To take care of me, to pass the time without all of my children needing my care, and to help me sort out things in life, I've been walking. Extra. I really need to drop some pounds, and I also really like the thinking that happens while I walk. Finding the time, and staying motivated are, of course, the ever-present complicators, but I've found something that will work for at least the next month until school starts again.
I set my alarm for 6:10am, to be out the door by 6:30am. The sun isn't above the mountains yet at that time, so I can huff the mile uphill to the high school track without its rays beating down on me. I take Conor with me in the stroller, and now that Lyndsay is home, she comes too.
I walk for one hour.
Four miles.
Pushing the stroller. Uphill one mile. Around the track for two miles. Downhill one mile.
It's hard.
(I'm not as young or as fit as I once was!)
But, I decided that to reach my goals, a 20 or 30 minute walk just wasn't going to cut it. I needed to sweat more. Incidentally, pushing a stroller when you walk helps you burn 20% more calories, did you know? That little thought helps get me through as I'm pushing my three year old with all of my might.
Setting just a weight loss goal is too abstract for me. I don't even own a scale, so keeping track is difficult, but also, I don't want to be so tied down to a number, or discouraged when the losing is slow. So, I decided instead to reward myself for time spent exercising. A point system.
My minimum goal is 30 minutes a day, at least 5 days a week. For each 30 minutes, I get a point. So, for my hour-long walks I get 2 points. Then I needed something to work towards.
I need walking shoes! Badly. Mine are about seven years old, and bless their torn soles, they have carried me over thousands and thousands of miles. But you know how it is (or do you?) when you just can't bring yourself to spend money on you. But if I earn them. . .
So, that's my first reward. I decided on 40 points getting me a new pair of walking shoes. That would be 20 days of walking one hour. Almost three weeks, which is long enough that I will have come a long way towards establishing a habit, I should feel stronger, and I might even have some noticeable weight loss by then, at least to me. After my shoes, I'll set a point goal to earn other fun things, like a new dress, or a pair of jeans that make my (newly firmed up) butt look great.
Today was 22 points. That means I'm more than halfway to my new shoes! (I'd better have some money when I get to 40!)
So far, I haven't missed a day, except that I take Sundays off to rest. And I feel so, so good. I feel my lungs and my heart and my legs all getting stronger. I come home sweaty every day. And I feel happy that I'm honoring myself.
I noticed that when I began, pushing the stroller up that hill to the track was made more difficult because the whole time I was thinking things like, "Oh my gosh it is so hot already. I hate this. This is so hard. I am so out of shape." I'm trying to banish negative or defeating self-talk.
Now, I walk up that hill saying, "I am so strong! Look at me go! Fitter every day!"
I watched Louise Hay's You Can Heal Your Life, all about the power of affirmations and positive thinking. As I push Conor around the track I say to myself (and sometimes out loud, which Conor loves) "I am beautiful! I am healthy! I am strong! I can do anything! I love my life! I love my body! I am happy!"
And it works! It makes me walk taller and faster. It makes me smile.
And I'm getting there.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
The Love Languages
I recently read the book The Five Love Languages, by Gary Chapman, and its theory has been pressing on my mind ever since. I think it's true! I learned what my love language is (actually, I'm bilingual, speaking and understanding two love languages equally), and I learned what my husband's love language is--and that was a bit of a surprise!
The premise is this: We give and receive love differently. What feels like love to one person, does not to another. If you feel love in one way, and give it in the same, but to a person who receives love differently, it's as if you are literally speaking a different language. It can lead to many misunderstandings in a marriage relationship, where you have one spouse saying, "I just don't feel loved!" while the other spouse sits aghast, saying, "How can you not feel loved when I do (fill in the blank here)?" Simple. Different love language. Learning to speak your partner's love language can be as tricky as learning another spoken language. It might even feel unnatural at first, requiring conscious effort. But when you see the results of your partner's emotional love tank filling up, the rewards can be immeasurable, and returned to you ten-fold.
The five languages are these:
Words of Affirmation: you know, like praise, verbal encouragement, notes of adoration, love letters.
Physical Touch: this would be signs of physical affection, hugs, kisses, sex, massages, foot rubs.
Acts of Service: From a woman's perspective, a man helping around the house, pitching in without being asked, lightening a load. From a man's point of view, cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc. A woman who serves him.
Receiving Gifts: this is the person who loves a present. Small or large, wrapped or unwrapped, surprise or planned, give them a gift and they feel loved.
Quality Time: they just want a piece of you. A moment alone, just for them. A vacation, a walk after dinner, date night, just time to talk.
Now, we all like all of these, of course, but one (and sometimes two) are understood the loudest as our primary love language. (There are tests in the book for you and your spouse to take to determine what languages you each speak.) It's very interesting, actually. And while it revealed much to me about my relationship with my husband, as well as how I best feel loved and why, lately I've been transferring this theory to my relationships with my children as well.
