Motherhood

Don’t miss the fireworks.

So, on Saturday night at 10 pm, LG and I were walking out of the temple.
Yes, this temple. How amazing is that?

From our view up on the hill, there were fireworks going off all over the valley. It was absolutely breathtaking.

LG informed me that The Stadium of Fire would be happening any moment. For some reason, in my mind, I thought that it was going to happen on the actual 4th.

I decided we should hurry home and find a spot to watch the fireworks.

To my dismay, when we got home, the kids had no interest whatsoever in breaking away from the TV.

I pried their bodies and eyes from the tube, and made them pile in the car. I was not about to miss the fireworks, especially after this post.

As we drove down State street (Utah Valley’s version of Knoxville’s Kingston Pike) I was overwhelmed by so many US flags lit up along the road. The patriotism of Utahns is not only efficacious but admirable. People either love America here or they display their stars and stripes to compete with all the other businesses. And by all, I mean ALL. Everyone has a flag. Everyone.

The kids were grumbling during the whole drive.
Why do we have to do this?
We don’t want to watch the fireworks.
Let’s just go back home.
wah wah wah.

I told them to keep their eyes on the flags and to sing along.
I started loud and strong:

This land is your land, this land is my land….nothing but my voice.
Oh beautiful, for spacious skies….again, nothing from the back seats.
She’s a grand old flag, she’s a high flying flag….”Shut up, mom.”
God bless America….”Really, Alice, do you have to sing so loud?” said quietly by LG so the kids wouldn’t hear; I’m assuming he didn’t want to totally stomp on my love for country.
I’m proud to be an American….(even louder than before)

By this time the kids were all horrified and hating their mother and her motherland.

And guess what? By the time we got to Provo’s end of State from our northern end of Orem’s State, all we could see was traffic. The traffic was heading towards us, not with us.

Yes, I hate to tell you, Murphy’s Law is still in full effect, and has no respect for a nation’s holiday celebrated two days early or a very loud and song singing patriotic mother. We had missed the fireworks.

More grumbling, complaining, and whining ensued.

LG and I were not about to miss a good opportunity for teaching our kids.

Me: “Knock it off you guys, at least we still live in a country that has firework celebrations.”
LG: “There are a lot of kids in this world that would die to be in this car right now.”
Me: “Or to even have a car.”
LG: “Or to have a mother.”
Abigail: “Not if their mom sang like that.”
Me: “Especially if their mom sang like that.”
LG: “Yeah, think of all the kids out there that don’t live a country where they have mothers.” (O.k. I just made that up.) I think he really said, “You should be grateful for a mother who can sing, and cook, and do laundry.”

Abigail: “At least parents in other countries would be smart enough NOT to drive their family into the middle of the traffic jam, especially when their family missed the show.”
Me: “Well, at least there are other Americans with cars.”
LG: “And at least your mom can see in the dark and drive.”
Bella: “Mom, STOP!” (I admit it I barely missed that car in front of me.)

Anyhow, the conversation went on for a bit. And there was no chance of it stopping.
[In fact, it can still be happening if you want to comment what your best line would have been to the kids.]

Quietly, ever so quietly and with her Gold sense of perfect timing, Sophia chimes in. She must have looked up from reading Harry Potter for long enough to gather her sisters’ desperation for winning at the “Be glad you are American” game.

What does she say?
Brace yourself.

“Man, I wished I lived in Canada.”

Seven words. That’s all it takes to make a total complete disaster of an evening all worth it.
Good one Phia. Good one.
Average Americans should really consider more than 2.5 kids; they make everything more fun.

I told the kids that if they would sing their favorite patriotic song at the top of their lungs, then I would indeed STOP.

Abigail was loud and proud. I wonder where she gets that from?
“I’m a yankee doodle dandy. A yankee doodle, do or die.”

I am sure that all that traffic surrounding us was so grateful that they didn’t miss the real entertainment of the evening as I rolled all windows down.

And If I do say so myself those frostys from Wendy’s were the perfect consolation prize for everyone involved. Nothing like good old American food.

And when the song Firework came on the radio. I promise you, not just momma was singing. Even dad got in on the falsetto. Perfection, pure perfection.

We didn’t miss a thing. The fireworks had been going off in our car all night long.

