What I Miss Most

1. My family. On both sides: mine, in Utah (my parents soon-to-be), and Dave's in Colorado. And no, I'm not just saying that to avoid offense. I actually happen to love my in-laws, for realsies.

The Coltharp Clan (my fam) last summer. Dave, Me, Josh, Sam, Cindi, Braxton, Aaron, Heather, Mike, Reagan, Jonah, Jordan, Mom, Dad, John (his wife and kids were missing that day), Brian, Leslie, Alexa, Ayla, and Brigham.

The Meyers girls: Jen, Mary, Mom, and Jess (Dave's sisters and mom), and us. 

2. My bestie. Am I allowed to use that word even though I'm not a teenager? Doesn't matter, because I just did. I haven't seen her in four years, minus the one hour I got to spend with her last month--an hour of chasing after and disciplining our kids instead of deep, meaningful conversation.

My brother, John, and Chloe, when she lived with us our senior year of high school. No, it's wasn't Halloween. That's just another example of the craziness that is my family. And I love it.

3. Colorado.

Castlewood Canyon, one of Dave and I's favorite spots when we were dating. We even carved our name at the base of a rock under the little waterfall. It's hard to see the waterfall, but it's there. And I know it looks tiny here, but it's really not. We had to repel down the canyon side to get to it, and the waterfall itself is actually about fifteen feet tall.

4. My body. Oh, gosh, how I miss my pre-baby body. Before my boobs deflated, my stomach stretched, and my hips widened.

That's a climbing wall harness around my waist.

5. When Friday night actually meant something. Like a date, a late night, and a late morning of sleeping in the next day. Sometimes naked. Yes, I said it.
6. Living close to civilization. Like doctors or a mall or normal restaurants or fast-food, or even Walmart.
7. My pre-baby hair. When it didn't fall out just from running my hand through it. When I wasn't worried I might go bald. When it wasn't horrid.

From blond and pretty, to dingy and flabby (I'm talking about me, by the way, not Dave). Man, we were young.

8. Bauer. My cat and Jack. 

Back in the day, during season five of 24, when the Holidays and us would have "24 night." And I'm comfortable showing a picture of me stuffing my face with popcorn here, because I know I'm not the only one who loves to stuff her face.

Bauer, on Easter.

9. Me time. Having time to myself that isn't at eleven o'clock at night.
10. This. I know I already said my family, but this is separate than that. I miss the crazy, wacky, silliness that is me and my siblings.

Cindi, John, Me, Brian, and Heather.

Joining the BlogHop!

This post is on behalf of the FIRST annual Boy Mom BlogHop, hosted by the M.O.B. Society (A blog community for moms of boys, BY moms of boys). So here's a little about me, my boys, and this blog.

I'm Jennie, and I'm a mom to three very blond boys: Sam, who is 4.5 (that .5 is very important to him), Josh, who is 2.5 (and that .5 is very important to me), and Luke, who is seven months old. So between them, my hubby, and our new puppy, Zeus, I'm pretty outnumbered in our house. And one day, when the boys' testosterone levels skyrocket, I'll need some serious help. Seriously.

I post about everything under the sun on this blog, including funny things my kids do/say, updates on our little family, my own rants (that's a big one, and my bad temper is a common trend), and many writing prompts to fill in the in-betweens.

Along with being a SAHM, I'm a writer and aspiring author. I love to write, and that's what occupies most of my free time late at night, when the house is asleep and my mind can finally breathe. I've written three novels, two of which are still in the extensive editing process. I hope to get published someday, but I'm not sure where the road is going to take me. And there's a lot about that journey I also share on this blog.

My kids like any books with letters and numbers, and my oldest loves learning and "writing" on my computer (opens MS Word and types random letters, etc.), as well as any computer game. Even if he doesn't have the slightest clue what it is or how to play. He would be on the computer all day if he could, where as Josh would be at a park all day if he could.

I love a good book, a great movie, or a well-written TV show, I love the outdoors and spending time with my family, I love chocolate and carbs (or eating general), I love some good, dry humor, I call my kiddos "children of the corn" on a regular basis, and I absolutely LOVE being a M.O.B.

And I'm always happy to meet other bloggers!

Dear Future Me

*Post inspired by the the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "A Letter to You, Part 2." A month ago, the prompt was to write a letter to your sixteen-year-old self, and this time it's a letter to yourself ten years in the future.

What can I say? I'm sure you're much wiser than me, so I'll steer clear of the advice route. We both know how you hate preachy advice, especially when it's given by people younger and more naive than you.

