Happy Mothers Day

I know that here, on this very blog, sometimes.... I gush.

I gush about my kids the most probably.

And then there are the days that I gush about my husband.

The other day at Justin's graduation party at school a friend of his asked me for our blog address and I was almost embarrassed to give it to her because I know (I know!) that I gush here all the time.

 

 

But, I guess, it's my blog and I can gush if I want to. And so, today, it is my Mother's turn.

 

Get ready, Mom.

 

Although I've always felt loved and accepted in my family, for the last 10 or 15 years or so I've never really felt like I've "fit in". My family has a big ranch with horses and cattle, they farm some of the acreage and have dogs and chickens. They wear cowboy boots. They hunt and ride and brand.

 

And that's just not me. In high school I dreamed of moving to New York City. I talked of being a lawyer. I'm uncomfortable on a horse. I spend too much money on my clothes and somehow it seems like whenever I'm at my parents house we end up tromping through the desert and I'm always wearing the wrong shoes.

 

I love my family dearly, and I love their lifestyle. A trip to their house is akin to Disneyland for my children and they talk of nothing but "riding horses with Uncle Luke" and "the chickens hiding in their house" for weeks after every visit. I love that my children will be exposed to that lifestyle, but it's a lifestyle that's just never been "me". My Dad and my brother put up with my lack of skills here with good humor, but I watch my sister connect with them on long horseback rides and see the ease with which she handles the all things "country" and I envy her. I wish that I could do that. When it comes to these things, I'm on the outside.

 

But then, there is my Mother.

 

With her I always feel at home. My Mom knows me. She knows who I am. She knows me from when I was little and she knows me now, as an adult. She really knows me. She accepts me and never expects me to be anything but exactly what I want to be. Although sometimes she doesn't understand how I dress or live, or why I enjoy spending hours decorating a three layer cake, she knows that that's who I am.

 

This weekend we went down to visit since Beth was blessing her baby. And multiple times while we were there I was surprised and touched by my Mother's insightfulness and kindness. She included Justin in our celebratory party and made a big deal about him graduating from ISU. She even went to the trouble of finding black and orange cake toppers for the cake that she made. We received two very generous graduations presents from she and my Dad. She casually told Justin "you'll love Portland, you and Becky love the city". She gave me a thoughtful Mother's Day gift with a small book in it that I read when I got home today that had me in tears. When she teared up twice as we left her house today I realized that she is going to have a hard time seeing us move so far away. But she's never said anything about that, she's always been positive and supportive in our decisions.

 

As I was sitting on my couch today when we got home, looking through the book that she gave me the biggest thing that just kept going through my mind was,

 

"my Mom knows who I am"

 

and that means so much to me. More than I could ever express to her.

 

Thank you Mom, for taking the time and making the effort to know me. For listening to me talk about myself and my problems for hours on end. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for loving my husband and my children. Thank you for being the best Grandma in the world. Thank you for the countless small thoughtful things that you do. Thank you for forgiving me when I'm in a hurry and leave your house too fast, or when I forget to do something that you've asked me to. Thank you for supporting me and always being positive.

 

When it comes to being generous, kind, selfless, and thoughful you will always be a step ahead of me, but that just means that I have a great example to live up to.

 

You're truly the most wonderful woman that I know.

 

I love you.

 

Happy Mother's Day.

five

A little while after David was born Audrey and I were talking about her new brother and how he used to be in my tummy. And then she said, "And I was in your tummy too!"

My heart wrenched a little bit and I froze for a second. If I could change it so the answer to that question was "yes" I would do it in a heartbeat.

"No hunny, you were actually in Aunt Megan's tummy, and then Mom and Daddy came to get you."

She didn't even pause. "Oh, yeah! Then you came and got me."

She accepted it so easily and I breathed a deep sigh of relief. We want to be open with Audrey about all the details of her adoption. We try not to make a big deal about it. It's part of her story and she should know about it. However I wasn't exactly sure how to start the conversation and when, but so far- I'm just following her lead, telling her as much as she asks. It's actually been a lot easier than I thought.

The other day we were driving in the car and Audrey started talking about when she was born. She was saying that when she was born she was crying and there was blood on her. "Right Mom?"

and I said,

"Yeah, when babies are born they have some blood on them and they usually cry, but we clean them up and snuggle them and make them feel warm and happy."

Then she said, "and then you and Dad came and got me right?"

"Yep, Mom and Daddy couldn't have a baby and we were so sad but then we prayed to Heavenly Father and he helped us find you and then we were so happy."

Her little voice from the backseat: "And I was so happy too!"

I said, "You were?"

"Yes! I was so happy to be a family!"

Adopting Audrey has made us so happy. SO happy. It's been one of the best decisions of our lives. We've loved every minute with this wonderful girl. And on this day, her birthday, I always think about her birth family. How they blessed us. How grateful I am that she was born. That then she was so lovingly given to me to raise.

First and foremost to Megan, then to Tarl and Debbie, and Garry and Marjie:

Thank you, thank you so much from the bottom of my heart.

And to my girl, who is so smart and beautiful, happy and funny, creative and interesting and amazing:

I love you so much Hunny.

Happy Birthday!

Love, Mom

cravings

Right now I am craving brownies.

However, I have recently lost 52 pounds (that number is embarrassingly high) by NOT eating things like brownies, so I will have a slice of sprouted wheat toast with peanut butter and sliced banana on top. 180 calories. 

