Choosing Me

Every year, about this time, I ache for what I haven't accomplished.  I ache that I haven't written nearly as much as I wanted to.  That I haven't blogged, posted or set the time aside.

The reality is, it takes a while to write.  Especially to write well.  (You know, with good grammar and all that.)  For me, it's also emotionally draining.  The writing that means most to me is most often visceral. It comes from a place of absolute reality.  Not trying to gloss things over or not worry someone.  It just is.

Then, when what I write touches someone.  Oh!  That is the best thing that can happen.  But most often it comes from those raw, painful posts--the ones that really matter.

My next regret is that I have so, so much that I want to do.  My vision of what I want to accomplish is enormous.  So enormous, that I'm often afraid to begin.  Because, you see, I might fail.  So I fritter my time on Facebook or reading news articles.  It's not bad stuff, the way I waste my time.  But it's just enough to fill an hour here and 30 minutes there so that I can't research graduate schools I'm interested in.  Or work on trying for scholarships.  Or, writing a blog post.  It's just enough time that I can't accomplish anything.

Sometimes I think, "Oh the PTA or my calling or the kids' schedules are getting in the way. Perhaps if I did less..."  But that's not really it.  I have time that I lose.

The other day a friend asked, "Are you choosing you?"

Photo credit: Queen of Your Own Life.com

That question has been haunting me.  It's the question I ask when I don't eat the salad I really want because it will take too much time to put together.  It's the question I ask when I want to read a book or research a topic.  The reality is, I could choose me.  I could choose to go after the degree, to write every day, to eat the salad, to study my scriptures with the depth I really want, to go to the temple.  I could choose me.

My biggest worry is that I know that choosing me will sometimes inconvenience others.  That Wendell might have to come home from work early, that the kids will have to help around the house without being reminded, that I won't always be home when they're home.  Or that I'm home, but I'll be doing a class or writing or something...

And that might produce guilt.  And if that happens, then I *should* stop choosing me, and stop doing what I love and fail myself so that no one else at anytime felt failed by me.  And yet, that would be a failing too.  Because if I don't choose me, then my boys won't expect their wives to choose themselves and my girls won't have an example of choosing themselves--of having their hopes and dreams and desires matter.

Just today I read a quote on Kat Lee's blog where she's quoting John Maxwell. She writes, "As Mr. Maxwell says in the book, 'Our ceiling is our children’s ground floor.' I want to push my personal growth as far as I can so that my children have the best start possible."

So how do I choose me?  And how can I not choose me?

Nathan's Laser Eye Procedure Part I

On Friday August 29th, I headed to the junior high to check Nathan out of school.  I had a bag with a black morphsuit, which had been last year's Halloween costume.  Unfortunately, Nate hadn't been able to put his hands on the mask--a casualty of Halloween being some 10 months ago.  So my bag-o-tricks also included Wendell's wide-brimmed trek hat.

I picked Nate up, a bit anxious about how long it took to get him down from class, and we headed to the eye doctor's office.  This appointment had been more than 6 months in coming.  In January we had received the news that the oral meds that were working on the girls really, truly weren't working on Nathan. 

In March, we did an injection in Nate's right eye, but it was as unsuccessful as Emma's had been. And so began an uncomfortable waiting game.  Fortunately, the retinal specialist's office was dogged about getting the PDT approved and one day in early August I got the letter that said that Nathan had been approved for the expensive medication necessary to make the PDT laser work.

Now the day had arrived.  We'd covered our basement windows in black plastic, pulled all the drapes, lowered all the blinds.  See, this medication--I think it's called Visodine--would make Nathan incredibly light sensitive.  Administered by IV, this medication would allow the cold laser--something that you can't feel--to zap and kill offending cells at the back of Nate's eye.  Hopefully, this would drive fluid out of his eye and restore vision.  But you have to use the medication very quickly.  We would have a mere 20 minutes from when the meds were in Nate's system until the laser procedure would have to be complete.

However, the side effect of the medication is that it makes the body incredibly light sensitive and can cause the skin to blister if you're out in the sun in the next 72 hours.  Thus the morphsuit, the hat, the black plastic and drawn drapes.

Motherhood

I have two sisters and the span between the three of us is less than five years.  So when I was approaching motherhood, I didn't have some of the advantages that friends from larger families had of helping feed and change diapers of younger siblings.

I remember through my pregnancy with Emma day dreaming what it would be like when she arrived: dressing her in cute clothes, holding her while she slept, snuggling. It was going to be awesome.

When she finally arrived some 8 days past her due date, I was so delighted.  But things didn't really turn out how I pictured them.  It was easy for the yellow, liquidy, newborn poop to leak out her diaper and ruin the cute outfits.  Even after thorough burping, she would spit up later, ruining her clothes.  And after the first few weeks, she never slept.  She cat-napped throughout the day in 30 minute increments and even slept fitfully at night until I learned that it was critical to keep her warm during the wee hours.

Nursing, which I had thought would be both easy and intuitive was not and I developed a fierce case of mastitis that I thought would never end.

One day shopping while I was at the grocery store an old woman peeked in my carseat to admire Emma.  "Isn't this wonderful?" she asked me.

"This," I said, pointing to Emma, "is a lot of work."

"Oh, yes!" she agreed sagely. "But isn't it wonderful?"

In the trenches of motherhood, so shocked by what was actual, I had not stopped to think of whether or not it was wonderful.  I supposed it was.  I vaguely remember agreeing with the old woman.

Motherhood is a divine calling, a special responsibility God gives us as He entrusts us with His children.  In saying so, it is also critical to honor the bone-wearying work that motherhood is.  With my youngest now six and the challenging new-baby and chasing-toddler stages behind me, I can agree whole heartedly with the old woman--it is wonderful.  So wonderful! But I haven't forgotten that it's also darn hard.