Baby Mine

     It is very possible and highly likely that I may meet an untimely death by electric shock before the completion of this post.  I am going to attempt to write a tribute to my angel baby, who will be turning one this Saturday.  The inevitable flood of tears that is likely to be produced by this effort, combined with the electric charge of the computer planted on my lap could prove fatal.  If this were to happen, I suppose my family and friends would find solace in the knowledge that I departed this mortal existence doing something I loved.  Without further ado, or morbid predictions..........

   Three hundred and sixty two days ago, Ryan Daniel Stanger arrived as the missing piece in our family puzzle.  I arose bright and early, though, truth be told, it wasn't very bright at all.  It was a cold, rainy Idaho spring morning.  Dirk snapped a few last pictures of me as a beached whale, and we hopped in our red mini van and drove to the hospital to the accompaniment of Jack Johnson.  I made a conscious effort to inhale and exhale as I allowed Jack's soothing, beachy tones to calm my nerves.  This effort required to breathe normally was not because I was in labor, but because I was preparing for a second c-section. Sure, I had been through it once before, but it had been an emergency.  I hadn't had nine months to freak out about it and to study up on every rare complication that could possibly occur.  Between Jack's mellow acoustics and the rhythm of the rain hitting the van roof, I was reasonably calm by the time we reached E.I.R.M.C.  Still, the prospect of being sawed in half is always slightly unsettling. Thankfully, the panic was offset by the anticipation of meeting this little miracle who was so longed for.  Upon arrival, I was ushered into a cold, sterile room where I was handed a gown that was so large that I briefly wondered if they were going to hand me a few stakes and instruct me in the new age art of tent birthing.  After putting on the tent/gown, I was hooked up to no less than one hundred machines and monitors and was then forced to drink some liquid that tasted like paint remover smells.  Nothing calms the nerves quite like drinking battery acid while listening to incessant beeping on a stone hard bed.  My sister was a welcome guest.  She arrived bearing the day's newspaper (I always like to save a paper from the day my children are born).  She then hailed a nurse to bring me the strongest flavor of ice chips available in an attempt to lessen the after taste of the unmentionable substance.  Her company helped the time to pass a little more quickly, and before I knew it, I was being whisked off to the O.R.  Dr. Isbell greeted me like it was any other day.....just a normal visit......not like he was about to perform a surgery so gruesome that a tarp had to be placed in front of my face so I couldn't see him pulling out my internal organs.  Before I was to become a circus act (you know the lady who lays in a box while the guy with the mustache saws her in two?......c-section!), there was the small matter of anesthesia, aka, having a needle the size of a baseball bat shoved into my spinal column.  I think I held my breath for the entire ten minutes it took to get the spinal block in place.  After I was pleasantly numb, and had vomited into a plastic tub, I might add, it was time for the tarp.  My arms were strapped down and an oxygen mask was strapped to my face.  Never had I felt so much like a mental patient, or a science experiment in Dr. Frankenstein's lab.  I closed my eyes as I listened to the swooshing, sawing, grinding, clinking and sucking taking place on the other side of the black plastic barrier.  After what seemed like ages, there was one very large swoosh, pop and then a few seconds of silence, followed by the incomparably beautiful sound of a tiny, angry cry.  Then, over the top of the tarp, came Dr. Isbell's hands, holding aloft a 7 lb, 21 in. red faced wrinkled miracle.  In that one instant, every fear that had been plaguing me subsided.  I had wondered if I could really love another baby as much as I did my other two children.  In that one sublime moment, my heart, like the Grinch's, grew three sizes.  More than that, the hole that had lingered after my previous miscarriage was filled to overflowing.  Suddenly, I felt whole.  This tiny, red faced screamer was who I had been waiting for. As with my other two babies, the second he was placed in my arms, it was like he had always been there.  He belonged there.  After only moments, I could not imagine my life without him.
     As I sit here on this rainy Spring night, it is almost impossible to believe that it has been almost a year since that rainy Spring morning when a little ray of sunshine made his way into my world.  The next few months were a blur as I tried to find the balance of spending time with my older children while taking care of a helpless newborn.  It was an odd feeling being confined to the couch, watching out the window as people began their regular summertime activities all around me.  Dirk was a life saver as he took Morgan and Hyrum to fun outings and activities.  And I sat on the couch, sometimes in the basement, trying, through my sleep-deprived, post pardom stupor, to embrace each moment of tiny baby wonder.  Knowing that Ryan will probably be our last child.......our last baby, I have made a conscious effort to enjoy the little details of his infanthood.  I have held him more than he may have needed to be held, rocked him after he was well asleep, just to smell the warm baby powder sweat of his sweet blond curls a little longer.  I have tried to memorize each dimple of his chubby fingers, and will forever have a still frame in my mind of his toothless jack-o-lantern smile.  His "thunder thighs" have likewise been etched into my mind where my most precious memories are kept.  His belly laugh, so "deep and chubby", as Morgan once very aptly described it, is locked tight in my mind and heart.  His belly button has received countless kisses and raspberries, and I'm surprised his perfectly rounded cheeks haven't fallen off yet from the constancy of my lips upon them.  He is my sunshine.  As much as I have always loved and still love my other children unconditionally, Ryan brought a new kind of hope into my life.  He has helped me to believe that miracles can happen, that wounds can be healed, and that love truly knows no bounds.  How I love his soft baby curls and his smile that fills his whole face and lights up the entire room.  When he crawls toward me as fast as his chubby legs can carry him, his tiny diaper bum wriggling in the air, I am reduced to a pile of mush.  When I watch him sleep, I am reminded that angels really can dwell on earth.  When I look at him, I am complete.  I am whole.  My heart knows the deepest contentment.  When I see my three children and my husband together, I feel like the most blessed woman in the world.  Through all of the sweet potatoes spewed onto my shirt, the days of wondering when I would sleep again, the anguish of once again failing at breastfeeding, there has been God's tiny miracle smiling back at me, with a look behind incomparably blue eyes that seemed to whisper, "It's ok, mom.  I was always meant to be right here, with you."  My Ryan has made my life complete, when I didn't even realize it was incomplete.
     I have already written a post about one of my favorite memories with my little sunshine.  It's called "Dance Partners".  One day, when Ryan was maybe a month old, Dirk was out hitting golf balls with the older children, and Ryan was having an untypically fussy day.  After nursing, rocking, bouncing, and shushing had done little in the way of calming, I turned to music.  I found my Micheal Buble station on Pandora radio, cradled Ryan against my shoulder, and slowly began to dance around the room.  The first song we ever danced to, my tiniest of dance partners and I, was Harry Conick Junior's version of "Someday".  I truly will always remember and cherish the feeling of his warm baby head nuzzling my neck as we waltzed through the living room to the sound of smooth jazz and the smell of freshly cut grass wafting through the screen door on the warm summer breeze.  There is a part of me that wishes I could keep him an infant forever.  What will I do without that deep chubby laugh and that larger than life gummy grin?  I know I will always still have them, because Ryan will still be with me.  But baby Ryan, my last tiny precious infant Ryan, will always occupy a special corner of my heart.  When cloudy days come and I struggle to find the sun, I will think of my sunshine baby.  I will remember our first waltz.  And the words of the first song we ever danced to will warm my soul:

Someday, when I'm awfully low, and the world is cold
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
And the way you look tonight.
Oh but you're lovely, with your smile so warm and your cheeks so soft,
There is nothing for me but to love you
Just the way you look tonight. 
With each word, your tenderness grows,
Tearing my fears apart.
And that laugh that wrinkles your nose
Touches my foolish heart.
Lovely, never, never change.
Keep that breathless charm.
Won't you please arrange it, cause I love you
Just the way you look tonight.


My dearest Ryan- You will always make my heart glow and I will love you forever and a day.
 

Bubbles

     What child doesn't love blowing bubbles?  I still enjoy sitting in the summer grass and watching as my children send the translucent orbs out into the clear blue Idaho sky.  People often talk about comfort food.  Well, blowing bubbles is a comfort activity.  Bubbles take me right back to my childhood.  They rose into the stifling Virginia air of my girlhood just as well as they do here.  Yes, I have always loved bubbles.  I never realized, however, that I would someday be viewing the world from the inside of one of these magical spheres.  I currently reside in the bubble of Shelley, Idaho.  It is a sleepy town populated by about 3,000 people.  If that description alone doesn't give you a good enough idea, I will expound.  There is a field for every ten houses, and a cow for every ten people.  Up until a few years ago, there was one lighted intersection.  The Main Street diner, Mick's, is the regular Saturday morning meeting place for several of the local farmers.  There are about twenty last names among Shelley's 3,000 residents.  I think some level of bartering for livestock may still occur when wedding arrangements are made between members of two of the Shelley "dynasties", aka farm families who make more money than most of us will ever see at one time.  Hopefully by now you get the picture.  Shelley, Idaho is not exactly a hip, happening, metropolitan melting pot.  I spent the bulk of my childhood in Richmond, Virginia.  We didn't live in the heart of the city, but in a nice suburban outlet.  We were in day trip driving distance of Washington, D.C., Jamestown and Virginia Beach.  The air was thick not only with near constant humidity, but also with history.  It is only now, looking back, that I realize how much I took for granted living in one of the most historical places in the country.  By the time my family moved away, I could have probably given someone a guided tour of the Smithsonian, and I had played on old Civil War battlegrounds like they were my own backyard.  Growing up in Richmond as a white Mormon, I was a minority.  I hung out with a close knit group of friends.  There were five of us; Jackie, Erica, Robin, Katherine and myself.  Jackie and Erica are black; Robin, Katherine and I are white; and Robin and I are the only Mormons.  We did everything together, from impromptu fashion shows to school trips to Christmas parties to slumber parties and movie marathons.  We were all part of the T.A.G. program at our elementary school.  And we were the very best of friends.  When I was thirteen, my family moved to Idaho.  I should say back to Idaho, as this is where both of my parents are from (mostly) and where I was born and lived until the age of two. We had moved to VA because of a contract my dad had taken with Virginia Power.  The contract was up, and it was time to get back to our roots.
     In my awkward adolescence, I did not feel that I was returning to my roots, but rather that I was being forcefully uprooted from everything I had come to know and love.  When we arrived here, I was amazed by how oddly out of place I felt in a sea of white Mormon faces.  Every girl at my middle school had the same hair and the same pair of jeans.  When I greeted people with a cheery, "Hey ya'll!" they looked at me like I was an alien, or at the very least like they were wondering why Paula Dean's granddaughter had moved into their neck of the woods.  No one drank soda or even Coke.  They drank some substance called "pop" and sat on "couches" instead of sofas.  Someone asked me one day if I wanted to "sluff" class with them.  I had absolutely no idea what they were referring to.  Not quite ready to accept the "resistance is futile" mantra of the Borg (sorry- I come from a very Trekkie family), I started hanging out with friends who were "different".  They were "stoners" and "skaters", aka the kind of friends that are likely to give the parents of an adolescent girl in the midst of an identity crisis a heart attack.  But they accepted me for me.  They didn't care what brand of jeans I wore.  They actually started to speak in some of my Southern lingo.  They were open to the idea that there is a great big wide world out there, and they wanted to hear about the parts of it I had seen.  I struggled all through the rest of middle school and high school trying to find out exactly where I fit in.  I made friends in many of the different cliques but never really settled into one.  I was a nomad.  I eventually found theater, which became my lifeline.  The final play I starred in my Senior year was none other than Steel Magnolias.  I was Shelby.  Looking back now, I find it a little ironic that I spent most of my high school career trying to hide who I really was and ended high school playing a role that was so close to my roots.
