A goodbye of sorts

Wow. It's been a long time since I've been here. It's been a long time since I've thought about here.


I have some news, though. So I thought I'd share.

I'm pregnant.

Yes again.

They'll be 18 months apart, almost exactly.

And I don't care if you think we're crazy or whatever. Because having a family is the best thing in the entire world, and we are only and extremely excited.

Also, I sometimes (rarely) update our family blog. I don't post my "musings" online anymore, mostly for personal reasons, but I will give small updates on family life every so often. As of now, I haven't since like January, but you know. If you're interested. It's ourlittlebylittle.blogspot.com.

That's about it.

le parole

In class today, we discussed the actual, electromagntic, intense powerful substance of words.

"Let there be light."

And then there was light.
But there wasn't light before there was words.
And the power of God's words brought about the light.

Words can denegrate, they can change, they can reduce, they can expand.
They are our way of understanding the world, of understanding reality, of re-presenting the intangible, the unknown, the known, the tangible, capital-L-LIFE.

But.
They aren't the world--these words that spin and sway and try to be something real, tangible, evidenced. They are reductive in their encompassing, portraying themselves as a full story; aiming to convince; aiming for wholeness, yet never quite getting there because that wholeness is something impossible.


There are hundreds of thousands of languages on this planet. Within those hundreds of thousands of languages, there are millions and billions of words, conjunctions, congugations, nouns, pronouns, verbs--all trying to explain this world away, slicing it into tiny bits, cooking them until well-done, aiming for fulness. Fulness of the partaker. Fulness of the dish. Fulness of presentation. Or, re-presentation.

This is my frustration with words. They have power, they have might, they have truth-lower-case-t, but not always Truth-upper-case-t. They desire, want, long for the full story, but never quite obtain it.

Mandarin orange.
Mandarin orange.
Juicy, sweetly citrusy, pockets of skin bursting with flavor and wetness.
Perfect in an Asian toasted salad, with cashews.


I can say it a thousand times. The words fill my mouth. But that doesn't change what I'm not chewing on.


Do you get it? This sub-reality that words like to create? To simplify the world, reduce it, make it graspable?














Reduction is not something I need, currently.
For it is not logical to desire to reduce happiness.

An update, of sorts?

I have the itch today.

It's tingling my arms, working its way through my bones, trying to reach my head, trying to grasp something, anything, just ONE thing of the millions of things bopping through my head.


Hmm.
That's not accurate.

Things USED to bop around my head. They used to flail, and scream, and fight their way around my head, actually.

But that doesn't happen anymore.




No, my mind is more peaceful now. Peaceable, too.


and I think it has something to do with my heart.

I just figured this out. Just two seconds ago. Just typing I realized this.

My heart and my mind are on the same track. It took some time to route my mind (because the mind is always the one veering off the intended) back on track, but I think I am finally here.

And it feels good. Oh so good.


So the itch. The things (not) bopping through my head.


These days I just think. I just wonder. I just contemplate, and search for truth. I don't try to will things to be how I see them. I don't try to know everything. I just try to experience, and I try to learn as much as I can.

It makes me quieter (if that's possible), and it makes me more peaceful.


This will probably come as a shocker to most people who have known me, but it is what it is.

These days I don't fret. I don't worry. I don't obsess over injustice, unfairness, wrongness. I don't try to WILL change. Change in other people. Change in everything around me. CHANGE CHANGE CHANGE. DISCONTENT. CRAVING FOR SOMETHING ANYTHING BUT THIS. DIFFERENT. FREEDOM. SOMETHING.

No, that is not me. Not anymore.

I just try to live my life as much as possible.
I try to follow my soul.




And I'm learning, that's about all I can do.

I'm finally getting that.


I'm relinquishing the control that I never had, but constantly tried to have over absolutely EVERYTHING.

and

I'm turning everything inward.
Changing myself.
Righting my own wrongs.



I feel so peaceful.



So I suppose that's one of the things slowly musing its way around my brain.



On another note, my adorable son is currently the cutest thing on this planet, and my husband is still as spiffy as ever.

Yesterday I switched to the new Blogger interface. At first I'm always thrown off a little bit by website changes (probably a conditioned response due to facebook's neverending changes which may or may not turn out to be for the betterment of the website and its users), and so my first reaction was to dislike it. However, after exploring a little bit, I found the set-up to be quite convenient. I quickly became especially fond of the site-tracking section. Not only does it tell you how many page views you have had on a particular blog, but it gives you referring sites, location, browser, and even the computer type of the visiting individual. Not that this is revolutionary technology or anything, Sitemeter has had all of this for quite some time now. But rather than having to navigate to an entirely different site just to find out how many people are reading your stuff, Blogger has set it up in an easy to access, functionable, quick way. It's all just right here.

So anyway. I'm browsing around the new site, and I stumble upon the statistic portion of my "daily kaylie" blog. Fully expecting to see zero site visitors since, like, May, I was completely shocked to see how many people still come here daily.

