If You Can't Beat 'Em, Join 'Em

I don't have a ton of vivid memories of my childhood, but I do remember fighting with my siblings a lot. I was the third of five children, and the first three of us were each only eighteen months apart, so we were close enough in age to find plenty of things to argue about. If we weren't being dishonest, lying to try to cover up some naughty scheme we'd dreamed up, we were pestering each other. We were expert tattle-tales (especially me), making a living of driving my mother absolutely insane.

As I think about it, I deserve every bit of the unhappy banter and incessant arguing and fault-finding that often occurs in my home now. They say, "what goes around comes around," and after the hour-long nit picking and arguing session we had during dinner tonight, it's obvious it's "coming around" to me.

It's not like my children don't fight about extremely important topics. I mean, the color of plate you get for dinner, or the size of spoon you're handed, or whether or not your glass and your bowl match is vitally important stuff. After all, who can be expected to eat dinner without solving these life-altering problems first?

And then there's the argument about who gets to say the blessing before we eat our meals. I'm sure we eat the most holy food of any family on earth some days, as each of our meals gets blessed two or three times just to appease every child who swears it's their turn.

And let's not forget the all-out war over who gets to answer the telephone or the door when the doorbell rings. I'm sure I'm raising at least three track stars. The only problem is they're all going to be recovering from serious injuries they incurred while racing each other to the telephone and front door. Today we had to rudely shut the door in a boy's face because my four-year-old got to the door first and my two-year-old couldn't handle it. He slammed the door shut, then opened it again to prove his point. Dan was left to apologize to the poor soul on the other side of the door who was wondering what in the world was going on. He obviously was unaware of the prime importance placed on opening the door first.

If we aren't racing to the telephone or front door, pushing aside everything and everyone in our way, we are fighting about who got more milk in his/her glass, who sits where at dinner, who hugged Mom first when they got out of bed in the morning, who gets to choose what to watch on TV later that night, who didn't do his/her chores, who showers the fastest, who loves Dad the most, and on and on.

If I don't have a house full of track stars, then surely I have a home full of debaters, because I'm telling you, my children can find a way to argue about anything, always trying to be one-up on each other.

"Mom said I could have ice cream after school."

"Oh yea, well she said I could have ice cream with chocolate syrup."

"Well, I get to have a milkshake. Milkshakes have a lot more ice cream in them than ice cream in a bowl does."

"Mom said I could have two milkshakes, one after school and one after dinner."

"Did not. Mom, did you say he could have two milkshakes?"

And on an on it goes. One argument after another. Until I feel like starting an argument of my own; in fact, maybe that will be my next strategic move.

"Dad said I could eat the whole half gallon of ice cream--with chocolate syrup, caramel, and whipped cream on top. He said I didn't have to share any of it, and he said I could eat it after breakfast, lunch and dinner."

Yes, that's it. I can't wait to see my children's eyes pop and jaws drop when I out-best them at their own game.

It is said, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." Since I'm obviously not beating them, I might as well join them.

In fact, I'm signing off now--I've got to go pick up some ice cream!

Innocence

As often as I pondered what motherhood would be like as I was growing up, I never saw myself needing to discuss sensitive topics to my children so directly at such young ages. However, due to an increasingly crazy and confused world, my husband and I have found ourselves praying for divine help and inspiration as we've had candid, sacred teaching moments with our children, hoping to convey vital truths in an appropriate way before the voices of the world have a chance to interfere first. Although our children are still young, ranging in ages from 2-9, we have already discussed topics such as procreation, pornography, and the sacred nature of our bodies with our oldest children in an effort to open lines of communication early and avoid confusion about what is true and right.

Traveling home from a short vacation together this past weekend, our thoughts turned to our children (as always), and we began discussing what the topic of our Family Home Evening should be. We decided to use "The Family: A Proclamation to the World" as our main source of study. Although the text is quite mature and difficult for young children to read and understand, we did not want to take from the power of the words exactly as they are written. We decided to take it one paragraph at a time, discussing each point as we went along. I was amazed as I was reminded this amazing proclamation was written over 13 years ago--boy, has the family been attacked in full force since that time!

Praying silently that our children would somehow understand the importance of the message, written by the First Presidency and Council of the Twelve Apostles, and be able to grasp what these inspired men were teaching, we sat down together and began taking turns reading each paragraph.

