On a car ride home, my husband and I were discussing a skill our almost-2-year-old possesses that we think is particularly awesome.

“We make a good mix,” he said.

At that moment I stopped at a red light, and Emma, the almost-2-year-old, called out, “Mama” in a familiar tone. I knew exactly what I would see when I turned around.

Just as I suspected, she was showing me the inside of her mouth, where a chocolate chip cookie was in a state of being masticated.

“Ohhhh,” I said in a sing-songy voice, knowing a positive response would be the only thing that would end her little show.

But she wasn’t done.

“Dada!” she called out. The routine was repeated.

She learned this from her 5-year-old sister who is always showing us some “trick” — a spoon hanging out of her mouth in a funny-to-her way, a piece of cheese sticking out of her mouth acting as a tongue… you get the idea. We’re very patient with her shenanigans.

Emma’s next victim was her 5-year-old sister.

“Liddie!” she shouted. Lydia turned, saw her sister’s open mouth, and immediately said, “Ummm… I don’t know if you know this, but nobody wants to see that, Emma.”

We burst into laughter at her hypocritical chastisement.

In the next moment, I glanced at my husband who was about to absentmindedly put the metal tip of the phone charger onto his tongue.

“Ack! Don’t do that!” I shouted.

He laughed at himself and said, “I revise my earlier statement about us making a good mix. I think it’s just you.”

I pointed to the phone charger, then indicated the open mouth in the back seat that was responsible for our laughter and said, “Nope, you’re right. I think we make a good mix.”

Lydia (5) danced in two recitals this weekend. She’s the youngest in her class, which always makes me a little nervous for her. When we go to the observation days of dance class, she’s always a step behind. Sometimes her arms are doing the right thing while her feet remain motionless — or vice versa.

It’s darling. She’s so young, and she’s just having a good time. But sometimes I worry. Should we hold her back one year so she can be with kids her age and have another year to solidify what she’s learning? Or should we keep her where she is, and hope she’ll rise to the challenge of slightly harder dance moves?

Ultimately, we decided to keep her where she is, but as things go in mother-land, I’ve second-guessed our decision several times (I guess that means I’ve third-guessed and fourth-guessed and so on…).

And then the recital came. None of the kids in her group (including my own) seemed to have it exactly right, which made it all the more cute. But there was my little girl in the middle of it all — getting her arms and feet coordinating together, remembering to wave with the correct hand, gaining control of her shuffle steps. She bumped into another student here, she missed something there, she watched her neighbor for guidance sometimes. But she was doing it and she was getting it mostly right.

I remember thinking to myself, “When did she learn to put her heel out while her arm swings back?” It’s hard to get all your limbs doing the right thing, but she managed to do it.

Along with another mother, I was responsible for getting the dancers to the stage on time during the second performance. I felt like we were in a Degas painting as I watched the pint-sized girls line up in the wings, touching each other’s shoulders and standing on tip-toes to get a better look at what was happening on-stage. It was really one of the cutest things, and I wish I had my camera with me.

And then their turn came up and they hurry-scurried out on to the stage with so much confidence and excitement. Lydia told me she fell during this performance. I didn’t see it happen from my position backstage. I was heartbroken for her until I asked her what she did. “I just got back up and kept dancing,” she explained matter-of-factly. When did she get big enough to handle a situation like that without falling apart?

During the first performance, I sat next to a friend from church. She was there to see three of her granddaughters and one niece perform. She had already been to other recitals that day to see other granddaughters and nieces perform. At first I thought how frustrating it must be to lose an entire Saturday to simply observing others’ talents.

Then my daughter came on stage and showed her confidence. I felt so much joy as I watched her succeed. I could only imagine the amount of joy my friend and her husband felt as they watched grandchild after grandchild show their own skill and confidence.

It isn’t losing an entire Saturday. Whatever we gave up to spend that Saturday in the pursuit of our children’s pursuits isn’t important. These moments are the reason why we are here.

The moments between when my husband walks through the front door and when we sit down to eat dinner are similar to the monkey house at the zoo — only there’s less order. One child is usually crying while another child is speaking loudly, completely unaware of the crying sister. If nobody is crying, then both children are loudly hopping up and down and babbling incoherently to compete for the attention of one or both parents.