     I have now officially spent more of my life in Idaho than I did in Virginia.  It is a strange realization, as VA still feels like home on so many levels.  With time and maturity, I have come to realize that Idaho is not just a state of wide open fields and closed minded people.  My children were born in the bubble.  Sometimes I worry about that.  I have to admit that some sort of pride rose up within me when my daughter made "best friends" with the only part Asian girl in her class.  It is hard to teach your children to be color blind when there is no color.  It is hard to teach them about other cultures in a town where potatoes and football and church every Sunday are the only way to live.  I love that we live in a safe community.  Where I grew up you didn't go into certain neighborhoods.......ever, at least not if you wanted to keep all of your teeth in your mouth and your virtue intact.  You didn't go anywhere alone.  Here, I occasionally leave my front door unlocked when I am away.  Shelley is, admittedly, an ideal place to raise children in some respects.  But, I want my children to realize that there is more out there than this Mayberry existence (if this were a musical, a very inspiring song would now begin, but alas..........).  I suppose I will have to fashion my own pin and pop the bubble myself.  I have already begun attempting this, armed with pictures from my childhood and books (thank goodness for books!!!!!) about different countries, cultures and people who have made a difference.  On Martin Luther King Jr. day we read his "I Have a Dream" speech for Family Home Evening.  I wish I had the means to take my children around the world to see all of  the places and cultures that exist.  Of course, I do not.  Instead, I hope that through repeated discussions and readings, I can teach my children to be tolerant, accepting and compassionate to everyone.  As I have watched bubbles climb the summer skies so many times throughout my life, I have noticed one thing.  They always pop.  They are a brief illusion of happiness and are soon gone forever.  I hope to keep my children safe and away from harm while at the same time teaching them to keep their feet firmly planted on the ground and their minds and hearts open to all they can learn from and feel for all of the people outside of the bubble.

Arranged marriages and apple pie

     I believe in arranged marriages.  It certainly worked for me.  Now, before you start cringing at the image of a fresh faced fourteen year old shaking with wide eyed terror as she is promised to a fifty year old letch, let me explain. I did not get married at the age of fourteen, but I was around that age when I met my then future in-laws.  My church youth group was doing a "missionary activity".  Two or three young women were placed together as "companions" and we were assigned to a home where we would go and teach the gospel to families in our ward who had volunteered.  Each volunteer family was to choose which country they would be representing and was to serve a meal from the selected country.  My "companions" and myself were assigned to "Mexico", aka Craig and Cathi Stanger's house.  As the door opened for me and my companions, we were greeted by a smell so mouthwatering that it made me wonder why we were coming to teach the gospel to a couple who had obviously already found Heaven itself.  We were ushered into the living room where we sat timidly on the couch opposite the Stangers.  As cricket noise began to fill the resounding silence in the room, it became apparent that neither of my "companions" had any intention of speaking.  It was up to me.  The only way into the kitchen of heavenly smell was to get through the discussion.  So, I began.  I couldn't tell you one thing I said.  But I fudged my way through a brief synopsis of the basic beliefs of our faith, answering the frequent questions of the Stangers with trepidation.  I tried to smile and pretend I knew what I was talking about, but inside I was a nervous wreck.  The Stangers were gracious.  They smiled and nodded and didn't even correct me as I spouted off what was most likely false doctrine.  My "companions" offered a few barely discernible head nods in agreement with what I said.  It was obvious that I should never attempt to be an actual missionary.  The evening's next activity came much more naturally to me; we ate.  After my first taste of the Stanger's cooking (Mexican just happens to be my favorite), I was near proposing marriage to them.  Little did I know at the time, that this would be the first of many scrumptious meals at the Stanger table.

