Idris

I should probably ask Max for Idris’s contact info instead of doing searches. Each time I search for him it just makes me more upset.

Idris was one of my many High School crushes. But unlike most of them, he actually had a crush on me. I didn’t figure that out until 9 years after the fact. Both of us were shy, and only let our attraction blaze thru occasionally. On the rare occasions he was feeling brave enough to flirt, I was often paralyzed by fear. And when I overcame my fear, he would be his normal shy self. Lovely little curse, isn’t it?

And we ran in different crowds. You can’t get too different when there are only 29 people in your class, but still . . He was Muslim, and wealthy. I was a missionary kid, and Christian. His set went to Europe for Christmas and summer, and I was lucky to get a new outfit for Christmas. He convinced his father to let him have the Mercedes Benz Graduation, while I had my own bike.

But it was a small school. Half of our classes were together.

Today I put his name into a Google search. I turned up article after article detailing why his family was on the terrorist watch list. It makes me so mad!

Idris Naserddin was the grandson of Ahmed Idris Nasreddin. His grandfather started a company called Nasco. It was the Nigerian equivalent of Nabisco. They made cookies, and crackers. In the Third World Economy of Nigeria, the company had a stabilizing influence on our region. It provided jobs, and a boost to the economy. I’m sorry, economic stability is the one thing that will bring poor third world countries into self-determining nations. Nasco was one of the reasons Jos, Nigeria was a stable, non-violent city. It wasn’t the only reason, that’s for sure, but it was a contributing factor.

And now I learn that Ahmed Naserddin was part of a banking group that Al Quida used as a front for their money. I’m not shocked, and I don’t doubt it one bit. Money in the third world runs in their tight circles. Bin Laden, and Naserddin were both living and working in areas with undependable post, police, electricity and phone. And they were banking in huge sums of money.

As a crush crazy teenager who put off term papers, I never bothered to learn how those things were taken care of. My parents went all night dinner parties with their Arabic banking friends because that’s what was expected when you were exchanging Dollars for Nira. I am sure that Ahmed Naserddin did socialize with Bin Laden.

But would Ahmed Naserddin agree with Bin Laden, and then have his two grandsons’ attend an American run Mission school in Nigeria? If Nasredin supported Bin Laden’s ideologies, wouldn’t he send his grandson’s to Islamic schools, have them schooled in the Qu'ran, instead of doing New Testament Survey they’re Junior year, and going to Chapel every Friday?

I asked my classmates about it. A few of them kept up with Idris over the years. Idris can’t come into the United States. His name is on a watch list. Family fortunes have been frozen. His grandfather was horrified to learn Bin Laden’s ideologies.

It’s guilt by association. And Idris can’t fight it. He has no way of clearing his name. I’ve watched over the years as more websites list his name.

Idris is an innocent guy. His grandfather might have banked with Bin Laden, but that doesn’t make him a terrorist. There are only a few people who have big money in the third world and are willing to bank. You can’t be too choosy.

But now as the Naserddin family continues to do business in Nigeria, whom can they invest their money with? They cannot hold their money in Swiss accounts, British, or American. By labeling their family terrorists, we have boxed them in. Their only choice is to continue as they have always done. When they might have made a shift to take their banking elsewhere, the American government forced them to turn instead to radicals, and extremist.

Guilt by association is a cruel and unusual punishment.

Suya?

A few weeks ago I experimented with a recipe for Suya. The flavor turned out great, but it had way too much peppa! The combination of garlic, ginger and paprika was good, but not like Nigerian Suya. Oh, I miss the Suya man! A couple of sticks of Suya and a cold mineral from the Canteen, nothing quite like it.

But I’ve been doing some googling for a Suya recipe, but everybody uses the same spices. How do I tone down the heat? I need to make this okay for kids. My 5 and 6 year old just refused to eat it. And without a good bit of rice to calm my mouth, I would have been in a bad place too.

