Babies, Elephants, Pianos

 Hey look, my kids DO look a little like me!

28 years ago (and this is something I don't remember very well)  at 7:47am, I was born. I think I came at 7:47am because labor was annoying me and I wanted to go back to sleep. I still don't like to be awake at 7:47am. I'm not the important part of that day though. Obviously, dad helped facilitate the event, but this one day was all mom's. I'm thankful that my righteous mother chose to create a family. I'm thankful that she was willing and eager to lend me her body as a vessel in which to grow, so that I could come fulfill the choice I made in the pre-mortal world and participate in mortality. Thanks for my first and greatest birthday present, mama: thank you for building my body.

The next birthday (I remember this one a little better) of note was my 5th. There were five girls (and 20 boys) in my kindergarten class: me, Larissa, Keela, Katie and Stephanie. Yep, I remember their last names too. Because of our vast numbers, I got to invite 100% of the girls in my class to Chuck E Cheese, to celebrate my birthday with me. Stephanie forgot the time, or the day, or the place; or her mom couldn't find it, or something... and didn't get there until almost the end. I was so sad. It threatened to throw a melodramatically dark cloud over a happy day. When she finally arrived, with a very small gift in hand, my dad diffused the situation by telling us all that she was late because she had to buy my elephant. We were greatly amused that he was so convinced that there was an elephant in that tiny box (if I remember correctly, it was stick-on earrings). I'm sure he'd done it before, but this is the first of many, many times I remember my dad using the ridiculous (and often elephants) to flip a frown. Sometimes I still pretend that I'm getting an elephant for my birthday.

Next. Today is the 20th anniversary of my baptism into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. (We don't perform infant baptisms- members are baptised no earlier than their 8th birthdays.) I was lucky enough to have my birthday fall on a Sunday, it being recent direction that baptisms should take place on that day of the week, unless out-of-town family prompted the choice of another day. My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Worner, came to my baptism. I loved that teacher. She taught me to be kind. It's a quality I still require of myself and cherish in others. My mom sang me my song. I know it made an impression, because I can still hear her saying the exact words she said as she explained its composition. I don't have many pristine memories like that. My righteous father brought me down into the waters of baptism and later confirmed me a member of the Church, and gave me the Gift of the Holy Ghost. Thank you, dad, for my next greatest birthday present, and your example throughout my life of how to use it properly.

We can skip 15 years to my 23rd birthday now: I remember this one about as well as I remember the first one. My 23rd birthday was Damien's official due date, but he was 10 days old that day. I have no idea what I did that day. I don't know if Kyle even called me... though I'm sure he did. I was on lots of pain meds and little sleep. What I do know is that sometime around that birthday, a kind neighbour taught me about charity. We moved to Colorado Springs when I was 3. The neighbours who shared (still share, I just don't live there anymore) the back fence were members of our ward. My dad and the patriarch of that family worked together in several bishopbrics, I grew up with their kids, we had family dinners together fairly often, we took them cookies on Sundays much too often, we carpooled to school and seminary and church activities together... good neighbours and great friends. I didn't see any of them for a couple of years before Damien was born, except at my wedding reception, but one day, somewhere around my birthday, my mom came down to my room, visibly emotional, and asked me to come upstairs. I wondered what in the world was the matter, but I made myself presentable and brought the baby up. Brother Jensen met Damien and we chatted for a little while, and finally he said "I heard you're moving to California. I thought you might need a piano." It felt out of the blue. It WAS out of the blue. It was a thought that he had at random and acted upon that blessed my life for years after. My kind neighbour brought me a piano. And he taught me a message that was spoken in conference but didn't take hold until I witnessed it in this great and humble gift: "Never suppress a generous thought."

These are just a few of the reasons that I make my birthday a giving day. Because I have been given much, and all that jazz. :)

More Than I Signed Up For

It's a very ancient saying,
But a true and honest thought,
That if you become a teacher,
By your pupils you'll be taught.*

I didn't actually sign up for this course at all- Damien was more of a pop quiz. He wasn't just a "You weren't trying, but surprise!" kind of surprise- he was a "I know you were trying NOT to have me, but SURPRISE! I'm here anyway, BWAHAHAHAHA" kind of surprise. And since I didn't deliberately enroll in this crash course in Human Behavioral Education, it took me a while to realize that I am NOT the professor on this one. Occasionally I get to guest-star in the teacher role, but for every little lesson I manage to sneak into his great big personality, Damien schools me in at least one HUGE, perspective-altering subject. Schools me. Seriously.

