This time, there wasn't much camera drama; I went as a mother, not a leader, and I seemed to be constantly making everyone wait for me. But I am still glad I went with Haley on Saturday to the general young women's meeting. (This is a meeting that happens yearly in the LDS church, the Saturday before spring conference; the audience is the 12-18-year-old girls.) Being in the presence of so many teenagers forces me to think of my own adolescence in a different light; I am able to see what I missed and to imagine how my decisions might have been different if I had been, well, different myself. More, though: even though the talks are geared toward teenaged girls, I still listen to them as if they were directed to me.

Lately I have been grappling with an issue in my heart. We talk a lot about the purpose of trials, how they make you stronger and how they make the good times better. Opposition in all things. I understand this intimately, but I also keep wondering when, exactly, the "good times" happen. I continue to learn that they are not two different things. It isn't that you work through a challenge and then there is a period of peace. At least in my life, the challenges feel constant. I keep tracing them back, in my mind, trying to find a time when I didn't have something I was grappling with—and I cannot find it.

Take the past two years: we had Kendell's hip surgery and then his heart surgery. There is the underlying thread, constant for half a decade now, of my dad's Alzheimer's. Then, a couple of weeks ago, we discovered that Kendell's dad has terminal bone cancer. When I told a friend this news in an email, her response pointed out that we really have had a stressful few years. She is right! When I read those words I thought — wait a second. You mean everyone's life isn't like this? I had really thought that everyone faced this constant stream of trials, but maybe it is just me. I don't know.

So when I listened to President Uchtdorf's talk I wanted to weep. He spoke about fairy tales, how they start with "once upon a time" and end with "they lived happily ever after" and how the real story is what happens between those two phrases—the struggle of moving toward your own happily ever after. He told the story of courting his wife, whose affection he earned after many years of wooing. I imagine—although of course I don't know—that their marriage hasn't had the same bitter words my own has. In my notes I wrote "but when does 'happily ever after' get here?" When are the trials and the struggles enough? When will I have a feeling of peace in my heart? I have grown weary of trials and heartache.

I also wrote down this statement: "it is not the trials themselves, but how you react to them, that will define and shape the outcome of your life." Of course, I often fail at responding well to my own trials—but I do try to do the opposite. I try to learn something and to not be bitter. Slowly, as I listened and I thought, as I glanced over at my daughter who was also listening, I felt a sort of answer. Not yet a complete one. Not yet that feeling of peace. But the realization that while the fairy-tale structure makes for a great metaphor for a talk, while it builds a good story, it isn't how life works. The trials and the happily-ever-after aren't separate. They are simultaneous layers; everything happening at once. The trick—that response that can bless—is knowing how to find the peace amid the trials.

I confess that I am not good at that. It is inherent to my nature that I focus on the troubles, that I sit awake with them, worrying them, puzzling it out: why me, why now, or simply: why? And always I come back to that teenaged, angry, rebellious version of myself as the answer to the "why" question. I don't know how to let go of the feeling that the trials are a direct response to those mistakes I made. The hard things happen and I feel I deserve them, and when the happy moments come I don't trust them because I don't feel worthy of them. "Why," as I puzzle over it, always seems to have the same answer: because I am flawed.

Perhaps, though, I am asking the wrong question. Not why, but how? How do I find peace anyway? How do I let go of feeling not-good-enough? How do I learn to savor the happily-ever-after bits that are hidden within the trials? I'm not exactly sure. But there is a sense of peace, somehow, in simply changing my questions.

(but before I do, I will also say that yes, you are right...my blog HAS been pretty lame lately. Sparse. Not very thoughtful or wise or smart. It'll get better soon.)

I had Kendell take some stuff to DI this morning. Deseret Industries is the name of the common second-hand stores in Utah, and we shorten it: "Take this basket of too-small clothes to the DI this morning!"

When Kendell told Nathan they were stopping at DI on the way to Grandma's house, Nathan said, "Oh, DI. I know what that stands for. Donation Emporium."

Awwwwwwwww.

