Daffodils and Hope

Monday was a gloriously warm spring day and my front yard was bursting with yellow as my daffodils turned their pretty horn-shaped petals to the sun. It was almost impossible to believe the forecast for the rest of the week: clouds, wind, and snow.  As Wednesday approached, meteorological rumors about another bomb cyclone started circulating.  Really? Witnessing the intense blizzard a month ago had been incredible, but would it really happen again? As more people said those words I started to worry for my beautiful daffies, blooming in the same place as the 4 foot drifts of snow settled after the last storm.  Daffodils are pretty snow hardy, but I knew they couldn’t withstand the weight of that much snow.

I gathered all the buckets and planter pots I could find in the garage and as the sleet started to fall on Wednesday morning, I covered as many of the daffodils as I could. I put heavy rocks on top to hold the buckets in place and kept watch out the window as the storm blew in.  We did see lots of wind.  It was definitely cold.  Snow fell on and off. But thankfully, the bomb cyclone of April didn’t hit us the way it did in March.  I was pleasantly surprised as I lifted the buckets off on Thursday morning to see my daffodils safe and sound and still erect. Their neighbors, who I couldn’t cover, were laying their still-sunny-colored heads on the ground in defeat, but the ever powerful sun popped out and warmed the earth and by the end of the day, even most of the storm-weary flowers had made a partial recovery.

It has continued to snow on and off all week, with less intensity.  Each day as I check on my flowers I’m amazed at the way they continue to weather the storms and perk up for the sun.  They aren’t perfect-looking like they were last week, but they continue to be a symbol of hope in the sun, like my own hope in the Son.

All this thinking about daffodils has taken my mind back to an Easter season 16 years ago when I felt much like a daffodil crushed under the weight of a springtime storm.  My first foray into motherhood had landed me in the NICU with a baby whose outlook was grim, at best, and who was fighting each day to survive to the next. It was a heartbreaking time. A time of anxiety and going-through-the-motions living.  I remember that I often didn’t feel much, which I think was my heart’s coping mechanism to avoid being irreversibly broken. I spent my days keeping vigil at the beside of my boy inside the maze of Kosair Children’s Hospital and often didn’t leave until it was dark out.  

One day, however, I was heading home in the daylight. As we turned the bend on the freeway, a most amazing sight was suddenly filling up my view: a wall of blooming and bright yellow daffodils.  Someone had planted the entire median between the north and south bound lanes with thousands of daffodils. It took my breath away and in the same moment the Spirit spoke to my very broken heart.  The message was this: Spring will always come! Rebirth, renewal, hope, the glorious messages of Spring, are also the eternal messages of Easter.  Because of the ever and all powerful Son, I have hope.  My baby has hope. Those daffodils gave me hope that whether in this life or the next, someday my baby’s broken body and my own broken heart would be healed.  

I’m so grateful for a loving Heavenly Father who planned Spring with its telestial reminders of the most important Spring of all: the year the Savior came to save us all from mortality and raise us up to eternity. As the sun brings us hope that the earth will awaken once again, the SON gives me hope that I, too, can be reborn and return to live with Him again.

heart hands

"I can get out by myself, mom. You don't need to take me up."

"Okay," I say. But, I'm wondering when she suddenly switched from wanting me to walk her all the way to the door at preschool.

"I can open the car door myself, too. You don't need to get out."

"Did you get your lunch? Your jacket?"

"Yep! I've got it. Ohhh. The door is heavy. But, I got it! Bye, Mom!"

I watch as she skips up the walk (a newly perfected skill from dance class), her cute a-lined hair bobbing up and down. She stands on the porch and knocks. She turns and waves. She knocks again and peeks in the window. She turns and smiles.

Then, still waiting for someone to come to the door, she sets her stuff down and turns around, putting her little hands together to make the shape of a heart. And, she melts my mother heart.

When did my baby get so big? And how will I survive when she heads out to the big world of kindergarten in 6 short months?

Motherhood marches on. And sometimes, in some ways, I feel like I can't quite keep stride.

