Defy Gravity

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "Write a short story prompted by your favorite song."


Though I have way too many favorite songs, all for different reasons, my all-time favorite is Defying Gravity, from the Broadway musical, Wicked.


Do it: call me a theater geek. I dare you.
Click here to listen to the song.



I've heard it my whole life. I've heard it from everyone.


And now, I've heard it enough.


The same words resounded inside me, thrown from my mind and into my heart at every turn. Every wrong choice, every action that only expressed my individuality. But individuality is wrong, they told me.


I believed them. I had to be like the rest, be perfect. I had to love the boy who pretended to be perfect, too, but on the inside was deteriorating. Being worn to nothing because his mistakes had made him worthless. His mistakes that he vowed to forever hide.


But that boy would marry someday. Not me, since I didn't measure up. Instead he would marry a girl who is naive and perfect, just as they push me to be. 


And that boy will be a man, a man who no longer can hide his mistakes. 


And that girl will be a woman, crushed by the opening of her eyes, by the reality that this man was never in fact perfect like she, and so many others, were lead to believe. The reality that no man ever was. 


And he will become "not good enough."


No righteousness, no straight behavior, no obedience could ever make him that way.


And that woman will sob. She will cry every night, wondering how she was fooled. Wondering if she could find someone better. A better man, with a cleaner past.


But I know she will be wrong. And that their marriage will fail.


So I consider myself lucky. I consider myself saved from such repression. I see it now, see the way they are. See them for what they are: the imperfect people, quite beautiful in their self-acceptance, and the facade of those who think they are perfect.


And no longer do I feel the guilt that destroys so many others. No longer do I let their standards repress me. No longer do I think I'm unworthy and ugly, because of past mistakes, or even things I love.


Because those things make me me. Those things make me the beautiful individual I was always told to avoid. The one everyone shunned. The one I was told would never truly be happy.


And to them I say you're wrong. Away from them I fly, high and far away, where judgmental eyes no longer penetrate and self-righteous words no longer scar.


I am free.


I am me.


Defying Gravity


Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules
Of someone else's game
Too late for second guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes...and leap!


It's time to try
Defying gravity
I think I'll try
Defying gravity
And you can't pull me down!


I'm through accepting limits
'Cause someone says there're so
Some things I cannot change
But 'til I try, I'll never know
Too long I've been afraid of
Losing love I guess I've lost
Well, if that's love
It comes at much too high a cost!


I'd sooner buy
Defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye
I'm defying gravity
And you can't pull me down!


...


So if you care to find me
Look to western sky!
As someone told me lately:
"Everyone deserves the chance to fly!"
And if I'm flying solo
At least I'm flying free
To those who'd ground me
Take a message back from me
Tell them how I am
Defying gravity
I'm flying high
Defying gravity
And soon I'll match them in renown
And nobody in all of Oz
No wizard that there is or was
Is ever gonna bring me down!


(Glinda)
I hope you're happy!


(Citizens of Oz)
Look at her, she's wicked!
Get her!


What a powerful message about rising above the people who bring us down--the people who judge us and try to steer us in a certain direction. What a powerful message about being yourself and staying true, no matter what it brands you as!

I've always gotten the chills from the power of this song, but as I watched it for the first time last summer, it brought tears to my eyes. What a moving experience to watch Elphaba literally rise in the air, cape nearly covering the entire stage, and sing those final notes of the song with such a power that even her enemies could no longer pull her down.

It was moving in more ways than just great theatrics. It was moving because of the message it portrayed.

Though the above "story" I wrote comes from a fictional place (mostly), I think we've all experienced some kind of "rising above the pressure." Maybe some more than others. But in one way or another, we can all relate.

In fact, I could have dedicated this post to a certain loved one of mine, because she has experienced this to the fullest. Finally, as a full-grown adult, she came into her own. And she's happy. And I love her for that.

That's why this song is my favorite. Not just because it's beautiful, that Elphaba's story is inspiring, or even that it's fun to sing to, but because of the message. Defy gravity.

