Motherhood – Page 30 – Letters from Home

Bags for Every Occasion

Bags for every occasion

Let me confess to you my naïveté about women’s handbags of any kind. I didn’t know that there was a world of high fashion bags until I was in my late twenties. Petunia Pickle Bottom bags weren’t invented when I bought my first diaper bag. When I became a mother, I went down to Kmart and bought a mint green diaper bag with pastel animals printed all over it. I had no opinions about diaper bags until I got home from that shopping trip.

Someone looked at my new bag and said, “I’ve always felt that the bag should reflect the taste of the mother, not her baby.”

“Ouch,” I thought, and never felt good about that bag after that.

There was a Louis Vuitton purse in my mom’s closet in 1997 that was a hand-me-down from my Great-aunt Susan. My mom didn’t like the purse and gave it to me. I was looking for a bag that could hold diapers without looking like a diaper bag since my mint green bag was juvenile, apparently. After a few months I realized that this cavernous purse without pockets didn’t suit my needs. It wasn’t attractive to me, so I donated it to charity along with some worn out clothes. Later, I learned that the bag was worth hundreds of dollars. (Facepalm.)

One of the most important bags that I have carried as a mother is the church bag. In the mothers’ room at church I learned from other women that plastic bags, multiple changes of clothes, and blankets were necessary for the newborn. When babies became toddlers and didn’t want to sit still, the church bag carried anything that would entertain.

For a typical week at church when the kids were young I would load my long-handled, fabric church bag with our Baby Bible, a bag of dry cereal, sippy cups, extra pacifiers, diapers, wipes, and toys, toys, toys. We had child-sized etch-a-sketches, magnetic paper dolls, fabric swatches to make dresses on princesses, sewing cards with laces, Bible cards, Book of Mormon games, puzzles, and markers that wouldn’t mark anything but their allotted book.

When Mark was born, Richard sat on the stand each Sunday with the bishop during sacrament meeting. I had 4 children to keep quiet on my own, so I got more inventive. Into the church bag went Great-grandma’s heirloom costume jewelry and porcelain dog. I let the children hold these if they were very good. Many children can hold precious things carefully, and this is an exercise in reverence. I filled plastic Easter eggs with small surprises. I purchased handfuls of hand puppets and finger puppets. I cut out felt books of stories from the Bible and the Book of Mormon.

I wouldn’t carry all of my tricks at once. I would rotate them in and out of the bag week by week. If I took the time to load the bag with plenty of quiet activities, not cars and action figures, the kids were more reverent. I learned that cereals with a lot of sugar were not a good idea because the kids would be grumpy after they ate these. I tried to serve snacks in the hallway before sacrament meeting so we weren’t crinkling wrappers and the kids didn’t learn to expect food when we sat in the chapel. These ideas, typed out in front of me now, seem like basic wisdom, but I they were hard-earned.

I have carried many bags over the years, but the diaper bag and church bag have been the most important. When I hear a young child upset at church I still look in my bag to find something to entertain. Unfortunately, my church bag just has pens and paper in it now. And it still doesn’t reflect my incredibly classy taste. Also, to those young mothers who have a Petunia Pickle Bottom diaper bag, good for you. All of you. A good bag, well-stocked, whether it is pretty or not, can make all the difference.

Books!

Some books we read and what it did for our family

I learned from my mother to make time to read to children. My favorite memories of my mother are when she read to us, and my picture of motherhood wasn’t complete without reading books aloud. I haven’t been good about early bedtimes, perfect nutrition, and many other things, but I have been good about reading aloud.

There are some books on our shelf that I could probably say from memory: The Muppet Babies Book of Shapes; The Pokey Little Puppy; The Cat in the Hat; One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. So few Caldecott and Newberry Award winners were among our favorites from early childhood! The Three Little Pigs, The Little Golden Book of Sounds, The Egg Book, and other simple stories were enough to keep our little people happy. Library trips would bring lavishly illustrated and poetically versed books to our home, but these weren’t the favorites of the very young. It was just Hop on Pop and The Three Little Kittens for us.

Reading calmed my children, gave us time to snuggle, and became part of the bedtime routine. One day in Texas I discovered that I could read to the children and think about other things at the same time. This time of mental escape when the kids were quiet and happy was a blessing. Although my mind sometimes wandered during the early years of Dr. Seuss books, I kept reading because my mother had done the same for me and I loved her for it.

Treasure Island, Johnny Tremain, The Hobbit, Tom Sawyer, and The Lord of the Rings trilogy are some of the books that I introduced to the kids at a young age. I noticed that my children have returned to these books on their own to enjoy them again. It doesn’t matter how old the children are, if it’s a good book, they’ll sit around and listen to me read it.

