Drops of Awesome

Personal Blog of Author Kathryn Thompson

Faith

A Prayer For My Ancestors

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My kids have a hard time with prayers. Because they’re kids. And God is invisible to them. I think they believe. But they sure can’t see him. So when they pray, at least out loud, they just say the stuff they think they’re supposed to say. I don’t get the impression they’re really talking to anyone.

The younger they are, the more this is the case. They sort of mumble and repeat themselves and repeat me and their dad. Sometimes it’s mortifying to hear myself echoed and I think, “Wow. I’ve just been phoning it in recently.”

A few common phrases:

“Thank thee for this day” – My kids ALWAYS never don’t thank Heavenly Father for the day. It is the number one thing they are thankful for. I guess it makes sense. One more day on earth. It’s worth a shout out. But every day? Some days straight up eat rocks. On those days, I prefer to thank him for making tomorrow a new day, Scarlet O’Hara-style.

“Thank thee we had a great day today and thank thee that we’ll have a great day tomorrow” – I love this. On first hearing, you might think my kids could see the future, like they already KNOW tomorrow is gonna be great. Or you might think they were optimists, like they just have a feeling it’s gonna be great.

Personally, I think they are coercing the Man Upstairs, as in, “If I say it’s gonna be great, then he has to make it great because he’s already been thanked. He has no choice at this point.” It’s like saying, “Mom, thanks for putting gummy worms in my lunch box tomorrow. I’m going to really enjoy eating those.”

“We’re grateful for all our many blessings” – this one’s definitely a cop-out. I can’t think of a single specific thing I’m thankful for so I’ll just say this and it will cover everything. It’s like writing a thank you note at Christmas that says, “Thanks for the presents. Presents are my favorite.” Really? Which presents. Is this even a human person writing this note?

Well, we asked Wanda to give the prayer in primary on Sunday. That’s our church children’s meeting and I’m in charge of said meeting. So I’m always nervous when she gives a prayer. I never know what she’ll say, besides the above-mentioned phrases.

She stepped up to the microphone. It was a pretty normal prayer, and impressive really, because she added a few extra things that made it seem like she was actually thinking about what she said and trying to talk to God. My favorite was the last line though, “Please help all our ancestors who are sick to feel better.”

Now, I’ve never heard her say the word “ancestors” before and I’m not 100% sure she knows what it means. Her grandma’s been sick this week but I’d count her more a “relative” than an “ancestor.”

No, if Wanda’s ancestors are sick, I’m pretty sure there’s not a lot of hope for recovery at this point.

Sorry, great grandma Matilda!

Sunburnt

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**Originally posted on Deseret Book’s Time Out For Women Blog January 2013**

Sunbeams are warm and lovely, vibrant and life-giving. But if you get too close, they will incinerate you.

This was my line of thinking as I drove away from church last Sunday after my first week teaching a room full of Sunbeams with my husband Dan. Our new calling is to teach the three-year-olds at church, including my sweet, occasionally potty-trained daughter “Wanda”.

We taught them that they were children of God. We also taught them to sit in their chairs for the lesson and for sharing time, that dresses should be used to cover our bodies, not our heads, and OH-FOR-THE-LOVE-if-two-of-you-sit-still-at-the-same-time-for-30-seconds-I-will-buy-you-all-a-pony.

That’s what we taught them.

What they learned was – Sister and Brother Thompson love us, sharing time is long, and moving up to big kid primary is a lot like getting kicked out of the Garden of Eden. One week you’re playing with cars and trucks and snacking it up in luxury, and the next you get to follow up sacrament meeting with an hour sitting in hard chairs in a huge room full of big people, followed by another hour orbiting hard chairs in a prison cell with two crazy dancing grownups waving pictures from the gospel art picture kit. HUZZAH! By the sweat of their brows, indeed. Big kid primary is hard work. For everyone.

And it’s a big change from the Young Women organization, where I’ve been serving for the past six years. I like to think of it as mini Relief Society, only better. You get to teach them the gospel and they actually learn it. There’s something amazing about being part of their lives right at the time that they’re deciding who they are and what they really believe. Also, in the Mia Maid class, the girls are loving and sweet and they notice everything about you.

