CHURCH

The word strikes fear and anxiety into the hearts of religious mothers everywhere. For those who don't practice any certain religion, or who practice in the privacy of their homes as opposed to meeting in a congregation, Sunday is a peaceful, relaxing day......an extension of a nice weekend......perhaps a day to recover from a hangover. For atheists, Steve Martin will inform you, Sunday is a day to stay home and watch football in their underwear. When I wake on a Sunday morning, the sun's first soft rays spreading slowly across the length of my bed, the birds' song outside my window a Heavenly hymn of praise, my children quietly studying their scriptures while Dirk and I sleep in.........alright, alright......I can't continue on with this facade anymore. Nowhere in my memory is there a Sunday morning which remotely fits this description. Here is how last Sunday morning went down in the Stanger household....... At about 5:45, Ryan woke up for his morning bottle. Dirk, who happens to be the best husband in the world, fed Ryan, put him back down, and we both went back to sleep......until approximately 6:45, when Hyrum , too impatient to play with his blocks, barged into the room, waking Ryan, who in turn woke Dirk and I. We sleepwalked to the table where we enjoyed a gourmet meal of "Golden Puffs", after which Morgan proceeded to spill a stream of milk across the entire kitchen while taking her bowl to the sink. I cleaned up the milk, fed Ryan his rice cereal and prunes, which ended up mostly on my shirt, thanks to a few adorable raspberries. Dirk went out to shovel the driveway, as it had snowed for the second time this winter. Being the good man that he is, he also shoveled the driveways of about five elderly couples or widows in our neighborhood. As Dirk was out shoveling, I put Ryan down for a nap, as my other two children brought every toy they own into the living room, and apparently lit a grenade, or so it seemed from the wreckage in my living room. I decided the damage couldn't get much worse, and that I better wash the two days worth of grease out of my hair while Ryan was contained. I decided I would actually go so far as to shave my legs! On the way into the shower, I banged my calf on the edge of the tub. I allowed myself exactly three minutes of sobbing (the bang didn't hurt that badly....it was just the cherry on top of my horrid Sunday sundae), and decided I simply needed to improve my attitude. I stopped sobbing and started to shave. Mid-shave, Dirk returned from shoveling four blocks and came into the bathroom to tell me he was home. It caught me off guard (still a little scarred from the time I watched "Psycho" on t.v.- showering has never been quite the same)......the result was a slip of my hand and a canyon sized gash along my shinbone. Dirk waited for me outside the tub, armed with tissues and band-aids. Four band-aids later, I was getting dressed to the sound of Ryan screaming after his 20 minute cat-nap. The moment I emerged from the bathroom, Hyrum was there to inform me that Morgan had "grabbed his arm". I think I looked at him blankly, turned, walked into my room and shut the door behind me. After a few deep breathing exercises, I emerged a new woman, ready for the blissful Sunday which surely awaited me.......and cue Ryan spitting up a fountain of prunes all over the carpet. Dirk left for a morning meeting as I knelt in my dress scrubbing prunes out of the carpet. Throughout all of these goings on, there were, at intervals, shouts of......."Pippin.....LEAVE IT!!!!" "Morgan.........stop grabbing my arm!", and "Hyrum is BREATHING ON ME!" In the midst of this Sunday morning serenade, I managed to slap some makeup on and fix my hair enough to look moderately presentable. I looked at the clock only to realize that church started in 30 minutes, and I still needed to feed three children and pack a diaper bag. I dumped two cans of chicken noodle soup in a pot on the stove and fed Ryan his banana orange medley, which I, once again, ended up wearing, courtesy of my slap happy baby, who finds great amusement in knocking the spoon full of food out of my hand. I hosed Ryan and myself down and turned to see Pippin waiting by the back door. As I returned from letting the pooch out, I was greeted by a distinct burning smell and the sound of chicken noodle boiling over Old-Faithful style. I sopped up the soup with an entire roll of paper towels, put what I could salvage in three bowls, and shoved a few bites in my mouth as I simultaneously cleaned up the rest of the soup explosion. I began frantically throwing together a diaper bag. Mid-packing, Ryan dropped the a-bomb of baby stench. On my journey to the outside trash can to detonate the Hiroshima of diapers, I managed to stub my toe AND bite my lip. At this point, I was seconds away from falling into a heap on the snow-covered lawn, and waiting until someone, seeing a woman in Sunday best, covered in bananas and oranges mixed with puke and smelling of sewage, in a fit of uncontrollable hysterics that ranged somewhere between sobbing and guffawing, would bring me my straight jacket and take me away. Instead, realizing that church would start in five minutes, I took another deep breath, watching my toes carefully as I stepped in the door. I barked at the kids to get their coats, banished Peregrin Took to his kennel, strapped the baby in the car seat, grabbed the bag, and flew out the door.