Ah ah, how now am I going to make good chop-chop?

House Fairy Magic

House Fairy has invaded my house. And my routines that locked me in have suddenly become liberating once again. I actually want to vacuum the floors. Now that the kids have picked up their bedroom, and I can see my way thru, I want to clean that carpet for them.

We arrived at the babysitter’s this morning, and the kids went screaming to tell her two girls. House Fairy is going to come and give us a surprise if our room is clean! Does House Fairy come check your room? Does she leave Fairy Dust for you?

This morning, I walked into the kids’ room, and I actually could walk without looking. I didn’t have to navigate a course thru the sea of toys. The trash has been picked up off the floor. Last night Iona could pick out her clothes without arguing with the drawers. House Fairy suggested that we reduce their clothing down to 10 items of each. I wonder why I didn’t realize this. Iona was swimming in clothes. She had so many things; she couldn’t see what she wanted. The poor baby was overwhelmed.

I thought I was blessing my children with a lot of choices. Instead I was stuffing their drawers so full they couldn’t put stuff away. I was overwhelming them. Instead of being able to find their favorite clothing, Ian’s Lightening socks were lost in the mix, and Iona’s pretty shirts were stuffed somewhere in the back of her drawers. Their clothing wasn’t a blessing, it was a curse.

When the welcome letter comes from House Fairy, we are going to do the same thing with the toys. The excess that we’re keeping will go into storage. We’ll give other things away to goodwill. And in a month, we’ll rotate out the toys. I’ll bless the kids with toys they can actually find and play with. Their toy box will no longer be this big hulking mess in the corner.

I’m going to get them each their own special box to keep things in. They each have a toy box. But Ian likes to keep stickers, and Iona collects necklaces. They each need a place to keep these things. Probably House Fairy will give them these wonderful surprises. And I’ve got to go pick up some glitter sprinkles to be House Fairy Dust.

Gifts

Last night, a friend lamented how ill behaved her daughter has been of late. She’s currently attending a class, and her 20-month-old daughter is spending 12 hours a day in day care. When they arrive back at the studio apartment they are sharing for 6 weeks, the child grabs her hair, and pulls all the drawers out.

“You need to come down hard on her. Time in the corner big time!” I told her. “Do one minute, it will be hell for both of you.”

I could hear her agree over the phone.

“But she’s got so much to adjust to. She doesn’t see me.”

Yeah, we discussed the level of change for this six-week class. They are staying in a different city, far away from normal friends. This poor toddler is dealing with a huge level of change in her life, and that does explain why she is acting out more than usual.

“All that means is you have to make the boundaries tighter, stick to your guns more than usual,” I explained. “She’s had a ton of changes, and more than anything she needs you to be consistent with her, she needs to feel like you haven’t changed.”

“Yeah, but I want to spend quality time with her. I only get a few hours in the evening with her, and I don’t want to spend them disciplining her!”

“But what are you doing right now? Are you getting any quality time? You’re spending all your time cleaning up the messes she is creating.”

As parents, we do this quite often. In an effort to make life easier on our children we refrain from disciplining them. So that Ian can get thru church easier, I won’t insist that he sit in the pew. Then he starts flipping around in the church pew, turning somersaults, and hits his head against the wooden pew. Not only did he get anything out of church, neither did I, and he’s got a goose egg on his head to show for it.

When I had step-kids for the summer, I would create a home school curriculum for them. They were not overly impressed. The idea of spending summer break with me wasn’t high on their agenda, and let alone to spend it learning about Rome! For Pete’s sake, did I not understand that they had just gotten out of school!

The structure and expectation got us thru the summer. We had very few blow-ups, and most of the time, were able to have a lot of fun. There was time to go swimming, and play with friends. In between we drew pictures of roman homes, and designed togas.

Structure, discipline and consistency are what children need in times of high stress. When life is swirling out of control, and there are so many demands on our children, the best gift we can give them is time in the corner for a misdeed.

