In Sickness and Health?

I remember the first time in our marriage that Brad got laid-out, miserable, coming from both ends sick.
I remember getting him water then going to the store because he complained he needed gatorade. Cleaning the toilet and sheets after, well...gross. Getting him applesauce because that's one of the things you can supposedly eat. And if all that weren't enough, I was expected to *rolls eyes* rub his back because he was all whimpery and expected me to hover like a doting nurse-wife.
 
Through the years I have begrudgingly done various things at the request of my oft-sick husband such as go to the grocery store to find this Kosher, Jewish-made chicken broth that all good Jewish wannabes eat when they're sick. Supposedly it's a miracle-cure that his rabbi friend told him about. *eye roll*
I have gone to the store multiple times to get gatorade because apple juice would not suffice. "It doesn't have electrolytes!" he complained. I've gone to the store to get ginger ale because that's what his mom gave him.

More recently I have gone to the store for some kind of "Carbohydrate snack" that my husband felt he needed in order to keep up his strength and recover.

"What kind do you want?" I asked.

"Whatever. Just get a variety."

I come back from the store with a few choices, none of which are acceptable. I still remember his complaint that the chips I got were all "too sharp" and might stab his throat going down. (No really, that's what he said!)

*Insert stupefied incredulous look* "Uh, Brad, that's why you chew them before you swallow. Why don't you just eat the applesauce if you are so worried about things stabbing your throat?"

"Because..." whines the DH, "I need carbs."

*Insert 'if you weren't so sick I would smack you for being so dumb' look* "Whatever Brad. Eat the chips or don't eat the chips. I am NOT going back to the store."

Hours later the DH lies in his miserable sick-bed: "My mom says I need a humidifier. Will you go get one?"

*Eye Roll, eye roll, eye roll while cursing said Mother-in-law who so obviously spoiled this man when he was sick as a child* Then I go because if I stay in this house with this nancy-man any longer I will probably make him cry with all the mean things overflowing in my head. I also pick up the %&$#@! saltine crackers he asked for after failed snack trip that he should have told me he wanted to begin with.

My husband, when sick, will invariably think it likely that he is on his death bed.
"Should I go to the doctor?" he asks.

"No."

"But what if this is something serious?" he pleads.

"It's not."

"How do you know?"

*Exasperated sigh* "You're eating. You're drinking. You don't have too high of a fever. You're fine."

"I think I'm dying. What if I really am dying?"

"I'm not worried," I reply. "I have life insurance on you."

Through the years, he has become like the boy who cried wolf when it comes to being sick. It doesn't matter if he has a cold, the flu, or (like last year) pneumonia. He still behaves the same way about it such that when he asks me if he should go see a doctor I say, "If you want to" because I have no friggin' clue how sick he actually is with the way he acts. And he has this ingrained fear of getting sick. If his throat starts to tickle he has to take major evasive measures. He's a hypochondriac about it, actually, and it's like life is over if he's got the sniffles.

Now I, on the other hand, am a stalwart sick person. I got the stomach flu last year and was laid up in bed all day. I didn't ask for a thing because I got it all myself in between puking. I knew it would be over soon so I just endured. But when Brad came home from work and saw the state of things (ie, every toy the kids owned out in the living room) he started summoning the force of the relief society to come take care of his poor sick wife because CLEARLY a messy house for a day is an indication that I am indefinitely bedridden and unable to fend for myself or keep children alive.

I was like, "Brad, do you remember when you went to CA three years ago and I was at home with a two-month old baby(Iyov) that screamed all the time and never slept?"

"Yes"

"Well did you know I got strep throat during that time? I took care of 2 kids and a newborn, kept everyone alive, and did you know the house was a disaster during that entire week? But guess what? I cleaned it up when I felt better. I think I can handle a day of puking without bringing in the cavalry."

And quite literally, and to my embarrassment, I had to politely explain to the relief society president when she called later than evening to arrange meals that no, I'm feeling quite better. Don't listen to my husband. He thinks I'm a permanent invalid because he can't handle the sight of the legos on the living room floor.

