Little Things

"Soak this stage up. They'll be grown before you know it." Such a well-meaning piece of advice, typically given in the moments when people assume (probably correctly so) that you are so over tiny-person caregiving. Grocery store tantrums, anyone?

My first instinct is to be a little bit annoyed [I know they will grow quickly, I know, but does that mean I have to soak up every detail of this public meltdown?], but outside of those moments, I really do think on this. They'll be grown before I know it. I can tell it's true by the way my parents talk about me. I was their tiny person. And now they are already watching me raise mine. 

Before Westin was born I printed a sign for his nursery that says, "Enjoy the little things." I knew I wanted to focus on that while raising him, but I had no idea how prominent that framed quote would be in my life. The rocking chair across the room from those words held countless hours of story reading, nursing, rocking to sleep. And I'd read the phrase repeatedly and think, "These are the little things. They are now."

Stories, hugs, night feedings -- I know I'll think back on those. But there are also the little things that are only mine to know. Like the way Westin is frustrated if you fill up his water bottle before he is finished drinking all of it. The way he will always say "You got it!" on your very first guess when you play I Spy with him. Or how he wants you to keep his shirt on around his head each night when he's changing into pajamas, so he can pretend he's a puppy with sleeves for ears. These are his little things. And once I forget them, they're gone. They're already changing so quickly, and sometimes gradually enough that they're lost without notice. 

I have moments when I become overly melancholy thinking about these little boys, and how they are my whole life right now but the end goal is for them to not need me anymore and find their own whole life. Those times are when I really am surprised at the power of those four framed words on Westin's wall. 

Enjoy the little things. Even if the little things are insignificant to the world, or eventually forgotten by me too -- it doesn't take away from how lucky and lovely all of this is right now.

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This post is part of my 8-minute memoir series, following the prompts from author Ann Dee Ellis. You can read more about the project here. This series is an effort to keep writing in my routine, keep a record of life, and keep my spirits high. 

"I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say." - Flannery O'Connor.

Adventure

When I was two years old I tagged along with my dad to visit a scout camp. He says he lifted me onto a big pile of plowed snow, and I looked around with my hands on my hips and said, "Just what I've always wanted. Real adventure."

Fast-forward to my breakfast meeting at Denny's with Kindal. We had an offer to intern together for the summer in Juneau, and it was imperative that we included a stack of pancakes in our decision making. This was a big deal. I had just spent my freshman year at BYU and Provo turned out to be the last place I wanted to spend my summer. Kindal had been at SUU that year and needed to explore outside of Cedar. We wanted an adventure, and we wanted it together.

So we decided to go. Suddenly we were (and I hated to admit this because of my red rock loyalty) in possibly the most beautiful place I'd ever seen. And it was quickly obvious that we had found what we were looking for, plus more.

We hiked. Saw bears. Kayaked. Spent a few nights in a small cabin outside of town on the shore, where we were literally woken up by the sound of whales breathing. Chopped wood. Ziplined. Watched every existing episode of The Office. Explored ice caves. Stayed up until 3 a.m. just because we'd forget the days didn't get dark until then, so nothing stopped our talks and laughing. Ran races. Broke into hotel gyms so Kindal could steal treadmill time and keep her running scholarship. Ate a lot of halibut. Played with husky puppies training for sled races. Painted. Watched whales. Swam by a glacier. Said no to drugs. Drove around town ditching trash in random dumpsters since we didn't pay for pick up. Met nice girls. Met mean girls. Met boys. Played music. Brought each other Costco churros to work. Went to parties. Drove a Pathfinder. Made new friends. Solidified being forever friends.

And sold stuff. Stuff that changed color in the sun.

Sure, the bus driver guys teased us that our job was called an "internship". And yeah, Del Sol isn't the most impressive line on my resume. And we definitely got sick of that color-changing demo.

But that summer changed us, and I'll stand by that trite sentence with everything in me. We found adventure and we learned about ourselves. Most importantly, Juneau just left us wanting more. And we both went on to find it.

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This post is part of my 8-minute memoir series, following the prompts from author Ann Dee Ellis. You can read more about the project here. This series is an effort to keep writing in my routine, keep a record of my life, and keep my spirits high. 

"I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say." - Flannery O'Connor.

Billboards

I had the distinct thought as we crossed into Tennessee that I was thinking more on this part of our cross-country drive than usual. I mean, the fact that I thought about thinking is proof of just that.

Then I noticed it. There were no billboards along this freeway. Nothing but the green of the trees, the blue of the sky, the cars and pavement. No bright distractions, larger than life food photos, or invitations to "take the next exit and turn left" when all I really need to do is go straight.

Once I realized the simple source of the notable difference in my drive, I got distracted thinking about distractions. Being mindful today takes so much effort. Magazine covers and candy bar choices stealing even the smallest moment of potential pause. Pop-up ads always... well, popping up. So many unanticipated contenders for our focus at any given moment.

I'm raising babies in a new kind of chaos, and I want to fight to keep their world simple. They deserve space at home and in their mind to explore who they are. They deserve to navigate life without "billboards" whenever possible. We all deserve that. It's just a matter of figuring out how and focusing on why.

