Puzzled

 

Part I of III

If life's hiccups were all easy level sudokus I wouldn't be writing this.

I've been working on a tough problem. Like the quadratic formula and the Wall Street Journal crossword had a baby that only speaks Urdu and the answer is one of those revolting geometric proofs you solve by working backwards. I've used a stack of scratch paper and my pencil sharpener has a trail of perfectly spiraled sawdust. I'm showing my work but getting nowhere; scribbled mistakes and eraser holes are proof I am trying. Stumped. Stuck. Puzzled.

Puzzles, puzzles, puzzles. Greg told me a proverb our neighbor Oscar said at church. He said it in Spanish, but Greg asked him to write down the English version for me.

SI TU PROBLEMA TIENE SOLUCION...DE QUE TE PREOCUPAS?

SI TU PROBLEMA NO TIENE SOLUCION...DE QUE TE PREOCUPAS?

IF YOUR PROBLEM HAS A SOLUTION...WHY DO YOU WORRY?

IF YOUR PROBLEM DOES NOT HAVE A SOLUTION...WHY DO YOU WORRY?

Turns out the anti-worrying proverb has a Buddhist version. If you have a problem that can be fixed, then there is no use in worrying. If you have a problem that cannot be fixed, then there is no use in worrying.

Good advice for me, me being a worrier. I'm also a fixer. The prospect of things NOT working out makes my stomach churn. President Boyd K. Packer said, "Things we cannot solve, we must survive." Maybe so. Maybe I stop hunting for a key or legend. Maybe I stop flipping random worksheets upside down to see if answers are in tiny print at the bottom. Maybe surviving is for the fittest. Why then, deep in my insides and next to my old ties, do I feel mathematically astute and capable of solving?

I love quotes but don't put them in my pocket unless there is an element of Truth to them. I wanted to find a scripture that upheld Oscar's advice. I found it. John 16:33: In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.

In other words,

You will have tough problems in life: don't worry; I've solved every puzzle.

or,

You're supposed to be working on this: be happy; I can help you solve any puzzle.

My tutor is free but demands focus. Back to my desk. Hopeful. Sharpened. Open.

The top problem? It has an answer. Don't worry. I'll post it in a later entry.

Boyd K. Packer quote from "Balm of Gilead", October 1987 General Conference.

Cheapskate

 

Want to know the worst combination for mental peace ever? Being a cheapskate who also hates waste. I have complicated my life to the nether regions of insanity because of this combo.

For instance, I didn’t buy shampoo or soap for years because we amassed a stash of hotel toiletries from our pre-kid travels. I made it my personal mission to not buy shampoo, conditioner, or soap until we had used up every free sample under our roof. We would finally get to the last bottle and then BAM, work trip involving a hotel stay or free sample of Garnier something or the other in the mail. Never you mind my scalp has never fully recovered from such stringent, cheap concoctions…we made out like bandits with our loot. I used the conditioners on my legs for shaving cream and appropriated the really awful soaps for our camping box. All formulas too stinky for actual use were given to young RE to make potions in her tree house.

My bathroom windowsill is currently housing two Curels, one CeraVe AM, one shampoo, one conditioner, one body wash, and one Neutrogena Hydrogel tube all lid-free and upside down draining their last dregs into separate Dixie cups. Because it would be nonsense to waste two applications of conditioner or three drops of eye cream, would it not? Although I never thought to factor in the cost of the Dixie cups...

I bought this thread in October of 1997 shortly after Greg bought me my sewing machine. I didn't know bobbins weren't universal. This box has curved bobbins, my machine has flat bobbins. That didn't stop me from not wasting! Nineteen years later I'm still winding flat bobbins from curved bobbins and trying to use up every color of this low-quality notion. I wish a robber would break into our house and steal this thread so the task of using it up was no longer mine.

Everyone I knew who was done having kids gave me their old tubes of Lansinoh when I got pregnant with Archer. If you’ve ever used it you know one tube per human lifespan is adequate. Seeing as I wasn’t nursing I clearly had no need for this stuff…but it’s pure lanolin. I hated the taste on my lips but have since found it to be an excellent cuticle cream and finger salve for this crafter and compulsive hand washer who has eternally split fingertips. Two tubes down, one to go. I can do it. I can use it.

