I'll miss you, PD James

When I was a kid, I loved reading books in series. I tore through the Little House on the Prairie books, hid out on the back porch with the Betsy-Tacy series, and read (and sobbed over) the Anne of Green Gables books so many times that the bindings fell apart. There was just about nothing I liked more than a great character whose story I could follow over an extended period of time.

So it's probably no surprise that when I was introduced to the work of PD James in college, I developed a serious crush on Adam Dalgleish, the police detective at the center of most of her novels. I loved his great brain, his tortured past, his sideline work as a poet. I loved the way that he was ageless, modern, and generous of spirit. In the fall of my senior year at BYU, I went to London on Study Abroad. I had the great fortune of creating my own senior seminar course, and decided to read the works of great British mystery writers. But I got sidetracked by PD James. While I was supposed to be reading Wilkie Collins, I was actually heading down to Waterstone's to pick up Original Sin. I think I read all eight of the Adam Dalgleish books she had already written while I was in London, along with both of the Cordelia Gray books. When I saw that she was publishing something new, it was always the first thing I put on my Christmas list. Her mysteries were just so smart and insightful, and Dalgleish was my literary Superman.

I wasn't surprised when I heard that PD James died last week (But I'm sad, especially that my literary heartthrob, Adam Dalgleish, has died along with her). She was 94 (and still working on another novel). As I read more of her novels, and learned more about her life, I gained a great admiration for her. While she said in interviews several times that she always planned on being a novelist, she left school at the age of sixteen because she needed to work to help support her family. She married an army doctor in 1941, and had two daughters during the war years. However, when the war was over, her husband's poor mental health prevented him from steady employment, and she continued working. She published her first novel in 1962 (at the age of 42), while working full-time, while caring for her husband and two teenage daughters. In fact, she continued working in the service of the British government until she retired in 1979. Whenever I start to get down on myself for not churning out the great American novel, I think of PD James, who had so many excuses not to write, and whose work showed such a depth of insight that I'm glad she didn't give in to those excuses. In all, despite her late start, despite her full-time job, despite her family's demands, she published more than 20 works of wickedly smart contemporary detective fiction, non-fiction, an autobiography, a dystopian novel, and a Regency romance/murder mystery. So, aspiring writer out there-- don't give up hope-- don't think you have to have that room of your own and five hundred pounds to be a writer.

Thanks, PD James, for all of your wonderful books, and for your remarkable life. 

An unremarkable Friday night

About an hour ago, I picked my fourteen-year-old son up from the high school, where he was waiting after his first swim meet. I sat across the driveway as he climbed the stairs, calling to his friends, "Good job," and "See you in the morning." He was smiling, tired, happy. In the car on the way home, he talked about how he'd scored 106 on an English test, and laughed with his sister about something someone had said on Twitter. Just a nice, normal Friday night, right? So why was I fighting back tears?

A little more than ten years ago, I sat in the dining room when the woman from Early Intervention gave me the news. I wanted to put my hands over my ears and run from the room, telling her she had it all wrong. How could this boy-- my beautiful oldest son, playing at my feet in his Buzz Lightyear costume, the boy who loved trains and reciting the poems from his Baby Einstein videos, how could he have autism?

"What does that mean? What kind of life will he have?" I asked.

"I don't really know-- it's a spectrum," was all she managed to say. Or at least all I managed to hear. My mind was whirring, protesting, reeling too much to listen to details.

I needed a hug, reassurance, hope. I know it would have been hard for this lady, whose name, face and title I can't remember but whose words still make me shudder, to tell me that my child would have a typical life. She couldn't read the future, she barely knew my son, and so she played it safe, told me that I'd get a call from someone to set up home visits, and left.

After days of reading online, I was even more terrified for his future. Certainly, there would be specialists, special education, therapies, and medication. Even then, the future looked bleak.

The last ten years haven't always been easy. We've had good years and bad years. First and second grades were fantastic-- so great that our pediatrician was convinced that the initial diagnosis was wrong. Fourth and fifth grades were horrendous. We've tried medications and behavior therapy and summer camp for kids on the spectrum. We've had fantastic church leaders who acted like his behaviors were no big deal, and some Primary teachers who seemed wholly overwhelmed when they saw his name on the roll. Now that he's a teenager, he's taking an active role in his treatment, and has been motivated by self-consciousness into modifying some of the behaviors that plagued him when he was younger.

Our son's ASD hasn't been "cured." But he's on the mild end of the spectrum, to be sure, and the reality of his life today could have been different. I spent many years in fear for his future, many years feeling like I had to downplay his accomplishments ("yeah, he's brilliant at facts, but you know he's on the autism spectrum, and that's kind of his thing"), many years tamping down my expectations because I didn't want either of us to be disappointed if he couldn't meet them.

I know we can't see the future-- jumping into the abyss is what we do as parents.

But if I just could have had a glimpse at what my son's future would hold ten years down the line, if I just could have seen five seconds of a normal night like tonight, I would have felt so reassured as that scared mom of a beautiful three-year-old boy.

We're not at the end of this road yet. While we're in a good place now, I know that the challenges of later teen years, a mission, college, and independent life still lay ahead of our son.

But let's celebrate tonight. Tonight, this ordinary Friday night, with my tired son drinking a milkshake and laughing beside me, when I stop to think about it, tonight feels like a miracle.

Books, Blogging, Bloat

About six weeks ago, Eli and Rose started preschool. I did something totally self-indulgent this year: I put them both in full-day preschool one day a week. That's right, between the hours of 9:30-3:30, I have no children with me. I did this because I'm planning to teach at BYU Salt Lake on Thursday afternoons this winter, but it felt absolutely decadent to have six hours all to myself each week. I had such big plans-- I was going to write essays. I was going to start one of the book ideas I have percolating through my head. I was going to get pedicures. I was going to read. I was never, ever going to get behind on blogging.

Obviously, things haven't turned out that way. I've spent most of my free time building cabinets for the kitchen project I've been working on. Between fall break and doctor appointments and everything else that encroaches on life, the only truly indulgent thing I've done during that time was the one time I went running. It was about a zillion degrees and I didn't take water and I thought I might expire on the trail before I got back to the car.

My life is way too full. I'm sure yours is too. And if you're like me, it's probably full of lots of good things. I love each and every one of my kids. I love that they're involved in a lot of things that help them feel fulfilled, but it's go-go-go around here all day long. Somehow writing always takes a back burner to folding laundry or driving Annie a million places during a day (and the other kids too, but mostly Annie). I haven't written a word so far. 

One of the things that this exercise of having "free time" has taught me is that I'm not very good at curating my life. Purging my closets? Yes, absolutely. But choosing to do the things that are meaningful or necessary or bring me joy and not doing other things? Not so much. I guess I just love too many things. 

That brings me to books and blogging. From the very first time I got my hands on Little House on the Prairie in first grade, reading has been the greatest escape of my life. When I started blogging about books (probably about eight years ago), I loved sharing what I was reading, and also doing a little bit of analysis about how the books applied to my experience. But lately, I'm wondering if I'd really rather spend time writing about books, or if I'd rather spend time actually writing books. 

The answer is, at least for right now, that I don't know. I do know that the sixteen books I have read that I haven't blogged about yet are weighing heavily on me, yet I keep procrastinating writing about them. I've set an informal deadline to get them all blogged before we leave town (in 48 hours). Writing that down may actually make me stick to it. But is writing about books a meaningful way to share my voice? Is it a talent or merely an exercise that grew out of a blogging meme way back at a time in my life when I really needed it? Should I keep writing about what I read, or is the weight of feeling responsible for writing about books taking the joy out of reading? 

Meanwhile, if you need me, I will either be in the car, at the dance concert, at a band concert, or stealing away to my bedroom to try to crank out those book reviews before my girls and I hop on a plane to Disneyland.

It takes a village (for Mom to run a marathon)

This morning I crept out of my bed at 5am. I managed to extricate my arm from underneath Rose without waking her up, tiptoed past Ed, who had been at work until past midnight, and held my breath when I found Eli snoring in a pile of pillows in the middle of the floor. Somehow, I got downstairs without someone following me for the first time all week, and forced myself onto the treadmill, ready start my long run for the week.

As I ran, I gave half my brain over to Stephen King's Doctor Sleep (which is AMAZING!!!) and the other half tried to fashion the perfect Facebook status update to whine about how piecemeal this long run would have to be: "My 23-mile run this morning: four miles on the treadmill, three miles with the jogger, thirteen while the kids terrorize Suzanne's dog, followed by three more miles with the jogger. Any dad's 23-mile run tomorrow morning? Bye honey, I'll see you when I get back."

