Fresh Flowers or Going to Bed

I spent the other evening with a group of 12-15 ladies in a party-type setting. The set-up of the evening isn't what matters, but the insight I came home with was invaluable.

I had an epiphany...

While one of the ladies was presenting her item, she mentioned how much she loved fresh flowers.  She continued to say that she always has fresh flowers in her home.

"Always?"
"Fresh flowers?"
"I wish I always had fresh flo. . ."

And then I stopped my thoughts before they could continue.
And I changed my thought to:
Good for her! That's wonderful that is what she likes.

We as women, so quickly and easily fall into those traps of what she has, what she does, who she is.  Sometimes we forget what I have, what I do, who I am.

Don't think you have to love interior-decorating because another lady has a beautiful living room.  Perhaps that is her interest.
Don't rush out to buy a brand new camera to take fantastic photos because a favorite blogger friend does.  That is probably her hobby. 
Don't beat yourself down because you aren't a great public speaker but the lady up the street is.  That is probably one of her qualities.
Don't feel discouraged because you don't even know which singing part you are singing, but the woman singing next to you has a well trained voice.  That is probably one of her talents. 

You get what I'm trying to say.  It isn't even about our talents, our gifts, our hobbies, or our interests.  It is about who WE ARE. Who are you? Who am I?
Sure, I would love fresh flowers at my house every day.
But guess what I thought of instead as I drove home?

Recently, in a random conversation, I was telling a lady that Mike and I go to bed together at the same time each night.  It is extremely rare that one of us would go to bed without the other.  It's just what we do. Mike and I never made a conscience effort to do that, it just happened.  And guess what the lady said?  "I can't believe you can do that each night. I'm jealous, I would love if my husband and I went to bed at the same time together. Lucky you."

See friends, it's kind of like the fresh flowers...

We each have 'our thing.' Whether it's fresh flowers every day or the same bedtime together each night . . .
Think of what you do have? Not what you don't.

I'm finding that contentment, makes all the difference.

A Memory For Monday (with Pooh)

When I was about 7 years old, I became a Brownie Guide.

"I promise to do my best, to do my duty to God, to serve the Queen, to help other people and do a good turn everyday."

( I periodically recite this to my kids, usually it's when Luke is wearing his Cub Scout shirt and it sparks a memory...I even do it complete with an English accent!)

So sometime in my short lived Brownie career, (I never went on to Girl Guides...) we had a service project for Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children.  We were to bring a stuffed animal to donate...

I'm not sure if we were asked to donate a favorite one to make the giving even more meaningful, or if my mother asked me to donate a specific one, or if I was just a kind hearted child that ended up with regrets...

I remember distinctly dropping my small, soft, Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal into a black garbage bag during Brownie Guides in the school gymnasium.
I remember days later.  I remember weeks later.  I even remember years later.
I missed that Winnie the Pooh. It had been one of my favorite possessions.
Yet, I gave it away.  I always wondered about who received it, and if they loved it as much as I had.

And so the memory begets a question.
Did that experience make me generous, kind and giving? Or am I stingy, unkind and selfish?

(Honestly, I think I'm a little of all of the above.  But really, aren't we all?)

Least I can blame it on Winnie The Pooh!
What about you?

Changing My Tune

It may surprise you to know, that while at Cub Country with Luke the other day, I had a great time.  I loved it.  I really did.  I loved seeing Luke doing things he does in the course of a day for him, in a beautiful, organized setting.  (Roping, BB gun shooting, nature hike, knot tying, etc.)
I loved the set-up of the camp.
I loved that teenagers/young adults ran the camp.
I loved the beautiful canyon we were in.
I loved seeing the diversity of the boys in our group.
I loved the other leaders I was chaperoning with.
I loved the smile on Luke's face when he would search me out, and then find me.
And....
(drum roll please)

I loved the fact that the BSA program exists!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Yep. Indeed, I said that. 

