Smell the Flowers

This afternoon, like many afternoons for me lately, was a frenzy of activity.  Feed the kids, get them to practice piano, bathe the younger ones, make sure the older ones shower, help with homework, review papers from school, check on library books, urge kids to unload the dishwasher, reload the dishwasher, etc etc etc.

To add to my general sense of urgency, I had a meeting tonight for church at seven, for which I needed to leave around six-thirty or so.  I also had a homework assignment for myself due (I'm taking a writing class).  I mention this so you will know that I was in a hurry.  I had been hurrying people all afternoon.

I have one child (my oldest) who is like me.  He has a list of things to do and he works on them quickly and efficiently, for the most part.  When I rush him, he usually just says, "Oh yeah, sorry," and gets right on it.

My second child is not like my first.  She is always fiddling around, always playing, and consequently, always happy.  She takes ten minutes to do something I could do in thirty seconds, but she always has a smile on her face.  Tonight, I had just finished helping her with her homework, and I asked her to unload the dishwasher.  (Her chore, but she hadn't done it in the morning because she dilly dallied so long before school she ran out of time.)

She danced her way over the kitchen, and opened the dishwasher.  Then she stopped, and came dancing around the other direction.  I took in a big breath of air to yell at her to get a move on when I heard her say, "I'm just going to smell these beautiful flowers dad got you before I unload."

Part of me was annoyed.  I wanted to yell, "SMELL THE FLOWERS LATER! UNLOAD THE DISHES NOW!"

But a larger part of me remembered a cliched phrase.  "Don't forget to stop and smell the roses."  It really hit me hard, mothers around the world (and fathers, too.)  Sometimes we get so caught up in our deadlines (real or self imposed) that we lose sight of finding the joy in life.  Dora is not the fastest child.  She isn't the most efficient, but she is my happiest child, and there is a reason for that.  She always makes time for the things that bring her happiness.

My message for you tonight is so simple: before you do the dishes, stop and smell the beautiful flowers.  They won't last, but your happiness will, if you don't get too caught up in the things that don't matter.

The greatest mother ever known

Mother's Day has certainly been a theme this week.  I appreciate the existence of a Mother's Day, if for no other reason than to get people thinking about their mothers.  Some of us have good moms.  Some of you have bad ones.  Even the bad ones managed to give birth to you, which I will testify is a difficult thing.

If you are a mother with young children, you almost certainly received something saying you're the best mom ever.  Either that, or they are upset with you because you took away their lollipop and they think you're the worst.

This morning, on this particular Mother's Day, even though he worked Easter, my husband had to go in to work at six a.m.  And like always, I had church at 8:30.  I woke up at seven, only to discover the big kids had let the dog out of her room, but not outside.  She had peed on the floor by the door.  Then I went upstairs, where I found my three year old had wet the bed.  Next door, I got my two year old up, and before I could help her up on the potty, she peed on the floor by the toilet.

I thought my pee troubles were over by the time we reached church (late!).

Near the end of sacrament meeting at church, the three bigger kids all went up to sing me a Mother's Day song.  I was getting all teary eyed thinking about how wonderful it would be, because this is truly my favorite part of Mother's Day, hands down.

That's when my two year old began to freak out, and I DO mean freak out, about not being able to go up to sing.  (They start with that in our church around three years when they graduate from the "nursery" into the "primary" program.)  She WOULD NOT calm down, so I spent the rest of sacrament meeting out in the hallway (or outside entirely) and missed hearing the song, getting a rose and anything else that the church group did for mothers today.

Then during a very long, very exhausting nursery day (I run the two year old nursery program at church), one of the kids peed on the floor there.

Which is how, after a few hours of exhausting mothering, I came to think about who really was the greatest mother of all time.

It certainly isn't me.

I've always kind of thought that Mary had it easy.  After all, her kid was perfect! But today I gave some thought to Mary's path.  She was chosen to be the Mother of God.  As such, she was certainly a beautiful and worthy daughter of God.  She then had the task of raising a perfect child.  I am not sure that was the bed of roses I always imagined it must have been.  Thinking back, this little nugget was there in the scriptures all along.  Think about the story of when Jesus stayed all day long talking in Jerusalem at age twelve.  His parents had no idea where he was! They didn't find him for THREE days according to Luke chapter two, at which point he was apparently just casually sitting with some doctors asking them questions and listening to what they had to say.

I would have lost my mind.  This makes me believe very strongly that Mary was honestly the best mother in the world.

When you think about your life (as a mother or just a woman), think about how much you judge yourself.  Think about how much others judge you!  Why just this weekend, I had some delightful octagenarians tell me that I had "brought my children into their hotel and let them come down to breakfast and run wild, effectively ruining the hotel, their furniture and everyone else at the hotel's breakfast."  I felt pretty judged.

I am sure that most of you have felt judged, but even if you haven't, I bet you judge yourself.  I lose my temper, I fail to complete basic tasks.  I fail to complete the extra tasks.  I am not a pinterest mom.  I lose count of the ways I fall short, which is probably a failing in itself.  My girls frequently have hair that is not combed.  I miss out on chances to teach, I miss nights of scripture study.  I use bad language on occasion (like the worst word of all--STUPID!)  My children remind me when I fall short.

I can only imagine that Mary, the mother of Jesus, fell short as well.  I think it would be very difficult to raise a young child who was perfect and I developed some empathy for her in that, today.  But my true thoughts went to Mary as a mother of an adult Jesus.

Have any of you mothers had a child who became injured?  A child you watched be bullied at school?  A child who had trouble making friends?  All of these things are so much worse as a mother than they were as a child experiencing them.  I am filled with rage if someone is mean to my child.  If my baby is hurt, I have a strong desire to end that child's pain or suffering, but sometimes there is nothing we can do.  I have suffered with my babies in their sickness, in their injury, and in their hurt feelings.  I have even suffered the loss of an unborn child. (Miscarriage) I know many mothers have suffered far worse things than me.  I am not at all trying to compare.

But none of our pain or our hurt can compare to the sorrow Mary must have felt when her perfect child, a performer of miracles, a God by birthright, was taken by wicked men, sentenced to death, whipped, tormented, mocked, and then hung on a cross.  But she was there, watching him during most of this, supporting him as best she could, loving him every second of it.  She had to know the importance of his sacrifice, she had to see the brilliance of his light, but notwithstanding those things, watching this must have torn her apart.  The best mother ever, the mother of Jesus.  She is an example to me.

Murillo's famous painting of the Crucifixion, with Mary at his feet

I am so blessed in my life, on this Mother's Day and on all other days, to be a mother.  It brings me joy, it brings me pain, it brings me accomplishment and it teaches me sacrifice.  I would like to wish every single mother, and every single woman who is not a mother on this earth a very Happy Mother's Day.  To me, Mother's Day is not about growing a child in your womb, but it's about the divine spark within each woman on earth that helps to uplift us, and all of mankind.  I am so grateful for my mother, my grandmothers and my mother in law.

I hope we can all take joy today, even when we are wiping up pee, in our divine calling as mothers.  I also desperately hope we can all be a little less judgey with our friends, our neighbors and our family.  Maybe we can go a little easier on ourselves, too.  We love our kids, and we are doing our best.  I think the real title of greatest Mother of all time goes to Mary.  But I believe that we can all look in the mirror and see the very best mother for our kids every single day.

How we're failing our kids: Managing Disappointment

Today I went to school to take food to my kids' teachers for teacher appreciation week.  I decided to take lunch to my kids, too.  My second grader and my kindergartener were both thrilled.  They don't really understand why I don't do this all the time.

I took my two and three year old along with me because dad was working.  Once we reached the school, my two year old freaked out, as usual, and insisted I carry her all the way to the cafeteria.  I felt this was an understandable reaction to a strange place, so I carried her.  And two bags of food, two drinks for the teachers, a purse full of food, and drinks for the two babies.  It was not an enjoyable walk.

Food drop-off and lunch with Dora went great.  Then we waited about half an hour until my son's lunchtime.  By that point, the girls were tired and whiny.  They wanted to go home.  They were fighting over a scrap of paper--literally.

Poor Eli did not have a wonderful lunch.  Tessa was crying because Emmy wouldn't give her this scrap of paper.  I offered a finger puppet, a bracelet, a plane, candy, and another scrap of paper (the contents of my purse.)  None of these things could compare to the joy that the yellow piece of paper Emmy had would bring to Tessa.  She was not to be satisfied with anything else.  Lots of crying.  Finally, about 2/3 of the way through lunch, Emmy was waving this very amazing paper in Tessa's face and little sister snatched it, and promptly tore it in half.

