Homeschool Lesson - Don't Wish This Time Away

My littles need me constantly. They want me to be right beside them every moment of the day. In the bathroom, while they fall asleep, as they unload the dishwasher and pick up their toys, when they've said something hilarious, during their baths, while they eat. And sometimes, a lot of times, I feel like butter scraped over too much bread. I often feel overwhelmed, and too little do complete the big work of building this cathedral.

But amidst all of that, I've had moments this week when the fleeting nature of this season rests on my heart, and I realize that my time with them is so very short. Really, I only have them this close for a few short years, and then they'll be off on adventures of their own. I don't want to wish this time away. Soon they won't want me as close, need me as often, and I just know I'm going to ache then for the closeness we have now. Instead of checking out, I want to retrain my heart to breath them in, to slow down, to look into their eyes more often, to be silly, to be a soft place to land, to lean into the chaos, to let them be little, to see things as they really are, to leave the dishes and read to them a little longer.  

Tornados

As a little girl, I remember trees blown to the ground, barely missing our house. I remember a tornado picking up our wooden swing set, and finding it twisted in the corner of our neighbor's yard a few houses over. I remember hearing the sirens go off during a stay at my friend's house, and wondering if I would ever see my family again. I remember rushing to the bathroom while shopping with my mom in the mall because a tornado was coming.  I remember hearing the grown ups talk around the table of what they'd heard and seen on the news. I always imagined the worst.

Last Sunday afternoon tornado sirens blared intermittently for two hours.  Sean was on an airplane. Dad was at the plant in Montgomery. The littles and I were huddled up in my closet, reading books with all of our blankets and stuffed animals. I felt like I was going to throw up. My stomach twisted and my heart seemed to be trying to claw it's way out of my chest. Gwyn looked up at me and asked the question that was taking up all the space in my own head, "Is a tornado going to come to our house?" "Pshhh no way!" I replied, "This is just good practice for if there is ever a real emergency!" But my heart continued to burn and my stomach continued to twist. All I could think about was the roof being ripped off of our house. Being swept up and away. The looks in their little eyes. I totally know the probability of us dying in a car accident is way higher than being swept up in a twister, but wether my heart is 5 or 35, I just can't handle it. We could hear the rain pounding the side of our house, but that was the worst of it. By 2:30pm the sirens stopped blaring, and we went back to making chocolate chip cookies. The next morning though, I read that at 3:30pm that Sunday afternoon, an F3 tornado, half a mile wide, touched down 60 miles north of us, and 24 people of all ages died. I couldn't breath. 60 miles. That's a hop, skip, and a jump for a tornado. Little ones woke up that morning, had their last bowl of cereal, not knowing what would be coming. Last kisses. Last words. I cried for them all. I cried for their families. I cried for their community. I cried for fear. I cried because when we were pulling chocolate chip cookies out of the oven, people just sixty miles up the road from us were facing my worst fears and twenty four of them died.

It's been a week, but it's still with me. Especially as the prospect of more tornadoes and severe thunderstorms are coming our way this weekend. I was sitting with dad on his air mattress last night before bed, crying to him about the weather, Alabama, fear and loss and worry. He patted my back and talked about Heavenly Father's plan, and peace, and bravery. And as he was talking, and while I was wiping away tears and trying to be brave, I looked up at our board where I'd written our scripture for this month.

John 14:27 Peace I leave with you. My peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.

Gasping For Air

A few Sundays ago the last speaker of Sacrament Meeting was the first counsel in the Stake Presidency. President Hernandez. This guy is intense. He is focused. He hasn't watched television since becoming a missionary because it's a waste of time. He's a principle of an elementary school on Maxwell airfare base, and he has a punching bag in his garage that he uses daily. He's an adventuror. He's got his eyes on the prize, is incredibly, and a powerful speaker.

He talked about how he makes dinner for his family and has a heck of a time getting them to come to the table. He called out for them two or three times before they eventually make their way to their plates. The experience is very different when dessert is served. When it's dessert, they run.

He talked about free diving, holding his breath, and sweeping his arms through the water, deeper and deeper. He talked about coming back up from the depths, still far from the surface, his lungs burning, and fighting his body's instinct to breath. He talked about gasping for air, and never wanting something so much in that moment as he wanted to breath.

