This Is Why Parenting Is Like Running an Insane Asylum

I asked Ji if he wanted to eat daal or pasta for lunch.

Ji said, "pasta!"

I asked Rah if he wanted daal or pasta for lunch.

He didn't answer, so I asked if he wanted beans with yogurt or pasta.

Rah said, "Beans! Goyurt!"

They each broke down in tears when they saw their lunches.

So, how did I get them to eat lunch so happily?

I call it sleight of hand.

Addressing a Few Stereotypes

For some time now, I've wanted to write a few thoughts about women's roles in the LDS Church, being a Mormon woman, growing up Mormon in Utah, and the stereotypes that surround all of these things.

Let's start with the last: Many people believe that Utah Mormons are the most sheltered people in the world. Yes, there are people who live in communities surrounded by actively participating and religious Mormons. These places exist in some towns or neighborhoods in Utah. My hometown was not one of those places. I have m any friends who grew up in different cities or small towns throughout Utah. Most of them had good friends who were LDS; even those who grew up faithful had  traumatic experiences with friends or family. Some have parents or siblings with mental illness. Financial struggles, marital hardships, abuse, abandonment by a parent, or drug addiction within the family are realities in the lives of Utah Mormons. These people are not ignorant. They are diverse.

In seventh grade I became friends with a girl who was outgoing, fun, thoughtful, and sexually active. This was 1990. She wasn't the only person at my junior high who was having sex, either. I didn't think a lot about it at the time since most of us feel rather mature at age twelve. But I look at my nine-year-old daughter now and think, I was a baby. I was a baby who didn't understand any of the implications of sexuality, even though I knew how sex worked, I understood moral and health consequences of sex, and I even understood that people like the feeling of sex. What I didn't realize--until much later--is that sex matters. That a twelve-year-old who has sex is likely to suffer from all kinds of mental and emotional damage. I didn't put together that the older guy (was he fifteen or sixteen?) who was having sex with my friend was taking advantage of her inexperience.

I was fourteen the first time my friend's brother offered me a joint. Fortunately, I had already decided that I wasn't supposed to use drugs; it wasn't part of my destiny, so to speak. Throughout my teenage years I was surrounded by drugs and alcohol: friends were trippin' on acid while I fell asleep in the other room, joints were lit and passed while the small cluster of the sobers chilled in the backyard, alcohol was served while I went on walks with other people. This was in the heart of Utah Valley. Many of my friends who grew up outside of Utah were excused from drugs and alcohol because they were Mormon. People never even asked. My greatest fear in raising children in Utah is that being Mormon isn't enough. Most of the kids who were getting high had grown up LDS. I had conviction that drugs weren't my thing, and I hope and pray for the same conviction in my own children.

I think of my twleve-year-old niece who bore her testimony a couple of months ago. She had never stood before the congregation before or borne her testimony aloud, but she gave such a powerful, miraculous testimony. She had gone to church that morning with a good friend of hers who attends a non-denominational Christian church. Apparently, her friend has pressured her to "quit being Mormon" and go to her church. This is a church where people come in jeans and they play guitars and drums during worship. Frankly, this is an atmosphere most twelve-year-olds would consider cool. But my niece said, "I am not going to give up my beliefs. I am going to stay Mormon." She has a genuine testimony amidst the pressure. I hope my own children can say the same thing.

****

Misconceptions about Mormon women aren't new. From the earliest establishment of the LDS Church, slanderers have claimed Mormon women are repressed, oppressed, abused, and ignorant. I am not going to make any blanket statements about what or who Mormon women are. First of all, Mormon women span the entire globe and live and thrive on every populated continent. Mormon women are Nigerian, Indian, Czech, Peruvian, Australian, Japanese, Mexican, Croatian, English, Brazilian, Jamaican, American, Kenyan, Argentine, German, Thai, Samoan, and almost a hundred other nationalities.

We are not all the same. I am not even the same as the women with whom I attend church each week. But we are not all completely different either. Here are some of our commonalities:
We believe in Jesus Christ as our Savior.
We believe in the Restoration of the Gospel.
We believe in living prophets and modern revelation.

We also belong to the oldest and largest women's organization in the world, the Relief Society. We are committed to service, uplifting those in need, sharing our talents and time, and growing personally and spiritually. Some women may think that service and relief as a code of a women's organization is backward. But, that's only because our society has devalued charity. We have devalued domesticity. We have devalued cooperation. We have devalued community. We have traded these things for personal ambition, career, personal gain, and extreme individuality. Now, don't get me wrong. I am ambitious and attached to my career, like making my own money, and I am attached to my individualism. But, I love the Relief Society. I love having spiritual discussions with women, working with other women, learning from other women, and worshiping with other women. 

