While We're At It

 Samuel's outfit was another revisit. I cannot tell a lie. I love being able to revisit these cute little outfits and these cute little pictures. Look at those darling boys of mine!

William and Ethan (cousin): July 2006

Samuel: July 2012

Miss Fourth of July

Marie, July 4, 2009

Once upon a time I made a cute bandanna skirt and just happened to find cowboy boots in just the right size for my darling, ever willing to pose, little (almost) two year old.

Anne, July 4, 2012

 Three years later we resurrected the skirt and boots, spiffed them up with a new shirt and threw them on our newest (almost) two year old.

 We tried our DarNdEsT, but in true Anne-style she 

would

 not

pose. 

(Do you love her popsicle face, too?) 

She's BusY, 

she's mEsSy, 

she's pLayFuL, 

she's fIesTy, 

she's AnNe. 

And she doesn't smile for the camera. 

Usually.

Summing up June

 We welcomed June in with William's last day of kindergarten. It was a welcome day. We were all ready to be done driving from Layton to Clinton every day. I will forever be grateful for our friend and neighbor, Megan, for helping me out with getting William to and from school after we moved. It was hard enough getting out there once a day. Doing it twice would have been impossible.

 Marie was Samuel's little mommy, always eager to help in anyway that I'd let her. I still haven't convinced her to try changing a diaper yet. 

 Samuel tried out the famous jumperoo for the first time. He's a fan. 

 After a rare night when Samuel gave me a decent amount of sleep a friend sent me a text inviting us to join her at Kinnecott Copper Mine. I was feeling spontaneous so off we went. I love these kids and their mother.  

Thank goodness she is always (always, always, always) ready to lend a helping hand because an outing with all four children, one being a nursing baby (never mind her three), is not for the faint of heart.

Other than that, we spent June at home just existing. And let me tell you, even that can be hard work.

Gird Up Your Loins

I've never been one to be moved or comforted by the advice that "it could be worse". Knowing someone else has endured more than me or suffered differently than me does not give me the strength to endure my trials. However, knowing I am not alone in my trials, knowing that others have faced defeat and come out conquerors, knowing that faith can make us whole; that is inspiring to me. It builds my own faith and allows me to apply what they learned into my own situation.

The last year my heart has turned very closely to my ancestors that crossed the plains in the Martin handcart company.

My great-great-great grandfather, William Mellor, was 5 years old when his family left England and over the next six months made their way to the Salt Lake Valley. He was one of 7 living children. His sister Louisa kept an account of the trek. An excerpt from  her journal.

My mother, being still weak, finally gave up and said she could go no further. The company could not wait for her, so she bade my father goodbye and kissed each one of the children Godspeed. Then my mother sat down on a boulder and wept. I told my sister, Elizabeth, to take good care of the twins and the rest of the family, and that I would stay with Mother. I went a few yards away and prayed with faith that God would help us, that He would protect us from devouring wolves, and asked that He would let us reach camp. As I was going back to where my mother was sitting I found a pie in the road. I picked it up and gave it to my mother to eat, and after resting awhile we started on our journey, thanking God for the blessings. A few miles before we reached camp we met my father coming out to meet us. What a joyful meeting that was! We arrived in camp at 10:00 p.m. o'clock. Many times after that Mother felt like giving up and quitting; but then would remember how wonderful the Lord had been to spare her so many times, and offered a prayer of gratitude instead. So she went on her way rejoicing while walking the blood-stained path of snow.

God is real. He is there. He watches over each of us. Our paths are different but they are all, in their own way, blood-stained. And He is there, ready and waiting to provide us a miracle, that perfect something to get us back on our feet and encourage us to gird up our loins. He can't and won't take our burdens away, that is not why we are here. He will make them lighter, though, and through Him we will always have enough in us to take another step.

How grateful I am for that strength and that ability to keep walking. My burdens, in comparison, are small, but they are mine and they are real; and thanks to my Savior, I have strength enough to endure all that comes my way.

