Hi all! Jordan here. Great news! Our blog has an upgrade! It has been moved to http://fingerfoodforthought.wordpress.com!
Please visit the blog there for regular postings. As you know, Kayleen and I have tried blogging in various forms and formats with mixed results. With the big move to Indiana, things kind of got lost. We've taken what we've learned in the past and are starting something new and exciting to give Kayleen's writing career a new jump-start! And so, I'm happy to announce....
Kayleen is back to writing! On a regular basis. This makes me very very very very happy. She is a very talented writer and I think she has very much to share with the world. She loves writing and so many people love reading what she writes. We've arranged our schedules so that at least twice a week, I will be watching the kids for a couple of hours while Kayleen takes the laptop, leaves the house, and writes! She is slowly working on her novel and will be doing regular posts on Finger Food For Thought.
So what are you waiting for? Check it out!
Finger Food For Thought
The latest and greatest writings of Kayleen Barlow
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Trials
Lately I have been thinking about trials and how they affect us personally and also affect our relationships with everyone around us. Call me crazy, but I just spend a lot of time at home lying on the floor. Pregnancy is like my Aristotelian period - I have too much time to just sit and think.
Anyways. Trials.
Trials are a tricky business because everyone has unique trials that are singular to their experiences. They are often very personal and very sensitive. Trials are an inevitable part of the human experience (duh). Everyone in this world will have some sort of difficult trial, because even if it hasn't happened yet, there is sure to be an experience seemingly unbearable somewhere along the way. No one goes through life with only stubbed toes and scratches in their Lexus.
With that being said, trials can make people almost critical of one another. So many times people who have experienced something very difficult develop what I call the "At Least Syndrome." They look at their personal situation, and the struggles they are going through, and then judge others based upon that experience. So, when someone mentions something hard they are experiencing, another sufferer might say, "Well, at least ____." And it is usually a critical comment about how the complainer shouldn't even mention their struggles because they are nothing compared to the true sufferer's.
For example, a quadriplegic and a paraplegic are watching the Olympics together. The paraplegic turns to her friend and says, "I wish I wasn't in a wheelchair. It would be so fun to try ice-skating." The quadriplegic has two choices. She can either say, "How dare you complain about being in a wheelchair to me. At least you have the use of your arms. I can't even feed myself breakfast." And then she could brood in her offense and maintain the opinion that she is the greatest sufferer. Or, the quadriplegic could respond by saying, "I know what you mean, I've always thought it would be so thrilling to fly across the ice like that."
To all of us, and it may even be the case, the paraplegic is lucky because she can still use her arms. But, it isn't our place to decide who is lucky and who isn't. It is only our place to offer compassion and understanding whenever it is required of us. The paraplegic was not mentioning this to her friend because she wanted to convince the quadriplegic about how horrible her life is, but because she was looking for understanding, comfort, and support from someone she knew would be more than qualified to give it. It might be hard for her to discuss these disappointments with friends who play soccer, or swim, or can dance at the prom. So, without trying to be offensive, she reached out for a helping hand from someone who would be able to give it.
If the quadriplegic responds in anger and self-pity, (I'm not saying self-pity is horrible. We all need moments to wallow in the hardships we face - I fully believe it is part of coping), then both friends are hurt, left feeling isolated, and a wall has been placed where a bridge could have been built. If, instead, she responds with love and understanding, then both friends are edified. The paraplegic feels comfort and support, while the quadriplegic feels the increase in confidence and ability that comes with serving others.
Jordan gave me this example, and I really liked it. If someone, Bob, came up to Jordan and said he was very sad because he was going to miss the annual fishing trip to Canada with his dad this year, due to midterms, Jordan would never think, "How dare you talk to me about missing one vacation with your dad? At least you still have your father. I didn't even get to grow up with my dad." Now, Jordan might think, "Wow, how much fun would that be to go fishing for a week with your dad? I wish I could have done that as a kid." Which would be a totally appropriate response. But, he would never try to demean or throw another person's pain back in his face. He would say something like, "Sorry, man, that really stinks." Or, whatever men say in minimally emotional conversations. And he would mean it, without the thought ever crossing his mind that Bob was being "insensitive". Jordan would feel honored that Bob confided his true feelings rather than feeling like he had to pretend or not talk about it in order to not offend Jordan.
So many times people take their burdens and wrap themselves up as if it were a cloak, making everything else they experience a comment upon that trial. Indeed, there are some trials that affect every area of life. Depression makes it difficult to do almost everything: get out of bed, buy milk, make friends, find companionship. Losing a child might make it hard to see a car seat in a friend's car, or drive past an old favorite restaurant, or see other children in the grocery store. Undergoing chemotherapy might make it difficult to simply leave the house, because every other woman has a full head of hair but you. Our trials may feel all consuming, and sometimes they really are, but we should use our pain to help build others up rather than tear them down.
Everyone has their stuff, and everyone has a wound. Sometimes it is more obvious to onlookers, and sometimes it is hidden deep and invisible to people who would like to assume they have it so much worse than everyone else. The thing is, it doesn't matter who has it worse. All that matters is that we follow the Savior's admonition to lift up the heads that hang down.
What if you were experiencing something absolutely devastating, and you knelt down to pray, knowing this was the last place you had to turn? What if, when you prayed, you said, "I can't do this. This is too hard. I can't live through this. Please, help me," and the Savior responded with, "How dare you complain to me? I had to suffer the sins and pains of the whole world for all of time! I had to descend into the depths of hell and suffer unimaginable agony. So, whatever you are going through is nothing compared to what I had to do. Stop being so pathetic."
I am grateful to know my Savior would never respond in that way. Because, when I was in my own personal Gethsemane, and I needed Him more than ever, even if it seemed minute and silly to others, Christ was there saying, "Be of good cheer. I love you. I more than understand, and you may come to me with anything because I will always listen."
In the end, all of us are going to say something hurtful. It is part of human interaction and it is inevitable. And 99% of the time it was unintentional. When someone says something, or does something, or makes a mistake that seems to pour salt on your deepest wound, please, don't take offense, don't judge them, and always assume they did that thing with only kindness intended. Even if kindness is most certainly not what came out. We are all suffering in our own ways and we all need as much compassion and forgiveness as we can get.
But we are not called to wallow in the murkiness of our situations, we are called to rise above the pain and offer balm to those in need, even if our own hearts are still stinging.
P.S. I have been guilty of this very thing, a billion times over, but I will try to be a better person and friend in the future.
HUGS AND KISSES TO ALL!!
Anyways. Trials.
Trials are a tricky business because everyone has unique trials that are singular to their experiences. They are often very personal and very sensitive. Trials are an inevitable part of the human experience (duh). Everyone in this world will have some sort of difficult trial, because even if it hasn't happened yet, there is sure to be an experience seemingly unbearable somewhere along the way. No one goes through life with only stubbed toes and scratches in their Lexus.
With that being said, trials can make people almost critical of one another. So many times people who have experienced something very difficult develop what I call the "At Least Syndrome." They look at their personal situation, and the struggles they are going through, and then judge others based upon that experience. So, when someone mentions something hard they are experiencing, another sufferer might say, "Well, at least ____." And it is usually a critical comment about how the complainer shouldn't even mention their struggles because they are nothing compared to the true sufferer's.
For example, a quadriplegic and a paraplegic are watching the Olympics together. The paraplegic turns to her friend and says, "I wish I wasn't in a wheelchair. It would be so fun to try ice-skating." The quadriplegic has two choices. She can either say, "How dare you complain about being in a wheelchair to me. At least you have the use of your arms. I can't even feed myself breakfast." And then she could brood in her offense and maintain the opinion that she is the greatest sufferer. Or, the quadriplegic could respond by saying, "I know what you mean, I've always thought it would be so thrilling to fly across the ice like that."
To all of us, and it may even be the case, the paraplegic is lucky because she can still use her arms. But, it isn't our place to decide who is lucky and who isn't. It is only our place to offer compassion and understanding whenever it is required of us. The paraplegic was not mentioning this to her friend because she wanted to convince the quadriplegic about how horrible her life is, but because she was looking for understanding, comfort, and support from someone she knew would be more than qualified to give it. It might be hard for her to discuss these disappointments with friends who play soccer, or swim, or can dance at the prom. So, without trying to be offensive, she reached out for a helping hand from someone who would be able to give it.
If the quadriplegic responds in anger and self-pity, (I'm not saying self-pity is horrible. We all need moments to wallow in the hardships we face - I fully believe it is part of coping), then both friends are hurt, left feeling isolated, and a wall has been placed where a bridge could have been built. If, instead, she responds with love and understanding, then both friends are edified. The paraplegic feels comfort and support, while the quadriplegic feels the increase in confidence and ability that comes with serving others.
Jordan gave me this example, and I really liked it. If someone, Bob, came up to Jordan and said he was very sad because he was going to miss the annual fishing trip to Canada with his dad this year, due to midterms, Jordan would never think, "How dare you talk to me about missing one vacation with your dad? At least you still have your father. I didn't even get to grow up with my dad." Now, Jordan might think, "Wow, how much fun would that be to go fishing for a week with your dad? I wish I could have done that as a kid." Which would be a totally appropriate response. But, he would never try to demean or throw another person's pain back in his face. He would say something like, "Sorry, man, that really stinks." Or, whatever men say in minimally emotional conversations. And he would mean it, without the thought ever crossing his mind that Bob was being "insensitive". Jordan would feel honored that Bob confided his true feelings rather than feeling like he had to pretend or not talk about it in order to not offend Jordan.
So many times people take their burdens and wrap themselves up as if it were a cloak, making everything else they experience a comment upon that trial. Indeed, there are some trials that affect every area of life. Depression makes it difficult to do almost everything: get out of bed, buy milk, make friends, find companionship. Losing a child might make it hard to see a car seat in a friend's car, or drive past an old favorite restaurant, or see other children in the grocery store. Undergoing chemotherapy might make it difficult to simply leave the house, because every other woman has a full head of hair but you. Our trials may feel all consuming, and sometimes they really are, but we should use our pain to help build others up rather than tear them down.
Everyone has their stuff, and everyone has a wound. Sometimes it is more obvious to onlookers, and sometimes it is hidden deep and invisible to people who would like to assume they have it so much worse than everyone else. The thing is, it doesn't matter who has it worse. All that matters is that we follow the Savior's admonition to lift up the heads that hang down.
What if you were experiencing something absolutely devastating, and you knelt down to pray, knowing this was the last place you had to turn? What if, when you prayed, you said, "I can't do this. This is too hard. I can't live through this. Please, help me," and the Savior responded with, "How dare you complain to me? I had to suffer the sins and pains of the whole world for all of time! I had to descend into the depths of hell and suffer unimaginable agony. So, whatever you are going through is nothing compared to what I had to do. Stop being so pathetic."
I am grateful to know my Savior would never respond in that way. Because, when I was in my own personal Gethsemane, and I needed Him more than ever, even if it seemed minute and silly to others, Christ was there saying, "Be of good cheer. I love you. I more than understand, and you may come to me with anything because I will always listen."
In the end, all of us are going to say something hurtful. It is part of human interaction and it is inevitable. And 99% of the time it was unintentional. When someone says something, or does something, or makes a mistake that seems to pour salt on your deepest wound, please, don't take offense, don't judge them, and always assume they did that thing with only kindness intended. Even if kindness is most certainly not what came out. We are all suffering in our own ways and we all need as much compassion and forgiveness as we can get.
But we are not called to wallow in the murkiness of our situations, we are called to rise above the pain and offer balm to those in need, even if our own hearts are still stinging.
P.S. I have been guilty of this very thing, a billion times over, but I will try to be a better person and friend in the future.
HUGS AND KISSES TO ALL!!
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
The Move
FINALLY! I have a few minutes to sit down and write. I don't think I have written since I turned in that last paper to office 4166 of the fourth floor of the JFSB on the 15th of June. (A very pivotal point in my life.) My fingers are a little clumsy on the keys, and my mind seems slower than before, but I'M WRITING!!! And it feels so good. I imagine it is what breathing fresh air again, after being trapped in a submarine for several months, must feel like.
Well, to catch everyone up, I finished classes, Jo turned one, I graduated from BYU, Jordan quit his job, we moved to Indiana, Jordan started school, and I visited my parents in Minnesota for two weeks. Now we are back "home", Jo is taking a nap, and I am writing instead of picking up the toddler tornado that just happened in the living room. It is kind of sad if you think about it. I get the same guilty pleasure from not cleaning my house that I once got from sneaking out at night, and flirting with other girls' boyfriends. I'm still trying to figure out how I became an adult.
Now. For the actual blogpost.
Indiana has been a challenge. All of it has been a challenge. As many of my friends know, I had a spaz attack the day we cleaned the apartment back in Provo because I couldn't get the blinds clean. (I apologize to you all, sincerely.) The next morning was a disaster. The kitchen floor was a filthy mess, we had cleaning checkout in fifteen minutes, and Jo was being super needy. I realized the oven hadn't been cleaned, and the only supplies I had were wet wipes. I scrubbed the oven as hard as I could and then started on the muddy, greasy floor. Jo started crying about something, so I lost my patience and told her to leave me alone and burst into tears myself. Then, my sweet little girl went to the wet wipes container, put a wipe in each hand, and sat next to me on the kitchen floor and began scrubbing. She was down on her hands, crawling around cleaning up the mess. I will never forget the way my heart dissolved into pure love and appreciation for that incredible one year old.
We passed the cleaning checks, by a miracle, and Jo and I went off to say goodbye to friends and try to make a few more memories. And we did make memories! I loved talking with my dear friend, Megan, the next morning and being even more convinced how amazing and inspiring that woman is. I was so grateful to spend extra time with my wonderful friend, Julia, and realizing she loved me just as much as I love her. And I had so much fun staying up way too late with my sister-in-law, Rebekah, and talking about everything from Guatemala, boys next door, and pregnancy and feeling more like friends than in-laws.
My last two days in Utah were wonderful. But, the party had to end sometime, and it did the night before we left, when Jo was up till 5 a.m. screaming her head off before finally passing out in exhaustion two hours before we had to leave. I must have looked a little desperate the next day as we flew across the country on our own. The flights were crowded, the layover was long, and my last flight was delayed. It took every ounce of self control not to deck the woman sitting next to me who obviously thought I was unfit to be a mother, because I couldn't get my child to take a nap on a crowded plane. Then she kept telling everyone sitting around us how she raised all her children perfectly and never let them cry in public. If you are that kind of person, don't be! It's obnoxious.
I had already purchased my ticket for the 4:15 shuttle, but since my plane was delayed, I would be landing only a few minutes before that. Since there was a horrible, bossy, unsympathetic baggage man in SLC who wouldn't let me carry on my tiny bag, I still had to wait at baggage claim. Our plane finally landed and I was a nervous wreck. If we missed the shuttle, it meant I would have to spend another twenty dollars on a different ticket, and wait two hours at the airport for the next shuttle. Call me crazy, but the idea of spending another two hours in an airport with a baby who had only slept two hours made me feel like jumping out of the plane without a parachute.
