iExam

 

I am almost done being pregnant. Forever. (I think.) It's a good thing since I have 6 tums left in my Costco-sized jar. Close call! I cried as we drove to the hospital to have Archer because I was going to miss his kicks and wiggles inside of me. I’m not crying with this one. Get him out. It has been nice having Wolverine titanium nails for several months. They make up for the swollen feet, nausea, tossing and turning, facial melasma, heartburn, and emotional Russian roulette. #differentpregnancy #forty #notthesameastwenty

Pops taught me how to properly cut and blend Archer’s hair. Jen T gave me the tip to give him a dum dum while I cut. One precision toddler haircut + one hairy sucker = Archer no longer looks like a street urchin. And I got to cross something off of my list! Where would I be without visiting teachers and sugar?

The Olympics are coming up. Between that, American Ninja Warrior, and Beat Bobby Flay I will have plenty to watch during the first month of recovery. And maybe I won’t cry as hard in the Proctor & Gamble mom commercials because my hormones will have regulated a bit.

RE sends me Pinterest pins and funny texts. It’s fun to see her evolving. On Saturday I told her it was our last Saturday before baby would arrive, ergo I would take her anywhere she wanted including Nordstrom Bistro for berry shortcake and garlic flatbread. She raised her eyebrow. You’ll do anything I want? Yes. I want to deep clean the fridge and freezer. But we can get massages and go to Paper Source, too. No, the fridge. And so we did. That girl is one in a million.

Archer can eat independently with lidless cups and big boy silverware. Watching him eat oatmeal in the morning sun often melts my heart. He’s so innocent and I’m amazed at how motor skills are formed. I know I sound ridiculous.

The plum tree we planted when RE was born is now 15 years old and shades the entirety of the front yard. I have spent the summer in that shade watching Archer play with bowls of water, his Cozy Coupe, and rocks. There has been a breeze most of the time. It has felt good, like watching an old home movie in slow motion except I’m watching it live.

A plastic frog is floating in my soapy hand wash water and a stegosaurus is napping in Lucy’s bowl. I step on Hot Wheels multiple times a day. I pick them up while Greg is up at the church parking lot teaching RE to drive. Our age span comforts me; it will keep us young.

Our home is finally being built. Now that the ball is rolling I don’t think about it. It is progressing without me; I can think of other things. The cranial open space feels good.

I’ve been too big for a table massage for months but Ruth has continued to do foot rubs and scalp massages on me “beached whale style” (me sideways on every pillow she owns). She is such a dear.

I found a flame orange maternity dress at Target at Week 34. My favorite color on earth has helped me feel as beautiful as a Chinese poppy this last hard month.

Archer wipes off kisses and likes his back scratched underneath his shirt. This is where my titanium nails come in handy. We do a giggle-guaranteed rendition of Eensy Weensy Spider on his bony spine.

Both my parents and Greg’s parents are alive and well. I am thankful to have them. It would be hard to have a baby and not have one of your parents around to witness it. I like linking our links.

We got a mailer from Highlights magazine with a sample page of hidden pictures. I jokingly told RE she couldn’t play with friends until she found the hidden pictures. An hour later we were both searching for the elusive pencil and fishing hook. When Greg got home from work we summoned his help and fresh eyeballs. He said he’d help after dinner. At 11:40 pm we found them. I think it took so long because we were slap happy. Nothing else was accomplished that day yet it remains one of my favorite summer memories.

I love cows. I thank them for milk. I am still a pregnant milk addict. I can’t drink enough of it. It’s a tough call to declare which I love more: milk or air conditioners.

Speaking of air conditioning: Greg points the left vent and both center vents of his truck on his face. He closes the far right vent and cranks the temperature down. This makes it so when I get in the driver’s seat (which I really try to avoid) I look like a vixen from an 80’s music video.

RE sleeps horizontally on her spacious queen mattress where the pillows should go. She wedges herself next to the wall on top of her bedspread and covers herself with a sofa throw because she doesn’t want to make her bed in the morning. Archer sleeps parallel to the short side of his crib with his legs poking through the rails. My kids are great sleepers but odd ducks.

I waited in line twenty minutes at the PO just to buy pretty floral stamps. I am so sick of the self-serve kiosk Forever stamps with Linus and the snowy mailbox. Federal Government: it’s almost August. No more Linus! I killed precious time for vibrant, illustrated stamps no one will think twice about but they matter to me. I will mail baby thank you cards with wintry Forever stamps over my dead body.

And...drumroll...I can eat feta again in two days! Glory, glory, hallelujah!

"Focus on the Good" wooden postcard purchased at a Solvang, California bakery over spring break. I need reminders. 

