Tag Archives: trials

What I Will Miss, Part 2

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet

I have always loved my given name. It is so beautiful, so complete. I dislike the fact that I never went by it.

I don’t like my nickname.

I tried to go by my given name when I was a teenager. I told the temporary staffing office my given name and I succeeded for three weeks as a receptionist before I forgot and answered the phone with my nickname. In despair, I gave up. I decided I could never remember to refer to myself by my name — the nickname was so ingrained in me.

When we moved to Australia last year, I told my husband, again, that I’ve always wanted to go by my given name. He told me, again, that I should go by it then. Why not? With him as my support system, I have. For the past year, I have been “Rebecca” to everyone I meet. And I love it.

Rebecca is an adult.
Rebecca is a wife.
Rebecca is a mother.
Rebecca is an active, participating member of a ward.
Rebecca cooks dinner for her family.
Rebecca feels competent with her everyday responsibilities.

Whenever someone calls me “Becky,” I think of pigtails. I imagine my buck teeth. I feel insecure again.

Becky is a little girl.
Becky reads The Babysitters Club.
Becky is afraid of the stove and cries at the thought of cooking.
Becky sits by herself, secretly wondering why no one is her friend.

Now, whenever I do something dumb, I hear myself say in my head, “That was dumb, Becky.” Every other time, I refer to myself, in my thoughts, as Rebecca. I love being Rebecca. I finally feel like me.

At some point in the coming month (still no departure date), I’ll leave all the people who know me as Rebecca. I’m returning to a place where everyone calls me Becky. I am very sad to leave my identity here in Australia. I’ll never feel like myself again, completely.

I know, I can continue clarifying my name for everyone I re-meet for the rest of my life. But some people have already made it clear to me that they don’t intend to even try to remember that I’m Rebecca now.

Sigh. I love my name. Why can’t anyone else remember what it actually is?

Note: If someone you know signs their name in a particular way or calls themselves by a particular name, why wouldn’t you refer to them that way? I just don’t get it.

ETA: To all reading this post, please understand that I don’t mean to offend anyone! My purpose in writing this post was to show that there is something I’ll miss when I return to the USA from Australia, going by Rebecca, and that when I return to the USA, I will be fighting to be Rebecca instead of Rebecca-by-default. I sorry if that offends you; offense was not intended.

When Will I Stop Worrying that My Son Will Die?

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A few months ago, when Paul started to sleep through the night, I’d wake up in the morning terrified that I’d find him dead in his crib from SIDS.

At his eight-month checkup, I was told to stop feeding him pureed food: mix chunky/mashed foods so he learns how to chew. Now I feed him his meal, terrified that he’s going to choke on his food and die, right before my eyes.

He’s becoming mobile now, and I’m realizing that the next step will be terror that in the two minutes I turn around, he’ll put his finger in an outlet and die from electrocution (even with outlet covers…). Or fall down the stairs and die. Or grab at something that I didn’t mean to leave out and choke on it and die. Or cut himself on something sharp I thought I’d put away and bleed to death. Or…

I could go on. All these terrors keep recurring in my mind.

Someone responded back in December that these fears aren’t from the spirit and I shouldn’t worry. But really, they are all very possible. And if he dies because of something I did or didn’t do, I could not live with myself.

When will I stop worrying that my son will die? Or will I always worry?

Procrastination

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“Let’s go to lunch next week instead of this week.” I say to my friend. “Or we could go the week after that if it’s better.”
Why don’t we invite our visiting teaching sisters for lunch next month? This month is so busy.”
“Oh, I’ll read that book later,” I tell myself. “I can always renew it.”
“I’ll do a major pantry clean out next month,” I tell myself.
“We’ll go to the temple next Saturday.”
“I’ll take my Sunday School class members treats next week.”
“We can always see New Zealand on the next family vacation. Let’s just take a short trip this time.”
“No, we’ll go see Tasmania next month. Let’s stay home this weekend.”

And then we get a call: We want you to come to a new assignment in three weeks. In New Jersey. Nothing for certain yet, but will you plan for it?

Obviously, three weeks is impossible for an international move. But all of a sudden, the next weeks are limited; the next months are gone.

Last June, we entered Australia on a three-year visa. The project’s paperwork said through “September 2008,” but we hoped for two full years. I figured I’d have a walking and talking little boy. I figured we’d have visited all of Victoria and parts of Tasmania and New Zealand and maybe Sydney and the Gold Coast and maybe Ayers Rock. I figured our savings account would have grown (although those two dreams don’t really follow, a girl can dream!). I figured the housing market wasn’t going to tank and that the dollar would be worth a little more when we transferred our money back. I figured I had more time before I had to move my home across the globe again. I figured I could enjoy being cozy in our new home.