But if I'm being honest, that's not fair.

I have friends whose husbands and children would not miss a finish line. Whose spouses come along for destination races. Whose kids hold up signs saying, "Run Fast, Mom!" and "My mom is faster than your dad." While Ed packed up the kids to meet me at the end of a half marathon once (two kids and approximately seven years ago), it's not something I need or even want. In fact, sometimes I think it would be just one more thing to worry about on race day: "Congratulations, you just qualified for Boston. Now how about taking a couple of these kids off my hands?"

What I am grateful for, is the village that allows me to run the marathons.

I trained for my first marathon in the fall of 2007. Ed had to be at work before his attending physicians back in those days, and he left early, so I'd get Bryce and Annie off for school, stick Isaac and Maren in the jogger or put them in front of the TV while I ran on the treadmill. Then, on Saturdays, Ed would get up with all of the kids (on one of his few days off), so I could go out and run 16 or 18 or 20 miles in the sticky Texas predawn. When Isaac got sick that fall, I didn't abandon my plan; I borrowed a jogger that would accommodate his cast from a friend, and kept up the training.

When we moved to Utah, I got spoiled. There's a huge community of runners here, and I made some of my first and my best friends on the road. We'd meet up nearly every morning and pound out six or eight miles while solving the world's problems. On Saturday, I'd often meet up with my running group, who were unfailingly positive and supportive, and who made the miles fly by while Ed stayed (once again) at home with the kids. He even gave up his fledgling ward basketball habit so I could meet Michelle on Tuesday and Chelle on Thursday. We had just gotten to the point where the older kids would let Ed sleep on a Saturday morning when Rose arrived and we started back at square one.

These days, although I may be the one running the races, I'm not the only one who puts in the work that goes into running the races. Truth be told, I only run the races to justify the 70 minutes running time each morning, the 20 miles on Saturday (or Friday, if someone has something going on Saturday). Most runners love to cut back in the winter, but not me. That time is a lifeline. And while there have been plenty of mornings (especially lately, since Rose and Eli have supersonic sleep hearing) when I end up on the treadmill with kids watching Daniel Tiger at my feet, and even more when we head out with the jogger (we are regulars at the 7-11 in downtown Holladay, where I bribe the kids with Cheetos and the promise that we will undoubtedly see more doggies before our 8.5 mile loop is over), there are also lots and lots of mornings when Ed sacrifices his own sleep so he can get climbed on for an hour (or three) by two toddlers while I go out for a run. Sometimes I think it's the only time I truly feel like myself these days, and he recognizes that.

I love him for it. A whole lot.

Today, the village extended beyond just Ed. I got into a groove on the treadmill, and decided to do the planned jogging stroller miles on the treadmill instead, and Maren and Isaac entertained Rose and Eli while I slogged away in the basement. My friend Suzanne kept the little ones while I pounded out the second half of the run. Her sister even set out a Gatorade for me at her house up in Harvard-Yale so I didn't have to carry water.  There are other days when a friend will drop by, take one look at my harried expression, and say, "Why don't you go out and run for an hour without the kids." There's the babysitter who drops everything, comes over, and plays with the kids. There's my mom and my godmother who always make sure I get in my Balm of Gilead, my canyon runs, when they visit in the summer.

So here is me, saying thank you to my village. And most especially to my husband, who, as we celebrate seventeen years of marriage tomorrow, shows that he values me and understands me every time he spends a Saturday morning making pancakes while I pound out mile after lovely mile.

A year! (And oh, what a year it's been)

A year ago today, my mom, Rose and I spent the morning strolling through an outdoor shopping area in Nanjing, China. Over the previous five days, we had flown halfway around the world, then done a marathon of sightseeing in Beijing and Shanghai. I think we thought it was finally time to catch our breaths. A year later, I'm still not sure I've caught my breath.

A year earlier, when we had gone to the same room in the same office building in the same city to get Rose, we waited for the longest half hour of my life before the babies arrived. This time, the orphanage people were waiting for us, and we turned the corner to find Eli, with a look of terror in his eyes. They placed him in my arms and he screamed. Rose patted him and said, "Okay, baby." And within just a little while, it really was okay.

Once his tears dried, Eli seemed to accept quickly that life with us was the new normal. And he's been easygoing like that for most of the last year. I'm not sure he would have survived the early months, with new casts each week and surgeries every month, if he hadn't had such a sweet disposition. And, like most two-year-olds, he definitely has his moments when he wants to be held or he whines or he climbs on things over and over and over again, but really, he's such a sweet, gentle, nice little guy. I feel so incredibly blessed to be his mom.

I feel like all of this is building up to a "but." I've tried to be as honest as possible on my blog, and while Eli is incredibly awesome and smart and funny and has made so much progress this year, this has also been the hardest year of my life. Ed warned me. The social worker warned me. The reading I did about adoption warned me, but I didn't believe them. I was a seasoned mom. I could handle this or anything in my path.

I thought that the year Ed was an intern and we moved to Minnesota and it snowed all winter long and the house was all brown and dark and depressing and Bryce was a toddler and Annie was a newborn would go down in the history of our family as the hardest year, but this year beat it. I love my kids fiercely, but having two two-year-olds brings me to the brink of my sanity almost every afternoon between the hours of four and six.

photo by Crooked Pinkie Photography

I like to do hard things. I'm always up for a good challenge. Honestly, until this year, I had never met a challenge I wasn't equal to. I hope that doesn't sound too arrogant. I recognize that I'm someone who has a lot of energy and drive, and it happens that I've chosen to focus most of that energy on being (at least for now) a stay-at-home mom. Most of my parenting years, I've worried that the energy and drive would have a negative impact on my kids because I did too much comparing or I was too involved in the kids' lives, but this year, it's been all I can do to keep my head above water. Neither Rose nor Eli sleeps all that well, and if you combine the sleep deprivation with trying to be the best mom I can be to two toddlers (who often act like they hate each other) all day, with doing all of the stuff my school-age kids need once they come home from school, I've felt stretched so thin that I'm sure I'll never be the same. I never have enough arms, enough time, enough patience. I fall asleep in movies, in the car when I'm not driving, and within seconds of my head hitting the pillow at night. I smile less and yell more. I always thought I'd bounce back from this stay-at-home parenting thing to have an awesome career in my 40s, 50s, and 60s, but I don't know if there is a bouncing back from six kids. If there is, it might take a few more years before I can see it.

There's no doubt that I would still adopt these two sweethearts again in a heartbeat. Would I recommend that others adopt? Absolutely. Would I recommend that others adopt two kids the same age? Yes, but with their eyes wide open. I think I thought that having two toddlers would sort of be like having a friend over for a perpetual playdate.

This year has been stressful for all of us, but our lives are better for being together. Eli is such a fantastic kid-- he's adapted so well to the chaos of our lives, and he's grown so much. He's adorable and funny and the perfect completion to our family, and we love him to pieces. I hope that this year will show our kids that we can do hard things, and even when those hard things don't stop being hard immediately, it's ultimately persisting through the hard things that bring life's greatest rewards. I consider Eli one of the greatest rewards of my life.

On Leprechauns, Fairies, Elves and Other Magical Things

A few years ago, a sweet friend of mine brought over a gift for my girls. It was a tiny little house, hand painted and decorated with moss and pine cones. "It's a fairy house," she told Annie and Maren, "And if you write to the fairies, they will write back to you." My girls were delighted, so delighted, in fact, that I doubt anyone saw the look of panic in my eyes.

For several weeks, the girls wrote to the fairies every night. And like clockwork, the fairies wrote back (graduate school and housework and teaching loads be damned!). Then one night the note to the fairies went unanswered. "I wonder where the fairies were last night," Maren said. There may have been a tear in her eye, and there was certainly a lot of guilt in the pit of my stomach.

Over the years, Maren has continued to write to the fairies. They write back only rarely. "I think the fairies fly somewhere south for the winter," I've told her, buying myself entire seasons of respite. The other day, I noticed that she had both written a letter to the fairies and her own response from the fairies. Whenever I see that darling fairy house, I feel dread that I'm not providing magical experiences for my kids.