But maybe tomorrow I will convince Justin to take me to Great Harvest to get one of their to-die-for brownies that I will buy intending to only eat a few bites and end up eating most of the whole thing right there in the store. And I'll watch Audrey put butter on her own thick crumbly slice of cinnaburst (her favorite) and I'll feed bites of chewy chocolate into Davy's waiting mouth. Or maybe not. I shouldn't. Is it weird that I daydream about carbs?

Today I noticed that Davy's two front teeth are coming in a little crooked. And I think that's adorable. I just know it will only enhance his already charming, messy, crazy, happy little boy persona.

I dedicate my time these days to soaking up the last of his babyhood. I can feel it slipping away. And I want to remember what it sounds like when he runs down the hall with only one sock on: muffled step, slap, muffled step, slap. I want to remember how serious he gets when I hand him his little cup of cheerios and how he runs to the dishwasher to get a spoon out to stir and eat them. I need to capture in my mind the image of the cheesy, squinty eyed grin that he gives me as he lifts his chubby arms to be picked up from the floor, and the way he runs to the corner next to the bookshelf when he gets in trouble. Even last night I scooped him up out of bed while he was still asleep and his little head tipped back and his hands came up to his body in little fists and I thought "I have to remember this."

But I know that it's futile. The blogging and the thousands of pictures help, but no matter how furiously I document, and how many daily facts and stories I dutifully inscribe in his baby book it will never be the same as it is now. I'll look back and be shocked at how little he was, amazed that the grown up boy that I look at daily could ever have been so chubby and squishy.

I know because of Audrey. I missed out on the first three months of her life and then the rest of her tiny time flew by. Although I did cherish every moment with her (infertility will do that to you) I wasn't able to comprehend how quickly she would turn into this beautiful, lithe, smart, inquisitive, girl. And yet, even though she is so big to me now- opening her own car door and buckling her own seat belt, asking questions that make me pause before I answer them, making her own toast- I know that I'll experience the same phenomenon in just a few years again: "How could she be so young?" "Remember when Audrey was only 4 and asked about her birthday every single day?" These will be the questions that I'll ask myself.

Is this the ultimate paradox of motherhood then? Trying to stop the constant sway of time all the while helping to move it along? Wanting to stop them in their tracks, to keep them just the way they are while encouraging them to grow and teaching them new skills? It's bittersweet, for sure. And it keeps me constantly anxious and perplexed.

I think we'll go for that brownie.

boy oh boy

Last night I scooped Davy up from his crib, and as he grabbed his blankey and snuggled into my shoulder I thought, "He smells like a baby."

Too often anymore he smells like what he is: a rambunctious little boy. His hair seems to be always messy, his shirt always dirty, his socks always missing.

But last night he was fresh from the bath clothed in Johnson's pink baby lotion and clean jammies. I snuggled him close to me and breathed in deep.

He's different than his sister was, this boy of mine. Boy, oh boy (!) is he different. He's into everything, all the time. He's mischievous and silly. His patience is short and his temper is quick. He likes to explore and push boundaries. He races to the fridge every time it's opened to try and play inside. He messes up his sister's room. He dumps things on the floor. He runs around in a circle and waits for us to laugh.

He makes me tired.

But he's sweet too- so darling and sweet. He grabs his blankey and comes running to my arms one hundred times a day and we snuggle and snuggle and snuggle. He points to the Cheerios box on top of the fridge and then laughs and does a little happy stompy dance on the kitchen floor while I pour some into a cup for him to take on whatever adventure he's going on next. (I'll find Cheerios in my purse later.)

I can't wait to see where this boy takes us and how he'll teach us. Already the stockpile of toy cars and dump trucks is beginning to rival the princess shoes and tiaras.

I just hope I'll be able to keep up.

appreciation

Frequently I am delighted with my life.


Does that sound like bragging?


On Sunday morning David actually let us sleep a little past his usual 7 am wake-up call. Then Audrey appeared with her messy hair and mis-matched pajamas and climbed into bed with us. She loves doing that. Our bed isn't that big so Justin and I had to cling to our seperate sides as the kids played in the middle but it was a lovely moment. You probably get tired of hearing it, but I continuously marvel that where I thought there would be no children, now there are two. And they complete our family so perfectly and they are healthy, and they are darling. Will I ever be able to look at their faces without sending a silent "thank you" up towards the heavens?




I hope not.


We are not where we thought we'd be by any means. And sometimes (I must admit) I do get a little down about our present situation and how things didn't turn out as we planned. But then there are moments like Sunday morning where it's as if time slows down, and I'm watching my life from an angle that's farther away. Farther away and therefore not as concerned about those small details like where we live or the worries of the job or the long to-do list. From that distance I can see that I've got it good. Husband who loves me, children that I love dearly. Food, shelter, warm beds.




And lately I've had the feeling, (or maybe prompting?) that I should enjoy it more. That times like this, where everything is settled and decided and for the most part calm and quiet, have been few and far between in our short married life. Right now there is no heartbreaking longing for a baby that won't come. There is no anxious looking for a job. There is no uncertainty about the future and frantic worry about money. There is a calm here that I'm beginning to enjoy.




For the next almost two years everything is decided. Justin's school, my job, our location, our purpose. For some that may sound boring but for us it is a welcome change. And something keeps whispering to me to enjoy the quiet while I can. So I will.


I know it may sound repetitive coming from me, but life is good.








Oh so good.

healing

The nights are my favorite.

