Dangerboy's testimony

So I haven't borne my testimony in, well, years. But usually on fast Sunday I think about what I would say were I feeling compelled to get up there. And today I felt as though I could share an experience--so I shared one from lat weekend: when Dangerboy screamed, I wanted to whack him, said a prayer, and received a little bit of strength to forbear and forgive.

But I was alone with Dangerboy in sacrament meeting as PDaniel was out with Cookie-Nut in the hall. So I asked DB if he wanted to talk in the microphone. No hesitation: "Yes."

We were in the back row, almost to the stage in the cultural hall. We walked all the way up, hand in hand, and I helped him up to the mike. Yes, I told him what to say (which I've always been ambivalent about), but I only said things that I knew he was aware of--he just needed to be reminded to say them. And despite the fact that he was talking in front of hundreds of people, he wasn't scared at all, and said just what I told him to, no blowing in the mike or anything. I was proud of him, and he was very proud of himself and gave me lots of kisses.

Here was his testimony:

"I'd like to bear my testimony." (That part was a little unintelligible).

"I love my family."

"I love my Grandmas and Pakas." (I'd said Grandpas, so it tripped him up just a little.)

"I like to say my prayers." (This is finally usually true.)

"I love my friends."

(Mom: "In the name of Jesus Christ...")

DB: "Amen."

Poem (not mine)

I love this poem--the last three lines have really helped me keep going on those days when it's hard to get out of bed and get going.

On Angels (by Czeslaw Milosz)

All was taken away from you: white dresses,
wings, even existence.
Yet I believe you,
messengers.

There, where the world is turned inside out,
a heavy fabric embroidered with stars and beasts,
you stroll, inspecting the trustworthy seams.

Short is your stay here:
now and then at a matinal hour, if the sky is clear,
in a melody repeated by a bird,
or in the smell of apples at close of day
when the light makes the orchards magic.

They say somebody has invented you
but to me this does not sound convincing
for the humans invented themselves as well.

The voice -- no doubt it is a valid proof,
as it can belong only to radiant creatures,
weightless and winged (after all, why not?),
girdled with the lightening.

I have heard that voice many a time when asleep
and, what is strange, I understood more or less
an order or an appeal in an unearthly tongue:

day draws near
another one
do what you can.

Di-zu-ni-ra-n-do

So we spent today at Disneyland, our first day there after a summer of not being able to use our passes. It was fun, but a little too hot. Thank goodness for Disneyland's Baby Centers...there's one at the end of Main Street (on the right, next to First Aid) and one by the Tortilla Factory in California Adventure. I got to sample both today, and they are fabulous!

They're clean and quiet; they've got AC, nice changing tables, comfortable private/semi-private nursing chairs, mini potties, cute wooden high chairs, and microwaves for warming up bottles. And they'll sell you a pacifier, diapers, or formula if you forgot yours. The one in Disneyland even features a table with toys for toddlers, Victorian wallpaper, and nice old grannies in white aprons. Sooooo much better than camping out on a bench in the heat trying to hide under a blanket while your three-year-old tries to escape.

(Now, if only the mother's lounge at church had more in common with these baby centers....)

On a different note, DB had a great time too. He got to ride Autopia for the first time, and STEER HIS OWN CAR, which was huge. He was so wired by the end of the day that he insisted on dancing in the street right up until we could see the first float of the parade coming. We also strong armed him (OK, we bribed him with ice cream) to ride Pirates of the Caribbean, which he had decided six months ago was too scary. He ran off the ride shouting, "I like that one! It's fun! It's not scary for me!" Oh, and we also tried the new Toy Story Midway Madness, which is like being inside a video game...kinda trippy, but fun (DB loved that one too). Cookie-Nut did great, just catnapped all day and stayed pretty happy. That's all. Oh, and I forgot my camera. Now that's all.

