she thought it was too gross. But just the other day she came home, proud of her newly purchased soap.  She is also a converted thrift shopper, something I’ve been advocating for years as well.  I was also amused that she took an apple for her snack today and wrapped it in a cloth napkin.  Just as I did the very day before.  I just finished a documentary on the chemicals in our environment, forwarded her one about ranchers becoming vegetarians, and am in the middle of one about the period movement in India. I don’t think our interests—or hearts and desires—are that different.

She inspires me, no doubt, and I see the incredible impact her life will have on the world.  But she saddens me also.  Because I feel, in her eyes, that I’m not enough, that I’ve somehow let her down by not being bolder in my activism, that I’ve resigned myself to only showing up as a mom.  It grieves me most of all that I haven’t been successful in convincing her how impactful such an advocate at home can be.  But I have a feeling we will continue to learn from each other through the years.  Maybe she will understand, as she becomes a mother herself someday, where I was coming from and why I felt so strongly about spending so much of my time and energy on my family while I had kids at home.  And I know her zeal for aiding those who are troubled has already stirred my thinking and I’m anxious to follow her lead and broaden my sphere of influence just a little more in the upcoming years.  I just don't think we're as different as she thinks in how we see the world.

Relating to our bodies

I was hanging out with a friend in her pool, just the two of us, yesterday; she is disappointed with her body and is working on becoming healthier and stronger.  I love that.  Later on I was listening to my podcast lady who shared some thoughts about the relationship we have with our bodies.  With these two conversations in mind, I asked myself the same hard question, how do I feel about my own body? And I wonder how helpful it would be for all of us to consider how we honestly feel about our bodies.  I wonder if it would motivate us to be kinder and more accepting of ourselves. And more appreciative of the gift our bodies are.

Growing up my main concern regarding my body was my skin.  I was pale and freckly in the winter months, a little more off-white and even more freckly in the summer.  I remember constantly asking my mom if my legs were too white when I wanted to wear shorts to school.  But I also remember having funny tan lines on my feet from my sandals.  I remember more than anything wanting regular skin sans freckles and hoped someday I would grow out of them.  I felt they were my curse.  As an adult, I couldn’t care less about freckles.  I actually love my skin.  I know it’s not anything great, it’s just that I have really tried to take care of it and I feel like I’m treating it well, that we have a thing.  When I was first given license to wear makeup in sixth grade, I went all out.  Blue eye shadow, purple mascara, eyeliner, pink lipstick.  I wore make up all through college and into my mothering.  I have no idea when I cut back to mascara and lipstick (and a little dab of concealer to cover my omnipresent darkish parts under my eyes).  I’m not into foundation and power as I was a teen.  I feel more real and authentic these days like I’ve come out from behind a mask.

I always hated my hair as a kid.  Short and straight like a boy.  Sometimes curled like Dorothy Hammel in a wedge on a Sunday.  I grew it out starting in 6th grade.  But I had big bangs that went back to the middle of my head.  My hair was bright blonde as a kid, but it morphed into plain brown by the time I was in jr. high, and that’s where it stayed.  I had a stint around 8th grade when I used Sun-In to lighten it.  I even permed it once.  A few years ago I had to start coloring the roots.  I also tried dark, dark brown but it felt too stark, maybe a bit Goth. So even though I love my Scottish heritage of black hair and blue eyes; it didn’t quite work for me.  I curled it incessantly in the 80s and used cans of Rave hairspray with a pick.  Just my luck, it became curly just as straight hair became a thing; so now I straighten it.  Good grief.  I finally found my signature style in college, just a chin length bob with no bangs.  I love my hair these days.  I’m not sure if the style is right on me, so I’m not saying that I love the way I look in my hair.  I’m just grateful that it’s thickish (I never understood what that was all about, who cared? But now as I’m aging, I’m glad there’s a little buffer), and I’m finally ok with plain brown, and I like running my fingers through it because it feels healthy and at ease.

I’ve always liked my blue eyes.  Except when I wanted green.  They aren’t anything special, but they mean the world to me.  I don’t know if I value any part of my body more than my eyes, and I have always tried to be very, very careful with them because I appreciate my sense of sight so much.  As far as the actual look, when women would ask me where my kids got their beautiful blue eyes I would always smile and tell them from their grandmas.

As far as my actual body size, I have always and forever been just average. It never occurred to me to think about what size my clothes were or how much I weighed.  I just got whatever size I was.  I do remember 6x because it was such a funny size.  I had no idea in the world what other people wore.  I do remember a moment in high school when we got back our graduation pictures in those green robes.  That was a turning point for me because I felt that I looked fat.  My cheeks and face have always been roundish, but with that full robe up to my neck, it didn't look like how I felt, and vowed from then on to always be cognizant of my health and to be mindful of how I treated my body.  I remember joining track and tennis when I was in high school, mostly because I felt I needed an exercise regime.  I was horrible at both, hated track and loved tennis.  So I started consciously exercising since that time (age 15) and have stuck with it nearly daily since.  As far as my height, it’s funny that I always felt tall.  I think because in elementary school I was.  And then everyone else caught up.  My sisters and many of my roommates/friends were taller than me, but now I consider myself tall even as I’ve shrunk to maybe 5’5.

Not when I was very little, and probably only because I don’t remember, but from elementary school on I felt ugly.  It was confirmed over and over to me, but I’ll always remember two idiots in the BYU stadium when I was a freshman, “Those are two of the ugliest girls I’ve ever seen.”  I’ve tried and tried to forget that, but it’s still ringing through my head nearly 30 years later.

