Author: alicewgold

I would like to state that I am a brunette, but now I am a mix of grey, white, brown, and blonde. I would also like to say that I am 150 pounds, but that would be a boldfaced lie. How about I say I am work in progress because that is the truth? A beautiful work in progress. I love the sound of my fingers tapping on the keyboard and my greatest hope is that something that I write will lift someone else on their journey.

Little by little

Caroline was drinking from a straw very slowly right before family prayer tonight. I asked her what she had in her cup. She replied, “Daddy’s lemon water.”

“Daddy’s lemon water?!” I questioned. My hubby, LG, keeps his own quart-sized bottle of water in the fridge. Sometimes it is fully infused with a LOT of lemon juice. He loves his lemon juice. I was surprised she would taste it twice much less be drinking it from a glass.

I was amused by her answer. And enlightened:

“I take it a little by little.”

While we prayed, I realized that if I were to follow the example of my five-year-old and take things little by little, it would work some real magic in my life. I tend to be the kind of person who just downs the whole can of prune juice while plugging by nose. (Pregnancy constipation is the worst!) Is there anything in this world that tastes worse than prune juice…well, besides LG’s lemon juice with a little bit of water?

Not only do I avoid BIG things because they are overwhelming….like that book I really want to write….but I also give up way too soon on people and circumstances because I can’t seem to make myself want to drink anymore. Often I just need to take a step back and breathe. I need to take it all in with little sips, especially when it comes to things I dislike and/or situations that are overwhelming.

“Little by Little,” it’s my new mantra.

One way I plan to work really hard at incorporating this new attitude is with my kids. I don’t totally understand why I get so worked up over their accomplishments or lack thereof but I do. It’s something I’ve been discussing with the therapist a lot. I have been driving a wedge between Abigail and I over the pressure I am dishing out in her direction. I push. It’s not right. I’ve been in a real tizzy because next week is her high-school soccer try-outs. She’s been injured a lot over the summer and hasn’t been able to condition like she needed to in order to be completely prepared. We’ve also never been able to afford to put her in the fancy club soccer teams and I feel really bad about that. The therapist talked me off the ledge explaining that I don’t need to worry about it. One, it’s out of my control whether or not I could afford fancy soccer teams. Two, it’s also out of my control what will happen with Abigail and soccer. It’s Abigail’s thing. Not mine. I can’t save her from the experiences that will teach her the most valuable life lessons. She needs to make mistakes so she can learn.

I was still wrestling with it though. Haven’t I dedicated to soccer as much as she has for the past 10 years?

So, last Sunday I had this epiphany while sitting at church. My niece was speaking before heading out on her mission to South America. During church, where she and another young man who is going to Detroit were addressing the congregation, I felt a message penetrate my heart. It came straight from God.

“Alice, who cares if Abigail plays soccer ever again? Who cares where she goes to college? Who cares how well she does on her report card? I don’t. You shouldn’t. You will do well to learn from the example of these two kids. The ONLY thing that matters is that you point your daughter to me. I will help her figure it all out. I will help her every step of the way. Stop carrying the burdens of the whole world. That’s my job. Just point her to me. While we are at it….you can rely on me too. I will help you. One step at a time. Just trust me. Stop worrying about everything. I’ve got this. The ending is beyond your wildest imagination.”

The message was kind of like God saying……baby steps, Alice. Little by little. And so I sip. One drop of lemon juice at a time.

I’m sorry, mom.

I haven’t blogged since Father’s Day. I feel like I haven’t even breathed since Father’s Day. Life has been nuts. Between moving, summer visitors, and being pregnant, I have felt totally depleted every. single. day.

And then today it somehow got infinitesimally worse.

People ask why I don’t blog like I used to. I give them various reasons, but one reason towards the top of the list is that as my kids have gotten older it’s very shaky business blogging about family life. As a mother, I don’t want to disparage them, and let’s face it, they just don’t do things quite as cute as they used to.

Yesterday we had a family pow-wow that consisted of LG and I wrangling the kids in for the recurrent lecture about sibling kindness, taking personal responsibility…yadda yadda yadda. LG whispered to me after the half hour of torture that “everyone has to suck at parenting.” At least he still makes me smile every day.

The older your kids get, the more your weaknesses manifest themselves in your kids. It sucks. Big time.

[Let me start out this story with a disclaimer that my kids are pretty good. They each have great strengths but like every other sucker in this world, they have weaknesses. I need the readers of this post to know that I love my kids with all my heart. I believe in them. I am proud of them. I have faith in what they will accomplish in their lives. I wish I was a better mother equal to their greatness. I also just feel a need to write honestly. I hope this won’t cause harm.]

Well, after a really rough 24 hours where our last night’s lecture didn’t seem to do anything but make things worse, LG came home tonight as my knight in shining armor saying he wanted to have an emergency family meeting. (This could or could not have been prompted by my cry for help via e-mail earlier today.)

Just an hour ago, we sat down with our kids and LG talked about things we need to do differently, improving individually and collectively. The kids all responded in their own way. Abigail takes after her dad and I in a lot of ways. One thing that she instinctively does is point fingers at others in a way of avoiding her own overwhelming emotions of self-doubt and disappointment. Somehow, I became her target tonight. I am always the target. They never go after their dad…he’s just too nice.

She laid into me, “If you would just stop talking about how horrible it is being pregnant and start doing some more fun activities with us. …. if we could just have a real summer, like all the other kids…we need to have fun…we need a vacation…” (Tell me about it!!!) At the end of my rope, I came unleashed. Out of my mouth, came the exact words I remember hearing from my own mother so many times. I hated that also accompanying the words were big huge heavy sobs.

“Abigail, you have no idea what you are talking about. You don’t know what it feels like to be forty and pregnant. You have no idea what I’ve done just for you this summer. I’ve sacrificed mornings for soccer, money for physical therapy, time for your two stints at girls’ camp, and money and time that could have been used for a family vacation for you to go to EFY. You need to get out of your selfishness. I have given up my ENTIRE LIFE for my children. Everything I do is for you and your sisters.”

