Thank you, Mr. Lightyear...

To say Bronson is obsessed with Buzz Lightyear might be an understatement.

If he didn't have a mother, he would watch Toy Story 1, 2 & 3 on a repetitive loop.

All.

Day.

Long.

But Buzz is special...

Maybe because they've both been to "Infinity and Beyond",

I dunno.

He was, hands-down, B's favorite birthday gift.

He's his bedtime buddy. His playtime pal.

~

~

And no one.

I repeat

NO one

messes

with

Buzz.

~

~

Well, in all the loving,

Buzz's back panel has popped off.

It is somewhere in the Play Loft and is yet to be found and replaced.

Which leaves him with a bum wing that occasionally swivels loose and ends up dangling.

~

~

Well...

This is unacceptable.

In. Every. Way.

Bronson becomes hysterical.

Nearly unconsolable.

He cries so hard sometimes he has actually passed out.

Literally.

Needless to say, we try to fix Buzz quickly.

~

Well, this morning on my morning rounds,

Buzz was having... issues.

And our poor Little B was not a happy guy.

He did not sleep well last night, so he was a bit... unreasonable.

Quite so, actually.

~

But I handled it well, if I do say so myself.

Patiently, I took Buzz and quickly fixed the wing.

Easily popping it back into place.

Each time quietly showing Bronson how to do it himself.

Quietly reminding him to play a bit more gently.

To be a bit more careful.

And each time I hugged and kissed and rocked that sad, sad little boy back to happy.

Reminding him to breathe.

Stroking his head and cheek,

and eventually patting him gently on the bottom and sending him back off to play.

~

This went on for an hour.

I fixed Buzz a couple dozen times.

But each time Bronson broke him,

he was equally as hysterical.

Equally as quick to run him straight over, right to me.

And equally anxious for me to fix him.

I seriously began to consider just replacing him!

If Bronson hadn't eventually worn himself out in this process,

I might have actually given in...

~

~

The wiser "big-picture" side of me

had to talk the "helicopter-mom" side of me

out of running straight to Toys-R-Us for a new Buzz.

Several times.

At that point, it seemed a reasonable, if not necessary solution.

But Bronson finally curled up on his beloved Puppy Pillow and drifted off to sleep,

broken Buzz and all.

~

~

{Sigh}

~

And then the lesson sunk in.

How many times have I done this?

Made the same choice, over and over expecting a different result?

Hoping I could haphazardly use the same carelessness

and not experience the same heartache?

And how many times have I run, broken wing dangling,

right to my Father in Heaven,

begging...

desperate for Him to fix it...

yet again?

Wondering if He could?

If He would?

~

And yet always His constant, loving reply.

Reassurance.

Consolation.

Unconditional patience.

Understanding.

Peace for my troubling soul.

He straightens the wing...

Then straightens the girl...

Then sends me back out on my way.

~

Oh, Buzz...

Dear sweet, Buzz...

~

~

Thanks for the lesson today.

What more do you have to teach me?

Sparkling afternoon...

A very fine mist of snow has been gently falling since the wee hours this morning

and has continued silently into this afternoon.

It's so fine that you'd hardly even notice it

if it weren't for your windshield needing an occasional swipe.

~

~

It helped when the sun started to peek through a few hours ago,

because now it sparkles as it cascades down from Heaven.

~

~

And everything previously gray and dingy

has suddenly been covered with a fresh, sparkly clean coat.

~

~

You gotta hand this one to Mother Nature...

The effect is quite stunning, I must say.

~

~

(The pictures don't do it justice at all.)

~

Well, a little bit ago,

as we backed out of the garage on our way out for a couple errands,

Dayne looked out the window and gasped, "Oh, my!"

I chuckled because it sounded so funny and so old-fashioned...

not one of his normal expressions...

"What?", I asked.

"The sky is glittering!", he said.

"Ha!", I laughed out loud.

It really did look exactly like glitter!

