Friendly Forecast

Junior High. It may do me in twice. Three times if you count when I read Wonder.

Isn’t it enough that I survived my growth spurt of home perms, lunch room politics, and locker combinations? I wore my armor of college-ruled loose leaf. I saw the bad words on the bathroom walls and heard worse ones walking down the halls. I even sold myself a case of fundraiser candy bars in hopes that I would “Dash for Cash.” I served my sentence. Still I hear a whomp-whomp-whomp and it’s getting louder. The unstable boomerang of puberty is coming back to hit me; this time as the mother of an 8th grader.

Maybe I’ll check her out daily for lunch. We can eat sandwiches cut in triangles while I hide her fragile self-esteem in my car. Maybe I can stuff her backpack-not-a-messenger-bag full of enough love notes to insulate her from the chilly hours. Maybe she’ll surprise me with her gumption while I’m drafting battle plans to storm the quad and topple the totem pole of popularity.

I forgot how everything matters. These days the cool kids wear Nike Elite socks with Hawaiian sandals (gag me) and our local Hallmark has 200 pair on backorder (the reason she isn't wearing them). I tell her tales of Umbros, Swatches, Guess? jeans and extinct Esprit bags proving trends are just that. I keep handing her the drumsticks to her own drum. MARCH GIRL MARCH

High school was an equally intense social rite of passage I barely squeaked though. I turned in my emerald cap and gown, pointed west to Utah and told myself I’d never look back.

I blossomed in the shadow of Y mountain. Equal parts independence and desert air proved to be the perfect recipe for growing a backbone. Once I formed inner strength I panned for gold and found glimmers and nuggets within. Decades passed. Life’s most extreme weather could not oxidize pure gold. My sound eternal structure remains uncrushable. If standing this tall is effortless why did I crumple so easily back then?

Age and air and infinite equations must have changed us all because I had a baby the week of my 20-year reunion and was somehow surrounded by all those people I intended on forgetting.

I wore Kimmy’s maternity clothes the last trimester and keep the ‘YOU’VE GOT THIS’ note she scribbled in my nursery. Baby Boy wore Mia’s son’s blue elephant gown home from the hospital and recently wore the frog outfit that Linzi gave Mia gave Me. (That’s called a Rock Bridge Triple Tadpole.) I lay him on his lambskin rug that Jeanne sent and file his nails with John’s electric file. Long before he was born there was Adam’s empathy about miscarriage, Haru’s prayers, and snail mail from Holly and Zarsamora Langendoerfer (best name ever). How can I forget Sophie’s pearl sugar and brioche, an afternoon on the Santa Barbara beach with Shelly, Kirk’s email to lift me up after Max died, and Amy’s medical tips for improving our chances at pregnancy. Melissa has been my Missouri cheerleader passing messages to my mom at church and Josh continues to visit my dad and discuss all things military when he’s in town. I wrote now-I’m-a-grown-up-and-I-appreciate-you-even-more letters to Bancroft and Pickett to thank them for teaching me more than John Donne and osmosis. They wrote me back. Heck, my former classmate is the new principal of our high school. If that’s not full circle nothing is.

Time is indeed the great equalizer. It dulls the painfully sharp corners of adolescent labels and dumps us smooth side up into a melting pot of commonality. Now we all worry about health, wealth, and family. Now we wish we had been better in our youth. We wish we had been braver and nicer, too.

Grant Fairley said, “One of the greatest titles we can have is OLD FRIEND. We never appreciate how important old friends are until we are older. The problem is we need to start our old friendships when we are young. Today is the day to invest in those people we hope will call us OLD FRIEND in the years to come.”

I’m happy to have realized the frustrating fields of high school yielded a fairly colorful bouquet of old friends. I am thankful for my old friends. I’m also thankful I don’t use a graphing calculator in real life. I’m sad Rallyburger fries are not part of real life lunches anymore.

I’m doing my best for RE. After lots of [perhaps unwanted] advice and snuggling and prayers I gave this Shel Silverstein poem to her:

Listen to the musnt’s, child. Listen to the don’ts.

Listen to the shouldn’ts, the impossibles, the won’ts.

Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me…

Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.

Leave the future's forecast open, 8th grader. You'll pass five more grades and land on your feet amidst good company. Time will surprise you.

