Segullah

New Old Love

Catherine A. — Thu, 24 May 2012 06:03:59 +0000

I stopped in time to let them pass – the young girl on her beach cruiser and the handsome boy pedaling behind her. They waved at me, happy. Not the least bent out of shape that I’d infringed on their right of way, slammed my brakes so we didn’t collide. I watched them ride ahead, her cotton blouse billowing in the wind as she glanced over her shoulder to see where he was. He stood off the frame, leaned forward and pedaled faster, the two of them laughing as he raced to catch up.

Young love, I thought.

And I remembered what it was like. Those plutonic days when I saw my husband across the parking lot and hoped we would talk. The ticket stub I saved from our first date. The autumn leaf I pressed between pages – a token of our afternoon together. The electricity of his hand slipping into mine.

Last Friday we celebrated our anniversary.

After passing the baton (a plastic serving spoon) to our babysitters and sitting down in the restaurant, I aologized. I didn’t have a gift. I hadn’t even had time to look up the traditional gift for fourteen years. (We like to give traditional anniversary gifts. Or a silly variation on the theme.)

When I told my husband as much he calmly replied, “That’s okay. Because you have one more year to figure it out.”

“You mean we’ve been married thirteen years?” I asked, eyes wide. I hadn’t done the math. I hadn’t remembered it right. But it didn’t matter. We just laughed and ordered from the menu.

Our love isn’t new anymore, it’s approaching middle-aged. But with a decade-plus behind us, there’s more texture to our relationship, more richness. A safety and acceptance sustain us that didn’t during our first kiss. We know everything about each other (good, bad, and ugly) and that simultaneously expands and simplifies our love. Yet, when he puts both arms around me, I still flutter – surprised that our old love can occasionally feel new.

Below is one of my favorite poems by Ellen Bass. You decide if it’s about old or new love. Either way, the romantic in me nods and agrees with Bass, ”I want to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body.”

Gate C22

At gate C22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like he’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she’d been released at last from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.

Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning,
the way it gathers and swells, sucking
each rock under, swallowing it
again and again. We were all watching–
passengers waiting for the delayed flight
to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots,
the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling
sunglasses. We couldn’t look away. We could
taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.

But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still open from giving birth,
as your mother must have looked at you, no matter
what happened after–if she beat you or left you or
you’re lonely now–you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you
as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,
all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body,
her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses,
little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

Have you ever loved or been loved like this? Tell us about a new love, old love, or new-old love in your life. And I’m curious, what’s your favorite image/detail in Bass’s poem?

Photo courtesy of Michelle Lehnardt

Grief Wears Steel-Capped Boots

Kellie — Wed, 23 May 2012 06:05:48 +0000

My fourteen year old firstborn sits in the hairdressers’ chair, all lanky legs and angles. His curls tumble to the floor – a boofy English Sheepdog turning sleek German Pinscher – and his face morphs as I watch. He’s half smiling, the little mouth twitch I know means he’s well pleased.

“Reckon your Dad will recognise you?” the hairdresser asks, teasing.

STOP! In my head klaxons bellow and lights flare against the danger. Don’t ask that!

All emotion is gone. He’s stone-faced, staring a thousand years through the mirror.

She doesn’t know what’s happened. That his Dad has chosen not to have anything to do with him or his brother anymore. That he hasn’t seen his Dad since before Christmas, and his Dad didn’t recognise him then either.

He shrugs. “Ugh” he grunts, an acceptable almost-answer. Curls continue to drift and eddy through the air, across the floor.

Somehow, grief has tracked us down again and kicked us silent. Grief wears steel-capped boots.

#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#

I’d have thought that for the wallop those boots give there’d be some warning that grief is coming for a visit. I know some dates grief will drop by: the anniversary of my Pop’s death; Father’s Day; when my friends graduate from the degree I’ll never finish; a myriad of future, significant events in my sons’ lives. But I can prepare and plan for those – it’s the rough ambushes by grief in the middle of sun drenched afternoons which bruise me, leave me battered and punctured and realising grief wasn’t as far behind me as I’d thought. Grief’s boots are splattered with dismay and surprises.

