W. O. M. A. N.

Andrea threw up this morning forty minutes before church.  It was suppose to be my second Sunday conducting in Primary, and I was determined to get it right this time.  Two weeks ago I butchered my first time conducting and had to hide in the Primary closet for some hormonal tears.  Being a girl is awesome.

I told Paul the other day that I never wanted to be a man.  I like that my sensitive parts are tucked away deep in my belly and not exposed for the occasional fetal-position inducing injury men so commonly demonstrate in comedy films and during impromptu football games.  I also like how. . . um. . . spontaneous my emotions are.  How boring would life be if you always went to the grocery store knowing you would never tear up at the sight of a toddler potty seat?  Life would be complete drudgery if it weren't for some sudden sobs for Eugene Fitzherburt at the end of Tangled.

But I think my favorite part of being a girl is my attention to detail.  If I ask Paul to clean the kitchen he will stand in front of the sink and stair blankly into the mass of dirty dishes.  I have learned to be more specific.  Please load the dishwasher.  There.  Now he looks less ruffled.  Wipe the counters please?  He's so sexy wielding a dish cloth.  Empty the dish drainer hand wash the knives and large pots wipe out the microwave remove burners from stove wipe down stove don't forget the knobs for the oven and the side of the fridge.  I can see in his eyes that he's shutting down, he eventually abandons the task completely.  He had it easy though.  I didn't even mention the floors.

Most of the time it's easier if I handle these tasks myself and when he occasionally pitches in I ignore the things he missed because I'm blinded by gratitude and love.  And probably tears too.  Spontaneous.

A few months ago I noticed some of these qualities manifesting themselves in Andrea.  One of her favorite pastimes is helping unload the dishwasher.  Her little hands want to touch every clean dish and hand them to mommy to put away as she declares herself my helper.  Sometimes she insists of having her hands cleaned during meal, and she almost always wants to wipe off her tray while proclaiming, "Messy!"  On Monday while Paul and I snuggled on the couch watching an action show, Andrea continuously pointed out how messy the explosions were.  That's my girl.

Yesterday while I spent the day at my parent's house working on a paper for school.  Daddy got her up in the morning, fed her all her meals, and put her down for the nap.  She started to notice late in the evening that Daddy doesn't do things the same as Mommy, and she took a video to show me how messy things became, specifically in regards to my unmade bed.

Paul.  Busted. By. A. Toddler.

That's my girl. *Sniff* Spontaneous!

That awkward moment

I really enjoy my classes so far.  There is too much reading, but my teachers are all darling, and the subjects are making me think, which I love.  But I am occasionally reminded that I am not a typical college student.  I don't hang out with other college students and didn't live in the college scene pre-marriage, so I'm not exactly fluent in college cool.

Not to mention my bestious friend is 15.

So naturally when my Pre-1500 A.D. History classmate wondered aloud why we weren't attacking Canada for oil my first thought was. . . well. . . Justin Bieber.  Unfortunately, the thought spilled from my mouth, and I audibly heard every head in the class turn in my direction.  The palpable silence could have been cut with a knife until one blessed girl piped up, "I didn't know Justin Beiber was from Canada."  Chuckles of polite laughter broke through the awkward moment and the boy in front of me gave me an alien look.

"I have a 15 year old sister. . ." I muttered.

Of course, this boy was already learning about my weirdness.  He corrected my quiz earlier, and when asked the topic of the chapter we were assigned I answered:  As the Europeans domesticated animals, they were introduced to animal diseases.  They built up immunities to these infections and virus.  When founding the Americas, they introduced the indigenous people to these diseases and without hundreds of years of genetic immunities nearly 90% were eradicated.  Apparently, the quick answer was farming, which was also the name of the chapter.  I did read the chapter, just not the heading. . . so he gave me the point because I clearly demonstrated some comprehension, if not in a more roundabout way.

I, in turn, corrected his paper.  He wrote farming which earned him full credit.  However, in the confusion of trying to explain my odd answer, I missed how many points the quiz was worth.  I wrote a smiley face on the top of his and passed it up.  As the teacher collected the papers he looked down at my neighbor's and then up at me.  I tried not to focus on his lazy eye while he wondered aloud, "So, do smiley faces mean four points now?"  I felt blood rush to my cheeks as more awkward chuckles resonated throughout the room.

I'm so glad I held back from making a Star Trek comment during our discussion of Indian Regimes because I don't think the class could have thought me any weirder.  And I'd hate to prove them wrong.

Daddy's girl

Every morning as Paul gets ready Andrea acts as his helper.  She picks out his socks and his shoes, but most importantly, she picks out his tie.  In fact, she picks the same blue and purple tie every day. On Thursday she was helping me put some clothes away in my closet.  While I sorted and folded she became particularly preoccupied with Paul's tie rack.  She picked out her favorite, wrapped her arms around it, and gave it snuggles.  "Ahhh!  Daddy's tie!"  She exclaimed.

