Because I love

I've been asking myself these questions:

What does it mean to be a brave woman?

Am I brave?

The remarkable women behind We Brave Women have got me thinking.  One of them is our dear friend, Zina, whom we love for a thousand reasons.  The We Brave Women project and hashtag have been blowing up my Instagram feed (you should follow them @webravewomen and spend a few moments reading through the #webravewomen posts.  It's powerful inspiration for your day).  Women everywhere are posting about why they are brave.  It is a beautiful use of social media, a medium I have a love/hate relationship with and that is often used for filth, snarkiness, and dissention.

But like I said, I've been wondering, Am I brave?  Usually when I think of bravery I picture a soldier going off to war or a suffragette in 1915 or Ruby Bridges walking into school that first, epic day.  I think of tremendous physical feats.  I picture risk takers.  That's not me.  I'm just a normal girl, living her normal life. 

But even so-called normal life is hard, as I've openly written about lately not only here, but on Instagram.  Which is sometimes embarrassing because then people bring me dinner and apparently imagine me dying over here.  And some people have actaully called me brave for being willing to share the real struggle of life with 4.5 kids rather than sugar coat it.  And honestly I can't decide if being so open is brave or stupid.

But.

This is what I can tell you.

When I was preparing to be an LDS missionary, I was marginally terrified.  I was ready, I was excited, but I was scared.  I found bravery in this New Testament verse:

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.
(1 John 4:18)

It came together like magic in my mind.  All I had to do was love the Lord and love the people.  Everything else would be OK.  Every time I walked in snow up to my thighs or stood on an unknown front porch or asked someone to accept Christ I remembered that all I had to do was love.  And I felt brave.

Sometimes, in my role as Mom, I've been slow to draw on the lessons I learned as a missionary.  Slow to remember that the very same God will teach me and show me the way now, just as He certainly did then.  I don't know why I'm so bad at remembering, because, frankly, being a parent is approximately infinity times harder than anything I've ever done before.  But I am bad at remembering, so I'd kind of forgotten that scripture and certainly hadn't applied it to motherhood.

But Sunday, as I was marinating in the question, AM I BRAVE?, the scripture on the board in Relief Society (weekly Mormon women's meeting) struck me to the core.  Our wonderful teacher said that it had long been a favorite of hers, and I'm adding it to my short list as well. 

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
(2 Timothy 1:7)

And suddenly it all came together in my mind and heart.

I live in a state of fear or worry most of the time.  I'm worried my children aren't getting enough of my time.  Fearful about adding a baby to this circus now in session.  Terrified that I'm not measuring up to the other women in the world.  Afraid I will never again have the energy I need to be everything my family needs me to be.

ENOUGH!  The spirit urged me, as I let those words sink in.  THAT IS NOT OF GOD!

And for the first time in months I understood that although my brain is being poisoned by over-zealous hormones, and my body is entirely exhausted, God is more powerful than all that.  I realized that God's grace (=power) will lift me out of my apathy.  He will grant me energy.  He can help me love more purely.  His strength can become my strength. 

So...

If perfect love casteth out fear, then aren't fear and love opposites?
Then isn't love synonymous with bravery?

In that case.

I AM BRAVE!  I am brave because I love.  I love the Lord.  I love my husband.  I love my children.  I love the life I've been blessed with.  I love YOU.  All I need in this world is loving relationships and all I can really give in this world is compassion.


Yes.

I am brave.

"Surely I will be with thee"

 {Blaine was baptized May 3, 2014}

I teach Gospel Doctrine at church.  That means every Sunday I lead the Sunday School discussion in a large chapel full of adults.  I'm dripping with nervous sweat by the end of the hour every single week, but I really, really love it.  I get to dig into the scriptures and really challenge myself to apply them to the world and life I know.

Sunday's lesson was taken from the book of Judges in the Old Testament.  As we spoke about Gideon, one phrase really stuck out to me and became a focal point of our conversation.  After the Lord has told Gideon that he needs to save the Israelites from the Midianites, and Gideon has responded that his family is poor and he is 'the least in my father's house,' the Lord replies,
"Surely I will be with thee."


Last week was kind of a doozy. We returned from a two week vacation (but let's call it a trip, because traveling thousands of miles with four children in a mini-van isn't very vacation-like, is it?) on Monday evening and I proceeded to jump into trip recovery.  Moms, you know what this looks like.  Laundry galore, vacuuming out the van that looks so disgusting you just want to drive it to the salvage yard, sorting through mail, re-stocking the fridge, all those fun things.  Then right in the middle of that, Roger awesomely flooded our upstairs the night before our hopeful renters were coming for dinner.  Needless to say, I felt overwhelmed, grumpy with my kids, ugly, and a little bit nuts.  I'm pretty sure I told Taylor, "I wish my teaching credentials were up to date and that that job paid more because I should go to work and you should stay home the kids.  I suck at this job." 

Then, one night, the Spirit whispered some very clear instructions.  A formula.  "You need to get up early every morning to read your scriptures, pray, and exercise.  And you need to get out of your head and be social every day."  Plain as day, I had my recipe.  The solution to all the crazy, 'I am terrible at my chosen vocation and my children are going to need therapy' thoughts.



