parenthood right now

Right now parenthood involves lots of conversations about Daniel Tiger and many rounds of hiding under a blanket and saying, "Where am I?"

Parenthood is reading books and transitioning out of board books and into legitimate picture books.

Parenthood is baking cookies together and sharing the beaters. It's negotiating how many more bites to eat and enduring meltdowns when dessert is a mere two bites out of reach.

Parenthood is trying to teach toilet autonomy and the concept of privacy. It's cheering over correctly pulled on underwear and conceding when it comes to picking out what shirt to wear.

Parenthood right now is also in a specific phase of motherhood, when while being the dinner negotiator I'm also growing a new babe, a phase of continuous multitasking.

This part of motherhood is in its final weeks, and means an increasingly achy body. It means having to be so many things I don't feel I have the energy for. It means simultaneous and overwhelming physical and mental exhaustion.

Right now parenthood is full of apprehension about how our family will change when we go from three to four, uncertainty about how I'll adjust, and concern over how my relationship with my sweet boy will evolve.

Parenthood is full of hefty doses of tears and belly laughs, usually all on the same day. It's cuddles and hugs, discipline and instruction. It's full of prayers, spoken and silent and sometimes desperately cried.

Right now parenthood makes me feel inadequate and empowered. It's full of contradictions that fall into place, even though I won't ever understand how. It's full of mistakes and triumphs, grace and growth. It's beautiful and messy and I wouldn't go back and choose any other life.

on thinking differently

I certainly wasn't surprised at the SCOTUS ruling last week, and I also don't believe that every governmental act needs to align with my own personal values. That's one of the things that makes this free country so beautiful, that we are free to think differently.

But that's also what concerns me most about the Supreme Court decision. I'm not worried about same-sex marriage, but I am worried about how I will be able to express my own personal dissent in future. I'm worried about how schools will teach my children about this moment in history. On Friday my social media feeds were flooded with celebration--which I do not object at all--but it also contained noticeable doses of snark, gloating, and derision toward those who disagree with the principles at hand.

I've written before about my feelings regarding sexuality and marriage (see here and here). While I cringe over the tactless and unkind expression of my stance from my adolescence, I have spent the entirety of my adulthood seeking to find a balance between defending values and doctrines that are important to me and still treating everyone with kindness and compassion.

My opposition to same-sex marriage does not stem from hate or bigotry; rather I understand gender, sexuality, and marriage differently. I don't expect others to share that view, and that's why I'm not sulking about or bemoaning last week's historic court ruling. I understand that we all come from different places and that I can't expect people to see things the same way I see them.

So when I see posts and links that ridicule my sacred books, marginalize the opposing side, and throw around accusations of bigotry, I hurt. I hurt because I know how hard I've worked to find balance and kindness and understanding. I know how much I've thought about why I see matters differently and how much I've strived to cultivate empathy in my heart for those with whom I disagree. And I also know that not once has anyone come to me to ask how I see things, how I understand these essential tenets of personhood and love.

Because I do have a differing approach, one rooted in doctrines of my faith that, if discussed, could at least give explanation to an opinion that's too often labeled hateful. If I ever express my views to someone on the "other side" it's because I volunteer them in a medium like this one, not because any individual actually sought out a discussion of understanding. Perhaps liberal tolerance isn't always as far reaching as the media would have us think.

I don't want to argue or debate--I want only mutual understanding and respect. For those of you celebrating this ruling, I encourage you to celebrate because that's your right. We all should feel comfortable to rejoice when values close to our heart are validated, especially when it happens in such an official and public way. But please don't be a sore winner. I have to believe that mutual kindness and respect really are possible in an environment wherein disagreement is inherent. I have to believe that this country can continue to afford me the freedom and safety to think differently. I have to believe that even with all that makes us different from one another, that there's a world in which we could all shout from the rooftops that love wins.

cracking the case

I think I've put my finger on why my posting has dwindled so dramatically this year. It's not like I feel that I owe anyone an explanation about my posting (or lack thereof): I honestly wanted to know why my brain has rewired itself to the point where I can hardly think of things to write about. And recently I figured it out.

First I actually have many things I can write about. Writing is how I process emotions and events and thoughts, and I need it. But these past several months I've felt this pull to be more private with my thoughts and my family. I can't exactly explain why I feel this pull, and I don't plan on making this blog private; but that shift in my mentality has obviously affected what I write about and when I write about it.