Spring

I woke at 4am with a headache, which is never a good start. But, after I got the big kids tucked away at school and activities, I loaded baby girl in the stroller for a walk in the Springtime. She watched for dandelions and asked me to stop and pick them for her. We paused to smell the blossoming crab apple trees. She got out for a quick run and back in for another ride.  More than once. I smiled as I looked down at the cup holder, full of withered dandelions from a different day's adventure.  And, the stroller basket, strewn with pinecones. I breathed in the lilac bushes and turned my face toward the sun and thought: Ahhhhh.  It is a good life.

Books

Books have always been my favorite.  I would chose reading over most any other activity.  I've been in countless book clubs over the years.  Finding the library is always top priority when I've moved to a new place.  And, I love to own books just so I can pass them on to others with an urgent, "You've got to reading this!"

So, it has been hard to watch my boy as he has struggled to read.  It was evident to me ever since he was a baby that his mind worked differently than my older kids.  He reached milestones at his own pace, and in his own way. Learning to read was no different.  He loved letters early on and knew all the sounds they made before he started preschool at age 3, but somehow the connection between those letters, those sounds and the words they could make was a huge hurdle for him. When he was a kindergartener, and on the advice of a friend, I got the book, "Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons."  We sat down to start with Lea (only 20 months younger) along for the ride.  We worked through the book together and these two siblings were staying right on pace with each other, until about lesson 50.  Suddenly, it clicked in Lea's head, and like my other two readers, she was remembering sight words and making sense of letter combinations, and, quite amazingly, she was reading!

And, Davis wasn't.

He was still laboriously sounding out every.single.word.  Even when it appeared on a page several times, he couldn't remember it from one line to the next; sometimes even from one sentence to the next.  Words like "the" and "to" would
constantly trip him up.  It was ever more apparent to me that the English language is seriously messed up.  And, that something was not clicking for my boy.

I have come to learn in the past couple years that if nothing else, I am my child's advocate.  Often the only one he has.  It was difficult to get anyone in the school to take my concerns seriously.
"He just has a speech delay."
"It will come in time."
"He isn't ready yet...he needs to be in school longer."
Nothing, however, felt right.

One day I went to lunch with my visiting teachers and another lady they visit.  We somehow got on the topic of her family's struggle with dyslexia and like a spotlight in my head, I knew that that was what Davis had. I just knew it.  As soon as I got home I started to research all I could find about dyslexia.  I contacted friends who I knew had children who struggled with it.  I called several literacy centers in town looking for answers.  I was told by more than one person that since he was only 6, he was too young to be tested.  Yet, everything I read talked about how much early intervention can help those with dyslexia.  I knew if he had it, it was best to get him help now, and not wait until he was struggling through 3rd grade or until the school reading specialist noticed something.

After much push and shove on my part, I was finally able to get him tested.  The doctor worked with him for a couple hours and when the results came back, I was not surprised to learn that Davis is dyslexic.

Now, after a year of tutoring and extra help from teachers, I am in awe at the reader that has emerged.  His abilities have skyrocketed.  Reading is still a struggle for him, and it might be for his whole life.  Additionally, his dyslexia affects memory, attention, spelling, writing, speech, math facts and other areas of his academic life.  This isn't something you cure or fix.  It is the way his brain functions and something he will have to work around for always.  But, learning about his uniquely wired brain has opened my eyes to a whole new way of looking at my son.  The abilities he has and the ways I can see his mind working through things far outshine the disabilities and struggles.

And, at last, he LOVES to read.  We are working through the Magic Treehouse Books, just like I did with my bigger kids.  He is excited about each new book, each new chapter.  Tonight as I tucked him in, our chapter read and the cliffhanger ending waiting for us tomorrow, he said, "I just love to read, Mom! I love books!"

Me, too, my boy.  But not as much as I love you!

Farewell to the Van

We sold the van today.  It is a good thing.  We recently got a new ride with a bigger engine to pull the camper and more seats to fit the growing carpool.  It is newer and fancier and has way too many buttons.  I'm still getting used to how big it is, and sometimes miss the van and it's automatic door (even though it often didn't work) and the wonderful turning radius (for all those times I go the wrong way and have to flip a U-ie), and the fact that I no longer had to worry about how sad it would be to get the first ding in the car door.