I said a few more things, and then stopped myself and sat sobbing into my palms as LG quickly finished up the family counseling session. Second parent-fail in two days. I had no smiles to give in secret this time around. I sat badly hurt and frustrated not just with my teenage daughter but with my life and even my husband who always seems to escape the fury even when he holds as much responsibility for it. Five-year-old Caroline kept asking, “Mom, why are you crying?” LG saved me more talking and told her that I didn’t feel appreciated and rightly so.

I hurried to my bedroom afterward and sobbed into my pillow some more. “How did I get here?” I thought. “How did I become my mother?” Years ago, when I was Abigail’s age I promised myself I would never lay into my kids like that…I remember how horrible it made me feel when she did it to me. But, by golly, Abigail needed to hear it. She’s an adolescent becoming more wrapped up in herself every day. I’ve given her everything I’ve had to give this summer (even if is has been pathetic) and the fourteen others before that. Why didn’t my rant make me feel any better? Was I solely in the wrong? Is she totally right? Am I really not giving enough?

And, you know what. I don’t have the answers. And it sucks. Big time. I hope we can find them together.

I do have one thing to say though, “Mom, I am so so so very sorry for ever saying anything or doing anything or not doing something that made you feel how I did an hour ago. You matter. Your sacrifices are known. I love you. I appreciate you. And the longer I live, the more I want to emulate you as a mother. Yes, there are ways that you let me down, but there are so many more ways that you supported, sacrificed, and loved unconditionally. You were the BEST mother you could be. Not perfect, but the BEST. Motherhood mattered to you more than anything, and I take that example into my life every day. I love you eternally.”

But, mom, I also have a question….if we are such good mothers who both sacrifice so much for our kids…….how the heck did you and I both end up with such a rotten ungrateful selfish daughter? Is that just part of the journey? Do I just need to hold on for another twenty years until she writes me my very own apology? PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE share with me all of your mothering secrets! I feel so clueless.

What Superdad does.

We just had Father’s Day, which means once again, I’ve missed the window of opportunity for this post to go crazy viral. Ha.

Ours was really low-key. LG sent his dad an e-book and I sent mine a gift-card to KrispyKreme. LG gave me just a $10 budget for himself and so I did what we do best – I let the girls each pick something at the Dollar Tree. (Don’t feel too sorry for him, with the leftover cash I bought him a new t-shirt and a bath loofah. The man loves to scrub!) LG ended up with not just a loofah and a t-shirt, but a Spiderman piggy bank, an FBI kit, a bag of bubble gum, and a jumping bean racetrack toy that Caroline just couldn’t give up for he Ninja set she knew that dad would have liked better.

I was on my feet all day Saturday and so when Father’s Day Sunday morning rolled around, this 28 week forty-year-old pregnant wife could not move. All the girls came and tried to coax me out of bed. “Mom, it’s father’ day!” but it just wasn’t happening. My body was done. So, what did LG do? He told them to leave me alone and got them all ready for church and gave me the morning to sleep. He’s a gem. A total gem.

We did lunch of grilled cheese and fruit (that I somehow mustered the energy to make) and presents later and LG never complained. In fact, he acted totally stoked with his Dollar Tree loot. Why? Because that’s what good dads do. And LG is the best. This brings me to the point of the post.

You know I read a lot about parenting. I could list you a million requirements of a good dad. I could then put a star next to 80% of the list indicating that my husband and the beloved father of my children has mastered the large majority. Yet, if I did that, he would still focus on the 20% he wants to do better. Because like any good parent, he wants to be perfect for his kids. He wants to give them the moon.

So, this post is for all the dads out there, like my amazing LG, who feel like they just can’t be enough.

I am here to make a final parenting declaration. No more books necessary.

The #1 (and ONLY) thing a SuperDad needs to do is keep showing up.

That’s it.

Tell your kids you love them and that you want to be there for them and do your darnedest to follow through.

My girls adore their dad. In fact they constantly tell me to be nicer to him. (I have work to do.) They think he is the bees knees. What does he do special? A lot. What does he do not so special? Even more than what he does special.

He goes to work and hands over his whole paycheck for their needs and wants.
He comes home every day after work.
He helps them with their homework.
He keeps loving their mom, even when she is impossible. Especially when she is impossible.
He plays video games with them.
He involves them in his marathon Netflix sitcoms. (Why does the library have to take so long to get us that Season 3 of Veronica Mars?)
He takes them to the park to practice their batting.
He fixes their bikes.
He teaches them to cook the basics. They each have in turn mastered everything he can cook: frozen pizza, hamburger helper, mac-n-cheese, ramen, eggs, and pancakes.
He shows up at their stuff: plays, concerts, games, church activities….everything.
He takes them camping.
He teaches them how to respect the electronics and tells them about all the latest technology.
He has the hard conversations.
He says he is sorry.
He reads to them (and always falls asleep on the floor next to Caroline’s bed when it’s his turn because she always suckers him into staying with her.)
He cheers them up, makes them laugh, and teaches them corny jokes.
He gives them hugs and kisses.
He prays with them.
He reads scripture with them.
He tells them to be nice.
He compliments them.
He lectures them incessantly about modesty.
He lets them invade his personal space every time he sits down.
He takes them on daddy daughter dates.
He tells them that he loves them.

The best dads in the world lets his kids know that they matter to him in all the unspecial ways, but those ways become the special. The accumulation of his million little things scream 100% louder than anything special he could ever do just one time.

In a world of declining dads, I am so grateful for the father of my children who simply chooses to love. Every day. No matter how exhausting.

LG, I was just thinking it would be fun to plan for each of ours girl a really special first date with their dad when they turn 16. That way they can each have the perfect example of how to be treated. Then I realized, they already have that. They’ve had it their whole lives.

Happy father’s day to the best of the best.

Pajamas, Pizza, and Pop

pj,pizza For the last few months I’ve been feeling completely depleted, spread too thin, at my wit’s end, over it. I laugh at blog posts written by parents with one or two children giving pep talks to those other parents with one or two kids. They say don’t worry, you’ll get there. It’s all worth it. Not that having one kid or two kids isn’t respectable….it’s just that I want to scream through the Ethernet cable…..”Try having four!” And then I laugh at myself because there are probably plenty of moms out there who are right now screaming through their cables and reaching my ear, “Try having eight. Try having ten.”