Some of my instinct to gather my children close around me is helped by good literature. I have grown closer to my children by giving 20 or 30 minutes at a time to read aloud. I’ve traveled through the stories with them and watched their wonder and laughter. As they grow older, I see that reading aloud is a good catalyst for conversation with kids who don’t feel like talking.

I hope each child carries a memory of me reading books aloud. I hope that when they think of me, they see me with a book not too far from reach. My personal reading has helped me in my parenting to be more informed, centered, and entertained. I’ve filled the house with books, ready for discovery and rediscovery. Having a house full of well-read books is one way that this quiet mother says, “I love you.”

When I asked the kids in 2015 which books they loved best from early childhood, this is the list they came up with:

A Bargain for Frances

Another Monster at the End of this Book

Are You My Mother?

Black Beauty

Carry On, Mr. Bowditch

Chrysanthemum

Corduroy

Dinosaur Days

Fire, Fire!

Firetruck

Goodnight Moon

Guess How Much I Love You

Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb

I Can Dress Myself

Jessica

Little Golden Books (any of them)

Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel

Monkeys Jumping on the Bed

Muppet Babies Be Nice

Oh, the Places You’ll Go

Richard Scarry’s Busy Workers

Royal Diaries Series: Queen Elizabeth

Somebody Loves You, Mr. Hatch

Tell Me Again about the Night I Was Born

The Dot

The Hobbit

The Little Red Hen

The Lord of the Rings series

The Pea

The Quiltmaker’s Gift

The Raft

The Ugly Duckling

The Very Quiet Cricket

Tiki Tiki Tembo

The Austin Backyard

The Austin Backyard, 1998-2005

The jingle of the swings’ chains was a natural accompaniment to outdoor play in our Austin yard. Backs arching, toes reaching above the fence, eyes trained to catch glimpses of the field beyond the fence, Paige and Daniel soared. Days in Austin felt heavy with moist air and heat. Clouds, creating a blank white, arching cover on the skies, were a blessing because they shielded us from the sun.

When Paige began school, the poem, “The Swing” by Robert Lewis Stevenson was her first memorization project. She recited it on the swing with natural soaring expressions as her toes reached for the clouds.

There was a bucket swing for babies, with two holes for chubby legs. Baby Timothy’s feet, socks dangling from his toes as he kicked in his swing, are a detail from memory that I can only associate with him.

Parents of the neighbor children joined us to visit while their children played, our conversations sometimes interrupted by requests for an “underdog” where a parent would run beneath the child, lifting the child on the swing high above the head. For those moments when our children were in the swings, they were happy and their needs were simple.

In summer, the three crape myrtle tress along the back fence erupted into vivid pink blossoms; this vibrant color gleaned from such poor, shallow soil and heat was a miracle of Texas ingenuity.

Late afternoons and early evenings were best for backyard play because our west-facing house created full shade at this time of day. The heat wasn’t the only challenge in Texas. There were also fire ants. The swings kept young feet safe from the fire ants lurking in the dirt. These ants, with their mob-like dynamics of swarm-and-sting were the perpetual enemy. Turning on the hose was the fastest, surest way to remove fire ants when they bit and stung little feet and legs. Daniel’s reactions to ant bites were the most severe, and sometimes he would have pussy blisters between his toes. Sometimes the kids put on their long rubber boots to avoid ant bites as they played.

The large cement patio was always littered with sidewalk chalk, balls, and child-propelled vehicles. There was a plastic play house with a half door and windows with shutters. The patio was like a stage, elevated enough that we could see it from the field behind the house and the street, Bratton Lane beyond the field. Coming home from errands on Bratton Lane I could look to the patio and see our children playing outside.

As the children grew, we decided to add a trampoline to the yard. The swing set was dismantled when we moved to Arizona, in hopes that it would be rebuilt someday, but it wasn’t. There wasn’t enough space in our new yard. I called this one of the casualties of our move.

The trampoline remained a part of our yard in Arizona, but it became a casualty of our move to Utah. During the move, we unpacked the swings and placed them on the garage shelf, like a memorial. The hope that they will be used again dims each year. You will also find our trampoline poles in a pile in the backyard, the once happy trappings of childhood play, now just a haphazard monument to those earlier days.

Our yards in Arizona and Utah were beautiful and unique, but playing in Austin on the swings against the pink canvas of blossoming trees was a wonderful beginning.

