Please Help Me Fine-Tune My Poem

Today's thought(s) came in the form of a poem. I've dabbled in poetry in the past, but it is still an elusive beast that I struggle with. I enjoy it, but as my dad sometimes says (and he may be quoting somebody, but I'm paraphrasing), poetry can be a lot of pretentious nonsense.

So, here's my pretense. To me it isn't nonsense, though, so if you have thoughts or constructive criticisms for better conveying my sentiments, I would welcome them. As well as any suggestions for a title.

"Go to sleep."

"Go to sleep," I said
"so that your body can rest and grow big
and tall and be healthy
and strong."

"Oh!"

And her eyes light up. Eyes reflecting
the joys of life, back
and forth so many times that I'm awed
to stand at the center and find that the source of all this happiness
is right here before me.

"Oh!" she says,
"I sleep, I wake up, and I be big and strong
and big like you, mama?
I sleep!"

And I laugh because science says that even now, at this peak
of growth, she only adds four inches a year, which works out to be .01 (repeating forever) inches a day.
A change which would still be imperceptible to either of our eyes.

But I pause at the door

Because last night, I kissed a baby girl, tucked her in, and told her to
"Go to sleep."

This morning, that same girl leapt from her bed, spoke in full sentences,
and awakened me.

No more sleep.

My Child Screams; I'm Trying Not To.

Time for me to come clean.

There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong . . .

Wait . . . that's not my confession--that's the introduction to "I Dreamed a Dream" from Les Miserables. Not quite the same, but sort of. What I meant to say was:

There was a time when kids would scream
and it meant they were spoiled
and their parents were slacking
There was a time
Then my thoughts were foiled!

Because really, I used to be one of those young people with no parenting experience who would hear the wailings of toddlers and small children and think, "My goodness! Can't you make them stop?" And worse, beyond thinking that, I honestly believed it. I truly thought that about 80% of the time parents could make their children stop screaming by sheer force of excellent parenting.

It is with humble heart (and a screaming toddler) that I approach the internet to say I'm sorry. And wrong. And tired of failing to understand what's wrong. Because everything. Warrants. A scream.

Now, please don't gloat. (You're doing it anyway! I can feel your smugness over the network connection, now stop it!) We all learn different things at different times, and I was just slower on this one, all right? Besides, think back to when it was you, be the bigger person, and find it in your soul to pity me. Recall the first--no matter how early or late in your child's life--time you realized that your "precious sweetums" (No, of course I don't call my kid that, but if YOU do, that's lovely!) was not actually a full-blooded angel. Not because angels don't have blood, but because your child was not behaving in an angelic manner. It's a disappointing moment, but you know, it happens.

The time will come when the adorable larva that once rolled on your floor will take his or her first steps, and you will think it is sweet--until those steps lead them up to the kitchen table at every opportunity of unsupervision. Soft gurgles and laughs will turn to high-pitched shrieks of anger and a mischievous cackle that you just don't trust. And as these--and other just as horrifying--things happen, you will ask yourself what it is you're doing wrong or what more you could do to stop these uncivilized behaviors. I hope at this point you will come to the same conclusion that I have: you can do nothing. I am only half kidding.

Sure, you can do the normal parent stuff--the stuff you're probably already doing--but when it comes down to it, just realize that most of this is happening not because you're a bad parent. It's simply happening because you're raising a precocious 15 month old who thinks the terrible twos sound like great fun. Of course, I can really only speak from my own experience, so maybe your child really is spoiled (please read this with a good-natured tone and smile injected), but I think when your child's personality outgrows his or her language development, you're bound to experience some frustration.

Shall I add insult to injury? The other day we were watching Super Why!--which we sometimes do when the day is long and the sounds of despair are many--and we caught an episode in which the Super Readers' friend, Wolfie (Wolfy? Wolfee? I'm sticking with Wolfie.), kept growling because he was upset. The moral of that story was "Use your words!" Which is great, except, guess what? Sporadic vocabulary of maybe three words--none of which is "words." So, that's awesome.

At least we're to the point now where I can tell she understands some of my words. That's a start, right? I was extremely excited the day I told Melody "No!" and she understood. Little did I realize how much more frustrating it is to be heard, understood, and ignored than it is to simply not be understood. With limited communication skills and even less patience, what's a mom to do?

Hang in there, I guess. Enjoy the screams from bed that mean "I'm awake and ready to come out!" Bask in the screams from the other side of the bathroom door that mean "MOM! What are you doing in there, and why can't I come in?" Revel in the screams that mean "That thing you're doing looks fun! Let me do it with you. And climb on you. And throw books in your face. And stick my finger up your nose, and . . . Mom, why aren't we doing that fun thing anymore, mom . . . ?" and all the other cryptic screams that set your teeth to gritting.