Then he quoted our dear Prophet,

"When you reach up for the Lord’s power in your life with the same intensity that a drowning person has when grasping and gasping for air, power from Jesus Christ will be yours. When the Savior knows you truly want to reach up to Him—when He can feel that the greatest desire of your heart is to draw His power into your life—you will be led by the Holy Ghost to know exactly what you should do.When you spiritually stretch beyond anything you have ever done before, then His power will flow into you."  (Drawing the Power of Jesus Christ Into Our Lives.)

We run for dessert. We run to our television show, to our hobby, to our comfort, to be entertained, to the path of least resistance, to our heart's desires. But are we running to the Lord? Do we run towards those opportunities that will help us grow and become more like Him? Do we desire His power and influence and peace in our lives as much as we desire air in our lungs? I don't.

As I heard President Hernandez say those words, my heard burned, and my thoughts flowed through impressions I'd received, some consciously, some unconsciously. It all added up to one question ... What am I holding onto that is keeping me from giving my entire heart to the Lord? What distractions, what temptations, what in the world am I holding onto so tightly? I need to let go of the world. Completely. I want to need the Lord as much as I need the air he grants me to freely.

Less is more and a smattering of scattered thoughts

The Boy in Velveteen Rabbit had a nursery full of toys, but he slept with Velveteen, he played and adventured and survived scarlet fever with Velveteen, and that beautiful, loved up rabbit became real! We have a basket overflowing with stuffed bears and baby dolls, very few of which are ever played with, and far from every becoming real.

Gwyn has a drawer full of adorable tops and stretchy, stripey, sparkly leggings. She rotates through her three favorite shirts, and whatever pants feel the coziest at the moment. The rest remain tucked away in a lonely, forgotten basket.

We made magic potion bottles the other day. We filled Voss bottles with glitter glue and sparkly stars. Well I made them while they watched ... because fine glitter. Because super glue. Because I'm completely outnumbered. (But, like, aren't crafts supposed to be for the kids? If they're not doing it from start to finish, if they're simply spectators, then why in the world?!) Once the bottles were filled with glittery swirly goodness, the littles played with them for about an hour. It's two days later and they've forgotten all about them.

Hobby Lobby. I shouldn't  even be allowed to go in there. Suddenly my children need a fall sensory bin. Seasonal sensory bins for every holiday! So I gather leaves and tiny cobs of corn, acorns and cinnamon sticks. I dig out a tiny magnifying glass, some spoons and beads and bells. I grandly lay the fancy fun filled exploratory autumnal magic bin, which will make their childhood filled with wonder and curiosity, before my two year old. She pokes around, scoops and pours, and investigates for about twenty minutes, and then moves on with her life. I try to pull it out every now and again to see if it'll spark interest. Nope. Nada.

I spend a lot of time and money and energy buying junk at the store to fill up my little's lives with magic and exploration and learning and fun. I'm finally being honest with myself. They really don't care about any of it. Are they going to remember the six dollars worth of Christmas glitter scattered around Santa's letter on Christmas morning? Do they need another adorable dress or those darling dollar spot alphabet magnets? Will those magnets teach them to read? To love books?  Do they need glitter and paper crafts and endless outfit options and potion bottles to make childhood magical or worthwhile? Will they remember any of it!? I don't think it's what they'll remember.


When there are toys scattered across the floor, nobody picks them up and starts playing with them. They are sidestepped, or stepped on. They're right under our feet and completely forgotten. There's too many of them. But when we pick everything up and tuck it all away ... when only the wooden blocks are sitting in the middle of a tidy room, suddenly they're playing with those blocks in ways i've never seen before. When there are fewer options, it seems like there's more engagement and enjoyment. First they get bored. Then they get creative.

A few Christmas's ago Sean and I noticed something interesting when the littles pulled down their stockings. The first three treasures (peppermint tic tacs, candy cane pop rocks, sugar cookie bubble bath paints) where each loved in turn. They took their time. They tasted. They played. They rejoiced! After the third treasure, something shifted. The magic was no longer about the gift itself. It morphed into a type of exhilaration about and anticipation of what's next. It happened again when they unwrapped their gifts. The first two or three were loved and played with before the next ones were even considered. But after the third time shredding wrapping paper to reveal the surprise, the focus shifted on what came next, instead of what was right in their hands... what everyone else got instead of all they had ... the worry that someone had more. I don't know what it's like in other homes on Christmas morning, but it seems like there's a magic number that holds the magic in place and keeps gratitude close. When our living room floor is scattered with countless new toys and treasures, it becomes more about the having and acquiring than playing and engaging and experiencing.

