Seems Like the Day to Do This

My Beautiful Daughter. Photo credit: Leah Mills

The Supreme Court has legalized gay marriage in all of the United States. There has been rejoicing and mourning, and all manner of commotion, so it seems that since the hornets' nest has been well and truly kicked, I might as well make an announcement: my oldest daughter is bisexual. I found out not too long ago, though I had suspected for about a year. (She was very careful about her pronouns when discussing her dates.)

As anyone who knows me or has been reading my blog for a while knows, I have long held the belief that it's none of my business what people's sexual orientations are. My business is to work on my own sins and to love people. It's a hard job and I'm glad I have a Savior to help me with it.

My daughter's bisexuality is simply one part of her. She is smart, kind, quiet, funny, insightful and good to the core. She is one of the most delightful people in the universe. I thank God every day that she is a part of my family. And I want to be very clear. I will not choose between my God and my daughter. I choose both. I choose to love God and to love my daughter. When it comes to people, I will choose my children over anyone. Period. And the fact that my children are such awesome people makes that choice an easy one.

And though it isn't perfectly in tune with either the marriage equality movement or the marriage-equals-one-man-and-one-woman movement, I am happy that she will be able to marry the person she falls in love with, but I'm worried too. Life is going to be harder for her. People who have never met her will hate her, wish her harm. It's frightening.

There's a whole portion of me that hopes she will fall in love with a man, because her life will be so much easier if she does. She won't have to worry about extended family disowning her or friends deciding to cut her off. She could move anywhere in the world without fear instead of only Western Europe or the West Coast or NYC. I have always been appalled at the violence and prejudice that LGBT people have had to endure, but now I have a face, my beautiful daughter's face, to picture those hate crimes being performed against. And I am more than a little afraid for her.

If I had a magic wand, I would make all the hatred, violence, and fear in the world disappear. Alas, I have no magic wand. All I've got is my love. And I give it fully and freely. I hope you will give yours as well.

Giving Thanks--6

I started this on the 6th, but I had a nasty headache all day. Everything came out "Bad noun passive verb typo typo no ending punctuation," and I decided I'd be better off writing later. So ANYHOW, on with the thanking.

I am thankful for medicine. I am thankful for migraine medicine and antibiotics and cold medicines, but most of all I am thankful for psychiatric medications. SSRIs and all of their cousins have saved the lives of countless people. They have kept people off of drugs and out of drunk tanks. For generations, my family has dealt with broken relationships, broken spirits, and addiction issues. One of my direct line ancestors died of "wood alcohol poisoning and exposure." Seriously.

My chemical imbalance began when I was very young. When I was ten I wanted to die with every part of myself. I tried to kill myself by sitting with a wet towel on my chest in front of an open window in winter. A character in a book I'd read had been successful in contracting pneumonia and dying through this method. I failed to grasp the futility of attempting it in a Northern Californian winter. My family laughed at me and called me Sarah Bernhardt, queen of melodrama. Except I was serious. Deadly serious.

The darkness lightened eventually, but it came back, again and again. At thirteen, at seventeen, at nineteen, at twenty-four, and at twenty-seven. Between ten and thirteen I gained an irrefutable testimony of the existence of God (see Giving Thanks--1), a God who did not want me to kill myself, and a firm belief that I would continue to exist past death. So I never tried to kill myself again. But I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to stop. Just stop existing. Never to feel the pain and hopelessness and sorrow again. At those moments a sure knowledge of God's love was less than joyous.

One day, in the middle of my major depressive disorder, something changed. I realized that my misery wasn't just affecting me. My beautiful two year old son had lost his "expensive" belt (twenty bucks) that I'd purchased for church. I found myself ranting some crazy thing about the belt and my son was crying and my daughter was searching frantically for the belt and I saw clearly. I saw how my mother and father had destroyed portions of me with their craziness and how their parents had destroyed portions of them and how I would destroy my children if I kept it up. I saw how my hours of silent crying and envy of people who contracted deadly diseases and died in car crashes, all of that crazy was bending my children toward the dark that enveloped me. I realized that my children would only get the one childhood.

And I saw a doctor. I'd seen a psychologist when I was ten and then again when I was seventeen and again when I was twenty-two and I'd learned a lot of useful skills. Skills which frankly were keeping me alive. I'd learned how to write through my feelings and recognize cognitive distortions. I'd learned how to talk back to the crazy. Useful. But still the darkness remained and that longing for death.