The van was the first car we bought all on our own (which means, not from my dad).  We bought it when baby #3 was on the way, and we were feeling quite grown up and in need of a family-mobile.  That baby never joined our family and I continued to drive around this HUGE van with only two kids for a couple more years.  It sometimes felt silly to have such a big car, but it was convenient when I could pick up my sister and her two littles and we could adventure together.

Over the years that big car started to feel smaller and smaller.  More bodies filled it up.  More stuff got schlepped around in the back.  We added a car-top carrier for long trips because the cavernous space in the back didn't seem to hold supplies for seven anymore.  The van got us so very many places; to see loved ones we missed and back home when we got homesick; to practices and games and recitals; to school and work; to church; to help others; to enjoy the beauty of God's green earth.

As every mother knows, your car is your office.  It is the waiting room at soccer practice, the grocery getter, the kid picker-upper. The passenger seat, until recently when my big kids decided they were tall enough to sit there, was like a filing cabinet with all the things I needed to drop off, return, not forget, and work on. The van was a second home where we listened to stories on CD together, sang out loud to our favorite songs, passed back snacks during long drives. There was that one time when we drove it all the way to Nauvoo with a newly potty-trained Lea, and for long stretches of I-80, the van became an emergency loo, too, with the baby potty tucked in behind the front seat.

Chad sold it to a family who runs a church ministry across town.  I'm glad to know the van will continue to serve a family who will also make many memories in its seats.

And even though it was only a thing, and it was often sticky and grimy and smelly from the monsters who rode in it, it feels like a little part of me has said farewell.

To my soon-to-be-wed niece Sarah Elizabeth

Dear Sarah,

I remember the feeling so vividly of the moment Chad and I were first called 'the Murdocks.' We had walked into a ward function for our University of Utah married student ward.  We had only been married a short time, maybe just weeks? Or a couple months?  Our friend called out, "It's the Murdocks!"  Those words stopped me in my tracks. It was such a surprising title.  THE Murdocks.  That is how I thought of my in-laws: that big crew of parents, siblings and 12 grandkids.  Of course, I, too, was a Murdock (shiny and new), but no one had ever put that label on me before.  We were always just 'Chad and Adri.' I took a minute to let it sink in.  I liked our new moniker, but it still took a little getting used to.

This week we celebrated anniversary #16, and that day that our family name was christened seems like it was just last month and a million years ago, all at the same time.  The passage of time is funny that way.  But, with your wedding right around the corner I've been thinking back to those early years, when 'the Murdocks' meant just the two of us. What a wonderful, unique time of life!  I'm excited that you are entering this new stage!

When I got married, my mom told me, "If you work really hard to love your in-laws for that first year, after that it won't be work anymore because you will love them." That was good advice.  Not that it was really hard work to love the Murdocks, but it is a little different to embrace a new family as your own: their traditions, habits, methods of doing things.  As you and Blaine become 'the Davidsons' (your own new little Davidson family), it will take a little while to figure out whose method of loading the dishwasher is going to work, and which Christmas traditions you want to bring into your own family; how you are going to celebrate birthdays and if it is really that big of a deal if he leaves his toothbrush out.  It will be hard to split your time on holidays and to make sure you share all the good news with both moms at the same time.  But, learning to make this work is key to making a happy family.  Believe me, you do NOT want to live a lifetime (and eternity) with one family feeling like they can claim more of you than the other.  And, I do think my mom is right...if you conscientiously love your in-laws for a while, eventually it won't take any effort because they will become your own, too.

I'm so excited to attend you temple sealing next week.  The memories of my own wedding day are treasured.  It is hard to really appreciate the wonder of eternity with all the excitement of the wedding day, but go back and do sealings again as soon as you can!  It will help you remember and cement those wonderful words of promise in your heart.  The very best thing Chad and I did for our new marriage was to feed it with frequent temple visits.  We used to go every Thursday night, the weekly anniversary of our own wedding, and the repetition of those covenants created a solid foundation for our family.  Even though you seem really busy right now with school and work, I promise you have MUCH more time for temple attendance now than you will when the babies come.  Take advantage. The effort will pay big dividends!!