But I do hope all your dreams have come true, Older Me. I hope you can proudly say you have a few more novels under your belt, maybe some even published. Maybe by now you've actually gotten recognized for the talents you have.

And hopefully you're confident enough that you can actually call it a talent now.

As you know, it's taken us a while to come into our own and really figure out who we are. And I hope, Older Me, that you're even more sound in that. I hope you don't let the little things get you down and make you feel bad about yourself.

And I really hope you can confidently stand in a place that fits all your beliefs and viewpoints--in a place your past self is still struggling to find. You're voice should be sharpened by now, more in tune in your head. And that means you won't be afraid to say what you think or feel what you feel.

And even though we swore off children after Luke, I'm willing to bet money that you have more. A girl, maybe? I hope so. Because with three boys who are going through puberty, you'll need some extra estrogen to balance that out.

I'm scared for you, having to deal with three teenage boys and all the yucky that comes along with it. So, good luck with that, Older Me. I snicker, only because I'm a procrastinator and I don't have to worry about yet.

But I bet your boys are really cool, and I bet you and Dave love hanging out with them. I bet Sam is either in choir or theater or something. And Josh has gotta be in football. Luke? Maybe the best of both worlds. I'm sure they're so great, and I can only imagine just how much you love them.

Don't stop loving your husband. Ever. Don't let the spark fizzle. The kids are older now and that means you have no excuses. No newborn babies (hopefully). So you better be going on dates (even if you have to be the one to initiate them), and maybe even getting away for a weekend or two every now and then.

Please don't lose your faith. Life and people suck sometimes, and I'm sure it's even worse now. I don't want to imagine what you've had to endure. But there is good out there, and the gospel is true, no matter what the people in the church, or the organization, have done.

Continue to raise good boys and enjoy life. And please...work on that temper. Because I know you still have it.

Oh...and remember, you're only thirty-eight. You're not old and decrepit...yet. So keep working out and keeping that body looking tip-top (HA!).

Love,
Twenty-eight-year-old You

P.S. I bet you're laughing at how horribly written this is, aren't you? Either that or cringing. Because I'm sure you're the most fabulous writer on the planet by now.

Dare to Share: When I Grow Up

*Post inspired by the the Lightning and the Lightning-bug Dare to Share prompt, "When I grow up."

This week for the Dare to Share Link Up I'd like you to link to a post about your dream job, what you wanted to be when you grew up as a child...what you want to be now. Tell us about your dreams and how you're going to make them come true. This post can be old or new, fiction or nonfiction, poetry or prose.

The lights are blinding, but I know what's before me. So many voices, all screaming my name; a sea of adoring, shouting fans. All chanting. For me.

I try not to squint into the spotlight and instead smile, widely. I even take a little bow; not too overdone, but tasteful. Elegant.

As I bring the microphone to my mouth and a hush washes over the crowd, I feel my quickened heartbeat. I raise my hands in anticipation for the first note of the song I just wrote and recorded last month.

And I sing my heart out, the feel of the microphone in my hand and the stage beneath my feet the best sensations I ever experienced. My voice carries, to everyone and everything, and it frees me. And I hope it frees them, too.

And that microphone is the best gift the universe has ever given me.

That used to be my dream. As a child, a teenager, and even as a young adult. I loved the rush that singing on a stage provided and whenever I was presented with the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" a singer/songwriter was all I could fathom. Nothing else fit. It was unrealistic, I knew. And so did everyone else, telling me it was impossible to make it in that industry. And they were right. But it was all I wanted.

And then I got married, had kids. I realized that my new responsibilities could never allow for that, not with the amount of attention I wanted to devote to my family. Besides, I wasn't that good anyway.

So I took my love for words, prose, literature, and reading, and turned it into a hobby. I decided to start writing, just for fun. I was a SAHM and drowning in a lack of hobbies. And writing was a perfect solution.

But then I became hooked. I realized just how much I actually loved it. Who knew I could write?

I couldn't stop, even though I did it all in secret. I told no one of my new passion, not even my husband. And I'd quickly hide my work whenever he'd enter the room, in a oh-no-I'm-looking-at-porn sorta way. I was too much of a rookie and had way too much to learn. Really, I was a joke. And people would laugh at me if they knew I was writing.

Or worse, they'd ask to see my work.

But then my husband got suspicious I was looking at gorgeous hunks on the internet it came out. And surprisingly (though it shouldn't have been surprising), my family was more supportive than ever. My husband even allowed me time away from the kid to feed my passion, because he wanted to be married to a famous author who'd rake in the dough so he could quit his job cared about my interests and wanted me to feel like me again.

