In New Zealand, most members view the General Conference videos one week later than the sessions take place, as Stake and District Centres record each via satellite in real time, then screen them the following weekend.

Most years, our District has viewed the sessions at the same times announced over the pulpit in Salt Lake – 10:00am for the morning, 1:00pm for the afternoon sessions etc.  This last weekend, things were a little different.  For reasons unbeknownst to me, all of our sessions screened during the evening; Saturday’s sessions aired at 1:00pm (Priesthood), 4:00pm (the morning session), and 7:00pm (the afternoon session).  Sunday’s time-slots were 2:00pm and 5:00pm.

My husband missed the old schedule. But judging by weekend’s attendance, the general membership preferred the evening session times. How would you feel about attending the general conference sessions at night? 

I say the members “appeared to like the evening session times,” but this statement isn’t based on a great turn-out, but rather a fair turn-out, relative to previous conferences.  Which brings me to my next question; is there a trend elsewhere for more and more members to opt for viewing the sessions online at home?  Because every year here, I’ve noted numbers dwindling – with many members explaining their absence as, “We just find it so much easier to watch the sessions at home – what with the kids / the comfortable couch / the ability to pause.”

Like many, many, other things, I think this choice is between the individual and the Lord…but for discussion’s sake – what part of the “conference experience” is most important to you?  Being part of a congregation, participating in the sustaining, songs and prayers, and being in a hallowed place to do so…or controlling your environment and timing to optimise opportunities for your children to feel the Spirit?  Viewing the conference and feeling positive about it (wherever you may be), or bums on pews?  What matters most to you?

---

Angela  waved fare-thee-well to her previous playgrounds (the classroom, office  and art gallery) in favour of drinking in every delicious  moment of  motherhood on offer. Now she juggles that privilege with her nesting   instincts, design contracts, sales work, her churchy responsibilities, pregnancy cravings, and the need to straighten things – all with her  cherub (Esky) in  tow. You can read more from a Mormon Mum in New Zealand over at Angela Noelle's blog, Striking Keys.






Lead image from LDSMediaTalk

Yesterday, my husband, Chris, introduced me to new.familysearch.org. This has been my 24 hour obsession.

Now I thought I wouldn't get into the whole family history kick for another 30, 40 years, but let's face it---I already act like an 80 year old woman. I go to bed early, and I get up early. McKay was invited to a birthday party last week that started at the ridiculous hour of 6 p.m. and lasted until, gasp, 7:30! For a girl who's usually in bed by 6:30, I knew this was going to be difficult for her, and for a mom who usually has her pajamas on by 6:00, I knew this was going to be difficult for me too.

Luckily this late hour didn't interfere with dinner, because, like the elderly, we tend to eat dinner insanely early. Some members of our family, o.k. all members of our family, tend to get irritable when hungry. So I kept moving the time we ate dinner up earlier and earlier. We rarely ever eat dinner later than 5:30. And on occasion, I am almost embarrassed to say, when I am extremely hungry we eat at 4:45. I'm pretty much a natural at the geriatric lifestyle, so it's no wonder this family history thing appealed to me.

Anyway, I started tracing me family history back through my mom's side of the family, and I noticed it just kept going. I started getting excited to think I might actually break from the quadruple digit dates into the triple ones. Sure enough I found ancestors born in the 900's. My comments ("I'm related to Warrin the Bald! I'm a bazillion great-granddaughter of Charlemagne!) attracted Parker's attention. He came over to watch our family tree unfold, and he too got caught up. "Hey, mom," he said with complete sincerity, "do you think we're related to Adam?"

So after about two hours of mouse clicking, an amazing thing happened. "Wait, a second," I mumbled. "Did I just find Judah, son of Jacob and Leah? Seriously?" Then once I hit Shem, son of Noah, I knew I was going to make it. And yes, I traced my heritage all the way back to Adam!

"Chris! Chris!" I exclaimed, "I traced my family history back to Adam!"

"Congratulations."

"You're not acting excited enough."

"You're acting like you actually did the research."

"I just spent two hours of my life clicking a mouse. Seriously hard work."

"Call your mom. She can be excited with you."

She was.

Thank you, mom.

-----
guest post by Kodie Davis

Disclaimer: This is of course of a very, very abridged account of everything that has gone on, and as such the author has asked that she remain anonymous.  To help protect the identities and feelings of others in the family, PLEASE if you*think* you know who this is, don't put it in the comments section.  Thank you!

Deep breath.

OK I needed that.

I keep on going back and forth back and forth wondering why I feel the need to write this and post it somewhere. Even though sometimes I am livid with the people involved in this story, I don’t want to see them hurt and know that I needed to post it anonymously… Some place other than my own blog.
I think part of it is I need some advice. Part of me needs to know that I am not a complete nut job. Let’s be honest-- A big part of me wants people to say that of course I am completely right! But listen, maybe I am not.

So here we go.

Almost three years ago we found out that my husband’s oldest brother had been severely emotionally and verbal abusing his wife, our very loved sister in law, and that the verbal abuse had reached an extreme level-- A final death threat made to her from him with her poor daughter terrified, hiding behind her legs. We both had just had babies, mine 3 months old and hers 2 months old. She left because she was terrified for her life. They divorced one year later.

More and more details emerged that this man had been leading a double life. As his ward’s missionary leader he was also highly addicted to pornography. He had also abused (physically as well) his first wife and had given up custody of his children from that marriage. He also abused his fiancé that he was engaged to in-between those two marriages. Then one of the most terrifying new things we learned is that he had admitted in open court to having cyber sex with young girls, as young as 13 years old. All of these new developments were 100% true because they were admitted in court documents, black in white, in front of the whole family for everyone to see and hear or later read.

Unfortunately this dear woman, my sister in law, got double slapped in the face from our side of the family. After being abused and scared for her life, her husband asked our side of the family after awhile not to speak to her. So everyone decided to comply with his request.

Except for us. And this is where the second set of problems with this man comes in.

This man-- my husband’s blood brother, his oldest brother--  took many measures to trash my husband’s professional name. From calling the state, to calling an awards program that he had received a prestigious award from, to calling the radio stations he had deals with. He completely trash my husbands name and it caused big problems for us. But most of all I remember seeing my husband’s face…his face after his own brother had stabbed him in the back and twisted the knife.

