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.

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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.

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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.

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Mother’s day dawns and the women are grumbling. Most of the women I know don’t particularly like Mother’s Day. Growing up my mom hated Mother’s Day. She would sit in church and hear sermons in which old men talk about their dead saintly mothers who inevitably never raised their voice. And then on the drive home from church my mom would remind us that the only thing she wanted for Mother’s Day was for us kids to get along which was asking way too much. We’d quarrel more than ever and my mom would raise her voice, leaving her feeling even more guilty than she did in church. My mother-in-law cried most Mother’s Day’s because her mom was dead.

I too have had Mother’s days where I’ve wondered about the holiday. I remember as a young mom trying to host my mom or mother-in-law for Mother’s day and at the end of day feeling frazzled and not too appreciated. There’s a long list of other reasons women might not like holiday: she is not a mom and wants to be one, she is a mom and does not want to be one, her kids are failures and she blames herself, her children are successes and have moved far away, she doesn’t get a long with her mom, she adores her mom but her mom is dead or living far away, no one appreciates her. But probably the biggest reason women don’t like mother’s day is guilt. Like my mom most women seem to compare themselves to an unrealistic ideal and fall short.

A lot of women just skip church on Mother’s Day. Some congregations try to downplay Mother’s Day. I have a friend who was asked to speak on Mother’s Day the topic was prayer. She was told there would be no special musical number, it would be just like any other Sunday. At some point in my life I might have thought downplaying or eliminating Mother’s Day was a good idea. But right now even as the approach of Mother’s Day gives me a heavy heart and dreams of my dead mother, I’m looking forward to a day devoted to reflection on motherhood. I’m in awe of mothers.

As a young woman I did not think much of mother’s. They were dowdy women who drove mini-vans and talked about nothing but their kids. Then I became a mom. I had no idea–no idea the courage, sacrifice and love that beat in the hearts of those dowdy women driving mini-vans. Each stage of raising my kids has been revelatory. Mothers get up in the middle of the night and clean up poo or vomit or both and then gently put children back in bed. Mothers go with out eating, mothers gain weight. Mothers stay up late waiting for a child, mothers get up early to drive to seminary. Mothers drive children everywhere. Mothers clean, harder still mothers teach children to clean. Mothers pray for children adrift, mothers yearn for children on missions. Mothers listen to long mind-numbing incoherent play by play accounts of video games.

I am currently in the trenches of Motherhood and I have seen some amazing things. I’ve seen a single mother work back to back shifts through the night to provide for her family. I’ve seen mothers pushed into depression as their children grow up, move out and move on. I’ve seen mothers helplessly watch on as their children suffer divorce or cancer or both. I’ve watched gentle quiet women deal with the perplexing problem of angry uncontrollable toddlers. I’ve watched women torture their bodies with hormones and procedures all in the hope of becoming a mother. Almost every woman I know holds some heart ache because she loves (or wants to love) a child so much. I think of this heartache as a mother’s heart.

There is a scripture I love in which God gives Enoch a glimpse into His heart. And seeing this the prophet’s heart like God’s “swelled as wide as eternity; and his bowls yearned: and all eternity shook.” (Moses 7:41) As wide as eternity–the perfect description of a mother’s heart. No wonder so many women cry on Mother’s Day.

Mothers are courageous enough to make their hearts vulnerable. I remember driving home from the hospital with my fourth child and thinking what will happen to this child? And knowing that no matter what even if he makes perfect choices and lives to a ripe old age, that loving this child will bring me heartache. One more person to love, one more person to miss, to worry about, to mourn. Each person we let into our hearts, our hearts swell wider. No wonder women’s hearts are so tender.

So we need to be gentle with each other on Mother’s Day and our selves–not compare or dwell in guilt. But acknowledge the beauty of self-sacrificing women. Mother’s day is a day to be in awe of the miracle of mothers–that walking on this earth (or driving mini-vans) are women whose hearts swell as wide as eternity.

