I can remember the day I went back to work.  While still dark outside, I crept into Ariana’s room tastefully decorated in vintage-style Beatrix Potter and placed my precious seven-week-old daughter in her crib.  (She typically slept in the carseat by my side during the night).  I carefully covered her up with my “blankie”–a tattered blue and white checked quilt with prairie-point edging that I had received as a gift when I was a newborn.  I knew that my absence was unavoidable–you can’t eat love–and I hoped that this blanket that I had slept with for nearly thirty years would be the next best thing to having me there.

The northeast corner of 45th South and Riverboat Road in Salt Lake City.  That’s where I was sure I was going to die of a broken heart.  As I neared my office, a passage from one of my favorite books came to mind and reassured me that I would survive:

The ties that bind us to life are tougher than you imagine, or than anyone can who has not felt how roughly they may be pulled without breaking. You might be miserable without [Ariana], but even you could live; and not so miserably as you suppose. The human heart is like india-rubber; a little swells it, but a great deal will not burst it. If little more than nothing will disturb it, little less than all things will suffice to break it. As in the outer members of our frame, there is a vital power inherent in it. (Agnes Grey by Anne Bronte)

I endured that day and others like it.  And somewhere along the way, Ariana and I reached a peaceable compromise to nursing, she stopped crying, started pooping in the potty, and has developed into one of the kindest, most amazing people I know.

As the next ten years will inevitably slip by just as quickly as the prior ten, this digital time capsule will help me remember my favorite firstborn as she is today:

1. The Harry Potter books, all seven of them.  She read the series multiple times over the summer and only after parental “encouragement” has she started in on a new series–The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe.
2. Legos.  Harry Potter Legos, to be exact, but she loves all kinds and spends hours and hours building and rebuilding.  I love that.
3. An American Girl catalog.  But we’d have to beat Dad to the mailbox; the catalog never makes it safely into the house when he gets the mail.
4. A bowl of homemade soup.  Ariana loves soup, and last week while I was preparing dinner, she waxed poetic about the pan of steamy goodness:   “A bowl of soup is a peace offering to winter.”
5. Denim capris and an Aeropostale t-shirt.  Cousin Claire’s hand-me-downs are Ariana’s preferred garb–nothing fancy or feminine.
6. A wallet full of money.  She’s our little cheapskate with dreams of becoming the world’s youngest real estate tycoon (and owner of a cupcake shoppe).
7. A composition notebook and a big box of crayons.  As author and artist, Ariana is gifted in her ability to write and create.
8. A “pass along” card.  Admirably, Ariana is not afraid to share her beliefs with others.  During the first week of school, one of her classmates was taking the Lord’s name in vain several times a day.  When she heard him use profanity at recess, Ariana chased him down and kindly asked him to stop.  ”I felt like everyone was looking at me run after him, but I knew that I needed to ask him to stop saying those things.”  You go, girl!  May we all be so bold in standing up for that which we deem sacred.
9. A “paino” festival ribbon.  Ariana’s unintentional misspelling of “piano” has become a running joke in our home.  She doesn’t enjoy practicing “pain-o,” but I’d include one of the ribbons she’s won to remind her that good things come to those who work.
10. An autographed copy of Good Eats by Alton Brown.  She’s his biggest fan.

Ariana, I couldn’t be more proud of who you are and what you are becoming.

A state fair/carnival-theme birthday party with the Conway cousins (and Grandma/Grandpa)

Simple.  Comforting.  Love in a bowl.

When a friend, sensing an unspoken need for help, brought dinner in a few weeks ago, I was embarrassed.  I felt guilty.  I tried to talk her out of it.

Surely her schedule was just as busy as mine, her kids just as needy, her laundry just as dirty.

She didn’t ask if she could bring dinner in.  She insisted.

A true friend.

Kind.  Thoughtful.  Charitable.

The next time I sense that someone needs help, I’m not going to “ask,” because they’ll invariably say “no.”  I’m just going to “do.”

Wanted: A nanny for three adorable children

If you want this choice position

Have a cheery disposition

Rosy cheeks, no warts!

Play games, all sort

You must be kind, you must be witty

Very sweet and fairly pretty

Take us on outings, give us treats

Sing songs, bring sweets

Never be cross or cruel

Never give us castor oil or gruel

Love us as a son and daughter

And never smell of barley water

If you won’t scold and dominate us

We will never give you cause to hate us

We won’t hide your spectacles

So you can’t see

Put toads in your bed

Or pepper in your tea

Hurry, Nanny!

Many thanks

Sincerely,

Ariana, Vivi & Tad Tolbert

Oh, dear Claire, our very own Mary Poppins.  You weren’t a magical answer to a clever newspaper advertisement.  You were an answer to prayer.

The children miss you, but most of all, I miss you.  You made our month-long vacation to Utah truly that–a vacation!  (Except for the week that you were at BYU Volleyball Camp.)

You bathed my children, changed poopy diapers, wiped poops and peeps (Vivi go’ed!), played with them (the kids, not the poops & peeps), fed them, put them down for naps, tended them while your mom and I went on frozen yogurt and quilt shop excursions, and most of all, you loved them.

