Eternally Safe

I wrote this story last year, shortly after the events here happened, but I could never quite bring myself to hit publish on this piece. I just have too many close friends and family who have experienced miscarriages recently who might read this blog, and I didn't want to rub my miracle in their faces. But as my husband's birthday was this past weekend, which marks the one year anniversary of this worst night of my life, I've been reflecting on this experience again, and my feelings from that night. Now that I have a beautiful amazing squishy perfect baby in my arms, the potential loss of that night seems even more unimaginably painful, but I hold to my original feelings of faith. I guess I use this blog often to record some of my more personal reflections on faith and spirituality. These just are organic parts of me that I need to write about, record, and feel compelled to share. And this is one story I do feel compelled to share, so here we go. 

Content Warning: Graphic descriptions of blood loss, trigger warning for (potential) miscarriage, (potential) baby loss. Read only if your heart (and gross factor) can handle it.

My husband's birthday had been on Thursday, but we celebrated that Friday because, well, Friday is just an easier day for celebrations. I dropped all the kids off at their various schools/daycares, then ran to a doctor's appointment. I was seventeen weeks, we listened to the heartbeat, she prescribed me a new medication to help with the nausea (I'd still thrown up that morning), then met my husband for lunch at a barbecue place (and yes, I managed to keep the food down, it helps when I don't have to make it myself!). A mid-day date is a rare luxury we've only begun to enjoy this year, with him working from home and all the kids in school. We talked about how once the baby came, such luxuries would disappear again for a few more years.

That night with the kids we ate cake, watched a movie (Dad's pick, since he was the birthday boy), then got the kids put to bed. It was about 9:30, I was sitting on our bed on top of the snow white duvet, when I shifted positions and noticed the blood. A bright red spot in the middle of that snow white fluffiness. Out of place. Unexpected.

"I'm bleeding!" I announced to my husband, who examined the spot and immediately jumped into stain-prevention mode (he's the one in our relationship who cares about stains, it's his area). I ran to the bathroom, hoping against hope that this was just a minor fluke, just a little bit of spotting, nothing to worry about.

But the flow down my legs told a different story. I grabbed toilet paper and tried to staunch it, but the blood just kept coming, soaking through wad after wad after wad. My husband hovered back and forth between me and the trail of blood I'd left behind, trying to clean things up, trying to find the one thing he could control in this situation. I told him to grab a phone and do a Google search, "Bleeding at seventeen weeks pregnant: when to call a doctor!" This had never happened to me before in any previous pregnancy. I'd never so much as had a spot of blood before delivery. I knew this was not normal, and it was not good.

Then I felt it. A giant, slithery, squishy something slid it's way down my vagina and slipped into the toilet with a splash. My heart stopped. What was that? I couldn't tell through all the bloody water, but I needed to know (because the not knowing, the imagining was so much worse), so I reached my hand into the toilet and pulled it out, heart in my throat. It looked like a giant disk, rubbery, about the size of my palm. My husband used my phone to take a picture. It was a clot, we guessed. Just a blood clot, nothing more.

But it was still the moment when I had to look at my husband, hands and legs and toilet covered in blood (it looked like a crime scene), and whisper, "I think I'm losing our baby."

Everything after that was a blur. There was the phone call to my doctor's office emergency line, where we were told we needed to go to the emergency room immediately, then the phone call to my mother-in-law who immediately jumped in her car to come spend the night at our house with the kids, the phone call to my parents to ask for prayers, then my husband gave me a blessing, and we cleaned up the blood as best we could and got me dressed with a giant pad in place, and loaded into the car as soon as my mother-in-law showed up.

And through it all, through the long dark drive to the emergency room clutching my husband's hand, I imagined my future weeks and months. I imagined healing from a miscarriage. I imagined telling my children they wouldn't be getting a sibling in July (that thought nearly killed me). I imagined an empty summer with just normal activities, no babies. I couldn't imagine trying again. I couldn't imagine going through a first trimester again. I didn't know if I had it in me. I thought, "This is still our last baby, even if we lose it now," and that thought made me want to curl into a tiny ball and cry.

Perhaps it says something about the immense privilege of my life to say that this was the darkest moment of my life, the closest to heartbreak and loss I've ever come (there was the night we almost lost my father-in-law, which was also a dark, dark night, perhaps only that moment compares). I felt the weight of it hovering over me. It wasn't real yet. It wasn't medically confirmed yet. But I knew as soon as it was, the weight of the grief and sorrow would crush me. I wanted this baby so badly, I had already sacrificed so much to bring this baby into the world, and it would hurt beyond any pain I'd ever experienced to lose it.

But even in this dark, dark moment, even with this impending tragedy hanging over my head, and even with the expectation that I was facing a crushing pain that would shatter me, I found a place of stillness deep inside me. I sat in that car on that dark drive, and then sat in the bright antiseptic emergency waiting room, and I knew that no matter what, I would be okay. Because in my deepest core, I knew God was with me.

You never really know how deep your faith is until it is tested. This was a moment of test for me, but it is a moment I've also been trying to prepare myself for my whole life. The test was how will I respond when life comes crashing down and I face losing the most precious pieces of my heart? And my answer, which I had prepared myself for and then was able to find in that dark moment, my answer was to turn to God.

It wasn't until I taught a Relief Society lesson a few months after this dark night that I fully realized what I had experienced. The lesson was based on a conference talk by Sister Lisa L. Harkness, and the message was about how to find peace in the midst of anxiety and uncertainty in this life. Sister Harkness shares the story of the disciples on a boat in the Sea of Galilee one dark and stormy night. While Jesus slept, the storm raged and the disciples feared for their lives. I posed the question to the sisters in my ward, were those disciples ever in actual, real danger? Did they actually have reason to fear, or lose hope? Was all lost?

And the answer, obvious to us centuries removed and with all the hindsight in the world is, of course not. A ship containing the Son of God who had not completed His mission was never in danger of sinking. Catastrophe may have felt imminent to those disciples, but it was an illusion. There was no real danger. As long as they were with the Son of God, they would never be lost.

But I took the question further. I asked about later on, when Christ was actually killed. What must have the disciples felt then? Did they feel that the catastrophe had come? That the worst had happened? Did they feel despair, crushing defeat, immense sorrow? Yes, I'm sure they did, but the original question still stands. Was all lost?

And the answer, of course, is no. Even in that darkest night when Christ's body lay in the tomb, even in the poignant sorrow of that moment, God was there. They were safe, there was hope, for nothing can frustrate God's plan.

And that's what I knew in my own dark night. I knew that even though I would be incredibly sad to lose my baby, even though it would be heartbreaking and crushing, I knew I would be safe. I knew God still lived, and I knew God would be with me through my sorrow. I knew I would be sad, but I also knew the sadness would not destroy me, God would not let that happen. I believed in my worthiness to be comforted, as long as I remained faithful to my covenants. I wouldn't be safe from pain or sorrow in the moment, but I would be eternally safe in the love of God.

Of course, those of you who know the outcome of the story know that my faith was not completely put to the test that night. We got a miracle. We got to that moment when they held the monitor up to my belly and we heard the steady rhythm of a tiny, healthy heartbeat. My baby was alive. It was not a miscarriage. The ultrasound later confirmed baby was kicking and squirming. My placenta had simply slipped down to cover my cervix, a condition that often causes bleeding, but otherwise, was not cause  for major concern. Placenta previa (the technical name) usually self-corrects, and even if it did persist until the end, the worst it meant was that I might need a C-section. Compared to losing my baby, this was no big deal. My baby was safe. My baby was alive. The story had a happy ending that even a few minutes earlier, I didn't believe was possible.

I wonder often why we were spared in that moment, why the hanging threat of crushing grief was lifted and turned to joy, when for so many others the outcome is different (miscarriage is so common, but the commonness of it doesn't make the grief any less potent). I do not have answers to that question. I do not for a moment suppose it's because my faith made me more worthy of a miracle. I do not understand miracles yet, or why they are granted to some and not to others. I have known far more worthy and faithful people have their requests for miracles refused, so I do not know why we were granted ours. This is a subject I still wonder and think about often.

Instead, what I do know is that if sorrow had been the path I was called to walk, God would have walked it with me, even as He now walks with me in my joy. I'm so grateful I don't have to face the heartbreak of loss, but I'm also grateful to know that if I did have to face it, or when I will have to face it (as we all will at some point or another), I won't have to face it alone. I am eternally safe.

That is my faith, and it carries me through.

Rosie at birth

Rosie today.

The Mysteries of Revelation

Personal revelation is and always has been one of the most foundational realities of my life. I was twelve years old the first time I had a spiritual experience that counts as revelatory, and I've continued to have experiences throughout my life that are profound and undeniable. When I pray into the void, there is a voice and a feeling that speaks back to me, and I have lived my life trying to seek, follow, and stay true to that voice. I believe it is God.

