A Christmas Post

In his book The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis refers to it as "the law of undulation". It is the idea that everything about our human nature is cyclical: our relationships, our attitudes, our interests, our spirituality, our convictions. It is an idea that I personally experience on a regular basis and one that I don't particularly enjoy. But enjoy it or not, there are times when I am on. And there are times when I am way off.

• There are times when I keep my house sparkly clean and ordered.
  
  
• There are times when we wade through laundry, crumbs, and chaos.
  
  
• There are times when I feel very pleased with how attractive, funny, and well-liked I am.
  
  
• There are times when I catch my reflection and see nothing but lame.
  
  
• There are times when I am a patient and attentive Mommy, making delicious meals for my family, exercising, and reading books in my spare time.
  
  
• There are times when I am impatient and self-centered, feeding my family leftover pizza for breakfast, scarfing down whatever chocolate I can find in the house, and watching online movie-previews.
  
  
• There are times when I have meaningful prayers, read my scriptures daily, look for ways to serve others, and feel humble and happy.
  
• There are times when I choose to focus on other things, worry too much about what other people might think of me, question my life choices, and let my pride get in the way of my testimony.

For better or worse we can never seem to stand still. These past few months I've been on the downswing; my faith taking it full in the face.

Sunday I received a text from my church's Young Women's President. I am the Beehive advisor in my ward, meaning I am a leader over the twelve and thirteen year old girls. In light of the upcoming holiday, the president asked all of us (girls included) to bring something from home that symbolised our testimonies. I thought about this. I considered a picture I have hanging in my family room of Christ praying. I considered bringing a picture of my family. I considered bringing my scriptures or a hymn book. But then while I was getting ready for church, looking through my jewelry box I found it: a locket my mom gave me when I was six or seven years old. Inscribed on the front of it is "I am a Child of God." I put it on and went to church.

And out of all the symbols I could have chosen that one statement best represents my feelings. Because there are times when I am good and there are times when I'm not. But one thing remains constant: I am a child of God. And regardless of whether I keep a clean house, or feel good about myself, am always a good mother, or read my scriptures daily, His perfect parental love for me doesn't change- only my ability to feel it. And I know He is always there.

Psalms 46:10 "Be Still and know that I am God."

Merry Christmas.

Dude.

Meet my long lost shantily-clad, coffee-drinking twin.

The Diana of an alternate universe.

I wonder if she listens to Muse?

I wonder if she likes writing young adult fiction?

Or if she's into british comedy and zombies?

Somewhere out there is another me walking around.

And she has awesome hair.

The Great Cough Syrup Fiasco 2009

Chances are whoever coined the phrase "if its not one thing, its another" was a real unpopular guy. Brutally honest people often are. At least that's what I tell myself on lonely afternoons. And though its disappointing, it is a fact. And though "if its not one thing, its another" is equally disappointing, it is also a fact.

November did not go down smoothly. Maybe if you cross your fingers I'll fill you in on the details later. As for now, it suffices to say I have slept through the night maybe a handful of times since October and its starting to show. I would generally describe myself as good-natured, a little crazy, but harmless. November kind of killed the whole "good-natured" bit. And the past few weeks have knocked the "harmless" right off the end there. Which leaves us with "a little crazy."OK, make that a LOT crazy.

This is December in Utah, so everyone we know is sick including our children. Sick doesn't really mean anything unless it starts getting serious and that is where our story begins. Wednesday night Avery's cold took a turn for the worse. She had a fever, and her breathing was so labored she couldn't lie down to sleep. The cold medicine seemed to have no effect. The Tylenol helped the fever, but her croup was so nasty Andy and I felt we couldn't leave her alone. I sat with her in a steamy bathroom for a while, Andy gave her a blessing. Finally around two in the morning Andy went out into the snow to buy a new humidifier. We propped her up between us, and slept for about three hours before she woke up coughing and couldn't go back to sleep.

Thursday morning I made her a doctor's appointment. It was a busy day with Brooklyn's "Unusual Pet Show" at school, home-teacher visits, and daily necessities. And by the time we finished our Subway sandwiches I was very sleepy and ready to put the girl's down for the night. But first we had to give Avery her prescription cough syrup...

Dun-Dun-DUN!

Mkay, so I'm assuming you're all familiar with Avery and her notorious red-bummery? Even in the throws of illness she holds the prestigious title as the stubbornest child to ever walk the earth in a black tutu. We started off with exactly six teaspoons of cough syrup. She was supposed to take two the first night. Are you ready?

Though a huge fan of purple medicine Avery hated the red medicine. She spit out the first teaspoon onto her jammies. 6-1=5 teaspoons left.

When fifteen minutes of polite coercion yielded no results, we resorted to a Sortor ritual Andy and I refer to as "Moram". If you recall, there is a scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, where Indiana is forced to drink blood by the evil head-dressed villain, Moram. There is some chanting and a lot of struggling but in the end Indiana succumbs and in so doing becomes a compulsory member of the thugi cult. Awesome movie. And as it turns out, a super-fun and effective way to force our children to take their medicine. Well, fun for us anyway, the chanting at least. Really it just helps us to not lose our tempers. Anywho, we got two teaspoons down her and were ready to send her to brush her teeth when she says, "I'm gonna puke!" And she did. 5-2=3tsp.

While I cleaned up, Andy tried a different, less thugi-cultish, sneakier approach. He made a delicious strawberry smoothie spiked with the disgusting red cough syrup. Then offered it to Avery.

"I saw Daddy put medicine in it." Brooklyn warned. Five minutes later Brooklyn was crying in her room and Avery was refusing to drink her smoothie. We reasoned with her. We pleaded with her. I bribed her with new dress-ups, toys, and treats. She replied, "I don't want any treats and I already have toys." We cut our losses and put the smoothie in the refrigerator. 3-2=1tsp.

But the evil-genius Andy had one more trick up his sleeve. He poured the last teaspoon of precious cough syrup into the Tylenol cup. "Alright sweetie, how about some different medicine?" Reluctantly she agreed. You can hardly imagine my relief as she willingly tipped back the little cup and drank. "See it's not so bad!" Said Andy seconds before snatching her up over the sink where she vomited all of it. 1-1=O tsp.

Out came the smoothie. Out came the big guns: I threatened to take away her beloved blanket unless she drank her smoothie pronto. But I think my heart broke as she sobbed, "Mommy if I make my bed tomorrow can I have it back?"

