On my way to a mid-life crisis.

I keep waiting for maturity to hit, and I fear I may be waiting in vain. My mind still feels like it's eighteen years old, while my body approaches thirty with a back-burner type of panic that flairs up every time I sit with my legs underneath me and then stand up and have to hobble for the first few steps while the bones in my feet realign themselves to their proper position. Maybe it's not age - I could be gaining weight. At any rate, I was standing in the shower the other day, (because who doesn't do their deepest thinking while standing in the steam letting their eyes go out of focus?), and I began to think about the phrase, "You're only as old as you feel". This is where my 18 year old brain comes into play and I begin to have a two part dialogue with myself:

"Does feeling mentally immature count as young, or are we talking about physical feeling?"

"I don't know. Maybe we mesh the two?"

"Yeah, maybe. So let's see; If we feel 18 mentally and 50 physically, (of course, we can only imagine what a 50 year old body feels like, but it seems a good guess), then do we average out to 34?"

"I think so! We've been robbed of 5 years!"

"Hmm. Isn't a woman's mid-thirties supposed to be her sexual prime?"

"I think you're right. That might not be so bad. Let's google that later."

"Okay. I'll try to remember. With age comes forgetfulness, you know."

"Good point. You know what else? If we're aging that quickly, then we really ought to quit wasting time shaving our legs."

So here I am, trying to accept the fact that while I thought that I had another 6 months of being in my twenties, I'm actually already in my thirties and didn't know it. Thinking back through my youthful years, I conclude that I've spent too much time worrying about things that are small, too much time sitting on my butt doing nothing, and not nearly enough time living.

I can regain my twenties before they are gone by waking up every morning as though I had a choice, (and that it was to get out of bed), and by letting my kids take me back to the important things.

I took my three oldest kids to pick out pumpkins tonight, and they agreed that today was the "best day ever". Just because of carving pumpkins. I wanted to let their enthusiasm seep into me, and I have to say that I loved squishing my fingers through the mushy, orange pulp, and chanting that "Ethan is a sissy!" with Cameron when Ethan refused to touch the guts of his gourd with his bare hands. Sometimes I am amazed at how simple life is when I let the kids take the lead. All the bad "what-if's" are replaced with simple curiosity. Every bothersome chore becomes unimportant. Excitement is tacked on to both ends of everything. While we stood at the window and watched the candles in the jack-o-lanterns flicker in the night's breeze, I decided that I don't care how old I am in real life or in a hypothetical equation - I just always want to feel young enough to think that carving pumpkins could make for the best day of my life.

My Never-Before Declared and In Some Cases New Rules for a More Peaceful Life

I will not agree with someone just to spare their feelings or avoid confrontation. I will keep my mouth shut when I can, but if you ask how I feel - be prepared for the honest truth. I will no longer say that I think Rush Limbaugh or Glenn Beck are great, when I really think that, while I agree with a lot of their views, they are sometimes just alarmists and can both be a bit of a whackadoo.

I will treat everyone with the respect that they deserve.

I will not feel guilty for my opinions.

I will not attend anyone's party, get together, baptism, barbecue or public execution unless I am given ample notice of when and where, do I need to bring some Handi Wipes or just a casserole?, etc.

Anytime I am home and do not have previous engagements, I will happily host any family member or friend in my home who contributes to the joy of our household, but not those who detract from it. You come here and fight, gossip, make us feel uncomfortable or talk incessantly about politics or Volkswagens - you're out. Curse words, in the mild form, are still ok, because I have not yet mastered my tongue and can't expect more from others than I do of myself. It's the whole beam vs. moat thing. I'll let you know when all curse words are taboo, and not just the Top 4.

My home will be a safe haven for my children. They will feel safe here from all kinds of evils including verbal abuse, favoritism, and lack of appropriate and loving discipline. When my kids are punished, they will know that I do it out of love, and that nothing they ever do or don't do could make me love them any less. But I will not tolerate disobedience or less than their best. I will not put-down my children by asking them if they are retarded when they track mud all through the freshly mopped kitchen floor. Also, if anyone comes into my house and tells one of my kids over and over how cute they are while the other three shrink into holes of self-loathing from listening to it, then I will make sure to tell that person that I think all their kids are equally ugly. But I'll do it when the kids aren't within earshot, of course.

