Ruined

I say things, and then suddenly become paranoid that I've ruined my children forever. And then I google it because google is the oracle, and inevitably some amazing guru of child-rearing has at some point said that you should never ever never EVER say/allow/do whatever I just said/allowed/did. 

Alas, how my children suffer. 

If I give them a treat, they’re inevitably instructed to "Eat it all up." I'm just trying to prevent a mess (Huh?! How DARE you try to be convenient at the expense of your children?!), but then I’m struck by The Guilt. Here I am, teaching them that they must consume every last sweetly-sticky bite of their treats. They’ll become gluttons, I tell you! What will their first Halloween out of the house be like?

 No, those are lollypop sticks, not cigarettes. StrawBee  totally knows better!

I must prevent such a crisis. So I try to counteract the candy thing by telling the girls to eat healthy so they can keep growing and get tall. However, Ladybug has latched onto this "tall" thing, and now I'm certain she's going to spend the rest of her life worrying about being tall enough. And since short genes are all she’s got, this is either going to end in extensive surgery or stilettos. 

All the rage this summer.

I can’t have a child of mine growing up to be taller than me--*cough, hack*--excuse me, I meant; risking her health like that. So I told my beautiful girls that they are just that: Beautiful. Perfect in the way God made them. However they are, so long as their hearts are beautiful, they are beautiful. 

Did you know that children have selective hearing? 

“Beautiful” is all they got out of that one. 

Which led to this: 

Notice me NOT panicking here.

Way to keep it a non-issue, mom.

I thought I had at least 10 years before I heard this.

Lecture #321

She totally gets this, you know?

Because please beats paper, rock, AND scissors!

Eventually I thought to tell her that only grown up girls communicate with makeup. She, of course, retorted that she was grown up. I told her that when she was grown up to 14, THEN she could have makeup. 

She was delighted. And now she reminds me every day that when she’s 14 she gets makeup. 

Parenting: You just can’t win for losing. 

Out of Context: II

Way back at the end of April, I created this post out of a conversation I had with my brother (if you haven’t read it yet, do. Otherwise what follows will make absolutely no sense, instead of okay-I-get-it-but-you-must’ve-been-dropped-on-your-head-as-a-baby sense). I know you’re all hanging onto the edge of your seats (and hold tight, as it’s a long drop) to know how the conversation ended. And because I love nothing more than pandering to others to get attention, here you go: 

Jay: Anyway, no.

What amazing trade show is happening in Las Vegas that you've probably never heard of?

Carolynn: Uh… "The AMAZING Trade Show That Carolynn Has Never Heard Of!"

Jay: I'm sure the internet would tell you if you asked.

But I'll give you a hint first.

N.A.B.

Carolynn: Hmm…. National… Arborist… Bacchanalia...

Ah, that was a good year.

Jay: I do like arborists, but they don't get me this excited.

Carolynn: National… American… Brainwashing...

On a positive note, drool makes a great skin softener.

Jay: Nope…another great organization, but not it.

Carolynn: National… Apple… Bath time...

Jay: Nope

Apples don't take baths silly...

Carolynn: They do if they're getting ready for bob-for-apples.

"Mr. Smith? The iLights are still on on your iCar. Can I use your iKey to turn them off?"

Jay: That's apples, not Apples.

This association is related to my job.

I keep thinking of joining.

Carolynn: National… Association… of BOOYA!!

You only wish you were this cool.

Recognition

Dad Up: Verb. The act of stepping up to relieve the woman who has mommed-up to the point of impending spontaneous combustion; the saving of a super hero; sheer awesomeness.  

Because being a man is only halfway there.

Family

I love it when my family visits. It makes me feel all squishy and warm inside. Mushy, gooshy, ooshy happy. So happy that my brains have oozed out of my head and left me without a real blog post this week. For this I apologize, dear readers. But I do hope that you'll understand. And maybe go give your family an extra squeeze tonight to keep them close.

Donate

 You know how, when you were a kid, you'd hear things that wouldn't make much sense? Like when I ruined dinner and Ladybug asked me what happened; she became very concerned when I replied, "I killed it." 

Whoa. Time to hide the meat cleaver.

Then there are colloquialisms such as "you've lost your voice." Kid Sister, when she was about Ladybug's age, was terrified of this one. She caught a head cold and when a lot of the congestion settled in her throat, my mother explained that she was losing her voice. Kid Sister decided this meant her voice had wandered off and was never coming back.

Oh, look. Carolynn does have some art skillz. Hello, grade school horizon line.

She laid in her bed at night, calling again and again, "Hellooooo? Helllllooooo?!?" in her sad, hoarse little voice. 

Pitiful.

I had a difficult time with one of these sayings in particular. I always pictured it like this: 

Mmmm! Nothing beats a fresh green salad.   

Put your money where your mouth is?! That sounds so unsanitary! 


I understood that the basic idea was that one was supposed to show that they weren't just blowing hot air when they claimed to believe in something, but I didn't really get it. 

And then I grew up (about, oh, two months ago) and the light finally went on. This had nothing to do with eating your greens, and everything to do with making some kind of real commitment of resources to the causes you claim to believe in. Basically, a call to avoid hypocrisy. 

I've always tried to teach my girls that how you love is more important than how you look. However, I did very little putting of money in my mouth to prove that. Actually, most of my spare change went straight into my clothes closet. 

