I am the comfortable marriage and bearable mortgage, not the idealistic dreamer of genteel, educated poverty. More hearth guardian Mrs. March, less fire in the belly Jo.

And yet Anne was a mother, a mother of, let’s see: Jem, Walter, Di and Nan, Shirley, Rilla, yes, six. Why can’t I be a mother like Anne? She never yelled, she probably composed odes to eyebrows and greeted each day as a grand adventure. She made her kids feel loved, and special, and unique, and different in a good way. Recited poetry at the dinner table instead of reminding of the “no singing at the table” rule.

Yesterday Callie was awful at Hobby Lobby and Costco and waiting during Parent-Teacher Conferences for Avery. She ran down the aisles, included Lucy in her crazy shenanigans. She said she wanted to do something fun. I just wanted some quiet. In the car she read books to Lucy and passed crackers to the baby. Lucy couldn’t see the pictures from the back seat and Callie told her kindly to use her imagination.

I thought: this is the Anne Mother Moment. My kids are not a dead loss. They are worth what I am doing here, they are worth watching, worth listening to, worth my attention, worth describing and remembering and liking. (Loving, always, that goes with the heart milk; liking is harder, except when it’s a free gift).

But I am not the Anne Mother. The minivan stops at our next stop and it’s back to fighting or whining or snotty nose crying and I am not the Anne Mother.

I am the Marilla Mother. And I guess the best thing about her is that she really didn’t want Anne, she wanted a hardy farmboy, but what she got was a fragile yet strong, slender and red-haired, day-dreamer, flavor the cake with liniment girl.

And she kept her.

(Who am I kidding? by “sometimes” I mean “always,” except then I am irritated when my routines of kids clearing up the kitchen and making lunches and packing backpacks for the next day and generally behaving like responsible members of society don’t get honored so well.)

But as I was updating my Jesse Tree, I grew more and more dissatisfied with the representation of women in it. Who wrote that thing? Is that the best she can do? (I hope not.) Already I do prod the kids to consider the unnamed or obscured women in each story we tell, but I need to edit my devotional outline to reflect this. For the Moses night, for example, I think I will read my meditation on Jochebed (Moses’ mother). Beyond that, I’m going to add six distinctly female stories: Deborah, Anna, Mary and Martha, Mary Magdalene, Abish and Mary Whitmer, to my Jesse Tree, bringing the devotional total to 31.

(This exercise has been a little frustrating. Why don’t we have better art and songs about women? Why isn’t there a Follow the Prophet verse for Deborah? Why does the picture of Mary presenting Jesus at the temple include Simeon and not Anna? Why does God hate women? Just kidding, I’m sure he doesn’t!?!)

You can find all 31 of the stories in (rough) chronological order on the Jesse Tree post, but here are the six additions:

Deborah (scales of justice), picture (Judges 4:4-9) Deborah was a prophetess, judge and warleader. Perhaps as judge and temporal savior of her people she is more a type of the Second Coming of Christ. Battle Hymn of the Republic, Hymn #60

Abish (feather) Picture (Alma 19:16-17, 29-31) Abish was the Lamanite woman who hoped that seeing King Lamoni and his household prostrate after the teachings of Ammon would convert her people. She also raised the queen and king from their stupor. Army of Helaman #172

Anna (Bible) Illustrated Video (Luke 2:36-38). Anna lived 84 years as a widow, fasting and praying in the temple. She is called a prophetess. I Know that My Redeemer Lives Hymn #136

Mary and Martha (cooking pot) GAK 219,  GAB 45 (Luke 10:41-42, John 11:21-27) I love Martha. She was admonished by the Savior to care more about spiritual things, and yet, she is the one who told the Savior He could have saved Lazarus, had He only been there. Families Can Be Together Forever #188

Mary Magdalene (spices) GAK 233, GAB 59 (John 20:10-18) Mary was the first person to see the resurrected Lord. He asked her to tell the disciples that He was ascending to His Father. She did. I Know that My Savior Loves Me

Mary Whitmer (milking cow) Fourth Witness movie* (February 1989 Ensign) Mary Whitmer was rewarded for facilitating Joseph and Oliver’s  translation of the Book of Mormon by an angel who showed her the plates. My Life is a Gift #164)

*I can’t find this twenty minute movie online anywhere, but it’s worth buying. I (briefly) dated the producer at BYU, and remember an uncut version that was impressive.

*Marcy simplified the assembling (and storage) of her tree by just laminating little pictures for each ornament.

I’ve got a mild case of HAD this year — Holiday Affective Disorder, possibly triggered by the marathon month of Halloween (remember the innocent days of a 2-hour Halloween?). I’m tempted to serve chicken nuggets for Thanksgiving and to let my children off the hook for dish chores (for the day) as their “big” Christmas present. There is a Grinch huddled in the left ventricle of my feeble heart.

The other day at dinner I tried to get the fam to tell me what their favorite parts of Christmas are, if they really need stuffing at Thanksgiving, and they were a little vague on the whole thing. Avery wants a punching bag (sounds good for exercise and anger management, right?), Callie wants whatever Avery wants and Lucy wants Barbies (good for grooming, right? Dude, that’s not even funny).