Jo and I ran to baggage claim, and waited, and waited, and waited. Everyone else's bag got off but mine. And it was 4:14. Finally, at 4:15 my bag arrived. I pulled the bag with my right hand, pushed the carseat and stroller with my left, and Jo and I ran as fast as we could. Then I realized I had no idea where the shuttle was supposed to pick me up. I fianlly stopped a random chauffer and said, "Where does the shuttle come?" He looked into my wild eyes and said, "Which one? There are hundreds." I screamed, "The Bloomington one!" He said, "Oh, go out those doors, cross two streets, go into that building, take a right, go out the second pair of doors, and then someone there can direct you."
I wanted to sit down in cry, but instead I started running again. I found the "someone" he must have been referring to sitting behind a desk, popping gum, and facebooking. I asked her, "Did the Bloomington shuttle leave already?" Without looking up, she nodded. I deflated, and, believe it or not, said, "No!" so desperately she tore her eyes away from the latest social gossip. "You can go out there and check," was her helpful comment. So I grabbed our bag, the stroller, and headed outside. It was there alright, pulling away about ten feet in front of me. I figured I had nothing to lose, so I jumped up and down, waved my arms, and shouted as loud as I could. "Wait!! I have to get on!" People stared at me, of course, but to my grateful amazement the shuttle stopped and the driver came out to help me with my bag and stroller. I could have kissed her, but instead I said thanks and made a mental note to call the Vatican and have her sainted.
We got on the shuttle, played musical chairs so Jo and I could sit next to each other, and then pulled out of the airport. I had survived. And it was all going to be okay. Jo fell asleep in like thirty seconds and I turned to look out the window. Something very strange was happening. No matter where I looked I couldn't see any mountains. I knew it was useless, but I turned my head every which way, and still couldn't find any. I suddenly felt so very alone. It finally hit me that we weren't living in Utah anymore. And I could feel a very near and dear piece of my heart chip away. I burst into sobs. Everyone on that shuttle probably thought I was crazy. I cried, hard, for the entire hour and a half ride to Bloomington, where I was dropped off at a Holiday Inn, and then stood in the parking lot and cried even harder.
I had spent four short years of my life in Utah. But the friends I made there were some of the most important of my life. I still miss them tremendously. Megan had been there from the beginning and I can't imagine what college would have been like without her - she was that friend who always answered the phone and always took your side, even if it wasn't her side. She married Jason just five days after Jordan and I were married and I thought that was the best party ever. Then they had Madelyn, and I can't even imagine all the pain and joy they went through. But, other than Jordan, Madelyn has strengthened my testimony of Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father's plan for us more than anyone else. Before they put Madelyn down for a nap, Megan and Jason always sing a song that goes, "I am like a star shining brightly," and I can't think of anything more true. Her spirit just shines.
Shaun and Lanette were so sweet, always baking cookies, and making rolls and having us over for dinner. And I'm pretty sure they should be made into a reality TV show because they are hilarious. Especially now that they have Iris. If anyone wants to see the power of adoption, just go over to their house and watch them oogle over that baby who is drowning in affection. If you ever hear of a mother looking to place a child, call me, because I know two of the best parents in this universe. Any child raised in their home is a child who faces adoration suffocation. I'm dead serious, too.
I also think of the friends who had already left. Kerri went to Chile for a mission, Megan and Brian went to Nebraska for school, Ron moved to Texas and left us all in shock, Tricia and Jason moved to California and broke my heart, and then Jake and Julia moved to Arizona a few days after we left. They are all great friends that we will always remember.
And that is why I sat in that parking lot bawling. I knew I had met some of the most amazing people, and been blessed to call them friends, and that I was really going to miss them.
And I really do. But, we have cell phones, Facebook, blogs, and hopefully a trip to Nauvoo next summer.
So, thank you, Utah, for being awesome. If the next five years in Indiana are half as good as the last four in Utah, then I am in for a treat.
P.S. Bradley and Brandon, you both are saints. Having you here made such a difference and helped me feel like everything was going to work out. I was so grateful to have some faces from Utah those first few days when I was an emotional catastrophe. Really, it made us all feel so much better.
Well, to catch everyone up, I finished classes, Jo turned one, I graduated from BYU, Jordan quit his job, we moved to Indiana, Jordan started school, and I visited my parents in Minnesota for two weeks. Now we are back "home", Jo is taking a nap, and I am writing instead of picking up the toddler tornado that just happened in the living room. It is kind of sad if you think about it. I get the same guilty pleasure from not cleaning my house that I once got from sneaking out at night, and flirting with other girls' boyfriends. I'm still trying to figure out how I became an adult.
Now. For the actual blogpost.
Indiana has been a challenge. All of it has been a challenge. As many of my friends know, I had a spaz attack the day we cleaned the apartment back in Provo because I couldn't get the blinds clean. (I apologize to you all, sincerely.) The next morning was a disaster. The kitchen floor was a filthy mess, we had cleaning checkout in fifteen minutes, and Jo was being super needy. I realized the oven hadn't been cleaned, and the only supplies I had were wet wipes. I scrubbed the oven as hard as I could and then started on the muddy, greasy floor. Jo started crying about something, so I lost my patience and told her to leave me alone and burst into tears myself. Then, my sweet little girl went to the wet wipes container, put a wipe in each hand, and sat next to me on the kitchen floor and began scrubbing. She was down on her hands, crawling around cleaning up the mess. I will never forget the way my heart dissolved into pure love and appreciation for that incredible one year old.
We passed the cleaning checks, by a miracle, and Jo and I went off to say goodbye to friends and try to make a few more memories. And we did make memories! I loved talking with my dear friend, Megan, the next morning and being even more convinced how amazing and inspiring that woman is. I was so grateful to spend extra time with my wonderful friend, Julia, and realizing she loved me just as much as I love her. And I had so much fun staying up way too late with my sister-in-law, Rebekah, and talking about everything from Guatemala, boys next door, and pregnancy and feeling more like friends than in-laws.
My last two days in Utah were wonderful. But, the party had to end sometime, and it did the night before we left, when Jo was up till 5 a.m. screaming her head off before finally passing out in exhaustion two hours before we had to leave. I must have looked a little desperate the next day as we flew across the country on our own. The flights were crowded, the layover was long, and my last flight was delayed. It took every ounce of self control not to deck the woman sitting next to me who obviously thought I was unfit to be a mother, because I couldn't get my child to take a nap on a crowded plane. Then she kept telling everyone sitting around us how she raised all her children perfectly and never let them cry in public. If you are that kind of person, don't be! It's obnoxious.
I had already purchased my ticket for the 4:15 shuttle, but since my plane was delayed, I would be landing only a few minutes before that. Since there was a horrible, bossy, unsympathetic baggage man in SLC who wouldn't let me carry on my tiny bag, I still had to wait at baggage claim. Our plane finally landed and I was a nervous wreck. If we missed the shuttle, it meant I would have to spend another twenty dollars on a different ticket, and wait two hours at the airport for the next shuttle. Call me crazy, but the idea of spending another two hours in an airport with a baby who had only slept two hours made me feel like jumping out of the plane without a parachute.
Jo and I ran to baggage claim, and waited, and waited, and waited. Everyone else's bag got off but mine. And it was 4:14. Finally, at 4:15 my bag arrived. I pulled the bag with my right hand, pushed the carseat and stroller with my left, and Jo and I ran as fast as we could. Then I realized I had no idea where the shuttle was supposed to pick me up. I fianlly stopped a random chauffer and said, "Where does the shuttle come?" He looked into my wild eyes and said, "Which one? There are hundreds." I screamed, "The Bloomington one!" He said, "Oh, go out those doors, cross two streets, go into that building, take a right, go out the second pair of doors, and then someone there can direct you."
I wanted to sit down in cry, but instead I started running again. I found the "someone" he must have been referring to sitting behind a desk, popping gum, and facebooking. I asked her, "Did the Bloomington shuttle leave already?" Without looking up, she nodded. I deflated, and, believe it or not, said, "No!" so desperately she tore her eyes away from the latest social gossip. "You can go out there and check," was her helpful comment. So I grabbed our bag, the stroller, and headed outside. It was there alright, pulling away about ten feet in front of me. I figured I had nothing to lose, so I jumped up and down, waved my arms, and shouted as loud as I could. "Wait!! I have to get on!" People stared at me, of course, but to my grateful amazement the shuttle stopped and the driver came out to help me with my bag and stroller. I could have kissed her, but instead I said thanks and made a mental note to call the Vatican and have her sainted.
We got on the shuttle, played musical chairs so Jo and I could sit next to each other, and then pulled out of the airport. I had survived. And it was all going to be okay. Jo fell asleep in like thirty seconds and I turned to look out the window. Something very strange was happening. No matter where I looked I couldn't see any mountains. I knew it was useless, but I turned my head every which way, and still couldn't find any. I suddenly felt so very alone. It finally hit me that we weren't living in Utah anymore. And I could feel a very near and dear piece of my heart chip away. I burst into sobs. Everyone on that shuttle probably thought I was crazy. I cried, hard, for the entire hour and a half ride to Bloomington, where I was dropped off at a Holiday Inn, and then stood in the parking lot and cried even harder.
I had spent four short years of my life in Utah. But the friends I made there were some of the most important of my life. I still miss them tremendously. Megan had been there from the beginning and I can't imagine what college would have been like without her - she was that friend who always answered the phone and always took your side, even if it wasn't her side. She married Jason just five days after Jordan and I were married and I thought that was the best party ever. Then they had Madelyn, and I can't even imagine all the pain and joy they went through. But, other than Jordan, Madelyn has strengthened my testimony of Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father's plan for us more than anyone else. Before they put Madelyn down for a nap, Megan and Jason always sing a song that goes, "I am like a star shining brightly," and I can't think of anything more true. Her spirit just shines.
Shaun and Lanette were so sweet, always baking cookies, and making rolls and having us over for dinner. And I'm pretty sure they should be made into a reality TV show because they are hilarious. Especially now that they have Iris. If anyone wants to see the power of adoption, just go over to their house and watch them oogle over that baby who is drowning in affection. If you ever hear of a mother looking to place a child, call me, because I know two of the best parents in this universe. Any child raised in their home is a child who faces adoration suffocation. I'm dead serious, too.
I also think of the friends who had already left. Kerri went to Chile for a mission, Megan and Brian went to Nebraska for school, Ron moved to Texas and left us all in shock, Tricia and Jason moved to California and broke my heart, and then Jake and Julia moved to Arizona a few days after we left. They are all great friends that we will always remember.
And that is why I sat in that parking lot bawling. I knew I had met some of the most amazing people, and been blessed to call them friends, and that I was really going to miss them.
And I really do. But, we have cell phones, Facebook, blogs, and hopefully a trip to Nauvoo next summer.
So, thank you, Utah, for being awesome. If the next five years in Indiana are half as good as the last four in Utah, then I am in for a treat.
P.S. Bradley and Brandon, you both are saints. Having you here made such a difference and helped me feel like everything was going to work out. I was so grateful to have some faces from Utah those first few days when I was an emotional catastrophe. Really, it made us all feel so much better.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Desperation Confession
I've become that mother - the mother I never wanted to be. I am sitting here, shamelessly eating a ridiculous amount of potato salad, listening to my daughter scream from her crib, and blogging instead of studying for my exam, working, cleaning the bathroom, and doing the dishes.
I have hit that point where I say, "That's it! I don't care anymore! Go ride your bicycle off the roof if you want to, go eat a whole box of twinkies, and throw a ball in the house, but just give me ten minutes of peace."
To me, having an hour to sit in the mall and people-watch sounds like a party. I am tired of being alone in the house all day, I am tired of calling everyone I have known since the fourth grade only to hear they can't talk, and I am tired of binging on fattening carbs to try and mask my emotional pain.
Today, I am just plain tired of being a mom trapped in this small apartment. Gone are the days of flirting with so-and-so while we crammed for a final, gone are the days of only binging for social purposes, gone are the days of romantic late night walks, sleeping in until ten, and being surrounded by friends 24/7.
When I had Jo I promised myself I would never have a day where I wanted to throw down the laundry basket, dig out a pair of high heels, and run until I found my freedom again. But, like most, this promise has been broken.
I feel like the walls of my life have been imperceptibly shrinking in closer and closer until now I am trapped in a suffocating closet of chores, dinner, diapers, and penny-pinching. I can feel the cheerios creeping up higher and higher, trying to suffocate me.
I am desperate to scream "Let me out!" But afraid of screaming too loudly or the perfectionist who lives next door might judge me as an unfit mother. Instead, what comes out is a meager "I'm just tired" when Jordan asks me what is wrong.
But I can't take it anymore! If I sit here in silence, stuffing myself with potato salad and Oreos for one more day, I'm going to end up as one of those women Mormons talk about all hush-hush. "She just went crazy one day and left. Leaving her poor husband and five angelic boys without a note - No, she says she won't come back." Then they act all surprised! As if they can't believe she didn't love getting up at six every morning, continually folding laundry, and only getting a seven minute shower before someone screamed about soccer practice.
So I am going to say it - Loud and clear - BEING A MOM IS REALLY HARD!!! Spending day after day at home with a teething baby is emotionally, physically, and mentally draining. Everyone who works acts like you have all this time to paint your nails, soak in the tub, and do yoga in your living room. They don't realize that sometimes you can't even think straight there is so much to do.
They don't realize that some days I desperately wish I worked outside of the home; so when my husband pulls in at night I am not tempted to grab the car keys and book it to the Canadian border.
Sometimes I wish I could just dissolve into nothingness and not be ridden with guilt about the dirty floor, the dirty clothes, or the dirty diaper. To *poof* disappear and have no one know.
And the really sad part is, I don't even have anyone to tell this to! I call my husband, he is busy with a client, I call my mom, she is busy packing, I call my friend, she has to put her kid down for a nap, I call my sister, she is at gymnastics practice. So in a desperate attempt for communication I sit down and write a blog post about it! I sit down, and silently tell my keyboard - an inanimate object - that today was really bad. And that all I want is one good reason to put on makeup.
I feel isolated, exhausted, and ridiculously pathetic. I'm losing my sanity, and have eaten so much potato salad I feel sick.
There you have it. Call me a bad mom if you like, say I am a failure, fervently remind me of all the reasons I am so lucky, and reassure me that I am wasting time moping and missing out on these "precious moments that pass so quickly". Judge me all you want - you have my permission.
But, would you mind stopping by to do it? I could use the company.
I have hit that point where I say, "That's it! I don't care anymore! Go ride your bicycle off the roof if you want to, go eat a whole box of twinkies, and throw a ball in the house, but just give me ten minutes of peace."
To me, having an hour to sit in the mall and people-watch sounds like a party. I am tired of being alone in the house all day, I am tired of calling everyone I have known since the fourth grade only to hear they can't talk, and I am tired of binging on fattening carbs to try and mask my emotional pain.
Today, I am just plain tired of being a mom trapped in this small apartment. Gone are the days of flirting with so-and-so while we crammed for a final, gone are the days of only binging for social purposes, gone are the days of romantic late night walks, sleeping in until ten, and being surrounded by friends 24/7.
