Twenty four years ago, as I was waddling around our house in Highland, Utah, feeling slightly sick and a little sore, I wondered what kind of baby I was carrying in my giant belly. Was it a boy or a girl? Fat, skinny, long, short, blond hair, brown hair, curly hair, straight hair. What would it be? I went to bed feeling like I was ready to meet this little child sometime soon.
The very next morning, I woke up to labor cramps and back pain. I shuffled around the house, kept Dan home from school and finally, called the doctor. He told us to go to the hospital and he would meet us there. Sure enough, they were real contractions, they were strong and steady and meant business. They put me in a bed, I called Joan (my mom) to tell her the news, and for the rest of the day we waited patiently for our little bundle of joy.
Finally, about 6:00 pm, the nurse came in to check me, scratched my amniotic sac with her fingernail, bursting it and letting a flood of water onto the plastic sheets, and it wasn't 5 minutes before I started pushing. No medication, no IV, no nothing and I am not saying this to sound brave, it is just that I was more afraid of any of those other things than I was of pain.
First, a head, covered with wet dark hair. Then, the slim little shoulders, one at a time. White, creamy, muscular. Then, in a rush, the rest of our beautiful, perfect, little girl. For the first of so many times, she turned around and looked right at me. It seemed that her crystal blue eyes were looking right to my very soul.
It was at this exact point in time that Joan came through the door in her school dress with her pink sweater. She had taught school in California that day, got on a flight at 3:30 and landed in time to be driven straight to the hospital by my brother-in-law Trent.
"Oooohhh, oooohhhh, she's beautiful", Joan cooed while giving me a hug, "Look at her long, perfectly shaped fingers. And all that dark hair."
I was still recovering from the shock that I had a little girl. Of my very own. A little friend to dress up and play house with and read fairy tales to and play school with. Plus, when you are in a stressful spot, the very person you want to see walking in that door is your mother! And she had miraculously appeared. Hormones, fatigue, relief, joy. I was a little overwhelmed at the time.
My mother continued by saying, "Wow, she looks a lot like my little Lorraine." At which point we both started crying like babies. My mother's Lorraine is my little sister, born right after me and Kelley and who only lived three days. She was born with a heart problem and in those old days, medicine had not advanced enough to save her life. We grew up visiting her grave occasionally, celebrating her birthday with a small conversation of remembrance, always knowing that in Heaven we had a sister that we would meet someday.
I choked out, "I have always loved that name. Would you mind if I named my baby girl Lorraine?"
So that is how it happened. My Lorraine is as strong, steady and means as much business as those contractions she was responsible for 24 years ago. I have laughed, cried, prayed and fought over Lorraine and I have been happy to do it. I can't imagine my life without her and couldn't be prouder of the grown-up girl she has become.
Now she has a little girl of her own to dress up, play house with, read fairy tales to and play school with.
Happy Birthday Lorraine!
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Who I Am
I had to write a paper that answers the question "Who am I? It was fun to write and you'll tell me if it was fun to read.
There are many possible answers to the question: “Who am I? I find it easiest to answer the questions in descending order based on the amount of strong feelings associated with each subject. The list looks like this:
First of all, I am a child of God.
Second of all, I am woman.
Third, I am a mother.
Fourth, a wife.
Fifth, an American.
Sixth, white.
I have been brought up in my family’s home, from the beginning, to believe that my Heavenly Father loves me, wants the best for me and will help me when I need it if I am obedient and humble. Because I believe this about myself, I believe it about others also. That’s the beauty of our Heavenly Father, He loves all of us equally and wants me to love others equally too. So, the biggest part of who I am is my strong religious belief that compels me to treat others as I would like to be treated and to care for others as much as my Heavenly Father cares for me. These foundational beliefs are my biggest cultural motivator and make it easy to answer the question of who I am.