And I did feel like me. More me than I'd ever felt, actually. Finally, I had found MY passion. THE thing that made me me and allowed me to express myself. I'd thought it was in singing (don't get me wrong, singing and music is still a huge love of mine), but I was wrong. And it only took me until I was twenty-four to find it.

Eventually, I finished my first novel. Then I wrote another. And another. And though the road from start to now (I don't say "finish" because I know I'm still at the beginning of this journey) has been eye-opening, painful, and a huge learning experience, it has been so rewarding.

Because with writing, I've found out who I really am and what I'm capable of. Because of writing, I feel I have purpose, aside from being the mom of three boys and the wife to another boy.

I fell in love, and even though we argue and have cold spells, I continue to fall in love every moment I spend with it.

So, instead of doing the career that's nearly impossible to make a living in, I chose a career dream that's even more impossible to make a living in: novel writing. This is a difficult time to be heard as a fiction writer, more difficult than it ever has been. Renowned editor and author, Pat Walsh, said that out of everyone trying to publish with a traditional publisher, only 2% will succeed. Yes, that's right. TWO PERCENT.

And that was a few years ago. It's even harder now.

So, though the odds may not be in my favor, I will continue to write, revise, submit, revise, and revise (did I say revise?). Because if I don't, I'm not so sure I'd survive.

Okay, I would. It just wouldn't be pretty.

And who knows, maybe I'll even go the new and more recently accepted route of self-publishing. Or even self-epublishing (seems to be the new trend). We'll see where the road takes me.

So until then, I go back to revising.

So that, just maybe, one day my dream of seeing my novel on a Borders Barnes & Noble shelf can come true.

Pour Your Heart Out, "Bad" Mommy

Sometimes I'm not a good mom. The secret's out. Actually, it's no secret. Unfortunately, I think anyone who watches me parent for longer than an hour can see it.

And I'm not talking about the little things. Like the fact that I sometimes act like I don't know they're getting into trouble just because I don't want to deal with it. Again. Because I've already wasted so much of my breath telling them that day NOT to do what they're doing.

Or that I sometimes give them stickers after they've begged for them, just because I want something to occupy their time. Even though I HATE that they put them on EVERYTHING.

Or that I call them by the wrong name ALL the time, sometimes going through all of their names before I figure out who it is I'm actually talking to. Yes, Mom, I've turned into you in that way. I'm sorry for giving you crap about that when I was younger.

Or that I don't give them baths every single day. And some days I even forget to brush their teeth. And make them wash their hands.

Sometimes I even go weeks without trimming their nails. Horrific, I know.

It's not even those things that brand me a "bad parent," in my mind. If you've read my blog, you've heard me mention more than a few times that I have the worst patience in the world.

In fact, I'm sure I don't have any left at all. Just ask my children and my husband. And the handful of customers at the gas station that heard/saw me blow up at Sam in the car while Dave was filling up. I yelled. Loudly. Even maybe screamed a little but.

And people stared. And Dave was embarrassed. He told me he'd never been so embarrassed as an adult.

Yep. Ouch. Talk about being put in your place.

But I deserve that, I really do. I've been working on it, hard. I've been trying really hard not to yell at my kids when they frustrate me and talk over me and try telling me what to do. Or scream in my face, "No!" repeatedly while I'm trying to instruct them.

Breathe, I tell myself, even now, because just thinking about it speeds my heart and heats my core.

And if I don't gain some measure of control over it, I fear I'll have a heart attack by the time I'm 35. Either that or a whole head of gray hair (IF I have any left by then). Sometimes I just don't feel cut out for the parenting thing.

Because I know it's not my kids who need to change. It's me, 100%. They're just being kids. It's the name of the game. I'm the one who's acting up.

And I know, I know. Every mom feels that way at some point. And I know everyone's kids drive them crazy, and every mom loses it. But I do feel a little more out of control than most, a little less tolerant.

Okay, a lot less tolerant.

And I don't get it. I don't get why I can't handle things in the same way other people can, or how I can be filled with so much rage or frustration, when at the same time I'm filled with so much love for the little people that drive me to insanity. Because really, my favorite thing in this entire world, no matter my mood, is hugs and kisses from my kids.

So how do I calm myself, how do I feel normal inside, so I can actually feel like a decent mom? I know I've made posts similar to this before, but it is PYHO Wednesday. So I'm taking advantage. Again.

I don't like being this way. I don't like that every little thing gets under my skin and I react before I can stop it. I hate it, and I want to change. And I'm trying. But some days, I just don't feel I can measure up.

Some days, I just want to cry.