This is the wad of leftover embroidery floss from a few cross stitches I did when I was first married. It used to be four times the size. I have avoided spending 29 cents on a mini skein of floss all these years because I just rummage through my tangle ball and find whatever color I need for the project at hand. I’ve probably saved up to four dollars over two decades with this madness.

Ugh, these are the world’s worst pens. Foray, you stink! My love for office supplies is unsurpassed; I’ve purchased something from every aisle at Staples. (Once I did a freelance job for a kindred spirit and she paid me a $100 bonus in the form of an Office Depot gift card. Eureka!) In a moment of weakness I bought a 20-pack of these pens from the impulse aisle only to discover they are literally the worst pens on earth. Irregular, globby, smeary, the list goes on. However, my special cheapskate/non-waster gene prevented me from tossing 20 worthless pens. Over the course of six or seven years I have used them for non-important writing tasks (like grocery lists, phone messages, church doodles) and have four lousy pens to go. I will never deviate from Pilot Precise v5 Fine or mini Sharpies again. Not even for Dr. Grip or a giant set of rainbow something at Costco. I learned my lesson.

I lose sleep Thanksgiving night imagining all the turkey carcasses being tossed out. Boil them and pick the meat off the bones, people! Can the broth! It is magical and will heal you come summer when you catch a freak summer cold. There is power in the turkey bone!

I walked through the spidery pond weeds and down the railroad tracks to Hobby Lobby with my baby in a carrier to return an unused spool of ribbon from a church activity. Post-coupon it totalled 60 cents with tax. I figured the gas for driving it back would negate the savings so walking it was. (Hope the Church appreciated that one.)

Last, but CERTAINLY not least, this is my favorite kitchen towel from Williams-Sonoma. It is linen and absorbs hand washed dish droplets 379% faster than any other towel and air dries in a blink. It is a $20 phenomenon. I can’t toss it because the strands of square-ish linen holding on for dear life continue to serve their purpose. (I just can’t fold it anymore. It’s a strand wad. Maybe I should store it with my embroidery floss.)

Being a cheapskate has mostly been a blessing in my life, especially when it comes to sticking to a monthly budget. However, being cheap can be dangerous.

I am intrigued by the Bible story of married couple Ananias and Sapphira in Acts 5. To fiscally support the apostles they sold some land but secretly stashed a little kickback for themselves. When giving the remainder to Peter (and I imagine they did it with decorum) they acted like it was the full amount and each died on the spot for lying to Peter, the Holy Ghost, and God.

It might seem easy to judge their motives or call them out on their charity but I empathize with Sapphira:

1. My angel neighbor Keri texted a bunch of people on my street two years ago asking for donations for a fellow neighbor. They were going through hard times and needed help paying their utilities. I had never met them but instantly a number came to my mind. The number worried me because my well-tended and immutable monthly budget didn’t show enough left to give and still buy diapers and formula before the end of the month. I subtracted enough from the number to pay for diapers and formula. After all, family comes first and only a fool would give money they don’t have. I rationalized that I was still being generous; I was still loving my neighbor. I walked the money over to Keri but felt amiss on the way home. A few hours later my sister Cristall stopped by unannounced with a small can of formula and little pack of diapers—just enough to last me through the month. My insides withered as I thanked her. I should have given the number to my neighbor. The Lord can regenerate a starfish's missing point and he was standing by to heal the pinch my sacrifice would have caused. I should have trusted Him with exactness.

2. Carson and Amy taught me how to grill salmon and henceforth I became a salmonmonger. I invited a couple over for salmon. As I prepped the meal I had the recurring thought I should invite two extra people over. I worried the fillet wasn’t large enough for six adults so I did not invite the afterthoughts. Insert same rationalization as the other story: I was already feeding other people...I was already being generous with my expensive salmon. Dinner came and we feasted. I tried to swallow my guilt by eating seconds; the dinner party followed. We ate and ate until we could eat no more. Guess how much delectable pink fish was staring at me from a cedar plank at the end of the night? Two adult portions. I know Elder Maxwell said something negative about mortal mathematics once...