My sweet, beautiful niece, thank you for helping to restore my sanity.  You are, like, practically perfect in, like, every way!  TRUE FACT!

“Knock, knock” at the front door.

“Who’s there?” I wondered aloud as Bryan went to answer it.

“Tad!?!” he replied as he entered the kitchen with an alarmed look on his face and diaper-clad baby Tad in his arms.

Somehow, Tad had escaped from the house and was found wandering half-naked on the sidewalk outside the front of our home by two strangers (angels?).  Tad could have easily stepped into the street and been hit by one of the many speeding cars that zoom along the busy road bordering our house.

Freaked out, I checked every door and tried every lock.  The only clue to his means of escape was an interior door from the house to the garage that was slightly ajar, likely from my several trips back and forth to the deep freeze as I prepared dinner.  Oddly enough, upon further investigation, I also discovered that the main garage door was wide open.  ”Yikes!” I thought.  I was certain that it had been closed earlier.

As I pressed the button to close the garage door, Tad toddled toward me and excitedly babbled, “Button! Button!”  He then squeezed past me, scrambled atop an unsightly mound of shoes just inside the door to the garage, scaled a shoe box that was leaning vertically against the wall, pushed the button, and reopened the garage door.

Mystery solved.

Shoes and box removed.

Mental note made: “Tad cannot be trusted.”

Prayer uttered: “Thank you for keeping my baby safe!”

And that was the end of the joke, or so I presumed, until a letter addressed to me arrived in the mail two days later.

Tearing open the envelope bearing the official seal of the “Texas Department of Child Protective Services,” my clammy hands trembled, my forehead glistening with beads of nervous sweat, and throat instantly filled with a putrid pool of vomit.

“If this is one of Bryan’s jokes, I’ll dismember him!” I seethed.

But then I reconsidered, knowing that a cruel prank would be infinitely better than an official investigation of my (many) parental deficiencies.

Frantically scanning the letter, Relief washed over me as I realized that it was simply an ironically-timed request for a statement of reference on behalf of friends seeking to become foster parents.

Bad joke, Tad.  Very bad joke.

I groggily croak: “I love you more.”

But being the competitive sort, he trumps me: “I love you most.”

And so it has been for the last five years, until a few nights ago.

Vivi had charmed her way between us that evening, claiming her spot smack dab in the middle of our queen-sized bed.  You see, like the Veela from Ariana’s favorite Harry Potter books, Vivi has magical powers of persuasion over her daddy.  With a simple smile and the bat of her baby blues, she can pretty much get whatever she wants.  And in case you’re wondering, yes, I’m more than a little jealous.  And thus is was that evening.

Bryan whispers in Vivi’s right ear: “Tell mom: I love her.”

Vivi whispers to Mom: “Dad loves you.”

Mom whispers in Vivi’s left ear: “Tell Dad: I love him more.”

Vivi whispers to Dad: “Mom loves you more.”

Bryan whispers to Vivi: “Tell mom: I love her most.”

Vivi pauses and a shy smile creeps across her face as she catches on to our little game.

Vivi triumphantly whispers to me: “Dad loves me MOST!”

Yeah.  That’s what I thought!

While I have not given up the hope of returning to quilting someday, at this point, it’s just too dangerous to have Baby Tad in the craft room with me while I’m sewing.  The iron, rotary cutters, scissors, etc., etc. pose too much of a temptation for my busy boy.  Fortunately, crocheting is portable and can be done on the couch while he plays with safer toys.  It’s also a wonderful way to pass the time while waiting for Ariana at piano lessons.

After much experimentation and searching, I’ve found my absolute FAVORITE pattern for the most perfect little baby booties.  I even came up with my own little flower embellishment for this sweet pair that, coupled with a little flower headband, are going to a baby shower tonight.

Her needs are simple and her request, just one.  She just wants a friend.  A real, honest to goodness, BFF.

I longed for the days when I could make the hurt go away with a Hello Kitty band-aid or a simple kiss.  I prayed for guidance to know how I could help Ariana not feel so lonely … how I could help her find a friend.

The answer to this prayer came unexpectedly …

A few weeks ago, Ariana came home from school, shoulders drooping from the weight of her backpack and the events of the day.  Oblivious, I started in on my usual boot camp drill sergeant routine.  But, with tears streaming down her face, Ariana waited for a pause and quietly said, “Mom, I have such hard days at school, I have no friends, and then I come home and you immediately start in on me, too.”

Suddenly, she wasn’t the only one with tears streaming down her face.

I had, at that moment, some sense for what Joseph Smith must have felt when he read in the Bible from James 1:5. ”Never did any [declaration] come with more power to the heart of [a mother] than this did at this time to mine. It seemed to enter with great force into every feeling of my heart. I reflected on it again and again.” (JS History 1:12)

Be the BFF.  That was my answer.

In the words of President Monson:  “It is in the home that hope is fostered or destroyed.  Our homes are to be more than sanctuaries; they should also be places … where the storm stops at the door, where love reigns and peace dwells.”  (October 1999 GC)

The storm stops at the door.  I love that.  And I want my children to feel that … to know that, no matter what kind of day they’ve had, no matter how friendless they feel, I am their BFF and that when they are home, they are safe.