I will not listen to gossip, and will do my best each day to never speak ill of anyone. There is a difference between venting and unloading garbage. Everyone has bad days now and again and sometimes they need to call someone and say, "Can you believe what I have been though today? I am at my wit's end and was hoping you could tell me that I'll feel better after a good cry and a giant milkshake." I am happy to help in those situations. I might even stop by with a chick-flick for us to watch together. What I do not need is to hear anyone nark about how much somebody hates somebody else, how everyone in a thousand mile radius is trying to make them miserable or all the reasons why every relationship somebody has with all the important people in their life has become a giant pile of steaming manure and it's all my fault. Do, however, let me know when your dog eats his own droppings and then comes inside and horks it back up onto your white carpet and you don't know if you should kill the mutt or feel sorry for it's lack of superior intellect. I'll laugh with you, cry with you, and recommend a fantastic carpet deodorizer.

I will do one nice thing for someone every day. Even if it's just calling someone to see how they are doing, and ask if I can help them in some way. Or making my sons' beds for them, or putting an extra treat in their lunches. Or even just not e-mailing an unflattering picture of my sister to my father so that he can forward it to all of their co-workers.

When someone asks me to do something, or for something, I will tell them I'll have to think about it. It's this thinking about it part that gets me into trouble. I agree to things all the time that I haven't thought through, just because I'm afraid of looking bad or selfish. And it makes my life harder. Like when I was nineteen and told my uncle, "Sure, I'll come work for the same company that you're working for," and then found out that he had lured me into a job with a boss who was on a mission to control every aspect of her pions' lives, not just what they did while on the clock, and in which I sometimes had to employ my acting skills to pretend that I knew what I was doing, and ultimately - my uncle ditched me for another job and left me to go to lunch with the crazy woman who told me daily about how nice it is to live alone so that she can flounce around in the nude anytime she wants and that eating in such a state is somehow more enjoyable. Thanks, David. ;)

I will not hold grudges, harbor ill feelings, let someone else's opinions hurt me, or dwell on things that poison my soul. This means that if someone apologizes to me, I will accept and forget. I will try to recognize when I need to apologize and do so. I will not spend days thinking, "I should have said...", and then relish in the imagined verbal slap. I will start every day with an attitude of fresh beginnings, and yes, that probably involves Cherry Pepsi, chocolate and weight gain. But we're talking about mental and spiritual health here, not carbs and sugar.

I will remember that Family is a sacred thing. Sticking up for one another rather than tearing each other down is always going to be the appropriate thing to do.

I will not keep anything in my life that does not promote the well-being of my family or my happiness. This applies to habitually negative people, the dust bunnies under the couch and the movie, Without a Paddle. This also means that I cannot be a negative person, or I will have to abandon my family and find a homeless shelter to live in until I can find a job that requires no skills other than dish washing and sarcasm.

I will be an all around better person. I won't claim perfection - never have, but there is room for improvement. I will still offer my help anywhere I can, but now I'll try to do it without complaining about it to my mother. I will stop raising my voice to my kids, and instead, bridle my anger and wait until I'm calm before I speak. I will offer to rub my husband's back instead of waiting for him to ask and then feeling put-out because "I'm trying to unwind, Hello?!" I will no longer think that people who can't stand horror and suspense films are just wimps. I will finish reading A Tale of Two Cities, even if it kills me. I will stop writing right now and go clean my house like I meant to today.

Now that I think about it...

I just can't stand to leave things so negatively. It's true, I feel like life is kicking my butt right now, but that's life. I'll get through it, and by the weekend things will be great. So why waste the energy having fits of self-pity? It's kind of like the video posted below - Sometimes, you get taken out by something smaller than you that sneaks up from the side and pummels you with a cheap shot. ;) You might lay there for a while thinking, "Dang! That hurt!" But then you get back up and kick some butt of your own!! Bring it on, Life!!

(Thanks to Mason and Aiden for giving me some perspective!)