“Sister Thompson! Did you do something different with your hair? I love it! That is the cutest dress. Where did you get it? OhMyGoshYourEarringsAreSoFUN!”

In primary they notice things about you too.

Halfway through sharing time I noticed one little boy staring up at me intently. He was stroking the hair on my arm.

“Sister Thompson?” he asked.

“Yes, honey?”

“Why do you have so much hair on your arms?”

“It keeps me warm, I guess.” He looked unconvinced, squinting his eyes suspiciously.

“No. I think it’s because you’re gonna grow up to be a daddy.” He then reached down and plucked one of the hairs from my arm. And then another. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even tear up.

With the Young Women, I’m a fashion maven. In sunbeams, I’m a Yeti with man arms. Oh, how far we fall.

The class pretty much ate us for lunch. There was crying, yelling, jungle-gyming it all over the chairs, kids lying on the floor moaning, refusing to participate. It was amazing.

But I refuse to give in. Dan and I brought our four man-arms home, rolled up our sleeves and got to work. We have a plan. We have activities. We have stories. We have cheddar bunnies, and scarves that can be used for dancing or tying people to chairs. We spent this Saturday night preparing and packing the bag and then repreparing and then repacking the bag. We were almost ready.

And then I remembered that I’d planned on printing out pictures we’d taken of each of the kids to use in our lesson tomorrow. So, I pulled them up in Photoshop and…

Look at their FACES! Look again. For realz. I cannot stand the cuteness. It cannot be stood for.

Yes. I have the best calling. Ever. Sunday may be total chaos and the only thing they learn might be that we love them. But that’s okay. We will sing and play and look into those little faces and know that we’re doing a good work. And we will wear long sleeves. And carry hand sanitizer.

Conference

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One of my favorite weekends of the year is our church’s General Conference broadcast. I can go into it tired or frustrated or worn out or nervous about the future and when I’m done watching apostles, prophets, and other strong leaders speak for 8 hours, I’m good. I feel refreshed. I feel confident. I know God is in charge and therefore everything will be fine.

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The kids love General Conference weekend too, but for different reasons.

First of all, we get to attend church in our pajamas in our living room and snack while we watch. A pair of fluffy pajamas and a cinnamon roll really help eight hours of church go down.

Secondly, we make it a game for the kids. The night before each session we all guess what color dresses the ladies of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir will be wearing in a little thing we like to call the MoTab Ladies’ Fashion Betting Pool. We always guess all kinds of crazy colors and Dan always guesses Red for Sunday morning and he is always right.

My contention is, “Is it fun to be right if being right requires being boring? Pick another color.” And this year he did. And he lost. Because they wore red Sunday morning. C’est la guerre, mon ami.

The other game we play is set up sort of like a churchy drinking game. In front of the TV screen, I set out several cups full of small treats with common but not too common words written on them. Every time they hear one of those words in a talk, hymn or prayer, they get to take a treat from the corresponding cup.

Conference is broken up in to four 2-hour general sessions so I change the words and sometimes the treats each session.

The kids ALWAYS want me to pick words like “Jesus” or “and” but I NEVER do. RE: I am not an idiot. Also RE: I hate sugar comas.

This game sometimes produces interesting reactions in my kids.

To Quentin L. Cook’s talk, in which he said the word “missionary” more times than should be strictly legal, netting the kids hundreds of Gummy Bears, Wanda exclaimed, “Best. Talk. OF MY LIFE!”

Then there was the talk that described in great detail the transformative power of the Savior’s ultimate sacrifice and the kids looked like their faces would explode.

“Oh! Come on!!! He is describing the atonement. Why doesn’t he just SAY it!?”

They wanted that chocolate but they had to wait for the actual word.

Personally, I love watching them really listen to the words, even if on the surface it seems like they’re just playing a game. The fact that they were listening well enough to know he was talking about the atonement is a big fat bonus.