Damien has a friend. This friend has a punching bag. Its name is Damien. I haven't figured out WHY Damien is so often the target of this child's aggression, but he is. And yet, Damien loves his friend without fail. If I had a friend who hit me when we hung out together... well... we wouldn't. But Damien desperately wants to play with this friend. He does so now only under close supervision. I had to sit down with him and talk about this relationship to make sure it wasn't affecting him negatively. What I heard from my little child was an eye-opening reminder to me about how forgiveness works. I asked him, "Damien, how does it make you feel when your friend hits you?" I expected the natural responses: "Sad, mad, hurt, confused..." And what I got in return was: "I don't want him to be mad anymore. When he hits me, I think I should give him a hug. Can we make cupcakes to help him feel happy?"

Puke. Talk about overkill. Talk about guilt trip. Talk about turn the other cheek. It's one of those sickeningly sweet moments that would fit comfortably inside the front cover of The Friend. It also completely overrides the way I've been trying to teach him NOT to hit. I've reiterated many times that when he hits other kids, they don't want to play with him anymore. But that's not what he feels when other kids hit him. Good job, Damien, I have no idea how to reach you on this one now. Where did this unfailingly loving, forgiving nature come from? I know that I have talked many times on internet forums (some of my friends may have even received this particular piece of go-to advice from me) about making delicious baked goods for difficult neighbours, but I didn't think I'd ever said it aloud for Damien to overhear (he learns so much more from what he overhears than from what I say directly to him). So maybe it's a natural instinct to make cupcakes for people who hit us, or maybe he just really likes cupcakes, thinks everyone should like cupcakes, and noticed his friend seems unhappy and made the logical jump to... unhappy friend - cupcake = he wants to hit me... unhappy friend + cupcake = he wants to hug me. Whatever it is, I'm sitting here trying to teach my kid not to hit and he responds by teaching me to bless those who curse me and bake for those who despitefully use me. Great. See? I'm not the professor here.

When we moved to Monterey this time around, I noticed that we have too many toys. WAY too many toys. It's honestly not a huge volume of things, but considering my kids would be happy for life with a cardboard box and a bouncyball, it was too many. I mentioned a few times (to Kyle, not remembering that Damien memorizes every word I ever say to anyone) that we should go through their things when they weren't watching and take some things to Goodwill. That was in September. November rolled around, and with it came Damien's birthday. He received a gift card from one set of grandparents to a store that isn't open on Mondays (which is the day on which his birthday fell) so I told him on Tuesday we would go toy shopping. He replied "Oh, then today we should pick some of my toys to give to kids who don't have some."

I, of course replied thus:

.

...


...

That's not me. Do you really think I would post a picture of MYSELF crying, publicly? No. Look up "ugly cry" in the imaginary dictionary- THAT'S me.

Compose myself. "Ok, Damien, I think that's a really great idea!" And so, a new tradition was born. Every year on his birthday, Damien will pick some toys to give to kids who don't have some. I bet you anything it will get more difficult as he gets older, but this birthday, he taught me how to be selfless. And on Tuesday, when he got to shop with his gift card, he refused to choose a second toy until he had found the perfect toy for Lyric. Oh my gosh, puke. Please child, stop shaming me, because I was really just hoping you would choose a cake mix or a big bag of chocolate for your second gift so that I could pilfer the results.

I know, this sounds like a gigantic brag, and I promise you that Damien is NOT a perfect child. There are many things I could list that would make you feel REALLY GOOD about your children by comparison, but this is a positive blog, so I won't- I'll simply encourage you to look for the good in them... it tends to be easy to find, if you spend a few minutes prepping yourself to ignore the louder bad. One thing I CAN tell you is that he is much closer to perfect than I have ever been. And of course, that's because he doesn't have to try very hard right now to "become as a little child."