Lately my mind has been full of dreams and prayers. I've been focusing more on what I want for me and my family and less on what others may expect from me. I've felt the gravity of my role as a mother and the importance of my role as a woman and a friend. I've been refining my relationship with God and figuring out who and what He wants me to be. So it's been a full year, even if I haven't shared as much of it with you as I have in years past.

Life is so good, and I'm so happy to be living it (though I may not post much about it right now). Thanks for sticking with me, even when I withdraw. For now, I'd expect posting to be about the same as it has been: minimal. And I'm realizing that minimal is okay right now. Life comprises a million and one seasons, and right now I'm in a season that calls for less blogging and more present living. You understand. I'm positive a long and prosperous writing season is in my future.

So merry Christmas, and I hope your holiday is as lovely as I expect mine to be! Christmas with a lively toddler is bound to be both magical and exhausting. I'm off to live it!

an Easter walk

This morning I pulled out the stroller and took the boy on a walk with me. (We did this last year too, so maybe now it's a thing?) We walked around our little neighborhood listening to the birds and feeling crisp, fresh air on our cheeks. We saw fuzzy dandelions coated in a thin layer of frost and tulips blooming with abandon. We walked mostly in silence. We walked and noticed the spring and thought about Easter.

Every Easter morn I feel a stirring in my heart. It's unsettling, yet familiar, a stirring that reminds me of my own humanity, weakness, and humility. It's a stirring that makes all my expressed gratitude insufficient, because the gift He gave me is so momentous, so all-encompassing, so intimate, that nothing I could ever say or do will ever be enough to express those raw feelings in my heart. Every Easter I wake up with tears close to the surface, because without Him, I'd have nothing. Because of Him, I have everything.

Because of Him, I have my family, and because of Him my family can be eternal.

Because of Him I can start over again and again and again.

Because of Him I can feel love.

Because of Him I have answers, and because of Him I have purpose.

Because of Him I can remake myself each day.

Everything good in my life--my husband, my son, my people, my friends, and even books and tulips--I have because of Him. He is everything good.


The sun rose this morning over my neighborhood, that same sun that rose that morning Mary found the tomb empty. The sun that melts the frost today is the same star that lit the days of our Savior. Every Easter my heart is tender and raw and full, because I know that He--Jesus Christ, the literal Risen Lord--is everything.

#BecauseofHim

the word on the street

We had Sesame Street on this morning, and on every episode the Muppet Murray gives the Word on the Street. Today we learned about habitat. So, today on the blog, the word on the street is habitat.

I've spent all week spring-cleaning my habitat. I'm talking decluttering, wiping down, dusting, vacuuming, mopping, exhausting cleaning. Today I worked on the kitchen. And I'm beat. (Perhaps the Sesame Street viewing was part of a larger effort to distract the resident toddler from my cleaning out the fridge, the worst of all the chores.)

Spring cleaning is hard work, but I can't say that I hate it. Because here's the thing: I like my habitat. Love it, even. And I love taking care of that habitat.

I love all those small handmade gifts collected and cared for over the years.

I love my new mantle and the seasonal vignettes I get to put together.

I love the decorations I've made and the ones I've found at Target.

I love the vacuum lines on carpet, however fleeting.

I love throwing out the unnecessary so I can better enjoy what I have.

I love filling my home with meaningful and intentional stuff. Not pointless stuff, but me stuff.

I love those small things like the sparkly burlap placemats I found on clearance at Homegoods and that refrigerator magnet of my sister and me from ages ago.

I love my habitat even in its mess, because messes like this mean that my habitat is both lived in and cared for.

I especially love that I share my habitat with this little man, because seriously, he's the cutest kid I've ever known.

I also love sharing my habitat with Josh, even when it means that lone socks in the couch are ever-present in our habitat.

I love that my habitat is a reflection of my people and is a place where I feel close to my roots.

I am looking forward to next week when the spring cleaning will be finished, because that will mean that I can finally get back to my sewing machine. (Oh, sewing, how I've missed you!) For now, though, I'm okay with the work and the sweat. Because the thing is that having this habitat at all is a great blessing, and I'm not about to squander it.

catching the vision

Gracious living is on my mind almost all the time: am I a gracious mother today, a gracious wife, a gracious friend, a gracious sister and daughter? Am I gracious in my church responsibilities, in how I interact with others, especially those who need what I have to offer?