I am so grateful for marriage.  Marriage is the foundation of eternity.  It is worth all the effort it takes to keep your marriage strong and happy. Despite the temporary and disposable treatment marriage gets in the world at large, I know, for a fact, that God intends marriage to be for now and for always. It is His way to help His children learn and grow and become as He is, as well as His way to provide bodies for precious spirits still waiting to come to earth.  As I've bent my own selfish desires and tendencies to be 'one' with Chad, I have become more compassionate, more patient, more loving, better. When you let it, marriage makes you more than you can be on your own.

This is the most important decision you will ever make and I'm so proud of you for doing things in the right way, in the temple and for forever.  You are on your way, my cute niece! See you on Tuesday!

much love,
Aunt Adri

Home for Christmas

I started putting away Christmas today.  A little earlier than normal, but some of the sit-around-and-create-clutter kinds of things needed to be put to sleep for the season.  I'm not looking forward to taking down the wreaths and the tree and the red and white throw pillows and fill my house with winter charm, but I guess there is always an end to the season. It is what makes it fun to pull it all out again in November! 

As I was doing some repairs on things that were too loved this year, I found myself fixing a small frame my mom sent to me during my first Christmas season of adulthood, as a freshman in college.  I was incredibly homesick that year. It was the era before email and cell phones and texting and social media. The only connection to home was a once-weekly long distance phone call, and I was feeling out of sorts as the holiday season began.  I'm sure Mom noticed my tears as I pulled out of the driveway after Thanksgiving break to head back to school for the end of the semester.  A few days later, a Christmas package arrived.  Mom knew I loved frames so she had bought me a bunch of Christmasy ones and filled them with pictures of me as a child at Christmas:  Me sitting on my first 'ride on' as a one-year-old, chubby cheeks and a tummy poking out from under my too-tight pjs; A profile shot as I was opening a gift, my tongue coming out as a 'thank you' was frozen in time; A picture of me and my siblings under the tree.  These were small treasures from home; a package that made me feel loved and missed and oh-so-excited for Christmas. A package filled with the spirit of family and home and love. Thankfully, I got to head home in just a few weeks!

Since then, there have been many, many Christmases that I haven't been 'home' with the family of my childhood.  I got married and moved away and started creating a new home for the holidays.  I still miss the magic of being a kid at Christmas, but there isn't anything that compares to WATCHING the magic of Christmas play out for your own children.  Kids make Christmas, Christmas. This year we were thrilled to have visiting Grandparents and Auntie.  Being surrounded by loved ones and planning little surprises for others is what fills my heart with happiness.  We enjoyed all the fun with our company and having them here made everything better.  But, the thing that really filled my heart to overflowing, in the same way those framed pictures did so many years ago, was when my mother-in-law hugged me and said, "This has been the best Christmas in years!"  I am so grateful that I could share the magic of my kids with their grandma; that she would leave the comforts of her own home and life to be part of the crazy that is Christmas around here. 

And, I'm so grateful that 'home' is not a place, so much as a feeling; a 'place' that can be wherever the people you love are.

a beacon

On Saturday night it was a pleasure to take a break from regular life to be with my darling girl, as well as sisters across the world, to hear our leaders at the General Women's Meeting. I love witnessing Kate's excitement for gospel learning. I hope she continues to love to feel the Spirit always.

I loved listening to Sister Neill F. Marriott (and her fun Southern accent) as she talked about light.  She said,  "Our purpose, [like the temple's, is] to serve others and help them push back the darkness and return to Heavenly Father's light." After she heard this, my sweet, in-tune Kate leaned over to me and said, "I think this would help my friend at school." Her friend has been having a hard time with another friend who is trying to influence him to break rules and disobey teachers at school. He feels a little trapped, I think, not knowing how to break off a friendship that is getting him caught up in things he would rather not be doing.  Kate has been worrying over her friend, talking to me about what she could possibly do to help.