Why did I marry my husband? Because that voice told me to not go on a mission but stay home and get married. Why do we live where we live? Because that voice told me to get a PhD, and guided me in where to apply. Why do I practice my religion despite doubts and questions? Because that voice confirms that this is the path for me.

I've written before at various times about how revelation has guided my life (here, and here and some other places too). In the case of my decision to get a PhD, the voice and revelation were loud, clear, and incredibly direct. The path opened before me and I was certain about the revelation I received.

But my revelation and guidance hasn't always been that clear, and I think those moments are worth exploring and thinking about too. Sometimes, I don't always know what I'm supposed to do, sometimes the promptings or impressions are confusing and unclear, or sometimes, I just don't understand.

One time revelation didn't come the way I expected was after marriage, when we faced the question of when to have children. Everyone around us was getting pregnant, and I'll admit that I was fairly baby-hungry myself, but my husband wanted us to wait. Of course, I just knew the Lord would have an opinion on the subject (an opinion that would override my husband's opinion), and so I prayed fervently about wanting a baby, wanting to know when we should start trying, etc... and I got nothing. Zero. Not a flicker of response. Complete heavenly silence. It almost felt like the Lord didn't care if we had kids or not.

This made zero sense to me. How could the Lord not care about us having children? Wasn't that the point of marriage? Weren't we supposed to be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth? Weren't children the point? I'd heard so many stories from so many women in my life about the strong impressions they had when they were supposed to have children, the number of children they were supposed to have, even strong impressions about the gender and birthdays of the children they were going to have. The Lord seemed to care deeply about other couples having children, why didn't he care about us?

We eventually got pregnant three years into our marriage (a compromise, two years later than I wanted, two years earlier than my husband wanted) without any sort of revelatory okay. We just went for it, and got pregnant on the first try, and considered that enough of a heavenly stamp of approval.

Pregnancies two and three proceeded in a similar manner. We would make a plan based on our own convenience and desires, I'd pray about it, and get no response. No confirmation, no denial, nothing. No feedback whatsoever. So we'd just go ahead, and always get pregnant on the first try, and assume the Lord was okay with our choices.

Through these child-bearing years, what I was getting strong and clear revelation about was my education. I received very clear affirmative impressions to get a master's degree, and then later received the strongest and clearest revelation of my life about getting a PhD. I was so confused by these revelations, because I just didn't see how me getting a PhD would fit in with our family planning, and with my vision of the kind of mother I thought I was going to be. We knew we wanted Baby #3 (who was not yet conceived when I started getting revelations about a PhD), and we knew we also wanted a Baby #4 at some point. How was that going to work with a PhD?

I decided to take a year off after graduating with my master's before starting a PhD program, and have Baby #3 that year. When I prayed about this decision, I got, again, zero feedback. The Lord wasn't saying no, but there was no positive affirmation either. So we just went for it, and I started my PhD program with an 8 month old baby. It was rough. That first year, I did not get a lot of sleep. I was tired and stressed all the time. The second year was pretty busy as well. By the third year, when I finished my course-work and began looking ahead to my dissertation phase, my husband and I started talking about Baby #4 again. We knew we wanted a fourth baby, and with our youngest now three years old, we felt like we didn't want the age gap to get much bigger.

I went to the temple one night in late November 2019 (ah, back when temples were open), and I presented our plan to the Lord. We would try to get pregnant the following year, aim for an August (2020) conception so I could deliver May (2021) and have the summer for maternity leave, then be ready by the fall to finish my program. I prayed and prayed, and then stopped to listen, and the voice that spoke back to me said:

"Your research is very important to me. Your dissertation is very important. That is the work I have called you to. Don't get distracted from your research."

Guys, I was dumbfounded. I research the reading practices of audiences in early modern England. I find my research to be fascinating and fulfilling, but nothing about it is important. Nothing about it is going to save lives or cure cancer or make the world better (okay, I mean, yes it can, but you know what I mean). I have never understood why the Lord wanted me to get a PhD in the first place, but hearing the voice tell me my research was my calling in life? The one thing I was supposed to be doing? When what I was asking for was confirmation about having another child? I just don't understand. I don't understand at all.

So I pushed back and I said, "Okay, if I promise to not get distracted and work really hard on my dissertation, can we get pregnant next year?"

And the answer was, "Well, if you really want, then go ahead. But it won't be easy."

I just. I just don't even know what to do with this revelation. This feeling that the Lord sincerely does not care one way or the other if I have children, or how many, or when, but He cares deeply that I write a fairly average dissertation (that no one will ever read) about early modern reading audiences. These are the moments that I wonder, am I just making all this up in my head? Do I really know what revelation is? Because this does not seem to follow the pattern of what I expect God to care about for me!

So now, let's fast forward to last summer. I'm gearing up for August when we plan to conceive (and remember, we have a 100% track record for getting pregnant on the first try, so we are very confident in our ability to plan this out). And I keep hearing whispers, "Get to work on your dissertation! Get started!" But it's a busy summer and I have a different writing project deadline (a book chapter that's getting published this year! eek!), and I think, once the semester starts I'll have plenty of time to start my dissertation.

Imagine my surprise when the end of August came and my period started. Despite all our usual efforts, I didn't get pregnant. It was a setback, a disappointment, and unexpected given our track record, but it was okay. We could get pregnant in September and still have most the summer for maternity leave, and it would still work. But of course, I went to the Lord to check in. I knelt down the night I started bleeding, and plead, "Can we have our baby?" And the answer was:

"If you write the first chapter of your dissertation in September, I will let you get pregnant."

Okay! Right! Dissertation chapter first, then baby! I was figuring this out, I could remember that old promise that I wouldn't get distracted from my research. If I'd wanted to get pregnant in August, I should've listened to those promptings to work on my dissertation over the summer! So I dove in. I got really really focused, blocked out all distractions (didn't check Instagram once!) and I spent September doing really deep work, writing as much as I possibly could. I knocked out a good 16 pages of that first chapter, which for one month's work is quite a bit. So the chapter wasn't finished, so what? I knew the Lord would accept my good faith effort and I just knew I was going to be pregnant. Five weeks passed without a period, and I just knew.

I took a pregnancy test and it came back negative. The next day (five weeks and one day), I started bleeding.

I've got to say I was pretty shaken by this. I was shaken in my faith of my body, my faith in our fertility (were we getting old?), but mostly, my faith was shaken in the revelation I thought I had received. I thought the promise was I'd get pregnant in September if I wrote the first chapter, and I had (at least, mostly, but was the Lord really that much of a stickler?). Why didn't the Lord fulfill His promise?

I had this sneaking suspicion that the Lord didn't want me to get pregnant at all, that He was actively preventing it so I could focus on my dissertation. I didn't know this was true for sure, I was just trying desperately to make sense of my situation. So, the Lord didn't want me to get pregnant. Okay. So that was that. We'd enjoy our three children, I'd throw my heart and soul into this dissertation, and we'd go on living our merry lives. We wouldn't go back on birth control, but we'd also not anticipate it anymore. I really thought, it must not be the Lord's will. So be it.

I continued to work on my chapter, but the pace slowed a bit. I restructured the whole thing and tweaked it, and then actually started research for my second chapter. And I was still teaching, planning online curriculum, grading papers, and keeping very busy. We had a lovely October, and I found myself thinking "It's so nice I can enjoy this soup! If I were pregnant, I wouldn't be enjoying it!" Silver linings and all. I'm fairly good at finding positives in any situation.

November came. I was tired. I kept going to bed at 8:30, then 8:00 PM, as soon as the kids were down. I was hungry. I'd eat everything I'd bring in my lunch and then feel like I was starving a half-hour later. My pants started to feel tight. I blamed PMS. Every single one of these symptoms could be PMS. Five weeks came and went. Finally, one night when tuna sandwiches was on the meal plan menu for dinner, I turned to my husband and said, "I can't eat tuna. I have to make something else." And he said, "Um, you need to take a pregnancy test."

I didn't think I was pregnant. I thought my cruel period was just late again. I really didn't think the Lord wanted me to get pregnant. But my husband ran to the store and grabbed a pregnancy test, and I took one before dinner, and it was positive. I sat and stared for a moment in wonder. I was pregnant. We were getting our Baby #4.

My due date is July 8th, later than we planned, but still with a passable period for maternity leave before I will need to return to teaching and dissertation writing in the Fall. It will work. I immediately started feeling very sick, but in the course of small mercies it was close enough to the end of the semester that I was able to power through. I finished grading papers, and I managed to write the last 2,000 words of my chapter and submit it to my advisor by the end of the semester. And then I collapsed into bed and didn't get out of it for weeks. Thanks to the pandemic (and a much more humane in-house job), my husband was around to take care of everything, from cooking all the meals and cleaning up all the messes, to setting up the decorations and spear-heading all the holiday festivities single-handedly. So I just laid in bed, fighting to keep food in my stomach, and overthinking about my situation.