One or both of us parents is typically peeling one or both of the resistant little monkeys off of ourselves as we both scramble to complete the final preparations before we can all sit down to eat.

And the hand washing. Oh, the hand washing. You don’t know the meaning of the word ordeal until you come to my house during hand-washing time.

In these moments, I frequently eye my husband over the top of the sweaty, crumb-infested, messy-haired head at my shoulder and mouth the words, “TWO IS ENOUGH. WE’RE DONE.”

At bedtime, my tune changes. The 5-year-old hops on Daddy’s shoulders and swoops to her room, while the baby toddles behind, humming some song to herself. Daddy sings “Jesus Wants Me For a Sunbeam” and throws the 5-year-old in the air on each “BEAM” while the baby does her own version of jumping (or “chumping” as she says over and over while she “jumps”) which is really just bending down and popping up, her little uncoordinated feet never leaving the floor. Her baby mouth doesn’t stop moving as she sings along, not caring if she gets the words right or not.

Then, the 5-year-old says her prayer, and the baby toddles over to give her big sister a hug. The 5-year-old looks so regal in her bed, her quilt pulled up to her lap, her pillows propping her up, as she graciously receives the kind hug. The baby giggles and says, “Awwww,” an imitation of her parents’ “look-at-the-cute-puppy awwww” she has learned.

Then she blows her big sister a kiss, and toddles to her bedroom, grabbing at her crib rails, and trying to climb in. The 5-year-old interrupts some part of this little routine with, “Can I read myself a bedtime story?” I tell her yes, the baby laughs and then snuggles into Daddy’s neck while we say a prayer and sing a song.

A few weeks ago, we went to our library’s toddler time. At one point during the songs and dances, the librarians will bring out a parachute and invite all the children to stand underneath while the parents bounce the parachute over their heads and sing songs. The baby was afraid. The 5-year-old sweetly took her hand and guided her under the parachute. I watched, waiting and ready to rescue the baby should she have a change of heart.

When the parents sang “Ring Around the Rosies,” the baby’s eyes lit up with familiarity and she grabbed her sister’s hands while shouting, “ROSIES! ROSIES!” Then the two of them began turning in circles, hands clasped together, both smiling from ear to ear, and both oblivious to anybody else around them.

Nobody taught them how to love each other. That came the moment they became sisters. In moments like these, I think I could have a child every year until my uterus shuts down.

And then, the 5-year-old stands just a tidge too close to the baby, the look on her face revealing she knows she’s invading some personal space the baby doesn’t want invaded. The baby screams; I intervene. Moments later, the baby is taking a toy she knows the 5-year-old wants.

Magic over. And that’s when the cycle starts again. I call my husband. “Two is enough.”

When we were in Zion National Park recently and while most of our group snacked, Lydia (5) and her cousin Liam (also 5) were looking for a place to call their new secret hideout. Soon, they were frustrated, and asked for ideas.

I led them to a big rock that looked fun to climb on, but Liam quickly informed me that the rock was no good because there was a blood-sucking caterpillar residing on it.

“Well, that’s what Lydia said, anyway,” he added to his tale of danger when I looked at him with raised eyebrows.

I asked for a visual, and after peering closely at the rock for several minutes, they excitedly waved me over.

“See? There it is! There it is!” they shouted.

I almost needed a magnifying glass to see the tiny little worm/caterpillar creature.

“Hmm,” I said. “Yep, looks dangerous. I’m not sure where you can play if this is getting in your way. Maybe you could all try to play on the rock together, though? The caterpillar isn’t very big, and you could stay far away from it.”

“No, no, no!” they shouted. “It’s blood-sucking!”

“Ok,” I agreed, and stepped back. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my daughter, it’s that she can’t be talked into anything, no matter the amount of logic being hurled in her direction. She just has to learn things on her own.

Soon my husband wandered over to the rock, and 3-year-old cousin Charlie got involved in the whole escapade. With everyone gathered around this rock and focused with such intent, it appeared as if the next big story was happening on that rock. Our little group was drawing an audience of fellow hikers who didn’t want to miss out on whatever was going down.

Ryan leaned close to see and touch the little bug-thing.

“NO!” Charlie shouted and reached to stop Ryan. “It will suck your blood!”

Liam pushed Charlie’s hand out of the way. “He doesn’t have blood!” he authoritatively informed Charlie.