Me: one of the biggest complainers and BSA dislikers of all, was so mightily impressed with the goodness of it all.  And as I was trying to explain all of my thoughts to Mike that night, he put the words perfectly in my mouth: 

"Good wholesome fun."  

How could one not want their child to be a part of that?!?

However, don't become too alarmed.  I still have a lot of dislike with the red tape and bureaucracy of the BSA program, not to mention the LDS church's involvement.....
But for now, I'll just revel in the fact that this week, I am proud to be associated with the BSA!!

A Thing

You've all heard the old question asked.  How many different 'hats' do you wear? And the answers are always along the lines, 'mother', 'daughter', 'wife', etc.  Sometimes even, we can stretch, yet still find different hats we wear?  'Nurse', 'therapist', 'playmate', 'chauffeur', etc.'
You see as mothers, we do wear a lot of hats.

Lately I've noticed a slightly disturbing trend in my mothering.  The 'hats' I wear are not 'hats.'  I've noticed that at some point, unbeknownst to me, I have turned into 'things'.

Just a sampling of some of the things I have turned into.

Kleenex:  At any given time I may have snot smeered somewhere on my body.  It is more often than not, not my own snot. 

Filing Folder:  "Did you see where I put that paper? I need it now."  "Well, I remember giving it to you. Where did you put it?"

Weather Channel:  "What will the temperature be tomorrow?"  "What time will the rain actually start?" "Will (insert desired activity) be canceled?"

Garbage Can:  What mother isn't used as a garbage can?  Why do we acknowledge and readily reach out our hand as empty candy wrappers, used kleenex, or discarded food is thrust in our direction?

TV Guide:  Now even though we are not much of a television family, there are those occasions I hear, "What time is 'Arthur' on?"  During the American Idol season, Tuesday and Wednesday evenings upon Mike's arrival home from work it seems I heard, "What time does American Idol start?"  far more than, "Hi, Honey I'm home. I'm so happy to see you." 

Calendar:  Sometimes I feel as though my family sees me with lines and grids across my face.  "What time do I have to be there?"  "When is (insert desired activity)?"  "How many more days until...?"  I have a calendar on my desk.  I have kept one there for...years!  Maybe I need to remind everyone of its existence!

Punching Bag:  There are those days I get the occasional kick, flailing of arms and perhaps a head-butt.  These happen primarily when one year old child is brought from the outside back into the house.  And I, like those punching bags, wobble back and forth precariously until either tantrum subsides or child is set down and I make a quick escape.

Sometimes I think I'd rather just wear (and balance) more hats, rather than believe that at some point in my mothering career- I turned into a thing. 

What about you?  
Are you still a person or have you turned into a thing? 

An Old Fashioned Commitment

As a young child growing up thousands of miles away from grandparents, I learned to write letters frequently.  I loved to write letters. And of course, I loved to receive letters. As a young teenager when I moved thousands of miles away from dear friends and my dear granny, I continued to love writing and receiving letters.  And then gradually, letter writing became something I no longer thought about.

Just a couple of days ago, I received an old fashioned letter in the mail from one of my favorite cousins in the world.  Her eight year old son sent one to Luke, and she sent an accompanying letter to me.

 (Isn't that the cutest letter ever?  From Luke's eight year old cousin, Ricky)

I left the letters on my counter and smiled for days as I walked by them.

I miss the letter writing of days gone by.  Text messaging, emails and Facebook will never be a match.  My children will never know the regular practice of letter writing, placing a stamp on it, putting it in the mailbox and the anticipation of waiting patiently for a reply.  That makes me sad.
My recently received, hand-written letter, has caused me to challenge myself.
Once a month, I am going to send an old fashioned letter to somebody.  Not a thank-you note, not a card, but A LETTER.

When was the last time you mailed somebody dear to you a personal, hand-written letter?
Because really, who wouldn't love a personal letter in the mail?

What is Normal?

What really is the definition of normal?  Because sometimes when I look around at other families, I don't quite see the same things...