Anyway, I was thinking about all this today because Beya is sick. The "Can't move and can only lie around and puke and go to the bathroom every now and then" kind of sick. She is NOT a stalwart sick person. She moans and cries when the nausea gets bad and asks for me to rub her back all the time and sit next to her while she suffers. I thought maybe this kind of whiney clinginess is hereditary.

 Yesterday I was trying to book some plane tickets while on my computer, Beya laid out next to me even though I really didn't want to be around all that sour sickliness (see how much I can sacrifice for my children?), and she asked me to rub her back.

"Sorry," I replied."I need both of my hands right now."

"But Dad rubs my back."

Ohhhhh, I see now. He's spoiling my children when I'm not around. I brought it up to him later that unless he planned to be around 24/7 when our kids got sick, he needed to keep his molly-coddling to himself.

"Did you know when I got sick as a kid, my mom only had to hand me a bucket, a drink, and the TV remote and I was good? I never bugged my mom," I said.

"So that's what's wrong with you," he replied.

*Eye roll*

Sinners in the Hands of an Angry Mom

I'd be lying if I said that I've never considered homeschooling. I admire the dedication it takes to create a structured environment like that and the intense amount of time it requires. I have a number of reasons that I have leaned on in the past for why I don't want to do it, but I always try to remain teachable so homeschooling is always on the table. In fact, most things are always on the table for me when it comes to parenting because you never know when you'll need one of those tools you've been neglecting. Anyway, in the past weeks I've actually come up with a new reason why I don't want to have all my children home with me all the time. That reason came from thinking about these two cuties:

From about 8:15 until 3:30 monday through friday, I get to hang with these guys. For one thing, they are both really fun to be around, and for another they play well together. It's pretty peaceful around here during the day with just the two of them.

But the real reason I love it is because for a portion of the day there is a lot less contention around here. So I was struck with the need to examine this and to figure out why it is that 2 is easier than 4 when, for all intents and purposes, the older 2 ought to be mature enough to actually be helpful rather than sources of chaos. However, when all 4 of my kids are home, it often seems like utter mayhem. I don't think it was always like this. It seems like the older they get, the more independent they are which is good for being helpful and managing some things on their own. But on the downside, the older they get, the more independent they are... Yeah, it's a dichotomy which one has to navigate at all times.

They are so prone to bickering because (due to their wealth of experience *rolls eyes*) each if them thinks they are right about this or that ridiculous triviality. Now I know that essentially there is one of them that is more right than another, but to me it doesn't MATTER who did this or that, who said that, who hit who, who called that person a name, or took that toy away from that person. NONE of it matters to me when they are trying to pound their understandings/beliefs into one another, especially when their personal "truth" is so limited. They are unaware/ignorant/or plain just don't care that each of them is a different age, of a different gender, different personalities, different experiences and that's why they think different things and act differently. Getting them to understand is, I believe, a life-long, endeavor and possibly the most important one of all. I really don't care what the core issue is that they are fighting about. I don't care even a little bit unless it involves serious bodily harm. All I want is for them to recognize each other as individual beings that have something to contribute to our family and appreciate each other for that.

You can probably see where I'm going with this. There is a direct parallel here for how we, as humanity, behave with one another and how we view our children and what we expect of them. It doesn't really matter if you believe in God as our father or not. I think all parents just want to see their kids get along and be not just civil, but loving toward one another no matter what the "truth" is or who has it. I couldn't care less what the original argument is about. When my kids are being ugly and generally unloving toward one another, no matter who is right, I turn into dragon-mom, spewing condemnation and wrath down on those souls whom I expect more from. It gets all fire and brimstone around here, you know what I'm saying?

Now I realize this is an exercise in patience for me and that I have to learn the right way to help them understand and appreciate their differences, but more than anything, it makes me aware of how I interact with people and how I think of others in my own mind. Because peace starts and ends IN the mind, not outside of it. We are beings meant to act, not be acted upon. Knowing what I know about children and their very limited perceptions gives me an incredible amount of peace with the world around me, even as tumultuous and variegated as it seems. We are, more often than not, fighting over trivialities.

