Miracle Makers

http://www.cineastentreff.de/error/404.php

There is a book about a young, misunderstood, dramatic, and rebellious teenage writer living in the mid-1700s by Elizabeth Taylor (the author, not the movie star.) I love the first half of this book. Not only because the main character, Angel, is hilarious, but because all of her clothes are way cooler than mine.

When Angel finally finds a publisher for her novels, he asks her to change some things. She asks, “What is wrong with it?”

He says, “The childbirth scene, where you describe quarts of blood and screaming, is a little repulsive.”

She leans across his desk and says, “Isn’t it true?”

He looks somewhat flustered and responds, “I have been a father many times. And I can assure you childbirth is a beautiful and wonderful experience.”

Angel gets a knowing smile on her face and says, “That’s because you’re not the one bleeding,” before giving him an awkward wink.

I really appreciate it when a book can make me laugh out loud. And I laughed for a long time after reading that.

It is so true!

Seeing pregnancy pictures makes me shudder.

This new baby has been nothing but a physical nightmare for me from start to finish. Thankfully, I did not vomit as much with him as with Jo, but when I did throw up it was severe. I would puke so hard it burst blood vessels in my nose and I thought my eyes were gonna pop out of their sockets. I remember kneeling over the toilet trying to control the racking of my body so I wouldn’t spray blood everywhere when I retched. Fortunately, this torture ended around week 12 – but only to be replaced by an excruciating bolt of pain that regularly shot through my lower back and right leg. This little ritual continued to the end of my pregnancy. Then I gave birth – and we all know how that went. I thought I would be flying high once I recovered from a 9 lbs 10 oz whopper, but alas, some things are not meant to be.

Poor J.J. has developed a severe infection in his mouth. And since I am breastfeeding, he gave it to me. Right on my chest. I can survive the continual burning in my boobs. But when it comes time to feed him, and I have to latch him on and let him suck away for 45 minutes, I must concentrate on breathing in and out so I don’t scream. (Sometimes I still scream.) I am telling you, bearing this child has been nothing but a nightmare.

The other night I was praying for some spiritual support while I make it through this next baby-related fiasco. I thought, “I am trying to do the right thing here and provide a good life for this little person. If God wants me to be a good mother for him why does he make it so incredibly hard? If being a good mother is a commandment, why does it have to be so hard to do?”

Well, for all you spiritually mature readers out there, this question is probably a no-brainer. We know it doesn’t make a difference if the commandments are easy or hard. The point is to obey them, whether we like it or not.

But I was getting a little frustrated with how painful this whole “Bringing J.J. Into the World” ordeal has been. And I needed some help.

He is Not Here – Walter Rane

I was reading in a magazine and came across a statement by one of our church leaders. He said, “The crowning achievement of the Savior’s life was suffering the atonement.” (The atonement refers to Christ suffering the consequences of our sin.) I thought, “Hm. That is interesting. It was the moment when Christ willingly brought himself to the lowest point that was also the moment he achieved the highest miracle.”

I asked myself, “What has been the lowest moment in my life?” Automatically I thought of giving birth to J.J. just a couple weeks earlier. It was physically difficult and emotionally trying. His heart rate was low and amongst the unbearable pain the doctor told me he would have to intervene and possibly harm our baby to keep him alive. I was already out of my mind and I felt so helpless. All I could think was “Dear God, make it okay” while I moaned and pushed – hoping it would be enough.

My awesome gremlins

I realized that the crowning moments of my life have been giving birth to Jo and J.J. Don’t get me wrong, I hate pregnancy, I hate childbirth, and I hate breastfeeding. It hurts, and I don’t want to have to do these things. But I willingly volunteered to suck it up and suffer because I wanted them to have a chance at life. Even just the decision to get pregnant is a huge achievement for any woman because she knows suffering is on its way, and she takes it on willingly.

I was discussing this with a friend (smart girl, you should read her blog here http://transplanteditalian.blogspot.com/) and she said, “You think the Savior wanted to do that? No. He didn’t WANT to do it, but he did it because he loves you.”

I never want to vomit that hard again, I never want to feel like I am being tazered multiple times a day again, and I never want to give birth again. None of this was very fun. But I know I will have more kids – even though it means I will have to do all of these things again. I love my children, and I will love any baby that comes into our family, and if suffering is what it takes to provide life for them, then that is what I will do.

My mom did it 4 times.

I really do think that the greatest thing a person can do is willingly suffer for another’s benefit. It sounds morbid, I know, but think about it. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” John 15:13.

That is mothering in a nutshell. I commend every woman who lays down her own life, again and again, not only to bring children into this world, but to give her children the best. We have accomplished something incredible, and I know that God appreciates our sacrifice. You have performed miracles.

Doing What We Hate

Our sad garden. The entire right side is weeds. : (

Jordan and I agreed to do a community garden with some friends this summer. Unfortunately, a few glitches developed in our green thumb plans. The head family of our veggie growing enterprise found a job in St. Louis and we lost our entire supply of gardening experience. A second family chose to back out of the arrangement. And the third lives on the other side of town – making it difficult for them to visit the plants often. As a result, Jordan and I are now the primary care takers of two tomato plants, some squash, carrots, peas, potatoes, beans, cucumbers, garlic, and a pumpkin.

To be brief, things are not going well.

We wander through the community garden, where our little plot is placed, and marvel with anxiety at the incredible success other growers are having. People have tomato plants twice as tall as ours, their squash have large, beautiful leaves, their plants stand straight, and tall, proud of their owners, and everything appears to be sprouting in perfect rows any obsessive compulsive farmer would praise.

Our plot is struggling. Weeds have come to choke the life from what little growth we have managed. Every time I try to pull a few, the soil is so hard it is like pulling a thin hair from hardened cement – impossible. Whenever I hose down our designated patch of vegetable death it immediately floods and the water runs off into neighboring gardens that have somehow managed to become beautiful arrangements of new life.

Jo is an angry gardener too.