"You're not in trouble honey, you just have to drink your smoothie so you can get better." "Please let me go to sleep! I just want to go to sleep!" And she cuddled up in my arms, with her eyes closed, genuinely exhausted from the night before.

"No Avery, you can't go to sleep! You have to drink your smoothie!" As a parent I'm often surprised at the things that come out of my mouth. But despite my desperation, fall asleep Avery did. Won Avery did.

Cry I did.

Chances are whoever coined the phrase, "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger" was a real unpopular guy. Because who likes to be reminded that he will have to suffer through unpleasant, even excruciating circumstances time and time again simultaneously turning them into learning experiences? If its not one thing, its another that doesn't kill you but makes you stronger can I choose "pass"?

Thankfully The Great Cough Syrup Fiasco '09 didn't kill us. True, that was a lot of puke. True, I am that much closer to biting a stranger in line at the grocery store over laundry detergent. But Avery's immunities are now stronger so...

Dun-Dun-DUN!

Barbie Confessions

(From left to right) Cinderella, Esther, Brietta, Belle, McKahn, Anaconda, Lullaby, Sleeping Beauty, Violet, Luna, Lollene, Ariel, Perstephanie, and Orea.

These are the dolls my girls play with almost every day. And you may think its all frills and frolic, but I am here to school you; A Barbie's life is not all handbags and bedazzling smiles. Not for these catty princesses anyway. In the Sortor home, a Barbie can expect a life as filled with beatings and drama as your average Lifetime movie.

For as long as I've known her Violet has been imprisoned in a cage. Belle, Lullaby, Lollene, and Orea have all lost their heads in horrific, bloody battle sequences. If Luna has anything to say about it, McKahn's days are numbered, and Brietta and Ariel have at times been forced into same-gender marriages for lack of available Ken dolls. What, you may well ask, became of Ken?

Prince Hindenpad, forced to do battle with the tyrannical Perstephanie, first lost one leg and then the other. Of course, these were mere flesh wounds to a brave soldier such as Hindenpad and made him no less popular amongst the ladies, but when the e-vile pink stuffed dragon took him away to its volcanic lair and then thrust him from the counter top with such brute strength, mighty Hindenpad's body broke upon the stony depths of the kitchenette floor, much to the sorrow of his fourteen lovers, who were now sadly, princeless.

You can imagine my concern for the violence displayed by my little girls towards their favorite toys. This is straight up Barbie abuse. But as I read the book Kids are from Jupiter and the author's similar hilarious accounts of play-aggression in his own children, my fears were calmed, and all visions of future visits to the woman's penitentiary abated. This isn't abnormal behavior for children, not as common in girls, but not altogether unhealthy. As long as they're not torturing grasshoppers or drawing anarchy symbols on Raggedy Ann we're good. Maybe they'll be dentists someday.

The Seven Habits of Highly Defective People

Habit #Uno: Be inactive. A rad dude once said, "Everything I learned, I absorbed through the placenta." Because let's face it- learning is dumb. It often requires time, effort, and admitting that you don't already know everything, which is no fun at all. Its a lot more fun doing whatever the heck you feel like all the while maintaining that you're such a genius the normal rules of study, hard work, and social etiquette don't apply to you. After all, what does success matter when you can skate through life on pure, unadulterated cerebellum?

Habit # Deux: Begin with no end in mind. Unless your goals include eating your weight in Krispie Kremes, perfecting your Christopher Walken impersonation, or simply being kickass (which you know you already are), goal setting is lame. If you never set goals you'll never feel bad about yourself when you inevitably fail to reach them.

Habit # tri: Prioritize. Who has time for self discipline anyway? Between FaceBook, Final Fantasy XI, Runescape, and World of Warcraft you're lucky if you have time to eat and go to the bathroom.

Habit #Four: Think Me/Me. Life is too short to spend it considering other people and their problems. Especially those happy effective people who keep going off on how much they've learned through goal setting, prioritizing, and healthy relationships. Whatev. If you can't find happiness after all the thousands of hours you've dedicated thinking only of yourself, then it obviously doesn't exist.

Habit #fif: Seek only to be understood. You know as well as any suicidal songwriter that the key to satisfying relationships is one-sided communication. You've lived a full life of avoidance, indulgence, and delusion and you have a lot to say. Despite your best efforts at consistent self-centeredness life isn't always a bed of roses. All you ask is for a sympathetic ear. But apparently that's too much to ask. At least I think that's what she said. I don't know, I wasn't really listening.

Habit #6: Romanticize. When logic fails to support the benefits of the habits you've formed, you can always rely on fantasy to fill in the gaps. And in fantasy land you can both talk to cats and develop difficult skills simply through your powers of concentration. 4+4=$pegasus. Regardless of your antisocial behavior, people love and want to be around you. If you add "Aneus" onto the end of anything it automatically becomes more magical. And you never have to leave the comfort of your own deuchebuggary.

Habit# last: Dull the Blade. At this point the last thing you want to do is meta cognate. The less you consider where you're headed the more you'll enjoy the downward spiral. Just keep doing whatever it is you do because you're special. Very, very special.

Happy Birthday to Me.

Today I am 28 years old. Strange, I don't feel any different. Well that's not entirely true. I do feel a bit more mature. A bit wiser maybe. A bit more contented with who I am even though the dream of playing keyboard in a punk-rock band becomes less likely each year. Even though being mistaken for a teenager (a troubled teenager with three children) becomes less flattering each year. Unless you take into account that my back hurts most of the time and that confused/angry/I can't see very well wrinkle in between my eyes is starting to stick. All things considered, I don't feel much different. In honor of this day I give you:

"28 Ways I Still Feel the Same."

1. I still have weird action/adventure dreams almost every night. Two nights ago it involved a young Val Kilmer who was highly insulted when I couldn't remember his name.
2. I still have a hard time finding long sleeves that come all the way to my wrist because of my genetically mutated monkey arms.
3. I still plan to write a book. About what I know not. But I still plan to write one.
4. I still envision myself with long flowing hair when the reality is I cannot grow this straw past my shoulders. I've been trying to for as long as I can remember.
5. I still prefer reading a good book to almost any other activity.
6. I still drink milk with almost every meal.
7. I still don't know what the crap the lyrics from "Glycerine" even mean. But they make me sad.
8. I still dislike raw onions.
9. I am still terrified of spiders.
10. I still crack jokes that nobody gets on the off chance that SOMEONE will laugh and then maybe that person will want to be my friend. That doesn't usually happen.
11. But I still laugh at my own jokes though.
12. I still believe that real ice cream is good for you.
13. I still feel the need to apologize after every social interaction.
14. I still swear when I stub my toe.
15. I still swear when someone cuts me off in traffic.
16. I still swear because sometimes its kind of funny.
17. I still pretend like I don't like swearing.
18. I still hate doing the laundry.
19. I still love swinging on the swing set.
20. I still prefer jeans and a tee-shirt to any other ensemble.
21. I still look like a retarded hippo when I run.
22. I still get really excited about Tim Burton movies.
23. I still put my feet up on the dashboard if I'm riding shotgun.
24. I still run into walls a lot.
25. I still can't hold still when I hear "Billy Jean".
26. I still like my salsa cut with sour cream.
27. I still can't watch the nurse when I get blood drawn.
28. I still get overly excited about my birthday!