Lately, I've really caught the vision of gracious living: it's an all-encompassing way of life, a way that transforms your heart and person. Living graciously means a dying of self so that we can be remade through the Savior, our ultimate example of graciousness. And all of that giving and focus and sacrifice is really hard. So yes I've caught a portion of the greater vision of gracious living, and yet I sometimes feel so overwhelmed by it. And I feel that now I have a grasp on that greater picture that I have a greater responsibility to live it. Yet living that beautiful vision of gracious living is nigh impossible, for grace is perfect and I am most certainly not.

So I've been trying to find balance: The balance between catering to my introvert spirit and reaching beyond my comfort and energy when needed. The balance between doing all I can to help another and knowing when my offering is enough. The balance between living my best and not stretching beyond what I can do. The balance between doing what God asks of me and running faster than I have strength. The balance between trusting God and trusting myself.

I truly believe that I will be empowered and given unknown energy and strength and capacity when I reach beyond myself to fulfill heaven-sent responsibilities. But how do I know when I need to take that leap and when it's okay to say no and tend to my soul as I see fit? How do I know when I'm being wise or selfish? Those are the questions in my soul of late. And I don't have articulated answers yet. I've been searching and praying and seeking, hoping that my striving heart can find a surer place of understanding in that glorious vision of gracious living.

my village

When Josh and I went to DisneyLand, Asher stayed with Josh's parents. The day we left, however, his parents were working all day and we had to be at the airport mid-afternoon. So I arranged for Asher to stay with a friend. When I dropped him off, my throat choked up and my eyes welled with heavy tears. This was the first time I'd ever been apart from Asher for more than a few hours, and I was nervous about it. And though I was nervous, in my heart I knew my boy would be just fine. Because Josh and I aren't the only ones who love him. As I worked to gain control of my tears, I told my friend how much it meant to me that I had a place where I felt 100-percent comfortable leaving my son. It means the world to me that I have people in my life whom I trust with my lifeblood. That's no small thing.

I used to hear the It takes a village to raise a child adage and think it meant that every adult needs to be the parent, and I don't think that one kid needs a million parents. But since I've been a mother, I've realized that the village isn't there to be a parent--it's there to support the parents. The village is there to welcome my children and love them and be their friends. It's there to love me and support me and listen to me. And I'm a part of the village so that I can help and listen and love. I'm a part of the village because it's the only way I can give back to those people who love me and my family. The village thrives on reciprocity, and boy, it's a beautiful system.

I have many friends here whom I can call when I need childcare or a listening ear or an inconvenient favor. This village is full of many homes who welcome my son and my husband and myself without a second thought. And I have so many friends here for whom I would do anything. And that willingness isn't rooted in obligation, but in love. The village isn't there because I'm an inadequate or lazy mother--it's there to help me be the mother I want and need to be. It's there because we were never meant to raise children all alone. The village is there because it's one of the best systems for learning how to both give and receive love. The village raises the child, because it also raises the mother.

I used to think that I didn't need the village, but I was so wrong. I need it, and my family needs it. We need to serve and be served, love and be loved. And doesn't everybody?

"an educated woman"

That's what my grandma called herself: an educated woman. About five years ago I spent eight hours recording my grandma's personal history, and after she died I transcribed her story and made it into a book for the family. At the very end, she made a point of telling me that she even though she didn't have much formal schooling, she was an educated woman. And she was.

I love this. My grandma had to work to help provide for her and her mother, and because of this my grandma never finished high school. She never went to college. She never had a diploma of any kind to frame and display. But she was educated--she was a lifelong learner. And that's what I want to be too.

{via}

Doesn't that just make you excited? It does me. And that probably makes me a little nerdy. But nerdy is in now, right? Right. It's the thing to listen to podcasts, read both fiction and nonfiction, and watch PBS and BBC documentaries. Learning is cool because it's available. What a waste if we didn't take advantage of all those opportunities to learn and educate ourselves. Especially as a mother of a young boy, I tremendously value the countless ways I have to be a lifelong learner.

Someday I'd love to go back to school and pursue a master's degree. That's a dream I truly want to see realized. And if I'm super honest, it's not going to happen super soon. Most of our education won't come from the classroom and can't be represented on a diploma. In my personal history, in that story that I leave my posterity, I want them to know that I am an educated woman. Lifelong learning leaves a beautiful legacy, and I'm going to make it happen.

short years

Sometimes I get advice from well-meaning empty nesters telling me that someday I'll miss these days of chasing my toddler down the hallway at church. In these encounters I muster a fake smile and say, "Yeah, I'm sure I will." But really I know that I won't miss every single part of my children's childhoods. And that's okay. What I do know, however, is that the years really are short. That particular piece of parenting philosophy rings bittersweet truth.

