Abandoning Perfectionism for the Hope of Perfection

I've never really liked New Year's Resolutions. You'll get a better taste of why by the end of this post, but suffice it to say that I have to approach my goal setting in a little different way than is traditionally presented because I hate that so many resolutions are made, broken, and abandoned by the beginning of February. I've been thinking about some of the goals that people make, and I've decided that I like the whole “I'm giving up _______,” thing. You know, like, some people give up sugar, soda, or carbs. Except, I've decided that I'm going to be giving up my expectations for perfection and the guilt/disappointment I experience when my [perfect] goals aren't met.

It's a hard line to walk—the one at the juncture of “I love myself just the way I am,” and “I strive to be better every day.” I've spent my whole life pinballing between my pursuit of perfection (accompanied by a side of heavy self-criticism, a dose of depression, and a dash of guilt) and my couch of apathy (which, oddly enough, seems to come with the very same side-effects.) And, as I find myself ricocheting from one end of the continuum to the other, I keep praying that I will be suddenly sucked into a gravity well that will keep me in the, of course, perfect balance of accepting myself and being my best.

It hasn't happened yet.

But I hope every day that, like the graph of y(x)=e^-x∙cos(2πx), as I approach infinity, my amplitude will continue to approach zero as I attempt to better myself. Unfortunately, just like the complex equation given above, I find that I can only continue to approach my “zero” (which in this case is perfection)--I can't actually reach it. Bummer.

This is a frustration that has affected every aspect of my life for . . . pretty much always. Ask my mom about doing my hair when I was little (Me: “My ponytail is bumpy, mom! I want it to be smooth!” Mom: “Malinda, it looks fine. Nobody can even tell!” Me: “But I can feel it, and it's bumpy!”). My wanting everything to be perfect stuck with me for awhile and was something everyone around me paid for, not just myself.

However, I recently (just before cutting my hair) made peace with the idea that it's okay for some hairdos to be a little messy. I stopped plastering my fly-aways to my head with hairspray and was finally able to do some cute inside-out ponytails and buns—which I had never been able to do before because I ran the risk of ruining my perfect ponies.

Another long-standing habit I kicked? Plucking my eyebrows. This was a big deal. In about ninth grade I decided I was done with bushy eyebrows and started compulsively plucking. This was . . . not a good idea. I went through years of trying to fix what I had done those many years ago, convinced that the only way to fix things was to keep pulling my eyebrows off my face. It was awkward. My grandpa commented on their unevenness, my mom told me I needed to stop, and even after I was in college, a guy in choir commented on my “unique” eyebrows. Anyway, after years of wondering what to do with one eyebrow that grows up and another that grows down, I decided to leave them alone.

Actually, I gave myself an overly simplistic Economics lesson first. It went something like this: “Self, there's a quantity and a price for beauty here. The price can be money and time, and the quantity can be determined by the question “Just how beautiful am I aiming to be?” If I'm honest with myself, there is an amount of time and money spent on my beautification process which I find to be worthwhile. Once I exceed a certain time or price, though, I find that reaching the “Supermodel” side of the x-axis is not actually that important to me. When I find the place on the graph where I'm willing to pay the price for the results I'm getting, it doesn't make sense for me to try to do more.”

This is exactly what happened with my eyebrows, and actually, I've found that the more natural look compliments the shape of my face better than any other I've had. I have applied this same concept to the amount of make-up I wear (I've stopped trying to cover my pimples—I was actually just making things look worse there, too), the style vs. price of my clothes, and (don't tell anyone!) the frequency with which I shave my legs. By letting a few things slip out of my “beauty routine,” I have found that I can still look and feel just as good—or better—without spending quite as much time and energy on things that weren't as important to me as I once thought. As my dad said the other day “Getting beautiful? Well, I thought you were beautiful before, so you apparently wasted all that time!”

I have tried to apply this same concept to my approach to housecleaning. I am still working to accept that some days I just won't get around to laundry and dishes, but I have tried to minimize the frustration I experience when some things just don't have a place, and others aren't in their given place. I am trying to make my housecleaning mantra: “Is my home clean enough that my family and I can feel the Spirit? [If yes,] Then what else matters?”

There are things about my house that matter. I am not going to become a hoarder and endanger anyone's health, but if our dishes are clean enough to eat off of, why do I need to worry about my floors meeting that standard? If my family is safe and we can enjoy our time at home, perhaps the hours I could spend scrubbing every surface to perfection could be better employed teaching my children how to love and care for each other—or keeping myself mentally and spiritually aligned so that I myself can add to an atmosphere of peace and comfort.

Of course, it's easier for me to write about these changes than it is for me to actually enact them. I slide back (frequently). And it's simpler to tackle the things that people see than it is for me to handle the inner, personal habits that few know about. I feel safer discussing confessions like “I don't want to lose weight, but I want to live healthily!” and “I don't just want to look good—I want to be good,” than I do admitting “I have a real problem trading my criticality for charity,” or “Sometimes I feel like a nasty person. Then I consider how blessed I've been and I feel even worse about being the way that I am.” These are the issues I would rather sweep behind my fridge and ignore than have to deal with. But they are oh, so more important than messy corners.

In conclusion, setting goals is hard for me. What begins as a gimmick that most people forget by February transforms into a thorough evaluation of my whole life and a long process from which I emerge blue, battered, and somehow bearing deep symbolism that may or may not be helpful as I proceed with my life. But I end with the same tone with which I began. To quote Elder Neal A. Maxwell,

Just as doubt, despair, and desensitization go together, so do faith, hope, charity, and patience. The latter qualities must be carefully and constantly nurtured, however, whereas doubt and despair, like dandelions, need little encouragement in order to sprout and spread. Alas, despair comes so naturally to the natural man!

Patience . . . permits us to deal more evenly with the unevenness of life’s experiences.
("Hope Through the Atonement of Jesus Christ," October 1998)

I know I have my limits. I just hope that *MATH ALERT*  like the graph from the beginning of this entry, my limit as x approaches infinity will be zero. Or, (for those of you who understandably panicked at the previous sentence) that as time goes by, I will continue to make fewer and fewer mistakes.

For this next year, my plan is to do the best that I can to improve myself while also better coping with unhelpful guilt and disappointment that will come as I try and fail to change. For me, this plan will include daily prayer and scripture study, trading out time and effort spent on activities that hold less value to me in order to spend more time doing what I love, and journaling regularly to assess my progress. 

In short, I think that this year my goal will be that rather than shame myself, I will instead use my goals to make me happier. It seems that one of the best ways to approach my resolutions would be with gratitude that I can even change at all. As Josh Groban sings in “Thankful,” there is indeed So much to be thankful for.

Happy New Year from the Streets!

 

Cat-astrophe: The Sequel

In which we adopt a ghost cat.

In the past week, I've apologized to my husband many times for adopting a cat. I've apologized for taking him by surprise. I've apologized because it wasn't a kitten. I've apologized because it was so loud. I've apologized because we had to keep it inside for a bit, that it somehow found its way into our vents, and that it showed up on our bed last night when we had locked it in the basement. Well, I am now done apologizing for our cat. Mostly because I think it has made its permanent escape.

Guys, I don't even know what to say anymore. Somehow I adopted either a feline ghost or Harry Houdini's kitty incarnate. How do these things happen?

WELL, let's rewind and see. *Whirring of a VHS tape* (if you don't know what that is, I've included a link to a historical site that can explain it) and, roll film:

Me: “Blah, blah, blah . . . pick up a cat . . . ?”

Alex: “WHAT?”

And later . . .

Me: “We should probably keep it in the house until it gets used to us. Just in the back room/basement area. It will be fine. What could happen?”

I now cut to an excerpt from Willa Cat-her's diary.

Day 6: IT'S A TRAP! Having fully explored my limited spaces, I approach madness. I don't think they can hear my cries. If only I could get closer, perhaps then they would listen.

