motherhood musings throughout the years

2014

I have been a mother for a good 14 months now, which is practically the time it gets to get a Masters degree, which makes me an expert. Hello, duh. Step aside while I tell you what's up.

1. I don't think of myself as a laid back person until I am around other mothers. At the park, I seem near neglectful. I often get looks because Sage is barefoot and still in her pajamas...or maybe those looks are directed at me because I too am barefoot and still in my pajamas.

2. Fred let me borrow his FitBit the other day. I was secretly nervous to take it for a spin because I thought for sure it would be a rude awakening. To both my surprise and my validation, I reached 10,000 steps before noon. I only wonder how many tiny steps Sage takes in a day.

everything i do is bad

I have a thought I can't quite shake. I'll be going about my day, feeling fine, and suddenly I'll turn a corner and there it is like a white faced, screamless ghost: Everything I do is bad.

I've analyzed this thought many times, pulled it out of my head like a magician's scarf, pulling pulling pulling until POP there it all is, wrinkled and light in my hand. Seriously? EVERYTHING I do is bad? How dramatic. It's not possible for everything I do to be bad. In fact, some things I do are decidedly good: I write thank you notes, I volunteer at my daughter's school, I am profusely kind to customer service representatives. Even though I can logically refute this thought, I can't quite extract it from my heart.

So I buckle down. Today, I will make sure that everything I do is good. Today, I will turn off my phone so that I'm extra in tune with the people around me. I don't want to miss their cues for what they need. But before I turn it off, I'll check in with a few friends who I know are going through something. Today, I'll be sure to pop into my husband's office to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I will make the side of his bed and pick up his dirty clothes. Today, I'll swallow my exhaustion when my children squabble and I, once again, coach them through a resolution. I will wordlessly do all the invisible work--faxing immunization records from here to there, measuring and cutting shelf liners, vacuuming whatever debris the neighbor kids tossed down our vents, signing all the school forms and making sure they're turned in on time, returning the abandoned toys in my yard to their rightful owners, buying and wrapping presents for birthday parties and weddings and baby showers, organizing and keeping track of the kids' social calendars and extracurriculars, researching elderberry syrup and probiotics, purchasing elderberry syrup and probiotics. I will pick up their shoes. I will pick up their shoes again. I will pick up their shoes again. I will pick up their shoes again.

But then, when they grab their shoes, take them off, forget where they left them, and ask me where they are and if I will drop what I'm doing to help them find them, I will hit a wall, and everything-I-do-is-good will sour into everything-I-do-makes-me-resentful.

I will feel hot with it

    when the kids down the street sneak into my backyard, toss our sand toys everywhere, and leave snack wrappers and half eaten pizza slices behind

    when Fred borrows my credit card and leaves it on the counter next to my wallet instead of putting it back inside my wallet

    when the school or the coach or the church leader emails me about parental duties but not my husband

    when I see a meme of a man proposing to a woman, saying, "Would you do me the honor of taking on even more responsibilities while my life remains largely unchanged?"

    when the mess someone else made is still sitting hours days weeks after they made it in a space that I just cleaned

    when it's been awhile since anyone's told me thank you or I love you or I see you.

Everything I do is bad.

An old friend comes over. She tells me about her recent triumphs over her lifelong struggles. She takes a hesitant breath, and then: "I hope this doesn't make you feel awkward, but I have always admired you." I am stunned. She explains that growing up, she thought of me as someone who had no shame in who I was. She mentions Brene Brown and owning our stories, and she believes that I was someone who always did that. It occurs to me that maybe she believes that I am someone who still does that. The truth is I am boiled and steeped in shame, and it's been so long since I've done something that I've actually wanted to do.

After the sun sets and the kids are softly snoring in their beds, I take a walk. I stand on top of the hill that overlooks the entire valley. The sky wipes the clouds away, revealing a full moon that's practically letting off solar flares. My whole body tingles and the wind picks up and my heart is walloping outside of me and something wild inside of me foams and froths and then there's this instinct to throw back my head and howl, to run barefoot and free.

I want to, but I don't.

I shove it down, look straight ahead, walk to my front door, climb into bed.

I turn off the light with great relief. It's time to sleep, and for the next eight hours, I can't let anyone down or make any mistakes. Fred slides into bed next to me, reaches in the darkness to hold my hand. As he talks about his day, I imagine that moon passing over our house, moving onto a different hemisphere of the world. I ask Fred questions about work, about the NBA, about his outing with the kids. With each question, I feel more self conscious that maybe he can hear my internal pleas clawing through each word:

    Fred, do you like me?

    Fred, am I making any difference?

    Fred, what is something you truly appreciate about me?

    Fred, is everything I do bad?

is this thing on?

Oh, hello there. It's been a minute a few years. Let's catch up.

We recently bought a house after an agonizing process involving many decisions and factors. Those decisions and factors are irrelevant now, and if you think buying a house in a pandemic is difficult, just know that buying appliances in a pandemic is even harder.

Anyway, here we are now. We've moved a bunch since my last post, have seen a lot of changes (including another child! Have I posted about Troy on here?), and as much as I wanted to write, it just never clicked. I honestly don't know how the "mommy blogger" thing ever took flight. Who are these mommy people that have not only the time but the brain clarity to write? I write, kind of, but not how I used to. Something pops up, and I want to write about it, but I usually don't; when I do, it's a stuttering attempt that doesn't reach completion. Here's something I wrote one night at the beginning of COVID-19:

*

The governor of Utah declared a state of emergency on March 6. Close the schools. Work from home.  Maintain a six foot distance from one another. Each evening, my daughter and I walk around the lake, silently watching the sky and the placid water turn from blue to peach as the sun vanishes behind the towering mountains. As people pass by, they scoot off the path, eyeballing six feet.

"Is it because of the sickness?" my daughter asks.

She knows about it, of course. It's taken her classmates and her dance recital from her. It's why the last soccer game of the season was forfeited, why we can't go to the library when her brother naps. To explain why handwashing is important, I let her dump pepper into a melamine Disney princess bowl full of water.

