Our Fears Will Pass

Hopefully, everyone has now settled into the new school year. You've established your morning routines and, though they may not like it, children have adjusted to early bedtimes.

There's nothing quite like that first day, though. Kids in brightly colored outfits with shoes so new and clean it's hard to look directly at them. They're usually excited with just a slight side of nerves. Mostly harmless concerns plague them. Will I be the shortest one in class? Where is my bus room? How do I pay for ice cream? Ten minutes after school starts their jitters will be forgotten as they are immersed in learning the ropes of a new grade. 

Parents are a different story. Well, in my experience it has been mothers, but I won't stereotype. The first day of school many of us are a nervous wreck until those precious children stumble back off that big yellow bus in the afternoon.

It's not that I think it's going to be a horrible day. My kids go to a great school and have terrific teachers. There is just something about your children being completely out of your control that makes you feel a little helpless.

During the summer my kids stay with my sister-in-law. I knew where they were, what kind of environment and influence was around them, and I could call and check on them any time I wanted.

The school day is a giant blind spot. Just try to get a fifth grade boy to tell you what went on in his day. My girls are more forthcoming, but they have me cringing with tales of second grade drama.

I started thinking about all the difficulties yet to come; letting kids drive alone, sending them on mission trips, dropping them off at college. I'll stop there before I pass out.

If letting our children out of our sight can be difficult for us, what must it be like for heavenly father to send all of hs children to Earth?

How worrisome it must be to send children to Earth where they will be so tempted by horrible influences. He loves us so much, but we are born having forgotten him. We must re-learn the gospel and choose him.

Knowing how difficult it will be for His children, the Lord made a back-up plan, giving us a savior for our redemption. How agonizing it must be for the father to watch so many not choose freedom, but to fall.

Heavenly father has written down everything he wants us to know in the scriptures, and would love for us to call on Him any time, day or night. Like most children we never call home enough.

We often lament on how quickly our children grow up. One moment they're learning to tie their shoes, and the next they're learning to parallel park. What we forget is how swiftly the bad moments pass as well.

When our twin girls were born they needed to stay in the NICU for three weeks. The hospital was an hour from our home, and I visited every day. For the first week family members drove me as I recovered from surgery, after that I drove or waited for my husband in the evenings. At the time it felt like their stay lasted an eternity. Now looking back, that difficulty was just a brief moment that seems like a lifetime ago.

Several weeks have passed since that first day of school. All of those worries are now a distant memory. As my kids have become more confident in their classes, I too have become secure in their routines and safety.

At least as much as a mother ever does.

I will keep trying to get my kids to fill me in on the empty abyss I call the school day. In the meantime I think I'll check in with my heavenly father a little more often. As a parent I'm sure he'd like a little reassurance on how I'm doing through the day, and as a parent I could use the reassurance through the day.

What We Leave Behind

February is a month of anniversaries. It marks the celebration of love, presidents and even the birth of my beautiful twin daughters. For me it also brings memories of the brother I lost on February 22, 2008.

Each year I sort through a few more boxes of his stowed belongings and come out with some new surprises. This year I came upon a memory he had tucked away in his wallet.

You can tell a lot about a person by what ‘s in their wallet or purse.  For instance I have large quantities of receipts in my purse for my expense reports. Call it disorganization if you want, I prefer to think of it as a relaxed filing system. Look at the details of the receipts and you can figure out the entire layout of my sales territory. Keep digging in the depths of my handbag and you’ll find clip on sparkle earrings, paint swatches and fuzzy pom-poms. It would not take a detective to figure out I have little girls that are divas, am redecorating my kitchen, and use “warm fuzzies” as a reward for good behavior.

What kind of story are you carrying around with you?

In going through my brother’s wallet I found lot’s of telling tokens. There was a club card for his favorite Mexican restaurant that was so worn out he’d laminated the frayed pieces together. His collection of home grown hot peppers was represented by a pepper postage stamp. In the window where most people keep their drivers license he had a copy of the serenity prayer. It was there behind that printed prayer that I found something incredibly meaningful.

A faded year-old Wal-Mart receipt for $108.95.

At first I couldn’t see the relevance of this slip of paper. The purchases were t-shirts, shorts and socks, hardly high value purchases. Why had he kept it? More so, why was it so worn out? There were check marks by each item and the receipt had been creased and re-creased.

It wasn’t until I checked the date and location that I remembered the shopping trip. I had been with my brother that day. It was his final trip to rehab and I had come to visit him for the day. We had gone to lunch together, walked the Old Town Mall in Winchester and gone shopping. It was the first time in years we had spent time together just the two of us, it would be one of the last.

Did he keep the receipt because that day meant so much to him? I can’t say for sure. I know that the sword he bought in a specialty shop that day is on the wall of my craft room. Doesn’t everyone have a sword in their craft room? I also know that for some reason he believed I was miraculous. He would tell anyone that listened what a fantastic mother I was. Nothing I accomplished surprised him, because he expected me to fly.

I can’t count the things my brother left behind. We have an authentic light saber, every video gaming system known to man and Matrix action figures. Beyond that, he left me the belief in adventure, an irresistible desire to rescue the downtrodden, and the determination not to disappoint his memory.

Besides what’s in my purse, what would I be leaving behind if I suddenly left this world? I never let my family leave without saying I love you, but I want to do more for them. I want my daughters to know how to be strong women. I want my son to know how to treat his wife and family one day. They all need to know how to stand up for their values and be who they are. That I believe they are stronger and more wonderful than they can ever imagine.

In this day and age we need to try and leave the world a little better off for our time in it. I don’t just mean recycling, though that is a good thing. Leave people better off for having known you. Make an impact on your family and on your world. Leave someone smiling one day when they sort through your wallet.

What are you going to leave behind?

Families Are the Moral Compass of the Nation

Blame gets pointed in many directions for the shortcomings of our nation. Violent video games are rotting our children’s brains. Guns and grenade launchers need to be regulated out the hands of all criminals who would use them illegally. The mentally ill need to be cataloged and tracked to keep them from committing violent acts.