Whoops.

Emmy was disappointed.  If disappointed means that she threw herself down, screaming and throwing a tantrum.  Did I mention how much I love three year olds?  Half the moms in the cafeteria were beside themselves, and I feel like most of them felt I was not doing my job as a parent.  They offered several solutions, all of which basically involved replacing the paper.

Technically this is Tessa throwing a fit here, not Emmy, but you get the picture.

I could have replaced the paper, except I think replacing the paper is what's wrong with America.

When I was little, if I was being a brat, my mom told me to suck it up.  I could cry and throw a tantrum, but eventually I'd realize that being a little brat wouldn't work.  I learned something valuable: how to manage my disappointment.  Things did not always go my way when I was growing up.  Sometimes I got a bad grade.  Sometimes a teacher didn't like me and wasn't fair.  Sometimes I had trouble finding a job.  Sometimes I just didn't get the particular princess crown I desperately wanted.

It sucks, but it's life.  And it only gets worse as you get older.

These days, the second a kid cries, mom or dad rush to provide the child with whatever caused the tears.  Every little disappointment must be avoided.  If I'm at a restaurant and my child is distressed, people rush to me, just as they did today at school, eager to help me give my child whatever his or her heart desires.

This is not okay.

Our job as parents is to prepare our children to become adults.  I recall being desperately sad in tenth grade when I did not land a significant role in a high school play.  I knew my sorrow was justified because my mom had told me about all the plays she acted in during high school.  She was a star.  Why was I a failure?  She sat me down and explained that for the several notable roles she landed, she failed to get far more.  She also explained that her school was smaller, with much laxer competition.  She told me that if I wanted to get some good roles, I needed to put in the time, work harder, and the opportunities would come.  She was right.

That was an important teaching moment that made sense because mom had already taught me that I couldn't win every time.  Children must be taught that when things don't work, they need to respond positively and then work harder, if they want better results.  If we keep giving our kids whatever they want, we are teaching them two very bad things:

1. They don't have to work because if they cry hard enough, someone will give them what they want.
2. They can throw a fit every time they are disappointed.

If you're an adult, you know these things are not true.  You have to work for anything of value, because by definition, if you don't work for it, you won't value it.  And disappointment goes hand in hand with every valuable venture.  You need to learn to react positively to disappointment, or you will never succeed in life because: NO ONE LIKES A CRYBABY!!

The next time your child starts to cry, dare to do what I did today.  Explain calmly to the child that the crying won't help.  Let them throw their tantrum until they calm down enough to  listen to your explanation.  My children know that when we are at home, if they react with a tantrum, they go to the laundry room.  I set them on the floor and close the door until they have calmed down enough to talk.  Resist the urge to give in because it's easier for you.  I know it sucks, and when you aren't at home, people's judgement is frustrating, but as a parent, you must hold the line and take the time to explain this to them now.  It will save you a lot of headache and your child a lot of heartache in the future.

I almost gave away my dog...

It's true.  I bought a puffy little ball of fluff at the beginning of the Christmas season in 2013.  I adore that dumb little dog and she is WONDERFUL with the kids.  I should give her some credit.  She is a tiny thing--was only three pounds when we bought her--and she has put up with a remarkable amount of love from the kids in a variety of dog-unfriendly forms.  Look, wasn't she cute!?

Now that she's grown, she is patient, fun, bouncy, and she does tricks.  She plays fetch with me and the kids.  She lets my two year old carry her toys all around the house, and plays grab and tug with her, which both of them love.  She stays downstairs all the time.  She stays off the furniture.  She only chews up and plays with her toys.  Honestly, she is a really, really good dog.  She is also always so very eager to please.  But we struggled to really get her housebroken.  They say, in her defense, that it's harder with small dogs.

I do not handle pee and poop in random places in my house very well.

However, over time, Foxy improved drastically.  I finally had her almost entirely housebroken around July.  Our move to a new house was a little confusing and stressful, but we survived the confusion and Foxy was really doing quite well.

December was a crazy time.  That is probably true everywhere, but my sister had her wedding here at our home in mid-December, and things were even crazier here as a result of that.  Around the end of November/early December, I began to find puddles of pee near the back door.

!*##!&!&#!!

I was not happy.  I talked to a professional dog trainer.  She told me the dog was trying to get outside (hence, pee by the door) but that she needed to be entirely retrained, as though she was a puppy.  I would need to get a leash and keep her with me at all times so that if she decided to go, I could (calmly, yeah right) take her outside.  I was not happy to hear this.  It was only two weeks until my sister's wedding and I did not have time to deal with holidays, wedding preparation and all my kids, as well as train my dog to do something she should have figured out by now.  I mean, seriously.

The trainer mentioned that Pomeranians who are as cute as Foxy, and good with kids, are hard to find and she had at least one person, possibly two, who would be delighted to adopt her from me if it proved to be too much.

 I gave this some very serious thought.  I was beginning to wonder if perhaps this particular dog was just too hard for me to handle.  I truly almost gave her away.

Whitney reminded me of how great she is with the kids, of how much they love her, of how sweet she is, and how she stays off the non-leather furniture, never chews and stays downstairs.  He reminded me that every dog has its foibles and if we have to keep cleaning up pee by the door from time to time, it's probably not the worst thing.

See how cute she is??

I decided to keep her on the leash for two weeks.  BLARG.  I did it, while Whit worked, while the kids ran amok, while I decorated for Christmas, I kept that furry little fluffball with me every second. She did wonderfully.  She gave me a lot of very pointed looks that said, "Mom, what exactly are we doing here?  Why am I on this leash inside?"

I ignored them.

I was honestly a little baffled by her perfection for almost a week.  I was about to bag the whole thing when somehow we ended up with a little puddle by the back door.  I wracked my brain.  When had we been over there?  When had she been off the leash?  How had she peed there?? I could not remember.  I did not know.  But OH was I mad!  I yelled and yelled at her.  I might have rubbed her face in the pee and put her outside. (Which, by the way, is one of the dumbest things I have ever done.  Not only does it completely not help, but then I had to BATHE THE DOG.  IDIOTIC.)  Poor pee faced Foxy looked very sad.  I felt angry and sad and (guilty and) frustrated and I seriously considered, again, calling the lady and having someone else adopt her.  Even on the leash, even with me, she managed to pee on the floor.  GOOD GRIEF.

But I kept her.  I kept on trying.  That's what we do, right?  When things are hard, we say, just one more hour.  Then just one more day.

The next day, she peed in the bathroom.  And there was no doubt in my mind we had been no where near the bathroom.  I had not let her off the leash.  I had been 100% diligent.  I had been watching.  I had taken her outside.  I was truly perplexed.  It was that afternoon I noticed that Emmy was playing by the back door, where there is (incidentally) a toy bench the girls play on, and I saw her pull her pull-up aside under her dress and pee on the floor by the door.  She left a puddle, but her pull-up was dry.  Not unlike the other puddles I had been finding.

So, yeah.

It wasn't Foxy.  It was never my poor, loyal, true little maligned furball.  It was my devious, lazy little three year old, who explained when I asked why she never admitted to making the pee puddles that "she didn't want me to rub her face in it and put her outside."

Uh huh.  So that was my bad.

I don't have a moral here.  Honestly, I could come up with one, I am sure.  I just don't want to.  This is just one of those things that is hilarious, and sad and pathetic all at once.

Luckily, it's already become one of those stories.  "Oh yeah, remember that time we thought Foxy was peeing all over, but actually it was EMMY?"  Geez luiz.  Freaking kids.

I will say this: I am glad I didn't give away the dog.  HA!

Go have kids. Right now. Go.

Last week's post had an unexpected response.  People seemed to believe I was anti-kids!  Or somehow they felt that because my kids "ruined" my career, I needed to be reassured that kids are worth it and that I didn't make a mistake.

Let me be clear: the single best four things I have ever done in my entire life are named Elijah, Isadora, Emerald and Amethyst.

There is no contest.  There is no question.  There is no doubt.

Okay there might occasionally be doubt.  Like Sunday afternoons when all the kids are cranky and whining, and fighting and crying and did I mention cranky?  Ugh.  As a parent, there are beautiful, perfect days, and there are horrible, hard days where you want to cry in your soup, big messy, unattractive tears.

Why do I love them?  Why is having children the best thing I ever did?  Why will I recommend it to absolutely every person I ever meet?  Explaining the reason children are so wonderful, so vital, so beautiful seems like a monumentally difficult task to me.  How can you reduce it to words?  I am going to try.  Please don't mock me when I fail.  It feels like trying to describe what "salty" tastes like without using the word salt, but here goes nothing.