When I had Jo I promised myself I would never have a day where I wanted to throw down the laundry basket, dig out a pair of high heels, and run until I found my freedom again. But, like most, this promise has been broken.
I feel like the walls of my life have been imperceptibly shrinking in closer and closer until now I am trapped in a suffocating closet of chores, dinner, diapers, and penny-pinching. I can feel the cheerios creeping up higher and higher, trying to suffocate me.
I am desperate to scream "Let me out!" But afraid of screaming too loudly or the perfectionist who lives next door might judge me as an unfit mother. Instead, what comes out is a meager "I'm just tired" when Jordan asks me what is wrong.
But I can't take it anymore! If I sit here in silence, stuffing myself with potato salad and Oreos for one more day, I'm going to end up as one of those women Mormons talk about all hush-hush. "She just went crazy one day and left. Leaving her poor husband and five angelic boys without a note - No, she says she won't come back." Then they act all surprised! As if they can't believe she didn't love getting up at six every morning, continually folding laundry, and only getting a seven minute shower before someone screamed about soccer practice.
So I am going to say it - Loud and clear - BEING A MOM IS REALLY HARD!!! Spending day after day at home with a teething baby is emotionally, physically, and mentally draining. Everyone who works acts like you have all this time to paint your nails, soak in the tub, and do yoga in your living room. They don't realize that sometimes you can't even think straight there is so much to do.
They don't realize that some days I desperately wish I worked outside of the home; so when my husband pulls in at night I am not tempted to grab the car keys and book it to the Canadian border.
Sometimes I wish I could just dissolve into nothingness and not be ridden with guilt about the dirty floor, the dirty clothes, or the dirty diaper. To *poof* disappear and have no one know.
And the really sad part is, I don't even have anyone to tell this to! I call my husband, he is busy with a client, I call my mom, she is busy packing, I call my friend, she has to put her kid down for a nap, I call my sister, she is at gymnastics practice. So in a desperate attempt for communication I sit down and write a blog post about it! I sit down, and silently tell my keyboard - an inanimate object - that today was really bad. And that all I want is one good reason to put on makeup.
I feel isolated, exhausted, and ridiculously pathetic. I'm losing my sanity, and have eaten so much potato salad I feel sick.
There you have it. Call me a bad mom if you like, say I am a failure, fervently remind me of all the reasons I am so lucky, and reassure me that I am wasting time moping and missing out on these "precious moments that pass so quickly". Judge me all you want - you have my permission.
But, would you mind stopping by to do it? I could use the company.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
He Calls Us By Name - Not Number
Being normal is not one of my strengths. The first sixteen years of my life I tried desperately to look like everyone else, to talk like everyone else, to dress like everyone else, and to act like everyone else. Then I attended Perpich Center for the Arts Education - a breeding ground for weirdos. And I finally realized that I could be as odd as I pleased without forgoing any chance at success. Now I try to be exactly who I want to be every day. But that doesn't mean I always want to be the same person.
I think one of my favorite hobbies is trying to continually reinvent myself. In high school I was the obsessive artist. Constantly working on my creations, going a week without showering, glorying in blistered feet, wearing the oddest arrangement of second-hand clothing I could find, eating no meat, and fighting the evils of global warming.
Today I am very different. I rarely find time to create anything other than a spotless bathroom, I still don't like showering, but I do it regularly out of common courtesy for my fellow men, I am terrified of blisters, I opt for the very plain t-shirt and jeans, I love hamburger, and think the warmer it gets the better!
I do not blame this strange phenomenon on identity confusion or personality crisis. Instead, I have realized that none of these things make me ME. No matter what I choose to eat or wear, I can never remove God's permanent stamp that labels me "worthwhile." Worthwhile enough that the God of heaven and earth would descend below all things for my sake.
I think my greatest struggle is believing what I just said. (Yes - I am a raging hypocrite.) Jordan sometimes comes home to find me crying over my uselessness. I often refer to myself as "a worthless lump that will never accomplish anything." I say there is no point to my existence, I shouldn't have been born, or I wish I could disappear and stop failing everyone. Jordan, of coarse, responds in the most Christlike manner and reminds me of God's opinion of me, and my irreversible eternal nature. 99.9% of the good things you read on this blog are things Jordan has taught me. And 100% of the bad stuff is from me.
No one is useless. I used to think that was another way of saying everyone is useless. If all of us were special, then none of us could be special. But this is so wrong and twisted. Every single one of us is a son or daughter of God. The children of a loving Heavenly Father with infinite love for us individually.
Would I ever love Josephine less because I might have another baby? Does any mother say "Oh that one isn't important, I've got seven more." No. Every woman knows she would instantly give her life for each and every one of her children. Whether they were the first, third, or seventeenth.
God is the exact same way. Except that he is way cooler. So he would just as readily give his life for the first, one-thousandth, or ninety-seven-billionth child of his creation. He actually already did that.
We are not human number 7685 to him. God calls us by name. Whether it be Kayleen, Julie, Benjamin, or Smerdyakov. And he has blessed all of us with the most sacred name he could give us - "my child."
I am sure I will have more days when I am overwhelmed with feelings of uselessness and I refer to myself as "the lump." But I know that God loves me, and I know that Christ died for me, ans that "uselessness" is a lie Satan has created to tear me away from love.
He calls us by name - not by number.
I think one of my favorite hobbies is trying to continually reinvent myself. In high school I was the obsessive artist. Constantly working on my creations, going a week without showering, glorying in blistered feet, wearing the oddest arrangement of second-hand clothing I could find, eating no meat, and fighting the evils of global warming.
Today I am very different. I rarely find time to create anything other than a spotless bathroom, I still don't like showering, but I do it regularly out of common courtesy for my fellow men, I am terrified of blisters, I opt for the very plain t-shirt and jeans, I love hamburger, and think the warmer it gets the better!
I do not blame this strange phenomenon on identity confusion or personality crisis. Instead, I have realized that none of these things make me ME. No matter what I choose to eat or wear, I can never remove God's permanent stamp that labels me "worthwhile." Worthwhile enough that the God of heaven and earth would descend below all things for my sake.
I think my greatest struggle is believing what I just said. (Yes - I am a raging hypocrite.) Jordan sometimes comes home to find me crying over my uselessness. I often refer to myself as "a worthless lump that will never accomplish anything." I say there is no point to my existence, I shouldn't have been born, or I wish I could disappear and stop failing everyone. Jordan, of coarse, responds in the most Christlike manner and reminds me of God's opinion of me, and my irreversible eternal nature. 99.9% of the good things you read on this blog are things Jordan has taught me. And 100% of the bad stuff is from me.
No one is useless. I used to think that was another way of saying everyone is useless. If all of us were special, then none of us could be special. But this is so wrong and twisted. Every single one of us is a son or daughter of God. The children of a loving Heavenly Father with infinite love for us individually.
Would I ever love Josephine less because I might have another baby? Does any mother say "Oh that one isn't important, I've got seven more." No. Every woman knows she would instantly give her life for each and every one of her children. Whether they were the first, third, or seventeenth.
God is the exact same way. Except that he is way cooler. So he would just as readily give his life for the first, one-thousandth, or ninety-seven-billionth child of his creation. He actually already did that.
We are not human number 7685 to him. God calls us by name. Whether it be Kayleen, Julie, Benjamin, or Smerdyakov. And he has blessed all of us with the most sacred name he could give us - "my child."
I am sure I will have more days when I am overwhelmed with feelings of uselessness and I refer to myself as "the lump." But I know that God loves me, and I know that Christ died for me, ans that "uselessness" is a lie Satan has created to tear me away from love.
He calls us by name - not by number.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
LIFE!
I never write anymore. I never seem to have the time. I have four chapters of Physical Science homework to work on right now, I have plenty of work to do for the baby shower I am hosting this weekend, I have a test on Friday, and Jo is eating a Christmas bow. I wish life would just give me a second to sit down, relax, and feel like I have finished my long list of tasks.
Life will never do that though, instead, it will only give me more and more balls to juggle as time goes on. I am somewhat devastated by this truth. I love to write, I love to dance, I love to see plays and I love to read. None of these things have been happening lately though. I am drowning in a mess of unimportant chores that MUST be done, and assignments that make me despise General Education credits.
I believe that in a way, everyone is an author. The most important book you will ever write is the one in which you live. The current chapter of my incredible novel is entitled, "Drowning Mother Enjoys the Swim." I am trying so hard to be Mother-of-the-Millenium, but it is not going well. My daughter gets a bath about once a week, if we are lucky, it looks like an atomic Cheerio bomb landed in my living room, and I am wondering if I should check myself into the mental hospital. Jordan comes home to domestic mayhem after twelve hours of work every day and smiles - don't ask me why.
When I imagined myself in this stage of life I imagined everything perfect. I thought that I would be perfect, I thought my child would be perfect, I thought dinner would always be a masterpiece, and no speck of dust would be found anywhere. I also imagined my husband as perfect, but he pretty much is, so that worked out well.
I am beginning to realize that no chapter of my live novel will ever contain perfection. And this is starting to scare me a bit. There will always be crumbs on the couch, and someone will be screaming, and I will never master the art of grilled cheese. My cupcakes will always look like frosting throw-up, and the bags under my eyes are permanent.
With this realization comes a need for game-plan reconstruction. I spend so much time trying to reach the unattainable I don't enjoy the real-life that surrounds me. Yes, Jo's face has booger crusties on it, but she also has a stunning smile on. Dinner may look like camel excrement, but at least I get to share it with my wonderful family. My hair is an eternal disaster of frizz, but I love the way it feels when Jordan runs his fingers through it.
Things don't have to be perfect in order for them to be right. What makes something perfect is not the quality it posesses, but the quality you assign to it. What I choose to see is what will be there before me. Now all I have to do is get my eyesight fixed. Something easier said than done.
I am predicting that this will be a life-long struggle for me. There is too much of my grandma running through my veins for me to be comfortable with the less than ideal. When we clean her house she says, "Now, does it look like we could have the Queen of England over?" Well, in her case it does, she routinely washes her cupboards. But in my case, the Queen of England hasn't returned any of my calls, so maybe I should stop prepping for that.
Life is a mess, and it will always be a mess. If it wasn't that way, then it wouldn't be life. I am off to go revel in my unswept floor, get a four out of five on my Physical Science quiz, and hold my crying baby.
CHEERS!!!
Life will never do that though, instead, it will only give me more and more balls to juggle as time goes on. I am somewhat devastated by this truth. I love to write, I love to dance, I love to see plays and I love to read. None of these things have been happening lately though. I am drowning in a mess of unimportant chores that MUST be done, and assignments that make me despise General Education credits.
I believe that in a way, everyone is an author. The most important book you will ever write is the one in which you live. The current chapter of my incredible novel is entitled, "Drowning Mother Enjoys the Swim." I am trying so hard to be Mother-of-the-Millenium, but it is not going well. My daughter gets a bath about once a week, if we are lucky, it looks like an atomic Cheerio bomb landed in my living room, and I am wondering if I should check myself into the mental hospital. Jordan comes home to domestic mayhem after twelve hours of work every day and smiles - don't ask me why.
When I imagined myself in this stage of life I imagined everything perfect. I thought that I would be perfect, I thought my child would be perfect, I thought dinner would always be a masterpiece, and no speck of dust would be found anywhere. I also imagined my husband as perfect, but he pretty much is, so that worked out well.
I am beginning to realize that no chapter of my live novel will ever contain perfection. And this is starting to scare me a bit. There will always be crumbs on the couch, and someone will be screaming, and I will never master the art of grilled cheese. My cupcakes will always look like frosting throw-up, and the bags under my eyes are permanent.
With this realization comes a need for game-plan reconstruction. I spend so much time trying to reach the unattainable I don't enjoy the real-life that surrounds me. Yes, Jo's face has booger crusties on it, but she also has a stunning smile on. Dinner may look like camel excrement, but at least I get to share it with my wonderful family. My hair is an eternal disaster of frizz, but I love the way it feels when Jordan runs his fingers through it.
Things don't have to be perfect in order for them to be right. What makes something perfect is not the quality it posesses, but the quality you assign to it. What I choose to see is what will be there before me. Now all I have to do is get my eyesight fixed. Something easier said than done.
I am predicting that this will be a life-long struggle for me. There is too much of my grandma running through my veins for me to be comfortable with the less than ideal. When we clean her house she says, "Now, does it look like we could have the Queen of England over?" Well, in her case it does, she routinely washes her cupboards. But in my case, the Queen of England hasn't returned any of my calls, so maybe I should stop prepping for that.
Life is a mess, and it will always be a mess. If it wasn't that way, then it wouldn't be life. I am off to go revel in my unswept floor, get a four out of five on my Physical Science quiz, and hold my crying baby.
CHEERS!!!
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Mushy Gushy Post about My Husband
This is when loneliness sets in. Jordan is in Indiana tonight, getting ready for a full day of interviews and meetings with all the important people from the ISYS department there. Jo is laying in bed crying uncontrollably, I presume she has a headache by now. And I am resisting the overwhelming temptation of settling into a slight depression and eating cold cupcakes.
I miss my husband so much, and it hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet. When I am with Jordan I feel so much it seems like I will begin shooting out rays of starlight from my fingers and toes and the ends of my hair. I imagine it is what being filled with a million bouncy balls must feel like. I love to be with him and simply watch him smile, listen to him reveal his magnificent mind, and relish in the music of his piano. There is magic in his eyes, when they meet mine I can feel my soul catch fire.
Without Jordan I begin to feel a little smaller. It is like I am a helium balloon that is slowly deflating and losing the ability to stay afloat. As the saying goes, "I think he is me more than he is mine."
One of my favorite things to do with Jordan is watch romantic films. We usually enjoy them, but at the end he shrugs his shoulders, turns to me with a slight smirk and says, "We're cuter." Now, I don't think they should make a Hollywood chick-flick out of us. For one thing, it would be embarassing. We are both incredibly strange and we only encourage this behavioral indulgence in one another. Our home is a private stage for oddness and uncontrollable giggling. And for another thing,I would hate for the world to realize just how much I don't deserve Jordan. It is somewhat pathetic; the major gap between our levels of awesomeness.
I apologize if I am muking you out with this love confession. But I simply could not help myself, love has made me an emotional desperado. And tonight happens to be my first opportunity to write and Jordan's first night away. So the product is a mushy gushy post about my husband.
I love you Jordan! You are the lightening in my veins and the thunder in my heart - the sublime thuderstorm to a life that craves rain and excitement.
Thank you for everything you have brought into my life. Now I know what love is.
I miss my husband so much, and it hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet. When I am with Jordan I feel so much it seems like I will begin shooting out rays of starlight from my fingers and toes and the ends of my hair. I imagine it is what being filled with a million bouncy balls must feel like. I love to be with him and simply watch him smile, listen to him reveal his magnificent mind, and relish in the music of his piano. There is magic in his eyes, when they meet mine I can feel my soul catch fire.