He never cries at night. Instead I wake up to small grunts and snorts- his hungry mouth smacking on his tiny fist, his limbs flailing around in frantic egg-beater fashion. I put on my sweater and scoop him up, then wrap him in blankets against the chill in our dark house. He buries his face in the fabric on my shoulder, searching, and I'm grateful that he's quiet as we pass the door to his big sister's room.

I stumble downstairs, turn on the dim lamp, settle into the couch and get him positioned. We nurse, and his tiny body snuggled against mine and his hungry gulps and swallows make me smile. Then when he is full and sleepy, and his body is limp, I pick him up and lay him on my chest to pat his back. I listen to the purring little sighs he makes with each exhale, and smell the sweet sour milk smell that comes from the many tiny folds in his neck no matter how often I bathe him.

And my soul mends.

With each small sigh and with each whiff of new baby smell the feelings of failure and inadequacy melt away. The wound of infertility that his sister healed is completely invisible now- he's removed even the vestige of a scar. I marvel that he exists, that he is here, that I brought him here. I whisper a prayer of thanks.

He listens to the familiar sound of my heartbeat and falls asleep.

I do too.

But then I wake up and look at the clock, kiss the top of his head and turn out the light.

And we walk upstairs to bed.

evening thoughts

We've been taking Audrey to play at the park more and more frequently since the heat isn't as sweltering and the evenings are mild. She swings and swings while Justin and I throw the football around and I love it because we talk and talk and laugh when I throw a lame duck and he has to run after it. Also- I get to stare at him and his broad shoulders while we're tossing and admire how handsome he is.

Sometimes we're at the park at the same time that a little league football team is practicing. From a distance I watch the small, skinny 8 and 9 year olds in their great big pads and wonder about our baby boy. Justin watches too and tells me what plays they're running or explains why that boy in the orange jersey is doing push-ups or how it feels to be little and have your pads not fit right. Then he regales me with stories of how hard and rigorous football practice was, and the tales extend into his high school years. I cringe when I hear the stories of shaking, aching muscles and mean, yelling coaches but he's smiling as he tells me and I can tell that he loved and misses every minute of it.

And then I think that it's pretty lucky that I have a husband here with me to help raise this baby who's kicking underneath my ribs because I'm already having misgivings and realizing that I just don't quite understand boys.

But the little girl who yells at us from the slide and tells us to "watch Momma!" and "look Daddy!"- her, I know. I recognize so much of myself in her, and am surprised to find so much of my mother in myself as I parent her. I tell her our plans or scold her or love her and so often hear my Mother's voice coming out of my mouth. And I'm glad. She watches Sleeping Beauty and helps me make pies and 'paints' rocks with water outside and I think "I can do this, I'm doing okay". But then there are moments of defiance and stubbornness and testing boundaries and I'm confused again. Maybe girls are not so much easier to figure out than boys.

Then the sun is getting lower and lower, the shadows of the trees and playground equipment stretch longer and longer over the grass and football practice is over. Boys that look so little pick up their pads and helmets and walk to their parent's cars. My daughter that looks so big lately is begging for one more ride down the slide before we go. Justin is showing her how to climb the ladder up onto the platform and I feel this baby inside me moving and my back aches from standing.

But my back is not the only thing aching. My heart hurts at the beauty of it all- the blessing of my husband and my daughter, and our future that is uncertain and open and undecided and wonderful. That I'm going to be the mother of two children (two!) which scares me and makes me excited at the same time.

Then I thank my lucky stars and my Heavenly Father, and finally Audrey's last "one more time" on the slide is finished and we walk to the car and drive home.

the view from here

21 weeks

"Audrey, it's raining outside."

These words that I whispered in her dark room this morning made her eyes pop open and she struggled to sit up quickly, still a little disoriented and groggy, in her crib. I scooped her up and we flew downstairs to look at the wet pavement outside our living room window. Finally... some change.

The days here are passing slowly, so slowly. Mondays and Tuesdays drag their feet in protest of becoming Thursdays and Fridays and I do everything I can to hurry them along- to no avail. It seems that it is just one hot, sweltering day after another after another.

Until they are not so slow. Suddenly Saturday arrives and we are off- whisked away to family reunions, graduations, road trips, barbeques. After packing and driving and visiting and eating and staying up late, AND THEN adding the necessary busy Sundays that follow- sunday school and sharing time lessons, planning and presidency meetings- our weekends are filled to overflowing. So much so that I almost look forward to the long, slow, barren Monday ahead.

Almost.

I am so anxious for time to pass. So anxious to see trees turning color, and temperatures dropping if only to have some physical verification that time is indeed passing. Right now 100 degree day after 100 degree day falling reluctantly off the calendar seems almost meaningless.

I now count time in months- 4 months until December.

I count time in weeks- 21 weeks down with 19 to go.

and I count time in kicks- little tiny pushes and nudges from deep inside. Sweet little secret messages that remind me...

we're having a baby.

we're having a baby.

we're really having a baby.

and I just can't wait.

working

I had done a pretty good job of convincing myself that I'd never, ever be pregnant.


So good that when I saw two lines show up on the pregnancy test, I didn't feel much at first. I called Justin in and just kept saying, "this can't be right, there's got to be something wrong." And Justin even spent a few minutes with furrowed brow looking over the box and reading the directions to make sure that the two lines meant what we thought they did.

Before you roll your eyes and think how silly or dramatic I was to give up hope so easily of ever being pregnant, let me explain-


I had to.


Hope hurts. Hope got me thinking of babies and a future filled with first steps and birthday parties and a big family and sunday dinners and softball games. Hope built up those dreams, that then shattered and laid around me in pieces month, after month, after month.