You know what though? That stabbing in the back can be healed. It can be forgiven. Relationships can heal and trust (over years and years) can be made whole again.

What we couldn’t deal with is what he had done to those poor women; what he had done to those poor children and how he is a pedophile. Right away we both knew that this man was dangerous and that our girls could never be around their Uncle. We thought maybe one day with extreme therapy and help from our church that he could be healed. But we knew it would take years and years, and that he was very, very sick.
Although this man (well obviously) is extremely mentally ill, he believes as if he has done nothing wrong.  He thinks that no forgiveness, healing, going to the bishop, getting help is needed. We believe this man-- and not to be name calling --to be an actual sociopath. Through and through.

Again with all of this we knew this man could not be around our children, that it wasn’t safe with his violent outbursts, abuse of women and being a pedophile. We don’t feel as if this makes us un Christ like or unforgiving or as if our hearts are “hardened” or that we are trying to keep the family apart.

Sadly though it is what the whole side of the family thinks. My brother’s siblings, their wives/husbands along with his parents see NO PROBLEM with having him be part of the family.  He is invited to dinners, reunions with sleep overs—where children will be present. It is very clear that they want to sweep everything under the rug.  To“forgive” and be Christ like and take him back in with no healing done on his part because as they say, “He will never get it, he is to sick.”

My husband’s parents, knowing full well our position AND knowing everything he has done, have decided to start yearly family reunions, where he is invited. We have been very clear that we will not be there. I believe as if they have chosen one son over another. I am aware of how unbelievably hard and hurtful this is for them although the position they are putting the rest of their children in is unbelievable to me.

I feel as if they are putting all of their little grandchildren, the women in the family and the men in extreme danger. Everything as a mother tells me to run run run from this evil man. But our family has decided that they are fine with having him around their children.

It just breaks my heart that we are put in this position-- That my children will miss out on family reunions and get togethers unless I want to put them in extreme danger.

Part of me…no that is a lie!  ALL of me is now at the point where I am furious. I am furious that their grandparents, who should be protecting their grandchildren, are opening their home to a monster and letting him in and exposing him to everyone.

This is where my Mormon Mommy Friends come into play… I need your advice, your counsel… I need your WORDS. 

 

I have a new stroller.

Joovy sent him to me.

It’s the new double Cocoon.

And it *might* be nicer than my car.

The Cocoon is a stroller, jogger, and bike trailer in one. The attachments are easy to switch out, and even easier to lock into place. In the back is a HUGE storage compartment that we promptly filled up with the family snack bag, my yoga mat, some raincoats, my purse, a couple of water bottles, and the usual toys, books, and little treasures.

Then we were ready to go.

I looked at the stroller, and I looked at the door, and I decided I was going to try pushing it out anyways. Guess what readers? It fit right through with room to spare. And any stroller that I don’t have to fold to go through a doorway automatically gets twelve bonus points.

Then we went for a walk.

The Cocoon GLIDES. It’s like you’re pushing a cloud. The large back wheels make the ride super smooth for the kids. It can turn on a dime, and it has dual parking brakes that are easily accessible.

Inside there is a 5 point harness, pockets on each side, and tons of legroom, all atop a padded seat cushion.

But my favorite feature about the new Joovy Cocoon is the fact that I can push and steer it ONE HANDED. I have never had a stroller that, when occupied, could be pushed with only one hand. I am telling you, it’s like pushing a cloud. 

Not to mention the very awesome fact that it converts to a jogger AND a bike trailer on top of that. the Joovy Cocoon comes double or single, and is the perfect addition to any active family.

Readers: Joovy is giving three away.

How can you win? Glad you asked! They’re having a scavenger hunt, and you have three stops on the Joovy website. Simply visit each page and “collect” the right items, then fill out your entry form (the WHOLE THING) and you’ll be entered to win! (You must be 18 to win)

So go, like Joovy on Facebook, start scavenging, and enter to win. Trust me, you NEED this stroller.

The contest ends on November 1, so I recommend that you enter now.

Thanks Joovy!

The internet can be a wonderful tool for children. From playing their favorite games to reading about their favorite subjects, the web provides endless possibilities for learning and fun. But there's also a dark side that parents should be aware of so they can keep their children safe. Predators, time-wasters, and questionable content are as abundant as anything else on the internet. So, how can parents steer their children in the right direction? Here's a helpful list of things to help keep children safe online.

• Educate your child
• Supervise your child online
• Use parental control tools
• Have an online time limit

Educate Your Child
First things first: a parent needs to educate their child on the dangers of the internet. You don't want to scare them by saying "there are bad people out there to get you," but it's good for a child to know that they need to be careful. Teach them that they should never give someone information about themselves, even if it's something as simple as their name. It's also a good idea to teach them what to do if questionable pop-ups or other materials appear on the screen. Keep it simple by showing them how to turn the computer screen off when something comes up.

Supervise Your Child Online
Children need to be monitored online just like anywhere else. You wouldn't allow your child to wander around town unsupervised, and the same applies to internet "wandering." There are many, many things on the web that children should not be allowed to view, so never let your child surf the web alone. This can be achieved easily by keeping your home computer in a high traffic area in the house. This will allow you to keep an eye on them without necessarily "hovering" over their every move. Doing this will give your child a sense of independence, without actually putting them out of reach.

Use Parental Control Tools
Another way to monitor your child online is by using parental control tools. These tools are designed to block out questionable websites and only allow children onto ones appropriate for their ages. Parental controls can be found through your internet service provider (or ISP), local retail store, and even through your browser. Be sure to keep in mind, though, that the tools are not fool proof!

Have an Online Time Limit
Time wasters are abundant on the net. From Facebook and Twitter to YouTube and gaming sites, hours upon hours can be completely wasted online. If given free reign, children (especially teenagers) would squander most of their time playing on their virtual farm and watching viral videos. It would be a good idea for a parent to set a reasonable limit on these time drains so children aren't on them every waking hour.

The internet is an amazing tool that can teach children many things. By educating, monitoring,
using the tools at your disposal, and limiting time wasters, you ensure that your child will have a great online experience.