     At the time of my rather pathetic missionary attempt, my future husband was actually serving a mission for our church in Uruguay (where he was most likely partaking of a much less appetizing meal of cow stomach stew).  For reasons which still elude me, after I left the Stanger home that night, Dirk's father turned to Dirk's mother and informed her that I was the girl for Dirk.  Approximately four years later, Cathi Stanger showed up on my doorstep with a hot, homemade, and yes, heavenly apple pie and informed me that her son would be home from Utah State for the weekend.  She handed me the pie and asked me if I would consider going on a date with Dirk.  I think I said something exteremely eloquent like......"uh.....ok."  I then went inside and devoured almost the entire apple pie.  Dirk had absolutely no idea that he would be taking out a girl that weekend who was almost four years his junior and who really really liked to eat.  He was actually dating another girl at Utah State at the time.  As fate would have it, Dirk and Julie ("Barbie" to all of Dirk's sisters) broke up that very week.  The rest is a very small chapter of history.  Dirk's parents must have realized that my love of all things edible would be an attractive trait to Dirk.  He has since informed me that, aside from my smile, my love of eating is one of the first things that made him fall in love with me.  I have had many more delicious meals in the Stanger home over the past nine years, most accompanied by noise and laughter.  Dirk and I now love to cook meals together and try out recipes in our own little kitchen.  We now strive together to teach our own three beautiful children the gospel.  I don't know what exactly Dirk's father saw in me that night years ago that I showed up at his door as an awkward teenager.  But I will be forever grateful that Dirk's parents knew their son well enough that they were able to help him find his best friend and soul mate.  I couldn't have handpicked a better husband for myself. He is my rock and my help meet; my solace, my companion, my partner in every sense of the word.

     I plan on learning how to make Cathi's famous apple pie.  Someday, it may just be the key to making sure my kids end up with the right person!

Small Talk

Sometimes I wonder if I have Aspergers.  I am not trying to make light of what I know can be a devastating condition which people struggle with daily.  However, my social ineptitude occasionally causes me to wonder if I fall somewhere on the barely discernible end of the Aspergers spectrum.  Or, perhaps it's just that I'm a writer.  Writers tend to be hermits; great at observing and analyzing human behavior, but often completely incapable of joining in human conversations or interactions. Just call me Emily Dickinson.......ok........Emily Dickinson with a tiny fraction of the talent.  I can usually think of witty, meaningful, entertaining and relatable things to say when I have a pen or keyboard at hand.  However, when I am standing face to face with another person, there is often a gaping, awkward silence at my end of the conversation.  Large groups of women frankly terrify me.  I tend to stand in a corner and listen to the conversation unfolding while I try to wipe the clammy sweat off my hands and make sure my breath doesn't smell like the onions from my dinner.  I attempt to laugh when everyone else laughs, and try to look, for all intents and purposes, normal.  I try to fit in.  But that's the thing......I am constantly trying.  I have always envied those women who seem to have charming, witty anecdotes about a myriad of topics, which roll off their tongue in an effortless manner.  I am a deep thinker.  I believe this goes hand in hand with being a writer.  I know this may sound odd, but I would be perfectly happy to do nothing but stare at a wall and think all day long.  I usually have thoughts about the meaning of life, the duality of human nature, the state of the economy, the decaying world in which I am supposed to raise my children, or any number of other topics, rambling around in the recesses of my mind.  But more often than not, when I try to strike up a conversation with someone, I end up talking about.........the weather.  Seriously.  I cannot begin to tell you how many conversations I have begun using phrases like, "How about that sunshine", or ,"Do you think it will actually rain one of these days?"  Pathetic, isn't it?  But weather is something we all relate to. It is something we are all familiar with and deal with on a daily basis.  Plus, the few times I have tried to bring up the state of the economy or the duality of human nature with a group of women, I have been greeted with blank stares and a quick change of topic to Victoria Beckham's latest hairstyle.  Apparently large groups of women don't like to have deep discussions.  I have a few friends with whom I can discuss meaningful topics.  They don't look at me like I'm Rain Man when I tell them I was just wondering about Newton's third law of motion or that I just read the most interesting article about the unintentional war on boys in America.  They are genuinely curious to know what I think, and they add their own unique and much appreciated perspective to the conversation.