I wonder so much about those revelations I received, and the timing of everything. I know I felt like the Lord promised I would get pregnant in September, but maybe He didn't specify a month? After all, is it that much of a difference that I got pregnant in October?

And also, maybe the Lord really did want me to get pregnant, really does want us to have this baby, He was just waiting for the right time when I could be sick over the winter break (and still able to get my research done). Maybe the Lord doesn't need to give me promptings and revelations about having children, because my desires already align with His will on that front?

Basically, the question I ask is, do I trust that voice I hear? Even when it doesn't seem to play out exactly the way I thought I heard that voice? Or even when I don't understand the logic of the voice? When I don't understand why my research is so important and my family planning isn't? Do I trust that voice?

Revelation may not be a science experiment with exactly repeatable outcomes. Revelation may not always make sense. I've been thinking about this a lot as we've been studying the Doctrine and Covenants this year, as that book is nothing but a collection of revelations. We believe those revelations to be the word of God, but when I read through some of those revelations I have to wonder, "Why didn't the Lord just explain it all then? Why did the Lord make this one so confusing? Why was this one so perfectly clear, when this other one takes mental gymnastics to make sense of?" It seems to me that revelation is sometimes a bit messy and mysterious, the voice of a Perfect Being trying to speak to imperfect humans who are full of biases and opinions and emotions and hormones, using human language that is changeable and corruptible, and who knows how clearly that message is getting through?

We are like antenna, radio receivers. Sometimes the message comes through clearly, but if we are just the slightest bit off, it becomes garbled. We may tweak and tune and dance about to get the signal, but sometimes it's more artform, less science. Some people get one answer, some seem to get opposite answers, sometimes it feels crystal clear, other times it's through a glass darkly. Does that mean revelation is not reliable?

Do I trust that voice?

In the end, I always come back to yes. Sometimes it's not what I expect, sometimes it doesn't make sense, sometimes there seems to be no answer whatsoever. But there are those rare moments, when I'm in just the right position, that voice sings through me, and I know. For all the less clear moments, I can't deny the perfect ones. God speaks to me, and I will always, always listen.

Processing Some Grief

Yesterday morning, I had two living grandparents. This evening, I have no living grandparents.

Apologies if that is a bit of downer way to forge back into this blog space that I've been absent from for almost half a year now, but of all the things I have to say, that is the one I need to say the loudest right now.

It was such an unintentional blogging break. At first I stayed away because things were busy, and I had other writing projects that needed my full attention. Then I stayed away because I got pregnant, and as has been the pattern, proceeded to get even sicker than any pregnancy before. I've been in survival mode for the past two months, honestly just trying to stay alive. So that explains some of the more immediate reasons for my absence.

But then there's the bigger picture. The weight of what we've all been experiencing these past months, these past weeks, and for me, these past two days. There's the protests and heated discussions around racial prejudice and police brutality (I did write a bit about that here). There's the election, the politics, the vitriol and hate being spread everywhere. There was that horrifying day on January sixth, when a sitting president goaded extremists to attack democracy. There's so much in all of this, so much that needs to be said, so much I want to add my voice to... but I'm just tired. And sick. Not an excuse, I just have to pick my battles, and right now, the battle is keeping food down in my stomach and not wretched up in the toilet (a battle I'm still losing all too frequently, despite being fifteen weeks along).

And then there's the pandemic. Remember this post, when I wrote about thriving under quarantine conditions? I've not minded this year the way many have. I'm an introvert at heart, and having the excuse to stay home, to not have people over, to not have to go to that social engagement... it's been a reprieve. Also, I must say being first-trimester pregnant in a pandemic has been nothing short of a blessing, with no expectations to be anywhere or show up or look good.

But last week my grandparents contracted Covid-19. My grandmother had already been ill for a while. She's been on hospice since last June, and when we went to Utah in July, we visited them knowing it was probably the last time we'd see her alive (honestly, we've all been a little surprised she was hanging on this long). But my grandfather, at 93, was healthy and spry, still able to fully care for my grandmother and himself. Longevity runs in his family (his older brother is still kicking at 96), and I anticipated many more years of his presence. I anticipated him meeting this last child of mine, somewhere in a Covid-free future.

But then he got the virus, and they admitted him to the hospital. Eventually, his lungs and heart began failing, and they sent him home Saturday. He passed away Sunday around noon. Amazingly, my grandmother survived him, but only by 23 hours. She passed away earlier today.

And this is how I will remember the pandemic now. Not as a theoretical disease that everyone is overreacting about, not as a problem that "other people" are dealing with, not even as that funny little disease my brother got one time that made him lose his taste for a few weeks.

Now it's the disease that took my grandparents.

Yes, they were old. Yes, my grandmother was going to die anyway. But I'm still so terribly sad about it.

And happy. They wanted to go. They were ready. My grandpa didn't want to watch another wife die (he lost his first wife to complications of MS when she was 29), he didn't want to live alone. And my grandma clung to life because, I'm sure, she didn't want to leave him. In a way, it's beautiful they got to go together. Devastating, but beautiful.

I didn't intend for this post to be a tribute to my grandparents. I intended to pop on here and say, Hi! I've missed this space! I have so many books to talk about!

But I'm in the middle of my grief, and these are the words that are coming right now. Perhaps I'm back here because I need to write, not about books (not yet, I'll get around to that), but about my grandpa.

My grandpa was named Milton E. Smith. He was the youngest son of Joseph Fielding Smith, the grandson of Joseph F. Smith, the great-grandson of Hyrum Smith. When we visited with him in July, he looked at my son Josh and said, "Your relationship with me is the same as my relationship with Hyrum Smith." And that's what my grandpa is, a link to this incredible heritage, this incredible family history we share.

I love the stories my Dad tells about having a prophet for a grandfather. He once dropped by his grandpa's home with a friend while in Salt Lake City, and they were warmly greeted by Aunt Jesse and invited to sit at the kitchen table and chat for a minute. After leaving, my Dad's friend exclaimed, "I can't believe it! There he was, the prophet of the church, just sitting at the table cracking peanuts! Like a normal person!" And my Dad was like, "Well, of course he's a normal person. He's just Grandpa."

But I love the stories my grandpa used to tell, of Joseph Fielding sneaking out of meetings to go to his son's football games (my grandpa was quarterback for the University of Utah, back in the day), or the letters they used to get while in the military or on missions that were like sermons, full of scripture and counsel. My grandpa loved to share how when he was in the Navy, stationed in Chicago, he wrote home to tell the family about going to see a Chicago Bears game. Joseph Fielding, knowing the games were played on Sundays, wrote back to my grandpa a two page letter outlining the ten commandments and stressing the importance of keeping the Sabbath day holy. That letter lives in family lore.

But my grandpa himself was a great man. He loved his family fiercely. He kept detailed records of all his children, grandchildren, and great-children, and especially our addresses so he could send, without fail every year, a birthday card with a crisp $10 bill tucked inside. Every year. For every grand-child and great-grandchild. He never missed, not even this last year as he took care of my failing grandmother (he enlisted some help at the end). My last communication with my grandpa was an email a few weeks ago that he sent explaining that the card for my oldest son's birthday would be late, as it had been accidentally sent to the wrong address at first. I guess he did miss, because he never sent a card for my daughter's birthday that happened just five days later, but I can hardly fault him.

 I will miss those cards from him every year.

When I turned eight, he traveled down to St. George for my baptism. I remember, after I was confirmed a member of the church, standing and shaking the hands of all the men in my circle. When I got to my grandfather, he refused to shake my hand and instead declared, "This deserves a hug!" before sweeping me up into a big bear hug. He was a man generous with his hugs.

My grandpa was a temple sealer, and I was privileged to have him officiate my own wedding at the Mount Timpanogos Temple. The chandeliers in the sealing rooms have a very distinctive pattern, a cross with four crystals on the bottom, and branching crosses of eight, sixteen, and so on crystals as it moved up each level. As I held hands with my soon-to-be husband across the altar, my grandpa gave a speech that I'm sure he delivered to most the couples he sealed in that room, about how we were two hands being linked that day, but above us in that chandelier symbolized all the generations before us who were also linked by the sealing power, four parents, eight grandparents, sixteen great-grandparents, and so on. Only this time, for my wedding, he could name many of the links for my side. He was one of them.

How grateful I am to be eternally sealed to my grandparents! To be eternally sealed to the incredible legacy of family before him. I cherish my heritage so much. And so, while I will miss my grandparents terribly, I know I will see them again.