Davenport 411

Lately, my blog has been full of fun posts, gripe sessions, writing exercises, and pictures, so I thought, in the midst of all that, it was time for an update. Especially with the news we got yesterday.

Luke
Luke had his six-month checkup last week and is in the tenth percentile for weight and height, so even though he's small, he's proportionate. He loves rolling around on the floor and is just itching to get up and go. He'll be figuring out the scooting/crawling thing any day now. He started on solids a few weeks ago and absolutely loves to eat. Loves it.

He loves to mimic sounds and we have some pretty lengthy "conversations" together. His new favorite thing to do, besides smacking his lips together, is spitting and blowing bubbles. Which I love, because that means Sam has to out-do him in the "spit" area. And spitting isn't a pet peeve of mine at all.

We had Luke's follow-up urology appointment in Phoenix yesterday, and I had high hopes. Especially after the last appointment a few months ago, when the doctor said the chances of surgery were slim and he was feeling hopeful. He'd said that if the testicle continued to drop at the rate it had been, chances were, we'd be able to leave it be.

That's what I was expecting. But, to my surprise, the testicle is still pretty high in his lower abdomen and it hasn't budged since he was four months old. So, now my little guy needs surgery.

They can't get it scheduled until about two months from now, so in the meantime I will keep an eye on it and if it miraculously comes down on its own, we can cancel the surgery. But it's very unlikely that that will happen. So, until then, I'm trying not to get too concerned, like the overly emotional mom I am in situations like that. I'm putting off the stressful worry until the time comes. Trying not to dwell on the way it feels to have a baby under a year old getting surgery, even though I've been through it twice with Sam.

And it's not like I have anything to worry about. The risks are very low (if any at all), it's a standard surgery, and on top of that, it's out-patient. No staying at a horrid hospital. They're just going to make a small incision where it's at, bring it down and "tack" it in place (in a nutshell).

And that way, even though his risk of testicular cancer is now 10-14% higher because of this, it will now be more available to monitor throughout his life, and will allow it to continue developing as it should (to say the least).

Josh
Josh is my cuddle-bug, and I hope he always will be. He is doing SO great with his speech and talking all the time now. Even when I don't understand what he's saying. He's started putting two, and sometimes three, words together and even says a couple sentences. His speech therapist is so proud of him, and so are we. The first time I heard him say, "Mommy, what's this?" I about peed my pants.

He loves to copy everything his older brother does, but still has a stubborn mind of his own. He still loves giving hugs, and I'm not so sure I want him growing up. Ever.

He calls every letter of the alphabet E, O, and I, can count to five, calls every color yellow or blue, calls pie (and any sugary treat) cake, loves to sing his heart out (one of his favorites is Tonight, Tonight), and calls himself Spongebob when he wears his yellow shirt.

Oh, and he still loves to eat paper. And I'm still stumped on why that is and how to get him to stop. It drives me nuts.

I just had to add this silly picture of him from when he was about 9 months old, because it shows his lovable cheesiness perfectly.

Sam
Where do I start on Sam? Between all his Samisms, laughs, hugs, "I love yous," and smiles, Sam drives me up a wall. Like, I really think I might go bonkers most days. And I feel guilty that he gets on my every last nerve, because our kids aren't supposed to annoy us like that, right?

Well, whether or not he's supposed to, he does. And it makes me remember just why I've never really liked kids. Because four-year-olds are the worse.

But they're also the best. The most forgiving, and the most loving. Even though you yell at them all the time, to the point where you aren't even sure when the last time was you spoke at a normal level. He's super super stubborn, doesn't listen when we tell him no, bites back at every turn, and screams in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I do love him, though. So much. He's my intelligent old soul. We were talking about old souls the other day and Sam came to mind. From the first moment I looked into his eyes at the hospital, I've known he was an old soul. And who am I to raise such a strong, intelligent, wise spirit in this world? Me, who has the worse temper known to man, who falls short all the time as a mother and wife.

It's humbling, and I feel put in my place every time I look into his eyes. Like even though he doesn't realize it, he knows so much more than I do.