Tony Danza and Corporate America

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "Write a post where the first and last sentence contain any form of the word 'boss.'” 
...Though not much inspiration was involved in this post, unfortunately. I think I'm all out for today. So here's a not-very-thoughtful play on words:

Boss

Tony Danza

Washed-up

Beach

Message in a Bottle

Depressing

Death

Life

Cereal

Milk

Cows

Steak

Mmm

Alex O'Loughlin

Hawaii Five-O

Remake

Old TV Shows

Nanny

Housekeeper

Wishes

Wishing well

Money

Mr. Krabs

Red Lobster

Delicious

Alex O'Loughlin (wait...how did I get on this again?)

TV night with hubby

Dates

What's a date?

Kiddos

Love

Husband

Father

Hard worker

Corporate America

Office politics

Unfair Bosses

As you can see, I was totally stumped for this week's prompts. All of them. I blame little sleep.
And I usually have Mama Kat's button right here, but for some reason it's telling me the tag is broken. The link to her blog is up top.

The Simple Things...

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "The Simple Things..."

I like the simple things. The simple things are what move my day forward, give me the boost to last through the not-so-simple things. And today my day was full of the simple things. The kind that remind me just how blessed I am and just how happy (and on some days, how happy I should be).

Like the fact that the baby let me sleep eight straight hours without interruption both last night and the night before, which is a miracle. Knock on wood.

Like the fact that I was able to pump some breast milk this morning after feeling down in the dumps all week about losing my milk. (Turns out I'm not. Turns out kids go through growth spurts, or something like that.)

Like the fact that the boys both wanted the same breakfast this morning, which makes my life that much easier.

Like the fact that Dave took over disciplining a very strong-willed four-year-old on his lunch hour, just to give me a break from it. (I think slamming the child's door and saying the naughtiest of naughty words under my breath is a cue that it's his turn.)

Like the swelling emotion all throughout me, emerging in the form of chills and goosebumps, just from watching a moving, heartfelt dance routine. (Thank you, So You Think You Can Dance.)

Like blond curls and blue eyes, that remind me children are beautiful angels and not demons. 

Like the thirty minutes I got to myself to write today.

Like freshly cut grass, done by none other than my husband.

Like phrases from my two-year-old, such as, "Mommy, you get spanking," because they show me just how far he's come in his speech.

Like the precious swatting of a tiny hand on your behind after said phrase.

Like the fact that my four-year-old can still hug me and tell me he loves me after I've just punished him in the worst way I could punish him (taking away his computer privileges).

Like my two-year-old saying, "I you, too," because that's how he says he loves me. 

Like cold cereal for dinner.

Like the visit of a good friend, because it reminds me I'm an adult and can still have adult conversation.

Like my husband retelling the story of how we met, even though I've heard it a million times (after all, I was there), because the part about how he felt when he first looked at me makes my heart skip a beat and makes me feel, in some small way, a part of some romantic movie. 

But mostly, it reminds me that aside from the frumpy sweats, the greasy ponytail, the stretchy tummy skin, the PB&J sandwiches, and the yelling mommy voice, I was once--and maybe even still am--a beautiful, strong woman, who has the love of a caring, amazing man.

The simple things.

Good Riddance, Bad TV

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "List of 10 shows you're glad have seen their last day."

This one was easy.

However, it was even easier to come up with the shows that I wish had never been cancelled (I know that was one of the prompts for last week's writer's workshop, but I missed that one), like Friends, Heroes, 24, Lie to Me (just found this one out...WHAT?!), Breaking In, Better Off Ted, Chase, Trauma, Off the Map, Outsourced, or Perfect Couples...just to name a few. What's with the new trend of cancelling shows after one season, even if they don't suck?

But here are the ones that couldn't have been cancelled at a better time...or with some, never should have started in the first place (in no particular order):

1. The Cape. If you've seen even one episode, you know why. Actually, if you can see this picture, you know why. Sorry, NBC, but you can't pull of another Heroes.

2. Knight Rider. The new one, from a few years ago. Gag, gag, gag.

3. Prison Break. Don't get me wrong; I was the biggest Prison Break fan there ever was (and Wentworth Miller...come on, ladies). Nothing will ever beat the first season. But after the second season, it went downhill. Bad. And we found ourselves watching it only because we fell in love with the characters and had to know how it ended. It definitely saw it's end, long before the end of the fourth season.

4. Alias. I may get harsh words for this, but as a devote Alias and Sydney Bristow lover, I say this out of respect. Because any Alias fan has to admit that after the third season, it started to drop in appeal. Everything about it was different (and that's in part because it got a different director): worse actors, cheesier storylines, and did I say worse acting? I will always love this show, but it definitely should have ended in its prime, not two seasons later.