And if none of you read through all of that tribute, those precious memories of mine, that's fine. This post is for me anyway. But I've got so many more things I want to write about, so many good books to talk about, so much to catch up on. I have no guarantees or promises that there will be time (I'm still pretty sick, still busy with this little thing called writing a dissertation, still teaching, still raising three kids and trying to keep a marriage alive), but I will always come back here. I've missed you. I'll be back.

2018: Celebrating the Successes

So, after reading through my last post, I feel like I gave off the impression that 2018 was a rough year and everything fell apart. And while that's a bit how it felt at the end there, that is not true of the year as a whole. In fact, 2018 was a pretty great year, all things considered. So I thought it would be nice to just take a moment and reflect on the positives: the wins, the good habits that thrived, the happy parts of the year. In no particular order, here we go:

Reading Life

I've already talked about how 2018 was one of my best reading years ever, but my reading life was rich and good in other ways too this past year. We've always had read aloud time with our kids as part of the bed-time routine, but the read-alouds with my oldest son have just gotten so fun this year (Harry Potter, lots of Roald Dahl, Beverly Clearly... just some great classics) that I look forward to our reading time almost as much as he does. I'm absolutely loving to continue sharing books with my kids as they get older. It's amazing.

And on reading-related hobbies, I (barely) managed to keep posting around here (at least, I do when it's not the thick of the semester), and having a place to write about books for fun saves my soul from the grind of academia. Although, on that note, I did have a really fun academic semester studying just such topics as book culture, bibliomania, and book fandoms, and I've decided that there really doesn't have to be all that much distance between hobby/pleasure reading and my academic research (if you're thinking, "Duh! You're studying English! Of course the two are related!" then my answer is, clearly you've never taken a graduate-level English course, because often, there is zero relationship between "pleasure reading" and reading the way it's done in an academic English department).

Also, back in July, I opened the Such Stuff Bookstagram account on Instagram, and that has been a surprising source of joy for me. I find it kind of ironic that I started that up in a year when I've gone on two social media fasts and have in general tried to spend less time on my phone, but I have decided that as long as I never get caught up in a numbers game looking for likes or followers, and just post what makes me happy whenever I want, then this can only be fun for me. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what my style/content is over there, but what I've loved is having a place for shorter conversations about books, thoughts that don't necessarily need a full blog post, or as an extension of a blog post. I also love having a place to talk more about children's books, which I do a lot more over there than here. Despite my poor photography skills, it's been a fun bookish little enterprise and I'm excited to keep up with it. Just more ways and places to talk books!

My New Breakfast Habit:

I mentioned this briefly in my last post, but here's the story: I've struggled with breakfast foods for a long time (pretty much my whole life). I'm not the biggest fan of cold cereal (outside of pregnancy, when it's the only thing I can handle), and most other breakfast foods just don't sound appetizing to me first thing in the morning. However, I wake up starving every morning (do I not eat enough for dinner? Can my body just not handle 8 hours without food? I don't know!) so going without breakfast is just not an option for me (unless I want to be hangry and lightheaded by 10 AM).

For many, many years my go to breakfast was a bran muffin, but something changed after my last pregnancy and I seem to have lost all tolerance for carbohydrates in the morning. Do you know how many breakfast foods have carbohydrates? Pretty much all of them (at least, the ones that are quick and easy). While I was nursing I ate oatmeal pretty much every day (I always crave oatmeal while I'm nursing and then can't stand it at any point in between), but after the nursing petered out, I couldn't go back to muffins, and I suffered from serious morning breakfast blues.

When I read How Not To Die a few years ago, one of the pieces of advice that stuck out to me as something that sounded sensible was the advice to try and incorporate vegetables in some way in every meal, including breakfast. I know a lot of people do this with morning smoothies (they're so huge right now), but guys, I can't do smoothies. It's just not my thing. So I was brainstorming some other possibilities, and last January I decided to actually try making myself a hot breakfast of sauteed veggies with a fried egg. I eat this kind of meal for dinner all the time, so I thought, why not try it in the morning?

Life. Changing.

Something about having a savory instead of a sweet breakfast just completely works better for my body. Veggies and protein in the morning make me feel a million times better than carbohydrates. I only expected to be able to eat this sort of hot veggie breakfast on weekends and holidays, as it is rather time consuming in the mornings (and morning time is at a premium, don't we all know), but I was so in love with how this breakfast made me feel that I couldn't stop. I prepped veggies on the weekend and somehow found the time to make this breakfast for myself almost every morning this past year. Of course, when we traveled or stayed away from home or something, I would eat other things for breakfast, but my body missed this breakfast. This breakfast is my total jam.

The usual recipe is zucchini, bell peppers, red onion, and a handful of kale. I saute that up in a little bit of oil with some garlic salt, then fry up an egg to go on top. When avocado is at a good price, I throw some of that on the side and it just takes this breakfast to the next level delicious. This is my happy place. I wake up anxious and eager to eat breakfast now, and it is the best part of my day food-wise.

I'm a little bit anxious about how well this breakfast habit is going to last in 2019, considering this upcoming semester has me leaving the house 30 minutes earlier that normal most mornings. Will I wake up 30 minutes earlier just to have this breakfast? Or will convenience win in the end? We shall see.

Meal-Planning

On the note of food, meal planning in general turned out to be a huge win for me last year. I used to be a much more fun and experimental type cook, but that is not the season of life I'm in right now. In 2018 I streamlined my menu planning down to the best system I've had so far, rotating through my easiest tried-and-true meals that my family can handle eating on about a two week rotation (variety is not the name of the game right now). Occasionally on Sundays I'll experiment with new meals, but otherwise, my rotation has got me in a place where meal planning on a weekly basis is significantly easier, and meal prep on weekdays is fairly doable. Maybe we'll get totally sick of these recipes and I'll have to reboot at some point, but you guys, home-cooked dinner is happening. Every day. Even though I'm getting a PhD. Win-win-win.

Professional Development

So, if any of you remember (or care), one of my goals from January 2018 was to present a paper at a conference. Well, it just so happens that I presented papers at not just one, but two conferences! And only one of them required travel (avoiding travel is a win, at this stage in my motherhood career). I'm still pretty early on in this PhD thing (4.5 years to go, can you believe it?) but I'm doing work that I find interesting, I've got an amazing set of mentor professors to work with, and I've had some very lucky opportunities. I still have no idea what I'm supposed to do with this PhD thing once I earn it (become a professor? Go back to being a stay-at-home mom? Something in between?) but until then, I'm putting my heart and soul into this. It's hard work, but I'm pretty proud of the stuff I'm doing there.

Travel

Remember that awesome trip to England we took early last summer (here, here, and here)? Life highlight for sure. And we also had a pretty great weekend getaway with some friends in Chicago, plus my trip to Madison for the conference, so 2018 had some fun bits of travel in it for me. Unfortunately, I don't have any really cool trips planned for 2019 (we do have a family reunion in Idaho, super exotic, I know), but hopefully 2020 will make up for that.

Family

I don't know how to really describe this one, other than to say that 2018 was just a great year for loving my people. I spent a glorious summer hanging out with my kids that I just didn't want to end. You know, they can be exhausting and distracting and frustrating, but when I pay attention, I really have some awesome kids that are growing up into really fun little people. Also just loved getting to hang out with my husband on our trips. I just really like that guy. Our family life felt happy and peaceful to me in 2018, so while there's not one specific thing I can really point to as a highlight, I just need to say this is a big part of the reason 2018 was awesome.

All right, there you go. 2018 was a really great year, all things considered. And just going by the word count devoted to each one of these categories, apparently a large part of why last year was awesome is because of breakfast. Food man, it's important!

What was great about your 2018?

Am I an Addict? (and 2019 Reading Goals)

2018 was an awesome reading year for me. My initial goal at the beginning of the year was to read 75 books, and I blew past that in October. By counting some read-alouds, I'm claiming the nice round number of 100 books read in a single year (see my last post for the full report).

That number equals just less than two books a week. Two books a week! Considering I'm getting a PhD and raising three kids, that shocks even me. But at the same time, I seriously owe it all to the power of audio books and a nice long commute every day. And listening at double speed.

I was feeling very proud of my progress, very proud of my count number, firm in my identity as a reader, until I took a class last semester all about "Theories of Reading" and came across this passage in one of the books we were assigned. It was written by a German clergyman named Rudolph Gottlieb Beyer in 1795.

He describes seeing "men and women book readers, who get up in the morning and go to bed in the evening with a book in their hand, who sit down at the table with it, who put it next to them at work, carry it with them on walks, and who cannot separate themselves from it, until they have finished reading. But they have hardly devoured the last page of a book, they are already greedily eyeing up, where they might get the next one from, and devour it with a voracious appetite. No smoker, coffee-friend, wine-drinker, gambler could be so addicted to their pipe, bottle, games or coffee table than many a book-hungry reader is to his reading."

