I just wanted you to know that you’re doing something right

I got an interesting compliment at church today. Often when I get pep talks from people who aren’t chasing kids, I roll my eyes and escape. But this lady is also my favorite Sunday School teacher, and someone I admire. She was right; my kids were being pretty quiet: Spot was nursing/sleeping, Susan was snarfing Cheerios (even though I’d fed her a big bowl of cereal right before we left home), and Sally was running one of our new little cars (boy toys!) up and down a hymnal.

It had been a hectic morning getting everyone ready. I finished up my lesson preparation for Relief Society (the women’s class) around 8 am. Our late trip to Busch Gardens on Saturday paid off, though, in kids sleeping in until I was ready to deal with them. Church begins at the extremely civilized hour of 10 o’clock; I actually thought I was ready to walk out the door at 9:25, until I remembered the three bags (diaper, fun/nursery and scriptures/lesson) I needed to pack, and the small valuables I should probably gather to hide in our car since the house across the street was broken into this week.

Sis. M knows about my frustrations and feelings of inadequacy. She probably saw the grimace on my face as we walked in 5 minutes (so close! for once!) late. But she didn’t know that I somehow didn’t snap at a hard-to-console Spot this morning and I didn’t scream at Sally to HOLD STILL while I did her ponytail (or throw the hairbrush at the wall), and I didn’t yell when Susan threw 10 gallons of bathwater out of the tub. I didn’t think very mean thoughts about Dick’s laundry “technique” as I searched in vain for clothes to wear. I didn’t say any swear words — even in my head! A red-letter Sunday morning, indeed.

Sis. M leaned forward during the rest hymn and said, “Just now you remind me of the Myers’ family, kids being so good all sitting in a row; I just wanted you to know that you’re doing something right.” At the time I remembered how stressed I’d felt racing around to get out the door. And I thought, the only thing I’m doing right is that we’re here, and we’re always here. Even the most annoying children are bound to realize there’s a routine they can’t escape: they might as well sit down and enjoy (be quiet during) it.

Then I remembered part of Julie Beck’s talk that I’d studied for my lesson. Here’s an excerpt:

Ruth May Fox ? was born in England, and when she was 13, she walked almost every step to the Salt Lake Valley with a group of pioneers. Her mother died when she was a baby, so she spent the first dozen years of her life living with a number of different families. She must have been a difficult child to manage, because her grandmother called her a ?bad maid? and refused to take care of her.

Eventually, Ruth married and had 12 children. She shared her firm testimony with her children and taught gospel lessons while she worked beside them, but she admitted that her older children sometimes received harsh discipline because she had a quick temper and she did not always ?count [to] ten? when she was provoked. She worked hard to master this weakness and came to be known for her kind heart and service to others.

Sister Fox lived to be 104 years old. In her long life she experienced great joys and difficult trials, and she taught that ?life brings some hard lessons. The sturdiest plants are not grown under glass, and strength of character is not derived from the avoidance of problems.?

When she talks about her “older” children, I can only hope this refers to just numbers 1 & 2, and that by number 3 she had learned to master her temper. There’s no way I can handle 12 children in my (reluctant) quest to become kinder of heart and slower to temper. Ruth May’s motto was, “the Kingdom of God or nothing.” I bet Ruth May was a stay-at-home mom, someone who spent way too much of her time changing diapers and wiping snot. Or maybe she was like my husband, who spends way too much of his time in fruitless meetings and painstakingly solving computer glitches. Or like my kids, who spend too much time … nevermind; my kids have it good.

Life is much better when I remember that each stinky moment I encounter gracefully is bringing me one step closer to my ultimate goal. And maybe I am doing something right.