Without Jordan I begin to feel a little smaller. It is like I am a helium balloon that is slowly deflating and losing the ability to stay afloat. As the saying goes, "I think he is me more than he is mine."
One of my favorite things to do with Jordan is watch romantic films. We usually enjoy them, but at the end he shrugs his shoulders, turns to me with a slight smirk and says, "We're cuter." Now, I don't think they should make a Hollywood chick-flick out of us. For one thing, it would be embarassing. We are both incredibly strange and we only encourage this behavioral indulgence in one another. Our home is a private stage for oddness and uncontrollable giggling. And for another thing,I would hate for the world to realize just how much I don't deserve Jordan. It is somewhat pathetic; the major gap between our levels of awesomeness.
I apologize if I am muking you out with this love confession. But I simply could not help myself, love has made me an emotional desperado. And tonight happens to be my first opportunity to write and Jordan's first night away. So the product is a mushy gushy post about my husband.
I love you Jordan! You are the lightening in my veins and the thunder in my heart - the sublime thuderstorm to a life that craves rain and excitement.
Thank you for everything you have brought into my life. Now I know what love is.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
No Higher Calling
I apologize for never writing anymore. I feel awful about it. I just don't feel like I have the time anymore though. Jo is crawling now, so that means I turn around for ten seconds and then she starts chewing on speaker cords. Right now she is digging in my pile of new books. . . hang on a second . . . . . . okay, now she is digging in her own books, which isn't as bad. And now she is back digging in mine, and Jordan is dragging her away by one leg, and she is screaming, and now Jordan is reorganizing all the books and placing them ontop of his piano out of her reach. And now Jo is digging in his piano music. And now Jordan is trying to deal with that . . .
I really like when Jordan is home from work. He is probably the most helpful husband there is. We have a rule that once he gets home I don't have to change anymore diapers. It is wonderful. Except Jo usually goes number two in the mornings, so I still get the worst of it. Lame!
Parenthood is like nothing else. No matter how naughty she is, how much of a mess she makes, or how loud she screams when I put her socks on, I never lover her any less. Everything she does is simply magnificent - even the things I would rather she not do. Jordan is trying to read her a book right now and she keeps on turning the pages back and forth and drooling all over them. It isn't going well, at all, but it is bonding time and I am having a blast watching them struggle. Hahahaha, Jo just untied Jordan's slippers - he looks so hurt.
Being Jo's mother has taught me more about my Heavenly Father than any other experience. I know that He loves me more than I could ever love my Jo - which is simply unfathomable. But I also know that no matter what I do, no matter how awful the mess I make, or how much I disobey his instruction, He perfectly loves me. That is such a comfort to know. I find so much peace in the reassurance I have of God's love. Nothing is more eternal or more powerful than this. When I think about it, I posssess the greatest gift of all existence.
I am so very grateful to be who I am, to be where I am, and to be blessed with what I have. I know this has come from a deeper understanding of God's love for me and the purposeful life He has laid out for me. Even if I never make the New York Time's Bestseller List, or I never find the cure for cancer, my life has tremendous meaning. And that is because I am a mother.
There is no higher calling. I have been charged with the duty to lead one of God's children back to His presence. I am so honored to have this amazing title. It is so scary but also so fulfilling. I am grateful to know that no matter what the personal situation, every woman has been promised the opportunity to be a mother, as long as they keep God's commands.
Being a mother is greater than anything! And now I have to go deal with my charge - she is throwing washcloths all over the livingroom and I think her father has given up on her. : )
P.S. Jordan just asked Jo, "Why do you only do things I tell you not to do?"
I LOVE IT!!
I really like when Jordan is home from work. He is probably the most helpful husband there is. We have a rule that once he gets home I don't have to change anymore diapers. It is wonderful. Except Jo usually goes number two in the mornings, so I still get the worst of it. Lame!
Parenthood is like nothing else. No matter how naughty she is, how much of a mess she makes, or how loud she screams when I put her socks on, I never lover her any less. Everything she does is simply magnificent - even the things I would rather she not do. Jordan is trying to read her a book right now and she keeps on turning the pages back and forth and drooling all over them. It isn't going well, at all, but it is bonding time and I am having a blast watching them struggle. Hahahaha, Jo just untied Jordan's slippers - he looks so hurt.
Being Jo's mother has taught me more about my Heavenly Father than any other experience. I know that He loves me more than I could ever love my Jo - which is simply unfathomable. But I also know that no matter what I do, no matter how awful the mess I make, or how much I disobey his instruction, He perfectly loves me. That is such a comfort to know. I find so much peace in the reassurance I have of God's love. Nothing is more eternal or more powerful than this. When I think about it, I posssess the greatest gift of all existence.
I am so very grateful to be who I am, to be where I am, and to be blessed with what I have. I know this has come from a deeper understanding of God's love for me and the purposeful life He has laid out for me. Even if I never make the New York Time's Bestseller List, or I never find the cure for cancer, my life has tremendous meaning. And that is because I am a mother.
There is no higher calling. I have been charged with the duty to lead one of God's children back to His presence. I am so honored to have this amazing title. It is so scary but also so fulfilling. I am grateful to know that no matter what the personal situation, every woman has been promised the opportunity to be a mother, as long as they keep God's commands.
Being a mother is greater than anything! And now I have to go deal with my charge - she is throwing washcloths all over the livingroom and I think her father has given up on her. : )
P.S. Jordan just asked Jo, "Why do you only do things I tell you not to do?"
I LOVE IT!!
Friday, February 11, 2011
Christian Women
I am guilty of many things, one of them being critical of those I should have been loving instead. Over the past few months I have been the witness of a lot of criticism, especially between women. I have heard harmful words spoken, that do nothing other than damage relationships and hurt individuals.
Silly things like, "I can't believe she only cleans her house once a month," "She needs to get rid of that bottle," "Women who are induced into labor are selfish," and "That's weird that she wants to breastfeed that long."
Believe me, I have made little comments like these, stuck my nose up in the air, and assumed that everyone who doesn't do things my way must be doing them wrong. I really regret this and wish I could take all my snobbiness back - but I can't. So instead I am going to do all I can to make sure I don't do this again. If I have offended or hurt you, by sticking my nose where it didn't belong, and judging when I had no right to, then I am very sorry and I hope you will forgive me.
The other night, I was with a group of good women. We had all been playing with our children, sharing tips about diapers and teething, and were strengthening friendships and helping one another. Sadly, the conversation was suddenly filled with judgmental remarks, hurt feelings, and friends lost. We slipped into "snappy moms" mode so smoothly no one had even noticed it. Women began talking about how those who use disposable diapers are wasteful, or how those who use cloth are unsanitary. Some women said they could never dress their children in "used" clothing and made it sound almost abusive. Some women said that those who buy only new toys will end up with spoiled brats.
In short, it was awful. I could sense Christ's presence depart and knew we no longer had a sweet spirit about us. We had gone from friends to bickering enemies in a few short minutes. What a loss.
I learned a very important lesson that night. Satan does all he can to destroy God's kingdom, and one of the ways he does this is by causing contention between sisters through his tools of gossip, judgment, and criticism. I, for one, never want to be a Satan's tool, and that is why I have developed a strong resolve never to judge others or cause riffs over things of no importance.
God does not care whether so and so lets her daughter use a bottle until she is one year or two, or whether so and so wants to use cloth or disposable diapers, or whether so and so buys used clothing or new. And if God doesn't care, then I certainly have no right to.
I have made an eternal covenant with my Heavenly Father to build up the kingdom of God in every way I can, and to remove from myself those things that tear it down. When I am critisizing others I am not acting in a way a true Christian woman should act.
As Christ's disciple my main priority is to be a light of Christ to everyone within my sphere. Not to decide who is a good parent, who knows how to clean a shower properly, or what constitutes a homemade dinner. My opinion of people is insignificant, while God's opinion is all important. I should be sharing God's opinion with those I meet. And His opinion is always unconditional love. Therefore, my attitude and remarks should show nothing but unconditional love for my sisters.
I wish I could be perfect from now on, but I know I will make mistakes, I will let petty differences get in the way, and I will make judgmental remarks and possibly offend. But I promise to always do my best to show love that surpasses differences, and a willingness to accept those who think differently than myself.
I promise to do my best to be a Christian woman.
Silly things like, "I can't believe she only cleans her house once a month," "She needs to get rid of that bottle," "Women who are induced into labor are selfish," and "That's weird that she wants to breastfeed that long."
Believe me, I have made little comments like these, stuck my nose up in the air, and assumed that everyone who doesn't do things my way must be doing them wrong. I really regret this and wish I could take all my snobbiness back - but I can't. So instead I am going to do all I can to make sure I don't do this again. If I have offended or hurt you, by sticking my nose where it didn't belong, and judging when I had no right to, then I am very sorry and I hope you will forgive me.
The other night, I was with a group of good women. We had all been playing with our children, sharing tips about diapers and teething, and were strengthening friendships and helping one another. Sadly, the conversation was suddenly filled with judgmental remarks, hurt feelings, and friends lost. We slipped into "snappy moms" mode so smoothly no one had even noticed it. Women began talking about how those who use disposable diapers are wasteful, or how those who use cloth are unsanitary. Some women said they could never dress their children in "used" clothing and made it sound almost abusive. Some women said that those who buy only new toys will end up with spoiled brats.
In short, it was awful. I could sense Christ's presence depart and knew we no longer had a sweet spirit about us. We had gone from friends to bickering enemies in a few short minutes. What a loss.
I learned a very important lesson that night. Satan does all he can to destroy God's kingdom, and one of the ways he does this is by causing contention between sisters through his tools of gossip, judgment, and criticism. I, for one, never want to be a Satan's tool, and that is why I have developed a strong resolve never to judge others or cause riffs over things of no importance.
God does not care whether so and so lets her daughter use a bottle until she is one year or two, or whether so and so wants to use cloth or disposable diapers, or whether so and so buys used clothing or new. And if God doesn't care, then I certainly have no right to.
I have made an eternal covenant with my Heavenly Father to build up the kingdom of God in every way I can, and to remove from myself those things that tear it down. When I am critisizing others I am not acting in a way a true Christian woman should act.
As Christ's disciple my main priority is to be a light of Christ to everyone within my sphere. Not to decide who is a good parent, who knows how to clean a shower properly, or what constitutes a homemade dinner. My opinion of people is insignificant, while God's opinion is all important. I should be sharing God's opinion with those I meet. And His opinion is always unconditional love. Therefore, my attitude and remarks should show nothing but unconditional love for my sisters.
I wish I could be perfect from now on, but I know I will make mistakes, I will let petty differences get in the way, and I will make judgmental remarks and possibly offend. But I promise to always do my best to show love that surpasses differences, and a willingness to accept those who think differently than myself.
I promise to do my best to be a Christian woman.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Slightly Depressing But Then Somewhat Hopeful Blog Post
Tonight a friend was telling me about her wedding day. Like everyone's , hers had some flaws. Her mother-in-law decided to give her the sex talk in the back of a gas station at 10 p.m. on her wedding night, and her own mom insisted on seeing them the next morning. Thankfully, these were not my experiences.
My wedding day was not ideal though. In all honesty, I avoid discussing my wedding day. It was probably one of the hardest days of my life, and one that doesn't bring back the best memories. I wouldn't trade my marriage to Jordan for anything, but I would probably trade my wedding day for almost anything. Well, except spiders and things of that creepy nature.
I feel like people never understand how difficult it is to be a convert sometimes. Both members of the Church and nonmembers. It isn't easy to have your LDS friends and family make small comments or do things that seem to seperate you or make you feel stupid. Whenever this happens I always assume it is unintentional, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt still. It isn't easy to awkwardly explain to nonmember friends and family why I wear garments, don't drink, and refuse to shop on Sunday. And it most certainly isn't easy to exlain to your mom and dad, who you love very much, why they can't be with you for your wedding day.
Instead of waking up with joy and excitement on my wedding day, I woke up in tears. I got in the shower at 4 a.m. and turned on the hot water until it felt like I could boil every emotion away. I stood there for more than an hour, just watching the steam rise and trying to numb myself.
Everyone always says, "But you made the right decision" with a big smile on their face. I think "So what?!" Nowhere does it say that making the right decision means it is going to hurt less. Sometimes making the right decision means you are going to suffer more than if you had made the wrong one. God doesn't guarantee an easy ride to those who sacrifice. He just asks us to follow Him, no matter what the consequence.
When I was thirteen my oldest sister Marissa got married. I watched with stars in my eyes as she got her makeup done, fixed her hair in the mirror, and had everyone fuss over her dress. I was in rapture when she walked down the aisle, holding my father's arm. I couldn't wait until I could be married, have a huge party, dance the night away, and then drive off knowing so many people loved me and wanted me to be happy.
Needless to say, I was crushed when my turn came. Not only did I lose that moment when my father would lovingly give me away, but I also lost the opportunity to be with the people I love the most. My wedding day was filled with strangers I wanted to run away from and heartbroken parents. I held back tears, plastered on smiles and waited for it all to be over.
It did end eventually, and when it did, I spent my first day as a married woman crying my eyes out wishing we had eloped.
I think the worst moment of the whole day was arriving at the luncheon. I was devastated to see my parents standing in a back corner with broken expressions. Not one member of my new family had approached them and tried to make them feel welcome. Everyone stood about talking merrily and simply ignored my parents. It felt as if they were saying, "You're not LDS, you're not one of us, we don't want you here."
I felt so estranged and seperated from everyone. Here I was, supposedly joining a new family, but all I could feel was their disapproval for my parents, and therefore me.
After that I wanted nothing more than to get away and be alone with Jordan. I was scared of being a new bride, and felt horrible guilt every time I thought of my parents. Now as a mother myself, I can't imagine all the pain I must have caused my mom. And for that I am deeply sorry.
Thankfully, time is a promotor of healing, and wedding days do not determine the quality of a marriage. I have enjoyed more than two and a half years of pure bliss living with Jordan and am looking forward to an eternity of even more. My marriage has been the greatest blessing of my life and I am so grateful nothing has the power to take that away, not even death.
God has the power to make good things come out of difficult beginnings - my life is a testament to this. No matter the situation, God can make it right if we have faith in Him. Despite all the hurt feelings, my mom is still my best friend and my dad is still my unsung hero. The love of a family is intended to be forever.
If my family can survive days like this, and even worse days that we have been through, then I know my family can make it through anything. I have felt the power of undconditional love. Both recieving it from my parents and giving it to my Jo.
The family is where we feel God's love for one another, and experience the power of forgiving others and being forgiven. Nothing is more precious to me than my family.
Love is what gives us the wings to soar to heaven, and family is the flight crew.
My wedding day was not ideal though. In all honesty, I avoid discussing my wedding day. It was probably one of the hardest days of my life, and one that doesn't bring back the best memories. I wouldn't trade my marriage to Jordan for anything, but I would probably trade my wedding day for almost anything. Well, except spiders and things of that creepy nature.