     I love that I have friends whom I can really talk to, not just talk at.  I hate small talk.  I have discovered, as a mother, however, that I really enjoy talking to small people.  This is a form of "small talk" I actually enjoy.  I think it is because children are naturally curious about the world around them.  My children have so many questions about how the world works that it brings out my own natural curiosity and thirst for learning.  When you're with kids, it's not nerdy to learn about outer space and dinosaurs.  It puts you right up there on the coolest mom list......or so my kids tell me.  Now, I'm not saying that I don't occasionally (occasionally meaning anywhere from 1 to 100 times daily) get tired of the relentless questions.  But, by the time my five-year-old asks me for the tenth time how large a pteranodon's average wing span was or  how much bigger a mastodon would be than an elephant (see- boys are obsessed with size from a very young age), I begin to wonder myself just how big those things were.  Then, like any good mom, I Google it.  I think I have learned more (perhaps useless) facts as a mother than I ever did when I was in school.  As I sit with my children and look at art history books or read about customs of countries around the world, it can be a learning experience for all of us.  Talking to kids all day forces you to think and to discover.  Another reason I love talking to kids is because they don't put up any false pretences, so I don't feel like I need to.  There's no filter there.  Kids don't fret about whether or not their question is going to make them appear ignorant.  They just ask it.  And children are rarely opinionated.  There are some adults I can barely talk to, not because I am socially inept, but because these certain adults happen to know everything about everything and they are determined to make sure everyone knows it.  These conversations, if I am unfortunate enough to get trapped in one, involve a whole different kind of desperate silence, a lot of glances around the room to try and discern the quickest escape route, and enough head nodding to cause a small case of whiplash.  Children usually aren't know it alls.  But they want to know it all.  And I love trying to learn it all with them.  I like to get out with friends, and sometimes I honestly need a break from the little people.  But, many of my memories with groups of friends bring back feelings of anxiety (with occasional bouts of nausea) over what to wear, what to say, how to laugh, how to sneeze, how to breathe, how to fit in.........thoughts of , "don't blow it this time,Shannon."  On the contrary, many of my happiest memories involve days at home with sweat pants and wet frizzy hair, stacks of library books and two curious learners on either side of me, waiting with wide eyes for what I will read next.  I am definitely not swearing off my girl's nights out, here.  And perhaps I can even try to improve my conversational skills to the point where I can move to topics somewhere in between the weather and the meaning of life.  But, I am grateful to know that there will always be at least three people who will laugh at my jokes, who are just as curious as I am about that big world out there, and who always keep me entertained with their very own form of small talk.

Treadmills

I really hate treadmills. I am infuriated by the feeling of running as fast and as hard as I possibly can and getting absolutely nowhere. Sure, my progress is being measured by a small digital screen, flashing incessantly before me the number of calories I have burned and the number of miles I have "traveled". But, when all is said and done; when I am wheezing like an 80-year-old woman and in serious need of a shower, I am still there, in the same spot I started, staring at the same wall or tv screen. I have often wondered if hamsters feel the same way when they run in their wheels. As a girl, I had a pet hamster, Hamlet (one of my favorite literary pet names of all time). At night, I would drift off to sleep to the sound of his wheel squeaking rhythmically every few seconds. When Hamlet was about three years old, he contracted some sort of hamster dementia. He didn't seem to realize who or where he was. He was skittish and just down right cranky. Looking back now, I'm pretty sure it was the wheel that drove him to madness (although I suppose I did kind of set him up for it by naming him Hamlet). Dirk and I actually owned a treadmill for about a year. Then, one of Dirk's coworkers offered to sell us a top of the line Foosball table for $50. The only spot for the Foosball table happened to be the spot the treadmill was currently residing in. It wasn't a hard decision. My brother-in-law was happy to take the treadmill off our hands.

Being a stay at home mom with young kids is like running on a treadmill. Hold on now......not so fast.....I am not implying that I hate being a stay at home mom. But there are some definite parallels. Laundry is one example. As a mother of three, I now typically do at least one load of laundry every single day but Sunday. Many days I do two or three loads. Given the frequency of the clothing being removed from the hamper for washing, one would think that at some point in time, the bottom of the hamper would be visible. Not so. Far from it. Despite my daily efforts at keeping it at bay, the laundry can often be seen overflowing the top of my little wicker hamper. Many days, the hamper and laundry basket are both full. I have to put away the clothing waiting in the basket before I can wash the ever present clothing in the hamper. Just like a treadmill.......constant exertion of energy, yielding no apparent result. I also exert a great deal of energy trying to keep the floor visible, with similar lack of result. A friend once described it this way to her husband: "Trying to keep a clean house with small children at home is like spending an entire day meticulously placing stakes for a fence, only to have them knocked over and having start from the beginning the next day." Being a stay at home mom can also sometimes feel like being trapped in the movie Groundhog's Day. Days blur together as the same mundane tasks are performed amid the same controlled chaos, day after day, after day after.....well, you get the point. Another reason being a stay at home mom is like running on a treadmill is because it is hard work. Very hard work. To the politician who recently claimed that Anne Romney hadn't worked a day in her life (she only raised five boys while battling breast cancer and MS), I add my voice to the backlash that has already been propelled by thousands of moms. I suppose there are stay at home moms out there who actually may sit and eat bon bons (why bon bons have somehow come to be associated with stay at home mothers, I have no idea. I think I tried one once in high school) and watch Days of Our Lives. I suppose these are the few who give us a bad name. But, I feel safe in presuming that the majority of stay at home moms work their butts off. I know I do. Though I may feel it is the truth many days, I also do not think it is fair to declare that being a stay at home mom is the "hardest job in the world".......most important, perhaps, but hardest? I can't honestly say. It is the only real job I have ever performed, aside from waitressing. I am sure many other jobs are also very physically, mentally, and emotionally taxing. I respect the work others do. Yet, so many times, mothers, like Anne Romney, are disrespected and criticized for "not working". Here is an example of a typical daily schedule in the life of this stay at home mom:

6:00- get up and do yoga to get "centered" for the day

7:00-get Morgan up (like waking a bear)

7:15-fix Morgan's hair

7:30-get breakfast on the table

8:00-clean breakfast up

8:30-depending on what day of the week it is, clean either bathrooms, floors, or dust

9:00-make sure Hyrum is dressed in seasonally appropriate clothing; feed Ryan

9:30 turn on Dinosaur Train for Hyrum; feed Ryan a bottle and put him down for a nap

10:00-shower

10:20-rescue Ryan, who is screaming after a 20 minute cat nap, from his crib.

10:30-get dressed

10:45-throw my hair in a ponytail and slap some makeup on my face, while Ryan tries to crawl up my leg

11:00-make lunch for Hyrum and myself

11:15 or 11:30-attempt to eat lunch while feeding Ryan

12:00 clean up the kitchen

12:15 or 12:30-separate laundry and throw a load in the wash

1:00-spend quality time with Hyrum

2:00-fold laundry and put away

2:30-greet Morgan; give the kids after school snack; help Morgan with homework, spelling words

3:00-give Ryan a bottle, get him down for a nap

4:00-help Morgan with piano

4:30-start prepping dinner

5:30-eat dinner

6:30-bathe kids

7:00-read to kids and put them to bed

7:30-give Ryan a bottle; put him to bed

8:00-breathe....and fold a little more laundry

9:00-try to console Morgan, who has apparently developed childhood insomnia, and can't fall asleep yet again

12:00-awake to Ryan's screaming and give him his binky

2:00-awake to Ryan's screaming and give him his binky

4:00-awake to Ryan's screaming and give him a bottle

6:00-get up and do yoga.............

and...........repeat

Nowhere in that schedule can I seem to find a wide open slot for bon bon consumption and Soap Opera viewing. Day after day after day, we stay at home moms work hard. We keep running and running, with no end in sight, staring at the same four walls. Days when children are sick or cranky, or extra loud, can feel like running with the treadmill on a steep incline. We clean and cook, console and chastise until we are emotionally drained. Yet, at the end of the day, when we finally take a moment to sit down and breathe, nothing apparent has changed. If one were to run on a treadmill for thirty minutes a day, every day, over time, you would see a change in that person. It would be almost imperceptible at first. But, after an extended period of daily treadmill running, that individual would not only appear more fit on the outside, but would be on the road to improving the condition of their heart, and their overall health. Looking back at my own childhood, I can see on my mother's face, the same look of blank exhaustion that covers my own many days. Worn out from running on the mommy mill day in and day out, she had to wonder if anything she exerted so much precious energy doing made a difference. Did it even matter? I can answer that. Here I sit, one of the three products of her tireless labor. I have a family of my own now....my own treadmill to run on. I found and married a man who treats me like gold because I felt that was what I deserved. I try to treat others with compassion, and I have an overall contentment with my life. As for the other two products of her labor: My sister is a successful attorney who graduated law school as one of the top in her class. She is kind and strives to do good in the world. My brother is one of the single most compassionate people I have ever met. Over time, the countless loads of laundry, the thousands of meals prepared, the hours upon hours of lost sleep, the stealth binky replacements in the middle of the night, all somehow added up to three individuals who have a relatively firm footing in a world that is spinning out of control. I hope the repetition of my mundane, daily routine will someday show similar results. On days when I wonder if any of it matters, I am reassured by a favorite scripture passage:

Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great.

