Ta Done List

Drowning. How many of you have felt like you can't catch your breath? Things that need to get done fill your lungs like droplets of water, and all you can do is hold your breath, praying that you will reach the surface before you drown.
That's how I feel. Some days I am okay. I go throughout the day, getting things done like a task master, checking those items off my list, feeling good, calm, accomplished. Other days are like today.
The thing that is easy to forget is that, as a mom, there are about a thousand things we do everyday that go silently unnoticed. When people think of stay at home moms, they think we stay home, eat lots of food, watch tv, read books, veg on the sofa, and don't do a thing. Even I am guilty of this, and I am a STAY AT HOME MOM!!! I don't know if it is an inherited thing, or if it's something the world has convinced me of, but I feel like I don't do anything, when really, I am constantly on the move and doing tons of things.
My dear friend, Jewel, has had me write a few "ta-done" lists. It's amazing to go back and start remembering all the things that felt like unimportant things, are actually important, and wouldn't have gotten done without me.
Here's my ta done list for today, and it's 10:30 am, so I've been up for 4 hours now.
Get Holland out of bed.
Get Holland bottle.
Change Holland's diaper.
Change Holland's clothes.
Gather laundry.
Put sheets in laundry.
Help Hesston wake up.
Give boys cuddles.
Give boys bathtime.
Get boys dressed.
Switch clothes from washer to dryer.
Fix breakfast.
Feed boys.
Eat.
Empty clean dishes from dishwasher.
Load dishwasher with dirty breakfast dishes.
Wipe down kitchen tables, counters, and stove top.
Clean out sink.
Switch clothes in laundry.
Put Holland down for nap.
Put sheets on bed.
Remake bed.
Go upstairs and open blinds
Turn on air conditioners
Help Hesston make his bed
Make sure Hesston has quiet toys to play with while I get ready
Take a shower
Get ready
Check my email
Read a friend's writing
Watch a training video
Check out the online seminary teacher website
Write a blog post
 And here I am!!!

That's my ta done list, only 4 hours into my day.
Now I'm catching my breath. I'm not drowning any more. Sometimes all it takes is a little ta done list to affirm that you've done a lot already, and everything is okay. What about you? Have you made a ta done list? Could it help you catch your breath too?

Inspired

The soft cry of my one year old waking early from his nap fills the air, followed by an ear piercing scream from my five year old who broke a toy. I hold my breath, hoping that they will be able to endure without me. Thankfully, they both self soothe and a relative calm settles back over the house.
I relax back into the soft pillows and resume writing.
Whirring of the washing machine tells me it's about time to get up and switch the load to the dryer. I stretch my legs and tell myself to keep writing, that soon enough I will get up and be productive. But right now, it's okay to be lazy and just run my fingers over the keys, to record this blip of life.
A bird call outside the window reminds me that the day is just beginning, and I need to enjoy the quiet moments. It's too easy to get distracted by all the sights and sounds demanding my attention. Especially when those demands come as repeated pleas from tiny people I love.
I take a deep breath, clearing my lungs, and smell the freshly washed sheets I just put on the bed a few minutes ago. Red raspberry tea steam mists the air as I lift the mug to my lips. I take a small sip and set it back down on the side table. I really do need to get up and switch the laundry now. The lock just clicked open, signaling the end of the load.
I take another sip of tea and sigh. Soon. Soon I will get to the laundry. It can wait another minute or two.
The click clack of the keys on the keyboard make me feel like I am accomplishing something, even though I am sitting still. Maybe I am being productive, even if it isn't something that manifests itself physically.
Remnant aromas from breakfast, toasted bread and fried eggs, cling to the filtered air even though I cleaned up right after the kids got done eating. Wonder if I should open the windows to let in some fresh air. Hmmm...
My eyes squint as I stare at bright light of the laptop. Even though morning sunshine filters through the window shade, lighting the room, the glare is hurting my eyes. Maybe I didn't get enough sleep last night. I got more than my husband. He stayed up late so I could talk to him, sacrificing precious sleep time. My heart tingles with warmth. Sure do love that man.
I enjoy writing. Like to steal moments like these, windows of opportunity to get words typed. They don't happen often. And I find myself overwhelmed with guilt when I do take moments to write and neglect my "motherly/wifely" duties.
I glance away from the screen, scanning the bedroom. My husband's hats hang on the bedpost. I smile, think of the man I love. How does he keep up with it all? Work, church calling, family demands...even though it may sounds simple, there are about a hundred subcategories under those three. And he does it all with only small sips of sleep here and there. Last night, he got about five and a half hours, and that's a good night for him. When did sleep become such a novelty? How do I convince my kids that sleep is a good thing? And they should appreciate it now, because they won't get much when they're older.
The outdated pictures of my family on the dresser need to be replaced. One of these days I will remember to add "update family pictures" on my to do list. Probably when we get our next photo shoot, and the new pictures will be outdated again. Why do my kids have to grow up so fast? I wish I could slow down time.
My little guy lets out another scream...well, slowing down time can be overrated. It would be nice if it sped up during the hard times.
Inspiration comes from all around us. All we have to do is reach out and grab it. Put it into words. One day, I will look back on this post and wish for the quiet moment. That mom guilt. The world in which all was well.