Gideon's tiny army of 300 prevailed over the Midianites.  But it wasn't really them.  It was God.  He was with them.  And they knew it.  He is with me, too.  And you.  And I sincerely believe He cares as much about giving me those mundane, practical instructions as He cared about Gideon and his army.  He and I both know that I can't make my life beautiful and accomplished by myself.  Or raise these children to be outstanding by myself.

And so I remember, "Surely I will be with thee."  And I feel strong.  

Application

{pretty hard not to love this crew}

I've written a bit over the years about mothering as a mission.  I coined that phrase when I realized that I needed to put the same amount of effort, faith, and prayer into being a mom that I had put into being a full-time LDS missionary.  When you choose to serve a mission, you basically throw your self into 18 months or 2 years of the unknown.  It's a giant leap of faith, trust, obedience, and sacrifice.

As hard as missions are, they've got nothin' on parenthood.  (Talk about the unknown!)  But being a missionary prepared me for this gig in countless ways.

Basically I could narrow down the lessons from my mission like this: 

On my mission I learned to:

LOVE THE PEOPLE
DRAW UPON GOD'S POWER

Doing those things required work, but honestly, they came naturally.  When you pray dozens of times a day and dedicate nearly every thought to the needs of others, it is easy to love.  And, when you realize just how small and helpless you are, you can do nothing but rely upon the power of God.  You understand what it means to be an instrument in His hands.

I'm ashamed to admit how often I forget to apply these two practices as I parent.

But this week I remembered.

This week every last member of our family got a nasty stomach virus.  For most it was fast and furious, but dear Clara has struggled with it all week.  Today, as stripped yet another bed, washed her barfy hair again, wished my husband weren't gone on a Saturday, felt sorry for the isolation illness brings, loaded the bajillionth load of stinky laundry, and sat and smiled at Clara while feeding her probiotics and applesauce, I remembered.

There was no time for selfishness this week.  This week was rubbing children's backs in the middle of the night while they painfully endured.  This week was holding and consoling and loving and smiling.  It was frustrating not to accomplish more on my list and maddening to be away from visiting relatives, but that's the whole point.  It wasn't about me.

As a missionary, it was easy to love the people of Ohio because I knew this one thing: 
God sent me to them.

And, even though children do plenty of things that don't feel loveable, it's easy to love them when I remember:
God sent them to me.

As all these thoughts came together this morning, as I spooned applesauce into my baby's mouth, I thought: I should feel depleted, exhausted, annoyed, frustrated, just over it.  But I felt renewed, hopeful, even joyous because I knew that I was no longer mothering with my power.  I called upon God's power every minute of every day this week and He blessed me abundantly.  There is so much peace and gratitude in my heart when I feel His strength in me.

I can't think of a clever conclusion to this post and my toddlers need a bath.  Thanks for listening.

xo
anne

On Balance

{Carts and me, celebrating Vday.  Party re-cap forthcoming!}

You know what the hardest thing is? Balance. And not just in the obvious sense--balancing time with four children, getting all the chores of life done, making time to meditate and exercise, squeezing in service, helping with homework, nagging about piano practice, driving to basketball... That type of balance is a whole series of discussions in and of itself. It would include questions like 'how do you prioritize and fit it all in?' and suggestions like, 'I clean the bathroom and put on my make-up while supervising the toddlers in the bath. Awesome multi-tasking!' But there is another kind of balance that I have deeper worries about.

I am constantly concerned about the balance between needs and the best use of my time. Here is what I mean:
I am an ambitious human being. I always have been. I load up my plate--heaping full-- all the time. I want to learn more, accomplish more, serve more, be more. Even if I had no job or children, I could fill up my whole day, every day. I would run, read, clean, write, cook, bake, sew, photograph, and...and... You get the picture.

If I had the time, I would pour myself into growing Penny&Tillie.  Jessie and I have grand visions and big ideas for our little hobby to become a big business.

But my life doesn't look like that. I have a husband. A dear, hard-working, awesome fun, loving husband. And, as June Cleaver as it sounds, I expect myself to keep the house a beautiful place and put good food on the table, because, dang it, he works hard for me all day every day. I also have four children. Four energetic, loud, brilliant, beautiful, demanding, loving children. And they're not just mine. They are God's. He made them. They come from Him. And, though I highly value the agency--in other words the freedom to choose--that God has granted all of us, I also hold myself responsible to teach my children and give them the tools they need to succeed. And, heaven help me, if one of my children wanders or struggles or feels unloved, and I haven't given him the best of me, I don't see how I can live with myself.  

I've said before: I don't believe in being a martyr mother. I have to have my own interests and identity. But I don't want to look back at this mortal life--this amazing, beautiful gift of a life--and realize, 'I wasted the best days I was given on selfish, secular, mundane interests.'

And there it is. The balance struggle. How to give everyone (including myself) enough of me. I doubt I will ever really feel like I'm winning the balance battle. But I am constantly reevaluating my life. Like every single day.

I hope to the heavens I am getting it at least sorta right.


{This has got me thinking today.}

Declaration

{I almost cannot remember Roger this little.  The reality of which hurts my heart.}

Here's the thing of it.  Having small children is hard.  There is a lot of noise.  Mess.  Chaos.  Reminding.  Nagging.  Rewarding.  Punishing.  Wiping.  Tidying.  It's a lot of manual labor plus a whole lot more of trying to figure out what in heaven's name you are doing and wondering when your children are going to stop throwing hideous tantrums and if they are going to end up alright despite your ugliest moments of parenting.  And more often than not, these difficulties are what I voice with my friends and here on my blog because it's always on my mind--how to do this work better.

