May Day

May Day (May 1), 2016.

(knock knock)

Me: Frenchie!

(hands me a bouquet of lily-of-the-valley)

Mary: In France it is tradition to give muguet to someone you love on May Day, and I love you.

(I smell the muguet, feeling extra cool and European since I know now the translation for lily-of-the-valley. The same way I feel cool when I cook with fingerling potatoes instead of russets or when I shop at a "centre" instead of a "center." Frenchie is often kneeling in her yard tending the shady muguet bed. She does not wear gloves for gardening and her olive skin doesn’t need sunscreen. She is hardcore with French traditions and sometimes makes me sad I don’t do anything Yugoslavian for my family or neighbors. Maybe I could start giving people sheep and potatoes.)

I was on Cloud 9 the rest of the week every time I looked at my muguet in the bud vase on my desk. Now, I'll admit I typically assume Frenchie loves me because we’ve been friends forever and we don’t do mean things to each other. Yet there was something sublime in hearing the full phrase I LOVE YOU. Not LUV YA or XOXO or *heart emoji* but the drawn-out, unadulterated, life-validating trinity of I LOVE YOU.

My dad told me he never heard the words I LOVE YOU growing up. He did say the day he left for Vietnam his dad and stepmom said WE LOVE YOU, which is kind of close but not exactly what a scared boy needs to hear as he heads for war. In my opinion, my dad needed a father’s rib-cracking bear hug and a solid, undeniable I LOVE YOU to pack in his pocket as he left the continent. I’m not saying his dad didn’t love him; he mailed cooked lamb chops to Vietnam, after all, but there is power in the full phrase.

Greg is unusually stellar at telling me he loves me. He doesn’t text, send smoke signals, or write snail mail but he does call me at least twice a day to say I LOVE YOU. One of those times is around 4 pm when he’s driving to Wendy’s to get a late, colon-killing, dinner-spoiling lunch. I am not as good as he is because as we are falling asleep each night he often asks DO YOU LOVE ME? I say YES. He asks HOW MUCH? I say INFINITY PLUS SIX (a family number that means the highest value from zero possible) and drift to sleep. I should tell him the real deal more, though, because the muguet incident reminded me how nice love unfeigned feels.

I LOVE YOU, GREG!

I love that you happily work, happily serve, consistently deal with a mouth full of cankers, and are totally down for Meatless Mondays (only kidding, I’m just checking to see if you read this). I love you for always getting out of bed to fill my water bottle or turn the thermostat down because I’m tucked in with six pillows and can’t move. I love you when you wrestle Archer and sing like a bucktoothed rabbit to make RE laugh at the table. I love you no matter how many times you watch “I Am a Champion” or that Ronald Reagan thing on youtube. I love you for climbing the slippery, rainy pear tree in your Crocs and almost falling “Pollyanna Style” in an effort to hang my new birdfeeder.

I love you for never saying stuff like I wish you were more athletic or I wish you liked deviled eggs or I wish you were more of a morning person or I wish you were as good at Excel as I am or I wish you were something you’re not. I love you for being a simple person (you’re like an Oreck vacuum; simply built, easy to tune-up, no weighty frills) and for seeing life simply, too. Sometimes I wonder if we are living on the same planet but I do believe you when you tell me I’m making things unnecessarily difficult.

There was a silly student campaign that promoted bananas when I was in college. They claimed bananas were the perfect fruit because they came gift-wrapped, didn’t have to be washed, had plenty of natural sugar, and were even safe for babies to digest. I think I LOVE YOU is the banana-equivalent of words. It’s the perfect phrase because it’s free to say, it’s super sweet, you don’t have to embellish it, and anyone can digest it.

1UP

Running errands without a baby is like warping to the Level 8 dungeon in Nintendo’s original Super Mario Bros with fireballs and the star. You know, the star that lands on you and speeds up the music and makes you invincible. How easily I kill hammer-tossing dragons and how quickly I save princesses when I’m alone. This is one of the reasons I love my daughter. She routinely watches Archer after school to give me a power hour, or as I like to call it, HAMMERTIME!

Sometimes I use it to work out. Sometimes I take a quick nap with my door closed. Sometimes I shower and get ready for the day because I’m that pathetic of a non-morning person. Once I drove a mile away, parked, blasted my music, read a few articles on my phone’s reading list, and drove back home. Yesterday I only got a power 36 minutes but it still allowed me to hit the bank, buy sour cream, Baked Cheetos, and a pineapple at the grocery store, and pay my Kohl’s bill in person. Just knowing I get a small breather every afternoon is priceless.

