Volleyball

I just had the most frustrating morning.

It all began two weeks ago.  At the beginning of September, volleyball season started for the Young Women in my ward.  Since I am in the presidency, I made it point to be at the games to cheer on my girls.  At some point, someone asked who I was and added me to a stake sports Facebook page.  Fantastic.  More reminders for me; that’s never a bad thing.  Well, a couple of weeks ago, someone posted that we had been invited to play with another stake Saturday morning at 8 AM.  I announced it to the girls, encouraged them to come, and got up early to cheer them on.  There is no limit to the sacrifices I make for my young women.

This morning, with wet hair, skinny jeans, and some nude flats, I slipped out of the house while my husband snoozed upstairs and my children helped themselves to some cartoons.  When I arrived at the building, I pulled into an empty parking lot, and surrounded by the company of fallen leaves, I questioned my existence.  Who am I?  Why am I here?  Where am I going?  After waiting for a couple of minutes, another car pulled in, and then another.  Strangely, none of these vehicles brought forth young women.  Perhaps this stake underestimated the lure of a good Saturday sleep-in.  I walked in the church with the other leaders, recognizing a few from my stake, and waited anxiously.  Not a single girl showed up, but after the net was set up, the leaders began to take their spots. Wait? Are we playing?  I thought.  I glanced around, this time noticing a disturbing trend.  All of these women were wearing workout clothes and sneakers with their hair pulled back in high ponytails.  I stealthily asked if the Young Women were invited to this event, only to be answered with a resounding “No” from all parties. 

My panic escalated.  Here I had been promoting a game that required waking up early on the weekend that the young women were not actually sanctioned to play in. I imagined the annoyed looks on their faces guaranteed to follow this news.  My prayers that one of them would show up quickly turned to prayers that they would not.  Whilst I stood silently praying and panicking, one of the ladies from my stake pulled me in to play the game.

Listen, I am not an athlete.  I’m confident enough to admit it.  I wear glasses which are ball magnets.  I’m short and chubby which means slow and useless in volleyball.  Heck, I’m the girl who answers “read-a-thon” when I’m asked for my favorite sport.  And here I have found myself front and center in a volleyball game against grown women who practice weekly, three of which were behemoth, towering over my 5’3” frame at six feet tall, and they actually knew how to do that bump-set-spike nonsense you see in Olympic games.  Not good.

For an hour and a half, I slid around the gym in my slippery flats, ducking, rolling, screeching, and flailing every time the ball winked at my vicinity.  My teammates began to gather around me so they could compensate for my obvious ineptitude.  They spoke to me with kind, pity-filled reassurances, but deep down. . . deep down I knew they were secretly wishing a foul serve would knock me unconscious so they could drag me to the side and stand a chance at winning the game.

After rearranging the teams and somehow managing always to be on the losing one, we concluded for the day, and the saintly giraffes invited me to come play more often.  Perhaps experience would help me be more confident in my abilities (or lack thereof).  I smiled, said “absolutely” whilst subconsciously shaking my head no, and then slipped out to my car, secretly vowing to never again play this dreadful sport.

I drove down to Sandy to donate blood and then stopped by Wal-Mart to buy groceries.  My arms were red, black, and blue from the beating they endured, but I bravely pushed the cart onward.  My tired feet and nude flats slipped around the store, pausing momentarily to admire a purple pair of exercise capris and some blue tennis shoes.  I don’t know, maybe I’ll try volleyball one more time. . . 

Sad

Sometimes I feel there is this expectation for me to be the chipper comic relief, and I don't know how to reconcile that image with the reality that I'm not always happy.  When I had postpartum depression, it was slightly easier to be more open about how I felt.  First, I was too apathetic and exhausted to keep up the cheery facade, and second, because I had something to blame for my mood. I never said, "I'm depressed."  I would say, "I'm struggling with postpartum depression," like it was a separate being responsible for all of my woes, and I was the hormonal martyr.  For the past couple of months, I've had some familiar recurring negative thoughts and emotions I've have tried not to own up to, but here I am, typing away on my laptop, searching for something uplifting write about but unable to shake these unmistakable feelings.

I am sad.

There.  I said it.  I am sad, and I think it all began when I graduated.

Have you ever dreamed about something for so long that when you actually got to live that dream, you found it disappointing?  You know what I mean.  It’s like that weird fish fast-food restaurant in your home town you craved for years until you revisited the establishment as an adult and realized there is better food in the frozen section of Walmart.  Or that movie that all of your friends saw and wouldn’t shut up about it, but when you finally Redboxed it a year later, you find the picture rather lackluster.  Or, heaven forbid, it’s like that dress you’ve been drooling over on Pinterest, and when you finally venture out to a far-away outlet mall to try it on, it makes your shoulders look like a linebacker and your head appear shrunken. (#thestruggleisreal) Well, that was the level of disappointment I experienced after finishing my bachelor’s degree. Times ten.

Every spring, flowers burst from the ground and birds fill the trees, sounding their trumpets to announce winter is over.  Baby animals huddle beneath their mothers as the remnants of snow melt away.  The grass grows greener as popcorn pops on the apricot trees, and every spring, Facebook erupts with graduation pictures.  My feed looks like a Josten's catalog.  For years, I have concealed envy with copious amounts of "congratulations" as I watched friends and family obtain the one thing I thought I never would: a degree.  Heck, Paul even got two.  Occasionally, I would even watch celebrity graduation speeches circulating across the interwebs, and I just knew that being handed a degree would be a completely transformative experience.  Suddenly, my veins would pulse with wisdom.  People would stop and listen when I spoke.  My children would forever respect me.  It would be magical.

That didn't happen.

I graduated by clicking submit on my final assignment.  There was no pomp.  No circumstance.  No pulsing wisdom.  There was just silence, emptiness and an unreal feeling about the whole thing.  At the time, I did not understand why, but as the weeks dragged on, the reality of my situation became clear.  I missed school.  It's not that I missed the late night writing sessions or the mountains of reading.  I missed the daily human interaction and intellectually stimulating conversations that took place on the discussion boards.  I missed talking about world issues and how we would solve them.  I missed positive feedback from my teachers and peers as well as the constructive feedback which helped me grow.  It almost seems childish to admit, but after graduating, I felt lonely.

I'm not one to just stew in my feelings, so I am trying to stay active.  I have been appointed to the PTA council, buried myself in Girls Camp preparations, and have immersed myself in personal writing projects, but there are still days (like today) when the loneliness seeps up through the cracks in my schedule, and I just feel sad.  Is it okay if I feel that way?  Will you think less of me?