Panic Central

I nearly had a panic attack tonight. Well not even nearly. I could feel myself ramping up towards one, and I got control of it before it became bigger than I could handle.

Trying to make dinner with two tired, active children in the house is almost more than I can bear. First they were running all over the house. Ian was jumping on the couch. Iona was screaming at him. Then they ran to the bedroom. I heard water running in the bathroom, and Iona screaming once again. Jumping on my bed, jumping on their own bed, spilling unknown substances on the floor, all while I’m trying to cook.

But then I took some of my Bach Floral Remedy, and put them both in the corner. In a quiet voice I explained that Mommy couldn’t deal with a lot of noise. They were each under orders to sit in their corner until I said they could get out.

We made it thru dinner, and then quickly came baths. I don’t know if I like my bath time routine, or hate it. Being on edge of a panic attack, facing a long routine, one hour, is kind of hard, and yet kind of comforting. I don’t have to think about what I’m going to do, I know the routine. The children know the routine. And yet, it is hard to get thru because there are so many points where the kids can derail the process. Baby steps; take it one baby step at a time, I tell myself. Instead of worrying about 10 steps up, worrying about what’s going on right now.

Sometimes I hate my routines. I feel so Obsessive/Compulsive. Other times I need them desperately. If I’m in the middle of a panic attack, a routine is a balm for my soul. My mind is on overdrive, and I can’t figure out how to get things done. A routine is something I can just do on autopilot. Even though I’m overwhelmed, and hyperventilating, I can still get the kids in the bath, out of the bath, dressed, and into pj’s all without a second though. It calms me down to know what to do next. And just moving, continuing to live is often the cure for a panic attack.

Generosity

“Mom, are the black gloves mine?” Ian asked. I stepped over the backpack on the floor. I had to go pee, the inevitable when first arriving home. Black gloves? Hmm . . . they used to be Aaron’s, but now they are Ian’s.

“Yes, honey, they’re yours.” I plopped my work bag down in its spot, and turned on the light. Iona danced around, dropping her backpack right in the entryway. “Iona! Backpack!”

“Okay, I gave them to Carlos because he didn’t have any.”

Suddenly the whole world stopped as I thought about this comment. When I was naked you clothed me, Lord when did we see thee naked, and cloth you. My little guy had seen a friend in need, and given all that he could to help him. My heart brimmed with such wonder.

I recalled a story I heard. A group of children went on a field trip. While on the trip, a young girl saw another girl without a jacket. She took of her jacket and gave it to the child in need. The organizer was so angry. This child in his care now had no jacket. On arriving home, the organizer explained the predicament to the parent, very upset about the child’s behavior. Instead of becoming anger the mother asked the child, did the other girl really need the jacket? The child said she did, and the mother smiled. She explained, her child had done the right thing, in caring for another. And now they would go pick out a nice new jacket to replace the one that had been given away.

I took Ian in my arms and asked him, did Carlos need gloves? Ian nodded, looking at me with slight trepidation. I grinned and held him close for a moment.

But my bladder was calling, so I made a quick run to the bathroom. When I came back I grabbed my Bible, and found the passage in Matthew. I called Ian over to sit on my lap while I paraphrased the passage from Matthew. I explained that he had done what Jesus wanted us to do, he had clothed his friend.

He grinned at me, and went back to screaming at his sister.

We went to Target and picked up some gloves on sale. He got a pair of Sponge Bob ones, and a Scooby Doo. He’s pretty proud of himself.

I did impress upon him that Mommy doesn’t have a lot of money, so next time he wants to help someone, please ask first. I don’t know how much impressing I really did, but I tried to make it clear. Meanwhile he tried to turn somersaults on my couch! Why is every serious discussion happening while these kids are on the move! I think the only time they are still is while they sleep!