I took this picture yesterday, and it struck a chord in my heart. I don't know what it is about this image exactly, but I think this is one to keep forever. Is it his stance, his hair, his perfectly sized tennis shoes? This photo captures such a person.

Why, it was only a year ago that Asher slept with his blanket over his head and would correct it were Josh and I ever to interfere. It was only a year ago that Asher had no teeth, could barely sit up, and took three naps a day. I may have plenty of frustratingly long days, but boy, are the years so short. And that realization snaps my perspective back to a place of sweetness bordering on melancholy. 

Tomorrow marks one year since my cousin's daughter, Ayla, passed. So while Asher may be inexplicably clingy with rationale beyond my understanding, today I smile at the arms wrapped possessively around my neck, the toothy grins of recognition, the infectious giggles, and even the meltdowns on the kitchen floor. Because these long days pass, and someday we won't be the keepers of their childhoods anymore, but the guardians over our own experiences within their childhoods. When Ayla died, I thought I should feel guilty for being so happy with my own son. But it didn't take long for me to see that the best way to remember Ayla and love her mother, Julie, is to live and enjoy and love.

So today I resolve to infuse more love into my long days, so that the short years don't rob me of the small perfect imperfections that grace this beautiful life.

why I don't like sun in January

It just sounds absurd, doesn't it? To not like sun at any time of the year. But it's true. January sun is not my thing. It never has been. January is made for melancholy days, and melancholy days aren't always the worst. Cloudy skies give me permission to stay inside myself and ruminate and enjoy the most simple of pleasures. January is for recharging, drinking hot cocoa, reading books in the afternoons, and watching all those wonderful BBC shows. I muster enough motivation to do laundry, make simple dinners, and clean up in Asher's wake, but I don't expect much in the way of excessive productivity. I don't force creativity, but embrace it when inspired. I enjoy the blankets and early sundowns and chilled afternoon walks.

{via}

When the sun breaks through, I feel like I need to be adding more to my to-do lists, because don't we all know that we need to make hay while the sun shines? On sunny days I feel guilty for preferring the indoors and making cake that I will inevitably have for breakfast the next day. In January I allow myself quiet moods and try to let go of those things that aren't urgent. January sun is more of a bully to me than a friend, and I welcome those protective clouds that keep my world at bay from that bigger world.

Some--perhaps even most--of my readers welcome January sun as a happy teaser of what's to come in later months. But for me, I'm not ready for spring in January. I'm ready to hibernate, just for a few weeks. And when February comes around I'll be more open to that sun, because the sun will glisten instead of intrude. In January I prefer to seek out sun--and all the productivity and motivation and purpose that come along with it--on my own terms. And if I don't seek it, that's my business. Coming off the holiday high, by January I'm just not ready to be at 100-percent. And that's okay.

January, as much as I sometimes loath the month, is cyclical, and for the first time, I'm realizing that I like this seasonal cycle. I like having one month to dedicate to slowing down and steeping in my thoughts and plans and moods. So January, keep your clouds because they make me feel safe and validated. Sun, your turn will come soon enough.

things I wish I'd said

The day after Christmas, Josh and I made a visit to some of our friends. These friends actually live in Las Vegas, but they are currently taking up residence at the Denver Children's Hospital for treatment for a high-risk pregnancy. This child is their first, and barely a month ago, they received a startling diagnosis for their baby boy. Both mother and babe underwent surgery right before Christmas, and for the foreseeable future, the hospital is "home."

Josh and I made this visit a priority, because we could hardly imagine what kind of a Christmas our friends must be having. We sat down in the playroom at the Ronald McDonald house next to the hospital and chatted and laughed and asked clinical questions about their son's condition. It was a pleasant visit. Despite the smiles and laughs, though, I could still sense our friends' shell-shock at what they'd been thrown into only weeks before. I could see the underlying fear, the fatigue, the helplessness. And there were things I wanted to say to them--to the mother--and didn't. So here I am, late at night, writing out those things that I wish I'd had the gumption to say in person.