Waiting

During my first pregnancy, many well-intended folks ventured that my delivery would be similar to my mother’s delivery with me, so when my midwife mentioned Annie’s due date was December 12th, I immediately attempted some mental math.  You see, I was born twenty days late.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I was TWENTY days late.  That’s one day short of three weeks and one week shy of a month!  It’s a wonder my mother loves me at all with what I put her through!  Anyway, as a first-time mom, I wanted my daughter’s birth to be perfect, and to me, perfect meant on time so I could take copious amounts of infant pictures underneath the Christmas tree.  However, if my daughter had the audacity to float around in her prenatal prison for an extra three weeks, she not only would not be born in time for Christmas, but she would be born in an entirely new year.  For tax reasons, Paul was equally concerned about that.  This fear ignited a fiery anxiety in me that only grew the closer I got to December 12th.  When the actual day arrived and my infant seemed content in her watery world, I cried, and I don’t mean shed a couple gentle tears.  I mean I spent the entire day stealing away to quiet spaces so I could wear my pity-party party hat without drawing too much attention to myself. Something deep down in my womb gut was positive that by not entering the world by her due date, my daughter was destined for a January birthday.

I can look back on December 12th with grand amusement now because just one hour after the day concluded, I went into labor and had my daughter in my arms before supper.  However, at the moment, the prospect of waiting for an indeterminate amount of days was more traumatic than the birth itself.  This just goes to show how much I hate waiting.  Man oh man, do I hate waiting.  I’d like to think I possess quite a few virtues.  Humility, integrity, morality, nobility, decency, masculinity, and probably any other virtues ending in ‘y.'  Patience, however, does not end in ‘y,' which is probably why I find this trait so elusive.

Recently, I have been plagued with much waiting. At the end of February, Paul learned that he had been nominated to join the executive team on a retreat in April to Cancun, Mexico.  It was an entirely unexpected but completely welcomed break from the rigors of life.  Unfortunately, because we had no plans on leaving the country anytime soon, we needed to quickly procure passports as to not miss the trip.  The kind passport lady said it could take up to six weeks for our passports to arrive by mail. She also had to take our birth certificates and told us to keep an eye out for those too.  Likewise, since I had just graduated, I was waiting for my diploma, and during this time, Paul renewed his driver’s license.  With so many sensitive documents floating around the postal sphere and a recent mail theft plaguing our sense of security, the wait seemed painfully long.  Each day that I checked the mail only to find grocery store fliers and credit card come-ons escalated my anxiety to the point that had to hold back tears as I dumped my junk mail into the recycling bin.  It seems so silly now that everything has arrived safe and sound, but my impatient self doesn't care.  It’s like waiting transforms me into a caged animal.  You would think after twenty-seven years on this great green earth, I would have finally earned my patience badge for my virtue sash, but alas.  I think the older I’ve gotten, the harder waiting has become.  After all, every day is a day closer to death and yet another day that I’m not in Cancun.

A Wave of the Flu

The house smells sour no matter how many windows I open and how many blankets I wash.  Both of my children spent the night throwing up, often in their sleep, and waking up to the hot wetness of their vomit.  Paul was on bath duty and scrubbed down crying sick bodies.  I was on bed detail, stripping sheets, rinsing chunks into the toilet, and filling the washing machine over and over again with soiled blankets, towels, and jammies.  Eventually, I transplanted Sam onto the couch while taking the adjacent one so I could hear the first gag and catch further episodes in a bucket.  This finally ended the messiness, and at two in the morning, I sent Paul to bed so he could get some sleep before work.  I laid awake on the couch, one ear down the hall in Annie’s room, and the other on nearby Sam’s sleepy sighs.  Occasionally, I would hide my phone beneath my blanket and google things like “when do children grow out of puking in their sleep,” “how to get vomit stains out of white stuffed dogs,” and “best cream for undereye bags.”  By morning, both children’s energy and appetites had returned.  They chased each other around the kitchen while I, in my exhausted state, shuffled my feet and moaned like a zombie.  Paul emailed his boss and stayed home to extend further help. This traumatic night was our first experience with simultaneous pukers.  Usually, our kids catch things from each other which staggers their symptoms by a day or two so we can focus on one child at a time. I’m beyond grateful for Paul’s willingness to help even though he is much more sensitive to the smell of vomit than I am.

Though the event initially seemed like a cruel twist of fate, tonight I find myself relieved and grateful they were sick together.  Not that I want to volunteer for another night like that anytime soon, but there were a few good things to come of the ordeal.  Today I did not have to quarantine one child in a futile attempt to protect the other from germs.  Tonight I can sleep easy knowing both children are better instead of waiting for another kid to exhibit symptoms, and the exhaustion of one sleepless night will not be drug out to two. It was like ripping off a band-aid instead of tearing it off slowly. A vomit-soaked, fevery band-aid.

The Lanyard

Written February 13, 2017:
I cried today at Annie’s Parent-Teacher Conference.  Nothing says, “I’m a stable parent,” like tearing up at your child’s kindergarten teacher while she explains library day.  After a moment of embarrassment, I explained I wasn’t crazy.  It was just her lanyard that was making me cry.  I realized that sounded worse than crying over library time, so I felt compelled to tell her the whole story.

Two years ago, when I reenrolled in school for what felt like the ten-zillionth time, I hoped this stint would end in graduation (finally).  A few weeks into the semester, I was meandering the aisles at Harman’s looking for gluten-free something-or-other when something sparkly caught my eye.  I turned to study a hanging wrack of lanyards bedazzled with plastic rhinestones.  The rows of halogen lights above illuminated the prisms, and tiny rainbows reached out to me like a divine sign.  I lifted a lanyard from the hooks and ran it between my fingers, smiling slightly and imagining a teaching name tag hanging from the clip with my picture and Mrs. Rowberry printed on the front.  I handed it to wide-eyed baby Sam who thoroughly tasted it as I made my way to the checkout.  At home, it laid out on my nightstand as a visual representation of my goal to finish school.  On nights where I stayed awake rocking a restless baby or cleaning puke out of stuffed animal fur and woke up completely exhausted with piles of reading and homework in front of me, that glittery lanyard whispered, “Keep going.”

Sitting across from Annie’s teacher on the final day of undergrad classes while she wore the same name tag accessory I picked out to wear during my first year of teaching was just too much to handle. It finally felt real that someday I may be sitting across from nervous parents and handing them report cards. When I shared this tale with Annie's teacher, she smiled at me and squeezed one of my hands while I wiped away a tear with the other.

I can never show my face there again.

Numb

Have you ever been sick with severe congestion and lost your sense of taste for so long that you almost forgot what strong flavors were like?  Have you ever been so cold that you lost some feeling in your toes but didn't realize it until you stepped in the shower and your feet couldn't feel the heat of water beating down?  Have you ever been unaware that you've become desensitized to a sound until someone asks you how you are not bothered by the rattle or beeping or incessant sound of screams?  Maybe these aren't relatable questions, but I know I have personally experienced them all.  I have been numb and not even realized it.

