Cheers

Jonah's entertainment yesterday evening consisted of dragging his tricycle to a new spot in our backyard then sauntering over to where I was working in our garden and telling me, his hands swinging casually, "I moved my tricycle."

I would reply, "You moved your tricycle?"

And he would say, "Yep."

I would say, "Nice job!"

Then he would saunter off to repeat the delightful sequence.

He eventually moved on to moving his "lawn mower" (not really a lawn mower--just this cart thing that's supposed to help babies learn to walk) and then his bike. He kept me informed about his progress every step of the way. 

He was so freaking proud of himself. But I understand--I am so proud of him too.

When Jonah was a baby, I was assigned to write a newspaper profile story on a local guitar luthier who was having some success. This man tried to describe for me the feeling he had when he watched the guitarist in one of his favorite bands perform with a guitar he (the luthier) had made.

I could see the feeling in his eyes, and I recognized it: It was awe. A personal, joyful, bursting kind of awe. 

I remember the first time +Jonah reached out his baby hand to grab a toy. I'd been holding it in front of his face, giving it a little shake. Staring at it as he had so many times before, this time he finally, so very slowly, lifted his right arm. My heart stood still for a moment as he brought it straight up, then--concentrating--moved it to the left. His chubby fingers made contact, and he closed them around the rattle. 

Up til that moment, it had never occurred to me that purposefully lifting an arm for the first time was a meaningful accomplishment. But as I watched him achieve something he never had before, my spirit shouted for joy. It did a little jumping heel click. It shoved its fists in the air. 

I smiled at my baby boy in wonder--not just at his achievement, but at the realization of how fully and how brightly I was cheering for him. 

I've always cheered for him. Today I noticed him using the word "so" in the right way ("let's go to the store so we can get some gloves for daddy") and I cheered.. Recently he pulled his own pajama pants all the way up and I cheered. And yesterday, he perfected the art of sauntering and I cheered too. 

This is Jonah's camera "smile." Eyes always closed. WEIRD.

For good measure: This is Andy's camera smile. NORMAL.

Moment of clarity

I realized I could not trust the girl cutting my hair when she told me she loved my hair color.

At that moment I knew she was on a mission to make everyone around her look bad so she could, by comparison, look great.

My main clue was the color of my hair: It sucks.

Presenting

The Grigg Collection of T-shirts Featuring Moustached Men

The Soup Nazi, Ron Swanson, and Sigmund Freud

My mother's grandmother (very classy) would have been horrified to see to what level her progeny has stooped.   

This is not to say that class left my family three generations ago. 

But did it?

What I'm thinking

In college I had a dear friend who in quiet moments would often ask, "What are you thinking?"

I was never thinking anything worth sharing. Sometimes I was giving myself a private rescreening of a remembered conversation in which I'd been hilarious or awkward. (Usually awkward. Very awkward.)
(In these cases, I'm sure my face was doing weird things: Either making the adorable expressions I'd made when I'd said the hilarious things or blushing urgently at my idiocy. Usually blushing.)

Other times I was thinking something unkind. I know. You're all shocked. It happens. I'm working on it.

But most often, when a conversation drifted to a close, my mind would follow a path like this: "I have nothing more to say on that topic. What else is going on in my brain? [Mentally singing:] Nope, I was wrong, it's a really weird commercial for soap! I wish I could get that jingle out of my head. I should think about something else. I have nothing to think about. Shoot, Blair is going to ask me what I'm thinking about. Quick, think about something interesting. Global warming? No. I don't have anything to say about global warming.* Um.... oh no, that's all I've got. Quick, there's still time!"

Then I would hear from Blair, my always interested roommate: "What are you thinking?"

Sometimes--even now, even though Blair hasn't asked me that question in years--when I'm trying to get a song out of my head, my brain jumps to that same path and I feel a little panicky. I feel an insistent pressure to think about something interesting, and that pressure disables my ability to think interestingly.

I'll just have to hope that I will never again be in a situation where someone might expect me to be interesting. Okay, friends? When we're together, please come prepared to be the sole provider of interesting thoughts in our interactions.

I appreciate it.

----
*I don't know why, but global warming is always the first thing that pops into my head in situations like this. I should really develop some talking points on the subject. I just googled "global warming talking points" and... wow. I am really not interested in this topic. I need some material that doesn't suck.

Well

Jonah's been experimenting with the word "well" today. Here's how it's going:

"I don't want to wear a coat. Well, I don't want to wear a coat. Well, I don't want to wear a coat. Well, I don't want to wear a coat, Mommy."

Then, running down the hallway:

"Well, well, well. Well, well."

I think it's going pretty well.

My tiny huge life

I read a book recently in which an overworked, under-appreciated mother asks her teenage daughter, "Do you think I lead a tiny life?" The teenage daughter doesn't pay attention to the question.

