Things are how they are...

My friend Tara gently hinted that she had to cut back on some of her church volunteer work... it was kind of her to be gentle with me since she was listening to my list of things I don't manage to accomplish every day, but it made me realize that some people don't know how my church works.

It begins with a seemingly innocent engagement of eyes across the chapel. The connection that is very quickly broken by anybody who knows never to make eye contact with anyone from the Bishopric. Eye contact could get you a talk next Sunday, or worse, a calling other than Sunday School Door Holder.

The intimidating person in suit and tie will ask you if you could come have a chat with him in his office... and if you give the Bishop a chat, he'll want an acceptance speech to go with it...

If he leans back comfortably and asks, "Sister Molly, how are you doing?" That's never a good sign. The more concerned he is with your children, husband, dog that died two years ago etc., the worse the calling is going to be.


He may lead in with all the reasons why he feels you're good for the position. He may not. He may leave you to squirm in your seat and wish you had worn Depends that day.


However it happens, it happens and you stumble out of the building with a plastered-on smile in stunned silence.


I didn't volunteer. I still don't volunteer if you want to know the truth. I can't cut back my volunteer time (well I could by disconnecting my phone, but someone always could find me).
On a regular basis I give this kind man an opening in case he's the one squirming now--realizing he's made a huge mistake. I've even suggested some great ladies who would step into my calling quite well.
I'm blatantly dropping hints about previously being a camp director, activities chairperson, Nursery Leader (that's the first clue that I'm desperate. I lead nursery at home, do I really want to do it again at church?) but it all seems to fall on broccoli ears.

It's been a year. He's not budging-- stubborn man.

A year as Relief Society President.

A year of constant reminders that I can't do everything right.

Reminders that I am unbelievably flawed as a human.

Reminders that some people who bear brilliant testimonies of following Christ refuse to do service for many reasons and that other people who have many reasons to be very self-absorbed, serve many silently.


I'd like to think that one day I will fall into the latter category- some future Relief Society President will never know to what extent I am serving.


I'm also hoping that day isn't too far off in the future. I make eye contact all of the time now.

The Bishopric is starting to look a little nervous about the tired, disheveled woman wearing two different coloured shoes (surrounded by wiggly children) staring at them throughout the service.


I wonder if a white flag would be too much...

"Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it."

--Mahatma Gandhi

"Things are how they are, and complaining doesn't help." John H. Groberg


"Nobody cares how much you know until they know how much you care." Fred Babbel

Under Pressure

"Often, when I am reading a good book, I stop and thank my teacher. That is, I used to, until she got an unlisted number. " ~Author Unknown

I used to teach Gospel Doctrine (Sunday School). I taught it in Missouri, the Azores and New Mexico. I love teaching.

I would prepare by:
Reading the scriptures. Reading the lesson. Pondering the lesson. Re-reading the scriptures that applied to the lesson. I'd print out selected readings that I would have individual class members read, and prepare questions to ask. And pray. a lot. My class is more of a directed discussion than a teacher/student scenario.

When we moved here, we sat in our new Sunday School class and watched the teacher weave in and out of the scriptures, pulling in threads of world history and adding relevant linguistic touches. We'd leave her classroom blanketed in the understanding of something previously elusive to us.

She is a scholar. Her IQ must be off the charts.

When this teacher presents the New Testament, she comes laden with engaging details to set the stage for whatever scriptural account we're studying. She brings pictures, drawings, charts-- whatever it takes to break into our child-like minds.
Ours isn't a quiet church, but you won't see us standing and applauding or rolling on the floor-- that's usually reserved for the 4 and under crowd. However, a few of her lessons have made me want to jump up and shout, "Amen! "and "Encore!" She's brilliant.
And best of all,
she's humble.

So imagine my reaction when I was approached by the Sunday School Pres. and asked to substitute for her class for two weeks. And my day was going so well....

We're all In the Gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars*

To be so young and carefree. I can't tell you the last time I sat in the sunlight buck-nekked and picked sock lint out of my toes.

I have been reluctant to come out and play because
1. WOW --the depression-slap upside the head this week.
2. After reading so many really cool blogs, I am beginning to wonder if I really have anything to say. (Doesn't mean I won't say something... have you seen me try a wordless "any" day?)

So now I am pondering the psychology of blogging.

I first began my blog because I was really fed up with where my life was (or wasn't) going. I googled (insert unhappy wife/mom/Air Force dependent etc... here), and happened upon a blog... that was telling my story. From there, I clicked on more links and found my spirits lifting. I began to feel like I was connected to these people somehow and feeling like what I was experiencing was o.k.

