February Favorites

To track my monthly favorites, I keep a list on my phone which I add to throughout the month.  When I sat down to create this post, I pulled up my one-list-to-rule-them-all, but as I started writing about the items, something seemed a little off....

Lightbulbs

Apparently, this was a favorite this month.  We are working on replacing all of our incandescent bulbs with LED bulbs.  It's been an interesting process finding the right fit for my picky preferences.  The first bulbs I screwed into the overhead lights in the family room buzzed obnoxiously, and the faux candle bulbs in our chandeliers were dim and appeared incredibly artificial.  After befriending the guys at the Home Depot returns counter, I think I've identified the right bulbs for my fixtures.  I especially love the LED filament bulbs as they are a vast improvement from their half bulb counterparts.

Butter Keeper
Our butter keeper cracked this month, so I picked up another one at Walmart.  It's pretty generic, but I guess I must have really loved it a couple weeks ago....

Headphones
Uh... I bought new headphones this month because my earbuds only work on the left side.  The new earbuds have sound coming out both sides but are probably the most painful thing that's ever happened to my ears.  Seriously, I'd rather have an ear infection.  I have no idea why I have included this on my favorites list...........

Metal Sheets
This was the point when I realized I was writing about a shopping list.  Oi.  With a little digging through my unorganized phone notes, I found the real one-list-to-rule-them-all. #sleepdeprived #sickkiddos  Without further ado, I give you my real monthly favorites.

February Favorites

Nail Polish

I usually don't wear nail polish.  Painting my nails takes at least an hour because I am so uncoordinated I have to wait for each coat to dry before applying another, lest I smudge the semi-wet paint.  Meanwhile, a headache forms in my temples as brain cells cry and die from the chemical smell.  My hands cramp up from the paranoid rigidity of my fingers, and the one-star Netflix movie meant to occupy my thoughts during the infuriatingly mindless painting has such poor acting that tears of discomfort spout from the outer corners of my eyes.  After all of that pain and sacrifice, one wrong move on the handrail or doing the dishes and BOOM-- nails that look like a fifteenth-century fresco.  However, this month, my local Dollar Tree had Wet n Wild nail polish two-packs for sale (that's 50 cents a bottle), and it was love at first sight with some of the colors.

The fast dry formula actually dries very quickly and lasts about three days before it starts chipping. With two little kids, my nails pick a lot of stickers and boogers off hard surfaces, but the megalast formula can go almost a week without chipping.  Painting my nails has become my new Saturday night routine.

Poldark

Photo retrieved from http://static.tvgcdn.net/mediabin/showcards/tvshows/700000-800000/thumbs/799483_poldark_430x573.png

Thank you, PBS, for this masterpiece.  The story follows a Welshman named Poldark whose great family name far surpasses his actual wealth.  Pulled into the quaint 18th-century coastal town, the audience watches his successes and failures to navigate the responsibilities of a gentleman while rejecting many of the societal expectations which try to unsuccessfully dictate his life.  This show is moody and raw sprinkled with a love story and tear-jerking tragedies.  It's the perfect addition to the nail polish routine and significantly improves the experience.  I believe you can watch it for free with Amazon Prime.

Great British Bake Show

Photo retrieved from https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2014-12/24/4/enhanced/webdr03/enhanced-16579-1419414089-8.png

Speaking of PBS classics, this show is positively scrummy (that means scrumptious for all you Yanks).  Bright, light, and filled with adorable British expressions, the mystical white tent tucked away in the English countryside is full of the sweetest drama. For the love of all that is holy, I beg you not to watch this show if you are on a diet, gluten-intolerant, diabetic, or just generally care about your health.  I found myself eating my couch upholstery while begging my husband to bake me a cheesecake late at night.  Please learn from my mistakes.  Do NOT watch this show.

Naps
I completed my bachelor's degree this month, and while my intentions were to jump right into sprucing up my neglected house, I quickly realized I needed to stop, breathe, and process this transition.  I retired to bed earlier than my previous school schedule allowed. I napped in the afternoons whilst my son slumbered upstairs.  As you've probably noticed from my favorites, I also watched copious amounts of TV.  I'm finally feeling my ambition return and have started hemming curtains and reorganizing closets, but a couple weeks of rest was absolutely necessary.

Paul

February favorites would not be complete without this birthday boy-- my Valentine and hubby.  When Paul and I married in 2009, we mutually decided to prioritize his education so he could be a competent provider.  After working and supporting him through his bachelor's and master's degrees, Paul supported my decision to go back to school.  He has left work early and braved rush hour traffic to be home with Annie so I could trek onto campus for evening classes.  He spent Saturdays parenting alone while I disappeared all day for child-free homework time.  He listened to countless hours of me reading papers and posts aloud.  He was my sounding board, assistant editor, and cheerleader during these late nights.  He's my forever February favorite.

The Vacation Series - Part 1

I looked at Paul then at the ginormous pile of luggage behind the couch.  Sam cried at my feet because for the third day in a row he sported a fever and refused to eat anything other than breast milk.  Annie began to sob uncontrollably because the Dramamine we gave her finally kicked in and she was instantly sleepy.  "I have a bad feeling, " I said aloud.  "I'm afraid that something bad is coming."  This is a pretty typical emotion for me.  I'm rarely caught off guard with a big trial I wasn't warned about.  Unfortunately, I often dismiss these warnings as the overgrown pessimism that has settled into my life.