Anyway, here's his latest Samism (I couldn't resist):

• Calls Josh "Dude" sometimes.
• Then follows up with calling him a "Loser." Not so happy about that one.
• When I told him not to step on a certain piece of paper on the floor, he replied, "I'm stepping on your mom." Guess we should stop the "yer mom" jokes around him.
• Has always drank his sippy-cup in a "Sam" way, from the side so he can see all that's going on around him.
• Found Dave's padlock and asked if it was a timer for robots.
• Told me when I was talking in an Australian accent that I needed to "stop talking like an old man."
• When seeing the Bush's Baked Beans at the store, he says, "Can we get some secret family recipe?"
• When I tell him to stop whining, he says, "I'm not whining, I'm complaining!"
• Says "Aw, tarter sauce!" when something bothers him.
• Made an imaginary world on the other side of the elliptical called "Ketzwell," and escapes there frequently.
• When looking at his sandwich I made him, he pointed to it and said, "See this mustard?" I said, "Yes..." Then he whispered, "It's made of puzzles."
• Watched us playing Phase 10 one night and said, "I used to play this card game all the time, when I was a grandpa."

Precious, lovable, quirky four-year-old.

Me
I made it a goal to get back into my exercise routine every day, because in seeing recent pictures of me, I realized just how "wide" I've become. And it's hard for me to swallow. Plus, I have to get in shape for the cruise we're going on September 2012. It's a must. So no more eating a sleeve of oreos at a time, or eating junk at 10pm. And no more eating until I'm full, and then some. I will change my eating habits, and I will get in shape.

I just finished completely rewriting my first novel, which was unexpected, since, really, it was hopeless. And since I have tunnel vision and can't focus on more than one project at a time, that's the only thing that made up the minutes of my free time, after the kids went to bed or while the boys were napping (on the days I actually could). I started it just for fun, but then, in falling in love with the characters all over again, I realized I couldn't stop and I wanted to re-create their world. So even though the story still has no hope, in the sense of this dog-eat-dog publishing world, it's still so much better than it was and I fell in love with the story all over again.

Next, I'm going to start re-editing my other novels, the ones with more promise in the publishing world. And since my kids and my writing are really the only thing of merit about me, there's nothing else to really report on. I'd report on Dave, but aside from the point that there's nothing really to report on other than the every-day grind of his job, he doesn't like me getting into the personal stuff. I still haven't converted him to my blogging ways.

So, until I do, that's about all.

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.

Dear awkward, naive, sixteen-year-old self...

You know how you've always liked to write long, meaningful letters? Well, here's what one from the future looks like:

It's been quite a crazy and rewarding twelve years. You actually ended up where you hoped you would be: the wife to a wonderful, supportive, and faithful husband, and the mother to three fantastic children. It was all you ever wanted, really, since you could never put your finger on what you actually wanted to do with your life.

But even though you got what you wanted, be aware that you veered pretty far off the course to get there.

And you know what, past self? Though those certain obstacles and "bad" decisions in our life delayed the rewarding outcome, don't regret them. Because all our mistakes and life experiences--difficult and joyous--have made us who we are today. And we are pretty proud of that.

So, live life. Make the mistakes you will at one point regret. Because without them, you won't have a full understanding or appreciation for the Savior and His atonement. You won't have the life experience and character you now have. And you might not even have the open-minded view you now own.

One thing to look forward to: You realize you're pretty healthy after all, even after the Epstein Bar and depression episodes. You have a great immune system and can actually handle sleepless nights with a tinge of grace.

You love to run (imagine that), and you actually have your own sense of style. I know, that's hard to believe, isn't it? But you now know how to match, what styles do and don't fit your body type, and you only wear what makes you comfortable--not what you think you should wear.

Plus, there's a great show called What Not to Wear, from which you've learned a few helpful lessons.

Though you'll still have a hard time with it, you will learn how to say "no" to people and be slightly less of a pushover. Only slightly though. Maybe in twelve more years from now, forty-year old us will say it's not a problem at all.

You're not a singer, like you always wished you could be. In fact, your singing glory days were in high school, unfortunately. You haven't even sang in church in years, though you wish to. But you do still have that embedded passion for music. It still moves you in a way that nothing else can. Be proud of the fact that that's always been inside of you. In fact, don't feel embarrassed about any of the things that move you.

Despite your fears of what kind of a mother you'll be, especially because of your distaste for children, know that you will actually be a pretty great mom. There will be times when you won't feel like it, but you are. And you will love them without even trying. You'll love your kids, you'll actually know how to wear the mommy pants, and you'll be proud of it.

And you're proud to wear the wife pants, too. Sometimes they're old, dirty sweats (more times than we care to admit), and sometimes they're a little more appealing. Sexy even. I know, it's not a word in your vocabulary yet because you can't comprehend such an idea, but you will learn it's just one more thing that makes you, you.

Don't be afraid of intimacy, in any light.

And don't be afraid of sex. I know, you will blush when reading this because you aren't very open-minded about the idea, but that will change. There's nothing to fear. And it's actually pretty great.