I think, through her own example, she is probably helping more than she knows.  The fact that she would hear counsel, truth, from our church leaders and then instantly apply it in her own mind to her personal life, is astonishing to me.  At nine I barely sat through one session of Conference.

But, she is so much smarter, wiser, more faithful than I was at her age.  I think she needs to be. As do all our children. The world is in a tailspin of evil, worsening every day.  But, hope, for me, is found in my children and their friends who "stand for truth and righteousness." They are a beacon to their friends. I feel privileged to be on the sidelines and watch them storm the world with their good, just trying to keep up.

Labor Day Weekend

We hitched up the camper and persuaded friends to join us as we bid farewell to summer amid the Colorado mountains. A warm end-of-summer day found us on the banks of a reservoir where kids made mud pies, splashed in the lake and chased each other along the shore. I sat in the shade with baby on my knee, watching in awe as my beautiful children ran along the sand. These healthy, happy babies of mine who have grown so long and lean, funny and clever, kind and forgiving. These five who have filled my life up to practically perfect. Oh, how blessed I am.

Baby girl practicing her walking at the campground

assignments

It is officially summer vacation, and my kids are on their annual "summer plan." It is always slightly different, but goes something like this: do a little work, including some summer school-ish things, then you can play. Simple enough.  This year, for their learning jobs, they have to read, write and do math every day.  Not much. Not overwhelming, but just a little something to keep their minds going. Dallin (of course) whips through things quick and is out the door to find a friend and an adventure. Kate delays, dawdles. Her friends knock on the door and she is still.not.done.  It drives me nuts. What I wouldn't give to have someone tell me I HAD to read and write every day.  I might even do a little math, just to have a chance at the other two.  Unfortunately, moms don't get that kind of assignment (luxury). At least not this mom.

But, oh, how I need to write more. I write in my mind all day long, but rarely do I find a minute to sit down and pull it out of my head an onto the page.  If I do sit, it is at the expense of something else (like my floor, which at this moment is a disaster, but I'm avoiding the sweeping. Like Kate might. Hmmm....maybe I'd better have more empathy for that girl?)

So, tonight, I'm assigning myself the task (joy!) of catching up on the life of my baby.  She is 11 months tomorrow. 11 BIG months!  Amazing! Her babyhood is slipping away and I am slow to record the beauty of her days.

Annie can crawl, but doesn't usually use it to get anywhere fast. She is more of an explorer, taking the round about way to get somewhere in favor of looking and seeking (and finding lots of stuff on my messy floors!) She has figured out how to get up the steps, but I try to keep her away from doing that too much because our long, steep staircases scare me! She does NOT know how to go down, so everyone is on eagle eye watch whenever she is upstairs, even with the baby gates. When she does decide that speed is necessary, it is cute to see her employ the use of her one foot, as she scootches it up and uses it to help her go fast.  Usually, she uses her 'fast' crawling to play chase with a sibling.

She hasn't taken any steps, but she has started cruising, just a little.  She loves to pull herself up on things, especially the dishwasher (right near the utensils), and the dryer (she is excellent at unloading all the clothes onto the floor!), or up onto the back of my legs. Which is precarious!


Annie loves to eat solids and is good at grabbing most everything and feeding herself.  She LOVES blueberries, strawberries and cheese.  She also likes yogurt and will still let me spoon feed her oatmeal. She doesn't love veggies, but will tolerate them mixed with fruit. She likes bread, sometimes. Tonight she had spaghetti, and loved it (and it was everywhere!).  She loves most fruit.

Annie loves to wrestle and climb over anyone laying on the ground.  When she wants to play, she will put her face into the floor, like she is hiding, and then pop up and laugh. We are working on getting her to point to her head, nose, ears, etc., but mostly she just points to her mouth, doing the sign for 'eat.' She will point to her head, at the wrong time, and also does the sign for 'more', but also, usually, at the wrong time.