I was scrubbing dishes this evening while my children frolicked in the living room.  Annie was being abducted by Miss Hanigan, and Sam was trying to save her with a toy broom.  My iPod sang from across the counter, and I belted out the familiar words.  I could see my reflection in the dark window, face illuminated by the overhead light, and I allowed my shoulders to dance as my hands scraped away at crispy egg residue in my non-stick skillet.  Glancing over at the microwave, I realized it was time for baths, so with a flick of my fingers, I pulled them from the sink, dried them on a Christmas towel, and then swooped up my stinky son.  When both kids were naked and blanketed in bubbles, I stepped back into the kitchen to finish cleaning.  A new song played from the iPod dock, and I recognized it as a waltz.  Embolden by a lack of witnesses, I began to box step in my kitchen, which soon evolved into copious amounts of twirling and general merriment as the sexy trumpet cried and a gritty voice professed his love in a sweeping melody.  I could feel my extremities fill with a radiant, youthful light which seemed to shoot from my fingertips with every extension of my arm.  I closed my eyes and remembered the exhilaration of fanning out and facing the stage lights at my high school ballroom concert.  One, two, three.  One, two, three.  One, two, three.  One, two, three!  I spun out and then spun back in, except it was not into the arms of an imaginary partner but the countertop.  A gasp of pain escaped my lungs which was shortly replaced by embarrassed and amused chortles.  I looked up at the dark window over the sink and studied my carefree smile in awe at the uplifting powers of a simple song.

Two years ago, I rarely listened to music.  It played in my car to drown out the sounds of crying children, but at home, it was a rarity.  If you know me well, you may find this odd.  I have always loved music.  I sang in the choir in elementary school.  I played the clarinet and did musical theater when I was in junior high and high school.  At BYU, I was never without my iPod to set the tone of my campus walks.  However, while I was in the throws of depression, music didn't feel the same.  It didn't feel like much of anything if I'm honest.  It was merely white noise.  At the time, I chalked it up to growing older and sluffing off the last of my childhood, but now that music once again invigorates my soul, I realize I was just numb.

Forgotten

My phone buzzed, and I stretched my legs as I glared at the clock.  Eleven.  Who was texting me at this hour?  My arm emerged from the warmth of my blanket and retreated quickly once my phone was in hand.   Squinting from the burning brightness of the screen, I swiped my passcode and read the notification.  It was from Facebook.  I was being invited to my ten-year class reunion.  It's bizarre to think it's been that long since I played in the pep band at the many losing football games or ate lunch in Room 610 with what modern teens call a "squad."  I laid under the light of the supermoon, staring up at his magnified face, as I thought back on my experiences walking the halls of my high school, faces and names washed over me.  I could feel discomfort from sitting beside my tenth-grade crush as he called me a "shaky chihuahua."  I could taste the white roll my best friend donated to my lunchlessness every day.  I could see the acne of another friend's face and feel my skin crawl at the white eyes that watched me from his cheeks.  I recalled the boy from twelfth-grade English who, after teasing me from across the room for the past two years, was assigned to sit directly in front of me and pass his quizzes back for grading.  Suddenly, he was so kind and treated my like we had been pals all along.  I closed my eyes and breathed in that familiar scent of my AP science class where two best friends welcomed me into their circle and helped me feel less alone because my two best friends graduated the year before.  A pit formed in my stomach as I remembered my first date and the first time holding hands.  I was so anxious then but also flattered that someone may actually like me.  The song he dedicated to me rang in my ears, and I could still see his childish grin.  I could vividly recall reading my angsty poetry to the horrified faces of my classmates and the blank faces of Mr. Park's taxidermy collection.  I smiled at the moon (or the tsuki) as I thought about the notes passed in Japanese and the doodle wars in math class.

There was this guy named Ryan and, for reasons unbeknownst to me, my best friend called him Julie when we passed him in the halls.  His long, straw-like hair was always dyed exotic colors ranging from lime green to hot pink, and he wore it confidently while walking with a slouching swagger.

My statistics teacher asked me to be her teacher's assistant during A4.  While grading papers, a student stole my expensive graphing calculator and scratched my name off the back.  He didn't know about the hidden initials inside the battery case.

Once in Ballroom class, I watched a boy drag his tongue grotesquely across his palms repeatedly and slide them through his unwashed hair during roll call.  When it was time to pick a partner, he chose my best friend.  It wasn't until lunch time when she nibbled on her pizza that I remembered to tell her about the hand-licker.  We were careful to avoid dancing with him after that.

On the Vegas/San Diego band tour, a fellow clarinetist formed an unhealthy attachment to me.  He always sat beside me on the bus, wrote me notes in his secret language, and tried to hold my hand whenever he saw an opportunity.  Only sixteen, I didn't know how to navigate the experience.  I tried to be nice without leading him on, but this backfired, and he was convinced I liked him too.  He never knew how uncomfortable he made me or the lengths I went to avoid him.

I thought of all these people and more while the moon watched with wide eyes and mouth agape.  I studied his craters, trying to memorize the marbled pattern.  The longer I peered at the celestial being, the heavier I felt. I remembered so much, but I couldn't help but wonder what people remembered about me.  Would they look back with fondness at some witty joke I made about Harry Potter in Sociology, or would they remember a snappy remark that I spat through my defensive shell?  Would they remember that I was smart and loved learning or that I was a know-it-all who raised my hand too much?  Was there someone laying in bed looking at their Facebook invitation who remembered sitting beside me in band, or will I show up and sit alone because I was too forgettable?

The saddest thing is I don't which bothers me more, being remembered for my weaknesses or not being remembered at all.

Pity party for one

This last week has been a doozy at my house, and I have kept my chin up and managed to swallow any anxiety I might have felt.  But today, it all came crashing down on me, and I just needed a pity party.  I decided to write down my feelings so I can acknowledge them and move on.  Here it goes.

I remember my elation when I saw the seven-day difference between completing Ethics & Social Responsibility and Literary Theory.  Could it be?  A week off?  I haven’t had one of those since last Christmas.  Brimming with excitement, I sat at the kitchen table and made a list of things to do with all of my free time.

_Finish sewing Halloween costumes for my two children (ages 3 and 5)

_Reorganize the storage room and find Halloween decorations

_Help set up and take down PTA fundraising carnival

_Mow the lawn one last time before the grass goes into hibernation

_Winterize flowerbeds and vegetable garden

_Write one blog entry

_Write short talk for Relief Society meeting

_Plan Relief Society lesson for Sunday

_Wash windows

_Binge-watch Chuck on Netflix

_Take a nap every day to fight off bronchitis and a double ear infection (Eww.)