Of course, I am excited to be near family again, within a four-hour flight of both sets of my baby’s grandparents and all of my baby’s aunts and uncles. I’m excited to be able to get more variety in terms of consumer goods. I’m excited that things will cost less (relatively). I’m excited to choose a new car for myself. I’m excited to re-enter summer. I’m excited I might be able to go to my friend’s wedding in August. I’m excited that my family might actually call me when my phone number isn’t international. I’m excited that I don’t have to wonder how long we’ll be here (things have been a question mark for a few months).

But now I realize I have to start all over again: the third home and the third ward and the third search for friends in two years of marriage.

I’m realizing now that I shouldn’t have procrastinated being a friend. I shouldn’t have procrastinated making home cozy for my family. The end can, and does, come at any time.

What are you procrastinating? What “end” do you dread (and/or hope for at the same time)?

May Day Mayday

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May Day, definition: May 1 celebrated as a springtime festival

I am feeling kind of down these days. Everyone is writing on their blogs about the beautiful flowers they are enjoying, about the lovely weather they are hoping for, about SPRING. My days are getting progressively colder and the leaves are mostly finished changing colors and dropping. I was having a hard time getting out the house before it got cold: now I can see I’m just going to spend the next few months indoors. It takes twice as long to get Paul ready to go out because I have to bundle him up. I think we’ll stay indoors.

This morning, I realized it was May Day. I have always had a special place in my heart for May Day. One year, when I was a depressed, lonely, loner teenager, a friend of mine left me a bouquet of roses on May Day. “Happy May Day!” the note said. She left them anonymously, but I knew who it was. I haven’t talked to her for years, but I’ll always remember the service she did for me back on that spring day when I felt so awkward and alone. It was a reminder that in the “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer” (Camus); I just needed to stop thinking about myself and serve, as she did.

It’s just so sad that this year’s May Day is rainy, overcast, cold, and only getting colder. I must remember that summer will eventually come again.

I miss spring! (I guess it serves me right for bragging about good produce in November!)

Mayday, definition: an international radio-telephone signal word used as a distress call

I’m trying to find my ancestors. I researched James and Margaret and found their supposed marriage date in an index of marriages. The UK likes to horde the originals and won’t let anyone (even LDS volunteers) digitize or scan them for microfilm. So, for £13 I ordered the marriage certificate. (Yes, Mom, I know you claim Grandma already had one, but when I visited, we searched her apartment and couldn’t find it.)

For some reason, I thought that the marriage certificate would tell me everything. I guess I imagined a large packet or box delivered to my door with birth information and parental details, complete with an explanation of the mystery of where, when, and why Margaret disappeared fifteen years later.

Here’s what I got: a barely legible official copy of the certificate on file in a slim, small, half-sheet-of-paper-sized envelope.

The certificate tells me their names and professions, their ages, etc. Most of the information we already knew.

But here are my questions:

If I didn’t know which James Simon/Simons/Simmons was my ancestor, how could I be sure this was their marriage certificate?
How can I figure out where they were born? Tradition holds James Simmons as Irish, but we don’t know where he came from or when he came to England.
How do I find where, when, and to whom James Delany/Simons was born? Because he was aged four at the 1871 census, he couldn’t possibly have been born to James and Margaret unless he was born out of wedlock.
Could James Delany/Simmons have been born out of wedlock in the 1860s? Wouldn’t that have been pretty scandalous for this Catholic family? Can I assume he was born to people who were married?

I am completely lost as to where to begin. I’ll head to the Family History Library next Wednesday when it’s open, but my experience is the librarians there are as clueless as I am.

PLEASE HELP if you have any experience with family history!

Note: Any Benac family members who’d like to save £13 can view and download a high-res jpg of this image here for your own family history files.

Lesson 12: Repentance is a Blessing (A Study of Twelve-year-old Behavior)

Winds-day and Lesson 11: Faith in Jesus Christ

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Yesterday, I watched a wind storm.

Paul was napping. I sat at my desk, at my computer.

When I heard a strong wind whip through the trees, I looked out. Our house is on a hill so I see trees for miles.

The sky was cloudy and gray. And there was quite a wind. Autumn leaves fell out of the sky–yellow and orange–but so did bunches of green leaves. A branch whipped across the roof. The neighbors’ garbage cans across the highway toppled over, the “for sale” sign was uprooted, and trees seemed to bend. Our lights flickered. One tree bent close to our home, and I heard something banging against our roof.