Honestly, I'm quite flattered.

Thanks for checkin' up on me, and giving me reason to keep writing on here.

I've got some things to say, and this is my place to say them.

It's taken me time to know how, to think through things, to learn of my internal changes since being a mother.

It's a time thing.

So thanks for staying tuned.

It is much appreciated.

Things(ish) I've learned in the last 2 months and 3 weeks.

Being a mom is the hardest, most rewarding, most fulfilling, best job I have ever had. And I'm only going on month 3.

I love love love it. My heart breaks probably a hundred times a day to fit my growing love for this tiny (okay, so maybe he's not so tiny anymore...) little boy (he weighed in at 13.2 lbs at his 2 month check up... 95th percentile for weight! Haha!).

Everyone tells you, it's going to be over before you know it! And it's true, time has absolutely flown since little man got here. But this kind of advice just makes me sad, nostalgic, and depressed. Very uncool. I like my mom's advice much better (but when do I ever NOT like my mom's advice?): Just enjoy every stage!! Enjoy getting up at night with him. Enjoy him as a helpless newborn, enjoy him as a bouncy toddler, enjoy him as a troublesome five year old, enjoy him as a moody teenager, and so on. And that's what I'm trying to do. I'm not going to focus on how fast time is going. I'm just going to love every single minute of being this little boy's mom.

MOM.

I refer to myself as mommy probably a hundred times a day.

"Mommy will feed you after mommy changes your diaper."

"Do you know how much mommy loves you?"

"Mommy and Gabey are going for a walk!"

And the strangest part? It's not weird (well, it's not weird that I'm a mom, anyway. It probably is weird that I constantly refer to myself in 3rd person while talking to a little person that can't really understand what I'm saying. And the voice I use is probably even weirder. But being a mom? That's not wierd). I'm a mom. And I love it.

People always laugh at new parents for making a big deal out of everything the babe does. Most nights LJ and I will just sit together, holding the babe between us, and laugh at every single cute thing he does. He laughs back, too. He probably thinks he is the funniest thing on the planet. We certainly do. So it's true, what they say about new parents. The funny part, though? It's not just new parents who are like that. It's, like, EVERYBODY. People love babies. Especially cute babies. Like mine. People coo and laugh and give all of their attention to an awake baby who will coo back. And when you have a baby, all the sudden you become ten times more popular. Only, it's not you people want to talk to. It's your two-month-old. It's pretty hilarious.

And if you think you can't talk to a two-month-old, think again.

Because I talk to a two-month-old pretty much all day.

I was thinking about how babies communicate the other day, and I find it so fascinating. Babies in general cry when they are hungry, tired, lonely, bored, have messed their pants, or are uncomfortable in some way. They cry to alert us to these problems, as they are completely dependent and can do nothing for their discomfort themselves. How interesting that they CRY, though, to tell us these things. To us (developed adults) crying means sadness. I would argue that when we witness another person experience this emotion, we have our most immediate and thorough reactions. We comfort, empathize, and sympathize and want to help the person to feel better almost instantly (I'm talking NORMAL human beings here...we'll leave sadistic, unfeeling crazies off the list...). This doesn't happen with any other emotion, really.

Interesting, then, that babies use crying as their primary method of communication. When Gabe cries, nothing else matters to me. All I can do is focus on him, the problem, and how to fix it, ASAP!!!! Gabe is not always sad when he cries. But crying is his only method of communicating. I have learned to read his different cries that mean different things. It took a while for me to figure this out though. Which is great! For the first large chunk of Gabe's life, his crying lead me to give him incessant attention (I don't know if you know, but crying is pretty difficult to ignore). Because of this, I was able to learn how to communicate with him.

And now we have regular conversations.

And it's awesome.

Gosh, I love being a mom.

Gabriel Alaka'ipono Sikahema

I've been meaning to write this for a while, but if you can't imagine, I've been doing much more important things. Like holding my sweet, tiny, perfect, baby boy. But I still wanted to write his birth story on here for those still interested in hearing it.

So here it is:

Sunday, March 6. 6AM I wake up with light, but regular contractions. I don't think much of it because at this point, contractions of this nature are a regular occurrence. I try to lull myself back to sleep, considering the fact that Sunday is the only regular sleep-in day, but sleep won't come. Eventually, I decide to cease my tossing and turning, and get up and do something productive. I find my scriptures and my journal, and move to the living room to read where I won't disturb my still-slumbering husband. After reading for a good 20 minutes and continuing to feel regular contractions, I become distracted, and wonder if I should start timing them. I get up and walk to the bedroom to grab my cell phone to use as a timer. As I return to the couch, I see a small puddle of liquid pooling where I had just been sitting. How embarrassing. I didn't even know I had to go (weird things happen to your body when you're pregnant. Just saying).

At that moment, I experience a particular strong contraction. It is shortly followed by a realization on my part.

Perhaps that pool of liquid is not urine...

