with hair disheveled

Dear Paul,

2012-02-14T08:00:00.003-07:00

You were so quiet. So quiet it bothered me. You’d stare at me with your half-amused grin and say nothing whilst I took offense at what appeared to be mockery. Soon, you noticed other boys teasing me, vying for my attention. You were jealous, protective, and completely strategic. Armed with chivalry, you would return my stolen gloves, find my missing name tag, unlock and rescue me from the freezer, and, most importantly, protect the pole I’d named Richard. And I let you, because it made you feel better about the situation somehow. But after a few months I started to like you too. I tried to tease you and you wouldn’t tease back.

Annoying.

I wondered if my playful personality was going to mix well with your serious nature or if they’d repel like water and oil. One day, as I priced loaves of frozen bread and you stocked the shelves I asked you why you wouldn’t bicker with me. You looked up at me with those sincere blue eyes and said, “I never want to fight with you.” You were so different.

The next day I hesitantly left for a family reunion in Illinois, terrified you’d move on to another girl while I was gone. Then the text messages started rolling in, reassuring me you were serious about being my friend or more. As exciting as I was to come home and see you, leaving my extended family is always difficult. That first day back I cried. You showed up at my house, put your arm around my shoulder, and channeled those calming powers I suspect you inherited from your mother.

I was addicted. My uptight and theatrical tendencies were medicated by the sound of your soft voice, and I felt so balanced. I returned the favor by loosening you up a bit. I introduced you to IKEA the amusement park (remember IKEA? ;P), and taught you how to build some really goofy snowmen.

We were ridiculous newlyweds. We made cakes and burnt food and ate homemade pizza while watching the Olympics on one of our only two channels. I use to ask you to play two player games with me and you’d always suggested Strip Othello. Thankfully, that never happened, but nice try. There were some pillow fights, but mostly you'd just steal my pillow while I was praying. When you’d come home from a stressful day of school I’d poke you, make a joke, and ask you to wash dishes with me. It seemed like the kitchen sink was a perfect place for you to unwind. When I faced my own tragedies you always said and did the right thing. When I was throwing up and pregnancy sick for eight weeks you went to the store to buy me ramen whenever I asked.

Remember when Andrea was born? Things got pretty hard for a while. I was too depressed to loosen you up and you were too uptight to calm me. I never told you that part of my depression stemmed from the foreign feeling that settled into our marriage. Perhaps it was unhealthy how I’d come to rely on you so. In June, Andrea slept through the night and things started to change, get better, you know? But it wasn’t until December when I stopped nursing that I started to feel like myself again. Weaned from my dependent, I was entirely my own person. You, rejuvenated by Christmas break, were coming around too. A cleansing rain fell upon our relationship, ending the melancholy drought and transforming you and me into US, new and improved.

I’d almost forgotten how we were before our little addition. The atmosphere of our home changed and smiles returned. We started laughing again-- so hard we had to shush each other afraid we’d wake the baby. The shingles poem? Ha ha! It’s been lovely.

Almost four years ago on a warm June night, sitting on the swing in my parents’ backyard, my logical brain told me there would be hard times, but my heart didn’t believe it. I hoped that if and when trails arose, you’d make them worth going through somehow. I was right, my sous chef, I was right.

Eye of Sauron Cake

2012-02-13T13:38:00.001-07:00

The amazing thing about in-laws is more birthday parties. Yesterday, my family threw a little birthday bash for Paul. He wanted to keep with the Lord of the Rings theme, but for reasons that are still unknown to me, he requested and Eye of Sauron Cake. Oh boy. I went all out for this thing.

Last year, I made a zebra cake (tutorial here). I thought the results were pretty sweet.

I had the idea to use the same technique but with orange and red batter. This way, cutting into the cake would reveal a flaming interior.

With three layers, this thing weighed a ton. Sandwiched between the layers was banana cream pie buttercream. I made my typical buttercream (1/2 cup of butter, 1/2 cup of unflavored shortening, 1 tsp. vanilla, pinch of salt, and 3 1/2-4 cups of powdered sugar, 2 tbsp. milk) but substituted one cup of sugar with instant banana pudding mix.

*It was too thick and incredibly hard to spread. I recommend adding a lot more milk.

I rustically covered the cake with dark chocolate buttercream.

Then I began adding layers of tinted buttercream for the "Eye of Sauron."

I used four different shades to get the effect I wanted.

Twenty-seven candles framed the eye.

Once it was lit on fire (once again feeling like an orc) it really brought out the different shades.

Apparently, the cake of Sauron was so life-like that Paul cowered in fear.

Make a wish!

I got to ~~throw the ring into the fires of Mount Doom~~ cut the cake.

Can you see the flames?

Okay, so the flames inside were a little pink. Perhaps the next time I make an "Eye of Sauron" cake I will use red velvet.

Hobbit birthday

2012-02-06T11:50:00.002-07:00

Can you tell what these are? I'll give you a hint: they are not aliens. They're Hobbit hole cupcakes!

Today is Paul's birthday. Naturally, I began thinking of cake ideas in December. Completely stumped on what cake to make AND what present to give him, I all but gave up on his birthday until he excitedly insisted I watch the trailer for "The Hobbit" coming out and the end of the year. Thank you, Paul, for finally dropping a small inkling of a hint. I googled (don't ya love how that's become a verb?) Hobbit holes and found inspiration is this painting.

I began with gluten free devil's food cake and filled them with a homemade coconut cream pie filling. Each cupcake got a healthy smear of chocolate ganache.

I piped on some green-tinted, coconut-scented buttercream.

And dipped each one in green and yellow coconut shreds.

I thought about stopping here because these looked pretty cool on their own. But they wouldn't have been Hobbit holes, would they?

(Although, they're not Hobbit holes as much as they're Hobbit Mounds! Get it? Because they are coconut and chocolate!)

I strategically placed three chocolate chips, two small for the windows, one large for the door. . .

And piped on frames and a door knob. (Had I a smaller tip I would have added window panes.) My hands were so shaky at first, but after a few trial runs I relaxed a bit.

Which was good because I had to pipe eighteen of these Hobbit hole cupcakes.

Then. . . I got a little nerdy and built The Shire.

Soooo nerdy. . . Don't judge me. . .

I asked Paul to clean the kitchen because Andrea was begging for some "Mommy time". This was his version. Nice try, Paul. You're lucky it's your birthday.

Andrea and I finished the job.

I packed up The Shire in my amazing cupcake carrier that I got for Christmas and went to the in-laws for dinner.

I loving jabbed candles into the Hobbit homes-- there weren't one hundred and eleven, but pretty close. . .

Then I lit the shire on fire! I've never felt more like an orc.

Happy birthday, Paul! I love you a "hole" bunch!

A teacher

2012-02-01T23:02:00.000-07:00

I loved watching my second grade teacher, a short and stout, grey-haired woman named Mrs. Shannon, teach multiplication and read Arthur books. She was kind, personable, strong, and smart. Basically everything I aspired to be. On a chilly Fall day while cutting out construction paper leaves, I decided, at seven years old, if my plans to become a cartoon Disney character didn't turn out then I would teach. In junior high, I picked the grade that seemed most enticing and during high school my choice was solidified by my discomfort around small children. I wanted to teach high school English.

The English major at BYU was not what I expected. I had no passion for it. If I was throwing thousands of dollars and four years of my life at something, I had to feel passionate about it. While trudging through my generals I stumbled across a major that brought fire and desire into my soul. It was a major worthy of my money, so I quickly changed directions. The more I delved into that major the more conformation I received that it was right for me. It was not conventional and didn't translate easily to high school curriculum, yet I was optimistic. I would still find a way to teach.

Then. . . I got married and had to put school on hold. As I unregistered for classes I waved goodbye to some future dreams and went into mourning. Thankfully, just one month into my life as a newlywed I was extended a church calling to TEACH TEENAGERS. It was obvious to me that Heavenly Father knew the desires of my heart. I looked forward to Sundays every week and gained a great fondness for the adolescents of that ward. When we moved a year later I wept. I'm not talking about a few well place tears or a lip quiver. There was blubbering and mascara waterfalls.

In my new ward I was called to the Primary Presidency as the secretary. This calling is so flexible in terms of nursing, diaper changes, walking the halls with a fussy child, but best of all is Andrea can be a little noisy without much notice. She loves watching the children and dancing during singing time. Unfortunately, this calling does not require me to teach. I've missed the Saturday night lesson plans, personal epiphanies, and my mind has wondered down some well-traveled roads of discouragement and self-pity.

January's visiting teaching message was on the importance of visiting teaching. After reading the initial message I wasn't feeling super uplifted. I decided to research the topic further to better understand what it was Heavenly Father wanted me to learn and teach about this. As I was preparing my lesson, a little voice said to me, "See? You're still a teacher." And I recognized another tender mercy.

The gentle reminder that I was still a teacher opened my eyes to a myriad of opportunities I am given every day to hone these skills. This morning, over a messy breakfast of applesauce and oatmeal, I patiently showed Andrea how to hold her spoon. She snatched it from my hand, stabbed the bottom of the bowl rhythmically while I sang "Do Your Ears Hang Low," and licked the tip with her tiny, pink tongue.

Guess what?

I taught her that. . . because I'm a teacher.

A good feeling

2012-01-29T22:26:00.000-07:00

I haven't had any investors calling about my business plan. And, to be honest, I see why. How long will my child like those magnets? How would I keep this business going long term? I began thinking about scrapping the whole project and starting up something a little different.

Dimes for Drool.

I could weigh my pillow before I go to bed, weigh it in the morning, find the difference and get paid a dime for every-- well, I figure I'll always drool in my sleep. I could even get Paul to volunteer his pillow.

Then I realized how gross this is and decided to put some of my entrepreneurial aspirations on hold for a bit. My daughter needs the extra time and attention anyway as tooth number four makes it's debut. She's been pretty uncomfortable.

Through her discomfort she still manages to manifest more of her personality everyday. Tonight, after I put her in her jammies, she picked up her snugly bear and walked into my bedroom to find her daddy. She marched up to Paul, handed him bear, and reached up to him. Soon, both emerged, Andrea on his hip, and Paul wrapped around her little finger. She knows what she wants and is pretty good at communicating.

As I watched my husband read her a bedtime story and give her some bedtime milk, I was reminded how precious this time is.

Being a stay-at-home mom is the hardest thing I've ever done but the best too. I love witnessing all of Andrea's highs and even lows. Just this week I observed her giggle in the bathtub, smear bananas in her hair, point at a balloon (a.k.a baa), stir plastic lettuce in a bowl, "read" a book to herself, softly pat my head, poke her finger up her nose, chase after me, throw a cheerio fit, hit her face on a footstool and come running to mommy to wipe her tears, resist a diaper change, crawl on my lap for a snuggle, and give me hugs around my neck with kisses on my cheek. I'm so grateful that she's mine, and I love her so much.

I know I'm exactly where I'm suppose to be. That's a good feeling.

My business

2012-01-23T12:17:00.001-07:00

I've never considered myself much of a business woman. In fact, I'm probably an anti-business woman. I'm so uncomfortable with selling product that I instead insult the product I'm trying push. No, I've never actually worked a sales job, but I find my reaction to giving away food I've cooked quite illuminating.

Example: Paul comes home from school and I greet him at the door wearing my apron, looking oh-so-domestic, and holding a silver platter of freshly baked cupcakes. I say, "Welcome home darling husband! (I call him that all the time. . .) Have a cupcake. I made it so it's probably nasty. Yeah, the batter was a little runny so I added some oat bran, and then I forgot the pinch of salt in the frosting, so I just sprinkled it on top-- which made it totally gross. I had to scrape off the tainted part which is why these look so ugly. Enjoy!" And he'll eat seven because that's what he does.

I can't even sell my own cooking, and that's only the beginning of my pitchman problems. Despite my long list of business flaws, an idea came to me today that I could not sweep under the rug.

I was making soup for lunch. Bean and pasta soup, if you must know. I burnt the onions a little, added too much basil, and the noodles turned into cement on the bottom of the pan because I didn't stir often enough. (Do you see? Do you see what I'm talking about? AHH!) Whilst I cooked, my little child toddled and crawled below. Once she became sufficiently bored with all there was to see in my vicinity, she ventured over to the garbage can and had to be relocated to the living room before she started plucking out the moldy contents.

On my way back to the kitchen I stopped in front of the fridge and stared down at the multitude of magnets scattered about the floor. "If I had a dime for every time I picked these up in a day. . ." I mumbled under my breath.

And that was it. My new business. It was like lightning struck and brilliance was born. I'm going to call it, "Dimes for Magnets."

Here's the master plan: I will count every time I pick up those magnets and get paid one dime per pick up. Simple, clean, no coworker drama, perfect. As my business grows I will purchase a second fridge and another set of magnets. Perhaps I'll hire another little toddler (following child labor laws, of course!) to help Andrea with her work. I can create a website dedicated to "Dimes for Magnets."

I'll find a ribbon color that's not being used and donate half of my proceeds to the Paying Off the Master's Program (POMP) Fund.

On the website there will be a link to live footage of my kitchen floor so you can be a part of the action. I will have sponsors who will get a custom magnet, placed loving on my fridge(s), which will not only advertise their business to my live audience, but for every time their logo hits the floor I will donate $. 05 to POMP. I got two words for you: tax deduction.

Once my company is worth a substantial amount I will go public and sell my shares for an incredibly lucrative amount. I will then retire due to some astonishingly mysterious back problems.

Now I just need an initial investor to with a lot of dimes. Any takers?

A major step

2012-01-18T22:38:00.002-07:00

My little Andrea started walking this week. For the last month or so she's been gearing up for it. I could see it in her toes and the way she'd stand alone digging her heals firmly into the floor. Occasionally, she would take one unassisted step if she was very close to another object she could hold on to. Then on Sunday she just took off. Standing at the fridge she decided she wanted be at the rocking chair so she took a step. Then another and another and another.

Well, I lost it.

"PAUL! PAUL!!!!!!!!! COME QUICK SHE'S WALKING AND IT SO CUTE AND YOU'VE GOT TO SEE IT SHE'S SO STEADY AND AWWWWWW SHE LOOKS SO PROUD OF HERSELF AND SHE'S DROOLING QUICK COME SEEEEEEE!!"

He ran into the room and she walked to him, panting and smiling. We clapped and cheered. I retrieved the camera and attempted to video the milestone. But all of our exuberant attention and the excitement of seeing the camera proved too much for her and she dropped back to her hands and knees.

Everyday we are treated to more and more little steps, and with each step I feel as though I'm losing my baby and gaining a little girl.

Her first little hairdo.

But Andrea is not just becoming any girl. She is the ultimate girly girl. This child puts everything on her wrists. Hair bands, magic bullet rings, Christmas tree ornaments, you name it. If it will fit over her hand she will wear it as a bracelet. When I began to notice this, I was confused. I don't wear bracelets-- where did she learn this? Paul pointed out that my mom wears bracelets to church and if Andrea sits with her she gets to play with them.

Last week when I was changing the sheets in Andrea's crib I found four hair bands that she'd smuggled in at nap times.

Notice the hair band on her arm.

Hearing her little words is another reminder how quickly she's growing up. Some of her favorite phrases are: good dog, hi daddy, hi chickens, what dat?, yeah, bottle, banana, tree, and mum. She understands even more than she can say. Today as I loaded the dishwasher I told her we had to add soap and she pointed to the soap dispenser on the dishwasher door. I was so impressed; I didn't think she paid that much attention. I went ahead and added the detergent and watched my tiny helper try to close the door.

Perhaps she's ready for some chores. ;)

It's too late to be writing but. . .

2012-01-14T23:48:00.001-07:00

I’m a mess.

I’ve been thinking about Illinois a lot lately-- mostly late at night when I should be sleeping. In those late hours I muse over the possibility of visiting this summer. I worry about the possibility of not. I imagine the nightmare of Andrea on a plane and the three hour car ride from the airport. When I close my eyes I’m transported to the winding freeways of St. Louis transitioning into the uncrowded country highways of Williamson County. I breathe in and my lungs fill with the humid air and the hair on my arms reach for the midnight mists. I can hear the insects, so many insects, clicking and chirping in the moist grass and little yellow fireflies twinkle like fallen stars.

I miss my family. I miss my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmothers and can’t wait to see their faces. I want to play games, catch up, and eat far more than I should because that’s what we do when we get together. I want to throw horseshoes and play softball and eat something off a grill. Grilled food tastes better in Illinois. I want to hear old family tales that I’ve heard a thousand times before, and I want to laugh because they are still funny. I want to take pictures until my finger’s sore so I don’t forget anything.

Then I remember how much I’ve changed in the last four years—how my life has changed and I’m just scared. . . scared that the magic is gone.

I still haven’t put away Christmas. My stockings are still hung by the chimney looking pitiful and my tree is sitting in the corner sucking the sunshine out of the room like a black hole. I plugged in the lights today for the first time since New Years because I knew Andrea would like it. There was no sparkle though. No cheery twinkle. It’s strange that those decorations fill with life for a season.

When the season’s over, the magic just dies. What if I go back, so eager to show my husband the magical place I called home long after I moved away only to be disenchanted and disappointed?

I’m a mess.

Something funny

2012-01-06T20:41:00.000-07:00

My sister complained to me yesterday that nothing entertaining was happening on the blog-o-sphere. I, in turn, promised that I'd post something entertaining. However, nothing particularly exciting is happening in my life. So I've decided to post some popular internet trends that are often deemed funny.

Random cat pictures with poor grammar.

Demotivational poster for something everyday.

Demotivational poster making fun of Twilight.

A possibly offensive political comic.

Awkward family photos and/or pictures of ugly Christmas sweaters.

Admiral Ackbar.

And a suuuuuuper uncomfortable screenshot.

Sorry, Janell! It's all I got right now.

End of year blues

2011-12-30T08:20:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday Andrea and I said our goodbyes to nursing. Yes, I did cry. That night my sister-in-law and darling nephew came to stay with us for a few days, and I cried some more. I felt so hollow-- dedicating over a year and my body to the survival and comfort of my child and in one moment it was all over. The next day I ran some errands and when I didn't have to hurry home to feed Andrea I realized I had a new freedom. I waved at the sorrow from the day before and looked forward to my new life with a toddler.

The next few days were bliss. Andrea and her cousin played together beautifully. My sister-in-law and I could talk for a couple of hours without being interrupted because those two kept each other entertained. Christmas Eve my in-laws left and Andrea began to change. Without the distractions of another toddler she became suuuuuuuper clingy, demanding constant cuddles and attention. I'm struggling again. This completely snuggle-resistant child now wants to be wrapped up in my arms all day-- which is cute, but also exhausting. It leaves me wondering if she's missing and craving that special time together we spent nursing.

Monday night Paul and I got hit with the flu. We spent the entire night taking turns in the bathroom emptying our stomachs. Twenty-four hours later we were both physically better, but my spirit still felt so heavy.

Perhaps it's my hormones adjusting or cabin fever. . . whatever it is, I am feeling so blue, inadequate, and small.

But I'm planning on feeling better today. I just have to. . . because I want to.

Winter 'One'derland

2011-12-21T21:13:00.000-07:00

December 13th was my little Andrea's first birthday. I thought I would spend the whole day crying saying, "Where did my baby go?" But instead I was just filled with joy and this intense gratitude to be the mommy of this sweet little girl.

I made her pancakes for breakfast. Paul was wishing everyday was her birthday because I don't make warm breakfasts very often. Last year on his birthday I promised something hot and savory first thing in the morning, and I think he left for school hungry as I nursed, bathed, rocked, and soothed our two month old.

Anyway. . . Andrea woke up on just the right side of the bed on Tuesday and was such a happy girl all day. She had two beautifully long naps and by the evening she was ready to try opening presents at my parents house.

