A little introspection

Been in a contemplative mood the past few days.  Having people near and far from me struggling with their health, their relationships, wondering what’s ahead.  It feels personal.  As  much as I’ve tried to avoid the thoughts, they’ve come to me in the quiet evening when everyone was gone, as I weeded and sorted through yard refuse in the twilight, tears just trickled down my cheeks without warning.  It hit me driving in traffic just the other day.  Out of nowhere, but I think it was my heart, my tears came again.  In the quiet and peace of the most beautiful room in the temple, when I was finally alone with myself, I couldn’t hold them back.  Defining moments over the years that come without warning. Todd making it home after a near collision with another truck last winter, what could’ve been worse deer accidents.  Only a knee injury from Andrew’s dirt biking wreck last summer and another near-miss with the car.  Here and there you get news that jolts you.  You notice how close you came to losing it all.  You still wonder if you might.  It’s been that kind of week.  News around me that has woken me up.  Till I’m sitting straight up.  Wide awake from my dream-like state, causing me to question what I’ve been doing all along and if I’ve gotten any of it right.  And what I would change about even just yesterday if I knew I might not have too many tomorrows.

I played two-square with the kids.  I drew them with chalk on the driveway.  Like we used to do when we were that size.  My kind of play.  I really do feel like I’m one of them, a kid for a bit, a pal instead of the bossy mom.  A card game with Bronwyn.  And Callum and his friends.  Met Todd for lunch.  I had them help me with dinner.  I made Todd’s favorite oatmeal raisin cookies.  I found books for Mitchell at the library.  We watched some comedy.  Way past our bedtime.  I sat on the porch alone with Bronwyn in the dusky evening.  With mint chocolate chip ice cream cones.  While everyone else was in town.  Made jam with Todd.  I suppose it’s not all that unusual, we’re simple by nature and so our pleasures are simple.  But I notice that it’s fleeting.  The time between times.  You look up and realize it’s been three weeks since you just sat with a book during the day.  Or penned a journal entry.  Or sent a text not because you need to plan the cross country pasta party, but just to tell someone how much she means to you.  Or cuddled up on his bed and just let him talk.  Or took her out to lunch.  But a lot of times we get it right and take our dinner outside and we linger.  A gloriously simple way to slow down and meld with one another.  Going on walks.  Making pretzels.  Reading stories.  Eating our Sunday sundaes.  Taking a break together, relishing the simple times.  Making time for the simple times.

Because you just never know when your day to say goodbye will come.  It could be in a flash, or you could have some time to finish up loose ends.  But inevitably we will pull together all the tiny ordinary moments we’ve spent with people we love.  And that we’ve shared with people we don’t even know.  A smile to a little kid, a courtesy in busy line, letting two cars in when the traffic’s especially thick.  Small and simple kindnesses, ordinary acts, regular days.  Every day has made a difference.  It’s a million days—more or less—that we’re given as gifts.  To make a difference.  To love.  And be loved.  To show others how cherished they are.  To skip the dumb stuff like worrying about what to wear or finishing the list.  And pay attention to the real stuff like eating dinner together and hugging the kids as much as we can.  Even if they’re taller than us.  I wish I was better at all this.  I’m trying.  But I’m not there.  I need more time.  It’s taking so long to get it right.

The only resource I’ve come to covet is time.  I long for for more years, more days, more minutes.  Because the only thing I do that matters to me when I really boil things down is what I do with people, mostly those in my home, but others too.  I poured out my heart to Him.  Even though He already knows what’s in it.  I’m not ready to move on.  I don’t know many who are.  But I pleaded with Him to let me keep doing what I love.  Let me raise my kids.  Let me stay exactly where I am.  Because even though I’ll be anxious for heaven down the road, I’ve found my heaven for now.  Right where I am.

Create

My 13 year-old daughter shares all sorts of ingenious decorating and organizing tips with me; Pintrest perusal, a favorite hobby.  Even Todd was checking it out the other night, looking up yard ideas.  It’s not like I haven’t peeked; I just don’t have an account or board or whatever it is.  I just don’t want to be dependent on other creative women for my inspiration; feeling that with a little mental time and space we all have the potential to come up with ways to beautify our homes and lives in ways that feel like us.  With a little ingenuity we can corral our possessions in unconventional and attractive containers and displays.  We have it in us to come up with interesting party decorations on our own.  I suppose it’s pride that prevents me from giving in.  But maybe it’s an innate desire to be original, to create on my own, to use my unique perspective and strengths in distinctive ways.  If we’re honest, we’ll admit we all have those stirrings within in us. But it’s easier to tell ourselves we’re not creative, to lean on someone else’s ideas, to believe our contributions are not worth mentioning.  I wonder if the obstacle in not recognizing our own creativity is that we limit our definition of what it means to be creative.