And guess what? Utah loosened their firework laws this year. We can now shoot off 150 foot rockets from our very own neighborhoods. And on the real 4th of July, the sky was lit up in every direction we could turn. Our culdesac of fire was a billion times better than their Stadium of Fire. Fireworks in the sky on all four sides, coming from everywhere.

God bless America.

Potter and Johnson

I need to blog. I need to dig into some photos on my hard drive and share some fun stuff we’ve done.
I need to write some funny stuff.

But what am I doing?

Watching this of course:

Pottermore has my loyalty.

Even if that darn JK refuses to write another book!

I’ve also been looking for lost classmates for my 20 year high school reunion.

That is so exciting. It also makes me feel very old. It’s also puzzling a bit.
Why can’t anyone find Ted Johnson?

He has his own wikipedia page and the only way I could think to find him was to send his booking agent a note. I hope he will pass it along. It wouldn’t be the same without Ted. He’s the one that broke the news to me that I won at my election for Sophomore class president. I should have kissed him like this. You can get away with things like that in the moment of excitement. And out of all the boys I kissed in high school I really did my bragging rights a great disservice by not kissing the future SuperBowl champ. 4 superbowls people.

I am now really tempted to write nasty things about the Mormon boy who had the gall to call me a jack mormon in my yearbook who has repeatedly ignored my facebook friend requests. Funny thing is, he was a football player too. But never made it past college ball. And he was a kicker…not quite the same as sweet and hunky Ted the linebacker. And to think my friends thought he would be a match made in heaven for me when he moved in our Senior year. Blah on you Mr man who shall not be named Voldemort, but all of our classmates know who I am talking about. I dare you to show up at our reunion. Double dog dare. And Ted better be there to back me up. Oh forget Ted, I’ve got my husband to back me. And even though LG wouldn’t hurt a fly, he can outsmart anyone (o.k. most anyone) there I am sure. And after 20 years we better be past fist fighting.

So, I am now off to tumbling class. And then I will be slave driving all afternoon. These kids have got to do some chores! Sometimes I wish that the wizarding world was real. Accio clean laundry, please. Coming soon: the funny spells my kids invented.

I know you are dying for them now, but you are going to have to wait because I have to go and this post has been too long.

Raising Boys

As you all know, I know nothing about raising boys. Well, I should give myself some credit. I do know a few things. Just from what I have heard from friends:

  1. baby boys require vaseline and guaze.
  2. the boys in kindergarten mark territory by spreading crayons, trash, and glue as far spread as possible (direct contrast to the girls who all keep their stuff neat and tidy) There has to be some kind of case study here between the hunting vs. gathering instincts.
  3. boys are way less whiny but way more active.
  4. boys are dirty and stinky and pee everywhere.
  5. boys don’t require hair styling. (how lucky)
  6. boys tear holes in their jeans twice as much as girls do.
  7. boys hit.
  8. boys love sand and dirt. (but so do my girls)
  9. boys eat more.
What am I missing here mommas? Please do tell me. I can only live vicariously.
All I can think about right now is this old post. 
10. boys have more butt crack.

Check out this chubby boy that was sitting next to us at this concert.
LG and I feel so cultured. We have attended 2 concerts in a month’s time. Utah is good for us, I think.
He was part of some of the best entertainment of the night for LG and I. How darling is he?
Hope his mom won’t mind the posted picture. She was busy on her phone allowing me to steal this gem without asking permission.

Check out this tagline contest I won today . It’s so great to have your creative juices recognized from time to time. And I really like the lesson the picture teaches. I know nothing of boys, but if a picture like this got taken, I know one thing only, dad was not around. Ladies, dress your boys macho. I want my girls to have some real manly men to marry someday.

Yes, I am talking to you, young lady.
My Abigail is 12.
And she is loving it.
I never want her to be a mean girl.
I hope she will be friends with everyone.
I think I was guilty of being a mean girl
as a teenager,
and it’s one of my few life regrets.
I wish I would have not worried about my popularity status
but just loved everyone.
Go here for a good article about bullying.
I am gonna make Abigail read it.
Just in case she could use some help.
With being bullied.
Or bullying.
“Being nice” talks are very important
when a girl has three little sisters
who watch her every move.
Now on to other things I say to Abigail too often.
 Did you finish your homework?
 Who farted?
 Go to your room.