-----
guest post by Courtney Bishop

I have been a soccer mom for over 15 years. I had no idea when I first signed my then 5-year-old daughter up for recreation soccer in Virginia that she would play at the collegiate level at a Division 1 school. At that time all I wanted to do was to find some outlet for her energy. Soccer has been a huge part of her life (and mine) ever since.

All four of my kids have played soccer at some point, but only two of them kept it in their blood.

I sometimes wish I had kept track of all the practices I drove to, all the games I watched in sweltering heat, freezing cold, rain, snow, and even hail.

How many water bottles have been lost on the side lines? What about all those stinky and sour grass-stained socks I turned right-side out before I threw them in the washer? How many collapsible chairs have we broken, repaired, then finally tossed? How many balls, cleats, shin guards, sleeves, shorts, jerseys?

Bruises, broken noses (two), pulled muscles, blisters, shin splints, painful heels, cleat marks, cuts, scratches, and every kind of scrape imaginable.

Deep heartache, utter joy, exhaustion, frustration, and elation.

"Do your very best." "Work hard." "Be mentally tough." "Leave it all on the field." "Just have fun."

At first I wasn't so sure about soccer dominating my life like it has, but so many lessons have been taught and learned and continue to be taught and learned for both the player and the parent. At 40-something I finally see that it will end before I am ready.

I am a soccer mom.

-----
guest post by Julie Woodfield

MODESTY.

What does it mean to you? And are you teaching your children to be modest?

Do your younger children to wear things that maybe your older children don't? Like for instance, a sundress. I see a lot of little girls in adorable sundresses... but the older kids aren't allowed to go sleeveless. Why is that? At what point does sleeveless stop being “cute” and start being “immodest”? I mean, isn’t that a double standard? Do you have double standard in your house? And does it depend on age? Does it depend on gender?

And REALLY, I want to chat about modesty in regards to the fit of your clothing. Because sometimes I see a really cute girl, wearing really tight pants, and I can see a really, very LOT of her, and I think to myself, does that really count as being modest?

Let’s dish.

(P.S. <—that cute modest dress is from Mikarose.com)

It's in the quiet moments, when the sun is rising over the mountains that I feel an awakening of the mind. A peace can be achieved at this point that will help carry me through a day of chaos. I can hear the children stirring (some are still deep in sleep as their snoring resonates through the house), but I know still have a few more minutes of quiet reflection.

I think about the previous day where new friends were met and instantly became cherished.

I think about my darling husband telling "baby man" not to bite the guest only his brothers.

I reflect upon the blessing of having wonderful daughters who are willing to work by my side, sharing their thoughts, desires and dreams.

I dwell on those not so wonderfully mommy moments when I wasn't at my best and wished I had handled the situation better.

I come up with another plan on how I can do better. One day knowing I will overcome myself and become stellar.

I think about the series I've been reading... the effects of war and humanity.

I giggle at my attempts to indoctrinate the boys into always giving me a kiss and telling me they love me, not matter who they are with (hoping they will still do this when they are grown).

I put everything down on paper, clearing my mind in preparation for my study. For my time to commune with a merciful Father in Heaven. Waiting and hoping to feel enlightened; to unlock truths that only the Spirit can write upon my heart with such clarity and peace and I am forever changed.

It's in these quiet moments, as the sun is rising that I begin to understand who we really are, why we are here and what is required. It's in these moments that I am nourished and filled.

-----
guest post by Allison Kimball

Quinn and Martha both look back on it as the turning point in his recovery from a pornography habit. It was when Quinn committed to Martha that if he ever lapsed back to pornography, he would let her know within sixty minutes. If they couldn’t talk, he’d let her know by code through text or a voicemail. Their key phrase would be “a problem with the credit card.”

Quinn was convinced that this promise alone would put the final nail in the coffin of his porn problem. Martha wasn’t so sure. After all, he had expected other steps in the past to be just the thing to help him put it all behind him once and for all.

It turned out that Quinn relapsed a few times during the first year after he’d committed to within-the-hour disclosure. It still bothered Martha every time it happened, and she let Quinn know that. Nonetheless, great things came from it. It changed the dynamics of the struggle between them, the struggle within Quinn, and the struggle within Martha.

A couple of months after signing their new contract, Quinn called Martha at 4:15 one afternoon. He explained to her that he’d been reading the news online during a slow time at his office. One of the links on a mainstream news website had been titillating. He clicked. Links on that site were even more edgy. He followed that trail back into familiar territory, clicking and clicking around through the smut for several minutes. Then he came to himself, clicked out, and with the effect of that potent drug still reverberating through his system, Quinn had picked up the phone and dialed his home number.

It was a victory, but it hadn’t been an easy one. “The way my heart raced when I looked at pornography again after months without viewing it was nothing compared to how it pounded as I waited for Martha to answer the phone.” He had walked outside into the parking lot so that he could talk more freely with her about what he’d done. Both he and Martha, at my suggestion, avoided asking about the nature of the content (like which celebrity did Quinn find irresistible and why?). Instead, they talked about how many minutes it had gone on, whether it escalated to courser content over time, whether he had masturbated or not. They also talked about what had been going on in the hours and days before his lapse. Were there any warning signs that he’d been at risk? What had his thoughts been? What was going on emotionally that might lead him to hanker for an escape?

Quinn’s honesty had profound effects. (With all the benefits, it’s no wonder “Thou shalt not bear false witness” is one of the ten commandments.) Martha explained, “As we’ve talked after his lapses, I noticed things I never had before. These were things that had completely escaped me because he had never allowed me close enough to his struggle to see it clearly, to see it for what it really was. I could tell right away that he wasn’t going to pornography as a way of turning away from me and toward other women. He’d lapse into it to turn away from life, to escape. It was a drug to him. I could never compete with porn, not because I don’t have a supermodel’s body, but because I’m a real live person. He associates me with real life. I’m not a blissful escape, and I don’t think he expects me to become one.”