Reading this quote stopped me dead in my tracks. It may be over two hundred years old, but I kind of felt like he was describing me perfectly.

Guys, am I a reading addict? And is this a bad thing?

It was the comparison to coffee addicts, smokers, alcoholics, and gamblers that really gave me pause. Because what is the difference? Addiction is addiction, whether it be to books or nicotine, and addiction is always bad, right?

So am I addicted to books?

I've been thinking about this question, because in many ways, I might be. I feel extremely restless if I don't have my next five books queued up ready to go. I've got to keep the supply-line filled, just like an addict. I sometimes (not all the time, but sometimes) use books as an emotional escape when my life is stressful. Don't want to face the piles of laundry and homework and whatever in life? Let's just spend time reading instead and escape into that lovely fantasy world where life is much more exciting! Using something as a numbing device and as escape from hard life problems sounds exactly like an addiction.

But on the plus side, it's not exactly harmful to my health (at least, not when I don't stay up too late finishing a book and miss sleep and death-spiral into the zones of exhaustion). (Oh, and also, listening to all those audio books actually might be destroying my hearing, hours of ear buds blasting in my ears every day, that can't be good...)

And at least I'm not endangering my family! (Except when I ignore my children because I'd rather be reading, but that's more neglect than endangerment...)

In all seriousness, though, reading is profoundly different from other addictive activities in that the cumulative effect of the activity of reading is actually positive. I mean, sure, there may be a hit of endorphins on starting a new novel, and there may be that all-consuming need to finish an addicting story, but at the end of the day, how many people actually regret reading more? How many lives does reading destroy?

Even those light and fluffy addictive books that we are so often prone to dismiss as unworthy of our time have a place. Every time I berate myself for reading something fluffy or cotton-candyish, or feel like it's turning my brain to mush, I remember this story that a previous bishop shared with me once. His wife was really into Twilight. I'll be honest that I judged her up and down for being such a Twilight fanatic, until he told us this story. He described coming home from work one day to find the house a mess, unhappy kids watching TV, and no dinner preparations in sight. It was chaos. He finally found his wife holed up in their bedroom, her nose deep in some book (he didn't say it was Twilight, but I imagine it was something along those lines). Needless to say, he was frustrated. Not just frustrated, he was downright angry. And I've got to admit that if I was in his place, I'd be upset too. How can a wife and mom neglect her responsibilities so thoroughly because of some fluffy, cotton-candy book? I was judging his wife hard at this point.

But my bishop was a good man, and he did not like being upset with his wife. So instead of yelling at her, he went into his office, shut the door, and prayed for how to respond to his wife. How to help her get over this "addiction" (not his word, but his sense) and be more responsible. He did not get the answer he expected. The voice of the spirit came to him and said, "Why are you upset that your wife is reading? Don't you know how important these books are to her spiritual and intellectual growth? Don't you know that it pleases me to have her grow this way?" And so, thoroughly humbled, my bishop left his office, ordered pizza, cleaned the house, put his kids to bed, and let his wife read away.

Now, the lesson I took away from this story is not that it is okay to neglect responsibilities in the name of a good story (I used to read that way when I was younger, but I have become far too practical in my old age to lose myself to reading like that). No, the lesson that I have never forgotten, aside from the power of the spirit to change our perspective and help build our relationships, is that fluffy reading has it's purposes. Addictive reading, pleasure reading, reading for fun, books that we call "light" and may not feel like they are helping us grow... even that kind of reading is better for us than no reading at all.

We actually spent a lot of time talking about this in that course I took. We talked about the (scientific!) benefits of reading for pleasure. Reading for fun. Reading everything you want. Because unlike coffee or nicotine or alcohol or gambling, reading actually makes you a better person (yes, even the fluffy stuff). Like all things, moderation is always best (you can't expect your husband to order pizza every night so you can read), but I must admit that I really do think the more books the better.

That brings us to the topic of reading goals.

I've been going back and forth (and back and forth) on what kind of reading goals I should set for this year. Should I make it official and spring for the 100 number in 2019? If more is better, should more be the goal? Is this the year I finally challenge myself to read certain types or titles of books that would be "good" for me?

And the more I've thought about it, the more I've decided that I don't think I need to change a thing. 2018 was an awesome reading year for me, and all I want is another year exactly like that. So, because my goal was reading 75 books last year, that's the goal I'm keeping this year. It's a number that's high enough I'll feel pressure to reach it, but not enough pressure to be discouraging or out of reach. And if I happen to actually hit 100 again, well, that will just be the cherry on top. (After all, we're one week into the new year and I'm already half-way through my 4th book, so I'm already above pace).

And for one more year, I've decided not to "assign" myself titles that I "should" read. First off, I'm still in the part of my coursework where I get plenty of assigned reading anyway. And second off, I'm the chick who voluntarily, of my own free choice and will, decided to read Don Quixote last year, so I just don't feel like I need any extra outside expectations to up my reading quality. When I'm in the mood for chunky 500 year old books, I'll read them and pat myself on the back. And when I'm in the mood for escapist fast-paced fantasy fiction, I'll read that too and not feel a twinge of guilt.

What about you? Are you a reading addict? Do you think there can be too many books? What's your reading goal for 2019?

The Past, Present, and Future

I finished reading A Christmas Carol on Christmas Day, sitting in the cozy spot on my in-law's couch during the afternoon lull when all the hubbub of the morning had died down. I've confessed before that I've never read the whole book before, but I'd seen every movie production multiple times and knew the story backwards and forwards. The movies draw so many lines directly from the book that everything felt familiar and worn (in a good way) while reading the book.

Until I got to the end, and was hit with a line I'd never heard used in any of my favorite movie productions (or, if it is used, never in a way I'd paid attention to before). It comes just as Scrooge is pleading with the mysterious and silent Ghost of Christmas Future, right after he's seen his own name on the grave, when he says:

"I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me."

I think this line struck me so hard because, first, it sheds some light on an interpretation of the purpose of the story I hadn't considered before, but second, because no one makes statements like this these days.

I mean, people talk all the time about living in the Present. That seems to be the buzzword on everyone's lips, the New Year's message I've seen all over social media, the mantra of everyone from spiritual yogis to self-help experts to parents.

Live in the moment!

Be present!

All you have is now!

You don't hear anyone say "Live in the past!" In fact, most discourse seems to actively discourage that idea. You're more likely to hear messages of "Don't live in the past!" or "Let the past go!"

And while you do hear people telling you to plan for the future, the general advice also seems to be against living there. "Don't dream away your life" the message seems to go. "Don't spend your life waiting for that someday, live your life now!"

So I was terribly struck by Scrooge's promise, to live in not just the present, but also the past and the future. What is the good of living in all three? What does it mean to live in the past and future in positive ways? I've been thinking about this for the past week, and thought now might be a good time and place to work through my cogitations on the subject.

Living in the Past

I think, in some cases, you do need to let the past go. You need to forgive yourself and others for past hurts and move on. You need to stop bringing up people's past failings. You need to, in a manner of speaking, bury your dead, get over it, and move on.

But that's just for the negative stuff.

What about the positive stuff in your past? The happy times? The good memories?

I think even there sometimes we have the message that it's best not to dwell in the "glory days" if it just makes present hardships or circumstances feel pale in comparison.

But I do think there can be harm in forgetting too much, or in letting the past go without working through how much the past shapes our present. When it comes to past hurt, past trauma, past negativity, sometimes the most healthy thing to do is face it head on, own it, talk about it, bring it up. Not just bury it.

And also, I think there is harm in forgetting the good things, forgetting the happiness. I can't remember exactly where I read this, but I remember reading about a marriage study where the researchers determined that couple's who's marriages were on the rocks tended to rewrite their memories of their past relationship. Couples who were headed to divorce tended to look back and remember only the negative things-- the arguments, the rain on the wedding day, the miserable honeymoon with the missed flights and lost luggage-- until they are left wondering why they even got together in the first place when it was all just miserableness and loneliness from the beginning. They've completely forgotten all the positive and romantic things that brought them together, the good moments of laughter, how happy the wedding had been before the rain, how the airline had gifted them a free flight voucher for the lost luggage, all the happy moments in between.

See, it's all about what you choose to focus on in the past.

And focusing on the good, the positive, the happy moments, really can make your present self happier.