Taking Liam’s declaration as absolute truth, the children shrugged, calmed down and allowed Ryan another look. Having seen this dialogue, one of the more curious hikers couldn’t hold back and poked his head in to ask what was going on.

“Oh, there’s just a blood-sucking caterpillar on that rock there,” I told him.

Before the hiker could register what I told him, Liam reached out with one tiny finger and ended the poor creature’s life in an instant.

And just like that, the show was over.

I won a contest, and I want to say hooray.

“Hooray!”

I entered the Murray Literary Competition, personal narrative category, with the essay below and won first place. There weren’t a whole lot of entries to beat out, so it’s not that exciting. But then again, it is exciting. At least a little bit.

If you’ve read my blog for a while, you may recognize this story. I wrote about this experience when it happened, but the essay you see here is all growed up and better.

I get to read it to a group of people when the award is presented to me March 9. I’ve never read my work louder than a soft mumble as I check for grammatical errors. Since I’m quite adept at messing up words when I speak, I have a lot of practice to do in the next week.

Here you go.

The days are long, but the years are short — Or so they say

My 5-year-old is sassy and my 1-year-old is clingy.  Every time I want to scream in frustration (Let’s be honest: Every time I do scream in frustration), I hear the echoes of every well-meaning been-there-done-that parent telling me to “Enjoy them while they’re young; they grow up so fast.”  I recognize the truth of this cliché, but putting that truth into practice gets a little… messy.

When my second child was a newborn, I had taken on one too many things in my schedule. Our three-hour block of church was already enough to juggle with breast feeding, but I also accepted the responsibility to be the choir pianist, which meant that our little family spent four very long hours at church. By the time we got home each Sunday, my 4-year-old was restless, the baby was starving, my husband was frazzled, and I was famished.

One such Sunday, we made our frenzied rush home after choir practice and I zipped straight to the couch to nurse the baby while my husband scurried to prepare lunch for the rest of the family.  As the baby was eating, I noticed her face start to contort.  As any mother can tell you, the face your child makes before doing her business is a distinctly unique face, and one not to be ignored.

Seconds later, I felt wet warmth on my lap and knew her diapers had failed to do their job – yet again.  It only took me a millisecond to assess the damage, after which I immediately — and very eloquently – called out for reinforcements:   “AHHHHHH!!!!”

The mess was everywhere, and this was definitely not a one-person job.

My husband left the eldest child (who was being amazingly agreeable after such a long day) and the mixer which was currently spinning dough for five loaves of bread to take the baby off my hands while I delicately tip-toed to the bedroom to change my dress, both of us shouting with great amounts of aggravation to each other about our difficulties of removing soiled clothing without spreading the mess.

Happily, I succeeded.  Unhappily, he did not.

It was time for a bath for the little newborn.

While he wiped down the changing table, I gingerly deposited the baby in her tub, only to notice the mess had spread all the way up to her ears.  That is not an exaggeration.  Because the mess was so far-reaching, it had also oozed onto the baby tub, which was supposed to be the place where she would get clean.

I needed reinforcements again.   “AHHHHHH!”

My husband came in to clean the now-contaminated tub, while I held the naked, squirming baby under running water, then placed her back into the newly-clean tub.

Once all visible traces of the offending mess were gone, I soaked the baby in the tub and vigorously scrubbed her soft little body, while my husband took the stained clothes downstairs to be laundered.

When we were all together as a family again, my partner-in-mess informed me that while he was spraying the stained baby clothes, he had noticed the cat had thrown up all over the laundry room floor.

“I didn’t clean it up,” he confessed.

“I don’t blame you,” I responded, nodding in understanding.

He then took the sweet-smelling, freshly-cleaned little babe from my hands and held her up to his shoulder…

…where she promptly threw up all the contents of her stomach.

My husband and I decided we’re over Christmas trees this year. They’re messy, they’re expensive, and they’re a hassle. And if they’re fake, they’re worse because they have to be stored somewhere.

I almost – almost — convinced my husband to throw some lights on a fake potted plant we have and call it good.

But then we looked at our unsuspecting 5-year-old, who had no idea we were contemplating destroying the magic of her Christmas, and we surrendered to the pressure — once again — to purchase a tree.

