A Fit of Insanity

In a fit of insanity I told my husband last night that I thought housewives should earn their keep.

The insanity, I'm sure, was caused by a sudden increase in urgency to clean my house.  Which I did.  I was really, really sick in the head.

The epiphany, that all housewives should earn their keep, stemmed from this sickness.

Therefore, I maintain the right to rescind my above comment.

RESCIND, I say, RESCIND!!

And this has nothing to do with the fact that I just want to veg out on the couch eating nachos and downing chocolate milk while watching Eureka re-runs.

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!

Holes in the Fence

I like this story.  I try to remember it when I'm upset with the kids or Brett, which, like, never happens.  But on the rare occasion it does...

There once was a little boy who had a bad temper. His father gave him a bag of nails and told him that every time he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into the back of the fence.

The first day the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. Over the next few weeks, as he learned to control his anger, the number of nails hammered daily gradually dwindled down. He discovered it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence.

Finally the day came when the boy didn’t lose his temper at all. He told his father about it and the father suggested that the boy now pull out one nail for each day that he was able to hold his temper. The days passed and the young boy was finally able to tell his father that all the nails were gone.

The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence. He said, “You have done well, my son, but look at the holes in the fence. The fence will never be the same. When you say things in anger, they leave a scar just like this one. You can put a knife in a man and draw it out. It won’t matter how many times you say I’m sorry, the wound is still there.”

The little boy then understood how powerful his words were. He looked up at his father and said “I hope you can forgive me father for the holes I put in you.”

“Of course I can,” said the father.

This is also a great story: The Room

Happiness to Me...

During my morning Facebook reading I noticed how a lot of my old friends from HS have become big party people.

Every Saturday morning it's the same post, "Had a blast last night getting wasted and urinating in public."  

For some reason when I read these I feel really sad for them.  I mean, obviously they're happy with their life.  But what are they really happy about?

For me, their posts start to blend into each other.  They're all about the same thing.  I have a strong feeling, just like their posts, that their life is just a blend of the same night, over and over.

Isn't it funny how not many of those entire nights stand out for these people, but tiny, almost seemingly insignificant moments are burned into the mind of parents.

"Summer just went poop in the potty all by herself today!  For the first time!"

"McKay just ate his first Oreo cookie!"

"Tristin just got his green belt in Karate!  I'm so proud of him!"

These are tiny moments in these parents lives, and yet they'll be with them forever.  The moment, the feeling, the excitement.  I know, I have thousands of those moments stored up in my own mind.

I don't remember much about my late nights out as a teenager (except for the ones with Brett).  They're all pretty much the same.  Fun, but utterly pointless.  Something to fill the time until I would finally be old enough to do whatever I wanted.

Turns out what I wanted was a family.  And substantial memories.  Microscopic happy moments my heart feels strong enough to hold onto forever.

I guess, for me, happiness is found in living my life for someone else, not for myself. 

I wish I could explain this to those friends out partying every night, putting off family life, putting off life in general.  There's so much happiness to be had.  And shockingly, that happiness isn't found at the bottom of a beer bottle.  It's found in a poopy diaper, apparently.  

Speaking of which, I'll talk to you all later.  

It's Exhausting

And wonderful.

Exhausting and wonderful.

And it all seem to start at the exact. Same. Time.

My life was busy enough, at least I thought so.  But now I have two kids in school, karate, ballet, theater, and temper-tantrums 101 (Chloe is teaching that class).

I'm still trying to figure it all out.  Pay this one monthly, buy new uniform for this one, oh crap, it's school picture time, what do you mean your ballet slippers don't fit?  Whose birthday party is it on Sunday?  Do we just drop you off or do we all barge in and stay and eat the entire cake?

*Breathe*

I've never been one to experience anxiety (insert chuckle) but I'm sure any minute I'm going to forget to pick a kid up, drop one off, or not pay something in time and therefore ruin that childs' entire life.