In addition, we always have a newborn and a raving, lunatic toddler with us. Jordan usually watches the kiddos while I “garden.” He chases Jo through everyone else’s garden plot, begging her not to step on sprouts or pull plants while I stand in the summer heat scratching my head. “I put seeds in the ground according to package directions and I water every other day. Why doesn’t anything grow?” (Anything but weeds, that is.)

Well, I assume the answer to this question is not so perplexing after all. Nothing grows because I know nothing about growing. It is sort of like being a parent. Lucky for me, children are a little hardier than peas. As my wise sister-in-law reassured me when I was pregnant with Jo, “Just don’t drop ‘em or shake ‘em and they will be fine.” So far, this wise and comforting counsel has proven to be true.  (Although, I would add, “Horsewhip them if you ever catch them with alcohol” – that pretty much covers all parenting basics.)

What am I to do with this pathetic little plot of tortured vegetables? (Technically, tomatoes are a fruit.)

I can either give up and let the summer sun take its deadly course, or I can press on, faithfully tending my struggling charges even when hope of success is small.

Considering that I paid twenty dollars to reserve the garden plot, and another seven-fifty on plants, I feel a strong obligation to continue ministering to my sickly sprouts. They are relying on me for a shot at life, and I hope that through hard work and perseverance I can give them a fair chance – before eating them.

LOOK OUT! SHE’S GOT A SPADE!

To be honest, I don’t expect more than a couple potatoes and maybe a demented pumpkin demented perfect for Halloween. And it isn’t easy to pack up two kids into the stroller, walk them to the community garden, manage both children, and then pull a few weeds before someone takes a hoe and commits some heinous crime. (It is hard to keep your temper in hot weather.)

But I am going to garden anyways. Because I believe in doing hard things, even if you don’t enjoy them, if only because you have made a commitment to try. (If I can stick it out through 2 pregnancies, Chem 105,  and a whole opera, then I can certainly stick this out through the end of the summer.)We all have the ability to do things we hate. And thank goodness because we will probably be required to exert this super power many times throughout our lives. Whether it is passing classes, parent-teacher conferences, taking kids to Disney On Ice, or preparing dinner – we’ve all got to stick it out. And it is in the sticking part that we learn a lot about hard work, sacrifice, and our power to overcome.

Look at my awesome rubbers!

So even if your plants are all wilting, dinner tastes like dog vomit, and your toddler believes you are evil reincarnated for denying her the privilege of more gummy bears, I say, “Here’s to us! Doing the things we hate!”

It is the folks like us who keep the world spinning and are bound to find success in the end.

ROCK ON SISTAH!!! (Or brother – in case you are a man who reads lady blogs.)

Not What I Had In Mind

There is no experience comparable to the joy and relief felt when you are finally able to hold a baby your baby after months of hard work and waiting. I am happy to say, my moment finally came and my ginormous son was born early Friday morning.

I had been to the OBGYN on Thursday afternoon (I love going to the OB on my birthday), and he told me I wasn’t near delivery, but behold, a few hours later things were beginning to rock and roll in my uterus. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! I was like, “These contractions are great! I’m so excited to have this baby!” (HA! Naive me.)

1:00 a.m. rolled around and my contractions were coming about 7 minutes apart but were lasting about two minutes each. I woke Jordan up and told him I wanted to go to the hospital. He thought we were going too early, but I wanted to leave so we had plenty of time to get settled in and for me to soak in the tub before getting an epidural.

We pulled up to the hospital and Jordan offered to drop me off, but I told him I could walk since it would probably help speed things up a bit. (Ayayay). On the way in my contractions were suddenly very intense and only 3 to 4 minutes apart. I got up to my room, tried to be pleasant as staff made small talk and wished me happy birthday, and threw my beautiful hospital “gown” on. I looked at the tub and thought, “Maybe I should wait until after they check me.”

At 2 a.m. I was in the bed and at 3 cm. They kept on asking me questions. I was getting more and more frustrated, and I attempted to lie a few times to speed things up but they caught me. I was like, “If you already know the answer why are you asking me again?” Fifteen minutes later I said, “I want my epidural now.” The nurse smiled and said, “I have to register you into the computer before I can do anything.”

Another ten minutes went by and I was sweating bullets, moaning, and saying, “I’m serious. Get me an epidural. This is why I was born now. So I could get an epidural. This is why I wasn’t born 100 years ago. Get me an epidural.”

Another nurse came in to help out her co-worker since I was getting a little feisty and said, “You have to be at 5 cm before you can get an epidural.” I said, “I’m a five. Get me an epidural.” The first nurse explained I was only a three, but my new friend decided to check and said, “Whoa. She is flying. She is already a five.”

This is when things began to get crazy.

“Where is the anesthesiologist? I want my epidural.” (More high pitched panting.)

“Well. You can’t get one.”

A frustrated roar. “Is she here?”

“She’s here.”

“Why can’t I get one?”

“The baby’s heart rate is too low. You can’t get an epidural.”

Then all “H-E-double-hockey-sticks” broke loose.

My first nurse got on the phone and about twenty more people entered the room (ok, maybe not 20 but it seemed like 20!). They were running around calling down to the pharmacy for antibiotics, jabbing pins into me, drawing blood, calling my OB, and taking the bed apart. I was progressing incredibly fast and screaming bloody murder. From this point on everything is a blur. Jordan claims I was out of my mind.

A few things I remember.

I tried to repeatedly explain to the medical crowd that I was dying. No one seemed to be paying attention and they kept shoving an oxygen mask on my face. The large black nurse stopped, leaned over to look me in the eyes and said, “KayLynn, you are not going to die. I promise that you are not going to die.” I would have corrected her mistake and told her my name was actually Kayleen, but it seemed like an insignificant detail since I first had to convince someone that I was dying and needed to be beat over the head with a sledgehammer till the pain stopped. As a result, everyone kept calling me KayLynn for the rest of the delivery.

I remember a bald man drawing blood from my left arm and I screamed, “Stop it! Stop it right now! Just stop!” He looked a little overwhelmed and took a step back. Only to return after I had directed my attention to some other obnoxious procedure. I could have killed him.

