In the Groove

You know the feeling. When you're right where you're supposed to be, doing just what you're intended to do. In the groove. I'm groovin'.

My friend, Luisa, was the first to invite me to blogland, and though I initially felt small and insignificant, befuddled, and bemused, I am so grateful that she believed in me enough to coax me along out of my comfort zone.

My new writer and author friends, Josi, Annette, Heather, Julie, and Traci, who honor me with their continued readership of this little blog, have also given me a virtual thumbs up to pursue writing beyond it. Their votes of confidence have filled me with enough courage to give it more focus.

So, it was with huge thrill that I received a pat on the back in the form of an acceptance for a little article I sent off to Desert Saints Magazine last week. (Thanks for the nudge, Heather!) And I've sent several other projects off to various publications, and have begun more earnestly on THE BOOK. I also was asked to write a Christmas play for a ward in Arizona, and the opportunity both humbles and excites me. It feels really, really, well...groovey.

Language of Love

One of my sons has made a little tradition of finding "love" for me in nature. It started when he was a preschooler, and was going on an outing away from me and I asked him, "Are you going to think of me?" He answered with an exuberant, "Yes!" and I said, "Then, bring me back a really special rock, just for me!" That first time, he was hiking in the woods with his dad and upon looking down, found a flat rock with the top baring a chip out of it in the shape of a heart. He brought it home to me, so pleased with his treasure, and I have kept it ever since.

Just before he left with his siblings to spend two weeks with his dad in Arizona, he brought me in an assortment of leaves he had gathered, which when held upside down were heart-shaped. Into the largest, he had carved with his pocketknife "I Love You".

There have been many of these little tokens of love throughout the years. It is our special mother-son language, and I cherish it. I love that Heavenly Father scatters love around His world for the taking, and for the sharing.

This past weekend was a soul-stretching experience of humility, teaching, and awareness for me personally. The Lord has said that whom he loveth, he chasteneth (Heb. 12:6). I know that is true in my role as a parent as well. I will correct and redirect my children's behavior because I love them and care about where they are headed. I consider my chastenings from the Lord a privilege and a heavenly tutelage of parental love and concern for me. If we go to him in humility, not only will he show us our weaknesses, but He will make our weak things strong (Ether 12:27). I felt that I sat at his feet for several days having my eyes opened to my possibilities as his child. I felt that he opened my heart a bit wider and taught me how I might love more as he did. The evidence of his love for me personally seemed to come from every direction so that I would be sure not to miss it. He knew I was broken-hearted with the weight of my shortcomings, but he wanted me to focus on His love, not my weaknesses. I can do all things through him (Philip. 4:13). I am strengthened by him.

Sunday Night Special

Well, my teenager acted like a teenager tonight for the first real time. I took all the kids (except for Conor, who stayed home with Dad) to the Spring Concert of the Foothill Women's Chorus at the church tonight. They were performing the Vivaldi Gloria, and there were some other smaller musical performances as well, including a cello orchestra that about knocked my socks off. Most of the cellists were under the age of 14 and have been playing since they were teeny-tiny. It was incredible. One of the perks of living in the Los Angeles area is the abundance of amazing talent we have in our wards and stakes.

Anyway, with promises of refreshments to follow, I had the kids get back into Sunday clothes at 6:30 to go to the Stake Center. Lyndsay called her friend Katie to come with us, so her mom dropped her off and she drove up with us. As we're walking up to the building, Lyns, (who acts more than a shade differently when her teenage friends are around) asks if she and Katie can sit by themselves somewhere else in the chapel.

"You don't want to sit with us? With me?"

"C'mon, Mom."

"No."

(now she adds her cutesy little 'I'm so innocent' thing to her voice, and tilts her head just so.) And I repeat, "No. We sit with our families. What, do I embarrass you or something, cause I'm pretty darn cool."

"No, Mom, it's not that."

"The boys, then? Is it the boys? Just sit on the other side of me from the boys."

"M-om. Please?"

I stop walking now, and turn around to face her. "I only have so many years of sitting with you left. You will sit with me, and you will love it." I start to resume walking, and then throw over my shoulder, "Besides, children who don't want to sit with their parents are children who have something naughty up their sleeves. I remember. I was a child once." And I catch her eye for just a second with a little wink in her direction.

After we're seated, with the boys separated on either sides of the bench, Lyns leans over to me. She has no choice but to let the cat out of the bag now that her plan has been foiled. "Um, Mom? Ethan's going to be here in just a few minutes to sit with us, okay? His mom is dropping him off. Katie texted him from the car and told him to come."

Oh, I see. The Truth comes out.

Well, you gotta get up pretty early, my darling daughter. Pretty early, indeed.