"WHAT WE SEE DEPENDS MAINLY ON WHAT WE LOOK FOR."  –John Lubbock

Honk

RE gave the family night lesson on encouraging each other from "The Sense of a Goose." She printed little geese and wrote "honks" for us on them. I'm glad my daughter honks for me. It makes it easier to honk for her. It would stink if my kid didn't honk for me. I mean, she has about a 1% understanding of all I've done for her and all I would do for her. Parents deserve honks, even if we stink at parenting now and then. In fact, when I mess up is when I need a honk the most. It's the same for goslings, too.  

Most

June 27, 1997, 10:30 a.m.

Greg and I were married in the freshly-dedicated Saint Louis Missouri Temple. Our pictures were taken at high noon; the twig trees had only been planted for weeks and offered zero shade. We still managed to get one good picture despite the lighting and landscaping. We drove away as clueless twentysomethings in a leased green Civic packed to the hilt with balloons, hopes, and dreams.

June 27, 2014, 6:27 p.m.

Archer West was born in American Fork, Utah, with his dad and teenaged sister looking on. I let out a few uncontrollable sobs of relief when I saw his scrunchy, healthy body lifted before my eyes. Years of weight literally flew off my shoulders; the promise had been fulfilled. Two boys and two girls, big and little bodies, old and new flesh, our perfect familial balance. Greg and I enjoyed hospital dinners on plastic trays for our 17th anniversary. I still think about the mini bundt cake I ordered. I'm going to order one the second Baby No. 3 is out and cleaned up. Seriously, I love hospital food.

June 27, 2002, 5:00 p.m.

My 5th wedding anniversary, which included my brother's morning wedding in the Salt Lake Temple and a backyard pinata. (We wanted to have the same anniversary since we also share a birthday.) President Gordon B. Hinckley dedicated the new Nauvoo Illinois Temple at 5 o’clock because

around 5 o’clock on June 27, 1844

the Prophet Joseph Smith was martyred by mobs in nearby Carthage, Illinois.

Last year our family went to Nauvoo for spring break. Greg, RE, and I attended the temple while my parents tended nine month old Archer in the hotel across the street. Anticipating our exit and not wanting us to walk home in the rain my parents drove over to pick us up. I snatched my blonde boy out of his seat and plopped him on the front steps of the temple for a quick pic. His Suzy’s Zoo duck down hair was blowing in the wet wind but I wanted him to have a physical connection to his important birth date. These very steps were dedicated on the same date you were born, which is the same date the earth lost the first prophet of the last dispensation. On that date you were born to two parents who love you immensely. We were married on that date in a temple like this. Millions shall know Brother Joseph again but oh, my sweet boy, I just want you to know him. He is the critical foundation of everything I believe but you must come to know it all for yourself.

A pic of RE holding Archer on the steps and a family selfie with sunstone backdrop followed. We jumped in the van and bid farewell to the City of Joseph.

The family selfie is on our fridge. RE repeatedly moves the magnet to cover her face; she thinks her nose looks weird. I don’t care what she thinks, I’m her mother and I think she’s gorgeous. The photo stays. I’m not taking it down because encapsulates superior priorities: my spouse, my children, and my temple covenants.

Everything that matters most,

Everything that can last the longest, and

Everything that is best in a world of goods and betters

Can be mine forever

because Joseph restored temple keys that allowed me to make eternal covenants. Everything I believe about this life and the next is tied to those covenants. Joseph’s guileless, inquiring mind parted the heavens. God the Father and Jesus Christ appeared to him and gospel truths were restored one by one to a world aching for fulness. One such truth was marriages and families are meant to be eternal; they do not have to end. The prophecy that Joseph’s name would be known for good and evil is fulfilled; there are many who mock and make light of sacred things, however, I stand behind Joseph. I believe he was foreordained by God, I believe he translated the Book of Mormon by the power of God, and I believe he was human yet did his best notwithstanding an excruciatingly difficult life mission.

I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As a member I do not worship Joseph Smith but I do revere him. I worship the true and living God, my own Heavenly Father. I pray to him in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, by the power of the Holy Ghost. The endgame of my mortal actions is to return to live with God, from whence I came, and to be tied to those I love and those who have loved me. Because of Joseph's courage and obedience in restoring the gospel of Jesus Christ to the earth I have arms wrapped around relationships that can last forever, a clear final destination, and an inspired book full of directions to get me there.

This is why, on June 27, I say PRAISE TO THE MAN.

Photo of Archer’s newborn feet, Greg’s (second) wedding ring (which he later lost in the Denver airport), and my original wedding ring. Clearly rings do not last forever. But families can.

Photo credit: Maren Ingles

Photo quote: Elder M. Russell Ballard, from this talk.

The best site to research Joseph Smith's life.