A mother's heart changes your soul entirely. And it doesn't even matter the type of mother you are: one with a newborn, one with twins, one with a passel of school-aged kids, one battling infertility, one with an angel babe, one with teenagers, one with children grown, one with a high-risk pregnancy. Mothers' hearts wield fierce power for love and connection.

So when I see one mother hurting, I feel a small portion of that hurt in my own heart. And I don't feel for them, but with them. The soul of a mother can connect with the souls of other women in beautifully empathetic ways. I believe that women's capacity for empathy can have the power to lighten our burdens, because if other women agree to take upon themselves a portion of another's fear, uncertainty, or sorrow, then maybe--just maybe--the full brunt of the pain is lessened slightly for the woman hurting. A mother's heart is capable of sharing pain, so that no one has to be alone. A woman's heart is capable of carving a unique path of access to the Savior's grace.

I may not have experienced a high-risk pregnancy, as my friend currently is. And I certainly don't want to make any insensitive or thoughtless claims about things I haven't experienced. I will be bold enough, however, to say that I can understand that the emotions involved in such a situation must be intense and all-consuming. I can't have perfect empathy, but I can use what experience I do have to generate the best empathy I have to offer.

I can feel with her because I know the love she must have for her son. I know the love she has for her babe can't be unlike the fierce love I harbor for my own boy. I love my son so passionately, so thoroughly, so openly that my heart is spread wide. My heart is so vulnerable, so open to injury that it sometimes frightens me. Because I will never go back to that person I was before Asher entered our lives. My motherhood has changed me forever, and my friend's motherhood has changed her. And readers, that is a scary place to be sometimes.

I wanted to tell my friend that she's not alone, because her life is full of women who will choose to feel with her. Our hearts are primed for connection, and imagine the good we could do if we choose to connect and feel and even hurt for others. So friend, when you read this, know that I wanted to say more and I'm sorry I didn't. When I heard about your son and the pregnancy and the surgery, my heart ached. I know what it's like to care so deeply and passionately for a babe, so much that you feel helpless. I may not have experienced what you are experiencing, but I too have a mothers' heart. And that connection carries with it marvelous power for good. Our prayers are with you, your husband, your babe. And I'm sorry that I didn't say this sooner.

a celebration for the believers, and even for those who only want to believe

What were those days like before Christ came to the earth? What would it have been like to live then? Today we have the Bible, which gives us an account of Christ's birth, life, death, and resurrection. We can choose to believe in words already written. In one sitting we can read the prophecies of a savior and see them fulfilled. We're on the other end of this story. But what would it have been like to live in the beginning?

For centuries before Christ's birth prophets prophesied of a redeemer, God promised to send a messiah. For generations and generations the people of the world heard promises and had to hold fast to them. These people didn't have any proof that Christ would actually come, no due date to mark on the calendar, no app to count down to His arrival--they believed because that's all they had.

{Mary Kept All These Things, Howard Lyon}

For a long time I wondered about the deep spiritual significance of Christmas--I know that sounds really bad. And here's the thing: usually when we talk about the miracle of Christmas, we talk about what the Christ child went on to do after He grew out of the manger. We talk about His sacrifice, His miracles, His redemption. And to me, those pieces of core doctrine--while paramount--are more suited to Easter. Redemption is what I celebrate in the spring when I celebrate the Savior's resurrection. And I know that it's never a bad time to reflect on Christ's grace, but something in my heart always told me that something was different about Christmas. So I ask again: What makes Christmas so special? Because we celebrate the rest of Christ's life on a different holiday.

What would it have been like to finally see the new star signifying that Christ was born? What would it have been like to be the shepherds who welcomed the angel? What would it have been like to be the wise men who traveled miles upon miles to meet a babe whom they merely believed would actually be in Bethlehem? What would it have been like to have been a believer when Jesus was born into this world?

{via}

Christmas isn't necessarily about redemption itself--it's about the promise of redemption, the promise of peace. For centuries--centuries--God promised His children a Savior, and for centuries those children had to believe that it would happen. Millions and millions of men and women died without seeing that promised fulfilled. Some probably even lost faith as they waited. The miracle of Christmas is that God keeps His promises. God keeps His promises. He promised us a savior, and in His own time He sent His own Son to be born among farm animals in a stable. He sent us prophets and signs. It might have been easy for some to doubt Heavenly Father, but He followed through anyway.

Even when we fail, Heavenly Father remains steadfast. His promises are sure, even if they're a long time in coming. Christmas is faith realized, belief proved. Christmas is evidence that our believing is never in vain, not if we anchor our belief in God's promises.