Then Marcy asked me to re-post this thing on the Jesse Tree, and I remembered how much I like it, the symbolism and the stories. It gives meaning and purpose to what otherwise might be a soulless wallowing in evergreen bunting and empty carbs (which I plan to do plenty of). Every night we sing a song, tell a story, read some verses (probably more this year as more kids can read), look at a picture and hang an ornament on our little tree that corresponds to a prophet or episode in the Old, New or Another Testament of Christ or Church history that illuminates the story of Christ’s birth, life and death. And since it replaces our (theoretically) regular scripture study, it’s not just one more thing to do in December.

In the past we’ve let the kids take turns picking an ornament (and therefore a story), but I think this year we’ll have them take turns figuring out which story comes next chronologically, thus making it more adventish-like. There are 25 stories, and, even in my atrophied state, I’m really looking forward to this.

A Mormon Jesse Tree: Witnesses and Types of Christ

(# Story (ornament) Gospel Art Kit/Gospel Art Book picture (scriptures with links) How it’s a type or witness. Song)

1) The Jesse Tree/Witnesses of Christ (book) GAK 326 (Isaiah 11:1-2, Jacob 4:4, 2 Nephi 25:26) All the prophets have known of Christ and had “a hope of him.” Tell me the Stories of Jesus #57

2) Creation/The Council in Heaven (world) GAK 600, 100, 201 (Alma 30: 44, Moses 4:1-2) God created the world for us and promised that He would send a Savior for us. I Lived in Heaven #4

3) Noah (rainbow) GAK 103 (Genesis 9:13, 15) God promised he would never again flood the world, and because He kept that promise, people knew to believe His promise about a Savior. Follow the Prophet, #110, verse 3

4) Abraham & Isaac (bundle of cinnamon sticks) GAK 105 (Genesis 22:2, Genesis 22:8, 11-12) Isaac as a type of Christ, Abraham as a loving father willing to sacrifice his much-loved son. Follow the Prophet, #110, verse 4

5) Moses (snake) GAK 123 (John 3:14-15, Helaman 8:14-15) This is one of my favorite symbols — If we would but look to Christ, we will live. Follow the Prophet, #110, verse 5

6) Deborah (scales of justice), picture (Judges 4:4-9) Deborah was a prophetess, judge and warleader. Perhaps as judge and temporal savior of her people she is more a type of the Second Coming of Christ.

Deborah the Prophetess (to Follow the Prophetess)
Deborah the Prophetess judged her people well
As she served the Lord and lived in Israel.
She led them to battle with her friend Barak
They defeated Sisera who never more would mock.

7) Ruth (wheat) GAK 124 (Ruth 1:16, Ruth 4:13-17) Ruth followed her mother-in-law because she was converted to the gospel. She was virtuous and became an ancestress of Jesus. I Belong to the Church of Jesus Christ #77

Esther (crown) GAK 125 (Esther 4:14, Esther 7:3) Esther acted as an intercessor for her people, just as Christ is our intercessor.

Esther’s Courage (to Nephi’s Courage)
The Lord commanded Esther to go and wed the king
Haman told Ahaseurus the Jews were rebelling
Esther and Mordecai worked to save their lives
Esther was courageous and she would reply:

9) Isaiah (lamb) GAK 113 (Isaiah 7:14, Isaiah 9:6-7, Isaiah 53) Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus (mostly we listen, but maybe we’ll start singing along, and show the kids the flash mob; holy crap that gives me chills)

10) Jonah (whale) GAB 27 (Jonah 1:12-15, Matt 12:39-41) Jonah is in the great fish for three days, much like Christ is in the tomb for three days. Follow the Prophet, #110, verse 7 (Though I’d like to sing Called to Serve or The Army of Helaman too)

11) The Brother of Jared (stone) GAK 318 (Ether 3:8-15) Because of his faith, Mahonri Moriancumr saw that Christ would have a body like his, and learned that Jesus was “prepared before the foundation of the world.” Faith #96 (But my kids love I know He Lives, which turns out to be a really hard song to find by Clive Romney)

12) Lehi & Nephi (liahona) GAK 302 (1 Ne 16:28, Alma 37:45) Another great image — liahona as words of Christ. Nephi’s Courage #120

13) Enos (bow & arrow) GAK 305 (Enos 1:8, 26) Enos bore a powerful witness even without seeing or hearing Jesus. A Child’s Prayer #12

14) King Benjamin (tower) GAK 307 (Mosiah 3:2, 7-8, Mosiah 5:1-2) The people covenant to obey, take upon themselves the name of Christ, and experience a “mighty change.” Give Said the Little Stream #236

15) Alma the Younger (chains) GAK321 (Alma 7:10-13) Christ will loose the bands of death. Did Jesus Really Live Again? #64

16) Abish (feather) Picture (Alma 19:16-17, 29-31) Abish was the Lamanite woman who hoped that seeing King Lamoni and his household prostrate after the teachings of Ammon would convert her people. She also raised the queen and king from their stupor. Army of Helaman #172