*photo of a quilt I saw at a quilt show in downtown SLC a few years ago. The woman that made it had a son staying at Primary Children's Hospital so she started this quilt to keep her sanity and help the time pass. The word got out that she needed labels and nurses, families of patients, and strangers started bringing them to her. The whole quilt was HUGE. Literally thousands of unique labels. Hard to find these days now that the labels are silkscreened inside!

Shabby Chic

Christmas of 1981 I was gifted the hardcover book The Velveteen Rabbit with illustrations by William Nicholson. I was five. Years later I skimmed it. It contributed to my hatred of battery-operated toys.

I just reread it as the postpartum mother of a boy. I haven't cried that hard since I read The Giving Tree the week Archer was born. Go on, give him your apples! He won't appreciate them because he's in his selfish Babylon phase! He's gonna use you down to your stump before he learns what love is! Waaahhhh!

That sweet rabbit loved the boy for all he was worth. He loved him so hard his whiskers rubbed off and his pretty pink ear lining greyed. He loved him till his joints went soft and his signature spots vanished. His love caused Tight Bunny Shape to go MIA.

Page 32 in my book: "He scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn't matter."

On the second to last page the fairy tells the rabbit,

"You were real to the Boy because he loved you."

And that is precisely why his sawdust heart began to beat.

Sob, sob, sob.

Twelve weeks out and I feel a bit velveteen. My tight shape has gone missing, I traded my pink glow for grey circles, my hair is rubbing off/falling out, my joints are soft and my brain is softer (so far I have left my keys in the ignition, my ATM card in the machine, gone shopping without my wallet, spaced the quarterly taxes, ignored texts, forgotten birthdays, and probably offended many by not thanking them for all they have done). My friends Pencil Skirt, Balance, and Free Time haven't visited in ages so I spend most of my time alone in the nursery with the Boy. It's strange that constant companionship makes me miss myself, at least the self I used to be.

Boy just woke up!

I sigh and lift Boy out of his crib. Sweaty back, curled toes, hands in fists. We silently rock in the corner under the shelf that houses Suzette's wooden pull horse, the horse I'm certain is the Granddaddy Of The Nursery when I'm not around. I stare into Boy's glorious blue eyes (recently framed with longer lashes) and sing this swelling soul saga to his gaze, "Archer Boy, I used to be a chic, assembled, pristine wonder. I also felt very dead inside. Now I'm shabby and losing my signatures. I'm not even sure who I am anymore but I know you need me. When you watch me and smile it makes my sawdust heart pound. You made me real again." And because HE is real I nibble his earlobe, kiss his neck, sniff his hair, and smoosh his chubby cheeks against mine.

Boy oh boy. Sometimes being real is really hard yet I asked for this. In fact, I begged for this. I begged for nursery magic. Abracadabra, I'm falling apart and feeling alive.

*I feel like I should add something about being real. Motherhood, while ubiquitous, is not the only way to become real. Anyone can be real if they are needed by someone else. Being loved and being necessary to someone else's happiness is all it takes. My aunt told me that the worst part about getting old is not being needed. I think about that a lot.

Four Lions

Archer,

You were given a name and a blessing at church on August 24, 2014. Both grandpas, three bishops, an apple-growing stake president and seven uncles were in the circle with you when Dad pronounced blessings upon your tiny head. Amongst many bestowals Dad blessed you to be BOLD LIKE A LION that you might stand for truth and righteousness. Dad got the phrase from Proverbs 28:1 in the Old Testament. It says “the righteous are bold as a lion“. Archer means BRAVE AND BOLD and you will have to be to survive these last days.

Your older sister is a teenaged lion cub. Aunt Suz (whose cat is named Nala, coincidentally) mailed a miniature stuffed lion that slept with her in the clear plastic hospital box bed so many years ago. The nurses called her A-ROAR-A because of it. She is still learning when and where to roar but I’ve seen her exhibit pillar-like fortitude in her youth. Keep your eye on her because she walks the walk and roars the talk.