We packed the kids into the car anyway because the feeling didn't instruct me to stay home though my self-preservation instinct was screaming run for the hills.  Once crammed like sardines into The Professor (our car's name) we got onto I80 and headed east toward Southern Illinois.  The land of my people.  I often think back on the last time we made this trek.  It was a turning point for me and my little family, and really bonded us in an unimaginable way.  This gave me hope for another great bonding experience because, after the big postpartum depression battle I've fought for the last year, I've been feeling a little disconnected from my children, husband, and about everyone else for that matter.  But the drive overnight was filled with crying-- so much crying-- that only a few hours into this trip I was ready to open the car door fling myself onto the highway at 80 miles an hour.  After surviving the grizzly night by spending a little time in my parents van for a much needed nap, I took a turn at the wheel and nearly knocked out Kansas.  During this time Annie had a bout of car sickness and puked in her little bowl. . . which she promptly spilled all over her lap.  I was prepared for such a moment with a jug of puke-rinsing water.  After the puke clean-up it was difficult to get Annie to eat or drink anything.  She was afraid of a repeat episode although I assured her she just needed a little more Dramamine.  And thanks to the good ol' motion sick meds she did not throw up again.

We arrived in Southern Illinois late in the evening and tried to immediately put our grumpy children and our tired butts to bed.  If you remember I haven't slept in at least four days due to sick Sam and now the all night car ride, so my brain and body were both screaming, "Girl, get me some sleep!"  However, the hotel room was modestly sized and the only spot we could find for the crib was right next to our bed.  I snuggled and nursed my tired baby while Paul read and snuggled the three year old.  Soon Sam was ready to be put down, but being able to reach out and touch his daddy and see his mommy's "sleeping" silhouette beside him angered the small lad.  He did not want to be put down and he would not have it.  He cried off and on all night long, and after a few cat naps and lots of tears I gave up on the whole idea of sleep and just pulled him out of his bed around 5:30.  Annie was awake too, so I got them both a little snack.

I sobbed my way through getting ready and yelled at everything in my path.  My blow dryer got an earful about how tired I was.  My flat iron listened to my rants about going straight home.  And Paul, dear sweet Paul, laid in bed dozing like the sleep wizard he is.  I stood for a long moment at the foot of his bed, staring at the plethora of pillows heaped beside him.  How easy it would have been to hold one over his face while screaming, "SO YOU LIKE SLEEP, DO YA? WELL HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT ETERNAL SLEEP?!?!?!"  I knew right then I was losing my mind and nigh unto delirious.  So I packed up my hysterically exhausted demon spawn in the car and abandoned the sleeping devil at the hotel.  I drove to my grandmothers house and burst through the doors like the wicked witch of the west.  I looked at their smiling, rested faces and began crying again while I demanded to stay there so I had a room to escape to while my son fell asleep.  I could not calm down foreseeing a weeks worth of nights like the previous.  I cried all morning and contemplated going right back home.  Paul keep calling my phone and I ignored him for a couple hours until it was almost time for church.  When that wonderful man heard how delusional I'd become he insisted I take a nap.  Annie, who was equally inconsolable, and I stayed at the hotel together and napped while everyone else went to church.  Three and a half blissful hours later we awoke.  I was feeling a bit better, but Annie was running a fever.

Brochure in the lobby of our hotel.... Pretty much summed up the majority of this vacation.

Sleeping together

If you know me very well you may know I have a problem sleeping with my husband.  This was so embarrassing to me as I newlywed I often searched for newlyweds with a similar issue.  Miserly loves company and all that.  I just couldn't accept that I was alone in my suffering.  Several times, however, I was greeted with odd stares and nervous giggles as I tried to explain how little sleep you get when you're married.  My anguish was often attributed to some kind of extended foreplay or infinitely long pillow talks.  Little did they know it was neither of those typical marital perks that were the cause of my insomnia.

I learned within hours of making vows, cutting cake, and stealing a secret first dance in the hall at our reception that I could not sleep with my husband.  On our first night home we cuddled up under the covers, and I listened to Paul drift off within minutes.  I admired his sweet wheezes and smiled at the wedding band on his left ring finger.  I could feel the exhaustion from the excitement and activities of the day weighing down my body, so I took one last glance at my new husband and laid my head against his chest.  I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to take me.  It did not.  Instead of sleep, I was educated by the sandman.

In the next two hours I learned I couldn't not breathe if my head was on his chest because I would subconsciously try to sync my own breath with his asthmatic puffs.  I discovered I had an irrational fear of waking my extremely deep-sleeping husband which made shifting to get comfortable out of the question.  I noticed that my husband was cuddly and came to the unfortunate conclusion that I could not sleep while being touched.  I mean, like, at all.  On the off chance I managed to escape all of these undesirables, I was instead accosted by hot morning breath or the smell of Axe deodorant, which let me know strong smells wake me up.  Fantastic.

For months I struggled, cuddled, and fought my general fatigue until a glorious night in Disneyland brought me some relief.  The giant king size bed was better than any roller coaster or attraction because there, in the expanse of mattress, I escaped my husband's grasps and found some much needed rest.  The dawn brought a perky Kayla and a disgruntled Paul.  When I expressed my infatuation for the bed he muttered about it being too big and not being able to find me.  Before I could stop it, a smile spread across my face.  Perfect.

However, we had to leave the bed behind in sunny Anaheim, and I was back to my sleepless routine.  Rarely a night passed that I was not awakened to an elbow in the eye, an arm around my waste or, heaven forbid, a deep sleep sigh of caustic fumes blown in my direction.  I hoped, prayed, pleaded, and assumed that time would heal me of my nightly torment.  Eventually I just had to start sleeping through it, right?