Let's be clear: There is everything right with wanting to present yourself with your best face. And from there on in my beliefs in fashion, presentation, self-worth, and beauty become very complex; ergo, we'll leave it at that for now, or this post is going to get seriously sidetracked. The point is, I wanted to teach my children that behavior and belief are more important than, say, your haircut, but I wasn't doing anything to show them that. 

But now I've made a commitment to put my money where my mouth is. 

For the next few years, I'll be growing my hair from its usual pixie cut to at least 12 inches in length so I can donate it to Locks of Love. I've always treasured my short haircuts; they make me feel like I can own any situation. They're like portable awesome, renewable by a simple trip to the stylist. 

Today only, buy Awesome and get Supa Kool for half off!

I'm gonna have to learn to be awesome without it. 

I'm gonna have to learn to take care of long hair, so I still present myself the way I want to. 

I'm gonna have to actually spend money on shampoo. 

But gosh darn it, I'm gonna get it done. My time, my effort, my attitude toward myself -- all those resources, I'm putting on the line for something I believe in. For someone else, maybe this isn't a big deal. For me, I'm kicking out the hypocrite in my life. 

I'm putting my money where my mouth is.

If any of you would like to join me in a commitment to grow your hair for someone else in need (or any other goal for others), please post it below. If we get enough responses, I'd love to check in with everyone once a month. I'll create a post with pictures of my hair, and anyone who wants to share their progress can email me pictures to put up alongside mine. 

Go eat your greens.

I've been saving this post for awhile, because the time just never seemed right. Now, however, it does. Take time out today to put your money where your mouth is, wherever that mouth happens to be. And if your mouth (or your heart) happens to be in the general vicinity of Joplin, Missouri, feel free to click here for an article on ways you can help.

Finished

Yes, world. I am officially finished. 

Having babies, that is. 

Why, do you ask? Is it too many late nights and early mornings? Too many days gone un-showered? Too many nights washing peed bed linens? Too many dollars at the grocery store?

No, nope, nah, and nay. It's this: 

It's a hair. 

A dark, curly hair. 

A dark, curly chest hair. 

That I found on my chest. 

That's right. Apparently giving birth turns me into a man. 

I was prepared for a lot of bodily changes from bearing children, and on the whole I accept them gladly. 

Stretch marks?  Got 'em.

Saggy belly? Check.

Saggy breasts? Double check.

Circles under the eyes? You mean that isn't mascara? ...Oh, I guess I would've had to have put some on first. Right.

Hormonal imbalances? I'm sorry, I can't answer that question until I've had some chocolate -- dark, with strawberries  on the side.

Chest hair? Oh, su-- Wha huh wug???

I've noticed that with each birth, I've collected a few dark hairs in places that are generally considered the province of men. Hairs that were easily pluckable and, really, not all that strange (as you find once you get to know a girl well enough that she'll share these things. Why is it that we'll share all kind of weird details about pregnancy, labor, and delivery and not 'fess up to a few stray hairs?). These I have accepted. 

But chest hair? 

Uh, no. 

If DB decides he wants another baby, he'd better bring up the topic by presenting me with a carte blanche gift certificate for laser hair removal. 

Because at this rate, I'll be ushering in Planet of the Apes: Mom Edition before you know it.

That's right, work your sexy bad self.

Shortage

My kid brother is out serving a two year mission for our church, and is having some difficulty adjusting to the fact that not everyone out there has a joyful heart. This is probably because he has a particularly soft, kind heart himself. However, I think one encounter is always one too many, and he's had several (dozen).

I worry about my girls meeting these people with less-than-joyful hearts. I admit (shamefacedly) that I harbor bitter memories of some encounters like the ones my brother is describing. Times when people just seem to ...  explode from the absolute lack of happiness within themselves. 

In seems that some people don't just have a case of a not-so-joyful heart; they actually have downright grumpy hearts. And since they have grumpy hearts, they feel this strange need to try and make sure everyone else has grumpy hearts too. It's kind of like when people listen to nasty music and feel the need to roll down the windows and pump up the volume. It's like they're all, "Oh, YEAH?!? You think I'm a MEAN person?! Well, I can make YOU feel bitter and cranky TOO!! So take THAT!!!" 

Cranky people use a lot of punctuation. Don't they know there's a shortage?

And, you know, if they (or any of you, dear readers) feel the need to dump some of those extra exclamation marks somewhere, I'm always on the lookout for more punctuation. I take 'em and clean all the cranky off of 'em and sell 'em on eBay.

It's okay to be carting around some extra punctuation sometimes, you know? No one's going to be calm and period-like all the time. I kind of expect that anyone might need a break from sheer awesomeness on occasion. But to be that way to perfect strangers? Or to children? Or someone who's going out of their way to solve your problems? Yup, I've seen grumpy-hearted people dump buckets of precious "!!!" on people's heads in each of those situations, along with many other endangered marks (@#$%**, for example).

And there's more at stake here than endangered punctuation, dear to my heart though that topic is. Endangered hearts worry me more. Grumpy hearts are more contagious than Ebola. I understand that when you're miserable, you don't want to be alone. However, infecting everyone else's hearts really only isolates you more as everyone around you turns into a pack of snarling, snapping wolves, determined to bite as many people as possible.