The long winding tunnels have brought me closer to the humans. I hear them, and know that they must hear me, but they still ignore me. I have formulated a plan that will get me out of here. This will be my last entry, as tonight while they are sleeping, I will make my escape. I think for good measure I will stop by and jump on them on my way out. Vengeance is mine . . .

So, as you can see, our cat was no ordinary cat. We fed it, gave it water, brushed it, and pondered the best way to get it to stay with us when we let it outside. We had plans to start feeding it on the back porch today and transition it to the great outdoors. Unfortunately, once we became aware that the scheming demon had somehow found her way into and out of our duct work, we knew we would have to change our plans . However, we didn't want to put her out at night, so we went to bed hoping that she would be okay until the morning. My last comment was, “I think she'll come out when we go to bed and turn off the lights. I mean, there won't be any sound or light to attract her anymore. She'll come out.”

And she did—just not the way she went in.

We had been asleep maybe an hour when we were awakened by the loud mewing that doesn't usually come from our closet. I was ready to chalk it up to a crazy dream I was having when Alex jumped up saying “SHE'S ON OUR BED!”

He was mad. And as he chased the cat, she ran into to Melody's room and woke her up, which just made things worse. And thus it was that once Alex got his hands on the cat, she went unceremoniously out the front door along along with all the psychology with which we had planned to gain her trust. It was, as this entire cat and mouse business has been, quite unfortunate.

This morning, in a final effort to win our kitty's affections—if she's not already back with her previous family—we put her towel, food, and water out on our back porch. We keep checking for her, but I think she's long gone. If that's the case, I don't think we'll play this game again until it's kitten season. That leaves us lots of time to think about what we've done.

The moral of this story is:

Don't spontaneously adopt a full grown cat as a means of getting rid of mice. You will only be astonished at just how easily cats (and therefore mice) can find their way around the inside of your house.

Darn cat.

Rice and Mice: A Cat-astrophe

Love can drive people to do some pretty crazy things. So can fear of mice. The first is why I got married and had a baby; the second is the reason I got a cat.

Yeah, that's right: a cat.

At the risk of offending—something I'm getting pretty good at doing—the cat people among you, I have always been a full-blooded dog person. (When faced with the question of dog or cat. Wider options allowing, I'm more of a fish person, actually.) I won't say I swerve to hit cats or go out of my way to kick them, but I just don't care for their attitudes. Also, their sixth sense that allows them to find and bother people who don't like cats has always riled me. But, desperate times call for desperate measures.

We came home Sunday night and opened our kitchen cupboard looking for some dinner. What we found was a mouse stealing our rice. We'd known we had a mouse in our wall, but this made it all very real. I flipped. Alex kept telling me to calm down, but all I could think of were its little feet scurrying around and spreading diseases through my cupboard. I sat in the farthest room from the mouse's last known position and refused to believe that there was a mouse in my house. (There's nothing cute about mouses in houses, by the way. Dr. Seuss, I WOULD NOT WOULD NOT do anything with a mouse!)

After that, I got mad. How dare that mouse eat our food and live in our house? If only we had caught it before it discovered sustenance! Was it that my house wasn't clean enough? I would have cleaned my house better if it would have kept away rodents. And then I just got sad because I knew I could have kept my house cleaner (although, admittedly, this probably would have happened regardless of how clean things were). And as I sat and thought about all of the grossness I would now have to scrub away due to our furry little friend with the scurrying feet, I have to admit—I sort of shut down.

Once I had cycled through the first four stages of loss and grief, I was finally able to accept that we had a mouse in the house. It took at least a few hours of refusing to go into the kitchen for fear that . . . well, okay, I don't know exactly what I was afraid of, but I think it involved rodents infected with the Hantavirus jumping out of my cupboard and attacking me. Looking back now, I can see that was ridiculous, but it was real to me at the time. I also think it was made worse by the fact that Alex told me we were dealing with a black rat at least eight inches long not counting the tail.

This was an interesting experiment in psychology, because when I saw that mouse in our cupboard it was just that—a mouse. And it was brown. But after hearing that it was a large black rat, I started to think back and “remember” just how wrong I was. Yes, of course. It WAS black. And now that I think of it, it did resemble the rat from Lady and the Tramp (which, by the way, just caused me a bit of anxiety after looking at pictures of said rat). How did I not see it before?

Well, we (and by we, I mean Alex) set up a trap and caught the pest by the next morning. And when Alex showed me the little brown mouse, I panicked because WE DIDN'T GET HIM!

Alex assured me that we had. But we didn't! The one we saw was bigger and black; it was a rat! Wasn't it?

Nope. It wasn't. To quote Alex, “I only told you that because you were being . . . lame. I wanted to justify your fear.” Or feed it. Pfft. I had totally reprogrammed my memory to see what I thought I saw. Which totally happens a lot. See here for more on that.

Most of the time, I'm fine with pests. Spiders? I don't like them, but I can deal. Normal sized non-venomous snakes? I'd be a bit freaked out if one randomly found itself in my kitchen cabinet, but I feel like I would feel okay with removing it. Probably with my bare hands. But mice? Not okay. I think, as I've mentioned once or twice, it's their diseases and their scurrying little feet. Because they can scurry right up your leg and infect you with Hanta before you can say Jack Robinson. Gross.

Anyway, in between listening to just how disgusting I found rodents, my mom suggested some ways we could take care of this problem: Seal up our house, trap them, and get something that would eat them. I thought maybe we'd set a snake loose in our attic—or better yet—invest in a Basilisk, but after weighing the pros (no mice) and cons (finding one, explaining it to our guests—and in the case of the basilisk, possible petrification) of both these animals, my mom said she was actually meaning a cat. Hmm . . . a cat. It could work.

So, the very next day I was all over the local Facebook yard sale pages (like a mouse all over rice—too soon, too soon!) in order to find a cat. Then, I called Alex to ask if he could pick it up on his way home from work. He was a *little* surprised since it had only come up once, and we had interpreted the brief discussion completely differently. I came away thinking we had decided to get a cat, but he came away totally unsuspecting. And, now we have a cat. I like to think of it as payback for the whole rat incident.

We've been thinking about what to name it since it doesn't answer to its previous “name,” Oreo. I suggested that we name our cat Stevens (Hehe, Cat Stevens . . . never mind), but we actually think it's a girl. Which is why I just decided we could name her Willa Cat-her instead. But don't tell Alex, he is, once again, totally unsuspecting.

I guess that scores two points for cats: 1. They catch and eat mice. 2. You can name them anything--even things you wouldn't name your children--and they don't know any better.

Why CAN'T We Be Friends?

Once upon a time my computer died so I couldn't write any blog posts for awhile. This was a most unfortunate event. Luckily, it magically came back to life (by means of my husband, not a fairy godmother) and we are now living happily ever after once again.

Which is good, because once again, I have something to say.

This entry is going to cover some things that I've tried to say previously, but haven't explicitly stated. This time, I would like to just come out and say what I've been thinking, rather than alluding to it. Please continue reading, as these same thoughts could be affecting you or someone you know and love.

My problem is this: I'm a Stay-at-Home-Utah-Mormon-Mother.

Actually, that's not the problem—at least, not to me. My problem is that there are some people who think this is a problem. I keep encountering people (sometimes other Mormons, even) who get all uppity about Utah Mormons. Also, people who think Mormon women are being oppressed. And don't let me forget the disputes about stay-at-home moms. If you are unaware of how these criticisms go, the gist is that we're all weak people with nothing to say, oblivious of the unfortunate way we've all been made from cookie cutters. We've been pushed into our current roles because we have no other options. To those perpetuating these myths I say: You're wrong. Please stop.

