Rainy Days and Mondays: A Double Whammy.

It was inevitable. After the many questions of "How's being a mom?" and the many answers of "Really great!" there is now "Meh."

Don't anyone fly off the handle, yet; I'm trying not to. I still love being a mom. Yesterday was great, today hasn't been horrible and tomorrow will probably be great again, but the fact remains that there are down days whether you have a baby or not. And it's been a down day. Kind of like when you go to the fridge to see what there is to eat and find that nothing sounds good, but you know you need to eat, so you half-heartedly pick out something that you usually like and put it in your mouth and pretend that you're liking it.

It started this morning with immunizations. Now, I have a sad baby--which makes me sad--and sadness really takes the zip out of my productivity. I sit down to do things that I normally find appealing and stand up again in frustration. I continue this process until it's time for Melody or I to eat and find myself feeling as though I'm accomplishing nothing.

I can't shake the feeling that I ought to be doing something. Sometimes, my math-teacher dad would tell petrified students with an intimidating equation: "Do something, even if it's wrong!" (instructions I often found to be more terrifying than the initial problem), just to end the analysis paralysis. So, that's what I've been doing. I started off with a crying session with Melody. Obviously, that wasn't particularly helpful, so we followed up with a double nap, food, and an episode of X-Files. I found the nap to be most helpful, progressed to piano practice, and now find myself writing a blog. Soon we'll go pick up Alex and have some sort of Family Home Evening. It may have been a bit rough, but I think I'm on the way to another great day tomorrow. Take that, Karen Carpenter!

Y, Oh, Y Do I Have to Cook?

You probably didn't know this, but I type my blogs with a disability. Yes, that's right; the “y” key on my keyboard is dented and falls off. I muddle through, but as you read, just keep it in mind.

It happened like this: I was baking. All the worst things begin with me baking, and it didn't help that I was in our tiny kitchen with limited counter space. We were responsible for providing a treat for a Family Home Evening we were attending with friends, and I had decided to make a trifle. Despite their name, trifles are not a dessert of small consequence. Although, in all honesty, it's just a chunked up cake layered with toppings and pudding layered in to make it look better than the average cake.

The cake had been baked and I had begun to cut out cubes to stack in our best glass bowl. Unfortunately, as I mixed the pudding to spread, my already too-small counter seemed to shrink even more. It was either that, or the cake pan suddenly leapt off the edge. At any rate, I watched in horror as my cake pan, with at least half of the cake still in it,

fell

to

the ground, striking the y key on the laptop as it fell.

So, I did what any self-respecting individual in my situation would have done; I picked up the pieces of chocolate cake, broke off the parts that touched the ground, and salvaged the rest. I know this was okay because I watched my Aunt Terri lead an army of spoon-wielding nieces and nephews to save a pie that had fallen to the ground—by eating it off the gravel. This is also why I laughed incredibly hard at the part in “Julie and Julia” when she drops the chicken on the ground and ends up lying on her back in the kitchen having a meltdown. The number of times I've found myself on the kitchen floor lamenting my cooking abilities and the mere fact that I have to cook dinner is more than I'd care to admit.

I promise this was the only time I did something of this sort. To date, anyway. But you may be able to see “Y” cooking is so stressful for me. (And “Y” you may want to avoid eating my cooking . . .)

Facebook killed my social life

I try to limit the amount of time that I spend with people that 1. I can't stand or 2. can't stand me; why would I want to spend more time with them online? Truth is, I don't want to. Yet, I recently discovered that I'd been doing exactly that.

I was the type of high school student that looked forward to getting out of high school from the time I was say, a Sophomore. Maybe even a Freshman. I remember people telling me that high school was the best time in their life and they just wanted to go back to their high school years, and I thought they were surely crazy or lying to me in an effort to give me hope. I'm still not sure what they were talking about; it was a happy day when I moved away to college.

There were just under 40 students in my graduating class. I was friends with maybe 10 of them. Close friends with only 2. That's how it was, and that was fine. I wasn't planning on keeping in touch with my entire class, just the ones that I really cared about. But Facebook got big, and in the middle of my Freshman year of college, I caved and opened an account.