As is always the case when I approach a sensitive topic with my kids, I inwardly wondered how much they already knew about certain issues, such as same sex marriage. We read about gender being an "essential characteristic of individual premortal, mortal, and eternal identity and purpose." Then we read about the powers of procreation being employed "only between man and a woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife." We paused to talk about what this meant, explaining that many in the world believe it is right for two women to marry or two men. We mentioned the word "gay" and asked if they knew what it meant.

I was on pins and needles as we brought all of this information up. I wanted to be discussing topics such as family service projects, plans for summer, or even manners; I did not want to be introducing such heavy topics to our young children. But I knew it was important. I knew I wanted to be the one to inform my children, rather than friends or textbooks, so here I was.

"Why do you think God would want marriage to only be between a man and a woman, rather than two men?" I asked, in an effort to test their understanding. I was amazed when my seven-year-old son piped up with a very good answer.

"Because two men can't have a baby, and God said we should have a family."

"That's right, son," I said, impressed and a bit shocked. Does he understand more about the birds and bees than I thought? It wasn't a topic we had discussed with him yet, and I was getting nervous.

We continued on, but were quickly interrupted when this same child said, "Oh yea, and two women can't get married because then they would have two babies at the same time!"

At that moment, a smile couldn't help but spread across my face as I realized this child was just as naive and innocent as I thought. It all made perfect sense to him: Dad's don't have babies, so two men obviously couldn't produce a child; moms do have babies, so two moms would produce two babies!

We carefully corrected his misunderstanding, wrapped up our discussion and prepared for bed, but as we tucked our children in for the night, I couldn't help but think what a wonderful thing innocence is. And at that moment, I wanted to freeze time. I don't know exactly what our children will face as they continue to grow into adolescence and adulthood, but I am certain they will see and hear and experience many things that will taint them and deprive them of their innocence in one way or another. And that saddens me deeply. When I see or hear on TV or otherwise stories that depict the craziness of the world we live in, I am grateful to be able to shut it out, look at my children and feel peace in their innocence. Oh, that it would never change!

How I would love to be a child again and see the world through innocent eyes once more. Maybe then I would be more compassionate, more loving, and more pure. As for now, I am grateful to live with four sweet spirits who remind me often that the world is still a great place to live, even if it isn't innocent.

You're Gonna Miss This

I'm done praying for things to write about. It seems like every time I think I have writer's cramp and don't have anything to say, disaster strikes in some way or another. Sometimes it's in the form of fighting children; sometimes it involves some type of clothing catastrophe; and often times it includes some form of embarrassment or frustration. This time, once again, it has to do with poop.

My two-year-old was doing so well--finally. The road to potty training had been long and rough, but we had cleared the mountain and were coasting down the other side. NOT! That darn kid seems to know every time I start to relax and think the task is behind me, and then he slaps me with a 2x4 upside the head, just to remind me who's really in control. It's like he has an internal monitor that forces a message into his head to revert to pooping in his pants if I ever get past the point of frustration and dismay. I mean, does he like to see my teeth grind, my shoulders sag, and my body temperature rise 10 degrees in a matter of seconds?

Apparently, he does. Either that or he just really still prefers pooping in his pants. And it's not just the pooping. He was staying dry most nights, too--until he wasn't. After six days in a row of washing wet bedding, I finally went against my firmest code of ethics and put a diaper back on him to go to bed at night. I had been monitoring his drinking habits, squelching the poor boy to death by not allowing hardly anything to drink after 2:00 p.m. Then, I shove a diaper on him and throw all caution to the wind with regards to how much he drinks in a day, and he stays dry every night! Explain this to me.

I'm telling you, there is some evil alliance in the Universe somewhere that is out to get mothers! Every time we think we are doing something right and making great progress with a child, BAM! It all goes to pot. I have no other explanation. It's either that, or I just need to be humbled on a more-than-regular basis. I prefer the former explanation.

I haphazardly draped a repeatedly-used diaper on Boston the other night and tucked him into bed with a sly smile. This diaper idea was working like a charm. Every night as I kissed him goodnight, Boston would repeat, "Don't pee in my diaper, huh, Mom?"

"That's right, son. Don't pee in your diaper. You're a big boy and you only pee in the potty."

"Yea," he would say, feeling proud of himself.

I couldn't help feeling proud of myself, too. I was conquering the giant; I had outsmarted my two-year-old and was teaching him to stay dry at night when he didn't even know it. I was one sly mother.

