So she likes to drop clues for me. Some are blatant though occasionally resistant to abductive reasoning: a certain stink in the air usually portends a diaper change but can signal merely a passing of wind. Rubbing her eyes might mean she is tired, but sometimes is just a ploy to score some more nursing. At the table, handing me her sippy cup is often a red herring, asking for more juice rather than evidence of thirst quenched.

But some clues are unambiguous and escalating. First the undesirable food elements are dropped plop plop on the floor, then the plate is rubbed (food surface down) on the top of her head (especially if spaghette was on the menu), and finally the bib ripped off and handed imperiously over. Today I caught her after the plate and before the bib. 

*I only watched the first four episodes of Downton Abbey last year, and now that everyone loves it, I feel even more reluctance to finish, though that is probably cutting off my nose. I finished the Inspector Lewis on Netflix too quickly and resorted to buying the fourth season on iTunes (and I’m wondering about Inspector Morse on half.com). I’m trying Midsomer Murders, but though Barnaby’s voice is mellifluous x 10, I’m not hooked yet. Can you help a hopeless Anglophile out? What’s your favorite British TV?

** Oh, and thanks to Tara for the Inspector Lewis heads-up!

Last Sunday we sprinted home after church, as you do when church is three long food-less hours. I looked up from foraging in the fridge and wondered where Avery was. Molly in the booster seat eating cheese, check; Lucy not putting her boots away, check; Callie not hanging up her coat, check. No Avery.

She was upstairs on her bed, reading.

Two days before Avery’s birthday we had a party for her friends. In the past my plan has been that the kids can invite half as many people as they are old, and that they must plan, write and deliver the invitations and help with decorations, etc. This cuts down on friend parties quite a bit. In fact, seven-going-on-eight seems to be the age when my kids are aware and determined enough to do their part (that’s seven friend-party-free years!). This year there are only eleven girls in Avery’s fifth grade class and anything exclusionary gives me junior high hives, so I told her she might invite everyone. She stamped her invites with celery-head roses.

(What’s the hooker quotient on those hand-me-down boots from Karin? They’re not black, leather or stiletto. Still . . .)

Eight little girls/almost-grown-ups showed up and dressed pizza rounds. (Question: how does a Mormon girl grow up in exurban Utah and not know how to make pizza?) They drifted upstairs to the dress-up box and then regaled us, in full costume and at full volume, with their Hope of America songs. I probably would have been weepy-eyed if it had been five decibels below eardrum-piercing.

They ate, watched The Princess Bride, opened presents and scarfed down fruit pizza on a sugar cookie base. Tom herded the other cats to bed, then asked Avery how the party was. She had glanced at the balloon bouquet and then never protested her sisters’ gleeful assault on it. “It was the best party ever,” she said.

The next day she and I got up early for a  swim meet in Salt Lake City. She swam respectably in the first session and then we had six hours to kill before the second. We ate a decadent breakfast at a “fancy” (her words)/”tacky” (mine) diner, ran to a store for sunglasses to replace mine that got stepped on and for Avery to spend birthday money on the graphic novel of Twilight (despite all my pleadings). I let her pick a cheap pair of earrings (hope they really are “hypoallergenic”) for her birthday.

(This girl has not experienced nitrous oxide (or anything stronger than Motrin) yet. Oh, the humanity.)

We walked around the Gateway even though it was cold. I realized later that the Anne Mother would probably have encouraged more playful shenanigans in Anthropologie. Since it was my first visit ever, I spent the whole time scared we’d break a whimsical fifty-dollar salt cellar. We were too late to see the second Sherlock Holmes movie, so Avery chose the planetarium and a viewing of Flying Monsters. I didn’t realize that the Amanda Quick heroines who dig for fossils in the caves on the coast in England were so historically-based.

Avery smoked them in the 100 meter freestyle that evening for her final event despite a couple disheartening disqualifications earlier. I mean, beat them by a length almost. Of course, she had a slight advantage being surely the oldest ten-year old there.