So I sniff the puddle, and sure enough, it has no scent. I'm confused. I thought my water was supposed to "gush" if it broke. Not trickle into a little puddle without me even realizing it. I look at the clock--just a little bit after seven. My mom should be up. She's an early riser.

I am calm as I tell my mom what happened. She advises me to continue timing my contractions, and to call my doctor around nine. I'll probably have the baby today, we both decide. Calmly. Rationally.

We hang up, and I continue to time my contractions. I leave LJ to his sleep, as I figure this might be the last good night's sleep he will get in a while. At 8:30, my contractions are regular and 5 minutes apart. I decide it's time to wake LJ up, and let him in on the news. I sit on his side of the bed and gently shake him until he opens his eyes.

"Hi. We're having a baby today."

Smile.

We spend the next hour and a half showering, packing, eating breakfast, making sure the camera is charged and the video camera works, and taking a few last minute pictures (none of this had been previously prepared...what can I say except baby boy was 2 weeks early). At 9:30 I am unable to reach my doctor, but my contractions are pretty painful, and when my mom hears me breathing through them on the phone, she instructs us to just go to the hospital. Don't worry about contacting your doctor.

The drive is quiet. Calm. Happy. We talk about what we thought this drive would be like. We talk about having a baby. We talk about how much we love each other. We talk about how great life is.

We arrive at the hospital around 10:30, where I had already pre-admitted a few weeks back. I walk up to the lady at the registration desk, though, because I am unsure where labor and delivery is.
Hello, I say.
Hello, she says back. Do you need to register?
No, I've pre-admitted. I'm currently in labor though.
Oh! Labor and deliver is on the 3rd floor! Good luck!

Once in labor and delivery, I am taken to a room where they will decide if I will be giving birth today, or if they will send me home on a false alarm. My contractions are painful.

The nurse walks into the "decision room" where she tells me to shed my dignity, and my wardrobe. She is witty, sarcastic, and anti-BYU, we learn from the get-go. I like her instantly. Not because she is anti-BYU, but because I feel immediately comfortable with her. After testing my leaking fluids on a little strip, and telling me that I am dilated to a 3, it is determined that my water has, indeed, broken, and that I will, indeed, be having the baby today.

So, she says, we've got to decide a few things. On a scale of one to ten, one being none, and ten being having your arm sawed off, how much pain would you like to feel?
Umm...one? I'm not that into pain...
Oh, good. I thought you were one of those crazies who likes pain (her viewpoint, not mine). Epidural, then?
Yes, please.
When do you want it?
When can I have it?
As soon as we can get the man here!
Wonderful.

So we wait for the epidural man to bring his magic. In the mean time, the nurse puts in my IV, and brings me a cranberry juice. At 11:30 the man arrives, and administers the blessed medical miracle (at this point my contractions are preeettyyy intense, and I might have sung the man's praises as the medicine kicked in). Then, we begin the wait. My wonderful doctor who is not currently scheduled to be in labor and delivery comes in just to deliver my baby. It's getting close to one, and I am dilated to a 5. He tells me to hang out and get some sleep if I want. He is going to attend his one o'clock meetings, and he'll be back around four to check on me and perhaps deliver the baby.

The three hours fly. After about an hour and a half I am fully dilated, and by four when the Dr. gets back I am +1 and absolutely ready to have this baby.

The nurse tells me that we should have this baby out by 4:30. The Dr. agrees.

Delivery is exhausting. I was told after the fact that most women burn an average of 50,000 calories during delivery. After experiencing it, I can understand. After an hour of pushing, we're about half-way there. My epidural is wearing off, and I am in quite a bit of pain. I had refrained from pushing the "pain" button which would give me another dose of the epidural medication because the nurse told me it would make the pushing more difficult if I were to push it, but the pain gets to the point where I can hardly handle it. I push the button again, but it is too late to kick in. The last 15 minutes of the delivery are pure agony.

At 5:37PM, though, after almost 2 hours of pushing, my beautiful baby boy is born. Immediately, I feel a billion things, all at the same time. The emotions are higher than anything I have ever felt, and can hardly be explained in words. He is squirmy, and flailing, and beautiful with a head chock-full of black hair, still wet from the womb. We sob, although not as loud as Gabriel. We can't take our eyes off of this perfect little boy. We've never been so happy.

He is weighed, measured. 7lbs even, 19 inches long.

He is then placed on my chest. Skin to skin. I cry harder. He is perfect.

I desperately want LJ to hold him, too, and I tell the nurses so. One of the nurses suggest I leave him on my skin, but my kind, understanding doctor says that it's my baby, and it is also LJ's. We make the calls.

Soon, everyone has gone. It is just the three of us, our small family, alone for the first time. We continue to cry, all three of us, until the nurse comes to get him so that he can be bathed. LJ goes with him. I'm not fit to walk, and I have to prove that I can go to the bathroom by myself before they will let me go downstairs.

The next couple days are a blur. Friends and family visit with their wishes. He cries at night, but I refuse to let the nurses take him to the nursery. He pees on his face while our favorite nurse, Kally, is changing him. He is kissed probably a thousand times. We can't get over our happiness.