But you know, I never really feel so overwhelmed that I can't move forward.  So stressed that I can only sit and rock myself in the corner.  The more stuff thrown at me just roots me deeper into my Eternal calling as mother, wife and friend.  I love it.  I love it all.

And I love, love, LOVE earning my sleep.  You know those nights (every night) that you lay down in bed (at 8:30 pm) and can't move a muscle, can't form a thought, and you just pass out?  I love those nights.  Sure I miss staying up giggling with Brett (interpret as you please), but we still have fun nights.  Not every day is so exhausting.  Like...um....Sundays?

Still, I love it.  Now I'm off to pick up Brett and Cohen from something...somewhere...

I'm not dead.

I mean, I'm pretty sure I was dead on Monday, which subsequently pushed back our trip home 2 more days.

I don't think my mom minded.  We crashed in their spare bedroom and she drooled over the kids for an extra 48 hours.  I'm glad my misery could bring such happiness.

But now we are home.  We went to Utah for...7 total days (I had to do the math in my head...and use my hands.)  My sister Tianna finally got married to the love of her life, Scott.  And, of course, he got married to his, so it really worked out.

I missed the rehearsal and all of Kembry's tantrums on Friday because of, what I thought, was a nasty cold.  Saturday, the wedding went off without a hitch.  Unless you wanted food.  Apparently the caterer's help didn't show up.  She was alone and behind.  So, Brett and I manned ourselves behind the buffet and helped out the desperate caterer.  People were not kind.  I coughed in their food.  Please don't tell my sister.

Sunday I stayed in bed and wished for death.

Monday I stayed in bed and wished for death.  And visited the doctor.  Who gave me the greatest medicine in the world, a Z pack.  Yummmm.  (BTW, not a cold.  Rhinositis-something-something-bronchitis-something-something-death.)

Tuesday I didn't wish for death, but I should have stayed in bed.  Instead, I visited Miss Jessie and cooed over little baby Cory and fell in love all over again.  I promise I didn't kiss her, or lick her fingers, or blow on her tummy.  I kept all my little dying bacterium to myself.

Wednesday I drove...and drove...and drove...stopped at a gas station...drove...and drove...and drove...went through Zions National Park during a wicked rain storm which was freaking awesome...drove...drove...and home.

I have never been so happy to be in Arizona.  We don't have TV, so I have no idea what the weather is like.  Do they provide that sort of information online?  No, I doubt it.  The kids are back in school, Chloe is HOME, which is right where she should be, and I...am going to go to bed.  At 5 p.m.  Don't wake me up unless you have chocolate.

Old People Rock

Here's the thing about this heat.

Heat.  As in 114 degrees (and I realize this isn't even the hottest it gets here.)

It makes me tired.

It makes me angry.

It gives me migraines and dehydrates me.

It melts my flip-flops.

But it also draws all the old people of the world to it like me to Oreo cookies.  And those sweet old people think my grumpy young people are soooo cute.

I get all sorts of funny comments.  At the store, it's, "Ooooh, how much are they?  What aisle did you find them on?  Can I take them home with me?  Oh my, look t those eyes!"

At restaurants, it's, "We were watching you, and you're such a cute little family.  I remember when our kids were that little, enjoy it!  What sweet kids you have.  You have a beautiful family."

It's as if Heavenly Father knew this heat would drive young mothers into murderous insanity, and has given us the old people like a shot of ice cold perspective.

Still, I'd appreciate some rain.  Just sayin' =)

Genius Savant, It's a Real Thing

Recently, I became "That Parent".  (My cousin Abbie, hilarious.)

Anyway, Cohen, my genius savant, tested for the gifted and talented program back in good ol' Utah.  Transferring here, I thought it would be no problem to get him into a similar program.

We're in our third week of school, and yet he's still in the same old "sound-out-your-words-what-letter-is-this-what-is-two-plus-two" class.  He's bored to tears, and I don't blame him.  We have to monitor homework time, not to help him, but to make sure he doesn't finish the whole packet in one night.

So I took a page out of my cousin Abbies book, and high tailed it to his school, letter in hand, to get him into the Accelerated Learning Program.