5. Scrubs. Here's another I loved. I had the first four seasons on DVD. I even have a website of Coxisms bookmarked in my web browser. But the last three seasons, and especially the very last, was like a different show entirely. It just got...dumb.

6. Hannah Montana. Not because I've ever even watched a whole episode all the way through, but from the bits and pieces I've seen while my sister-in-laws devoured it (in their younger years of course), it had to go. Sorry Disney and Miley fans. Gag.

7. Mr. Sunshine. Sorry, Matthew Perry, but your glory days were over after Friends. Don't try to relive them. Because I think you were only good as one character and one character only: Chandler Bing. I know you produced, wrote, and acted in Mr. Sunshine, but it...sucked. 

8. Sarah Palin's Alaska. I'm proud to say I've never watched the show. And I'm proud for TLC for not giving it another go.

9. Smallville. I used to love it...until I realized after a few seasons that nothing new or exciting was happening. It lasted for ten seasons. And they got absolutely NOWHERE during that time. Enough said.

10. The Oprah Winfrey Show. Because I like to go against the grain.

Keep your unsolicited advice to yourself.

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "List 10 things you wish you could say to strangers who share unsolicited advice about your parenting skills."


Beware, all. Remember, this post is things I wish I could say. So they might be mean. But that's why I don't say them. I also thought it was funny that after I made this list, I realized that a lot of this stuff is centered around Walmart. I guess that's when I get the most unsolicited advice.

1. "What are you looking at?" Yes, I notice your daggers when I'm walking through the store with a baby, toddler, or child (or all three at once) throwing a temper tantrum. You don't have to say anything, because your old, judgmental eyes say it all. What do you want me to do--beat them? I would, trust me. I'd spank those little bums in public if I knew I wouldn't get reported to child services. So instead, my threats of spanking them "when we get home" will have to do.
2. "Yes, high fructose corn syrup is bad!" I know you think that because we had it when we were little and we're all still alive that it's okay, but they didn't have the research they did back then. It really is one of the worst things we can ingest into our bodies (and I know because we have done research and know the effects). And I want my kids to be healthy. I know, I'm horrible for letting him miss out on pop-drinking at age two. He just might have to go to a support group for it someday.
3. "Wait...where's your kids? Oh yeah...YOU DON'T HAVE ANY!" So until you do, please stop acting like you know anything about what it's really like to have and raise a child. I promise you, they're not that easy to control.
4. "My kids watch TV. So kill me." You say they might end up mindless, ADD children, but I say that my son learned his ABC's from Brainy Baby videos when he was fourteen months old and learned how to count to ten in Spanish from Dora when he was eighteen months old (Though I do loathe Dora). So, no, I don't feel guilty for using the TV as a babysitter when I'm in desperate need to get something done. Like dishes, or showering, or laundry. Or sitting on my back porch with a margarita and a romance novel. Ha!
5. "No, ma'am, my baby isn't hungry. No, ma'am, I'm not neglecting my child." So maybe only the first sentence applies, but when my baby is crying hysterically and you ask me if he is hungry, isn't that what your saying anyway--that I need your helpful prompt to remember that I have a baby in need of me? Lay. Off. He's tired, sick of being in his car seat all day (because to go anywhere we have about three hours of driving time), and basically cries every time I'm not holding him. So if one more old maid in Walmart asks me if my baby is hungry, I'm going to punch you. Okay, maybe not. I'll probably just smile and shake my head, but know that inside, I want to punch you.
6. "Don't talk to me until you do your research." Because I promise you, I have. And I know I'm doing what's best for my children. Even if that's different than what's best for yours. Even if that means you think they're disease-infested, germ spreading children because they're on an alternate vaccine schedule.
7. "Yes, dummy, breast is best." I don't judge anyone for their decision not to breastfeed, and I understand not everyone can--heck, I couldn't breastfeed my first child. So don't tell me I'm not doing what's best by nursing my child. Because, really...your argument sucks. Other than your claim that I need to put myself first and take care of me, and get more sleep at night so I can enjoy my children more during the day, you have nothing to back it up. And I'm sorry I put my baby before me. I'm a mom. I nurture. I nurse. That's what me and my boobs were made for, and that's how I love it. So, lost sleep, sore nipples, and all, I won't stop. And going off of that...
8. "Since when did you become a lactation consultant?" Yes, I have tried everything, and I mean everything, to nurse my baby (speaking of my first). That includes countless nurses, grandmas, aunts, and three real lactation consultants. And everyone was stumped. I spent hours and countless hours up in the night and meeting with people to try to get my baby to nurse. He hated it, no matter how many tears I spilled and how many prayers I prayed--so I could be the mom I wanted to be. So I didn't feel like a failure. In fact, after six weeks of constant refusal from him, I pumped all day, every day, until he was six months old, just so I could feel like I was doing what was best. So do not tell me that you have the magical solution. Because I guarantee I've heard it and tried it. And no, they will not just give in when they get hungry enough. I promise you. And I will not let my child suffer from malnutrition. Just because your babies were good nursers doesn't mean everyone's baby can be.
9. "Talk to me when you have a fussy, high-needs baby." Until then, don't even pretend to know what it's like. It's great your children are angels, sleep when, where, and how you want them to, and are happy laying by themselves, but letting my baby "cry it out" isn't going to change a damn thing. No, I did not make him this way by "loving him too much." My kids have been high maintenance since the second they came out of my lady parts. Baby, they were born this way.
10. "You're right...I am too stupid to realize my child is danger!" Thank you so much for telling me he might fall out of the grocery cart. I don't know what I would do without your eyes. After all, I'm just a mindless breeding machine with a baby wrapped to her chest, a child sitting in the front of the cart, another child in the back, and every other inch of space occupied with groceries. 