When I say less is more, I'm not talking about ice cream, or love notes, or toilet paper, or Julie Andrew's movies. I'm talking about options. Possessions. Thiiiiings. Glitter and bricka bracka cluttering up our lives.

Over the course of a few days, Heavenly Father has been bringing all of these things to my mind, and teaching me about what matters, and what doesn't. And I felt Him encouraging me to not set my heart on beautiful things. If I hold onto such treasures too tightly, and forget their real source and their real purpose, it could hold me to the ground when I could be flying. It could keep us from adventure and goodness and progression. Spending money on throw pillows, and clean white dishes, and crimson, lacy Christmas dresses instead of work boots, and food storage, and savings could stand in the way of us being able to help our neighbors with hurricane relief, giving a Thanksgiving feast to someone who might not appear to have much to be thankful for.

I feel like there's been an earthquake inside of me everything has shifted and changed. I'm feeling an urgency to get our home in order, to decide very carefully how to spend time, energy, money, to hold onto what matters the most, and let everything else go.

This Week

We rediscovered play dough. Our purple, turquoise, and lime green somehow morphed into one gigantic ball of swamp thing green. The girls found sticks and sequins and googly eyes and made lumpy, bedazzled, play dough wands. Oh my play dough loving heart.

The weather has turned cold enough for coats and cocoa. I had no idea that happened in Alabama! The wind has whipped all the leaves off our backyard tree, and it's been making an eerie howling sound all day.

Liam usually hates school. But this week he hates, hates, haaaaates school. Fun times.

I think my three week cold morphed into a feverish nickelodeon slime green sinus infection. Cold cereal and Christmas books are going a long way.

Eleanor dug out every type of alphabet magnet we had and proceeded to match the pictures with their corresponding letter. All on her own. And then I promptly made her the teacher and put her in charge.

Homeschool Lessons: brush strokes and planting seeds

D&C 64:33 Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great.

Planting seeds is a principle that has been written on my heart since conference. I am feeling the power and the peace that comes from doing small things consistently. The Spirit is guiding me along, and helping me to recognize how we should fill our days, what needs to be at the tippy top of our to do and to be lists, and what are just beautiful distractions (like freaking sensory bins and glittery calm down jars). And what I'm learning is that the small and simple things are the most important.

It's not the grand miracles, or epic family trips, the glorious Christmas presents, or the big happenings in life that are going to teach us and transform us. It's the small things we do consistently, the holy habits and traditions that shape our family culture, our perspective, our spirits. Do we play and laugh together consistently? Do we search and study the scriptures together consistently? Do we search for and learn about our ancestors consistently? Do we cook together, work together, serve together consistently? Do we talk with our family living far away consistently? Do feel and show gratitude consistently? Do we read books together, write letters together, get ice-cream cones together, take walks together consistently?

Elder Bednar, in More Dilligent and Concerned at Home, talks of that consistency. He mentions a painting of a wheat field in his office. When you stand up close to it, you can really only see strokes of yellow and brown and gold paint on the canvas. But when you step back, you are able to see a painting of a beautiful wheat field. I think about that a lot. He talked about how his boys can't recall a particular family home evening lesson or a morning of scripture study that changed their lives ... but they remember that they did those things together as a family. Some days we might manage to get a glob of paint on the canvas. Other days we might have been able to make five beautiful strokes, use different sized brushes and an array of colors. What matters is that we're painting. Every day we're painting. Every day we're planting and watering and finding the sunshine.

These littles are my great work. It is lonely work. Meaningful, fulfilling, refining work. Tiring and thankless and worry filled work. I feel so weary. So unequal to the task. But I know that with every effort or tiny seed or little brushstroke, I am laying a firm foundation. I know I am not alone, and that Christ can take my small and simple daily offerings and make them work towards something great.