Another thing occurred after Quinn opened up to Martha immediately following his second slip-up. “I was angry at him again,” she recalled. “All I said to him that time was, ‘Really?! Can I not even go to book club for two hours? Really?!’ I was so mad. He didn’t even try to talk to me about the details, and it was a good thing because I wasn’t in the mood. I just couldn’t believe that he was still going to keep going back. I thought, just like all the other things we’ve tried before, even this one isn’t going to work. However, in the following weeks, I started to notice some of the tightness inside me easing. I realized later what it was: the threat of secrecy was no longer this cloud looming over our relationship, over our lives. I still didn’t know how he was going to do today, but at least I knew—really knew—how he’d done right up to yesterday. In fact, I knew that if he’d had a problem and gone back to porn, it would have happened within the last hour. That was comforting, to at least know what we were dealing with. He might still be struggling with an addiction, but at least he was being real with me."

As I keep working with couples like Quinn and Martha, I’ll keep sharing the benefits they report of working together to retrieve their marriages from the jaws of porn. If you’re in the same boat they are, I’d love to hear what you’re noticing and learning along the way.

-------
Mark Chamberlain, Ph.D. is a psychologist and clinical director of the ARCH, Addiction Resource Center for Healing, in South Jordan and Clearfield, Utah. He has authored and coauthored several books, including, Willpower Is Not Enough: Why We Don't Succeed at Change, Confronting Pornography, and Wanting More: The Challenge of Enjoyment in the Age of Addition. His new book, Love You, Hate the Porn: Healing a Relationship Damaged by Virtual Infidelity (with Geoff Steurer) will be published in 2011. Mark has provided continuing education for therapists in cities throughout the United States on the topics of healing addiction and sexuality. He and his wife have seven children.

The Washington DC LDS Employment Resource Center is looking to conduct a 2 day Career Workshop* at the Lake Ridge Stake Center in Woodbridge, Virginia.

The workshop would be held on Friday November 12, from 7-10pm, and on Saturday November 13 from 9am-4pm.

The primary purpose of the workshop is to teach job seeking skills, but would be worthwhile for any person that may be interested in improving their career needs.

If you are interested in attending, you need to contact Employment Specialist, Brother David Peacock via email at pea55555@mris.com BEFORE NOVEMBER 5TH.  At least 15 firm commitments are needed by this date for the Resource Personnel to conduct the workshop.

*You do not have to be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints to attend this workshop. It is available to anybody who is interested.

Thirty minutes. A small pile of worksheets. An over scheduled public speech specialist. And--stamp! My son is "learning disabled."

The therapist pushes her thin-rimmed glasses up her nose and sighs, looking at the clock instead of my eyes. "Samuel's speech skills are highly undeveloped. He's unaware of concepts like gender and seasons. He refers to himself and others in the third person. His sentences never venture beyond four words." She points at the bottom of a purple swirl of a graph in her assessment book, indicating that in the sea of preschool speech skills, my son is pond scum level.

At my feet Sam sits criss-cross applesauce. His narrowed hazel eyes have a distant look of desperateness in them that tell me what his vocabulary would fail to explain. He wants to leave. He hasn't liked this artificial environment--a strange lady shoving white cards in his face, repeating in slow words as if he were a foreigner, "Samuel, how many ducks do you see? Samuel! Look at my face. HOW MANY?"

The therapist continues to explain things while I copy our personal information in Sam's file.
"The Early Intervention Preschool is four days a week for three and a half hours. The school district will take care of everything. We'll bus him. A little less than one hour each way. Provide snacks. We don't allow parents to attend, of course. Distracts the distractable. You understand."

Sam tugs on my coat. "Mama! Sammy play ball," he says. He's talking about the soccer game we saw on the way in. He found the older boys' zigzagging fascinating.

"Here's the ball," the therapist says, handing Sam a blue foam ball she used during her evaluation. I open my mouth, about to explain Sam's intentions for him--something I do a couple dozen times a day. But really, the therapist wouldn't care what Sam really meant. So I hand him the blue ball and tell him, by widening my eyes, Wait for just a minute, Mister, and we'll be outta here.

"Just sign these papers, Mrs. Cope, and we'll be all set."

My chest tightens as I grip a blue BIC from my purse. I scheduled this appointment. They aren't forcing this on me. So why am I hesitating? The program is wonderful. The teachers experts, other parents tell me. It's great to have a break from the whining without having to fork over a dime, they say.

As I pause, I add up the time in my head. My four year old should be away from me for the greater part of each day because he calls himself, "Sammy" instead of "Me?" It all feels like too much too soon. The thought enters my mind, "How can this woman, in a few minutes, know what is best for my son?"

She can't. I know she can't. The problem is that I don't know what's best either. On the graph of parental empowerment, I'm scraping bottom. Ever since Sam's premature birth when the nurses had barked at me, "Don't touch him like that! He'll never saturate!" "Ah! you're loosening the tubes!" I felt high jacked as a parent. My motherhood motto developed early into the following: Step aside. Let the experts take over. You're just the incidental caregiver.

But now the seemingly unsolvable dilemma of my relationship with Sam was surfacing for air. The problem was this--Experts claim to know what to do with Sam, but they don't truly care about him. I truly care about Sam, but I don't know what to do with him. All the while Sam is trying to find his own way and struggling. Like in the NICU when Sam's ventilator tube passed between his vocal chords, he could cry and cry for what he really needed, and not me, not anyone would hear him.

The following Monday a small yellow bus pulls up and Sam climbs up the giant first step on all fours and then stands still. Doesn't look around for direction. Just kind of waits for somebody to plunk him where he needs to be. He doesn't look back to me for an explanation as to why he should leave with all these strangers and it's supposed to be okay. My words, like the great stew of every other grownup's words, would just sound like gibberish with a few recognizable nouns and verbs sprinkled in. I also sense for the first time that Sam knows when other grownups step up, Mom steps aside. He's on his own. This pierces me deeply.

Little sister Sophia screams in agony as the bus pulls away, waking baby Logan in his ring sling. Before I can grab her pink hood to stop her she's in the road, screaming and running after the bus. "Sam! Sam! Come back!" Finally she collapses. I carry her to the sidewalk and we cry together.

Sophia is jumping up and down when the same bus pulls up later in the afternoon. I try to ask Sam about his day. But all he says is, "No raisins." He seems tired, but generally calm and content.

The next day we go through the same routine. And the next and the next. Weeks pass. Sam climbs on the bus. Sophie screams. He steps off. Tells me one or two things about snack time. My heart feels limp in my chest, and I wonder what about all this isn't adding up for our family.