Once legitimate ideas soon spin out of control, becoming the twisted ridiculous rhetoric of political jockeys.

Really, if we sit back and look at the state of our country many of the problems come back to the same thing. The moral compass of society is off. You might say our due north is pointing a little crooked.

During the presidential election this year a dear friend of mine engaged in one of the many political polls that phoned her home. When asked what she thought the biggest issue of the election was, she hesitated. There were many topics she could have chosen, the economy and jobs were at the front of everyone’s minds, gas prices were soaring and our troops in Afghanistan were a daily concern.

Her answer of moral issues shocked the surveyor. I don’t think they had a check box for that on the questionnaire.

The explanation was really amazing. Without a simple backbone of moral stability how would the United States survive? Like the building blocks of a child learning to read, the nation must first remember its simple core values before it can begin to solve the larger issues at hand.

The keystone to values has been under attack for decades. The family is the strongest support for a true north on our moral compass.

I don’t speak of one individual family, but rather the concept of family as a whole. A broken home is not the cause of one shoot out, rampage or bank heist. It takes time for a society to break down.

The high cost of living has pushed both parents into the workforce for most families and the children into some kind of childcare. Demands for what our children must have to become competitive in the world overload our evenings with a multitude of scheduled activities. Electronic gadgets keep us tied to our work 24-hours a day and often segregate family members that are home together.

Gone are the days of sit down dinners seven days a week and discussing how everyone’s day was. Some families are lucky to all be under the same roof by nine o’clock at night.

Having less and less family influence and teachings has lowered the standards for what is considered acceptable. In turn movies and television have become increasingly disturbing. The pattern becomes set.

In the last year women have come into particular attack of this cycle. Movies about male strippers and erotic novels were some of the most touted entertainment of 2012. Chisel away at the standards of the wives and mothers one chip at a time and you break down the backbone of the family.

In 2013 I’m resolving to put my family first. It’s time for less over-scheduling and more family home evenings.

Instead of video game nights or crime investigation marathons, we could benefit from conversation and teaching moments.

It is impossible to lock down or eliminate everything we fear or dislike about this world. What is possible is changing the acceptance of those things.

I can’t change the values of an entire nation, but I can make my family strong. Maybe it’s time we over run this country with strong families and find a true north on that moral compass for the United States.

What direction is your family headed?

Taking Control Through Choice

In light of recent events many of us have lost our Christmas spirit. Some feel like skipping the celebrations all together.

We need to embrace that spirit like never before.

When my oldest child boarded the school bus for the first day of kindergarten I smiled and waved like a perky pageant queen. As soon as that sunshine yellow child thief lumbered off I burst into tears.

It had nothing to do with my baby growing up, but everything to do with losing control.

For the first time I would not know what or how my child was doing all day. I was leaving him to his own devices and the care of strangers.

Even as a working mother I’d been able to call the babysitter, who was also family, at any time for updates. I could find out what they were doing, hear his voice or even stop by if I was so inclined. 

The beginning of public school changed all that.

Losing control meant gaining fear and anxiety as a parent.

As the world becomes increasingly chaotic and self-destructive we can feel overwhelmed by despair or even hopelessness. Every newscast seems more tragic then the last.

I can’t control what is happening in our nation and across the world. I can’t turn around the economy. I can’t stop senseless violence. I can’t put an end to hate.

I can control my little piece of this world.

This holiday season I can celebrate peace, charity and love. I can make my home a place of comfort and joy and teach my children how to spread goodness in their little part of the world.

If many of us choose to act in this way all of our little pieces could add up to something really wonderful.

Darkness and tragedy may be thrust upon us, but it is our choice in how we react.

What support will we give? What strength will we gain?

I adapted to having children in school as all parents do. The teachers and staff that were “strangers” are now treasured friends. In a school of 1200 students the phenomenal ladies in the office call me and my children by our first names.

How did I go from terror to trust? I chose to embrace the new environment. Really to jump in with both feet. Cupcakes for a party? Sign me up. Parent teacher conferences? Never missed one. Kindergarten Career Day? Who knew you could hold five-year-olds spell bound with a model of a clogged artery?

By being a positive presence I felt more in control of my children’s environment.

This Christmas I’m choosing to make my part of the world as bright as I can, for the sake of my family and my fellow man. Maybe no one else will notice, but I think just making that choice will give me a little more control over the fear and horror that has been reigning unchecked lately.

I will choose where I stand and I will not be moved.

What are you going to choose to do with your part of the world?

Painful Procrastination

Ouch. That's the best description for this week. After years of dabbling periodically in our fitness, my hubby and I had discovered we were way out of shape. Like, winded on the stairs out of shape.

So, it was time to get serious. Extreme, ninety days of seriousness. Once again, may I say ouch.

It takes at least an hour to an hour and a half every evening. Which is a lot of our "free" time. My wise husband had an excellent point though. We'd put off our health long enough, it was time for other things to be placed on hold.

That got me thinking, what else had I been putting off? It's so easy to get caught up in the daily work, cleaning, bill paying routine, are there crucial life events we're procrastinating?

My first thought was about my relationship with Heavenly Father and returning with honor.

When my son was very small we were at the County Fair, waiting for our ride on a roller coaster to start, when my precious toddler looked over at our church building just across the field.

"Mommy, Jesus is coming." He was very serious, his little brow furrowed.

I have to tell you, my heart quickened a little bit. "He is? When Baby?"

He continued to concentrate, but shrugged his tiny shoulders. "I don't know, soon."

I've made sure since then that the same conversation wouldn't be so worrisome. Even though I'm much more prepared, there's still a lot I should be striving for. Reading my scriptures daily, praying more often, the list goes on. How long will I procrastinate on these items?

Next my thoughts moved on to my family and all the things I want to do with them. Every summer we talk about taking the kids into nearby Washington D.C. to see the monuments or museums. So far we haven't gotten around to it. Or, the other historical sites in Virginia. There are lots of other things we've done as a family, but these are memories I want my kids to have. I need to stop putting it off and get it done.