_Run a steaming hot bath to clear out sinuses

_Cook dinner every night (preferably soup)

Sadly, the weekend before my seven-day sabbatical, my water heater burst and flooded the basement and garage.  Instead of relaxing, healing, and catching up on housework, I spent the week on the phone with the insurance company, home warranty people, plumbers, cleanup guys, and my husband.  I watched my beautiful laundry room and hallway get ripped apart while large fans whirred all day and all night for over a week to salvage as much drywall and flooring as we could.  It felt like I was living in a wind tunnel, and missed the sound of silence.  The industrial dehumidifiers sucked every bit of moisture from our already dry Utah air, which seemed to exacerbate my incessant coughing.  Since we were short a water heater, a steamy bath or shower was not an option for relief.  Dishes piled up in the sink before I caved and boiled pots of water for handwashing in a sacred moment of connection with my pioneer ancestors.  I watched every hamper fill up and spill out onto the floor as I avoided the laundromat.  One by one, I gave up on my to-do list to manage the soggy situation downstairs.  So much for a week off.

Fried

Most days I’m okay with new me and my new life.  No, that’s a lie.  Some days I’m okay with new me and my new life.  I’m proud to wear my mommy card and show pictures of my children to people I barely know because they are just so adorable.  I don’t even flinch if I’m out in public and find mystery crunchies on my shirt.  I buy cream for weird rashes unapologetically, and scrap sticky spots off the floor with my fingernails like my mom did before me.  I’ve grown accustomed to claiming cleaning and mowing the lawn as some of my favorite hobbies.  There is rarely any “me time” unless you count pooping by myself while my son bangs on the bathroom door.  This is all part of what I signed up for when I became a mom.  But there are days when I feel more robotic than human, because those aspects of motherhood are just part of the programming, and sometimes I miss the days when I had a choice in, well, anything.  My children are captaining this ship.  I realize that.

I also feel as though school is sucking my soul away.  Dramatic?  Yes.  Accurate?  Most definitely.  I’m burnt out.  Exhausted doesn’t even begin to describe it.  I am forgotten-lasagna-still-in-the-oven, flat-iron-turned-up-too-high, iron-fell-over-on-favorite-tablecloth, no-I-don’t-need-sunscreen fried.  After being mommy robot for 12+ hours every day, I have to be a college student for 3-5 hours every night. Academic Kayla is constantly obsessing over her teacher’s expectations and how to perfectly fulfill the requirements for each assignment.  For a people-pleaser like me, this can border on unhealthy and has led to some embarrassing breakdowns at my desk.  I’m tired of every waking thought revolving around what someone else wants, needs, or expects.  I’m so mentally exhausted that I can’t shut my brain off to sleep.  But it’s okay.  I knew when I decided to pursue higher education while raising a family it would be hard.  I knew I would have to make sacrifices, so I’m not mad or even complaining.  It is what it is, and I’m willing to do it.

This week, I was reminded that I wasn’t always this fried version of myself.  Once upon a time, I was a zit-faced teenager never seen without a sketchbook in hand.  I drew dorky anime people.  I scanned those doodles and digitally colored them.  I shared them with my friends on art boards.  And it made me really happy.  After I graduated high school, I stopped drawing.  It was just one of the many hobbies a teenager must sacrifice to the adulthood gods in exchange for education and jobs.  At the time, I didn’t miss it.  I satisfied my artistic needs with blogging, making creative cakes, and painting my dining room chairs purple.  Each of those things gave me an outlet to express my Kaylaness.  No one else had a say.  I suppose art is a little selfish that way.

Last week, I felt this familiar twitch in my right hand.  My pointer finger tapped my thumb and yearned for a pencil.  On my knees, I riffled around under my bed until I found an old friend: my sketchbook.  Leafing through the pages, I realized I had not drawn anything since 2009.  I pawed around in the box that housed the sacred book until I found a mechanical pencil and my trusty click-up eraser.  Cross-legged and hunched over, I began to draw.  My pencil moved fluidly, sketching the outline of a jaw and a soft rendering of some cartoonish eyes.  Shoulders, hands, and clothes all followed.  Hair, a mouth, and a nose completed the head, and I turned my attention to those pesky feet.  I’ve always struggled with feet.  I could see what the shoes should look like in my mind, but there was a disconnection between my vision and my hand.  Thank heavens for that eraser which turned a few failed attempts into something I could identify as feet.  With that finishing detail, the picture was done.  I held it out to admire it from a distance.  It was no Van Gogh, but it mine.  The simple sketch was this organic expression of my spirit.  It was a raw exploration of my psyche, and the relief I felt afterward was comparable to the satisfying sheen of a freshly mowed lawn.  I get chills just thinking about it.

I cannot wait for graduation.  I’m making lists of things I want to do in the few months I’ll have off before starting my master’s degree.  It may or may not include copious of drawing, reading whatever I want, writing about whatever I’m thinking, and naps.  Lots of naps. 

Spring

I did not realize the effect our old house had on my life until I returned the last time for some final cleaning.  When I turned onto the street that led to the neighborhood, I felt this hole forming in my stomach and hot saliva pooling in the back of my throat like my body was forcing down something distasteful.  As I pulled up to the gates, I could feel my hands sweating as I gripped the steering wheel.  The car rounded the first corner, then the second, and come to a stop in front of the house. Every atom in my body was humming and telling me to turn back.  It was as if I sat in front of a grizzly haunted house from a horror movie with an overly dramatic name like “The Blackened” instead of a gray-blue townhouse.  My fingers hesitated at the ignition key, still undecided if they wanted to obey my commands to turn off the car.  I forced them, and with a quick turn, the car was silent.

We moved into the townhouse when my son was three weeks old, and trapped within those walls, I faced my twenty-two month battle with severe postpartum depression.  Because the house and depression entered my life at the same time, the walls became stained and scared from the dark experience that took place there, and when I pulled up for last time, it all came flooding back.  I thought I hated that house for lack of closets, the tiny kitchen, or the dysfunctional HOA.  However, the stark contrast I felt between our new home, which is filled with peace, and this old building, tainted by hate, acted as a potent reminder that every strand of carpet, every squeak in the floor, and every window blind carried with it memories of pain.

This week I wrote about my postpartum depression for my creative writing class.  During this process, I reviewed old blog and journal entries so the experience would be fresh in my mind.  This entry particularly stood out because I had forgotten that it was last spring that brought the first buds of hope back into my life.  Now, one year later, I walk through my yard and observe the tiny, green leaves poking out the ground that will soon sprout into daffodils.  I find green and purple mint leaves hiding under dead winter foliage.  I see the moss-covered willow branches budding around the teal tire swing that Annie sways in every afternoon.  I find so much joy in it all and an immense amount of gratitude to be in this place.  I think this time every year I will remember the hell that held me captive and the heavenly freedom I feel now and be grateful that every winter has a spring.

That one time when we bought a house

Yes, you read that right, and if you are friends with me on Facebook, you are not even surprised.  For two and a half years, I have endured living in this little townhouse with no linen or coat closet in a neighborhood reminiscent of Privet Drive, but just before Thanksgiving, we had an unbelievable opportunity to buy our dream home.  It didn't seem to make sense, and we didn't feel ready, but everything was pushing us to take a leap of faith, so we did.  Right off a cliff, it seemed.  Since then, everything has fallen into place to cushion our landing.