I love playing the game "Remember when" with my husband. We have all of our favorite dating stories: like our first Valentine's day together, or the first time we met each other's families, or all the places on campus we used to share secret kisses. Oh, and we both firmly agree that our wedding day and honeymoon were completely magical (although I'm sure if I thought hard enough, I could come up with negative things from those days... but why would I want to think about the negative things?). And telling these stories and dwelling in these memories only helps strengthen our relationship now. It keeps us grounded in our foundation, reinforces why we fell in love, reminds us that what we have now is so, so wonderful.

So yes, I agree that living in the past can be good. For Scrooge, it helped him deal with his childhood of emotional neglect, and remember that he once felt love and joy and happiness. Dealing with the painful parts and remembering the good parts are all part of living in a healthy past

Living in the Present

I feel like we hear so much about the benefits of living in the present these days that I don't need to say much about it. But of course I will, because there's a reason we are obsessively focused on living in the present: it's important and it's hard.

Surprisingly hard.

It's hard to enjoy life, right now, as it is, without worrying about the future or the never-ending to-do list or dwelling (unhealthily) on past mistakes or negative emotions. Many of us seem to spend a lot of energy escaping our presents, numbing our emotions, trying not to feel or think or deal with life as it is right now. Most of us wish something could be different, the old "I'll be happy when..."

But we only have now. We can't change the past, and the future only comes to us in a never-ending series of nows. Now and now and now.

Dreams you want to fulfill? Now is all you have

To-dos you want to do? Maybe you should do them now.

Children who are growing up too quickly? All they know is now, so be there with them. Be in the now, this moment, the laughs and the tickles and the stories and building blocks and the rolling around on the floor. Now is the time for hugs and I Love Yous. Now is the time for simply enjoying your children as they are, right now.

Live in the Present.

Live in the Future

There is certainly an unhealthy way to live in the future. When you're life is consumed with anxiety about all the potential problems or hurts or things that could go wrong, you can become paralyzed with fear for a future that hasn't even happened (and most likely won't). Or there is of course the opposite option, dreaming of your glorious future, the one where you have all the money and have finally lost all the weight and fixed all your problems and everything is better and you will finally be happy in that future.

Both of those are bad ways to live in the future.

But you simply cannot live without at least considering and planning for your future. I can't remember where I read about this either (some study or other in one of those social science motivation books I keep reading), but we tend to think of our present selves and our future selves as two very different people, and, frustratingly, we tend to treat our present selves with a lot more kindness and indulgence because, well, we "are" our present selves.

That future self? Well, that's a different person entirely. That future self is great. That future self will have everything under control. That future self will have all the good habits. That future self will have the time, the energy, the whatever to deal with problems, so we'll just let that future self take care of them. And because that future self is so virtuous, we'll just let this present self catch a break, indulge in one more treat, ignore that problem, stay up too late, etc. We are so much kinder to our present selves than our future selves.

But I've learned that in demanding a little sacrifice from my present self in favor of my future self can really go a looooong way to increasing my overall happiness, because of course, eventually that future self becomes the present self.

My biggest victory is meal planning. I hate meal planning. I hate figuring out what to make for dinner every night all at once, making the list of ingredients, doing the grocery shopping. It's an unpleasant task that asks for a lot from my present self once a week. But do you know what I love? Automatically knowing what I'm going to make for dinner every day, so I never have that 5 o'clock panic. Knowing that all the ingredients are there, ready to go. Not having to think about it every day except the day I meal plan for the week. It's one hour of pain that allows for a smooth and calm week. It's a moment where my present self sacrifices for my future self in a way that maximizes life value.

If done right and in balance, living in and for the future can make you happier, because eventually the future will become the present.

The Spirits of All Three

But of course, the real lesson from this book is not how to live in all three, but that we must live in ALL THREE. We can talk all we want about living in the here and now, focusing only on the present, but the present eventually becomes the past and the future eventually becomes the present. We must learn how to live and navigate in all three, for they are not separate. The past affects us, the present affects us, and the past and present affect our future. As Scrooge learned, the hard way, true happiness comes when we hold the perspective of all three tenses in our hearts at once.

Remember the goodness of your past

Live in your present to create good memories for the past.

Live in your present to prepare the way for your future self.

Live in the Past, Present, and Future.

The Perfect Summer

Recently (for pretty much my entire marriage), I've dreaded summer.

I know this is completely opposite of everyone on the planet (it feels like), but let me explain:

-We always move in the summer. Sure, we don't move as much as some people (only three really big moves in the past 10 years), but nothing is worse than moving, and it completely ruins my summers.

-I've been pregnant three times in the summer. Twice, it was through the whole awful just-kill-me-now-because-I've-lost-the-will-to-live first trimester, and with the middle one, it was through the huge-as-a-beached-whale final trimester. Something about being pregnant in the summer, when you're supposed to travel and be out and about doing fun things and your kids stay up late and wake up early because of all the extra light... doing summer while pregnant just depresses me.

-I'm a creature of habit and routine. And summer throws it all off. Sometimes in a nice way, but mostly in a disruptive way that leaves me feeling slightly off-kilter.

-I HATE being sweaty. I also hate the artificial feeling of air conditioning (especially when it feels cold enough that you actually need a sweater in doors to be comfortable!). Do you see the conundrum here?

-I do not know how to wear summer clothes. Layers are kind of my thing for putting outfits together, but that doesn't work in the summer. And I feel like shorts are so awkward, but skirts are too dressy, and pants will just kill you. Why are summer clothes so hard?

-I love soup. And hot chocolate. And roasting vegetables in the oven without my kitchen feeling like the surface of the sun. I do also love salads and fresh summer produce, but my husband is so sick of salads right now that I'm looking longingly at my soup recipes and wishing for colder weather.

So yeah, summer has, at least for most of my marriage, produced in me a feeling of low-level anxiety and annoyance that means I usually don't look forward to the season.

But all that complaining is to preface that this year! This summer! This summer has felt like the start of something new and wonderful and beautiful. This is the first summer in a long, long time that I've felt sorry that it's ending. And so I just want to take a moment to stop and reflect about what was so good about this summer.

-We didn't move! And it's likely we won't be moving for a long, long time. Which means I finally feel settled. Like we've arrived. I think that feeling of being "home" has really helped me feel more content with summer. I know we lived in our place in Houston for almost four years, which is pretty settled, but it was an apartment in not perfect school boundaries, and we always knew we would have to move someday, so I thought of it as temporary. And even though we will very likely move again at some point in our future, we are pretty sure we're here for at least another five years, and there is the possibility we'll stay here forever. We talk about things like "If this is our forever house, then someday let's (insert whatever house project dream here)." Apparently, I need roots. I need to be "home". And while I need this all the time, I especially need it during summers of travel and relaxed routines.

-My kids are at great ages. Seriously, it has been so fun to be home with them this summer. The baby is just big enough for adventures, but everyone's still young enough for nap-time/quiet-time (yay!). Everyone's sleeping tolerably well, no one got sick, they've played well together for the most part, no one was potty training or going through some otherwise horrible phase, and it was just fun to be with them! They are all at a really cute age for their personality. The baby's vocabulary has just been exploding this summer and she's becoming so much more reasonable and pleasant to be around now that she can communicate a little better (also, she's just so stinking cute!). My three year old is absolutely the most adorable child on the planet (I never thought I would say that about a three-year-old, I hated this age with my oldest son and predict I will hate it again with my strong-willed youngest). And my six-year-old is just the coolest kid ever, so helpful and responsible and full of enthusiasm for life. We spent lots of time going on walks or playing at the park or hanging out at the library or reading together, and it was just sort of the summer of my motherhood dreams. I'm really, really sad we won't be getting to hang out in this chill, relaxed, always reading kind of way anymore.

-We went on a fabulous trip! And my kids got to have a fabulous Grandma Boot Camp with their cousins! But then (this is the key), we all came home and just had a quiet rest of the summer, only a few weekend trips. I need balance in my life. I need big exciting vacations, but then I need lots of chill downtime to recover, and this summer was perfect for me.

-I know summer will end! Honestly, I think this was one of my biggest problems with summer in Houston, the fact that it never ended! Hot and sweaty temperatures just kept going and going and going, and it depressed me to no end. What I've decided about myself is that it's not so much that I love winter and hate summer, it's that I need my seasons to change! This sounds really funny, coming from someone who just spent paragraphs complaining about how I need roots and hate moving and need reliable routing. But for whatever reason, I crave changing seasons. I know by the end of last winter I was thoroughly annoyed with cold weather and just ready to see the sun again. That's what I need from my summer weather too. I need it to end. I can't love it unless it's temporary.

So yes, despite the fact that I need the season to end in order to fully enjoy it, this summer I do feel like it's ending too early. I'm already mourning the end of this perfect, golden summer. I don't want my children to grow up, I don't want to go back to school and spend so many hours away from them, I don't want this happy moment to vanish. I recognize that this is it. This is the moment, the season I will look back on and long for in years ahead. Yes, we'll have plenty of good times and good summers ahead of us, and there are many wonderful things to look forward to, but also there will be hard times too. There will be less than happy seasons ahead of us too, so I want to stop right now and recognize that this is it! This is happiness! This is beautiful! This moment, this season, was a pure gift of joy.

