Mama Needs Money [RANT]

People keep telling me I should write a book. This usually follows a story about my early years. Instead of writing such a book, perhaps I should see how many people would wisely pay me not to share my experiences with them. How much would you pay for me to stop talking endlessly about cats, childhood trauma, and how I became addicted to chocolate?

But why would I possibly need money? Possibly to fund my corset, chocolate, cat, and fabric addictions? Maybe? 

In actuality, the first issue is an age-old one. As a mother, I was offered the opportunity to stay home with my children instead of outsourcing their care to others. My husband felt that the pay wouldn’t be enough to offset childcare if I worked in an office or a bookstore or a library. And I wasn’t sure I’d want to miss their little faces for forty hours or more a week.

However, the constant need to advocate for extracurricular activities for my kids is exhausting. Yes, I have many random skill sets, but I didn’t pursue teaching as a career because I lack some of the required facets of a good teacher—unlimited energy and patience, for instance. This means I get to hear how bored they are despite my best efforts to entertain. Besides, as their mother, they don’t always give me the same attention they give to someone else who is sharing knowledge with them. 

I want my children to learn and have fun. One of them definitely does better with a definite and consistent schedule repeated every day. This is my second summer trying to execute such a schedule. Thanks to advice from a group of like-minded mothers of faith, they are responding better to my attempts to keep their math skills sharp. What was that secret? Play board games with them and let them do the math, checking for accuracy, of course. They haven’t been as cooperative as I try to give them some life skills like cleaning, organizing, and resisting the urge to hoard.

On top of that, they frequently complain that they want to see their friends. So I try to make that happen. But guess where their friends are? In camps. Most camps seem to average about $300 to $400 per child for a week. That can really cut into the budget, so we stuck with the one camp that charges about $150 per child per week, but that leaves us flailing for the rest of the summer.

On top of that, a kitchen mishap has resulted in me needing to replace some cookbooks and magazines. I ended up photographing the recipes I like or still need to try from the magazines because I bought them so long ago, that people willing to part with them were charging upwards of $50. I may need to up the dosage on my heart medicine to recover from that sticker shock, but a couple of the books were reasonably priced, so I am convincing myself that it is okay to buy them or ask for them for my birthday.

In short, I technically have a very small cash stream. I finally have two paid subscribers on substack, so I will be able to afford those cookbooks by the end of the year. I also get the occasional interested party who wants to buy some of my up-cycled journals or other crafts, so feel free to send an inquiry if you need a gift for an upcoming birthday or other event. After all, it is never too early to plan for Christmas in July. (It might be too late depending on how extreme you want to get though, so choose carefully.)

The Answer Might Scare You [RANT]

It’s been a week. Internal struggles abound. External struggles always seem to join up when that happens. Throw in some cute kids and it’s a wild ride. 

Had some communication lapses on Saturday and thought my girls were going to disown me and request a new model. We were supposed to get together with one of their friends but lunchtime passed and we neither saw nor heard from them, so I double checked and we hadn’t committed to anything. It turned out it was a difference in perceptions of lunchtime combined with a project taking longer than anticipated. Three happy kids and three entertained adults resulted.

Sunday brought more child adorableness. In my church, we have a program where the children sing and share thoughts about God at least once a year. This Sunday was the happy day. Quick highlights:

Tiny humans signing while singing some of the songs.

Nervous human babies looking like they need snuggles because stage fright is real and receiving those snuggles.

My daughter perking up when she realized mama was watching her.

The two girls taller than me towering over the tiny four year olds.

My friends’ son lip-syncing with the most amusing expressions on his face.

My daughter, right behind him, using her Scooby jacket as a puppet.

Almost shaking loose a suppressed giggle over this impromptu vaudeville show.

Songs in tiny voices.

The rest of the week has been spent in contemplating life, the universe, and everything. I may have shared some of my aggravations with more people than I should have. One of my friends sent me books to help me process. Not sure the books all apply to the situation at hand. But what do I know, I only think about my problems to the exclusion of sleep and fight battles for longer than most people would bother. Sometimes, it works out. Sometimes, it clearly isn’t going to.