 

The List

It’s been years since I’ve felt this way. Empty pit in my stomach, shaky hands, scanning a list of names, looking for mine. Did I make a top spot in the writing competition?

The senior choir name list hangs on the wall outside the room where tryouts were held the night before. Mine isn’t there. It wasn’t even considered for call-backs. Sure, there are over 50 students who stand in the same shoes as me, but there was a hope, a wish, that I’d somehow make it. I didn’t. Numbness radiates from my chest, all the way to my fingertips. I walk away from the rejection, determined to never let a simple list ruin my life.

My friend’s name is on the list. We’ve cheered for each other from the beginning. Critiquing, editing, offering words of wisdom. I question myself. Wasn’t my story as good as hers? What did I do wrong? I’d hoped we could both make it. Be in this together, like we were from the beginning. But hers got chosen. Mine didn’t.

I text her how proud I am, even though anguish pounds through my veins, because that’s when true character is created. Facing defeat, telling it to get lost, and supporting those you love, no matter what. I wash away despair with the words that make all the difference in the world, because even if I didn’t get chosen, she did. She, a person and friend. Her words, which are powerful, and can change the world. They matter, not the opinions of others, who are written on a simple list.  

Names are called for the State High School Rodeo Queen Competition. The crowd cheers as the girls step forward. My district queen, who has been my partner through this whole competition, wins. My name is never called, not for the 7 different categories. I feel the crowd’s judgement, hold the smile on my face as a shield, remaining strong on the outside while my insides twist into a knot of nausea.

I pick out my parent’s faces in the crowd. My mom keeps a reassuring smile on her lips, while my dad's purse in concentration. They’re masking their disappointment, just as I am. Years of investing in lessons, interviews, clothes, makeup, and contest fees, come back empty handed. I don’t wear the crown I worked so hard to earn. I’ve failed not only myself, but them too. That knowledge hurts worse than losing.

Questions cloud my mind. Did I do the right thing by spending so much time on a story that pulled me away from my kids? Are all the late night and early morning writing sessions worth it? Is it healthy to survive on such little sleep?

All I can do is wait. Wait for the judge’s comments. I want to know what I did wrong. What I need to do to improve.  

Just like Lindsey Stirling, who got publicly humiliated, rejected on America’s Got Talent, but never gave up, neither will I. She kept going, knowing she had something on the inside, the world needed to hear on the outside. I am one of those people, gaining inspiration through her compositions. She's taken the music from my heart, and put it into song.  

Determination burns in my soul. I’m going to enter another contest. Learn from more rejection. Do better. Be better. Never give up. Watch out judges, you can’t get rid of me that easily. ;) And even if my name never ends up on "The List," words still make a difference. I will try to make a difference with mine.

You can read my story here:

http://shortfictionbreak.com/until-my-dying-breath/

As Sisters in Zion

Never Have Kids:

The designer pillows perch on your sofa, just like the latest home décor picture you saw in this month’s magazine. The article was right, the spring colors add the perfect pop of color to the muted gray shade of your sofa. The rug sitting in the middle of the room is a touch crooked, so you quickly straighten it so the gaps between the sofa and loveseat are even.

You check your phone one last time. Ten minutes until you need to leave for work. Ten minutes until your life continues on autopilot.

A soft flower fragrance wafts through the room as you pass the glass vase sitting on one of the end tables, filled with fresh cut tulips from your front yard. A few magazines, scattered to look used, but not unorganized, lay beside them.

The wall clock ticks through the seconds, the only sound to break the endless silence, besides your quiet footsteps on the tile.

You turn the fireplace off before you leave. No need to have that on if nobody is here to appreciate the ambiance it creates.

With a quick trip to the bathroom, you straighten your ironed shirt, then admire how well your new makeup went on this morning. The lipstick you bought at your friend’s party last night really does create the perfect blush. You notice a water speck dotting the mirror and wipe it clean, straighten the hand towel so it folds perfectly in two, then head for the entry to grab your keys, which hang on their usual key hook.

There’s still five minutes to spare, so you decide to leave a little early. Maybe you can swing by Starbucks and grab your favorite morning treat: pumpkin loaf with a caramel apple spice.

Your convertible is as spotless as your house. You like it that way. Everything in its place. Since it’s a nice, summer day, you fold the top down.