But better than that, enjoy (wholly and sincerely) the moments when she does heed your commands. When she throws her arms around you and hugs you so tightly that you wish your day would stop and all afternoon could just be little arms, a head on your shoulder, and happy smiles. Meditate upon watching her set out her play dishes, fold her arms, and "pray" before "eating." Savor seeing her lay down on the floor next to her daddy and snuggle her head into the crook of his elbow. Pay attention to the sweet moments of joy and let them blur the memory of tantrums. In doing so, you may become aware of just how much more frequently the cute and well-behaved make an appearance than the out-of-control and bratty. To quote Pollyanna (who was not actually quoting Abraham Lincoln), "When you look for the bad in mankind expecting to find it, you surely will." Now, take that, invert it, and don't be too hard on yourself: you're raising quite an enjoyable child.

Hard Decisions: In Defense of the Vanilla I Have Chosen

I once had a teacher share a story about a sports team whose motto was “Vanilla. Choose the hard thing!” (or something like that). The saying was supposed to represent the difficulty in life when decisions have to be made. In an ice cream shop filled with many options, what's harder than skipping the extravagance and going for the plain, boring, and traditional vanilla? Sometimes those are the decisions that have to be made, right?

But there are people who actually like vanilla. On a recent trip to the store, my little sister was allowed to choose the ice cream. After looking over all the options, she opted for vanilla. As my mom and I teased her about how unacceptable vanilla was (“What sorts of choices will you make in your life if you can't even properly choose ice cream flavors?”) and she pretended she had made a hasty decision (“Cookies and cream? Yeah! I didn't even see that one!”), we went with the more interesting flavor and abandoned vanilla. But I could see by the look in her eyes that she really would have liked vanilla. After all, when you rarely get ice cream, even vanilla is a treat.

As a vanilla person myself, I understand this. And when I say I'm a “vanilla person,” I don't simply mean that I enjoy vanilla Frostys more than their original counterpart. I mean that I'm somewhat bland in comparison to some of the other people here in the ice cream shop of life. I don't skydive and live dangerously. I'm not gorgeous or famous. I'm not trying to cure cancer or rid the world of hunger because I've already accepted that those aren't the stars for which I'm shooting anymore.

It wasn't an easy conclusion. Like every child in America, I was raised on school assignments of “What Would You Do If You Were President of the United States?” and fantasies of becoming a pop star over night. Admitting my mediocrity in the world was tough—and I'm not saying this in a dejected, woe-is-me way. I'm just saying, in a matter-of-fact way, that I'm like everyone else. I mean, I think I'm cool, but it's just an average kind of cool. So, I gave up my more far-fetched ambitions of being a real-life princess-astronaut who moonlights as Bill Nye the Science Guy's assistant and “settled” for something rather vanilla by comparison that I had dreamed of doing far before anything else.

Thus, I became a mother. And I do believe that so far, it has rivaled my previous dreams for excitement, joy, and all-out flavor. The thing about vanilla ice cream, choices, and people is that we are flexible. We go well with chocolate syrup, birthday cake, and sprinkles. We do well in all sorts of circumstances, and no matter what the other options might have been. And as one who likes vanilla, I'm quite happy with the choice I have made, hard as it may have been. I've got all the sweetness I could ever want.

Never Look an in-Law in the Mouth

I don't give my in-laws enough credit.

Mothers-in-law are often misunderstood. I mean, very few people even know that the correct way to pluralize the word mother-in-law is to make it mothers-in-law, not mother-in-laws. This may be because most people only have one mother-in-law and figure that they will never need to use the plural form. But aside from not understanding the grammar related to the mothers of our spouses, I feel like we often suffer miscommunications with our in-laws that cause them to get a bad rap. If we stop to think about it, though, many of the negative mother-in-law jokes that are responsible for making our fear of our moms-in-law second only to step-mothers (who are also undeserving of such a reputation), most—if not all—are unfounded.

Sometimes, I negatively critique people. However, as my husband recently pointed out after patiently listening to me vent for awhile, “Umm . . . not to be offensive, but a lot of the things you've mentioned are just as much your fault as theirs. If not more.” And he was right. I think this is the case with in-laws. I mean, I'm basing my evaluation on a rather small sample size consisting of . . . well, just my in-laws, but they are good people. However, we're both human, so we have some misunderstandings. Some of which can be rather humorous, as illustrated by the following story.

It was the Fourth of July weekend and we were spending it in Richfield with Alex's family. Having had Melody just over a month earlier, we were both tired and in dire need of sleep. I'm sure my mother-in-law could see this and she generously volunteered to watch the baby anytime so that we could go rest. We being new and slightly over-protective parents, though, we nodded and thanked her—while staying close by.