Famous last thoughts.

I went upstairs to watch a show with my husband, and as I shut Boston's door, the thought occurred to me that I would probably not be able to hear him from clear upstairs if he needed anything. As quickly as the thought entered my mind, I immediately pushed it aside, sure he would be fine. I was eager to have him down for the night and enjoy some relaxation.

You know that little mommy voice that rings in your head sometimes and tells you to act? Like when your toddler has been a little too quiet for a little too long, and this internal voice tells you to check on him, but you ignore it, deciding you're just paranoid? Then, by the time you actually listen to the internal nagging, you find he has found the aphgan you've been furiously crocheting for the past month to give as a gift at a baby shower the nex day, and he's unraveled it down to your first row. When you're potty training, it's the voice that tells you to check on your trainee because you have the distinct feeling he is hiding in a closet somewhere peeing in his pants. I can't number the amount of times I've heard that little voice in the past four months.

The great thing about the little voice is that sometimes, if you listen and act immediately, you save yourself and your child from disaster. You may arrive just in time to save a favorite vase from falling, or you may check on your kids outside at just the moment they were lighting a match to see how quickly your leaf pile can burn (kids come up with some good ones), or if you are potty training and you heed the voice without delay, you may even save an accident. Those are the moments of pure joy and satisfaction as a mother--when that wonderful intuition has kicked in just in time to save the day (or at least a mess).

The downside to the little voice is that if you don't listen, you may find yourself wishing you had. Such was my case the other night when I ignored the voice, sure Boston would fall right to sleep as usual, and I hurried upstairs and away from my mothering responsibilities for a while. It was three hours later that I opened the door to his bedroom and knew right away that I should have listened to the voice. I'm sure you can guess what the acrid smell was that greeted me as I pushed my way inside. It was obvious the diaper had lost its magic, and Boston had not only peed in his diaper, but pooped as well.

Berating myself for not checking on him sooner, or at least leaving his bedroom door open so I could have heard him tell me he needed to go potty, I took a deep breath, found the wet wipes and began cleaning up the sleeping child. I just kept wiping and wiping away the poop, which was up his back and down his legs. It seemed all too familiar as I examined his fingernails and found them filled with poop. I was not happy (Am I the only one with a child who likes to touch his poop?) But being the patient, take-everything-in-stride kind of mother I am (LOL), I cleaned him up without so much as a grumble, kissed him soundly, sprayed some air freshener and shut the door, wondering if this saga would really ever end.

It was then I remembered a phone call I had had with my younger brother on one of those days when the potty training hadn't been going real well. I had found Boston had pooped his pants again and had groaned in anguish and frustration. All of a sudden, I heard from the other end of the line a familiar song,

"You're gonna miss this. You're gonna want this back. You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast. These are some good times, so take a good look around. You may not know it now, but you're gonna miss this."

Smart alec. I wanted to reach through the phone and slap him, but I couldn't help nodding in agreement instead. Although his singing was meant to be sarcastic, I knew he was right. I was going to miss this, even these long, hard, unsuccessful potty training days.

I allowed myself one more sigh. Then I took a good look around, smiled with contentment, and cleaned up the poop.

No Regrets

I'm sure this sounds ridiculous to anyone who read my last post, but I couldn't help renting the movie Marley and Me and bringing it home to watch with my husband and two older children. Yes, I worried about the pieces of adult content (the movie is rated PG, but I would probably choose to rate it PG13 myself--I really hate it when they do that--add just enough adult content to ruin it for kids. Dan and I had to distract Hallee and Nate at certain moments, not something you should have to do during a PG movie); and yes, I knew what was coming at the end; and yes, I even knew how I would react, but there are parts of that show that are so touching and so real that I couldn't help sharing it with a few of the people I love the most. (Now I must warn you, I share a bit of this movie in this post, so if you haven't seen it and don't want me to ruin it for you, you may want to stop and read no further).

For starters, John and Jen Grogan have an absolutely adorable relationship. It's hard not to get caught up in their fun-loving, supportive marriage and want them to succeed. But, like in all marriages, life isn't complete bliss, especially once they decide to take on a disobedient, massive dog!