***

So, what are women's roles in the LDS Church? There has been a lot of controversy lately about women who wish to be ordained into the priesthood of the LDS Church. No, we are not bishops, high priests, or elders, but what many who want women to be bishops, high priests, or elders might forget is that the men who serve in the bishopric are released after a duration of time (usually five years) and serve as Sunday school teachers, primary workers, or cub scout leaders. These are the same callings sisters will have after being Relief Society President or Young Women's President. A lay leadership does not accommodate a life of prestige for those who are called to lead for a short time. No bishop is perfect; priesthood does not mean perfection. Men and women are given the same blessings with each of our ordinances: baptism, confirmation, sacrament, endowment, and sealing.

I also think the rites of passage that young men and young women undergo in separated groups is important to the development of youth. Twelve years of age is significant for both boys and girls in the LDS Church. The boys move from Primary to Young Men's; the girls move from Primary to Young Women's. Yes, boys begin to pass the sacrament to the congregation at twelve, but I wonder if our friends who feel this elevates boys above girls realize something: these boys are learning domestic service. They are, essentially, serving food to a large group. They are doing this reverently and quietly.  If young women were silently serving food to a large group of people, this may be seen as oppressive rather than empowering. Young men need to learn that domestic service is important also. Young women live through this lesson as they see their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers devoting endless hours to feeding their families. Young men should learn the value of service in the same way. I strive to teach my young sons about responsibility in the home, and they see their father preparing and serving food in the home. I hope the passing of the sacrament feels normal and natural for them because they have already learned how to serve.

***

Perhaps this comes down to what we value. If we value only the perception of power and individuality, perhaps women in the LDS Church are limited. But, if we value service, charity, community, home, family, and individual progression, women and men are equal in every opportunity. If we approach every role, every calling with respect, we will more clearly see their value. When my sister-in-law was recently called to serve in the library, I was so excited for her. Some may think it's a "pity calling," but it is a great opportunity for her to meet people in the ward and to get to know people with whom she may never have known otherwise. This is how a community is formed and nourished.

Our focus needs to shift from individual empowerment to community nourishment. Then, as Eliza R. Snow said, we can all "sit down in heaven together."

Comfort and Heartbreak

The Newborn Intensive Care Unit is one of the most hopeful and hopeless places I've ever been. Tiny bodies fight so hard to survive, to live, to thrive. They want to breathe, to heal, to move.

The day after Baby Rah was born, he was cut open and repaired. He could not move for the first week: he lay still, ventilated, sedated. The first time I held him was one week after he was born. The nurses kindly resituated the dozens of tubes and cords that connected him to monitors, oxygen, hydration, nutrition, pain medication, and one that drained body fluids. His body was so light and tiny, so worn out, so beautiful and heartbreaking.

Two days later he underwent his second surgery. His face was swollen and bruised. His nose was enlarged and his lip bloodied. We joked that he looked like he'd been in a bar fight. But I knew this meant we'd be in the NICU even longer. Longer hours, days, weeks, months.

The longer we stayed, the more jealous I felt of those families who left so soon. The baby who was hooked up to ten different machines when he came in was home within ten days. The baby whose parents giggled through their discharge training left after a day. Even the baby with spina bifida who had fluid on his brain was discharged after two weeks.

Discharge is an emotional time in the NICU. Everyone is so happy for the family whose baby finally got to go home and be with his or her family. But it is such a reminder to those of us who stay that our babies are still there, still on pain medication, still not eating or breathing on their own. I must have listened to the infant CPR video six times before our official discharge. I can still hear the speaker's voice in my head: "Say it like you mean it: 'Hey you! Call 911 now!'" While it seems silly in the video, our nurse Jane made sure we understood that if we don't say it like we mean it, the other person may stop and say, "What's going on?" We need to be forceful, so we don't waste time.

Baby Rah has given us plenty of scares in this last year. He was five days old when the nurses took him off the ventilator and he stopped breathing. Jane kindly looked at me and gave me permission to leave while they revived him. He had such severe reflux in the spring we wondered if there was a problem with his esophageal repair and rushed to the surgeon for another esophagram. He had even inexplicably passed out a couple of times. It was May when he had a sedated echocardiogram. I couldn't believe how emotionally taxing it was. He was sleeping, but looked so much like that baby we couldn't hold, who stayed so still for his first week. Then there was the night in August Ji decided to bring Rah up onto his bed, which Rah immediately rolled off and hit his head. That's what I get for leaving the room for one minute.