WOO- HOO!

Round #1,179

Oh my holy crap. I will begin with the end.


Yesterday I finally snapped.


It was fast Sunday. During the YW/YM combined lesson I had to continuously break up the hormonal teenagers in front of me. After church I was the lone leader assigned to stay after and clean the building while my family waited in the car. No young women stayed to help me. I ranted all the way home from church. I walked into my shredded house. Clothes, toys, shoes, a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich, green food coloring, cup-cake crumbs, diapers, dirty blankets, last night's dinner, wrapping paper. "I am done." I declared to whoever would listen. Oddly everyone had dispersed so I had to talk louder. "I said I am done!"


By Saturday I was on the edge of the edge.


It was the day of Brooklyn's Halloween-themed sixth-birthday party. She had a soccer game that morning which I was forced to miss due to some last minute preparation. Fortunately I had made the 24 chocolate cupcakes in advance. The decorations were up, and costumes were complete. But the house was still a mess, there was a spider web to be hung, green frosting to be made, and I hadn't even showered yet. In the end the only real problem was Avery's home-made wig which kept falling off her.

Brooklyn and her friends had a great time with or without Avery's wig, so my mission was accomplished! Still, I'm not going to lie to you: keeping ten kids under control and entertained was no picnic and by three-thirty I was ready to put on my pj's and fall asleep on the couch. But we had invited our good friends over to play a rousing game of "Settlers of Catan" which was every bit as relaxing as world domination can be. Though fun in its own right, by the end of the game Andy and I were no longer speaking as our friends made their hasty departure.

Friday was pushing it as I readied myself for Brook's party in between school, piano lessons, and every day responsibilities.

Thursday I was feeling the pressure as I served my time in Brooklyn's classroom as a Parent Volunteer and declined a baby shower due to lack of breathing room.

Wednesday was Avery's Joy School field trip to the pumpkin patch. After dropping Brook off at school, enjoying some lovely autumn weather with Avery, picking Brook up from school, getting her ready for soccer practice, dressing for the temple, dropping all three children off with our excellent next-door-neighbors, and eating a quick meal at Chick Fillet...

Andy and I actually got to go to the Oquirhh Mountain Temple. It was a beautifully quiet, peaceful experience. And if it hadn't been for this small break in my insane week I surely would have snapped sooner.

Tuesday I still had the energy to mop the floor, make appetizers, and set up chairs for Book Club. Of course it was still crazy because I also had a Young Women's activity from which I rushed home to put the kids to bed before brewing hot chocolate in time for my ladies to arrive. The discussion was well worth it. Apparently Pride and Prejudice and Zombies isn't for everyone but made for one exciting book club debate.

Monday I was determined to put what had inspired me into practice. I would make a greater effort to read my scriptures. Spend more quality time with my children. Have more meaningful personal prayers. We had Family Home Evening that night.

Saturday and Sunday was the semi-annual General Conference for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. It is a opportunity to listen to the prophet and apostles and other leaders speak and what they have to say is always inspirational. It always makes me want to be a better person. This time I was especially touched. http://www.lds.org/move/index.html?type=conference&event=Oct179&lang=english My favorite part of conference was the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing "Oh Divine Redeemer" in the Sunday afternoon session.

This was the beginning.

I always start off strong, brimming with faith and good intentions. And then somewhere along the way I get lost in all the demands of life, some of which are inherent some of which I choose. I become overwhelmed and within one lame little week I am done.

I woke up this morning with nothing but every-day life ahead of me. Renewed energy, renewed determination. Ready to begin again. Because I'm not done.

Not even close.

Gather Ye Rosebuds While ye May

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying. -Robert Herrick

There was a time when I felt tying myself down to marriage and children at the tender age of twenty would disrupt the gathering of my rose-buds. In my head there was a disconnect between being responsible and being free to find myself. An insurmountable ravine between suburban housewifery and passion for life. Between polite decency and real happiness.

I saw a preview for a movie recently, depicting a mid-century couple, miserable in the quiet respectability of family life. "Did we really think we could be happy living this way???" One lamented, "Working nine to five? Being like everyone else? Living up to these idealistic expectations society has heaped upon us?"

Yeah, what hell. Getting married to someone you love. Raising children. Supporting your family making an honest wage in a modest house in the suburbs. No good has ever come of THAT. Dude, what bull crap has the media been feeding us?

And I bought into it for a while.

When relationships become difficult, when making an honest wage gets you down, when living in that modest house in the suburbs just isn't exciting anymore it must be because its all a lie! Because as everyone knows relationships are supposed to be easy, and working is always a hoot, and life is always supposed to be very exciting right? Because apparently no one is happier than all those friggin' celebrities and musicians we keep looking to for guidance.

Dude.

I don't know about every other middle-class suburban housewife out there, but I am gathering rose-buds by the apronful. I do not regret marrying my excellent husband at such a young age. Our love has grown in ways that only time and sacrifice can render. And I do not regret having three children. They are my roses. They give color its vibrancy and music its legato. No amount of travel or career or romantic endeavor could possibly compare to the depth in which I have found myself through the medium of motherhood. I do not regret being a housewife in a modest suburban home, in fact I friggin' LOVE it. I am individual enough as it is, I don't need to live in extraordinary circumstances to be true to that. And the neighborhood fourth of July pancake breakfast is killer.

What is passion without purpose? To think I could still be drawing pictures, listening to Morrissey, keeping it real alone in my room. Instead I'm planning an awesome Halloween-themed birthday party for my almost six-year-old. TO MORRISSEY. And there will be musical chairs and there will be frosted cupcakes with sprinkles. And someday, when I'm lying on my deathbed or under a bus wheel or wherever I will look back on my mundane, ordinary little family-centered life, think of all those missed opportunities, and then of all those frosting-covered baby faces and smile.