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Today’s guest post is from Chelsey, who has neither hot nor cold feelings for Mothers Day; although, she sometimes wishes that more women spoke in church on that day. She thinks they would be more interesting and less inclined to make it all rainbows and unicorns. She does understand the desire to give women the day off, so it’s a toss up. Chelsey has been a mother for seven, lightening-fast years, and still, apparently, has a lot to learn. She blogs at: http://www.penelopespad.com/

Dear Ruby,

I am the 1st Counselor in our ward’s Young Women Presidency. Last week I went to a fireside. While I was gone, you broke your arm. Unable to get a hold of me, your Dad prepared to take you, your three younger brothers and your sister to the emergency room.

A couple from our ward walked by as he was getting you all in the car, and offered to watch the other kids. Your Dad was free to take just you, and I relieved them when I got home.

This couple now adores you and your little brothers and sister because of the service they gave to us.

This week, after you go to bed and are sleeping, I will: visit teach three sisters, organize and attend a combined activity for the Young Men and Young Women, and go to a stake leadership meeting.

I hate it because I was gone last week when you were hurt, and now I will be gone again.

I hate it because my most dreaded task in the whole entire world is to make phone calls, and I will need to make many this week.

I hate it because after a long day of caring for you and your brothers and sister, I need some quiet time. Alone.

I hate it because I will have very little time this week to do things that I want to do — just for me.

I hate it because I know that at the end of the week, I will be very tired, and most likely impatient, and probably snappy. The house might not be very clean, and I probably won’t feel like playing.

I hate it because I would like to be able to do those things.

But, I will do it.

I will do it because when I went to my room this afternoon to cry and to pray and to seek counsel, I read President Monson’s talk.

I read about Laman and Lemuel murmuring, saying it was a hard thing that they had been asked to do.

I read about Nephi responding that he would go; he would do.

I read about a mortally wounded soldier, who dragged an even more mortally wounded soldier to safety, while whole men watched.

I read about President Monson, busy as Bishop and father and businessman, writing 23 personal letters every month to soldiers in the field, one of whom did not answer for 17 months.

He didn’t mention the widows this time, but I know about them.

As I read, I remembered that my number one goal is to guide you into righteous womanhood.

I remembered that the Lord is a better parent than I am, and that as I serve him, He will send his angels and servants to protect you and watch over you, like he did last week. He will enrich my relationship with you, and. He will give me the inspiration I need to better parent you.

I’ve chosen to have faith in those promises.

I wish that I could say that I’ll do it because I love the Lord and want to serve Him, but I’m not that far yet.

I’ll do it because I love you, Ruby.

Love,
Mom

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My father calls and wants to know when I will write. Often.

And I’ve talked of vacillation before. Yesterday the sky was perfectly blue. This morning was grey, but wait! Now again, it is blue with swirly white strands of cottony clouds. Last night I had very little sleep which lends itself to a morning of need. Yesterday, I was a tinge frightened by the apathy I felt toward the (necessary) dependence I should feel on my Creator. And so as I approach Mother’s Day I take an assessment. (Really, always, everyday.) One of my children breaks me. Every single day. And it has always been. From the day she was born I was broken, and I am just not sufficient enough. Every morning we do the same dance, and I think: Really? Really? It is like some kind of SNL skit. At some point I think it must improve, but it doesn’t. And I fall flat. And there it is, this hardness, a difficulty that is really more than me. Sometimes I think back on former episodes of my life. And about change. About times when the Lord’s grace seemed to bubble over from inside and change seemed to take place quickly. But I am on no fast track now. I am slow to learn, I find myself often confused. But when in the right place the question arises: have you felt to sing the song of redeeming love? And I have! I have! The Lord’s love and grace is about change. And when I come to Him with my broken pieces (over and over) and childish questions (because I am such a child) I am never condemned, there is never a Really? Really? And this grace defines. It defines people as God’s children. By love and not by their sins. And not by mine. And so tomorrow I will try again (and the next day). And I know I will keep coming up short. I don’t know what this will mean, for my daughter or for me or for anyone else. But every hardness I’ve encountered has been a gift, a treasure that has brought me steps closer to my Savior.

