I had a baby.

So, Scott and I opted for a home birth this time around.  I know that makes me sound like some hard-core crunch-tastic momma, but I'm really not.  More of a realist.  And in my case, the reality is that I've done a natural birth before, and I knew I could do it again.  My labors are really short and straightforward.  I don't even push for very long.  Besides, there's a few things about hospitals that I find really annoying.  I'm not crazy about : (1) the crappy food, (2) the way some nurses make you feel more like a series of tasks than an actual person, or (3) the way the someone always comes in to "get vitals" as soon as the baby or I am asleep.  Plus, (4) the way hospital bills keep showing up in your mailbox for months and months afterward.  (Homebirths can be pretty affordable.  FYI.)

Putting the girls to bed and telling
them to STAY THERE till morning
unless they wanted to be traumatized
for life.  It (mostly) worked.

Because you never know who reads a blog, and because I had moments where I felt very vulnerable about our homebirthing choice, this whole next paragraph is nothing more than me explaining that our choice really wasn't a crazy one.  Skip it.  Homebirths can be both very safe and very rewarding when handled properly.  Many midwives have much better outcomes than hospitals.  I felt perfectly confident that our midwife was an especially experienced professional, a true expert in her field.  She has about a 3% transfer rate, which is much lower than almost any hospital's C-section rate.  Additionally, women laboring and birthing in comfortable environments and while being supported by doulas or midwives have shorter labors, experience less pain, and are more likely to report being truly pleased by their birthing than women who don't have that same kind of support.  In short:  I don't believe hospitals are evil; I don't have the magical, pain-free births other women brag about; I'm just me.  I had a great natural-birth hospital experience with Avie, but I felt confident I could also have a great experience at home with Israel.  So we did.

The only photo of the birthing tub.
Not that it matters -- I didn't get to use
it anyway.  So bummed.

So I was ten days overdue when we started my natural induction.   Richelle, our midwife, always does inductions in the evening, since that's when uterine contractions are the most efficient.  She arrived around 9 pm, but we spent a little while just talking over the plan, making sure we all felt comfortable with the details involved, and (at Richelle's suggestion) offering a prayer.  Then it all started: we stripped membranes; we coated my innards with evening primrose oil;  we took cohosh and homeopathic drops and as if that weren't enough, I also took 2 T of castor oil.

Usually, Richelle goes home for a few hours after getting the induction underway, and comes back once labor has really set in.  Already being 80% effaced and a 3.5, my body took instantly to our efforts, and Richelle never got the chance to leave.  It was 9:30, and labor had begun.

Welcome home.

I labored for the first thirty minutes in bed, and contractions were easy enough.  When the thirty minutes was up, Richelle allowed me to move again as the evening primrose oil had all been absorbed.  She checked the position of the baby.  He was head-down but not in an optimal position, so she asked me to labor in a crawling position that she hoped would encourage him to birth a little faster and easier.  As soon as I was off the bed, the contractions picked up instantly.  I had probably only been laboring on the ground ten or fifteen minutes when I hit transition.  The last thing I remember saying before I lost my ability to speak was voicing all my fears -- fears that he wouldn't turn around and it would complicate pushing; fears that it would go slow; fears that I didn't have enough physical stamina to endure it because I hadn't eaten enough...

Fears always hit at transition.  Every. stinking. time.  That should have been enough to soothe me right there, but it just seemed so fast.  How could I be approaching the end already?  So, I kept laboring but lost the ability to speak -- which sounds crazy, but it happens.  The sum total of my energy, both physical, mental, and, well, probably spiritual, too, is just being used to make it through the moment I'm in.  All I remember doing was ordering people to talk to me when contractions hit.  Internally, I was absolutely annoyed by virtually every word that came out of their mouths, but the irritation kept me focused on listening to them instead of listening to the fear.  Counter pressure on my back helped, too.  At one point I remember Richelle singing to me.  That was really sweet, and since it was a song I'd never heard before, it gave me something new to feel irritated about.

Seriously.  I can't talk much, but internally, I am one heck of a beast.

So I labored for another half-hour or so when I mentioned feeling like I had to push.  If I'm honest, here, I hesitated to say anything, because I was kind-of afraid it was just a bowel movement.  Richelle checked me, and I'd progressed from a 3 to a 6 in the hour and fifteen minutes since things started up, but that was still a long way from the 10 you're supposed to be in order to push.  With great effort, I managed to tell them I was thinking it was a bowel movement and I was going to poop all over everything.

(Isn't this an awesome story?)

They told me not to worry about it, and said that was part of why the whole room had a layer of plastic wrap over the carpet.  But still.  I decided to hang in there and try to avoid the total humiliation that would bring.  That plan lasted about eight minutes, at which time I realized two things: the urge was only getting stronger, and if I didn't poop, it would only prolong the whole laboring thing, as there would be less room for the baby to come out.

Richelle and Michael Israel

So I just started pushing anyway, to heck with being a six.  To heck with only being just over an hour into labor.  To heck with the midwife telling me to hold off if I could.  This was happening: I was either going to have a baby, then and there, or I was totally pooping all over my carpet.  I was gonna do it.  I just (very truthfully) didn't know whether it would be feces or an infant.

So I pushed.  And pushed.  Another eight minutes later, my water broke, and the baby crowned.  And three minutes after that, Scott was delivering our baby boy.

Scott weighing Israel:
8 lbs. 13 oz,
19 3/4 inches

From the first regular contractions to the delivery was an hour and half.  I still can't believe it went that fast.

He's absolutely huge considering our girls were 7 lbs. 2 oz and 5 lbs 4 oz.  Plus, he'd already gained over a pound by his 2 week checkup.  He's been able to hold up his head quite well pretty much since the day he was born, and we've seen enough smiles to assure us his temperament is every bit as endearing as he seemed in the womb.  We've even heard a few giggles as he grinned as big as life.