Sortor Rules and Zombies.

I know, I know. What could I possibly have going on in my life more important than posting? I mean I posted through two kids and pregnancy, right? How can I expect you to believe I suddenly "have no time to breath much less post", when you know darn well I have nothing better to do than entertain you? Well I have news for you my friend. Caring for three small children (and all its accompanying busy-work) isn't the half of it. I'm also a young women's advisor at church, a piano teacher on Fridays, and a zombie killer on the weekends. Yeah, you heard me. And I'm sure you'll agree this leaves very little time for posting. Between walking Brook back and forth from kindergarten, feeding Cambria, teaching Avery the alphabet, soccer games, preparing lessons every other Sunday, attending mid-week activities, cooking supper every night, joy school, reading this month's book club selection, cuddling with Andy, folding clothes, and vanquishing satan's undead minions, its tricky finding the time to get those creative juices flowing. But I'll see if I can move some things around. Its all about priorities.

We're Not in Kansas Anymore, Todo.

The other night I had a dream. I was sitting in my living room when I heard someone screaming outside. I ran to my front window and, looking east could see an enormous tornado headed directly towards my house. I grabbed for my children and dove to the ground just as the glass shattered. The house around us disintegrated in slow motion and the world was nothing more than yellow dust. I woke up and forgot entirely about the nightmare until later that morning, while we were sitting in the doctor's office preparing for Cambria's four-month shots. Brooklyn had been playing with one of those infant ring-stackers. She showed me how she had stacked them upside down, from smallest to largest. "Like a tornado", she said.

Brooklyn started Kindergarten today and I feel (and probably look) like I've been the victim of some kind of natural disaster. Because the facts is, few disasters terrify me more than the inescapable doom of my babies growing up.

For a year I've been preparing her. Worrying about the anxiety I was sure she would feel. Hoping she would feel confident and that she would want to go. Preparing myself for a possible melt-down...

One guess who had the melt-down?

I was doing OK until she brought me a book to read with her about a mother tree and her daughter tree and how the daughter tree grows up. I sobbed through the entire story. I didn't expect to be so emotional today, but the storm hit me all at once. Have I been a good mother? Have I enjoyed her enough? Suddenly crumbs on the carpet and fingerprints over every surface of my house don't matter much. It really is happening. There is no getting out of this tornado's path. She really is growing up.

Ode to Public Education: Part One

Has it really been ten years already? In some ways it seems like yesterday, and in other ways it seem much longer ago that I graduated from high school. Either way it still haunts me. You probably don't understand; you probably enjoyed public education. Good for you. Why don't you go put on your Letterman sweater and shut the heck up? Sorry, I'm a little bitter. And here's why...

Cobb Elementary School

I was never very special. Not in the positive sense at any rate. From kindergarten through the fifth grade I was painfully shy and had really messed up front teeth, and a blinking eye tic. My mom clearly cut my bangs (as you can observe in exhibit A), dressed me in Victorian era inspired jump suits and I couldn't read analogue clocks. Nobody in my neighborhood liked me. Nobody at church liked me. Few kids at school acknowledged my existence. I recall being excluded from girl circles, getting into slap-bracelet feuds, and being sent to the Principal's office for hitting someone in the face with a tether ball. You can only imagine how excited I was for the clean slate middle school offered.

Middletown Middle School

Well, not exactly a clean slate. Middletown Middle school combined three elementary schools which meant my class went from thirty-five kids to about ninety kids, so there was still that thirty-percent who remembered the unfortunate tether-ball incident. Still, I had had braces, I was sporting sweet new glasses, and although I still couldn't read analogue clocks I was determined to turn my antisocial life around.

Riding the school bus changed my life. It arrived each morning at 7:30 at a cigarette-strewn shanty about half a mile from my house. It was always packed to full capacity with the motliest collection of foul-mouthed high school and middle school students Cobb Mountain had to offer. And since my stop was second to last I had to sit wherever I could. And generally the only open seats were those in the very back with the pirates; a dangerous place for an eleven year old girl in stirrup pants. I witnessed a lot of things back there. Learned many delightful new words and phrases. Saw a kid light his leg hairs on fire. It was a long bus ride with many a sharp corner. Fortunately for me weed + stoners = exceptionally accommodating seatmates and so I was befriended, my life experience expanded, and all the second-hand marijuana smoke probably helped me relax a little.

Of course Middle school wasn't all uncomfortable bus rides. There were plenty of other things contributing to one's discomfort. Like having to change for gym, when all I owned were granny panties. Or when a kid from my core class told me he was going to punch me in my "four inch forehead". Or my seventh grade yearbook photo where I look exactly like the deaf kid pictured above me. I was a nerd from my golden perv glasses all the way to my K-Mart tennis shoes. But the elevation from being rejected to mostly ignored was welcome. I did have a small group of equally nerdy friends, and being one of the eight kids chosen to go on a school-sponsored trip to Japan filled me with a small but happy confidence.

As far as public education is concerned, I peaked in the eighth grade. The summer after I went to Japan I got contacts, a more age-appropriate wardrobe, and started wearing mascara. I bought my first cassette tapes: Ace of Base, and Green Day. By some mistake I was put in the smart class with the smart kids and was able to make more nerdy friends than ever before. That year I was voted "prettiest eyes" in the yearbook. I had arrived. Little did I know it was all downhill from there.

To Be Continued...

I Am Venom

I'm not going to lie to you, this week kind of sucked. And I can't put my finger on why exactly. Cambria's been sleeping though the night, and the lawn is looking better than ever so I don't know. I'm just not feeling it lately. Some weeks are like that. No matter how well things are going you're just off your game. Outwardly nothing's changed, but inside you'd rather be vacationing on some remote island, being served peach milkshakes by a burly native. You'd rather be somewhere else, even though you love your life, love your fabulous husband and children, love your home. Some weeks it just feels like you're just going through the motions. And you scold when you would normally laugh. And yell at the kids to stop yelling. And feed your family canned spaghetti three times in one week. And find excuses to be alone. And snack at eleven-o-clock at night even though you know its all going into your thighs. AND then feel incredibly guilty for everything you're doing wrong. Guilty for everything you haven't done right. Guilty for feeling down after all that God has blessed you with. Guilty for feeling guilty. Some weeks are a downward spiral that appear to have no bottom. Some weeks you make more mistakes than others.

Thank goodness for Sunday.