I'm an avid Instagrammer, a fair-weather Facebooker. Although I have a Pinterest account, I gave up pinning things or checking my pins after a few weeks of pinning and pinning and feeling aspirational and unmotivated, which isn't a great combination. Most mornings, I scroll through Instagram, clicking the little heart on almost everything, and get out of bed feeling that all is right with the world. But this morning, my Instagram and Facebook feeds made me feel like a failure. There were no pots of Rolo gold at the end of my kids' rainbows (and for that matter, no rainbows). No trails of marshmallows leading to leprechaun traps. No green eggs, green milk, or green veggies at the breakfast table. Heck, I'd even taken heck from Annie the night before for forgetting to replenish our supply of Lucky Charms (which we eat on regular occasions, not just on St. Paddy's Day), so I couldn't even assuage my guilt by putting the box on the breakfast table. I scrounged for green hair bows and sweatshirts to add to my kids' school uniforms, and sent them off to school feeling like I hadn't done enough.

It should come as a surprise to no one that I don't put up with that Elf on a Shelf nonsense either. I have six kids, I don't need an elf to make messes. Maren has come home from her best friend's house and asked me why they're lucky enough to get an elf. "Are they more magical than us?"

We aren't Irish. I don't like corned beef (unless it's on rye) and the thought of eating boiled cabbage appeals to no one in this house. I dress my kids in green so they don't get pinched, but not out of any sense of festivity. I get that St. Patrick's Day is important to some people, but it isn't especially important to me.

I don't craft. When I was in the Primary presidency we had a firm policy against printables and doing cute things for the sake of being cute. Yet I still feel the guilt of not participating in today's holiday festivities. And as I've thought about the reasons today, I think it extends deeper than the fact that "I'm not keeping up with..." I worry that I'm not providing my kids with a sense of magic, or a feeling that our world is a lovely, numinous place.

My mom never put an elf on our shelf. Never wrote a fairy letter. Never impersonated a leprechaun. No one's mom did that kind of stuff back in the early 80s. And C.S. Lewis and Madeline L'Engle provided me with a greater sense of magic than a pot of Rolos ever could.

Ed and I have been having a discussion/argument over the last few days. I wanted to take the kids to Disneyland for Spring Break before the babies turn three and cost a hundred bucks a day.

"It will be so magical," I said.
"They won't remember it," he said.
"But it will be magical for me," I said.

He hates crowds and won't get behind the idea that a corporation can create magic. He would say that the magic we find ourselves by digging in the back yard and reading C.S. Lewis is much richer and more lasting than than what Disneyland can provide.

I'm not sure I buy his argument, but today, at least, I see his point. I don't see anything wrong with Rolos and leprechaun footprints made by parents who want to go all out and do that, but I know that I don't want to be Instaguilted into joining them (I did feel guilty enough to buy some overpriced cupcakes).  I hope that despite my lack of effort, my kids will get their magic from the world around them and the world they imagine, not from me behind the scenes like the Wizard of Oz, orchestrating things.

We'll put it to the test next month when we spend our break at the Grand Canyon. Maybe we'll find that it's really the most magical place on earth, and I can start to set aside my guilt about not manufacturing magic with elves, fairies, and leprechauns.

Two years

Two years ago, they placed her in our arms. We expected tears. We got quiet acceptance and

alertness. This sick, skinny, red-cheeked baby seemed to trust us as we fussed over her, smiled and cried, then took her back to our hotel room to discover that not only was she not walking at eleven months, she couldn't sit or roll over. The only time she got really upset was when we tried to feed her solid food-- it was obvious she had no idea what it was. But there was a spark in her eyes that let us know that eventually, she would be fine.

This morning, she and Maren spent the morning acting out the songs from Frozen. She's wearing her favorite purple shirt and her favorite purple shorts, which she wears because she thinks they make her look like Elsa (so much for all the money I spent on cute clothes this winter). When I contrast the newborn-like baby she was two years ago with this big kid (an acutal kid! not a baby!), it makes me so happy to see how far she's come, and also a little sad at how quickly this time has

She's smiling for the camera, can't you tell?

passed.

Today, Rose runs the house. When we decided to adopt, it was, in part because I wanted the sound of kids' voices in the house for a bit longer, and I certainly have them. Rose does everything with purpose, intention, and zest. Everyone in the house, probably even everyone on our street, knows when she's happy and when she's sad. She's the life of our party and completely central to our existence, and even though she runs us all ragged sometimes, we couldn't imagine our lives without her.

Confessions of a Selfish Mother

A couple of weeks ago, dinnertime came around, and only the boys and the babies were at home. We decided to head over to Five Guys. Eli eats everything except burgers, and every time I buy Rose a burger at Five Guys, it ends up being five bucks thrown in the trash. They usually stuff themselves with fries and peanuts, so this time I didn't order them burgers. I got one for each of the boys and one for myself, and was happy to get away from the cash register parting with less than forty bucks.

The burgers came, and mine was amazing. The cheese was melted just right, the pickles were crunchy, and the ketchup and grilled onions made it a sloppy, gooey, yummy mess. I hadn't taken two bites of that delicious burger before Rose started begging for it. After a couple more bites, she was complaining loudly enough that people were starting to stare, so I sighed, handed over the rest of the burger, and started in on the fries. She took a few happy bites, dropped the rest on the floor, and I spent the next five minutes wondering if there was some graceful way I could pick it up and finish it without being gross. 

There are things I can do with grace as a parent (clean up poop messes, become a taxi service, quiz math/spelling/Latin roots), and there are things I fail miserably at.

Sharing food is one of those things. I used to share my food happily. I used to share just about anything happily. When I was in college, my roommate Les and I would often eat dinner out of a common pot. She and I also had an "open closet" policy with each other. I'd borrow her bodysuits to wear with my jodphurs, and she'd borrow my fisherman's sweaters to wear with her peasant skirts. The only problem is that I did laundry one a week and she did laundry once a month and sometimes my clothes would get lost in the recesses of her bedroom for weeks at a time. But her Penne Arrabiata more than made up for it. 

Tonight Rose was sitting on my lap after finishing her own dinner, and she started in on eating the broccoli slaw on my plate. She took a couple of bites, chewed them up, then spit them out all over the salad I couldn't see to eat with her blocking my view of the plate. "Rose," I whined, "That was my dinner!" Ed pointed out that there was still half a bowl of salad that would certainly go uneaten, but that's not the point. It was my dinner.

In some ways, parenting has either brought to light my selfishness, or else has made me more selfish than I used to be.

I don't want to share my food. I'm a lot like my two-year-olds in the sense that I want my own food. A couple of days before I got married, my mom and I were running errands in Park City and stopped for a caramel apple at the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. This was back in the day before RMCF was as ubiquitous as Wendy's, and getting an apple there was a once-every-few-years kind of treat. The apples were enormous and expensive, and I was worried about fitting into my wedding dress, so I suggested we share one. I could feel her eyes boring into me every time I took a bite, sizing up the size of my bites relative to her bites, and when we finished she said, "I am never sharing one of those again." At the time, I thought she was being crazy, but now I get it. As a mom, you're asked to share so many bits of yourself at so many inconvenient times, that there are some things that just shouldn't be shared.

My Diet Coke is another one of these things. I've been known to chug a Route 44 from Sonic, not because I'm thirsty or I'm going somewhere with a no-drinks policy, but because I have a vulture hanging on each leg, begging for a sip. I've cried actual tears after going out of my way to bring home a fountain drink with ice, only to leave the room and come back to an empty cup. For this teetotaling Mormon, my Diet Coke is what wine is to some of my friends, and no mom is ever expected to share her wine with her toddlers.

Also on the list are my iPhone and Kindle (which often get taken when my back is turned), my favorite blanket (see, I am a two-year-old!), NPR on the car radio (I'm secretly gleeful that Eli and Rose broke the DVD player in the car), my time in the bathroom (which didn't used to bother me, but now it does, because my current toddlers like to turn the lights off when I'm in there, and then they want to help a little bit too much), and my exercise time. My ideal workout time is spent chatting with a friend from 5:15-6:15am, but I will gladly spend the same hour with a book on my iPhone. If one of the kids prevents me from getting in my run early, I will move heaven and earth to make it happen during the day, even if I spend the whole time listening to Daniel Tiger and staring into the glass on the framed print hanging in front of my treadmill to make sure no one is trying to climb on behind me. It's not as much about the exercise as it is about feeling accomplished in one aspect of my life, when so much of the rest of my day is about entropy and failing to control my temper.

Ed shares happily. He doesn't mind when someone swipes the bacon from his plate at dinner, and he thinks it's adorable when the kids come by and take enormous gulps of Diet Mountain Dew. But then again, he's with them for about an hour each day. He doesn't have to accomplish anything other than playing with his babies (which I am very grateful that he loves doing), and therefore doesn't experience the (joys and) frustrations of reading/cooking/eating/sleeping/car pooling/peeing with them in tow.