I take great issue with all of these views because, to the untrained eye, I fit this mold. To those looking at conditions and statistics instead of people, I am one of THOSE people. I grew up in a small Utah town. In fact, I've never lived outside the state of Utah. I'm the oldest daughter in a rather large family who has never really “gone astray.” I am also the mother in a loving two-parent home, who chooses not to work outside the home in order to care for my daughter. To the casual observer, the only thing that sets me apart from the rest of the “Happy Valley” Mormons is that I don't live in Happy Valley. (And I don't have a white picket fence around my yard. Also, a dog. I don't have a dog, either.)

Anyway, the purpose of this entry is not to gripe about how I'm being judged by people who don't know me. It's to tell the world—or at least, those brave souls that will stumble across this—that even though I may look like all the other cookie-cut Mormons, it's not because I don't have any other viable options. I am educated. I don't stay at home with my daughter because I couldn't get better work. I CHOSE to live this way. Just as I have chosen to accept the gospel of Jesus Christ. Yep, I was born and raised in this church, but I have also tested it (Alma 32:26--43).

You can show me all the reasons not to be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had someone try to do that to me yesterday. I say try because, in actuality, I was more aware of the arguments against my religion than they were. I could have compiled a longer, more comprehensive list than the one with which I was presented because I have seen and heard many arguments as to why I shouldn't believe what I do. I'm not living in a spiritual vacuum—although, admittedly, if there were such a thing/place, it would be in Utah—I've encountered opposition. And if anything, examining their criticisms has made me into more of a believer. There are reasons I am who I am. If you would like to hear them, I'll tell you. If not, that's fine, too. But please stop relegating me and those like me to a few measly labels.

I'd like to rally a cause—the force of so-called cookie-cutter Mormons. Rise up! (Sorry, little BYU joke, there . . . ) Because, if I were were a betting man—er, woman—I would bet that they, like me, are more than they appear. Following a somewhat upsetting experience in which my attempts to befriend members of a different faith failed because their tenets discouraged interacting with “nonbelievers,” I have become sensitive to just how detrimental divisions based upon differences can be. So you're not a Mormon? Okay. Let's still be friends. Grew up outside of Utah? Great. You probably have some powerful experiences to draw from. You're a man? Thank you for the things you do that I can't. You're a hardworking mother who's balancing a career while raising your family? Can you offer me some tips for time management and efficiency?

So, you're different from me in some way? That's cool. Let's stop judging one another and start learning from one another.

In a beautiful talk highlighting our faith and its foundation, our previous prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, had a wonderful quote for those with beliefs that differ from ours: “To these we say in a spirit of love, bring with you all that you have of good and truth which you have received from whatever source, and come and let us see if we may add to it.” I would, in this same spirit, echo to the wide variety of individuals in the world, these same sentiments. I'll bring the good that I have, and you can see if you can add to it.

"Let Them Eat Cake!"

I know it's doubtful whether Marie Antionette ever said that. I also know that I used a derivative of the “Have your cake and eat it, too!” phrase in my last entry, and my husband stopped to ask me “What does that even mean?” The truth is, I'm not sure. Like many phrases that I hear and use on a regular basis, I know what it means, I just don't . . . know . . . what it means.

It's kind of like I trust you implicitly. Well, once you express that trust, isn't it explicit now? But back to cake.

Is there anything inherently wonderful about just having cake? I mean, I've always thought the real joy was to be had in eating said cake, but that's just me. Also, I would think you'd have to be in the possession of cake in order to be eating it. So, while I understand that this phrase is supposed to represent the conundrum we face in wanting conflicting scenarios to play out, I don't quite get it. Neither does Alex. I think it's because we have had the experience of literally attempting to have our cake and eat it, too. As it turns out, it wasn't super great.

You know that wedding tradition that says you're supposed to keep part of your cake in the freezer so that you can eat it on your one year anniversary? That's where this story begins. The day that Alex and I were married, we left our reception with a bit of cake to freeze. We ate some and then formulated a plan. We decided that we would divide the cake into twelve little slices and eat a portion every month for the first year of our marriage. This was great for the first few months, but after that we began to notice that our once tasty cake was getting increasingly stale and well, just gross. We gave up on our monthly slices, took an out-of-town anniversary trip, and unceremoniously threw the remnants of the cake out when we moved. This was a bummer—especially since we had made the pieces progressively larger as we were to approach our anniversary.

This is yet another tradition that I just don't understand. Maybe some smart-mouthed pessimist out there wants to tell me that the frozen cake is a representation of marriage—the honeymoon ends and things get nasty. To you, Mr./Ms. Daryl/Debbie Downer, I say: Shut your cake-hole; I don't wanna hear it. Unlike the cake, my marriage isn't on ice. Also, I may have absolutely no idea why I would keep a perfectly good cake in the freezer, but I know exactly why we got married, and we are enjoying [almost] every moment of our life together.

What's the good of having cake and eating it? I guess as long as you have the cake, you can eat it. That's probably why the metaphor is what it is. I would like to reinvent this saying, though. “Eat your cake already. Don't put it in the freezer. Just eat your cake and enjoy it.” (I explicitly trust that you'll be happy if you follow this advice.)

P.S. If you do decide to participate in the time-honored tradition of freezing your wedding cake, wrap it in MANY layers of plastic wrap to guard against freezer burn. This is something we didn't do that might have saved our cake. Those of you looking for further symbolism here, go ahead, but I'm done here.

The Drama of Clothes-Cleaning

Days of Our Lives Laundry

I have a problem with laundry. I didn't used to think it would ever come to this—I mean, how hard is it to gather the clothes, sort them, then put them in the washer and dryer?

Turns out it's pretty tough.

My perceptions of laundry changed when we lived in an apartment without a washer and dryer. This necessitated a trip to the laundromat down the street. Our relationship with the laundromat was complicated. As one who was used to being able to run downstairs and throw in a load of laundry late the night I realized that I didn't have clean underwear for the morrow, it was a difficult adjustment. It was like a story problem from Hades: “Alex has 4 remaining pairs of socks, Malinda has 2 pairs of underwear, and Alex has 1 pair of clean work pants. If Malinda works immediately after classes Tuesday through Thursday and Alex has the car from 3 to 11 Monday through Saturday, which is the best day and time to do the laundry, accounting for the fact that Malinda has a major paper due next Tuesday?”

The answer of course was “D. None of the above. Malinda and Alex join a nudist colony and never have to worry about laundry again.” If only. (Just kidding. Obviously, I'm just kidding.)

As we navigated the complex issues of school, work, and laundry, we lost two pairs of pants to the laundry gremlins who apparently weren't getting enough socks and started gnawing on our jeans as a result. After getting home to discover that one of Alex's brand new pairs of pants had been torn across the back by the machines, I was determined to switch laundromats. When I went the extra block to try a different laundromat, though, I was scared off by the lack of people and maintenance that the place had seen. When my first thoughts were “This place is kind of ghetto,” and “Nobody would hear my screams or find my body if I were to be murdered here,” I immediately packed up my clothes and went back to my laundromat of origin. At least if I died there, somebody would find my body before hope to catch the perpetrator had expired.

We didn't lose any more clothes to the fierce ogres in the dryer after that. Nor did I feel threatened while doing my laundry. It was win-win.

Shortly thereafter, we moved to a new apartment that had a washer and dryer, and I thought: “Doing laundry will be a piece of cake now.” But it wasn't, because there's always something. For instance, now when I gather laundry, I have to gather it from two places, instead of just one. So rough.

I've actually discovered that my family and I tend to dress in certain colors for certain times of the week. This isn't because we try to match, or because I declare “turquoise Tuesdays” or “fuchsia Fridays.” It just sort of naturally happens because we wear what's clean—and it rarely happens that all of our colors are clean at the same time. I read in an article about dejunking yesterday that this [not doing your laundry for awhile] can be great way to know what clothes to get rid of: you simply wait to do laundry until someone complains that they “don't have anything to wear,” and then get rid of the other clothes that are still sitting in closets because they probably aren't being worn anyway. I'm really good at employing this strategy—the not doing laundry part, at least—I just never get around to the dejunk the closet part. Probably because I always seem to be doing laundry.