We stopped for Chick-fil-A nuggets and then small chocolate shakes on the way home. Avery told me she likes books so much because they never change. You can re-read your favorite parts later and they’re still the same. It was a lovely sentiment, but I had to disagree. When you grow up, I said, books change when you re-read them, and if it’s a good book, that’s not a bad thing. She said she wished today was in a book so she could experience it again. Another lovely thought; I told her she could write about the day any time, in a book or a letter or her journal. She said it wasn’t the same. Sometimes, I think it’s better. In writing or reading, you don’t get the same spine-crunching feeling of suffocating sauna and sound that I did up in the concrete bleachers through endless heats of the thirteen & fourteen-year-old’s men’s backstroke.

On Sunday she turned eleven. She acted embarrassed to be sung to in Primary, but would’ve been devastated if they’d forgotten. Grandma and Grandpa, newlyweds Karin and Justin and Marcy and Hans and their seventeen children all came over for dinner and cake. That night I discovered, hidden in my room, waiting for wrapping, the bag of small presents, a few clothes and a Jessica Day George book, that I’d been gathering for Avery. I kissed her good night and told her she could have them the next day after school. Since she hadn’t asked where they were, or noticed their lack, I wished they were bigger and shinier. But not really.

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.

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:

(chorus)

I will go, I will do, the things the Lord commands

I know the Lord provides a way, He wants me to obey. x2

Deborah the Prophetess (to Follow the Prophet)

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.*

(chorus)

Follow the prophetess, follow the prophetess, follow the prophetess, don’t go astray.

Follow the prophetess, follow the prophetess, follow the prophetess, she knows the way.

*Previous versions of this line included “Deborah knew Sisera would fall by Jael’s hand” and “They defeated Sisera as she did foretell.

Avery was wearing the clip-on earrings Nana brought from Florida this week, as she has every day since Nana’s visit. I mentioned she might want to think about the ear piercings, because the short pinch of pain in the beginning is worth saying goodbye to slow death by clip-on squeeze. It’s like the difference between tights and leggings, I said, except even better because regular earrings become even more unnoticable  once they’re healed.

She thought about it for awhile and I struggled between ensuring it was her choice and thinking we should seize the day before she got scared again. She chose the blue-green zirconium in the white gold post and gripped the arms of the chair tightly.

Tonight I asked her if she brought it up or I did. She remembers it being her idea, which is good, because as I stood there patting her hand, I was impressed that her eyes almost filled but she didn’t cry, she got quiet as she waited for the sting, and once it was over, I felt sick to my throat. While she was relieved and excited, I was filled with mother’s remorse.

I felt like a conspirator to the murder of my daughter’s childhood. It would’ve been easier if she hadn’t looked so grown up in that chair. I can’t even remember getting my ears pierced at eight. Compared to my period starting at thirteen and holding hands with Chris Hansen during a U2 laser light show at sixteen, getting my ears pierced was nothing on the child-to-woman continuum.

Except now I realize it probably was, that or the day I became aware of my underwear showing while doing a cartwheel. (I don’t remember that day, either, but having girl children of my own, maybe that’s first).

I’ll keep telling myself: it was time. She’s almost eleven. It was her choice, and now I don’t have to find a punching bag for Christmas.

At fifteen months, Molly is more understandably verbal than the other kids. Meaning she can say Mahm! and Cat! and sometimes Dah! She can also follow simple directions and keeps better track of her hat, coat and shoes than any other person in this house. Her socks still get eaten by the dryer.

Several times a day she climbs into my lap, tugs at the bottom of my shirt and bobs her head cajolingly, eyes big and locked on mine, mouth in a wide expectant grin.

If only I thought her frequent flailing limbs connecting with my head were accidental.

As I described Molly’s birth to her, I felt this warm wave of good feeling and my heart stood up and twirled around as I re-lived those moments last September. When I got up off the hospital bed, after pushing an 8 pound 15 ounce baby into the world, snuggling her at my breast, downing two celebratory and hard-earned percocets, and walked, all by myself, to my recovery room one floor down.

I haven’t felt that victorious, relieved, goddess-like, I-can-do-anything, show me a mountain . . . ever. Before or since.

Which tells me two things: 1) I need a new goal, some big, hard, rewarding thing, and 2) I need to do something in support of natural birth in the world. (even if that starts with something as small as this blog post).