Darth Schlictenstein

Since Brooklyn was a wee infant we have been taking her Dr. Schlicter. From the beginning we have fondly referred to him as "The Schlictenstein" and in the beginning he was both pleasant and helpful. I turned to him for every cough. But in the last couple of years something has changed inside The Schlictenstein. He has turned to the dark side. The enthusiastic pediatrician is dead. Darth Schlictenstein is our new doctor.
I first noticed the change last year at Avery's two-year check up. He could find nothing wrong with her. This angered him.

"Where did this bruise come from?" He insisted.
"I have no idea." by which I meant I had no idea.
"Strange place for a bruise."
"Yeah." Oh wait, maybe it was from that severe beating I gave her. (heavy sarcasm).

"Does she stack blocks?"
"Yes, she loves Legos."
"No, not Legos BLOCKS. How high would you say she stacks them?"
"I have no idea."
"I see."

Then, at Brooklyn's five-year check up...

"Well, she's definitely knock-kneed."
"What?"
"Yeah, it will probably cause her problems in the future. Does she play hopscotch?"
"Um, no."
"I see. Can she count backwards from twenty?"
"I have no idea. She can add and subtract and read books and memorize songs on the piano and skip, and ride a bike and draw everything she sees. But I don't know if she can count backwards from twenty."
"I see."

Finally yesterday at Avery's three year check up...

"Do you have any concerns?"
"Not really."
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Well, I guess she could benefit from being around kids her own age. She's used to playing with older children and has a hard time playing with other three year olds."
"That's very immature."
"Yes, well she is three."
"I'd say she's acting more like a two and a half year old."
"Hmmm."
"How high can she count?"
"She's solid up to five."
"The next time I see her I want her counting backwards from twenty."

"No bruises??? Is she a couch potato?"
"Not at all."
"I get worried when I see no bruises."

"I see that last year Avery was in the ninetieth percentile for height. Now she is only in the fiftieth percentile. Its probably not a big deal; she may be in between growth spurts. So we won't check her for cancer just yet."
"WHAT?"
"Yes, children with cancer don't grow the way they should. We'll have to see how she grows this next year. No reason to worry...yet."

What the-!!!

I cried and fretted the rest of the afternoon until it occurred to me: The Schlictenstein is a real douche. Time for a new pediatrician.

My Wildest Dreams Just Came True

superhero

... of three things I was sure. First, that Edward was a vampire. Second, some part of him thirsted for my blood. Third, I was idiotically and irrevocably in love with him...

"I don't know how to put this, Bella, but I'm kind of a big deal. People know me. I'm going to throw this out there and if you don't like it, throw it right back... I want to eat you."

"Common sense tells me I should Van Helsing your glorious, sparkly hiney... and yet I'll admit I'm flattered. You're a straight shooter and I can't fault you for that. Wanna be my boyfriend?"

"I watch you while you sleep."

"You're so cute when you're creepy."

"No seriously, Bella I'm probably going to kill you. I almost killed you just now. You don't even know."

"You're not the boss of me! I love you! Make me a vampire."

"And spend eternal damnation listening to your incessant whining? Not bloody likely."

"Come on! Please, please, Edward, please? Pretty please, please Edward, PLEASE!"

YOMP! Ahhhhh! sllluuuurrpppp...

The End

Holy Lack of Creativity Bat Man!

I don't know what it is. Normally, in the word department, I overfloweth. I'm good at expressing myself; a little too good. Both on the internet and off I've chastised myself for being too wordy; talking too much, letting my posts go a little long. Not so lately. I can't talk good no mo. I can't write no mo. I embarass myself attempting to recapture some of that old wit. Apparently that well is all dried up. Too bad I'm not really good at anything else. What's that? What about volleyball, you ask? Yeah, I was lying. I suck. Last time I played my face became entangled in the net and everyone literally fell to the ground from laughing so hard. How fun for them. Thanks for bringing it up, jerk.

No, I've never been good at anything other than writing and making a fool of myself. Still pretty good at the latter. Its nice to know I can still make people laugh one way or another.

Me Like Tag

1. Me Like llama

2. Me Like Edward Scissorhands

3. Me Like Homemade Bread

4. Me Like Music

5. Me Like Hyrdangeas

6. Me Like Books

7. Me Like Morrissey

8. Me Like Rain

9. Me Like This Dress

10. Me Like Sparta!

TAG! (your turn.)

Whatever the Heck I Feel Like

All of my wildest dreams have come true. I survived another pregnancy. I have three scrumptrulescent little girls and a deadsexy husband. I wear cut-off overalls with slippers and nobody cares. I eat PB&J and apple slices on the trampoline for lunch. I rock out on my MP3 player while I fold laundry and watch Sponge Bob. I have lots of good friends, and lots of good books. And all of my wildest dreams have come true. Consequently this leaves me very little to write about. Apparently all my creativity stems from perpetual discontentedness. Who knew?

Diana - perpetual discontentedness = Happy Diana. Happy Diana = Unfunny Diana. Unfunny Diana = Unfunny posts = No more friends = perpetual discontentedness.

Just give it time, people.

My Testimony

This Easter Sunday I just wanted to share my simple testimony that Jesus Christ is the son of God, and my Savior. That His sacrifice gives my life meaning, and reason to hope. I am humbled by his incredible love. I am grateful for the opportunity to repent each time I fall. I am grateful to have the opportunity to live with God again, to be with my family and friends forever, to continue progressing eternally. I am grateful for the peace I feel when I realize His hand in my life, when I consider His infinite patience with me. His infinite mercy towards me. I know He lives. And I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Elder Holland says it better. Click on the link below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EpFhS0dAduc

By Your Side

Love is a many splendid thing. Love is a battlefield. The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return. Hey, I didn't say it. But after seven years of marriage I will say this: Love is a learning experience.

I met Andy when I was nineteen. I had recently moved back to Salt Lake after spending the summer with my family in Northern California. Why I decided to come back, is anyone's guess. I was not going to college. I had no job prospects. I had no family. All I had was my 1988 Buick Regal, some friends from LDSBC, and an air-mattress. But life was good. I scored a sweet job at Subway, where I got a six-inch free sub every day. I found an apartment in South Salt Lake with awesome roommates and an open bunk. I shopped at the D.I. I got the crap beat out of me in mosh pits, I survived almost entirely on tuna and Marshmallow Mateys. Each day was brim with limitless possibility. And I was happier than I had ever been.