Most importantly, I need to make sure I've told my family everything I want to tell them. Do my kids know why church and God are so important to me? Will my husband know how much he has inspired me and lifted me up, if I leave this earth tomorrow? Can any of them grasp how all encompassing my love for them is? Did I teach them to pray? To have faith?

I don't know about you, but I can't afford to procrastinate any longer. My fitness rehab may be painful, but after one week I'm seeing amazing results. I don't want to be in pain down the road because I procrastinated too long on other goals. Besides, what kind of fabulous blessings could be awaiting me?

What can you stop procrastinating, today?

A Recipe for Lemonade

Disappointment is never fun, but it's a part of life. They don't have your size in the shoes you want. The new movie you've been waiting months for is a dud. Your dinner plans get cancelled at the last minute. We don't like it. We may grumble about it. As adults we can adjust. Can't we?

For children disappointment can be crushing. They can't always see the big picture, and a major let down can shake their faith in people. As a parent you never want to see one of your kiddos hurting,  let alone all of them.

This week we had plans to go away for a few days while I had some down time in my job transition. Our kids were thrilled at the prospect of staying in a hotel, and most of all visiting the amusement park in Hershey Pennsylvania. As their parents, anything we say is gospel law. They couldn't imagine that the trip would not come to pass.

Life happens though, and my husband's vacation request was not approved. We'll still be able to go, just not until late August. I might as well have told my kids we'd never be going on vacation again. A few weeks, sounded like a few centuries to them. What's worse, is that one of my girls had fallen asleep as soon as we had come home that evening, and she slept right on through until morning. She wasn't awake when I told the other two we were postponing the trip. I had to watch another little face fall the next morning when I explained it all over again.

My counter offer to my kids disappointment, was making lemonade with Mom. After all, I had cleared my schedule. Why not make the most of our time? I'm always jealous of the fun stuff my babysitter gets to do with them. We would take our nasty lemons and make the best lemonade ever.

This summer I have become a Pinterest addict. If you haven't checked out the website I highly recommend it. That's where we gathered the rest of our ingredients. I scoured through my Pinterest board of kids crafts and summer activities and found the most interesting ones for our list. Ranging from sidewalk paint and salt art to snake bubbles. Then we hit the dollar store for supplies.

Stir in some pool time, ice cream, and a trip to an inflatable indoor playground and you have a deliciously sweet lemonade.

We've made some wonderful memories, and I'm fairly certain that their faith has been restored that we will be making that trip to Hershey sooner rather than later.

The whole experience has made me wonder, though. As "mature" grown-ups, how often do we make the best of things? Do we just take life's disappointments on the chin and move on? If so, maybe all those little lemons are leaving a sour taste.

If we're crushed to see our children's sadness at disappointments, I'm sure our Heavenly Father feels the same way about us.

Why not make lemonade a little more often? I'd be happy to share my recipe.

Evolution of Heroes

When we moved into our house, four years ago, our son was getting ready to turn five. He was completely infatuated with Batman. Because we're the most awesome parents ever, we decorated his new room in a bat cave motif complete with a life size wall sticker of the caped crusader and a bat logo over his bed. Now, with his ninth birthday approaching this week fictional super heroes have lost their appeal. He'd rather have a room that's more grown-up. Something cool and mature. You know...Star Wars.

As we become adults we stop noticing who our heroes are. Those that inspire and uplift us. It becomes rare that we name those influencers, both large and small. In our children, however, it is easy to see the evolution they go through. From super heroes and cartoon characters to family members, teachers and members of our community. Kids show their adoration through mimicing, collecting, and devotion of their artwork and allowances.

Whenever his uncle comes home from Afghanistan, my son greets him dressed in his own set of "official" camouflage fatigues. Every care package we send over seas during Uncle John's deployment gets a scenic crayon picture complete with an American flag waving atop the mountains. At the ripe old age of eight, he may not know how to put into words that he's proud, but he know's how to show it.

The newest influence in my son's life is one I've become quite impressed with too. This spring was our first season of baseball. Quite a switch from juggling soccer balls, but an enjoyable one since my husband and I know a lot more about swinging a bat then scoring a goal.

We were convinced that our little slugger could benefit from a baseball camp this summer. In the fall he'll be moving up to an older league that could be intimidating if he didn't have a little more coaching. He wasn't sure about attending a camp, it was a little out of his comfort zone. With a little of Mom's gentle sales persuasion tactics...okay, maybe there was a deal made involving some Legos, he agreed to go.

The camp we chose was with the Woodstock River Bandits, our local Valley League team. The Valley League is known as "The Gateway to the Majors", and college players come from all over the country to spend their summer playing ball in the Shenandoah Valley.

For one week campers spent three hours a day working on drills and games to improve their baseball skills. Sounds pretty standard, right? What made the week great, was that the camp was run by the River Bandits coaches and players. What made it exceptional, was the devotion and heart those players put in to the camp. They didn't just show up to put in their time. The Bandits were enthusiastic about sharing their love of baseball with those kids. They went out of their way to make sure every child was included and made to feel like a winner. Best of all the campers walked away with new friends to look up to.

My son loved baseball before, but now he leaves and breathes it. Especially River Bandits baseball. At the end of camp all of the players signed his baseball. It couldn't be more precious if it was made of gold. He wants to put it on a stand with a picture we took of him and his favorite player, #18 Taylor Rakes.

The very next game we attended after camp, my son was sure to take along some of his money to buy a River Bandits hat. He had to dust off a few cobwebs first, his money box never gets cracked open. To him it was worth it though, to have a hat just like the team.

During the game one of my little girls and her friend chased down some foul balls and wanted to get them signed. The opposing team's bullpen had been coarse and foul mouthed whenever we passed by, a bit intimidating for tiny 6-year-old girls. By comparison the River Bandits were happy to see their young fans and jumped to accommodate our request for autographs, chatting up my bashful girls.