Maybe I'm just bothered because deep down I sense Sam is developmentally okay among all the other students with real cognitive problems. He just needs to be given time to speak, I suspect, like he needed a little extra time to learn to walk. On the other hand, what is preschool hurting? Why not let him go? My confusion is dark, rainless cloud, following me everywhere. This must be how Sam feels, unable to find words to articulate what is going on inside, I think.

I call the school after Sam comes home crying. Not his "somebody took my toy" tears. His "frantic, lash-out, overwhelmed with something" tears. The bus attendant tells me something bad has happened at school but refuses to give me details. So I hesitantly pick up the phone and call the preschool. His teacher's response? "Everything's fine. Sam's fine. I've got a meeting. Bye!"

So much for sentences with more than five words.

The same thing happens a week later when Sam comes home with bloody scrapes from neck to bum.

There is a lot of good about Sam's preschool, I'm sure. But I don't know about it. What happens there seems to be a carefully guarded secret. I tell them I'd like to supplement and support their efforts with my time at home with Sam. His teacher still refuses to talk to me. All I can get out of anyone is from the speech therapist. She is working on the sound of the letter "L" with Sam by repeating it over and over again with him, she says.

I hang up the phone, frustrated. What do I do? I can't pull Sam out of school without being sure it is the right thing. That's what I did putting him in. Best to stop yanking him around until I know what to do.

Over the next couple months I become a child development junky. Sam continues to get on the bus everyday. Then while Sophie and Logan nap I read like I'm thirsty and its the jaws of July. Stacks of books litter my nightstand, my living room floor, my kitchen counter, stacked with their spines spread like rectangular butterflies. I read while I brush my teeth. I read while I trim my toenails. Vygostgy, Holt, Montessori, Steiner, anything I can get my hands on. I can't seem to ingest this stuff quickly enough.

At first I let the words wash over me. Then I find I'm gravitating to some ideas. Excitement thrills when I find something that seems to apply perfectly to one of my children, especially Sam. Slowly my reading turns into action.

My husband comes home from work each day to find me anxiously engaged in some feat with glue, paper, string, or magnets. All the while Logan peers up from his sling, content just to have his body touching mine.

"These are sandpaper letters. Sam is so sensory. I want him to be able to feel letters, not just see them."

"Sophia loves books on tape. So I'm making her some with her own photos in them with my voice reading stories we write together."

Actually doing enriching activities together as a family is something else. I spend all morning getting the kids ready to get out the door for the bus on time. After Sam comes home, it's dinner time and everyone is tired.

But I keep at it. Making plans for something vague but shining beyond my current circumstances. The more I act on my inner excitement, the more I feel the outer edge of my being softening, expanding, encompassing more and more of the good world. At the same time something at the very center of me is hardening, becoming clear and smooth.

I begin to look at my children differently. I loved them before, but through a bit of a fog. They become not little people I am taking care of, but fascinating, complex, unique beings I have the privilege to watch unfold. Finding a break from the whining suddenly becomes less important than trying to soak them in fast enough before they grow up on me.

Sam has a day off for teacher's conferences. We walk down the street to the river and throw stones in. We wade in the water and squish the mud between our toes. We gather leaves. We make up stories. The day is so beautiful I want to cry. I used to think all these things my children and I love to do together were some precursor to the real stuff. Just us passing time till they were old enough for others, those who knew what they were doing, to step in and take over.

I think about my own mother. I can't remember much of anything from the years I spent in public school away from her. Trigonometry? Took the class. Got an A. Can't tell you what the heck trigonometry even is. But I remember vividly my mother showing me how to turn a hollyhock into a dancing girl. The sound of her voice singing "Sandman." I am a writer because I sensed her love affair with the written word and wanted in on it. Suddenly, I realize its these little things filling my days with my kids that is the real stuff. I know, now, certainly, I am the expert on my children.

Whether or not Sam goes to preschool was not the issue here. What was? Having a mother who is empowered enough, and in tune enough with him to make good decisions on his behalf.

We find our first house that very night. It's perfect. After six years in an apartment, we can have our own space! There is a bonus room above the garage. "This would be the perfect home preschool room!" I say.

My husband Jared loves the idea. I feel a flutter of excitement and also a feeling a dread. Could I yank Sam off the ventilator, so to speak, and not have him wither under my care? I felt confident enough to try it.

While a crew of neighborhood men unload in the garage a few weeks later, I sit with the kids upstairs in the bonus room. This is the time of day Sam would normally be going to school. I hesitate to announce that he's not going back. We'll just watch a movie and worry about all that after unpacking, right?

Sam steps up to me. "Teacher," he says. "Sam's teacher."

Admittedly, the words send a thrill down my spine. But I'm also terrified. As requested, we have our first "preschool." Amidst the boxes and bags and clutter, I set up a bowl of water and some measuring cups and spoons. Find some paper and crayons. Pull out a few library books.

It's not much. But the kids love it. Sophie is relieved not to be left behind for once. No more encouragement needed. I'm off. Over the next few weeks, using only things we have around the house, I turn the room into my own peronsal work of art. It's my love story to my kids, long overdue. A little of this philosophy and a little of that idea, all arranged according to my own taste and knowledge of my children's needs with my personal flair coloring it all.

Our days are filled with exploration and wonder. I start to keep a journal of my kids "learning." But after a few days, I find I'm too busy on the floor with them to attend to it. My longest entry reads "Sam is fascinated with the geoboard I made him. Sophia is wrapping a piece of red silk around her head and telling me the story of red riding hood. Logan sits under the bars of light coming in from between the blinds, reaching and licking the sunshine off his fingers as if it's honey."

I almost wouldn't notice Sam's speech naturally developing as the weeks roll on if the progress wasn't so rapid.

"Is it still winter? When will spring come?"

"Sophia is a good girl. I'm a good boy."

"After Daddy comes home, I'd like to go to the park by myself."

One day we're all dancing to Russian folk songs together when the phone rings.

"This is Samuel's school. We're calling to ask you to reconsider your decision to pull him out. Maybe now that you've settled into your new place he can come back?"

"No. It was too much for us at this time."

"But he belongs here."

"He's happy and thriving here," I say with surety.