I went to Italy last fall.  It is a beautiful country.  I'm an uncultured swine who knew next to nothing about art and who breezed through the Louvre in Paris (both times) in little more than a half day.  It's kind of embarrassing, but there it is.  When I went to France years ago, all the paintings sort of looked the same.  Before we went to Florence, I bought some books and read up on some of the paintings in an attempt to be one tiny notch above completely clueless.

I am not sure whether it worked.  I recognized some of the paintings and sculptures, but I certainly didn't fathom their majesty.  If I'm being honest, some of them freaked me the crap out.  (I am sorry but the paintings of Jesus as a baby breastfeeding, or even worse, just holding Mary's boob are strange.)  Also, the ones where key religious figures look like emaciated corpses, and the beautiful, incomparable works of some of the masters, depicting everyone naked?  I can't help it, my eye goes right to the bits we cover up in everyday society.  I am not classy.  Sorry!

Which leads me to my point.  The David.

Right about now, you are thinking, crap, Bridget, I am so embarrassed for you.  This post was supposed to be about kids, you moron.  (Maybe I got confused and mixed up my posts!)

I have a point, I really do.  Thank you for bearing with me.  

I knew nothing about how the David was housed prior to my arrival in Florence.  I bought a book, though, and read all about it the night before.  I read about how some of Michelangelo's unfinished works (the slaves) lined the walkway up to the main room where the David is housed.  I had seen photos, so many many photos.  I had seen drawings.  I knew what to expect.  I even saw a reconstruction someone made in the square--so theoretically, I had basically seen the David before I walked into that room at the Accademia.

None of it prepared me at all for seeing the David in real life.

It is vast, so so so vast.  It is beautiful.  It has gorgeous lines, majesty and nobility.  I know that I am utterly incapable of doing it justice with anything my untrained fingers might type, so I will stop there.  Any art scholar is laughing at me.  Unless they've seen it, and then I will hazard a guess that they know exactly how I feel.  

You walk past the "slaves" on your way to the David.  They are basically big chunks of stone.  Sections of them are completely unformed.  They are blank and you can imagine when anything could have been carved from them.  You can see that on some, Michelangelo began with the head and worked down.   On others, he started with an arm, or a leg, carving out the main shape, and then coming back to finish details.  I am going to toss in a few photos I took (I am not a photographer, so don't judge these photos, but I felt moved to try.)

Here is the walkway, a few chunks of stone in.  Pardon Whit's silly pose, but you can see the David (really tiny) behind him. In this first slave, you can see that the head is completely unformed.  But the leg and most of the body are rough hewn.

Similar here, you can see the slave emerging from the rock.  The back side is completely untouched.

 This guy has a leg, an arm, and his stomach.  The rest is not shaped yet.

 And now, here are the photos you have been waiting for!! My exceedingly amateurish efforts to capture what I felt when I saw this work of art.  It was so far above my head, both figuratively and literally, that I can't express what I felt.

 But you can see in this the detail, of the sling over his back, of the veins in his hand.  The hairs on his head.  This was lovingly depicted in every way.

This, my friends, this experience I had at the Accademia, this is what having children is like, it is a walk down the hall from the unformed blocks of stone to the awe inspiring, indescribable masterpiece that no one can fully understand.  Only, instead of walking, we are preparing them, we are carving them, shaping them, helping them emerge from the stone that is surrounding them.  They are born as these little smooshy lumps that cry and can't do anything.  They require constant care, and slowly, but surely, they grow, they emerge, they develop.  

Our children are just like those vast blocks of stone, but every single one of my children is becoming something more beautiful, more indescribable than the David.  Part of this, bear with me, is going to feel religious, or spiritual, but I think that's inextricably linked for me, with being a parent.  Being a parent is what makes me understand God just a little more.  We are His children and He loves us (I believe) and I can comprehend that a little more after having my own.  We have the task of helping them emerge from that block of rock to become the masterpiece God intended.  

Being a parent is a front row seat to a miracle.    

My little angels ask me things every single day that leave me to marvel.  They grow up in leaps and spurts, staying the same for days, lulling me into a false sense of safety, that they might be mine forever.  And then I turn around and they've grown a year in the space of one day.  It breaks my heart and at the same time fills it to bursting.  To see them becoming that perfect creation I know is inside, and to watch them moving to where they will no longer need me is the juxtaposition of all that I love and all that I fear.  Joy and sorrow and a sense of wonder I cannot describe.  

Let me be crystal clear on this:  I still believe a child will wreck everything in your life.  My grandfather always said, "You can have nice things, or you can have a kid.  You can't have both."  He is correct.  They will wreck your body during pregnancy and after.  They will wreck your checking account, your schedule, your career and in short, your entire life.  And you will be so sick and tired of the whining, the crying and the frustration you will want to scream.  No scratch that, you will scream.  

Because carving stone is hard work, and it's messy.  

Just as my photos, my book, my study did not prepare me for seeing the David, nothing you do, no blogs you read, no advice you receive will prepare you for becoming a parent.  Some days you will want to quit.  You will want to throw away those carving tools, and throw away the industrial sized broom and dustpan you need to clean up the mess and walk away and never come back.  But then, oh then, you will return.  You will never give up because you know that eventually, on one terrifying, miracle filled day, you can stand back and see what you had a hand in creating.  You will never, ever, ever be the same, and you will not regret the time, the pain, the difficulty and the horror of the carving.  You will only ever regret missing out, or not being there to see it happen and to lend a hand.  

My kids ruined my career--if you have any, they will probably ruin yours too.

I was awesome in high school.  No, really.  I was on swim team, and I debated, and I did theater.  I was in National Honor Society and Spanish club and a bunch of other dumb things like that.  I was quite successful.  Then I went to college, for free, because of the aforementioned high school awesomeness.  When I graduated from BYU for undergraduate (the real BYU, the one in Provo*...) I did it in two years flat and I had amazing grades, again.  I worked practically full time between my three jobs and I took a heavy load. Because, as I mentioned, I was awesome.

In fact, I was the youngest graduate from BYU.  (Not ever, but when I graduated).

Then I went to law school right away, and when I finished law school at the real UT (you know, the one in Austin**...) I took the bar exam in Texas and I was the youngest lawyer to pass it.  In fact, the next year, I was still the youngest lawyer, because I graduated from BYU at 19 and law school at 22.  See?  Awesome.

I got a job at a cool, boutique healthcare firm in Austin, Texas where I rocked it.  It was hard at first, and it was hard in the middle and it was hard in the end, but I did great.  I made a LOOOOOOOT of money and I drove a nice car and my career was right on track.  In fact, they had begun to tell me I was right where I needed to be to make partner.  Good news.  Five years of awesome work, following five years of awesome post high-school education.  (Really seven years, but I did it in five...because I was awesome, right?)

That whole time, you know what I was thinking?  Gosh, wouldn't it be nice if I didn't have to get up every single day and go to this sucky job where I have to think and think and think and get better and better and better and where they pay me to do things I wouldn't otherwise want to do on my own??? (Because folks, that's why they call it work.  You wouldn't normally want to do it...which is why they pay you.)  But honestly, when I got married, I began to think, geez, it would be awesome if I could have a baby and then another and I could just stay home with them.  Every morning when I drug myself out of bed, I would think, "Oh one day, I will have a baby and be a stay at home mom."  I had this bizarre notion that somehow I would get more sleep.  HA!! (I haven't slept in since 2007, because even on "no kids" vacations, my brain is so broken, I can't sleep past 6:45.)

But finally, after all that longing and wishing and waiting, I did it.  I had a baby and I quit my job to move out to Pennsylvania with my husband (who had just matched to Hershey, PA for residency) and I was totally alone out there, with my big fat baby boy.  He was a craaaanky pants, too.  And guess what?

I hated it.

Also, I have no earthly idea why I thought it would be better to have to take care of a baby than to get up every single morning to go to work.  At least when you're working, you get weekends.  And someone pays you.  And you occasionally look nice, and someone occasionally tells you you're doing  a good job, or you know, at least doesn't cry at you.

I am not making a joke and I am not being cute when I say--I hated being a stay at home mom.  I hated it so badly that when they assessed a condo fee and we absolutely needed the money, I immediately began hunting for a part time job.  I needed to use my brain!! 

Sadly, I wasn't licensed in PA and I hadn't spent the last nine months working on getting licensed so the only job I could find paid nothing.  The pay was crap, and the work wasn't much better.  Even so, I dropped my fat baby off for someone else to watch at least once a week and went to do the work for which I made only slightly more than I was paying for childcare and I SMILED while I did it.