For one session I had the words Joseph Smith on one of the cups.

Nada.

Not one mention of the guy.

So I changed out the words before the next session. During the opening prayer of that session, the person offering the prayer mentioned his gratitude for the prophet Joseph Smith. I heard Magoo let out a disgruntled sigh. “Are you serious?” ye mumbled.

Probably my favorite moment of the weekend came when D. Todd Christofferson was talking about fatherhood. At one point he said something about how the greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother. Of course Dan took the opportunity to plant an epic kiss on my mouth. I imagine parents all over the world were engaging in churchly make-outs at that point and I’ll be derned if that doesn’t just make me proud to be a Mormon.

After our kiss, Magoo responded with his traditional, “I didn’t see that,” and without missing a beat, Wanda chimed in, “Thank you, Dad.”

You’re welcome, Wanda. Any time.

ERRRRRRR…. I Don’t Think it Goes That High

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Wanda wasn’t feeling great when she woke up yesterday morning. She had a 102 fever and said her tummy hurt. Who am I to send a walking biohazard into a building full of children on the cusp of spring break? Not a terrorist. So I kept her home, gave her some watered-down Gatorade, and got to work blogging in my pajamas.

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Early afternoon I made her turn off the Power Rangers and she quickly drifted off to adorable sicky sleep. But when she woke up, she looked horrible. She started sobbing that her tummy hurt and her skin felt hot to the touch. When I asked her to show me where it hurt, she pointed to her lower right side and moaned. I had her try to use the restroom while I Bing-ed “What side is the appendix on?”

Soon she was yelling for me to help her because it hurt too bad to get off the toilet. As I lifted her from the throne, I could tell her fever was really out of control and the forehead thermometer confirmed, 105.8!

Now, for normal kids this is insanely high but I’ve measured Wanda at over 107 in the past and anything under 103 is no big deal for her. However, combined with the side pain, I thought I should at least make an appointment with our pediatrician.

So I called. And his nurse told me to get to an ER quickly. Just like me and Bing, she was vibing appendicitis. So I rushed around like an unshowered maniac, grabbing my purse and phone charger and some grown-up clothes. Five minutes later the nurse called back to make sure she had told me the correct ER and to encourage me to leave as soon as possible.

We zoomed. But it takes about 45 minutes to get from our house to Children’s Hospital in Seattle and my red-hot bubs cried off and on all the way there. “It hurts, Mom!”

I feel so helpless when one of my children is in pain and there’s nothing I can do about it. I was doing what I could, which was praying and driving faster than the law allows. I also texted my family on the way out the door and they all said they’d send up a prayer as well.

We pulled into the ER parking lot and I loaded Wanda and her barf bowl and Gatorade into the softball gear wagon and wheeled her into the hospital, red hot and whimpering. The check-in nurse commented on how awful she looked, took our insurance card and sent us to the lobby to wait.

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For twenty minutes I watched Wanda become absorbed in a Disney movie and slowly but surely the violent red flush of her cheeks disappeared and her skin color returned to normal.

“Wanda,” I asked, “How does your tummy feel now?”

“It still hurts a little.”

“On the right side?”

“No. Just kind of in the middle.”

They called us back. They took her temperature.

99.9

Magically. Healed. By. The. Hospital. Lobby.

The intake nurse looked at Wanda. And then back at me. Then back at Wanda.

She asked all the questions and Wanda answered them like a person who should stay in for recess and maybe miss school just to be safe, but not someone who needed to be taken to a doctor and certainly not the ER.

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I was relieved, truly, that she was feeling better. And if me looking like a hypochondriacish idiot was the price I had to pay for her health, I was willing to pay it. Grudgingly.

They gave her the world’s most expensive popsicle and, as a bonus, she got to pee into a cup and all over my hand.

When the doctor asked me again how high her temperature had been at home, I told him 105.8 and he startled and asked what kind of thermometer I had used. I pulled it out of my purse to show him.

“I don’t think they go that high,” he responded.

“They sure do. They don’t get an error until 108.”