That's when it started. Friend requests from people I'd known in high school. My younger siblings' friends. The perceived need to “friend” everyone I met. I wasn't so concerned with the number of likes I had as I was that I might offend someone. I didn't want anyone to feel left out. I had the same problem in elementary school. Every year for Christmas when I made my gift list my mom would start me off with the question “Who do you play with at recess?” Well, I played with Becky and Helga and Mabel. And John. But Becky sometimes played with Katie and I didn't want her to feel bad because I didn't get her something. So Katie found her way on to my list. Eventually, by means of this complex network, I found myself getting gifts for more than half the class (none of whom were actually named Becky, Helga, Mabel, or John, by the way). Which is good practice for an elementary school student. But to continue this forever is practically impossible. Constantly compounding my acquaintances and trying to maintain connections with everyone I encounter isn't practical. Nor do I believe it's meaningful.

Before Facebook we latched onto those that we truly cared about instead of pretending to keep in touch with everyone. Really, we don't keep in touch; we share pictures of cats and other inanity (which is totally a word, by the way). Oh, what the heck. By that definition, everyone's in touch.

 

As I recently went through my clothes and other clutter to see what I could get rid of, I also stringently purged my Facebook friend list and found that the quality of my Facebook time increased greatly. I asked myself these questions: upon meeting, would we 1. recognize one another 2. be able to carry on a conversation and 3. enjoy/value the interaction? If not, why was I allowing them to hang around? And may I just say that announcing you are going through your friend list is the dumbest way to go about it? I found that it's just asking for all of those people that you were about to delete to crawl out of the corners of your life and persuade you that they actually care. The people you want to keep will not have to like a status or convince you in a comment why they are a valuable part of your life. Let's be real. There are people that care about you and that you love. You know who they are. Let them know who they are before they threaten to cut off contact. It may sound harsh, but those are your real friends.

You may be thinking these are the ramblings of an anti-socialite. Well, in first grade the “Reflections” contest prompt was “Wouldn't it be great if . . . ?” The winner for our class was “Wouldn't it be great if the world held hands?” with an adorable picture of the earth with abnormally large kids (they certainly weren't drawn to scale) surrounding it holding hands. It may have been out of necessity (due to my limited drawing abilities), but in contrast, my picture featured a simplistic house with an orange door and the title “Wouldn't it be great if nobody knocked on your door?” I did not win. (Translation: yes, I'm rambling and perhaps a bit anti-social.)

Being around babies (and other myths about preparing for parenthood)

Something happened the other day that upset me. Really got me riled. So I'm endeavoring to right all wrongs with this entry.

Pfft. Actually, I'm just going to rant about it.

In recently discussing the birth of my daughter, someone asked me how my husband, Alex, has been with Melody. I answered quite truthfully that he has been wonderful with her. So sweet. Never a better dad, in my opinion. They responded with “Oh, that's great. I was just wondering because really, he hasn't spent a whole lot of time around babies, has he?”

Then somebody else chimed in helpfully: “Oh, no. So-and-so was more prepared to be a dad than Alex; he dated someone who had a baby.”

My issue here is not that I'm upset by the Alex/So-and-so comparison, but that my husband's parental readiness was called into question because he was being evaluated solely on the amount of time spent with children. I can't help but wonder how that works. Perhaps there's some sort of “Child-o-Meter” that tallies time with kids and exceeding a certain score somehow indicates level of preparedness? If so, do you get points for sitting next to kids in church and glaring at them in the supermarket when they scream? Are there triple rewards if a kid pukes on you? And really, what is this number? Have I passed it yet?

This must have been a most unfortunate system for Adam and Eve.

I'm used to being on the flip side: “As the oldest of such a big family, you'll be all set to have your own. You'll be a wonderful mom.” I appreciate that, I really do, but I still don't believe it—especially after having a baby. Preparation for good parenthood is not bestowed with the title of “oldest child” any more than it is given due to age, annual income, or number of times you've looked at a baby and thought that he or she looked cute. None of these things is necessarily indicative of how well you will hold up when you're tired and hungry, but you have to feed your baby first because she's hungry and screaming. None of these is guaranteed to show that you'll be willing to stick around when your wife's hormones are messed up, dinner's not ready, and the baby needs a diaper change. There are certain situations you can't be ready for, but emotional maturity and selflessness will go a long way to helping you to get up your courage and push through anyway. Those things are instilled not by time spent with children, but with effort and attention to improvement. Children may be an integral part of character development, or not. There are many ways to prepare for parenthood.