Thank you, RE, for letting me escape long enough to find and hit the brick that grows the secret beanstalk up to Cloud Coin Bonus Land. Just a few seconds of jumping alone in fresh air earns me a free life to save for later. Thank you for the stash in my energy cache. I would be GAME OVER without you.

1UP = One up, or one extra life. Mario was one of three Nintendo games I ever loved, the other two being Jaws and Snake, Rattle and Roll. I never understood Zelda, Duck Hunt was for cheaters who put the gun on the TV screen (okay, maybe I speak from experience), and I've still never beat Jaws (even though I've seen Cristall kill him multiple times). I still love the theme song and the happy sound made from stomping on a mushroom. Images from the internet thanks to screenshotting old school gamers.

Sorry Not Sorry

I saw that friend of mine, he said

you look different somehow

I said

everybody's got to leave their darkness sometime

I said

I'm so happy that I can't stop crying

I'm laughing through my tears

-Sting, “I’m So Happy I Can’t Stop Crying”

I’ve felt SORRY for being pregnant this time around. Inside I’m doing cartwheels, preparing to close a chapter, and writing heavenly thank you notes for my abundance…but I’m also very SORRY. I’m SORRY because I was a former poster child for infertility. I belonged to a club where we occassionally glowered and sneered at people who “got pregnant by accident” or “had no idea how it happened.” Come on, Bozos, you know how it happened. Spare us your fake surprise.

I had to inform my club I got pregnant by accident and had no idea how it happened. It’s always beneficial (and painfully eye-opening) to live both sides of the coin. It was a surprise and I know exactly how they feel about it. I’m SORRY.

Archer was a long-awaited, expensive, public miracle yet I’ve basically hunched over to hide this new baby bump. I feel like a traitor to my former comrades; I feel undeserving of an “extra free baby” when Archer already healed my wounds. I’ve almost forgotten what I used to feel like; I rub my scar but the knot doesn’t hurt.

What if I move and my new circle thinks I’m just a par-for-the-course, van-owning, appointment-forgetting, squishy mother of three who rants about lack of personal time and loss of hobbies? They won’t know about the 12-year war I survived, about the old circle who fasted and prayed and willed Archer here, or about the empty hole I babysat for 1/3 of my mortal existence. Which reminds me: what do I not know about those around me? Not everyone in a circle is open.

It’s often seemed like the right thing to do: to play down incoming joy so those lacking don’t feel even worse. I would never share a favorite pancake recipe with my dog groomer who has Celiac disease because that would be cruel and unusual punishment. Likewise, I shouldn’t gush about an excess baby when there are still people aching for a first. It’s the higher road of smile self-denial, right?

Wrong.

I believe censoring happiness or sweeping joy under the mat is no kind of do-gooding to those who feel BLUE; it’s just a disguise for ingratitude. It’s a great way to waste a blessing. It’s shunning the highs to forever feel low when the point of life is to feel them both. BLUE is a beast we all have to kill our own way with our own weapons. Sometimes BLUE is like a trick birthday candle that keeps lighting after you blow it out. I'M BAAA-AAACK! Anvil smash. SURPRISE! Gunshot. MISS ME? Dynamite.

Amy Harris, a girl I knew as a newlywed and later learned was the childhood best friend of my neighbor, is an opera-singing, hot-ham-and-mustard-in-foil, pixie-cut sprite who surrounds herself with good music. One day she shared this:

I was listening to a Mozart violin concerto on public radio this morning. At the end one of the DJs commented that something very special about Mozart is even in his darkest moments there is always a little smile in his music.

Steve Vawdrey shared this odd epitaph* he read about in the newspaper:

HERE LIES A MAN TWICE BLESSED: HE WAS HAPPY AND HE KNEW IT

Am I happy? Do I know it? Does my face surely show it? Am I clapping my hands?

My friend Jonna sent a text with the emoji I call FAKE SMILE. In my mind it is the face of someone trapped in an awkward moment or frozen with embarrassment but trying to pass it off as a smile. When she sent it I thought I had ticked her off. I apologized but she told me she sent it as CHEESY SMILE. She was not upset. I guess there is a vast spectrum of emoji interpretation. She saw grin, I saw growl. I know, I know, my emoji glass is apparently half empty.

It is not enough to continue the walk with gritted teeth. We are told to "rejoice evermore” (1 Thes. 5:16). We are "that we might have joy" (2 Ne. 2:25).

This is a line from one of my very favorite sermons ever. The author was speaking of the pioneers and how they had to keep walking and walking and walking. And then walk some more. Their personal journeys were smattered with difficulties yet they were expected to rejoice (cheesy smile) and not grit their teeth (fake smile.) Such similar faces. Such different feelings. The Lord’s plan is a happy one. Happiness doesn’t happen; happiness is a choice.

