Obligatory Post.

You know, just so you know I'm still alive and all.

I am. Quite happily so, I might add. We're busy doing all the lovely things that come with Christmas... today we are making gingerbread houses and playing with toys newly acquired from our busy Sunday afternoon that included gift exchanges with both sets of Grandparents. Entertained children are happy children, which makes for a very happy Mama.

I'm also gearing myself up for a big dinner come Christmas Eve afternoon... with guests a plenty and heaven help me, enough food for everyone. (please, oh please let there be enough food!)

So all is well in the MommyJ household... I hope that you are enjoying a lovely, most wonderful holiday week. I expect I won't post again until after the new year. I hope not because I plan on having far too much fun to work in a blog. Love you all...

(comments off. I mean, let's be real. We're all busy, aren't we? Go make some cookies or something. :))

Bits of Nothing.

Last Sunday at church, Lucy slipped her hands on to my belly and said, "Mommy! Your belly is HUGE!!"

Oh, thank you dear sweet child of mine. Good thing she never saw me what I was pregnant with her and her massively giant twin brother. In my last month of pregnancy with them, I silenced an entire McDonalds just by walking in. People pointed. People stared. People whispered behind their hands. I wish I were exaggerating. There's a picture in my archives somewhere... taken a week or so before I delivered. I'm bigger than my television set. I think I just got a new stretch mark from thinking about those days.

I'm not so big this time around, but apparently still big enough to elicit exclamations of wonder from my children. It's still fun though... the three oldest are old enough to sit with their hand on my belly long enough to feel a kick. It's awesome to see their faces and realize that they sort of "get" this whole baby growing thing. They are also more tolerant when I say things like, "No, I can't carry your fifty pounds to the car just so your feet don't get cold. Baby in the bellly, remember?"

Instead of begging and pleading like they normally would, they generally surrender and go and put shoes on. Because you know, wearing shoes and coats in the middle of December is SUCH a novel idea.

Does anyone else have coat battles with their kids? My oldest insists that he does not need a coat. Ever. It's twenty degrees outside and he's wearing a t-shirt and he argues with me about whether or not he needs to wear a jacket to school. I've finally convinced him that if for no other reason than to spare my reputation as a mother, he has to at least carry his coat to school. That way, his teacher won't think I'm neglecting the basic needs of my children. This has always been a problem with Jordan. When he was in kindergarten and would sneak off to school without a coat, they would send him down to the lost and found bin when they went outside for recess, since he wasn't allowed to play outside without one. Why he preferred this to actually taking his own coat to school, I have no idea. I half expected a letter around Christmas time letting me know  Jordan had been selected to receive a nice warm winter coat from some nameless charity.

Silly little stink. I think he thinks he's invincible.

I knew another kid like that once. Many years ago, we lived in an area that was close to an Indian Reservation. Many of the church members in our ward lived on the reservation. One little girl in particular had a great deal of pride in her heritage. In Sunday school one afternoon, I felt our classroom was particularly chilly, and I asked if anyone else was cold. This sweet little girl, ten or eleven at the time, folded her arms across her chest, looked me straight in the eye and said, "I'm an Indian. I don't get cold."

I still smile when I think about her.

So what have we covered? My belly is big, my children are silly, Indians don't get cold, and the world keeps turning round and round. I'm so glad that today, I could contribute to the tremendous wealth of useful information floating around the blogosphere.

Judge not, that Ye be not Judged.

A few years ago, a sweet and energetic young missionary started her mission in our little tiny branch here in the secluded mountains of North Carolina. She was excited about the prospect of meeting others, of teaching the Gospel and ministering to any who were willing to listen. While I believe her heart was in the right place, a few things seemed to be holding her back.

One Sunday in the hallway, she bounced up to me and asked me what part of Utah I was from.

I smiled and shook my head. "I'm not from Utah," I replied.

"You're not?" she asked.

"Born and raised right here in these mountains," I said. "Did someone tell you I was from Utah?"

She smiled. "Oh, no. I just assumed you were from Utah because you're pretty."