At the time that I looked down at that pregnancy test and saw what I thought I'd never see, we'd been trying to get pregnant for 5 years. 5 years, or roughly 60 months of disappointment. At that point I'd taken at least a dozen pregnancy tests, and in the past, had searched and searched for that second elusive pink line. I'd leave the test lying on the counter for longer than the three minutes that it said to allow. When there was still a lonely, single line after 5 minutes (or 10) I'd throw it in the garbage reluctantly. There were even a few times when I went back and pulled the test out of the trash to see if that second line had somehow shown up mysteriously late- but

it was never there.

For me, the pain of infertility was two-fold. The first part, the worst part, was the longing for a child. The instinct to nurture, the need to be a mother. This was the hardest, this was the pain that kept me awake at night, had me crying quietly into my pillow while Justin slept beside me. This pain was amazingly, miraculously gone when Audrey came to our family. I was actually a little surprised at how quickly it vanished- replaced by more love and contentment than I ever expected.

However, there was another, smaller pain that lingered on. It didn't keep me awake at night or cause me significant heartache, but it was there, and would pop up unexpectedly when I saw a glowing pregnant woman or when I found myself on the outskirts of a conversation about pregnancy symptoms or delivery stories- conversations that are badges of courage for almost all women, conversations that I could not participate in. This smaller, quieter pain was the pain of feeling like a failure in the most basic way possible. My body couldn't do what almost every other woman's body could. I wanted to know that I wasn't somehow broken or deficient inside, I wanted to work. Luckily, this pain was easily ignored. I'm a mother now through the miracle of adoption. I have a beautiful happy daughter and nothing to complain about. Any fears about future babies were quieted with the plan that when we had the money to do so, we'd start the adoption process again. And that was fine with me.

But now two little pink lines, once so longed for and then forgotten, have shown up and changed my life. Now I have heard a fast, fluttery, very tiny heartbeat coming from deep inside me, echoing my own. My stomach is starting to protrude and when I press on it it is firm and round, protecting this tiny, miraculous life. I feel almost holy- I am housing and wholly supporting another life.


And I am so proud of my body.

So proud that it knows what to do, that everything is working, that somehow it knows how to support, and nourish, and take care of this little being even as I am still trying to wrap my head around what is happening. So far being pregnant has been hard, but I'm still thankful that I get to experience this. So thankful that I got to lie on a table last week and look at a small screen and watch a tiny baby move around inside me and stretch it's arms. Tears rolled down my face into my hair almost immediately and I watched in awe as Justin held Audrey up to the screen to see our baby. It was truly a miracle. The second full-blown miracle that I've been able to experience in my life.



I don't know how I could ever ask for more.

faith

This morning, like most mornings, I made Justin a lunch of peanut butter and jelly and sent him out the door with a kiss. Then I went upstairs and read the book I'm currently working on until I heard happy chatter coming from Audrey's room. As I hurried to finish the chapter I heard her call "Mooommm! I looovvvee you!" from her room and had to laugh and stop mid-paragraph to go pull her out of her crib. We came downstairs and made her favorite breakfast of "cocoa and toast with pepper on it" per her request (she calls butter, "pepper"). And as I stood in my pajamas in my little kitchen stirring milk and sugar and cocoa powder in a pot on the stove, I wondered about the future and what it holds for my family. I do that a lot. (the wondering part, I mean, not the cooking in my pajamas part).


There are times when I wish I had some sort of magic mirror or window that would allow me to see myself in the future for just a little while. I wouldn't need to look for long, I don't need every question answered, what I long for is just a small glimpse. If I could look into my life five years from now what would I see? It would be fun to get a tiny peek at what my Audrey will look like at 8 years old- and whether or not she'll finally have a little brother or sister. Would we still live in Boise? Would we own a home? Would I be shocked to see myself with a pregnant belly? I'm curious about all these things but my main concern would be our well-being. I'd like to see myself for an hour and know that everything works out okay at least in the short-term; that my family (large or small) will be safe, and settled and happy.


And how comforting this magic window would have been to me four years ago! We'd been trying to have a baby for a year already and I was in the saddest, loneliest place that infertility could take me. If only I'd been able to see myself this morning- to hear the "Mom, I love you!" from the other room and watch myself pull a bright, happy, bouncy little girl...my daughter... out of her crib.


Obviously I'm not the type of person that enjoys having things be undecided and up in the air. I frequently tell Justin that I'm looking forward to being an old grandma, sitting back in the house that I've lived in for thirty years and have it all be done- everything. All the big life changing decisions, all the struggle to do right by my daughter and husband, all the uncertainty of the future...finished. I tell myself how lovely it will be to have everything decided. To know that I've done my best and to know that for the most part I made the right choices. That's got to be better than the feelings of inadequacy and uncertainty that I experience almost daily as a young mother with so many worries and a baby that needs to be raised right, and decades of life yet to be lived stretching before me.



And yet I know that I shouldn't wish my life away like that.


I know that in the absence of a magic window, I must have faith. Faith in myself and the life that I've built, and will continue to build. And faith in my Heavenly Father to guide that life and help me when the challenges come.


I know that I should treasure and cherish every moment. That they'll pass me by all too quickly. I know that things change, that Audrey won't always fit in my lap, or be light enough for me to carry. I know that she'll soon be more independent and need her Mom less and less. And that I'll miss the feeling of holding her in my arms and having her chubby hands play with my hair. I know that life can change in an instant. I know that a car accident, or an illness could rob me of the people I care for most before I could even comprehend that they're gone.