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Having a science background, I realized that writing is much like a science experiment. Writing relates to a science experiment because with practice, you can only get better and better results. This is exactly what happened with me in this class. It has shown me that revision and editing are two totally different things and that they are both necessary steps to take while writing an exemplary paper…

Then there was this one, written by—ha ha—another chemistry major:

Someone once said “Before the final, your semester flashes before your eyes.” Whoever said that is definitely full of crap because it never happened. I believe that I performed a lot of busy work this semester during writing 106. My chemistry professor always says “practice makes perfect” so I tend to do countless practice problems in preparation for my chemistry exams. This method has yet to fail me, and I have learned a lot in chemistry this semester. Going into Writing 106 I thought I was going to be practicing writing a lot. This was not the case. During the entire course, by my count we did just one essay. While we did write a few things, we wrote just one paper, so if the purpose of this course was to help me become a better writer then I don’t think it succeeded. If the purpose of the course was to make me do a ton of work to earn 3 credits and a letter, then I congratulate whoever created the curriculum.

This was really annoying, for several reasons:

a) We wrote a lot this semester (six major pieces, to be exact)

b) Student often demonstrated an inability to follow directions

c) Student made fun of my MacBook the one day it froze in class, whereupon he chided me for not having a PC, then the following week he brought in his brand new iPad

d) I didn’t turn off the lights and read from a power point screen the whole semester—and I brought cookies on peer review days!

e) I think he was confusing “Someone” with Terry Pratchett, who said, “ your life flashes before your eyes just before you die.”

As a teacher, I sometimes take comments like this student’s as a reflection of my failure as a human being. So I moped around for five minutes. And then, because he was the only one, out of 70 students, who thought the class was stupid, I thought of “Dreamsong 14,” in which the speaker confesses to be bored by EVERYTHING, ALL THE TIME. The speaker’s mother tells him that only people without “inner resources”—abilities to tease out what is personally, individually meaningful and useful from life experiences—are bored.

My response was apologetic: “Dear Student, I’m sorry you missed the point of the course, and that you have no inner resources.”

I disliked several of my college classes too, but I like to think the difference between me and this student is that I recognized when it was my fault—for being unprepared, for not paying attention, for not having slept the night before, for being distracted by thoughts about whether I wanted chicken or salmon at my wedding reception, etc.

But later I felt grateful for this student’s griping because he helped me think a little bit harder about my own life, and how I am more like him than I think. Sometimes, I forget to use my inner resources to make the most of a situation. I let this happen most often at church. When I think the talks are boring, or on fast Sundays, when I brace myself for the same people who always march up to the podium and ramble, or sound pedantic, or talk about soy beans, and I tell myself it’s okay to zone out. And then Elder Donald L. Hallstrom’s most recent General Conference address reminded me that it’s not okay to zone out when he said, “President Spencer W. Kimball was once asked, ‘What do you do when you find yourself in a boring sacrament meeting?’ His response: ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been in one.’”

Clearly, making the most of inner resources is a divine attribute. One I know I should cultivate more carefully so that on fast Sundays, I’m learning something from everyone—I could learn more about courage from the people who are brave enough to stand up every time on fast Sunday; I could pay attention to the speakers reading verbatim from the Ensign for 25 minutes and listen for principles that apply to my life; I could start a church journal, like a friend in another ward who weekly writes down what she learns from the lessons in all three hours of church.

There are lots of things I could do to make the most of my time and resources, not just at church, but at home, when I’m babysitting someone else’s children all day and wishing 5 pm would come sooner, when I’m talking to new people, or when I’m with people I love. I just have to remember that it’s not too much to ask.

What silly things do your students/children/relatives/coworkers say to betray the dysfunction of inner resources? How do you deal with this? How have you learned to recognize when it’s you and not someone else? How do you make the most of every situation? Tell me your stories!