Ellie is constantly outside at a table with friends and...PAPER! Paper, paper bowls, crayons, markers, straws.  If you can envision it used in a craft project, Ellie will gather it.  In fact earlier today, she got four gift bags each with a stack of cut up pieces of card stock and gave to any willing participant.

 Megan doesn't do anything half way.  If she's playing with water toys, she gets every single one out.  If she's having an outdoor sleepover, she gets every single blanket, sheet, game possible (allowed!).  And then she wonders why it takes so long to do clean-up!

A husband that after our traditional last day of school scone party, asks, "What else can I do with the hot oil?"  So...Mike (and friend) attempted to fry, tortillas, onions, tortilla chips and even cereal coated ice cream.  It is no wonder my dad on his way home announced, "I'm not sure my tummy feels very good."

 (Excuse the blur.)

 Of course my little boys are little heros and my favorite people during nap times.  And they do fit into more 'normal' categories.  And of course, me, I'm normal.  After all, what 'normal' mom doesn't love naptime!?

And Luke.  Well Luke has always been in a slightly different category than most.  This is a summer afternoon playing camping!   With big hopes that the camping set-up will be allowed to be used overnight...

Note the 'campfire' the huge backpacks, a mess-kit, and of course the emergency orange tree tent he received for Christmas two years ago!  (It was excitedly used overnight by two brave little boys...)

I hear people complain that their kids watch too much television or play too many video games.  Sometimes I wish that were my problem.  There would be so much less mess to clean up...

Normal: I'm hoping (and believing) it has a very broad definition.

A Memory for Monday (with a pickle)

For my 11th birthday, about eight friends and I had a birthday party at the McDonalds in Sutton High Street.

My friends and I were seated on the train that sat inside McDonalds.  Of course, I was at the front.  Though I have always considered myself to have a pretty good memory, I can only remember four things about that McDonalds experience.

#1 Apparently it was pretty bad service, and we were able to go back a few weeks later and 're-do' the whole party.  (Well except, I had to split the number of guests allowed with my brother, Matt.)
#2 I remember thinking it was pretty cool touring the back kitchen of McDonalds and actually standing in a freezer.
#3 I remember going to each 'table' on the train and everyone of my friends, not liking pickles had removed it from their burgers.  Each girl had the pickle sitting on their hamburger wrapper.  I picked up each pickle and ate every one.

And then for some reason, in my later teenage years, I guess I quit liking pickles.  Every high school lunch when Melanie and I went through an Eat-A-Burger stage, it was routine for whomever wasn't driving, to remove the pickles and throw them out of the window.

('Mel and Tiff' taken sometime around the pickle days)

Well, except for the day I thought I would be funny.
Melanie and I were in Orem, it was fairly late at night, and before our drive home, we stopped at Eat-A-Burger to get a hamburger.  As Melanie was driving away from the drive-thru,  it was my job to remove the pickles from both of our burgers.
Except, remember, I thought I would be funny.
Not only did I not remove her pickles, but I added my unwanted pickles to her hamburger.
I then presented her hamburger to her to eat.
She was not happy and did not think I was funny when immediately upon her first bite, she tasted...
PICKLES!

I actually love pickles now.  In fact, a hamburger, is not a good hamburger unless it has lots of pickles on it.

P.S.
My pickle memory has been written up, ready to post for a few weeks now, but I'd actually forgotten I'd written it until today. . .when I attempted to be funny again. . .

Mike and I were driving home from St. George, and because he was the driver, he periodically asked me to unwrap a Starburst for him and put it in his mouth to eat.  Only thing is, he only requests the pink and orange ones.  So. . . trying to preserve more of those desirable flavors for me, AND in an attempt to be funny, I secretly unwrapped a red one (who likes red Starburst besides Joshua and Luke?) and put it in his mouth.
He relived the pickle story EXACTLY.  The disgusted face, the disgusted sound, and in true pickle fashion, the window was rolled down and out flew the partially chewed red starburst.

And like Melanie almost 20 years ago, Mike didn't find it funny either.
At least I think I'm funny.  I'm still laughing at both!

Why I chose to do A Memory for Monday.