The doctor prescribed an SSRI. And I was healed. It wasn't simple. I had to try different kinds of SSRI and I had to work through the side effects. But it went away and stayed away. I quit taking them twice to have two more babies, during the non-medicated second pregnancy a combination of hormones and situational issues plummeted me to a level I'd never been before. I got to the point where I was sure everyone would be better off without me and a deadly suicide plan formed in spite of my best cognitive efforts. I began taking an SSRI again, because regardless of the risk to my baby, she would be 100% dead if I killed myself. Again it was like magic. I took my pill every day and the thoughts stopped. I could write. I could think. I could laugh, play games. Feel the Spirit. Love God. Love my family.

So, yes, as odd as it sounds, I am thankful for meds. I'm thankful that my now 20-year-old daughter and my 19-year-old son love me and don't fear me. If I was diabetic and took insulin because my pancreas couldn't meet my needs, I would take it and feel perfectly reasonable mentioning it in any setting, but because it's my brain, I feel a little cautious in mentioning it. Will telling come back to bite me in the butt? Given the stigma of mental illness, it might. Yeah, my brain has some sort of genetic brain chemical imbalance, but if I take my medicine, I am fine. It's really a modern miracle. I imagine how differently my family history would read if my mother and father and their mothers and fathers had taken an SSRI. The past doesn't get to be rewritten, but I sure as heck can write the future. I can tell my children and my children's children that it isn't necessary to drink away or smoke away or scream away the dark.

If you currently are experiencing depression and suicidal feelings, I encourage you to seek help. Medications and counseling can save your life, can save the quality of your life and the life of those you love. Please reach out. 

 Here is a link that can start you on a path to healing: http://www.helpguide.org/mental/suicide_help.htm

The Hard Part

Wise words from the Parents’ Tao Te Ching:

When your children behave,
give them respect and kindness.
When your children misbehave,
give them respect and kindness.

When they are hateful,
love them.
When they betray your trust,
trust them.

Believe this difficult truth:
Showing respect in the face of disrespect,
love in the face of hate,
trust is the face of betrayal,
and serenity in the face of turmoil,
will teach your children more
than all the moral lectures
by all the preachers
since the dawn of time.

Source: "On Soft Discipline": http://www.positivelypositive.com/2013/04/08/on-soft-discipline/

For My Daughter

By Sarah McMane
“Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.” – Clementine Paddleford

Never play the princess when you can
be the queen:
rule the kingdom, swing a scepter,
wear a crown of gold.
Don’t dance in glass slippers,
crystal carving up your toes --
be a barefoot Amazon instead,
for those shoes will surely shatter on your feet.

Never wear only pink
when you can strut in crimson red,
sweat in heather grey, and
shimmer in sky blue,
claim the golden sun upon your hair.
Colors are for everyone,
boys and girls, men and women --
be a verdant garden, the landscape of Versailles,
not a pale primrose blindly pushed aside.

Chase green dragons and one-eyed zombies,
fierce and fiery toothy monsters,
not merely lazy butterflies,
sweet and slow on summer days.
For you can tame the most brutish beasts
with your wily wits and charm,
and lizard scales feel just as smooth
as gossamer insect wings.

Tramp muddy through the house in
a purple tutu and cowboy boots.
Have a tea party in your overalls.
Build a fort of birch branches,
a zoo of Legos, a rocketship of
Queen Anne chairs and coverlets,
first stop on the moon.

Dream of dinosaurs and baby dolls,
bold brontosaurus and bookish Belle,
not Barbie on the runway or
Disney damsels in distress --
you are much too strong to play
the simpering waif.

Don a baseball cap, dance with Daddy,
paint your toenails, climb a cottonwood.
Learn to speak with both your mind and heart.
For the ground beneath will hold you, dear --
know that you are free.
And never grow a wishbone, daughter,
where your backbone ought to be.

[Thanks to A Mighty Girl for sharing this with me.]

What We Bring With Us

Yesterday, Jacob's math teacher called home. I was rather surprised that anything Jacob did would warrant a call home. He's kind of perfect at school. In fact, that is what the call was about. A kind teacher called to tell me that my son was acing his AP Calculus assignments, that he was well-behaved, and insightful, an asset to the class. Needless to say, I love hearing that. I should probably write her a thank you note. 

There is nothing in Jacob's genetic make-up that would give him a natural edge in math. Certainly, his elementary teacher was only middling in math and not enamored of it. (In fact, my limitations as a math teacher are why Jacob chose to attend public school as a sophomore. "Math books and CDs only explain it one way, Mom.") Neither nurture nor nature should have produced my math boy, but Jacob has excelled from the very beginning. He has both love and aptitude for the subject. This talent as much as anything else convinces me that children developed as individuals with their Father in Heaven prior to their birth.