By the time we arrived at the chapel, the opening hymn had already begun. We entered the overflow of the chapel (the section they open up for those of us who are constantly tardy), to the strains of......."Welcome, welcome, Sabbath morning, now we rest from every care......" Oh the irony. At this point I couldn't stifle my laughter. I was glad to be seated in the back of the chapel, far away from the pulpit, so the bishop couldn't see me laughing through a stream of tears throughout the remainder of the hymn. A few minutes later, I excused myself to go and get a drink. It was one of the rare Sundays when Dirk was able to attend Sacrament meeting with us. Seeing the state I was in, he was more than willing to sit with the kids for a few moments while I attempted to compose myself. I paced the church bathroom, hands on hips, taking deep breaths as I willed the tears to stop. The question resounding in my mind was "WHY AM I EVEN HERE?!"........"I should be home recovering from my multitude of fresh injuries." "I should be in Bermuda........I should be ANYWHERE BUT HERE." Truth be told, I didn't quite feel worthy to be in such a holy place at the moment. My Christian charity was worn to a thread; my patience was non-existant. I knew, however, that I could not leave Dirk in the chapel with all three kids (tempted though I may have been to see how he would handle what I do almost every week). I made it back to the chapel just as the Sacrament hymn began. As music filled the room, I could feel my heart begin to lighten. I looked at my children.....who were actually sitting 80% still (even if a little nose picking was involved); Hyrum was looking through some picture cards I packed which depict scenes of the Savior's life and ministry. All at once, a wave of recognition swept over me. Despite the fact that I arrived at church feeling like a had run a marathon (or at least a 5K), I was here. I was here because I needed to show my children that there was Something much greater than scraped shins and toy tornadoes and soup geysers. I needed to show them, by example, the meaning of gratitude. Can devotion truly be measured in the midst of peace? Or can true devotion only be shown when we press on, through the turbulence, to thank a Power higher than ourselves for the glorious chaos we are blessed to live each day?

Some people's kids

When Dirk and I were first married I worked at a store which sold only white clothing; wedding dresses, blessing dresses, etc. For the most part, it was a peaceful job. The work environment was quiet and low-stress. Some days, no customers would come in and I would lock the doors (with the owner's permission, of course) and do inventory or steam dresses. My peaceful state was disrupted, however, any time a parent entered the store with a child under the age of ten. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I began to imagine little jam hands grabbing at the row of gleaming, perfectly hung and steamed white dresses. At the time, I had no children of my own, and I was convinced that every child of elementary school age or younger had a coating of jam or jelly, or some sticky, destructive substance on their fingers at any given moment. While trying to keep an entire wardrobe of white in pristine condition, I just had to assume that any child who entered the store had jam hands and a snot nose, which they would undoubtedly proceed to wipe all over the clothing as soon as they entered. Apparently, their mothers did not share this concern. These women would walk in, take a deep breath, and walk across the room to the wall of dresses, their eyes straight ahead, oblivious to little Billy, who was trying to climb into the antique cradle used to display baby blessing clothes. Then would come the dilemma of: "Do I help this woman find a dress, or stop her child from single handedly destroying everything else in the store?" Usually, I would walk over to the miscreant who was climbing on the antique furniture, climbing on the dresses, wiping their hands on the dresses, pulling tape out of the cash register, or blowing raspberries on the full length mirror, and try to calmly suggest ( in a voice loud enough that mommy could hear), that perhaps their behavior was not appropriate. Sometimes, the menace's mother would be jilted out of her shopping daze long enough to feign a look of horror, as if her child had never before behaved in such a manner. "Billy! What's gotten into you! We're not in a zoo!" I would then proceed to help her choose a dress as Billy continued to tear the store apart. At least these mothers cared enough to pretend to discipline their child. There were some mothers who made no pretense of discipline . They should have paid me ten bucks as they came in the door for watching their rugrat while they perused. There were days when several moms with tots would raid the shop. During the course of these days, I would occasionally retreat to the back room, take a deep breath, roll my eyes, and think, "Some people's kids!!!" Often this thought was followed by, "My kids will never behave that way!" I have since learned that these are bitter words to swallow. I should know, because I have had to eat them on several occasions.

