I got my patriarchal blessing just after I turned 14. In this blessing I was promised that over time, and if nurtured, my testimony would include the knowledge that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that his true church is led by a living prophet.
It was about a year after my blessing that President Hinckley was called to serve as the prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I remember so vividly going to seminary a day after his call and watching a movie which highlighted President Hinckley's life. It was during this video that a warm and gentle feeling from the Holy Ghost witnessed to me that Gordon B. Hinckley was indeed a prophet called by God. At this moment I knew that I had received one of the assurances that my patriarchal blessing had promised.
I have had other experiences that have witnessed to me of President Hinckley's divine call. This church is the same one that Jesus Christ organized so many years ago. I am so grateful for this knowledge, and I thank my Heavenly Father for sending such a great, but humble man to earth to help teach and inspire me. I hope someday I live a worthy enough life to get to know him as a man, as well as a prophet. I will miss President Hinckley, but I am thrilled to know that the next prophet of this church will also be chosen by our Heavenly Father.
If you have any questions about the LDS church or any of President Hinckley's teachings, please visit: www.lds.org OR send me an email-I'd be happy to converse one on one!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Hairstylist Extraordinaire
From the time we got married, I have been the “official” haircutter for my man. As the family has grown—so too, have my snipping responsibilities. I have not been professionally trained, though by now, I am sure I am about 40 hours into the 600 required for state licensing purposes (isn’t it funny that hairdressing requires a license? And why, then, is it that 4 out of 5 of my haircuts from a 'professional' are still subpar?).
While growing up, my brothers’ hair was woefully managed. The boys grew their hair out way too long (and let me remind you, this was the 90’s, and that long shaggy ‘do all of the deacons now flaunt was NOT the status quo). Finally, my mom would talk the boys into a cut. She would glue them to a chair, pull out the clippers and get to work. The results were generally, ummm, interesting. (you’ll note that my father did NOT let mom wield the shears on himself—he had seen the fruits of her labors too many times on the boys).
It was following my first year at BYU that I watched the family for a week while my parents went to England. My youngest brother, Chris, was 2 years old and badly in need of a haircut. I bravely pulled out the buzzer and had at him. The results were not bad—definitely not perfect, but better than a mom cut. I talked my older brothers into a haircut later and found I was more talented at cutting hair than my mom. Shortly following our marriage, I told D about my untapped hairdressing potential and he thought he’d let me have a go at him. He figured we could save 100 or so dollars a year by having me cut his hair—and the convenience! So, it was decided, I would be stylist of our family.
To this day, I regret my consent to this plan. Some of our greatest arguments have taken place over a haircut. D, “What are you doing right now?”
Camilla, “Cutting your hair.”
D, “But didn’t you already cut that side?”
Camilla, “Just be quiet and let me work.”
D, “But I think you did the other side differently”
Camilla, “Oh, now you have eyes on the back of your head?”
Picture this argument ballooning out of control and ending with Camilla crying on the bed and D apologizing (with alterior motives, of course—his hair was only half done).
Many of my other regrets about our choice to have me act as the stylist include (but are not limited to): hairs to clean up on my kitchen floor and my clothes following unpleasant event, an hour (yes, it takes me an hour folks!) out of my evening, and haircutting around a gigantic pregnant belly—I still think this act shows my deep love and commitment to my husband.
As much as I hate cutting D’s hair, I have found there are worse things—cutting my childrens' hair! Last week during Davis’s haircut, I accidentally snipped his ear. He cursed and screamed at me and told me I was the worst mom ever. I also find myself snipping Roger’s hair on the fly—I can’t get him to sit still long enough for a proper cut—so his hair is constantly undergoing transformation. This means I am ever yelling at Eliza to, “hurry and go get the scissors right now so I can cut Roger’s hair while he is sitting still.” Usually as soon as she brings them down to me, Roger’s interest in Elmo has waned and he is now crawling on the floor.
Yesterday I took Eliza to Supercuts. Her hair had grown more than halfway down her back and I’d been battling her daily over the snarls ("You have to brush your hair or you can't go to preschool!"). I begged her to cut it, but could only convince her to have it done if a “real” haircutter would do it. We walked in. There was no wait. She hopped up on the chair and sat as quietly as a statue (fear, I guess). Jennie sprayed her hair down, she cut it in 15 minutes and was done. No yelling involved, no bribes required. Eliza was glowing and whipping her hair around like a supermodel in the wind.
I learned yesterday that some things are just worth paying for.
While growing up, my brothers’ hair was woefully managed. The boys grew their hair out way too long (and let me remind you, this was the 90’s, and that long shaggy ‘do all of the deacons now flaunt was NOT the status quo). Finally, my mom would talk the boys into a cut. She would glue them to a chair, pull out the clippers and get to work. The results were generally, ummm, interesting. (you’ll note that my father did NOT let mom wield the shears on himself—he had seen the fruits of her labors too many times on the boys).