In fact, the more I grow as a parent, the more I love everyone and everything around me. And I appreciate these simple times of peace when our familial numbers are cut in half for a bit while kids are at school. I want the little ones to know what peace is, and to look for it, which is another reason I appreciate that they (and I) get a break from trying to "get along" all the time when everyone is under one roof. More and more I get that no matter how old we are, we are all just children, struggling to learn, and someone, somewhere, is looking down and trying to help us appreciate one another. We need times of peace so we know to appreciate it, but we also need times of interaction when we learn how get along and to understand that the real lesson is not about being right or wrong, but it's about learning to love one another--I mean real love, not just tolerance--as starkly different beings and value each other BECAUSE of differences, not in spite of them.

ZAP!

Beya: Moooom, when's dinner going to be ready? I'm soooo hungry!

Mom (snarkily): Well gee, Beya, I just started cooking and can you believe that food actually takes TIME to make? I know, it's like SO annoying, right?

Beya (unbothered by my sarcasm in the least): Seriously?! I wish you had a magic wand and you could zap it on the table... you know ZAP! and there it is!

Mom: Don't I know it.

Beya: It would be so much easier to ZAP! things. Then you would never have to cook.

Mom: I agree. If you ever see anything like that at the store, you be sure to let me know.

Beya: Okay, Mom. I'm going to invent one when I'm bigger. It will ZAP! food whenever you need it.

Thoughtful, ain't she? Interestingly, this conversation occurred about a month ago and she's still stuck on zapping. It's common to hear things like, "Too bad we can't just ZAP! my clothes into my drawers." "Too bad we can't ZAP! our way to Williston." (It's about a 50 minute drive from here and we drive there occasionally for groceries and stuff). "I wish we could ZAP! Novan's room clean." "Too bad we can't ZAP! to church." "I wish I could just ZAP! my clothes on."

ZAP! is always said with a snap and occasionally she claps her hands together vigorously for impact.
 

Yes, she's very impatient for things to get done and to happen. And the zapping of Novan's room is always funny to me. Beya, as I mentioned in a post a while back, is turning into kind of a neat freak. She keeps her room quite clean most of the time. She always gets mad at me when I allow Iyov or Keshet to go in there while she's at school. And when Novan and Iyov's room gets messy (which it is regularly) she says, "Mom, can you make Novan and Iyov clean up their room?" And when I fail to do so that day, she says, "Mom! I thought you were going to get Novan and Iyov to clean their room! It's disgusting!"
I'm a bad mom... I tend to think that as long as at least ONE kid room is clean, I've scored. But really, it's none of me, and all Beya. I wish I could let her take over the parenting for a while.

She's a funny little thing. She doesn't want to eat off of anyone else's food. You know, like when we're having dinner and she's finished her portion and wants more but all I have left is Iyov's food because everyone knows 3-year olds are either photosynthetic or hydroponic. Hmmm, or maybe he's a vampire and he sucks my blood while I'm sleeping and THAT'S why he doesn't require real food. He DOES hiss alot and act like he owns me. 'Scuse me, I need to go check my neck in the mirror......................................................

Anyway, yesterday we were filling out spotlight forms in Primary and there was a question, "What's a food you really DON'T like to eat?" Beya was like, "Ummmmmm, I don't know..." And it took me a while to think of anything either because the girl really does eat everything. Oh to have more children like her who eat all their food and keep their rooms clean and organize my cabinets for fun... Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure God was giving me a pre-apology for sending me Iyov, the demon child.

Yes, that IS a do-rag and she did that swagger pose all on her own. I wish I'd had a cool friend like Beya when I was a kid.

Winter Wonderland

You guuuuuys! I finally understand what is meant by "winter wonderland." It's not just snow on the ground or trees. It's when the fog hangs low and temperatures are below freezing. When you wake up in the morning, look out of your wide window, and catch your breath. Voila!