My cousin is getting really close, and I was trying to think how to express my best encouragement. When I was fretting over my inconsistent mental preparations, it helped when Andrea told me her epiphany that there wasn’t any one thing she had to do and do right, but rather, she just needed to experience, to allow, to surrender. It helped to know that when I thought I couldn’t do it anymore, I didn’t have to because it was almost over, and I was already doing it anyway. It helped to know that by the time the pain was something I’d sell my soul to avoid, it’s too late to find a black market buyer. (and it was almost over.)

It helps me now, to remember that night and think: If I can do that, I can do anything. If I can do that, anyone can do that. And the thing about not doing it, but allowing it? That also helps for if things go wrong. If something goes wrong and intervention is needed and you have to allow something else to happen, something that wasn’t in your birth plan, that’s okay, because it turns out that was the thing you had to allow, to experience, to submit to. It wasn’t something you failed to do right, it was the thing that was supposed to happen. You can do this. Or that, or whatever you have to.

Giving birth to my baby, naked, lying on my side and indignant that I had to hold my own knee up and out of the way, feeling every stretch and burn and push and fire and thrust and swell and release, that was ecstatic. That was living deliberately, that was building my cabin in the forest by a pond, that was a luxury of wild nights! wild nights!, and squeezing the marrow out.

That was (every expletive you can think of) amazing.

—

Molly’s birth story

What to read when you’re expecting

Thinking about natural birth after thinking I had miscarried

An old one that shows how far I’ve come

(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.

It was the kind of night where it is almost a relief to see the light out the window and give up trying to get anymore sleep, and a bigger relief to know that doctors and pharmacies and steroids will soon be available. I called my dad for a prescription, and decided that Lucy’s preschool feast would be getting instant mashed potatoes.

I drove Callie to school, grabbed potato flakes at the store (pharmacy not open yet), then ran home to boil over the easy directions (it was my first time), got Lucy into her carpool with an acceptable offering, drove Avery’s carpool to her school, and then, finally, stopped by home before my second pharmacy attempt to grab my forgotten phone and saw I had five calls and two messages from Tom.

He was worried I’d forget that Avery had to go to school and that when he left for work she’d leave too and Molly and Lucy would be home alone. This is how I usually feel about Tom when it comes to parenting logistics: touched that he is aware and concerned about the kids’ welfare, frustrated that he doesn’t remember that it is our week to drive carpool, so of course Avery won’t be leaving the house until I am home to take her there. And baffled that he didn’t just ask Avery if she knew what was going on. (she did) (I had warned her she might be in charge of her sisters for 5-10 minutes after daddy left and before I got home).

This morning my reaction was, “Oh honey, I got this.” I got this in my asleep. I got this with one hand eaten by a crocodile and the other doing a magic card trick.

Not that I never make mistakes. I’m* right about Molly having croup today, but Avery’s swimmer’s ear turned out to be twelve-year molars (two years early), wax and a $35 urgent care copay, and Molly’s cold six months ago was walking pneumonia.

And it’s not like I would ever want to try it alone. Tom changes a mean diaper, and I’m writing this now because Chrysanthemum is a saint of a friend who took my carpool/playdate shift (and because nursing and typing is more handy than skiing and doing your taxes).

I need a nap and/or an extra Mountain Dew, but when it comes to comfort for croup and mediocre mashed potatoes, I got this.

*Technically Tom is right; he stuck her head in the freezer first.

Sorry about the poor quality. My phone takes great pictures, but I don’t know about the videos. At least it adds to the spontaneity and authenticity claims, right? Like the Marilyn Monroe sex tape.

We sat and reminisced, and I explained to one of her daughters that I grew up by her grandma and grandpa. A random young father bringing a kid out of the play place, said, “Wait, your father-in-law is Art B. who teaches French? I teach Spanish three doors down from him.” As we crossed the parking lot it was almost eery as we made our ways to matching minivans. I said to Lucy (perenially my straggler), “Stay right by me.” A couple feet over came the echo, “Stay right be me.”

I feel like it should bother me that we’re so alike, that our lives are so alike. Yes, we played clarinet together twenty years ago (I am freaking old, dude), and we go to the same church and my sister was friends with one of her sisters and my friend Tracey had a crush on her older brother and there’s even a less-salubrious connection that we’ve never discussed (though I could be indignant on behalf of my side), and basically this girl could be me, or I could be her, or something, and shouldn’t that be a bother?