Fast forward to the present day, five years later:

After my children are tucked in their beds for the night I like to collapse on my squeaky mattress, nestle my face into my cool pillow, and adjust my limbs until I find that sweet, sweet spot of incomparable comfort.  You know what I'm talking about.  The one position of ecstasy that pulls you rapidly into dreamland.  However, it is usually that very moment that my lips remind me they are a gazelle in the Sahara Desert, and just out of my reach is a chapstick waterhole.  I then find myself at a crossroads.  Down one path is greasy, appeased lips and a risk of undoing all the effort put into finding that perfect, perfect spot.  Down the other path is comfort, sleep, and waking up with lips that appear to have gotten in a bat'leth fight with an enraged Klingon.  The path I usually choose is the later because at the end of a long day, full-body comfort is my one true desire.  That and sleep, of course.

Then, after finishing an episode of Sherlock, in shuffles the man in all his nerdy glory.  He now knows I cannot sleep whilst being touched so he gives me a quick peck on the cheek before settling in on the opposite side of the bed.  He is consciously thoughtful but subconsciously deviant.  In a matter of minutes sleep takes him, and he begins his trek across the mattress in search of a warm body.  Soon he finds me in that sweet, sweet melted position, and he rolls over to face me.  The smell of sleeping breath brings me out of a heavenly dream to a dark and stinky reality.  I am at a new crossroads.  Hold down the fort and maintain my position while I lying awake in olfactory torment, or lose that perfect comfort with a possibility of more zzzZZZzzzs.  I die a little inside as I roll away from the man in my bed and my warm outline in the sheets.  Since I've already been forced to move I think, might as well put on that chapstick.

Maybe in ten years we can afford a king size mattress.  Until then, I will remain coverless and sleepless with my pillow on my nightstand.

Breathe

A new year usually brings new resolutions and new hope.  Hope for more money, less pounds, and increased personal growth.  Last year New Years was exciting.  Paul and I knew that the next few months would bring a new baby and a new house, so we welcomed 2013 with open arms.  Two nights ago Paul and I rang in the new year by toasting at midnight.  "To a year of no pregnancies," I said.

"And no new babies," he said.

"And no moves," I said.

"And no job changes," he said.

Our glasses clinked and we agreed that this year our resolution was to settle in and breathe.  In the four and a half years we've been married we've lived in three different places, worked in five different jobs, attended four different schools, received two degrees, had three pregnancies, and are raising two babies.  More than anything, we would like some time to rest.

How often does that actually happen though?

After downing our glasses of cheep sparkling grape juice, I began to feel sad.  No, not sad.  Dread.  I felt dread blow in like a bad storm and settle right over me, pelting my head with heavy drops of mockery and drudge.  You see, this new year as we celebrated the lack of events, I realized we were celebrating a year of monotony.  I thought back to Saturday when my baby scared me to death by violently throwing up for a few hours.  I recalled the excessive tears my daughter produces during a tantrum.  I thought of the poop-- soooo much poop-- that I smell and clean up everyday.  I felt a pit in my stomach when I remembered how alone I feel up here in Salt Lake City, and how I count down the minutes until Paul comes home so I can talk his ear off recounting the story I told Andrea before her nap and how many times Sam drooled on my toe (five, in case your wondering).  I thought about how hard I am on myself and how I hate being criticized but can't stop picking at my own faults.  Suddenly, 365 days of that sounded rather bleak, and I wanted nothing more than to stuff my head in the couch like an ostrich.

My sweet husband, who is also a superhero, could tell I was not feeling well.  He hugged me tight and asked me what was the matter.  "I'm just having a hard day," I whispered.

"I noticed," he replied.  He kept his arms around me and gently rubbed my back as I absorbed his scent.  Breathe, I thought.  This is a year to breathe.

Bad romance

Paul and I have never been the kind of couple to sit and stare into each others eyes over a candlelit dinner while cupids swooped around our heads.  Our idea of romance is putting Andrea to bed and watching Next Generation reruns on BBC while we snack on Cheerios we dug out of the couch.  Although I believed I was perfectly fine with this definition, after last night's anniversary date I'm beginning to wonder if we deserve a bit more than this.  You see, last night's date was not only the celebration of the fourth anniversary of our nuptials, but it was also the annual renewal of our awkward love and nontraditional romance.

For our first anniversary, Paul asked me months in advance if I'd like to go to the restaurant where we held our wedding luncheon.  I thought it was an inspired idea.  Shortly thereafter, I found out I was expecting our first child.  When the day of our wedding anniversary arrived I not only had been scheduled to work an evening shift but was also deep into the morning sick phase of pregnancy.  Not wanting to ruin the day for Paul, I told him we could have a lunch date and I was sure I could handle going out to eat.

For the record, I could not.  We sat in the lobby waiting to be seated, and the spicy Mexican-scented air twisted it's way into my nose and became trapped in my throat.  My gag reflex triggered and I coughed inconspicuously to relieve the sensation.  Paul looked at me with those sweet, concerned eyes.  I smiled back, but could tell I was fooling no one.  A waitress called our name, showed us to our table, and took our orders.  She poured some horchada for us to drink as the chefs prepared our meal.  The cinnamon essence was soothing to my nauseous stomach, and I drank it slowly as if it was the last beverage I would ever consume.  When my beef enchilada was casually slipped beneath my nose and the steam began to rise in my nostrils I picked up that glass of horchada and began to gulp vigorously, begging my stomach to settle.  The waitress brought me a refill.  I took alternating swigs of the sweet rice milk and small nibbles of the beef.  When the waitress returned to refill my glass again she glanced at my hardly eaten meal and asked if everything was okay.  I explained my pregnant predicament and she graciously boxed up my food and sent us on our way with a large to-go cup of horchada (on the house).