My parents have some mistletoe and we took turns giving her kisses. She thought it was so silly.

Andrea seems so grown up now. While she not walking yet, she stands by herself quite often and will take an unassisted step once and a while. We stood her beside her presents and she was so confused. She looked up at us like, "What do you want to me to do with all of this?" She pointed to Paul and he sat beside her to show her how this strange present opening tradition works.

She loved getting toys. My grandmother gave her a little snugly giraffe, and she gave it lots of love. I gave her a book which she also seemed interested in reading.

The clothes she didn't seem interested in at all. She needed them though because she'd recently grown out of her 3-6 month outfits.

My mother bought her this elephant popper that blows balls out of it's trunk. She went crazy for this thing, and she enjoys it even more now that she discovered she can turn it on all by herself.

Sunday was her big party and the theme I chose was Winter 'One'derland. All of those snowflakes we cut out . .

Got hung from the ceiling creating a curtain of snow.

Every snowflake was different and it looked beautiful. I've decided to leave them up all winter.

View from the kitchen.

I set a winter display on the kitchen table where guests could look through her baby book and review her progress.

We covered the counter in a while tablecloth and sat out all of the cupcakes

We had three burned out light bulbs in the kitchen. It's actually been that way for a while but I finally changed them. The kitchen seemed so bright I thought about removing the new light bulbs. I'm use to it now and like seeing my food. But on the day of Andrea's party the kitchen was glowing.

I had two ~~warm~~ scalding drinks to choose from. White hot chocolate and organic mulled cider.

We had a contest to see who could most accurately guess Andrea's one year weight. My sister, Janell, guessed it exactly. 17 pounds 8 ounces.

This is the cake I made for Andrea to smash.

She didn't seem too impressed with it. I think the size was a tad overwhelming. She even tried to push it off her tray.

We cut her a slice and chopped it into pieces. In this less intimidating form she went to town. So many people were watching and her shy nature got the better of her. She whined and cried a little and seemed relieved when I got her out of her chair.

The adults had 'snowman nose' cupcakes. A.k.a. carrot cake. The cupcakes were topped with sad melting snowmen. Well, most of them are sad. There is one happy snowman and one cyclops. Can you find them?

I decided to forgo traditional cream cheese frosting and try a Swiss meringue buttercream. I've seen it hailed on Food Network shows and worshiped on baking blogs.

It was horrible. This is the real reason for the sad snowmen. The buttercream tasted like straight butter. Paul and I tripled the amount of sugar and it still tasted like a night at the movie theater. Everyone ate them and said the were good, but I threw half of mine away. Bless my family's little hearts. The sacrifices they make in behalf of my self-esteem.

After treats, we gathered in the living room to open presents.

Andrea had such a good time playing with the bows, reading the cards, ripping paper, and cuddling some of her new toys.

After the crowed dispersed I cuddled my little one year old and put her to bed. Paul and I decompressed with a cheese quesadilla, homemade pice de gallo, and Next Iron Chef. It was a perfect day.

Today's teenage girl

2011-12-14T15:56:00.002-07:00

I have two sisters. One is just two years older than me. We grew up in the same generation, watched all the same cartoons, and mostly had the same social circles. The other sister is seven and a half years younger and from a completely different world. But after years of discord we've finally bridged the age gap and have become great friends. But there are still generational differences. Two in particular come to mind.

To today's teenage girl all boys fit into one of two categories: attractive and unattractive These are the only words they use. Thankfully for the awkward teen, you can make the shift in an instant to the attractive category. Usually this happens after you given a well-placed compliment. Unthankfully, this title can also be stripped away in a second. One girl says, "OMGoodness! Last week I saw Tyler at the store with his mom. He is so attractive. Did you know he's friends with Jake? He used to be attractive like two years ago, but he's in my math class and he is unattractive now Eww." Another girl responds, "Really? But I always thought Jake was attractive but not as attractive as Nate who is way more attractive than Tyler."

The second thing I've noticed is not new among teenage girls. They usually don't think that they are very pretty. However, the way that today's teen deals with it is revolutionary. They compensate their lack of self-esteem by taking an unscrupulously large amount of pictures. . . of their own face. . . at unflattering angles.

The first of these angles is called "the nose." The combination of tilting the head at a downward angle and holding the camera above accentuates the shnoz.

And they think it looks pretty attractive, as opposed to unattractive, so they do it again.

And again.

Each shot is slightly different but mostly the same. . .

None of which are very flattering.

The second set of shots that every teenage girl has in her arson of pictures her children will make fun of someday is called the "face distortion." These beautiful and lovely girls relocate their features to unnatural and new locations. With their mouth halfway up to their ear and eyebrows raised into their hair line, they hold the camera entirely too close and proceed to snap away.

Snap snap!

This is a combo of "the nose," "face distortion," and "duck face." For those of you who don't know what the duck face is, please put on your protective eye wear. This is not going to be pretty.

The "duck face" is a where the head is turned to a three quarters profile and the lips and pushed forward to resemble a duck. This somehow got placed in the attractive category.

Why? It's still a mystery.

Of course thes pictures are also taken in sets because one is not damaging enough to my brain.
(I do have to note that my sister is not a proponent of a duck face. She's classy that way.)

After the teenage girl has covered the basics, she proceeds to add props.

Here we have "duck face" and glasses at a department store, usually with visible tag. Don't even try to contest this. I rifled through pictures of Tessa's friends and have confirmed that they ALL have this picture.

This is the directional "duck face" and cardboard cut out. They all have this one too.

Most have a picture with a completely random object at a store. This pairs nicely with a "face distortion."

Oh, let's post two of this one just to get in the spirit of things. Why not?

"Face distortion" and some kind of crazy hairdo-- very common.

A random picture if an eye ball.

*Shudders* A picture of them pretending to lick something.

And of course, a "peace out" picture.

I'm only 22 years old, but when I'm around these whipper snappers I feel generations apart. I'm just grateful that my kid sister is willing to be my friend and visit me down here in the nursing home.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to break all of the mirrors in my house. I wish not to look upon my face for a good long while.

Flash flood

2011-12-12T22:13:00.002-07:00

I had a flash back today of my life one year ago when Andrea came to our family and stole our hearts as well as our sleep. Her little voice talked happily on the monitor at three o'clock this morning, and my blood shot eyes stared at the ceiling for over a hour waiting for her to stop. When the 'peeto peeto eeeee na do do do eh' finally subsided I waited for the sandman to send me back into my dreams.

But the morning came too soon, and I was ready for a nap before Andrea finished her breakfast. Though I can physically muster through the exhaustion, I can't seem to keep my emotions in check. This tearful tendency manifested itself today after I noticed something about my tree. The bottom half of the purple light string was out. I changed out the light bulbs, one by one, and having no success, shuffled into the bedroom completely defeated.

"Paul," my voiced cracked from the weight of my unshed tears. I thought I was strong enough to hold them back but when I opened my mouth again a dam burst in my tear ducts and out came this:

"The lights onmytree they aren't workingand we arehavingpeople over onSundayand blubber blubber blubber incoherent mumblings itlooks so uglyandIwas soproud of it and everyone blubber blubber big sigh sniff eye rub."

After picking his jaw up off the floor-- oh, who am I kidding? He was not surprised at all by my overly dramatic display. He gave me a hug, told me no one would be paying any attention to my tree and not to worry. That man is awesome.

I took his advice and distracted myself from the worry by playing with glitter. It is impossible to feel depressed while playing with glitter. True. Story.

Just after six o'clock the RC Willey man knocked on my door to deliver our new oven. On Friday our old one died, or for those who think speaking of death to be bad luck, our old oven made the long journey to the land of rainbows. :) Our landlords spent the weekend shopping for a reasonable replacement. And because I have this not-so-secret attachment to inanimate objects, I named the newest addition to our family Rhonda.

Though similar in color and overall layout, Rhonda is shiny, precise, but best of all, she works! I can't wait to churn out some birthday baking this weekend.

Though Andrea's birthday is tomorrow, we are having a party for her on Sunday when all of her grandparents can attend. I have been cutting out snowflakes for days and so has whomever I've come in contact with (Tessa, Mom, Janell, Katie, etc.) in order to turn my apartment into a winter 'one'derland. I'll let you know how things turn out.

Ups and downs

2011-12-06T22:27:00.000-07:00

The last couple of weeks have been full of ups and downs. A week from today my baby will be a year old. Having her has been the best experience of my life. I find myself completely invested in her joys to the point where I embarrass myself in the grocery store hopping up and down while making funny noises because her giggles are so intoxicating. I extend my full empathy to her frustration and sorrows and almost find myself in tears as I nurse a bump on her head or carry her exhausted body to bed. In the words of Professor Higgins: "Her joys, her woes, her highs, her lows are second nature to me now; like breathing out and breathing in." I enjoy her more everyday and love her more as well.

Today I was reading my writings from her first month of life and it sent me into a down. Although it's pointless to desire, I wish I could go back and spend a few moments with Andrea's younger self. Fresh from heaven and warm from the protection of my body, I would hold her a little tighter, take more pictures, and breathe slower and longer. I realize that my tendency to over-analyze was the major culprit for my postpartum woes. I was so frantic to do everything by the book and correctly that I was blinded to what was really best for Andrea. It took seven months for me to learn that lesson, and while I feel more prepared for baby number two in the next couple years, I wish and wish Andrea could retrospectively benefit from my new experience. It almost seems unfair that she got me at my most raw and unseasoned state. She has such a strong little spirit; it's a comfort to me to imagine that she perhaps volunteered to be the first. The guinea pig.

Watching her mimic me is a reminder that I am her biggest example and has motivated me to work on myself. My valiant effort to be kinder, less judgmental, more forgiving, quieter, and calmer has just made me acutely aware at how often I mess up. It's discouraging. If I didn't have Paul instructing me to just let go of the past I would have buried myself in a pit of unworthiness by now. I'm realizing that forgiving others is challenging to me because I don't forgive myself. I just wish I was perfect, and I don't think I will ever be in this life.

I looked up 'perfect' in the Bible's Topical Guide and it directed me to the word 'whole'. Clicking on this word flooded me with messages from the Messiah. "Thy faith hath made thee whole." He bequeathed this promise on the physically infirm as well as the spiritually feeble, and these people experienced it in this life.

Reading this give me hope. And that brings me back up.

My star

2011-11-30T22:05:00.000-07:00

Using the bottom of a shoe box, bedazzled in glitter, and a painted toilet paper roll, I constructed my star this afternoon.

I am pleased with how it turned out. Simple, but fitting.

Here's my completed tree.

Here it is all lit up. I don't have a tree skirt so I used one of Andrea's blankets. A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.

O tannenbaum

2011-11-29T22:33:00.004-07:00

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas at my house. I decided to surprise Paul by putting up the decorations without his knowledge. Tonight he'll come home to the glow of twinkling lights, the smell of cinnamon, and an adoring wife with tuna casserole. In the words of Andrea, "Num num num!"

I'm quite proud of my tree this year. For our first Christmas I borrowed a little tree and lights from my mom. We adorned it with mismatched ornaments I had loving made throughout the years. While sentimental, the tree was a little sad looking.

And our "star" was even sadder.

But Paul and I didn't care. That was our FIRST tree and we loved it.

Last year my sister bought us a tree as an early Christmas gift. I filled it with my handmade ornaments and embellished it with hand-me-down red beads. The lights were a string of white, twinkly and cheery, and a string of purple that once framed my mother's birthday coffin. It was a frumpy tree.

This year I strung up the mismatched lights and sighed. How could I make this work? I dug through a box of ribbons and cords my aunt gave me until I found a roll of white wired ribbon. I tied shimmering bows to the branches. I decided against my red beads and replaced the garland with a silver cord. I stood back and admired the way my theme was taking shape.

While most of my ornaments are red, I searched for all of the silver and purple bobbles and trinkets I could find. I even found a couple of green that went looked nice scattered about. I stood back again and felt a sense of pride that I actually transformed those Halloween lights into a sophisticated and festive work of art! Then Andrea finally noticed the tree so it probably won't last long.

But I tried to fill the bottom of the tree with ornaments that she can play with.

There's just one thing missing. . . I'll be making that tomorrow. When that's finished I'll post a picture of the whole tree.

The hangover

2011-11-25T09:39:00.002-07:00

I'm feeling a bit bluesy today. Yesterday I skipped round two of pie so I wouldn't have a sugar hangover. Instead, I'm trying to shake the emotional hangover that seemed to appear about six o'clock this morning. Yesterday was Andrea's first Thanksgiving. I can't believe I didn't take any pictures. Her year of firsts is almost over and didn't even bring my camera! What was I thinking?

I think I was thinking I was too worn out for pictures. I love that Andrea girl, but as much as I love her, she loves me twice as much and then some. If she's tired, hungry, or in any discomfort at all, she just wants me. Yesterday's festivities interrupted her regular schedule and after a short and early afternoon nap and the discovery of tooth number two slowly emerging through her pink gums, she was my little Klingon. Except she's cuter than a Klingon.

But this seems to happen when we are around lots of people. Okay, this happens at home too. She is always underfoot, hands and knees moving as fast as they can to keep up with my adult strides. I actually love this about Andrea. But at home she will happily follow me and take a few minutes to play on her own as well. At social functions she just wants to be held. The constant holding overstimulates me. Paul was able to take her for some short bouts in the evening while I decompressed, which helped immensely.

When we got home Andrea fell asleep while she nursed and had to be woken for a diaper check. After being tucked in, she nuzzled her bear as we left the room. Paul and I returned to the living room, cuddled on the couch, and watched Star Trek reruns for an hour or so. We're nerds, I know. But thinking about seems to be sweeping away the bluesy hangover that greeted me at dawn. That and this little girl crawling circles around my feet.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving I'll publicly declare that I'm thankful for my family. Extended, immediate, in-laws, all of them. But especially for these two:

And I'm thankful that they are mine forever!

From gimpy to grumpy

2011-11-17T16:37:00.000-07:00

I've been having a hard time controlling my thoughts as of late. Though there has been no devastating tragedy to usurp the joy in everyday living, it seems that a grumpy little imp has moved into my body like a bad mucus commercial. When I step outside and observe the warm sun beaming down on my face and a soft breeze tickling my legs my new little friend materializes on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, "Isn't this just miserable?" I turn my head to find the source of this absurd thought only to discover I am still alone. No, I think. It is lovely outside. It is fall; leaves are dancing along my path like a ballet and watching them is magical. Things are as they should be.

My imp retaliates. "But that breeze is tickling the stubble on your legs. Is it not itchy?" It is itchy. I notice that now. I take a moment to scratch a days growth on my ankles. Ugg. My legs are dry too. My skin always dries out when it's cold. My optimism fights back because being cold means warm snuggles inside with one of the two beautiful people I live with.

"Yes, but how much snuggle time do either of them give you?"

My imp is right. Paul is very busy and gone a lot, and I'll just put it out there, texting about snuggling is not the same. Andrea. . . she is very busy too. Crawling, cruising, finding hidden pieces of cereal to chew on. . . pooping. The reality of my loneliness starts to sink into my chest like pneumonia. I search for a silver lining and find it just within reach. But I do get snuggles, and they are sweet and precious to me.

It seems the more I search for joy the more this little imp whispers.

Today I watched Andrea stare into a cup and laugh. She makes happiness look so effortless, I thought. My little shoulder devil kindly reminded me that I wasn't blessed with that gift. I looked over to the sound of the voice. No, I thought. I'm in charge of my mind, not you. And with a swift figurative flick of the wrist I sent that little guy flying. Then I metaphorically sprayed him with bug spray. Then I flushed him down the toilet.

I ran over and tickled my daughters little tummy and she laughed harder, and for the first time in a while, there was nothing in the world to be grumpy about.

Feeling a little gimpy

2011-11-11T08:54:00.000-07:00

I almost didn't marry Paul all those years ago when he asked for my hand.

I'd like to think I have a little art in my bones. I've been drawing for years; I've dabbled in ceramic sculpture, cakes, digital art, photo manipulation, music, web design, sewing, etc. I never found myself particularly talented at any given medium. Rather, I was mediocre or fair at most of them. But I hunger for the creative process. My fingertips tingle and itch when they anticipate meticulous use. My eyes catch glimpses of hidden details and flaws that my itching hands can influence, maneuver, and direct.

My mother's computer, conveniently equipped with Photoshop, made a few of these euphoric adventures possible. Marrying Paul and moving out would mean no more Photoshop. Could all of his love and affection fill the hole in my heart left by that blessed program? Unsure but optimistic, I took a chance and accepted his proposal. While marriage came with a tight budget, it also came with new art forms. Many of my fears were laid to rest. But on dark and stormy nights, my heart still longed for Photoshop. . .

Until this week! No, I did not deny my family a month of groceries to purchase Photoshop. I downloaded a free version called GIMP. While it crashes easily and is a little glitchy, I'm just so ecstatic to have something! My life is now complete.

My angel

2011-10-31T22:30:00.001-06:00

I shed some tears today which has finally become and exception to my life rather than the rule. Not so many months ago I celebrated if a day went by where I didn't cry. Now that it's a rarity I was caught off guard when I noticed the wet streaks on my face. Andrea crawled over to me and pulled to a standing position. She looked at me-- studied me-- and reached her delicate fingers out and tried to pinch a tear off my cheek.

There's a quote from the book Silas Marner, by George Eliot, that says: “In old days there were angels who came and took men by the hand and led them away from the city of destruction. We see no white-winged angels now. But yet men are led away from threatening destruction: a hand is put into theirs, which leads them forth gently towards a calm and bright land, so that they look no more backward; and the hand may be a little child's.”

I read that book in high school and loved it then, but I understand it now.
.

They said life would never be the same. . .

2011-10-25T22:31:00.001-06:00

And I didn't believe them, but they were right. Andrea has started crawling. Last week she took her first crawls at my parents house while Paul and I were at the temple. Because I believe my parents to be honest people I had to trust they were telling the truth, but I was sad I didn't get to witness the first for myself. This inspired an official Andrea watch and carrying the camera with us everywhere. If she were to repeat this crawling feat, I was going to capture it. After a little bating I did.

She's turned into my little shadow. I'll quietly slip out of the room to use the facilities and soon I hear little giggles closing in on me.

For the first nine months of her life Andrea was so stationary. If you laid her on her stomach she could flip over, but she never rolled back. She didn't roll 360 degrees, she didn't scoot, she didn't sit up on her own. I had to place her in a position and she would stay there until she either fell over or cried to be moved. A month ago she finally began rolling with gusto. Two weeks later she started army crawling and within a week of that she learned to really crawl, pull herself into sitting position, and pull up and cruise on furniture.

Although I worried a little what this phase of life would entail, I'm enjoying it immensely. Andrea is much happier.

Sewing update: I decided to use the extra fabric I bought for purse making to make a bib for Andrea. She loves to stare at the contrasting black and white. Well worth the two dollars I paid.

Lightning bugs

2011-10-19T21:42:00.000-06:00

I'm having writers block. It's a serious medical condition that can only be treated with chocolate.

I wish.

Because I have no chocolate at my house I sifted through old blog posts, high school short stories, and junior high poetry. My life use to be filled with adventure. Whether it was mustard colored dryers, door-to-door sales men, or neighbors showing up whilst I sat around in my undies (this actually still happens. . .) I always found experiences to write about and analogies in the simplest of circumstances. All this sifting dropped the cold, hard truth on my sinus-infected noggin: My life just isn't exciting anymore.

Then again, it wasn't that exciting before, was it? I merely allowed myself to be excited over mundane and mediocre. Like opening a jar of bouillon. And I learned about myself and the world from the simplicity of a speed bump or lasagna. I miss this.

Today I set out to find something ordinary that could be molded into extraordinary from which I could learn a life lesson. Surely I have not lost this ability and I was determined to prove it to myself.