~

I looked back at him,

awestruck,

watching intently out the window as we pulled down the street

~

~

and smiled to myself,

so thankful for this little boy...

his enthusiasm,

his happy, pleasant, optismistic nature

and his utter and absolute zest for life and all things in it.

~

Just then he whispered,

"And it is so bea-U-tee-full, Mom!"

~

Yes, Daynen... It is beautiful.

LIFE is beautiful!

And I am so blessed to see it through your eyes!

A Tower of Cups and a Wheat Field...

So we blend a lot of smoothies here at our house...
Several per day, usually.
We put them in clear plastic cups so they are easy to take when we are on the go.
Which is often.
But in an effort to be conservative

(and since they melt in the dishwasher),
we wash and rinse the cups out,
then place them in the windowsill to dry
so that we can reuse them.
There are usually one... or two... in the corner of our windowsill.
But since we've had houseguests this week, we've made quite a few extra smoothies.
Even more than normal.
So we've had this little pyramid going...
.
.
Well, this morning, after breakfast,
I lifted Daynen up to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.
He looked at them and said, "Cool! Are doze Jesus cups?"
I wasn't sure I understood what he meant...
My mind was puzzling over whether he meant,

Mmm... like really big sacrament cups, er what?
So I said, "What kind of cups?"
He repeated, "Jesus cups! Let's do the trick!"
Still confused, I said, "What trick? Show me."
He reached for the center cup on the bottom row and pulled it out,
explaining, "Like when Jesus dies and dey awe come tumb-wing down
and da choo-wuch cah-w-ashes."
(Toddlerese to English Translation: ... and they all come tumbling down and the church crashes.")
.
OH!

Ha!
Right!
I couldn't help but smile as I caught on and realized what he was saying.
I guess he really WAS listening at Family Home Evening last week
when we had our lesson about The Great Apostasy...
We labeled some of those same plastic cups and then stacked them,
creating a tower to represent the Church as it was when Jesus Christ was here upon the earth.
Then we pulled out the bottom cup (representing Christ as the foundation of the Church)
and talked about how it all fell apart after his death and the martyrdom of the apostles.
We showed the boys how many of the same principles and ordinances of the gospel remained,
but explained that some were lost, distorted, misinterpreted or even forgotten.

We told them how these scattered pieces were used to build other doctrines

throughout the ages, but remained incomplete until The Restoration.
The big boys seemed to understand the object lesson,
but of course the little ones were way more interested in just building and crashing towers.
The rest went right past them.

Or so I thought...
So imagine my surprise when my sweet, barely-3 year old replays the message to me.
All on his own!
Almost a whole week later!
It was one of those far-too-few-and-far-between "Parent Pay-offs".

You know...
When you realize something you thought went right over their heads,
actually stuck.
Even just a little!
...Guess we'll keep at it!
.
It also reminded me of a particularly touching talk from last fall's General Conference...
Reaffirmed to me the total and absolute truth of it.
Like many other moms, I sometimes struggle with feeling like I just try SOOO hard...
And for what?
The job often feels overwhelming and fruitless.
Trying to get everyone to cooperate and do the right thing
seems like a lot of hard work
and often even ends up feeling counter-productive.

Sometimes I feel like I. Just. CAN'T. Do. It.

.
So Elder Bednar's talk pierced me to the core
and warmed my very soul with a rekindled commitment for consistency.
Despite the sometimes discouraging individual instances.

.
I remember sitting in my car in the Costco parking lot.

Too paralyzed to get out and go inside

as I listened to his words stream in over the radio.