Our second anniversary fell on Mother's Day.  It was not super romantic.  It wasn't really even about us.  We focused on our mother's and ignored our anniversary.  And I bought myself a hot glue gun.  Again, my idea of romance.

Last year May 8th arrived just days after I had my miscarriage.  I was still experiencing some bleeding as my body purged itself from the no-longer living tissue.  Also, my mom went in for surgery that morning, so despite the fact we had a babysitter for Andrea and a scheduled date, the mood that evening was melancholy.  I don't remember what we did or what we ate, but I remember sitting in the car and crying as Paul held my hand and listened.  This, I'm sure, is what every man dreams of for an anniversary date.  You are welcome, dear husband.

That brings us to this year.  Our anniversary was on Wednesday, but without any available sitters we celebrated on Friday.  My mom came to my house to keep on eye on Miss Tinklebell so Paul and I could escape to Salt Lake.  Despite my attempt to ward of car sickness with some tried-and-true Dramamine, the A/C in Paul's car decided to cease working, and I was nauseous before we made it to the freeway.  I spent the next half hour fighting back the lump swelling in my throat, but when we pulled on to the off-ramp close to our under-construction townhouse, a bus belched some putrid exhaust that was promptly sucked into the car and blown into my pregnant nose.  I felt my mouth get hot and came to an unpleasant conclusion.  I reached behind my seat for the bucket that typically sat there but found nothing.  "Pull over," I said through clenched teeth.

"What?" Paul hollered over the radio and blasting air.

"Pull over as soon as possible!"  I pinched a pressure point known to help nausea as I tried to stall the eruption forming in my esophagus.  The car rounded the corner, and just a block from our soon-to-be home I purged the entire contents of my stomach in the gutter.  I know, queen of romance.

Happy Anniversary, Paul!  Stick with me, and I promise many more anniversaries laced with tears and puke.

 On a positive note, we got see progress on our townhouse!  So excited!

A search for ore

Thursday night I stood in the bathroom listening to the sound of the fan whirring above me and staring at my pale face in the mirror.  Andrea was sick again for what felt like the thousandth time this season.  And there I was, hiding in the bathroom, drowning out the potential sounds of the baby monitor with the ventilation fan so I could pray for help with out being interrupted by her cries or coughs.  My arms shook and my legs tremored under the weight of motherhood and loneliness.  Please help me, I cried out to my father in heaven.  Please help me to find comfort so I can give her comfort.

Throughout this winter, as Andrea has battled nearly ever virus and bug circulating around, I have often found myself overwhelmed by physical and emotional fatigue.  The pressure of school and the discomfort of pregnancy make her illnesses not only heart-wrenching to watch, but completely overwhelming to handle as they make it nearly impossible for me to take care of any other aspect of life.  When my body finds itself so overwhelmed it manifests in tremoring chills that are difficult to overcome.  I have often turned to prayer and have felt immediate comfort sweep over me or found that singing hymns in my head bring stability back into my nervous body.

Thursday night was different.  Thursday night I was not given immediate peace, no did a song still my arms.  Instead a little voice whispered into my mind, turn to your husband.  I thought it was a strange and somewhat cruel prompting since he was out late helping on old classmate with his taxes, so I turned off the fan in the bathroom and listened again for a more timely message.  Turn to your husband, I heard again.  With the fan off I recognized the sound of my phone vibrating in the other room.  It was Paul calling to tell me he was on his way home.  I turned my thoughts toward heaven again.  Fine, I'll do it Your way, I conceded.

Leaning on my husband for support is not an easy thing for me.  I like to be his support, talk tough, and let out enough vulnerability to seem normal.  Once I've had my fill of complaining, I tighten my bootstraps and take care of things myself.  I've always been this way.  But last May when I found myself bleeding away a pregnancy I called my mother and asked her to take me to the doctor while Paul stayed home with sleeping Andrea.  "No!"   She insisted.  "You need to be with your husband."  I still think it's sad that after three years of marriage I found it more natural to turn to my mom for strength during that trail than the father of the baby I was losing.  However, her insistence that I take Paul turned into a blessing in our marriage.  For the first time, I let myself really turn to him and discover the true strength of his soul, and things have never been the same.

Yet, in many ways, I am still the same.  Still hesitant to open myself to the power of vulnerability.  So on Thursday night, the Lord, in his omniscient wisdom, thought He'd help answer another of my most common prayers: Please continue to help Paul and I grow closer in our marriage.  When Paul got home I told him I needed a moment of connection, so we knelt across from each other on our bed.  He took my hands in his and we both closed our eyes and allowed  the circuit of energy to flow between us.  Tears streamed down my cheeks and I wordlessly unloaded my burden.  He silently absorbed it and pulsed calm into my veins.  When peace returned to our sphere, I opened my eyes and stared at his face.  He smiled at me, cracked a joke about parking tickets and tucked me in with a blanket of lighthearted humor.  The Lord was right.  I needed to turn to my husband.

Minutes later I was reading in the Book of Mormon (1 Nephi 17) where Nephi was asked to build a ship.  Nephi turned to God and said, "Um. . . I actually don't know how to do that. . ."  The Lord didn't poof a ready-to-assemble ship in front of him stacked neatly in Ikea boxes.  He didn't wash an unused vessel up onto the shore.  He said, "Don't worry. I will tell you where to go to find ore."  I was reminded that night that sometimes miracles like peace are dropped upon us like manna from heaven, and sometimes we're told where to go to find it.

