So when we sat in our pew and looked around, it shouldn’t have been surprising that Spot wasn’t with us. We’re still new here, so a few seconds later when we found her in the aisle, she had a crumpled, scared face and easily-dried tears.

This morning after we got her sisters off to school, I heard Spot asking, “Are you Mama? Are you?” (which means “Where are you?”). Since she sounded tremulous and a little bit worried rather than demanding and petulant, I told her I was in the bathroom. She was relieved to see me and eager to hand me some toilet paper. She even gestured so I’d know what to do with it. (Yes, she is definitely showing interest. Getting the little potty out soon.)

Tonight we decided to try out the only Mexican place in Seagull Fountain (not great; will try Mi Ranchito in Spanish Spoon next time I’m desperate for chile rellenos). Sally and Susan went out to the car while Dick and I changed upstairs. Spot started screaming — the panicked cry of a child who thinks she’s been left. I rushed down (well, walked down, anyway) and scooped her up.

I hope I’m not completely degenerate in that I almost enjoy this phase because all mama’s baby wants is mama (or daddy or sisters (maybe even brothers, probably).

She wants to know she belongs, that the people who love her (and would die for her), are within reach and aware of her.

Soon enough Spot will catch the “I hate you” “You don’t understand” virus that Susan seems to be growing out of (finally!).

Soon enough Spot’ll try to make it out of the car at school without hearing mom’s “Love you so much. Have a great day,” as Sally sometimes does.

For now, belonging to a family and feeling secure in our love and attention is the most important thing in the world to Spot.

And, really, we never grow out of our need to belong — to an extended family, to a church, to a community, to a nation. People who feel like they belong to a church usually have more desire to serve in the church and be faithful. Same goes for a community and a nation.

I was pretty surprised throughout this election season whenever anyone expressed newfound respect or affection for the United States. A lot of the enthusiasm for President-elect Obama comes from a resurgent or completely new sense of belonging to a great nation with boundless possibility and limitless opportunity.

I don’t know if it was the time or place I grew up or the relative comfort of my family life, or my experiences living in a few foreign countries, but I’ve always felt like I belong in the United States, belong to the United States. I probably haven’t acted as grateful for this sense of belonging as I should. I haven’t served in the armed forces or been eager to pay taxes. I haven’t supported political campaigns since high school.

But I am grateful. And I’m happy that so many who have felt disenfranchized or disenchanted with the United States, here and abroad, are feeling a new sense of affection for or belonging to the USA. It’s worth any amount of ad nauseum discussion of hypoallergenic puppies to see so many excited to work for a better future because they finally feel as though they belong.

I’m afraid it’ll be all too soon before we’re back to “I hate you” and “You don’t understand.” Those who fought and continue to fight for us, who’ve fought for our right to belong, probably deserve better. So while I’m making sure that Sally and Susan and Spot know they belong in our family, and in our church, I’m going to look for ways to show them that they belong in our country.

Did you grow up feeling like you belong in your country? Do you feel like you belong now? What are you doing to help your kids feel like they belong?

Happy Veteran’s Day! (and Remembrance Day!) (and St. Martin’s Day, etc)

Jane

You know the Christmas letters that sound as if you’re trying to pimp out your kids? Family reunions can be even worse — a full-color, animated Christmas letter you can’t tape to the refrigerator door and ignore.

If you’re in the market for a career, or have children who need a swift kick in the rear career advice, you might want to keep in mind that the bar for bragging has been raised in recent years. Where once it was enough to graduate from a respectable college and enter a respectable profession (engineer, doctor, engineer, lawyer, dentist, engineer), now you need a little something extra to get respect around the family reunion campfire.

My sweet cousin Peter, who’s number 30 of 57 first cousins or something (I lost the cousin chart they handed out the second night) is not someone I’ve talked to much before (I hang with numbers 10-20). He’s returning to college this fall, and it’s a safe guess that his major is chemical/mechanical/civil non-disobedience engineering.

Peter, who knows that I am a stay-at-home mom like all the other female cousins my age, said to me, “You studied at BYU for awhile, right?”

That night around the campfire, we had family sharing time, where each of my dad’s three sisters and six brothers (except that one brother who’s always “busy”) introduced their kids, beaming proudly if they’d managed to produce their kids in the flesh, hoping to produce adequate excuses if their kids couldn’t make it. Being out of the country on a mission for our church earns a pass, barely.

Occupations and recent accomplishments were mentioned, as were their children’s children. My oldest cousin is turning 40 next year, and he and his wife have adopted several — my three girls are a small, if glittering, contribution to the family tree.

So what’s the most coveted bragging point for mostly-Republican, highly-religious, mostly-high-achiever families? (And an automatic get-out-of-family-reunions card?)

Highest honors around the campfire go to those who have at least one child working in a top secret job for somebody like Lockheed or the NSA.* Then you get to say that you’d like to explain what Johnny does, only he can’t tell you because then he’d have to kill you. Or as my dad’s next oldest brother’s wife says her son says: “I can’t tell you or I’d have to do a lot of paperwork.”

Several of my dad’s nine siblings have sons who have every reason to view more paperwork as the kiss of death.

After my grandparent’s youngest kid told us about his youngest kid’s bluegrass band, my dad said he needed to amend his progeny spiel.

Turns out he has daughters, as do all his brothers and sisters, and, though they are not secret undercover operatives, or even doctors or lawyers or engineers, or MAYOR OF WASILLA, they are doing something wonderful: raising children to become secret undercover operatives or doctor or lawyers or engineers.

Or, as in my case: raising mothers. Mothers who will become governor of Alaska, if I and my studying for awhile at BYU had any confidence in the current fairy tale.

Dad even said that his oldest daughter does the blog, and boy! does she post often.

Then, since I am a supportive wife, I pointed out that Dick also has a top-secret, classified, vital job, and since he works for our church, he answers to a higher power. So there. Your sons might be keeping the free world safe, but my husband? He’s protecting God’s secrets.

And I am raising kids and doing the blog.

*My cousins don’t actually work for these people. I’d tell you who they work for, or where in the world they’re deployed, but then I probably wouldn’t be invited back next year . . .