I have to try really hard. REALLY hard. So I'm thankful for the great big giant surprise professor that came to give me an extended pop quiz five years ago. I know it's my job to teach him a lot of things about life, like how it's important to not pick his nose and put the results on his sister, and how it's important that he remember he is not a lion during the Sacrament, but obviously he came here to teach me a lot of much more important things, and when I humble myself enough to learn from him, I always come out the better for it.

*Rodgers and Hammerstein- "Getting to Know You"

I Have Seen Too Many Angels

I had a long conversation with a friend today that brought memories back that I need to share. I don't keep a journal (bad, I should) so I am going to put the memories here, if only for myself, or perhaps someday my kids will find and read this entry and it will help them understand why I live the way I live. Either way, it needs to be written, so I'll write it.

I've made some stupid choices. No, let's go back further. My friend and I were talking about the struggles of the world's youth, specifically the youth of the church, and I realized that one of my biggest struggles was my immature perspective on sin and blessings. I believed that once I had sinned, all blessings were withdrawn. There was no pathway back. Once I had sinned enough, I was done for. I had this unrealistic (and frankly unnecessary) image of perfection to which I held myself, and once I broke the image into too many pieces, there was no piecing it back together.

So. I made a lot of stupid choices. Once I made those choices, it was easy, because of my incomplete understanding of the Atonement and the way my Heavenly Father loves me, for the adversary and my ex-husband (certain people who love me suspect the two are almost one anyway) to convince me that there was no Father who loved me, I was not and would never again be blessed, and I was not of worth. They were wrong. I was wrong. My Heavenly Father continued to bless me with whatever I had capacity to receive in the circumstances into which I had placed myself. There were car accidents narrowly avoided, times I should have died from drug overdose or alcohol poisoning, brief comfort felt in times of deepest despair, and even the occasional blessing of convenience.

One night, very late (probably between 10pm and midnight or so), the driver of the vehicle in which I was riding was so impaired that he ran the car up on a sharp curb- destroying both tires on one side- pulled into the nearest parking lot and immediately passed out cold drunk. I was in no state of soberness to have any idea what to do, and in no state of physical strength or dexterity to get my passed-out lump of a driver to safety, let alone home. After about an hour, a truck pulled into the parking lot into which we had limped, and two men in t-shirts and basketball shorts got out and entered the building. I watched them speak briefly with the custodian who was leaving for the evening, and then come back out, looking confused. They talked for a few minutes and eventually spotted me and came over and asked if they could help me. I didn't have a jack, but I did happen to have two spare tires, so they got the jack from their pickup and changed my busted tires. Together they moved my inebriated baggage from the driver's seat to the back seat. I offered to pay them what little cash I had for helping me, and they declined. One said "We're missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. This building is our mission office. We normally wouldn't be out this late, and you probably would only recognize us in white shirts and ties, but my companion here woke me up and said 'Something is wrong at the mission office- we have to go now. So we went.'" And then they sent me (I had sobered up to what I thought was a safe level by this time) on my way.

At the time, this was a highly humiliating experience for me. I refused to tell them my name, for fear that this story would get back to my parents. I was grateful, but honestly wished it had been anyone else, or that nobody had seen us at all. Later, once my life reached a state of stability and my mind a state of soberness, I was able to look back and see that event for what it was. I saw a Father, desperately reaching out to a daughter who had run away from home, begging her to recognize Him. Pleading through others who would act on His instruction, when the daughter would not, for her to partake of His love and return home. I know a brilliant composer who penned these words: "He longs to give you life, He longs to bless you, can ye then forsake Him? Will ye turn away? Ever He pleads for you, sorrows and grieves for you, will ye return to Him, or will ye turn from joy?"* There have been other events in my life where, in hindsight, I can see Him pleading with me to allow Him to change my course, to purify my heart, and to give me all the blessings He so desperately wanted me to have. As I have undergone the repentance process for many of my stupid choices, my guilt and grief have turned to compassion and regret for the sorrow I caused in my Father and Brother, who knew all along how much more I could be, and ultimately gratitude, that They never gave up on me.