Romantic deep cleaning and a frozen pizza

Being a mother is amazing, but I often find it very lonely.  It seems strange that I can feel that way when I can't even use the bathroom without a escort.  However, I spend most days at home, speaking to a toddler about colors, bananas, and her favorite bear, and I miss and crave the companionship of adult company.  When Paul walks through the front door in the evening I want him to tell me all about his day.  Although I understand little about reconciliations and audits, I drink in his deepish voice and the words flowing from his lips that don't involve Dora or Swiper.  I beg him to watch me stir ground beef or chop vegetables for a salad because his mere presence is like sunshine.  Andrea hugs his legs and sings out "I miss you" in her sweet, high voice, and being all together fills the void we've felt in the house all day.  He removes his tie as I plate his dinner, and I suddenly feel less alone.

I just love that man.

Today was Valentines Day, and I honestly expected very little.  Money is tight as we are paying for our prenatal medical care ourselves, and just days ago Paul told me how much he detested this day of superficial love and commercialism.  Although I couldn't argue about how commercial the holiday has become, I was determined to treat him special regardless.  Sometimes it takes a holiday to remind me about the little things we use to do for each other that have gone by the wayside since having a child.  Monday afternoon I hid little notes for Paul all over the house stating things I loved about him.  Then I scheduled a babysitter for tonight so the evening was available for whatever Paul wanted to do.

This morning when Paul's alarm when off, he rolled out of bed and told me he would make me breakfast as a romantic gesture.  He retrieved Andrea from her room, poured me a bowl of cereal, and then drove away in his blue car.  In his defense, we had very little food in the house.  I cooked Andrea a bowl of oatmeal, and when she had somewhat emptied the bowl, we packed up the diaper bag and headed to the grocery store.  She helped me pick out some not-so-ripe strawberries and a frozen pizza, and we checked out.

At home I melted some chocolate for our strawberries, and Andrea made a mess of herself tasting the romantic confection.  I was so excited for Paul to see the homemade treat and hoped it would brighten his day.

After lunch I put Andrea down for a nap then sat at the computer to do homework.  A stabbing pain began to form in my left temple, so I laid down to fight off a headache.  Forty-five minutes later I was startled awake with what I thought was a burglar entering my bedroom.  I was surprised and delighted to discover it was Paul who'd been sent home early due to a gas leak at work.  He laid beside me in bed and spoke to me quietly as my headache began to subside.  It was the best Valentine's gift he could have given me: company and conversation.

But when Andrea woke from her nap I also discovered flowers in the kitchen he had bought to thank me for the kind notes earlier in the week.  He even bought a rose for Andrea who carried it around with pride.  I called my sister and asked her if I could bring Andrea over early so Paul and I could get a head start on our date.  Once the house was kid-free, I spent an hour cleaning the living room, sorting toys, throwing away strange bits of garbage Andrea had become attached to (old balloons and boxes), and re-plugging in outlet covers (Andrea knows how to remove them).  Paul admired my gusto and ate his strawberries.  After retaking the living room, I turned on last night's American Idol, and we watched while eating that frozen pizza.  It was perfect.  I didn't have to cook.  We didn't have to sit in the Valentine's Day crowds.  Most importantly, I got to declutter and be with my hubby without having Andrea there to distract and compete with.  (Sometimes a mom just needs a break, you know?)  When we went to retrieve the toddler from my parents house I felt so rejuvenated and happy.  I can't think of a better way to spend a Valentine's day.

Unsung hero of the semester

This semester was pretty crazy for me.  So crazy I'm in shock that it's over and I'm still alive.  Not only did I get called to be first counselor in the Primary Presidency in my ward a week before school started, but, due to some unexplainable bouts of nausea, I discovered I was pregnant just before midterms.  On top of that, Andrea managed to get sick every other week or so for a month, making studying and sleeping difficult.  Had it not been for some divine intervention I don't think I would have survived.  Divine intervention and Paul.

He is the unsung hero of this semester.  Before my first day of class in August, I told him that I would need help around the house and with Andrea if I was to go to school, be a housewife, mother, and fulfill my calling.  He nodded calmly, and I worried he overestimated my abilities and would therefore under-perform where I needed the most compensation.  So, when I came home from Philosophy class to find the living room tidied, the dishwasher loaded, and Andrea sleeping in her bed, I was pleasantly surprised at the service he rendered that night.  As the month wore on, the kitchen got messier, the house got more cluttered, and Andrea wasn't always in bed when I got home, but he kept trying to at least take the edge off some of my household duties.

Then October hit like a Mack truck.  First, Paul became sick.  Then Andrea.  Then me.  Except I seemed to be experiencing some rather different symptoms that weren't going away with rest and time.  On the twentieth of October I told Paul I thought I was pregnant.  Five minutes later, a positive sign proved it.  We anxiously kissed each other and said a prayer asking Heavenly Father (if it was His will) to let us keep this one.  Detailed miscarriage dreams seemed to occur almost weekly, and there were several mornings I ran to the bathroom expecting to see blood.  Sometimes I would wake in tears and lay in bed shaking as Paul held and reassured me that all was well.