I will now henceforth and forevermore call it that. Even though I guess we need to work more on that spelling thing? ;)

happiness is as fantastical as, say, flying trolls or talking horses?

is only the province of the very, very lucky, and you are nowhere near lucky?

or hope is a chain that locks you into place—hoping things will change keeps you hanging around waiting for change?

or if you could just give up hoping for change then you'd be free to make change happen?

trusting people is the dumbest thing you could ever do?

Perhaps there is some solace in knowing I'm right there in the dark with you. Feeling like that.

Stacy has a suggestion on her blog today: write a list of 22 things you've learned as a mother. Here's the rub though: you have to write yours before you read anyone else's, so before you read mine, go write your own! Then come back and leave me a comment and I'll come read yours. Here's a photo of me and my kids, taken at Christmas (yes, I am wearing a bow, made of tinsel, on my head; festive, yes?):

1. Make the exchange willingly. I remember complaining to my mom one day, back when I had two kids in diapers, that my only break from changing diapers came when I went to the store to buy more diapers. She pointed out that one day, I wouldn't have a baby anymore—and it hit me: you exchange freedom for responsibility when you become a mother; you give up sleep in exchange for those warm moments of rocking a baby at 2:17 in the morning; the ability to leave your house without an hour of preparation is lost but, in return, you have that duckling head and baby smell whenever you want them. Don't begrudge the restricting parts for the good ones.
2. Always be prepared. Boy scouts don't really need to know this, but moms do! All the just-in-case items you can think of will eventually be necessary.
3. Boys just come that way. They arrive ready to shoot up the world! I thought I would keep my boys away from violent toys, but in the absence of pistols they'll shoot you with your fingers.
4. Individuality matters. Every single one of my children has his or her unique set of needs, talents, desires, strengths, and foibles. I try to let them be who they are instead of who I or the world or their sixth-grade teacher wants them to be.
5. Pick your battles. Before Haley started first grade, she was addicted to dresses. She wanted to wear a "spinny" dress every day. Even in the summer, when she would be outside all day playing with friends—she didn't want shorts but dresses. I fought this a little bit at first, but then I thought: who cares? It's not hurting anything, the dresses will wash, and  hey: I get to buy more dresses! There are some things I am willing to fight for—kindness and honesty and good choices—but clothes, hair, makeup etc are not on the list.
6. If you want your kids to be readers, they have to own their own books. Bookcases with books in them are as essential to a bedroom as the bed itself.
7. Read poetry to them. And not just Silverstein. I believe that hearing poetry as they grow up will leave a permanent spot in their mind, open to receive the unusual.
8. Kids are much more important than any object you own. Remember my broken Mary? I think about her often, even when it's not December. I try to teach my kids to be careful with things, and to take care of their possessions—but I will not scream and yell over broken things. I don't want to break my children with words, and I know how easy that is to do.
9. Getting stitches is not as scary as you might think. So when you're hustling to the ER with a gaping gash in your child's __________________ (insert body part—in our case it could be chin, eyelid, lip, forehead, forehead, hand, shin, knee, nose, and probably some I am forgetting), be calm. They'll have a scar, sure—and a story to tell.
10. It's always a good time for a slushy.
11. Movies are not as fun without popcorn, but you should always have a bag of something chocolate or sweet in your purse, too.
12. It's not bribery—it's motivation! When someone is struggling to achieve something, I always try to offer a reward they can have when they've achieved it. Case in point: Kaleb's preschool teacher assigned them the task of memorizing their phone numbers. Kaleb was NOT HAPPY to do this. He thought it was dumb. I worked and worked and worked with him, and he just would not do it. He'd mumble a few numbers and then try to change the subject. On Tuesday I said, "OK, Kaleb. You memorize your phone number and I'll get you an ice cream cone."  Not a heartbeat later he said "Momma! I know my phone number! 801..." and he rattled it off without any mistakes. And even though I felt more than a little bit snookered—because obviously he already KNEW his phone number!—the proffered ice cream got him over his resistance. A small price to pay.
13. Art supplies are just as necessary as milk and bread. If the crayons are always visible, the kids will color!
14. Mr. Clean magic eraser takes crayon off of almost any surface.
15. You can never take enough pictures. Since I switched to digital, I've taken nearly 30,000 photos. Of course, I don't print them all—but I have them, and I wish I had MORE.
16. Don't worry about perfect photos all the time. Sure, do some photo shoots with your kids. Do lots! But take snapshots, too. You know: the kind where the kitchen is messy in the background, or your kid has a dirty face and stained pajamas on. They might not be frame-worthy but they tell great stories!
17. It's not about me. I am especially learning this as my kids become teenagers, but I also learned it early, when they were all little. What *I* want or hope or dream for my kids has merit, but ultimately they have the choice because it is THEIR life to live, not mine.
18. Don't buy multiples. If, for example, they have a favorite stuffed dog, they really only need that dog. They don't need 27 more stuffed dogs, because now they have a kennel instead of a beloved friend.
19. Don't be a martyr. If I am going to be able to give my children what they need, I also need to have what I need. My particular need is some daily solitude for reading, writing, and/or creating. If I don't get that I get grumpy and then, well, I am grumpy!
20. Everyone wants just one thing: to be comforted. I learned this from my mom one night back when I was teaching. Kendell was gone, and I had PTCs, so my mom came over to take care of the kids. She fed them dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and folded the enormous pile of towels on the laundry room floor. When I came home—clean house, happy kids, and dinner waiting—I felt so luxuriously comforted that I literally wept. I have tried to keep that in my mind when the tasks of motherhood seem overwhelming: I hope their hearts can be nurtured with the comfort that comes from someone taking care of you.
21. Bring yourself to the role. I have a good, good friend who told me once that all she ever wanted to be was a mother. For years I felt guilty about the way my heart responded to that idea: not me! I LOVE being a mother, I would not exchange it for anything, but it isn't the only goal I have for my life. I've slowly realized that this is OK, and that the things I am passionate about outside of motherhood make me a better mom, both because of that not-being-a-martyr thing and because they can learn from my example. Sharing who I REALLY am with my children helps us form a closer bond.
22. Savor everything. In my mind, motherhood is an action: closing your arms tight around to keep close to you exactly who they are right now  and opening your arms wide to welcome who they are becoming. Nothing is certain and change happens every day, so if you can simply savor today—right now—then, when they change again, you'll know at least you held the moment close before it slipped away.