48 hours after he is born, Tuesday, we are allowed to go home. We are told to return to the hospital for a biliruben test the next day though. It's should be nothing to worry about, they say, but his levels are a little high.

That night my mom stays with us. We are exhausted but absolutely ecstatic to have him home.





(This blog is plenty long, so I'll stop here. Wednesday we had to readmit him to the hospital, and I might write about that in a Part II of sorts, but we all know how good I am at fulfilling blogging promises, so we'll see.)

Oh, hello.

I want to tell you about things.

New things. Things I am learning. Things I am grateful for. Life-changing things. Things that are important. Things that I've been meaning to get out for months.


But it will have to wait.

Because for now I am headed to a 50 minute closing discussion on Walcott's Omeros, and then 50 minutes of Chinese review.


And after that I will be writing a paper on morality and poverty, studying for a Chinese midterm and a Religion midterm, and preparing a presentation on Abrogation, Appropriation and Negritude.




I love school so much.

(Not sarcastic. I really do love it.)



Also, 36 1/2 weeks down. (Men) frequently ask me when my baby is due, now (this is a big step, as men seem to be significantly more cautious about this subject than women), my heartburn is almost constant, and I can hardly go 15 minutes without thinking about this little dude and his cute little nose that looks just like his daddy's (3D ultra-sounds are pretty sweet).


My heavens, we cannot WAIT to see what our little man looks like.

Ode to writing. No promises, though.

I've never been a great journal writer. I've come to learn that it is partially because my mind flows far too quickly for my hands to keep up--so I'll get halfway through a paragraph while journaling, and then get so lost in some secondary thought that I will completely forget what was supposed to come next on paper. I get frustrated with the time it takes to record thoughts using only a pen and paper. It is tragic, really, because I am a thorough, hard and fast, rose-doodling, rain-kissing, love-lettering romantic, and the thought of a scratchy pen filling up a soft, off-white piece of paper (if we're being idyllic, by candelight), sends romantic shivers through my fingertips. But it's just not that practical. Nor fulfilling. Not for me.

I suppose I've lived in the 21st century for too long.

Because where paper and pen don't seem to do the trick, a keyboard and a blank word document seem to fill that empty space in my writing soul quite agreeably. My fingers can move (almost) as fast as my mind tends to, and when I have thoughts that are irrelevant to my current stream, I can type 'em out and move 'em around until I find the space of thought they were supposed to be composed in in the first place.

It's like playing Tetris. Only with words.

So for a while, I did that here. I opened my veins (morbid? sorry...) and splashed words onto this tan and white blogger screen that doesn't ever seem to agree with my formatting. I don't think I ever did it daily, although that was (clearly) my goal (see blog title).

It's also clear that that goal failed. Miserably, I might add.


Here's why: I got scared. I got scared that I was uninteresting. I got scared that people wouldn't want to read what I had to say. I got scared that people would judge my writing abilities. Scared that I would never be good enough. For you, or for myself.

Silly, isn't it? It's just a blog.


Recently, though, I've created a word document. It sits on my desktop. It is saved as "paperclips." I visit that document frequently, if not daily, and I just type. I don't delete, I don't re-read, I don't edit, I just type.

And it is wonderful.

And the best part? My muse is back. My words are back. And I want to share them. Because I want to connect. I want to connect to humanity. I want to connect to YOU.

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all. -Richard Wright, American Hunger

the christmas tree is glowing and my lips are all dry and there's hot cocoa waiting for me on the coffee table and for some reason all my creative urges happen during the very hours that i have to write a blasted 12 page research paper.

talk about waste of creativity.

talk about bad timing.

talk about getting chapstick, blogging, hot-cocoaing, and putting off said research paper for another 15 minutes.

One year... really?

So I'm sitting here on my Monet-looking, patterned couch, eating the knock-off, generic brand of Apple Jacks (probably like Apple Smacks or something... I'm too lazy to get off the couch and look). It's snowing a lot outside. Really chilly. And pretty wet.

It's good to sit for a minute. To contemplate. It's been a year.

Just now I started making a list of everything notable that has happened in the last year. Things, I suppose, that could easily be seen as check points along the way. However, it didn't take me long to realize that this wasn't quite appropriate--neither for the way that I am feeling, nor for the way that the last year has actually been for me.

Because here's the deal. It's not really the tangible, datable, quantifiable things that have happened along the route of our first year that have defined who we are in our marriage. Rather, it's the untangible: the thoughts, the ideas, the emotions, the lessons, and sometimes even the sublime that define what we have become, together.

A few weeks back I read an article by Orson Scott Card about marriage. I thought it was so fascinating, and really, eye-opening. Part of the article said:

"AMERICA HAS BECOME tragically ignorant about something we once seemed to understand: marriage.

Even in the church, we postpone marriage later and later, as if it were a particularly unpleasant dental appointment. There's so much to do first — we have to "find out who we are." We have to get our careers established. We have to prove we're successful.

