You do the hard thing

I just read a talk on self-reliance. Not the food storage or planting a garden type (okay the garden bit might have come up) but the important stuff like home and family and overcoming obstacles. It was a powerful and slightly terrifying reminder that I am, unfortunately, in charge of my life. No one is going to swoop in and do it for me; the good, the bad, the hard–all mine.

I have a friend who is struggling, to say the least.  She recently opened up to me about something that happened in her past that almost destroyed her family. The old Devil himself managed to slide into her life like a box of twinkies left over from a party and before she knew it, everything she held dear was hanging by a string.

She was at the bottom of her slope, brown and muddy, and she had to do the hard thing.

I know that the hard thing sucks. I know I’ve never been asked to do the really really hard thing. Heck, I hope and pray that I can stay out of the twinkie box and guard my life for the sake of my covenants and my family. The hard thing sounds terrifying.

She and her girlfriend went through the same hard thing simultaneously. But unlike her, the friend decided to walk away from her marriage and family. It’s amazing what a little perspective can do for a person. Watching the fallout–specifically her friend’s children–has been sobering.

Because all that bit about discovering who we really are? What we need to make us whole? Our right to happiness? It’s all a big fat fake. We are what we sacrifice. Finding yourself isn’t about the next hobby or relationship or accumulating the most “me time,” finding yourself is about taking that ugly thing that’s keeping you from the people you love and throwing it on the altars of Heaven, then dousing it with lighter fluid and watching it go up in flames.

Yes, life is hard. Yes, most of us experience routine disappointment and frustration with our jobs/relationships/homes/waistlines. But there’s nothing that makes me want to spit dirt more than seeing someone who’s willing to sacrifice their family instead of their habit. It sucks and I don’t care. You do the hard thing. Now. Like waiting is going to make it easier?

Because you can only put it off until tomorrow for so long. One day you’ll wake up and someone will have taken your tomorrow from you. Trust me, making the decision and following through might bring on a hail storm of pain, but pussy footing around until your sand runs out and the choice is lost will bring on a tsunami.

And frankly, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t end up being blessed for protecting and saving their children and home. People can grow and change, marriages can improve, and life has a way of mossing over even the ugliest castle ruins.

But you rip up your marriage and you will literally rend flesh. The flesh of my flesh bit you read about in the Bible? That’s children. They’re the ones who end up broken and torn and bleeding.

At the end of the day, if you’re an adult who’s brought babies into this world–whether you think you should have or not–it is your job protect them.

You do the hard thing.

I never want to be nine again

I’m glad to be on this side of third grade.

Our youngest, Johnny, is nine. Theoretically a kid’s tenth year should be full of pocket knives and puppy dog tails. It should include hours of bike riding and Popsicles, tree forts and video games. Who wouldn’t want to be nine?

But today’s nine-year-old is nothing like the ones I grew up with. Life is hard for kids right now and there’s not a whole lot we can do about it.

Take homework for instance. The poor boy comes home with at least 30 minutes of homework a night. Add to that 25 minutes at the piano, a few chores, scouts and whoops! There goes his childhood.

As much as I’d like to torch his homework sheets I recognize that whether we agree with them or not they must be done. He might be nine, but personal accountability has got to come into play sometime.

“But Mom,” he said to me in the car last week, “Who cares? Why do I have to do this stupid homework anyway?”

“Because,” I said, “People who don’t learn to do their homework in third grade grow up and you know what happens? They get fired because they never learned how to finish anything. Without a job they have no money, and if they don’t have money they don’t have a house or food. And you know where they end up living?”

He was pretty captivated at this point and gave me an open mouthed, “Where?”

“They live in a box. And it’s cold and it’s soggy and they’re hungry all the time. Do you want to live in a box?”

“No…”

“Then finish your spelling!”

As much as I’d like to knock something out of his schedule there’s no doubt that it’s all adding to his personal development. Lately tether ball has become somewhat of a staple in the life of this nine year old.  I've even found myself using it as leverage; fair or not, it is what it is.

The other evening I watched a particularly brutal match up and quietly approached Aaron afterwards.  "Honey, do you have to be so tough on him?  Can't you let him win once in a while?"

"No," he said, "Because the day he finally beats me is the day he'll remember for the rest of his life.  This is good for him, does it look like he's complaining?"  I looked over and watched Johnny setting up a rematch, shrugged and left it alone.

The two of them have been playing on and off for the past two weeks and Saturday, for the first time, Johnny won. When he realized it he practically cartwheeled his way through the house. “I won! Mom, I beat Dad!”

I guess being nine might be hard, but it isn’t without its rewards.