I know the author has written a Love Language book for kids (and teens, in another volume), but I think I can pretty well figure out my children just from what I learned in the original book. And here's the funny thing:
They each speak different love languages!
Of course they do. Who said parenting was ever easy, right? But knowing this gives me a great advantage. Parents usually love their children in their (the parent's) love language because it is most familiar to them. I have one child who speaks my love language, so that child has a very full emotional "love tank". But with my other kids, I needed to listen more to their cues, and that, the author suggests, is a big, loud, screaming hint into the love language of others. Listen to what they ask for and what they complain about. (Same thing in marriage: if there is one theme that you usually are complaining about, odds are it has something to do with a love language that is not being spoken.)
I have one child whose love language is Quality Time. You know how I know? This child always wants to go on dates with me. I mean, this is something I do with all of my children, but this one child regularly reminds me, and is always looking forward to the next date. This child also is always the one who asks if I will play a game, read a story, or go on a walk. It doesn't matter where I'm going, this child wants to come with me.
I have another child, who I used to think was just a selfish, money-hungry, greedy child (kidding), but now I realize that this child's love language is Receiving Gifts. It can be a pack of gum or a video game or a bike. It almost doesn't matter what the gift costs, as long as it's a gift. This one is harder for me because Receiving Gifts is not my love language. In fact out of the five languages, it ranked last when I took the test. I love getting gifts, of course, and especially thoughtful gifts, but it is not how I feel loved.
I have another child, who, like me, speaks a primary love language of Words of Encouragement. The little love notes I stick in the kids' lunches every single day (easy for me, since it's my love language, so it feels natural to express love this way) mean the most to this child. The emails/letters/cards I send whenever the kids are away at their dad's are most appreciated by this child. Another tipoff here was that this is how this child most often expresses love to me, and we of course, do what feels natural to us.
Even the baby, though he's still young, has expressed signs of what his love language will be. I believe he's another Quality Time. He most often requests, "Snuggle me, Mom", and his second request is "Play with me, Mom?" Board games, Legos, Play-Doh, or coloring, he just wants me doing it with him.
Because three of my children speak love languages other than my own, it takes a bit of coordinating, and conscious effort to be sure that I learn to be fluent in the way that they will most feel love from me. I can plan little gifts and surprises for one, and outings and dates with another, while still expressing love in other ways too. And that's what I'm working out, while half of my kids are still gone. What can I do to make them feel so incredibly loved when they get home? It can be so frustrating to feel like nobody speaks your love language, that you need love in a way that you are not getting it. When that happens, we go looking for our love in different places.
So for my Quality Time child: I plan to bring this child with me on errands whenever possible. This child likes to go on my walks with me too. I also plan to have a dinner date before school starts to set new goals and talk about the upcoming year. Another idea I had was to keep this child up a bit later than bedtime to sit downstairs with me and have a bowl of cereal, just to talk.
For my Receiving Gifts child: I will reward more with tokens of love, rather than just words. A few bucks for extra jobs around the house, a pack of gum or a bag of chips just because, a little treat wrapped and left on the pillow with a note of love. His own pint of Ben and Jerry's when I go to the store.
For my Words of Encouragement child: Regular emails just because, expressing my love and appreciation and admiration. Periodic cards that I picked out especially with this child in mind, with a loving message written inside. Public praise of good works and a job well done, a note left in a backpack or on a pillow.
It takes some effort, but the best investment of my time as a parent is learning to speak the languages of my children's hearts. I believe that when their love tanks are empty, nothing I say matters, but when love tanks are full, everything I say does. I want them, especially now during these teen and preteen years, to feel the love that I have for them so that they will not go looking for love and acceptance in unhealthy or dangerous ways. If they know that I am willing to love them in the way that they understand and need, then they are more likely to trust me in other areas as well.
And of course, the loving is always good for the one giving the love too.
(p.s.--In case you were wondering, my second primary love language after Words of Affirmation, is Acts of Service, with Physical Touch being my secondary language.)
The premise is this: We give and receive love differently. What feels like love to one person, does not to another. If you feel love in one way, and give it in the same, but to a person who receives love differently, it's as if you are literally speaking a different language. It can lead to many misunderstandings in a marriage relationship, where you have one spouse saying, "I just don't feel loved!" while the other spouse sits aghast, saying, "How can you not feel loved when I do (fill in the blank here)?" Simple. Different love language. Learning to speak your partner's love language can be as tricky as learning another spoken language. It might even feel unnatural at first, requiring conscious effort. But when you see the results of your partner's emotional love tank filling up, the rewards can be immeasurable, and returned to you ten-fold.
The five languages are these:
Words of Affirmation: you know, like praise, verbal encouragement, notes of adoration, love letters.
Physical Touch: this would be signs of physical affection, hugs, kisses, sex, massages, foot rubs.
Acts of Service: From a woman's perspective, a man helping around the house, pitching in without being asked, lightening a load. From a man's point of view, cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc. A woman who serves him.