Fast forward nine years......I am now the proud mommy of three little rugrats.....three sets of jam hands. I have since learned that children are quite capable of using soap and water, and that their hands are not always covered in sticky substances of an unknown origin. I have also on occasion been the oblivious mom of the cradle climber. When shopping with three children, there is no way to keep both eyes on all three of them at the same time......three kids, two eyes.....you do the math. Sure, so one of them is still immobile. This does not mean that he is incapable of hurling his binky across the store. I most often go shopping at night. This way, I can actually focus on what I am buying, instead of throwing items that resemble what I think I may need into the cart as quickly as humanly possible before any of my children become too hungry, thirsty, or turn into the Tasmanian Devil. How I wish I could take back every "my kids will never....." thought I ever had! My oldest, Morgan, is the kind of child that I can safely bring into a store full of white dresses with no worries. She is a perfectionist, not to mention, I'm pretty sure she expelled all of her energy to misbehave as an infant by crying twenty hours a day. My second, on the other hand, can occasionally make the cradle climbing Billy's look saintly. I can tell him five times in a row not to stand on the bench at a restaurant. I look away for two seconds to order my food, and he is doing a headstand on the bench, kicking the guy behind him in the head. O.K.......so maybe it's not that bad, but the many, "my kid will nevers....." I have eaten have been a direct result of things he has done. Sometimes it seems there is a complete disconnect between what I try to teach him at home, and the way he behaves in public. And I can always tell, by the look of understanding empathy, or the look of total disdain, which onlookers witnessing my son's misbehavior have had Hyrum's of their own and which are thinking, "my kids will never......" After eating my fair share of humble pie, I have become much more empathetic to the seemingly oblivious mother of the possessed child screaming in the supermarket. This is because I now understand that her threats, bribes, "mad mom" looks, hugs, and pleading have all failed and she still needs to buy ingredients for dinner. I don't even turn around to look when I hear a kid throwing a tantrum in church. I just pretend I can't hear the ear-shattering screeching overpowering the dulcet sounds coming from the pulpit. And when I receive looks of open disdain, I am able to let it roll off my back, understanding that the look giver has had all Morgan's, or that they have not yet been a guardian of jam-handed miscreants and are still in the "my kid will never" phase of life.

I can't recall many specific occurrences which elicited a "my kid will never" in my pre-child days. But I can very clearly recall one "I will never." I was engaged to Dirk at the time. I was shopping at the mall one day, when a busy mom walked past me, trailed by an out of breath toddler. As they hurried by, the little boy said, "Mommy, you're my best friend." My heart melted, and then sank as I realized this mother had not even heard her son's tender declaration. Oh, she had pretended to hear, with the typical, "Yes, Billy" head nod. But she didn't hear. In that moment, I resolved that I would never be so caught up in anything that I would miss my child telling me I was their best friend. Too many times, I have nodded my head distractedly, more focused on my task of the moment than on what my child has been trying to tell me. But, every now and then, I remember the red-cheeked boy in the mall. I turn away from whatever I am doing, look directly at my child, and really listen to what they are saying. I may not always be able to control my children's behavior, despite every attempt to do so. But, I can control my reaction. My son may drive me to drink some days. But when he runs to me across the scuff-marked floor with peanut butter covering his face and permanent marker up to his elbows, I will be waiting with open arms and an open heart for the "I love you mommy."