Last year, caught up in the magic of Christmas, we went to a Christmas-tree farm, complete with Santa and reindeer. Once there, we tried the patience of a tree salesman as we said “no” to one magnificent $100-and-up tree after another. I quietly eyed a small, neglected tree in the corner. It had few branches and it was only about 5 feet tall. It was so different from our trees of Christmas past that I was afraid to say I liked it. But my husband caught my eye and immediately agreed it was the perfect tree for us — even though it cost $80. (Why?)

We set it up and laughed about how we could see each other over the top and how we couldn’t even fit all our ornaments on it. But we loved it and it made us a bit giddy.

This year, I didn’t want to spend $80 again on something that would be disposed of, so instead of the fancy farm, we went to Lowe’s to grab a tree — any tree — just so we could fulfill our obligation as parents. Outside Lowe’s, two magnificent 8-foot Douglas Firs were for sale, and they were marked down in price. We were surprised to discover that we were captivated by their beauty.

But we decided to wander to the garden center and see what else was for sale. As soon as we entered, I completely forgot about the gorgeous 8-foot trees standing at attention out front. The Scrooge was knocked out of me as I beheld the 3- or 4-foot table-top Fraser Fir. I loved it and made my decision right there, but a 3-foot tree is pushing the limits on acceptability, even for us, so we looked around some more.

We couldn’t find anything that spoke to us more than the miniature tree, so we went back to discuss said tree. That’s when we noticed that the tree cost only $16.

“Holy cow. Can we really buy this?” I asked my husband. “Are we really allowed to have such a small tree? Can we really get away with paying so little? I mean… is this even appropriate?”

5-year-old Lydia who loves to be contrary, saw my hesitation and immediately pounced on the tree to declare it as the only tree she could ever possibly love.

“That settles it, then,” my husband said, and Lydia picked up the Lydia-sized tree to carry it to the cash register.

On the way out, I noticed that the tree leaned a bit, and so we went back to trade it. But Lydia, contrary as ever, began a fit. “No, no, no!” she shouted. “I love this tree. Its branches point the most up out of all the trees.”

We deliberated while a lady started circling our area and eyeing our picks. I held them close to me, and protectively patted the tops of their branches, which reached my waist.

I found one that was less of a leaner, and attempted to talk Lydia into choosing it, but she wouldn’t budge. She was beginning to cry, and I was beginning to lose patience at her bratty attitude when I was struck with a sudden memory.

Long, long ago, as an emotional pre-teen, I threw the same fit about a Christmas tree, complete with tears. I remember feeling so helpless as my brothers seized upon a tree and declared it “good enough.” I wanted an opinion, and nobody had asked for mine, so I quickly formed one and cried that the tree we chose needed to be more of this, that, and the other.

I don’t remember the outcome of my fit or which tree we chose, but I remember enough of the confusing frustration I felt, and so I allowed Lydia to win this battle.

Lydia loaded the tree into the trunk, where it fit with plenty of room. We set the tree atop a table at our window, and nervously laughed at how small it is, still unsure of our decision.

But Christmas is for kids and their desires, after all.

One day, my Kindergarten teacher taught us about crocodiles. The only thing I remember her saying was, “Sometimes crocodiles do eat men.”

“Phew,” I thought. “I’m a girl. If I ever see a crocodile, it won’t try to eat me.”

Some time later, my brother informed me that while “man” and “men” can refer to actual men, those words can also be used to describe all humankind — men, women, boys, and girls.

I was devastated. Not only did I have a new fear that a crocodile would not be gender-discriminating upon meeting me, I felt cheated and even put-down. Why should I be grouped into a masculine word when I’m a girl? It didn’t seem right — and right then as a 5-year-old, I became a feminist.

My understanding of feminism has changed and evolved over the years, and I suppose some people might look at my very traditional lifestyle and tell me I can’t be in the feminist club. But I believe a huge part of feminism is the right for women to make their own choices — feminism, to me, is (in part) the right to be a scientist or the right to stay at home and raise children, as long as the choice belongs to the woman.

Having always been concerned with feminist things, I assumed my little girls would also be born as feminists. I have expected my daughter to get indignant over unfair things — like the word “men” meaning all people. But nothing has bothered her yet. Either we’re doing a great job teaching equality and she hasn’t even considered that life could be unequal for men and women, or she just doesn’t care.