This dream home is not a mansion.  Not even close, but it feels like one to us.  It has a yard, garage, garden, swing-set, and beautiful white kitchen.  As an added bonus, it has a coat closet and TWO linen closets.  Yes, you read that right. TWO.  I will finally have a home for everything instead of being forced to line the walls of my bedroom with odd, homeless items.  Talk about a mood setter, you know?

My children will also have the rooms of their dreams.  Annie's room was already painted pink, which is all she has ever dreamed of since she was first introduced to the color.  Sam's room has a lock on the outside of the door, which is all I've ever dreamed of since he discovered how to break child locks off doorknobs.  Everybody wins!  The homeowners of the new house have already vacated the premises and gave us a key so we could make any household repairs we deemed necessary before we moved in.  As the gleaming brass object was placed into my hand, a light emerged from the heavens and heavy gust of wind ripped through my hair like a cheesy scene from a bad romance novel.  Except it was my son playing with the light switch and a neighbor opening the front door to carry out a box.  Still, I could feel the temptation of the key whispering to me that I was a domestic goddess.  By the end of the night, the family was gone, and the very next day I was sticking the key into the lock and listening to the satisfying click of the deadbolt.  I began patching nail holes and sanding drywall like it wasn't my first day at the Home Depot rodeo, all the while with full intentions to use the paint in the basement to touch up my glorious work, leaving the house in pristine condition for move-in day.

Then, tragedy struck.  I realized the leftover paint did not include colors for the children's bedrooms, which happened to be where I did most of the repairs.  My stomach shot up into my throat like impending vomit, but then slithered back down where it hummed angrily.  What should I do?  Leave the walls looking patching and awful?  What kind of domestic goddess would I be if I left my new house in such a state?!  I considered using leftover colors from other rooms, but my little daughter was expecting a pink room, so I swallowed my pride down into my humming stomach, and took an unexpected trip to the hardware store to pilot my first major mission as the master of the new house.

During the mission, I discovered there is the process you go through when painting the walls in a color you don't like. Home Depot has a No Return policy on paint, so if the wrong color is chosen, you just threw $25+ out the window, my friend. When you start painting and you feel that familiar tinge of regret, you tell yourself that the color will look better when it dries or covers more of the wall or when the trim has been painted or with a new light fixture or when the sun is in a different position. The longer you tape, roll, and cut in, the more you realize how much work goes into painting a room and the less you ever want to do it again, so you continue to justify and rationalize like a child being told Santa does not exist. He does, and this paint color will get better with age or artwork on the walls or some white curtains, right?  The rationalizing continues to spiral out of control because wasting 25 dollars worth of paint because you are afraid to admit your mistake seems so much less worse than repainting the entire room.

And at end of all that, you are left sitting in the center of your daughter's room that now resembles Miss Piggy, and your son's supposed-to-be gray striped room that now looks quite purple.

That's where I was on Saturday night, siting alone after all of my painting assistants went home, thinking SWEET MOTHER OF JEFFERSON DAVIS. WHAT. HAVE. I. DONE?

Thankfully, after changing the horrific florescent light bulbs and painting the off-white stripes in Sam's room a bright white, the paint blossomed into what I had imagined.

I sure hope my children love this new house and their new rooms, because this domestic goddess is hanging up her paint brush for a while.

Spring cleaning

It only took a few hours for the postpartum depression to overtake me.  At first, it came on like a numbing blanket, then crashing anger and cascading sorrow.  It will be gone in six months, I told myself.  I can handle anything for six months.  Six months came and went.  Any day now, I thought as I persevered through the fatigue and bitterness. When my son blew out the candle on his first birthday cake, I checked the clock.  He is one.  It will be gone soon.  But it did not leave.  In many ways it escalated.  I began to forget what happiness felt like.  Behind my smiles and kisses, I was hollow.  So hollow.

I often sat on the floor in that miserable, blue townhouse, staring blankly at the gray walls day after day.  With hands draped limply over my legs, my mouth hung open slightly as if begging for air since I lacked the energy to breathe deeply.  My children crawled over and around me, screaming, squealing, and crying for my affection.  My vacant, blue eyes, pillowed by dark bags of skin, moved lazily to observe the madness without engaging.  Indifference permeated the air so thickly that if I could have willed my body to free my spirit from this hollow existence, I would have gladly done so.

For twenty-two months, I battled these thoughts.

For twenty-two months, I faked my way through motherhood.

For twenty-two excruciating months, I lived a boo-boo-kissing, baby-food-making, stories-before-bed, I-love-you lie!

Then, the sun rose in the east on a crisp, spring morning, just as it had the day before.  Except that morning, while making my children breakfast, I felt something I couldn't quite describe.  Was it peace?  It was hard to tell.  I sat at the table and watched my son peek at me through his cheerios. Unfamiliar tinges swelled in my heart. Was this amusement?  I was unsure.  Annie asked for milk, and while I filled her favorite pink glass, she danced in the kitchen and hummed a Taylor Swift song. My mouth pulled up into a smile involuntarily.  How strange.  We finished breakfast, and my children began to play, dumping out buckets of toys that clattered onto the beige carpet.  Shrieks of elation filled the room, and I noted my lack of irritation.  Then, Sam knocked over the primary-colored block tower his sister meticulously built.  Annie ran to me in tears, and I wrapped my arms around her narrow shoulders and nestled my face into her silken hair, waiting for the imminent anxiety to join us for this special moment, but it did not. I felt kind of alone, but for once, not lonely.

The next day brought similar feelings, as did the day after. Two weeks passed, and the sun was spending a little more time in the sky, nurturing the new grass and budding trees.  The air slowly warmed and the smell of fresh mulch and damp payment wafted through the air as if to announce the blooming flowers.  On a breezy but bright afternoon, my children and I walked to the playground to experience these sights and sounds after a stagnant winter.  Sam dug in the dirt while Annie played pirate.  I laid in the grass, soaking up rays of sunshine as my hair whipped back and forth across my neck.  Warmth blanketed my face and sent kisses down my arms.  Windy whistles tickled my ears and soothed me like a lullaby. The beauty of the moment was intoxicating, and I allowed my mind to fill with a florescent haze of-- what was it?  Annie jumped on my back and wrapped her arms around my neck.  "How are you?" I asked her.

"Happy!" She replied as she combed her fingers through my tangled mane. Happy. . . yes.  That is what it was.  It had happened.  I was finally free of that great beast of burden. As spring warmed the earth and brought life back into the world, it also brought life back into me.  I could breathe again.

Today I cleaned out my closet.

