"Shirley T"

I think I may have come up with a new, more fitting nickname for the Sass. Recently as I got her dressed up for church in her latest Christmas dress, I did her hair with the typical curls, this time with ringlets all around her head. (Hallelujah to the fact that I got at least one child—thankfully this one a girl—with my more low-maintenance curly hair!)

As she got up and ran from me, I remarked to Pearly-Q, “Honey, I swear that Sassy looks just like Shirley Temple.”

To this, he cocked his head to one side and slowly nodded, “Yeah . . . I think you’re right.”
Since that time I haven’t been able to get that thought out of my head, and have started to call her “Shirley T.” When I first used this name, Sassy responded in typical fashion, “I’m not Shirley!”

Then I explained, “Do you know who Shirley Temple was, honey? She was a beautiful little girl, with dark curly hair just like you. She was so cute that everyone loved her.”

Sassy lingered for a moment. Sassy is very picky about labels, I’ll have you know. For instance, we cannot refer to her as cute, or pretty—only beautiful. Fortunately, after much deliberation she finally answered, “Okay, I Shirley.” Yes! Victory!

I, for one, grew up adoring Shirley Temple, just like the generation above me. Regardless of the fact that I did like Sprite and grenadine anyway, I always ordered “Shirley Temple” drinks wherever I went just because I loved the name so much. I still remember watching the old 1939 version of The Little Princess, wishing that I could be Shirley Temple’s character as she wakes up one morning to the surprise satin quilt, beautiful robes, and hot breakfast her friendly Indian neighbor with the parrot has given her. I wanted to be her even more when she throws the big bucket of ashes on the resident snob/bully of the girls’ school where she has become an indentured servant. Call me precocious, but the film conjured all sorts of fun imaginary scenarios that I loved acting out as a little girl myself. I remember thinking how one day if I had a little girl, I would watch Shirley Temple with her, too.

So, in honor of that tradition, last night I picked up a copy of The Little Princess, and watched it with my kids. It was more charming than I’d remembered, and I was struck by just how much Sassy really does remind me of that famous actress. Her pout, giggle, smile, natural charm, and happy-go-lucky air were so similar to my own little girl—not to mention her joy in dancing. I can’t tell you how many hours a day are spent by the Sass twirling, leaping, and posing as delicately as a three-year-old can manage while she listens to Christmas music. (She’ll even dance to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir broadcasts).

Needless to say, Sassy fell for Shirley Temple as much as I once did. I delighted in looking over at her face last night. She was completely mesmerized, and when I tucked her into bed last night, after the initial requirements of kissing all my individual facial features, cuddling in her bed for “ooone minute,” and sharing a story from when I was a “wittle girl,” Sassy asked if she could watch The Little Princess again when she woke up. I happily grinned and nodded. Though there are definite traits I hope Sassy does not pick up from me, (i.e. my temper, potty mouth, or any other number of nefarious flaws I will be working on for my lifetime), at least this is one area I certainly don't mind her taking after me. Long live Shirley!

Freak outs and Epiphanies

I hate to admit it, but this picture captures part of what I've been feeling lately.

Now that the logistical realities of mothering four children ages five and under are setting in, I have been facing all sorts of new realizations about my shortcomings. I have found that in the midst of managing the chaos, I get more frustrated and frazzled than I would like to admit. Unfortunately, this also means my family ends up getting the brunt of my aggravation as well. Last week I had a complete freakout session when Pearly-Q inquired about why hadn’t put the berries back in the fridge. In my sleep-deprived, deranged mind, I decided to take offense about his “criticisms” of me in the face of me taking on what felt like Mount Everest. Poor guy.

My biggest annoyance has been what feels like the inevitable tendency of everyone around me to ignore what I have to say. Now, I know that most mothers feel like most of their children don’t listen to them, but lately it has felt more uncanny than I can describe. Regardless of the method of my communication—multiple reminders, calmly or not so calmly conveyed—I seem to be resolutely disregarded. Normally I freak out about this, and I have more than once recently. (I am completely ashamed to admit that I called Santa Claus on Bitty this last Friday when he had one doozy of a day. It wasn’t pretty.)

Recently, however, I have wondered whether or not there is something I am doing that is causing this insatiable problem. I am the common thread, after all. And, for as long overdue as it might seem, it has caused some real soul-searching about why my family doesn’t want to listen to me. Fortunately, in talking this out with someone else, I reached an epiphany: perhaps I am not listening to myself. This person observed that I am continually discouraged by the fact that I don’t have enough quiet time to pray and meditate. As a result, I don’t allow myself the chance to consider the various situations in my life, and what I can do to improve on them. I don’t have time to listen to the Lord’s direction, or pay attention to any other cues from my own spirit, for that matter.

This has been a helpful observation, and one which I’m trying to utilize. Easier said than done, I know. But, I’m considering how to allow my soul more quiet moments to . . . just . . . listen. I try to do this most often when I’m feeding the baby alone, (this seems to be the easiest time). In the process I find that I’m clearing the clutter of my own mind, which means that I’m less volatile. Now we’ll see if it makes a difference in how others around me respond . . . I guess we’ll all have to stay tuned.