Degree of Difficulty

212

Years ago Greg had to attend a week-long Scout leader training camp called Wood Badge. He returned home in his head-to-toe BSA uniform with whisker glitter (can’t grow a beard), some new skills, and a carved walking stick with an aluminum 212 hanging from the tip. Greg in full scout gear makes me weak in the knees but I was so distracted by the 212 I couldn’t even fawn over him. I asked him what it meant.

212 is fairly common entrepreneurial training tactic but it was the first time either of us had heard it:

At 211 degrees, water is hot. At 212 degrees, it boils. And with boiling water comes steam. And steam can power a locomotive. Raising the temperature of water by one extra degree means the difference between something that is simply very hot and something that generates enough force to power a machine. It reminds us that seemingly small things can make tremendous differences. –Sam Parker

 

FESTINA LENTE

Festina lente is a classical adage and oxymoron meaning MAKE HASTE SLOWLY. The constructive intent of the phrase is that activities should be performed with a proper balance of urgency and diligence. If tasks are overly rushed, mistakes are made and good long-term results are not achieved.

Jean de la Fontaine alluded to the motto in his famous fable of "The Hare and the Tortoise" writing that the tortoise "with a prudent wisdom hastens slowly".

The emblem of a dolphin entwined around an anchor has been used since Roman times to illustrate the adage. -Wikipedia

  

Way back in December we signed the contract with our home builder and subsequently discovered we were pregnant the following day. The day we signed was 211 degrees. The next day was 212. FULL STEAM AHEAD. I think I made seven lists that day. Things to do before the baby arrived, things to buy, things to sell, things to replace, things to do to this house before we list it, etc. I packed all the non-essential kitchen items and books we didn’t need in less than a week. (And later had to dig out the Bundt pan. I now know Bundt pans are essential.)

Our builder said it would take five months from the pouring of the footings to build our house. Naturally, we took an August 3 due date, subtracted five months, and got March 3 as the absolute worst-case-scenario deadline for said footings. It was only December, after all, and the only thing that stood in our way was a simple building permit from the city of Draper. Our builder said a permit generally took four to six weeks but they had gotten them in as little as two. So we hastily applied for our permit mere days after le bebe was in utero. And then a semi transporting stumbling blocks, speed bumps, and stop signs crashed on our lot and all heck broke loose.

Lost emails, city meetings with witnesses that literally vanished from the records, dueling geologists, fraudulent stamps, notarized documents with no legal binding, invoice after invoice for round tables and reengineering we never intended to buy. January passed. February passed. March passed. Uh oh.

April passed. I registered RE at Lone Peak crossing my fingers we’d officially break ground soon. May passed. The “why is nothing happening” pressure exploded at Tepanyaki on my birthday over a plate of yakisoba; I cried like a helpless baby as Greg hurried to pay the tip and get me outdoors. We had plans. We had lists. We had so much cushion. And now we were going to have to stuff the baby in the laundry room and take two cars everywhere since we don't fit in one. I questioned the super certain good impression we had when we bought the lot. I doubted the crystal clear vision of our future notched in that mountainside. Were my senses wrong? Had the last six months been sign after heavenly sign we should abort mission? Or were they test after test to trust, endure, and conquer?

Greg assured me it was the latter. He said there was always resistance when building a temple and our home is our temple. He said failure wasn’t a sign to quit (which deep down I already knew after the whole IVF experience with Archer…good thing we didn’t quit after the first one failed). He reminded me anything worth getting usually takes great effort.

As I simmered down we agreed with odd chuckles and shoulder shrugs that despite the obstacles everything still felt right. How I could be at peace with my life in the blender was news to me but it was real. I felt I needed to back off with the steam machine and focus on my family, my callings, and helping someone different each day. About this time we sang a hymn at church with the lyric then wake up and do something more than dream of your mansion above. It was the second witness slap in the face I needed. (#choristerFTW) Excepting my chopstick showdown and a similar scene the day we found out we needed an 18’ foundation wall under the main corner of the house I’ve been as stoic and serene as a Durkovich gets.

Here it is mid-June, I’m having a baby in six weeks, there is still no hole in our dirt, we are still waiting for our building permit, 87% of my life is out of control and total chaos (I’m still in charge of laundry and meal planning), and I’m totally happy. You just can’t write stuff like this. Except I’m writing it. And it’s all true.

Despite seven months of intense effort to move forward I’m relieved I’ll be bringing baby home to 680 West. You wanna be where everybody knows your name. I think RE needs one last summer where everybody knows her name, too. Greg feels the drag has to do with who will buy our house; that the ducks aren’t in a row yet. I feel I have work yet to do in these parts. I also feel I have gems to glean from those still around me. There are reasons for the timing; there always are. We both believe it will make sense later but not now.