However, I have confirmation that some of my thought processes are definitely not flawed. Now, we just see if the right people hear what I have to say and choose to be in this with me, right?

Life isn’t meant to be lived alone. Why else would we be born into families? And if your family falls short, choose more family. Pick and choose sisters and brothers from your friends. And if you need extra supervision and guidance, choose more family. Though my biological mother has passed, I currently have five moms listed in my phone. And I pull people into my family conglomeration from time to time because we need each other. I want to thank those who are willing to deal with being part of my family. I apologize if I overstep. We’ll just have to work on our communication. Just be patient with me.

Anyway, I doubled down on adorable today by attending a parade at my children’s school. Kids in each grade level dressed as storybook characters, idioms, or famous people. I saw so many Amelia Earharts and Taylor Swifts, flying pigs and raining cats and dogs, and Waldos everywhere. I also saw so many other adorable creatures and people. 

I started snapping pictures of every kid I knew. With the sun shining on me and people milling about, I figured I might get a good photo for a friend even if some of my pictures only included a wing of one child or a hint of skirt of the other. Hopefully, my offerings bring happiness.

And now to accomplish other tasks before walking my tiny clones around to claim candy and bring joy. Hopefully, substack gets a new post today, too. I have been working on it, but it doesn’t quite feel ready for public consumption yet.

2: Nurture [NOVEL]

Chapter 1: Nature

2: Nurture

I don’t actually remember how I came to live with my adoptive parents. I know I wasn’t born to them. They wouldn’t dare let me forget. I was just their back up in case IVF didn’t work—a little orphan girl who would be eternally grateful even if they failed to learn to love me or even try.

I picture our first meeting from time to time. My adoptive parents have told me enough stories about it that I have a feeling I picture it properly. If they didn’t insist on claiming me as their daughter, I wouldn’t bother calling them mother and father anymore, based on the picture they painted. Yet they insist that since they are raising me I owe them the respect of letting everyone know they are my mother and my father.

For my part, I did my best to impress them with my cuteness and bright mind despite having no idea why I was meeting two more strangers. With my light hair and light eyes, most people thought I looked angelic at that age.  The few pictures that I found reveal more of a sad guardian whose ward kept making bad decisions than a smiling cherub. After my mother passed as I entered the world, my father tried his best to care for me. The few mementos that the social worker kept for me show that quite clearly.

But depression proved a cruel and demanding mistress after the death of his wife, so he relinquished his parental rights and allowed the state to make decisions about my future. He wrote a letter to explain this, but I wouldn’t hear anything except that my real family hadn’t wanted me until I turned eighteen.

Sally the social worker carried me to the door and placed me gently on my feet. She liked to let me make a good first impression by toddling into meetings with prospective parents. Curiosity always lead my wavering footsteps toward the new couple waiting to meet their potential daughter. Apparently, the women with blond curls held the highest attraction for me. I’d stumble right into their arms and their hearts, but somehow I passed my first birthday without finding a new home. I imagine the haunted look in my light eyes that every photo captured which lead to my long tenure with the adoption agency.

“This is Opera,” Sally introduced me as I came to clutch at mother’s skirt.

“I wanted a baby with that newborn smell. This one is already walking.”

“Just barely,” the social worker’s already pinched smile tightened even more. “I explained to you how difficult it is to find a newborn to adopt. This little girl could go home with you by the end of the month.” The look she leveled on mother and father reproved them more than any words could have.

Father’s eyes pled with mother as much as his words, “You always wanted a little girl and look how she came right to you.”

“That was rather sweet. And if we can’t have our own…” Bitterness crept in as her words trailed off.

She leaned forward to peer into my eyes. Their soft blue depths seemed to look through me. One slender hand rose slowly, cautiously as one would approach a skittish kitten. Her tentative touch gently pushed fine tendrils of blond hair back from my forehead. 

“At least she looks like she could be ours.” She murmured softly. “We could name her after my mother.”

Sally frowned at this, “Once they reach a certain age, we discourage changing the name they go by. They aren’t puppies, after all.”

Mother and father exchanged looks again. Father never spoke much but his eyes had practice in wordlessly reasoning with her. She sighed as I grasped her hand in both of mine and rested my cheek against it.

