I know I’m not the only one sick of all this mama drama — you’re a bad mom if you don’t breast feed, but you’re ruining your child’s life if you breast feed too long; your house is disgusting and we’re all judging you for being so sloppy, or your house is immaculate and we’re all judging you for not spending time with your kids; you aren’t a “real” woman if you lost all your baby weight in six weeks, or you really should get on that weight-loss plan if you haven’t lost all your baby weight in six weeks…

Why is motherhood and womanhood constantly under attack?

We women like to compare ourselves to other women.  I think this can be a good thing when we look at our neighbor who really doesn’t yell at her kids, and decide we would like to be more like her in that aspect. But more often what happens is we see a good trait, wish we had it, and then hate our whole selves for not having it.

Or what’s been happening most often in the media lately is we see a trait we don’t agree with, feel smug we don’t have it, and slam the entire character of the person possessing that trait until we see her no longer as a person, but as a lumpy mess on the ground, composed entirely of that one trait — and the several others we have assigned to her, assuming they must accompany that trait.

It’s interesting to me that people can get so divisive and downright mean over issues that have no relevance to their own lives. It certainly isn’t loving, and it certainly doesn’t come from God.

After reading about 100 comments on half a dozen posts about that Time Magazine cover (you know the one I’m talking about), I felt so sad for how us women are tearing each other apart. We are a sisterhood. Plus, it’s the women who make a society, you know. I think we can do better.

I’m starting at home, with my own little future women. We don’t get to say rude things about each other in our home. And as the 4-year-old’s ears and understanding are developing at a terrifyingly rapid pace, Mom is quickly learning to change her tone, to stop speaking ill of others, and to make a conscious effort to voice the good things about people. Dad is making an effort to vocally praise the role of mother so that those little developing ears will translate those words into pride in her womanhood and into the confidence to make decisions based on her own feelings rather than what somebody in society says she should do.

It’s hit and miss, and it never ends. Sometimes I gossip, and hope with all my heart that those little ears weren’t paying attention at that moment. Sometimes I wear my weariness on my face and in my voice, and I worry that I am making motherhood look like drudgery. But I don’t stop trying. The fight is worth it.

A few hours ago, I stopped reading those yucky comments about mothers everywhere and decided to go be present as a mother. And as I did that, I found that the joy in my home far exceeds the hate I was reading on the internet.

I happily saw the 4-year-old graciously let the 9-month-old poke and prod her…

I was lucky enough to witness the 9-month-old take time out of her recently acquired fit-throwing habit to flash me a happy smile…

I felt real happiness when the 4-year-old and 9-month-old tried their darndest to make the other sister laugh the hardest…

I laughed when the 9-month-old humored the 4-year-old by listening to a nonsense “knock-knock” joke…

and I took the time to snuggle the attention-craving 4-year-old…

Slowly and steadily, we’ll make a difference.

We taught this little monkey how to clap.

(Side note: I call my children monkeys.  I don’t mean it to be derogatory.  The word just jumps out of my mouth before I can even take inventory of the more appropriate stock of words and synonyms waiting patiently on the shelves of my brain.  One time I was fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of a horrified look from an old lady when I told my little monkey to follow me in a store.  Since then, I decided it probably wasn’t the best pet name to use and vowed to replace it with something kinder.  But it just keeps slipping out, and I guess if I’m putting it in print, it’s likely here to stay.)

(Second side note: Look at the feathers of hair on my little monkey up there.  It’s hard to see them because they blend in with the stroller, but take a second look and tell me that’s not the most adorable thing ever.)

Back to the clapping.  There is nothing cuter than an under-1-year-old clapping to her heart’s content.  Nothing.  I dare you to find something cuter.  You won’t be able to.

We were delighted, thrilled, and overjoyed when little Emma finally repeated our clapping actions last week.  The whole family gathered in her face, hands clapping all over the place to coax imitation claps.  Each clap was rewarded with a miniature copycat one, and everyone laughed, giggled, and smiled until our cheeks hurt.