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The Lanyard

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

~Billy Collins, from his collection The Trouble with Poetry (you can watch him read this poem himself here)

Happy Mother’s Day, mothers and motherers. Here’s to us and our imperfect, sincere, and well-meaning mothering. And here’s to the imperfect, sincere, and well-meaning token offerings in return.

. . .

What do you understand about your mother now that you didn’t back when you were young?
What  are your favorite “lanyard” offerings you’ve either given or received?

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Someone pointed him to the editor, who asked how she could help him.

“I have a picture of Bigfoot,” he said.

My back was turned on the conversation, but I covered my mouth as I desperately tried to choke the laughter back down.  My colleague glared at me as tears threatened to spill out of my eyes.

The man patiently explained to our editor how he found Bigfoot, and that he thought it was something we might be interested in.  The photo was on his cell phone, a blur of green and brown, and didn’t look like much.

Our editor told him the photo wasn’t large enough to publish in the paper, so she’d have to say no. The man understood, politely said thank you and walked away.

Then the other day another person walked in, wanted to see our editor. Tall socks, shorty-shorts, a fitted t-shirt, long white hair and a pink baseball cap could only mean one thing: A cross-dressing man. And a war veteran, at that.

He walked by and a sour stink lingered in the air. His legs were crossed, his hands perched on his knees as he relentlessly ranted to my editor about one veteran issue or another.

My editor tried to satisfy his concerns without success, and eventually ushered him out of her office and on his way.

I have to admit I got a lot of amusement over observing these two men. Neither of them seemed to be aware that they were socially awkward or “unacceptable.”

But then I thought, do I push those boundaries? The answer is probably yes. Sometimes I pick wedgies at inappropriate times. I’ve been known to ask strangers to hold their babies. And I awkwardly cough when I’m nervous. Who am I to judge weird?

What are your Bigfoot photos or cross-dressing moments? How do you push social standards and expectations? How do you define “normal”? How do you define “weird”?

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I know it is not polite manners to brag about your natural gifts, abilities and assets. But somehow I don’t feel the least bit superior about this one: I am irresistible. To bugs. I have some innate, inborn magnetism that draws biting and blood sucking insects toward me. I know it is not my stunning looks or winning personality; I am certainly not offering my best self to those dang bugs. I am forever swatting at them, and scowling at my most recent, itchiest bite.

At the playground one afternoon my son found a family of daddy long leg spiders and then pleaded with my husband to go kill them all, since I refused, protecting them, claiming they eat the pesky bugs. I wanted to save those spiders: I knew they wouldn’t hurt me. But as for the ones that do come after me, my whole “kind to world, do no harm” act is off. Death to the fire ants, zap to the mosquitos and scorpion execution. I am all about capital punishment for the bugs that have assaulted me.

I wonder if I should feel bad. I’m wondering because I don’t really feel bad or wonder how I could. These vermin are eating me alive. I struggle to figure out their redeeming values or wonder if they even have souls. Blasted blood-suckers. Certainly these pests can’t be celestial creatures, right? I like to think they are hell-bound.

Since condemnation is not working, nor my disdain or outright jealousy of those who just don’t get bit, I am wondering about blood transfusions. Apparently, some people put off chemical compounds that are more delectable than other folks, and they draw the fire from others. Perhaps if I get a system recharge, new blood I could keep those bugs away. Because for me, even bug spray is not a guarantee. Bugs catch a whiff of what they want and head right over. I am hardly ever safe.

Ice that cake with my desire to avoid DEET and here I am in May already counting bug bites. It is going to be a long summer, and I have a trip planned to the jungle. I’m afraid that means counting in the triple digits, wearing a beekeeping suit, or breaking down and bathing in DEET for the trip. Currently they all sound bad. But which ever is the lesser evil, I’ll be going with that one.

Among my more petty prayers, tonight and mostly likely well into the future, I’ll be praying to leave these pests behind. Someone tell me please, that they won’t be going to heaven, because it seems they already have their heaven here, feasting on my flesh.

Are you among the lucky few that draw the mosquitoes your way? Did you paint your legs with calamine lotion growing up?

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