Tattoos

Originally written 10/15/13



It was in the wee hours of the morning; I had just finished nursing Griffin and rolled out of bed to put him back into his crib. I don't know about all the other mothers out there, but after I had my baby, all I wanted to do was stare at him, like, all the time. Even now, sometimes during those early morning nursing sessions my body is like "Girl, you need to go back to sleep", but my Mama brain is all "Nah, is cool-- I'll just stare at my baby's perfect, pink skin and long eyelashes and adorable little nose and lips. He won't look like this forever. I can sleep when I'm deeeeeaaaadddd...




So while non-creepily staring at my baby, I notice how silly he looks in his tattoo onesie that one of his aunties had made for him. "What if he does look like that one day--all tatted up?" I thought. I tried to picture a young adult Griffin coming to visit his parents for the holidays in a ratty jean vest and way-too-skinny jeans with tattoos all up his neck and arms, maybe a few piercings, a wild hair-do...My Molly-Mormon heart sank a little. The lifestyle that seems to coincide with such an appearance was not what I wanted for my child, nor was it likely to mesh well with the upbringing and morals we hoped to instill in him.

Then this thought enveloped my mind--

"It wouldn't matter, I would love him anyways."

And I think, at that moment, I received a brief glimpse of Heavenly Father's perfect love, the same love I hope every parent feels towards their children. It was so warm and whole and unmitigated by any sort of judgement or pretense or expectation. It was soft but firm and overwhelming yet gentle. It was just love.

I love my son so much, none of his life decisions, for better or worse, would change how I feel about him. And I know that God feels the same way towards us.

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I used to get so impatient with the parable of The Prodigal Son. It just didn't seem fair that after all the stupid, selfish choices the son had made, even after he had squandered his inheritance and broken his parents hearts, that he was received back home with open arms. In fact, he was celebrated!
I often related more with the elder son who said this to his Father:

" Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment: and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends:

But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf. (Luke 15:29-30)"

And his father's reply:

"Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine.

It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found. (Luke 15:31-32)"

I used to question the parents of "prodigal sons"; I would question their love and the sincerity of the care for their children. But after that night, staring at my tattooed son, it became very clear that a parents love knows no bounds. And if that love is but a slice of what our Heavenly Father feels for us, His children, can you even imagine the intensity of His devotion to each and every one of us?
God's love is unconditional. He wants us to be happy and I am sure he is disappointed when we make poor decisions that conflict with His law; but that will NEVER EVER change how much He cares and wants us to return home to His presence.

I hope my son doesn't ink his skin, but if he does, I will still love him just as much as the morning he wore the tattooed onesie, just as God undoubtedly, unfailingly, absolutely loves us.

FHE: HAIRCUTS

Scott and I have been on and off about our Family Home Evening (F.H.E.) observance. We were pretty consistent when we were first married, and it seems like we always got a re-boost of commitment after General Conference, and then, of course, having a child didn't make anything easier...
But we are trying to make this a weekly family tradition. And I think trying always counts for something. Shoot, we've only been a family for about 4 years, so I'm not going to beat myself up over missing a few Monday night meetings. The desire is there, we are learning how to prioritize it...
Any. Ways.

A few weeks ago I was lamenting to my husband about my hair which had grown into a delightfully mangy pixie. Looking back at pictures, it really wasn't that bad. But I wanted to go short. Like short-short. If my hair were to be a pair of pants, I wanted it to be a pair of itty-bitty booty shorts. I was feeling wild, rambunctious, and a little bit reckless.Which is another way of saying "Jamey, you're bored." Whatevs. It's my hair, I can do what I want.
Scott was also hankering for a trim and Griffin had the young sprouts of a mullet. His hair behind his ears and next to his neck was growing much faster than the hair on top.... mullet style...

So Monday night, we grabbed Scott's buzzer (I have no idea what its called. Why don't I know what the hair cutting thingy is called?!) and away we sheared!
And, of course, we had to document. Because posterity is going to care about our hair care routine, right?

 BEFORE

AFTER  

We all had pretty short hair to begin with, so obviously not a huge change. But now, it's shorter.
And we spent time as a family, which is what really matters.

>>>Did you know I opened my ETSY? I did. Go check it out. 

Buy yourself something. You deserve it. 

>>>This is stuck in my head.