As to the overall homebirth v. hospital experience, I'll have to write a little more another day.  I also wanted to write a few notes regarding my thoughts on natural birth philosophies.  But this has been plenty long for now, and Israel will be needing to nurse in just a few minutes.

A God in my Details

So, Scott got laid off.  You know it's not good when you're a project engineer, and your project is over... and then they announce a company-wide "employment status meeting."  You know it -- or you should.

The thing is, we'd seen all these interesting things come to pass.  I should mention here that the company is based out of Texas, with half a dozen offices in different TX locations.  Scott felt very inspired to apply for his P.E. (professional engineering license) in Texas, which was odd, because he shouldn't have been able to get it for another year, at least not in Utah.  But lo and behold, Texas is a state with loopholes, and we'd never have known about them had he not been prompted to look for them.  So he became a TX professional engineer.  That's kinda a big deal.  He also had the most powerful company man in Utah in his corner, which we thought meant more than it apparently did.

In some ways, it's been a devastating blow.  The way it struck both of us seemingly out-of-nowhere (I guess you could call us foolish optimists?) left us in a state of shock for a few days.  And completely overwhelmed, as we determined we had no hope for getting medicaid or food stamps due to our 401k.

Merry Christmas!  We have no income!

But in other ways, it's reminded me how individual our paths are.  Having other friends whose lives have turned out differently -- especially those who have very stable jobs -- has made me embarrassed to share our situation with them.  So if you didn't get a Christmas card, just know it wasn't exactly the year where we were really all that excited to send them.  Which was a complete shame with the cute pictures.

And after getting over the embarrassment and shock, I've been filled with a bit more understanding about paths, Heavenly Father's great love for us, and what really matters.

On a good day, my routine is: scriptures, journal, then prayer.  Shortly after this happened, I got all the way up to prayer and was still feeling pretty bitter.  And I start my prayer, and I'm listing off how bad everything is, and how much we need a job, and very clearly I could just feel the Lord saying, "Mickelle, you are not forsaken.  You have money.  You just have to spend it," and he made it all sound so simple.  Because it was.

So, living off our nest-egg isn't exactly the stuff of dreams.  But I've learned that what matters is that I am in God's hands.  Which is a much safer place to be than in the government's hands, so I guess they can keep their stinkin' prenatal medicaid.  I've learned it's not important that my neighbors notice or care what kind of job we have, and also that I get to choose how much stress I feel.  The Lord has asked (commanded?) me to lay my burdens at his feet and yolk myself to him.  I find when I give him my burdens, trusting him to take care of me, I have so much more energy to continue with cheer.  And on really good days, I can even lighten others' burdens despite my own.

upon the altar

This post is perhaps the most vulnerable I've ever written on blogger.  So don't judge, k?

Once upon a time, I was quite the girl.  I was the Sterling Scholar at Davis High for Speech and Drama.  I was Oratory Captain in the DHS debate team, and I was invited to the national competition and also took third at state.  I was phoned up by a local two-year college with a heavy debate team and offered a scholarship by their coach.  I had a good GPA, and took and passed the AP US History, AP AB Calc, and AP Psych exams, each with a four.  (It's geeky, I know, but it's as cool as I get.)

I went to college on a full-ride scholarship for three years at SUU.  I then applied for a transfer to BYU, and received a one-year full ride scholarship there.  After having the time of my life, I figured it was time to actually get my degree, so I went back to SUU and finished up.  My graduation was summa cum laude.  Where I was the graduation speaker.

Now I'm a stay-at-home mother of two.  And nobody (even, or especially me) cares about a decade ago.  They care about dinner, clean clothes, and getting to watch as much Dora as they want.  I'm not very good at laundry.  I've learned to cook, but the house is usually less than stellar. (Read: I am lucky to find the floor in the girls' rooms.  I have no deep-cleaning schedule.  There's lots of crevices with dirt, which I only really see and think about when someone is at my house and I start feeling mortified.)

Here's the thing: Anything that most SAHMs judge themselves on, I really, really don't do well.  And, mostly, that's fine.  I know I have "other skills," let's just not make a list or anything.

As I look around on facebook, it seems to me that most of my contemporaries want to be doing something "besides" being at home.  So they start in with selling an MLM product.  Or marketing their photography, starting an Etsy shop, or going back to school.  Or something.  And if there's anything that has remained constant about my personality, it's that I don't do anything half-hearted.  If I pursue something, it usually has to be all-or-nothing.  And so (after having a few of these hobbies that never end, and seeing what it does to my family) I've just got to leave things like that alone, or it consumes me.  I get unhappy that my family takes as much time as they do, and unhappy that my hobbies take as much time as they do.  Nobody else is happy, either.  Not the somewhat-neglected kids, not Scott... no one.

Okay.  I've made my peace with that.  No serious hobbies for the present.

But what about someday?  I want to do something someday, and I want to be good at it.  Really good.  I swear I have that in me.  But without knowing what it will be that I'll want to do in, you know, fifteenish, twentyish years, I struggle with feeling like it will really come to fruition. 

I have laid my gift upon the altar, even if it is no more than saying "I won't get all crazy and pursue some hobby that distracts me from being the best mother I can" and I've told the Lord I'll forsake those things until the time is right.  And today, I have great confidence that He really will see my gift for being as wholehearted as it is for me, even if it's small.  And I feel full of assurance that he will bless me richly.

But sometimes,  the vagueness of the future engulfs me, and I wonder if I'm just done.  If my best days, at least in terms of passion, skill, and accomplishment, are over.