As your phone connects to the car’s Bluetooth, a new favorite song blares through the speakers. You turn it up so you can’t hear yourself singing over the sound.

Starbucks snack in hand, you pull up to the store right on time. The manager gives you a head nod and “hello” as you trek to the back of the store, where you place your things in the very back of your cubby. Your nametag is a little worn, so you fix the letters with a magic marker. With the last few seconds of freedom, you gobble down your bread. You’ll save some of the drink for later, it’s almost too hot to drink right now.

As you exit the backroom, a mom with two toddlers enters the shop. She has the same Starbuck’s cup in hand. She appears to be about your age, and you admire the way she looks effortlessly cute, with her hair in a messy bun, and sunglasses plopped on the top of her head. Her makeup free face glows under the fluorescent lights. Although her shirt is a little tight in places, and a stain of something brown clings to her jeans, it doesn’t seem to hinder her appearance.

Her little girl pulls on her arm, trying to get her attention. The mom barely glances in the girl’s direction before motioning to something else. The little girl shakes her head, yanking on the mom’s arm, which sends steaming liquid onto the floor. The mom squeaks before she opens her purse. Rummaging through it, she pulls out a crumpled napkin and wipes the floor.

“I can get that.” You grab a paper towel from under the check out desk and help her.

“Thank you. It’s been a day already.”

You can only imagine what she means by that, so you just smile and nod. “No worries.”

Her kids bump into a mannequin, almost knocking it over. She immediately apologizes as the little boy gives you a smile that should be on the front page of the Baby Gap magazine you have stowed away at home. The one you secretly pull out when you’re alone, and dream of buying little kid clothes for your own kiddos someday.

Your heart thumps a few heavy beats. Five years. That’s how long it’s been since you’ve tried to create one of those smiles with your own husband. Five long, lonely years.

“How old is he?” You ask.

“He turns four in May.”

You try to hide your grimace. That’s how old your child would’ve been if you’d carried it to full term.

“He’s adorable.”

“Thanks.” She gives you a courteous smile before stepping away.

You watch as she selects a few random shirts and a pair of jeans. Her kids dance, jump, and unfold three different piles of shirts you folded yesterday. The little boy climbs inside one of the round clothes hangers. She panics until he pops his head out with a mischievous grin and a giggle you could never get tired of hearing.

“Can I put those in a dressing room for you?” You ask.

“Yes, thank you.” She hands over the items as the girl latches onto her leg.

Your chest aches with envy at the small little hands that wrap so lovingly around the mother’s leg. At the brown eyed smile the son only gives his mom, filled with the promise of trouble.  What you wouldn’t give to have your own child look at you that way. To have them cling to you like the world will only continue to go around if you command it to.

Loneliness tightens your heart. You try to shove it away, but it sinks its ever-present talons into your soul.  It’s moments like these when the claws squish a piece of your heart into nothingness, slowly turning you from living to dead.

Failure. You’re a failure. No matter how hard you try, you’ll never have kids. Never have someone look at you that way. Depend on you. Everyone who says that you never know what love is until you have a child of your own, knows what they’re talking about. You don’t know. Not that kind of love. And oh, how you wish you did. You’ve prayed for it, over and over. Prayed for a miracle. But God hasn’t answered your prayers. He never will. Because the last time you went to the doctor, they laid the cards of your future on the table, and children were not to be a part of it.

Tears build up behind your eyes. You blink them away.

“I’m ready.” The mom says as she tries to coax her kids in the direction of the dressing room.

“Let me know if I can get you anything in a different size or color.” You are rewarded with a thank you as you close the door.

You straighten the shirt piles and refold the ones on top, listening to the conversation in the dressing room that’s so loud it fills the rest of the store. There’s little voices that answer questions. Then little voices that ask questions. You wish you could answer simple questions like: “What’s this mirror for? Why are you taking off your shirt? What color is that? Why are you frowning? Are you angry?”

The mom opens the door and gives you an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. None of them worked. Can I just leave them here?”

You see the frustration in her eyes. You wish you could smooth the tired lines on her face, tell her she’s doing great, to cherish her children, because they’re such a blessing. Instead, you smile and nod. “Did you need different sizes?”

Her face crumbles. “No. It’s just…nothing looks good on me since I’ve had kids. There’s twenty pounds of baby weight I need to lose.” She closes her eyes. Opens them again. “Who am I kidding, I can’t call it baby weight anymore, because it’s been three years since I’ve had the baby.” She motions to her daughter, who is rummaging through the jewelry. “Don’t touch that, Brighton.”

You wish you could comfort her. Wish you could have the same problem. If only your body could grow another human being. Create life, which is the most precious gift above all others. The gift of a motherhood.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, you look great. And you have two adorable kids. They’re what truly matters.”

She takes a few seconds to nod. “You’re right. Thank you.”

She corrals her kids, which takes a few more minutes, then leaves the store.