He had no response to that.

I texted my family to tell them that all was well except for the fact that I looked like an idiot. He said they must all be really good prayers if their prayers could bring her back from the brink of death that quickly.

I decided not to share the prayer hunch with the ER doctors but I did wonder how I would ever know if she had been miraculously brought back from the brink by divine intervention. I tend to be more of a Heavenly-Father-please-help-my-daughter-no-wait-she’s-fine kind of person. This could use more in-depth pondering.

Everyone was super nice to me, the way you’re nice to a crazy person. And, according to the supervising ER doctor, it was good that we came in, just in case. Apparently, there have been several cases of this crazy stomach virus in the ER lately. The cramps are intermittent, localized, and extremely painful, accompanied by high fevers.

They look like appendicitis.

The doctor said she had watched kids have acute episodes that had totally faked her out and she’d ordered all kinds of tests that turned up nothing, only to have the kids seem fine half an hour later.

Such is the humbling life of a mom. You sacrifice your pride for the safety of your kids, people who delight and terrify you every day.

On the bright side, at least they discharged her just in time to hit rush hour traffic so we’d have plenty of time to take a rare look at the gorgeous mountain that was showing up against the clear Seattle sky.

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When I checked her temperature this morning, she was back up to 104.9. Or not. I don’t think the thermometer really goes that high. But I should probably shower this time, just in case.

Football Agnosticism

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I don’t have anything against football. I just don’t necessarily believe in it. In fact, I ignore it most of the year/decade until something big happens and then I jump on the bandwagon of our winning home team. Die-hard fans are annoyed by this, but I don’t see why. I’m sort of like an agnostic who loves to decorate for Christmas because it’s tradition and it’s fun, it gives me a sense of community, and… OOOOOO Shiny!

As a fellow Christmas lover, I’m happy to see anyone celebrating Christmas, no matter how deeply their religious fervor goes.

And I thusly support the Seahawks at this time of year.

Last year when they went to that really great bowl, you know, the super one, we watched the game. It was the first football game my kids had ever seen and it was a doozy.

“What’s a safety?”

“What’s an interception, mom?”

“Does one team always get that many more points than the other team?”

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Two Sundays ago we wore our outfits from my sister’s wedding last summer (conveniently Seahawks colors) to church in support of the NFC Championship game. What does NFC stand for? “Um… National Football Something Niner…”

And we got out of church at 2pm only to see we’d lost the game. There were 5 minutes left and the Seahawks were behind 19-7. Three minutes left and suddenly they came back and won the game in overtime. Crazy. The entire city of Seattle and every surrounding town had a collective heart attack. It’s sad really because no one will be around to watch the Super Bowl in a couple of days. Even now, my ghost is typing this. Because I died listening to the game. On the radio. We don’t have cable this year because the Olympics aren’t currently happening.

So this weekend will see us in our Seahawks gear, cheering for the home team because we can and it’s fun and we love Seattle and we tolerate football, especially when we’re winning. Go Hawks!

Hooked on a Feeling – A Peace Resolution

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I love pressing reset at the beginning of the new year. I’ve heard a lot of people going off about New Year’s resolutions the past couple of weeks.

“They never work.”

“They’re too much pressure and then you just feel like a failure when you don’t accomplish them.”

“Pass the chocolate.”

And you know how I like to get all Drops-of-Awesomey up in here. And chocolate. BUT. I still really like the feeling of making a fresh start on January One, or rather on the first day the kids go back to school after January One.

So, this year as I thought about why so many people are skipping out on resolutions, it occurred to me that the reason resolutions stress us out is because we’re perfectionists and we’re not resolving to be better, we’re resolving to be perfect immediately and our lack of flexibility and self-mercy put us in a mental place to feel like failures because we’re improving our lives but not COMPLETELY. NOW. And therefore we suck.

This is dumb. And stressful. And counter-productive. And un-Awesome.

For 2015, I have one resolution. And it’s not about what I’m going to do perfectly or stop doing completely. It’s about how I’m going to feel. And that feeling is peaceful.