Homeschool Lesson: In their own time. In their own way.

Be not weary in well doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small and simple things are great things come to pass. 

A few months into the summer, the littles and I stopped at a playground after taking Sean to work. After climbing and sliding and chasing, Liam hopped onto the swings. He propelled himself forward, then backward, then forward again, pumping his legs and flying higher and higher. Liam was swinging! He just hopped on the swing and took off. I have been trying to teach that boy to swing for the last four years (never much interest or desire, never able to quite grasp it) and willy nilly, all on his own, he just decided that he can swing now.  I was, and still am, flabbergasted. 

As I watched him, swinging like a boy born to swing, I heard the words, They'll do things when they're ready. I felt a thousand feelings rush through me in that moment. It felt as though the Heavenly Father had placed me under a waterfall, and I was being pummeled with thoughts about my family. I knew this was a type and a shadow for how I needed to nurture my littles. 

As a mom I push things. I push, push, push, and teach, teach teach, when really I'm just spinning my wheels and and making us all miserable. I couldn't teach Liam to swing anymore than I could teach him to crawl. Sure I could give him the steps to swing, bend your legs! straighten your legs! lean back! lean forward! I could praise him when he did those things (like he wasn't totally amazing when he wasn't doing those things!?) I could show him how it could be done. But he hasn't been ready, and all of that energy trying to teach him how to do something was never ready or interested in until now, has just taken all of the joy out of simply pushing him on the swings, of letting him feel the exhilaration of flying through the air without any of the worry or responsibility of making it happen. I've been so absorbed with teaching that sometimes I forget to just let us live and be and feel the joy of the moment. 

They will crawl, and walk, and swing, and swim, and read when they're ready. They'll control their bladders, and their tempers, they ride their bikes and gain their own testimonies of truth when they are ready. I can't make any of those things happen for them, and I certainly don't need to push or enforce or pressure, try to make them something they aren't or experience something they're not ready for. Everything they need is tucked away behind my relentless fear of missing a moment to teach. My part is in providing opportunities, creating space to be themselves, and then to let go. I need to be a soft place to land. It's not your job to teach. Your purpose is to show them the way. Be a place of safety. Be a soft place to land. Be a constant source of love and light, and leave the timing and the process to them and the Lord. It goes against everything I feel. I want to hold on tight. I want to control. I want guide their every step. But that's not how Heavenly Father teaches us. He sets us up for success, He loves us every step of the way, He provides direction and instruction and comfort when we seek it, but ultimately, He lets us go.

It's like Gwyn. She's had that balance bike for ages, and is totally ready to ride on two wheels. The only thing standing in her way is fear. So I've been pushing and pushing her to practice, hoping that confidence will come with consistency (if only she could forget about her fear for a moment she would totally take off!).  I know she's ready, but she doesn't. And that's what matters. She's not ready, and every time I push, she pushes back.  So I've literally been holding onto her handle bars. I've been holding so tightly to this idea that she should be riding her bike right now. Holding onto the bike for her while she's trying to ride. And it's just miserable for both of us. But the moment I let go, and gently put my hand on her back so that I'm not controlling her, but she knows I'm there, she takes off. She slows to a stop and then looks back, surprised that I'm so far away, that she's ridden all that way by herself, and a humongous, triumphant grin spreads across her face. That's when the learning begins ... the moment I let go. So I don't bring up biking anymore. I just ride my bike, and when she's ready to ride hers, I'm there!

I'm still watching him swing, and the thought trickles through all the channels of my mind and settles warmly in my heart, Give them opportunities. Give them unconditional love. Provide an environment where they have the opportunity to learn, and they'll do it at their own pace. Stop pushing, stop teaching, stop worrying. Love them, do all that you can, and then let go. 

I can't teach them to swing, or swim, or read, to be brave or kind or true to themselves. But I can pray to know what opportunities and experiences to give them, the kind of an environment to create for them, and the courage to let the rest go.  We can play in the water and go on the swings. We can read all the books in our library. We can look for the good in ourselves and in others. We can ride bikes and take nature walks. We can study the scriptures together, try new foods together, spread cheer together. And maybe one day they'll have the courage to hold their breath and jump into the deep end. Maybe one day we'll ride bikes together. They'll know what's good and true for themselves. They'll find their courage, they'll look for the good, and swim, and swing, and read, and everything in-between because their spirits have had the space and the time and the freedom to grow in their own time, and in their own way. 