17) Samuel the Lamanite (wall) GAK314 (Helaman 14:1-8) When I was a kid, I loved that the “bad guys” were the “good guys” at this time in history. I maybe still do. Samuel Tells of the Baby Jesus #36

18) Nephi (star) GAK 200 (3 Nephi 1:8-14) My favorite advent story, and where we always begin our reading on Christmas Eve. Christmas Bells (Lucy’s absolute favorite song) #54

19) John the Baptist (sandal) GAK 207 (Matthew 3:2-3, 11-17) John prepared the way, baptized Jesus and restored the Aaronic priesthood. Baptism #100

20) Mary (heart) GAK 241 (Luke 1:28-33, 38) Mary was pure and loving. (Also, probably patient, kind, and willing to play Sorry! all day long). Picture a Christmas #50

21) Joseph (hammer) GAK 206 (Matthew 1:18-25) Joseph’s interesting as a step-father. When Joseph Went to Bethlehem #38

22) The Shepherds and the Wise Men (candy cane) GAK 202, 203 (Luke 2:15-16, Matthew 2:9-11) The Shepherds and the Wise Men went to find Jesus as quickly as they could, and worshiped Him. I point out to the kids that we might have been among the heavenly chorus singing of His birth. The Nativity Song #52

23) Anna (Bible) Illustrated Video (Luke 2:36-38). Anna lived 84 years as a widow, fasting and praying in the temple. She is called a prophetess. I Know that My Redeemer Lives Hymn #136

24) Mary and Martha (cooking pot) GAK 219, GAB 45 (Luke 10:41-42, John 11:21-27) I love Martha. She was admonished by the Savior to care more about spiritual things, and yet, she is the one who told the Savior He could have saved Lazarus, had He only been there. Families Can Be Together Forever #188

25) Mary Magdalene (spices) GAK 233, GAB 59 (John 20:10-18) Mary was the first person to see the resurrected Lord. He asked her to tell the disciples that He was ascending to His Father. She did. I Know that My Savior Loves Me

26) The Atonement and Resurrection (cross) GAK 227, 239 (Luke 22:41-44, John 11:25) Without the Atonement and Resurrection, Christmas would be meaningless. He Sent His Son #34

27) Moroni (gold plates) GAK 320 (Moroni 10:4-7) The Holy Ghost testifies of Christ and the Book of Mormon. Book of Mormon Stories #118

28) Joseph Smith (temple) GAK 403 (D&C 76:22-24) Joseph Smith sealed his testimony of Jesus with his blood. The Golden Plates #86

29) Mary Whitmer (milking cow) Fourth Witness movie* (February 1989 Ensign) Mary Whitmer was rewarded for facilitating Joseph and Oliver’s translation of the Book of Mormon by an angel who showed her the plates. My Life is a Gift #164

30) Rescuers of the Martin Handcart Company (quilt) GAK 415 (from the Ensign & President Hinckley video.) The young men acted as physical saviors of their people. To Be a Pioneer #218

31) Modern Prophets (tie) GAK 520 (The Living Christ, from the Ensign, President Monson video) I might see if I can find videos of each prophet’s final testimonies on youtube — they are all about Christ. I Love to See the Temple #95 or Follow the Prophet #110 verse 9

Girl drama in the neighborhood this evening. Callie walked down the street and found Beatrice* reading a note from Hero* after an unspecified fight. The note called Beatrice “pissy.” Callie (who has previously liked both Beatrice and Hero equally) helped Beatrice write her response and delivered the second note. I heard about it when Hero’s mother (my friend and Sunbeam partner) called to ask if Callie said anything about why Beatrice wrote a mean note to Hero that included, among other epithets, the “b-i-t-c-h” word. Callie is six. (Okay, almost seven. Still. And her mother swears. But not that word!)

I asked Callie to tell me what happened. She didn’t want to. She wouldn’t look at me. We sat on the porch swing in the backyard, and she spoke to her bowl of brown fried rice (fiber! not as tasty as refined rice!).

It took awhile, but I got most of the story: that she hadn’t been told what the fight was about, but she was solidly on Beatrice’s side because Hero was mean to her friend. (Wasn’t Hero her friend too?) She confessed that she’d told Beatrice two really mean words to say to Hero, but she couldn’t tell me what they were. I did the whole “I’m not mad at you I just need to know what happened” routine and still she demurred. “You’re going to be really mad, Mom,” she said. Finally she whispered that she’d suggested the words “stupid” and “brat.”

I asked how she felt, how she thought Hero felt, Beatrice felt.

I’m aghast, of course, at such casual cruelty, but struck again by how quickly children can work their way to remorseful empathy, given only the opportunity.

And at least she’s not a sociopath.

*not their real names.

2. I used to wonder how anyone who had remodeled or built their house could ever, ever leave it once it became their Anne-of-Green-Gables-y House of Dreams, but now I see that after spending five million dollars and nine million hours on a pitiful approximation of their original vision (even if technically it was adequate), they then had so many negative associations with the space that it was either move or exorcism.

*And yes, I know it could be worse. I know.