Try taking your cranky "!!!" to someone you trust.  A friend? A relative? God? A blank page?

Don't carry them around everywhere. They rot.

They stink.

They ruin you from the inside out.

Don't expect someone to walk up and yank your cankering wounds away from you. Share the burden and while it might not disappear, you'll find it easier to carry.

Don't let it destroy you.

I almost did, once. Long ago. I don't talk about it now -- I only mention it to give credibility to my urging.

Cranky hearts suck. Don't beat others over the head with them; just let them go.

And those of you who are naturally joyful hearted, like my brother, don't give up on the rest of us. You're a gift from God to someone struggling. You keep up a supply of happy, clean "!!!" for the rest of us.

We need you. We love you, and we love to hate you for being happier than us. But we learn to be better by watching you.

Happy "!!!" to you all.

I Chew My Nails

Yes, I do. It's a terrible, disgusting habit. I've done it for years.

It used to be that I chewed my nails to calm my nerves. It never worked. Just left me with raggedy, scary looking nails that I then felt like I had to hide. More anxiety. More chewed nails.

Seriously, I looked like a nervous little squirrel. Dashing back and forth, chewing on stuff. Ew.

Lets just say I never wasted money on manicures.

But about a month ago, I had this strange sensation while I was typing. Like someone was tapping back from the keyboard. I looked down and realized that -- shock -- I had fingernails!  After years of fighting it, tricking myself, lecturing myself, and occasionally trying to gain some control over my nerves, for some reason I had just... stopped.

I'd like to say permanently.

I'd like to say that I do my nails nicely now, like I've always wanted to.

I'd like to say that my nails are long, elegant, and generally stylish like the rest of my ensemble.

(Actually, I'd like to say my ensemble is stylish in the first place. No, wait! Paint spatters and distressed jeans are totally in this year, right? Spit up isn't that far off, and my jeans are definitely in distress. I'm good.)

But I can't.

Because I started chewing them again.

I know. Yuck.

But yuck is better than leaving angry red gashes on my baby's head. And let's face it, nail clippers are an endangered species in this house.

The kids will be big eventually, and then I can grow my nails to my heart's content, without fear of scarring my child for life.

Although I guess if I get Butterfly again, she can always tell her friends in preschool that she's secretly a ninja-pirate who rides velociraptors to save the world from evil unicorns of doom. Scars are good for that kind of thing.

...Nah. I'll just keep chewing.

Giving Experience

One of the major perks of being a Momma (and a parent in general) is being able to make things up as you go along. Sometimes this ends in sheer awesomeness, like your kitchen table being covered with a layer of whipped cream almost as thick as the layer that covers your very happy, very hyper children.

Other times, the awesomeness is more along the lines of establishing your own family traditions. I’m a huge sucker for that kind of thing (ask my parents, who had to deal with me pestering them over every major/minor holiday not being exactly the same as the year before) and our little fam already has a list as long as my arm of traditions. My newest favorite is “Jammie Parties” -- all five of us in our pajamas, making a treat, then watching a movie together all cuddled up in a huge pile of blankets. Often a blanket fort, come to that. 

Then there are the times when you get to change things up because you’ve thought about it long and hard, and you really just think it will be best for your family. In some ways, it scares the heck out of me when I depart from how I grew up. It seems like such a grown-up thing to do, but when I look in the mirror I still see a kid, making things up as she goes along. 

Side note: I still remember the day when I realized that adults don’t know much more than kids, they’re just better at bluffing their way through stuff. It was a terrifying moment, and cleared up a lot of the mystery about why politicians behave the way they do. They’re apparently just as clueless as the rest of us. 

Point being, making up a funny story to get my kids in bed seems a lot less important than trying something new with parenting, but that’s where we are right now. Here’s the scoop: I’ve spent a lot of time (and I mean a LOT of time) cleaning up, and helping my kids clean up, mounds and mounds of toys. I frankly don’t know where they all came from. I don’t remember buying the majority of them. In fact, I think they’re like unmatched socks: They multiply if left unattended. 

I’m tired of it. And not just in the “If I trip over one more small plastic thing I’m going to scream!” kind of way.  Toys are well and good. I’m particularly fond of the ones that encourage group play (their play kitchen is a good example) or help develop imagination (Ladybug loves dress-up, and both girls are starting to play-act with dolls). Blocks are good for spatial ability, crayons are good for hand-eye coordination and artistic growth. But let’s face it, most toys are sheerly there to entertain the kids and keep them out of my hair. 

I know, I know. I sound like a scary tiger mother, talking like every moment of my children’s lives has to be productive. That’s not my point -- kids should be kids, but every moment of their lives is productive, whether I like it or not. It’s productive in the way that children are absorbing information about their world, life, and themselves in every second of every day. They mimic what they see, they are formed by what they do. When StrawBee sits down with paper and markers, I don’t say to her, “Oh, I’m so glad to see you practicing your artistic abilities!”, I say “Thank you for playing nicely.” But the fact is inescapable: She’s learning about drawing.

This realization has made me take a long, hard look at the way my children spend their time. We already expose them only to educational TV, encourage them to play outside, feed them healthy foods, and do all those other things parents think they ought to do -- up to and including making sure they have “good” birthdays and holidays by buying them new toys. 