Annie's smile is a light!

If you ask Annie for a kiss, she puts her forehead onto your lips. Melts my heart.

Annie loves her siblings and gets excited to see any of them. They are so sweet with her and they all love to play with her. She is one lucky baby!

Little #5 is such a joy to me. What would I do without her?

Easter Hope

The last time Easter fell on April 20th was 2003. That date is stuck in my brain because it was the year Dallin was born.  His birth, on March 23, 2003, was difficult, and as Easter approached, he was still struggling every day.  We were waiting for the benchmarks of enough caloric intake, lower bilirubin levels and blood counts that could sustain his body without further transfusion.

I looked at the calendar, at Easter day, April 20th, and in my heart I hoped that my baby would be home by then.  It kind of became my little secret wish. I didn't dare say it out loud, but in my prayers I pleaded, "Home for Easter. Home for Easter."

Although he was getting stronger, Dallin did not make it home by Easter.  He drank from a bottle for the first time that day. We were elated! It was improvement, but not enough.

I've thought about that hope many times since, and although he didn't come home that day, the hope of Easter, hope in the Savior, is ultimately what brought me peace.  Hope in His life and His resurrection; hope in His gospel and His priesthood; hope in covenants made in the temple; hope that no matter the outcome for my baby in this life, he would be mine throughout eternity because of the One who came to save.

By the following Easter, my miracle boy was not only home, but healing: growing, learning, crawling around to find plastic eggs and putting the basket on his head. My busy, darling one-year-old was such a gift to me. He is still a gift. His scary beginning will always be monumental; a time that taught me much about hope in the the Lord and, forever after, shaped my faith.

For that, I am grateful.

heaven

As I folded the laundry, Lea tip-toed in to show me she could walk "en pointe" (a term my ballet-loving girl learned from a Fancy Nancy book). 

She said, "You used to do this when you were three or four, too"
"I did?  How do you know? You weren't born yet."
"Where was I?"
"Still in heaven, waiting to be born, with Heavenly Father and Jesus."
"Oh yeah.  I like them. And they love me.  We played games there. Matching... and Candyland. And, there are grown up games, too. You would like it."


I'm not sure she can really remember heaven, but I'm glad she knows she is loved by her Heavenly parents. In church, when she climbs on my lap during the sacrament, I whisper in her ear, "The bread and water remind us that Jesus loves Lea." I hope it sticks in her brain for always. Knowing who you are makes all the difference.

Listening

We pulled up to the curb to wait, like we do every day, for the elementary schoolers. The little girls were both asleep in their car seats as Davis wormed his way from the back seat, up to the front, and climbed onto my lap. He snuggled in and I asked him about his day at school. He told me about the cutting project he did at school; about waving to his speech teacher, but not going to her class today; about the story his teacher read and the game he played. He talked and talked, which isn't typical for my boy. Or, maybe it just isn't typical because he is in the middle of our family, smashed between two very talkative sisters. For these minutes, he had my full attention. I listened with my ears and my heart and I remembered how much I adore him. Mid sentence he said, "I want a kiss and a hug!"

I obliged.

"I love you Davis,"

"Yeah. Daddy loves me, too."

I'm glad he knows, and I'm trying to show it more often. I want to create more of these perfect moments.

Paint and a Heart Made Light

One year, when I was a teenager, my dad set out to paint the house. Actually, I'm not sure if he intended to paint the whole house, but one wall lead to another, and soon our house that had been completely white-walled, was not.

He's kind of a perfectionist, that dad of mine, so the painting looked flawless.  I'm sure he knew that someday I, too, would have a house, so he wanted to prevent bad paint jobs (or maybe just prevent his having to come in and fix my bad paint jobs), so he told me to come learn how to paint a wall.  I actually liked the idea, so I was eager to learn. When I entered the room, he told me to sit on the {drop cloth covered} couch and watch.  He showed me how to roll the right amount of paint onto the roller; how to avoid drips; how to roll in a 'W' on the wall, then back over it again, until it was completely covered.  He talked about taping and edges. He told me a lot. And, he said, I could try it someday...on my own house.