Alex is one of the sweetest, most kind-hearted people I know. His love, patience, and selflessness humble me. I have to try (yes, maybe this happens at our house occasionally . . . ) to get him to yell at me—and even then he is always the first to forgive. Sometimes he admits he's wrong when he's actually right, just to appease me. I knew he hadn't been around kids much when I married him, but I still picked him to be my husband because after seeing the way that he treated me, my family, and complete strangers, I knew that he had already been prepping to be a father. I may be the oldest of twelve children and I've changed many more diapers, but Alex outstrips my readiness for parenthood in the most significant ways.

So please, say what you may about other people, but my husband was ready for parenthood. And he's doing a bang-up job at it now, thanks.

Forget About Snowmen--Do You Want to Change a Diaper?

Changing diapers is a normal part of life for parents. I've been thinking, though, about all the people in this world who don't get to change diapers on a daily basis. They probably feel left out. That's why I've started the “Do you want to change a diaper?” campaign—to benefit under-privileged individuals without diaper opportunities. (And also parents who tire of changing diapers daily.)

Now, currently Melody's diapers aren't too bad, but it never ceases to amaze me how fast we can go from “All clean!” to “How in the world did it get up to THERE?” I'm hoping, though, to get this movement started now so that it will have caught on by the time she gets into solid foods.

Obviously, Frozen is over-done. However, in order to capitalize on the established audience, my plan is to piggy-back off of its popularity and raise awareness through parodies titled “I Know You're Tired of Frozen Covers, But You HAVE to Hear This One!” And besides, you can change diapers all year round!

I've already started with the under-privileged people in my life (namely, my younger siblings):

Do you want to change a diaper?

Come on, it could be fun!

I bet it's prob'ly been awhile

Let's see that smile . . .

And then they always run.

They don't want to change a diaper.

Would you, could you, in a box?

I have a confession to make: when I worked at the institute, I would take things from the office. Don't panic—I had permission. I wasn't stealing; I was bringing home cardboard boxes.

I love boxes.

My first memory of my love of boxes comes when I was just little—probably three or so, I'm not sure. I just know that it was when the general store (“Old Clove's,” to my family) still had some sort of refrigerated shelving like you would have for meats and cheeses on the west wall, and I know for sure it was before my family moved to Moab and back. I turned four in Moab, so . . . I was pretty young.

ANYWAY, I had a small box that my mom had given me. It was small and flat—the kind with the removable lid that jewelry sometimes comes in. For the day that I had it I carried it everywhere with me and made great plans to find the perfect thing to use it for. Sometimes I put stuff in and took it out, but mostly I just carried this empty box with me. Until we went to Clove's and I lost it in the aforementioned shelving. I was devastated. My mom was unsympathetic. I did not recover my treasured box. Perhaps I've spent my entire life looking to replace it.

You never know when you'll need a box. They are incredibly useful when it comes to organizing things. If Alex and I weren't “poor college students,” I would have those fancy organizational boxes. But we're not, so I don't. That's okay. My bathroom shelves are in order thanks to some well-placed ramen noodle boxes. I keep my sheet music in a shoebox that I covered in old music. I use a blender box as a trash can in Melody's room. I load my closets with various boxes labeled to match their contents. It's a good system.

What's not a good system is the series of boxes that contain unsorted items that I'm not sure where to put them. So I put them in boxes and pretend that they are taken care of. Sure, I'll make it around to going through the boxes and sorting them into more boxes and eventually assigning them a permanent place, but in the meantime they merely provide a false sense of organization and a hiding place for my clutter.

I like boxes. Literally and figuratively. After all, isn't it “hip to be square”?

I need a bit of structure. You may have noticed that many, if not all, of my titles are some sort of recycling of other people's words. Cliches are my Achilles' heel (See? I can't even explain my feelings about cliches without using one!). I write “To do” lists and routines, if only to disregard them. I've been seen as a “good little Mormon girl” who has grown up to be a stay-at-home mom (with a blog, no less!) and I've tried to live up to many of the expectations that have come with those titles. The result: I take the traits and qualities that I've developed, re-box them, and give them a label that I find acceptable while discarding the less helpful clutter that comes with stereotypes.

“Boxes” have given me a way to put my thoughts and beliefs in order. And it works for me—as long as I don't use them as a permanent, disorganized catch-all. However, I have tried to keep some boxes that weren't benefiting me. I still have some. The good news is that I usually try to trade out worn boxes or boxes that are the wrong size for more sturdy boxes that better serve my purposes. And sometimes I just have to donate an entire box and its contents to the DI.