Sadly, the reality is that my kids still do far too much time on the naughty spot for petty crime … for things that I should be much more patient about.  Vivi was sent there this morning because I took offense at how she asked for a peanut butter sandwich.  But, in the few moments that I’ve spent writing this, I’ve had several occasions when I could have lost my cool with my kids and didn’t.  Progress?  I choose to think so.

A mother’s kiss quieted the poor little guy’s sobs, so I hopped in the front seat and began chauffeuring to our destination. As I drove, I questioned Vivi about why Tad was crying.

She coolly explained, “His arm got hurt.”

Two things struck me about her answer.

First, he was strapped securely in his car seat. Were there back-seat hidden dangers lurking within arms reach that I had heretofore neglected to mitigate?

Second, she answered in the “passive voice.”

I’m a bit of a grammar nerd. That’s not to say that I have perfect punctuation or grammar… far from it. In fact, my trademark use (and some might accurately say “over-use”) of the ellipse (…) is, at best, unorthodox, and, at worst, flat out wrong. If my Business Writing professor from BYU (Professor Bell) were to read my blog, it would bleed red ink. In fact, I credit (blame) him for my heightened sensitivity to the “passive voice.” In the days before word processors and auto-grammar checking (yes, I’m THAT old), I got dinged on my papers time and time again for mis-using the passive voice. I also got marked down for being verbose. Hard to believe, I know.

Anyway, a passive construction occurs when you make the object of an action into the subject of a sentence. That is, whoever or whatever is performing the action is not the grammatical subject of the sentence.

Example: His arm got hurt.

The primary reason why grammarians (and mothers) frown on the passive voice is that we are left guessing at the true meaning of the sentence.

Who hurt Tad’s arm?

How did his arm get hurt?

At times, use of the passive voice is accidental (as in case of my poorly written college papers), but it can also be employed as a sneaky tactic to hide blame or obscure responsibility.

When we arrived at our destination and I unbuckled Tad from his car seat, my suspicions were confirmed.

Needless to say, Vivi passed the afternoon in the quiet solitude of her room to avoid more aggressive consequences.

Inspired by her recent visit (more on that later) and buoyed up by her example of fearless finishing, I started AND finished a quilt for a baby shower I was helping to host … in one day. The Littles and I headed out to JoAnn’s at 11:00 a.m. Tuesday morning, got fabric (after overcoming a bit of analysis paralysis), made a couple more stops, returned home, ate lunch, and then I started in on the quilt shortly before 2:00 in the afternoon. I stopped long enough to deliver Ariana and a friend to All-City Choir practice at 4:00, was back at it by 4:30 and finished an hour later.

The quilt is no work of art. It is a simple blanket made of two fabrics–floral flannel and off-white chenille; I used the “wrong” side of the chenille on some of the blocks to give it more personality. The squares are 7 1/2″ finished; it has no batting; three pieces of rick rack sewn on diagonally across the quilt are the only “quilting” that holds the layers together; and I cheated on the “binding” by cutting the back 1″ bigger than the front on all sides and then folding it over twice to the front form a “faux” binding.

But for all its imperfections, finishing it was not only better than perfection … it was a MIRACLE!

But in the cute and innocent ways of any clever toddler, Tad can be “bad.” My eyeglasses are tweaked because he seems to be able to get to them, no matter how well I think I’ve hidden them; furniture, walls, window sills, and my tile floors are “decorated” with his graffiti; we’ve had to lock our trash can in the pantry because he threw away the remote to the television, which we didn’t realize until AFTER trash day came and went.

Still don’t believe me?

Well, yesterday, the kids and I visited a cool new grocery store in the area, and when it came time to load our purchases in the car, I couldn’t find my keys. I knew that I hadn’t locked them in the car. I distinctly remembered pushing the button on the remote to lock the car as we walked into the store.

I tore apart my purse, searched all of our pockets, took every purchase out of the cart, scoured every aisle of the store, had nearly every employee of the store scouring every aisle, had several other customers scouring every aisle, positioned Ariana and a clerk outside within view of the car in case someone found the keys and tried to steal my vehicle, said multiple prayers, and was on the brink of breaking down and having to try and reach BT (a nearly impossible task when he’s in church meetings) to help bail me out.

But then, as I was about to drown in the depths of despair, I heard a still small voice utter words in a language that only a mother can understand–”Ka. Ka.” (English translation = “Car. Car.”)

“What did you say?” I asked Tad.

“Ka, Ka,” he answered as he tugged at the collar of his shirt. And then the light bulb went on. I fished my hand down his onesie in a way that only a mother can, and to the relief of myself and everyone else around me, I extracted the missing keys.

I should have thought to look there sooner, as that is his trademark hiding place these days. In fact, just a few minutes ago as I was changing his diaper to put him down for a nap, I found a Polly Pocket and a few of her little clothes. And a few weeks ago, Ariana shot an amusing video of him dancing after putting dominoes down his onesie:

Never a dull moment, I tell you. Never a dull moment.