Instead it warms the cockles, tickles the funnies. I don’t want to be special, but I do want be different, I think. Most important, I want to believe I have the life I have, the kids, the husband with the respectable job, the being-a-mom-ness, the consumed-by-childhood-things, out of choice, purposefully, not that my demographics dictated it for me. I am probably wrong about that. And tonight it’s okay.

*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.

My soul mate turned 36 last week, so that must mean it’s time for another colonoscopy! Happy birthday, honey!

I signed up Tom for his first colonoscopy at 33 because his maternal grandfather died at age 43 from colon cancer. They found a polyp that was pre-cancerous but advanced enough to warrant a repeat in three years. We are fortunate to have good health insurance, but after paying all four bills (hospital, anesthesia, doctor, and lab) it will probably be about $400 out-of-pocket.

The most striking thing this time around was the nurses’ attitudes before and after the exam. Before, they were a little surprised as to why such a young man had voluntarily gone through the fasting, bowel cleansing, and breezy-hospital-gown wearing. I smiled serenely through their curiosity just as I had cheerfully (and perhaps callously) ignored Tom’s whinging about the entire bottle of laxative he had to drink. I even cooked him a fabulous last meal, complete with home-grown rhubarb crumble 36 hours before the exam.

After the exam the nurses were a little hushed and serious-faced. Tom slowly woke up and was his usual slightly-goofier-than-normal-post-sedative self. He said several times that he’d love to take that drug every night at bed time. (Finally I told him propofol was what killed Michael Jackson and that sobered him up a bit.)

The doctor came in and said they’d found one polyp again, less advanced than last time, but still concerning, and then he said that if Tom hadn’t started coming in this early to get checked out he would’ve been looking at cancer in his forties. When the biopsy comes back they’ll decide whether he needs to come back in three years or five, but he can never, ever, ever (I swear he said it like five times, but probably it was only twice) go longer than the 3-5 years without an exam.

We stopped at In-n-Out Burger (could their fries taste any healthier? yuck) on the way home and then Tom had the rest of the day to nap and contemplate the meaning of life. Mostly he is glad he married me, he says.

“Why were you so adamant about me getting a colonoscopy the first time?” he asks. “Was it because your dad is a doctor?” “How did you know my grandfather died of colon cancer?”

I stare at him, unbelieving. “Your mom told me.”

“But I don’t know that sort of thing about your family” he says.

He does know, of course, or at least he’s heard it all before, from me and my family. We see them often, and we talk about that kind of thing. It’s just that Tom is a Mary and I am a Martha. Maybe lots of couples are like that, with the husband secure in leaving mundane details of daily/household life to the wife. I don’t usually mind; I have a good memory and I like taking care of my people. I like being in charge and responsible. The only problem is when I forget our roles (like forgetting to remind Tom to bring his driver’s license to the hospital — who doesn’t take their wallet with them?) and then we both suffer–me from frustration and him from the force of my wrath.

But back to the mushy stuff. Tom kept asking why it was so important to me that he get tested and I stopped. “Dude, you act like this is some favor I did for you, when really it’s in my best interest to keep you around. I love you.”

(Not to mention the kids. I am not raising them alone.)

“I think I was really meant to marry you,” he says, “because you’re a doctor’s daughter so you know about these things and you trust doctors, so you got me to get a colonscopy and you saved my life.”

I shake my head. You were supposed to marry me because you are my soul mate. The life-saving thing is just a bonus.

This year I didn’t go through my usual cycle of Spring = Daydream of Homeschool; Fall = Boot Them Out Now. We had a great summer that was a little crazy with our basement finishing project, and we’re still sucking the marrow out of the warm days and cool evenings. We’re on a hiking-to-waterfalls kick (Stewart Cascades and Battle Creek Falls recently; next up Grotto Falls and Diamond Fork) and finally eating dinner outside.

Avery is at the same charter school as Callie this year and though she still misses her old school, she likes her (male, laid-back) teacher and there’s even a girl from her fourth grade class. I asked if they were friends last year and Avery said, “Well I know her and I don’t hate her.” Here at the smaller school, away from established friend groups, they have progressed to eating lunch together. Could friendship bracelets be far behind?