Fighting For It - What that looked like today

5:15am - Hugging Liam instead of banishing him back into bed. No snarling mama bear in sight.
Deep breaths and strings of prayers when nothing was right in Ellie's world (for seven hours)
Feeling screamed at all morning and afternoon - but not joining in the screaming (go me!)
Reading scriptures with the littles at breakfast (crying over Abinidi's courage).
Keeping all of our dishes happy and intact - when all I wanted to do was hurl them at the wall after seven hours of constant melt downs.
Thinking of the vacuum lines on my grandparent's carpet while vacuuming my own.
Holding Liam in my arms when all I wanted to do is shake him and feed him triple helpings of gratitude and optimism, with some cheerfulness on the side.
Listening to scriptures while washing dishes.
Giving kisses and encouragement when I really want to run down the street shrieking like a maniac.
Pressing forward with school, treading through the hardest moments, and just feeling really grateful to have such a privilege.
Putting on my sports bra at 4 freaking o'clock in the afternoon because I promised myself that today was the day! Finishing my workout! (like superwoman!)
Turning up the music when the chorus of littles was banging on the porch window chanting Mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! (what did they need? to tell me that this song wasn't their favorite)
Eating most of the pumpkin chocolate cheesecake after a canceled family night with friends and not feeling one teensy crumb of regret.
Going to bed absurdly early so I can wake up for a run around the neighborhood and maybe a sip of something before the littles are awake. 

What to do with what we have

Months ago I woke up before the sun to go for a run around my neighborhood. My head was swirling with images of hurricane devastation, fire evacuations, children being taken from their mothers at the boarder, cancer, anger and abuse. I saw faces in all of these things. With every footfall I imagined the faces of those fleeing their homes, those who have lost everything, those who are scared and sick and alone. And my heart shrank. The light of my life in comparison to so much darkness and despair felt unbearable. I saw Gwyn's face, soft and warm and full of expression. I thought of my golden hearted Liam, of Ellie's head tucked into the crook of my neck. I thought about our warm, safe haven of a home, of our brand new kitchen table, our squishy new sofa, the twinkle lights in our school room, the cupboards full of different options for breakfast once my littles woke up, and the fresh clean water I could give them to drink whenever they felt thirsty. I felt the strength in my legs, my love for Sean, who loves me to the ends of the earth, who is good and true and strong and kind. And I poured my heart out to Heavenly Father. I felt so guilty that I had so much.

And then a voice came to my mind that said, Stop feeling guilty, and start using what I've given you to love and help others. The energy and health He's blessed me with that day. The freezer full of soups and chilis and meals that can be shared at a moments notice. My arms can hold crying babies, my ears can listen with compassion and understanding, our toys can be shared with new friends, our new watercolors can brighten thank you and thinking of you cards.  I saw piles of shoes stacked in our entry way, and the youth in our church squished on the sofa, spilling onto benches and chairs and the floor. I saw families gathered around our table. I saw my littles and I delivering cookies, picking up garbage, spreading cheer. And something in me changed.

I knew in that moment that everything, from my lovely kitchen table to my lungs filled with air, all of it was a gift from Heavenly Father. Everything I have and everything I am is given to me for a time, to glorify Him and help others along their way, and if I use what He's given me to those ends, I can fulfill His purposes for my life. The Lord may allow my health to be diminished, our dream jobs to vanish. Our lovely new furniture could be washed away by a hurricane, or burned up by a fire. All of these things are not really ours. They've been given to us for a time to bring us joy, to help us remember His goodness and blessings and miracles in our life, and to help others.  They are a beautiful means to a more beautiful end.