Early morning

This is my daughter getting dressed in the morning. Take note of the bath mat beneath her. At least she's out of bed!

Needless to say, we have a lot of mornings were she's not dressed in time for breakfast. Some of the time, even not dressed by the time I'm ready to go. Twice now I've actually taken her to school in her pj's.

A few days ago she waited until five minutes before I left the house to throw her clothing on. She managed to put her jeans on backwards. The back pockets were sitting right up front. I didn't say a word, and off we went. When I picked her up after school she had set everything in order. I asked her about it. She confessed that she had changed her jeans in P.E. Proudly she told me, and nobody said anything before, or after!

Hey, consequences. This morning she actually made it to the breakfast table! YAHOO!!

Kid Cartoon

The above are graphic representation of an activity known as "Going to Sleep."

Take note of the Garfield book she has, and the Calvin and Hobbes Book he is sporting. These accessories are necessary for the full experience.

It's a miracle

My child support check came in. It didn’t come in last month. Most of the time when he misses a month it’s because he’s changing jobs. And then I have a 2-4 month lag without child support.

Last month it didn’t come in. Each day I’ve been logging in to see if it’s there. As each pay check rolled in, I paid my tithe, counting every dollar to make sure nothing bounced. It’s been real rough.

We haven’t done without. There is food in the fridge, and all the bills are paid. The kids have clothes, and shoes. But we haven’t done anything extra, or purchased any of the fun stuff.

This last week I stared at the amount I wrote on the tithing check. It felt like I was going to break the bank. But I was reminded of another period when money was very tight. And some how every time I paid my tithing check, money came in from sources I didn’t expect and we made it thru. Our Heavenly Father has seen us thru times like this before, so I had to exercise my faith and trust. If I believe in Him, he’ll see me thru. Letting go of that little envelope was rough.

Then yesterday I got a call, “Charity, I’m not going to make it this month. Can I borrow $250?” I got on the computer and pulled up my bank account. Out came the calculator. Without dipping into my rainy day fund, was there anyway I could help? Yes, I could spare $160. I know this person, they wouldn’t ask for help unless it was absolutely desperate. And I’ve been on the other end. I’ve been the one who had to ask for help. It wrenched my heart out, and humiliated me. My pride was such a huge stumbling block. But I learned to humble myself and ask for help.

I took the check over last night. It wasn’t as much as was needed, but it was something. I know the relief that was felt. It’s a mixture of embarrassment, and relief. I went home thanking my Heavenly Father that I could help like that.

So, I was missing nearly $1000 from my monthly budget. (Yes, my child support is that much. He’s a doctor.) I not only made my bills, but I helped someone else out. This morning I logged onto the child support site. I said a tiny pray, Lord please let the money be there, it would really help.

Today the money was there.

I serve my children

“Go get us some barbecue sauce,” My skin flinched at the tone of voice. I wanted to spin around and look at the woman and her husband sitting behind me.

I watched the child, a girl about 9 or 10 go look at the condiments. She went down the line, past the plastic silverware, the straws, jams, mustard and such. Finally she came back, shrugging her shoulders. Her face carried a look of apprehension that seemed unwarranted.

“You have to go up to the counter,” barked the woman. The girl spun around to face the people behind the register. Her expression was one of nervous worry. She came back to the table, obvious needing directions. “Go to the counter! Can’t you do a simple thing?”

I heard a chair push back behind me. “I ask you to do a simple thing, and you can’t even do it.” The woman marched up, and got her barbecue sauce.

“You have to help us when we ask. You were being selfish,” I heard the man say. The self righteous, demanding voice accused the girl.

As the woman returned, the man informed her, “She was being selfish.”

They agreed together that the child was being selfish.

“I asked you to get me barbecue sauce. You ask me to make you strawberry milk. I don’t drink it.”

What nonsequitor logic!

“You don’t tell me thank you for doing your laundry and fixing your dinner.”