It was mid-September when James rushed into the room with a limp baby in is arms. He recovered quickly after a few chest compressions and blowing air into his face. The next morning it happened again. My dad's doctor referred us to a gastroenterologist to try to figure out the problem. We were given stronger medication.

But the problems didn't stop with the new medication. The day before his first birthday, we hit crisis.

It was around 3:30 Rah finished eating his bottle, and I laid him in his crib for a nap. Ji was asleep in the room, so the room was dark. He cried for a little but then quieted down. Not long after the crying stopped, I stood outside his door and heard gagging and gurgling sounds. I turned him on his side so he could throw up. He was vomiting most of the milk he had just drank, but I then noticed he hadn't inhaled since he started throwing up.

I carried him to the hallway and performed about four cycles of CPR on him before he revived. He was grayish-blue and limp. His eyes had rolled back. Boo came home in time to call 911. She was so brave. She told them what was happening and gave them our address. Ambulances, police cars, and a fire engine showed up outside our house. Our dear friends and wonderful neighbors, the Wilsons, brought Boo and Ji to their house.

We spent some time in the local ER, but they transferred us to Primary Children's within about an hour because of all of Rah's complications. He took a good nap on the ambulance ride, so he was cheerful and cute by the time we got to the hospital. I'm sure the staff was thinking, "What's this baby doing here?" He had a bottle at bedtime and, once again, started vomiting and turning blue. The medical staff revived him, and we were sent to intensive care.

Baby Rah spent his first birthday undergoing a series of tests and being deprived of food. We started with another esophagram. His esophagus appears to have no strictures or leaks or lesions. He had a swallow study done that showed his delays in swallowing and risk of aspirations with thin liquids. But the swallow study didn't explain the apnea episodes. Rah's good friend, Dr. Meier, came with his ENT team and did a larynoscopy to check out his nose and throat. Still, no answers.

At the end of the day, he was finally able to eat four ounces of milk.

As suspected, Rah's episodes were likely a combination of several factors. We were never given one explanation because one does not exists, as far as we could tell. He had a mild cold and parainfluenza 4, so the viruses likely contributed to the problem.

Not everyone will have these kinds of experiences; I realize that. But last year before this baby was born I didn't suspect we would spend forty-seven days in the NICU, put him through four surgeries, or have to revive a blue baby.

So here's some advice:

Learn CPR. Everyone should know CPR. Everyone who ever takes care of an infant should know infant CPR. 

Stay calm. Once everything is under control, you can lose it. Cry your eyes out later, but don't freak out until the situation is handled.

Pray. A lot. The Lord brings us comfort even in those hopeless moments when we wonder if this is it, we may not be able to do any more. Because even if we can't, He can. And He does. Even if it means letting go.

Just remember that life is a blessing. That blessing may be brief or long. It may be joyful or tragic. But we are blessed to live, every moment we are given.

More Not-Really Classics

I think my attention span is failing.

And my reading rate.

And my vocabulary.

And, maybe, my ability to analyze and interpret the deeper, more philosophical and cultural meanings under the layers of story and allusion in literature.

Because even though I started reading Vanity Fair for fun after finding a cool eighty-year-old copy at an estate sale, I haven't really gone back to it in the last several weeks.

Instead, I'm making more recommendations for reading classics that aren't really classics. This time, though, we're going to the board book section.

One compound word, folks: BabyLit.

A series of colorful primers based on classic literature. Don't expect a story, but your small child will learn colors, numbers, opposites, weather, and ocean words.

Personal favorites:

Wuthering Heights is the ideal place to learn about weather. Lots of atmosphere.

Wonderland: the most colorful place in all of imagination.

Two very different sisters are the greatest teachers of opposites. Let's hope each one learns her lesson by the end.

I'm really looking forward to some of the new primers that have just come out, particularly Jabberwocky: A Nonsense Primer.

Every child should be primed for nonsense.

Find more titles at http://www.babylit.com/

Eulogy for a Beard

James had a job interview today---a white shirt and tie, clean-shaven kind of interview.

So last night we had a brief "goodbye to the beard" party, mostly to make sure the boys would still recognize their daddy.

James set up a chair so Ji could see the process very clearly. Boo was standing on another chair, but it broke about ten minutes into the farewell gathering. I held onto Baby who was most excited to be by the mirror.

And James turned on his clippers.

Buzz, buzz, buzz---down one cheek, sideburn left intact.
Little hands rub the shaven fuzz.