Huh. Talk about a backhanded compliment. If you know anything about me, you know I'm very proud of my southern heritage. I love where I live... the culture, the people, the flavor of the south. I wasn't happy with the implications of her remark.

What I FELT like saying was, "Wow. So where does your bigoted idiocy make you from?"

But I didn't do it. It would have been just as ridiculous a remark as her own and I've never been one to try for intentional obnoxiousness. And really, what good would it do for her to think that the folks of North Carolina are not only ugly, but mean too?

(Note that I am not denying any cases of unintentional obnoxiousness. That seems to follow me everywhere I go and while I've often tried to disengage myself from such an identification... it clings to me like dog hair on your favorite black pants. But I don't seek it; not on purpose, and certainly not by sparring with Sister missionaries.)

For the short period of time this sister served in our area, she continued to struggle. Her disdain for the people, for the smallness and sometimes lack of functionality of our branch was obvious. I hope that wherever she served next, she was able to learn to love the people, regardless of appearance, color, or fashion sense. I hope that she was able to realize that a person's need for the Gospel, or ability to serve therein has nothing to do with how one looks and everything to do with how they feel.

Judgement is an ugly thing. It hurts to be judged and even worse, I think it hurts to judge wrongly and then realize opportunities or friendships lost because of our own shortsightedness. We can pin people into categories and by so doing, completely miss the person that they really are, the magnitude of what they might be able to offer to us, to others, to everyone.

When all we see is too southern, or too slow; too fat, or too thin; too old, or too ignorant; not capable, not willing, not pretty, we miss what's on the inside. And though it sounds cliched, it's what's on the inside that counts.

Truth be told, my little tiny mountain branch is a little quirky. We are an imperfect branch, full of imperfect people; people that have never lived anywhere but right here in these mountains. People that have been to college, and people that have not; simple people, complex people, pretty, not so pretty, fat, thin, and everywhere in between. But among those people, in all their diversity, are people that when faced with challenges and overwhelming obstacles, steadily put one foot in front of the other and live the Gospel. There are people who when they have nothing, give everything to serve others, to serve the Lord. This branch has taught me much about love and sacrifice and those lessons didn't have anything to do with appearance.

Many years ago, a different missionary was called to serve in the town where I grew up. The first few weeks after his arrival, his "southern" jokes were relentless. He spoke of toothless rednecks, refrigerators on porches, and hound dogs on every front step. He was harsh, to say the least.

One day, my mother, also southern-born and proud of it, backed him up against the wall and said, "Elder, are you planning on baptizing anyone on your mission?"

"Absolutely!" he energetically responded.

"How do you plan to baptize people you don't love?" my Mother asked.

Chagrined, humbled, this particular missionary went on to serve an outstanding mission and I believe wholeheartedly loved the people here when he went home.

Stereotypes are judgments too. Redneck. Yankee. Utah Mormon. Valley girl. They limit us, keep us from being people, individuals that can serve and contribute. They keep us from being ourselves, and from loving others for who they are, instead of for who we think they are based on judgments.

So we should just stop. The end.

Sister.

I have one. And she is awesome.

She keeps me sane, keeps me functional, keeps me laughing.

She tells me when I'm being an idiot. She validates me when I'm not. She tells me when clothes are ugly. She tells me what kind of jeans keep my butt from looking like an SUV.

She finishes my sentences. She knows what I mean. She doesn't care if I call her twenty seven times in one day, because the next day, she'll call me just as many.

Every single day I'm happy that I have her.

Which is why I am so completely thrilled that one day, when Lucy is all grown up and wants to wear a terribly awful purple and orange lace-trimmed sweater to her husband's office Christmas party, she'll have a sister to tell her she should never EVER do such a thing.

Because sisters can say that sort of stuff.

Yay for a baby girl!!

Back to Biology Class

A conversation about twins:

Nice woman stranger (or, for future reference, NWS): "Oh, are they twins?"

Me: "Yes, they are."

NWS: "But wait, they aren't identical, are they?"

Me: (While thinking that I would probably rather shoot off my toes one by one than have this conversation yet again) "Um, no. They can't be identical. One is a boy, and one is a girl."

