My Ache-y Break-y Heart

My husband has a Masters Degree in Social work. He has spent countless hours facilitating jobs, housing, clothing, and food for the homeless. He graduated from the police academy so that he could help recovering addicts in prison.

My father is a clinical psychologist. An entire lifetime has been spent listening to the consequences of someone's poor choices. And now that he has retired, he serves the missionaries in nine different countries --still listening to worries, concerns, and tragic stories.


My mother, as a visiting teacher, came regularly with dinner, provided childcare, and nursing care for a ward member as he died. I watched her, as a Relief Society president, wrap her arms warmly around each elderly sister as they entered the RS room. She was genuinely concerned if one didn't show.

I, on the other hand, cannot seem to pull off Recess Duty at the school. I see a child over in the corner by himself...I worry. I stew. Those little girls aren't sharing the swings--another friend is being excluded because of it. Sigh. I make a turn-taking suggest to the swinging pair. But the other child has left. She's hoping to find another group to belong to before the bell rings.

I see a Reading Rainbow episode about children whose parent is in prison--and I think I might sink with the weight that sweeps over me. Those children deserve to be loved and taken care of.

I watch as a newly divorced mother of 6 weeps as the ward shows up and begins to weed, rake, mow, sweep, for FHE. After tucking in the baby and Millie, I return for stray bishops, boys, and tools -- they are just loading her sons in with mine for a treasured "trip to the dump." The excitement is evident on little Drew's face. I smile, wish them a happy trip (knowing that some sort of treat will follow, and that the hour will be late when they return). As I drive off, listening to All Things Bright and Beautiful by James Herriott, I cry. There are so many struggles ahead for those little neighbors...will they make it?

Mourning with those that mourn...my innate sense of this sometimes creates an almost claustrophobic feeling. Am I doing any good in my praying, stewing, and ache-ing? Sometimes I try to protect myself --in an effort to be UN-aware. That can't be all that good either.

What a dilemma and distraction it is to be in a frequent dither.

Mother's Day Revisited

I just read my sister-in-law's post on her Mother's Day experience. Ahh Jayne.

She was grateful for her garden seeds.

Does this mean I should be elated to have received 5 pairs (yes 5 (you know Costco)) of gardening gloves. How about 9 water bottles? (They are color-coded after all --'course no one wants to chose their assigned color...). And last, but certainly no least -- a new mop/broom.

Can't wait to get to work today! It's just what I need after a nice relaxing Sunday.....

p.s. Anybody know the best way (least revolting) to launder large comforters that have been the recipients of Saturday's half-digested dinner?

Ahh --- a holiday respite?

A tablecloth/beanbag/robe-draped set of boys (spring 2005)

It's 1 am. Someone is crying. In my foggy state, I try to decipher the voice. Star is still working on his laptop. He answers the call. The crying stops temporarily.

1:45am A little coughing body is trying to get in bed with me. She's bouncing. "Do you need to use the potty Millie?" I carry her into the bathroom. After tucking her in again, retrieving a drink, and setting the CD to song #1 again, I climb back in my bed.

2am. The monitor lights up with Max-Os's cries. I wait. Will he work through it on his own?

2:23am Loud thump, running and sobbing...gagging. Sam is heading to the bathroom. He kneels in front of the toilet, but has already lost most of his dinner on Zack's bottom bunk. And in the hallway.

I go downstairs for carpet cleaner. We create a makeshift bed in the master bathroom. I return downstairs and google: stomach flu and vomit.

2:40am I try to persuade Sam to take a Tylenol. He's forehead is so hot. He's reluctant --it's going to take some convincing.

2:53am I climb back in bed, position my pillows, and snuggle down deep.

3:01am Millie is at my ear. Her music has ended and she needs some medicine. I carry her back to Abbie's bed and pray that my newly-wheelchair-bound child will not awake. Getting her chair into the bathroom is going to be tricky with Sam's bed in there.

3:22am What is that moaning? Oh yeah. "Sam...you're alright," I call. His moans grow louder. I go in and tickle his back. "I just want you to be by me, Mom."

3:34am I gather pillows and quilt. My walk-in closet becomes my new sleeping quarters. Sam's groaning dies down.

4:50am Someone is crying. I pray Star will hear him.

4:57am Nope (those darned earplugs).

5:03am I head down the hall with a warm bottle. Poor baby. Max's little face surfaces above the crib bumper pads. He begins kicking and laughing in relief. After wiping is runny nosed face, we sit in the squeaky rocker and sing. He drinks slowly--reveling in the "quality" time together.

5:36am I retrieve my pillows from the closet, tiptoe, un-breathing, past Sam.

6:00am Star's alarm goes off. I try to figure out what day it is. I feel disoriented.

Oh, of course -- it's Mother's Day. Time to get ready for church.