Avery tried out for the debate team and though it improved my daily prayer habit (tryouts in fifth grade??) it’s an extracurricular activity I can really endorse. There should be no problem ensuring she gets plenty of practice. She’s also swimming and reading too much and I had to take her bra shopping (for fifth grade??) which reminded me of my own mortality and also how much I hate shopping for intimate apparel.

The only fruit fly in our basil is math. You might remember that we worked through half of a Saxon math book last summer after she got a C in third grade. Not that a C is so terrible (though it is, let’s be honest, I got one my sophomore year at BYU so I know), but her attitude is horrible. This summer I took her to a week-long math camp at UVU, after which I got to hear the words “love” and “math” in the same sentence, though the emphasis may have been on the word “camp.”(Seriously, it was their first year doing it and at $45 for 15 hours of a fun, interactive introduction to everything from game theory to cryptography, i.e. A STEAL, I highly recommend.)

Back in the real world Avery enjoys saying she hates math and watching my heart shrivel. Because a) I love math and b) I refuse to raise girls who hate math. I would rather they pierced their noses and tramp-stamped their lower backs than hate math. (Maybe a temporary tattoo on the left forearm.)

Homework is a nightmare. She dawdles, she doodles, she daydreams. We cajole, I yell, Tom commiserates and wanders into bypaths of How This Will Apply When You’re in Algebra. She tested into the 6/5 math group which is right where she should be, and the math groups themselves are small (11-12 kids) and taught by every adult, including the director, at the school first thing every day.

After school she asks me what 6 times 4 is and I want to take the knife I’m cutting up peaches with for their after-school snack and turn it on myself. (I don’t mean to trivialize the mental illness that leads people to cut themselves, but sometimes I honestly think it would be a relief to pull out my eyelashes one by one rather than remind her that 6 times 4 is 24 and always has been, always will be, till the moon turns red and the stars fall from the sky.)

Some days I sit next to her and get frustrated-er and frustrated-er. Some days I don’t say a word and that seems fine: it’s her homework, she’s old enough to be responsible and take the consequences or reap the rewards, but then it’s 9:30 at night and her head droops limply over the heavy book and I even though I know she’ll perk up long enough to read once she’s in bed I just want her to get some sleep.

So I emailed her teacher and asked if I could come watch the math lesson. It seems crazy to have an hour dedicated to math and then have an hour or two of drawn out, make-you-stabby assignment-doing at home. He talked to her math teacher and this morning I went in. They took a test yesterday and Avery was the fourth person to hand it in and she got a 95. She got 100% on the multiplication fact test (I didn’t check to see if 6 times 4 was one of them; I’m assuming not since the nurse didn’t call to report a case of hives, bubonic plague, and dysentery on Wednesday). Avery is fine in class, Mrs. B. said.

Of course she is.

So what do I do then? Mrs. B. said, “Let’s talk to the director, she’s really good about this kind of thing.” We walked over to the director’s office and when Mrs. B. introduced me it took her just a second to say, “You’re here about math right? Though Avery was the fourth done on the test yesterday.” I explained the whole thing and said I was quite open to suggestions. The director said she’d be happy for Avery to do her homework at the school one afternoon. She can sit in Mrs. B’s room and ask her any questions but basically do it on her own. I’m to come after half an hour and then the four of us will sit down and show her the test scores and look over her homework and tell her that since it’s clear she can do it, from now on it’s her responsibility, that it’s up to her whether she does it and gets the points for it or not.

This is my kind of intervention. After 3:30 pm this afternoon in the Year of our Lord 2011, I will not mention the words “math homework” ever again. Amen.

But not today.

—

Thank you for your kind comments on my last post. Your understanding and encouragement is kind of rare, especially on the internet, and it makes a big difference in my life. Thank you.

This morning Crysanthemum and I took our kids to Ikea for breakfast, a little quality time in the Smaland play place, and some organization-supply shopping.

My kids love eating in the Ikea cafeteria, sitting at the familiar little tables in front of retro Goofy cartoons. Plus it’s free this month. Molly wanders around a bit, and I keep a close eye on her because she tries to steal food from other kids’ plates and because although she walks well for an 11-month old, she’s still my baby. As she stood at one of the toys (the cylinders that you spin to line up the three images), a boy about three years old came up beside her and pushed her sqaure in the chest, knocking her back from the toy and into the metal legs of a chair and onto the ground. Molly was unhurt and she didn’t even cry, but I was up and out of my chair, picking her up, and asking the ladies at the next table,

“Is this your kid?”