NWS: "Oh, and well, now that I look at them, one has blue eyes and one has brown eyes.

Me: (right, because eye color has always been more definitive than gender) "Yep."

NWS: "So if they aren't identical, then they are...?"

Me: "Fraternal twins."

NWS: "Now wait a minute. I have a friend that has twin daughters... they don't look anything alike. One is short with brown hair, and one is tall with black hair. I know they aren't identical... but since it's two girls, would they be Paternal twins?"

Me: (what?!?) "Um, no. They would still be fraternal twins. I don't think there is any such thing as paternal twins... Fraternal twins can be two boys, two girls, or one of each, like mine."

NWS: "Oh. so why are some identical?"

Me: (this explanation has never gone well) "Identical twins start as one egg, and then the egg splits. Fraternal twins start as two seperate eggs that are fertilized seperately... siblings that happen to be born at the same time."

(I really don't enjoy talking about eggs with total strangers... I'm always surprised at how little is known about the interworkings of reproduction. Maybe babies really do come from the cabbage patch? But how else do you explain this concept?)

NWS: "Eggs?"

Like I said... babies come from the cabbage patch.

*Originally posted in April of 2008. Lucky for me any and all conversations about twins have ceased because Sam and Lucy no longer look like they are the same age. Lucy is a good inch or two taller than Sam and outweighs him by seven or eight pounds. Now, everyone just assumes I had them really close together. Which is fine with me if it turns off the flow of ridiculous questions.

Brush Strokes

Half way through church on Sunday, I was weary and overwhelmed and not really in the mood to be sitting alone with four squirmy children. When Sam stole a book from his brother, eliciting a howl right in the middle of someone's heartfelt testimony... a howl loud enough to be heard three counties over, I nearly lost my cool. After the difficult morning we had had, it was just enough to push my tolerance over the edge. I scooped up the offending child and hightailed it out to the lobby. It's where I felt like being anyway.

My husband, aptly tuned to the not so pleasant energy radiating from his wife, left his seat on the stand and came to my rescue.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Sometimes," I said, "it just seems like you can never do enough. You have all the right conversations, all the right family home evening lessons. You teach children all the principles you think they need, and yet, they still have moments when they are evil and rotten and completely irreverent and disrespectful. i wonder why I try so hard."

And in that moment, I did wonder. I was tired and overwhelmed and completely disheartened when it came to the challenges of my children. Josh hugged me reassuringly and took Henry, leaving me to a few minutes of blissful quiet. I sat and pondered the efforts we make with our kids, the desire we have to turn them into respectful, responsible adults. I wondered if I was the only one that often feels like efforts are fruitless, progress barely visible.

When it takes twenty minutes to get children calm enough to listen to scripture reading for five, is it worth it? When eyes are opened after family prayer to find one child standing in the middle of his family, dancing to imaginary music, intentionally oblivious to the fact that a prayer was being said, is it worth it? When church meetings are constantly disrupted by one child or another, is it worth it to keep going back?

And then, I thought of David A. Bednar's words, given at General Conference this past October.

"Brush strokes," I thought. "All our efforts are brush strokes."

He said,

"In my office is a beautiful painting of a wheat field. The painting is a vast collection of individual brush strokes - none of which in isolation is very interesting or impressive. In fact, if you stand close to the canvas, all you can see is a mass of seemingly unrelated and unattractive streaks of yellow and gold and brown paint. However, as you gradually move away from the canvas, all of the individual brush strokes combine together and produce a magnificent landscape of a wheat field. Many ordinary, individual brush strokes work together to create a captivating and beautiful painting.


Each family prayer, each episode of family scripture study, and each family home evening is a brush stroke on the canvas of our souls. No one event may appear to be very impressive or memorable. But just as the yellow and gold and brown strokes of paint complement each other and produce an impressive masterpiece, so our consistency in doing seemingly small things can lead to significant spiritual results. "Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great," (D&C 64:33). Consistency is a key principle as we lay the foundation of a great work in our individual lives and as we become more diligent and concerned in our own homes."