And so- I'll have faith. And keep working. I'll keep sending Justin out the door with a kiss and trust that he'll come back to me safe and sound. I'll keep hoping that the future is bright, and as long as she'll let me, I'll keep making "cocoa and toast with pepper on it" for my beautiful baby girl.

in the wee small hours of the morning

It all started Sunday night around 10:45.

Justin's parents and his brother Marc's family had been at our house visiting. A cousin of Justin's had recently returned from a mission and they'd come to see this cousin speak in church. But now, everyone had gone home except for Marc who was staying one more night with us because of a job that he needed to take care of in Boise the next day.

We'd just finished watching the local news and were sitting on our respective furniture discussing what we'd seen. Justin and I on the love seat, Marc on the couch. There was a small disagreement that had Marc laughing and me hitting Justin in the shoulder.

(he can be pretty ornery at times)

I moved to the computer to check my e-mail and see if I needed to take care of anything since I'd missed Primary. Justin got up to do something and discovered his hacky sack (he always corrects me and says it's called a sepa) lying on the counter. He started hitting it around with his feet and hands, still talking to Marc.

And that's when it happened. The late night talk.

I've become a supporter of the late night talk since I married into Justin's family. Before that I was mostly unfamiliar with it, but it's a staple in family get-togethers with the Vippermans. Whenever we find ourselves with family over-night (holidays, camping, Rob and Ashley visiting, other special occasions) it almost inevitably happens. The topics of conversation vary. Sometimes the mood is serious- discussions in the living room with everyone snuggled on couches debating religion or politics or parenting methods. Sometimes they're around a game table where everyone has a hand of cards and a soda and we end up laughing until we can't breathe.

You can't plan the late night talk. It just has to happen. And it has to be a late night talk. For some reason, it doesn't work the same at any other time of day. There's just something about the kids asleep, the dishes done, the tv off, the house dark and quiet and the participants sleep deprived that has people sharing feelings and beliefs, old memories and funny stories in ways that would never happen in a casual encounter at 2:00 in the afternoon.

Sunday night it all began with snowboarding stories.

I heard a few that were new to me but mostly they were the same stories that had been re-told a thousand times about awesome jumps and runs and colossal falls. Then the conversation (as it always does) moved on. Marc was standing up now, kicking the hacky sack (sepa!) back to Justin as we moved on to marriage, relationships. I still sat at the desk but wasn't facing the computer anymore. Both boys had to be up at 7:00 am the next morning but that didn't seem to matter. Soon they'd picked up my coffee table and set it on the couch to make more room for the game and the conversation seemed to expand right along it: the gospel, children, old feelings and getting past them. Soon it was midnight and we'd moved on to stories of Justin and Marc's childhood- some good, some bad. Every once in awhile one of us would notice the time and comment that we should head to bed but it wasn't until 1:30 when we finally and reluctantly called it a night.

Visiting or having family visit is a little difficult for me. I sometimes dread the extra work and effort of packing bags and dealing with strange surroundings or preparing a guest room and planning meals for more than the three people that I'm used to. But I love the late night talks. The late night talks reconnect us. The late night talks remind me of why I love my husband's family. The late night talks make it worth it.

juxtaposition

Yesterday I got two messages from my sister. The first was reminding me that I hadn't updated anything for quite some time and then a little later, the second one went like this:

"Are you alive? I haven't heard from you in awhile."

In case you've also noticed that something is off, let me explain.

I am, in fact, alive.




(and kicking)



Very much so. In fact 'life' seems to be almost more than I can deal with these days. The day to day chores, the responsibilities, the worries, the lists. 'Life' seems to keep handing me challenges and then sitting back to watch how I'll cope, for instance:

-A late night discovery that left me unable to sleep and terrified about my health.

-An evening phone call from my Mom that had me worrying about my Grandpa's health.

-More paperwork than I know what to do with for cub scouts. Rechartering? Quality awards? And having the distinguished title of "unit commissioner" has given me another meeting on top of the four per month that are already required.

-I leave my weekly presidency meetings with pages of notes in my scribbled handwriting: lists of things 'to do', phone calls 'to make', lessons 'to prepare', along with questions to find the answer to that I'm too embarrassed to ask my presidency members.

-Figuring out the names of 60 Primary children. And their teachers. And their parents.

-Laundry? Again? Didn't I do that yesterday?

-Questions about buying a home.

However despite everything that life is handing me right now,

I'm good.



I have more problems and worries and regrets and responsibilities right now than I ever have, and I'm sure that there are more on the horizon. But I suppose that's also just part of 'life'. And, as is always the case, there are highs that accompany the lows. I come home from church every Sunday exhausted but edified, overwhelmed but uplifted. I finish the dishes and fall into bed every night physically drained but full of love for my family. I drink hot cocoa with Justin and read books with Audrey. I'm excited to go to my parents house for Christmas.

And right now my fingernails (and Audrey's) are a very merry red.



I'm happy and most of all I'm definately

alive.

Yesterday morning I got a phone call from my Mom. She was calling to tell me that my Aunt JoAnna and her 4 daughters had been in a car accident the night before- JoAnna and her oldest daughter had died and her other three girls were in the hospital with mild to serious injuries.

And I can't stop thinking about it.