We save up all year for Christmas, and in previous years have used the money to buy numerous small, inexpensive toys in an attempt to make our children happy. They love opening presents, they love new stuff (at least for the first day or so), so what could go wrong? 

Well… a lot. They start having so much stuff that they don’t value what they have. They learn that if they break something, it’s okay; just wait for the next holiday and you’ll have more! They learn to just accumulate whatever stuff catches their attention, rather than thinking carefully and choosing to invest their precious spending money on things that will last or will have some kind of positive impact on their lives. 

As I’ve said, though, they don’t need new toys. The toys are perfectly capable of increasing in number all on their own. 

So then, what do you do? 

Stop giving toys. 

But then what do you give them?

Experiences. 

DB and I have made a goal to stop looking at gift giving from the perspective of “What toys can we buy to reach the quota?” and to start looking at it instead as “What experience can we give them that will reach them in a positive way?” 

Next month for StrawBee’s birthday, we’re not buying her any toys in the traditional sense. Instead, we’re going to use that money to take her to do something new (ice skating, for example) that we think she will enjoy. There will be a couple of packages for her to open (because, let’s face it, opening things is just sheer pleasure in itself and no one, least of all a two year old, should be deprived of that!), but they’ll be carefully selected to be things we know she’ll use more than once. 

When Christmas rolls around, the kids can expect probably one toy each from us. They can expect the opportunity to give many of their “things” to children who have so much less than them. After that, they can expect that the rest of the Christmas money will go to “experience.”  A new fish tank, for example, that they can learn to take care of. Maybe a train ride. Possibly a new puppy to train and love. Perhaps some swimming lessons, even if it’s just one or two.  Even a trip to a museum or fair. A chance to try something new, different, and hands-on that will stay with them because they’ve learned a new skill. 

Our children aren’t remotely sure who they are and what they like yet. Not because they’re children, really, but because they haven’t had a chance to try that many things yet. What better gift, then, than to gift them the opportunity to try many things so they can decide where their interests lie? What better opportunity than education and experience? What better lesson than that the most exciting, most “fun” you can have in life is to explore something new? 

I know our children will ask for toys still, but I have confidence that soon they’ll be asking to try things, or re-do previous experiences, instead. 

Maybe I’m wrong. I’m just making this up. I’ve made mistakes before. 

All I know for sure is that while I could never recite to you all the toys I’ve received through the years, I remember the things we did. I remember the feeling of rising up in a hot air balloon until the hills dropped far, far away. I cherish the feeling of being special when my dad took me to riding lessons. I often relive my mother’s encouragement as she took the time to read my writing -- she was my first fan. I hold on to the activities we did as a family, that brought us together, taught us to be confident in the love we had for each other. 

I’m making it up but … dare I say it? … this time, at least, I think I’m right.  

Privacy

It's just not what it used to be. 

Mary

**Sorry, no funny post this week. I hope you'll enjoy these thoughts, and check back next week to find out what kind of mayhem is going to ensue around here once DB goes out of town the day after Christmas.**

Over the last two weekends, I have twice been privileged to sing in Christmas-related programs. And in both instances, at least one song focusing solely on Mary, the mother of Christ, was sung.

The first weekend, it was Breath of Heaven; the second, Gabriel's Message. 

I don't really know how to put into words the totality of the experience, but I wanted to try. It's only as I've become a mother myself that I have considered her story with any degree of personal interest. This year in particular, though, as our family faces a lot of uncertainty and I find myself "great with child" right around the Christmas season, I've spent a lot of time contemplating Mary and her faith.

Gabriel's Message centers on the story of the Annunciation, or when Gabriel came to tell Mary of her impending pregnancy. In the version our choir performed (which is not, I should note, the same as the one I linked to here; I'm unfortunately unable to find the one we did sing for you), there was a particular focus on the phrase he uses to describe Mary: "Most highly favored Lady." The words are used to reassure her, to soothe her, so that she knows that these things--this unexpected pregnancy, which she will have to explain to all--are as God wills, and that they are a blessing. At that moment, Mary replies, "Be it unto me as it pleaseth God." 

That reply is surely the most faithful, trusting, innocent, amazing reply that could ever have been made. I have to wonder if it had even crossed her mind yet all the trouble this was going to cause her and her fiance, Joseph. Did it even matter? 

Her faith is blindingly, starkly pure here. It's the kind of faith that makes me quietly shake my head and think that I am eons from that kind of trust, particularly when it comes to turning my life upside down. But Mary had that faith, and she showed it. 

Breath of Heaven is different. It's not based on any scriptural account, although I feel very strongly that it rightly captures at least some moments of Mary's life. This song comes after that first tide of overwhelming  amazement at what has happened to her. The angel has come and gone, she is heavy with child, she is (quite literally, in fact) walking down the rough road. She is, I imagine, getting leg cramps and possibly heartburn, not sleeping well at night, and having to ask Joseph to stop the donkey every hour or so for a bathroom break. She has had to face up to her family, her neighbors, and her friends who have eyed her ever-increasing belly and wondered at her story. She is tired. She is frightened. 

But she still has faith. 

She goes to God in this song, explaining to Him everything in her heart. She doesn't hide her fears, her insecurities, or her wonders. She doesn't hide from Him that she desperately needs help. She even shares with Him her worries about being inadequate. But she isn't coming to Him to ask Him to take it all away, or to change it. She does not, herself, question if this should be happening to her. 

