Naptime

while todlers sleep, mommies can play. or read, as the case may be. but if they're holding sleeping babies, and typing with one hand, they cannot capitalize their letters. fyi.

typical naptime:

i love it. i need it, actually.

kindle

scriptures

post-it notes

blue pen

blue pencil

the great gatsby, fitzgerald

falling to heaven, ferrell

cell phone

i love her one naked foot ... i can't keep socks on those tiny feet. she doesn't mind.

she loves it too.

I love breakup songs best.

I hope this isn't indicative of some deep-rooted problem in my psyche, but I love breakup songs. I have an entire mix of them in my car, and I keep thinking I need to make more because there are SO many good ones. Something about breakup songs is just so real and honest. I don't know ... I just love them. There are some I can hardly listen to because they remind me so clearly and exclusively of certain boyfriends. But I love the ones that don't remind me of anyone. Eldon introduced me to this one. He knows me well. :)

"Somebody That I Used To Know"
(feat. Kimbra)

[Gotye:]
Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you felt so happy you could die
Told myself that you were right for me
But felt so lonely in your company
But that was love and it's an ache I still remember

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
Like resignation to the end, always the end
So when we found that we could not make sense
Well you said that we would still be friends
But I'll admit that I was glad it was over

But you didn't have to cut me off
Make it like it never happened and that we were nothing
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough
No you didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records and then change your number
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know

Now you're just somebody that I used to know
Now you're just somebody that I used to know

[Kimbra:]
Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over
But had me believing it was always something that I'd done
But I don't wanna live that way
Reading into every word you say
You said that you could let it go
And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know

[Gotye:]
But you didn't have to cut me off
Make it like it never happened and that we were nothing
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough
And you didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records and then change your number
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know

Snapshot Of This Moment

Low lighting.
Noelle sleeping on my lap.
My journal, the Ensign, The Happiness Project, a post-it notepad, and a highlighter sprawled out on the bed beside me.
Eldon and Chiara out on a daddy daughter date.
A silent house.
Cold water bottle on my bedside table.

Life is so, so good.

How I Make Her Feel

I have a three-year-old who personifies an exhausting combination of energy, high maintenance, and intelligence. Every button I have, she pushes. In fact, I think she creates buttons just to push them. She's not a bad child - quite the opposite. She's funny and sensitive to the feelings of others. She is tender-hearted and outgoing. But lately she's been pushing me to the brink of complete motherly depletion.

There's a story about Saint Terese who didn't enjoy the company of one of her fellow nuns. Everything about this woman's character seemed to grate on Terese to the point where she felt no love for her at all. Saint Terese was so bothered by this - not by the other nun, but by her own response to that nun - she determined to treat her as if she were always happy to see her. She doted on her, gave her undivided, kind attention, and smiled at her to the point that the other nun actually asked her why she loved her so much. Little did she know Saint Terese was simply exercising all the virtue she could muster to even tolerate her company.

I don't want to sound like my response to my own child is similar to Saint Terese's. I love my daughter and find daily delight in being her mother. But there are moments when I get frustrated with her.

Today is a perfect example. I asked a friend to come over to chat with me while I finished up some projects around the house. I cleaned out my girls' closet and did the dishes from the day before. While my friend was here, my daughter decided she wanted everything she wasn't allowed to have. When I told her my answer was no - for the hundredth time - she threw a tantrum like I'd never seen. She yelled, flailed her arms, spit at me (a definite first), kicked her door, and wept giant tears. I wasn't feeling very much delight right then. Like none.

So I've been thinking how to stop a child from acting that way. Certainly she's never seen my husband or me throw a tantrum, so the problem is not following a negative example. She's unusually intelligent, and I know she gets frustrated easily when her understanding is enough to recognize a problem but not enough to find a solution. And she's highly sensitive to moods. She can perceive positive or negative emotions in other people very quickly. Which makes me wonder if she's sensing - and responding to - my own frustration with her.

That may sound obvious to some of you, but this is what I've decided to do about it:

I'm going to follow Saint Terese's example and act as if my child delights me every minute of the day. When she's happy I'm going to be thrilled about it, and when she's sad I'm going to smother her with love. I'm not going to be fake ... well, sometimes it will be fake. This morning the last thing I wanted to do while she was screaming was take her in my arms and tickle her neck with kisses. But nonetheless, I'm going to remove all evidence of my own frustrations or fears (how am I going to parent this child??) and show her only love. Every minute of every day. Love love love.

Discipline can still happen. It needs to happen. But the angry look on my face while I'm telling her she needs to sit in the "trouble chair" doesn't need to happen. The angry tone of my voice doesn't need to happen. And certainly the exclamations of irritation don't need to happen. "For the love!" "Oh my gosh, child." "Seriously?" Those simply have to be eradicated from my mothering moments.

My new guideline is this: "What can I do in this situation to make her feel loved?"

And then I'm going to exercise all the willpower and self-control I possess and do whatever that is.