It's interesting to see how the attributes that my children showed so early on are developing. Elaine was an observant baby. She watched people, listened to them, absorbed. Now she is one of the most insightful people I know. She notices nuances in people's words and body language. She finds people fascinating. I always ask her to tone-check sensitive emails (things that might easily blow up) before I send them off. Invariably, she catches subtext. Not surprisingly, psychology is the field that fascinates her. Gifts. 

My husband is a talented musician. From the time he was a wee child he knew he wanted to play the trumpet. Nothing in his family would have taken him that direction. It just was part of him. His family thought he was just being a kid and it would pass. When he was five, they gave him a toy trumpet which was greeted with joy, quickly followed by disgust as he realized that it was a fake. Seven years later his parents got him the real thing and a teacher, a great teacher. Music still feeds his soul.

I myself was a born reader. My mom tells the story of finding me teaching the neighborhood kids to read when I was four. No one taught me to read. I had "Sesame Street," "The Electric Company," and a gift from God. My Natalie similarly began to read early with very little instruction. Just a gift and a passion.

I love this stanza from Wordsworth's Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.

 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
          The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
              Hath had elsewhere its setting,
                And cometh from afar:
              Not in entire forgetfulness,
              And not in utter nakedness,
          But trailing clouds of glory do we come
              From God, who is our home:

At one point, I believed I would shape my children to be what they ought to be. Now, I know better. Yes, I do influence them, but they are vehemently their very own selves, formed before they gained physical bodies. I'm blessed to be able to watch them blossom into those selves.

Sad News

My mother-in-law died on Thursday after courageously going through nearly four years of chemo. (Not a whiner, my mother-in-law.) I'm surprised at how sad I feel. We weren't close. If she lived another twenty years, we wouldn't have become close, but she is the mother of the dearest man in the world and the grandmother to my favorite six kids. Her death is a reminder that my mother's is coming. That mine is coming.

OK, now I'm going to go watch a comedy and laugh until I cry.

Regret

It's been a year. Almost to the day. My mother and I share a tumultuous history, but this was the tumultuous-est, an argument that was all the more vicious because everything that was said was true.

During the nastiness my mother posted a vague something on facebook that hurt and angered me. I clicked the "remove from friends" button then gloried in my newfound freedom. I could say whatever I thought without having to worry that my mom was going to be offended or nag me endlessly about something I had posted.

Healing has been slow. We've moved on. Kinda. I wouldn't re-friend her though. Even though she had asked nicely several times. Because I was right. I was right in what said. It needed to be said. And I would say it again. And she was wrong. Wrong in her original behavior and wrong in her response. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Besides I liked my freedom of speech. No mom on facebook.

Last Monday, she had a CT that showed a large mass in her colon. Thursday, a colonoscopy showed it to be cancer. Tuesday, I sat with her as the surgeon told her that there was very likely a second tumor in a different place. They wouldn't know until they got in there, but he was fairly sure. Stage IV. The fatal stage.

And you know what? I friended my mother on facebook last Friday. Because I was wrong. Wrong in my original behavior and wrong in my response. And I'm lucky. Because I got a little notice.

Uh...Happy Birthday, Mom.

So let's say your kids actually put all 60 candles on your cake plus a six candle and a zero candle and candles that spell out Happy Birthday. Then let's say lighting all those babies is taking a bit too long, so you go check on something in the other room while they finish up. Then let's say even though your kids are yelling frantically to GET BACK IN HERE, you still take your time. Then let's just say the cake was an ice cream cake. You could end up with a pillar of fire for your cake. Just saying.

(Yes, it was still edible. And no, I didn't eat any. 20 lbs down--130 to go.)

(BTW, it was my mom's bd, not mine.)

We're Happy When We're Helping

Misty--a dear friend of a dear friend--is Dairrien's mom. If it is possible for you to help, even a little, please do. I can only give $10, but it's all theirs.

I am trying to raise money to help with expenses that will encure for us during My Son Dairriens Surgery...Dairrien is 13 years old. He has gone through 3 surgeries and this will be his 4th... I am a single mom of 3 boys..So being able to leave our home for up to 14 days is going to be tough..The surgery is paid for through our insurance and Shriners Hospital.. But being a single mom,Money is tight,And I will be leaving my 1 child,and animals in the care of my mother.Who has to take unpaid time off work to take care of my home and child. It will take alot of money to be away from my home for up to 14 days..Gas,and food is my biggest concern,as I will not only have myself to worry about but my youngest son who will have to go with me.. I have to raise enough Money to help pay for my one child to be left with my mother,Food and extra money in case he needs anything.. And I need to raise enough money to Get to Shriners,and back..Along with enough Food Money to last up to 14 days..we also need to raise money for a follow up appointment that he will have a few weeks after surgery..and anything he needs to take with him to the hospital,back pillows,new set of lose clothing (sweats) for the ride home.. So all of this adds up to an amount that I just do not have!! Please Check out our website we have set up,to learn more about Dairrien's Condition and why he is having surgery... For The Love of Dairrien

The Gospel According to V

My V interprets her lessons at church in such a lively way. A little tweak here, a little extrapolation there and viola, a tale worth telling!