I feel like people never understand how difficult it is to be a convert sometimes. Both members of the Church and nonmembers. It isn't easy to have your LDS friends and family make small comments or do things that seem to seperate you or make you feel stupid. Whenever this happens I always assume it is unintentional, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt still. It isn't easy to awkwardly explain to nonmember friends and family why I wear garments, don't drink, and refuse to shop on Sunday. And it most certainly isn't easy to exlain to your mom and dad, who you love very much, why they can't be with you for your wedding day.
Instead of waking up with joy and excitement on my wedding day, I woke up in tears. I got in the shower at 4 a.m. and turned on the hot water until it felt like I could boil every emotion away. I stood there for more than an hour, just watching the steam rise and trying to numb myself.
Everyone always says, "But you made the right decision" with a big smile on their face. I think "So what?!" Nowhere does it say that making the right decision means it is going to hurt less. Sometimes making the right decision means you are going to suffer more than if you had made the wrong one. God doesn't guarantee an easy ride to those who sacrifice. He just asks us to follow Him, no matter what the consequence.
When I was thirteen my oldest sister Marissa got married. I watched with stars in my eyes as she got her makeup done, fixed her hair in the mirror, and had everyone fuss over her dress. I was in rapture when she walked down the aisle, holding my father's arm. I couldn't wait until I could be married, have a huge party, dance the night away, and then drive off knowing so many people loved me and wanted me to be happy.
Needless to say, I was crushed when my turn came. Not only did I lose that moment when my father would lovingly give me away, but I also lost the opportunity to be with the people I love the most. My wedding day was filled with strangers I wanted to run away from and heartbroken parents. I held back tears, plastered on smiles and waited for it all to be over.
It did end eventually, and when it did, I spent my first day as a married woman crying my eyes out wishing we had eloped.
I think the worst moment of the whole day was arriving at the luncheon. I was devastated to see my parents standing in a back corner with broken expressions. Not one member of my new family had approached them and tried to make them feel welcome. Everyone stood about talking merrily and simply ignored my parents. It felt as if they were saying, "You're not LDS, you're not one of us, we don't want you here."
I felt so estranged and seperated from everyone. Here I was, supposedly joining a new family, but all I could feel was their disapproval for my parents, and therefore me.
After that I wanted nothing more than to get away and be alone with Jordan. I was scared of being a new bride, and felt horrible guilt every time I thought of my parents. Now as a mother myself, I can't imagine all the pain I must have caused my mom. And for that I am deeply sorry.
Thankfully, time is a promotor of healing, and wedding days do not determine the quality of a marriage. I have enjoyed more than two and a half years of pure bliss living with Jordan and am looking forward to an eternity of even more. My marriage has been the greatest blessing of my life and I am so grateful nothing has the power to take that away, not even death.
God has the power to make good things come out of difficult beginnings - my life is a testament to this. No matter the situation, God can make it right if we have faith in Him. Despite all the hurt feelings, my mom is still my best friend and my dad is still my unsung hero. The love of a family is intended to be forever.
If my family can survive days like this, and even worse days that we have been through, then I know my family can make it through anything. I have felt the power of undconditional love. Both recieving it from my parents and giving it to my Jo.
The family is where we feel God's love for one another, and experience the power of forgiving others and being forgiven. Nothing is more precious to me than my family.
Love is what gives us the wings to soar to heaven, and family is the flight crew.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
A Cured Perfectionist
My life is the perfect example of the principle of entropy. Everything is gradually descending into chaos and I think my little family might end up becoming a mass of unorganized and dysfunctional energy roaming about the universe without structure.
Many of you probably think I have lost dedication to the blog, but do not be dismayed, I have written three blog posts since the last time I posted. Unfortunately, every time I get about 3/4 of the way through Jo has a meltdown about her purple hippopotamus (that was hard to spell) or her zucchini falling off her tray. So I never get to post them. I try to come back and finish them later, but by then I am in an entirely different mood and can't even remember what I was thinking when I had written. It never works to try and force the words either, just sounds awkward. I am a natural flowing spring, not an amusement park water slide. (Bad metaphor.)
I am a neat freak, I inherited this distressing trait from my grandmother who rearranges furniture once a week and washes out her cupboards before company comes over. I hate having a messy, unorganized home. But alas, my worst fears have come to fruition. Josephine has a strange obsession with bread crumbs. She is like a little duck, throw some nibbits at her and she is satisfied for hours. Unfortunately, this means that there are crumbs all over the house. I try to limit them to the kitchen, but she loves to throw them, plaster them to her forehead, roll her pants in them, and even stick them down her diaper.
That child is a crawling carbohydrate dispenser. It is a good thing we don't have a dog or it would just follow her around and eat her fallen crumbs all day. Although, that doesn't sound like a bad idea.
I have not been grocery shopping in over two weeks either. We are out of milk, eggs, bananas, meatballs, whipped cream, and, thanks to Jo, bread. I couldn't have toast for breakfast this morning, so I just ate a couple pieces of cake instead. Delicious.
I am feeling very overwhelmed by all this disarray, but at the same time, it is somewhat freeing. I imagine this is what it feels like to go to the bathroom outside. You know it is the wrong way of doing things, but you also can't help feeling a little liberated. (Another bad metaphor.)
I was beginning to feel bad earlier this week when things started getting out of hand. I thought that in order to be worthy of the title "Wife" you should be able to keep a spotless house, wash out the fishbowl once a week, make sure your child never pukes on her clothes, have a scrumptious dinner prepared every night by six, and run a local charity.
I have been most happily disillusioned by the events of this past week though. Jordan came home to crunchy carpet, a fish swimming around in mud, a wife who hadn't showered in two days, and a daughter that was tearing apart magazines. That good man said, "Hello, family!" in a cheery voice and acted pleased that we were having bagged salad for dinner.
It was one of those glorious moments of epiphony that I crave so. "I don't have to make everything perfect, and be perfect, in order to be the perfect wife!" A neon orange bar sign pulsating the word "Magnifico" lit up the dark recesses of my 1950's mind.
In order to be the perfect wife I just have to be myself. (It only took me two and a half years to figure out.) I just have to be happy and optomistic about whatever comes our way. Whether that means Jo did an interpretive sprinkler dance and showered the bathroom with urine, or Jordan had to work till eight. My main responsibility is to keep my cool, laugh it off, and think "That is great material for a blog post." My family doesn't need perfection, they need a mother who gives hugs despite bread crumbs, no breakfast, and spilled milk. Jordan needs a wife who is ready to laugh, play games, and let the dishes just sit for a night.
I feel as if I have been reborn since last Monday night. I am ready to start a new life as a cured perfectionist who no longer cares about being perfect. OCD now means Optimistic Chaos Disorder. And let me tell you, it is the funnest behavioral issue I have ever had.
Life could be glorious if we would just glory in the flaws as well as the faultless. It's all part of the game. You're not always going to win, so you might as well learn to enjoy losing too.
P.S. Jordan got a campus visit and interview with Pittsburgh. BOOYA!!!!!
P.P.S Jo's bottom wiggles in a very adorable fashion when she crawls.
Many of you probably think I have lost dedication to the blog, but do not be dismayed, I have written three blog posts since the last time I posted. Unfortunately, every time I get about 3/4 of the way through Jo has a meltdown about her purple hippopotamus (that was hard to spell) or her zucchini falling off her tray. So I never get to post them. I try to come back and finish them later, but by then I am in an entirely different mood and can't even remember what I was thinking when I had written. It never works to try and force the words either, just sounds awkward. I am a natural flowing spring, not an amusement park water slide. (Bad metaphor.)
I am a neat freak, I inherited this distressing trait from my grandmother who rearranges furniture once a week and washes out her cupboards before company comes over. I hate having a messy, unorganized home. But alas, my worst fears have come to fruition. Josephine has a strange obsession with bread crumbs. She is like a little duck, throw some nibbits at her and she is satisfied for hours. Unfortunately, this means that there are crumbs all over the house. I try to limit them to the kitchen, but she loves to throw them, plaster them to her forehead, roll her pants in them, and even stick them down her diaper.
That child is a crawling carbohydrate dispenser. It is a good thing we don't have a dog or it would just follow her around and eat her fallen crumbs all day. Although, that doesn't sound like a bad idea.
I have not been grocery shopping in over two weeks either. We are out of milk, eggs, bananas, meatballs, whipped cream, and, thanks to Jo, bread. I couldn't have toast for breakfast this morning, so I just ate a couple pieces of cake instead. Delicious.
I am feeling very overwhelmed by all this disarray, but at the same time, it is somewhat freeing. I imagine this is what it feels like to go to the bathroom outside. You know it is the wrong way of doing things, but you also can't help feeling a little liberated. (Another bad metaphor.)
I was beginning to feel bad earlier this week when things started getting out of hand. I thought that in order to be worthy of the title "Wife" you should be able to keep a spotless house, wash out the fishbowl once a week, make sure your child never pukes on her clothes, have a scrumptious dinner prepared every night by six, and run a local charity.
I have been most happily disillusioned by the events of this past week though. Jordan came home to crunchy carpet, a fish swimming around in mud, a wife who hadn't showered in two days, and a daughter that was tearing apart magazines. That good man said, "Hello, family!" in a cheery voice and acted pleased that we were having bagged salad for dinner.
It was one of those glorious moments of epiphony that I crave so. "I don't have to make everything perfect, and be perfect, in order to be the perfect wife!" A neon orange bar sign pulsating the word "Magnifico" lit up the dark recesses of my 1950's mind.
In order to be the perfect wife I just have to be myself. (It only took me two and a half years to figure out.) I just have to be happy and optomistic about whatever comes our way. Whether that means Jo did an interpretive sprinkler dance and showered the bathroom with urine, or Jordan had to work till eight. My main responsibility is to keep my cool, laugh it off, and think "That is great material for a blog post." My family doesn't need perfection, they need a mother who gives hugs despite bread crumbs, no breakfast, and spilled milk. Jordan needs a wife who is ready to laugh, play games, and let the dishes just sit for a night.
I feel as if I have been reborn since last Monday night. I am ready to start a new life as a cured perfectionist who no longer cares about being perfect. OCD now means Optimistic Chaos Disorder. And let me tell you, it is the funnest behavioral issue I have ever had.
Life could be glorious if we would just glory in the flaws as well as the faultless. It's all part of the game. You're not always going to win, so you might as well learn to enjoy losing too.
P.S. Jordan got a campus visit and interview with Pittsburgh. BOOYA!!!!!
P.P.S Jo's bottom wiggles in a very adorable fashion when she crawls.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Important Goals
I was really depressed earlier this week because I got an 80% on my Physical Science midterm. I wrote a blog post about it, actually, but then didn't post it because it was a little too angsty. I didn't want to spread the hate - this blog is all about spreading the love.
Everyone keeps on telling me that class is "so easy." It makes me feel kind of stupid. If it is so easy, then why can't I get an A? This was troubling me for some time, and I was beginning to wonder if I could accomplish anything meaningful in my life. Everyone knows it is a universal law of intellectualism that only people who can swim through the Special Theory of Relativity and Steller Pallaxes are valuable to society. (Sarcasm)
The truth is, everyone is incredibly important, no matter where their talents lie.
I have been thinking a lot about my very good friend Meg and her baby lately. Madelyn was born six weeks early and very small. She was a mere three pounds and had to spend two months in the NICU. Madelyn is almost a year now, and she has not grown or developed very much. Jordan and I went to visit her and her parents in the hospital this weekend. While we were there I thought, "Oh, I hope this baby is able to do everything Meg wants her to some day."
The truth is, Madelyn has already done so much. She may not be able to roll over or see very well. But she has ignited a transformation in my heart that helped me to see past the physical world and find the spiritual truths that surround us. When I talk with Meg, and listen to her tell me about all the trials Madelyn has faced before the age of one, I can hear the Savior's voice. Meg has been through so much on behalf of her child, and I am sure she will go through a lot more. Meg is unbelievably patient, she is optimistic, she is brave, and she is so madly in love with her daughter. When you see Meg look at Madelyn you wouldn't think there was a single thing wrong with that baby. Meg knows her daughter is delayed, but she has the ability to see past all the doctors' diagnoses and see the incredible, pure spirit of Madelyn. A brave daughter of God that was willing to come to Earth amidst the many trials Heavenly Father has allowed her to face.
Last General Conference President Monson shared a story about a wonderful flower that a gardener had placed in an old, broken pot. When a friend asked the gardener why she had put the most beautiful flower in the worst pot the gardener replied, "This flower was so beautiful, I thought it wouldn't mind starting out in that old pot, just for a little while." To Meg, and myself, Madelyn is that precious flower. She has left an impression on my heart that I hope to share with my own daughter some day. I am so grateful to know that little girl and her incredible mother.
There are so many wonderful examples of gospel truths in my life. I just hope that I can be an example to others, too. When I stand before God at the judgment day I doubt He is going to ask me, "Did you get an A in Physical Science?" Instead, He will say, "Did you share my gospel with others in both word and deed? Were you a light to those around you?" I hope I can respond "Yes."
Life isn't about our worldly accomplishments. Whether or not I write a Pulitzer Prize winner is not as important as whether or not I raise my daughter to love God with all her soul, might, mind, and strength. The critics and literary hot-shots will recognize me more for the first, but God will recognize me more for the latter. I just have to decide who I am trying to impress.
And just like Joshua I say, "Choose you this day whom ye will serve, but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."
Everyone keeps on telling me that class is "so easy." It makes me feel kind of stupid. If it is so easy, then why can't I get an A? This was troubling me for some time, and I was beginning to wonder if I could accomplish anything meaningful in my life. Everyone knows it is a universal law of intellectualism that only people who can swim through the Special Theory of Relativity and Steller Pallaxes are valuable to society. (Sarcasm)
The truth is, everyone is incredibly important, no matter where their talents lie.
I have been thinking a lot about my very good friend Meg and her baby lately. Madelyn was born six weeks early and very small. She was a mere three pounds and had to spend two months in the NICU. Madelyn is almost a year now, and she has not grown or developed very much. Jordan and I went to visit her and her parents in the hospital this weekend. While we were there I thought, "Oh, I hope this baby is able to do everything Meg wants her to some day."
The truth is, Madelyn has already done so much. She may not be able to roll over or see very well. But she has ignited a transformation in my heart that helped me to see past the physical world and find the spiritual truths that surround us. When I talk with Meg, and listen to her tell me about all the trials Madelyn has faced before the age of one, I can hear the Savior's voice. Meg has been through so much on behalf of her child, and I am sure she will go through a lot more. Meg is unbelievably patient, she is optimistic, she is brave, and she is so madly in love with her daughter. When you see Meg look at Madelyn you wouldn't think there was a single thing wrong with that baby. Meg knows her daughter is delayed, but she has the ability to see past all the doctors' diagnoses and see the incredible, pure spirit of Madelyn. A brave daughter of God that was willing to come to Earth amidst the many trials Heavenly Father has allowed her to face.