One of my favorite scenes in the movie is called "No Regrets," and it begins by Jen apologizing about freaking out and screaming at John to get rid of the dog (Marley) because "he ruins everything." John suggests she might have post pardum depression, and she assures him she is not depressed--she's just exhausted. I can't help but feel empathy for John. It just seems that no matter how hard he tries, he just can't get it right. No matter what he says, Jen refutes it. And no matter what he does, Jen tells him he's doing it wrong. Yet he keeps on trying to please her and keep the peace, day after day. When he seeks counsel from co-workers on how to handle the situation, I found myself wondering if my poor husband has done the same thing from time to time, trying to come up with any logical explanation as to why his once-sane wife has gone off the deep end (I know what you're thinking: I guarantee Dan has done that from time to time--I had the same thought). What John probably doesn't know is that Jen knows she's being irrational and taking her frustrations out on an undeserving husband, and she knows it's unfair, but she just can't help herself (chronic fatigue does that to a woman).

Apologizing, Jen tells John she just got overwhelmed. "No one tells you how hard this is going to be," she says.

"Which part?" John answers facetiously.

"All of it." (Hello!! Has any of it looked easy? What an obvious answer!)"Jen goes on, "Marriage, being a parent. It's the hardest job in the world, and nobody prepares you for that. Nobody tells you how much you have to give up."

I like John's reply. "Sometimes I think they do tell you, but you don't listen or you think, ah, they're just miserable." Isn't that so true? I knew motherhood would be the most difficult thing I'd ever do, but I was sure I was prepared and could handle it. So naieve.

"I've given up so much of what made me who I am," Jen continues. "But I can't say that because I'm a very bad person if I say that, but I feel it. I really do--I feel it sometimes. I just want you to know that." Ever felt that way? I thought so.

"I do know that," John empathizes (of course--men always seem to think they know). "And you can say it. I say it."

Then comes my favorite part. Jen looks John in the eyes and says with conviction, "But I made a choice. I made a choice, and even if it's harder than I thought, I don't regret it."

"Are you sure?" John asks skeptically, "because it kind of has a 'there's no place like home' ring to it."

"I am very sure," Jen explains. "I just think these things are gonna happen, and we're gonna get through them, and we'll just do it together."

"Together," John repeats.

"Getting rid of Marley is not gonna fix anything . . .and getting rid of you isn't gonna fix anything, either." She smiles at this afterthought.

It's a touching moment. Then John has one request. "Can I ask you a favor?"

"Yes," Jen says with confidence.

"No more kids for a while."

"Absolutely!"

And the next scene begins with Jen being wheeled out of the hospital with a new little baby in her arms.

I love it! That scene is so telling. It shows the reality of life as parents. It portrays the reality of life as a mom, especially a stay-at-home mom. We do give things up. We do lose ourselves from time to time in the midst of the daily grind of motherhood, and we do become overwhelmed and exhausted. BUT, at the end of the day, we have no regrets, and somewhere beneath the lack of makeup and the abundance of stretch marks, we feel at peace.

It's kind of a miraculous phenomenon, but it's true. Somehow God fills mothers with contentment and joy, despite babies with collic, potty training disasters, endless homework, interrupted phone calls, toddlers pulling on your leg all day, endless whining, endless fighting, endless, begging--still, we wouldn't trade it for the world.

No easy path, no promotions, no sleep or sanity, but no regrets, either.

It's a pretty great way to live!

(And by the way, yes, I did bawl my eyes out again. Only this time my husband was awake and prepared).

I Wonder . . .

I'll be the first to admit I'm far from the perfect wife, but a couple days ago I put my poor husband in a position he didn't appreciate, and it reminded me of a few scenarios we'd recently had that left him shaking his head in wonder--not the good kind of wonder that means you are fascinated and mesmerized by something awesome--I'm talking about the "I wonder how I ever got myself into this mess" kind of wonder.

It all started a few months ago when I realized we had gained a few extra boarders in our home. Since we moved here a year and a half ago we've had squirrels and birds make their homes temporarily in our garage, and we even found a frog in our basement, but my worst nightmare was finding little gray rodents scurrying about. There' just something about mice I cannot handle. Opening the door into the garage one day, I saw a flash of gray scurry to safety behind our neatly aligned rows of boots (the boots are the only thing about our garage that's neat). My stomach hit my toes as I hoped I was just having an illusion. No such luck. The next couple of days my husband pointed obvious signs of the little creatures in our unfinished basement. Ugh! I was immediately scared to go downstairs or into the garage. I demanded he get rid of them asap and we called a neighbor to borrow some mouse traps. My fear turned into the dread of finding a dead mouse, or even worse, hearing one get snapped in a trap.

