While Brushing My Hair

You know, I was done tidying up the house and put everything--including my computer--to bed, ready to turn in for the night.  As I was brushing my hair my thoughts turned to real thoughts (rather than the annoying to-do-list kind of thoughts) and I just had to open up the keyboard again to write it all out.  Sometimes/Often I don't even know what I thoughts I have until they are out in front of me in black and white.

So, back to my hair.  Earlier in the evening I was going back over old video clips from our first couple years in London, remembering my short post-baby cut.  It was a very short pixie when we arrived in London.  That "mom-cut" worked for me while I was dealing with other things post-partum and in the move but it never really fit me.  The growing out was painful--not literally, of course, but in an aesthetic sort of way.  I liked pictures of me even less than usual and when I would catch sight of myself in a window reflection I had to second glance to know it was me.  Tonight I was brushing it out and realized that it is now to my shoulder blades.  It's been a long time growing, with only three or four evening-up trims in over two years.  I finally feel like I'm me again.  Not that I'm defined by my hair, but kinda.

The funny thing is, I feel like learning to love living in London and my hair being back to normal are related.  They both happened gradually, without me really noticing.  I feel back in myself all around after a few years of feeling a little lost, maybe?  I'm not sure, exactly.  I know that becoming a mom each time had me reeling, dizzily trying to find my footing again.  Only to catch my breath and start again!  And then I grew tired with Boston--not my dear friends, but other things that seemed overwhelmingly tedious and chaffed.  And then the first months in London were rough.  And then I spent the next six months in an even more bleak attitude as unmet expectations and disappointments and seasonal depression sank in.  Motherhood was kicking my butt as children went through some very difficult phases, sometimes in turn and sometimes all together.  Climbed out of all that to find that I--we all--were finding ways of coping.  And then, now.  And now we have been enjoying a golden age as my hair and our life is in a beautiful spot.

Motherhood is perfect right now.  Not that I am perfect--oh, so far from it.  But I cannot help but think that having me (and my hair, apparently) feel like my best self helps.  My body is my own.  While I loved sharing it with a kicking baby inside and a nursing baby outside, I also love having it to myself.  I am less and less afraid of tantrums.  They don't control me.  I am trying to respond less when I feel personally offended and laugh more.  I'm trying to hug more but also respect the space if affection isn't wanted at the moment.   School is a good choice for us currently, with the boys having an outlet besides me and my teaching, and Eliza being my exploring buddy.  We are in a good, good stage of childhood.

City living suits us.  The traffic noise is like white noise, a calm in the background.  Crowds don't bother us so much, or we find places and times that aren't so busy.  The rush of the pedestrian traffic on transportation and sidewalks (the pavement) finds a way around us at whatever speed we are going.  We are managing our expectations and our expenditures better.  Our home is a retreat from it all, and it will always be our home even if I never care for the house.  I regularly walk around a corner and am suddenly arrested by the sight of some cityscape of grey stone and red accents and diverse people.  I can do nothing but gasp in the realization that I am in London, this magical place I get to claim as home for a while.

All this from brushing my hair at bed time.  I guess I am expressing gratitude for a truly remarkable stage of life.  I am fully aware that this moment in time is just that--a brief spell before another era.  I welcome another phase, with its experiences and challenges and blessings.  What's ahead is exciting and scary.  We can only foresee some of the difficult adjustments we'll be making in nine months as we return to America.  We also know that life has a tendency to surprise us.  So maybe a big challenge is tomorrow or perhaps in a year the roughest patch will hit.  I don't know.  I feel that this time is a great mercy for us to get grounded and store up strength.

Simply, I love my family and I love where we are.

And now, with this torrent of thinking out I think I can go to sleep.

Don't Grow Up So Fast

I have eleven more summers with my oldest before he's off and away, the others right behind him before I can even catch my breath or blink.  I want to slow time down at the stage we're at right now.  It's so perfect this minute.  I know more good is ahead, and so much good in past memories.  Even so, the moments today are incredibly precious to my mommy heart.  Here is my weak attempt to make time last a little longer.

Touching

I'm a bit nervous about sharing this train of thought because it gets pretty personal.  If you're not comfortable with too much disclosure, please skip.

A number of months ago I was presenting Sharing Time in Primary as part of my calling.  The exact topic escapes me, but I remember that the activity included the children following in footsteps to find pictures of Jesus doing what Jesus did.  Healing, teaching, praying, serving.  I'd prepared the activity and we did it down to the manual's instructions.  What I did not prepare for was how overcome with insight and, in turn, emotion, as I pinned the pictures side by side on the board. 