Receiving Gifts: this is the person who loves a present. Small or large, wrapped or unwrapped, surprise or planned, give them a gift and they feel loved.
Quality Time: they just want a piece of you. A moment alone, just for them. A vacation, a walk after dinner, date night, just time to talk.
Now, we all like all of these, of course, but one (and sometimes two) are understood the loudest as our primary love language. (There are tests in the book for you and your spouse to take to determine what languages you each speak.) It's very interesting, actually. And while it revealed much to me about my relationship with my husband, as well as how I best feel loved and why, lately I've been transferring this theory to my relationships with my children as well.
I know the author has written a Love Language book for kids (and teens, in another volume), but I think I can pretty well figure out my children just from what I learned in the original book. And here's the funny thing:
They each speak different love languages!
Of course they do. Who said parenting was ever easy, right? But knowing this gives me a great advantage. Parents usually love their children in their (the parent's) love language because it is most familiar to them. I have one child who speaks my love language, so that child has a very full emotional "love tank". But with my other kids, I needed to listen more to their cues, and that, the author suggests, is a big, loud, screaming hint into the love language of others. Listen to what they ask for and what they complain about. (Same thing in marriage: if there is one theme that you usually are complaining about, odds are it has something to do with a love language that is not being spoken.)
I have one child whose love language is Quality Time. You know how I know? This child always wants to go on dates with me. I mean, this is something I do with all of my children, but this one child regularly reminds me, and is always looking forward to the next date. This child also is always the one who asks if I will play a game, read a story, or go on a walk. It doesn't matter where I'm going, this child wants to come with me.
I have another child, who I used to think was just a selfish, money-hungry, greedy child (kidding), but now I realize that this child's love language is Receiving Gifts. It can be a pack of gum or a video game or a bike. It almost doesn't matter what the gift costs, as long as it's a gift. This one is harder for me because Receiving Gifts is not my love language. In fact out of the five languages, it ranked last when I took the test. I love getting gifts, of course, and especially thoughtful gifts, but it is not how I feel loved.
I have another child, who, like me, speaks a primary love language of Words of Encouragement. The little love notes I stick in the kids' lunches every single day (easy for me, since it's my love language, so it feels natural to express love this way) mean the most to this child. The emails/letters/cards I send whenever the kids are away at their dad's are most appreciated by this child. Another tipoff here was that this is how this child most often expresses love to me, and we of course, do what feels natural to us.
Even the baby, though he's still young, has expressed signs of what his love language will be. I believe he's another Quality Time. He most often requests, "Snuggle me, Mom", and his second request is "Play with me, Mom?" Board games, Legos, Play-Doh, or coloring, he just wants me doing it with him.
Because three of my children speak love languages other than my own, it takes a bit of coordinating, and conscious effort to be sure that I learn to be fluent in the way that they will most feel love from me. I can plan little gifts and surprises for one, and outings and dates with another, while still expressing love in other ways too. And that's what I'm working out, while half of my kids are still gone. What can I do to make them feel so incredibly loved when they get home? It can be so frustrating to feel like nobody speaks your love language, that you need love in a way that you are not getting it. When that happens, we go looking for our love in different places.
So for my Quality Time child: I plan to bring this child with me on errands whenever possible. This child likes to go on my walks with me too. I also plan to have a dinner date before school starts to set new goals and talk about the upcoming year. Another idea I had was to keep this child up a bit later than bedtime to sit downstairs with me and have a bowl of cereal, just to talk.
For my Receiving Gifts child: I will reward more with tokens of love, rather than just words. A few bucks for extra jobs around the house, a pack of gum or a bag of chips just because, a little treat wrapped and left on the pillow with a note of love. His own pint of Ben and Jerry's when I go to the store.
For my Words of Encouragement child: Regular emails just because, expressing my love and appreciation and admiration. Periodic cards that I picked out especially with this child in mind, with a loving message written inside. Public praise of good works and a job well done, a note left in a backpack or on a pillow.
It takes some effort, but the best investment of my time as a parent is learning to speak the languages of my children's hearts. I believe that when their love tanks are empty, nothing I say matters, but when love tanks are full, everything I say does. I want them, especially now during these teen and preteen years, to feel the love that I have for them so that they will not go looking for love and acceptance in unhealthy or dangerous ways. If they know that I am willing to love them in the way that they understand and need, then they are more likely to trust me in other areas as well.
And of course, the loving is always good for the one giving the love too.
(p.s.--In case you were wondering, my second primary love language after Words of Affirmation, is Acts of Service, with Physical Touch being my secondary language.)
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Something Smells
I like to smell right.