At 7:45 Andrea woke up. After retrieving her from her crib I laid her down on the floor for a diaper change. Her eyes squinted at the lights as she pulled her nightgown over her face. I opened her diaper and found a little nugget surprise. Usually she's just wet in the mornings. Poop analogy? Probably not a good idea. . . We finished up the diaper change and cuddled up on the couch for Andrea's breakfast. Her little hand patted my arm for a while before her fingers pinched into my skin and her sharp nails almost drew blood. Time to cut them. Nail clipping analogy? Nah.

After nursing, Andrea was buckled up in her highchair for her morning oatmeal. Her new little tooth scraped the spoon after every bite and she smile and clapped at my load-the-dishwasher song. The reaction inspired me to add some dance moves to the morning routine, but as I stumbled around the kitchen like a wounded bovine my uncoordinated feet seemed to find every baby puff that Andrea had banished to the floor. Cereal crunching analogy? Hmm. I retrieved the vacuum and gave my kitchen floor a little t.l.c. while Andrea played peek-a-boo with the counter top and my rocking chair. Peek-a-boo analogy?

Once the floor was clean I sat my daughter on the rug in the living room. Sitting analogy? She reached for her toy bucket and pulled out a book. Reading analogy? She flopped on to her tummy. Flopping analogy? She smiled at her rubber duck and drooled. Drooling analogy? I sniffed. Sniffing analogy? Toenail polish removing analogy? Phone charging analogy? Where's-my-chapstick analogy? Andrea!-Don't-chew-on-Daddy's-shoe analogy?

My analogy search wasn't going well until I had an epiphany. My other analogies weren't something I sought after. They sort of fell on me like a house on a witch. Like anvils on Wile E. Coyote. Like flower pots on Donald Duck. Despite how painful that list of similes may sound, I enjoy the possess. So, now I'm just waiting and occasionally looking up hoping at any moment a new understanding of the simple everyday will lead to another lesson learned.

Zebra and a dress

2011-10-10T11:52:00.001-06:00

Remember these pillows I sewed for my in-laws using old curtains and 50% off fabric?

I had some extra that I thought I'd put to good use. I found this pattern at Wal-Mart for two dollars and I had to snatch it up. It contains four sizes (newborn to large) and since Andrea is a small I thought I could use this pattern to make dresses for her in the future as she grows.

This was the finished product. (I should have ironed it before I took this picture!)

She wore it to church yesterday. It's still a little big, but she'll grow into it.

All this sewing has got me in the mood to sew more. Then I saw this bag that came with a free pattern:

I've been looking for a small purse like this ever since my mom insisted I retire my six year old ratty bag. Not only have I not been able to find anything as perfect as my old bag, but I needed something. . . cheap.

Fat quarters are $.99 at Wal-Mart and although the pattern called for two fat quarters I couldn't decided between the green fabric and the blue flowers. So I bought both. I eventually decided to use the blue and pink flowers but I may make a second purse or some bibs for Andrea with the green.

You may be wondering about those zebra stripes, but I wanted something really fun for the inside of the purse. . . I have such a monotonous life right now that I decided to take a risk and choose a fabric that I normally wouldn't.

Even this flower print was a little different for me, but the longer I looked at it the more I liked it.

I love how it turned out. It's the perfect size. The pattern strap was shorter than I like, and I didn't want deodorant rubbing on my beautiful flowers, so I measured the strap on my old bag and cut the new strap to the same length. The strap cost me $1.60. Sweet. I could have used leftover fabric from the purse to make a strap but wanted something sturdier. $1.60 was worth it.

The most expensive part of the bag was the magnetic snap which was $2.50.

So the grand total: $6.10!

Like we use to

2011-09-29T11:28:00.003-06:00

My alarm clock glowed blue, spreading shadows of nightstand trinkets across the pillow I was just barely laying on. Crisp fall air drifted through the open window and carried on its back songs from the crickets just beyond the black screen. Paul laid behind me, arms around my shoulders, and his warmth moved through me like osmosis. I breathed deeply and listened to the whistling in my nose as I savored this rare moment.

We just don't sleep together like we use to.

Paul gets home late these days. Too late for me. A click on the baby monitor signals to my weary bones that the front door has opened and if I'm not already in bed I end my game of solitaire and kneel to pray while I'm still alone. He walks into the room, grey bag slung over his shoulder, looking worn out from the long day and late commute. After a brief discussion about his adventures in Salt Lake City my dry eyes signal to me to sleep. Kneeling across from each other, he calls on me to pray. We then slip under the covers, read scriptures, and find our comfy places, back to back, in order to fall asleep quickly and maximize the five or six short sleepy hours before Paul must leave again. No time for cuddles.

I slept very little the first few months of marriage. It reminded me of band tours and summer trips with friends where I had to share a bed. Laying awake, listening to sleeping inhales and exhales, I worried my movements would wake partner. My paranoia became insomnia and even a new husband couldn't cure my fears. It took a couple weeks of sleep observation to discover just how deep of a sleeper Paul was, and as my anxiety subsided, a completely new problem arose. I couldn't sleep while he touched me! His cuddles, hugs, cold feet, sharp elbows all stirred my unconsciousness to consciousness. I thought the couples in old televisions shows sleeping in separate beds might have had a brilliant idea. But time brought about healing as I became desensitized to the pokes and prods and overcame the idea that married people must cuddle all night long. ('Cause you don't, and we don't.) But at least back then we had a little time in each others arms before I rolled away to sleep. We don't even have time for that anymore.

I didn't realize how much I missed that time until last night. I watched the clock for an hour as Paul dreamed behind me. I wanted to be beside him for as long as my body would allow, but when midnight passed I decided it was time. . . I slithered out from under his arm, flipped my pillow to a colder side, and rolled onto my stomach. The bed still dipped toward him and he reached for the warm spot where I had been until his hand found me once more. He dropped his hand limply on my back and wheezed he sleeping wheeze. The sides of my lips pulled up into a little smile while my eyes looked up at the clock one last time and then surrendered to the night.

Cherries, chocolate, and crunch

2011-09-23T22:58:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was my father's birthday, and he requested chocolate and cherries. You know I had to turn that into cupcakes somehow.

I started with chocolate cake batter that I added cherry pie filling to. It made the cupcakes super moist with chewy cherry pieces riddled throughout.

They came out of the oven looking beautiful. The secret to perfect cupcakes every time: my mother's oven. True story. My apartment has a gas oven which has a tendency of burning everything on the bottom. This works wonderfully if you are trying to-- Ah, heck! It doesn't work wonderfully for anything. My mother's electric oven, on the other hand, cooks food evenly and perfectly!

For the filling I whipped (literally whipped) up a batch of white chocolate mousse. I didn't, however, whip it enough, and it was still just a little runny.

For the frosting I tried a new recipe from a food network chef that claimed to make the smoothest and most fudge-a-licious chocolate frosting on this side of the Mississippi. The recipe called for granulated sugar, cooked on the stove top with milk and butter, and boiled for one minute.

[Insert cheesy flashback music]

When I was just a young girl wanted to make cookies with my big sister. As we added ingredients to the batter we realized we were looking at the wrong recipe and actually making brownies. Because we had already begun mixing ingredients, we agreed to forgo cookies and proceed with the brownies. We were not good at waiting for our creation to bake so I got the bright idea to make chocolate frosting. It seemed to be a good distraction from our temptation to repeatedly open the oven door.

This was my first time making frosting. I read the recipie aloud to my sister as she retrieved the ingredients from the pantry. Frosting progress came to an abrupt hault when I read confectioners sugar.

"What's confectioners sugar?" I asked my older and wiser sister.

"I'm not sure," she said cautiously. "But I think it might be powdered sugar."

I took a moment to consider her theory. Powdered sugar. . . like cinnamon roll glaze. . . glaze is like runny frosting. . . but. . . but. . . what if we're wrong?

"We better use regular sugar just to be safe." I said confidently, hiding my doubts. Janell, so obedient, grabbed the granulated sugar from the pantry and into our frosting it went. I mixed and mixed until it sorta looked right, and then we each put forth little tasting fingers. Inside my mouth two things happened. First, my tongue thoroughly cleaned off my index finger, and second, it pushed the frosting against the roof of my mouth where it discovered a disturbing gritty texture.

Who's idea was granulated sugar anyway?

Janell and I were embarrassed and mortified. Not wanting to admit our mistake we attempted a rescue mission on that crunchy frosting. We microwaved it, cooked it on the stove, beat it with the mixer until both of our arms succumbed to the power of the crunchy frosting.

We gave up and massaged the gritty concoction into the top of our brownies. Our family still teases us about the incident.

I thought I had learned from my mistake and put the experience behind me. But yesterday as I tasted the "smoothest" and "most fudge-a-licious" chocolate frosting on this side of the Mississippi my tongue did two things: it cleaned off the spoon and then pressed the chocolate confection to the roof of my mouth. And it was gritty, crumbly, and nothing like frosting. My heart broke in two, fell to the floor, and was carried away by my parent's hyperactive puppy.

Because it could not be piped or even spread onto the cupcakes in normal buttercream fashion I decided to set it aside and start over with a frosting I was comfortable with.

In the end the cupcakes turned out fine and were happily eaten by one and all. But I learned my lesson for good. Never make frosting with granulated sugar.

Extra Extra!

2011-09-15T14:18:00.000-06:00

Andrea News: Andrea had her 9 month check up yesterday. Though she's still tiny (1.3% for weight) she finally has a little meat on her bones weighing in at 14.1 lbs and 27.3 inches long (49%). Since Paul has started his new crazy school schedule it's just Andrea and I Monday through Thursday, and this has made Andrea just a little clingy. But in the rare moments that she decides to play on the floor without crying, she likes to roll and roll. She's not crawling and I don't think she will start anytime soon. . . She doesn't seem interested at all. She does, however, seem interested in moving about but gets frustrated when she can't. I think if she ever decides to crawl it will improve her mood.

News from my kitchen: On Labor Day my aunt drove down from Salt Lake City to make enchiladas. Yum! To thank her for all the work she did I attempted to make a desert that went along with her theme. Mexican candy is often a little spicy so I made a HOT chocolate cupcake spiced with cayenne, cinnamon buttercream, and topped with a red hot.

However, having never made anything quite like this before I decided bite size cupcakes might be a good idea. . . especially since they were HOT. This allowed everyone to taste without feeling obligated to consume copious amounts. I couldn't help but doubt the success of these controversial cupcakes so I also made back ups. Lemonade cupcakes with a raspberry center and topped with a light whipped cream cheese topping. I so enjoy baking. My dad's birthday is a week from today and I have big cupcake plans!

Other news: I cut my hair off! It was so long that I had to keep it tied back in a ponytail or Andrea would grab fistfuls and snatch me bald. The ponytails gave me headaches because of the weight of my hair. I've been wanting to chop it off for months, but it seemed every time I saved up a little money to do so some emergency required it. Finally, Paul just told me to do it.

Before


After

My head feels so light and free. I got to donate the hair I cut off too. The ends were pretty scraggly so I'm not sure how much they can salvage, but hopefully it helps someone.

I like big butts and I can not lie

2011-09-10T22:08:00.001-06:00

Paul and I are worried.

Just outside our door and also up the stairs two black widows moved in and began their intimidation tactics. Oh, and they were good at what they did! But we didn’t really require their services and not-so-kindly asked them to evacuate (a.k.a. Paul smashed them). Then, my sweet husband began thinking about the spider neighbors and wondered if our fat widow at the top of the stairs was mourning the death of her husband by fooling around with the spider by the door. Could they have made a love child/children?

You may be wondering how I knew they were a boy and a girl. Well, that was the easy part.

The female had a big butt.

The male had a small butt.

They’re just like me and Paul.

I can neither confirm or deny that this picture may or may not have been photoshopped. . . ;)

On the way to grocery store this morning Paul scanned the stairwell for the love nest and thankfully found nothing. However, this peaked my interest in the couple. How many nights did Claira (what I named the female) spend hanging upside down in her widowed solitude until on a warm summer night and down the concrete steps she laid eight eyes on a lean, mean, web-spinning machine named Rocco? Ecstatic to have someone to converse with, did she venture down to greet her new neighbor with a Harrison Ford pie? (Harrison Ford was a beetle we found in her web.) How long did they chat before Rocco revealed he was a widower? Did they share stories about their dearly departed and find comfort in each others arms? Did Claira wake up feeling nauseous in the mornings and tell Rocco about the miracle inside her? Did they both take turns standing watch over the egg nest? Were they alive to meet their children?

And we destroyed this!! While our butt connection bonded us, at the first convenient moment I ordered Paul to splash them with hairspray and stomp on them with his tennis shoe. Being the guilt sponge that I am I felt terrible thinking, who am I to play Shakespeare and kill off star-crossed lovers? That is, until I read this:

The Back Widow Spider can inflict a painful bite which can be fatal, especially to the young and elderly.

Andrea's bedroom, just a few feet from our front door, came to mind and all the spider love in the world can't compare to my love for Andrea. Yup. Those two had to go.

The line between

2011-09-07T11:14:00.001-06:00

Saturday is shopping day. I wake up to Andrea’s little squeals, feed her, make my menu for the next week, and then write up my shopping list. Often I employ my sweet husband to spend some one-on-one time with our daughter so I can have some much needed time alone as I shop. Last week was a little different. Wednesday rolled around and my stomach discovered that the groceries purchased on Saturday were not one week’s worth. I tried to eat away at food storage but by Friday I decided shopping one day early was not such a bad idea. So I ventured out of my dark basement into the warm sunshine.

As I left store number one I stumbled upon a disturbing scene. A young, scruffy-looking man stepped up to another man leaving the store and asked him for a light. The recipient of this question looked so offended and, in a condescending tone, informed the smoker that he was most certainly not one. I looked behind me to witness the scruffy man withdraw behind a trash can and bury his face into his hands. I got in my car and as I drove to store number two the scenario seemed imprinted in my mind. That crumpled man behind the trash can probably wanted to be anywhere but outside a grocery store begging for a light because he can’t afford to go inside and buy one. And he was treated so rudely.

This got me thinking. . . Where is the line between sharing our beliefs and being judgmental?

Then, my week progressed and more lines seemed to be coming to my attention. Where is the line between eating just enough and a little too much? Asking for help and being needy? Meeting a child’s needs and spoiling? Taking a break and wasting time? Being curious and being nosy? Dreaming of better and being ungrateful for what you have? Wanting love and wanting attention?

I saw so many lines that I overwhelmed myself trying to find answers. And honestly, I felt afraid like I was walking along a cliff blindfolded. Without knowing the exact line how does one keep from crossing it? Then it came to me, so simple and so obvious. We are giving the Holy Ghost to help us find the line and the atonement is for when we cross it. But. . . where is the line between our own thoughts and those of divinity?

My head hurts.

If babies could talk...

2011-08-23T19:09:00.000-06:00

Let's just be honest, parents participate in many traditions that could easily be construed as strange to a little person with no previous life experience (a.k.a. the baby). But I think off all the things that parents do, photo shoots must be the strangest. Popular directions to take in these photo shoots include a random and well-lit location, naked baby, HUGE flower, over-sized and bright colored tutu, a decorative basket or a combination of any of these. And while parents think these pictures are adorable, what are our children thinking? Put yourself in their shoes (or booties) and imagine being stripped down and stuck under bright lights. It's like going to the gynecologist. . . or maybe like going to the dentist with no shirt on. Either way, it seems like it must be unpleasant. Curious to delve deeper into the infant mind I asked my research assistant (Andrea) to aid me in an experiment and then write up a detailed report. Senario- Bucket, half-naked baby, big flower, outside in random places. Here was the feedback:

Mom, why am I in this bucket? And why am I just wearing a diaper?

Don't ya think it's kinda bright out here? And hot? Oh, I see. You want to take pictures of me. Okay, I'll try and smile.

New location, huh? Courtesy smile number two.

Location number three. . . is this for real? Where are we anyway?

Okay, you are getting one more cute face and then you are taking me inside and putting my clothes back on.

I'm so over this. Let's go inside. Please.

Did you not hear me? Give me that camera.

Wait! I have to sneeze.

Okay, NOW give me that camera!

I give up. I don't think you are listening.

Mmmm. Bucket. . .

This woman doesn't know who she's dealing with. Oh, the noises I could make in the middle of the night. . .

Location number four?! You've got to be kidding me. Alright, game on.

Seasons may come and go

2011-08-17T11:47:00.000-06:00

Summer, you are coming to a close and soon the ground will be littered with multi-colored confetti leaves as a sullen reminder that the party is over. I’ve already expressed my desire for an extension but I suspect it’s been denied. Moping seemed to slow down my last couple weeks before Paul started school. Unfortunately, it was the bad kind of slow where there is too much time to think. And I didn’t use my thinking time to ponder anything useful like global warming, the national debt crisis, or a cure for cancer. I instead thought about how different my life is today from what I thought it would be.

Four years ago I watched my friends go off to college and I stayed behind working, waiting really, for my turn as I tasted my first real dose of adulthood. I was facing circumstances that my mom wasn’t obligated or even permitted to step in and fix for me. But I was a dreamer and couldn’t possibly believe that all would not fix itself in due time. I would still go to school, just a semester after my peers, and I would eventually graduate, teach high school students how to write and express and read and think, and I would be happy. Then, when I’d least expect it, some insane man, most likely a real estate agent or sales rep for a small pest control company, would show up and sweep me off my feet. He’d show up in the middle of one of my classes with a bouquet of green daises and a little velvet box containing a gaudy square rock that his sister picked out for me. We would get married that summer and honeymoon in Mexico before school started. I would go back to teaching while I’d struggle with years of infertility like my mother, and on my thirtieth birthday I would surprise my husband with the big news: A positive pregnancy test.

That’s the most honest interpretation of my life plan I can recall from so long ago.

But God had something else in mind and sent me Paul. I married young, got pregnant within the year, dropped out of college for lack of funding, and quit my job to start a new season of life: mothering an infant.

As I struggled to keep up with all of the changes I wondered of it was too much, too soon, and too different. Yesterday I sat on the floor with Andrea watching her lick and chew on my watch. Occasionally she would take it out of her mouth, a string of spit still connecting it to her lips, and she would giggle profusely, eyes glowing with pure delight.

I was then taken back to the first six months of her life which I mostly try to forget. I recalled those first few weeks when every cry panicked me-- every noise woke me. Every sneeze was typhoid fever and every grunt was diphtheria. I kept her beside my bed in a laundry basket so I could rescue her if she chocked in the night or feed her before she had the chance to cry. I sat on the couch watching informercials all night as I nursed and examined my new and not-so-glamorous life. I remembered all the nights and days that I laid her down to sleep and hoped the sandman would come save my tired bones. I cried, crouched over on the floor of her room as I listened to her sleeping breath turn to screams within a minute of being put down. I wanted the cup to pass from me. Not in a take-away-this-child way, but in a change-her-to-make-her-not-the-way-she-is-because-I-can’t-take-this-anymore way.

How I’m glad now, watching her tell my watch stories and giggle at the black band, that she is just who she is. The two of us have come so far and because of the trials we faced I’ve come to love her more than I thought possible. Yesterday, while folding a basket of clean underwear, I finally made peace with my new life. My new life that is so different from what I expected—but all my own. (And the season of baby is not so bad now that the season of newborn is over!)

Good bye, Summer! Good bye to your stormy nights and humid, cloudy days. Goodbye to your sweltering heat and cool, dry breezes. That’s the thing about you seasons, whether it is changes in climate or phases in life, you weren’t meant to last forever. But when you come again you will be just as different as I. In case we don’t recognize each other look for a young mom chasing a little girl. . . and smiling.