I didn’t think this clapping business could get any better.

And then I went to get her from her nap a few hours later.  As soon as I entered the room, her hands slammed together, her round cheeks turned rounder, and her developing teeth were revealed to me in all their glory as she gave me a sitting ovation.

Receiving applause in Carnegie Hall or on Broadway?  Pshaw.  Those venues have nothin’ on me.  The nursery in my household is where it’s at.

When I turned 29, I decided I needed to step out of my comfort zone and do things that give me the heebie jeebies.  I made a very long list of 30 awful things to do before I turn 30.  It hasn’t been the funnest experience going through (or more correctly: avoiding) the list, but I’m determined to finish every last item on that wretched list.

Item #18 — Learn how to do my daughter’s hair –  is getting a big, fat check mark next to it, because… well…

SHAZAM!

Most days, my daughter is lucky to get a flower pinned in her (always down, never up) hair.  I’ve never been good at doing hair, and quite frankly, it terrifies me.

But for better or worse, I did not hire somebody to do my daughter’s short, ofttimes wispy hair for her dance pictures.  Not only did I do it myself, I figured out how to do it myself.  Ok, ok, my hairdresser friend had already shown me a similar technique to use for last year’s dance recital.  And ok, ok, I copied the similar (but somewhat different!) technique from her daughter’s immaculate hair.  But I copied it without needing any hands-on instruction — so that goes down in my book as a big, fat accomplishment!  Plus, there was a tiara involved, people!  A tiara!

I know it isn’t perfect (and you’re not seeing the back of her hair — that train wreck certainly did not need to be recorded for posterity), but I’m feeling pretty darn proud of myself for at least moderately accomplishing something that was awful, scary, horrible and completely out of my comfort zone.

Now that I can check something off my list, I won’t feel so bad as I go back to avoiding that horrible idea.

For well over a decade, she was known as Grandma Diane to all her grandchildren.  When Lydia learned to talk, her language got confused and Grandma Diane became christened as “Grandma Diamond.”  The name has stuck in our little family, and I never tire of hearing Lydia’s little voice talk excitedly about her Grandma Diamond.

When Grandma Diamond went home to California last week after a fun-filled visit, Lydia was sad — oh, so sad.  She awoke after Grandma had already left for the airport, ran through the house looking for her, and was heartbroken to learn she wouldn’t get to eat breakfast with her that day.  She told me she missed her “best friend” and that she loved when Grandma Diamond played with her and snuggled with her.

Grandma Diamond is a very special grandma.  She takes time to talk and play.  She does hair, reads books, snuggles, makes jokes, brings presents, and holds hands.  She doesn’t mind being inconvenienced to make a grandchild happy. She pays attention to her little devoted fans, and they just soak it up.

We miss her!

My birthday present to my husband was his mom.  But because he was having a milestone birthday, I wanted to make sure he felt as special as his 30 years have made him.

So a few months ago, I asked our family members to send letters about why they love him.  I made sure to tell everyone this would be a surprise, so the letters needed to go to MY email, or be addressed to ME if they were to be sent through the mail.  Happily, 22 people followed directions, and the secret was kept!

I highly recommend doing something like this for someone you love.  As the letters started trickling into my inbox, my heart almost literally grew with all the love I felt from our family members.  People said the kindest things about my husband — things I already know — but things that, when said by someone else, mean that much more.

It made me feel all weepy to read how my brothers, parents, and grandparents love my husband because he treats me so well.  I felt so proud to see Ryan’s siblings notice how hard he works for our family.  I loved reading the memories his siblings and mom had about him as a child.  I laughed every time someone mentioned Ryan’s excellent dancing abilities, his funny voices, his beat boxing talents, and his goofiness.  I felt so tenderhearted to read how many family members notice his goodness, his kindness, and his wonderful fathering and uncle-ing skills.

And that was just my reaction!