Your husband loves you a great deal, and believe it or not, he finds you pretty desirable. He even claims he is the luckiest man in the world. And though you will not understand or believe him, take in his compliments.

Oh, and enjoy your smooth stomach while you have it. Because one day, after children, there will be nothing there but saggy, stretch-marked skin. But you will also be grateful because of what those scars have earned you. Your children are your life. And though they take on some of the traits you hate in yourself, you love it in them.

You will learn how to cook. Don't be so afraid of it. Your husband will give you all the pointers for a good foundation when you get married, and from there, you'll teach yourself. And half the time, you'll actually be quite decent at it.

Now, here's something you might not want to hear: you are still strangely proportioned, physically awkward, and uncoordinated. I know you hoped and daydreamed of one day growing into your long arms and legs, and maybe even getting better hair and a longer neck. But it doesn't happen.

In fact, sometimes you will feel even more uncoordinated than you once were. And you'll blame that on the beautiful children. You will hear this a lot in life, but it's true: pregnancy and raising children makes you scatter-brained.

Did I mention you have amazing, beautiful, strong-spirited children? Three boys, who will drive you nuts but make you feel like the most important, blessed girl on the planet. And that list you made with all the qualities you want in a future husband? You got them.

Well, all of them except the height. You don't marry someone tall. Sorry.

But his strengths will more than make up for it. He will see in you what you will still be struggling to see in yourself years down the road. And you are still very in love three children and eight years of marriage later.

So don't fret so much over the boy who broke your heart. No, he is not your future husband. No, you don't really love him. Yes, you will be happily married one day. And no, the cares and stresses you are experiencing now are not the most dire problems you will ever experience.

Don't worry so much about what other people think, please. The girls with Abercrombie & Fitch plastered to their perfect bodies don't know crap about what makes a girl special.

But you do. You know your divine heritage, and that you are a special, beautiful daughter of God. You know this. So please remember it, and let it fill you with confidence. Enjoy yourself and stop worry about the little things!

Oh...and pay better attention in math. We both know it's not our strong suit, but that doesn't mean you don't have to try.

And, confused, self-conscious girl: you will find your passion someday. You might not find it until later in life, after you've had your first child, but be aware of it. Recognize that your love for literature, English, poetry, and art stems from your destined purpose to write.

Yes, you are a writer. And it will be hard for you to call yourself that sometimes, because feeling inadequate is what you're best at, but you are a writer. Even without a degree, awards, or published work. Finally, you will find something you're good at, something that makes you feel special and passionate.

And thanks in partial to something called "blogging," you will be able to let your voice be heard. You will be able to pour your heart out and say what you really mean. You will find just who you are.

You have a lot to look forward to. Soak up every memorable moment in your life. Soak up the love that comes your way, and learn what you can from the hatred. You will be proud of who you become. You will realize one day that you wouldn't trade a thing in your life. And you will find yourself thanking God everyday for the path He's put you on and the people He's blessed you with in your life.

The things your future self is most proud of:

• The beautiful creations that are your children
• A happy, healthy family life
• You've written three novels
• You gave childbirth naturally (with no pain medication) to two of your children and now feel like you can accomplish anything as a woman

Lastly, love yourself. I can't say it enough. Love yourself even when all you can do is hate yourself, because you will need all the practice you can get for later in life, when you realize you never really did. So throw me a bone, sixteen-year-old me, and just love yourself.

Love,
Slightly-less-self-conscious, twenty-eight-year-old me

*Post inspired by the Lightning and the Lightning Bug Flicker of Inspiration prompt, "A Letter to You."

Write a letter to yourself at age sixteen. What might you tell your sixteen year-old self? Would you warn yourself not to make a certain mistake? Would you ask yourself to treasure being young? Would you tell yourself how much you've changed?

Gratitude

Thanks, for the idea, Allison! Check out what she's grateful for at Mama Wants This. 

I figured I needed a little gratitude on this blog. Especially since my last post generated comments like, "Someone's having a bad day..." and "Are you serious?" My mom even asked me if I really drank margaritas. I laughed. No, I don't really drink margaritas, or read romance novels.

I just write them.

(Again, a joke. Kind of.)

So, besides the givens, like my family, here's what I am especially grateful for this week. It's the little victories, right?