Holding back, hoarding, treasure polishing, me-worship. Yuck. Ugly sauce. Is there anything worse?

Yes.

In the sacred places and texts of my life there is an important word: ENMITY. It means friction, bad blood, resentment, hatred. A synonym is odium. (Now I get why Garfield’s nemesis was named Odie! Root words! Etymology matters!) It is how Satan feels towards me. It is how I am supposed to feel towards Satan and his minions. It is not a feeling that should be shared between loved ones. Up to this point I’ve always felt pretty enmity-free with in my life (only concerning non-Satan loved ones…I have enmity toward American cheese, cats, Black Friday sales that start on Thanksgiving Thursday, and a few other trivialities).

Then I reread a really famous (well, to Mormons) article about pride. It said the central feature of pride is ENMITY which includes:

FAULTFINDING 

GOSSIPING

BACKBITING 

MURMURING

LIVING BEYOND OUR MEANS (wait, so my budget IS holy?)

ENVYING 

COVETING

WITHHOLDING GRATITUDE AND PRAISE THAT MIGHT LIFT ANOTHER

and

BEING UNFORGIVING AND JEALOUS.

All of those things seemed like diluted forms of hate wrapped up in socially-accepted terms. Who doesn’t gossip a little? Who hesitates to forgive, especially when they aren’t the one at fault? Who doesn’t harbor a little resentment toward the mommy who lost her baby weight in three days or the teen who never got acne AND aced the ACT? Who isn’t jealous of someone who embodies all their unfulfilled dreams and untapped potential? The one that stuck out to me was WITHHOLDING GRATITUDE AND PRAISE THAT MIGHT LIFT ANOTHER.

Do I ever swallow my nice words because someone already has it good enough? Or because I’ll look like an idiot giving my compliment? Do I lock someone out with boundaries and ultimatums because someone besides God told me I’m justified? Do I say I’m sorry?

Someone I keep on a pillar taught me one of the hallmarks of pride is distance, as in pulling away from others or edging God out.

Back to the beginning, about being a cheapskate who hates waste. It’s wise to be frugal but I can't cheap out on people and I definitely shouldn't waste love. Hanging on to thread and lanolin and kitchen towels is fine and good but hanging on to relationships is real talent. Especially the tricky, prickly ones. People are delicate, not disposable.

I once read a curious book advertisement describing the Savior's power. Essentially it said

REMEMBER WHAT HE DID WITH A SINGLE LOAF

IMAGINE WHAT HE CAN DO WITH A SINGLE LIFE

I love to consider this in regards to holding back versus giving your all.

We all start with a crust. If you hold on to your crust, if you guard it and hold back...you're crusty. If you give someone your crust, the Lord gives you a slice. Give away your slice, get a hot crossed bun. Give away your bun, get a loaf of artisan bread. Give away your preppy loaf and he gives you two. Give those away and come home to a commercial mixer capable of kneading 20 loaves at once. Use every ounce of flour you’ve got in that mixer and the Lord signs a paid lease in your name for a boulangerie just down the street from the Eiffel Tower. Bake bread from morning till night rejoicing in the fact that you aren't crusty anymore. You're a successful baker with oodles of resources and customers! Toss baguettes at strangers and stuff croissants in people’s pockets! Give! Give it all away. Give your money, praise, love, and time. Give the benefit of the doubt. Give beyond your comfort zone. Give a boost, staunch support, or full forgiveness (especially the little bit you're holding back). You will never be hungry or empty-handed because "sacrifice brings forth the blessings of heaven." 

You can’t get ahead of the Lord.

Photo lyric from "Emmylou" by First Aid Kit. And it was Melvin J. Ballard (quoted by Henry B. Eyring) who said, “A person cannot give a crust to the Lord without receiving a loaf in return.”

Trailblazer

One of the pioneer journals detailing my great-great grandfather’s trek west mentions a woman who, at the onset of the day, had something tied up in her apron as she began pushing her handcart. After some inquiry it was discovered the thing was "a little person who had come into the world the previous evening". She had walked all of yesterday, quietly birthed a baby, cleaned herself up, and tucked it in a homespun pouch because the wagon train was moving. No time for recovery and reverie. No time for white nightgowns and silver trays loaded with hydrangeas and pastries. No time for sleepy skin on skin. Time was reserved for sunburn and steps. I am happy to report chivalry was not dead on the plains; the fellow travelers of this woman insisted she ride for a few days while benefactors maintained her cart.

