Reconsidering My Bedtime

"If you hoot with the owls at night, you can't soar with the eagles in the morning," my mother often reminded me when I was young.

Well, it's time for this owl to do a little evaluation of the hours she's been keeping of late.

NOTE: I do not think staying up late is an evil practice. In fact, I find it FUN, sometimes necessary, and often practical for many reasons. This post should not be interpreted as anything like a censure or chastisement of any person utilizing or enjoying night-time hours.
Thank you,
The Management.

Why is this topic on my mind? For the past several months my bedtime has been creeping closer and closer to the E end of LATE! There is something about the "endlessness" of late night that has appealed to me in a life that otherwise consists of "moment snatching." You can relate: snatch a moment here for scripture reading, a moment there for showering, a moment somewhere else for important cleaning, exercising, etc, etc, so forth. I've learned to stop resenting this "moment snatching" lifestyle. It's really not a bad way to live. In fact, I don't know many people who don't live like this. The only time I didn't was when I was a single college student and my independent life was entirely scheduled. By me.

And so, the "never-ending" nature of the night time has lured me into it's grasp! For the last several months I've been staying up writing or reading until ridiculous hours of the morning. I can't say it's been BAD, or unproductive...but it has not developed without cost. My "soaring" morning moments have been sacrificed on the alter of late night activity. Not that you can really sleep in with a two year old in the house. But I don't think "soaring with the eagles" includes my my current rolling out of bed around 7:00am in begrudging answer of Lucy's call. No. I used to be a really EARLY morning riser. 5:00am was absolutely routine. So when I think fondly about "soaring," I think about solitary soaring, meaning: a good hour or two with no two year old in tow.

So, the question becomes: is early really preferable to late? They both feature personal time without a lot of societal or parental responsibility. Honestly, I think it's a totally personal question - different for everyone. What's the answer for you?

Although I know a lot of people who work better, physically and mentally, at night - for me... early is preferable to late. And I write this post as a resolve to rewire my internal clock.

Granted: There are some late night occasions that I find absolutely worth a missed morning. Like Wednesday night's chick flick with Anne...or tonight's Harry Potter party(!!). Definitely "owl" occasions.

But I want, as a general rule, to stop hating the alarm clock in the morning - whether it's Lucy's cry or Wes's cell phone. And a few days ago I came across a passage of scripture that really motivated me to change my personal circadian cycle.

It's found in the first chapter of Mark - a chapter that recounts a whirlwind of the Savior's activities: his own baptism, his preaching the gospel, his calling of disciples, his casting out devils and healing the sick. Teaching, preaching, healing - again and again and again - a pretty typical New Testament passage that wraps up with these verses:

33: And all the city was gathered together at the door.
34: And he healed many that were sick of divers diseases, and cast out many devils

35: And in the morning, rising up a great while before day, he went out, and departed into a solitary place, and there prayed.
36: And Simon and they that were with him followed after him.
37: And when they had found him, they said unto him, All men seek for thee
38: And he said unto them, let us go into the next towns, that I may preach there also: for therefore came I forth.

What stood out so vividly to me was: Everyone must have been clamoring, constantly, for the Savior's attention. Constantly.

The clamoring of my two-year-old child and the compulsion of my other responsibilities can't even compare. But they do help me relate.

I was moved that the Savior made time, "a great while before day," to pray, to be renewed in his purpose, to commit to the clamoring and to the need that surrounded him, that would be present again, any moment, with the dawning of a new day. And the new day came. And Simon affirmed, "All men seek for thee." And because of the Savior's early morning preparation he could say, in effect, bring it on! "Let us go..." "For therefore came I forth"

And so...

Out of a personal need for greater presence in the moments of my life, I resolve to break company with the mid-night owls (always barring special occasions, as mentioned above) and to spend more early morning time in preparation for a new day.

Maybe then I'll be chipper enough to grace Lucy's mornings with the songs that awakened me throughout my childhood. Like...

"It's so nice to get up in the morning
when the sun begins to shine
at four or five or six o' clock
in the good ol summer time
but when the dew's a doing
and it's cloudy over 'ead
it's so nice to get up in the mornin'
but it's nicer to lie in yar bed!"

I just really can't brave that kind of Irish accent (or is it Scottish, mom?) with out a little preparation.

"We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn."
Henry David Thoreau

Overcoming Insecurity

I am a fairly confident person. I have a lot of imperfections that really bother me, but I manage to live a sane and respectable life in spite of them. For the most part.

I can think of a couple times, however, when insecurity has gotten the best of me.

Once was just after Wes got home from his mission. I was an acceptably active person at the time: I attended an aerobics class on Tuesdays and Thursdays and jogged though my neighborhood on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Wes quickly discovered this little "jogging" routine of mine and suggested we jog together. I really had no reason to feel intimidated by this, but what I thought to myself at his proposal was, "Nice boy who I REALLY like: pleeeeaaaaaaase do not ask this of me. I cannot go jogging with you. I jog at about the pace of a snail with a two ton anvil chained behind it. I'm totally happy with my routine and with the incremental progress that I"m making. If I go jogging with you, or any other human being for that matter, all of that happy contentment and self motivation will crumble in the PRESSURE of your presence."
What I said to Wes was, "Oh, I'll slow you down! You really don't want to come with me!"