Somewhere along the way I ran out of steam, dropped a degree, threw my lists to the wind, ripped my calendar in half, and jumped into regular, average, non-amazing salt water to grab a seat on a rusty anchor. Every day since I’ve tried to high-five the dolphin next to me and enjoy what’s left of my free, but sluggish, ride.

The house will happen when it happens. In the meantime I'll keep living a very good life.

Photo of my gold foil to-do list. What? You don't have gilded lists? You must not love lists as much as I do.

Perennial

Long ago, like back when I overplucked my eyebrows and had the “Rachel” haircut, I knew a woman named Margaret Wilcox. We attended the same church congregation, she was a quilter, and she was famous for her homemade breads. Beyond bread tutoring she had a lifetime of wisdom to pass on (as most old people do). This is the best thing, and I mean even better than her awesome potato bread recipe, I learned from her:

Margaret grew up poor, like most people her age, and lived in a one-room house with an outdoor kitchen enclosed on one end. By the time she was a young teen there was a newer kitchen and the old outdoor kitchen, the glorified shack offering privacy nonetheless, became her bedroom. It was difficult to sleep in wintertime because her afterthought dwellings were not as insulated as a real home. In other words she froze every night and hence became a quilter.

She recalled one particularly rough night of tossing and turning. Every restless movement unknowingly slid her covers downward. She awoke to the rooster coverless and numb; the last inch of her quilt was hanging on her big toe. She said her body told her she was paralyzed but her mind told her get to your big toe. It seemed impossible but ever so slowly she reached out her frosty fingers, snatched the quilt before it fell to the icy floor, and wrapped it tightly around her body with both hands.

Margaret then compared her quilt to a testimony.

You can accidentally (or purposely) lose it in dark but it will cling to the last, tiny piece of you as long as it has to. It will silently stand by while you suffer and try to live without it. It will hang on, as far from your heart as humanly possible, until you wake up and choose to grab it with both hands. Even if you are past feeling it’s still never too late to grab your quilt.

While my testimony is tightly tucked around my torso her metaphor extends to other arenas of life. In fact, my testimony may be the only thing safe and sound these days. I am a mess. My schedule, sleep, diet, emotions, time-management, stress-management…all hanging by a shred on my big toe. I wish I were little and not accountable for my own progress. I wish my parents could poke their heads in my room every night to check on me and pull my proverbial covers up while I sleep. Alas, I am now 40 years old. I’ve been repeatedly educated how to stay warm. If I’m cold it’s my own fault.

I’ve had the annoying little reminder IF IT IS TO BE, IT IS UP TO ME in my head for weeks now. I’ve also had these paraphrased remains of what I’m guessing was originally a Maxwell or Holland quote swimming around the ol’ noggin: In this age of "anything goes" the only control left is self-control.

Seriously. Married white female seeks lost self-control. Reward for clues to whereabouts.

In theory it’s easy. Just go to bed early, wake up early, eat healthy, study the stuff that matters, serve others, focus on the good. In practice it’s killing me. Was this how it felt to look at the brass serpent? Why is it so hard to do what I know will make me thrive? Why can I not pass Swiss Cake Rolls without opening the box in the store? Why can’t I go to bed before midnight? Why am I waking up at 8 when I used to work at 5:30 a.m.? Why can’t I tweak life's excel chart and crank up my efficiency 487%? Why am I still going to the store almost daily when I plan my menu two weeks at a time? Why did I stop lifting weights and stretching? Every other day I think I can handle it. The next day I wilt. Why am I bound and shackled by every poor decision I make? Oh, President Monson, you were right. Decisions determine destiny and here I sit a disgruntled destiny’s child. Wah Wah Waaaaaaahhhhh.

I’m not sure how much more my big toe can handle. It’s time for the rest of my body to pitch in and remove the dead weight of several hanging quilts. It’s time for my mind and muscles to kiss and make up. It’s time to stop postponing change until I’m not pregnant, or until the baby is six weeks old, or until we move, or until the twelfth of never. It’s time for a cozy comeback.

*I love the story of Enos in the Book of Mormon. I personally believe (but am happy to be wrong should I discover otherwise in the next life) it is the tale of a man who “grabbed his quilt” after many years of freezing (a.k.a. “wrestling” as he puts it). That little line about “the words which I had often heard my father speak sunk deep into my heart” makes me think he had latent learnings. I feel like Enos’ miraculous crossroad is included in the Book of Mormon to show it’s never too late to do the right thing, to be converted, or to have full happiness. I think it is a relief for anyone who struggles with doing what they know is right. I also think it’s a super hopeful story for parents who aren’t sure their kids are listening.

definition of latent: existing but not yet developed or manifest; hidden; concealed. Synonymns: dormant, untapped, unused, undiscovered, underlying, invisible, unseen, unfulfilled, potential.

Photo purchased from iStock.