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.

Happy

You know, there haven't been many moments that I've thought ‘I'm happy’ in the last year. Not because I've been unhappy necessarily, but because life has been so crazy that I haven't had time to really think about what I'm feeling in general. When there is housework, homework, motheringwork, churchwork, and wifework to be done, I find very little time to sit and ponder how it all makes me feel.

On Tuesday, I had a particularly productive day. I cleaned and vacuumed the living room, loaded and unloaded the dishwasher, hand-washed dirty knives and large pots, washed and dried a load of laundry, and wrote a research paper. Whilst I toiled, Andrea skipped alongside me singing and observing. As I stood at the sink scrubbing onion bits off metal surfaces, my little daughter called out my name.

"Mama! Maaama!! Mammaaaa! MAAAMMAA!!"

"What, Andrea?" I said, rather exasperated.

"Mama, Annie eh happy!" She smiled at me and wrapped her arms around my leg. I returned the smile and told her that I was happy too. And I was. Seeing her happy for all the right reasons fills me with unspeakable joy. Hearing her express her feelings and thoughts-- getting a glimpse into her mysterious mind-- brings me indescribable feelings of wonder and delight. But her declaration of happiness also provoked some self-examination. Am I taking enough time in my life to feel? I don’t think so.

I took Andrea’s unintentional challenge to heart and have spent the last several days feeling. You know what I discovered? I really am happy. There were ugly moments, and frustrating days, and times when my little Andrea was less prolific and more. . . persistent. . . but overall, I uncovered handfuls of suppressed happiness for the blessings that surround me. It was a priceless discovery.

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.

Hiatus

Sorry it's been a while.  We've been sick around here.  Andrea is finally better and Paul is too, but I seem to be dragging up the the rear.  I don't mind though.  I'd rather be sick by myself than be sick while cleaning up another person's vomit.  Amiright?  However, with sickness and lack of nap times (aka mommy's homework time) I seem to have fallen behind in my studies.  I finished my last midterm this afternoon, so no more tests till December.  But I have six papers to write in November.  So. . . I best get on that.  But when I get a little time, remind me to write about the test I took yesterday.  Funny story. . .

Fall

In the garden beside my house, the sun beams down on the canopied swing, illuminating the earth in a cheerful glow. Bees hum amidst the surrounding flowers and tinkling sounds sing from the waterfall and dance through my ears. The water glistens as it meanders down the smooth stones and splashes into the pond of golden koi at the end. The petite, white rapids rise and fall like foam on ocean waves. Chickens bob and peck in their pen just beside me. They beg for bread crumbs with whirs and bocks. My daughter’s blonde hair dances in the chilly wind as I help her re-zip her boots. Running along the stream and pond she imitates the chickens’ cries and points with her tiny index finger to those fish she cannot touch. “Owange fish,” She tells me.

The mailman pulls up to the mailbox and distributes the packaged paper as he rocks out to Slash. I feel the corners of my mouth raise to a smile because the guitar music reminds me of trips to Salt Lake City with my husband. I wave to the mailman as he pulls away and sing my daughter’s name. She comes running, declaring her intentions to help me carry the heavy advertisements. We lie in the cool grass and point out colors in the clippings. She loves the meat section and informs me in her tiny voice that she sees her favorite color pink. I kiss her drool-streaked cheek and run my fingers through the white wisps atop her head. My face lifts to the sun, and I allow the warmth to sink into my skin. Its contrast to the brisk breeze comforts me somehow and reminds me that these fall days, like the childhood years of my daughter’s life, are precious.

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!