It was the elephant in my room-- always looming, like a dark, twisted presence, housing years of regrets and bitter memories.  But I was ready now, eager to let go of the past and embrace this second chance at joy.  I touched the old clothes from my pre-children life.  I ran my fingers along the rows of buttons and slim waist bands and was flooded with memories of my innocent self.  I missed days filled with praise and people.  I missed feeling young.  Gently folding and placing the clothing in a box, I reminded myself that I am not her anymore, and it is okay.  Who I am now is a woman with greater sympathy and understanding.  I have joined the ranks of warriors who fight battles and come out with scars and stories.  I am still afraid sometimes but also more courageous than I've ever been.  But most of all, I am happy.  Life is good.

Not so great expectations

Do you ever completely dedicate yourself to something only to be disappointed with the results? I haven't been blogging lately because I've been working on a little project. At the end if June I was struck by the lightning of inspiration and flooded with ideas; unshakable ideas that seemed to come from another world, and they chose me to tell their story. So when I returned home from our eventful trip to Illinois I began to write. Every nap time and bedtime I plugged myself in to my laptop and watched chapter after chapter flow from my fingers until it filled my depleted body with life. I felt fulfilled, happy, and more like myself than I'd been in years. Parenting was more enjoyable, my husband was handsomer, and my house almost seemed to have a linen closet. Almost.

Then there was chapter 20, the climax, the pinnacle of prose, the summit of syntax, and I got stuck. Suddenly, the wave of ideas recessed and the low tide left a sandy graveyard of loop holes, questions and doubts. The more I forced myself to muscle through the feeling the more I began to hate all 55,000+ words I'd written. I stepped away from the project and prayed for perspective.

What followed was a couple months of the worst depression of my life as I realize this whole book thing was a metaphor for my experience with motherhood.

Please be gentle with your judgement.

When I was a little girl there were two things I wanted more than anything: to be a teacher, professionally, and to be a mom.  I looked forward to stroking my diploma from BYU, arranging my classroom, tutoring after school, and grading papers in the evenings while snuggled up in my little cottage with a fluffy dog sleeping on my feet. Then when I was old enough to be considered an old maid (by Utah standards) but not so old that I was infertile, I would marry a perfectly obnoxious salesman and quit my job to dedicate the remainder of my days to rearing children. It was a fantastic plan and I couldn't wait to make it happen.

Then life took an unexpected turn.  I got married young, took a hiatus from school, had some babies, and fast-tracked to the motherhood part of the plan with a significantly less obnoxious husband. It doesn't take much digging through the blog archives to see how painful it was for me to give up school and becoming a teacher.  Once Annie entered my life I knew my only option was to stay home till the day I die, never to write on a white board or attend staff meetings or argue with the lady in the copy room about the tests she forgot to copy. (Dramatic much?) However, a little piece of me was okay with making this sacrifice because I thought motherhood would automatically make me content and fill my whiteboard-marker, red-pen, teaching dreams with something as equally satisfying.

It did not. I definitely had good days, especially when it was just me and Annie, but as soon as Sam entered the picture it was like someone flipped a switch, and motherhood became torturous and stifling. You can imagine how much that bothered me. I began to ruminate and obsess and berate myself for not feeling like dancing on pink and blue pastel rainbows as I listened to hours of crying, got out of bed six times a night, and never really had a moment alone expect for the times I spent locked in my closet weeping. I wanted to be like those "normal" mothers who still felt like motherhood was the hardest and best thing to ever happen to them.  I just felt like it was the hardest.

But wait! This is what I've always wanted! This is what I spent my whole life preparing for! Why did I feel so disappointed?

On Sunday we had a lesson in Relief Society about the ten virgins. Five had oil in their lamps, but the other five didn't not. The ladies with oil couldn't share or they would run out themselves before the bridegroom arrived. While I sat in my cushioned chair, the Lord whispered to me, "You are out of oil."

I don't have date night with my husband. Paul works long hours and isn't home much. There are no Girl's Night Outs on my calendar. My children accompany me almost everywhere I go. Annie and Sam both have medical issues and personality quirks that make them high maintenance and exhausting. And I'm so afraid of being a burden on someone else that I can not ask for help.  So there is no one taking care of me, not even me. I'm completely out of oil. Heck, I can't even find my lamp in this mess.

Anyway, I want to start blogging again because I love to write (but not that stupid book; it makes me homicidal).  And I want to take on a few more little projects around the house to keep me busy.  Hopefully, I can conjure up some courage to take people up on babysitting offers too.  I want to enjoy my children again, like really bad. So if it takes a little more effort to make motherhood feel more effortless, then it's worth it.

Bertha

Because Paul works for an AT&T dealer he gets a pretty sweet deal on phone service.  However, much to his embarrassment, we've been locked into a T-Mobile contract.  Last week, however, our contract expired and he was able to get a new phone with his employers.  I opted to stay with T-Mobile (the deal he gets doesn't cover spouses) and inherited his old phone.  It's my first smarty-pants phone and I got very excited to delete all of his stuff and make the phone my own.  When I noticed how cheap phone cases were I begged Paul if I could buy one.  He laughed and agreed because he knew Andrea would never accept my ownership of his old phone unless it no longer resembled his old phone.  Right away I knew what case I wanted.

Zebra print.  Yeah baby!

You see, the inside of my purse is zebra print, and although my old phone was blue, I could never find it in there.  Occasionally, I would dig and dig and dig through the contents without any luck spotting that blue phone only to call it and find my purse vibrating.  Embarrassing!  But it didn't seem to matter how much or how little sleep I got, I could never find that dang phone.  Pardon my French.  So I'm trying a bit of loosely-defined reverse psychology.  I figure if I couldn't find a contrasting object, I should make the object blend in.  Now that my phone bears the same print as my purse lining I have yet to lose it.  It's actually easier to find.  Who knew?

Lastly, I think the zebra print adds character.  I've named the phone Bertha.  She's an older phone and reminds me of a spunky senior with tacky animal print glasses.  I am loving her!

Cruel

Tonight I hosted a little family dinner.  My parents and siblings ventured up to my little house and I fed them a surprise dinner.  Chicken and waffle casserole and flourless quinoa cake with avocado frosting.  Everyone ate in silence.  I knew the lack of comments meant something was wrong.  Apparently, I seasoned the casserole with an herb my dad hates.  The cake was good, but different, especially the frosting.  You could taste the avocado, and although I had not mentioned the strange ingredient in hopes no one would notice, people began asking questions.  After the plates were empty, I revealed all and received some rather unexcited looks.

What have I done?  I thought.  They'll never come have dinner with me ever again. . . .

It was so good to have them here though.  It was fun to see them sitting on my couches and playing with my children.  I've become so accustomed to packing everyone into the car and spending family gatherings living out of a diaper bag that being in my own home where everything is familiar was actually relaxing.  And I love my new home so much and having it filled with people for whom I care so much felt almost sacred.  It made me want to establish my home as a gathering place.

But after tonight's dinner I may have blown my chances.  Oh, why did I plan such a strange menu?  Why did I have to be so cruel?