It drove Alex crazy right after we had moved to have me bringing home empty paper boxes from work. “Don't you already have boxes? Aren't you getting rid of boxes?” What he didn't understand, no matter how I explained it to him, was that these boxes were everything I wanted in a box. These were going to help me organize more permanently than the boxes I already had, so I was upgrading.

My Great-grandpa Farnsworth gave me some advice the last time I saw him before he passed away. “You don't have to pick up everything you come across, you know?”

Oh, I know. So when I do find something worth keeping, I put it in a nice box and label it.

Heads or Tails

Coincidence? When reading C.S. Lewis, I think not. I find so much symbolism within his Chronicles of Narnia that I have a hard time dismissing any bits that I find to be consistent with my beliefs. And while he may not have intended for all my insights to be taken symbolically, I dare not discredit his genius by suggesting otherwise.

Melody and I have been working our way through the Chronicles of Narnia. (We read The Magician's Nephew and just finished The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.) Obviously, it's her first time through. I've read them several times, though, and every time I read them I discover something new to think about. This time through, I've been thinking about the creatures of Narnia.

First off, Narnia contains ordinary animals as well as an elite group that was given the ability to talk. These talking animals are set apart and respected more than their mute counterparts. For example, talking horses are only ridden in times of emergency—such as war, and no talking animal is to be used for food. They are elevated because of their gift of speech.

Many Narnians have a mixture of human and animal bodies, giving them more than just the speech of humans. There are centaurs, fauns, satyrs, minotaurs, and more. And what truly struck me was that generally, those who side with Aslan are those with human heads and animal legs or bodies—like the centaurs and fauns. Those who side with the White Witch may have bodies or characteristics that would make them seem human, but their heads are animal heads. We can see this contrast directly with the “Bull with the man's head” who makes his camp with Aslan and the “bull-headed men” who are present with the witch at the stone table in Lion, Witch and Wardrobe. Both are a conglomeration of man and bull, but it seems significant that the bull-headed men are not simply referred to as minotaurs. And why choose to include such an odd creature as a bull with a man's head? I think this is an intentional message Lewis is sending readers: use your head!

Seriously. Our capacity to reason is unparalleled by any beast—or at least it should be. Unfortunately, I find myself a bit “bull-headed” at times. In my obstinance and failure to reason, I succumb to my more basic instincts and find myself in violation of the first instructions Aslan gave Narnia following its creation in The Magician's Nephew: “[A]wake. Love. Think. Speak.” I may be awake and speaking (although, as a sleep-talker not even the awake part is guaranteed), but I often forget about loving and thinking before I speak. And I think the order of the instructions matters greatly; simply speaking does not a good Narnian make—for this is where the foolish and wicked Narnians separate themselves from those who think and do good.

It was possible for animals who could once talk to lose the ability. Some talking animals did not think, but they loved. Others thought but didn't love. The noblest characters—animal, human, or hybrid—spoke only after loving and thinking.

I hope that my human head and my gift of speech aren't being wasted . . . that my reason and choices keep me in the realm of the human, rather than that of the beast.

Freedom and reason make us men;

Take these away, what are we then?

Mere animals, and just as well

The beasts may think of heav'n or hell.

LDS Hymn #240, Verse 3

What Can I Say?

Note: I started this yesterday, but wanted to make sure it was better than just a first draft. It is now finished and of a quality as I feel befits the topic.

“Now the thing about having a baby—and I can't be the first person to have noticed this—is that thereafter you have it.”

—Jean Kerr

I asked a lot of questions after I had my baby, Melody: “Is this pain NORMAL?” “Will waking up at this hour become NORMAL?” “Is it NORMAL for a baby's bellybutton to bleed like this?” “Will my bellybutton ever look NORMAL again?” You know, the normal stuff. And some of the questions were easily answered (“Duh. Having a baby is a painful process,” and “As long as it doesn't get red, puffy, ooze, or smell bad, it's alright to have some bleeding when a baby's umbilical cord comes off.”) Others have taken more time to resolve (“Will we ever have a NORMAL schedule again?” remains to be seen. And really, it was odd how much my stretched outie that used to be an innie resembled Melody's when her umbilical cord came off, but that's far beyond the point I'm trying to make.)

Other people asked me questions, too, but I felt like some of them were trick questions or something. I had no idea how to answer them.

“So are things back to NORMAL, yet?” Umm . . . are things ever NORMAL after you have a kid? Entrapment! I didn't even dare hazard a guess. If I said “no” would they laugh with the knowledge that things were never going to be NORMAL again? And if I said “yes” would they laugh with the knowledge that things were never going to be NORMAL again, but I desperately wanted them to be, so I was lying? Hormones made me overthink everything.