I even hate that they do it because they feel it’s the right thing to do. (not that it isn’t, it is, but that it is. I hate that.)

It’s as handy as skiing

and doing your taxes.

Maybe next time some tryptophan turkey?

If her form weren’t so perfect.

Self-portrait Karin left on my iPod

My sister Karin spent the night at our house for the Martin Luther King, jr holiday. I made it a true day of service by listening compassionately to her dating woes (she’s twenty-one! and prospect-less!) and giving her my finest advice: Buck up, Baby! One day you’ll meet someone and all your fears about not being able to love someone enough will seem crazy and two weeks later you’ll be engaged. It’s like in Knight and Day (a surprisingly entertaining movie) when Tom Cruise’s character does the with me/without me thing (it’s at 1:14). Someone, someday will make the “with me” thing seem like the best idea ever, an idea you don’t even have to think about.

Or you’ll stay single and travel the world. Either way.

Molly and I are mesmerized in Sunday School

Hi, we’re the Johnsons, and we’re late for church. Chronically. Excessively. As in, I gave my tip for keeping kids reverent during the seventy-minute service: “Arrive half an hour late, then the kids only have forty minutes to get restless.” Also, the sacrament’s over by then so the wait-until-the-sacrament-is-over-to-start-coloring thing doesn’t apply.

I decided we’ll take a picture 15 minutes before church starts to help us get motivated, at whatever state of readiness we’re in at that moment. I do reserve the right to throw on a robe if I’m not dressed yet. Not that that would ever happen. This morning I couldn’t figure out how to set the self-timer, so see me in the streaky mirror. I swear I cleaned that thing. I may not have been ready to go, but I did swipe at the mirror. I do have standards in what I present to the world. Ineffectual standards, apparently, but there you go.

Notice Lucy’s beautiful ensemble, Tom’s crisp double Windsor, Callie’s balletic grace, and the overall harmony and pretty-thing ness of the shot (exactly the kind of photograph you’d expect on one of those fancy lifestyle blogs, right?). What you can’t see: Lucy’s pink sparkly leggings and Elmo socks in black MaryJanes.

Verdict: We walked in during the second verse of a four verse hymn, and no one cried. (That I remember. I may be blocking something out.) I figured out where the timer is on my camera; maybe in a few months I’ll graduate to coordinating our clothes or asymmetrically-but-balancedly posing our bodies.

Somehow I missed that nativity hanging when I packed up Christmas two weeks ago.

You might think that anyone can be Santa, but really it takes a lot of skill if you’re not going to have adults lamenting tragic Santa’s lap experiences years later. This Santa knelt down to be on the kids’ level with no scary throne-link approaching required. Very nice.

Tom got a little carrolled-out by the end (maybe the third rendition of Twelve Days of Christmas did him in? Though it was Callie who ran up to the microphone to sing it just one more time), but overall it was a great family outing. (Tom also asked me, as we drove north up Provo canyon, if we were going to the same train we’d stopped to look at on the way to Moab in October. If you know Utah at all, this might give you some hint of what I’m dealing with directionally-challenged-spousally-speaking,  seeing as the rest stop with the train exhibit is on the way south to Price.)

And now you too can take your family on the North Pole Express. Leave a comment by Sunday night for the chance to win four tickets on the 5 pm train next Thursday, December 16th. If you tweet or tell a neighbor about the giveaway, let me know for another entry. This is actually a pretty great giveaway (I mean both money- and magic-wise). I’ll announce the winner on Monday, and in the meantime, get $5 off coach tickets on December 7, 8, 9, 14, 15 or 16th. Call the train at 435-654-5601 and ask for the “Utah Blogger” discount — tell them you heard about it on Seagull Fountain (which doesn’t really make sense because fountains can’t talk (and this isn’t a podcast), but whatever).

***Contest closed, winner (according to random.org) is #7, Stacey! Look for an email from the prize administrators.

*Heber Valley Railroad gave us a free ride, which was awesome, because no matter how magical things are, I’m still pretty cheap.

For half of the fast we used no air-conditioning; it was cool most of June, so this wasn’t a hardship, except the day it was 92 degrees. A week later, Tom’s allergies (probably the cottonwood trees) were so bad he took a sick day and ponied up for prescription Allegra. We shut our windows and installed a high-tech air filter. I’m ashamed to admit just how happy I was to have that excuse for using the a/c. I said at first that we’d set the thermostat at 80, so we’d still be doing something, but that cool air is seductive (especially in the third trimester of pregnancy). Soon I had it set on 78, then 76, and finally 74. I can now say that I would rather do without internet than air-conditioning. (Obviously) I am weak, but physical discomfort is utterly disruptive to any sort of thought process.

Our fast was initially prompted by a high electricity bill that led us to lower our thermostat in winter to 60 degrees and cancel our TV. It was astonishing how easily and quickly we adapted to those two changes — and how much I liked it (especially how the kids act when there’s no TV; though Tom and I continued to spend too much time online and watching hulu). We wanted more of that. I also especially wanted to re-set our expectations and habits to a more “natural” standard, waking with the sun, sleeping with the sun, paying attention to each other and the world around us, instead of all the wonderful things available electronically. Summer time was perfect for this, with school out and everyone eager to be outside anyway, and with the solstice (longest day of the year) falling right in the middle.

