A Different Perspective

Sunday (which apparently is the only day my brain functions these days, as it has spawned recent blog posts), we had a regional meeting for church that was a satellite broadcast. It was doomed to be a disaster from the get-go, as it was right during Pebbles' morning nap time, I was doing a stint as a single mother of two, and Woodstock ... well, Woodstock is three.

The one talk I heard all the way through, start to finish? The one on making family time. The one topic that sends a hot knife of guilt through a working mother's gut, regardless of circumstance. It whitewashes every reality and makes you discontented because surely you aren't so horrible as that.

The talk began, "In a perfect world, every child would arrive home from school to warm, homemade chocolate chip cookies and a cold glass of milk and a mother who takes the time to sit down and listen and talk. Of course, it isn't a perfect world ... so the cookies and milk are optional."

My heart sank. I was already on the brink of exasperated tears, trying to wrangle a 14-month-old Pebbles who desperately needed to nap and nothing short of rocking back and forth while standing up was keeping her quiet. Woodstock was quiet, but all the lights were off so as to see the broadcast, and she was irritated that she couldn't see to "read" or color. And now I had to hear all about being a mom who is there after school every single day - which I desperately want, and is so far out of reach.

And then? I had an epiphany. Right there, in the middle of church - imagine!

It was like a warm, comfortable hug from a good friend, and I realized, I am there - every single day - for my kids - to talk, to listen, to learn, to laugh. Every day I have them - a captive audience (hooray for carseats!) - for 30-40 minutes as we drive to/from Miss Jan's. I can absolutely control the interruptions. There is nothing that masquerades as being more important, nothing I cannot keep out of our little "mom and girls" time in the car, nothing besides mom and kids and time.

I actually love my commute. I have, unwittingly, turned it into preschool-confessional-church-cultural appreciation time. On our drive, Woodstock (and now, Pebbles) has learned new words. It was our commutes where Woodstock fell in love with all things construction related - which fueled our walks to whatever project was going on within a mile-radius of our house (fire station, library, the ever-present street construction every single summer, etc.). She learned to identify excavators, garbage trucks, backhoes, bobcats, dump trucks and "mixer trucks" (cement mixers). She has learned that orange signs mean "caution - be careful!" and yellow signs and lights mean slow down. She's learned that blue signs mean information and that you must stop on red (though we need to work on the "it's okay to go right on red after stopping bit, as I get a lecture about not stopping every time I make a right turn). She's learned about counting, emergency vehicles, the seasons (although she's a bit confused, since I told her that it was fall until it snowed - she's now trying to figure out what happened to fall now that there is 4" of snow on the ground), and her letters. She has also learned the words to the Hallelujah chorus, three CDs worth of Christmas songs, and a few others. She can identify violins and cellos and trumpets by the sounds they make. She has also developed a definite preference in music - preferring things with strong instrumentals over anything else. She knows which big bridge (overpass) you take to get to Costco, that the big bridge downtown takes you to the farmer's market and every day points out where we get our hair cut, the building that looks like a favorite cousin's house and the store where once-upon-a-time we bought fruit snacks.

It's also sister bonding time. Pebbles is rear-facing. Woodstock is forward-facing. They sit in the back seat, looking at each other. Woodstock loves to entertain Pebbles and very often the backseat is awash in little girl giggles. Often, Pebbles sticks out her hand, Woodstock grabs it and they hold hands. Woodstock narrates the scenery - she points out a pretty tree, a big truck, a bus or a landmark. She sings her made-up songs or real songs to which she's memorized the lyrics. Pebbles chatters back, delighted to have her big sister's undivided attention.

Every day on the way home, we talk about our day. Woodstock never fails to say, "How was your day?" - usually before I can even ask her. We talk about the best and worst things that happen that day. Woodstock spills every detail of her life at Miss Jan's - who was sent to time out, what they ate for lunch, what things happened outside and so forth. We talk about what events are coming up - and how many days away they are - gymnastics class, an upcoming road trip, a holiday or one of our field trips. We talk about what we're having for dinner, what story Woodstock wants read at bedtime and how Pebbles is doing.

In short, it's 30 or 40 minutes a day of captive conversation time stuffed full of adventures, wisdom, insights, education and discoveries both before our day starts and before the end-of-day chaos descends upon reaching home.

It may not be the typical "mom and kids" picture straight from a Normal Rockwell painting, but it is time - quality time - that I wouldn't trade for anything.

Sometimes, I let the guilt kill me before I realize there isn't always one way to put insights. I stopped feeling guilty and started celebrating.

I'm a better mom than I sometimes give myself credit for.

Evolution

I have never dreaded election day more than I do this year.

Normally, come October, I have a pretty good idea of who I am voting for, and why. This year? Well, I've found myself saying a lot, "I wish all ballots had the Nevada 'None of the Above' option."

None of the Above would get my votes - at least in the "big" races. There is not a single person running for governor, senate or house that I like. There are a few local candidates I like, unfortunately, I didn't mind the people they are replacing or running against, so it will do little to lessen my absolutely amazement and frustration with the 2011 legislative session.

I could not vote. Then I wouldn't be forced to (again) choose the lesser of two (or a dozen) evils. However, I firmly believe that it then prevents me from getting to complain about the direction things take for the next two years - "if you don't vote, don't complain," was a frequent refrain in my household growing up.

I no longer identify with a political party - having dabbled in both (gasp) sides for over a decade. None of the philosophies of the minor parties jive with me enough to adopt their platform either. I never vote a straight-party ticket. I'm not a "big ticket issues" only voter, and I'm tired of everything being run by old white men. Certainly there are other (or maybe any) people who are respectable, competent, honest and talented that could run (and win) in an election - who have new thoughts, ideas, perspectives and a commitment to something other than being re-elected every couple of years.