You collect her clothes. They’re in a pile on the floor. The coffee cup has been tipped over on one of the shirts. You take the shirt to your manager, who damages out the garment, while you hang the rest of the clothes and respace the hangers on each of the racks.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. You drive home with the convertible’s top up, radio off, and listen to the sound of your tires passing over the pavement.

Your home has a few lights on as you enter. One of your favorite love songs plays over the surround sound you bought for your husband’s last birthday.

You find him in the kitchen, dinner in the oven, table set, and an apron around his waist. His face is the most handsome thing you’ve ever seen. If only you could replicate it a thousand times over.

“Good evening. How was work?” He wraps his arms around you, gives you a kiss that you feel to your toes, and loosens the claws of loneliness. But a small pocket of your soul refuses to be released, for that space is reserved for something you’ll never obtain. Something that lives, only in your dreams.

Mom with Kids:

You’re sitting home, watching your baby gnaw on a toy that hasn’t been disinfected in years. Dishes flow from the sink onto the countertop like an overfilled reservoir. Last night’s dinner is half scraped from your stainless steel pot, what a great way to show respect to your grandmother’s wedding gift. The kitchen table looks like a racoon snuck into your garbage pile, with unfinished cans of pop from the night before, left over scraps of breakfast, and a few papers with half colored pictures scattered here and there.

The clock is ticking down the minutes until the end of the day, when the kids will be home from school. You’ve told yourself to get up and clean the kitchen. To pull up the sheets on the beds. Switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer so they don’t mildew. And the toys on the floor, you’ve given up dodging them. You simply step on whatever’s in your way, hoping it won’t be as sharp as the last Lego piece that jammed into the sole of your foot.

Another second.

Another minute.

One more glance out the window, wondering if this is what life really holds for you.

Two more minutes.

Check Pintrest to see what you should be doing. To see what other moms are capable of. To see how big of a failure you are. How your house doesn’t look like that. Or that. How organization is as hard to achieve as Mount Everest, which happens to be sprouting in your bedroom closet.

One more minute, visiting your Facebook page to see if anyone has liked your latest post about being upbeat, happy, the best mom ever, because that’s what you show the world, when in reality, you feel like the world’s biggest mistake.

How many more days will be like this? Is there an end in sight?

Hmmm…an article about getting your kids to help the first time you ask. Let’s check that out. See if it offers anything helpful. Done that. Done that. Did that. Haven’t tried that one. Get back to it in a week or so. Save article. Pin for later. Check.

One minute before you throw your hair into a pony tail, wipe the mascara stains from your cheeks, throw on sunglasses and some jeans, and go pick up your kids.

Your baby cries as you stuff her into the car seat. “You should be glad we’re only leaving twice today.” You tell her, wishing she understood the need to escape the mess inside your house. Going to the store for no reason. Then buying things you don’t need. Which clutters the house more. The cycle never ends.

All the parking spots are taken as you pull up to the school, so you circle, waiting for a chance to sneak into a spot. You see your kids from a distance. Wish you could honk your horn to get their attention, but decide not to embarrass them, or yourself, any more than you already do.

The sun beats down through the windows, turning the milk your baby spilled on the floor sour. You plug your nose and crack the window. A gust of fresh air provides momentary relief.

“Hey mom!” The kids toss in your direction as they pile into the van. Their bookbags go in the seat next to you. They don’t seem to mind the smell, or the bits and pieces of food, gum wrappers, and million other things dotting the floor. Maybe you’re not the only one with a car like this.

The mess has grown with each one of them. And they pass it by, adding to it with shoes, mismatched socks, and a few awards for good behavior. You post those on the fridge, show them your best “proud mom” smile, because even though you’re struggling to survive, you keep that inside.

“I don’t want that seat! It’s sticky!” The kids push one another to get away from the pop dried cushion, which is, indeed, sticky.

“Just sit down and put on your seatbelts.” You sigh. The car rocks as the kids arrange themselves, albeit noisily, and with a few wild elbows thrown here and there.

The drive home is filled with questions, none that you remember thirty seconds after they’ve asked. You try to focus on their conversations, ask them about their day, their homework, future projects, but you can barely focus on the road in front of you.

Banging fills the house from your son’s drum set. The Trolls theme song blares through the living room as your daughter switches from her school clothes into her favorite princess pajamas. Your other son closes his bedroom door, doesn’t come back out. You wonder if he’s had a bad day. He didn’t talk as much as usual on the way home. Just as you’re about to knock, your baby starts crying, reminding you that you left her in the car seat.

Baby in tow, you head into your son’s room. He’s passed out on top of his sheets. You put your hand on his forehead. Hot. His cheeks red, even under the dim afternoon light seeping in through the closed window shades.

You close the door and find the phone.