The other story that has been on my mind was written by Rachel Coleman, a trail runner I should have bumped into at BYU but somehow missed. Please, I never would have bumped into her while running. Running is ludicrous. I would have bumped into her in the Brimhall building while we were earning our graphic design degrees. She writes about the crumbling of her health and 17-year marriage:

During this time, a good friend gave me a picture of the temple with these words from Elder Jeffery R. Holland written on it: “Don't you quit. You keep walking. You keep trying. There is help and happiness ahead.” I stuck it to my fridge and read those words every day. When my great-great grandmother Asenath Viola Wilcox began her journey west as a pioneer, her family traveled on what her sister called “trackless prairie.” The grass was so high that her father had to stand on top of the wagon bed in order to get his bearings. I did the same thing, praying to know God’s will for me and trying my best to follow Him, without knowing where I was going. I put one foot in front of the other, on my own trackless prairie, knowing only that God keeps His promises, even if I couldn’t see how the things he promised would ever be accomplished.

BABY 1: RE. I quit working the week before she was born. Our house was furniture and spot-free, therefore no real effort was required to maintain sanctuary. I wasn’t even scrapbooking or crafting then. I honestly don’t remember what I did all day but I don’t remember feeling haggard or overwhelmed.

BABY 2: Archer. A definite adjustment with definite postpartum baby blues. I hid my struggle because I was afraid to say, “This is stinking hard.” I thought if I admitted how tough babies were I wouldn’t be appreciating the miracle of the century. I stressed myself out until my milk dried up and felt displaced despite overall conditions of health and happiness. By the time Archer was four months old I started getting my mojo back. The fog eventually lifted and list-making, crafting, writing, and wild monthly photo shoots commenced.

BABY 3: Everett. I had him on Thursday and enjoyed a two-night holiday* at the hospital. Then I promptly tied him up in my apron and started chasing wagons on Saturday. That’s what it felt like, anyway. (First thing I did when I got home from the hospital? Cleaned my tub.) The wagons veer like my wind-up toddler toward sights yet unseen: a new high school, a new home, a newish van (can't wait!), a new lifestyle with littles. For the first time in our marriage Greg and I have finite personal time which is forcing us into communicating and writing things on the calendar. I can’t let the crazy train out of my sight despite strong urges to jump in the sick wagon and nap indefinitely.

I’ve never had three kids. This is not a complaint; I just don’t know how to do it yet. Twice a day while my Sonicare buzzes I stare at the card taped to my bathroom mirror: THOUGH HARD TO YOU THIS JOURNEY MAY APPEAR GRACE SHALL BE AS YOUR DAY. I'm day-to-day right now, meaning I can only focus on today, not tomorrow. (Which kind of freaks me out. I have to breathe deeply and repeat three times "I am not Superwoman.") I remember when Archer was a newborn there was a day when the only thing I accomplished was breaking my eyebrow comb in half so it fit in my make-up bag. That was a low point in my list-making life. Now I laugh about it. This time around I'm simplifying: less bullet points, more naps.

The morning after Everett was born I physically felt like I'd jumped through a paper shredder. I was slightly better off mentally and emotionally. As I have pinged and ponged between being okay and being overwhelmed I've submitted to one truth: I need manna, succor, and grace every morning, noon, and night. The thing is…I believe the Lord will give them to me. I believe he wants to give them to me. I especially need these things when life is stripped down to the basics of survival. I appreciate the minimalist "manna phases" of my life. They keep me close to the Lord.

Acres of grass wave to the horizon. Unknown waves before me roll hiding rocks and treacherous shoal. Jesus, Savior, pilot me! Above the tips of tall grass I stand sleep-deprived in a wagon bed (the irony...sleepy in bed) with a new bundle in my apron. I survey and scour for promised paths and hidden treasures. Despite being an amateur orienteer I know I will find them by feel versus sight. Nudges, pushes, pulls. Hesitation, inspiration, revelation. Day by groggy day. Little by little. Step by step.