I then thought of a training session for seminary and institute teachers I recently watched with Sister Julie B. Beck, General Relief Society President of the church. I remember her saying that we don't have to be perfect. The Lord doesn't expect perfection. But we can have precision. We can be precise in doing the things that He has asked us to do... in making the effort to be consistent, and build positive habits in our homes.

Perhaps when my children are grown, while they might not remember any one particular session of family prayer, or the specific words read in family scripture study, they will remember that it happened; that everyday, we tried.

I cannot be perfect. Of that, I am certain. But I think I can be precise.  I can keep making brush strokes, hoping that in the end, I'll be able to step back and see something beautiful.

Has Facebook killed Christmas Cards?

Last year, I didn't send Christmas cards. Mostly because I moved on December 6th and was sort of busy settling into a new house. It was a good excuse, so I ran with it.

I was thinking, this year, I really ought to send something out. I'm not a Christmas letter kind of person... more of a simple photo and some genuine merry wishing. Nothing more. But then I thought, if people are Facebook friends, they've seen all these pictures I could include on a card. Many others are Facebook friends that also read my blog, so they not only have seen the pictures, but they pretty much know that I'm good, my family's good. We're good.

I don't want to be lame and just say "Merry Christmas" in a status update, but at the same time, it's SO much easier to keep in touch with everyone now. Christmas cards are not the only time you can see updated pictures or find out if someone is playing a new instrument, driving a new car, or loosing all her teeth. Long distance friendships have become instantly gratified what with all our networking and status updating...

So, I'm torn. I'm thinking I have a handful of non-computer savvy aunts/uncles/grandmothers that should probably still get a Christmas card... but is the expense worth it for everyone else?

Share your thoughts. How are you handling Christmas cards this year?

A true Southern Gentleman.

I grew up in the very southern state of North Carolina, and have always been proud of my southern heritage. I love the slow drawl of a really good southern accent (think Dolly Parton, or, if you know me, my Dad), and I love the goodness and the generosity of the culture. Another thing you find in bountiful quantities in the south is religion... good, honest, church-goin people that are always willing to give you the food off their tables or the clothes off their backs. What you don't find a lot of in the south, is my religion. Mormons are somewhat of a mystery to most people. I was one of four or five Mormons in my high school - the only one in my graduating class. I had many friends who were very considerate of my beliefs and understood that while not traditionally Protestant, I was still very much a Christian. And then, there were those that considered it a personal mission to help me see the "light". I often found notes in my locker urging me to turn away from darkness, repent, and accept Jesus.

Ummm, thanks. Already done that.

The thing is, it didn't really bother me. I was very comfortable in my Mormon skin. I knew what I believed, I loved what I believed, and though it very frequently made me different, and occasionally left me standing alone, I didn't mind.

That's why when Brad shared with me how he felt about my faith, all I could do was laugh. I wasn't technically dating Brad. He was 16, I was only 15, and not yet allowed to date. But we were participating in the proverbial "going out" and had a very committed relationship of maybe 10 or 11 days. After spending the day with his family at an antique car show, we were riding home in the backseat of his parent's car. Brad was very, very southern. His slow drawl made it that much more charming when he took my hands into his, looked sweetly into my eyes and said,

"I don't want this to affect our relationship J, but I think you're going to Hell." (when reading, be sure to pronounce Hell as Hey-ulll... we must be true to his dialect, and it's funnier that way too.)

Okay, so you still want to be able to date, and hold my hand and snuggle in the backseat of your parent's car, as long as I understand that you think my soul is doomed to everlasting torment?

Right then. So sweet of you.

I laughed out loud as I scooted myself far into the corner of my own seat. I mean, come on... did he actually think I would stick around after he said something like that?

"Oh please. Kiss me again. Then we can discuss my damnation even further."

I don't remember the details of our breakup, except that I was not, in any regard, heartbroken. I can only hope that in all my wisdom of fifteen years, I was at least able to handle the situation in a manor that did not contribute to his ill opinion of Mormons. Seriously though... what a novel approach to dating. He should teach a class: Wooing with Biblical Insults. I can see it going really far.

*This blog entry was originally posted in May of 2008... back in the day when four comments was a lot. So. I'm recycling. Hope you enjoy.