Of course clean, but I mean beyond that. I'm talkin' perfume. Sometimes a good lotion or body spray. I've gone through my phases over the years. In high school it was Anais Anais--well, I never had my own, but sometimes my friend would give me a spritz. Oh yeah, and Debbie Gibson's Electric Youth. Yum. Fruity and delicious. That's really how I like to smell. Fruity and Delicious. Then I switched to Bath and Body Works Warm Vanilla Sugar, and then to Creamy Coconut. Which is one of the yummiest smells ever, but was tragically discontinued, so I bought about 5 years' worth. And then they brought it back. Whew. Those lotions were good because they smelled wonderful when you put them on, but then throughout the day, the smell just got better and better. And even in the shower the next morning the steam would release that long-lasting fragrance and I would just smile and inhale deeply. Feeling delicious.
I've had a few other phases. Tried out whatever was hip and trendy at the time. But they never fit for long. I was always smelling myself saying, "Is this the way I want to smell?" Too conscious, though not bad, if that makes any sense.
I'm butchering this.
Then when I started selling Mary Kay, I tried out Elige for a bit. It smells so divine on my best friend. It made me happy to smell like her, when she was in another state. But then I tried Tribute, and I was a goner. I wanted to drink it. I love the smell of Tribute. Which is probably an old lady perfume, for all I know, but that little pink bottle? I love it.
And now I'm all out of it.
Actually, I can see a few drops in the bottom of the frosted glass, but I can't get them to line up with the little tube at the exact nanosecond that I push the spritzer. Believe me, I've tried. I've been very, very sad. I miss smelling delicious. Tribute would keep me happy all day. One spritz on the neck, one on my wrist, and all day long I was happy. Whenever I'd start to slip into sadness, I'd just take a quick sniff of my wrist, and ahhhhhhh. Yum. I'd catch a whiff as I rolled over in bed, and ahhhhhhhh, sweet dreams, Mary. Now my whole world is out of alignment.
So. I dragged out the old bottles to see if one of them could make an encore appearance. Yesterday I tried Clinique's Happy. Not so happy. Today I'm Tommy's Girl. Or not. And it isn't that they smell bad, they just don't smell like me, and all day long I keep smelling this fragrance that just won't quit, and all I want is my Tribute!
(Amber, quick, can't you save me?)
Do NOT tell me it's been discontinued.
This is very distracting.
Of course clean, but I mean beyond that. I'm talkin' perfume. Sometimes a good lotion or body spray. I've gone through my phases over the years. In high school it was Anais Anais--well, I never had my own, but sometimes my friend would give me a spritz. Oh yeah, and Debbie Gibson's Electric Youth. Yum. Fruity and delicious. That's really how I like to smell. Fruity and Delicious. Then I switched to Bath and Body Works Warm Vanilla Sugar, and then to Creamy Coconut. Which is one of the yummiest smells ever, but was tragically discontinued, so I bought about 5 years' worth. And then they brought it back. Whew. Those lotions were good because they smelled wonderful when you put them on, but then throughout the day, the smell just got better and better. And even in the shower the next morning the steam would release that long-lasting fragrance and I would just smile and inhale deeply. Feeling delicious.
I've had a few other phases. Tried out whatever was hip and trendy at the time. But they never fit for long. I was always smelling myself saying, "Is this the way I want to smell?" Too conscious, though not bad, if that makes any sense.
I'm butchering this.
Then when I started selling Mary Kay, I tried out Elige for a bit. It smells so divine on my best friend. It made me happy to smell like her, when she was in another state. But then I tried Tribute, and I was a goner. I wanted to drink it. I love the smell of Tribute. Which is probably an old lady perfume, for all I know, but that little pink bottle? I love it.
And now I'm all out of it.
Actually, I can see a few drops in the bottom of the frosted glass, but I can't get them to line up with the little tube at the exact nanosecond that I push the spritzer. Believe me, I've tried. I've been very, very sad. I miss smelling delicious. Tribute would keep me happy all day. One spritz on the neck, one on my wrist, and all day long I was happy. Whenever I'd start to slip into sadness, I'd just take a quick sniff of my wrist, and ahhhhhhh. Yum. I'd catch a whiff as I rolled over in bed, and ahhhhhhhh, sweet dreams, Mary. Now my whole world is out of alignment.
So. I dragged out the old bottles to see if one of them could make an encore appearance. Yesterday I tried Clinique's Happy. Not so happy. Today I'm Tommy's Girl. Or not. And it isn't that they smell bad, they just don't smell like me, and all day long I keep smelling this fragrance that just won't quit, and all I want is my Tribute!
(Amber, quick, can't you save me?)
Do NOT tell me it's been discontinued.
This is very distracting.
Monday, July 20, 2009
(Not So) Cool
One of the best quirky things about our house is that for some reason the air conditioning is most generous to the master bedroom. I'm not sure why; we have the same number of vents that the other bedrooms have, and all the vents in every room are opened, but I'll admit I don't want to do too much searching. I like feeling refrigerated. I love that though the thermostat is set to 78, my room feels more like 70. It's heaven.