Here are some of the things I learned (see 1. Old-fashioned sorrows are (maybe) easier to bear in old-fashioned settings.):

2. Kids (and husbands) are impressionable; make rules wisely (and sparingly). A few days into the fast, Callie (5 1/2) walked up the bare basement stairs towards the kitchen for a glass of water. Near the top she stumbled and hurt herself. Her cries pierced the darkness and Tom told her to turn on the light. She wailed that she couldn’t because we were doing our electricity fast. I said she could make an exception because  she was hurt (and I was too lazy to get out of bed). She insisted that no, she could not.

A few weeks later Tom was home alone for one night while I slept over at my moms with the girls (Grandma has a swimming pool, and a dog). He told me later that, in addition to missing us, he had the strongest feeling of guilt over even thinking of turning the lights on. Even though it was my fast, and it was a completely subjective thing, not a sin or an objectively “wrong” thing to do, the imposition of guilt was a real thing.

3. Exceptions are a slippery slope. A couple Sundays ago as we walked to church, Callie shouted, “Mommy, you’re wearing flip-flops.” I don’t let the girls wear flipflops to church; it’s one of my very few clothing rules. Lucy’s (3 1/2) sparkle jeans under her dress get a pass because she is a little obsessed with layering, even in summer. Callie and Avery (9) are sometimes ball-gown fancy, sometimes playground pinafore casual. But there are no flipflops. Except, I told Callie, when you’re eight months pregnant. When you are eight months pregnant, I told her, you can wear flipflops to church too. Callie thought about that for several moments then proclaimed, “Mommy has a lot of exceptions.”

4. Maybe you’re a night owl, or maybe you’ve just never gotten a good night’s sleep. Tom has never woken up on his own (without an alarm or serious nagging) before 9 am in our twelve years of marriage. He’s always been a stay-up-until-this-one-last-bug-is-worked-out kind of guy. During our electricity fast, he still used his laptop to do freelance projects, but there was no TV on hulu, and I was asleep by 10:30 every night (except the few nights I stayed up to finish a book).  So even though he often was  up later than the rest of us, within a week, he started waking up around 6:30 every morning. The habit (what he thought was his natural rhythm) of his entire adult life was broken in a matter of days. And? Now that we’ve been catching up on Friday Night Lights? It’s 9 am less than a week later, and he’s sound asleep.

5. There’s more light outside even if you think your house has good windows. The sun goes down around 9 pm before and after the summer solstice in Mountain Daylight Time. Twilight lasts another half an hour. Before it got really hot, I resented nightfall. It meant I couldn’t see to read anymore. I was quickly resigned to not being able to finsh the dishes or hang the laundry if I waited too long, though some nights I did both by candlelight if I was in the mood. Other times I could shrug and say, I’ll do it tomorrow. Now it’s time to do something else.

Most nights I go walking with Chrysanthemum at the beginning of twilight. It’s simply gorgeous. The silhouette of the mountains, the perfume of the relieved grasses and trees sighing into the dark, the silvery fountains of the powerful sprinklers on the golf course. If we’re not walking, I usually end up angling my book towards our south-facing windows for the last smudge of light, or join Avery outside on the porch swing, because it is always surprisingly lighter outside.

6. Kids will take all the time you give them. I thought I’d have tons of free time once my computer was off. I knew I wasted time online. I knew it was bizarre (unhealthy, robotic, unnatural) how I’d head straight for the computer upon waking or returning home, during breakfast and lunch, hypnotizing myself out of hearing anything said around me until I’d gotten a hit from the internet. I was a little worried that I’d be bored. I read several books, books I might not have picked up or stuck through if I’d had easier entertainment options available, but I tried not to become lost in them as a substitute for the internet, but to instead really experiment with being more present (if you can forgive the phrase).

I trained my kids early to be self-entertaining (actually, I just selectively-neglected them into it). They play together or alone, they had already adjusted to no TV, and they coped with no movies and no computer games easily. How they ever had time for TV before is a mystery. They are busy from waking to sleeping playing, playing, playing. But I found myself suggesting card games (Uno, Skipbo), and reading more books to Callie and Lucy. Avery has her Saxon math to complain about, and Callie is more confident reading, looking to me for confirmation of a word less and less often. Lucy wants to read her books to us at naptime, and she is adorable. We all agree she is adorable, and when she smothers the baby in my tummy with kisses, I’m even more impatient for August.

But I need, and deserve, time of my own. I love to wake up before everyone else and read or write, or water the garden or even weed when it’s still deliciously cool. My kids won’t be harmed if they know there are times I can’t help them right now or even play with them all afternoon, but it was nice to not hear, not once in six weeks, dimly, outside my bubble, “Mommy’s on her computer.” It’s about balance, of course (all these buzzwords; sorry), and about not doing anything simply because it’s habit (unless you’re sure it’s a great habit), but because it’s something you’ve conciously, recently, decided to do.