It was following my first year at BYU that I watched the family for a week while my parents went to England. My youngest brother, Chris, was 2 years old and badly in need of a haircut. I bravely pulled out the buzzer and had at him. The results were not bad—definitely not perfect, but better than a mom cut. I talked my older brothers into a haircut later and found I was more talented at cutting hair than my mom. Shortly following our marriage, I told D about my untapped hairdressing potential and he thought he’d let me have a go at him. He figured we could save 100 or so dollars a year by having me cut his hair—and the convenience! So, it was decided, I would be stylist of our family.
To this day, I regret my consent to this plan. Some of our greatest arguments have taken place over a haircut. D, “What are you doing right now?”
Camilla, “Cutting your hair.”
D, “But didn’t you already cut that side?”
Camilla, “Just be quiet and let me work.”
D, “But I think you did the other side differently”
Camilla, “Oh, now you have eyes on the back of your head?”
Picture this argument ballooning out of control and ending with Camilla crying on the bed and D apologizing (with alterior motives, of course—his hair was only half done).
Many of my other regrets about our choice to have me act as the stylist include (but are not limited to): hairs to clean up on my kitchen floor and my clothes following unpleasant event, an hour (yes, it takes me an hour folks!) out of my evening, and haircutting around a gigantic pregnant belly—I still think this act shows my deep love and commitment to my husband.
As much as I hate cutting D’s hair, I have found there are worse things—cutting my childrens' hair! Last week during Davis’s haircut, I accidentally snipped his ear. He cursed and screamed at me and told me I was the worst mom ever. I also find myself snipping Roger’s hair on the fly—I can’t get him to sit still long enough for a proper cut—so his hair is constantly undergoing transformation. This means I am ever yelling at Eliza to, “hurry and go get the scissors right now so I can cut Roger’s hair while he is sitting still.” Usually as soon as she brings them down to me, Roger’s interest in Elmo has waned and he is now crawling on the floor.
Yesterday I took Eliza to Supercuts. Her hair had grown more than halfway down her back and I’d been battling her daily over the snarls ("You have to brush your hair or you can't go to preschool!"). I begged her to cut it, but could only convince her to have it done if a “real” haircutter would do it. We walked in. There was no wait. She hopped up on the chair and sat as quietly as a statue (fear, I guess). Jennie sprayed her hair down, she cut it in 15 minutes and was done. No yelling involved, no bribes required. Eliza was glowing and whipping her hair around like a supermodel in the wind.
I learned yesterday that some things are just worth paying for.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
food bribes
I am sure every parent has struggled with food and their children. I have been privvy to plenty of get-togethers and watched parents beg, bribe, or threaten their children to eat "4 more bites." The question, "how many more bites do I have to eat" is a common one at our house. I've tried not to be Naziish (is this even a word?) about food, trying to chill out and realize they will not starve (anyway don't all kids subsist on chicken nuggets, cheese, and crackers?) (mom: "what do you want for lunch?" davis: "hotdogs" mom: "but we had that for dinner when we went out AND you ate it at lunch yesterday!" davis: "but I just like them mom!")
Now, if any mom has a reason to worry about their child's size, it's me. Eliza has never grown in height or weight past the 5th percentile--since birth. She will be 5 in a few months and is still wearing two-year-old pants for heavens-sake! I secretly get a smirk (I suppose this could be classified as pride?) when another mom tells me her third child was small until they hit a growth spurt--"I think Sally (name changed for protection of the innocent) was only in the 30th percentile! Don't worry, Eliza will catch up someday." A few months ago I did a height predictor on her based on her current stats; the result: a hopeful 5 feet! We've discussed with the doctor getting her tested for growth hormone deficiency, but even if she was deficient I am not sure I would want to give her shots every day till she is 18.
Anyway, we are planning a trip to Disneyland with D's family in September. The kids are very excited. Eliza was looking especially short when she stood up in Primary today, so I got interested in height requirements for the rides and discovered many require you to be 40 inches. So, we pulled out the tape measure and went to work. Davis is a quarter inch shy of 40 so he should be there by September. Unfortunately, Eliza was just 37 3/4. We figure maybe we can buy some tall, clunky shoes to help her out, but even then, two inches in nine months? I think it is a long shot.
We now officially have a new bribe, "Eat your food so you can grow tall enough to get on the rides at Disneyland with your cousins." (I am crossing my fingers this will work!)
At dinner Eliza said the prayer, "Please bless us to eat the food so we can get on the teacups."
Now, if any mom has a reason to worry about their child's size, it's me. Eliza has never grown in height or weight past the 5th percentile--since birth. She will be 5 in a few months and is still wearing two-year-old pants for heavens-sake! I secretly get a smirk (I suppose this could be classified as pride?) when another mom tells me her third child was small until they hit a growth spurt--"I think Sally (name changed for protection of the innocent) was only in the 30th percentile! Don't worry, Eliza will catch up someday." A few months ago I did a height predictor on her based on her current stats; the result: a hopeful 5 feet! We've discussed with the doctor getting her tested for growth hormone deficiency, but even if she was deficient I am not sure I would want to give her shots every day till she is 18.