Oh wait...I just realized my child is standing because I told him to.  

Because I don't have four arms and can't push two carts to carry all the millions of groceries I buy, and because of those millions of groceries there just isn't enough room for him to sit, and because I live an hour and a half from the nearest Walmart and have to stock up on groceries on the rare occasion I get to go, and because I have to make these long, obnoxious trips to town by myself, and because I don't want my kids to run away from me in the grocery store (I swear, if I did let him out of the cart, he'd be gone in a second)... And because, because, because...

I do what I can. Even if that means one of my children will stand in the back and hold on. 

But what do I know? I'm just a mindless breeding machine.

Whew. Felt good to get that out.

Ode to Camping

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "Share a summer camp memory."

My chic camping look. "No pictures, please."

This writer's workshop was more difficult for me. I hard a hard time coming up with anything, for all five prompts, so this is the one I picked. And I'm not really sharing a specific camp memory because I have way too many to choose from, and one of my most memorable wasn't even from the summer. It was a winter camping trip I took with my husband (then my fiancé), my brother, and a friend. It was memorable because it was quite possibly the most scared I have ever been in all my life. 

And when I say scared, I mean I was actually fearing for my life. 

Because thanks to my brother and fiancé, I was lead to believe I was being hunted by a dangerous predator. Just as I was praying my final repentances before meeting my maker, I learned the predator was actually John and Dave...hiding behind the tent and making the most real-sounding growls and purrs I'd ever heard.

Let's just say I didn't speak a word to either of them the rest of the miserable (yes, it was miserable. I don't recommend winter camping) camping trip, minus the few words I couldn't avoid here and there, like "bastard," "son-of-a-bitch," and "the marriage is over" simple yeses and nos.

This is me sulking in my sleeping bag (I was also freezing) instead of posing with Dave for a picture. He was probably thinking "What am I getting myself into?"

So, instead of delving into the nail-biting details of that story, I'm taking on a different tactic. And though I have many many summer camp memories--some from actual church summer camp when I was a teenager and some from summer camping trips with family, and some from the winter (see the snow in the background of the first picture above?)--I decided to just share one picture per memorable camping trip I've taken as an adult, most taking place when we lived in Idaho.

At Yellowstone National Park the first year of our marriage

This was the camping trip Dave got 42 mosquito bites...just on his back. This was the 2nd year of our marriage. And isn't the backwoods version of my hubby cute?

This is one of the camping experiences I contemplated blogging on. It was our 3rd year of marriage (I was pregnant with Sam) and our old buddies, Steve and Jillian Holiday (Steve is my amazingly talented friend who is graciously editing my MS), and us decided to go huckleberry picking, but ended up spending half the day picking the wrong berries. This picture shows our bliss before we realized that. I have another blog post about it here, but beware: the post was written two years ago and my writing skills were absolutely horrific.