“Please be quiet, trying to call the doctor.” You yell to your other kids, who don’t hear, or care.

Taking the baby into the laundry room, you close the door and sit down on the floor. She’s happy to be free and starts crawling to the toilet, which has the seat up. You close it before she can get in. Blue detergent makes a long streak down the side of the clothes washer. You wipe it, making your hand soapy. The doctor answers as you stick your hands under the faucet.

They have no appointments left today, which means you have to wait until tomorrow morning to call and try to make a same day appointment. You try not to stress. Try not to cry. Try to hold yourself together.

Your daughter has found the toilet paper roll while you were distracted. Tiny paper snowflakes cover the floor. You add it to your list of things to clean up later.

Your husband’s home an hour later. He takes one look at the kitchen, hides his grimace and gives you a kiss. But in that kiss, you can feel the disappointment. Feel that he’s doing it out of obligation. He knows you’re failing, sees it, and can’t fix it, so he’s given up too.

“How about we get some pizza tonight?” He suggests as he tucks an unruly strand of hair behind your ear.

Pizza. Nice solution. You’ve had pizza three out of seven nights in the last week.

“Sure.” You hand him the phone, along with the baby, who has taken out her exhaustion from the day on you.

You want to curl up in bed, pull the covers over your head, but remember your son is sick. So you go lay down next to him instead. You wrap your arms around his small frame and cry silently. He’s too tired to notice. Or to wake up. So you hold him, hoping that someday, someone will hear your silent plea for help. Your silent wish. Your prayer for strength.

Empty Nester:

You listen to the birds chirping through your opened kitchen window. The day is brisk, smelling of rain. Leaves from the trees have fallen overnight, blanketing your front yard in a colorful abyss. You’ll have to venture out and rake before the snow falls. How many days do you have? You think back to last year and remember the storm that took everyone by surprise. You shudder and add “Rake leaves” onto your to do list, wishing your husband could be here to help.

Your stomach growls, reminding you that you’re hungry, and that’s why you ventured out of bed this morning. You open the fridge in hopes that it’ll help you decide what you want for breakfast. Milk, eggs, bread, fresh fruit and veggies, along with some leftovers from last night’s dinner. Hmmm…nothing calls your name. You shut the door and head for the pantry.

The breakfast area of your cupboard is filled with various cereal options. The oatmeal’s lid isn’t quite sealed. Must be an omen. Oatmeal it is.

As you fill the measuring cup with water, you frown at how little the amount is. It wasn’t that long ago that it took three times that much to prepare this meal for your family. The oatmeal measuring cup is just as pitiful.

You rub your hands as a cramp forms between the joints of your fourth and fifth fingers. Arthritis has settled, like a burr in fabric. No matter how much you massage, tug, or pull, it persists.

The water boils within a minute, and you pour the oatmeal in. It only takes another minute of stirring, and it’s done.

Fine china clinks as you pull it from the cupboard. Not a single scratch mars the surface. You’ve saved them for a special occasion. What’s so special about today, you can’t decide, but it seems like all those years of not using them have been a waste. You need to get as much use out of them, before you’re gone too, and they stand alone in the thrift shop, with no home of their own.

You pour the brown sugar over the oatmeal, making it just the way you like it. Your lips lift as you reminisce about adding cinnamon and raisins to your husband’s bowl, extra cream for your son, and extra sugar for your daughter. You debate adding cinnamon and raisins, just so you can taste what your husband tasted, to be a tiny bit closer to him.

While the oatmeal cools, you toast a piece of whole wheat bread, then spread vegetable butter over the golden-brown top. Crumbs fall onto the counter. You set the toast on a plate, then brush them into the garbage.

Quick prayer.

You imagine the taste of real butter when you take the first bite.

Silence blankets the house. The only sound, the crunch of food between your teeth, and the bird songs from outside the window. You wish for footsteps, voices, anything, besides the nothingness that exists between you and the painted walls.

You look around the table. Your son’s chair has a few dents from where he leaned back too far and fell over. Your daughter’s has a few paint marks where she got carried away. Then you look at your husband’s chair, where his full frame used to encompass, and his strong spirit filled the room.

It’s all gone now.

Son living abroad, traveling and experiencing life at a pace you could never keep up with, even when he was a child. Daughter married, with a baby of her own, living two states away, so busy with life she barely has time to call. And husband…your heart constricts, pulls back inside the walls you’ve built to protect yourself from ever getting hurt like that again.

Your life is over. Waiting to die has begun. Nobody needs you. Nobody wants you in their lives. You hold no value. You’re not needed anymore. Just a useless body, living on the leftovers of life.

You finish breakfast, which is tasteless after the hopeless thoughts tumble through your mind. How much longer must you wait? How much longer until time calls your name?

How many of us have found ourselves in one of these situations before? How many can relate, either now, or at one time or another in our lives? How do we get through these trials?