For 2015 I am resolving to increase the level of peace in my heart and therefore in my home and thusly in the world. I am resolving to make peace on earth in 2015.

This may sound abstract and it could be, but I spent some time thinking about what peace looks like for me, what choices I make that lead to peace. Basically the practical side of this resolution is to ask myself as often as I can remember to be mindful, which of course won’t be all the time, “Is this choice adding to or subtracting from my personal peace?”

There are a few things I know will help me feel peaceful:

1. More spiritual devotional time
2. Less desire to control situations or people other than myself
3. More love
4. Fewer comments I regret
5. Less time spent in the bad hotel, or as Queen El-to-the-Sa would say, more “Let it Go!”
6. More gratitude.
7. More love – I know I have this one on the list twice, but I need to not only love others more, but also love myself.

In practical use, those might look like:

1. Pour my heart out to God in prayer, rather than watch one more episode of Gilmore Girls tonight.
2. When one of my kids does poorly on a report card, try to guide her gently without feeling personally injured by the setback.
3. If Dan is grumpy, give him a hug, rather than being annoyed. After all, that’s what I expect him to do for me.
4. Say one less TMI comment at the next book club.
5. When I share TMI at the next book club, I won’t obsess about it for days.
6. Be grateful that my 80s cabinets are sturdy enough to have lasted since the 80s.
7. Spend time tonight thinking about all the good I’ve contributed to the world today.

Any time I make one of those peaceful choices, I am adding to that feeling, I am succeeding in my resolution. Any time I make a choice that slurps the peace from my life, I can always make a different choice and add some peace back in.

How do you want to feel this year?

Bust a Prayer Printable

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I’ve been blogging for almost nine years now. I know, kids. I am the oldest Daring Young Mom ever. That was before Instagram was a thing. It was back when you’d say, “I blog,” and people would cock their heads to the side, squint their eyes and say, “You, what, now?”

After nine years, I decided to create my first printable. I figured it had better be something amazing, something life changing, something written by Stanley Kirk Burrell, doing business as MC Hammer. You’re welcome!

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Drops of Awesome LDS Resources

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Wondering how Drops of Awesome is informed by my faith? You’ve come to the right place!

I recognize that most of my readers are not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and many do not share my belief in God. This is why I created the Drops of Awesome Journal with a broad focus to reach a wider audience. The book really zones in on what each of us can do personally to shift our focus and recognize the good we are doing in the world.

However, I also find great joy in my belief that I am not doing this alone, that there is someone far greater than myself contributing to my Bucket of Awesome.

So, after several requests for LDS resources to accompany lessons and activities about Drops of Awesome, I’ve been slowly gathering scriptures and conference talks that will work as a supplement to the book, coming out in September from Familius. I will continue to update this page as I find material. Feel free to leave me a comment with a talk or scripture reference that helps you remember to keep trying and that our small efforts matter….

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Gearing up for the Second Coming

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We weren’t gonna watch the game. We’re not football people. We hadn’t watched all season. Sundays are more a churchy day than a sports day for us. We were not jumping on the Seahawks band wagon on the day of the Super Bowl as though we could name even one player on the team, as though we had somehow earned those Lil’ Smokies or the guac and chips.

But the 12th man flags started to get to me on Friday and by Saturday morning, I had decided we’d better jump on the train as it zipped by. Church was a sea of blue and green, with the lone Broncos fan conducting the meeting boldly in his orange tie. I didn’t see any actual Seahawks gear but it was obvious that people had extracurricular activities on the brain.

So, after church Dan and I sat the kids down for a lesson in the rules of football and we all watched their first game together. Luckily, I’d just turned the cable back on for the winter Olympics. Squee!!

We didn’t teach the kids every possible rule of football and of course the first thing to happen was a safety. What?! We got to explain a lot of fun things that night and the kids came away die-hard Seahawks fans.