Our Lil' Blessings

So last week we headed to P.'s family's house to have Cookie-Nut blessed, surrounded by family; many of P's siblings were in town, and his brother, who will be serving a mission in Washington State, was ordained an elder during the same meeting. It was really nice...we did both blessings after sacrament meeting in a little room witnessed by primarily family, and P's bro and I both got to bear our testimonies (surprise!). Both blessings were lovely, though DB was noisy through the ordination and Cookie-Nut cried through most of the wonderful stuff P. was saying. Oh well, at least she looked cute...my mom's talented friend Joy made the dress. Thanks Joy!

Litany of thanks

Having a baby is certainly a very humbling experience. Here are some of the many things I've been thankful for. (I'm writing them down to remember them; not to gloat, because I've done NOTHING AT ALL to deserve them. That's what's so humbling):

An almost completely uncomplicated pregnancy.

Easy access to healthy food.
Easy access to clean water.
A safe place to live.

An amazing sister in law who took care of DB and I while P. was gone.
An attentive husband who came home in time after all.
A bright, well-appointed hospital room.
My mother at home taking care of Dangerboy--the knowledge that he was safe and happy while I was gone.
A quick labor; no time to get really exhausted.
My almost-epidural.
A safe, sunny-daytime labor and delivery.
A caring, well-trained midwife.
A nursing staff that cared for me without complaining, though they were extremely busy and tired.
A hospital staff that attended to all my most intimate and embarrassing needs without seeming disgusted.
The inexplicably wonderfully cheerful janitor who cleaned my room.
A bed for P. to sleep on.
The four hours of sleep in a row we got that first night.
Health insurance.

A healthy baby.

A husband who is home for the summer, cooking and cleaning and holding his children.
A son who loves his sister madly.
A daughter who sleeps and eats well.
A dad and brother who drove 770 miles to meet their new family member.
A mom who left her family for three weeks to take care of mine.

Friends and family who banded together to provide drawers and drawers of clothing for my new baby.
Ward members who brought in dinners, one who was even a complete stranger to me.
Neighborhood moms who let DB play at their houses, giving us a break.
SoCal weather.
A speedy recovery.

The four of us.

From the mouths of babes...

So Dangerboy has been experiencing some nighttime fears. P. told him that when he gets scared he can pray to help feel better. I don't know whether he's actually done this, but I do know he's trying to apply the principle to other situations. For example, in the car:

DB: Mom, why those birds poop on our car?
Me: (Say something like, because they live in trees, and when our car is under the trees...well, you know)
DB: Maybe Jesus Christ make that bird poop go away.
Me: What do you mean?
DB: Heavenly Father, thank you for this day, that bird poop go away.
Me: Oh, you're praying?
DB: (whispering) Heavenly Father, thank you for this day, that bird poop go away.

We've been reading the illustrated Book of Mormon (the old, comic-booky one) to DB at night. This is trickier than it sounds: at first, we went straight through, but we had to gloss over the gorier stories. Then I noticed he was starting to equate all the shirtless darker-skinned characters as being "bad guys" even when they weren't, which I didn't really like. Now he flatly refuses to look at any story starring Jesus, presumably because they're boring. (I once tried to tell him a bedtime story with a moral, and he dismissed it as "silly" and demanded a different one.) He only wants to look at stories that include "bad guys."

Luckily, I've finally learned that it's less effective to plow through the BOM with a three-year-old. For one whole week (at his request) we read the story of Samuel the Lamanite, which is perfect because it has bad guys who shoot arrows, but nobody gets hurt, there are good guys of all skin colors in the illustrations, AND Samuel gets to climb a wall. DB also learned the word "prophet" from the story, giving rise to this conversation:

DB: (pointing at the fire alarm in his ceiling, which scares him a little) Daddy fix that.
Me: Yeah, he did. Daddy's pretty cool, huh?
DB: Yeah, he's a good guy. Maybe he's the prophet.

(action figure image from http://www.lehi.com/)

Grace

Last weekend I had what I believe was food poisoning. It was truly awful; I was huddled on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket for about four hours. But I knew it would end; I knew that my body, once purged, would begin to heal, and that made it bearable.

This knowledge has come with age and experience, I think. As I child it seemed as though the stomach flu was interminable, and this last bout made me remember an experience I had when I was about twelve or thirteen.