Apparently, that small act melted her heart enough to win her over. They filled out a million forms and promptly agreed to invasions of privacy that included a rigorous background check and home visits before and after my arrival in their lavish home.

A couple of weeks later, I joined my new family. At first, they fawned over me, elated to finally realize the dream of becoming parents. They showered me with gifts and took turns holding me and reading me stories. They made time for me and listened intently so they could understand my garbled words and fine meaning in them. Then something changed.

Chapter 3: Nurture

Children’s Church [PREACHY]

 I saw a meme the other day that told people to bring their children to church because how else will they keep the pews full. While it isn’t an invalid argument, it isn’t the first one I would make to bring children to church. I can think of many better reasons.

1. If you don’t take your children to church, you aren’t making it to church either. After having each of my children, I didn’t got to church for a few weeks. I know how irresistible those newborn faces are and I know that people can be sick without knowing it. I wasn’t taking that risk with my tiny hobbits. Of course, I could read scriptures and watch talks from General Conference to feel the spirit, but it isn’t quite the same as gathering with people who share my beliefs, whether we see eye to eye or not.
2. Children need to be reminded that they are welcome in the Lord’s house. He wants to see them there and even some of us old grouches enjoy their little voices. As I have rambunctious children of my own, I have seen the eyes turned toward us and the necks craning to see who is making all that noise. I also know that I turn to look at tiny babies who are cooing or crying at their moms. People aren’t always judging you, sometimes we just want to see the cuteness attached to all that noise. I even had a mom apologize to me today as her son tried to climb over the top of the pew. Little did she know, my daughter would spend most of that hour of church trying to crawl under that same pew. Should we really be apologizing for kids being kids?
3. When you take your children to church and model reverent behavior, they get to learn from you. Even if you feel embarrassed leaning over to answer the awkward questions of your spiritual scholar, you should answer them. And feel free to start the conversation again at home. Our homes should be a house of God, too, don’t you think?
4. Children will value you what you value. My grandmother loved God and made sure to tell people about it. My mother told me about a song reminding us not to let dust gather on our scriptures. I still carry those bits of testimony with me and they help me feel closer to both of them even though they have both passed away.

And those are just the first four reasons that popped into my head. Why do you take your children to church? I know it isn’t so they can scream out something mildly embarrassing during a prayer, but we take that risk anyway.

Willing to Learn [PREACHY]

Today I noticed my daughter as I reached out to take the sacrament. Sitting sweetly in her daddy's lap, she peered over the top of the tray at the bread with deep interest. As church leaders encourage us to keep the sabbath day holy and be more reverent in our church meetings, I look to the innocent for guidance:

We should always listen to talks and lessons with rapt attention, no matter how many times those topics have been addressed.

We should smile at strangers to bring joy to their lives and hopefully inspire them to bring that joy to others they meet each day.

We should be willing to learn from those around us.

We should look for opportunities to discover new information, increase our testimonies, and heighten our knowledge of concepts we already know.

We should make time for family, snuggling, healthy eating, and appreciating the blessings in our lives.

I'm sure I have much more to learn from my daughter as she grows and learns and develops a testimony of her own. I hope I make time to appreciate what I learn from her.

Being Happy

I went searching my head for a somewhat happy story. I proofread it a couple of times to assure its worthiness. Feel free to weigh in so I know how I'm doing. What do you think?

“…a morose child…”

“…sad, little girl…”

“…introverted…”

“…lonely…”

Braelyn often overheard comments such as these describing her. She always shrugged them off. She never felt sad. Nor did she desire to surround herself with people. She preferred the solace and silence of stolen seconds alone. Growing up in a family of eight, she struggled to get away from her three brothers and two sisters long enough to have moments of solitude.

On a gloomy day toward the end of summer, she sought time alone in the backyard. Thick, wet smells of moist earth and reinvigorated mildew settled over her as she gently closed the screen door. She darted across the expanse of lawn to stand under the sugar maple tree with its thick shelter of leaves. Rain cascaded to earth around her, but the thick foliage overhead let only a few sprinkles shower down on her. She leaned against the rough bark of the thick trunk and began to hum softly to herself.