Take this recent exchange:

Mom, do you know what the gift of tongues is?

What?

It's when Jesus gives us a tongue! Do you know why he gives us a tongue?

Uh...

So we can talk to him. Before he gave us a tongue, he couldn't understand us because we couldn't make our words right.

Um...

The mutilated lesson from the week before:

Look, Mom! Look! Here's a glove. See how it's DEAD! It doesn't move because its really dead. But look, Mom! If I put my hand in it, the glove is ALIVE. Because my hand is alive. Do you know why Jesus made my glove alive? So that [she places a penny upon her gloved hand and moves it forward a few inches]...so that it can pay tithing! Isn't that great, Mom?

Uh...yes, babe. That's great.

And last but not least, here's my all-time favorite V-ism, from a couple years back.

Do you have any questions about Jesus, V?

Just one. How did Jesus get us all here to Earth?

Well...daddies and mo--

I know! He gave us a ride on a spaceship! He had a cart that he drives on little wire connected to earth and the moon and the planet God lives on. So he made us on his planet and then he carried us without life and as he put us on Earth he made us alive--with his magic.

Well...um...hm. Actually I'm really sure about Heavenly Father letting daddies and mommies make babies.

With s*x?

Yes, when a daddy and a mo--

Then Jesus brings us to Earth in the cart. Right?!

I love you, sweetie.

I love you too, Mom.

Did You Know?

The Dollar Tree sells pregnancy tests. A buck apiece. They work too. Due my never-ending paranoia, I test regularly, at least once a month, sometimes more. So last night I picked up three while I was in the Dollar Tree neighborhood. I'm a big girl now, so I didn't buy twenty other items to hide the three boxes, though my inner teen begged me to shield her from the shame. Sometimes I should listen to my inner teen.

The checkout clerk chatted me up. About pregnancy tests. With my fourteen year-old son standing there.

Her: Oh, three? Ha-ha.
Me: Uh...
Her: Just want to be sure, huh? Ha-ha.
Me: Um, I just like to have them on hand.
Her: Yeah, I do that too. Ha-ha. Do you have a goal here?
Me: Um...yeah. I have six kids and I'm wanting to keep it that way.
Her: Ha-ha. Good luck with that. Ha-ha.
Me: Uh...thanks.
Her: Huh-ha-huh-ha! Credit or debit?

What is the world coming to? Next strangers will be asking about how Aunt Flo's visit is going this month. I swear the next time someone does this to me I am going to treat them to the full-on conception to birth story of my latest, the line behind me be damned.

2:45 today.

Mrs. P, the reading teacher with the over-enthusiastic grading pen, is meeting with me in an hour. She's bringing reinforcements. V's regular teacher, Mrs. R.

They're both 25 years old. Does it make me a bad person for thinking that as non-parent, youthful, novice teachers, they should really stop behaving like pompous know-it-alls. Um...my job. Old, eleven-year veteran parent teacher here. I get to be the pompous know-it-all!

I'll keep you posted.

It's a Bug-Eat-Bug World Out There, Princess. . .

ya best toughen up.

WARNING: OUTBURST IS ABOUT TO OCCUR.
DO NOT READ, MOM!

Caution, gentle readers. I may swear.

OK, here's the deal—when you get all the answers right we like you and smile at you, friendship and affection galore. BUT—now get this straight—if you mix up your #%$& "cot" with your @^$$%* "hop" you get this:



Bad first grader, BAD! No smiles for you! No affection or approval. YOU LOSE. But that's OK. I'll like you again—if you do it right next time.

WHAT IN THE H@%%?
She couldn't have put 7/9 or -2 or no redo?

Long, but Therapeutic

It's no secret that Sister Beck upset me (and a few thousand other people) last year when she urged us all to be better mothers. In the grand tradition of Jami-obsessions, I've read her talk at least a dozen times, I've read every Sister Beck post on every blog I could Google, and I've read all the news coverage. Honestly if something is bothering me that much there is an issue there that needs to be explored.

I am going to scramble her talk a bit for conversational purposes. Sister Beck shall be lilac and I shall be black. First we have the parts with which I have no problem whatsoever. Then I shall move to the concepts that have caused me concern.