Splish splash

2011-08-14T10:00:00.000-06:00

There is something very exciting about watching your first child experience a myriad of firsts. I remember Andrea's first bath and her first big poo, her first sounds, smiles, and Christmas. Paul and I recorded these events in her baby book, and I took lots of pictures. But this week as Paul finalized his preparations for his masters program starting on Monday and Andrea's first summer came to a close I realized we never took her swimming. Friday we drenched her in sunscreen and ventured out of our dark basement apartment to bask in the summer heat and some chlorine.

It's taken us a very long time to help Andrea adjust to baths. When I brought her home from the hospital I discovered her amazing talent of peeing during diaper changes. She not only scored high points for quantity of urine, but aim as well. Her little squirts somehow managed to seep their way up the changing mat into her mullet and I would call for Paul to rescue me with a baby tub of bath water. Poor little Andrea's face would turn a sad shade of violet from the pressure of her screams, but I hoped as she got older her tears would turn to giggles as she splashed in the tub. Seven months later my wait ended and my sensitive and cautious baby decided that bath time was no longer fatal (provide I ensure she not drown). I took this as a sign that she was ready for the pool.

Perhaps it was a little too soon. I hadn't even put her into the water when she began to whimper, so I started slow. I dabbed her feet with the chilly water before carefully dipping them. Inch by inch her fair skin entered the pool until she was sitting on the top step of the kiddy pool. She continued to complain and scrunch her face from the bright sparkly water.

The combination of bright sun, chilly water, screaming children, and splashing fountains no longer seemed Andrea-compatible. I gathered her up in my arms and walked around the lazy river as she clung to my swimsuit and buried her face into my neck. My sister, who came along to support her little niece, commented on Andrea's strangely cuddly behavior. I worried this was too much for her.

Paul and my little brother found us to take a turn holding Andrea so my sister and I could soak in the hot tub. Because she seemed so uncomfortable in the bright sun Paul retrieved her over-sized hat and within minutes she was fast asleep against his chest. Apparently, she was just tired.

After a little nap we were ready to put Andrea back into the water. Armed with her hat and a toy, she was all smiles as she sat on her kiddy pool step and practiced some light splashing.

I was so impressed with her new attitude I let her play for a while and took her for a few more laps around the lazy river. She seemed be enjoying everything now (with the exception of the waterfall).

We left the pool while she was still happy hoping she'll want to go back. I know I do!

How I'll talk to my girls

2011-08-03T20:54:00.003-06:00

I can't stay quiet any longer. This has been bugging me since the end of June when a certain article began to circulate on facebook on how to talk to little girls. I think it was my band teacher who posted it first, and since he often posts interesting links I read the entire thing. It was well-written and riddled with statistics that I had studied in my major at BYU. I just love me some statistics! Yet there was something about it that I didn't like. I just wasn't exactly sure what it was. Before the day was over the article was posted again and interested in my own reaction I read it for the second time.

If you haven't already had this article appear on your news feed I will sum it up for you. Lisa Bloom relates an experience of meeting a little girl and resisting giving her compliments regarding her outward appearance. She explains that the trend in our country is to tell girls how beautiful they are first, instilling into them that worth is correlated with good looks. Bloom then issues a challenge to not speak to little girls about their physical beauty at all. Ask them about books and politics and the environment. Make them think and emphasize knowledge and ideas.

Sounds great, right? Girls ARE investing too much in their appearance. Then what is it that bothered me so much about this article? I think it was the idea that beauty doesn't matter much at all. It was too extreme for me. While the obsession with being skinny, hot, and acne free in this country is unhealthy, beauty still matters. And I have proof.

[a]Psychologist Alan Slater of Exeter University believes that "humans may have a biologically ingrained preference for beauty." To test his method he showed pictures of faces to adults and had them rate the faces as more or less attractive. When these pictures were shown to babies, average two and a half days old, he discovered that "babies invariably stared longer at faces which adults had rated as more attractive." He received the same result with babies only hours old.

Amid this study and many others similarly conducted a common factor began to emerge. The "beautiful" faces had one thing in common: Symmetry. Found in animals as well as humans, this attraction is just as much a survival instinct as a aesthetic preference. Three words: [b]"higher mate-value. Scientists believe that this symmetry is equated with a strong immune system. Thus, beauty is indicative of more robust genes, improving the likelihood that an individual's offspring will survive." Can well help that we like to look at that which is lovely? No, we're born that way. However, beauty is not 100 pounds or a large cup size or a small nose. That is a product of media and peer pressure. That is what we must be aware of.

Science aside, there is another reason that I believe beauty matters. It's a gift from God. In Doctrine and Covenants 59: 18-19 it says, "Yea, all things which come of the earth, in the season thereof, are made for the benefit and the use of man, both to please the eye and to gladden the heart; Yea, for food and for raiment, for taste and for smell, to strengthen the body and to enliven the soul." Our Heavenly Father wants his children to have joy and he knows that joy comes from many places and all our senses. This is evident in His temples. If beauty didn't matter why would He require that so much time, effort, and money put into beautifying and maintaining temples?

Temples are places for God to dwell, but temples are not just buildings. [c]They are our bodies. Shouldn't we treat them just as well. Taking care of our bodies by keeping them healthy, well-groomed, and clean we are creating a beautiful environment, inside and out, where God will want to dwell. He tells us to use what we've been given [d]"with judgment, not to excess, neither by extortion." It's clear that the statistics given in Lisa Bloom's article are all examples of a misuse and abuse of what God had given.

"15 to 18 percent of girls under 12 now wear mascara, eyeliner and lipstick regularly; eating disorders are up and self-esteem is down; and 25 percent of young American women would rather win America's Next Top Model than the Nobel Peace Prize. Even bright, successful college women say they'd rather be hot than smart"

And I'm not a proponent of this kind of abuse. But I will not stop telling my daughter she is beautiful. Nope, this is not the answer. I will instead teach her what true beauty is, which is radiating joy and the light of Christ. [e]Susan W. Tanner says, "Happiness comes from accepting the bodies we have been given as divine gifts and enhancing our natural attributes, not from remaking our bodies after the image of the world. The Lord wants us to be made over—but in His image. . . by receiving His image in our countenances." And I think that is beautiful.

[a] http://www.futurepundit.com/archives/002338.html

[b] http://www.jyi.org/volumes/volume6/issue6/features/feng.html

[c] http://lds.org/scriptures/nt/john/2.21?lang=eng#20

[d] http://lds.org/scriptures/dc-testament/dc/59.20?lang=eng#17

[e] http://lds.org/general-conference/2005/10/the-sanctity-of-the-body?lang=eng

Babysitting

2011-07-30T22:22:00.001-06:00

A couple of weeks ago I received an unexpected phone call from my high school clarinet teacher. Once upon a time I watched her children everyday after school while she taught piano and clarinet. Although that was four years ago, she was in need for an adult babysitter to come spend the night with her kids this week while she went to visit her husband far away on a military assignment. I said yes. . .

Because I'm a masochist.

Had I not been a nursing mom perhaps watching all those children wouldn't have been so difficult.

My clarinet teacher has five children. The oldest was at girls camp, but I was still completely overwhelmed by the other four and Andrea. If I sat my daughter down she instantly burst into tears because she was in a strange and very noisy place, but I struggled wrangling the eighteen month old with only one hand. Those two had to just take turns crying. Paul worked late most days and arrived just thirty minutes before bedtime to provide me with some relief. By then Andrea was hysterical with hunger and exhaustion. Paul would take her from me so I could bathe the other baby and put her in bed. Then I would set him in charge of the other children while I found a private place to nurse.

Nursing wasn't the only challenge. The eighteen month old has had some health problems since birth and is a terrible sleeper. Having one of those myself I anticipated long nights. My clarinet teacher had been giving her baby melatonin, a natural sleep hormone, to help her stay asleep all night. She gave me the instructions on how and when to administer the melatonin, but our first night at the house I was unable to find the bottle. I searched and searched while the two babies screamed and Harry Potter blazed in the background. Unable to locate it she had to go to sleep without. Andrea was put to bed next and I didn't expect a very smooth night from her either. She barely makes it through the night at home in her familiar bed.

Much to my surprise, everyone slept great which I can only attribute to divine intervention and a faulty baby monitor. . . he he. Discovered that the last night there. Poor Andrea.

The reason I've regaled you with this amazing story was to not put you to sleep but to declare to you my intentions to never reproduce EVER AGAIN.

Just kidding. . . though I'd be lying if I denied saying that at least seventy-eight times in the last week.

Paul reminded me that women typically have children one at a time, not four, and can make adjustments at the arrival of each new baby. Still, what I really want to say is this-- to my dear mother, who never had just one baby and in a two year span found herself a mother of three: My hat is off to you. It's harder than it looks.

Overall my clarinet teacher has great kids and as hard as it was juggling the two babies, the other three were saints. For that, I'm so thankful, so I shouldn't complain.

Still, I don't plan on house/babysitting again for a good long while.

Summer

2011-07-19T11:23:00.001-06:00

I wish this was the summer that never ended.

After Andrea’s birth and the whirlwind of holidays Paul returned to school for his final semester. He also returned to work, and I practically became a single mom. Being a new mom is hard on anyone. I was actually embarrassed that it was so hard on me. However, it wasn't the sleepless nights and the hours of holding a screaming child that wore me out most (although that was incredibly exhausting). My real challenge was doing it alone.

Ironic that having a person constantly attached to me launched me into the loneliest time of my life (thus far).

To add insult to injury, when I was around people I was irritable and emotional. I desperately craved adult conversation and the companionship of a friend yet could not seem to offer those things in return. Andrea was draining everything from me and the voids in my brain that once housed compassion, hope, and sanity were filling with fluids that seemed to seep from my eyes at every inconvenient moment. Gross, ya?

Then, on a chilly April afternoon, Paul came home from his last class and was mine again. And he began a relief effort. He began taking Andrea so I could attempt naps. He held and played with her while I decompressed over a warm sink of dishes. He even cleaned the toilet. Twice. In June we took our daughter to the doctor, figured out why she hadn’t been sleeping and four days later she finally slept through the night.

And so did I.

Then, my journey to recover the broken pieces of my spirit began along with my attempts to salvage my once steady image. Requiring lots of prayer, meditation, and naps, Paul continued to be my co-captain, my sous chef. . . my saving grace.

But yesterday he said something horrible. So horrible I wanted to cover my ears and yell, "I can't hear you! I can't hear you!" like was in first grade again. He said, with sadness in his tone, "Twenty-seven days." The number of days until he begins his Master’s program. . . and it lingered in the silent air for a moment before slowly falling to my feet. Had it been tangible I would have stomped on it. What an ugly number. His Master's program schedule is not going to be very fun. It will entail leaving the house at five every morning and returning home at eleven in the evening.

Eyook!

Sorry, that was me gagging.

For him this means very little sleep, very little food, and very little time at home. For me it means becoming a single mom again. It means being so alone again. I remind myself this is only for two semesters, and knowing exactly when this trial ends is a luxury seldom given. For that, I am thankful.

How I wish this summer would just drag on forever. There are just some things that don't get old like swinging on a sunny day, watching Paul and Andrea wrestle, and eating my mom's homemade ice cream.

Sigh. . . drool. . .

P.S. How cute are these boots? They finally fit her little feet and I love them.

A little bit of goulash

2011-07-10T08:49:00.000-06:00

Two weeks ago the Mormon Tabernacle Choir went on tour up into Canada to share their musical gifts and spirit. Paul's parents are both in the choir and so we and his sisters decided to plan a little surprise for their return. The basement of their house was pretty much one very large office and we wanted to make a sitting area down there for people to gather, watch TV, and where little baby feet could run around in a relatively contained and safe space.

Before when you walked down the stairs, covering some beautiful brick work was a row of file cabinets.

Wedged between the wall and these cabinets was a lighthouse painting. We decided to use this painting as our inspiration for the room. I like to call it the cigarette lighthouse. You can probably guess why.

Standing beside the file cabinets and looking down the room there were tables of computers and some additional file cabinets against the wall.

Moving the filing cabinets to the center of the room we used them as a partition to define the space. Next we found some couches and couch covers on craigslist.

I sewed some pillows to match the painting.

Exibit A: couches after finished pillows.

Here you can see the brick where we placed an entertainment center to cover the hole once used by an wood burning stove. I don't have a picture of that. Sorry. But you can see the picture which we hung on the wall opposite the window.

At the dollar store I bumped into a lighthouse similar to the one in the painting except the top was red. I painted it gold to match the color scheme of the room.

I scoured the house for other golden trinkets to adorn the mantle. It's still a little bit of a work is progress down there but we got the space off to a good start.

We've also had a lot of family come and visit lately. My aunt traveled from Illinois at the beginning of June and my grandmother came shortly after she left. Andrea got to read books and play with her. My other grandmother is also visiting so Andrea is getting to meet a lot of my relatives.

Cousin Jax also came to visit with his parents and he's been teaching Andrea new tricks like growling and clapping. She thinks he's the coolest person and always watches him when he's in the room.

I think these two will be good friends some day.

Monday (the 4th of July) we began the day with a patriotic breakfast (which turned out hideous). Red, white, and blue waffles.

We all dressed in red, white, and blue to show patriotism.

While I picked out a blue bow for Andrea, she saw the flower and would not let go of it. Paul insisted she wear it too.

Andrea's finally able to sit up on her own and her balance gets better every day.

Andrea's finally sleeping through the night now that I'm supplementing her, and I feel six trillion times better thanks to some full nights of sleep. She's already gained 3/4 of a pound so she'll hopefully return to a healthy percentile soon.

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine. . .

2011-06-21T11:32:00.000-06:00

I've been baking a lot of cupcakes since Andrea's birth. Although I prefer the challenge and creativity required by a full-size cake, it is both time-consuming and energy-depleting. Time and energy are two resources I have very little of in my current state. Cupcakes allow me to bake my cake and decorate it too.

Yesterday my family had a weenie roast and I volunteered desert. What goes better with fire-charred weenies than s'mores? And my personal philosophy is that any desert can translate into a cupcake. I began with a graham cracker cake, filled with chocolate ganache, and topped with a marshmallow buttercream frosting.

I embellished them with chocolate swirls and a sprinkle of graham cracker crumbs.

Voila!

Paul took a picture of his face after he tasted them. His seal of approval is important.

When Paul graduated in May I threw a little party for him. The refreshment of choice was, of course, cupcakes. I wanted these treats to reflect his achievements and goals but could not find a recipe for a calculator cake with pocket protector buttercream. Paul suggested I base my cupcakes off of his school colors. He's so smart that way.

For Utah Valley University's yellow and green I made key lime cupcakes with a lemon curd filling, topped with a lemon curd buttercream. Representing the red University of Utah where he'll be attending this fall for graduate school I chose a red velvet cake with a strawberry center, dipped in chocolate ganache, and topped with a cream cheese frosting.

Andrea was asleep when I mixed the red velvet batter. Much to my grand dismay, I was very low on red food coloring and unable to run to the store to replenish the supply. Using what I had left my batter glistened a lovely shade of mahogany, and I weakly hoped that baking would miraculously turn them a lovely shade of scarlet. I was so disappointed that the result was brown velvet cupcakes. Paul keeps telling me he remembers them looking red. However, he's a man of very few words and a picture is worth a thousand, so my evidence speaks for itself.

He seemed to enjoy them anyway, which is all I really wanted.

After cupcakes we played "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader." The result of that:

He he he. . . we had a lot of fun!

Andrea turned six months on my birthday. Yesterday was her six month wellness check-up, and it was a rough one. Andrea is not growing as well as her doctor would like. She's still under 12 pounds and has dropped into the .5 percentile. I knew she was small and ate like a baby bird, but it seemed that my attempts to feed her extra always ended in either her refusing to open her mouth or her spitting it right back up. He told me to be persistent because she needs more calories. He recommended I supplement with some extra formula after I nurse and increase how many times a day she eats solids. So far not so good, but I'm not giving up. He also said once we got her to eat more in the day she shouldn't need to eat two or three times at night. Hallelujah! Other good news-- even though she's small, she's hitting all of her milestones. That's something to be thankful for.

Being a parent is more difficult and challenging than I ever thought it would be. Worrying about this tiny girl is one of the many full-time jobs I inherited on December 13th. Please say a little prayer for her.

The day my creativity died

2011-06-14T13:28:00.002-06:00

High school is a time of experimentation for many teens. Experimenting with relationships, drugs, boundaries, reckless driving, and sneaking in and out of places they aren't suppose to be are just a handful of the many options for adolescents when picking and choosing where to show their "autonomy." And as bad as all that teenage self-expression garbage can be, it's often amplified by college.

I, too, practiced my rights as a juvenile to say and do stupids things but in a very "Molly Morman" sort of way. In the social circles I gravitated towards rebellion was driving a mini-van with the windows rolled down while singing along with Kelly Clarkson as loudly as our vocal cords would allow. Armed with sketchbooks and CD's of Turkish music (more rebellion) we got high off skittles and pixie sticks (taken orally, of course). We'd drive to the mall and try on clearance prom dresses that were a little too short or a little too low, but a lot too ugly. We'd giggle in the dressing rooms, embarrassed and unwilling to actually emerge from the tiny mirrored stalls.

I was scared of everything and nothing all at once. I'd shake for solo clarinet performances and almost have to wear Depends to read Shakespeare aloud in front my equally awkward peers. But I would write abstract pieces about demons and shape-shifters and fireflies. I wrote poems about loving, hating. . . coping. And I enjoyed writing about topics of which I knew little, like abuse and death, just to test the limits of my understanding and imagination.

I know it sounds boring, but it was daring for me and I felt pretty good doing it.

Today, taking a chance is cleaning the kitchen in the morning instead of the evening, and I miss the days of feeling just a little wild. I'm twenty-two and I feel like forty-four. I need to shake things up to feel young again and plan something spontaneous! Wait. . .

A new me

2011-06-09T18:45:00.000-06:00

I'm beginning to feel almost human again. This new sleep routine is something a girl could get use to. After a couple of smooth days I expected Andrea to pull out the big guns and accost me with a fit of sleep rebellion, which she hasn't. Before a nap we read a story or two and then I tell her it's time to go night-night. Armed with her binky in her mouth and a soft teddy bear in her arms I kiss her, tell her I love her, and cover her unswaddled body with a soft yellow blanket. Most of the time, she turns her head to the side, lets out a quiet sigh, and drifts to sleep quietly and calmly. Occasionally, she'll fuss for a minute while I step out of the room, but soon she gives in to her tired eyes.

Now if we could stop getting up two to five times a night we'd be cooking!

When we moved into our current apartment we had very little time to settle in. We moved on a Saturday, went to church on Sunday, and started back at school on Monday. Because we both worked and juggled school we had very little time at home. I quit my job just before Thanksgiving and Andrea was born the first day of finals. Out of my tummy, my daughter introduced me to the madness that is motherhood and I've been trying to catch up ever since. Now that she's taking good naps she's happier when she's awake and a little more inclined to let me accomplish household tasks. I'm currently delving into our storage room and unpacking some of the boxes that have been neglected.

The more I do the more I see that needs done. Areas, like my pantry, that didn't feel like a problem before are starting act out, yearning for my attention. But my house is not the only place I feel tasks piling up to unnatural heights. I'm feeling overwhelmed about everything and my overwhelmed, exhausted brain is compensating by letting things go.

I forgot it was June. I forgot to pay rent until a week into the month. I forgot to do my monthly reports for Primary. I forgot to sign inside the box on an important form. I forgot to wash towels when I said I would. I forgot that Paul said not to make tuna chowder. I forgot what day my birthday was. I forgot what day of the week it was almost every day of the week. I forgot to wear socks and got a blister. I forgot to brush my teeth one night and woke up with the worst taste in my mouth. I forgot what time I put Andrea down or fed her more times than I'd like to count. I forgot I had a wet pillow in the dryer that was only wet because I forgot to change Andrea's diaper when she woke up and it leaked all over us and the pillow while she was nursing.