Every confrontation is an opportunity to become closer

I made Gwyn cry today. Twice. Any pain she feels manifests itself in a tiny golden blur streaking into her bedroom and the sound of a door slamming. Gwyn needs time. When I keep close behind my little golden blur of sadness, we both stay stuck in that awful wake of sharp words, contention, impatience, or hurt feelings. But when I give her time, when I softly knock on her door, and quietly sit on her bed. She'll peek out from under her monkey blanky, splotchy face, sad eyes, open heart. And if I talk softly, and tell her how sorry I am for hurting her, for yelling, for being so impatient and grumpy, how much I still have to learn and grow, Gwyn doesn't take her eyes off of me. When I tell her how much I adore her, how lucky I feel to be her mom, and how sweet it is to spend my days with her, she inches closer until we're wrapped around each other. I wipe away her tears and stroke her hair and we always, always end up laughing and sniffling and holding onto each other. We're closer than we were before my outburst, before her door slammed, before I let her know in all the hard ways how much I still have to learn, before her forgiveness and love filled the whole room. We open the door together a little more connected than before. It's such a sweet and humbling piece of being a part of a family. 

Come Follow Me

The Call by Jorge Cocco Santangelo

The littles and I just finished reading the New Testament together. It was so wonderful to watch them swirling their paint brushes in watercolors, and fill their scripture journals with pictures from the Savior's life. The account of how Peter came to join the Savior has been on my heart. He and his friends had been fishing all night long. They caught nothing.  Jesus told Peter to take his boat into deep water and then cast out his fishing nets. They caught so many fish that their nets began to break. Peter called to his friends in another boat to come and help. Both of their boats were filled with so many fish that they began to sink. I could only imagine what this meant for Peter and his friends. I wonder how long they would be able to feed their families with the profit from so much fish. What luxuries would they now be able to afford? Would one of them be able to buy medicine for a sick child? Or finally be able to purchase some beautiful cloth for their wife to make a new dress that wasn't tattered or worn? Peter and his friends were amazed. They knew Jesus had preformed this mighty miracle. Peter knelt at Christ's feet. Jesus then asked Peter and his friends, James and John, to follow Him and become "fishers of men." Then the children's scriptures say, "The men left everything they had and went with Jesus." Peter, James, and John did not walk away from empty boats to follow the Savior. They walked away from boats filled with fish. They let go of wealth and comfort to learn from and serve with the Savior. They walked away from from everything, into the unknown.

Before President Nelson asked us to read the Book of Mormon by the new year, I was reading about Alma and Amulek preaching among the people in Ammonihah. I love Alma and Amulek so much. Alma walked away from public office to serve the Lord and teach people who hated and rejected him. Amulek opened his heart and his home to Alma. This one choice set events in motion that changed his whole life.  He lost friends and family, his reputation and the respect of his community, because of his testimony and association with Alma.  He walked away from it all, into the unknown.

The Sons of Mosiah turned away from being King to live among their enemies, and try to teach them about a Savior they had rejected for generations. They walked away from everything, into the unknown.

This morning I began the Book of Mormon from the beginning. All of these thoughts began flooding through me as I read about Lehi's family leaving the land of their inheritance, their comfortable home, their treasures and possessions. I thought about Sariah leaving her lovely kitchen, her favorite market stands, her dearest friends, the home she put her whole heart into creating, to cook over a fire, eat raw meat, and dwell in a tent. I wonder if she'd ever been camping before? I thought about the prospect of camping for eight years, of my children wanting to murder each other, almost being swallowed up in the sea, delivering two sons in the woods, and sunk deeper into my warm, comfortable sofa. Lehi's family followed the Lord. They walked away from everything, into the unknown.

The Lord has always asked His children to choose Him, and that seems to require sacrifice. He's asked them to let go of the things that feel important to them, their possessions, their power, their comfort and security, their plans and priorities, their desires, to whatever they are holding onto, and to follow Him. Peter, James, and John couldn't keep their boats full of fish and do what the Savior needed them to do. Alma couldn't stay put when in his heart he knew he needed to bring his people back to Christ. Amulek couldn't keep his current life and teach his neighbors about the Savior. The Son's of Mosiah couldn't bring thousands of Lamenites to the knowledge of their Redeemer and hold onto the comfort of their kingdom. We wouldn't have the scriptures today without the Lehi and Sariah's obedience and faith.