Honestly I know a lot of parents who have four or five kids. I guess that makes them all extra horny in today’s society. just kidding. I guess I am just a Mormon. A majority of my friends have more than three children, but it’s kind of funny because a lot of those friends aren’t Mormon.

It’s easy for me to get into this “nobody has it worse than me” mode. And honestly, sometimes I think I really do have it hardest. I don’t know any of my friends who have ~~1….~~ (ok I started listing it all and then realized how lame and pathetic I sounded). But, let’s just leave it at the fact that everyone has their own struggles and mine always seem to have an unfair girth. It might be true or it might just be my incorrect victimized attitude. Either way it NEVER helps me to dwell on it.

However, I do have a responsibility to myself to figure out if I am making my own life harder or if all my troubles are caused by things out of my control. For instance: I am Bi-Polar Type II. Did I do something to cause that? No. Should I forever hold my DNA hostage because of the fact? No. Can I manage it? Yes. How about the intense busy schedule that I’ve been fighting since the first day of Spring…is it my fault? Partially. There are parts of it that I can change, there are also parts of it that I just know are going to be there every year and I have to learn to handle it better.

So, I’ve been pondering a lot about things I want to change to make my life happier. Less stressful. More enjoyable. The responsibility of raising my kids always seems to be at the top of the list…If I could just get rid of my taxiing job, if I could just get someone else to cook dinner, if, if, if. Some of those if’s are doable. Some are not. But, it’s not like I can just get rid of my kids so I can have a relaxing life.

Do you know what makes me the most mad? The fact that after being married for sixteen years I still have yet to have a honeymoon! Isn’t that ridiculous!? I stew about my lack of being able to escape away every day. I hold deep feelings of envy towards all the people that seem to be able to drop all their responsibilities and travel away often. Finding an evening for date-night is almost as complicated as my husband’s budget spreadsheet around here. Our schedules, our responsibility to our kids, and our budget always seem to make it impossible….is that fact or is it just not enough of a priority? I don’t know.

And this post is lame. And now you know why I don’t write when I am pregnant! See, how this works. I just go about my life and then all of the sudden I am stuck in another trap. I am so happy to have a baby, but what I found to be a good alternative to traveling away to somewhere tropical, I can no longer even engage in. I used to escape up to the trail every day…to run or bike and then my pregnant body wouldn’t cooperate. So, resentment builds further. I get more down. I don’t see an escape. EVER.

More than anything I just want freedom! LG and I were talking the other day about what kind of car we would want if we could have anything. I would want a Woody, a convertible, a jeep…all things that represent freedom. His desire was for comfort. (It was an interesting exercise…tell me what your dream car says about you.)

So, when feeling stuck, I do what I can to forget about how I feel, I throw myself into what I can do…..be a mom. And then I get sick of that. Really sick of it. Yesterday was bad. Really bad. From 6 something am to 9 something pm I didn’t get a second for myself. I ran every direction for my hubby and kids all day. Even taking a moment to pee wasn’t about me but about the alternative of peeing my pants not being an option for the busy day.

So, I am here to announce that today I succeeded. I said screw it. I have done absolutely nothing except for make pizza for lunch. I found my own little realm of freedom. While eating pizza with my lovely daughters I said to myself, “This for you all of you other moms with the money and freedom to travel. Today I have the freedom to check out of life and the ingredients for this homemade pizza and root-beer floats.” And it felt good. Not as good as Costa Rica or NYC but better than yesterday.

The kids are watching Arthur at the moment. This is what was just said, “The point is we all feel stress sometimes.” I tuned in realizing that this post is all about me ranting about my stress. Is the universe trying to teach me something through Arthur today?…My kids inform me that it’s the lunch lady that is teaching meditation to the kids on the playground “Now, whenever those heebie-jeebies start playing patty-whack with your nerves.” Of course it’s the lunch lady. It’s always the lunch lady. When am I ever going to succumb to the fact that I’m the lunch lady and that teaching kids to meditate is a very important and thankless job? Someday it will all have been worth it, just like those mothers of two claim. They can still be right, even though they had it easier.

And now I can’t stop laughing inside thinking about what our house looked like on Sunday night when I tried to do the same thing with our whole family. I made them sit in a circle, do the meditation pose, and try breathing exercises. Everyone just laughed uncontrollably for thirty minutes. I tried to show them how I could even meditate with all the commotion….except I couldn’t keep a straight face for longer than 20 seconds and every time I cracked a smile they laughed harder.

Now Arthur is coaching Brain during his exam freak-out “Relax your little toes. Feel all that stress leaving your body. Now that stress is leaving the classroom and leaving the school.”

And all I can think about is flying somewhere far away along with that stress. Dangit. Back to where I started. This is my life. How many of you feel sorry for me? Please tell me you are in the same boat. It helps me to not feel like the only lunch-lady in the universe.

God loves broken things.

So, I haven’t been blogging like I should.
Did I mention that I am 40 and pregnant?
And a broken vessel just trying to cope with life?

Trust me, coping is hard to do when you are pregnant with what could be your own grandchild. I like to tease that I have always been a do-it-yourself kind of gal so I took the matter of having grandchildren into my own hands.

Oh, the really great news that you have all read on facebook by now is that after having four wonderful beautiful daughters, we are finally having a boy!! I still can’t believe it. As you remember from this post I referred to the then un-sonogram-ed kid as a he. From the experience I had in the temple I knew that he would be a boy, but I didn’t want to admit it publicly until I knew for sure. (I have another special story about this boy to tell you some day.It started with a dream about 9 years ago.)

God has a great way of taking broken people and making them whole. In my case, one really astonishing way He has made me feel whole is by sending me a son. I’ve always felt like something was wrong with me so that he wouldn’t trust me with a boy. Until I recently read something about the same gender parent having the greatest influence on their kids, and then I realized that it was actually LG who finally must have passed some kind of test. I’m glad LG fixed the broken part of himself that was keeping God from giving us a boy. (This is sarcasm for those of you who don’t know me and think I am the world’s worst wife. I’m really just glad that God finally decided that if we could screw up all these girls, why not throw a boy into the mix?) I am really excited for this adventure. I can hardly wait to see my beloved husband hold the son that I have always wanted to give him in his arms. Watching him with his infant girls has always been special, but I am excited for a new kind of special.