To be really honest and personal, I thought my mastectomy and reconstruction would change things—maybe that I would finally feel more comfortable as a girl.  I have always struggled with my figure, and I attribute that directly to our culture.  Swimsuits were dreadful; I hated pools and beaches partly for that reason and always felt better in an oversized shirt. It is so sad to me that I would have such a time with something so unimportant.  I have no feeling anymore, I hate the way I look nearly 5 years after my surgeries, and I try to avoid any glimpse of myself.  I am working so hard to reconcile this.  And so I try to appreciate the good.  I was fortunate enough to be able to nurse my five children from 8-11 months each.  I’ve always been able wear all sorts of tops because I’ve always been so small, and I could easily sleep on my stomach if I wasn’t a back sleeper (but for the past 5 years it’s been excruciating to turn over in my sleep, feeling as if my muscles were being ripped from the bone).

And I admit I don't love myself in pictures.  Maybe 93% of women could say that.  Every now and then I'll find one where the inside of me and the outside of me feel like they match.  But so much of the time I'm left to scrunch my forehead and wonder where the disconnect is.  That's not how I see myself at all.  It's pretty crazy.  But I continue to post pictures because I think it's so important to be present, to be in life and to be a part of the family.  I figure people already know what I look like and people who know me know that's not what I care about anyway.

So now at nearly 48, my overall feelings about my body are good.  I am disappointed with the 10 pounds on my stomach I can’t seem to lose no matter what I do.  I’m hoping it’s the tamoxifen, but I don’t know if I’ll ever see ab muscles again in my life. And I don’t really care about all that because it’s always covered, I just don’t want to keep gaining 10 pounds a year for the next 30-40 years partly because I hate jean shopping. I’ve used massage for all the tightness in my back and chest over the past couple of years, and that has helped immensely.  My frozen shoulder is probably about 95% better.

I have to admit, I’m horrible at noticing when friends have lost or gained weight.  I know you’re all working so hard at all your diets and exercise programs, going to the gym, wearing your little watches, drinking protein drinks and toting your water bottles with you everywhere.  I can totally appreciate that and I’m inspired.  But don’t hate me because I don’t notice.  It simply is a zero to me what size your clothes are or how big your thighs are or if your hair is black or pink.  What I love is when a friend is obsessed with life instead of her figure.  I love friends who will laugh with me and go for walks with me and who will eat ice cream with me every now and then.  I want to talk about books and our families and what we’re doing.  I don’t care about arbitrary numbers on your scale or the tags of your clothes, and I certainly couldn’t care less about how many steps you’ve taken.  Just walk with me.  Come on visits with me.  Let’s find someone who needs help.  Let’s use our God-given bodies to do some good and dismiss Satan from our lives and shun his lies and traps that distract us from our real purpose on earth.

For the most part, I try to focus on the love and gratitude I feel for my body.  I don’t say I love my body in a model or look sort of way.  I love it because it is my most treasured gift.  I value it so much.  Because I have a body, I can hug and go on walks and work in the yard and make food and run errands and clean and plant flowers and decorate and read and write and have long conversations.  I have come to appreciate the things I love about my body because of what it can do for me and for others.

When I look in the mirror (with clothes on), I smile.  Not because I would necessarily choose all these parts, but because I feel content.  Of course, I’d like to go back in time and be less wrinkly.  I’d like to not make creaky noises when I get up from sitting.  I’d like to be like my friends who run fantastic races and obstacles.  I wish I loved swimming and water sports.  Or any sports.  I wish I had tanner skin maybe.  But honestly, I feel like the real me is staring back.  I feel a bond with my body, a closeness, and an acceptance and a deep love for all the ways it has served me over the years.  I feel like I’m doing my part to cherish it and tend to it, to give it rest and good food and movement.

I marveled as my body created and grew other bodies.  Pregnancy and nursing fascinated me to no end.  I couldn’t get over—even my fifth time—how incredible it was that I could house a tiny human that would grow up to be a man or a woman, that my body could create nutrition and immunity for my babies.  To have been a part of that process with God is beyond humbling.  

I wish this was what the world appreciated about the human body: its capacity to create and sustain life.  To see them as beautiful creations and instruments from God.  I wish we recognized the miracles that are going on constantly within our bodies.  Our hearts, our cells, our brains.  The way we perceive and feel and heal.  The ways we can connect with other bodies through touch and looks and closeness.  Our bodies are to be worshipped—absolutely.  Not in the twisted way Satan tries to sell to the world.  But with reverence and awe.  I think this is one of the major battles we’re fighting in the world today: how we view our bodies and what we’ll do with them.

And so I recognize the power we have—that our minds have—as we consider our relationship with our own bodies.  If we are fighting right here at home, with ourselves, how can we begin to have peace and love with others?  No matter how we may think we can have charity for others, there is absolutely no way unless we feel that charity—the pure love of Christ—for ourselves first.

If we want to know the truth about our bodies, we can ask God. 

“Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you?” (1 Cor. 3:16)

“And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness” (Genesis 1:26)

“But he [Christ] spake of the temple of his body” (John 2:21)

And so I believe the greatest appreciation we can show God for this incredible gift is not only our acceptance and care of it, but the desire to have his image in our countenances.  The most beautiful people in the world are not those with just the right number on the tag of their jeans or those with the most flawless skin, not even close.  True beauty comes from within, it shows in our eyes and in the light we emanate.  And so that is why I can feel comfortable and content with my body.  While I can’t change my bone structure  or get rid of my freckles, I can look to Christ.  And that’s what makes me smile when I look at myself, this knowledge that I am here, living with this instrument—this amazing body—to make a difference and to do good in the world today.