Jealousy and The End Of The World

You know how sometimes you’re sitting with a friend talking about how awesome General Conference was and she says how so many of the talks were on envy and wow that’s really a problem and you think meh I don’t really worry too much about that so you say it out loud and she snorts because she knows you so well?

I love April. Nothing like General Conference to reinforce gravity.

I’m happy enough with my lot. I don’t spend very much time reading about or filching details on what other people are doing/getting/spending because I’m pretty caught up in myself.

‘Cause obviously that’s so much better.

But talking to my girlfriend the other day, she made a really good point. “I didn’t think those talks really applied to me,” she said. “I love my life, it’s not like I spend time wishing I had something else. But then when I heard that message the second time it made me think. By the third time…well, let’s just say I’ve got stuff.”

I was listening to conference again and I got to thinking about what she said. Funny, all I had to do was apply a little brain power and I could think of two good handfuls of crap that I need to work on, just in that one area.

I know the Lord’s intention isn’t to bring all our ugly old sins to our remembrance with conference. Actually I take that back, I think He’s pretty eager for us to be aware of where we’re slacking or lacking so we can step up and be ready for the Big Day (since that day could potentially be eight months away–according to the Mayans and me–I take His pokes mostly seriously. My church doesn’t actually believe any of that date crap but I like to have my bases covered).

Listening to the Prophet and his apostles speak is my favorite security blanket. Remembering all over again that God has not forgotten us, that He’s still giving us commandments and revelations and solutions to our super unique and often terrifying spin here on Earth settles me. Soothes me. Gives me a really quick look at the eternal perspective and I like it.

With some of the challenges I’m seeing come up fast right now, I needed that extra lift.

I’m not dreading my trials this week, I’m embracing them. It feels really, really good.

Mostly.

just another reason to stomp around the house

Don’t ask me what my problem is, but tonight I feel like a stick of dynamite just waiting for someone to walk by with a cigarette so I can blow their head off.

Why do I do this?

I have great kids. They’re no better or worse than the next kids, and as far as nicely average goes I’d say they do all right. But for some totally illogical reason that probably has part to do with my hormone level and part to do with my lack of eating today, I feel like I’m about to rip somebody’s toes off.

Not that they’re perfect. I made corn pops tonight so I could send them to the neighbors for a little taste test.  When I returned, I found two pans of homemade rolls that had almost been burnt to an unrecognizable crisp.

It's my fault, really.  I mean, let's face it, this is what happens when you trust a 12 and 9 year old to stay home alone for seven minutes while you run next door to drop something off.

The semi-burnt rolls meant that a whole lot of jam and butter were going to be required to mask the ever so lovely flavor.  So much for my baking skills.

I think my real problem is that the house is a mess. I love Sundays but I must say that keeping the Sabbath Day Holy (in my case that means taking a rest from my day to day cleaning and cooking) is way harder than spending the day picking up and putting away like usual. My house is trashed and tomorrow is going to be really stupid.

This is a glimpse at tonight’s mood. I am sure that by the time the kids are tucked away in bed and Aaron has done the dishes I’ll feel a whole lot better.

Man I wish there was a magic pill for grumpy. I hate grumpy.

teaching kids to work

Deep down we all know the real reason people have children: free child labor.

When we had our first child I knew we were in for a good ten years of crazy before things started to settle down and we could cash in on our investment. We’re now twelve years into this parenting gig and our two boys are fully enrolled in Learn to Work 101.

Basically that means that I clean everything twice.

I routinely feel like I’m training Curious George. They’re willingish and both my boys have hands and thumbs, but I’ve learned that there are certain things that are better left un-kid-cleaned. Like windows. I’ll take a few greasy finger and lip prints over the sticky swirly mess that my kids happily come up with. They don’t seem to realize that we’re not going for “opaque.”

Every now and again, one of John’s (9) chores is to clean and detail my car. If you’ve ever seen a vehicle transport that taxi’s any children around you know that all it takes is one 30 minute ride and the car is a crumb coated, plastic wrappered, school papered, hidden chocolate milk mess. And somehow the “no food” rule doesn’t seem to cover the existence of crumbs. I’m pretty sure they load up their pockets and sprinkle remnants of pretzels and goldfish around the car just in case we get lost on the way home.

When you teach a kid to clean any large area you have to do it in stages, and the stages have to be stupid simple. When I send John out to the car it’s on a step-by-step basis and he has to get each step cleared before moving on. For instance:

1. Open car doors

2. Climb inside car

3. Remove games etc.

Last week I had John working on my car and had just reached step seven, remove rugs from car. “John!” I called, “Are you ready for me to come check?” He threw back an extremely put out, overly grumpy “Yeah,” and I started to head out.