Christmas is a celebration for the believers, and it's a beacon of hope for those who don't believe, but who desperately wish they could. Because it's never too late to believe--that's the message the Christ-child brought with Him. That's the message we can hold to when we don't know what else to believe. Believing is sacred, believing is living. It's never too late to believe.

because it's what we do

Right now, church is the hardest thing I do every week. I'm almost not kidding. We dress up and try to keep Asher occupied for three hours. Three. In our church when kids turn eighteen months old they can go to the nursery for the second two hours. But Asher? He just turned fifteen months. So, three months to go. And from what other moms tell me, I'm in the worst part of pre-nursery days. And it's hard.

Asher is curious, restless, and loud, which is no surprise--he's a toddler. And it's not like church clothes are conducive to baby-wrangling. Every Sunday there's one moment when I wonder why we do this for three hours. Whichever of us has the boy doesn't really get to enjoy lessons or anything spiritually uplifting. When I have the boy during the last hour, I pretty much run out of the building, with Josh trailing behind swinging the diaper bag. So, again I ask, Why do we do this?

{via}

And I guess the answer is simple: we endure those three hours of baby chaos because it's just what we do. We go to church because it's what our family does on Sundays. Attending church isn't even really a conscious decision every week--it's just what we do. And even though it's really hard sometimes, I'm really really glad we do it. Because if I had to consciously decide every single week whether we would go or not, I think I might choose not to go more weeks than not. And I think the consequences of phasing out church in my life would have a much more lasting and negative effect on my heart--and on the heart of my sweet boy--than the consequences of crazy baby-chasing. I believe that in our family, consistently choosing church makes small impressions on his soul every week. And maybe those impressions will mean something big for him later, even if it means I'm crazy-eyed for a bit. 

Good things are often hard things, and sometimes doing good things don't produce immediate results. So we have to remember that they're good and that we should be doing them. Going to church every week is a hard thing right now. But it's also a good thing--a really, really good thing.

Professor Lupin, Mr. Bates, and I

When I saw this infographic floating around, I knew I had to take some form of the Myers-Briggs personality profile. And then I saw this infographic on the Art of Simple, and the need to find my four-letter personality categorization became paramount. Turns out that Remus Lupin, John Bates, and I all have something in common: our Myers-Briggs classification. We're INFJs, which is apparently the rarest of all personality types. (I kind of feel like a tool even telling you this, because I don't want to be "Well, I have a very rare personality," said in a snobby, condescending way, as if it makes me cooler instead of maybe a little weird.)

{via}

{The I in INFJ is for introversion, which I already knew. N is for intuition (over S for sensing); F for feeling (over T for thinking); and J for judging (over P for perception). INFJs are deep thinkers, principled, and intuitive into and sensitive to the emotions of others.}

I share the small INFJ stage with people like Eleanor Roosevelt, Nicole Kidman, Nelson Mandela, and Luke Skywalker. Now I don't want you to think that I'm some kind of MBTI fanatic and that I think everyone can be circumscribed into boxes, but in my research last night about INFJs, I felt like I understood myself better.

{via}

Seeing these INFJ descriptions helped put into words things I already knew about myself. Like how when I think I'm right, I really believe it, and that stems from an innate set of principles and decisiveness. It's why arguments with me can be so frustrating (if Josh is reading this, he'll be nodding his head emphatically!). It explains why I'm so sensitive to others' emotions and why I have a hard time sitting still when I know someone is upset with me. It explains why I can't see issues one-sided and how I can magically reconcile that characteristic with my innate set of principles and beliefs. I feel things deeply and passionately, which sometimes is good and sometimes makes things harder for me.

It explains why I'm not super shy and can often do well at parties but still need and prefer time alone. In fact, INFJs are often perceived by others as extroverts because when they have enough energy capital, they can spend it well in big groups. But when I don't have the mental and emotional energy to handle crowds, I have a really hard time. MBTI explains why I like my research thorough and why I like to know the purpose of things and why I'll spend lots of thinking time trying to figure stuff out.

Understanding my INFJ-ness doesn't excuse any of my negative or destructive behavior, but it may explain why I respond the way I do and why I have an easy or difficult time in certain circumstances. And further research into the Myers-Briggs paradigms may just help me interact more productively with those around me. This is a great post about why it's helpful to know your personality type. I took the personality test found here.