AH-mazing. And then there's the view of this endless landscape when the frost has settled over everything. Think a basin with groves of white. I am lamenting this first picture a bit because it just doesn't capture the INSANE beauty of this pass which we go through on our way to church on Sundays:

Sheesh, is that intense or what? There's snow, yes. But the whiteness of the landscape is primarily due to the frost.
So you're driving along admiring one breathtaking white view after another when bam! You see this:

This should definitely be featured in somebody's photo shoot. And probably a movie about ethereal-looking sanctuaries in the middle of nowhere (Brad tried the door. It was open! And empty.)
I am not photographer, but even I can see the potential here.
I'm not sure how anyone could not be happy having beauty like this foisted on them everyday. Not even puppies and kittens can rival this kind of joyous awe.

On wearing pants: I come for you

*For those of you who are not LDS, a little background: In our faith it is the cultural norm for women to wear dresses or skirts to Sunday services. It is our belief that congregants should wear the best of what they own, and historically this has meant dresses and skirts for women and shirt and ties/suits for men. There is a movement to “silently” protest other cultural and political inequality issues within our church by wearing pants to services this Sunday. This movement has been received  with much vitriol and general misunderstanding by those who simply do not agree.*

A couple of weeks before I was supposed to be baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, I was in the university library doing research when, on a whim, I decided to look up “Mormon” in the encyclopedia. It was simply out of curiosity for what I would find there (I had practically never heard of a Mormon before my encounter with it not too long before then). I also had a bit of roiling indecision as to how I felt about its polygamous past. And I knew Mormons had received quite a bit of persecution for this as well as other things especially in the early days. Essentially, I was looking for a way to bind myself to them through their past struggles. Empathy breeds loyalty quite often, after all.

So with an inquiring and somewhat fearful mind I read the entry under “Mormon.” I was met with most of what I expected, but one thing I did NOT: Blacks and the priesthood. I learned that prior to 1978, blacks were not allowed to hold the Priesthood. Simply because they were black. An anguished disbelief filled my soul in that moment. I shut the book, my eyes tearful, a painful pressure in my chest. What I had thought was the answer to my spiritual longing had turned out to be a farce--yet another example of human bigotry and hatefulness. 

I wrestled with this news. At first I was in disbelief. I asked Brad about it. Was it true? He had no answers at the time which satisfied my troubled heart. And believe me, I WANTED someone to give me an excuse. ANY excuse which I might find just acceptable enough to make the leap of faith.

How could something that seemed so beautiful have that kind of ugly stain on it? How could Mormons claim their prophets were inspired by God if these so-called prophets had historically treated those of differing skin color so unfairly? 

I’m not going to go into the details of my decision to join the Church anyway, or the years of unreconciled issues with some of the skeletons in the Church’s closet. Suffice it to say, I’ve come to terms with blacks and the priesthood, polygamy, gender issues, and nearly everything else that has given me pause because I have knocked, repeatedly, tearfully, on Heavenly Father’s door. 

My point here is that I struggled. I was hurt when I read that. Deeply. I couldn’t understand. I could not envision any explanation that would satisfy me (and I have heard a lot of explanations which I think are a load of poppycock but that seem to satisfy other people just fine).

And so now I’ve come full circle. Being on the other side, the side that’s at peace with how things are, looking at those on the outside of the window who have read their own encyclopedia under “Mormon” and don’t like what they see. Feeling alone. Confused. Frustrated with one explanation after another foisted on them which doesn’t satisfy. What’s worse, their struggle has been trivialized, attacked and met with swift judgment. What was once their quiet pleadings for understanding have now turned into frantic and public tears of strife. Some even concoct extravagant defensive plays, all in an effort to protect their tender hearts from human judgment, and many in an effort to return the hatefulness, tit for tat. An eye for an eye.

The general feminist stance on the role of women in the church doesn't resonate with me. And that’s all I’ll say about that. But I will say this about the people who do agree. I’ve read and heard their words. I know them. I’ve befriended them. 

