Let the Sun Shine In

It's been so long since I've posted that I'm not sure I remember how to do it . . . good gracious! Has it really been over a month?!? Yes, it has, and I have nothing to offer by way of explanation. Did you miss me? Did you even notice my absence? Please don't say no. (You can think it. But please don't say it in a comment.) I've randomly commented here and there, but good friends in the blogosphere have dealt with major life events and weathered the aftermath without so much as a how-do-yo-do from my corner. I hope you don't hate me.

I'd like to be able to tell you that I have been furiously participating in NaNoWriMo, and the publishing of my masterpiece, the fabled Great American Novel, is forthcoming . . . but I can't, because I haven't been. I'd like to be able to say that I've been so caught up in cleaning and organizing my cluttered and messy house that I just haven't found the time to blog. That, too, would be a lie. I have also not been on a long trip, secretly pregnant and delivering another baby, spending all of my time volunteering at a homeless shelter, meeting with Hollywood producers regarding a made-for-TV movie about my fabulously interesting life, or engaging in a principled internet-fast. I have, quite simply, been lazy. And maybe I've been wallowing a little.

The other day I was cleaning Garrett and Connor's room. I am baffled by boy smells. Even if they go to bed squeaky-clean and Burt's Bees-scented, I am still overwhelmed by a mysterious odor not unlike scrambled eggs whenever I check on them at night. This prompts me, on a regular basis, to fling open the windows and let the breeze blow through, in a futile attempt to air out the latent smell of burgeoning testosterone.

I pushed the windows as high as I could, and then, as I tucked the quilt and fluffed the pillow and arranged the stuffed animals on Garrett's bed, I noticed the play of light through the open blinds. I watched windblown leaf-shadows dance across Laney Kate's dimpled fingers as she patted the bedding, an ardent and surprisingly productive mimic of my own tidy efforts.

I had a brief moment of clarity as I watched her golden-red hair glint in the bright light: the sun, I realized, keeps on shining. All I have to do is let it in -- throw open my windows, pull back the curtains, raise the blinds, let myself be illuminated by the light that cannot stop itself from filling up an empty space -- my empty space. The sun keeps on shining. The grass keeps growing, the world keeps spinning, the birds keep singing, even if I'm not watching.

This is the greatest tragedy of blocking out the sunlight: What did I miss? What did I not see because I was closed off from the possibility? I'll never know.

But now I'm watching, and these windows are open for good.

Elena No!

My dear friend Jen (of Just Imajen, the best blog you're not reading -- go check her out) was thrilled when we named our baby Elena -- and spelled it the Italian way. Jen, you see, served a mission in Rome, and as a side effect, became an expert, connoisseur even, of all things Italian. Of course, there's the food -- a fine, deeply flavored simple red sauce is worth its weight in rubies -- but more importantly, there's the music.

Long before this baby was named (or even conceived), Jen made me a CD full of her Italian favorites. I don't understand any of the words, but I know they're having a good time, and, while it lacks a certain . . . sophistication, a little bit of joie de vivre (which I wish I could say in Italian) goes a long way.

Right after my Elena was born, Jen sent me a link to a fantastic little pop gem entitled, "Elena No." (Please go listen. It's so worth the effort.) It's a catchy little ditty, which, according to Jen's translation, tells all about a controlling manipulative diva named Elena who has her man so wrapped around her finger, so trained, that he caters to her every unreasonable whim. "Elena no, Elena no," Lucio croons. "If I'm a man any more I don't know."

 My Elena Kate.

I just might have to call it prophetic.

Last week, Craig came home from work and, in a rare unoccupied moment, got out his iPhone and sat down on the couch to check his e-mail, some scores, whatever. Elena immediately toddled over to him (yep, she's walking and I am so not a fan of precocious mobility) and grunted in the general direction of his phone. In a moment of what I can only describe as acute idiocy and inability to withstand extreme cuteness, Craig acquiesced, turning his attention to something that must have been really important.

Elena shortly returned to him -- without the phone held in her hands. Her cold, wet, pee-smelling hands. Oh, yes she did. It took her a mere thirty seconds to waddle on down to the bathroom and baptize Craig's most trusted companion in a toilet full of yellowed water. Yeah, the boys should know better than to leave an unflushed toilet with the seat up and the door open -- we've been working on toilet etiquette for quite some time now, but it's hard to argue with logic that says there's no need to wash hands that haven't touched anything. But Craig made that bed, and there but by the grace of iPhone insurance goeth he. It took about a week for his new (refurbished) phone to arrive -- long enough that we were without the instantly-gratifying informational itch-scratcher for our entire vacation to the beach. So I had to sacrifice almost as much as he did.