I think the thing about laundry is that it requires commitment to see a load from the washer all the way to its final folded form in drawers. There are so many chances to be interrupted in the middle, and then you are forever trapped in the spin cycles of “I'd better rewash this because I forgot it was sitting here in the washer growing mildew,” and the “We've officially lost track of which pile is clean and which is dirty. Time to do laundry and start it all again!”

It's time to break the cycle. There has to be a way that my family can wear our blues with our reds without advance notice—or is that “Having our cake and eating it, too?” I can only wonder. And since my family will be forever dirtying clothes, I will presumably have plenty of time to ponder this question and search for its answers. Unless we all become nudists. (Still kidding! Obviously still kidding.) At any rate, I declare today to be “fuchsia Friday” as a sign of solidarity among those of us struggling with the laundry blues.

Hard Decisions: In Defense of the Vanilla I Have Chosen

I once had a teacher share a story about a sports team whose motto was “Vanilla. Choose the hard thing!” (or something like that). The saying was supposed to represent the difficulty in life when decisions have to be made. In an ice cream shop filled with many options, what's harder than skipping the extravagance and going for the plain, boring, and traditional vanilla? Sometimes those are the decisions that have to be made, right?

But there are people who actually like vanilla. On a recent trip to the store, my little sister was allowed to choose the ice cream. After looking over all the options, she opted for vanilla. As my mom and I teased her about how unacceptable vanilla was (“What sorts of choices will you make in your life if you can't even properly choose ice cream flavors?”) and she pretended she had made a hasty decision (“Cookies and cream? Yeah! I didn't even see that one!”), we went with the more interesting flavor and abandoned vanilla. But I could see by the look in her eyes that she really would have liked vanilla. After all, when you rarely get ice cream, even vanilla is a treat.

As a vanilla person myself, I understand this. And when I say I'm a “vanilla person,” I don't simply mean that I enjoy vanilla Frostys more than their original counterpart. I mean that I'm somewhat bland in comparison to some of the other people here in the ice cream shop of life. I don't skydive and live dangerously. I'm not gorgeous or famous. I'm not trying to cure cancer or rid the world of hunger because I've already accepted that those aren't the stars for which I'm shooting anymore.

It wasn't an easy conclusion. Like every child in America, I was raised on school assignments of “What Would You Do If You Were President of the United States?” and fantasies of becoming a pop star over night. Admitting my mediocrity in the world was tough—and I'm not saying this in a dejected, woe-is-me way. I'm just saying, in a matter-of-fact way, that I'm like everyone else. I mean, I think I'm cool, but it's just an average kind of cool. So, I gave up my more far-fetched ambitions of being a real-life princess-astronaut who moonlights as Bill Nye the Science Guy's assistant and “settled” for something rather vanilla by comparison that I had dreamed of doing far before anything else.

Thus, I became a mother. And I do believe that so far, it has rivaled my previous dreams for excitement, joy, and all-out flavor. The thing about vanilla ice cream, choices, and people is that we are flexible. We go well with chocolate syrup, birthday cake, and sprinkles. We do well in all sorts of circumstances, and no matter what the other options might have been. And as one who likes vanilla, I'm quite happy with the choice I have made, hard as it may have been. I've got all the sweetness I could ever want.

Hello! I'm a Conservative Christian. Let Me Tell You What I Really Believe.

So, I'm getting a little tired of having various internet memes tell me what I believe and how I live my life. Mostly because they tend to be wrong. Occasionally, when I run across one with a particularly amusing punchline, I read it and snort before getting on with my life. Unfortunately, most of the memes describing “my lifestyle” that I encounter are just offensive to me. The other day I saw a meme with a caption saying something to the effect of “I'm a Conservative Christian and I believe in the sanctity of marriage. So do four out of my five previous husbands.” I didn't laugh when I read this one. Instead, I got a bit upset and cried some angry tears because I feel like I am being misrepresented on the internet—along with many others who share my similar values. You may say, “Well, yeah, but that's because you're part of the group. If you were on the opposing side of the fence, you would find it funny like the rest of us.

Would I?

The whole point of me telling you this is to tell you that I, as someone who identifies as a “conservative Christian,” am an individual. A real person. And at the risk of sounding too much like an episode of Sesame Street, it makes me sad when people aren't nice to me. Actually, it makes me sad when people aren't nice—whether I'm the victim or not. So, don't give me this crap about “The tables being turned,” and “How do I like it?” because although I have my beliefs, I DON'T HATE GAY PEOPLE. I don't post memes ridiculing people who are different from me, and I don't sit around in my spare time thinking of all the reasons I think they are going to Hell. In fact, I don't even believe in Hell in thetraditional sense, and the person I most frequently condemn is myself. I don't enjoy it when anybody is mocked and ridiculed, whether they believe as I do or not!

Yes, I'm a Christian. A member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—you may more readily recognize the term Mormon. I also happen to lean to the right politically. I do value the sanctity of marriage. I understand there are many who oppose my viewpoint. If you are one of them, that's okay. I think you're wrong. But I also know that you think that I'm wrong. The issue I'm concerned with here is not who is right and who is wrong (because I think we'll find that at the end of the day, we each believe the other is wrong, no matter what is said). My concern here is that yes, we disagree. Now what?

I suppose we could continue to create and share fallacious memes that illustrate why the opposite view is stupid in addition to being wrong, but I'm personally getting tired of the same old arguments. Yes, sometimes heterosexual marriages end in divorce. I think this is unfortunate. But (forgive me, you'll have to step inside my religiously extremist mind here—try not to judge too harshly!) I don't believe two wrongs make a right. Divorce, like marriage, is a choice. And while some people may be making the choice of “serial monogamy,” I am not one of them. When I say that marriage is something that I hold sacred, this means that in addition to viewing marriage as between a man and a woman, I was particularly careful while searching for my own spouse. My grandma used to tell me that most girls are more selective of their prom dresses than their husbands. I was not about to be one of those girls. Because I view marriage as special, it's not a relationship I was willing to enter into with just anybody. I kept looking until I finally found someone I believed was worthy to be called my husband. Now that we have found each other, we are doing all we can to ensure that our marriage lasts. So please, don't lump me into a group that believes that divorce is a natural result of marriage. I'm putting a lot of work into this relationship called marriage, and I find it hurtful when others cavalierly come along and tell me I'm going to fail when they don't even know my husband and me.

But lets talk about something that many of those on “my side” have been guilty of. Like the idea that heterosexual people have a monopoly on the pursuit of happiness—particularly where relationships and family are concerned. “Gay people shouldn't get married or adopt because they can't have kids naturally.” You've probably heard that one at least a few times. I don't like it because I don't think that inability to reproduce “naturally” is something to rub anyone's nose in. You probably find the “gay people shouldn't have kids because they aren't good parents” line of reasoning to be as repulsive and distasteful as I find the “religious right-wingers are all hateful people who deserve their multiple divorces” logic—because it's a sweeping generalization that's wrong. Those people I know who identify as homosexual would make great parents if the opportunity came their way. It would seem to me, that the pain that comes to those individuals who are unable to marry or have a family for reasons related to sexual orientation is just as real as that of any single person who is unable to realize their need for intimacy or any couple longing for a child. We should stop mocking the sadness associated with these circumstances—regardless of the sexual orientation of those involved.