Now, please, despite allowing myself to be this vulnerable, I'd rather not hear vague condolences about how wonderfully talented I still am, even if I've given certain things up for the present.  To be blunt, I simply don't believe that right now, so it just feels empty and not-at-all-reassuring.

What is on my mind, what I do churn around somewhat endlessly in my head, is how do we choose faith over fear in a future that seems so flat?

I Don't Like Pain. (Avie's Birth)

Really, I'm kind of a wimp, and a pretty whiny one at that.  But, in a totally unpredictable move, I still chose to birth Avie without an epidural.

I can't really say why.  One of my very good friends strongly encouraged me to look into it after her own convictions had been aroused.  She knew I was crunchy and into the natural world, and perhaps that's part of what made her so encouraging, although to her credit, she's pretty much that way anyway, so I think I was just in the right place at the right time.

She wasn't the first friend I knew who'd studied natural birth.  And, though I figured there was probably "something to it," I didn't want to get involved.  Research always makes me change my mind, and I swear I get weirder every single time I begin another fateful Google search.

But I did.  And things fell into place, in that way they do when you know something bigger than you is at work.  I found a great teacher, who offered to reduce the cost of our birthing lessons to practically nothing.  She also said she'd be my doula, although her back surgery ended up getting in the way of that.

I also found the amazing certified nurse midwives who practiced together at Central Utah Clinic Women's Center with some great practice-sharing OB/GYNs they use if complications arise.  As I learned more about birth, I brought some of my own ideas to the table, and the midwives were always very supportive.  They delivered at two hospitals, one of which was especially friendly towards natural childbirth and made all sorts of accommodations.  I couldn't believe how perfect everything was!  I'd really found an ideal situation!

Later on, quite a while after I'd made the commitment to a natural birth, and when Avie was somewhere around 34 weeks, she was given an IUGR diagnosis.  (Basically, she was underweight, and nobody knew why yet.)  I can't say in what way the epidural might not have been good for my specific birthing situation, but I strongly believe that things worked out just the way they needed to.

Because she wasn't growing as she ought to, it became necessary to induce labor.  Not so much fun.  And not the experience I'd dreamt about, where if I was going to be feeling it all, I could at least begin at home instead of  in some sterile room with an audience.  I mean, labor has some pretty intense sensations, and it's really much nicer to deal with all that misery in the dark.  At home.  With your own cozy blankets and bed.

And my last-minute fill-in for my doula, while being a marvelous human being, was a stranger.  I'd literally met her just that morning.  And labor really isn't a time when you want to have to be nice to anybody, let alone extra-nice the way you should be to a visitor.

Suffice it to say, it wasn't a piece of cake.  The pitocin got knocked up to 15, and I was less-than-cheritable to everybody, including Scott.  Then I got downright mean.  And also, I got naked.  (Your body does these weird temperature shifts at different stages of labor.  Sorry, folks, it's true.)  And then I wanted an epidural.  But my midwife, bless her heart, and my husband, bless his, decided to just ignore me.  So I threatened to get up out of that tub and walk my naked self down the hall to the nearest anesthesiologist.

Since nobody believed me, and there was no way I was going anywhere in that amount of pain, I guess you could say they called my bluff.  But about thirty minutes later, I had my baby.  So that worked out.

For all the changes to my wonderful plans, the most important details couldn't have gone any smoother:
1. Avie was born on my Dad's birthday.  Obviously, I hadn't planned for that, but it's kinda cool.
2. She was our Avie.  She was sweet and a fighter and a special soul I was blessed to get acquainted with long before she left my body. (No, that doesn't sound weird.  You're imagining it.)
3. Scott got to deliver her, just as he wanted to.  And I think it thrilled him even more than he thought it would.
4. Avie needed no time in the NICU or any other special treatment... other than an IV in her head for some lame reason I can't remember.
5. The whole thing was roughly five hours, maybe four.  I can't remember.  But relatively quick.
6. Together, Avie and I were drug-free wonders.  Or survivors, at least.

Yes, Avie came just the way she needed to.  Other babies don't need that.  Other moms don't need that.  But, as hard as it was, there was something very emotional about birthing naturally that I think I especially needed with her.

Did I loooove my drug-free experience?  No, but also yes.  Will I do it again someday?  I think so.  But that's a post for another day.

Avie loves

Me:  "Avie, who do you love?"
Avie: "Avie."
Me: "Who else do you love?"
Avie: "Momma."
Me: "Who else?"
Avie: "Daddy Man"
Me: "Who else?"
Avie: "The park."

Stell's List of Ten Dreams I Can't Afford

In my head, I call myself Stella.  My mom and all her roommates used to call all the girls Stella and Bertha, and all the boys were Fred.  She never really outgrew the habit, so growing up, I got called Stella and Bertha probably more than Mickelle.  Which was fine by me.  I thought it was an adorable quirk.

After Scott went home to re-meet my family for the first time, he asked me about it.  I explained, and mentioned how much I liked it, and that I really wish I had inherited it, but it never crossed my mind to call anyone anything besides their name.  So he started calling me Stella.  And I still get called Stella more than Mickelle.  (I know I'm in trouble if he actually calls me by name.)

Anyway.  Here's the list.  It's not only a start to my bucket list, which I never made when it was trendy and cool but decided to wait till it was trite and blasé, but a very specific sub-category of said list: it's the list of bucket items which are impossible because they are ridiculously expensive, and additionally even if I was rich are sooooo not happening any time whilst I'm, you know, bearing and raising children and staying home commanding them to eat their protein and reallyboringstufflikethat.

