Day 1: Do somethin' for the boys

Both of the challenges I did yesterday were about performing some service for the boys in my life. The Mom Challenge was to ask Easton one thing we could do together this month. Well, Easton doesn't have a great sense of time. He's constantly telling me he did something last year when he means he did it yesterday or asking to sleep in my bed for "justa couple a days!" Anyway, that being said, I decided to skip the "this month" part and instead ask him what was one thing he would like to do that day. He chose bowling on the Xbox. Now, that sounds easy enough I'm sure, but I was surprised that my first reaction was to say "Wait til Dada gets home and he can play with you." My thought actually stopped me dead in my tracks. How frequently do I make Easton wait for Kade to come home to have someone to play with? I'll admit, I'm not very good at playing. I'm good at coloring and reading and talking to E...but playing? Not my strong point. So, I resolved to play with Easton more yesterday. When he woke up from his nap I thought it would be a good time for said bowling. But as 3-year-olds do, he had already changed his mind about what he wanted to do. He decided that he would rather color on the Tangled preschool packet I had printed out for him. Fine with me!!! So, we colored, and we went to the park, and I let him play outside for a REALLY long time with his new fishing pole (or, fishing rod if you ask E). I feel pretty satisfied that he got lots of playing time in and that I participated more than I usually do.
As for Kade, because he's not 3 (even if sometimes I wonder....) and he can read, he was already expecting my question and actually laughed at me when I asked what one thing I could do for him that day. I already knew exactly what he was going to ask for. Now, stop yourself right there and get your mind out of the gutter, because I know what you think he was going to ask for. You think I'd write about that on my blog? Geez. No. All the fool wants is a back rub. And ya'll? I HATE GIVING BACK RUBS. It's the worst. Whenever Kade asks for a back rub, I just politely remind him that he would never rub my swollen pregnant feet so he can worry about his own back. But not during the 30 day marriage challenge, my friends. *Sigh* I went to book club and spent hours talking with lovely ladies. When I got to bed, it was about 11:30 pm and I still hadn't lived up my daily challenge. Well...technically the challenge only says that I have to ASK what I can do. It doesn't say I have to actually DO what he wants.....But, I didn't think I could really get away with that, even if Kade was snoozing away in bed. So, I woke him and rubbed his back and put a big red check mark next to Day One. SUCCESS.
Oh, but don't you think day two is going so easily for me......

Take the challenge

Some days having a 3 year old is particularly difficult. I'm not sure what's going on in E's world at the moment that is causing his behavior, but I do know that he's a little (a lot) off this week. Think non-stop tantrums, screaming, "NO!", and fighting. It's been rough. Days Weeks like this I find myself feeling pretty beaten down by the end of the day. I can handle it for one day....but two, three, four, a week and I begin to throw all of my good mommy skills out the window. Each day ends with me feeling about a million times worse than the one before, because I KNOW I did not live up to my end of the parenting deal that day. Now, I'm not looking for a bunch of comments reassuring me that I'm doing a great job. I know that Easton still loves me and he knows that I still love him. I just want us to act like it. So I'm taking the 30 day mom challenge. You can see it here. I'll be documenting my journey each day to reflect on what I've learned from each day's challenge. I encourage you all to try it too. Tomorrow is the 1st of the month so it's the perfect day to get started. The tasks should be fairly simple but worthwhile. Also, because I know that I cannot be a good mother without being a good wife first, I'm also going to do the 30 day marriage challenge at the same time. Why not? You can see that challenge here. I'm sure my son and my husband won't even know half the time what the daily challenge is, but this is more for me. Here's to May.....

How to be the best mom ever

Oh, I got you. You're here, because you think I actually have the secrets to being the best mom ever and that I intend to share them with the world. Because you clicked on this post I can gather the following information about you:

1. You have either never met me or never met my children. If I were the world's best mom, I believe that I would never be in pajamas past 8 am, my son wouldn't eat poptarts for breakfast, my 4 month old daughter would always be dressed in homemade dresses with matching bows and shoes (also homemade), and my house would be sparkling clean. If you have met me, you would know I am definitely not succeeding at any of those things. 
2. You are dying to be a better mother and secretly, you still hope that somewhere there's a manual. There isn't. Or if there is, I don't have it. Sorry. 