I remember Jordan standing by my head repeatedly popping ice cubes into my mouth so I would have a harder time yelling at everyone.

I remember hitting the plastic railings on the bed.

I remember uncontrollable shaking.

I remember screaming as multiple people held me down and begged me not to push.

I remember the anesthesiologist finally coming in after I was already at 10 cm and telling me to “hold still.” They strapped my legs together and held me down while she put the needle in my back.

Finally. I was able to roll over and I started pushing. Since I could still feel everything my doctor gave me a local anesthetic and I was going to get the baby out. This proved to be difficult since he was 9 lbs 10 oz. But I had finally received some pain medication, and for the first time I realized I wasn’t going to die.

At 3:34 a.m. little Jordan E. Barlow was born. They whisked him away to clean him off and wrap him up as I laid back in complete shock. I was in no way prepared for that kind of delivery. I went from 2 cm to giving birth in an hour and a half. With Jo it had taken more than 12 hours. I couldn’t do anything but cry.

Half an hour later I was holding my son. I knew he was worth it. I knew I would do it again for him. And I also knew I would never have more children.

It was the most physically and mentally trying experience I had ever been through. Jordan described it as a nightmare.

While they were cleaning things up my nurse looked at me, “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to look at your birth plan.” I shrugged my shoulders, “That’s okay, all it said was that I wanted an epidural.” She kind of nodded and then continued typing things into the computer.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when I think about J.J.’s birth.

But I do know that I love him. I am so glad he is here. He was worth every minute. And I am the luckiest woman in the world. I now get to spend the rest of my life watching him grow, torment his sister, be tormented by her, learn new things, and feel the warmth of his hugs.

I couldn’t be happier.

Falling in Love

The greatest part of having a family is falling in love.

Many days, I love my family without falling in love. I move through my day listening to the same toddler tunes CD over and over again, staring at my fridge wondering how to make cream of chicken soup, hamburger, broccoli, and a little flour magically transform into dinner, and demanding Jo say “please” before sharing my Klondike bar. I know I love my family, I live that love 24/7. It is in the way I vacuum, play dolls, stretch the budget, and take deep breaths when at a snapping point.

This is love - Barlow style

But when all of these repetitive (and sometimes exhausting) manifestations of love take a step back, and I am able to take a step forward into the true meaning of the word “family”, I am always blessed with an opportunity to fall in love.

It is wonderful to fall in love. I had a splendid time letting myself fall head over heels for Jordan. Falling in love is like being filled with a million bouncy balls all ricocheting off your bones in separate directions and forcing you to expand into a better person. (It also makes me feel like my bloodstream has been carbonated.) Sometimes I look at Jordan and am surprised to remember that he is the same redhead who made me act like a giddy five-year-old only four years ago. In many ways life has turned us into business partners. The love is always there, but in the day to day of making this family work we sometimes miss out on the falling part.

When I do see him and feel my heart sprout wings, it is always a rewarding and affirming experience though. I am reminded of our power to conquer heaven and earth if we stick together.

The same thing happens with little Josephine – who is quickly turning into a big girl. Earlier today she dumped 101 cookie cutters on the floor and then didn’t want to pick them up. Being 40+ weeks pregnant, I didn’t really feel like picking them up either. I spread my fingers, bulged my eyeballs and mumbled “Sometimes, you are so annoying” through locked jaws. Lucky for me, it is this way only sometimes.

Ever since Grandma’s arrival, Jo has been reluctant during bedtime. About half an hour after tucking her in this evening, I peeked my head in her room to see how she was handling the disappointment. She was laying on her side staring at the door with a most depressed expression. I decided to sit on the edge of her bed and sing her a little song. After a remarkable rendition of “Heavenly Father Loves Me” I leaned in to give her another kiss. She said “here” and used her cute little toddler hands to position my head on her chest then gently began to stroke my hair. I said, “You are so sweet, Jo.” She smiled in a shy way and said, “Sweet Jo.” I could definitely feel the bouncy balls as my incredible daughter took a moment to comfort her discouraged mom.

She takes such good care of us

I am so excited to FINALLY have this baby. It will be wonderful to have another person in our family to fall in love with over and over again as we both change over the years. I know I will have that somewhat shocking first love that comes right after giving birth, (then it is more like being stabbed with a knife than bouncy balls – talk about the wind being knocked out of you). And I know I will have all the wonderful fizzy sensations as his personality unfolds and I sit back and think, “How did I get lucky enough to get you?” (Just be born already!)

In the end, the greatest part of my job is having the opportunity to fall in love again and again – with Jordan, with Jo, and hopefully very soon with J.J. It really is the most wonderful sensation.

I absolutely love falling in love.

The Frazzle Dazzle Days

Snot and cinnamon roll for breakfast - nothing better.

I wake up every morning wondering if I will make it through the day with Jo. I can hear her running around outside my bedroom door excitedly yelling about blankets, her lion, babies, Elmo, and cereal. (A toddler’s true treasures.) I know that when I muster up the mental and physical strength to venture out of my room she will come running down the hallway, blonde hair flying, in barefeet and pajamas screaming “HIYYYYY!” Then she will throw herself onto my leg and excitedly explain to me all the wonderful things about her last hour with Dad.

Being greeted in such a splendid way has become my morning lifeline. It always puts a smile on my face, even if I haven’t slept all night, and I can’t imagine a more inspiring way to start a new day.

The remaining 13 hours before bedtime are usually a roller coaster. I watch the clock begging time to speed up then realize we only have ten minutes before we must leave and frantically try to get everything ready. One minute Jo and I will be laughing our heads off about something silly she said or a new game we discovered, and the next we are fighting over snacks, toothbrushes, or crayons. She begs and begs for me to take her on a walk, but then refuses to bring me her shoes so we waste ten minutes with her crying at the door and me explaining that she must wear shoes outside. It is peaceful play/reading time sandwiched between the rush of errands and chores nonstop.

Jo feeling sad

It never makes any sense. Our life together is much like a sporadic emotional bomb that explodes without warning.