At any rate, I’ve been using the upcoming election to teach her about women’s rights. From ads on TV and in the mail, she is familiar with the faces of the presidential candidates and local candidates. She has an opinion on who should win each position, and if there is a female candidate, she begs me to vote for that one (maybe she’s having some feminist stirrings?).

I’ve been doing my best to explain what I like and don’t like about each candidate so she can learn about making informed decisions. And we’ve been having lessons about the women’s suffrage leaders. When I explained to her that Susan B. Anthony was arrested for voting, my nearly-5-year-old Lydia was finally indignant about something. When she retold the story to Daddy, she made her serious face and stated how unfair that was. She also told him how unfair it was that women used to not be able to own property.

When we learned that Utah was the fourth state/territory to allow women the right to vote (but only the second state to allow women to vote for everything; Kentucky and Kansas were only allowing women to vote in school elections) in 1870 (1870! 50 years before the whole country allowed it!), we were proud. (Holla!)

It’s incredibly difficult to be an informed voter. Politicians only give the carefully-worded best sides of their stories, and opponents only present the worst in equally carefully-worded ways. It’s a lot of work and a ton of research, but when I think of the women who were jailed, ridiculed, ignored, and worse so that I could have the right to vote, my hours of tired-eye research at the computer are actually a blessing.

I could have mailed in my ballot, but I really can’t wait to drag my two little girls with me to the polls and let them see their mother participating in democracy. It will be incredibly inconvenient and one or all of us will cry at some point, but I can’t think of a better object lesson to present to my girls.

Get out and vote!

P.S. Here’s a “good” way to make your decisions tomorrow! How to Vote

Motherhood has not been my friend lately.  My oldest child — who I love with all my heart — has been pushing the limits and testing my patience with the dedication of an Olympian.  My 1-year-old is in the easy-peasy stage where she can do no wrong, so I am constantly feeling guilty for simultaneously smothering her with kisses while yelling at her older sister.

It’s tough.

But I was reading through my old, old, old posts and came across stories of my oldest child’s incredible sweetness and cuteness as a toddler.  Reading about her missteps in learning to speak, sing, roller skate, and play with toys reminded me that I need to stop fretting and enjoy.

And then I came across a post from May 13, 2010 that was indeed meant for me to read again right now at this very moment.  I’ll paste it here.

We ended our evening watching an incredibly sad news report about a 4-year-old boy who was abused and died at the hands of his mother and stepfather.  The details were awful.  We were in tears.

“Let’s go wake up Little Precious and give her a hug,” he said.

So we tip-toed into her room and scooped her from the crib where she was resting peacefully and safely — oh, so safely.

“Hi Sweetie,” we cooed to her.  The corners of her mouth turned upwards as she kept her eyes closed in her half awake state.  She rested her head on my shoulder and I swayed while I rubbed her back.  Then, I passed her off to Daddy, who she snuggled with comfortably, that cute half smile still resting on her lips.  We gathered together in a family hug, then reluctantly put her back in the crib, where she immediately snuggled up to her favorite stuffed animal.

As I write this, I sit and wait for her to wake up and greet the day with her usual songs and morning blabber.  I can’t wait to go in and scoop her up again, ask her what she dreamed about, read the scriptures with her, try to get her to sit still to say her morning prayer, ward off her first tantrum of the day with a hug and kiss, make breakfast, wipe up her inevitable spills, walk away from her for a minute to take a deep breath when her second major tantrum of the day starts, read her stories, take a walk with her, dry her tears when she cries because I tell her she can’t have any candy, try not to laugh when she tells me that Daddy lets her have candy, and cuddle, cuddle, cuddle.

Because she is mine — and she is precious.

{2-year-old Lydia.  Oh my goodness.}

This little girl is as sweet as she is sassy.

In one minute, my heart melts as I watch her tender affection for her baby sister or experience bestowals of hugs and proclamations of love for me. And in the next minute, I am either yelling or sending myself to my room so I don’t yell at her for the persistent arguing, arguing, arguing.

When it became apparent to me that she will debate and argue her way through anything, no matter the consequence, I became determined to break her of it. It’s a yucky thing, this persistent arguing, and I wanted none of it in my house.

It’s only taken me two years to realize she will not be broken. And in fact, any attempts at breaking just make her cling harder and stronger to that facet of her personality.

So what’s a mom to do?

Embrace it.