I had planned to give him one letter every hour for the whole weekend because I just love to draw out a birthday, but I ultimately decided it would be a bigger and better impact if I dumped all that love on him at once.  So I printed out the letters, put them in separate envelopes, and wrapped them all up in one big package.

He laughed, smiled, cried a little, and sat a whole lot taller as he read through each letter.

His birthday and accompanying celebration of his goodness is over, but we’ve decided to keep loving on him over here.  And lucky for us, he has no objections.

My husband is a mama’s boy, and it’s one of my most favorite things about him.  He is tender and sweet to his mom, always concerned with her comfort and happiness.  Lucky for me — it’s a well known truth that mama’s boys are also tender and sweet to their wives.

He turned 30 this weekend, and I made big, exciting plans.  I told him to take off Monday and Tuesday, which immediately led him to believe I was going to jet him away on some fantastic vacation.  But I knew my “present” for him would be 1,000 times more exciting than the weekend in New York or the family trip to Moab he was envisioning.  This is what I love about him: that I could be 100 percent confident that a gift of time with his mama would be the best gift he could receive — that there would be absolutely no disappointment when he discovered we were staying in Salt Lake City for his birthday.

His mom flew in Friday night and stayed with a friend.  Saturday morning, I told Ryan it was time to get his birthday present.  I told him to get in the driver’s seat, programmed the friend’s address into the GPS, and directed him to follow the robotic lady voice commanding his every turn.

The friend lives near a museum, so as we neared, Ryan thought we were going to spend the day at the museum.  Good sport that he is, he acted enthusiastic about that prospect.  As we passed the museum and headed toward a golf course, he decided we would be golfing (even though neither of us know how), but wondered how we would golf with two kids in tow.

When we pulled up to the friend’s house, he recognized where we were, became completely befuddled, and gave up guessing.

As we waited for the door to be answered, his confusion was so thick it could be cut with a knife.  He didn’t even venture to guess why I was pointing a camera in his face.

His mom opened the door…

and it was smiles all around!

We jetted off not to New York City, but to the Thanksgiving Point Tulip Festival…

where we all soaked up the fun of a dad who works long hours to support a family…

where we posed a reluctant child wearing a new sweater knitted by Grandma…

where we stuck myself in a picture so our posterity will know I existed…

and where this little angel took her afternoon nap.

It was no Times Square, but it was the most memorable way for my mama’s boy husband to celebrate 30 years of life.

My daughter is an individual.  I know, I know — everyone is an individual.  But isn’t it so fun to celebrate/laugh about/be embarrassed by your own kids’ individuality?

I have so much fun watching my daughter’s individuality come spilling forth that I rarely can convince myself to step in and direct her towards more socially acceptable behavior.  I just love that she sings and skips while we are in public, completely oblivious to the smiles of passerby.  I love her confidence so much that I never tell her to stop.

I love that her walk is punctuated with twirls, arabesques, and her own invented dance moves.  Even when she runs into people in the grocery store, I don’t tell her to stop (just to watch where she’s going).

I love that when all the children in our congregation stood to sing on the stand last year, she bounced, bopped, and danced to the reverent music right smack-dab in the front row.  Even if I had been sitting next to her, I wouldn’t have told her to stop — because I was laughing too hard.

I love that she adds her own accessories to her outfits — bunny ears, snow boots, homemade necklaces, and more. Unless we’re attending church or a special event, I don’t tell her to remove her bling — it’s who she is at that specific moment.

I love that she desperately wants to give her 1-year-old cousin, Shae, a dinosaur family as her birthday present.  I love that one dinosaur will not suffice — there must be a mommy, daddy, kid, and baby.  I love how firmly she holds to her idea, even when it appears the toy store just doesn’t carry dinosaur families.  I love that she won’t settle for a horse family, already together in a nice package.  I love that she can’t be talked into giving Shae a family of cars, a family of turtles, frogs, or bunnies.  No, it must be a dinosaur family.