There are plenty of sweet moments to make every day beautiful though. During dinner Jo and I had a small war about eating carrots responsibly. She wanted to pre-chew everything for me, whereas I wanted to eat my own carrots and avoid the chunky, orange, slobbery mess she insisted on sharing. (She would pull a half-eaten carrot from her mouth and say “Here, your turn.”) Nasty. Her insistence on leaving carrot muck everywhere was getting on my nerves.

All of a sudden baby moved and I was screaming in shock and pain. It went on for a few minutes where he pushed against my right leg and I thought I would hurl or become paralyzed. Jo, with the most concerned look on her face, reached over to pat my back and say, “Back hurt? Hurt? Back.” Then she offered a train piece for comfort. I was experiencing two of the worst and most enjoyable parts of motherhood at the same time. The love from my daughter definitely eased the pain from my son.

I am always amazed by the never ending juxtaposition between pain and pleasure that motherhood is. They annoy us to death then make us smile, they bonk us on the head then make everything better with “Soorey,” they wake us up at 2 a.m. then we can’t let them go once they’ve fallen asleep in our arms.I once read a book where a female scholar under stress met a woman with four kids. The mother looked at the other woman and asked, “How many do you have?” After responding in surprise that she didn’t have any children the student asked, “Why did you think I do?” The mother simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “You have that frazzled look about you.”

Jo thirty seconds later

I laugh every time I think of that scene because it is true – we have a certain frazzled quality.

We are teaching Jo to say her prayers at night. We sit by her bed together and Jo repeats the words of her prayer after Jordan or I. Tonight Jordan was leading and he said, “Please help mom,” Jo slurred, “Help mom,” he said, “Bless baby J.J.,” and Jo reverently said, “B-j-by-jay-babe-jay.” I practically drowned in heart sprinkles.

I climb in bed every night totally exhausted. (I know we all do.) I am equally frazzled with the frustrating aspects of raising a toddler and dazzled with the moments of pure delight of each day.

As moms our life is all frazzle-dazzle. There is always something new and more to get our hair frizzy our and hearts melting.

I have come to accept that the ride will never be smooth. We will always have ups and downs, multiple ones every three minutes. But I love these frazzle-dazzle days. I wouldn’t trade my time as Jo’s mom even for a publishing contract and a million new Bosches.

Moms, despite the pulled hair, spilled applesauce, disobedient shenanigans, and tantrums over the dumbest things, we are some of the luckiest women in the world.

Hello Again!

Hello Again, Dear Friends!

Oh, how I have missed you. I love to spew my mental musings on this little blog, but recently, life has been a tad on the overwhelming side and it was either Jordan, Jo, my sanity, or the blog that had to go – I chose the blog. It was a sad decision, but all four members of my family are still alive and that is quite an accomplishment considering our week. Hopefully we can make it the next three days until Grandma’s arrival. (I’m gonna be honest, it might be sketchy.)

"I AM A WARRIOR!"

Things have been quite eventful here. Jordan had his first spaz attack since 2007 when I met the dear boy. It freaked me out a little bit, but I am impressed he has held up so well thus far, considering the impressive amount of stressful treats piling up on his life smorgasbord. (When I say “Jordan had a spaz attack” I don’t mean spaz in the way you or I would spaz. He doesn’t run around flapping his arms and incoherently ranting like a chicken. ((Please tell me you do that too.)) He gets even more quiet than usual and shakes his hands a bit. Silent but scary.) Many of you faithful academia wives out there will to relate to this. We are a special breed that support our men to move forward with their dreams even when throwing in the towel would be so pleasant for us and them. We are definitely the passenger seat warriors in this complicated process called education. (Ay-ay-ay-ah!)

Jo continues to be my exhausting angel. I love spending every day with her. I am so excited to have my son here, but I also feel sad knowing that the days of “Mommy and Jo” time are coming to a close. It has been incredible watching her learn and grow over the past two years. I am so grateful to be able to stay at home and put 100% of my focus into experiencing life with her. She has become my most cherished friend. I will miss our girl time – but, oh heavens, PLEASE!, I hope the end is coming soon.

Jordan and I did an amazing thing today – something necessary to any successful marriage – we reached a compromise! As many of you know, our car was horribly pathetic. I wanted something new, and he wanted to keep our money in the bank. So, we each wiggled a little bit and were able to buy a car today. (My life suddenly became much less stressful.) I gave up on the third row of seats and Jordan gave up some funds and we both got a car that fits our current needs, has the gas mileage we were hoping for, and leaves us plenty of security money to fall back on. Yes, life does work out sometimes.

True Happiness

I laughed when Jordan picked this car. I think it looks like a 1949 bat mobile and I want a theme song whenever I drive it. (I sang one today, actually, on the way home from the dealership.) It reminds me of being in a man cave with the smaller, tinted windows, rather quiet ride, and glowing gadget controls. Never what I would have imagined for our family – but if the price is right and the necessities are covered then what can you do? Besides, I think Jordan feels like a superhero driving it. And that, my friends, is priceless. One of the great things about being in a family is learning to work together, considering the needs of the group before your own, discussing and re-discussing a million times over, and then reaching a happy solution for everyone. It feels wonderful to know we are all rowing in the same direction.

Life is full of hard decisions, and I have a funny inkling there are only more to come for Jordan and me. Fortunately, I think we make a good team. We have very different viewpoints on 87% of life, but we both want to do what is best for each other. I love that wise marriage counsel, “It isn’t who is right, but what is right.” In many ways we are both right, but we must find a way to mesh our two different kinds of right together.

The New Barlowbile

I was right we needed a new car. He was right we needed to conserve our savings. Abbra-Cadabra-Bada-Bing-Bada-Boing! With a little bit of work, it all worked out.

And now my non-smelly groceries and I can drive home together singing “Na na na na na na na na na na na, Batman!”

