What's a Family For?

“Sometimes we want to have growth without challenges and to develop strength without any struggle. But growth cannot come by taking the easy way. We clearly understand that an athlete who resists rigorous training will never become a world-class athlete. We must be careful that we don’t resent the very things that help us put on the divine nature.” Elder Paul V. Johnson of the Seventy, General Conference, April 2011

His tiny face is dominated by the largest eyes I have ever seen on a baby and the thick shock of shiny yellow hair is a delightful contrast and surprise. His perfect head lay against the pillow on my lap, so that we could interact face to face while we rocked. It was our first opportunity to have a real interview – just Grammy and Little Boy Blue.

Of course, I had lots of questions and I asked them, but he was reticent to answer just yet. He knew I suppose, that his recollections of the home he’d left a week before were too brilliant for my dull brain; I might explode if he revealed too much. So instead, he kept his intelligence under wraps -- only he couldn’t keep the glow of it from spilling out of those huge, black eyes. I rocked, basked in his glory, and took up the slack in the conversation.

Grandma banter covers a lot of ground. For instance, Little Boy Blue is now oriented to nearly every Merit Badge. (I think he’s excited about Cubs.) Yet for all the talk, most of our bonding time was spent silently appraising one another; just staring; just considering the possibilities.

I must admit, when Old meets New like that, the bulk of “possibilities” are on a grand scale: what grandma doesn’t wonder if she is holding a future President of the United States or the genius who may cure cancer? On the other hand, and maybe because I had just attended Sir Henry’s memorial and graveside service, I realized with a slight shudder that “the possibilities” also included a great deal of loss and pain.

All of a sudden, I wanted to protect my Little Boy Blue from real life. And then I wanted to protect his parents. My imaginary umbrella grew and grew until it ballooned big enough to cover an entire group of people – the ones I call “family”.

What really saddened me momentarily was the thought that my umbrella was not made of some heavy Indian rubber, but was more of a parasol made of paper. Nothing I could do would ever shield my loved ones, especially Little Boy Blue, from the risks associated in the Plan of Salvation, nor would/should I desire such a thing. The prospect of growth, of growth all the way to perfection, over-ruled my natural instinct to squelch trouble and tribulation from having their sway.

And then there’s my baby girl, who will be married next Saturday. Talk about risk! I envision she and her Little-Boy-Blue-nephew jumping feet-first into very deep water, while I wait, somewhat helplessly, at pool’s edge to see how long before they come up for air. Each of them are surrendering all illusion of control, giving themselves wholly into the hands of others, with no other strategy or defense or protection other than love.

With that picture, the things I had been studying and musing about recently, finally all came together and sunk deep into my heart. The essence of it is this:

The rain and the sun in Father’s Plan of Happiness, his Plan of Redemption, our tailor-made Plan of Spiritual Maturation, is obviously not about deflecting pain. It’s about absorbing pain; greater and greater amounts of it. With each new addition to our family, through marriage or birth, the risks may be increasing, but from where else comes the joy of progress? Family life is not a way of hiding or shading from suffering, but a way of suffering purposefully. No family will ever come into being, or become ultimately successful,  who doesn’t accept that reality and relinquish control over life and one another, which, in fact, is precisely how love wins in the end and fills our lives with the peace and abundance we all crave.

I wanted to explain all that to Little Boy Blue as he lay on my lap: I wanted to teach him that instead of fearing “the possibilities”, he should completely and enthusiastically embrace them, even relish them, and that we, his family, would love him through every eventuality. But just as I was formulating the words, those great, dark eyes lit up, a quiver of a smile passed his lips, and I heard a petite voice say, “It’s alright Grammy, I’ll take good care of you. It’s gonna be so much fun.”

Related Musings:
Imagine a Life
What You Don't Have of Have Lost

Galaxy Quest: Advice for Parents Who Want to Know

It feels so good to be with my grown children back in the USA this week. My oldest son and his family have been spoiling me rotten, and as I was wrestling this morning with a title for this musing, I remembered our perfectly American Saturday night last night: a mega bowl of popcorn and a popular movie silly. "Galaxy Quest."