Peregrin Took

Several months ago I wrote a post called "What's In a Name". The gist of the post was that our name does not define who we become. I must now recount this sentiment in at least one instance: If you name your dog after the most mischievous of hobbits, he will undoubtedly live up to his name by becoming the devil in K-9 form. I suppose I better back track just a bit. In case you are one of the ten people in the world who has never seen nor read J.R.R. Tolkein's Lord of the Rings series, I will briefly explain what a hobbit is. Hobbits are about half the size of regular men. They have hairy feet, a love of parties, pipes and pints, and they live in little underground dwellings with round doors. They are also capable of extraordinary feats, such as saving Middle Earth. For more on this, WATCH THE MOVIES (one rare instance where the movies are actually better than the books, in my opinion). Now, back to the maddening mutt, who happens to be the subject of this post. Last fall I was baby hungry. But, a baby didn't seem to be in the cards at that point in time. Naturally, I turned to the next best (or so I thought) thing; a puppy. As it turned out, the family who lives just behind us had lab puppies at the time. I made the rookie mistake of holding one, and we were nearly the proud owners of a chocolate lab, until we remembered that we didn't want the interior of our home turned into a slobber-covered hairball and that we didn't have the yard space to keep such a large dog happy outside. We decided it would be a much better idea to find a small breed that didn't shed. Perfect combination (or once again, so we thought). Fate intervened at this point. Some of our best friends fell upon an opportunity to bring home two Zuchon puppies. The owner didn't mind them taking both, so long as the brothers were kept together. Our friends figured that having the brother pups live a block away and getting them together for regular play dates was enough togetherness. They asked if we were interested. Within a few weeks, we had a new addition to the family. Also within a few weeks, a pink plus sign showed up very clearly on a certain stick. Time to pull out the baby name books! First, however, there was the matter of naming a black and white fur ball. I have always liked the idea of literary names for pets. This way, you can use a name of a character from one of your favorite books that you would never dream of actually using as a name for a child. There's a good chance if you name your kid Pippi Longstocking, she'll probably get beat up at school. Well, Dirk and I started tossing around names of some of our favorite fictional characters.....Sirius Black (too serious), Mr. Bingley (too peppy- more of a lab or terrier name)...... Frodo.....Merry.......Pippin! Pippin... it was perfect. Aside from being the name of a character from one of our favorite series, it also sounded like a dog name. We would name our mutt Peregrin Took and call him "Pippin". This, I laughingly said, was so that when he was especially naughty, we could use his full name. How clever! If only I had known then just how many times I would end up bellowing out the name "Peregrin Took!" Occasionally I can also be heard to yell "Fool of a Took!!", although I don't think it is nearly as intimidating as when it is intoned by an all powerful wizard. In case you are one of the ten in the dark about this whole hobbit thing, I will inform you that Peregrin Took is the hobbit equivalent of Curious George, and he causes Gandalf the wizard a lot of grief.

Oh, how naive I was the day we brought our precious puppy home. "I've been through two babies (one with colic) , two terrible two-year olds (talk about a tongue twister), and two rounds of potty training. How hard could a puppy be?", I thought. This would be a cake walk. It didn't take long for me to realize that a puppy is very much like a human child, only you can't diaper a puppy. In my beginning, exhaustive state of pregnancy, I was kept awake much of the night by a constant whimper. In the midst of my morning sickness, I was cleaning up little doggy presents left for me by my precious pooch. In the midst of my nesting, I was finding new chew marks on furniture and various other household items every day. "It will get easier", everyone said. "The first year is the hardest." "Take him to puppy kindergarten." So we did. Off we went to Petsmart, where we were taught how to house break, walk, and discipline our doggy, and where we were also talked into buying him more expensive food than we feed ourselves. Puppy school did help. Soon, there were far fewer accidents in the house. Pippin would respond to commands to "sit", "stay" and "come". He was now "kennel trained" and was not whining all night long. We had painted over some of the more obvious bite marks on the window sill, and the rest we decided to think of as "rustic touches" to our quaint abode. During my "if I don't have a nap today I might kill someone" daily resting periods, Pippin would cuddle on my lap. All seemed to be going well. Then came baby. It was all very Lady and the Tramp. Pippin's favored spot on my lap was soon occupied by someone with much less hair. And, alas, poor Pippin had no Lady. My other two children handled the transition of bringing baby home surprisingly well. It was the dog who had issues. He began reverting back to some of his more Tookish ways. At times, he was outright defiant. Once I was downstairs rocking Ryan. Pippin came down, looked right at me, then turned, lifted his leg, and peed all over the space heater. That one definitely elicited a "Fool of a Took!", among other phrases. There have been many more such incidents, and I have cleaned up shredded diapers from the trash can more times than I care to remember. There have been so many days when I have imagined Pippin playing happily on a farm many, many miles from here. On one of my "the baby has been crying all day; the older two are driving me to drink with their fighting; and if Pippin chews up one more diaper, I am going to have myself committed" days, I mentioned the farm idea to Dirk. We obviously weren't capable of giving Pippin the attention and training he needed. Surely he would be happier somewhere else. Dirk promptly agreed. Then came the matter of bringing this plan up with Morgan and Hyrum. Over a nice family dinner, we calmly mentioned our idea. The look on Hyrum's four-year-old face stopped the plan dead in it's tracks. We were stuck.

We learn something from every trying experience we pass through. From the experience of trying to train a demonic hobbit dog, I have learned exactly two things: 1. I am not a dog person (a bad thing to realize after you actually bring a dog home.), and 2. I will do anything to protect my children from heartache. I am still trying to find the balance of being a good mother and a good dog owner. As Ryan and Pippin are both getting a little older, this is becoming a bit easier. But I would certainly never recommend having a puppy and a newborn at the same time. Then again, maybe it's good to get all of the hard things out of the way at once......like the week my son had a tonsillectomy and we remodeled our bathroom......maybe I am just a glutton for punishment. Whatever the case may be, I know one thing for sure.....Pippin is our first and last dog. And, if at some point in the future, my puppy hunger overrides my sanity and we bring home another dog, we are naming it Road Kill.