Aquarium

IMG_20151113_122903 — The jellyfish were my favorites

Mark and I had another Friday of wonder together. I love aquariums, so I can’t believe it took us this long to see the aquarium down the street. I found myself on the floor in my dress, trying to spy new creatures and I also inadvertently dipped my coat sleeve in the water in an attempt to touch a ray as it swam past me. How childish to forget my coat for such an opportunity. How fun.

Mark and I have been working on having adventures this year as part of our study of Utah. I never went to 4th grade, so I missed out on Utah studies. I’ve felt this loss of a proper Utah education every time someone mentions a county in Utah and I have no idea where it is. Well, we are fixing this, one field trip at a time. The past two weeks we have focused on things closer to home. However, we have traveled to some interesting places this year. Mark has a map that we populate with photos in the shapes of the counties he has visited in 4th grade. We have more pictures to put on the map, but you get the idea.

To the Children of my Relief Society sisters over the years

Child,

Do you know that your parents’ concern

Is ever about you?

On the sickbed, unable to stand, a mother signals,

“Find that poem about my child and share it with Angela.”

The poem is printed on her child’s funeral program.

It sits near her mother’s bedside.

Another sits on her father’s desk, accessible with the right hand.

Child,

Your mother’s heart breaks for you.

Even gestures from close friends are too painful for her to bear.

You don’t see it, nor can you:

Her house is closed,

A mirror to your lonely place.

Child,

You left and she didn’t know she could go on.

You were her reason for living for so long.

She is finding strength on her own now, and she is radiant.

Moving forward, she keeps pace with you, hundreds of miles away.

And oh, time goes so slowly!

Child,

With love your mother allows you to come back home.

You are wounded, not healing, and raw.

You don’t tell her how you really feel;

Somehow all the words you can say are hurtful.

She knows her love is not enough to heal you;

And prays that you will find your true Savior.

Child,

We gave your mother a quilt today

To help her to know that we remember you, too.

She places it on her lap

And tells us of a tree planted in your honor:

The soldier who didn’t come home.

She will remember you long after the tree is gone,

The infant face, the boyish tricks, and songs from a teen–

Woven together in every contour of her heart.

Child,

You left today on an errand for the Lord,

I came to your mother

And she was crying, but she will be fine.

You are doing the thing that will make her happiest.

I will watch over her until you come home again

And can hug her yourself.

Child,

You are beautiful in your wedding clothes.

Your mother, tired from preparations, looks radiant.

She will put her feet up tonight, cry a few tears, and smile.

And as ever,

You will be the instrument drawing her thoughts to the future.

For mothers of faith, the future always includes you, Child.

No matter what.

Wow!

Constable landscape

I saw my first Monet painting with Richard and Mark. We visited the British Landscapes exhibit at the Utah Museum of Fine Art. (All images are from their website.) At one point during the exhibit, Mark asked if he should stop saying, “Wow!” all of the time. “No,” I replied. “This is why I brought you to the museum with me.”

To the Rescue with Children

This week I am in charge of a funeral luncheon and there are several sisters in poor health in my congregation. I was trying to think of how to meet so many needs and I remembered this adventure from my memoir project. I’m grateful that our children are old enough to take care of themselves this week!

To the Rescue with Children, 2003

Our phone rang almost all of the time during the years that I served as the president of the Relief Society in my church in Austin. On this day in 2003, the call was from a woman who needed me to pick up her son from school because he was sick. She was a bus ride away from home and had no way to pick him up. Her son lived with many disabilities and I was on the list of people who had permission to pick him up from school.

I looked down at my three young children, ages a few months to age 6. How was I going to pick up this boy with all of these kids in tow? I had many people who helped watch the children during these years, but finding a sitter wasn’t always possible. Today I didn’t have time to call around for help; the boy needed to be picked up right away. I loaded the kids into the van and drove to the high school.

It was a cool, blank-skied Texas spring afternoon with some rain. My mind dashed among the incompatible players in this situation. Should I bring the kids into the school? I couldn’t believe that this was a good idea. I needed both of my hands to help the boy to the car. What if he was angry and unwilling to come with me? I tried to shield my children from a lot of the anger and grief I saw as I did my Relief Society work. The cool rain gently spattered the windshield as I pulled into the school, still with no solution.

I looked at my children in the rear view mirror and spied a blanket in the back seat. As I gathered up baby Timothy I told Paige and Daniel, ages six and three to hide under the blanket while I was gone. I didn’t want anyone to notice the abandoned children in our van. This was not a smart solution. But it was all I could do. Any other solution would have meant leaving them alone for a longer period of time. I didn’t worry about their safety as much as what people might think if they saw them. I became a mother in the early years of the attachment parenting movement which evolved into helicopter parenting. The cultural reflex to judge a parent harshly when children are seen alone, even in a cool car with its doors locked, caused me more angst than was helpful for the kids.