 No dating until you are 16.

 If you don’t have anything nice to say,
don’t say anything at all.

 Wash your face.
 You’re so sexy.
Look me in the eye.

  Quit primping already, it’s time to go.
 You are so beautiful.
You don’t need make-up.
 I love you and I’m proud of you.
 C’mon, give me a hug. PLEASE!
 How was your day?
You are so cool.

My Little Monsters
Artistic Caroline presented by LG’s smartphone. Such a perfect depiction of her almost 2 year old attitude.
Sophia has been really sick.
And this mom has been really worried.
She didn’t have enough strength 
and was in too much pain 
and couldn’t go to school all last week.
They say she just has two really bad ear infections.
But I am not sure if that is right.
This girl has had A LOT of ear infections.
2 bouts of Swimmer’s ear.
Three sets of PE tubes.
And she has never been like this.
Her lymph nodes were huge on Friday night.
Visibly huge.
I also think she has a little whiplash from her cheer-leading class a few weeks ago.
Thankfully she looks a lot better today.
I am keeping my fingers crossed.
And praying more than crossing my fingers.
Especially since she just said her ear is hurting.
She already had one round of zithromax
and 3 shots of rocephin.
Sophia hasn’t been sleeping as much as she should. 
Her eyes were really really red and bloodshot yesterday.
Despite her lethargy, she was dying to go to church to be the reverence child.
(I looked for a link to an explanation for a reverent child, but I couldn’t find any –
a reverence child is the lucky kid who gets to stand in the front of the LDS sacrament meeting –
they stand with their arms folded and act as an example for the adults to remember reverence.)
Another side note: there is nothing like an assignment to be 10 minutes early for church to make a family 2 minutes late for church. We have been early for the past 6 weeks. Sorry Sophia.
After Sophia got dressed all pretty for church, Abigail voiced her observation:
“Look mom, Sophia looks like Rosalie (from Twilight).
Abigail was right. Sophia looked like she needed some blood bad. And fast!
Now I have two vampire children.
Just what I always wanted.
Thanks to all of our fallen soldiers who made it possible for me to raise a bunch of monsters.
We live in a wondrous country, despite the politicians.

We grow


With you, I grow.
Side by side.
You’re just a sap.
I am too.
Different kinds.

You flourish in the sun and rain.
And I watch.

You dance.
You cry.
You smile.
You laugh.
I watch.

I laugh.
I smile.
I cry.
I dance.
And I flourish.
Without knowing it.
Because I am always watching you.

You are my pride and joy.
Sprouted from my seed.
My best buddy.
Smart.

Beautiful.
Fun.
You got my best leaves.
And your dad’s roots and branches.
Your branches
are what I love best.
Because they fly in the wind.
I blinked.
And you went from a twig
to a full grown tree.
And now I feel small.
Smaller than ever
Because you are
such a greater tree than me.

You are strong.
Straight.
Courageous.
You are my joy.
And my light.

I grew
while watching you grow.
But your growth is
so much greater
than mine.
And that makes me feel
like a sap.
All over again.
Both kinds.

You are my joy.
I keep watching.
And waiting.
Until someday
you will have a sapling of your own.
And then my growth
will become even greater.

Because it will
not just be mine.
But yours.
And your sap’s.
And we will all grow together.
Until we have a forest.

And our joy
will be one.
You and me,
we will be done growing.
But our saplings
we will watch.
Together.

And we will feel
so small.
As small as a seed.
But as small
as we feel,
we will know that
we have great power.
Power as huge as a forest.

Because there will be
so many saplings.

And we will watch.
And smile.
And laugh.
And dance.
And cry.

And grow.
Together.
Forever.

I love you Abigail. My darling darling young woman. You are such a joy to me. And I am so proud to be your mom and your friend.