A year or so later, I found this AMAAAAZING part time job that paid a little better and the work was good and the people were super nice.  I hummed along there until BAM we had to move again.  I had this bizarre blip on the Bridget career path then called "Oregon: Where Bridget actually made a living wage in a one year period, mostly by accident."  That is because I kept my old part time job from PA, and I got a new one in Oregon, and I did side work for people in Oregon under my shiny, new, Oregon law license, which was promptly and expeditiously obtained.

At this point, we needed the money because of moving and kids and blah blah blah, and that made me try harder.  Then we moved to Texas and by then, I had three kids.  I got pregnant with the fourth somewhere along the way and man that fourth really knocked me out.  I stopped taking part time work from PA.  I stopped doing much of any work at all!  I never found another part time job.  I have kept up my skills--I do wills, estate work, tax work, and contract reviews for family and friends, and there is more of that kind of work than you might think, but still, for the first time, I have had no real "job" in years.

Part of that is not the fault of my kids.  I will give credit where it's due.  I have always wanted to be a novelist and I started writing in earnest around the time my last baby was born.  I have spent a lot of my free time writing novels, none of which have been sold (published) yet.  I have found that I have a very hard time writing with kids around, too!  So to sum up, I went from AWESOME to LAME in the course of a seven year period, and honestly, it's because I have four children.  FOUR! CHILDREN! What was I thinking??

A little part of me cries inside when I think about my decimated career.  I try to carve out time, even now, to write.  I had a babysitter lined up today, but then one of my two girls at home got sick and shabam, kids are home with me.  I keep thinking it will get better.  They will all be in school soon, and then I will have more time.

I'm probably lying to myself.

I may homeschool, if it ends up being better for the kids.  I will certainly be involved in their education.  There's homework and projects and meetings and, of course, summer and holidays.  Eeeep!  What was I thinking?

All of this makes me sad about what I could have become and didn't.

But it also makes me better.  I am a better person for having my children.

I do more with the time I have, I appreciate the opportunity to work now, which I took for granted before, but most of all, I have turned myself inside out.  Every single thing I do (almost) is for another person.  I am harder working, more selfless and more complete now than I was before.  I don't mean to be patronizing to people who have no children, but it changes you, completely, down to the tiny midget toe on my left foot.

Isn't it funny how these tiny little people can turn everything upside down?  It is hard, and it is depressing sometimes, but after a while, you realize, maybe things look better this way.  Maybe your life is better upside down than it used to be when things were in place.

So yes, my kids decimated my career.  They razed it to the ground.  I used to be amazing and now I am an unimpressive, unaccomplished mom.  I am sad about it.

But my joy in my children, and in the person they have transformed me into, far surpasses any sadness I feel about the destruction of my work path.  If you are on the fence about having kids, I will only say: Do.It.

You will regret it!! You will struggle!!  It will be the hardest thing you've ever done.

But it will be worth it times ten over, I swear.

* I am kidding.  Calm down.
** I am not kidding.  University of Texas campuses outside of Austin suck.***
*** Still kidding.  Geez people.

Why I think GROSS guys are divine

There have been few times in my life that I have felt as unattractive as the times I was pregnant.  I gain a lot of weight (around 65 pounds with each pregnancy!) and I feel icky and I don't work out and I break out.

It's bad.

During each of those times, my husband told me over and over that I was beautiful.  He was very good about always making sure I knew he loved me and that I was not disgusting.  I didn't always believe him, but it was sweet that he tried.

My husband is not gross at all.  Not in any way.  (Okay he does get really sweaty when he works out, but I am going to give him a pass on that.)  I absolutely adore my husband.  And it's okay that I like GROSS guys, too.

I will never forget the first gross guy I really appreciated.  I was about five and a half months pregnant with Dora.  (My second child) and if you ever knew me pregnant, you would know that I carry strange and lots of people still ask me during my fifth month whether I am pregnant.  I am convinced it's because I gain so much weight, that I just look fat, not pregnant!  But in any case, I was standing in front of the magazine aisle at Wal-Mart looking for a car magazine, or a woodworking magazine for my husband as a small surprise.  (We were on a tight budget!)  This gross guy walked up and started chatting with me.  At first, I thought, "This is weird.  Why is this guy spending so much time talking to me?"

Then it dawned on me: he was hitting on me!

I immediately blurted out, "I am happily married!"  I spared him the embarrassment of pointing out that I was also pregnant.  But when I left Wal-Mart, I had a smile on my face.  I might have gained lots of weight.  I might have been wearing my big old baggy, ratty CAMOUFLAGE maternity pants and a huge t-shirt.  My hair and makeup might not have been done, but this guy thought I was attractive enough to hit on me.

In the years since my Wal-Mart encounter, I have had gas station attendants (frequently for some reason!), grocery store checkers, and lots of random strangers tell me I am lovely or ask me if I'd like to go out with them.  I am never, ever interested, but I am almost always flattered.  I assume most women will chime in here and tell me it's awful that I feel this way, but if I'm being honest, I like it when the guys with no chance give it a try.  It helps to know that even if I am already committed for life to the best guy in the world, someone who isn't obligated to say so thinks I look nice. :-)

(Caveat: I do not appreciate, nor do I approve of any lewd behavior or language.  I am talking about guys who are just trying to get some attention in a non-disgusting, derogatory or threatening way).

When is the last time someone gross made your day?

Exercise Guilt: Fat or Flat?

I have heard women say they have guilt about NOT working out.  I am the opposite.  My guilt is about (possibly) working out too much.

And let's be clear here: I have a lot of guilt over parenting.

I'm not a crafty mom.  I don't do decorations very well for parties and such.  I yell too much.  I literally count the minutes down the last fifteen minutes before bedtime and I get exponentially more grumpy after bed.  Every little ding bugs me more and more.  I let my kids eat junk too much and I don't make dinner enough.  I don't do family home evening as often as I should.  I spend too much time on myself.  I don't make it up to do lunch with my two school aged kids nearly as often as I should and I have never been a "room mom"!

I know a lot of other parents have guilt, too.  One of the things I have felt worse and worse about is that I work out almost every morning.  I have two daughters who are still at home.  (A three year old and a two year old.)  I work out almost every morning and I feel selfish because that hour and a half (workout and shower time) is time I could be spending to be crafty mom, or nutritious mom, or teachy-mom, and on and on.

I worked out like a nut when I was single.  I worked out with Whitney (husband) when we first got married.  After I had Eli, and Whit was in residency, we didn't feel good about putting him in the gym care so I worked out only when Whit was home--so not often.  I did it as much as I could after Dora, too, but it wasn't a lot.  Once Whit finished with residency, and we moved to Texas, we got a home gym and I began working out while my baby napped.

Once I had baby four, I would let baby three stay up and watch a TV show while I worked out during baby four's nap time.  About six months ago, I started letting both stay awake while I work out.  Because baby four (my now two year old-Amethyst) doesn't like to watch TV much, we have a play doh table the girls play on every single day, and my baby Tessa puts on gloves and pretends to work out with me a lot, too.
























I understand there are some benefits for my kids that I work out.  I am in good shape and can stay active with them.  I teach them the importance of physical fitness by my example.  I am happier and in a better mood when I have worked out.  But of course, there's a flip side to that.  I get grumpier when I miss my workout, too, and sometimes snappy when they interrupt me too much, which they do a lot!

I guess my question is whether I am justified in working out almost every day.  Or should I scale it back to less?  You wise, experienced moms out there, do you look back and wish you hadn't worked out as often?  That you'd spent more time on healthy meals, prepared more crafts projects, taught them more?  Instead of spending as much time on yourself?  Or do you wish you'd spent more time working out and less on other things??  I am very aware of how fast the little ones grow up.  I see them just getting bigger every second and I think that is what started this entire line of thought.  When they were all tiny, I carved out time when I could because I was just in survival mode.

This week I have no wisdom to share.  Only this question for you moms on the other side (and for those here with me, too): if you could go back, would you spend less time in the gym and more time with them?

Lingerie for Men

Warning:  I promise this is not my new thing, but some feedback last week has resulted in a follow up post.  Sensitive subject matter follows, one last time. 

Since my last post, I have had dozens of women thank me, and several men grumble.  It is as though they missed the point of my post last week entirely.  They seem to think last week's post was intended to somehow to justify a woman in saying "let's chit chat instead of being intimate."

Which means they completely missed my point.

If you think last week's post was for women (which is totally wasn't), this one is for men.   I have heard several men over the past decade complain because women have lingerie to encourage men, but men have nothing comparable.

That's just not true.