The debate over whether or not homosexuals should be able to marry is a sensitive one with very personal ramifications for both sides. It is a discussion that should be had civilly—which civility is typically lacking in internet memes. By all means, post factual sources that support your cause. Electronically share your beliefs—I will be. Just please, as you do your best to tell others how you feel about controversial issues, leave the memes out of it. This is a delicate subject with actual people on both sides, and we can't be fully represented by such sweeping generalizations.

Adolescents and Young Adult Fiction

I've been reading a bit of young-adult fiction. Yep. Me. I know this will shock some of you *Ha! Yeah, right.*, but I have. It's my reading equivalent of dessert—my [somewhat] guilty pleasure.

The reason I feel somewhat guilty about it is because somebody on some website wrote this article saying I should “feel embarrassed about reading things written for children.” In my situation, I disagree on several levels—i.e., it doesn't comprise my entire reading “diet,” many classics and great literary works are/were “written for children” (or have at least come to be viewed as such), and you know, other great points that I can neither come up with off the top of my head, nor do I care to right now because this was supposed to be a negligible part of my topic for the day and yet it has already highjacked this entire paragraph. Suffice it to say that I don't view the reading of YA literature to be inherently wrong.

Unless . . .

Here is the part of the blog in which people may snort at me, argue, and say I'm ridiculously conservative and naively idealistic. Also, some crazy zealots may agree with me and call for the overthrow of the American Library Association (ALA) or something equally rash. Me, I'm just going to tell you what I've been thinking and leave you all to do your thing. (There will be no refreshments at the conclusion of this discussion, so if that's what you're hanging around for, you are welcome to leave now and we'll all just pretend you've stumbled into the wrong blog.)

I'm wondering about the definition of the term young adult. I mean, adults are (or at least, used to be) identified as those who were say, responsible, and taking on the rigors of careers, healthy and relatively permanent relationships, caring for children, buying houses, etc. Skipping discussions about immaturity and delayed decision-making in adulthood (Another day, guys, another day!), let's simply say that adulthood begins at the—here in the United States—generally accepted age of eighteen. If adulthood begins at 18 and extends through the rest of our lives, I would identify young adults to be . . . oh, say, those between 18 and 30, at least. Therefore, I am a young adult.

You know who agrees with me? Psychologist Erik Erikson, whose name makes me wonder how long that name's been in the family. Erikson's stages of development names the period from about 12 to 18 adolescence, with the subsequent stage being young adulthood. Young adulthood stretches from about 19 to 40. In case you were wondering, the main conflict of adolescence is Identity vs. Role Confusion. In other words, “Who am I?” These issues must be resolved prior to advancement to the young adult conflict of Intimacy vs. Isolation (in which young adults seek love and permanent relationships), or the transition to young adulthood can be complicated by confusion and an inability to plan for the future.

According to this Wikipedia article on YA literature though, when the concept of writing especially for young adults originated in the early 1800s, author Sarah Trimmer described the audience as those between the ages of 14 and 21. This age range has been continually lowered, and now the Young Adult Library Services Association (YALSA [Not to be confused with Yalta—the Ukrainian port where world leaders met to discuss terms following WWII—or salsa, which is good on chips]) division of the ALA has defined young adults to be those aged 12 to 18 years old. The article claims that most young-adult authors are typically writing for those aged 16 to 25, while those writing for the 10 to 15 year-old demographic are writing Teen Fiction. This is a distinction that is rarely made, though. At least in my mind and at my local library, I find Teen Fiction to be lumped in with its apparently older sibling, Young Adult Fiction.

The article goes on to tell us that the “Golden Age” of YA fiction took place from the mid-1970s through the '80s. At this time, limits were pushed such that common themes included rape, suicide, parental death, and murder. Come the '90s, these would grow to include drinking, sexuality, drug use, identity, beauty, and teen pregnancy. That's quite a list. At the risk of sounding old-fashioned, I don't think that teens (and when I say “teens,” I mean the group that Erikson defines as adolescents—the supposed audience of YA fiction) are well enough equipped to deal with all of these social issues. Nor do I think it necessary that they should be encountering the more dire of these adult situations, even if only in print. Yes, I know that bad things happen because this is the real world, and that, unfortunately, many teens are living out the “adult situations” contained in YA fiction. I regret that and realize that much of this is unavoidable. But I don't believe that it's healthy to glorify such unfortunate circumstances or to pretend as though these characters' plights represent those of the majority of teens. To present a large number of volumes in which “average” teenagers are endeavoring to resolve the Intimacy vs. Isolation conflict of their yet to come young adulthood before they've even discovered who they are—and to label genre and reader as “young adult” could be detrimental. It slyly encourages the continuation of premature maturation via the depictions of some very harmful behaviors for adolescents.


I see this as an issue that deserves some serious consideration. It should be something that authors, publishers, and librarians should think about while writing and selecting so-called young-adult fiction. But more importantly, it should be something that parents and their children talk about as books are bought or borrowed. Should certain books be banned? I'm not going to open that can of worms; in your household, that's your decision. Should they be discussed? Absolutely. It may be that you decide that your child is mature enough to handle a certain level of exposure through fiction. I myself have decided that there is no way that I can completely control what my daughter sees and hears as she grows up. Sadly, there will be some content and experiences that she will be exposed to, no matter how hard I try to protect her. Books may be a more gentle way for her to see the world as it is. However, as I teach her and help her to select the books she reads, I would hope that those selections would be uplifting. And I would hope those selections would be accompanied by her thoughts on the books and the characters, themes, and morals they contain.

P.S. I was only kidding about the no refreshments thing. We're stopping for chips and salsa on the way to storm the ALA. Contact me to discuss carpooling.

Umm . . . Excuse Me, But Didn't You Mean to Give Me Some of That Banana Bread?

You already know I'm an awkward person. I mean, I already know I'm an awkward person, and I would think you'd have gathered as much from my blog entries. It's okay, though. There are other people in the world who share my awkwardness. College freshman and math majors, for instance. In fact, I met a great college freshman/math major who was awkward just the other day. It was great, and my day was subsequently brightened as a result of this encounter.

I was in my yard weeding a couple evenings ago. (I weed a little--almost--every day. I estimate that at my current rate, the northeast corner of my driveway will be weed free by about the time it freezes and all the weeds die. Ah, the circle of life.) In the middle of my weeding, I heard someone approach from across the street as a male voice said, “I haven't yet met my neighbors.” I turned to see who it was and was able to identify the voice's owner as a freshman even before he introduced himself. He was carrying two small loaves of what appeared to be banana bread wrapped in Saran wrap.

He told me his name was Josh (name may have been forgotten and then made up to protect the innocent, but I'm not actually sure) and asked if I was a student at SUU and I told him that I wasn't, but my husband was.

I think that's when things started to go wrong.

There was a slightly long pause in which I expected him to hand over the banana bread and high-tail it back to his apartment across the street, “the downstairs, but not the basement,” as he had told me just before he asked if I was a student. However, he kept his banana bread and stayed. So, I attempted to advance the conversation:

“You're a student? At SUU?”

“Yeah, yeah, I am.”

“What's your major?”

“Math.”

I paused and realized that if there was damage to do it was already done. “My husband is a math major. Do you have an emphasis?”

“Yeah, actuarial science.”

“Oh, really, that was his degree, before he changed it!”

So, we discussed why Alex is no longer interested in an actuarial job for a short time and then came to another pause. And I again expected to part ways, each of us holding a loaf of banana bread. Again, I was wrong.

“So, Malinda, right? Well, it was nice to meet you!”

“And you . . . , I forgot your name, sorry!”

“Josh.”

“Right, Josh. Good to meet you. See you later!”

“Right, bye.”

And then he walked off with my banana bread.

Okay, so maybe that's a bit presumptuous of me to call it “my banana bread,” but every other time I've had a neighbor introduce themselves while holding goodies, I have come out with some in the end. Also, every time I've approached a neighbor with a treat, I've given it to them. Maybe we're all doing this wrong?