Then I thought, there’s no reason I should get to have all the fun around here, so I turned to Mr. Honeydo himself. One thing about my husband that warrants keeping his last name on my social security card is his rocking personal work ethic. It’s like being married to a balding Martha Stewart, he always gets the job done and usually does it well (unless it’s dishes, which he hates).

“Hey Babe,” I said, using our favorite now-I’m-going-to-ask-you-something-you-really-don’t-want-to-hear term of endearment, “Why don’t you go out and check on John and the car, just give him the next step.”

He shrugged and set aside the large stack of cardboard boxes he was collapsing (because he rocks) then tromped out to the garage.

Five minutes later I walked into the kitchen and found John eating a snack.

“What?! Why are you here? There’s no way you finished that car already!”

“Oh,” he said, “Dad said I didn’t have to.” He smiled and I stomped out to the garage in a huff.

“Aaron! What are you doing out here?” I yelled over the roar of the vacuum.

“Oh,” he said turning it off, “I’m just detailing the car.”

“But that’s John’s job!”

“I know, but he’s horrible at it. I figured it would just be faster if I did it myself,” he said, flipping the switch back on and promptly ignoring me.

I almost pulled the plug and threw a fit, but we all know that the only thing harder than teaching your kids something is teaching your husband. When it comes down to it, I guess I don’t care how the car gets cleaned as long as long as I’m not the one who has to do it.

Is there anything worse than sitting in church and hearing a beautiful talk on family happiness that includes some prophetic quote about how you should never, ever have to raise your voice to your children or spouse for any reason whatsoever, only to realize in that moment that you just might be screaming your way to Hell?

I found myself skimming through a book in the store the other day - Scream Free Parenting. Intimidating title, right?  Sounds like a load of horse muffins.

On Friday we needed to leave the house to meet Aaron. The boys were scattered around downstairs engaged in a number of different time consuming, and multiple piece projects.

“Kids!” I called, “We need to leave in ten minutes, I want you both to get shoes on RIGHT NOW please! Thank you! I love you!”

Setting the timer on my phone for ten minutes, I pulled on boots and checked to make sure I had my jewlery and watch before leaving my bedroom.  Moving to the kitchen I gathered odds and ends and placed on the washer by the door, so as to not forget them.

I looked at my timer. Three minutes and not a single stir from the nether reaches of my home.

I headed downstairs to the family room and looked in on my kids. “Jackson, Johnny, seven minutes before we go. Please get your shoes and coats on right now, we have to leave!” I headed up flipping off lights along the way then quickly fixed my lipstick and grabbed a coat.

Timer check. Five minutes to go and they hadn’t moved an inch. That’s okay, I told myself, there is still plenty of time for them to get shoes on and get in the car if they come down right now.

“You guys, I’m serious. We have to leave now, please grab your shoes, I’m heading out to the car. Hurry!”

I headed out to the garage throwing the keys in the egnition and checking for my purse. Taking the stairs two at a time I entered the kitchen and looked at my phone: two minutes to departure.

There wasn’t a kid in sight. I looked around at the random shoes and coats strewn about the entry way, lazily waiting for me to do something about them already. How many times had I asked my kids to put their shoes in their room or hang up their backpacks? How many times did a woman have to kindly speak to her children before they actually listened?

And before I knew what was happening Nice Mom was replaced with Now I’m Going To Yell My Head off Until I Get a Little Respect Around Here Mom. And so the thunder storm began.

By the time I’d dragged my kids from their veritable projects and verbally forced them up the stairs and into shoes I was sweating.

“Gosh Mom,” Jackson said, “You don’t have to yell at us! All you have to do is ask!!”

“Yeah, Mom!” Johnny said, both hands on his hips. “You don’t have to be so MEAN!”

I know many professionals who say that parents in my position just drive away and leave their kids to teach them a lesson, or they make them come without shoes and coat. Unfortunately I don’t think they would have missed me, and while the “you’re coming with or without shoes” works for some people, it’s also really annoying to take your kids out, in February, with soggy socks on their feet.

I guess maybe it’s time to buy that book and see if scream-free parenting is myth or magic.

I'm tired of bad cell phone etiquette.

I recently went out for a night on the town with my husband. Shopping, eating, a movie -- it's something we do every now and again, but not nearly enough.

But this night, something was different. I happen to notice a group of ladies at an adjacent table clearly trying to reconnect with one another.  Unfortunately, one of the girls in the party seemed to spend the majority of the time on her fancy-schmancy new cell phone -- the kind of phone that will sell you a ticket to the moon if you have the right app.