Let me explain why this seems true.  Women differ from men, anatomically speaking.  Did you see the cartoon movie "Up?"  If you did, you will recall there are dogs in it with speech boxes.  They will be talking and then BAM, they see a squirrel.  At that point, they drop whatever they were saying or doing and yell "Squirrel!"  They completely drop their train of thought or plan of action because they see something that derails them.  Men are much like those dogs.

Yes, I'm talking to you and yes, I'm comparing you to a dog.  Because it's true.

Men are much more immediate than women.  That's the crux of why, when your wife tells you about her crappy day or her big problem, you don't get that she wants to wallow.  She wants empathy and to be understood.  You, on the other hand, want to present her with a solution and watch her beam at your general awesomeness.  When you try to solve something she already knows how to solve, she's upset for two reasons.  First, you aren't listening to her, and second, she feels patronized that you think she can't figure out how to solve it herself.  Women think, feel, and ruminate, and they crave validation, usually emotional validation.  Men act.  It's a generalization, but it's founded on a basic principle: Women consider while most men just do.

This is also true in the bedroom. For a man, his desire (or lack thereof) to be intimate is all about the last five minutes. For a woman, it's all about the past ten hours. Or even the past several days.

Guys, for better or worse, your lingerie is not found in a store or a box.  It's a little harder to put on than ours is.  Sorry, but it's true.  If you want the lady in your life to want you more often, I can promise you that she will--if you follow my advice.

Men's lingerie is spelled like this: Love Her.

The difficulty is getting her to believe you.  Saying the words is nice, but most women need more.  They want you to show them you love them.  I mentioned the five love languages last week.  This week, I'm giving you some homework, my friends.  Go find out what primary love language your lady love speaks, and if you're smart, figure out her secondary language, too.  If you want her to want you, show her that you want HER, and not just when she's wearing lingerie.  Show her you want HER, with her frizzy hair, and spastic jokes, and covered in baby spit up.  Show her you appreciate her and I promise you, this will have the same impact on her that her black lacy teddy has on you.

Also, because I know guys can be a bit lazy, I will sum up the love languages here, briefly.  I'm worried that if I don't at least gloss over them, you'll never go do a search for them.  Essentially they outline five ways to express love.  1. Acts of Service, 2. Physical Touch (save it, seriously, not like that), 3. Gifts, 4. Quality Time, and 5. Words of Affirmation.

1. If your wife craves acts of service, vacuuming the family room really could get your partner in the mood.  (Not if you tell her you're doing "her work" as service.  That will surely land you in a fight! but if you show her you're trying to help do your share of the household tasks... then yes!  Sometimes it's all about your attitude.)   Seriously though, every single time you do something she has asked you to do, or you do something you know she needs to get done (maybe she has a list on her phone), you are telling her you care about her.  You are telling her she matters to you, and guess what?  You will matter to her in return.

2.  If your wife loves physical touch, then hugging her, holding her hand, or touching her face will all show her you care.  Do it ALL DAY.  Don't just start five minutes before the kids go to bed, or worse, five minutes after they are in bed.  Show her all day that you cherish her, and you want to be around her, to be near her, to be touching her.

3. If your wife loves gifts, let me promise you, ten small gifts are WAY better than one big one.  It's not the value of the gifts, but the message you're sending.  You can make these, by the way.  My husband makes me things all the time.  It means even more when it's something he spent time on, instead of money.

4. If your partner loves quality time, put. your. phone. down.  Don't pick up that kindle.  Don't turn on the dang TV.  Talk to her!  Listen to her.  Tell her what you want to do next week, next month, next year.  I swear you will marvel at how she opens up, how she beams.  Bonus points if you plan some kind of activity that she loves and you don't.  She will know you are doing it just to spend time with her.

5. If your spouse's primary or secondary language is words of affirmation, you have the easiest task of all.  You already love her.  Now you just have to tell her why!  If you struggle with talking, do it in writing.  If you're bad at writing, leave her voicemails, tell her in person, text her.  Do not try to get fancy by googling poems or using a thesaurus.  Just be direct and honest.  Tell her all the things you love, not just physical ones.  You love how she moves.  How she sings, how she dances, how she cares for others, how she cares for you.  Be as specific as you can.  Thank her for things she's done, tell her you appreciate her and exactly why you do.

Women burn slowly.  Think about a pot roast.  Yes, I'm comparing women to meat.  If you buy an inexpensive cut of meat, and you plop it down in a frying pan, and try to cook it as fast as you can, it will be gross.  Seriously, you won't be able to choke it down.  (Harking back to last week, you might come to resent it...)  But if instead, you put it on low heat and you simmer that meat all day, at the end of the day it will fall apart on your plate.

Men, put us on low and cook us all day.  Show us you love us.  "But we're at work," you say. "What can we do?"  You can text your wife and tell her you love her.  (See #5 above.)  You can make her a card that has her pictures of her favorite things on it. (You've hit #s 3 and 5 with that one.)  You can pick up a Dr. Pepper for her on the way home.  (#3)  You can kiss her on the way out the door, and you can hug her on your way in.  Then hold her hand during dinner.  (#2)  Or you can put your phone away during breakfast and dinner. (#4)  You can pick up groceries or dry cleaning or drop the kids off at school, or you can do the dishes.  While you're at the store, grab her favorite pack of gum.  (#s 1 and 3)  Look, fellas, really it's all about thinking these things through.  You can find ways to do this within a budget and in a time frame that fits you.

Ultimately, don't forget that you have the biggest thing in the world going for you: she loves you and you love her.  Just remember, for a woman, it's a marathon, not a sprint.  Now go get those running shoes on and start stretching.

Not tonight, Honey

WARNING:  I really really try hard to write things that are appropriate and will not offend many people.  This post addresses sensitive subject matter.  If you offend easily, please do not read it.  

Sometimes you just don't feel like having sex.

We have all been there.  Maybe you have a headache.  Maybe you're sick.  Maybe you just plain aren't in the mood.  Sometimes this feeling lasts a day.  Sometimes a week.

Sometimes it persists longer.

When I was pregnant with, well, every single kid, actually, I got really really sick in the first (and into the beginning of the second) trimester.  Like, the I-want-to-die-rather-than-having-to-stand-up, or-think-about-eating-anything-even-crackers kind of sick.  I have a friend right now who is in that exact spot.  She is right in the middle of her first trimester with her first child and she is sick as a dog.  Her body is working overtime growing a tiny human and her hormones are all over the place, and unsurprisingly, her libido is non-existent.

She is concerned about her husband.  He hasn't been complaining overtly, but she can tell he's hoping this dry spell will end soon.  She is concerned enough that she asked some of her female friends what she should do, hoping for some helpful advice.  The advice fell into four main categories:

1. Tell him to take care of it himself.  (Her husband does not want to.)
2. Tell him to try porn.  (Her husband does not want to.)
3. Tell him to deal with it. (Her husband is currently doing this.)
4. My friend should just do it, even though she doesn't want to. (She dreads the idea of this.)

After talking about this with her, I felt strongly enough about the subject I could not stop thinking about doing a blog on it, despite the sensitive nature of the subject matter.  I finally decided that with a problem this universal I could not just stand by and allow the advice like my friend received to be the only thing floating around in the blogosphere.  

Here is my opinion.  As aforementioned, I have certainly had a day here or there where I wasn't in the mood, or I had a headache (yes, it's cliche, but true nonetheless.  Hey the classics work because they're true!)  There have been days in a row where I was tired, or overwhelmed, or stressed or sick.  I have had weeks and weeks where I was sick as a dog from being pregnant.  I can relate to my friend's problem.  I believe it has most likely been your problem too, kind reader, at some time or another, and I mean that whether you are a man or a woman!

So what's my advice?  You know, the advice I apparently think is soooo much better than the advice my friend was getting elsewhere.  It's simple.  And I will get to my advice soon, but first I am going to tell you why the advice she received was so gosh darn awful I practically couldn't stop myself from losing it right then and there.

1.  Masturbation: Telling your husband, "I can't honey, I feel too sick, but go take care of your needs yourself" is a terrible idea.  It might seem easy to just say that.  It might seem tempting.  There are all kinds of inappropriate jokes people make on this topic.  The media will tell you it's so common that everyone in the world does this.  The point is this: sex exists in a relationship to bring two people closer together.  If you tell him to buzz off, you are sending two harmful messages.  The first is that you are not in this relationship anymore.  You think he should go "deal with things" himself. On his own, because you aren't a team right now.   That is bad anyway you slice it.  You are pulling away from him when you should be relying on his support.