Mom and Dad? We’re your FOO DOGS. Aunt Tracey taught me about them after she lived in China. Foo dogs, also called Chinese guardian lions, are the pair of lion statues that have guarded tombs, palaces and temples since the Han Dynasty (200 BC-200 AD). The male lion’s paw rests on a globe and the female’s paw restrains a playful cub. Mr. and Mrs. symbolize how the man safeguards the structure while the female shields those dwelling inside. The lion protects and the lioness nurtures. Nothing is going to hurt you in our home if the two of us have anything to say about it.

It’s my job to feed you. To find the time to hunt for what will make you strongest. Baby Bold, only the purest truth and doctrine will stick to your ribs during famine. Mothers hunt forever so never stop letting me feed you.

I want you and RE to be your own set of foo dogs. You two are a pair now. You will always have each other. She is already nurturing you and when you are strong enough I want you to protect her. I also want you to help move her piano and dig her sprinkler ditches for her first house. What are brothers for?

I heard something on TV the month after you were born. I never looked up because I was feeding you and not looking up caused me to go on a wild goose chase to find out who said it. Douglas Prawitt, the Glenn Ardis Professor of Accountancy (whatever that means) closed his July 2011 BYU devotional speech (that was rebroadcast four years later) with this story:

A few years ago, my mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Knowing that she would pass through great agony and that death would inevitably take her, I arranged a trip to the sacred Church sites in upstate New York—just the two of us. It was my way to create some one-on-one time and to say good-bye. At one point, as we were driving together toward the Sacred Grove, I reached out and took her hand. I told her how much I loved her and how grateful I was for all that she had given me, all she meant to me. I told her how sorry I was for the little things that I had done along the way that had caused her disappointment or pain. I will never forget what she said. She squeezed my hand and, her eyes glowing, said, “Oh, Doug, you don’t understand, do you? I forgave you those things before you ever did them.”

Archer, this is how I feel about you. I forgive you for everything you’ll ever do to me. I have this perspective from wanting and waiting. I wanted you for so long and I waited on the Lord even longer. I did not look at RE this way because I was young and skipping down the path Everything Goes My Way when she came to me.

Live up to your name and live up to what the Lord promises the righteous. You are meant to be more than the King of the Jungle. You are to defend the King of Kings and earn your own crown in the process.

This little pride of ours is my reason for living. I love you.

Mom

p.s. Lions are nocturnal. So when you are older let’s stay up late every night. Morning drools, night rules.

*Archer's heirloom was made by the talented and fastidious Pamela Cardwell and backed with WHEN I AM KING. Pam told me she was at a little store in Cache Valley when her quilting friend started shrieking that she found this super-hard-to-find fabric. Pam bought some as well and I am the lucky recipient. Pammers certainly knows how much I love symbols and metaphors so she even gave me the selvage for safe-keeping.

Honey Bee

 

Honey is the only food on earth that never spoils. I have articles that back that one up. Cockroaches are the only animals that can survive a nuclear holocaust. I have no proof other than hearing it once. If I'm right there will be a lot of cockroaches eating honey after the bomb drops.

Melissa is Greek for honey bee. I am partial to bees because they are my namesake. I am a lot like a honey bee. I can be super sweet or I can sting. I am a hard worker. I serve my royal parent. I like tight spaces and geometric architecture. I look good in warm yellows and horizontal stripes. Smoke affects me negatively. See, I'm practically an insect.

I can't forget this little nursery rhyme I learned as a child:

Keep a watch on your words, my darling,
For words are wonderful things;

They are sweet like the bees’ fresh honey,
Like the bees they have terrible stings.

Oh, words. What words have flown out of my mouth. A spoken word is the one thing you can never take back. (Or something you bought 91 days ago at Target.) Words can be dulcet amber drops or blackhearted stabs of poison.

A bee has two simple choices: make honey or sting; contribute everlasting goodness to society or break someone down.

A word about beehives, er...families. Families can be awesome or families can be rough. Another quote that always comes to my mind when I start to get irritated with mine:

We stand in a sacred relationship to the people in our lives, especially family, because they are not there by chance.

The people in our lives were placed there not only for us to enjoy but also to cross us and to dissatisfy us from time to time so we can learn that love is not a matter of personal satisfaction but a going out of our hearts to empathize with, to understand, and to try to bless the other, giving up the demand of the natural man for satisfaction.

To love the other, to forgive the other, to cease to demand that the other satisfy us, and seek to be able to bless that person.