Maybe I caught them at the right time, but I never heard any foul language or bad attitudes, and we were down quite a few runs. Certainly during camp there was nothing but positivity in their speech and actions. I'm very pleased with the players that the River Bandits organization has brought to our community this year. I'm even more pleased that my children are finding heroes that don't need capes.

Where will you find a hero that inspires you today?

Reverse Logging

First, let me apologize for not posting last week. Everything is fine, and thank you to all of those who checked up on me. I've been uprooted from my day job and transferred to a different division. The post for last week had a little too much attitude in it, so I decided to scrap it until I was in a better mood.

There's a small percentage of Americans that never actually have to work a day in their lives. The rest of us will be punching a clock for the majority of our natural lives. Depending on how broke we are, will determine how hard and how much we will have to work.

Everyone has stories to tell. It starts in high school waiting tables, pumping gas or taking orders at the drive-thru window. Maybe it's even younger working on the family farm or delivering the newspaper. I've never actually lived somewhere that had paperboys, but I'm sure it exists other then on television.

I worked two jobs through college to pay for living expenses. I'm still paying for the actual cost of college. Unless it was an emergency, I swore after graduation I would never eat Raman noodles again. Little did I know the happiest poverty was yet to come.

Combining two incomes should improve your financial situation. Unfortunately you're also combining two sets of living expenses. We discovered in the first year of marriage that our income would not stretch to cover a vacation.

Enter our short lived career in reverse logging.

What we did might sound a lot like planting trees, but it was much more labor intensive and hardcore then simple landscaping.

To prevent erosion around streams and creeks, the government provides grants to land owners to plant large numbers of trees in these riparian areas. In true red-tape bureaucratic style, there's about seventy-four steps to planting government trees.

First, a small hole is made and the stick with roots, think about twice the size of what your kid brings home for Arbor day, is mashed in and covered. Then, the next person drives a stake into the ground beside the tree and places a protective tube over the stick, cable tying it to the stake. Are you still with me?

The next team member comes along and places a 3'x3' fabric weed square with a slit in the center over the tree. Most importantly the fabric has to be shiny side up, according to government specs. We once had to re-do half a field that did not meet the check box. After that we learned to chant "sunny side up" as we laid the mats. Each mat had to have every corner folded in and a staple driven through it into the ground. Not necessarily difficult, but excruciating on the back.

The crowning piece was a little birdie net that went on top of the tube to keep birds and animals from eating the trees.

There's a couple things you should know to put this logging project in perspective. Planting a few trees on a lovely spring day sounds like a charming way to make a little extra money. We planted 750 to 2500 trees per farm in wind, rain, mud and bone-chilling cold. There were a few days we could work in our shirt sleeves, but they were few and far between. It was more common that we would lay thirty mats, and then sit in the truck for five minutes to warm up, and then lay thirty more mats.

Now, a dozen years later, my husband likes to tell these stories to our kids. He wants them to know that the mother they always see with hair and make-up done, heading to work in high heals, is capable of manual labor.

He especially likes to tell them about me walking through a truck stop to the ladies room. To stay warm and dry, I would layer my husband's brown coveralls over my coat, jeans, sweatshirt and long johns, paired with massive insulated boots. I stomped down the hallway like a brick wall. The roughest of truck drivers and bikers stepping aside in reverence, or fear.


The following year we still couldn't afford a vacation, so we went on a "free" time share weekend. All we had to do was take part in a ninety minute presentation. After being held hostage for three hours, I would have gladly planted trees again before accepting another deal from that particular devil.


Everyone has experiences like this. The waitressing job that kept you on your feet so long you had to go into the walk-in freezer to get your wedding rings off your swollen pregnant fingers. Or the teacher that delivers pizzas and DJ's weddings so he can provide a better life for his family. Maybe you're there right now. Whether you know it or not, you are making someone very proud. 


What story does someone tell about you? 

The Age of Innocence

This week my eight-year-old told me I should write about love and drama. What better topic then the third grade field trip. Third grade has been quite a change up for elementary school. It has come as quite a shock, and I think my son has noticed a few differences too.

Someone told me earlier this year that they loved my son because he was still so "childlike". What did that mean? I wasn't sure how to take it. Was that a polite way of saying he was immature? I didn't understand it fully until I chaperoned a field trip this week, and got a full dose of what is happening to the children of this generation.

Third grade is the cut off point between glue sticks and crafts and the hard work of training for standardized tests. It's also when children start becoming hardened by the impressions of the world. The age when innocence starts to fade.

The kids on the trip weren't bad or disrespectful. They were certainly energetic since it was the only field trip in over a year. What I noticed most was the language. Not coarse or cursing, but too mature. The topics, too, were not what I would expect among eight and nine-year-old's. Who had a crush, who was the man or wouldn't get "punked". They sounded like teenagers. They looked like teenagers.

Up until this year comfort was the main focus of my son's wardrobe. Now he's become concerned with the design on his t-shirt and how his hair looks. Not because he's fashion conscious but, rather he's afraid of being made fun of.

Maybe my children have been sheltered. They don't watch movies that weren't meant for grown-ups. We pause the DVR recordings of the crime shows we like until they've left the room. Even though my daughters are only six, they wear clothing that covers their bodies. My son has never played a teen rated video game. There are even certain "kids" shows, I don't let them watch.

They may not know it yet, but I have given my kids a tremendous gift. I have given them their childhood. Yes, compared to his classmates, my eight-year-old is more childlike. He enjoys riding his bike, building tents out of quilts and daydreaming about ninjas. Mint chip ice cream can still turn a day around.

My girls like nothing more than to have a sleepover on their brother's floor on the weekend. All three kids still love to pull a chair up to the kitchen counter and help me make pancake batter.

On the flip side, my son is one of the most responsible kids I know. Even other adults have commented how they can trust him with certain tasks without hesitation. On the field trip, while other kids were spending their money in the gift shop on as much candy as they could get, he bought something for his sisters and something special to remember the trip by. Then he asked me if I'd like to get anything.