I am the oldest daughter of an oldest daughter and there is nothing I can’t do. My very strong mother taught me by example that women are smart, strong, interesting, organized, funny, nurturing, competent, and accomplished. I never felt less being a girl instead of a boy. I never felt like there were things that were off-limits to me as a woman. I always felt that women could do whatever they wanted to do and I have a hard time understanding or enjoying the company of men or women who feel differently. Women who are not taught this powerful idea of womanhood from the beginning have a hard time overcoming their deep-seated beliefs that they are not as good or not as valuable as the men in their lives, and it is crippling. It should be enough to answer the question of who you are by saying, “I am a woman.”
As I became a mother, I understood how important my role was to my children. My thoughts, feelings and responses had to be weighed against what was best for my children, not always for me. Culturally, I felt it was important to continue our family’s strong religious convictions while at the same time building each child up to try and be their best self and to be kind and tolerant of others. A hasty, judgmental remark was no longer an innocent one, small ears were listening and taking every word in. My children grew up in a different world than I did and their perceptions of race and culture are different than mine. They are more tolerant and better at overlooking differences. But, I attribute some of the improvement in their cultural tolerance to my diligence as a mother. My children are a joy to me and help me answer the big questions of self-analysis.
I probably should have put my husband higher on the list but I don’t think he would expect me to. That is how selfless and kind he is. It was easy for me to become the real me because I was given the freedom, love and support to do so. If I wanted to pursue schooling or a hobby or an interest that took me out of the home, he was there to change diapers and make dinner. If I was worried or concerned, he was there to discuss, advise and assist. Every relationship is based on having expectations of your partner. I have plenty of expectations of my husband and sure, my husband has expectations of my role as a wife, but they match my own so it is not a burden. Mostly, being a wife is a joy and has allowed me to include that description of myself as part of the answer to who I am.
I have a great love for my country and oftentimes get very emotional when I hear someone criticize or denigrate America. America is not perfect, but it is still the best, most free, most opportunity-filled country in the world. I also believe that our country is divinely chosen and protected and that we, as citizens, have a responsibility to rise to the occasion and do our best in order to make this country run as efficiently as possible. I take my job as a good citizen very seriously and feel that the best thing I can do for my country is raise smart, responsible, functioning adult children who will help to continue to build the country and keep it strong. I can’t see a waving flag or a man or woman in uniform with getting a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. Who am I? I’m an American.
Maybe it’s because I am a member of the majority but I never really thought much about the fact that I was white. I just was. I’m white, she is brown, he is black, that’s just the way it is. I understand that my attitude could be construed as naïve but when I considered it, my earlier opinion, that we are all God’s children, really supercedes any of the race, color, ethnicity or religious concerns. So, although I am white, I am not only white, I am many other things that are more influential to me when I answer the question of who I am.
I have had a lot of years and a lot of practice answering the question of who I am and I am glad to have the chance to write it down. It is a good exercise in self-analysis to decide where I stand, what my priorities are, what motivates me and how I want to interact with the world. Hopefully my actions can mirror my beliefs, that would make me a person of integrity and that characteristic is, thankfully, another important part of who I am.
There are many possible answers to the question: “Who am I? I find it easiest to answer the questions in descending order based on the amount of strong feelings associated with each subject. The list looks like this:
First of all, I am a child of God.
Second of all, I am woman.
Third, I am a mother.
Fourth, a wife.
Fifth, an American.
Sixth, white.
I have been brought up in my family’s home, from the beginning, to believe that my Heavenly Father loves me, wants the best for me and will help me when I need it if I am obedient and humble. Because I believe this about myself, I believe it about others also. That’s the beauty of our Heavenly Father, He loves all of us equally and wants me to love others equally too. So, the biggest part of who I am is my strong religious belief that compels me to treat others as I would like to be treated and to care for others as much as my Heavenly Father cares for me. These foundational beliefs are my biggest cultural motivator and make it easy to answer the question of who I am.