I'll come back to that Sharing Time in a minute. 

I don't mark my calendar for the talks or anything, but about once a month, or every six weeks or so, I find myself talking with the children about appropriate touching.  Sometimes the focus is more on "stranger danger" and saying no when you feel uncomfortable.  We talk about what would make you feel uncomfortable, as explicitly as the children seem to want to.  I try not to push it too far to be really scary, but I also don't think I hold much back so they are familiar with different possible situations.  Sometimes we talk more about the beautiful parts of love between a husband and wife, both emotional and physical.  (We use the oh so descriptive Lego lesson of parts fitting together.  I feel like I should patent that metaphor it's been so useful.  Ha!)  The conversations don't last very long, but I hope to keep the topic up for discussion.

I feel like things are pretty open in our house about this subject.  The children are so young, so innocent, so curious.  It's actually quite delightful talking with them about how life works.  I hate opening their eyes to the ugly aspects.  I pray fervently that the ugly is never a part of their reality, like I know it is for many many children and adults.  I know Collin and I will do everything we can to protect them, but other people have their agency and can use it to do awful things.  I can't be there all the moments.  Already the boys are gone more hours a day then I am with them.  I feel so safe about their school teachers and the coaches in their lessons.  But I have to admit I go into those relationships with about equal trust and suspicion.  It's hard to know before bad things happen how to prevent it, or deal with them when they do.

When I was in high school my dad told me that when I was about six and seven there was a man that attended the church our family did.  My dad read the signs of this man's behavior and told me to stay well away from him--not to take sweets, not to sit on his lap, not to be in a room with him.  I'm amazed that my six year old self listened and obeyed, but I was blessed for it.  Dad, correct me if I'm mistaken about the details of that conversation years ago, but I believe there were soon after reports of abuse from other children in the congregation.  I still get shivers thinking of a close call.

The one time in my life that I felt, just for a split second, a touch that was ugly still rankles.  I was a young teenager with a church youth group at a service project in a home for people with challenges.  We were serving a dinner, I think, and I remember feeling a hand brush all the way down my back and grope.  It was a second in time but I felt so shocked and ashamed.  I went and stood in a corner and would not be drawn back in.  I never talked about it.  My leaders must have been confused why I would become so sulky acting all of a sudden, or maybe just chalked it up to teenage moods.  I actually resented them for a time, bringing me to a place where I felt--again, just for a minute--victimized.  I've worked through that incident, but I won't forget the feelings, even if I don't have to feel them anymore.  I think that's part of what empathy is, so I'll remember it.

I'm not sure if that experience has a direct correlation to my next confession, but perhaps.  I'm not sure when it started, but suddenly it seemed, at adolescence I became very sensitive to touch.  I did not like it at all, from anyone.  I shunned the touch of my own parents.  I avoided any contact.  I turned a cold shoulder when they tried to show affection.  I think I still craved it, and it's a credit to my mom and dad that for years they didn't give up trying.  I remember a moment when I was about fifteen I was sitting down the pew in church from my dad.  I think a sibling of mine was between us.  He reached over behind the bench to rest his hand gently on my shoulder.  I pulled away, mostly by habit at that point I believe.  I looked over at him and his expression is still imprinted on me.  He removed his hand to his lap and looked down, so sad and weary at my distrust.  He, who protected me and would only ever approach me in a kind and decent way with a father's love.  I was rejecting the good kind of love and touch and I knew it.  I tried to come back from several years of habit and mindset.  It was slow, but I gradually came to accept and appreciate touches and even hugs from family--and even offer them sometimes!

And I've come an even longer way since then, finding great comfort and joy in the embraces of my own family--my husband and lover, and my often needy but always enthusiastic children. 

So now I'm back to the Sharing Time lesson.  The pictures and accounts of Jesus performing his work.  They were each about some exchange of a physical gesture, in addition to the spiritual uplift.  I'd thought a lot about the spiritual aspect before--the sins forgiven, the spirit and body made whole, the understanding of mind.  Hands laid on a head was only a vehicle for the priesthood power to be channeled from one person to another, right?  Even the woman who touched the cloak of Jesus proved that touch was just a medium to a higher source of power, right?  No, not just.  For some reason the sheer banality of the human touch had escaped me.  The very purpose of God becoming man was to touch.  To touch on all the levels.  To make the spirit and the body whole forever.  To connect the eternal spiritual soul with the physical present.  Contact from one human to another, the way Jesus did, is the transcendence of mortality. 