But I don't want it to go unsaid that I love this work.  I love these little people.  I love nursing my fat baby and kissing her neck after.  I love the way Carter says 'oh-tay Mama' after every single word I utter and 'tu-tu Mama' in thanks.  And the way he begs for a 'pess' when he has an ouchie.  A kiss makes everything better, dontcha know?  It startles me how giant Rog has become.  You haven't lived until you've seen him lie down next to Clara and heard him say, "Hey girl..."
And Blaine.  We still battle sometimes.  He's never seemed more dear or sincere than when he apologized to me tonight for being nasty all day and then hugged me for a century.  He is growing.  We all are.

Sometimes I dream of the day when I can go where I want, when I want, without any diapers, sippy cups, or carseats involved.  Just sounds so luxurious in this season of life.  But the thing is, when I get to that day I am going to be crying my guts out and wondering how my babies grew up so fast.

I really love this time.  I really love them.

Just sayin.

Asking the hard questions

{Mother's Day 2012}

Good morning!

I have so much I'd love to tell you about the weekend, particularly the success of the Pirate Birthday Party, with lots of great photos to tell the story.  Hopefully tomorrow.  Today I am busy attempting to answer the difficult questions...

How do I overcome the guilt of not being the Stephanie Nielson--all I ever wanted was to be a mother--type of woman?

How do I bury the temper and impatience that motherhood birthed?

How do I find more satisfaction in the process and journey?

How do I learn to measure my goodness and accomplishment qualitatively rather than quantitatively (i.e. counting it a good day if I was present with my children, regardless of how many things I checked off my list)?

I know I can't solve all of this in one day, but it's weighing too heavily on my mind to write much else.  Until tomorrow,

xo
anne

We're all in this together

{Lucy T. holds baby Carter after showing me her collection of bug drawings and performing at least a dozen cartwheels}

A few weeks ago I dropped everything and flew (with the babe, of course) to Utah. Although I always feel strange leaving my children, I knew they were in the capable and loving arms of my husband, my parents, my husband's parents, and even several aunties (we recognize how lucky we are), so I decided to revel in the opportunity to visit a place I love and many people I adore, all while having lots of time just for holding and feeding my baby.

A lot of things about the trip stand out. The way I couldn't stop grinning as I walked through the Salt Lake airport. How elated I felt driving up University Parkway and through the tree streets. How lovingly I sat in Grandma's home--the home I lived in as a newlywed, the home I brought two babies home to. How fun and free I felt as my SIL Sara and I shopped and worked on wedding plans and watched chick flicks late into the night.

But what has stuck with me most following the trip were some observations I made as I visited my friends.

Observation no. 1: Your children are precious.

In the absence of my boys, I had unprecedented time and attention to give to my friend's children. I held them and beheld them. I watched Lucy T victoriously jump rope across the back patio. I smiled and cheered when she was successful and felt her frustration when the rope got caught up in her dress. I smiled as I watched Spencer--just up from a nap--rest his ruffled little head lovingly on his mother's chest. I marveled as Bronx and Bo (so grown up!) served me lunch so darlingly ("Would you like another sandwich, Anne? How about some ice water?"). I held Avery and became so enchanted with her one-of-a-kind personality that I found myself asking her to pray down a little girl just like her for me. I wanted to eat Ollie's big baby cheeks. Lucy B. dazzled me with her curliest of all hair and Disney princess eyes. Her brother Charlie charmed me with his blonde locks, glasses, and coy grin. I sat on the couch with Claire and felt my jaw drop as she (who just turned 4!) read me a book well beyond her years. I held her brother Charlie, with the best round face I ever saw, and wanted to sneak him home in my suitcase. I watched Elinor and John chase each other around their living room and wished for the same energy and free-wheeling exuberance.

I loved every breath of it.

Observation no. 2: We're all in this together.

Without fail, apologies were made in every one of my friend's homes. "Sorry my house is such a mess." "I guess I should have combed her hair!" "Go ahead and use the bathroom; no promises as to how it looks!" "I'm Sorry he's acting like this!" They were the same apologies I make every single day. And it made me think, we don't need to apologize to each other. We're all about the same work. We all have messier than we prefer homes, occasionally whiny or sassy children, and some level of general bedlam in our lives. That's the way it is. No explanations or apologies necessary.


I came home renewed and ready to behold my little ones. (Nothing like a little vacation to fill you up with energy and patience!) I'm trying not to focus on the spilled chocolate chips and the screaming fights over legos and the potty training regression. I'm trying instead to see the tiny freckles across Blaine's cheeks and the way Roger moves his chubby little hands. I'm trying not to get so hot and bothered as I wipe up the kitchen floor seven times a day, but just be glad I have little ones eating at my table.

xoxo,
anne

p.s. One of the most awesome things I did in Utah? Appear on local TV. (I think I hear QVC calling...) {cue laughter}

Anatomy of a real Mothers' Day

A sentiment I've heard from many a mother: "Mothers' Day is never what you think it should be. You read sweet things on greeting cards and hear accolades over the church pulpit, all the while feeling guilty for losing your temper, comparing yourself to other women, and wishing your kids would just behave and get along for one single day!"