"Dip your finger in," I commanded. She and her brother gleefully obeyed and laughed at how the pepper covered their fingertips. I squired soap on their fingers, and their laughter ballooned as it slimed and dripped on the floor. "Now dip those in," I said. They did, and their laughter ceased into shocked silence as the pepper flung to the sides of the bowl, away from their soapy fingers.

"Yes, it's because of the sickness," I now reply with a small smile. She nods, satisfied, and keeps walking, squeezing my hand every few paces, and I'm relieved that's the only question she has.

A couple nights later, my son wakes up crying. Too tired to console him back to sleep, we move him into our bed. He contentedly curls up into my side, sleepily asks for a snack, eventually gives up the negotiation and floats back to sleep. After a bit, he keeps kicking me, so I move into his bed next to his sister.

I'm dreaming of my best friend's wedding. We're dancing at the reception when suddenly everyone starts vibrating. The music stops, the conversation hushes, and the vibrating grows more intense. One guest turns to me and says, "Earthquake."

"Earthquake," I whisper, my eyes flinging open. The room is sloshing side to side; I can feel our townhouse bend and sway. Next to me, my daughter sits up and whimpers, and just as she opens her mouth to shout, I grab her and say urgently, "It's okay. It's okay. This is an earthquake. It's okay." Just then, the shaking swells, and I consider gathering her up and running into the doorway hall, but then the room hiccups and settles, hiccups and settles.

Stillness.

"Is it because of The Sickness?" she asks in a whisper, and it's the first time it's gone from "the sickness" to sounding like "The Sickness."

*

That's it. That's how it ends. I know, right? I didn't publish this right away because I haven't been able to edit it (or finish it, obviously). As I glance through it now, I can see how it isn't quite how I'd want it to be, and yet I've lost the steam to fix it up. For the record, I was never (never) into editing my stuff before kids.  It was more of a "slap down, vomit up, and click publish" process. Becoming a mother has brought out the perfectionist in me (another topic I've wanted to write about).

But the writing, among other things in my life, is slowly returning to me. Thanks to those who occasionally checked up or said they missed the blog. I had kind of forgotten about it, and of course it was flattering to hear that someone liked it enough to still think about it after all these years of abandonment.

three years

Our path to parenthood started on a hot Sunday afternoon. We were in the car when I said, "Do you want to have a baby?" You reached for my hand and answered, "Rachy, I've always wanted to have a baby with you."

The bits between week 1 and week 38 only strengthened my trust in you: All the times I threw up, and you rubbed my back quietly until I was finished. The days in my first trimester when I came home from work to an apartment chilled to a perfect sub-70 degrees (who knew a cluster of cells could make me so hot and sweaty?). The nights before bed when you massaged the soreness from my lower back so I could fall asleep. The ultrasounds we sat through, and how the technician kept saying things like, "Here's her leg," "There's her heart," "See her elbow?" And you quietly watched the screen, and then eventually admitted, "I'm really glad you can see all that, because I sure can't."

The stares we got at the gym when you tied my shoes because I couldn't reach. The showers where I called to you to help wash my back because my tummy was too large for me to twist. The pillows I used that took up two-thirds of the bed, and yet you never complained. It all led up to the gentle, encouraging words you offered in that final hour of labor--the way you held me and said, "You can do this. We can do this," as I cried and yelled in pain and said that I was scared. I was so scared.

They said the biggest decision I'd make is who I married. That's not true. Marriage is largely reversible. I think the biggest decision I made is with whom I chose to have children, because children and parenthood can't be undone. I think about that every night when I look at you and Sage sleeping--the way she pouts her lower lip when she's deep in a dream, just like her dad. That is my favorite part of the day: nodding off in hypnotic breaths, feeling overcome that in this bed where there were once two warm bodies, there are three.

Happy three years, Fred. Thank you for being my husband, and thank you for being Sage's dad.

how to lose 6 lbs 5 oz in one hour

Step 1: Take approximately 38 weeks painstakingly gaining 30 pounds. Be sure to eat things that taste all right on the way back up, should that occasion occur (which it will 85% of the time). Don't let anyone say "gorgonzola" in your presence. Resist chopping your father-in-law in the face when he innocently uses the words "marinated" and "sardine" in the same sentence.

Step 2: Wake up early Thanksgiving morning with inconsistent back contractions. Go about your day as normal. Drive an hour to your family's Thanksgiving feast. Drive the hour back in the backseat on your hands and knees to ease the back labor.

Step 3: Scratch your head in puzzlement when your water trickles and you lose your mucus plug. Chuckle that the term mucus plug is pretty accurate (unlike the euphemism "birth canal"). Shrug it off since your contractions are still inconsistent, though intense, and you do not feel like you are dying, so you probably aren't in labor.

Step 4: Get in bed, breathing through each contraction as you nod off.

Step 5: Feel a powerful POP inside of you, and then the feeling of the devil himself clawing at your pelvis.

Step 6: Scream.

Step 7: Keep screaming. Vomit from the pain.

Step 8: Fall onto your husband when he runs into the bedroom with worry on his face. Tell him you are dying. Tell him that you need to go to the hospital now. Scream some more. Realize you haven't packed a hospital bag. Fall to the floor in pain as your husband throws toothbrushes and undies into a duffel bag and escorts you to the car, stopping to apply counter pressure on your hips with each contraction peak. Scream so hard that you're sure your apartment neighbors will call the cops.

Step 9: Lie across your husband's lap on the drive to the hospital. Pound the arm rest with your fist as you shriek your head off with each contraction, which have double peaks at this point and are right on top of each other. Say over and over that you are going to die, that they need to cut you open, that you can't do it. Your husband will say, "Yes, you can."

Step 10: At your next contraction, your body automatically pushes. Tell your husband, "OH MY GOSH. I'M POOPING MY PANTS." Love him for calmly saying, "That's okay."

Step 11: It's after hours at the birthing center, so you will need to be buzzed in. Be sure to pound on the intercom and say, "HELLO PLEASE LET ME IN BECAUSE I'M DYING AHHHHH" with desperation. Again, your husband will be pushing on your hips.