Because more often than not, all we really need to do is go straight.

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This post is part of my 8-minute memoir series, following the prompts from author Ann Dee Ellis. You can read more about the project here. This series is an effort to keep writing in my routine, keep a record of life, and keep my spirits high. 

I Don't Remember

I don't remember which dance I performed at halftime that night, but I remember my dad came to watch.

My senior year kept me so intensely busy, almost to an unhealthy extent, but everything on my plate was something I truly loved. Well, except AP Calculus. The only thing that was continually sacrificed to make time for everything was sleep, to the point that I was getting 3-4 hours on weeknights and making up for it on weekends. I was the last kid at home, and I really loved that time with my parents. My dad was always after me about taking care of myself and trying to get me to sleep more or eat right. I learned early on to hear "I love you" through his worries.

I went home for lunch one Friday and my mom told me my dad had been laid off. I was shocked. He had been a radio personality in my small town my entire life -- it was the job that had moved our family to Cedar City. I grew up listening to his morning shows, interviews, and commercials through the car stereo or at home on the radio. Sometimes I thought my dad had come home from work, only to find it was the radio on in the kitchen and not him.

A large company had recently purchased the radio station, so we knew changes were coming. But change to this extent hadn't crossed my mind. I remember wondering how my dad felt about it all and what would be next for him. This came at a time when other difficult things had surfaced in my dad's professional life. People close to him had broken his trust in ways he never imagined. I think our deepest cuts are deep because of exactly that -- we never imagined others were capable of causing that much hurt, or making the choices they made. That's the part that hurts the most.

My mom had to be out of town that weekend to be with my grandma. My dad had a lot going on to wrap things up at work. I knew I probably wouldn't see him until much later that evening, if we crossed paths that day at all.

I went to the football game that night feeling distracted and detached. I remember feeling alone in my head when we were stretching during second quarter, and going through the motions as we lined up.

I stood on the side of the field before our performance while my friends joked and laughed around me. Then he caught my eye with a wave by the stadium gate. My dad had come. I waved back and loved him so much right then. I felt so surprised and grateful to see him in that moment.

It's strange to experience the gradual realization that your parents are people, and they're figuring out life alongside you. I saw my dad differently as he dealt with big changes in that stage of his life. He was a person figuring things out, just like me. I met my own changes at the same time as I finished high school, went off to college, figured out my own path. And I found serious comfort knowing that one of the best people I will ever know was still doing some figuring, too. Suddenly feeling buried in a journey rather than seeing a clear destination felt a little more manageable.

Life will always feel more manageable when you're blessed with a dad who shows up.

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This post is part of my 8-minute memoir series, following the prompts from author Ann Dee Ellis. You can read more about the project here. This series is an effort to keep writing in my routine, keep a record of life, and keep my spirits high. 

"I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say." - Flannery O'Connor.

I Remember When

I remember when we were a family of five. That felt like the main stage of life at the time, though now it's labeled as childhood and it's memories kept and lost. The day my brother left on a mission was the day that stage semi-ended in my mind, and I'm almost surprised by the way that reality hit me even in that moment.

He left two days after Christmas. His call to serve in Copenhagen, Denmark cast a different feeling over the Holidays that year for me. Too much pressure to soak them up, enjoy them, live in the moment. There's always so much build up to December 25th, but that year it felt like the 27th was in charge.

Families still went inside the MTC with their missionaries that year, and said goodbye after hearing speakers and watching a movie. I don't remember a single thing about the presentations that day except for distinctly thinking, "This movie is so sad. Why do they want us to watch such a sad movie right now?" That feeling was completely vindicated when the lights turned back on, and someone directed families to one side of the room and missionaries to another. It was time to say goodbye.

I don't remember my brother showing a lot of emotion as we grew up together. I always knew that he loved me. I always knew he had a strong testimony. Those facts were spoken more with his demeanor and actions rather than his words. As we hugged him goodbye that day I realized I had not fully grasped what was happening until that moment. But then I did. Being 12 years old has its limitations, but not as many as I think I assume on this side of my twenties. I remember thinking then that he was about to go experience really hard things. And that two years was a long time. And that our family would never be the same. He was done. My time growing up with my brother had happened.

Amid all the goodbyes, I remember watching my dad hug him. My brother was now "finished" being a kid at home with me, with him. My dad hugged him hard. I think he cried, and I know that I did. Saying goodbye to my brother was hard in itself. And I hadn't anticipated suddenly feeling like I was saying goodbye to my family as I had always known it.

If I knew then what life is like now -- being friends with my siblings in adulthood, loving each other's kids, helping each other make it through life's next level of challenges -- I think that would have been a big source of comfort. And then maybe I wouldn't have let that movie make me so emotional...

Either way, I feel grateful to have grown up as the third Miner kid. And I felt that feeling strongly that day, too.

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This post is part of my 8-minute memoir series, following the prompts from author Ann Dee Ellis. You can read more about the project here. This series is an effort to keep writing in my routine, keep a record of my life, and keep my spirits high. 

"I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say." - Flannery O'Connor.