I wasn't particularly close to my Uncle Russell and Aunt JoAnna- they live in southern Utah which is quite a drive from Boise. But recently JoAnna had reached out to me. She e-mailed me and told me how much she enjoyed my blog, how she loved knowing what was going on with our family and seeing the pictures of Audrey. In fact it's strange to type this knowing that she won't be reading it. We kept in contact via e-mail and facebook and then comments when she started her own blog. And now I go to her blog and look at the pictures of her gorgeous family and I ache for them. I try to empathize and put myself in their shoes and then wonder how anyone can handle grief like what they must be feeling.

8 years ago my Grandpa died. It was a premature death that left my family reeling. After the funeral was over and the long line of well-wishers were gone we found ourselves back at my Grandparents' house. It was late in the evening and clouds had rolled in, the wind started to blow and rain started to fall. My Grandma kept worrying about my Grandpa being out in the cemetery in the wind and the rain, saying how he hated to be cold, how when there was a storm like this that he liked to settle in warm and cozy in the house. My Mom and her siblings reassured my Grandma over and over again that Grandpa wasn't there in his grave- that it was just his body, that he had moved on and wouldn't feel the wind. And I know that my Grandma knew that. But she still worried.

It makes sense to me that my Grandma would worry about my Grandpa's body. As wives and mothers that seems to make up the majority of our duties. I prepare food multiple times everyday to nourish my husband and daughter's bodies and I get a distinct satisfaction from knowing that their stomachs are full. I worry about how Audrey's bones are growing and how her brain is developing. I get her vaccinated to build her immune system and check her teeth for any spots or discoloration when I brush them. I get Justin aspirin when his back hurts, pillows when he's having stomach trouble at night. I tip-toe into Audrey's room before I go to bed and place my hand on her forehead and feet to make sure that she's not too hot or too cold. I realize that it is also my job to nourish my family spiritually and emotionally but it seems like the physical nourishment takes up most of my time.

And then I think of my Aunt JoAnna. She is a mother. I know that she would want to be there for her girls right now more than ever to take care of their little bruised bodies, to rub their backs, to calm their fears, to ease their pain. It's difficult to make sense of something like this.

My heart hurts when I think about the last few moments of JoAnna's life and the long years that stretch ahead for my Uncle Russell. I tear up when I think of a 9 year old's life ended abruptly and three other little girls in the hospital. I'm humbled by a God who knows more than I do, and I pray that he'll bless this little family.

content

"Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content."

-Philippians 4:11

Most days I want more than I have. It's something that I continuously struggle with.

A bigger house. A beautiful kitchen filled with state of the art appliances and gourmet ingredients. Another baby. Another car. A better wardrobe. Life would be better, easier if I had these things. I would be happier if I had these things.

At least that's what I tell myself.

I've spent a lot of time over the past few weeks thinking about the things I have vs. the things I want, and the things I want vs. the things I need.

When we were first married accumulating things was a necessity. As a brand new family it was part of building our home. All of a sudden we needed couches, a bed, pots and pans. Only a few nights of eating dinner off of a cardboard box convinced us that we needed a kitchen table and chairs. Luckily our wedding presents fulfilled most of these needs but not all of them. I remember one Sunday I was getting ready to make mashed potatoes and realized that I didn't have a vegetable peeler. One week I made a bread recipe that yielded two loaves and only had one bread pan. Like most newly married couples, we spent the next few years realizing what we had a need for and then fulfilling that need.

After almost 6 years of marriage we now have everything needed for day to day life and then some. I have a vegetable peeler. And a potato masher, and a zester. I have two bread pans. And a bundt pan, and an angel food cake pan. A year ago we lived in a very nice, very big (to us) house afforded to us by Justin's salary at the Idaho Statesman. We loved and got used to the space. Because we had the room, we accumulated extra things. Things for Justin's den: pictures, a desk, chairs. Things for my laundry room: fabric, sewing supplies. Things for my cooking: extra pans, beautiful serving pieces, a collection of white dishes.

Then, a month ago, as we prepared to move into a condo half the size of our house, I went and stood in my pantry and looked around. I looked at all the food, all the craft supplies, all the beautiful glasses and dishes that I'd carefully collected. And I wondered where I was going to put it all. I realized that some of it had to go. No, not some of it, most of it. There was no space in the new house for things that weren't used regularly. The boxes full of things that we reluctantly donated to charity were almost as numerous as the boxes that came with us.

We kept only what was necessary.

And- I don't miss much. As we live here in this tiny condo I find myself being more thankful than I have in a while. For small things. For birds singing and leaves changing color on my morning runs. For the eyes and ears that I have to experience those things. For a healthy, capable body. For a kind, thoughtful husband who loves me no matter what and a happy, busy daughter to keep me busy. For the gospel that enriches my life so much, for the opportunity to serve. It seems that my thoughts are an almost continuous hymn of thankfulness to my Heavenly Father and that surprises me a little. Maybe it's because we've been on loose, sliding ground for so long and now finally are finding our footing. Maybe it's because I really do feel our actions being guided by a larger, all-seeing force. Maybe it's because we're rebuilding, and on a more sure foundation than we had built before.

Maybe it's because it's true that the most important things in life aren't things.

because it's June

Becky and Justin, June 2001

June is a month of beginnings for me.

Eight years ago, on June 9, 2001, Justin took me on our first date. I wore jeans and a white t-shirt with flip flops and Justin commented on the color of my toe-nail polish. We played miniature golf and drove go-carts. We had a lot of fun, there was a lot of laughing. The picture above was taken just a few days later.