I could not move.
Feeling so filled that my emotions were spilling over.
Streaming silently down my cheeks.
I heard... really HEARD... his words.
Spoken as if straight to me.
It felt as if the teardrops spotting the bosom of my t-shirt
were imbedding them indellibly upon my heart.
.
So as a reminder to myself,
and to share with anyone reading, who may also benefit,
here is the part that I just loved:
"As our sons were growing up, our family did what you have done and what you now do.
We had regular family prayer, scripture study, and family home evening.
Now, I am sure what I am about to describe has never occurred in your home, but it did in ours.
.
Sometimes Sister Bednar and I wondered
if our efforts to do these spiritually essential things were worthwhile.
Now and then verses of scripture were read amid outbursts
such as “He’s touching me!”
“Make him stop looking at me!”
“Mom, he’s breathing my air!”
Sincere prayers occasionally were interrupted with giggling and poking.
And with active, rambunctious boys,
family home evening lessons did not always produce high levels of edification.

.

{Uh... ya think? This sounds oddly familiar...}

.
At times Sister Bednar and I were exasperated
because the righteous habits we worked so hard to foster
did not seem to yield immediately the spiritual results we wanted and expected.
.
Today if you could ask our adult sons what they remember
about family prayer, scripture study, and family home evening,
I believe I know how they would answer.
They likely would not identify a particular prayer
or a specific instance of scripture study
or an especially meaningful family home evening lesson
as the defining moment in their spiritual development.
What they would say they remember is that as a family we were consistent.
.
Sister Bednar and I thought helping our sons understand the content
of a particular lesson or a specific scripture was the ultimate outcome.
But such a result does not occur each time we study or pray or learn together.
The consistency of our intent and work was perhaps the greatest lesson—
a lesson we did not fully appreciate at the time.
.
In my office is a beautiful painting of a wheat field.
The painting is a vast collection of individual brushstrokes—
none of which in isolation is very interesting or impressive.
In fact, if you stand close to the canvas, all you can see is a mass
of seemingly unrelated and unattractive streaks of yellow and gold and brown paint.
However, as you gradually move away from the canvas,
all of the individual brushstrokes combine together
and produce a magnificent landscape of a wheat field.
Many ordinary, individual brushstrokes work together
to create a captivating and beautiful painting.
.

.
Each family prayer, each episode of family scripture study,
and each family home evening is a brushstroke on the canvas of our souls.
No one event may appear to be very impressive or memorable.
But just as the yellow and gold and brown strokes of paint complement each other
and produce an impressive masterpiece,
so our consistency in doing seemingly small things
can lead to significant spiritual results.
“Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing,
for ye are laying the foundation of a great work.
And out of small things proceedeth that which is great”
.
Consistency is a key principle as we lay the foundation of a great work in our individual lives and as we become more diligent and concerned in our own homes."
.
That message and that image of the wheat field has stayed with me.
So, here, in this simple stack of plastic cups drying in my kitchen windowsill,
I realized...
Again.
I am painting.
Still painting.
Ever painting.
One. Stroke. At. A. Time.
Painting the portrait of my own ever-growing, testimony
and imprinting it upon the hearts of my children.

Helping them to paint their own.

As artists of their own souls.
One prayer.
One scripture study.
One Family Home Evening.
One heart-to-heart chat.
One teaching moment.
One plastic cup tower. At. A. Time...

.

And THAT...

Well, THAT, I CAN do.

For today.

Alright, already...

Okay... This is it.

Tonight I feel really yucky.

Tired.

Grumpy.

Out of gas.

And sorta...

Blah.

No...

Strike that...

REALLY blah.

Blah... blah... BLAH!

.

I HATE this feeling!

Absolutely HATE it!

And even worse, I know why.

I know EXACTLY why...

.

You see, I usually eat really well.

By most people's standard, I eat VERY well.

I love fruits and veggies.

I eat them at nearly every meal.

I get a good balanced amount of protein and healthy, whole grain carbohydrates.
And I try to eat every 2-3 hours throughout the day.

(Yes... That's 5-6 times per day.)

I LOVE good food...

And I eat a lot!

.

I also drink like a fish.

I start drinking water first thing in the morning at 5:15.

All day long, I drink and drink.

And I'm not talking soda... I despise it.

Water only.

By bedtime, I've usually consumed over 100 ounces.

Sometimes more.

.

And I usually have plenty of energy.

Moreso than I sometimes know what to do with!