And you know something? They, on the whole, are more thoughtful, more understanding, more introspective, slower to anger, slower to judge, more loving, more Christ-like than most of the “conventional” Mormons I have met. What’s more, these odd-balls, who seem always to interrupt the flow of Mormon culture, have inspired me in a way that has, over the years, built this great sieve of compassion within my mind through which my experience of humanity passes through. I am more like Christ because of them. The ones we so often consider controversial, too-sensitive, too malcontent, spiritually offensive even, have been my spiritual guides toward eternal perspective. 

I know one thing for sure about these souls, and more specifically about women who face struggles with reconciling gender equality. They are authentic. They aren’t making it up. And you know who else knows this? Christ. He suffered their pains just as they face them now, so He knows. Will we then, simply because we haven’t walked in their shoes, claim that their struggle is ill-founded? Will you tell Christ that too? He who bore that pain for and with them? Who bore your own pain as well?

It’s not about the pants. It is about the pants. To me, it doesn’t really matter what it’s about. These precious souls are suffering. I will wear pants for them because I love them. I will bear possible judgment for my actions because I love them. Maybe not a single sister in my current ward is struggling. But then again, maybe one is. And maybe she feels alone. She might even be too frightened to wear pants herself. Is my search for the one worth the likely possibility that people will draw the wrong conclusion about my participation in such a “protest”? 

I’ve seen a number of well-meaning but misguided responses to the pants movement. One, the argument that this “protest” is disrespectful to the sanctity of our Sunday meetings, sacrament specifically. My thoughts are that the Sacrament is about communing with Christ. What else can we bring to the sacrament table but those things with which we struggle? Yes, the intention may be two-fold. It is, for many, a call for attention to those things with which they struggle. And you know what? That’s okay. Because the Sacrament was instituted because of our imperfection. Do we not also call attention to ourselves when we don't take the sacrament because of our suffering that makes us feel too far removed from Christ's mercy? Well, I can tell you that those who feel ostracized for their sentiments on female equality in the church often do feel removed from His love, and especially from the love of others. I've seen their tears with my own eyes. And the bottom line is it's being brushed aside as "sinful" or "testimony damaging." Too many want to shut the conversation down because it threatens the fabric of their testimonies. The beauty inherent here is that we all, whether pants or skirt wearers, will be meeting at His table, petitioning whether quietly or openly to that same God. The right people will hear the real message. I hear. The humble and charitable will hear. But most importantly, He hears.

There are going to be many who have looked, are looking, and will look at those with pants with pity or even anger. Probably their meditations will be interrupted. Perhaps even their ability to perceive the Spirit. But the walk for everyone is a solitary one. What we choose to look at on our path is up to us. The more critical players in this are the ones who are hurting. And their pain is very very real. 

Don’t you just want to put your arms around them and tell them that you love them and that you understand what it’s like to struggle?

I do. So I'm going, with my pants-clad legs, for them. An embrace. They that be whole need not a physician, but they that are sick. We, them, you, him, her, I. All are sick spiritually. Who is right concerning womens' roles in our church is not my concern, and I will not make an ultimate declaration about what is when it comes to gender and the Church. Ultimatums are dangerous. They stunt the growth of our souls and inhibit our journey toward becoming more like Him.

So I’m here, sisters, brothers. I've heard you with an open heart. You are not alone. I want to help you bear your struggles, and if wearing pants can be a balm of Gilead for you, I will wear them. I love you.

New blog... kind of.

I got quite a bit of attention from local news aggregates about my "A Rig is Down" entry and was invited to join a group of local bloggers on www.areavoices.com. They told me I was welcome to move my whole blog there, but for now, I feel like I want to keep them separated, especially if I'd like to monetize a blog in the future. I think I'll keep the areavoices blog more writerly, and my blogger blog more personal. We shall see. Anyway, I posted my first original entry on area voices and you can find it here:

http://zealousmom.areavoices.com/2012/11/19/a-love-affair/

Meanderings and Pictures

It's been a while since I got all mommy-blog on this thing. Pictures have been few and far between, as is my style. But I've got a few to share and not necessarily in chronological order.
First up is my baby girl Keshet. Can I just say I'm not even a teensy bit jealous that her very first word is "Dad"? It's just soooooo cute to see her run for him, arms extended saying, "Da! Da! Da!" Now usually I am a stickler for first words, meaning I don't consider it speaking unless it's obvious they intend to speak it, not just hearing your kid gobbledy gook something and you being like "Oh my gosh! Did you hear him? He just said 'I love you' in Russian! Can you believe it! Our kid is a genius!" Or something like that. Anyway, her meaning is obvious, and it's also obvious where she picked it up; ALL the kids run to dad when he gets home saying "Dad! Dad!" Just warms my heart. My favorite time of day.
Keshet is so friggin cute and happens to be just as attached to Dad as she is to me which is nice after Iyov who hated Brad for years. She's everyone's baby in our family and is quite adored (and mauled by Iyov on occasion). Here's a video of her in the snow for the first time (By the way, this was the "pre-snow" show in which we got a few inches before the real stuff came a couple days later).

All the kids fell asleep on our way back from Culbertson, Montana where we happen to be trying to find a place to live. That's another story for another blog though. I will say that we drove down strange dirt roads and asked complete strangers in the middle of nowhere to point us in the direction of so-and-so's house who has a house up for rent. "Oh yeah, just go north and make a right after Big Ben curve. You'll see 'em on the right. Two houses."
Um, yeah, north. Big Ben. Got it.
We didn't end up getting middle-of-nowhere house, but it was an adventure I found humorous anyway. I always get a kick out of Brad's city-slicker reactions, and this did not disappoint. Furthermore, after living in LA county, it was so twilight zonish to think that there are places out here where you can get lost on dirt roads and there is no cell phone signal for miles. To think that Williston is a tiny town in the middle of nowhere is ludicrous after driving around eastern Montana. When we got back home I said, "Look Brad! It's Metropolis!"

K, so on to Halloween. If you're a facebooker you've already seen the pics, but I'm pasting them here anyway. We did Phineas & Ferb, which happens to be my favorite cartoon, possibly ever. My kids like it too but mostly because I dig it and I make them watch it if we're watching the tube together. Just in case you can't figure it out, Brad's Jeremy, who is Candace's boyfriend on the show. I'm Candace, who is Phineas and Ferb's older sister. Novan is Ferb, Iyov is Phineas, Beya is Isabella, and Keshet is Perry. I made Ferb's pants, Phineas' shirt, and Perry's costume. Perry is my favorite!

So here's Isabella, Ferb, and Phineas (Isn't P's hair awesome!?) on the left. And then on the right, just Phineas & Ferb... oh, and Roxy. She wanted to join our family because we had the most fun costumes in the place.

Where's Perry? This costume is so cute. She has a platypus tail too which is extra cute as she trounces around.









Beya has become a bit of an organizer lately. She thinks it's fun. She always wants to organize things and tries to get me to organize things as well (gee, wonder who she got THAT from?). Here she is organizing our bathroom toiletries under the sink.

And then of course there's the snow which was pretty exciting. I have been in reserved disbelief about the winter/snow here because there just wasn't any last year. And I read somewhere that western ND is rather arid. So when we woke up to this I can no longer be disappointed:

  We got fairly stuck in our driveway and I have to say that a major perk to having Brad employed at a CAT dealer is that, within the company housing where we live, someone always has a loader or something lying around to come dig us out.

Picture on the left: Iyov was in the middle of saying, "Look mom! My bike! It's buried!"

I have never liked driving in snowy/icy weather. It freaks me out, which is probably a good thing since it keeps me from driving like an idiot as compared to other people who, for some reason, think icy roads don't apply to their tires. Blows my mind really how so many people end up in the ditch. Anyway, the left picture is what the roads look like. They do plow quite a bit, but I find the packed snow easier to drive on than the plowed ones which are sheer ice.

And so that's what we've been doing. I love this place; I really do. I don't know why so many people are unhappy with it except that if you expect to be unhappy when you move somewhere, you are unhappy regardless of the circumstances. I live in less than a thousand square feet in an, at times, frozen wasteland, where the most exciting place is Walmart, but it is, by far, my favorite abode yet.