One night while lying in bed, I was awakened by a little scratching noise I heard in the corner of the bedroom. Oh great! There's a mouse in my bedroom. You have got to be kidding me, I screamed inside my head. Just go back to sleep. Don't think. Don't move. Just pretend there's not a mouse nibbling on your slippers. Go to sleep. The mouse won't hurt you. I rolled over and put a pillow over my head. That 's when I realized I needed to go to the bathroom. Great! What was I going to do now? I tried my best to ignore the urge, but to no avail. After tossing and turning again and again, it became obvious I was not going to get any more sleep until I made a trip to the bathroom. But I could still hear the mouse.

What to do. What to do.

I looked over at Dan, sleeping peacefully. I hated to wake him, but . . . the scratching noise continued. This was a matter of life and death. I weighed my options and realized I had no choice.

"Dan," I hissed. No response. "Dan, wake up. I need you to go to the bathroom with me."

Finally a response. "You're kidding, right?"

I wasn't kidding. "Please, honey. I have to go really bad, but there's a mouse in here, and I'm too scared to go by myself."

"You're a lot bigger than the mouse, ya know. What are you afraid of?"

It was a fair question, so I gave it an equally fair answer. "I don't know."

How could I tell him I was worried one was going to run over my foot or nibble my toes or something? It sounded utterly ridiculous. My obedient husband stumbled out of bed and kept watch at the bathroom door. I heard the scratching noise again as we snuggled back in and couldn't help but be pleased with myself, knowing I had out-smarted the little creature. I listened for a while and thought how funny it was that the mouse only made noise when the heat came on. That is one tricky mouse, I thought. It was then I noticed a balloon floating near the ceiling. As I watched the balloon it became obvious that it was the reason for the scratching noise. I glanced over to see if Dan had noticed it, too, but thankfully he was already sawing logs again. I rolled over and sheepishly fell back to sleep, grateful to know there was no mouse in my bedroom after all, only a balloon that scratched against the ceiling every time the heat came on and blew it upwards. I decided to wait until morning to spill the news to my husband--no sense waking him twice for no reason.

Then, there was a night recently when I talked him into pulling into the McDonald's drive-thru so I could spoil myself with a hot fudge sundae. Doing his best to please me, he pulled right in and ordered. As we discussed how it was possible for the tax on a $.99 sundae to be a whopping nine cents, the man working at the window handed us our ice cream. I couldn't help but immediately notice a lot of white in my sundae cup, which meant a lot of vanilla ice cream--something I detested. I turned the cup around in my hands and shook my head in disgust as Dan started pulling away from the window.

Then I began complaining.

Dan listened as long as he could stand, then stopped the van and asked, "What do you want me to do, back up and ask for more hot fudge?" I'm sure he thought I would answer to the contrary, but I eyed my vanilla sundae once again and found myself saying, "Yes."

Realizing he had made a grave mistake, he followed with, "You're serious?" He hoped I would change my mind, but there was no turning back now. I was not one to take my food back; in fact, I normally would have thrown it away before going back, but I had my heart set on that hot fudge, and since he seemed willing, I decided to get my full $1.08 worth out of my sundae.

I nodded and he backed up, all the while shaking his head, saying, "This is not going to become a habit. I will not do this again." I assured him it wouldn't happen again, then ducked my head as he asked for more fudge.

We couldn't help but giggle as we drove away. Dan was laughing because he couldn't believe I'd actually talked him into doing that, and I was chuckling because the hot fudge was dripping down my chin, tasting just as good as I had imagined, and I hadn't even had to embarrass myself to get it!

Finally, a couple of nights ago, I went to see a movie with some friends--Marley and Me. Much to my dismay I cried like a baby at the end. Actually, sob would be a more accurate word. As I wiped the tears dripping from my chin, I found myself being thankful the lights were off. The ironic part was that I was sobbing over a dog dying when I am far from a pet lover. In fact, I won't even consider a dog in our home, or any other pet for that matter--not even a goldfish. But that movie got to me, and as I watched those little children bury that dog, I was touched to the core.