The first night in the hospital, before abandoning me to sleep at home for nine hours on a plush mattress, Greg admitted he was feeling the weight of providing for another human. (According to the internet it now costs $300K to raise a kid. I told him we'd be fine if he just gave up his daily lunch at Wendy's and I stopped buying Kneaders eclairs.) I likewise admitted I was questioning my capacity to nurture another human. (Which is why I need all those eclairs!) Bonnie Dixon shared an article about a mother of eight whose motto was WE CAN DO IT, meaning (SHE + GOD) CAN DO IT. Greg and I adopted that motto because it's easy to feel buried in our individual spheres. We remind ourselves God does not set us up to fail.

I know I have a special compass inside of me. Chart and compass came from thee; Jesus, Savior, pilot me. The Lord dictates to its spindles via my heart and my mind. WE will find a way. WE will track and travel together.

*Sarcasm! I hate that place! Baby lockdown! Sleepless prison!

Photo quote by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland

Photo of the actual Wyoming prairie I walked through five years ago on a pioneer trek re-enactment

Rachel's article here

I should add that thanks to my amazing neighbors I did get to rest in the sick wagon via deluxe dinners delivered daily for a week. (Say that three times fast.) Life is obnoxiously easy when one doesn't have to cook.

UPDATE: September 2, 2016.

I accidentally stepped on the hem of my linen gaucho pants when I was standing up from changing a diaper and RIPPED the leg of my pants off. There may have been an audible sound of heartbreak. Everett got a clogged tear duct (or pink eye? hope not) and pooped/peed through four outfits. Archer threw a tantrum when the turtle scene of Nemo was over, when I told him he couldn't pour his own pure maple syrup on his empty breakfast plate, and when I accidentally cut his banana wrong. He also slipped a Harmon's gelato sample spoon through the slits in the return air register. I'm hoping that little spoon doesn't blow my furnace up. Hey, I only know how vacuums work. My parents have been gone for two days, hence, I haven't napped in two days and I'm feeling a bit low on fuel. I ate an entire package of marshmallow pinwheel cookies in a week. That's twelve pinwheels. That's about 1500 calories. I'm trying to tell myself it doesn't matter because a)I'm nursing, and b)that's the caloric intake of one bite of anything served at The Cheesecake Factory. The last time I ate an entire package of pinwheels was when Archer was born. My mom got me a package then, too. I guess pinwheels = little baby boys. As soon as I can figure out how to get a new tire on the double stroller Bonnie Dixon gave me I can go on walks in the day. That should cut down on the pinwheels as well as the cooped up feeling. I need to get out. Maybe I shouldn't have purchased two boxes of peaches to can this weekend. I still think WE can do this. But boy oh boy the learning curve is real!

Party of Five

I check in at 6:30 a.m. to get induced.

By 8 o'clock the drip is entering my veins. Let's get this party started.

(hours and hours of staring out the window watching the light change hues)

At 2 o'clock I am only dilated to a 6. Everett's head isn't putting pressure on my cervix so the nurses fetch a giant curved yoga ball called "The Peanut", dress it in a hospital gown, and shove it between my knees while I rest on my side. I call RE and tell her Dr. H doesn't think anything will happen until dinnertime. She tells me to get cracking and have this baby.

(Handrail-gripping contraction #1)

Me: Greg, is the contraction off the monitor?

Greg: No, it looks the same as the others.

(Handrail-gripping-I-might-pass-out contraction #2)

Me: DUDE! Something is wrong. I think I just ripped in half.

Greg: No, it still looks the same. But call the nurse if you’re worried.

(pushes call button)

Nurse enters and peeks under my gown. Her eyes pop out of her head. His head has crowned! Don’t move! Don’t move! All available nurses are summoned. Their eyes pop out. Major bees-in-a-beehive buzzing and scurrying. I ask if Dr. H is going to make it over from the other building. Not a chance. Inside I die a little because I rely on Dr. H's chill countenance and sense of humor. I mean, we both hate the Apple Store and how their employees make us feel. If you can't have that in common with your OBGYN I don't know what you can have.