This morning I got a really sweet message from a friend who told me he read my broken post weeks ago and was touched. On his way to work this morning he heard this song on the radio and wanted to share it with me. One of my favorite things of all time is having a friend reach out at random times and with special messages telling me that they thought of me. This share was especially beautiful. I cried. I loved it. I had to share it with you all along with the most intense feeling that I had with the lyrics, “Could it be that God loves broken things?” I know he does and I know if He were to search the whole earth over, I am one of those most special broken ones, just as you are.

I am thinking of certain people this morning:

The friend who is in her forties and has so many kids that I lost count (is it 8 or 9?) and is exhausted and terrified that there still may be one more.
The divorced dad who still can’t find a job after months of searching, but doesn’t quit.
The thrice divorced mom who is just trying to love her kids and herself.
The mom of a very special boy in and out of hospitals.
The mom who deals with chronic illness and a slew of medical bills and no acceptable answers.
The friend who is trying to learn to walk again after a very scary life-altering surgery.
The widower raising his son without his beloved by his side.
You who has two completely unacceptable grades because you once again procrastinated turning your homework in, even though you know better. But change is so hard!!
The dads out there who bust their tails and still never feel like they can provide enough.
The addict who just can’t lay off the sauce.
The lonely person who has everything that they could possibly want financially but nothing that they need.

So many more of you are suffering in ways I don’t have time to relay in this post.

I just want to tell you that I know you’re broken and with all my broken I still love you.

But more importantly, God knows your brokenness, and in all his perfection He loves you. And better than loving you, He will fix you! I should say He will fix us! Because I need the most fixing. God not only can make us whole, He will, in His own time, in His own way. From experience I know that His way will only make us suffer as long as is absolutely necessary for our own growth.

Ordinary is Extraordinary

Who else struggles with perfectionism, comparison, feeling insignificant? It’s bad when I feel it for myself, but it’s downright criminal when I project that onto my kids. And I do project. All of the time. I want the best for them, therefore I want the best of them. I get totally competitive. All of the time. Oh, how unfortunate of a mother I have been. My oldest, Abigail, has born the biggest brunt of it. In fact, the other day after a low-achieving track meet, I was concerned when Abigail wouldn’t tell her slower-than-usual-finish-times to her friends. When they asked, she just acted like she hadn’t checked her time at all. I knew she had checked it. It’s just that my perfectionism has become a part of her, and she couldn’t let herself admit the obvious…she was having a bad running day. I tried to comfort her on the way home, “Abigail, sometimes we just have off days. It’s o.k.” This morning I read this poem (Make the Ordinary Come Alive by William Martin) on the facebook page of a family member. Even though the wisdom of it stems from Taoism, which I don’t really practice, I believe it is universal. (And, I also believe I am going to study up some more on the way of the Tao – is that how you say that?) The simplicity of the wisdom blew my mind. I’ve been pondering on it all day. It struck me to the core. I couldn’t wait to share it with you. Do you see all those boys back there watching my girl? Yeah, she’s actually extraordinarily beautiful…even though ordinary is beautiful enough. Or they could be looking directly at me…the crazy lady with the camera cheering louder than all the rest of the crowd. ha.

Do you, like me, see how the words of this poem, will change “Abigail sometimes we just have off days” to “Abigail it is so beautiful that you can run!?” How blessed we are. How blessed we are indeed with this ordinary life. So, as my kids age and prepare to fly the coop, I have a few new guideline questions for myself:

Am I teaching them that the ordinary is extraordinary?
Will I be not just o.k. but proud to tell my friends who raised the next president of the United States that my child is a mailman and loves it?
Am I spending my time really celebrating the little things like apples?
Am I giving them all the experiences that I can? (Those poor kids whose parents won’t allow them to have a pet!)
Am I preaching a sermon of following your heart by following my own?
Do I believe that we are not all just equally important but equally blessed to just be on the journey?

I can’t wait to embrace the ordinary with my favorite people. I hope this new philosophy will give them the space to do the same. I know it will bring me much greater happiness and satisfaction that will replace a life-long dissatisfaction because of wrong feelings of inferiority stemming from my ordinary. My ordinary is extraordinary! And so is yours. What a perfect message on a night that we are having breakfast for dinner. Bacon deserves a party.

Flawed Pony Parenting Logic and Home-schooling

Ever since reading this story and that one about the kid with the My Little Pony backpack, my mind has been reeling.

To make a longer story short, here’s the news recap hailing from North Carolina.

This 10-year-old kid was being bullied at school because of his blue fuzzy My Little Pony backpack. His mom went to the school to complain. The school counselor mentioned that the easiest solution would be for the kid to get a new backpack. The principal later called the child’s mother and told her that the child was no longer allowed to bring the backpack to school. The mom flipped out. The mom now homeschools.

I have to say that last sentence, “The mom now homeschools,” does not surprise me in the least. It seems that nowadays the homeschooling road is the most popular for a lot of unsatisfied parents. I am not here to pass judgement on homeschooling parents. In fact, I might end up homeschooling one of mine next year if she doesn’t get her school transfer. I am here however to pass judgement on flawed logic and parents who can’t be honest with themselves.

First of all, let me make two things very clear. One – I am NOT o.k. with bullying. In this instance and in every instance the bully children should have been reprimanded and disciplined. (I don’t know if they were appropriately or at all from the news stories.) However, typically bully children come from bully homes, so there is only so much a school can do to change behavior.

Secondly, I believe children should be given space to be who they want to be. You want to wear a pink tutu and your 12 and a boy? Go for it. Are you a girl who wants to play football? More power to you.

Now, to the point I really want to make that seems to be widely ignored in modern bully stories. Parents, pull your heads out….Every day, you are sending your kids off to war…..and you are not equipping them with the skills that they need.

What skills? The skills of socialization, survival, problem-solving, and leadership to name a few.

Here is some flawed logic that I have seen people use to support their choice to homeschool.

Sweeping generalizations (bad stereotyping)
All the kids at that school are mean. They are all bad kids. I’m pretty sure this is never the case.