The Disgraceful, Uncut Truth

Almost a year and a half ago I found out I was pregnant with my fourth child. It was the first unplanned pregnancy that Andrew and I had experienced, and it took me several weeks to get used to the idea. Once I had accepted that we would be bringing home another baby in December, my thoughts turned to the gender. This was it, my last chance for a girl. I had known since I was young that I didn't want more than four children, so now or never. I knew that it was pointless to wish or pray for a girl; the deed was done and what would be, would be. But I hoped. I hoped all the while that I would be blessed with a daughter. We all know how the story plays out, so I'll spare you the suspense.

We found out in late July that we were to have another boy. I was laying there on a table in the ultrasound room desperately trying not to cry. I had to turn my mind to other things so that I wouldn't lose my composure in front of the ultrasound tech. In her line of work, she must have seen that situation daily, and I didn't want to be one of the ridiculous women that cries over being blessed with a beautiful, healthy baby just because the gender wasn't what they wanted. I held it together until she left the room and then Andrew looked at me and apologized. I let just a few tears fall, and then I was angry. Angry at him, angry at God, but mostly angry at myself. I knew that, scientifically speaking, it was Andrew's biology determining the sex of our baby, so this boy baby's existence should have been entirely his fault. We shouldn't even have been expecting a baby; we had a one-year-old at home!

I held my emotions in check until we got to the car, and then I sobbed. Self-loathing came from so many places. I hated myself for having let my hopes get so high. I hated myself for being so immature, but I couldn't help how I felt. And I hated that God surely thought me to be unfit to raise a daughter. I cried until Andrew became frustrated with me, and then I cried some more. I wept from my very soul.

Then there was the matter of telling family. Everyone from Utah to Washington knew that we were going in for the ultrasound that day and they were all waiting to hear the news. I didn't want to speak to any of them. Not even my mother. So I sent a text to my sister-in-law in Vancouver, asked her to spread the word, and then turned off my phone. I don't know if I told anyone on my side of the family. I wanted no one's pity. I didn't want to hear anyone say that they were so excited for me to have another boy, or that I was such a good, "boy mom", or that I must be needed to raise good missionaries, or even that they were sorry that I was disappointed. It was all crap. Just a bunch of shallow words and thoughts trying to make me feel better. I didn't want to feel better, I wanted to feel sad. The truth was, I knew that when I held that baby boy in my arms, I would love him more than life itself. I was not upset to be having another son - I was devastated to know that I would never have a daughter.

At home, I curled up on my bed and tried to become numb. It felt ridiculous to be this upset over something that could have so easily been good news, if only I could let it. Our baby had a beating heart and arms and toes. That should have been enough, but I kept playing in my mind scenes from a future that would never be. Braiding hair, shopping for small, pink shoes, watching a dance recital, helping an excited, teenage girl pick out a prom dress, and then a wedding dress. Watching Andrew dance with a beautiful bride on her wedding day. Being called to help my daughter care for her own first, newborn child. A million crushed possibilities were played out before me. My heart was more than broken; it felt as though it had been torn from my chest and stomped upon. I mourned for all the could-have-beens and the never-woulds.

It was months before I could talk out loud about it without suffering pain. I spent the days after the ultrasound trying to distract myself and avoiding the telephone. A couple of weeks later, I got a package from my older sister, Natalie. I opened it up and found inside, a "Happy-Gram". All kinds of things to enjoy, just for myself. Chocolates, a movie, nail polish, a picture frame with four spaces - one for each of my kids, a few other things... And a letter. The beauty of Natalie's letter was that it came after I had settled a bit and could appreciate that her words were sincere, not hollow reassurances. (I'm not saying that anyone's words to me were insincere, just that I couldn't accept them for what they were in the beginning.) Natalie said:

"Life is funny. Just when you think you've found a comfortable spot to sit and take a rest, a rain cloud comes along and drenches your hopes. I know it seems like your life is a little soggy right now, but I've been doing some thinking about that. I remembered when you guys were trying for little Drew, and that it wasn't an easy road. There were doctor visits and prescriptions, and several months of waiting, and then we got the news that there was a baby on the way. Now there is this new little one on the way. He was definitely a surprise, but he came without all the hardships you had before. Heavenly Father knows you and he knows your children better than you know yourselves. He must have something very special in store for your family to send you another little soul so quickly, and he must have great confidence in you as a mother of these children. My point is, I know you are overwhelmed and maybe a little disappointed, and that's okay. But try not to despair because Heavenly Father has a plan for you. Put your trust in Him. And remember that you have a lot of people who love you very much and will always be there for you and all of your boys!
All my love,
Natalie"

With bitter sweetness washing over me, I was reminded what a wonderful thing a sister is.

