My kids always bring me flowers. The yellow tulip was our neighbor's but their intentions were pure and sweet.
Messy house, cute baby, good life.
Eloise refuses to ride in the stroller anymore. She wants to hold onto it with her hand while she walks beside it.
Phippsite Nite! The angel is telling Alma the Younger to repent.
Thursday, May 2nd. Two months belly shot at the Brigham City Temple. I found a sitter last minute and we decided to skip dinner and a movie and head to the temple. I printed paperwork to do initiatories for Grandpa George, Raiford, and Cleetis. Then we remembered that I had left my wallet in Atlanta and didn't have my license (turns out you CAN board a plane without your license). Even better, we realized that David's recommend had expired the day before! And he does recommend interviews every Sunday. Luckily Bishop Loosli vouched for us and we made it through! The work rolls forward despite our weaknesses.
****ultrasound picture here****
While I was waiting in the temple, I noticed this beautiful painting in the foyer by Valoy Eaton called Picking Peaches.
I wrote about this painting on my blog and how it helped me shift my perspective of motherhood and it's repetitive and sometimes mundane demands. I love how this woman is bending down for the umpteenth time picking peaches off the tree, and yet she has a smile on her face. This is what I wrote:
Thursdays hate me. I'm not making this up. Without fail, Thursday turns out to be my hardest day of the week, every week. Today, for example, is Thursday. I have been on a kick all week, feeling very motivated to get things done. I know that kind of motivation simply can't last, but today I didn't just get slowed down, I got flattened.
For about three months, I've been struggling with a simple little part of life called monotony. I remember being six years old and taking a gymnastics class during the week after school. My mom would pick me up, we'd get into the car, and I'd ask, "What are we doing tonight?" She'd almost always say, "Just going home," which inevitably brought a sting of disappointment and boredom (oh the woes of an only child). In elementary school, I filled the front cover of my homeroom folder with countdowns to my birthday, the night before my birthday, and then the actual day of my birthday party. I lived for my trips to Oregon to visit my dad, holidays, three day weekends, class parties, sleepovers, and anything else that changed up the usual routine.
And now, as a mother of four young children, most of my life is routine. Now I'm the mom telling my daughter, "We're just heading home now." Some days (mostly Thursdays) I pack up the kids and escape to Great Harvest Bread where I can lose myself (or find myself) in their soup and slice of bread and chocolate chip cookies. Then I notice other people staring at me with my four year old begging for more honey, my two year old spilling her water onto the table, and my one year old baby yelling at me with his mouth open like a baby bird for more food. I remember that these escapes aren't as easy as they used to be.
After a particularly difficult week a while back, I called our babysitter. She was available. It was a Wednesday night and I told my husband that we were going on a hot date. We ended up agreeing that our "hot date" should probably be at the Brigham City Temple. There was that rush of getting dinner out for the sitter, quick hugs and kisses and a swift escape to the car. As soon as we entered the doors to the temple, I saw a painting that caught my eye. Before I tell you about the painting, let me give you one more detail to this lovely impromptu date at the temple. We had just returned from a wedding in Atlanta, where I had left my wallet (turns out you CAN board a plane without your license). My temple recommend--your ticket in--was in that wallet. My dear husband's recommend had just expired the day before, which is funny because he's in our bishopric, which means he's in charge of keeping those things current. So we got to stand in this lovely entry way next to this painting for ten minutes or so while we waited for permission to enter the temple.
It's a woman picking peaches, painted by Valoy Eaton. But to me it said A LOT. And I'm not confident that I can convey in this post what this painting said to me, but that woman was bending down, for probably the hundredth and sixteenth time, placing peaches into her bucket, and she was smiling. I felt a different perspective of my role as a mother. I felt the "Why am I not..." and "If only I could.." and "What if my kids don't..." and "Why can't I just..." melt away, because I am simply picking peaches. Every day. And yes it is repetitive and at times, monotonous, but my job is important and meaningful and even simple. I'm just here to pick peaches, and do it happily and peacefully. This woman seems so centered and content. There could be a storm of sibling rivalry, incessant messes, meals to be made, diapers to be changed, babies to be cradled, laundry to be folded, waiting for her in that simple home in the background, but she's present in this moment of picking peaches.
That's what I saw. And it has stayed with me. Since then, when all of my children are crying about something at the same time and my baby is clinging to my legs so I can't even move around to do all the things being required of me and I want to SCREAM, I think of her. I'm just picking peaches. One at a time.
And still, there are times when that "other woman" comes out of me, the one who starts throwing rotten peaches at everyone and curses the tree for making too much for one little woman to pick in one day. Tonight, for example, when my husband couldn't come home at his usual time to give me a break, when I had to do dinner and bedtime alone because he had a meeting (I know many of you do this on a regular basis; I bow to you), when my oldest made eye contact with me and acknowledged and repeated what I asked her to do and then walked away, forgetting immediately, this peach-picker had HAD IT. I succumbed to the storm and yelled at my daughters. I let out my frustration with my hard day that started off with not enough sleep, laundry, a project that was interrupted incessantly, bill paying, homework with a very bored kindergartner, and violin practice with a sweet and stubborn girl who needs more encouragement and positivity than I can sometimes muster.
I'm exhausted. I want to be left alone. But I did remember that there are fragile egos and tender hearts up in those beds and I went back and apologized and gave hugs. I hope they remember the good parts of today and not an angry, fire-breathing mother. I hope they remember my courage to admit that I was wrong to yell, no matter what they did, and that even good moms get overwhelmed and tired. Maybe one day when they are weary, with children of their own, they will remember me, and that most of the time, I had a smile on my face as I bent down, time and time again because mine is the greatest job in the world.