When Ethan arrived, I greeted him, and sat his 15 year old self right down next to me, several bodies away from my not-even-14 year-old Lyndsay. I was glad he was there. While we waited for the music to begin I taught him to identify all the flowers in the floral bouquets, all the instruments in the orchestra, that Vivaldi's first name was Antonio, and how to translate some of the Latin titles of the pieces being performed. After all, I knew he must have been interested in classical music to have his mom drive him all the way down to the Stake Center on a moment's notice.

I did, however, let him eat a cookie next to Lyndsay and Katie. Wanna know what's even funnier than watching self-conscious teens eating in front of each other? Watching self-conscious teens with braces eating in front of each other! A good time for all. And some great music with a little culture to boot!

Easter Kids--a week late!

I kept thinking I'd get around to posting these, but you know how that goes! We didn't have Caitlin and Sean with us this year, but we had an earlier celebration with them complete with giant coconut cream eggs (and peanut butter eggs this year too). The only downside to Easter was terrible allergies and then of course there was Aiden's haircut that night. Ahem.

Joy in the Journey

In 2000, my husband and I took our three children to Alaska for a family vacation. At the time the kids were 6, 4 ½, and 6 months. Alaska had been a dream of both of ours; something about the wildness of it, the breathtaking majesty of it. We were dying to go, to make Alaska real for us, instead of just glossy images in travel magazines and coffee table books. Being the homeschooling family that we are, we also look for opportunities for our children to experience the world. Adam and I could have gone alone on this trip, but then we would have been plagued with thoughts of, "Oh, I wish the kids could see this!" Thus, it wasn’t really a matter of question.

Adam planned an event-filled itinerary for us. After all, if we were finally going to Alaska, we wanted to see it all. We rented a minivan and toured around, using Anchorage as our hub. We stayed in Anchorage, took some day trips, traveled as far south as Seward, back to Anchorage, and then as far north as Fairbanks. All in all, during the two weeks we were there, we drove almost 2000 miles. That’s a lot of driving with three young kids-- especially with a nursing baby and a daughter who is notoriously carsick.

Our friends had given us a suggestion: "You know," they said, "they make these TV’s for cars now. They have VCR’s and you can just pop in movies and your kids will be just glued to the thing so you can drive in peace." Hmmm. "But," I said, "how will they be able to watch for animals out the car windows?" After all, we had psyched our kids up for this grand adventure by promising them abundant wildlife. We told them about the moose just walking around like they owned the place, bald eagles everywhere, maybe even a bear!

Our friends said, "They can look when you get there. Isn’t a nice peaceful car ride worth it?" Now, don’t get me wrong. I drive around with kids all the time, and I’m not oblivious to what that can mean. I do like nice, peaceful car rides, but this was our adventure. Because we would be spending so much time in the car on this trip, the car ride was a good deal of that adventure. I didn’t want them to wait till we got there to look around and be amazed. I didn’t want them to miss the Dall Sheep on the side of the mountain, or the waterfalls cascading down the sides of mountains from melting snow, or the ethereal blue of the icebergs floating in the bay thinking they could probably see that "when we stop". I wasn’t going to zone them out for the sake of a ‘nice, peaceful car ride’ and sacrifice the learning and their big, wide-open eyes, and the excitement that we could experience all together as a family. So, we opted for no TV and VCR.

We did stop many, many times along the way. We stopped at all the scenic viewpoints. We stopped for Adam to follow a moose up a grassy embankment. (Not the smartest idea, I know, but Alaska gets to you that way.) We stopped to watch a cocky red fox trot down the side of the road with some fresh road-kill in his mouth. We stopped for Lyndsay to throw up. We stopped to nurse the baby. We stopped to stare at Mount McKinley. We stopped for potty and food breaks. We stopped to watch salmon. We stopped to eat salmon. We stopped for Lyndsay to throw up. We stopped to touch the Alaska Pipeline. We stopped to nurse the baby. We stopped to watch for whales breaching. We stopped to watch a baby mountain goat manage with finesse the sheer rock face of a mountain. We stopped to watch dozens of regal bald eagles sitting on the wet sand of low tide. And you know what? It was fantastic fun. It was as if we had been transplanted to an untouched world of beauty, and we all learned so many things every single day. Who would have wanted to watch movies? We did sing songs. We did listen to books on tape. And we played lots and lots of guessing games. But in all those things, and in all the wonder around us, we grew as a family, all along the way. It was a time none of us will ever forget. Even now, though that marriage ended within two years of our trip, he and I both regard that adventure as one of the finest we ever shared, and we each are grateful for the experience. The memories and the joy were in the journey. What made the difference for us was not waiting to be somewhere, but enjoying getting there.

So it is, hopefully, with my personal journey in motherhood. I need to continually remind myself that the joy is in the process of raising children, not in having them raised successfully. I am prone to staying on the road with the car on cruise control, focused on my goal of educated, articulate, well-mannered, poised, and lovable children. I must remember to look out the windows from time to time and just enjoy the scenery. Much of the journey is simply the monotony of doing that which has been un-done over and over again. Much of the journey is drudgery and boring. Much of it is thankless. But there are scenic points along the way, and I don't want to miss them because I'm focused on the destination!