I know that all of the experts say that parents need to take care of themselves first in order to be able to take care of others. Whenever I get time alone, I always think that I'll end that time recharged and ready to go home, but I don't think I reach my threshold for alone time and buckling only myself into the car after an hour or two. So maybe my selfishness is really self-preservation--my way of maintaining a bit of my own self even though I'm the primary parent from the moment I get in from my run at 6:15 until the teenagers finally turn off their lights around 9:30. It's a good life, and one I'm grateful to call mine. As long as no one tries to touch my Diet Coke. 

The Parenting Mirror

Rosie is a thirty-seven inch, thirty-four month bundle of energy and muscle. She turns somersaults, jumps effortlessly to the ground from the fifth step, scales the fronts of cupboards, and throws and kicks with amazing accuracy. When she goes into the back yard, the first thing she wants to do is play basketball, much to the delight of her father. Ed was an All-State basketball player in high school, and although has half a dozen kids, Rose is the first one who has shown much interest or proficiency in throwing a basketball.

"She gets her athleticism from me," he says, deadpan, waiting for someone to come in and correct him.

We've also been known to joke that the only way Ed was going to get kids with dark hair and eyes like he has was to adopt them from China.

Parents seem quick to attribute their children's good qualities to their own genetic contributions; I've also been known to attribute some of the kids' less-than-stellar qualities to their dad. The boys' lack of interest in leaving the house once they've come home for the day, even for something fun, is so frequently seen among members of Ed's family that it even has a name-- Minertia.

Ten years ago, I was still finding my footing as the mom of my first child, Bryce. We'd spent the first three years of his life delighting over all of his superior qualities. As a baby, he had enormous blue eyes and a cue-ball bald head. When he walked at nine months and started talking shortly thereafter, I patted myself on the back, because I must have been doing something right, or at least contributed my superior genetics. We loved the way that he learned entire movie scripts verbatim and repeated them whenever he watched the films-- he'd grow up to have a mastery of standardized tests, just like his dad. We praised and praised and praised him, and saw ourselves reflected in that praise. The things that raised red flags for his preschool teachers (no interest in playing with other kids, having a hard time sitting during circle time, not making eye contact) were things that to us just showed a strong will that would serve him well later in life.

So when the teachers referred us to Early Intervention and he was diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum Disorder, I was crushed. Yes, part of it was solely worry on Bryce's behalf-- would he ever go to mainstream school? Would he be smart? Would he be able to live on his own? Make friends? Have a fulfilling life? Whenever I asked these questions, the specialists were evasive. "It's too soon to tell," they said. But a large part of my anxiety at that time was also self-directed. Was there something I could have done to prevent this? Was it because he was so small when he was born? I'd followed What to Expect When You're Expecting to the letter, and the doctor had assured me that babies are sometimes small, but what if I did something wrong during my pregnancy that I didn't know about? Had I been too indulgent during his babyhood? Should I have forced a greater variety of foods on him? Were my genes bad? In some ways, I feel like the diagnosis tarnished how I saw him-- it took away my innocence and my joy-- the things that had made him special now just made him abberant. It took me a long time to get the joy back.

Bryce was almost eleven when Rose was born, half a world away in China. We did not contribute her genetic makeup, I did not grow her in my womb, but she has been our daughter in our hearts ever since she was five months old, and has been with us now for nearly two years. We brought her back to the hotel on the day she was placed in our arms, and looked her over from head to toe. Unlike with our biological kids, we didn't try to figure out, "your toes, my hair, your long body, my gentle personality." She was completely herself. And over the last few years, as the force of her personality has become evident (a force that likely kept her alive during the first few months living as a cleft baby in an orphanage), it's been freeing to attribute those personality traits only to herself. Her sense of fun, her determined will, her propensity to throw and hit and kick at everything in sight when she gets angry.

And while I've learned lots of lessons over the last several years of being an adoptive parent, one of the most surprising has been the way it has changed the way I see all of my children. I do my best to raise them, individually, according to their needs, but ultimately, they are all their own people, and not reflections of me. By divorcing my genetic contribution from the equation with Rose, I could see that the important factors in parenting all of my children were my actions as a parent and my children's actions, and not all of the complications of the mirror. I couldn't see that with my older kids, and in some ways it makes me wish that I'd adopted Rose and Eli first, because it would have taken some of the pressure off everyone else.

Last weekend, when Annie and I were out of town together, we were stopped several times on the street by people who said, "Wow, you must be mother and daughter, you look exactly alike." It was kind of fun (at least for me, Annie may have been mortified), and I know that Rose and I will never have that experience. People are more likely to say, "You're her mother?" with incredulity in their voices, or just to assume that I'm the nanny. But we both know that we're mother and daughter, and I think that in becoming her mother, I freed myself of some of the pressure that so many of us feel with parenthood, that our children will reflect us in a positive light. I will push this girl to be the best Rose she can be every day of her life, but it's for her, and not for me.

How to potty train your toddler in ten easy steps

1) Wait until she is staring down her third birthday, stays dry most nights, asks for underpants, and can pee on demand whenever you put her on the potty before a bath.

2) Buy a package of Pull Ups, and then decide you don't want to use them yet because your other two-year-old can't even say "potty" much less use it, and you really just want to endure this potty training misery one more time. Toddler is undeterred. She will insist on using them in the following order: all of the Mike and Sulley Pull Ups, followed by all of the Minnie Mouse Pull Ups. When she gets to the Ariel Pull Ups, she will turn up her nose and ask for underwear again. Agree with her-- Ariel is a brat.

3) Take her to Target with the intention of buying underwear. On the way to the toddler underwear, ask her what kind she wants. "Frozen," she says. There are no Frozen underwear. She does not want Tangled underwear. She does not want Disney Princess underwear. She does not want Monsters, Inc underwear from the boys section.

4) Get on eBay and pay $25, plus shipping, for seven pairs of Frozen underwear.

5) When the underwear arrive, hide them. You still aren't in the mental place to do this potty training thing again.

6) Older sister finds the underwear and wants them for herself. Tell her they are for your toddler, and you are not, under any circumstances, ordering more from eBay. Older sister throws them at your toddler in a huff.

7) Tell your toddler that she can wear the underwear under one condition: she cannot pee in them. If she pees on Olaf, he will melt. If she pees on Elsa, she might get her booty frozen. Start saving money for eventual therapy.

8) Toddler chooses to wear the Anna underpants.

9) Proceed with normal life. Occasionally remind toddler to go sit on the potty. After three days, she has had two accidents. On the third day, she tells you when she needs to poop.

10) Gloat over your child's genius and precocity. Pat yourself on the back-- this time it worked just like all of those "potty train your child in one day" books said it would. Or, rather, shake your head in amazement that this has been so easy. This is your fifth time on the potty train, and the first time it was relatively pain-free. She may sleep like a newborn and have the left hook of a prizefighter, but she's a dream to toilet train.

We interrupt these book reviews for inane talk about running shorts...

I've been a runner for more than a decade now, and while it's easy to find running tops that work (the technical t-shirts I get from races are great for all but the coldest or hottest weather, and Target has plenty of cheap stuff to fill in the gaps), I've had a harder time with bottoms.

My requirements:

1) One pair of shorts, one pair of capris, one pair of tights. Yeah, one pair of each is enough. I do laundry every day, and unlike a sweaty tank, I'll often wear a pair of shorts for a couple of days before I wash them. And no skirts-- minimalism is the name of the game here, and I don't need an extra layer of fabric or a pair of annoying sewn-in underpants that give me a wedgie when I'm trying to get my fast on.

2) Pockets! Despite what I said about minimalism above, it baffles me that so many running bottoms don't come with pockets. At a bare minimum, there needs to be one pocket big enough to fit my phone (I frequently run alone in the dark, and even if I weren't addicted to my Audible app, I'd still run with a phone for safety reasons), and another to hold a couple of gels and a car key. If I plan to race in the bottoms (which I do, because see #1 above), then I'd like enough pockets to carry five gels, chapstick, an emergency drug stash and my inhaler on race day.

3) A waist that doesn't emphasize my muffin top. While I am not at all self-conscious about my non-existent butt or my skinny legs, let's be realistic-- I am a 39-year-old mother of six, and no one, not even me, wants to see my love handles. While a pair of tights or shorts that hits at the waist is the runner's equivalent to Mom jeans, I'm usually out running in the dark when no one can see me anyway.

