Seven Years

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, 

which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. 

I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” 

Kyle and I met in person seven years ago today. We'd met on MySpace about a month before and exchanged frequent emails, had IM and phone conversations. He'd tried to get me to go out with him several times and I'd cancelled or stood him up out of nerves every time. I don't even know why- I'd certainly met much shadier characters with no qualms before. I'd love to say it was butterflies because I had a crush on him, but that wouldn't be true. I wasn't particularly interested in him. He was intelligent, polite, attractive and drug-free, but those weren't things that really resonated with me at that point.

When he asked me to be his girlfriend that evening after we watched Shrek 2 (so romantic a first date) I made a hasty, mercenary decision. I was trying to get clean, and he was the only guy I was talking to/seeing that would lead me in that direction. Logically, he was the best choice. At some point I can't define, love caught up to the logic that led to my accepting his request, but I am so grateful I followed my head rather than my heart, that one time.

I told him I loved him for the first time while on a morphine drip after a botched gallbladder removal. I don't think it counts because I wasn't lucid, but he claims otherwise. He didn't say it back though, just in case it really was just the pain meds talking. Kyle told me he loved me for the first time on February 13, just to make sure I knew he didn't do it out of Valentine's Day pressure. He'd never told a girl he loved her before.

When we were sealed in the Columbia, SC temple in 2010, I couldn't stop thinking about how close I came to passing him up. How many times I cancelled on him. I think I knew, before we met, that he would help me change my life if I let him in. And I wasn't sure I was ready to make the changes. I'm so incredibly grateful that I made that snap decision not to stand him up that last time. So grateful that I let my logic lead me even though my heart wasn't entirely on board.

If there's one thing I learned about marriage from my first, failed attempt, it was that love alone is not enough to make it work. Kyle has all the qualities that must accompany love into our eternal marriage. It took us both a lot of growing to get where we are now, and we have so much more growing to do, and we get to do it together. I couldn't have gotten luckier in an arbitrary choice.

DARE: You Might Be Doing It Wrong

April 28th, 2006: The day I put down the pipe for the last time.

How in the world did I ever come to pick it up in the first place? I was the kid who never said a swear word out loud until she was 18. I was the kid who never watched a PG-13 movie until she was 17. I was the kid who was saving her first kiss for her future husband at the altar. I was the kid who corrected her seminary teacher's obscure mistakes in scripture trivia. How did I make the galaxy-sized leap from innocent prude to meth addict? Some of my choices are honestly still baffling to me. I don't know why I took some of the turns I did. I don't know why I broke with my upbringing in such an extreme fashion. What I do know is that there were some major problems in my mind and in my education regarding substance abuse, and I want to express what I've learned so far. Maybe someone will read it and change their approach. Maybe it will keep one child from the destruction I brought down on my life.

1. I did not value myself. Bottom line, this was the number one problem. This was the foundation that gave all the other issues their power. I thought because I was overweight, I was not of worth. I thought because I made some mistakes, I was not of worth. I thought because I was different from my siblings, I was not of worth. I thought because I wasn't perfect, I was not of worth. When I took the first steps away from a worthy and productive lifestyle, I believed that I would not be welcomed back. Ever. Children and youth need to know from an early age that no matter what they do; no matter where they go; no matter if they stumble; their innate worth is infinite, and they can make the choice to return.

We must not allow our children to equate their personal worthiness with their individual value.

2. I was misled. It wasn't intentional. It was just the way the DARE program was formulated. I remember reading through my DARE book in fifth grade. The people who were using drugs in the stories were so SCARY. They always wore black and spikey collars and scowled and were mean and angry. They were bullies. They were icky rats who hung out in back alleys and only came out at night and handed out free drugs to unsuspecting, innocent kids. They were the personification of evil.

That's just not how it works. In reality, drug users were just like me. They were people I loved first, and joined in partying second.

I felt I lacked value. The friends I found in the drug community accepted and welcomed me. I felt like nobody loved me. They did. I felt ignored and neglected- my friends were concerned for my well-being and built me up. I've heard far too often that "anyone who truly cares for you would never lead you to illicit drug use." And what happens when that proves not to be true? Drug users are people with the capacity to love and welcome others just like anyone else. They don't share their drugs with new friends because they are evil black-shrouded back-alley rats who want to bring the world down one joint at a time- they do it because they are generous. They do it because they enjoy each other's company. They do it because it's something they have in common. Something that brings them together. They do it because they are misguided, not because they want to destroy each other. The drug community is the first community where I felt truly accepted. The first community in which I felt I was treated as an equal.