It isn't all that far off that my nest will be empty. In four years my oldest child will go off to college. Her siblings will soon follow suit. My days of little ones underfoot are short lived. When my oldest was born, I thought I had forever. I see more clearly now. If I don’t pay attention to the scenery along the way, I forfeit one of the greatest thrills of the motherhood ride. I love the days when things go smoothly. But that isn’t every day. It isn't even most days.

I'm learning to be okay with that. I want to play outside with them on a sunny day. I want to talk with them past bedtime. I want to read them another story, even though they're teenagers. I want to play a board game even though there are dishes to do. I want to be in their presence with absolutely nothing to do but be. I want them to enjoy the ride, just as much as I am. And once I get them to where they're going, I want them to always remember the way back home.

Simmering Down

I used to think I knew everything. I thought I was blessed with an innate knowledge of the truth of all things and spot-on opinions. You could disagree with me if you wanted to, but, well, you’d be wrong. I have always known that I had something to say. What took me years to realize, however, was that I should learn to shut up in order to say it.

My poor first husband. Backed into every imaginable corner by my expertise. I really meant well. I loved him with all my soul, at least with all of my available soul. I admired him, respected him, and stood by his side with loyalty, as long as his "side" was my side. What I wish now, looking back, was that I had shut up long enough to listen to him. And actually hear him. He was trying to tell me. He loved me, but he needed me to shut up. He couldn't even whole-heartedly leave me, but still I wouldn’t close my mouth. I was too busy telling him how wrong he was and exactly what he should do.

My Italian grandmother visited with me several days before I was to get married for the second time. She taught me how to make the most incredible marinara sauce. "The most important ingredients for the deep, rich flavor of the sauce," she taught me, "are the ones you can’t see." First, we browned several beef ribs in olive oil, and then added the chopped garlic, onion, paste, tomatoes, and Italian herbs. Throw in a bay leaf. Let them simmer together for hours, even all day long. Take out the ribs and the bay leaf. Their flavors will be there. The best sauce has all of the flavors perfectly seasoned by time and low heat. If you sample the sauce and taste garlic, it’s not done. If the oregano jumps out on your tongue, it needs more time.

Well, wasn’t I undercooked! I was definitely under-seasoned. Not enough time, definitely too much heat. Trying to make the best "sauce" in my life like some sort of train wreck through everyone else’s. Hopefully the passing years and the lessons from heartbreak have taught me well. Thank goodness for second chances.

It was my father who told me, "You know, you don’t always have to say something. Don’t waste your words." I have come to observe that the wisest people realize with deep humility just how un-wise they really are. They know that they will learn more from listening than from talking. That’s what I’m learning now. Thankfully, I have been blessed with people around me who are forgiving and who see that my heart really is in the right place. They are the wise ones, leaving me to simmer a bit longer so that my flavors could mellow out and not be so overpowering. I like to believe that they saw the combination of raw ingredients in me and felt sure that they would turn out palatable with enough experience and enough heat. People don’t want just oregano screaming at them from their spaghetti. And you don’t have to announce that the beef ribs were in there; the rich flavor they left behind is evidence enough to satisfy even the amateur tongue.

I am finding great satisfaction in simmering over low heat in my life. Opening my ears and eyes, and shutting my mouth. The ironic thing is that we say so much more by the way we live our lives than by what comes out of our mouth. The other ironic thing is that the less we say the more others listen, and the greater chance we then have to say that which we were born to say.

Oops, I did it Again...

So, when you factor in the humiliation and the fact that I now owe him $5 for emotional pain and suffering, I probably should have just paid the $7 to have the non-English speaking Armenian lady cut his hair. Poor Aiden.

It was a complete accident! He asked last night if I would cut his hair short and spikey, so I got out the clippers. Did a #3 on the bottom and a #6 on top. It was looking pretty sweet and I thought I just wanted to go over this one area to clip a few escapee hairs, when all of a sudden, the little black combie thing just fell off, and buzzzzzz went the clippers right across the back of his head.

"Oh, no!" I said.

Lyndsay looked at me and we both busted into laughter.

"That's two for two, Mom," Aiden said, referring to a similar landing-strip incident right down the center of Dylan's head a few years earlier. They both were such good sports, and handled it with a great sense of humor. I felt awful, but nobody could tell that from my fits of laughter and the tears streaming down my face.

"I'll fix it," I comforted. "Don't worry." Really, the only thing I could do was buzz the bottom off with a #1, and then pray it grows back really fast. It does look tons better, but we're just grateful that only people behind him can tell. That way he's sure to not see them laughing.

Lyndsay warns me I'm not to even think about touching her hair. No worries there.