And I love the squeal she unashamedly releases when, after 30 minutes of searching, she discovers a bin chock-full of not one, not two, not three, but FOUR different types of dinosaurs.

A new family of just the right size has been made, and a certain individual 4-year-old has no idea how strange her idea is.  And I’m not telling her.

I’ve been 29 for over a month now, and I haven’t even so much as winked at my list of 30 Awkward and Uncomfortable Things to Do Before Turning 30. I suppose that a list compiled solely of things that would make me feel awkward and uncomfortable might have something to do with my reluctance to get started on filling that list with check marks.

So here I go. I’m going to attempt to complete #26 right here, right now.

#26. Give a copy of a Book of Mormon to somebody.

I’m not sure if this seems like a strange thing to make my list or not, but let me venture at explaining myself. I think I’m fairly adequate at laughing at myself and at the world, but when it comes to serious things — sacred things, even — I balk. I want to change the subject and talk about that time a geyser of water nearly knocked me over at the pool, or the time I was the only person on the bus who fell down when the driver suddenly stopped.

See? I’m already starting to change the subject. This is hard.

The Book of Mormon is sacred to me. I hold it close to my heart. I am more than happy to talk freely about this book and my religion to anyone who asks, but because I fear ridicule or even scorn when discussing something so important to me, I am reluctant to be the person to bring it up.

So if it’s so personal to me, why would I want to tell you about it?

Because it is life-changing. Plainly stated, the Book of Mormon is the word of God, like the Bible. The love of Jesus Christ is evident on every page. A lesson is learned in every chapter. An answer to life’s questions can be found in any verse.

As I read, I find peace and understanding. I feel guidance in my personal life — guidance I know comes from my Heavenly Father. I feel direction and purpose.

The Book of Mormon is an account of the people who lived in the Americas between 600 BC and 400 AD. While it is a fascinating history with intriguing stories, the message of God’s love and Christ’s sacrifice is the greatest takeaway from this special book. (One of my favorite stories is the story of the 2,000 young warriors who defended their land and their freedom. Not one of the young men was killed as they went up against real and large armies of grown men. But my favorite part of that story? The young men — boys, really — credited the teachings of their mothers for their bravery. Love that!)

People have given their lives for this book. I have an ancestor, Benjamin Brown, who was beaten nearly to death by a mob because he preached about the Book of Mormon. I suppose if he could endure broken ribs for the truth of this book, I can stand to open myself up to people ribbing me for my beliefs.

If you would like a copy of your own, send me an email with your address, and I’ll ship one to you straightaway.
thrilledbythethought@yahoo.com

My 4-year-old tells me she is going to be an animal doctor and work in an aquarium when she grows up. She will be the one who takes the sick animals to the doctor. I’ve tried to explain to her that animal doctors are the ones who actually help sick animals, not just take sick animals to another doctor, but she won’t be swayed. She also won’t touch the starfish or crabs in the touch-pool at the aquarium. If she does go on to be an animal doctor, she’s in for quite a surprise.

I think a profession more suitable to her interests would be something in dentistry. At least once a week, she begs me to take her to the dentist. There have been real tears when I’ve explained that our appointment isn’t for another five months. I’m trying to figure out if I have created a life that is just that boring for my 4-year-old, or if there is something truly exciting about our dentist. We do go to a fabulous dentist office, but let’s be real — it’s no Disneyland.

Our most recent appointment was last Monday. When the receptionist called to remind me the Friday before, Lydia overheard the conversation. It was like goats in a petting zoo, and I was the only one who brought treats. “Was that the dentist? Do we get to go today? Let’s go right now! I can’t wait!” she shouted while hopping and hugging me.

“Yes, that was the dentist, but we won’t go until Monday,” I responded.

“Awwwww,” she groaned. “When is Monday?”

I helped her count the days, and thought the subject was sufficiently discussed.

But it wasn’t.

Every hour for the next 3 days, she reminded me of the day in which we were currently existing, and how many days were left until D-Day.