I guess I don't know how I spirits touched, so I can't say this as doctrine.  I may be wildly out of line.  But I do know that the chemical reaction of a body touching another is powerful.  Our pre-earth life spirits may have touched in their own ways, but with the addition of the body to the spirit the capability of a touch is cosmic. 

It all hit me there in Primary.  Of course, I could hardly articulate what I was feeling, never mind to a group of children under eight.  What I did start to weep about while talking to them was that Jesus taught us the way to touch each other.  And I mean that literally.  He taught us how to touch.  There's a song about his hands that I think I used to roll my eyes at a little bit (I rolled my eyes at most things, immature me).  His hands showed us the proper way to reach out.  He was gentle and sure, quiet and strong.  He prepared food for his friends and students, he opened scriptures to read aloud, the warm weight of his hands rested on the heads and arms of many as he healed, he dirtied his hands washing the feet of his disciples. 

I told the children that I was shy about touching others, but that it was okay to show people you care by touching their arms or shoulders, by allowing others to touch you on your hand or shoulder (and I said, sorry, I might also pat you on the head sometimes).  Just like Jesus did.  Your family can give hugs, serve each other, give neck or foot massages if the person says yes.  These are appropriate ways to touch--to touch the body of friend or family, and to touch their spirits as well.

I hope that I can continue to learn and practice touching others in the right ways.  I'm trying to receive hugs from friends with more than awkward politeness for a social convention.  I'm trying to let myself touch someone's forearm when in a good conversation--or actually, at least not cringe when they do to me.  I'm especially practicing listening better to the needs of my children, in their varied preferences for affection.  I'm being more gentle and deliberate about touching Davy when he is prickly and on the flip side, letting him touch me when I may be prickly but he is ready to show me affection.  I'm drawing strength and contentment from Eddy's serene displays and letting him climb on my lap even though he's getting too big to fit comfortably.  I'm respecting Eliza's wish for no more kisses when she says and kisses when she says (so pretty much I'm letting myself be bossed).  And I'm remembering to give Collin a head scratch more often. 

Love and touch can be the most beautiful thing in the world.  Yes, we need to prepare ourselves and our children against the perversion of it (stupid Satan) but mostly let's practice the power of touch the way Jesus did. 

I just don't think there is much better in existence than holding a loved one's hand.

Why We Still Go to Church

"In your homes will be an absence of friction and conflict, not because forty thousand eyes are upon you, but because you love the Lord, your family and the program. You will observe the Sabbath day and keep it holy as you live all other commandments--not because the multitudes might see you but because of the Lord who gave them."
--Spencer Kimball, Education for Eternity, 1967

I've had a draft of this post for months and months.  I keep tinkering at it but nothing much comes out because honestly, I really am not sure most of the time why we still go to church every week.  It is the single hardest thing we do each week.  I resent that by Sunday afternoon I am completely exhausted . . . and I still have to make dinner.  I hate the thought of going to church more than dishes or laundry or scrubbing the toilet.  Well, "hate" is perhaps a shockingly dramatic word.  I know I really shouldn't say anything of the sort, not above a secret whisper.  I would tut at my children saying any such thing.  Maybe let's replace that word with "dread."  A little better?  In all seriousness, the decision to go to church on Sunday morning continues to vex and baffle me.

A brief history:  I went to church growing up because my parents took me.  When a teenager, they requested and expected me to show up.  Then I was given responsibilities and by nature I follow rules and don't disappoint adults so I did what I was asked.  Then I wanted to get married to a decent, Jesus loving guy eventually so I made myself go to a singles ward (actually, thinking back, that may have been even harder than going here in London).  Then I wanted to have friends in Boston.  Then my children started growing up and I knew I would take them so they could someday make their own decision.

That previous paragraph was all about the social aspect of the church, which is my hard part.  I tremble at the thought of meeting so many people and remembering names and chit-chatting while my introverted self drains of energy.  I want to be clear that I have always felt respect for the sacredness of the sacrament and deep devotion when singing hymns.  Like anyone, I have ups and downs in my personal worship but the trajectory continues upward.  The deep spiritual is reason enough for me to keep trekking on.

Why is it so hard?  Is it just here, in London?  Is it our time of life?  Is it a spiritual crisis?  What?

Yes, the physical factors of just getting to and home from church are a huge deal.  We take two buses both ways (or a bus, a tube, and another bus or walk) and the walk up the hill to the church is pioneer worthy.  Not really, but it is freezing cold and windy in winter and always seems so long and lonely.  The trip to church takes about an hour, the trip home has taken up to two, with traffic.  Church is right at lunch and nap time.  We learned quickly to pack lots of food for the trip home.