The day drew closer when Trent, my fourth son, was to be born. Peace had settled over me, so that by the time Andrew drove us to the hospital in the darkness of that December 7th morning, my scars had healed, and I was anxious to welcome my sweet, perfect child. From the moment that I first held him in my arms and saw his pouty lower lip sticking out, I knew that what Natalie had said was true. My Heavenly Father knew me well enough to send me that particular boy to be the final touch to our incredible family.

I love all my boys more than I can put into words. I may occasionally feel aches of sadness when I see little girls with curly pigtails, or open the mail to find a wedding announcement sent by a bride's proud parents, but I will never consider Trent, or his brothers, a disappointment. Maybe it's true, maybe we do choose our families in the pre-existent world. I know now, that given the chance, I would never choose anyone else to be my children.

Now that I've put everything on the table, let me say that I realize that there are people in the world who are unable to have children. Some children are born, and then taken away all too quickly. Nearly every person in the world, including myself, will experience greater heartache than what I have described here. I wrote this hoping for neither pity or praise. I wrote this because it was honest. It was my real emotion, raw and truthful, even though it may have seemed to be a selfish or inappropriate feeling. I am sure that I am not the only person in this world to feel these same feelings - Longing for something that is not meant to be. I hope that I now have a better appreciation for how unique a person's feelings are. One's past, present, and hopes for the future all make up what they feel and how they interpret life and dreams. We all take different roads in life, endure individual journeys. Maybe from here on out, I will be a person who can sympathize without assumptions, and love with understanding.

Lessons I Learned Today

#1. Allowing your kids and four of their friends to eat pixie sticks on the living room rug when your vacuum is broken is a bad idea.

#2. Talking to your kids about maybe inviting their friends over for a party sometime soon is interpreted by children as "We're having a party tomorrow, so we better go invite all our friends right now. No need to tell Mom, it was her idea."

#3. Parties give me headaches. They also fry my brain so that after the party, I have to stare at my kids for several moments to try to decode any simple question they ask and conjure up an appropriate response.

#4. Picking fights with family on Facebook will nearly always make you look bad.

#5. Men are wimps. Well, in some regards. But this I already knew, so not really a lesson I learned today.

#6. Having a 2 year old who speaks some made up language is just as difficult as having one who throws tantrums at every turn to try to get what he wants, and I have both, all rolled into one. I'd like to think that the tantrums come from my inability to understand this made-up language, but having learned other lessons on other days, I know that the truth is probably that I have just let him become a brat. Maybe tomorrow I will learn how to correct that, but right now, I am going to buy some kind of cheap fast food for dinner because the kitchen is a mess, my head is still recovering from all these lessons, and I don't feel like cooking.

"Excuse my moaning, I'm just experimenting with my vocal cords."

I was determined to have a productive day. Andrew was home, as it was his day off, and I had just put the babies down for their morning naps. Time to get the weeding done. I headed outside and began plucking the invasive little buggers from the miles of ridiculous landscaping in my yard. I filled several buckets, got very sweaty, and eventually finished voiding the backyard of weeds. Okay, most of the backyard. It was right about then that I forced back a surprise attack of nausea and then went inside to see if Andrew was planning on mowing the grass before the thermometer outside broke the ninety-five degree mark. Andrew was asleep in the recliner. Can't blame the guy - it was his day off. As I sank onto the couch with a bout of weakness, Andrew got up and went to tackle the mowing. That was about the last helpful thing he did that day.

Now let me pause here and state that I am in no way about to bash my husband. This is not a rant - it is a story of enlightenment. In order to convey my point, however, Dear Andrew will have to suffer much humiliation.