What I've learned for myself: "That's not what Mothers' Day is about. It's not for all the stars to align on the second Sunday of May. It's about taking a day to reflect on and be grateful for motherhood. Things will happen just like on any other day, so just dig in and celebrate your life for what it is."

So, I give you... a real Mothers' Day--2011.

6 something a.m. Listen to Taylor drive off to his Mom's house so he and his brother can surprise her with breakfast in bed like when they were kids. Roll over and feed the baby some more.

8:30 a.m. Peel myself out of bed and hop in the shower. Get out to the sounds of Taylor whipping up something in the kitchen and the boys getting up. Dash around the house like mad to get everyone ready for church in an hour. Put on my favorite shoes and think of Cookie. {She bought them for me on my last visit with her.}

9:43 a.m. With all three boys plus the neighbor kid in tow, depart for church with cheese, bananas, coffee cake, and cold milk on the center console of the mini-van.

10:45 a.m. Friend behind me during the church meeting gets my attention and whispers, "Blaine is coloring on his shoes!" I look over to see that, in deed, he has stopped working on the puppy dog coloring book and has successfully colored all of the white squares on his checkered vans red. I look at him incredulous. "I thought it would look nice," he says with a sheepish grin. Awesome. We have a budding Alexander McQueen in the family. "Please consult me the next time you decide to redesign your shoes," I whisper back, wondering what the consequence should be. (Still wondering.)

10:48 a.m. Look down to see that Roger is using the same red crayon to color on the carpet. "Stop!" I whisper loudly. "What are you doing?!" He replies, as he points to Blaine, "He made me do it." Awesome. Roger wails as Taylor pulls the crayon out of his hand. I carry him out of the chapel.

1:30 p.m. Return home from church to get busy in the kitchen. Taylor makes a zillion enchiladas and strawberry rhubarb pie for his mom while I make strawberry pie for mine. As I stand at the counter in my apron, I smile. Countless memories of rolling out pie crust and preparing fresh strawberries with my mother flood my mind.

4:00 p.m. The boys get squirrely and start pulling and snitching at Taylor's pie crust dough. I scurry them out of the kitchen, roll out a long sheet of paper, plop the bucket of markers on the ground and announce, "This is to wrap your grandmother's gifts. Color away!" I smile as I get back to my pie, patting myself on the back and thinking, "mothering just takes quick thinking and creativity."

4:13 p.m. Lightening strikes me for my pride. The boys are yelling. Roger has scribbled on Blaine's picture and Blaine has taken revenge by coloring on the back of Roger's nicest shirt. Punishments are given. Boys wail, scream, and kick. A temporary ban of crayons and markers is announced.

5:00 p.m. Dinner with my family. Enchiladas, tomales, bean dip, and dessert galore. Conversations about beekeeping, famous pianists, Dad's newest calf that won't eat, the latest Twilight movie, and breastfeeding. I give Mummy her gift, which she adores. I try to get her away from the sink, where she is scrubbing dishes. She refuses. Classic.

6:20 p.m. Cousin Sophie comes upstairs to announce that Rog peed all over his pants and the floor. I look at Taylor with my best "it's Mothers' Day" smile and he goes down to clean it up.

7:15 p.m. We arrive at my husband's family dinner to find all of the women sitting upon thrones. I take my place with them.

8:00 p.m. I give my mother-in-law her gift. She weeps.

8:15 p.m. I sit with Jared Carter on my lap. He coos and smiles and loves me.

Solve and Resolve

My favorite from J. Kirk Richards' inspiring series

Wednesday morning text message to Taylor:

Thank your coworkers for not pooing on the carpet

'Cause one of my coworkers--Roger to be exact--had just had an accident, which he proceeded to step in and track all over the upstairs.

Awesome.

This was just a day or two after Blaine had dumped a third of a gallon of milk out on the kitchen counter and floor and just a few hours before both boys made major mischief in my sewing stuff.

{This is where my mom asks, 'Well what were they doing out of your sight?' and I reply, 'I have to go to the bathroom and take showers and help the baby sometimes! Give me a break!}

By Wednesday evening I came unglued. "I hate my job!" I ranted to Taylor. "I can't get anything done around here because they mess things up faster than I can clean them. And they absolutely never listen to me. Never!"

"Dear, can you please use a softer voice and fewer superlatives?" Taylor calmly asked.

"No! I'm mad! And they aren't superlatives! They're true!" I barked back, irrational as ever. "I just don't know what to do! I don't know what to do!"

It wasn't until the next morning that I had laughed at myself a little, calmed down a lot, and decided that it was time to come up with some solutions.

I grew up with a mother who always said, "Every problem has a solution." She chanted that mantra to me all my life and now I repeat it to my own children.

My sister, Liz, once told me: "It doesn't make sense for us mothers to throw our hands up and say 'I give up on this problem.' What if I had a corporate job? When something hard came up would I just sulk and tell the boss 'I quit?' Never! I would go back to my office and figure out a solution! Mothering is my job. When I meet a challenge, I have to find a way to make it better."

Thursday morning email to Taylor:

I am working on some solutions. Like I am going to keep the baby's room (where the sewing stuff is kept) and upstairs bathroom (where much water mischief takes place)locked. And I am going to try to nurse upstairs so the kids can play and I can see them.

The other part of the solution is for me to a) stop having a panic attack every 5 minutes that my house doesn't look perfect b) remind myself that they are 3 and 4 years old and c) find the power to control myself and stop all the ranting and raving.