You know me!

Me and all my big ideas...

{If only I could buy more time at the health food store!}

.

But this past week, I have been very "off."

No particular reason...

I've just been a bit lazy, I guess.

Slipping up in my usually good habits.

If we are what we eat, then right now, I am the city dump!

.

With Matt gone, I immersed myself in a project and barely slept.

We had visitors staying with us

and I was not diligent with my planned meals and regular mealtimes.

I've hardly drunk any water.

I am thirsty.

My head aches.

Even my lips and skin feel dry.

I know I am dehydrated.

.

So this is MY fault!

I know better!

I know what my body needs.

I'm just not giving it!

.

SO...

As of this moment, I am recommitting to take better care of myself.

Because I can.

Because I should.

Because I am worth it.

.

...And they are worth it!

{Because I know that even when they don't complain,

my boys like me even more when I am feeling good.

And fun.

And like myself.

Instead of like this... yucky... blob.}

.

So no more being lazy and eating crappy for me!

For crying out loud...

I AM NOT A GARBAGE DISPOSAL!

.

.

I do NOT need to finish my children's meals for them!

I can not.

I will not.

It is an awful habit!

...One of my worst.

Just because they decide they are "done" eating while there is still food on their plates

(food I worked hard to prepare for them, mind you ),

does NOT mean I have to consume it to prevent it from going to waste!

I do not have to dispose of it!

At least not into my own mouth!

That's why we have a garbage can.

And a disposal in our sink!

.

I hereby remind myself that I am a big girl.

I have outgrown "kiddie food".

I can not thrive off of the leftover Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich crusts.

Or the last few bites of their Pigs in a Blanket.

I DO deserve to take the time to prepare my OWN real food...

Even if THEY want Mac & Cheese, Little Caesar's or McDonald's

(on the rare occasion that I actually cave in and indulge them).

They are boys.

Little boys.

Growing boys!

With the metabolism of a raging bonfire!

.

I, on the other hand,

am aging...

I can not eat anything and everything, like I once could, and still feel fine.

And I do not have the self-discipline to deprive myself.

Or the cardio-endurance of a Madman, like my sweet-tooth husband.

{I love you, Sweets...}

So instead, I must choose well.

I must choose better.

.

It's sort of like the oxygen mask thing...

As counter-intuitive as it seems, it is how we ensure that we all survive.

And how we all thrive...

In order to take care of others well, we must first take care of ourselves, as well.

.

So for now, that means cracking the proverbial whip a bit, on my eating habits...

I start in the morning!

{I can hardly wait!}

Leftovers...

I realized something when I opened my fridge this afternoon.

This is going to sound strange, so just hang tight and go with me for a sec...

First off, let's make something clear...

I am not much of a cook.

Although substantially improved by earnest effort in recent years,

I am still definitely not much to write home about.

When I do bother, I typically make things that require little or no technical effort.

We eat a lot of fresh stuff that requires no actual cooking.

Salads, veggie trays, fruit plates, etc.

And I usually, purposely, make huge amounts so that we can share

or even just eat it for several days in a row ourselves.

(Lazy... I know.)

So today's revelation came as a bit of a surprise.

As I rummaged the shelves for something to throw together, it hit me...

Profoundly.

.

.

As it turns out,

I do not like Leftovers.

In fact, I think I might even hate them.

Aside from being a pain to store,

nothing ever tastes quite as good as when it is freshly prepared.

It's always a little too soggy.

A little wilted or a tad brown around the edges.

A bit crusty on top.

Or just a little thicker than it should be.

You know how they are.

Leftovers...

Not quite the same, but good enough, we say.

And so much easier!

Convenient.

I serve them to my family all the time!

In fact, sadly, maybe more often than not.

And I don't mean just for dinner, either!

Which brings me to my point...

How often in life am I giving those that matter most, my Leftovers?

These boys, who are my heart and soul,

often get whatever is '"Left-over" of me

whenever I think I am done with the rest of my commitments.

