Affirmation

This from my son's college sociology class:

Time children spend with their mothers has a direct correlation to their (the children's) cognitive development...

but only if their mothers are verbally skilled.

Take a bow, ladies.

I would never say that someone else is not a good mommy. Still...

I mean, the kid clearly won't drink so much water that she dies, so there is that.

I still got it...

I dropped Oldest off at driver's ed this morning.
He leaned over and gave me a sqeeze and said, "I love you, mom!"
And then...

He kissed me on my cheek!

He's very affectionate but hasn't been into kissing his mom for quite a while now.
And, if you knew how much we've been on each others nerves lately, you'd know why it meant so much to me.

I love that I'm still his Queen Mum.

Proud

I don't know if this has anything to do with my mothering-nor do I want the credit if it does, but....
I got a phone call today from a dad. He was RSVP-ing for his son, whom he said would be attending my son's big 16th birthday bash.
Frankly, I thought it was kinda weird. The dad called?
Tonight, when Oldest got home, I told him the kid was coming. He said, "Oh, cool!"
I asked him who he was and wasn't it kinda weird his dad called?
He said (and here's the proud part) "He's a kid on my football team. He's quite a large kid. Nobody talks to him. He doesn't have many friends. But, I think he's cool....so I wanted to invite him."
Just when he's about on my last nerve......he goes and melts my heart into a pool of mush.

No Matter What Else Happens Today, I am a Very Good Mommy

Jooj (age 3) couldn't find her security blanket, because she had taken every single toy and article of clothing out and piled it on the floor. As we were looking she exclaimed (with one finger pointing in the air)

"Mami! I know! We say prayer to Heavenly Father to find me Seepy!"

And so we did, and so (of course)we did.

choosing your battles

I've found another plus side to choosing your battles. You know, besides the fact that I am happier and my kids are happier and who has the energy to fight about everything anyway?!

Sometimes you get to relish tiny victories.

Any of you who read my blog are aware of my frustration over our middle school's new dress code. I think the fact that I went to bat for what I believed was right helped my daughter feel I am on her side. (Which I am, but most especially when she is right.)

However, as much as I believe in standing up for what's right, I also believe in honoring, obeying and sustaining the law. So I've been wondering how to handle my conflictedness about this issue come the first day of school.

I chose to ease into the subject, mentioning that collared (yeah, I keep wanting to type: collard)shirts were on sale and that we ought to prepare now for the first week of school. I wanted to make sure she was clear that I assumed she would (eventually) comply (because I am most definitely not going to commute to another school).

I was surprised to learn she has already come up with a brilliant plan:

Based on past experience, she doesn't expect they'll enforce the new dress code any better than they enforced the prior one; she doesn't want me to spend too much money; and she still wants to make her point. So she asked me to buy only a couple of collared shirts for now. She plans to wear her favorite tie-dyed T-shirt to school on the first day in protest and in order to test the system. (Call me a rebel, but I'm fine with that.) I explained to her what the administration has posted by way of action for non-compliance: They will call home and then give the student something to wear. (I am working on my protest speech for the non-compliance call even now.) L~ intends to take a wait and see approach. If they call her out she will accept the shirt they give her but instead of wearing it she will wear the one I have purchased for her, which she will have hidden in her backpack.

Fair enough.

But the sweetest victory came last night when we were out shopping. While she did complain a bit about how blah! the collared shirts were, she has already found a way to comply while still fulfilling her need to express herself. The first thing she said as we started sifting through the sale rack was, "OK mom, but the first thing we have to do is take off all the buttons and find some cool ones to replace them with."

I bought a packaged of bold and bright-colored buttons first thing this morning.

Take that Dixon! I love this kid!!

Too Happy to be comfortable

I have Stegner's books on my book shelf... I guess it's time to dust 'em off and read them.

I saw this post and think it follows the same vein of discussion.

I Married Pretty Well.

This is an email I got from my husband this morning, and I thought it was pretty appropriate for this site. So, props to the absentee father, W.

I am here at work this Saturday morning, and am consciously taking it easy by looking around the net for things that make me think of you. And as I was reading a couple of blogs, I linked to kottke.org, a pretty interesting blog about random things. I saw this blog about kids and parenting and how it's not all it's cracked up to be. And it made me think about you, and how we were talking last night, and how you are feeling bad because you can't do all the things you used to be able to do. Here's an excerpt:

"The cliché refers to newborn children as "bundles of joy," but recent research indicates that bundles of anxiety, or even bundles of depression, might be more accurate

"Parents "definitely experienced more depression," says Robin Simon, a sociologist at Florida State University who has studied data on parenting.

"Part of our cultural beliefs is that we derive all this joy from kids," says Simon. "It's really hard for people who don't feel this to admit it." Social pressures to view only the positive aspects of child rearing only make the problem worse, she says. "They're afraid to admit it because it runs so counter to our cultural beliefs that children make you happy."