Overwhelmed.

And today it came out and I laid on my bed and tried to convince myself aloud that I was not always like this. But I'm forgetting what I was like before so I may have to write it down.

While pondering the complexities of my personality and brain B.C. (before child) I realized that I'll never be that girl again.

And I was suddenly okay with that.

I am on this beautiful earth to learn, grow, and become more and more like a perfect savior. The trials of now are preparing me and teaching me. I'm being broken down like a worked muscle so I can get stronger. Returning to exactly as I was before would be digression. I need to take what I'm learning and create a new me. Hopefully a better me.

I kind of wonder what the new me will be like because if she's like I am now she's just a little too forgetful. Maybe I'll work on that. . . if I remember.

ZZzzzzz. . .

2011-06-02T22:34:00.000-06:00

I'm sitting on the floor in my living room in complete shock.

Andrea is asleep.

Our sleeping war came to a head on Tuesday when I spent most of the day in tears because Andrea wouldn't stop screaming. I could tell she was tired but I just could not get her to sleep. I rocked her, bounced her, sang to her, read her books, turned out all the lights, swaddled, unswaddled, and held her while I cried on the phone to my mother. My mom told me to just lay Andrea down in her crib and leave the room. She'd cry, but she was doing that anyway.

And I did it.

Crying out is a sleep method I've been avoiding. A couple months ago I tried it as a last resort. I only lasted two days before I gave up because she was crying for over an hour each nap. I thought maybe she wasn't ready (I’d read that in a book somewhere). However, if she wouldn't go to bed at night I made an exception. It took two nights of crying before she figured out how to fall asleep without assistance, but it only seemed to work after a long day of terrible naps. When my mom told me to lay her down she explained that Andrea could cry in my arms or in her crib but either way she was going to cry. By holding her, rocking her, and bouncing her I was stimulating her sleepy body and making it more difficult for her to nap.

So I laid her down and shut myself in my bedroom with the monitor turned down low so I could time how long she cried. An hour passed-- this is usually when I’d give up and retrieve her. I didn't though and five minutes later she was asleep. She slept for an hour and a half. It was miraculous. I decided then that we were done rocking to sleep. She needed to learn how to sleep on her own, and as her mother I had to let her learn. The following day sleep training began, and we decided to cold-turkey the swaddle too. Why not?

After breakfast Andrea and I went shopping for her first baby foods. I took my time at the store, meandering down the aisles sluggishly, dreading putting her down for her morning nap. My stomach felt ill and my body was tense with anxiety, anticipating at least an hour of crying when I got home. Exhausted from our adventures, she fell asleep instantly. I got lucky, I thought. Nap number two, fifteen minutes of grumbling in her bed and then dreamland. Nap number three, no tears at all. I felt like Heavenly Father was giving me a gift-- a day off from sleeping trauma. And I was more than thankful, but anticipated some resistance come morning. Andrea and I had struggled for so long that I knew it couldn't be this easy.

Or could it be?

Today we had three more tear-free naps. Occasionally, when I lay her down she might whine for five minutes or so, but then she rolls her head to the side and drifts to sleep. [Insert heavenly choirs singing. . .]

I hardly believe it. Even now. Yet through my elation, I feel a measured amount of sadness.

The only thing that has been somewhat of a comfort to me for the past five and a half months was that Andrea was just a bad sleeper. I tried everything I could to help her sleep with no success and much heartache. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that she would challenge any mother. But the past two days have been so wonderful; it only required leaving her alone.

Was it me all along?

I want to crawl out of my skin.

And burry myself under a rock.

A rock that smells like dung.

How do I cope with these intense feelings failure? I try to not be so hard on myself but it’s difficult when an innocent life is the victim of my imperfections.

Thank heavens she won't remember this!

Some solid questions

2011-05-24T16:26:00.000-06:00

Next week we are starting solids with Andrea. I desperately wanted to wait until the 6 month mark which is also my birthday. What better way to say, "Hey, I feel really old!" than feeding your child rice cereal for the first time? But I have to admit my intentions are not very pure.

If you've spent even a small amount of time reading this blog you know Andrea and I are in the middle of a sleeping war. I'm losing. I knew that getting up in the night was part of having a baby, but I had no idea how hard it would be on my body. Mothers all around me told me that it gets better after three months and I waved hello and then goodbye at the three month mark with no change in her sleeping behavior. Now I'm on my fifth month of no sleep with little hope that I will ever again get a full nights rest. But those same lucky mothers whose little darlings slept so well also have told me that solids will help. So every evening when I pray my nightly prayer and cry my daily cry I pretend they are right.

This last week my pleasant child has been crankier than usual for no reason I can find. She demands to be held all the time an if I move even a few feet from her little play area we have tears. My house is a disaster zone 'cause I can't get a darn thing done! I'm wondering if she still feels satisfied with just nursing. She paws at my food and watches me eat with great fascination and I ask myself, "Am I giving her enough?" Part of me feels that solids will help her feel more satisfied and this cranky streak will end.

So, as I pontificate the value of solids, I ask myself why? Why am I delaying this? What difference will the thirteen days between the first of June and my birthday make? Am I just prolonging my sleepless torment because I'm too fixated on a date? But a bigger question haunts me and I try to push it away.

Are solids really the answer to all of my problems?

I secretly hope so, but I openly doubt it.

Which leaves me in the same place I've been since December. What do I do?

Her and her big mouth

2011-05-18T13:47:00.000-06:00

Today I sat and marveled at my tiny little girl with the big mouth. My mother-in-law told me the first thing she notice about Andrea as she took her first breaths and wailed to be back in the dark and warmth of my womb was her big nursing mouth. She was right too. Her mouth mastered nursing quick and the corners soon began their treks up into her dimpled cheeks as she impressed us with her large toothless grins.

And then at 2 1/2 months two little teeth began to prematurely press their way to the surface, and I, the first time mom, found myself at Walgreen's talking with a pharmacist about natural pain relief options at ten o'clock at night.

On Sundays we would doll her up in colorful dresses and haul her to church. She'd sit on our lab and drool on her clothes until the opening hymn would play and send her into a fit of humming. She'd hum and hum out of key until the music stopped, and she'd resume when the next song began.

And Paul and I marveled.

The around three months she discovered her hands as well as her talent of putting her whole fist into that big, beautiful mouth. I gave her teething toys and pacifiers to suck on, but nothing could compete with her own 10 fingers. She soon noticed others had fingers and hands that tasted just as good, if not better. And she became The Vampire.

Her big mouth blew bubbles, licked rattles, squeaked, squealed, cried, and giggled so well, and I couldn't help but be impressed at every action.

Then at five months and two days she demonstrated just how talented that little big mouth was.

"Ma ma ma"

And Paul and I marveled yet again.

Now, I know she's not really saying my name. It's just her first real consonant. Everything is "ma ma" right now. But, I am happy and hoping this grows into a first word in the next few months. :)

Crhappy Mother's Day

2011-05-08T07:12:00.001-06:00

I'm giving up on sleep for the night. I've been up since 2:30 thanks to all 25 inches of cuteness finally asleep in her crib. My alarm was set to go off at 7:00, and although my body aches with exhaustion, I don't see the point in laying down for a mere thirty minutes. So I'm here, shivering in the living room, watching an infomercial for Wen hair product, eating leftovers, and praying for the strength to stay awake during church. I'm fighting the temptation to nap in the mother's lounge after Sacrament meeting.

As I sit here in my state of half-delirium I wonder why I'm even attempting to write. My attention span is that of a six year old boy and I think my eyes are twitching. But through all that exhaustion the song "Count Your Many Blessings" is ringing in my ears. . . almost against my will.

Yesterday morning I threw a mini temper tantrum. Andrea had kept me up since around two that night as well and I was not a happy camper. My kitchen was a mess, as was the rest of the house and I wanted a nap so desperately but couldn't because of a primary activity I had to attend. I was dreading Mother's Day because turning the primary over to the men of the ward was stressing me out. I'd been calling people for days trying to recruit enough volunteers so the sisters could have a break for just one hour on their special day and I still hadn't heard back from a handful of the brethren.

I was also bummed that Sunday was my anniversary. Due to finances, I was 99.999% sure Paul was getting me nothing for either of special days May 8th was to me this year. So I had a temper tantrum. I laid on the bed and cried and when Paul attempted to understand my charming swing in mood I told him it was just stress and that I'd get over it. Some days I feel so mature. . . Thankfully, my day was busy which kept my mind off of the list of things bothering me, and as I ran to and fro Paul took care of Andrea so I had one less thing to worry about.

In the evening I took Andrea to the store with me to give him a much needed break, and with his permission, I picked out a Mother's Day/anniversary gift to me from him. A hot glue gun. It was less than three dollars, and though it seemed completely unromantic, I wanted it. And I felt like I deserved it. Me being mature again.

When I got home Paul was cleaning that messy house I had neglected for a few days. I marveled at his kindness and wondered why I was so annoyed at him earlier. In the last week he has watched Andrea for countless hours so I could work on various things. He's held her while she threw up repeatedly from the flu, and he's changed at least a million diapers. He even got up with her in the night a couple times so I could try to sleep. He has given me a Mother's Week. And you know what? That means more to me that a bouquet of flowers or even a hot glue gun.

The week of Easter and a nursing scare

2011-04-27T19:22:00.002-06:00

Last week was busy. On Tuesday Andrea went to the doctor for her four month appointment. They put her on the scale to weigh her and it read 10.13. I have people tell me all the time how small she looks but I was pretty convinced that she's finally broken the eleven pound mark. So when I saw that number that began with a ten I almost started crying. I worried they would tell me she's not getting enough food and they'd make me stop breastfeeding.

Honestly, I have never really wanted to breastfeed before. I had seen the trouble my mom had and I thought I would encounter the same problems. I planned on bottle-feeding but perhaps try to nurse for maybe a couple of weeks just so I could tell people I tried and couldn’t. It might have been the health food store bubble I lived in but it seemed that a lot of women looked down on formula feeders. However, this judgment was less harsh if you at least tried to breastfeed and gave up because of pain or low milk production. I wanted to do whatever would be more socially acceptable.

So, I breastfed, and at first I hated it, but not because of pain or low milk production. I only experienced some mild soreness for two or three days and I produced milk like a cow. No, I just didn't like the challenge of feeding my daughter around people while staying covered and private. Especially during the holidays when I had to be around family and in-laws and had to sneak away to nurse or wrestle with a nursing blanket. One wrong breeze and they might be seeing more of me than they bargained for, if you know what I mean. My sister-in-law brought me a breast pump to borrow and that solved that problem. I pumped before going out and fed Andrea out of a bottle. She experienced no nipple confusion and could switch from bottle to breast seamlessly. While I initially hoped for a way out or excuse to quit, I struggled finding one and it was so cheap to nurse.

A couple months ago Andrea and I had a rough night where she refused to eat. Paul and I eventually discovered she was teething, but I had a moment of panic thinking perhaps she didn't want to nurse anymore. It was that moment that I realized how much I had grown to love nursing my baby. I love the snuggle time it provides. She doesn’t snuggle much when she’s not eating because she’s so curious about the world. This was hard for me at first because I am a snuggler, so nursing has become the perfect answer. I get to hold her close and she gets food. Win win! Ultimately, I know it’s better for her nutritionally too, and on the few occasions before I had the pump that she had to have formula while being babysat, I felt so bad for her. Formula made her little tummy upset. I’m grateful that Heavenly Father knew what was best for the two of us and gave my body the capacity do it.

So, when I saw the 10.13 on the scale (which turned out to be 10 lbs. 13 oz. which sounds a little better) my heart sank. That puts Andrea in the 3rd percentile for weight. The doctor talked to me about it and said she looks perfectly healthy and advised me to always feed her when she's hungry, which I was already doing. Looks like she just got her dads metabolism.

At the doctor Andrea got a couple shots and took a very long nap when we got home. She woke up lethargic and mellow. She went to bed that night fairly easily but by about two o'clock she started to develop a fever which broke the next day. She was a little trooper through the whole ordeal.

We got a package from cousin Jax (thanks Linda!) and Andrea tried on some new clothes and showed off her ab muscles.

For Easter Paul and I tortured some peeps.

Mmm. . . peep smores. . .

Easter morning Andrea wore her new Easter dress to church where she chewed on it until it was soggy.

We took some fun Easter pictures of her first Easter. She kinda looked like an Easter elf. Apparently, Santa lent out some of his helpers.

Monday morning we had green eggs and ham with Easter leftovers. Yum!

This week Paul is graduating with his bachelors! I'm so proud of him-- he's been working on this for so long. I'm throwing him a party on Sunday. Stay tuned for pictures!

Dancing to sleep

2011-04-18T23:57:00.001-06:00

While Andrea and I still have our sleeping challenges, things are getting easier. She's started sleeping through the night again. She did this for a while before reverting back to waking to eat every two hours to increase my milk supply. Once my supply was meeting her needs she continued to wake in the night like it was some sort of game. It took a really late night and crying for forty-five minutes, both of us, to break her of the habit. Putting her down for naps, which is typically my biggest challenge has been going really smoothly. I swaddle her naughty arms-- naughty because they pull her binky out of her mouth and make her cry-- and then we sit in my rocking chair and rock back and forth as we borrow each others warmth in our chilly little apartment, and Andrea's eyes start to droop shut. I slowly lay her into her bed and shut the door quietly. Ten minutes later I breathe a sigh of relief as feel the triumph of another successful nap in the making. How I have waited for this day!

This morning she woke up smiley and when I retrieved her for her breakfast she was talking up a storm, telling me all about her dreams with her hums and squeals. We curled up on the couch in my little nest of make-shift armrest pillows and I watched the morning news. Okay, I lie. While it seems a little more grown-up to watch the morning news I watched an informercial for the Jack Lalanne Power Juicer. Andrea nursed until she was asleep again, which is unusual for her, so I put her back in her bed and then I crept back into mine. Two and a half hours of napping later we both awoke overjoyed to feel rested.

When the time came to put her back down to for a nap around noon she wasn't having it. I swaddled her up and sat down in our chair as she began to wail. I stood up and she stopped. I sat down and she began again. So I stood. I held her more upright with her right ear pressed against my chest. She listened to my heartbeat as I swayed back and forth like a high school dance. I nestled the tip of my nose on her little fuzzy head and inhaled her sweetness. She sighed and melted until her eyelids surrendered.

As I walked her to her crib I soaked in the moment. I wanted to hold her small body forever. But she won't stay small forever. She's going to grow up, and someday she will think I'm lame and totally out of touch with reality. Like, whatever. But right now she thinks I'm everything and I think she's pretty something and I don't want to lose moments like this. . . moments of calm sighs, sleepy hums, and dancing my daughter to sleep.

Facebook

2011-04-16T16:35:00.000-06:00

Everyone seems to have a variety of friends on facebook. One hundred, two hundred, a thousand individual people with distinct personalities. Yet, we all have those certain friends, and you know who they are, that seem to fit into one of these categories.

Moms:

This is pretty much the category I fall in. These are the young moms with young children who mostly just post updates and pictures of their children. "Carry rolled over!" "Bob said his first word: Bleubop!" "Here's a picture of Leonard's first poopy diaper!" I know a lot of girls who love to see the babies, and I know a lot of guys who don't care at all that little Samantha can count to three. But they can't stop us from posting pictures of our young prodigies.

Weekend warrior:

The weekend warrior is the person who lives for their weekend. The most likely hate their job and love to be social so every post (and they post daily, probably on their lunch break) has to include the word "weekend." For example:

Monday: That weekend went by way too fast! Not looking forward to this week.

Tuesday: Party! Can't wait till the weekend!

Wednesday: Hate Wednesdays. Too far away from the weekend.

Thursday: Tomorrow is Friday! So close to the weekend!

Friday: Finally the weekend!

Saturday: Having a barbecue. I love the weekends!

Sunday: So not looking forward to going back to work tomorrow. Where did my weekend go?

Weatherman:

There is always that person who mostly just posts about the weather. "Can't believe there is snow on the ground!" "Rain rain, go away." "It’s so sunny and beautiful. I think I'll go for a walk." Do I need to watch the news? Do I need to look outside? No, I just need facebook to know if I need a coat or shorts or a shovel, thanks to the facebook weatherman.

Politicians:

Want to know about the deficit spending, debates on gay marriage, or shocking scandals in Washington D.C.? CNN, step aside. We've got our facebook news feed and at least five friends who keep up with the current political situation in the country. There are Democrats and Republicans. I even have a very vocal Independent. It's like watching presidential debates everyday!

Mama's Boys:

I have a couple of these on my friends list. These are boys who have left home for college. They are usually in a different state than their family and they are excited to be out in the world on their own. However, their mother joins facebook and comments on everything they post, and those comments often embarrass them. Example:

He posts: "Whoa. Hot girl in the mall! I'm checking her out, if you know what I mean."

His mom: "I hope you are checking her out in a respectful and pure way."

Obscure Relatives:

Being married is not a prerequisite for this kind of friend, but it helps. This is a relative, often your spouses, which you have never met. They ask to be your friend on facebook and you accept because you feel obligated. They don't post often but when they do you see their name and wonder who they are. You go to unfriend the stranger when you remember they are your husband's cousin's wife. Opps. Better keep them in case their car breaks down nearby and they show up at your house to use the phone and maybe the bathroom.

Emo Kids:

These are the friends that almost every post is about how horrible their life is. And by their description they're right. Their dog dies on Monday. They lose a finger in a lawn mower accident on Tuesday. The wound from the finger amputation gets infected and they have to lose the rest of their hand on Wednesday. Thursday their car breaks down on the freeway in the middle of a lightning storm. Friday they show up to their hardest class only to find out they had an eight page paper due the day they lost their finger. The purpose of keeping these friends is to remind you how blessed you truly are. (Unless you are this friend. In that case, I'm sorry for your loss.)

Comedians:

Demotivational posters and random pictures of butt cracks in Wal-Mart are common posts that emerge from these friends. These people like to laugh, they like to make others laugh, and their sense humor is a little twisted. Their status can be anything from "Just had a dream about making out with my high school lunch lady" to quotes from their favorite show (often The Office). Anything they find remotely amusing is fair game.

The Lyricists:

These are the friends that only post song lyrics as their status. You may notice their relationship status changes to single and before you know it “It’s too late to apologize” has popped up on your news feed. These are the people who wake up feeling like P. Diddy and pretend that airplanes are like shooting starts. And if it weren’t for all the teardrops on their guitar they might write an original song someday. Until then, I guess they’ll just keep chasing pavements, even if it leads no where.

Did I miss anyone?

Seinfeld

2011-04-07T15:24:00.000-06:00

My older siblings and I are just two years apart, but some of my best friends from adolescence had sisters and brothers that were already thriving, married adults. I watched them with their spouses in their little apartments with jealousy. Married life looked so glamorous because it involved. . . Jerry Seinfeld. They all watched him like it was a requirement or perhaps part of their nuptial vows. He was their personal best friend whom they quoted and shared intimate inside jokes with. Thanks to Jerry they deprived each other of soup and laughed about it. They debated black and white cookies and Yankee uniforms and hooted and the humor that I didn't understand at all. But I wanted to, and it made me all the more excited for marriage because marriage didn't just come with a man. It came with Jerry.

When I tied the knot in May of 2009 Paul and I had a television that only played movies for the first six months and when my aunt sent us a converter box we were thrilled we could watch American Idol, General Conference, and (of course) the Rachel Ray Show. Honestly, I had sorta forgotten about Mr. Seinfeld until after I had the baby. I was pushed into my new life as a nursing mother which entails hours a day sitting and cuddling. Rough, I know. The television became my new friend to keep me from watching the clock and getting antsy during those sitting hours. I liked watching cooking shows and MythBusters and medical mystery documentaries. But I could only take so much before my brain went numb and the shows were melting together into cardiovascular risotto explosions. One fine afternoon, with Andrea eating in my lap, I flipped through the stations hoping something new might catch my attention. What I found was Jerry.