The second harmful message you send is that your husband needs sex like he needs to eat.  Or that he needs it like he needs to breathe.  That is patently untrue.  Obviously it's untrue: you aren't having it, so why does he need to?  The answer that "he's not sick" is not acceptable.  If you're sick you may need medicine, but your basic human requirements remain the same. You still need to breathe, you need to eat, you need to drink.  The thing that needs sex is your relationship, not your husband.  It's healthy for the two of you, when done together, and it strengthens your bond, but society has sold us a lie when it says men, or boys, or people need  sex like we need food or water or air.  It's a lie that excuses all kinds of things and leads to the absolute worst advice of all time... see below.  Think this through though.  If you buy the lie that your husband needs to have sex, then there is a major slippery slope.  What if he "needs" it more than you?  What if he "needs" things you don't want to do?  Then is it fine for him to go to someone else, to other places?  Where do you draw the line?

Bottom line: this is not a need.  You relationship will suffer without nurturing but there are other ways to nurture it when you are sick or uninterested, as I will address below.

2. PORN?  I mean, really?  There were not one, not two, but SEVERAL people who gave my friend the advice that she should just "give him porn" if he doesn't want to take care of things himself.  GOOD GRIEF.  If this is not the worst advice for this situation anyone could have given in good conscience, I can't think of anything to top it.  In my mind, this is like saying, "Oh your husband is tired at work?  Well, give him some cocaine.  That will really perk him up."  Umm, no.  He will get addicted, and it will cost money, time, and probably ruin your relationship, and maybe get you tossed in jail.  And it damages your body.  All of those things are true (or in the jail-time realm, true-ish, because soft porn leads to hard porn, leads to the illegal kind... but I digress) of porn as well.  DO. NOT. EVER. ENCOURAGE. ANYONE. YOU. LOVE. TO. DO. PORN.

In case my capitalization and my periods confused anyone, my message is this: do not ever suggest your husband, or your wife, or your kids, or your friends, or even your enemies should do porn if your libido is down.  It ruins lives.  It destroys relationships.  It will end yours.  Trust me when I say it is a horrible, degrading, evil idea.  It's not a harmless, "everyone does it" kind of thing.  But the main reason it is an awful idea here is that my friend's husband is basically telling her he misses her.  Turns out, my friend misses him too!  Usually whatever it is (in this case, a tiny fetus) that is making YOU not want to have sex, is probably impacting your partner as well!  I am hinting at my solution here, so I will stop and instead say that if your partner says, "I am feeling distance.  I want us to be close, and I want to be with you," but you feel pressured by that, the worst thing you can do is toss him a magazine or video and say "Go pretend you're with someone else."

Because he might actually do just that.  

3. Telling him to "suck it up" is about as close to the right answer as anyone got, or at least it does the least harm.  So I guess it's the best of the bad options.  It's where my friend is right now, and it has left her feeling guilty and badgered, despite her husband's best intentions not to do that.  On the flip side, he is feeling unloved and alone.  The problem with saying, "suck it up" is that you are thinking only of your own feelings.  You're thinking, "Gosh, I don't want this.  I can't deal with it, why are you wanting something from me that I don't want or can't give."  Your partner is thinking, "I love and miss you and what we had.  What's going on?  Why can't we get back to where we were?"

Telling him (or her) to suck it up basically sends the message that things are hard and you only care about yourself.  Like I said, that's the best of the options she was given, but if you're sick for a long time, or in this particular instance, when you have the baby, things will continue to be hard.  And if you have more kids, lather rinse and repeat.  If you tell them to suck it up, they may be sucking it up for a veeeery long time.  And the longer it goes, the more hurt feelings, and the more resentment that can exist.  Their love for you will not be nourished.  That has far-reaching ramifications.  There is a better way.  Just one more bad one to refute before I elaborate on my suggestion.

4. The idea that my friend should just suck it up and have sex when she doesn't want to is on par with the first option, or perhaps worse.  This is a very, very, bad idea.  As I have previously mentioned, at the very least, sex is a barometer of a healthy relationship.  It's not that every single good relationship has a robust sex life and every bad one has a dwindling one.  I'm sure there are terrible ones with very active sex lives and great ones with terrible sex lives.  I'm merely saying that in general, a good sex life is one way to measure whether a couple is happy.  That is true because it is a great way for a couple to connect.  It is also something couples do when they are feeling connected.  In that way, it is both the cause and the effect.  

To tell my friend to do something she doesn't want to do is going to have the reverse impact of option three.  She will resent having to do it.  She will take something that should be creating joy and trust between the couple and instead create resentment, frustration and anger.  In the most extreme end of the spectrum, it might even create feelings of disgust.  If this happens once, or twice, in an otherwise happy relationship, it's probably just a blip on the radar.  But if it happens over and over, say every week for three months, or six months, or nine months, this can destroy your entire relationship.  This is potentially poisonous to any couple, if one person repeatedly does something they don't want to do because they think the other partner "needs" or demands it.  DO NOT RISK your marriage over this.

Now for my suggestion.  It's so simple.  Now you will all think, "lady, you wrote a whole blog on this?  Seriously?"

Let me tell you, people do NOT take this advice on their own very often.

Talk to your husband about it.  Talk to your wife about it.  Every day.  Tell them how you're feeling and why.  Then you both tell the other person you love them.  If the lack of desire goes past a few days, keep talking about it and come up with a list of some other things you can do instead to strengthen the bond between you.  This list will vary widely by couple.  I know that my husband loves to go shooting.  I don't love this activity, but when I am physically able to go (not third trimester!) I could go do this and I don't hate him.  I don't resent doing it, but he knows I care enough about HIM and what he likes to do it with him.  Here's the kicker: even if I do hate it, and resent doing it, I am hating and resenting an activity that didn't formerly bring us together.  I am not ruining something that used to improve our relationship.

If you are struggling to come up with ideas for things you can do, here are a few ideas.  If you both like to cook, make meals together.  If he just misses touching you, let him give you a back rub.  If you aren't familiar with the "Five Love Languages", go look them up and take their free test right now.

Figure out what means love to your spouse and do things that will feed that love while your libido is down.  My biggest love language is acts of service.  So if my husband ever wasn't in the mood (yeah, right!) he could do some act of service for me to show me that even if he doesn't want to have sex right now, he still loves me.  (Conversely, if I'm not in the mood, he can do something for me then, too, or I can do something for him.  This goes both ways.)

If you aren't in the mood but your husband's love language is words of affirmation, sit down and tell him all the reasons you love him.  If his language is physical touch, you're thinking DARN!  I can't win!  But no, for people who crave physical touch, there are so many other avenues.  If you are being open with each other, you can find those.  Let him give you a back rub.  Sit with his arm around you.  Snuggle up next to him and hold his hand.

The key here is for each of you to show the other that you still love them, that you're still connected, and that you still care, even if one of the primary ways you would normally express that is off the table.

So my advice has two components:
1. talk talk talk talk talk about it.
2. find other ways to express your love for one another so you keep growing together.

That's it!  No porn.  No masturbation.  No sucking it up by either of you.  You two are in this together, high and low, hard and easy.  Don't forget that just because life has thrown you a curve ball.  Curve balls will just keep coming, over and over, faster and faster and you need to be ready to catch them and move on.  Just make sure that whatever you do, you do it together.

To my LOVE on Valentine's Day--You're the reason we're here at all

I have been on a diet for the past few weeks.  I check in every January and lose any weight I gained during the prior year.  I had six pounds to lose this year, so I have been trying to limit my calories.  If you know me at all, or even if you just read my blog, you probably know I LOVE cookies.  Love is probably not a strong enough word.  I obsess over cookies.  What with my diet and all, I have been missing them.  Okay, again maybe not strong enough.  I've been thinking about them, dreaming about them.  Imagine my surprise and delight when I found a recipe for cookies with only forty calories in each cookie!  It was basically mashed up bananas, a dash of applesauce, a few handfuls of oatmeal and some raisins.  I substituted chocolate chips for the raisins because, I mean, really.  The reviews were honestly all so positive, I got my hopes up.

Even with my substitution, they were still disgusting.

Okay that might be a little dramatic, but they failed my basic test for a good cookie.  To be a success, the cookie absolutely must taste better once it's done than the ingredients taste when eaten individually.  I would definitely have preferred to eat a handful of oatmeal, a banana and some shriveled up grapes to these very disappointing blobs.  (I now refuse on moral grounds to refer to them as cookies.)

Speaking of synergy and grapes... one November many years ago, over a bowl of (non-shriveled up) grapes, this tall, cute, kinda nervous guy came over and introduced himself.  It took guts, it took daring, and in all the chaos of that night, I almost forgot about it.  Then, a few days later, that same gutsy, tall guy got my number from a friend and called me up to ask me on a date.  No hemming, no hawing, no, "let's hang sometime."  Just, "will you go out with me on Friday?"