Why should we mourn or think our lot is hard?
Tis not so; all is right.
Why should we think to earn a great reward
If we now shun the fight?
Gird up your loins; fresh courage take.
Our God will never us forsake;
And soon we'll have this tale to tell-
All is well! All is well!

Keeping It Real

Can I be honest for a minute? I mean, really honest.

I'm tired.

I am sitting here writing this post with the mess of dinner behind me in the kitchen. My baby is whining in his crib instead of sleeping, just like he has done all day long. My daughters are in bed without stories because none of us were behaving well enough to deserve them. My boy is fine, and after listening to me cry to Brandon, he (my boy) reassured me that I am pretty good at being a mommy.

Thank goodness someone thinks so.

I'm just tired.

I'm tired of living in someone else's house. I want this house to feel like mine. I want to paint and hang pictures. I want to make curtains and choose pillows. I want to bake with my children in our beautiful spacious kitchen. I want to sew in my craft room/office. I want to sit in their rooms and read stories. I want to play my piano until my fingers hurt.

Most days I am lucky to get a shower.

I'm tired of not knowing if my baby is getting enough milk. Is he fussy because he's hungry? Is he hungry because he's growing? Fenugreek? Pump? Formula? Simethicone? Chocolate? Dairy?

I'm tired of losing the same 5 pounds over and over again and not fitting in my regular clothes, yet if I do the age old method of reducing calories and exercising the baby gets fussy and we're right back to  "Is he getting enough milk?"

I'm tired of going to church and having my 6 year old act up because he doesn't know anybody and misses his friends. And inside, I want to throw the same fit because I don't know anybody and I miss my friends.

I'm tired of sweeping up crumbs and doing the dishes. I'm tired of planning menus and grocery shopping. I'm tired of callings that take my husband away from me.

I'm tired of looking at William's half assembled dresser in our storage room. The dresser that I bought and began assembling a month after we moved in.

I'm tired of the wild side of my two year old. She hits. She bites. She screams. She gives herself baths right after I get her dressed. She paints with her food and throws the rest on the floor.

And my 4 year old? She decided she didn't like the hair on a doll I brought back from Russia so she cut it off. Then she thought it looked ugly and asked me to fix it. I'm tired of being the one that is expected to fix everything.

My world is moving faster than I can and demanding more than I have.

I'm. Just. tired.

Am I blessed? Without a doubt.
Do I know this too shall pass? Of course.

But I had to be honest. I had to get it out.

Because this is me and my life right now. And there is something about writing it down and letting it out that is incredibly healing.

Plus, I need to remember this "Friday".
It will make "Sunday" all the more glorious.

Oh, Anne.

Night,

after night,

after night,

we have to remember to check on Anne and tuck her back into bed.

We're pretty sure she plays and plays until she finally just collapses.

Notice that her "blankie" always goes on her nightly travels with her.
Silly girl.

Indicative

I came out of Relief Society today (where I botched playing the closing hymn, my hands are so out of practice) to find a circle of people around William, who was in tears. He had been moved to a different Primary class and was heartbroken.

The move to our new house did a number on his desire to go to church and his attitude at church. He misses his old friends tremendously. He has made a new friend (he plays with him every afternoon) across the street and that friend is in his Primary class. Slowly but surely he has begun to adjust and now looks forward to class with this friend.

Then today they turned his world upside down. Again. I spoke to his new teacher for a few minutes, who reassured me that he could be in whatever class he felt most comfortable in. One of my other neighbors assured me that her son (who William has played with once) is in the new class, so it would be okay. I left rather confused about the entire situation. Why did they move him anyway?

Thankfully, Brandon had witnessed the change when he was out in the hallway with the baby (but not in such a way that he could intervene). July marks a new quarter for record keeping, so new rolls were just printed. William's name had been added to a different class than where he had been assigned on our first Sunday so the secretary decided to move him to the class where his name was on the roll. Seriously?! 

At dinner last night we reassured William that he could stay in the same class, he didn't need to change. His look of gratitude was priceless.

When everything was settled with William and he was reassured and happy, Marie piped in with a cheery voice, "I switched classes in Primary today."

All I could do was laugh.

If that's not telling of the difference in their personalities ...