Go on a tour of the Holy Land.  Nice, long, busy, and with an incredible tour guide.  (Really, I'd like to go to BYU Jerusalem for a semester.  But that's impossible for anyone who already has a B.A., as far as I can tell.  But I'd go scrub floors if they'd let me.)

Spend a night in one of those treehouse cabins

Visit Delianova, Taurasi, and a few of the other Italian towns from which my family immigrated  (Oh, and when I do, I want to stay at a Agriturismo and eat in the kitchen of a local.)

Another cruise.  A nice one.  A long one.  And play lots of canasta with my parents aboard.

Go to Disney World with just Scott.  Kinda like a second honeymoon, only bigger and better and with less taquitos

Eat at Club 33

Have my portrait and a family portrait taken by Sue Bryce.  And buy her most expensive package.

See Mandy Patinkin and Audra McDonald in concert (And Mandy has to sing "Children Will Listen")

Swim with the dolphins.  Up close and personal.

Take my children on short trips, just me and them, when they turn 8 (Day trip), 12 (Overnight trip), and 16 (Long weekend trip)

In which I Vicariously Relish Babies

So, my good friend Jami recently wanted some info on baby carriers.  She asked some really good questions, and deserved a thoughtful reply.  (read: I ramble when it's about stuff I love.)  I hated trying to reply in that tiny facebook box, so I thought I'd put it on my blog, where I could also display pictures and links a little easier.  I am not in the habit of answering questions, so no need to worry this will become some terrible reoccurring section of my blog you have to avoid or anything.

A quick note to those who haven't ever used a baby carrier before:  Slings matter, my friend.  Maybe almost as much as cheesecake.  Just hold a sleeping baby next to  you, listen to the tiny breaths, stroke the delicious cheeks -- and then tell me you want to put the baby down because it's time to fold laundry.  That's ridiculous.  Babies are the reason why laundry piles up, and dishes overflow, and dinner isn't made.  Babies don't keep, so you've got to relish it all.

Jami loved my suggestion about the Scootababy for her first child back when he was a squirmy, squishy babe of 6 or 8 months.  There's a lot of reasons to love the Scootababy, and she and I both loved being able to get dinner and clean the house while simultaneously snuggling our bambinos.  I also appreciated that Avie would ride closer to my hip than my front, so I could still actually see what my hands were doing.  Plus it was super comfortable and didn't hurt my back or hips the way carrying her did.

But when it comes to infants, things are a little trickier.  That lack of neck control's kind of a killer.  Jami liked using her Moby last time, but said she was ready to try something else, and what did I recommend...?

I love a good-fitting sling.  It's crazy versatile, and every time the baby grows a bit, you can just put them in a new position.  Newborns love to use it like a hammock, and as the child grows they can sit upright in it.  Here's a few pictures of how you can adjust it for the growing baby.

the hammock

the front-carry (inward)

the front-carry (outward)

The toddler-ish side carry

I also love that a sling is something you can really just throw on.  There's no fumbling, no buckling, no straps. You can get very lightweight, breathable fabric, and also very fancy fabric for nicer occasions.  They range from $30-300, plus there's plenty of online patterns to make your own.

Slings rock.  But they do take practice at first, and you need to figure out the rules of a good fit, since otherwise it can hurt after a while.  They're not the only solution, and this post already looks huge with all the pictures.  So I'll approach the rest of Jami's questions, and alternate soft carriers (SSC)  in a day or two.

This is me, Owning it.

I have never had writer's block (I use that term quite loosely, obviously, not being any sort of writer) like I did on this entry.  But I was determined to write it.  And I'm a better person for it.  At first, I had all these qualifiers on every one of these, like, "if everything is going well," or "if you don't look too close," but I decided to get rid of them.  Yeah, I'm not perfect.  But I have strengths, and this is me.  Owning it.

Breakfast.  My kids' breakfast is always healthy.  It's usually some pastured, organic eggs, but lately the girls 

have been obsessed with homemade french toast.  (Me too.)  We put raw honey on top, and I'm telling you, my mornings have been ten times better for them.

Betsy is a reader.  I've used a great book, so my investment in teaching her was seriously less than fifteen dollars.  We're on about lesson 75, and she can read things like Little Bear on an instructional level.  It's probably one of the things that I've felt the most successful about lately.  I've thought about taking on a preschool student here or there to tutor, but that's kind-of lame since I use such a lay-parent-friendly approach.

I'm not afraid to read children's books with voices.

I can make a mean tincture.

I know how to read a BBT chart better than anybody I know.

Sometimes I take cute pictures.  And my LR edits aren't too shabby.

I've sewn a few quilts.

I can listen to you, and you will feel heard.

I feel too much empathy for people I don't even know and usually end up somehow finding every sad blog in the world and sobbing about one night every month.

I have awesome taste in music.



That was hard.  But I know what qualities I hope my girls will have as they grow into beautiful adults, and I've been thinking lately about how often that person is different than who I am.  So this was good for me.

Anybody else think they can do it?

Embracing the Mediocrity

...Some days, you just gotta.

I mean, we all set standards for ourselves.  (Yours probably include a degree of cleanliness I never reach.  But hey, my girls have a hot breakfast almost every day.  So that's something.  Right?)

But no matter what those standards are, some days you just have to let go of them, and, as my roommate used to say, "embrace the suckiness."  It took me a long time to be willing to let go of my standards for a day.  Especially because my struggles, while significant to me, would have been nothing to somebody else.  They'd never understand what my holdup was.

Doesn't matter.  It's real to me.  So it's real.  And when I can't give the day my best, I should accept what I can give it, be grateful for that, and move along cheerfully.  I think the worst thing I can do is berate myself to the point where I'm falling short of my usual self and being what our family calls "a big grumpster" to boot.