I worried: I rushed to Paul’s room.

Paul slept soundly. His eyes remained closed, and he sighed in his sleep. He brought his hand nearer his mouth and bumped his pacifier, which rested on the mattress now. He sighed again and turned his head to look at the wall. I heard the wind, but it was distant. All was calm.

I watched him sleep for a few minutes. Then I left his room, closed the door, and sat at my desk again. I don’t know why I panicked and raced to him during the wind. We were safe inside our home. The wind wasn’t going to knock down our walls: they are strong. We were safe.

But as I watched him sleep, I felt this sudden out-of-control feeling: He’s going to grow up. He’s going to go outside, into the world, away from me. Will he be strong enough against the winds, or will they topple him?

And now, my [son], remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you, it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.

— Helaman 5:12

After a little while, the winds calmed, with only an occasional burst. The clouds didn’t retreat, but the sky lightened a bit.

And then there was a burst of wind, and a full-grown tree toppled over, right through our neighbor’s yard and our neighbor’s fence and our fence and into our backyard.

As I’ve thought about the tree (and watch it sitting rudely on our lawn), I realized it was only after the worst of the storm was over that the tree succumbed. It had been weakened. In a very real way, the tree it wasn’t strong enough against the winds.

I had thought that the lesson for Sunday school this week was about faith; most of the manual discusses what faith is and examples of faith from the scriptures. But then I looked at the title: Faith in Jesus Christ. It’s not just faith; the first principle of the gospel is “faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.” Believing, a general faith, is not enough to sustain us through the “mighty winds” that the adversary will send our way.

We can have faith that the sun will rise tomorrow; we can have faith that a seed will grow. But we must have faith that Jesus Christ truly did atone for our sins. That is how we return to our Heavenly Father. It is only in and through Christ that we can return to Him.

Joseph Smith called faith “a moving cause of action” and “a principle of power.” It is not a passive concept. The power of faith is incredible: the walls of Jericho came down, Enoch moved mountains, Jared beheld the finger of the Lord. I think of what those people had to do to exercise such faith. Then I think of the power I can receive by exercising faith in Jesus Christ: the ability to return to my Heavenly Father, despite my shortcomings. Wow! That’s more than moving a mountain in my mind.

I must actively build my foundation in Christ, and I must teach my son to build such a foundation. I can only do that if I rely on my own foundation: I am imperfect, but through Christ, I can be perfect.

I must teach my son that he belongs to God, for he is a child of God first. God has entrusted his spirit to me. What a responsibility!

I suspect I’ll always want to check on him when the winds come, even when the day comes that I must let him go outside, into the world. How will his foundation fare against the “mighty winds?”

Lesson 11 of 45

The Ants Came Marching

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If you despise bugs, you may not want to read this post.

On the other hand, if you want motivation for always wiping down the counters, cleaning the dishes, and otherwise cleaning the kitchen on a regular basis, this may be the post for you.

I think I keep a pretty tidy kitchen. I wipe down the counters thoroughly at least once a day. I regularly unload the dishwasher and load it again to keep the sink empty. I try to keep it clean.

The other morning, we put our dirty breakfast dishes in the sink — the dishwasher had clean dishes in it. I went back two hours later (when Paul was happier) to empty the dishwasher, load it, and make brownies.

Ants were crawling into the sink, around the sink, on the counters, and under the kitchen counter.

I didn’t scream. But I do think my heart literally skipped a few beats. I thought I’d fall over. “Oh, my! Oh, my!” was all I could say. No one except Paul was there to hear me.

I killed the ants with ant poison.

In case you wanted to know, it took almost 5 hours (over the course of that morning, that afternoon, and the next morning) to wash all the silverware and utensils in the drawers, wash all the pots in the one cabinet, and wipe down the entire pantry (even though the ants hadn’t made it that far).

I’m beginning to suspect that there is a nest under our house — last month they came in near the front door and the month before that they came in through the bathroom.

The good side of this horrendous problem is that now I am very motivated to wipe the kitchen table and counters immediately upon finishing eating and immediately after I get them dirty. I haven’t left dishes in the sink. I now have a clean pantry.

So there are some bonuses. But I’d rather the ants hadn’t invaded.

One-Year Anniversary

Lesson 8: The Three Kingdoms of Glory

Reflections on “A Spoon Full of Sugar” and “Just 30 Minutes”

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For every job that must be done
There is an element of fun
You find the fun and snap!
The job’s a game.