4) All that for a price that won't make me rethink the necessity of buying a new pair of tights even when the old ones are full of holes and have been worn so transparent that you might be able to see my stretch marks through them.

That's only four things, and there are hundreds of pairs of shorts and tights out there, it shouldn't be too much of a challenge, right? Wrong. The really hard one is #2-- most pairs of shorts and tights come with a single pocket, either inside the waistband to hold the key or a zipper pocket at the small of the back that barely fits my iPhone 4.

For a long time, I was a reluctant fan of the Race Ready brand. As you can see in the photo to the left, the tights met all of my criteria. And $60 for a pair of running tights is a downright steal, especially since I wear my favorite pair of tights from October to May, basically every morning. I call the Race Ready tights my rickshaw tights, because I always feel like it looks like I'm carrying an enormous load on my back when I wear them. And cute, well, they are not cute at all. I see people staring at my behind when I wear them, and not in a checking-her-out kind of way, but more in a what-the-heck-is-on-her-butt kind of way. But still, these have been my go-to staple for years. This winter, I bought a second pair of winter tights since the first were losing their stretch after three or four winters. But the stitching on the new pair came apart almost immediately, and shortly thereafter, my phone went crashing out of the back pocket of the other pair and onto the ground one morning when a gigantic hole wore its way through the mesh pocket.

I have a bunch of their shorts too, and felt similarly ambivalent about them. Yeah, they're high-waisted enough to prevent a muffin top, but there is such a thing as too high waisted, and these are it. Besides, everyone else who wears them seems to be quite a bit older than I am. And while you might think that I've been pretty restrained by sticking with this one, fairly inexpensive brand, let me disabuse you of this notion-- I have bought PLENTY of other pairs of tights and shorts over the years, and I have decided that I hated most of them after wearing them two or three times. Either they were too tight at the waist, or the legs were too long/short/loose/tight or I spent the whole run pulling them up and driving myself nuts in the process.

While we're talking about shopping, I need to make a confession-- if I can't buy it online, I probably won't buy it at all. Ever since I've birthed and adopted a permanent entourage, there's not much that is more stressful and less rewarding than trying on clothes in a store, with my kids in tow (except maybe trying to write this blog post with both of my two-year-olds on my lap or going to the post office). So I'd buy online, hate whatever I bought, then not return it (because of how much I hate going to the post office). And I'd only buy from places that were for "real runners" because that's how I see myself.

This weekend, Annie and I went to Las Vegas. Long story, but she was stressed out by the idea of a birthday party, so I told her to scrap the party and we'd go stay in a hotel and eat dinner somewhere fancy one night. Mostly, she wanted to spend the money she'd gotten for her birthday at the mall. I wanted to do something spa-y, but didn't want to pay to go to the spa, so we decided to take a yoga class at the Lululemon at the mall.

Until this weekend, I'd never stepped foot in a Lululemon. I was a real runner, after all, and based on making totally judgey assumptions about the women I saw wearing Lululemon, I decided the brand was the ski bunny version of workout clothes (when you want to look cute but don't want to work out that hard). Besides, I knew they were blisteringly expensive.

I don't know if it was the fact that Annie and I had a wonderful, free class at Lululemon, or it was the happy endorphins that were coursing through my system after doing yoga, but I decided to look at their running tights on the way out of the store (shopping with one kid is actually kind of fun!). And lo and behold, I found a pair that had a mid-rise, and FIVE pockets! Better still, when I tried them on, they didn't make me look like a camel! Yes, I balked at the price tag, but again, remember that a good pair of tights will last me three or four years of daily use for six months at a time. And they're soft, and they feel so amazing on that I bought a pair of shorts (three pockets!) too. Didn't spring for capris though-- a minimalist can live without capris.

So what's the point of this blog post, other than that I'm bragging on my new bottoms? Not much, other than, I guess, not to judge your workout wear until you've run twenty miles in it. And to retire the bottoms that make me look like I have an extra butt ASAP.

Basically, this whole post is TMI

An hour or so ago, the kids and I arrived home from our swimming lessons/McDonalds routine. They like to follow up the routine by pretending to drive my car, which usually involves moving the seat and the mirrors, turning on the hazard lights, and sticking stuff in the CD player. So I let them play in the driveway for a minute while I ran into the kitchen to empty the swim bag and change the laundry. Pretty soon I realized that I was rushing around the house at breakneck speed, for no reason my conscious brain could understand. I stopped for just a second and figured out that I had to go to the bathroom, urgently. And my pace was frantic because my phone was in the car with the kids, and for some reason, over the last few years, it has become nearly impossible for me to pee without checking Instagram.

Gross, I know, right? But it began innocently enough. I usually keep my phone in the back pocket of my jeans, and when I finally switched over from a basic flip phone to an iPhone, I developed a fear that I would drop it in the toilet when I was pulling my pants down. So as long as it was in my hand already when I was using the bathroom, I might as well put it to good use. If you've ever sent me an email and not gotten a response right away, chances are I read it while I was going to the bathroom. If I've liked your picture on Instagram or your status update on Facebook, chances are I clicked on that "like" button while warming the throne.

The funny thing is that even though I'm a reader, I was never the kind of person who stacked the back of the toilet with books or magazines. That was like advertising that I liked to linger on the pot, reading, and that the books that stayed in there were likely contaminated. I came of age in the Seinfeld era, and I guess I was worried that I'd be shunned like George Costanza was for having a toilet book.  And look, I know it's gross. I know that if I'm holding the phone when I'm using the bathroom, unless I wash the phone when I wash my hands, if I wash my hands (insert evil laugh), then the phone is basically contaminated too. Whatever. That's what bathroom doors are for. You don't necessarily want to know what goes on behind them when they're closed (not that mine usually are).

This morning I was out for a run, and I was listening to the end of Tsh Oxenreider's book Notes from a Blue Bike. She has lots of advice about how to live intentionally in our busy modern world, and toward the end she talked about the importance of time for quiet reflection. She said that good ideas and promptings from God are much more likely to come to her when she has moments when her brain can decompress. With six kids, I don't feel like I get that very often. I like to listen to books when I run, which is the logical alone time, and I usually have an audience when I take a shower. I'm asleep within a minute of my head hitting the pillow pretty much every night. So when I was standing there in the kitchen today, breathing heavy and crossing my legs, I had an epiphany-- I might not be able to carve out large chunks of alone time, and I might not get to go to the bathroom alone every time, but there are times every day when I am alone in the bathroom. And I can give up my frenetic email and Facebook and Instagram checking for the thirty seconds it takes for me to pee.

So if I like fewer status updates or don't "<3 and="" barging="" bathroom.="" because="" been="" does.="" don="" else="" god="" house="" i="" if="" in="" insight="" it="" listening="" m="" me="" mind="" nbsp="" need="" no="" on="" one="" p="" peace.="" pictures="" quickly="" re="" revelation="" s="" speak="" t="" the="" using="" ve="" warned:="" when="" you="" your="">

More is more

A few weeks ago, my kids had a sleepover at their cousins' house. They had a great time, and came home full of things to report. Annie, in particular, had a bone to pick with me:

"Aunt Alison always does such fun things with us when we sleep over. She had all of the ingredients for us to make smoothies and brownies. They made a huge breakfast. They even got Bryce to drink a smoothie. Why don't you do fun stuff like that?'

Ouch. The truth of it hit, and hit hard. Because when my kids' cousins come to sleep over, I figure that everyone is entertained. Since my niece and nephew can't get enough of our babies, sometimes I'm even successful in getting them to watch the little ones, which allows me to do something totally indulgent, like, you know, clean out the coat closet.

When we get together with my sister-in-law and her family, I always end up feeling a little frenzied, a little jealous, and a little bit like I'm not pulling my share. She helps her mom in the kitchen, she goes on walks with Maren. She does the things I'd like to do if I didn't feel stretched so thin. Ed sometimes looks at their family, who can all go to the movies together and who spent three weeks in Europe last summer and says to me, "You know, that life could have been ours."

My brother and his wife, Patience, also have six kids. But when I visited them at their home in Alaska a few years back, I noticed differences between their house and ours: the kids all ate lunch at the same time, and sat at the table for snack time (not the free-for-all snacking that happens here). My sister-in-law knows how to keep things simple. Her kids come home from school and read or jump on the tramp. Part of it is her personality, since I know she'd rather stay home than run around, and part of it, to be sure is geographic, there is no mall or nickelcade for her kids to beg to be taken to. Their home had a sense of calm that is absent in ours, and that I wish I could provide.

