Where Mom is, There the Fun is Also!

By Rachel Rager

The morning dawned bright and cool but promised to warm up toward the afternoon. I unbuckled Layla and Seryn from their car seats and proceeded to herd the children into the house. Having just dropped off Lylli at school, the younger two quickly darted toward her desk to rummage around for treasure.
“Girls, stay out of Lylli’s desk! Why don’t you come in the kitchen and color,” I suggested, hoping that would keep them out of the way while I did last night’s dishes. Crusted food clung to the tower of plates and pans piled precariously in the sink and on the neighboring counter. Before I endeavored to attack that task, I placed coloring books and crayons on the table. The girls raced into the kitchen in a whirl of noise and giggles and climbed up to the table. I prayed they would stay occupied for a good half hour and that I wouldn’t have to clean crayon off the walls later.
To my relief, the girls were engaged in the activity longer than I’d hoped. Not only was I able to get the dishes loaded into the dishwasher and the counter cleared off, I was able to make it into the bathroom unnoticed and start to work on that germ and dirt infested room. However, before I was able to do much, Layla, my three-year-old, hollered from the kitchen.
“Mom! Seryn needs her britches changed! She’s stinky!”
“Ugh,” I groaned. But, rather than see another diaper rash break out on my one-year-old’s bottom, I called, “Come here, Seryn, and Mommy will change your diaper,” in as pleasant of voice as I could muster.
Seryn came running through the house to me, as fast as her little legs would carry her. I changed her diaper and after seeing her back to the kitchen to color, I returned to my chore of cleaning the bathroom. One of the dirtiest rooms of the house, the bathroom seemed to need cleaning at least twice a week. I grumbled as I worked. With five people in the family, the bathroom never stayed clean, and I didn't seem to get to it nearly as often as I wanted.
One reason the bathroom was so dirty was that the girls had learned to scale the drawers in order to reach the counter, thoroughly frightening their mother. From there, they loved to stand on the counter and search for things within the vanity – preferably my make-up or the toothpaste – or play in the water, claiming to wash their hands and leaving puddles of water all over the bathroom.
“Mommy, I want to help. Can I help clean?” Layla asked, with Seryn trailing right behind her.
“Honey, Mommy just wants to get this done. Why don’t you girls go find some books to read?”
“I don’t want to read. Can we play outside?”
“Not right now. I want to be able to watch you. Maybe you could play when I go out to weed later.”
“Can we play with the play dough? We’ll stay in the kitchen.”
“Mommy’s cleaning today. Could you go straighten your room? That would be a big help. Do you want to help Mommy by cleaning your room?”
“Sure!” she squealed and darted off to clean her room.
If they actually managed to get their room clean, that would be a huge help and one less thing for me to worry about. If not, perhaps they would at least stay busy for a while. I would much rather be out enjoying the sun at the park instead of working inside. Cleaning is invigorating, but I wished I could go outside and enjoy the warmth of the day. Oh well, I sighed and quickly set about finishing the bathroom.
When I was done, I trudged down the stairs, already weary from a busy morning. Undoubtedly the sheets would be dry and ready to be put on the beds. I opened the dryer and retrieved the sheets. They were so warm! The smell of fabric softener permeated the air as I buried my face in them. I loved the smell of freshly laundered sheets, so warm and inviting, I wanted nothing more than to wrap them around myself and cuddle up with a good book. But I still had bills to pay and weeds to pull on this fine spring morning. So, ignoring my impulses, I quickly headed up the stairs to make the beds.
The girls had become distracted in their cleaning adventure and now raced little Tonka trucks across the hardwood floors in the living room. I tried to walk around them without stepping on one of the toys as I made my way to their room. All three girls shared a room and I quickly put sheets on the crib first. I then began with the mattress of the bottom bunk bed and finished it off with the quilt.
As I moved to the top bunk, my little sweethearts came barreling into the room. Trying to finish quickly in an effort to get the bills paid before the mailman arrived, I vaguely registered that Layla and Seryn had climbed onto the freshly made bed and were playing around – undoubtedly rumpling the neatly tucked-in sheets.
After a brief moment, Layla said, “Mom, can you please leave so we can jump on the bed?”
What a day it had been. I’d been so busy doing my chores I don’t think I’d smiled all day long. Now, of course, I wanted to laugh! Why on earth would a child ask her mother to leave the room and then admit the crime she was about to commit? Knowing if I laughed, the teaching moment would be for naught, I swallowed my amusement. Sitting down on the bed of the bottom bunk by my daughter’s side, there was enough room for me to sit up straight. There would probably be ample room for her little body to jump, if she hunched over. Still, I could not allow it.
“Honey, you can’t be jumping on the bed. You might fall and get hurt and that would make Mommy very sad.”
“Could I break my leg?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said with a confident look in her eye.
“Layla, we don’t jump on the bed.”
“But it's just pretend. See? Watch!” She bent her little legs for maximum power and leaped across the bed as Seryn giggled and started to bounce with her. “That's not a real jump, Mom.”
A giggle burst from deep within me as I began to laugh. Of course it was a jump! But in her mind, since it wasn’t high, the jump hardly constituted breaking the rules. Rather than scold further, I gathered my giggling girls in my arms with a big hug and laughed, enjoying the togetherness of mother and daughters. For a brief moment, my heart swelled and I remembered – amidst the demands of my day – the reason I am so grateful to be a mother. Nothing matches the tender, precious moments of enjoying my children.