“The desire to create is one of the deepest yearnings of the human soul.  No matter our talents, education, backgrounds, or abilities, we each have an inherent wish to create something that did not exist before.  Everyone can create.  Creation brings deep satisfaction and fulfillment.  We develop ourselves and others when we take unorganized matter into our hands and mold it into something of beauty.  What you create doesn’t have to be perfect.  Don’t let fear of failure discourage you.  Don’t let the voice of critics paralyze you—whether than voice comes from the outside or the inside.  You may think you don’t have talents, but that is a false assumption, for we all have talents and gifts, every one of us.  The bounds of creativity extend far beyond the limits of a canvas or a sheet of paper and do not require a brush or pen or the keys of a piano.  Creation means bringing something into existence something that did not exist before—colorful gardens, harmonious homes, family memories, flowing laughter.”*

I’ll be honest with you, playing Pictionary or Telestrations with me is painful.  But I still love them.  I toyed with the idea of Interior Design at one point in college but abandoned it nearly immediately because I am so bad at drawing.  I am absolutely stunned by the artistic hands of some of my friends.  Truly.  Because it’s so awkward for me.  But that’s maybe the point.  We don’t just need sketchers.  We need people who make us laugh, who can find the humor in obscure places.  We need my friend who brightens weddings and funerals alike with her floral arrangements, another who has the absolute knack for cutting and styling hair, others who can coordinate paint and pillow combinations, my daughter who can make an outfit out of random parts and can re-make an old dress from the 80s into something she’d wear to church.  A friend from yesteryear is an accomplished chef on the side, creating works of art from foods I vaguely recognize.  Several children we’re friends with seem like prodigies to me as they gracefully share their affinity for music.  Others we know compose spontaneously on the guitar and piano, just naturally and seemingly effortlessly.  Others grow beautiful produce.  I think of my dad every time I sit on one of his chairs or couches, plush and durable, true works of art.  My sisters are whizzes in their offices, creating order out of chaos.  My mom is a magician, transforming homes to sparkling showcases in a few short hours.  My almost 80 year-old uncle and aunt assemble massive, yet intricate, colorfully coordinated quilts.  My other friend also manages to spurn out beautiful quilts, with a house full of kids by her side.  Amazing feats.  I think of my son’s ability to comfortably arrange words that help us understand his complex ideas and another son’s desire to work with his hands, making knives from old saw blades.  I love the sewing projects, the art work, the messes, the fishing pole holder, the quiver made out of old drainpipe, bound and laced with leather covering, the bike ramps, the foam moccasins, the hair accessories, the shop benches,  all the ways I see them simply enjoying the process of creating.  Rather than worrying whether their products will be good enough.

I wonder when we stopped believing that we have something to contribute.  When did we decide we aren’t the creative type?  Because as a kid I knew I wanted to be an artist when I grew up because I loved my coloring books so much.  I also wanted to sing.  And be a dancer.  I think I started to see those dreams fade as I started to notice how good other people were at things I wasn’t. I started to believe my small efforts weren’t worthy, they were so unpolished compared to what others were producing.  That mindset kept me from developing my unique gifts, from even trying, from feeling confident about sharing my small part.  But what if we decide to uncover the desires we have?  Take off the dust covers, shake off the cobwebs and just tinker.  Just try something for the pure fun of it, just to enjoy the process of creating?

I’ve been wanting to quilt again, it’s been on my list for the past several years since the kids have all been in school.  But I’m not very good at sewing, I’m still just a novice really.  I let that paralyze me for so many years.  But then I gave myself a pep-talk a couple of years ago.  Just start small.  Simple.  Go back to the basics and just start again.  I wanted a blanket, just something warm and homemade for my afternoon naps.  I felt like being creative, like using my hands again.  I love choosing fabrics, I like the feel of material and ironing out its creases.  I marvel how the random patterns and colors merge.  It warms my heart every time one of the family members curls up with one of the quilts I made.  The corners aren’t always exactly matched.  I don’t know how to do fancy anything.  I’m just getting my feet wet after all these years.  But a dormant feeling in me has woken up, it feels good to make something unique, to use my hands to create something out of nothing.  My quilts are hardly worth talking about and nothing like what my aunt and uncle or friend make.  Hardly works of art.  But, surprisingly, that hasn’t mattered to me.  It just makes me happy to do it.