Relationships were given to us to develop us in love.

This past weekend MY FAMILY (Greg's parents + his six sisters and their families + a foreign exchange student + my parents + my favorite aunt + my four siblings + Lucy) came together to celebrate Archer's blessing at church. It was a lot of people. A lot of personalities. A machine with lots of moving parts. A lot of pulled pork. I know it is not always easy to get along with our bloodline but Sunday was the perfect storm of charity and patience and it put me on Cloud 9. MY FAMILY was all honey and the memory of that day will last forever. Greg said it was one of the top ten days of his life. I felt so loved to have them sacrifice their time, money, and comfort to support us in our baby triumph.

You will never regret being nice to your family because honey never spoils you.

 

*nursery rhyme by author unknown, family quote by M. Catherine Thomas, bee image from a matchstick box I bought at Harmony boutique in Provo yesterday

Tummy Time

Dear Archer,

Since the 3rd day of your life I have been forcing you to endure several bouts of TUMMY TIME a day. You do your sessions on the quilt CL made you because it is full of contrast and pattern for your maturing newborn eyes.

Initially you were not a fan. Your lower lip popped out and the "mousehole" cry was heard. (Where your mouth is the shape of a mousehole. RE did it, too. It's the preferred shape of all pathetically fake Lawson cries.) I asked the doctor if I could just hold you on my chest and let you lift your head there. He said while that will strengthen your neck it will not help your back or arms or legs. Son, life will demand you be strong all over so I have thrust you to the floor in the name of Hans and Franz to pump *clap* you up. I can tolerate your frustrated whimpers because I know what is coming.

You are currently a 9-lb infant whose life consists of drinking milk, dreaming about milk, and crying for milk. The monotony does not bother you. However, my contented little piglet, I know how fast time flies and tomorrow you could be a pre-pubescent teen spraying Axe man fragrance on your peach fuzz while you dream of electric shavers and drivers licenses.

You have no idea what joys await you:

There are touchdowns and fly balls and frogs and fish and [eventually] the right girl to catch. And Tepanyaki shrimp if you aren't allergic like RE is.

There are roller coasters steeper than the 1200 East hill in Lehi to make your stomach flip-flop and your organs vibrate. This is called "exhilaration" and you may also get it from letterpressed paper, dark chocolate, imported cheese, cleaning products, things with scalloped edges, and sewing notions like I do.

There will be novels with inky, musty, yellow-edged pages to get lost in. Type will take you away and those stories will accompany you wherever you roam.

One night you might lie on the swaying dock at our cabin and fathom the number 1,000,000,000 because of the glittered pall and milky smear across the heavens. Hopefully the expanse and the quiet will also settle into your heart and confirm what you have been taught all your life...that you are a child of God. And when a boy knows who he really is, well, he's unstoppable.

Due to a slight obsession I also have a ton of wooden toys and peek-a-blocks for you. You will [hopefully] learn to use your imagination in the battery-free world I have created for you.

Life holds unlimited happiness and exploration for you. But first you must learn to hold up your head.

Love, Mom

Why do we have to live through hard things? Dr. Jonathan Sandberg said it beautifully in his essay on healing: "I have come to realize that my Savior cares more about my growth than He does about my comfort." The trials, tribulations, and tests of this earthly existence are no more than a cosmic "tummy time" to prepare us for eternal life. The Father has promised us all that He has; free room and board in His mansions on high, worlds without number, infinite inheritance, never-ending love. How can we possibly consider accepting such glories if we haven't first learned to love our neighbors (even the noisy renters that have six cats?), sacrifice (can I help you when it's a more convenient time for me?), exhibit self-control (you are stomping on my last nerve!), or bear one another's burdens (instead of focusing on myself)?  

 

My neighbor Crystal made me this quilt. She overly-apologized for the error in the yellow corner. Her toddler-aged daughter that helped her "make" the quilt (i.e. sprayed each square with water before it was ironed) put the pedal to the metal when mom wasn't looking and the resulting squiggle was too tiny of a stitch to be picked out. The squiggle is my favorite part of the quilt. It is a reminder to, like Crystal, let my little ones be involved in the important things I do. Side by side.

Photo lyric: "The Wood Song" by the Indigo Girls