Buzz down the other cheek.
"Am I still me?" Daddy asks.

Baby smiles at his daddy.

"Mustache or goatee next?"
One says goatee. All is gone but a tiny strip at the chin.

"Mustache!" the other cries.
Clip, clip---the mustache is gone.

"Who is this man?" Baby wonders.
"Why is his smile familiar?"
Baby feels shy and hides from the stranger.
Stares at the stranger with his daddy's voice, then hides again.

Daddy takes his baby's hand and rubs the last of the beard,
"It's me, Daddy."
Baby recognizes Daddy from his beard and smiles.

"It's just so different," Boo cannot stop herself from saying. 

White cream smothered on face inspires Ji to call out "Joker!"
White face, red lips, and a smile.

It was a good beard:
The beard of an innkeeper.
The beard of a teacher.
The beard of a writer.
The beard of a brother.
The beard of a husband.
The beard of a father.

The beard will be back. It can't be helped. The beard wants to grow.

HairStories

It's funny that the primary way we identify people is by their hair since hair is the easiest part of our appearance to change. We tend to describe people as "the red-haired woman" or the "dark-haired man with goatee." Of course, goatees can be shaven; hair can be dyed. I've been unrecognizable to people I've seen every day of my life because of a drastic hair change.

Me? I'm always a long-blonde-haired person.

Mostly always.

I was a long-haired little girl:

Adults would notice me because of all of that hair. Since I was a quiet and shy child, the attention would embarrass me--but I loved having long hair.

When I was twelve, my aunt cut off all of my hair at my request. My mom was so upset she cried. It would have been better if I had talked to her about it first. I think she would have been all right if our family weren't having such a hard time. That was the first time I changed my hair as a protest for all that was wrong in my life.

The short hair didn't last. It was long again by the time I was fourteen. I had Michelle Phillips hair, the ultimate hippy hairstyle. During the adolescent madness (or brilliance!) of my sixteenth year, I recruited a friend to help me dye my hair pink.

I felt like a Krystal Princess. Again, my mom was terribly upset. I can't blame her too much for that. It took about two months for the dye to wash out. 

The next drastic change came just before my eighteenth birthday when I cut several inches from my hair and permed it for the first time. It was a fun hairstyle, but my hair is a little too heavy for spiral curls. So it ended up wavy within a couple of months. By the time I started college the next fall, I (once again) had long blonde hippy hair.

Over the next few years I had a pretty steady pattern of cut off a few inches, grow several inches, trim, cut, leave long. It was always past my shoulders and mostly straight and always blonde. People recognized me from a distance by my hair.

2003 was a pretty bad year for me. That's the year I ran off to Florida "for an adventure" and met the man who would end up my ex-husband. I had already started off the year by creating some new ex-boyfriends, so I can't say romance was my strength that year. The best indication that I was going through some drastic period was when I cut off thirteen inches of hair and permed the rest.

I let my hair grow out again. As usual.

But a divorce seemed a good time for a change. My sister and I had found some really lovely photos of women with deep red hair and fringe. I hadn't had bangs for years. Well, maybe I had. They grow away so quickly, I don't remember. But the divorce took forever, so I delayed the hair change. When it did finalize, I threw myself a party (James was one of my guests). I was teaching two classes that semester, working on the first chapter of my thesis, and starting to spend a lot of time with James, so I delayed the drastic hair change until just before finals. James was pretty overwhelmed by the bright red dye.

So was my poor mother. (I think I've tortured her enough with my hair changes for a lifetime.)

It had faded by the time he came back from Ohio for Christmas break. Plus, his beard had grown in. We were hair happy.

Last summer was my latest drastic change. It came from pure exhaustion over brushing my long locks. So, I asked my friend Grace to cut them all off, and I sent another ponytail to Locks of Love.

A few days ago Boo was at her friend's house and gained several stripes of pink and turquoise throughout her golden brown hair. I admit I'm a little envious, but I need to keep my hair conservative for work.

And people always mistake Ji for a little girl because of his long, curly golden brown hair. I know we need to trim it, but how can I take scissors those curls?

Summer term started a few weeks ago, so James cut his hair and beard. His time as an actor and male model is closing down. He may not be mistaken for a Muslim or homeless man once he has a short beard and hair, but he's still recognizable to our children. I worry the most for Ji if he ever shaves his beard completely. I think Ji will search everywhere for his daddy.

Hogwarts Blew into Our Basement

Around here, we love a good party.

Every birthday I swear I'll simplify, but then I do something goofy like make a fondant Rapunzel (that makes me want to cry because her head won't stay on)

Boo's seventh birthday

or paint a large, sightless monster for a fun-filled game of Pin the Eye on the Monster.