And this feeling has propelled me to notice other small joys I’ve overlooked simply because they don’t seem very impactful.  I like to make bread for people, to cook for my family, to write, to clean, to work in the yard.  But seen under the umbrella of creativity, I can see why I’ve derived joy from these simple acts.  In tiny ways I’ve been creating.  We all are.

Our friend encourages us, “If you still feel incapable of creating, start small.  Try to see how many smiles you can create, write a letter of appreciation, learn a new skill, identify a space and beautify it.  As you take the normal opportunities of your daily life and create something of beauty and helpfulness, you improve not only the world around you but also the world within you.”

So maybe go back to when you were small, remember what creations brought you joy.  Maybe reframe what you’re already doing and consider how you’re already creating and contributing to the world.  You undoubtably feel something when you’re creating.  Stronger, happier, accomplished, pleased, joyful.  Help your kids experience those same kinds of feelings.  Help them find ways to create.  Allow them to experiment and make messes; because sometimes that's what it takes.  But most of all, teach them how good it feels good to see their creations blessing the lives of others.

see Elder Uchdorf's talk, "Happiness, Your Heritage"

2 minute video clip, "Create," worth a peek

Conflicting values

I sat on it for nearly two weeks.  I told the newspaper office to hold our subscription while we were out of town and I would call to get it started again when we got back. Instead of the regular vacation hold, I took this option to give me some thinking time. Except I couldn’t decide.  I’ve vacillated about this for months, I suppose years in a way.  Because we cancelled it once before.  That lasted about three days.  We were out of sorts without it.  We love getting the paper.  I grew up reading it, my dad delivered newspapers, my grandparents used to pay me to read 3 articles a day, we’ve had the paper even when we were young and right out of school. I treat myself to a USA Today when we’re on road trips.  I want the newspaper industry to stay alive.  And thrive even.  I want to support it.  I can't help but think of the carriers and the writers, all the employees that need jobs.  We believe in the paper.  And yet I hate the amount of paper it uses.  I hate that it costs so much.  I worry that we’re wasteful and some days don’t get to it like we should.  I hate that so much of it is ads that we toss without even unpacking.  I hate that we just pile the whole thing, day after day, into the recycling crate, creating more work and energy for the system.  (Although, I have to say it makes a good fire start and excellent drop cloth for spray painting projects.)  And yet, I love pouring over articles as a family at breakfast.  I love seeing Mitchell, like an old grandpa, paper up high, spread out wide.  I love that he shares his opinions about current issues.  I like that he tells me what’s going on when I haven’t had time to sit down with it yet for the day.  It warms my heart to see them all take turns over the comics that I then turn into wrapping paper.  I like that we can discuss our town and world together in the same way families have done for years before us.  I don’t like the idea of something else to look at on a screen.  I don’t like talk radio.  I want a quiet, unobtrusive venue for obtaining the news.  I like taking a little walk to pick up our paper at the front of our subdivision.  I loved it when my dad would bundle up over Christmas vacation and bring back the paper tucked under his puffy coat arm and lounge contentedly entertained in front of the fire for the next hour.  I’m nostalgic for the ways of yesterday.  I love the smell of ink, the headlines that shout when something is really off in the world.  I love that here in Montana a lot of the front page stories involve animals and natural resources.  I like seeing how different deliverers fold and wrap their wares.  I’m a nerd.  I love most everything about getting the paper.  Except I go back and forth, not sure which value should trump in the quandary of the newspaper.  

I come across issues like this all the time.  Should I buy the bigger container of sour cream or the large block of cream cheese at Costco even though they’re full of fat or should I buy the smaller ones somewhere else that are more expensive but lower fat? Conflicting values: health vs thrift.  I’m up against this all the time.  Although I know we could also argue that low-fat is not necessarily better.  We only buy regular, old-fashioned butter, and I refuse to put applesauce in baked goods.  But in this case I end up skipping the cream cheese and buying the big container of sour cream.  No rhyme or reason.