What is it about us as women that we can't just sit back and relax and enjoy that fact that we ARE mothers? Why can't I see the toys on the floor and instead of feeling guilty about the house being a mess realize that my children have played hard today and learned a lot while doing it?  Why can't I allow my son to just be little and not fret over the fact that he watched 2 movies today and wore a pull-up instead of underwear? Why can't I play tag with E outside without feeling that we should be indoors learning the alphabet instead? 

As mothers, we have a serious over-achiever complex. Trust me, I know. I work. I go to school. I raise two children. I take care of my home. I spend time with  my husband. Boy, I sure sound like an over-achiever, but let me assure you, I'm not. People are always saying to me, "How do you do all those things?" And I am constantly replying, "I don't". I don't! Here's how it goes:

If I'm getting good grades: The house is in shambles, the laundry piles resemble the Alps, I stay in pajamas all day, my family eats leftovers or fast food, my husband complains that he hasn't seen me all week, and my children play with each other or by themselves. 

If I have a clean house (I never have a clean house for longer than an hour, BUT when I spend the day cleaning): E watches 3 movies and A plays alone or naps, I get irritated with the hubs for not cleaning up after himself and making a mess as soon as he walks in, my homework doesn't get done, and there are still mountain sized piles of laundry, because truthfully that never ends.

If I am a good mom/wife: House is a mess, homework isn't done, definitely not working.....

If I work: Homework undone, family unfed, house in shambles...you get the picture.

It is IMPOSSIBLE to be all those things in one day. I have never once been a good mom, a good employee, a good student, and a good wife in one day. NEVER. I can only be good at one thing each day. That's a hard choice to make, because I sure want to choose to be a good mom/wife everyday, but the house needs cleaned, the GPA needs maintaining, and money needs to be made. 

Sometimes after a really long day, I sit on the couch and all I can think is "Boy, I think I need a vacation from being a mom." Because, ya'll-- It's a damn hard job! Even if I earned salary, benefits, sick days, etc. it'd still be the hardest thing I've ever done. But even without all those things, it's still the most rewarding job I've ever done. I work for toothless grins and little arms wrapped around my neck. I work hard for laughs and full bellies. I work HARDEST for "Thank you for Mommy" during prayers and how peaceful A looks when she's tucked into bed. 

What I hope for most in life is that when my children are grown they don't say things like "Man, I wish my mom had made me smiley face pancakes everyday, read books and played games with me constantly, and always looked beautiful doing it." What I hope they say is, "My mom tried everyday to show me she loved me whether it was by getting an education, working, or playing. She loved my dad. And we were happy." That's all we can do really, right? 

I don't have the secret to being the best mom ever. But I hope that my children can see how hard I try everyday to be good at SOMETHING. They probably won't realize it until they are much older, maybe with kids of their own. But most importantly, I'm pretty sure if you asked E who the best mom in the world is-- he'd say me. And maybe cause I'm the only one he's got, or maybe because truly deep down in his 3 year old heart he knows how hard I'm trying to be perfect for him. And I think any mom who really tries to be the best and wants so much to be perfect for her kids is already an excellent mom by default. 

P.S. My mom really IS the best mom ever. Maybe she's got the manual? 

My confession

Every now and then something heavy will weigh on my mind. So, I'm dusting of this old blog and getting down to business. Here goes....

I'm not sure if you all got a chance to catch President Uchdorf's talk during the April conference (if you didn't, read it here.) Ever since I listened to this powerful sermon, I've had two words floating through my mind. "Stop it." Stop judging. Stop comparing. Stop blaming. 

First you should know how much I love my family. This time I'm not talking about Kade, E, or A. Although, I do love them so much that it frequently takes my breath away. I'm talking about the family that raised me. I think my family is typical in that we are all slightly crazy. I'm a miniature version of my mother (not literally, because she's quite small). Though I also have moments where I remind myself so devastatingly much of my father that I stop dead in my tracks (However, the day that I pretend to fall down the stairs for attention and laughs will be the day that I have myself committed, Dad.) I have beautiful, amazing, intelligent sisters. They are my best friends, and I only hope to some day measure up to their standard of motherhood. But for years growing up, I was unable to show this kind of pride for the family that raised me. However, as time goes on, I find myself looking for opportunities to talk about my family. I love to tell people about my parents {They've been married for 30 years this June}. I love to brag about my sisters {Did you know my older sister T. has a degree in CHEMISTRY? And my sister L. turns everything she touches to gold?}, my nieces {They are the best example of sisterly love EVER}, my nephew {He could read when he was THREE!!}. But growing up, I wasn't this way. I didn't talk much about my family, because I was afraid of being judged. Because my family is different from a lot of the families in the area we live. Perhaps, I should back up a bit?