William Faulkner said,

YOU DON'T LOVE BECAUSE, YOU LOVE DESPITE;

NOT FOR THE VIRTUES, BUT DESPITE THE FAULTS.

I had to love life like that when I was heartbroken and holey. I didn't love life because I had everything I wanted; I loved life because I manually inserted a smile on life's blue sheet music. I faked it many, many times until I made it.

I don’t want to fake smile about this baby. I want to rejoice out loud in broad daylight with a multi-toothed smile. SORRY NOT SORRY. I have plenty of legitimate teeth-gritting hard stuff in my life. We all do. I wish everyone who wanted a baby had one fast, free, and easy. I wish life came without obstacles, however, my Obstacle (when it's big it gets a capital letter) was the greatest school of learning to date and my current cartwheels would be null and void without it. The final exam was accepting my happiness cannot depend on what anyone else says, does, or has. I think the converse rule also applies: my happiness cannot depend on what someone doesn't have. It's a truth I've forgotten these past few months.

I can't change the timing and fate of other people’s lives so being the baby martyr won't help anything. I can compassionately mourn with those that mourn without mourning my own happiness. Looking at joy "through a glass darkly" doesn't change the fact that joy is crisp, clear, not blue, and meant to be viewed in high definition.

*Any time I hear about gravestones I think of the beautiful American Fork Cemetery. I have taken pictures of it during every season. I love walking the uphill mile from my house until I reach the obelisk. If you stand next to it 30 minutes after the sun has set you will be surrounded by a continuous silhouette of mountains. And if you look to the right you’ll see the freshly scrubbed, always clean headstone marking J’s sister.

After I read Betty Spencer’s “The Early History of American Fork” I went to the cemetery to find the graves of Arza Adams and his family. He was one of the founders of dear old AF. The markers look like giant Mickey Mouse ears because they are half-buried grist mill stones. Stephen Chipman was the other founder and his historic mansion on Main Street is the current retail location for “The Glass Slipper” and “The Belle, Book, and Candle.” If I could just take the built-ins from the entry of that home I’d die a twice blessed happy woman!

Craig Roberts, who could easily pass as one of the nicest people in American Fork, said, “People aren’t afraid to die. They are afraid to live a life that doesn’t matter.” Which reminds me of Fran from Strictly Ballroom when she screams "Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias!" ("A life lived in fear is a life half lived!") to her dance partner, Scott Who Only Wears Wife Beaters. And speaking of people concerned about happiness in Spanish...check out the truck I parked next to at the bank. If piñatas can be happy surely people can be happy.

-quote about gritting teeth by Elaine S. Sorensen Marshall from her May 2, 2013 BYU Women's Conference address "A Pattern For a Joyful Life"

-through a glass darkly reference: 1 Corinthians 13:12, Paul speaking about the power of charity (but I love the imagery of looking through an antique mirror or a dirty mirror that doesn't portray reality)

-SORRY card from the ever-thoughtful, thrift-scoring Frenchie

Reservoir

"We are never left to our own resources. We are never abandoned. A wellspring of goodness, of strength and confidence is within us, and when we listen with a feeling of trust, we are raised up. We are healed. We not only survive but we love life. We laugh; we enjoy; we go forward with faith.

"The living water also nourishes. I testify to you that just as He promises, Christ comes to all who are heavy laden; He gives us rest (see Matthew 11:28). He sustains us when we are weary. A wellspring is a flowing well offering continual refreshment...if we drink of it. Pride can destroy its effects as can mere inattention. Those who drink deeply not only become whole themselves but become a fountain to others as one spirit nurtures and feeds another."

-Kathleen H. Hughes, "Blessed by Living Water," Ensign, May 2003.

Wishing well I x-acto knifed on scratchboard circa 1995. I am really unearthing some old stuff as I pack up the unused corners of our house.

Flower Power

TO MY ONLY DAUGHTER (and I think you'll stay that way) ON HER 15^TH BIRTHDAY:

Fifteen years ago Dad was driving me back and forth over the railroad tracks by the post office to speed my labor along. A storm had blown in and changed the barometric pressure, the birthing rooms were full, and an abundance of daffodils dotted the city. You and your legendary hedgehog hair arrived at 9:18 pm. I made Dr. Lind, Dad, and Grandma all verify you were, in fact, a girl. Thrice relieved I leaned back and checked out under the heated blankets. The nurse who helped deliver you was named Joy. By the time we were each cleaned up and wheeled to our rooms it was almost midnight. As the clock chimed it became Easter Sunday. Dad had gone home to sleep, the nursery night crew was busy tying bows of every color for your awesome hair, and I was all alone with semi-numb legs feeling the weight that lands on a new mother.