Because I am certain the bloggysphere is waiting with bated breath for what happened at my dentist appointment yesterday:

No cavities! Wheeeee!

My random pain is being caused by two cracked fillings which will be repaired next week. Granted, I do have to go through the Dental Torture: shots and exhausted jaw and lips stretched to cracking point—but I still feel better that there aren't any new cavities. I had a nice long talk with my dentist who reassured me that my teeth are fine and that gingivitis is not a moral disorder. (I don't have gingivitis.) Also that my cavity proclivity is not the result of a---personality failings or b---brushing wrong or even c---too much sugar. Of course, my teeth are much healthier now I am no longer a soda drinker, but sugar isn't the only contributor to cavities. Hormones and stress and acidity and other stuff also have a huge impact. (Come to think of it...all those cavities happened during my IUD days. Maybe The Pill also prevents cavities???)

This is my third time visiting this dentist and I am at last feeling like I have found one I can stick with for a long time. I like that he isn't aggressive—he takes a "let's watch this" approach that I like. Plus, his dental hygienist is awesome. She took forever to clean my teeth, both because I make a LOT of tartar (she suggested I start using an electric toothbrush and I am going to do just that!) and because we were talking about books. I liked her even though she loves Jodi Picoult, whom I still haven't forgiven for the ending of My Sister's Keeper.

So tell me: do you like your dentist?