Camping with our old friends and quite possibly our favorite camping buddies, John and Jess Vrabec! Yes, that plaid woodsman on the left is Dave. He likes to look the part when we camp.

This was our only Arizona camping trip, with Brand and Tiffany Stewart and Nick and Destiny Bolinger. It was also Dave's first paintball experience. Tiff, Brand, Nick, and Dave. How we miss these guys.

This was from the same camping trip. Sam was tiny and oh-so cute. And this was the last camping trip I've ever taken. It's been three years, people...three YEARS! I am desperate to go again. But the little brats I've popped out kiddos are 100% worth the wait.

These next 3 photos are from the camping trip with the most amazing landscape I've ever taken. It was another winter/spring camp-out taken when Dave and I were dating (Yes, just dating, since it was between our two engagements. Yes, two engagements). We went with my brother, John, again, and our friend, Andy, to the sand dunes in Southern Colorado. Pretty darn amazing, if you ask me. It was cold, but oh-so fun.

We were mere children.

They were competing for me. Just kidding.

Another camp-out in Idaho, the first year in our marriage. This was in the fall. And the fall in Idaho may as well be the winter.

In front of Mesa Falls (believe it or not, it's not in Arizona), the 2nd year of our marriage.

The Day Cliché Became Reality

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt "Write a dramatic synopsis of a memorable day in your life, as if it was a movie or TV series." 


For extra kicks, imagine it being read in the voice of Don LaFontaine.

When Jennie Davenport walked into the church building on an early Sunday in September of 2002, she couldn't have guessed the way her life would change. Confident, uninterested, and somewhat rebellious, she looked like the last person who belonged there.

It was a ward for single adults--a place where young people paraded themselves in the never-ending and pressurized search to wed the first available object of the opposite sex came to cultivate their love of Christ and strengthen their testimony of the gospel. And though Jennie's eyes remained aloof and her chin was high, she came there craving just that: the spiritual feast she'd been missing out on for nearly two years.

With sweaty palms and tensed muscles, Jennie walked into the meat market church building--anxiety-ridden from being somewhere that used to feel like home.

"I can do this," she told herself.  "I need to do this."

Since returning to the prison comfort of her parents' home one week prior, venturing back to church was one of the things Jennie was looking forward to the most, and when her friend, Katie, convinced her to accompany her to the singles ward on that first Sunday--the first church-going Sunday in nearly two years--every stereotype from the popular Mormon movie, The Singles Ward, shot to the forefront of her mind, and she almost declined.

And almost threw up in her mouth a little, too.

After all, Jennie wasn't single, but was in a very unhealthy, co-dependent, recently turned long distance sound relationship.

But little did she know that she'd receive the very thing that 99% of the Mormon single adult population goes to the singles ward for--the only reason: the cliché gift of an eternal companion.

Not making eye contact with a single soul, she walked through the doors and straight to the emptiest pew, willing the mingling singles to sit and the meeting to start.

Then he came over. The first person to speak to her.

Geez, couldn't he give me at least five minutes to settle in?

"Hi," he said, beaming from ear to ear. He looked fresh on the market...like a newbie to normal society.

A return-missionary.

Every button of his olive-colored suit vest was nicely buttoned and a glow emanated off of him.

Ugh, that glow.

He took his hand out of his pocket, offering it politely. Somewhat reluctantly, Jennie took it. It was warm, nonthreatening, and...nice.

His eyes were nice, too. Blue and sincere.

"I'm Dave," he continued. "I just got home from my mission three weeks ago."

And...there it was. Jennie forced a smile. A return missionary was the last thing she needed in her life--spiritually bombarding, innocent, eager.

But then Jennie found out she and the RM had something in common. Dave had served his mission in Huntington Beach, California, in the very home ward Jennie had grown up in. They knew the same people, enjoyed the same smell of that old, white church building.

And despite her objections, she wondered if it was a sign.

Will Jennie dump her dangerous boyfriend and fall in love with this faithful, strapping man, leaving her rebellious life to the wayside?

And will this fresh return-missionary be persistent enough to win over a stubborn, struggling woman?

**Spoiler Alert**

He was. And he did.

Passion or Hobby?

*Inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "What are you passionate about?"