Collin is Collin, amazing man.  He fills in wherever he is needed, like substituting playing the piano for Sacrament Meeting and conducting audits at other wards in the stake.  I really am not a fan of being left a lone woman on the bench of the chapel, but I honor him.  Collin has meetings before the three hour block, so at least him and one child, sometimes all of us, go early.  He also has to stay after, so we choose each week whether we stay and wait for him so he can travel home with us, or if we go on our own (and face meltdowns on the trip--I'm talking about you, Eliza!).  We have figured out ways to fill the time--the nursery room is okay in winter, but recently the kids have taken to making pirate ships and rockets and who knows what else out of the little chairs and suplementing with props from the Primary closet.  When the weather is fine they are sent straight outside to the yard to run circles around the building, play in "fairy circles" or kick around a football.  Baptisms are held directly after church, which is lovely, but it also adds a considerable amount of padding to a day.  We've been "at church" (including travel time) for a record of nine hours.  I'm sorry, but that's too long to be any place except home.

Going with kids is hard, yes.  Having children is also one of the top reasons I continue to go.  To set an example, to give them a foundation to build on in their life if they choose.  They are all at an age (well, Eliza, almost), where reverence expectations for sacrament meeting are not a constant battle.  They have their shining moments of very good behavior in the meeting and sometimes even pipe up with a thought they heard and internalized from a talk.  Primary is golden.  I love Primary.  I have a testimony of Primary.  The true gospel is in Primary every week, without fail.  It is also never ever boring.

My crisis of spirit will absolutely never be about Jesus or his gospel.  The Jesus-loving fire in me will forever exist.  The other things (and I know in our church that is a lot of other pretty vital things) bother me as much as I allow them to.  Sometimes one part, sometimes another confuse or annoy me.  I stick with this church because I believe it to be the most true church.  And I understand that the organization and administration of a church are ridden with difficulties and human flaws, most of which I just shrug my shoulders at, knowing I can't do any better.  So this church makes the most sense and I have hope in its promises and potential.  At the very least, my children will have an opportunity to learn leadership and stewardship in a more meaningful way than I can teach them on my own (e.g. the Lambourne practice of staying to clean up after functions long after everyone else has left and that closing up the church building is "fun"--I mean, those principles helped create Collin, so who am I to deny the church can help raise up good men (and women).

So why do I have to talk myself into going to church every single Saturday evening?  And again each and every Sunday morning?  Habit, maybe?  I've got myself in a negative rut (a decade running) and don't know the way out.  Perhaps I need to appreciate that it's not just special me that's struggling.  My friend said that when she was growing up her mom would get overwhelmed and smile through clenched teeth, singing "I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I know who I am, I know God's plan" and just do it.  Why do we have to fake smile, though?  Where is the joy in organized church fellow-shipping that I'm hoping and aiming for?

There is a sister in our London ward.  She is as brilliantly British as you get.  The first time you meet her you also think she is an endearingly batty old lady.  The more I've gotten to know Sister R, the more I realize that she is what I am aiming for.  One hears the phrase "without guile" and can't envision what precisely that means.  She is the embodiment.  I've never met anyone so perfectly genuine and Christ-like.  That smile could not drop from her face, though she's known her fair share of trial.  It's a true smile, not the slightest bit fake or forced.  She has the most simple testimony and when she says with her sweet little giggle that she loves this church I believe her utterly.  I just want to know how and why she loves the church.  How do I get there?  I suppose do what she does--serve humbly, greet people with no fear, share the love of Jesus with all around. 

There's my answer.  That's consistently and eternally the answer.  Because Jesus loves us and because he asked us to be about his work.  Eliza gets it.  Months ago, when she was barely two, I remember hearing her whisper to herself during the quiet part when the sacrament is passed, "Jesus loves Mommy, Jesus loves Daddy, Jesus loves brothers, Jesus loves Kate, Jesus loves me."  She was of course just repeating what I'd whispered to her since she was old enough to listen to my voice.  Still, it was without prompting and for her own sake.  I can only go one step at a time.  This Saturday evening I'll gather my things for Sunday's work with a more real smile.  I'll listen half-awake as Collin prepares Davy and Eliza to go early with him.  I'll wake to Eddy's voice telling me he wants to go with just me to church and hold hands with him for our special together time.  I'll realize that the journey is part of the progress.  I'll hold on tight for the moment I see the Primary children's eyes light up at a song they are learning.  I'll feel more gratitude for the eternal friendships that are fostered one day at a time of serving and struggling together.