Mothers Who Know Are Leaders. Yes.

Mothers Who Know Are Teachers. Yes. Yes. And yes.

Mothers Who Know Bear Children. Yes, I've structured my entire adult life around this principle.

Mothers who know desire to bear children. Whereas in many cultures in the world children are "becoming less valued," in the culture of the gospel we still believe in having children. Prophets, seers, and revelators who were sustained at this conference have declared that "God's commandment for His children to multiply and replenish the earth remains in force." President Ezra Taft Benson taught that young couples should not postpone having children and that "in the eternal perspective, children—not possessions, not position, not prestige—are our greatest jewels."

Mothers Who Know Stand Strong and Immovable. I really like the phrase "women who know and love the Lord and bear testimony of Him, women who are strong and immovable and who do not give up during difficult and discouraging times."

Mothers Who Know Do Less. "They permit less of what will not bear good fruit eternally.. These mothers choose carefully and do not try to choose it all. Yes, but one woman's superfluous, worldly activity is another woman's essential family activity.

Mothers Who Know Honor Sacred Ordinances and Covenants A true principle, (Mothers who know honor sacred ordinances and covenants. . . .They know that if they are not pointing their children to the temple, they are not pointing them toward desired eternal goals. These mothers have influence and power.") , backed by a poor example: third world mothers carefully groom their children. Um...OK.

Now to the biggy for the piggy, the most problematic passage for me: Mothers Who Know Are Nurturers

Another word for nurturing is homemaking. Homemaking includes cooking, washing clothes and dishes, and keeping an orderly home. . . . .Nurturing mothers are knowledgeable, but all the education women attain will avail them nothing if they do not have the skill to make a home that creates a climate for spiritual growth. Growth happens best in a "house of order," and women should pattern their homes after the Lord's house (see D&C 109). Nurturing requires organization, patience, love, and work.

Recently a surprising thought came to me as I was discussing the Covey priority quadrants with E-Teen, illustrating the principle with some activities in my life.


I realized something that has been patently obvious to anyone who knows me: cleaning my house has always fallen into the sad, grey area of "not important." Sometimes it's "urgent and not important." (Can't eat dinner until the dishes are done. Everyone is out of clean clothes. Must find the birth certificate in those piles of papers today.) Sometimes it's "not urgent and not important." (Cobwebs. Grout. The thirty rubbermaid containers stacked in the corner, patiently awaiting sorting.) I have viewed housework as a waste of time, not worthy of my attention.

But here's the deal: sometimes life is downright unpleasant because of the chaos and mess. From time to time, we lose or forget something really important. Precious belongings have been stepped on, besmirched with raisins, or soaked in milk.

If not doing housework results in panic, sorrow, anger, and revenge within our family, then perhaps I need to re-prioritize. Many important, worthwhile things in life can be difficult and unpleasant. Childbirth comes to mind. Going to work every day to earn a living, learning, changing diapers come to mind. Now, dagnabit, keeping the house clean does too.

In short, I think that Sister Beck was trying to stage the intervention in my life that no one else dared to stage. If my mother, mother-in-law, husband, child or best friend attempted such a thing, the results would not have been pretty. Being angry with a loved one for more than a year can be problematic. Sister Beck took my fury with the grace and emotional distance that only a complete stranger could muster.

I don't know how this knowledge is going to play out in real life. Will caring more make the actual mess better? How shall I gain the cooperation of the family? Will I become psychotic in the effort to rein in the chaos? Don't know.

Probably oughta talk to God about it. He managed to organize the chaos of the cosmos into Earth. Certainly, my chaos won't be outside his power.

A Year Later, Looking Back at My Issues

During the October 2007 General Conference, Sister Beck's talk "Mothers Who Know" blindsided me. Sweet Sister Beck. I love her. I felt like a good friend had walked into my home and told me that everything I'd ever done was worthless. I flipped out. Flipped out.

That afternoon I went to a cub scout planning meeting and mentioned how upset I felt. My sweet beautiful friends looked at me as if I'd just spoken in Russian. They wanted to be there for me, but they couldn't. They didn't understand what I found so heartbreaking. They'd loved the talk. A lot.

So a year ago, the Monday after conference, I went searching online for women who understood. I found Kristine Haglund's very comforting post at By Common Consent. I found the Bloggernacle where smart and faithful LDS people discuss ideas that range from the petty to the profound.

Here is my first (extremely long) blog comment:

Thanks for a couple of laughs on the subject. I needed them. It sure beat the two cries I’d had on the subject. Although "Our Refined Heavenly Home" wins the most uninspiring depressing talk of the decade, this one came close.