After going through the miscarriage, Paul and I wanted to wait until we were out of the first trimester to make any announcements.  The last thing I wanted was a "we're pregnant" facebook announcement only to be followed by a "just kidding" a week later.  However, I was feeling pretty horrible-- so much sicker than I had been with Andrea.  I had to eat hourly to keep from puking (most of the time it worked), but even that could not alleviate the constant nauseous feeling in the back of my throat. Andrea did not understand why mommy was always laying down or hunched over a bowl.  She would poke my face and beg me to get up.  When Paul was home he did his best to distract her.  He'd take her over to her grandparent's house so I could finally rest.  He'd distract her with food, toys, Dora. . . so much Dora, or even his cell phone if he was desperate.

When I  fell behind on my school work because I was too sick in the evening to comprehend opening a text book, Paul would spend his entire Saturday reading an exorbitant amount of board books and playing dress-up, the chasing game, blocks, and coloring so I could slip away in the wee hours of the morn to write papers on Islam and vaccines until evening.

When I couldn't cook, Paul bore the burden of starvation quietly.  One week passed that he ate three meals at his parent's house and survived on crackers at home.  When I realized I was no longer compatible with the smell of food and the look of food and feel of food and, heck, even the thought of food, we packed up and drove to Costco to buy provisions for the rest of the family.  Paul spent the next three weeks eating frozen waffles and Jimmy Dean sandwiches which, I guess, was a step up from crackers.  His coworkers pitied his lack of lunches (that I so lovingly use to pack from leftover homemade goodies) and donated food (a.k.a. granola bars) for his starving belly.  Slowly, but surely, some of my nausea began to subside, and I was able to start cooking again (mostly just soup).  Paul's ribcage and third-world stomach are finally becoming less noticeable.  He still does not complain.

I admit, I've told Paul he was lucky to be a boy.  And one morning while shaking and holding back the urge to vomit I even told him he had it easy.  But he didn't really.  He has been more helpful this pregnancy than he was with Andrea's; he had to do more and give up more.  And I am so so so so grateful.  Thanks for diving in the trenches with me, Paul!

What I'm thankful for

Andrea's whines and whimpers oozed out of the monitor and snaked across my nightstand.  They wrapped themselves around my throat and constricted my airways while the muscles in my back tensed uncomfortable.  "Paul," I squeaked.  "What do I do?"  I looked to him desperately as if he were a child-rearing oracle.  He shrugged nonchalantly.  I looked toward the monitor once again as Andrea sputtered and coughed, wondering if I'd be cleaning up mucus puke before midnight.  Soon I could hear her binky squeaking between sniffles, so I sunk back into my bed.  My eyes closed and I said my one thousandth prayer for her to sleep, or at least for some parental clarity for myself.  Do I go into her room and the risk of a hysterical reaction, or do I let her whine alone?  Do I insist she sleep in her bed where she's most likely to fall asleep, or do I risk her being awake all night by trying to let her rest on the couch with me?  Do I rub more essential oils on her feverish skin, or do I concede to a small dose of ibuprofen?  I waited for an epiphany and as dumbfounded silence filled my head I wondered if I was even asking the right questions.

Paul shut down his computer and informed me the best thing I can do for Andrea is turn off the monitor.  I looked at him like he was crazy as he stepped toward the bed and swiped his pillow.  "I'll sleep on the couch and listen for her.  Just turn off the monitor in here and try to get some rest."  Hesitantly, I kissed him good night and allowed him to leave me alone in the bed.  Guilt slipped in between the sheets to cuddle me as I wrestled my exhaustion.  I hated my weakness.  I yearned to be stronger.  I fought the urge march into the living room and relieve that man I love of his nightly watch.  Heaven answered my prayers with the strength of my husband, and it seemed a little ungrateful to decline such an offering.  And sometimes it's okay to not be the strong one all the time, right?

Sleep finally overtook me and my dreams consisted of holiday commercials and things that smell like pine.  I woke up around seven, feeling more rested than I've felt in months probably because Paul wasn't elbowing me in the face all night, so I tiptoed into the living room to check on my manly nightwatchman.  He was already awake, and his report was relatively good.  Andrea was alive, didn't cough up a mucus surprise, and was chattering happily in her crib.  Paul metaphorically handed me the care-giving baton as he dressed for work and I retrieved the child.  After such a solid night of sleep, I found wrestling a cranky and feverish toddler to be much more tolerable than usual, and my mental clarity was vastly more acute.  When I felt prompted to allow Andrea to nap on the couch, which usually ends in no nap at all, I acted upon the impression.  She "cwimb cwimbed" up onto the couch and happily curled up against me.  In the dark of my basement living room, I laid in complete shock as she quickly fell asleep.

For an hour and a half I held her warm and wheezing body, overwhelmed with love for her little soul, for the man who helped me bring her into the world, and for a loving Heavenly Father, who gave me both of them.

Andrea's first real Halloween

It's not much of a secret to anyone who's ever seen me that I struggle with my weight.  Giving birth to a girl was one of the most terrifying things I ever did.  With all of the messages in the media about women's bodies and my own insecurities and imperfections, I worried about instilling in her an unhealthy relationship with her own image.  I've tried to teach her to eat healthy.  We limit sugar, except fruit, but allow her an occasional treat to help her learn moderation.  This year as the prospect of Halloween approached, I was quite opposed to the idea of her eating a bunch of candy, and because I would be in class that night and not available to take her trick-or-treating, I didn't even get Andrea a costume.  She won't remember this Halloween a few years from now anyway, right?  Mom-of-the-year.

On Halloween, Andrea spent the evening with Paul and his parents while I was at school.  When it came time for her cousins to go trick-or-treating Andrea wanted in on the action.  She insisted Paul wear a rainbow clown wig as his costume.  Her grandmother tried to convince Andrea to wear a little clown suit, but was promptly shot down by the willful (almost) two year old.  Andrea did concede to wearing a hat which she promptly removed at the first house she came to because. . . we didn't even have a bucket for her candy.  Parents-of-the-year.