The neighbors

I'm loving our new house. Being able to put my children asleep upstairs and have the whole main floor for my personal whisper-free use is heavenly.  I've cleaned the kitchen, listened to music while singing along rather loudly, and watched my share of Netflix (not turned down to volume levels only discernible by dogs, mind you).  And once we kick that son of ours out of our room, I'll being able to sleep a little more soundly as the groans and moans of my decrepit mattress will stop waking up this paranoid mama.  But there is one thing that I actually hate about my townhouse, and surprisingly, it's not the lack of linen closet (although I'm still getting use to that).

I'm struggling with my neighbors.

Before we moved to this valley I was excited to meet new people, make new friends, and study the city folks.  Alas, the people here are less than friendly.  Aside from the first week of church where no one would move over for the new family standing awkwardly in the back (aka us), I've found almost all of the people I've encountered living in my complex to be, well, rude.  After living here for a few days, we were approached by the lawn guy and asked to not walk on our grass for three weeks as the sod is new and still taking root.  Since that day, we have noticed streams of people marching though our little plot of earth, taking their garbage to the dumpster (which is in front of our house, not behind).  People walk by so often, Paul and I have started seeing people who aren't even there.  One evening two women stood outside our back window and carried on a full conversation.  How rude!  You would never see this in a traditional backyard!  They call that trespassing.  It's illegal.  I suppose because I don't have a fence my lawn is game for the convenience of my neighbors' garbage runs.  Good to know.

The second horribly rude thing that we've been victim to is pinched parking places.  We have one officially reserved parking place.  It is clearly labeled with our house number.  I have come home multiple times to find someone parked directly in front of our sign.  Obviously the person who parked there is not blind, otherwise they have no business driving.  My husband doesn't seem to care.  We can still park relatively close to our house in an unmarked spot, but this is not about parking to me.  It's about respect, and so far, our neighbors and their guests have demonstrated a complete lack of it.

Paul has given me permission to place some diplomatically-worded notes on windshields if this persists.  I've already conjured some ideas that convey several different approaches.

Kind approach:

To the driver of this vehicle: Please refrain from parking in spots assigned to specific tenants.  Thank you.

To the driver of this vehicle: Next time you visit, kindly direct your vehicle to visitor parking.  Thank you.

Mean approach:

To the driver of this vehicle: Park here again and I'll call the cops!

To the driver of this vehicle: I hate you!  Park here again and DIE!!

 Passive agressive approach:

To the driver of this vehicle: Thank you so much for assisting me in my goal of daily exercise by allowing me to carry my screaming toddler, my newborn in a car seat, diaper bag, purse, and a weeks worth of groceries exactly one invigorating block as you are in my assigned parking spot just steps away from my front door.  My biceps and quads thank you.

Sassy approach:

To the driver of this vehicle: Since it is apparent by the sign in front of your car that you have moved into my home, I'll like to extend a hand of welcome.  Also, I'd like to confirm that your rent will be $400 a month (utilities included).  If you'd like to decrease this amount you may share a room with one of my children and assist them in their nighttime wakings.  This will reduce your rent to $200 a month.  Another way to  reduce your rent would be to STOP PARKING IN MY FREAKING PARKING SPOT!!!  Let me know which option appeals to you most and I'll try to be as accommodating as possible.  Thank you!

Hopefully things get better soon.

Some SLC firsts

Night number one in the new house: I sat on my bed in my second story bedroom high above the quaint street below. My back nestled into the green pillows, and Sam nursed eagerly. Sun light streamed through the panes of the windows and warmed the skin on my arms. It felt like magic, soft and tingly. Such romantic scenes weren't possible in our gloomy basement apartment. My shoulders slumped in exhaustion and my feet ached from the manual labor of moving, but my spirit soared from joy and negated any physical discomfort. Between the solar energy dancing about my room and the soft infant in my arms, my eyes closed automatically as if savoring a gentle kiss. I opened them again and tried to memorize the unfamiliar silhouette of the Salt Lake valley mountains. Grey clouds rolled down from the north and drizzled light rain on the pavement. I stared down the street at the gabled roofs of my neighbors and felt transported to the stereotyped streets of suburbia England. Whistling the theme song from Harry Potter may have crossed my mind, but instead I serenaded Sam with a vintage tune from a soda commercial.

First shopping trip: After a few days of living in the new house I found myself without the internet I'd been promised. New to the area and with no smart device that could direct me around town, I was housebound until my husband came home with his phone. The refrigerator was empty and echoed when I opened it for a drink of water. The closest grocery store was a Reams a few blocks down the street. Although I'd never been to a Reams I was eager to check out my local options for supermarket excursions. With my Rowbabies safe in the arms of my husband, I ventured out alone so the motherhood fog about my head could clear. My blue car pulled into the Reams parking lot, and I surveyed the building. It was short, small, and old compared to the Orem stores to which I was accustomed. But it had produce and milk so I stepped into the shady lot, locked the car, and hurried inside as a light sprinkling of rain fell from the deep gray clouds. Once inside, the smell of decay weaved its way into my nostrils, and a bearded stranger eyed me grumpily. I was oddly comfortable as the outdated décor and elderly employees reminded me of the small towns of the Midwest. This was a jewel inside the big city, and as I picked out berries for Andrea's breakfast I felt my mouth pull up into a smile.

First breakdown: Thursday morning began with a slightly feverish toddler who refused to eat breakfast. A hour later she began to complain of some nausea. I sat beside her, with a nursing newborn in one hand and a barf bowl in the other, praying her stomach would hold until I could put Sam down on the floor. When he finished eating I laid him on his play mat and tried to address Andrea's needs. I fought the urge to call my mom. I stopped my fingers from texting my sister. What could they do forty miles away? No, I was alone-- alone in my pseudo-British community just down the street from a small town store. All the charm in the world could not erase the homesickness that was attacking my lungs and constricting my airways. While Andrea and I sat on the couch snuggling away “the pukies” I choked back tears and asked my little child if she would say a prayer with me. We knelt on the floor and through an episode of ugly blubbering I begged Heavenly Father to help my child feel better or give me the strength and ability to properly care for both of needy children. We said amen and the blue eyes of my sweet toddler penetrated my soul as she studied my face. She smiled a crooked grin and hesitantly asked, “You happy now, Mommy?” And leaning on her perfect faith I was.

Thoughts

I wish I had the words to articulate my current feelings about life.  I sometimes try to explain them to various people but as the words exit my mouth I'm already thinking, "No, that's not quite right."  The mounting frustration over the inability to express has caused me to stutter more than I'd like to admit.  I have very few moments of quite reflection and, depending on the intensity of my hormones and the amount of sleep I've had, the mood of the moment varies greatly.

