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..."