Those ten minutes while I collected the boy from school were filled with guilt and frustration. I was relieved that he didn’t need to be coaxed into coming with me because he was interested in the baby I had tied against me in a sling.

My children probably remember my work with this family because I would abandon them to do it. “Play in this tree while I go inside this house, kids,” and, “Hide under this blanket while I go and fetch this boy from the high school,” and “Have fun with Grandma and Dad while I go for a visit!” I hope that I was able to frame these maneuvers as adventures to them.

This art makes me feel like I’m not cutting corners, and it expresses how I feel about drivers ed

This is my 13th year of home schooling. I only have one student now, but that has its own challenges. It’s harder to be fun with just one kid. I’m 13 years older, too. When we finish our subjects and tasks, I’m am usually out the door or in the kitchen doing something for Relief Society. Driving the older boys to and from school, Frisbee practice, piano lessons, and performances takes additional time. This is why I am thankful for Mark’s art teacher Renon. She supplements Mark’s education in a beautiful way. We are still waiting for Daniel’s drivers ed teacher to issue the final certificate so he can get his license. Every day of this delay is literally hours of driving for me. Here is a painting of how long this process feels like it is taking:

Bells, piano keys, hymns, Relief Society, symphony, art, and black socks

It was a week of music for our family. We watched Daniel play in his first bell choir concert. His current bell assignment is to play some of the big bass bells. He says playing these bells is like pouring out a full gallon of milk with each note, your wrist and forearms carefully managing the weight. In other words, they are heavy. I felt Christmas drift through the air as they played, even though these weren’t Christmas pieces. December will be a busy month for bells and they will be playing at Temple Square. I am really looking forward to that.

The boys had a piano recital. Daniel played Preludium in E minor by Felix Mendelssohn. Timothy played Little Story by Sergei Prokofieff. Mark played Etude in A minor by Dmitri Kabalevsky. (Like those names mean anything…) I know the pieces just by the tunes. I rarely learn the names and composers, but I sing along in my head to every piece, well-learned by echoes moving through the house at all hours.

I did Relief Society things. Lots of that, but the specific lessons I am learning and the heartache and loneliness that I am exposed to is part of a private journey that I am taking with some sisters. We can all be more aware of, prayerful, and helpful to others.

In general, I spoke at a Relief Society meeting, participated in a ward council meeting, and presented specific ways to involve women in decisions and discussions and how to improve in ministering to others; I also counseled with the Bishop in a private meeting. I wrote, helped set up tables, washed linens, baked, and cooked. I texted, wrote letters, and talked on the phone. I hugged people who were crying and received counsel about how to do things better. I visited a sister late one night. I listened and admired. I thought hard and made plans. I used my calligraphy skills. I drew strength from scripture study and prayer and hugs from Richard. Please don’t think I am bragging. I am painting a picture of our life. I am not unique in what I do.

On Saturday Richard and I joined my sister Sarah and her husband Bryan for dinner at Lamb’s and the symphony.

Daniel played the organ in church on Sunday. A sister on our row in church lifted her infant son dressed in a flannel shirt and I remembered Daniel at that age wearing a flannel shirt. I looked at the contrast between this infant and Daniel at the organ and marveled at the time that has passed without effort. I held that tall young man in my arms not so long ago.

We visited Paige for a few minutes on Sunday night and as always I asked to see some of her art. This was one of her doodles-in-progress, not for an art class. She is critical of it, but there is LIFE in this drawing. I had to share it.

Also, even her scrap pieces of paper with color gradations and paint mixes could be hung on the wall. I smile every time I visit the dorms because the windows and walls are more decorated each time. Twinkle lights, banners, flags representing mission calls to other countries, and little touches of homemaking are creeping into each unit.

And finally, there is Timothy, who goes to school in the dark early hours for jazz band practice. I bought him some new black shoes and black socks to wear with shorts because that’s what you wear now, at least in middle school. It looked strange at first, like they forgot to change out of their dress socks, but I’m good with it now.

Oh, and Halloween is this Saturday and Mark and I have not made any progress on his costume. Aaack!

This post might be TMI but I don’t feel like editing out pieces of our story today like I usually do.

My faithful companion

I felt sluggish today so I hitched a ride on Mark’s enthusiasm for getting things done. I cleaned when he cleaned. I practiced the violin when he practiced the piano. I studied and wrote while he worked on school. He’s a great companion and help to me. I’m so grateful for him. In this picture he’s tied himself to the chair to keep from getting up and playing with the Legos on the floor by his desk. Now that’s self discipline!