I don't tell you all these things to brag about what a wonderful kid I have. He has his rotten moments too. Like any good big brother he torments his sisters on occasion. Every hour on the hour. You should also stay clear of him when he's hungry. It is not pretty.

My point is that a child can be mature and still enjoy their childhood. It's our job, as the adults in their lives, to insure they're getting that childhood. They only get to have that playful innocence the first time around. We need to make sure that their environment in not propelling them into adulthood on fast forward.

Third grade should be a time for recess and dodge ball, not love and drama. At the rate things are going there will be a reality show based on hard core eight-year-olds owning the halls of the elementary schools.

How childlike are the children in your life?

Going the Way of Christmas

How do you teach patriotism? What can you do to show your children, or your fellow Americans, what the flag, the fourth, and the fallen mean to you? How do you explain that Memorial Day weekend is more than the public pool opening and hot dogs on the grill? Can they understand why Uncle John had to go to Afghanistan and why we hold our hands over our hearts when we sing the anthem?

Each holiday has taken its turn becoming commercialized. It seems Christmas decorations go up in the stores as soon as the back-to-school displays come down. Valentine's is more about selling overpriced candy then sharing our love. Now the patriotic holidays are taking their turn. In a country where the pledge of allegiance's appropriateness in schools is debated, children are losing sight of what patriotism means. Memorial Day is toted as the unofficial beginning of summer. Television ads and stores stock displays with charcoal, coolers and flip flops.

My kids have learned about Betsy Ross in school and colored pictures of flags, but do they know why they're off from school on Monday? They have a hard time understanding why it makes Mommy and Daddy so proud to see our local veteran waving the flag all weekend from the interstate bridge in town.

So, how do we combat society's bland patriotism? I'm doing my part. I married a man born on Veteran's Day, have a nephew born on Flag Day, and I gave birth to our son on the Fourth of July. Beat that.

The only problem was convincing my oldest that the fireworks were for our nation's birthday, and not his.

I gave my children a little patriotism quiz while I was writing this post. Turns out, thank heavens, the family influence is a lot stronger then the glossy advertising world.  All three knew that Memorial Day was a holiday to remember all the soldiers that have died fighting to protect us. My oldest could tell me the meaning of the flag. No one was quite sure why we cover our hearts for the pledge and the anthem, but they knew it was very important. I was an especially proud Mama, even more so because they all knew that without soldiers we couldn't be safe and happy.

If I had to give a simplified definition of freedom, being safe and happy would be it. This Memorial Day we're free to be any kind of example we want. I hope we choose to teach the value of freedom  over flip flops and suntans.

What are you going to do this weekend to keep Memorial Day from going the way of Christmas?

I Still Carry His Picture

Mother's day is one of my very favorite holidays. I'll admit, I love the handmade cards and soggy marigolds. The stick figure portraits, that make me look so thin, are a special favorite. Mostly though, the adoration with which these gifts come are what makes my day. The joy bursting from their little hearts let's me know, yet again, that it's Mom that rocks this house.

Sure, Dad keeps us safe, warm, sheltered, the yard maintained, the cars in working order, he fixes stuff and he even grocery shops. But, can he make a pancake pig? Kids don't recognize the millions of sacrifices we make for them everyday, they notice the minutia that makes them happy in the moment.

Mom chases fireflies with them, sucks the middle out of honeysuckle and colors Queen Anne's Lace in food coloring. I turn birthdays into events and the entire Christmas season is a series of magical traditions. Are they head over heals about four wheeler rides with their Dad and his surprise trips to the movies? Sure, but this is about Mother's day. We can talk about him next month.

With this special day upon us I can't help, but count my blessings, and their fingers, toes, and little noses. As happy as I am with my little wonders, I always come up one short. In 2002, on a rather ordinary Wednesday, my first pregnancy came to an end with no warning. I will never forget the kindness of the emergency room doctor. Or, the normally terse head of radiology who was warm and reassuring.

Twenty-four hours later all we had left were a few journal entries, a faded pregnancy test and a small stuffed heart that now adorns our Christmas tree each year.

So many mothers have lost children. Many go on to have more, some are blessed through adoption and yet others never complete their family while here on earth. All of these women have something in common. They never forget those babies.

There are no photographs or baby books for these children, nothing solid to hold onto, but the memories are still dear. No miscarriage date is forgotten, or would've been birthday passed by. My son, I can't be sure it was a boy, is kept safe pressed between the pages of my scriptures. The ultrasound picture is one of the few things I have that makes him real. He was an adorable little blob, spitting image of his father. I will carry that picture until the day I die.

The world may not remember these mothers this Mother's day. There's not a special card and these children aren't here to make beaded necklaces and petunias in Styrofoam cups. I will remember these Moms this holiday in a special prayer, and I hope you do too.

Don't you think they would've rocked the house?

 

Watering Carpet Trees

I'll admit it, I spent the early part of this week praying for rain. Not for the sake of my garden, it hasn't even been plowed yet, let alone a single seed planted to be in need of water. I was praying for rain because we were down to our last crust of stale bread, and a cup of yogurt that was a day a way from expiring. Call me a bad Mom, but I was hoping our Monday night baseball game would get rained out. My prayers were answered. Don't worry we have like twenty more games this season. Missing that one night, though, eliminated the need for a midnight grocery run and the overflowing hamper blues.

Most life jugglers face the challenge of making a choice at some point that will be unpopular with themselves, or their family. Rather than do that we hope for miraculous divine intervention. We know we can't possibly make it across town from badminton practice to Chinese checkers club in 2.7 minutes, so we hope the checkers coach will come down with the flu and cancel practice. If the decision is taken out of our hands we don't have to be the bad guy, right? Or maybe we just don't want to be responsible for the decision. Maybe my kid is destined to be the next Chinese checker Olympic Champion, and I'm destroying his chances by skipping too many practices.

