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!