I hit the motherload.
Just minutes ago I hit the motherload. Under one of the seats of my minivan, just waiting for a diligent mother, was a lost Barbie DVD, the pre-teen’s favorite flowered flip-flop, and the toddler’s teeny pink croc. Wow, two pairs of shoes have been rightfully reunited and that makes this mother very very happy!! I won’t tell you about all the discarded Easter candy wrappers, and candy (some chocolate) and cheez-its and fruit snacks and french fries I had to wade through to hit my motherload, it would just be embarrassing and may make you question this mother’s luck. Or worse, my ability to teach my children hygeine. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness, dears. (In my sweetest tone)  How many times do I have to tell you?” (In not such a sweet tone) No, let’s just focus on how totally lucky I am.
I was on hands and knees with my hindside perfectly wedged between the carseat and the van door searching diligently for one thing and one thing alone: the pacifier. The dreaded yet much needed pacifier. I am not talking about the baby needing it, although she is addicted. But, once again, this post is about me and my good fortune, not my children and all that is wrong with them because of me. No, I am the one that needs that pacifier. If it’s up to me, she will have it until she is five, and in kindergarten, cause let’s face it, my house is loud, and getting louder every day. 
My four girls could take on my family of upbringing without a worry. Who cares that we’d be outnumbered by three? We would win a decibel contest…with flying musical instruments.  I am talking by the brass section or even the percussion. So, every bit helps in the hushing of my brood, and that teeny pacifier is my saving grace. And for some reason the baby likes to play fetch with mommy. The little monster. She knows when I am most needing silence. And she always seems to know when mommy is most desperate for quiet. Which only happens when we are down to the last pacifier. You would never believe me when I tell you that we really do own 6 of them. You especially wouldn’t believe me when I tell you that at least once a day, we can’t find a single one of them. I would love to share all my sane moments with the inventor of the pacifier. I do have one question though, why couldn’t God send an nondetachable perfectly matching built in one for each and every baby? Those darn velcro tie things can’t withstand the wrath of my 2 year old.
Back to the motherload. Mother’s Day was last weekend. I scored. My amazing husband (and I guess my kids too) got me a beautiful silver ring, a pedicure and a Costco membership. How could I ever complain, right? Wrong. Do you know what my best mother’s day gift was? Remember I am the luckiest girl alive. My motto is all or nothing…especially when it comes to cleaning. My children’s real gift to me on Mother’s Day was a whole sippy cup of milk…wait for it….dumped everywhere (and I mean everywhere)…wait for some more… on the second pew back… in the middle of Sacrament meeting. On the baby. On her blanket. On the pew. On the carpet. On every single toy and every single snack baggy and every single page of every single board-book. Even on the hymn book. You see, I am the luckiest mother alive and Abigail had helped get the baby’s “shut up and be happy bag” ready for church as part of Operation Pamper Mom Day. She did a great job. She just forgot one thing: the plastic piece that holds the milk inside the cup.
This luckiest mother alive…and smartest mother alive ..sent her hubby out with the screaming baby. The baby had accomplished her role in helping to spread (or should I say pour) the joy..everywhere and was upset that she had no milk left. And who knows where the pacifier was. It’s always hiding when we need it. I used a diaper and the dry portions of the baby’s blankie to soak up as much as I could. And then I took out my baby wipes and had sanitizer for the rest of the sour prevention duties. In the background I could hear people. They were faint in volume compared to my task at hand, but I think they were talking about how wonderful their mothers were. I am not quite sure why they thought they were so wonderful, but I have a good idea, or two, or three. 
All the while I am thinking, “Oh how lucky I am to be a mother. Someday when I am dead, my kids may get up in church and talk about how wonderful I am.” They won’t even recall this fiasco. They won’t say “only a mother can handle a situation like that.” And as I am having this conversation with myself, I finished the clean up job and found the pacifier under the pew. I simultaneously had the thought that they won’t have to remember this. No they won’t have to remember any part of it, because hopefully, if I have any luck at all, they will someday get to live it. The motherload indeed. I couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the day.

And here I am a few days later. Once again, a pink croc is missing and we are down to the last pacifier. Yes, the cycle will continue on forever. As long as there are women out there who are willing to have children.

My Joy is Full

When LG and I had been married about three weeks, we attended the temple together. Once inside we went our separate ways for an hour of learning and service. He went with other men and I went with other women. While there, one statement played over and over again in my head, as if God was trying to tell me something.

“Have joy in your posterity.”

When I rejoined LG as we walked back to our car, he said, “Alice, you are being mighty quiet, do you have something to tell me?” There was no way that I was about to tell LG that I thought God was trying to tell us to have children, when we had only been married three weeks. I said, “I’m fine.” LG’s reply, stunned me: “Alice I felt it every time too, and the temple worker even said ‘Son, now go and have joy in your posterity’ as I was leaving.”