I had a taste of that myself when I got married back in 1977. I had sold my first novel and wanted to get it finished and delivered ... before I got married. So I was just a few minutes late getting to the temple because I had to finish photocopying that manuscript and get it into the mail.

What was I thinking? That it would somehow be better if my wife knew for sure that she was not part of my career as a writer?

That's such a silly mistake — that we must or even can "find ourselves" before we've made that lifelong (or longer) commitment.

Here's why it's a mistake: We don't ever "find" ourselves. Instead, in marriage, we make ourselves.

No, we make each other — as a joint project. We turn ourselves into a perfect fit. Our self is the marriage, and our part in it. There is no 'I' without the 'we.'"

Interesting concept, no? But from my small, short, life experience, I've found this statement, particularly the last paragraph, to be rather profound. Even though I was pretty young (20) when LJ proposed, I had completed 3 years at a university, I had been (almost) entirely independent for those 3 years, I had held steady, good jobs, I was financially stable with no debt, I had planned out my future education prospects, I knew clearly what my dreams and goals in life were... well, let's just leave it at that and say that I thought I had myself pretty-darn figured out. So when LJ came home from his mission and proposed a week later, I had zero inhibitions about going forward with it. We loved each other, we were the best of friends, and it would have been silly to put it off any because propriety told us we should wait.

Well, my stubborn, seemingly-solidified, birthed-from- the-strains-of-adolescence confidence soon found its way out of my newly-wed window. One beautiful, married morning, I woke up, and I had the strange thought that I didn't know who I was. It was strange because I hadn't had that thought in years.

It was strange, too, because I couldn't figure a reasoning for my loss of confidence. LJ tells me that I'm beautiful, smart, talented, awesome, and a whole bunch of other things that I am probably not but that he so graciously thinks I am pretty much every single married day. He always encourages me. I couldn't figure out my problem. Like really? What the heck.

My mother, though, the all-knowing, ever-saving angel that she is, enlightened me to that fact that I would have many of these identity-crises throughout my entire life, and that major life changes would always cause identity changes as well.

And right she was, and will continue to be, probably for the rest of my life.

This past year has been amazing. It's been hard. It's been work. It's been growth. It's been humility. It's been time. It's been memories. It's been entertaining. It's been different than anything else I have ever experienced. And let me tell you, it's been worth it.

There is nothing better in the entire world than marrying the love of your life in the temple of the Lord.

If you have ever questioned whether or not you can make it there, whether or not it is worth it, whether or not it's for you...STOP. Because you can make it there. It is worth it. It's for everyone.

And not only is it for everyone, but it might be the best thing that you'll ever do.

Because let me tell you, it's definitely the best thing I've ever done.

Now, if you'll please excuse me, I am going to go celebrate the best thing I've ever done with a romantic candle-light dinner, Martinellis, and a very attractive husband.

(Wasn't she just eating Apple Jacks?)

Some thoughts.

Since I've been pregnant, I've struggled emotionally with a lot of things. I've struggled with loneliness, depression, a heightened sense of the future, and uneasiness about how things will work out right in the months to come.

My good friend Becky, previous to two days ago, was pregnant and due right after I was. We announced our pregnancies 1 week apart, and throughout my pregnancy, I have found a lot of solace knowing that she and I have been going through very similar things. We are both 21 (our birthdays are 1 day apart), we are both English majors, we were married within a month of each other, and we both had very similar experiences in deciding to get pregnant. Two days ago, she found out she is having twins. They are her first babies, and they are both boys. I refer you to her blog post found here before you continue reading.

Becky is amazing. I know that, because Heavenly Father trusted her with 2 babies instead of just one. Every single mother of twins that I know is chalked up on my list of "Mothers that I would like to be like one day." One of these is my own mother. Becky will be a wonderful mother to these babies, and I have so much respect for her, and for the faith that she has maintained through this. It's a darn big deal to find out that you are having twins when you are 21 years old. Darn big deal.

I have stolen the quote from her blog to stick it here, because that quote struck me extra hard when I read it. I want you to read it, and to think deeply about it. Don't just skim it, you'll be missing something very important if you do.

"I have just two things to say to you who are troubled about the future. I say them lovingly and from my heart.

First, we must never let fear and the father of fear (Satan himself) divert us from our faith and faithful living. Every person in every era has had to walk by faith into what has always been some uncertainty. This is the plan. Just be faithful. God is in charge. He knows your name and He knows your need.

Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ—that is the first principle of the gospel. We must go forward. God expects you to have enough faith, determination, and trust in Him to keep moving, keep living, keep rejoicing. He expects you not simply to face the future; He expects you to embrace and shape the future—to love it, rejoice in it, and delight in your opportunities.

God is eagerly waiting for the chance to answer your prayers and fulfill your dreams, just as He always has. But He can’t if you don’t pray, and He can’t if you don’t dream. In short, He can’t if you don’t believe."

