On Trying To Be a Grown-Up

A long, long time ago I wrote about some of the misconceptions that I had as a child about what things would be like when I grew up. Topping that list was the erroneous idea that, once I became an adult, I would magically start to make my bed every day. (I don't.) Second only to that was the surety I had that I would wake up early every day, well before the kids were awake, just like my mom always did. (Mmm...nope.)

Making the bed: Meh. I know I probably should, but it isn't something I spend too much time thinking about, particularly because I am not in my room at all during the day to see what a slacker I am. (Side note: Cyndie...have you realized yet that you have "Miss American Pie" in your head?)

Getting up early is another story. I have always thought about how nice it would be to do this. To wake up, and be dressed and functioning before the children come trickling downstairs, sounds divine. To be out of pajamas, showered, with contacts in before jumping into packing lunches, breaking up fights, and going over the day's schedule seems almost unattainable. Divine? Absolutely. Unattainable? For sure. But it still sounds like a great way to start off the day.

Just one problem: I absolutely hate waking up in the morning. Doesn't matter what time I went to bed, or how much sleep I got, or what time it is, or how many things I need to get done that day. I. Can't. Stand. It. And, knowing any or all of those things does not help me a bit. Actually, as it turns out, I am the queen of rationalizing when I am half asleep. "I'll just snooze one more time. Surely a 2 minute shower is possible if I sprint to the bathroom and don't wash my hair or shave my legs." "Well, if the kids aren't awake yet, I can always just take them to school late, it's no big deal." And, my personal favorite: "I'll just run tomorrow instead."

I really have been wanting to change this. Ten years of motherhood and however many years of adulthood have obviously not done the trick. In fact, the motherhood part might make it even worse. I mean, who wants to wake up and already be at work? Who else besides a mother (or maybe a head chef) is thinking about what to make for dinner when she's brushing her teeth in the morning? Who wants to be visually reminded of all the things she didn't get done the day before the second she sets foot outside her bedroom door? And who, of all people, wants to function all day long knowing that her wonderful, comfortable bed is just sitting there waiting in the other room with the covers already thrown back like open arms to receive her? Not me, that's who.

But. Hard as it is. Horrible as it is. I recently learned that I can do it.

{Get up early, that is. Not make the bed. I'm not a miracle worker, you know.}

I read a simple quote a few weeks ago by Gordon B. Hinckley that inspired me to at least try to make a change: "If you go to bed at 10:00 and get up by 6:00 a.m., things will work out for you." It seemed like sound advice. It definitely seemed plausible. It was absolutely time to give it a try.

The first two weeks were rough, I'm not going to lie. After a summer schedule that consisted of going to bed at a ridiculous hour every night and getting up at a borderline ridiculous hour every morning, switching to getting up early was insanely difficult. Getting up before my kids needed to get up was tantamount to torture. {Plus, have you ever actually tried going to bed at 10:00 at night? It's pretty much impossible.}

But. I pushed through. I chose to believe in that quote, and, since it comes from a man that I love and admire, was able to put my complete faith in it. I figured I'd give it at least a couple of weeks before accepting defeat and going back to my sleepy ways. I mean, a girl's body has to adjust, right?

An amazing thing has happened: I have learned that I can do it. After two miserable, falling-asleep-at-the-dinner-table weeks, I actually turned the corner and found that yes, that elusive, difficult, oh-my-gosh-I-don't-think-I-can-do-this goal was really attainable. And not just attainable; I'm actually enjoying it a little. (I mean, you know, there is satisfaction in it...the waking up/getting up part is still a little painful. Let's just say that I have to drag myself from asleep to awake in three, deliberate, 5 minute snoozes each morning.)

Like every other aspect of my life (and, let's face it, my very flawed personality) I am not perfect in this. Some days I hit snooze a lot more times than I mean to. Some days I only have about 5 minutes to myself before the kids are up and the day really begins. And I don't think I've ever actually hit the 10 pm goal, though I have gotten close on occasion. But I am trying, which feels good, even if I often miss the mark. It's been good for me to be reminded that I can do hard things and that just because this particular thing might be easy for others, that doesn't make it any less of an accomplishment since it is still a struggle for me.

For days when I don't quite make it, I just remember something else that I recently read: "Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says, 'I'll try again tomorrow.'" And try again is what I do. Even if it means getting up at an insane hour and trying to force a contact lens into my tired eyeball before the sun's first rays have even spilled over the horizon.