Since I am more thoughtful than the teenage daughter, I did pay attention. I thought about this mom for a few seconds and then turned my brain back to myself. (I'm still more thoughtful than the teenager.) Tiny-ness is something I fear. I push against it in my own way, telling myself that someday I will have more time to remind the universe that I exist.* But for now, on a daily basis, I am only important to three people: Seth, Jonah, and Andy.** And Jonah and Andy don't even know how important I am -- neither of them has ever said thank you to me after a diaper change. They usually say the opposite.

We discussed this question at book club, a group made up of mostly mothers. The consensus was that NO, our lives are NOT TINY. We're doing something crucial here. Our love and care shape our children, who in turn shape the world.

That night in bed I thought of that cliche: "To the world, you may be one person. But to one person, you may be the world." (Bonus fact: I've had the country song this saying inspired stuck in my head since then.) And it's true. To 99.99999% of the world,*** I will forever be just a number. Just one of the 300 and whatever million people in the United States. Just one 2.5 billion Christians and 12 million Mormons. Just one of 3.5 billion females.

But when Andy wakes up in the morning, the only thing he wants is me. (Okay, and Seth. But really, we're talking about me today.) He wants me to pick him up from his crib, to change his diaper, to feed him, to hug him, to cheer him on as he planks,**** to put his toys just out of reach to encourage him to STRETCH! (He doesn't know he wants this.) He wants me to teach him (well, someday) about how God sent us out into a world where bad things happen and we have pain but how he provided a Savior to give us light and hope (happy Easter, everyone).

And Jonah hasn't learned how to open his bedroom door yet (someone put the handle on upside down), so his world would be less than 100 square feet without me.

So is my life tiny? No, it's TWO WORLDS worth of huge.

I thought this was grand and glorious for about 20 minutes after waking up the next morning. (As I've said before: Breakfast is a stressful time at my house. Plus, there's the whole diaper issue.) Since it's draining to be needed so urgently and so constantly, I feel like I could live with a little less huge-ness.

But for now, there are enough moments of grandeur and glory***** to refill me when I've been drained and to reassure me that the enormity of my life won't knock me over. At least not yet.



*


** And YOU. But not as much.

*** I didn't actually do the math on this.

****

*****

Words that don't require an 's' at the end when they're coupled with 'some'

-Dirt
-Poop
-Money
-Milk

If someone could let +Jonah know, that would be great.

Jonah's recipe for chocolate milk

Chocolate milk
by +Jonah Grigg

Ingredients:
Chocolate syrup

Instructions:
Drink.

Note: My recipe is not all that different. But it's a little different. But not all that different.

Notes on my name

• It's pronounced "Dah-nee." (I've thought about it, and that's not really the same thing as "Donny.")

• My full name is Daniela. (Dahn-yel-uh.) My dad tells me my name is German (he was a missionary in Germany and baptized a girl with my name), but whenever I mention that to someone who has been to Germany, the look they give me isn't exactly one I would call "approving." It's more like "skeptical but not interested enough to try and dissuade me."

• There was this one time, when I was at the testing center at BYU, that the student employee behind the desk where they distribute tests pulled my test off the printer, read my name, and called out "Dahn-yel-uh." I was stunned (because the only logical way to pronounce it at first sight is "Dan-yel-uh", right?) and thought for a minute that he might be my one true love. I asked him why he'd said that and he said "Oh, did I say that? I don't know." Then I started to wonder if he'd actually said it. Then I dropped the idea of pursuing the honor of becoming of his soulmate. 

• I always always always put dinner reservations in Seth's name. Restaurant people probably think my husband is the boss of me, but I'm really just trying to avoid the following conversation:

"What's your name?"
"Dani."
"D-O-N-N-I?" (Or whatever combination of letters strikes them as appropriate in that moment.)
"Sure."
"Well, how do you really spell it?
"Well, it's D-A-N-I, but..."
"Okay, D-A-N-I. Got it."
Arrive at the restaurant.
"We have a reservation for Dani?"
"Hmmmm, do you mean Danny?"

This problem could easily be solved if I just pronounced my name Danny in situations like this, but I can't bring myself to do that. It's the same deal when I'm leaving messages with receptionists or whatever. If I tell them how I really spell my name, the person is going to call me back and call me Danny. I could lie about how it's spelled, but all the phonetic spellings look silly to me.

• All my kids have/will have names that you can both spell and pronounce. YOU'RE WELCOME.

(p.s. Mom and Dad, DAS OKAY.)

(p.s. One time my cousin Tara had a big crush on this boy and her best friend tapped her on the shoulder during a church meeting and told her that this boy had asked her [the friend] to a dance and apologized and Tara fake smiled and was like, "DAS OKAY" and turned around. This makes me giggle every time I think about it.)

(p.s. Tara is very happily married now to SOMEONE ELSE.)

Morning snack

This is what's left of Jonah's morning snack of Lucky Charms. Notice anything missing?