It was this month four years ago when Justin and I decided to start our family. We had been married for two years and were living in a tiny little apartment in Twin Falls, and were so excited. I had my entire pregnancy planned out. We stopped all forms of birth control and were sure we'd be pregnant by July.

And then it was this month three years ago when I looked up a gynecologist/fertility specialist in the phone book and made an appointment. Justin went with me and held my hand, I was anxious to know why we weren't able to have a baby but so scared to hear what the doctor had to say. We left his office with orders for five prescriptions, four for me and one for Justin, as well as appointments with more specialists, pamphlets on polycystic ovary syndrome, and lots of forms to fill out. The beginning of another journey. I called my Mom when we got home and burst into tears.

A year later on the first Sunday in June 2007, Justin and I, along with our parents and some other very close family members, fasted and prayed that we'd be able to start our family. It was such an amazing feeling that day, to know that our families were thinking of us, praying for us. And later that month, we got an e-mail from a family member telling us about a little baby girl who was just 7 weeks old who might need to be adopted. We received pictures of a gorgeous tiny baby with light brown hair and dark eyes and fell in love. She was beautiful. And she still is.

As June has come this year, I have the same feelings I usually do. I look at Justin and remember how nervous I was on our first date and can't believe that it's been eight happy years. I mourn a little bit when I think that it's been four years of trying to get pregnant and wonder about the future of our family. And I look at my daughter and thank my lucky stars and my Heavenly Father for the millionth time that she's here in my life.

And now, with the recent changes that have been forced on us this year, I hope that this June will prove to be another great beginning for me and my family.

Miss A's Birthday

I can't wax nostalgic about the day that Audrey was born like so many other mothers do on their children's birthday.

I can't, because I wasn't there.

I don't know what I was doing on May 7, 2007. Probably everyday mundane tasks like making phone calls or grocery shopping. I'd like to say that at 7:20 pm I paused in whatever I was doing- that as Audrey was taking her first breath and seeing the world for the first time that I had some sort of premonition that my daughter had just been born.

But I didn't.

On May 7, 2007 I had no idea that my life would soon change forever because a beautiful baby girl had just been born in a hospital in another state. I had no idea that my dream of being a mother would soon be a reality.

It kills me a little bit each time I think that I missed out on such a hugely important day in my daughter's life. That I wasn't there to hold her or kiss her, to gaze into her eyes in her first few moments. But these thoughts are always quickly followed by an overwhelming gratitude to the woman who did give her birth. The brave woman who gave Audrey life, and then selflessly gave me the opportunity to be a Mother. Thank you Megan. Thank you so much.

I wasn't there that day, but I am here now, to celebrate the second anniversary of the day that this special little girl was born and blessed not one, but two families. Everytime she looks at me with those big eyes and smiles or calls me Mama I have to pinch myself to make sure that she's really here, that she's really mine. She's the greatest miracle in my life and I love her so much.

Happy Birthday Audrey

love, Mom

We have taken up residence outside.

Nevermind how much space we have inside, right now we are mostly concerned with the 200 or so square feet of grass that is located out our back door. I look out the big window in the dining room as I'm doing dishes, or baking cookies or making grocery lists and notice that most of the lawn is covered in sunshine. I can't resist it and soon whatever I was working on is abandoned and Audrey and I are out in the fresh air.

Audrey is delighted. If I need another excuse to head out to the backyard Audrey gives it to me by pointing to the door and saying "go? go?" I spread out our big red blanket on the grass and she sits by me for a little bit and then gets up and goes to chase Chester around the yard, or fill up all our flower pots with pebbles from the side of our house. I kick off my flip flops, lay on the blanket and work on my non-existent tan. I've been tempted to see if our wireless internet would work outside but have so far resisted. I'm on the computer way too much anyway and it's nice to just lay there and think.

Also- I broke our camera the other day. (sniff, sniff)

After I took these pictures:

I was standing in the garage watching Justin shoot baseballs into a cardboard box with his hockey stick when I dropped it on the floor.

Then I started crying.

Alright, not really but pretty close. Look, I know there are worse things than a broken camera- war, famine, etc. But, when you have a baby as beautiful as Audrey, not having something to capture all the little moments of her life and then show them off is a tragedy. A big one. I could have taken pictures of the farmers market we went to on Saturday, or Audrey at the Boise Burn game on Saturday night. I could have countless pictures of Audrey piling up pebbles on the patio or trying to climb into the cat's house, or of all the gorgeous flowering trees in our neighborhood that we saw on the walk we took yesterday. But, I am without a camera.

And so for now, I am trying to just enjoy laying on a sunny blanket in the backyard with my eyes closed and listen to Audrey throw rocks into the cat's food.

Audrey is very good at feeding herself now. But not so good at chewing before she swallows. And a few times...she's choked on her food. Occasionally she gets going too fast and takes too many bites at once and chokes. All the baby books warn about it, tell you what to do when it happens, not if it happens. Kids put things in their mouth and choke. Kids get hurt. It's a fact of life.

Just don't tell that to my husband.

Any time Audrey gets hurt, he panics. It's not pretty. The last time Audrey choked I patted her back, watched her closely, tried to keep her calm so she could swallow. Justin? Well, just picture him running around in the background with his hands in the air yelling like a crazy person. The other night when she was running in the dining room and slipped on the wood floor and hit her head he launched into a tirade about how we should have been watching her more closely. Even though we were both less than 5 feet away from her and we were watching her closely.