But even with the unexpected tackles and unwanted reconnections, sometimes I open the door wide and invite grief in, cruel boots and all. We don’t wallow (mostly). Or brawl (much). I’ve found grief’s sturdy, obvious presence gives some credence and acknowledgement to the pain I’m feeling, the ache of what was lost. The weight of grief’s boots is familiar, like the shape of my favourite mug in my fingers, and after a time of contemplation and use, is sometimes just as possible to put carefully away on a shelf, out of sight, out of mind.

How has grief ambushed you? Do you let yourself have a wallow or brawl with your feelings? How would you personify an emotion? Have you been able to leave grief permanently behind? How do you cope with and support grieving children?

What’s in your summer reading pile?

Melissa M — Tue, 22 May 2012 07:00:03 +0000

One of my favorite summer activities as a teenager was spending long, lazy afternoons lying on a lawn chair in our backyard under the shade of our eucalyptus tree, reading Georgette Heyer novels, while boats droned along the river near our house and cicadas chirped in the bush. All through my teenage years, and well into my young adult years, I spent my summers working through a big stack of books while I lazed in the yard or by the pool, or sunbathed at the beach, toes burrowed in the sand and gulls soaring overhead. As long as I can remember, summer + reading = heaven.

Of course, as an adult, I’ve found that summers aren’t quite as carefree as they were when I was young (also, I no longer read romance novels). Having been a mother for nearly twenty-three years now, with two teenagers still at home, I’ve had my share of busy and stressful summers that have hardly allowed me time to read while I’m in the bathroom, let alone read while lazing by the pool. Last summer I think I hit my all-time summer-reading low: only TWO books completed between May and September. But I start out every summer with an optimistically tall pile of books that I am looking forward to working my way through during all that downtime I will have. A girl can dream, can’t she?

Since the school year for us ends this Friday, summer officially begins in our house this week (gulp!), and I’m ready to tackle my summer reading pile. Problem is, I still need to add some books to that pile, but I’ve been sort of out of the reading loop for a while. So far I plan on reading Margot Livesey’s The Flight of Gemma Hardy, Laura Hillenbrand’s Unbroken (am I the only one who hasn’t read it yet?), Ann Patchett’s State of Wonder, and Lisa See’s Shanghai Girls (can you tell I’m a little behind the times?). I also need to read Clare Vanderpool’s Moon Over Manifest, since I was recently asked to start a YW book club in our ward (incidentally, I’m hopelessly uninformed when it comes to young adult books, so I could really use some help with YA book recommendations) and we’re reading this novel for June. Since I’d like to make my summer reading pile just a little bit taller, I’d love a few more suggestions.

So, what books have you read lately? What’s on your summer reading list? Do you have any suggestions for young adult books that my young women would love to read? Is it difficult for you to find time to read during the summer? If not, what am I doing wrong? I may not be able to spend hours every afternoon lying in my backyard or by the pool lost in a book, but with your help, I can certainly try to recapture some of that summer reading bliss.

Elder Bednar’s Promise

Emily M. — Mon, 21 May 2012 21:15:40 +0000

I started indexing this year, after my stake president talked about it in conference. It was a steep learning curve for me at first; I felt clumsy deciphering the handwriting and stressed about entering wrong information and wrecking the index for some poor searcher. But I’ve gotten better at it, and now I like wondering about the stories behind the names. The 67-year old widower I indexed this morning, who lives alone. How long ago did his wife die, and did they have children? Or the 35-year-old widow who lives with her parents. She has two small children, and I wonder what her plans are next, and how long ago her husband died. I’m indexing the 1940 census now, and I’ve realized that for many of the younger men I index, this was their last census, because right after that they went to war. I have been surprised by how moving indexing can be: it enhances my awareness of names, of individuals who each have their own story.

In issuing the challenge, our stake president reminded us of Elder Bednar’s promise given in October 2011:

It is no coincidence that FamilySearch and other tools have come forth at a time when young people are so familiar with a wide range of information and communication technologies. Your fingers have been trained to text and tweet to accelerate and advance the work of the Lord—not just to communicate quickly with your friends. The skills and aptitude evident among many young people today are a preparation to contribute to the work of salvation. …

As you respond in faith to this invitation, your hearts shall turn to the fathers. The promises made to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob will be implanted in your hearts. Your patriarchal blessing, with its declaration of lineage, will link you to these fathers and be more meaningful to you. Your love and gratitude for your ancestors will increase. Your testimony of and conversion to the Savior will become deep and abiding. And I promise you will be protected against the intensifying influence of the adversary. As you participate in and love this holy work, you will be safeguarded in your youth and throughout your lives.