So anyway, those are my goals. I don't hate my job. Not at all. I love it. I like it. I reverence it.

In fact, it was the image at the top of this post that motivated my penance. I saw it Thursday morning and the reverence flooded over me.

--anne

Mothering Language

Me and Rog, family wedding, June 2010

Despite the fact that I can't seem to keep my house organized or my yard maintained (which fact is driving me crazy!), we are having a sweet summer. I find myself so enamored with sun kissed cheeks and watermelon juice dribbling down chins. I melt as I listen to Roger developing his vocabulary and watch Blaine become so independent. For someone who has historically had a hard time slowing down and just enjoying motherhood, I have felt blessed to slow down and revel.

Two months ago I reached a major low point in my mothering career. Then I had a paradigm shift that changed forever the relationship between my firstborn and me. And it's only because of my recent mistakes and the amazing changes that I have seen in my boy (and myself!) that I feel like I can say what I want to say today with any sort of authority or certainty--without sounding too audacious or know-it-all-ish.

I've been thinking a lot about the way we describe and label our children. And I think we need to be more careful. I think we need to be cautious of the way we think of our children, the way we speak to them, and the way we speak about them to others.

Here are some phrases I've caught coming out of my own mouth or have observed spoken by other parents:

(to a child)

"You always..."

"You never..."

(to others)

"He's my athlete."
"She's my brain."
"He's our artist."
"She's our sensitive one."
"He's just a naughty boy."
"He's always into trouble."

Of course, we can identify characteristics and talents (and even struggles) in our children, but thinking and speaking in such absolutes can be so detrimental. It can pigeon-hole our children and lead them to compare themselves to their siblings or others and draw negative conclusions about themselves.

I hear too many things like that. About small children and teenagers alike. I've said too many things like that. It's so harmful to our children and to us.

Maybe I'm getting too caught up in the semantics of it all, but I genuinely believe that we become who we are taught to become. I want my children to feel empowered and loved by everything I express to them (even if I'm doling out a punishment!). Language is powerful. I want to get mine right.

Anne 2.0

Mother's Day 2010

About ten days ago I found myself in my crazy place. I was in my car, driving and crying. It had been a wild couple of weeks. Hectic. Frenetic. I felt scattered. Blaine was out of control. And, frankly, so was I. There had been a lot of fights. A lot of yelling, I am ashamed to admit. Which is sad and weird both, because I am not a yeller, and normally avoid confrontation. But Blaine knows all the right buttons to push. And so this night, in my crazy place, I was convinced I couldn't be his mom anymore. It was just too hard.

A day or two earlier I had expressed some of these frustrations to Em on the phone. She asked me, "Is there something you can give up right now to help eliminate some of the stress in your life?" And, honest to blog, I said to her, "No." And I really thought that. "I mean, Emily," I went on, "I have hardly exercised this week and I haven't read any blogs and I'm just doing the stuff that really matters, the stuff I need to do." She didn't push the issue. But her question got me thinking.

I thought about her post on balance. I thought about times and seasons. I've written before about sacrifice in motherhood. How I don't think you should be a martyr, but some sacrifice is certainly required. I thought about all the stuff on my must-do list that was making me feel so hectic. I thought about the stress level in our home and wondered if it was me causing the bad behavior in Blaine. Blaine is highly spirited and intelligent. He needs stimulation and interaction and attention (what child doesn't, right?!). He wasn't getting enough of those things.

That night, after drying my crazy-mother-with-out-of-control-emotion tears, a voice whispered to me, "This isn't about him. This is about you. Do your stuff on your own time. When your kids are awake, they need you."

And suddenly it felt so clear. I was trying too hard to do too much. I didn't need to be sewing a summer skirt and have plans to sew a new handbag. I didn't need to send all handmade baby presents to my new-mother friends. I am always a champion for mothers finding their own creative outlets, but we don't need so many creative ventures that our children take the backseat to our sewing machines or glue guns. Who cares how darling my house is? Do I care more about decorating my mantle or helping my sons develop character?

No, it's not all about self-sacrifice all the time. But for me, this is a season to be on the floor, playing and reading with my children. Teaching them their letters and memorizing songs with them. Going to 'Fantasia' (Blaine's imaginary world) with them and eating the pretend jell-o they make out of Legos. Obviously there are chores to be done during the day and no mother achieves perfect balance daily. But I can do better. And if I can squeeze in a craft when they're in bed, then that'll just be gravy.

Now I just want to point out that the Bloom community has a deep impact on the way I am living my life. It was Emily's post and conversation that really got me thinking. It was Abbie's brave post about training herself not to be a yelling mother that helped me confront my own temper with Blaine. Following her lead, I am now paying myself for the days I am in control and fining myself for the days I'm not. So far I have $17 toward a new camera and haven't had to fine myself yet. Thanks to Lindy teaching me that Blaine is a 'spirited child,' I have started reading Raising Your Spirited Child and am really excited about the tools it's going to give me as I parent Blaine. See? The Bloom community is powerful. And I love you for it.

Another thing that was whispered to me that night was this: "Pray for love." Never in my life would I have dreamed I would have to pray to increase my capacity to love my own child. But I needed to. And those prayers are being answered. Honestly, less than two weeks later, I feel like a new woman. I feel calm and full of love. Instead of becoming enraged by Blaine's outbursts, I feel compassion for him. I feel how emotional and sensitive he is and want so badly to fight for him instead of against him.