Instead, she is simply approaching a Father whom she trusts to love her no matter what she is or what she fears and asking for His help. She is pleading for the assurance she knows that only He can give. 

Seeing both sides of Mary's faith has really affected me this year. We all have the moments of spiritual high where we feel we can do anything. Having an angel appear in my room would probably convince me that I could walk all the way to China and then move mountains without breaking a sweat. I have been in that place where Mary was; the moment of surety. 

Now our family has walked down the road some more. Things don't look the same from this far into the trip. It isn't what we expected. I have asked God several times to change it, to make it easier, to send me a horse-drawn cart (or a Ferrari) to get me the rest of the way to our destination. After the last two weeks, however, I want to be, once again, where Mary was. I want to be able to approach God in the way she is painted as doing in that song. 

This is true faith: To know that whatever it looks like to us, God has seen the end from the beginning, and He knew what it would look like in the middle. We didn't. 

Mary placed her trust in her Heavenly Father, knowing He would lead her to the end that she had already committed to, even if she couldn't see it. 

Mary was astounding. 

Her faith is why we have long since chosen to name one of our daughters after her. What greater gift could we want for our child than to know above all else that God loves her and will always do what is best for her? 

Because isn't that what faith comes down to? 

Mary is beautiful; and while this Christmas season is a celebration of her perfect Son, I know that come Christmas morning, watching my children rip into their presents, its her I will be thinking of. 

Her, and the assurance that even a young mother like me doesn't have to be perfect and without fear always--just trusting, and willing. God will take care of the rest.

How a Baby Moves

My children are delightful and (of course!) unique and special.  I can only assume it will be the same with number three whenever she chooses to make her appearance (please not any time before February, Butterfly, thank you very much).  And from what do I make my assumptions? 

Baby dancing.

No, not that kind!  Tsk.

I refer to the way in which babies move while in the womb (although the way they dance after is pretty darn funny too).  Before having my second child, I assumed there was a fairly uniform two-step each baby performed.  Not so, and may I present exhibits A, B, and C for your perusal: 

THE STRETCHER: Ladybug

While in the womb, Ladybug liked nothing better than stretching out as far as she could go.  But as she got longer and longer, this whole pushing boundaries thing became a problem. And a wrestling match. DB often laughed at me all through church as I say next to him, pressing valiantly on my belly and not gaining even a centimeter of give. 

Ladybug has displayed these same tendencies in her everyday personality quirks.  She likes to see exactly how far she can go, find that line, then stand there and not give any in one bit. It is officially her job to remind us of exactly how things are done--how we eat breakfast, how we pray, and she doesn't forget promises we make to her.  She finds where she can be and sticks to it. 

THE WASHING MACHINE: StrawBee

StrawBee's fav rave was circles.  She liked to flip over and over and over and OVER. It was a lot like having a spin cycle going on in my belly.  I wasn't supposed to be going on any carnival rides but I felt like I was on one most nights.  It did something very uncomfortable to my guts (something about her little ankles catching on them over and over, I imagine) and created the oddest feeling of discombobulation.

From the moment of her birth StrawBee has never been one to sit still and let life happen to her. She is a mover and a shaker; a strong child who sees what she wants and goes to get it. This is a particularly effective personality to have as a second child, I like to think, because she has Ladybug to watch and learn from--and thus always a goal to strive for. 

THE POPCORN BAG: Butterfly

I first started feeling this little firecracker moving around 11 weeks gestation (and for the uninitiated, that's about 8 weeks sooner than what's considered average). I heard many comments that this child must certainly be a boy for all of her activity, but unless something truly unusual happens between now and her birth I am quite sure this is not the case.  She punches and kicks like a regular boxing champ; I've even wondered on occasion if I'm actually giving birth to a kangaroo.  Ultrasounds can be so inconclusive, you know.

It'll be interesting to meet her in February. If nothing else, we know she's getting plenty of practice in so she'll be ready to stand up to the other two. 

I love being pregnant, though. No really, I do. Something about feeling like you're being invaded by a small alien is really life-affirming. Not to mention frighteningly like having super powers. Trying to interpret the ways the child moves into what they might actually be like as a little person has got to be one of the best guessing games ever. 

Has anyone else seen a correlation between baby movements and personality, or am I making these insightful connections on way too little sleep?

I just can't.

It's true. Sometimes, I just can't. Not a complaint. Not being pessimistic. Just stating the facts.

There are some things I can't do. And that's okay.

I have often struggled with admitting and even embracing this concept. I would (will) tell myself that if I just tried a little harder, I could make it work. I could earn the last few dollars, finish the last few chores, write that stellar paper, fit in one more activity.

But I can't.

And it really is okay, because there are plenty of things I can.

I can't get rid of this week-long headache, no matter what I do--I can push past it and take my kids out for an hour or two anyway.

I can't ignore the overwhelming exhaustion the headache causes when I co push past it--but I can take advantage of having a wonderfully supportive network of friends and a husband who insists that I go to bed early.

I can't get all of the housecleaning finished if I go to bed early or take that nap I want--but I can at least wash a few dishes and then accept that my house will be untidy for a bit longer. Or, harder still, I can accept help offered and let someone else do it.