Step 12: The receptionists will smirk at each other as if you can't see them when they find out you're a first timer. They don't think you're in as much pain as you think you are. They will send you to the wrong room twice. Once you are in the correct room, you will run to the toilet to vomit again. The delivery nurse will greet you in all your sweaty labor glory. Be sure to kick off your shoes and your pants and poopy underwear right when she introduces herself. Scream while you do it, too.

Step 13: You'll hear the midwife in the other room speaking to the staff. She will say, "Oh, we don't need such and such right now. She's a FIRST TIMER wink wink chuckle chuckle. We are in the PRELIMINARY STAGES eye rolling with a smile." She will turn around as you enter the room and invite you to get on the bed so she can have a look-see.

Step 14: "Oh, my gosh. She's crowning!"

Step 15: Suddenly a swarm of people will encircle the bed, chanting PUSH PUSH PUSH, and you plead for them to set up the squat bar so you can hang off it and squat while your "birth canal" screams with you.

Step 16: The squat bar is up. On your next contraction, roll up off your back, grabbing onto the squat bar. Bite down on the squat bar and drop the f-bomb so loudly that the nurse shushes you. You will have only been pushing for five minutes, but the midwife is ready to be done with her shift and tells you that if you don't push harder, she will give you an episiotomy. Lean in and snarl in her face, "DON'T THREATEN ME."

Step 17: Moments later, everyone will cheer. The baby's head is out! Push for her shoulders! You'll feel your husband touch your arm as he says, "I can see her. You are so close! You're almost there!"

Step 18: Flop back onto your side to help the baby rotate out. Scream. Push. Feel the ring of fire and push harder. Scream some more.

Step 19: Suddenly, you will have lost 6 lbs 5 oz. It will only have been an hour since you went into hard (very hard) labor. It will be the most surreal weight loss experience you'll have. You will be breathing heavily, dripping in sweat, flat on your back in utter exhaustion. You will look down and realize you are completely naked. Your clothes are strewn all over the room, and you don't know at what point that happened, and you decide you don't care.

Step 20: As you turn your head, you will see your husband across the room cutting the umbilical cord. You'll see him drop the scissors to bring his hands to his mouth to choke out a sob as he peers down at the 6 lbs 5 oz--the baby, healthy and wonderful and so peaceful that the midwife and nurse say they don't see such quiet babies often. Moments later, your baby will be snuggled into you, her giant blue eyes fluttering open and her breathing steady and calm. All of this will be happening while the midwife stitches you up--sans anesthesia, because you figure nothing will hurt compared to what you just felt. (You will be correct.)

Step 21: Hold your baby. Tickle your nose against her scalp because she will smell amazing. You and your husband will give her soft kisses over and over. As you come out of the bathroom from brushing your teeth, you'll catch your husband looking at your sleeping baby, telling her in a low whisper how much he loves her. The nurses will tuck you all in and turn off the lights for you to sleep. You won't sleep a wink, though. You will be cuddled up to her, watching her chest rise and fall until the quiet sun beams streak through the shudders and light up the dust in the air. Outside, it is crisp and cool, and you can see cars and people from the window. And you and your new family will be squished onto one small bed--dazed, speechless, warm, and humbled.

the confidence of motherhood

I suppose I'm only a mother as much as my fetus is a baby, but if there's something I've learned in my embryonic stages of motherhood, it's that parenting requires confidence.

Like anyone else, my confidence is as easily gained as lost. I would say that I've mastered the art of faking it 'til I make it; in the times when I'm doubtful of my capabilities, I dive right in and act like I know what I'm doing until I believe it. I've taken enough tests, been to enough social events, sat through enough interviews to understand that as long as they think I'm confident, that's as good as being confident.

But I'm learning a little at a time that motherhood doesn't allow for as much room for such fakeries and doubts.

The times I felt most energized and secure as a child were the times when my mother exuded confidence. I liked when she requested and disciplined without feeling the need to apologize. I admired when she sacrificed her friendship with her children for the good of her role as our parent. I imagine other mothers can relate to those times when doing what's best also means being met with a slammed door and an "I hate you!" Perhaps the best thing means severing ties with other mothers whom you've considered your closest lifelong friends or putting yourself at odds with your children's father.

I had an incredibly enlightening conversation with my dad the other day about life management. If you know Big Mike, you know that he's all about management. He bought me a Franklin planner for my ninth birthday and encouraged me to forego my eighth grade one-page current affair paper about the state deficit to write a dissertation involving complicated economics and business models to prove, essentially, that there was no deficit. When I confide in my dad about frustrations, he simply says, "It doesn't have to stay that way. Just learn to manage it!" There's a management model for any situation; life is one big business, after all.

Unlike Big Mike, I let personal bias get in the way of my management. I make servers choose my order at restaurants, trusting that their decision is as good as my own. I spent an embarrassing amount of time at my sister-in-law's house this summer to obsess over which mattress Fred and I should purchase. (This process took me weeks to decide, and I even visited the mattress store every other day and spent hours researching mattress models, reviews, and even the skeletal anatomy.) And once I thought I'd made my decision, one comment from a friend who said, "Oh, we almost got that mattress, but then we got this other one instead" made me reconsider my preference altogether.

The point is, sometimes what other people think deeply affects my decisions. I claim to be fighting it. I am fighting it, in fact, and I'm pleased with my progress. But I'm quickly learning that when I'm a mother, I will need the confidence to make decisions despite who agrees or disagrees.

I don't mean decisions like flannel or muslin, cloth or disposable, breast or bottle, epidural or birthing tub, crib or co-sleep. I guess I mean the bigger, harder decisions. The ones that only Fred and I will stand by because everyone else, including our children, will disagree. The ones that will make me prove my confidence as a leader to my family and as someone who is qualified to direct--not to force, of course, but to direct.

Several of my friends have mentioned that I'm "brave" to have a child because labor and delivery is pretty painful (so I've heard). Some friends have admitted that they are scared of motherhood for vanity's sake--stretch marks, saucer-sized nipples, widened hips. I get that. I understand it takes confidence to stand up after puking an entire Subway meal outside the bank in front of a crowd of milling strangers. It takes confidence to allow people to watch you in an extremely vulnerable situation--going through the pain and panic of childbirth (or the "discomfort" and "orgasmic beauty," as I've heard some try to convince me). But that kind of confidence comes easily to me. I don't mind standing up, curtseying in front of those strangers, and saying, "Whew! Should've gone with honey oat instead of flatbread." I don't mind bouncing on a birthing ball and using hydrotherapy in minimal clothing in front of strangers.