When Annie, my second child, was a baby, I was a leader in the Young Women's organization for teenage girls at our church. I was preparing a lesson one Sunday, and a story in the manual really struck me. It was about a girl who was the oldest daughter in a large family and her mom was often overwhelmed (at least they got that part right). I can't remember the details, but the takeaway of the story was that the girl should have been more willing to help out with the little kids instead of hanging out with her friends or doing things that were important to her. Blatant sexism aside, I found myself dying inside a little bit as I read the story and looked at my sweet baby, who would probably one day be the big sister of the house. I promised myself and her that day that she would never have to make sacrifices by being in a large family-- she is not the mother of these kids, I am.

My sisters-in-law both have great lives. They have great kids who are nice and successful and all the good things you'd want kids to be. I also have a great life and, I think, pretty darn good kids. But I feel like I spend a good part of each day with my little ones, refereeing fights and willing the hours to pass smoothly, and the rest of the day running around like a crazy person. Tuesdays, for example, go like this: I go grocery store and swimming lessons with the little ones in the morning. Then I try to get dinner made and laundry done and work on writing projects while they nap (if they nap). When the big kids get home, we have piano practice times four, clarinet practice. I drive to and from the dance studio four times, and to and from church the same. By the time they're all quiet and settled in for the night, I feel like I've been run over by a truck.

I read an article that's been floating around Facebook about why it's really not that hard to have six kids. The author, Julie Cole, talks about things I've seen in my own family (like how her kid with an ASD benefits from having siblings, which is something I've definitely seen play out at our house) but also how her kids are learning to work hard, and she passes clothes down from kid to kid. A lightbulb went off in my head-- I have six kids, but I'm trying (and failing) at raising them like I have two. All four of the older kids have private piano lessons that require daily practice. Bryce also has clarinet lessons, scouts, and church activities. Annie dances upwards of 12 hours a week, Maren puts in three. Isaac also has scouts and basketball. They all play regularly with friends. Heck, even my babies go to swimming lessons and story time and mornings out at the children's museum. And while I welcome the busyness more than the times when I feel idle and tied down, sometimes I feel like I can't even take a deep breath. But I also don't think my kids should have to sacrifice their enriching activities because their parents chose to have a big family.

Ed and I grew up in houses that quite different approaches to work. At his house, the kids' primary responsibility was to do well in school, and then to be successful in extracurricular activities. He got his first paying job after we were married, but he learned hard work every afternoon on the piano bench with his mother. On the other hand, I started working at a softball concession stand when I was eleven, babysat my way through junior high school, and had after-school and summer jobs all throughout high school. Between early morning seminary and AP classes and extracurriculars and waiting tables, I was familiar with going-going-going from before sunup until I fell into an exhausted heap at night.

My kids have chores, but they're pretty easy, and truthfully, often go undone. They don't have to scrub toilets on the weekends like I did as a kid, because we're fortunate to be able to pay someone to do that. My mother-in-law spent every afternoon making sure that her kids got their practice done, but I'm often driving to dance or breaking up toddler fights or carrying Eli around or helping someone study for something while my kids are practicing, and I know it's not the quality it should be. I worry that because hard physical labor isn't expected, and hard mental effort is difficult for me to monitor, it means they won't learn to work hard and won't have the grit they need to be successful.

And I'm stretched too thin. I think I used to be fun and friendly, like Aunt Alison. I thought I'd be a natural at managing a large family, like Aunt Patience. Now I just worry about what needs to be done next. 

So what's the answer? I know that part of it is to be as engaged as possible in the late afternoon, to put away my phone, to stay off the computer. We have family dinner and check in on what is done and what still needs to be. Simplify isn't really part of my vocabulary. But I'm starting to realize that throwing activities and experiences at my kids can't totally make up for the times I'm stretched too thin to help them. I do my best, really I do, but most days I feel like it's not enough.

And I've been writing long enough that Rose and Eli have taken all of the cushions off the couch, covered the bathroom floor with q-tips, toothpaste, and Ritz cracker crumbs, and had at least five "nooooo" screaming matches. But that's life, and I have to run-- it's time for swimming lessons.

Sharing my recliner

"Just stay here in my room while I run down and change the laundry. I'll be back in one minute," I say as I practically run from the room.

But before I make it to the first step, I feel her tug on my jeans and wiggle her little hand into mine.

She follows me everywhere all day long. She's at my feet, "helping," as I load and unload the washer and the dishwasher. If I run outside to grab a soda or the newspaper, she's outside too. When I pee, she's my designated wiper. When I do my strength-training circuit, she planks when I do, and I'm always afraid that she's going to get too close and get smacked in the face with a kettlebell. She only falls asleep if someone's sitting in the room with her, and as soon as she ends her first sleep cycle, she wants to get in bed with us. She swoops in like a vulture the second I set down a sandwich or a Diet Coke. She's sharing a chair with me right now.

And now that she's verbal, there's no silence in my brain. "What's dat? Computer cord? Leave it plugged in? Why?"

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why?"

I turn on Disney movies to help divert her. We adopted a brother so she'd have a buddy. But he watches the Disney movies and she grabs my legs like a koala bear when I walk across the room. I know some of it might be an adoption attachment thing. Some of it might be because Ed and I just left her and went out of town for a few days, but holy cow, I can't take a deep breath without touching her.

This is the baby girl who I hoped and prayed and wished for so desperately. The one I wrote all of those sappy letters to. And sometimes she annoys the hell out of me.

When my class got canceled, I was disappointed because I love teaching, and I really wanted the opportunity to read a whole bunch of new material and share that information with others. But I was even more disappointed that I wasn't going to get a mental and physical break from my toddlers once a week.

Overall, I think things are going better with the babies. They're less destructive. Rose hits less than she used to. No one has had a major medical procedure for a few months. I think they're starting to see each other as friends rather than rivals. But the clingyness remains.

Eli is pretty clingy too, but I can put him in front of a movie and take a pee. And he naps. Rose has traded naps for two extra hours of sitting on top of me while I try to write, which just leaves us both feeling frustrated. I know I should give her some undivided attention for a while before delving into work, but I worry that she might be a bottomless pit of undivided attention. For an introvert who needs a twenty minute snooze and an equal amount of time with a book to recharge for the afternoon with the bigger kids, the whole "sharing a recliner" thing doesn't work so well.

The thing that really kills me is that she naps like a dream for other people. Always for a babysitter. Usually for Grandma or Daddy. Never for me. And quiet time in her room doesn't happen. It's more like kicking the door and waking up Eli.

When Maren was a toddler, I felt a little bit weepy about her milestones. She was going to grow up and I'd never have a baby again and I knew I'd miss these moments. But with Rose and Eli, I find myself wishing the intensity of this time away. Right now Rose is trying to put my bra on (because I haven't managed to do that yet today), and while it's pretty adorable to hear her asking to put her "boobies on," more than anything I just wish she'd go into another room.

In some ways, taking a child-free vacation reminds me of how weird and hard it is to be the primary parent to two two-year-olds. When I can get into a car and I only have to buckle myself, or I can run in and out of the grocery store in less than five minutes, it makes me feel like I live the rest of my life with my feet bound in concrete blocks. These babies-- they're my joy and the best blessing I never thought I'd have, and I am so very lucky to be able to be home with them every day, but man oh man, what I wouldn't do for an hour of silence. If you ever wonder why I'm out on snow-covered roads at 5am, you've got your answer right there. It's funny to think that there will be a day when Rose would rather die than talk to me about her bra, and when she won't want to sleep with me, but appreciating an overabundance of anything is hard, isn't it?

On saying yes (Teaching Mormon Lit)

Some of the biggest opportunities in my life have come at the most inconvenient times. Just after my twenty-first birthday, when I'd spent the last 22 months impatiently waiting for my missionary boyfriend to come home, Bruce Young asked me to be his TA for the London Study Abroad Program. I said "no," burst into tears, walked across campus to my job, and called him as soon as I got in the door to tell him I wanted to do it after all. When I look back at my college experience, it's definitely that time in London that was the most memorable and the most formative, and if I'd done the safe thing and not left the guy I'd been writing an average of a dozen pages a week for the last two years (my roommates were aghast that I'd even consider it), I would never have had those experiences.

There have been other times when we were absolutely certain, my missionary and I (he did wait those four months for me after all), that our lives would take us in one direction, only to have us sent somewhere else. We had an apartment and jobs lined up for him to go to medical school at Duke, only to have a full-tuition scholarship come through from Washington University just days before the decision deadline. We packed up our stuff and moved to an apartment we'd never seen in a city we didn't know. And eleven years later, at the end of our training, we were sure he'd end up with a job in Provo, near his family, but just before he put his pen to paper and signed the formal contracts, the job opportunity came through here. Things were less certain in many ways with this job, but it's turned out to be a great experience for all of us.