I Quit!

Warning: this may be a bit of a pity party (at least until I write myself out of it). Yes, today is one of those days that I just need to vent, to put my feelings out there in the hopes that perhaps someone else somewhere understands how I feel. Have you ever watched the show Wipeout? My kids think it is absolutely hysterical, and I have to admit that slapstick comedy never really gets old for me either. In case you are a cave dweller and have never seen an advertisement for the show, or the show itself, I will fill you in. All you really need to know is that a lot of people get clobbered, pummeled, bounced off of giant red balls, and ultimately end up in the water, beat up and defeated. There; you are now caught up. Today I can really relate to the contestants on Wipeout, though sadly I have arrived at the point of defeat and exhaustion without anywhere near the excitement......no giant red bouncy balls in sight. I have always been a people pleaser. I know that is one of those generic terms that everyone throws around and claims to be. But I truly am. I like to earn my gold stars. I had to stop looking on Facebook because it was making me upset when no one "liked" my status. I have always cared too much what others think of me. I know it is a problem, and I am working through it, mainly because if I don't work through it soon, I am liable to be six feet under the ground where I won't be much use to anyone but the worms. Being a people pleaser is exhausting. I also tend to be extremely tender-hearted. So, basically, I am a walking doormat. Feel free to use me anytime you need. I often feel like I am simply a means to an end to many of my friends. As soon as I become expendable or unnecessary to them, I don't expect to hear from them again. I send people sympathy cards when their dog dies who never even thought twice about condoling with me after my miscarriage (something that, to me was a devastating personal loss). There are maybe a handful of people in my life whom I feel love me as unconditionally as I love them. And perhaps that is normal. And I am so grateful for those people. I hope I express my gratitude often enough. Of course, three of the people I love the most in the entire world are my children. And I expect to be a doormat for them. That's a mother's job. I don't expect them to fully realize or appreciate what I sacrifice for them until they have children of their own some day. Truth be told, the main reason I am in the throws of a "why me?" tantrum (which by the way, is not even a legitimate one- no Ben and Jerry's-although I have snitched four chocolate chip cookies off the counter) is because of my children. It has been one of those days where you question if anything you have tried tirelessly to teach your children has sunk in, or even been heard. My mom took my son and I to his favorite restaurant for lunch. And my sweet boy was apparently taken over by an evil pod person. He was acting like Veruka Salt from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I actually told him at one point that I was going to send him down the bad egg shoot. I will spare you the details. Let's just say, that my son, whom I know to be a sweet and caring boy, was acting like a spoiled rotten brat. The entire way home I found myself wondering where I have gone wrong as a mother. Have I been too much of a doormat? Have a been too strict? Did I do wrong by my children by not instituting a "naughty mat" as Supernanny commanded all parents to do? I strive to teach my children to be generous, grateful and kind above all else. Today, I saw the exact opposite of that in my son's behavior, and I found myself feeling defeated as a parent.

I suppose all parents have days when they feel this way. In fact, anyone reading this who has teenagers is probably laughing and thinking to themselves, "You just wait". Parenting is the hardest job in the world, no ifs, ands or buts about it. You are literally responsible for molding lives. And, if you one day realize that you are not as good a life molder as you had hoped to be, there's no quitting, or changing majors. No one (save maybe Social Services or the state police) can even "fire" you if you are doing a crappy job as a parent. And, talk about taking your work home with you.....as a stay at home mom, you never leave it! It's a 24-7 job- no lunch breaks, sick days, paid leave....ok- no pay at all. Most nights you don't even get to sleep off the exhaustion (especially when you have a seven month old who is still waking up five times a night).

And, now, here comes the part where I will write myself out of this pity party......let's see if I can truly become the Houdini of words.......drum roll please.........I realize I can't quit being a mother, nor would I want to. It is the hardest thing (times 1,0000) that I've ever had to do, but it is also the best thing I can think of spending my days doing. Among the days when my children are possessed by demons, there are also days of belly laughs and peanut butter kisses, stacks of library books and mac n' cheese. There are "I love you mommy's" and crayon drawings of princesses and dinosaurs. There are days of popcorn, pj's and Disney movies. And there are even those rare shining moments (in which I may or may not give myself a little gold star on a chart in a secret notebook) when my children prove that something I have tried to teach them is sinking in. Being a mother is bittersweet. It breaks your heart and keeps it beating all at the same time. It makes you want to curl up in a hole and hide, but it also gives you a reason to live. Failure or not, I love being a mother. I also love that I am a compassionate person. I love being able to feel for those around me. Perhaps I get clobbered for it when the concern does not seem reciprocal, but I will not become jaded because of it. I will just love those people more. I may have experienced a total wipe out today, but that doesn't mean I won't be right back up on those giant red bouncy balls trying even harder tomorrow. If there were one quality about myself that I cherish, it would be that I am persistent. I don't give up. My favorite quote is by Mother Theresa: "I cannot do great things; only small things with great love." I hope that I will always open my heart to those around me, and try in small ways to make my little corner of the world a better place.