How could these three sisters help each other?

After reading these stories to Ted, he said: “There are times when everyone has their noses in the corner, if they’d just turn around, they’d see there are other people in the room, other people who have similar trials, other people who could lift each other up.” So, how do we turn around?

How can we begin to help others when we can’t help ourselves? Like each one of the ladies in my stories, they were so overwhelmed in their own lives, where do they start to look outside themselves?

What do you feel like you need before you can reach out to others? (Love, charity, wholeness, see others through Christ like eyes, a willingness to serve, a willingness to look beyond yourself)

How do you get that? (pray for it, decide that it’s something you’re going to work on, start developing that attribute by applying it to your life).

Through serving others, we become whole, more Christ-like, and are blessed. Serving is a blessing, not a burden. How can we gain that perspective when life is pulling us in a million different directions? (By putting it to the test-going out and serving).

I feel like Sarah Kimball and Margaret Cook, as they were sewing clothes for the men who were dedicating their time and efforts to building the Nauvoo temple, could see into the future, could see our day and time, and know that not only did they need an organization then, but also now, that helped sisters, across the globe, to be united in service, charity, and strength. Just like ants, even though we may be small, and can only do so much on our own, united, we are a force to be reckoned with. This force to do good is what I want to exploit.

We have such a unique and powerful opportunity to serve those around us in countless ways. Those of us who are able, have a solemn responsibility to share our time and talents with others, to help them in whatever way we can, to make their lives a little more bearable. Many women suffer silently through life’s challenges, when in reality, we are part of the relief society, an organization that is supposed to unite. United we are strong. United we can change the world. But it starts on the smaller scale of doing the little things. Little things like sending a text to your visiting teaching sisters. Asking to help others. Showing up at someone’s doorstep, just to check on them, when you have a few minutes to spare. And trust me, you’ll be surprised by how much you have in common. How much your trials line up. How much you can relate. A new friendship will bud, and you will have someone there, no matter what. This is what relief society is all about. This is what the sisters had in mind and foresaw, hundreds of years ago. They were inspired. They were guided. Directed by the spirit. Let us have that same spirit lead and guide us. Listen to those promptings. Get out of our comfort zones. Get out of our messy homes. Instead of going to the store, go to your visiting teacher’s house. Instead of going for a drive, drive over to your friends house. Reach out. Share. We live in a world where we can connect with one another so easily, yet so many feel alone, unreachable, and depressed. Why is this? How can we change this? Will you make a commitment today, to reach out and help those sisters you are called to serve? Charity and service are the greatest gifts we can give to one another.

One Person

One person can change the world. Look at religion and how many people have influenced others. Or now-a-days, look at sports or movie stars (society has really fallen short these last fifty years when it comes to people to look up to). Who has influenced you? Who do you look up to? When asked this question, most people answer, their Mom or Dad. Out of all the people in the world, parents are the most influential. That being said, what kind of an example are we giving our children?

Back when Hesston was around a year and a half and really began to want my attention, I caught myself looking at my phone, reading, texting, checking Facebook, scanning Pinterest, you know, checking out all the stuff going on in the world, doing everything but engaging my son. He began to climb on my lap and watch me use my phone. Then he started trying to navigate the screens like I did. Of course, this was a no-no, and I tried to teach him to keep his hands off “my phone aka my lifeline,” but kids are sponges, and they do what we teach them to do, mostly by our example (our words and actions). It was no wonder he started reaching for my phone, wanting to play with it instead of his toys. That’s what I did.

I decided to put the phone down and just count how many times I reached for it within the next ten minutes. I thought it would be once or maybe twice. Within the first minute, I had reached for my phone three times. That’s three times more than I thought I would in the whole ten minutes. Within five minutes I had reached for it so many times that I’d lost count. And why? Because my mind wasn’t focused on the task in front of me. Because all I could think about was what I was missing while I sat there and watched my son play.

It was in that thought when my mind shifted, and I began to think about everything I was missing right in front of me: a life that I’d never get back, time I could never get back, time that was much more precious and important with my son than what was going on in the world. I was missing out on my son’s life. I was missing out on his childhood. I was missing out on being an active participant…his mother. I had failed. And I knew it.

Shocked, and a little numb by my realization, I put my phone away. I started to participate. It was hard at first. I kept catching myself yawning, feeling tired or bored. I had to consciously engage my mind in his playtime, or else I found myself reaching for the phone. But I kept choosing my son and our relationship over another Pinterest post, over another Facebook feed. I chose my son’s life over everything else, and that’s when we really became a family. I’m so thankful I did, because four years later, I find myself choosing him and his little brother, over and over again.