For me, the bigger challenge will be in the other things. In the management, I suppose--the thing that comes so naturally to my dad, and even comes naturally to me, but that I fear will be more difficult to apply to my own children than to other life circumstances. I have good examples to study and imitate until it becomes more natural. I'm up for the challenge.

And now I really want a Subway sandwich...

two years

I have a whole heavy bag of past relationships. Although I learned a lot during that time in my life, I learned this the most: that I take heartache hard.

Because even in the situations where I knew this wasn't what I wanted, that I truly did want to turn away and move on, I'd still wake up the morning after the breakup with a bruise-y blue residue over my hands, my face, my bed, my closet, my path to school. While I was certainly mourning the loss of what was and what could have been, I eventually grew to mourn something more universal than just the individual comforts of a particular boyfriend in a particular relationship.

I mourned the fact that I still hadn't found someone who was good for me that I was equally good for, too. And that's the broader issue that weighed on my heart as I moved from love to love, from him asking, "What's happening to us?" in his pajamas on my front porch, from discussing the humanistic qualities of oatmeal while stargazing one last time, from a knowing farewell at a final American Heritage lecture.

I know this--or at least a variation of this--is a common theme in college dating. I think we all carry this grief at one time or another.

As I'm writing this, my feet are in Fred's lap. He's playing with my toes, watching Family Feud, chuckling to himself every few minutes. I hear again and again the improbability of soulmates; and yet, there are times when I am so sure that Fred is mine. When we ride our bikes and the setting sun lights his curly hair just so. When we pretend to be robots until we laugh so hard our sides nearly split. When we wipe away stray tears after Land Before Time. And, yes, even when we argue and have to be apart for a time to blow off steam.

In these moments when Steve Harvey's overdone attitude is shining into our quiet family room, the air still and quiet outside our screened windows and the cat is stalking a fruit fly in the corner of the room...these moments erase any trace of what ifs and why nots, the games of yes and no no no.

I'm in the right place with the right person, and the grief from before is gone.

Happy two years, Fred. :)

a peek into pregnancy

Compared to the horror stories of pregnancies of women near and dear, I consider myself to be pretty lucky. I am able to eat things other than brownies and potato chips. I haven't thrown up more than once in a day. I have not been hospitalized for dehydration and pumped full of magnesium. I've been tired, yes. Queasy, of course.

And emotional?

Well, that's a given.

In all reality, though, the emotionality has been pretty even keel, but last week I had an episode that I find too amusing not to share.

One night, I was in the bed waiting for Fred to finish brushing his teeth so we could fall asleep together. Our cat, Fuzz, was snuggling next to me. I went to pet Fuzz, and he rolled away and walked out of the room.

Moments later, Fred found me curled up in the dark, bawling into my pillow. He asked me what was wrong, and I explained to him that Fuzz didn't love me, that he stopped cuddling with me, and that that really hurt my feelings. At the time, I knew it sounded ridiculous. It's like when you have a horrible nightmare, but the next day when you're talking about it, you realize how completely moronic the whole thing sounds--and yet, the nightmare really was that horrendous, and Fuzz really did severely break my heart!

Fred sat with me for ten, fifteen minutes, listening to me speak between hiccups, hugging and assuring me that our cat loves me and that he didn't mean to snub me. "I'm going to finish flossing, and then I'll be back," Fred said once I'd calmed down a bit.

After a few minutes, Fred came back into the bedroom. He climbed under the covers, and I snuggled in the crook of his arm.

"Rachy," he whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Fuzz just told me he's really sorry for hurting your feelings."

I'm really, really glad I'm going to have a baby with that guy. He knows just how to handle these moments--with sensitivity, genuine concern, and humor. I love you, Fred.

rusty car

Okay, kids. It’s been awhile.

Freddy and I moved, and we’ve yet to set aside the funds (well, the motivation) to set up Internet in our new place. We’d rather spend that money (again, motivation) on late night trips to In-N-Out, to which we now live so close that it’s practically in our living room.

Anyway, I have to schedule weekly visits to the public library to use the Internet. I have grand plans to blog when I’m there, but once I sit down, my mind goes blank. I feel like I have nothing interesting to say. I tried to keep a word document as a blog post, intending to publish it each week, but am I the only one who associates word documents with vomiting up a 16-page research paper two hours before it’s due?

Vomiting. Now there’s a mental picture.

I WILL publish something today. I am so sorry that you keep seeing my cat every time you visit my blog. It’s a really lame post to make you look at more than once.

So last night, I went for a walk around the city. On my way back to my apartment, I saw a gal stopped at a light, hazard lights on. She got out of her car and worriedly looked around.

“Hey! Do you need help?” I called. She nodded enthusiastically, so I ran across the street to see what was up. She ran out of gas at the light; luckily, a Chevron station—a beacon of hope, if you will—glowed just a mere block and a half away.

We started to push and tug on her car, but apparently it’s difficult to push and steer a car with the effort of only two really lanky girls, especially if one of those girls had a broken arm, which that girl did.

Suddenly, a guy showed up. He didn’t speak English, but we figured he was offering to help, because we didn’t know why else a person would approach a dead car in the middle of the street (…yikes, writing that certainly made me realize there could’ve been a few reasons). So, he started to push with us, and the car slowly picked up momentum until we were all running to keep up with it.

It was in this moment that I thought of those scenes in movies like Space Jam or Apollo 13 where they show a point in the starry universe, and slowly that point moves past meteor showers and space junk, picking up speed until it’s speeding through our galaxy, zeroing in on our planet, penetrating our atmosphere, and then zooming straight down on a country, on a city, on a street.

And I thought about how if my life were a movie, that point would land on me. That point—that small speck in our expansive, ever-growing, infinite universe—would land on me in my Crocs with socks and my coon skin hat, grunting behind a car with a girl with a broken arm and a guy who didn’t speak English.

Of all the places to be and things to do.