3. It didn't kill me. After DARE, the tactics used by my schools got more intense. Assemblies where they brought in drug dogs and showed us how easily we could get caught. Stories about kids who smoked ONE JOINT and died of heart attacks. Graphic images of car accidents where drivers were impaired by one substance or another. Fear tactics. And what happens when those stories prove to be avoidable? When they prove to be rare and extreme cases, exacerbated by other conditions? I moved out, to an apartment of my own. A place where drug dogs couldn't enter without my express permission or a court-order. Once, when cops came to my apartment to arrest my ex-husband (on non-drug-related charges), our coffee table was littered with paraphernalia. They walked right past it without flinching. The problem with basing education on fear is that the fear can be dispelled by truth... leaving nothing behind as a safety net. When someone I loved persuaded me that I wouldn't die of a heart attack from smoking pot, and I tried it and... didn't die of a heart attack... the fear dissipated. And that was the only barrier. Once it was down, everything was fair game.

I never got caught. I didn't die. When fear is used as an educational tool, one of the terrible things that sometimes occurs is that none of the "bad things" happen at all.

4. It was a lot of fun. Something I have been asked many times since I left that world behind is "It's not even all that fun, really, right?" Wrong. This is another one of those soundbites that well-meaning people like to toss out there in anti-drug rhetoric, and it's just not true. This next segment may make you uncomfortable, but it's important to know: Drugs are a lot of fun. Being high feels good. Ecstasy enhances the social experience and helps form stronger emotional bonds with people. It cements memories and makes you remember events past even better than they actually were. Smoking meth can give you so much energy and focus and curbs your appetite. Being high can make your non-reality kinder than your lucid reality.

If drugs weren't fun, people wouldn't fall into their trap NEARLY as often. Of course drugs are fun! If this soundbite is in your arsenal, delete it. It's just one more misconception that can be proven false. One more seemingly logical argument that, when exposed as a falsehood, helps ease people who were terrified away from dipping into drugs into the pool. This is a dangerous angle. It needs to go away.

5. I got hooked. Ultimately, I developed addictions. Physical dependency, emotional need. Yes, my ex-husband used drugs as a method of control. Sometimes I felt I had no choice but to smoke meth because of his threats. More often, I felt I had no choice because of addiction. I was sick ALL the time. I got mono (and lucky it wasn't something far worse) from pipe-sharing. I destroyed the enamel on ALL my teeth. I destroyed relationships with people I loved outside the drug community, I was utterly broke, I lost jobs, I hurt my liver, I cheated death too many times, I cheated people too many times. These are the real consequences of drug abuse. You're not likely to die the first time you smoke weed. Or the first time you take pills. Or the first time you use meth. Drugs may NEVER take your life, in the physical sense. But they may take your soul. They will probably take some of your potential. It may not happen quickly- it may take years. But at some point you'll wake up and realize that you're not independent anymore. You're a slave to your addiction and you can't break the chains by yourself. You realize that you can't "quit anytime" like you thought you could. All that fun and good feeling proves artificial and temporary. And it prohibits lasting and meaningful success and joy.

 ---------------

People need to know that they are worthwhile. They need to feel a sense of belonging. They need to know that they are loved despite their shortcomings. People need to be educated on reality: on the unglamorous, undramatized facts about the consequences of choosing substance abuse. They also need to know that they can turn things around- that there is somewhere safe to go when they go too far. We need to stop doing our children the disservice of basing what we teach them on fear. Knowledge is power. We need to be able to make educated and wise decisions. My experience, though it seems so extreme in contrast to what my life has become, is decidedly mild in the vast world of substance-dependent people. The change that led me to finally be able to clean up my act was the discovery that it WAS possible for me to be happier off drugs than on.

So what does this mean? How does this help? I don't know. I don't know how "Drug Abuse Resistance Education" is being approached in schools these days. I do know that if it's still as it was when I was a kid, it's sorely lacking in effective and honest information. I don't know how (or if!) parents are approaching the subject of substance abuse with their children. Maybe this information from the "been-there-done-that" side of the fence can help. I hope so.