And would you like to compose a Tweet (140 characters or less!) detailing a life-changing event and how you have felt since this experience? You only have 30 seconds to do so, and the people who will read it may or may not actually care about what you have to say. Go on—begin!

This is how I feel when asked what it's like being a mother. There's the short answer, “Good,” that has become my answer of choice, but that doesn't come close to describing what it's actually like.

I could go for humorous, but I don't feel right about being flippant about something so special just because I'm incapable of concisely putting my feelings into words. Even assuming I could, it would take awhile. Have you ever asked a stranger how they're doing, had them respond with a lengthy run-down of all their sorrows, and thought “Whoops! They actually answered the question, 'bless their heart!'”? Because of the nature of the question, I didn't want to go into a detailed answer for someone who was only asking out of habit or courtesy and didn't actually want to hear everything I had to say about being a mother.

Those who casually ask typically accept “Good” and move on. Those who would listen are usually parents themselves, so they smile sympathetically and nod. I think they're well aware of and sypathetic to my conundrum.

I feel my honest, lengthy answer worth recording, though, so here it is (with some of the more personal insights being removed and saved for my own private record).

Things changed when I became a mother. Even though it's only been a little over a month, I see things completely differently. I've been blessed with some wonderful gospel insights in connection with being a mother/parent.

I tend to be a bit critical of myself. Prior to parenthood, I had a rough patch when I was trying to define my worth to my Father in Heaven based on my accomplishments. Did He still love me, even though it had been months since my last good scripture study session? My house was dirty, I frequently missed my prayers, and I sometimes yelled at my husband—did that cut me off from my Father's love? I knew that wasn't how it worked, but it was just after giving birth that I got a bit more understanding about what true love was and how my Heavenly Father might feel about His children—me included.

I had been anxious about loving my baby. What if, somehow, I didn't love her when she was born? After all, I knew nothing about her. I discovered that, despite my concerns, I loved her as soon as she was born. It wasn't because of what she had been, because prior to this, she'd only been a flutter inside of me. And it wasn't because of what she was doing, because she came right out and peed on me. But I didn't care about any of that because I was her mom and I had done so much for her and I had such hopes for who she would be later. So I saw that who I had been and what I was doing currently was not nearly so important as what I would be. And Heavenly Father will always love me because He is my Father and He has great hopes for what I will allow Him to make of me.

Sometimes, when Melody gets too tired before her feedings, she fights me a little when I try to give her the thing that she really needs—and wants, if she weren't too young and tired to realize it. I thought of the scripture “Can a woman forget her suckling child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee” (Isaiah 49). I would imagine there are times when I am too inexperienced and tired to know what I need/truly want. As I fight what the Lord is trying to do for me, a situation I find most frustrating when Melody does it to me, He never forsakes me. He may step back to give me time to calm down and realize what I truly want, but He would never get so upset that He would throw up His hands, exclaim “FINE! Starve yourself,” and then leave me forever. He is infinitely patient, and “[H]is arm of mercy is extended towards [us]” (Jacob 6:5)—ready to welcome us home when, like the prodigal son, we calm down and “come to ourselves” (Luke 15:17).

It's been a humbling experience having a baby who completely relies on me for all her needs. For the first few days, she really only cried when she had a need. So I could feed her, burp her, or change her and she would stop crying.

And I thought: I am so good at this.

But then she started crying more often. Just because. And it seemed to me that I could take care of everything for her and she would STILL cry. So I started to feel like a failure. But I realized that was ridiculous. By condemning myself because my baby cried, I was similarly judging every mother whose baby cried to be a failure—which I would never do. Because it's an outrageous criteria for “successful” motherhood. Instead, I had to humble myself and admit that I'm not as cool as I thought. I can't solve every problem for Melody—and even if I could, it wouldn't always be best. Sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it and think about it, she will be sad, regardless of what I do for her. It hurts me to think ahead to worse things that I won't be able to rescue her from, but I know it will be okay. Heavenly Father teaches us and allows us agency to choose; I can try to do the same for my children.

The learning curve for parenthood has been incredibly steep. But the lessons I have already been blessed with have been more than worth it. My understanding of charity has become a bit clearer and I feel I have been able to progress in my efforts to be a little more like my Heavenly Father. They are small steps, but He has let me know that what I am doing is good.