They shook their heads and I looked up and around, scanning for the kid’s parent. No one stepped forward, so I said,

“This kid just pushed my baby down, whose kid is this?”

A mother came over from the other side of the room as we sat back down, asking,

“Well, what do you expect?”

That stumped me. My kids misbehave, they don’t always want to share or take turns. One of the worst parenting days I’ve had was the time several years ago in Cairo that I bragged that Avery wasn’t a biter and five minutes later she bit the boy whose biting had occasioned my boast.

But I don’t let them get away with pushing littler kids down. And probably this is sexist of me, but the fact that it was a bigger boy child pushing my baby girl child around somehow made it seem worse. Maybe I’ve just been lucky with my girls, maybe I don’t understand or fully empathize with how naturally physical and rough boys can be. But still, I expect you to not let your son push my baby girl down. That’s what I expect. I expect you to watch your child and correct him if he does things like that.

(I also love the idea of Free Range Kids — I want my kids to work it out on the playground and the playroom. I’m not a referee, I don’t like tattling; if there’s no blood, I don’t want to hear about it. But she’s my baby. Can I be a Free-Ranger-with-caveats-for-my-baby?)

The mom picked up her little boy and told him to say he was sorry. He ignored her for a few seconds and then muttered,

 ”Sorry.”

I said, in that overly-bright-encouraging voice, “Thanks for apologizing.”

The mom and the boy and what looked like the grandmother left several minutes later.

We finished breakfast and as I was putting our dirty dishes away a different woman approached me and said:

“Like your kids have never done anything to another kid. I hope you’re ashamed, you made a huge spectacle and really embarrassed that lady and her son has a disability and I hope you feel embarrassed of yourself.”

I got that fluttery feeling in my stomach, the guilty headache, the sinking sick feeling that I had really messed up. I took my kids to the bathroom and came back. I saw the second woman sitting back in her seat and I went over to her. I asked if she knew the woman, and she said,

“No, but why would that matter?”

I said, “I just wondered if you knew her so you could tell her that I was sorry.”

“Oh, but you made a terrible spectacle, you embarrassed her in front of everyone.”

I said, “I didn’t mean to make a scene, I just wanted to know where the boy’s parents were,” and she blew up at me. She said I did make a spectacle and everyone was staring and she knows the family from the agency and the kid has autism and she knows how hard it is for them when people like me make big spectacles. I tried to apologize again, and she said,

“I hope you’re not LDS, because if you are then that was even more embarrassing.”

I admitted I am LDS and that, again, I was sorry, I hadn’t realized so many people were watching, or that it was that big a deal. She wouldn’t stop berating me, and I finally left mid-sentence.

I wish I were a good enough person (or at least a good enough blogger) to figure out a neat way to draw out the moral or ending of this story. I still feel jittery inside about it. I wish I hadn’t made that mom feel bad, but I also wish her son hadn’t pushed my baby down, and while I know it was the right thing to walk away from the second lady, I wish I could make her admit that at least there were a number of things I didn’t do in my spectacle: I didn’t yell or swear or call the mother or the boy names. I thought I had handled it okay. (In retrospect not great, of course.)

But I hate that I made it harder for the other mother. The other day Lucy told me that her “eye muscle” makes it so that the cherry tomato under the fridge looks like it’s six inches to the left of where it really is. I’d forgotten I’d even explained to her and her sisters about her eye a few months ago. She’s totally fine with it. It’s just a trick she can do with her Duane Syndrome.

And that “disability” is freaking nothing compared to autism. I know that. I know how lucky we are, how easy we have it (knock on wood, it’s plenty hard even typical-ish, which makes me feel that much worse, augh.) 

Last week I started crying when I quietly responded to my girls in line at Thanksgiving Point that the reason that big boy talks and laughs too loud is because his brain works differently and that’s okay, and I made my grandma angry when I said that if there’s a way to fix things like my Aunt Coco’s Down Syndrome then of course we should fix them. (I think we agreed, or should have, that there is a gray area between obvious cosmetic surgery and chromosomal therapies, with fraught stops along the way for things like growth hormone for very short children and cochlear implants for deaf people.)