7. It’s really frustrating to write longhand. It’s freeing to write where no one will ever see it, to record the day without thought of elegant structure or narrative meaning. But after awhile, it’s a little unrewarding to write only for yourself. Perhaps I have lost all my readers (it appears so from the dearth of comments on my last posts), and I don’t plan to do any of the things you’ll learn to do at blogging conferences to attract readers (besides try to write better), but somehow the act of making something public is enough, in itself, to lend significance. Perhaps if the fast had gone on longer, I would’ve learned the opposite.

8. It’s just as easy to lose your temper with the lights off. I’ve written a lot about my anger problem. For the first little bit of the fast, the novelty was enough to temper my impatience. That, and I read the fabulous book Soft-Spoken Parenting: 50 Ways Not to Lose Your Temper With Your Kids. A few days after finishing it, I realized I need to read it again, and again. The point is — no change of scenery or circumstance lets us escape ourselves, our habits and vices. I noticed when the kids spent an afternoon watching movies this week (I was the first one down with a nasty stomach virus) that they then fought for two hours afterwards. Of course an occasional movie isn’t bad, but something happens in their brains when they’re plugged in like that for long periods of time.

I had hoped that the same sort of purging of aggression would happen with me when I unplugged. But somehow little things still bugged me (though I reacted a lot better to interruption). It helped when I was fully rested (almost impossible at this point in pregnancy, no matter how much I sleep, but something I have to work on as we head into the newborn months), and when I took the time to write in my journal, to record the good things that happen.

9. Sometimes it’s easier to see in the dark. When you know it’s going to get dark soon, or hot soon or cold soon, you think about how you really want to spend your waking hours, your “good” hours, your daylight hours. I read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by flickering candlelight and had some inkling of what it would mean to be rationed 1 candle per family per week. I know the majority (?) of the world’s population lives daily without electricity (or even worse, plumbing). An electricity fast is a first-world luxury, a probably unthinkably arrogant gimmick if you’ve ever experienced the real lack. I haven’t talked to Tom or the kids about this, but we need to donate our savings from this fast to Heifer International or something, in order to make it good for something real.

Summer is more than half over. Our electricity fast is definitely over, but I plan to do a month-long TV/movie/computer fast at the beginning of every summer. It’s so easy to go back to turning on lights, to putting off important things because you know you can extend the day as long as you like. It makes me wonder what else we could give up (could I give up the kinds of foods I like to eat?), how much we could do without, how our lives would be different if we thought in terms of What don’t I need? instead of How can I get that one thing I want? (I should confess here, maybe, that I love the fancy Belgian waffle maker Tom got me for my birthday in June and that I now want a breadmaker, oh, and a new vacuum.)

This reminded me a little of our first month in Egypt, when Avery was 18 months old. The power went out the first night we were there (and many subsequent nights). Avery and I were cooling off in the tub at an odd jet-lag-induced hour. We were pretty insulated from real life there, in our nice ex-pat neighborhood. But it was still jarring and exotic and reflection-causing. I’m not saying I want to impose bizarre lifestyle restrictions on myself and my family in order to be different or just to switch up our otherwise-mundane lives, but neither do I want to keep doing what we’ve always done if there’s a good reason to experiment deliberately.

susan rides her bike from shannon johnson on Vimeo.

When I was a little girl, I pestered my mother to read me the story of Sarah and Isaac one more time. I liked the idea of a mother wanting a baby so badly, of a father wanting a baby so badly, of a baby born to parents like that. Children like to think that they are the center of their parents’ existence, and in the story of Sarah and Isaac, the baby really is the center of the world.

The part where Sarah had to watch as her husband led her now-grown boy away from home, up the mountain, to answer God’s command wasn’t my favorite part. The older I got, the more I worried about that little mother, left at home, left to mourn, strong in faith and hopeful of the future, but deep down inside, despairing. Then the long climb, the obedient Isaac gathering stones for an altar, laying the sticks for fire on top. And then the relief, the blessed denouement of the Angel telling that the test was passed. And still, even with the happy ending, days of waiting for Sarah, before they got back, and she fell on Isaac to hold him. Isaac, who impatient as an active boy with a mothers’ caresses, held her back this time and absorbed her trembling.

I hoped the rest of God’s promises to Abraham would be fulfilled without my having anything to do with it. But I am the daughter of Levi, the granddaughter of Jacob and Leah. When I was old enough, I gave myself in marriage to Amram, my brother’s son. We were happy. Amram was a good man who honored his father’s heritage. Though we were slaves to the Egyptians, we were important to our people, and I was blessed with a daughter, Miriam, who has been my planner and my fixer, and a son, Aaron, who is quick of speech and a natural leader.

But the Egyptians were not happy with our growing numbers. They laid burdens on our backs but couldn’t ignore how strong those backs were. Pharaoh commissioned our midwives to destroy our male babies. Our midwives rebelled. Pharaoh decreed that all male children should be cast in the river. By this time I was older even than Sarah at the time of Isaac’s birth, and yet I found myself with child again, and feared.