Spring is a jam packed season. The school year is still in full swing, we have a full calendar of activities and beautiful weather beckons us outdoors. My ever growing to-do list has been cast aside. I think there are small oak trees sprouting out of the carpet from lack of vacuuming. They stand as a tribute to all of the un-answered rainstorms I've prayed for.

There is more and more pressure to work an extra full work week, and provide a host of events for your family. The guilt of not having "well rounded kids" keeps us from saying no. We fail to see that sometimes the whole family needs a break, and sometimes a skipped practice or game is better for us as a whole. With or without the rain. Finding a reasonable balance in our lives can provide a measure of sanity. We have to be brave enough to pray for the rain.

Sometimes we just need our decisions to be validated. If I keep up the pace of spring I will drop from exhaustion, but how do I choose which child's activity should be skipped? Cub Scouts or Cheertastics? What do I let slide, mopping or my expense report? One missed activity might put our peace of mind back on track. If a husband, virus or even Heavenly Father would intervene I could eliminate a few things from my plate without making the unpopular decision. The choice was taken out of my hands, but the needed results were there.

In this overloaded society we shouldn't feel guilty about praying for rain. In fact, we shouldn't feel bad about making the choices we need to in order to keep balance in our families. Since we're not wired that way quite yet, I'll keep my fingers crossed and one eye on the sky.

Are you brave enough to pray for rain, or do you need to water your carpet trees?

Horizontal Stripes and Plastic Indians

Right now in America there are great quests happening. Important, life changing quests. That's right, it's time to shop for a swimsuit. There will be thousands of pages of magazine articles dedicated to tips and tricks for finding "your perfect suit". Talk shows will model this season's hottest styles for hiding your problem areas. You gentlemen might compare this to hunting down your perfect lawn mower. The biggest and baddest model that will give your yard that Wrigley Field look.

The strategy is to walk a fine line between shopping early when selection is best and waiting for the first sale of the season, so you don't pay full price. Then you must deal with the sea of options available, halter top, boy shorts, zero turn, fifty inch deck, horizontal stripes...not on your life! All 4,783 magazine articles will tell you horizontal stripes are going to make you look wider. Who on earth wants that? If you're not careful you could end up looking like your grandmother only thirty pounds heavier or mowing your back forty with a push mower.

What happens when you can't find what you're looking for? Despite mighty shopping marathons and Internet searches into the wee hours of the night you've come up empty handed. Do you settle for second best? You could just wait it out another year. Or, do you come up with a new solution.

The perspective changes a little bit when children are involved. My son, bless him, follows in my husband's genetic footsteps. I had rather hoped my kids would get a height boost from my side of the family, but so far it is not to be. Caden just fits into a size eight dress pant, and when I say just I mean it won't button past May. For his Easter outfit we tried eight styles and four purchases. The best fitting pair came only four inches past his toes. He wore his regular Sunday suit with a new shirt and tie for Easter. I'm contemplating dusting off my Mom's old sewing machine and my equally dusty Home Ec sewing skills.

That was a search that met in compromise, but sometimes in the world of childhood that won't do. Take for instance in second grade when students were to build their own Native American housing model. My son made a beautifully painted teepee with weeds from our yard as prairie grass. It was A+ quality work, but little Jim Bob's Dad had gathered real sticks from the woods to make a fire ring and Jim Bob's Mom got plastic cowboys and Indians to set all around his tent. What did Jim Bob actually do on this project?

The gauntlet had been thrown. There was no way we were turning in a teepee without plastic indians. The quite obvious point we were missing is that this type of play is no longer consider politically correct. After searching through every gift shop, gas station and toy aisle in a three county radius I was hysterically beginning to wonder if I could pass off ninjas and firefighters with out my son noticing. When there in a dusty corner of a dollar store was the last known pack of cowboys and indians. I grasped them to my chest and dashed for the register like I had found the only nourishment left on the planet after Armageddon. My son would not know disappointment this day! Plenty of other days, but not today!

Interesting how the drive to succeed in a quest changes per individual. Generally I will bide my time or find a creative new solution if I can't find what I'm looking for. We have an ancient dresser that is falling apart, but a new one is not in the cards right now. Enter built-in shelves for the closet and some storage bins, and we have a cheaper answer. If something is important to my husband he will keep searching until he finds exactly what he's looking for. That's how he got such a great wife. If it's not a big deal he'll take the first thing that comes along. That's how we got his last truck. Or do I have those two things backwards?


Maybe that's how we should take on life too. This is the path we're creating for ourselves. Why just settle when you could be out finding what you want. Whether it's more time with your kids, a spiritual make-over, or a new career path, go on that quest.Create a solution or hunt it down.

After all, you don't want a ninja outside your teepee do you?

And the Parent of the Year Award Goes to...

Not me! Why is it just when you think you're getting a handle on all the balls you're juggling your kids remind you that you're really losing your grip. Any thoughts you have that you might be on top of things is a complete illusion. If you think you're doing a good job as a parent, hold on to your hat, your kids are about to throw you for a loop.

This past Tuesday I had a plan for the evening. Famous last words. The boys were headed off to Cub Scouts, leaving the girls and I to a quiet house and a few chores. The girls decided they would take their shower before picking up their mess, but they wanted to use my shower. My poor husband doesn't actually own anything according to our kids. It's Mommy's room, Mommy's bed, Mommy's shower, Mommy's tub, even the car is mine. The truck and van are "our's", they belong to the whole family. Daddy gets the clothes on his back and the tools in the garage.

I made the deal and allowed the girls to head off to my bathroom while I caught up on some administrative work. Why the two of them like squishing into that small shower is beyond me. Five minutes later from the opposite side of the wall I heard terrified screams in stereo. Before I cleared the doorway I could make out the words "It's bleeding! It's bleeding!". The room looked like a scene from a B rated horror flick. Macy had jumped out of the shower and was frantically flailing her hand about, throwing streaks of blood on the walls and floor. Her sister was staring in wide eyed terror through the clear shower curtain. With out pausing I pulled a bath towel off the rack and pressed her hand tightly in it while guiding her to the sink. She was sobbing to hard to understand so I asked her sister what happened. Makayla pointed to my razor, which had gone from the top of the shower to the floor. "It fell." That's all I got.