This is a hard subject for me. Six kids, small house, homeschooling. We’re all here, all the time. And I’m trying. I really am. But if a clean house and neat children are required for exaltation, I’m out. Even trying my hardest, it’s a disaster around here.

IF I could fulfill the ideal she taught, my family and I would be happier. I like clean. I like organized. I like neat, reverent children. I like peace. I dream of these things. I despair of these things.

So Sunday, I’d stayed home, listening to conference, hoping to hear “the pleasing word of God, yea the word which healeth the wounded soul.”

Sabbath-breaker that I am, I needed to clean the “playroom.” So housework was exactly what I was doing when Sister Beck was talking. I stopped cleaning. I couldn't
decide if I wanted to send in my motherhood resignation, burn the house down, or ask to have my name removed from the records of the church. Love, civil duty and a testimony prevented me from following any of those knee-jerk reactions. Instead I just cried because one more fellow mom was judging her fellow moms one more time. I don’t know–maybe that’s the in the job description for GRS Presidents.

The points that stabbed most deeply:

(My memory of) Her definition of nurture. By “nurture” we mean housework, the physical upkeep of the family. (My dictionary says “Nurturing: 1. To nourish, feed. 2. To educate, train 3. To help grow or develop; cultivate.”)

And did she really say that it didn’t really matter how much education you have if you can’t keep your home properly? I must have misheard.

I’ve pondered “the wicked taketh the truth to be hard." Am I wicked? ‘Cause that seemed pretty hard.

Well, enough killing time. I need to go clean something, cook something and cancel some of my children’s outside activities.

I live to serve. Jami

Bitter? Me? OK, maybe a little. I'm better now. This year has been one of the most difficult of my life, spiritually and intellectually. Exciting. Invigorating. But hard. A good portion of my angst has come from my exploration of LDS issues, profound and petty, from participating in the Bloggernacle.

In spite of these growing pains, I celebrate this anniversary and my freedom to think and to write about those things which interest and concern me. I celebrate my pain because it has led to increased knowledge, to increased faith and to healing. Thank you, Kristine, for the post that started it all. As it turns out, I mostly like Sister Beck's talk too. That, however, is a subject for a different post.

A Fundraiser Most Foul

Last Tuesday, as I was volunteering at the kids' school, they had an assembly for the QSP/Reader's Digest fall fundraiser, so instead of helping kids with their multiplication facts I ended up stuffing folders. I'm OK with that.

I'm not going to whine about taking academic time to train little salespeople. Or the fact that the QSP folks were whipping the kids into a frenzy of greedy enthusiasm that could be heard across the school. Or the fact that when my son got into the car that afternoon, he fully believed that selling 200 items was completely within his nine-year old abilities. Or the fact that each of the four kids who came to my house that afternoon also believed that they could sell 200 flippin' subscriptions/kitchen gadgets/cans of nuts. I'm not going to gripe about the fact that my son thinks that if I just loved him more and was willing to put out a little time and effort on his behalf the freaking iPod Touch would be his. I am not even going to gripe about the fact that the Girl Scouts are doing the exact same QSP/Reader's Digest fundraiser right now. Three girl scouts + two school kids = five simultaneous fundraisers to support. That's OK; I'm game.

No. The thing that has fixated my foul fascination is this: The girl scout council is selling a ten-ounce can of Reader's Digest/Ashdon Farms/Pleasantville Farms cashews for six dollars. The school? THIRTEEN dollars for that same can.

Go kids, go! Sell 200 cans of THIRTEEN dollars nuts! In an income challenged neighborhood. Nice. Very nice.

Must Share

more animals

Never a Story of More Woe

Balloons and I, we want to get along. They wish to please me. I admire and respect their uplifting potential. Alas, 'tis a star-crossed relationship. In spite of our best intentions, things always go awry.

Long ago, I decided that my man needed a huge buoyant symbol of my love. What to do, what to do? Ah! Fill his car with balloons while he was at work. I would write little things I loved about him on slips of paper. "Musical genius." "Amazing singing voice." "A melt-me reading voice." "Great with kids." "Comfy hugger." "A fine enchilada maker." Stuff 'em in balloons. And fill his car! He'd love it!

Let me tell you. I don't care how much you love someone, finding 100 ways to say "You're cool! Glad I married you. Let's smooch!" is a creative challenge. "You leave fantastic outgoing messages on the machine." "You are so gifted at Jenga." "No one reaches high places quite like you." "Wow! Can you open jars or what?!?"