This line got to me: “I promise you will be protected against the intensifying influence of the adversary.” If there’s anything I want for my children, it is that kind of protection. It is what I have prayed for them since they were small; I think of Mormon’s words, “A continual scene of wickedness has been before my eyes ever since I have been sufficient to behold the ways of man,” and they seem to apply so well today.

I want those blessings for my children. I don’t know what temptations they will face, but I want to layer them in as much spiritual protection as I possibly can. I want the Spirit thick around them, so that they can be strengthened enough to feel the joy of choosing well. I know there are no guarantees for the future, but this is my plan to fortify them right now.

I want to know–how have you implemented family history work into your family? What blessings have you seen from it?

Blood Stains

Guest — Sun, 20 May 2012 11:00:41 +0000

Virginia Aisling Prescott is never called Virginia. Instead she prefers the much more informal, Gina. She joined the church in 2006, at the age of 18 after sending her future husband off on his mission. She graduated from the University of Washington with a degree in English Lit and a minor in Women Studies and finds writing to be the best creative outlet for her days as a mother to her son. She loves her state of Washington, bodies of water, reading books and discussing them even more. She blogs at http://gidgetgoestorome.blogspot.com/.

Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow, Isaiah. 1:18

I glanced at the watch on my wrist. 4:44 am.

Max, my seven month-old son, was crying, stirring from his slumber thirsty for some snuggles and milk from his mama. I wandered out of my room into his noting that the light in the living room was still on.

My in-laws were here for a visit this weekend and they were occupying our living room, sprawled out on the couch, a blow-up mattress, and a hunting cot my father-in-law brought for himself. I could hear my father-in-law snoring and as I sat and nursed and rocked my baby I wondered why the light was on.

I figured they had all fallen asleep with it still on and so I decided to wander into a mine field of sleeping persons to turn it off after laying my babe back in his crib.

Only it turns out someone was awake. My sister-in-law, an 8-year-old with spunk and a bossiness that comes from not having any siblings at home, was sitting on the couch wiping her nose.

“Oh…you’re awake. Are you all right?” I asked.
“My nose is bleeding.” She responded grogily, still heavy from sleep. She pulled her hand away and I saw a smearing of blood across her face and on her hand and on my couch and…..I sighed.

“Come here and I will clean you up.” We walked to the bathroom where I stopped the bleeding and washing the blood that was caked to her face and hair and hands. Then I decided to tackle the blood stain on my couch. After all blood is not something you want to let sit and settle.

Our couch is not a prized possession; in fact it was given to us by a church leader who needed to empty out a storage unit. He had a deadline and we needed a couch. It was a win-win. It is an olive green couch and I actually adore it. You sink in and never want to get up. That’s my kind of couch.

I wanted to save the couch from looking like a crime scene and so I traced my memory for stain removal. For some reason I used to think warm water was the key. For some things it is, but it has to be like boiling lava hot water. Plus couches are tricky since you can’t really put them into the washing machine. I remembered that cold water is magic for stains so I wet a rag and got to scrubbing. With my mother and father-in-law sleeping away right next to me, I gently rubbed and slowly the blood started to come out until you couldn’t see it any longer. I was glad my memory served me well, and after checking with my young sister-in-law to make sure she was all right and stopping the blood flow one more time, I turned off the light and went back to bed.

Except I wanted to make certain that cold water was the right thing. So I grabbed my phone letting the bright LED screen blind me momentarily. I searched, “remove blood stains” and saw that I was correct and in fact if I had used hot water I would have permanently set in the stain. PHEW! Glad my 5am brain was working.

Then I couldn’t get Isaiah 1:18 out of my head. Sins are like blood stains, scarlet and quick to set in forever. The Savior through his Atonement can remove those blood stains with living water. Now I don’t imagine living water was ever boiling lava hot. In fact, when I imagine it, it is like being so thirsty and being given a nice cool glass of water that perfectly quenches your thirst. But sometimes we don’t think clearly and when we see someone we love sinning, we forcefully hand them a mug of hot water. “Drink it!” we order. We try to force feed the Atonement by pouring the scalding water down their throat. Well of course this isn’t received well and usually that person we love is scarred and the blood stain of sin sets in, nearly impossible to remove .