It's probably not much different than anyone else in the U.S., except I've long been politically active in some way, shape or form - even before I was old enough to vote. For years, it was exciting, thrilling, and I had the ideological hope of someone who refuses to see anything but what could be. For years I love politics - loved the process, the issues, the ideological exchange.

And now all I see is what is - an unread voter education booklet on my dining room table, an empty sample ballot and a confused thirtysomething who is pretty certain she doesn't agree with most of the prominent rhetoric from either side, and is worried we're too wrapped up in politics and 30-second soundbites that rarely pass objective fact-checking, to focus on fixing things for the greater good.

It is terrible, but the motivating factor in getting me out to the polls in two weeks?
Woodstock loves to see the fire trucks - and I vote at a fire station.

*Sigh*

We're Off to See The Wizard

You might remember last year's Halloween debacle where Woodstock insisted she was going to be "Not a yion (lion), a giraffe!" Cue the panicked music and crazy mother running around trying to find a giraffe costume that fit a 2-year-old, because NOTHING else would do. She didn't even know WHAT Halloween was - she just knew it required a costume and everyone else was choosing their costume, why couldn't she? (Oh the joys of having a kid who is a social butterfly and spends her days with 4 other non-siblings of the same age)

So I don't know why I thought this Halloween would be any different. I decided that she could be the Cat in the Hat, since it's currently her favorite obsession (do you realize how LONG that story is? I have it memorized) and we already own a Cat in the Hat hat. When I told her, however (complete with happy mommy voice and wide-open eyes to convince her *nudge nudge* that this was a fantastic idea), she looked at me and said, "But I'm going to be a witch."

A ... witch. Really?!

So, figuring there were harder costumes to come up with, I went to Target to procure a preschooler-sized witch's hat, and my imagination began to go wild. I thought it would be lovely if she wore her black and gold party dress with the poofy skirt and her magic wand and some face sprinkles and went as a good witch - a la Glinda in the Wizard of Oz - only in black.

I shared this with Woodstock, who was aghast.

"Mom, I am going to be a scary witch."

Ooooookkkkkaaaaayyyyy. I asked her what scary witches wore.

"A green nose and red shoes and a black dress."

It appears she'll be going a la the Wizard of Oz after all - just as the other witch sister. Ironically, I had already arranged for Pebbles (who didn't get a choice in the matter) to be a monkey. Maybe we should just turn the whole thing into a themed extravaganza and add Dorothy and the Scarecrow to the mix.

Good grief.

Teaching Mommy

I have made a concerted effort over the last few weeks to increase the spiritual education of my kids. It's an area where I feel wholly inadequate, overwhelmed and unqualified in - but also an area that I feel very strongly about.

Most of the time it feels akin to having a conversation underwater. Particularly this morning when Pebbles was making some sort of singing noise at the top of her lungs every time I spoke and then both kids would dissolve into fits of laughter. It's really hard to have any sort of scripture story time with background noise that sounds like a cross between death metal shrieking and baby giggles. Or, during times when Woodstock insists on hearing the same scripture story over and over and over (and over) again - and then asks the same 3 dozen questions she's asked the other 47 times she's heard the story. Sort of makes you wonder if mommy has gone insane.

Like anyone else, I behave just as Pavlov's dogs - positive reinforcement works wonders. Most of the time positive reinforcement comes from other adults who tell me that one day - maybe decades down the road - my children (and society) will be better of for having had a basis of morals and values instilled in them from early childhood. Rarely does it come from my own children - who, most of the time, love the attention but appear to be wholly uninterested in anything other than who the bad guys are and how we aren't supposed to talk to bad guys (the stranger danger discussion gone horribly awry).

But recently, there have been little moments where my children have figuratively sat at my feet and taught me.

Sunday, we were sitting down to lunch with Woodstock and talking about what she had learned at church. As usual we were met with "I learned about play doh and colors and snacks!" and had to pry out of her - very carefully - what the actual lesson was about. Then, I began flipping through a book of pictures of Christ. Woodstock leaned in, stuck her finger on one of the photos - the photo of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane - and she said,

"Mommy! That's Jesus. He's sad, because he's all by himself. He doesn't have any friends."

I stopped and looked at her. In one simple 3-year-old sentence she had summed up the entirety of how Christ must have felt in the Garden. Alone, in pain, bearing the burdens of the world. We talked a little bit about the atonement and Christ's suffering. And then she ran off to play, totally unaware of how she had taught me - reminded me - of something I needed in that moment.

Last night, while saying her bedtime prayers (something we both struggle with - it's rarely the quiet, reverent experience it is slated to be - Woodstock always ends up with a mad case of the fidgets the moment the sentence "fold your arms" is uttered), Woodstock took the lead. She said, "Help me repent and make good choices." We talk about making good choices a lot - mostly because she's 3. We've talked about repentance and what it means in the simplistic of terms. But never has she actually used either in her prayers. Mostly her prayers are filled with "thank yous" and telling Heavenly Father about any drama that has evolved over the day.

I hugged her. I asked her why she needed to repent and make good choices. She said, "I said bad words." (There was a weekend-long saga of trying to eradicate the word "poopy" as an adjective from her vocabulary) She is perfect - totally innocent and unable to wantonly make a bad choice. And yet, she asked for help in making better choices. I pondered that wisdom. How often do I - who clearly needs a whole lot of help - utter the simple plea to "help me make good choices?" And how badly do I need that as I go through my daily tasks?

Maybe I have this all backwards. Maybe I need to listen and let the kids teach mommy.

While I'm at it, maybe they can also take over the laundry ...