I bump up against my values again in the cereal aisle.  Weekly.  What with Cinnamon Toast Crunch on sale for just over $4 at Costco, it’s hard to leave it on the shelf.  But if no one’s with me (named Todd), I just leave it and reach for the Grape Nuts or unadulterated Cheerios.  Todd’s told me so many times that I’m about as fun as diarrhea.  Like I’m offended.  Like I don’t know that.  So once in awhile I decide to try to be fun.  As in buying donuts for breakfast for the road trip home.  Instead of the normal fare of granola, fruit, cereal and muffins.  But it’s hard.  Once in awhile I’ll buy the sugar-laden cereals.  But I feel like I’m cheating my family because I know how bad it is for them.  So I go back and forth, trying to be fun but trying to look out for them.  The future them.  But it warms my heart when they’ve eaten their donuts or other oil-filled, processed snack and they start complaining of stomach pain and just not feeling that great.  That happened when my mom insisted on buying them those Hostess cupcakes that they were dying to have while we were waiting in the grocery store line.  I of course said no, how gross.  But they happily sucked them down and it didn’t take long for them to feel the effects.  It’s just a battle of values every time.  Do I provide healthy, feel-good food or cave and let them have junk under the guise of being a fun mom?  You know the answer, we all do.  We mostly try healthy but of course have our treats.  Plenty.  I just don’t know if I can feel good about sending them to school with nothing more than Captain Crunch in their bellies.

This same dilemma arises every time our family goes out to eat or Todd and I meet for lunch.  I say we all order water.  Costs a ton less, leaves room for the food rather than tanking up on empty calories, just a more refreshing choice.  But Todd, who hardly ever ate out as a kid and who rarely got soda when they did, insists on treating everyone.  As part of the experience.  Similarly, I’d rather pack sandwiches on long road trips, a million times cheaper.  I just decided many years ago to stop worrying about it and agree to a Subway stop.  But I always pack chips and drinks for the car.  He wants everyone to get their meal deals inside.  I vote to buy candy bars and bulk-priced sodas (since we know it’s inevitable they’re going to be a part of every road trip) before we leave town.  He is all about the experience of the gas station convenience store.  I get it.  I do.  I just don’t agree.  Conflicting values between the two of us, but also even within myself.  Marital harmony and seeing things from his vantage point vs being efficiently prudent.  I usually concede.  But not without sharing my opinion one more time. $10-20 here and there for the sake of our marriage is completely worth it.  Same reason we’ll skip a church meeting here or there because our marriage needs more attention than the church does.  And I’ll almost always jump back in the truck to meet him in town (even though I was just there) for lunch.  Some things are just worth more than gas money. 

I used cloth diapers with our first three babies, hating the idea of adding diapers to land fills that wouldn’t decompose for years and years.  Or maybe ever.  Depends who you talk to.  But a mom at the playground insisted it was more of an environmental upset to use all that water to wash them.  Who’s to know which impact is worse?  Same with regular dishes vs paper plates.  Similar arguments on paper vs. plastic bags; I’ve read both sides.   I’m never quite sure.  So I make the best decision I can.  Or at least the one that feels most like me.  And leave it at that.

Do we let the kids stay up for an educational, cultural, or just different kind of experience at the expense of sleep?  Ummm… I have to say we almost always do.  I believe in a good night’s sleep.  I know what it does for our family.  I’m completely on board.  But an educational experience… an eclipse, a cool storm, fire works, an unexpected visit from friends, it’s all totally worth missing some sleep for.  I might be a bad mom.  I guess I just figure memory makers come along spontaneously and infrequently, probably not at the best times.  We can always catch up on sleep.  But to log away a cool memory.  That’s worth staying up for.

On the other hand, since we’re talking about sleep, I’ve never figured out which family member is most important, who to value more.  Do I get up early with my 16 year old at 5:30 so he can have company and support as he leaves for the day?  But obviously, since I excel on more like 9.5 hours a night, I notice myself gradually getting grumpier until right after 7 in the evening.  And then I all but check out.  But I still stay up to spend time with Todd.  So I’m just constantly fuzzy and tired.  Maybe this is everyone’s story.  I’m just never quite sure which family member to value more, so I just choose both.  And to go without much sleep.  So when it’s not summertime I’m just a little edgy most of the time.  Awesome.

So I’m aware that the world’s in commotion and there are bigger issues than these.  I know that.  I’m just saying again that I’m inconsistent, even with my values.  But it means I’m thinking, I’m just taking a moment to weigh what’s most important today.  And it changes.  We all do this.  Just because we don’t all end up with the same conclusion as someone else—or as we did on another day—isn’t the point.  The point is that we care enough to think about what we’re doing, that we want to align our actions with what matters most to us—whatever that looks like.   It’s just sometimes hard when it looks like there’s no right answer, that it’s all good.

ps We’re still getting the paper.  And I take a lot of naps.

