Can I have a day?

I want a day.......a day to just do what I WANT to do, not what I should do, or need to do.

It feels like every moment these days is filled with the shoulds and need to's....lesson plans, grocery shopping, shuttling kids, figuring out what the heck to have for dinner and when I'm gonna have time to cook it, fulfilling church callings, and my all time favorites...laundry and cleaning. With a mom who works full time at a job that can't always be left at the office, a dad working hard to stay afloat in a job threatening to be sunk by a bad economy, and three kids who insist on having extracurricular activities 4-5 nights a week, the house is rarely truly clean anymore. When it is we try to motivate everyone to clean as we go to keep it that way, but it never works out that way for long. So moments where I don't feel compelled to do a should or need to task are rare. And I seriously want one.

A day to sew....... the apron I cut out two weeks ago, or the bag that I'm going to make with the beautiful toile nativity fabric remnant I found, or the tote a friend at work asked for. A day to pull out my beads, or photos and scrapbook supplies, and see what inspires me. A day to spend on the computer researching family history and finding lost ancestors. A day to pull out the camera and go outside and experiment with it, taking pictures of whatever sparks my interest. Or a day to just get lost in book. Can I have one? Just one day to do that?

I may have to give myself one or two for Christmas.....Throw out the to do list, or at least "lose it" for a few days, and just do a thing or two, or three or four, that I really want. Ofcourse I've said that before. So here's hoping I find the nerve to really do it this time.......because all those need to's and shoulds will certainly still be there even if I ignore them for a couple days.

Happy Veteran's Day

This picture is from April 15 of this year, at a Tax Day Tea Party that I went to at the state capital with my dad.

I was born a Navy brat. And though I officially remained one for only the first 19 years of my life, I will always be a Navy brat at heart.....and proud of it!! My father served his country for twenty years, including time in Viet Nam. Our family sacrificed so that he could serve. But I learned a love of country that I think is deeper because of that sacrifice.

No one serves in the military because they dream it will make them rich. And no one marries someone in the service because they dream of a life of ease. Military service demands sacrifice, from those enlisted and the people who love them. And to willingly make those sacrifices you have to love your country. I think that is a harder task these days. You have to be willing to lay down your life for principles that are under attack by our own government, and that fewer and fewer citizens seem to understand and truly believe in. Our military personnel and the job they are doing are too often misrepresented in the media, and they are too ill cared for when they get home.......if they get home.

Any man or woman who ever has or ever will put on the uniform of this country, to proudly serve and represent each of us and the flag worn on their sleeve, deserves the utmost respect, support, love and gratitiude that we can possibly give.

I am proud to be the daughter of a veteran.

I am proud to be a ctizen of this country.

And I am forever grateful to the men and women of our armed forces, as well as their families, for the sacrifices they make daily, so that my family can enjoy the freedoms that we do.

Happy Veteran's Day!!! May God bless and protect each of you!!

No more candid camera

I love candid shots of my kids. Some of the best photos I have ever gotten of them are ones that were taken when they didn't know it......When someone managed to catch a priceless expression, or simply beautiful moment.

HOWEVER, I am hereby declaring that NO candid shots of ME are ever allowed again!!! EVER!!!! As I scrolled through another batch of digital photos to be downloaded from the camera tonight, I came across yet ANOTHER horrible picture of myself. My sweet husband seems to have a knack for catching me with my mouth open and some ridiculous expression on my face. And the angles he seems to shoot at make me look terrible. I mean I thought the camera was only supposed to add 10 pounds, not 20 or 30! UGH!! I am starting to understand why my mother always hid whenever a camera was in the room. SOOOOO.......unless I recieve warning that a picture is about to be taken, and am given time to at least TRY to pose in a more flattering manner, HEADS WILL ROLL!!! (Do you hear me Honey!!) I'd like for my grandchildren to have at least a few decent photos of their grandma to look at, so they don't think I was just some large, freakish, slug!

(And NO.....I'm not posting any examples for anyone to look at!!)

Painful Lessons

When I was a Freshman in high school I broke my arm during gymnastics practice. No, not doing some really cool but dangerous stunt, just a simple tumbling pass. (I could go into a long explanation of why it was the wrestling teams fault for the way they put the mats back after their meet, but that's not really important to the story, so I won't...at least not anymore than I just did. :)). Anyway, the doctors couldn't set the bone and I had to have surgery to repair the break. When I woke up from surgery, and all the medication started to wear off, I was in excrutiating pain -- worse than when I broke it. I was sobbing, begging someone to make it stop. My poor father sat by my beside, holding my hand, with this devastated, heartbroken look on his face that let me know he would trade places with me in a heartbeat. (I think he even said it at one point.) That image of my sweet Daddy, hurting because I was hurting, has always stuck with me.

The other night, I got to feel that hurt for myself. The Girly came into our room at 2:30 in the morning, doubled over and crying from a pain in her hip. We laid her on the bed, trying to assess what was happening, asking for specifics on how and where it hurt. She was writhing on the bed, sobbing as the pain would periodically intensify. It didn't take long to determine that one of us had to get her to the hospital. Brian gave her a blessing as I got dressed to go. He tried to carry her downstairs and to the car, but that hurt worse, so we just supported her as best we could as she hobbled, doubled over, to the van. We put her in the back where she could lay down, and I started to the hospital as quick as I could without endangering our lives. She would periodically scream from the backseat, between the sobs that didn't stop. I thought my heart would break. A few times I started to cry, hoping she wouldn't notice since I was driving and it was dark, as I tried to be calm and reassure her that we would be there soon, and it would be okay. When we arrived and checked in they made us sit in the waiting room, her still crying out in pain. All I could do was hold her hand, speak calmly and lovingly to her, and remind her to breath. After about half an hour the pain started to subside to the point that she could bare it more easily, and talk to me again. After a few more hours it was gone. They never did figure out what it was. Just ruled out broken bones or kidney infection and sent us home.

I thought about my dad in that heartwrenching hour or so between when The Girly had come to the bedroom door and when the pain began to subside. About how he wanted to take my place when I was in pain. And about how I would have gladly, and instantly done the same for my daughter. And then I thought about my Heavenly Father and the Savior. How they must hurt as well when they see any of us in pain, physical or otherwise. But how they can take our pain from us. Maybe not always instantly, though I know that has happenend, because pain can help us to grow, and to an extent it is something we must all experience. But they can share it with us, carry some of it for us, carry us, and help us to heal. I think of the Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane. The anguish and suffering he endured, for me, for all of us. How The Father must have anguished as well as He wathched His son endure it. But He watched one child suffer, so that He could save all the rest. I don't know how He did it without hiding His face and covering His ears. But I know He did. And I'm grateful.