I met Andy at a Trolley Square YSA dance. We had both arrived early to avoid paying the six dollar admission (it was only three if you arrived before nine) and for some reason I was under the impression that it was eighties night. My pants were pegged, I wore yellow high top converse and hoop earrings. And I was rocking out like a deranged Molly Ringwald alone in the middle of the sparse dance floor. Clearly I did not attend these dances to attract a mate. But attract one I did. For from his balcony perch Andy saw me for the first time, and thought to himself, "I could marry that girl." Love moves in mysterious ways.

He asked me to dance. I wish I could remember the song. I found him quite pleasant and conversation came easily. We touched on his mission to England, and his aspirations to become a graphic designer. When the song ended he mentioned it would be cool to hang out and asked for my phone number. I explained that I was in the middle of moving and didn't have one, which he took for a very lame blow-off and was about to cut his losses when I instead asked for his. He wrote the number on a dollar bill and told me not to spend it. Bold move- defacing money for me. I was intrigued.

We had our first date March 23, 2001. He took me to a comedy club downtown. We walked around the conference center. He bought me a banana shake. The more I learned about him the fonder I became of him, because let's face it, Andy is just a cool guy. We didn't share all the same interests, but were both from part-member families, laughed at the same movie-lines, and (what are the odds) he too owned a 1988 Buick Regal. A week later we had our second date. The week after that my life changed dramatically.

On April 3 I received a phone call. My dad had died suddenly of a heart attack while at work. It was a devastating and sobering shock. Everything was altered and I feared that I would never feel like myself ever again. Not ideal circumstances for a new relationship. I was realistic. I knew Andy would sympathetically fade away. After all he didn't know me well, and even some of my closest friends were distant. I didn't blame them. Death is awkward. But Andy called me. He didn't know what to say; he hardly knew me. It must have been scary for him, but he called to see if I was okay. He called out of genuine concern for me, as a person. He called because he is that kind of guy. And in one moment my fondness for him turned into appreciation and respect.

We took it easy. April was crazy for both of us. I was trying to readjust to life. Andy was preparing to graduate from CEU. We kept in touch through email. In May he moved home to Murray and started holding my hand. Appreciation and respect turned into attraction. Attraction turned into new love. New love turned into genuine friendship. He asked me to marry him that December on a sailboat, off the coast of San Juan Capistrano.

Andy entered marriage with a sigh of contentment and a flop on the couch. I entered marriage with a "to-do" list and a cattle prod. Between our miscommunications and unrealistic expectations it hasn't been all slow-dances and roses. Relationships are hard. They require a great deal of acceptance and self-sacrifice; the real-life applications of love. These past seven years have taught me so much. Love is a learning experience. Love is a choice. And as it turns out, love is a many splendid thing. After seven years, genuine friendship has matured into deep love and appreciation. Plus he's still H-O-T. Come on!

Happy Anniversary Sweetie!

I love you more than ever.

A Day in the Life of Avery

 These days I never can be certain on which side of the bed Avery will wake up. On a good morning I wake up to the sweet sunshine of toddler kisses, and the quiet crunching of the apple she got herself as she cuddles at my feet watching Dora the Explorer. She gives me time to get her cereal. She joins me for my morning stretches. She disposes of her own bedtime diaper and dresses herself (always in her favorite orange skirt). She plays Barbies in a singsong voice. On a good day she will happily put away the dishes for a couple marshmallows. She is happy, independent, and generous with her affections. On a good day she truly is my angel.

But the last few mornings have not been good mornings. I have been waking up to noises that no human child should be able to make with Avery standing in my doorway wrapped in her blanky, hair wild as a pet monkey, brows knit, lips puckered, shooting flames of displeasure from her eyes.

"You wanna watch Dora honey?" "NOOOO!" "How about a nice crunchy apple?" "NOOOO!" "Ba-na-na?" "NOOO!" "Cereal?" "Pancakes?" "Maybe some brimstone? Or my soul? How does that sound pumpkin?" What does one feed an angry devil-monkey? On a bad morning there is no pleasing her. She doesn't want to say the prayer, but gnashes her sharp baby teeth if anyone else does. She will not get in the bath, she will not get out of the bath. She weeps over her princess panties. Putting her into her car seat causes her to speak in tongues. Today was one of those days. But it gets better. Today was also grocery-shopping day. I seriously considered staying home, but in the end my desire for a dill pickles and cream cheese won out. Huge mistake.

As soon as we entered Smith's lobby, the red box caught Avery's eye. "Come on babe, stay with me!" She stood statue still, slowly turning her head to give me the stink eye. "We can rent The Highlander later if you're nice. Come on!" But she did not come on. Every five minutes she would wander off, or start a fight with Brook. At one point she threatened to "spank my bum" if I failed to buy her chocolate chip granola bars. "You're NAUGHTY!" She cried on the way through check out. She threw her head back and screamed and flailed about "NAUGHTY MOMMY! NAUGHTY!" "You're very patient", the cashier commented, looking a little frazzled herself. I forced a smile. Funny how losing the will to live and patience can look so similar. She kicked and screamed all the way to the car, all the way home, and all the way into a much needed time-out.

On bad days like this I question my parenting skills (as I rub my nine-month pregnant belly). But I know this too shall pass. The bad days and the good days too. Avery won't be two-and-a-half forever. Today I am grateful for that. But then there are those good days...

Ode to Mango Sorbet

Life is hard.

I have been known to dwell on this fact from time to time. I've been known to author sad and pathetic posts about this from time to time. I've been known to whine incessantly until the person on the other end of the telephone fakes a medical emergency to avoid having to talk to me anymore from time to time. Often, when life hands me lemons, I chuck them at innocent cyclists rather than making the lemonade God intended. And while those innocent cyclists in their brightly-colored, embarrassingly snarky body suits may have had it coming- I'm suddenly quite thirsty and find myself with nothing to drink but prune juice. And with nothing to drink but prune juice, I am presented with a whole new set of problems.

Straight up- I'm not really a lemonade kind of girl. So when I am faced with life's trials I opt for mango sorbet. Because not only is it refreshingly delicious, but has the creamy texture of ice cream without the artery clogging saturated fat. It is scrumtrulescent. It is a delight. But I'll be honest, it isn't easy making happy mango sorbet from life's lemons.