Housework isn’t done so someone will say thank you. I do housework to bless my family. Nothing says I love you like clean underwear and toilet paper. I make my house a great big hug of love for my children.

I don’t have children so they will serve me. I have children so that I can serve them. They are born that I might learn to give selflessly. My children own me more than I own my own self. My body and time belong to them.

Finding the fun

The late afternoon sun slants down on me. I spin, watching my shadow. My feet are long and graceful in the high heel boots. I turn, smiling, my arms flung out in a graceful pose. It feels pretty.

My son runs past me. “Toyota!” He screams as he pushes his small green truck down the incline. “Toyota! Toyota!” He and the car are pulled down the drive by gravity.

I look at my boots and laugh. I’m wearing the high-heeled boots, with my jeans tucked into my boots. The style looks amazing on young girls with slender legs, and narrow hips. But you need to be aware that the style makes your hips look large. Basically, a woman like me, with nearly no waist, and sizable hips, shouldn’t wear it. I’ve had two kids, and I don’t have the flat belly I had when I took ballet classes in college. I can’t do pirouettes, and jump. My ability to do crunches is greatly diminished.

It doesn’t matter. I still like to spin across the parking lot. It doesn’t matter if I look foolish; it puts a smile on my face.

For so long I took my orders from my ex. Sit and watch TV. I want to go running, come with me to the track; you should ride your bike. I didn’t stand up and say, no I like to dance in the parking lot, and skip along by a swollen creek bed. I let myself get swallowed up.

Yesterday my son and me went to Half Priced Bookstore. I got rid of some books and old stuff the kids no longer need, and picked up some new books. I was amazed, astounded really, I walked out with more money. With my love of books, this doesn’t happen very often. Then we went to Starbucks. Sitting there sipping my hot cocoa, and my son with his vanilla frapacino, we read our books. He burst out laughing over the adventures of Calvin and Hobbes, and I tried to pay attention to my Onitcha Market pamphlets. Outside rain came down like rainy season.

I am so sorry that I forgot to be myself in my marriage. I became every suggestion my husband made. Neither one of us could figure out why we were so unhappy. I was angry with him because I felt smothered. Meanwhile he had a two-fold problem. First of all, I was doing what he asked me to do, and yet he felt he had lost the carefree bohemian woman he had fallen in love with.

On my birthday he put it into very succinct words. “Charity, you are a delicate flower. Me, I’m a steamroller. I keep on rolling over you, and hurting you. And I try to stop. The more you get hurt, the closer I try to come. But any time I get close to you, I just steam roll right over you.”

So I’m a delicate flower. Last night after the party, we stopped at a park. It was dark, and still very wet. We ran over to the creek, and looked. My son jumped on the rocks. I tried to make out the path of the swollen water, to see how it had carved out the creek. We listened to the water rush past us. And then, cold, we ran back to our warm car!

Making Wise the Simple

The commandments of the Lord are pure, making wise the simple. More to be desired than gold, yea than much fine gold, and sweater than the honey of the honeycomb.

The Lord asks us to endure with patience, and faith the tribulations he sets before us. When we are patient and simply wait, there are many blessings we receive. We avoid worry, and the cramped up neck. We are able to stop and enjoy life, and enjoy the ride.

Truly, using patience makes wise the simple.

The Lord asks us to forgive, to turn the other cheek, and love our brethren. Only a fool takes offence when it is unintended, and only a fool takes offence when it is intended. Why should we get mad at some one you didn’t mean to make us mad? And why should we give someone the pleasure of angering us. I find it a lot more fun to confound and confuse someone who works hard to offend me. It is so much more satisfying to be pleasant and gracious and listen to them sputter and spit.