They get the little blob of energy that's left of me, after running around all day.

A cold slab of minimal effort, because I just want to be done already.

The crumbs that are left of my patience.

(Well, any that haven't already crumbled from dealing with other people's children.)

And if they are really lucky,

I might even top it off with the tiny little dollup of fun that I might actually have left.

But more often than they deserve,

they get the frantic, task-oriented Drill-Sargent Mom who is running short on time.

Or the exhausted, Do-It-Yourself Mom who is ready to collapse.

Even, occasionally, the grumpy, short-tempered, ornery Mom who is at my wits' end.

They get a signature on their homework slip for reading a story to me

while I made a mental grocery shopping list.

They get a "Woo-hoo" from me in the kitchen, amid the dinner preparations

when they play perfectly through their piano piece, all the way over in the Music Room.

They get a smile and an "Mmm, hmmm" when they show me their latest cool Wii maneuver,

Or tell me about the awesome play they ran in the football game at recess that day.

Neither of which, if quizzed, I could describe 30 seconds later.

They get a half-hearted high-five when they tell me their chores are done.

A two minute back tickle at bedtime, so I can rush to a set of photos that need editing.

Or a quick kiss goodnight as I run out the door for a Ladies' Night Out.

How often am I half-listening?

Looking past them?

Talking at them?

Or even in the same room, but far, far away in my thoughts?

All Leftovers...

I am serving them Leftovers.

Spending the majority of myself elsewhere

and then giving the little bit that's left, to them, as if it is enough.

I'm there, always, but am I really there?

I'm going through motherhood's motions, making mental lists.

Always the lists.

Planning ahead to the next thing.

The To Do's that can never be all the way done.

You know them...

The cyclical routines that fill our days.

Well, Matt told me of an incident that was his.

It occurred when I called him from the hospital that wondrous day.

Sobbed into the receiver that I needed him to come.

That Bronson was awake.

He ran to his truck and sped the 45 minute drive, as fast as he could safely get there.

But when he started his engine, there was a CD playing.

It was the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing.

"Glory to God on High."

Fitting...

He sobbed.

The next song that came on was a Men's Chorus

"Rise up, oh men of God,

Be done with lesser things..."

He sobbed harder.

Said it struck him through the core.

He arrived at the hospital, still shaking.

As I think of that now, I realize that this is the time.

The time for me, as well, to be done with lesser things.

The time to focus on what is most important.

Most lasting. Most eternal.

More than ever before.

Not the good things.

Or even the better things.

But the best things.

The very best things.

As you approach the center of a bullseye,

the margin for possible error becomes more and more narrow.

The degree of accuracy necessary becomes more and more pointed.

We are approaching that bullseye, my friends.

At an ever-increasing rate.

I, for one, am consciously re-committing to be done with lesser things.

To stop serving the Leftovers of myself to my family.

But instead to be fresh, ready and more present in the present.

Ready for them with a Feast.

Today I am grateful...

Today I am grateful...
For the little pile of fishy cracker crumbs I get to vacuum from beneath the kitchen High Chair...
For the big, slobbery kisses smeared at the bottom of my full-length Bathroom mirror...
For two stinky little bums to change, and a diaper genie I get to empty...
For onesies to bleach... and wash... and fold... and put away for another day's use...
For bottles and sippy cups to empty from the Dishwasher...
For the pudgey, pounding little Fred-Flinstone-feet that toddle to answer our doorbell...
For the kisses blown abundantly to strangers, and to friends alike...

Sometimes even at me.
I am thankful for the never-ending chaos...
Grateful for the grimey little smudges on my Television screen...
Delighted to re-roll the potty-paper from half way across the room... yet again....
Appreciative of the wild, little maniacs I am able to chase and tickle to hysteria...
Oh, those contagious little giggles...

.

.
How I adore them.
How undeserving, and yet how exultant I am to collect them.
How welcome are those eager little arms, wrapping around their Mommy.

{Sigh}
Oh, how very fortunate am I...