I had been given a ride from my home in Taft, California to Orem to visit my cousin and her family. The people I drove with were members of a large family from the ward. We drove all night, me trying to sleep sitting up while being kicked by the littlest girl, who was curled up on the seat next to me. When they dropped me off, I was sweaty and tired and motion sick, so I took a shower.

The shower in my cousin's house was unique--it had an unlikely, rather large window in it, at eye level. The glass wasn't fogged, but, improbably (for Orem), the window looked out on nothing but a little canyon filled with trees. The bathtub and shower curtain were pure white; and so I enjoyed washing off the travel grease next to an open window, letting in the cool air, looking out on the trees, and feeling perfectly clean.

My cousin and I filled the next day or two with 'tween revelry...shopping, eating pints of Ben and Jerry's, watching movies, eating spaghetti, going to Olive Garden (by ourselves!), eating calamari (the whole baby ones with all their legs....)...eating...

So I ended up sick. Really sick (was it the calamari?). And all the yucky feeling from traveling came back, compounded. Luckily my aunt was an expert in stomach flu and took excellent care of me...I remember a couple treatments helping most of all:

First, the bathtub saved me again. I soaked in a cool bath for hours, until my fever came down and I fell asleep there among all that cool whiteness. Than, when I awoke, I was escorted to my cousin's room, where I was permitted to sequester myself, half-asleep, lying on the floor with a bowl of ice chips, the windows open again and letting in the cool scent of rain. I can't explain the feeling I felt then...clean again, healed, even forgiven. Not unlike a post-baptism kind of feeling, I imagine. My body and my spirit felt well and whole again.

The family I'd traveled with to Utah, meanwhile, could not leave with me, so they were forced to stay an extra day. Making use of their time, they took their car in to get the starter checked. They were told that their ignition was in a dangerous state and could cause a car fire if not fixed right away, particularly before the long journey back to California. If I hadn't become ill we may have had a disastrous return trip.

So we went back the next day...me hailed as a savior of sorts, but mostly feeling wiser, and cleaner, and thankful to have been granted a little healing grace.

(PS, the photo is from rockymountainquilts.com)

To the Presiding Bishopric

Dear sirs,

In light of my son's recent sacrament meeting injury (five stitches), I am writing mostly to request that all pew corners, especially those on the brackets holding hymnbooks, be sanded down and rounded to prevent further accident. Until this time, all women in my ward will bring slitted, multicolored pool noodles to church in order to babyproof the benches which are so frequently the cause of injury.

Also, since our church does not provide nursery services for toddlers during sacrament meeting, I have several suggestions to make the chapels themselves more baby-proof and kid-friendly, thus contributing to the overall silence, and thus atmosphere (if not reverence) of the service:

--Hymnbooks' corners themselves should also be rounded (the old ones get that way, but the new ones need to come so).

--Hymnbooks should also be shut with baby-proof clasps; they should also be board books, able to be written on with erasable marker.

--Wet-wipe dispensers and disposal baskets should be installed on the back of each pew...

--...As should mess-free dispensers of snacks (Pregnant women and hypoglycemics would also benefit from this)

--Better yet, tiny televisions broadcasting Book of Mormon cartoons could be attached to the back of each pew, (similar to JetBlue's seats) but with cord-free headphones

--Take another cue from JetBlue--add about a foot of leg room between each pew so kids can entertain themselves on the floor without whacking their heads.

--Let's just pad the undersides of all the pews too though, just in case.

As for the cultural hall seating:

--CARPET the cultural halls; all of them.

--Provide full coverings for metal folding chairs so that A: they don't become percussion instruments and B: they don't become jungle gyms.

--Even better: provide some sort of sound-proof play area in the back (slides? bouncy house?), with the meeting piped in through speakers.

--Even better: Move the play area to a different location. Then it wouldn't even have to be sound proof.

--Even better: Get people from a different ward to babysit the toddlers on the play area during sacrament meeting. Then the meeting wouldn't even have to be piped in.

I guarantee meetings will be much quieter for parents (and the somewhat grouchy small-child-less) if these helpful suggestions are followed.