Ji's first birthday

 (Or pull together a carnival for James's birthday.)

Boo had been talking for months about having a Monster High birthday party. She and her friends at school play Monster High and pretend to be characters like Skelita Calaveras (daughter of Los Eskeletos), Jinifire Long (daughter of the Chinese Dragon), Draculaura (daughter of Dracula), Frankie Stein (you guessed it, daughter of the Frankenstein monster).

My sister and I decided Monster High was exactly the sort of morbid, pretty, bizarre thing we would have been into as children. I felt all right with the silliness. The Monster High show would go on.

But then a spark of magic fell into Boo's hands.

Last month Boo was looking for something new to read, so I handed her Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Within two days, she was ready for The Chamber of Secrets. She slowed down a bit with Prisoner of Azkaban and is now about one third of the way through my favorite of the series, The Goblet of Fire.

The Monster High party was forgotten. Harry Potter had cast his spell over Boo.

Again, I thought I'd make it simple. We'd have different tables in the backyard with a few Harry Potter-themed activities. We'd make a Hogwarts table for sorting, a Honeydukes table with candy, and an Ollivanders table where each child could decorate a wand. Boo and I spent the week making signs and posters. Boo's primary president even came over and donated a Hogwarts banner, a collection of potion bottles, a Monster Book of Monsters, and a little owl.

After looking up about fifteen recipes for cauldron cakes, Boo spotted a photo online of Hagrid's cake from the first movie. She wanted that cake, the ugly cake that gets sat on while Hagrid is chasing down Harry and the Dursleys. I could do that.

Everything was under control until six o'clock that night when we started setting up. We'd had more than a week of blistering hot days. An evening party seemed like a good plan for July.

 

Then came the wind. And the rain. A summer storm like you wouldn't believe---not in the desert.

Friends and family who had arrived a few minutes early helped us rush everything inside. While we resituated the party, James . . . err, I mean Hagrid led the children to the cupboard under the stairs and started quizzing them on their knowledge of magical creatures.

We started with Ollivanders since our new students would need to get their supplies from Diagon Alley before heading to Hogwarts.

The children all wrote down their favorite spells and went to Honeydukes to guess the number of chocolate frogs hiding under a paper towel.

We had fizzing whizbees, Burtie Botts Every Flavour Beans, acid pops, jelly slugs, licorice wands, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, disappearing leprechaun gold, Dumbledore's favourite lemon drops, and chocolate frogs.

Special thanks to Grandpa Zorro for sending the chocolate frog mold.

Since my brothers, sister, sisters-in-law, nieces, and nephews had all been sorted six years ago in a very memorable sorting ceremony, we gave them the honor of being House Prefects and cheering in our first-year students during the sorting ceremony.

Baby was sorted into Syltherin, just like his clever father. Boo and Ji are both Ravenclaw. I'm the only one of us who is Gryffindor. (I guess that's why when my children see a spider they call for me to bring the little dear outside. Wait. I'm Professor McGonagall in this party, not Hagrid.)

After the sorting came another quick change of plans. The grass was too wet and slippery for Wizard Tag or Spellbound Red Rover where children would be sliding into muddy pools of water. So Jame--Hagrid created a simple balloon game he called Quidditch. The object: Hagrid throws the balloon in the air, kids touch it (hot potato style) and get a point. When Hagrid would call "Golden Snitch!" the kids would rush to try to catch the balloon. Only children nine and under could be seekers. 

 

After a raucous tournament, it came down to Slytherin versus Gryffindor.

Slytherin won.

Interesting how life reflects art. Isn't it?

McGonagall presents the Quidditch Cup.

The winners select their prizes, another round of thanks to Grandpa Zorro.

The undefeated Slytherin team (plus their Head of House, Professor Zonts)

Hufflepuff House! Winners of the House Cup!

Ravenclaw Rules! Brightest witches and wizards around.

Brave Gryffindor! Never afraid of danger!

After a fantastic battle on the Quidditch pitch, nothing beats a refreshment from Honeydukes or The Three Broomsticks.

That acid pop burned a hole in Boo's teeth!

Goblets of Butterbeer

The best part of any birthday, of course, is the cake. Unfortunately, you need a pretty powerful spell to put out these candles.

 

Boo was losing her breath by the fourth time the candles relit. She didn't know the putting out spell and didn't have a deluminator to capture the flames. Too bad.

So despite the sudden changes in plans and the crowding. . . 

it was a magical birthday for our girl.