Forgiveness is so much more difficult. Working thru the issues with my husband leaving me I have found this to be the case. I started out thinking I had to forgive him. I read books, read my scriptures, listened to music, and prayed. The more I did, the more I realized how difficult I had been to live with. As I became more offended by his behavior, I became more self righteous, and indignant. My own sins soon became overwhelming. I prayed for forgiveness, and finally wrote my ex a letter of apology. I’ve never gotten a response. But that letter allowed me to forgive myself.

Do not look at the speck in your brother’s eye when you have a beam in your own.

I have no clue who has the speck and who has the beam, and that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that I need my Heavenly Father’s forgiveness, and my ex can take up his issues when he comes before the judgment seat.

It is truly the Plan of Happiness. Following the gospel is so hard, but it brings more joy than anything else I know.

Old Friends

“Where are your kids?”

“Um . . . Ian’s over there, with the party hat on, he’s running behind Mike,” I pointed.

“And your little girl?”

“She’s with her father for the week-end.”

The brow wrinkled in confusion. It was about the tenth time for the evening. The Ward 20th birthday party had brought many people back for the occasion. Old friends, who don’t know that my ex has even left, didn’t understand the comment.

As we gathered round to talk, one asked, “Now I heard that your husband left you, is that right?”

I nodded, continuing to smile.

Surprised gasps issued from the other women.

“What happened?"

“Oh, no! Are you all right?”

“It’s been a year and a half!” I laughed! “And in some ways I’m better off now.”

There were some polite, sympathetic nods. But really, this group is so happily married they would never understand my world. We teased one that she would be so lost if her husband were to die. She agreed, confessing all the stuff that she forgets to do for their five children, and how he comes behind and picks up the loose ends.

I explained to them that I’m just now coming into a happy place in my life. We are relatively stable with only minor issues. If I could get my son to perform well in school, and reduce his number of violent outbursts, that would be good.

A discussion began about setting me up with eligible bachelors. One woman suggested a rich relative in Virginia. Another pointed out one in our ward. I quickly tried to put an end to their scheming.

Don’t get me wrong; I would love to find a worthy man. But I’m just starting to relax. My life is stressful enough without adding another person into the mix. I love the way my kids are finally happy. We cuddle on the couch and watch a movie. We feel so complete. And I think, oh Lord, please don’t make me try and add a man into this mix.

I mean, I am lonely. I am always looking for someone to talk with. I desperately need adult time. The endless discussions about snaky, and the dinosaur get old real fast! I want to talk issues, and politics with someone. I want to dress up, and go some place that don’t have a play area.

Another friend tells me, now that you are finally happy, this is when THE guy will walk in, and mess everything up. One part of me hopes she’s right.

Bach Flower Remedies

When I got married my husband declared me a white witch. I laughed and went along with the joke. He pretended all my herbal lore was wonderful, but I understood. I tried to go back to my apothecary to restock my herbs. He went with me, but I knew he was uncomfortable.

My vegetarian diet went flying out the window, and only the mundane essence oils could be found in my medicine cabinet, a little bit of lavender, some eucalyptus. It disturbed me to see his dependence on medicines.

So my husband is now my ex. I’ve had a year and a half to rediscover who I am. I make a few more trips to the health food store. With the help of the massage therapist from work, I’m developing a good supply of oils and homeopathic remedies.

The massage therapist is really good. She’s what my mother would call an Oregon Hippie. I’m not sure if the oils have made a huge difference, or just the fact that I’m investing in myself. For once I’m doing something purely for me, to help me feel better. I am worth the time and money. I’m investing in my self worth. And my body feels better for it.

So my Christmas wish list for next year is the complete line of Bach Flower Remedies. Mom, Dad, hint hint, these make me smile!

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

This is what passes for a snow storm in Texas. I know, pretty lame. But it brought Dallas/Ft. Worth to it's knees. And we've nearly run out of deicing fluid. Did you know, Austin airport is out of deicing, and has been shut down until they get more? Anyway, we've got more wet, frozen stuff coming in today and this week-end they tell us. Just a little bit cripples this city.