Throughout my life, whether I was making right or wrong choices, my Heavenly Father has always watched over me. Without fail. He has been faithful in my protection when I was unfaithful in my choices. He has always blessed me, but in many cases I missed, rejected or squandered those blessings. When I am in the right place at the right time, with the right mindset, I have been able to recognize, receive, and make proper use of the blessings that are so abundantly poured down on my head. But often, I don't see those things until much later. I have recognized this about myself more and more over the last several years, and I have made a practice of searching out the blessings in every moment so that I don't have to wait five years for a clearer vision of the past to recognize them. This has led to much happiness and gratitude, and though I still fail at times to see the good in my life as it comes, I'm getting better at it as I learn to focus on the great gifts that my Father rains down on me. I desperately want others to experience this joy and confidence. It's fairly easy to teach a course on what not to do. What evils to avoid; for which pitfalls we should remain on alert. It's more difficult to teach a lesson on how to handle our imperfection. I feel it's imperative that we teach our youth of the Atonement. To teach them that there is always a path back from a dangerous pitfall. To teach them to see the evidence of Heavenly Father's influence in their lives, and to feel His yearning to bless us with all that He has.

In LDS theology there is a story of a prophet named Nephi who had some obnoxious older brothers. They never wanted to follow directions, they never wanted to do what needed to be done, they never wanted to work hard for survival or comfort, and they never stopped complaining. They underwent and survived some excruciating trials, and narrowly escaped death on multiple occasions, but never seemed to recognize the Lord's hand in preserving them. At one point, they were reluctantly out on a difficult task with Nephi when they became so angry with him that they bound and beat him, and would probably have ultimately killed him, had not an angel appeared to them and put a stop to it. Pretty extreme remedy, really, but Nephi's mission was just that important. Later, when they again refused to do what was required of them in another difficult responsibility, in what I imagine could only have been loving frustration, Nephi chastised them, asking "How is it that ye have forgotten that ye have seen an angel of the Lord?"** I believe that the Lord sends us reminders that He is there, that He loves us, and that He LONGS to bless us. I believe that my Heavenly Father has always guided and protected me, thought I could not always see His hand until I was looking back with clearer sight. I trust, because of this perfect pattern (and only He could create one so perfect), that He always will. Some might attribute my experiences to luck. Some might call them coincidences. I call them angels. I have seen too many angels to forget.

*"Will Ye Turn From Joy"- Sally DeFord

**1 Nephi 7:10

I Am Thankful For Romance

 Perhaps it it our imperfections 

that make us so perfect for one another!*

My father is a physicist and a mathematician. He's approximately as romantic as a physicist or a mathematician. My mother, though she is a Jane Austen aficionado, is much more Lizzie than Catherine. Displays of worldly romance between my parents were not frequent visitors to my life. There was the time that my dad randomly purchased Sting tickets... and the time... ok that's all I can think of. But I want to tell you what romance really looks like to me, thanks to them.

Romance is kneeling together frequently in prayer. Romance is attending the Temple together. Romance is four kids and two grandbabies, so far. Romance is support of each other's endeavors. It's my dad never failing to attend a choir practice he had the choice to attend and my mom attending thirty years of miserably mandatory fun. It's holding hands in the car, and at church, and at the mall. It's mom reminding kids that dad would have been there if he could, when dad couldn't come from work to an elementary school play. And it's dad using his culinary expertise to make us peas (frozen) and white sauce (pretty sure it was made of... milk) every Wednesday when mom was gone to Miamaid activities. It's phone calls very late from business-trip hotels, with nothing particular to say, which leads me to believe it's just because he's still lonely when they are apart. Speaking of phone calls, romance is finding out that German pay phones will let you call your girlfriend in America just long enough to say "Hi, I love you, bye!" if you give them a nickel, and it's devoted patience when the whole world tells you that nobody successfully waits two years for a missionary. Romance is sitting on buckets and beanbag chairs because you aren't willing to go into debt to buy kitchen furniture, and it's eating a lot of red beans and rice and soup with dumplings, and sewing your kids' Christmas outfits yourself, and driving your highly unluxurious vehicles into the ground, because those are the sacrifices you make to work towards financial comfort for your family. It's doing all those things together in solidarity and looking forward to the future with faith and happiness, because what you have is love and charity and sacrifice and patience and longsuffering and health and family, and none of those things can be replaced by things.