My son gave me a stack of photos yesterday – you know, the old fashioned kind, the ones you have to hold in your hand or paste in a scrapbook to look at. He had come across a roll of film and, curious about the contents, had it developed. The pictures were from Christmas 1992. What struck and relieved me most, as I sorted through these hard-copy memories, was that no one posed with their new toy like a fishermen beside his trophy tuna. Instead, in every picture, my children were hugging somebody.

To have physical evidence that my kids really loved and appreciated each other as children, and that we -- all the adults in their lives -- found joy in their childhood, meant a lot to me, for my memory is aging and I am well aware that I cannot trust it completely anymore: either I get little too rose-colored, like an old love-letter curling slightly at the edges, or I become critical of my past, like an old epistle, read so often it takes on too much meaning.

There are some things, however, I remember with absolute clarity. This is the biggest: I LOVED being a mommy. I loved every stage of being a mommy: infants, toddlers, elementary school, tweens, teens, young adults: bring it on. However, I am sure now that I am different now. That is what going through all those stages does to a woman. Grandma’s hair turns silver so that her children will know she is different; so that, as adults, they will forgive and revere her. The wiry head is a lopsided crown proclaiming: I did it. I was imperfect, but I did it.

Two-Plus (today's name for the precious person who married my second son), is about to give birth to her first baby. Evidently, at her recent baby shower, a well-meaning mommy-peer, who is also new to the ranks, gave her this earnest piece of advice: Do not listen to anyone else’s ideas about parenting. It’s your baby, and no one else can tell you how to parent. My darling Two-Plus was amazed.

Her friend’s green-counsel reminds me of a Jerry Seinfeld routine about helpful aliens parking their spaceship in the yard just as Dad is putting everything in the car for a family road-trip. Surrounded by too much luggage for the trunk, Dad says: ‘EVERYBODY STAND BACK. IT GOES IN A WAY ONLY I UNDERSTAND.’ ‘But Dad,’ you whisper, ‘they came from another galaxy! I think they know how to pack.’

I admit I am increasingly wrinkled, shrinking, and poofy, but I am not an alien. Whatever worthy advice I can offer younger mommies and daddies is because I am human too. It’s not because I was Mother-Extraordinaire, but because I was Mother-Pulling-Hair. I over-extended, over-expended, and over-expected. Most of my mistakes, the kids and I grew through, but some of them had consequences that echo in our lives today.... Buuuut if you aren’t interested in becoming the wiser-then-I-was (because the only “how-to” you trust is the book you wrote yourself) then all I can tell you is how it feels to live with the consequences.

I have, and will continue, to share my parenting experience (good and bad) at Musings and in other ways with younger mums and dads who want to know. But for today, standing here in the driveway, surmising all the bags and equipment you have yet to pack, my best advice is to go get some more. ADVICE that is. The parents who have earned their silver crown have a wealth of valuable information.

Toss the “feed-Baby-pureed-liver” prattle if you want (I'm not talking about heeding Know-It-Alls) , but listen for the meaningful stuff from meaningful people. Ask ‘em ('cuz the worthy ones won't necessarily tell you unless you ask) how they got across the galaxy, make notes, and then -- if I were you -- take a picture together. When younger people come to you for your experience someday, you’ll need proof that the kids were once short; natural color hair was normal; and -- though they have long since returned to the stars -- it was wizened, generous aliens who helped you sort the car for that family trip.

Muse with me: What's the best parenting advice you have ever received?

Related Musings:
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Musings On Our Relationships with Kiddos
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Cherry-ty (Over Chocolate) Never Faileth

Of course, if its a birthday we're celebrating, I should bake a cake. Or should I? Its been twelve years since my last attempt. And it wasn’t even for me, it was for the Relief Society--only Heaven and Sister T know why. “Providing refreshments” was at the time rock bottom on my ‘favorite-things-you’re-blessed-to-do-in-the- Church’ list. (Ask four years of Seminary students who still hold a grudge.)