Only months before, I was sitting in a psychiatrist’s windowless office. The laughing, the crying, the crying, the crying, the sore muscles, the sallow skin, the slivery slices on my thighs, the panic attacks—all this added up to the horrible achy residue that was more than just the grand conflict of living with a peeled back heart.

In fact, it added up to the sum of four letters: You have PTSD, Dr. Brink said. PTSD. The letters floated across the room, and I chewed and swallowed them one by one until they ended up side by side inside my stomach: post traumatic stress disorder.

It’s trite, really. Here you are reading ANOTHER blog post about someone whose living has temporarily taken over her life.

BUT,

I’m willing to bet that you have yet to read a post about a girl running behind a rusty car with two strangers late at night.

Am I right?

Kristin Brown Photography

fuzzner

A few weeks ago, our friends emailed us with the news that they found a one-month-old kitten at a gas station. They already have two cats, so they were seeing if we'd be interested in being foster parents. Coincidentally, Fred and I had just talked the night before about getting a pet since we just moved to a pet friendly apartment, and we have more income coming in now that I've graduated from massage school.

A few hours later, we had this little guy stumbling around our apartment.

And really, he is a very little guy--so little that the Humane Society was unable to take him in, and he still needed to nurse from a bottle.

(Fred was apparently too mesmerized by Olympic diving to look at the camera.)

So here's the thing about getting a kitten: everyone wants to know what his name is.

Here's the thing about Fred and me: we didn't even think much about naming him until everyone asked.

When I asked Fred, the most clever man I know, what we should name our kitten, he thoughtfully responded, "Whiskers. Or Jaws."

My nieces offered suggestions, too.

Adri (age 5): Monsambler, Batonia, Garmon, Sam, or Fluffy Pants.
Teya (age 2): Cat.

One morning, the kitten pounced in our bed to wake us up. Fred said something like, "Hi, fuzz ball." It kind of stuck. We kept calling him "the fuzz ball," then "the fuzz," and now just "fuzz," so I guess his name is Fuzz, and I guess we are really into one-syllable-F-names around here.

These days, Fuzz is not as cute and cuddly in the previous video, as he's entered into the phase where he barrels around the apartment like something is on fire, and where he attacks inanimate objects like they're animate, and where he hides and pops out all teeth n' claws. I read that this is the developmental phase where kittens start practicing their hunting skills; unfortunately for us, we are the only moving things Fuzz sees. So ferocious. I don't feel safe in my home anymore, really.

one year

I've been taught that marriage would be one of the most rewarding things I would be part of. I heard again and again how marriage was better than dating, how (in so many words) marriage was all positives and no negatives. My parents glow when they talk about their first year--everything from the paisley drapes they sewed for their first apartment, to my dad carrying my mom through a giant mound of snow to the threshold of their honeymoon cabin (from which, lest we forget, they now live down the street, and they do not miss an opportunity to point out said cabin with whimsical sighs and dreamy eyes).

Perhaps there are some people in this great big world who merrily waltz over the placid lakes that are their marriages, their toes rarely skimming the surface of devastating arguments and broken hearts. Perhaps their marriages are full of poems, blushed cheeks, ironed clothes, padded wallets, and assumably lots (and lots) of sex. Peace is easily obtained by some people, but for me, it is worked for and earned.

My marriage is better than fireworks and rainbows. It is fierce. It is passionate--mostly in the best ways, but sometimes in the worst. It is scrubbing the bathroom not because you love the person who helped you dirty it, but because you are the only person who will. It's letting your wife pick the movie for the eighth time in a row even though she (admittedly) has horrible cinematic taste. It's humiliating your husband in front of his family and not regretting it until it's too late. It's saying that you don't care when really you do. A lot. It's moving halfway across the country for your husband to attend his dream law school, and then missing your job, your friends, your school, and your family each day. It's those days when you lie to your mother when she asks how you're doing. It's letting your wife go on a ten-day vacation in the middle of your midterms. It's coming home to your husband from your ten-day vacation and feeling touched at how grateful he is to have you back. It's bursting into tears in the middle of ward business in sacrament meeting...for the third week in a row. It's bracing for the worst. It's fumbling to hold each other when it is the worst.

It's the shared mistake of Baja Fresh burritos.

It's whistling together on bike rides, getting songs stuck in each other's heads for days on end. It's pretending to be interested in fantasy football. It's hugging your husband from behind while he washes dishes. It's catching each other's eyes and smiling from across the room. It's finishing each other's sentences and appreciating each other's anticlimactic stories. It's hearing your wife say that she's proud of everything you're doing. It's watching a dozen giggly children climb all over your husband. It's those nights in bed with legs intertwined, noses touching, breathing steadied and synchronized, watching each other's eyes become heavy with sleep.

Most of all, it's the realization of your own imperfection--every stubborn trait, every pimple, every time you have morning breath--but it is also the realization of how perfect you are in each other's eyes.

Happy one year, Freddy. We are off to a beautiful start.

running

I used to be Type A. Before the age of ten, I had a sophisticated filing system for personal receipts. I filled my journals with inventories of different places in the home--how many tennis rackets in the hall closet, how many CDs in my case, how many bottles of nail polish on my sister's bathroom counter. I ironed my clothes before packing them in a suitcase to go on vacation. I used hair spray to slick down stray hairs in my ponytail. I always measured twice before cutting. I was always in control. Of. Everything.

No, really. In third grade, it was brought to my attention that I didn't know how to type, so what did I do but request a typewriter for my eighth birthday--a typewriter, I insisted, because it seemed intellectual, and being intellectual is everything to Type A. My biggest birthday wish was granted, and I taught myself to type on that dusty, clunky thing.

I felt so in control of myself. If I wanted to improve my grades, I did. If I wanted to pick up singing, I did. If I wanted to graduate high school early, I did. Nothing was impossible...

Well, there were some things, like that time when I could not run a sub-9 minute mile in middle school. It's not even that fast, I know I know I KNOW, and I could not understand for the life of me what the deal was. After my final class of the day, I'd go home and run around the neighborhood until dinnertime. I went to the library and researched running drills. But alas, I could not pass 9 minutes. That killed me, not because I wanted to be a fast runner, but because there was something that was seemingly impossible for me to accomplish, and the thought that I was limited NO MATTER WHAT scared me to tears at the end of each Wednesday when all us students ran around that stupid field in those stupid purple uniforms.

