Several years ago Richard and I decided (and by that I mean I decided and Richard shrugged his shoulders as if to say “Sure. Whatever.”) that we would allow our children to have an organized birthday party (where they could invite friends and I would entertain them) twice, at ages five and eight. 

That sentence was a grammatical nightmare. But I’m too lazy to go back and fix it.  I wouldn’t know how.

Next week Cameron turns five.  He has requested a dinosaur birthday party.  I have one week so today I consulted my best source, the web.  Much… too… overwhelming.  I had no idea the extent to which some people go for birthday parties.  I have neither the time, ambition or the funds to expend such energies.  Internet, you failed me.

So I think we’ll just stick with musical chairs, dropping clothespins in glass jars and maybe pin the tail on the T-Rex.  I might actually buy a dinosaur cake because the idea of trying to make one causes me to hyperventilate.

One more thing.  I decided that I would request that the preschool age guests not bring gifts.  Is that tacky/offensive/totally bizarre?  I just can’t stand the idea of more toys around this place.  And I feel bad asking other children’s parents to spend money on him in these “tough economic times”. I told Cameron that his friends wouldn’t be bringing gifts and, well, if you know anything about Cameron you know what happened. 

Tears. Whining.  Banging of limbs against nearby objects. 

It was all enough to indicate that gifts are the last thing the child needs. But never fear mothers and fathers whose hearts are breaking for the poor child.  He will get gifts.

There is a swingset being secretly stored in a friends backyard with his name (and Eli’s) all over it.

In the book The Secret Life of Bees there is a character named May who I can identify with in small part.  She had a problem of taking ownership of others problems.  Any time May heard about tragic events in the world she would launch into deep dispair. 

May’s coping mechanism was a stone wall she built.  She would write down the stories she heard on slips of paper, deposit them into the stone wall, and weep until she could let go of her grief.

Recently I have heard sad stories from the lives of people around me. I have felt anguish and sorrow on their behalf.  I told Richard I needed a wall like May’s.  A place to let go of all the problems I observe that I am not capable of solving. 

But he pointed out that it didn’t really work for May. 

I have quoted it before and will likely quote it again, because the Serenity Prayer is my default wisdom for times like this.

“GOD, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference…

Taking, as He did, this…world as it is, not as I would have it…”

Person 4 made an art project out of the return envelope on our census questionnaire.  It ought to give the government some insight into the occupants residing at this address.  When Person 1 showed it to me I responded:

“They will understand once they open it and review the enclosed data.”

**I think instead of coming up with clever names or using just the first letter of the names of my family members for privacy, I’ll just refer to them as Persons 1-5, after the manner of the census commission, in ascending age order.  Much simpler.

I have become so accustomed to people thinking I look too young to have children that I was speechless the other night at the grocery store when a man assumed otherwise.  As I made my way toward the eggs and milk he said to me “This must be a nice break for you!”  Since I had none of my three children with me I was utterly bewildered as to how he would know that.  Maybe it was the items in my cart, but most likely it was the leisurely pace at which I perused the aisles truly relishing my time alone. I responded “It is!” with a smile and he gave me a pleasant smile in return before continuing down the aisle. 

He was so nice.

Contrast that with my experience at Hobby Lobby yesterday when I had all three children with me.  Ironically I was feeling quite good about how well the kids had behaved in the store and we were just about to pay. Eli got distracted looking at something and fell behind while I went with Cameron to supervise his treat selection.  A woman approached Eli and asked, in a voice resembling the wicked witch of the west “Little boy, where is your mother?!”  I stepped into view and calmly stated “I am right here. Come on Eli.” He walked toward me and showed me the item in hand. I asked “Where did you get that?” (So we could return it to its proper place.)  And the cranky woman with cold eyes of steel snapped at me “What would you care!” She then stomped away and out of the store leaving me, once again, utterly bewildered.

She was not so nice. 

I hope I am the kind of person who can bewilder people with kindness rather than cruel judgement. 

**Side note:  If you remember my post about the late twenties you might find it humorous to know that when I made another delivery to D.I. yesterday the guys on the collection dock were listening to none other than Beyonce.  And let me put it this way, it wasn’t the “sharp looking young man” that had been there before.