This is what I got.

"We don't really have that program for first graders.  But he'll be in an advanced reading group in a few weeks!"

Seriously?  Advanced reading group?  That's great and all...I mean, it's better than nothing, but what about everything else?  When are those needs going to be met?  My baby boy has needs.  Nerdy, know-it-all, smarty pants needs that I can't keep fulfilling at home.

HE'S DRIVING ME INSANE!!!

His teacher kindly scheduled and appointment for me with the ALP coordinator.

Dear Abbie,

Any advice?

Haha!

This Moms Struggle

I love Kembry.

I do.  And I'm not just reminding myself of this fact.

However, she has put me through the course.  And off and on for a long time, I've oscillated between, "Why is she so horrible," to "Why am I such a bad mother?"

Finally, I decided it's all my fault.

That's right Kembry.  Take that to your therapist in 20 years!

So I went to Dr. Google to figure out how to better myself.  I read and read for hours, then days, taking notes and praying about what I read.  I felt so good as I was reading, and felt the notes I took were inspired.  I had a plan.  And it was going to work.  No matter who I had to kill in the process.

One of the things I learned about my little 4-almost-5 year old is that she is not necessarily A.D.D. ( I was to the point of trying to get her diagnosed) but that she was simply over stimulated by lack of guidance.  There was a room full of toys, and she still managed to find nail polish and commit the "Terrible Awful".  We had a fabulous backyard with child wonders scattered everywhere, and she still put sand on the trampoline.

Why couldn't she just play with the toys?  Why couldn't she just swing or jump or dig?  Why oh why oh why was she so naughty?

Kembry is my second child, and I think I was putting a lot of 5/6 year old expectations on her.  Not only the age, but the child.  Cohen was such a good kid.  He always played with the toys, he never got into things he wasn't supposed to.  He never ate 1lb of chocolates.  He never played with knives.  And so I thought Kembry should be just like him.

My new attitude about Kembry has helped tremendously.

I encourage and praise her good behavior.  At first it was hard.  I would say very general things, like, "You're such a good girl," and I think even she could hear the deception in my voice.  Then, because I was really looking for it, I noticed the little, wonderful things she did.

"I love how you shared with your brother.  I really appreciate you cleaning up your dress up toys.  Thank you for helping Chloe play with that book.  You're such a good girl."  And now I really meant it.  At first they were few and far between, we had a lot of bad behaviors to weed out of her, but now she's consistent.  And so am I.

We do regular snacks.  We keep the TV off until 10.  It's off at snack time and lunch.  We have quiet time.  We have play time.  We have get-all-noisy-and-crazy time, because little ones need it.

We're still learning.  I still lose my patience and she still sneaks off to the bathroom to make a mess, but we're doing much better.

I'm so grateful that my Father in Heaven has answered my prayers and blessed me with guidance and patience.  I want to be a good mother.  I want Kembry to be happy.

One of the lessons I read advised me to write a list of who I wanted Kembry to be in 20 years.  I cried as I listed all the things I hoped for her.  A testimony of her Father in Heaven.  A love for books.  Happiness.  Self-esteem.  It made every action I make today seem so much more powerful.  Telling her she's good and meaning it, loving her without exception, like her Heavenly Father, hugging her, laughing with her.

Good luck fellow mothers.  Don't give up just yet.  Take a five minute break when they do those naughty little things, and then discipline them.  Don't get angry.  Show love.  And most importantly, take care of yourself.  No one likes a mommy with low blood sugar.

Look past the hardships of today.  Focus on eternity.  And who knows, "one day these children may grow up and call us blessed."  Marjorie Hinckley

(P.S.  I need to tell you how much your comments mean to me.  It is so empowering to know I'm not alone in all of this.  To know there are other women, possibly men, that struggle with the same weaknesses as me.  Thank you!)

Adjusting

It took me 7 years to adjust to being a wife and mother.  

I used to wake up figuring out ways to avoid doing the everyday stuff I was supposed to do.  I got pretty go at it, too.