I was raised in Hyrum, Utah in a small subdivision with cute, tidy homes and perfectly sweet LDS families. Although we lived in a cute, tidy home and had an adorable family with two lovely parents and 3 beautiful daughters, I felt outside of this community. I was not raised in an LDS home. I was different from most children in our area. We didn't go to church on Sunday, and we didn't have Family Home Evening every Monday night. My mom wore tank tops in the summer  (*GASP--I know! A TANK TOP! OH NO!). My dad played in a rock and roll band (Oh! For shame!). My sisters dated before they were 16 and one was a teen mom (OH! THE HUMANITY!)

I had a friend who took me to a Young Women's activity with her one night just before my 12th birthday. I fell in love with the girls, the leaders, the church house. I'd been to church before, of course. My parents and sister were all baptized into the LDS religion at the appropriate age, but I hadn't, and they were no longer "active" members. I remember feeling quite accepted and loved within that group of girls and I continued to go for several years. My parents were ever supportive of any religious choices my sister's and I made. I was baptized when I was 15 years old. A decision I made on my own with  much support from family and friends and with a firm testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel.

But there was also another reason for my baptism that I realize more and more as I get older. A  need for acceptance. To be able to say "Yes, I am LDS" when asked by friends and other parents. To feel a little less judged. Horrible, terrible reasons for someone to make the decision for baptism, whether I realized those reasons at the time or not. But, who can blame me?

My testimony is still firm and strong and there is no doubt in my soul of the truthfulness of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I KNOW it is true. I love my church, but I hate the fact that sometimes I still feel a little judged for certain parts of myself. But, you know what? Stop it. Stop it, everyone. Stop judging. Stop taking offense. Stop gossiping. Start loving. Start accepting. Start actually being an example of Christ's love.
I'm guilty too. I do it every day. I notice whether or not people are LDS and I sometimes form judgments. I notice the coffee in their hands, the length of their shorts, the language they use (the same words I use from time to time) and I judge. Why? How stupid. How ridiculous.

For years, people in our ward when I was a little girl were horribly mean to my mom. Not because of who she was, but because of choices her brother had made-- A stranger to those women in the relief society who would turn and walk the other way when they saw my mom in the store. Shame on them.

A while ago, a man named Dan Pearce wrote an article about the Disease of Perfection. He urged us all to drop the act and admit to being who we really are. So I'm going to do that.

I'm proud of who I am. I'm proud the family that raised me. I'm proud of my religion. I'm proud of the family I'm raising. I'm so happy for my parents to be sealed in the temple soon. Not so that they might be more "socially acceptable" in this valley, but so they know the true love and peace that can be felt in the temple.
I'm grateful for my imperfections. I'm grateful for the things about my family that might cause other to judge us.

Sometimes, I swear. Loudly. Like a sailor. And I don't care if you judge me for that, because sometimes when you stub your toe or make a mistake, those words are the only ones that fit.
My sister was a teen mom. She's the most wonderful mother I've ever known, and I wish every day that I was MORE like her. She inspires me. There were a lot of people that judged her and our family for that, but the truth is, our family is so much better for it. That baby girl has blessed us all beyond measure. And more than anything I hope she doesn't mind that I've mentioned her here. :)
My father is a recovering narcotics addict. And, I love him for that. He has proven to me that people really can change if they have the desire and something worth changing for. His love for the gospel is so pure, so true. He inspires me, too.
Sometimes, I yell at my son. I'm working on it. He still loves me, and tells me every day that I'm "the best girl in town."
I change my clothes more on a Sunday morning that any other day of the week, because I want to look as beautiful as the other women do.
I am a consultant for Slumber Parties, and sometimes I sell people sex toys and make jokes about sex. I don't really care if you think it's wrong, because I'm at peace with it.

And even as I write these things, I'm nervous. Nervous that someone will judge me. Nervous that someone won't sit near me in church, because of what I've said. I've deleted things originally written in this post, because I was afraid to even write them for others to read. How stupid. How ridiculous.
Why do we do this to each other? Why don't we encourage our friends and neighbors to be who they truly are? I'm so grateful for the few people in my adolescence that allowed me to be who I truly was at the time. They know who they are. I hope that I encourage everyone I know to be true to themselves.  It is our imperfections that make us so valuable to each other.
So, stop it, everyone.
Like President Uchdorf said: "Don't judge me, because I sin differently than you."
Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
Be true.