Will I ever be NORMAL again? If NORMAL was my life and spiritual progress prior to Melody, I hope not. I've never really cared for the “Don't change a thing!” expressions. For some people “Don't ever change!” (with 'ever' being underlined three times) was a yearbook favorite. But while reflecting on what people had written, I would find myself thinking “I'm glad you like me the way I am, but don't confine me to being this way forever. I hope I will change, if only for the better.”

So I try not to wish for pre-Melody norms. Because although my bellybutton now seems to resemble its former self, I know that my spirituality has grown in a way that can never be diminished. And those changes dwarf any minor physical changes so as to make them seem irrelevant. “Will my bellybutton ever look normal again?” Psh. Like I care.

Hyperbole (and other perfectly acceptable ways to lie)

This is more for me than for anyone else. It's not a family blog where you will be inundated with pictures of what we have been up to. My [very large] family happens to be a very large part of my life, so they will naturally show up a lot. But this is just a way to keep myself writing and feeling like I have an audience.

I will warn you: I intend to write daily. As in, every day. It would be very misleading of me to pretend that this will be the best thing you read each day. Much of what you read will be first drafts. There will be some rough posts and--hopefully some better ones. Unlike most of the internet, I'm not going to tell you that this is the FUNNIEST blog you'll EVER read. My tagline will not be ''This girl got married and had a baby. What happened next will ASTOUND you!'' The internet has been crying wolf so long that we honestly don't care whether the wolf is real or how many sheep are being eaten. Wolves are an everyday occurrence.

I'm not a wolf, and I'm not a sheep. I'm an average person with an average blog. I honestly don't expect you to read every entry just because it's here.

. . . But if you come back tomorrow, I'll tell you about the event that single-handedly changed my perspective FOREVER. ;)

My Cup of Tea

So, I have a blog. . .

At this point, I'm not quite sure what to do. For some reason I find myself feeling that introductions are in order. Fortunately, you probably already know me. Unfortunately, this renders the expected pleasantries unnecessary. I find myself, like I happened to hear my younger brother (who just turned 12 today; happy birthday, Nate!) a few months ago, absentmindedly singing “Getting to know you, getting to know all about you!” and then, finding that I don't know what comes next, humming along until I get to “MY CUP OF TEA,” because that's the next part that I know.

Well, I'll tell you, some social niceties are not exactly my cup of tea. (Or maybe they are, because really, I don't drink tea much—just some herbal varieties that I've deemed tolerable.) I'm not necessarily anti-social, I just don't know how to handle certain circumstances. I know I will always be around others, and I've memorized patterns that usually resemble common courtesy. But as adept as I may be (or think myself to be), I still find myself in situations thinking “Maybe we should kill this conversation to put it out of its misery . . . oh, wait. It seems it died awhile ago.”

It's something I've come to accept. I was socially inept as a child, gawky as a pre-teen, and awkward as a teenager. I will probably live out my life just a little uncomfortable around people. There will always be situations that defy protocol. I'm okay with it. My concern is not for myself, but for those I deal with. Sorry, guys!

I recently had a baby and was reminded as everyone glowed over her, that one of my major hang-ups has always been compliments. Not giving them, but knowing what to do with them when others give them to me. I'm not the only one here, am I? I know I'm not, because I have a sister who used to respond to compliments by winding her hands through her blonde hair and saying “I know!” in a somewhat dazed but confident three-year-old voice. Not wanting to replicate her brazen “tooting her own horn” as my grandma called it, I squirmed with a pained look on my face every time anybody paid me anything that could be construed to be complimentary.

My parents have given me and my siblings numerous lessons on how to deal with compliments. When a stranger commented on our beautiful blue eyes—“You can say thank you!” accompanied by a soft nudge to the arm. When a ward member glowed over our talents following a musical number in church—“You can say thank you!” and a tap on the head. When my dance date observed in a pained voice that must have been drilled into him by his mom, that I looked nice—“You can say thank you!” with a smile and raised eyebrows.

Eventually, I got the idea from somewhere that I could say thank you when people complimented me. I have found this method to be entirely socially acceptable. However, though it works well for brief encounters with kind words, I'm still at a loss of what to do when compliments exceed, say, 3.5 seconds. You can only smile, nod, and say “Thanks!” for so long before it becomes clear that your short etiquette CD is skipping and you are doomed to repeat for the duration of the compliment.

So, if you are one of the many kind people that has complimented me or my baby recently, I repeat, thank you. And please excuse my idiosyncratic spasms.