Simon points out what any parent knows very well: Children, especially young children, can create lots of work and stress. "There are very many positive things that come out of having kids, but it's a mixed bag," she says. "They are demanding. They are a responsibility, and it's a responsibility that doesn't end."

And I thought about you and us and how you keep saying that Jooj is so good and you shouldn't be mad/sad/upset/frustrated. And I think that you're selling yourself a bill of goods. Kids are hard. They are depressing, and are TONS of work. I know this just from the (sadly) limited interaction I get with her, and have been feeling pretty bad about wanting to curse at her in the two hours a day I spent with her by myself when I was home.

Don't get me wrong- I want kids. I love Jooj and I know that we're unbelievably blessed to have her in our family, and she is rewarding and awesome. Here's another excerpt:

Changing a diaper isn't enjoyable, and teenagers can be such a pain in the ass, but having kids can also be a profound source of meaning for people. (I like the amateur marathoner metaphor: survey a marathoner in the midst of the race and they'll complain about their legs and that rash and how the race seems like it's taking forever. But when the running is over they are always incredibly proud of their accomplishment. Having kids, then, is like a marathon that lasts 18 years.)

Bottom line is, I am proud of you. I don't begrudge you feeling bad, and modern science doesn't either. Parents, and especially Mormon mothers, get a lot of pressure from a lot of angles to treat kids as shiny delicate glass balls full of pixie dust and platinum that should be set on a shrine in the living room like some sort of Asian family altar, and I completely disagree. For my money, it's ok to think of them as poopy, whiny, snotty, loud little blessings. It's ok to be frustrated and mad, and it's ok to secretly wish that your life is the way it used to be. Because at the end of the day, you're a great mom and you're doing a great job with Jooj.

That's all. I love you.

My own version of good, better, best:

Good or good enough.


Your thoughts, please.

Cathedral Builder

Let me be honest with you--I seldom read forwarded email. Especially if it has something like "For all my Gal Pals" or "FWD FWD FWD FWD FWD " or "Scroll Down !!!!!" in the subject heading. Not that I don't love getting mail, but I just don't open most forwards. There are a handful of people, whose judgment I trust, that I break that maxim for. My friend, Kathy, is one of those people. She was my Beehive, Mia Maid, and Laurel adviser when I was a teen. She was one of my references when we adopted Jooj. She can send me dookie in electronic form and I will read it. So she sent me this today and I actually teared up. Maybe I am hormonal. Maybe you have seen it before. I don't know who wrote it, but I needed to read it. Enjoy!

I'm invisible.....

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I'm thinking, "Can't you see I'm on the phone?" Obviously not. No one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible.

Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this? Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, "What time is it?" I'm a satellite guide to answer, "What number is the Disney Channel?" I'm a car to order, "Pick me up right around 5:30, please."

I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated summa cum laude -- but now they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going ... she's going ... she's gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself as I looked down at my out-of-style dress; it was the only thing I could find that was clean. My unwashed hair was pulled up in a banana clip and I was afraid I could actually smell peanut butter in it. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, "I brought you this."

It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe . I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: "To Charlotte, with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees."

In the days ahead I would read -- no, devour -- the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: No one can say who built the great cathedrals -- we have no record of their names. These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, "Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it."

And the workman replied, "Because God sees."

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, "I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become."

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life. It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.

I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, "My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand-bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table." That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, "You're gonna love it there."

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.

The post script to this little forward episode is that the very next email I opened was from my favorite ~J who sent me the link to Mom Jeans. Which contains one of the best lines ever: "Because you're not a woman anymore--you're a MOM!"

I am a good mom today because I didn’t wring my firstborn’s neck.

Today was the second day in a row that he used the space of time between getting him dressed and getting me dressed to wreck havoc. Yesterday, he got into the pantry and climbed the shelves to get the honey. He removed the cap from the honey and ported it to the living room. He then poured the honey all over his trains, the coffee table, the carpet, and my fraying computer cord. He managed to get his hands, face, and bum (I don’t know.) I only had time to wash him and not the table or the trains. He screamed at me because the whole point of covering his trains with honey was so that he could give them a washdown like Sir Topham Hatt. Uh-huh.

My sister and husband graduated today from university. I was taking the kids to my sister’s graduation and had to go back to put on my clothes. Cue the music of doom. I walk into the hallway and notice white footprints. You know, like a freaking ghost on Scooby-Doo. That’s when I noticed the pantry door open and my 25 pound bag of flour tipped over. Gordon the Train was under the flour. Guille was covered in flour and when he ran away from me, his ghost footprints tracked around the kitchen and the living room.

I was so angry I slammed the pantry door, making the pile of flour go WHOOSH into the air and disperse in a mist all over my clean floor. I am happy that I didn’t slam the kid.