The makings of a life

One day I will write a book. A memoir perhaps. This is why I love it when people do crazy wonderful or just crazy things in my life. One day they'll be a chapter in my story. But don't make me hate you or I'll edit you out. Or perhaps it's worse revenge to leave some people in the story. I've been meaning to sit down and write a vague, more factual, time-line type of life story. Obviously it doesn't happen. It's too much like journaling, which I loathe. Dear journal..blah blah. Who cares? I think writing is meant to be read and shared. Not locked with a key and kept secret. However, I'm thinking I'm just not ready for some people to know some things about my life and me. That is why ONE DAY I will write a book. But, in order to help motivate me to write my lifestory I am going to write down as many snippets of memories as I can think of in five minutes. Ready. Go.
Odd that this came to me first, but I remember picking up grasshoppers in the yard at our old Hyrum house with my cousins. I believe I chased my sisters with them. I went through a "bugs are cool" phase when I was younger. Now I just squish them.

{Sorry, Mom} I remember finding used tampon applicators in the trash and using them to make birdfeeders. Since I didn't have birdseed, I just spread peanut butter on them and hung them from a tree in the FRONT yard! Ugh..how embarrassing for all those involved.

Once, I found a garter snake in the garden at our house in Iowa. I named him Ziggy and I love him for about twenty minutes. Then the neighbors boys tried to feed him and broke his jaw. He died. Poor Ziggy.

On that note, I once found a dead mouse outside and named him Timothy. I put him in a Jiffy muffin box and buried him. I didn't understand why everyone thought that was so gross. I'm surprised I survived that.

I used to set up a stand outside our house and sell rocks. Yeah..rocks. I thought they were neat. I failed to realize that people could get rocks anywhere...for free...

I was always a devil or a clown for Halloween. Except for that one year. That time I was Wonder Woman.

I still miss the nights in summer when I was about 12. We would go to Quintin's house {it was pink} and play night games. I wish I could still do that. His mom made the best doughnuts.

Once we put Quintin's cat inside the grill. We thought we were hilarious. Don't worry..it wasn't on.

I think that's all I've got for now. Except for one thing that only a select few will understand. They probably don't read this anyway...but...corndog.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I just finished reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. It quickly climbed it's way into my top 10 favorite books. I recommend it to all of you who have not read it. If you have read it..read it again. I love it that much. Since I've been slow to posting on here lately, I thought I'd share with you a poem from the book that I love very much. It's morbidly wonderful.

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year that Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn"
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen.

The body of a mother

"When a woman is twenty, a child deforms her; when she is thirty, he preserves her; and when forty, he makes her young again."

Leon Blum

I was twenty years old when a child deformed me. I stared at the little pink lines that confirmed my pregnancy and read the instructions over and over, convinced I had read it wrong. And from that moment, my body has never been the same. An even stronger confirmation than the pink lines were the waves of nausea, the exhaustion, the mood swings. Then the tightening waistbands and the baby bump. My son's Christmas gift to me was purple stripes across my belly. Pregnancy is a complete transformation. It is the first way that a child changes you. Pregnancy and birth quite literally scar your once perfect body. At times I look in the mirror with contempt for my new body, but today, I honor it. I am grateful for the little extra tummy flab that proves that I made the ultimate sacrifice of sharing my body with another. I am grateful for every stretch mark that bears witness to the child that grew inside me. I am even grateful for the way my chest sags giving proof that my body can sustain life from within and from without. I am grateful for the width of my hips that allowed me to bring a child out into the world and to hold him at my side as he grows. I respect and honor every inch of my new body.
Before my son, the moments that held the title "the best" were few and far between. No other moment can hold a candle to birth. Now I am blessed with moments almost daily that I can call "the best." All my baby has to do is lay his sweet, sleepy head on my shoulder and I melt into a puddle. Every time he reaches out to touch my face or gives me one of those cheesy, toothless grins my heart swells. I was twenty years old when a child deformed me. I was also twenty years old when I learned the meaning of life. When have you ever heard a mother question why she is on this earth? We don't ask, because each time we look into the eyes of our child, we know. Even after my son is grown and gone, I will remember. He has tatooed himself on my heart and on my body. And I will never resent the fact that skinny jeans might not fit, because I brought a child into the world. And no accomplishment, no weight, no perfect body could ever eclipse that joy.