I have a whole lifetime to cute up my house and learn how to sew. But I only get one shot at raising kind, grateful, loving boys. I better get it right.

Bonding with Motherhood

I called Danielle last week after her post on enjoying motherhood. We talked and talked about our parenting philosophies and ideals. I related to her how difficult it can be to figure out appropriate discipline with our strong-willed, smart (smart!), oldest son. She reminded me of an important realization I had in her very presence. She thought you might like to hear about it. I agreed.

Nearly four years ago I found myself with a tiny, handsome (grown-up looking!), hairy (his head!) little babe. He cried a lot. I cried a lot. I loved him, but I didn't know what I had gotten myself into. For months the colic lasted. He required the most aggressive Irish soft shoe dancing I could possibly do, while bundled up in the tightest burrito imaginable.

It took me months to find my mothering groove. Blaine was nearly one by the time I fancied myself a mother and felt myself connecting well with him.

Blaine's second year was the easy part. Colic gone. Good sleeper. Pleasant, quiet, observant boy. I felt myself loving him evermore.

As Blaine entered the world of having a sibling, turning two, and moving to a new state all at once, he changed. He refused to nap (and I tried everything). He grew sassy. His strong will became known. We butted heads (oh, did we!). Like two years earlier, I felt out of control and at odds with my baby. I started to believe that my current problems with my son were born out of my inability to bond with him in his infancy. I began to picture fighting with him as a teenager and wondered if my struggle during the beginning of his life would take its toll for the rest of it.

And then I had the epiphany of my life. I loved Blaine. I had loved him in my belly and I loved him the minute he was born. We had bonded. We had. It wasn't that I couldn't bond with him at first, it was that I couldn't bond with motherhood.

Ever since realizing that, things have been different between Blaine and me. Sure, we still butt heads. Sure, he was defiant and disobedient and ungrateful today. (And I? I was impatient. To say the least.) But now I never see his bad behavior or our inability to see eye-to-eye as anything but typical parenting challenges. I'm not afraid of seeing Blaine through his teen years anymore. I no longer worry that because I was more ready for a baby when Rog came along, that my relationships with my boys are uneven.

It wasn't him. It was me.

So thank you, dear Blaine, for loving me, and being patient with me, and teaching me how to embrace my life. Consider us bonded.

Another good day on the mish

(Unrelated photo that I love: at the top of the chair lift at Sundance, UT)

I was just wiping the kitchen table for at least the 8th time today, when I thought about something my sister, Liz, has written about. How much time do I spend every day wiping something? (A table, a floor, a face, a bum.) And today--glory be--I just smiled at the thought of it.

I think because this week I am a new woman (did you read Sunday's post?). And I am remembering every day that wiping things is just a part of this glorious job we call motherhood.

I've written before about making mothering my mission. This afternoon I was out sweeping dirt from the street back onto our property--dirt and rocks that Blaine had thrown while I was inside checking on the cookies. The darling elders rode by on their bikes and Elder Huber offered a trade of sweeping for some water. I happily took him up on the offer, and threw in a peanut butter chocolate chipper for free. They thanked me for the water, told me about meeting some of my neighbors, and rode off just as cheerfully as they had arrived.

I thought about them while I was wiping the table just now. When you're on a mission, there is a LOT of monotony. There is a lot of work that seems fruitless. You knock on a lot of doors with no one behind them. But when there is someone there and he says, "Mormons? I'm your guy! Come on in!" (that is a direct quote, even ask my companion, Melody Coleman Odell!) your heart leaps and you know you would be willing to knock a million more doors just to get that response again.

And I will wipe my table a million more times to snuggle with Blaine like we did in my bed this morning or watch Rog triumphantly build a tower with blocks and then congratulate himself with a grin and round of applause. Seriously. A million more times.

p.s. Did you watch Nie on Oprah yesterday? She continues to inspire.
p.p.s. Along these same lines, we are getting some wonderful photo contest entries over at Bloom. Please send us your photos! This is going to be such a beautiful and inspiring compilation of photos!

It's Friday afternoon.

I stood in the same spot from 7 a.m. until noon. Frost. Wash. Repeat. Feed children. Clean up after children. Clothes from dryer to basket. Clothes from washer to dryer. Answer phone. Change diaper. Watch Blaine mush goldfish on kitchen floor. Send him to the pantry for the vacuum. Wonder what's taking him so long. Find him in pantry with mouth full of marshmallows. Find it in myself to laugh (after sending him to time-out). Wipe counters. Wipe sand off Rog's hands. And round and round I went. I started to feel frustrated but remembered these things are all just part of the job description to the career that I chose.

During Rog's naptime I plopped Blaine in front of PBS Kids and ran on the treadmill. There's nothing like a good run to get me back into a good mind frame. After my 2 miles I walked into the kitchen for some water and as I chugged it down I looked around at my house. Someday, I thought, I am going to be be here all alone during the day, without any little feet pattering down the hall, with no more fingerprints on my fridge, and none of Blaine's "friends" (stuffed animals) strewn about my living room. And I am going to be really sad.