What's your Myers-Briggs type? Do you like personality typing? Which Harry Potter character are you? What about Downton Abbey?

Ayla's Stocking: a post to warm your heart

If you're new to this space, you might not know about Ayla. I've written about her here, here, and briefly here. Ayla is my cousin Julie's daughter, who is almost exactly the same age as Asher. In January of this year, Ayla passed away from bacterial meningitis. This sorrow has affected me and our family in sacred and profound ways. (I wrote about that here.) Her mother, Julie, is a mountain of strength and faith. I can't even begin to tell you how much I admire her.

A couple of weeks ago, Julie announced a project called Ayla's Stocking. Ayla contracted the meningitis just a day or two after Christmas, and so Julie and her family spent the rest of the holidays in the hospital and in hospice. Julie's heart is especially tender for those parents and children who have to spend what should be such a wonderful time in such a not-homey place. She wants to ease the pain of those parents who might never have a normal Christmas with their babes.

{Ayla in her Christmas outfit and Julie}

Julie is collecting small gifts for children who are spending their Christmas in the hospital. Ideas include the following:

:: infant rattles, rings, teething toys
:: gift cards for families to places like Toys R Us, Wal Mart, etc.
:: pajamas of varying sizes
:: craft kits (with enclosed supplies) or small boxes of colored pencils, crayons, markers, etc.
:: musical toys (anything that plays sounds or music, push-button toys, etc.)
:: slippers for children and adults
:: one-size-fits-all stretchy gloves
:: winter hats (in Canada they're called toques!)
:: books (mostly infant and teen)

If you have other ideas, please feel free to donate those as well! I think this is such a beautiful way to remember Ayla, and if you have room to give, please send your gifts Julie's way. She will be donating all contributions to the hospital that treated Ayla.

I will be collecting items to send, and if you're in the Portland, Oregon, area, we can arrange a time for me to pick up your donations, and I will send them to Canada at the beginning of December. If you aren't around Portland and would still like to contribute to Ayla's Stocking, you can email me for Julie's address. (You can write me at charlottejane17{at}gmail{dot}com. You can find Julie's blog here.)

Ayla's life was short, but profound. I know that I will be forever influenced by her brief time here on earth. I am oh so grateful for the Plan of Happiness, which allows us to be with our families forever--Julie will be with her daughter again someday. Remembering the gift of our Savior--the gift of eternal families--is the best way to celebrate this upcoming season. Nothing is more wonderful.

just look at that spaghetti face

So. The morning of the day I took this photo, I mopped the floor. So much for that, right? I guess it comes with the almost-toddler territory. Lots of things come with family territory, like a husband who has to work late.

Josh has had a huge project with a tight deadline this week, and he's run into almost every obstacle possible. It's made for late nights every night. I know it's so hard for him, and it's also hard for me. It's hard to know that you won't have a break from baby responsibilities because your partner won't be there to offer it. It's hard to know that you won't have an emotional respite because you have to keep things together when your sweet baby keeps throwing his food on the floor and crying when you try to feed him peas. 

I hate to complain, though, because so many people have it so much harder than this. First off, hats off to single moms everywhere because it's hard enough for me to make it barely a workweek without regular husband help, and I don't even have to work to support my family financially. All I have to worry about is getting Asher fed and to bed without help--like that's anything to complain about. And then there are the wives of students or of professionals with highly demanding jobs, who deal with evening absences almost daily. I salute you. Most days Josh is home by 6:00 at the latest, so seriously, life is pretty good.

Actually, life is really good. Some days are hard, and some days Josh and I don't get along super great. Some days that spaghetti all over my newly mopped floor is oh so discouraging. And other days are really great. Other days Josh and I are sappy and in love. Other days the spaghetti floor doesn't matter a whit compared with the joy of that spaghetti face. 

The goodness of those other days outweigh the difficulty of those some days every single time.

the seventh day

This is how Sundays make me feel now.

{Instagram post from a few weeks ago.}

Yesterday was particularly hard. Asher made it okay through the three hours of church (which is a lot of church even for adults, much less for an almost-toddler who isn't yet old enough to attend the nursery), but then he crashed during lunch. His nap was okay, but earlier than usual, meaning that he woke up five hours before bedtime. That's a long time to be awake for a one-year-old. And that's a long time for his mama.