So after much effort, I got the little love notes done, stuffed into balloons and began inflating the eighty-some-odd balloons the old-fashioned way: I huffed, and I puffed, and I puffed, and I huffed. Then I bagged them all up and drove to my man's parking garage while he was still working, my car filled to the brim with loving balloons. It was so fun emptying bag after bag into his little sub-compact.

OH NO! I was out of balloons and the car was nowhere near completely filled. The loving gesture wouldn't work if the car wasn't completely full! He had to pop his way in so he could see how much I admired his ability to carry out the trash with athletic grace and poise. Scrambling around, I managed to come up with some leftover balloons.

But OH NO! I had no paper, no pencils, and to be frank I was plumb out of ways to say, "Hey Baby, you light my fire!" Besides he was getting off work really soon and I needed to skedaddle. Oh well, this batch would have to be love note-free.

I puffed and I huffed and I huffed and I puffed. Thirty more balloons! Whew. In they went. On his car door, I taped a pin on a copy of Browning's "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." It was SO CUTE! I knew I'd score eternal brownie points for this one.

OK...let's stop. What happens next? Jewelry, right? Special snuggles? NO WAY. The experience involved balloons. It was doomed from the start.

My man came home a bit perplexed. Apparently, being forced to pop a hundred balloons after a hard day at work didn't strike him as romantic.

"The little love notes were sweet though...right?"

"I guess, but what was with the empty balloons? It was like you ran out of stuff to say."

"Uh...well..." Doomed.

And so it has gone. Balloons have burst, gotten caught in trees, flown away, caused fights, caused tears. Balloons were shiny sorrows on strings. I swore them off forever.

Then I was struck with Stephanie Nielson's story and the whole balloon release for NieNie. Surely for something so beautiful, surely, it would all turn out well.

E and I bought our balloons last Tuesday. As always, the sight of the balloons gladdened my heart. Eight red balloons, gloriously glistening, bouncy and new! Watching the baby's delight as she bobbed them up and down—pure joy!

The homeschooled kids were curious. My man was curious. Balloons? Mom never gets balloons! Who were they for?

"You'll see," I'd answered mysteriously. I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I had the markers ready. After the school kids got home, we'd each get a balloon, choose a wish and a goal to work on, write wishes and commitments on the ruby surfaces, then we'd release them heavenward. We would remember it for the rest of their lives.

OK...let's stop. What happens next? A sweet bonding moment for the family? Treats? A big group hug? NO WAY! The experience involved balloons. It was doomed from the start.

When L and V got home from school, they noticed the balloons in my bedroom right away and immediately began fighting about them. L grabbed the bunch and ran out the front door. V ran screaming after.

"Do not take them outside!" I warned. By the time I got to the door, L had released them to the tune of V's sobs.

I sighed as I watched them shimmer away. I should have known. Doomed.

Home Emergency Kit Failure

I hate it when the kids get sick or hurt. I love them. I hate to see them suffering, hate to hear them suffering too. V is in a particularly whiny phase. So when she jumped off the bunk bed and began wailing, I told her to buck up, be quiet, and put some ice on it: I was in the middle of Homeworkland with L-boy.

I gave her little ankle a gander about an hour later.

"Oh crap," saith I. A swollen, tender, red ankle. V screamed her protest at the exam, then doubled her volume during the torturous ten minute ice application. I looked everywhere for the rolls of ace bandaging. No dice. Looked everywhere for the ibuprofen. Nada. I did find some low-dose aspirin. I checked for flu symptoms. As I calculated the odds of V succumbing to Reye's Syndrome, I tried to remember that I received baby aspirin a bizillion times prior to my twentieth birthday with no ill effects.

[In fact, I had this little nap-time ritual in Kindergarten. As I lay there in the dark, pondering the injustice of the grownup-controlled world, I'd get a hankering for the chalky, vaguely orangish taste of a St. Joseph's children's aspirin, and I'd take action. I would rub my face until it was warm and red. Then I'd squint up my eyes, walk out to the teacher, and pitifully whimper, "I don't feel so good."

"Hm, you look a little flushed." (Oh yeah!) She'd touch my forehead with the back of her wrist. "You feel a little warm." (That's right!) "Maybe I should give you an aspirin." (SCORE!)

"My mom gives me two," I'd whisper. Two it was. I'd munch them happily as I slowly limped my way back into the classroom.]

Anyway, I decided the odds of aspirin-related death were low and the lucky child got to swallow her first pill. Since the ace bandages had disappeared, a couple strips of cloth became an improvised splint. (Of course every pair of scissors we own had mysteriously disappeared and I had to use a paring knife to cut the cloth, but hey, par for the course around here.)