First of all, you have to accept that life is both difficult and unfair for most everyone and that it isn't singling you out because frankly, you're not THAT special. Let marinate. Secondly, you should honestly and periodically self-evaluate. Maybe you ARE doing something wrong. Or maybe you're doing the best you can and simply need to readjust your expectations. Maybe you need to humble yourself and pray for help. Or maybe you need to get up out yo comfort zone and serve someone else. Allow to chill. The third and final step is the most difficult for me. Endure. Be patient. Quit rubbernecking your problems lest you crash and burn. Keep moving foreword. Be positive. Have faith that in due time, with consistent effort and a lot of help from Heavenly Father, you can overcome your trials no matter what they be. Serve and enjoy.

Life is hard. And it may not be easy making mango sorbet from lemons. But when faced with the alternative of prune juice and a gang of angry cyclists, totally worth it.

Superhero

What child doesn't dream of possessing super powers of one kind or another? What child doesn't fancy herself the brightly-suited victor of her childhood fantasies? What child doesn't imagine the kind of cookies she could snake from the weak-minded Girl Scouts with the use of the Force?

When I was a kid I had a recurring dream that I could retract my nose into my face. And I could fly. I also drank water straight from forest streams and talked quietly to my reflection in bus windows...not sure where I was going with that. Another post for another day. My point is, I remember well the superhero dream. Perhaps it is because I continued dressing-up as one and making embarassing home movies long after it was socially acceptable. Perhaps it is because I occasionally still wish I could fly over them mountains, bringing justice to the downtrodden, protecting the meek, sprinkling the children with sparkly marshmallow cereal. The dream lives on my friends. I give you "If I Were a Superhero":

• My alto-ego would be a bespeckled, cardigan-wearing housewife who taught piano lessons, blogged, and belonged to a neighborhood book club that met monthly... and nobody would ever suspect...

They would call me "The Owl" because a) I've been told I bear an uncanny resemblance to one, which may or may not have been meant as a compliment, and b) I would only be able to work nights due to the demands of motherhood.

My special powers would include: flight (obviously), sharp, retractable talons with which to scratch out the eyes of my enemies, the Force (because that would be rad), and puking pellets at will. And if the pellets were explosive, all the better.

My weakness (because all superheroes HAVE to have at least one) would be anxiety and self-doubt. Like I would be engaged in a smack-down with Towtruck Man, puking explosive pellets at him, swiping ferociously with my talons. I would have him in my clutches when all of a sudden he'd say something like, "Are you sure you've thought this all the way through? What are your real motivations? How can you be sure you're doing the right thing?" And that's when you'd get a close up shot of my wide, glowing eyes filled with anxiety and self-doubt. And then I'd drop him and fly off to do some introspective thinking in my hollow-tree lair.

My super suit would look very much like David Bowie's feathery Goblin-King ensemble at the end of Labyrinth. Minus the bulge.

Andy would be the only living soul that would know my true identity, and although he would sometimes feel torn between pride and jealousy of my incredibly awesome super-powers, he'd undoubtedly support me. I mean come on- free Girl Scout cookies!

My Real Life Nightmares: Part Four

"Ikea: Human Rat Trap of Terror"

One rainy day, about a year ago I was sitting at home, looking forlornly out the window, thinking to myself in a sad and pathetic voice, "My, my it sure is rainy. And while I'd rather not sit here at home watching the rain fall and thinking to myself in a sad and pathetic voice, I cannot think of a single place to go where I can both purchase affordable curtains AND enjoy delicious macaroni and cheese with the children." And then it hit me, "But of course! Ikea- that wonderland of inexpensive and stylish goods/ Swedish food! Suddenly life makes sense." And without further ado I packed the kids into the jeep and away we went, whistling merrily. And we were never heard from again! The End.

No, I'm just kidding. But we were incredibly naive in our merry whistling. Upon arrival we made our way to the Ikea restaurant. We all got their macaroni and cheese. The children got chocolate milk, and I splurged on the sparkling apple juice because frankly, I like drinking out of fancy, sophisticated, sexy glass bottles and being a hardcore Mormon its about as edgy as I get. In any case the kids were ready to shop before I had finished savoring my edgy apple juice, so I loaded Avery into the impossible-to-manage-shopping cart, held Brook's hand, and tucked that puppy into the deep pocket of my jacket for safe keeping. However, no sooner did our shopping experience begin than things began to go down-hill. Brooklyn wanted in the cart, Avery wanted out. The arrows pointed one way, we seemed to be headed another. And that friggin' impossible-to-manage-shopping cart kept sliding all over the slick floor while my kids loudly demanded we go home. But one does not simply exit Ikea.

We made it past the Tupperware, into the area rugs, through the shower curtains and down the storage isle. It was there I paused to catch my breath. And while I caught it, I noticed a lovely and practical storage box. Well, I couldn't very well leave Ikea empty-handed. I considered its usefulness and reasonable pricing and decidedly put it in the cart. Unfortunately, there were two other less reasonably priced, macaroni-faced items in the cart, one of which playfully expelled my storage box out and onto the floor. I may or may not have said something negative under my breath, I don't really recall. I don't recall because as I leaned over to pick up the box, something heavy, breakable, and very sexy came sliding out of my jacket pocket. And when she broke upon the floor it was a sparkling apple juice explosion of such magnitude a piece of green glass sliced the corner of my left nostril and blood came streaming down my face. Customers stared in alarm. Shocked, I fled the scene of the crime in search of a bathroom. But one does not simply find a bathroom in Ikea.

Back through the shower curtains, into the area rugs, past the Tupperware, I found the lone bathroom. She was in use. I waited, holding a wipe to my still bleeding nose. I waited, and I waited, and I waited. Back through the Tupperware, area rugs, shower curtains, storage, lighting, frames, and house plants. At long last I spied what I thought might be natural light- an exit perhaps? It had to be! I threw the bloody wipe aside and forged full speed ahead, the shopping cart sliding this way and that as my children clung desperately to the sides. Blood trickling down my quivering upper lip as we neared the source of the natural light: A large window overlooking the parking lot and a sign reading "This Way to Flooring". And we were never heard from again! The End.

Such a Little Thing

I'm sure you don't recall, but back in January I made some resolutions. Very few of them were feasible, but among those more serious goals was having meaningful prayers, and reading my scriptures every day. Admittedly, I haven't been 100% successful in either. However, I have found that in making the attempt to pray and read every morning I feel added strength beyond my own. On those days I read and pray I feel less anxious, less frustrated, less sorry for myself, more patient, kinder, happier. Nothing has changed, but things that usually overwhelm me don't. And for me, that is huge.

I am also rediscovering that the more I read, the more I enjoy reading, the closer I feel to my Savior, the easier prayer comes. Its so simple...almost too simple.