I protested Sister C’s reminder about my Homemaking Food Committee assignment with a squeaky: “I don’t remember signing up...”

“Well, you did!” she said with a vehement flair. And I knew if Sister C said I did, well then, there it is.

“And since you like to bake, you can make something really chocolate… drippy…gooooooey…something wonderful!”

Hm. Well...I could follow a recipe as well as the next sister. I determined then to peruse the recipe books in-between my responsibilities as Stake YW President that week, which were many: “Honoring Our Teacher’s” fireside, Stake Scripture Mastery, Youth Dance, Stake Youth Council, two ward visits, Stake Auxiliary Training, Stake Council, and a Laurel luncheon...all before the end of the month!

And now. I hafta bake a cake.

Instead of the Ensign at lunchtime, I poured over dessert magazines, but they all seemed too conservative in the drippy and gooey categories. As D-Day drew near and my list of rejected recipes grew, my little dream of wowing the Relief Society began to wane. At this point there was only a couple choices left me: hope for a tragedy which would excuse me from the assignment (it would have to be a bad one to elicit Sister C’s sympathies) or.... fake it.

Since my imagination was so entertained elsewhere in the execution of my "real" church responsibilities, I decided to forgo orchestrating a sudden adversity, which meant I’d have to pretend to be the culinary-genius-of-all-time.

Betty Crocker cake mix. Heinz “Homemade Style” Whipped Icing. Canned Cherry Pie filling. Cool Whip. As I tossed each ingredient into the grocery cart I wondered if I really was being deceptive and if I’d need to confess it at my next temple recommend interview.

It was 4:15 p.m. when I returned to the kitchen. Homemaking Meeting was less than 3 hours away with 8 people and a cat to feed between now and then and three different kids to pick up from two different schools. Resentment filled my otherwise Christian heart. It was at this point in my vulnerable physic that my mother-in-law, still ignorant of my illustrious contribution to the food committee, breezed through the kitchen.

“We’ve got Homemaking tonight, Mona.”

The open cupboard hid my expression.

I'd heard about the agenda for Homemaking Meeting that night... there was some kind of book review, and then they were making either door-stoppers that look like milk cows or bath oil bottles with dried weeds inside. WHY in the world was I even going?

The cake. Remember?

I crated out the bowls and beaters. Oh boy, I sighed...I don’t even know what I’m making.

It must have been a loud sigh because suddenly my husband, Dale, was perched beside me. As I cracked the eggs he was watching closer than I was and noticed a “large chunk” of shell disappearing into the chocolate swamp. He pointed it out. My finger dove in.

“No! No!” he protested. “Let me! I saw exactly where it went.”

With the delicacy of an archeologist he dredged the murky mass of powder, egg white, and oil. After several unsuccessful attempts to raise the unwanted shell--and amidst visions of Sister C biting into it--we gave up.

“The sisters need calcium,” I assured my husband.

“And it was just a tiny piece,” he agreed.

I’ll admit, my negative feelings had blossomed to the point now where the presence of the hidden shell in my “exquisite” dessert gave me more a touch of glee than remorse.

Dale took over. While he whipped up the cake mix, I stirred together the Cool Whip and chocolate pudding.

“Oh oh,” I breathed, “this doesn’t look right.”

“Did you make up the pudding first?”

“Was I supposed to?”

The bowl of white topping was overwhelmed by the dry grains of chocolate. It took a lot of muscle, paper towels, and fancy spooning but I finally had a frothy looking cream.

Dale was the first to taste it. “Kinda grainy,” he said carefully.

My taste buds confirmed his verdict. Oh well, I decided, I’d use it as a filling instead of a frosting...it’ll go with the egg shell. I continued to froth, brow furrowed, as I was now forced to reinvent my masterpiece.

