Mothering During the Swing Shift--

Today I felt VERY good about an article that was published in The Church News on February 7th, 2009. It was a synopsis of a visit that Julie Beck, the General Relief Society President, recently made to California.

"Sister Beck said that she learned how to prioritize her time as a wife and mother while observing her father-in-law, a steel worker who at various times in his career worked the day, evening or night shift. She said she realized she (as a mother and wife) was working all three shifts simultaneously, and she had to prioritize the demands on her so she could provide the service her family most needed.

'The most valuable time of the day for a family,' Sister Beck said, 'is in the afternoon/evening shift.'

'Be at the top of your game on swing shift,' she said. 'People are hungry, people are teachable. You feed them; that's when you serve them the most. Plan for swing shift, and then work the rest of your day around that."

Isn't that nicely said? I love Sister Beck for putting it all into words for me.

Because I need to mother most intently during the swing shift, and because I want to "be at the top of (my) game" during those hours, I can use the middle of the day as preparation time. Doing so allows the afternoon and evening to be quality, undistracted time when the family is together.I understand what she is saying-- for several years now I have resisted being busy during the day hours. It seemed like I needed that time to do laundry, grocery shop, exercise, clean the house, and do other housekeeping so that I was ready to focus on the kids when they started coming home from school.

One way that I do that is by having a quiet time with Holden on most afternoons. We rest on my bed-- him with is garbage truck movie and I nap for a time. It makes such a difference in my energy level. I try not to feel guilty about it because it is so refreshing, but I often have to remind myself that I have short nights and get up at 5:30 am. I think that I earn my sluggish afternoon feeling.

Also, I've noticed, through error, that it doesn't work to have a solitary project I'm in the middle of during the afternoon and evenings either. Supervising and interacting means milling around with the kids and their friends, and taxi-ing for those hours. I save jobs for that time, like putting the garbage out, cleaning the kitchen, dinner preparation or weeding in the yard, so that I am working amongst the kids' play.

Anymore, I feel like I need to make the mornings and mid days less chaotic so that I can run the race when the kids get home. This line of thinking from Sister Beck makes me feel OK about that way of "planning" my days-- we just can't be going wild all the time and still have the energy we need to use the "swing shift" effectively.

But, like everything, it is always a balancing act-- I sure don't want to be poor steward of my day hours either.

Beautiful Women

My sick-bed entertainment was nineteen episodes, of "Christy", a TV series from the 90's based on the book by Catharine Marshall. It is one of those pioneer dress classics that I like so much.

I can't recommend it though because I watched 907 minutes with the idea that Christy would eventually marry that hunky preacher. What a disappointing end to have Christy standing in the field still trying to decide who she wanted, then..... the series was canceled. ugh.

But, I did tap down a note that I thought profound. The quote was said by the preacher's sister who was a strong, but quiet old-maid. She was speaking to a teenager girl who was wishing that she was as pretty and popular as the school teacher, Christy, was.

"I wish I was little, and pretty, and smelled good like a flower..."

And the response:

"We are led to believe that a woman should look a certain way. A woman can be pretty like a mountain, or a tree, or a river. She doesn't have to be a flower. And there are other important things in life like virtue, righteousness and service."

So, that is the gem from "Christy"-- beauty doesn't have to be dainty. It can be big and strong like mountains and rivers. I love that.

He Remembers

He'd die of embarrassment if he knew I was posting this, but it was such an incredibly meaningful exchange to me that I can't resist...

Ryan called me from the other room Sunday evening and told me to "hurry" to the computer.

"Look what I made. Do you remember?"

He had followed Trenton onto www.friend.lds.org and was coloring his very own sixteen-year-old version of the Mount Timpanogus Temple.

"Do you remember when we used to drive to Jazz Band in the mornings and the temple looked pink like this?"

I do. I do remember. And, I felt so grateful that he remembered, too.

First, I have talked of it often, but still can't get over the feeling of privilege at having had this gorgeous House of the Lord 500 yards from our front door. Even for just that short ten months, I can't even express how that proximity influenced my living. It made everything about life seem sacred: playing with the kids on the green space, sitting at soccer games, driving home in the dark with it's light as a beacon, and these early morning drives with Ryan.

Sacred is how living, and caring for a family should feel, and that temple brought those feelings to me in a way I haven't forgotten.

Second, Making the Jazz Band was the tender mercy of Ryan's Utah year at Mountain Ridge Junior High. After displacing him from a very secure Texas at twelve years old, a kind band director was willing to slurp him up and give him opportunities that gave him a place to fit in. Allowing him to be in early morning Jazz Band was such a kindness and transporting him there was an effort I wanted to make for him.

Even with that desire, that daily drive at seven am was a sacrifice. I was three, then four, then nine months pregnant, and then one, and two months post-partum during that school year. I felt terrible. The whole pregnancy I struggled with daily migraines, visual disturbances and extreme nausea. My heart raced faster than 110 bpm at rest and my blood pressure was skyrocketing. Then I had a c-section, divided nights with a newborn, and single parenting as Greg had moved to Arkansas in front of us.

I remember well getting out of bed each morning early, waking Ryan while the house slept on, and the two of us braving the Utah fall, winter (with it's snow and ice), then spring. Those morning drives from American Fork to Highland were so peaceful. It felt like Ryan, and me, and that temple, as it shined on, were the only things awake. Ryan was chatty and happy, and I was so grateful for his friendship. He didn't even seem to notice or mind my big, huge, Holden tummy, and he didn't seem embarrassed when I would wrap a fleece coat around my pajamas and we would run into Kohler's for fresh Jazz Band donuts.

Even though it was hard for me, it felt so good to be giving something to Ryan that he couldn't give himself. I never talked to him about it, and it really isn't that heroic, but hidden in a little part of my heart was the desire that someday he would understand that day after day, week after week, month after month labor of love.

With this little picture, I now know he remembers the pink, peaceful temple.... and that feels like enough.