It’s hard, even still, I’m not going to lie. Because I’m social, I’m creative, I want to be a part of something more. But I need to do all that when the time is right. And I have determined that my relationship with my children is more important that other people right now. Because I feel like the role as a mother is more important than anything else. And I am so abundantly blessed to be a mom, who gets to stay at home. Why waste it? Why waste what so many other women wish they could have? 

I refuse to waste my time. And even though playing with my kids may seem like a waste of time some days, it is the single, greatest thing I can do, because I am telling them that they’re worth my time. That they’re important. That I love them. And they need that.

In a world where everyone tells you you’re not good enough, you’re stupid, you’re slow, you’re insignificant, I want to be the person in the back of my child’s head showing and telling him he’s incredible beyond imagination. That he can do anything he sets his mind too. That he can change the world. And I feel like I am changing the world, just by being a good mom, because I feel like it all starts at home, as simple as that sounds.

Motherhood is the most important role a woman can play. Is it any wonder that Satan tries to tear motherhood to pieces? Through the media? Through women’s rights? Through sexism? Through rape and pornography? No. It’s no surprise. Because as a mother, we literally have more power and influence on the world than anyone else. We make all the difference in our children’s lives. We determine whether they succeed or fail. As such, we determine whether the world succeeds or fails. What a great responsibility.

If children don’t feel love and security, what do they feel? And what kind of an affect will that have on them later in life? What kind of collective affect is that already having on our society? Our society is in an uproar because people have forgotten who they are. They’ve never been taught. People have never been taught why they’re here. They’ve never felt true love. They feel like they don’t belong. Hence, what do they do? They scramble around life, trying to figure out the most basic answers to these questions, and usually end up getting them wrong, because there’s nobody to guide them. No loving hand to direct their path. No kind words of reassurance when they fall down or make mistakes.

So I ask, what role do we have as mothers? A very important one. Important enough that it's hard to put into words. Why are we here? What is our mission, or role in this life? Do we even know the answer to those questions? If we don’t, how can we find them? How can we help our children know who they are and why they’re here?

As parents, we are the ultimate teachers. It’s a inordinate responsibility. How we use our time is how our children will use their time. We are their example. How can we do our best to be an example to our children? How can we do more than just the minimum? Do we wake up in the morning, turn on the TV and leave it on for most of the day? Do we use the television as a babysitter? Do we use the iPad, our phones, smart watches, as the new parent, the new teacher? Do we come home from work and sit down on the sofa and tune out? Do we open our laptops, our phones, and stare at the screen instead of at our children? What are we telling our children when we do this? What are we telling each other (as a couple)? Yes, I know that there will be hard days, and sometimes turning on the TV, or giving our children a device is the best option (so we don’t yell or get upset). But is that every day? All day?

I know this is probably an exaggeration, but it can turn into that. Just like it did with me, when I started counting how many times I reached for my phone within five minutes. And it started as an innocent gesture when Hesston was an infant. I would read as he nursed. Read as he slept in my arms. Read as he took a nap. And then it bloomed into needing to have it in front of my face all the time, without me even realizing it.

It is good to do these checks. It is good to take inventory of our lives. I love my phone and technology, so I’m not saying throw it away. I’m saying, use it in moderation. Because we, as moms, are determining not only the future of our children, but also the future of the world. Sure, they have their choices, but we’re the example. If they’ve seen us be on our phones/computers/watching TV, what choice do you think they’re going to make when they get home from college? When they get home from work? And think of all that extra time that they could be creating or doing something amazing. Doing something bigger than themselves. Changing the world.

Media is an escape. What are we trying to escape from? Are our lives really that boring, that mundane, that we can’t create our own adventure within them?

It’s also inspiration. Are we so inspired that we just need to keep getting more? More ideas, more words, more images? Is it the creativity inside us that’s crying to get out?

Use that creativity with your children. Teach them to foster and nurture their own. Have them write a story from their imagination, you’ll probably be surprised with what they have inside their head.

Have them sing a song that they make up-we call this “jamming out”.

Have them dance to one of their favorite tunes.

Have them draw a picture of the people they love.

Go outside and explore the world.

Build that block tower.

Race those play cars.

Play dress up.

Then when the day is done, and the littles are off dreaming of all the adventures you shared, create your own worlds on paper, or share someone else’s.

These young years may be hard, but they’re short. Too soon, you’ll have a whole day to yourself. Too soon you won’t have kids to pick up from school, practice, a friend’s house. Too soon, you’ll look back and ask yourself what you did in all those years. Did you waste it by being lost in other people’s lives? Or did you grab your life’s reins and take off? What memories are you going to hold onto when you’re older? What experiences will get you through the hard times? Create them now, so you can enjoy them both now and later. And the ones you create will last a lifetime and beyond. Isn’t that incentive enough?