--Elder Jeffrey R. Holland

Like I said, throughout my pregnancy I have struggled with depression. I have struggled with fear of the future. I have struggled with uncertainty. I still have 2 semesters left in school. I have a husband who has 3 semesters left of his undergraduate degree, and then will be going to grad school. I don't know a lot of things about the future. And a lot of the time, that scares me.

Like Becky, though, I know that this was the right choice. In quiet moments when I can calm my mind, when I let myself be happy, when I am grateful and content, I feel my baby with me, and I know that he needed to come here. I know that he needed to be with us. It was his time. The Lord needs him here. And part of that reason was me. The Lord needed me to have more faith. So he sent me a baby boy to help me grow.

It's amazing how the Lord works. I have spent the weeks since general conference re-watching talk after talk. Mostly, I've watched President Monson's talk--The Divine Gift of Gratitude. It's been slow, but I have felt my mentality change every so slightly every time I listen to it.

I have so much to be grateful for. So much to be happy about.
I am so grateful. So happy.

I am attending a good university. I have a wonderful husband who loves me, and is excited about the future. I am expecting a beautiful, healthy, baby boy in March. I have a wonderful family, and wonderful in-laws. I have the gospel.

I have the gospel.

And that, my friends, should cause me to rejoice and be full of gratitude everyday.

Which leads me to my next point.

There was one day last week where I felt like I had literally been stomped on by a parade of horses, storming into a bloody, hopeless war. I felt so pelted into the ground, that I didn't know how I could ever stand up again. I cried and cried and cried.

That day, LJ somehow didn't have to go into a (usually) mandatory meeting with his boss. Instead, he came and found me in the Wilkinson center, and tried to pull out of me the matter that was causing me such distress. I never told him what had caused my depression, I don't think, but that really didn't matter at all. To be honest, I really can't remember what it was. You see, what's wrong is never really what we think is wrong. And LJ saw this. He was able to reach down beneath the foggy muck that was clouding my mind and the aching of my heart to see that the problem was my failure to use my God-given gift of agency. Sure, life was a little difficult, sure my emotions were running wild due to these crazy pregnancy hormones, but beneath all of that, I was not allowing myself to be happy.

LJ pulled out his Book of Mormon, and told me to read 2 Nephi 2 in its entirety and think and pray about agency the entire time I read. He specifically pointed out verse 27 which reads: "Wherefore, men are free according to the flesh; and all things are given them which are expedient unto man. And they are free to choose liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator of all men, or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil; for he seeketh that all men might be miserable like unto himself" (I added my own emphasis, obviously).

It hit me like a ton of bricks. It doesn't matter what happens in life. I have two choices: 1.) to choose to be happy and have freedom, or 2.) to choose to be miserable and remain in a sort of captivity.

Being happy is just so much better, you know?

Depression is real. Emotion is real. Why do you think that these tools are so effective in Satan's hands? But God is also real. The gospel is real. And all things which are expedient are given unto us. That means we have power. Real power to fight the adversary. Real power to fight the adversary and win.



Amazing, isn't it?
LJ always tells me, "Nothing works like the gospel works."

All I have to say to that is a rousing AMEN.

Baby baby baby.

I'm not really in a super-sappy mood right now, but sometimes when I talk about baby, I get a little sappy. I'm female and pregnant, though--so if my emotions seem a little out of the ordinary, let me tell you, they are.

We saw baby again yesterday. Baby is a he. A him. A boy.

When we saw baby for the first time, both LJ and I automatically thought boy. Strongly. But as time went on, I started to wonder and second guess. I guess that's just because I didn't want to be determinative. If it was a little girl, I didn't want to insult her by implying that she was masculine by thinking she was a he, or something. I got really sensitive about baby's feelings for a while there. Actually, make that present tense. I AM really sensitive to baby's feelings. Currently. Continuously.

But anyway.

So then last week, all the sudden, I start to think it's a girl. And then both of my spiritually-in-tune, missionary brothers thought it was a girl, so that influenced my opinion as well. Not that their incorrectness in guessing my baby's gender changes their spirituality at all. Because it doesn't. I mean, really.

So in-betwixt all of this, everyone kept asking me what I wanted. I hated that question. Like I said, I've been hyper-sensitive to baby's feelings. I would never say that I want a girl only to have it be a boy, or vice versa. Now I just imagine my baby boy, hanging out while I have these conversations with people, listening in... I didn't want to offend, you know?

So I told people I wanted a healthy baby. Period. And I am so grateful, because so far he is.

The ultra-sound tech kept talking about how beautiful his heart was. No spina bifida. No Down syndrome. A brain. She said, "We have to check because in 14 years you're going to start wondering if he ever had one." 2 functioning kidneys. Both arms. Both legs. His dad's nose. That makes me happy.

LJ jumped out of his chair when she said boy. Not that she had to say it. It was preeettyyyy clear, to be less than candid about it.