Forgiveness

When I was in grade school I had the brilliant idea to strap on my roller blades and see how fast I could get going down the large hill we lived on. I definitely enjoyed a sense of danger as a young girl, but I began to freak out once I got halfway down and could feel that I was losing control. Right then, a large minivan came down the hill after me. Frantically, I dove to the side, and landed hard against the pavement. Unfortunately, I was wearing my shorty-shorts this particular afternoon and that meant my right thigh took a major beating. I had peeled off a large area of skin and beads of blood were forming like snowflakes across my leg by the time I rolled over.

When I made it home, my mom asked what happened. I explained my daring venture, and she put up with my insatiable desire for being stupid once again. She cleaned me up and told me not to touch the large, gaping, wound for anything. This was not easy.

The scrape burned horribly, and it seemed the only way to relieve the small fire on my right thigh was to scratch and rub at it. But, doing so meant I would only injure myself even further. Scratching took off even more skin and removed any scabs that had formed. The temporary relief would only prolong the healing process. I had to work really hard to ignore the burning and leave the wound alone so it could eventually heal.

In many ways, forgiveness is like a giant, nasty, scrape on your right thigh.

Sometimes, people really hurt my feelings, and I am left with a big scrape that itches and festers. It can be tempting to pick at the hurt, scratch at my feelings, and temporarily relieve the pain, but in the end, continually revisiting the offense only manages to make the wound deeper and prevent any emotional scabs that would help me to heal.

http://comefillyourcup.com/2012/03/21/forgiveness/

I have learned to be a much happier person by ignoring the stings from others and refusing to pick at hurt feelings. There isn’t any point in making it worse for myself, so I might as well just leave it alone. It isn’t easy to get over every scrape and bruise that comes our way. Some take longer to heal than others, but at least we know that they will eventually stop burning if we can only manage to ignore it long enough.

P.S. I was really sad that my thigh was all torn up because we were having a family reunion at a hotel and I couldn’t get in the pool. But then my mom had the awesome idea to wrap my leg in plastic wrap and tape it all down so I could still swim. Moms are the best. : )

Short Story

I’m not feeling too exceptional this evening. I’m not in labor, but I am definitely disabled beyond my creative capacity. So, I rummaged through some old folders and found a paper I wrote for my short story class at BYU. I know the colloquial isn’t my strength, but it is something to read!

If it seems ridiculously long, that is okay, you’ve got the whole weekend to read it. And 90% is dialogue – easy peasy.

___

http://www.everyculture.com/Sa-Th/Senegal.html#b

“Adah!”

Adah looked up. A young black girl in a faded skirt and worn out shoes was calling to her. “Whatcha want, Missy?”

“Mr. Farris tole me ta come out an’ getcha.”

Adah nervously glanced at the other women working around her. They all kept their heads down and concentrated on avoiding eye contact. She called back, “Ya know what he want me for?”

“Dunno. All he tole me is ta come out and getcha; says he wants ta see ya in his office.” Missy shrugged her shoulders and turned back towards the big white house a mile west.

Adah’s aunt Connie frowned. She let her eyes wander over Adah’s slim but curvy figure—too pretty for her own good. “Bes’ go on up there then; no use waitin’.”

Adah glared fiercely at the great house looming in the distance. She dropped her bag and followed Missy through the rows of cotton, trying not to think of what she could only assume Mr. Farris wanted her for. Everyone knew he had been seeing a lot of Aliza, but recently Aliza had started to show, so he stopped. Adah hadn’t spent much time around Mr. Farris. She and Eliot adhered to the maxim, “If you let them alone, they’ll let you alone”; if only that were true. As far as she could remember, Mr. Farris wasn’t much to look at. He was an older man—she guessed somewhere in his early fifties. He had big bushy eyebrows and thinning hair. He was thick around the middle, but not fat, and he had a big shiny ring on his right hand. Adah had never seen a ring like that before. The stone in it was red, and the band was silver. The fatness of the finger it sat on gave it a sort of devilish, gluttonous sort of appearance, though, like it was used for black magic or something.

Adah’s ring was a nail Eliot had fashioned into a smooth circle. Some people made fun of them for wanting wedding rings, but Eliot and Adah believed that was their mark of ownership. They belonged to each other, and the rings proved it somehow. Seven months now and Adah still wasn’t pregnant. She worried about it, but Eliot reminded her it just took a little time for some people. They weren’t legally married, no point in having a legal marriage as a slave, wouldn’t mean anything anyways. Once when she was little, Adah asked her mom why slaves didn’t have weddings like Mr. Farris’ oldest daughter.  Her mother simply laughed and said, “Cause there ain’t no use. Only white people need weddings to be married. We can be married jus’ fine without ‘em.” So without any hoopla Adah moved into Eliot’s cabin and after that, they were married. Her aunt had made a fancy dinner for them; it was the best meal Adah ever tasted. It made that day something special. There was corn, yams, bread, and meat stew. No better way to start a marriage than with a meal like that. Eliot and Connie were all the family Adah had left now. Everyone else had either died or been sold.

Adah paused outside the back door reserved for slaves. She felt nauseous, and Eliot kept running through her mind. She was glad he wasn’t here. He’d probably do something to get them both whipped. She followed Missy to Mr. Farris’ office and stood there with her nose in the air while Missy knocked. “Adah’s here sir.”

A gruff voice from behind the doors shouted back, “Bring her in, then.” Missy opened the door and then closed it behind Adah. Mr. Farris was the only person in the room, and Adah shifted uneasily on the soft white carpet.

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“Well, Adah,” he said with a serious smile. Adah just slightly nodded her head. Mr. Farris stared at her for a few seconds and then picked up a box with pink and white stripes on it. He slowly lifted the lid. “Ever had a chocolate before, Adah?”

“No sir.”

“Well, you should have one then.” Mr. Farris opened the box and held it toward Adah. He studied her face and hair before resting his eyes on her waist and hips.

Adah’s cheeks burned under their pressure. “No, thank you, sir.” She wouldn’t move one step closer to him for anything.

Mr. Farris let out a barking laugh. “Well don’t be so proud, girl. Just have a chocolate. You won’t regret it.” He popped one in his own mouth. “My wife loves them.”