I was enjoying the coolness yesterday afternoon while taking a nap after Church. Cold sheets, cold pillow--sheer bliss. In the evening we went to the home of a man in our ward who is a retired astrophysicist for JPL and who has written several books on planets and planetary rings and whose library walls are covered with framed awards and honors from NASA. He had an incredible Powerpoint presentation to show us, and he taught us all kinds of blow-your-mind type of stuff about the immensity of space, but the point of me telling you this is to get to the fact that when we got home, around 10pm, it was hotter upstairs than when we left, even though the A/C was running. The air coming out was not cold, and I was not happy.
Me no like hot.
We turned off the unit and I tried to swelter to sleep, but I just couldn't do it. All I could think about was how it was 109 degrees today and it's supposed to be hot all week long, and how grouchy I get when it's hot with no relief. I was having flashbacks of four years ago when we moved into this house in August, having been told that it had air conditioning, when in fact it did not. I remembered how that happened to be the summer of record-breaking heat, and how we sat there, newly married, having only just met 10 weeks earlier, staring at each other and our 5 red-faced, sweaty kids, nearly dying of heat stroke while everything we owned was stacked in boxes all around us. I remembered how our cat almost died. He wouldn't eat, he wouldn't drink, he just layed there. We'd have to put him in a tub of cold water every day just to keep him from slipping into a heat-induced coma.
It was awful. We didn't get the promised air conditioning until March of the next year.
I cannot do that again. For real.
At 1:30am, I took a pillow and went downstairs to sleep on the couch where, thankfully, it was cooler. At 3:30am, I had just barely dozed off to sleep when the lights were flung on in the livingroom and I about scared Adam to death as he came down for a middle-of-the-night snack. He hadn't even come to bed yet, as he was working, so he didn't know I'd come downstairs to sleep. You should have seen how much air he caught in his terror of hearing a voice yell, "Hey!" at 3:30 in the morning when he turned on the light. I'm still laughing about it. Fear reactions (after the fact, of course) have got to be one of the funniest things ever.
Anyway, not much sleep last night. At 7am it was already 84 degrees upstairs. It's going to be a long day. I put in a call to our landlord and begged him to save us.
Now we wait. And sweat. I'm so, so tired. But I'm afraid that if I fall asleep I may never wake up again.
Death might be better.
I was enjoying the coolness yesterday afternoon while taking a nap after Church. Cold sheets, cold pillow--sheer bliss. In the evening we went to the home of a man in our ward who is a retired astrophysicist for JPL and who has written several books on planets and planetary rings and whose library walls are covered with framed awards and honors from NASA. He had an incredible Powerpoint presentation to show us, and he taught us all kinds of blow-your-mind type of stuff about the immensity of space, but the point of me telling you this is to get to the fact that when we got home, around 10pm, it was hotter upstairs than when we left, even though the A/C was running. The air coming out was not cold, and I was not happy.
Me no like hot.
We turned off the unit and I tried to swelter to sleep, but I just couldn't do it. All I could think about was how it was 109 degrees today and it's supposed to be hot all week long, and how grouchy I get when it's hot with no relief. I was having flashbacks of four years ago when we moved into this house in August, having been told that it had air conditioning, when in fact it did not. I remembered how that happened to be the summer of record-breaking heat, and how we sat there, newly married, having only just met 10 weeks earlier, staring at each other and our 5 red-faced, sweaty kids, nearly dying of heat stroke while everything we owned was stacked in boxes all around us. I remembered how our cat almost died. He wouldn't eat, he wouldn't drink, he just layed there. We'd have to put him in a tub of cold water every day just to keep him from slipping into a heat-induced coma.
It was awful. We didn't get the promised air conditioning until March of the next year.
I cannot do that again. For real.
At 1:30am, I took a pillow and went downstairs to sleep on the couch where, thankfully, it was cooler. At 3:30am, I had just barely dozed off to sleep when the lights were flung on in the livingroom and I about scared Adam to death as he came down for a middle-of-the-night snack. He hadn't even come to bed yet, as he was working, so he didn't know I'd come downstairs to sleep. You should have seen how much air he caught in his terror of hearing a voice yell, "Hey!" at 3:30 in the morning when he turned on the light. I'm still laughing about it. Fear reactions (after the fact, of course) have got to be one of the funniest things ever.
Anyway, not much sleep last night. At 7am it was already 84 degrees upstairs. It's going to be a long day. I put in a call to our landlord and begged him to save us.
Now we wait. And sweat. I'm so, so tired. But I'm afraid that if I fall asleep I may never wake up again.
Death might be better.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Anniversary
This was the card I gave to Adam this morning. It may not be the most romantic of notions, on this our 4th anniversary, but some things are worth acknowledging, rather than glossing over.
Namely, we're still in the game.
Last night I stayed up until the wee hours of the night putting together a slideshow of pictures and music of our first four years together. I saw something wonderful. While the years have been filled with challenges, another thing has been happening in the background: we have been building a life, and a new family together. And that ain't easy, especially when the odds are stacked against us.