So, after he left with both loaves of bread, I just stood there. . . until he was out of earshot. Then I laughed.

I mean, it was funny to me. Why make the effort to come over to meet your neighbors with bread in tow and then take it home with you? Perhaps it was as Alex suggested as he interrupted my story (before I had gotten to the punchline—he thought he was so funny) and Josh said, “Well, I really intended this bread for unmarried people,” and went home. I could understand that. If you're using your “Getting to know the neighbors routine” to pick us on girls, it can be a real downer to encounter an old married woman. You probably don't want to waste your banana bread on her—it takes time to make, and you aren't getting any less single! I get it. And having been in the single realm, I could see it being true for many guys. Hence, the laugh.

But maybe—and I'm gonna go with this option—he was just a little flustered and not used to how these situations go. It's his first time away from home and he probably hasn't done this a lot. Maybe he's a new high school graduate who's still acclimating to the concept of meeting girls—or a returned missionary. Who is also still acclimating to the concept of meeting girls. In any case, I don't think I was intentionally denied my right to getting-to-know-you goodies. (That's a right, right? “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness [in the form of baked goods from new neighbors]”?) I think it was just a case of social ineptitude. And I salute that, because I have certainly had my share of those moments. My only hope is that I, like Josh, have given those on the receiving end of my blunders a laugh, even when I may have forgotten the other reason I came.

Swimsuit Issues [Resolved]

Cue the drumroll . . . I bought a swimsuit! Given the nature of my triumph, I thought it was something that just had to be shared, even though it's been about a month since it happened. Now, some of you—men, in particular—will not appreciate the magnitude of this accomplishment. But there are others of you that find yourselves shocked and awed that such a thing could happen. It did.

This is especially big for me because I honestly don't remember the last time I bought a new swimsuit. In fact, I think the last time I wore an actual swimsuit, I was young enough that the idea of wearing hand-me-down swimwear didn't bother me. Yeah, it's been awhile—mainly for two reasons.

1. I refuse to pay full price for apparel that's half off. (See what I did? It was punny!)

Swimwear is EXPENSIVE. Scratch that. Swimwear that I would actually wear is expensive. I have waited, hoping to snag a great deal off the clearance rack, but I seem to be in one of the most common swimsuit wearing sizes. It's all too big, too small, or not enough fabric to cover what I want covered—which brings me to my next issue.

2. Typical swimwear makes me uncomfortable.

I know there are women in the world that enjoy looking great in a bikini. I am not one of them. (I'm not sure if that means that A. I don't look great in a bikini, B. I look great, but don't enjoy it, or C. some combination of the two.) At any rate, I've always been a little more concerned with covering up than most. This is the reason I swam in gym shorts and a T-shirt for about five years following puberty. It's also the reason that at the end of the gym short dynasty, my mom and I set off across the internet to find a swimsuit in which I would feel comfortable. Our quest culminated in the purchase of a pattern and the making of the swimsuit you see before you now.

In addition to fulfilling many Personal Progress project requirements, my swimsuit proved to be quite the conversation starter as many of my friends commented on how neat it was that I made my own swimsuit. Aside from standing out so much, I was comfortable while swimming.

Unfortunately, my suit started to show signs of wear. And much as I wanted to wear it forever, no swimsuit is modest after the chlorine has killed the elastic in the bottoms and they start to fall off. So, I recommenced my search for a swimsuit.

I braved heat, full-length mirrors, and awful fluorescent dressing room lights to find a suit. After an unsuccessful year last year, I decided to take a break. This worked because I don't swim much under normal circumstances, let alone in a winter when I'm pregnant. (Find a maternity swimsuit I feel good in? Now, there's the impossible dream for you!) Upon a chance encounter, I finally found a suit I liked. You can see it below.

This journey has prompted some thoughts about modesty. Let me relate an unfortunate incident that acted as a catalyst for such considerations.

On a quick run to Target, I decided to try on a swimsuit. Seeing that many two-piecers [tankinis]

were more modest than the one-piecers, I selected a top and bottom I liked and went to try them on. Since we were in a hurry, I left my strappy sandal heels on (we were down for a temple trip) to save time. When I came out to see what Alex thought, he got a funny look on his face and said “NO.” I went back to change and we later discussed what was wrong. I thought it was all about the top and maybe it was too low cut. He said, “I didn't even notice the top. With the short skirt and heels you looked like . . .” and his voiced died out. “Like what?” I asked. “Like,” he took a deep breath and paused again, “like a . . . hooker.”

I almost died laughing.

After admitting that trying on swimsuits with heels on was a bad idea and promising I wouldn't do it again, he said a few other things.

“I just didn't want anyone else to see you like that. For the first time ever, I didn't want to like, show you off to people. I wanted to tell you to go back in the dressing room before anyone else saw you.”

“If [someone else] wore it, I wouldn't have thought it was immodest. But on you . . .”

“You looked uncomfortable, so I felt uncomfortable for you.”

So, what about modesty? You know, I'm not sure, but I think that it has a certain amount to do with what makes us comfortable. Regardless of how much skin I show or how tight something is, if I don't feel good about wearing it, maybe it's not modest.

Does my transition from a gym shorts/T-shirt combo to my current swimsuit mean that I'm “less modest”? I don't think so. I think it's me being more comfortable with my body. Covering up is a good thing. I still cover up more than is typical. However, my reasons have changed. I no longer feel like I have to cover every flaw I may have. Modesty has been a hot button issue lately, and I think it is critical to consider why we are dressing modestly. And in teaching modesty, I think it's important to underscore that if we are seeking to cover our flaws with clothing, that's not a good reason.

When we were younger, I had a sister (Okay, so I still have a sister, but the story happened when we were younger) who wouldn't wear anything that showed a mole just below her collarbone. This proved frustrating for my mom and at one point she got impatient and told her “So, I know you want to be modest. That's a good thing, but your mole is not some sacred part of your body that can't be shown. YOU CAN WEAR THINGS THAT SHOW YOUR MOLE, AND IT'S OKAY.” This sister occasionally wears things that show her mole now. (When she's not wearing gym shorts and T-shirts.)

I don't agree with the popular “show that you are empowered by showing off your body” movement, but I also don't think that modesty should be a vehicle for shame in the way we look. In fact, I believe that modesty for the sake of covering our imperfections is detrimental to the cause of modesty. My body is a gift from God and I want to show my love for Him by respecting my body. This means I cover it not out of embarrassment, but because it's special gift. A gift made greater by I actually am and what I do with my body. To tell myself and others the reason that I dress the way I do is to cover the way my skin droops in this or that place distracts from the true beauty of that message.

I thought about posting pictures of me in my new swimsuit to prove how empowered I am now, but decided not to broadcast my hot body (*Snort!*) across the internet. If you want to see me in my swimsuit, you'll have to invite me to go swimming with you sometime.

Never Look an in-Law in the Mouth

I don't give my in-laws enough credit.

Mothers-in-law are often misunderstood. I mean, very few people even know that the correct way to pluralize the word mother-in-law is to make it mothers-in-law, not mother-in-laws. This may be because most people only have one mother-in-law and figure that they will never need to use the plural form. But aside from not understanding the grammar related to the mothers of our spouses, I feel like we often suffer miscommunications with our in-laws that cause them to get a bad rap. If we stop to think about it, though, many of the negative mother-in-law jokes that are responsible for making our fear of our moms-in-law second only to step-mothers (who are also undeserving of such a reputation), most—if not all—are unfounded.

Sometimes, I negatively critique people. However, as my husband recently pointed out after patiently listening to me vent for awhile, “Umm . . . not to be offensive, but a lot of the things you've mentioned are just as much your fault as theirs. If not more.” And he was right. I think this is the case with in-laws. I mean, I'm basing my evaluation on a rather small sample size consisting of . . . well, just my in-laws, but they are good people. However, we're both human, so we have some misunderstandings. Some of which can be rather humorous, as illustrated by the following story.