Resolutions Shmesolutions

Two things about the title of this post: First: Try saying it ten times fast.......oh how I wish I were there to witness this. I, being infamously bad at tongue twisters, could only say it twice. Second: I don't really, completely mean it. I am not altogether banishing New Years resolutions from my 2012. I am just banishing my usual method of making far too many to keep. Ben Franklin once wrote down 14 virtues that he had come to decide were the basis of happiness if a person were to attain them. He then kept a daily ledger of all 14 virtues and made an accounting at the end of each day of how he had kept each virtue. Now Ben did say that he felt he had become a better man for doing this than he would have become otherwise. And I don't doubt it. He was a remarkable man who did extraordinary things with his life. However, no offense to Ben, but he had time to sit and daily ponder the 14 virtues of happiness. I happen to have three children under the age of 10, and sometimes by the end of the day all I have energy or time to ponder is what my drug of choice will be to kill the headache that has been coming on all day. Occasionally I have time and energy to think up some inane blog post that innocent readers will later stumble across in the hopes of reading something good. Tonight is one such night. I am sorry that you, dear reader, are now suffering for it. You have read this far though, so why stop now?

I am a list maker. If I need something from the store, it goes on a list. If I think of a project around the house, it goes on a list (oftentimes a "honey do" list- I won't lie). If I think of a good idea for a birthday present for someone who's birthday is months away, it goes on a list. And I realize that I am now beginning to make a list of my lists, so I will stop. As with everything else in my life, my New Years resolutions have always been in the form of a list......oftentimes a categorized, itemized list, which usually ends up being quite a bit longer than Benny's list of 14 virtues. In past years, I have made specific goals for different areas of my life.....I would write down physical goals, intellectual goals, spiritual goals, emotional goals. Sometimes these categories would be broken into categories, each of which included at least 5 goals. Now, any of you who have made and broken resolutions can probably guess about how long mine actually lasted. It was not long. I have learned from shows like "Hoarders" (who ever thought those shows could be educational) that I am a perfectionist. The deal with most hoarders is that they are actually perfectionists. They can't find the perfect spot or the perfect use for anything. So it all just piles up in one useless, nauseating heap. I think I have just enough OCD mixed in with my perfectionistic tendencies to squash the whole hoarding thing, but I am definitely a perfectionist in other areas of my life. If you were to see me on a typical day at home, I would most likely look like I hadn't showered for 2 days and forgot how to brush my hair or put makeup on. This is not because I don't care how I look, it is because I care too much. Because I don't have time to make myself look like Halle Berry, or money to pay for her five person beauty entourage, I often don't even bother trying to look good at all! I think I am making slow but steady progress with my perfectionism. I now, most days, realize that short of having a new face constructed, I am never going to look like Halle Berry, and I at least shower, take five minutes to throw on some makeup, and often even blow dry my hair. I have also made progress in my need for perfection with regards to New Years resolutions. This year, instead of making 40 resolutions and becoming a dead beat one month later when I remember that I am not a hybrid of Martha Stewart and Mother Teresa, I am making exactly one resolution (it actually physically hurts just a little bit). My resolution for 2012 is this: I resolve to spend more of my time engaging in activities which will enrich my own life and the lives of those I care about the most. That's it. Now, it goes without saying (but you know I'm gonna' say it anyway) that this resolution means spending less time engaging in activities that suck time away from the things I truly care about. Some things are going to have to get the ax, and undesirable number 1 is Facebook. Now, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against it. I have just recently come to the realization that I spend valuable time that I could be spending improving myself or making my children feel more loved, mindlessly scrolling through status updates of people who probably don't even know my middle name. It is 10:30, and this is the first time I have been online all day. And what a glorious day it was. I played games with my son. I took my kids to the park. I had a bubble bath. It was a near perfect day. So I guess my resolution for 2012 could also be stated another way: I resolve to create more perfect days this year. I truly believe that perfect days are created, largely by our attitude and by what we choose to spend our precious energy on. I have always hated the cliche "Live like you were dying", although I do find Kris Allen's song about the cliche very catchy. I think it is a morbid and pessimistic message. Of course we are all dying. Every breath we take brings us one breath closer to the pearly gates, whether we are to arrive at them unexpectedly in prime condition, or with white hair and wrinkles after a long journey. We're all headed to the same place (though it may be a little hotter for some when they arrive). Why dwell on this? Why not live like we're alive, with gratitude for the sheer miracle that fact is? Why not live with the attitude that each breath we take is an opportunity to become more alive, more aware of the "miraculous in the common" that surrounds us every day? The Mayan calendar may end on December 21, 2012. Perhaps this will be the end of the world as we know it. But for once in my life, my resolution is not being made in reference to what anyone else says or thinks. And you know what? I've never felt more alive!