I stopped on the station. I had completely forgotten he was suppose to be such an integral part of my marriage, and I decided to repent by watching the rest of the program. It was time to see what I'd been missing out on. What I saw was. . . absolute confusion. Perhaps it was because I missed the first ten minutes, or the first however many seasons, but I mostly think the show was written to be confusing. I don't remember exactly what the episode was about but it felt something like this:

[Enter Elaine into Jerry's apartment, where everyone seems to enter without knocking or permission.]
Elaine: He actually did it.
Jerry: No!
Elaine: Yes! And you won't believe where.
Jerry: Where?
Elaine: In the elevator!
Jerry: Is that even legal?
Elaine: Apparently.
[Enter George]
George: Hey guys! What's going on.
Elaine: He did it.
George: Unbelievable! When?
Elaine: Yesterday!
Jerry: Yesterday? But that was a state holiday.
Elaine: I know. On a state holiday in an elevator. How much lower can he stoop?
George: How much?
Jerry: I think that was rhetorical.
Elaine: No, it wasn't.
George: Alright then, how much? Tell me! The suspense is killing me!
Elaine: He used a couple of magnets and my toothbrush.
Jerry: I can see how the magnets would help in the elevator.
Elaine: But he used MY toothbrush!
George: Someone ought to be using it.
Elaine: [Evil glare at George] I do use my toothbrush.
Jerry: So, did you ask him about it?
Elaine: No! What if he does it again? Asking only makes it worse. Besides, he was wearing the yellow suit.
Jerry: [Shrugs] Oh, well if he had on the yellow suit I wouldn't worry about it then.
[Enter Kramer]
Kramer: Hey Jerry, can I borrow your blender? My TV reception is getting a little fuzzy.

I was completely confused. I have a feeling I was suppose to be. This man-- this show that was suppose to be such a huge part of marital bliss was nothing like I expected. I thought five minutes would send me reeling with laughter and fill my soul with one liner quotes just like it did for all those couples I looked up to when I was a tween. Instead, I think it killed a couple brain cells.

I'm not saying it was horrible, Seinfeld lovers. Just not for me, not right now. Paul and I have made it this far happily married without it. Did you hear that, Jerry? I don't need you! But if there comes a time when things are feeling strained, I'm sure it'll still be on, waiting to save us from being too serious (or logical).

Springtime walk

2011-04-04T14:12:00.000-06:00

On Thursday Andrea and I went for a little spring walk. There were birds out and bugs and little children squealing at the park. We strolled past small clusters of moms sitting on blankets in the grass, eating fruit snacks and string cheese. A father and son stood beside the bathrooms frowning at the locks on the doors. Andrea smiled at the sunshine and managed to put her pacifier in her mouth when I wasn't looking. Her hand coordination is really developing.

Some days being cooped up in the house keeps me sane. I don't have to worry about being in the middle of Wal-Mart with an exploding diaper or calming her get-me-out-of-this-car-seat cries. I don't have to share her with gawking strangers and middle-aged women who think her head is too small. She is all mine-- all mine to kiss and cuddle and I am all hers to drool on and coo at.

But the air is stale in here and smells like those tuna cans in the garbage which only slightly mask the smell of the chicken I burned last night. When I stepped outside Thursday in my safety green hat and some jean shorts I felt a little euphoric high from the fresh oxygen. Andrea sported a little pink jacket with a cow on the front which she thought was quite tasty. She actually thinks most things are quite tasty with the exception of her actual teething toys. Go figure.

I worried the bright sun would bother her, or perhaps she'd find the bumpiness of the sidewalk irritating. She surprised me with how much she seemed to love both. I'd stop occasionally and peak at her in the stroller only to find her smiling like a goon.

A very cute little goon.

Post-it notes

2011-03-28T10:18:00.001-06:00

Jeremy + BYU = catastrophe. It could be because it was one of the few places I actually drove to almost daily. During my first semester I remember locking my keys in my car time and time again and having to call my mom to come bring me a spare. One of those times I locked my cell phone and backpack in my car as well. I walked up to the Bean Museum and asked a lady at the desk if I could use the phone because I had locked my keys in my car. She told me no because there were pay phones on campus. When I explained that my backpack was in the car with my wallet she finally gave in. My mom had me make five copies of my car key to put in every bag I owned.
On a particularly sunny spring day I was walking to the parking lot after an invigorating hour of Anthropology. As I came around the Marriott Center and started down the hill I noticed a neon green car parked close to my own. I wondered who had the confidence to drive that crazy looking vehicle. I got closer to the lot and I noticed two boys doing something to the green car. I squinted and noticed the car had an unusual texture. A post-it note texture. How cute! I thought. They're doing that cute Mormon asking-out thing where they go totally over the top go ask a girl to go ice blocking. She was going to have a fun story to tell her roommates.

Upon further squinting and staring I realized that the bright green car was actually mine! Poor Jeremy was be accosted by two boys and some brightly colored post-it notes. My heart sank. Those two boys spent so much time and effort decorating my little Corolla, and I felt mortified at the thought of having to tell them they got the wrong car. All their hard work down the drain.

I slowed my pace, dreading the conversation I was about to have. I walked up to the guy on the right side of the car covering my door in purple paper. "What's going on?" I said cautiously. The boy on the other side of the car peaked over Jeremy's roof and I recognized him. I had been on a date with him two days earlier. They were trying to post-it note MY car. Since I caught him in the act he didn't finish, but he spent about $70 on post-it notes. Poor guy.

I got lots of honks and stares driving home. But to the credit of the people who make post-it notes, they stuck really well and I only lost about three driving down University Avenue at 55 miles per hour. The temperature dipped that night, and at about nine o'clock Braden and I pealed and pealed post-it notes until our fingers were sufficiently numb. I captured these pictures beforehand:

Jeremy

2011-03-23T11:37:00.000-06:00

I'm buying a new car! Well, it's not exactly new, but it feels new to me. My old car, Jeremy, has served me well for the past five years. We've been through a lot together. He was a junky little thing that my dad fixed up for his teenage drivers but became into my very own. Because Jeremy often had trouble starting, I would lift the hood and hammer the starter. You can imagine the looks I got in parking lots across Utah County. Sometimes people would offer help to the 5' 2" girl under the hood and sometimes they'd just stare. Oddly enough, as my pregnant belly grew I got more stares than offers, but it was okay because I didn't need help. I was one of the few non-mechanic people that could find the starter tucked underneath the engine deep in the belly of the car.

Jeremy was the reason I got a cell phone. I started attending BYU in January of 2008 which happened to be a very snowy month. I registered my car with the school but didn't receive my parking sticker in the mail by the time school began. So, I had to park by the stadium and walk almost two miles to my first class on the opposite side of campus. . . in the snow. . . uphill. . . both ways. . . barefooted! Okay, I had shoes, but they had holes in them and had to be removed as soon as I got to class so my socks could dry a little.

Wednesday night I had a class that ended at about 9:00 PM (Psychology, as I recall) and hiking down to my car was long and creepy. Campus was almost deserted and the street leading down to the stadium was dark as the trees lining the sidewalks blocked out the glow of the street lamps. My socks were soaked through and the nightly desert temperature drop was turning my toes blue. The stadium lot was vast and empty. My car was buried in nearly a foot and a half of snow. I brushed off the door with my naked fingers only to find it frozen shut. I leaned up against the seams hoping my body heat would melt the ice, which it did. I slithered into the drivers seat and stuck the key in the ignition to start warming up the car while I brushed down the windows. The silence pierced my soul. I think silence is what fear sounds like. Jeremy was dead. And I didn't have a cell phone.

I began to panic. Who would find me in the middle of a dark parking lot buried in snow at 9:30 at night? I imagined sleeping in my car but feared my parents would call the police when I wouldn't come home. I walked over to the dark Language Center and prayed a door would be unlocked. When I found one the tense muscles running down my back relaxed slightly. The lights were off in most of the building and I walked up two flights of stairs before finding one man who had stayed late in his office. At first I asked if I could use his phone, but when he found out my car was dead he offered me a jump and thankfully, he had cables ('cause I sure didn't).

After the jump I headed home with a heart full of thankfulness. While I sat at a stoplight still four miles from my house I sang along with the radio loudly. "I'm not going to write you a love song, 'cause you asked for it, 'cause you need one. . ." (You sang that in your head, didn't you?) And as I unassumingly belted, my car lurched forward suddenly and I felt myself jerk against my seat belt. I looked in my review mirror only to see black, the headlights of the car behind me crunched up in my bumper. After a split moment of body-numbing shock, I snapped back into reality. What do I do? All of those grueling months of Drivers Ed taught me that I should pull over so we could exchange information, make sure no one was hurt, and possibly file a police report. The stop light turned green, I slowly pulled over to the side of the road, and the van that hit me punched the gas and sped away into the snowy night. And I, stupid me, with my jaw on the floor watched them drive away.

My arms shook as I turned into the mall parking lot. Drivers Ed didn't not teach me what to do if I ever had a nearly dead battery and got hit and abandoned four miles from home with no cell phone in the middle of a snow storm. So I took some deep breaths, cried, and turned back onto State Street. When I pulled up in front of my house I walked around to inspect my bumper. Indented in the plastic was the license plate number of the hit-and-run van outlined in snow-melting salt. Genius.

So, I got a cell phone, thanks to Jeremy.

Three months old snapshot

2011-03-17T22:07:00.001-06:00

Okay, so that last post was kind of a downer. I've been having a particularly difficult time lately. Andrea and I had a couple smooth weeks at the end of January and thought I had her all figured out so when things reverted back to no naps and hours of wailing I got really discouraged. Monday was a hard day and daylight savings has killed our bedtime ritual. I envy those who put their babies to bed between seven and eight because my goes to bed at one in the morning.

Tuesday morning Andrea woke up at about eight. Usually she goes down for a nap a couple hours after she wakes up. She needs at least an hour of sleep to wake up rested and happy. Well, she got fifteen minutes and there was no getting her back to sleep. I let her swing and swing and swing hoping it would make her droopy. She started squealing like she was on a roller coaster so I tried the rocking chair and that just made her cry. I eventually gave up on the nap and fed her again. More play time on the floor for a hour and a half and she began to rub her eyes. I picked her up and we began the "Let's go to sleep" dance all over again. An hour later I sat in the rocking chair with my still wide awake baby supping from her "Hey Woman! I'm overtired!" crying. She sat with her back nestled up against my tummy staring at the fireplace like she'd never seen it before. I stroked her mullet and she finally started closing her eyes.

It was such a peaceful moment and I felt joy pushing discouragement out of my soul. As hard as being a mom is, there is nothing else I'd rather be doing.

Here's some highlights from the past couple weeks:

Last week our friends Shannon and Jeremy came to visit and they brought their new little one. Those two are about six weeks apart and Andrea is almost four inches longer. She's a regular string bean.

Last week I also tried to make a wheat and rice salad and I forgot I had grains cooking on the stove until I was nursing Andrea and noticed a foul odor.


Aunt Tessa picked out a new outfit for Andrea. Hmmm. . .

It has little ruffles on the bum!

She starting to enjoy her toys a little more. I sing her songs like "Little Bunny Foo Foo" and use her dolly, elephant, and carrot to reenact the stories.

Yesterday she was having a little chat with her dolly and elephant.

Andrea has been sick this week. She hasn't had a fever or runny nose or cough, but she has been losing her voice. While she doesn't seem to be an any pain when she gets tired she starts whimpering as opposed to her usual wails. It's so pathetic it's cute. Paul and I have been calling her our pony because she is a little "hoarse." He he he. I know, bad joke. Even though she's been a bit under the weather we got dressed up today for St. Patrick's Day and had a little photo shoot. I made her a four-leaf clover bow by taking leftover ribbon from my wedding, tying two identical bows and crisscrossing them. I think it turned out really cute!

Of course, I think she makes everything look cute.

Treading water

2011-03-12T22:12:00.000-07:00

Swimmers have always impressed me. I'm not a huge fan of the Summer Olympics, but I watched the year that Michael Phelps kicked serious butt. Part of me wishes I had swimming lessons when I was small because I can't hold my breath under water without pinching my nose. When I was in elementary school we spent our summers at the pool. I was still pasty pale because the pool was indoors but I shouldn't complain because it probably saved me from some melanoma. Anywho. . . I loved swimming. I loved how light I felt in the water because feeling light was a rare but welcomed sensation for me. Janell and I would strap on our goggles and practice underwater cartwheels and handstands. We'd swim as close to the bottom as we could and pretend we were mermaids or Steven-eating sharks, and it was grand! But I couldn't hold my breath without holding my nose. Not cool. So, my mom bought me a nose plug.

My nose pug was marvelous, giving me all the two handed freedom I desired. After a few hours my nose would begin to hurt and large sores formed above my nostrils. Also not cool. Who was I trying to impress though? No one. I was already bullied during the school year and boys hated me so I continued to sacrifice the beauty of my nose to our water games because it was worth it.

Then, I grew up a little. Janell and I didn't play together like we use to. I was embarrassed by my hot pink nose plug and I started becoming a little more self-conscious of my nose. And like most teenagers I made the shift from playing at the pool to laying out on the hot lawn chairs sacrificing my melanoma-free skin to the sun in a desperate attempt to not be so. . . reflective. I was grateful for mild-mannered friends who were too polite for wild splashing or dunking because I still couldn't hold my breath.

So, I never learned. Paul tried to teach me one summer, but I nearly drowned a dozen times and needed mouth-to-mouth ;) . . . just kidding, I made that last part up. . . I got water up my nose repeatedly, which burns, and as I felt tears of frustration pooling at the corners of my eyes I declared I was giving up for the day. When I said 'day,' what I meant was 'life.'

Now I'm three months into motherhood with a child that won't sleep. I've read books and talked to other mothers to learn of their tips and tricks and I've tried them all! And while Andrea is actually sleeping through the night pretty consistently now, it is only because she won't nap all day and cries and wails and sobs from about seven to ten o'clock in sheer exhaustion until she poops out during her final feeding. I look forward to the mornings when she is cheerful and happy and I dread the afternoon and evenings as the smiley baby disappears. It's like she can't fall asleep or stay asleep unless she is in my arms nursing. I spent a few days being the human pacifier when she was a couple weeks old and I won't do it again. What do I do to help this child?

I'm so exhausted, upset, ridiculously frazzled, and discouraged that everyday feels like I'm treading water. But without knowing how to hold my breath or swim it mostly just feels like I'm drowning.

Elusive sleep

2011-03-05T12:44:00.001-07:00

My baby is growing up too fast. This last week she started rolling over on purpose and she is getting her first two teeth. WHAT THE HECK?! She is not suppose to be getting teeth yet. Hopefully they will take their time breaking through because nursing her with teeth makes me a little nervous. I'm trying so hard to enjoy her phases while they are occurring. But they are passing so quickly. What do I do? I take pictures and videos and then I hold in my arms as I rock her every evening and marvel at what she's becoming.

When we play on her blanket during her play times I talk to her and she talks back. It's like these little conversations that neither of us really understand but we both enjoy having. She's two and a half months going on twelve. I'm afraid if I blink I'll find myself driving her to kindergarten then sending her off to college.

But she's still not sleeping as well as I'd like. We had three nights last week where she gave me a good eight hours, but she's not consistent. This week we have struggled with some sleepless nights and days and I'm wearing down again. I've spent so many tense moments putting her to bed only to have her awake and crying ten minutes later. As worn out as becoming a mom has been physically, its spiritual toll has been my most difficult and personal battle.

I've always believed in God. I have never doubted that He is real and involved in the lives of His children. Since Andrea has joined our family I've spent many a night laying her down for the eleventeenth time and then pleading with my Heavenly Father to help her sleep. I could see how tired she was and I could feel her struggling to adjust to this new world. Unable to fix her I turned to my divine resource. When five minutes lapsed and the familiar precursor cries began to sound from the nightstand monitor I knew my answer. It was another no.

The weeks passed by and I counted them. One, two, three, four. . . eight, nine, ten. And my nights drug on. At about eight o'clock dread would creep into my soul with anticipation for another night of insomnia in my rocking chair. And I started wondering if God was listening to me. Because as millions of prayers for sleep ascended to heaven, millions of no's rained down and pounded my spirit with discouragement and a little doubt. And I fought it, clinging to the testimony that had got me through so many other trails.

On Tuesday night I went to a Relief Society meeting and heard the following quote: "As the forces around us increase in intensity, whatever spiritual strength was once sufficient will not be enough." (Henry B. Eyring)

The moment I heard those words, the puzzle pieces came together and I could finally see the picture. God answers all sincere prayers in one of two ways: our way or a better way. I thought about the cumulative hours I'd spent in the last couple months asking for this cup to just pass from me. I knew it would. . . Eventually, Andrea would learn how to sleep, but I wanted it to happen fast so I wouldn't have to experience the slow agony of passing this kidney stone of a trial. But then I remembered my Savior asking for his cup to pass and receiving the same answer as me. All along God wasn't saying "no." He was saying, "That won't be the best thing for you."

And He is right. I think about how much I've learned about Andrea in those long nights. Watching and soothing and snuggling and swaddling and pacing and rocking and crying. I know what she likes and doesn't like. I can spot her subtle cues that others can't, and I understand her. She came to me as a stranger and is now familiar.

However, I don't think it had to be so hard. That's where the quote comes in. As my life has become more complicated and my trials have increased, I haven't increased my spiritual training. I was training for the 200 meter while being prepared for a marathon. Heavenly Father was answering my prayers and I wasn't receiving the answer because I hadn't done my part. My glazed-over midnight scripture study and rather disjointed and incoherent prayers couldn't give the greater spiritual results I sought. My habits that use to be sufficient to sustain and maintain my faith and understanding were not equal to the new intensity of motherhood.

So, I'm trying to do better and I've stopped praying for her to sleep, but rather I'm asking for the strength I need to live through the experience. And you know what? I think I will.

Roadshow to the Roadhouse

2011-02-22T10:14:00.000-07:00

Last week was mostly uneventful. Paul and I planned a romantic Valentine dinner at Texas Roadhouse using a gift card Paul got for his birthday. That place is busy. I'm talking traffic-after-fireworks, Walmart-on-a-Saturday-night, temple-square-during-General-Conference kind of busy. We left at 4:30 hoping to get there before the dinner rush, but the wait was already an hour and a half when we arrived. Andrea was home with her aunt, but we didn't want to be away for too long. We decided to drive to the American Fork location. After becoming sufficiently lost, and battling my carsick issues, we pulled around to the back of the building to park. We walked around, past the dumpsters and a woman calming a baby, only to find another tremendous wait. I looked at Paul. He looked at me. We turned around and got back into the car and ate ~~candlelit~~ dinner at the Arby's up the street. Paul was so positive about the trip and turned everything into a joke so we still had a good time. We concocted ways we thought they'd let us in to the Texas Roadhouse. Paul suggested shotguns; I suggested impressive Roadhouse tattoos. But mostly we just drove and laughed.

The next day we decided to try using that gift card again. My mom said it was much easier to get a table if you go early. So shortly after 2:00 we packed up the baby and headed out with empty bellies. I sat in the backseat with Andrea to keep her from fussing, but I was overheating in the sunshine. I rolled down my window. We pulled up into the Texas Roadhouse parking lot next to a car with doors ajar and smoking men lounging in the seats. I made a comment to Paul about having to pull my infant out into the second-hand smoke before realizing my window was still rolled down. I got out of the car feeling embarrassed and guilty but secretly hoping they didn't hear my rudeness. We walked up to the front doors and heard one of the smoking men yell after us that they didn't open 'til four. That basically motivated me to return to the car as fast as possible. I smiled at the informative smoking man and thanked him for letting us know. Then I threw myself in the car ungracefully and told my get-away driver to speed off quickly as if speeding off doesn't imply enough haste.