The Phone Call

The phone rang the other morning with the obnoxious ring that all phones have. Racing to answer it before the person hung up, I answered, slightly out of breath.
“Rachel? I just wanted to call and give you a heads up that you might need to get a substitute pianist for the choir on Sunday,” Sister Jones said on the other end. She sounded a little frantic. “Sister Baker’s daughter is on her way to the children’s hospital in Salt Lake and doesn’t know when they’ll be back.”
“Oh, no! What happened?”
“Emma fell off their horse a while back and they thought she just had the flu. But apparently she has some major internal problems with her organs and they took her to Salt Lake this morning.”
Now, I’m the choir director in my ward and we’re singing today. Fortunately the second councilor in the bishopric’s wife said she’d play and does a masterful job. But honestly, my first thought was not for my choir or the predicament I was in but for the Baker family.
The Bakers don’t have very much money and they have eight children. Sister Baker just had a bout of cancer and one of the boys has had cancer too. So this is not a family unaccustomed to trials. Still, my heart went out to poor little Emma who is not yet even four! I can only imagine how scared she must be – and her parents too.
About two weeks before this, my husband and I were getting ready for bed late on night when we heard the piercing sirens of an ambulance as it stopped across the street from our home. Knowing the 83 year-old grandmother who lived there had a severe heart attack the month before and had problems with fluid collecting on her lungs, we rushed out to see what was wrong. The medics wheeled her out on a stretcher and her sister and her worried children filed into the street. We feared the worst but her daughter said she would probably be okay. She wasn’t eating and had more fluid on her lungs. In fact, over the course of the last month, they have pumped about 48 pints of fluid from off her lungs. But she has signed the papers saying they aren’t allowed to do anything more to her to keep her alive. So it’s only a matter of time. And while the medics and firemen arrived and then helped her into the ambulance, we sat across the street, helplessly watching as they carried away the sweet lady who has been like a grandmother to us.
Now, I don’t tell you these stories to put you down, but I have been thinking a lot about the precariousness of life. It is so easy to take our health and family for granted. I wonder what I might miss if someone special were to suddenly not be here tomorrow. Would they have felt my love for them? Would they have understood the importance they were in my life? And would I always regret not doing things differently? It is amazing how little things can put my mind into certain thoughts. I hope these things make me a better person! And I hope we all will strive to let those closest to us know of our love for them!

I Write to Life

by Rebecca Talley

I was once asked by an interviewer if I listened to music while I write. The answer is: not on purpose. Does that mean I write only when there's silence? Ha. Far from it.

I write to Sesame Street, Dora The Explorer, nursery rhymes, Rascal Flatts, Tae Bo, radio stations, countless kid videos, bickering kids, and teenage drama. The truth is, my house is never quiet--not even in the middle of the night. Between kids who talk in their sleep and yelping coyotes outside my window, there always seems to be commotion.

I've had to learn to focus. In fact, sometimes I focus so well when I'm in the groove of a story, that my kids stand at my computer and chant my name until I look up. I suppose that's a bad thing, yet in my house, it's been a coping mechanism to get things done. I'd never complete a YW lesson, read my scriptures, balance my checkbook, pay bills, clean my house, fold laundry, cook, or do family history if my family's organized chaos constantly distracted me.

I've also developed a keen ability to pick up on that which truly needs my attention. Even if I'm in the "zone" while writing, I can hear a child crying, respond to an important request, or take care of an immediate need. I can even answer the telephone. I think all of us who write with children still at home have this innate ability. I call it a mom writer's 6th sense: the ability to discern between immediate needs and that which can wait until after a chapter is finished.

Since I have such a large family that always seems to be in motion, I've learned that if I want to write, I have to make it all work. I've honed my focus skills and I've learned to use time in the shower, time driving my kids to appointments and extracurricular activities, and time waiting at the dentist or doctor to think through my story so that when I do have a minute at the computer, I can use it effectively.

I also write snippets of stories on the backs of deposit slips, post it notes, and grocery lists. Whatever works.

So, no, I don't write to music, I write to life.