Tradition

Admit it; when you hear the word, you automatically see a bunch of men in yarmulkes dancing and singing. It could just be me. But seriously (sort of), I have been contemplating lately just what it is that makes this season of the year so special. If your views of the Christmas season in any way coincide with the views of Ebeneezer Scrooge (pre-three ghostly visitations), or the Grinch (pre-triple heart enlargement), you may want to stop reading now. I get positively giddy around this time of year. Actually, as my husband will tell you with a roll of his eyes, I become giddy about three months before, when I turn on the Christmas tunes and begin my shopping. It truly is the most wonderful time of the year. But why? As a practicing Christian, I consider it a wonderful time of year first and foremost because it is the time of year we celebrate the birth of the Savior of the world, and consequently, the birth of Hope. But I have many friends who are not Christian, who anticipate this time of year just as much as I do. I think this is because of tradition. No matter what our personal or religious beliefs, this time of year, for most, is a time of cherished traditions with family and friends. Most of us put up a tree, hang stockings, maybe watch Ralphy shooting his eye out, or Charlie Brown decorating the world's scrawniest Christmas tree. Some of us light a menorah. Many of these traditions are so time-honored, that we may not even know exactly how they first began. There is a comedian who talks about Christmas traditions being invented by a drunk man. Who else would think to cut down a pine tree, bring it in the house and decorate it, or hang socks over the fireplace and fill them with candy? Strange traditions indeed when you really think about them. And yet, these are two traditions that most of us look forward to all year. It also seems that at this time of year, despite the mass chaos that inevitably ensues at shopping malls and department stores nationwide, there is also more kindness, more acceptance, more awareness of those around us. "Peace on earth, good will toward men" seems to resonate within us, and suddenly we aren't quite so irritated by the driver who cuts us off on the highway; we are more patient with the woman in front of us in the check out aisle who has 50 coupons at 9:00 at night. We are more aware of the widow down the road or the 10 year old girl who doesn't have a pair of shoes to wear to church. This is probably my favorite aspect of the Christmas season. It seems to be the time of year when kindness and compassion reign supreme. Like Ebeneezer Scrooge learned to do , I wish we could all learn to truly keep Christmas all year round. I doubt any of us want a pine tree sitting in our living room in the middle of June; but if we could keep the spirit of Christmas; the spirit of thinking of others before our selves; the spirit of giving those around us the benefit of the doubt; how much better this world could be!

Yes, there are many traditions we all share this time of year, which is perhaps what brings us together. We forget our differences and for a short time focus on what we all have in common. But I think it is the personal traditions which we practice individually or with close friends and family that make this holiday season most meaningful to each of us. As with more widely held traditions, some of our family traditions may have fuzzy origins. There are some things that we do, just because they are the things we always do. One of my favorite Christmas Eve traditions is eating dinner with my family. Sounds like a pretty vague tradition, I know, but I will expound. One year ( I don't remember exactly which year), when my family lived in Virginia, something went wrong with Christmas Eve dinner. I don't remember what (these are the fuzzy origins I was referring to). Maybe it burned. Maybe my mom was just too tired to cook. Whatever the reason was, there was no way we were going to eat dinner at home that night. So, we hopped in the old Toyota minivan and drove around the Richmond area looking for anything that was open on Christmas Eve. By the time we finally saw the open light in the Wendy's window, it may as well have been the star that guided the wise men, we were so relieved. We perused the menu. It somehow just didn't seem right to eat a cheeseburger and fries on Christmas Eve. We finally decided on chili and Ceaser side salads. We enjoyed our meal in peace and quiet (as we were the only ones in the restaurant), and returned home to enjoy the rest of our typical Christmas Eve traditions. That is how one of my most cherished traditions began. For years, we returned to Wendy's on Christmas Eve for our chili and Ceaser salad. The first year we celebrated Christmas Eve after moving back to Idaho, we were distressed to discover that Wendy's was closed! We made do that night, and the next year, my mom was prepared, with a recipe for Kentucky Bourbon chili that knocked our socks off (literally- it was a little spicy) and an updated Ceaser salad which included hard-boiled eggs, real bacon bits, and freshly grated Parmesan. Now every year, I still eagerly anticipate our chili and Ceaser salad. Though the quality of the food is admittedly better, and the atmosphere more welcoming than the fluorescent glow of a fast food restaurant at night, I know I would still look forward to it just as much if Wendy's was still our destination of choice. The people I love the most would still be there. And after all, isn't that what makes holidays so special? There is one tradition I am afraid I may never take part in- that is the Christmas Letter. If you enjoy this tradition, more power to you, but it's not for me. So, consider this my Christmas letter- I hope all of you who are reading this find yourselves surrounded by the people you love most this Christmas season as you deck your halls, trim your trees, or eat at your favorite local fast food joint. Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Wrinkles