Hasty conclusions with inadequete support (more than one personal example for validity for your argument)
In homeschooling this can look like: Well, wow, this kid was homeschooled and went to Harvard, therefore my kid can also.

Non sequitor (It does not follow)
I graduated from high school therefore I can teach my kids til they graduate. Yes, you can, but this logic is really bad.

Casual fallacy (one event merely follows the first and isn’t necessarily because of cause/effect)
My child got in trouble at school today because his teacher was in a bad mood. Is that the real reason? Or is your child honestly having behavior problems that need to be addressed? Maybe your child is causing the teacher’s foul mood and not the other way around.

Ad hominem attack (an argument that is not balanced but based solely on personal opinion)
Common core is awful therefore my kids should not be schooled with it.

Circular reasoning (the evidence and conclusion restate each other)
Schools are failing because teachers are failing.

False dichotomy or false dilemma (Either/or arguments that oversimplify complex answers to two solutions)
I can either keep my kids in a public school I am not happy with or I can homeschool. These are not the only two solutions to a complex problem.

I know of many parents who have used very bad logic as their sole foundation for homeschooling. I also know many parents who are really harming their kids by homeschooling ineffectively.

So what does this have to do with the pony kid who was bullied? I believe at the root of both homeschooling and bullying lies a much bigger problem: parents who are not honest with themselves. Parents who are failing and laying the blame on someone else.

In the case of the boy with the pony backpack, I believe the parents failed to teach their child how to be confident in his pony-touting ways. I would never send my kid off to war without the weapons he would need to fight it, and you can be sure that I also would not let my child walk into a cafeteria of potential bullies without first discussing how to defend himself in his unconventional backpack/lunchbox choices.

Likewise, I would not just believe homeschooling to be the best thing for my kids if they were having trouble in public schools. As adults, we have troubles coming at us from every direction. We can’t just hide away at home to avoid our problems. We have to face them head on. The really scary part about a larger percentage of the population homeschooling is the fact that all of the home-schooled kids first learned behaviors at home that may be the biggest culprit in them not having success at school. The solution of pulling them out of school to address the problems that are only perpetuated at home is totally counterproductive. Unless, of course, we gain awareness collectively as a family and put change in motion.

Before you feel all judged, let me give you several examples from my life as a concerned mother.

First, we had a terrible experience with public schooling at an inner-city school in Knoxville, TN where we used to live. The principal was bad. Most of the teachers were heroic. The majority of the student population was grossly neglected. The school was neglected. The playgrounds were falling apart. The school didn’t participate in field trips. EVER. Abigail’s second grade teacher was in her first year and totally ill-equipped. Frustrations were high every day. Abigail would come home crying because the teacher made the whole class miss recess again even though she never personally had bad behavior. She no longer could drink chocolate milk at lunch because the principal pulled it off the shelf with the logic that it was causing misbehaved kids to misbehave even more. Violence was taking place in the second grade. One boy threw a desk at another and broke his nose. Forget the fact that no learning was taking place. How could it with all the other distractions? Yes, I had every right to pull Abigail out and home-school her especially after addressing our concerns with the administration to not have anything change. We didn’t pull Abigail. She survived the second grade and the next year we humbly and gratefully accepted a “No Child Left Behind” school transfer. Abigail’s new school was a haven and we all loved it. When Abigail went on her first field trip in third grade she was in seventh heaven. Abigail is now fourteen. She often talks about her experiences at her first school. They shaped her into what she is: one resilient, tough, and adaptable kid.

Do I judge any parent who pulled their kid out? No. Not at all. In fact I would applaud their courage. However, I do think that if a parent makes a choice to home-school, they better look around and have a very honest assessment of what their child is going to learn at home. When one home-schools they have to recognize that their child is now being influenced almost solely by their family. Are you going to give them all the experience they need to thrive in the real world? Are you going to be perpetuating in them bad behaviors that you just don’t want to fix: sleeping til noon, having bad hygeine, learning as little as possible, not teaching discipline, etc. If you are going to home-school, I think you should ask yourself WHY your kids are (or would) struggling in public school in the first place….the source of their trouble is more than likely YOU, not the school. The kid at Abigail’s school that was throwing desks was more than likely frustrated with his bad teacher, but the reason he threw a desk while Abigail came home crying every day was the difference of what was taught in their home. It is hard to change. Possible, but hard. You better have a really fine-tuned game plan of how you are going to change yourself and teach your children at the same time.

My other experience in still playing out. Sophia is twelve and does not want to have to attend the school in the boundary of where we just moved. She has not a single friend at this new school. We are working with the school district to get her a school transfer next year back to the junior high where her friends will be attending based on the extreme anxiety she is having over the situation. The district asked for a letter from a health-care professional. We went to the doctor last week. I explained Sophia’s anxiety and her shyness and tendency to isolate. I then said, “If we can’t get this transfer, I will probably just home-school her for a year until we move back to our old school boundary.” The doctor didn’t shy away with her response, “If you are worried about her isolating, wouldn’t home-schooling be the worst possible scenario?” She was right! Anyone who knows me, knows that I in no way am modeling shy behavior for my daughter. She came that way. I, however, as her parent, have to make decisions that will help her overcome her weaknesses instead of feed into them.

Wow, this post got long quick. I think the very hardest part of parenting is being able to get outside ourselves and our flawed personal-protecting logic to honestly assess how our weaknesses are promoting the same in our children. And even harder than the honest assessment is changing. The change has to start with us as. Yes, this can be done, whether or not we send our kids to public school or if we home-school, if we are teaching our kids to be bullies or our children are being bullied, but by all means, let’s make sure we are doing the hard work. We owe that to our kids.

The Pregnancy Alien

Sometimes I wish I was more prolific so that I could accurately describe what I am experiencing. Pregnancy is not one of those times. The following description is for all you pregnant ladies who may need a little help explaining what you are going through (especially to those of the opposite sex.)

Below you will find a simple explanation as to why you are watching Mary Poppins while bawling and taking a break to get the pickles out of the fridge…even though you just finished off a whole half gallon of ice-cream. After reading, they will hopefully understand better that you really aren’t trying to make their life a living hell….it’s not your fault…it’s the fault of the alien that they implanted deep inside your brain.

