You're killing me with your cuteness, Ruby. 

Just killing me!

I think we may have been found out by Maggie's Baptist preschool.

We've been made.

That we're, you know... Mormons.

I can't be sure.

Maggie has been coming home with strange clues, but she's not the most articulate of my children. (I hate to admit that I do a lot of smiling and head nodding during some of our chats.)

The first strange clue was a fellow student telling Maggie that she "didn't know God."

Honestly, I have no idea what the context of this was so, although I thought it was terrible, I wasn't sure what to make of it.

And then today Maggie came home with an adorable little children's bible. Again, somehow involving the same student, word made it to the school's director, of all people, that our family doesn't have a bible. Or something? I'm not sure. But the director went and, using her personal funds, purchased us a bible.

So sweet. But I wasn't sure what to think.

I cried the whole way home.

(I guess I like to cry in cars.)

Maybe this has nothing to do with being Mormon. It sure seems like a little bit of a misunderstanding. The teacher said she was actually embarrassed to give it to us since she felt like, of all the families, we were one of the most likely to have a bible in the first place. (Which was very sweet of her to say and may have been part of what made me cry.) But the director insisted.

And I felt bad.

Did I let us come off as... Godless?

Maybe you'll disagree with me, but early in the school year I made a conscious decision to keep the LDS thing on the down-low. I have plenty of friends who are not Mormon and they all know where I stand. And, while my religion is at the center of who I am, it is not necessarily at the center of every relationship I have in this world. And I chose not to put it at the center of Maggie's school experience this year.

At Maggie's school, the academic curriculum was created around bible stories. Prayers are spoken throughout the day. I loved that; I believe in that. And with this group of wonderful teachers and workers, I wanted to build on the commonalities of our beliefs. And "Mormon"... well, it can carry a bit of baggage in California right now.

And truth be told...

No matter who you are and what you believe, I'm probably never going to want to argue about how you or I believe in God. It doesn't go anywhere.

You know what does go somewhere? Believing in God. Period.

We believers have to stick together in this crazy, mixed-up world.

But did I hide my BoM so far under a bushel that I put that light right out?

That's rhetorical, of course, because... well, really, I don't think so. No matter what, I don't think even on my worst day I come off as a full-on heathen. I mean, you'd have to read my blog to find that out about me.

But the fact that this little/tiny/insignificant experience had me feeling sad reminded me that, as I get older I'm less and less interested in improving anybody besides, perhaps, myself. (And my children. They are never going to stop getting my well-intentioned (right??) constructive criticism. Poor dears.)

I'm finding that I am losing my desire to worry about how you choose to worship, follow the commandments or interpret doctrine, in or out of the church.

In a world full of my worries, it's the one thing I've stopped worrying about. I know I'm supposed to be more worried about the people in my life that aren't a part of the church. (Am I?) I don't know. I'm just not feeling it. I think about them and all I feel is how much I love their personalities, good deeds and all-around-wonderfulness. And I feel God's mercy and love for them and for me. And I just don't feel the judgment that would prompt me to do anything beyond loving them for their personalities, good deeds and all-around-wonderfulness.

On a related note: Likewise, a lecture about the perils of soda will not likely stop me from opening another (oh-so-delicious) can. So (kindly) zip it.

I'm on a journey here. And I'm kind of hoping that you'll just, well, learn to love me. Not in spite of my weaknesses (and I certainly don't expect you to love me because of them).

But just love without qualifications of either sort.

Because I promise you, that's what I'm going for with all of you.

And it just feels so right.

I think this photo in particular supports my Melissa/Maggie theory.

Although I don't know why I'm trying so hard to prove it. No one is really arguing with me, ha!

Happy Mother's Day, everyone.

May your dishes be done, may your nap be long and may no one knock on the door while you're using the bathroom needing to know if she can have a snack.

Like right now.

This very minute.

Not in two minutes when you're done.

Right.

Now.

How did you even know I was in here?

The piano, like most things to someone who likes to write, can be a metaphor for life.

Right?

Not so much?

Oh, jeesh. Just go with it, OK?

I have two pianists in my household. (Thanks to the impressive skills of their very talented and qualified teacher.)

But playing the piano is the only thing these two have in common. The way they approach the piano is as different as they are.

First there's this fellow.

This is the guy who (and this is going to come out as a complain-a-brag, but) comes home from school, drops his backpack at the door, leaves it unopened all night and picks it back up as he heads out the door the next morning. And with all that effort he is rewarded with... straight As.

This kind of kid is more of a challenge than you might imagine.

He has nothing but time on his hands and video games on his brain.

He takes piano lessons under some duress but the child needs something else to do, for heaven's sake.

Someday I hope that Matthew will turn the corner from piano-by-force to piano-for-love, but the life lesson here is that even piano-by-force produces results. Yes you, too, can turn begrudging participation from a 13-year-old boy into something beautiful.

I give you "Victor's Piano Solo" from Corpse Bride  by Danny Elfman.

*This piece has a rather abrupt ending. It is actually intentional even though it looks and sounds rather funny. In the movie, Victor is playing the piano when he is startled by Victoria, approaching from behind.



And then there's this young lady.

She needs no prompting to the piano. She works it into her daily schedule, giving me a run-down on her way in the door from school.

Snack at 2:45
Homework until 4:00
Piano practice from 4:00 until 4:30
Get ready, grab snack and off to soccer until 8:00
Dinner, shower, finish homework, ready for bed and reading until lights out. (Which is usually much later than it should be.)

Her very full daily schedule.

She seeks... perfection. In her grades. In her sports. On the piano.

The kind of perfection that produces stress and keeps a young girl up at night when she should be sleeping soundly dreaming of boy bands and new clothes from Justice.

I fear that I add to that stress instead of detracting from it like I should.

I fear this because I know that I do.

This... this is the hardest life lesson of all for me and for Grace.

Take a deep breath and enjoy the music. You're doing just great.

From Grace I give you "Sonatina Opus 1 No. 2" by Jacob Schmitt.



And, finally, the duet.

The duet is the greatest life lesson of all.

What about when you have to collaborate with the person on earth you find the most annoying, the most irritating, the most fingernails-on-the-chalkboard grating?

Well, you slap on your Sunday best and you get it done.

But first you drive your mother to the brink of sanity during months of prior practice with squabbling, under-the-breath name calling, purposely messing up and flat out refusal to play.

You know what, on second thought, take whatever lesson you want from this.

I could suddenly use some excedrin and a diet coke.

(But the music itself is lovely and I commend them on a job well done.)



"Queen of the Night", aria from The Magic Flute by Mozart

I've stared at this picture so much that my hand has started to become giant to me. Do you see it??

p.s. Ruby is cute.

Dear Ruby,

You're so cute.

Thanks for letting us come and hold you. And snuggle with you. And stay up late with you.

Thanks for showing off your ridiculously adorable clothes and hats. Thanks for staying awake sometimes so that we could see your blue eyes. Thanks for falling asleep in our arms.

Thanks for humoring us. And forgiving us when we posed for this picture with you. It was late and we couldn't stop laughing. Thanks for not rolling your eyes just because we're not as funny as we think we are.

 

Thanks to your parents for letting us come and snuggle you and hold you and stay up late with you. Thanks to your parents for being so darn good at being your parents.

Thanks for letting me kiss you on the head.

And thanks for wearing this t-shirt when I send it to you.

I really appreciate it.

Look. I warned them I was going to post this. OK?