Dr. H waltzes in; he happens to be on the birthing floor checking on another mommy-to-be. I breathe a sigh of relief into my happy balloon; it inflates a little. His eyes pop out the most. DON’T MOVE! A sheet is deftly slid under me. "The Peanut" is removed as carefully as the wishbone from Operation. My hips accidentally rotate a few inches. Everett’s head pops out, his body quickly follows. I witness a fresh baby slipping out of me with no pushing. It's 2:22. I ask if I can sign "The Peanut" but am denied due to HIPAA laws. I call RE and ask if that was fast enough.

I am washed up and the HAZMAT bags of who-knows-what-fell-in-the-bucket are hermetically sealed and removed from the premises (joke, sort of). I am wheelchaired to Room 219 in the Mother/Baby unit. The spartan interior decorating doesn't give me much to look at. I stare at my room number plaque for hours before it hits me. In the LDS Hymnbook #219 is “Because I Have Been Given Much.” Yes. Yes I have.

Greg, RE and I sat in life’s lobby for years awaiting seats at the smorgasboard. No, we didn't want to eat at the bar to avoid the wait. No, we didn't want our unlimited feast of plenty boxed up for takeout. We just wanted our buzzer to go off when it was our turn to eat. Well, it’s buzzing now. Lawson, party of five, your table is ready.

And this is his smell. This is what I will always associate with his delicious, squishy, all-curled-up-like-a-snail newborn body:

(Place card chairs from Suz. Soap from Aunt Lynne a.k.a. "The European.") 

Heureux Pour Toujours

I love presents. I love opening them early even more. Colored paper and tape are small hurdles; unsecured gift bags with two sheets of flimsy tissue paper are blatant invitations to glance inside. As a lifetime peeker it's only natural I would choose to be induced. Of course I want to unwrap my baby early! 

Tomorrow I get my third wish. I can't wait. Aurora, Archer, and ___________.

Happily. (RE came when I wanted her, as planned, according to my timeline.)

Ever. (Archer took forever, according to a holier timeline.)

After. (And #3 is coming after that. Bonus baby. So rad.)

I've often thought back to the night of December 3, 2012, when our first IVF failed and I was broken. I knew in my heart the baby gap would eventually close but I never could have guessed all that would be. The Lord has a genius plan. I'm sure on December 3 He was looking down on me, watching me bawl my eyes out and hoping I'd grab that shred of thread dangling from the end of my rope. I'm sure He wanted to say, "Don't give up! You are actually going to have a house full of boys! I have things planned you can't even imagine!"

"Almost all decorating involves odd numbers-most often, the number 3." -Victoria Solomon, SheKnows Expert, "9 Interior-Design Rules to Live By"

*Three Wishes is a real store. I bought loads of wool roving there for needle felting. It was like time traveling back to the Renaissance. There was a functioning spinning wheel, giant faux sheep, walls of rainbow-colored wool, and nooks and crannies stuffed with notions and samples.

The Sundance Catalog had a giant, decorative brass heart stamped with HEUREUX POUR TOUJOURS. I really wanted it as a symbol for my life. It sold out before I could afford it. C'est la vie. I also got a little crazy a week ago and ordered a $200 authentic bison skull as a belated anniversary gift for Greg. It was advertised as a "bulletin on the plains." Pioneers used to write on bison skulls (and rocks, and anything else that would preserve a memo) when they were traveling. Stuff like "Walked 15 miles today, survived the pass, here we are." I was going to write the dates our three children were born on the bison skull and hang it in our future bedroom. You know, as a marital trophy to say, "Walked 19 years, got three kids, survived some crazy stuff and here we finally are and we rock and our life kicks booty and I love you." I also like the symbolism of being "equally yoked" in marriage. Then the bison skull arrived. It had three faults: monstrously oversized, creepy, and stinky. The bison face made my soul shiver. Bison teeth are no joke. I had a vision of the skull falling off the wall and landing on our sleeping heads and cracking our own skulls. But the teeth! So jaggedy and huge. Like square chainsaws. No way I could rest under that thing. So back it went, return shipping and all. It was a nice thought.