That, and an occasional ride home from church in a friend's car also does wonders for the attitude.

Addendum:  I've also pondered what my response to the question would be if I weren't responsible for the nurture--spiritual included--of three kids.  If I were to face Sunday by myself every week I think my answer would be pretty different.  One of my top three reasons for going wouldn't be a determining factor.  I don't actually know how I would do going it alone.  Again, my love of Jesus would be nigh near unquenchable.  Going regularly to church, though, that's a hard one.  This church is demanding, requiring a lot from its members.  How could I face the judgements of people who aren't yet as guileless as Sister R and doctrines with blessings that don't seem to apply to me in whatever situation I am that is not my--or the church's--ideal?  I don't know.  Only, I believe that Christ's atonement is big and deep and wide enough for me, for you, in whatever mess of beautiful life we're in.

Snippets and Snappits

I'm so clever with titles.  Or something like that.

I mostly have a series of random, unrelated--except by the real and every day theme--pictures and quotes.  Most of these are duplicates of Instagram, but there are some never-before-seen.  I'd like things in one place for the day I print all this stuff out.

Eddy kept asking me to do things while I was practicing driving on London streets.  Collin, in the passenger seat, reminded him "Eddy, address your questions to me." After a beat Eddy said, "Dad, can you ask mom to change the CD?"

My aunts visited London for a few days after their trip to Paris.  It was fun to have a full flat (we really were at capacity but in a good way!) and explore during the mornings with them.  After several museums in several days even our good sport Eliza was done and showed us the way of things on the floor of the British Museum:

Eddy, after a year and a half in stage one (and a half, as we liked to call it), just today moved up to stage two.  He is thrilled about it and I'm proud of him for continuing to work hard.

Davy used to be the star of these quote sessions.  He's gotten old enough that if he does say something funny he's embarrassed by the attention.  He's cute and clever and we love him loads.  The lack of pictures and center stage time may not prove it, but it's the truth.

 

Eliza has her own opinions about what she wears.  I get it.  That's cool.  She is my daughter after all.  But the past few weeks we've been having fights about what I wear.  I'll come out of the shower and she will have set out my clothes for me to put on.  It was adorable the first few times and she actually chose well enough.  But then she started experimenting and she melted down when I told her I just couldn't wear bike shorts and a sheer decorative over shirt.  Now I think we've compromised and she gets to pick my socks.

I think it's almost time to take out Eliza's afternoon nap.  Which is a shame, because we both still really need it.  She's not settling down to bed until after nine, however, and that's almost worse.  She comes out repeatedly and has absolutely no respect for me or Collin asking her to return.  Last night she was out of bed rummaging quietly around the living room.  I looked up from my work on the computer and saw her wearing dress up clickity clack shoes, sunglasses, and a stethoscope.  I said, tiredly, "go back to bed, Eliza."  She looked at me, surprised that I could say such a thing and replied, "I can't, mom.  I'm a doctor."  And then I laughed and it all went down from there.  I can never hold a straight face around a two year old.

Eliza:  "My favorite is basking ball.  But I can't do the dribbles when I'm a little girl."

Eddy, oh Eddy.  He is always the one reminded many times to stay on track (reminded six times it was time to get dressed for school when I came in to find him half dressed and drawing on the winter window) but finds much more fun in doing his own thing in his own time.  I love that childhood seems to come so easily for him.  He just is a kid and happy to be there.

The closest Eliza Road is several hours drive away in Manchester and we likely won't get there, our itineraries never bringing us near there.  So we decided to just count this Elizabeth Street in London as her street name picture.

Sibling love gets me to my heart strings every time.  Eliza and Eddy are the best buds while Davy is in his football (soccer) class.  It's gotten so good that Eliza will not allow me to help her anywhere but has to have Eddy hold her hand and Eddy push her on the swings and Eddy pull her on the scooter and Eddy play with her.  Eddy is more than happy to oblige.

Her "skirt that Cinderella gave me" gets a lot of good mileage around here.  Also, her favorite color is pink, unless she's wearing blue and then it's blue to match.  The logic of a two year old.  I wish I could always had a two year old around.

London we love you.  Seriously, though.  Davy's already starting to mourn leaving London.  He says things like, "I wish we could have been born here and never have to leave."  And "couldn't we just live here forever?  America is so boring."  And "when I grow up I'm going to live in London and my kids will go to my school and I will never make them leave places they love."