Sometimes it's easy to think that it's all been hard, but what I saw before my eyes were birthdays, and Christmases, Halloweens, and Easters. First days of school, graduations, soccer seasons, baseball seasons, Tae Kwon Do tournaments, and dance recitals. Family dinners and company dinners, game nights, and karaoke jams. A baby blessing, baptisms, ordinations, advancements in scouting, and pinewood derby trophies (lots of them!). Temple trips, beach trips, road trips, and zoo trips.
And kids growing up right before my eyes. Teens emerging out of thin air, and more on their heels. A baby born right here at home. Firsts of everything, then a toddler, now almost a preschooler. Girls camp, Scout camp, day camp. Homeschooling, public schooling.
A whirlwind of activity in the background of a new life being forged from two broken ones. No, make that seven broken ones. And one new little addition to bind us all together. So, with all of those blessings and triumphs, smiles, and memories, how could I put more focus on the trials and opposition than on all the goodness that has been developing right under my nose?
And the truth is, that while I've baked a lot of cakes and cooked a lot of dinners, created holidays, and scrubbed a lot of floorsfacestoiletstableshandssinkswallsbottomsnosescounterscarpets, I haven't done it just for me, and I haven't done it all by myself. I do have a husband who is trying to love me and serve me too, and who, when it's all said and done is still here too. Fighting. And I gotta say, that I love him for that.
We really are building a life. And so, we've had some setbacks. The important thing is that we're still trying and it was heartwarming to see what has happened in four years worth of pictures, set to Rascal Flatts singing "God bless the broken road that led me straight to you."
Four years. I believe in miracles.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Guardian Angels
My husband and I bought our first little home right around the time that I turned 21. It was a cute little brick rambler, with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a sprawling backyard situated in a cul-de-sac in Mesa, Arizona. I was only two months away from giving birth to our first baby, Adam was a full-time student, and I felt like we'd joined the ranks of adult responsibility.
We found out where our new ward would meet, and walking in that first Sunday was different. This was a real ward, it seemed. All of our previous wards were transient wards, filled with college students and young couples biding their time in apartments until moving on to the next phase of life. People came and went so frequently that we never really felt like we knew anyone at all, with a few exceptions. But this ward, this ward was comprised of families young and old, big and small, all living in houses. There was a permanence, and a feeling of settling in and making a home here.
I remember one Sunday, walking the hallways with my white-tighted, thunder-thighed baby Lyndsay who didn't want to just sit quietly and allow her parents to listen. A woman with a bright smile and the kindest eyes approached me. I knew who she was, as she and her husband held leadership positions in the ward, but I had never had the chance to really talk to her. Her name was Marianne. She oodled my baby. She had five of her own, but they were past the delicious baby stage, and apparently, she wasn't. She loved my little Lyndsay, and Lyndsay loved her too. Lyndsay reminded her of her oldest daughter, Mary Jo. Marianne could always elicit the biggest, gummiest smiles from her. That was it. That was how we bonded. Over my chubby, cute-as-can-be baby girl. And I was drawn to her.
Marianne was full of life and light and wisdom. We chatted for long periods of time on the phone, about her missionary son, her about-to-be married daughter, and her three younger kids to whom she was completely devoted. She had twinkling eyes, filled with so much love, and she had a way of making me feel validated and understood. I looked to her as a model of wifehood, motherhood, and homemaker extraordinaire. Marianne's home was warm and inviting. She literally always had cookies fresh from the oven, and she was famous for her homemade rolls, which she would bake by the hundred for ward and family parties.
Marianne was called as the Relief Society President (the women's organization), and she called me as her first counselor. I was completely overwhelmed. I was not even 22. But Marianne believed in me, and under her wise leadership and mentoring I learned so much about how to love and serve.
Marianne was very attuned to the Spirit. She was one of those women who would literally call you up one day, out of the blue, and say, "What's going on? I cannot get you off my mind." And you would burst into tears because at that very moment you were on your knees pleading for help from God, for some kind of divine intervention in your life. She was an angel like that for me on more than one difficult occasion. She sat on my couch and cried with me when I learned that my parents were splitting up, and she'd never even met my parents. She was that kind of friend.
One day, she knocked on my door and handed me a gift. Inside was a framed quote on beautiful ivory embossed paper, which read, "For thou art an elect lady. Keep my commandments continually and a crown of righteousness thou shalt receive." It came at a point in my life where I was having serious doubts about my worth. She knew, and she wanted to be sure that I had a reminder that no matter what was going on in my earthly relationships, I had a heavenly relationship that would never falter.