So that's what I'm going to do today.  Peace out.  Here's hoping for a better tomorrow.

If you google "Grumpster" you can find this guy.  Isn't he perfect?  And also a little scary.

I Like Provo.

So, Scott, as you know, is a transportation engineer.  And he's been working on the I-15 Core project, but the thing is, it's almost done.  Finis.  No more engineers needed.  So things are going to be changing in the very near future.  We have a few watched pots we're trying to get to boil/choose between, and when everything is done-and-done, we'll fill you in.  A long-distance move seems highly likely.  In the mean time, I have something to say:

I like Provo.

Now, I know what assumptions everyone makes about Provo, and not all of them are wrong.  But not all of them are right, either.  In most ways, residential (non-student) Provo is pretty much akin to any of the other bedroom communities between here and Ogden.

But it's better.  It has plenty of authentic food joints that thrive with the RMs anxious for a taste from their other home.  BYU has the MOA, tons of music programs, (I missed seeing Mandy Patinkin due to my brothers' wedding.  Is it normal to still be crying about that?) a wonderful genealogy library, Education Week, some really cool special exhibits, and a great dose of nostalgic charm dating back to 2002/2003, when Scott and I spent the year studying each other far more than anything else.

And here's the stuff I like that's really, really pivotal to me that nobody else cares about: it's really easy to get raw milk.  There's two separate but well-staffed health food stores nearby.  There's Sprouts, which has great produce, very affordably priced, with a great organic selection, too.  I have Jeff, my "egg man" who sells me pastured eggs for $3/dozen and doesn't balk when I tell him I want seven dozen.  The Farmer's Market is just across the street from our house, and it's my favorite thing to do on a Saturday morning.  I have a great source for grass-fed beef and even organ meats.  Dr. Christopher's herb shop is just in the next town, and it's one of the few places to get bulk herbs for a decent price without going online and having to pay shipping.  I can even buy a gallon of my extra-virgin, cold-pressed organic coconut oil at a local store instead of paying an extra $15 to get it shipped here.

And I know my reasons are mine and mine alone -- after all, who else cares if they can buy their astragalus or raspberry leaf for a good price? -- but it really drives me nuts these days to hear people act like Provo's only identity is as a community with a problem.  Of course, it's absolutely true that when you get a lot of people who have the same religious background, that's going to skew things.  And distort things.  But that's worth working through, worth helping people understand.  It's an opportunity to be a missionary not necessarily to spread and sound the gospel, but to at least share a few gospel ideas they may not be fully understanding.  

It's not perfect.  I know.  Maybe that's why I'm comfortable here: I do get the vibe that most people are busy trying.  Imperfectly trying, with each of us failing in our own unique ways, but all trying together.  And we all have a common goal that unites us -- a very elevated, divine goal... one I can always support my neighbors in.*

I am gonna miss it here.

The end.

*This whole essay has had the undertones of "Everybody in Provo is Mormon!"  Totally not true.  Totally didn't have time to properly address that.  Lots of people are, and it is definitely perceived as being that way, so I just kind of went with it.

That Time I Ate The Object Lesson

So, I don't have many friends who are girls.  It takes work, that whole social thing, and sometimes I'm just lazy.  And there was this girl in my old ward... she was older than me, and single, and so so so cool -- in a geeky way that made her all the cooler.  I didn't really know her, I'd just listened to her make a comment here or there in church.  And the comments were spunky, insightful, independent, and quirky.  I liked her.  I wanted her to be my friend.  But the only way you know how awkward I can be is if you've witnessed it.  Which, if you're reading this blog, you probably have.

So we're sitting next to each other in Relief Society for the first time, kinda chatting a bit through the opening exercises and a bit into the lesson.  It's going well.  She likes me!  Okay, she might like me.  I should be clever.  And also insightful.  This is my moment.

And in the middle of my moment, she hands me this open tin.  It's about the size of her palm, and it's got things that look like beautiful, translucent little rocks in it.

Now, if I'd been paying attention to the lesson, I'd have known that this was a visual aid, to help us really get into the lesson I'd been ignoring.  My job was to look politely, and pass it along.

But I just thought it was some fancy mint she was sharing  just with me, because we're new best pals, and as soon as someone offers you a mint, you also instinctively worry, "I must have the breath of a gorilla" so I took a few and popped them in my mouth.

Chomp.

Um, these are rocks.  Not mints.  I spit them out and I'm laughing.  Laughing hard.  Quietly, but my whole body is shaking and I'm taking these sharp breaths that are a dead giveaway.  It is not an appropriate kind of laughter, even if it is quiet.  And it's probably going to get very loud, very soon.

I have sticky yellow stuff in my hands, I'm shaking violently and practically hyperventilating, and this poor really cool sister has to take me out into the hall so I don't cause a scene.

"What IS that stuff you gave me?" I ask.
"Weren't you listening?"
(No, I was busy thinking about how you liked that thing that I'd said...)
"It had gold, myrrh, and ...I think you ate the frankincense."

Ah.

And amazingly, she stayed my friend.

Because I am A Closet Foodie

The very, very best meal I've ever eaten was at Tuscany in Salt Like.  The pasta made me re-think life on earth.  Seriously, if food can be that amazing, (and yet it usually isn't), what else can be knocked out of this world in a way I haven't even yet fathomed?  Pasta has far greater power than I'd ever believed -- and I'm sure it's not the only thing that I've underestimated.

If you're a local, you must must must do it.  For lunch, so you can still afford to pay rent.  Now, I know everybody thinks La Caille is todiefor, and technically, I've never eaten there.  But I have my reasons -- and we'll leave it at that.