Sliding out of summer

Our allotment of light lessens by a few minutes each evening.  Raspberries are still just on the cusp of ripening. A slow season to be sure, but the bees tenaciously do their part, a witness that there is still hope.  As long as we can ward off frost for just a few more weeks.  Raspberry picking might be one of our favorite fall harvests, much more tasty than a lettuce leaf or pea pod when you need a little pick-me-up in the fields.  Beans still hang on to their mother stems, slowing maturing and eventually drying out to the familiar black we recognize.  Millions I think.  I wish they would grow a little taller, it’s so far to bend these days.  We’ve got just as many tomatoes as everyone, which is weird since no one really likes them in our family except me.  Avery keeps trying, which is brave of her.  Come to think of it, there’s a lot out there we don’t love, but it’s all healthy and Todd’s figured out which crops feel comfortable here. Callum pedals his wares throughout the neighborhood on his bike with bags hanging off his handlebars, and Avery and I do our part to keep things tidy.  The weeds outnumber us 54 to 2.  Pears have been ordered, along with a few more apples.  We discovered how much we love nearly-dried pears a couple of years ago, and the wafting fragrance of them on our dehydrator in the mornings soothes our senses.  We’ve got a couple newish boxes of peaches we’re trying to make our way through, peach raspberry jam is on the horizon.  If we could ever find a night at home together.  I miss Todd.

The lawn needs to be cut, the onions are drying on the back patio.  Outdoor play equipment litters our yard, bikes easily within grasp.  A game of badminton calls to us, its new birdies still in their plastic holding pen.  The floor’s still sticky from the honey harvest.  Bottles rest nestled on their pantry shelf, honey waiting its turn to become part of granola or bread or as the frosting to a piece of peanut buttered toast. 

We’re squeezing in just one more campfire in Red Lodge, one last trip of the season.  A residual warm breeze beckoning us to the mountains.  A weekend or two left before the ice cream stand on the way up closes for the season.  These are perhaps the saddest goodbyes of all.

In another Saturday or two I’ll wake up to the pops of goose hunters’ guns, a sure sign fall is in the air.  The ones who got away will hook up in formation across a true sky blue backdrop.  Taking turns as leader.

I’ve been trimming out raspberry canes and snipping off flower heads that have fallen asleep standing straight up.  The pumpkin vines have taken up residence in the next box over, draping their fingers over edges, trying not to disturb the vegetation that’s still hanging around.  Our strawberry plants have decided to call it a season, but they’ve grown close the past few months, huddling together against the pending chill.

School started just this week, late for most calendars. Kids traipsed into their newly arranged classrooms, a little off-balance with backpacks too heavy for their small bodies, laden with supplies that used to greet us on wooden desks back in the 70s and 80s.  Supplies that weren’t even invented back then, wipes, zippered plastic bags, white board markers.  I feel like we’re stocking the janitors’ closet along with the pencil boxes.

I struggle to remember what I do, what my days looked like last spring. I feel my tiredness returning.  I’m back to needing naps.  I liked sleeping in a bit in the summer.  Maybe it’s just easier when it’s not dark as the alarm goes off.  I plugged in what variables I could recall, a few hours at school, a couple at the temple, housework on my own, some visits and a meeting.  Bedtime stories, lunches, weeding by myself.  I miss the kids.

The after-dinner hours beg for just a little more playtime with the evening sunbeams, and yet the demands of another school day insist on the semblance of routine.  I teeter but usually cave.  Helping with the honey is educational, fresh air healthy.  Certainly these values trump those of conventional sensibility and an early bedtime.

It’s a lazy start to the school year, not much homework yet, a short week coming off a holiday weekend, warm cloudless skies that tease me, making me believe it’s much earlier than it is.  I hate that my high school son is never home.  Work and cross country remind me of life at his age, each of us sauntering in after the day had essentially been spent.  The kids are getting so big, so cliche, I know.  A new normal with Andrew in college and the little kids needing less and less of me.  I wonder what the year will look like, but for now I’m just about ready to start making soup again.  Our honey patiently waits for its fresh bread loaves to show up.  I know my fall decorations are itching to be freed from their boxes, eager to stretch and take up residence on their familiar perches.  The insides of the house need a brush-up, a little tlc from a neglectful summer full of travels and visitors, the bustle of activities and get-togethers.

So as we head into the first weekend of September, I long to push pause.  And maybe rewind.  For this is my favorite month.  As Thursday is my favorite day.  There should be at least 32 days this month, it should linger and hang about just a little longer than the others.  Because nothing is more beautiful than the yellowing leaves and crisp bookends of the day.  The sky is never more fluid or bright than the one covering Big Sky Country in fall.  These are the days I breathe in deeply.  And sigh.  Mostly satisfied and content, basking in the last of the summer sun.

In praise of morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A mother's last day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The education I missed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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