As the baby fussed and our nerves got shorter, though, I finally surrendered and handed Melody over to her grandma. To be completely honest, after having Melody I was overly sensitive and saw offers to help as an attack on my motherhood. You wanna hold my baby? Oh, I see—because I'm not doing a good enough job, huh? (I don't need to say this, but that was the fatigue talking; my mother-in-law was being nice. I, on the other hand, was being a brat.)

Anyway, as Melody continued to fuss, Elaine rubbed her back and softly murmured something which to my ears sounded like “Should we go put some margarine on that belly?”

I thought, I'm just going to ignore that, pretend it didn't happen, and hope that it doesn't.

But the crying continued, and again I heard “Yes. Let's go put some margarine on that tummy.” She then took my baby upstairs. Presumably to smear a mixture of vegetable oils and animal fats on her belly. I was at a loss.

“Alex!” I hissed across the room, “What is your mom going to do to Melody?”

“Hmm . . . what?” he replied as he tore his eyes away from the TV screen.

“She just took Melody upstairs saying something about putting margarine on her belly! I don't want her to put margarine on her belly!” I started into a sleep-deprived panic.

“What the . . . ? I'll go stop her!” And off he ran to rescue our baby from the evil trans fats.

A little while later he returned with a smirk and assured me that everything was fine.

“Well . . . ?” I asked expectantly.

He stifled a snicker and reported: “I asked what she was doing and she told me she was going to put some marjoram oil on Melody's belly to help with her gas, but then she settled down so it was unnecessary.”

Huh. Marjoram. Fancy that.

So, here I stand (or sit, rather), guilty as anyone of condemning my in-laws. However, I would like to say that I'm sorry, and I'm trying not to do it again. They are good, nice people.

They have a really odd daughter-in-law, though.

Halfbacks, Quarterbacks, and Flashbacks

With high school football season starting and Fall just around the corner, I've been struck by this funny excitement. It's funny because I'm not a particularly avid sports fan. I can take them or leave them, but having been raised in a family that has spent a certain amount of time watching games, I value this time not because of the sport so much as the memories and lessons that I have in connection with the great sport of quarterbacks, tackling, and touchdowns.

My dad is a football coach. Although he has never played the game, he has spent many years watching games and studying to the point that he could coach. Because of that, I've always had football memories. When I was young, we would watch BYU games at my grandma's house. (This really meant that we'd eat cookies until my mom told us to stop, then we'd go outside to play in the leaves.) Since my dad didn't get his boys until later, he taught his girls to throw a football with a perfect spiral and how to protect the ball by holding it tight to the body with one hand on each point of the ball so that if we got tackled we wouldn't fumble the ball. He talked football to us like we understood, and somewhere in the middle of Xs, Os, and Wing Ts, he would stop and say something like “You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?” I didn't, but I didn't mind, either. In fact, I enjoyed it.

When I got to be a Freshman, I became more interested in football and decided to start going to games. (Actually, I think I just imagined that it was something that normal high school students did and that if I followed suit, it would make me more of a normal high school student. For those of you wondering, it didn't work.) I tried going and sitting—actually, it's more like standing—in the student section, but it wasn't really my thing. Since my dad was typically on the sidelines, my Grandpa George became my football buddy.

We hit most of the away games for a couple of years. Sometimes it would be just the two of us, like the time we went to Beaver and it was raining like crazy. Grandpa led the way to a couple of seats on the Beaver side, and while ignoring my protests that we couldn't sit in the opponents' side, sat down to watch the game. Pulling out a large garbage sack, he proceeded to poke arm and head holes in it so that he could use it as a rain poncho. In front of everyone! As I stared at him while trying to avoid looking like I was staring at him, he pulled out another trash bag and offered it to me. I politely declined and assured him that I had a jacket. He took one look at my light jacket that was cute, but didn't shed water, and told me I was going to get wet. Then he started yelling “SCORE ONE FOR THE REF!” in protest of a call he disagreed with, as he was wont to do. I just knew in my teenage mind that every person in the stadium was looking at me and my trashbag-wearing, ref-berating grandpa sitting on the wrong side of the field. Even if they had been, grandpa never would have cared.