It all started one night (or day, if you are that kind of person) when nothing could be wrong in the world. You and your loved one (or one night stand, if you are that kind of person) were enjoying one of the most beautiful things to experience in this life: sex. I hope it was good because if it wasn’t, you are really going to be miserable for a long time to come wondering why you allowed it to happen.

What you probably didn’t take the time to think about (or maybe you did, if you are that kind of person) was that when you let this loved-one (or stranger, if you are that kind of person) make an installment into your cervix an alien was coming with the package. I can’t tell you if the alien is attached to the sperm or the egg (but I’m pregnant so of course my opinion is that it was in the sperm.) Once the sperm combines with that one lucky egg to form the baby that you will love forever, the alien gets permission to release itself into your brain and wreak all kinds of havoc. You see, mother nature has a plan, if your body and mind can hack 10 months with this alien, then you are deemed worthy of motherhood. There is no other way to pass the test…unless of course you adopt, which I highly recommend.

And so it begins.

It starts with a tad bit of nauseousness and the feeling that you have to pee all the time, but it progresses and it progresses fast.

From your brain, your pet alien spreads into every single one of your body systems. It constantly sucks from your cardiovascular, skeletal, digestive, and neurological. You can’t shake it. No matter what you do, you are forced to just surrender to it or else your brain will surely explode. Let’s face it, you are already borderline insane, even when just weeks before you were perfectly normal.

You have crazy dreams. They may start with something as innocent as Ronald McDonald stealing your baby without a face, but they will continue to get scarier and scarier until before you know it you are sleeping with the Hamburglar and he’s a woman. And just prepare yourself for the really scary one that is yet to surface….you are in labor, and out pops a Big Mac. You may or may not take a bite of it…..and that may or not be ketchup. Trust me, if it’s not this exact same scenario, something very similar will happen to you and you will wake up covered in sweat in a panic attack, and realize that you really just peed the bed.

You are overly emotional and sensitive. Remember how you used to watch the news and be bored? Now you can’t get through it without bursting into tears. Even if all the stories are positive (which they rarely are) your over-enlarged heart just can’t seem to get the happy face of that man who received his meal on wheels out of your tear ducts. Oh, and that poor weatherman…no one listens to him. His mother must be so distraught. And then you will realize that you must be this man’s mother because you are ridiculously distraught. But how can that be because he is thirty years older than you?

And then as the worst thing that happened to you all day, your hubby will hand you a box of kleenex, and all you will want to do is yell at him and tell him to stop making fun of your state. It’s at this point that you will run into the bathroom to escape it all, but don’t be too discouraged when you realize that the alien followed you in there. Because when you look at your face in the mirror, you aren’t going to recognize it. It will be bloated and red and stained with tears. I would say that you will have mascara running everywhere but everyone will know that’s impossible because you smartened up and quit wearing it a few months back.

You are over-analytical. It will be completely normal for you to have thoughts such as: If Barrack Obama would just hurry up with his socialistic agenda, then we could all just move on with our second Civil War, and oh by golly the Republicans will get all the military on their side, but that could be bad because they would have to fight against the left’s hoodrats and butch lesbians. [thinking in run-on sentences will be acceptable of course because aliens don’t know grammar] Wow, this could get really interesting. Oh, no this can’t happen, unless the war is over before my baby is born. I hope they all kill each other so we can have a peaceful society with the really smart people who hid out in their state of the art bomb-shelters. (Which by the way, you know exactly where are located because of your most recent Google searches on how to survive Obamageddon.) Oh yeah, and hubby, I know exactly what those Broncos need to do to win the super-bowl…let’s talk about their defensive strategy….And it just won’t stop. If I were a mailman, I would be so much more efficient by doing…..see what I mean.

You CAN’T stop nesting. If you start filing that box of papers that have been sitting there for a few years, you are just at the beginning. You will know when the end is near when you have changed the organization of your pantry for the 15th time and it’s exactly the way it was when you started.

You are tired. You can’t stop yawning. It comes at the most inconvenient of times. In the beginning, before you’ve told anyone your news, it’s all you can do to fake your way through lunch with the girlfriends. You have discovered that yawning is actually contagious and seeing the back of that friend’s mouth for an hour straight was difficult for our overly sensitive gag reflex. You can hardly get out of bad. And you no longer make it through the nightly news. You’ve been on Chapter 14 of your book for at least 12 weeks. You slap yourself whenever you get behind the wheel to heighten your slow reflexes. Sex is completely out of the question, unless it only involves…well, I better stop there or my Mormon friends will be offended.

Your morning breath could burn down buildings. And is actually totally screwing up your dental hygiene.

Your boobs hurt. Once again, sex is completely out of the question. So is spooning, if your hubby has wandering hands. Putting on a bra is pure torture partly because it doesn’t really fit anymore and mostly because your nipples are constantly raw. Why do your boobs have to hurt? Oh, because this is nothing compared to when your milk comes in or the first three weeks of nursing. (You first timers will have to trust me on this. I told you adoption is a beautiful beautiful thing. So is bottle-feeding.)

You are cranky. Oh, you think I’m cranky, huh? Well, you are a #($&#^H@ that @&#%%* your @&#&$&. Remember, it’s not you, it’s the alien. And boy do aliens have attitudes and potty mouths. They must have been raised in a barn with a bunch of sailors on Mars. You don’t have to attend confession for anything you think while pregnant because you are being controlled and manipulated by an alien who only watches rated R movies.

You are nauseous. But mostly you are terrified that cake will never taste good again. The smell of cooking meat will put you over the edge as well as pumpkin spice candles, bath and body works, and your mother. When your hubby’s deodorant starts in with its assault on your sinuses, you will know that round 2 is on it’s way. Do you know I still about barf anytime I smell pumpkin spice candles and that aversion happened during my first pregnancy 15 years ago?…it has NEVER gone away.

You are starving, even if you just ate. This would normally be a great excuse to pig out on whatever you want. It’s too bad nothing sounds good anymore. You may have to resort to a cup of warm ovaltine a few times a day. And then when you feel up to it, eat a whole bag of chips or whatever else you get a hankering for…just be prepared for the uncontrollable sobs that will most definitely follow. WHY? Why can’t I control myself? It’s the alien. You must have gotten the fattest one.