I told Craig this does not bode well for the future. How can he possibly expect to say no to a whiny teenager when he can't even say no to the non-specific shrieks of an eleven-month old? Yes, dear, she's cute. Yes, she's your only daughter. But, um, that was also your only iPhone. Elena, no, indeed. Someone in this household needs to practice saying that about 45 times a day for the next 17 years, lest we end up with a houseful of kittens, dollies, little stray puppies, and, knowing this kid, race cars.

This little girl has spunk in spades. She chases after her older cousin to steal his pacifier -- which he then can't seem to steal back. When her brothers take a toy away from her, she lets out a holler, her meaning clearer than words could possibly be, and chases them down until they give her back what she wants. She turns the charm off and on with a level of skill I still haven't developed. But she holds her own with these rough and tumble boys of mine -- she's still alive almost a year in, and darn if she's not ending up on top!

I tell all of this to my mom, and she just shakes her head and smiles. She won't meet my eyes -- if she did, I know she would break down laughing at the similarities. Laney Kate has the red hair of her father, and the set of her eyes is all him, but that spunk? I'm claiming that all as my own.

Things Change . . . but Not Really

Thanks to all of you for your awesome book recommendations . . . we're headed to the library, and I am armed with a fantastic list of books, and I can't wait to sink my teeth into some really intelligent reads.

My boys are on break from school right now -- oh, how I love this year round schedule! Just when we all started to tire of the daily school routine, the first grading period finished and we were given the gift of three weeks off.

I have some good post ideas, but find myself with little time to develop them, so for today, I'm digging into the archives. This was one of my first posts ever -- it garnered all of two comments and I think may have been read by a grand total of seven people (if I'm being generous). As I read it last night, I thought, wow, how things have changed. We have come so far from those three-kids-in-nursery days . . . but it's still the same kinds of things that stress me out, and I still see the same idiosyncratic behaviors in my kids, just a little more grown up. Here goes, from November 2008. (This one's for you, Megan.)

Today, there were 18 kids in the nursery at church. 18! It felt like Utah or something. At the beginning of Relief Society, Primary asked for volunteers to augment their staffing issues, and since my offspring account for fully one-sixth of all kids in the nursery, I felt obligated to comply. So my friend Mary Kay and I gathered up our belongings and hoofed it on down to little kid land.

Now, my children are not known for being great examples of reverence . . . or anything else spiritually commendable, but at 3, 3, and 2, what can you expect? I don't know what I expected. I thought they might be at least as good as they are at home. Apparently that was a little too much to ask.

The twins are the oldest kids in there, so for snack time, they sat at the head of the table, kings perusing their subjects with pseudo-benevolence and the bipolar kindness/cruelty of preschoolers. They fought -- loudly -- over who got to say the blessing on the snack, even after their teacher said repeatedly that the one who was the most reverent would earn the privilege. (I guess fighting over praying privileges could maybe qualify as spiritually commendable, right?) Garrett flipped out because they had to stand at the table to color instead of sitting in chairs. Connor melted because I didn't finish coloring his picture the right way. Garrett stole crayons from other kids, and berated them for coloring on the wrong side of the paper, and policed everyone who wasn't doing what he thought they should be doing, including me. Too bad introspection isn't on the 3-year-old to-do list -- he might have had a couple personal problems of his own to police!

I'm sure I didn't help matters -- I mean, I'm not the authority figure in nursery. Who am I to tell them not to dip pretzels in their neighbor's water, especially if the nursery leader doesn't care (or chooses not to battle over little things like that because of the sheer number of kids and the ease of cleaning up the inevitable spilled water)? Who do they listen to? I don't want to undermine her authority, nor do I want to hold them to a higher standard than the rest of the kids . . . I have a lot to learn before I can be the room mother of a kindergarten class!

Mason wasn't so bad, but I did have to change his stinky diaper. When we returned to the nursery after de-pooping, he jumped through the door, threw his arms up, and said, "Ta-da!" The twins think they're the kings of the room, but Mason's got comedic timing all over his brothers.