I have a lot of things I am passionate about. My children, my family, my God, the gospel, creativity, individuality, writing, nursing my children (I know that sounds strange being squished in with the rest of that stuff, but it's true--with all I've learned and experienced, I'm passionate about nursing my babies...and the subject of nursing in general).

But I picked this prompt because of the way it got me thinking. I mean, you can tell just from the "About Me" section on my blog that writing is my greatest passion...but is it really?

Put everyone and everything out of the picture and focus on only me, then, yes. Writing is my passion. I know I love it deeper than any hobby. It makes me feel alive and like...well, like me. It's the one way I can express myself. Joy, love, satisfaction--all those come to mind when writing. And, as I've admitted before, it sometimes haunts my thoughts and I find myself yearning to escape life and do only that.

Only sometimes though.

Take my "self-indulgent" side out of the picture and writing leaves the equation. Yes, I want to share my writing with the world, want to show the world what I labor over. But when everything is stripped away and it's down to the wire--the wire that asks the dreaded question, "If everything was taken from you, except for one thing, what would you want it to be?"--my family easily tops the list of my passions.

Easily.

Nothing else matters, really. If I didn't have my family, I would have nothing. Be nothing.

My children are my life, the very thing that keeps the blood pumping through my veins and the inspiration in my heart. Without them, I couldn't write like I do. I didn't even find the passion and courage inside me to write until I had Sam. Because it was then that I knew I was a strong woman who could do anything I set my mind to. Suddenly, I had something to write for. They say to write what you know, and what I knew was the greatest love humanly possible--a love that everything else can be built upon.

And inspiration was born.

My children fueled my passion, thus making them the greatest passion.

And in the next life, my family is what I want with me. Even more than my most beloved manuscript.

Cheerios and Bed Fires

*Inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "Write about a time you got in BIG trouble as a kid."

This one is kind of difficult for me, since I practically never got in trouble as a kid. No, really. Ask my mom and dad. I was the bee's knees.

The bee's knees who was co-conspirator to my thirteen-months-younger-than-me brother. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don't really remember.

Either way, we were perfect. I mean, just look at us. Little angels.


I also don't remember sneaking downstairs to make sure our beloved grandma was preoccupied with Days of Our Lives (she watched us in our pre-kindergarten years while Mom worked), and then trying to find as many ways we could to wreak havoc in such a short window of opportunity.

Okay, so maybe this is difficult for me because there are too many acts to choose from. Like...

Dumping a whole box of Cheerios down all the heater vents in the upstairs bedrooms.

Ripping open and dumping out all of our older sister's Equal packets under the kitchen table and making an Equal dune for our little men (our index and middle finger), who were starving in the desert.

Popping out the second story window screen so we could throw out as many toys as possible in that little time we had before Grandma would run outside and pick them up, yelling and raising her fist at us from below (and probably cursing, too)...while we laughed at her and continued to throw more toys down on top of her.

And last, but certainly NOT least: Setting my parents' bed on fire. We were just "camping," okay? Our intentions were innocent and precious when putting our favorite Siamese Cat lamp on the bed, topping it with a blanket, and then sitting beneath it while we pretended to be warmed from the glow of a lantern, somewhere deep in the forest.

Cute, right?

Well, for some reason I still don't get, neither Grandma OR Mom saw the cuteness when the bed caught fire and the lamp burnt a large hole straight through to the other side of the mattress.

And funny thing (aside from the fact that we still used that mattress until many years later--and when I say we I mean our sister), I honestly can't remember the specific punishments for any of these things. Rather, between the ages of three and five, all I can remember is feeling my parents' (and any caretaker my mom would give us) constant oppression.

Okay, so I admit. I got in trouble ALL the time as a child. But who didn't at that tender, young age?

It was AFTER that point when I became the perfect angel.

**Sheesh, after this I feel like I owe a HUGE apology to my parents...and mostly to my grandma, God rest her magnetic-lovable-stubborn soul. I'm so sorry for making you sob on almost a daily basis, and for probably being one of the main causes of your graying hair.

I'm sorry for throwing things at you when, really, I thought you were the greatest person around.

I'm sorry for lying when you asked if we were conniving. Really, we were "kniving."

And thinking back on this has helped me remember just what it feels like to be a child. It brings me back to the evil, skewed inner-workings of a child's mind, who cannot comprehend the consequences when doing something outright bad and mischievous. And making adults look like the fool in the process.