What Wes said was, "Slow is ok. It'll be fun. Let's do it."
What I said was, "OK."
And so we did it. And I... managed. Wes let me jog at my own pace and we enjoyed each other's conversation. And then one day it happened. We were at the end of our 30-minute jog. Wes, the very picture of fitness and never-ending energy said, "let's go race up the stairs by the botany pond."
"Yeah right," I said.
"No, I'm serious! Let's do it"
"So am I: serious. Probably not."
"It'll be fun!"
"No thanks."
He kept pressuring.
I kept refusing.
I could tell he was verging on annoyance. I was suffocating under the pressure. Tears were mounting. The kind of tears that cannot be willed away - no matter how hard you try. The emotion took Wes by surprise. We walked back to the steps of our apartment complex and through sobs and sniffles I explained that all of this 'physicality' was a little sensitive for me. I rehearsed for him surprisingly clear memories of a certain chubby little school girl who couldn't run in gym class to save her life. He felt bad. I told him it was ok - there was no way for him to have known. I was, myself, surprised by the emotion the silly experience evoked.

We've laughed about that memory for five years now.

I hope that in five years we'll also laugh at the tears that squeezed from my resistant eyes tonight after I was utterly unable to force myself to participate in a delightfully light-hearted foot-race with a few family members visiting for the week. I was a happy spectator as the children ran, as my husband competed against his older brothers, as even "Grandpa" split the summer air with his quick dash. But when the little ones and the men came suggesting, "time for the moms!" I couldn't help feeling the same tightness in my chest; the same repulsive sickening of my stomach as when Wes wanted me to run those botany-pond stairs with him.

Let it be know that I enjoy challenging physical activity.

Let it be known that I try to be a good sport.

But tonight I couldn't be a good sport. I proceeded to sit planted on the sidelines with Grandma and a 7-months-pregnant sister-in-law to watch the other darling females in the family run a short and totally insignificant race with each other. And do I feel ridiculous for such immobilizing insecurity? YES!

And why do I share these incriminating stories via the world wide web? No idea. Perhaps seeking solace in confession. Perhaps wondering if anyone in the world has ever done anything so silly! Perhaps in hopes that I can somehow vent the inane insecurity out of my being. I do feel quite a bit better for the effort. Maybe we'll race again tomorrow. If so, I resolve to repent of my ridiculousness.

Bring it on!

Happy Birthday Lucy!...Wink, Wink!

Tomorrow (Friday, May 18)Lucy will be two. Grandma and Grandpa Packer came for an early celebration with us tonight (Thursday, My 17). After dining together at the soft-twisty-bread paradise known as The Pizza Factory, we came home to presents...for Lucy?
Ok. For me. A tomato plant! Of our very own! Bless Lucy's green-thumbed, green-souled grandfather! He brought us the pot, the plant, and the rich, made-in-grandpa's-garden soil - all for the price of, well, nothing. And I'd be surprised if good-hearted grandma was not part of this plot as well!
I'm trying to think up a name for this delightful addition to our family - which will occupy a prominent spot right outside our kitchen window. Maybe one of you will offer a suggestion. Kayla? :)
The goal is to keep it alive. It would be helpful to me if, occasionally, in your comments, you could inquire as to whether or not I've watered the tomato plant. :)
Rest assured that Lucy was remembered in the midst of all the tomato excitement...

And that I'll post a more appropriate Lucy-birthday post tomorrow night!

Battle of Wills

Last night before she went to bed, I insisted that Lucy pick up the crayons and colored pencils she had strewn all over our living room carpet.
“No” was her response to the first 27 directives I gave. She was pretty much thoroughly determined that they were going to stay “On-a- floor!” There was no anger or frustration in her rebellion, just resolve.

The “clean up” song didn’t work.

“I’ll do one, you do one!” held no sway.

“Find all the blues and we’ll put them in the box first!” Probably not.

“Lucy, pick up your crayons, please!”

“No.”

“Lucy Truman! When Mama asks you to do something, we say, ‘Sure mom’ and then we do it! Pick up your crayons, please.”

“No.”

Still, there was no anger, no sadness, no tantrum - in fact I could sense a certain delight in her as she wiggle-giggly denied my requests, demands, commands, and invitations. I wasn’t feeling very uptight (I often do) about her stubbornness, so I persisted semi-patiently, unwilling to loose the battle. Finally, after several of her own demands (“Milk!”) went ungratified because I told her we were going to put the crayons away first, she gave in. Ah, victory is sweet!

But, never you fear, each crayon and each colored pencil received its own special, personal hug from my daughter before it was placed in our blue crayon container.

Oh my word.

What can you do besides love these stubborn little whelps?! Sigh.

Anyway, how about a total subject change? Great. This post will now feature my declaration to the world that the following items have been banned from my immediate presence for an undetermined length of time: Peanut butter. And trail mix.
Sorry Wes, you can buy behind my back if you must.
I have a lot of will power when it comes to potato chips, but give me a bag of almonds dazzled with some dried fruit, sunflower seeds, occasionally M’n’Ms? It’s over!
And peanut butter? It's positively sinful how much I like peanut butter. (ever had peanut butter on Oreos? Mmmmm, thanks, Michelle!) So, until I develop a little more of Lucy’s iron will - the end!

Your extension of best wishes and good luck in my resolve are appreciated. I feel my knees buckling already. I'll let you know how long I last.