Similarly, I applied for BYU's MFA program on a whim, at the recommendation of a friend, and was terrified to find out I'd been accepted. I had four kids, and the youngest was only three, when I started, and it felt both overwhelming and completely indulgent. A year later, we were DONE, DONE, DONE building our family when the undeniable urge to adopt Rosie came, and we followed it even though it meant going back to diapers, sleepless nights, surgeries, and eventually Eli. And undoubtedly, they've been the greatest (most overwhelming) blessing I never thought I'd have.

But as many of you know, I've found it hard to keep up with having two two-year-olds (and four older kids). The babies get into everything. They hit and talk back. They don't sleep. They both want to be cuddled and carried and fed at the same moment. I've spent the last nine months barely keeping my head above water. Shortly before we went to get Eli, I took on the responsibility of heading up Segullah, and I feel like I barely give it the attention it deserves most times, and my list of "to do" things for the journal is a mile long (in my mind, because writing it down is too much work).

So it should come as no surprise at all that I got a call a little more than a month ago. Did I want to teach Mormon Lit at the BYU Salt Lake Center?

I didn't see any conceivable way that I could do it. I can't even manage to get out of my pajamas some days. My house is a wreck. My running schedule has all gone to pot. I can't manage much but baby wrangling and driving people places and Instagram posts most days.

So I said yes (of course I did).

Because while my short-term plans included not much more than laundry and potty training, my ten-year dream plan included teaching at the Salt Lake Center, and my wildest dream included teaching Mormon Lit. And when your wildest dream falls in your lap, you don't say no, even if the timing isn't right.

I finally started working on the syllabus this week, after several weeks of denial. And thanks to Margaret Young (who is teaching the immensely popular section in Provo), Angela Hallstrom, Michael and Karen Austin, and the entire staff at Segullah, who have been amazing at providing recommendations for what we should study, I'm not totally terrified any more.

This Wednesday, the class will start. And for the next four months, I'll spend Wednesday afternoons in front of a class, and the rest of the week, I'll be praying that Rosie will nap so I can somehow keep up on the class and the 40ish Whitney books I need to read during the same time frame. And maybe this will even help me get some of my mojo back.

Wish me luck! And if you're free from 12:15-2:40 on Wednesdays, consider taking it-- there's still room!

There are people who've gotten wind of this crazy endeavor and have asked to see my syllabus, so here is the reading list and schedule of assignments. I know it looks like a lot of reading right now, and I plan to pare down some of the readings as I get a sense of the class, but I'd rather subtract from the syllabus than add to it.

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Literature of the Latter-day Saints

 

Course Description :

This course surveys the foundations and current state of Mormon literature as demonstrated in journals, essays, poetry, short fiction, novels, drama, and cinema.

Course Objectives:

English 268 will introduce students to the rich Mormon literary heritage and to the current state of Mormon letters/art. The course will also encourage students to become a part of the Mormon literary endeavor by writing their own work or by researching an author or subject of their choice.

Requirements:

·      Regular quizzes on the readings (approximately weekly)

·      Mormon literary events–you will attend one event and write up a short response essay.  These events may be author readings, LDS films, or specifically LDS dance/music concerts or an LDS play.

·      Genre Fiction and Literary Fiction Presentations. While it’s impossible for us to read more than a representative sample of some Mormon literature in this course, we’re going to do our best. Twice during the semester, students will pick a novel written by a Mormon author, write a short review (500-800 words) and prepare a 15-minute presentation/discussion of the novel. 

·      Final Project–you may choose ONE of the following for your final project: 1) Research paper–write an 8-10 page research paper (using at least four outside critical sources and MLA format). 2) Write a series of poems, essays, or short stories totaling 10-12 pages.

Grading:

Weekly Quizzes- 20%

Culture Project- 10%

Genre Fiction Presentation- 20%

Literary Fiction Presentation- 20%

Final Project- 30%

Required Reading:

Anderson, Nephi, Added Upon

Chadwick, Tyler, ed,. Fire in the Pasture: 21^st Century Mormon Poets

Dalton-Bradford, Melissa Global Mom: Eight Countries, Sixteen Addresses, Five

Languages, One Family

Hallstrom, Angela, ed., Dispensation: Latter-day Fiction

Morris, William Henry and Theric Jepson, eds., Monsters and Mormons: Thirty Tales

of Adventure and Horror

Peck, Steven L. The Scholar of Moab

Peterson, Levi, The Backslider

Stewart, Mahonri, Saints on Stage: An Anthology of Mormon Drama

Weyland, Jack, Charly

Williams, Carol Lynch, The Chosen One

Additional essays and material available on MyBYU

Two additional novels of your choosing (see attached list of suggestions)

Schedule:

January 8- What is Mormon literature?

“Mormons offer Cautionary Lesson on Sunny Outlook vs. Literary Greatness” by Mark Oppenheimer,  “About Serious Mormon Fiction” by Douglas Thayer, “Mormon Literature: A Sunny Outlook” by Scott Hales, “Unrealistic Expectations of Mormon Miltons and Shakespeares” by Jettboy, “Fisking the NYT: It isn’t just me. My whole religion can’t be ‘real’writers” by correia45, “As Much as any Novelist Could Ask: Mormons in American Popular Fiction” by Michael Austin

January 15- Added Upon by Nephi Anderson, Jane James’s Story, Eliza Partridge’s Diary, King Follett Discourse

January 22- Charly by Jack Weyland

January 29- The Backslider by Levi Peterson

February 5- Selected Poetry from Fire in the Pasture

February 12- Melissa Dalton-Bradford class visit, read Global Mom

February 19- “Easter Weekend” by Eugene England; “Barcelona, Venezuela: 1998”

by Brittney Carman; “Take, Eat” by Tessa Santiago; “Smoke and Mirrors” by Stephen Carter; “Of the Drowned” by Jaren Watson; “Working at Wendy’s” by Joey Franklin; “On Laughter” by Patrick Madden

February 26- The Chosen One by Carol Lynch Williams

March 5- Genre Fiction Presentations

March 12- Stories from Dispensation: “Calling and Election” by Jack Harrell;

“Wolves” by Doug Thayer; “Buckeye the Elder” by Brady Udall; “Clothing

Esther” by Lisa Torcasso Downing, “Obbligato” by Lisa Madsen Rubilar

March 19- Stories from Monsters and Mormons: Preface by Terryl Givens, "The

Mountain of the Lord," by Dan Wells; "Allow Me to Introduce Myself," by Moriah Jovan; “Charity Never Faileth,” by Jaleta Clegg; "The Living Wife," by Emily Milner, “That Leviathan, Whom Thou Hast Made” by Eric James Stone

March 26- Plays from Saints on Stage: “I Am Jane” by Margaret Blair Young and

“Gadianton” by Eric Samuelsen

April 2- The Scholar of Moab by Steven L. Peck

April 9- Literary Fiction Presentations, Semester wrap up

Final Exam Period- Final Projects due

The winter runner

Remember running? When I first started this blog, I wrote a lot about running. I wrote about my training programs, and my races, and everything I was thinking about as I ran. But after a while, my pace started to plateau and I stopped setting goals for myself, and I realized that reading about someone else's running was pretty boring, so I stopped writing about it. But I still run about 60 miles a week, and most days you can find me at 5am on the streets of Salt Lake, trying to get a run in before the crazy day sets in. But just for a minute, indulge me as I write about running.

The summer runner gets ready in less than five minutes. At five am, all she needs is a tank top, a pair of running shorts, socks and shoes. She pulls her hair into a ponytail, and she's out the door. It's dark most mornings when the summer runner sets up, but she's always rewarded with a gorgeous sunrise. She can't run much past sunrise, because it's too hot by midday, and she picks routes where she knows she'll find water fountains. She also sees people she knows almost every morning, and takes welcome breaks to chat. On mornings when it's not too hot, the summer runner can take the kids out in the jogger if they keep her from getting out the door. The summer runner can also escape to the trails when she's sick of running the same routes week after week.

The summer runner also feels the pressure of speedwork, tempo days, and race training.