So, in a fit of frustration, I asked the nursery leader if my kids were this awful every Sunday. She smiled and said, "Actually, today's a good day." Ha-ha, that's a funny joke, I know, they're great kids, aren't they? Oh, wait . . . what's that? Ah . . . you're not kidding. Guess we've got some work ahead of us before these little monsters are ready for Primary, or maybe it's the other way around.

Does my tithing money go towards abstinence education? Because I'd totally be willing to volunteer my children for parental-readiness reality checks. I think these services could be valuable to other demographics as well. Grandchildren coming to visit? Let my kids show you how child-proof your home isn't. Can't afford to pay a demolition crew for your remodel? Just tell my kids you need them to make sure not to destroy anything, and they'll do it for free -- plus PB&J for lunch, of course.

Well, I guess you just keep trying. I wish I could pre-experience for my kids -- that I could just, for example, tell Garrett that no one wants to play with a bully without him having to experience that rejection for himself as an impetus to change his behavior; that I could convince Connor that if he doesn't stand up for himself, other kids will always push him around, and avoid the other kids actually pushing him around. But without that first-person perspective, they won't ever learn anything . . . and neither will I.

So what did I learn today? That I'm not ever going back to the nursery again. Ever. Or at least not so long as I have kids in there. I'm much too happy being blissfully ignorant of double-trouble shenanigans to voluntarily deprive myself of the adult conversation and spiritual uplift of Relief Society.

And that we have to just keep doing the things that we're doing -- family prayer, FHE, reading scriptures with our kids (all three verses) -- because, like Nephi, " . . . we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins (2 Nephi 25:26)." And maybe, if we're consistent, and truly humbled by the magnitude of the spiritual potential inherent in each one of our children, we will see a little glimmer of hope, baby steps of spiritual progress, imperceptible day by day, but still moving us all forward in pursuit of our eternal goal.

The Bibliophile's Lament

I'm a reader -- always have been, always will. At age three, I brought a Reader's Digest to my mom, and read a random page aloud to her. Correctly. She was only slightly surprised, because I was the kid who, when asked to choose a story at bedtime, would stack up a pile of books as tall as the rocking chair. And expect the chosen adult to get through every last book before finally tucking my sleepy body into the big bed in the little sloped-ceiling room at the top of the stairs in my grandmother's house.

I consumed Nancy Drew books by the dozen, finished all the Bobsey twins books before my 8th birthday, and grew tired of Babysitter's Club before I really aged out of them. I dug through boxes in my grandmother's garage and found her old Marjorie Dean books. (I should have kept those -- they're probably worth something now -- published in the 1920s, pretty good condition. Maybe there in my mom's basement?)

Then I found Anne Shirley, and totally had a crush on Gilbert Blythe. Rebecca was a revelation to me, and Jane Eyre rocked my twelve-year-old world. But so did The Hobbit and the whole Terry Brooks Shannara series. James Michener's Hawaii expanded my 14-year-old worldview and fueled my drive to explore the planet. My reading appetite was voracious, and I read everything my wise and wonderful mother threw in my path.

The trend has continued. Even now, with my extremely busy, harried, crazy life, I find a way to read a couple of books a week. My tastes run the gamut: literary fiction, mystery, fantasy, sci-fi, memoir, biography, creative non-fiction, cookbooks, poetry, scientific treatises, history, philosophy, and political theory. But lately I have found myself dissatisfied with what's left. I've begun to think I've already read all the good ones.

Once, at the library, I decided to just start with "A". I selected 10 or so books from the first shelf of fiction and took them home, excited to discover some new authors and broaden my literary horizons. The experiment failed, because of those 10 books, 9 of them were absolute drivel. I have found myself, more and more, skipping to the back to find out how the plot resolves, and tossing the book aside because I have better things to do with my time. I am more and more critical of the things I'm reading -- and I don't just mean about plot, although there are some published works out there with some serious plot problems. I'm talking about style, word choice, flow -- and I find myself saying things like, "I could do better."

Wait! Did I just type that?!? Is this what it has come down to? Could I do better? Well, I'm not sure, but the time has come for me to try. I have an idea, and I have a plan, and in the meantime, blog land will continue to be my place to try out ideas, fiddle with my own style and syntax, and scratch the publishing itch while I'm working on something Real.

I'll always be reading, though. Provided I can find something worthwhile to endow with my time. Any suggestions? Go ahead. Hit me with your best shot! I will warn you: I am extremely well-read. It may be a challenge for you to come up with something I haven't already seen. I am also extremely hard to please. So don't be offended if I totally shoot down your Most Favorite Book Ever In The Entire Universe. (Cough, cough. Goose Girl. Cough, cough.)