As chance would have it, I have ended up having a couple houses and a few paint jobs over the years.  But, I married another paint-perfectionist (he painted houses during college), so I've not actually done much painting at all.  A few weeks ago, when our Relief Society offered up painting services to a local charity, I signed up with glee.  Finally, those decade-old tips about painting in a 'W' would finally come in handy.

On a cold Thursday night, a handful of women and I pulled into the dark parking lot, but were greeted by the sunny smiles of two women who were charity personified.  They were delighted to have some help and generous with their kind words. After a few instructions and a quick run to Lowes, we were ready to get at it.  We laughed and chatted as we worked.  A few hours later, we finished.  The walls were lovely.  My face and hair were speckled. My heart was full.

I have had very little time over the last several months to think about service beyond my usual circle: my baby, my children, my husband.  And yet, serving others is such balm to the soul.  It heals, rejuvenates, lightens.  On that night, in that place, helping people who really needed and appreciated my small offering, I was lifted in a way that cannot be found in retail therapy or 'me' time.

Contrary to what the world says, giving is really receiving, after all.

grace

"Davis, why are you dragging the rug upstairs?"
"I need it to make my guy."
"You can't take the rug upstairs, sweetie. Put it back in the kitchen."
"Oh, man!"

This conversation happened this afternoon and I didn't really think much of it. Unfortunately, many conversations I have with my bitty boo are like this: vague, nonsensical (it seems), and dismissed. He is hard to understand. Even though I can decipher so many more words now than I could a year ago, it is still often hard to catch exactly what he means, his intent, his heart.

In so many ways, my boy is so very capable. He is sometimes frustratingly independent... helping himself to whatever he wants in the kitchen; finding the hidden remote and turning on a show; trying to clean up messes on his own (and making a bigger one in the process). But, when it comes to words, it is often a guessing game for me.

I know there is so much going on in that head of his. Every day he surprises me with something he says, revealing something he knows that I didn't know he knew, but that he is very much old enough to know. He is nearly 5, but I often forget what my other kids did at that age. It is easy to treat him like someone much younger.

Tonight, when I walked into his room to help with the bedtime routine, I saw his "guy. He really was working on something.  It is hard to tell in the picture below, but he had taken the bathroom towels and stuffed them in the shirt and pants. He had tucked the pants bottoms into his shoes and borrowed Daddy's gloves from the garage for hands. I'm not sure what plan he had for the kitchen rug when I intervened, but my boy had, in fact, been making a 'guy' and I had dismissed it as something I wasn't understanding. Again.

I'm kind of a slow learner. I have been taught this lesson with Davis before: to listen and pay attention and not dismiss his words as something unintelligible. I'm sure my boy gets frustrated with a mom who can't seem to understand what is going on in his active, intelligent mind.

I'm just as sure that my Father in Heaven gets frustrated with me, too, as He attempts to teach me the same lessons, over and over again; the lessons of patience, love, charity, humility. I have been given experiences that should have (and did, for a time, usually) produced these things in me, and yet, often I fail to remember those lessons, those virtues. I am too quick to anger, too unkind, too selfish. But, just like my sweet boy seems to always give me another day, another chance, to figure it out, my Father keeps sending me chances to finally learn these lessons of life.

And, that is grace.

Me and My Double Life

This morning, after scriptures, Kate turned to me and said, "It would be so weird to be like you and have two lives." Hmmm...did she think I was secretly a spy?  She continued, "Because, you know, you and dad lived in the olden times, when there wasn't anything and then you had to get used to now days where we have iPads and stuff."

Yeah...that is one way to make your mother feel old.


In other news: I am a lousy blogger as of late, but am loving the world of 'micro blogging' that is Instagram. If you want, you can catch me, and lots of baby pics, there. @adrimurdock

My dad has always been a good gifter, and Valentine's day is no exception.  When I was a girl, he always had a little surprise for me: a necklace, a treat, and, one year, when I was probably 7 or 8, "The Queen of Hearts Maze Book." 

