I don’t think “conflict” is the word that describes my relationship with my kids, but I earned the Broken Heart, Bravery During Driver’s Training, and Legion of Worry just this week. I am not a candidate for Outstanding Restraint this week, and the dishes are not done.
I read a book about how to write a memoir, and there was a chapter about creating a persona. The authors contrasted their writing personas with their true personalities. Each was very funny in writing, but admitted that in person, she was more complicated. One even shared she was a bit depressive.
I like to think that the overall positive, thoughtful persona I try to nurture here is my truest self, but maybe it is not.
I am a reclusive, sensitive, intense person who is often exhausted after basic interactions with people. I interrupt Richard and try to finish his thoughts as he is speaking. I can be abrupt and I don’t like family reunions. I have a terrible sugar habit and hate to exercise. There is a smell in our house that has been here since we moved in and I can’t stand it. It is endlessly frustrating. I suffer emotionally when one of my family members is sick. I am struggling to find purpose in house work. I wonder if I will ever ice skate again, or make the time to go to a special bookstore. I regret that I don’t enjoy most vacations. I regret that the collagen and elastin in my skin gave out before I ever had a good tan. I don’t regret that I wear hats and got braces as an adult. I don’t regret home schooling. I love the sunlight in the kitchen in the morning and the sound of my violin when I am thinking about something. I sip a mug of warm milk at least once a day. I need to be courageous to be fulfilled. I keep a lot of secrets. I love dill, sourdough bread, and fashion. I wish I had a telephone friend, one who would call me, and I would never have to call her. In exchange, she would never want for a good listener. I wish I had a pen pal. And that is enough of this nonsense.
This video is really lame, but I felt so sad today as I ironed Daniel’s church shirt that I turned up the music to perk myself up. I won’t get to do this little service much longer.
Ed Sheeran is my sound track to life lately. Don’t judge.
10:30 pm Sunday night. I am recovering well from a hand laceration. Richard still has no energy after the flu. The boys play trumpet and piano while we rest.
Last Sunday Timothy gave a talk in church with 30 minutes to prepare. He did so well!
Timothy and Mark played in a piano recital on Tuesday night.
It was a good week to be a parent.
Daniel advanced to a regional level in the Sterling scholar competition.
Daniel was named a National Merit Finalist.
Paige began work towards a summer internship in New York.
I finished hand-quilting my international doll quilt. I will finish the binding some other day.
Richard and I watched the John Adams miniseries, except when my eyes were closed during the violence and 18th century surgeries.
We watched Wonder. Tears streamed freely for me.
I can’t type this week as my hand heals, so this is it for a while.
A line of light from the kitchen streams beneath our bedroom door: someone is up early.
The pantry door squeaks: the boys are hungry.
No sounds from the basement bedroom: someone has slept in.
The rumble of the garage door: someone is returning or leaving.
The squeal of pipes through the wall: someone is in the shower.
The floor shakes with muted explosive sounds: someone is watching a Star Wars movie with surround sound in the basement.
Ding! A message from Richard or Paige
Bing! A message from Timothy
Chime! A message from Daniel
Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap Yap: the dog needs to come back inside.
“Here’s to the Fools who Dream…”: I am doing dishes or mopping.
Sniff, sniff beneath the door: the dog is looking for Richard.
Bwa ha ha ha: Mark is watching YouTube videos.
Scratchety scratch scratch: the dog is cold and needs to come inside.
Clickety clickety clickety clickety: Daniel is typing.
Long, sullen pauses and no eye contact: oh, boy, am I in trouble.
Crinkle, crinkle: I turn the pages of my scriptures.
Beeeeeeep, beeeeeeep: the chicken is cooked.
Blat blat blat: trombone practice
Toot toot toot: trumpet practice
Brrrrrruuum, diddly dum: a son practices piano.
Ping, pingy ping: Paige is playing the piano.
Lawrence Welk is on: it’s haircut time.
The hallway floor creaks: someone is looking for me.
Light streams beneath our bedroom door: someone is up late.
Longer stretches of silence each day: the kids are growing up and leaving.
Last week was a wrestle. I wrestled with church dilemmas, the clock, illnesses, and expectations. But there was a three-tiered cake one night, and clean surfaces everywhere, evidence that when I am doing mental work, physical work goes right along with it.
Last week, there was so much calling me to stay home with the family. They needed my skills, my advice, my health, my early mornings, late nights, afternoon errands, and my touch.
Last week’s lessons:
Helloooo regular life. (My niece says it best.)
The house is empty for the first time since December 20th. There is a stray candy cane leftover from Christmas, and one caramel remaining in the kitchen. I wash towels and wipe down counter tops, pull old food from the refrigerator, and mail the thank you notes. I feel the silence. I light my candles and begin a new week. Mondays are the best. And Christmas 2017 was over much too quickly.
But helloooo, it’s going to be a great year.
We have heard a lot of beautiful music at Temple Square and the high school in the past seven days. Here is a sample of Daniel playing piano at the Joseph Smith Memorial Building today.
I love these concerts because they give us time to sit and reflect at Christmas time.
We stopped at the vending machines where you can donate livestock, food, water, and first aid supplies last week. Today my mom came, too. The vending machine had to be restocked as we stood in line. Chickens and goats are very popular items.