Monday arrived, and you would have thought it was her birthday. She beamed and felt so special all morning. When we finally entered the waiting room, another kid was leaving. He looked up at me, pointed to Lydia and said, “She’s going to have so much fun in there.”

Maybe there is something magical about our dentist.

While I had my teeth cleaned, I listened to the conversation Lydia was having with her own hygienist. Lydia told her that her birthday is the 4th of July (it’s not), and that her favorite color is green (it’s pink). She forgot to show the hygienist the owie on her knee, even though she had planned for days and had worn special pants that could roll up enough to sufficiently reveal the battle scar. (She was absolutely devastated when she realized her lapse in memory.)

When we left, I asked Lydia if she had a good time. She answered me by repeating something the dentist had told her. For a girl who loves teeth and dentists as much as a regular kid loves Mickey Mouse, the information he gave her was better than Christmas morning.

“The man dentist said I might lose a tooth this year!” she exclaimed.

We now have an indefinite countdown to tooth-losing day, as well as a definite countdown to our next appointment — in six months. Until then, I’m taking that six-month deadline as a challenge to see if I can sufficiently spice up our life so that my child can have the experience of anticipating truly exciting events.

{Really, though, my dentist is the best — and nobody’s paying me to say that. If you live in Salt Lake City, and need a dentist, check out Dr. Cannon.}

When I was an obnoxious teenager, I listened to my parents have a conversation about how yawns are contagious. Yawning, I interrupted them. “You guys have had this conversation before. In fact, you’ve had it several times. Why do you keep talking about it? Marriage is so boring. I’m never getting married.”

Kind and wise, they didn’t argue with me or let their feelings get hurt. I remember they actually changed the conversation to be all about me. I didn’t object, of course, and I’m sure we had a very riveting conversation — with such a subject matter, how could the conversation have been anything but fascinating?

This weekend, my husband and I will celebrate our seventh year of wedded bliss. In our seven years, we’ve had multiple conversations more than once. I think that’s just how relationships go — the two people are interested in the same things, and so they revisit the same topics over and over. Every now and then, we’ll realize we’re having the same conversation we’ve had a dozen times before, and we call a time-out. But most often, we just keep talking about the things we like to talk about. Because we like it.

Marriage is…

• having the same conversation over and over, and not really caring.
• having somebody who knows the evolution of your most recent hangnail — from the first discovery to the painful bumps against the counter to the final removal and demise of the hangnail, your somebody has kept tabs on it all, and cares.
• rolling your eyes 1,000 times behind your spouse’s back.
• apologizing for the 900 times you get caught rolling your eyes.
• rolling your eyes 1,000 times before you realize how childish you can act.
• being forgiven 1,000 + 1 times for childish behavior.
• taking turns with the newborn so only one parent exists in zombie-land at a time.
• “checking out” at the end of a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day — and knowing your spouse will take over.
• relinquishing personal space — and being fine with it.
• lots of touching.
• starting to complain about your tiny bathroom — but then realizing the small space forces you to bump into each other, and then being sickly sweet about the blessing of a small shared space.
• not caring if people are grossed out by your public displays of affection.
• stomping away as loudly as possible — to make sure your spouse understands the level of extreme your anger has reached, of course.
• sucking it up and apologizing.
• being selfish and not apologizing.
• sucking it up and apologizing not only for being rude, but for holding back the apology that should have been more forthcoming.
• finding it excruciatingly difficult to keep a surprise a secret.
• feeling positively giddy to secure a babysitter.
• missing.  Lots of missing and wishing you could run a business together just so you don’t have to be apart during the day.
• snuggling so close during a movie you’re practically in each other’s laps.
• watching movies you don’t want to see.
• tripping over big shoes.
• stifling curses.
• dreaming of the future.
• reminiscing about the past — and wondering how you can still have so much to say about those early days of falling in love.

Happy Seven Years to My Forgiving, Snuggling, Caring About My Hangnails Husband. I’m not a bit bored.