I loved Marianne. We ended up selling our little house, after Adam's college graduation, another baby and a decision to move up to Show Low so Adam could start a real estate business with his father. Marianne and her family moved away shortly after that, and I lost touch with her. She started a kindergarten-ready program and continued to serve in the Church. Her children started getting married and having families of their own. At each stage of my life, she has never been far from my mind. My heart reached out to her so many times, but I could never find where she was to reconnect. I know she would have been devastated upon learning that my marriage had ended. I know she would have prayed with me and held me and cried with me. I know she would have loved to hear the juicy details of every boyfriend that came and went during those in-between years, and I'm sure she would have been thrilled to know that I had married again. She would have loved my next squishy baby for sure.
I really missed her. I Googled her, but with no luck. I asked around, from time to time, but everyone knew someone who knew how to get in touch with her, and then I didn't follow through. But just a few days ago, another friend from that ward way back in the early days of my grown-up life, found me on Facebook. A new last name and everything! Amazing! It was a thrill. Her kids are grown now too, two married, one on a mission, one in college, her little one that was born when Lyndsay was is entering high school. We caught up on all of that, and then I asked her if she knew how I could find Marianne. "I have missed her," I said. "I would just love to reconnect with her. She had such a profound influence on my life." And then my friend told me that Marianne had passed away, just a few months ago, after a short battle with cancer. I sat there in complete shock.
Gone? She's gone? How can that be possible? How did I not notice that the world is a little less bright? Memories came flooding through my mind of things that she'd said to me, things we'd talked about as she mothered me along. I could picture her dresses on Sunday, her cookies, her rolls, the smell of her house at Christmastime, her kissing on my baby Lyndsay and giggling.
Not fair. I needed to talk to her. I should have tried harder.
I looked up her obituary online, just to be sure. It doesn't even seem possible, but there she was. I guess she finished what she was sent here to do. A job well done, that's for sure. How grateful I am that my path was carved parallel to hers for a time, and that we could reach across and hold hands. She is a woman that I aspire to be like, and will never forget.
I wonder if heaven takes requests for Guardian Angels? Because I'd pick Marianne.
We found out where our new ward would meet, and walking in that first Sunday was different. This was a real ward, it seemed. All of our previous wards were transient wards, filled with college students and young couples biding their time in apartments until moving on to the next phase of life. People came and went so frequently that we never really felt like we knew anyone at all, with a few exceptions. But this ward, this ward was comprised of families young and old, big and small, all living in houses. There was a permanence, and a feeling of settling in and making a home here.
I remember one Sunday, walking the hallways with my white-tighted, thunder-thighed baby Lyndsay who didn't want to just sit quietly and allow her parents to listen. A woman with a bright smile and the kindest eyes approached me. I knew who she was, as she and her husband held leadership positions in the ward, but I had never had the chance to really talk to her. Her name was Marianne. She oodled my baby. She had five of her own, but they were past the delicious baby stage, and apparently, she wasn't. She loved my little Lyndsay, and Lyndsay loved her too. Lyndsay reminded her of her oldest daughter, Mary Jo. Marianne could always elicit the biggest, gummiest smiles from her. That was it. That was how we bonded. Over my chubby, cute-as-can-be baby girl. And I was drawn to her.
Marianne was full of life and light and wisdom. We chatted for long periods of time on the phone, about her missionary son, her about-to-be married daughter, and her three younger kids to whom she was completely devoted. She had twinkling eyes, filled with so much love, and she had a way of making me feel validated and understood. I looked to her as a model of wifehood, motherhood, and homemaker extraordinaire. Marianne's home was warm and inviting. She literally always had cookies fresh from the oven, and she was famous for her homemade rolls, which she would bake by the hundred for ward and family parties.
Marianne was called as the Relief Society President (the women's organization), and she called me as her first counselor. I was completely overwhelmed. I was not even 22. But Marianne believed in me, and under her wise leadership and mentoring I learned so much about how to love and serve.
Marianne was very attuned to the Spirit. She was one of those women who would literally call you up one day, out of the blue, and say, "What's going on? I cannot get you off my mind." And you would burst into tears because at that very moment you were on your knees pleading for help from God, for some kind of divine intervention in your life. She was an angel like that for me on more than one difficult occasion. She sat on my couch and cried with me when I learned that my parents were splitting up, and she'd never even met my parents. She was that kind of friend.
One day, she knocked on my door and handed me a gift. Inside was a framed quote on beautiful ivory embossed paper, which read, "For thou art an elect lady. Keep my commandments continually and a crown of righteousness thou shalt receive." It came at a point in my life where I was having serious doubts about my worth. She knew, and she wanted to be sure that I had a reminder that no matter what was going on in my earthly relationships, I had a heavenly relationship that would never falter.
I loved Marianne. We ended up selling our little house, after Adam's college graduation, another baby and a decision to move up to Show Low so Adam could start a real estate business with his father. Marianne and her family moved away shortly after that, and I lost touch with her. She started a kindergarten-ready program and continued to serve in the Church. Her children started getting married and having families of their own. At each stage of my life, she has never been far from my mind. My heart reached out to her so many times, but I could never find where she was to reconnect. I know she would have been devastated upon learning that my marriage had ended. I know she would have prayed with me and held me and cried with me. I know she would have loved to hear the juicy details of every boyfriend that came and went during those in-between years, and I'm sure she would have been thrilled to know that I had married again. She would have loved my next squishy baby for sure.