So, my fellow, stay at home moms, let's keep on running. The result of our efforts may not be immediately apparent, but we are laying the foundation on which our children will build the rest of their lives, one bottle, one lullaby, one story book at a time. One more way motherhood is like running on a treadmill........it's good for your heart.:)

Refrigerator Magnets

You can tell a lot about a person by what is hanging on their fridge. For example, by looking at my refrigerator, you would be able to tell that I have traveled a bit, that I try to be a compassionate person, that I like to inject a little bit of humor into my every day life, that I love my kids, and that I cannot remember anything unless it is written down in a place where I will see it at least three times a day. By looking at my fridge, no one would doubt that I am a mom. At any given time, there are several finger paintings, report cards, crayon drawings, spelling word lists, and reminders for various school/PTA sponsored events plastering the front of my old off-white GE refrigerator. Some of the artwork is held up by magnets boasting sayings such as, "Scribbling is the new........."; underneath there are three possible options with check boxes......"Dadaism, Impressionism, Sign of genius". I have several of these magnets, each with a different snarky comment about children's artwork. Yes, my refrigerator is a small reflection of my personality. But above all, I think it shows that I am a real mom. This post is actually inspired by a conversation I had with a friend a few days ago. I was picking my son up from her house. I began admiring her beautifully framed black and white family photos. Soon, my eyes began searching the rest of the room. I think when we are in someone else's home, we tend to scope it out, whether consciously or subconsciously, to try and find out a little more about them. I also think that we notice when someone in our house is scoping it out to try and find out more about us. And, as women, we begin to apologize for anything they may see that is not perfect, anything that may be slightly out of order. Sometimes these apologies can involve a little truth bending......."That pile of papers is out of control today.....I don't know what the kids threw on there.....that counter is normally spotless." I don't know about you, but I have one counter in my kitchen that is the "catch-all" counter. It is where mail, and well, basically anything else that doesn't make it to an otherwise specified location ends up. About once a week, I go through "the pile". The counter stays uncluttered (and therefore visible) for approximately ten minutes. If I didn't do my weekly catch-all cleanup, I would have no idea what the surface of this counter looked like. I think we all have places in our home like this. Some of us may have deeper junk drawers, and therefore our clutter is less obvious. Anderson Cooper, who is widely known as being somewhat of a neat freak, even admitted to having a clutter closet.

As I scoped out my friend's living room/kitchen area, my eyes fell on the refrigerator. Plastered. Just like mine. I instantly felt a little bit closer to my friend. I then realized we were even more alike, when she followed my gaze and immediately began to apologize for the clutter on her fridge. I then explained to her that it looked almost zen like compared to the explosion that is the front (not to mention sides) of my refrigerator. This seemed to put her at ease. After mentioning one of our more Martha Stewartesque friends, who did not have a single magnet, sticky note, or photo adorning her refrigerator, my friend came to the conclusion that "real moms have refrigerator magnets." In the home I grew up in, the refrigerator was a place of honor for artwork, A papers, and other various kid crafts. We always knew we must have done something well if it got a spot on the fridge! For years, my mom had little plastic flower framed magnets with our pictures in the middle, which we had made at church one year, hanging front and center on our Kenmore. By the time my parents built their new home, complete with an empty nest fridge (these refrigerators tend to boast a lot less clutter than the young family fridge), the photo flower magnets had become so sun-faded, that they looked like they could have been taken a few generations before. I have a similar refrigerator magnet. My daughter made it in preschool. Beneath her picture, are the words "I love you mom", written in big bubble letters and colored in with crayon. It is already becoming faded. I wonder how it will look in twenty years!

I'm pretty sure it will still be there by then. I used to be like my Martha Stewart friend. When Morgan was a baby, I would actually follow her around during the day and clean up after her as she played. When Hyrum came along, we would at least try to keep the toys in the kid's rooms. Since having Ryan, I just let the explosion happen. If I know company is coming over, toys can be seen flying through the hallway in the direction of the children's rooms. But, in general, we clean up before bed. I am not sure if this gradual decline in my cleaning regimen is occurring simply because I am constantly exhausted, or because I am learning to embrace the chaos. I think I was in denial for a few years. I like things organized. I like them in their place. I like order. For a while, I think I was in denial of the fact that my ordered world had been overturned by tiny people and that the best I could now hope for was controlled chaos. My OCD rehab is still a work in progress. There are days (Dirk will tell you, because he has to remind me to breathe on these days) when I turn into a cleaning machine. I think this is an inherited trait from my father. Once I start, I can't stop until everything is in it's place, dust free, polished, sparkling.....well you get the idea. On these days, Martha Stewart could probably walk into my house without being too appalled. There are days, however, and these are becoming more frequent, when I can look around at the clutter, at the fingerprints on the glass, at the empty pudding cups on the table and realize that I am living in the most glorious form of chaos imaginable. My house may never earn a Good Housekeeping seal of approval, but it is a real mom house. It may be full of clutter, but it is also full of laughter. It is a place where my children can feel safe and validated, loved and important. My refrigerator is plastered with proof of that.