Still feeling the effects of the movie, I came home and climbed into bed beside my sleeping husband. I must have felt the need to talk about my feelings because I roused him and started rehearsing details about the movie. Before I knew it, I was bawling again. I was sure Dan was asleep but I couldn't stop rambling about how much I love our kids and how fast they are growing. "I can't even remember when Hallee was little," I sniffled. "I mean, she's only nine and I can't remember her being three. Before we know it she'll be in college and getting married." I was pretty sure Dan wasn't listening any more, but I couldn't stop. On and on I went about each child and what I loved about them and how grateful I was to be home with them every day.

Finally, just when I was winding down, Dan sat up in bed and said, "My forehead is wet. Why is my forehead wet?" Apparently my tears had been falling on his head.

"Oops," I said as I blew my nose one last time and settled in under the covers. I decided to skip chastising him for not listening to my blubbering for the past half hour.

As he rolled over to go back to sleep, it was my turn to wonder. I wonder how he ever learned to be so patient. I wonder if he'll still be glad he married me in ten more years. I wonder . . .

Let's Go, Maggie!!

It's March Madness time, and I can't resist getting caught up in it a little, especially when three Utah teams are involved. Before leaving for work Friday, my husband reminded me that Utah State would be playing at 10:30 a.m. I scoffed as I kissed him goodbye. That time of day was not good for me. I mean, what did he think I did, sat around and watched TV all morning? I was still trying to get breakfast dishes done and get dressed for the day at 10:30. As much as I wanted to cheer for the Aggies, I was sure it would not be a reality.

I got busy with my morning routine but couldn't help keeping my eye on the clock. At 10:30 sharp, I found myself turning on the TV, hoping to catch some of the game. Before long, I was sucked in. I looked around my house at everything I still needed to do. I told myself any responsible mother would turn the tube off and get to work. Then, deciding not to be a responsible mother for the day, I shrugged off my chores, grabbed my two little kids, and we hopped in my still unmade bed and started cheering.

"Rebound!" I called and heard a little echo. "Get it! Go!"

Again a little voice beside me mimmicked my plea. "Det it! Do!"

"Yes!!" I cheered when the Aggies scored and held up my hand for a high five. My two little ones didn't let me down. They slapped my hand with excitement, and before long, we were all getting caught up in the moment.

"I know, let's start a cheer," I suggested. "You say 'Let's,' I'll say, 'go,' and you scream, 'Aggies!'" I instructed, giving each child an assignment. They nodded in agreement, and we began shouting at the television.

"Let's . . . go . . .Maggie!"

"What?" I said, looking at my four-year-old. I chuckled as I explained the word was Aggies, not Maggie. I was sure she had no clue as to what an aggie was, and since I didn't know myself until I was a college student, attending Utah State, I decided it was probably pointless to try to explain it to her. I guess Maggie just made more sense to her, because no matter how many times we repeated our cheer, she would say "Maggie," instead of "Aggies." She was definitley an amateur sports fan.

We took a short break at half-time, but resumed our cheering in the third quarter, sitting on the edge of the bed, acting as if this ball game meant everything. No matter what I said, my kids repeated it with fervor. Regyn was especially excited about the cheering (I'm afraid cheerleading might be in her future, which would be a whole new experience for a mother who prefers playing the game, rather than cheering others on). "Yes!" she shouted.

"No!" I said back. "The yellow team just scored. We're rooting for the blue team."

"But the ball went in the basket. Didn't you see that?" she asked, as if I was stupid. It was obvious this girl hadn't watched enough basketball (or any other sport, for that matter) since she didn't seem to understand the concept of only cheering for one team. I didn't care. I was in my zone, sitting between two of my favorite little people in the whole world, watching a fantastic basketball game.

There are times as a mother when you stop and realize life couldn't get any better than this, when you are able to block out everything else and just be in the moment with your children, soaking up every bit of their goodness and optimism and love. Snuggling between my two youngest children, I realized this was one of those moments, and I never wanted it to end. I know my days of plastering them with undetested hugs and kisses are numbered, that my opportunities to hold them and snuggle with them and teach them are passing quickly, and I just wanted to stop the clock and take it all in.

But all too soon, the doorbell rang and Regyn ran off to play with her friend.

I was left with only Boston to help me try to get the Aggies through to the next round. As I sat on the edge of the bed and moaned when the buzzer sounded and the Aggies were one point short of a victory, I felt some pudgy arms around my neck. "I'm sorry, Mom," my little cheering partner murmured in my ear. I took him in my arms and held him close for as long as he would let me.