Is there a way to talk about this without sounding like an ass? I love how Amy talks about it.  

I think I’ve figured out the moral. Avery was with me when the second lady wouldn’t accept my apology on behalf of the other mother. She was instantly defensive, saying, that lady has a baby of her own, how would she feel if it was her baby who got pushed down?

But it wasn’t really about Molly or even the boy (who is probably young enough to quickly forget and forgive), and it most certainly shouldn’t be about the second lady, whose voice in my head I’m going to do my best to ignore even though she succeeded in making me feel bad and making me think again (and again) about how I act and the example I set for my own kids.

So –

Dear Mother of the Child who could be My Child Next Week,

I am sorry, more sorry than I can say. I am sorry I overreacted and drew attention to you in a public place. I know you’re doing your best and I’m sorry that I made it harder. Please forgive me.

Yours in motherhood-is-hard-solidarity,

Shannon

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.

There is a prickling at the back of my mind, like a phantom limb that isn’t a phantom or a limb, but is a part of me, if I am away from my nursing baby too long. The unbreakable tie that tethers us is invisible in the hours we are separated. Yesterday I painted downstairs all day, coming up only to nurse the baby and eat a sandwich, both at arms length, careful of the wet paint on my shirt. By the end of the day I needed the smell of her smooth temple against my mouth and nose.

I also needed a bath. My nursing baby was covered in apple sauce, from the hairs on the back of her head to the sides of her thighs under her tray. She needed a bath, too.

I felt the tie that tethers us soften, lazily uncoiling, free as I lay in the water and she flopped from the left of my belly to the right, ever curious and reaching. I sat up to wash our hair and she sat in my lap, her side to my belly. She looked up at my breast, zeroed in on my nipple and reached her mouth up for a nurse.

I’ve been thinking, ever since, about breastfeeding in general, and public discomfort with it in particular. Nursing to me is motherhood distilled. It is the last time my baby is part of “me and my baby,” “my baby and I.” It signifies the time before she is apart and away, before she is someone who needs less from me, takes less from me, but then paradoxically requires more from me, more purposeful patience, more counting to ten before I explode over toddler-ish escapades. It’s something I do simply because I enjoy it, not because I feel I should or because it’s best for baby, but because I like it.

The past couple of weeks I’ve been experiencing my first-ever nursing aversion. I didn’t even know there was a word for what I was feeling, the temporary pain, the impatience, the counting down six more weeks until we hit a year, where I had assumed I would nurse till around eighteen months with my fourth baby, and that I would find it heartbreaking to stop this final time. I did some reading, and maybe it’s the weather or my hormones or the baby having a growth spurt or my needing to drink more water and get more sleep.

Last night I thought of all the maternal imagery Jesus uses. I love the types and symbols and metaphors of the scriptures. I love talking with my daughters about the women in the scriptures and imagining what barely-or-not-mentioned women were feeling and thinking. Possibly they are getting a very unorthodox perspective on stories like Queen Esther (poor Vashti, eh?) and the Parable of the Talents (sounds like food storage).

Jesus asks how many times would he have gathered us like a hen gathers her chickens and tell fathers to bring children up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. He asks how unlikely would it be for a woman to forget her sucking child and says He is even more constant.

Before He was crucified He said there would come a time when they would say “Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the paps which never gave suck,” because baring and nursing and mothering make one vulnerable.

Moses, when fed up with the children of Israel for not appreciating manna, asks the Lord why he is responsible for them: “Have I conceived all this people? have I begotten them, that thou shouldest say unto me, Carry them in thy bosom, as a nursing father beareth the sucking child, unto the land which thou swarest unto their fathers?”

And when Isaiah prophesies about the redemption of Israel, he says that “their kings shall be thy nursing fathers and their queens thy nursing mothers.”

I think one of the reasons I like nursing so much is because it’s one of the few mothering things I’m really good it, one of the few things that comes naturally to me, something I don’t have to overthink or remind myself ten times a day that swearing probably won’t make this situation of the sugar all over the floor any better.

I don’t know why we are so uncomfortable with imagery of the physical, maternal body. Jesus tells us to eat of His flesh and drink of His blood. I bring Molly to my breast and she eats and drinks greedily. I wish I were as eager to accept the nourishment Jesus offers hourly as she accepts the milk that flows from my breast.