I can't ignore my housework and then give time and attention to writing. Heck, I can't even talk straight half the time!--But I can flop out an attempt at a blog post, just because I promised myself I would write every Tuesday, garbage or not.

And I can't get rid of all my A-type, perfectionist tendencies because I would cease to be me--but I can learn to separate the golf balls from the rice (or the rocks from the sand, depending on the take you prefer).

I can't even make the internet work so I can post this, no matter how many nasty glares I use--But DB can (thanks babe!).

"I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something.The something I ought to do, I can do. And by the grace of God, I will." --Edward Everett Hale

Yup. And for tonight, my something? It's sleeping. And by the grace of God (and my hubby) the kids will sleep too. Catch you on the other side o' dreamland.

Grown Up

At least once or twice a year since I turned 18, I have found myself sighing with relief and saying to myself, "I'm all grown up. Phew! Thank heavens that's over." And you would think that with a husband, a home, two children, and one on the way, I'd actually have meant it the last time I said it.

So. Not. True.

I still remember the first time I realized I was "grown up." I was taking the garbage out to the dumpster in my apartment complex during my first semester at college. As I trotted along it suddenly dawned on me that I didn't have to go back to my apartment if I didn't want to. I could go out for ice cream and no one would A. Question me or B. Know the difference. Oh, I was such an adult! Then, within days, I was back on the phone with my parents, in tears, wishing Mommy would come out and hold my hand. 

I still do wish that on occasion (Hi mom!). 

Every time I think I'm "all grown up," something else happens to make me feel like a little kiddie all over again. Today, when I had to turn one of our two dogs over to the animal shelter (long story) I felt about five years old. I just didn't want to do it. It was scary. It was unpleasant. I wanted to make someone else (namely DB) do it for me. I get the same way about other things, like calling people I don't know or answering my voice mail or driving a long way alone. Why? I don't really know, except that those parts of me are just still working on that whole grown up thing. 

What this has reminded me of, however, is that in the eternal perspective of things I still am nothing more than a child. Heavenly Father is so much wiser and more mature than I am, it's almost laughable to try and call myself an adult. My body might be, but my spirit--my heart--still has a lot to learn. It's a little disheartening at first pale to think I know so little after trying so hard. On the other hand, it's absolutely wonderful to know that God will always be there to hold my hand. No matter how "old" I get in this life, He will always be the grown up I can turn to. 

Thank Heavens.

Adjustments

We've had a lot of them since the summer began. Adjustments, I mean. First we adjusted to Dear Boy being out of school. Then we adjusted to Auntie J coming to visit. After that, we adjusted to Grammie and Grandpa coming from Utah to visit. Nap times, bedtimes, and healthy eating were all victims of said adjustments. Much crabbiness ensued.

All of that's over, however, and we're on to what (I hope) is the last major adjustment for a while: DB has a job.

I'm very, very excited about this.

The girls are very, very not.

They object (loudly and complainingly) to being allowed to wind up and wear out themselves to the point of complete meltdown (see previous adjustments), then being thrown back into what should be normal but really isn't. Daddy isn't around for all or even most of the day anymore. He's not getting them out of bed in the morning, he's not around to help with lunch, and he definitely won't be home when they get up from their afternoon nap.

Last week, when he started training, they barely noticed his absence--mostly due to the fact that Grammie and Grandpa were around to obligingly spoil them rotten. Today, though, Ladybug started asking for him first thing. When he unexpectedly came home for lunch, Strawbee wouldn't let him put her down. When he left again, Ladybug followed him outside and watched him drive away. When I called her back in, she said, "Daddy?"

I answered, "Sorry, baby, he has to go back to work. He'll be home for dinner." She just sort of collapsed in a little heap on the driveway, crying her little heart out, and wouldn't get up until I bribed her with a pacifier.

Poor kids.

Sigh.

...I actually started this post intending to talk about how the structure of life is so great--just because one day we get things wrong (forget to exercise, don't do laundry, yell at the kids) doesn't mean that tomorrow is a loss too. We always have a chance, every morning, to make it the kind of day we like.

But now I've depressed myself and I'm not sure how to segue. Abruptly, I suppose.

Point being, there are adjustments for me too, but they're more like second chances. I've had to rearrange my schedule (I actually have to get up first thing in the morning, for starters) and though it's a change when I don't really like change, it's also already helping me get back on the bandwagons. (Yes, plural. Exercising, cleaning schedule, budget, eating right, blogging, writing, learning: You name it, I fell off it in the last month.)

But I'm back. And so far today I'm doing great. I bet I'll do great tomorrow. And if I don't, there's always Thursday. Or Friday. Or ... well, you get the point.

Onward and upward.

Home School

I am a student by nature. Listening, reading, writing--these are all things that come to me naturally and that I enjoy. I happen to be one of the lucky few whose brains work exactly the way the public school system prefers. My study habits are almost impeccable. It took me years to learn all of that.

I've been wondering lately, though, how long it will take me to lose it.

I'm surrounded by people in school right now. 4 of my 5 siblings (plus some spouses, thrown in for good measure) are in school, my husband is in school, my best friend teaches school (and she's about to return for a master's), and ... I miss it.

I find myself eying DB's pile of projects and notes with envy. I read Facebook updates about final projects and exams and wonder how I would do taking those same tests.