I don't know for sure what the long term plan is for Sam's education. But I do know when the time comes to make those decisions for him, for all my children, I'll be able to make them with a sense of empowerment and peace. I'm their mother, after all.

One night after I tuck him in, Sam begins crying.

I open his door. "What's wrong, honey?"

"I'm afraid of the monsters."

I start to try and convince him there are no monsters, as I have before, but stop and try to think of things from his perspective. When I leave it will still be dark. The shadows will continue creeping up the walls and unexplainable noises will keep ringing in his ears.

"I'll tell you what. I'll kill the monsters."

"What?" Sam wrinkles his nose. This isn't the response he expected.

I whisk out a light saber and run around the room on a murderous rampage. Sam giggles while I describe falling limbs and severed heads.

He's okay now. So we go through our "Mugga mugga, butterfly, kissy kiss" routine again. One final hug. Sam locks his hands behind my neck, looks me in the eyes for a moment with pure affection and says, "Mama, you save me."

The startling sweetness of his words makes me smile. "Yes, sweetheart the monsters are all gone. I saved you."

He looks me in the eyes again. Even though his vocabulary is expanding, he opts to tell me with his eyes what he wants to say. He holds my gaze and, unblinking, looks at me deeply, directly, indicating there is more to his words.

"Mama, you save me," he says again.

For a moment I am still. I want to pick Sam up and hold him until he is too big to be held anymore. I want to put his words to music, to paint them in a mural. To scream from the rooftops the joy/heartbreak and excitement/exhaustion that is being his mother.
He knows now I would set the tubes and monitors aside and hold him, hear him. More importantly, I now know I'm strong enough.

"Do you feel the power?" I say in the dark.

Sam leans forward and whispers in my ear, "I feel it like a light saber."

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guest post by Arianne Cope

Growing up as a ballet dancer, this was the first print that ever had a huge impact on me. I remember it being on the wall of the studio that I studied in for so long. Now that that part of my life is over, this photograph represents so much more than just a dancer in worn leg warmers.

This dancer reminds me that life is not about ease or comfort. It's not about having the most beautiful thing the exact second that you want it. It isn't about the importance of outward appearance.

To me, this beautiful photograph reminds me about the intensity of life; about hard work and devotion; about the sweat and strain that each day brings. It brings to mind the emotional toll that pain can have on the details of our lives.

But most of all, I see beauty. I see what can happen if we work at the impossible until, at last, it becomes possible. I see what will happen when we face pain with sensitivity and passion; when we face problems with an intense determination and a goal in mind. I know each and every one of the afflictions we face will bring about not only holes, wrinkles, rips, and dirt....but also a sense of grace. Grace that will accompany us throughout a difficult journey. Grace that will undoubtedly lead us through the roughest portions of our training. The most special sort of grace that will only be apparent to those who take the time to look a little deeper.

Maybe today we will be worn and weary; perhaps feeling broken and torn. However, tomorrow could be the day that we will have achieved a loveliness about us that a life of ease and comfort could never bring. Tomorrow could be the day that all of our unceasing hard work will create in us the people we were meant to be.

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guest post by Karen Wynder

photo source

A jar of jam from the grocery shelf is just that. A container of fruit preserves. But a jar of homemade jam! You can actually taste the love and effort put in to it. I have always wanted/feared to learn how to can fruit. I knew I would never really be a legitimate wife and mother until I excelled in preserving all manner of substances. It's a right of passage into womanhood.

I'm sort of kidding here, but honestly I'll admit to an underlying fear of inadequacy due to my lack of proficiency in this area. Homemaking doesn't come naturally to me. I cheat when I make chicken pot pie, I'll never scrapbook, and I haven't busted out the ironing board in months.
I am trying and I am learning.

My best friend Lindsey visited this past weekend and had a wickedly good time laughing at my custom throw pillows, icing lilies, and painted birdies. "WHO ARE YOU?" she scream/laughed all the way through my house. I know I have changed, but I will be the first to admit how much I love being a wife and a mother. I didn't plan on marrying young or sewing throw pillows but you learn to enjoy life as it comes. In my first year of marriage I learned that I really like to cook. Who would have thought? (Not big brother Andy who used to prematurely mourn for my spinsterhood due to lack of interest in the culinary world.) In my second year of marriage Jason bought me a sewing machine for my birthday and I found I really enjoyed that as well. No, I don't actually measure very often, but it usually works out in the end. On and on the story goes. Little skills and hobbies that I used to mock have become part of my quiet little life.

Recently Jase and I found a quiz that we took when we were engaged. We took it again and I was uncomfortable at the drastic difference in answers. For example the quiz asked 1. If you could describe Ashley in one word what would it be? Old answer: Adventurous. New answer: Domestic. 2. If Ashley could have a shopping spree in one store what would she pick? Old answer: REI. New Answer: Tai Pan Trading decor store. 3. If Ashley was stuck on a island what one item would she take? Old answer: Her Chacos. New answer: Computer. We had a good laugh, but I felt uneasy. The Ghost of Ashley past has haunted me ever since. Who was I then and who am I now? And where are my Chacos?!

My little brother once asked me not to lose myself in marriage. I'm not sure how to do that. I've always considered it sacrifice for a greater good.

When you get married you give up your independence. This is a positive thing. Two individuals naturally merge their separate lives into one. You stop thinking in terms of "I" and consider everything in terms of "we" and "us".

When you become a parent you go beyond giving up independence. You actually forfeit your identity. You don't have the privilege of doing anything on your own timetable. Your wants and needs are bumped into last place. Even the nurturing of a marriage is secondary to the physical and emotional nurturing of your children.

This is what I have learned. All of these changes are good things. It is actually how it is supposed to be. In Matthew 10: 39 we learn that "he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it". I believe this applies to what we devote our lives to while in this world. The Proclamation to the World states "Husbands and wife have solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children...Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs, to teach them to serve and love one another, to observe the commandments of God and to be law abiding citizens where ever they live. Husbands and wives--mothers an fathers--will be accountable before God for the discharge of these obligations."

It isn't feasible to follow that command and live selfishly. Now I am Jason's wife and Mason's mother. While going through this mini identity crisis I found that yes, I have changed. But infinitely for the better. And perhaps it is not so much change as discovery. In matrimony and motherhood I have seen glimpses of who I really am.
I do not claim that a perfectly kept house and homemade food will pave the way into heaven. Perhaps, though, it is in those acts that women can serve and be refined. In small acts of self discipline and perseverance, we gain attributes that make us more successful in the home. Success in the home can become success in the family. Happiness and unity will be undeniable blessings.