So there she was, no costume or bucket, being escorted by an accountant in a clown wig, marching down the street dragging a hat full of candy for her father to eat that probably weighed more than her.  And being at school I missed the whole thing!  Did Paul take pictures of this important first/comical scene?  No!  Not a single one!  Father-of-the-year.

I suppose there's always next year to redeem ourselves.

The day before May 4th

On May 4th, 2012, my husband walked across the stage and received his master's diploma at the University of Utah.  It had been an event we had been greatly anticipating and made many sacrifices for.  It was not only the graduation from classes, but the graduation from impoverished student life, constant business, late night paper writing, studying, and hectic and ever-changing schedules.  I began preparing for it weeks in advanced.  In February I bought red cups.  In March I started planning Ute themed confections.  In April I sewed a dress for Andrea.  I didn't think there was anything that could take away from my excitement.

But. . . twenty four hours before I sat in that hard red chair high above Paul in the Huntsman Center I was sitting in the hospital losing the baby I'd been growing for eight weeks.  I went through waves of shock, despair, and acceptance.  I had a feeling when I saw the positive pregnancy test three weeks before that this would not end in a baby.  I assumed the feeling came from my own insecurities about my relationship with the Lord.  We'd been through some rocky times, He and I, and I wondered after denying me so many heartfelt desires if this was one more too-good-to-be-true blessing that would not come to fruition.  I was ashamed of these thoughts and decided to tell immediate family and some close friends that we were expecting.  It was my way of showing the Lord I would trust Him this time.  But when I saw the blood on May 3rd, I knew that feeling wasn't insecurity at all.  It was revelation from my Heavenly Father preparing me for what was coming.

As I sat in the hospital waiting room, holding Paul's hand, I felt the most amazing feelings of love, comfort, and peace come over me.  I think that moment is when I really knew, without any uncertainty, the reality of my Heavenly Father and Savior. For I had never in my life felt them so near.

The next day I put on my brave face and Ute outfit for Paul's graduation.  That morning he received a job offer, which was an answer to our prayers.  That afternoon I sat with his parents for the commencement ceremony, and in the evening we congregated at their house for a celebratory dinner.  Someone asked Paul if he felt any different today.  He replied with a shoulder shrug.  "But, Paul," his mom said.  "Yesterday morning when you woke up you didn't have a Master's degree or a job!"  But he still had a baby, I thought.  I began to cry and tried to hide my face behind my husband, but not before my little niece saw my tears.  "Oh! Do you miss your baby?"  She asked as she touched my arm tenderly.  I could not speak, but I nodded.  Because I really really did.

Life was hard for a while. It's difficult to describe the emptiness one feels after a miscarriage.  It was hard to tell my family and friends that I wasn't going to having another little December baby after all.  I hated that I  had to put on maternity jeans because I bought them just days before the incident to replace my worn out pre-pregnancy pairs.  I hated that I still had to take prenatal vitamins when there was nothing inside me to benefit from those nasty yellow pills.

The passage of time healed some wounds, but I'd occasionally have a little breakdown when I tried to make sense of what happened on May 3rd.  Gradually, the time between mourning moments grew longer until I felt generally happy with life, happier than I had been in years actually, and I thought I was healed. But during the second week of school my philosophy teacher had us analyze a trial we recently went through and why it needed to happen in our life.  I wrote about the miscarriage and was surprised to find myself crying in class.  The truth was I still didn't know why that had to happen.  Why did I have to lose that baby?

As I philosophized, scenes from my new happy life were brought to my attention.  Since the miscarriage Paul and I grew closer together than we'd ever been before.  For the first time in my life I allowed myself to lean on him and share my burdens.  He, intern, opened himself up to me and allowed me to support and care for him in way I'd never been able to do.  Our strengthened relationship allowed us to love Andrea more fervently and feel joy in the family we'd created.  I felt like that impromptu philosophy lesson, not scheduled on the syllabus, was Heavenly Father's continual reassurance that He knows what I need.

Wednesday night I had miscarriage dream that darkened my mood on Thursday.  That afternoon, when my academic reading was completed, I spent some time on Pinterest as I waited for Andrea to wake up from her nap.  I stumbled upon a board of beautiful infant photography.  One particular picture caught my eye.  It was a little girl holding her new baby brother beneath the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree.  I was overwhelmed with sadness because just six months ago I thought I'd have a new baby in my arms just in time for Christmas.  I took a little time for a pity moment, but tried to move on with my day.  Last night I had another miscarriage dream.  This one was vivid, intense, and filled my heart with foreboding.  I awoke with tears streaming down my cheeks.  Heavenly Father came to my rescue again in the form of Elder Bowen's talk.

'I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you. Yet a little while, and the world seeth me no more; but ye see me: because I live, ye shall live also' (John 14:18-19).

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!

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.

Small town nowhere

I can honestly say that being back in Illinois has been a significant boost for me.  I've been home for just over a week and I can't stop thinking about it.  If I could record the time I've spent retracing the steps I took on the drought-stricken brown grass of the Midwest I might embarrass myself by the hours I've accumulated.  In jest, I addressed the podunk activities available in the region, but the truth is I've fallen in love all over again with the quiet, simple ways of the small towns and Paul too.  Seeing him rolling hay bales with his feet and watching him drive on dirt roads to cemeteries opened my eyes, and it was like I was seeing him for the first time.