Soft light pooled around the window facing her. She could look into the living room and observe her family without being involved in the bustle or hearing the accompanying noise. Forced indoors by the dreary weather, her siblings clustered around the low coffee table. An immense pile of board games reached almost as high as the tallest of them. Braelyn smiled as she watched them sort through the games, throwing them to the floor until only one remained.

Having made that important decision, her older brothers vied for the coveted seat on the recliner while the three younger children knelt around the table to watch. Unable to gain an advantage over each other, they finally settled for balancing on the edge of the chair together. Everyone leaned closer to the table, concentrating intently on the game.

As Braelyn observed the expressions of her siblings, the soft hum in the depths of her throat grew softer and softer until it finally stopped. With every roll of the dice, the expressions on the faces of the players changed to reveal the direction of the game. The smile on her face widened whenever her littlest sister brightened as she took the lead, only to disappear when one of her older brothers leaped up from the recliner to pump his fists in the air.

As her brother resumed his seat, an unusual sound caught her attention. Her eyebrows drew closer together. She turned her head from side to side in search of the source of the sound. Wet slapped against wet somewhere off to the right. She narrowed her eyes to focus on a slight movement at the base of the tree. As she stepped closer, a soft chirp joined the slapping sound.

“Poor birdie.” Braelyn cooed softly.

The bird chirped and tried to back away.

“I won’t hurt you.” She cooed as she crouched down to gently cup the frightened bird in her hands.

“Did you get caught in the storm?” She asked as she gently ran her hands along its feathers and watched a thin stream of water trickle off of her hand.

After brushing away as much water as she could, she gently cradled the bird in both hands and drew it close to her body. At first, it shivered from fear as well as the chill, but soon it calmed down and nestled into the warmth of her belly.

Assured of the comfort of her new friend, Braelyn resumed her vantage point in front of the window. They cuddled in silence as she watched the ongoing game. She didn’t notice that the rain had stopped until the game ended with an excited victory dance by her younger brother. Her oldest brother slammed his fist down on the game board. As pieces flew everywhere and elevated voices became almost audible to her, she shuddered. Startled by the movement, the bird chirped shrilly and spread its wings.

“Oh. I almost forgot about you.” Braelyn loosened her hands.

As she lifted the bird a little closer to her face, it peered back at her with shining, beady eyes. She extended her hands as far from her body as she could and opened her palms to form a tiny platform. The bird tested its wings by flapping first one and then the other. With one last chirp, it flew off. Braelyn waved goodbye before walking back to the house.

She inhaled deeply, smiling as soft hints of biscuits baking filled her lungs. She rubbed her arms as the warmth of the room reminded her of the beads of water dripping from her hair. Goosebumps broke out on her forearms. She shivered and clamped her jaws together as her teeth chattered.

“Braelyn.” Her mother looked up from her cookbook in surprise. “You’re wet. Why did you go outside?”

“Just wanted to.” Braelyn shrugged then stepped forward to wrap her arms around her mother’s shoulders. “I love you, mom.”

“I love you, too.” Her mother patted her head softly as she mulled this over. “Go change into something dry…and stay inside when it rains, okay?”

“Okay, mom.”

Her mother followed her into the living room. As Braelyn disappeared up the stairs, her father looked at her mother questioningly. Her mother only shrugged.

“Should we worry about her?” Her father voiced his question.

“It’s probably a phase and she seems happy…”

He nodded his agreement, but they both watched her mount the stairs with worried expressions.

Grandmother Knows

Those were the sweet summers of our youth. My cousin always sheltered from the summer heat in the shaded home of our grandparents. Images flashing across the tiny screen of an old television expanded our world on hot, muggy days. Unfazed by the sounds of laughter as we wrestled, grandfather lazed in his big chair in the living room. We’d listen to him snore as the afternoon heat finally penetrated the defenses of the house’s thin walls. He often fell asleep with a lit wicker pipe dangling from his mouth, causing grandmother to awaken him.

“Jacob, you’re tryin’ to kill us, ain’t ya?”

“Myrtle, you worry too much. I ain’t burned down this house in all our years…”

“That’s right. ‘Cause I’m always here to wake you up.”

“Well, I admit I need ya as much as I ever did. Come here and give us a kiss.”