But go.  Scott and I shared an appetizer, each had a salad and an entree for about $50.  That was a year ago, and now it's going on the "Utah Bucket List" we may or may not be creating.  (More on that later.)  The ambiance is transportative (It's a real word.  Sorta.) and you will leave determined to plan a trip to Italy.  Because if food in Utah can be this divine, imagine how good it's gonna be over there.

Really, we don't eat out very often.  (And you can see why.) Besides, Scott makes such a killer cheesecake, I'm left feeling a little let down even when we go to Cheesecake factory.  And one of his best cheesecakes to date is this one:

Godiva Chocolate Cheesecake.

Scott made it for my last birthday and I still haven't recovered.  And he even made it with real Godiva chocolate.  It is every bit the wonder-cake that it looks like.  The bad news is, Buster: I have another birthday coming next year.  And now you've set a presidence.

Technically, it's more of a problem for me than it is for him.  I haven't even figured out the art of a simple homemade cake.  (Okay, even box cakes present their problems!)  ...And meanwhile, my spouse pulls out a culinary wonder ready for the harshest food critic.  I hate it when my husband's a better wife than I am.

Time I spent needlessly bitter (but beautifully blessed) in Provo

Of the ten years Scott and I have been dating/married, we've spent all but 15 months residing in Provo, Utah.  This is not what we had planned.

Scott getting his undergrad took a while.  I think he worked at least 20 hours every single semester, and sometimes had an internship on top of that.  And he pushed through to get three minors.  Then there was grad school... which came with its own set of challenges, ninety percent of which were a professor who, at times, would hold Scott's thesis in his hands for an entire semester before giving it one set of revisions.  (This professor considered a master's thesis to need at least a dozen revisions.)  So that took longer than it needed to.

Then we spent about a year looking for a job.  And when he got one, it was right on the I-15 Core project!  He'd commute all of 20 minutes from home for the first year, and about 10 for the second.  These past two years on the project have been dreamy.  But there were some pretty dark days getting there.  And that's kinda what I wanted to talk about.

In that time, I've been the "goodbye committee" for countless friends.  I've waved off friends to California, New Mexico, the east coast, Oregon, Texas, Hawaii, and countless other places.  Even when many of these friends were temporarily moving back in with their parents, I was still jealous.

Staying in Provo meant being stuck, meant not moving on.  And I hated that.  I really, really did.  I whined a lot, and I moped even more.  My thinking was pessimistic, painful, and I was just not much fun to be with.

I can't say when it was (probably waaaay later than it should have been), but one day, I woke up and I realized how selfish I'd been.  Most of my friends were living, day in, day out, in their parents' homes.  They were looking for jobs, too.  They were struggling, too.  But I had my own home, and there wasn't a doubt in my mind it had been a generous, sweet mercy from the God who loves me.

Wait.  I can say when it was.  I looked at pictures of these starving children in Somolia.  Pictures like that have always had a profound impact on me, and I thought about what it would be like to be a mother, terrified of how to feed your children their next meal, and praying and pleading for the drought to end.  God loved them just as much as he loved me, but I had blessings their minds could not even conceive of.   I thought about what they'd say if they knew about my fridge with the water dispenser in it.  About my tub.  And the sprinkling system for my lawn.  I realized my problems were ridiculous.  Spoiled.  Self-centered and prideful.  Children were literally dying in their parents' arms, and I was whining because I thought we'd worked so hard we deserved everything in an instant.

I think I remember reading that this baby was over two years old and only 13 lbs. 

I had everything I needed, and then some. 

And while that didn't make everything change during that year of underemployment, it made things much better.  God truly does love me, and throughout that year he provided multiple profound, simple acts of grace that left me in no doubt of his watchfulness.  And I'd rather be in poor circumstances, whatever they may be, and yet in his care, than have all the money and wealth in the world but devoid of his attentions.

Does that make any sense?  What do you do, when you're struggling to get through those really hard times?  Although I'm not worried about Scott's future employment, there could be a few dark days ahead with challenges of a different kind, and I'd like some fresh ideas.

Reality is optional

Sometimes, I'd rather remember things the way I wish they were than the way they really happened.

• That time when Betsy found some really old nasty bacon behind the trash can, and I had no idea till after she'd eaten it and she came into my bedroom, beaming and proudly announcing, "That was the last piece of bacon!"
• The time I invited our neighbors over to dinner right before they moved and everything tasted so bad, even I didn't want to eat it.  So I ate the only good part and they had to fend for themselves.
• The way I hated dress socks so I used to wear athletic socks to work... with black pants and heels.  Every day.
• That time I wasn't paying attention to the lesson and thought the visual aid in Relief Society was a box of mints... so I totally ate one.  (It wasn't even food.  I spit it out and started laughing so hard I was hyperventilating.)
• How, as a kid, I used to proudly announce that I lived in a mortuary as a baby... and I'm pretty sure it freaked lots of kids out... some of whom could have been my friend had I not been so busy enjoying their odd looks that I started giving details about said residence.
• My hair in 8th grade.  Perhaps no one's is that great in 8th grade, but, ah, few pictures remain to prove my point.  I think this was an act of mercy on my parents' part.

On my crunchiness and ineptitude -- and my strengths!

I always thought it would be fun to be  outside of Utah for the election.  And not so much because a Utah vote for a republican president is somewhat inconsequential at best -- although true -- but more because I wanted to be a part of the conversation, a voice saying "Hey.  Mormons aren't all crazy.  Look at ...uh..." and I would finish that sentence with someone I didn't know very well in my new ward.

Because (it goes without saying) I really couldn't finish that statement with "me."

And while the things that make me, me, (I never know how to write that) are often tied into my personal religious philosophies, and I feel come from a very Mormon place in my heart, most of them are total humbug to everyone else, members especially.