I'm sad it's ending, but I'm also grateful. I'm so grateful we got this summer, this summer together of all sorts of small golden moments. And I'm hoping that writing about it here will help me always remember. No matter how life changes, no matter how great or how horrible future seasons of my life are, I want to look back on this summer and remember what a gift it was.

We have a moment of happiness and sunshine, and life is good. Life is so, so good.

The Best Birth Story of All

Six years ago today I became a mother.

I suppose the birthday of your firstborn usually makes one feel reflective, but for me the feeling is amplified by the nature of the season. I know there's a lot of tinsel and trappings this time of year that can mask it, but for me, this holiday is all about a mother and her newborn baby. It's a birth story at it's core, one of the most remarkable birth stories ever told.

I have two of my own December birth stories (written about here and here), which means I've spent two Christmas seasons as pregnant as Mary herself. I've spent one Christmas Day in the hospital with a newborn, and another Christmas day five years later in pre-labor praying for the baby to come. And while I can't say I love being pregnant during the holidays (huge NO! to that), I will say that both those Decembers taught me a lot about Christmas.

I feel especially close to Mary this time of year. While many of us celebrate advent, carefully counting down the days and patiently (or rather, impatiently) waiting for Christmas to come, I think of those two advent seasons I spent counting down, not to presents under the tree, but to the babies about to come. That's what advent would've been for Mary. The long, painful, anticipatory wait for that most precious baby to come.

For many of us, waking up on Christmas morning is all about anticipation, excitement, and delight. That Christmas six years ago, I woke up in the hospital in complete and utter agony. I was recovering from the most intense physical experience of my life (an emergency C-section after 12 hours of intense hard labor, plus trying to figure out breastfeeding!). I remember thinking, "Mary seriously went through something like this? Did she feel this way after she gave birth to Jesus? Was she this sore and tired? Oh, she didn't have pain meds back then! Poor thing!" That Christmas morning, lying in that hospital bed where I hurt so bad I couldn't even roll over, my vision of that Holy Night in the stable 2,000 years ago changed forever. All the Nativities make it seem so precious and clean and sweet and quiet.

No.

There would've been blood. There would've been pain. There would've been sweat and probably tears. Even if Mary had the easiest labor (and my goodness, I hope she was blessed with an easy labor), there still would've been blood, and exhaustion, and bewilderment at how to care for this tiny new little human. She was (likely) just a teenager, far from home, in a stable of all places! How could she not have felt overwhelmed?

And yet, despite the pain, despite the blood, despite the overwhelming uncertainty that comes with new motherhood, I also felt strength that Christmas morning. I felt peace. I felt a power beyond me, guiding me, watching over me. I felt angels with me.

Mary had angels too. If she didn't have a real midwife (which I hope she did), I'm certain she had some heavenly ones. Mary may have been tired, and in pain, and overwhelmed by new motherhood, but she also had the certainty that God was with her.

Christmas is a season to celebrate a lot of good and wonderful things, but for me it is also a season to reflect on motherhood, and birth, and birth stories, and the sacredness of life. Not every person gets to be a mother, but every person was born. Every person has a birth story, a birth date, and a mother who shared and sacrificed her body to bring that life into being. Every birth story is different, but every birth story has a few things in common: there is a mother, and there is a new baby. There will be blood, but there will be beauty too. Beauty of new life, beauty of the hope for what that life will bring.

Christmas is many things to many people, but for me, it is a birth story. The best birth story of all.

P.S. Read another essay I wrote about Christmas and motherhood here.

Never Enough Time

Today is my birthday, and I'm giving myself the present of time to write a post here. It's been a while, and I've missed writing here terribly. But I'm still having quite a bit of trouble adjusting to my new schedule. I'm hoping it's just a this semester problem, I'm hoping things will settle down a bit and I'll get more efficient at all my new responsibilities and be able to breathe a little bit more often. But this past month has just been... intense.

I recently read a post on social media from a friend. She's a stay-at-home-mom, and another working mom had made a comment to her about how much time she must have for things. She was arguing back that stay-at-home moms work too, it's not all sitting around eating bon-bons and watching TV.

This debate is as old as... I don't know. Whenever moms started working outside the home regularly. Who has it harder? Who works more?

I've been a mother for almost six years now, and the vast majority of that time I've been and considered myself a stay-at-home mom. Even when I was a "full-time" student working on my master's degree, I wasn't gone for more than 15 hours a week, which hours-wise is less than part-time. I spent way more time "mothering" than I did studying. I was a mother first, a student second.

But this PhD thing is different. I'm outside the home 30 hours a week, twice as much as before. Technically, that is still less than full-time, but it's still been a HUGE difference. I'm not just a student now with classes and homework, I'm also a GTA. I'm a teacher, designing lesson plans and holding office hours and grading papers and getting paid (pittance, but I'm still getting paid). For the past month I have felt not just like a student mom, but like a working mom. And my time... my time as a working mom looks so different than it did as a stay-at-home mom.

But do I think working moms have it harder?

Here's the thing about time. We talk about time as if it is a standard thing that everyone experiences the same, but that just isn't true. Time moves so differently depending on your situation, your expectations, your desires, your emotions. Here's what I can say about my experience with time as a stay-at-home-mom and as a working mom.

As a stay-at-home mom, I spent a lot more time with my younger children. I spent more time preparing their meals, making home-made baby food, cooking meals from scratch, cleaning the dishes. I spent more time going to story-time at the library, play dates at the park, and hanging out with other moms of children my age. I had time to do a pre-school co-op, reading lessons, and home-school activities. I had more time to play with my children. Every moment of that time with my children felt loaded with deep, deep value. I was doing the most important work I could be doing, and it was hard but so valuable.

But I also spent more time in mind-numbing negotiation with toddlers. I spent so much time not being able to enjoy a coherent thought because of the constant chatter, the constant demands on my time. There was always a diaper to be changed, a snack to be dispensed, a baby to nurse, a toy to fix, something that had to be done right this minute or it would lead to a total meltdown. And all the luxurious time to run errands? Well, if I could time it right and get out the door in that perfect fifteen minute window after the baby's nap but before we needed to be home for lunch, then maybe I could get to the store. But if we missed that window, it meant the outing would inevitably end in tears.

As a working mom, however, I have time to think complete thoughts. I can sit for an entire hour in my office and not be interrupted. I can focus on reading an article with complex ideas without trying to block a constant stream of toddler chatter and requests and destruction in the back ground. I have time to listen to audio books during my commute. I spend six hours every day in clothes that have no spit-up on them and are not nursing friendly. I spend time doing my hair, wearing make-up, and wearing my contacts every day. I spend hours talking to other adults who talk back to me with intelligent thoughts, and we are not distracted by someone smearing spaghetti sauce on the walls or throwing toys at the baby's head. Spending my time this way feels incredibly luxurious, almost selfish even. I feel like I do not deserve it.

But also, as a a working mom, I cannot find the time to go grocery shopping. I cannot find the time to make baby food from scratch. I cannot find the time to go to the library, or play dates with other mothers. I feel so cut off from the other mothers in my area, because if I didn't meet them in the two months before I started school, I feel like there's no hope now. I have no time for this blog, for photography, for all those other hobbies I love and used to fill my evenings with. I haven't watched a TV show since before school started. I don't check social media any more. I get way less sleep.

And then there are those other things about my time now, the kind that just add to my guilt. Like how the nanny taught my two-year-old how to spell his name, or how I watched the video on my phone of the first time my daughter pulled herself up to a standing position because I wasn't there in person to see it. Or about how the birthday present that my husband gave me this year was to take all the kids over to grandma and grandpa's house for the night so I could spend one night without being woken by the baby, one morning sleeping in without children chatter. And it was amazing, and glorious, and I feel so much better after getting nine hours of sleep for the first time since... I don't even know when, but also somewhat guilty that the only present I wanted was to spend more time away from my children. (My baby woke my husband at 3 AM and 5:30 AM, so I'm more glad than not, it was a lovely present.)

I have felt stretched so thin these past few weeks. I have felt so fragile, because three children, and a house to keep up, and a full-time job on top is just really a whole, whole lot. I've found myself sitting in the parking lot at school, crying and praying and wondering again and again why I felt inspired to get this PhD thing. Why I'm bringing this level of craziness into our lives. Why am I using my time this way?