Some time between then and now, I lost my Type A personality. I traded it in for Type X, Y, Z, I don't even know. Let's just say that I do not file my receipts because I typically forget them at the cash register--with my wallet, phone, and purchased item. I don't know how many CDs are in my case because not only are CDs ancient (ha), but I'd be lucky if I was organized enough to keep them all in one central case. I am the frazzled mess that drives the wrong way on one-way streets and doesn't realize it until the ginormous semi barreling towards me lays its horn and shrieks to a halt. The concentration and focus, the assurance I once had about myself has faltered into obnoxious insecurity and paranoia (I claim to be fighting it).

So let's talk about why yesterday I was able to run a mile in fewer than 9 minutes, because while you'd think this event would fill me with delight and a great sense of accomplishment, it only frustrates me to think that I was able to accomplish what I so desperately wanted a decade ago with no effort compared to what I gave back then--and let's not forget that I am probably, like, 30 pounds heavier and I eat cookies for breakfast and maybe perhaps kind of sort of probably totally definitely for lunch and dinner and second dinner.

Why is that?

Why is it that I can look at my old schoolwork, and even though I have not taken a geometry class since high school, my old tests look so much easier now than they did then, even though I invested in tutors and late night study sessions in trying to understand all that junk? (...and that is why I graduated in English.)

What changes? What it all boils down to (and here comes the over analytical, symbolic world view), IS THERE NO RHYME OR REASON TO NAVIGATING THIS UNIVERSE?

fringe festival for the outcasts

One of my favorite people is my friend Lori. We became friends last year when we worked together on a group project in a technical editing class. Our first conversation was about IUDs. I mentioned to Lori that I had just gotten one in lieu of my upcoming marriage (yes, I like to test possible friendships with blatant over share). Without missing a beat, Lori told me about an article she read about IUDs and camels. IUDs and camels--like it was no big deal! The rest was history. Whenever I'm hankering for a conversation about cognitive therapy or sociolinguistics, Lori is my go-to.

Lori recently emailed me her Honors thesis, which is a collection of personal essays she wrote during a study abroad in London. I wanted to share one of the essays that I particularly loved. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Fringe festival for the outcasts

I can find reasons to feel sorry for everyone; it's a little overwhelming. The longer I've been awake tonight, the more I've worried about the two comedians who passed us fliers this morning to their shows today. As I clipped my toenails, I had to turn the handouts upside down in the trash can so I wouldn't be staring at their faces, wondering if anyone showed up for their performances, hoping that they were funny and their audiences (however large) stayed for the whole thing and bought them drinks at the end. They were both free, after all. And these two men were definitely not the only people trying to convince tourists to spend their time with them.

There's some festival going on--Fringe--and the main street here is full of people handing out fliers, people dressed up like cows or soldiers or ghosts and holding posters drooping in the rain. I smiled and said "no thank you" to people holding glossy handouts with their own photos on the front above words describing how awesome their performances might be. I smiled as if to say, "it's not you, it's me," as if rejection doesn't always hurt. I don't want them to waste their printouts on me who will throw them away when I get home and remember them for days afterward.

massage, bodies, miracles

If I told you that what I've been doing all day every day the last week (and will continue to do for maaaany more weeks) required me to bring my own pillow, bedding, a sack lunch, and comfy clothes, you'd probably think I was enrolled in daycare.

But then you would see the oil stains on my sheets that I can't afford to wash out and the anatomy textbooks that I could barely afford to purchase.

You see, all my time has been spent standing on my bare feet, standing over a massage table learning all the intricacies of the body. As I run my hands over a plastic skeleton and memorize chart after chart of muscles and nerves, I feel completely overwhelmed at the miracle that is the human body.

My 5'11 German instructor, Keesha, guides her gigantic hands over mine, her pin-tight curls cascading over her broad shoulders as she sways to and fro, telling me, "Zee thigh eez very sensitive t'ere." She holds back big German chuckles when my first male client gets an erection during a foot massage, or the time when she accidentally farted in the middle of a 60-minute relaxation massage. She tells me again and again and AGAIN to quit tensing up my wrists unless I want to suffer from repetitive motion injury. When a battered woman peels into ugly sobs when I massage her hands, Keesha pulls me aside, her eyes filled with worry. She explains to me that we all carry energy that can be passed through each other; it's important I do not internalize this woman's pain. As I look at her in bewilderment, she struggles to find an explanation that sits well with her non-native English. With her powerful hands still on my arm, she says, "Our muscles carry our memories."

I was in a yoga class a few days ago. The session was wrapping up; it was time for a cool-down meditation, and we got into hip and chest openers. As I spread my arms out on the floor into the chest opening pose, I found myself welling up with tears--but I wasn't crying out of physical pain. I felt this hot energy move from my chest, up my throat, into my eyes, down my cheeks. The teacher calmly knelt by my side and whispered, "It's okay. Release it. Mend your broken heart." After class, she informed me that my unexpected eruption was due to heartache. She rolled up her capris to reveal a silvery scar near her knee, explaining, "I tore my IT band awhile back because I was afraid of moving forward."

While my friend was living in Thailand, she received a full body massage. She said that while the therapist worked on her shoulders, she felt nauseous and humiliated, whereas when the therapist rubbed her glutes (where you would expect her to feel a "personal bubble" violation), she felt fine. "I thought I was going to throw up because of the anxiety and embarrassment that filled me," her email read. "Not for that situation, but it was like leftover emotion from having felt that way and not faced it in the past."

Our bodies really are miracles--miracles of bones and blood and muscles. It's a miracle that our parents, against all natural odds, conceived and birthed us--that we too, against all natural odds, can conceive and birth offspring. It's a miracle that we have circulatory, lymphatic, muscle, nervous, immune, digestive, and skeletal systems that, despite their complexities, fit together so perfectly. And now I'm realizing that the most miraculous part of our bodies is that we have the ability to heal each other of the things we cannot heal ourselves.

before we were dating

I found some messages in my inbox that Fred and I wrote long before we were even dating. This trying-to-play-it-cool message from Fred made me laugh:

"Hey, I feel a little awkward writing this so soon after getting yours, because you probably think I'm a loser or something (I know up to this point you've just thought of me as pretty much the awesomest, most popular guy you know) but I was online when you sent it, so whatever. By the way I am also watching golf right now. I just figure if you're gonna think I'm lame you might as well have several reasons."