How about it, readers? Are you up to the double challenge of finding something that not only have I not read, but that I will enjoy? It's tough, I know. But please. My brain thanks you in advance. (And while we're at it, can you throw in some recommendations for children's books, too? I am so tired of preschool morality tales! What happened to a rip-roaring good story? Please leave the moralizing to real-life applications!)

Identity Crisis

Yes, mine.

Don't freak out. I'll be back. I'm just trying to define what I'm doing here, in a place that doesn't really exist, and what direction I want to go with my writing.

Please bear with me and be patient!

The Conditional Commandment

Disclaimer: I welcome comments on this post. However, I reserve the right to delete any and all comments that I deem to be inappropriate in nature. This is not a topic I broach lightly, but I firmly believe it can be discussed sensitively, without specific references to anatomy or anything else Google-able. Please remember that my children are frequently featured on this blog and do your best to protect them from creepy searches. And don't test me. I will delete your comment, with neither guilt nor compunction.

Also -- I have no credentials here. This post reflects nothing more than my own personal opinions.

A few years ago I read an article about finding your personal ministry. At the time, I had just finished serving as Young Womens president, and in my new calling in the stake Relief Society, I was in the midst of presenting the standards outlined in "For the Strength of Youth" to the combined adult groups of every unit in our stake. I joked that, especially in light of the Relief Society lessons I'd been assigned to teach lately, it seemed that maybe my personal ministry was to talk about sex to as many different groups of people as possible. For a while there, just about every Sunday I covered that most delicate of topics -- for youth, for Relief Society, for everyone.

I met a wonderful woman a few months ago named Natasha Helfer Parker. She is a therapist, and a Mormon. She has a blog, appropriately named The Mormon Therapist, wherein she answers questions submitted anonymously by people who would like to have advice in the context of the LDS faith. She provides a valuable service, and has proven to be an excellent resource on topics ranging from parenting to family relationships, and, yes, to marital intimacy.

Lately, Natasha has been fielding a lot of questions -- specific questions -- about intimacy, about what is or isn't appropriate in the marriage bed, about the church's stance or lack thereof on specific behaviors. While Natasha's answers are thoughtful and her research is impeccable, I have found myself thinking about the genesis for these queries in the first place.

Why are so many people asking for an explicit guideline regarding intimate, personal  behavior?  Why do people feel the need to get permission before engaging in certain acts of sexual expression?

The commandment we have regarding intimacy, that is, to not engage in sexual activity outside the bonds of marriage, is the only one we have that is conditional. It is the only "do not" we have that is followed by an "unless". It's not "thou shalt not kill, unless . . ." or "thou shalt have no other gods before me, unless . . ." or "thou shalt not bear false witness, unless . . ." Even the Word of Wisdom gives us a pretty specific list of substances that are or aren't okay for us to consume. But sex? Sex is conditional, circumstantial, situational. And once those conditions have been met, it's still pretty complicated. Or is it?

I have noticed a recent trend in General Conference talks: there seems to be a greater emphasis lately on development of personal spirituality. We are counseled to learn the doctrines of the church, and then apply them to our lives. It's that simple. We are counseled, in leadership training, to learn the programs of the church and then apply them to the special needs of local units. We are to learn the Gospel, developing a personal relationship with our Savior and an affinity for the Holy Spirit so that when we are prompted to do or to not do, we are prepared to hear  -- and then to follow.

I don't know why people have a hard time applying that counsel to marital intimacy. If we are ever entitled to personal revelation, isn't it there? Sanctioned exercise of procreative powers (and I do mean using them even when there is no chance of actual procreation) has the potential to both strengthen a marriage and bring a couple closer to their Creator. That union of man and wife is by its very nature sacred and holy, and the Holy Ghost need not leave your bedroom when the act is initiated -- should not, in fact. You can rely on his confirmation that your physical expressions of love for your spouse, and vice versa, are sanctioned by the Holy Spirit.

Every party who enters a relationship does so with baggage. Of course, some baggage is more difficult to deal with than others. It is this variation in experience that makes the constructs of sexual behavior so difficult to define. What may cross a line for one couple may be the pinnacle of union and a holy experience for another. But if you are maintaining your spiritual self, you can -- should -- expect guidance in every aspect of your life, including sexual activities. This requires a great deal of communication between husband and wife, and that kind of communication, when entered into in the spirit of love, exploration and compromise, can only strengthen a relationship and make it easier to apply the same principles of communication to other aspects of a marriage.