I really have come a long way. I used to spout, "When I'm married, if my husband is hungry, he should find something to eat". Nowadays I get so much satisfaction from packing his lunch and preparing hot meals. It could have been a less awkward learning process if I hadn't been so bull headed when I was younger, but back then I had no idea how much joy there was in womanhood.

This is my mother. She is the one in the apron. I believe this state of the art kitchen photo was taken at Dixie State College.

Mom and I are opposites. My mom exemplifies everything that a woman should be. She cooks up three hot meals a day, raised 9 successful children, is a supportive wife, never speaks badly of anyone, is cheerful, funny, and lets me call her five times a day. I wish I could be half as hardworking, long suffering, optimistic and thoughtful as she is. As Abraham Lincoln put it, "All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother."

My mom is my hero, example, and friend. By following in her footsteps I find myself closer and closer to personifying the mother I want to become. In my recent struggle with my new identity she's been there to calmly listen to my ranting and let's me ramble on without correction. I knew that she had the answer to my problems, but would never throw it in my face. That's just not her style.

(Finally, back to the point)

I bought a couple flats of strawberries. I knew with my skills I could either dry them or freeze them. When I found out my mom's out of town trip was postponed, I asked her to teach me how to make her freezer jam.

We had a delightful morning cutting up strawberries, measuring sugar, and solving the world's problems. She doesn't seem to care that I fall short of where I should be. She knows I am trying. She doesn't care that I seem to have changed. I am still her girl.

I am overwhelmed by the happiness I felt this morning. With my sticky little boy "helping", my husband assisting, and my mom encouraging, we made miracle jam. I know it won't taste as good as my mother's. Nothing ever does. But it was the perfect recipe to cure my identity crisis. I know I am different. I am actually better, and I will just keep trying.

"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weaknesses. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them." Ether 12:27

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guest post by Ashley Starr 

It’s getting late and I am tired. My husband’s shift in the Emergency Department ended a couple hours ago and I expected him long before now. No school means the children were home all day; I’ve counted down for the moment I get a break, or at least acknowledgment from someone who doesn’t call me Mommy. Frustration builds as minutes multiply. By the time the front door opens, I’ve had the argument a thousand times in my mind: “What have you been doing?” or perhaps “You knew the kids were home today, how could you be so inconsiderate?“ maybe even a “Don’t you even care how difficult my days can be?”

But as he walks in, I see his troubled face and I swallow the bitter words waiting half formed in my mouth. Instead I replace them with, “How was your day?” The world has weighed so heavily on him today, I worry the couch frame may break as he collapses into it. As the children crawl and chatter over him, he tells me about his day. There was an attempted suicide and his failed effort to reverse what was done. Followed by another attempt, half successful, leaving a body alive, a brain dead and a face half missing. He must call far away relatives to offer terrible choices: permanent life support or organ donation. Finally he sees an irritated family waiting for simple test results for their mildly ill child. “They had waited a long time and I didn’t want them to be lost in the shift change, so I stayed till the results came back. By that time the hospital was nearly ready to take the man up for organ harvest so I stayed with him and, as I was leaving, his grieving sister called desperate she had made the wrong choice. I comforted her the best I could.”

As I listen to his day I remember something his colleague once told me, “I never say I’m having a bad day. I’ve seen thousands of truly bad days and to call mine bad would be disrespectful.” I see a glimpse of those bad days now reflected in my husband’s tired eyes. I can’t even begin to understand the memories my husband owns: the child he spent a fruitless extra hour trying to revive only to face notifying her still hopeful mother, telling a young father of three his wife’s stroke has left him a widow, child abuse leading to 3rd degree burns. My husband sees bad days every day. He sees some of the worst humanity has to offer: suicides, assaults, attempted murders, child abuse. He also sees everyone’s worst nightmares: severed limbs, car accidents, strokes, psychological breaks, sudden and unexpected deaths mixed with long mourned ones. All this is a part of my husband’s existence.

I can imagine him, despite a long and difficult day, consoling a stranger over the phone, with the image of her brother’s wounds still fresh in his mind. I see him reluctant to leave that man alone his last minutes of life. Still willing to go the extra mile for a family visibly frustrated with their long wait and unaware its unfortunate reason. I see him hugging our children tighter and longer than normal, patient despite his exhaustion. He tells me he is sorry to come home so late, but I know that’s a lie. He doesn’t regret his actions today. As I see him, compassionate and kind despite the constant barrage of tragedy, I suddenly realize I’m not sorry for it either.

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guest post by Charlotte

As women and mommy’s we often talk about all the hats we wear. There are the nurse, referee, psychologist and maid hats, just to name a few. They are not always worn willingly, but they come with the whiny, sticky territory of motherhood. I find that along with the hats, I carry a lot of bags.

Especially on Sundays.

On what should be the most peaceful day of the week, why do I have so much stuff?

My bags can be broken down into categories. First there is my large purse I carry. Unfortunately cars have been broken into in our church parking lot and purses taken. So, the purse stays with me. And it doesn’t hurt to have for emergencies like lip gloss reapplication and check writing for fundraisers and food storage.

Then there is the Sunday Bag. This was a bag started years ago and has stuck around. It carries all the Sunday essentials for keeping kids reverent for 65 minutes. It doesn’t always work but it’s the thought that counts.

Pencils for drawing. Scratch paper. The Friend magazine. Kleenex for snot needs. And then there are the absolute essential Cheerio bags.

I have tried other snacks, but let’s face it Cheerios are the only true cereal. They are small, tasty and portable. They are not messy unless stepped on. Cheerio bags need to be packed with great care making sure there on even amounts in each. I have seen kids count. I used to pack small toys and books but as the kids have got older, I try to keep it simple. The more stuff, the more mess, the less reverent. I don’t need our bench at the end of sacrament meeting to look like my living room.

I also carry around my scripture bag. For obvious reasons I like to have my scriptures at church. But also in the scripture bag are my glasses (a recent addition that has come with old age), my Relief Society manual, scripture markers and any handout I have got at church in the last 5 years. Yes, I am a saver.