Instead of the constant stream of rapidly interrupted conversation they should have been enjoying, any time there was a lull, she was instantly glued to her phone. Texting, gaming, updating her Facebook account and retrieving updates; it looked like she was spending as much time with her virtual friends as she may have spent with her immediate company.

This is something I'm noticing everywhere. I'll be having a conversation with someone when bam! They get a text. Without missing a beat, they pull out their phone, retrieve the text and often text back without even realizing how incredibly rude that kind of behavior is, or that they had disconnected from our conversation completely.

And I'm not innocent here. While I might not spend much time texting, I have to make a serious effort to let my phone ring unanswered when I'm talking to the pharmacist, or visiting with a professional. I've noticed that when people do take the time to consciously keep their attention on the person in front of them, despite the onslaught of cord-free interruptions we're all plagued with, it's appreciated.

The biggest problem is that the people rapidly picking up on these bad habits are our children. More and more teenagers are missing the importance of eye contact and verbal communication because so much of their social world revolves around cyberspace. A few months back, I had a young neighbor get offended at me. She sent me a text, letting me know in no uncertain terms why she was mad and what she thought I had done wrong.

I was stunned. Not, necessarily, because her accusations were invalid, but because she sent me a text. We live relatively close to one another. It wouldn't have taken five minutes to drive the distance or call me on the phone.

Instead, she texted things she would have never, ever said during a face-to-face conversation. This is the problem with virtual communication. And more and more kids are texting completely inappropriate things to one another -- things they would never say in person.

I fear that this kind of communication is making our kids the wrong kind of bold. Instead of paying attention to that natural thermostat for good versus bad, kids tend to push the line and say things that they can "get away with," because there's no physical repercussion to their irreverent joke or ill-thought-out rant.

Coming from a small but close family, I learned early on that clear communication is paramount to survival. I can remember being a young 14-year-old going to talk with my brother(s) about some family wrinkle.
It was unnerving, but that was the point.

There is a reason we do things in person; so much is lost through black-and-white letters. We each have a natural thermostat for things that are appropriate to say in a face-to-face conversation, and things that are not. Take the other person's reaction out of the equation and you might just say things you would later regret. And like my mother always says, she's thankful for the things she never said.

When it comes right down to it, cyber communication has pitfalls on every side. Whether the virtual world we live in is taking us away from the people we're standing with, or whether it's keeping us from facing up to someone who deserves eye contact, we could all stand to be a little more careful.
In the end, it's about more than good manners; it's about respect.

diet revolution

Isn’t it interesting that while sitting down to compose a soul-changing resolution list, something motivating and poetic geared toward personal peace and happiness, my first entry always begins with the word “Lose…” and usually ends with the word “…pounds”?

I tried this year. I have been wracking my brain for new and improved ways to improve my life, my mothering, my marriage, my home. Upon closer examination it appears that my soul could use a lot of work.

Unfortunately I’m way too wrapped up in my waistline to give my soul top billing.

When I put fingers to keyboard in my yearly attempt at self-betterment this morning, totally intending to focus on the big M’s (mothering, marriage), the only M’s I could think about were the peanut butter ones sitting in the bowl next to me.

“Lose ten pounds” was first on my list. I suppose that wherever #1 on your resolution list is, there your heart is also. Mine is in the candy bowl.

And my obsession isn’t even well-earned. I’ve got two kids and at least half my jeans fit, both my legs work (when walking), nothing wrong with my arms, and I’ve got a collection of shoes guaranteed to keep the word “drab” out of my vocabulary. I’m doing fine, why worry?

Because I can’t let go of those last ten pounds; usually six pounds but Christmas was kind of tasty this year.

But oh that is going to change. Tomorrow. Tomorrow it will change.

This morning I woke up de-ter-mined to rid my life of toxins like sugar and…well, sugar. The stuff is killing me. Three weeks of reckless abandon has cost me five pounds in the wrong direction. Five pounds! I can’t remember the last time the holidays did that to me.

I had a Sloppy Joe for dinner the night before, avoided the cinnamon rolls, left-over queso dip, chips, soda and bowl of candy, then made the mistake of running off to church the next morning at 9:00 without eating breakfast.

Note to self: remember breakfast.

By the time we pulled in the door at 12:45 I was ready to eat Aaron’s tie. I ran to the kitchen, held the medium bag of M&M’s up to my mouth and poured them down my gullet as fast as my little throat could swallow them.

Tomorrow I’m trying again. Rule #1 of dieting: Do. Not. Get. Hungry.