• I think I might have a cavity. Rather than making me wait for 7 weeks like Kendell has to—because HE doesn't think he has a cavity—my dentist is squishing me in tomorrow.
• Every once in awhile, breathing makes my tooth—upper left—hurt. Then the pain goes away for a random and indeterminate amount of time.
• Also, my mouth tastes like I have been sucking on a piece of an old bridge no matter how much I brush and floss and Listerine.
• I brush and floss and Listerine a LOT. Way more than my husband does—and HE doesn't think he has a cavity.
• In fact, despite my superior dental hygiene, he never gets cavities and I always do.
• WTH?
• I went from age 16 to 30—nearly half my life!—without a cavity. Then I switched dentists and had a cavity every time I went to him.
• I finally switched to yet another dentist.
• I still wish, every time I visit the dentist, that I could see the one I had as a kid. Dr. Weist was gentle and kind. He asked me about the books I was reading—he even let me READ in the chair up till the very second he had to look in my mouth. Better than that, he didn't make me feel like a scarlet woman if I had a little gingivitis. Plus: he came to my wedding reception! What kind of a dream dentist was Dr. Weist?
• I have dreams about my teeth falling out even when I DON'T have a dental appointment looming.
• I am 99.99% certain I will have bad-tooth dreams tonight.
• Did I mention I would rather do almost anything in the entire world than go to the dentist?

that, regardless of their non-existence, I have wanted this week {open the card to read inside}:

• Sorry my kid called your kid a donkey in no kind terms. {bass, grass, and crass all rhyme with that word. Maybe, alas, he was simply confused?}
• Just a note to say: {My sore throat is going to ruin your day, too.}
• With all the sympathy our dry librarian hearts can muster {we are truly sorry you must live in our city to check out our books.}
• Dear Kenny : Do you think all my photos are weird? {Or is it just the fact that I wear socks and sandals when I stop by 37 times a day to pick up more weird pictures from your fine photo-developing establishment?}
• An Open Letter to All Makers of Fine Scrapbooking Supplies: {Really? Is purple so hard to make? And seriously: enough with the glitter. Can't a girl get a package of flat, non-glittery stickers? In purple?}
• Just a note to say: {Thanks for making my deadline your deadline}
• Oh dear, sweet pillow, oh lovely and buttery-soft flannel sheets: {I miss you.}
• Dear person who reads my blog, as well as many books, who I have sorely failed: {I found the package I apparently imagined mailing in a stack of half-used letter stickers tonight. (Not a single one was purple.) Please accept my apologies along with this lame card. And maybe a little surprise. My kid doesn't mind calling people inappropriate donkey terms—please feel free to call me the same. love, Amy}

Luckily, I can make that last card. It looks a little bit like this:

(I say "a bit" because in real life, the colors are way prettier.) This is going in the mail tomorrow to that person I sorely failed. Unless I build another pile and just imagine myself visiting the post office. Of course, now there are 59 of you whom I have failed, too, and will start watching for the card to arrive in your mailbox. But, alas (another rhyme!), I could only make one "sweet spring" card because I only had one "sweet" already cut out and I am too tired to go to the effort to plug my Silhouette back in, let alone cut out 59 more "sweet"s. Even though I couldn't find the insides of the ees, and I crumpled it upon folding, perhaps this card will sweeten the sting of my failure just a bit.

Plus, there's that cute brad with the heart. The recipient—who may or may not scrapbook, I don't know—could totally take it off the card and use it on her own layout.

Just not a purple one.

This morning, while I was waiting for the girl we carpool with to get in the van, I called Kendell to ever-so-gently chide him for not taking the garbage can out to the curb. (This is part of an ongoing dialog/ running joke we have: I make a pointed remark that belies my generally-feminist leanings and then he replies with proper 50's-era decorum. Usually.)

"Dude," I said (because "dude" must also be worked into the conversation), "you do realize that you failed me this morning, don't you?"

"How's that?"

"You didn't take the garbage can to the curb. It's Tuesday, remember? Garbage day? I can't be bothered to take the can to the curb. I might chip my nail polish, and it's awfully heavy. Plus, it smells funny. YOU ARE THE MAN! You're the dude. The dude should take the garbage can to the curb."

I then proceeded to tell him that yes, I had remembered to gather up all the garbages before I left (shouldn't that be his job?), yes, even the one in the laundry room (don't only wives from the 50's worry about such laundry-related items?), and that I had Jake take the garbage to the curb (mostly because I was trying, as always, not to be late).

"Oh, that's good. Jake's a boy—he can be a dude, too. In fact, he's the backup dude."

Just wanted to write that down, so I can always remember the origin of "backup dude." Because it has now joined his arsenal of nick names!