So mid-afternoon when I was ready to implode from physical and emotional exhaustion, I proposed that we all take a sanity walk. We walked around Wilsonville for about an hour, and it was bliss. The sky was overcast and the air was a pleasant 65 degrees. I pushed the stroller while Josh walked beside me, and we talked about the Sunday battles and why they are the way they are and why moving to a different congregation has been hard for me (for Mormons, the congregation you attend is determined geographically, so when we moved, we moved into different boundaries). We talked about fall and ventured to say that Oregon falls are our favorite. We laughed as Asher pointed at all the dogs we saw, and we swooned over our boy's winning smiles.

{Instagram post from yesterday's sanity walk}

That sanity walk was exactly what we all needed. Church is good, and attending is a high priority for me, even when it's hard. On those days when it is hard, I think that God gives me some compensation in the form of sanity walks, in the smiles of my babe, and in the hand of my man.

a new week

Last week was not my best. Don't you hate it when you know you're not your best? Even when I don't feel I deserve my best, I know my family deserves it. And that's what hits me hard, when I know that I've allowed my shortcomings to cheat my husband and son out of what they deserved from me that day.

So today I embraced the promise of a fresh start that Monday brings. I made some resolutions and didn't let myself succumb to the lazy. I listened to my babe more so I would know what he really needed today. I thought of ways I can serve those around me, and instead of seeing the drudgery of my day-to-day tasks I found stability and security in them.

Today started a new week, and I am ready for it.

Mr. Wilson, fatherhood becomes you

I sure write a lot about motherhood and how it's changed me, but I don't think I've told you too much about Josh's fatherhood. Today is certainly an appropriate day for that.

Some of my most treasured days of our marriage are those first days after Asher was born. I can't adequately describe the renewed and amplified love I felt for my husband as I saw him love and care for our newborn son. Josh has taken very well to fatherhood; it brings out in him a tenderness and softness I don't think I would have seen otherwise. He's playful and silly, kind, patient, and protective. And Asher simply adores him. I wish you could see Asher's face when Josh comes in the door after work. It's like Asher's whole world just doubled in goodness.

I love how fatherhood has affected my husband. It forges a connection between us that is unique and intimate. As I see Josh with our son, my heart swells and leaps, because he made me a mother and I made him a father. We wouldn't be who we are without each other. Our souls and destinies are forever connected, more than they ever were before his fatherhood and my motherhood.

Happy Father's Day, Mr. Wilson. I love you.

roots, home

I read a blog post this morning about this family's plans to spend a whole school year traveling the world. Ambitious, right? This family has lived abroad before, has moved all over the world. My first thought when reading that wasn't Oo, that would be fun! or I'd really like to do that with my family! Rather it was something like I would never want to do that.

That compulsion to travel doesn't live in my bones. In all honesty, is that anti-desire to see the world up close a character flaw? Because sometimes I feel that it is. I read the conviction this mother has in her determination to expose her children to other cultures and to give them a comprehensive worldview, and I wonder, Is something in me lacking because I don't want that life? I hope not.

What is it that separates the travelers from the non-travelers like me? This blogger and I both value home, family, and learning. But maybe we just go about it differently. My physical home is my haven, and I'd never want to leave it for a year-long globe trot. But there's nothing wrong with wanting to globe trot. I just don't want it for me.

Is it a virtue or a vice that I find contentment where I am, in constancy? I'd like to think it a virtue. Obviously. I believe that my worldview is informed not through geography or cultural diversity, but in other ways, through relationships, storytelling, literature. My perspective is uniquely mine, but I can't imagine that means that a worldview informed by world travel is inherently superior to one fed by roots.

When I really thought about this I decided that I care more for learning about people than I do about cultures. When I ponder on this I come to the belief that people, whether in the Pacific Northwest or the slums of India, have much in common. And I certainly don't mean to say that this writer doesn't care about people, because she does--truly and deeply. I guess our end-games are similar with our road maps different. And that's OK.

I believe that I can incite positive change in the world around me right here in Portland, Oregon. I believe that this home is where I'm meant to be and live and grow and become. My soul doesn't need exposure to all the world cultures to thrive, but perhaps other souls do. Me and my soul require home, roots. I think it's grand that we are all created so different, that our souls all need different things to grow. It makes this world--abroad and at home--beautiful.

Do you travel? If so, why is it important to you? Do you value roots? Do you think that not wanting to travel is some kind of character flaw? Is there something that as a non-traveler I don't understand? I'm legitimately asking here, so if you have input I'd love to hear it. What does your soul need to thrive?