It was the Fourth of July weekend and we were spending it in Richfield with Alex's family. Having had Melody just over a month earlier, we were both tired and in dire need of sleep. I'm sure my mother-in-law could see this and she generously volunteered to watch the baby anytime so that we could go rest. We being new and slightly over-protective parents, though, we nodded and thanked her—while staying close by.

As the baby fussed and our nerves got shorter, though, I finally surrendered and handed Melody over to her grandma. To be completely honest, after having Melody I was overly sensitive and saw offers to help as an attack on my motherhood. You wanna hold my baby? Oh, I see—because I'm not doing a good enough job, huh? (I don't need to say this, but that was the fatigue talking; my mother-in-law was being nice. I, on the other hand, was being a brat.)

Anyway, as Melody continued to fuss, Elaine rubbed her back and softly murmured something which to my ears sounded like “Should we go put some margarine on that belly?”

I thought, I'm just going to ignore that, pretend it didn't happen, and hope that it doesn't.

But the crying continued, and again I heard “Yes. Let's go put some margarine on that tummy.” She then took my baby upstairs. Presumably to smear a mixture of vegetable oils and animal fats on her belly. I was at a loss.

“Alex!” I hissed across the room, “What is your mom going to do to Melody?”

“Hmm . . . what?” he replied as he tore his eyes away from the TV screen.

“She just took Melody upstairs saying something about putting margarine on her belly! I don't want her to put margarine on her belly!” I started into a sleep-deprived panic.

“What the . . . ? I'll go stop her!” And off he ran to rescue our baby from the evil trans fats.

A little while later he returned with a smirk and assured me that everything was fine.

“Well . . . ?” I asked expectantly.

He stifled a snicker and reported: “I asked what she was doing and she told me she was going to put some marjoram oil on Melody's belly to help with her gas, but then she settled down so it was unnecessary.”

Huh. Marjoram. Fancy that.

So, here I stand (or sit, rather), guilty as anyone of condemning my in-laws. However, I would like to say that I'm sorry, and I'm trying not to do it again. They are good, nice people.

They have a really odd daughter-in-law, though.

Wait, My Health Should be a TRIANGLE?

I am a rock, I am an island.

Simon and Garfunkel are great, but they don't always describe my life accurately. If I were to rewrite the song line to fit my current feelings, it would go something like this:

I am unstable. I am a brick veneer.

And my inner emo is showing. Sorry about that. I've just been thinking about where I am now and where I would like to be. And at the risk of stating the obvious, they aren't exactly the same place. In my high school health classes we learned about the different aspects of health (physical, social, mental/emotional) and how they form a triangle that we need to keep in balance. I don't feel like I currently have a triangle—it's more like a line. Or a point. Yep, unbeknownst to everyone else, as a result of my stay-at-home mommery, I have a point of health. I think this means that I eat, breathe, and sleep just enough to survive.

I've been trying to remedy this. For example, lately I've been trying to do some workouts. It was during this escapade that I discovered that I can no longer do a sit-up. The televised work-out leader had us all put our feet together so that our legs formed a rhombus and told us to sit up. And I couldn't. She said “If you can't come up all the way, that's okay! Just come up as far as you can.” So I stared at my stomach and said “You heard the woman. Just come up as far as you can . . . yep, come up . . . NO, COME UP.” And my shoulders stayed on the ground while my stomach continued schlepping.

See, I used to be out of shape, but now I'm OUT OF SHAPE. But I look fine. So people have been asking me “How do you look so good so soon after having a baby?” I think this is a hypothetical question. Scratch that. I HOPE this is a hypothetical question, because I don't have an answer, except that I seem to come from a great gene pool. I think the real reason my belly looks so “good” after having a baby is because in addition to delivering a baby, I seem to have delivered my abdominal muscles as well. That's why there's nothing there. I don't so much care about how I look as I am about being healthy. I mean, this could end up being a matter of life and death. If someone were to put a gun to my head and say “Do a sit-up, or else!” I'm toast. Gotta make some changes.

I don't even need to tell you about the social side of my triangle. Like many other stay-at-home moms, my main interactions are represented by a few smiles, “goos,” and cries from a three month old. Going anywhere is hard when you have to schedule it around feedings and diaper changes. I get to see a few more people now that I have a couple of piano students and I've befriended the Jehovah's Witnesses, but on the whole, I don't get out much.

Mentally? I feel very little control. The hormones of pregnancy and nursing have left me exhausted and ready to cry at the most ridiculous times. Yesterday, I discovered that Melody, Alex, and I were all wearing items that needed mending because they were coming apart at the seams. Some sort of metaphor for my life right now? Perhaps. You be the judge, but first, let me say that I almost fell apart yesterday when I found out that instead of the expected three hours of church meetings (that I was already wondering if I would make it through) we had six hours of meetings. I got tired from the beginning just thinking of meetings to come.

As pathetic as admitting my physical, social, and emotional weaknesses may make me sound, they are the easiest to confront. It's when I think about my spiritual health that I start to feel the worst. And yet, I gain a little hope because of a promise found in Matthew 10:39. Trying to get myself together by starting at any other point is going to be counterproductive. I have to start with my spiritual health first. If I can get myself where I need to be in relation to my Father in Heaven, the rest of the frustrations I'm experiencing are going to be naturally resolved—or I'll realize they aren't as critical as I once thought. This is much easier realized than remedied, but I'm hoping that admitting that I'm not as strong as I look is a good step toward humbling myself and starting my recovery.

So this is my confession. The transition to being a mom, while worth it, is a little tough at times. I'm not a rock. But I'm not an island, either. And while I may not feel like I'm where I need to be now, I can get there eventually. If I put my Heavenly Father first, He's going to lead me to where I need to be and He'll be with me as I go.

REST RANTS. (They're Gonna Catch On.)

While driving home from Spanish Fork after a particularly long day involving hours in traffic due to an accident (not our own, thank goodness!), Alex and I were venting about how stressed and tired we were. Suddenly, as we approached Nephi, Alex pointed off the right and said, “Hey, maybe we ought to go there!” I wasn't very excited to stop the car for any reason before we reached home (No, not even food; I was done with the trip.), but I looked anyway and saw that he was pointing at a restaurant. Except the lights for the “a” and “u” were out, so it claimed instead to be a “REST RANT.”

(For those of you who may not get it, I will explain—although, I want you to know that it won't be as funny now. The reason we laughed was because we were 1. tired and 2. complaining. Hence, we were in need of both a rest and a rant.)

This ought to be a real thing. I think it could work. Places with comfy chairs and listening ears. I think it could work a bit like some churches have confessions: you walk into a small booth, and with complete anonymity you can say whatever you want about whatever is bothering you. Then you can leave.

I think everyone wants to be heard, at least occasionally. I know I do. In fact, I frequently get the urge to yell like Tarzan when I'm in a large, noisy group. (I know it's weird; I just don't know why it happens.) Anyway, REST RANTS Patent Pending (Psh. Like I'm that tight with the patent office!) would be a great way to remedy this. There could even be complimentary stickers (that you would end up paying for in some “hidden” way) that said ridiculous things like “Somebody listened to me today!” and “This mouth was made for talkin'!” in order to validate people in their quest to voice their opinions, no matter how irrelevant and rambling they may be.

The downfall to this is that only very special people would be able to work there for more than say, a day and a half without beginning to gripe to the customers. There are people who would fit the bill, but they're already called therapists and they charge more than the menial amount most people would pay for service at such a venue.

I guess there's also the teensy detail that grumping about problems doesn't usually make them better. One of my favorite (because it's so well-put) but also least favorite (because it's a well-put way of reminding me how I shouldn't be venting) quotes on the matter comes from Neal A. Maxwell's talk “Murmur Not” (a good one for when you're feeling like you just wanna whine a bit): “Letting off steam always produces more heat than light.” *Sigh.* He's right. No REST RANTS for me.