But at some point I woke up ready and willing and even grateful to be doing those hum drum chores.  I started realizing that they had an eternal purpose.

Laundry, have an eternal purpose?  Psht, plllease.

No, really.  I mean, not individually in and of itself.  But I started to think that I wanted my children to look back and realize they always had clean clothes hanging in their closet.  That they always had a healthy, usually warm breakfast.  That lunch at school didn't get boring, and that (most of the time) they could invite their friends over without being embarrassed.

It all adds up in the end.

It wasn't until I hit this mark, 7 years post-marriage, that I started to appreciate all that my  mother did for me.

When I moved into my own apartment at 18, I didn't know how to do my own laundry.

Did that sink in?

I was 18 and didn't know how to do my own laundry.


The house fairy didn't make me a warm breakfast.

I couldn't cook anything that didn't have directions on the back of the box.

But this still didn't help it sink in, all that my mother had done for me. 

So while I am focusing on an eternal perspective, I'm also going to go about preparing my little bambinos for their first apartment.  And mission.

*fist to teeth*

Oh that's painful to think about.

My kids will know how to cook, clean, do their laundry and comb their own hair by the time they make it to the sixth grade.  My little 4 year old helps with the laundry and other cleaning (often making me have to do it twice but holding on to that eternal perspective keeps me motivated.  Rinse and repeat.)

There are three ways to teach (the good, better, best standard here)

Show them (good).  "Here honey, let me show you how to fold that laundry."

Help them (better).  "I can help you comb your hair."

Mentor them (best).  There are no words for mentoring.  It's not a talking role, but a doing role.  It's also the hardest.

It takes a lot of practice and patience and perspective to do the best, but it pays off the greatest.  For me and them (child slavery, anyone?)

So as you go about scraping up that smooshed and grody banana off the floor (my first task for the morning), or as you unclog another toilet and painstakingly remove yet another stain, remember all these "mundane" tasks add up to an eternal purpose.

"...I want to spend my life with them for all eternity."

Aaaaaand, We're Back

I have words of advice to anyone ever contemplating moving to another state with three children and a husband.

1.  Don't do it.

2.  If you do do it, don't move from a house to an apartment.

3.  30% of your possessions are crap.  The other 70% is almost completely unnecessary.  At least, that is, if you have to haul it up three flights of stairs.

4.  Arizona is hot.  WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME?!  Just kidding.  That's about all anyone would tell me about Arizona.

What they didn't tell me:

People here are vicious about their parking spots.

There is this insect that makes a really loud buzzing noise, and it's totally cool.

You can go swimming at 9 o'clock in the evening.  Love it.

There's a really interesting smell here.  It's good, like... resinous.  I really don't know how to explain it, but I love it.

Flip flops melt on the road.  And then peel off on the tile in the apartment.  And then I have to scrub them off.

The members here, at least in our ward, are pretty freaking awesome.  I guess the odds are good where there are 600 members in one ward.  This may be a slight exaggeration, but not by much.


Cohen started first grade last Wednesday. He's gone all day.  Me no likey.  He was my rock.  My good child.  The one I could command to do anything and he would do it.  I miss him horribly during the day, but he is LOVING school.  Of course.  Little smarty pants.

Chloe turned one today.  I can't talk more about this other than I still remember the absolute joy and relief when the nurse walked back into the room, one year ago, and told me, "The doctor said we're keeping you!  We'll get you an epidural and he'll break your water."  Best day in years.

Kembry is...coming back to Utah to live with anyone who will take her.  Lizzie, I do recall you helped me pack and load a truck and your reward was, in fact, Kembry.  Please come and claim your prize.

As for everything else...I don't know.  Some days I feel totally at peace with the world I'm in now.  Other days I'm horribly lonely.  I want to hop over to Jessie's, or go to my moms.  I miss Sunday dinner.  I miss my neighborhood, my ward, my friends.  I miss Lukey and Dylan and in ground trampolines and moderate temperatures.  I miss babysitters.  I miss t.v.

I'm off to bed.  I'll have much more drivel for you these next coming days.