Romance is 30-some years of working very, very hard to create a Celestial marriage.

Happy Anniversary, mom and dad, and thank you for your example.

*Jane Austen: Emma

I Am Thankful For Music

If thou art merry, praise the Lord 

with singing, with music, with dancing, 

and with a prayer of praise and thanksgiving.

Doctrine and Covenants 136:28 

Sometimes I have to give up and recognize that my kids and I aren't speaking the same language. Sometimes I have to admit that whatever obscure language they ARE speaking, I can't even identify it. Sometimes this happens with adults too. I'm just not on the same wavelength with most people most of the time. I often struggle in social situations and I struggle to communicate with my peers. At times like these, I am so very grateful for music, which I consider a universal language.

When Kyle and I were dating, he wasn't even entirely sure if he was interested in being with someone long-term at first. I fell in love with him much more quickly than he was ready to be in love at all. Our first Christmas together, I was at a loss for what to give him. I agonized and thought and pondered and finally settled on a couple of homemade CDs of some very difficult-to-obtain video game soundtrack and orchestrated score. Pretty much the Ultimate Nerdy Mixtape. I knew it was going to be a nostalgic, happy gift, but I thought it would just be a silly, fluffy, "yeah, I didn't know what to get you either" kind of gift. I was as wrong as could be, because I found out a few months later that when he first played the CD, it was the moment he realized he was in love with me, and he was keeping me.

Music brings me closer to my kids when I don't understand them or they don't understand me. Music connects me to my mother, and Heaven knows there have been enough times when we didn't understand each other either. Music reminds me of my dad, who taught the family home evening lesson that sparked my earliest genuine interest in pursuing it as a hobby. I feel the Spirit through music; I feel my Heavenly Father's love through music; in fact, there were times in my life where I felt nothing at all, except through music.

Today, I am grateful for this musical world, and ears tuned to hear it.

I Am Thankful For Damien

In November of 2006, Kyle decided to join the Air Force. He took a bunch of tests and passed a bunch of evaluations, and decided he was going to take a job that's fairly difficult to attain, and that also, at that time, had a fairly long wait. So he signed up and was placed in the Delayed Enlistment Program (DEP). In March of 2007, we found out I was pregnant. From that point forward, we lived with fingers crossed that Kyle's slot would open up either early enough or late enough that his training wouldn't conflict with our baby's birth. Guess what: crossing fingers doesn't work. He was called up to go on September 11, placing his graduation from Basic Training on approximately Halloween weekend. I flew down to Texas to see his graduation, after which he left for the Defense Language Institute in California and I flew back home to CO. About two weeks later, I found out I would need to have a c-section, and he found out he couldn't get leave to come home for it. So I went in for surgery with my mama as my moral support, and Damien was born on November 19, 2007.

Having Damien without Kyle was survivable because of one thing: Damien. He was an incredible baby. He was born at 10 pounds, 9 ounces, and suspected of being somewhat late. He had jaundice, so his doctors ordered us a bili-bed to be delivered to my parents' home, where we were living while Kyle was in training. They replaced the bed with a bili-blanket when they realized that my newborn was definitely NOT suited for a newborn-sized bili-bed. Once he got past the jaundice, he was the happiest, sweetest baby that ever did live. Kyle came to meet Damien for the first time, and move us to California, in December. Training was VERY difficult for Kyle for a while, and struggling academically meant mandated extra time at school, extra homework, extra stress, and an extra lonely period of time for me. Damien was my solace and my company, and my best friend.

He still is. Things are much easier for Kyle now and we have grown so much as a family, but Damien and I still have a unique bond because of our history, and I'm so grateful for him. He's sweet and cheerful and honest to a fault. He tells me he loves me about 100 times a day, and assures me that he likes me "even when I'm mad." He gives compliments freely and helps me out around the house. He gets so excited about things that it's hard not to get excited right along with him. He is without question one of the greatest joys of my life.

Today, as every day, I am thankful for Damien. Because even though he's been vomiting for a large portion of the day, he's still, even as I write, protecting me from all the invisible badguys in our living room with two swords, a shield and a stormtrooper costume. My hero.