Bare Minimum

Why do we only do the bare minimum? The essential? Why don’t we do more than just what is required of us? And why do we sometimes not even do that? Why is there a minimum? Do we naturally set lower expectations than what we’re capable of?

We have minimum wage. Minimum work requirements. Minimum hiring requirements. Minimum speed (that one doesn’t usually seem to be a problem, since most of us like to go fast). But you get my drift. We contribute the minimum and feel like we’ve done a job well-done. When in reality, we’ve done just enough.

My question is why?

Why do we let ourselves fall short? Why do we allow our lives, our potential to be wasted? Are we really that far from deity that we can’t remember why we’re here? What we are capable of? What our potential is? Are we just too lazy? Or are we too busy?

As I look back on my day, I see all the things I’ve gotten done. All the items I’ve checked off my to do list. But there are at least double the items I didn’t have on my list, and still got done. It’s only on my lazy days that I do the minimum, which I hate to admit, does come more often than I’d like. But why do I need to set a to do list in the first place? Can’t I just see what needs to be done, and then do it? Or am I so distracted that I can’t even see those things?

As I was getting up to take care of my sick infant, I thought about this phenomenon that we’ve limited ourselves to just doing the bare minimum when it comes to doing something that we either don’t really want to be doing, don’t enjoy, or feel like we have to do because it is required, either to survive, or to maintain a status of something we want.

For example, my husband and I have been married for 10 years. In those 10 years, we have established different parameters that we need to make ourselves and each other happy. For example: my husband likes it when I welcome him with a smile and hug when he gets home from work each day. Simple. Easy. And I like it when he is employed and supports our family. Simple. Easy. So you see, we have these base ideas, or requirements that seem like common sense, but can sometimes set the bar too low.

Now, my husband is amazing, and literally only requires sleep, some words of affirmation, and physical touch. And as for me, I feel like he does such a great job with providing for us, that he doesn’t need to do more. But because both of us love each other so much and want our relationship to not only survive, but to thrive, we go above and beyond what is required. Like, my husband doesn’t expect me to do dishes every day, but I do. My husband doesn’t expect a clean house, but I do (this is how I show him I love him-even though he really could care less…hmmm…makes me want to see how messy things could get. Just kidding). Ted comes home happy, ready to scoop up our boys in his arms and play. Everyone loves when daddy gets home, because daddy’s fresh. Daddy’s happy. He has energy. Usually by that time of day, mom has run around and played so much her tank is on empty, and there’s lots of clean up before the end of the day. But back to my point, why do we contribute more than just what is required to our relationship? Answer: because we want to it work, and we want it to thrive. So, why don’t we apply that same principle to the rest of our lives? And what if we did? Do you? And if you do, what kind of success do you see? How can we be more than just what is required of us? The bare minimum?

Hopeless

As I was watching the new Moana Disney movie with my 4 year old yesterday, I found myself crying. I cried at when the grandma died. When she came back as a stingray to guide her granddaughter, and then as a spirit to help her granddaughter achieve her purpose in life. It was quite the emotional day for me, and no, I don’t have to be pregnant to cry during Disney movies, I just love them. But as I was watching the movie, I kept thinking to myself:

-Wouldn’t that be nice to have that kind of inspiration?

-Wouldn’t that be nice to have that kind of help when life knocks you down?

-Wouldn’t that be nice to have someone there for you when you needed someone the most?

It was kind of depressing…thinking that nobody is there when I need them. So, I started to think of my life, and who has been there to pick me up, to help me through the hard times, to tell me that everything is going to be okay when I feel like it isn’t. Thankfully, I am surrounded by people who love and support me, most especially my husband. But there have been times when I had to go through a trial alone, without the help of friends of family. I had to fight my own demons. It was hard, lonely, but it was also a testimony of how strong I was on the inside. Under all the mush and gush, there really is a backbone.

Then, I realized I was never completely alone. Even though I felt alone, there was always someone waiting, just waiting for me to ask for help. And that person is Jesus Christ. I don’t have to fight demons by myself. That even though people around me can’t help sometimes, there’s always One who can. And that brought a deep peace and comfort to my soul. For, no matter what I’m going through, I know that someone has already went through the same pain, the same trial, the same temptation, and came out on the other side alive. Not only alive, but much better because of it. That knowledge gives me hope. Hope that no matter what trial I might face, I can and will be able to make it through. Someone’s always by my side, even if I can’t see Him. Our Heavenly Father loves us so much, He sent His Only Begotten Son, from His own side, to live and suffer through the atonement, so we can always have someone by our side.

The harder the trial, the closer we get to Christ, because we learn the pain He went through. We feel the aching, the longing, the loneliness. Then we feel the love, compassion, peace, and wholeness, as we remember Christ, and allow Him into our lives. John 3:16, For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. What an amazing blessing and promise. A promise that brings bright hope into a life of despair. What helps you through trials? What brings you peace?