{Plus, look at the gorgeous views I've been missing!}

The Absolutely True {And Also Very Long} Story Of A {Second} Broken Bone

Anyone remember that time last year when Baby Spencer broke his cute little arm? I sure do. Mostly because it was less than a year ago. And a little bit traumatizing. And resulted in a ridiculous doctor bill for the "procedure" of putting on Spencer's sling. 

Well.

Did I ever mention how, at Spencer's follow-up visit, the orthopedic doctor mentioned a study that involved the observation of children who had broken a bone early in life to see if they were any more careful in their future activities? 

Guess what? They weren't.

Case in point: Spencer broke another bone. This time it was his elbow. 

Tuesday: I was upstairs cleaning when the girls brought me a crying Spencer telling me that he had fallen and hurt himself. I'll be honest--I didn't think too much of it at the time, because, well, Spencer falls a lot. But when I saw how hard he was crying and how he was cradling his arm, all I could think was, "Oh, crap. I bet he broke his arm again."

The last time it happened, he fell on a Friday and we didn't take him to the doctor and find out about the break until Monday. I wanted to be sure we didn't make the same mistake this time, so I called Craig right away to tell him what happened. (Oh, did I forget to mention that my car was in the shop as of that morning and I didn't have a way to actually take Spencer to urgent care? Yep. We couldn't have timed it better if we had tried.) I called a friend to see if she could watch the girls, and Craig came home from work to take Spencer and I to the urgent care near our house.

At urgent care, they took an x-ray of Spencer's wrist. Which looked fine. 

Phew. What a relief to find out that there was nothing broken.

Friday: Spencer had still been fussy for the last few days, and had been needing pain meds pretty much around the clock, but we figured that he must have had a bad muscle strain that would take some time to heal. That night I was taking Spencer's shirt off to give him a bath and realized that his poor little elbow was all bruised and swollen. 

Crap. 

My first thought: They totally x-rayed the wrong bone, didn't they??

We debated about whether or not to take him to urgent care again. It was a Friday night. Urgent care would be closing in an hour. They didn't have any radiologists there to read the x-ray anyway. Oh, and did I forget to mention that we were leaving for a week-long vacation in California the next morning?  

Craig did some fast thinking and some quick internet searches and found a radiologist place that was open on Saturdays. Then he did some even faster driving to the urgent care (which, by this time, was closing in about 10 minutes) to pick up an order for an additional x-ray, this time, for his elbow. We figured, worst case scenario, we would find out the next day that something was broken and get his arm casted and just leave late on our trip. Worst worst case scenario, we'd have to wait until a place was open on Monday to get the cast on, and leave for California then.

Saturday: Early morning elbow x-rays. Then Craig calls me on their way back home to tell me that, while the office is open for x-rays on Saturdays, there aren't actually any radiologists there to read the x-rays until Monday. But not to worry. The x-ray tech is pretty certain that there is nothing broken, and that even if there were, they most likely would not put him in a cast anyway. He says it should be fine to just go on our trip.

Monday: I get a call from urgent care. I don't pick up because we are at Knott's Berry Farm. (I also don't worry because I am feeling pretty sure, at this point, that nothing is broken anyway.) 

 {before we knew it was broken...}

Tuesday: I call urgent care for the x-ray results and find out that Spencer does indeed have a fracture, in his elbow. They tell me to contact my pediatrician as soon as possible to get him a referral for an orthopedic doctor. 

Crap again. We are only two days into our trip and won't be heading back home until Saturday.

{...and, after. Thank goodness for Motrin}

I spent the next few hours on the phone with urgent care, our regular pediatrician's office, and the x-ray place. Urgent care can't send the x-ray results to the pediatrician unless the pediatrician requests them. The pediatrician can't request them without written consent from me. I can put in an order to the x-ray place to have copies of the x-rays sent to the pediatrician, but that takes 5 to 7 days to process. Etc., etc. I cry in frustration. I pound my fists. I wait on hold with every office for very, very long periods of time.

I finally find out that our insurance allows us to make an appointment with an orthopedic doctor without a referral from his doctor. I just need to get copies of Spencer's x-rays on the morning of his appointment and bring them with me. Spencer's appointment is set for the following Monday, just one day shy of two weeks since he fell. 

Monday: Pick up x-rays in the morning. Go to Spencer's appointment in the afternoon. Find out he needs a cast for 4 weeks to prevent further injury. 

Triple crappy crap.