Last General Conference President Monson shared a story about a wonderful flower that a gardener had placed in an old, broken pot. When a friend asked the gardener why she had put the most beautiful flower in the worst pot the gardener replied, "This flower was so beautiful, I thought it wouldn't mind starting out in that old pot, just for a little while." To Meg, and myself, Madelyn is that precious flower. She has left an impression on my heart that I hope to share with my own daughter some day. I am so grateful to know that little girl and her incredible mother.
There are so many wonderful examples of gospel truths in my life. I just hope that I can be an example to others, too. When I stand before God at the judgment day I doubt He is going to ask me, "Did you get an A in Physical Science?" Instead, He will say, "Did you share my gospel with others in both word and deed? Were you a light to those around you?" I hope I can respond "Yes."
Life isn't about our worldly accomplishments. Whether or not I write a Pulitzer Prize winner is not as important as whether or not I raise my daughter to love God with all her soul, might, mind, and strength. The critics and literary hot-shots will recognize me more for the first, but God will recognize me more for the latter. I just have to decide who I am trying to impress.
And just like Joshua I say, "Choose you this day whom ye will serve, but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."
Monday, January 24, 2011
Exciting Living
Jordan is playing music that makes my heart melt on his piano, and Jo is attempting to crawl using one leg, and I am obviously sitting at my computer writing. Life here is normal, but also exciting.
When I was in highschool I believed that exciting only meant being irresponsible, spontaneous, hyper, and flirtatious. I used to go to disco dance parties with strobe lights and sparkly pants at the dormitory laundry room, or go run around lakes in freezing temperatures, or stay up late jumping on beds while listening to Pink Floyd. To me these activities were what brought excitement and happiness.
A lot has changed since then, and I am sure all my friends think I am boring now. Spontaneity now means making sure I have diapers, wipes, three burp rags, a spoon, mashed carrots, and an extra onesie before I head out the door. I can't be irresponsible, or I might end up with a child screaming at the top of her lungs in the library (that was last Thursday). I am hyper when I have ten minutes to myself and can run around like a maniac trying to decide how to use my precious time. And flirtatious involves sneaking in a kiss for Jordan before Jo makes things awkward by staring at us and drooling.
My life is in a different galazy than it was four years ago. I might as well be hanging out with cling-ons and Chewbacca. (I pretty much am - Jo is the cling-on, and Jordan is my Chewbacca.)
I am young, healthy, and ready for adventure. I talked to a good friend from high school the other day. She asked me what was new, I said "Flu shots and baby teeth." I asked her what was new, and she said "Parties, boys, and clothes." When I compare my life to that of my highschool friends', I feel old and uninteresting. I don't buy new clothes - I buy diapers and rash cream, I don't go out with new boys - I share dinner every night with the same man I have for the past three years, I don't go to parties - I tickle my 6 month old and play scrabble.
Sometimes I wonder if I got married too young, had kids too soon, and missed out on my chance for the bright lights of uptown, the thrill of hot pink lipstick, and a loud bass beat pumping my blood. All of these things are the Hollywood versions of exciting, and appear to be what every 21 year old girl with a love for dancing should be doing.
I love to dance, and I am still barely above drinking age. And I must admit that every time we get out of the house to go dancing, or romance at a fancy restaurant is like a burst of sweet oxygen after being trapped inside a vacuum for years. But this is not the life I chose for myself. I had my chance to be the flippant bachelorette who cared for high-heeled boots and sparkly tank-tops more than baby hairbows and missing socks.
My life is by no means the standard definition of exciting and fresh. But it offers these sensations in a way no Hollywood producer could understand. Seeing my daughter smile for the first time was more heart-thrilling than being sung to by the cute blonde guitar player on stage for my seventeenth birthday. Knowing Jordan will be home in only half an hour is more exciting than waiting for Friday night's techno jam. And hanging with Jordan and Jo is more satisfying than finding myself with a cute stranger at the club.
So, even though my purse is filled with bibs and extra onesies instead of eyeshadow and extra lipgloss, I think my life is pretty exciting. I have been given the joy of love and security. I would take that over spontaneity, irresponsibility, and expendable funds any day.
I know my life has meaning. I see that meaning every day when Jo morphs into a bundle of smiles when I take her from the crib every morning. I see it when Jordan gratefully accepts my hug and chocolate chip cookies after a long day at work. I see it when we start giggling over spit up or playing kung-fu with our chopsticks.
Nothing can be more thrilling than finding those you love most find joy in your presence. I am glad I made the decision I did. I wouldn't go back and change it for anything. I have everything happiness and fulfillment requires. I revel in my current life and sometimes wonder how my old friends live without the incredible blessings of family.
Life at the Barlow home is one adventure after another. And I am ready to take on them all - as long as they don't interfere with naptime.
When I was in highschool I believed that exciting only meant being irresponsible, spontaneous, hyper, and flirtatious. I used to go to disco dance parties with strobe lights and sparkly pants at the dormitory laundry room, or go run around lakes in freezing temperatures, or stay up late jumping on beds while listening to Pink Floyd. To me these activities were what brought excitement and happiness.
A lot has changed since then, and I am sure all my friends think I am boring now. Spontaneity now means making sure I have diapers, wipes, three burp rags, a spoon, mashed carrots, and an extra onesie before I head out the door. I can't be irresponsible, or I might end up with a child screaming at the top of her lungs in the library (that was last Thursday). I am hyper when I have ten minutes to myself and can run around like a maniac trying to decide how to use my precious time. And flirtatious involves sneaking in a kiss for Jordan before Jo makes things awkward by staring at us and drooling.
My life is in a different galazy than it was four years ago. I might as well be hanging out with cling-ons and Chewbacca. (I pretty much am - Jo is the cling-on, and Jordan is my Chewbacca.)
I am young, healthy, and ready for adventure. I talked to a good friend from high school the other day. She asked me what was new, I said "Flu shots and baby teeth." I asked her what was new, and she said "Parties, boys, and clothes." When I compare my life to that of my highschool friends', I feel old and uninteresting. I don't buy new clothes - I buy diapers and rash cream, I don't go out with new boys - I share dinner every night with the same man I have for the past three years, I don't go to parties - I tickle my 6 month old and play scrabble.
Sometimes I wonder if I got married too young, had kids too soon, and missed out on my chance for the bright lights of uptown, the thrill of hot pink lipstick, and a loud bass beat pumping my blood. All of these things are the Hollywood versions of exciting, and appear to be what every 21 year old girl with a love for dancing should be doing.
I love to dance, and I am still barely above drinking age. And I must admit that every time we get out of the house to go dancing, or romance at a fancy restaurant is like a burst of sweet oxygen after being trapped inside a vacuum for years. But this is not the life I chose for myself. I had my chance to be the flippant bachelorette who cared for high-heeled boots and sparkly tank-tops more than baby hairbows and missing socks.
My life is by no means the standard definition of exciting and fresh. But it offers these sensations in a way no Hollywood producer could understand. Seeing my daughter smile for the first time was more heart-thrilling than being sung to by the cute blonde guitar player on stage for my seventeenth birthday. Knowing Jordan will be home in only half an hour is more exciting than waiting for Friday night's techno jam. And hanging with Jordan and Jo is more satisfying than finding myself with a cute stranger at the club.
So, even though my purse is filled with bibs and extra onesies instead of eyeshadow and extra lipgloss, I think my life is pretty exciting. I have been given the joy of love and security. I would take that over spontaneity, irresponsibility, and expendable funds any day.
I know my life has meaning. I see that meaning every day when Jo morphs into a bundle of smiles when I take her from the crib every morning. I see it when Jordan gratefully accepts my hug and chocolate chip cookies after a long day at work. I see it when we start giggling over spit up or playing kung-fu with our chopsticks.
Nothing can be more thrilling than finding those you love most find joy in your presence. I am glad I made the decision I did. I wouldn't go back and change it for anything. I have everything happiness and fulfillment requires. I revel in my current life and sometimes wonder how my old friends live without the incredible blessings of family.
Life at the Barlow home is one adventure after another. And I am ready to take on them all - as long as they don't interfere with naptime.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
That Wasn't Water
When I was seven years old, my older brother, Jacob, had a best friend named McKenzie who lived across the street. McKenzie was twelve (don't ask me why he was hanging around with a nine year old) and I thought he was a hunk. He was older, wore glasses, and seemed to know everything. I did all I could to convince McKenzie that I was the girl for him - I annoyed him and my brother without end.
One day, the three of us were outside on a hot summer's day in Eldorado, Kansas, having a water balloon fight. The teams were divided very poorly; it was myself against two merciless older boys. I willingly accepted the beating, though, because I wanted to hang out with my cool older brother and his dashing friend.
After some time we got down to the last water balloon. I was glad that I could escape from being pelted by rubber filled with cold hose water, and also glad that I could now run inside and go to the bathroom without being called a "chicken."
Jake stopped me before I could get to the door, though. "Bean, pop this water balloon over our heads."
As much as I wanted to instantly please them, I knew I couldn't hold it much longer. "I have to go to the bathroom."
"Just do it real quick, it will only take a second."
"Jake, I have to go potty first."
"Come on, just do it fast."
I looked over at McKenzie waiting for me and very foolishly decided to comply. We quickly ran to the backyard where the swing set was. My brother and his friend stood underneath the middle of the monkey bars and instructed me to take the water balloon, go hold it right above their heads, and then pop it so they would both be splattered. Neither of them seemed to notice how desperately I was doing the potty dance.
I grabbed the balloon, climbed the monkey bars, and positioned myself so that I was directly over both boys. I began to twist - nothing happened. I folded it in half and twisted it again, I smashed it between my two hands as hard as I could. It seemed that this water balloon had been made with stronger rubber than all the other ones. I squeezed and squeezed, I even bit it, but no matter what I did the water balloon would just not break.
Then something terrible happened. I froze. I could feel it going, but I was powerless to stop it. I began panicking as my bladder gushed out everything it had been holding in for so long. It only lasted a few moments, but those few moments have left a deep impression in my memory.
I looked down to see Jake and McKenzie get sprayed with the last of my urine. Jake had a somewhat puzzled expression on his face. He turned to McKenzie and asked, "Why was it warm?"
Both boys looked up to see me sitting directly above them, still holding the water balloon in my shaking hands. Understanding broke across their faces and they both yelled "Ewwww!" They sprinted for the hose and immediately began fighting over the water. I hurriedly climbed down from my perch of shame and bolted for the house. I locked myself in the bathroom and knew that it was over.
Jake would torment me with this humiliation for the rest of my life. I was branded. Even worse, McKenzie would never like me. From now on I would only be known as the girl who peed on his head.
I would like to say that this was the last time I ever peed on someone, but that would be a lie. My older sister Regina received an unpleasant surprise when I used my bladder as a weapon of revenge.
But that is another story, for another day.
Today we will leave it with, "That Wasn't Water".
One day, the three of us were outside on a hot summer's day in Eldorado, Kansas, having a water balloon fight. The teams were divided very poorly; it was myself against two merciless older boys. I willingly accepted the beating, though, because I wanted to hang out with my cool older brother and his dashing friend.
After some time we got down to the last water balloon. I was glad that I could escape from being pelted by rubber filled with cold hose water, and also glad that I could now run inside and go to the bathroom without being called a "chicken."
Jake stopped me before I could get to the door, though. "Bean, pop this water balloon over our heads."
As much as I wanted to instantly please them, I knew I couldn't hold it much longer. "I have to go to the bathroom."
"Just do it real quick, it will only take a second."
"Jake, I have to go potty first."
"Come on, just do it fast."
I looked over at McKenzie waiting for me and very foolishly decided to comply. We quickly ran to the backyard where the swing set was. My brother and his friend stood underneath the middle of the monkey bars and instructed me to take the water balloon, go hold it right above their heads, and then pop it so they would both be splattered. Neither of them seemed to notice how desperately I was doing the potty dance.
I grabbed the balloon, climbed the monkey bars, and positioned myself so that I was directly over both boys. I began to twist - nothing happened. I folded it in half and twisted it again, I smashed it between my two hands as hard as I could. It seemed that this water balloon had been made with stronger rubber than all the other ones. I squeezed and squeezed, I even bit it, but no matter what I did the water balloon would just not break.
Then something terrible happened. I froze. I could feel it going, but I was powerless to stop it. I began panicking as my bladder gushed out everything it had been holding in for so long. It only lasted a few moments, but those few moments have left a deep impression in my memory.
I looked down to see Jake and McKenzie get sprayed with the last of my urine. Jake had a somewhat puzzled expression on his face. He turned to McKenzie and asked, "Why was it warm?"
Both boys looked up to see me sitting directly above them, still holding the water balloon in my shaking hands. Understanding broke across their faces and they both yelled "Ewwww!" They sprinted for the hose and immediately began fighting over the water. I hurriedly climbed down from my perch of shame and bolted for the house. I locked myself in the bathroom and knew that it was over.
Jake would torment me with this humiliation for the rest of my life. I was branded. Even worse, McKenzie would never like me. From now on I would only be known as the girl who peed on his head.
I would like to say that this was the last time I ever peed on someone, but that would be a lie. My older sister Regina received an unpleasant surprise when I used my bladder as a weapon of revenge.
But that is another story, for another day.
Today we will leave it with, "That Wasn't Water".
Monday, January 17, 2011
Judging Success
I tried painting today – which was a very bad idea. Any time I try to do something remotely artistic it results in disaster and very low self-esteem. This, like most things in my life, got me to thinking, though. Why do I care so much that I can’t paint? Why does it give me emotional heartburn that every line is squiggly, or that my colors clash and things are disproportionate? I seriously throw myself into a miniature depression every time I try to do something artsy.
President Uchtdorf said that our ability to create is a divine gift from God and that we should enjoy it – but I can’t enjoy it! I want to make magnificent paintings, but all I come out with is bad bubble letters no one can read and blotchy colors. This is a serious flaw!
I have been thinking a lot about my flaws lately, it seems I have hit a point in my life where I have beaten down into a fetal position, and am still being kicked at from all directions. It isn’t that anything horrible has happened to me; I just don’t feel like I am conquering the world and molding myself into an admirable person.
I am taking Physics of the Human Body right now, which isn’t helping my self confidence. The homework is impossible to understand. I never get higher than an 80%. My understanding physics is like a deaf person trying to understand harmony – not going to happen. Based on the projection of my current velocity, miraculous powers need to intervene if I am going to graduate with a good G.P.A. This shouldn’t be a big deal; I haven’t even decided if I am going back for my Master’s or not. And I can afford a B on my transcript and still get into a good creative writing program. Why am I freaking out then?
It is because I am terrified of failure. If I fail, then I feel like I have disappointed every living creature and am of no value. I know that no one besides myself cares about what I splash onto a canvas, or what I get on my physics quiz, or what my hair looks like, but for some reason, I can’t help feeling guilty for every little thing I do wrong.
It is like I have this weird pass or fail mentality. I create this line through my life. If I can do enough things right and stay above it, then I pass the test of life, but if I am two points off and fall below the line, I might as well have not taken the class at all. This is sick and demented – I know – but I can’t be the only one who sometimes feels they are on the edge of an existence failure cliff.