I've been thinking so much about this little boy, lately. He already has my heart. I feel him--not just his movements--but the person that he is. He is soft, gentle, smiley, and he has a good sense of humor. He's a lot like his dad, I think.




And now that we know what he is, I just can't wait to meet him.

On, on to the victory!

So this is kind of cool, and new. Considering the temptation and the disobedience that consequently accompanies the missionary rules about the internet, I guess I never even considered this as a possibility. However, I think it is absolutely awesome. Confused? Read on. This is an email we got from my brother's mission president a few weeks back:

Dear Parents,

Eighteen missionaries in the California Santa Rosa Mission have received an assignment to work on the Internet daily as a proselyting missionary for one to two hours per day. Their purpose is the same as any missionary which is to invite others to come unto Christ by helping them receive the restored gospel through faith in Jesus Christ and His Atonement, repentance, baptism, receiving the gift of the holy ghost, and enduring to the end. They will use social networks, blogs, chat, and other powerful communication tools the Lord has provided through the Internet to accomplish this assignment.

We are sending this letter to let you know that your missionary son or daughter has been given such an assignment. Please do not use your missionaries’ Facebook page for communications about home, family, or other items that will detract from their sacred work and calling. It is because of your missionary’s obedience, spiritual maturity, and earned trust that he or she has been given this assignment. Please do not do anything that would detract from their work and devotion to the Lord and to their mission. You and loved ones should continue to communicate with your missionary only through the current established policies, which is weekly by email or by the US Postal service.

If you want to read more about what the Church is doing and who is involved go to this blog address: http://mormonmission.blogspot.com/2010/10/officially-blogging-missionaries_09.html.

We are excited to start this new assignment. We pray for the Lord’s guidance as we begin learning how to best proselyte online. I am confident our missionaries will be obedient and diligent as they communicate with investigators and members in their areas, and by spreading the good news of Jesus Christ with people throughout the world. It is our belief that this is one way that the gospel will fill the earth more quickly.

Thank you for your understanding and in assisting your missionary from home in their sacred assignment.

Sincerely,

President Jonathon W. Bunker California Santa Rosa Mission

Pretty cool, huh? I'll be honest, this makes me really proud of my little bro. Anyway, my point is to link ALL of you people reading my blog to his blog-- which is: http://armiesofheaven.blogspot.com/

Visit it, become a follower, and suggest it to others.

Shall we not go on in so great a cause?

Braided lines of hope.

A Parking Lot Metaphor.

Yellow leaves scatter themselves about the drenched parking lot, their surfaces damp and clean from the freshly-given rain. Small puddles form mazes on the asphalt.

A small boy maintains a wobbly stance on this mazey, black asphalt.

He totters around the parking lot in tiny tennis shoes that probably won’t fit him next week. Every step he takes, he gazes at the path around him. Everything is new to him; he doesn’t want to miss a thing. He wobbles his way around the puddles, and I see his dad standing ten feet away. Dad keeps a constant watch, looking for danger, looking for cars that could hurt this tiny boy, calling out to the boy when the boy becomes distracted by small, harmless bugs, leading him out into the dangerous street. Dad is far enough away that if the boy loses his balance as he learns of leaves and rain and worms and beautiful things, the boy will fall. But dad is close enough that if the boy falls, dad can run to his aid. Dust him off. Give him hope.

A Brown-Paper Bag of Hope.

We have more poetry books than food, and are content to sit like this for hours. The two of us lay on the blanket I made for him 5 years ago. No shoes on the blanket. The park is warm, peaceful. I lay flat on my back and ask him if he has ever tried to feel the earth pulsing and turning beneath him. You can, if you try hard enough.

10 people approach us with coolers and smiles. They have a free lunch for us, they say, on one condition. We must let them pray for us. My heart warms as they hand us brown paper bags with homemade turkey sandwiches inside and pray for our unborn child. Amen. They smile again, and walk away. A flyer in the lunch sack tells us they want us to find Christ, as they have. I am not familiar with their faith; but I am familiar with the message they share.

My insides warm again.

Good people.

A Woman I Love.

Less detail this time.

A bumpy wool blanket spreads on the twin-size bed. She shares the room. Her roommate can’t dress herself. She’s careful about the rules. She wants to be good. Her heart and her mind are hurting, almost as much as her body is. I see her pain, her goodness, her sheer humility. I watch her daughter, I witness a miracle. I am learning from her. I am learning from all of them. I am ashamed of my pride. I’m trying to be better.

Faith.

A standard of truth, bravely projected to millions. Divergent voices of hate and misunderstanding reply. Judging, hating. They don’t understand that what drives him is love. What drives us is love. It’s okay, though. We know what is important.

We know what is real.

And the waves and waves of this reality crash down upon us every day.

Even when the world screams that they don’t exist.

They keep on a-comin'.

And they always will.

That. That is what I live for.

An attempt at portraying impossible emotion.

I haven't written in a while. Mostly it's because I've been keeping things inside of me.

{Quite literally.}

Specifically one thing.