I have a beautiful, blessed life. I have incredible children, a loving husband who treats me like the most valuable thing the world has ever known, relative financial security, my health- and the holes I filled with addictive substances seven years ago are full of love and life and laughter. I want that for the lost people I know are out there. I want them to experience the joy of productivity and responsibility. I want them to feel the strength and confidence of being able to handle heartache and insecurity without dulling it in hazardous ways.

Seven years ago tomorrow, I put down the pipe for the last time. If you read this, and you are where I was, I hope you too can find a day to put it down. I pray you can find someone in whom you can confide- someone who will love you and who knows that you are worthwhile. You deserve to start the process of eliminating destructive habits from your life to make room for joy. You're worth it.

Be Still, My Soul

Where can I turn for peace?

Where is my solace

When other sources cease to make me whole?

When with a wounded heart, anger, or malice,

I draw myself apart,

Searching my soul?

Where, when my aching grows,

Where, when I languish,

Where, in my need to know, where can I run?

Where is the quiet hand to calm my anguish?*

 

The world's a scary place today. The absolute BIGNESS of the strife... it's almost paralyzing sometimes. Boston, Newtown, Benghazi, Baghdad, Pyongyang... and not only evil at the hands of man, but suffering at the hands of Nature- earthquakes, tsunamis, wildfires, floods, plagues, hurricanes. Week after week and month after month we're bombarded with tragic headlines, frantic tweets, dire predictions and mournful recaps. A sponge can only absorb so much fluid and I feel like I'm a sponge at capacity- it's overwhelming. It's incomprehensible. It's impossible to take it all in.

When I start to feel this way, my primary defense mechanism is to re-focus. Keep it simple. I put things in order in my life. I spend more time with my kids. I pray more, I listen better, I search out the heroes and the hope in the madness. It's not always easy to find them though, and throughout that personal turmoil I know my children sense the strain in me. My sweet, innocent children, for whom the worst fathomable thing in the world is... bedtime. Oh, that it could be ever so. 

Like many parents, I sing to my babies at bedtime. I want them to fall asleep happy and calm. I want them to dream of worlds full of rainbows and sunshine and puppies, so I try to send them off with simple songs of joy to their little slumberlands. But I know it doesn't always work- I know sometimes Damien can't be comforted about the agony of having to stop playing for sleep, and Lyric can't be convinced that the world isn't ending because the front wall of her crib has been converted to a toddler-bed safety rail. I know they're anxious about their little sections of the world. Heaven knows I'm anxious about mine at times.

Today in the car on the way home from the grocery store, I was singing songs with them as usual. We sang through "Once Upon a Dream," the alphabet, "How much is that Eeyore in the window (oh bother!)" and finally, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." This concert was interrupted by Damien: 

"Mom, sometimes after you put me in bed, the Holy Ghost sings Twinkle Twinkle to me so that I can fall asleep. He sings it in my heart. I think He stays invisible so He won't scare Lyric."

 

Such childish purity, to hear the Spirit singing in his heart. Such faith, to recognize it for what it is. Such love, to think of his sister, even when he's sad. I've got to work my way back towards that innocence. To show more selfless love to my fellow man. I've got to be prepared to allow that great Comforter to do His job. I must have faith in the Lord that He holds this world in His hands. That after all the pain and sorrow and sickness and tragedy, He will heal the hearts of men. I'm glad I have such an exceptional example in my little boy, so much nearer to God than I am. When the tempests of evil and Nature rage, I must allow the Holy Ghost to sing peace to my heart.

 

Be still, my soul: Thy God doth undertake

To guide the future as he has the past.

Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;

All now mysterious shall be bright at last.

Be still, my soul: The waves and winds still know

His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below.

 

Be still, my soul: The hour is hast'ning on

When we shall be forever with the Lord,

When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,

Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.

Be still, my soul: When change and tears are past,

All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.**

*Where Can I Turn For Peace- LDS Hymnbook #129; Text: Emma Lou Thayne, b. 1924. (c) 1973 IRI; Music: Joleen G. Meredith, b. 1935. (c) 1973 

**Be Still, My Soul- LDS Hymnbook #124; Text: Katharina von Schlegel, b. 1697; trans. by Jane Borthwick, 1813-1897

Breaking the Silence

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting

the soul that rises with us, our life's star

hath had elsewhere its setting

and cometh from afar

I've been absent, I know. I posted to comfort myself the day of the Newtown tragedy, and I've kind of dropped off since then. It's been hard to stay positive, wrapped up in social media, so I had to unwrap myself for a little while, but now I need to write another post. You may wonder, once you realize the topic of this post, how it fits into my "positive living" theme, but hopefully once I've rambled long enough, I'll bring some clarity.