On Friday, Andrea and I were talking about marriage.  She was looking at pictures of me and Paul on our wedding day, and I was describing the flowers and the weather and how happy we were.  She looked up at me with a twinkle of new understanding in her eyes and said, "Mommy Daddy maaweed?"

I nodding my head. "Yes, Mommy and Daddy are married."

"Oh," she replied. "Mommy Daddy maaweed.  Daddy Annie maaweed?"

I started laughing and explained that Daddy and Annie weren't married because Daddy was already married to Mommy.  She kept insisting that Daddy and Annie were married, and I just kept laughing. . . until I realized she never suggested that she and I were married.  How rude.

I explained to Andrea that she was Daddy's daughter.  She seemed to like that idea because she repeated it 2,541 times.  "Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Daughter! Annie daughter! Annie daughter!"

I love how much she loves him and how desperately she wants to be involved in his daily activities.  I can't think of a more beautiful sight than watching her snuggle on his lap while he reads to her.  He makes her giggle by making silly faces, and he teaches her new words like "calculator" and "angry birdie."  She calls him by his first name when she calls him in for prayers. "Paaaawww!"  And when he doesn't answer she reminds me he's at work.

But after she's put to bed and the house is quiet, he's mine.  I'll always be his number one.

First day of school

Day one of school proved to be overwhelming.  Sunday Andrea started showing some suspicious symptoms so Paul kept her out of the nursery and took her home early.  By the time I got home she was feverish and miserable.  She woke up from her nap screaming and threw up when I went to check on her.  Waterfalls of snot poured from her nostrils and her sniffs to relieve the constant dripping sent the mucus down her throat, upsetting her stomach.  What a great start to such a pivotal week.

I asked Paul for a priesthood blessing.  I was told to be comforted and was promised I could accomplish what I've set out to do.  Andrea's fever broke the next morning but the snoterfalls did not.  Monday night was my second night on the couch listening to my daughter's sick moans and coughs.  Naturally, I also started to show symptoms, and Andrea decided to skip some afternoon naps.  Tuesday evening as I drove to school, I tried hard to stay awake.  The setting sun streamed into my car at eye level, and squinting only proved to be a reminder of how desperately my eyes wanted to close.  I turned on some loud music and began to sing as robustly as I could muster.

Sitting at a stop light belting One Thing by One Direction, I realized that with my broken A/C and rolled down windows the car beside me (also with rolled down windows) could hear every off-pitch note.  Not to mention they could see my snoterfalls and I suspect a few rogue mustache hairs.  Great.

But upon arriving to class I realized how amazing my philosophy teacher was.  He told us we wouldn't write any papers, our tests would be open note-open book, and the weekly quizzes are impossible to fail if you've done the reading.  I left class on a scholastic high until approached the end of the sidewalk and faced the parking lot.  In my delirium on the drive to school I forgot to pay attention to where I put my car. . .

I called Paul and talked to him for about fifteen minutes before I realized how bad my situation was.  I told him if I wasn't home by ten o'clock he needed to call the police.  I hung up my phone and tried to focus as I walked down each row of cars scanning for my little white clunker.  I could feel drips threatening to rain from my nose and my eyes.  I was going to die in that parking lot of old age looking for my car.  Then I realized if I waited long enough all of the cars would go home but one.  I wondered how long that would take because I was out of tissues, and the vast concrete wasteland was lacking some emergency foliage. . . if you know what I mean.

As the hours minutes passed, the parking lot began to empty, and (as if illuminate by the heavens) my car came into view.  I had already passed it FOUR rows of cars ago!  I think it's safe to assume I meticulously counted the exact coordinates of my vehicle on day two and three.

A little reminder

I'm all signed up for classes, and today I ordered my parking pass.  My fears and anxieties are beginning to fade as excitement builds in my chest.  It's all I can do to not tell the cashier at the grocery store that I'm going back to school.  I only feel guilty at the burden I'm placing on Paul to be mommy and daddy Tuesday through Thursday evenings.  But I've been an education widow to a full-time student for the past three years.  Now it's Paul's turn.

Saturday one of my best friends got married.  As Paul and I pulled out of the driveway to attend the blessed event, we discovered my car had a flat tire.  Thank heavens we have two vehicles.  We loaded the car seat into Paul's Honda and took it up to Salt Lake.  As we merged on the freeway and the temperature in the car began to rise (both of our cars have broken A/C), anger began to bubble beneath my skin.  Sweet Paul tried to make sense of my sudden shift in mood as I tried to explain without crying, though I hardly understood it myself.  As the words left my lips, however, it became clear what my frustration was all about.