He screamed at me because he wanted to wash Gordon down. Instead, Gordon the Train got to stay in the pantry under the flour while I dragged Guille into the bathroom. He was trying to get away from me and succeeded only in powdering me. Do I look like I’m an 18^th century chick that needs a good dusting? Let me answer that for you, NO, I don’t. I don’t have any panniers, my Rousseau book is missing, and I lost my snuff box along with my beauty patches five years ago.

It’s like kids can sense anxiety and stress, and then decide to amplify it. My kids are still alive, we watched my sister walk, and now I’m having a Diet Coke. Even if I did DRAG my kid to get cleaned up, I am a good mommy today.

Requested by Phread

I forwarded an email exchange a friend and I have been having to ~J and she requested that I ask the author to make a post out of it. My friend is quite lovely and bold, but hesitated to post something that she felt was "just off the top of her head." So I am posting it for her and keeping it anonymous. So there.

The topic that we were discussing is the internal struggle that mommies often feel when we express frustration at staying home to a listener who may not be sympathetic to women leaving the workforce. We feel guilty because we know that we have made the right choice for ourselves and our families, but we still don't like it all of the time. The response we often get from listeners is "Just go back to work." "Leave your kid in day care." "They really like being in preschool better than staying at home" "You need to get away from kids and back with adults" And then we feel stupid. Because we don't know what to say to that. So here is what she told me--I hope that you enjoy it!

Staying home to raise your kid IS hard. I know it sounds cliche. But it's such an all encompassing, divine nature building trial. It's hard in that it is an on-going experience which molds and shapes our very nature!!!! We have to LEARN how to enjoy mommyhood with all of it's scrapes and bruises. Some people seem to fall more naturally into that role than others. They make me feel guilty. But it also makes me sad when I see a mom run away to work as an escape. As if she's not cut out for motherhood because it is hard for her. Have they never done anything hard in their life??? What do you do when you want to accomplish something hard? If it were a work project or school assignment, you'd inform yourself, you'd practice. You might fail a bit. You'd seek support from people who have experience or knowledge in the area. The more energy you put towards a trial, the more you will grow and learn and accomplish. It would be hard to complete an assignment and REALLY gain from it if you just did what you knew and then handed the rest over to a "professional" when you'd had enough. There are so many reasons for a mom to work. But working as an "escape" from other trials is so sad. Instead of addressing the real issues for unhappiness... and finding potential happiness and fulfillment...women look for a quick fix that can impede growth.

I'm realizing that this might not be coming across the way I'd intended. If you feel any guilt from reading any part of this I have not expressed myself very well. Forgive me.

REASON to work is the issue here. Don't thinks me a working-mom hater. Prayer and personal revelation can help us find the path that will be best for our family.


The path of refinement and development of our divine traits does not lie on either the working mom road, or the stay at home mom road. It lies in doing your best to fulfill your calling as a wife and mother. That's it!!! We just keep plugging away. As a daughter of God you are not asked to be perfect. What a relief to not have to try and figure out what choices are the "perfect" ones!!!!!! That's my advice to you. Stop trying to be perfect. Trying to be a "perfect" mom will overwhelm you. At least that's what it does to me. I don't even see myself as trying to be "perfect" when I am struggling as a mom. But when I think about it....that is what brings me down. In my head I'm not living up to some whack perfect ideal. It snowballs from there.

This is one of the reasons that I started Good Mommy/Bad Mommy-to start some discussions between women who are smarter than me.

I scrubbed poop out of carpet today. Not just a little, a lot, and over a wide surface area.

I am a freaking awesome mommy today.

95% grody, 50% boring, 80% patience and 100% inspiration

Yes, I know, motherhood is nobility. It is a higher calling. It places a woman closer to God. But the expression of these ideas only comes about 5% of the time. The remainder of the job is filled with things that a noble would never do.

Like changing stinky pants.

And waking up to the phrase "Mami! Mocos en mi nose! Wipeee!"

95% of our existence is grody.
And mundane.
And seemingly futile.

So today let's talk about the little things that go along with motherhood. What is your favorite part of the daily grind? Not the heartwarming moments, not the part that makes you say "Yes! I am doing it!" The parts that don't even register most days.

For me, it is nail trimming. I love trimming the little nails. (Even though I have to do it every few days because I keep feeding the Jooj, so she keeps growing.)

I love to clip her nails because when we brought our daughter home (well, to ~J's house, so my home away from home) I felt confident that I would be able to do all of the things required to keep her alive and ticking. Except for trimming the nails. All I knew was that everyone told me about how scary and tricky it was, and that I would eventually make my darling bundle bleed from her tiny fingers. I asked everyone to show me how to do it, but the timing was never there. So, at the point of Jooj turning into Howard Hughes, I geared up, read the book, and took a breath. And I did it. No blood! And it was the biggest affirmation for me--I could do this, the mothering thing, on my own. And I remember that every single time we do the mani/pedi shuffle.