Anyway, we are planning a trip to Disneyland with D's family in September. The kids are very excited. Eliza was looking especially short when she stood up in Primary today, so I got interested in height requirements for the rides and discovered many require you to be 40 inches. So, we pulled out the tape measure and went to work. Davis is a quarter inch shy of 40 so he should be there by September. Unfortunately, Eliza was just 37 3/4. We figure maybe we can buy some tall, clunky shoes to help her out, but even then, two inches in nine months? I think it is a long shot.
We now officially have a new bribe, "Eat your food so you can grow tall enough to get on the rides at Disneyland with your cousins." (I am crossing my fingers this will work!)
At dinner Eliza said the prayer, "Please bless us to eat the food so we can get on the teacups."
Friday, January 11, 2008
getting old?
So, D has had a week off this week (hoorah!) and we've been piddling around the house. But we promised ourselves that we would belatedly celebrate our anniversary this week. On Wednesday night, we dropped off the kids at grandma's house and went out to eat and then planned to go skiing on Thursday.
I shoud preface this story with my bragging session I had with D on the way up to Snowbird. When I was 11 or 12 I did one winter's worth of ski school. My sister and I were the only girls in the class with about 5 other boys. On the last day of class, we had a little ski-off. Now, all the boys in the class got to bragging before the race, but, much to their dismay, I took home the trophy for fastest skier
(now, imagine me telling D this story with a 'braggy air'. I skiied a bit in high school, not much in college, and once since I've been married.
It has been snowing quite a bit here, so we got up to the mountain and trudged our way up the hill. We rented skiis and boots. My boot was bothering me that morning and on the way up the first lift, it was getting painful. We undid some bindings, but had to do them back up when we got to the top.
The first lift we headed up to was basically intermediate hills, but with my boot too tight, I started losing feeling in my right foot. There was a lot of powder and I just felt like I couldn't control myself very well. I was really muscling my way down the mountain-- complaining to D the whole way (poor guy!). We got to the bottom of the first run and readjusted my boot and sat around while I complained about how "scary" it is to ski with no feeling in your foot.
Anyway, my feeling returned about halfway into the second run (after a 20 minute pit stop a the bottom of the mountain debating whether or not I should try to rent different boots), and I was starting to enjoy myself. I must admit, however, that I was SCARED while skiing. I kept thinking about my kids and how I should be careful (recently a young man died in a skiing accident and D has been on trauma dealing with skiers). Visibility was also pretty poor as it was overcast and windy (the snow that was falling on my goggles also got frozen in the wind. After lunch I was feeling a bit better, but sadly, at 2:00 a had a small fall, but was done for the day.
Anyway, what started out as a braggy morning, ended up as a real bummer. I am forced to realize a few things: 1) my legs are out of shape 2) I can blame my less-than-perfect day on weather, boots, or kids, but, in reality, 3) I am not as good of a skiier as I thought I was. This is a sad realization. I think mayber next year when the twins start school I should get a pass and trade Roger-sitting with a friend so I can get some practice and not let myself down again.
I shoud preface this story with my bragging session I had with D on the way up to Snowbird. When I was 11 or 12 I did one winter's worth of ski school. My sister and I were the only girls in the class with about 5 other boys. On the last day of class, we had a little ski-off. Now, all the boys in the class got to bragging before the race, but, much to their dismay, I took home the trophy for fastest skier
(now, imagine me telling D this story with a 'braggy air'. I skiied a bit in high school, not much in college, and once since I've been married.
It has been snowing quite a bit here, so we got up to the mountain and trudged our way up the hill. We rented skiis and boots. My boot was bothering me that morning and on the way up the first lift, it was getting painful. We undid some bindings, but had to do them back up when we got to the top.
The first lift we headed up to was basically intermediate hills, but with my boot too tight, I started losing feeling in my right foot. There was a lot of powder and I just felt like I couldn't control myself very well. I was really muscling my way down the mountain-- complaining to D the whole way (poor guy!). We got to the bottom of the first run and readjusted my boot and sat around while I complained about how "scary" it is to ski with no feeling in your foot.
Anyway, my feeling returned about halfway into the second run (after a 20 minute pit stop a the bottom of the mountain debating whether or not I should try to rent different boots), and I was starting to enjoy myself. I must admit, however, that I was SCARED while skiing. I kept thinking about my kids and how I should be careful (recently a young man died in a skiing accident and D has been on trauma dealing with skiers). Visibility was also pretty poor as it was overcast and windy (the snow that was falling on my goggles also got frozen in the wind. After lunch I was feeling a bit better, but sadly, at 2:00 a had a small fall, but was done for the day.
Anyway, what started out as a braggy morning, ended up as a real bummer. I am forced to realize a few things: 1) my legs are out of shape 2) I can blame my less-than-perfect day on weather, boots, or kids, but, in reality, 3) I am not as good of a skiier as I thought I was. This is a sad realization. I think mayber next year when the twins start school I should get a pass and trade Roger-sitting with a friend so I can get some practice and not let myself down again.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
grateful for my alarm clock
Just a simple thought for when that alarm clock goes off too early in the morning. . . .it could be more unpleasant. For the past 5 days, Roger has awoken 30 minutes into his nap with a poop in his pants. How unpleasant. Just thought you should know your wake up call could be worse.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