I am the oldest daughter of an oldest daughter and there is nothing I can’t do. My very strong mother taught me by example that women are smart, strong, interesting, organized, funny, nurturing, competent, and accomplished. I never felt less being a girl instead of a boy. I never felt like there were things that were off-limits to me as a woman. I always felt that women could do whatever they wanted to do and I have a hard time understanding or enjoying the company of men or women who feel differently. Women who are not taught this powerful idea of womanhood from the beginning have a hard time overcoming their deep-seated beliefs that they are not as good or not as valuable as the men in their lives, and it is crippling. It should be enough to answer the question of who you are by saying, “I am a woman.”
As I became a mother, I understood how important my role was to my children. My thoughts, feelings and responses had to be weighed against what was best for my children, not always for me. Culturally, I felt it was important to continue our family’s strong religious convictions while at the same time building each child up to try and be their best self and to be kind and tolerant of others. A hasty, judgmental remark was no longer an innocent one, small ears were listening and taking every word in. My children grew up in a different world than I did and their perceptions of race and culture are different than mine. They are more tolerant and better at overlooking differences. But, I attribute some of the improvement in their cultural tolerance to my diligence as a mother. My children are a joy to me and help me answer the big questions of self-analysis.
I probably should have put my husband higher on the list but I don’t think he would expect me to. That is how selfless and kind he is. It was easy for me to become the real me because I was given the freedom, love and support to do so. If I wanted to pursue schooling or a hobby or an interest that took me out of the home, he was there to change diapers and make dinner. If I was worried or concerned, he was there to discuss, advise and assist. Every relationship is based on having expectations of your partner. I have plenty of expectations of my husband and sure, my husband has expectations of my role as a wife, but they match my own so it is not a burden. Mostly, being a wife is a joy and has allowed me to include that description of myself as part of the answer to who I am.
I have a great love for my country and oftentimes get very emotional when I hear someone criticize or denigrate America. America is not perfect, but it is still the best, most free, most opportunity-filled country in the world. I also believe that our country is divinely chosen and protected and that we, as citizens, have a responsibility to rise to the occasion and do our best in order to make this country run as efficiently as possible. I take my job as a good citizen very seriously and feel that the best thing I can do for my country is raise smart, responsible, functioning adult children who will help to continue to build the country and keep it strong. I can’t see a waving flag or a man or woman in uniform with getting a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. Who am I? I’m an American.
Maybe it’s because I am a member of the majority but I never really thought much about the fact that I was white. I just was. I’m white, she is brown, he is black, that’s just the way it is. I understand that my attitude could be construed as naïve but when I considered it, my earlier opinion, that we are all God’s children, really supercedes any of the race, color, ethnicity or religious concerns. So, although I am white, I am not only white, I am many other things that are more influential to me when I answer the question of who I am.
I have had a lot of years and a lot of practice answering the question of who I am and I am glad to have the chance to write it down. It is a good exercise in self-analysis to decide where I stand, what my priorities are, what motivates me and how I want to interact with the world. Hopefully my actions can mirror my beliefs, that would make me a person of integrity and that characteristic is, thankfully, another important part of who I am.
Monday, September 8, 2008
The Little Pink Shoe
This is a story I wrote in class today based on the prompt the teacher gave us. She asked us to reach inside a big bag, and write about whatever you pulled out. I pulled out a pink baby bootie and it reminded me of a real life incident that happened to me maybe 20 years ago. What I'm saying is , this story is mostly true.
Please tell me what you think. I have been writing daily for 2 1/2 weeks now and have had NO FEEDBACK. It's torture.
As they slowly inched around the curve she turned to her husband and mentioned, again, how much she hated the fog. She especially hated driving in the fog. It was like driving with a blanket over your head. Anything could happen in the fog.
She had a lot of confidence in her husband’s driving ability. She had a lot of confidence in her husband, period. He was good at everything. As they made their way through the early morning haze, her mind wandered up and down the list of things he was good at, happened upon a particular memory, and smiled to herself.