Once I realized this is who she is, I decided I can either help her turn this into a strength or punish her enough that it becomes the ruin of her — and the ruin of our relationship.

After she apologized for a particularly intense argument last week, I held her close and told her about a gift she has been given. I told her she has a strong heart, a heart that holds fast to what she believes. I told her this is a blessing from God. If she learns how to use her strong heart the right way, she will be able to be such a strong force for good.

I explained that one day she is going to see somebody being mean to somebody else. In that moment, her strong heart is going to help her tell the person to stop being mean.

I told her that because she has such a strong heart, it can get in the way sometimes. Sometimes when she’s mad at Mommy for not letting her eat a cookie in the living room, her strong heart makes her want to argue or get mad. But that is not the right way to use her strong heart. She needs to save her strong heart for things that are important, and quit fighting about the cookie in the living room, for crying out loud.

She seemed to understand this, and we have introduced “strong heart” into our daily vocabulary to reinforce this concept.

We took a long walk the other day, and out of the blue she asked me to tell her the story about dark-skinned people and light-skinned people. So I told her about Rosa Parks and about Martin Luther King Jr. She listened intently, and seemed to understand.

At the end of our walk, I was finishing up the story, and I felt like I should help her relate it to herself, so I asked her if it’s ever ok to treat people differently because of the way they look. She very strongly told me no.

Then it suddenly occurred to me that this is one way her strong heart will one day come into play. I told her that people still treat each other badly because of how they look. I told her she is going to see this happen. And when she does, she will stand up and tell people this isn’t right. She will use her strong heart to help people see that we all need to be kind to each other.

She looked up at me with a proud grin spread across her little cherubic face. She even stood a little taller while I talked.

I knew she understood.

Later that day, she argued with me about no less than 15 insignificant things.

Baby steps, my friends. Baby steps.

Yesterday was an un-proud mama day. I got a lifetime of bad stares at the grocery store as my daughter threw tantrum after tantrum while I practiced my most inconsistent method of parenting by bouncing back, forth, around and through hissing, ignoring and threatening.

When we got in the car and she whined about the the volume of the radio, I turned it off as a form of punishment — which really irked me because all I wanted was to zone out to some Katy Perry. Instead of Katy’s uninspiring but catchy lyrics, I was treated to a barrage of screams and kicks from the backseat.

So naturally, I pulled out my absolutely least-effective weapon — yelling. I yelled at her to stop yelling at me, fully recognizing my hypocrisy. She didn’t stop yelling, of course. And neither did I. It was awful.

I eventually calmed myself down, and was able to get through the rest of the day without yelling, but she was unable to get through the day without whining, fighting and complaining.

My husband currently works two jobs and is, of course, tired all the time. But while my body isn’t as tired as his, my emotions are completely spent. I can’t even begin to explain the draining an argumentative child can inflict upon a mother after 12 unaided hours together. By bedtime, I was exhausted — and angry. I was happy I wouldn’t have to see her for another 11 hours or so.

This morning, I awoke to moans coming from the direction of her bedroom. I rolled my eyes, and slowly started getting out of bed to see what was “the matter.” But something wasn’t quite right about these moans. These moans were not whiny; they were real and serious.

I rushed out of my room to find her lying halfway in the hallway and the bathroom. She had been trying to take care of a hurt tummy all by herself, but had become dizzy and fallen over. “Mama, how will my tummy stop hurting? How will it stop?” she asked. I quickly helped her up and back into the bathroom where she threw up. Her lips were the same color of her pale skin and she was shaking.

I cried while I watched her poor little face and body deal with the pain she was experiencing, and once she was back in bed, a bucket by her side, I knelt down to thank my Heavenly Father for my sweet little girl. I thanked Him that she fell in the hall, rather than head-first into the bathtub; that other than a tummy ache, she is healthy; and I thanked Him that she is mine.

Soon after my prayer, she bounced into my room already feeling better. This experience was just a tiny blip in her day, but for me it was an awakening to remember just how much I love her. It’s sad to say, but sometimes we need to be reminded of these things.

Smart girl that she is, she’s milking her “sick” status. After dancing around the living room and singing at the top of her lungs, she suddenly got serious, looked at me and said, “I’m sick today, so I get a movie. That’s what you do when you’re sick.”

I’m not about to argue today.