• Matt Nathanson's song, Little Victories. Pun intended.
• Josh saying more words and making communication that much easier. He's even started putting two words together!
• Reassuring comments from his speech therapist on just how great he's going. Plus, she says we are her favorite.
• New recipes.
• Air conditioning.
• The news that we will be going to Idaho next week, therefore getting me out of Bagdad.
• Ashley sending William home. Seriously, grow up, little boy. (Bachelorette is my guilty pleasure. No matter how irritating Ashley is.)
• The accumulated seven hours of sleep I had last night--almost double what I usually get.
• The sprinkler, because it gets Sam outside for hours each day. And I loooove the break love that he can get time in the sunshine.
• That Josh is even thicker in the chest than he was last week. It makes snuggling and hugging him SO much fun! He's my little football player.
• My Mag07 came in the mail. Maybe I will actually get to enjoy eating again!
• One of my manuscripts was returned by mail, meticulously edited by a friend.
• Chubby, rolly baby thighs.
• Master Chef, because it has inspired my husband to want to learn to cook something really well. And that means I might get a night off cooking.
• Oreos.
• Finding cute matching shirts for all three boys at Target...ON SALE!
• That the bug man sprayed our attic. One more obstacle for scorpions.
• Luke's screechy velociraptor laugh.
• A husband who is understanding when he gets home from work and it looks like nothing has gotten done.
• The mom and writing blog communities, and all the wonderful posts I get to read every day, from wonderful, funny, talented people that make me feel not so alone!
• Baby feet.

The Rant of a Perfectionist

First of all, I want to thank all the readers who commented on my previous post. I found your comments very helpful and fulfilling! I'm glad to know the piece sparks some interest. :)

Do you ever think back on an old project you've done and think, "That was pretty awesome?" So you decide, after months of hibernation, to wake it up, only to find it was nothing like you remember? In fact, it was so far off from what you remember that you find yourself wanting to burn it (from your own mind and anyone else's who might have had the privilege of reading it) and then crawl into a hole? Or that you are sick to your stomach--literally--over the way it just...well...sucks?

Or, worse, you feel this way from a more recent project--one you just recently thought was amazing and had really showcased just how far you've come?

Okay, maybe it's just a writer thing.

Or maybe it's just a bad self-conscious writer thing.

Yes, this post is a gripe session, so bear with me. Seems really fitting after the Sunshine Award I just got on Runner Mom Jen's blog, doesn't it? (Thanks again, Jen!)

I have come a long way as a writer, of that I am sure. Looking back at those old projects (and sometimes the new), all the imperfections scream at me from the pages laptop screen, and the perfectionist inside me can't rest until it's all fixed and perfect.

Only problem is, it'll never be perfect. Never ever.

And we are all our own worst critics. I am the inventor of being hard on yourself. I don't know how to not be. Even after fulfilling praise on my writing, I still only see the flaws. I compare myself to others, read other people's work and wistfully dream of being as good as they are. When instead I should be grateful for my own talent, proud of my voice.

And really, I am. I have really come to find my writing voice over this last year, and this blog has been a small factor in that. But I still want to advance, I always want to be better.  And I suppose that's a good thing, but how do I see those imperfections (sometimes pointed out by others) without letting it deflate that pride in my craft?

It's a never-ending battle, and something I will always be struggling with, I think. Maybe someday, when I can walk into Barnes & Noble and see my book on the shelf (crossing my fingers), that will go away.

Or maybe it will just get more intense.

Who knows. All I know is that each time I take a big step, like posting some of my work on my blog, or letting a friend read my MS, my confidence as a writers grows--because of how extremely nail-biting the process is. Heck, a year ago I was so private about my writing that even telling someone I was a writer made me nervous. I had another, more private, blog where I could rant about my writing frustrations and the process I was going through (querying, revising, etc.) in more of a non-public way.

Because I was scared. And I still am. But I am pushing through it.

And I really, truly, honestly abhor love and need constructive criticism, despite my fears. I mean it when I say I want to know the truth about my work. Because I am a perfectionist, and I need to know what others see wrong with it, so that I can decide if it is best for the piece to change it. Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't.

Anyway, just struggling a little with my writing confidence, as I sometimes do. But don't worry (like anyone really is), it's nothing that won't go away with a little more self-assurance and settling-in-of-the-just-posting-something-publicly.

And toddler kisses. There's no room for negative thoughts when the cutest two-year-old has just given you kisses.

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.

Here I am. In a Nutshell.

My life is full of happiness, joys, blessings, and lots of great days. I'm aware that I have a great life and a wonderful family, and, really, when it all comes down to it, I have no reason to complain. I just want to point that out.

And get it out of the way.

Because due to some recent spikes in less-than-happy things in my life (one of our kittens dying tragically, to name just one), I’ve been kind of a buzz-kill the last few days.