We are cozy in Alabama. The Lord is blessing us with full bellies, strong bodies, freedom, safety, and music and cool breezes and beautiful rainstorms. He's given us soft pillows when we're weary and cold water when we're thirsty. He's blessed us with people we adore, a big table to gather around, answers to prayers, a living Prophet, scriptures at our fingertips, and more abundance than any family deserves. Everything we have and everything we are is because of His goodness. I feel so grateful for the time we have here, but to our eyes, the Lord has only given us Alabama until the Spring. He knows what lies beyond, but all we can see is the vast unknown. It's unsettling. 

But I read these scriptures, and the Holy Ghost brings all of these thoughts to my remembrance. And I'm filled with the truth that THIS is the life the Lord has given us. These are the opportunities He's provided us.  These are the trials he's blessed us with, the strengths he's given us to serve with, the people he's given us to love. THIS is the life we've been given. And He's asking us to let go of our plans, our desires, our priorities, and to trust Him, to follow Him, into the unknown.

The glory and joy of creation

God left the world unfinished for man to work his skill upon. 

He left the electricity in the cloud, the oil in the earth. 

He left the rivers unbridged and the cities unbuilt.

God gives to us the challenge of raw materials, 

not the ease of finished things. 

He leaves the pictures unpainted 

and the music unsung and the problems unsolved, 

that we might know the joys and glories of creation.

President Thomas S. Monson

his job

liam set the table.  he's also the master of sorting utensils in the silverware drawer.  usually when i request help, or try to make being my special helper sound super fun, he see's right through me and responds with i can't, or it's too hard, or i'm busy (that's new).  i do too much for that boy and the process of detaching myself, letting him try, seeing him struggle, watching him work hard, is a painful one.  mostly for him, because dang it! putting on your socks is super tricky.  seriously, if i'd never put socks on before, i'd be like you want me to do whada?  

but i've found a soft spot: dishes.  he can do it, he likes it, and i've seen the look of satisfaction on his face when he's emptied the silverware bucket and stacked the forks in their little drawer.  oh yeah!  i did that!  look at my forks y'all!  there is something really empowering about hard work, emptying the silverware holder, setting the table, climbing up the tallest playground ladder, and in doing the thing you think you can't do.  the more i step back, the more of those experiences he'll have, and the braver, stronger, more capable he'll feel.

so here's to spoons in the fork tray, random table settings, crooked pants, and setting aside fifteen minutes for putting on socks :)

to be interesting

while sitting in our driveway after an afternoon in monterey a gazillion years ago, my sister in law asked me a question.  do you think stay at home moms are more interesting? or women who have careers?  i remember being surprised by the question and then bumbling on like a buffoon, rambling in circles to end up saying nothing at all.  the truth, i didn't have an answer.

i've thought a lot about the question itself since that afternoon.  it just pops up when i'm folding laundry or washing my hair.  i think we are so much more more than what we do for a living.  if i could go back in time, and found my tongue magically more articulate and my whits more readily available, i'd probably say, both. now lets go eat cookies (because that's how we roll).

babies don't keep

Mother, oh mother, come shake out your cloth!

Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,

Hang out the washing and butter the bread, 

Sew on a button and make up a bed.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?

She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking!

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue

(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby, loo).

Dishes are waiting and bills are past due

(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).

The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew

And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo.

But I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo.

Look! Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?

(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

Oh, cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,

But children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.

I'm rocking my baby.  Babies don't keep.

-Ruth Hulburt Hamilton

my friend juilana posted this on instagram and it immediately spoke to me.  during this beautiful chaotic chapter of my life, i feel like i am always dancing between loving on my little ones and keeping the ship afloat.  sometimes when the stars align, liam wants to be involved and we work side by side, but most of the time he wants me to be sir topham hart, or mommy monster, or chocolate milk magician.  he wants me to play with him every moment of every day, and when i tell him i'm taking a moment to work on something he hangs his head and sighs and sulks away to play by himself.  oh the guilt!  i could drown in it!  there are always cheeks to kiss and trains to chuff and dishes to load and laundry to fold.  in the midst of picking up toys and cooking dinner and keeping house from swallowing us up, i get so caught up in it that i forget who it's all for.  liam and gwyn will remember our time together more than the state of our house.  they will never be as little as they are today.  i will always be learning the steps to this motherhood dance, finding the balance.  this was a gentle reminder to constantly keep in mind what my priorities should be ... to take a little extra time to rock my babies, because babies don't keep.