Then there is the “calling” bag. Depending on the calling the bag varies in size and content. When I am in Young Women’s it holds manuals, table décor, handouts, pictures, gifts etc…When I am in Primary it holds more snacks, crayons, pictures, coloring pages and duct tape. Okay, kidding about the duct tape, but I have thought about it. Right now I am minus a “calling bag” on Sunday since I have a Tuesday night calling. So there is now “Cub Scout” bag. You don’t even want to know what that contains. Let’s just say whatever works to entertain eight, 8 year olds for 60 minutes.

So after Sacrament I am free of children but left holding all the bags, which are then carried around for the next two hours. I can’t walk too close to folks to keep from knocking them over. And it keeps me from dallying in the hallway, for fear my arms will fall off.

So I will reluctantly keep carrying the bags as I wear the hats. And you may hear me singing my battle cry “…carry on, carry on, CARRY ON!”

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guest post by Linda Vance

I know the feeling.

You worked out yesterday, either for the first time in a long time, or you tried something new.

And now you feel terrible.

And you can't move.

And you didn't even know you HAD that muscle.

Ouch.

Many people don't get past day one of an exercise routine because of this very problem.  Here are some things that can be done before, during and after a workout to help ease that pain.

• Drink water!  Water is an athlete's (let's use that term loosely) best friend!  The first thing you should do when waking up is drink a glass of water, and continue to drink some sort of liquid (preferably not soda) throughout the day.  If you step on the scale before a work out, and again directly after and you have lost weight, you didn't drink enough water.
  
• Active recovery.  Active recovery means you are letting your body cool down by continuing low-intensity movement.  For example walking around until you've caught your breath and your body has returned to it's normal temperature.  Basically, don't sit down for a minimum of 10 minutes after your workout is over.
  
• Protein!  Within a half hour after your workout eat some protein.  Protein provides your body amino acids that help repair your muscles.  It also improves your body's ability to absorb water.  You can do this by making yourself a protein shake (not as scary as it sounds!) or my favorite way, eating a hamburger (though there are some who may recognize this as the bad idea it is, doesn't stop me).
  
• Exercise again!  It may seem counter-intuitive, or even torturous, but the best thing you can do is get out again the next day.  When you get your body moving, you get your blood moving, which means fresh oxygen to your muscles.  It also helps wash out the gunk that built up in your muscles that made them sore.  

Soreness is a regular part of exercise.  Everyone from professional athletes, to weekend warriors will get sore after a tough workout.  Your soreness will most likely peak two days after your workout.  Don't let it discourage you.  Keep your workouts light until your muscles recover, but keep moving!

Remember that if it doesn't feel like regular muscle soreness, or it is a persisting problem you may have an injury that needs attention from your doctor.


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Amy Nelson is a running mom with a cycling husband and two boys.


* Picture from my personal files, play Where's Waldo, I'm in there somewhere.  

MMB is always on the lookout for things that we think you just can't live without, and this CD is one of those things.  Living life without the ear candy of The Lower Lights would be a travesty.

Simply put: This is one of the best compilation albums--particularly about Hymns-- I have ever heard. Period.

Admittedly, I was hooked the first time I heard this group on our beloved CJane's Blog. I listened to everything I could get my hands on-- even subscribing to their newsletter with the hopes of getting information on ways to hear more of this incredible group!

This CD is astoundingly beautiful. It's Crisp. Clean. Fresh and Perfect.

This talented group of musicians take our Hymns to a whole new level-- the words stand out differently, and one can find new meaning because of the unique arrangements. Their sound is reminiscent of early Americana, and has a clear blue-grass feel.  Not only that, the arrangements of these Hymns are some of the funnest arrangements to sing along with! 

"The Lower Lights convened in fall 2009 for five days of recording. The goal was to dive into the hymns– familiar hymns, overlooked hymns, Hank Williams hymns, and more– and connect with them on a deeper level. Drawing equal parts reverence and celebration from the rich well of hymns, we ended up with 30-plus songs that felt part-revival, part-vigil. And we ended up with more than just an album. We ended up with an experience.

Listen to the songs and suddenly you’re there: a few people are in the studio hallway working out a candlelit arrangement to "Jesus Savior Pilot Me" while in the main studio no fewer than 15 people record a spirited version of "Israel, Israel, God Is Calling," making a choir out of anyone not holding an instrument. Somebody’s flipping through an old hymnal A couple of guys tune a marxophone with a wrench. Spontaneous handclapping breaks out. And another song is crossed off the chalkboard." - The Lower Lights

"Jesus Savior, Pilot Me" promptly takes my imagination to the pioneer ancestors slowly crossing the plains. I hear the words and wonder if the Saints sang this song, begging The Lord to be with them and to guide them "home".  The instrumental versions of  "If You Could Hie to Kolob" and "We Thank Thee, Oh God, For A Prophet" bring a clarity to those two songs that I haven't heard before.

Yet, it's the opening refrain of "Come Ye Children of the Lord" that overwhelms me and I find my heart filled with gratitude.  Gratitude for these incredible musicians helping me to hear my beloved Hymns in a completely new way.

Take a listen and see if you don't find yourself slipping into a torrid love affair with The Lower Lights. 


The Lower Lights claim to be part vigil , part revival.  These songs DO have a revival feel, and quite frankly its refreshing. I suspect when they say "Revival" what they mean is they are trying to revive our love of the Hymns-- in their organic state.  They have succeeded with this listener. There are only 15 songs on this album, but they said they ended up with 30 plus songs.  I can't wait to hear part two of The Lower Lights!

This is a CD that no Christian home should be without. You can purchase and download a digital copy of The Lower Lights on their site. You can also order an actual CD there as well.


The most amazing part is that The Lower Lights is giving away THREE CD's to our readers!

Anyone can enter to win, just comment on this post and make sure to include your email.

For a second entry subscribe to their newsletter, and come back and comment.

For a third entry, subscribe to MMB, commenting again.
For a fourth entry follow @mormonmommyblog and @thelowerlights on twitter and then tweet: 

"I just entered to #win @thelowerlights new #CD from @mormonmommyblog #MMB #giveaway #free http://ht.ly/2Xp7J