Suddenly my peripheral vision caught the whoosh of a wooden spoon going from mix to mouth and back again. I squealed.

“Dale! What if the sisters knew?!”

Then I thought of Sister M, the member of the Primary presidency who was suffering strained relations with my Bishopric-counselor husband over a point of doctrine in the Primary handbook.

“I’ll wait till Sister M takes a bite and then tell her your “cooties” are in it!”

That little thought gave us both a good giggle and--for a moment--I felt optimistic. Perhaps this thing would work out after all.

Our joviality was interrupted however, as we both noticed the clock, and I hurried out the door to pick up the kids. Dale seemed to be enjoying frothing so much, I felt confident he could handle actually transferring the batter to cake pan to pre-heated oven by the time I got home.

And he did. Except there was one out of four cake pans left empty on the counter when I returned.

I plunked down my purse. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know -” (how do men look simultaneously guilty and innocent?) “the batter only filled three pans.”

“But I doubled the whole thing!”

“I know. It must be the mix?”

Aghhhhhhhhh!

“You overfilled the pans!” I accused.

“No! No! I didn’t!” he cried in defense.

“You must have!”

“No! No!” he continued to plead, but it was too late. As Chief Baker, I had opened the oven door. And there they sat in all their golden glory: three rounded cakes pushing over pan edges, huge bloated mound in the center of each. It was too much to bear.

“How?!” I whined full bore, “How will I make enough now to feed all the poor sisters? And how can I layer layers that are too round on the top? This -- is -- terrible! And I don’t even want to go!”

I dismissed myself to the bathroom for a long shower. By the time I was done, both I and the cakes had cooled, and my good mother-in-law was leaving for the stake center. I’d never get to the meeting on time now, so I sent Mom on her way with a promise to follow cake-in-hand. What kind of cake was anybody’s guess.

As I sat in a stupor, stumped by the sight of the cakes-turned-mole-hills, my tainted white knight offered to rescue me once more: "Why not slice each cake in half and fill it with the chocolate cream?” he said.

And then...

Methought I saw in my mind’s eye……..a three-layer cake...each layer filled with a somewhat grainy froth...finished on the outside with store-bought fudge icing...chocolate syrup swirled on the top, cascading down the sides, running into a mote of cherry pie filling at the base. Hmmm.

Personal revelation is a mysterious thing.

We began. No team of pastry chefs ever worked with such vision. Dale cut. I plopped and swirled. And something...some strange and wonderful something...began to rise from the yellow plastic plate.

It was -----

awful. Sagging on the sides, billowing with brown goo like a little volcano.

“The cherries on top are a nice touch.”

Dale’s fake compliment must have been an attempt to assuage his conscience, as this last stroke of culinary genius had been his.“Let me take it to the church,” he said.

I winced as he carefully maneuvered out the door, leaving a dribble of cherry juice in his path. There was nothing to do but don my jammies and sulk in bed. They were sure to revoke my D.U.P. membership. I was so UNworthy!

Dale wisely avoided me post-mission-accomplished, but my mother-in-law did not. She burst in with that “I’ve-just-been-to-a-historically-glorious meeting-and-you-missed it!” look. I endured her happy report, waiting gloomily for the punch line about Sister C choking on an egg shell.

“And honey!” her voice run up the scale with excitement. “The sisters LOOOVED Mona’s Chocolate Cherry Cake! EVERYONE wants your recipe!”

My mouth was agape. They’d given it a TITLE.

It may be true that our standards are higher than some others, but it is also true that no one judges more hopefully of our weaknesses, and no one is more patient while charity does its perfecting work, than the chocolate-loving women of the Relief Society.

(1 Cor. 12:26, D&C 25:9 )

Check this out! Stephanie, in addition to being a fabulous "Nephi's Wife" in With Mine Own Hand, makes fabulous cakes and all things sweet! AND! I just discovered we have the SAME BIRTHDAY!