Damien was a surprise. I was on birth control, Kyle and I weren't married yet, he was in the Delayed Enlistment Program waiting to ship out to Air Force Basic Training at any time, and we had both just BARELY let down our guards enough to realize we were deeply in love with each other. We were in no position to be having babies, but there he was. So we had him. Due to the circumstances and timing, we WERE able to get married before he was born, but Kyle was NOT able to be home for the birth. But everything fell into place, and I believe firmly that Damien saved us. He prompted us both to be better, and made us grow up a little.

When he was less than a year old, we decided we'd like to have another. We wanted our kids close together, and Kyle was in an extended training period so we thought that would be a great time to have another baby- no danger of deployments or TDYs that could make him miss out on the birth of another child. After many months, we realized that our plan was not in the stars. We decided that maybe we'd just have the one child and be happy as a little family of three. After we moved to Georgia, we were at church one Sunday and I took Damien out into the hallway because he was being loud. There were a few children playing in the foyer, and as I watched them a gigantic freight-train of a prompting hit me: a spirit was waiting, right that minute, to come join our family. Within a month, we found out I was pregnant with Lyric.

Kyle wanted to stick with two kids. But as you see, we just don't get to choose. When Lyric was born, Kyle held her in the hospital and the baby-train hit HIM in the heart, and told him we had another child waiting. Thankfully, he waited at least until my epidural wore off to tell me that we were going to do this again. Last November, we decided it was time to try for Baby Wilson #3. Fast-forward to this Christmas, 13 months later, and obviously (unless I'm missing something) we still only have two children.

This past Thursday, I tested positive.
Saturday, I began the process of miscarriage.

I'm ok. I'm sick, and crampy, and physically pretty miserable. But I'm ok. I've had a hard time expressing to the few people who know about this just how I'm feeling, so I'm going to try to express is here. I'm doing alright, and this is why:

I believe that we existed as spirit children of God before we were assigned physical bodies and came to inhabit them. To receive our bodies was one of the primary purposes of mortal existence, and it was promised to every spirit who chose to follow God's plan in that Spirit world. I believe that every single one of God's spirit children will draw mortal breath. And therefore, I believe that the spirit that was assigned to the body I would have carried will be granted mortal life when it's the right time. If that spirit was meant to be my child, it will be my child. My baby is alive, waiting for its turn at life. Heavenly Father has seen to it that I got the right children at the right times despite my attempts at choosing my own schedule, and I firmly believe that He will continue to do so.

I'm disappointed, of course. I yearn for my third child. I know my family of four is meant to be five. But I also know that I have a loving and compassionate Father in Heaven who is watching out for me. He can help me find the lessons and strength I can draw from this very brief experience, and He will also ensure that the right little spirit comes to me at the right time. I wonder if that spirit is waiting as impatiently to come here as I am for it to arrive? Whenever it makes the journey, I'll be ready. I've never been in charge- that's been made very clear to me. And maybe it's to help me learn patience. Maybe it's to help me learn humility. Maybe it's to help better equip me to mourn with those who mourn, or give comfort to those who stand in need. Whatever I can learn from this, I know that it will help me be the mommy that my impatient little spirit baby will need when it comes.

I don't want my friends and family to worry about me, or to mourn for me- I am content and I will be healthy in time. I feel strongly that I'm meant to be open about my trials- not just this one, but many that I've chosen or experienced. I want all you wonderful friends to know that I have a beautiful life, and I am very happy, though I am so imperfect. I am alive through Christ, who strengthens me. When He atoned for my sins, He also atoned for my sorrows and sicknesses and weaknesses, and I never stand alone. You never stand alone.

I Believe

(This post was written in desperation to find peace, following the news of the Sandy Hook massacre.)

I believe that The Lord is mindful of every child.

I believe that children who die before the age of accountability are granted Celestial glory.

I believe that people who die after the age of accountability without knowledge of Christ and our Heavenly Father's plan will have an equal opportunity to hear the Gospel and accept the healing power of the Atonement to cleanse their minds and hearts, and enter into our Father's Kingdom.

I believe that families can be together forever, and that The Lord will mend every wound of every kind, and we will live in peace and joy.

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"