Everyday love

Warning:  this post may be a little personal and opinionated.  However, this blog is mine.  So, I have a couple of things to say.

As a woman who has been the recipient of abuse, deception, and a few other things in a marriage, I have learned something. Well,  I have learned many things, but one of those is that love is so important in little everyday things. Sometimes it's big and overwhelming, but it is the everyday love that counts.  The way a man and a woman treat each other, and do not abuse each other's feelings.  It's important to hug after a quarrel, to be kind and loving at the beginning and end of each day.

Why am I thinking about this?  Well, I know a couple who have little children.  I have not seen this man, who is a husband and father, act happy (or even patient) with his wife or children in a long time.  I knew there was trouble, the writing was on the wall.  You couldn't be near them without noticing his frustrated looks at the kids and rolling eyes at his wife.  Now this same man is on social network on a daily basis, admitting a short separation from his lovely wife, extolling her virtues, and admitting his bad behavior for years.  He tags her in every post so that she and everyone in her life can see his pleading for forgiveness.  This is probably embarrassing for her, and my heart aches for the way she must feel.  I have offered a listening ear, but do not want to interfere in any way, except to say this now to you.  You who have no idea who I am talking about. Because it might make me feel better.  The last post that I read, this guy said that he just realized last night that his behavior had been horrible for the last 12 years.  12 years!!  He loves his wife and hopes it isn't too late, he says. We all make mistakes, and sometimes we need to say we are sorry.  However, a man who waits 12 years to decide to say he is sorry, is a man who is scared of losing it all.  Probably scared because he never thought his wife would say enough is enough.  A husband who waits 12 years has waited too long. You should have said it the first day, and and every day after that.

I feel better now, and ever so grateful for a husband who has open arms for me, even when things aren't perfect.

 

Cooler days

I welcome this cooler weather.  It's my favorite kind of day, when we do not need heat or air conditioning, and I even like the rain.  There is so much relief that the heat of the summer seems to be behind us.  Perhaps it comes from my father's blue blood family, who's motherland was England and Denmark.  Vacations in hot California and sunny Hawaii, count me out!  I'll take a beautiful castle, rock cliff, or a garden, and an overcast day.  Those things are what my dreams are made of.

Working guys

Early in the summer, Carson was hired as a volunteer at the Orem Library.  A few weeks later, Dakota also started volunteering.  They both worked hard and made me proud of them, even though they are goofballs in photos (obviously).

In the first week of September, Carson was hired by Orem City as a Library Page.  He was so excited that he did a happy dance in the hallway outside the Human Resources Dept.

At the end of September, Dakota was also hired by Orem City and works at the library.  Although he would allow no photos to be taken, he is sooo happy to have this job.

I have the best co-workers at the library, and they are great to welcome my boys and make them feel comfortable.  I am very proud of these two, and their step into the world of employment.

October!

I woke up on the 1st of October in such a great mood.  I don't why I love this month so much, but I do.  It's usually mild weather, harvest time, pumpkins to carve, beautiful leaves and colors, and (of course) Halloween!  I am an admitted Holiday Junkie.  This is the month that leads into the holiday season that I love.

This also marks the 6th year anniversary of this blog.  I can't believe it!  Six years of recording our "goings and comings."  Wow!  Hard to believe.

Get out the spooky decorations, People.  Carve some pumpkins, sew those costumes, and put some "It's A Dead Man's Party" in the CD player!  Happy Fall.

Oh, and I made those school costumes for my cute guys in the pic.  Gotta love those homemade costumes.

Children, and struggles, and a pinch of honesty

The pain of childbirth is over-rated.

A whispered secret passed

to a long line of young ears

until it no longer resembles itself.

It is the easy part of children.

The pushing them out

with the strength of our own muscles,

into the cold open light

of too many voices.

 -  From a poem of mine called "Birthing"

We leave our own childhoods to start raising little ones of our own, with no instructions.  Each one completely different from the one before.  They arrive with their own set of talents and vices.  As parents, we are expected to do the sorting.  To find their strengths, their individual greatness, and somehow help them to turn that into achievements and careers.  It is the kind of task the world's greatest leaders have struggled to do!  Yet, they are OURS.  A part of us, literally.  We love them beyond comprehension.  When they struggle, we do take it personally.

What an accomplishment it is that we, flawed people that we are, manage to give so much to our children.  I am especially talking about mothers here (no disrespect to the Dads).  We provide for them, not only the basic needs of life, but the very best of who we are.  We "save the dessert for them."  Sometimes other people receive our anger and our frustration, but we love and hug our children even when we want to cry. Always attempting, not always succeeding, to keep our best love for them.

As a new mother, in a small hospital in Northern Minnesota, with my newborn first son Dakota in my arms, I did not know, or even partially anticipate, the heartbreaking trail that lay ahead of me.  The years of my life that I would pour everything I had, and more than that, into the care of him and his younger brothers.  I'm glad that I didn't know.  Glad that I was blissfully ignorant.  Because in those same moments were also such happiness and laughter.  These sons of mine teach me and entertain me every single day.  I still struggle, and I am often hard on myself.  Today, however, I am thinking of the absolutely amazing contributions that we, as parents, make to our children's lives.  No one else on this earth will ever love them so unconditionally, or have the same influence on their lives.  I'm thinking that maybe . . . just maybe . . . we should be kinder to ourselves and go eat some cheesecake!

Once, or twice upon a time...

Our spirits are old.  None of us know how old we are in the eternal perspective of things.  But we know we have been around for a long time, trying to perfect ourselves.

I only know the next part because my mother told me. When I was very young, not able to write the letters of the alphabet yet, I would cut out pictures from my parents magazines with my plastic scissors.  They were mostly National Geographic and Time magazines.  The kind with those great photos of people and places. I would then glue (or paste) a photo on a piece of paper.  All alone, I would sit and write underneath the mounted picture, in unreadable up and down, heart rhythm looking lines.  No one could translate my story, but I would read them to my parents, and they were my stories about the life of the person in the photo. Mom said I chose the saddest ones.  Those whose lives appeared to be difficult.  I was drawn to their complication in some way.

Growing up I was always writing when I was alone in my room.  Not because it was an assignment, but because it was just what I did.  I have no memory of not doing that.  I was in Junior high when I was told by friends that not everyone does.  I thought it was something natural to everyone.  I remember when my mom told me the above story.  She said, "Writing has always been a part of you.  You were writing before you knew how to make letters."

I have been thinking of this.  Clearly, I was born with a love for this talent that I have worked to improve. I am sure, in my heart, that I was writing (in some form, or for some reason) long before I came to this earth. I am by no means a prodigy, but what about the real masters of art, science, music, etc?  The names we all know.  The Picassos and Einsteins of this world.  What would their parents tell about them? They must be those souls who remained closest to their God given talents and perfected them for many thousands of years. Like the parable of the talents.  They took their talent and made it grow.  It's a beautiful thing to ponder about, don't you think?

Conflicted mother

Here is the photo from a Stake dance.  My 15 year old son has a serious enough crush on an older woman (one year) that they are "talking about dating when they are old enough."  *Cough, choke*

A part of me wants to get slightly paranoid because. . . well just because.

Another part of me thinks this pic is adorable.  She's wearing his old dirty signature hat with the rattlesnake skin.  She must like him very much to do that!