It was made known to me that the son I carried would be a deliverer of our people, a savior, a type of the Messiah to come who would be our spiritual Savior, a way for us to escape our bondage. I fretted. How could this come to pass if Pharaoh’s law was enforced? How would I survive, with aching emptiness after carrying my baby, with milk for a child not slated to suckle?

I had my sweet baby for three months, hidden from Pharaoh’s watchers. Miriam suggested we build an ark of bulrushes, to carry the baby as we cast him in the Nile. We would time it to the Pharaoh’s daughter’s time in the river. We would have faith, hope in the future, praying no leak would spring or gust of wind blow up, praying God would soften her heart, keep and save my poor son, this boy who should, somehow, be our deliverer out of Egypt.

Still, deep inside, beyond the faith and hope and God, I despaired. The ark looked so small, so insecure, so easily buffeted by the waves. I couldn’t watch. Miriam hid in the rushes and saw the daughter of Pharaoh take my baby from the water, and call him Moses. Miriam waited until she was noticed and then offered to find a wet nurse for the baby that Pharaoh’s daughter wanted to adopt.

And so I was able to mother my baby while not being his mother. I lost the name of mother, the role I had seen for myself in his life from the moment I quickened, to save his life, to be what he needed, to have the chance to teach him who he really was.

I still didn’t see how he would be the deliverer. How God would keep his heart while in the court of the Pharaoh. But if God can make a mother not a mother to the world but still a mother to her child, God can do anything.

*There are several varying Jewish traditions about Yocheved, mother of Moses. This is based on the account in the KJV Old Testament and the wild imaginings of a fellow pregnant woman and mother.

The baby sat in his high chair while I ate my hot soup; he’s getting to the grabby stage and I didn’t want him burned. Then he got tired, and she took him up and laid him down for a nap. There was not even a peep from him. I asked if he always goes down for naps that easily. She has read the same sleep book I like, and said she just watches for signs of tiredness and lays him down, and he goes to sleep.

Mothers know it is not always that easy. And I said it makes me wonder, when you have a “difficult” baby, how much of it is what you do, how you act/react, and how much of it is the baby’s temperament and needs and developing stages. (And yours.)

I have always not co-slept with my babies. I might be philosophically attracted to the idea that babies can/should learn to self-soothe and go to sleep on their own, but I also like the idea — in the abstract — that babies and mothers are bonding even in sleep. Since both things seem good and sound, pragmatics decided it.

We started off with Sally’s crib next to our bed, but the first night I half-dozed while listening to her snurgle and then jerked awake each time the snurgle stopped. She moved to her own room the next day.

She still loves having her own room, now because her younger sisters can be locked out of ruining her stuff.

With this pregnancy, I can take a long afternoon nap and still fall asleep during scriptures at 8:30 pm. I stagger to bed and soon Spot and Susan are climbing into Daddy’s side. They know the rules: you can sleep in Mom’s bed as long as you hold still and don’t make a sound. And don’t touch the pillows that surround the grouchy queen.

They fall asleep quickly. Sometimes I have to warn gently: “Do you need to go to your own room?” Susan lies back, closes her eyes and they both forget the enormous amount of playing that has to be accomplished in their own bed before surrendering to sleep.

I rest my hand on Spot’s tummy and feel her breathing. (The fan from the bathroom and the fan at the head of the bed disguise any incipient snurgles). And we all sleep better, together.

Sometime in the night when I reach my hand over, it’s a harder, hairier body, and I know Tom has carted them off and taken their place. I plug his nose when he snores, or prod him to roll over. He is warm and big and fills the bed nicely. But . . .

I need a louder fan.

I think six years ago I could have read this post and thought, well, the boy has a stepfather and a family of his own. He gets $1000 a month from his biological father. Seems pretty good, actually. The biological father has taken financial responsibility, and the stepfather presumably provides emotional support.

Or maybe even six years ago I would be appalled that the family keeps the secret for fear of what others will think or say about their airbrushed “perfect” family, if only they knew. That the father never sees his son because it wasn’t his choice to continue the pregnancy. That the wife, whenever they argue, asks the father, again, How could you? (father a child out of wedlock).

But it is not six years ago, and it seems to me that anyone over the age of thirty should have lived enough by now to know that no family is perfect. And, even more importantly, that few people expect families to be perfect. And that if you are in some sort of social or religious or political group that expects people to never make mistakes, you should run, not walk, to a different social or religious or political group.

I’m not even sure what the lady means by perfect. She says outsiders looking at her family see “two towheaded children, one of each sex, an expensive red stroller, and often a dog, trotting along beside.”

If that is the only incarnation of a “perfect” family, then holy hell, people, could we get any shallower? Could we be that misguided in our judgment? That fearful of the judgment of others?* That’s the real problem in this case — the fear of judgment, the cowardice and dishonesty and supreme shallowness that denies a child’s existence because his life reminds us that his father was a stupid young kid once who acted as many stupid young kids act.

But the real reason this post appalled me is because I know a family who has almost the exact same circumstances as the family in the post. A husband and wife who have two young children, who have been happily married for five years. They have an illegitimate (do people still really use that word to describe children?), twelve-year-old son from a previous relationship of the father’s.