After my shower I put on my ruffly red shirt, trouser jeans and turquoise earrings. It is 3:30 p.m. and I look like I'm ready to go on a date. I have nowhere to be but here, which is sitting on the floor helping Blaine with his "art" (adhere stickers to paper, cut paper into a kajillion pieces, repeat). But I was sick of being in my sweats. I used to look like this every day. Now I look at myself in the mirror and think, "what am I getting all dressed up for?" Bad sign. Baaaaad sign.

I've realized lately that life is always going to feel this hectic. I'll have more children. They will go to school and boyscouts (heaven help me) and piano lessons and ballet (here's hoping for a daughter). I'll keep volunteering at church. There will always be an endless project list and another load of laundry and another counter to wipe. I have to stop feeling stressed about it all and just go with the flow. "Go with the flow." I think I need to put "learn to needlepoint" on my project list so I can needlepoint that on a pillow.

Better get back to our art.

On being June Cleaver

A few months ago I sent out a (late) birth announcement sharing the (old) news of Roger joining our family. Since I would be sending it out to a bunch of relatives and old friends that I don't have much communication with, I thought it would be nice to include a little update letter.

After re-reading a large paragraph about what I was up to I looked up at Taylor. "Honey. Listen to this--cooking, baking, sewing, gardening...Yuck. I sound so June Cleaver." His quick reply: "Well, Anne. You are June Cleaver."

And he was right. And that was OK.

It's funny because every time I come to my blog I see the Thoreau quote and think "This is the life I imagined, so why do I fight it so hard?" I think probably because the world today belittles the June Cleavers. So we find ourselves saying things like "I'm just a mom." How do we let ourselves do that?!

Taylor and I have traditional roles. Not as traditional as some, but still. He works hard all day for me, so I want to work hard all day for him. And for the most part that means I take care of the home--the food, the laundry, the bills, the bed-making, etc. It may not always be this way. Some day I may teach again (I hope). Some day I may get my masters' degree (I hope). But right now I am learning a whole new skill set. The skill set that contains organizing and decorating and budgeting and canning and sewing and, above all else, nurturing.

I try not to forget that it is a blessing that we can live comfortably without me needing to work outside the home. (And I say party on to working moms. I hope this isn't coming across as anti-working mom or anti-people who don't sew or make strawberry jam.) I still miss getting up and putting on one of my teacher skirts and feeling important as I walk through the doors of a school. But I chose this life right now. And I am happy to be engaged in this mission and learning this new skill set.

So bring it on. Call me June.

(P.S. Maybe I should change my header to read "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Stop fighting the life you've imagined.")

Time (part II)

(reveling, June 2008)

With all this talk about time, there is a deeper, underlying issue, which is of greater import than any mundane task list.

Time is going fast. I can't do anything to stop it. Over and over I tell myself,

Be Here Now.

Two things happened this week that reminded me how important that is.

1. On Sunday all the Mormons in this whole valley convened for our semi-annual stake conference. After the two-hour service was over, we scooped up our boys and looked around. We watched the men put away folding chairs like worker bees. (A classic post-Mormon-meeting sight.) We greeted friends we hadn't seen in awhile. We discussed lunch. I looked over at my sister-in-law, Melissa, and noticed she was chatting with Ted the orthodontist. He had a child on each hand. His youngest girl (there are three older) and his baby boy--now around five years old. I couldn't believe those were his youngest babes.

Ted and his wife, Kristi, moved into the ward (congregation) of my youth when I was a teenager. They were in their twenties and had three darling little girls. Their oldest, Mary, was five, and used to sit close to me in church. I adored her. They were the darling young family. The darling, fun, musical, beautiful family I wanted to be when I grew up.

Flash forward 12 years and there was Ted--with his two youngest children who were already not that young anymore, and with three teenage daughters to boot! Holy cow I thought, as I watched him chat with Melissa. Taylor and Anne are now Ted and Kristi. And in the blink of an eye we are going to be in the next phase of our lives, talking about curfews instead of diapers, cell phone rules in place of sippie cups, dating instead of toy trains.

I already look at my three-year-old boy and recognize how fleeting this all is. The time to revel is now.

2. One of my favorite people in the world is my friend, Cindy. She invited me, Melissa, and my other sis-in-law, Sara (who happens to be in town--lucky us!) for lunch at her house yesterday. As an added bonus, one of my other favorite people in the world, Lesley, was there, too. Cindy and Lesley are mothers of some of the friends we grew up with and we felt it a royal treat to dine with them. As we scarfed croissant sandwiches (you should hear Cindy pronounce croissant with her "I lived in France for a long time" accent. Magical!), mangoes, and lemon bars, we asked Cindy and Lesley about their lives. They raised 11 children between them and now have empty nests. They described the joy of grandmotherhood, the importance of maintaining a close relationship with your husband, and the other things in life they delight in. Then Cindy said something that I never want to forget. "I miss having my little children at home with me. But. I'm not sad because I never took that time for granted. I enjoyed every minute of it."

And so my mantra was strengthened.
Be Here Now.

Rethinking Mothers' Day

When you wake up to this...

...you put on your pearls and just know your Mothers' Day is going to be perfect.

But when you are running into church late (because you just had to blow dry your hair on Mothers' Day) and realize your babe has filled his drawers, making you even later, you ask yourself this all-important question: What does perfect mean anyway?

Does it mean that your children are angelic all day and that the world bows down before you, in complete awe of your amazing mothering?

I don't think so.

Because after changing that dirty diaper, Taylor and I had a non-compliant three-year-old on our hands. And then I ran around the church building making sure all the youth were ready to teach the primary classes, so the women who normally do could have a little break.