And my just-as-cool response:

"I didn't think the instantaneous response or the golf watching was lame. You wanna hear lame...I've taken TWO naps today already."

We're both pretty smooth. I know.

bikists*

Fred and I bought bikes last week. Said bikes are used, ancient, rusted, and together cost less than $150. My bike has stem shifters and rumbles in agony when I turn left. Fred's bike was evidently made in an era when neon pink was considered an emblem of masculinity. It also pops and clicks every block or so. Fred claims it's because it has "bicycle incontinence" (I'm not sure he knows what incontinence really means), and it just has a hard time knowing what speed it wants to go.

We guard our bikes with our lives. So far we've refused to let them out of our sight because Davis is notorious for stolen bikes. At the very least, we're convinced someone will steal parts from our bikes (although admittedly we're not sure which rusty parts someone would want to steal). This newfound paranoia has presented several interesting predicaments, such as rearranging our entire living room furniture to accommodate the bikes as permanent fixtures and the mocking looks we receive when we insist on wheeling our clunkers inside restaurants. We even plan on riding them to church. We're in love. Oh, with each other? Right, and our bikes too.

Don't mind the construction paper Christmas tree donned with string "twinkle lights" and (not pictured) an origami star colored with a yellow high lighter marker. We realize Christmas was two months ago. We also realize a construction paper tree is a pathetic poor man's excuse for a real tree, but in case you didn't already know, paper comes from real trees. See, they're practically the same thing anyhow. We can even smell pine needles if we pretend hard enough.

*What Fred said when he meant "bicyclists."

a [valentine's] day in our life

6:13 a.m.

I had set my alarm for 6:30, but my excitement makes me wake up earlier. I get up, put on my fuzzy pink robe, and tip toe into the kitchen to whip up hash browns, french toast with strawberries, and a little yogurt parfait for Fred.

6:50 a.m.

I place all of the food on a breakfast serving tray (a cookie sheet) and carry it into sleepy bed head Fred, who perks at the sight of so much food. He pretends to be surprised, but we both know he could hear me whistling and giggling (clanking and cursing) in the kitchen all along.

7:45 a.m.

Fred leaves for school. When he isn't looking, I slip a Snickers bar into his backpack. I go back to bed for another thirty minutes, then wake up and do some reading.

10:00 a.m.

Fred discovers the Snickers bar, as shown by the following text: "YESSSS!!!!!! Thanks, sweetie pie!!!!!!"

12:00 p.m.

I meet Fred on campus so we can attend a student meeting that's serving free Indian food. FREE INDIAN FOOD! Free Indian food that was 10, then 20, then 30 minutes late, so we grumpily left the meeting to go home to work out and eat vegetable soup.

12:40 p.m.

We pop in a P90X DVD. We're on week three, so we're both pretty buff. Never mind that Fred still has to assist, like, 99% of my weight each time I do a pull-up. Nothing to get in the Valentine's spirit than to hear your husband grunt in pain as he hoists you up into the air so you can attempt a set of pull-ups.

2:00 p.m.

Fred leaves for his next class. On his way out the door, he tells me with a mischievous smile that we'll be having dinner at six o'clock.

2:40 p.m.

Fred sends me a text with a picture of a movie ticket. The ticket is for a 4:15 showing of The Vow, which I've been dying to see because I have a horrible taste in movies. Accompanying the picture text is an audio clip of this song, which Fred and I decided we liked after we heard it in a trailer for The Vow. I've been gushing over this chick flick since before it came out, but knew that we probably couldn't afford to see it until it hit Redbox. Overwhelmed with elation, I text back, "REALLY!*!?!?!?!?!?!!!11!!" and change my outfit to incorporate every pink, purple, and red articles I own.

3:30 p.m.

Fred gets home from class. We decide to walk downtown to the theater. Usually I get huffy and mad when we walk somewhere together because Fred walks faster than average, and I tend to walk slower than average. Our walks are typically filled with me whining, "Wait for meeee. Why won't you just walk with me? Why are you in such a hurry?" Today, I am too excited to mind. I half-sprint with him all the way to the theater.

3:45 p.m.

We're totally the first ones in our theater, so naturally we claim the seats right behind the bar that has no other purpose than to act as a footrest.

6:00 p.m.

End credits roll. We kiss and jokingly say at the exact same time, "Wait, do I know you?" (A joke reference to the movie.)

6:10 p.m.

After a quick potty break for the Mrs., we walk to a new Thai restaurant for dinner. It is the perfect place for us, and the deep-fried cream cheese wontons not only clog our arteries six hundred times over, but they are also really delicious in a I'll-think-about-something-other-than-how-bad-these-are-for-me-as-I-chew-and-swallow way.

7:00 p.m.

We stop at Ben and Jerry's for Fred to get a free ice cream cone.

7:15 p.m.

We arrive home. Fred pulls our bedding into our front room, suggesting that we have a slumber party tonight. I am a huge fan of the idea, of course.

7:30 p.m.

The Phantom of the Opera (the movie) is on, so we watch it while having a little chocolate picnic on our bed. When Raoul sings, "Christine, I lo-o-ove you," Fred says, "That's my favorite part in the whole movie. It makes me teary-eyed. I think it's sweet."

9:35 p.m.

The movie ends. Fred stands up and announces he has another surprise. Then he turns on the song we danced to at our wedding. We dance and, yes, cry a little. We're so mushy. Ew.

9:45 p.m.

We wipe our eyes, blow our noses, and turn on an upbeat song. We dance like goobertons.

10:00 p.m.

The day before, we received a Valentine's card from my mom. Heart stickers were inside the card. We sit on our bed and take turns laughing and putting stickers on each other. We think we're pretty funny.

12:00 a.m.