Except in this case, the father was involved with his son from birth. The son has always spent every weekend with his biological father. The son has lived with his father and his wife and their children.

This father, who was a stupid young kid once, took that mistake and turned it into one of the most loving, strong, and supportive (financial and otherwise) father-son relationships that I have ever seen. This son has a bedroom in his father’s house and the foods he likes to eat in his stepmother’s kitchen. He calls his half-sisters his sisters and his step-cousins his cousins. His father’s siblings and parents and his stepmother’s parents (all those grandparents and “step” grandparents and relatives and “step” relatives) — they all know him and love him and treat him just like their other nieces and nephews and grandchildren.

Their family isn’t perfect. There are frictions and jealousies, annoyances and inconveniences. But there is love, and honesty, and my life and family are better for knowing them.

Because they know what the family on the Motherlode blog hasn’t figured out yet: that the son isn’t the mistake. The son isn’t the dirty secret.  The mistake is fear and the dirty secret is the valuing of image over love.

—

* I edited those two sentences from the original, which was “Could we get any more judgmental, or fearful of judgment?” As I said in a comment below:

where the writer fears judgment for having an illegitimate step-son, I think this is wrong for two reasons — not because “judgment” is involved, but because:

A) I think she’s wrong about the possible judgment — I don’t think that sort of judgment exists to the extent that she thinks it does. That was my point when saying that no families are perfect.

and

B) Whether that judgment exists or not, it would be wrong to order one’s life according to the judgment of others, to do the wrong thing out of fear of judgment.

But Ryan called because he had dislocated his right shoulder while playing raquetball. He said that, and I knew at once that several things would be different for him. I knew he’d have some serious decisions to make before he submits his missionary papers in January. I knew he’d probably never play raquetball, or tennis, again, and maybe never swim the crawl again. I knew that immediately he’d have pain and weakness, and later, a lingering ache.

And right then, I knew we had to get his shoulder back in, because the wrongness of it being out it is almost as distressing as the pain. His roommates were with him, and I spoke with Phillip who, besides being a mechanical engineering student like Ryan and the son of a doctor like Ryan, is also our cousin. I tried to describe the three-dimensional spatial manipulation he needed to do to bring Ryan relief. My dad taught Mr. Bennet and me an acronym (Tension, External, Movement, Internal) to remember the procedure years ago, and I stumbled through that.

I was a bit hazy at first. It’s been a couple years since I’ve needed a shoulder reduction, and we had also just gotten off an airplane. I was simply grateful that I actually had my phone near me, that it wasn’t dead, and that I had felt like answering it, for once. It’s a difficult process to articulate over the phone, definitely something easier to show than tell, even to someone like Phillip.

(Now is probably a good time to say that my orthopedic surgeon says nerve damage is not the concern with our sort of problem, and that this post is not intended as medical advice. Please do not take it as such, and if you do, do not even think of suing me if you hurt yourself. I would be tempted to countersue you for being a dumbass.)

I am the oldest of five children, and Ryan, the youngest, is fourteen years younger. I dislocated my shoulder for the first time when I was only a few months older than Ryan is now. Perhaps his injury is different. Perhaps it was an isolated incident. Perhaps he does not have the same sort of weak connective tissue I have that causes my joints to hyperextend and to be much more flexible than my flabby frame would suggest.

Perhaps he will not require two surgeries, physical therapy, and a slightly altered view of what life will look like, day to day. (Perhaps he will never worry about dropping his newborn if his shoulder comes out at the wrong moment.)

But if it is, if his shoulder is like mine, he should know: 1) It could be worse. (Of course it could always be much, much worse.) 2) Still, it is bad enough, and if it prevents him from serving a strenuous mission, or from joining the military like he is considering and like my dad and my other brother have, then I am sorry. So, so sorry. 3) I know a great orthopedic surgeon, and now that we know what it took to really fix the problem, how extensive the damage can be, surely he can get it fixed earlier and to much greater effect.

Is it true that we have more genetic material in common with our siblings than with our parents or our children? Ryan and I have the same coloring, the same height (he says he is taller, but that is wishful thinking). He goes to the same college I did (but then so does everyone in our family). We share a temper, an arrogant opinionatedness, a way of seeing things in black and white. Though I see more grays every year, I am still partial to the absolutes. I had a talent for making our father mad, and Ryan’s talent was even more prodigious (or he is simply younger).

We are not completely alike, of course. Our childhoods were quite different, even with the same parents and similar DNA. I was told that Halloween was a pagan holiday to be shunned while Ryan was trotted around the local trunk-r-treat from infancy. Our adulthoods will be superficially very different too, mostly because we are what is called traditional.

But this physical flaw we probably (though hopefully not) share makes us seem conclusively alike. And it feels, irrationally, like my fault. Though if I were going to apologize for embodying a foreshadowed flaw fourteen years before my brother, I should apologize for my temper and impatience and susceptibility to addiction.

Because, 4) Physical flaws have much less to do with happiness than the other sorts of flaws.*

*(Unless you need a root canal, in which case, don’t even bother trying to be happy until you’ve been to the dentist. I only mention it because you might have teeth like mine.)