That night when I put Boston to bed, I couldn't help but cheer one more time. "Let's go . . . "

He didn't let me down. "Aggies!" he said with a grin. Apparently he had caught on better than Regyn had. I pulled the covers up to his chin, gave hime one last goodnight kiss and went to bed happy to be a mother. I couldn't help but wonder as I walked away, if I would ever be able to cheer for Utah State again without remembering the sweet moments I had shared that day with my kids.

I sure hope not.

Groundhog Day

Have you ever felt like you were trapped inside a “Groundhog Day”? You wake up each morning, follow the same routine, listen to the same arguments and whining, wash the same dishes, clean the same house, put your children to bed, brush your teeth, and prepare to start over again the very next day. For us stay-at-home moms, the routine can seem especially dull, lonely, and unrewarding. There certainly doesn’t seem to be much to encourage us or help us feel important and valued; in fact, if we analyze our situation, we might easily feel that we aren’t doing a very great job, even though we are probably doing the most important things very well. In other words, it’s easy for the little triumphs of each day to be forgotten amid the deluge of routine chores and momentary challenges.

Unfortunately, many times it is the people closest to us who are our biggest nemeses, namely our children. I don’t know your children, but mine seem to have a knack for making me feel like I am failing miserably. They remind me on a regular basis that I am not fair, I’m not a good listener, I’m mean and annoying, and “doing it all wrong.” And I must confess that “I hate you, Mom!” is not the kind of remark that leaves me feeling good inside. I remember how relieved I was when I first read Glenn Latham’s book on positive parenting and found out that all of these comments are simply age-typical behavior that should simply be ignored (The Power of Positive Parenting, 51). Some days these words are more difficult to ignore than others, but I’m grateful to know that nearly every mother experiences the same name-calling and that I may not be the meanest mother after all!

Not only do my children express their chagrin at me verbally, there are many days when their disobedience and simple disregard for anything I say provides ample evidence they do not care much for my rules, suggestions, or feelings. "Time to eat," I cheerfully call. No one comes. "The pantry is closed--no snacking," I warn and then find wrappers all over the house. "Bed time!" I announce. No one moves. Once I literally took my five-year-old to the ear, nose and throat doctor, certain he had a hearing disorder, only to find he had developed selective hearing, the same as my other children. It's easy to develop an invisibility complex when you are so blatantly ignored.

Then there’s dinner time. You’ve been working hard day, when you suddenly realize it’s nearly dinner time. Truth be told, you don’t want to take time to make dinner, but you know your husband will come home hungry and you want to take good care of your family, so you trudge to the kitchen to assess the options. Dad comes home, and you sit down to a warm, nutritious meal, only to find that your children won’t eat it. Instead, they plug their nose and spout off something like, “I don’t eat chicken enchiladas!” You stare in unbelief, recalling a night not too long ago when they snarffed down two enchiladas apiece, all the while gushing over how much they loved them. It seems some days you just can't win.

Although there are days I feel invisible and underappreciated, I know my children hear me and even love me, and I pray that when I say the really important stuff--like “I love you,” “you did well,” and “I’m proud of you,” and when I share my testimony--then they listen from deep within their hearts, and they remember.

With all of the whining and fighting I listen to in a day I have often wondered if I am an effective parent at all. Then my nine-year-old will say, “Thanks, Mom,” for making her favorite breakfast, or my six-year-old will flash me a “You’re OK, Mom” smile. Maybe my four-year-old wraps her little arms around my neck and tells me she “loves me the most,” or my toddler plasters a big, wet, open-mouthed kiss on my cheek. Those precious moments occur far less than the chaos and contention, but they remind me that things aren’t so bad after all.

At the end of the day, what matters is that I have loved my children and have done the best I could under the circumstances of that day. So, although it may be true that my situation is far from perfect, I can still find plenty to be satisfied with. And besides, motherhood is not about having it all together all of the time (thank heavens!)—it’s about keeping it together when everything seems to be falling apart--and I'm getting plenty of practice!

So, the next time the alarm clock goes off (which in my case is my children getting out of bed), remember that, although you may have the same old routine to look forward to, and you may hear a lot of the same quarrels and spouts, you're still accomplishing something remarkable. I mean, after all, you're a mother!!!