Sometimes Joyce and I would creep out into the hallway to watch them. Grandmother never gave him that kiss that we could see. We always thought it was because she knew we were watching. That was one thing you could count on. Grandmother knew everything.

She knew about the candy we snuck in under our loose tops. She knew how we’d fight over who was going to grow up and marry our favorite actor in whatever movie we were watching that day. She knew to fill our bellies with blueberry pancakes and sausage every morning. She knew we’d need plenty of lemonade for our evenings on the porch as we waited for twilight and the chance to chase lightning bugs.

That’s probably why none of us knew what to do when we found the one thing that grandmother didn’t know all about. It was another of those lazy summer days. Joyce and I had finally found a movie where each of us fell for a different character, so we hadn’t fought all day. Our conversation as we slipped lemonade mirrored the stillness of the growing dusk. Our excitement grew as it neared the time to collect lightning bugs. If we collected enough, we could tell stories by their glow before we fell asleep to the gentle sound of the wind in the trees outside the window.

It was as we slowly rose from the porch swing that we realized something was wrong. Somehow standing up made it easier to hear the voices we had only vaguely noticed as we lounged in the last rays of the sun. I looked at Joyce, unable to identify exactly what I was hearing. Her face assured me that she shared my confusion. As I opened my mouth to voice our question, she raised a finger to her lips and shook her head. She took a couple of slow, careful steps toward the open window, leaning in to listen. I followed her lead, leaning in until I could make out the words.

“…forty years?”

“I told you that I didn’t know, woman. I only just found out.”

“But we were married…”

“…a year later. It was one night with her. I’ve devoted my life to you.” Grandfather pleaded.

“I won’t forgive you for this. You know I can’t…” Tears softened my grandmother’s strong voice.

My mouth opened to form a slack oval. Joyce frowned as her brow furrowed. We raced off into the meadow, not to look for fireflies as we had planned but to get away from the sounds of discord echoing from the house. When we finally returned to the house, grandmother sat alone in the living room with her knitting across her lap. She didn’t look up as we tiptoed down the stairs. I know she heard us, but she didn’t want us to see her tears.

A few weeks later, my aunt Christina moved in with my grandparents. Born to a woman who knew grandfather before he met our grandmother, she favored him in appearance. We accepted her into the family, everyone but grandmother. She knew that this woman’s arrival would change our family. At first, Joyce and I thought she changed it for the better.

Aunt Chris knew how to have fun. She laughed and joked with us. She even included us in practical jokes on grandfather. We tried pranking our grandmother once, but rediscovered how much she knows when she chased us through the house with a broom before we got a chance to switch the powdered sugar for flour.

 While Aunt Chris brought a certain sense of carefree abandonment, her levity came at a price. As the summer drew to a close, her disposition changed. Lethargy overtook her. An aroma of stale alcohol accompanied her from room to room. She demanded quiet to sleep off her latest round of drinking. More and more, the television remained dark. Either Aunt Chris would stumble out to turn it off or curse at us until we did.

Grandmother’s anger flared up more often and fell on Joyce and I. Grandfather no longer took his naps on his favorite chair. Instead he sought the solitude of a small copse of trees behind the house. Distracted by her own concerns, grandmother stopped making fresh lemonade. Joyce mixed up the powder a few times, but we found it wanting and stopped trying.

One night, Aunt Chris’s snoring kept me awake, so I tiptoed down the stairs. I figured I could get a few hours of sleep on the couch. As my padded feet neared the lowest stairs, I became aware of the soft sound of hushed voices.

“I know that she is your daughter. That’s why she is staying.” Grandmother hissed.

“But I love having the girls here for the summer, Myrtle.”

“I won’t have them here with her any longer. I’ve already called their mothers.”

“It’s not like she’s going to turn them into alcoholics. Come on…” Grandfather reassured her in a hushed voice.

“I would hope not. My girls are smarter than that.”

As my grandmother defended us, my cheeks burned. A faint hint of whiskey still tinged my breath. Aunt Chris shared her libations with us on more than one occasion that summer. I gave in more often than my cousin. I guess I wasn’t as smart.

That’s just one more thing grandmother didn’t know.