At the mention of Mrs. Farris, Adah got angry. She was ashamed to even be in this room. “No, thank you.” She purposely left out the ‘sir’ and put as much disgust into the words as she dared.

Mr. Farris hastily closed the box and placed it back on his desk. He fingered a few objects before settling with an empty envelope. “I asked you to come here so we could set up a little arrangement between ourselves.” He tried to catch Adah’s eye but she kept them firmly on the white carpet. Mr. Harris let out a small cough. “For tonight.”

Adah began sweating. She had to refuse, but she didn’t know how. She softly mumbled, “I dunno.”

Mr. Farris leaned forward. “What?” He sounded more surprised than angry.

Adah cleared her throat. “I don’ think I’ll be home tonight.” Her heart was fluttering anxiously.

Mr. Farris frowned. “You’ll be there.”

“I dunno if I’ll be home.” Adah’s voice shook and she felt dizzy. She was afraid of what he might say next, but she couldn’t face Eliot tonight any other way.

“Will Eliot be with you?” Mr. Farris raised his eyebrows and began folding the envelope into quarters.

“I dunno.” Adah’s voice cracked.

“I think you’ll both agree it’s best if you’re there, and he isn’t.” Mr. Farris tore the paper along the creases. “I don’t want to cause a scene.”

That was an obvious warning. Slave whippings were a public exhibit for Mr. Farris. Everyone was required to attend them; they served as a reminder of white power versus black inferiority. Adah’s voice was caught. The image of Eliot standing on a raised wooden platform while Mr. Farris beat him with a cow-hide paralyzed her. “Yes, sir” she whispered. Hot tears were running down her cheeks but she couldn’t feel them because her whole body was burning.

Mr. Farris slightly smiled, “You’re a good girl.” He sat behind his desk and waved Adah out. “Missy will show you out.”

Adah stumbled out of the house and back towards the cotton rows. Her feet were light, and it was hard to feel the ground. She didn’t bother going back to the field. She just floated past, ignoring everyone’s curious and pitiful looks. Adah fumbled into her cabin and slammed the door behind her. She tried to breathe slowly but her throat was closing; she lowered herself onto the pallet her and Eliot slept on. They had to do something, and she knew they had no choice but to run.

Aunt Connie let herself in the cabin and stood right in front of Adah. She looked edgy. “What’d Mr. Farris want?”

“Ya know what he wanted.”

“Did ya say ‘yes’?”

Adah laughed, “What else I gonna say?”

Connie lowered herself down next to Adah. “I dunno.” Connie hugged herself. “What ya gonna tell Eliot?”

“What d’ya mean?”

http://www.tompsc.com/Gallery.aspx?PID=229

“How ya gonna tell him he can’t be here tonight?”

“Well I’m a tell him what happened. Then I’ll tell him we’re leavin’.”

Connie looked up in surprise. “Where ya goin’?.”

Adah stood up and breathed deeply. “We gonna run.”

“Ya gonna try and run? You have no idea what ya doin’!”

Adah began pacing through the cabin.

“If ya leave tonight, Eliot’s gonna be whipped to an inch of his life.”

Adah opened a small potato sack and began placing tin cups and spoons in it. “I ain’t stayin’ here, and he’s comin’ with me.”

Connie grabbed the potato sack. “Ya can’t leave tonight. That takes months to figure. Ya have no plan; no one knows ya comin’.”

“We’ll jus’ go north.”

“Ya don’ know where north is.” Connie almost screamed. She held Adah by the shoulders. “If ya leave tonight, ya’ll both be caught and whipped to high heaven, and none of it gonna make a difference. Mr. Farris still gonna come, even if ya back is ripped to shreds, and he the one that done it.”

Adah pulled away, “I ain’t gonna let that happen.”

“Ya can’t stop it.”

“We can make it out.”

“No, ya can’t.” Connie gently held Adah’s face and forced her to look in her eyes. “Adah, if ya run, ya won’t make it. Ya’ll be caught, both a ya whipped, and Eliot sold. Ya might be sold too, after Mr. Farris get his way. And I know it won’ be same place Eliot is.”

Adah jerked herself free. “What d’ya think we do then?” she asked angrily.

Connie bowed her head. “Stay here, accept ya life, and when Mr. Farris had his way, act like it never happen.”

“I ain’t gonna do that.” Adah said with repulsion.

Connie spoke gravely. “It’s the only way ya both be safe, and it’s the only way ya can keep each other.”

Adah screamed in frustration. She threw herself onto the pallet. “If we do that, we ain’t gonna be each other’s anymore.”

“At least try.” Connie sat next to Adah and pulled her into a hug. “If ya love each other ‘nough, ya’ll be fine.”

Eliot came into the cabin whistling ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and tossed his large sunhat on the table. He came to kiss Adah, but her paleness startled him. “Ya sick?”

Adah turned to the wall. “No.”

“Wha’s wrong then?”

Connie stroked her hair. “Mr. Farris saw Adah today.”

Eliot frowned, “What he want?”

Adah’s voice shook. “Same thing he wanted with Aliza.”

Eliot sat bewildered for a few seconds; then he understood. He bit his lower lip and roughly grabbed Adah’s face. “What did ya say?” He shook her, “What did ya say, Adah?” Adah closed her eyes so she didn’t have to look at him.

Connie pulled Adah away from Eliot and began rocking her. “What she gonna say Eliot?”

Eliot grabbed Adah’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “We’re leavin’.”

Connie shook her head. “Where ya gonna go, Eliot?”

He glared at her. “Anywhere.”

“There ain’t anywhere for ya ta go.”

“We ain’t stayin’.”

“If ya try and leave tonight ya’ll be caught.”

“We’ll hide in da woods.”

“They got dogs for that.”

“We ain’t stayin’,” he yelled.

Connie jumped to her feet and yelled back. “Ya wanna get her whipped to death?”

Eliot paced the cabin a few times before returning to Adah’s side. He softly touched her hair. “We can go.”

http://restaurant-ingthroughhistory.com/2010/01/05/in-the-kitchen-with-madame-early/

Adah slowly shook her head and began to cry.