Munching on a Parable

Linda — Fri, 18 May 2012 10:54:13 +0000

The parable of the talents bugs me, so I have spent some time wrestling with it, chomping on it, working some useful meaning from it into my bones.

I like that that the wealthy man gives the same reward to both servants who actually do something productive with what he’s given them:
Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.

Being a “ruler over many things” isn’t necessarily the future I want, but I just interpret that as “good stuff happens.” And I’m all over entering into the joy of the lord.

However, the poor third risk-averse guy recognizes that his boss has some markers of a personality disorder.

The servant knows the master is “hard.” (In fact the master admits he doesn’t have the most scrupulous business practices!) The boss doesn’t give him any instructions on what to do with the money; he just expects to collect it when he gets back. And heaven forbid the servant should lose the money in a venture gone wrong! So the servant does what he thinks safest to make sure nothing bad happens to it: he buries it. Can we really fault him?

Sure enough, the master returns and goes ballistic. Not only is the servant’s name Mud for not reading the master’s mind and earning some interest at least, but he’s cast into outer darkness.

Harsh, what?

I’m even more troubled by what I discover when I search for myself in this story. The truth is that I’m usually plagued by the fear that I’m not doing enough with what I’ve been given. I’m anxious that I won’t figure out the master’s mind about what to do with what I have. (And now I’m referring to the contemporary meaning of talents, not the ancient sum of money kind of talents; and I’m reading master as “Master”). I’m afraid that the Master is going to suss out my inner dumbness and whomp my backside for not recognizing just how much more I could have accomplished if I hadn’t been such a timid nincompoop.

(Where did I get such a skewed image of what the real Master is like? Hmm. Maybe from simplistic readings of multi-layered parables like this, from vast passages of the Old Testament, and from not asking enough questions?)

Wait a minute! Maybe I’m getting more out of this parable than I thought! The master – in his reasonable frame of mind – lauds those first two servants for being “good and faithful” and rewards them with abundance. Goodness. Faith. I think I’m on to something.

It’s the fretful, anxious, uptight servant whose mind is all focused on the possibility of calamity and loss who ends up with … calamity and loss.

I’m not saying that this resolves all my quibbles with the personality of the master portrayed in this story, but when I sit in this story, when I gnaw on its bones, I feel myself called to let go of my fears and experiment with the talents I’ve been given, have some fun, give ‘em a go! It’s not a comparison with the others around me who have five to my two or ten to my four. It’s a mind set of acceptance, gratitude, expansion, joy!

Abundant, what?

This is only an appetizer of what this story, what the scriptures, can reveal when I get in there and munch. I’ve got an appetite for more!

Politics and Religion

Angela — Thu, 17 May 2012 16:04:39 +0000

For reasons that I don’t entirely understand, I am interested in politics. I didn’t grow up in a particularly political household, and I’m not a very partisan person by nature. (Certain of my friends and family would disagree with me here, and I admit I’ve started leaning more to one side as the years wear on, but I’ve voted for people from both parties and still consider myself a moderate on many issues.) Politicians themselves rarely win my heart: they are often given to pandering, dissembling, and speaking out of both sides of their mouths, qualities that rank near the bottom of my list of favorite personality traits. And then there’s the gaping distance between the ideals of democracy* and the inertia, inefficiency, bickering and greed that inevitably infect the political process. It’s painful, sometimes, to invest oneself in the whole maddening mess.

And yet I continue to invest myself in it. I DVR Meet the Press on Sunday. I read political op eds and a blog or two. I enjoy watching televised debates, and even tune in for the often-inane nattering between cable news pontificators that goes on after the debate wraps up. I’ve become rather leery of stepping into the role of debater myself, though, especially with family members or friends who disagree with me. First of all, debating political ideas is a tricky, tricky business. I’ve been burned a few times and relationships have been strained, at least temporarily, and in such situations I invariably regret opening my mouth in the first place. I’m also hesitant to get too publicly political because I don’t want to become one of “those people.” You know, the people on your Facebook feed whose posts make your heart race and your head ache. You click through the photos on their profile and think, “Really, she looks so normal and nice. I never would have guessed that she’s actually an obsessive weirdo / misguided fool!” And then you hide her. You know you’ve done it. I admit: I don’t want people who disagree with me to hide me, or look at me sideways on Sunday, or, worst of all, for a friend to interpret my statement of political opinion as a personal condemnation.