I know, I know. I need to be positive and move on, despite the extra lack of sleep (Luke is teething and back to not taking good naps or sleeping well at night. Nor letting me put him down without that trademarked high-pitched screaming that says, “How dare you think you can actually get anything done around here?!”).

And, despite the few--okay, lots more than a few--extra pounds I’ve been wallowing about lately. No more using the excuse that I "just had a baby." What happened to the whole claim that nursing moms lose weight faster?

To me it’s looking like a fairy tale, ladies. And I can only use the elliptical for so long before I realize my kids are destroying things while in the absence of my attention. So throw me a frickin’ bone here [insert whoever I feel like directing this at] and at least let me get back to my pre-baby-growing size.

Okay, moving on from that. In light of my loss of vigor and optimism, I feel like making a list of some things that make me me (some inspired by recent events and others at random placement). Good, bad, embarrassing--I don’t care. I am who I am, and on most days, I actually like that.

So, just in case you ever get quizzed...

• If I actually let myself, I could probably eat a whole cake in one sitting. Beyond any food, even chocolate, cake is my downfall.
• I still mourn my Dyson and have a little buyer's remorse for my Kirby.
• The romantic fluff is my favorite substance in movies and books. If there isn't any, the rest of the content better be damn good.
• I swear sometimes. Okay, more than sometimes. But--to all you gasping for the innocent ears of my children--I do watch myself around my kiddos. And church members.
• The judgement, naivety, and close-mindedness from church members is the highest pet peeve on my list of pet peeves.
• The whole mumbo-jumbo of religion and doctrine in general, and who's right and wrong--even in my own religion--is really tiring me out.
• Pictures of posey teenage girls taken by themselves are high on the pet peeve list, too. Maybe even #2. Especially ones with the crooked pout and the sideways peace gesture.
  
  
  
• Doctors are climbing really high on my hit list right now. All except my kiddos' pediatrician, who I found after a rigorous search and is wonderful. As far as I'm concerned, besides her, there aren't any left with good hearts in this world, who truly care about the patient and figuring out what's wrong with them. Since when does someone whose services we pay out of our butt for feel they have the right to treat us like we're wasting their time??
  
  
  
• I hate corned beef. I only eat it on the special occasion that we make it because it's my husband's favorite food. There's nothing right about it.
  
  
  
• Dora the Explorer is the bane of my existence.
• I am horrible at anything crafty. I don't sew. I don't have a nack for home decor, and am basically clueless when it comes to knowing whether or not something looks good. And I'm only a decent cook. So, basically, I fail at the Susy Homemaker test.
• My passion involves a laptop and solitude, and sometimes, I admit, that writing is all I want to be doing.
• At this given moment in my life, if I was given the opportunity to spend twenty-four hours doing whatever I wanted, I'd go to a hotel completely and utterly alone, and write.
• I want other people to read what I have labored over. Regardless of whether or not I'm good enough, I want to be known for writing--and maybe even make a little dough on the side.
• Grammar mishaps really bother me. Like, a lot. Irregardless is not a real word, people.
• Sometimes my kiddos still see me naked. And that's not good, since Sam is almost four. But that's what happens when you have three small children, a busy husband, and you are shower-deprived. Sometimes, it's unavoidable. So sue me.
• I nurse in front of my kids because I want them to be accepting of it. It irks me when mothers are so hush-hush about breastfeeding and don't even speak of it. It's not a sexual thing, ladies, no matter how much society wants it to be. It's a beautiful thing and a God-given way to feed and nourish our babies.
• Though I know it's not (do I really?), sometimes I feel like praying is a waste of time.
• Next to losing a child, my biggest fear is my children losing their father, or me, and having someone else raise them.
• I Hate bugs. Hate with a capitol H. And one of the biggest offenders are moths. There, I said it. I'm "afraid" of moths. And crane flies.
  
  
  
• If asked, I'd say the Book of Mormon is my favorite book, because it is, yet I haven't really read it in almost four years.
• I love dry humor. I love anything comedic.
• I'm addicted to late night comedy/talk shows and DVR some of them regularly. Conan is my guilty pleasure.
  
  
  
• I'm socially awkward sometimes. And physically awkward all the time.
• I have the worst temper in the world, thanks in part to the genes of my father. It almost prevented my husband from marrying me. And now I see it in my kids. Uh-oh.
• The best sound to my ears isn't rain or waves or anything emo like that. It's the word "Mommy" on my two-year-old's lips.
• I truly feel that with all of these things aside, my children are my greatest blessing in life. They are the best part of me, an extension of who I am--my flesh and blood. And my life would be nothing without them. Poop, screaming, annoyances and all.

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.