I’ve been listening to Disney music lately. One thing I bought in the States is a five-disc Disney song Classics collection. I’ve enjoyed the retreat to childhood as I revisit favorite songs and introduce my infant son to “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” and “When You Wish upon a Star” and dozens of others.

Another thing we brought back from the States is a Swiffer and a hundred dry Swiffer rags. This was a gift from my mother-in-law, who believed me when I said that a Swiffer was all I wanted (I couldn’t find them here!). Despite Swiffer’s claim otherwise, you really can’t throw away the broom and the mop — the dry Swiffer doesn’t catch three-dimensional things and the wet Swiffer doesn’t do a great job at kitchen messes — but overall, the Swiffer is a great floor-cleaning tool: it catches the dust and hairs and dirt that just don’t get caught without it. I feel efficient when I’m Swiffering (yes, I believe that is a verb now), and I don’t have to try to catch the mess in a dustpan as I use it.

As I was Swiffering our huge hardwood floor the other morning, I started humming “A Spoon Full of Sugar.” I realized that something as simple as a tool I liked made the task less annoying. Cleaning the floor wasn’t as much of a bother because I felt like I was being efficient. The Swiffer was my “spoonful of sugar” that helped the medicine of cleaning “go down.”

Later, I was telling my husband about a silly website I visited.

“I know I have better things to do,” I said.”But it was fun. Besides, it was just a half-hour, if that.”

He looked at me. “Just a half-hour? How many half-hours do you get every day?”

He wasn’t accusatory at all — I imagine he really doesn’t care what I do. It’s my time. But I realized that this question was coming from a man who had a limited number of “free” half-hours every day. Many of his half-hours are filled with work responsibilities.

How many half-hours do I get every day? And what do I do with all of them?

Yesterday I began a testing process. Here was the test: what can I do in a half an hour? Here’s a list of the chores I can do in half an hour:

Shower, dress, and do my hair and makeup (unless I iron my clothes)
Clean three bathrooms (at 10 minutes each)
Starch and iron 1½ shirts (at 20 minutes each — I’m really slow. My husband usually irons his own shirts, but I really should iron for him, given how many more “free” half-hours I get each day. Maybe I’ll get faster as I do this more often.)
Swiffer and sweep, thoroughly, the hardwood floors (lots downstairs, some upstairs)
Vacuum the carpeting (three rooms and two large rugs)
Dust the bookcases, shelves, and ceiling corners of the house using a Swiffer duster
Wash the dishes in the sink (by hand) and wipe down the counters and the microwave
Make a quick dinner

Some things take half that time:

Feed my son
Eat breakfast
Eat lunch
Fold and put away a load of laundry and start the next load
Unload the dishwasher and load it again
Wipe the kitchen counters and table and set the table for dinner
Tidy the living room (by actually putting things away, not just hiding them)
Swiffer, quickly, the hardwood floors

Some things take twice as long:

Make a longer dinner (you can’t rush risotto)
Get groceries at the supermarket and unload them and put them away

Obviously, some things can’t be done when my son is demanding my attention. (When he wants attention, then I can do some of the fun half-hours: cuddle him close to me, read Winnie-the-Pooh to him, sing a few primary songs, get on the floor and play with his toys.) And how do I vacuum when he’s napping without waking him? But when I put these things in half-hour increments, I don’t feel wrong asking him to entertain himself here and there through the day. Letting him play by himself for 30 minutes while I shower and get ready every morning can’t kill him. Also, he was happy to watch me wash dishes and wipe down kitchen counters because I was talking with him and singing to him as I did it.

As I tested how much of each chore I could get done in a half hour, I felt an urgency to hurry and get it done. It was almost like a game.

The end results were the biggest bonuses. I felt so much better about myself when my hair was done and my makeup was on. I felt a sense of glee when I found that folding and putting away an entire load of laundry took half as long as I thought it would. I felt a sense of satisfaction when I looked at the living room, free of unnecessary clutter, and knew that everything was put away where it was “supposed” to be. I felt very good as I set a well-balanced meal in front of my husband at the end of his long work day.

Those 30 minutes I spent visiting a “who does your son look like?” webpage seemed like “just a half-hour.” It went fast. I think I’ll try to think of chores as “just a half-hour” and maybe that will make them go faster.

Even with the challenge of “how long does it take?”, I don’t think these chores are fun, and it isn’t really a “game” to do them. But I think the satisfaction of having a clean, put-together home is a great reward.

Rebecca's Webpage

Thoughts on womanhood and motherhood