My jaw dropped. God had been talking to me!! And He spoke to LG at the same time so that there would be no confusion or arguing. It took me 6 months of wrestling with the Lord until I was ready to listen. I guess we all act like Jonah at times. I knew if we were to have children so soon that I would more than likely have to forgo my greatest desire, which was to finish college. But, I chose to trust that God knew what He was talking about. I was pregnant shortly after our first anniversary.

Almost fourteen years later, I am still waiting for my chance to finish college. I have been the main nurturer of the children while my husband has gotten all the education a man could ever want. It hasn’t even been a sacrifice really. I so appreciate the fact that my husband has busted his tail to play the role of student/provider and has 100% supported me in having as much time as I want with our kids. I don’t even try to pretend that I know what God is doing, but I do know that I have the rest of my life to finish my coveted college degree and I will never regret its postponement as I think of all the moments that I have been able to appreciate.

I love my children and am so grateful for them. I am proud to be their mother. There is no joy greater than the joy I feel with my husband and our posterity.

Sometimes the joy is so full that it takes me breathe away.

More on joy in posterity here.

For the Moms
I was asked to write a poem about mothers. I am not sure what is going to be done with the poem. It’s not my greatest work. It’s for my church back in Tennessee. I didn’t have a lot of time, and I really have to be in the mood for poetry. I hope that somehow my main feeling is communicated: I have been mothered by many many women. Some are really my moms and some were friends and some were total strangers.

I will never forget the day that I left the local library bawling. That morning I had just received some shocking and awful news. I decided to take the kids to the library to get my mind off of things. Of course, my two children had other ideas. My baby was a monster that day. They say that our small children respond to our emotions, and I think she was responding perfectly. A man came across the library and pretty much told me I was an awful mother. It was the straw that broke the momma’s back. I gathered the monster, her sister, and tried my best to keep it together until I got outside. I broke halfway to the door.

Another mother had seen the whole thing go down. She ran out to greet me at my car. I had locked the kids in their seats and sat at my steering wheel bawling uncontrollably. I couldn’t even muster the strength to drive back home and even if I could, I couldn’t see well enough to drive. She had the audacity to knock on my window. I sheepishly rolled my window down, and explained that I was having an awful day. She asked me if she could pray for me, and I said, “Oh, that is so sweet, please do.” As a Mormon, I thought that meant she would go back to her car, bow her head and say a silent prayer, but as a relatively new Southerner, I had a lesson comin’ to me. She stood in place and started pleading with the Lord on my behalf. I don’t remember most of what she said except for one line, “Jesus, this woman is obviously having a really hard time, and she has children to take care of, please comfort her so she can do whatever it is that she needs to.”

Do you know that it is six years later and I am still dealing with this major trial in my life. And often, very often I hear the words to that prayer and feel at peace. I wish I could somehow tell that mother, wherever she is, that she has been an angel in my life. But really, aren’t all mothers angels? I think God gets so much of his work done through women with mother hearts. How grateful I am to be one who can succor and to also be one who is succored.

Mothers.
They give birth to babies.
Cradle, not just their own.
A woman’s heart is so large
It’s too big to be alone.
Mothers.
Sometimes are single.
Or have never housed a full womb.
But they still hold hands and hug,
And cry over grave and tomb.
Mothers.
Love and teach.
To everyone they know.
Their children, or mine,
They can’t help but help them grow.
Mothers.
Don’t exclude.
They love one and all.
Because they can’t help it.
They know peace is their call.
Mothers.
I have many.
Lots are far away,
Yet I carry them in my heart,
To get me through each day.
Mothers.
I hear them.
Encouraging my frown.
They laugh with me a lot
And cure me when I’m down.
Mothers.
They are also known as
Sister, daughter, friend.
They are women who I love.
God, to me, did send.
Mothers.
They are busy
Righting the world’s wrongs.
I will, with them, in awe,
Kneel in His eternal throngs.
Mothers.
Work miracles.
In lives old and new.
Because they know how to love.
And succor me and you.
Mothers.
They inspire.
Each person on the earth.
All good things start with them.
Without them, where’s our worth?