Perhaps we'll try again this week.

Last Friday, Andrea had her two month check-up. She now weighs 9.2 lbs (14.7 percentile) and is 22 inches long (34.7 percentile). She's getting a lot better at having tummy time and will occasionally roll over. The rolling over, however, startles her and sometimes makes her cry. It's exciting to watch the new things she can do.

Warning: sap ahead!

2011-02-13T18:08:00.000-07:00

Dear Paul,
Will you be my valentine? I know I don't shower as much as I use to and my hair is rarely fixed these days, but I promise to get all gussied up for you if you'll be mine. I'll make you some homemade fudge and cook yummy food for your belly. I might even get a babysitter and let you take me to Texas Roadhouse for supper. I know, I'm too good to be true. ;)

I awoke at about three this morning just thinking about you. As I nursed the child you gave me I made a mental list of all the things I love about being married to you.

I love our long drives to the airport listening to Earth, Wind, and Fire. I love that you sing along when you don't know the lyrics and the pretend words you insert every-so-often.
I love when you roll over to my side of the bed and elbow me in the eye. No, this is not sarcasm. The fact the you are asleep beside me is wonderful and I'd give up an eye for it any day.
When I come back to the bed from feeding Andrea, your arm reaching for my side of the bed makes me smile.
The concoctions you've cooked up have at times frightened me (peanut butter and jelly with Tabasco?), but I'm grateful for your ability to feed yourself when ~~Andrea~~, ~~fatigue~~, ~~American Idol~~, other obligations keep me from the kitchen. You've been incredibly flexible and understanding.
I love that you aren't afraid to ask me to edit your papers for school. I really enjoy editing and being helpful. It fulfills something deep inside me.
I love when you match your tie to whatever I'm wearing.
There is an indescribable joy that fills my soul watching you play with and take care of our daughter. She smiled at you all through Sacrament Meeting whilst I melted in the pew. What a cutie!
In your first waking moments early in the morning you mumble in Spanish. I don't know what your saying but it hasn't ceased to entertain me.
I love this ring on my finger that you picked out yourself. It's simple, beautiful, and means that I belong with you for eternity.
I use to believe I'd never get married. I didn't think I was thin enough, talented enough, or interesting enough to ever be attractive. But you saw past my well-endowed rump and old-lady arms and decided that I was the woman you wanted marry. You have loved me for better or worse. From morning breath to morning sickness. Your faith in me is priceless. You are everything I hoped I'd find plus three cubed.

I love you lots and hope to be your Valentine everyday! No roses or chocolate required. . . although I do like chocolate.

The wedding cake from you-know-where

2011-02-11T17:15:00.000-07:00

When my friend asked me to make his wedding cake I was wondering what he'd been really drinking out of his water bottle. I consider myself very amateur when it comes to baking and decorating. It's just a hobby and a way of expressing a certain amount of my creativity. He explained that he wanted just a single tier for them to cut in to. Beneath it would be cupcakes for their guests. I nervously agreed. Yesterday I gathered all of my things and drove to my mom's house to bake. Andrea needed a nap and was already fussy when I arrived.

Aunt Jelly took the cranky little darling and rocked her nearly to sleep and then laid her in the wooden chest in the living room. I began baking and Janell went downstairs to take a nap of her own. Before long the cakes were cooling, the frosting was mixed and the filling was waiting to be sandwiched between the chocolate sponge. But Andrea was hungry and beginning to fuss. With Janell still asleep and no one else to assist me I started to panic. If I fed her then the cooling cake might dry out, but if I covered it the condensation would make it soggy. I could not send my friend a dry or soggy wedding cake. Although the cake was still a little warm and had a few minutes of resting time to go, my mommy instincts to feed my child kicked in and I decided not to wait. That cake needed put together before Andrea was hysterical so it would be moist for the wedding.

This was the result of my haste. . . the cake split in two and collapsed. I nearly fainted. Thankfully, my younger sister arrived home from junior high and distracted Andrea while I attempted to fix the disaster I'd created.

But the cake just kept falling and bulging and melting and driving me nuts! After much bloodshed and almost tears, I came to the conclusion that I would have to start over which required a trip to the store. Defeated, I fed the baby and headed to Macey's to replenish my supplies.

I was frustrated, embarrassed, and expending all my energy trying not to cry. Literally covered from head to toe with powdered sugar I remixed a cake, filling, and frosting with the aid of my angel sister who took turns babysitting and chef-ing so I'd finish cake number two before midnight.

The evening wore on, Andrea wanted to go to bed and was nearly inconsolable. I arranged all the flowers I'd made the week before atop the white fondant.

The wedding colors were black, white, and red, and the theme was paisley. I attempted to recreate a flowered paisley but was a little short on flowers. Had it not been so late and if Andrea were a little more cooperative and if I hadn't already made and ruined cake number one, I may have made some more flowers. But I was out of strength and willpower, and my back hurt. So I called it good, scooped my poop in a group, and sluggishly drove home.

This morning my friends brother picked the cake up and I walked down into my apartment feeling such foreboding. This was a wedding cake that would be immortalized in reception photos. And I think I could have done better.

I just hope he and his gorgeous fiance like it.

It'll taste good at least.

Chex mix

2011-02-09T17:03:00.001-07:00

It's February and month two of my virtuous woman resolution. The verses of focus for this month are 13-14.

She seeketh wool, and flax, and worketh willingly with her hands. She is like the merchants’ ships; she bringeth her food from afar.

So, I've been working on a little circle skirt for Andrea. I'm thinking it's time to finish it. The outside layer is made from some old curtains and the inside layer is made from a white shirt that Paul retired for being too shear. The tool is leftover from my wedding. But making little shirts is probably not the only thing I can do to work on this goal. I have a pile of mending that followed me when I moved in September. Perhaps it's time to tackle it.

Bringing my food from afar. . . that one has me a little puzzled. I guess I could drive down to Provo to buy groceries, but I doubt that's what this verse refers to. I'll have to do a little pondering and reading and get back to you.

This morning Andrea and I were playing on my bed and she was making the cutest little noise that I decided to record it with my camera. Afterward, I laid down beside her and turned the camera around to show her the video. She watched herself and made noises at herself. How I wish I had another camera to take a video of her watching the video. It was just the cutest thing so I made her watch it four or five times for my own personal amusement.

On Sunday Paul gave Andrea her baby blessing. I was a little worried because it took place in the evening she's at her peak of crankiness. I timed her feedings and play time so she'd be ready to nap by the time everyone came at my parents house. However, she has trouble falling asleep when there's noise and people so when the bishop arrived she was crying like, well, a baby. Just before the Rowberry's arrived she finally drifted off. As an answer to my prayers she was quiet for the entire event. It was sweet experience.

Andrea in her blessing dress with her Aunt Juju.

It was also his birthday so I made him a cake! I decided to just use buttercream to decorate it. But I broke my mom's mixer and had to mix the frosting by hand so it was a little lumpy which made piping difficult.

But he seemed to like it just fine. :)

On Saturday a friend of mine is getting married and asked me to make his wedding cake. It's a single tier cake with cupcakes beneath it. When I asked what their flower was my heart sank. White roses. I cannot do buttercream roses. I've tried and failed and I don't want to ruin this cake. So I'm making gumpaste roses which is much easier. The one drawback, gumpaste dries really fast and becomes brittle while you are working with it.

Other noise: I think our houseplant has seen better days. Paul was worried about me taking care of a baby because I can't seem to keep one if the most hard-to-kill houseplants alive for very long. But in my defense, the plant doesn't cry when it's thirsty, smile at me when it's happy, or incubate inside me for nine months. Still, I have feelings of guilt when look at my sad little ~~plant~~ stick.

And this picture is just cute. Andrea's little foot is the size of Paul's big toe. Awww!

No longer newlyweds

2011-01-31T21:50:00.001-07:00

While Paul and I have vowed to stay newlyweds forever, the part of newlywedom that we most want to hold on to is the holding hands at the grocery store, Paul getting my door for me, playing in the snow, acting young, being in love. And we have continued to do these things even with our new addition. But there are some newlywed habits that we have dropped. It's the sign we've been married for over a year.

We no longer count how long we've been married and announce to it who ever is close enough to hear. Sure, in 2009 every month after May on the eighth day I had to re-proclaim my love for Paul by telling my boss and coworkers that it had be exactly one, two, three, four months since I'd been married. I see this on facebook all the time. New brides post on their status something to the effect of:

We've been married for exactly two weeks! Love ya babe!
One month and twelve minutes ago I married the man of my dreams.
I'm making pizza for our six week anniversary!
Next Tuesday I'll be celebrating three months of marriage! I hope he buys me a gift.

And when asked how long they've been married they are all to eager to answer:

128 hours!
10 days!
57 days!
4 months, 3 days, 6 hours, and 17 minutes!

But Paul and I are old now and when asked how long I've been married I say, "a while" or "coming up on two years." It's all a game of rounding now and on the eighth of this month you can be sure I won't be updating my facebook to let everyone know we're having our 21 month anniversary or that there's 138949 minutes until our two year. I grew out of that like all newlyweds do.

Last night I realized there was something else we've grown out of. Full-time listening. As a newlywed every word your partner speaks is the single most important thing they've ever said, at least since your twelve day anniversary. I remember how closely I listened to Paul talk about food or his favorite color because they were all clues on how I could make his life most wonderful. He'd mention in passing how he likes a good sharp cheese or the color green and two days later he'd have a plate full of forest green macaroni and cheese, made from scratch with the sharpest of cheddar.

Well. . . times have changed. Paul no longer accidentally drops hints. He drops them on purpose. For weeks he's been mentioning sweet potato oven fries and I finally put them on the menu only because he was with me as I wrote the shopping list. Otherwise, I'm sure I would have forgotten again. I suppose I'm not as attentive as I use to be. I was feeling a little guilty about that.

But last night as I ranted about my disdain for wasabi I ended my monologue with, "You know what I mean?" I listened to the silence as Paul, who had been half-listening, missed the question completely and continued his evening routine with out a reply.

It reminded me of a trip to IKEA that Paul and I took when we were dating. We sat in some rocking chairs placed side by side and dreamed of life as an old married couple.

"Ethel!" Paul shouted in a crusty old man voice. "Have you seen the dog?"

"What did you call me?" I shouted back.

"What? Speak up I can't hear ya!" He hollared.

"There's no need to shout. I'm not deaf!"

We both laughed at how cliche our little scenario seemed. And then he took my hand and we sat and rocked in those two parallel IKEA chairs until a small group of shoppers crashed through our dream world. We vacated the area so they, too, could have the opportunity to sit and dream of retirement.

See? We are getting ever closer to that day and working our way right on the newlywed-oldywed spectrum, hitting our "still young and in love but we're getting lazier" milestone. And while it's refreshing not to have to keep track of so many numbers, perhaps I should pay a little more attention to Paul's hints. Who knows, I could shock him with some sweet potato fries! It'll be another gift for him as I work on becoming virtuous.

P.S. Paul's birthday is on Sunday and I have no idea how I want to decorate his cake. Ideas?

P.P.S. Happy 2nd Anniversary to Alissa and Chad! (Also on Sunday. Makes it easy for me to remember, no? Silence. You were only half-reading this weren't you? Silence. I rest my case.)

Confessing

2011-01-27T11:18:00.001-07:00

Today is a pretty good day-- one of a few I could count on my fingers this month. I have a doctors appointment tomorrow and I suspect that I might have a little postpartum depression. I prefer to call it baby blues. My days are roller-coaster rides of ecstatic joy as my little girl smiles at me in the morning and deep frustration and guilt as she cries all afternoon and evening until midnight when she's too exhausted to protest a nap and finally falls asleep. We're trying to establish a routine, but I can't seem to stay home long enough to give her the predictability she needs to learn how to fall asleep on her own. Today things went well and when I put her down for her naps I only had to return to her room a couple times before she quit fussing and fell asleep. But tomorrow there's that darn doctors appointment that is going to throw off her routine. She's what The Baby Whisperer author, Tracy Hogg, calls a touchy baby. She gets overstimulated and overtired very easily When that takes place getting her to sleep is nearly impossible, and because she's so exhausted she just cries and cries.

I been afraid to admit my baby blues because I thought if I denied it long enough it wouldn't be so. I've also resisted telling anyone about this touchy baby. I suppose I have some fears that people won't love her if they knew how difficult she can be. When people at church see me they smile really big and say, "Oh! She's beautiful! Is she a good baby? I bet she's a sweetheart." And she is. . . sometimes. And I love her like crazy. Her forehead is pealing and I've been wondering why until yesterday when I kissed her and ended up with snowy skin flakes stuck to my chapsticked lips. Perhaps I've kissed the skin off her forehead. I just can't help it though. I'm crazy about her, and she drives me crazy, and I worry if people knew her fiery little nature they wouldn't want us around. Especially in the evenings when she cries the most. It's all very irrational. But finally admitting this has been very cathartic and liberating.

It's okay that I'm not perfect right now. It's okay that I'm a little broken because I can heal. It's okay that my daughter is who she is because even though I see a lot of this:

I see a lot of this too:

And this:

And other people really don't care so much about her sleeping habits because they don't have to put her to bed. I'm going to stop worrying now and make myself a sandwich before she wakes up.

People say the darnedest things

2011-01-18T14:43:00.000-07:00

I've been amazed at some of the things I've heard people say since becoming pregnant and having a baby. Mind you, the most shocking phrases have not come from uninhibited children or old ladies, but from average middle-aged women. I began noticing this early in my pregnancy when store clerks who asked about my peculiar purchase of a case of ramen noodles for morning sickness would also ask me about my puking habits. I brushed it off as polite concern, but soon it became a regurgitation of their puking stories. A few weeks of morning sickness and I was very familiar with all the different foods that the strange women around me had been vomiting. But aside from the "TMI" factor, what I couldn't understand was why these women were telling an obviously green, nauseous pregnant woman stories about their more disgusting bodily functions.

After fourteen weeks or so the morning sickness subsided and I was able to eat normal foods again. Naturally, the puke stories subsided too. By then, my baby was growing and, slowly but surely, a small baby bump began to form in my lower abdomen. Now, complete strangers felt they had they had exclusive rights to information about my uterus. Thankfully, after monthly doctors appointments, talking about my uterus seemed so natural.

Next came questions about my weight. People I hardly knew thought they were privy to such information asking about how much I gained and what my pre-pregnancy weight was. One would never ask the a woman about her current weight but when she's pregnant she's suddenly suppose to reveal that secret number. Go figure.

The last couple weeks of my pregnancy as women found out I was almost due a new question cropped up. Strangers at JoAnn's fabrics and cashiers at Wal-Mart were asking about my cervix, which is yet another organ one wouldn't dream of asking about under any other circumstance. I had daily inquiries. Had I not been so proud of my 3 centimeters dilated and soft cervix this, too, could have been awkward. However, by this point I was practically volunteering this information to anyone who seemed interested. Apparently, I say the darnedest things too.

After talking so much about my body for eightish months I've lost a lot of my censors. Saturday night I sat in my parents living room visiting with my dad and I caught myself telling him my rough estimate of how much milk my breasts make. . . information I'm sure he could have lived his whole life without. I now have a marginal understanding of grocery store women, so these days it's very rare I hear them say something that shocks me. But last week at Target. . .

I pulled up to the register with my little tag-a-long all bundled in her car seat.

[Exhibit A.]

The woman behind me peaked at my baby and became concerned. "Does she have a shrunken head?" She asked in a worried tone. I turned around to get a good look at her serious face. I was speechless. (It takes a lot to render me speechless.) I pulled the blanket off Andrea and said the rest of her was small too. Looking mortified and embarrassed, the woman apologized. While my loved ones and friends have given me many phrases I could have used in this awkward moment, I still am in shock that someone actually seriously asked me this question and think if faced with this scenario again I would react the same. Like a deer in the headlights. Who honestly says things like that and thinks it's okay? I like the point my cousin, April, made. What if her head really was shrunken. Thank you for pointing out my child's deformity.

Still, I wasn't really offended, just incredibly shocked. I just. . . I don't. . . wow.

A gift for Paul

2011-01-13T18:36:00.000-07:00

Today feels profoundly sunny. Not outside. It's in my soul. It seems as though my confidence in my mothering capabilities revolves around how much sleep I've gotten, and last night was a good night. The night before was not.

Andrea was tired. So tired she couldn't sleep and she wanted to use me as a pacifier. Unless she was nursing she was crying inconsolably and. . . so was I. My mind was sinking into its dark places where little voices convince me I'm going to ruin the life of this child. Paul heard me crying in the living room and came to relieve me of my pain. He took Andrea and listened to her cry while I slipped into the bedroom to compose myself. Sitting on my side of the bed I wiped my face and cleaned up my smudged mascara. My scriptures sat on my nightstand and I opened up to Psalms to read this months mantra again. As it spoke of doing good to husbands I felt guilty. He was doing me good but I felt I was giving him little.

So yesterday I got a babysitter (thanks, Mom!) and we went out to eat with a gift card I gave Paul for Christmas. We decided to avoid talking about Andrea and to just focus on each other. He talked about the professors at UVU and how accounting could be genetic. I talked about. . . Trading Spaces, which was a television program from years ago. And I told a very detailed story about Comcast cable. I laughed at myself on the way home. I've become boring.

When Andrea and I got home from my mom's house she slept for a little before waking up to eat. I changed her diaper, fed her, and she dozed for a little while. Two hours later she woke up to eat again and at 12:45 I put her to bed. Miraculously, she stayed asleep. I climbed into my bed. My bed that I love. Under our warm electric blanket. And I wrapped my arms around my husband. It felt like it'd been forever since I'd slept in the same bed with him because I often spend my nights in the living room nursing and changing diapers. So as I curled up behind Paul and he hummed happily. I might not have much to give him, but he doesn't seem to notice. He likes me anyway.

Andrea has started to make smiles when she's NOT pooping, and she's started making little noises too!


Smiling before her bath. She didn't realize what was happening.

I finally caught a couple noises. She usually gets quiet when I pull out the camera so I was thrilled at what I got!

A virtuous woman

2011-01-07T20:08:00.000-07:00

Tuesday night was Enrichment night. It's been weeks since I've had good adult gospel instruction. Sacrament meeting is less than stimulating when one is trying to nurse and change a baby. I often miss the Sharing Time lesson in Primary because I'm running around delivering and picking up rolls. So, I was looking forward to a night without baby where I could speak in a voice low enough to be picked up by adults, not just infants and dogs. The bishop was the guest speaker and he addressed the theme for the year which is Proverbs 31:10-31. This scripture is all about the qualities of a virtuous woman.

Merriam Webster Online Dictionary has many definitions for virtue. Some of them include: conformity to a standard of right; an order of angels; courage; valor; merit. In the last few weeks I have felt nothing near virtuous. I've felt scared, angry, sad, exhausted, weak, hopeless. After listening to the words of the Bishop I wanted to be a virtuous and strong, but I realized virtue doesn't just happen like lightning or a sneeze. If I'm going to be the woman my husband deserves, my daughter deserves, and I deserve I'm going to have to do a little work.

There are roughly 23 qualities of a virtuous woman in Proverbs 31, so each month I'm going to focus on developing two. Hopefully as the qualities build upon each other I'll find my long lost inner strength. January's theme is verses 11-12 which says:

The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.

Paul, this month is for you.