In the weeks that followed, I did find a few blogs that basically told me I was a selfish person for not reveling in the joys of wiping snotty noses and throwing unsalvageable underpants out for the third time in a week, but the great thing about blogs is how quick you can leave the offending post (wait, that wasn't your cue to leave).
The bad thing as a blogger is that I have entered this "need to perform" mode. You know, I need this post to be better and funnier than the one before.
Crap.
That's the whole problem with face-to-face friends, isn't it? It's the very rare friendship that we let down our guards showing who we are, quit entertaining and allow the friendship to really deepen. We take that risk of exposing all of our ugliness and still being liked.

THAT's what blogging is supposed to be doing for me, but somewhere in there I started worrying.
I worried about posting how I have every intention of changing my nationality if Hillary becomes president. I worried about sharing something that lifted me spiritually during the week--I wasn't ready for anti-God comments. I worried about becoming annoying with stories of my kids, and what sicko may be reading them.

I worried that someone might steal my photos. I worried that in my newby-ness, I may have committed the unpardonable blogging sin... Should I have asked you before I told everyone reading my blog how great your blog is? Putting your link in my side-bar, is that like posting your unlisted phone number (or worse, like sending you email 'forwards')?

I actually dropped my mask one day. The day I received the news that President Gordon B. Hinckley passed away, I wanted to acknowledge it, but did so thinking, "well, there go a few of my bloggy friends".
But you didn't go. Some of you left kind comments, some of you just ignored it and that was ok too. And maybe our bloggy relationship just grew a little bit, if only on my part.

This is me, this is who I am.

I have suffered some sort depression, probably linked to childbirth, on and off for a few years. I pull out of it and appear like I am doing fine, but then something major happens-- like the ketchup bottle falling out on a tile floor-- and I get slapped back down. I'd like to think it's a chemical imbalance and my body will sort itself out (yep, and then along comes MENOPAUSE).

In the meantime, I blog because writing interests me.
I read blogs, because I like knowing there's life outside my nappy-changing, nose-wiping, bed-makin', toilet-scrubbing, three-ring circus.
I am an artist that hasn't done ANY art in at least 5 years, and haven't painted seriously for 11 years. Yikes, seeing that actually typed... ouch.
I laugh a lot when my body isn't fighting me, and enjoy humorous blogs as well as the tear-jerkers and posts that have me rooting for the under dog (you know, aka: mom).

I go to church every sunday and some days in between. My family says prayers together, we eat our meals at the table together, and we drive each other mad... together.

I have no problem with any other religions and am actually fascinated in hearing our differences.

I don't like my food to touch, but I don't think it's bordering on nutty, I just take a lot of time getting flavors just right and don't want one taste to contaminate another.

I love taking pictures, and if someone wants to steal them, I will be flattered, but I will hunt them down (and force them to spend a week in my house with my kids).

So, now that we're opening up, I feel I can be a little more honest with you...
and tell you

I've NEVER sat nekked picking at my toes.
However, Miss Ky is obsessed with it (shoes and socks come off with every car ride), and she's a happy baby, so maybe ...?

*Oscar Wilde

President Gordon B Hinckley

A great man passed away last night. He was 97 years old.

I decided long ago to leave politics and religion out of my blog, because let's face it, even though I may be willing to hear and learn about other's points of view, I know there are many out there uninterested in seeing things from mine. And I'm ok with that.
But I would be dishonest if I blogged today and didn't acknowledge someone who has made such a great impact in my life.
All week long I have read posts about Heath Ledger, and sat stunned through news clips of a young life ended so soon. Today I feel the same.
Sure, Pres. Hinckley was 97 and had led a full and accomplished life, but his humor and Christ-like countenance will surely be missed by people all over the world.
I hope you take a little time from blog reading today to just find out who he was and what his life was about.

Christingles and Ambulance Rides

The kids celebrated with their second Christingle service yesterday in the beautiful church in Shipdham .
They prepare their Christingles in advance and practiced their parts diligently. This is A2 LAST year when he participated with his Pre-school. There's something about small children and fire that frightens me, but over all, this is a pretty neat experience.
Now the reason you are seeing LAST year's photo is because THIS year I had my hands full. The #1 son is home, but incredibly jet lagged, so he watches movies all night and sleeps all day (yeah, I'm not buying the jet lag thing either). Dad is due home TOMORROW NIGHT, but that's after all of the main events have been completed by me, the chauffeur, aka:pack mule . So, I am tired, I am overwhelmed and I don't feel like I can be everything to everybody right now (or anything to anybody), but the show must go on, right?