(because I am almost finished, but not quite, and my blog feels lonesome and neglected):

"We are volcanoes. When we women offer our experience as our truth, as human truth, all the maps change. There are new mountains."

~ Ursula K. Le Guin

Not that I turned out as a swan, but I started life as sort of an ugly duckling. When I was Haley's age, I had awful, too-short bangs with a cowlick I constantly fought. A frizzy perm. A penchant for picking out the not-quite-right outfit. Braces of course—and braces in the eighties were way bigger and more obnoxiously noticeable than they are now. Awkwardly applied make up. And a perpetual tremble in my belly: what if they make fun of me? I didn't have that thing that seems to come to some women so easily, The Ability to slip on the right clothes and smooth down a perfectly-styled haircut, glide that last bit of lipstick on without any smudges and walk out the door, completely put together; completely masked. My mask was always slightly askew, nudged by that perpetual tremble so that the cracks of my almost-right appearance seeped a little, marking me in ways that would have humiliated me had I known how transparent they really were. Making me an easy target.

Now, when I look at Haley as she heads out the door each morning, I can't help but notice the contrast. She is already a swan. She already has The Ability to hide the tremble in her belly. Because if I am certain of anything, it is this: all teenage girls head out the door with the tremble. They are all afraid of being wrong, somehow; of having a crack that lets something other than right be seen—a weakness someone else could snap up and use. Looking right—however it is defined in the context of their lives—is the way they shield themselves.

Even when "right" doesn't really fit.

So I watch her. She leaves for school in her favorite, very-fashionable jeans, with her tank-top-and-sweater combo that has become her stylistic uniform. Her hair ironed straight, her make up exactly so. She shows no sign of belly tremble—even to me. Especially to me. I straighten up, amazed that my daughter has The Ability; I curl into an inner misery, wishing she could know she doesn't need her mask on when she is with me.

I ask her to tuck in her bra strap. I tell her she looks cute, I hug her; she tolerates my touch, she leaves the kitchen and enters the world, her slight vanilla fragrance a warm lingering presence that belies her chilly farewell. I try to not get tangled in the mother-daughter sorrow, but I can't help remembering the days she was comfortable in her own skin, when she could have messy hair and a naked face and still be joyful:

A few hours later, I am also leaving the kitchen. My hair is far from perfect and I am wearing my running pants and a ratty sweater. Everyone I pass in the grocery store this morning will see me like this: slightly-messy hair, naked face, a tiny smear of yesterday's eyeliner revealing that I washed my face too quickly last night. Back by the dairy case, I bump into a friend. She's dressed: crisp jeans, stylish T, perfect hair, expert make up. We laugh and chat together for a few minutes and then hurry off to finish our shopping.

Again, I am struck by contrast: my belly did not quiver, even in the face of my friend's beautiful perfection. Of course, I mask myself off in other ways; we all do. We must. But as a grown woman, I have compensated for my lack of The Ability by making peace with who I really am, a woman who sometimes manages to leave the house looking completely put together, but not often. (Case in point: yesterday, halfway through work, I realized I was wearing my beachy flip flops. At work! I had on one of my favorite dresses, and a pink sweater, and floppy shoes I didn't even think about until I finally heard them slapping my footsoles.) And I do not care. I know that my appearance is only part of who I am, and that the people who really love me do so regardless of my Lancome skill.

Putting apples and pears into the grocery cart, I thought of Haley again. I thought of her ease with The Ability. Of a recent refusal to leave the house until her eyeliner was located. Of the ache in my heart: just let me see you. I hope—desperately, with all the influence of my troubles and joys since I was her age—that she will learn, too, to make peace with who she really is. That make up and clothes and hair can become accessories instead of a way of masking herself. If she becomes the sort of woman whose Ability continues to thrive (like my friend), who really can manage to leave the house every day looking perfect, so be it. What makes my belly quiver now isn't someone making fun of me or even of my cracks being visible. Instead, it is her outcome: I hope, with everything I have, that she can become the swan she really is. That her beauty and knowledge and identity can be what she shows to the world. That she can fly without the weight of fear. That she can allow herself to be seen, rather than only her jeans.

(This post is a response to the Mom's Thirty Minute Blog Challenge, even though it took me 42 minutes.)