I said no.

I had plans, so I asked for a raincheck.  I am soooo lucky he didn't just hang up.  When we did go out, there weren't fireworks.  No bands played.  There weren't even any singing frogs.  In fact, it was pretty ordinary.  We went to dinner at my favorite restaurant, and we talked.  He suggested we go walk around a bookstore and I knew he was a smart guy.  Because bookstores are (aside from cookies) the real key to my heart.  I am kidding.  Sort of.  

From that rather ordinary beginning, we have created something extraordinary, and I owe it all to him.

Some days I am frazzled.  Some days I am really, really frazzled.  Some days I throw myself down on the floor and cry because things are hard.  But every single day of our marriage I have been better, happier and felt more loved because of him.  Unlike those diet blobs, Whitney and I are better together than we are apart.  I will now pay him the highest compliment I can think to pay:  he is one hot cookie.

How can I describe to someone who has never met Whitney what a joy he is to me?  Or how he single-handedly made our family something special?  I think I have one photo that sums him up, at least to me.  He hates this photo because it shows that his hair was thinning on top.  I love it, because it was spontaneous, and completely unfettered. (Also, he looks hotter now without any hair than he did when we met with a full head of hair.  So there.)

This is a photo of him dancing in the moments after our first child was born.  You can see his joy for life, and the absolute abandon with which Whitney T. Baker loves.  He took a poor little broken brat, who had been in a miserable marriage, who had then mucked around, not quite sure how to make a beautiful family, and he was patient.  He glued me back together.  He sanded me down.  He glued me again.  He waited and then he painted a little here and a little there.  He sat out my tantrums and patiently waited (or should I say waded? haha) through my issues.  I don't know what I would have been without him, but I am so glad I never had to find out.

I recall this one moment, a few years ago, when I took a moment and just looked around my life.  I saw my beautiful home, my adorable and beloved children, my fuzzy animal, my loving family, and my handsome, funny, supportive husband and I just felt this overwhelming feeling of serendipity.  Somehow I lucked into meeting and attracting the attention of this man.  A man who swoops in and does anything I need, without complaining.  This man who earns a good living, is humble, is kind, is sensitive and who really listens.  This man who cares about people, who gets up with kids, who changes poop, who takes care of my sick babies and who will give up anything and everything for me and his family.

Honestly, I have seen a lot of guys fall short of Whitney, and I have thought that I must be the only woman in the world who is quite as lucky as I am.

But lately, in the last few months, I've been blessed to see quite a few friends whose husbands have done similarly impressive things.  It makes me so happy to see other men who have supported their girlfriends or wives, cared for them, and cherished them in much the same way that mine does.  I have come to believe that although guys like this do not promote themselves, maybe Whitney isn't totally alone in always doing the impossible.  Maybe I'm not the only one with a husband who is always there for her, who is the rock of their family.

Valentine's Day has always been my favorite holiday, right after Christmas, because I adore the idea of having a day to celebrate all the love in my life.  (Also, I love pink and I love sparkles, and that's sort of the Valentine's day theme.)  I love my God, my husband, my family, my friends.  I love America, and my pets, my opportunities.  I love reading and writing and I love singing and crafts.  I love TV, swimming, cooking, working out.  I love a lot of people, a lot of places, a lot of things.  I love celebrating all the joys that make up a very happy and blessed life.  I see Valentine's as a corollary to Thanksgiving but less about food and more about living.

As I think about all those people, and places and things that I love, they all come back around to Whitney.  When my faith in God has waned, or I have wavered, he was there to steady me, to bear his testimony and to buoy me up.  When my frustration with our kids has gotten out of hand, he helps me relax, and see the beauty.  When I need a break from kids, he gives me one.  When I am happy with them and smiling and full of joy and wonder, he is there with me, soaking their little personalities in right alongside me.  When I need to do something for myself, like write or do legal work, he supports me in that.  When my family needs help, or his does, he is there, doing it, cheering me on, getting things done.

With all my talking and even with my chronic surfeit of words, I don't think I could ever articulate quite the right ones to encompass the depth and the breadth of the love and appreciation I have for the joy that Whitney brings me, just by being the man that he is.  He has taught me what love is: a verb, an action, a dedication to something and someone.  He is as steady as the moon, and yet, like the moon, he is always changing.

On this happy heart day, I would encourage you to share with me, with that person, and with the world the joy you have in your Whitney.  Tell him (or her) that you love them, and why.  Don't get hung up on the flowers or the fancy-ness of the dinner venue.  Put your phones down and look around at the world.  Talk about what you want to change (together) and what you appreciate that you've already built.  And I would love to hear about the one you love, and how he is (almost) as fabulous as my Whitney T.

I don't usually include photos, but here's one of me and Mr. Perfect from our family photo shoot not long ago.  I am so grateful for this man, and the choices we made that have led to our family!

Happy Love day!

Bridget

PS- If you forgot to make reservations someplace fancy, you can join Whitney and I at the Waffle House.  If you're lucky, there will still be room.

I am a failure at being a SAHM (Stay at Home Mom)

Today was going so well.  My husband is working a 24 hour shift so I was all alone, but I still managed to get the two big kids off to school.  I got all four kids fed, groomed (okay, you caught me, I didn't brush Dora's hair.  I think I miss that more than I catch it.  I have no idea what her teacher thinks of me...), but I think everyone had something to eat and that's the important bit right?  The big kids even had long pants and coats on, which I consider to be a miracle.  (For some reason, even on cold days those kids HATE putting on pants and fight wearing coats as though I'm trying to brand them.  It's baffling!)

I'm not saying there weren't setbacks.  I forgot to put up the dog blockade and Foxy pooped on the stairway to my craft room, aka, that stupid dog's favorite potty spot.  Dora spilled a full bowl of cereal on the floor.  Emmy peed through her pull-up and onto her clothes.  Blarg.  These things happen.  I kept calm and I carried on.

Then after I got the big kids off to school and all the messes cleaned up, I folded laundry.  I picked up.  I cleaned from breakfast.  All the while, I was playing with kids.  My two year old was "helping" me with everything and I was so patient.  Patient.  Patient.

Really, you would have been impressed.

Then I had a friend come over, a brilliant, beautiful, talented friend named Liz.  Like me, she has four children.  Her youngest is only three months old, but she got them all over to my house, also all groomed and fed, and right on time.  We played with the kids, got them all situated and then managed to complete a one hour workout (in about two hours, but we finished!)  We blew bubbles for the kids.  There were no cheetos handprints on my sofa or rug.  There was no blood spilled, and there weren't too many tears.  A success!

After Liz left, I fed my kids lunch.  I cleaned the kitchen.  I blew more bubbles for the two little ones.  I put the baby down.  I got some legal work done while Emmy played quietly with toys.  I got some emails handled.  I navigated neighborhood drama.  In general, I rocked it.  After the baby woke up, I got laundry put away, more laundry folded (is it just me, or does it never ever ever ever end??) and the house looked amazing.  When Tessa woke up, we sang the numbers song from sesame street, we sang the alphabet song, we blew more bubbles.  We colored, we played with playdoh, and I cleaned all those things up.

In general, I was about the best SAHM in the world, second only to Liz.

Then the kids came home.  I was still amazing.  Hugs, support, love, listening to their day.  And then we started homework.  Groan.  They didn't want to do homework.  They saw the stupid bubble container and wanted to blow bubbles of all things.

But wait, Eli always does all his homework on Monday so he is homework free for the rest of the week, and this is a Tuesday.  We suffered through everything last night so tonight would be fun!  Dora rarely has more than a worksheet and two books to read, so tonight should be easy, pain free.  Except, since we'd been gone the entire week before on a family vacation, we discovered Eli had done LAST week's makeup homework yesterday and we were essentially reset to Monday.  Double blarg.  Spirits were uncharacteristically low for a Tuesday afternoon, I won't lie.  There was more blathering about the bubbles.  I was in the middle of helping Dora read, and spell her sightwords aloud, and complete THIS week's worksheets, when Emmy demanded my presence upstairs.  Tessa insisted I sit with her and requested I stop talking because she was trying to watch a show in the iPad.  I helped Eli, I helped Dora, I calmed Tessa, I mollified Emmy.  I fielded phone calls.  I was generally amazing.

After all the agonizing mess was over, I ignored another bubble request and made the requested dinner.  Pancakes with fresh strawberries and scrambled eggs.  Dora helped me set the table.  All four kids were in the kitchen, spending time together, Tessa eating strawberries, Eli making jokes, Emmy jabbering incessantly, as is her wont.  