Nice and warm in the covers, listening to rain and wind outside the apartment, we excitedly chatter about everything under the sun--how Rachel McAdams always finds a way to show off her booty on-screen, how similar we are to the characters in The Vow, how our calves are sore from P90X, how it's crazy to think that we got engaged only one year ago, how we want to hit up all the grocery stores the following afternoon for discount Valentine's candy. Our conversation slows as sleep begins to take us over, and soon we wish each other a happy Valentine's Day and fall asleep with our bodies spotted with heart stickers.

pride and prejudice

Fred and I have started listening to audiobooks on road trips. This last road trip over winter break, we failed to plan ahead and consequently did not deliberate and agree upon an audiobook to purchase. Thankfully, I had a copy of Pride and Prejudice on my iPod--a free audiobook I found back in the day when I took a British literature class at BYU. Although Fred has seen the (new) movie, and I have read the book already, we decided this would have to do.

Fred had never read the book, but I think we were both a little surprised to find that he. loves. Pride and Prejudice. LOVES. He will sheepishly deny it, but I was there when he asked me to put it on again and again and again. I sat through all the dinner conversations when he repeatedly brought up Mr. Darcy in a way that he considered "casual" (I know better). I noticed he began speaking with a slight accent, saying things like, "Oh Rachy, have I no respect for your nerves?" The kid was hooked.

One day, after break had ended and we were back in the swing of things, I was going through some old textbooks and packaging them up to sell back to Amazon. Fred sat down and listlessly shuffled through the stack.

Suddenly, he gasped. I looked up from my packaging, only to find him furiously holding up my copy of Pride and Prejudice that I had purchased for my literature class years ago.

"You OWN this?" he accused. "And you didn't TELL me?"

"Well, I'm selling it back anyhow," I explained, at which he positively unraveled. The next few days, Fred tried to convince me not to ship off my book. I explained to him that Pride and Prejudice is probably the easiest book to get our hands on, thus it was not a big deal to not have our own copy. Eventually, Fred let up and, through a pouty face, agreed that Pride and Prejudice should go to Amazon with the dozen other textbooks and novels.

What a sweetie, right?

A few weeks passed. Life was beginning to get back to normal. Fred no longer brought up Mr. Darcy the way a twelve-year-old brought up her crush, and it seemed that Pride and Prejudice was finally behind us.

Until it came.

The cardboard box that was dropped off at our front door with a brisk knock. The cardboard box with Amazon.com embossed on the side. Fred said that he had bought some resistance bands for us, so that was probably what was in the box. He ripped off the tape, opened the flaps, stuck his hand in the box, and retrieved...

Pride and Prejudice. Yes, THE copy that I returned to Amazon that Amazon then decided it didn't want anymore.

I couldn't believe it. Fred couldn't believe it, either, although the sentiment between our disbelief was quite different.

Pride and Prejudice now sits on our kitchen table--the table where Mr. Darcy passes between our mouths in conversation. The table where today I realized Fred hacked our Netflix queue, because sitting on the table in the Netflix envelope is...

the first half of the 6-hour Pride and Prejudice on DVD.

time

I realized a few things the other night when I was driving through the rural parts of Sacramento. The full moon draped a blue slip over the fields and across the sky. It was the way you expect driving through enormous planes of nothingness to feel: cold, sober, a slick black road rolling beneath the wheels. A*Teens came on the stereo (because some loves never die), and it dawned on me that I'm grateful for the season I'm in.

It's nice to be old enough to pretend I know better, but young enough to reap forgiveness with each mistake I make (and there are a lot of mistakes). I "don't know anything about anything," but that isn't so bad because smarter, more capable adults don't expect answers from me--only questions. And my mind is like a bonfire, sparking popping eating growing...and full of questions.

It's nice to be young enough to not yet have a past filled with regrets.

But why is it that when we're young, we're pressured to grow up? And then once we're grown up, we try and chase our youth until we die?

I hope I stay with someone into their old age--not literally. Not like I will with Fred--two geezers yelling at each other because we forgot to turn on our hearing aids. I'd like to touch the center of people and make them laugh (or even cry?), to inspire a change that stays long after I'm gone. I've spent so many years trying to abolish insincerity, to inspire awe, to cultivate special things, but now I'm not sure if I've changed a thing. I'm not even sure if I've succeeded in changing myself.

In seventh grade, I took a friend's picture with a disposable camera during lunch. She was hugging a tree, her backpack tossed to the side and her tongue sticking out to proudly display a mouthful of chewed-up Cheetos. I don't have that picture anymore. After the camera flashed, she laughed and it made me laugh, and that's what I remember now. Not the picture, but the laughing.

And when I think about that, I realize that maybe I'm not sure what season I'm in anymore.

six months

Anniversary Tag

How long have you been married?

Six months. Six mostly blissful months.

How long did you date?

Almost a year.

How old is he?

25 and one quarter.

How old is she?

21 and three quarters.

Who said "I love you" first?

This is how the first time went.

Fred: I think I love you.

Me: (slightly mortified) What??

Fred: (reading the situation accurately) ...oh...uh...ouch! My eye!

Me: Oh no, your eye!

(The L-word was not brought up for awhile after that.)

Who is taller?

Fred.

Who sings better?

Fred?

Who is smarter?

If we're measuring "smart" in terms of who's better in math, then Fred, but if we're measuring "smart" in terms of...who can type faster or who can eat more chocolate chips in one minute, then me.

Who does the laundry?

Mostly me.

Who does the dishes?

Hmm, we both do them.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?

We trade off. It's a free for all system around here.

Who pays the bills?

The state of California.

Who mows the lawn?

We don't have one of those.

Who cooks dinner?

Me. Sometimes Papa Murphy's takes a turn, too.

Who is more stubborn?

I think we tie on this one. It would depend on the situation, though.

Who asked out whom?

Fred asked out me.

Who proposed?

Fred. A few weeks after he proposed, we ordered his ring. Once it arrived at the store, I picked it up and gave it to him by proposing, so I guess we both proposed!

Who is more sensitive?

Me probably.

Who has more friends?

I think I do.

Who has more siblings?

Fred, who has eight siblings.

I tag anyone else who is having any sort of anniversary. I'm a sucker for any excuse to celebrate.