Why are we asking these questions? Why do we need specifics? I'm still not sure there's a clear answer. Maybe we like a laundry list of dos and don'ts. But that's a bit pharisaical, isn't it? That makes it easy to ignore spiritual promptings. We must trust in our own preparation to receive personal revelation in this most personal of realms. As I said before, if we can expect personal revelation about anything, isn't it intimacy?

This barely scratches the surface -- there are so many more ways to frame this topic. What say you?

PostScript: After writing this post, I found another excellent reference. I urge you all to go read  this BYU devotional given by Jeffrey R. Holland during his tenure as university president.

The End of an Era, and Other Observations

1. Wow, how things change.

We are winding up our third week of kindergarten. My house is cleaner than it has been in, oh, about 5 1/2 years. Garrett and Connor (Real names! Don't faint!) started year-round kindergarten this month and, I tell you what -- this regular schedule thing is A. kicking my butt, and B. fantastically awesome. We all go to bed earlier. I am home from taking the big boys to school by 8AM. My kids are happy, excited, engaged, and totally into the whole school experience. And I am extremely relieved -- especially for Garrett, whose complicated personality sometimes, well, complicates things. Life is good. I am, however, a little nostalgic for the time when I was pretty much the only influence on these little guys for 90% of the day. But not nostalgic enough to home school. There are not enough anti-anxiety medications in the world.

2. My baby is beautiful. And standing, whilst staring at her feet, willing them to move. Precocious mobility is not anywhere on my list of favorite things . . . but I think Elena (Another real name! Actually, we call her Laney Kate) will be my earliest walker. Curses. She also just cut four teeth at once, and her hair becomes more red every day. She is eating real food and crawling all over the place -- I no longer contain her, except to close the door to the basement.

Also, she's a shoplifter. But then, she learns from the best. Let me explain.

Last week, my friend and I took our little ones with us on a shopping trip to a semi-close outlet mall. After we left the first store, my friend pulled a pair of little boy size 6 month shorts out of my stroller. "Did you mean to get these?"

No. No, I did not. But apparently, Laney Kate did. So we took them back.

And then we went to Gap. I loaded up the top of my stroller with cute things for all of my kids. While checking out, Mason (yep, that one's real, too) was playing peek-a-boo with Laney by opening and closing the sunshade. I was halfway to Banana Republic before I noticed two cute little outfits still left on top of the sunshade that I had totally stolen.

So I went back and paid for those. She even let me use my 25% off coupon again.

3. That trip to the outlet mall was merely an excuse to drive past all the peach orchards on the way and load up on my most favorite food IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. I've said it before and I'll say it again: if I had been Eve, and the forbidden fruit had been peaches, the serpent would not have had to try very hard. As in, he wouldn't have even had to show up. Last night, I ate three. In one sitting. Of course, that's because I had just finished . . .

4. a three mile run. In the heat of the day. I'm a little crazy like that. And if it's hot and humid, it counts more. My husband is training for a triathlon (which I will NEVER do) and he was making me look bad. And I discovered that the park near my house has a greenway . . . cool, and shaded and breezy by the river. And on that greenway, half-buried in the vines, is an old abandoned wreck of a car. It's totally creepy. In a good way.

5. I have always loved "Masterpiece Mystery!" But this season has been uncommonly good. If you are so inclined, find yourself a way to watch this season's "Murder on the Orient Express." Poirot at his best. (In the interest of full disclosure, my husband hates these shows. Passionately. But that's okay. Because I also hate "Gearz".)

6. Maybe the summer heat (way more extreme than usual around here) is getting to my brain, but I have nada for blog fodder. So instead of writing crap, I have chosen (until now) to write nothing. And really, just between you and me, it seems that a lot of other people out there are not refraining even though their fodder wells have dried up, too. (No, not you! Ha, ha. Of course, not you! I mean those other people!) I have found myself commenting less and less, partly because I'm still doing the one-handed-typing-while-nursing thing, but partly because . . . I don't have much to say. Have I offended you? Please don't take offense. The muse will strike me again, and with it will (hopefully) come a desire to once again engage in widespread internet conversating. But for now, you're stuck with drivel to read from a blogger who mostly lurks. Signing off . . . for now.

And in case you're wondering . . . it's Emily.