Sincerely,

Me.

(Any more ideas, friends?)

Water and Sleep

At ol' Ricks College, in the Collegiate Singers, we once performed an arrangement of Hark I Hear the Harps Eternal, a 19th-century Southern song with a good tempo for rocking a chair, or maybe rowing a boat:

Hark, I hear the harps eternal

Ringing on the farther shore,

As I near those swollen waters

With their deep and solemn roar.

And my soul, though stained with sorrow,

Fading as the light of day,

Passes swiftly o’er those waters,

To the city far away.

Souls have crossed before me, saintly,

To that land of perfect rest;

And I hear them singing faintly

In the mansions of the blest.

Hallelujah, hallelujah,
Hallelujah, praise the lamb!
Hallelujah, hallelujah,
Glory to the great I AM!

The song is about, on one level, crossing over; as in crossing over to the afterlife. I can't relate to that meaning yet, on a personal level, though I suppose I will someday. But I used to hum this tune as I did baptisms for the dead--I like the baptismal image of water, like to think that this song might be sung from the point of view of one waiting for on the other side for the ordinance to be performed for them. More recently, I've come to think of these crossing the waters in the song as crossing over into sleep, and I sing this to DB quite often. Some of these old hymns are so rich--this one touches me on rather a mystical level.

Other waters: my parents came to visit this week, and we went to Laguna Beach on Thursday, to one of our favorite places for tidepools. It was so windy and cold--high wave advisories and all--we didn't think we'd have any fun. But the huge waves had brought in all sorts of beautiful shells and creatures--live clams and barnacles and brittle stars, sea urchins and spiny hermit crabs that played peek-a-boo with Dangerboy, made him belly laugh. I took this tidepool picture of a tiny shell like a cornucopia filled with pieces of tinier shells and sea dust. It was like a tidepool within a tidepool--makes you wonder how far down it goes? (Is it turtles all the way?) (Does anyone know that joke?)

The top picture is The Tetons: Snake River by Ansel Adams. Love the photograph--love the place.

Dana Point and the Temple

Last night P. and I went to the Newport Beach temple, and it's rapidly becoming one of my favorites, mainly because of the beautiful mural in the main endowment room. It's of a California beach; the audience sits with cliffs of warm yellow rock rising to their backs, looking out over a calm sea. The tops of the cliffs curve around to either side, embracing us, and their tops are covered with thick deserty grasses and a few terraced trees. There are pelicans and otters playing on the beach, and to the left, three birds are taking flight towards the sea; to the right, four or five are landing. It is sunrise behind us, and some of the beach and the crevices in the rocks are still in shadow.

Not long before we first visited this temple, P. and I went with Dangerboy to Strands Beach at Dana Point. we walked all the way to the end of the beach where the rocks curved around to the right, where there was nobody but us swimming (and some very focused surfers). While P. watched DB, I waded out into the surf to play in the waves. I soon realized, though, that I didn't know how. I kept trying to stand my ground against them, and kept getting pummelled into the sand (eating it, once, I think). Then I remembered something from my childhood--to have fun in the waves, you have to move with them; when a big wave comes, you have to jump at just the right moment, or else dive right into the heart of it, and you'll be fine. Better than fine; you'll feel the wave roll right over your back, from your head to the soles of your feet. Discovering this skill of taming quite a destructive force of nature, I played in the waves joyfully by myself for a while.

A few times in my life, I've had physical experiences that come close to being spiritual as well, and my Dana Point experience was one of them. At these times I feel clean, alone with a higher power, and enlightened. On a good day, I feel like this in the temple. So the Newport Beach endowment room mural reminds me of this. (It also reminds me of when I was pregnant and P. and I took a road trip to Monterey, etc. Also a rather spiritual experience).

So, Dangerboy: Loves to get into things! I found him hiding under the computer desk digging his finger into my lip gloss. And I left him alone with the sorted (yes, dirty) laundry today and came back to a little white ghost--a garment top looped around his neck, and a garment bottom worn as a flowing hat. Boy, that kid loves laundry.

(The picture is from the Dana Point Chamber of Commerce website.)