This is so pitiful compared to Bekah's pictures from Missouri of her kids playing out in the snow. I mean, get real, you can still see the grass underneath this light dusting!

Happiness

Happiness.

I’ve been exchanging e-mails with a friend about this allusive subject. I had a late night discussion with my father about it, too.

Happiness affects so many things, our health, appearance, satisfaction, job performance to mention a few. It is a vital part of life, and so much of the time we search for it. It’s a magic pill we are looking for.

One friend explained that he would be happy once he got married. So he was going out searching for that magic date, for that woman that would turn his world upside down. As a result, he keeps on looking for greener pastures. He dated a woman for 9 years, on again off again. Sometimes he swore she was the only one who would truly make him happy, and other times he vehemently said he wanted to get away from her so he could find someone who would make him happy.

Happiness isn’t the person you are with. It doesn’t go up as the available balance in your bank account goes up.

At church we alternately use the phrase the Plan of Atonement, or the Plan of Happiness. Not that living a religious life is what I would really call happy. I mean, for Pete’s sake, it means I’m not out drinking wine, and I beat myself up when I forget to read my scriptures. I torture myself each Sunday taking two very active children to Church.

But I had a moment of real happiness this morning. With big white flakes of snow falling, we crept along a slick road in the early morning hours. My daughter asked me to sing “Noel,” her favorite Christmas carol. She declared that the snow made her feel like it was Christmas. She then went on to recite Luke 2:10-11, where the angel came and declared Jesus’ birth to the shepherds.

The traditions and rituals of church really bring me peace. I have enough education to look at them with a disdainful eye. And some times my academics can get in the way of letting my heart feel the peace, and joy they bring. But the rituals were given to us to bring us that very peace, and happiness. The Lord knows us, and knows what we need. Prayer in the morning helps me focus for my day. It brings to mind my purposes, and puts my goals at the forefront of my brain. Prayer at night lets me feel a sense of accomplishment, and helps me release my worry about things I didn’t get to.

Happiness, what is it? It’s praying with children who squirm on your lap, and try to kiss you. It’s scooping up snow off the car, and dumping it over my son. It’s being tag teamed by two snow bearing rascals as I try to get them into the car.

The Perfect Parent

I sit here with one kid in the corner, and the other trying to come play. Maybe some day I'll prefect this parenting thing, but for the moment, I'm struggling with it.

My daughter is a control freak, at the age of 5. She's a power hungry little trouble maker. And it's only made worse by her genius level intelligence. This morning she screamed bloody murder because I didn't help her put on her seat belt. It was 26 degrees out, and her door was frozen shut. I had to climb in from the passenger’s side. When I won't do things her way, those lungs come into action. She screams at me, at her brother and the world in general.

The teacher says my son is probably ADD. I believe they are too quick to diagnose, but I can see why they might say that. He sat doing with his spelling words, watching his sister run up and down the hallway. He's easily distracted. But not always. When he wants to he pays excellent attention. I wonder just how good his teacher is. With me working, the babysitter, and my ex see the teacher more than I do, and I'm the custodial parent!

But being a parent, I have no room for self-doubt. I'm on display, and in charge here. I need to set the tone in my home.

I used to criticize my own parents, but now I realize how very good they were. Most of the time they were calm, and a look from my mother was enough to send me into tears. Don't mistake that I was the perfect child. We had a babysitter once who let my brother into the bathroom while I took my bath. A game of toss the washcloth drenched the bathroom and my clothed brother.

My own desire for perfection is my worst problem. I want to read to my children every night, read the wonderful books my mother read me. I want them to sit still and enjoy the books. They get up and scream at each other. My son runs around with his car. My daughter screams that he should sit down. I want to slap both of them.

I go to bed and curl up with my scriptures wondering where and how I failed them. They drink during meal prayers, and talk to each other during night prayers. At church I regularly take them out to the corner. Does anyone know when I can start enjoying my own kids?