As the day progressed, I became more out of sorts; suffering with stomach cramps and body aches. By the time my sister came to pick up her son at 5:30 I was pretty well unable to get off the couch, but I did anyway since Andrew had gone to take a nap half an hour earlier. Yes, shameful, I know. I had thought that I had made it very clear that I might have had the flu, and could very well die an ugly, painful death...but Andrew was still able to sleep like a baby for three hours.

When Andrew emerged from the bedroom at 8:00 that night, I was trying to get Trent's diaper fastened before I passed out, (which I never actually did), while Drew climbed all over me, but I had not the strength to shove him off. Finally, with diapers changed and Drew distracted with a book, I fell back onto the couch exhausted and moaning. I admit that I made a few of those moans a little louder than they needed to be in hopes of attracting some attention and sympathy from the man who is supposed to be my companion in life through thick and thin. I was desperate. He took no notice.

An hour later I had cleaned up spilled Kool-Aid from the kitchen floor, gotten Drew a snack, put him to bed and coerced Cameron and Ethan into showers and then pajamas. I felt like I had been beaten repeatedly with a baseball bat while simultaneously being stabbed in the stomach with a meat fork. So I crashed on the couch again for a little more whimpering, and I threw in a tear or two for good measure. All of it was quite unintentional that time, though. I lay there longing for a drink of water, but was too sick to get up again. I yearned to throw up, but I had no place to do it and certainly couldn't make it to the toilet.

Finally! Finally! Andrew tore his eyes from ESPN and said to me, "You're acting like your on your death bed. Can I get you something?"

Here, believe it or not, is where the enlightenment occured.

He had no idea that I was as ill as I was. He has long accused me of being a drama queen, but it dawned on me at that moment that he does not know what it looks like to be sick! When Andrew gets a cold, he sleeps for three days and wakes up feeling dandy. Andrew rarely gets the flu, but when he does, he sleeps for three days and is fine. Never has he had to suffer through his daily responsibilities while being on the verge of death. He has never had to cook food for someone even though the smell of it makes him gag. Children have never climbed all over him while he lay completely vulnerable on the couch. And not once has he had to wipe up sticky juice from a floor while wondering if anyone will hear should he happen to collapse into the puddle.

Realization that my husband had never been taught how to care for someone who is ill washed away all resentment. How could I expect him to know how I felt if he had no idea what it was like to be sick and not sleeping it off in a quiet room? Now, I have played nurse maid to Andrew many times, but if a person is not instructed in this art, they cannot be expected to obsorb all the required knowledge by receiving good care when they are ailing. Especially if said person is a man. They would be feeling terrible and should concentrate on getting well, not learning the trade by example.

My sweet husband would have been very helpful, had I told him that I was very sick and could not take care of the kids. I could have told him that they needed to be fed and bathed and put to bed, and that I was going to bed then and there. Without a doubt, he would have been fine with that. Stupid as I was, I expected him to know all those things just by listening to my moans and watching me hold on to doorways when I walked. I did not look sick to him, because sick, to him, looks like someone sleeping for hours on end in a dark room in the middle of the day.

Then and there I knew that in order for my sons to stay married to their future wives and not come back home as thirty-year-old men wondering what more they possibly could have done to please their spouses, I must teach them how to take care of the ill. We do spend so much time teaching our children how to tie their shoes, clean a toilet, do their homework, read, be nice to their friends, tidy their rooms and say their prayers; why has it not occured to me to teach mine compassion? Maybe I assumed it was just something a person acquired through experience. But when a person is sick, we, as mothers, quarentine them to prevent spreading the illness. We fuss over them as any loving mother would. We do our duty quietly and without complaint. And therefore, we rob the rest of our family of the opportunity to learn how to nurse someone back to health. (Or maybe it's just me.)

Having experienced my twenty-four hour bug in this way, I have resolved that the next time a member of my family gets sick, one of my healthy children AND MY HUSBAND will be assisting me in making sure that the patient is comfortable, gets the rest that they need, is not bothered by other family members, eats, (if they can), meals that are brought to them, and has everything they might need. Next time I am sick, I will expect the same to be done for me. And I have no doubt that with a little instruction, Andrew will rise to the occasion.