He is a small town.  Quiet, simple, unassuming, and completely set in a motion of life that makes him steady.  Because I grew up in a place so similar, Paul has always felt familiar somehow.

I think that's why I love him.

And away from the stress of work, school, laundry, and Utah's obsession with homemade wreaths, the two of us were fee to be our true selves.  In Southern Illinois if you want to have a southwestern themed house you do, and if you want to paint a bathroom fuchsia you break out a brush.  The Jones' live far enough away that keeping in touch replaces keeping up.  Listening to my grandmother talk about her fun Friday nights at the auction in Ina was such a jarring contrast from the frantic soccer, scouts, dance, football, drama club, band concert schedules of the women I'm accustomed to listening to here.  And I could feel Paul humming like a tuning fork, and the tones of this new world resonated notes I'd never heard from him.  "I like it here," he said.  "I can see myself here."

And just as I discovered a new him, he discovered a new me.  On Sunday, we drove to my old house, the one my parents built, guided completely by my memories.  "Look!  There's Dee's Pet Shop!  Turn here.  There's the place were we fed the horses.  Turn here.  There's the pond we use to fish in, turn!  There's the house. . . There was my home. . ."  And sitting in front of that one story house with white siding he looked at me and peered into the vulnerable spot I'd been hiding for so long.  The normal girl from small town nowhere.  The girl who moved away and was bullied for her accent, out of style clothes, and love of country music.  And I was afraid. . . afraid he'd wouldn't like that girl either.

He did.  Thank heavens, he did.

Illinois highlights

 

Four years ago I traveled back to land of my childhood for a family reunion.  The week prior was the week I realized, after all the time Paul spent trying to impress me and capture my attention, I was starting to develop feelings for him.  The day before my scheduled departure I almost backed out the trip because I feared he'd move on to another girl once I left.  That night he called the house phone and asked for my cell number.  Two days later he began to text me.  I spent the whole trip with my face in my little green phone like the picture above on the steps of the Saint Louis Basilica.  Ever since that trip we've been together, and I have wanted to take him there and show him this place that I love.

Last Monday we finally had the opportunity to go on our first family vacation with Andrea to Southern Illinois.  I have to say, it was exhausting, but once Andrea quick puking in the car she was actually a pretty adaptive little traveler.  So as to not bore you too much, I'll just post some highlights from the trip.  I'll also point out some major tourist attractions in case you ever decide to visit Southern Illinois as your next vacation destination.

Because my mom had had surgery 19 days before we left we had to stop every 2-3 hours.  During this time Andrea and my mom would walk a bit.  This was our first stop.  Andrea wanted to just sit on these bumps.  When we told her it was time to get back in the car. . . you can imagine the meltdown.

Paul and I found some disguise glasses in the toy box at my grandma's house.  Te he.

Sleeping arrangements.  Andrea did really well sharing a room with us.  I was afraid that the crinkly plastic mattress covers my grandmother put on our beds would wake her up, but she didn't seem to notice any tossing and turning.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Hay bails.

Perfect for planking.  Just saying.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Bug infested trees.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Cemeteries.  We visited quite a few, and drove by at least 15 in all of our wanderings.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Custard Stand in Sesser, Illinois (population: 2,300).  This place was where my mom worked in high school.  Paul enjoyed an upside down banana split and Andrea enjoyed tasting it.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Old houses.  This is the house my grandmother grew up in. . .  not looking so good.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Beach.

On Thursday we went to Rend Lake.  It's a man-made reservoir with a rocky little beach.  This was a first beach experience for Paul and Andrea

She was a little unsure and nervous at first.

But by the end she didn't want to get out of the water.

I love her grin in the picture.  If you tell her to smile and say cheese, this is what you get.

I love this girl!

We built a sand castle around Paul.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Bowling.  (Wearing our matching family reunion T-shirts)

Family picture with happy Andrea.

This is what most of the pictures looked like. . .  with screaming Andrea.

Andrea loved this basketball, much to the grand dismay of the Hatchett men.

Kitty kitty staring contest.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: This is the water tower in Giant City.  When we got to Missouri and saw a water tower I asked Paul if he knew what it was.  He guessed it was some sort of sign.  I couldn't believe he'd never seen a real water tower.

So, the Saturday before we left we drove to Giant City to climb a real water tower.

 

The view was amazing.  Green as far as the eye could see.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Dead animals.  Not only did we see some taxidermy masterpieces, but we also saw lots and lots and lots of roadkill.  Yum.

This has to be a riveting magazine.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Chiggers.  (These are not my legs, fyi.)  Someone, who has asked to remain anonymous to maintain his dignity, got chiggers.  Compliments of the Midwest.

I overflowed my grandma's dishwasher.  This was the fifth towel we had to put under that mess.

Andrea looking off my grandmother's front porch.  I have so many memories playing there.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Lots of small towns!  There was a sign on the highway for Benton (the town where my grandma lives, population: just over 7,000) that read, "Tourist Attractions: Craft/Quilting Shop and Antiques."  Who wouldn't want to vacation here?

On the way home we stopped in St. Louis so Paul could go in The Arch  This is "technically" a Missouri tourist attraction, but it's only two hours from my home town, so I count it.. 

I personally believe it's one of the most beautiful sights in the country.

Memorial Park.

Bug splats.

View of Saint Louis from inside The Arch.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: The Mighty Mississippi River.

The top of the arch.

In the pod leaving The Arch.  Andrea didn't like this part very much.

Southern Illinois tourist attraction: Beautiful sunsets.