Yesterday morning we took a little trip to the ER for X-rays. We had the pleasure of meeting P.A. Chin again. She's doing well. (Oh, did I forget to mention V's stitches a couple weeks back? That was fun too.) We're pretty sure that Mr. Ankle is not broken, but there could be a hairline fracture in the growth plate. Those growth plates can mask the little breaks. They're tricky that way.

Broken or sprained, that ankle needs to be pampered—no weight at all for a week or two, the longer, the better. Since she monumentally failed the are-you-coordinated-enough-to-use-crutches test, Vi got a cute little walker. Which she loves.

Not that she's using it, mind you. Crawling like a baby and begging mommy and daddy to carry her around is much more fun—for her.

So my dear friends, learn from my experience. Be sure to throw a pair of scissors into your emergency supplies, don't forget the earplugs, and be sure to hide the whole kit and caboodle from the pre-pre-med little folk in your household.

My Sacrament Meeting Strike and the Tender Mercies of the Lord

I've been on strike for about two months now--no sacrament meeting (our worship service) for me, V-girl or C-Baby. Here's how it started.

About a year ago, a Relief Society (women's meeting) lesson on inviting the Spirit through music, quickly turned to the shameful lack of reverence (silence) during sacrament meeting. Mothers were failing in their duty to keep their children reverent (silent). Children were walking up and down the aisles during church. (Um, ow, mine's the only one who does that.) The constant din of babies and small children was ridiculous. No excuse for that kind of disrespect!

A few kind souls offered up the suggestion that perhaps the mothers were doing their best, that perhaps we could offer to help rather than stew in irritation. They and their kind suggestions were promptly shot down. (Pow. Pow. Ka-POW!)

The next week the lesson was actually on reverence and we (the moms of young children and their sympathizers) were toast. (Ka-POW! Ka-ka-ka-POW!) I left. Fast.

Then our meeting moved to the 1 pm time slot. My baby's nap time. Misery. Pain. Suffering. Every week.

So there I was a few months back, sitting in the foyer (as always) with two children on my lap, both hitting me, pinching me, bashing their heads against me and full-on shrieking.

"Let go! You're hurting me! I hate you," screamed the older one. "AHHHHHH! -et -o, hurt," echoed the younger. "I am a Child of God," sang the mommy.

Meanwhile all four of my other children were wandering through the halls aimlessly, in spite of the fact that I had asked them to stay in their seats while I helped the littles calm down and be reverent. My husband, the sleep-deprived chorister was sitting in a daze on the stand. Something had to change. I was going to snap.

On the way to church the next week, I reviewed our sacrament meeting expectations. Because we had (once again) played church reverently with stuffed animals, the kids were able to spout the right answers as I quizzed them. Do we walk around and visit with friends during the meeting? (No.) Why are we quiet during church? (So we can hear. To show God we love him.) How can we help each other pay attention? (Not fight.) Remember we have a yummy treat at home if everybody behaves reverently. (YAY!) So far, so good.

We walked into sacrament meeting. The baby began crying the moment we walked into the chapel. (She's no dummy. She knows how to get out of there.) We sat down and the middle kids began poking and picking at each other. (Ouch. Moooooom! He...) That was it: I was done. I filed the children out of the meeting, into the van and went home. I ate all the yummy treat by myself.

That afternoon I informed my barely-conscious husband that I was on strike. No more sacrament meetings for me, V-girl or C-baby. I showed him the bruises on my arms from last week's torture. He cocked his head, said "hm," and went to bed.

And so for months now, the bigs have been getting up and going to church with dad then the littles and I would come later, if the baby didn't fall asleep. I was completely unrepentant. I wasn't a wimp. Any sane person would have made the same decision. Even N-girl's sweet worry about my absences failed to move me.

Last week, however, I had a kid break, a math epiphany, and my spirit began to heal. I told God on my way back to my real life that I was ready to go back, to do it again. I told my family when I got home. N-Girl was overjoyed. My husband said, "Hm," and went to bed (got to love night work).

Dutifully, with a vague sense of dread, I went to sacrament meeting on Sunday. Unfortunately, I was unprepared when the baby had a horrifying diaper, so I missed the majority of the meeting taking care of the mess. I missed the announcement that our meeting time was moving, four months ahead of schedule, to the delightful 11 am time slot. Never, in the twenty-five years I have been a member, have I seen a mid-year time change that didn't involve a re-organization of some sort.

So to recap-Jami snaps; Jami rebels; Jami stubbornly persists in her rebellion; Jami feels the Spirit; Jami repents; Jami does the right thing; Jami blinks in disbelief because something just got easier; Jami blinks back tears.

Tender mercies? For me? Oh, thank you, God!