I had an epiphany about all these ludicrous emotions the other night. Jordan was reading the scriptures to me, and I was reminded of President Monson’s memento “If you spend all your time judging others, you don’t have enough time to love them.” I think this applies to us too. If we spend all our time judging ourselves, then we don’t have any energy to appreciate our blessings and gifts. When I do nothing other than sit there and stare at my hideous acrylic creation, I don’t have time to enjoy my family, or enjoy writing, or enjoy collecting shells on the beach.
I also don’t have the time to enjoy serving others if I am constantly worrying about myself. I am so busy worrying about making myself perfect that I forget to worry about making others perfect. I wasn’t born so that I could be the best at everything all the time, I was born so I could help others learn about God, and then through that process become the kind of perfect God wants me to be.
God doesn’t care if my paintings look like ferret poo mixed with key lime pie, and he doesn’t want me to care about that either. He wants me to care about the things He cares about – my daughter, my husband, our family, my neighbors, and the kart man who sits outside the library.
Now, if I enjoy painting, and am pleased with what I create and feel good about myself while doing it, then that is a good thing and painting would be a good activity for me to engage in. But if I am going to have an emotional fit over it, then it is better if I just lay my weapon down and stop murdering myself along with the canvas.
A good life isn’t about being your idea of perfect; it is about being God’s idea of perfect. And His idea of perfect is someone who loves Him with their whole selves, is willing to be obedient in all places and times, and gladly serves wherever called.
The greatest fortune that man can possess
Is not vast wisdom or full treasure chests
But a precious gift, so great to behold
A wonderful, loving, heart of pure gold
I need to accept myself for the faulty woman that I am, and trust that, with some divine intervention, it will be good enough. When you have God on your side, no one can stand against you - not even yourself.
I am so glad true success doesn’t depend on intelligence, artistic skill, wealth, or other worldly measures of worth. I am so glad it depends on that strange and intangible part of ourselves that ties us to the eternities. God measures success by the condition of our souls. We just have to make sure our souls are in the right place; close enough for Him to reach them.
President Uchtdorf said that our ability to create is a divine gift from God and that we should enjoy it – but I can’t enjoy it! I want to make magnificent paintings, but all I come out with is bad bubble letters no one can read and blotchy colors. This is a serious flaw!
I have been thinking a lot about my flaws lately, it seems I have hit a point in my life where I have beaten down into a fetal position, and am still being kicked at from all directions. It isn’t that anything horrible has happened to me; I just don’t feel like I am conquering the world and molding myself into an admirable person.
I am taking Physics of the Human Body right now, which isn’t helping my self confidence. The homework is impossible to understand. I never get higher than an 80%. My understanding physics is like a deaf person trying to understand harmony – not going to happen. Based on the projection of my current velocity, miraculous powers need to intervene if I am going to graduate with a good G.P.A. This shouldn’t be a big deal; I haven’t even decided if I am going back for my Master’s or not. And I can afford a B on my transcript and still get into a good creative writing program. Why am I freaking out then?
It is because I am terrified of failure. If I fail, then I feel like I have disappointed every living creature and am of no value. I know that no one besides myself cares about what I splash onto a canvas, or what I get on my physics quiz, or what my hair looks like, but for some reason, I can’t help feeling guilty for every little thing I do wrong.
It is like I have this weird pass or fail mentality. I create this line through my life. If I can do enough things right and stay above it, then I pass the test of life, but if I am two points off and fall below the line, I might as well have not taken the class at all. This is sick and demented – I know – but I can’t be the only one who sometimes feels they are on the edge of an existence failure cliff.
I had an epiphany about all these ludicrous emotions the other night. Jordan was reading the scriptures to me, and I was reminded of President Monson’s memento “If you spend all your time judging others, you don’t have enough time to love them.” I think this applies to us too. If we spend all our time judging ourselves, then we don’t have any energy to appreciate our blessings and gifts. When I do nothing other than sit there and stare at my hideous acrylic creation, I don’t have time to enjoy my family, or enjoy writing, or enjoy collecting shells on the beach.
I also don’t have the time to enjoy serving others if I am constantly worrying about myself. I am so busy worrying about making myself perfect that I forget to worry about making others perfect. I wasn’t born so that I could be the best at everything all the time, I was born so I could help others learn about God, and then through that process become the kind of perfect God wants me to be.
God doesn’t care if my paintings look like ferret poo mixed with key lime pie, and he doesn’t want me to care about that either. He wants me to care about the things He cares about – my daughter, my husband, our family, my neighbors, and the kart man who sits outside the library.
Now, if I enjoy painting, and am pleased with what I create and feel good about myself while doing it, then that is a good thing and painting would be a good activity for me to engage in. But if I am going to have an emotional fit over it, then it is better if I just lay my weapon down and stop murdering myself along with the canvas.
A good life isn’t about being your idea of perfect; it is about being God’s idea of perfect. And His idea of perfect is someone who loves Him with their whole selves, is willing to be obedient in all places and times, and gladly serves wherever called.
The greatest fortune that man can possess
Is not vast wisdom or full treasure chests
But a precious gift, so great to behold
A wonderful, loving, heart of pure gold
I need to accept myself for the faulty woman that I am, and trust that, with some divine intervention, it will be good enough. When you have God on your side, no one can stand against you - not even yourself.
I am so glad true success doesn’t depend on intelligence, artistic skill, wealth, or other worldly measures of worth. I am so glad it depends on that strange and intangible part of ourselves that ties us to the eternities. God measures success by the condition of our souls. We just have to make sure our souls are in the right place; close enough for Him to reach them.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Quarter Life Crisis
I have written three blog posts in the last few days and have deleted them all. I simply can't find the words to describe how I am feeling right now. My life is a confusing conglomeration of stress, happiness, fun, school, and complete exhaustion. I feel like Ramonovich from Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment - except I haven't killed anyone.
Somehow, I feel like I am always doing something wrong. Like I didn't make Josephine happy enough, or I didn't make a good enough dinner, or if I was smart then I would get 100% on every physics test, or my haircut is bad. Just dumb random things I know aren't true, but I can't help thinking.
I feel like I am floating along in an ocean of "human debris" without any direction or any real accomplishments. I am 21 years old, about to graduate, with a husband, a baby, and a future that is like looking into the blur on a very foggy day.
My bishop made a very interesting comment about me the other day. He said, "Your whole life is looking outward, focusing on that little baby in your arms, and focusing on your husband's doctorate programs, and focusing on making everyone else happy. Sometimes it is good to just focus on yourself for a few minutes."
Well, I tried this, and I think that is my problem. I have no idea what the hoozle I am doing. I am a million different things smashed together in a mess of ME. Does anyone else ever feel this way? Or does everyone else in the world know exactly who they are, exactly where they are going, and exactly what they want?
Sometimes I wish it was as simple as "My name is Kayleen Barlow, I am 21, I am a mother, a wife, a writer, and a nutcase." But it isn't that clear. I think probably because I won't let it be. I don't want to be just this or that. I want to be everything. I want to be a dancer on the Pennsylvania Ballet Company, I want to be a Pulitzer Prize winner, I want to be a renowned physicist, I want to be a pastry chef, and I want to be the best mom that ever lived.
The only thing is that I am not any of these things. I am an average dancer, a mediocre writer, horrible at physics, killer of anything pastry, and a mom who makes a thousand mistakes every day. Sometimes I scream out "Why can't I be perfect?" Then I collapse in tears on the bed, bury myself under all our pillows, and feel sorry for my lack of awesomeness. I usually fall asleep after about 20 minutes.
When I wake up, Jordan has made me pancakes, done the dishes, made Jo a giggle apparatus and gives me a hug. Jo smiles so big her eyes squint when she sees me and I can't help but squeeze her till she squeaks.
It is nice to know that I am loved, even if I am severely deficient. I have to remind myself that it is okay if I can't do everything and be everything. Because who I am must be good enough if I am so lucky as to have Jordan and so blessed to have my Jo. It is good to be loved - it makes me feel like so much more than I really am.
I am definitely not perfect, and I am always amazed at Jordan's patience with me, but I know that no matter who I am, or what I do, I have a home.
It is a wonderful thing to know that I will always be loved - it is like wearing a ray of sunshine in the middle of a winter storm.
So I am suffering a quarter life crisis. But I have an anchor that is holding me together in the midst of crashing waves and confusing signals. That anchor is God's love and his plan for me. Hopefully it will eventually lead me in the right direction. We all know I am definitely not qualified to be captain. I just need the faith to keep on going wherever he leads me - even if that is to the primary.
It is good to know he is always by my side. I would be totally lost without Him.
Somehow, I feel like I am always doing something wrong. Like I didn't make Josephine happy enough, or I didn't make a good enough dinner, or if I was smart then I would get 100% on every physics test, or my haircut is bad. Just dumb random things I know aren't true, but I can't help thinking.
I feel like I am floating along in an ocean of "human debris" without any direction or any real accomplishments. I am 21 years old, about to graduate, with a husband, a baby, and a future that is like looking into the blur on a very foggy day.
My bishop made a very interesting comment about me the other day. He said, "Your whole life is looking outward, focusing on that little baby in your arms, and focusing on your husband's doctorate programs, and focusing on making everyone else happy. Sometimes it is good to just focus on yourself for a few minutes."
Well, I tried this, and I think that is my problem. I have no idea what the hoozle I am doing. I am a million different things smashed together in a mess of ME. Does anyone else ever feel this way? Or does everyone else in the world know exactly who they are, exactly where they are going, and exactly what they want?
Sometimes I wish it was as simple as "My name is Kayleen Barlow, I am 21, I am a mother, a wife, a writer, and a nutcase." But it isn't that clear. I think probably because I won't let it be. I don't want to be just this or that. I want to be everything. I want to be a dancer on the Pennsylvania Ballet Company, I want to be a Pulitzer Prize winner, I want to be a renowned physicist, I want to be a pastry chef, and I want to be the best mom that ever lived.
The only thing is that I am not any of these things. I am an average dancer, a mediocre writer, horrible at physics, killer of anything pastry, and a mom who makes a thousand mistakes every day. Sometimes I scream out "Why can't I be perfect?" Then I collapse in tears on the bed, bury myself under all our pillows, and feel sorry for my lack of awesomeness. I usually fall asleep after about 20 minutes.
When I wake up, Jordan has made me pancakes, done the dishes, made Jo a giggle apparatus and gives me a hug. Jo smiles so big her eyes squint when she sees me and I can't help but squeeze her till she squeaks.
It is nice to know that I am loved, even if I am severely deficient. I have to remind myself that it is okay if I can't do everything and be everything. Because who I am must be good enough if I am so lucky as to have Jordan and so blessed to have my Jo. It is good to be loved - it makes me feel like so much more than I really am.
I am definitely not perfect, and I am always amazed at Jordan's patience with me, but I know that no matter who I am, or what I do, I have a home.
It is a wonderful thing to know that I will always be loved - it is like wearing a ray of sunshine in the middle of a winter storm.
So I am suffering a quarter life crisis. But I have an anchor that is holding me together in the midst of crashing waves and confusing signals. That anchor is God's love and his plan for me. Hopefully it will eventually lead me in the right direction. We all know I am definitely not qualified to be captain. I just need the faith to keep on going wherever he leads me - even if that is to the primary.
It is good to know he is always by my side. I would be totally lost without Him.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
First Three Chapters
Dear readers,
Thank you for the unending support. I would never undergo a project like this if it wasn't for the few people who believe I have the talent to do it. I am very nervous, I have no idea if I am qualified to attempt such an adventure. I know I fall short in many ways - but you must start somewhere right? I can think of a million literary heros whose first works were simply awful. The point is to move forward and work on improving your skills, even if they are somewhat below standard. I will never get anywhere if I am not willing to fail a few times.
So, the first three chapters of my book are posted on LeenysLiterature. (You can find the link on the right side of your screen.) I apologize if it is not what you were hoping for. I did my best. Who knows - maybe I am just not cut out for novel writing. It is entirely different from writing a few random blog posts.
If you do find some room for improvement, or something that doesn't make sense, please let me know because I would like to fix it. Also, leave comments and let me know what you think. I think I would go crazy otherwise.
Well, enjoy.
Thank you for the unending support. I would never undergo a project like this if it wasn't for the few people who believe I have the talent to do it. I am very nervous, I have no idea if I am qualified to attempt such an adventure. I know I fall short in many ways - but you must start somewhere right? I can think of a million literary heros whose first works were simply awful. The point is to move forward and work on improving your skills, even if they are somewhat below standard. I will never get anywhere if I am not willing to fail a few times.
So, the first three chapters of my book are posted on LeenysLiterature. (You can find the link on the right side of your screen.) I apologize if it is not what you were hoping for. I did my best. Who knows - maybe I am just not cut out for novel writing. It is entirely different from writing a few random blog posts.
If you do find some room for improvement, or something that doesn't make sense, please let me know because I would like to fix it. Also, leave comments and let me know what you think. I think I would go crazy otherwise.
Well, enjoy.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Christmas Equation
I was so worried that Jordan, Jo and I would miss out on everything that makes Christmas Christmas this year. I felt discouraged because we had no family to spend the holiday with and had no grand activities planned.
Christmas Eve Jordan and I were discussing what we should do since we had nothing but a few chocolates to put in our stockings for Christmas morning. We decided to try out a new tradition that would fill up our stockings with gifts and not cost a thing.
Christmas Eve, after we had a picnic of crackers and cheese, meatballs,and chips by our tree, we grabbed some markers and a few pieces of paper and made eachother cards. I wrote a letter of gratitude to Jordan; for how much he loves me, for how much he has given me, and for what a great example he is to me. I thoroughly enjoyed writing that letter. It gave me the opportunity to think about the past year and all that Jordan has done for me. It is so wonderful to know that someone as incredible as Jordan loves me.
I also wrote a letter to Josephine about how lucky I am to be her mom, and how much I have learned about unconditional love and the happiness that must accompany such an incredible thing. I made promises I am sure I will break at one time or another, but it was good to write out what I hope to be, even if it is impossible. I think it is better to fall short of perfection than to never try for it and be overly content with mediocrity - especially when you are responsible for another person.
The next morning we opened our presents. Jordan got new piano music and a pair of gloves, and I got Les Miserables, Ivisible Man, and Now I Know What Love Is (they are books). If you think about it, it was a very good haul for people who have everything already. So many times it is the people who need the least that recieve the most.
Even though I am very excited to read Les Miserables and Invisible Man, and really enjoyed reading Now I Know What Love Is, the best Christmas gift I recieved this year was a small piece of folded cardstock tucked away in my stocking. My letter from Jordan was very sweet; it reaffirmed so many things I already know, but can never be reminded of too often. I will probably not read Les Miserables more than once (it will take me half a lifetime to get through it the first time), but I will read my little card from Jordan whenever I feel discouraged about my own inadequacy and need to be encouraged by his faith in me (so probably alot). What I love even more than reading about other's experiences, is experiencing my own daily miracle of genuine love from a good husband and a beautiful daughter. I firmly believe there is nothing to be treasured more than having love for others and then recieving that love in return.