The fact that Justin is the parent who's freaking out about these small accidents surprises me a little. After all, I'm the one who was so nervous that we couldn't leave her with anyone else for over a year. I'm the one who marvels at everything she does and gushes on and on about her to anyone that will listen. Justin's never been the mushy-gushy, emotional type. But something about this little girl of ours has brought out the protector in him. When he gets so worried it just makes me smile (which does not make him happy) because it shows how much he loves her and wants to keep her safe.

I tell him, "it's going to happen", "kids get hurt", "she's exploring and testing boundaries, it's how she learns". And he says, "but she shouldn't get hurt" "it doesn't have to happen like that, we can prevent it". And to some extent, he's right. We are her parents and guardians and it's our job to prevent her from being hurt whenever we can. Most of the time I'm there to take the scissors or the permanent marker out of her hand, or to set her on the floor after she's climbed onto the dining room table, or to stop her from shoveling too much food into her mouth. But I am not all-seeing and all-knowing and I will not be able to protect her all of the time.

I know this because I was once a kid myself. I grabbed hot wire fences just to see what it felt like, fell off the back of my friend's bike and scraped my knees, and slammed my finger in a door so hard it tore off my nail and required stitches. I even drove a car into the side of my Grandpa's barn (but that's a story for another day). Justin, with his wild youth, should know about childhood scrapes and bruises better than anyone. I've heard countless stories about broken limbs and sports injuries and lawn darts. Even one that makes me shudder about shooting an arrow up into the air and running for cover.

It happens. It's part of growing up. And this tough, protective, new father is working on relaxing a little bit.

But I just know he's not going to take it well when she's older and some boy breaks her heart.

Good thing he doesn't own a gun.

It snowed again last night.

I used to love the winter weather and everything that came with it. Cozy sweaters, hot chocolate, snuggling with my family indoors etc. And for the most part, I still do. But now there's another dimension to it that I didn't know about before.

Now I worry when my husband pulls the car out of the garage and leaves the safety of our house to head out onto icy streets.

Now I have an angry cat named Chester who sits on top of his cat house, snoopy style, and scowls at me through the back door when I walk past. I can hear what he's thinking: "You told me it would be fun to live outside."
"Get in your house!", I yell through the glass at him. "It's warm in your house!"
But he just sits on top of it in all his fury and shivers so I know how cold he is.

The other thing I hate about winter? Cold and flu season. Because we're sick.

Justin stayed home from work yesterday and we didn't even do anything fun, just sat on the couch wrapped in blankets, watched inauguration coverage, and listened to each other sneeze and sniff and cough.

And because of the sneezing and sniffing and coughing I can't sleep.

And when I do, Audrey wakes me up. Because she's sick too.

But even when I'm walking through the dark to her room for the 5th or 6th time that night, I can't be upset. Because in that room is a crib with a little girl who sits up when she sees me in the doorway and stretches out her hands. I pick her up and wrap her in a blanket and rock her and she lays her head on my shoulder.

As I sway back and forth I wonder how much more time I have to feel her silky, knotted baby hair against my neck and cheek, to listen to her breathing, to feel her arm draped over my shoulder. I try not to be pessimistic, but through all this I've learned to be realistic. I know that this baby may be my last.

I rock her for longer than I need to.

But then she's asleep and I lay her down carefully and sneak out of her room and crawl back into bed with my sleeping husband.

And I know that even with the snow, and angry cats, and sniffly noses that

I'm one lucky girl.

Recovery

I'm wearing my glasses today. Letting my eyes rest from wearing contacts and staying up too late talking, or working hard searching snowy roads for icy patches late at night.

My hair is in a ponytail to give it a break from the blow drying and styling it receives daily.

I'm wearing my old jeans because all my nice pants are in the washer.

Speaking of clothes, the laundry room is piled high with stacks of clean laundry waiting to be folded. The washer and dryer have been going all morning and they're not done yet.

Our bed is un-made and stripped of it's linens, waiting to be made up with fresh clean sheets.

The baby is clean but her hair isn't done and she's wearing a purple monkey t-shirt with her sweat pants that are just a little too big.

We're recovering.

Justin had a mini-vacation and was home from work all last week. It's been great for him to have a break and Audrey and I have loved having him home. The only problem with that is that I don't like to clean while he's here. That's why I clean my house on Friday instead of on the "special day", Saturday, like the primary song says. I don't like to take time away from hanging out with him to scrub the bathroom.

So I don't.

I prefer to let the house go to chaos and spend time talking and watching movies and cooking and shopping and dreaming up whatever else we're going to do. A week of that, plus Christmas, means my house is a total mess.
Justin went back to work today. Walked out the door this morning looking dapper in his new shirt and tie. He's only working Monday and Tuesday and then has another long weekend for New Years, so today and tomorrow I'm rolling up my sleeves and getting to work. I need to vacuum and sweep and mop. I need to dust and wash and scrub. The bathroom towels need a bath themselves and the oven needs to be wiped down inside and out. I need to catch up on laundry from our trip and find a place for the kitchen set and stuffed animals and all the other toys from Santa that I've been tripping over all weekend. I need to do some wholesome cooking and get something in the fridge besides the leftover fudge and coconut candies that are sitting in there right now.

I'm a little excited. A clean house makes me happy.

So, if you knock on my door anytime during the next two days don't be offended when I don't answer. I'm either upstairs in the bathroom on my hands and knees scrubbing the tub and can't hear the doorbell or I'm hiding in the kitchen because you've caught me mid-sweep in my old jeans and glasses and ponytail.