You have cravings that are brutal and unrelenting. Nothing sounded good a minute ago before you sat down on the couch with your cup of ovaltine, but now if you don’t get a teriyaki bowl from Panda Express AND a pralines and cream milkshake from Baskin Robbins and a pickle, you may go ballistic. When your hubby gets home with all three in hand a half an hour later and after taking one bite, you puke everywhere. Then you cry and tell him it doesn’t sound good anymore and that your birthday is ruined forever more. (This is a hypothetical, I’m absolutely NOT speaking from experience here because if I was then that would also rat out my husband who then refused to make any food runs for the duration of my following eight pregnancies – this too shall pass, he would say)

Think about the alien and pretend you already birthed him out of your body. Smile at your man and apologize before bursting into tears. While he holds back your hair as you puke up that one bite that somehow multiplied by fifty into the toilet, soothe your soul with the thought that at least he is sticking around – the husband silly – of course you don’t want the alien to stick around. But try to be understanding. Once in a while you may find the alien asleep and that’s when you can give your hubby a break from pregnancy and tell him go play ball with the guys…..as long as he brings you a 12″ sub on the way home….without pickles.

Your whole body feels exhausted. You don’t understand why you just want to sleep all the time. In fact if you don’t get double the sleep that you used to get you start getting shaky. Just know that the alien is using your veins and arteries as roller coasters and your organs as skate parks, and your heart as a trampoline. Your brain makes a perfect corn maze and your digestive track is like the most awesome water slide park ever. Your bones are teething toys and your muscles are just doing their best not to completely disappear from fear. Take that nap and that day or week off work if that is what you have to do. The alien is not going away. Your only consolation is that the baby and uterus is off limits for this alien and soon enough it will trap the alien in your upper body while the baby starts using your ribs as a punching bag and your bladder as a soccer ball.

You have to drive everywhere because if anyone else drives your upchucking will be at high alert.

You should really buy stock in cold cereal because that is all you are going to eat for a while especially when you just have to feed that alien every night at 3 a.m.

You have never had heartburn like this. The alien gets really mad after being trapped in your upper body and he starts throwing up acid in your esophagus. You are just going to have to deal with it because your baby won’t appreciate you taking most over the counter medicines.

You feel like you will never be yourself again. And you won’t, but once the alien is flushed away with the after-birth, your new you will be a huge improvement.

You feel hopeless. But when you look into the eyes of the person you protected from said alien for ten months, your world will be consumed by hope.

You feel defeated. And this will progressively get worse until your child is a teenager at which point your defeat will max out.

You lose all bladder control. Yeah, I’d like to tell you this will go away too, but it won’t. From now on whenever you sneeze or cough or laugh, you will have to cross your legs for extra safety.

You just want to curl up in a ball and wake up after 10 months. I actually recommend this route.

You want to be babied, but you don’t want to need to be babied. And this feeling will continue for approximately 12-24 months until you start getting regular sleep again. If you are lucky, you will get a husband who will trade off between the fierce oscillating babying and needing to be babied.

Don’t worry when you catch him on the verge of tears after work one day because of a totally overwhelming panic attack caused by his inability to deal with all the changes that just keep happening daily and the fact that his wife is not the person he married. Remember as you asked him to remember for you that it’s the alien’s fault. Remind him that it will be o.k. It’s just that he never had permission to express his emotions while the alien was around. He was so good at being strong for you and you love him for eternity. He’ll recover, as will you, it will just take about five years for full recovery and meanwhile you will have a ball of energy to feed, change, bathe, and keep alive, as well as teach to walk, talk, sleep, and potty-train. You are both going to be too busy to stay overwhelmed so keep the nervous breakdowns brief and hope that you both can trade off between healthy and crazy.

Of course, if you have another baby, your recovery time will double. Don’t even think about it right now. The alien may decide to increase its test efforts for you and you really don’t want to hear about what that sounds like…it may include you pooping on a doctor while in delivery. (Really, I never did that. I swear. I just heard it happens. And yes, I made my husband watch to make sure. It’s the least he could do after implanting that alien in me for 10 months.)

Everyone is insufferable, except for Sophia, she’s funny.

This is a comical moment I have been waiting to share until after the pregnancy announcement. The first three months of this pregnancy were pretty rough for me. I was super tired, emotional, and pretty cranky. I tried my hardest to power through but everyone who lives we me knows that I just wanted to sleep. The kids were pretty good at leaving me alone. Mostly because they probably didn’t want me to bite their heads off. Bless their little hearts. Sophia, however, always has to take things a step further. She is the ultimate peacemaker.

sophia

So one day as we were driving home from school. I complained out loud about Sophia’s teacher. (Please don’t find this post Mrs. Arnold – but if you are here by some crazy chain of events, you might as well know, you are total control freak. You scare me and I’ve been a room parent a long time.)

It was around Valentine’s Day. (Of course back in the beginning of the year I had been tricked into being the classroom parent for the hardest room in the school. All the PTA parents didn’t feel the need to inform me of such, but I should have known when they weren’t willing to do the job themselves. They are always willing to do everything.)

The 6th grade teachers have high expectations. They want us to plan a whole carnival for every holiday and to coordinate with parents from the other room so that we can all combine the fun. WHAT A PAIN! I did my duty for Halloween and Christmas and trapped a lot of other parents along with me, but this time I had politely told Mrs. Arnold that I would be glad to do the obligatory Valentine swap and treat but that I just couldn’t find the energy for The Ringling Brothers. She promptly e-mailed back that she would handle it . (Which probably means that the parents from the other room who got the whole thing dumped on them hate me – so be it – if they can’t set boundaries that is their problem. And they probably aren’t pregnant so I will gladly let them handle it.) So I was updating Sophia on where we stood with Valentine’s and was murmuring like I often do.

Sophia being the sweet girl that she is has learned to use humor as her go-to escape from negativity.

She silenced me mid-sentence. “Mom is that you, or is that the tadpole talking?”

I laughed at my daughter’s greatness and answered…

“The tadpole, of course….it’s an ornery little thing.”

That is my story and I am sticking to it, Mrs. Arnold.