But. But! Is this really the best way? Shouldn’t we be able to discuss political ideas without so much trepidation and misunderstanding? In fact, doesn’t our democracy, if it is to function at all, require it, especially of those of us who hold moderate or non-always-hewing-to-the-party-line opinions? If only those who don’t give a flying flip what the other side thinks speak up, we can’t complain that politics has lost all remnants of civility, now can we?

This political season is shaping up to be a particularly heated one in Mormon circles, what with a member of our very own tribe as the Republican nominee. But this post isn’t about Mitt Romney. (Seriously, it’s not about Mitt Romney. Not that I don’t think it would be interesting or valuable to talk about Mitt Romney, but this post isn’t about him.) No, the angle I want to explore is the intersection of politics and religion that makes political debate between members of the church — especially members of the church who disagree — particularly fraught and troublesome.

It seems to me that, among Mormons, many of our “political discussions gone bad” head south whenever people use religious orthodoxy or doctrinal interpretation as a trump card. Statements like “I don’t see how a good Mormon could ever vote for . . .” or “If you truly understood our doctrine, then certainly you’d believe . . .” or “Surely you’ve read King Benjamin’s sermon / Ezra Taft Benson’s book / The Proclamation on the Family, but if it’s been a while, then why don’t I quote specific sections from it and interpret them for you?” Go down that road and KABOOM. Every. Single. Time. At least in my experience.

I wish it were easier to discuss our political beliefs as they are informed by our religious ones, since our faith and our political ideals are often deeply intertwined. It’s hard for me to separate my opinions about, say, health care reform from my understanding of the gospel, because the gospel is an important lens through which I see the world. But there is a big difference between acknowledging that the gospel influences my world view and using selected doctrines and specific scriptures as a weapon to pummel those who disagree with me. And even if I’m not the weapon-wielding type, I can also use those same doctrines and scriptures to build a scaffolding of what appears to be unassailable political “truth,” but which is, in actuality, a structure I’ve created so I can climb it and more effectively look down on all those misguided souls who can’t seem to see the world as clearly as I do.

It’s one thing to explain to someone why you think their ideas about financial regulation won’t best serve our country. It’s another thing entirely to insinuate that, because of their politics, they’re not right with God. Personally, I’ve decided that if and when I choose to have political discussions with other Mormons who disagree with me, I avoid invoking a gospel-based rationale whenever possible. I don’t always adhere to this commitment — I’ve built my own scaffoldings over the years– but I try. And if my co-debater insists on using the Church as a trump card, sometimes I resort to sending him or her this excellent link and then backing away slowly.

I’m not sure if this particular method is the best answer for me. I’m certain it’s not the answer for everybody. But as someone who does care about politics and the gospel and thinks a healthy interchange of ideas is important, but who does not care for conflict, strife, and misunderstanding, it’s the best I can do right now. What about you? How do you navigate the turbulent waters of religion and politics? Are you bracing yourself for this election season, or looking forward to it?

*I’m hoping that I can get away with using the word “democracy” without somebody reminding me that the United States is actually a republic.

No good comes from blogging after midnight

Heather O. — Wed, 16 May 2012 22:04:49 +0000

Last night I read something on the interwebs that got my gander up. I won’t go into specifics, but generally speaking, somebody chose to describe her personal experiences using language that I found to be overly dramatic, and inappropriate to the level of hardship. I’ve heard her phrasology ascribed to other, more worthy hardships, including some of the trials I myself have faced. Certainly HER trial is not the level of hardship of MY trials, and she dared to use the same language!!!

The nerve.

I’m not usually defensive about language, because I think that people only have their own experience to describe things, and if something is genuinely hard for them, it’s not very polite or kind to say, “Hard? You think THAT’s hard? I’ll show you hard, lady!” And everybody learns by scale, after all, and everything looks easier after you’ve been through it and are looking back from the other side, i.e., the older woman who tells you to enjoy these years because they grow so gosh darned fast while your child is trying to simultaneously dump out all of the shampoo in the hair care products aisle and strip so he can run naked through the grocery store.

Yeah, that.