I am a very rich woman. I love my little family with all my heart and know that they love me. My Christmas this year was missing many of the traditions I enjoy so much, but it definitely had the most important one.
Love has the power to lift us above our shortcomings and take us further than our best expectations. I wasn't expecting much this year, but I was happily surprised by the incredible gift I recieved in love.
To quote one of my favorite bands, "Love is all you need" - on Christmas and then on every other day too.
I sure hope I love enough. Not only when it is expected of me, but when I am not expected to as well. That was the whole point of Christ's birth anyways; to bless the world with a gift of infinite and all powerful love that enables us to become something more than we could ever be without Him. Christmas is a holiday of love; not pretzel jello and wrapping paper. And I never feel more of Christ's love in me than when I think about my husband and daughter.
I had a marvelous Christmas. I hope every Christmas is as good as this one has been. But I guess that depends on how much love I give to others, and that depends on how much I let Christ into my life.
So, the equation for a good Christmas:
You + Christ's love + Others = A Very Merry Christmas Indeed
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!
Christmas Eve Jordan and I were discussing what we should do since we had nothing but a few chocolates to put in our stockings for Christmas morning. We decided to try out a new tradition that would fill up our stockings with gifts and not cost a thing.
Christmas Eve, after we had a picnic of crackers and cheese, meatballs,and chips by our tree, we grabbed some markers and a few pieces of paper and made eachother cards. I wrote a letter of gratitude to Jordan; for how much he loves me, for how much he has given me, and for what a great example he is to me. I thoroughly enjoyed writing that letter. It gave me the opportunity to think about the past year and all that Jordan has done for me. It is so wonderful to know that someone as incredible as Jordan loves me.
I also wrote a letter to Josephine about how lucky I am to be her mom, and how much I have learned about unconditional love and the happiness that must accompany such an incredible thing. I made promises I am sure I will break at one time or another, but it was good to write out what I hope to be, even if it is impossible. I think it is better to fall short of perfection than to never try for it and be overly content with mediocrity - especially when you are responsible for another person.
The next morning we opened our presents. Jordan got new piano music and a pair of gloves, and I got Les Miserables, Ivisible Man, and Now I Know What Love Is (they are books). If you think about it, it was a very good haul for people who have everything already. So many times it is the people who need the least that recieve the most.
Even though I am very excited to read Les Miserables and Invisible Man, and really enjoyed reading Now I Know What Love Is, the best Christmas gift I recieved this year was a small piece of folded cardstock tucked away in my stocking. My letter from Jordan was very sweet; it reaffirmed so many things I already know, but can never be reminded of too often. I will probably not read Les Miserables more than once (it will take me half a lifetime to get through it the first time), but I will read my little card from Jordan whenever I feel discouraged about my own inadequacy and need to be encouraged by his faith in me (so probably alot). What I love even more than reading about other's experiences, is experiencing my own daily miracle of genuine love from a good husband and a beautiful daughter. I firmly believe there is nothing to be treasured more than having love for others and then recieving that love in return.
I am a very rich woman. I love my little family with all my heart and know that they love me. My Christmas this year was missing many of the traditions I enjoy so much, but it definitely had the most important one.
Love has the power to lift us above our shortcomings and take us further than our best expectations. I wasn't expecting much this year, but I was happily surprised by the incredible gift I recieved in love.
To quote one of my favorite bands, "Love is all you need" - on Christmas and then on every other day too.
I sure hope I love enough. Not only when it is expected of me, but when I am not expected to as well. That was the whole point of Christ's birth anyways; to bless the world with a gift of infinite and all powerful love that enables us to become something more than we could ever be without Him. Christmas is a holiday of love; not pretzel jello and wrapping paper. And I never feel more of Christ's love in me than when I think about my husband and daughter.
I had a marvelous Christmas. I hope every Christmas is as good as this one has been. But I guess that depends on how much love I give to others, and that depends on how much I let Christ into my life.
So, the equation for a good Christmas:
You + Christ's love + Others = A Very Merry Christmas Indeed
MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
My Plan for Public Education
Teenagers have no hope nowadays. Everyone is doomed to be psychotic and socially demented. There are three main options for education – public school, private school, and home school – none of these offer possibility for normalcy.
Public school is the largest form of education in America and, in my opinion, has the most potential for functioning at a progressive level. This blog post is a proposal to our congressmen. It involves the layout for a new form of public education that will eliminate the mixing of complete idiots with the rest of the student body: something I have felt needs to be done for a long time now.
I think it would be a good idea to start the beginning of each year holding interviews with every student to determine their level of worth; this would appear to be a form of abuse, but we all must take one for the team at some point, and it is better to start the sorting too early than too late – after those teenagers with a shot at normalcy have been contaminated by the psychos.
You could take everyone who was a spoiled brat, think they should have everything their way, and sit around playing with their iphones during class and throw them all into a ghetto classroom, with no windows, no heating, and very uncomfortable chairs. They then can be instructed in military style – lots of yelling, belittling, and hard truths that must be swallowed if there is any hope for these rich snobs to function properly in a productive society.
Then you could take everyone who is just plain lazy and put them in a progressive program. These students would start the day doing janitorial work; vacuuming, dusting, cleaning bathrooms, and picking up gum, for example. After this, they would be given a choice of different jobs that no one wants to do, and require very little education, intelligence, and skill. Then the despised jobs of society would not fall on those with low socio-economic status who are capable of greater things, but lack the funds for a college education.
Next would be the average adolescent group. This would undoubtedly be the largest group and would function perfectly. It would be like normal high school, except better. These useful members of the small high school system wouldn’t have to deal with the spoiled brats, and useless lazies that often destroy their group projects and make education miserable. We all know how awful it is to be stuck with someone who pretends they can’t speak English, just to get out of a project, or who thinks your name doesn’t exist because the computer doesn’t recognize it, or who doesn’t do anything other than reapply lipstick for an entire class period. This group would be those who are relatively smart, can maintain a good G.P.A when they put forth some effort, and have the potential for filling all the necessary roles of society at a working level. They would be permitted to attend high school dances, be members of clubs, raise their hands in class, and play sports.
The last group would be the exceptionals. These would include natural geniuses who fall into no other category and therefore have the most potential for important contributions to the society at large. They would be part of a program taught by guest speakers who tour for this purpose. These speakers would teach in their area of expertise and would be more than qualified for this role. No longer would students be stuck listening to an uninformed teacher make up ridiculous answers to questions. And they wouldn’t have to waste time finding word definitions for their homework. The majority of their work would be self-motivated. They would be given the tools to invent, create, and discover anything they wanted. They would be able to choose a specific area of interest, such as art, literature, chemistry, or calculus. No grades would be given, only recognition and encouragement. What is the incentive to do well then? Well, if their input is not up to par with the other students’, they are sent back to the average student group, the lazy student group, or the spoiled brat student group – whichever fits their problem best.
If you support my ideas please feel free to sign your name on a petition I will be sending out to friends and family. We must step up and take control of the disgusting system as it now stands, and work hard to make it functional and positive for the rising generation.
Please – think of the children.
P.S. - If anyone is wondering why I chose to write something so offensive and ridiculous it is because I have been reading Mark Twain. I always thought I hated Mark Twain, but as I have been attempting to find the exceptional in his work I have discovered that he was a literary genius. Then I began to wonder why I always believed he was nothing more than a grouchy old man who wrote stupid stories without a point. I realized my high school English teacher ruined Mark Twain for me. She was not very well informed when it came to the overarching purpose to his apparently empty writing, and so I was left to believe there was no meaning behind his bad grammar and confusing narratives.
So to honor this previously unappreciated hero of American literature I decided to write something in a style imitating his. I have fallen far below his level of obnoxious expertise. But, alas, it is my best effort. If I have offended and also made an interesting point, then I shall be satisfied.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Christmas Memories
Thursday night we put up our holiday plastic pine tree. It is kind of a pathetic tree, with branches falling off, but it makes our home feel a little more Christmasy, so it works very well.
I love the Christmas season. I love the music, I love all the lights, I love eating too much food, and I love baking cookies and then trying to decorate them. Most importantly, I love the family at Christmas time. When I was younger, my siblings and I would all climb into our van, carrying bags and bags of presents, a huge vat of cranberries, probably some cookies, and then a new toy we could each bring. I usually only had to carry my own toy because no one would trust me with anything else. My older sister Regina lived half her life in fear of me breaking something, which wasn't entirely irrational, cause it isn't uncommon for me to have accidents.
This year Jordan, Jo, and I are spending Christmas break alone, which, honestly, I find to be bittersweet. I am so happy I will be able to snuggle Jo and drink hot chocolate while Jordan plays the piano for us. That we can all quietly read the second chapter of Luke together. That we can make our way down to the duck pond and make sure those poor creatures have a Christmas dinner too. It will be a memorable year for us, because it is our first Christmas with Jo - and I know she is going to be a knock out in her red velour and fur trim dress.
As excited as I am for the opportunity I have to be with my own little family, I can't help feeling a little discouraged by our small numbers. To me Christmas should be a huge gathering, with enough food for a hundred that fifty people manage to stuff in and then spend the rest of the day feeling like a balloon with too much air - pop!
I probably feel this way because every year growing up we drove to my Grandma's house for Christmas. We ate at 1, ran around screaming in the snow for an hour, trying to trick each other into eating the yellow kind, ran over each other with sleds, and then sought refuge under a few giant pine trees until we went in to eat again at 3. Now that everyone was three sizes larger we would have our family fashion show. All of us would open our presents from uncles, aunts, and grandparents. We would take turns changing in the spare bedrooms and come out to model our new attire to the applause and cat calls of my mom and aunts. (The uncles never seemed to get into this.) We had to do a real catwalk too, otherwise we were "booed" out. My grandma would then insist that we eat again at 5 - which we did. And the rest of the evening was spent watching National Lampoon Christmas Vacation and replaying the part where the cat gets electrocuted. (hehehe).
I loved Christmas. What I miss most about large family gatherings is the crowdedness. I usually hate crowds. They make me cry. But squishing onto the same couch with ten other cousins, usually with Sophia or Charlie mercilessly throwing themselves on top, brought on the giggles and the wonderful feelings of knowing you are part of a loud, large, and loving family.
Tomorrow night my family is celebrating Christmas Eve together. This is the year we all spend the holiday with our spouses' families (except me and Jordan - ahem ahem - whose family has a few Ebeneezer's.) I will probably end up crying. I usually do when they all get together and I can't be there. It is hard to be far away from people you love.
Even though my days as a youngster are over, and I can't spend this Christmas with everyone I want to, it will still be good. The next best thing to being with the people you love during the holidays is having inestimable memories of them. Reminiscing about last year's snowball fight in a minor blizzard, and the snowman we made that looked like a sour patch kid, or my mom crying when she opened our gift. All of these wonderful memories will be here with me - even if I am far away.
I know that wherever they are
It can never be too far
If I hold them in my heart
It is like we never part
I am thankful to have so many memories to look back on when things begin to change and I find myself in a new place. It is a precious gift. I am so grateful for the wonderful foundation I have been given to start my own family traditions on. I can't wait to share the Christmas Eve picnic with my own daughter, to watch her play with the ducks, and to read Luke 2 with her. Nothing is more precious than family during the holidays. I know that my own little family will have a plethora of unforgettable Christmases because we come from a long line of crazy traditions and good recipes.
I love my family with all my heart. I will be missing most of them this year, but I will be remembering them, too - and I know that good memories are the greatest gift Christmas could ever give.
I love the Christmas season. I love the music, I love all the lights, I love eating too much food, and I love baking cookies and then trying to decorate them. Most importantly, I love the family at Christmas time. When I was younger, my siblings and I would all climb into our van, carrying bags and bags of presents, a huge vat of cranberries, probably some cookies, and then a new toy we could each bring. I usually only had to carry my own toy because no one would trust me with anything else. My older sister Regina lived half her life in fear of me breaking something, which wasn't entirely irrational, cause it isn't uncommon for me to have accidents.
This year Jordan, Jo, and I are spending Christmas break alone, which, honestly, I find to be bittersweet. I am so happy I will be able to snuggle Jo and drink hot chocolate while Jordan plays the piano for us. That we can all quietly read the second chapter of Luke together. That we can make our way down to the duck pond and make sure those poor creatures have a Christmas dinner too. It will be a memorable year for us, because it is our first Christmas with Jo - and I know she is going to be a knock out in her red velour and fur trim dress.
As excited as I am for the opportunity I have to be with my own little family, I can't help feeling a little discouraged by our small numbers. To me Christmas should be a huge gathering, with enough food for a hundred that fifty people manage to stuff in and then spend the rest of the day feeling like a balloon with too much air - pop!
I probably feel this way because every year growing up we drove to my Grandma's house for Christmas. We ate at 1, ran around screaming in the snow for an hour, trying to trick each other into eating the yellow kind, ran over each other with sleds, and then sought refuge under a few giant pine trees until we went in to eat again at 3. Now that everyone was three sizes larger we would have our family fashion show. All of us would open our presents from uncles, aunts, and grandparents. We would take turns changing in the spare bedrooms and come out to model our new attire to the applause and cat calls of my mom and aunts. (The uncles never seemed to get into this.) We had to do a real catwalk too, otherwise we were "booed" out. My grandma would then insist that we eat again at 5 - which we did. And the rest of the evening was spent watching National Lampoon Christmas Vacation and replaying the part where the cat gets electrocuted. (hehehe).
I loved Christmas. What I miss most about large family gatherings is the crowdedness. I usually hate crowds. They make me cry. But squishing onto the same couch with ten other cousins, usually with Sophia or Charlie mercilessly throwing themselves on top, brought on the giggles and the wonderful feelings of knowing you are part of a loud, large, and loving family.
Tomorrow night my family is celebrating Christmas Eve together. This is the year we all spend the holiday with our spouses' families (except me and Jordan - ahem ahem - whose family has a few Ebeneezer's.) I will probably end up crying. I usually do when they all get together and I can't be there. It is hard to be far away from people you love.
Even though my days as a youngster are over, and I can't spend this Christmas with everyone I want to, it will still be good. The next best thing to being with the people you love during the holidays is having inestimable memories of them. Reminiscing about last year's snowball fight in a minor blizzard, and the snowman we made that looked like a sour patch kid, or my mom crying when she opened our gift. All of these wonderful memories will be here with me - even if I am far away.
I know that wherever they are
It can never be too far
If I hold them in my heart
It is like we never part
I am thankful to have so many memories to look back on when things begin to change and I find myself in a new place. It is a precious gift. I am so grateful for the wonderful foundation I have been given to start my own family traditions on. I can't wait to share the Christmas Eve picnic with my own daughter, to watch her play with the ducks, and to read Luke 2 with her. Nothing is more precious than family during the holidays. I know that my own little family will have a plethora of unforgettable Christmases because we come from a long line of crazy traditions and good recipes.
I love my family with all my heart. I will be missing most of them this year, but I will be remembering them, too - and I know that good memories are the greatest gift Christmas could ever give.
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