Let's back up a bit, shall we? On Sunday night, J2 was participating in the local Church's Carol Services. A woman had knocked on our door a couple of weeks prior and told me that she had 'heard he plays a mean trumpet and would he be willing to participate?' I told her he would, and then added it to the monster-sized white board in our kitchen.
So, Sunday night after popping a pan of cinnamon rolls into the oven, I glanced up at the board and said, "OH NO! We have to go!" It was 5:30 and the Carols started at 6pm. I gathered the little missy up from her high chair, bundled her up for the cold church, sent the boys all in to add another layer of clothes for warmth, grabbed the video camera and my SLR and loaded everyone into my husband's beater (because my car was holding the Jolly Old Elf gift stashed under a blanket). I ran back in to pull the rolls out of the oven and then off we went. Miraculously, we made it in time. However, Miss Ky was wound up by the excitement and spent the service trying to wriggle out of my arms while I desperately tried to video J2. Most of the service we were outside in the cold, listening to the trumpet through the painted glass windows.
It would've been a beautiful experience, standing there under the clear, crisp sky with the stars twinkling, basking in the glow from the candles flickering in the windows while Silent Night echoed through the stillness... but it wasn't. I was mad. I was mad at her for making me miss yet one more thing of the boys'. I was mad at their Dad for leaving me to handle everything on my own yet again. I was mad that I was in England to experience these beautiful traditions and wonderful cultural experiences, but couldn't because I was chasing a toddler around. I am ashamed to say that the sentiment is recorded for all time as I turned the camera on this fuzzy little pink thing and said, "and here I am outside, missing J2's performance because of this one...." I am adding this picture of her in her fuzzy coat so that you can really think poorly of me (who could be angry at this face?).

So, back to the Christingle. J2 would be playing again. So I took the push chair (stroller), maybe to keep her in--which is a joke, video camera and SLR.
I managed to get quite a bit recorded of his playing, while she toddled around some other children in the back of the church. I then held her under one arm while I escorted A2 up for his song, video'd A1 in his human representation of a huge Christingle (he was the orange) and even managed to watch A2 have his Christingle lit. After watching all of the flames be extinguished without any mishaps, I breathed a sigh of relief and A2, Miss Ky and I made our way back to the back of the church for the prayer.
While the children were leaving the church with their teachers, the rest of us were
asked to stay behind to make the exit smoother. I stood by with the SLR ready to shoot a couple of shots for Dad.

I managed to get a couple taken when I heard it. To my left I heard the smacking sound-- like plastic hitting hard concrete and my mind instantly had several thoughts: Miss Ky and A2 were sitting at the little children's table colouring, they were sitting on plastic chairs. Miss Ky LOVES climbing and often tips chairs over.
So I turn around and immediately hear her scream. She's face down (all I can see is her little pink fuzzy form) with her head located on a hard concrete step. I am not sure what all happened in what order, but I know that my digital SLR went down hard, I lifted her and before I could get her up three inches, saw blood dripping on the step. I also know that I turned her over, hoping the blood was coming from a lip or maybe even her nose (yeah, like a broken nose is a good thing...) and saw that her forehead was split.
Bystanders are telling me that at that point I went white as a sheet. I know that I yelled, "Somebody help me!" as I locked eyes with a woman still standing in a pew a few feet away from me (she later had to go looking for her house key that she threw as she rushed to us). She led the two of us running through the church to the back where there was a kitchen. I was just about hysterical watching Miss Ky bleed so heavily, it was pooling around her eyes whenever I tried to hold her back where I could see her.
Well, several kind and calm people ended up huddled there in that kitchen with me, as someone called the ambulance. They arranged the retrieval of my other children at the school, drove my car to the surgeon's and someone pushed the stroller all the way there since they couldn't figure out how to collapse it.
It was quite an experience. I later took a picture of her coat and mine, covered in blood, but I'll spare you those pictures. She's ok, a VERY resilient baby with a hard head like her momma. My SLR seems ok and I am back on track with what matters in my life. again. Until next week when I need the lesson again....
And as a little add-on note:
My "neighbor" (a woman about a mile from me, whose children play with mine and gather at the same bus stop) met me on the road home. She flagged me down with a panic stricken face. The news was out through the bus people, the Head Teacher etc... and she was mortified. She was hoping that the story had just been growing and there really wasn't an ambulance. She had been there at the church, but had somehow missed all of the commotion because she was dealing with her own. Her little 3 year-old had set fire to a little girls' hair.