And I’ve known lots of people who make posts about “What not to say to a [adoptive parent/migraine sufferer/diabetic/new mom/cancer survivor/mom who miscarried/son of a pirate].” Everybody has a story where somebody treated them with grossly insensitive language, and they aren’t stories that fade easily with memory.

Bottom line—language is important.

It took me a long time last night to simmer down, and I thought a lot about why this particular language got under my skin. I think I felt a certain proprietary about it. Only people with THESE specific trials can use that phrase, dang it! I acknowledged to myself that such a position is prideful, exclusive, and narcissistic, and nothing about that feeling comes close to any kind of definition of charity.

I assume that if you are reading this, you’re a blogger, so you care about words. And if you are a regular at Segullah, you probably REALLLY care about words. So I ask you–why do we feel so stingy about language sometimes? Why do we feel we have to earn certain labels, certain phrases, certain points of conversation? Is it just pride, or is there something else going on? Have you ever felt like somebody used a phrase to describe themselves or their situation that they didn’t “deserve”?

If I don’t get back to this discussion for a while, I apologize. I’m on my way to my book club. Where we will be talking about our favorite poems. Yeah, we’re word nerds.

Ambivalence

Melissa Y. — Tue, 15 May 2012 12:55:01 +0000

(a poem for Facebook)

Words slip from the screen,
winding me in threads of text,
binding mind and feeling.

Fumbling at the brisk
pace of caring,
I scroll through worlds—

loss, laughter, lunch on Tuesday,

silent strings of detail that
glisten outward

and by gossamer connection
I am both secured and sliced,
life left as ribbons
in my hand.

Sacrificing the Mother’s Day Martyr

Shelah — Mon, 14 May 2012 12:03:22 +0000

I’ve been a mother for thirteen Mother’s Days, and most of them have been crappy. Ed seemed to either be working or out of town for about five years in a row. The books he got me were never what I would have picked for myself. And the children acted like, well, children. I’d invariably go to bed on Mother’s Day feeling more frustrated and unappreciated than I did on any other day of the year. I dreamed of being one of those women who send their husbands and kids off to church and lie in bed all day reading or watching movies on Mother’s Day, or else one of the women whose families shower them with jewelry and dresses and breakfast in bed and perfect desserts.

In my house, neither one of those is going to happen. Not anytime soon, at least. I have five little kids, and a husband who, once again, had to work this year on Mother’s Day.

But this year was going to be different; I was determined to have a good Mother’s Day, no matter what.

I love cinnamon rolls, but the only way I was going to have anything other than Kashi cereal for breakfast was if I made it myself. So when Maren came into my room at 6:12, I gave her a snuggle, got her a drink and set out the cinnamon rolls to rise. Then I got back in bed and dozed while she made me cards.

But I didn’t stay in bed too late, because that would have forced us into a “rush around to get ready for church” situation, and those stress me out. I hopped in the shower, stripped the bed, and everyone was done with their cinnamon rolls and in the pew at church five minutes before church started.

I watched my oldest son pass the sacrament for the first time and tried my best to ignore when he picked a wedgie in front of the whole congregation. I watched my other boy sing to me with the Primary and didn’t let myself get hung up on the fact that my two girls were still in the bathroom when the kids started singing.

I giggled over the kids’ sweet cards, and told Isaac I’d be eating the M&Ms he gave me myself, thankyouverymuch (even though he offered to take them off my hands). I appreciated that my husband recognized that I like to bake and I’m a fan of Anna Quindlen, and overlooked the fact that her new memoir is actually about growing older and not about eating cake.

When I drove down to take the kids to celebrate the day with my mother-in-law, I reminded myself that I’d be getting a delicious meal that I didn’t have to make instead of lamenting that there’d be no nap and no chance to read the afternoon away.

As I made dinner, put the sheets back on our bed (I do love clean sheets), bathed the little girls, did the dishes, and rolled the garbage cans down to the curb, I reminded myself how lucky I am to have these little people to feed and clean up after.

And when my oldest daughter kept talking to me while we watched tv together and I tried to write this post, I forced myself to think about how glad I was that she still wanted to talk my ear off.

I wasn’t a saint today– there was that time in the car when the baby was crying, the kids were watching Megamind at full volume, someone in the back was whining for a drink, and my front-seat passenger was blasting music from my iPod when I threatened to turn the car around if they didn’t all shut their dang mouths, but for the first time in more than a decade of Mother’s Days, I was happy.