Right after bringing Sam home from the hospital I sat on my bed nursing the newborn.  I stared down at his beautifully fuzzy noggin and sweet, pink cheeks and was sideswiped by a desire to never nurse again.  Apathy filled my chest and I didn't care about the benefits of breast milk or oxytocin or the calories burned.  I just didn't want to be sharing my body with anyone anymore.  Call it claustrophobia or postpartum depression, but whatever it was, it felt like I'd been shocked by a taser.  Stunned and confused, I pulled the thought down for analysis and worried it around until I felt confident enough to discard it.  I kept nursing.  I'm still nursing.

On the second of July Paul was late coming home from work.  I knew that the holiday would mean extra load of auditing duties for him that week, but I found myself annoyed that I had to be home alone with the kids for so many hours.  Unable to get my two week old to nap I spent the afternoon carrying around a crying infant while the two year old begged me for food, affection, and a little peace and quiet.  When Paul walked through the door and spent a whole minute opening the mail before relieving me of the hysterical baby, steam whistled from my ears and the pressure of holding back a snippy comment caused my temples to ache.  Meanwhile, I took that snippy comment and, like a scientist, tested it for rationality and reason.  When the results came back negative for both, I took a deep breath and blew the remaining steam out of my mouth as I forced the ugly thought into my mental trashcan.

Most days I feel this disconnection from my thoughts.  It's as if they are being placed there by some hormone fairy with a twisted sense of humor.  Yet, the amount of effort required to combat these cognitions is almost more than my sleepless self can handle.

Tomorrow is moving day and between packing, crying/attention-starved toddler, hungry and wailing baby, and all of the coordination required to insure appliances, a truck, and helping hands, I think I might have a meltdown.  Wish me luck!

A little honesty

Two days ago my mother-in-law called and asked how potty training was going.  "Today. . . was not a good day," I sighed.

"Say no more," she said, relieving me of the burden of reliving the tragic events.  "I wish I could offer some advice but I actually have no memories of potty training," she added.  No memories?  How is that possible? I thought about that for a while.

When I got pregnant the first time and was morning sick, mothers reassured me that I would forget the trauma of pregnancy and delivery.  I'd be aware that it happened, but my body would release the trauma during the final stages of labor.  Otherwise, very few women would repeat the process.  I found this to be absolutely true.  I remember being sick and nauseous and achy, but when I read back on blog entries I wrote during that first trimester I am shocked by how much I seem to have forgotten.  My mother-in-law's insight has given me hope that potty training, like pregnancy, delivery, and a sleepless newborn, is a trauma my body will forget.  That way, in two to three years time when I have a little boy ready for diaper liberation, I can again tackle this feat without a full-blown anxiety attack.

When I started this blog four years ago I was a newlywed, suffering (in denial) from medication induced-depression, and wondering why I didn't feel like glowing and giggling all the time like the other newlyweds at work.  I tried to put up a front for a while because I was afraid exposing my fears and weakness would result in a confirmation that I was alone in those thoughts.  After all, every blog I followed at the time was full of roses, pictures of picnics, and long declarations of love for perfect spouses, marriages, and lives.  Sometimes I resented those blogs for lying and not exposing the trails of life alongside the blessings.  I made a decision to avoid negativity but to also be honest about life as a wife, employee, student, and mom, and the highs and lows that came from transitioning in and out of certain roles.  I hoped someone would read my words and feel less alone as a few of my raw and unglamorous notions resonated with their current perceptions.  I prayed that they could find comfort in some of the places I found comfort so their burdens could be lifted a little.

I've sat down many times to write out some of the disheveled details of the ugliness sweeping through my apartment so parents potty training by the book who don't see consistent success in a day, three days, or even a week will know they are not alone.  Parents who realize their battle in the bathroom with a three foot tall pillar of stubbornness has become about power and not poop need to know they are not alone.  But I can't be that voice.  I'm hoping to forget this experience someday, and have no desire to relive it by writing about or reading back on it in the future.

So to conclude this chapter of trauma I will say this: potty training is still a work in progress.  I made it to a point where I thought Andrea and I were both so traumatized that I put her back in diapers so we could heal our relationship before we try pushing this at a later date.  That lasted about twenty-four hours before she peed in the potty to show me she could handle big girl undies again.  I'm trying to be patient and Andrea is trying to be brave.  We both are learning, making mistakes, having successes, but we're doing it together.  Hopefully, the final result will be deeper love and understanding for one another and consistently dry panties.

The next adventure

Written on March 14th:  Last night I sat at the kitchen counter streaming tears into my steaming soup.  Paul sat on the stool beside me in a state of silent shock.  My reaction was not at all what he anticipated when he told me we bought our first home.  Honestly, it wasn't what I expected either.  I imagined overflowing joy, rainbows, and unicorns.  I thought I'd want to shout it to the world and obnoxiously bring it up in every casual conversation.  "Hey!  How are you?  How are your kids doing?  Did I mention we bought a house?"  I pictured family dinners in the Salt Lake Valley, and while guests munched on confections so decadent it would render them speechless, a sweet baby boy would slumber in his blue room down the hall.  I saw beams of real sunlight pouring through the windows as Andrea teased her grandma and laughter roared around the room like a hot breeze.  I dreamed of quiet nights full of snuggles and couch time with my sweetheart while the children slept above.  So, I think I was as shocked as Paul was when he texted about our approved contract and I felt my stomach melt into molten lava and threaten to erupt from my throat.

I spent the whole evening mulling over my mood, trying to find a reason for my upset.  Was I getting cold feet about moving to Salt Lake?  (I've never lived more than four miles from my parents.)  Was I frightened to live in the big city?  Was I worried about the projected move-in date that happened to be the day after my due date?  Was I worried that the square footage, smaller than I original hoped for, would swallow us alive before we had time to unpack?  Was I hormonal?  Was I still getting over the trauma of Andrea's flu from the last two days? Was I panicked because I hardly remembered walking through the property because I was holding the previously mentioned puking toddler?  Does it even have a linen closet?  CAN I LIVE AND FUNCTION WITHOUT A LINEN CLOSEST?!?!

After dinner I left the house for some much needed air.  I spoke to my parents who talked to me about the first house they built together, the house of my childhood in Small Town, Illinois.  I started to remember Christmas mornings and baths with my sister.  I remember spilling a glass of milk on my uncle in our blue and white kitchen.  I remember pealing dead frogs off the road and fanning the smoke alarm in the hallway that beeped wildly after anyone took a shower.  It wasn't a large place, but it was cozy and safe.  It was home.  With zero memories of the linen closet, I still remember it feeling like home.

After a night of rest, the morning sun brought clarity to my scattered brain.  I realized that in the confines of a gated community in Salt Lake City, there is an empty lot that awaits to receive the foundation of our town home.  It will be the place where I love and nurse and kiss and scold and teach and nurture and probably threaten my children.  They will call it home and someday reminisce about the box elder bugs on the playground, coloring on the kitchen table, throwing up on the home teacher, and spending warm afternoons picking the neighbor's flowers for mommy bouquets.

I'm quietly excited now, and praying the the domino's fall into place as we go through this process.  I'm ready for this next adventure.