For a short while, I toyed with the idea of returning to school myself this fall, or possibly the spring after. I soon discarded the idea as selfish since (for the moment) all it would do is put an additional strain on our time and finances without any appreciable improvement of our lives.

And then it occurred to me: Why do I have to be in school, anyway?

Now, it is a fact of life that American children often leave school under the impression that "real learning" can only happen in school. They are not taught to learn on their own; in fact, they learn that learning is a chore to be avoided unless it's going to get your a tangible "something" (think pay raise) in return. We feel as though here's something magical about classrooms and we won't be able to "really learn" under any other circumstances.

This is true, to a certain extent. A community of learners guided by a leader with more experience provides opportunity for growth that doesn't occur in any other way.

But why should that always have to happen in a classroom?

For that matter, why shouldn't I be able to learn without that ideal setting?

I almost believed what I had accidentally learned in school. I almost didn't think beyond the possibility of guided learning. I almost told myself that I would just have to wait to learn until DB was established and we could really afford to send me back to school.

But then it occurred to me: There's nothing wrong with my brain. I have access to several libraries, both physical and virtual. Failing that, there's always Amazon.com for books. Why shouldn't my learning outside of the classroom be just as valid, even if there wasn't a shiny piece of paper waiting at the end?

I was studying to be a teacher, anyway, so why shouldn't I teach myself?

Of course, the hardest thing about this project will be the discipline required. That's where I might trip and fall. My motivation at school was always out-doing others in order to impress my teachers (I know: Pathetic, right?). I never missed a deadline. I never failed a test (okay, except that one spelling test in fifth grade--I swear, Ms. Cohn, it'll never happen again!). What will I do without someone else's schedule and criteria to meet?

Short answer: I have no idea.

But I have a thirst to learn that I don't plan on waiting to sate. Now is as good a time as any. Starting May 1st, school will be in. My first two courses will be biology and music history. At the same time, I plan to have an ongoing literature study, finishing at least one book every month or six weeks and producing at least a short, slightly thoughtful paper on it. And hey, any suggestions for good books, fiction or non, to go with literature, biology, or music history are more than welcome! And you are more than welcome to join me in my little experiment--find a subject. Buy a book. Learn something.

Do it for yourself, not for the grade.

Learning didn't end with school. School is just a springboard--a place to acquire skills to help guide your learning for the rest of your life. Graduation wasn't finishing; it was moving on to the next level. And I'm ready to keep on going.

Spring Break

...It's a break from everything.

I pretend we don't have to worry about money

or school

or responsibilities.

We're just homeowners trying to make the yard look nice

and parents just playing with their kids

and two people amazingly in love with all the time in the world to give each other.

I wish Spring Break

lasted a month or two.

But it's just a week.

Which is probably for the best--

so that we remember to be grateful

for the time to just be us.

The Performance Life

That's what my blog should've been titled this weekend. I didn't do much that was child- or home-related, but I did get up in front of a lot of people. Between the 3 times I was front and center and the once I was in a small group, I think I was seen by somewhere around 1,000 unique individuals. Ish.

My local church women's group (Relief Society) held a retreat down in Branson (AKA America's Live Entertainment Capitol) this Friday and Saturday. Branson is home to dozens of live performance theaters--family-friendly entertainment that's usually run by, well, families (Osmonds, anyone?). The Dutton family owns a theater on "The Strip" and generously allowed our fearless leaders (who deserve awards for their mad planning skills) to use said theater, plus sound, lighting, tech guy, and stage props, for the speakers and performers this weekend.

I sang three times.

Two of those times were solos.

Lights, makeup, real mics, and me--front and center.

I was a nervous wreck.

I loved it.

I loved the feel of the stage. I loved the nervous jitters moments before walking into the spotlight. I loved the feel of the microphone in my hand. I loved the sound of my voice over high-quality speakers. I loved hearing that I "looked so poised!" I loved being recognized as I went to workshops later. I ADORED the attention and compliments. I was particularly fond of being mistaken for being a professional performer by a professional performer.

I have a serious problem with being attention-seeking. Can you tell?

It's fascinating to me, in a detached sort of way, to observe myself when I perform. I turn into something else. Into a presence rather than a person. I love that feeling, and I know it.

It's hard to let go of.

This was my first opportunity of this kind on this scale. It stirs in me the desire to pursue performance--a desire I've put down many times. And why do I put it down? Because I know myself. I know I have the potential to become so obsessed with a certain thing, I lose everything else about myself. I worry that by allowing myself to become really dedicated to anything--be it music, writing, teaching, my husband, my kids, myself, the Gospel--I'll become obsessive. For me, it's like Marianne Williamson said: "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest feat is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us."

It's about balance. If I give myself to one thing at the cost of others...well, that's no good!

But by not giving myself passionately to these things, I feel I'm losing something. I want to give myself to all of these good things with equal passion; however, I find that any time I attempt to become more passionate about one, the others fall behind.

There's got to be an answer somewhere. Heavenly Father created these desires and lights within me for a purpose, and He wouldn't create me so I could fail.

But He would create me so I had to make a choice.

Years ago, I chose family life. A home. Children. Homemaking.

Do decisions have to be re-made? Are we given opportunities to modify as we grow? Or are we simply tested again, to make sure we really meant it the first time?

The balance. There has to be one--somewhere. I've just got to keep going until I find it.