Sometimes grandpa's friend, Sheldon, rode with us. On these trips, I'd usually sit in the backseat, listen as they talked, and wait for the inevitable moment when they'd start their sing-a-longs. They'd encourage me to join in (again, I would decline for fear of what they would think) and start singing some songs that I knew and some that I didn't. One of my favorites was Irving Berlin's “Play a Simple Melody.” (Which I have since heard my dad singing to my daughter Melody on several occasions. It's cute, guys.) It has two verses that are sung first separately, then together. I liked hearing grandpa sing the second verse because as he sang “Musical demon, set my honey to dreamin', won't you play me some rag?” he got this little bounce in him and he would tap his hands on the steering wheel in time to the music. He looked like he was having fun. And always, without fail, he would turn to Sheldon and say enthusiastically, “We oughta sing the 'Wreck of the Old '97'!” when they'd finished. And Sheldon would say “Aw, I can't remember the words.” So grandpa would say “Oh, but it's a good one! Wish I knew the words. Now, let's see . . .” Then he'd start bouncing in time as he tried his best to remember.

“'He was comin' down the hill goin' 90 miles an hour, when the whistle began to scream. He was found in the wreckage with his hand on the throttle, and scalded to death by the steam. Oh . . . ' Hmm. Yep, I just wish I could remember the words. Only know that little bit. But it's a good one. It's a good one. . .” Then he'd hum to himself and sing a word here or there as he remembered it. For a while, I didn't believe that “Wreck of the Old '97” was a real song, but that maybe he just made up parts and mixed up various songs to make a new one. But lo, and behold! I Googled it, and it is an actual song. Sung by Johnny Cash, no less. (Not originally, though. It was originally sung by one Vernon Dalhart. Just so you know.)

Anyway, that was grandpa. While others may be concerned with appearances and what others thought, he bounced along and persisted in his own way, with little care for what others may think. And though I may have found it humiliating or obnoxious at times, I now find it to be one of the things I admire most about him. I think it's why I enjoyed sitting with him at ball games more than with the other students. (That, and Sheldon would share Almond M&Ms with me.) I learned more about football and had even more experiences when I became a manager for our high school team, but my best football memories were with my grandpa. As he gets older—as most of us do—and the memories are fading, I value my time with him even more. That's why I get a little thrill when I think of the beginning football season; it's not so much about what's coming as it is about what has passed.

Lights on Hills

The Jehovah's Witnesses came by to see me again today. They hadn't been by in awhile. When they came by during the Saturday Session of April's General Conference and I accidentally answered the door with eyeliner and mascara on just one eye because I thought it might be my in-laws, I was nice to them. And while trying to show them but one side of my face at a time, I smiled and chatted for a bit. After all, I've known enough LDS missionaries to consider that it's got to be hard knocking on doors to try and talk to people about your church—especially in Utah! I tried to credit my kindness later when they came nearly weekly to try and talk with me, usually while I was at work. I thought they must be trying to catch us at the 8 to 9 months of pregnancy stage so that they could take advantage of the fact that we were starting a new phase in our lives and were a little bit anxious to do things right. And while I was telling myself that they kept coming back because of the way I was, it danced across my mind that their persistence speaks to their credit, not mine.

Yes, I was nice. But not “come-back-weekly-for-the-next-month” nice. Yet they came. And around this time I became determined to keep my front room clean so the next time they came, I could ask them to come in. Not because I'm interested in converting, but because I'm interested in the people themselves. I figured I would be honest and tell them “We're happy with our religion, but we always like to meet new people, so if you'd like to come in and visit, you're welcome.” Unfortunately, after I had discussed this with Alex and we had agreed on a plan, they didn't come back.

Until now. But they caught me off guard. I had just gotten to a good stopping point while feeding Melody (but was only half-way done) when there was a knock on our door. Since I'm home alone all day with a baby, I made sure to get to that door—I didn't want to miss out on any adult interaction! They offered me a pamphlet about their website, and seeing as I was holding a baby, let me know that their site had a lot of good stuff for strengthening families there. Young, old, married, single: their site could benefit all.

I appreciated it. And I don't think they came by just because they want to get greater numbers in their church, but because they want the world to be greater. This world can be a scary, nasty place to live, and families are being weakened by everything from adultery to zingers (as in, clever but hurtful comments, not the Hostess treat). Television shows minimize the importance of parents and celebrities model the ease of marriage—and divorce. We NEED people going door-to-door distributing pamphlets because their websites are good for families. So, if you're looking for a website to help strengthen your family, maybe you'd like to browse JW.org, LDS.org, or a site of your own. As members of different religions, people in various areas, or just unique individuals, we're bound to disagree on some things, but the value of family is fairly universal. If it's a cause we believe in, what are we doing about it?

Because of the feeding situation, my messy house, and the fact that I had a spider running loose on my couch, I still didn't invite the Jehovah's Witnesses in, but I hope they come again. When they do, I'm going to invite them into my [hopefully sans spider, clean-ish] front room to thank them for caring about families. They offered me a wonderful reminder about just how important my own family is to me and how I need to value and care for them. While we may differ on some points, I'm grateful that the Jehovah's Witnesses are persistent and that they're spreading the word about having strong families.