Out her passenger window, she could see some papers floating by. Quite a few of them. As they continued on, a bag, plaid with handles, lay on the side of the road. Next, a pillow. Then, a blanket.
She mentioned all this debris to her husband, warning him to be careful, there was a lot of trash on the highway. She turned to look at her sleeping children in the back of the van. All four of them cuddled up in blankets and pillows, arms and legs flopped over one another like a litter of puppies.
As she turned around, she could see flashing lights up ahead. “Slow down” she stated flatly. He already was.
The truck was parked on the side of the road, pieces of metal in its grill. One front tire was flat, the cab of the truck leaning over like it was tired, or hurt, just needed a rest. Then she saw the driver sitting on the side of the highway in the long grass, head in his hands, rocking back and forth.
Up ahead, she saw the reason for the trash strewn highway, the reason for the flashing lights, the reason for his pain.
The car had been little and red and was now the size of a lawnmower, back and front smashed together like an accordion of agony. Possessions everywhere. Suitcases, books, water bottles, a stuffed Winnie the Pooh.
Then came the figures under the blankets. First a large shape under a navy comforter, next a smaller figure under a flowered tablecloth, left hand sticking out as if to reach for the next pair of small figures sharing one pink fuzzy blanket.
As they were directed slowly past the tragedy, tears were streaming down her cheeks. A low moan came from her throat, her face drawn into a grimace of pain and disbelief. The last thing she saw as they left the scene was a little pink baby shoe, cloth, with a ribbon for a tie and lace around the edges. Her choked outburst woke up the oldest in the back.
“What’s up mom?”
“Nothing, Brad,” her husband answered softly, “We’re all okay. Go back to sleep.”
Please tell me what you think. I have been writing daily for 2 1/2 weeks now and have had NO FEEDBACK. It's torture.
As they slowly inched around the curve she turned to her husband and mentioned, again, how much she hated the fog. She especially hated driving in the fog. It was like driving with a blanket over your head. Anything could happen in the fog.
She had a lot of confidence in her husband’s driving ability. She had a lot of confidence in her husband, period. He was good at everything. As they made their way through the early morning haze, her mind wandered up and down the list of things he was good at, happened upon a particular memory, and smiled to herself.
Out her passenger window, she could see some papers floating by. Quite a few of them. As they continued on, a bag, plaid with handles, lay on the side of the road. Next, a pillow. Then, a blanket.
She mentioned all this debris to her husband, warning him to be careful, there was a lot of trash on the highway. She turned to look at her sleeping children in the back of the van. All four of them cuddled up in blankets and pillows, arms and legs flopped over one another like a litter of puppies.
As she turned around, she could see flashing lights up ahead. “Slow down” she stated flatly. He already was.
The truck was parked on the side of the road, pieces of metal in its grill. One front tire was flat, the cab of the truck leaning over like it was tired, or hurt, just needed a rest. Then she saw the driver sitting on the side of the highway in the long grass, head in his hands, rocking back and forth.
Up ahead, she saw the reason for the trash strewn highway, the reason for the flashing lights, the reason for his pain.
The car had been little and red and was now the size of a lawnmower, back and front smashed together like an accordion of agony. Possessions everywhere. Suitcases, books, water bottles, a stuffed Winnie the Pooh.
Then came the figures under the blankets. First a large shape under a navy comforter, next a smaller figure under a flowered tablecloth, left hand sticking out as if to reach for the next pair of small figures sharing one pink fuzzy blanket.
As they were directed slowly past the tragedy, tears were streaming down her cheeks. A low moan came from her throat, her face drawn into a grimace of pain and disbelief. The last thing she saw as they left the scene was a little pink baby shoe, cloth, with a ribbon for a tie and lace around the edges. Her choked outburst woke up the oldest in the back.
“What’s up mom?”
“Nothing, Brad,” her husband answered softly, “We’re all okay. Go back to sleep.”
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