But I didn't mind.

Because somewhere in between the diaper change and Sister Clason's inspiring and empowering talk on mothers and women who are making a tangible difference in this world, I realized that perfect doesn't mean free of task or worry or filth or opposition. It means loving life as a mother, regardless of what craziness each day brings.

At least that's what it means to me.

So after church I sat in the back seat, squeezing my hips in between the two car seats, singing "10 Little Ducks Went Out to Play" and feeding smarties (gasp!) to my babes, so they would stop crying. I entered my mother's home, where she had thoughtfully pulled out all of her fancy stemware so we could all toast to our mothers and chug down some sparkling apple cider. I decided I didn't care when Blaine dipped more than his toes (try his whole lower half) into the pool. I sat back and smiled as I watched the kids take turns cranking the ice cream. I didn't let myself get worked up when I had to give Blaine a consequence for pouring a pitcher of pool water on Lizzy. And I loved my mother for doing all of that for me when I was a little one, and then teaching me how to do it all for my little ones.

The day ended how it began. Beautifully.

(At the ranch.)

Rogers on the baby tractor.

pantsless after the pool incident

so glad to have daddy home

Why is it that every year we end up at the ranch on Mothers' Day and I always still have my stilettos on? Not optimal.

Soph and Blaine.

Uncle B. and Mr. B.

Loving my boys and trying to find the perfect

You've probably seen this before. It's Responsible Woman by James C. Christensen. It is hanging on the wall next to my tub, so I get to look at it a lot. Last night, as I reflected on one of the most defiant days Blaine has ever had, and the appalling way I dealt with it, I looked up at her and started to cry.

Take some time and look at her. Look at all the things she is carrying (balancing!), the determined look on her face, the light she holds high, and the babe tucked comfortably and protected by her hand.

I don't want to be the mom I was yesterday. Yelling and throwing my hands up in the air. I want to be this woman.

I love experience.

Poor little Rog is sick with a capital ICK. He has thrown up in three different carseats, on our carpet, on our couch, in sinks (when we could get him there in time), in his high chair tray (much preferred), and all over me (several times). He's gone through like 9 pairs of pajamas today. (I've gone through a few outfits myself.) He is wimpery and lethargic and heartbreaking.

And all day I've felt calm and grateful. Grateful that Blaine was a good boy all day. Grateful that I have Taylor. Grateful that I have family close. Grateful that my friend called offering pedialyte and dinner. Grateful (oh, so grateful!) for my washing machine. And most of all, grateful that I've been through this before and I know that eventually he will get better. I remember every time Blaine got sick as a baby I was an absolute mess. It was so stressful and I was always convinced he would never get better. This time around it's messy, it's inconvenient, and it's sad to watch, but I know it can't go on forever. And so I hunker down and I revel in my unusually snuggly babe.

And then I clean up more barf.

Promised Profundity

Last Friday evening at my father's retirement party, I saw several people I hadn't seen in years. Ten to be precise. There I was, chatting with parents of my old classmates, reporting on what I am doing with my life. As they told me about their children's careers like physical therapist and teacher of underprivileged children in New Orleans, I boldly claimed mother as mine. I was proud (and a little surprised) that I didn't even wince. (Yes, it has taken me almost three years of being a mother to love my choice to leave my teaching career behind so much that I don't feel insecure when my new vocation is held up against those more heralded by the world.)

And as I told of how I love my two sons and being home with them all day and how I am so thankful we can afford for me to do so, some thought began to occupy my mind.

"Did you make mothering your career today? Are you taking your career seriously? Are you putting the mothering part of your job first (and not the cleaning part, the organizing part, the decorating part, the cooking part, the exercising part, or the blogging about all of it part)? Do you spend more time working on puzzles with Blaine or tidying puzzles? Do you snuggle with Rog or do you just change his diapers and send him on his merry way?"

Of course you have to clean, change diapers, pay bills, take the garbage out, and fold laundry. Those are all part of the gig. But sometimes I get so obsessed with checking things off my to-do list, that I don't just sit down and play with my children. Some days it's "how can I keep you occupied so I can do what I want to do?" Don't get me wrong. Mothers have needs too. But am I balancing? Prioritizing?

Sometimes I do things like facebook or blog and let me kids run amok. "Holy cow," I said to Taylor after the retirement party epiphany. "I am one of those people who plays solitaire at work!" Again, don't get me wrong. I am not condemning me (and maybe you) for taking time for personal things. I am, however, advocating that people like me reevaluate how we spend each day.

This has got me thinking about job performance and security. If I were going in to work every day I would theoretically work hard and stay on-task all day, right? Concerned about keeping my job, hopefully getting a raise, and keeping my good name, I would be doing everything in my power to perform well. Do I do that as a career mother? Obviously I don't have to worry about job security--I get to keep this job forever! But I sincerely think this is the most important job on the planet. And don't my children deserve my very best?

So I am trying to be more mindful each day of balance. Today when I tried to write this the first time, I played Perfection with Blaine instead. When I tried to write it the second time, I had a PB and banana snack with Blaine instead. And while I'm writing it right now a naked Blaine (potty training-wish us luck!) is sitting on my shoulders and his lemon sucker (potty training-wish us luck!) is now stuck in my ponytail. And I am (sincerely) loving every minute.