This one tiny thing has tiny little fingers, tiny little toes, a tiny little heartbeat, and a tiny, very bouncy, little personality.

It's hard to know how to write about big things.

{Big things that are little.}

Today we saw baby for the first time.

The second its little head and neck and torso and fingers and elbows and toes showed up on the screen, I forgot the nausea. I forgot the fatigue. I forgot the headaches. I forgot the prenatal vitamins that make me want to stab my eyes out.

As I looked at that tiny little figure, not only did I forget the difficulty of the previous 3 months, but I ceased to think whatsoever. Emotion gulped me into its abdominal cavity, and I was able to do nothing but feel. Feel pure joy. Feel pure love.

The day I married my best friend was easily the best day of my life. Because of that best day, I will have many more best days as I live my life with him, as we live our life together.

This day was one of those best days.

Because it's one of those things that I'm not sure mere words can capture.

Because this story is our story.

And only hands-in-the-mud-face-in-the-sand, hair in the wind, kool-aid stained smiling reality can tell it.

In the mean time, though, I'll give the details.

I'm 14 weeks pregnant. It was not an accident.

We want this baby more than anything.

Baby already brings us so much happiness.

March 21 is laborday.

Baby's heart beats.

And baby jumps like a kangaroo.

We're poor.

And we're in school.

We've got to work hard.

But baby is healthy.

We have never been happier,

And God is teaching me why.

Life is better than a cinnamon flavored cereal.

I hardly write about my life on here, I'm realizing. I guess that's because I feel inhibited. I feel inhibited when I see the number of people who come here, who read my words, who take my thoughts. I feel inhibited because I don't know what their purpose is for reading my words. Your purpose.

And sometimes I am frightened by what I don't know.

But today, I was reading this lovely girl's blog, and I realized that I'm kind of exhausted from being so guarded. Like her, I miss the sanctuary that this blog used to be for me. I miss the release that it once gave me. The freedom.

I want it back.

LJ and I moved a little more than a week ago. We moved from 4o sq feet, wall-to-wall sitting and sleeping arrangement, pink tiled and retro-countered, broken-disposal and 9000 degrees at night first apartment to a newer, two-bedroom, with dirty-carpets, 3x the storage and floor space, and cable-enabled apartment.

The day we moved, I was pretty much incommunicado, because I was throwing the lovely Brooke Beecher soon to be Schultz a bridal shower. So after moving all of our stuff and dishes and bed and futon and dresser and clothes and crap with help from my family and one kind soul from the Elder's quorum, LJ held the responsibility of cleaning the old apartment himself. Which he did, being the awesome husband that he is.

After the bleach and windex spree, he locked up.

And then he said goodbye.

And all of this? Well, without me.

I won't lie, I cried a little when I came home to our new, boxy apartment with dirty smelling carpets and realized that we no longer had the key to our first home.

That tiny amount of square-feet had held our first downfalls. Our first triumphs. It held our first arguments, and our first family home evenings. It held our newlywed excitement of coming home to the other. It held our first Christmas, our first dinner. It held a lot of life's lessons, a lot of teaching moments, a lot of work, mixed with a lot of love and understanding.

It took me a while, but I'm not sad, now.

Goodbyes are always worth good cries, though.

Life is full of triumphs. Life is full of memories. Life is full of new, teaching, learning experiences. It is full of downfalls. It is full of lessons. And if you let it, it can be full of love.

And sometimes, you have to let the moments of the past punch themselves into your memory box so you can move on, so you don't put the process on hold.

Also, I cleaned the carpets.

They look amazing, and no longer smell.

Today, one year ago, I saw LJ for the first time in 2 years.

Today, one year later, my life is completely, completely different.

And I can honestly say,

I've never been happier.

Caught.

Okay. I'm posting.

I'm not typing and then saving.

I'm not typing and the deleting.

And I'm not waiting, either.

I am posting this blog, no matter what comes out.

Devo vomitare le parole.

I told LJ the other night about my writer's block.

I told him it's like I have a billion thoughts floating through my head, but they are thought processes that are foreign to my own. I don't form my thoughts the way these thoughts were formed; thus, in my mind, they are but wisps of ideas-- ideas not concrete enough to grasp, even if I could leap that high.

I think it's a good thing. To change the way you think. To forget that you once knew things.

To learn.

I can feel myself changing.

I can feel my heart changing.

It beats differently, now.

And my thoughts, I guess, are simply trying to catch up.

Growing up, maybe.

Oh geez.

It's been a real long time since I've written.

But it's because I've had to be real quiet, lately.

God's been talking to me. And you've got to listen real close when God talks.

{If you don't, you might miss what he says.}

Last week sometime the radio flipped on at 6:30AM, signaling my time to get up.

Let me go home, it sang in a swoony, light tenor voice that sounded quite a lot like Michael Buble.

I heard it and smiled in my half-awake state.

And then husband pulled me closer.

Things are changing. Life is changing. But it's good.

It's an adventure, and I'm not quite sure what's going to happen next.

But I'm excited.