I’m feeling a little insecure that I can’t blog today about some cute things I did for St. Patrick’s day for my family.  Something festive like green pancakes or corned beef and cabbage for dinner.  I’m just not that kind of a mom yet.  Someday. 
So all I have are three thoughts that had nestled into my head as it hit the pillow last night.

1.  I feel healthy when I eat bread with sunflower seeds in it.  Something about that nutty crunch convinces me I am doing my body a favor.  I have been looking for a quality wheat bread for awhile and I think I found it in the bakery at our local Paul’s.   It is cooked right there in the store and BONUS: it has sunflower seeds.

2.  I generally use pens for all my writing needs.  Which, it just so happens in this technological world are very few.  In fact, I found a few weeks ago as I finally got around to writing thank you gifts for Miriam’s baby shower, that my writing skills have greatly declined and I made many mistakes.  Nevertheless, last night I grabbed a mechanical pencil to scratch out my grocery list and I was delightfully reminded of my love for mechanical pencils.  Something about the way the lead makes a nice little angle causes my handwriting to drastically improve.  Note to the Easter Bunny: How about some mechanical pencils in my basket this year?

3.  I love the smell of cilantro.  At the grocery store last night the herbs weren’t labeled so I took my best guess as to which was cilantro.  One giant olfactory inhale and my estimate was confirmed.  I may have stuck my nose in that plastic bag several more times before it came to rest in the refrigerator.  Mmm cilantro.

Some things seem to be just a part of a child’s nature.  Olives on fingers.  Doesn’t need to be taught.  Earth’s magnetic force just draws them there. 

I am avoiding organized sports for my children as long as possible.  I am not ready to make the time committment.  But since I want Cameron to be involved in “extra-curricular” activities of some sort I thought for awhile about what he might enjoy that wouldn’t involve weeknight practices and Saturday games. 

Cameron loves to run.  Perhaps I am one of those delusional parents who has convinced myself that my child loves something just because I want him to.  Nevertheless I am convinced he loves to run.  When I was pregnant I would go walking with a friend and would allow Cameron the choice between riding his bike or jogging along (to keep up with us). He most often chose the jogging.  When he was three we went on what was supposed to be a three mile hike that, due to poor map reading on my part, was closer to five miles.  He had rests but walked or ran most of the way. 

So a few weeks ago I signed him up for a children’s one mile fun run.  I told him about his “race” and each day he asked how many days until the race.  We did a few practice runs here and there but nothing close to a mile.  I warned him it would be long but he was up for it.   Our only hesitation was that he had his heart set on winning.  We worried that when he saw all the older kids take off ahead of him he would give up.

Saturday was the race and we woke up to snow on the ground and gusty winds.  His excitement did not wane.   Neither Richard or I were dressed to run with him (I didn’t know that was an option) so he ran with some friends from our ward.   As soon as the gunshot sounded he took off with a look of pure determination.  He wasn’t the youngest there, but pretty close to the smallest. 

Our friend told us he ran the entire time.  When the finish line was in view he broke into a sprint.  It was so great.   I told Cameron that after the race we could go out for a treat and he requested a milkshake. So my parents came along and bought him a giant milkshake. (Others of us were more in the mood for something a little warmer…)

When his Uncle James heard about the race he promised to come with a big sign for Cameron.

One of life’s complexities is knowing the appropriate level of reaction to any given event in my life. I find that I often overreact to events in my life. But I can also think of examples where my reaction is not sufficient enough to initiate change or remorse.

Few things are more frustrating than when someone calls you out on your reaction. When they accuse you of being too upset or not caring enough.

But how does one decide what is the proper response? We are told that we have control of our responses, but is that the same as having control of our feelings? Can we really stop sadness/frustration/guilt from coming? Do we want to?

There were three difficult events in my day today. All three were totally unrelated and probably did not justify the same reaction. Yet, after each I found myself equally upset. I said good-bye to a good friend. I flaked out and neglected to provide something important for someone I had stewardship over. I acted selfishly as a mother and in doing so unintentionally caused my baby daughter great discomfort.

By the end of the day I was emotionally spent, and sufficiently humbled. I found myself wondering if perhaps I was feeling a bit too sorry for myself.

But now, with some objectivity I can look back on all three events and I can clearly see the hand of the Lord in my life. I also see the tender mercies I am so undeserving of, but so appreciative of.

And how can I not smile when I look at a face such as this?