I really missed her. I Googled her, but with no luck. I asked around, from time to time, but everyone knew someone who knew how to get in touch with her, and then I didn't follow through. But just a few days ago, another friend from that ward way back in the early days of my grown-up life, found me on Facebook. A new last name and everything! Amazing! It was a thrill. Her kids are grown now too, two married, one on a mission, one in college, her little one that was born when Lyndsay was is entering high school. We caught up on all of that, and then I asked her if she knew how I could find Marianne. "I have missed her," I said. "I would just love to reconnect with her. She had such a profound influence on my life." And then my friend told me that Marianne had passed away, just a few months ago, after a short battle with cancer. I sat there in complete shock.
Gone? She's gone? How can that be possible? How did I not notice that the world is a little less bright? Memories came flooding through my mind of things that she'd said to me, things we'd talked about as she mothered me along. I could picture her dresses on Sunday, her cookies, her rolls, the smell of her house at Christmastime, her kissing on my baby Lyndsay and giggling.
Not fair. I needed to talk to her. I should have tried harder.
I looked up her obituary online, just to be sure. It doesn't even seem possible, but there she was. I guess she finished what she was sent here to do. A job well done, that's for sure. How grateful I am that my path was carved parallel to hers for a time, and that we could reach across and hold hands. She is a woman that I aspire to be like, and will never forget.
I wonder if heaven takes requests for Guardian Angels? Because I'd pick Marianne.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Good Wives
No, this isn't a post about my marriage. You can relax. Nobody needs to shift uncomfortably in his/her seat, or call my husband to tattle. For the sake of everyone's feelings, I'm going to try to steer clear of that arena, mostly. At least on this blog. 
This is a post about the women who lived in Northern New England during the years 1650-1750. I'm reading about them, again, in Laurel Thatcher Ulrich's historical account, Good Wives. That is what they were called. If you've read Puritan or Colonial-era novels and ever wondered why every woman's name seemed to be 'Goody', well, that's why. It was used like "Mrs." is today, a term of respect, and even admiration for a woman who took her job as a wife and keeper seriously. For some reason, every now and again when I need a kick in the pants about housework and other duties, reading about the colonial women and their lives is both comforting and inspiring to me.Whenever I think that my domestic burdens might overtake me, a reminder that I don't have to keep a fire going, milk a cow or butcher a pig, bottle peaches, bake bread (after my husband grows the wheat and mills it in town), spin, weave, or mend, sweep, cook, and scrub laundry, all by hand, and all without any convenience (the least of which would be air conditioning! whew!), I begin to feel a whole lot better. And then, oddly, reading about the industriousness and efficiency, and productivity of my colonial sisters prods me to get up and do something in my sphere of homemaking and housekeeping. And not only to do it, but to do it with joy and thanksgiving that I have a house and home to keep, a family to care for, the strength of body to fulfill my duties, and all the modern conveniences of the year 2009!
I worked on a flower bed in the front yard last week, needing something living and green to care for. I toiled in the hot sun, digging down and turning over the soil, and then planting and watering. Every evening Conor and I go out to water, and I can't help but feel like singing to see them all still alive and thriving!
My yard, oh my sad yard!, deadened patches of grass, overtaken with the vilest of weeds, I've turned my attention to its resurrection. Digging weeds, spraying weeds, pulling weeds. Watering grass, watering dirt, raking and aerating. Lots of praying and faith, surely. It would seem to even the most hopeful eye to be a lost cause. We'll see. There are lessons there for me, of that I am acutely aware and humbled by.
It's criminal, isn't it? And after sweeping it up, it will look like this again in three days.More raking. More sweeping. A few impatiens plants under the walnut tree. A red geranium on the front porch. Nothing really even noticeable to anyone but me, but these things take time. And more and more it has been pressing on my mind to plant a garden. So much work would need to be done, but I am fixed and determined to find a way. One hundred square feet in the backyard and then some herb and strawberry beds along the side yard. A little at a time, it will get there. I need it. My soul needs it. Growth and life and fruitfulness.
Then I bake. With love. I baked a cake for a friend's husband's birthday this weekend. I don't even know why I volunteered, but I did, and it gave me joy. Tonight, a picnic with the ward, and I will bring something nourishing.I feel like sewing. (But not mending, sorry, Laurel. Didn't get me there yet.) I feel like maybe some light housework--no scouring, necessarily. But still, I feel a kinship with these women who came before me, these women among whom I have ancestors and have done temple work for. These women who maybe passed down to me through ancient DNA a love of house and hearth, a happy family, and a hard day's work.
It does a woman good.
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