I get it now, kiddos, I get it.

Ten Reasons I Love You

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writers workshop prompt "List ten favorite things about one of your favorite people"...and by my husband of course. :)


I thought long and hard about this, not because it was difficult to come up with ten things I love about you, Dave, but because I didn't know how to condense it all into only ten things. You're the best husband in the world, and that says it all, but here are some reasons why:

1. Honest. And sometimes, to a fault, some women might say. But I don't. Maybe I don't really want to know the honest answer to "Does this make me look fat?" but that's why I just don't ask anymore. Not unless I want the honest-to-goodness truth. And I love that about you because I know I will always get a straight answer about anything and everything. Besides, it's not hard to tell when you're lying.
2. Reasonable, easy to communicate with, and realistic. So, I know that's three separate things, but they're closely related. You're the farthest from fake I know and you posses these certain qualities better than anyone I've ever met. And the way you can look at things from a logical point of view helps keep me grounded.
3. Ever-enduring. You have been through hell and back in your life, and I admire you more than anyone for the man you've become through everything. I look to you as an example.
4. Humble enough to admit when you're wrong. ...when you're wrong. And it doesn't happen very often. No, always being right doesn't deserve it's own number because that sometimes drives me crazy. But it makes me realize how insanely lost I'd be without you. And when you are wrong, you're the first to admit it. It's a trait not many people have, in my experience, and you have it down to a T.
5. Loyal and trustworthy, with a heart of Gold. Like, in an old-fashioned way that is hard to come by nowadays. I don't have to worry that you're living a double life or anything scandalous like that, because I know you love your family more than anything else in this life. And you would bend over backwards and do anything for those people you love.
6. Father of the Year. The way you love our children makes me love you even more. And the way they love you melts my heart like nothing else can. Our boys are your life, and it shows. I love that even when you feel at your worst, you can put it aside and play with them as though life was perfect. The song they sing every day when you get home says it all: I'm so glad when Daddy gets home, glad as I can be...
   
   
7. Loves God. I love that when I'm feeling spiritual anxiety, your spiritual strength can lift me and make me feel the warmth of my own testimony all over again.
8. Supportive. You respect me as a woman who has lost a bit of herself in motherhood and supports the dreams I still have. Your encouragement means more to me than anyone else's. Even the agents and editors I dream about talking to one day. The way you remind me that a negative attitude can hinder my success as a writer keeps me optimistic and plugging along.
9. Dedicated and Hardworking. And more so than anyone I know. When your mind is set on something, you don't stop until you've accomplished it. I stood by you through getting your degree, admiring the way you pushed forward and conquered every class, despite what you feel are academic weaknesses. And even though you wonder sometimes if your career is really what you want/should be doing, you do it, and do it hard.
   
   
   
10. You love me. Even when I don't look and act my best. Even in my weaknesses. And that means the world to me. There are no two people better suited for each other than you and me, and I'm grateful every day that you see that, too.

I love you, babe. Thank you for being persistent in winning me over when we first met. Even though I was "too tall" for you.

The Nerd and the Cheerleader

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's weekly writer's workshop, with the prompt, "Explain how you met your best friend."

“Look at her,” I whispered to my brother, discretely pointing to the girl on the corner. Stylish clothes, platinum hair, trendy makeup job over a beautiful face…and no smile. “I bet she’s so stuck up,” I finished, folding my arms uncomfortably over myself. Her arms were folded, too, but probably because she thought herself better than us newbies.

We had just moved to Idaho Falls and it was our first day of school—my Freshman year and my brother’s eighth. He didn’t respond to my assumption. He probably knew I was just jealous.

As we waited on the corner for the bus to arrive, my stomach twisted madly inside at what lie ahead. And seeing this cute girl, who apparently lived just one street over—great—made it worse. Was everyone going to be this way at Clair E. Gale Middle School? Would there be anyone I could connect with?

Nudging my brother, furthering my desire to feel better about myself, I harrumphed. “I bet she’s even a cheerleader.”

Later that morning, while all the students congregated on the lawn outside the school, a girl from my church who I’d met the previous Sunday approached with none other than blondie from the bus stop. “Hey, Jennie!” she beamed, “remember my friend I told you about?”