For ten years I have waited in the car for you to walk out of school. Your long, colt legs have always been easy to spot, your backpack has always been too heavy, and you have never worn a coat no matter the weather. How my heart has thumped each time my wobbly colt comes back to me.

Today you left for school without wobbles. Golden fairy tale hair meticulously curled, teeth almost ready to be released from braces, white Converse high tops with laces wrapped around the ankles. You’ve grown into your long legs. Soon the chute will open and you will run your race alone; I will be a spectator cheering you on. Your requested birthday meals were Hotel Monaco pancakes (see footnote) and mulligatawny soup with naan bread.

I know all you can see right now are the annoying puberty announcements: greasy hair, breakouts, body morphing. But as the person who has watched you grow from a hedgehog to a colt to a water lily I only see a flower that will shatter stone.* Yes, you are lithe and delicate and a little unsure at times but your stalk is steel. You don’t know your own power yet but I see the fuse that runs through you. I don’t care what your GPA or ACT or extracurricular numbers equate to; your strength is your spirit. You are already learning to act on promptings that can only be fulfilled with courage. You would rather face fear than ignore the Lord. You are a teachable seeker. Your heart and mind are closely connected. Amelia Bedelia, you may melt powdered sugar and tortilla bags to our frying pans and brand bookcases with your flat iron but in fields that matter most you are a MENSA genius.

Aurora Jayne, you were the dawn of my motherhood and my only light for so long. The Lord knew it would be 13 years until someone crashed our NO BOYS ALLOWED party so he sent a mini-me, a best friend, and an OCD court jester all in one. I may want to wring your teenaged neck from time to time but I hear that’s normal. You may want to crawl under a rock when I try to dab in front of your friends but I hear that’s also normal. There is no one I’d rather make a Saturday to-do list with and no one who takes longer to get ready for bed! (You’ve even got Uncle Matt beat.)

I hope all your candles get blown out and bring secret wishes to life. Please know your life is one of my greatest wishes come true.

xo Mom, Mumsie, Mother-Knows-Best-I-Made-You-Hazelnut-Stew

*Proof of Descriptions:

HEDGEHOG:

WATER LILY:

When I lived in Asia, I saw many ponds covered with beautiful flowering water lilies. They added a serene beauty and sweet fragrance to otherwise muddy, stagnant ponds. The leaves of the water lily floated on the water’s surface, and a long, firm stalk anchored its position in the pond. The continued growth of the stalk ensured the flower’s stability, even when torrential rains raised the level of the water in the pond.

My dear young sisters, you are much like this beautiful flower. Your freshness, purity, and beauty add much goodness to our lives and to the lives of your family. You live in a challenging world polluted with temptations and trials, yet your testimony of Jesus Christ can be your anchor. Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ will strengthen and help your testimony grow, and you will be able to rise above the evils of the world and maintain your position of righteousness.

An anchor is defined as something “that provides stability or confidence in an otherwise uncertain situation.” Your testimony will be your anchor and will give you the confidence to stand “steadfast and immovable” in keeping the Lord’s commandments in an uncertain world.

Right now your testimony is growing like the stalk of the water lily. Your faith will help it grow and keep it strong, even when you face challenges and temptations of a world polluted with drugs, immorality, pornography, and immodesty.

-excerpt from Mary Cook’s April 2008 General Conference address entitled “Anchors of Testimony”

Ever since I heard the talk I've seen RE's long legs as her lily stalks. They were long at an early age and have proven to be quite hearty.

THE FLOWER THAT SHATTERED THE STONE:

A phrase from John Denver’s song of the same title. Once I was hiking and a little flower was growing sideways out of a boulder. I inspected it up close and the roots had indeed infiltrated the smallest of cracks and therefore perforated the stone. I flaked away small chips of once-solid rock. The flower had shattered the stone.

Years later I got a fountain from our neighbors and intended on using it as a three-tiered herb planter. I never planted anything but the sprinkler continued to hit it. Lo and behold one day a happy magenta cosmos smiled at me. How the seed got there and thrived is beyond me but my first thought was the flower shattered the stone. If you are a strong flower it doesn't matter if life's winds blow you into a neglected fountain. You still win because you have a destiny, inherent worth, and roots. You have power over dead old concrete.

Everyone knows a flower that shatters stone is just another name for a girl who moves mountains. That is my RE. Her strong stalk and unique bloom will shatter whatever obstacles life may present be it thick skins, tough cookies, closed doors, or mortared walls. She is a beacon and light always finds a chink to seep through; light will always conquer darkness.

Hotel Monaco Pancakes are hearty pancakes containing no white flour topped with a crumble made from granola, blueberries, and cashews glued together with maple syrup or honey.