The winter runner sets out her gear the night before, but it still takes her 15 minutes to get dressed. A pair or two of tights, a shirt or three, an outer layer, heavy socks (with the tights pulled down so not a millimeter of skin shows), reflective gear, a hat, and gloves. Oh gloves-- the bane of the winter runner. She never knows which gloves to wear, despite checking the weather app on her phone more regularly than her email. If it's over forty, she doesn't need anything on her hands. Between 30-40 and she wears a shirt with foldover cuffs. Between 20-30, she adds a pair of light gloves. Between 10-20, she swaps out the gloves for mittens. Between 0-10, she adds hand warmers. Below 0 and her hands will be cold, no matter what she does. But the science is inexact, and most mornings her hands are either sweaty or freezing.

And chapped. Every inch of the winter runner is chapped. She has cracks in her heels and her fingers. A friendly pat on the back or the butt is liable to elicit a howl of pain, and no amount of exfoliating or shaving will help with her dry, scaly legs. She knows the limitations of every kind of lotion on the market, and super glues herself on a daily basis.

The winter runner often finds herself alone in the dark. I don't mean she's running by herself, I mean that she might not see another runner the entire time she's out, and the beautiful winter sunrises happen long after she's inside and getting started for the day. And in the dark, she has to be careful not to slip on ice or step in puddles of freezing water. She might even fall a few times during a winter, and spend days hobbling around, convinced she broke something in her back or her elbow (she didn't).

If the winter runner can't will herself out of bed before dawn, she could go any other time during the day, providing she has someone to watch her kids. And she feels no pressure to run fast or meet goals or to really do much of anything other than to stay upright when she's out during the mornings.

You might think that the winter runner spends the whole season pining for summer, or at least for spring, but she doesn't. She loves the quiet meditative mornings with no one on the roads. She loves the brisk air and the bragging rights. Her favorite times of the entire year are when there's fresh snow on the roads and she can be the first one to put her footprints in it. Of course, those feet might be a little bit tentative and her heels are certainly full of cracks, but she wouldn't change it, not for a whole year of summer running.

Staring at the wall

I don't know why I try to keep up the appearance that everything is going well in my life. Or if not swimmingly exactly, that at least I can keep my sense of humor about this life with six kids, two of whom happen to be two years old. Most days aren't so bad, as long as you have a high capacity for disorder (I don't), nakedness (I do), poop (I can handle that too), and being hit by your daughter at least a hundred times a day.

I keep thinking about how many people I know who have big families. Here in Mormon central, it's not at all uncommon to have six kids or more. There are half a dozen families in my church congregation who fill their pew to bursting. My in-laws were both seventh children. My mom grew up in a house of six. I also have lots of friends with multiples, which is, for all intents and purposes, how I'm raising Rose and Eli. I have two friends who each had two sets of twins less than two years apart, and another friend with triplets. One of my mom's best friends has grandkids who are quintuplets. The other families on my adoption boards seem to have it all together, and that sometimes makes me wonder what the heck is wrong with me? It's not like I haven't done hard things in my life. In high school I juggled early morning seminary, AP classes, dance, swim team, work, and the school play one semester. I worked my way through college, taking 21 credits some semesters (and getting straight As). I finished one MA program while working full-time and carrying my first child. I did my MFA while juggling the schedules of four kids. I've had horrible bosses and heinous jobs. I've run marathons and ultra marathons. Why is this so hard?

Let's take tonight as a case in point. Today was a pretty normal day. I spent the morning running errands, and probably pushed it too far with the kids, buckling them in and out of their car seats too many times, expecting them to be good in stores and shopping carts for too long. Then I came home and fed them and basically ignored them while I rushed around getting ready for a little get-together I held while they were napping. It was so nice to see two of my old running buddies. We ran together for what I see now as a golden time in my life. Now one is retired due to a back injury and the other is 38 weeks pregnant with her fifth child (which is why we were getting together), and our lunch made me realize how much I benefited from their wisdom and their awesomeness, and how much I miss having them as a part of my life most mornings. Running is a lifeline for me, and a lot of times I feel like it's what's keeping my fingernails holding onto the edge of sanity, but it was so much better back in the days when I could look forward to an hour of adult conversation most mornings.

Anyway, back to tonight. The kids come home from school, unload their backpacks and their day's reports on me, and rush off to piano lessons. I know I should sit and read to the babies, or play with them at the very least, but since I've spent the last two hours talking with friends, instead of putting the sheets I washed back on four beds, or staring at the wall to recuperate from my morning, or taking a nap myself (I haven't been blogging very much because I NEED that nap time to decompress, and blogging, though fun, is not as rejuvenating as blissing out with a book, or my comfy blankie). So I did the sheets, whining at the babies the whole way for getting into the LEGOs in the boys room, and getting into the makeup in Annie's room (I don't go anywhere without them following me), and pulling the damn pillows off my couch for the eighteenth time today in my room. Then I had to iron my duvet, because part of keeping up the appearance that I'm keeping it all together is doing things like ironing duvet covers. I did this with the babies playing at my feet, running under the ironing board, and doing tricks in the laundry baskets. And then, because there were a dozen or so other things that needed to be ironed, and I really didn't feel like reading to the babies, who were annoying the hell out of me, I did that ironing too, and got progressively more annoyed as they worked harder and harder to get my attention.

Then the older kids got home, and they had an agenda-- we were going to carve their pumpkins. So instead of playing with Rose and Eli, like they usually do at this time of day, they all started to draw complicated designs on their pumpkins. Annie wanted eyes with pupils. Isaac wanted enormous antler horns. And Maren wanted her monogram until I got 2/3 of the way through it and she decided that she didn't like how it looked with the C for Camilla all the way off to the right side and started crying. Meanwhile, Rose and Eli kept climbing up onto the island. Every time someone would lift one of them off, the other would climb on, and when we managed to get them both down on the floor, they'd start moving the bar stools, scraping them all over the floor, so they could get themselves a better view, preferably one within reach of the knives.

By this time, it was 5:30, and I got a text from Ed saying that he wouldn't be home until 8, because he'd forgotten about a mandatory meeting at work. I'd already ditched plans to make a real dinner, and was in the process of doing Mac and Cheese and leftovers. The doorbell rang, and UPS delivered something I've been waiting for with great expectations-- a tool to change the lightbulbs in my staircase, which were all burned out. So I plopped the kids in their high chairs and stools, plunked out the Mac and Cheese (no sides, just a clamshell of raspberries tossed on the table) and got to work on the lightbulbs. After a few tries, a major screaming fit at the two kids who could both do their homework easily yet felt the need to whine to me about it, and one lightbulb that went sailing down half a flight of stairs, I finally met with great success (yay!) and now have light in my stairwell, but I came back to find that Eli had spilled his drink all over Annie's homework, and Rose had freed herself from her high chair and her clothes, and was smashing raspberries with her toes all over the floor. Instead of sitting with the babies, reading to them, and giving them a bath, I knew that it would be impossible to rest until I'd done the dishes, so I started the dishes.

In the process, I climbed under the bar to get a plate off the floor, and fill it with discarded Mac and Cheese and smashed berries. I misjudged when standing up and smacked my head on the corner of our marble bar, and suddenly, I was crying hot tears, heaving, sighing. I don't cry-- I can't indulge in tears-- I just have to push through. But now I couldn't stop. Until.... I looked up and saw that Rose and Eli were now both naked, and dancing in the windows. I grabbed them, and took a second to rub the rapidly forming egg on my head, during which time Rose came over and proceeded to hit me, when Isaac pointed to the window. "What is that?" he said. I knew before I even looked. Of course it was poop. Back when I had one, two, or three kids, I would have disinfected the entire family room, but I just took a paper towel, grabbed the poop, squirted down the streak with antibacterial spray, and called it good.

The night went on like this-- babies doing their best to escape when it was time to dress them for bed, begging to watch Elmo for the millionth time in the car when I took Bryce to his clarinet lesson and crying when I said no, and so on. But then tonight, Rose gave me a kiss and a hug at bedtime and went right to sleep, and Eli gave me a million kisses and said "love you" and "night night." And I think it was worth the hell that was the rest of the afternoon. Or almost worth it, at least. And I know that in the long run, it will be worth it. Even if it's the hardest thing I've ever done. Even if I'm not up to the challenge. Even if it takes me another six months to learn to sit and be still and let them play instead of trotting them out to do a million errands every morning. Even if my kids mock me about writing a post in which I whine about my day. Even if I never develop the kind of stiff upper lip I might need to do this job I've signed up for. Even if it never gets easier.

So that was long and depressing and self-indulgent. And there's still laundry to fold and kids to tuck in and a husband to say hi to for the first time all day. But there are also clean sheets and tomorrow and the next day to look forward to. And the book reviews? I'll get to them, eventually.