You know how sometimes you don't look in the mirror too closely; just a quick cursory glance to make sure that everything is still (for the most part) in the right place? Well, a few days ago, with the aid of the new lighting in my bathroom, I really looked at my face, up close. And there they were......two undeniable crevices running from the bottom of my nose to the top of my mouth. I tried holding my face perfectly still and expressionless for a few minutes. I looked again. They were still there. My first real wrinkles. The topic of aging has been on my mind a lot lately. A few days ago, I sat dumbfounded for about 15 minutes after coming to the realization that if Morgan marries and has a baby at the same age I was when I did, I could be a grandmother in 12 years. Forgive me if I have now lost my train of thought......that required another good ten minutes to absorb. Last week, Dirk and I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. It is based on such an intriguing concept. Imagine if you could live your life physically backwards, and could have the strength, stamina and beauty of youth combined with the wisdom that comes with age and experience.

Sometimes I feel that I am living my life backwards in a way. For one thing, I have always thought that perhaps I am an old woman in a young body. My favorite color is purple, I have completely lost my long term (some days short term too) memory, and I drive like a grandma. Oh- I also love old movies and shows like The Golden Girls. I still like to hand write cards and letters, and I am not too adept when it comes to anything technological. The other day I was talking to my best friend, and the phrase "new-fangled devices" actually came out of my mouth. I think I may very well be an 80 year old trapped in a twenty-something body. I also sometimes feel that I am living my life backwards because I have made some major life changes in an order that is less than typical. I was a "child bride" and technically a teen pregnancy in a world where it is now commonly accepted to marry in your thirties and have children in your thirties or forties. I used to bristle at terms like "child bride" and I used to be hurt by the looks of open reproach I received from many when they saw me at the store with my (then) two children. Apparently, I skipped over the period of life in which I was supposed to "find myself". I don't think I ever really lost myself. Of course, it probably doesn't help that I apparently look like I'm nineteen (or so I've been told). My husband has been told that he looks about 35.....this was when he was 27! So people look at us like we are polygamists, or like we are the gold digger and the cradle robber, when really we are only 3 years apart in age. What is age really, but a number? There are some people in this world who will never have the emotional maturity necessary to nurture a loving and successful relationship. And there are definitely people who should never have children. Then there are people like my parents, who married young, and have grown together and have a stronger relationship because of it. I have wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember. It's all I've ever wanted to do really. And I have "found myself" through raising them as I have come to discover unrealized strengths (and weaknesses). I have also realized even more what is important to me. The things that I most want my children to learn and which I strive to teach them are obviously the things that are important to me. I may have missed the stage where I was evidently supposed to learn how much alcohol I could consume before passing out. And I suppose I will have a few less wild stories for the grandkids, but I will be young enough to actually play with my grandkids and to really enjoy them!

As for my wrinkles, I am growing sort of fond of them. For one thing, maybe they will help me to look a little closer to my age. For another, they are laugh lines. What does that say about me, other than "She must smile a lot"? Is that really such a bad thing? The number indicating my age may be alarmingly small to some. But just think.....in my relatively short time on this earth, I have laughed and smiled enough to leave a permanent manifestation of joy on my face! In a world where 20-year olds are getting Botox, I couldn't be prouder of my wrinkles. C.S. Lewis perhaps said it best; "Why shouldn't we have wrinkles? Honorable insignia of our service in this warfare." He also said, "When I became a man, I put away childish things, including the fear of being childish." I like to imagine myself as an old woman, surrounded by my grandchildren, possibly great-grandchildren, reading to them the favorite books of my childhood, and enjoying the stories just as much as I ever did as a little girl. What is age, but a number?