Eliot shook her, “If we let ‘em do this, that mean they got everythin’.” He frantically searched Adah’s face but she was avoiding his eyes.

“Oh, Eliot, they got it all a long time ago.” Adah pulled away and quietly lay down on their pallet.

Eliot knelt in front of Adah. “We won’ be broken.”

Adah watched Eliot’s face with pity. She grabbed his large callous hands and raised them to her neck.  “We don’t got the power to keep ourselves whole.”

“No. We gonna do somethin’.”

“There ain’t nothin’ we can do, Eliot. Connie’s right. We jus’ gotta take it and preten’ diff’rent.”

“So ya jus’ let this happen?” Eliot looked at Adah with fear.

She turned away. “Don’ know what else ta do.”

Eliot stood. “I ain’t leavin’ this cabin tonight.”

Connie gravely touched his shoulder. “Then ya can ‘spect to be horsewhipped and thrown out.”

Eliot looked at her with frustration. She was right. He knew it, but he couldn’t stand aside to Mr. Farris. “I don’ care.”

“Eliot, that ain’t gonna help anybody. Ya’ll only make it worse for her.” She gently placed her hand on his cheek. “It’s best if ya jus’ leave for tonight.”

Eliot watched Adah rock back and forth on the pallet. “This my cabin, I ain’t leavin.”

Adah laughed sharply. “Mr. Farris owns this cabin, Eliot.”

Eliot crossed the cabin and leaned against the fireplace. “Well, he don’ own you.”

Adah looked up in surprise. “Sho, he does.” She gave Eliot a sad smile. “We jus’ forgot.”

Eliot knelt in front of Adah. He grabbed her left hand and pressed down her ring, “We belong ta each other.”

Adah leaned forward into his shoulder, “I wish it mean that.”

Eliot held Adah’s head against him. “If I let him take ya, then I ain’t a man. If I can’t keep my wife, then I’m nothin’ better than those beasts in the barn.”

Connie stepped towards him. “Who ever say a slave was a man, Eliot?”

“I did.” He had always believed he could be a man, even if he was bought, sold, and beaten. If he believed he was, then he would be a man. If he acted like one, then he would be a man. He wouldn’t let them turn him into some kind of dumb animal.

Eliot moved onto the pallet next to Adah and tried to calm her while she cried. He would be whipped before he left her. At least then he could believe in his own ability to suffer for her. That would mean something. His opposition had to mean something.

Adah could only cry. She waited for Mr. Farris without any feelings of rebellion. He would come, and Eliot would have to leave, and then their marriage would be over. She and Eliot were wrong in pretending. Their bent up nails didn’t mean anything. They were slaves; different from people.

After an hour of anxious waiting, the cabin door opened. Mr. Farris stood with a frown on his face and a whip in his left hand. He let out a cough. Eliot stood to face him with a hard expression. Mr. Farris lifted the whip. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be here, Eliot. I don’t want to harm a good slave over nothing.” He laid the whip down on the table.

Connie and Adah nervously watched Eliot. He stood in front of the pallet with clenched fists.  Connie grabbed his hand and began pulling him toward the door. “Is’ only way, Eliot.” He stood without recognizing her efforts. He couldn’t move. Connie glanced nervously at Mr. Farris. “Don’ make it worse.”

http://www.bluegrayreview.com/2010/11/13/plantation-owner-pins-hopes-on-gridlock/

Mr. Farris moved the whip to his right hand. “I don’ want to harm you, Eliot.”

Adah remained turned toward the wall, silently shaking. She wanted Eliot to leave, but she was afraid he would. He couldn’t leave her with Mr. Farris, but he didn’t have a choice. All she managed was a soft, “Please, Eliot.”

Eliot smirked at Mr. Farris while he slowly raised his hands and pulled his shirt off. Connie gasped, and Adah began to cry harder. Eliot turned and placed his hands against the wall for support.

Adah was relieved he hadn’t left. He was going to stay for her, and Mr. Farris wouldn’t touch her.

Mr. Farris took a few steps forward and anxiously looked from Adah to Eliot. Connie put her hands to her face and began to cry. Mr. Farris laid the cowhide against Eliot’s back twice before Connie began to scream. Mr. Farris paused to ask if Eliot was ready to leave. When he didn’t respond, Mr. Farris whipped him twice more. Eliot’s back began bleeding and dark red streams followed the path of his clenched muscles.

Adah covered her ears and tried to breathe. It wasn’t going to work. Mr. Farris would stay until Eliot was unconscious. She raised her hands to stop Mr. Farris and forced herself off the pallet. She found a rag and dipped it in a bucket of water before laying it across Eliot’s shoulders. She stood in front of him and wrapped his arms around her shoulders before leading him out of the cabin.

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Eliot slowly moved forward, allowing her to guide him. He closed his eyes. It would be too hard to see.  He couldn’t keep Adah; he couldn’t be a man.

Connie followed and gently pressed the towel against the open sores. “Ya’ll get through this. Is’ part a who we are, part a wha’ we do.”

Eliot knew he wouldn’t get through it. He might return to Adah, and they could pretend it didn’t happen. But they both would know she didn’t belong to him, and he wasn’t her husband. He wasn’t really a man, and they couldn’t pretend he was.

It’s Time to Lower the Bar

Jo camps out in the kitchen if I take too long.

Usually, I am overwhelmed by motherhood. I get frustrated with my inability to do everything I should for my children. I hate that I often feel too rundown to take Jo for walks, go down the slide with her, give piggyback rides, prepare delicious dinners, read a million books, and clean up the finger paint. I think one of the hardest parts about motherhood is the feeling of inadequacy when I tuck Jo in at night and know I have fallen short of the mommy ideal I strive for.

We all want to be perfect for our children. The most rewarding experience any mother can have is knowing they are being the mom they hope to be. The bliss of motherhood shines through when our children know how much we love them; when we are the reason behind their laughs, smiles, and peace. The hard work pays off when we see them enjoy a good life. Their long term happiness is the anticipated fruit behind all our labors. And the gift of joy to our children is worth every sacrifice we have made.