Trying to pull off the towel to wash the wound was no good, there was too much blood pouring out to see anything. We switched to paper towels, but they soaked through in seconds. It was time to go to the emergency room. I sent Makayla to get dressed as fast as possible while I slipped one of my t-shirts over Macy, wet hair and all.  Makayla met me at the car wearing a yellow t-shirt sporting a  neon rainbow, navy and pink hand-me-down sweat shorts and chunky brown boots with no socks. She cut me off before I could say anything. "I was in a hurry, I grabbed the clothes on top!" What could I say, other than "Great job, honey."

It was a struggle strapping Macy into her booster seat. She was terrified of going to the hospital and apparently wanted the neighbors to know about her predicament. Trying to calm her down her sister and I sang church primary songs. She became less vocal, but no less scared. Halfway to the hospital I checked in with my husband at scouts. He wanted to know if I was sure she needed to be treated at the ER. Looking in the rear view at the napkin she had soaked through most recently, I was certain.

Wrapping her hand back in the bath towel I carried her into the hospital. If you want quick service with no waiting in an emergency room, carry in a crying child wrapped in a bloody towel. We were instantly taken back to a room. The nurse we had was absolutely amazing, she took great care of my baby and put her at ease. It turned out that only one finger had been cut. Yeah! I hadn't been able to tell because I couldn't get a good look at it. To Macy's great joy there was no sewing involved, only because there wasn't enough material to work with. Basically she peeled her finger like a potato. There were no edges to pull together and  there was nothing to clot, hence the continued bleeding. Using a special pad from the surgical unit that causes clotting and would seal off the wound, her hand was bandaged into a mitten. Special precaution was taken because if she bumped the injury and broke it open the bleeding would start again. Without the special sealant the bleeding could last for hours.

Maybe it was the twin connection, because they certainly never had time to discuss their story, but both the girls stuck with the "it fell" version for the rest of the evening. It was nice to see them stick together, but not against me! Both Caden and Makayla insisted on riding home with their injured sister and helping her get buckled into her seat. The one silver lining to the whole incident, seeing siblings show their love and concern for each other.

When her father carried her to the car that evening Macy told him really it was Mommy's fault. "It was Mommy's shower and Mommy's razor. She was the one who let us in there." Thank you Macy. I was already feeling the guilt of this incident, thank you for icing the cake. Should they have known better then to climb up and get my razor? Absolutely. Does that mean it doesn't need repeating from time to time? Apparently not. Does it also mean that I should be paying more attention when my girls are in the shower? Of course. So thank you Macy for waking me up and giving me a reality check, and for giving me a large dose of guilt to carry around. I've been so preoccupied with toting them around to activities and managing their school load that I'd started to overlook the simpler details of their daily life that keeps them safe.

Beware, if you're getting comfortable with how you're managing life a curve ball may be coming to knock you off balance. Would it take bloodshed to refocus your priorities?

Leave a comment below if you enjoyed this post!

A Pirate Goes Camping

I seriously considered writing a post entitled "Unfortunate Swimsuit Decisions and Tragic Tattoos". After spending a week in warmer climates I was an unlucky witness to a multitude of both. I have three children, two of which came at the same time, and a love of all things chocolate. I know the importance of shopping for a flattering swimsuit. It is my firm belief that many people, both male and female, grab a suit off the rack, put it on and strut out to the pool or beach with out ever looking in a mirror. At least I hope they don't know how they look. I digress, crayon sketched tattoos of mangled mermaids and poorly worn Speedos are not my focus this week. These observations were made because of something that has become very precious to me and my husband, relaxing time away.

I know what you're thinking, that's great for you, but not everyone can flit off to the beach. Well most of the time neither can I, but it doesn't matter where you go it's the peace you get when you arrive. Several years into our marriage my husband and I were stressed to the max and money was tight, which probably added to the stress. Our solution to a relaxing getaway, camping.

It sounded like a good idea at the time. Just thirty dollars a night and a borrowed tent, what could be better? Famous last thoughts. With everything packed and ready to go my hubby came home late from work with an eye injury. You may not have noticed, but telephone lines are wrapped with a wire. While working on a telephone pole that guide wire had sprung loose and stabbed him in the eye. Go ahead, cringe. Had we been a little older and smarter I would have insisted on going to the emergency room, but we weren't so bright and we were desperate to get away. After twenty minutes on the road he was blinded by tears and in a good deal of pain, so we pulled over at a Wal-Mart and I went in to search for a solution. I knew his patience was waining so I raced through the pharmacy aisles scanning the shelves for anything that might help. My solution, eye drops, pain killers and an eye-patch padded with tissues. If a peg leg and a parrot would have helped I'd have bought them, I was beyond desperation.

The pirate routine bought us some time. We were able to get to the campground and set-up the tent, but then he was done. He collapsed on the empty floor of the tent in pain, while I unloaded the truck and established our campsite by the beam of the flashlight and prayed. Exhausted I stumbled through the woods to the showers and prayed some more. Settling the dog under the truck and zipping us into the tent I was finally done. Oh, and did I mention I prayed?

Saturday morning broke sunny and beautiful. I was woken by a very large rock in my back, which was a bad sign considering we had been sleeping on an air mattress. My hubby cracked his good eye open and then gingerly lifted his patch. There was a slight dot that looked bloodshot, but no swelling and no pain. The prayers of the faithful were answered.

With joy in our hearts we bounced out of our tent only to be slammed back by...what exactly was that smell? It was so overwhelming we couldn't immediately distinguish the acidic stench that was burning our eyes. Then it hit me. During the night we had yelled at the dog to be quiet and settle down. Surely he had not been sprayed by a skunk while tied to our truck, in our campsite, in the middle of a very crowded campground. We peeked out at the pooch. He kept his nose in the dirt and wouldn't make eye contact. Yep, that's exactly what had happened.