1 Nephi 17:41 "...And because of the simpleness of the way, or the easiness of it, there were many who perished."

It never ceases to amaze me how such a little thing can make such a difference. How Heavenly Father is just waiting to bless us, if we only give Him the chance.

Alma 37:6 "Now you may suppose that this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass..."

Of Poo and Parenting

I have few simple requests in life. I like a sunny stroll now and again. I enjoy an occasional bubble bath. I love a fresh-baked donut in the morning. And I like having as little to do with human feces as possible. Friends, I beg you is it too much to ask? Apparently, yes if you are the proud mother of the most anal-retentive child on the planet. I will spare you the details of "the incident". Suffice it to say at around eight-o-clock last night Brooklyn found herself trapped inside the bathroom- a poo lying menacingly between herself and the door.

Now don't judge me too harshly. Since I have become a mother I have dealt with my share of nasty diapers, vomit, and various bodily fluids- most times with a great deal of patience and understanding. But "when poo is found where poo ought not to be, it becomes the responsibility of he of whom it was created, once that person is above age three." Not only is that a lovely bit of poetry, but it is also my motto. Plus I think its in the Bible somewhere. Old Testament. So anyways, everyone in the family felt that Brook really ought to be the one to put said poo to rest in the toilet where it belonged, seeing as it was her fecal matter and all. She disagreed. She strongly disagreed. She swore in her wrath that she would not ever, ever, ever pick up that poo. I suggested if she planned on spending a great deal of time with the poo she ought to ask for its name. Andy asked her if her new friend was too good for its home. She didn't laugh, or even crack a smile. I suppose it was hard to see the humor from her perspective, holed up as she was with the silently ominous poo.

After some soul-searching and some Clorox wipes, she did eventually farewell the poo in a flush of triumph. And I believe that once she works through the emotional trauma of our questionable parenting techniques, that she will have learned some valuable lessons. Firstly, that she is ultimately responsible for dealing with her own crap (effective on so many levels). Secondly, in the midst of life's most horrific moments Happy Gilmore references are still funny. And most importantly, poo will out.

Pass the Tylenol

I think a lot. I think about the present and how exhausted I am. I think about how large I am getting and wonder how much more my body can take. I think that I would enjoy a bundt cake. I think that other women are better at this than I am. I wonder why it sometimes seems Heavenly Father requires more of me than I am capable of giving. I wonder why He doesn't give me strength and patience and endurance. Then it occurs to me He is teaching me strength, patience, and endurance. I think I'm a slacker student. I think I need to lie down. I think my girls are very cute. I think they deserve more. I think Heavenly Father must know something I don't know. I think about this new baby. I think about newborn baby smell. I think about little toes. I think about holding her. I think if I can just make it two more months of pregnancy without going insane, maybe everything will be alright. I think if I had more energy. I think if I could lead a more balanced life. I think if I laid off the bundt cake. I think about playing in the backyard with my girls this summer. I think about planting annuals. I think about scrubbing the bathtub and washing the windows. I think about fitting into my clothes again. I think about taking three children to the grocery store. I think not. I think about how lucky I am to be a mother. I think about how overwhelming it is to be a mother. I think about how quickly time goes by. I think about how far I've come and how far I have to go. I think I need to slow down and take it one day at a time. I think too much.

Top Five Sappiest Love Songs You Sing in the Shower

Let's not deny it. When you fancy no one can hear you with the water pouring down around your ears and a locked door between you and the rest of humanity, you might get a little overconfident in your singing abilities. Maybe lose some of those inhibitions that hold you back. And you sound good my friend. I mean real good. So good you sort of wish a talent scout would accidentally wander into your house because you know he would be blown away by that shockingly awesome voice of yours. Perhaps you should invest in a kareoke machine. Perhaps you should try out for American Idol. Perhaps..."you're worrying the children. Are you wounded?"

Here's to those songs that enhance all your embarassing moments, those songs so cheesy they give Velveeta a run for its money, those songs that make you laugh and dry-heave and break out in melodramatic song simultaneously. Here are my nominated "Top Five Sappiest Love Songs You Sing in the Shower"... Because you know you do.
1. "I'm Your Lady"
2. "Take My Breath Away"
3. "Fever"
4. "Total Eclipse of the Heart"
5. "You're the Inspiration"

Enjoy them on my playlist below.
Angie, Wayne, Shana, Amy, and Anna: YOU IS TAGGED!

Love Languages

There are five love languages/ five ways we express love/ five ways in which we feel loved. No more, no less. FIVE is the correct answer. Some of us are fluent in love. Some of us are bilingual. Some of us speak with a British accent. But some of us are less eloquent, stuttering, lisping, mispronouncing, and generally making arses of ourselves. If you find yourself in the latter category, here are a list of tips for you this lovely Valentine's season. Enjoy.

Love Language #1: Quality Time

Poor Norman. He just wanted some one-on-one. That's what made him feel special. A private conversation, with plenty of eye contact. A little mutual bonding. Time spent together in pleasant activity- like taking a walk together, sharing a bundt cake, playing a board game, taxidermy...

Why not take some time for your favorite psycho this Valentine's Day. A little quality time goes a long way.

Love Language # 2: Words of Affirmation

For Grima, a simple, "I love you." would have really made his day. He needed a little verbal reassurance. Maybe a "thank you for folding the laundry, Grima," or a "your hair looks especially wet today, Grima," or a "You certainly have a knack for emotional-manipulation, Grima."

Don't let another day pass you by. Take the opportunity to say what's in your heart.



Love Language #3: Gifts
All Xerxes wanted was the world. He showed his affection through gift-giving. All he wanted were a few gifts in return. Like a thoughtful card, or that new sweater he's been eyeing, maybe another golden-piercing, or countless, subordinate minions. It isn't the price tag, but the thought that counts.

Be kind. Put some thought into the gifts you give.




Love Language #4: Physical Touch

Give him a Baby Ruth and he's yours for a day. But what makes Sloth really feel loved is a hug, or a slobbery kiss, wrestling in a tickle war, or a good cuddle on the couch, watching pirate movies.

Don't be a goonie. Show your love with a little physical affection.

Love Language #5: Acts of Service
The question isn't what would Gollum do for his Precious, but what wouldn't he do for his Precious. Suffer torture in the hands of cruel orcses? Take out the garbage? Hike across Middle Earth? Give a back- message? Dive into the fiery depths of Mt. Doom? Make a favorite dinner?

Find ways to serve your Precious. When your love is truly giving it will come back to you ten-fold.