Sometimes I wonder which came first: my ideas being different from mainstream, and then me just eventually getting comfortable with it, or me just being a person who has to live outside the norm, and eventually finding these ideas as my way of making a "hey-wait-I'm-totally-an-individual" statement.

Although, I guess, if you're going for accuracy, the way things really unfolded for me indicates it had way more to do with personal revelation I chose to accept in order to get pregnant.  And that light lead to further requests for light, which lead to further deviations from standard American culture.  And on it has gone.

This isn't to say I'm a zealot.  For lots of reasons.  Those who never touch table sugar, whose children have never had store-bought bread, who have raw diets and are vegan to the core -- I admire them.  But I'm not one of them.  And I have my reasons -- but that's for another day.

However, I know our lifestyle would still overwhelm some.  Yes, we hardly ever buy anything from a box or a bag.  Yes, I read the labels on everything.  And please don't get sick or I'll have you drinking tea and taking tinctures all. day. long.  (It works!)  That's okay.  Most things about the way other people live (like without seventeen loads of laundry to fold!  or whose floors are so clean vacuuming isn't just a dream! or who -- and this is beyond my comprehension -- put a few things on a to-do list and don't get distracted right after starting!) is totally overwhelming to me.

But here's what I've learned: Just because my skills are different, doesn't mean they don't exist.  And I don't do anyone any favors by dwelling on my can'ts and pretending I don't have any assets or strengths.  It serves no one.  It blesses no one.  Especially, especially, especially not my children.  How can I be so down on myself and expect them to grow up with any sort of understanding about where their own self-worth comes from?

Yeah, we don't want to be self-righteous and priggish.  And nobody likes a perpetual expert or a Prideful Polly.  (Pretend I didn't just make that up.  Pretend you hear it all the time and you read it without even blinking an eye.  Thank you.)  But I see so many of my wonderful sisters, whom I love so much, who are totally oblivious to their strengths, or who cannot look upon one of their gifts without insisting on seeing three shortcomings in the same instant.  And this is not what we want for our daughters, or our sons.  So why should God want it for us?

Nobody could say it better than Sister Hinckley.  I've really tried to let these words enter my heart, and change my heart.  To be different because of them.  It's a work in progress, but I'm surprised how much happier I am.  Heavenly Father made me just the way I am, and although there's plenty of work to do, he doesn't want me to spend all my time wishing I were someone else.  There's one other quote of hers I've loved and wanted to share here, too.

"As you create a home, don't get distracted with a lot of things that have no meaning for you or your family.  Don't dwell on your failures, but think of your successes."  She's giving me permission to thrive -- thrive now, not someday when the laundry is done or I've learned to sew.  Now.

Thank heavens.

the lame night that should have been cool

Most nights as parents tend to be lame, in that you can't go anywhere after the kids are asleep.  And you've been somewhat beaten into submission for so long you don't really want to go anywhere or do anything, anyway.  Waaaaay too much work.

But Friday -- Friday shouldn't have been that way.  (Aside: now, don't think we go out on dates every Friday night. We're not that cool, or in our case, rich.  Because when you take me out on a date, it's not exactly to Subway, mister.)

Friday, September 14 was the ten year anniversary of the day I met my husband.  And he impressed me from the very minute I met him -- after I got over the awkwardness of being totally checked out...  Man, I do kinda miss it when I think about how long it's been since that's happened.  I mean, by a stranger.  Wait, that sounds bad.  I didn't mean it like that.

Ahem.  I knew the date was coming up all summer long.  So I wanted to plan something special, something wonderful.  Something perfect.  And since I'm usually high-maintenance, this would have to be extra high maintenance.  Maybe I would even wear mascara.

Or not, because if he said something sweet and I teared up, it would hurt like the devil.

But instead, I just totally forgot about it.  We spent Friday night enduring my least-favorite-campout-of-all-time. (Avie, for the love of all that is good, I am not taking you on another one of those until you're thirty.) And Saturday, after the girls were put to bed, Scott went out to buy ice cream, and came home with bonus roses.  Sweet.  Somehow the conversation randomly took us to the supposedly-upcoming anniversary, only to find ...we'd spent it shivering in the great outdoors and playing mattress to Avie.

So we owe ourselves a date.  A really, really good one.

Raspberry picking

My favorite thing about this too-early-to-call-it-fall time is raspberry picking.

I don't know why.  Your legs get scraped and the sun beats down and they're just so small.

But when we're done, and I finally get both girls strapped in the car, and the berries ride up front with me, and half of them are gone before we've even driven back -- maybe that's why I like it.

Last time we went, Betsy was obsessively dedicated to picking and got almost as many as me.  They even charged me for hers, because the bucket wasn't full of white berries, leaves, and assorted rocks.  This time?  She fed the tame deer who live on the other side of the fence the whole time.  Which was really sweet and endearing... until she tantrumed when it was time to leave because she knew at home, she only gets to  eat what she picks -- and of course, she only had a small cupful.

Don't judge.  I have my reasons.  I want to eat the rest myself.  And I'm sure it's teaching some awesome work-hard moral, kinda like the one with the ants and the grasshopper.

P.S. I'll take pictures next time we go and add some.  You've got to see this cute little place we go.

Every Nativity Needs an Elephant.

Betsy's preschool put on the original Christmas story, modified slightly to accomodate a more modest cast size of four. Then the angel's relunctance won out, leaving us with only three. All the same, it was super; is there anything like watching your children play make-believe?

Joseph entered first. That cutie in the background was our shy little angel who

took the day off. I think even watching the performance may have been traumatic for her.