Four Weeks

It's been four weeks since I had my oh-so-lovely overnight stay in the cardiac unit at St. John's hospital. Just like my four years of marriage, it seems like both a really short and a really long time--four weeks! Wow! Amazing! Sheesh!

Is anything really different?

25 years old. In a cardiac unit. Ridiculous.

But it scared me.

Yup.

The final diagnosis actually had very little to do with my heart. The doctor very seriously informed that I was slightly dehydrated (should I have confessed I was deliberately drinking less because the nurses wanted to measure my pee and I didn't want to deal with that? Probably) and physically exhausted. My heart's function seemed slightly compromised for someone my age, but was otherwise unaffected. His conclusion: I need to sleep more.

Suuuuuure.

Most of the mothers of small children I've mentioned this to laughed outright. Honestly, I almost did laugh. I know I at least smirked. He seemed a little miffed that I wasn't taking him seriously.

But I was.

(And, I should mention, so was Dear Boy, who has been treating me not unlike Ladybug in his enforcement of my bedtime since then. However, as he balanced this by offering to buy me anything I wanted to for Valentine's Day, I'm okay with that.)

My body does this occasionally, I should note. I tend to overdo in the stress department (trust me, I wasn't overdoing it physically), and my body finds a way to throw on the brakes whether I like it or not. Once it was serious stomach issues; once it was migraines. This time it was faking a heart attack.

This time it got my attention.

I, Carolynn the Dyer REFUSE to go back on that cardiac ward if there is any way I can prevent it. Stress kicks my butt, and I'm tired of it. I'm going to kick ITs butt for a change.

I will exercise. I will eat right. Heck, I'll even sleep. I will take care of this beautiful body--it's the only one I've got, for heaven's sake. Isn't it worth an hour of sweat a day and buying some more fresh produce?

I laid in the bed at the hospital and watched the inside of my eyelids for most of the dark-time of my one night stay. It's hard to sleep when you have eight leads taped to your body (I still have marks from that) and your roommate keeps moaning out how poorly she feels (and I sincerely hope she feels better). I kept thinking, What if this really had been a heart attack? What if I have a weak heart, like my grandparents on both sides? Will my children have to come visit me in the hospital before they're teenagers? Will I leave my husband behind young to marry someone else (not a good sharer over here)? Will my heart limit my activities forever? Am I really willing to let stress run my life?

No.

No, because I won't let it.

I won't let my kids have a couch potato for a mother.

I also won't let them turn me into a basket case.

I will improve my heart's function.

I will live my life while it's happening, not by regretting its passing.

I will love my body enough to take care of it--all of it--the way it deserves to be cared for.

I will remember those cardiac monitor machines every time I want to skip out of my workout, and then I will do my workout and smash those machines to pieces.

I will be healthy.

I will be low-stress.

I started four weeks ago.

And I'm happier already.

A Mom's Day... Off?

So apparently I made a mistake a little while ago. I was slightly sick, but still pushing through watching the kids, cleaning the house, pulling out leftovers for dinner, and all those other good things that just won't wait. Dear Boy tried to help, but since he's a full-time student I really feel like I shouldn't accept his help too much--he needs to study.

Anyhow, I remember complaining (mildly, I like to think) about not getting a day off to be sick. Dear Boy looked appropriately apologetic and continued with his school work, and so I mused out loud, "The only way a mom can get a real day off is if she's in the hospital, huh?"

I was joking. I swear I was. But apparently, someone took me seriously.

That's right--I'm in the hospital. And frankly, after the last 14 hours, I'll take screaming kids over a day off any day!

Dear Boy brought me into the ER last night because I was having severe difficulties breathing. My vitals all checked out fine, I just couldn't seem to catch my breath. Never have I received such prompt treatment at a hospital! Turns out, they suspected a pulmonary emoblism. I had just assumed it was pneumonia.

It was neither.

In fact, we still don't know what the problem is. It started Monday and just got worse until last night (although I feel much better now--ready to go home, in fact, if they'd just finish their tests and let me out!). They have me up on the cardiac floor, which seems ludicrous both at my age and with my vital signs and CAT scan results. And no, I'm not upset at the precautions; I really get it. Chest pain + shortness of breath + no answers = assume it's a heart problem. Kind of like innocent until proven guilty. I really appreciate the nurses and doctors and what they're trying to do for me. Everyone is being so kind.

But I miss my babies.

And I'm tired of needles.

In fact, I'm just tired period. I always figured hospitals would be a great place to rest and recuperate; not even close, as it turns out. They came up to offer me food at 1 a.m. (because I wouldn't be allowed to eat after 4, so it was quite thoughtful) and, thinking I was finished for the night, I tried to go to sleep. Apparently, "finished for the night" doesn't exist in the hospital. My night went thus:
1:30: Blood draw.
2:00: Guy from pulmonary in to listen to my lungs.
4:30: Nurse's aid in to check vital signs.
5:30: Nurse in to check on me.
6:30: Nutritionist in to give me the menu of food I'm not allowed to eat until later.
7:30: Another blood draw.
And that doesn't include checks on my roommate. Sigh.

Point being, I learned my lesson. No more hospital vacations for this Mama! Let my kids mow me into the ground on their worst days: At least when they wake me up at night, it's not with needle in hand.