The words I read to our children are part of our collective memory, and helped forge our identity as a family. Can you name the books that inspired the style of writing in this piece?
Austin, TX; Sahuarita, AZ; Sandy, UT 1997-2017
Books!
Four little children went for a walk in a wide, wide world. Through the house they clambered, down the hall, to the bookshelf, and to the couch. When they got to the couch, they counted themselves: one, two, three, four. There were no poky little children when it was time to read aloud at the Ross house.
In the great tan family room there was a television and a red broom. There were picture books about dog parties, kittens with mittens, a toy house, and Chrysanthemum the mouse. There was a brush (often unused) and bowl full of goldfish.
The kids took their places
With giggles, motions, and kicks,
And with hops and big thumps,
The kids chose their picks.
And I thought,
I love how they come near
To hear these old stories
Whispered softly in their ears.
If my mother could see this,
She would give a great cheer.
“Oh, you are not my mother…You are a Snort!” My thoughts are interrupted by laughter. And later, “Fire, fire!” The big trucks scream from the firehouse. Years go by, as we chant, “Oh, Mother dear, see here, see here, our mittens we have found!” and learn about the “no-no fruit.” What does the owl say? “Whooo. Whooo.”
One year, two years, fun years, short years pass. “Do you like my hat?” is replaced with, “Fifteen men on the Dead Man’s Chest Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!” and Hobbit riddles in the dark with Gollum.
Then suddenly it was quiet. Slowly, dust settled on the picture books on the shelves. The smoke and steam cleared away, and there were four children all grown. Four children, neat and tall; four sets of legs, long and strong. And Mom and her books were left in the house. Hooray! Shouted the people! Hooray! Just look at the children grown! The time she spent reading to them felt like a very short day. Perhaps her girl and boys will have another good idea, “Why don’t we read just like this to our children someday?” So, it was decided, and everybody was happy. Now when you go to the Ross house, be sure to go down in the basement. There they’ll be, Mom and the books, she, sitting in her chair, with her books right beside her to welcome you back.
That’s the kind of house we lived in. And I hope you remember when you leave it.
(Creative license and/or quotes taken from The Poky Little Puppy, Goodnight Moon, Dr. Seuss, Are You My Mother?, Fire! Fire!, Three Little Kittens, My Baby and Me Story Bible, My First Book of Sounds, One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, Go Dog. Go! Treasure Island, The Hobbit, Mike Mulligan and His Steamshovel, and There’s a Wocket in my Pocket.)
Sahuarita, AZ; Sandy, UT, 2005-2015
Sweet Timothy
Timothy sat down to play at the grand piano in his pajamas. At age 4, he wasn’t taking lessons yet, but his siblings had taught him to play the tune that Big Ben chimes and the opening notes of “Jingle Bells.” It was the night of the filming of the annual Christmas video and we asked him to play his songs for us. We could tell that he wanted to because he was nervous at the thought of doing it. “I only know how to play the first part,” he said, twirling the hair near the crown of his head with his fingers. With our encouragement, he played for the camera, and when he finished, he quickly slid off the bench, trying to hide his smile of triumph and began twisting his hair again, nervously.
Timothy’s challenge while growing up is to reconcile his natural sweet disposition with his desire to be independent. Of all the children, Timothy gives himself up to joy and humor and love the easiest. But to smile is to be vulnerable, so when he was little, he would jam his tongue into his cheek to suppress it if he thought he was the only one smiling. Sometimes, even now, I will catch him doing it again, hoping to avoid detection. He’ll tell me something funny with tight lips to keep himself from giving up the joke too soon.
He was best friends with the girl across the street in Arizona who had some developmental delays. She was 4 years older, but their matching sweetness, humor, and open hearts made them close friends. He played with Littlest Pet Shop animals with this girl for 6 years, even though he preferred Legos and other games. He never teased her. He never asked her why she didn’t play with the girls in Paige’s room. I saw a degree of strength in Timothy as he dealt with her, but it wasn’t an effort for him. He just loved and played and enjoyed his time with her. One day he realized that she was growing older, but didn’t act like other girls her age and he mentioned it to me. As I explained that she just grew at a different rate, I felt foolish. He wasn’t looking for an explanation. He was just making an observation and it didn’t matter to him that she was different. I suspect that Timothy will have many people in his life that will be drawn to him because he provides a safe place.
When he was in fourth grade, I met Timothy and Mark after school each day to walk with them. Without fail, Timothy gave me the biggest smile and a hug every day when he saw me, right in front of his friends, even if they were talking to him. Without words, he said, “Excuse me, but I see my mom and I always give her a hug. Your story will have to wait until tomorrow.” With these hugs, all of his attention shifted from his friends to me and Mark and we walked down the hill together. This touched my heart each day.
In February of his sixth-grade year, he hinted to me meekly that he was playing his trombone in a band concert during school. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to be there so I asked him on a scale from one to ten, how much he would like me to come, helping him avoid having to say the awkward, “Please don’t come, Mom.” To my surprise, he said, “8 or 9.” So, I went, and I was one of four guests, three of whom were grandparents. In other words, I was one of the privileged few. He even let me take a picture.
He is growing up, but he still lets me be in love with him. I am glad when his sweetness wins out over his independence. It’s a strength that will make a difference for others.