This pregnancy has definitely taken a toll on my mommy confidence. I feel guilty when laying on the couch and watching Jo play with her train set by herself. I wish I could go nonstop all day, but I often feel on the verge of breaking once 7 o’clock hits and I still have two hours before I can throw in the towel. (Jordan has been gone every night until 9 the past few weeks and I have a new-found respect for single mothers. You deserve to be worshiped.)

How can I expect to provide for both my children, when caring for only the one is already beyond my capacity?

The great struggle is learning to be a good mom when we can’t be a perfect one.

When you are giving 110% and the “mommy I want to be” bar is still fourteen feet above your reach, it might be time to lower your expectations a bit. We can only reach so high, and sometimes it just isn’t possible to do everything we want to or feel we should.

She LOVES bike rides

I want to take Jo for a bike ride to the park and share a healthy picnic with her every afternoon before nap time. In my mind, this would be an ideal way to spend the warm hours of the day and create scrapbook worthy memories. But I can’t. I simply can’t pull her, a picnic basket, a trailer, and my huge self up the hills of our small town. I know Jo would love this daily activity, and it annoys me that I can’t give it to her. But having limitations is part of life.

I am definitely not the best mom out there, but I am doing the best I can. Jo’s hair is never in pigtails; her clothes always have traces of frosting, chocolate, or ice cream; I can’t remember the last time I washed her sheets; and I got mad when she colored on my sweater with a red marker today.

I am never going to reach the glimmering bar that symbolizes the ideal of motherhood. But instead of standing on tippy-toes and hurting my shoulders with the strain, I think I am going to just go with a bar more within my grasp. It isn’t as shiny, and it doesn’t have the undying love of parenting magazines and child development experts everywhere, but it is the best I can do.

I’ll give my 110% and adjust the bar accordingly. Besides, I don’t feel like spending the remainder of my children’s childhoods wallowing in guilt and frustration. I’d rather just enjoy doing what I can, and let the rest go. They will probably still turn out alright.

Stereotypes are for LOSERS!

I have had many amazing opportunities to connect with different people throughout my life. One thing I have come to realize is that every person is very unique, and every person should be treated with respect, an open mind, and never belittled by stereotypes.

The Incredible Nathan

When I was in the ninth grade I became best friends with a boy named Nathan. No one made me laugh like Nathan did. Everything was an adventure for us and I was pleased to find someone who found the world as hilarious as myself. We were inseparable. We had our own little group of friends and spent every summer rollerblading around our hometown, salsa dancing in my basement, baking at the beach, visiting his family cabin, and giggling our heads off. I loved Nathan tremendously and he still holds a special place in my heart because of the wonderful times we had together.

Shortly after our friendship began it became apparent that Nathan was (is) gay and it also became obvious that other boys at school didn’t approve of this. He was the subject of ridicule on a regular basis and often had to deal with the frustration of misunderstanding and stereotypes from his peers. As his best friend, I hated all of it. I can remember getting fired up over comments my other friends made and blatantly telling anyone who wanted to crack one joke about Nathan, or homosexuality in general, they were “just plain stupid.”

After almost ten years I still think anyone who does this is “just plain stupid.”

Thankfully, I have never been subjected to the stupidity many of my gay or lesbian friends have. But, I have definitely been the butt of plenty of jokes and labeled the “freak” by others because of my religion – oftentimes by members of my own family. I cannot tell you how sick I am of hearing polygamy jokes, special underwear comments, remarks about LDS temples, or that my church encourages men to abuse and belittle women. People will say the most outrageous things. I am always amazed by these stereotypes that still exist. I want to say, “Do any of the LDS men you know have more than one wife? Does it look like I am wearing bloomers? Since when is my underwear any of your business? Do you honestly think I would go to the temple if we were sacrificing cats there? Give me one example of my husband belittling me, because I can’t think of one. And yes, I shower naked.”

It is just like approaching a gay man and asking, “So, do you have AIDs?” How wildly outrageous to blanket the entire gay community because of one stereotype. Also, could you be more offensive?

http://universe.byu.edu/index.php/2012/02/21/memes-are-deeper-than-you-think/

BYU, (my beloved alma mater) recently had a student forum about accepting homosexuality within the LDS church. One audience commentator said Mormons were self-righteous, offensive, exclusive, and hated everyone. Another audience commentator said gays were so obsessed with themselves, the most obnoxious group of people, and void of all morals. I was surprised either comment was even made. Where do people come up with this stuff?

I’m guessing the first comment was made by someone who had met one or two LDS people and they were self-righteous, offensive, and behaved exclusively. Therefore, he assumed all of us were that way. I also suppose the second comment was made by someone who met one or two gay people who were self-centered, obnoxious, and offensive in some ways. They too decided to assign those characteristics to the entire gay community.

In all honesty, I have met gay people who are obnoxious, and I have met gay people who are incredibly giving, loving, and inspirational to me. The same goes for LDS. I know plenty of LDS people who embarrass me with their idiotic behavior, and plenty of LDS people who teach me to be a better person and have my respect.

http://missmoonsmusings.blogspot.com/2012/02/lets-talk-tresses-friday-what.html

Stereotypes are useless. They do nothing but destroy opportunities for relationships, and make it impossible for us to find the incredible qualities each person possesses. And it is horribly annoying to be stereotyped against.

If you ever meet someone who could fall under certain stereotypes please give them a chance to demonstrate who they are individually, and forget about all the other ridiculous things you have heard. Maybe you won’t like them, but that isn’t because they are gay, or LDS, or straight, or Catholic, or black, or white, or skinny, or overweight. It is because they themselves rub you the wrong way. (And if it is for any of those other reasons, you are the one with problems.)

Next time you hear someone say “Gays are sex addicts,” feel free to punch them in the face. And next time you hear someone say “Mormons sacrifice animals at the temple,” feel free to punch them in the face, too. Because both statements are only made out of ignorance, and neither are true.

Say “No” to stereotypes. They are for losers.