I wish I could say that day was atypical, but it wasn't.  Cars breaking down left and right is normal for us.  And as Paul sped down I-15, I could not imagine a world any different.  That's what made me so mad.  I felt doomed to starving student life, driving clunkers in constant disrepair, and having to make homemade wedding gifts because I can't afford something on the registry. .  I am ashamed of those feelings, but they were real.  Miraculously, God gifted my bitter heart with a tender mercy.  The air conditioning choked out enough puffs of cold air to keep us from showing up to the wedding dripping in sweat.  I probably didn't deserve it, but I'm glad to have received it.

This Sunday I got a new calling in my ward that has to do with scouting.  Scouting!  I know literally nothing about scouting except they decorate bland-colored shirts and carve pinewood derby cars.  Oh, and pee in camp fires.  I called my mom who told me I needed training and certification.  I'll have Pack Meetings, Round Table, and some kind of committee meeting.  I was completely overwhelmed.  How was I supposed to fit all this in to my school, family, and housekeeping schedule?  Thankfully, I was given a blessing on Sunday setting me apart for the job.  In the blessing I was told that I'd be able to find balance and my burdens would be made easy.  It was exactly what I needed to hear.

Sometimes I forget that the Lord is aware of me and that I matter.  But I do.  We all do.  This weekend it was nice to be reminded.

Brobee birthday

Last Thursday my little nephew turned two. As I listened to the plans for his special day I noticed a cake was not mentioned. I asked if I could make one.  His mother consented, giving one simple instruction. It had to be chocolate. My nephew loves chocolate!

My sister-in-law was throwing a Yo Gabba Gabba party, complete with hats, napkins, figurines, noise makers, and other Gabba paraphernalia.  I've done a lot of cupcakes lately, and I immediately formed some ideas for Brobee cupcakes.  He seems to be Jax's favorite.

Here's a video of him in action in case you don't know who he is.

Andrea prefers Foofa.

But the more I thought about it, the more I felt a full-sized cake would make a much bigger impact on a two year old.  Around 3:00 P.M. I mixed up my first batter, and just before 11:00 P.M. I slipped the finished product in the fridge.  It was a record for me.  Layers of chocolate cake, whipped ganache, and fresh raspberries marinated over night whilst I awaited the big reveal of my. . . .

Brobee cake!

 Jax saw the cake and said, "Oh!  Brobee!"  I was so excited that he could actually recognize him.

We sang to Jax and he blew out the candle so well we lit it again and let him blow it out a second time.  While we cleared a spot on the counter for cake cutting, Jax examined the smooth fondant.  He poked, stroked, wiggled, and walked his fingers along the cake until we had to rush it away after his finger went up his nose.  He was served a piece and after each bite exclaimed, "Yummy!"  It was worth every minute spent on that cake for his reaction.

Unfortunatly. . . Brobee went to a party. . . a party in our tummy. . .

My first love

I don't think I can remember many times in my life where I've lack more confidence than I do now. At the end of this month I am going back to school, hoping to complete my degree by 2015.  It's been less than two years since I've walked the musky halls of an old college building, but it feels as though I'm stepping out of the 1800's to a new bizarre world of learning.  My last semester was during my third trimester.  Andrea was born the first day of finals week, and just 3 days postpartum I waddled on to campus for my exams.  Sitting in the JSB testing center, tears streamed down my face.  Each chair that squeaked sounded just like my precious newborn cuddled in the arms of another human seven miles away.  I feel as though a decade has past since I was that young mom, and I'm full of fear.

Because the feeling of youth has generally left me, I find myself worrying if my feeble mind is up to the task of educational rigor.  Will my rate of retention be equal to that of my younger self?  How will it feel to be the old mom on the class of eighteen year old whipper-snappers?  How will I keep up with my household responsibilities or cope with not being home to lay my daughter down to sleep every night?  I've already made a lengthy mental list of all the reasons I shouldn't do this.

But a fire of learning burns in my soul and yearns to prove itself.  My inner voice tells me school will only be more difficult the longer I wait.  My husband supports me and wants me to know what it feels like to stare at that embossed diploma.  After all, he has two.  So I've signed up for classes, readied my work station, and prayed hard, so hard the tension of my words being forced to heaven have pushed me prostrate on the floor night after night.

The upcoming back-to-school date has become my new deadline.  Sewing projects, cleaning assignments, and copious amounts of socializing must be completed now to fill the void I will create myself as I withdraw from society a bit for the sake of essays and assignments.  And I find it somewhat amusing that the rhythm of life I resisted for so long is being so disrupted just as I've come to love it so dearly.

So, please, if you see me at the grocery store and I burst into tears, know it's how I fight away insanity.  And if you see me on campus and I'm glowing, know it's because as hard as this next chapter may prove to be, learning was that first love I never got over.