It's a shame this idea wouldn't work out. It kind of upsets me. In fact, it's almost the type of thing that makes me wish there were somewhere I could vent about it. What would upset me even more is if somebody were to steal my idea and get rich off it. If it happens, you'll know where to find me.

REST RANTS . . . Coming to a Blogspot near you!

"Sex Sells" and Other Offensive Gimmicks That None of Us Ought to Buy

I'm jumping on a band wagon here. Actually, I've been on for awhile, and I think I'm here to stay because I find this to be a very concerning issue. The issue to which I refer is the sexualization of women and the recent backlash that Carl's Jr. has experienced as a result of their offensive ads. I haven't seen their most recent ad. I thought about looking it up, but then realized that was a stupid thing for me to do. I'm familiar enough with the concept, and if it's truly as awful as everyone else is purporting, then 1. I don't want to see it, and 2. I don't want to offer any sort of attention that could be misconstrued as positive press for the company and marketing that I'm so against. So, I'm not going to make this about Carl's Jr. I won't detail their ads or tell you about their food or the fact that I'm a third generation “We don't eat at Carl's Jr. because of their advertisements” kind of girl. (Okay, so I'll mention those things briefly, but it's not my main point.) My reason for writing this is that this is about more than a company with offensive commercials. This is a pervasive mentality that is harmful to both women AND men.

While offensive commercials make me sad, what makes me is sadder to view the embodiment of the philosophy that “sex sells.” I find this idea to be revolting. The worst part? Hard as it may be to avoid offensive commercials, they can be turned off. What can't be ignored is the fact that there are people in this world that think that the best way to sell their product is by exploiting the fact that men are naturally attracted to women. So they are. It's actually worked to my advantage that my husband likes the way I look. HOWEVER, he likes me for much more than that, and I get a little upset by other people and things that try to steal his attention from me. I find it disgusting that in addition to insinuating that prostituting the beautiful relationship between husbands and wives is the best strategy for marketing, companies utilizing this method are reducing both men and women to shallow stereotypes.

There are claims that Carl's Jr. hasn't responded to complaints from women about their advertisements because women are not their target market. Sick. This tells me that they think very little of women—and even less of men. While relegating the worth of women to the attractiveness of their bodies, marketers are simultaneously sending the message that men aren't worth much more than their ability to drool over a woman's body and buy a burger. Neither gender deserves the reputation being offered; we're better than that.

Saddest of all is the resignation that many have to these attitudes and their pornographic portrayal in movies, pictures, magazines, and commercials. Yes, there is a great deal of smut in the world. No, there is no way that it can all be avoided. I will certainly be on guard and teach my children how to handle such images and opinions. I try not to get enraged by images that offend me because forming an emotional connection makes it harder to forget. But I'm not going to sit back and allow these awful things to be said about me, my husband, my family, and my friends, and I don't think you ought to be okay with it, either. They're reducing women to their bodies and men to their hormones. Male or female, don't buy it.

Halfbacks, Quarterbacks, and Flashbacks

With high school football season starting and Fall just around the corner, I've been struck by this funny excitement. It's funny because I'm not a particularly avid sports fan. I can take them or leave them, but having been raised in a family that has spent a certain amount of time watching games, I value this time not because of the sport so much as the memories and lessons that I have in connection with the great sport of quarterbacks, tackling, and touchdowns.

My dad is a football coach. Although he has never played the game, he has spent many years watching games and studying to the point that he could coach. Because of that, I've always had football memories. When I was young, we would watch BYU games at my grandma's house. (This really meant that we'd eat cookies until my mom told us to stop, then we'd go outside to play in the leaves.) Since my dad didn't get his boys until later, he taught his girls to throw a football with a perfect spiral and how to protect the ball by holding it tight to the body with one hand on each point of the ball so that if we got tackled we wouldn't fumble the ball. He talked football to us like we understood, and somewhere in the middle of Xs, Os, and Wing Ts, he would stop and say something like “You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?” I didn't, but I didn't mind, either. In fact, I enjoyed it.

When I got to be a Freshman, I became more interested in football and decided to start going to games. (Actually, I think I just imagined that it was something that normal high school students did and that if I followed suit, it would make me more of a normal high school student. For those of you wondering, it didn't work.) I tried going and sitting—actually, it's more like standing—in the student section, but it wasn't really my thing. Since my dad was typically on the sidelines, my Grandpa George became my football buddy.

We hit most of the away games for a couple of years. Sometimes it would be just the two of us, like the time we went to Beaver and it was raining like crazy. Grandpa led the way to a couple of seats on the Beaver side, and while ignoring my protests that we couldn't sit in the opponents' side, sat down to watch the game. Pulling out a large garbage sack, he proceeded to poke arm and head holes in it so that he could use it as a rain poncho. In front of everyone! As I stared at him while trying to avoid looking like I was staring at him, he pulled out another trash bag and offered it to me. I politely declined and assured him that I had a jacket. He took one look at my light jacket that was cute, but didn't shed water, and told me I was going to get wet. Then he started yelling “SCORE ONE FOR THE REF!” in protest of a call he disagreed with, as he was wont to do. I just knew in my teenage mind that every person in the stadium was looking at me and my trashbag-wearing, ref-berating grandpa sitting on the wrong side of the field. Even if they had been, grandpa never would have cared.

Sometimes grandpa's friend, Sheldon, rode with us. On these trips, I'd usually sit in the backseat, listen as they talked, and wait for the inevitable moment when they'd start their sing-a-longs. They'd encourage me to join in (again, I would decline for fear of what they would think) and start singing some songs that I knew and some that I didn't. One of my favorites was Irving Berlin's “Play a Simple Melody.” (Which I have since heard my dad singing to my daughter Melody on several occasions. It's cute, guys.) It has two verses that are sung first separately, then together. I liked hearing grandpa sing the second verse because as he sang “Musical demon, set my honey to dreamin', won't you play me some rag?” he got this little bounce in him and he would tap his hands on the steering wheel in time to the music. He looked like he was having fun. And always, without fail, he would turn to Sheldon and say enthusiastically, “We oughta sing the 'Wreck of the Old '97'!” when they'd finished. And Sheldon would say “Aw, I can't remember the words.” So grandpa would say “Oh, but it's a good one! Wish I knew the words. Now, let's see . . .” Then he'd start bouncing in time as he tried his best to remember.

“'He was comin' down the hill goin' 90 miles an hour, when the whistle began to scream. He was found in the wreckage with his hand on the throttle, and scalded to death by the steam. Oh . . . ' Hmm. Yep, I just wish I could remember the words. Only know that little bit. But it's a good one. It's a good one. . .” Then he'd hum to himself and sing a word here or there as he remembered it. For a while, I didn't believe that “Wreck of the Old '97” was a real song, but that maybe he just made up parts and mixed up various songs to make a new one. But lo, and behold! I Googled it, and it is an actual song. Sung by Johnny Cash, no less. (Not originally, though. It was originally sung by one Vernon Dalhart. Just so you know.)

Anyway, that was grandpa. While others may be concerned with appearances and what others thought, he bounced along and persisted in his own way, with little care for what others may think. And though I may have found it humiliating or obnoxious at times, I now find it to be one of the things I admire most about him. I think it's why I enjoyed sitting with him at ball games more than with the other students. (That, and Sheldon would share Almond M&Ms with me.) I learned more about football and had even more experiences when I became a manager for our high school team, but my best football memories were with my grandpa. As he gets older—as most of us do—and the memories are fading, I value my time with him even more. That's why I get a little thrill when I think of the beginning football season; it's not so much about what's coming as it is about what has passed.