But on the other side, I've had such amazing experiences already. I've been reading so many interesting things, thinking so many thoughts! There are so many things I've been wanting to write about here, ideas I've had while teaching or from my classes. I've felt so lucky. What a privilege, to have this time to learn. What a pleasure, to be teaching again, things I'm interested in to students who actually want to learn (or who are at least paying a lot of money to be sitting in my class and therefore invested in getting a decent grade). I just feel so grateful that I get to be spending my time this way.

And I still do have time to make dinner every day. I'm still home every minute that my oldest is home from school (stupid full day kindergarten). I still have time to read to my boys before bed. I still have time for date night. I still have time to cuddle my baby in the morning. I still have time for the essentials, the most important parts.

Time is such an interesting thing. It stretches out at some points and speeds by at others. There is never enough of it, yet everything gets done in the end. As a stay at home mom, I never had enough time. I never had enough time for coherent thoughts, I never had enough time in adult conversation. I spent my time negotiating with toddlers and coaxing babies back to sleep, and it was exhausting and mind numbing. As a working mom, I never have enough time. I don't have enough time to do all my work and still play with my children. I spend my time flat out running and juggling and trying to not let any of the balls drop, and it is exhausting and guilt-inducing. There will never be enough time.

But time is all I have, and I firmly believe it's just a matter of learning how to use my time more efficiently. I'm still trying to figure it out, I'm still learning how to manage my time and how to fit everything in. Unfortunately, this blog is still going to be taking a backseat for a while, but hopefully not forever. There's just a huge learning curve here at the beginning. It's intense. But I'll figure it out, because this is my life, and I have to make time for all the things I love.

Thoughts on Food Addictions and a Sugar Detox

I feel like I've generally got a pretty good relationship with food going on in my life (except for the times when I'm pregnant, because when I'm pregnant, everything about my relationship with food is horrible and nasty and emotional and complicated). Generally, I love food. I mostly eat healthy (because it feels good), but also never pass up a dessert when it's offered, and never beat myself up about it.

But apparently, things can change. Apparently, when things get stressful enough, I can eat my emotions.

Most of 2017 has been rather stressful for me. It seems that accepting a spot in a PhD program, going through a job hunt, buying a house, and moving states (with a baby who hasn't let me get eight straight hours of sleep one single night this whole year), is a bit stressful. Actually, incredibly stressful.

May especially (the month we bought the house, packed up, and moved) was super stressful. My first clue that the stress was getting to me was when I tweaked my neck during my routine yoga practice, and was unable to move it/sleep on it/function the whole week we were packing. The last time I tweaked my neck like that was the month before my wedding, and it took four visits to a chiropractor to get me back to mobility. Apparently, this whole move has been as stressful for me as getting married.

My second clue that the stress was getting to me was the alarming number of bags of chocolate chips I was eating my way through. I don't know exactly how many bags it was, but it was a lot. In fact, I found myself planning off-schedule grocery shopping trips because I needed more chocolate, and if you know me at all, you know that means things were desperate. I HATE going to the grocery store, and NEVER go more than once a week with my strict meal plan in place. So the fact that I was heading to the grocery store mid-week to get more chocolate was kind of a huge red flag.

Then I heard a friend mention a program she was trying called Bright Line Eating to help her manage her food addictions and lose weight. I was intrigued, not because I needed to lose weight, but because as soon as she said "food addiction" little bells went off in my head. So I came home and took the food addiction quiz, and came back with a score of 5 out of 10. While this wasn't necessarily a terrible score, it was higher than I thought I should be, so I started doing some thinking about how to fix this.

Basically, I decided to do a revised version of the Bright Line Eating program, my own little sugar detox. To sum up this program, there are four rules that adherents are supposed to follow for the rest of their lives (four bright lines): 1.) No sugar 2.) No flour 3.) Measure/weigh food (crap load of vegetables) and 4.) Eat only at meal times (no snacking). Since I'm nursing, and also not interested in losing weight (actually the opposite), I decided to ignore that last rule, and snacked as much as I wanted to. I also didn't worry about weighing my food (once again, not trying to lose weight), but simply tried to eat as much as I possibly could (especially veggies). But I did decide to cut sugar and flour as much as possible. I didn't go gluten free or hardcore (like, I didn't worry about sugar in salad dressings and stuff), but I cut as much sugar and flour from my diet as I conveniently could.

I waited until we actually moved into our house in June (and thus had full control over grocery shopping/meal planning), and then plunged into the detox for two weeks. The first few days were hard. Like, way harder than I expected. I was SO HUNGRY, despite the fact that I was still eating as much as I possibly could. This made me super nervous, because I'm always terrified about my milk supply dropping (it's been a problem before) and hunger is the enemy. But I decided to stick it out, and magically, after a few days, the hunger went away and I was able to stick it out without any problems with my milk supply.

While I only did two weeks of dedicated no sugar/no flour, I learned a lot of things and did some deep reflecting. These may or may not be of interest to anyone else out there, but in no particular order, here are my random thoughts about a sugar detox in case you are considering one.

-If you want to lose weight, this is absolutely the way to go. I lost weight (and I was trying desperately NOT to lose weight). One of the reasons I didn't go longer than two weeks was so that I wouldn't lose any more weight.

-Once I got past those first few days of hunger, I was actually surprised at how much energy I had, how full I felt after meals, and how good my body felt. Apparently, sugar and refined flour are actually huge energy drains on your system. And there's all this science about how sugar tricks your body into not being able to feel satiated. By the end, I felt really, really good. I mean, I felt like my old self, the self I haven't felt like since before I got pregnant last year. It was a super rough pregnancy, and my recovery was much slower than with my first two pregnancies. After this sugar detox, I felt like me again. It's like everything just snapped back into place (except for those stomach muscles, those still need some work...). This was awesome.

-It is possible, even for me, to get very, very tired of salads. Luckily I only need a couple of days, and then I'm back to my salad-loving self.

- It is HARD to cut sugar and flour and participate socially in food. I think this would be the hardest part about doing this program long term. Everything, and I mean practically everything, has sugar and/or flour in it. Also didn't help that my husband and I binge watched some Great British Baking Show while building Ikea furniture during this period, and it made me feel so, so sad that all that food was off-limits to me (even though I wouldn't have been baking/eating stuff like that anyway).

-When it comes to food addiction, I don't think I have a particular problem with flour, or even a lot of sugar. My real addiction is chocolate. I found that I wasn't sad at all to skip out on bread or other desserts, but oh! How I missed my chocolate! The only thing that kept me going was knowing that I was not going to be doing this detox forever, and eventually I would let myself eat chocolate again. It would be sad to go the rest of my life without ever eating bread, but I simply CANNOT live in a world without chocolate.

-It takes a lot of will power to eat this way. Two weeks was not long enough for it to become an automatic habit, and so I found myself exercising a concerted amount of will power every day to keep this up... and it was not healthy for my relationship with my kids. Especially those first few days when I was super hungry, I found myself snapping at my kids over very little things that I usually have the self-control to let slide. Science tells us that when we are exerting a concerted amount of will power in one area, we don't have any left over for other areas, and this was super true for me. I am a MUCH nicer mom when I can self medicate with chocolate.

-On that note, I realized that I use chocolate as a reward, a small treat, for getting through the hard parts of every day. I would tell myself things like "Once you get the dishes done, you can have some chocolate" and so I'd get the dishes done. Or "Once you get through bedtime, you can have some chocolate" so it was my little reward for surviving the bedtime routine. When that reward was taken away, life got just a little bit more depressing. I tried to come up with other little treats for myself, but most of them weren't practically possible or took more time than I had (like taking a nap, or reading a book, or taking a bath, etc.). It's so much quicker to just scarf a handful of chocolate chips.

-If you are an abstainer and/or have serious issues with food addiction, I highly recommend the Bright Line Eating program. I, however, am completely a moderator. I really enjoy life so much more when I can have my treats in moderation. I do feel like things got out of control in May when my stress and anxiety levels peaked, but all I needed was the two week detox to get back on a moderate track. Things may get out of hand again (I am, after all, starting a PhD program in a couple of weeks, and that baby is still not letting me sleep through the night), but I feel like I've gained some awareness and can monitor myself, and if need be, do another detox any time I need to.

Anyway, that was a lot of thoughts. To sum up, my sugar/flour detox was overall a really positive experience for me (except for the negative influence on my parenting), and I learned a lot about myself. While I've gone back to allowing myself a few chocolate treats, I've found myself with a hyper awareness of all the refined flour and sugar in food, and I'm still trying to avoid as much of it as I conveniently can. My body just feels so much better this way. I'm not a doctor or a nutrition person or anything, but I can pretty confidently say that everyone ought to try a sugar detox. I highly recommend the experience.

(P.S. If you have any questions about specifics of my sugar detox, feel free to ask!)

(P.P.S. I wrote more about body/food stuff last year in posts here, here, and here.)