I don't know about you, I pack a lot of things when I camp, but not skunk remedies. Checking out the camp store the closest thing we could find was V-8 juice, and it wasn't cheap. We bought two bottles and rationed it out between the dog and the truck tire that had been in the line of fire. Low and behold it worked. I'm telling you, the Lord helps those who help themselves, and He was definitely helping us.
 
Our day went on to be fabulous. It was the first time we spent just completely relaxing together, no activities, just sitting under some trees reading magazines and taking naps. I might have put enough effort forth to paint my toenails and later we went fishing, but the point is we took time to quiet our minds and check ourselves out of reality for awhile. The peace and sanity we gained that day was life saving. It didn't matter that we were camping in the woods, we could have been on a beach or at a park. The experience is what counted. The fact that there were challenges in our path made it all the more worth while. Things that come to easily also come with less meaning.

Take time for yourself, your marriage, your sanity and don't let anything stand in your way no matter what ridiculous thing pops up. Even if it means taking a pirate camping. Maybe it's the very thing that could save you from a disastrous swimsuit decision or tacky tattoo.

So, when are you going to find a little peace?

The Peanut Butter Sandwich

Do you remember your first friend? Chances are you're thinking about the buck-toothed kid that you grew-up next door to or the little girl in braids you met in kindergarten. If you take a look closer to home though you might find an even earlier friendship.

Your brothers and sisters are your first friends, enemies and hopefully the only people you ever try to maim or kill. My brother was all of those things to me. I often think fondly of childhood memories or cringe at the near misses we escaped, but this coming week offers me a special opportunity to do so. This Wednesday will mark the four year anniversary of my brother's death. All week I remember the adventures we had as children. After all no one really knows your childhood experiences like a sibling, someone who lived those experiences with you.

Though he was six years older we were forced playmates, because, we lived in the country, and our nearest neighbors could be spotted only through binoculars. Living on a farm gave us a super-sized playground with fields, forests and barns to explore. We could often be seen racing across the hills on his dirt bike. When I was very small I would ride cross legged on the gas tank holding on to the handle bars. (Safe, I know) As I grew I rode on the back of the bike hanging on to him. I couldn't begin to count the number of bumps, bruises and burns we obtained from motorcycle crashes. Who knew that two people on a dirt bike doing X-Games style jumping could be so risky? The force of that wipe out is nothing in comparison though to hitting a petrified cow patty at fifty miles an hour. Didn't know manure could turn to stone did you? Well it can, and when it does it can send a motorcycle and its riders flying through the air. Unfortunately you miss the whole flying part. One moment you're on the bike, the next you're slamming into the ground, and the next you're bloody and limping pushing a busted bike back home.

Just like with other childhood friends I didn't always play nicely with my brother. I can remember him chasing me through the house, I'm not sure what I'd done, but I'm sure it was a doozy. Reaching the brand new bathroom I slammed the door and locked it behind me. He hit the door so hard it cracked. That was it, the fight was over. We had to work together to patch and paint the door before our parents got home. On another occasion I'd grown so tired of his picking that I hid in the hall coat closet to surprise him. I'd been in there for quite some time when he jerked the door open to scare me. It worked. I was so startled I punched him right in the face, knocking him to the floor. Our parents were painting the living room, and could barely cling to their ladders they were laughing so hard.

My very best memory of my brother contains no blood or bruising and I think about it all year not just on February twenty-second. Even though we were not affectionate siblings I know he loved me. Not because of all the things we did together as children or because of the great lengths he went to in order to attend my college graduation. It's not even because of the trust he put in me with helping with his health and addiction issues in the last few years of his life. I knew of his love because of a peanut butter sandwich.

When I was around nine and he was fifteen my parents were going out for the evening and just the two of us were staying home. It was a warm summer evening and he and I were making sandwiches for dinner to eat outside on the picnic table. Around that time I'd developed an affinity for ham and cheese sandwiches on lightly toasted bread. Yes, I was an odd child and a very picky eater, but that's beside the point. I had already toasted my bread when I realized we were out of ham. Now my Mom, being a mom, insisted that I not waste perfectly good bread. Which I understand now, at the time I thought she was a lunatic it was just bread. The only sandwich materials we had were pimiento cheese and peanut butter, not even any jelly. A battle ensued between mother and daughter, which ended with Mom and Dad heading out for the evening and me having a peanut butter sandwich on now cold hard toast. I was completely distraught. Picking at my nasty sandwich in tears while sitting across the picnic table from my big brother. Suddenly he leaped up and grabbed the monstrosity.

"Haha, I've got your sandwich!" He ran across our back yard carrying it high above his head laughing. I still remember his red and white Hawaiian shirt flapping behind him. I gave chase just to see what he was going to do. When he reached the fence at the far side of the yard he sent that peanut butter sandwich sailing into the field, scattering wild eyed cows. Shrieking with delight I perched on the black board fence in my bare feet. He had saved me. We never said anything else about it, not that evening or in the next twenty-one years before his death.

It warms my very soul to see my children interact in a loving way. My daughters are best friends. They hold hands when they're scared and take care of each other at every turn. That is when they're not screaming bloody murder and smacking one another. Their brother tolerates their affection and will let them play Legos with him from time to time. Always though my favorite is to see him cheer them up after a bad day, he can't stand to see them sad. Sometimes he'll even offer the coveted sleepover in his room.

As the years go by many of us lose touch with our families. Differences and arguments can drive siblings apart as can miles across the globe. Shared blood shouldn't be the only thing that brings you back together. Remember your very first friend. The one who's been there since the very beginning, and knows all the wacky things you did as a kid. Actually encouraged you to do those weird and wacky things with them. You weren't just born into the same house, you were born into a friendship.

So who loved you enough to throw your peanut butter sandwich?

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