Thursdays hate me. I'm not making this up. Without fail, Thursday turns out to be my hardest day of the week, every week. Today, for example, is Thursday. I have been on a kick all week, feeling very motivated to get things done. I know that kind of motivation simply can't last, but today I didn't just get slowed down, I got flattened.
For about three months, I've been struggling with a simple little part of life called monotony. I remember being six years old and taking a gymnastics class during the week after school. My mom would pick me up, we'd get into the car, and I'd ask, "What are we doing tonight?" She'd almost always say, "Just going home," which inevitably brought a sting of disappointment and boredom (oh the woes of an only child). In elementary school, I filled the front cover of my homeroom folder with countdowns to my birthday, the night before my birthday, and then the actual day of my birthday party. I lived for my trips to Oregon to visit my dad, holidays, three day weekends, class parties, sleepovers, and anything else that changed up the usual routine.
And now, as a mother of four young children, most of my life is routine. Now I'm the mom telling my daughter, "We're just heading home now." Some days (mostly Thursdays) I pack up the kids and escape to Great Harvest Bread where I can lose myself (or find myself) in their soup and slice of bread and chocolate chip cookies. Then I notice other people staring at me with my four year old begging for more honey, my two year old spilling her water onto the table, and my one year old baby yelling at me with his mouth open like a baby bird for more food. I remember that these escapes aren't as easy as they used to be.
After a particularly difficult week a while back, I called our babysitter. She was available. It was a Wednesday night and I told my husband that we were going on a hot date. We ended up agreeing that our "hot date" should probably be at the Brigham City Temple. There was that rush of getting dinner out for the sitter, quick hugs and kisses and a swift escape to the car. As soon as we entered the doors to the temple, I saw a painting that caught my eye. Before I tell you about the painting, let me give you one more detail to this lovely impromptu date at the temple. We had just returned from a wedding in Atlanta, where I had left my wallet (turns out you CAN board a plane without your license). My temple recommend--your ticket in--was in that wallet. My dear husband's recommend had just expired the day before, which is funny because he's in our bishopric, which means he's in charge of keeping those things current. So we got to stand in this lovely entry way next to this painting for ten minutes or so while we waited for permission to enter the temple.
It's a woman picking peaches, painted by Valoy Eaton. But to me it said A LOT. And I'm not confident that I can convey in this post what this painting said to me, but that woman was bending down, for probably the hundredth and sixteenth time, placing peaches into her bucket, and she was smiling. I felt a different perspective of my role as a mother. I felt the "Why am I not..." and "If only I could.." and "What if my kids don't..." and "Why can't I just..." melt away, because I am simply picking peaches. Every day. And yes it is repetitive and at times, monotonous, but my job is important and meaningful and even simple. I'm just here to pick peaches, and do it happily and peacefully. This woman seems so centered and content. There could be a storm of sibling rivalry, incessant messes, meals to be made, diapers to be changed, babies to be cradled, laundry to be folded, waiting for her in that simple home in the background, but she's present in this moment of picking peaches.
That's what I saw. And it has stayed with me. Since then, when all of my children are crying about something at the same time and my baby is clinging to my legs so I can't even move around to do all the things being required of me and I want to SCREAM, I think of her. I'm just picking peaches. One at a time.
And still, there are times when that "other woman" comes out of me, the one who starts throwing rotten peaches at everyone and curses the tree for making too much for one little woman to pick in one day. Tonight, for example, when my husband couldn't come home at his usual time to give me a break, when I had to do dinner and bedtime alone because he had a meeting (I know many of you do this on a regular basis; I bow to you), when my oldest made eye contact with me and acknowledged and repeated what I asked her to do and then walked away, forgetting immediately, this peach-picker had HAD IT. I succumbed to the storm and yelled at my daughters. I let out my frustration with my hard day that started off with not enough sleep, laundry, a project that was interrupted incessantly, bill paying, homework with a very bored kindergartner, and violin practice with a sweet and stubborn girl who needs more encouragement and positivity than I can sometimes muster.
I'm exhausted. I want to be left alone. But I did remember that there are fragile egos and tender hearts up in those beds and I went back and apologized and gave hugs. I hope they remember the good parts of today and not an angry, fire-breathing mother. I hope they remember my courage to admit that I was wrong to yell, no matter what they did, and that even good moms get overwhelmed and tired. Maybe one day when they are weary, with children of their own, they will remember me, and that most of the time, I had a smile on my face as I bent down, time and time again because mine is the greatest job in the world.
We are so grateful for our lovely hens that lay the best eggs!
I taught our RS lesson just last week on trials and there was a story about Lorenzo Snow and his wife throwing a "party" for all the saints in this impoverished settlement on the way to Utah. They were starving, dying, and suffering immensely and Pres. Snow wanted to have them get together and feel some happiness, but all he had for them to gather in was a small log home with dirt walls and a grass roof. So he and his wife hung their sheets on the walls and dug out turnips which they hollowed out and placed candles inside them for lighting. I love this story! You truly can make any place beautiful, in any circumstances. This has helped me to feel patience as my older home has lost it's luster over the last few years as projects (such as skimming and repainting the walls in the front room) have been put off because we cannot afford them.
I took down all the frames in the front room to motivate me to paint it myself, but it only made it worse. We're still hoping to be able to hire it out SOON.
Sometimes we got out for ice cream, because we need it, and Eloise thinks the whole thing is for her.
Nice to have a helper!
On May 4th, Mother's Day weekend, I got to attend another Power of Mom's retreat and I happened to run into my roommate from a little trip to Mexico ten years ago! What a small world and so good to see Emy again.
He loves his Charlotte sister.
Gymnastics pictures again this week. This year went a LOT more smoothly than last year, thank heavens.
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