Mary followed, and dropped the Babe in his little manger. Betsy peeked her head out, leading with the classic "Hi, Momma!" line all shepherds used in salutations. In a daring move, she chose to break with tradition, carrying an elephant instead of the tired, cliche sheep.

Mary watches over baby Jesus. I may or may not tear

up every time I see this picture.

Understandably, she seemed a bit apprehensive about admitting a

certain shepherd with an elephant in tow.

Betsy loses some patience waiting for the recitation of the story to

wrap up. Or me taking pictures, who call really tell?

Joseph, looking deep in character but actually waiting

for his mother to finish taking pictures.

After my eccentric little shepherd needed some costume

adjustments, Mary insisted on the same.

About ten seconds after this picture was taken, the elephant and our Lord and Savior bunked together. As near as we can tell, Jesus was happy to share. Check out Joseph's smile, too.

Merry Christmas from our cuties to yours!

(the other cutie)

feeling appy?

So I might have a small obsession with phone apps. Yes. And because not only am I obsessed, but I believe I can be so dang helpful to everybody else, I'll disclose my favorites. Which, I should mention, are free. Everybody knows I'm a cheapskate, so you probably already guessed that, but still. Consider yourself informed.

1. Voice Recorder (by Google) I know most phones come with this app already, but the one on my Samsung Galaxy was abysmal. So I downloaded this one, which for a dollar upgrade, can convert the files to mp3s. I read books to Avie or have conversations with Betsy on said recorder. I can send them easily to a million different places (gmail, texts, evernote, bluetooth, etc.) and turn them into ring tones. These recordings are ridiculously sweet, sickeningly sentimental, and when Avie doesn't want to take a nap, I play these for her and she listens calmly until I thinks she's ready for the crib.

2. Citation Index This app makes my phone worth however much Scott paid for it, all by itself. I could never do it justice, so just check it out and spare yourself the superlatives. Until you start using it yourself, then heaven help us, you'll be using them too.

3. LDS Tools Because it makes my calling ten times easier. It's like having the ward stake list on speed dial without actually having to sift through all the numbers in your phonebook. You can organize said lists by calling, and there's even an option to have all the numbers in the stake available to your caller ID.

4. DLR Lines/MouseWait It's the rides at Disneyland, not the wait that I want to remember. I guess I lied when I said all my apps were free; DLR lines is $1/week or $7/year, but the data on park busy-ness levels and the amount of statistical data that has gone into this makes it more than worth it. It tells you how long the lines are, how long they'll be in 15, 30, and 45 minutes, and when they'll peak during the day.

5. Evernote I like to make myself think I'm organized, and this is a big key to a successful fake-out. Seriously. It's got lots of bells and whistles and deserves a post all by itself, although it will never get one. So just check it out on your own, then sing my praises for a week.

6. Savings Cents with Cents I haven't had this app long, but it already saved me $50 on Avie's carseat, so take that, spending-hours-researching-everything-on-Amazon-and-getting-totally-sidetracked-so-that-it-takes-me-three-days-to-complete-said-research.

7. Kids Learn to Read/All IntelliJoy Apps They're delightful for the kids, and they really are teaching skills. And Betsy thinks she's died and gone to heaven when she gets to play with one of these after finishing her homeschooling. Which, okay, is really just a reading lesson, but I like to make it sound like I'm more amazing than that.

8. Photoshop Mobile I like pretty pictures, not scary ones that look like they were processed by a blind man.

9. I'd say Google Maps, but I still get lost. I have faith one day we'll work together in some united way instead of the constantly argumentative relationship we currently have. I'm reminded of my Grandma and Grandpa and how they were when we'd drive to yard sales. Sitting in the back seat with the two of them arguing over which way to turn -- we still laugh about it, and they died a decade ago! Funny the stuff you miss. Although I doubt I'll miss Google Maps when I find something better. Or have a car with GPS.

10. You can't end a list at 9. No wait, you can. If that's all you've got. I guess I could add Kindle (not even going to link, that's absurd) and Gospel Library, but that's kind of a given. I like the Scripture Mastery app, but also kind of a given.

Not Quite the Trip I Had in Mind...

A couple of months ago, Scott told me I needed to get the girls out of his hair so he could tackle remodeling the bathroom.

Ahem. Finishing the remodeling that started a year ago. Possibly two. With things like this, it's best for the marriage if I don't really keep track. (For the record, he is even more kind. He never keeps track of how much laundry or cleaning he does. That's how I know I married up.)

So, I pack up the girls and our clothes and a bunch of car snacks and prepare to go see Memaw and Poppa. It's only a 1o or 12 hour drive. And I so have never done anything remotely like this. But whatev.

Just before leaving, Scott asks me to drive him to his work truck, which was parked in Springville. So he hops in the car too, and I figure we'll just say our goodbyes in a couple of miles when I drop him off.

And that's when the coolest thing ever happened. A surprise vacation. That sweet man got a week off work, had made crazy intense arrangements, extra packing, purchased necessary foodstuffs (Larabar, how I love thee) and managed to have absolutely everyone in on the secret. And we were heading down together. To go to Disneyland. Well, and other places. But what else matters? Disneyland is everything.

P.S. Surprise vacations rock.

Waiting for a show at Sea World. Which was totally created by tired parents who just wanted to sit down for 30 minutes and recover.

When we went last February, we found this awesome Indiana Jones hat and decided to pimp it out with ears. I'm crazy about it. So is he. (Scott. Indiana Jones is busy.)

Check out that castle!

Waiting for Small World

All decked out for Halloween!

The girls' hats are simple and matching. No frills. I think it's actually their vintage style circa maybe 1960s? I love seeing them!

Holding his girls. Or at least the little ones.

I think we all know how cute this is.

Betsy feeding the goat.

Avie shows warranted caution about the sheep.