I have no idea where things went wrong.

My best memory of where things went south is that somehow, Eli discovered he had yet another task to complete.  Something about drawing the moon.  He was whining and terribly sad.  Tessa was furious about something to do with the stool.  I have no earthly idea why Emmy started screaming, except that perhaps she felt left out.  Only Dora was being good.  And then she pointed out that someone had knocked over the very large, very full bottle of bubble soap.  The very bottle that a dozen kids (yes, I know the math doesn't work because I only have four, but I am telling you, a DOZEN kids asked me about those ridiculous bubbles!) had asked to play with.  It had poured all over the counter.  On important paperwork, down the cabinet, into drawers, under my kitchen mat and was just a disaster, generally.  While I tried to see to that, the pancakes I had poured burned.  Tessa decided to ignore my very clear and oft repeated instructions and move her stool over to where she could "help" by placing her fingers on the hot griddle.

I am sorry to admit that I completely lost it.  As in, collapsed on the floor into a pathetic puddle practically sobbing that I hated my life and didn't want to do this anymore!  How had my day collapsed so completely?  Eli ran to his room crying.  Pancakes and little fingers burned, soap everywhere, eggs getting cold.

Utter and complete disaster.  See?  I told you I'm a failure as a stay at home mom.

This all got me thinking.  Why in the world would anyone choose to stay at home with their kids?  I the past seven years, I've been slobbered on, boogered (as in, had boogers wiped on me.  Why is this not a real word?), peed on, pooped on, and puked on.  I have run 9,465,785,001 loads of laundry.  I have changed almost as many diapers.  I have filled landfills with my diapers, because I am a failure and use disposable diapers.  (Yes, I hate the earth and want to see her go down in a pile of stinky, non-biodegradable poop wraps.)  I have been screamed at more hours than I could possibly count.

I'm a lawyer, for heaven's sake.  I went to school for years, I worked for years, I'm bright and talented.  I write novels and I'm hoping to one day publish some of them and become horrifyingly rich and disgustingly famous.  I gave up a promising career and a boatful of dreams to feed and clean and feed and clean and feed and clean and also, to wipe snot.  What was I thinking??

If a genie in the bottle came to me and offered me the chance to take it all back, to focus on me, to fulfill my potential and make different decisions, ya know what?  I might be tempted to revisit my choice to become a Stay at Home Mom (SAHM).  I might be tempted to say, "Umm, I think six weeks maternity and then right back to the world of the adults who speak and think and pay me money and tell me I'm fabulous (okay, at least some of the time), please."  I might be really, really tempted.  On days like today, I might close my eyes and imagine a big blue genie coming and offering me that very thing.

But ultimately, if it did happen, I would choose my life, exactly as it is, every single time, over and over, again and again.  Even when I'm a failure.  Even when an outside observer would think I was clinically insane for doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome.  I would choose to leave the life where I focused on all the things I could make for myself and give my life, at least for now, over to my kids.

Why?

It's precisely because I'm a failure that it's so important for me never to quit.  God didn't send me here to Earth and make me a mother of four so that I could fail and then never try again.  He knows we will make mistakes.  Every single parent does.  The important part is that you wipe the bubble soap up, toss the charred pancakes, use a potholder and stand on a stool and wave it in front of the fire alarm until it stops moaning, and then wipe your kids' tears away.  Get up and try again.  Try harder.  That is what turns me from the biggest failure to the greatest success.  It is precisely my failure that makes my ongoing effort worth something.

I have read so many blogs about feminists of varying philosophies who lambast SAHMs for leaving the workforce, for staying home with their children.  Guess what?  I'm a feminist too.  I believe women are every bit as good as men.  I believe we are worth every bit as much, we are just as smart and should be just as valued.  I also believe being a mother is a Divine Calling, not just a job.

I am not saying that women who choose to go to work are wrong, or evil, or selfish.  Not at all.  What I love about our present day is that we all have CHOICES.  I am also not saying that men can't be wonderful primary caretakers of children.  Of course they can, and they frequently are!  Bravo!!  (Of course, in our situation, my husband makes more than I could, so it makes sense for me to be the one who stays home with our kids for now.)

When I meet someone new, they usually ask the following question early on: What do you do?

I'm tired of feeling embarrassed about saying I stay home with my kids.  I usually mention that I am a lawyer, that I work part time, that I write novels, and I am hoping to be published.  As if somehow, those are more legitimate, more valuable, than raising children.

The absolute truth is that at my core, the most valuable thing in the world to me is my children.  Taking care of them, raising them, is the very best and most impressive thing I have done, to date, and I'm far from finished.   My biggest and most important dream is to care for them, to teach them, to protect them, to raise them and to help them become the best person they can become.  I will do that until my dying breath, not until they turn 14 or 16 or 18 or 28.  It's what I was taught by my mother and it's correct, being a mother never ends.  One day, I will have a lot more time to pursue other things, but for now, this greatest goal takes up the lion's share of my time.  

In society today, the value of the person raising a child has been reduced to the cost of daycare.  Basically, if you could put all four of my kids in daycare for $800 a week, well, that's what my "job" as a SAHM is worth.

That is wrong.

I'm going to repeat that in case it didn't sink in.  That.  Is.  Wrong.

It's as wrong as saying you judge people by their skin color, their age, their clothing, their speech patterns.  I am not just keeping my kids from dying.  I am not just making sure they have something in their bellies.  I am teaching them proper nutrition, I am teaching them how to treat people, how to live.  I am instilling integrity in them, and I am trying to tattoo into their very beings that they are loved, they are cherished, and they are valuable.  That is not something you can put a price tag on, and it is not to be taken lightly.

So now, when you ask me on the street, in church at the kids' school party what I do?  I will look you in the eye and say, "I stay at home to raise my kids."  I may be a failure, but I am a failure who keeps getting back up and trying just a little harder the very next day.  Unlike the insane person banging her head against the wall, some days I wake up and I see enormous leaps ahead.  I do the same thing over and over and I do get different results.  Some days, things are easier, better, more wonderful.  I love those leaps.

If you aren't a SAHM, please do all women the favor of respecting that what we have all fought for is a choice: we aren't wrong for choosing to leave the work force to raise our children.  We aren't less than you and we aren't setting back the cause of equality for women.  We are living that cause every day, by choosing where we find our value and our place.  Please do us the favor of supporting our decision.  Keep blazing your trail for any of our little girls who decide they don't want to stay home, or for any mothers who aren't financially able to do so.  I am so grateful for all those amazing women out there who are working hard outside of the home.  I am also grateful for the moms I know who work like dogs at a chosen career and then come home and work even harder to be wonderful mothers.  The one who comes most clearly to mind is my dear friend Jennifer Charzewski.  She is a fantastic human being, a beautiful mother and a talented architect.  I mean you, and any other working moms, absolutely NO disrespect.  I love you.  I am grateful for you keeping that option open.  All I am trying to say is that SAHMs do not deserve your disdain.

If you are a SAHM too, keep on trying, even when you know you are a complete and utter failure.  Don't let anyone make you feel like what you are doing is not the absolute best, most impressive, most important and divine thing you could be doing.  You are a shining light, even when things feel dark, I promise you that.  

Update: When my husband is working all night, I let one of my big two kids sleep in with me. It's quite the treat for them. Last night was Dora's turn. We usually wake up around 6:45 am to get ready for school, but Eli (my seven year old) always wakes up around 6 and comes downstairs and unloads the dishwasher and gets his school bag ready, as part of his daily chores. Anyway, this morning, I heard my door open and Eli walked around to Dora's side. No one said a word. Dora got up and walked out and they closed the door. I checked my phone, assuming it was around 6:15 or so. It was 5:30. 

I was super annoyed he was up so early, and that he woke up Dora, but I figured if I went to fuss at him, I would either wake up the two babies or not be able to sleep anymore myself, or both. So I made a mental note to ream him about it later and rolled over. When my door opened again at 6:15, it was my two big kids with a tray with cereal and yogurt and grapes and a few pieces of candy. They said they wanted to make me breakfast instead of me making it for them. They had already eaten themselves, gotten dressed and unloaded the dishwasher. They were trying to pack their own lunches, which would have been great if they'd included anything other than snack and dessert items.  

Even without success on the lunch packing front, it was probably the single sweetest thing my kids have ever done for me all on their own. Eli did most of the heavy lifting I think, but he did acknowledge that the whole thing was Dora's idea. Don't I have the sweetest kids ever? I think this was one of the "leaps" I was talking about above, and it came right after my significant failure.