Mom, I’m here. Don’t forget me.

I sounded so crabby at the therapist’s office the other day while explaining my mixed emotions about being 40 and pregnant, “I’ve never been the kind of woman who was like, ‘Oh, please let me bear children. It’s my life dream to have a whole houseful of darlings. My only ambition is to be a mother.’ ” In fact, even though I’ve always assumed I would have a large family and was even quoted in my high-school yearbook that I planned to have a dozen kids, I have also been quite conflicted about it ever since I can remember. I love kids. I came from a large family that I also love. But, I have always also been full of dreams and ambitions that had nothing to do with family. In fact, I knew kids would just get in the way of a lot of what I wanted to do: graduate from college, serve in the Peace Corps, write a book or two, travel, and have a successful career in one thing or another.

I further explained to the therapist, “I’m a willing vessel, I’m just a broken one.” LeGrand and I both chuckled. Ain’t that the truth! He knows it even more intimately than I do. I am a very spiritual person and I try to live my life in communication with God. This is a good thing and a bad one. Because I listen to the voice of God, my life is always full of conflict. What He wants for me always seems to be in direct opposition of what I want for myself.

I remember when my hubby and I had been married for just a month. We went to the temple together and separated to do some work. I was 24, he was 22. We were both in college and working full-time. After we were done with our service in the temple, we walked out to the car hand in hand, both very quiet. Something was up. You could cut the dark sky in front of us with a pocketknife. My newer-than-new husband turned to me and said, “Alice, I felt it too, we are supposed to start our family now, and have joy in our posterity.” Nooooooooooo. I couldn’t keep the spiritual impressions I had felt in my own heart a secret like I had planned. This was crazy, but it was also undoubtedly what God wanted for us. I knew that this family business would rob me of all if not most of my own dreams. It took me six months to even become willing to go off birth control and then I was still resentful. And pregnant.

So, bring us up to the present day. We have four kids. I’ve had four miscarriages. I am forty and pregnant. Four seems to be an important number for me right now. This is my fourth and final blog. I know many people are reasonably questioning the child growing inside of me. Heck, they can’t question any more than I am. I am questioning. My husband is questioning. The only ones who are not questioning are our four children. They couldn’t be any more excited. Kids are really good at instinctively knowing what is most important…plus they don’t have to worry about paying the bills or losing three years of sleep.

I’d like to take this chance to explain and write down this little tale so that I will always remember it. There is one reason and one reason alone I am pregnant. The reason is that this child spoke to me from its pre-mortal realm. In August of 2012, my hubby and I found ourselves again at the temple. I had just suffered a pretty brutal miscarriage at 18 weeks. As we sat in the chapel, I turned to my husband and said, “LeGrand, I am not praying about this today, but I just want to be done having kids. I’m 38. I’m so tired, and I don’t think I can handle it emotionally anymore.” LG answered with his full support, “It’s up to you Alice. I don’t blame you. I don’t want you to have to go through that again either.” I wasn’t going to pray about it because I didn’t want any other answer from God besides my own.

mom im here

But something miraculous happened. Something I couldn’t deny. God sent a messenger to the temple that day. In the spirit form of a child. My child. The one I hadn’t yet given birth to.

It’s hard to explain the special place that are Mormon temples. They are very sacred. God is always there. They are a place where the veil between two worlds is very thin. In the temple I’ve felt the presence of many of my deceased loved ones who have gone on before me. They have been there with me often, telling me that they are watching over me.

I never expected to be visited by someone who had yet to come to earth, but somebody had an important message that day. One that I really didn’t want to hear. In fact it was the last thing I wanted to hear.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked behind me to see no one there but to feel someone as assuredly as if they were standing there. There was no doubt someone was there. I then heard an audible voice, “Mom, I’m here. Please, don’t forget me.”

I instantly started bawling. How selfish I am! How easily distracted I become. I so willingly forget that this earth-life isn’t about gaining the adventures that I want to have, but is all about being willing to take on the ones that I already promised God (and others) that I would achieve. My most important calling in this life is to be a vessel, even if I’m the most broken one that there ever was. I answered with a pledge in my heart, “I won’t. I promise. I could never forget you.” It took me sixteen more months to get pregnant again. Every day I was haunted by the pleading of my child. I was so worried that I wouldn’t be able to get pregnant or stay pregnant. I convinced myself that it was just the miscarried kid talking to me. I would maybe get to meet him at a later day in heaven. I told God that if he wanted it to happen, forty was as high as I was willing to go. Miraculously, I got pregnant on the first cycle after my 40th birthday, almost as if God wanted me to know that he got the message. But also in typical God-fashion..in the 11th hour…after we’ve been tested to the limit.

I’ve vacillated between anxiousness, depression, and elation. I’m only four months in and I’ve already had to give up my running, my plans to go back to school and work, and a portion of my sanity. A big chunk of money that was put aside for our new home will now be used for doctor bills and baby items. I worry every day that this child will have special needs, but one thing dismisses my many worries. There is one thing that I will always know: this child is special. More than anything, this child wanted a chance to be mortal. He knew that for that to happen I had to be his mama. He traveled from wherever he was all the way to the temple to remind me of my promise long ago to not forget. I smile at his bravery and his audacity because he chose the day that I least wanted to hear it to remind me.

And then I cringe at what is in store for him. He’s going to be stubborn. He’s going to be brave. He’s going to have his own ideas. He will also have a mother to remind him that more than anything he wanted to come to earth because that is what God wanted him to do. I will remind him as much as I will myself: We might as well keep on listening to God…no matter how much harder it seems to make our lives and how much it robs us of our own dreams and ambitions. Ultimately we both will have to answer for how we used our time on earth and every single one of our choices. God will never be concerned with how much we traveled or achieved, His main concern is for the immortality and eternal life of all of His children. For that to happen, He first has to get them to earth….even if the vessel is forty and all washed up. All we can hope for is our own willingness to say, “I am a vessel, God. I am broken but I am here and I am listening.”

* I say “he” because I have this secret wish that the lucky number five will be the son for which I’ve prayed for my husband, but we are 99.9% sure that “he” is really Vivienne. There is always that .01% though, I’ll let you know in a couple of weeks.