Helena Handbasket

When I was a little girl, I would occasionally hear adult members of my family say, "the world is going to Helena Handbasket." "Who is this Helena Handbasket?", I would think, "and what is so special about her that she deserves the entire world?" I could almost imagine some sort of awards ceremony playing out in my young girl mind......"And the world goes to......... Helena Handbasket!" Of course, now, being much older and perhaps a bit wiser, I have come to learn that the expression my parents and grandparents kept referencing was that the world was going to "hell in a hand basket." I have also come to realize that the Star Spangled Banner is to be seen by the "dawn's early light", as opposed to the "donzerly light". I am sure many children, including Ramona Quimby (who actually thought it was the donzer's lee light) have likewise wondered exactly where and what this donzerly light is. My five-year-old son will tell you very emphatically that a "life saver" is a sword made of light that can kill bad guys. Oh the things kids say.....back to our title faux pas, Helena Handbasket. I can't say that this phrase altogether makes more sense to me now that I know it is "hell in a handbasket" and not "Helena Handbasket." I actually google searched this phrase trying to find it's origin. No one seems to know exactly how it originated. So, I will take a gamble at it. The first half seems self-explanatory. Society's morals are decaying daily. It is clear that the world, in some ways, is "going to hell." The means of conveying the world to said location is the baffling part. Why a handbasket? Is it supposed to be ironic? Did whoever coined the term just really like alliteration? Does it have something to do with Little Red Riding Hood taking her basket of goodies to the big bad wolf?

I'm still not exactly sure. But I think it may have something to do with the fact that the things which are dragging us, as a society, one step closer to the fiery abyss, are often wrapped in pretty packages. Girls are having a nationwide identity crisis because they don't look like the 5'7", size double zero, airbrushed model on the front of Vogue. People's pain and humiliation is on prime time, disguised as entertainment for public viewing. So much about the world we are living in is pretentious, dolled up, tricked out. It's hard to get to the heart of things these days, because there is no heart in hollow, empty shells. Last Friday night, Dirk and I were watching "What Would You Do?" It's a hidden camera show which records actors playing out various scenes exhibiting often the worst of human behavior, and catching people's reactions to it. It is always inspiring to see people stepping up and speaking out for the underdog, or standing for something they believe in firmly. The disheartening part is that the scenarios depicted generally come from real life situations. Often, the people caught on camera are relieved to find out that the awful things they have just been witness to were all part of an act. But the ideas behind the show come from somewhere. They come from real life scenarios that happen all around us every day. I have witnessed a few scenes which have caused me to peer around the corner, just waiting for John Quinones to come waltzing out with his camera crew.........no John, no camera crew......just humans behaving inhumanely.

If you don't think the world is going to Helena, just turn on the news for five minutes and you'll change your mind. Here's the thing, though: I don't think we should just hand the world over to this "Helena Handbasket" without putting up a fight. But what can one person do in the face of so much relentless and discouraging darkness and meanness? It was just this question that I was pondering a few nights ago. I went outside to say my prayers under the stars. Doing this puts me in my place, so to speak. It helps me to realize my own nothingness in the vastness of the universe, while at the same time allowing me to commune with the one who made both myself and the stars. On this night, I prayed for purpose, for some meaning in all the madness. I prayed to know what, if anything, I could do, to make a tiny mend in the ever tearing fabric of society. The answer I felt was strange, and not what I expected........"Don't add to it. Be positive." That was it. No striking revelation about some mass movement I could start or viral video I could make......just "Don't add to it. Be positive." After puzzling over this answer in the past week, it has become sort of a mantra playing over and over in my mind. And I couldn't help but think of my last blog post. It was truth. Women are mean. They can be spiteful. But so was I. I realized that "hating the haters" won't help. Two negatives may make a positive in principles of mathematics, but they do not in principles of morality. With the help of my new mantra, I have decided that from henceforth I will try harder to project positive energy into the world. When I see a story on the news of a child who has been horribly abused or neglected, I will hug my own children that much tighter and give them an extra kiss before bed that night. When I hear a story of a teenage boy facing 10 years in prison for a foolish, thoughtless prank, I will write a note of appreciation to a teenager in my neighborhood for his exemplary behavior. When I hear of war, I will try to find peace within my own heart to love someone who has hurt me. Will any of this delay the hand off of the world to Helena Handbasket? Probably not. But, it is certainly a better solution than sitting idly because I can't save the entire world. And just imagine, if everyone adopted and truly tried to live by the mantra....."Don't add to the negativity. Be positive." Change has to start somewhere. And within the walls of our own homes is a good place to start. You see, Helena Handbasket may think she's got this whole thing wrapped up. What she doesn't realize is there is this underdog waiting in the wings called Hope. Hope is by far the stronger contender. She just needs a little encouragement sometimes. We can help with that. Each smile we give a stranger on the street; each prayer we send up for the fallen soldier; each word of encouragement to the overwhelmed mother in the supermarket, is a lace in Hope's boxing gloves. If we could all just cheer her on, by cheering one another on, she could have Helena up against those ropes in no time.

As for my blog, I know this post went a little toward the serious side again, but be assured that future posts will contain plenty more humor and quirkiness. One way I personally like to cheer Hope on is by making other people laugh; at life, at me; at themselves. But, I also vow to try and steer clear of posting anything mean spirited again. I will fight for the underdog by trying to lift him up, not by trying to beat the oppressor down. And now, you must excuse me, to go and grab a late night snack, because, I'm so hungry, I could eat a corpse and chase the mourners..........something my great grandma used to say.......another phrase of unknown origin. So, as my mother would say, "I'm off like a dirty shirt."