Adjusting to motherhood

2010-12-28T16:53:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure why some people strongly disapproved of my decision to take my daughter to church Sunday. One woman told me my child would die and it would be my fault. I know it's winter and flu season, so I didn't bring her to Primary and I kept her covered. Today was her first doctors appointment, and I'm pretty sure the pediatric waiting room is more dangerous than church. I kept her covered there too.

She now weighs exactly seven pounds. All infants loose weight when they are born but typically gain back to their birth weight by two weeks. Andrea still a little shy of her birth weight so the doctor will check her next week just to insure she's still gaining. She's in the 13th percentile for weight and the 76th percentile for height. Tall and skinny, just like her dad.

Adjusting to being a mom was more difficult than I thought it would be. Although I'd been told it'd be exhausting and demanding, the reality of motherhood seemed clouded over by my overactive imagination. I pictured lots of cuddling, cooing, rainbows, and ponies. There is some of that. But between cuddles and rainbows, there is lots of worry, paranoia, nursing, and poop. Our first three nights home Andrea and I spend the entire nights awake and wrestling to understand each other. I picked her up for every squeak and grunt, interrupting her sleep and causing her to be overstimulated.

The fourth night was a breakthrough thanks to some needed advice from my mom. We finally got some sleep and my mothering confidence, which was in the toilet before, started to rise. A routine formed shortly after and I discovered I have a pretty good little sleeper. Thank heavens!

Breastfeeding has been hard which I was anticipating, but not quite in the way I thought. I had heard so many stories of painful latches, bleeding, blisters, bruises, and babies starving from lack of milk. Well, Andrea is a natural and aside from a little soreness the first day or two, I've had no pain. Her latch is perfect and she's not a biter. As far as milk production is concerned, I'm a cow. Go figure.

The difficult part about nursing is my overinflated sense of modesty. The first few days home I'd be sitting in my rocking chair feeding my child when spontaneous visitors would knock on the door. Paul would scramble to find a blanket to cover me with whilst I panicked. I had a friend give me a nursing cover that has saved my life over the holidays. However, because it has a little U-shaped boning at the top which allows to me to peek adoringly at the bundle of preciousness in my arms, anyone else standing above me can also see down my business too. I typically nurse sitting down so I feel very self conscious as people walk around and behind me. I try to avoid nursing in public even with the cover because of how uncomfortable I feel.

My whole world currently revolves around Andrea's eating schedule. That has been quite the adjustment. If I feed her and leave her with Paul while I grocery shop or whatnot, I find myself watching the clock the entire time I'm away from her wondering if she is at home wailing for her ~~cow~~ mother. Going places with her is ~~insane~~ fun. I try to feed her right before we leave, giving a good two hours before she'll want to eat again, but by the time I pack the diaper bag, search for my phone, strap her in her car seat, re-find the diaper bag, calm her car seat protests with binky, head to the front door, I have to use the bathroom and I've wasted a good half hour or 45 minutes of the between feeding time. We haven't even left the house. So, I'm learning to do the baby prep work beforehand. I have to do some deep breathing just thinking about this.

I've spent a few moments crying, feeling so inadequate, wondering if my imperfections will ruin this little dependent person. We brought her home and I spent hours staring at her, believing if I blinked my little elven child would disappear. When she cried I picked her up awkwardly and slowly, afraid she would shatter in my arms. I've lifted up her little bum during a diaper change only to have her pee all over herself. I've sat on my bed across from Paul taking his turn soothing Andrea at four in the morning asking myself why I ever thought I'd have something to offer as a mom, and I thank heaven that she won't remember how clumsy and inexperienced I was when she came. I've wondered if there was a mistake made and if my little blessing was intended for a better mom who wasn't quite as Kayla-ish as I am.

But then. . . she looks up at me with her shiny eyes and crinkled forehead and I fall madly in love all over again, and my heart fills with gratitude for this chance I've been given. I need her now, just as much as she needs me and I wouldn't change that for the world!

Whoa, enough of all that sap. Enjoy some Christmas pictures!

It was Andrea's first Christmas and I helped her open her presents.

Some good looking dads, Andrea, and her cousin Jax. He's four months older than her. It's crazy to think she'll be that big in a few months.

Andrea wearing the Christmas bow they gave her in the hospital.

Napping with Grandma Rowberry after an exhausting day.

Birth on a half birthday

2010-12-19T21:06:00.001-07:00

Sunday night was my due date and the thought of having a baby any time soon was fastly fleeing. With a doctors appointment on Monday I prepared myself for the news that my body wasn't progressing and that an induction might be necessary. As much as I wanted to hold my daughter, I also wanted to deliver naturally and I'd heard horror stories about the pain that comes from pitocin induced labors. My best chance to deliver naturally was to labor naturally. I went to bed feeling sad.

At one o'clock I was awakened by a new sensation I'd not had before. My abdomen was tightening like it had been for the last few days but this time it was accompanied by sharp cramping pain. I breathed through it and watched the clock to see if it happened again. Seven minutes later I experienced what I was guessing another real contraction. I turned on to my side facing my alarm clock and watched it closely, taking note of the time between. By two they were six minutes apart and about a minute long. At three, they were five minutes apart.

At 3:17 I tapped Paul's shoulder and told him that we might have a baby today. He grunted. "Paul, I'm having contractions every five minutes and they hurt," I elaborated. He was instantly awake asking what we should do. I had a few things left to pack in the overnight bag and I wanted to tidy my kitchen. Paul showered and between contractions I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher. At about four I called my mom and we loaded up into the car, me in a bundle of nerves. This had to be it! Otherwise, arousing my husband a folks to adrenaline-induced wakefulness at four in the morning for nothing was something I couldn't live down.

We checked in at the front desk and were sent to a holding room to be monitored and analyzed. I was in real labor. The endorphin rush of such exciting moment was short lived because contraction pain was beginning to seize my body. I couldn't speak or move and breathing took all my focus. I was feeling nauseated from skipping dinner the night before and I was given a tall cup of apple juice which I threw up within minutes of finishing. My body started to tremor. No one mentioned these symptoms to me and I was unprepared for their arrival. I knew things were only going to get worse, so I asked my mom if she'd be disappointed if I got help for the pain. She laughed at me! "Do whatever you want!" she said nonchalantly, supporting me no matter what I chose.

A nurse came in to take me to a delivery suit and, feeling defeated, I asked for an epidural.

Which was. . . AMAZING!! With my pain gone I could relax, joke, nap, and enjoy family around me as I prepared to hear the magic pushing news.

Pushing was an interesting sensation. Imagine the worse constipation possible. Multiply that by 12.8 and add an indescribably strong urge to excrete the blockage. That's pushing in nutshell. My epidural was beginning to wear off a bit and although I had a button to increase the dosage, I chose not to. I wanted to be able to feel if I was pushing. This turned out to be very useful. As the baby moved down into the birth canal the monitors were having trouble picking up the contractions because (apparently) I have an odd shaped uterus. The nurses called it my funky fundal. Thankfully, I could feel the building pressure and could let my midwife know when I wanted to push. I pushed for an hour or so, and then, just as I thought I had maxed out all of my energy. . .

Andrea Jane arrived
on 12/13/10 (my half-birthday)

at 2:12 P.M.

weighing 7 lbs. 2 oz.

20 inches long!

Babies don't like that eye goop.

Our first moment, skin to skin.

I had some minor tearing, so small they were having trouble finding it. I kept bleeding while they poked and prodded and sopped and stitched. Thank heavens I had an epidural during that! Afterwards, I had lost so much blood that I couldn't sit up without turning green. They monitored my blood pressure for hours, the cuff going off every five minutes, and they pumped me with bag after bag of saline solution. The family got to hold my baby while I recovered.

Happy first-time daddy!

Wednesday morning we got to go home. That made it feel so official. She was ours!

And we like her A LOT!

Waiting must be part of labor 'cause it's hard work

2010-12-10T19:31:00.002-07:00

Due date. I know it's just a guess and having my baby a little early or late doesn't bother me as long as she's in my arms by Christmas. At least, that's how I use to feel. Tuesday I went to see my midwife and I finally let her check my cervix and all the joy that comes with that. She's been asking for about three weeks now if I wanted her to do it, and I repeatedly turned down the chance. However, I was getting pretty close to my due date so I caved. She excitedly put on a rubber glove, told me it was about to feel cold, and there might be some pressure. He. . . he. . .

She was surprised to find me three centimeters dilated and 80% effaced, and she said my cervix was really soft. We went ahead and made an appointment for me to come in on Monday (the day after my due date) just in case I didn't deliver over the weekend, but my midwife said she thought I'd have the baby by then. I was stunned at her prediction. I hadn't washed baby clothes yet or even packed the hospital bag because delivery had seemed so far away. I went home-- I called my mom. I told my mother-in-law. I scared my husband. Something was sinking into me.

Up to that point the reality of my circumstance hadn't hit me, but like a bucket of ice water splashed in my face, I was now confronting the fact that I wouldn't be pregnant for the rest of my life. Tuesday morning giving birth seemed like some abstract idea from an episode of a sci-fi thriller; Tuesday afternoon it became reality and it was knocking at my door. Wednesday I panicked and began final preparations. During my first class I started feel contractions that came at regular intervals but died down by noon. Thursday I walked and walked and walked. I avoided sitting down, I crawled when at all possible hoping my baby would turn around so I could avoid back labor. I did three loads of laundry, packed the overnight bag, nearly finished the baby quilt, and hiked two or three miles on campus.

At about three o'clock contractions started again and continued to come every ten minutes. While they weren't especially painful, just uncomfortable, all the activity was wearing me down. My stomach got more achy and tense as the evening passed. It was like someone was standing behind me pulling the strings to an invisible corset and every ten minutes they gave an extra strong pull. I was excited, nervous, and confused. Excited because I could feel things happening in my body, nervous because I didn't know what to expect next, and confused because I didn't know if it was real labor or something else. I decided to sleep on it. If it persisted through out the night and intensified I would wake up my wheezing husband and give him the famous line I'd see in all the movies: "It's time!"

I woke up three times in the night from abdominal discomfort. The contractions were slowing down considerably, and by the time the sun peeked over the mountains. . . That's a beautiful image, but it was actually rainy and dark. . . by the time my phone alarm started beeping at seven the contractions were all but gone. It is Friday evening; they have not persisted much today.

Five days ago I was patient, oblivious to the fact that I'd ever deliver. But I've since been plagued with the realization that any moment could be the moment. It has been my ruin. This is why I waited for so long to get my cervix checked. I knew myself and I knew that it would effect me intensely. This afternoon I have sat alone stewing in my own thoughts and trying not to cry. I wish I wasn't here alone. I wish Paul was home. I made him soup. At four. I was too restless to wait 'til eight, which is his expected time of arrival. And I made him a pie too. . . that I've had to wrestle my sorry self away from all day.

As I sat at the counter this afternoon studying for finals, my little baby played a round of Dance Dance Revolution on my rib cage. My stomach rolled and squirmed with her movements and I began talking to her, which admittedly I haven't done a lot thus far. I told her I loved her and I promised to take care of her. I told her that she was miraculous and how happy she's made me in the few short months she's been apart of me. And I let her know, as awesome as I am, she has a daddy and some grandparents who would like me to share her. Just sayin'

We'll see if that conversation does any good.

Fiber

2010-12-06T19:28:00.000-07:00

Thursday morning Paul decided to help himself to a bowl of cereal. This is not common as he prefers toast or something warm for breakfast and most mornings goes without it completely because neither of us have the time or energy to wake up and cook something. He must have been desperate that day. He peaked into the pantry and frowned. "Do we have any good cereal?" He asked. I inquired as to what he meant. Wrinkling his nose he said, "All we have are fiber cereals." Poor guy. I bet he's wishing he had a more exciting wife right about now. But I believe there is a method to my madness. I am preparing him for retirement. As his bachelors program is coming to a close and feelings of accomplishment are setting in, realizing that you've worked for so long only to help you work another 40 years can seem discouraging. Believing retirement to be boring and full of long days eating nothing but high fiber cereal might help him enjoy working hard for a few more years in order to buy exciting food, like frosted shredded wheat, in the future. See? I'm so selfless!

Okay, the high fiber cereal was bought for me. I think it tastes good. And it keeps me regular. I know, too much information, but my midwife said that staying regular can help me go into labor in a timely fashion, and I'm all about that!

This week I've been really pushing myself to finish all my assignments for the semester, even if they aren't due quite yet. Yesterday, I printed off the last one and all I have to do is study for finals. This baby can come anytime she is ready.

Our winter wonderland

2010-11-28T18:08:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year-- when snow softly falls and blankets Utah valley in muted white. Plows scrape their way down the streets and cars with little traction, like mine, slip and slide behind them. Shovels are brought out from summer hibernation and sidewalks are salted in order to keep that shoveling to a minimum. Paul slips on his trench coat, purchased for his two wet years in Washington, and heads outside to see what kind of damage he can do to the great expanse of pavement that surrounds our house. I stay in. We only have one shovel. I decide to make soup for my hard working man and I chop vegetables until he saunters through the front door, wet and pink. I smile at him and tell him the soup will be done soon as he heads to the bedroom to warm up. I find him on the bed fifteen minutes later dozing, and my cooking is not enticing enough to move his frozen bones to the kitchen. I rub my warm hands on his chilled arms and kiss his still red nose. He hesitantly joins me in the kitchen and stares at his warm soup claiming his arms are too tired to lift. I spoon one bite into his mouth and his arms miraculously find their strength and manage to feed him the contents of the bowl. I smile and marvel at the simple memory that's just been created.

Friday I got a call from my older sister who told me she wanted to buy us our very own Christmas tree. We braved Wal-Mart the day after Thanksgiving and picked out the perfect little tree. Last night Paul and Tessa and I decorated it and sat it neatly in the corner while a evergreen scented candle burned on the hearth. (Evergreen scented candles make fake trees seem a little more romantic.)

I pulled out my penguins for their yearly debut and positioned them happily on the couch.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care. . . hoping that I'd be able to afford real stalking holders in the years to come. Those lightweight clocks weren't going to hold very well. (Little did I know that my grandmother had already sent some Christmas money which my mom used for this very purpose.)

The table was outfitted with its festive duds while David Archuleta sang from my laptop carols of Christmas, snow and angels. Everything felt perfect except it hadn't snowed yet. I woke this morning to that surprise.

After soup, Paul and I went outside to build a snowman, savoring our last few moments as a family of two.

We decided to build a snow princess, but the more we sculpted the more we realized that it wasn't the best snowman snow. We packed all around her body and sprayed her with mists of water, strawberry scented from the perfume that owned the bottle previously. We chiseled and smoothed, added snow and took some away.

But the snow was hardening and she wasn't looking very much like a princess.

In fact, she was beginning to resemble African war masks. . .

Combined with an elderly samurai pioneer woman.

(Which I will tell my kids was exactly what we were going for.)

She turned out pretty scary.

But she was our creation, and I was proud!

Here we are as one big happy family. I "photoshopped" myself into the picture, and by "photoshopped" I mean I used Paint because I don't have Photoshop on my laptop. :)

37 Week snapshot

2010-11-23T21:47:00.000-07:00

Today was the first real day off I've had in a while. No school, no work, no schoolwork. It was beautiful. Because this semester has been so chaotic my house has been a little neglected. Bathrooms needed cleaning, dishes needed washing, and the carpet. . . hadn't been vacuumed in a while. Once Paul left for work I began "project housework." I felt so alive and in my element scrubbing around the potty and sweeping away the cobwebs (which I discovered were actually still occupied).

I also spent some time staring into here:

I'm working on getting the baby closet organized and after my baby shower on Saturday I actually have something to put in there. There is still much we need, but we have a great start! I love opening the double doors and touching the little clothes while imaging them on the body of my unimaginably precious little girl. I even caught Paul in there this evening.

37 weeks!

I have more pictures to post, but I'm waiting for my little sister to e-mail them to me.

(Cough cough, hint hint, Tessa, cough cough)

Where I'm suppose to be

2010-11-17T16:34:00.000-07:00

Certain familiar smells are creeping into the air. Customers at work are coming in smelling like mall cologne samples and leather. Christmas shopping has begun. Outside has taken on its fall fragrance of rich earth, wet pavement, and decaying leaves. Ironic how the smell of a dying season brings so much life to the one it's replacing. Upon entering my home, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafts below my nose and I long for holiday cooking and family gatherings. This is a glorious time.

Just a few weeks away from giving birth and the reality of becoming a parent is slowly nestling itself into my bones, radiating from my core and pulsing down to my toes. People tell me I still look so small, but I feel BIG. I feel on top of the world and full of a life I've never experienced. I feel like I'm home staring in the mirror at a person I barely recognize yet have known forever. She's always been there, this strong presence, but I've been afraid to see her. But when I was so weak, the little one inside me pulled that strength to the surface as if to say, "It's about time. You may need this!"

I don't fear labor and I don't fear pain. I've been called crazy for wanting to give birth naturally, but I feel so in-tune with my body right now that I can't imagine going through such a transcending experience and not feeling it. I want to know. This curiosity burns inside me begging for me to satiate its desire to have such a mortal experience. I could be crazy after all.

I also know that a birth plan and the actual event can be quite different. My sweet mother didn't plan on a c-section with her first two, but it happened that way. So, I'm praying for an opportunity to give birth as I've outlined, but I've told God I'm up for alternatives if it means getting my little girl here safely.

Saturday was my last day of work. The bittersweet experience did not make me cry as I thought I would. Yes, there will be people I'll miss, but my heart has been so full of a peace that I can't seem to shake. Not that I want to. I feel I'm exactly where I'm suppose to be in this moment.

Halloween aftermath

2010-11-08T07:57:00.001-07:00

With Halloween out of the way I thought I was all done with spooky things. November is for turkeys and pilgrims and overeating, none of which are too spooky. Unless that turkey is alive and chasing you. However. . . spooky is what I've dealt with all week.

I am terrified of crickets. They are scarier than spiders. Spiders are creepy but most of them just crawl and I can get close enough to them to kill them without them touching me because they just crawl. Crickets. . . jump. I don't want them to touch me and I can't get close enough to kill them because I have this irrational fear they will attack my face. So I usually solicit the help of some wonderful person to dispose of the beast.

Just look at this guy. I think I just peed a little.

Just kidding, but barely.

I have a couple of these bad boys living just outside my door and I do not like them. They have tried to follow me inside before, and with my ninja skills and my amazing good looks (or something) I've managed to keep them out. But Monday afternoon as I sat at this very laptop typing a paper about facebook killing social competence in adolescents using my studies in a preschool as proof (don't ask, weird assignment), I heard an occasional ticking noise behind me. I ignored it at first, assuming something was clinking in the dishwasher. After twenty-three minutes the wash cycle ended but the clicking did not. I turned around. Behind me, staring up with beady black eyes, was a large cricket

It looked like this.

I didn't like it.

I cannot confirm or deny that I may or may not have screamed.

I picked up Paul's shoe and whacked it. It's bigger than mine so I could maintain some distance.

I lived. Barely.

Can't say the same for the cricket.

"Ha ha!" I thought. That must have been my Halloween scare, just a day late, but I was wrong. Wednesday I walked into my dark apartment after morning classes and closed the door. It smelled funny, like old shoes and vomit. Like someone vomited in an old shoe. I sat my backpack down before hearing a strange noise. Drip. Drip. Drip. I turned on the light to this baby:

It was sitting in a pile of it's own fluids which had puddled on the counter and were dripping on the floor. While not as scary as a devil cricket, it was much nastier to clean up. I wrapped it in a garbage bag, laid it in a box, and drug it to the front door leaving behind me a trail of slim. I picked it up, trying to hold it away from me and, stopping every three feet or so to set it down and pant, I walked around the house and chucked (up-chucked, nearly) this bad boy in the dumpster.

I think Halloween is officially over now. Bring on the turkeys!