I thought the maze book was a treasure. Each page had an intricately created maze and a rhyming poem, and I loved it. I loved it so much, that I never wanted to actually WRITE in it.  I solved the mazes with my finger, over and over, but would never ruin the beauty of my book with a pencil.

I saved my maze book.  It made its way into my Valentine's box year after year, and this year, my own 8-year-old found it. She immediately headed upstairs to find a pencil to work out the mazes, not at all thinking that this must be a treasure, which is why it has such pristine pages. To her, it looked like fun.

As she sat at the counter, working the puzzles, I fought  back my instinct to stop her; to teach her the 'value' in doing mazes with your finger instead of a pencil.  But, I didn't. The book has been around over 25 years. It is about time it was actually used.

It got me thinking about my 'saving' ways.  Saving, of course, can be such a good thing. But, I think I fall into the manic side of the spectrum.  At least, I used to.  As a kid I had a huge stash of 'saved' stuff: stickers I never wanted to waste on a page, crayons I couldn't possibly ruin by using them, candy hoarded for another day.  As I've gotten older, I have tried not to save to the extreme.  I have decided it is okay to use the nice dishes; to wear the new nylons instead of making due with the ones that have the holes in the toes; to use up the pretty paper to make a card for a friend.  After all, if I save it too long, the dishes will just be dusty and old, the nylons might lose their elastic waist, and the pretty paper will look out-dated and frumpy. (Not that I know any of this from experience!)

So, here's to enjoying the beauty of today.
And, finally finishing up that maze book.

mind your manners

A couple years ago, at dinner, with the swirling crazies of our rambunctious brood overflowing the dining room, Chad captured everyone's attention by telling them, in a silly-perfect-daddy way, how awful their manners were. There were full mouths telling stories and elbows knocking over milk; raucous laughter, little ones doing laps around the table. There was reaching and grabbing and nose-turning-up-ing. And, Daddy emphasized all these no-nos with his over exaggerated reenactment of our meal.

Then, he told the kids about learning proper table manners at the home of his friend, Peter, whose perfectly well-mannered mother had hosted several teenagers in her own efforts to civilize the world. Our own family manners dinner tradition was born, and we chose Valentine's Day to be our special day.

This year, our schedules wouldn't allow for a fancy meal on Thursday, so our manners dinner was tonight. As I got dinner ready, the boys set the table using Grandma Great's special silver. The girls raided the dress up box to make everyone look "fancy." Dinner was served and everyone was very eager to be properly mannered. So cute!

We quickly reviewed table manners (which we do all the time, anyway, but something about being dressed up, made it more fun), but the manner Chad wanted to particularly pay attention to this year was "making polite dinner conversation."

I was amazed at all the lovely and detailed things my children had to say about their school day! Usually I am given answers like, "fine," "it was great," "nothing much," and "I liked recess" when I ask about how their day has been. But tonight I heard all the details about learning the drums in music class, the ins and outs of choosing partners in specials, and was even taught a new dance, courtesy of Kate (who asked politely if she might be allowed to perform) who showed us the circle dance they are learned at school today.

After dinner, everyone let loose just enough to join Kate in the circle dance, right there in the dining room, with our fancy outfits and our full tummies and this mommy's heart full of gratitude for the amazing little people I call "mine."

Happy Valentine's Day!

flutter

It was 6:24am when I felt the 'tap, tap, tap' my little one made on my shoulder.  Still 6 minutes until the alarm beckoned us all awake, I pulled her up into bed for a cuddle.  After getting her tucked in by my side, I felt it: that memorable but sort-of-forgotten feeling of the first flutterings of new life inside.  The baby, 15 1/2 weeks along, had just made those first discernible kicks.  Joy!

Feeling him/her move makes baby #5 seem more real.  I'm excited, but nervous at the same time.  On days like today, when I am pulled in 100 directions at once and I ache for one millisecond of quiet, I'm not sure I can handle another life in my hands.

But, in moments like this morning, during my six-minute-snuggle with my girl, I am so honored to be welcoming another little soul into my heart.

Blessed am I.

greetings