Thankfully, the next few weeks were not too bad. We figured out how to do quick baths that kept the cast out of the water, cut our swim season short, and Spencer figured out how to do almost everything with his elbow bent with surprisingly little complaint. The morning after the cast was put on, he woke up and came over to me saying, "Mommy, help me!" wanting me to take it off. I wished I could. The first time he realized that couldn't go swimming because of the cast, he tried his best to pull it off. But other than that, and a few sad bath-times where he couldn't sit down to play in the water, Spencer took it like a champ.

{Ain't nothin' gonna break his stride. Ain't nothin' gonna slow him down...}

At yesterday's long-awaited cast removal appointment, the ortho doctor told us that Spencer has healed "like gang-busters." (I don't know about you, but I just love a doctor that'll say that.) 

Finally, this ordeal is over, and we are feeling very happy, relieved, and thankful. And hoping hoping hoping that we won't be dealing with this (yet again!) any time soon.

And that is the absolutely true, very long, story of Spencer's second broken bone.

{Now it's time to get this cute boy a haircut!}

Lucky

Meet Ann. 

Ann is a 90-year-old woman from our ward who I am incredibly blessed to know. She lives in a care facility not far from our house, and I have had the privilege of visiting with her monthly for the last couple of years. She is a beautiful person; so happy, and so sweet, and so dear.

Ann has Alzheimer's Disease. She does not remember me between visits, so that every time I come and see her, it is like we are meeting for the first time. The fact that she does not know me, or understand why I am there, has never changed her kindness towards me. She seems genuinely pleased to see me whenever I show up. She brightens right up when I say hello, hugs me, kisses my cheek, and talks to and reaches for my children.

Ann reminds me how lucky I am. Multiple times each visit. She doesn't have children of her own, and when she sees me there with my kids in tow, she calls me lucky. "You're so lucky. You see, I never had children..." She reminds me what a blessing it is to be a mother. To have healthy, energetic children. To have the opportunity to learn from, and grow from, this incredibly difficult journey of motherhood. Then she forgets what she has just said, and she tells me again. I cannot hear it enough. I fill my basket during our visits, with her gentle reminders of how blessed my life is, and when I forget, or become depleted, I visit her again and she reminds me once more (and twice more, and three times more) just how lucky I am.

I started visiting Ann in the hopes that I could brighten her days, in some small way, by spending time with her and expressing my love for her, and I hope that I have done that. But I know, in my heart of hearts, that she has blessed and filled me during our visits more than I could ever have done for her. And because of that I am grateful. And amazed.

And oh, so lucky.

Just Beachy

Our first trip to the beach during our California trip was pretty poorly documented by moi. I admit, at heart, I am an old lady who would prefer to live her life in a climate-controlled, sand-free vacuum. (Just ask Craig. He'll be happy to tell you all about it.) So, naturally, I spent most of the day worrying about Spencer running into the ocean and/or ingesting sand, making sure the kids were hydrated and filled up on snacks and sandwiches, applying sunscreen, wondering how long they were going to last without their hot little faces burning to a crisp, thinking longingly of the book I brought (but knowing that I wouldn't have a chance to sit down and read it), and otherwise not really taking pictures. 

Ah, the beach with small children. It's like paradise on a porcupine.

{Enjoy it while you can, my children-less dears!}

You can just call me Grumpy Grams. But at least the kids had a blast digging and playing, Craig caught some waves on the boogie-board, no one melted, AND we didn't get stuck in any traffic on the way home. That's what I call success.

More vacation hits to come!

First Day Jitters

Well, okay, the only one who really had jitters today was me. I slept terribly last night and had weird nonsense dream-mares about all of the things that could go wrong today. Thankfully, everything went off without a hitch.

I have, surprisingly, been blessed with three amazing girls who don't have even a fraction of the anxiety that I had as a kid at the start of every school year. Hallelujah. It was torture for me so I know it must have been unbearable for my mom.

Here are my girlies rocking their new first day outfits {note Lexa's matching leopard print fingernails courtesy of my friend, Sarah} and showing their mommy that the start of a new school year does not have to mean tears and torment. 

It's been quiet and lovely around here and, in the strange absence of the total chaos to which we have become accustomed over the last two months, Spencer and I are trying to figure out what it will be like to be completely alone together for the next three years.

Today, it looked like this...

...but I have a feeling that tomorrow it will involve a blue shopping cart and a little store I like to call Ross.