I gulped a guilty breath. “Yes…”

Well, turns out, blondie’s name was Chloe. Turns out, blondie was in fact a cheerleader.

But she was also the sweetest, most compassionate girl I ever met. And I felt horrible.

Come to find out, Chloe was shy, too, which explained her aloofness at the bus stop. And even funnier, she told me years later that when she first saw me at the bus stop, she thought I was a snob. Ick. I never thought I was, but maybe judging someone without knowing their story made me one. Lesson learned.

But from that first day, Chloe and I clicked better than I’ve ever clicked with anyone, and to this day—fifteen years, lots of boyfriends, 2 husbands, and 6.5 children later—we are the best of besties. Even when we’ve gone months without talking, or years without seeing each other (like right now), we can pick up that phone and have a conversation as though we just spoke the day before. She gets me. I get her. We are the same in so many, quirky ways.

She is talented, artistic, and beautiful, and can connect to me on a wavelength special only to us. She is my sister and my best girlfriend. Chloe, I love you.

High School or Hell?

*This post is inspired by Mama Kat's weekly writer's workshop. The prompt was "If you could go back to high school, what would you do differently?"

Anyone who knew me in high school knows I was shy, self-conscious, and just plain dorky…to put it lightly. Don’t get me wrong. I had an amazing, select group of friends who gave me memories I will always cherish. To you girls: I will love you forever.


But for the most part, the first word that surfaces in my mind when trying to sum up my high school experience is...Hell.

Besides to those few who knew me well, I kept myself locked inside—because in all reality, I didn’t know who I was to begin with. Every negative experience, every setback, was utterly traumatic to the emotional teenage girl I was, and since I was shy and closed-off, my teenage years were filled to the brim with them.

Just walking through the crowded hallways between each class was unnerving and gave me anxiety. Being looked at or recognized by anyone was scary—even by the boy I’d been crushing on at the time. Crazy, right? What teenage girl doesn’t thrill at that “cosmic, I’m-gonna-mary-him” eye connection? Well, even though I gushed about it in my journal, I just plain hated it. Hated the vulnerability, hated the exposure. Even from Bill and Bob*, the two guys I was sure I’d end up marrying someday.

And no, I didn’t. (No regrets there, by the way)

*We will give them fake names in order to avoid embarrassment on both parts...or maybe just because these were the actual code names my girlfriends and I used.

To those boys: Even though I’d shrink and run the other way when you’d make eye contact with me in the hall, really I was pathetically, madly in love with you…

Because instead of adoring myself, I put all my emotion into someone I spoke no more than one word to on a daily basis and claimed it “love.”

Atrocious haircuts, awkward-fitting clothes, no sense of self-worth, zero confidence: I was the very definition of the term “crawling in my skin.” It was a sad, depressing time, really. Letting my raging teenage emotions get the best of me, letting them affect friendships, opportunities to branch out, and—back to those boys again—even boyfriends.

Oh wait. BoyFRIEND.

Yes, that’s right. One. And I’m surprised I even had him, though I only had him for a month. I was so uncomfortable and unsure of who I was that I didn’t know how to act in any intimate setting. My dearest friends knew me and loved me, and when with them I could be the strange, silly, and funny girl I was...


...Or even the empathetic girl I was—always the first one there when anyone needed an ear to listen or a shoulder to cry on.

But put me around kids who loved being the center of attention, loved bringing other people down, and insults and glares would brutally throw me back into the dark hole I’d dug since the first day of middle school. The hole that had become home. Home, sweet-nauseating, home.

Gabby girls linking arms on the way to the cafeteria: keep those loving limbs away from me and my insecure bubble.

BoyFRIEND going in for the kiss or the hand, especially while walking through the hall swimming with judgmental teenagers: forget it. Kill me now, and What do I say, and How do I act running in a panic stream through my mind.

What would they—the beautiful, bold, cheerful and sometimes mean students—think of the star basketball player touching the girl with uneven dishwater hair, a baggy sweatshirt, and jeans too short for her daddy-long-leg legs? What would they think of the nobody? Surely they’d see the couple as a misfit, just as she so clearly does.

And so they did. And so did he. Do I blame him? Not in the slightest.

So what would I do differently?

I’d love myself. Pure and simple.

And not for those boys or even those teens who smashed my self esteem into the ground, but for me.