Tomorrow the boys in blue and green make their triumphant return to Seattle and there’s going to be a big parade, which we will not attend, and a bunch of families are playing hookie from school, which we will not be doing. But Seahawks fans and wanna-be Seahawks fans will be wearing their football gear tomorrow. I didn’t think much of this until I picked my kids up from school today and saw the staggering number of kids wearing Seahawks shirts and jerseys. And today is only Seahawks Eve!

So, since this bandwagon makes stops at Target, I just thought I’d “look” and “see” what they had. And many dollars later, I walked out with 5 Super Bowl championship T-shirts. Magoo and Wanda are elated.

Wanda has been obsessed with The End of Days lately, asking me when the last day will be and whether the sky will turn all silver. It’s slightly creepy but makes for interesting conversation and I told her that the last day will be when Jesus comes again, and not in a manger but with angels and fanfare and all that jazz.

So today, she was talking about how much she LOVED her Seahawks shirt and how she would wear it tomorrow for the big parade that she’s still not convinced we’re not going to and then she said, “But then you need to wash it.”

“Okay.”

“Because on the last day, when Jesus comes again, I want to dress like Seahawks.”

“Alright.”

Dan says she’s the first person he’s ever met who has her outfit planned for the Second Coming.

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And she will look amazing.

Mistakes Were Made

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Sometimes passive voice is needed. Sometimes mistakes are made. Jars of applesauce might even be smashed on the garage floor.

We had a gaggle of delightful family members in town this past weekend for Magoo’s baptism. Yay! He decided to do it. Fun was had by all. Baptisms were performed. Memories were created.

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With any big family event, there’s a certain level of stress. Never mind that our parents worked like fairy slaves, fixing fences, hauling junk out of our back yard, cooking food, and replacing shower heads, all while giving frequent gifts to the children and babysitting them so I could get my hair done and go grocery shopping.

The stress builds slowly, almost imperceptibly, until your husband asks you if you’re feeling anxious and you stretch a crazy sort of smile and say, “No. Not anxious. Just alert. I don’t want anything to go wrong.” Then you shove your fingers in your mouth and bite down hard with exaggeratedly wide eyes.

When the baptism was over, the neighborhood lunch was finished, everyone special was made to feel special, we were settling into a nice groove of lying around on the living room floor playing games on our individual electronic devices.

And then I went into the garage to get some pasta. I pulled down the plastic bin, and stuck to the bottom of it was a sticky mouse trap and stuck to the bottom of the mouse trap were two bottles of home-canned applesauce, and stuck to the bottom of the bottles of applesauce was my sanity, because as one crashed to the ground and the other dangled precariously, I lost it. It. Was. Lost.

“Dan. Dan! Hey DAN!” I called. “I need you. I really need you right now.”

He was cleaning the kitchen or rescuing an old lady from drowning or something, but he stopped and came out to the garage, where I stood frozen in place.

“Applesauce is smashed on the ground,” I said, staring at it blankly.

His look said, “So?”

Someone called from inside, “Is everything okay out there?”

“Yeah. Kathryn just smashed some applesauce on the ground.”

“I did not smash it. It was smashed. The mousetrap did it. I did not smash this apple sauce.”

“Ok.”

Awkward silence as we both looked at the broken glass and liquid fruit splatters.

Dan – “Do you need something?”

Me – “I didn’t smash the applesauce. It became smashed. Mistakes were made. I do not claim responsibility.”

Dan – “Ok.”

Me – “And can I have some paper towels?”

Dan – “There’s a roll right behind you.”

Someone else from inside – “Do you need anything out there?”

Dan – “It’s okay. Kathryn just smashed some… Applesauce was smashed. It was no one’s fault.”

Me – You know that’s right.

I didn’t need him to fix it. I just needed him to stand and stare at the sauce with me, to recognize my non-responsibility, to stand and look at me in a way that said, “I know you put a ton of planning into this weekend and acknowledge that the smashing of the applesauce by reason of a maliciously placed sticky mouse trap in no way reflects your abilities as a host, a wife, or a human being. Mistakes were made. You are a keeper. Now, why don’t you take two minutes to wipe it up, while I go back inside and finish saving that old lady from drowning or whatever I was doing?